October 8th, 2008


I need help!

No, not that sort of help, you bastards! I'm stuck. Genuinely stuck.

You see, just after Lex was born, we looked at his birth certificate and Sharon asked, "What are you going to put down for yourself as 'Occupation?'"

Without pause, and in a tone of voice that implied that it was a weird question, I replied, "Drover."

Then realised what I'd said. I haven't been a drover for over 15 years, but it's still so tied up in my identity that it's who I feel I am. So then I started thinking about it.

What is my occupation?

Strictly speaking I run a small business, but that's not who I am except from the perspective of wanting other people to be able to get this stuff too. It's what I do to stay sane given I've yet to defeat my inability to write fiction since the stroke.

I can fit into a box, but there'll be a lot of me sticking out the cracks and over-flowing the top.

One of my running gags has been that I should just put down Work of Art, because my life is my canvas and I just keep playing with it. You know, Bastard in the phone book, Danger as a middle name, always playing to the crowd, even when they aren't there...

Some may say 'This is Lex's Birth Certificate, he won't thank you for putting something silly on there,' and they may be right. But you know, every time I look at my birth certificate and see under occupation for my dad 'Slaughterman/Drover' it brings a palpable sense of who my father really was back to me.

And I'd kind of like Lex to have the same thing...

And let's face it, if he has my sensibilities, there's not much I could put down that would bother him.

So I've done a poll. I may not go with what people say, but it may help me figure out what I'm going to put down... So vote away! Collapse )

Last note on the weekend visit

We will be in Melbourne this weekend, staying at Sharon's dad's place. Details are in a previous post.

We're just about to leave for Bateman's Bay, and the car is packed. I have one request of anyone we end up seeing while in town.

No presents. Please.

The car is packed to the rafters. Any gifts, even little bits of clothing, will have me scratching my head trying to figure where to put it. Your presence will be enough.