Adelaide

The other week I flew to Adelaide. “WTF is in Adelaide everyone asked?”
“Writers week,” I mumbled. But that wasn’t the full reason. I wanted to get away and just ‘be’.

Mine and The Ex’s custody of the little one is a bit weird. Our work schedules are weird, he works Wednesday-Saturday and studies part time at night so my mother takes her on Fridays and Saturdays while I’m at work and The Ex has her from Sunday to Tuesday. So from Sunday to Tuesday I’m kind of on my own.

Also, Adelaide is cheap. Cheap to fly to, cheap to stay in (and at the hotel I stayed in I was able to earn points) and Writers Week just happened to be on with Kate Llewellyn as the major drawcard for me. And it’s free. Seemed like a no-brainer.

I found out recently that a girl I was close friends with in Melbourne a few years back who has been travelling around the world for all that time, is pregnant. I was thrilled when she told me she was coming back to Melbourne for a short stint. While she was here we spent time together and hung out a lot before she went and told her parents in the NT the big news. But it was only when she got back home the realisation fully hit her: Oh shit, i’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby!

She started freaking out.

I had my own little freak out in Adelaide. What the fuck was I doing here? I hate Adelaide. The first and last time I was there was for the Icons of Fashion exhibition (which was fantastic) but I only stayed for one night and was drunk for most of it.

At least the weather was nice.

Writers festivals attract a certain type. And a festival that is mostly on between 9:45 and 5:45 on a weekday …Yeah. I felt very out of place. All I needed to fit it was a handmade skirt, sensible leather shoes, and a canvas bag. Possibly a plummy accent.

When I told P where I was going he laughed and gave me the side glance.
“What?” I said, “I wouldn’t make fun of you for going to a festival of finance and … money!”
“Fair call.”
“Wait. What’s that I see over there. Is that … is that a book? A Rupert Murdoch biography?”
“It was a gift.”
Before he went to NYC P told me he hadn’t read a book since university. So I bought him American Psycho (baby steps, c’mon) so he’s now read 85 pages of a book since university (baby steps.)

Anyway, long story short: I missed Kate Llewellyn. But I did manage to see a writer I confess to never

hearing about before - Jenny Offill. I bought her book immediately after her talk with Ceridwyn Dovey. Brilliant, brilliant novel about a marriage and a new baby and everything that goes on within a mother’s head.

The night before I left Adelaide I stayed in my hotel room and spoke for hours to my friend about the baby. Again, she was fretting. “Look, you don’t have to worry about shit like maternity clothes, or the brand of cot, or the type of delivery you’re going to have. Let it come as it comes. And don’t think about buying too much crap. You’ll end up regretting it.”

“What about when I have it?” She said. “Like, can I do this?”

“Of course you can. Just keep it alive. That’s all you have to do. The rest will come as it comes.”

When I read Jenny Offill’s Department of Speculation a similar thing popped up. The character’s sister says dryly to her after she frets about the safety of her daughter: “Just keep her alive until she’s eighteen.” That's your only job.

On my return to Melbourne G had one question: “Did you see the Fig at the Gate lady?”
“No,” I confessed. “I accidentally slept through it.”
“Oh man …” he slapped his head for effect.