I sit, alone, at the dining table of a house I did not want to be in.
We arrived late last night from Canberra, having completed the last leg of a very long haul. Literally and metaphorically. After some more cleaning up and sorting out the monetary gifts which we brought to Melbourne with us, we spent the arvo tracking the whereabouts of Tress’ parents. They’ve been on a whistle stop gallivant with Tress’ uncle and aunt, through the nook and cranny of the west and outer west.
They came to Melbourne all those years ago and could have easily bought somewhere more accessible to the rest of us in the east.
Alas everything is a business proposition for them so they sought out monetary value, forsaking all else. What they pinched and saved, the rest of us pay in the form of time and effort every time there is a family event or when family visit. Groups of people have to make the swinging patterns between the eastern and western suburbs.
I’m in the midst of one of those family events now, having been blackmailed and verbally assaulted to make the drive out west, and despite having already made that shitty drive from Canberra just last night. Yet despite having left Malaysia for years, I’m still enslaved by its customs of unspoken rules of etiquette.
I don’t want to be here now. But I am.