Tuesday, February 7, 2012


Last night as we were driving home from my parents place, I realised I had left the brownie in the microwave.
This was a bigger deal than it should have been as I had been craving that brownie all day and, once made, had even managed to be generous enough to take it to their place so I could share it with my family.
But not generous enough to leave the rest of it there.
That was not part of the plan.
I was lamenting this fact as we pulled into our street.
Then I was lamenting the fact that – as usual – there was not a parking spot to be found, as we live in the groovy inner west, close enough to the city that we should all be commuting on foot or bicycle and don’t really need a car anyway, and yet everyone (not us) seems to own not one, but two vehicles per house.
Couple this with the fact that there is a funeral parlour on one corner and a gym on the other and you can see how the problem escalates.
Sadly, (although not for them I don’t suppose) the funeral parlour is consistently busy. Which means that by day the street is filled with the cars of funeral-goers, walking down the path sadly and slowly in their crisp black suits, and by night the street is filled with the doof-doof cars of ‘roided-up white guys on their way to stand in front of the mirror and grunt and swear as they stare at themselves pumping iron at the gym. You know the ones, their protein shake hanging from a clip on their pants, camouflage caps on their heads, their deep cut singlets deliberately exposing the series of tattoos on their arms.
Back to our parking dilemma, we were further hindered by a car stopped smack bang in front of the back lane where you can sometimes find a park, (the downside to that being that by next morning your car is covered with those annoying fig bombs that stick to the roof like cement).
Showing remarkable restraint, G and I did not honk and G did an impressive reverse park into a spot that looked like it could only fit one of those small, good-for-the-environment-but-way-too-expensive-for-us, smart cars.
As we extracted Q from the car, (no small feat when she’s asleep) we realised the car was parked across the lane because its occupants were having a roaring argument. They climbed out of the car and the first thing we saw was the woman slapping the guy about the head, her language bluer than the summer skies we see only in our memories owing to this totally shit summer.
Quickly, G took Q upstairs and away from any potential harm.
Because I am brave and strong, I stayed, unpacked the car (minus the brownie) and learnt a few new swear words.
G wanted to call the police immediately, but my initial thought was that her hitting him was the best case scenario, (she was slight and petite and he was the size of…well…a ‘roided up white guy) and perhaps this was how they rolled. Some ladies like to fight.
But as I was taking the final load of crap upstairs, they had returned inside the car and all I could see was the bloke leaning over the passenger seat, his fist slamming up and down in the air.
‘Call the police now Gregory,’ I yelled up the stairs, then snuck closer to see how I could help.
Somehow the woman managed to clamber out of the car and it was easy to see she’d been hurt.
Then, for whatever reason, she climbed back in and he sped off, but not before I managed to get the numberplate of the car belonging to this complete Neanderthal, woman-beating bully arsehole.
Maybe this was their first fight. Maybe she’s a feisty personality. Maybe she pissed him off.
I don’t care.
You don’t ever piss someone off enough to cop a blow to the head.
Thanks to Gregory’s quick call (although we lost a few seconds while I reminded him that 911 was for the US only) the police reckon they found the car.
Should we have tried to talk to them instead of calling the police?
I’m not so sure. I’m a mother now, and Gregory is a father. Our first duty is to our girl. My only defence against that mountain man would have been to run down to the main road and hope a car stopped to help, Gregory may have had to take him on.
Gregory is not a ‘roided up white guy.                                                                                    

Although he does have tattoos down one arm. Don’t all chefs? My theory is that their down time, their time to play, is after midnight when all the people they served are home in bed asleep. What else is available at those hours apart from dodgy bars, brothels and tattoo parlours?   For the record G only partakes of two of those three.
We returned upstairs and my heart was racing with rational fear for that poor woman, and irrational fear that the ‘roided up white guy was going to come back to our street with a gun and shoot us for interfering.
I have a vivid, hyperactive imagination. It is why I don’t watch horror movies.
G made me a cup of tea and I sat there sipping, desperately wishing I hadn’t forgotten that bloody brownie.
Domestic violence is not ok.
And that means you play your part in society by not tolerating it if you see it.
If that was their first fight, imagine what he’ll do to her next time.
I really hope she’s all right and hope even more that she had the courage to walk away.
I did a bit of research and it seems we’re making a pretty fair effort, there are a lot of wonderful websites devoted to domestic, couple and relationship violence.
These are just a few, all based in Sydney, but there were plenty more for other areas of Australia.
Isn’t it a terrible shame that we need them?

Ps. On a slightly facetious note, this post has been sponsored by the brownie my mum dropped off to me this morning. I have no willpower.

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