Spinning Around Read Online Free PDF

recording studio—as a sound mixer, or something. I never did find out quite what he did because, when I visited him there, he and his colleagues seemed to spend most of their time stealing each other’s cigarettes, arguing about who was going to wash the coffee cups, and laughing about a guy called Clifford. Even so, Matt must have done something of importance, because he got paid, and was even acknowledged on the odd album cover. It was through his influence that The Breaks made their one and only recording: an original dirge called ‘Stone’ that sank like one. I think it only went on sale in one store, a funny place out near Central Station, owned by a friend of the bass guitarist.
    Anyway, that was Matt. And I know he sounds frighteningly cool, but the thing is, he wasn’t really. Not in himself. He was simply doing what he liked. He wore black jeans and T-shirts all the time, not to make a statement, but because he couldn’t be bothered washing his clothes much, and had discovered that stains aren’t so obvious on black. He wore his hair long because he couldn’t be bothered cutting it, and favoured a trendy stubble because he couldn’t be bothered shaving every day. Any fears that I might have had about the self-consciousness of his image were utterly dispelled when I first visited his flat, which he shared with another band member. It was reassuringly untidy, and completely lacking in the faintest pretence at style. I swear, the only thing those boys spent any money on was their sound equipment.
    This isn’t to say, however, that Matt had a problem with style or cleanliness. On the contrary, he admired them. He didn’t aspire to them—I guess he didn’t feel capable of anything so out of character—but he did admire them. He admired me . He admired the state of my kitchen, the smell of my sheets and the gloss on my shoes. He called me ‘dazzling’. My hair was so shiny, it was ‘dazzling’. My schedules were so tight, they were ‘dazzling’. He didn’t see anything risible about suits, or graduate programs, or the public service. He seemed proud to take me to lunch in the central business district, where I looked just like everyone else with my black pantyhose and my briefcase and my hair scooped up under a tortoiseshell slide. He especially admired my beautifully organised Filofax, which was, I have to admit, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. (These days it’s all electronic organisers, of course—and even back then the sun was setting on the Glory Days of the Filofax. But I still have a soft spot for my old leather-bound companion, scuffed and scratched though it may be.)
    Miriam also had a Filofax—in fact Miriam was just as well organised as I was, if not more so. But for some reason, Matt didn’t admire her as much. Perhaps she was a little too crisply starched for him. Perhaps her sense of humour was a little too dry. Or perhaps it was because she was naturally organised, it was in her genes, whereas my organisational skills were simply a way of heading off my tendency to panic at the slightest setback. I have always had an inborn propensity to fall into a dithering heap when confronted with crises of any sort, especially domestic ones. Miriam, on the other hand, took things like leaking pipes and flea infestations in her stride. She wasn’t the type to start squealing like a stuck pig when she discovered that the fish was off, just before it was due to be served up to eight people for dinner.
    I remember that occasion very well. Matthew was fantastic. Very laid-back, very reassuring, very helpful. While Miriam and I frantically prepared an alternative menu, he entertained the other guests by mixing lewd, absurd and entertaining cocktails with ridiculous names. He had such an easy, relaxed air about him that everyone else relaxed. We didn’t sit down at the table until half past nine, but nobody seemed