the immobiliser

I passed a road accident this morning: three cars had smashed into each other on Coronation Drive. The drivers seemed fine and the damage to the cars appeared minimal. Presumably, they were all trying to get the jump at the lights. By the time I passed by, all three drivers (none had passengers) were at the side of the road with their mobiles, looking various states of annoyed. Naturally, they were not talking to each other.

Apart from the obvious thoughts – I’m sorry when anyone has an accident and I’m glad that no one seemed hurt – I wondered what we all did at accidents before mobile telephones? Did we talk to each other and say – “sorry for smashing up the back of your Getz”, or something equally comforting? Possibly not.

I remember life before mobile phones. I remember resisting getting one because it seemed implausible that anyone would need to contact me so urgently that it couldn’t wait until I went home that night. I had a sweet answering machine and enjoyed preparing the recorded message as follows:

“Hi, you’ve called Eleanor’s Psychic Hotline, I know who you are and why you are calling so – at the tone – please hang up”.

It felt terribly witty at the time. Sadly, it really confused my mum and the first couple of times she left more expansive and life-searching questions after the tone, because she actually thought I was psychic*. It was profoundly disturbing.

In the end, I got really really drunk at a 21st birthday party and passed out on the floor and I woke up and some guy was doing some really creepy stuff with my hand on parts of his body that I hadn’t really been aware that I had wanted to touch and – because my psychic skills were obviously on the blink that day – I had been unable to anticipate before I passed out like a maudlin “after” picture on some teen drinking pamphlet put out by the police to deter teenagers from drinking.

So yeah. My mum – who is also not psychic – made me get a mobile phone.

Obviously, I have not looked back since. I now have two. And regularly complain about the first world problem of my many chargers, plugs, adaptors and connectors. This week my laptop completely bit the dust. I am bereft of interwebs and typing options and an ability to update this blog except via my mobile phone and – while this is possible – it kind of gives me RSI. I have serious texter’s thumb. Sometimes I miss the world before mobile phones. Oh, and the world before Vodafone the world’s most annoying phone provider.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling a bit flat since the Tour ended. As if my sole purpose in life has somehow slipped away from me and that I am just working around the edges of things that are good and wholesome and meaningful and challenging and good. I’m sure many of you feel likewise. Perhaps you are wondering if you have fulfilled your true potential.

Like Brendon, I have been feeling a bit flat, funny and underperforming. I do not have to worry that I am losing my A-grade races, because I am not a racing type. But I have shared his concern that perhaps there is not room in life to be passionate about too many things. I fear that I may have a slight case of dilettantism, bit of this, bit of that. I’m feeling like perhaps I might like to be a bit more committed about things. Less taster plate, more whole meal.

Anyway. This is just a warning, in case I get really really really serious about something while you’re paying attention and you wonder what happened.

Among my lightly interested fascinations is Tweed. I love a good Tweed Ride/Run/Trundle and this weekend in Sydney there was the 3rd Annual Tweed Ride and I had a small spy attend said ride and it was apparently very beautiful and pre-mobiles life sweetness.

There was thinking of pink.

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There was a beautiful and mysterious cape lady. My spy says this is related to Cyclette. if you are feeling like a very ultra dapper lady spin, I suggest you check them out. I’m not sure how they would go in Brisbane, because the humidity/heat tends to discourage me from black, but there was some very high cycling fetish action on that site.

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And moustaches. I like moustaches.

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I would like to be at the next Brisbane Tweed Ride. I hope to have a nice outfit to wear and a lovely brown velvet riding helmet which is probably not AS approved, and cannot exist except in my dreams.

 

I did have a premonition about this helmet once. I believe it almost possible. As a compromise, I’d have a Bern Brighton in gloss white please.

 

*I am not the slightest bit psychic. Sometimes I’m not even that socially intuitive.

 

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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