Horse of the Apocalypse, Kilcunda Beach, By Catherine Watson
Sunday, September 20
The Age has a photo of a masked woman at the beach headlined ‘SURF’S UP, MASKS ON”. My heart sinks. Is this the summer ahead? In a few years’ time we’ll forget that we once hugged and shook hands. Will we ever sit in the Wonthaggi cinema again, a gathering of 300 or more, and grow quiet as the curtains part? Or sit with a group of friends in a café, unmasked, and lean in to catch the conversation?
Cate and I visit Kilcunda Beach to see the epic horse sculpture that Liz has told us about. Beneath the crumbling cliffs and steps, someone has cleverly incorporated the remains of the steps into the work; others have added driftwood legs and head, then someone added a seaweed mane. Others draped it in massive strands of kelp. It grew week by week, a community work of art that might have astonished the person who added the first driftwood stick. And now it’s crumbling away like the cliffs as it’s reclaimed by the tides.
Sunday, September 20
The Age has a photo of a masked woman at the beach headlined ‘SURF’S UP, MASKS ON”. My heart sinks. Is this the summer ahead? In a few years’ time we’ll forget that we once hugged and shook hands. Will we ever sit in the Wonthaggi cinema again, a gathering of 300 or more, and grow quiet as the curtains part? Or sit with a group of friends in a café, unmasked, and lean in to catch the conversation?
Cate and I visit Kilcunda Beach to see the epic horse sculpture that Liz has told us about. Beneath the crumbling cliffs and steps, someone has cleverly incorporated the remains of the steps into the work; others have added driftwood legs and head, then someone added a seaweed mane. Others draped it in massive strands of kelp. It grew week by week, a community work of art that might have astonished the person who added the first driftwood stick. And now it’s crumbling away like the cliffs as it’s reclaimed by the tides.
A very social weekend ends with a soirée at Liane and Matt’s place. Just five of us beside a new swimming pool lit by blue lights - "like Costa Del Sol", as Liane puts it – celebrating our partial liberation. It’s a novelty to be with people again, eating and drinking and talking bullshit as the sun goes down. We spot a couple of ducks roosting on the next door neighbour’s chimney and Liane tells us about the scores of birds that are regular visitors. We don’t talk about COVID at all. Werner tells us a strange story: his house is powering his new car, and then his car powers his house. It sounds like a fairy tale, but he promises to tell all in the Post. We finish up with a tasting of the Loch gin liqueur, and it seems logical to follow that with Matt’s home distilled gin (firewater) and a chocolate chilli liqueur.
Monday, September 21
Perhaps we soireed a little too hard last night as I feel a little vague and ethereal today. I was woken at dawn by a very faint whimpering and found Matilda on the verandah, drenched, muddy, foot sore and very subdued. It’s only later, when I learn that there was thunder during the night, that I realise what’s happened. She’s got out through a partly open door, jumped the fence and tried to outrun the thunder. Eventually the thunder must have overtaken her and she was able to turn around and run home. She must have run for hours. She is depressed all day and only cheers up when a ute careers down the lane. She jumps the gate and gives chase and her tail is wagging when she returns.
I mow an already impeccable lawn in Inverloch. I’m always glad my clients can’t see my place. Afterwards my client “Jenny” wants a chat. She says she’s struggling with the isolation. There’s just her and the dog and she misses her friends and family. Her daughter and her teenage grandchildren live in Werribee, on the other side of the city. She gives a little shudder. “Werribee! That’s where all the ethnics live. They’re the ones that got us into this. They’ve all got big families and they won’t stay home.” I haven’t got the time or energy for this but I can’t let it pass. I suggest most of “them” go out because they work in casual jobs with no sick pay. If they don’t work they don’t get paid. We deflect our anger towards the politicians who have eroded the social contract and part in general agreement that Australia has to start manufacturing again.
Tuesday, September 22
An email from Miriam, one of our most esteemed Post writers, pulling the plug after six years. “I'm thinking I haven't got much to contribute these days, finding it very hard to latch onto subjects that make the juices flow. It may be just that we haven't been able to go anywhere or do anything so there's nothing to talk about. Or the muse has moved on.”
Ouch! I know the feeling. I ring her and ask her round for a cuppa. For some reason we soon find ourselves talking about death, and laugh when we notice. Miriam recalls an interview she heard with the Australian writer Robert Dessaix, in which he noted the difference among nationalities in what they talk about with friends. The Russians, he said, skipped the niceties and got on to the subject of death quickly. In Australia, we tend to talk about sport and the weather. Miriam and I talk of many things. The good news is that she’s agreed to stay on. She just needs a sabbatical.
