I've been ten years out of Australia now and realise that the word 'reckon' is the one that confuses most other non-antipodean English speakers.
It just means 'think' or 'consider' in a more casual sense but instead of saying, "I think we should have chicken for dinner tonight," we Aussies say "I reckon a roast chook would be pretty good."
Our daughter Carly, arrived in Switzerland at twelve years old and went to an international school with friends owning a lot of different accents and backgrounds. Now nearly twenty two years old, Carly is partly Swiss, a bit Aussie and in her third year of living and studying in Scotland. When we facetime each other, she often points out that my Aussie accent and colloquialisms are much stronger than Dean's, despite the fact we both went to country high schools in the same state..
But today, I want to ask youse all something. Whaddaya reckon about me starting a wee YouTube account featuring me in my Dog Walking Lady-clothed finery, sharing a few not particularly earth shattering (but certainly) true escapades, opinions or bravely revealed personal embarrassments?
Whaddaya reckon? I'd really like your feedback. You see, I love writing. I write serious stuff for a 'living' but 'living' in reality is that Dean has the job that keeps us housed, fed, clothed, educated (Carly) and healthy and I get a bit of freelance stuff that I'm inordinately grateful for and then hate myself for having to politely submit my invoice, wait over a month to get paid and then overthank them for it. To say that I contribute financially through writing is akin to letting a hedgehog hold the balloons. Maybe I should just enjoy the opportunity to do it rather than consume my soul in anxiety about not being a contributor financially. (That's a topic often discussed with my psychiatrist). I reckon that last sentence has lowered the mood a bit!
On a more positive level, writing and talking seem to be a similar thing in my world. My family are bored to tears hearing my stories over and over, and the mundane or weird ones that I write about on Medium or here aren't ones that they're going to rush to read. I'm Kath/Mum after all: they see enough of me when I shower with the door open to let the steam out or when I start ranting about 4WD owners who don't have roof racks or two bars and just use them to pick up their kids.
Very quietly, I've had a YouTube account for a few years and only used it to share some old Milly clips and two of Felix. It is, to put it charitably, very neglected and rarely watched. Not unlike my attitude towards my personal grooming regime.
To start us off, I'll share this one of Felix with you now. It was posted a few months back but will only take a little over a minute of your time to watch and hopefully end up with a smile. This Spanish shelter dog that we adopted at three-and-a-half years old literally jumps for joy when it is his dinner time.
That was filmed in October and he STILL performs the same enthusiastic and energetically joyful dance for his evening meal. Breakfast is different because Dean takes him out for a walk and I fill up Felix's bowl ready for his return. His reaction is to slide around the corner at sonic speed while skidding on the black and white mats, madly skitter around the kitchen bench to inhale his crunchies before I can say 'Hello there, Mr Speckles, how was your walk...."
You can see that I'm avoiding talking about my own old bonce being on YouTube. I'm not famous, nor a stand up, an endearing animal or a public performer and never have been. The world needs youth, intelligence, glamour, useful tips and not a 52 year old who still laughs when she sees French shower caps labelled 'douche bonnets.'
It's Dean's fault, really. He's known for saying "I love you" at the precise moment when I'm doubled over emptying the kitchen flip top bin under the sink so that only my grey marle tracksuited arse is in his vision, so he's not one for inane compliments or promising me a rose garden.
It was a genuine surprise when admitted to me that he had been reading my old blog back in the day but is also now reading the ones on Medium and right here. I even teared up a little. He said that he reckons I could try and say 'em out loud, like a short stand up on YouTube.
Firstly, I ain't short and secondly, the idea of stand up scares the undigested corn kernels out of me. Vanity isn't something that would be ascribed to me, I don't think, but there's a tiny little 'give it a go, what have you got to lose' voice that sometimes emerges from behind the cacophony of self-doubt. What if I simplified things a bit and sat down, in my normal clothes, in my own house, and just chatted for a bit? Would that work, you reckon?
Obviously I'll need to learn how to edit and cut out the erms and ahhhhhs and incessant playing with my glasses. But maybe we could all have a laugh at an old gal that will try not to take up too much of your time but make you feel glad to be you and not her?
If you could feel the nervous sweat and the red heat of embarrassment on my face as I'm writing this, waiting for the YouTube video to be uploaded, then try multiplying it by one hundred. It's my first attempt at sit down. It was done off the cuff and quite rightly needs to be tightened and better edited. My hands are shaking.
But it's time to give it a go I reckon. I really truly would like your feedback, bad, good or indifferent. I'm more than happy to stick to the occasional blog and keep my face of YouTube if the world truly doesn't need it.
Honesty is appreciated, but please be kind about it. There ain't much I can do with this face!
