Meanwhile, Izzy, infamous for her role in blowing up Karl and Susan’s marriage by rooting Karl, is now rooting Karl and Susan’s son, Malcolm. This is getting pretty close to a shark jump, but I’m here for it. To be clear, Izzy is shagging her daughter’s half-brother. But no judgement. Except that I’m definitely judging it, partly because Izzy’s motives are not yet clear (she tells Susan she hopes to one day be calling her ‘mum’) and also because it’s pretty gross (see previous brackets).
Karl and Susan have weathered some turbulent times over the years.
There’s a lot of awesome reflection and self-referencing happening on screen, and a lot of double-screening and googling going on my couch: “what happened to Glenn Robinson?“. Glenn’s back and he’s looking through old photos in a History of Ramsay Street that Harold has made and that is clearly about to pull this whole caper together – if they can salvage enough of it from the ice bucket it’s fallen into.
Glenn spots three photos of his half-sister Lucy: “they look so different,” he says of the character played by three different actresses over the years. “It’s almost like they’re three different people.”
Third Lucy, meanwhile, is still here, high up at Lassiters, keeping Paul on track, maybe.
People start arriving that I don’t recognise on account of my 30-year soap-opera coma. Paige, anyone? It doesn’t matter, she’s Ramsay Street stock, so I love her on sight. This makes me realise that when Scott and Charlene and everyone else turn up tonight, I’ll probably cry. I know already these writers have some perfect-blend way of doing that to me.
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It’s pretty clear from my dip back into the neighbourhood how well they know me, they’ve known me since I was in primary school. Apparently – despite all the Breaking Bads and Broad Citys, Wires and Veeps – my tastes haven’t changed. So, I am ready. I am re-invested. My great true love is on its deathbed and I’m here in the hospital room to hold its hand, declaring my feelings and hoping my own strength will be enough to save it.
It’s too much to expect that after the show takes its last breath tonight, it’ll re-emerge in a few years with an improbable tale of hidden survival. But there’s some consolation at hand. When this ends, I’ll seek comfort in the arms of one of its killers: on-demand streaming. Excuse me for a while, I’ve got 37 years worth of Neighbours to binge.
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