…or at least another friend.
You know those times you see something so hilarious, incongruous or downright extraordinary that you just have to show someone? When telling someone about it later just doesn’t accurately convey the genuine overflow of excitement and you are met with a, “maybe you had to be there…” sort of look that sucks the fun right out of your story? Once I was in one of those two dollar shops typically run by Asian families and saw some fake dog poo labeled, aptly, “Dog Shit”. It was hanging on a peg amongst various child-friendly gags with child-appropriate names, and I simply had to show someone. The only person around was a total stranger and his girlfriend and so, barely able to contain my laughter, I pointed it out to them. They managed an awkward half-hearted chuckle before hot-footing it to the opposite end of the aisle.
I have since come to discover that mobile telephones come with cameras installed these days (what’ll they think of next?) and occasionally I’m lucky enough to have a bystander close at hand with whom I am already acquainted. On one such instance I was walking down King St with my best bud Ellie and we strolled past Simplicity Funerals. There was a wheelie bin out the front and I casually mentioned that with a name like theirs, you really do seem to get what you pay for. Ellie nearly wet herself laughing as I wondered how many people’s remains were in the bin awaiting the morning collection. I actually had to stop walking and backtrack; she couldn’t walk for laughing. Naturally I started laughing too and we received a few odd looks as we tried to take a photo. I hardly thought we were the strangest loons out that night. It was Newtown, after all.
More recently I was reading a biography on J. K. Rowling that I immediately knew would be a dud. It looked self-published to me, which is rarely a good sign. It wasn’t, but it might as well have been as I’m sure no self-respecting JKR fan would deign to submit it for publishing. First of all was the fact that the blurb included dot points stating what FAQs would be answered within. Incidentally, few were. The “about the author” section spelt his daughter’s name “Rachael” though in the dedications her name was “Rachel”. I strongly suspected that an author who couldn’t decide on the spelling of his daughter’s name may not be the world’s greatest authority on anyone else. Indeed, I was correct. At one point he writes, “Joanne Kathleen Rowling came kicking and screaming into the world…” and fortunately for me, I had a fellow Potterhead on standby to share in my outrage. As just about every fan of the books would know, she doesn’t have a middle name. After being told by her publishers to choose a middle name so she could use the initial as part of a professional pseudonym, she chose her favourite grandma’s name. So she did NOT come kicking and screaming into the world as Joanne Kathleen Rowling and didn’t take on the name until many years later.
Marc Shapiro, the offending author in question, describes how he would not like to meet Voldemort or “the Dementor” on a dark night, as if there is only one. He goes on to say that “banks are run by owls,” which is an obvious and glaring error. Unless post is actually delivered by goblins and I’ve had the wrong end of the stick all this time. The character of Nearly Headless Nick is referred to as “Nick the Nearly Headless Ghost,” which, while not technically incorrect, is a title that never appears in the series. And don't get me started on "Cho Chan", not to mention the description of JLR "living literally inside a fishbowl." I nearly tore the book in half then and there; it only narrowly escaped the recycling bin and instead met my forehead with as much force as I could muster. The only sound was the book FIGURATIVELY echoing for lack of informative content or verified fact. For all the “research” Shapiro supposedly did, there was not a single interview or piece of information passed on to him first hand: it all came from previous interviews and public appearances, many of which I had already read transcripts of myself. I’m not sure I learnt a single thing from this book I didn’t already know. Needless to say, I was disappointed. Hardly surprising given his other published titles include biographies of Justin Bieber, E. L. James (infamous she-devil known for the “Fifty Shades” series), Selena Gomez and Katie Holmes.
Now I hate being interrupted while I’m reading, which I think pretty obvious seeing as I use a cross-stitched bookmark that says “fuck off, I’m reading,” and as such, try my utmost not to impose this annoyance upon others. While my friend Pixie sat across from me, leaving nose prints on her Kobo, she showed few signs of frustration with me as I pointed out the multitude of errors hiding in plain sight. She was annoyed for the same reasons as I and we discussed at length how much better we could have written this book ourselves. There were simply too many mistakes for me to take photos of all of them. And to whom would I send them? Pretty sure Facebook users are bombarded with enough waste-of-space posts and photos of food and I don’t think they’d appreciate an entire album of my JKR-obsessed rants. JKR puns, on the other hand… well, if you’re my friend on Facebook, you’ll already know about that.
In reading another Harry-related book (“Harry Potter and Psychology”) I had a few more “someone has to see this,” moments. One essay spells Ron’s brother’s name “Charley” on several occasions. This book of essays came out before the end of the series, and I genuinely Laugh(ed) Out Loud at some of the predictions. One psychologist predicted that, having recruited the giant population, Voldemort would somehow piss them off and they’d become part of his demise. Readers were even warned of this possible spoiler. Pixie and I had a good laugh then went back to our respective texts.
All in all, I’m becoming rather disenchanted with these publications that stray so far from canon. Perhaps I’ll start writing erotic fan-fiction and become an overnight sensation myself. In the meantime, perhaps it’s best to have a marching band follow me around for those special “you have to see this!” moments. That said, these moments will no doubt be fewer and farther between with a musical entourage in tow. Work friends once gave me a book entitled “How to Improve Your Luck,” however it’s entirely likely I’ll pick the holes out of that one too and my luck won’t improve in any case. I’d like to be more optimistic, but I’m already foolish enough without going to that extent. I’d rather be pleasantly surprised.
Saturday, 10 May 2014
Monday, 18 February 2013
More tales of good luck...
...thank goodness I can laugh at myself!
Remember that time I went to Africa? I do. I resolved when I was five years old that I would go one day and not take my dad. I must've seen a doco or travel show about safari because my dad was going to London for work and had a week at the end before he needed to come home. He asked my considered opinion on where I would go in the world if I had the same opportunity. I thought about it for a second and very thoughtfully replied "oh Daddy, if I could go anywhere in the world I would go to Afffffffrica and go on safari." Apparently that's how adorable five year olds talk. That afternoon he booked himself a trip to Zimbabwe and you know what, he didn't book one for me! That's probably where my strong resolve started.
Some 17 years later, when I had finished uni and didn't know what to do with my life, I finally went there for a few months. All was going well: I could set up a tent like the best of them and identify plants and wildlife. In the main, that means I can tell a leopard from a cheetah. Oh, and it turns out every mosquito in Africa would rather bight me than anyone else, which makes me a great travelling companion. So I ended up with a whole bunch of bites around my ankles, and some started to get icky. I covered myself with antiseptic and tried not to scratch (I failed) but hanging around the campsites of Africa for a few months is only so hygienic. My feet were never really clean on account of the fact that I lived in thongs, trampled through mud, and showered in the same thongs only to trample out through the same mud. Somehow I was the only one to pick up a very nasty virus that, wouldn't you know, eats your flesh.
Necrotising fasciitis. Look it up, it's a good'un! It'll tear that skin right off! I was quietly confident it was just an infection that would heal up of its own accord but thankfully Manya and Corinne (two lovely Dutch nurses I had met in Zambia) convinced me otherwise after my leg began to take on the colour and shape of a Christmas ham and I was throwing my guts up. Probably I should've realised something was wrong at the point our truck nearly tipped over and I'd rather stay inside and risk it than get out and walk. I did get out, stumbled along a bit lopsided, and the truck didn't tip over so I cursed myself and got back in then promptly fell asleep. We crossed the border from Malawi to Tanzania and went straight to hospital where I thought the doctors would pat me on the head, give me some antibiotics and say "on your way, good little white girl." They put me in the surgical ward instead.
By this time I had begun to realise that perhaps my predicament was more serious than I had originally thought. This was around the time the word "amputation" had been thrown around a couple of times and I had collapsed in a state of exhaustion. I was desperate for some painkillers and some rest (turns out the former had to be injected in my butt) and apparently one of the nurses felt the same and had a little snooze in my room. Didn't give me a whole lot of faith in the Tanzanian healthcare system. Then again, in my head I was staying in a bamboo teepee like you'd see on MASH and it really wasn't that bad. Well, the doctor did try to marry me and they accused me of trying to run away after I asked I could go out and buy some clean clothes (having anticipated I would only be there for a few hours, I was quite unprepared for a week-long stay) so all in all it wasn't much fun. Oh and try asking for a vegetarian meal! It seems chicken and rice was all that was going. Suppose you can't be too picky though.
In the end my insurance covered it all and my leg didn't have to get chopped off. I didn't marry Dr Ringo and I didn't run away, and I ate around the chicken. I got in trouble for asking for water to take my pills (having been repeatedly told to keep my fluids up without drinking tap water) and I was covered in bruises and collapsed veins from so many injections. And it was only afterwards that I spoke to my parents for the second time in about four months to let them know where I was and that I was still alive. I borrowed Mutiso's phone to text them then got a call back a few hours later.
"Where are you and what have you done?"
"Oh I'm fine, just discharging from hospital in Dar es Salaam."
"We've just been to the movies. And where the bloody hell is that!?"
"Largest city in Tanzania, duh."
"Well... what's wrong?"
"Just a bout of flesh-eating disease, but it's fine now. Ten fingers, ten toes, all more or less in tact. Just thought I'd let you know."
"Well... good! I'll make a doctor's appointment for you when you get back. Don't want you contracting some other disease from all the needles."
"I hadn't thought of that..."
"Kloveyoubye!"
Turns out I got hepatitis from the needles, yaaaay. But I kept my leg and got a good story out of it, so it seemed a fair trade. I'm either the luckiest person in the world or the unluckiest. Actually, that's probably the other Erin. We bungee jumped at the same place (bridge over Victoria Falls) and the chord broke on her, not me.
Dodged death once more! You'll never get me!
Remember that time I went to Africa? I do. I resolved when I was five years old that I would go one day and not take my dad. I must've seen a doco or travel show about safari because my dad was going to London for work and had a week at the end before he needed to come home. He asked my considered opinion on where I would go in the world if I had the same opportunity. I thought about it for a second and very thoughtfully replied "oh Daddy, if I could go anywhere in the world I would go to Afffffffrica and go on safari." Apparently that's how adorable five year olds talk. That afternoon he booked himself a trip to Zimbabwe and you know what, he didn't book one for me! That's probably where my strong resolve started.
Some 17 years later, when I had finished uni and didn't know what to do with my life, I finally went there for a few months. All was going well: I could set up a tent like the best of them and identify plants and wildlife. In the main, that means I can tell a leopard from a cheetah. Oh, and it turns out every mosquito in Africa would rather bight me than anyone else, which makes me a great travelling companion. So I ended up with a whole bunch of bites around my ankles, and some started to get icky. I covered myself with antiseptic and tried not to scratch (I failed) but hanging around the campsites of Africa for a few months is only so hygienic. My feet were never really clean on account of the fact that I lived in thongs, trampled through mud, and showered in the same thongs only to trample out through the same mud. Somehow I was the only one to pick up a very nasty virus that, wouldn't you know, eats your flesh.
Necrotising fasciitis. Look it up, it's a good'un! It'll tear that skin right off! I was quietly confident it was just an infection that would heal up of its own accord but thankfully Manya and Corinne (two lovely Dutch nurses I had met in Zambia) convinced me otherwise after my leg began to take on the colour and shape of a Christmas ham and I was throwing my guts up. Probably I should've realised something was wrong at the point our truck nearly tipped over and I'd rather stay inside and risk it than get out and walk. I did get out, stumbled along a bit lopsided, and the truck didn't tip over so I cursed myself and got back in then promptly fell asleep. We crossed the border from Malawi to Tanzania and went straight to hospital where I thought the doctors would pat me on the head, give me some antibiotics and say "on your way, good little white girl." They put me in the surgical ward instead.
By this time I had begun to realise that perhaps my predicament was more serious than I had originally thought. This was around the time the word "amputation" had been thrown around a couple of times and I had collapsed in a state of exhaustion. I was desperate for some painkillers and some rest (turns out the former had to be injected in my butt) and apparently one of the nurses felt the same and had a little snooze in my room. Didn't give me a whole lot of faith in the Tanzanian healthcare system. Then again, in my head I was staying in a bamboo teepee like you'd see on MASH and it really wasn't that bad. Well, the doctor did try to marry me and they accused me of trying to run away after I asked I could go out and buy some clean clothes (having anticipated I would only be there for a few hours, I was quite unprepared for a week-long stay) so all in all it wasn't much fun. Oh and try asking for a vegetarian meal! It seems chicken and rice was all that was going. Suppose you can't be too picky though.
In the end my insurance covered it all and my leg didn't have to get chopped off. I didn't marry Dr Ringo and I didn't run away, and I ate around the chicken. I got in trouble for asking for water to take my pills (having been repeatedly told to keep my fluids up without drinking tap water) and I was covered in bruises and collapsed veins from so many injections. And it was only afterwards that I spoke to my parents for the second time in about four months to let them know where I was and that I was still alive. I borrowed Mutiso's phone to text them then got a call back a few hours later.
"Where are you and what have you done?"
"Oh I'm fine, just discharging from hospital in Dar es Salaam."
"We've just been to the movies. And where the bloody hell is that!?"
"Largest city in Tanzania, duh."
"Well... what's wrong?"
"Just a bout of flesh-eating disease, but it's fine now. Ten fingers, ten toes, all more or less in tact. Just thought I'd let you know."
"Well... good! I'll make a doctor's appointment for you when you get back. Don't want you contracting some other disease from all the needles."
"I hadn't thought of that..."
"Kloveyoubye!"
Turns out I got hepatitis from the needles, yaaaay. But I kept my leg and got a good story out of it, so it seemed a fair trade. I'm either the luckiest person in the world or the unluckiest. Actually, that's probably the other Erin. We bungee jumped at the same place (bridge over Victoria Falls) and the chord broke on her, not me.
Dodged death once more! You'll never get me!
Saturday, 16 February 2013
In memory of...
...the best person ever.
You know, I often consider myself a pretty unlucky person. Mainly because I am. For example, my headphones just broke. There was that time I broke a whole bunch of bones. The multiple car crashes. The time a pigeon flew into my face. However, in spite of all this, some things have made up for it. I mean, the best person in the world has been a big part of my life. And statistically, that's pretty unlikely. So let's reminisce.
Her name was G. Or it was Mabel, but she didn't like that much, and I can't really blame her. I'm glad it's not my name. I probably don't deserve it anyway. And now, golly, I'm quite stumped for words. Where do you begin describing 91 years of cool? 91 years is a really long time. Being only 26, I can't quite get my head around that many years. How can I? It's not part of my frame of reference. But G is, and we were pretty tight, so let's go with some memories.
She had the mouth of a sailor. She liked the cricket. She made the best plum pudding, and she took great care of you when you were sick. She was gentle and kind and she knew how to fish, and she made the most wonderful vegetable soup. She had a nickname for everyone (wonder where I get it from?) and was good with animals, had a rhyme to remember everything, and the only time she ever said anything bad about someone, it was about Shane Warne. And he pretty much deserved it.
One day she and I were having lunch and she was telling me about this family she used to spend the holidays with when she was young. They had a big house by the bay, but then the husband lost it all to gambling. G told me she would've shot him if she could afford the gun. I said "Really? I would've chopped off his doodle" to which she replied "Yeah, then he couldn't pee or fuck!"
I don't think I've ever laughed quite so loud.
But I think the best one is far more innocent. One of her biggest fears was outliving her siblings. There was G, Cliff, Bob and Margaret, and Cliff and Bob shuffled off in their own time. Aunty Margaret was and still is a bit crotchety (what a wonderful word) and a couple of years ago moved back to Adelaide in ill-health to live with her daughter Cathy. My mum and dad and I took G to see her one last time and were worried how the old bat would take it. I've never had a sister but can imagine that it's much like having a brother, only better, and I have two of those. So it would be pretty upsetting saying goodbye for the last time. Tub and Frau (mum and dad) and I were bracing ourselves for a tear or two as we walked G in to see Margaret, who was dressed in her finest hospital gown. But then it took 15 minutes of conversation for G to realise she was talking to her sister! Ha! It was only when Margaret said something particularly grumpy that G said "Oh now I know who you are!" and we all laughed and breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't the heartbreaking farewell we thought it would be. Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty good.
G taught me to tie my shoelaces. She used to plait my hair. She gave the best hugs. She told a good joke. And I'm gonna miss her forever. She really was the best person ever.
Mabel Ruth Pelquest: 1 May 1921 - 7 Feb 2013
Simply the best.
You know, I often consider myself a pretty unlucky person. Mainly because I am. For example, my headphones just broke. There was that time I broke a whole bunch of bones. The multiple car crashes. The time a pigeon flew into my face. However, in spite of all this, some things have made up for it. I mean, the best person in the world has been a big part of my life. And statistically, that's pretty unlikely. So let's reminisce.
