Wallumbilla Chit Chat by Gregory Harvey


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(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)
What about the weather?
(What about it? Raining. Hot. Depressing. Joyous. What does it matter?)
Itís been a bit unpredictable.
What have you been doing with yourself lately?
(Sitting in a corner of my room, looking at the ceiling, wondering why.)
Not much.
Same.
(Always the same. Always nothing.)
Did you hear about Mr Jinkinson?
What about him?
Passed away a few days ago.
(At least heís stopped running down the clock.)
What are you doing next year?
(Iím going to go away to university, pretend I care about people, get a degree and then run down the clock for fifty years. Then Iím going to die.)
Going up to uni in Townsville.
What are you going to do there?
(Something equally as pointless.)
Bachelor of Social Work.
Whatís that about?
(Money.)
You know. Iíll be a social worker. Help people.
Thatís a depressing job isnít it?
I could think of worse.
(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)
We need social workerís out here.
(Why do people pretend they care? Why talk when thereís nothing to be said?)
We need everything out here.
(Iím a hypocrite.)
Whyíd you want to be a social worker?
(Why did you want toÖ what did you want to be? How far are you from it? How long ago were your dreams forsaken in the name of compromise and reality?)
Honestly couldnít tell you.
(And the next question always isÖ)
How much does a social worker make?
Listen Iíve got to go.
(Iím bored with you. Come talk to me on your death bed, then you might have something interesting to say.)
Yeah, me too. See yaí.
(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)