My cunning plan to get work at the nearby university came to naught, and so I am back working at the old place (the university on the faaar side of town from where we now live). Thus my commute to work several days a week is a looong one. And it’s a car (this one, not that one) commute, as there is no train station near said far-away university.
(I work at one university, and study at another. Inconvenient? Why, yes).
To make the journey bearable, even enjoyable, I’ve been indulging in talking books from the library. I’ve listened to some wonderful stuff – Enduring Love by Ian McEwan, Down Under by Bill Bryson and something called Step Ball Change by Jeanne Ray which was gentle and pleasant and Stomper Girl, you might like it?
Anyhoo last week there I was at the library gazing morosely at the thin selection available. All I could get was Drylands by Thea Astley which turned out to have an annoying fuzzy fault and was unlistenable, and something called The Last Time I Saw Paris which looked innocuous enough. After giving up on the muffled tones of Thea Astley I pushed in the Paris tape (the first of six). Soon enough I was groaning out loud. It was pure chick lit – all jewellery, ladies’ lunches, divorces and You go, girlfriend! from the 45 year old protagonist. I persevered because you know, changing tapes on the freeway at 100 kph is irresponsible. And I listened again on the way home too because I am a glutton for punishment. Soon I was groaning even more but unable to stop listening because by now I had to find out whether she ended up with the high-flying arrogant cheating surgeon husband or the much younger blue-eyed hunk of a tradesman …
The next morning and three tapes into it, the fluffy chick lit turned into a full on bodice ripper. Suffice to say rosy-tipped nipples, creamy thighs and throbbing manhood featured, uh, prominently.
Hello, pervy Googlers!
It was all a bit much at eight in the morning. Fanning myself, I tried in vain to keep the steering wheel from wobbling. Finally (finally!) I arrived safely at work feeling a trifle flushed, not to mention in dire need of a cigarette.
Postscript: the next day I grabbed one of the children’s story tapes and listened to Wind in the Willows for my morning commute.
It was a much more serene ride.