Me, I have about as much grace as an elephant with a dodgy hip, my attempts at archery almost ended in disaster, (for everyone else) and my woeful tries at anything arty meant that a lump of clay would end up looking like a lump of clay, my drawing of a bird would look like an angry dinosaur with an exploding head and my complete failure to cut straight or be spacially aware meant that I was useless as any sort of practical assistant.
I must admit that I did approach horse riding with a mixture of sheer terror and exhilaration. I took riding lessons with a country bloke when I was in my final year of school. I never really learnt the hang of communicating with a horse, and rather like photocopiers, horses could always sense my fear, and follow up with behaving badly
And as far as sexual awakening was concerned, I was still in a comatose state of blissful ignorance. Hence when this riding instructor introduced me to his erect willy, I hadn't the faintest idea that this could be construed as sexual assault. Earlier attacks had included a removalist who stuck his hand up my knickers whilst conducting a quote at our home (!) and some poor bastard who groped me on the train whilst I was on my way to school. When asked where I had been touched, I responded quite earnestly "Between Pymble and Turramurra"!
So, horse riding, along with most other enterprises, went out the window toot sweet. Later, I discovered running as meditative freedom away from my everyday pressures. Unfortunately, my ankles never forgave me and my exercise machine was given the kybosh after Ruby the Beagles ate the internal wiring. Twice.
As a result, I spent a long time between drinks exploring my options in various occupations. Junior nurse, house cleaner, charity saleswoman, receptionist and uni student were all stopgaps prior to my ultimate goal of motherhood. And although I adore my children and am so proud of who they have become, my only genuine gift, that of breastfeeding had to cease well before I actually felt any semblance of being a "good" mother.
Post-separation was still all about caring -kids, aged carer and then special needs education assistant. Even after we became the Beverley Hillbillies, I was still spending some of my days attending to (mostly) teenagers with all their usual adolescent behaviours as well as having some sort of disability.
The Education Department and I did not part on good terms. Being injured twice definitely wasn't what I had in mind when I became an education assistant. I think I was caught up in a saintly vision of a teaching Florence Nightingale when the reality was far more difficult and often tedious.
But, I had begun writing again back in 2009 and this experiment in expression gave me a great deal of satisfaction. I'd only given up keeping a journal as my earlier readings were almost universally dirgeful bilge. Having met Michael and enjoying new experiences gave me a renewed spring in my literary step.
Plus, throughout all the renovation of the Forbes Building and our vague notion of establishing some sort of Gallery, I revisited my previous fascination and love of art and art history. I felt I was a bit like Prince Philip in that sense; I knew what I liked but not necessarily its genre or period.
When we opened the East End Gallery, I rather fell, inelegantly and gradually, into my role as Front-of-House. Then I realised that like everything else in my life, the stories were "the thing". The art pieces, the artists, our building, our town were all bustling with these stories. And that was when I think I found my feet.
We were all systems go when the Coronavirus lockdown began. I was looking forward to our Sundowners, the buzz of Easter and the change of season. Leaving the Gallery in the hands of our splendid volunteers whilst we took our annual northern jaunt. Suddenly, every plan went out of the window.
After my initial terror of the Plague, I settled into the most agreeable persona of a poor country squiress. Along with my said Squire, we relished the quiet days. We pottered away on personal projects - in fact, Michael was far more energetic than me, but the relaxed pace was like manna from heaven.
Eventually, the awful truth reared its ugly head. The time had come to reopen the East End Gallery. I had great plans to be dusted and cleaned and dressed appropriately for our relaunch into the remainder of 2020. Needless to say, I was not ready and I was limp with a lack of enthusiasm a mere four days ago. I had not clapped eyes on the Gallery in two and a half months and my loss of knowledge and understanding of all involved was very real indeed.
Then on Friday, I felt that familiar stirring of vim, vigour and vitality. I decided to move a few items around to familiarise myself with them once more. That was a major mistake on my behalf. I proceeded to upend the Giftshop and to a lesser extent, the Gallery, give them a bloody good shake and see where they landed.
My rearrangement of works took three days. I finally finished last night at about half-past six. Michael had already returned home but I was caught up in the thrill of photographing the revised layout. That was then I heard the unmistakable "drip...drip...drip". However, thanks to Michael's prolonged and excellent efforts with silicone and bitumen paint on the roof, that was the one and only leak. I placed a bucket under the dripping and came home in triumph.
Have I my mojo back? You bet your sweet nippy. 2020 continues to be a Year of Wonders, but I am learning to go with the flow of change. I am revelling once more in my role at the East End Gallery. I am well and truly back in the saddle. Hiho Silver. Away!
Except I tore my frock during my impersonations of a whirling dervish and it needs mending...Bollocks.
Snapshot of the East End Gallery and Giftshop - 24 May 2020
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