Her name was G. Or it was Mabel, but she didn't like that much, and I can't really blame her. I'm glad it's not my name. I probably don't deserve it anyway. And now, golly, I'm quite stumped for words. Where do you begin describing 91 years of cool? 91 years is a really long time. Being only 26, I can't quite get my head around that many years. How can I? It's not part of my frame of reference. But G is, and we were pretty tight, so let's go with some memories.
She had the mouth of a sailor. She liked the cricket. She made the best plum pudding, and she took great care of you when you were sick. She was gentle and kind and she knew how to fish, and she made the most wonderful vegetable soup. She had a nickname for everyone (wonder where I get it from?) and was good with animals, had a rhyme to remember everything, and the only time she ever said anything bad about someone, it was about Shane Warne. And he pretty much deserved it.
One day she and I were having lunch and she was telling me about this family she used to spend the holidays with when she was young. They had a big house by the bay, but then the husband lost it all to gambling. G told me she would've shot him if she could afford the gun. I said "Really? I would've chopped off his doodle" to which she replied "Yeah, then he couldn't pee or fuck!"
I don't think I've ever laughed quite so loud.
But I think the best one is far more innocent. One of her biggest fears was outliving her siblings. There was G, Cliff, Bob and Margaret, and Cliff and Bob shuffled off in their own time. Aunty Margaret was and still is a bit crotchety (what a wonderful word) and a couple of years ago moved back to Adelaide in ill-health to live with her daughter Cathy. My mum and dad and I took G to see her one last time and were worried how the old bat would take it. I've never had a sister but can imagine that it's much like having a brother, only better, and I have two of those. So it would be pretty upsetting saying goodbye for the last time. Tub and Frau (mum and dad) and I were bracing ourselves for a tear or two as we walked G in to see Margaret, who was dressed in her finest hospital gown. But then it took 15 minutes of conversation for G to realise she was talking to her sister! Ha! It was only when Margaret said something particularly grumpy that G said "Oh now I know who you are!" and we all laughed and breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't the heartbreaking farewell we thought it would be. Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty good.
G taught me to tie my shoelaces. She used to plait my hair. She gave the best hugs. She told a good joke. And I'm gonna miss her forever. She really was the best person ever.
Mabel Ruth Pelquest: 1 May 1921 - 7 Feb 2013
Simply the best.
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Things to do with murder...
...are, surprisingly, not much fun.
What an uplifting title to a blog post, you're all thinking! But it really really is true. Not that I've had anyone close to me (personally) murdered, however I have had someone close to my (physically) murdered.
Allow me to explain. It was a warm February evening in 2010 and I was staying at Dan's place in Leichhardt. You will remember this was before we lived together and therefore obviously before we broke up. Anyway, as I recall, it was a Sunday night and we had been out to dinner with my family (was also after some sort of travel-related incident and before whatever traveling came next) and we had been to a family-favourite restaurant that was close to my grandma and served moderate food at a reasonable price and thus was good enough for us. Anyway anyway anyway, Dan and I went back to his place and settled down for bed - him snoring and me reading (in his defence he was ill and loaded up with Codral) when some sort of disturbance called out from outside. At first I was curious but assumed it was teenagers in a drunken brawl, when Dan got up to close the window. I of course assumed he was getting up to be nosy (which I would've done) and so got up as well to see what was going on. And what do you know, I step out onto to balcony to see two guys stabbing and hammering another guy to death...
...well, at the time I thought I saw a small axe and only saw the knife after it had been used, as these two guys were running away. It was pretty bloody and damn violent. It lasted what seemed an age, and I very helpfully stood there in shock as they whole thing took place and someone else cleverly called the police. I couldn't move. It was horrifying. Eventually Dan put his arm around me and coaxed me back to bed whereupon he fell promptly asleep and I stayed awake in a state of nervous agitation for the six hours until dawn broke.
It was only when his flatmate was leaving for work the next day that either of us thought to mention the fact that we were all now locked within a crime scene and we explained what happened. That is, I said :
"Oh my god there were these two guys and one had an axe and one did this and the other did that and oh my holy f***"
Dan: "Oh my god you saw that?! Why didn't you say something??"
Me: "OHMYGODYOUWERETHEREWHATTHEHELLDIDYOUSEE... WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING WHILE THIS WAS GOING ON?!!?"
...anyway, we decided we should go and talk to the police.
Meanwhile I called my brother to tell him he couldn't borrow the car, and an hour later got a call from our mum saying "so your brother called me asking if I had any salt and vinegar chips and casually mentioned you're at a murder scene..."
This required some explaining. I was in the cop car at the time so tried to talking to my mummy while sounding worldly and professional. We arrived at the police station to and after several hours giving a statement, describing over and over in great detail exactly what happened, drawing murder weapons and such, I got to go home.
I slept for an entire day.
As it turns out, I had just witnessed a vicious love triangle. The attackers were a father and son bashing the life out of the wife/mother's lover.
What fun, especially for the deceased.
The mother/wife then paid for the son to fly to flee the country and lied to the police as to his whereabouts, whereupon she was charged with being an accessory after the fact and hindering police investigation.
As far as I was concerned, it was a horrid experience and I was hoping to forget it ASAP. But boy was I wrong! This case was to pop up in my life at all the wrong times. I went to court the first time, and that was fairly straightforward. Not too traumatic. The second time, I was summoned to see the crown prosecutor in the week leading up. She said "so how's next week for you?" to which I responded "not so good, having major surgery on Wednesday" so they got me in the Monday after. I had a broken hip and my arm in plaster up to my shoulder. I hobbled up to the witness stand and nearly knocked out half the jury with the 6kg of plaster hanging from my body.
I probably shouldn't go into too much detail about the trial(s) but suffice to say, the defense lawyer was a jerk. And that's the censored version. He tried to trip me up at every opportunity. And I knew that would happen, so I was very mildly prepared, but this guy was the King of Shits in the legal profession. I was daunted and quivering in my cast. I was supremely lucky that I had just read the most marvelous book ("When God was a Rabbit" by Sarah Winman - get yourself a copy!!!) in which a court case took place over a rape. One lawyer tore the victim apart so much that by the end of it "she couldn't even remember her own name" and I was determined not to let this happen to me. I kept this in mind as I told this fuckie what I saw, and he wasn't there, and yes it seemed to happen so fast but some facts I was damn sure of!
This little Nancy Drew was not one to be messed with, and was later described as "an awesome witness" on no less than two occasions.
Anyway. After three appearances for that particular trial (and none of them were fun, especially since I didn't take any painkillers for my broken hip and arm for fear of becoming drowsy and falling asleep on the stand) I got home one day to receive a call from my mummy. I thought she was calling to ask how court was. She did so, then burst into tears and told me my little dog had died. I also burst into tears and had a big old cry to Dan's dad, who simply did know what to do, until Dan got out of the shower, whereupon he did not know what to do except deliver me to my parents' place where I could cry amongst like-minded folk. Including my other dog, who would've cried had he the physical capacity. We were all heartbroken.
In due course we stopped crying and the first of the accused was found guilty (he had told some pretty stupid lies which all contradicted each other) and sentenced to 18-25 years. He's younger than me. His mum was given a two year suspended sentence for her involvement. To be fair, I don't know what she was supposed to do after she found out her husband and son killed her lover.
After that I cried for about a week straight mourning the loss of my dog, feeling overwhelmed by the trial, and the fact that I had recently been in a rather nasty car crash. Also, a pigeon had flown into my face. And I had had surgery so was off work for three weeks, which gave me plenty of time to feel sorry for myself. However eventually I pulled it all together and got back into the swing of things.
Everything was going fine for a while. I got a new place (minus Dan, that had started to go wrong too but I was still optimistic) and a new lease on life minus dead dogs, pigeon-related accidents, car crashes and murder trials. Then a new job came up! I began to think that my life = sorted. But on the very day I started this new job, I was called in to testify in the second trial. What a wonderful excuse to absent yourself from half a day at a new job! It didn't sound real. I was just being shown how to use the fax machine when all of a sudden I looked at my watch and had to hastily explain that I was terribly sorry and had to leave for a few hours to testify as a witness in a murder trial.
I'm clearly something for first impressions.
Anyway, by that time the guy had pleaded guilty to manslaughter. How he followed a guy to his house, armed with a knife, chased him down the road, and stabbed him "accidentally" was quite beyond me but he too was found guilty of murder.
Two weeks ago he was sentenced to 17-25 years.
May I never have to go to court over that again! I had had enough of it the moment it started but at least now I can feel accomplished in my task of doing my bit to set things right.
Bustin' up crims like a bad ass Nancy Drew.
Dr Ernid T. Learnid strikes again!
What an uplifting title to a blog post, you're all thinking! But it really really is true. Not that I've had anyone close to me (personally) murdered, however I have had someone close to my (physically) murdered.
Allow me to explain. It was a warm February evening in 2010 and I was staying at Dan's place in Leichhardt. You will remember this was before we lived together and therefore obviously before we broke up. Anyway, as I recall, it was a Sunday night and we had been out to dinner with my family (was also after some sort of travel-related incident and before whatever traveling came next) and we had been to a family-favourite restaurant that was close to my grandma and served moderate food at a reasonable price and thus was good enough for us. Anyway anyway anyway, Dan and I went back to his place and settled down for bed - him snoring and me reading (in his defence he was ill and loaded up with Codral) when some sort of disturbance called out from outside. At first I was curious but assumed it was teenagers in a drunken brawl, when Dan got up to close the window. I of course assumed he was getting up to be nosy (which I would've done) and so got up as well to see what was going on. And what do you know, I step out onto to balcony to see two guys stabbing and hammering another guy to death...
...well, at the time I thought I saw a small axe and only saw the knife after it had been used, as these two guys were running away. It was pretty bloody and damn violent. It lasted what seemed an age, and I very helpfully stood there in shock as they whole thing took place and someone else cleverly called the police. I couldn't move. It was horrifying. Eventually Dan put his arm around me and coaxed me back to bed whereupon he fell promptly asleep and I stayed awake in a state of nervous agitation for the six hours until dawn broke.
It was only when his flatmate was leaving for work the next day that either of us thought to mention the fact that we were all now locked within a crime scene and we explained what happened. That is, I said :
"Oh my god there were these two guys and one had an axe and one did this and the other did that and oh my holy f***"
Dan: "Oh my god you saw that?! Why didn't you say something??"
Me: "OHMYGODYOUWERETHEREWHATTHEHELLDIDYOUSEE... WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING WHILE THIS WAS GOING ON?!!?"
...anyway, we decided we should go and talk to the police.
Meanwhile I called my brother to tell him he couldn't borrow the car, and an hour later got a call from our mum saying "so your brother called me asking if I had any salt and vinegar chips and casually mentioned you're at a murder scene..."
This required some explaining. I was in the cop car at the time so tried to talking to my mummy while sounding worldly and professional. We arrived at the police station to and after several hours giving a statement, describing over and over in great detail exactly what happened, drawing murder weapons and such, I got to go home.
I slept for an entire day.
As it turns out, I had just witnessed a vicious love triangle. The attackers were a father and son bashing the life out of the wife/mother's lover.
What fun, especially for the deceased.
The mother/wife then paid for the son to fly to flee the country and lied to the police as to his whereabouts, whereupon she was charged with being an accessory after the fact and hindering police investigation.
As far as I was concerned, it was a horrid experience and I was hoping to forget it ASAP. But boy was I wrong! This case was to pop up in my life at all the wrong times. I went to court the first time, and that was fairly straightforward. Not too traumatic. The second time, I was summoned to see the crown prosecutor in the week leading up. She said "so how's next week for you?" to which I responded "not so good, having major surgery on Wednesday" so they got me in the Monday after. I had a broken hip and my arm in plaster up to my shoulder. I hobbled up to the witness stand and nearly knocked out half the jury with the 6kg of plaster hanging from my body.
I probably shouldn't go into too much detail about the trial(s) but suffice to say, the defense lawyer was a jerk. And that's the censored version. He tried to trip me up at every opportunity. And I knew that would happen, so I was very mildly prepared, but this guy was the King of Shits in the legal profession. I was daunted and quivering in my cast. I was supremely lucky that I had just read the most marvelous book ("When God was a Rabbit" by Sarah Winman - get yourself a copy!!!) in which a court case took place over a rape. One lawyer tore the victim apart so much that by the end of it "she couldn't even remember her own name" and I was determined not to let this happen to me. I kept this in mind as I told this fuckie what I saw, and he wasn't there, and yes it seemed to happen so fast but some facts I was damn sure of!
This little Nancy Drew was not one to be messed with, and was later described as "an awesome witness" on no less than two occasions.
Anyway. After three appearances for that particular trial (and none of them were fun, especially since I didn't take any painkillers for my broken hip and arm for fear of becoming drowsy and falling asleep on the stand) I got home one day to receive a call from my mummy. I thought she was calling to ask how court was. She did so, then burst into tears and told me my little dog had died. I also burst into tears and had a big old cry to Dan's dad, who simply did know what to do, until Dan got out of the shower, whereupon he did not know what to do except deliver me to my parents' place where I could cry amongst like-minded folk. Including my other dog, who would've cried had he the physical capacity. We were all heartbroken.
In due course we stopped crying and the first of the accused was found guilty (he had told some pretty stupid lies which all contradicted each other) and sentenced to 18-25 years. He's younger than me. His mum was given a two year suspended sentence for her involvement. To be fair, I don't know what she was supposed to do after she found out her husband and son killed her lover.
After that I cried for about a week straight mourning the loss of my dog, feeling overwhelmed by the trial, and the fact that I had recently been in a rather nasty car crash. Also, a pigeon had flown into my face. And I had had surgery so was off work for three weeks, which gave me plenty of time to feel sorry for myself. However eventually I pulled it all together and got back into the swing of things.
Everything was going fine for a while. I got a new place (minus Dan, that had started to go wrong too but I was still optimistic) and a new lease on life minus dead dogs, pigeon-related accidents, car crashes and murder trials. Then a new job came up! I began to think that my life = sorted. But on the very day I started this new job, I was called in to testify in the second trial. What a wonderful excuse to absent yourself from half a day at a new job! It didn't sound real. I was just being shown how to use the fax machine when all of a sudden I looked at my watch and had to hastily explain that I was terribly sorry and had to leave for a few hours to testify as a witness in a murder trial.
I'm clearly something for first impressions.
Anyway, by that time the guy had pleaded guilty to manslaughter. How he followed a guy to his house, armed with a knife, chased him down the road, and stabbed him "accidentally" was quite beyond me but he too was found guilty of murder.
Two weeks ago he was sentenced to 17-25 years.
May I never have to go to court over that again! I had had enough of it the moment it started but at least now I can feel accomplished in my task of doing my bit to set things right.
Bustin' up crims like a bad ass Nancy Drew.
Dr Ernid T. Learnid strikes again!
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Things that anger me...
...and I don't like being angry.
Dear readers (all two of you),
You may have noticed that I have tried to take a light-hearted approach to the many injuries I have sustained over the last year or so. For the one new reader amongst you, this has involved stupendous bad luck and uncoordination, totalling 15 or so broken bones (the doctors were never really clear, but I suppose once you get past ten, it doesn't matter until it hits 20. Thank goodness I didn't get that far.)
I recently had the third operation on my wrist in just under 18 months. It was the least significant but by far the most painful. I'm not sure if it was because previous operations caused far more pain to multiple parts of my body and therefore my arm was insignificant, or because I had far stronger painkillers on those occasions... Either way, this one hurt rather a bit.
For a quick recap, in April last year I broke just about all the bones in my arm and wrist, my jaw in three places, plus a little fracture in my back. Back was most painful at the time but healed quickly enough, jaw has given me a nice scar, and wrist has given me many - plus three operations. The first patched it all right up, plenty of metal included. It sounded like an amazing procedure since the bones in my hand were no longer connected to those in my arm. The doctors did an amazing job, and I came away with a functional hand at the end AND the ability to predict the weather! My arm would, without fail, give me subtle signals in the coming hours before a storm, that it would rain. Dreadfully useful for choosing my attire for the coming day or deciding whether or not to hang out my washing. It was rarely wrong.
The next operation was not much fun at all as it involved taking bone from my hip to put in my arm, and thus breaking my hip. I was put in a ward with people at least three times my age (not even joking) as they had all had hip replacements and were in a similar position to me. Was really feeling my age when one of them offered me help getting out of bed. But anyway, that healed faster than I expected and all things considered I think I managed quite well with a broken hip and my arm in plaster up to my shoulder.
