Today I forgot for a moment that I no longer live in a country town.
After reconnecting with rural ex-pat who was a childhood friend in Port Augusta, I headed out the door thinking that I could meet her across town within ten minutes.
Because that’s how it is in Port Pirie.
I’d lost my good phone. It’s not really lost. I just don’t know where it is.
I had my old phone which works for messenger if there’s access to password free public wi-fi.
I expected there to be free public wi-fi in the main street of Glenelg because that’s what’s available in Port Pirie and Crystal Brook.
When reporting on this initiative of the Port Pirie Regional Council as a producer a few years ago I remember that I didn’t understand why this was important.
Even though I read the press release explaining that people on low incomes usually don’t have an internet plan that allows them wi-fi at home and when using mobile data, they’re inclined to run out of credit regularly.
Meanwhile essential services like accessing Centrelink and paying bills are predominantly online.
In what journalists call a ‘case study’ a low-income friend in Whyalla with no credit recently took a little walk to find some free wi-fi to check in on me the other day.
She was also able to call her son on his birthday.
Now that this is directly affecting my life the importance of free wi-fi is finally starting to sink in.
I popped into a flash hotel with wi-fi but couldn’t use it without a room number.
The man at the tobacco store nearby let me hot spot his I phone so that I could send my friend a message.
She understood the whole 10 minutes thing as she has lived in Port Augusta.
We decided to meet by a statue of a dolphin and its baby down the Esplanade.
Wi-fi less again I’m sitting here writing this.
It feels like that one time I was meeting my Adelaide boyfriend at The Malls Balls in 1995.
He was a great kisser, dressed well, easy to talk to, white and Māori.
He had a dream to join the air force, so I’ll call him Fly Guy.
We got together after his cousin told me that he liked me.
At that point in my life, I had only spent a little time with one other teenage boy who presented a kissing disaster where we both went in too fast and smashed our teeth together.
I’ll call him G-More that’s kind of his name but it’s not spelt that way.
G-More and I were in the same group of friends and when we didn’t continue, we were both ok and I was still welcome in his home.
I don’t have a bad word to say about the guy.
Breaking up with G-More had not left me with panic attacks and racing thoughts attached to my next object of my affection that alternated between I can’t allow myself to get back under man’s control to I love him, I need him, he will make all my problems disappear.
Being quite well regulated right now after walking up and down the Esplanade looking for my Port Augusta friend, I see that both of these statements are inaccurate.
But I’m not always this calm.
I was ok then. Fly Guy and I getting together was straight forward.
I like The Italian just as much as I liked Fly Guy, and a matchmaking cousin was also involved.
It’s such a shame that I can’t say the same nice things that I have to say about G-More about my soon to be ex-husband.
I have many, many bad words to say about the ex. Quite a few of them four letter ones.
But like G-More I’m still welcome at The Italian’s home and I don’t have a bad word to say about him.
And I’m not ok with us not continuing but I’m just generally not ok at the moment and it’s probably for the best.
And I’ll tell you another thing. G-More was not my first kiss.
The other night as The Italian and I watched an old movie and started playing ‘Drink when you see something that was acceptable in the 80’s that is practically illegal right now.’
We clocked having a gun on a plane, smoking at work and a heavily pregnant woman being encouraged to drink.
Well, here’s one from my real life.
Kissy Chasey.
It’s when little boys chase little girls around the playground threatening to kiss them and the girls run.
My mum was a feminist and had put some ideas into my head which had taken hold even at the age of 6.
When threatened with a kiss I refused to run, turned around and started chasing the boy.
He refused to run. We stood face to face on top of the four-square asphalt court surrounded by the school as if there was going to be a fight.
He threatened, “I’m going to kiss you.” “I’m going to kiss you!” was my retort.
Neither of us refusing to back down we leaned in and kissed.
We were shocked. Having a kiss wasn’t so bad. Kind of nice really. Just a peck.
Is this where my association between sexual behavior, drama and aggression began?
More to come.