The Varnished Untruth Read Online Free PDF

seventies and that had a similar effect – what an evil monster I am.)
    Do you really think of yourself as evil?
    In a way. I’ll get to that. But, see, 1961 was the most exciting year of my childhood; not particularly because I saw someone getting the better of my mother, but it was the year both my parents took sabbaticals from their Australian university posts. We headed for London on-board the SS
Iberia
, a large P&O liner – I used to think that stood for ‘Pacific and Orient’ but I believe it was actually ‘Peninsular and Oriental’. To be honest, ‘Puking and Overbalancing’ would have been more appropriate considering some of the dreadful weather we faced, but anyway I thought the
Iberia
was absolutely beautiful – gleaming white with a yellow funnel, and fresh from a new refit. She’d had several mishaps in the past, notably a collision with a tanker and running aground in the Suez Canal, but she still did the Sydney to London run in five weeks or so, stopping at Melbourne, Adelaide, Singapore, Sri Lanka (it was Ceylon in those days), Port Said (we took the option to travel overland to Cairo), Naples and Marseille. Apart from an annual Christmas holiday trip to New Zealand where I was born, we rarely went anywhere except for Sunday afternoon drives. Those regular outings had always frustrated my two younger sisters and me (even though it was unbearably hot and stuffy we were rarely allowed out of the car) and vexed my father because we bickered and fought. The trips invariably climaxed in wild attempts by my father to steer our second-hand Holden and, at the same time, reach his beefy forearm into the back seat to slap the culprits.
    It’s funny now, but it wasn’t then. I was rather scared of him because he seemed to use corporal punishment not only to discipline us, but also to vent his general frustration. I remember running and sliding under the bed to avoid his slapping hand, and how his big hairy arm would swing like a pendulum, trying to hit its mark. (Actually, I’m very attracted to men with powerful arms now – wow, I’ve just realized there’s probably a connection. Sorry – I digress . . .).
    No need to apologize . . . you can digress as much as you want . . . And, by the way, it’s common to sexualize physical aggression.
    Hah! So that’s my problem – a Popeye Complex! Didn’t Freud prescribe spinach for that?
    He certainly mentioned the tendency to use humour to deflect attention from painful memories . . .
    Ah . . . OK. Straight face. Like my father, I was born in Auckland, New Zealand. My mother spent her first twelve years in Fiji but was sent away to school at Epsom Girls Grammar in New Zealand and fell for dad when they were up some mountain together chasing after rare frogs. Yes, you’re right if you’re thinking ‘What a pair of serious nerds.’ My father was a zoologist, my mother a biologist and, after they produced three girls, we moved to Sydney, Australia, where they took up lecturing positions at the University of Sydney and the University of New South Wales respectively. I was four then, so I had no say in the matter. I only mention that because I sometimes feel put on the spot about what exactly my nationality is, and towards which country my loyalties lie. I hold an Australian passport (I was naturalized in Australia when I was small) and that’s where I grew up. So I’m a New Zealand-born Australian, and I feel that both countries qualify as ‘home’ – for different reasons.
    It seems important to you that you are understood, that you don’t offend anyone. Do you think you find it difficult – even painful – to tolerate the feeling that you might somehow disappoint someone?
    Well that’s strange, because I made an entire career out of being comically offensive . . . But you’re right – not meeting someone’s expectations is a big deal for me. Actually, I think I now understand where that comes from . . .
    And where might that be . . .?
    Not now.