The most recent operation, however, has caused me much distress. It hurt for a few days, and anaesthetic tends to make me quite sick for a few days, but that's not really why it hurt. And I feel an ungrateful wretch for saying this after the amazing surgical feats performed on me. Sure, the service wasn't always great, and I was pretty miserable for quite a while there, but all in all the medical staff did an amazing job. Other than allowing me to throw up twice all over the geriatric ward and kicking me out a day early. But hey, they needed the bed, and as unhappy as I was at the time, I can look back on it with good humour now.
Anyway anyway anyway, I went to see my wonderful surgeon about two months ago in the full knowledge that another operation was on the cards. The previous two has cost me absolutely nothing as far as I could tell (though there were a good 40 hours there where I remember nothing at all) so it's entirely possibly I could've signed my life away. I was unconscious for 30 of them and all I remember of the next ten are requesting a TV so I could watch The Biggest Loser, and then patting the dogs they send around the intensive care unit to cheer up the terminally ill. Point is, the glorious Australian healthcare system paid for it all, dog visits included!
So I saw my surgeon a month or two ago and he told me I could have the operation done under the private system because I had private health insurance. I asked what the difference was and he told me I would simply have the operation done across the road at the private hospital. Brilliant, I thought! No more staff forgetting which day I was supposed to be discharged or neglecting to feed me because of my vegetarian diet! No more being referred to as "Pelquest-Hunt, Baby, Girl" as I was named the day I was born in the same hospital! Surely private health insurance will cover it, thought I.
I was wrong. Recently I was sprung with medical bills amounting $1290. Rather a large sum for one working for the man without expectation of such expenses. When I asked the doc what the difference was, I would've expected he might mention such a fee. Given the doctors' involvement amounted to two hours, I have calculated that what they earn in two hours takes me 80 hours to earn. Individually, they seem to earn 40 times what I do. Now I don't earn that much, and I'm sure they must earn extra for performing surgery rather than seeing patients for brief consultations. But still, saying they earn 20 times what I do, it begs the question... Do they live in castles made of gold? Are their scalpels made of diamonds? Just HOW can they justify charging me this much without mentioning ANY of it?
I believe I was informed of a "small gap" to pay the anaesthetist, but none of about paying the rest of the world's economy as well. Do I not pay the fee for private health insurance so that I might avoid such conundrums? Did I not ask what the difference would be? A few thousand might be insignificant to high-flying surgeons, but it represents a considerable amount's homelessness for me! I asked... I bloody well asked!
Suffice to say, I am none too happy about this latest expense, particularly knowing I could've waited a few more months and had it done for free. I mean, my arm would not have fallen off without this operation. But then I feel ungrateful for the time the doctor performed the surgery to ensure my arm did actually stay on, and I was not charged. But if there was another way, why was I not informed?
It is frustrating for me, to say the least. I am grateful for what my wonderful surgeon has done for me. After a year and a half, I can play guitar again and that is a most wonderful blessing. But if he could've earned the same fee and saved me $1290, why didn't he say so? I even asked. I have been the model patient, outside of throwing up from all that anaesthetic. But I did warn him...
...anyway, I suppose it's only money. I don't have much of it, but I can earn it back. Meanwhile if you wish to contribute to the ernidneedstoeat fund please do contact me! erinpelquesthunt@hotmail.com will direct you to the appropriate bank accounts. And you have all been warned (all three of you) that private health insurance does not mean you are covered for private health care!
Dear readers (all two of you),
You may have noticed that I have tried to take a light-hearted approach to the many injuries I have sustained over the last year or so. For the one new reader amongst you, this has involved stupendous bad luck and uncoordination, totalling 15 or so broken bones (the doctors were never really clear, but I suppose once you get past ten, it doesn't matter until it hits 20. Thank goodness I didn't get that far.)
I recently had the third operation on my wrist in just under 18 months. It was the least significant but by far the most painful. I'm not sure if it was because previous operations caused far more pain to multiple parts of my body and therefore my arm was insignificant, or because I had far stronger painkillers on those occasions... Either way, this one hurt rather a bit.
For a quick recap, in April last year I broke just about all the bones in my arm and wrist, my jaw in three places, plus a little fracture in my back. Back was most painful at the time but healed quickly enough, jaw has given me a nice scar, and wrist has given me many - plus three operations. The first patched it all right up, plenty of metal included. It sounded like an amazing procedure since the bones in my hand were no longer connected to those in my arm. The doctors did an amazing job, and I came away with a functional hand at the end AND the ability to predict the weather! My arm would, without fail, give me subtle signals in the coming hours before a storm, that it would rain. Dreadfully useful for choosing my attire for the coming day or deciding whether or not to hang out my washing. It was rarely wrong.
The next operation was not much fun at all as it involved taking bone from my hip to put in my arm, and thus breaking my hip. I was put in a ward with people at least three times my age (not even joking) as they had all had hip replacements and were in a similar position to me. Was really feeling my age when one of them offered me help getting out of bed. But anyway, that healed faster than I expected and all things considered I think I managed quite well with a broken hip and my arm in plaster up to my shoulder.
The most recent operation, however, has caused me much distress. It hurt for a few days, and anaesthetic tends to make me quite sick for a few days, but that's not really why it hurt. And I feel an ungrateful wretch for saying this after the amazing surgical feats performed on me. Sure, the service wasn't always great, and I was pretty miserable for quite a while there, but all in all the medical staff did an amazing job. Other than allowing me to throw up twice all over the geriatric ward and kicking me out a day early. But hey, they needed the bed, and as unhappy as I was at the time, I can look back on it with good humour now.
Anyway anyway anyway, I went to see my wonderful surgeon about two months ago in the full knowledge that another operation was on the cards. The previous two has cost me absolutely nothing as far as I could tell (though there were a good 40 hours there where I remember nothing at all) so it's entirely possibly I could've signed my life away. I was unconscious for 30 of them and all I remember of the next ten are requesting a TV so I could watch The Biggest Loser, and then patting the dogs they send around the intensive care unit to cheer up the terminally ill. Point is, the glorious Australian healthcare system paid for it all, dog visits included!
So I saw my surgeon a month or two ago and he told me I could have the operation done under the private system because I had private health insurance. I asked what the difference was and he told me I would simply have the operation done across the road at the private hospital. Brilliant, I thought! No more staff forgetting which day I was supposed to be discharged or neglecting to feed me because of my vegetarian diet! No more being referred to as "Pelquest-Hunt, Baby, Girl" as I was named the day I was born in the same hospital! Surely private health insurance will cover it, thought I.
I was wrong. Recently I was sprung with medical bills amounting $1290. Rather a large sum for one working for the man without expectation of such expenses. When I asked the doc what the difference was, I would've expected he might mention such a fee. Given the doctors' involvement amounted to two hours, I have calculated that what they earn in two hours takes me 80 hours to earn. Individually, they seem to earn 40 times what I do. Now I don't earn that much, and I'm sure they must earn extra for performing surgery rather than seeing patients for brief consultations. But still, saying they earn 20 times what I do, it begs the question... Do they live in castles made of gold? Are their scalpels made of diamonds? Just HOW can they justify charging me this much without mentioning ANY of it?
I believe I was informed of a "small gap" to pay the anaesthetist, but none of about paying the rest of the world's economy as well. Do I not pay the fee for private health insurance so that I might avoid such conundrums? Did I not ask what the difference would be? A few thousand might be insignificant to high-flying surgeons, but it represents a considerable amount's homelessness for me! I asked... I bloody well asked!
Suffice to say, I am none too happy about this latest expense, particularly knowing I could've waited a few more months and had it done for free. I mean, my arm would not have fallen off without this operation. But then I feel ungrateful for the time the doctor performed the surgery to ensure my arm did actually stay on, and I was not charged. But if there was another way, why was I not informed?
It is frustrating for me, to say the least. I am grateful for what my wonderful surgeon has done for me. After a year and a half, I can play guitar again and that is a most wonderful blessing. But if he could've earned the same fee and saved me $1290, why didn't he say so? I even asked. I have been the model patient, outside of throwing up from all that anaesthetic. But I did warn him...
...anyway, I suppose it's only money. I don't have much of it, but I can earn it back. Meanwhile if you wish to contribute to the ernidneedstoeat fund please do contact me! erinpelquesthunt@hotmail.com will direct you to the appropriate bank accounts. And you have all been warned (all three of you) that private health insurance does not mean you are covered for private health care!
Monday, 23 April 2012
Things that smell...
...are not always as bad as they sound. But sometimes they are.
Once upon a few years ago I went out with quite possibly one of the strangest men in the world. He made his way into my life under the guise of a rock-god front-man of a Swedish band, but oh how this story ends! Let me explain...
I used to play bass in a band called Smiling Politely. We thought we were rather cool, especially after we played at the Annandale and had one song on the radio. Once. We requested ourselves. But that's how Nirvana got started, and we were proud of our acclaim. Looking back, we weren't very good at all but it was a lot of fun nonetheless. Anyway, one day we received a message from a Swedish band with the same name who wanted our website. We told them no, because obviously with all our fame we didn't want to be mistaken for some Swedish no-names. Nevertheless, we got to talking, and when our drummer Luke was travelling through Europe he ended up staying with Charlie and Christian, two members of the Swedish Smiling Politely. I say their names here with the knowledge that nobody reads my blog, especially (I hope) my ex. In the end, Charlie and Christian decided to come to Australia and ended up staying with Luke and Matt (our guitarist) just until they got on their feet, which ended up being the best part of a year. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was romantically involved with Charlie.
Oh what a story for the grandkids! Obviously I wasn't thinking of grandkids at this stage, in fact I figured that Charlie would be leaving after a year and we could put that happy chapter of our lives behind us and very firmly closed. We had great fun together to begin with. We had parties at The House (as we very creatively named their place) every weekend and enjoyed our youth, as young people do (or don't, if you ask old people.)
It didn't take very long, however, for me to realise that perhaps Charlie wasn't the guy for me. For one thing, he was incredibly clingy. I'm not the type of girl to enjoy the company of a clingy guy. I'd get up from our circle to go to, say, the bathroom, and Charlie would grab my hand and ask where I was going. I would assure him I wasn't going far and would be back soon, whereupon he would kiss my hand and stroke my face while telling me he'd miss me. In the couple of minutes I was gone I was quite frankly never worried about missing him. And if he was getting up to go the the bathroom, we would go through the ritual again. During a night of drinking trips to the bathroom were not infrequent, and this little display of affection got old very very fast.
It also got to the point of creepy with similar speed. After another night and a few drinks at The House, I had decided I had hit my own personal wall and was ready for bed. The guys had a very comfortable lounge suite, so I curled up on the armchair and nodded right off to sleep, but not before Charlie badgered me about sleeping somewhere more sensible. I honestly was happy to sleep exactly where I was, and did just that. I slept peacefully curled up on the armchair for a couple of hours before something woke me up, and I don't think I've ever woken up to a more disturbing scene. Charlie was perched on the end of the couch, head resting dreamily in his hands, watching me. He had been watching me sleep. It probably wasn't the creepiest thing that could've happened, but I was a 20 year old in no mood for anything serious or for men watching me sleep.
Still, it got worse. Apart from watching me sleep and being terribly clingy, he also liked to smell me. Not in a nice "what perfume do you wear?" kind of way, more in a "*sniiiiiff* my GOD you smell so GOOD" kind of way. It wasn't so bad to begin with and I never expected him to make a habit of it. But habitual it became. Every time I was near him, which was quite a lot, he would take a great big breath of me. It was rather disconcerting, and I asked him if he would mind not sniffing me quite so much. He agreed, but explained that our chemical attraction was incontrovertible. Right. Of course, he kept it up. He was nothing if not persistent. We spoke about it again and reached the compromise that he could sniff me once each time we met. And yet he still did it every five minutes from that point on. Saying hi, *sniiiiiiiff*. Going up an escalator, *sniiiiiiff*. Heaven forbid we ever get close. Suffice to say, I did not like being sniffed.
Another issue with Charlie, hereafter referred to as Sniffy, was that he didn't quite grasp the concept of sarcasm. I like to think I have a wonderfully dry sense of humour and take the piss out of anyone within earshot, including myself. As it turned out, Sniffy didn't understand that it was a joke, and by consequence was offended by just about everything I said. I thought it might be a Swedish thing but Christian never suffered the same affliction. It really wasn't fair. We agreed that I would try and make less sarcastic jokes if he would try and realise I didn't actually mean them.
But seriously, who was I kidding? It was never going to work and one or both of us would walking across eggshells forevermore. It's simply a part of my personality to make jokes at the expense of the people I like, and a part of his to take offence to it. After a night of watching romantic comedies (his idea), he suggested I stay the night. He told me he loved me. I told him we were over. I said I was pretty sure he didn't love me as he barely knew me (our passionate love affair lasted less than two months), and what he did know about me was that I was rude and offensive. I wasn't made of stone though and felt pretty about about the whole thing. His one parting request was to kiss me on his favourite part of my body (I was dubious), which turned out to be a freckle on my ear. Having never actually seen my own ears I was unaware I even had a freckle there and had never had it pointed out before. The fact that Sniffy was the one to do so was probably foreseeable. So I let him kiss my ear (it looks even weirder in writing), and on my way I went.
The fact that he lived with my best mates did mean that we saw each other rather a lot from then on, and he was often in the company of his latest squeeze. I wasn't jealous, but I did pity his choice of women and felt rather small for having joined his league of lovers. Worst of all, I overheard a rather private conversation one night I really rather would not have heard. Ellie (remember Ellie from the previous Mega Bus story?), Amzzz and I were settling down for bed in the living room of The House, with Christian and Sniffy in the next room. The House had paper-thin walls, and in lieu of a door had a curtain dividing these two rooms. Consequentially, we overheard every word of their conversation. I was at a loss to explain why they were speaking in English rather than their native Swedish, unless they wanted us to hear. All things considered though, I'm not sure they did. They had made real efforts to not speak Swedish around us so as not to be exclusive, and I think their state of inebriation made their voices all the louder. The basic gist of Sniffy's lamentations were that I was "the one" but obviously I was right and we could never be together. Where would we live if we got married? Would he leave his family and live in Australia, or would I leave mine and live in Sweden? Oh the calamity! He talked about our imagined future in great length, which made me feel a little shallow for entering into the relationship knowing it had a use by date of one year, but all in all it cemented in my mind the knowledge that I had most definitely made the right decision.
Poor old Sniffy, he just didn't get that we were never meant to be. He even tried to get close to my parents and brothers. He really did try to do all the right things, like notice the freckle on my right ear and comment on how I looked when sleeping. It was all a little much for me and I'm glad I had the perspicacity to realise so early on it was never meant to be. I broke his little heart all the same.
Sniffy is now engaged, so it's all's well that ends well. I'm not sure what she smells like, but hope their pheromones hit it off in a way that ours never quite managed.
Once upon a few years ago I went out with quite possibly one of the strangest men in the world. He made his way into my life under the guise of a rock-god front-man of a Swedish band, but oh how this story ends! Let me explain...
I used to play bass in a band called Smiling Politely. We thought we were rather cool, especially after we played at the Annandale and had one song on the radio. Once. We requested ourselves. But that's how Nirvana got started, and we were proud of our acclaim. Looking back, we weren't very good at all but it was a lot of fun nonetheless. Anyway, one day we received a message from a Swedish band with the same name who wanted our website. We told them no, because obviously with all our fame we didn't want to be mistaken for some Swedish no-names. Nevertheless, we got to talking, and when our drummer Luke was travelling through Europe he ended up staying with Charlie and Christian, two members of the Swedish Smiling Politely. I say their names here with the knowledge that nobody reads my blog, especially (I hope) my ex. In the end, Charlie and Christian decided to come to Australia and ended up staying with Luke and Matt (our guitarist) just until they got on their feet, which ended up being the best part of a year. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was romantically involved with Charlie.
Oh what a story for the grandkids! Obviously I wasn't thinking of grandkids at this stage, in fact I figured that Charlie would be leaving after a year and we could put that happy chapter of our lives behind us and very firmly closed. We had great fun together to begin with. We had parties at The House (as we very creatively named their place) every weekend and enjoyed our youth, as young people do (or don't, if you ask old people.)
It didn't take very long, however, for me to realise that perhaps Charlie wasn't the guy for me. For one thing, he was incredibly clingy. I'm not the type of girl to enjoy the company of a clingy guy. I'd get up from our circle to go to, say, the bathroom, and Charlie would grab my hand and ask where I was going. I would assure him I wasn't going far and would be back soon, whereupon he would kiss my hand and stroke my face while telling me he'd miss me. In the couple of minutes I was gone I was quite frankly never worried about missing him. And if he was getting up to go the the bathroom, we would go through the ritual again. During a night of drinking trips to the bathroom were not infrequent, and this little display of affection got old very very fast.
