Paperjam

Letter from Australia 7

Travel // Vanessa // 18th November 2003

Melburnians woke up on Melbourne Cup day with a spring in their step and a public holiday to enjoy. The Aussies in Victoria are so obsessed with this one day when the world’s rich and tacky descend upon Flemington Race Course, that they declare it a public holiday and all go betting-mad on horses with names that don’t make much sense.

Anyway, I woke up with a spring in my step too, as it was a public holiday, I too was thinking of going to the races with other ruffians like myself from Central Richmond Accommodation. There was a champagne brekkie to look forward to and clothes to try on and the sun was blazing hot. And I was about to sell our precious cowpervan to two quite reasonable looking Belgian lads. At a profit.

Husband (he wasn’t frustrated...yet), went to earn me some money with a spring in his step despite missing out on the champers at breakfast because we were going to sell the van.

After getting up ridiculously early for a day off to make sure the van actually started and taking a few sentimental, last minute photos, I joined in the breakfast, and, being always so sensible, got very pissed very quickly. So by 10.30am when the two guys arrived, I was well and truly trollied. (I hadn’t had the chance to taste much of the breakfast in the champagne breakfast).

All was well until the Belgians whipped out their secret weapon - A BLOODY MECHANIC! Uh-oh! The flustering begins and (not only because I was drunk) the hot flushes start and it’s up to me, ME of all people, to persuade the mechanic (who was talking a load of bollocks from start to finish) that Harry was in fact in perfect working order. He was!

The most annoying man on earth had already begun to spoil my day.
After telling me that the car would fail a Victorian roadworthy (but couldn’t explain why exactly) and offering 500 dollars less than agreed, I politely told him to bugger off - after all, a Dutch couple the previous day had offered 200 dollars more - and I offered it to them instead.

And then the trouble started. After insisting Harry wasn’t worth more than 2500 dollars, the crap mechanic and the Belgian boys (who hadn’t said a word throughout the negotiations and stood a safe distance away like lemons) trundled off. They then returned five minutes later offering 50 dollars more. What ensued was a most ridiculous display of mutual hate and frantic phone calls back and forth and by the end I wanted out beloved van sold so badly, that I gave it to the less cute looking by now Belgians for 2750 dollars and screwed over the Dutch couple who were really nice. I know, I know, a complete and utter twat in the making.

But thankfully, by the time they arrived to give me what for, I was already on the tram on my way to Flemington.

I did get my comeuppance though when I backed Frankie Dettori riding Mammool (see what I mean about the names?) who was the favourite, and lost because HE CAME LAST. The drunkenness soon wore off and the guilt kicked in quite badly. Couldn’t eat, and the security of that money couldn’t persuade me to drink any more. Also by this point, the frustrated in husband had returned with a vengeance and was giving me a well deserved verbal slap in the face for being a bint.

And I didn’t even see a horse all day.