Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
“Do you like farmers?” Georgie shouts down the dinner table. The group of partially drunk netballers laugh and continue swilling pots of beers and passing around wiggling toddlers.
Blidn
“Whaddya mean? I’m not a farm-ist!”
“Na, would you shag one? I’ve got a bloke for you,” she retaliates as she moves her kid from one tit to the next.
“I’ve been known to thank a farmer, sure.”
“Brilliant, you’re going on your first blind date, bout time we got you hitched and pregnant.” She turns and continues talking netball goss.
“Hang on a minnie! Who is he? Is he funny? Does his mum iron his jocks? Why’s he single? I know I’ve got a whole bag of reasons, what are his? What’s his caper?” I protest.
“He’s fine, he’s lovely,” Sars chips in, clearly in the know.
“Lovely? He’s fucking lovely? So was my primary school librarian but I never wanted to bed her!”
You are taking part in a choose your own misadventure. Right now, what do you want her to do? Go on the date? Go on a bender in Melbourne?
DATE DAY:
I see him drive up, all popped collar and bull bar. He jumps out of his ute, smiling at me like a school boy with his first hard on. He slams the door shut. The grin dissipates and is replaced with panic. He just locked his keys in the ute.
My conscience taps me on the shoulder… Don’t do it! You’re going to eat him alive, he’s the antelope. He’s all embarrassment and apologies and I’m all ‘no no, it happens to everyone (you fucking douche).’
Beer pizza beer pizza chit beer chat you know I know blah.
I throw out a few of my more beige anecdotes about backpacking and he laughs like he may never stop. Boredom pulls up a seat next to me. At one point he literally slaps his knee and exclaims “bull dust!” I pray I’d brought someone along to witness my date with my 83 year old grandpa.
Not surprisingly lunch ends with RACV reefing his door open and a hideously polite kiss on the cheek. From the farmer, not the crafty emergency serviceman. I walk away wondering if I’ll buy a box of Fat Yak or Corona’s to take down the river that arvo. Gosh I feel like getting sozzled with my trusty pal Ju Ju. Unfortunately, old mate headed back to his parents with wedding plans in his noggin.
Missed call. Short message service. Missed call. Short message service.
Turns out, I was in no capacity to operate my personal communication device that night. Henceforth I missed his rapid-fire attempt to immediately rekindle our luke warm flame.
The poor sod was so overwhelmed with my lack of response that he became disorientated in his phone. I pray to the high heavens that he was drunk. It is in drunkeness that we are forgiven for fuckheadedness.
He sent me my contact details. He utilised the “share contact” option and forwarded me my name and number. Um…
I awoke from my boozy slumber down the river, patted my dog and waved at Ju Ju’s corpse in her swag. I located my phone (sticky with rum) under the passenger seat. Once my uproarious laughter died down I replayed the situation to Ju Ju. I momentarily felt bad, but without fail, the hilarity of his fuck up reared its ugly head and we rolled around in our hungover happiness. I could never see the farmer again. I did however save my contact details for future reference.