I'll see you anon.

End of the year.
It came as it always does, but the difference this year is that I can say that I am a third of the way through a degree. Most years, the later months brought about the realisation that although I am a year older, approaching thirty far more quickly that I ever thought possible, I still laugh at people when they trip over. I hoped a partially completed degree would get me respect and admiration from all those I passed, but it mostly got me addicted to 2 minute noodles and the phrase "I'll do it after I watch this episode of Star Trek".

There have been many changes. Mostly I find myself using words like sedulous, contumacious and even dude, whilst taking out pretentious books from the library. I've contemplated the idea of smoking a pipe on campus and searched for tweed jackets on eBay. I've spent a great portion of time sitting in the sun on Bush Court, eating Bubble O Bill's and laughing at my own jokes. I've received a decent amount of inquiring stares from the multitude of 18 year olds in my tutorials, who never thought that 25 year olds would ever wear bright yellow M&M's t-shirts.

Although I enjoyed my year, there are things that I would have liked to have changed, and maybe some stuff that I would have done. I would have spent more time in the library. I would have talked to many more people. I would have listened to my iPod less and smiled more. I would be more prepared but less worried. I would sleep more and be nicer. I guess that's why they give you three or so years to figure it out. 2010 will bring with it a smiling, studying, successful uber graduate. That's me.

Although this year is over and this blog was started with the intention to give others thinking of returning to study an idea of one person's first year experience, I shall continue on until I feel I am no longer humorous (and yes that means I think I am damn funny right now).

Writing is like free therapy. I get to be less insane and you get to laugh at me. It's a symbiotic relationship.

Okay. I know. I'm terrible.

So you would think I would have some great excuse for my recent blog absence. "Maybe she has been training to be a brain surgeon in her spare time", some of you may have been thinking but the truth is far less exciting. I went a little blank. Everything I wrote ended up being more like a Christmas shopping list, or an uninspired note that you write on the fridge to let your housemates know that the light upstairs in the hallway has blown. So instead of subjecting you all (Mum and Ben) to drivel while I am out there in the real world living it up with my red parking permit that I received as a prize for doing this blog, I kept silent. And you know silence can be good. Silence is when I get my good ideas. And silence can bring about order and even a little peace. So while I am brewing up something tasty for next week, here is my latest assignment that I submitted for my Creative Writing unit.

Enjoy.

I demand you to.

First Impressions

Her neon dress clutched desperately to her robust frame, slightly transparent in parts where the material struggled to contain what was inside. A chubby hand, rows of rings, sometimes two a finger, pulled at her hem. She exposed her white knickers to the waiting traffic at the crossroad, whether or not it was intentional or by accident wasn’t clear as she sat on the bench behind her, legs crossed, one animal print boot bobbing nervously in the air. Her tortoise shell glasses were pushed awkwardly forward, barely clinging to the tip of her nose, as she peered back and forth over the top of the lenses. They obviously spoiled her vision but I guess they were part of her look. Her long straw-like blond hair was held off her face with a multitude of plastic butterfly clips, some covered in glitter. Bangles, bent into slightly oblong shapes filled her wrists, while strings of brightly coloured beads slowly choked her as they wound tighter and tighter around the rolls of her neck. The contents of her bag had begun to leak out, but she didn’t seem to care. It was like her life was on offer to any who bothered to snatch it up. She knew they wouldn’t.

She looked vague, like she had switched off, feeling life was just too hard. She’d probably been brought up in a family with lots of other children. Quiet. Shy. Her only way of standing out was the outlandish clothes she wore. Her stamp of individuality. Life, in all likelihood, wouldn’t have gotten easier for her as she grew. Finding herself in and out of lover’s arms collecting addictions as she went. Alcohol would have been her drug of choice. Cheap and legal but still powerful enough to blur the hours of nothing into passing seconds. Like sleep, allowing escape and offering protection from stretching loneliness. She most probably spoke seldom, a lacking self-confidence convincing her she had nothing of interest to say.

I sat down on the bench beside her, giving her an encouraging smile, letting her know that there was someone out there who saw her and possibly even cared. Despite her strange appearance I could tell she was a good woman, just starved of the right conditions to thrive. Given the fortunate opportunities that I had, I was sure she would have turned out just like my Nanna.

