Freewheelin' Fyshwick

Before ...

The day began with Spike attempting emergency repairs on the broken axle housing on a front wheel of my wheelchair.  Sadly it was beyond redemption.  After maybe twenty years of use should I be surprised?  No, I don't think so either.

The irrepairable broken wheel necessitated a trip to the wheelchair supplies store, aptly named
Mobility Matters.  It's in Fyshwich, perhaps the oddest but in many ways most practical suburb in this already odd national capital of ours.  Set apart from the rest of the city, on the north side of the Monaro Highway, one can buy anything ... or almost anything.  

There's a Bunnings, Pet Store, Harvey Norman, Clark Rubber plus a host of other retailers of choice for an endless range of practical shopping purposes.  Along the many winding, interweaving (not to say confusing) side streets there are innumerable electricians, plumbers, tile & bathroom appliance sellers, re-sellers and much, much more.  There's one antiques seller that I know of; the maker of Australia's finest macrons, reputedly; at least one daggy sex shop (adjacent to JayCar where Spike buys her LED bulbs for glass works - which is the only way I know about the sex store by the way) and what one must take to be a brothel, currently called the Lollipop Lounge (sure makes me want to enter ... not) painted in what may or may not be intended as an ironic pink.  I suspect 'may not' is the favourite in that each way bet. 

Anyway, we parked outside Mobility Matters inside which Spike conducted protracted negotiations while I - bereft of a functioning wheelchair - entertained myself to the best of my ability inside the car listening to local radio.  Negotiations were not straightforward.  

The repair man was 'away' for an unspecified duration but I could leave my wheelchair and borrow one of theirs until the repair was completed.  Not dead keen on that option I nevertheless asked (not only because I'm polite) to see the loanable wheelchair, which was then brought out to me.  

Hmmm, I thought.  But I also understood my wobbly wheel would not last long.  

'How long before I'd get mine back?' I asked.

'I wouldn't like to be too definite about that until he's seen it" came the reply.  "Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe the day after"

"Oh well," I said, "if it's just a day or so I can wait until he's back then come over to have the repair done."

"Wait" replied the sales woman, trying to be helpful. "I'll go see."  Then just before heading back inside with the still untested, possibly on loan wheelchair, she paused to add, "I love your accent."

What could one say in response except "thank you.  I love yours too"?  She was a New Zealander.

Spike, who had been patiently spectating, leaned into the car.  "It's amazing what an accent can do for you," she said.  "I asked all those questions - and more - and got none of what you were told."

As she pulled herself back out the car Spike paused.  "She thinks you're my father you know." It's neither the first time nor, I suspect, will it be the last time we're allocated those roles in the minor dramas that interrupt the business of getting on with life together.

Spike followed the woman and the empty wheelchairs - mine and theirs - back into the shop.  I waited, searching local radio stations for anything to pass the time.  I now know more about the finals of local sheep dog trials than is necessary, strictly speaking, for a man in my position.  But it was interesting enough in its own way.

... and after.

Some time later Spike returned with the New Zealand born sales woman and my wheelchair sporting two new front wheels, fitted I know not by whom and nor does Spike because the job was done without consulting us.  But I'm not complaining because the woman, who smiled in a friendly, helpful way, told us we'd been charged only for the parts (new to me but clearly used lightly by some unknown other before me) and not for the labour involved.  Maybe the 'away' repair man had unexpectedly returned from 'away', wherever 'away' might have been; lunch, the lavatory, a pub?  It matters not.

We drove off through the puzzling maze of Fyshwick streets in search of a camera repair shop that turned out to be located six doors down from the Lollipop Lounge.  

"Sorry," Spike was told.  "We don't do Nikon. They won't let us open them up." 

Lest there be any doubt here, it was the receptionist inside the camera repair shop, not anyone in the brothel, who gave this information to Spike.  Tell you the truth, I suspect the staff inside the Lollipop Lounge, if asked, could open up almost anything.