Correction

¹I was pretty chuffed with myself after publishing the last chapter. Not only did I (and still do) like what I’d written, but other people seemed to enjoy reading it. Except one person, that is: Sidebar Girl. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. She’s having a great old time listening to the songs and reading the accompanying little blog pieces as they’re released every month.² She says they’re funny, nostalgic and she looks forward to the rest of them. She does, however, take objection to a few minor factual details in the narrative; most of which she’s happy to let slide, but one she is definitely not. The main point of dispute? Whether or not I played ‘Fallen’ for her the night I picked her up from the airport. 

To describe this as a bold challenge doesn’t even nibble at the mammoth proportions of this controversial suggestion. Even the thought of calling such a key part of the story into question seemed preposterous to me. After all, I was there! I wrote the song. I remember sitting on the bed and playing it to her, and I remember shitting myself before doing so. Sure, it was a long time ago but I think I’d know when I played the damn song! 😤

So, obviously, I instinctively and categorically rejected her outlandish claim with no doubt in my mind that the way I wrote the story is the way it happened. But being true to form, Sidebar Girl was not about to charge into battle without ammunition. Oh, no. She came armed with her travel journal: a pristinely preserved primary source written all that time ago. Damning evidence that was very hard to rebut. 

“I was on the back row so was last off the plane. (correct✓) Cal was waiting at the gate (correct✓). Got my bag then left and stopped and McDs for the boys. Got back, changed and went to Sidebar (where we originally met)…"

Now, I still maintain that it was technically possible for me to play her the song in the short pit stop between airport and nightclub. However, I feel like being serenaded with a song specifically written for you would’ve been worthy of at least a mention in the chain of events, so I’m willing to accept that I probably didn’t.³

Therefore, given that A) my memory has clearly been compromised by the passage of time; as demonstrated by the fact that I managed to blunder a pretty important detail of the last chapter, and B) Sidebar Girl has this annoyingly accurate contemporaneous memorandum at her disposal, I thought it might be a good idea to write the next part in consultation with her to make sure we got the story straight.⁴

Without further ado, I present and hope you enjoy Chapter 4: A Home She Made.

Cal xo

1. In case it’s not obvious, the tone of this entire thing is tongue-in-cheek.

2. Well, I'm running a little behind schedule now but I’ve always struggled with time management; probably because I set ambitiously high bars for myself and can rarely meet or keep up with them. So the delay is still on-brand. Anyway, back to the plot.

3. 🏳️

4. And she clearly thought so too given that her response to me request to collaborate was: "Um… YES!… Hit me. I’m like an elephant. Don’t even need my diary.”

A Home She Made

Part 1

I remember the drive home: the empty roads, the gentle glow of the orange street lights, how soft her hand felt as I held it all the way to the door of my college room and how I only let go to open it. As I swung her heavy back pack up on my desk Sidebar Girl (SG) stumbled past and collapsed on my bed. She was clearly exhausted after a long late night flight and looking forward to a solid stint of slumber. I was — and still am — the opposite of a night owl so I fully supported such a plan but, unfortunately for us, my uni mates had other ideas. 

I originally hoped that I’d be able to smuggle my guest under the cover of darkness from car park to bedroom without them noticing, but this was wishful thinking at best. Not only because they lived across the hallway, but having had me deliver play-by-play updates on SG developments for several weeks, my friends were now heavily invested in the drama and they weren’t gonna miss a single chance to foil my plans. 

I’m pretty sure they set up a 1970’s cop show-style stake out because we’d barely been home for a minute before my 5 compadres made their presence known. After first trying to ignore the thunderous noise of 10 hands simultaneously bashing on the door, I tentatively turned the handle and they erupted into the room like a cascading volcano; jumping, yelling and rearranging the room I’d so carefully tidied ahead of my in preparation for my distinguished guest. The boys were heading to Sidebar and, despite the our gargantuan energy mismatch, they'd decided that we were going with them. Resistance was futile so we clocked the world’s fastest wardrobe change, had a couple shots and they dragged us out the door.

I snapped out of a tired daze to find myself sitting in the back of a cab weaving in and out of the Sydney city traffic en route to the place where it all began. My mate in the front seat had irreverently hijacked the radio for the duration of our ride and SG was bopping along and belting out the words of the Top 40 tunes emanating from the speakers. To the untrained eye it looked as if she'd done a full 180 and was now totally up for the night ahead but I could see through her facade. Under the surface SG was plotting her escape and with nothing but subtle wink to go on, I knew exactly what she had in mind.

