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Authors: Nick Spalding
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their way around the shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon before Christmas, but you stick a copy of Auto Trader in their hands and tell them to find something with less than sixty on the clock for under four grand and they’re in hog heaven.
“Ah right,” Ellie says. “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t buy a Mitsubishi,” Grant warns. “I’ve had two of them and neither even got as far as three hundred thousand kilometres.”
Three hundred thousand kilometres?
That’s how far it is to the moon isn’t it? Back home we’re lucky if the car gets to its first service without rusting into a heap by the side of the road.
“What would you suggest?” Jamie enquires.
“Get a Holden,” Grant tells him. “They’ll do you half a mil no problem.”
Half a million kilometres? Does this man think I’m commuting to Paris every day?
“I was kind of thinking of getting a ute,” Jamie adds. This is a new word he has picked up since we arrived here. Ute is short for utility vehicle—or in simple terms, a flatbed truck. Only not like the big old rusty things we’re used to. Out here they turn their utes into Day-Glo green monstrosities with lowered sports wheels and blacked-out windows.
“We’re not getting one of those,” I intone from over the last of my omelette. “I have to drive the bloody thing a lot more than you Jamie, and there’s no way I’m buying one of those clown cars.”
This makes Grant laugh his head off. Jamie sneers and gets up to make more coffee.
I knew this would be an issue. Until Jamie finds work, I will be the one using the car 90 percent of the time, so it really should be something I’m happy with. Jamie knows this on an intellectual level, but on the more visceral, emotional side of things he’s just a typical little boy and wants to buy something very fast, stupidly powerful, and epically noisy that will prove to the world he has a large penis. I’m all for bolstering his self-esteem, but not if it means potentially crashing the car if I sneeze, hit the accelerator involuntarily, or slam into the nearest gum tree.
The doorbell rings. It’s a rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” in a high-pitched chime. If there’s one thing Australians don’t appear to be worried about it’s coming across as too Australian.
“Morning all!” Brett says enthusiastically when Grant lets him in.
“Good on ya, Brett. How you going?” Grant asks, in an equally robust voice.
“Good-lookin’ day out there, Brett,” Ellie adds.
“Sure is!” Brett replies.
Have I pointed out it’s only just seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?
How are these people so fucking jovial ? My eyes are still crusted with sleep dust, Jamie’s complexion can best be described as thousand- wash grey, and even Poppy—who should be young and sprightly enough to be up there with her Australian hosts—is frowning and poking at her sludgy head while taking a long draught of warm milk from her sippy cup.
“Morning Newmans!” Brett shouts at us from across the lounge diner. “Ready to go car hunting, then?”
“Will anywhere be open?” Jamie asks incredulously.
“Oh, yeah, for sure. No point in hanging around on a day like today, eh?”
And right there’s the reason for all the early morning jocularity. These people live in a country where you actually want to get up early in the morning just because it’s so flaming beautiful outside. Sunday morning weather in the UK usually consists of drizzle and an overriding sense of disappointment, and can be dealt with only by the swift movement of a duvet over your head.
It takes the Newman family another half an hour to assemble themselves into a presentable state.
Brett whiles away the time with Grant and Ellie, talking about the vitally important matters of the day, the issues that Australia as a nation holds close to its heart, and the things that define their lives above all else. The Australian cricket team is three wickets up as it goes into the
“Ah right,” Ellie says. “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t buy a Mitsubishi,” Grant warns. “I’ve had two of them and neither even got as far as three hundred thousand kilometres.”
Three hundred thousand kilometres?
That’s how far it is to the moon isn’t it? Back home we’re lucky if the car gets to its first service without rusting into a heap by the side of the road.
“What would you suggest?” Jamie enquires.
“Get a Holden,” Grant tells him. “They’ll do you half a mil no problem.”
Half a million kilometres? Does this man think I’m commuting to Paris every day?
“I was kind of thinking of getting a ute,” Jamie adds. This is a new word he has picked up since we arrived here. Ute is short for utility vehicle—or in simple terms, a flatbed truck. Only not like the big old rusty things we’re used to. Out here they turn their utes into Day-Glo green monstrosities with lowered sports wheels and blacked-out windows.
“We’re not getting one of those,” I intone from over the last of my omelette. “I have to drive the bloody thing a lot more than you Jamie, and there’s no way I’m buying one of those clown cars.”
This makes Grant laugh his head off. Jamie sneers and gets up to make more coffee.
I knew this would be an issue. Until Jamie finds work, I will be the one using the car 90 percent of the time, so it really should be something I’m happy with. Jamie knows this on an intellectual level, but on the more visceral, emotional side of things he’s just a typical little boy and wants to buy something very fast, stupidly powerful, and epically noisy that will prove to the world he has a large penis. I’m all for bolstering his self-esteem, but not if it means potentially crashing the car if I sneeze, hit the accelerator involuntarily, or slam into the nearest gum tree.
The doorbell rings. It’s a rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” in a high-pitched chime. If there’s one thing Australians don’t appear to be worried about it’s coming across as too Australian.
“Morning all!” Brett says enthusiastically when Grant lets him in.
“Good on ya, Brett. How you going?” Grant asks, in an equally robust voice.
“Good-lookin’ day out there, Brett,” Ellie adds.
“Sure is!” Brett replies.
Have I pointed out it’s only just seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?
How are these people so fucking jovial ? My eyes are still crusted with sleep dust, Jamie’s complexion can best be described as thousand- wash grey, and even Poppy—who should be young and sprightly enough to be up there with her Australian hosts—is frowning and poking at her sludgy head while taking a long draught of warm milk from her sippy cup.
“Morning Newmans!” Brett shouts at us from across the lounge diner. “Ready to go car hunting, then?”
“Will anywhere be open?” Jamie asks incredulously.
“Oh, yeah, for sure. No point in hanging around on a day like today, eh?”
And right there’s the reason for all the early morning jocularity. These people live in a country where you actually want to get up early in the morning just because it’s so flaming beautiful outside. Sunday morning weather in the UK usually consists of drizzle and an overriding sense of disappointment, and can be dealt with only by the swift movement of a duvet over your head.
It takes the Newman family another half an hour to assemble themselves into a presentable state.
Brett whiles away the time with Grant and Ellie, talking about the vitally important matters of the day, the issues that Australia as a nation holds close to its heart, and the things that define their lives above all else. The Australian cricket team is three wickets up as it goes into the
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