Tentatively Tasmanian

There’s a trend I’m noticing here in Hobart.

It’s the middle of winter; the sun disappears at a rate that the Scandinavians would be familiar with and there are so many men wearing shorts.

Why?

I was returning from the post office around 9:30am this morning and it was 6C. Yes, the sun was out, but only in that ‘just providing light, don’t kid yourself that there’s any warmth to be had’ wintry attitude expected in late June.

Heading towards me was a bloke wearing a t-shirt and shorts, happily sauntering along, whistling to himself. He was in direct contrast to me, shivering whilst in a parka, scarf and hands jammed firmly in my pockets.

Ignoring my inner voice cautioning me not to willingly engage with weirdos, as we passed, I said, “Pretty brave to be wearing shorts in this weather, mate.”

He whirled around in surprise.

“Oh no way, I’m HOT, baby!”

Ah, fair enough then.

My husband has pointed out that we moved to Tasmania partly because I detest the summer heat. My skin is so pale it glows in the dark and just the thought of venturing outside during summer time (Europe or Australia) results in a peeling nose, burnt tops of my ears and an unflattering heatrash snaking a red, thick line down my cleavage.

Even so, I had forgotten how cold Aussie houses are in winter. A British friend lived in Hobart years ago and likened it to trying to stay warm in a garden shed. With single glazed windows, thin weatherboards and often just a heater in the living room, Craig and I have been reduced to squealing and involuntarily dancing from room to room when it comes to exiting the lounge room and going to the toilet, having a shower or getting dressed. Bed socks are on too, a move that is right up there with tit-hanger singlets and chains to hold your glasses around your neck to ensure celibacy forever.

In Europe or Tassie, venturing outside is fine. You know it’s going to be cold, and you dress accordingly. Sturdy windproof parka, beanie and a scarf, hands jammed into your pockets, as mentioned earlier. In Europe, you return home to heavily insulated floors, roofs, floors and windows and often feel a bit too hot. When we first got to Geneva, we bought huge quilts for the winter but never took them out of the plastic bags. The apartment was so warm that a thin blanket was all that was needed. In the deepest darkness Northern hemisphere winters, Craig was often gadding about the house in shorts and thongs.

In Tassie, you return home and clouds of fog puff from your mouth as you reluctantly peel off your coat and sundry layers, sprint towards the bedroom, take off your ‘good’ (ie acceptable for outdoor society) clothes and dive into your trakkie daks, two hoodies and ugg boots; ready to switch on the heaters.

I had also forgotten the Aussie catchphrase, used so often by my parents and now, in a very loud and bossy way according to my husband, me.

“SHUT THE BLOODY DOOR, THE HEATER’S ON!”

So these Hobartian hommes in shorts. Bravado, born-and-bred and hardened to the winds blown up from Antarctica or on really good drugs? The jury is still out.