I love my part time job, travelling to festivals to perform and entertain. The work is erratic though, so every gig is a financial bonus, rather than my bread-and-butter income. I enjoy the adventure of being on the road, staying in weird and wonderful rooms, or sometimes a billet with a friendly local.
Last weekend, my employer/very dear friend ‘W’ and I drove almost 6 hours west of the most easterly point of Australia, over the mountainous dividing range to Bingara, ‘The Gem on the Gwydir’. We were performing at their iconic ‘Orange Festival’, based around the annual harvesting of the orange fruit planted to commemorate the dead local soldiers from WW1 and 2.
‘W’ and I hadn’t seen each other properly for a while, so we talked non-stop almost the whole way there. The road got very winding up through the ranges, with sharp corners slowing us down to 45 or 35kms at times.
If I hadn’t been driving, I’d have thrown up for sure.
We checked in to our [shared] room at the local pub, and that’s when I recognised my official ‘low status’ more clearly than ever before.
Here’s our room: I automatically took the squeaky lower bunk rather than the double bed.
Actually, I wanted the top bunk, so I could pretend I was a pre-teen on an exciting sleepover, but seriously that thing wobbled so much I couldn’t even get up the ladder.
Then we unpacked the car, and again, I found myself unwittingly on the lowest bar of the status scale; in fact, so low, I was just on the dirty carpet, in the corner, awkwardly needing to step around the bed to actually get there.
Still, the art deco architecture of the one-main-street town totally made up for it (population 1,300),
and I found the vintage dress jackpot strung up on a dusty wall in one of those
hoarding junk shops:
It seriously fits like it was made for me, and is going to look so good with my black leather boots and jacket, now that Winter is truly upon us in Australia.
In fact, it made all my ‘low status’ experiences worthwhile (there were more, but ‘W’ reads my blog sometimes, and I don’t want to get sacked); we drove home
listening to bad emotional 90s songs she could sing along with to keep herself awake in companionable silence.
So who wears the trousers in your relationship? Do tell!
In gratitude for adventures with dearest friends, who lift you up
yet also pull you back down, G xO