Monday, September 21
Perhaps we soireed a little too hard last night as I feel a little vague and ethereal today. I was woken at dawn by a very faint whimpering and found Matilda on the verandah, drenched, muddy, foot sore and very subdued. It’s only later, when I learn that there was thunder during the night, that I realise what’s happened. She’s got out through a partly open door, jumped the fence and tried to outrun the thunder. Eventually the thunder must have overtaken her and she was able to turn around and run home. She must have run for hours. She is depressed all day and only cheers up when a ute careers down the lane. She jumps the gate and gives chase and her tail is wagging when she returns.
I mow an already impeccable lawn in Inverloch. I’m always glad my clients can’t see my place. Afterwards my client “Jenny” wants a chat. She says she’s struggling with the isolation. There’s just her and the dog and she misses her friends and family. Her daughter and her teenage grandchildren live in Werribee, on the other side of the city. She gives a little shudder. “Werribee! That’s where all the ethnics live. They’re the ones that got us into this. They’ve all got big families and they won’t stay home.” I haven’t got the time or energy for this but I can’t let it pass. I suggest most of “them” go out because they work in casual jobs with no sick pay. If they don’t work they don’t get paid. We deflect our anger towards the politicians who have eroded the social contract and part in general agreement that Australia has to start manufacturing again.
Tuesday, September 22
An email from Miriam, one of our most esteemed Post writers, pulling the plug after six years. “I'm thinking I haven't got much to contribute these days, finding it very hard to latch onto subjects that make the juices flow. It may be just that we haven't been able to go anywhere or do anything so there's nothing to talk about. Or the muse has moved on.”
Ouch! I know the feeling. I ring her and ask her round for a cuppa. For some reason we soon find ourselves talking about death, and laugh when we notice. Miriam recalls an interview she heard with the Australian writer Robert Dessaix, in which he noted the difference among nationalities in what they talk about with friends. The Russians, he said, skipped the niceties and got on to the subject of death quickly. In Australia, we tend to talk about sport and the weather. Miriam and I talk of many things. The good news is that she’s agreed to stay on. She just needs a sabbatical.
Wednesday, September 23
The South African gladdies continue their march across Bass Coast, turning the reserves and roadsides pink. Liz warned us years ago they would take over. People comment on their prettiness. A council team is mowing the reserve up the road and suddenly stops. I suspect a neighbour has complained.
Thursday, September 24
I pick the first broad beans and make a dish I learned from my Greek neighbour in Collingwood. No need to pod or double peel the beans when they’re small. Cook them long and very slowly with onion, garlic, olive oil and herbs from the garden (dill, parsley, oregano). When the beans are very soft, add some more oil and lemon juice and pepper and salt and serve at room temperature. I eat mine with Liz’s fresh eggs, hard boiled, and a couple of glasses of Dick’s chardonnay. Talk about low food miles. Five stars from me.
Friday, September 25
I’m woken by bright lights outside my bedroom window. They go up and down the lane silently, disappear and come back. Bikes, maybe electric, or even an electric scooter. I look at my clock. 2.30am. How strange. Then I see a light come on in my ute which is parked on the nature strip. I turn on my verandah lights and creep around the back, very slowly, to give them time to get away. I find a petrol can beside the ute. Shades of Christmas day 2015 when the infamous Wonthaggi arsonist arrived silently on an electric bike at midnight and lit a fire in the back lane just behind my house. I’m a bit spooked.
I feel relieved when I check the ute in the morning and find a whipper snipper gone. Not arsonists, just some very tidy thieves who wanted to trim their garden verges and who ride to work to reduce their emissions. I warn my neighbours to look out for the bike gang. Vilya tells me I should report it to the cops so I call when I get home. 1 for General Inquiries, 2 for the local station. I press 2 and a foul-tempered cop answers. “Wonthaggi police!” he grumbles. I start to explain about the bicycle gang but he interrupts me. I need to call the general inquiry line – a 1300 number – to report stolen property. I say I want to tell the local police what I saw. “What do you want from the police?” he demands. I dunno. Jot down some notes … see if there are similar reports … Put two and two together? He snarls, “You’ll only be tying up the phone!” I’m confused. Have they only got one phone? I tell him to forget it (I might have used stronger words than that) and slam the phone down. One way of keeping the local crime stats down, I suppose.
Saturday, September 26
I’ve avoided the hotel quarantine inquiry over the past month, flicked past it in the newspaper, shut my ears when it was on the radio. Any time I inadvertently hear something I’m filled with shame. But there’s no avoiding it today with the Health Minister’s resignation. It’s only today I work out why the subject makes me so uncomfortable. For all the mistakes “they” made, I know I would have done much worse. Police (three branches), emergency services, health departments (state and federal), security firms, hotel staff, foreign guests, sick people and 24 hours warning … no wonder it got away. We needed a superhuman to run it and unfortunately there were none around. (They were all sitting on their bums at home watching TV and complaining.)
