On Friday we dodged Melbourne’s first rain in weeks by visiting an Arts Centre exhibition. Ednaville is a mock up (in all senses) of the Moonee Ponds home of Mrs Norm Everage as it was in 1956 just before she offered her box room to Unno Klammi the Latvian shot-putter for the Melbourne Olympic Games.
As the informative brochure says “This caring reconstruction captures the very essence of the dwelling where I spent my early married life, where my kiddies grew up, where my bewildered mother came to live and where my husband Norm had the first of his many urological incidents.” It was heartrending to see Norm’s life support machine in the Boudoir.
We were also treated to an educational video where Dame Edna, as she now is, reminded us that not everyone speaks Australian and you might have to speak more slowly and loudly to be understood.
As the informative brochure says “This caring reconstruction captures the very essence of the dwelling where I spent my early married life, where my kiddies grew up, where my bewildered mother came to live and where my husband Norm had the first of his many urological incidents.” It was heartrending to see Norm’s life support machine in the Boudoir.
We were also treated to an educational video where Dame Edna, as she now is, reminded us that not everyone speaks Australian and you might have to speak more slowly and loudly to be understood.
Yesterday after a shopping extravaganza in town we all arranged to meet up outside the main train station. While waiting I began taking photos of the street scene when suddenly I was accosted from behind by an arm round my shoulder belonging to a gap-toothed inebriate. Foolishly in my shopping trip I had bought an England cricket top and was wearing it – my new best mate had decided to tell me that although most Aussies hated the Brits he loved us because he knew his roots lay in British criminals. He was a good mate of the late Kerry Packer and the new owner of Channel 9 would say hello to him if he saw him in the street. My London-based loon-avoidance strategies failed utterly. All he wanted though was for me to take his picture –which you can see here. This sent him careering on his way into the Young Goth Squad congregating on the steps below.
And as I type the other troops are still recovering from our night out on Fitzroy Street (trendy bars and backpackers) and I'm heading into town to get tickets for Barry Humphries on Wednesday. And instead of Christmas Mass tonight we are going to an openair cinema to see Life of Brian. Yes we are all individuals....
No comments:
Post a Comment