The Skipping Girl

The Skipping Girl I recently received a cushion with the skipping girl featured on it. This will automatically conjure up memories for any Melbournite. For as a child it lit up the long journey across to the other side of town. The image of the skipping rope changing around the little girl, shining against that bleak industrial landscape and night sky. Our family made this journey rarely. We lived in the suburbs on the North Eastern side, but made an annual trek to the other side of Melbourne. To the tiny country hamlet of Deans Marsh. I recall truck stop cafes at a Shell petrol station, where dad insisted on a mixed grill. Also going past massive old gas cylinders, a supremely ugly sight. We turned at an intersection here. Little else sticks in my mind. On one long haul trip we returned with a tiny kitten from one of the many litters at the old house in Deans Marsh. We kids had the responsibility for this tiny ball of fluff in a box in the back seat. At some stage we had fish and chips and were feeding the kitten some of this. The ball of fluff became our one and only pet, who we named Joyful. Or more commonly known as Joy. Joy was a tortoiseshell which we all felt was highly prized. Joy was with us for seventeen years. A legacy from the pilgrimage to a place we used to know, but never remembered as us kids were all too young. There were huge feral cats on the property in Deans Marsh, the type that can take down rabbits. This was well before it was politically correct to monitor cat’s behaviour. They seemed to be everywhere. Our one spoilt cat lapped up all the attention in that offhand way cats have. It is always a strange sensation to return to Melbourne after long absences. There is a feeling of deep identity and familiarity that is just out of reach. Is that what all our memories become, a bit blurry and somehow just out of reach?