Free 90 Packets of Instant Noodles by Deb Fitzpatrick

do I. But this letter ... it’s made me wonder, maybe that’s too slack, or something. I mean, maybe Dad’s trying so hard not to be like Pop that he’s gone too far the other way. And maybe that’s why I’m such a fuck-up. I dunno. That makes it sound like it’s Dad’s fault, and that’s not right, either. I’m the only one making the decisions here. Aren’t I?

19
    I kill some time in the shop today. I want to check out the full range of what I can buy, rather than just heading straight for the instant noodles. There’s only so many of those things one human being can eat—after a while, they start tasting like plastic string. Even the odd cheese and cracker in between doesn’t trick this ole dog.
    There’s a deep freeze I haven’t noticed before. I peer in. Frozen meat. Chicken legs, steaks—sausages, even. Sausages! Some kind of fish. Looks nasty. And pet meat, fishing bait. Frozen vegies. Some of it looks half a century old.
    â€˜What are you after, love?’ the woman calls out to me.
    â€˜Oh, I’m just looking,’ I say, and add, ‘thanks.’
    â€˜No worries, just let me know if I can help with anything.’
    It’s weird, being in charge of what I eat. It’s made me realise how little I can cook. Like, nothing. I’m going to have to raise the bar a bit. I think I’ve got instant-noodle constipation.
    I wander around looking at what’s on the shelves. Bickies—I’d forgotten about them! I put a packet of Kingstons into the basket, on top of the barbie pack chosen from the freezer. (I need meat, man!) Then I get to the chips and crackers section. But five bucks for a big bag of barbecue Samboys—come on! I take one of the small packets for $2. Tins. Tuna, salmon, sardines, baked beans (yes yes yes), beetroot, peas, baby carrots, corn ... I pick up a small tin of corn. Fibre. Could help.
    I grab a packet of pasta and a jar of Paul Newman sauce. From the fridges I take a carton of milk and a square of cheese. I see the fruit. Aah, fuck. I mean, fruit. Really. I look suspiciously at the apples, oranges, bananas and pears, and turn away. I turn back. Dad’s in my head. I take a banana and a pear. And two spuds.
    On my way to the counter I grab a four-pack of AA batteries for the old torch. They’re $9! The thing had better bloody work, at that price.
    The woman passes me the police register to sign and date while she rings up the stuff on the till.
    I eye the stuff I’ve bought once I’ve done the paperwork, and consider my backpack. I open the zip to a full smile. Tins at the bottom, I spose, and the spuds. The sauce can slot in down the side. I jam the milk down the other side. Cheese can sit on top. Fruit right on top, unless I want pureed pear and banana smeared on everything. I look at the chips—they have to go right on top or they’ll be shards. And then I see the Kingstons. For fuck’s sake. I pinch the packet at the neck, knowing they’ll be swinging from my hand for the entire way. I breathe out, trying to be cool. It so doesn’t matter, and yet it does, you know? Hiking 17 k’s with a packet of Kingstons in your hand and squeezing a bag of Samboys to death. The whole thing sucked.
    As I leave the shop, a truck passes, spraying me with road grit. Of course.

20
    Two—or is it three?—weeks go by in a strange, slow blur. I sleep, I wake, I make food, I fix things, I write letters (some of which I don’t send, thank Christ), I get letters (some of which confirm that there’s a whole lot of living going on out there that I’m missing out on). The stack of paper is lower now, put it that way. The stack of noodle packets isn’t. They crinkle like crazy insects when the big gusts come through. A piece of tin on the roof chimes in when I’m up for a blowy night, when the trees start eggbeating overhead.
    But it’s a couple of