Not Meeting Mr Right by Anita Heiss Read Free Book Online Page A

It was the natural course of
events – in my dad's world anyway.
    I might subscribe to Dad's happily-ever-after
approach if I actually met someone who loved me the
way that Dad loved Mum. Until then, I was happy to
have him do all the 'boy jobs' around my flat; I only
wished he lived next door so he could put my bins out
as well.
    After Dad had gone home, I spent the rest of the
day creating a feng shui love and romance shrine in
the south-west corner of my lounge room. At first it
posed a problem: my TV currently sat in the same
corner that, by feng shui law, should bring me love and
romance. Unfortunately, it was the only place in my flat
where I got decent reception. I did a Liza, and tried to
analyse the situation dispassionately. What was more
important to me: watching another series of The West
Wing alone, or finding love? Somewhat reluctantly,
I relocated the TV and replaced it with red candles
and paper lanterns, as prescribed by my newspaper
clipping. The love corner was a must if I wanted lasting
romance and love-related happiness. My TV-related
happiness from now on would just have to take second
place – and another corner.
    In the late afternoon, I went to the florist on Coogee
Bay Road and bought two matching bonsai plants in
terracotta pots and brought them home. Then I dug
out two ceramic painted tiles – red and black, with
matching calligraphic designs – that I'd bought at a
garage sale around the corner three months before. I
hung them one on each wall in the love corner. Two of
everything symbolised the coupledom I knew I would
soon enjoy. Perhaps I should just buy another TV: I
could put them both in my south-west love corner as
well, and all my happiness would be realised.

four
I'm not a lesbian
    Living in a large block of units, with snowdroppers
stealing underwear regularly, I tended to do my
washing at Mum and Dad's. Twice a week I'd stop
by before school to do a quick wash and hang it out.
Sometimes it didn't seem worth it, though; I often came
away upset, and fumed all the way to work, if not the
entire morning. Without fail, my mother would spend
my whole visit following me around, asking me why I
didn't have a man. Then she'd try to set me up with an
unlikely suitor – like Cliff.
    'Cliff just got back from Venice!' Anyone would've
thought Cliff was her own son, she was so pleased he'd
returned after three years abroad. Cliff was actually the
son of Janet, one of Mum's friends from ceramics class.
    'He's landed himself a great job as a hair colourist.
Some salon in Darlinghurst.'
    'That's nice.'
    'You colour your hair, don't you?'
    'I have a hairdresser, Mum.'
    'He lives at Clovelly. Just round the corner from you.
That's an omen, don't you think?'
    'I'd say coincidence, Mum.'
    'He's still single too, Alice, and Janet said he hardly
dates. Now that's a coincidence. We both think you'd
make a lovely couple.'
    Both Mum and Janet were in denial. Cliff was actually
gay, and he wasn't dating anyone special because he
was a serial slut. I never said anything about it, though.
I knew Janet would have been delighted to see us
together. I reckon in her heart she knew of his sexual
preferences but naively hoped he would grow out of it.
Cliff was thirty-three and had never had a girlfriend,
so there was little chance of that happening. I was sure
Mum knew Cliff was gay, but she just wanted me to get
married anyway.
    I thought Cliff was a right-wing fuck-knuckle.
He and I had had a number of arguments about our
prime minister's concept of the black armband view of
history, and his assertion that there was no such thing
as generations of stolen children. Cliff was a huge fan
of John Howard and his views, and Keith Windschuttle
was his favourite historian. Come to think of it, perhaps
I should tell Janet he's gay, just to get back at him for
his appalling take on Australian history. Mental note
to self: save telling Janet about Cliff until real payback
is needed.
    Mum had been going on about Cliff for