Chris was once a travelling upholstery salesman (and a navy quartermaster gunner,a welder,a seller of time-share,window cleaner and theatre restaurant commis chef among other things). When the 1976 Moran modular inherited from my parents needed a facelift,we hit up a Collingwood fabric place one Saturday afternoon.
Harley Reid.Paul Kane/Getty Images
Shops rarely confuse me. I know how they work. Especially ones with shoes or cricket bats. But this one had me – racks and racks of fabric,jewel colours,silky stuff printed with parrots. All too much.
Not for my husband.
He nabbed a sales assistant. “We want the blue,red and purple price point books,please.” Wait,there are books? Yep. The assistant returned bearing them. Chris flicked through one,handed it back,found a velvet he liked in the next book. Rubbed it thoughtfully between thumb and finger.
“This one. How many Martindale rubs?”
It was like they were speaking another language. The rubs – the measure of the fabric’s abrasion resistance for those as clueless as me – were analysed and the velour’s provenance and composition discussed. Technically,it passed muster. All I had to do was choose between peacock blue and gold.
Watching Chris doing something he was expert at was super hot. We ordered the velvet and I hustled him home at speed.
These days,if we’re sick of each other or fighting,we drop into a Spotlight. Seeing his big drummer’s hands on brocade while he talks me through its properties still does it for me. Should there be no haberdashery outlet handy,I settle for watching him play pool or pinball. The visuals of both similarly ease any tensions.
Yep,I’ve wondered if I have weird fetishes that I force my man to play along with. But it really just comes down to my obsession for and joy in watching people do things they’re really good at. Everyday things that they turn into acts of beauty.
Dave Grohl on the kit. Virginia Trioli and Gerard Whateley talking. Miley Cyrus singing. Kate Middleton’s manner of inhabiting a pantsuit. All effortless. And now,a teenager who seems to me to be verging on actual genius,Harley Reid.
Even if you’re not into AFL,you need to see this kid play footy. Trust me – don’t look away. Reid’s strength,skills,instinct,all mesh together to create something rare. Brutal,glorious natural talent that will quite possibly renew even the most jaded faith in the world.
After playing just nine senior games,the West Coast showstopper – and potential solo saviour – is already being hailed as one of the league’s greats. Four-time premiership Hawk Jordan Lewis says no player in recent history has made a more immediate impact on the game.
Harley Reid.Paul Kane
Track down the bit of play from last week where Reid pulls a massive “don’t argue” on Melbourne’s Clayton Oliver,switches the footy to his other hand,then dismisses Christian Petracca with the same one-handed move.
A headbanded rookie brushing aside two of the AFL’s vaunted midfielders like they were flies,not bulls. Beautiful.
Harley is the perfect antidote for what ails me right now. Macro stuff like simmering worry over what hawkish Middle Eastern men will do next to boost their egos. Why nobody is kicking up more of a fuss about the Suburban Rail Link. How a little Lismore boy who loved swimming and music,and how his mother can survive the unbearable loss.
Personal things too:ongoing grief about. Credit cards shuddering under the weight of cost of living. Raging rosacea,AI stealing clients,my girl living in Queensland.
Maybe others are feeling ennui or outright panic right now too. Solution:have a crack at watching someone do something expertly. You’ll feel admiration,inspiration. You’ll believe anew in human potential. Buoyed by collective pride,your spirits will rise. You’ll feel ace.
And,sure,next time you have a sewing project,give my husband a hoy.
Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media.
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