Years ago, we were filling in forms. It may have been for health insurance or to become a member of the local video shop – I really can’t remember. In actual fact the use of the plural ‘we’ may be stretching it. To be more precise, Kate was filling forms which contained a range of questions. I guess that, after a time, a person can know you almost better than you know yourself and it’s just as easy to let them answer. One question, however, was blank. It was left undisturbed on the basis that I, and only I, could give an honest and accurate answer. That question was, to put it in ‘Roxanne’ terms, have I ever put on the red light?
Years ago, we were filling in forms. It may have been for health insurance or to become a member of the local video shop – I really can’t remember. In actual fact the use of the plural ‘we’ may be stretching it. To be more precise, Kate was filling forms which contained a range of questions. I guess that, after a time, a person can know you almost better than you know yourself and it’s just as easy to let them answer. One question, however, was blank. It was left undisturbed on the basis that I, and only I, could give an honest and accurate answer. That question was, to put it in ‘Roxanne’ terms, have I ever put on the red light?
That this question should give rise to even slightest pause may mean I have not sufficiently explained myself. Granted, it’s one that for a whole range of reasons – politeness being only one of them – seldom arises. Rarely, if ever, has someone asked me during the course of casual conversation whether or not I have ever been a ‘lady of the night’. Just to be clear, whilst I have seen ‘Pretty Woman’ several times, I have never been ‘Pretty Woman.’ My eventual response of ‘no comment’ was driven by a sense of indignity and a belief that such information is not wholly relevant to whether or not I should be able to rent ‘Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’ and five weeklies for ten dollars.
A couple of weeks ago, we had Census night. There’s something kind of glorious about the entire nation having the same piece of homework to do. Of the sixty or so questions, not one of them asked whether I had ever sold my body for cash. It did, however, refer to our house as a ‘dwelling’, which seems a little harsh. In a strange way, the Census divides your life into five yearly chunks. Last Census, I was living much as I am now. Had I kept a copy, I could have simply resubmitted it. Go back a further five years, however, and I was living in Brisbane. I have no recollection of filling in a Census form whilst I was there but would probably still have been offended by the word ‘dwelling’. Certainly, the place could have done with a tidy up, but it was nothing that a better filing system and a little Spray and Wipe couldn’t cure.
Five years further still and ‘dwelling’ would have been a generous description. ‘Shelter’ might have been more accurate. Back then I was living in Prahran in a house that was on the last of its last legs. The building had a slight lean and you could see clear through the floorboards to the dirt below. I shared the house with a friend and an inexhaustible quantity of mice. I was working in a bookstore and just beginning to find my feet. Had I started this process by looking at the end of my legs it would, of course, have been a much quicker process. But instead I seemed hell-bent on searching everywhere other than the obvious. I can’t recall filling in the Census form there either, so I suspect my housemate Marcus may well have done the honours. What I do remember about that time is that there were a bunch of us living within a couple of blocks and we’d catch up at the pub from time to time. Back then, I didn’t think too much of it, never realizing that people inevitably scatter to the wind.
Stepping back a further five years and I was at University, living in a share house in Clayton. There were two other students and I can recall the three of us sitting around the kitchen table trying to complete the form. More than anything, I remember that house as being cold. The kitchen, in particular, was like an inverted refrigerator much of the time, and fog would often form in front of your lips when you spoke like a cartoon speech bubble. Completing our Census would have been one the very first adult things any of us had done. At that time, a life outside that house and that kitchen seemed difficult to comprehend.
It was my first time living in house with people who weren’t my family. Living in a share house is an art. It is a skill that is learned through years of practice. Back then I was a complete and utter novice. One of my housemates was a deeply religious fellow who took down a picture of Paul Kelly on the grounds that he ‘looked Satanic’. Whilst I gravely doubt that Paul has ever dabbled in the dark arts, I thought the best way to respond to this was to colour the eyes of the picture with whiteout and draw horns on it. Tearing down was now no longer enough, and the picture was torn up instead. Being the diplomatic soul that I was, I used words to bridge this growing divide. Specifically, I wrote a short story and submitted to a National Radio Competition entitled ‘Housemates from Hell’. It was, apparently broadcast with no small amount of fanfare. Whilst I didn’t hear it myself, several members of my housemate’s church most certainly did and staged an ‘intervention’ at our house of which I was the subject.
A lot can happen in five years. It can bring unimagined joys and unfathomable disappointment. In many regards, five years may be too infrequent – it makes me think of all the momentous events that have come and gone in that time. There was the seven-room share house in St Kilda and the tiny one bedroom flat in Grosvenor Street that was little more than a linen cupboard with windows. I’d even say it was a ‘dwelling’. Most of all, it makes me think about who I was at these various points in time. Filling in my Census form, ‘Pretty Woman’ playing in the background, I’d tell my earlier self not to worry so much. Things turn out regardless.