I recently finished writing an article on male readers of romance novels. I interviewed one particular Australian named Len—a real character.
I’ve lived in London for a year now, and though I continue to have contact with Australians, it’s mostly with the sort of urban or middle-class sorts likely to travel through or live in such a sprawling, cosmopolitan metropolis. Which is to say, there’s not an enormous amount of variety in the Australians here. They—we—mostly sound the same, look the same, talk the same, think the same.
But Len—he’s a different beast. Born, raised and made a life in rural NSW. When he greeted me over the phone from the other side of the world it was like I was listening to a crude Australian film where the director insists his actors ratchet up the ocker accent for the sake of playing to an international stereotype. A guttural, almost crow-like timbre that comes from the bottom of the throat washed every of Len’s words; the cadence was broken and sentences trailed off into…; and there were silences—long thinking silences that might roll into the rest of a thought or might just as well remain a silence. None of this is to suggest Len was anything less than articulate, well considered, and engaging—only that his idiom and his persona were so very different to what most people know.
I suppose I have been thinking about this—about the fact that there are so many interesting sorts across Australia, away from the lights and the cities—because my Mum reminded me in a letter how lucky she has been (and I have been being the child at her side) in the vast array of characters that have passed through her life. The cities have their own benefits, but true diversity of personality, traits and experiences is something that the country produces, par excellence.
The passage from my mum’s letter is worth sharing:
“Sweating like a pig.” These hot days had me thinking. I’ve worked and raised pigs—never seen them sweat; (but must) so asked Big Steve. “Never seen ‘em sweat,” he said. “But I saw an old boar rooting for a solid hour once and he never raised a sweat.” I decided not to ask Steve why he watched for an hour.