I liked her.

“You a lesbian?”
My hand automatically flew up and felt my closely cropped hair and I laughed nervously at her bluntness.
“No”
“Short hair. No Makeup. Little bit chubby round the middle. You sure you ain't a lesbian?”
“Yep, pretty sure thanks.”
“Well I guess we can’t all be the pretty ones right? You know Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all. Ugly’s just natures way of separating us all so eventually the good lookin’ ones will survive.”

I was shocked that my Nanna-like creature could actually be so obnoxious. I couldn’t believe how wrong I was about her, but I nodded politely, actually hoping my silence would discourage her from continuing.

She spied my Coles green bag.
“It’s all about saving the fuckin environment these days”
“I know, that fucking environment. What’s it done for us lately?”
My sarcasm was lost on her and I realised that I had just fuelled her anger. I berated myself for attempting to be witty.
“Exactly! It’s getting hotter, which means I had to invest in a brand new wardrobe this summer. The environment gonna pay for that? Nah. And then I can’t even get a cleaning guy to come and clean the gunge off my pool so I can cool me’ self down. You wanna save the environment? Come round and clean me pool, that’s an environmental hazard I’d like to see cleaned. I’d donate to a guy rattling a tin for the freaking “Clean Our Pools Foundation”.

She elbowed me in the ribs, laughter shaking the Lycra covered rolls that tumbled down her midsection.

“Now just don’t get me started on those dole bludgers. I mean I have always…”
I jumped up, waving at an imaginary friend across the road, excusing myself before things could get worse.

I hated her.

Have the Vet Students lost their Bunnies?

There are bunnies.
Loose at Murdoch.

Spotted with my own eyes several times now. They aren't your regular 'curse Thomas Austin and his yearning for plentiful hunting sport' type rabbits, infested with mexamatosis, but your cuddly type rabbit, long floppy ears and sporting neat little blue jackets, straight out Beatrix Potter. Okay so I was lying about the jackets, but my point being is that if one of them came up to me and introduced itself as Peter Rabbit, I wouldn't be that surprised. They are obviously pet rabbits because on my second spotting I almost stood on one. It didn't flinch, just looked up at me lazily and then continued to chew away at a dying patch of grass.

I was captivated by this phenomenon. Who owned these rabbits? Had they escaped from being tortured with lipstick and blush by the Vet Students? (I forwardly apologise to any vet students reading. Please do not send me angry emails, because I am only kidding. Unless of course that is what you do down there in your secret section of the campus, which I am yet to explore, then I say "Shame on you". :)) Or had someone been followed to school one day, by not a lamb, as in Mary's case, but by a mob of random rabbits?

I enjoy my weekly rabbit spotting, each time adding a different bunny face to my mental collection of the Murdoch Rabbits. In fact I should consider creating a photographic account of these furry wonders. A double whammy, because I could then hand it is as my Photography portfolio due in a mere few weeks.

I only hope this Bunny Invasion doesn't get out of control and we end up with something like this.

If that happens, I may have to become an external student.

So if anyone has either spotted these bunnies, or has an explanation to why they are there, then please contact me. I must know.

I shall never call a cold ‘the flu’ again.

Growing up I always referred to a cold as ‘the flu’ knowing fully well that with it came far more pity and flat lemonade to soothe my ailing self. A cold seemed to be something that you could just work through. A cough here, a sniffle there. As long as you kept your bodily fluids to yourself people expected you to carry on as normal. The flu however involved sweating, soup and sympathy. Something that is far more desirable not only to a 10 year old trying to get out of the swimming carnival, where the only event they would compete in was the compulsory 25 metre doggy paddle, but to many an adult alike. Many an occasion in my working life have I called in sick, upgrading my cold to the flu simply to avoid the interrogation that comes when they think you’re faking it. Now I am not condoning calling in with a fake sickness, just simply to elevate your simple sickness to one that sounds far more worthy of a day in bed.

This being said, I, in my 25 years of life, have somehow managed to avoid the actual body aching, head exploding, elderly killing flu. So proud I was of this fact that I had considered making a t-shirt exclaiming this achievement, like some kind of demented expression of my resilience, reminiscent of a particular species of baboon that proudly displays a red splendour on it’s chest to suggest, to potential mates, his virility. Whether or not this would work for me was never determined as my t-shirt plans were recently dispelled by my first ever experience of The Flu.