It also got to the point of creepy with similar speed. After another night and a few drinks at The House, I had decided I had hit my own personal wall and was ready for bed. The guys had a very comfortable lounge suite, so I curled up on the armchair and nodded right off to sleep, but not before Charlie badgered me about sleeping somewhere more sensible. I honestly was happy to sleep exactly where I was, and did just that. I slept peacefully curled up on the armchair for a couple of hours before something woke me up, and I don't think I've ever woken up to a more disturbing scene. Charlie was perched on the end of the couch, head resting dreamily in his hands, watching me. He had been watching me sleep. It probably wasn't the creepiest thing that could've happened, but I was a 20 year old in no mood for anything serious or for men watching me sleep.
Still, it got worse. Apart from watching me sleep and being terribly clingy, he also liked to smell me. Not in a nice "what perfume do you wear?" kind of way, more in a "*sniiiiiff* my GOD you smell so GOOD" kind of way. It wasn't so bad to begin with and I never expected him to make a habit of it. But habitual it became. Every time I was near him, which was quite a lot, he would take a great big breath of me. It was rather disconcerting, and I asked him if he would mind not sniffing me quite so much. He agreed, but explained that our chemical attraction was incontrovertible. Right. Of course, he kept it up. He was nothing if not persistent. We spoke about it again and reached the compromise that he could sniff me once each time we met. And yet he still did it every five minutes from that point on. Saying hi, *sniiiiiiiff*. Going up an escalator, *sniiiiiiff*. Heaven forbid we ever get close. Suffice to say, I did not like being sniffed.
Another issue with Charlie, hereafter referred to as Sniffy, was that he didn't quite grasp the concept of sarcasm. I like to think I have a wonderfully dry sense of humour and take the piss out of anyone within earshot, including myself. As it turned out, Sniffy didn't understand that it was a joke, and by consequence was offended by just about everything I said. I thought it might be a Swedish thing but Christian never suffered the same affliction. It really wasn't fair. We agreed that I would try and make less sarcastic jokes if he would try and realise I didn't actually mean them.
But seriously, who was I kidding? It was never going to work and one or both of us would walking across eggshells forevermore. It's simply a part of my personality to make jokes at the expense of the people I like, and a part of his to take offence to it. After a night of watching romantic comedies (his idea), he suggested I stay the night. He told me he loved me. I told him we were over. I said I was pretty sure he didn't love me as he barely knew me (our passionate love affair lasted less than two months), and what he did know about me was that I was rude and offensive. I wasn't made of stone though and felt pretty about about the whole thing. His one parting request was to kiss me on his favourite part of my body (I was dubious), which turned out to be a freckle on my ear. Having never actually seen my own ears I was unaware I even had a freckle there and had never had it pointed out before. The fact that Sniffy was the one to do so was probably foreseeable. So I let him kiss my ear (it looks even weirder in writing), and on my way I went.
The fact that he lived with my best mates did mean that we saw each other rather a lot from then on, and he was often in the company of his latest squeeze. I wasn't jealous, but I did pity his choice of women and felt rather small for having joined his league of lovers. Worst of all, I overheard a rather private conversation one night I really rather would not have heard. Ellie (remember Ellie from the previous Mega Bus story?), Amzzz and I were settling down for bed in the living room of The House, with Christian and Sniffy in the next room. The House had paper-thin walls, and in lieu of a door had a curtain dividing these two rooms. Consequentially, we overheard every word of their conversation. I was at a loss to explain why they were speaking in English rather than their native Swedish, unless they wanted us to hear. All things considered though, I'm not sure they did. They had made real efforts to not speak Swedish around us so as not to be exclusive, and I think their state of inebriation made their voices all the louder. The basic gist of Sniffy's lamentations were that I was "the one" but obviously I was right and we could never be together. Where would we live if we got married? Would he leave his family and live in Australia, or would I leave mine and live in Sweden? Oh the calamity! He talked about our imagined future in great length, which made me feel a little shallow for entering into the relationship knowing it had a use by date of one year, but all in all it cemented in my mind the knowledge that I had most definitely made the right decision.
Poor old Sniffy, he just didn't get that we were never meant to be. He even tried to get close to my parents and brothers. He really did try to do all the right things, like notice the freckle on my right ear and comment on how I looked when sleeping. It was all a little much for me and I'm glad I had the perspicacity to realise so early on it was never meant to be. I broke his little heart all the same.
Sniffy is now engaged, so it's all's well that ends well. I'm not sure what she smells like, but hope their pheromones hit it off in a way that ours never quite managed.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Things on Trains...
...and things with pains.
This story takes place over 24 hours in London. They were by no means the most exciting of my life, but it was an unexpected turn of events that I was able to laugh at immediately afterwards.
My best bud Ellie and I were in need of transportation from London to Southampton. We were staying with a friend and asked his advice on the best way to get there. He suggested booking tickets through a site called Mega Bus. Tickets were only a few pounds each, and naturally we booked them there and then. I received a text with my ticket number and instructions for departure from Waterloo station. I was a little confused, however. Where, exactly, do the buses leave from Waterloo station? I puzzled over it for a few minutes before trying my luck at the old "calling up" tactic. Unfortunately, the lady I reached on the Mega Bus information line seemed just as confused as I was. Conversation proceeded somewhat as follows:
Me: "Hi, I've just booked two tickets for the journey from London to Southampton at [time] tomorrow. My reservation number is [this]. Could you tell me where we actually leave from?"
Her: "Yes, you'll be leaving from Waterloo station."
Me: "Yes, but where exactly?"
Her: "...Waterloo station."
Me: "Yes, but which side? Where do we find the bus stops?"
Her: "...The platform will be announced shortly before departure."
Me: "Platform?"
Her: "Yes. It's a train..."
Me: "Oh! But we booked through Mega Bus!"
Her: "Yes, it's affiliated with Mega Train. Just make sure you get to Waterloo station at least ten minutes before your TRAIN leaves."
Me: "kthxbye"
Well that cleared that up! Lucky I called rather than running with my usual "she'll be right" strategy. Anyway anyway anyway, a little wary after our shaky start, Ellie and I made sure to get to Waterloo half an hour before the train to ensure no further mishaps. I saw a ticket machine with a sign saying if I had my reservation number, I could print off my tickets. It took about four goes before I realised I wasn't doing it right. I called over a member of staff, who took a look at my reservation number and told me it was sufficient to get me through the barriers and onto the train. Hooray, a simple instruction! Ellie and I twiddled our thumbs until the platform was announced, giving us just under ten minutes to make our train. But alas, on reaching the barriers we were confronted with another problem. The horribly mean ticket lady told us we would need to go to the information centre, across the other side of the station, to print off our tickets. But what?! That chap over there said the reservation number was enough! Bollocks to that!
I left Ellie with our bags and sprinted across the station, my Doc Martens causing a disproportionately loud noise for how light I felt on my feet. On reaching the information centre, I was stopped in my tracks by a long line of people, and realised I may as well have crawled my way over for all the good running did me. The line moved far too slowly for my cause. Didn't these people know I had a train to catch? Presumably these other people had trains to catch as well, so why were they taking so long asking such silly questions? I finally reached the front of the line and hurriedly explained I needed these tickets printed "NOW!!! Please". The lady at the counter took a look at my reservation number and informed me I didn't need a ticket and the number alone was enough. Well deja vu, deja vu! I bolted back to where Ellie was standing and damn near yelled at the ticket lady "THELADYATINFORMATIONSAIDWEDIDN'TNEEDTICKETSANDTHERESERVATIONNUMBERSAREENOUGH!!!" *pant pant pant*. I watched forlornly as our train steamed away on the other side of the barrier. She tried to send me back to the information centre, which I refused to do. At this point I was thinking we might as well walk to Southampton; at least we would get closer than if we were just running between the platform and the information desk. I adopted my coolest, most business-like demeanour (though I don't think I fooled her), and said calmly "look, we booked these tickets yesterday through Mega Train (bus? train? whatever) and have been told twice now that our reservation numbers will serve as tickets. You have held us up and caused us to miss our train. Now will you please let us through the barriers, and we'll wait for the next one."
Ellie did an invisible jig at how firm I was. Bitch-lady looked at me for a second or two before exclaiming, "OH you booked them through MEGA TRAIN, why didn't you say so?!"
I was livid. I felt it now the time for replacing my Doc Martens with my Bossy Boots. Boy was I going to give her a talking to!
"Look, I mistakenly assumed you knew how to do your job. I shouldn't have to tell you how we purchased our tickets. Obviously we're not getting to our destination on time now, thanks to you. We have our tickets on us, and would appreciate if you would let us through. We'll get the next train and forget about your incompetence."
In actual fact, I doubt I was that eloquent, but my words were to that effect. I guess this lady must get this a lot, what with being so woefully poor at performing her duties. The look she gave me suggested as much.
"Look, these tickets are for a train that has left..."
"Thanks to you!"
"...and you'll have to go back to the information centre to get tickets for the next one."
"OK but we're not paying for them!"
Ellie rolled her eyes and promised to guard our bags from this dishonest and clearly not-to-be-trusted woman. My bossy boots took me back to the information centre, where there was now, typically, no queue. I was served by the same person as before, who gave me a "not you again" look. I explained our quandary, going into great detail about the many shortcomings of their staff. She then asked me the stupidest question of the day: "So it was the staff member's fault you missed the train?", which I answered with a resounding YES. She gave me a form to fill out which would serve as our new tickets (I was doubtful), which included, to my joy, a section where I could detail how and why we missed our train. Words such as "RUDENESS" and "INCOMPETENCE" littered the page, with caps locks for emphasis. With a smug expression I left the information centre for the last time (I hoped) and ran back to Ellie waving our new tickets high above my head. She nearly did a tap dance as I showed her my detailed description of our poor treatment at the hands of this awful employee of British Rail.
This next bit I probably should have seen coming. I had to show this same woman (the one I had just verbally desecrated on official documentation) the piece of paper exhibiting my insinuations that she should be fired. I trembled in whatever boots I was now wearing, worried she might beat me with a stick for writing such defaming (albeit true) things about her then shoving it in her face. With supreme nonchalance, she finally let us through the barrier, and I made the assumption that such a vile specimen of humanity probably couldn't read.
In the end, the train we finally got on got us to Southampton faster than the original would have. The bloke who checked our tickets on board chuckled when he read my "ticket" and wished us a better day from that point on. He restored my faith in the quality of people employed by British Rail, but even more so begged the question "was that so hard?"
In the end, I did more running around Waterloo station than I had done for months. We probably should have expected as much from tickets that only cost three pounds, and swore off Mega Train forever.
Funnily enough, our Mega Bus trip (actually on a bus this time) to Glasgow a month later (we forgot our boycott in favour of cheap tickets) went off without a hitch. Go figure.
This story takes place over 24 hours in London. They were by no means the most exciting of my life, but it was an unexpected turn of events that I was able to laugh at immediately afterwards.
My best bud Ellie and I were in need of transportation from London to Southampton. We were staying with a friend and asked his advice on the best way to get there. He suggested booking tickets through a site called Mega Bus. Tickets were only a few pounds each, and naturally we booked them there and then. I received a text with my ticket number and instructions for departure from Waterloo station. I was a little confused, however. Where, exactly, do the buses leave from Waterloo station? I puzzled over it for a few minutes before trying my luck at the old "calling up" tactic. Unfortunately, the lady I reached on the Mega Bus information line seemed just as confused as I was. Conversation proceeded somewhat as follows:
Me: "Hi, I've just booked two tickets for the journey from London to Southampton at [time] tomorrow. My reservation number is [this]. Could you tell me where we actually leave from?"
Her: "Yes, you'll be leaving from Waterloo station."
Me: "Yes, but where exactly?"
Her: "...Waterloo station."
Me: "Yes, but which side? Where do we find the bus stops?"
Her: "...The platform will be announced shortly before departure."
Me: "Platform?"
Her: "Yes. It's a train..."
Me: "Oh! But we booked through Mega Bus!"
Her: "Yes, it's affiliated with Mega Train. Just make sure you get to Waterloo station at least ten minutes before your TRAIN leaves."
Me: "kthxbye"
Well that cleared that up! Lucky I called rather than running with my usual "she'll be right" strategy. Anyway anyway anyway, a little wary after our shaky start, Ellie and I made sure to get to Waterloo half an hour before the train to ensure no further mishaps. I saw a ticket machine with a sign saying if I had my reservation number, I could print off my tickets. It took about four goes before I realised I wasn't doing it right. I called over a member of staff, who took a look at my reservation number and told me it was sufficient to get me through the barriers and onto the train. Hooray, a simple instruction! Ellie and I twiddled our thumbs until the platform was announced, giving us just under ten minutes to make our train. But alas, on reaching the barriers we were confronted with another problem. The horribly mean ticket lady told us we would need to go to the information centre, across the other side of the station, to print off our tickets. But what?! That chap over there said the reservation number was enough! Bollocks to that!
I left Ellie with our bags and sprinted across the station, my Doc Martens causing a disproportionately loud noise for how light I felt on my feet. On reaching the information centre, I was stopped in my tracks by a long line of people, and realised I may as well have crawled my way over for all the good running did me. The line moved far too slowly for my cause. Didn't these people know I had a train to catch? Presumably these other people had trains to catch as well, so why were they taking so long asking such silly questions? I finally reached the front of the line and hurriedly explained I needed these tickets printed "NOW!!! Please". The lady at the counter took a look at my reservation number and informed me I didn't need a ticket and the number alone was enough. Well deja vu, deja vu! I bolted back to where Ellie was standing and damn near yelled at the ticket lady "THELADYATINFORMATIONSAIDWEDIDN'TNEEDTICKETSANDTHERESERVATIONNUMBERSAREENOUGH!!!" *pant pant pant*. I watched forlornly as our train steamed away on the other side of the barrier. She tried to send me back to the information centre, which I refused to do. At this point I was thinking we might as well walk to Southampton; at least we would get closer than if we were just running between the platform and the information desk. I adopted my coolest, most business-like demeanour (though I don't think I fooled her), and said calmly "look, we booked these tickets yesterday through Mega Train (bus? train? whatever) and have been told twice now that our reservation numbers will serve as tickets. You have held us up and caused us to miss our train. Now will you please let us through the barriers, and we'll wait for the next one."
Ellie did an invisible jig at how firm I was. Bitch-lady looked at me for a second or two before exclaiming, "OH you booked them through MEGA TRAIN, why didn't you say so?!"
I was livid. I felt it now the time for replacing my Doc Martens with my Bossy Boots. Boy was I going to give her a talking to!
"Look, I mistakenly assumed you knew how to do your job. I shouldn't have to tell you how we purchased our tickets. Obviously we're not getting to our destination on time now, thanks to you. We have our tickets on us, and would appreciate if you would let us through. We'll get the next train and forget about your incompetence."
In actual fact, I doubt I was that eloquent, but my words were to that effect. I guess this lady must get this a lot, what with being so woefully poor at performing her duties. The look she gave me suggested as much.
"Look, these tickets are for a train that has left..."
"Thanks to you!"
"...and you'll have to go back to the information centre to get tickets for the next one."
"OK but we're not paying for them!"
Ellie rolled her eyes and promised to guard our bags from this dishonest and clearly not-to-be-trusted woman. My bossy boots took me back to the information centre, where there was now, typically, no queue. I was served by the same person as before, who gave me a "not you again" look. I explained our quandary, going into great detail about the many shortcomings of their staff. She then asked me the stupidest question of the day: "So it was the staff member's fault you missed the train?", which I answered with a resounding YES. She gave me a form to fill out which would serve as our new tickets (I was doubtful), which included, to my joy, a section where I could detail how and why we missed our train. Words such as "RUDENESS" and "INCOMPETENCE" littered the page, with caps locks for emphasis. With a smug expression I left the information centre for the last time (I hoped) and ran back to Ellie waving our new tickets high above my head. She nearly did a tap dance as I showed her my detailed description of our poor treatment at the hands of this awful employee of British Rail.
This next bit I probably should have seen coming. I had to show this same woman (the one I had just verbally desecrated on official documentation) the piece of paper exhibiting my insinuations that she should be fired. I trembled in whatever boots I was now wearing, worried she might beat me with a stick for writing such defaming (albeit true) things about her then shoving it in her face. With supreme nonchalance, she finally let us through the barrier, and I made the assumption that such a vile specimen of humanity probably couldn't read.
In the end, the train we finally got on got us to Southampton faster than the original would have. The bloke who checked our tickets on board chuckled when he read my "ticket" and wished us a better day from that point on. He restored my faith in the quality of people employed by British Rail, but even more so begged the question "was that so hard?"
