Living Upside Down. John Hickman

      “Melbourne appears to do what she does best,” Roger is thumbing through their statistics.

      “What’s that?”

      “I quote: ‘Often provides wet and cold days’. They admit to ‘changeable as in four seasons in any one day.’”

      Sue has an involuntary little shudder. “What about Adelaide?”

      “It’s a pretty city, well laid out, but cold enough in July for snow.”

      Sue looks at Roger with a raised eyebrow. “Right, not Melbourne or Adelaide, got it.”

      “They’re not interested in Fred, but it’s up to us if we want to pay for him.”

      “Oh, Roger. Can we take him?”

      “Don’t see why not, but it looks extremely expensive, Sue. Can we afford it?”

      “No we can’t, can we?”

      “No. Sorry. It’s too expensive.”

      Pushing unpalatable thoughts about Fred to the back of their minds, they press on regardless with due consideration about fuck-all but climate. They draw a beeline northwards on their only map and lo and behold find the very place that initially appealed to Roger.

      “Perth!” They say in unison.

      “Okay. Let’s avoid anywhere further south.”

      “Agreed. It’s too cold. Can anyone wearing thermal underwear be happy at all times?”

      “That’s one decision down, Sue. Now they only want us to choose mode of travel. Ship or plane?”

      “Maybe we should get ourselves some brave or stupid pills?”

      To try to relax, Roger switches on some soothing music; — Chopin is one of his favourites. They continue to contemplate. He prepares to make inroads on a bottle of Chateau cut-price red wine, which starts going down rough. Very rough! Like a rough diamond that has lost its sparkle they are about to slide into it like a ferret down a drainpipe.

      “I know that tomorrow morning my head will hate me,” he is offering another glass to Sue with a grimace.

      Sue sips her wine slowly. “If it comes down to twenty-four hours of misery in the air or throwing up on a ship for six weeks, at least on the boat we’d get fresh air.”

      Roger sets his wine glass down in front of him, and gazes into it as if glimpsing an uncertain future.

      That night in his dreams, he is still searching for his elusive Seal Flipper Pie, interrupted by female seals skipping across vast empty grey oceans in a chorus line carrying freshly made whale pies.

      After scraping three glaciers from his car windscreen, he is unable to stand upright. Then in semi-foetal positions, they take turns at clutching the cold ceramic curves of the only toilet bowl shared with many on an 1850’s sailing ship. Retching and arching like sick cats amid the wild and brutal seas, while being offered and declining freshly baked pies, he receives further ridicule by his father, ‘What bloody fool chooses to go live upside down in a place inhabited only by convicts?’

      Roger awakes in a clammy sweat. Silence. Fred must be asleep. No frantic whining. Good. His heart still races at the fading thoughts of throwing up. Quickly he realises that he has run out of dreams but now dozes afraid to repeat his nightmares.

      Roger’s oblivion is clinched by Sue’s brilliant observation at breakfast.

      “You do realise that we won’t have any money to spend on the journey, either way we go. Perhaps the SS Wanna Be isn’t the best choice of transport. We’d be tempted to go ashore. Spend money.”

      “We’ve never had a holiday.”

      “I know. Neither so much as a sun lounger in the rain, nor a dog eared book to read over a period of days.”

      “Join a book club that only reads wine labels, and get guzzling, Sue. Maybe we’ll need a holiday after we arrive just to recover from all this?”

      “Alright, now we’re aware that Poseidon is possibly not on our side; we don’t need any more soothing music.”

      Roger’s mental awareness is ranging from that of a butter knife to an over-ripe plum, but they are on it like a fat kid on a cupcake.

      With their forms, certified copies of birth and marriage certificates, employment records, proof of financial standing, or as in their case severe lack of, a request to fly and last but not least payment of a whole £10 each they drive to the local post office and send the hefty envelope to the Government half eagerly and half with a slight feeling of trepidation.

      Quite quickly for a government department they receive a letter back.

      “Might they have tired of sitting on their fat arses all day bending paper clips?” Roger announces, “Hey, look at this,” Roger is dumfounded, “it insists a personal appearance is mandatory, no excuses, or our application will be cancelled forthwith. All four of us have to attend.”

      As usual, Roger is up early, although Sue is unimpressed with his horizontal jog before their important meeting.

      “Not the best of timings, you selfish bastard,” she mutters.

      Roger feels nuttier than a Snickers bar. Moreover, he realises to boot that outside it is a miserable day trying to rain but cannot. It is cold, windy, and bleak as an embittered ex-wife. The tightening of his scrotum only added to Sue’s idea of an uneventful day!

      “We need a bigger car.” Roger groans. “I’m carrying enough gear to collapse a donkey and it’s only just a London meeting.”

      “Be grateful they don’t want to see Fred,” Sue replies, buzzing around like a frantic worker bee.

      Roger grins, “Fred, you lucky hound, you’re staying home. See? Today the dog does get the bone.”

      Pooch Fred is excited, hoping Roger will leave the cathode ray tube on. It is his only source of warmth when they are out.

      At Australia House, they are warmly greeted by a charming man whose stiff wattage of smile almost blinds them. He is taller than Roger, sporting the style of parting that only a fretsaw down the middle of his crown could achieve.

      Fretsaw shows them through the reception area with pride. Plush as any bank’s HQ it has more locks than the Bank of Scotland.

      “So you’re applying to go to Australia,” Fretsaw’s big wattage smile lights their way.

      “Yes,” Roger replies, thinking it’s bloody astounding he realises that’s why we’re here.

      They see many security guards.

      “Why all this security?” Sue whispers to Roger.

      He whispers back, “Dunno! With only a few Victorian oil paintings on the walls of buttoned down girls, what’s to steal?”

      “Thanks to their overzealous cleaners the place is as clean as a nun’s drawers,” Sue giggles, “but why are our ears being assaulted with boring piped music by Muzak?”

      “Agreed. Why don’t they play Waltzing Matilda?”

      Briefly meeting Fretsaw’s boss, Sue smiles like an actress auditioning for a coveted role. He is trim and fine boned, immaculately dressed in a suit the colour of claret wine; handsome with a square jaw, dark hair, and broad shoulders.

      When he speaks, he sounds pompous. “Oh, you’re the pest man.”

      The way Pompous said that sounded synonymous with lunatic vermin. “I’m regional manager for a specialist pest control company,” Roger corrects cheerfully.

      “Quite so.”

      Pompous does not sound Australian; he has the kind of voice shaped by Sandhurst, the Guards, and a lifetime of drinking Pink Gin. His dulcet, educated tones