It came quick, swiftly knocking me down while I was still convincing myself that I had just a cold. My head, thick and slow, shot pain behind my eyes and down my spine. Complete stillness brought no relief as bright lights filled my vision and tested my constitution. Chills plagued my body as I lay in trackies, a jumper and ugg boots, in front of the heater wrapped in a blanket, while thirst tormented me, as my stomach rejected water.

Nine days passed in a blur of tissues, vomit, self-pity and stacks of weekly DVD’s collected diligently by my housemate. After shlumping through the haze and beginning to come out the other side, drastically weakened, but well informed about the early years of Baywatch, my thoughts returned to assignments. Though The Flu had stopped my life for 9 days, it had unfortunately left uni life to continue on without me. A glance at my colour-coded timetables immediately informed me to the fact that I had 3 assignments due anon, each demanding my attention and intelligent thought immediately. I staggered at the idea of catching up, a seemingly impossible task that time would simply not permit me to complete. Falling behind was always a fear of mine, one extension granted would simply cut into the time I had allocated for the next assignment, pushing each one back until I found myself collecting shopping trolleys for a living.

I re-scheduled, I planned, I drew up even more colour coded tables hoping that their organisation would magically create more time. Each table spoke worse than the last, their conclusions all the same. I would have to put aside my fear and ask for a couple of extensions. As I typed the emails, instead of increasing my anxiety and causing me to research Ockey Straps and the Idiot’s Guide to Trolley Steering, I found myself relaxing, smiling oddly at my computer, whilst whistling nasally to myself, bringing on a post flu coughing fit. Once my extensions were granted and plausible timetables for their completion were drawn up I realised that perhaps extensions weren’t as scary as I had made them out to be. Just like Return to Oz, which I had rented out during The Flu, a movie that tormented and disturbed me as a child. Scenes of Wheelers and Queen Mombi with the 30 heads had spent 20 years polluting my mind and tainting my soul all because I had thought it was going to be just like the Wizard of Oz, with it’s dancing munchkins and shiny brick road, each turn celebrated with a catchy tune. How wrong I was. After so long of allowing Return to Oz to be placed in my mind along side horror flicks and deranged art works, I decided to give it a chance, after all I was a fully grown adult now. The first 20 minutes filled me with dread as each twist and turn in the plot brought back strong memories of fear, like certain smells or sounds can do. But as it progressed, although it was far darker than the original Wizard, it wasn’t as scary as my 5-year-old brain had thought it was. The experience that I had thought would be painful ended up being…well enjoyable. So although I may not find my assignments, complete with extensions, enjoyable, I no longer fear that falling a little behind and asking for help will necessarily end up with me asking “Do you want fries with that?”

Lecture substantiates hate for Aussie Idol

Now I don't have anything against music. Nor do I look down upon young people trying to transform their talent into a money filled lifestyle. Hell, if there was a show called "So You Think You Can Recite All The Words To The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy" I would be right there in front of the Burswood Dome at 4 in the morning, fully made up and dressed as an Elf from the Woodland Realm, ready to audition and praying to make it big. Yet Australian Idol makes me want to run way, become Amish and live out my days tending to wheat in Pennsylvania and wearing a cotton pinafore, simply to avoid ever having to watch this show. Why? Because it drains creativity from the souls of the heedless. They go in there to audition and, amongst all the people in weird costumes (some probably mistaking it for the auditions of my LOTR show) their singing reminiscent of either a jet plane taking off or the monotone strangulation of George W choking on a pretzel, they stand out because they can actually sing. Some quite well in fact. Some even play musical instruments which suggest they may have more then just a passing interest in music. You think to yourself maybe this year will be different? These people really seem like intelligent, talented individuals surely capable of producing music that doesn't fade into the background along with The Pussycat Dolls and all those folks who think putting a drum beat to an old song constitutes song writing. But alas, as the weeks continue and they are forced to sing other people's songs, dance around the stage in sometimes hideous and embarrassing outfits, their individual creative talents begin to trickle out of them. Firstly it's indistinguishable, but becomes blatantly obvious when the winner finally produces an album, so far removed from who they used to be but reflecting only who the show has made them. Which is whatever the record company thinks will market well to an audience made up mostly of teenage girls.