In the end, I did more running around Waterloo station than I had done for months. We probably should have expected as much from tickets that only cost three pounds, and swore off Mega Train forever.
Funnily enough, our Mega Bus trip (actually on a bus this time) to Glasgow a month later (we forgot our boycott in favour of cheap tickets) went off without a hitch. Go figure.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Things about Baboons...
...are the things of nightmares.
I have just applied for a wonderful job as a travel research writer. On the off chance that my potential employer reads this (thank you if you are a potential employer and reading this!), I thought it high time I published another wee travel story.
This one takes place in Botswana in March of 2009. I was camping by the Chobe River, a most spectacular location by the national park where elephants run rampant and warthogs try to nose their way into your tent at night. Baboons won't wait for nightfall, however, and will go to rather extreme measures to procure food from nearby tents. The campsite's facilities ranged in accommodation from the very sparse to the most luxurious. My budget put me in lower class section, which was a short walk away from the fancy parts. There was a glorious pool, bar and restaurant with a magnificent deck overlooking the river, and a boardwalk through the trees to reach my tent. Adorable little monkeys dotted the boardwalk, playing chase with one another and scurrying out of sight as soon as a human walked their way. It was all very quaint, in an African kind of way.
Walking back to my tent to quickly grab my towel and return to the pool, I made my way across the boardwalk and just about walked into a monkey approximately six billion times the size (roughly) of any other monkey I had seen that day. I took a step back and froze. I looked at him. He looked at me. It could have been love, but I don't think that was exactly the look in his eye. I thought about walking back the way I came, then talked myself out of it. Inner monologue proceeded as follows:
"Don't be silly Ernid, this monkey lives in a campsite. He's used to people. All the other monkeys retreat as soon as they hear someone coming. This one looks like he can smell my fear. Just stand tall, keep walking, and he'll clear out."
So stand tall I did. I puffed out my chest in order to look fearless, and quite literally strutted my way forward. The monkey jumped up onto the railing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He must have been convinced that I had right of way. Or perhaps not... Instead of scurrying away, he climbed along the railing in my direction. Turning to face me, he crouched. It looked suspiciously like the position a wild monkey might adopt, were he to pounce on a bypassing human.
I had about .6 of a second to decide on my next move. The first .2 of that second were taken up thus:
"I could take this guy on. I'm bigger than him (just) and surely I would come out on top in a fight."
The remaining .4 of a second thankfully revealed a change of heart:
"This thing has claws, it has teeth, it has rabies... RUN!!!"
And run I did. The thongs I was wearing didn't exactly lend themselves to the amazing burst of speed I so desperately required, and I was cursing my choice of footwear as this creature chased after me. He was screeching and screaming, which I assumed was his way of swearing and banishing me from his hood. I think he must've given up pretty quickly, probably after seeing the super-human speeds I had hitherto never been capable of. The chase only lasted a few seconds, but I ran all the way to my tent and zipped the door tight shut. Phew, that was close!
I was absolutely terrified of walking back to my friends on the other side of the boardwalk, and it took me a good half hour to work up the courage to return, and only after a change of footwear at that. All the cocky bravado of earlier had vanished. I was regaling this tale to my tentmate Ingvild, a lovely girl from Norway who had lived in Ethiopia for three years. She asked me to describe this monkey to her, and gave me that "you're an idiot" look I am only too familiar with. She explained that I was right to run instead of fight, stupid to even consider otherwise, and that this monkey was in fact a baboon, which could have killed me with no strenuous amount of effort. Also, looking him in the eye was a bit of a no-no. Highly territorial animals, I had inadvertently threatened his ownership of the area. Good call.
This self-rescuing princess needs saving from nothing!
(Could possibly use job from generous travel writing types)
I have just applied for a wonderful job as a travel research writer. On the off chance that my potential employer reads this (thank you if you are a potential employer and reading this!), I thought it high time I published another wee travel story.
This one takes place in Botswana in March of 2009. I was camping by the Chobe River, a most spectacular location by the national park where elephants run rampant and warthogs try to nose their way into your tent at night. Baboons won't wait for nightfall, however, and will go to rather extreme measures to procure food from nearby tents. The campsite's facilities ranged in accommodation from the very sparse to the most luxurious. My budget put me in lower class section, which was a short walk away from the fancy parts. There was a glorious pool, bar and restaurant with a magnificent deck overlooking the river, and a boardwalk through the trees to reach my tent. Adorable little monkeys dotted the boardwalk, playing chase with one another and scurrying out of sight as soon as a human walked their way. It was all very quaint, in an African kind of way.
Walking back to my tent to quickly grab my towel and return to the pool, I made my way across the boardwalk and just about walked into a monkey approximately six billion times the size (roughly) of any other monkey I had seen that day. I took a step back and froze. I looked at him. He looked at me. It could have been love, but I don't think that was exactly the look in his eye. I thought about walking back the way I came, then talked myself out of it. Inner monologue proceeded as follows:
"Don't be silly Ernid, this monkey lives in a campsite. He's used to people. All the other monkeys retreat as soon as they hear someone coming. This one looks like he can smell my fear. Just stand tall, keep walking, and he'll clear out."
So stand tall I did. I puffed out my chest in order to look fearless, and quite literally strutted my way forward. The monkey jumped up onto the railing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He must have been convinced that I had right of way. Or perhaps not... Instead of scurrying away, he climbed along the railing in my direction. Turning to face me, he crouched. It looked suspiciously like the position a wild monkey might adopt, were he to pounce on a bypassing human.
I had about .6 of a second to decide on my next move. The first .2 of that second were taken up thus:
"I could take this guy on. I'm bigger than him (just) and surely I would come out on top in a fight."
The remaining .4 of a second thankfully revealed a change of heart:
"This thing has claws, it has teeth, it has rabies... RUN!!!"
And run I did. The thongs I was wearing didn't exactly lend themselves to the amazing burst of speed I so desperately required, and I was cursing my choice of footwear as this creature chased after me. He was screeching and screaming, which I assumed was his way of swearing and banishing me from his hood. I think he must've given up pretty quickly, probably after seeing the super-human speeds I had hitherto never been capable of. The chase only lasted a few seconds, but I ran all the way to my tent and zipped the door tight shut. Phew, that was close!
I was absolutely terrified of walking back to my friends on the other side of the boardwalk, and it took me a good half hour to work up the courage to return, and only after a change of footwear at that. All the cocky bravado of earlier had vanished. I was regaling this tale to my tentmate Ingvild, a lovely girl from Norway who had lived in Ethiopia for three years. She asked me to describe this monkey to her, and gave me that "you're an idiot" look I am only too familiar with. She explained that I was right to run instead of fight, stupid to even consider otherwise, and that this monkey was in fact a baboon, which could have killed me with no strenuous amount of effort. Also, looking him in the eye was a bit of a no-no. Highly territorial animals, I had inadvertently threatened his ownership of the area. Good call.
This self-rescuing princess needs saving from nothing!
(Could possibly use job from generous travel writing types)
Friday, 23 March 2012
These precious moments...
...are many and close between.
Moving to the western suburbs just shy of a year ago, I had no idea just what flavour the everyday aspects of my life would take on. The lengthy train journeys between home and work are ideal for capitalising on lost sleep, and almost pleasant for the uninterrupted time it allows me to read. The four hours I spend in transit each day are an inconvenience, though not entirely without benefit... provided nobody from the western suburbs is coming to or from the western suburbs. And four hours allows plenty of time for western suburbanites to burst the literary (or sleepy) bubble in which I have cocooned myself.
With regular examples of fighting, screaming, talking to oneself, bad parenting, and religious extremism, it wasn't long before I realised that the giddiest height of sophistication Penrith will ever see is the mullet. Apparently it's quite the 'do' to sport if one lives out here. Swear words abound, and nary a sentence is spoken without including something offensive. Once I saw a girl who had to ask "what does one times two mean?", and while my raucous laughter signalled that I thought it a bit of a silly question, she evidently had the intelligence to tell I found her remark a wee bit stupid. Figuring out what I was laughing at probably took all the accumulated brain power of her twenty-something years.
Hence I was most excited (and only mildly irritated) when a guy interrupted me at the station one day with an enquiry about what I was reading. How I wished I had been reading Kafka, Kundera or Proust. Imagine what joy, what heavenly glory could have unfolded had I been able to discuss classic literature with a fellow commuter! As it was, I was slightly abashed to only have been reading A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French. Not what you'd call a masterpiece, but that was the book in my hands as I tried to conceal my bemusement, and I was excited to discuss it nonetheless. He asked what I was reading, I told him, thinking that perhaps he had read it or harboured a desire to do so.
Oh silly Ernid, ever the foolish optimist!
He did not want to swap quotes, discuss themes or discourse; indeed, he had not read the book. Nor did he want to know much about it. The sentence he used to open our literary foray was "I know ya not s'posed ta judge a book by its cover, but I have, and I reckon that book looks shit". Affronted, I hastily defended my book and said that while it was no Pulitzer Prize winner, it wasn't bad if one was in the mood for a casual and uncomplicated read. He swore a little more, exuding uneducated judgment, before I asked him what kind of book was his cup of tea. I don't know why I was surprised by his answer, indeed I think most fans of Twilight have single figure Intellectual Quotients. But there it was. I stifled my laughter when I realised he was serious. Twilight, the worst of all sins.
But wait, it gets worse.
He hadn't even read Twilight. He was spurting his love of Stephenie Meyer's godawful series by way of comparing her books (which he hadn't read) to my book (which he also hadn't read). He was basing the quality of the Twilight books on the merits of the movies (which was even more surprising to me, as I didn't know the movies had merits. Then again, I've only seen the first one, and felt unqualified to comment. In hindsight, I really needn't have worried.) I suggested he read the books before comparing them to other books, to which he replied that he had started reading the first book and couldn't finish it. I suspect there were too many big words for him. He said he just didn't like reading. I proposed he read a book before telling others their own looked like a poor recommendation.
Naturally, the discussion turned to a war between Twilight and Harry Potter. I felt well armed with my arguments on literary style, character development and morals. Having read all seven Harrys and (unfortunately) those four awful vampire books, my debate was strong. So well formed was my argument that a fellow commuter chimed in and agreed with me. This was an argument I could not lose, even if it was against an idiot! What pride, what joy, my new comrade and I would shut this imbecile up with reasoned argument and educated opinion. He scratched his tattooed neck as I used words too lengthy for his comprehension (such as "wizard" and "cat"), and I revelled in the camaraderie I felt with this other fellow who had taken up my cause.
Apparently, however, I had chosen the wrong team mate for my debate. He promptly threw up all over the train carriage and excused himself from the conversation. Never mind, I at least had an excuse to move to another carriage and away from Captain Twi-hard. But of course he followed me. Then told me the rest of his life story; his loves, his losses, his illegitimate child. He really did. He was excruciating. And all I wanted was to read my book!
I began thinking I shouldn't have brought a book with me in the first place, purely so it would be impossible to interrupt my reading (a sure way to ruin my day). But if I hadn't brought a book at all, this episode never would have taken place. I would've missed out on yet another precious western suburbs moment.
And wouldn't my life be poorer for it.
Moving to the western suburbs just shy of a year ago, I had no idea just what flavour the everyday aspects of my life would take on. The lengthy train journeys between home and work are ideal for capitalising on lost sleep, and almost pleasant for the uninterrupted time it allows me to read. The four hours I spend in transit each day are an inconvenience, though not entirely without benefit... provided nobody from the western suburbs is coming to or from the western suburbs. And four hours allows plenty of time for western suburbanites to burst the literary (or sleepy) bubble in which I have cocooned myself.
With regular examples of fighting, screaming, talking to oneself, bad parenting, and religious extremism, it wasn't long before I realised that the giddiest height of sophistication Penrith will ever see is the mullet. Apparently it's quite the 'do' to sport if one lives out here. Swear words abound, and nary a sentence is spoken without including something offensive. Once I saw a girl who had to ask "what does one times two mean?", and while my raucous laughter signalled that I thought it a bit of a silly question, she evidently had the intelligence to tell I found her remark a wee bit stupid. Figuring out what I was laughing at probably took all the accumulated brain power of her twenty-something years.
Hence I was most excited (and only mildly irritated) when a guy interrupted me at the station one day with an enquiry about what I was reading. How I wished I had been reading Kafka, Kundera or Proust. Imagine what joy, what heavenly glory could have unfolded had I been able to discuss classic literature with a fellow commuter! As it was, I was slightly abashed to only have been reading A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French. Not what you'd call a masterpiece, but that was the book in my hands as I tried to conceal my bemusement, and I was excited to discuss it nonetheless. He asked what I was reading, I told him, thinking that perhaps he had read it or harboured a desire to do so.
Oh silly Ernid, ever the foolish optimist!
He did not want to swap quotes, discuss themes or discourse; indeed, he had not read the book. Nor did he want to know much about it. The sentence he used to open our literary foray was "I know ya not s'posed ta judge a book by its cover, but I have, and I reckon that book looks shit". Affronted, I hastily defended my book and said that while it was no Pulitzer Prize winner, it wasn't bad if one was in the mood for a casual and uncomplicated read. He swore a little more, exuding uneducated judgment, before I asked him what kind of book was his cup of tea. I don't know why I was surprised by his answer, indeed I think most fans of Twilight have single figure Intellectual Quotients. But there it was. I stifled my laughter when I realised he was serious. Twilight, the worst of all sins.
But wait, it gets worse.
He hadn't even read Twilight. He was spurting his love of Stephenie Meyer's godawful series by way of comparing her books (which he hadn't read) to my book (which he also hadn't read). He was basing the quality of the Twilight books on the merits of the movies (which was even more surprising to me, as I didn't know the movies had merits. Then again, I've only seen the first one, and felt unqualified to comment. In hindsight, I really needn't have worried.) I suggested he read the books before comparing them to other books, to which he replied that he had started reading the first book and couldn't finish it. I suspect there were too many big words for him. He said he just didn't like reading. I proposed he read a book before telling others their own looked like a poor recommendation.
Naturally, the discussion turned to a war between Twilight and Harry Potter. I felt well armed with my arguments on literary style, character development and morals. Having read all seven Harrys and (unfortunately) those four awful vampire books, my debate was strong. So well formed was my argument that a fellow commuter chimed in and agreed with me. This was an argument I could not lose, even if it was against an idiot! What pride, what joy, my new comrade and I would shut this imbecile up with reasoned argument and educated opinion. He scratched his tattooed neck as I used words too lengthy for his comprehension (such as "wizard" and "cat"), and I revelled in the camaraderie I felt with this other fellow who had taken up my cause.
Apparently, however, I had chosen the wrong team mate for my debate. He promptly threw up all over the train carriage and excused himself from the conversation. Never mind, I at least had an excuse to move to another carriage and away from Captain Twi-hard. But of course he followed me. Then told me the rest of his life story; his loves, his losses, his illegitimate child. He really did. He was excruciating. And all I wanted was to read my book!
I began thinking I shouldn't have brought a book with me in the first place, purely so it would be impossible to interrupt my reading (a sure way to ruin my day). But if I hadn't brought a book at all, this episode never would have taken place. I would've missed out on yet another precious western suburbs moment.
And wouldn't my life be poorer for it.
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Dr Ernid T. Learnid: the biography
Each time I see a new (auto)biography come out on some B-grade celebrity, I have a feeling a better book dies. Not in the same way as the classics commit suicide each time a young reader opens "Twilight", but a piece of literature dies all the same. And they always have some dull title such as "My Life". At least they could try and be clever, like David Attenborough calling his "Life on Air" in reference to his "Life" series of documentaries, for example "Life in Cold Blood". I am not interested in reading "My Life", whether it's the story of Bart Cummings, Adam Gilchrist, Brett Lee (seriously, what's with the cricketers?), Helen Keller, Bill Clinton, Jane Fonda, Leon Trotsky, Fidel Castro, Serena Williams, Brendan Sheerin (who?), Isadora Duncan or Magic Johnson. Admittedly Helen Keller's life sounded pretty interesting, but at least she had an excuse for an unoriginal title. I would assume that the others were also deaf and blind if they couldn't think of anything better, or that as they are not known for their literary skills, their editors could do better. Calling your memoirs "My Life", while accurate, is unoriginal and doesn't scream "read me". Not to mention there's really no way of trying to convince the reader it might actually be interesting. And some of these peoples' lives just don't sound interesting. Additionally, if I didn't have reason enough not to read Tony Blair's book, the title "A Journey" threw me off completely.
