Kristine was swearing in the bathroom. I left Angus on the play mat with a small football and went to the curses. She was holding the hair straightener, jiggling the chord.
‘It goes on and off,’ she said, swearing again as she demonstrated the problem.
About two years ago I fixed the hair straightener, replacing the plug while Kristine watched intently. This time the problem was much trickier than the plug.
Most women love their hair straightener. They are a vital piece of everyday equipment, kind of like a beer fridge for men. With little else to do, I carried the straightener to the garage, discovering a small burnout about three inches from the handle where the copper had split. I cut the chord and dismantled the straightener.
The connection into a small circuit board was one I’d never seen before, and I spent almost a decade working in the electrical industry.
Halfway through destroying the connection I stopped swearing and downed tools. I wanted to destroy it, but if I did that I wasn’t sure I’d find another one. I went for a drive to three electronic stores. No one was able to supply a new connection, but a clerk at Jaycar suggested the chord could be soldered together, with each joint sealed with heat shrink.
An hour later, Kristine’s $300 hair straightener had been repaired for less than ten bucks. It earned me a kiss.
‘Sometimes I amaze even myself,’ I said.
Kristine sighed.
‘We can’t afford a new one,’ I said. ‘We’re unemployed you know.’ She smirked. I told her if it broke down again, that was it. In other words, be careful with it.
‘Try not to drop it anymore,’ I said.
I went to the computer, celebrating my month of unemployment by applying for two jobs. I interrupted Kristine’s afternoon snooze to deliver the good news.
‘I’m perfect for them,’ I said.
Kristine offered to go back to work. We had a serious discussion that lasted about two seconds.
‘No,’ I said and went outside to look at the vegetable patch. In the afternoon I spent an hour fixing the gate that had been blown off in the wind.
The wind tore the top hinge from the post, cracking it badly. The bottom hinge bent before pulling from the post. Initially I thought the post had to be replaced but a chat with my brother Nick provided another alternative.
‘Hammer the crack back together,’ Nick said. ‘I think I’ve got some banding at home. Wrap it around the post and put screws in it.’
I filled the crack with adhesive and used two g-clamps to close it. Instead of using banding, I screwed two steel brackets to the post. Johann, who lives across the road, held the gate while I screwed it back to the post. We talked about Jennifer Kilkenny who went missing on New Year’s Day.
Fixing the front gate cost about seven bucks. I showed Johann my vegetable patch and learned he grew vegetables too. Before he left I loaded him up with sweet potato.
I went to the vegetable patch and spent the afternoon working another section, turning it over, applying fertiliser and planting squash, zucchini, beans, snow peas, rock melon and water melon.
The next day Kristine went to the gym for the first time since Angus was born. For about two hours he’d be mine. There would be no fallback. I had fully responsibility. He’d been in a good mood all morning.
Two minutes after Kristine was gone, Angus was a mess, crying, not wanting to be held or entertained. I was holding a wriggling baby while trying to drink coffee. I put him in the highchair and gave him a slice of cold toast.
He frowned at it, crushed it and tore it before finding his mouth. He was quiet while I cooked breakfast. Halfway through my egg and ham roll, Angus started gagging.
Dropping the roll, I picked him up. His little mouth was full of toast. I tried to flick it out but he pushed my fingers away. I patted his back then held him flat, with my left finger in his mouth, trying to extract the wad of toast.
He bit down on my finger and howled blue murder, pushing my hands away so we went to the mirror where I tried my little finger again. I could feel the toast but he closed his mouth and went berserk. I held his head next to mine and stuck my tongue out.
Amazingly, Angus opened his mouth. His tongue emerged. With my little finger I flicked the toast onto the floor. He stopped crying. We went into the lounge for the play mat. He wanted the tiny North Melbourne football.
It went straight into his mouth. Then he threw up a chunk of toast and all the breakfast he’d eaten that morning. He cried madly when I wiped his face and kept crying on the change table as I took off his clothes. I picked him and cuddled him, quietening the tears and eking a smile.
That was the second time he’d vomited up a piece of toast in front of me. He won’t be getting anymore until he can chew it.
When Kristine came home from the gym I told her no more toast.
For the rest of the day I was active without interruption. I made beer, looked for work and read the latest AFL news.
Later that night, after checking my phone again, I sighed. ‘I didn’t get one call, email or text today,’ I said. ‘That’s rare.’
Kristine frowned. ‘Not one?’ she asked.
‘My mates don’t want to talk about nappies, cooking or cleaning products,’ I said.
‘Maybe they don’t want to talk to you because you’re unemployed,’ she said.
Though she was kidding, I considered it for a moment before shrugging. ‘That doesn’t sound right.’
