Desperately Seeking Witches

Young Michael wanted a story about witches, and a story about witches he shall get...even if its a little bit...um...spooky...

Desperately Seeking Witches

It seems bizarre to me that even with as much holiday spirit as I possess, Halloween is and was always one tradition that just never caught on in Richmond. Certainly, all the concepts appealed: I mean, I always adored getting into fancy dress, I certainly had no aversion to public performance, and if the end result of my troubles was some yummy chocolate treat, what was not to love? And yet every year, someone in my class would ask what I had done for Halloween, and I would shrug, having totally forgotten it was even on, and we’d move on to the next conversation, about boys, music, or why that little brat kid across the road had suddenly stopped pulling my hair and was now watching me intently as I walked – I mean, he used to shit me, but he’s getting quite grown up, and I think he might like me…you know, those kind of chats.

When I was 13, my parents began to travel away for the weekend, and I would understand more and more why they were going away. I would smile and nod as they went to a hotel. Still, I began to be given responsibility for the house more and more, and that was pleasing since I could brag about for a while, and not be pressured into hosting a party (yet). It was certainly an exciting time, especially when they left money for pizza and coke, and Megs B or Megs P could come around with a newly rented VHS tape and some gum. It was all good, clean, innocent fun, except for the time we put Jaffa’s in a catapult and fired them at some boys on bikes, and they couldn’t see where they were coming from. That was just…fun.

Lee Hunter and I were close friends in that wonderful pre sexual tension boy and girl way , and we planned a camping trip with some of our other friends, to coincide with another weekend away for my mum and dad. I was happily lying in the bath, trying to eat a pizza at the same time, when there was a fierce rap at the door. “FUCK OFF” I yelled, giggling. I was SO, like, outrageous! I settled back underneath the bubbles, when there was a second, more prolonged knock at the door. I screwed up my face, threw down the New Idea, and wrapped a towel around my soapy self, muttering as darkly as a 13 year old girl covered in soapy Mr Matey bubbles could get. “Lee, this isn’t funny!” I said, as I gripped our antique doorknob and twisted it to the left. Instead of Lee though, was a pair of slightly bemused, bewildered 7 year old girls, dressed as witches, thrusting Tupperware bowls at me. Their mum was visible in the car, reading a book in her turned on headlights. They smiled at me cheerfully, then thrust their bowls closer to me again.

“TRICK OR TREAT” they said together.

“Awww…cute!” I said, for I could never resist the charms of small children who had made an effort. I of course use the phrase made an effort lightly, since they had turned some black t-shirts inside out, but the hats were cute. They were still slightly unsettled my by partial junior nudity, so we stood in an awkward silence. I didn’t know what to do know, since I was unfamiliar with Halloween, and had nothing really prepared. For their part, their fun night out was being ruined by all this silence and standing around, so we took in our situation, before they went for it again.

“TRICK OR TREAT” said the witches, a little more impatiently.

At this point, I began to realise what true adult responsibility I had inherited. My parents would have calmly raided the biscuit tin, or maybe stolen some Maltesers from the charity fundraising tin, but I was panicked. I didn’t want to risk the vengeful wrath of two witch kids after all, so I rushed into the kitchen, threw aside the Samboys and the DMCs, and picked up something I thought they would like, wrapped it up in some kitchen roll, and went back to find one of the witches sitting on the doorstep saying something about “working hard for the candy”.

I thrust my treat into their hands, smiling and nodding. Luckily, there was no hilarity as my towel caught in the door or anything, and off they went, smiling, into the car. I got back in the bath, and curled back up in the bubbles, nervously. Certainly, I didn’t want the witches to come back, and complain about having been given a Weetbix cereal biscuit rather than a yummy piece of candy. I was fretting about it for most of the weekend, expecting the rules of Trick or Treat to wreak vengeance on the house while I was away surfing. I explained my problem to Lee, who was sympathetic.

“I think it’s just junior witches,” he said. “Besides, Weetbix is a treat!”.

I was re-assured by that, but I had a sneaking suspicion all weekend they would get me back. I even did a whole check of the house when Lee and I got back, but there was nothing there, no tricks, no taunting, no nothing – well, except one problem…the next time I had Weetbix, the milk was off, and I got a bit unwell…

Co-incidence? I’m never sure…maybe its best not to know…

Desperately Seeking Card Games

Ages ago, in this thread, I was challenged to write about Card Games and now, I know what to write about, with apologies to Megs B...