Now, today as I sat in a darkened lecture theatre, it's dim lighting and slight stuffy warmness far more conducive to sleep then learning, my hatred for Aussie Idol was justified. Last semester, when tackling a particularly tricky essay I was told by a tutor that you can really argue what ever point you desire as long as you can find someone credible to agree with you and reference them. So just like the moment when you finally come across an obscure book on the bottom shelf of the mustiest corner of the library, written completely in German, but once translated contains the gem of wisdom that supports your argument, which before that was completely unsubstantiated and your argument consisted of "because I think so", my lecturer provided me with the research material I needed to geekify my Aussie Idol argument. No longer did I have to just yell "but I don't like it" louder than those yelling "but I do like it". I had proof. I had someone who agreed with me. I had street cred. Or lounge room debate cred. Whatever you like to call it. He was talking about Post Modernism and in particular the notion of pastiche - the stealing, copying, borrowing of artistic works without any regard to it's meaning or cultural significance. The example was given of Aussie Idol where we watch them sing other people's songs, often without knowing or caring what it's about. Even the judges will say that they aren't engaging with the song. They are not creating. They are not trying to put across a message. They are simply imitating and we just don't care. Well I do, and I am sure others do as well. But now I have the proof. I knew I went to uni for a reason. To win arguments.

Aussie Idol has ruined my life in other ways too. I used to love Michael Jackson's "Can You Feel It", often alarming other drivers with my frantic car dancing, getting so worked up that I am sure other motorists thought I was perhaps having some kind of seizure and just in case, they changed lanes to avoid me. Along with strange looks, this song brought me joy. It's upbeat and makes you want to dance. I guess that's why Aussie Idol decided to use it on their advert. Either that or they have a secret and unfounded hate for me and decided to do it purely out of spite and are currently sitting behind their big mahogany desks, laughing their little asses of at my misery.

You decide.

We're Not Going To Make It

I live a 2 minute drive from uni. And though you would think that this may in fact encourage me to walk the mere 1.4 kilometers every day, my laziness prevails and I continue to pollute the environment by driving my car whilst putting all my vegetarian, recycling, 4-minute showing taking efforts to shame. I should be penitent but that's what 2 solid months of Star Trek watching will do to one's fitness levels. While I was training to climb to Mt Everest base camp, a fellow loon (aka those who wake up at 6 in the morning, put on a pair of hiking boots, fill a backpack full of water bottles and various other heavy stuff to then proceed to Jacob's ladder in Kings Park and scamper up and down a concrete stair case until it's time to go to work) told me that you can lose your fitness in a measly two weeks. It took me almost a year of training to get fit for Everest and after I conquering that mountain all it took for my newly found fitness to fail me was a couple of weeks eating Nepalese food with my hands, spending most of my time in a taxi/rickshaw/any mode of transport not involving my own personal movement and eating more Nepalese food with my hands. In fact I think that was the only time I moved. Hand from plate to mouth. All the while I was thinking that I would return to Perth a wonder woman and everyone would want to date me as I ran past them, my high altitude-trained lungs working at only half steam propelling me forward like a super hero. When I arrived home I found myself puffed as I struggled to pull my suitcase, visions of Super hero-dom vanishing swiftly like of those plates of food I had consumed only days before. I have never regained that fitness, there's nothing quite like the tallest mountain on earth to get you motivated and funnily enough running the city to surf really didn't cut it for me, so I remain teetering between exceptional laziness and a more moderate laziness. And getting back to the point, Star Trek marathons, involving superfluous snacks, encourage the former kind. Hence the driving.

