her.
CARETAKER
Got a medieval re-enactment this weekend. This is going to look terrific with my chainmail armour.
Maybe not.
The buzzer goes off at the front door. Saved by the bell.
I hear the client whistling.
PATRICK
Anyone home?
ME
Patrick!
In this moment, he’s my hero.
The buzzer goes off again. It’s the Gen Y audio engineer.
I have sweated through my linen blouse and underpants. My hairline is sopping and my mascara is running. I bolt out of the chair and down the hallway to greet Patrick and the Gen Y’er with an overly effusive –
ME
Hi!
PATRICK
Hi. Sorry. Few corrections. Seems you just can’t have too many pseudo-Russian grunts in computer games these days.
ME
No worries.
My psychopathic metabolic caretaker friend strides through the foyer with a cheerful grin and a wave. He’s carrying a large bag with him, must be taking his replica home in preparation for the weekend re-enactment.
CARETAKER
I’ll leave you to it. Got a busy day.
Gen Y’er shuffles into the studio.
PATRICK
Not too many pick-ups. We’ll knock this over in a matter of minutes.
ME
Sure.
PATRICK
You okay?
ME
Just . . . busy.
PATRICK
Worried you’re going to put your foot in it again?
ME
Ha ha. Probably.
I make my way into the voice-over booth and read the corrections. Gen Y’er is efficient and businesslike. Patrick is organised and pleased with my work. I’m ecstatic. I read the whole thing in less than five minutes with no mistakes. I want to get the hell out of this building. I need to be as far away from the medieval sword-wielding re-enactor’s building as I can.
GEN Y
Jeez, you read that quickly.
PATRICK
Well, she is a one-take wonder.
ME
Yep. Slicing it up!
Is that the most appropriate thing to say?
ME
I’ve got to fly. Back to back sessions today. See you later.
PATRICK
Absolutely. Always great to work with you.
ME
Likewise. Hooroo!
I don’t breathe again until I’m in my car, doors locked, reversing at speed out of the car park.
I can’t believe that just happened. I take some deep breaths as I drive slowly and mindfully to the park.
I can see Boofhead pushing Jack on a swing. I want to run to him, Boofhead that is, throw my arms around him and tell him what’s just happened. Now I’m being ridiculous. Even in his finest hour, Boofhead was not “throwing arms around” material. He’d probably say something like, ”what sort of sword was it?” I decide to keep my heart-stopping experience to myself.
ME
(Calling)
Time to go, Jacko.
JACK
Mummyyyy. One more minute.
BOOFHEAD
You were quick.
ME
Yep. Pretty straightforward. Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to get back to work.
BOOFHEAD
Come on, mate, I’ll piggyback you to Mum’s car.
Just keep it bright and breezy, Persephone.
BOOFHEAD
Mind driving me back to the theatre?
ME
Sure.
BOOFHEAD
Had a big session at the gym last night. Tight hammies.
ME
Yep.
I keep it so bright and breezy.
BOOFHEAD
You all right?
ME
Yep. All good.
It isn’t until I’ve dropped Boofhead back at the theatre that I realise I hardly said two words to him. Not all bad.
I drive away from the theatre, through the city and turn onto the freeway. As I glance in the rear view mirror, I see that Jack has nodded off. All that park action has plumb tuckered him out.
I allow myself a moment to breathe. Let it out, Persephone. Let it go. The man had a terrible marriage, he bought his wife earrings for three anniversaries in a row, she got the shits and now she’s left him. It’s not your fault. Yes, you let the cat out of the bag, but you didn’t put the cat into the bag in the first place. Woeful analogy, Persephone, but the point is you’re not responsible for the guy’s actions.
I still feel nervous though. I remind myself he’s just a lonely old medieval re-enactor who has been dumped by his wife. We actually have something in common. Being dumped, that is.
I let out an audible sigh and switch on the radio. Best to
CARETAKER
Got a medieval re-enactment this weekend. This is going to look terrific with my chainmail armour.
Maybe not.
The buzzer goes off at the front door. Saved by the bell.
I hear the client whistling.
PATRICK
Anyone home?
ME
Patrick!
In this moment, he’s my hero.
The buzzer goes off again. It’s the Gen Y audio engineer.
I have sweated through my linen blouse and underpants. My hairline is sopping and my mascara is running. I bolt out of the chair and down the hallway to greet Patrick and the Gen Y’er with an overly effusive –
ME
Hi!
PATRICK
Hi. Sorry. Few corrections. Seems you just can’t have too many pseudo-Russian grunts in computer games these days.
ME
No worries.
My psychopathic metabolic caretaker friend strides through the foyer with a cheerful grin and a wave. He’s carrying a large bag with him, must be taking his replica home in preparation for the weekend re-enactment.
CARETAKER
I’ll leave you to it. Got a busy day.
Gen Y’er shuffles into the studio.
PATRICK
Not too many pick-ups. We’ll knock this over in a matter of minutes.
ME
Sure.
PATRICK
You okay?
ME
Just . . . busy.
PATRICK
Worried you’re going to put your foot in it again?
ME
Ha ha. Probably.
I make my way into the voice-over booth and read the corrections. Gen Y’er is efficient and businesslike. Patrick is organised and pleased with my work. I’m ecstatic. I read the whole thing in less than five minutes with no mistakes. I want to get the hell out of this building. I need to be as far away from the medieval sword-wielding re-enactor’s building as I can.
GEN Y
Jeez, you read that quickly.
PATRICK
Well, she is a one-take wonder.
ME
Yep. Slicing it up!
Is that the most appropriate thing to say?
ME
I’ve got to fly. Back to back sessions today. See you later.
PATRICK
Absolutely. Always great to work with you.
ME
Likewise. Hooroo!
I don’t breathe again until I’m in my car, doors locked, reversing at speed out of the car park.
I can’t believe that just happened. I take some deep breaths as I drive slowly and mindfully to the park.
I can see Boofhead pushing Jack on a swing. I want to run to him, Boofhead that is, throw my arms around him and tell him what’s just happened. Now I’m being ridiculous. Even in his finest hour, Boofhead was not “throwing arms around” material. He’d probably say something like, ”what sort of sword was it?” I decide to keep my heart-stopping experience to myself.
ME
(Calling)
Time to go, Jacko.
JACK
Mummyyyy. One more minute.
BOOFHEAD
You were quick.
ME
Yep. Pretty straightforward. Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to get back to work.
BOOFHEAD
Come on, mate, I’ll piggyback you to Mum’s car.
Just keep it bright and breezy, Persephone.
BOOFHEAD
Mind driving me back to the theatre?
ME
Sure.
BOOFHEAD
Had a big session at the gym last night. Tight hammies.
ME
Yep.
I keep it so bright and breezy.
BOOFHEAD
You all right?
ME
Yep. All good.
It isn’t until I’ve dropped Boofhead back at the theatre that I realise I hardly said two words to him. Not all bad.
I drive away from the theatre, through the city and turn onto the freeway. As I glance in the rear view mirror, I see that Jack has nodded off. All that park action has plumb tuckered him out.
I allow myself a moment to breathe. Let it out, Persephone. Let it go. The man had a terrible marriage, he bought his wife earrings for three anniversaries in a row, she got the shits and now she’s left him. It’s not your fault. Yes, you let the cat out of the bag, but you didn’t put the cat into the bag in the first place. Woeful analogy, Persephone, but the point is you’re not responsible for the guy’s actions.
I still feel nervous though. I remind myself he’s just a lonely old medieval re-enactor who has been dumped by his wife. We actually have something in common. Being dumped, that is.
I let out an audible sigh and switch on the radio. Best to
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