Change of Plans

There's been a change of plans.

Turns out, the journalist my paper hired to replace me doesn't work.
Sadly, unlike a Sunbeam toaster, we can't send her back and get a new one, in a new colour, that fulfills the requirements.
There's just me.

Turns out the journalist is either a) useless, b) a drug addict, c) crazy, or d) all of the above.
That's a pretty good achievement for a 21-year-old.
I'd barely finished my cadetship by that age.

Turns out The Man's job sucks.
Nice people, lovely place, crappy wage and crazy boss.
And of course, my whipping up to the old home-town every fortnight to dig the 'incredible disappearing woman' out of the poo isn't helping our home life or our routines.

We've hit a crossroad.
They want me back at work full-time, at least until after Christmas when they can start hiring again and our new sales rep has settled in.
Turns out they want some security.
Me too...that's why I left in the first place.

I love my job. Love the paper I helped establish.
I worked my arse off for it for almost three years, compromised my family, my relationship and one or two of my convictions.
I'm loath to see it die, or at least stall, because there's nothing to fill the damn pages with.

Turns out I'm going back to work full-time.

Turns out we're very non-sexist and modern-thinking, as The Man is going to stay home and be a full-time Dad, work on The Farm and fold washing while I 'pursue my career' - or at least 'pursue bowls reports and market days' for six months.
Sad thing is, he's better at all this than I am - I just don't want that to be true.
And my one full-time wage is about the same as his full-time and my part-time.
It's all very logical but I'm still balking at the idea. I guess I'm just plain sexist.

Change of plans.
I should be used to those by now.

I guess I can kiss the lettuces goodbye now.
The Man - who from now on would like to be referred to as 'the domestic dictator' because house-husband is too pussy a term for him - is a lot of things, but he's no match for the damn earwigs, that's for sure.

Another Bunch of Ferals on the Hill

Since moving here I've got really tired of the "yes we'd heard about you..."
I thought the old home-town was nosy but these people have a very personal stake in whether you're a nice family or ‘another bunch of ferals on the hill’ as one elderly neighbour so eloquently put it.
Since moving here - and let's face it, I'm not adverse to a little chat with potential friends and preferred strangers - in the first four weeks I heard about someone whose daughter was killed by a mad gunman, another woman who was depressed about her mother's death four years ago, the ills of the Liberal Party of course (and every other party seeing as how elections are coming up) and how those young 'deadbeats' on the main street steal anything that's not tied down and isn't it a shame about youth today and on and on and on and oh my God!
Why don't they just go back to the tried and true gossip about who's rooting who?
I've come to the conclusion that they're all too old for the Rumpity Bump and the next best thing to talk about is Church Schisms (and trust me - there are some, I heard aaaalll about them!)

Three old men have shown up at my gate at different times in the first month to offer advice, welcome and a trailerload of cow poo for the garden.
One wanted a lift up to the old home-town next time I went for work because he's going to visit his daughter so that he can drive down with her because he “doesn't like the idea of her driving alone, anyone could stop the car and just get in with her and the kids”.
Like the ‘anyone’ who could find you from a third-hand description and hit you up for a lift four hours away?
I stood at the gate, each time, with my hand on The Dog's collar and the big softie obliged me by growling.
And then they all looked hurt that I didn't invite them in for coffee.
Small-town hospitality or Snowtown bank murderers - you be the judge.