A Caricature of Dress Etiquette in Regional Australia

The women are dressed to the nines as if they expect to be asked, at any moment, to

walk down a red carpet.

The men are dressed like they gave little thought to the occasion they are attending

and even less thought to what they would be wearing. This is the women’s general, and

collective, points of view, which every woman knows is the proper view of such things.

The women have given careful attention to every detail, every item of accessory, and

every nuance of perception of what others might think. Hair, if not actually coiffured, is

at the very least blown, combed, braided, knotted, platted, teased, tied and twisted until

every hair is no more than a micrometre out of place. Nails are immaculate, lipstick is

impeccable, and eyelashes do double duty as dressage for the eyes and semaphores

to the men. Should the unthinkable happen, (two women wearing the same outfit), the

disgrace and shame is felt by both, and both become the subject of disapproval under

the withering glare of the other women. Redemption is only possible if one woman has

included an accessory (scarf, hat, coat) that allows her to substantially change either

the fitting or the focus of her outfit, thus not only avoiding humiliation, but trumping her

antagonist by showing superior foresight, her prudence and sagacity garnering favour

from all. For the loser, there is no excuse for such failure of discretion, and she spends

the rest of the evening skulking in the background, desperately contemplating any

excuse that justifies leaving early without looking like she has lost all self-respect.

The women are amazed, and annoyed, that the men did not understand the importance

of giving the occasion due consideration. The slapdash, slipshod, slack and slovenly

application to coordination of style and colour is an offence difficult to ignore.
Exasperation at their menfolk is partly due to the repeated, disheveled effort evidently
applied to male presentation on any and all occasions, and a deeply innate envy over
the men’s freedom to ignore social demands and continually get away with it. This injustice is, perhaps, the most galling affront of them all.

The men are either oblivious to their faux pas or stumped over the dubious importance of

putting more effort into what they are wearing. After all, they are perfectly comfortable;
their shirts are, for the most part, tucked in, and there is no mud showing on the top-side
of their shoes and boots. Shaving and hair combing have all occurred in the last forty-
eight hours, and if a full bath has not been possible, cologne has not been spared,
because they are not animals, and understand the need for personal grooming when in
public. What else could possibly be required without looking like a dandy, or being
completely over-dressed for the occasion, and over-dressing is considered by the male
of the species to be one of the biggest social sins of all. When one of the men sees
another bloke wearing the same pants or shirt, he congratulates himself for not having
chosen something that stands out.

Those few men who, by sheer luck or feminine management, might normally be
considered to have applied enough diligence to their attire, are included in the group
of non-conformants simply by reason of the overpowering number of their inconsiderate
brethren. There is of course always the lone ranger who considers his favourite footy
jersey to be entirely appropriate for any occasion. There is no point any woman
speaking to him about his clothing as he has not yet evolved enough to understand
the concepts of social engagement.

And for all the effort, all the time and money, all the phone calls to girlfriends to ascertain

who was wearing what, all the stress over which outfit would be the perfect outfit for the

occasion, the men enjoy the evening as much as the women, maybe more so. After all,

beer tastes the same regardless of what you are wearing, and mates are mates even if

you are all wearing the same shirt.

A Short Holiday Romance

Escaping from family and parents as planned, with the moon as a torch and

the wind as a cloak, we ran through the forest of silent sentinels until we

reached the open field. We ran on through the panic until our empty lungs

called a halt, and then we more slowly made our way down to the beach of

desolation, to the rocks dark and glooming as though preparing for

doomsday. The waves crashed on the shoreline, spent carnival lights of foam

luminescing, the commotion of their breaking overpowering other sounds,

heightening our sense of exposure. The wind was blustering, blowing at our

clothes and throwing our hair into our faces. The noise of our harsh

breathing, rasping into our throats, added to the sense of alarm. The beach

was not the place of hiding we had expected. It was more open than we

remembered in our romantic tête-à-têtes. Neither of us had experienced this

type of circumstance before. We felt exposed in the danger we had created.

Neither of us knew how to handle the trepidation we felt, let alone know how

to support another in the same condition. The goal of being alone with each

other had been such an alluring enticement that neither of us had considered

the effects of our boldness, nor the effects of the adrenaline that was now

coursing through our arteries. It was more than either of us could command.

We stood on the sand, facing each other, not touching, until our breathing

slowly, ever so slowly, subsided to something akin to normal. Then she said,

“I want to go back”.

Agricultural Dilemma

Plump plum dangling on withered stalk

The object of the parakeet’s study

Swift wings beating, avian squawk,

The bird’s incursion piercing and bloody

Orchardist comes speaking apophasis

Bitter enemy of parakeet’s kin

Wishing only to change the stasis

Grimly driven by desperate whim

Six of one, or half dozen

Either one is plump plum’s foe

Leaving no room for discussion

By cutting off its vital flow