As it takes me only minutes to drive to uni I often go home in the breaks between classes to make myself a sandwich that costs me only $1.40, instead of spending $7.95 for a funny tasting salad, a big tray of chips, or the world's most expensive apple. I have to save money to fund my eBay habit somehow. And today was one of those days in which I had drove to and from uni a couple of times. After my last class, iPod in, and with a swagger in my walk I strolled in the direction of the car park. Singing along to Marilyn Manson, wondering if it would be possible, like in the movies, to have a soundtrack to my day to day happenings. Cursing the hills as my calf muscles ached reminding me of the cringe you feel as a opera singer hits that high note. Uncomfortable and wondering if an injury will ensue. As I closed in on the car park I realised that I had no idea where I had parked. I had parked in two different areas that day and my surroundings were looking vague and unhelpful. Was it the first or second time that I parked illegally on the median strip? A red Saab caught my eye and I thought maybe I had parked next to it, subconsciously remembering it to avoid such a calamity. Alas, no. There was no car graced with an Apple sticker in sight. I began to worry that I would be forever traipsing the university car park, begging for extensions from passing tutors trying to get to their own cars, because I had never made it home and I didn't have all my books on me. Each row of cars looking identical to the next, I began to jog. Marilyn Manson began to fade in my ears and the strains of a new song began to emerge. I was hoping for something inspiring like "Your Car Is Just Round That Next Corner", you know, that country song by Ima Fullo Shit instead I got "We're Not Going To Make It" by the President's of the USA. My only response at this time was to sit down were I stood and refuse to move, oddly childish of me, but somehow cathartic. I felt my strength returning and as I lifted my head, and leaned on the nearest car for support I realised that that car was mine. I wiped away a tear, gave the tyre a small kick and went home.

The moral of the story....be childish. It works.

School's out for Summer....okay well winter actually, but no one wrote a song about winter.

Assignments delivered. Exams attended and hopefully completed with success. Old books put away and new ones taken their place, primed for the next semester along with a new timetable, it's colour coding matching the dividers in the pristine notebook sitting on my shelf. It's newness indicative of the new slate that the beginning of new units brings. The semester 1 information that I had fought so bravely to contain within my grey matter, begins slowly to leak out, leaving only remnants of that information, deemed important to remember for future reference. With one semester finished and seemingly never ending weeks till the new one begins, one begins to consider options for the "Hooray, I have finished my exams and have an awfully long time till I have to pick up another book that is not related to either Elves or Wizards and contort my brain into remembering things that it really wishes to forget, all the while creating plenteous excuses not to study" celebration. Some call it simply the "End of Semester" celebration, but I believe the former is a far more vivid and lively description.

Celebrations surrounded me, like geeks surrounding the newest release of World of Warcraft. Logging onto Facebook I saw multitudes of students preparing for the post semester wind up. Parties to the left and trips to Northbridge to the right. If I so desired I could have visited all the great party spots of Perth in, what was described on one event's pages, "the most awesome 10 hours of your life." As I didn't desire anything of the sort I began to consider what I could do in 10 hours that would blow these parties out of the water. It was easy. It was a given. There was no choice really. If anyone has a spare 10 hours and reason to celebrate, I could recommend only one thing. One thing to delight. To maximise those 10 hours in the most worthwhile way possible.

My post exam celebration was to be a Lord of the Rings Marathon. Who needs parties, loud music and alcohol when you could have 10 blissful hours crammed with Gandalf, Aragorn, several Hobbits and a convoluted story about the one ring to rule them all, one to to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them? I say no one. Lord of the Rings provides you with all the sustenance one needs for a post exam repose. It's full of iron, protein, Vitamin B12 and zinc, and so much more that it could be mistaken for Centrum. The only thing it's missing is artificial colourings and flavourings, saturated fat and a shitload of sugar, so being the responsible adult I am, I went shopping to ensure all my nutritional needs would be met......


With a belly full of Pineapple Hunks (okay I am sure they used to be called Chunks, not Hunks), and visions of far away lands enveloping me, creating warmth like a great pair of ugg boots, the next 10 hours of sheer delight were like a pat on the back for all the hard work I had put in over the previous 14 weeks, emptying my mind just enough to allow some room for next semester.

Frodo: "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened."
Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

Earth, Fire, Wind, Water.....Banana?

By your powers combined I am Captain Exam!