Desperately Seeking Card Games

When I was in Grade 8, our school entered a brief and troubling theatre of cruelty phase. Everywhere we looked, someone seemed to be either being bullied, dishing out some bullying, hanging around the fringes of a bullying motion, or just running from a teacher trying to give out a pink slip for bullying. It got very disconcerting, and in my unofficial role as "hands across the school" girl, the one person who truly covered all our social bases, I was dragged in one day by a passing nun and asked my thoughts on the problem. What problem I said, for my ability to not take sides had been my most valuable asset throughout my entire schooling life, and was a key part of my role. The bullying problem, said the nun, idly drumming her fingers on the desk, desperately thinking of a Jesus related metaphor to wheel into our conversation. She didn't quite overtly, later in the conversation, say that I was the school Jesus because I loved all mankind, but that was the implication, and it was left at that. Clearly, I had to be the bridge between the bullys and the bennys.

My friend Megs B, sipping on a fruit box, as she often did, was no stranger to bullying, after the rumours about her and Shane Rinner in Grade 5. She was a trusted aide, but a cruel piss taker when she needed to be. She wrote "No Y in Jesus" across one of my notebooks after I told her my mission. Still, no one liked a bully, and even if it was just a case of someone saying "your pink pen sucks", such criticisms were hurtful. So Megs B, after pondering all options, decided that the next art class would be a perfect start. We would wait until our art teacher would leave, and then we'd bridge the gap between the classes with a game of cards. Surely everyone loved cards. It would allow everyone to get to know each other, and more importantly, I'd give the credit for any decrease in bullying firmly to Megs B, since it would allow leeway to go and smoke every now and then. Everyone, as they say, was a winner.

I mentioned before in the first story about our woodwork teacher, and our art teacher, Mr McInally, was a borderline alcoholic firebrand, with a passion for colour, movement, and vodka. He had done some fearsome art installations in the 1960s, including one which basically involved him yelling at people for entering the room, yelling and yelling until he or they left. As a dedicated art lover and painter, I was very proud of whenever he liked my paintings. He also told me, in confidence, a particularly libellous story about Cher and half a pound of Dairy Milk which, for the sake of taste, I won't repeat. We bonded, but we also knew these bonds had limits. Sometimes, the class wouldn't want to paint, and it would be up to me to communicate this. "We don't feel inspired" I would say, rolling my eyes. He would be upset, but understanding of the artistic temprament, and leave the room to go to the staff room to berate punk kids, and swill vodka from a mug. When we did want to paint, he would dance around the room like a dervish, but today, no painting, no inspiration, vodka in a mug. I always felt bad doing it, but sometimes, it was important to get some space.

Megs B (and for that matter my other friend Megs Parminter, who’s grandad shot a Mexican who tried to rob his store, or something like that) was clearly the kind of person the casino was built for, and before anyone knew what was happening, we were in some kind of 1930s den of iniquity. I swear someone was smoking a cee-gar. Anyway, Megs B was front and centre, dealing cards, making up games in that ridiculous way people who can deal cards are want to do (“3 in a bed, Jokers Blind, Peruvian draw, all in, no paper clips allowed”). I nudged Megs B in the ribs and pointed to her rapidly accumulating pile of cash.

“Megs B, you know, we’re doing this to try and bond the class, it’s just for fun…” I said gently.

“You in?” was all she said, muttering darkly to herself.

I shook my head, as things began to spiral out of control. Amber Bennett lost her Cherry Ripe money and was fuming. The poor kids were crying. Even the bullies were swept aside, in Megs B’s lust for cash and success. Soon, kids were betting smocks and art supplies to try and take her down, but to no avail. Cash, smocks, lunch boxes, they piled up next to her, and it seemed as though our little bonding exercise was manipulated. It was then that Claire, who had wagged class to go and do something unspecified, swanned in, clutching a baseball cap. Everyone fell silent, as Claire spied Megs B large pile of swag, shook her head, and smiled the kind of smile I'd recognise much later as purest evil.

