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So we left what I now regard as our proper home to go back to what I sometimes regard as our proper home (confusing, right) only to learn, two days later, that quarantine was a government shamble and Melbourne is in the middle of either a second wave or a proper first wave or some shit. Never one to not say let’s turn around and go back, I did. Not so fast, was the kids’ view of it all.

Limbo it is for the moment then. Oh well, at least there is the option and that is better than the alternatives flashing all over the news. I think I really have had enough looking of it all. If any burglars want to break into our house and take the TV and other devices, I might even help them load it into their van.

Even other news is grim, if not quite so grave.

The cardboard cut-outs were stunned into silence when Jeremy Howe, Collingwood defender, earthly son of wing-footed Mercury and Patron Saint of the High Mark, popped an ACL …or a BCL or PCL, I’m not sure … maybe all three. Why the demi-gods are asked to walk the earth with sinews and connecty-bits made of little more than fairy floss is anyone’s guess. It reminds us the gods are cruel.

For those (I suspect most of you) not familiar with Our Jeremy, he is a rescue from some sheltered workshop cleverly masquerading as a rival football club, which had the terrible indecency to draft him. I don’t know which one because I never commit to these to memory and probably wouldn’t say so if I did. In any event, he trudged his way over to Collingwood, found his true purpose and once more the planets were briefly tripped into another fleeting sort of re-alignment.

See, Jeremy is no ordinary footballer. There are enough of those – can’t kick, can’t compete, can’t speak in whole sentences, can’t get drunk without pissing on a window, etc, etc. No, he is very, very special. And this because many, many, many times a game he is able to launch himself into the firmament as if carried up there on the warm breath of the gods themselves, before standing on someone’s head and taking yet another spectacular mark.

By way of edification, a ‘mark’ is what every other ball sport in the world might call a catch, but that can be a matter for the rest of the world. A mark is also what a statistician might call it. Any of spekky/ grab/ hanger/ screamer is what a fan might call it. When Jeremy takes one, I call it foreplay.

It is quite amazing that TV cameras and no end of replays aren’t quite able to see what I see. Through my own eyes, he is never up there for less than a minute-and-a-half and while way up there always seems able to find the time to turn his head, ever so slightly, and wink right at me. It’s a job to suppress the urge to go fluff his pillow and ensure that he is resting comfortably. If I wasn't spoken for ... ah, nevermind.

So, like all imported joy, 2020 has ripped this one away too.


Went to confession though. For the first time in years. That might have to wait, at least until I rediscover my appetite for self-loathing. That might come as soon as tomorrow.










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