On potential isolation

I gave my last hug to a woman named Vikki on Friday. She is kind and wise and met me, lost, at my front door. It turned out she was in the right place, just one hidden driveway away. So good to see her. Ever since I’ve greeted people with a prayer gesture or arms crossed over my chest and a nod. I’m a natural hugger so this whole thing is a bit weird.

Trilby bailed me up outside the parks and wildlife office yesterday. He’s found a ‘dumper’, a habitual dumper of rubbish. Unfortunately. this dumper probably weekends at the place where I live and Trilby is onto them … ‘like a ninja’ he says, karate punching himself on his hard, septuagenarian stomach. ‘I worked as a constable in Hong Kong in the 60s,’ he said. ‘Imagine what will happen to those litterbugs when I get hold of them.’ He then mentioned something about testicles and investigations. ‘I’m not sure which rangers are on today,’ I told him, carefully concealing my cigarette butt in a chewing gum tin. ‘Have you considered writing a letter to the council?’

A major Australian university divests their stocks in fossil fuels. Markets are tanking anyway due to the lurgy but this particular move is heralded as ‘virtue signalling’ in crisis times. There is talk about self-isolation. I feel I could well be the next expert, for once. None of this is new to me. ‘Aren’t you afraid sometimes?’ a woman asked me yesterday. ‘Living out there alone?’

I can hardly believe it myself, but it’s been nearly five years now, since I moved out to the inlet. Apart from the poles, it’s one of the more isolated places on our planet. I live here off the grid and without telecommunications. Famously (it’s catchy) I finished the edits of my last book at the local laundromat in town because there was a power point, a chair and table and mobile phone range.

Now as a new imperative, I’m looking at heading to the laundromat to continue my work as a uni tutor. The beauty of tech means I can continue work as a tutor when the universities shut down, as I listen to my clothes churn around and around (the lint filters need changing by the way), and stay connected with the students. Self-isolation is actually the pinnacle of my life options. What could be better, for me?

Trilby talks about his dreams for an eco-caravan park at the inlet so they can knock down the squatter huts where I live. He looks to me for approval. He may as well be looking under a car seat for that missing hairclip. ‘Eco-caravan park talkers are akin to white-shoe property developers to me,’ I say. He stares forlornly at the orange bag of litter at his feet. ‘Those huts should be heritage listed,’ I say. ‘They belong to the old cattle run families.’ The word ‘heritage’ has power. He nods, but he knows now that I am not an ally.

Where am I going here? Not sure really. Information seems to be at least a week late from the gubberment and meanwhile we make it up ourselves. Flattening the curve involves no more hugs, handshakes or kisses for the foreseeable future (whatever those chicken entrails are) and I’m happy to comply. Just don’t turn my bolt hole, my haven, into an eco-caravan park.

And be kind and good to each other. Consider your workers in retail, education and medicine and give them your most gorgeous (non coughy) juice. The people who heal you and your family, who sell you fuel and a carton of milk and those who teach your kids, they live at the coal face now. They deserve your utter, utter respect and consideration.

*posted from the laundromat*