The private school

The scholarship exam for year 7 students has concluded. The boys file out of the school assembly hall like labrador puppies. Their feet larger than makes sense. In some cases they are so large they are more hinderance than help. To walk at 12 frequently means you have to learn to step over your own feet.
Daylight is bright. Boys blinking. Boys accustomising. Boys adjusting. Referencing place and position. Being in the world of Mum. They are plain clothed. Zipper hoodies, Tees with ACDC printed on the front. Some with messages printed on them. Like ‘eat my shorts’ and pictures of Bart Simpson.

Mothers pick the clothes from special shops and provide instruction on what and when to wear and with what other gear. They chuckle with their girlfriends and giggle with each other on how their sons cant bear to be seen without the tee shirt or jeans. They preen and fuss and say how cute they are. How ‘he just adores this and adores that’, is ‘just so obsessed its all we do…’ I heard one say… “he is so in love with that brand you’d swear they were joined at the hip…whenever we go away and he is away from his favourite game, he becomes seriously depressed..its his whole life.……”

Then they all giggle girly. Like post modern tee hee’s from post modern Betty’s and WIlma’s. Flintstone probably not. But Rubble as far as the eye can see.

Nearly all of their offspring are pimply, most smelly and blissfully unaware of the hormonal and chemical revolution already underway – where the visages of adulthood storm the ramparts of boyhood creating swathes of destruction. An internal razing. A clear-felled forest…all that was known is to be destroyed. A world laid bare.

Throngs of mothers. Delicate mothers. Sweet smelling mothers. City-fied mothers. Rarified raked and disinfected clean mothers. Dolce and Gabana clean mothers. Chanel clean mothers. Fendi and Prada clean mothers. All call for their sons. Like Mutton birds finding their homes.

They talk together as they use a kind of mother sonar to home their son into where they stand..Theirs is a sense of anxiousness,,,a visible restlessness. Perhaps even a fear. Like landing a jet on an aircraft carrier…”will he make it or will he stumble..?” some wonder. The anxiousness subsides as He arrives and is replaced with latest stories of the rites of passage. “Ah here he is – you know he divorced me his morning because I made him clean up his room……” one half giggles. It’s as if they married their husbands to be their fathers, and they secretly elope with their sons.

And there they all are – a herd of glamourous wilderbeeste and their calves. This “grudge of Christian women” – “this stain of spotless wives” (1) look like some giant psychedelic worm, all sparkles and spangles and shangles and jangles. Very very expensive. That’s EXPENSIVE. Bling bling and more bling. From arse-hole to breakfast time. Worlds without end. From the darkness to the light there is darkness and light. Somewhere.

They look younger than their 18 year old daughters, who stand embarrassed and without place or purpose. A disconnection immaculate. Mothers have whiter teeth, mothers have blonder fuller hair, mothers have higher fuller breasts and mothers have skin that glows and is so taught. Mothers have teeth-work being done too. Braces in Silver and Braces in gold and their mouths have a fuller pout. Very suburb superb.

Dali would have adored this. He’d smile with immeasurable glee and put his brushes down, because Metamorphosis would be all be all before him. Splendid. So complete. Perfect.

Back to the boys – nearly all of them are pimply, smelly and blissfully unaware of the hormonal and chemical revolution already underway – where the visages of adulthood storm the ramparts of boyhood leaving swathes of destruction. An internal razing. A clear-fell forest. The end of a blended-with-mother self. The beginning of what it is like to be.

The mothers surge forward. A wave rolling up a beach and they find their offspring and cup their faces in both hands and hold them close, demanding. “How was it” “was it hard” “I bet you are exhausted” are you hungry” “ are you cold” “Can Mummy get you anything” “please tell me baby is there anything I can do” “ I bet you have a headache and are feeling soooooo tired out….” Others just open bags for chips and shove them into their sons hands. “here quickly eat this – it will make you feel better..”

An ambush complete. Re-connection, bonding and safety achieved, we move from stage one to stage two. Stage 2 is the stage before the wagons roll-out and head for home.

Down here in quadrangle city, size DOES matter. The rocks in the rings are bigger, the croc-skin handbags more expensive, the tits more agressive, the pink cashmere sweaters finer. They dont drive Landcruisers or Pajero’s – they are the cars of the row two or 3 set. Instead it is Maserati, Porsche Cayenne or Range Rover Sport and BMW X5. Its so much better to be an individual, even if the braces make it hard to say Masherarrtay easily.

They stand in circles, they stand in groups. Hierarchy and order. Those from the same street, the same suburb, the same Brazillian wax joint – (the ones with the rotating dentist styled chairs that tip back tip up and tip over, pointing their unruly hairy cha-cha’s to the ceiling so they can be made sooooo clean and sexy…). or just those who go to the same sooooo expensive places for the same soooooo expensive school holidays. Anyway, any yummy mummy thats self respecting regularly gets a smooth schmoo. Some go with their daughters and get waxed up together. A kind of voluntary user pays flogging – a bit like confessional or some other act of religiosity.

The groups become more compact and inward looking. Some row 2 and 3’s leave in their Pajeros and Landcruisers. Once, even a Lexus left early. As the chaos seems to settle – the coo coo-ing and the lovey duvvey talk can be heard. The negotiations and treatises are in the process of completion.

Their husbands would be so very proud. They are all really running the show and its a very big gig. One of them saw Tom Cruise at a coffee shop in ‘Brayton’ (the suburb Brighton) and he looks sooooooo hot.

The chat continues – “Alex and I were talking – and he negotiated with me that if he sat for the exam today I’d take him shopping” she said running her hands through her son Alex’s neatly trimmed hair. Everything is so neat its scarey. Like an edged lawn in the middle of a desert. Alex beamed victoriously over gawkish braces – all in different colours. He demanded with mock indignation.. “you said Playstation 3” !!! “Oh – well it will be our little secret…and dont tell Dad because they are soooooooooo expensive’. Giggles all round.

“I know they’re expensive..” another one said – her breasts not only defying gravity but hanging determinedly up. . “But today is about achievement !” Now, these breasts arent a rack – they are an awning. 3 guys could find shelter from the rain – and they must have trussed her back to be able to stand upright…. ‘Lets all go together – we could all go and buy them something special….like – they’ve been through a really traumatic event…it was 3 subjects in 2 hours. Do you get that – 2 WHOLE hours….”

“I’ll come” – one said in between providing instructions on her diamante encrusted mobile to the pool man…..”and afterwards, Jackson can go to bed and rest and Ill go the gym…”

Off to one side – two young friends – Jackson and his friend Lachlan give each other a “high five” and say “YES!!!!” AWWWWWWSOME” other boys together imitate Heath Ledger as the Joker in the beginning of the Batman movie ”..And, here………we……….GO!” and they all run to the entrance of the under croft where they wait to be picked up by their totally yummy mummies and their sporting 4 wheel drives. These cars, perhaps like their mothers are fine examples of German and Italian thoroughbred engineering, some costing more than a 3 bedroom house. Frequently.

“What’s your Money buying you ?” I hear one boy ask. “A PS3” is the reply. “Mine too – my Money has said I can get a few games – and theyve been discounted to only $90 each at EB Games……if I get 3 and the PS3 it will cost a grand”…… “WOW – Im gonna ask mine….Youve got a really good Money – she buys you stuff…..” Lots of laughter and high-fives….Yep – my Money’s the best”

1. Robert Plant. from lyrics from the song ‘Tin Pan Valley’