In light of this, I started thinking of what I would call my autobiography. As I have no doubt that nobody anywhere would want to read it, it would need a more creative title than the stories of the lives of others we don't have much curiosity for. Here are some of them:
- Description of a Struggle (Makes me sound like a genius for referencing Kafka, could also boost sales if mistaken for Kafka's work of the same name. Would need to be released after my death to avoid impending law suit)
- You Idiot (One my friend Danni came up with, but I'm not sure she'll ever read this)
- How to Take a Fall (Hints at my enjoyment of Elliott Smith's music, and also the fact that I fell off a building and lived to tell the tale)
- Gathering no Moss (I don't actually like this one, but an elderly gentleman suggested it to me after we swapped stories on a flight home from some far flung country and I don't want him to think I forgot)
- The Tales of Ernid the Bard (Makes me sound like a wonderful writer of folklore, if not a tragic Harry Pot-head)
- Things I Only Told my Mother About Afterwards (Well, that is most things. I'm no idiot. It's pretty much a way of saying "story of my life" without sounding like a total bore)
- Booksmart Devil (Wouldn't you want to read a book written by someone so described?)
- Let's Get out of This Country (Perhaps this should be travel stories, or stories to read while travelling)
- Your New Favourite Book (Everyone in the world would buy it)
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar (It would already have sold a trillion copies)
Now quick, go out and buy it before it sells out! It will certainly beat any book called "My Life".
In light of this, I started thinking of what I would call my autobiography. As I have no doubt that nobody anywhere would want to read it, it would need a more creative title than the stories of the lives of others we don't have much curiosity for. Here are some of them:
- Description of a Struggle (Makes me sound like a genius for referencing Kafka, could also boost sales if mistaken for Kafka's work of the same name. Would need to be released after my death to avoid impending law suit)
- You Idiot (One my friend Danni came up with, but I'm not sure she'll ever read this)
- How to Take a Fall (Hints at my enjoyment of Elliott Smith's music, and also the fact that I fell off a building and lived to tell the tale)
- Gathering no Moss (I don't actually like this one, but an elderly gentleman suggested it to me after we swapped stories on a flight home from some far flung country and I don't want him to think I forgot)
- The Tales of Ernid the Bard (Makes me sound like a wonderful writer of folklore, if not a tragic Harry Pot-head)
- Things I Only Told my Mother About Afterwards (Well, that is most things. I'm no idiot. It's pretty much a way of saying "story of my life" without sounding like a total bore)
- Booksmart Devil (Wouldn't you want to read a book written by someone so described?)
- Let's Get out of This Country (Perhaps this should be travel stories, or stories to read while travelling)
- Your New Favourite Book (Everyone in the world would buy it)
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar (It would already have sold a trillion copies)
Now quick, go out and buy it before it sells out! It will certainly beat any book called "My Life".
Thursday, 23 June 2011
The burdens of being upright
If I were an animal, I think I would be a shark. Slinking around the ocean like the slinkies of the sea. And I do like slinkies. They are a lot like some people I know: pointless and useless, but they bring a smile to my face when I push them down the stairs.
Speaking of being pushed down stairs, a few months ago I had the displeasure of falling off a balcony. After dislocating my jaw, a fracture in my back, and breaking it in three places, and shattering all the bones in one arm, I began thinking I might prefer the life and style of an animal. Or an inanimate object. I soon ruled out the latter, however, after the realisation that the only object I would really like to be is a slinky, and this would not help me greatly when falling off balconies. And as I am already adept at picking myself up uninjured at the bottom of a staircase, my life as a slinky would be somewhat redundant.
But who ever heard of a shark falling off an eight metre high balcony? Not I, rabbi. So shark it will be.
Or at least it would, if the surgeons had asked my opinion before performing life-and-limb-saving surgery. Waking up thirty hours later with little memory of the previous day's events, the question burning on my lips was, naturally, to do with body modification. The nurse looked at me quizzically as my puffy face mumbled...
..."Am I going to get a hook?"
"No sweetie, your arm's still there."
At the time, I was rather pleased to still have four limbs. In fact, I still am. This is the second time in two years I have nearly lost an important appendage, and thanks to Dr Ringo at the hospital in Dar es Salaam and Dr Beard here in Sydney, my left arm and right leg remain, for the most part, in tact. However, thanks to many weeks musing while in hospital and the suggestions of some of my favourite friends, I am beginning to realise that precision surgery is rather limiting itself. I am naturally impressed the doctors managed to tape my body back together, and can't wait to go to the airport and set off metal detectors with my new titanium-enforced body. Nevertheless, I have some suggestions and even blueprints of ideas for further surgery I may need. The doc wants to do a bone graft, though I'm leaning somewhat towards a hook.
Unless you know Harry Potter (which I don't), it's impossible to transfigure your body into a shark (it's true, I looked it up). My dreams of becoming a shark, immune to balcony-related injuries the world over, have been quashed, and I'm looking for the next best thing. I had many theories as to how they patched me up in the hours following The Fall, including a very serious one about skin from my leg being put in my mouth. It was the most logical conclusion as I had a dressing on my leg and a mysterious flap of skin keeping my face together from the bottom lip down. I was seriously impressed, until I found out that skin grafts from leg to lip are just not done. Nevertheless, the nickname "Leg Lip" was inspired, and the term of endearment is sure to last many years to come. Thanks Amzzz.
Amzzz is also insistent that if and when I have a bone graft to my arm, the source bone comes from my butt. Determined that Bum Arm not become a myth like the fabled Leg Lip, I have a good mind to ask my surgeon if this is indeed possible. But the possibilities do not end there. If acquiring a hook is out of the question, I am adamant that the metal in my arm be refashioned in the shape of a gun. If one cannot be surgically modified to reflect a shark, a mock-terrorist might be fun. Or perhaps the metal in my arm could extend and shoot between my fingers, a la Wolverine.
Wolvernid.
Leg Lip, Bum Arm Wolvernid.
Alas, my next visit with the surgeon is five weeks away. My ingenious ideas shall have to wait until then, although I am keen to capitalise on this opportunity to draw up more thorough references. In the meantime, the dentist and his drills eagerly await the fast approaching chance to recreate my winning smile. The crooked grin, I can live with, but the hobo teeth are most unfortunate. No Janey, it does not make me look happy, it makes me look like a bogan. A bogan who can't win a fight. And has to use an infant toothbrush and carry their own supply of straws.
My body's awesome.
Speaking of being pushed down stairs, a few months ago I had the displeasure of falling off a balcony. After dislocating my jaw, a fracture in my back, and breaking it in three places, and shattering all the bones in one arm, I began thinking I might prefer the life and style of an animal. Or an inanimate object. I soon ruled out the latter, however, after the realisation that the only object I would really like to be is a slinky, and this would not help me greatly when falling off balconies. And as I am already adept at picking myself up uninjured at the bottom of a staircase, my life as a slinky would be somewhat redundant.
But who ever heard of a shark falling off an eight metre high balcony? Not I, rabbi. So shark it will be.
Or at least it would, if the surgeons had asked my opinion before performing life-and-limb-saving surgery. Waking up thirty hours later with little memory of the previous day's events, the question burning on my lips was, naturally, to do with body modification. The nurse looked at me quizzically as my puffy face mumbled...
..."Am I going to get a hook?"
"No sweetie, your arm's still there."
At the time, I was rather pleased to still have four limbs. In fact, I still am. This is the second time in two years I have nearly lost an important appendage, and thanks to Dr Ringo at the hospital in Dar es Salaam and Dr Beard here in Sydney, my left arm and right leg remain, for the most part, in tact. However, thanks to many weeks musing while in hospital and the suggestions of some of my favourite friends, I am beginning to realise that precision surgery is rather limiting itself. I am naturally impressed the doctors managed to tape my body back together, and can't wait to go to the airport and set off metal detectors with my new titanium-enforced body. Nevertheless, I have some suggestions and even blueprints of ideas for further surgery I may need. The doc wants to do a bone graft, though I'm leaning somewhat towards a hook.
Unless you know Harry Potter (which I don't), it's impossible to transfigure your body into a shark (it's true, I looked it up). My dreams of becoming a shark, immune to balcony-related injuries the world over, have been quashed, and I'm looking for the next best thing. I had many theories as to how they patched me up in the hours following The Fall, including a very serious one about skin from my leg being put in my mouth. It was the most logical conclusion as I had a dressing on my leg and a mysterious flap of skin keeping my face together from the bottom lip down. I was seriously impressed, until I found out that skin grafts from leg to lip are just not done. Nevertheless, the nickname "Leg Lip" was inspired, and the term of endearment is sure to last many years to come. Thanks Amzzz.
Amzzz is also insistent that if and when I have a bone graft to my arm, the source bone comes from my butt. Determined that Bum Arm not become a myth like the fabled Leg Lip, I have a good mind to ask my surgeon if this is indeed possible. But the possibilities do not end there. If acquiring a hook is out of the question, I am adamant that the metal in my arm be refashioned in the shape of a gun. If one cannot be surgically modified to reflect a shark, a mock-terrorist might be fun. Or perhaps the metal in my arm could extend and shoot between my fingers, a la Wolverine.
Wolvernid.
Leg Lip, Bum Arm Wolvernid.
Alas, my next visit with the surgeon is five weeks away. My ingenious ideas shall have to wait until then, although I am keen to capitalise on this opportunity to draw up more thorough references. In the meantime, the dentist and his drills eagerly await the fast approaching chance to recreate my winning smile. The crooked grin, I can live with, but the hobo teeth are most unfortunate. No Janey, it does not make me look happy, it makes me look like a bogan. A bogan who can't win a fight. And has to use an infant toothbrush and carry their own supply of straws.
My body's awesome.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
I am a travel agent...
....I have advance degrees in accounting, public relations, marketing, business building, computer science, civil engineering, and Swahili.
I am a travel agent....Of course I remember the reservation you booked six years ago, even though you don't have a confirmation number and you think it was made under a last name that begins with a T.
I am a travel agent....It's no problem for me to give you seven connecting non-smoking poolside suites with 2 king beds and 4 rollaways in each, and yes, it is my fault that the hotel does not have a helicopter pad.
I am a travel agent....I speak all languages and have visited Every destination.
I am a travel agent....It's obvious to me when you book your reservation for Friday, you really mean Saturday.
I am a travel agent....My company has entrusted me with financial information, and yet I can't tell you why your hotel bill for March 1989 had a 50p phone call because, of course, you shouldn't have to pay for calls.
I am a travel agent....I understand that Joe Blow Ltd. is a vast empire and will make or break my agency.
I am a travel agent....Yes, I am lying when I say there are no seats left at the lowest price.
I am a travel agent....No, it's not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms at the hotel you want, and this time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad!
I am a travel agent....I am capable of checking fares for three people, taking five reservations and answering fifteen calls simultaneously.
I am a travel agent....I always know where to find the best vegetarian, kosher, and Mongolian barbecue restaurants.
I am a travel agent....I know exactly what to do in all cities without spending money.
I am a travel agent....I take responsibility for airline food, traffic jams,rental car flat tires, weather, hotel locations, and the national economy.
I am a travel agent....Of course I can fit you into the hotel at the special corporate rate because you are affiliated with the Blackburn North Lawn Bowls club.
I am a travel agent... I am never offended when I spend 10 hours researching a 12 day Europe itinerary only to hear you say you "booked it yourself over the internet and saved £30!" I also never gloat when you call back to say the rate was sold out or that you are stuck in the middle of no where since they cancelled your flight and you cannot "call" your internet provider to be reprotected on another flight.
I am a travel agent... I love when people walk up to me at parties and out of the blue expect me to know the latest airlines fares from Melbourne to Ibiza via Byron Bay, the Maldives and Nairobi "off the top of my head".
I am a travel agent... I love that everyone assumes I get to travel everywhere for free and when I do get to take advantage of a perk people act like it is a sin against nature. If you ask me to get you the rate at! my "travel agent discount" I will kill you.
I am a travel agent...Don't bother telling me any dates or cities since I am a mind reader and already have the reservation in my crystal ball before you can tell me.
I smile, empathise, sympathise, console, cajole, up-sell, down-sell, cross-sell, perform, sing, dance, make coffees and fix the printer.................. I am your travel agent!!
I am a travel agent....Of course I remember the reservation you booked six years ago, even though you don't have a confirmation number and you think it was made under a last name that begins with a T.
I am a travel agent....It's no problem for me to give you seven connecting non-smoking poolside suites with 2 king beds and 4 rollaways in each, and yes, it is my fault that the hotel does not have a helicopter pad.
I am a travel agent....I speak all languages and have visited Every destination.
I am a travel agent....It's obvious to me when you book your reservation for Friday, you really mean Saturday.
I am a travel agent....My company has entrusted me with financial information, and yet I can't tell you why your hotel bill for March 1989 had a 50p phone call because, of course, you shouldn't have to pay for calls.
I am a travel agent....I understand that Joe Blow Ltd. is a vast empire and will make or break my agency.
I am a travel agent....Yes, I am lying when I say there are no seats left at the lowest price.
I am a travel agent....No, it's not a problem for me to quickly construct several more guest rooms at the hotel you want, and this time I will not forget the helicopter landing pad!
I am a travel agent....I am capable of checking fares for three people, taking five reservations and answering fifteen calls simultaneously.
I am a travel agent....I always know where to find the best vegetarian, kosher, and Mongolian barbecue restaurants.
I am a travel agent....I know exactly what to do in all cities without spending money.
I am a travel agent....I take responsibility for airline food, traffic jams,rental car flat tires, weather, hotel locations, and the national economy.
I am a travel agent....Of course I can fit you into the hotel at the special corporate rate because you are affiliated with the Blackburn North Lawn Bowls club.
I am a travel agent... I am never offended when I spend 10 hours researching a 12 day Europe itinerary only to hear you say you "booked it yourself over the internet and saved £30!" I also never gloat when you call back to say the rate was sold out or that you are stuck in the middle of no where since they cancelled your flight and you cannot "call" your internet provider to be reprotected on another flight.
I am a travel agent... I love when people walk up to me at parties and out of the blue expect me to know the latest airlines fares from Melbourne to Ibiza via Byron Bay, the Maldives and Nairobi "off the top of my head".
I am a travel agent... I love that everyone assumes I get to travel everywhere for free and when I do get to take advantage of a perk people act like it is a sin against nature. If you ask me to get you the rate at! my "travel agent discount" I will kill you.
I am a travel agent...Don't bother telling me any dates or cities since I am a mind reader and already have the reservation in my crystal ball before you can tell me.
I smile, empathise, sympathise, console, cajole, up-sell, down-sell, cross-sell, perform, sing, dance, make coffees and fix the printer.................. I am your travel agent!!
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
An Invaluable Source
Check out my contribution to Bolivian travel plugs - an article written by Sasha Arms about prison tourism, for which I was interviewed regarding my San Pedro experience.
http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours
And you all called me crazy!
http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours
And you all called me crazy!
Monday, 3 May 2010
Thinks in Rhyme all the Time
If I were a frog, I would write a blog
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Things I love you more than...
...The scene at the end of a video game, especially if it's Mario
Knowing the answer on 'Wheel of Fortune'
Not standing behind tall people at gigs
Getting home just in time for neighbours
Vegetarian nachos with lots of jalapenos
Conributing a little known fact during Trivial Pursuit
Putting a toilet plunger on my knee and pretending it's a peg leg
When Steph curls/straightens/styles my hair
Grabbing an umbrella as I'm running out the door then actually needing it
Receiving a new threadless tee in the mail
Walking in heels and not falling over
Putting on bandaids when I do fall over in heels
Playing with a new piercing after it's stopped hurting
Not being able to see then remembering I have glasses and actually being able to see
Correcting the spelling of others
When my dogs don't do what they're told but are so cute I just don't care
Winning consecutive points in pool
Having both bananas AND strawberries so I can make delicious smoothies
Acually making said smoothies
Coffee with lots of powdered chocolate on top
Pretending I want to buy a twelve string guitar just so I can play the ones in the shop for free
Spinny chairs
Friends marathons
Going places I don't need to wear shoes
Really good mixed CDs
Not going to the dentist
Having a really good costume for a dress up party
A good sandwich
Frosty fruits
Playing bingo and the announcer saying "two fat ladies"
Colouring my lips with Smarties
Neighbours episode names
Hiding from you in department stores
When my chickens chase each other
Photos of pennyfarthings
Knowing the answer on 'Wheel of Fortune'
Not standing behind tall people at gigs
Getting home just in time for neighbours
Vegetarian nachos with lots of jalapenos
Conributing a little known fact during Trivial Pursuit
Putting a toilet plunger on my knee and pretending it's a peg leg
When Steph curls/straightens/styles my hair
Grabbing an umbrella as I'm running out the door then actually needing it
Receiving a new threadless tee in the mail
Walking in heels and not falling over
Putting on bandaids when I do fall over in heels
Playing with a new piercing after it's stopped hurting
Not being able to see then remembering I have glasses and actually being able to see
Correcting the spelling of others
When my dogs don't do what they're told but are so cute I just don't care
Winning consecutive points in pool
Having both bananas AND strawberries so I can make delicious smoothies
Acually making said smoothies
Coffee with lots of powdered chocolate on top
Pretending I want to buy a twelve string guitar just so I can play the ones in the shop for free
Spinny chairs
Friends marathons
Going places I don't need to wear shoes
Really good mixed CDs
Not going to the dentist
Having a really good costume for a dress up party
A good sandwich
Frosty fruits
Playing bingo and the announcer saying "two fat ladies"
Colouring my lips with Smarties
Neighbours episode names
Hiding from you in department stores
When my chickens chase each other
Photos of pennyfarthings
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Things in Transit
Dan has been pestering me to write memoirs. Or recount more travel stories, and he's sick of hearing about "that time in hospital". As are we all. I'll probably talk about it anyway. For now, here are the things I thinks of my airport experiences, where a lot of adventures begin.
