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Saturday, June 3, 2023

Why I Don’t Tell My Husband Anything. (The Third Reason Will Shock You)



                                                                The Puppet Master

A lot of people have wondered why Scotto and I moved to Tasmania.

Probably not a LOT of people. Maybe one… or two (including my mother).

‘Why DID the little shits move?’ I hear you ask.

Did Pinky have a nervous breakdown and need to attend a mental sanitorium in the remote regions of the country where no one knew her?

Did Pinky get pregnant and was forced to move somewhere she could birth the love child in a clandestine location and where no shame would find her?

 Did Scotto and Pinky secretly murder their annoying neighbours for cutting down the olive trees (down the side fence) and must therefore relocate to a place no normal, sane people would dare to venture?


Some people also probably wondered why, after making a big song and dance about a move to the Apple Isle, brazenly buying a house, then opening a fancy, whimsical, self-indulgent shop, they would then moved back to Queensland a short 18 months later?

Are they unstable? Flighty? Fickle?

Were there criminal activities afoot?

The answer is a combination of all three of the above (not the criminal bit).

Back on the mountain in 2021, plonking myself on the couch one afternoon after a hard day in the classroom, I casually mentioned to Scotto that I wouldn’t mind moving to Tasmania because I was sick of the attitude of the girl at the local IGA.

The very next day, as I pulled into the driveway after work, I noticed a flashy German car in the driveway. It was Wayne the real estate agent, appraising our house for an immediate sale.

Nek minit: Scotto and I were steering our car (packed with 3 dogs and a mangy cat) off the Spirit of Tasmania ramp at Devonport. and heading towards the coldest and most depressing 18 months of our lives in Devonport.

Scotto made the entire life transition happen quicker than a Tasmanian beanie appears on a bald head on the 28th February.


Soooo…. did we enjoy our 18 months in Tasmania?

Did Superman enjoy Lex Luther? Did Sherlock enjoy Moriarty? Did Sir Robert Scott enjoy his yellow frostbitten toes after unsuccessfully attempting to reach the South Pole?

It was not the best experience in my broad experience of stupid decisions.

So anyway, one frostbitten day, I hobbled home from the icy, whimsical shop I’d so joyfully opened and idly commented to Scotto that I’d like to move back to Queensland because I missed the cockroaches, geckos, and freedom of saying the F word to random people. Plus, I was getting sick and tired of having to deal with random public twits in a retailing job.

(Honestly… the public really are idiots, but that’s for another post.)

I missed feeling unfrozen grass under my feet, a blue sky, and people who don’t mock me when I say pool… I needed the Motherland, the place we belonged... Queensland.


Nek minit: there were some strange people walking through my house at sunset making clucking noises about how they wanted to buy our house.


Nek minit: we are driving on to the Spirit of Tasmania (with our mangy cat and three dogs) and headed to Townsville.


And so, now we are back where we started.

But when we arrived a strange thing began to happen. I began to run into old friends who eyed me suspiciously as if to say,

 “What happened, Pinky?’

“Are you in trouble with the law/education department/ retailer’s association, Pinky?”

“Pinky! Did you have a love child and leave it in Tasmania?” “Did you have it adopted out and will you try to find it when you realise you miss it?”

“Did you murder your neighbours because they lit one too many fire pits?”

Well… the answer is, no.

 It was merely too fucking cold in Tasmania and that’s why we came back.


Soooo glad I can swear again.