One of the favourite movies in our house is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
Before I go on though, I just realised how much of a pratty boring toss-face arse I sounded by using terms like ‘one of our favourite’, ‘movies’ and ‘our house’.
I am sorry. It is the language of the Woman’s Day column.
Anyway yesterday, something in-fucking-credible happened.
I had a Ferris day. I had no children around or near me from 9am til 2pm. No children. Anywhere.
Since 2009, I have been at home with kids (that’s SAHM, in ‘Day speak). There is probably a perception that I do fuck–all, smugly in fact, all day long while the kids are at school, and here, all day, I sit on my arse not cleaning and bringing all of humanity and its splash backs to perfection. All day, doing nothing to earn, just blogging and pleasing myself.
The reality is much different, as anyone who looks after multiple kids year round, with smatterings of a break, an hour here or there, would truly know.
Being a person who does not work, who looks after children means that you are doing that and only that. Children want to talk, they want to sit on you, hug you, lie down with you, tell you stuff, eat what you are eating, come into the toilet with you, want to shower with you. It leaves little time for anything else.
They want to colonise you.
I love them. There are three of them and sometimes there are five of them.
But yesterday, I had a chance to have a Ferris day.
Me and Mr Companion went into a strange country zone called Newmarket.
This is of course an annex of Greenlane, or perhaps Epsom. There, unshackled adults can eat a brunch and stare out a cafe window at school zoning issues. We could walk around shops that only sell pods of coffee and others that sell jack boots. For women.
We took the eggs benedict. Behind us a large Chinese family gathered, taking pains to drag spare chairs across the floor for about 24 minutes. Outside in the bright winter cold, rugged up hipsters showed us that the beard had made a comeback. On the billboards, on the faces of the Newmarket drifter.
Further down the road we wandered, past Politix, once where a well-placed man would shop. Now surrounded by short lease gimmick shops it, along with Texan Art Schools, Country Theme and Route 66 reminded me of the late 80s, bussing through on the Howick express, into town and back.
I thought of the kids but they seemed so far away and safe; it was a luxury morning that cleared out the clutter in my head that’s constantly there – useless clutter.
We decided to ditch this scene and to drive over to Onehunga, taking a wrong turn and seeing the MiG mounted on the factory building.
A Shelby GT500 overtook us on the motorway, and I realised that everyone is trying to escape the banal in some way.
On the way home, we talked about Ferris and Rooney. Rooney is the Shelby driver’s opposite. His modest sedan is towed from outside Ferris’s house and Rooney, trapped in the capitalist compliance model, is forced to bus home with his students.
It felt like we were so far from this; we felt free. We made more plans for next time.
Tomorrow on this freedom rampage, The Sane Companion visits something called “the art gallery”.