There was one time I was at Sydney airport ready to go to New Zealand and my dad lost my boarding pass, but that in itself isn't much of a story. So I'll start with Lima, Peru. For some reason, the cheapest way to get from Cuzco, Peru, to La Paz, Bolivia, was via Lima. It's in completely the wrong direction and involves two flights, a 12 hour wait, and stretches about as far as my purse strings, so it was a deal. About the most exciting thing to do was sit in the food court and leech off the free wifi, which I did about as long as my dad could stand skyping me. Other than that, I wrote postcards. After cramming in as many stories about the Inca Trail as I could and ensuring I didn't waste the Peruvian stamps I had purchased with my precious Soles, I went hunting for a letter box and successfuly located one using my very best Spanish (ie. pointing to my postcards with a questioning expression). The round trip took all of about ten minutes, and on my return I found the patrons of the food court standing about 20 metres from where they previously had been sitting. Having missed the English announcements, and as the loudspeaker couldn't express itself through gesture or interpretive dance, I was at a loss. After some time, everyone went back to their seats. I looked around until I found my traveling companion and had (apparently) witnessed my first bomb scare. Someone had left a suitcase unattended, and while it was probably just a bag of dirty laundry, the authorities were taking no chances. I was quietly confident that a bomb big enough to blow up an airport would impact us somewhat even given our 20 metre buffer zone, though in the end it really was just a bag of someone's dirty laundry, and there was nothing to worry about. That was about the most exciting thing to happen that day.
Entering Brazil from Bolivia involved an overnight train trip lasting about 13 hours. We went through Bolivian immigration, though to officially and legally be in Brazil we had to drive another long while to the bus station and have our passports and visas checked (the Brazilian visa was a saga in itself, but that's for another day). They gave me my immigration slip, told me not to lose it, and nearly didn't stamp my passport. That would've been a fun story to explain on the way out, particularly with my lack of Portugese language skills. After hitching a ride on a truck, we made it to our destination. A few weeks later, on entry to Argentina, we discovered a flat tyre. Dorothy, a 64 year old British woman and I, stood by the side of the road trying to flag down a ride. Eventually a tour bus pulled over for us and gave us a lift. There were six spare seats and six stranded travelers. It was seriously meant to be. Back in Brazil, packing my old kit bag to leave old Rio, I discovered their domestic and international airports were not in the same place, but approximately 40km apart. My itinerary involved flying from Rio to Sao Paulo to Johannesburg to Cape Town. So... domestic or international? We asked Alberto and took his word for the domestic terminal. Good call. Now remember that immigration slip I was told not to lose? And if you lose it it's a US$95 fine or a black card against ever re-entering the country. Well, I didn't lose it, but for a while I thought I did. There was a little confusion over my ticket on reaching Johannesburg, though the airline was the only one not knowing what was going on, and touch down in Cape Town was as smooth as anything. Success. I did see a girl in a bit of a pickle as she didn't have her yellow fever certificate, but after that long in transit, I really didn't care.
Now the crossover from Zambia into Malawi was a good one. We drove eight hours one day so we were close to the border for the morning drive. Javier, the resident Mexican of the clan, had done everything by the book to be granted his visa, though on presenting all the appropriate documentation was told he had to drive nine hours back where we came from. Brilliant. With a little sweet talking from Mutiso, our Kenyan guide, he was allowed in for the day. A detour later, we waited around for a few hours while he went to the embassy. The embassy's lunch hour came, during which we did some more waiting. And a little bit more, before we found out what we already knew - he had done everything by the book, and was allowed into the country. Already behind schedule, you can imagine how excited we were by a road block en route to the Luwawa Forest. Just what we needed. It was kind of fun though - the Malawian president was coming through town and all the locals had come out to see him and cheer. Our white skin was a novelty and a lovely thing to behold. The president himself was dressed in something Elvis might wear but in blue, and preaching to the masses from the roof of a car. What a hunk. The road to the forest was long and bumpy after that, not to mention narrow. Our truck had to run over trees to pass another car.
And then getting on the plane in London I was all but cavity searched. Arriving home in Sydney, they asked if my guitar was the only wooden thing to declare and waved me through.
What a world.
There was one time I was at Sydney airport ready to go to New Zealand and my dad lost my boarding pass, but that in itself isn't much of a story. So I'll start with Lima, Peru. For some reason, the cheapest way to get from Cuzco, Peru, to La Paz, Bolivia, was via Lima. It's in completely the wrong direction and involves two flights, a 12 hour wait, and stretches about as far as my purse strings, so it was a deal. About the most exciting thing to do was sit in the food court and leech off the free wifi, which I did about as long as my dad could stand skyping me. Other than that, I wrote postcards. After cramming in as many stories about the Inca Trail as I could and ensuring I didn't waste the Peruvian stamps I had purchased with my precious Soles, I went hunting for a letter box and successfuly located one using my very best Spanish (ie. pointing to my postcards with a questioning expression). The round trip took all of about ten minutes, and on my return I found the patrons of the food court standing about 20 metres from where they previously had been sitting. Having missed the English announcements, and as the loudspeaker couldn't express itself through gesture or interpretive dance, I was at a loss. After some time, everyone went back to their seats. I looked around until I found my traveling companion and had (apparently) witnessed my first bomb scare. Someone had left a suitcase unattended, and while it was probably just a bag of dirty laundry, the authorities were taking no chances. I was quietly confident that a bomb big enough to blow up an airport would impact us somewhat even given our 20 metre buffer zone, though in the end it really was just a bag of someone's dirty laundry, and there was nothing to worry about. That was about the most exciting thing to happen that day.
Entering Brazil from Bolivia involved an overnight train trip lasting about 13 hours. We went through Bolivian immigration, though to officially and legally be in Brazil we had to drive another long while to the bus station and have our passports and visas checked (the Brazilian visa was a saga in itself, but that's for another day). They gave me my immigration slip, told me not to lose it, and nearly didn't stamp my passport. That would've been a fun story to explain on the way out, particularly with my lack of Portugese language skills. After hitching a ride on a truck, we made it to our destination. A few weeks later, on entry to Argentina, we discovered a flat tyre. Dorothy, a 64 year old British woman and I, stood by the side of the road trying to flag down a ride. Eventually a tour bus pulled over for us and gave us a lift. There were six spare seats and six stranded travelers. It was seriously meant to be. Back in Brazil, packing my old kit bag to leave old Rio, I discovered their domestic and international airports were not in the same place, but approximately 40km apart. My itinerary involved flying from Rio to Sao Paulo to Johannesburg to Cape Town. So... domestic or international? We asked Alberto and took his word for the domestic terminal. Good call. Now remember that immigration slip I was told not to lose? And if you lose it it's a US$95 fine or a black card against ever re-entering the country. Well, I didn't lose it, but for a while I thought I did. There was a little confusion over my ticket on reaching Johannesburg, though the airline was the only one not knowing what was going on, and touch down in Cape Town was as smooth as anything. Success. I did see a girl in a bit of a pickle as she didn't have her yellow fever certificate, but after that long in transit, I really didn't care.
Now the crossover from Zambia into Malawi was a good one. We drove eight hours one day so we were close to the border for the morning drive. Javier, the resident Mexican of the clan, had done everything by the book to be granted his visa, though on presenting all the appropriate documentation was told he had to drive nine hours back where we came from. Brilliant. With a little sweet talking from Mutiso, our Kenyan guide, he was allowed in for the day. A detour later, we waited around for a few hours while he went to the embassy. The embassy's lunch hour came, during which we did some more waiting. And a little bit more, before we found out what we already knew - he had done everything by the book, and was allowed into the country. Already behind schedule, you can imagine how excited we were by a road block en route to the Luwawa Forest. Just what we needed. It was kind of fun though - the Malawian president was coming through town and all the locals had come out to see him and cheer. Our white skin was a novelty and a lovely thing to behold. The president himself was dressed in something Elvis might wear but in blue, and preaching to the masses from the roof of a car. What a hunk. The road to the forest was long and bumpy after that, not to mention narrow. Our truck had to run over trees to pass another car.
And then getting on the plane in London I was all but cavity searched. Arriving home in Sydney, they asked if my guitar was the only wooden thing to declare and waved me through.
What a world.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
The Things I Does in Bolivia
Sunday 8th February 2009, San Pedro Prison, La Paz
Happily awoke this morning – nothing like the promise of a visit to prison to get you started! Dorothy and I found the prison alright – a big building, not particularly prison-like save the two small watchtowers on the corners, the police bus out front and the rifle-wielding guards standing non-chalantly around. We had been told that by loitering in the park opposite we'd be approached in no time with an invitation inside. Well, an hour passed during which our best loitering skills were put to use, but there was a line of locals at the door with large supplies of foodstuffs (onions, eggs, bread rolls etc.), and we began to think Sunday is perhaps for family and food supplies only, or the guards out the front were deterring potential break-in tourists. Needing to be in and out by 11:30, 10 o'clock rocked up and we very skeptically gave it 15 more minutes. At 10 past we were approached by a white lady with a smoky South African accent, who I was sure had been a tourist. Shadier characters had made eye contact with us but evidently for reasons other, unbeknownst to us. To finally be approached, especially as we began hatching plan B (buying tomatoes, mainly) was most exciting. This lady walked us straight in to her “office” on the inside, told us to hide our cameras on our persons (mine was too conspicuous in my pocket but fit down my pants and could be neatly concealed by my jacket), and after her coming back and forth a few times (and a sneaky bribe sent to the right people) we were let straight in!
Now this prison isn't any ordinary one (obviously). Inmates have to pay for their cells, meals etc. Everyone has a job: there are tour guides, artisans, chefs, hairdressers, carpenters, and plenty of drug dealers. In hindsight it's actually quite lucky security didn't bother checking my bag on the way in on account of the coca leaves I had (to make tea, though it is also the root of cocaine), albeit in a tiny quantity. The prison is just like an insular, smelly, dirty community. Wives and children live there too. There are churches, a school, pool rooms, cement courts for soccer and tennis, restaurants, stalls, and even advertising for Coca-Cola. Have to wonder how many kids brought up inside end up back there. They were pretty cute though and very happily took the lollies we gave them. Our guide, Ramiro, was 19 and in for drug trafficking. His English was pretty basic, and he has hopes of getting out, going to uni and becoming an English teacher. Best of luck to him. His friend who silently accompanied us was 25 and in for a murder he says he didn't do. It was a real snap back to reality to walk through a cafe-plaza type area and be told the surrounding cells belonged to murderers. Ramiro seemed to harbour a penchant for washing areas, showing us numerous bathroom and laundry facilities. We were also shown to a cement hole, kind of like a small pool. The explanation we were given was newcoming inmates were “initiated” with a chilly nighttime swim, though when Emma went all she was told was 3 prisoners were recently killed there. Convicted for paedophilia or rape or some such crimes, other inmates paid guards to bring in the dead men walking and then to leave. Lives are evidently fairly inexpensive commodities.
But the protocol of money exchange only perpetuates the problems of currency and values. The smaller cells constitute an upfront payment of US$120 – a substantial amount for a Bolivian prisoner, even moreso given the shoebox dimensions it actually buys, and loads more than I'd pay for the smell of sewage wherever you go. And the cells at the brighter end of the spectrum must be owned by the prison's own drug lords. The more they worsen their biggest problem, the better their living standards and hierarchical standing. Furthermore, a get out of jail card can be purchased for US$4000. Emma told us her guide was awaiting trial on trafficking charges, but not expecting a fair trial, was trying to raise the funds before his trial date. I wonder how.
Now I'm not an expert on criminal detainment, but this place seemed an easy escape. There was no barbed wire, Dorothy and I walked in and out without so much as a pat-down or bag check, and inmates don't even have uniforms. In fact, a group tunnelled their way to freedom quite recently. Given the murder last week, one can quite understand why. You're not allowed cameras inside, but given the only official guards are outside, in the watchtowers and at the entry (the guards on the inside are merely inmates trying to earn their keep), it was a very simple operation to get away with. We would've liked to have seen more but didn't have any more time. I particularly wanted to buy personalised bracelets made on the spot for Ben and I, but Ramiro didn't know the guy who did them (I had only been shown by Sam, one of the guys we had dinner with last night). We did see impressive chain wire sculptures and little metal buggies (VW), but to take them home would mean to break or damage them somehow on the way. Including tips and entry fee it was 275 Bolivianos, about AU$60. A huge amount of money by their standards, which apparently goes toward facilities for the children. But definitely the best thing I've seen in Bolivia thus far and I can't wait to read the book. The rest of the day has been a 3.5hr bus ride (had a lovely chat with Dorothy), went and got icecream (and a warm beer) and now on a 7.5hr BUMPY train ride, my excuse for the bad handwriting. A good day though, and certainly worth the 5 pages of my travel diary.
Happily awoke this morning – nothing like the promise of a visit to prison to get you started! Dorothy and I found the prison alright – a big building, not particularly prison-like save the two small watchtowers on the corners, the police bus out front and the rifle-wielding guards standing non-chalantly around. We had been told that by loitering in the park opposite we'd be approached in no time with an invitation inside. Well, an hour passed during which our best loitering skills were put to use, but there was a line of locals at the door with large supplies of foodstuffs (onions, eggs, bread rolls etc.), and we began to think Sunday is perhaps for family and food supplies only, or the guards out the front were deterring potential break-in tourists. Needing to be in and out by 11:30, 10 o'clock rocked up and we very skeptically gave it 15 more minutes. At 10 past we were approached by a white lady with a smoky South African accent, who I was sure had been a tourist. Shadier characters had made eye contact with us but evidently for reasons other, unbeknownst to us. To finally be approached, especially as we began hatching plan B (buying tomatoes, mainly) was most exciting. This lady walked us straight in to her “office” on the inside, told us to hide our cameras on our persons (mine was too conspicuous in my pocket but fit down my pants and could be neatly concealed by my jacket), and after her coming back and forth a few times (and a sneaky bribe sent to the right people) we were let straight in!
Now this prison isn't any ordinary one (obviously). Inmates have to pay for their cells, meals etc. Everyone has a job: there are tour guides, artisans, chefs, hairdressers, carpenters, and plenty of drug dealers. In hindsight it's actually quite lucky security didn't bother checking my bag on the way in on account of the coca leaves I had (to make tea, though it is also the root of cocaine), albeit in a tiny quantity. The prison is just like an insular, smelly, dirty community. Wives and children live there too. There are churches, a school, pool rooms, cement courts for soccer and tennis, restaurants, stalls, and even advertising for Coca-Cola. Have to wonder how many kids brought up inside end up back there. They were pretty cute though and very happily took the lollies we gave them. Our guide, Ramiro, was 19 and in for drug trafficking. His English was pretty basic, and he has hopes of getting out, going to uni and becoming an English teacher. Best of luck to him. His friend who silently accompanied us was 25 and in for a murder he says he didn't do. It was a real snap back to reality to walk through a cafe-plaza type area and be told the surrounding cells belonged to murderers. Ramiro seemed to harbour a penchant for washing areas, showing us numerous bathroom and laundry facilities. We were also shown to a cement hole, kind of like a small pool. The explanation we were given was newcoming inmates were “initiated” with a chilly nighttime swim, though when Emma went all she was told was 3 prisoners were recently killed there. Convicted for paedophilia or rape or some such crimes, other inmates paid guards to bring in the dead men walking and then to leave. Lives are evidently fairly inexpensive commodities.