"Megs B, your wanted at the front desk, your mum has come to visit"

Megs B paused...she eyed Claire cooly, then looked down at her pile of cash, and back at Claire.

"Really?"

Claire nodded solemnly. Megs B put down her cards face down, and yelled snappily at one of the smaller kids to guard them, and sprinted off down the hall. At which point, Claire picked them up, studied them for a moment, and wandered up to Amber Bennett and casually mentioned Megs B had 2 Aces and 2 6s. A quick shuffle through the deck, and suddenly Amber was armed with a royal flush. And when Megs B came back, we casually sat around chatting as Amber wiped out Megs B, took all the prizes back, and distributed them back to those who'd lost them in the first place.

"Bastards!" said Megs B, jabbing a finger in Claire's direction.

"Now now Megs B" I said, darkly. "Remember, Jesus hated gambling..."

Oddly, Megs B wasn't happy, but bullying did stop, for we had bridged the gap between the bennys and the cool kids, since now, everyone had something to talk about - Megs Bs gambling rage became the talk of the school, putting everyone in a quiet frenzy, at least until that whole flashing incident...

And just as I predicted, I gave Megs B the credit, to the point she even gave a talk to the younger kids on bullying at the end of year. There's never any credit for bridging the social gap, just a nod and a smile, and the knowledge that you've survived, one day at a time...one day at a time...

Desperately Seeking Card Games

Ages ago, in this thread, I was challenged to write about Card Games and now, I know what to write about, with apologies to Megs B...

Desperately Seeking Card Games

When I was in Grade 8, our school entered a brief and troubling theatre of cruelty phase. Everywhere we looked, someone seemed to be either being bullied, dishing out some bullying, hanging around the fringes of a bullying motion, or just running from a teacher trying to give out a pink slip for bullying. It got very disconcerting, and in my unofficial role as "hands across the school" girl, the one person who truly covered all our social bases, I was dragged in one day by a passing nun and asked my thoughts on the problem. What problem I said, for my ability to not take sides had been my most valuable asset throughout my entire schooling life, and was a key part of my role. The bullying problem, said the nun, idly drumming her fingers on the desk, desperately thinking of a Jesus related metaphor to wheel into our conversation. She didn't quite overtly, later in the conversation, say that I was the school Jesus because I loved all mankind, but that was the implication, and it was left at that. Clearly, I had to be the bridge between the bullys and the bennys.

My friend Megs B, sipping on a fruit box, as she often did, was no stranger to bullying, after the rumours about her and Shane Rinner in Grade 5. She was a trusted aide, but a cruel piss taker when she needed to be. She wrote "No Y in Jesus" across one of my notebooks after I told her my mission. Still, no one liked a bully, and even if it was just a case of someone saying "your pink pen sucks", such criticisms were hurtful. So Megs B, after pondering all options, decided that the next art class would be a perfect start. We would wait until our art teacher would leave, and then we'd bridge the gap between the classes with a game of cards. Surely everyone loved cards. It would allow everyone to get to know each other, and more importantly, I'd give the credit for any decrease in bullying firmly to Megs B, since it would allow leeway to go and smoke every now and then. Everyone, as they say, was a winner.

I mentioned before in the first story about our woodwork teacher, and our art teacher, Mr McInally, was a borderline alcoholic firebrand, with a passion for colour, movement, and vodka. He had done some fearsome art installations in the 1960s, including one which basically involved him yelling at people for entering the room, yelling and yelling until he or they left. As a dedicated art lover and painter, I was very proud of whenever he liked my paintings. He also told me, in confidence, a particularly libellous story about Cher and half a pound of Dairy Milk which, for the sake of taste, I won't repeat. We bonded, but we also knew these bonds had limits. Sometimes, the class wouldn't want to paint, and it would be up to me to communicate this. "We don't feel inspired" I would say, rolling my eyes. He would be upset, but understanding of the artistic temprament, and leave the room to go to the staff room to berate punk kids, and swill vodka from a mug. When we did want to paint, he would dance around the room like a dervish, but today, no painting, no inspiration, vodka in a mug. I always felt bad doing it, but sometimes, it was important to get some space.

