Short Tight Black Skirt: A Story

Teeny tiny little black stretchy skirts adorn the bottoms - just about – of the man-conscious young woman in Sydney. Style? Non. Fashion? Iffy… but perhaps it has been a brief member of the fashion club. But in my opinion, a person dressing fashionably is doing so with art in mind, as well as a desire to impress/stun their peers for their innovation and daring, and not as a way to promote drooling or possible wolf whistles.

These skirts are worn day and night. They don’t just seem to be the nightclub or bar uniform. During the day, a loose top and/or jacket is mock-casually thrown with it, with suitably tousled hair or an ever complimentary top-knot. At night? Anything goes really, as long is it is a relatively small anything.

At night it is particularly comical to see, as a throng of young women will walk three or four abreast with their very similar attire. You will see this a number of times in one evening. There may be a slight difference with the texture of the fabric – perhaps one is wearing a ‘body-con’ style dress/skirt, with thick synthetic fabric that squashes the contents in a little. Perhaps someone else is wearing stretchy jersey fabric that rides up much more easily. Perhaps another has gone crazy and chosen mauve.

It is the norm to not be wearing tights with them. Unfortunately, a high percentage of women suffer from water retention, and the evidence is clear. It just baffles me that they would choose to display the water retention evidence so visibly.

There must be an equation that identifies this look:

Short (usually) black skirt + boy/men = flirtation + boost in confidence + sexting (and beyond)

I’ll admit that I’m not certain of how to balance this equation. But there it is.

And there is nothing wrong with the equation except for its obviousness and the baseness. There’s always a place for baseness. I eat pork scratchings after all.

The positive is that I saw a kangaroo

After meandering through a few information streams first, I managed to arrange a stint pruning grape vine in Canowindra, New South Wales. Canowindra has a population of around 1,700 people. The final step was to give Tony a call. Tony will "set up [my] accommodation".

Tony was called, and my first impression of Tony was poor, as he answered the telephone with "yeah". But this is the man who makes the final arrangements for farm work, people do this all the time, so I suppose I need to pack away the now redundant expectations that good manners are normal. Asking if there was anything that I needed to know, he replied there was nothing except that I would be staying in the Canowindra Hotel and to call him when I'm close to arriving so that he could brief me on the work.

I arrived the following week at 8.30pm, called him when I arrived as there was no signal anywhere else on the journey, and he appeared to forget that I was due to arrive and that I was due to start work the following day. "Oh no - you're at the bus stop now?" he asked. "Why yes, Tony, as arranged last week, I am," I replied. "Oh no. There's no accommodation. I told the agencies to stop sending people." he said. "Right. But we spoke last week and arranged it," said I. "Oh no. You're at the bus stop now?"

He came to meet me at the bus stop, and described a story to me. This involved farmers not expecting a group of 14 people to start working 3 days previously, and the Canowindra Hotel overbooking so that grape vine pruners were unable to stay. 12 people were currently located in one room in one other hotel on a floor. As it turns out, I was one of the lucky ones to get a bed. This I shared with two strangers in a filthy room. As Tony sorted this room out for me, he said that he'd be back shortly to talk about the work etc. He didn't come back that night.

The following morning saw no improvements. He looked like shit with his hangover, but confirmed that I would be starting that day. I asked about payment, tax numbers, forms that I might need to fill in... Payment in cash on Fridays. No forms. We get on a bus that takes us to the farm. That's it. And what about the accommodation? That will be sorted today. Is there anything else I need to know? No.

Off to the farm. I was reassured later by a scatty Camelia, who it turns out organises all of the farm work and liaises with the farmers, that the accommodation would be organised. She is the one who condones what is bordering on slave labour. (I would have made around $6 an hour, if not less.) Of course, nothing else was mentioned about anything else.

The accommodation wasn't arranged and I spent a second night in the filthy bed and room.

The following day saw storms and nobody was allowed to work. The rest of the week saw the same forecasts. So there was a group of us who were expected to pay for filthy accommodation, in a town that sold food at twice the price you find in Sydney, with nowhere to go except for a single street. I couldn't justify spending any more time there. Short lived? Absolutely. I had expected to spend about 5 weeks there! But proper accommodation still wasn't arranged for the third night, despite repeated promises. The secateurs were left with Drunk Tony on Wednesday evening, and one of my room buddies, Judith, and I packed our bags ready to leave the following day. We both left our bank details and a thank you note for the initial chance to work on a farm. And left.

A week later, by text, I have been accused of stealing the secateurs, of not paying for the accommodation, and for not paying for the transport to the farm (?!). All of the information about extra costs were mysteriously not spoken of, and some wench has decided that she'd like to threaten me with the police and immigration department. Apparently, she is "sick and tired [of people] who constantly leave without being honest in paying what you have to pay". Right. Workers must be a little tired, too, of the disgusting conditions in which they clearly have to live and work. I'll see what happens...