RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

A sorry and mostly soggy winter's tale
18th June 2004

This week I made an incredible discovery – more incredible than the recent shock research published by the National Bureau of Economic Research in the United States, that found that there's a strong link between people's happiness and the amount of sex they have.  The more sex you have, the happier you are, well whayddyaknow! I'm not that smart, but one morning when there was a real nip in the smog, I discovered that the quickest way to induce a nervous breakdown is to try to stand up against the darker side of Mother Nature.

Take the recent foggy mornings followed by hellcat rainy days; I know, I know, we need the rain.  But it's so heartbreaking the way the sun appears out of nowhere for a couple of hours and laughs in my face as if to say, "Hey loser-it's winter, I'm going to Acapulco, where the pretty girls are!"  This is just one of the many indignations that winter delivers as we slide helplessly towards the shortest day.

I find I'm staying at home most of the time – you too?  My own stale smells and the unreliability of an aberrant motor vehicle cork me in.  I can't seize the day until I've seized a bucket of water and emptied it over my frost-covered car.  We're not allowed to use a hose – so right away – I'm soaked.  I become soft but not very absorbent.  It doesn't matter which way I pick up the bucket or how I pour it, I always get drenched.  I am a human Wettex.  If one person anywhere in the universe turns on their tap, I get wet.  If I'm at a party and there's a woman teetering on stilettos and balancing a glass of Chardonnay between fake nails, it doesn't matter where I'm standing in the room – I'm the one she'll bump into.  And there won't be any spillage on her; it'll be me looking like a pair of undies left behind in the washing machine after the spin cycle.  I attract moisture.

Back in the carport I'm desperate to warm up the engine.  I talk to it, I stroke it, I repeat a positive affirmation, "It is my birthright to have my needs met.  I rejoice in my car's engine."  If I'm lucky the engine will start.  I'm not.  It doesn't.  I end up flooding the thing.  I sob into my skivvy, slide off the accelerator and the seat and stand next to the car feeling bummed and rejected.  Without warning, the hose, which I'd used to fill the bucket, hurls itself off the ground and straight at my groin – its own personal rebellion.  My ears are so cold they've tightened the screws on my teeth and it feels like my lips have disappeared.  Winter is around every corner, stalking me like an overweight detective.

Certain people love winter – people who go skiing-people who love the snow.  Skiing brings a lot of joy and happiness to many people, mostly doctors and physiotherapists.  The first thing you're taught is to keep your knees together.  This gives you balance and control, allegedly.  I believe the reason you're encouraged to keep your knees together is so when you hit that tree, mountain face or flock of stockbrokers – splat, head on – nobody has to look very far for your shoes.

Everyone at the snow is disguised in balaclavas, sunglasses and earmuffs; some of the world's most notorious criminals are at the snow.  They move from resort to resort, season to season, and never get busted.  I'm sure Osama bin Laden is up there making a giant snowman as I write.  I tried skiing once but I couldn't keep my knees together for long enough to get my skis on.  I tripped and slid several metres off the verandah of the chalet breaking the fall with my teeth – I bit into another skier's leg.  The fall combined with the friction of layers of rayon and nylon sparked off a freak rainstorm and instantly my name was mud.  Posters of my face with a slash through it, were placed strategically along the slopes alerting skiers to Berger danger and I believe I'm the only person permanently banned from every snowfield in the country.  Winter sucks.