The Valley of the Dolls
When I was increasingly-less-recently admitted to hospital courtesy of the crohn’s my mother came over to help me out around the house. Yes, it was a lovely thing to do. Yes, she’s a wonderful mother. She spent three of the four or five weeks she was here sitting by my bed keeping me company while I waited patiently (hah!) for my doctors to swing by and tell me what exciting new thing would be keeping me there for just a couple more days. Eventually, however, I was released and returned to my home only to discover that “home” is no less boring than “hospital” to spend all day every day.
Still unsure of my newfound health (I’d been released at one point only to have to return a week later) I was hesitant to travel to any place where I wasn’t sure about the location of the toilets so to break the monotony we decided that we’d visit Victor Harbour, a delightful little seaside town only about an hour or so south of Adelaide. I’d been there before and therefore had already scouted out the loos. For the record, taking into account the fact that they’re public toilets at a popular tourist spot they’re surprisingly not bad. Not five star but how picky can you really be about something to which you’re doing what you do to toilets? (Check that, I’m fairly sure you’ll find it’s technically accurate. Don’t, however, say it five times fast or use it as an example of grammatical correctness.)
While in Victor Harbour I had no intention of spending the whole time in the hotel room. That would have been no more interesting than my hospital room and less interesting than home because at least at home I had the full range of foxtel channels, not just the five or six the hotel subscribed to. Besides after spending three weeks doing what I like to do (sitting around / nothing) mum felt it was only fair that we do what she likes to do. One such leisure activity was going for a walk around the town to check out any quirky seaside town shops it might have. One we (she) found was called “The Elephant’s Trunk”. Truly� that boded well for it being a classy establishment.
This place was the kind of second-hand shops that can only be found in seaside tourist villages because in cities nobody would bother re-selling that kind of crap and in true redneck country it’s considered family hairlooms. And it smelled like a second-hand shop. Oh did it smell like a second-hand shop.
I hate dolls. I’m terrified of them. I know that a lot of people say they’re afraid of dolls, or at least think that dolls are creepy but I take that to a whole, exciting new level. It’s been a lifelong problem for me. My mother, yes the delightful woman whom I mentioned previously, revels in telling me about how, when I was a toddler, she had trouble with me in department and clothing stores because mannequins would set me to screaming in terror. As would her “antique” *cough* doll known affectionately *another cough* as Baldy Doll. Why? Its hair had somehow been pulled away from its head leaving only adhesive. It was (and still is) like a hideous parody of cancer patients in the middle of chemotherapy treatment.
Why would I bring up such a shameful and embarrassing facet of my personality? How about because every shelf in the goddamn store had at least one doll perched upon it? It was the place where unwanted dolls were sent to die. I was amazed by how many little girls (presumably) had parted with their once-beloved dolls rather than hanging onto them for nostalgic purposes (that’s another story in itself). Suddenly I understood why. Rounding a corner I came face-to-face with a doll that honestly did almost make me shriek in public. One perfect blue eye stared at me in horror as I in turn stared in horror into the empty socket that should have held the second blue eye.
Turns out it was all fun and games until someone lost an eye.
Tagged: Fears & Neuroses, Travel.