I am playing
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Tennis. In yet another episode of ‘welcome to the overly competitive, underwhelmingly uncapable side of Liam Nash’, I’ve challenged some of my fellow scribes at the News to a sport I have never previously played. And it shows. Although I’ve left the hiked-up shorts and headband at home, from the outside I am certain what I do on the court appears as the furthest thing from champagne tennis (I’ve labelled it ‘racqueteering’). However, when I carve an electric top-spinning forehand which teases the baseline, I flirt with the idea of offering my services to the Open. Then reality hits, in the form of a rank double fault which lets all the excess air out of my head in a flash. I won’t elude to my major weakness — but let’s just say I wouldn’t make a very convincing pimp.
I am listening to
22, a million. I’ve always admired indie folk band Bon Iver’s disregard for the norm, and its 2016 release may be its weirdest yet. Which says a lot. But lead singer Justin Vernon’s talent for bending his falsetto vocals around any zany synth riff or melding auto-tune into a haunting harmony cannot be ignored. While most of the track list layers augmented vocals over heavily melodic manipulation (which I like), 8 (circle) is as pure as they come, sprinkling in emotive peaks that long-time listeners of the band will recognise from For Emma, Forever Ago. Kanye West once called Vernon his “favourite living artist” — and I reckon it is albums like these which validate his claim.
I am nursing
Sunburn. And I’m not even that mad about it. While my tragically pasty skin had its rudest awakening in at least six months at the weekend, the chance to soak up some sun was taken with open arms. Nouns such as ‘sunscreen’ and `aloe vera’ haven’t been heard floating around my subconscious for quite some time, but if I want to avoid a raccoon tan in future it's probably best to invest. So now I play the waiting game. Will the aforementioned burn burgeon into a lovely bronze? Or will it itch, peel, and subsequently return to a freckled patch of milky white? I reckon I already know the answer.
I am watching
Premier League football. The beautiful game is back, and its English pedigree is already delivering in spades only two weeks in. Some of the world's most decorated ballers have jetted across to Britain for the 2020-21 season, making up perhaps the most star-studded cast the sport has seen in quite some time. As a non-native, I will gladly hold my hands and admit I couldn’t give a rodent’s rear about the looming AFL finals. While I can take some joy out of seeing Tom Hawkins snap a 50 m reverse banana from the bleachers, I doubt he could tear a defence to ribbons with such elegance quite like Tottenham Hotspur's front man Heung-min Son did at the weekend. Apologies to all who can't handle the truth.
SOCIAL BEINGS EMBRACE LIFELINE AFTER LOCKDOWN
It took a while, but as I sat with a half-open ear absorbing the chorus of Karma Chameleon, midway through sucking down a pint of Strawberry Sour on Saturday, realisation hit like a shot of adrenalin plunged into the right ventricle.
I am inside a pub. In the presence of people again. What cruel dream is this?
But it was no apparition.
Thanks to the city’s willingness to swallow the pill and get on with it through such a precarious patch, Shepparton finally awoke from its slumber on Thursday with no active COVID-19 cases.
And I can guarantee that no-one took it for granted.
For the entirety of the weekend, it felt like Daniel Andrews himself had ruffled my hair, placed a crisp hundred in my hand and said, ‘Treat yourself, son.’
So, I did.
Dinner, brunch, tennis, golf, dinner again.
In the space of 48 hours I crammed in more social interaction than you could shake a broomstick at, simply because for the first time in so long, I could.
Gee it felt magnificent.
Judging by the swathes of Sheppartonians milling about on the sidewalks and streets, the rest of the city did too.
I can only imagine what being able to finally open their doors again has done to lift the spirits of Shepparton’s bar and café owners.
See, for its stature, the city has a vast surplus of spaces to indulge in aural pleasures, tuck into some top-shelf pub grub and get your wobbly boots on.
Spots to dive into affable conversation over the perfect chai latte, chocolate brownie or vegan scone.
And for so long, neither consumer nor supplier was allowed that simple pleasure, leaving establishments languishing left and right.
The act of shutting up shop without the promise of a return date must have been absolutely heart-wrenching for venues throughout the region.
Personally, being able to engage in a ‘tour-de-farce’ in the local karaoke scene, be on the receiving end of a comprehensive humbling at the hands of the resident pool gods, or take a sideways glance at where the next Friday night faux pas would occur was one I longed for throughout lockdown.
So now, after the wait, I feel like the liberation of being out and about is 10 times sweeter.
Even something as mundane as mulling over a menu brings about a sense of giddiness when it has no right to.
That is what being forced into extended social segregation can do to us as a race.
Whatever our psychological programming may be, we as humans are hardwired to gravitate towards others.
And after wearing all the slings and arrows of the coronavirus pandemic I've learnt to appreciate the power of a social gathering in a way I never knew I could.
However, there is no denying we’ve been made to work to get there.
We watched as the metaphorical levee was burst not once but twice, seeing the pandemic perform a nightmarish encore which condemned us all to four walls of wretched isolation.
A fleeting taste of freedom came sandwiched in between, as regional Victoria wrested back power only for us to be sent into the naughty corner for what seemed like a mask-clad eternity.
Like a red sock in a load of white washing, we have seen how something small can make such a significant impact.
So, while the powers that be order the mask to stay on, the state (bar Melbourne) is nearing the stage our leaders have labelled ‘COVID-Normal.’
I won’t say we’ve reached the light at the end of the tunnel just yet, or even that I’m twiddling the radio knobs in search of a signal.
But after brunching, conversing and nearly choking on my halloumi at every stupid joke cracked over the weekend, I can safely say I am optimistic for our future.