Tales of Richmond – Part Two

Firstly, I forgot to mention that Richmond smells like poos.  And not because of Murms.

Not all the time.  Just every second day or so.  And occasionally, when it’s not smelling like poos, it smells like rubbish.  I didn’t know what was causing this olfactory experience, but Neil and I seem to be the only ones displeased by it.  

I must admit, it did cause some consternation to begin with.  I was in the motel room alone when it assaulted my senses, and I had one of those frightening “oh my GOD was that ME??” moments.  However a quick pat down confirmed I hadn’t lost control of my basic functions, and I ventured outside. 

Upon opening the door, I wouldn’t have been surprised to look down and see that a small community of people had all simultaneously lost control of their basic functions right on my doorstep. 

It was terrible – I checked the bottom of my shoes, even though I hadn’t been outside.  I checked the doormat, even though I was already looking down at it and it was clean.  I peered over the balcony to check the ground floor for raw sewage floating past in a last ditch attempt to solve this mystery and there was no river. After asking around, the locals were quite casual about it.

“Oh, that?  Yeah, that’s just the mushroom farms to the south.  Either that or the poo ponds to the north.  You’ll get used to it.”

This would explain the 50/50 ratio for smells.  Basically, in either a northerly or southerly, we’re gonna get hit.

The first few weeks I found it a little hard to relax on my balcony in the sun with my vodka and book at 3pm, but I soldiered on through and now it ain’t no thing.

It was on a Poo Day that I made my first adventurous outing into the shopping heart of Richmond.  And I don’t mean Coles for more Chicken Lady abuse.  I’m talking about Richmond Marketplace.  Where Big W reigns supreme, dotted with a shop for every mobile provider, a scattering of boutiques and of course a food court.

I ventured inside and the first shop I saw was a nail salon.  “Nice, nice” I nod and think to myself.  This place might turn out to be classy yet.  Next shop a pharmacy, next shop jeweller, this is looking promising.  Round the corner… $7 haircuts, no appointment necessary.   I stand fast on my initial assessment and assume that either a 2 or 3 has fallen off the front of the sign.  Stubbornness refuses to let me see the man emerge with a mullet or the three Asian hairdressers consoling a teenage girl crying at her reflection in a plastic yellow mirror.

After checking out all the little boutique shops (Millers, the Reject Shop and the Asian Sock Stand) I venture into Big W.  I’d seen the ads.  I knew I could deck out our entire house for just $399.  I couldn’t wait.  We didn’t have a house and I didn’t have $399 but I was still excited.

I browsed the aisles for what seemed like hours.  Yes… there were the typical K-Mart-type cheap items, but they also stocked some reasonable quality kitchen items and I splashed out on a microwave vegetable steamer.  I walked around with it tucked under my arm, proudly smiling at everyone with a That’s-Right-I-Eat-Vegetables look on my face.  Not til I was in the imported chocolate section tossing up between a 500g pack of Cadbury Crunch or Dairy Milk did I remember that I don’t like veges.

I walked around the entire store, picking something up every second shelf or so, admiring it for a while, carrying it for a few minutes then deciding three shelves down that I didn’t really need it.  I mean, where on earth were we going to keep a three-man-tent or a four-pack of soccer balls?

It reminded me of my first Venture into Aldi’s - the discount supermarket shop.  They have such a vast range of products marketed just for them, kind of like a home-brand but it’s pretty much all they stock, and it’s very inexpensive.  They also have the odd miscellaneous item; the first time I went there I had forgotten my shopping list, and stood there confused thinking “oh gosh, I can’t remember…?  DID we or did we NOT need a new Buddha Head Statue?”

After picking up and putting down half the stock of Big W, I wandered over to the linen department to check out some duvet covers for the girls.  As I was standing there I heard a motor whirring, looked to the end of the aisle, and saw a man in a wheelchair whiz past.  I only caught a glimpse of him, but Charles Manson with one-too-many-pies and one-too-few-dental-visits summed him up.    Looking back to my pretty pink duvets, I heard the screech of brakes and I’m sure I could smell burning rubber.   Slowly, the back of the wheelchair came into view, then Fat-Gappy-Charles-Manson.

Now, it’s been a while; especially since I’ve hit the unsexy side of 40, but none-the-less I recognised the look in his eyes.  Like Gary Glitter at a School Disco. 

My heart sinks a little. 

“S’bloody spensive innit?”

I can’t ignore him.  There’s not another soul in sight suddenly, and he’s less than a metre away from me.

Unsure what in particular he’s referring to, I find myself at a loss.  I’m fairly certain he can’t be talking about socks or shoes - his annual budget would be less than the cost of a Richmond haircut - so I look at the item in my hand.

$15.99.

“Um, well, actually I don’t find it too bad.  It’s a lot cheaper here than it is where I came from”

DAMMIT!  New line of questioning open.  For someone with a supposed over-80 IQ I can be pretty stupid sometimes. 

I start inching backwards; Fat-Gappy-Charles-Manson maintains his solid stare at me.  I feel like a donut at a Police Station and my fight-or-flight reflex kicks in.  I mumbled something about walking shoes (I mean, REALLY??  More IQ doubt) and turn around to take off.  I dodge my way through the aisles like Jason Bourne through the back streets, and I’m ashamed to admit I contemplated throwing items on the floor to block his wheelchair.

My shopping journey was tainted now, and I decided to call it a day.  Making my way to checkouts, I used all my military survival Escape & Evasion training to stay out of enemy contact.  The checkout lady looked at me a bit strange as she leaned over the counter to take my EFTPOS card from me, but being crouched down meant I was well out of wheelchair-height-vision.

Musing over my close shave, my dice with death; marvelling at my survival skills and tact with those less fortunate, I decided to treat myself with a nice wine.  I wandered down to Liquorland to do one last spend, then headed home.

As I walked, thinking about the dodgy people and funny smells, I comforted myself with one final thought.   No matter how bad things got, or long we stayed in this funny little town, I realised I’d never be like a Richmond local.

“Well, one thing’s for sure”  I said out loud as I tucked my 4 litre cask of wine under my arm “I’ll always be a classy Kiwi Chick”.