Nothing's Happening

I stared at the features of my Tasmanian correspondent on my computer screen in astonishment.

"You're looking great," I said.  It was true there was an air of vitality about her and a gleam in her eyes that couldn't entirely be attributed to the experimental drugs that my tech support were pumping into her water supply.  "Things must be going well down there."

Things were indeed going well in the Marcher Lands as my correspondent was only too happy to confirm.  Tasmania was revelling in a brief period of festival free happiness.  For a short time the streets of Hobart were no longer overrun with feminist throat singers, Syrian interpretive dance ensembles, plankton rights advocates and hipsters wallowing in all of the above.  An avocado could rest secure on its slab in the knowledge that no one would try and smash it.

The reaction from those people who actually live in Hobart has been untrammelled delight.  My correspondent excitedly recounted that she could actually get a seat in a waterfront pub, go bushwalking without strangers setting off emergency beacons because the water supply wasn't artisanal and actually expand her arms and breath the air without smacking a performance artist in the face (although apparently she didn't actually mind that bit).

I tried muttering something about expanding cultural horizons but my heart wasn't in it.  My idea of expanding cultural horizons is fostering a yoghurt export industry (which Tasmania already has).  Nothing was going to bring my correspondent down though (perhaps I should take a closer look at those drugs in the water supply).  Now my correspondent isn't adverse to the odd spot of culture.  She even went to the throat singer and it was only a year or two ago that she saw someone from Morocco doing something and it probably doesn't get any more cultural than being Moroccan.  I'm pretty sure you could clean a drain in Morocco and it would count as a cultural activity.  I'm also pretty certain that Dark Mofo would pay a fortune to have a Moroccan drain cleaner as the centrepiece of its next festival which is a mercifully long way away.

Such festivals of course put Tasmania on the map, almost as much as Martin Bryant did, but they do place a certain burden on the local populace.  Its bad enough that anything nice is going to be overrun by strangers but certain modes of behaviour have to be covered up (incest has to be done behind closed doors for a start) and drag racing in the main streets of Hobart is just impossible.  In short for all its benefits festival season is a grim and harrowing time for Tasmanians.

My correspondent shouldn't get too complacent however.  In the next couple of months there is the Australian Antarctic Festival, Tasmanian Whisky Week, Junction Arts Festival and the Tamar Valley Writers Festival.  My correspondent indicated that Tasmanian Whisky Week was probably acceptable.