I once dated what I thought was a smart guy. On our fourth (and final) date, we were out having drinks when I made a joke about being a supermodel.

“Oh my god!” he snorted, “That’s hilarious! I mean, you’re gorgeous, but you could never be a supermodel!”

I know that, cocknose.

When I was nineteen, I shared a house in West Ryde with a twenty-six year old tradesman. This meant that 80% of the fridge space was taken up by beer and the TV could always be heard from halfway down the street, but apart from that, he was an acceptable housemate.

When summer began, my housemate’s co-workers started coming over regularly to work on their cars in our large backyard. Undeterred, I continued my strict sun-bathing regime and spent every afternoon lying on the trampoline in a bikini. Gradually, I gained the attention of one of these guys, and once I knew I had it in the bag, I told my housemate to hand over my phone number.

“Why would you want to date him?” my friends asked, “He’s a tradie.”
“Don’t be so judgmental,” I scolded, “Just because he breaks stuff for a living doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent, charming and interesting.”

A week later, I received the following text message:

Hey, how rya? Do ya wanna go out 1 nite dis week n grab sum food n shit?

I sunbaked in the front yard after that.

My extended family has always been split into two categories: Dad’s side, and the exciting side. Seven people came out of my maternal grandmother, twenty-two people came out of those seven people, nineteen people came out of those twenty-two people, and another person has come out of those nineteen people. Mixed in have been twenty-six spouses, two adoptions, and three dead babies. Trying to remember everybody’s birthdays is a total bitch.

When I was still young enough to be forced into family holidays, my parents would cram my brother and I into the Commodore and drive us up to Bundaberg. There we ran amok and slept at whatever aunt or uncle’s house we happened to end up at after sunset, until my mother could no longer stand the heat, crammed us back into the car and drove back to Sydney.

I spent most of my time in Bundaberg at my Aunty Dee’s house. Apart from the lure of a sprawling mulberry tree and the privilege of helping my Uncle Sam make home brew, I chose this particular house because I was fascinated by my older cousin Alice. She had inherited her mother’s fierce temper, lack of patience and volatility, and their arguments could reach spectacular heights in mere seconds.

“Did you pick up some bacon?” Alice would ask, standing in front of the open fridge.
“Oh.. Sorry, I forgot.” Aunty Dee would reply.
“Well I’m not making dinner then. You can all fucking starve!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, you bloody prima donna bitch. Get the hell out of my house!”

Then Alice would slam the front door, climb into a boy’s car and speed off down the road. It was better than fireworks.

My relationship with my own mother was based on rare and polite exchanges, but I was willing to try and liven things up.

The week before Easter, my kindergarten class was a frenzy of activity. We drew bunnies, made cards, and fantasised about eating chocolate until we vomited. Meanwhile, our mothers competed fiercely to create the best Easter Hat for the annual Easter Hat Parade. Well, most mothers… As usual, my Mum forgot about this until the night before. “Aww crap,” she said, staring at the calendar, “How the hell am I meant to make you a hat before tomorrow?” Then, exhibiting about as much enthusiasm as she showed for housework, she glued some glitter and bunny ears onto one of my brother’s baseball caps.

“I can’t wear this,” I protested, “It’s stupid!”
“Don’t worry,” she promised, “I’ll be there to deck anybody who makes fun of you.”

But on the day, as I stood in line waiting for the Easter Hat Parade music to begin and cringing with embarrassment at all the other kids’ cool hats, Mum was nowhere to be seen. Finally, halfway through the ceremony, she appeared at the back of the crowd with a cup of coffee in hand. I decided this was a good time to try out my newly learned conflict-resolution skills.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU BLOODY WITCH?” I shouted across the quadrangle.

Short of hearing, and thinking I had called her a “bitch”, my mother marched through the lines of children, dragged me out of the Easter Hat Parade, and belted me in front of the entire student body of my primary school and their parents.

I did not win the Easter Hat Parade that year.

The only memory I have of my grandfather is from the late eighties. I sat at the kitchen table of the small Bundaberg flat he and my grandmother lived in while my mother sat outside with Nanna smoking cigarettes. Grandad hummed and poured iced water into a tall glass, then dropped in a tablet of Berocca. To my enchantment, it fizzed and spat and turned the water a spectacular shade of orange. I assumed this was some forbidden adult-substance, like coffee or alcohol, but Grandad suddenly pushed the glass towards me. “You can have the first sip,” he offered with a wink. I immediately adored him.

My grandparents met in Algeria in 1942. My grandfather, Bert, was stationed with British forces there while my grandmother, Annik, worked as a clerk with the French Intendance Supply Corps. Despite his many attempts to talk to her, Annik pretended not to speak English and ignored him until he one day asked her to go to the cinema. All five cinemas were requisitioned for the use of the military and only soliders were allowed to buy tickets – it was a tempting offer. “Alright,” Annik said, “But only with my mother, my grandfather and my brother.” Bert agreed and from that day on became a friend of the family. He and Annik fell in love, then he knocked her up and went to war. The only news my grandmother received of him during the next two years was a telegram saying, “Bert missing in action. Presumed dead.” which one of his sisters had sent in an attempt to stop him from marrying “the French girl.” Another year passed before Nanna received a letter from him saying that he was actually alive, and could she come to England to marry him? She did, and the rest, as they say, is history.

When I was five years old, I was racing through the house one day when I knocked over my mother’s favourite vase. I carefully stacked the pieces so that, from a distance, it looked as normal, and left it on the shelf. Later that night, I heard my mother crying in her bedroom. I went in, head hanging, and told her that I was sorry I broke the vase.
“It was an accident!” I swore, “I’ll get you a new one! Please don’t cry, Mum…”
“No, darling,” she said, “I’m upset because your grandfather died today.”
“Oh!” I said, “That’s good.”
And I went to play with my brother’s transformers.