I have discovered the secret to a successful exam. No it's not copious amounts of studying or having the answers written up the inside of your left arm. Neither is it a proficient understanding of the topics covered in every unit. Although knowledge is of course a handy thing to have during exam week, if you want to really succeed, the secret is in pre exam sustenance. We've all heard the term 'brain food' spouted by our mothers and in the old Channel 9 Community Service announcement ads (for those too young to remember these TV wonders, please feel free to check out the You Tube video and be amazed http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-bRi1qHPVY) Food that makes you clever, witty and far more attractive to the opposite sex. Food that would transform a credit into a high distinction. Along with omega 3 packed fish and lycopene filled tomatoes, banana's are a brain boosting marvel and my preferred lifeboat in brain challenging times of need.

I guess they have almost become a bit of a superstition for me. Ever since I was in Year 10, when exams started to become more important then playing elastics in the playground, I have had a ritual of consuming a banana before each exam. The only time I remember not having a Potassium vessel prior to an exam, was a time I would rather forget. The experience was punctuated with memory loss, pencil biting and a unfortunate bout of snoring during reading time. Yes, I had discovered that bananas gives you sprightliness rivaling that of a cheerleading on the night of the big game, first rate memory like that that of an elephant (apparently they never forget) and intelligence so great as to attract the interest of Mensa.

This knowledge in hand I ensured that my fridge was stocked high with bananas and on the morning of my exam, as I crawled out of bed cursing the fact that my exam wasn't in the afternoon instead, I made myself a protein filled, instant smartness-inducing banana smoothie. Considering that my normal waking time was in fact 2 hours after this exam started, and I had only fallen asleep a mere 3 hours earlier, thanks to by banana brekkie I was surprisingly jovial and bright eyed as I approached the Gym. I wizzed through my exam in a banana induced euphoria, stopping only once to be lead to the bathroom like a prisoner. So strange it was to have someone standing outside the cubicle as you peed that I felt compelled to make a break for freedom, Shawshank style, by crawling through the sewerage system and make my way to Mexico. Alas, I allowed my 'prison' guard to lead my back to my table so I could finish my rant on Virtual Reality.

Post exam, as I reflected on my performance I realised that bananas, so great, yet so humble, could be a replacement for one of Captain Planet's Planeteer's powers. I mean all those who watched the show, along with being able to annoy many by singing the theme song, knew that Ma-ti's lame power of Heart did in fact suck. He was the brunt of so many Planet fans jokes and I believe that his power could quite easily be replaced by banana to the satisfaction of even the greatest of Captain Planet fansters. Who needs heart when you have the power of banana to increase your memory, intelligence and of course coolness?

By your powers combined, I am Captain Exam.

The sleeping patterns of uni life

Since beginning uni, I have slowly been sliding into a new sleeping pattern. No longer am I a slave to the conventions of full time working life. No longer do i follow a schedule set down by the 'man'. Each night staying up a little later and consequently each morning staying in bed that little bit longer, has led me to a consistent bed at 2am, waking at 10am kind of life. Which I adore. I have always abhorred mornings and found myself at my best and most humorous, thus productive, in the wee hours of the night. Now the only emerging problem I have stumbled across with my new found life is that shortly, once exams are over, I will be going back to full time work during the holidays, so I can fund my semester 2 study. Although my part time hours consist of lovely shifts that start at midday, alas my full time hours consist of heart-wrenching, nausea-inducing 6am shifts. YES 6AM!! As the inevitability of these horror shifts get closer and closer, I take a moment to reflect on the last time I had to do one of these murderous shifts.



The irritating and incessant beeping of my alarm startled my early morning dreams of table racing in an Egyptian restaurant, and the moonlight streaming through my vertical blinds reminded me that, for all intensive purposes, that it was technically still night time. The piercing LED’s of my alarm clock shouted out that it was in fact 4.30. This notion confused me as I was sure 4.30 only existed during the afternoon and I feared that if i stepped outside my house that I would be terrorised by the Langoliers, wanting to eat my flesh for being trapped in the time that doesn’t belong. These obviously logical and completely justified thoughts ran through my mind as I stumbled to my iBook to attempt to hack into ‘Michael’ the stupidly unprotected wireless network to check my email.