Megs B (and for that matter my other friend Megs Parminter, who’s grandad shot a Mexican who tried to rob his store, or something like that) was clearly the kind of person the casino was built for, and before anyone knew what was happening, we were in some kind of 1930s den of iniquity. I swear someone was smoking a cee-gar. Anyway, Megs B was front and centre, dealing cards, making up games in that ridiculous way people who can deal cards are want to do (“3 in a bed, Jokers Blind, Peruvian draw, all in, no paper clips allowed”). I nudged Megs B in the ribs and pointed to her rapidly accumulating pile of cash.

“Megs B, you know, we’re doing this to try and bond the class, it’s just for fun…” I said gently.

“You in?” was all she said, muttering darkly to herself.

I shook my head, as things began to spiral out of control. Amber Bennett lost her Cherry Ripe money and was fuming. The poor kids were crying. Even the bullies were swept aside, in Megs B’s lust for cash and success. Soon, kids were betting smocks and art supplies to try and take her down, but to no avail. Cash, smocks, lunch boxes, they piled up next to her, and it seemed as though our little bonding exercise was manipulated. It was then that Claire, who had wagged class to go and do something unspecified, swanned in, clutching a baseball cap. Everyone fell silent, as Claire spied Megs B large pile of swag, shook her head, and smiled the kind of smile I'd recognise much later as purest evil.

"Megs B, your wanted at the front desk, your mum has come to visit"

Megs B paused...she eyed Claire cooly, then looked down at her pile of cash, and back at Claire.

"Really?"

Claire nodded solemnly. Megs B put down her cards face down, and yelled snappily at one of the smaller kids to guard them, and sprinted off down the hall. At which point, Claire picked them up, studied them for a moment, and wandered up to Amber Bennett and casually mentioned Megs B had 2 Aces and 2 6s. A quick shuffle through the deck, and suddenly Amber was armed with a royal flush. And when Megs B came back, we casually sat around chatting as Amber wiped out Megs B, took all the prizes back, and distributed them back to those who'd lost them in the first place.

"Bastards!" said Megs B, jabbing a finger in Claire's direction.

"Now now Megs B" I said, darkly. "Remember, Jesus hated gambling..."

Oddly, Megs B wasn't happy, but bullying did stop, for we had bridged the gap between the bennys and the cool kids, since now, everyone had something to talk about - Megs Bs gambling rage became the talk of the school, putting everyone in a quiet frenzy, at least until that whole flashing incident...

And just as I predicted, I gave Megs B the credit, to the point she even gave a talk to the younger kids on bullying at the end of year. There's never any credit for bridging the social gap, just a nod and a smile, and the knowledge that you've survived, one day at a time...one day at a time...

Desperately Seeking Treadmills

It's obvious to me I'm going to do this in big large clumps, and so, it's time to start a new clump! With a touching story of fetery amidst the daily grind of school life...

Desperately Seeking Treadmills

When I was young, there was nothing more exciting than the school fete. Before anyone discovered cynicism, boys, or alcohol, there was nothing more exciting than the moment a B or C grade local celebrity would count from 5 to 1 and then with a mighty push, would spin a chocolate wheel while excited children milled around, tickets in hand, desperately hoping that their number would come up, so they could take home a pair of tights to mum, or a half broken garden hose for dad, since such gifts could be wrapped up for the next appropriate occasion that a present was required, and as such, the kid could save pocket money and spend it on more important things like fizzy pop and posters.

Away from the excitement of the chocolate wheel, there was a long corridor which housed the "ghost tunnel". The ghost tunnel was historically the worst thing about the fete, since the lights wouldn't even be off some times, and it was mostly just a slightly disappointing wander down a hallway while older kids sprayed silly string at you. Under normal circumstances, this would be called bullying, but for the day of the school fete, it was rebadged as some kind of spooky adventure. Even worse, Jennifer Danielle Wiley was granted her own stall once, and her mum had gone to all the trouble of making twenty or thirty types of jam, thus making sure she completely overshadowed every one elses contribution. Mysteriously, some of the jam "fell off" the table. Funny that.

To be honest, our school fete was always tremendous fun. I don’t know if public liability insurance would allow the 2005 equivalent of Dull Dave the janitor to take the kids out on his tractor and call it a “tour”, and I’m not sure if we could even hire little Shetland ponies for the little kids, and watch as they ran amok whenever they saw a banana skin or abandoned piece of chocolate. My lasting school fete memory is Dull Dave ambling past me one day as I ate a Caramello koala. He draw me a suspicious glance, and said “nothing.” I hadn’t expected anything Dull Dave I thought, until I looked up and saw a little kid lying on the grass, and an out of control mini pony rampaging towards the science block. That was part of the charm though, a mixture of variety entertainment, and horrendous, ever present danger were all part of the day.