Eagerly ejected by the cabbie at our destination, we passed the bouncer’s checkpoint with Jedi mind tricks and trotted down those sticky stairs into our beloved backpackers’ basement. We followed the boys to the bar, downed a double vodka raspberry and moved towards the dance floor; packed as ever with travellers from all corners of the globe. The boys were buzzing; busting out their best in terms of boogie and banter while scanning the club for potential prey like lions in the savannah.⁵ SG and I, on the other hand, could barely stand up; let alone move in a rhythmic manner. But the sudden sound of “our song”⁶ helped us find the energy to hold out just long enough to see each of my friends lock-on to their respective targets like heat seeking missiles. Their genetically-encoded drive to procreate — the very quality that has ensured the survival of humankind for time immemorial — would be their downfall. As they each inevitably pealed-off to play in more private parts of the place, we backed slowly through the crowd like Homer into the hedge, slipped into a cab and sped off into the night.

* * *

“Remember when we stole away; on a road trip to the bay?"

Although it was tempting to stay tucked in my tiny single bed, SG and I rose early with excitement for what lay ahead. We were going on a road trip; a couple hours north up the coast to one of my favourite places in the world.

We threw everything into my little old 1994 Hyundai Excel, made a quick pit stop to fill up on fuel and the all-important snack selection before heading over Sydney’s iconic Harbour Bridge beneath the bluest cloudless sky you’ve ever seen! SG played DJ on a premium playlist of nostalgic pop classics. We cranked the volume so loud that it nearly blew the speakers but somehow still managed to sing over the top; especially whenever her favourite "One D” came on. In the inevitable intermissions between our flawless vocal duets, conversation flowed freely as we zoomed up the Pacific Motorway through towering sandstone cliffs and pristine Aussie bush land, over the turquoise waters of the Hawkesbury River and around the fringes of Newcastle (the town of my birth) before finally arriving at our destination: Fingal Bay.

Fingal Bay… where do I even begin.

Perhaps best known for being the spot where Lara Bingle filmed her now infamous “where the bloody hell are you?” ad for Tourism Australia in 2006, Fingal Bay is the south-easternmost tip of Port Stephens and part of the Tomaree National Park. It baffles me that this magical place has evaded the prowling eyes of property developers but to this day there’s still nothing there except a few holiday homes, a bakery, bottle shop and a general store that sells the world’s best fish ’n chips. A one-minute walk down the hill is the main attraction: a sheltered, crescent-shaped bay and a long, white sandy beach that stretches 2km from rock pools on the south end right around to Shark Island on the north. Over a gentle slope covered in native coastal vegetation and straight across the road is a holiday park. This is where my Mum, brother and I spent every single Easter and October school holidays from before I lost my front teeth right up until I left home for uni. Not in a comfy condo or even a cosy cabin, but a beautiful beat-up 1970’s viscount caravan we bought 3rd-hand off my grandparents when they upgraded to something that they could tow around Australia. She was a sight to behold inside and out; and had more soul than Aretha Franklin. A majestic metallic shoe box on wheels whose rounded edges would glisten in the seaside sunlight. The whole thing was painted white with a single olive-coloured horizontal racing stripe wrapped around her like a belt. This perfectly complimented the green and gold canvas annex that was attached to one side; home to a blow up bed, five fold-up chairs, three push bikes and everything you could possibly want or need for a day on the beach. Stepping up and ducking into “The Van” through the narrow doorway would cause her to squeak and shake for a solid few seconds,⁷ after which you’d be hit by the musky, stuffy, nostalgic aroma we affectionately called “caravan smell”. The floor was adorned with patterned Laminex. Each tile resembled a sepia-tinted kaleidoscope. Fake timber wall paper stuck to every hard surface: the cupboards, the walls, even the tiny bar fridge which we packed to the brim with copious amounts of cheese, crackers and confectionery items. The curtains were a hideous beige colour with fuzzy baby-poo tassels on the bottom, beaten in ugliness only by the thick-threaded green, brown, white and black tartan coverings of the squishy foam seats that surrounded a white swivel table. I’m afraid the sleeping arrangements did not get any more tasteful. The Van boasted 2 narrow bunks in the back and a double bed that folded up into the wall; transforming the space into a grand arena in which we played literally thousands of hands of cards⁸, corrupt games of Monopoly and endured countless heated arguments over Scrabble.

