A Trip Down Mammary Lane


In particularly foul weather, at the bottom of one of the footpaths at my primary school, an accumulation of water would gather. It seemed to be constant that we were reminded not to jump into the puddle on the morning assembly, but without fail my socks would be dripping wet and the legs of my class mates splashed with this puddle water by recess.

I have never been good at retaining the finer details of life.

Have you ever been back to your primary school? It’s stunning how we managed with such miniscule equipment, particularly when it seemed to be enormous when we were students. At my primary school, the back field was huge. Turns out it really wasn’t. The monkey bars that looked so damn near impossible to conquer have been ripped out and replaced with Styrofoam cups or something equally less dangerous.

Yes, I’ve taken a stroll down memory lane. My sister and I went to the Christmas Fete at the primary school we went to yesterday and it was great. I bought two tambourines and a pair of maracas for $3. Can’t WAIT to get them out for a surprise concert. i also got scammed with the spin a wheel thing. Turns out that not every ticket was $2 – I just stumbled along during a more expensive round. Didn’t win a chook.

But we had a sausage sizzle and checked out the classrooms and the toilets. I saw the place where I jumped in the puddles, much to the horror of one particular teacher who really should have known better than to forbid such an appealing act. I saw the classrooms I spent time outside of, for one discrepancy or another. I saw the room where the assemblies were held each week.

It was standard for kids to offer to perform at these assemblies if they had a special skill or something. I decided I simply must share my talent with the world, and volunteered to perform at the assembly one week. I was nervous. I was excited. I was going to be the BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

Then I sat down at the piano.

Now, I cannot play the piano. I can kind of bluff it now – but certainly when I was in primary school, the closest I had ever gotten to a piano was the electric toy keyboard we had at home, and the keys had numbers, which were printed on each individual key. Totally not a piano.

I think I covered my lack of skill quite well.

I asked the teacher to show me where the “5” key might be. This was when concern registered in her face, a concern that my growing confidence failed to assure.

I was ready.

I plinked and plunked with no regard for timing or musicality. I sung the note numbers under my breath as I took random guesses as to where they may be located on the piano. The result was a bizarre minuet that only I could hear the melody in.

I stood after a time, and smiled. Thanked the teachers, and returned to my seat on the floor.

My friends were giggling. So was I.

This story used to be really embarrassing, but I think the great thing about getting older is that you regain dignity and the ability to act confidently in public settings.

It was as I drove towards home that I realised that the uncomfortable feeling in my bra wasn’t a wire poking out to say hello. It was the end of my sausage sizzle, with a piece of onion attached, nestled happily amongst my ample bosom. Holding the sensory reminder of countless sausage sizzles past, I sniffed at the sausage and considered eating it.

Then my clutch died and I had to get the train home, abandoning the car and dealing with a fellow passenger on the train who had a strange pair of slippers and very long toenails.

But that is another story, best reserved for a later trip down mammary lane.





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