The South African gladdies continue their march across Bass Coast, turning the reserves and roadsides pink. Liz warned us years ago they would take over. People comment on their prettiness. A council team is mowing the reserve up the road and suddenly stops. I suspect a neighbour has complained.
Thursday, September 24
I pick the first broad beans and make a dish I learned from my Greek neighbour in Collingwood. No need to pod or double peel the beans when they’re small. Cook them long and very slowly with onion, garlic, olive oil and herbs from the garden (dill, parsley, oregano). When the beans are very soft, add some more oil and lemon juice and pepper and salt and serve at room temperature. I eat mine with Liz’s fresh eggs, hard boiled, and a couple of glasses of Dick’s chardonnay. Talk about low food miles. Five stars from me.
Friday, September 25
I’m woken by bright lights outside my bedroom window. They go up and down the lane silently, disappear and come back. Bikes, maybe electric, or even an electric scooter. I look at my clock. 2.30am. How strange. Then I see a light come on in my ute which is parked on the nature strip. I turn on my verandah lights and creep around the back, very slowly, to give them time to get away. I find a petrol can beside the ute. Shades of Christmas day 2015 when the infamous Wonthaggi arsonist arrived silently on an electric bike at midnight and lit a fire in the back lane just behind my house. I’m a bit spooked.
I feel relieved when I check the ute in the morning and find a whipper snipper gone. Not arsonists, just some very tidy thieves who wanted to trim their garden verges and who ride to work to reduce their emissions. I warn my neighbours to look out for the bike gang. Vilya tells me I should report it to the cops so I call when I get home. 1 for General Inquiries, 2 for the local station. I press 2 and a foul-tempered cop answers. “Wonthaggi police!” he grumbles. I start to explain about the bicycle gang but he interrupts me. I need to call the general inquiry line – a 1300 number – to report stolen property. I say I want to tell the local police what I saw. “What do you want from the police?” he demands. I dunno. Jot down some notes … see if there are similar reports … Put two and two together? He snarls, “You’ll only be tying up the phone!” I’m confused. Have they only got one phone? I tell him to forget it (I might have used stronger words than that) and slam the phone down. One way of keeping the local crime stats down, I suppose.
Saturday, September 26
I’ve avoided the hotel quarantine inquiry over the past month, flicked past it in the newspaper, shut my ears when it was on the radio. Any time I inadvertently hear something I’m filled with shame. But there’s no avoiding it today with the Health Minister’s resignation. It’s only today I work out why the subject makes me so uncomfortable. For all the mistakes “they” made, I know I would have done much worse. Police (three branches), emergency services, health departments (state and federal), security firms, hotel staff, foreign guests, sick people and 24 hours warning … no wonder it got away. We needed a superhuman to run it and unfortunately there were none around. (They were all sitting on their bums at home watching TV and complaining.)
Matilda and Toby get reacquainted Sunday, September 27
Darren visits with the boys, Josh and Little Toby. I haven’t seen them for months. Lots of hugs – for Matilda, who looks blissed out. Then the boys rush to the gate and call out to my neighbour, Big Toby. He’s been waiting for this visit ever since he met them back in April. When I’m in the garden he swings on the gate and interrogates me. “Are your friends coming today?” “Not today, Toby.” “When are they coming?” “I don’t know.” A quick hello and the boys take up where they left off months ago, racing round the garden and hiding, collecting jewels (sea glass) off my steps, smashing the old peach stones with a hammer. Later we take the three boys over to Tank Hill – “the magic forest” – sending Matilda charging ahead to frighten off the snakes. We visit all the huts and the boys think it’s a very big adventure.
Lunch with Gill and Althea. I haven’t seen Althea for six months or more and we only just stop ourselves from hugging. She is living in the house her parents built in San Remo in the 1970s. It’s been her holiday house but she moved there semi-permanently … in March, just as the first lockdown began. “I don’t think I’ve got the hang of San Remo yet,” she says mildly.
Afternoon … I tell John about the bicycle gang and the grumpy cop. He says his brother has seen the same people riding up the street at midnight. And someone else spotted them trying to unscrew number plates. Seems to me we citizen detectives could have solved an entire crime wave, with a bit of help from the police. Anyway, solve it your bloody selves.
Monday, September 28
Peter half-listened to the Premier’s announcement about city restrictions easing and only heard the bits he wanted to. Today he heads for Bunnings in Cranbourne. Part shopping, part getting out of town. Oh the joy of being on the open road! But it’s short lived because when he gets to Bunnings it’s shut. A staff member says they’re only doing Click and Collect. He tells her he’s come all the way from Korumburra. She looks puzzled. “But you’re not meant to be here. There’s a $5000 fine.” Peter races back to the car, accelerates out of the carpark and has just hit the highway when he hears the “Waaaaagh … waaaaaaggghhh!!!!” The two coppers don’t have to grill him very hard before he rolls over and confesses to everything. “Please don’t fine me!” he tells them. “I’m just confused.” They play with him for a bit longer then let him go with a stern warning.
