Musophobia – a tragicomedy

500 Words: Right here, Right now

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/75915

On a Saturday morning not so long ago, I was sitting on the steps in our kitchen putting my runners on. I have a bad habit of leaving my shoes wherever I happen to take them off and the night before I had chucked them off in the kitchen, where they’d been patiently waiting for me ever since. My cat was in the kitchen too, having just come through the cat flap. He seemed extremely interested in my shoe-putting-on procedure.

My first runner went on fine. When I put the second one on and stood up and walked around for a bit, my foot felt uncomfortable. My toes were cramped and the shoe didn’t feel right. Perhaps I’d left yesterday’s sock in that shoe, I thought, another bad habit of mine. So I sat back down on the step, undid the laces and pulled that shoe off.

I confidently reached inside, quickly grabbed at the toe of my runner and pulled my hand out, expecting to see a scrunched up sock. When my hand came out with a live mouse, which might have been playing dead while I walked around in my shoe and then began wriggling madly when I pulled it out, I let out the loudest, most ear-piercing scream of my entire life!

Well, I actually indulged in two screaming sessions a few minutes apart. The first screaming session comprised of sheer disbelief – had I really just put my foot into a shoe with a live mouse in it? Had I really just walked around with a live mouse in my shoe? And then had I actually pulled that slippery sucker out? The second screaming session involved sheer terror at the realisation of what had just happened. Once again, bad memories of my encounters with vermin came flooding back. High school biology classes, pet mice, rescued mice – what is it with mice and me? Will these furry fiends continue to scuttle into my life uninvited, always scaring the bejesus out of me? Am I destined to be a victim of vermin for the rest of my days?

Of course, the answer to the last two questions is probably yes – and why wouldn’t it be? I live in the country on acres and I have two pet cats who love to catch mice and release them. Near me. Sometimes even in the vicinity of my shoes!

So my musophobia of right here, right now is alive and kicking. But maybe it’s time for me to get to work on putting it down, gently.

And maybe if I’m successful, my life with mice won’t be such a tragicomedy. But then again, it might not be half as exciting!

The long, slow descent of shame

500 Words: U-Turn

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/68444

All the other kids are doing it.
I’ll be okay, I just have to give it a go.
Be brave.
Come on! I gingerly join the snaking queue.
Then, I’m swept along with the rest of them.
I’m in a sweaty line of kids travelling upwards, step after slow step.
Arms out to the sides, fingers gripping the railings. It’s a long, hot trip.
Cheers as someone makes it.
We keep holding on as we look down between the rungs to inspect the outcome.
Murmured discussions take place up and down the line.
Someone changes their mind.
We all shuffle to different sides as they hesitantly make their way down. They don’t get off lightly – there’s non-congratulatory slaps on the back and accidental/on-purpose tripping. Guffaws and whistles. Lots of chicken impersonations. Soon, the queue settles down again.
I can see the back of my brother’s head.
He’s about five people in front of me.
Mum told him not to do it, but he wasn’t going to listen.
And if he can give it a go (he’s three years younger than me), well I’m going to give it a go too. We keep inching upwards, ever upwards.
The deep, green water lies beneath us. Menacing.
There is the bristle of fear in the air and it’s contagious.
I can feel my heart racing.
My head feels light.
Despite the heat of the January school holidays, my skin has as many goosebumps as a plucked Christmas turkey. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea?
In no time, it’s my brother’s turn.
I watch as his head disappears over the top of the ladder.
Kids are shouting and whooping.
I peer through the rungs again, waiting to see him plummet.
In an instant, he’s free-falling, positioned in an ungraceful bellyflop. I hear his body smack the unforgiving water sharply.
Kids are laughing and pointing.
Through the rungs, I see my little brother surface and swim/limp to the side.
I just know mum will be mad and say, “I told you so.”As the next head vanishes over the top, I make a decision.
I make a u-turn.
I shift my body to the side of the ladder and start the long, slow descent of shame.
I know what I’m in for.
The slaps and jeers, the pointing and the sniggering, the name-calling and the chicken-clucking.
But I don’t care. I take my first step down the ladder – I will accept my punishment.
My second step down the ladder – I do not regret this decision.
My third step down the ladder – I feel my body flooding with relief. I continue downwards, feeling more confident with each step I take.
I want my two feet firmly back on the dirty, grey concrete path of our local swimming pool.
Conquering the second level diving board can wait for another day.

The reality of rural road rage

500 Words: Cringe

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/65625

A school day morning. An appointment I have to get to. Running late…again.

I drive towards town quickly, edging the car just over the speed limit. I’m close now, the main road’s up ahead and there’s no traffic. I approach the corner, my blinker on to turn left.

I slow down but don’t stop, I keep rolling as I turn my head and look hurriedly to the right to see if I can make the left-hand turn.

Okay…so there’s a car there, coming straight,but it’s a fair way away. If I get around the corner fast I’ll be right. And so I do. I put my foot down, and speed (just a little bit) as I make my left-hand turn.

The next thing I know, that car which I thought was a fair way away, is right on top of me. Bugger, I think to myself. The driver is gesticulating wildly at me while, at the same time, honking the horn long and loud.

I cringe.

Bugger, I think to myself, again. Where did she come from? The gesticulating has morphed into rude finger signs and mouthed obscenities, which I can see quite clearly now as the driver has edged her vehicle right up my car’s backside.

When I spy the cracked, green P-plate lopsided on her car, I snap. I’m angry. I slow right down. I’m well under the speed limit. This makes mad P-plate lady even angrier but I don’t care.

Yes, I probably shouldn’t have made that left-hand turn, but I’m sure she sped up after I made it and now she thinks it’s funny to tail-gate me and abuse me in front of her car-load of teenage passengers.

Stupidly, I start waving “hello” into my rear view mirror. Of course, this only serves to inflame the situation. We get to the bottom of the main road, and I need to turn left to start skirting around the town. I’m pretty sure she’s going to keeping straight. But she doesn’t. She keeps following me, horn blasting, and now with her window rolled down she continues to yell abuse at me.

I cringe again. This really is getting out of hand. Sure, I probably did make an error of judgement but her behaviour is completely over the top. How far is she going to follow me? Should I stop my car and try to sort this out? Is she likely to try to hit me or my car any time soon?

I approach the roundabout. I have to take the second exit. She’s still behind me.

I’m feeling scared now. My hand-waving bravado has deserted me. People walking along the street can hear her horn and they can see her shouting…at me. I feel so ashamed – what will the locals who recognise me and my car think?

I take the second exit whilst holding my breath. The mad green P-plater honks staccato-style and hurls abuse whilst hanging out of her window. In a blur of expletives and honking , she takes the first exit and speeds off.

I exhale. I’m safe. I feel like a total idiot and I cringe as I remember what I’ve just done, but I’m safe.

My teenage son puts his book away and unplugs his ears from his music as we pull up outside school.He is totally oblivious to the cringe-worthy road rage incident I have just contributed to.

Thank goodness for small mercies!