Ergh, my housemate just came home; singing loudly out of key, shouting, now going to the bathroom with the door open, swearing loudly and snarfling and snorting and spreading his filth and vibes of disgustingness everywhere. Horrible. Great, now he's making racist jokes. It's definitely time to move. I'm looking mostly at inner-city apartments and townhouses, but alas! I have nobody to share with. Last time I almost went into a share house with a friend ended in disaster, so there is the tiniest bit of worry tingeing what is otherwise a usually unwavering trust in the good in all people.
Grr.. now I have moved into my bedroom and I can hear him making fun of me and telling yet more racist jokes and tales of his various sexual encounters with prostitutes. Now, where is a bazooka that shoots poisonous nails and AIDS-infested broken glass when you need it?
Today was a family affair, which is strange considering my parents are divorced. We all went to see my little sister Ellen perform with her orchestra at the Royal South Street competitions in Ballarat. It was alright, but who won seemed to be completely arbitrary - the ensemble who won were definitely not the best. We saw a particularly awesome viola soloist, and heard the same piece (Intermezzo by von Chrysler - yes, I agree, what a name) about three times.
The original plan was to hit a delicatessen and go for a picnic, but we left out that one important detail - in Ballarat, it's always either stinking hot or freezing. Today it was the latter, and the first suggestion was McDonalds, so off we went. I protested. I lost!
After that, we split into two groups - my Mum, sisters and brother went home, and I went with my Dad, my grandmother (her name is Rose too) and Scarlett. I thought we were just driving back to Melbourne, but we definitely took the scenic route. We drove through Ballarat where she pointed out landmarks of her youth; the town hall where she made her debut at the Victory Ball, held when the war finally finished in 1945. She told me of people dancing in the streets and one young man who grabbed her and kissed her because he was so overcome with joy.
We then drove to Learmonth, where we visited the house she grew up in and saw magnolia trees bigger than I have ever seen before. Grandma told stories about her childhood, about summers spent swimming at Lake Learmonth (picture left, in the 'good old days') - we went to visit it, and were shocked to find that it had all but dried up. There were a couple of puddles in it not much bigger than tennis courts, but the entire lake was dry. It was so sad to behold; the abandoned Lake Learmonth yacht club stood like an orphan, overlooking the dry lake bed that stretched almost to the horizon. Dad reassured me that it might fill up again one day, but it would take years of above average rainfall which is unfortunately unlikely.We visited Creswick and then Daylesford to lay flowers on my great-grandmother's grave, and then my Grandma's best friend's grave. Wattles were blooming everywhere, like trees that had burst into riotous yellow fire, and daffodils were smiling up along the road the whole way. In our travels, we went back past the Ballarat Botanical Gardens and Grandma told me of the first time I went there. Picnics on the banks of Lake Wendouree are something that I remember distinctly from my childhood, and today I found out about my first ever time. I was only a few months old, and it was the height of summer - we had a heat wave that year, so it was unbearably hot. I was all dressed up in a pink sundress, pink bonnet and little pink cotton shoes. I was unanimously voted 'Princess of the Lake' by my aunts and uncles. Apparently that nickname stuck for years.. funny, I just don't remember it.
Eventually we made our way back to Grandma's house, building up a nice, cosy fire and sitting around munching on homemade yo-yo biscuits and drinking tea. Lovely. My Mum often urges me to see my grandmother, because she is quite old - she'll be 80 years old in January. It pains me to think that she is going to die one day, and not a far-off unimaginably distant day... but it makes me feel better to think that I do make effort to see her and make sure that she realises how much her family love her.
I have vowed never ever to have children, ever since I was about 5 years old. Lots of people say that, but believe me, I'm deadly serious: nothing ever could change my mind. I have possibly the worst genes in terms of certain health issues that anybody could give to a child - I don't want that responsibility of having created someone who is genetically doomed from day one. Also, I suppose I take a similar view of children as I do to .. well, dogs: why create one from scratch when there are so many needing love and attention out there already? I would never buy a puppy that had been specifically bred to be sold, I'd rather go to the pound and find one who was more in need. Likewise with kids, I'd rather adopt one than make one - why bring yet another child into the world when there are enough that need love and care already? Having said that, I'm far too selfish for children, so there!
But seeing my Grandmother, and the joy she gets from her 7 children and (counting..) 17 grandchildren.. maybe being old and alone is quite a disturbing reality. Maybe children are really like .. leaving a legacy. Maina Gielgud said something along the lines of this: Anybody can get married and have children, but very few people are able to find absolute fulfillment in other ways. (No quotation marks, because I can't remember the exact quote).
But I think that I will find another way to leave my mark, rather than getting married and having babies. Something that will help lots of people, rather than just a select group of brats who happened to belong to me for the first eighteen years of their lives.
Because I would rather adopt children than have children, and to be frank, I would rather adopt puppies than adopt children!
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