Postcards from Albert Street

This weekend we came very close to bidding our final adieu to the old place – smearing the last fingerprints off the windows, wriggling the last clinging weeds from cracks in the brickwork, watching locals on bicycles wobble off with the last of the crap we left on the curbside. A framed print of two moon-eyed kittens. Two plastic chandeliers. A synthesizer whose absent power cord could probably be replaced by one from an electric kettle. A diabolical, electric blue velvet armchair threatening back injury. Two televisions and several remote controls. A bike with no pedals. An unassuming set of purple plastic free weights, with stand.

I apologised to the spiders as I vacuumed their homes and the bodies of my foes from the skylight. ‘You’ve been really helpful, especially in summer, but bond is bond.’ They ran off to other corners.

We have used chemicals in toxic quantities to remove stains we are not sure we made.  We have climbed and crawled, swept and sneezed, spat and polished. We have sucked dirt, fur and numerous bobby pins from dips in the paddocky floor. Drank a lot of tea. Danced a little to Ace of Base and complained a lot about the heat. We have laid Albert Street to rest as best you can an undead thing.

Enthusiastic and untalented gardeners, we have transplanted perennial basil and lavender to pots on our Carlton balcony, where we are sure they will be as happy as we are.

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Here is a moment from Helen Garner’s ‘A Thousand Miles from the Ocean’ that I refrained from reading aloud to my fellow tram passengers:

‘The train crossed borders, it ran across a whole country. A grandmother ate yoghurt out of a plastic jar. She raised and dipped the spoon with a mechanical gesture. She licked the white rim off her lips and swallowed humbly.’

Damn, every word of Postcards from Surfers is so winking and rare, you could chase that prose forever. There's a talented Garner.