To us The Van was perfect — a truly sacred space — but to the outside world our sentimental spiritual home was objectively a bomb. I always felt a bit self-conscious whenever someone asked where we stayed at Fingal because I knew that it would be near impossible for anyone to look past the shabby outer shell and see The Van for who she truly was: the salt-of-the-earth origin of my fondest memories and the enduring family bonds I hold so dear. For this reason I was a little nervous about taking SG there, but we rocked up at our shit-box getaway and she fitted right into the picture. 

The Van was lifeless upon arrival. My Mum and brother had conveniently gone to visit relatives for a couple of days which meant that SG and I had the place to ourselves until they returned. Since it was so long ago and because we crammed so much into 36 hours, the memories I have of our time at Fingal now all blend together; sort of like a dream. As such, it’s hard to give you an accurate play-by-play but, using SG’s journal as a guide, I reckon it went a little something like this: 

Our morning started with a little lie-in, followed by some White Wings packet pancakes. SG insisted I try her quintessentially British lemon and sugar toppings instead of the conventional butter and maple syrup. I’m not usually one to jump at opportunities to try new things — I like what I like — but she had a way of softening my otherwise rigid stances, so I tentatively tasted and was surprised to find they were actually pretty good. After that we played a game of Scrabble. SG was intensely competitive and I was a seasoned campaigner so neither of us wanted to lose. It was all very congenial until she put “zenil” on the board. As this is not a word⁹ I confidently dismissed her attempt to steal the game and invited her to try again. But she held firm and wrote down the score. An intense debate ensued. She knew it was BS but I knew she wasn’t going to give up so after several minutes of stern objection I threw in the towel. Oh, the things we do for love. 

By the time she’d smoothed things over with a few kisses and cuddles, it was mid-morning so we headed across the road to the beach. Being pale as a ghost, I took shelter under the umbrella as SG laid beside me roasting in the Australian sun like only Brits seem able to do. After a while we tip toed over the hot, white sand and waded into the water. Whenever a waist-high wave came by she’d splash me and I’d retaliate in an equally playful manner. Following a few sun-surf cycles we strolled back to The Van via the general store to grab some of those famously-fresh fish ’n chips for lunch. Having eaten enough to feed a family we laid down for an early arvo siesta before rising reinvigorated and making our way back over the road for a spot of beach cricket. My fragile little ego couldn’t stomach two defeats in one day so I wasn’t about to take it easy on her. Since I’d played this slow, silly sport at a reasonably high level throughout my adolescent years I wasn’t overly concerned but, as she very smugly reminded me when I was fact-checking this chapter, SG somehow won... again.¹⁰ 🙄

The match wrapped up just in time for us to catch the sun setting over the surrounding scrub land and as the light faded fast we meandered back to The Van once more. SG donned some warm comfy clothes while I arranged the snacks and we spent the evening snuggled up on the couch immersed in deep, tell-me-everything-about-you conversation.¹¹ Then finally, after a late-night Maccas run to quash her cheeseburger craving, we slipped in a peaceful slumber.

5. I fear that the inclusion of this comparison might make it seem like I and my friends view/viewed the act of courting in a clubbing environment as being predatory in nature. To be clear, this is not the position held by me or my friends — now or in the past — and I’d hate for anyone to think that it was. I merely found the imagery amusing and thought it worth leaving it in there under the assumption that you would too because there might be a thread of truth at the root of it. Surely we can agree that the pursuit of a short-term fling is a well-walked path with which all genders are familiar or at least tangentially aware of? Yes? Well, then there’s no need to get our knickers in a knot here. Let’s move right along.

6. To us it was “Hey Hey” but the rest of the world called it ‘Memories’ by David Guetta - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUVCQXMUVnI - p.s. possibly the worst music video I’ve ever seen)

7. As she would also do if you so much as thought about adjusting your posture or rolled over in bed… let alone any other sort of vigorous evening activities

8. Mainly Skip-Bo - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skip-Bo - a very niche game that’s sort of like Uno in that it uses it’s own unique deck of cards but nothing like it in terms of game play. We never learnt the real rules.

9. Clearly still a sore point. I have never found it in a single dictionary!

10. Definitely let her win.

11. And also long periods of silence in which it seemed even more was said than when were actually talking. This phenomena would stay with us long after that night.