Farewell sweet friend of mine…
We met in 2006. You arrived just when I needed you. Bringing comfort and support, giving me space, complimenting me perfectly.
Together we toiled 7 days (and nights) per week at the Edge Theatre where the stars trod the boards 10 minutes apiece in efforts to prove their potential fame and entertain Newtown’s masses. Incognito, we melted into the black drapes just as we were supposed to, strangers in the night, moving this and that this way and that. Stuffed with importance you were just what I sought.
Soon after we would head for deserts red, dust covered fields we would tramp together, up and down, up and down. Rising early to face another day’s hard work as dirt from the nation’s corners settled in our cracks. Pushed to the limit, with wristbands and torches and scissors and spillages and searing sun and rain. Not to mention our fellow staff… The year ended brutally for us both and we sought comfort in life’s pleasures, in leisure soon to come.
So we were city bound for a time and you joined me for wide-eyed, dry-mouthed Great Escapes as we danced pushed up against hippies and children, beautiful women and sweaty alcohol-drenched men. But you were faithful, sticking to me throughout this foray into fun. We leapt and bounced and shook and ran with old friends and sisters, new friends and lovers.
You were a constant, dear friend of mine.
It seemed life was slowing down…time for retirement? But I kept you on your toes with the occasional odd job. We took on poorly matched pink t-shirts as thousands crossed Our Bridge in commemoration. You felt redundant though in shiny 4WD, when on January 26, crewing meant following a GPS and trundling through the city on wheels. Pockets included. Mud minimal.
I missed you so took you out one night, and in some serendipitous wonder you were so very needed. An unfortunate digestion of a little something someone found on the floor left me sprawled on another’s lap all night, unable to move. But you were there, as always, to protect my dignity. A Kooky turn of events.
These past months we have climbed mountains, passed under waterfalls, tramped through cities we’d never heard of before now. Your retirement seemed complete.
But no, I have brought you here and you have said Bonjour once more to bon travail. Salut mud and heavy lifting. You are torn and smeared, ripped and covered in unidentifiable matters.
And I think this may be your final resting place, this Island Home (as sung Christina Anu when you came out to Aurora and we worked behind the stage the only ones not sporting tails and gowns.) You shall rest here, broken as you are, and sleep at last.
I doubt I shall ever truly replace you.
– One pair black cargo pants: $40 from Leichhardt Market Place
– Thread used to constantly try and fix numerous holes in said cargo pants: £1 in Edinburgh
– Three years of damn good trouserage known by many names (short&sweetpants, crocpants, crewpants, theatrepants, festivalpants, practicalpants, movingdaypants, farmpants):…