JOHN MARTIN'S TALES

Forgive me for rambling on more than usual in this preamble. But it’s timely… in a 31st wedding anniversary sort of way. Yes, we tick off that milestone today. We were married at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania on August 7, 1995. It has been my role each year to research what gifts are pertinent to that upcoming anniversary — and it turns out this year we were supposed to buy each other quality timepieces. This made us both laugh because we agreed some years ago to a $20 cap on what we spend on each other. It forces us to be inventive. In that spirit, I have bought Katherine two colour-changing egg timers this year. By the time this column goes out, I’ll know what she has bought for me. The parcel arrived the other day. From England! I’m confused. If it’s Big Ben, it’s smaller than I remember it. Moving on, this column is another one from the archives. From Jack and the Jellybean Stalk, my take on the early parenting years.

Dear Katherine,

Welcome home. I have left you some cold, green soup in the fridge. Actually, it is the same soup you left for me when you left a week ago, though I suspect it is even greener and nicer now.

I hope you enjoyed your time away in New Zealand.

I am happy to report that in your absence I have managed to keep the house roughly in order, our four-year-old son Jack happy and our cat Vana well.

You are probably wondering why I have left you this note rather than welcoming you in person?

Sorry. I have been called into work for a night shift.

I have locked Jack in the laundry and sent Vana to your parents.
No, oops… other way around.

Jack will no doubt fill you in on the past week’s events when you pick him up.

Please do not believe everything he says though.

In your short absence, he seems to have developed quite an imagination.

I do accept full blame, however, for the loss of your rare and expensive china ornament which used to be on top of the piano.

I tried sticking it back together with glue, but now it looks more Picasso than Ming.

Jack and I were practising our football kicking in the lounge-room and, in hindsight, I realise I was setting a bad example to him.

I should have used the spiral punt rather than the drop kick, which can be somewhat wayward if you do not connect correctly.

Vana vomited twice while you were away, but luckily only once on your new carpet and I have managed to get most of that clean. Unfortunately, she was sick after I gave her some of your lovely green soup and the stain is still quite conspicuous.

Jack was sick in your absence, too, but only once.

I quickly deduced after his brief bout of vomiting that I was getting mixed up about the frozen food you left for him and Vana. Jack was supposed to have the green soup, wasn’t he?

Um, I will not tell you what I made Jack eat that first night.

As I said, Jack’s imagination has been getting the better of him these past few days, so please do not believe him if he tells you I screamed and cried when I took him on the rollercoaster at Questacon the other day.

Actually, it was not a real rollercoaster — which was some consolation after I stood in the queue with Jack for 20 minutes.

Jack had given me the mistaken impression that it was in fact a simulated spaceship ride and I had visions of floating around gently while chewing on a free Milky Way chocolate bar.

Alas, when we finally reached the head of the queue a sign set me straight. The machine was indeed a simulated rollercoaster. You know how I hate heights and object to moving at any pace faster than is necessary to get a cold drink from the fridge during TV-football ad breaks!

The simulator was a big red box that moves around on hydraulics while the 10 or so people inside look at a frighteningly real computer simulation on a screen where the front window ought to be.

You hurtle along a rail, down tunnels, uuuuuuuuuup and dooooooooooooown, then leave the rails and go floating through the air towards certain death.

Unless you keep telling yourself not to worry because you are really in a big red box moving from side to side and up and down on hydraulics, it can be pretty harrowing.

Almost as harrowing as that favourite ornament of yours ricocheting around the lounge-room and smashing into that framed picture of one of your favourite relatives.

Do not worry, Katherine. I am sure that can be fixed.

The glass can certainly be replaced and the photograph sustained only minor damage, except the chin which, I have to concede, is a bit of a write-off.

But do not worry.

Jack’s artistic abilities seem to be coming along in leaps and bounds, and I am sure he would be eager to help.

He has now started drawing beards on his stick people, and I am pretty sure he could work his magic on Great Auntie Matilda.

Anyway, I must go.

Enjoy the soup and don’t wait up for me.

Sleep well.

Love John

PS: I washed the sheets but did not have time to make up the bed again. Sorry, I had to watch the match of the day on telly.

PPS: Sorry too about all the dirty dishes in the sink. The dishwasher is full and I couldn’t find where I left the detergent.’