Darren visits with the boys, Josh and Little Toby. I haven’t seen them for months. Lots of hugs – for Matilda, who looks blissed out. Then the boys rush to the gate and call out to my neighbour, Big Toby. He’s been waiting for this visit ever since he met them back in April. When I’m in the garden he swings on the gate and interrogates me. “Are your friends coming today?” “Not today, Toby.” “When are they coming?” “I don’t know.” A quick hello and the boys take up where they left off months ago, racing round the garden and hiding, collecting jewels (sea glass) off my steps, smashing the old peach stones with a hammer. Later we take the three boys over to Tank Hill – “the magic forest” – sending Matilda charging ahead to frighten off the snakes. We visit all the huts and the boys think it’s a very big adventure.
Lunch with Gill and Althea. I haven’t seen Althea for six months or more and we only just stop ourselves from hugging. She is living in the house her parents built in San Remo in the 1970s. It’s been her holiday house but she moved there semi-permanently … in March, just as the first lockdown began. “I don’t think I’ve got the hang of San Remo yet,” she says mildly.
Afternoon … I tell John about the bicycle gang and the grumpy cop. He says his brother has seen the same people riding up the street at midnight. And someone else spotted them trying to unscrew number plates. Seems to me we citizen detectives could have solved an entire crime wave, with a bit of help from the police. Anyway, solve it your bloody selves.
Monday, September 28
Peter half-listened to the Premier’s announcement about city restrictions easing and only heard the bits he wanted to. Today he heads for Bunnings in Cranbourne. Part shopping, part getting out of town. Oh the joy of being on the open road! But it’s short lived because when he gets to Bunnings it’s shut. A staff member says they’re only doing Click and Collect. He tells her he’s come all the way from Korumburra. She looks puzzled. “But you’re not meant to be here. There’s a $5000 fine.” Peter races back to the car, accelerates out of the carpark and has just hit the highway when he hears the “Waaaaagh … waaaaaaggghhh!!!!” The two coppers don’t have to grill him very hard before he rolls over and confesses to everything. “Please don’t fine me!” he tells them. “I’m just confused.” They play with him for a bit longer then let him go with a stern warning.
Wednesday, September 30
A day of celebration … the first egg from Vilya and Martin’s young Isa Browns. And I have 11 new asparagus seedlings.
An email from Mike, a former workmate living on the Mornington Peninsula. He’s tracked me down through the Post. His email is headed: “Warning. Very long email”. He tells me he’s about to have coffee with his best friend, Chris. “The last time I had a coffee with someone -- anyone -- since the first lockdown was Chris in June. My last hug of another human being was on 14 March. Lucky I'm a cold-hearted bastard... Two things have happened in the past day: I cried over the 2010 death of my father when talking to an acquaintance yesterday; most unexpected. I blame Covid. They were telling me about putting their mother into aged care years ago … And last night I drank too much wine, probably for only the second or third time this year. I put on a Coors CD and was jumping around the kitchen cooking something. A song came on. I cried again. F*ck it. It was the song my mind associates with the end of my marriage in 1996. Seems like I have some work to do ...
“Hope to see you on your coast one day. Mike”
Thursday, October 1
Moved by Mike’s email, a quick count and a confession. Three quick hugs this week (besides those with the dog and cat). It felt pretty good, too.
A day of celebration … the first egg from Vilya and Martin’s young Isa Browns. And I have 11 new asparagus seedlings.
An email from Mike, a former workmate living on the Mornington Peninsula. He’s tracked me down through the Post. His email is headed: “Warning. Very long email”. He tells me he’s about to have coffee with his best friend, Chris. “The last time I had a coffee with someone -- anyone -- since the first lockdown was Chris in June. My last hug of another human being was on 14 March. Lucky I'm a cold-hearted bastard... Two things have happened in the past day: I cried over the 2010 death of my father when talking to an acquaintance yesterday; most unexpected. I blame Covid. They were telling me about putting their mother into aged care years ago … And last night I drank too much wine, probably for only the second or third time this year. I put on a Coors CD and was jumping around the kitchen cooking something. A song came on. I cried again. F*ck it. It was the song my mind associates with the end of my marriage in 1996. Seems like I have some work to do ...
“Hope to see you on your coast one day. Mike”
Thursday, October 1
Moved by Mike’s email, a quick count and a confession. Three quick hugs this week (besides those with the dog and cat). It felt pretty good, too.