When a dream becomes a memory…

Quite some time ago I confessed to the naked dream thing and now here’s Kim having not just the naked dream but the naked hungover dream.

So, since the G rating has been turned on in my posts for way too long, it’s probably time for me to immortalise A Moment.

To understand The Moment you need to know three things:

1.Turn back the clock to 1995 – the first half of the Australian summer before 1996. The Prof had moved in with me into my lovely lovely bachelor girl flat in an old mansion in Cremorne Point. It didn’t have many rooms but those it had were huge and the bedroom, which was up a step from the lounge/dining, had a looooong set of 12-foot high cedar concertina doors that could be opened up completely, and usually were.

2. Julie was our cleaner. No one else will ever measure up. We adored her and would leave her little gifts of chocolate or alcohol to keep her happy. Julie was In Demand and would work only under the best conditions and in a very limited territory on Sydney’s lower north shore. When you came home after a Julie Day the house smelled like bleach in the nicest possible way. She used hospital-strength Domestos. Sigh. Lots and Lots of it. Domestos should smell bad but when Julie used it it just smelled soooooo goooooood!

3. The summer of 95/96 was spent either at work, having sex, or having sex at work. Or in the park, or the car, or on the beach or indeed on that sweet little island at Blamoral.

So it was inevitable, really, that one day , one sunny Wednesday when we had decided that being a bit late into the office was much less important than staying in late in bed, and when staying late in bed had turned into a gradual progress across the bedroom floor, down the step and into the lounge, and when there was the sudden change of light and air that meant (to some dimly higher level of our otherwise engaged minds) the front door had opened, our first thought was not, “Bloody hell, how embarrassing!” or even “Bloody hell, how annoying!” but rather:

“BLOODY HELL – what if Julie won’t come back?!”

Julie backed out the door, laughing heartily as any In-Demand cleaner can afford to do at her employers. We collapsed, then re-grouped, then headed for the shower while yelling to Julie that the coast was clear.

That should have been the end of it really, except:

Julie was Such A Good Cleaner that we had told several friends. She now worked for many people we knew, not always well.

She was a friendly, sharing sort of gal.

Fortunately, at that point in time, wearing different bodies and veneers of respectability than we do now, it (almost) (nearly) (kinda) didn’t matter that Julie.Told.Everyone.

But holy snapping duckshit, she was a Goddess with the bleach.