How to be a Nancy- Girl.

Dear Lacksy,

In response to your previous letter: 

I think you are being a bit sensitive. Sensy. A bit of a flower. Wo-man up woman! Put on your marmalade overalls and sharpie on some chest hair. It's time you learnt the harsh realities of life and gave birth to a six pack of beer. It's time you learnt some lessons from my new friend Nancy. 

Last night I put on my hardcore- hatty- hat and went to the local pub in Nerandurra. It was called “Top Pub” and to be fair, it was rather tops.

 Top Pub has all the elements necessary to make it tops. Locals, neon signs, 90's trance music, unsubtle use of faux wood veneer, male strippers and toothless guys who slur their words and rig the meat raffle. The end of the bar was propped up by an 86 year old named “Nancy”. Nancy is a bit of a legend. She nursed her stubby of VB for longer than the Three Hundred and Thirty Five years war, and when she stands up straight she comes up to the mighty boobs of the hefty, yet friendly bar lady who fetched me my urban organic cold pressed ladies cider. Nancy is a fire cracker. Nancy doesn't care about things. Nancy couldn't give a bats balls about cirrhosis of the liver, eating organic sausages and wants her cup-of-cino with extra fucking foam and a manly spoon to eat it with as it precariously wabbles it from cup to mouth as she gives the waitress a death stare. Nancy is defiant and firm in her beliefs that the 90's trance music is a pile of “doof doof” shit and has no qualms in letting the hefty pub owner know exactly what she thinks of the pile of the musical dog pooh.

Although I'm only making assumptions Nancy has most likely endured the death of a spouse, possibly a child, one vital organ failing and beaten back into submission, crippling, agonising arthritis, she has lived through a depression, the boom and bust of a country town and the close of a bank. As the Nancy's of this country are ushered into an ambulance with their 3rd broken hip and the ambulance attendant asks if they've taken any pain medication they politely say “fuckoff with your namby drugs for shilly shally girls please”. Nancy no longer cares if people think she's fool, because she knows she rocks.

So what I'm trying to say in response to your panic Lacksy is: my commiserations. Everyone knows that there are few things worse than feeling like a a bit of an mindless fool...well maybe just the Ebola virus, AIDS, world hunger, climate change and forgetting your mums birthday even though she gave you written notice and a follow up phone call reminding you it was yesterday, dying young, being drowned by a clown, being scratched by a bat, genocide, politicians and being bitten by a bull ant. Soooo....really? No biggie. Get over it you Willy.