I digress however. When I was in Grade 3, we were ushered into a room by our PE teacher and told we were in charge of prizes. Apparently, it was always the role of the Grade 3s to look after the prizes, and some kids did better than others. They talk about the class of 78 in very dark tones, since two pairs of tights and a signed Jeff Thomson picture allegedly went missing. It was with awe that the PE teacher took the cover of the chocolate wheel, and give it a slightly worrying grope under the guise of a basic piece of hand modelling. We stood in suitable awe. One kid (I can't remember who, sadly) almost broke protocol, and spun it, and he was ushered out of the room for a telling off. And then, the teacher left, and someone (Claire) was voted in charge. And she looked at the pile of prizes, and sat down in a chair, clapped her hands, and ordered people about. That was Claire's idea of leadership, and it's why she wasn't put in charge of anything, ever again...she picked up a copy of the Herald Sun, and smoked a comedy pipe (not made from the Herald Sun if you were wondering).

In the corner of the room, there was a glistening, brand new treadmill, revolutionary material for 1987. We pushed aside piles of donated Richmond football club merchandise (those guys were crazy for donating) and stared at it for a moment, wondering just who would want this piece of crazy exercise equipment in their house. The fitness and Life Be In It craze was beginning to fade, and slackness was the new black. As we lazed around, hopefully trying to co-erce the choir kids into doing all the work (“we’ll be your friend!) it suddenly occurred to someone who’s name is lost to history that this piece of equipment would need to be tested out. Megs B, seated in a donated sedan chair, shook her head and said it would be OK, whoever won it could take responsibility for it. After all, it was only a treadmill, it wasn’t something cool like a chunky stereo or a big basket of Easter eggs. Claire, barely deigning to raise her eyebrows, muttered something about it looking safe, but I wasn’t so sure, and suddenly, one of those pointless arguments people have from time to time was on, as I stared Claire down.

“It needs to be tested!” I said, hands on hips, puffed up with self importance.

“Why?” said Claire, yawning. “Are you going to test everything? Are you going to try on the tights?” said Megs B, laughing. Laughing at ME! I certainly wasn’t going to take this lying down, now with a bee very much in my bonnet. Looking back, I’m sure they all had a point, I mean, why DID we need a treadmill tested out? It became an obsession though, and for the next hour, I was spewing. I couldn’t get past it, I couldn’t cope with the idea of this treadmill going to a member of the public while it was unsafe. Eventually, after an hour of watching the choir kids checking off their inventory, I had to act. I got off one of the rickety wooden crates I was sitting on, and approached Mark Leaman, the school benny, with two Freddo Frogs in hand.

“There’s a Freddo in it if you get on the treadmill and try it out” I said. Luckily, being the school benny, he didn’t see the unfairness in the arrangement that I’d get a Freddo just for being the ideas person.

Without hesitation, he leapt (and when I say leapt, I mean lept, in big thick clumper boots) onto the treadmill, which someone (oh alright, it was me) had managed to plug in. There was alarm amongst the nay sayers as I backed away from the scene of the crime. Mark, being Mark, began to push random buttons on the treadmill, and in true benny style, didn’t so much run and try and do some funky dancing. Inevitably, things went horribly wrong, and by the time he was trying to do the rhumba at 14 KMHs, he came a cropper, flying off into a pile of donated electrical equipment and landing looking up at the ceiling, giggling his head off, next to a packet of pens and a notepad. Claire drew me a significantly mardy glance.

“Not safe,”I said, shaking my head.

“What did you do that for!” she said. I smiled my sweetest smile, and almost got away with it, until Megs B (still in her running everywhere like a mad thing phase) ran up to join the conversation.

“Mark says where’s his other Freddo!” she said, pouting in an uncharacteristic Megs B way.

Foiled, I was forced to muck in with the choir kids, but it was worth it. I had been proven right, and that, as I mucked around with a large pile of sticker albums, was all that truly mattered…