Patsy Crawford Scribbling Away
Having a sniffle in these tension ridden pandemic times can set you on your guard. At the first sign of a suspect nose you may be flailed with sticks and driven underground with shouts of ‘get out of here you filthy Covid carrier’ ringing in your ears.
Perhaps I exaggerate. But there’s no denying we are living in days of gloom and isolation as one by one, Australian’s states and cities go into lock-down and tumbleweeds drift down streets where the only people to be seen are determined joggers or a homeless person folded like a tatty bundle of Vinnie-wear in a shop doorway.
When the pandemic first struck many of us thought well there goes the overseas trip. No way will we be strolling jauntily along Las Ramblas or standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona feeling slightly cheesy but determined to have our photo taken.
Leaving Australia any time soon was about as likely as having the Tardis land in our back yards to whisk us away to god knows where.
So travelling horizons became narrowed. Perhaps Sydney might be a goer? Or a plod through Kakadu? Yes, yes, see a bit more of our wide brown land. That would even make us feel patriotic, that we were doing our bit for the nation’s economy, that we were helping entrepreneurs on the brink of insolvency keep those camel safaris and croc spotting expeditions going.
Alas, that one has come a cropper too. Borders have become like concertinas, wheezing open, closed, open, closed as this damned pandemic blows through our every day, trapping us in some sort of virus-enhanced limbo.
Suddenly that little stretch of water between us here and them over there on big island has become a gulf of intractable proportions. And anyway what would be the point?
We’d probably have to camp out in Bourke Street and we wouldn’t be able to get a bed anywhere in Queensland because it’s stuffed to the brim with footballers.
So Tasmania it is.
A few weeks back I was quite beside myself because I was going on a trip to Hobart.
Where to stay? What to do? Should I pack for high tea?
Decisions such as these add that frisson of anticipation to travel plans.
To be honest I was basically going to MONA to check out the latest exhibition, which with the Prado and the Tate pretty well gone for the duration was about as high rolling as art was going to get for the foreseeable future.
And it was great. I mean what’s not to like about MONA? The grandkids took in the exhibition with aplomb. They’re old hands now. Only gave a cursory glance to the poo machine this trip. Much more interested in the hair-raisingly loud techno installation.
It does you good, that sort of thing. I took heart, telling myself that one day Covid will be behind us and we can fly up, up and away. Anywhere. Just the prospect of a short stay in Melbourne is enough to make me wilt with excitement.