But the protocol of money exchange only perpetuates the problems of currency and values. The smaller cells constitute an upfront payment of US$120 – a substantial amount for a Bolivian prisoner, even moreso given the shoebox dimensions it actually buys, and loads more than I'd pay for the smell of sewage wherever you go. And the cells at the brighter end of the spectrum must be owned by the prison's own drug lords. The more they worsen their biggest problem, the better their living standards and hierarchical standing. Furthermore, a get out of jail card can be purchased for US$4000. Emma told us her guide was awaiting trial on trafficking charges, but not expecting a fair trial, was trying to raise the funds before his trial date. I wonder how.
Now I'm not an expert on criminal detainment, but this place seemed an easy escape. There was no barbed wire, Dorothy and I walked in and out without so much as a pat-down or bag check, and inmates don't even have uniforms. In fact, a group tunnelled their way to freedom quite recently. Given the murder last week, one can quite understand why. You're not allowed cameras inside, but given the only official guards are outside, in the watchtowers and at the entry (the guards on the inside are merely inmates trying to earn their keep), it was a very simple operation to get away with. We would've liked to have seen more but didn't have any more time. I particularly wanted to buy personalised bracelets made on the spot for Ben and I, but Ramiro didn't know the guy who did them (I had only been shown by Sam, one of the guys we had dinner with last night). We did see impressive chain wire sculptures and little metal buggies (VW), but to take them home would mean to break or damage them somehow on the way. Including tips and entry fee it was 275 Bolivianos, about AU$60. A huge amount of money by their standards, which apparently goes toward facilities for the children. But definitely the best thing I've seen in Bolivia thus far and I can't wait to read the book. The rest of the day has been a 3.5hr bus ride (had a lovely chat with Dorothy), went and got icecream (and a warm beer) and now on a 7.5hr BUMPY train ride, my excuse for the bad handwriting. A good day though, and certainly worth the 5 pages of my travel diary.
Things About Sharks
Tuesday 10th March 2009
Dear Suth Efrican diary, and welcome to the most amazing experience you're ever likely to hear about!
After yesterday's disappointment, I was only cautiously optimistic as to what today had in store. Today was a moderately later start, with the bus collecting me at 6:30 and not 5:30, for the two hour drive which took 45 minutes longer. Thanks, roadworks. Nevertheless, on our arrival, Gaainsbai (literally “Goose Bay”) was sunny, calm, and practically inviting. Our boat set off into the sunshine, onboard: 25 passengers, 3 crew, and one shark cage. Passing several other boats already with anchors firmly dropped, we began the waiting game. After half an hour of our divemaster Viihann's actually highly interesting and informative monologue, someone spotted a shadow. The bait was out, the wetsuits hastily slicked on, and the cage tossed off the side. Having been denied the opportunity yesterday, I was most eager today. THE most eager, in fact, and I was the very first to be treading water in close proximity to the ocean's most feared predator. But if you're going to lose a limb, what better place than Shark Alley? And you certainly can't beat a good story!
The water was approximately 10-12 degrees, and while we were grateful for the wetsuits, we were somehow preoccupied as elongated shadows passed by us. There was a mix of accents and excited regional slang, the cage containing two Americans, sisters Meg & Kelly, two Irish mates, Owen & John, and my good self. At the command of the skipper (“SHARK UNDER BAIT!!!”) we simultaneously held tight to the metal grate surrounding us, held our breath, and plunged in with the highest of adrenaline-charged hopes. Then we all looked at each other, exchanged upward glances, and resurfaced. Did anyone see anything? Absolutely! But not anyone in the cage. Visibility was poor, and it was going to take some close contact to make this worth our while. Takes two, three, four & five proved exponentially more successful. Being furthest to the right and just where the bait was pulled in, I was in prime position. I saw a great big grey thing move swiftly past me a number of times. Then the air pockets in my wetsuit booties let out, allowing streams of bubbles a free path up my pants, causing the most unsettling of sensations, particularly when one has just encountered a Great White. I know, I know, the likelihood of a shark being in the cage with me was slim to none, but having seen a dorsal fin flip over and FELT a tail fin surge of water in my begoggled face, the cage itself was starting to feel about as secure as a shopping trolley.
Back with our heads above water to gawk and grin at one another as we caught our breath, the next sighting caught all of us, including those on board, literally out of the blue. Our eyes just at water level, the same shark lunged forward, straight toward us, swerving off as the skipper pulled the bait away at the last second. Yells of “whoa!” and “holy crap!” and other far less savoury remarks could be heard as we wriggled inside our wetsuits, somewhere between diving back down and weeing our collective pants. One more less visible go and it was out of the cage for us. Corey, the Canadian who missed out with us yesterday, was up next with a new team of four ambitious thrillseekers. And if we had a memorable experience, theirs was even better! On one of their shark's latter approaches, it physically hit the side of the cage and manoeuvred itself around the corner, brushing up against several cagees in its path. Truthfully, it was probably a better view from the boat itself, but to suddenly be rubbed against by a three metre Great White... they were all appropriately thrilled! Thankfully the 25kg of legally allocated bait was used up before we needed to contemplate throwing anyone over. The other boats moved in to pinch our area, but probably they had the wrong tactic. Losers. Summarising the day, Viihaan told us we had three sharks in total, two of them around 2.5m in length and the other around the 3m mark. All females, and all young. None of the other four or five boats out there with us saw anything, at least not while we were there. Our day was topped off with beer and wine, though a Great White encounter is definitely part of a private collection.
Dear Suth Efrican diary, and welcome to the most amazing experience you're ever likely to hear about!
After yesterday's disappointment, I was only cautiously optimistic as to what today had in store. Today was a moderately later start, with the bus collecting me at 6:30 and not 5:30, for the two hour drive which took 45 minutes longer. Thanks, roadworks. Nevertheless, on our arrival, Gaainsbai (literally “Goose Bay”) was sunny, calm, and practically inviting. Our boat set off into the sunshine, onboard: 25 passengers, 3 crew, and one shark cage. Passing several other boats already with anchors firmly dropped, we began the waiting game. After half an hour of our divemaster Viihann's actually highly interesting and informative monologue, someone spotted a shadow. The bait was out, the wetsuits hastily slicked on, and the cage tossed off the side. Having been denied the opportunity yesterday, I was most eager today. THE most eager, in fact, and I was the very first to be treading water in close proximity to the ocean's most feared predator. But if you're going to lose a limb, what better place than Shark Alley? And you certainly can't beat a good story!
The water was approximately 10-12 degrees, and while we were grateful for the wetsuits, we were somehow preoccupied as elongated shadows passed by us. There was a mix of accents and excited regional slang, the cage containing two Americans, sisters Meg & Kelly, two Irish mates, Owen & John, and my good self. At the command of the skipper (“SHARK UNDER BAIT!!!”) we simultaneously held tight to the metal grate surrounding us, held our breath, and plunged in with the highest of adrenaline-charged hopes. Then we all looked at each other, exchanged upward glances, and resurfaced. Did anyone see anything? Absolutely! But not anyone in the cage. Visibility was poor, and it was going to take some close contact to make this worth our while. Takes two, three, four & five proved exponentially more successful. Being furthest to the right and just where the bait was pulled in, I was in prime position. I saw a great big grey thing move swiftly past me a number of times. Then the air pockets in my wetsuit booties let out, allowing streams of bubbles a free path up my pants, causing the most unsettling of sensations, particularly when one has just encountered a Great White. I know, I know, the likelihood of a shark being in the cage with me was slim to none, but having seen a dorsal fin flip over and FELT a tail fin surge of water in my begoggled face, the cage itself was starting to feel about as secure as a shopping trolley.
Back with our heads above water to gawk and grin at one another as we caught our breath, the next sighting caught all of us, including those on board, literally out of the blue. Our eyes just at water level, the same shark lunged forward, straight toward us, swerving off as the skipper pulled the bait away at the last second. Yells of “whoa!” and “holy crap!” and other far less savoury remarks could be heard as we wriggled inside our wetsuits, somewhere between diving back down and weeing our collective pants. One more less visible go and it was out of the cage for us. Corey, the Canadian who missed out with us yesterday, was up next with a new team of four ambitious thrillseekers. And if we had a memorable experience, theirs was even better! On one of their shark's latter approaches, it physically hit the side of the cage and manoeuvred itself around the corner, brushing up against several cagees in its path. Truthfully, it was probably a better view from the boat itself, but to suddenly be rubbed against by a three metre Great White... they were all appropriately thrilled! Thankfully the 25kg of legally allocated bait was used up before we needed to contemplate throwing anyone over. The other boats moved in to pinch our area, but probably they had the wrong tactic. Losers. Summarising the day, Viihaan told us we had three sharks in total, two of them around 2.5m in length and the other around the 3m mark. All females, and all young. None of the other four or five boats out there with us saw anything, at least not while we were there. Our day was topped off with beer and wine, though a Great White encounter is definitely part of a private collection.
Monday, 7 December 2009
Travel Things That Happens
In list form, some of the strange things that happens during travels.
New Zealand: age five, discovered snow was cold
USA: life threatened by aggravated junkie
Canada: saw racoon. It was the strangest looking animal I had seen to date
Japan: bitten by deer
Austria: fell down Alp...
Germany: ...and ended up in hospital
Mexico: met Bart Simpson wearing a sombrero
Peru: bomb scare
Bolivia: bribed way into prison
Argentina: hitch-hiked
Brazil: piranha fishing
South Africa: swam with Great White Sharks
Namibia: ate caterpillars. And faceplanted going 67km/hr down a sand dune
Botswana: chased by baboon
Zambia: bunjee jumped over Victoria Falls and into...
Zimbabwe: sighted perfectly circular rainbow
Malawi: given love potion by witchdoctor
Tanzania: five days in hospital and nearly an amputation
Kenya: saw cement mixer truck tip over
England: toothpaste stolen by schizophrenic backpacker
Scotland: shook hands with cop after being asked to step out of fountain
Australia: all the things that Ernid thinks
New Zealand: age five, discovered snow was cold
USA: life threatened by aggravated junkie
Canada: saw racoon. It was the strangest looking animal I had seen to date
Japan: bitten by deer
Austria: fell down Alp...
Germany: ...and ended up in hospital
Mexico: met Bart Simpson wearing a sombrero
Peru: bomb scare
Bolivia: bribed way into prison
Argentina: hitch-hiked
Brazil: piranha fishing
South Africa: swam with Great White Sharks
Namibia: ate caterpillars. And faceplanted going 67km/hr down a sand dune
Botswana: chased by baboon
Zambia: bunjee jumped over Victoria Falls and into...
Zimbabwe: sighted perfectly circular rainbow
Malawi: given love potion by witchdoctor
Tanzania: five days in hospital and nearly an amputation
Kenya: saw cement mixer truck tip over
England: toothpaste stolen by schizophrenic backpacker
Scotland: shook hands with cop after being asked to step out of fountain
Australia: all the things that Ernid thinks
Monday, 23 November 2009
Thinks about Backpackers' Hostels
Somewhere in the world (London) is someone (me) with a computer and a story. Not a particularly good one, but it is one of the things I thinks, and that's what this blog is about.
"Somewhere in the world" is currently a backpackers' hostel. I have stayed in a number of these, and while it smells like beer and urine, this one feels like a sort of home. The people are honest and friendly, and the 20 others (yeah, that many) in my room are, for the most part, good eggs. A few nights ago I was the talk of the town. Well, I had a guitar and could play a few popular tunes. And since everyone can play at least one song on geetar, everyone I allowed to borrow Gretchen (said guitar) was ready to worship me. Girl with guitar is queen of hostel. Anyway, after singing my little heart out, I went to bed yet could not sleep. Probably because the fellow in the bed above mine was talking, talking, talking away. I thought he was on the phone. He was then politely asked to take it outside, then sworn at, then yelled at. He kept on going. And going and going like an Energizer bunny. There wasn't much stopping him. The rest of us stumbled out of bed the next morning cursing said fellow, then the next night he was considerably better. Also, he was taken kicking and screaming (no less) by the police during the night, as it turned out he had been smoking dope in the room. His absence probably contributed to a better night's sleep.
Following morn I was happily munching on my cornflakes when a hostel buddy asked if I could do him a favour. Sure, I'm always one for helping out. Favour turned out to be "what's yours and what's crazy guy's?". Sleep-talker had evidently taken a few of my posessions. While my valuables were stashed away in a locker, all of mine that was taken (relocated, really) was a pair of socks, my toothpaste, coat and towel. It's not even a nice towel. It's pink and has Lamb Chop on it. And the pink is the kind of pink that's also kind of orange, so it's not even a nice kind of pink. Stephi bought it for me because nobody in their right mind could possibly covert it. This chap wasn't in his right mind, I can confidently distinguish, if he stole my towel.
Having recovered my towel, toothpaste etc. (it was a fun shower that morning), I was out of the woods. Or was I? While doing my laundry, another girl said to herself something to the effect of "oh it's not dry", referring to some items of clothing she had recently washed. Being the considerate being that I am, I offered my turn at the drier to remedy her situation. She quite willingly accepted. Come the next morning I still had one of her shirts, then attempted to return it to her, while she began to explain the hallucinogenic fits she had been having. And she has nowhere to go. And maybe she'll go back to Norway. And she needs to go to Edinburgh, so should she get the bus or a taxi to Victoria station? After an hour or so I calmed her down and put her (and her 5 suitcases plus guitar) in a taxi. Fingers crossed for you, crazy lady.
All things considered, trips of interest are trips of worth. I have my towel back and even did something cultural today... Seriously, who needs this five star business?
Having said all of the above, hostels mean friends. Not long ago I was delving into my locker and began chatting with a girl sitting with her belongings sprawled all over the place. We got chatting. She was flying back to the USA the following day, though had tickets to see Ingrid Michaelson tonight, but needed to phone them to confirm. So I offered her my phone. She gave me the other ticket. It was great
Thumbs up for adventures!
"Somewhere in the world" is currently a backpackers' hostel. I have stayed in a number of these, and while it smells like beer and urine, this one feels like a sort of home. The people are honest and friendly, and the 20 others (yeah, that many) in my room are, for the most part, good eggs. A few nights ago I was the talk of the town. Well, I had a guitar and could play a few popular tunes. And since everyone can play at least one song on geetar, everyone I allowed to borrow Gretchen (said guitar) was ready to worship me. Girl with guitar is queen of hostel. Anyway, after singing my little heart out, I went to bed yet could not sleep. Probably because the fellow in the bed above mine was talking, talking, talking away. I thought he was on the phone. He was then politely asked to take it outside, then sworn at, then yelled at. He kept on going. And going and going like an Energizer bunny. There wasn't much stopping him. The rest of us stumbled out of bed the next morning cursing said fellow, then the next night he was considerably better. Also, he was taken kicking and screaming (no less) by the police during the night, as it turned out he had been smoking dope in the room. His absence probably contributed to a better night's sleep.
Following morn I was happily munching on my cornflakes when a hostel buddy asked if I could do him a favour. Sure, I'm always one for helping out. Favour turned out to be "what's yours and what's crazy guy's?". Sleep-talker had evidently taken a few of my posessions. While my valuables were stashed away in a locker, all of mine that was taken (relocated, really) was a pair of socks, my toothpaste, coat and towel. It's not even a nice towel. It's pink and has Lamb Chop on it. And the pink is the kind of pink that's also kind of orange, so it's not even a nice kind of pink. Stephi bought it for me because nobody in their right mind could possibly covert it. This chap wasn't in his right mind, I can confidently distinguish, if he stole my towel.
Having recovered my towel, toothpaste etc. (it was a fun shower that morning), I was out of the woods. Or was I? While doing my laundry, another girl said to herself something to the effect of "oh it's not dry", referring to some items of clothing she had recently washed. Being the considerate being that I am, I offered my turn at the drier to remedy her situation. She quite willingly accepted. Come the next morning I still had one of her shirts, then attempted to return it to her, while she began to explain the hallucinogenic fits she had been having. And she has nowhere to go. And maybe she'll go back to Norway. And she needs to go to Edinburgh, so should she get the bus or a taxi to Victoria station? After an hour or so I calmed her down and put her (and her 5 suitcases plus guitar) in a taxi. Fingers crossed for you, crazy lady.
All things considered, trips of interest are trips of worth. I have my towel back and even did something cultural today... Seriously, who needs this five star business?
Having said all of the above, hostels mean friends. Not long ago I was delving into my locker and began chatting with a girl sitting with her belongings sprawled all over the place. We got chatting. She was flying back to the USA the following day, though had tickets to see Ingrid Michaelson tonight, but needed to phone them to confirm. So I offered her my phone. She gave me the other ticket. It was great
Thumbs up for adventures!
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