In between dry retching and sobbing sporadically I managed to shower, dress and jump onto my scooter. As I meandered through the dark and deserted streets, reminiscent of scenes from a horror movie depicting the world after a nuclear holocaust, a cluster of stars began to taunt me with their iridescence. “Look at us”, they gleefully shouted, “If we are still shining brightly, it must nighttime. bwaahahaha”. I looked away, tears glistening in my eyes and thoughts of “why me?” floating through my head. As I picked up speed, the early morning chill descended on my body. My thick wooley jacket, fit for the most arduous and wicked conditions as claimed by the young, fit, blond haired wonder employed by my local Kathmandu store, failed to live up to it’s description as my body began convulsing with the cold. Streams of air attacked at me from every direction. It snuck in under my collar and straight up my sleeves to then encircle my torso, almost creating some kind of bizarre wearable refrigerator. I begin to lose control of my body and the sound of my chattering teeth was magnified and echoed hauntingly throughout the confines of my helmet, while my hot breath steamed up the visor, making the passing cars mere blobs of shining light. My misery was palpable as I wandered into the empty bowels of the hospital, wondering whether the doctors who schedule such early appointments realise the effect they are having on my mental health.

And as I sit here now at my desk, full of red Bull but unfortunately not vodka, it takes all my strength and buddhist training not to start yelling, “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts like cancer!!!”

Art vs. Science – the Battle for Middle Earth, I mean Bush Court.

Those studying either art or science are like different species. So detached are they, that I, as an artsy kind of student, had to even look up the word species on Wikipedia to ensure my biological classification of both Art and Science students was technically correct. Even the definition I found “A species is often defined as a group of organisms capable of interbreeding and producing fertile offspring” suggested to me that I should stick to accepting dates only from those on ‘my’ side of Bush Court. Now coming from a household where all disciplines are well represented (Business, Pharmacy, Multimedia, Asian Studies, Nano-Science and Philosophy) you would think that I would be all into the ‘hand-holding, we are all the same on the inside’ hoohaa but my weekly foray to the dark side, otherwise known as the Science and Computing Building, starkly illustrates the differences that set us apart.

Each week I cross from the lush, pagoda-filled Social Science and Humanities side of the campus, with it familiar grassy knolls dotted with students lazily perusing their readers whilst sipping frappes, to the funny smelling building filled Science side of the campus, for one of my Foundation tutorials. As I step into the dark, cool and silent building, my anxiety levels rise as I worry that my lack of graphics calculator would distinguish me as an outsider. Whiteboards filled with equations line my passage to my class. The occasional open door reveals desks with sinks and people wearing lab coats, or a geeky master’s student, complete with pocket protector, busily preparing to teach a Physics class. I quicken my pace, eyes down, worried that at any moment, someone wearing safety goggles will pounce at me from one of these doors and demand that I must tell them the atomic weight of Bohrium, if I wish to proceed. This perverted version of Billy Goats Gruff has lead to me writing the periodic table on my left arm. You know, just in case.

I wonder if these science students feel the same way when they venture to ‘my’ side? Do they get worried that someone may ask them to name 4 influential artists of the 20th Century? Can there be love between Art and Science? Can an understanding that we all fear the other bridge the gulf that is Bush Court?

I say yes.

Jiminy Cricket

What is it like going back to study after quite a few years off? Apart from the drastic change in disposable income and the painful reintroduction to essay writing, I have had noticed an old friend slowly infiltrating my life. It began with dulcet whisperings, familiar to my ears yet strangely unknown, like a voice on the wind. Slowly this voice became louder, my friend announcing his presence with far more verbosity, traipsing through my mind wearing Doc Martins to bruise my very soul.

It was then I had to acknowledge that Jiminy Cricket had returned.

Now for those who have never heard of Pinocchio, he was a little wooden puppet brought to life, who had some issues with lying. He also had an acquaintance, Jiminy Cricket, who was his conscience, telling him what is right and what is wrong. I too, had my own Jiminy Cricket, specifically he was my conscience relating to study. Throughout high school he made appearances when I would play hacky sack instead of study, or write letters (yes, letters! The things that people used to communicate before email was around) decorated with fanciful multicoloured texta concoctions, instead of listening to the teacher talking about Oedipus.

When I left school and began my working life, this presence began to fade, so slowly I did not even notice he was gone. I worked in jobs where you simply did your eight hours of work and the rest of the day was yours to do with what you will. No homework, no study, no constant realisation that there was some kind of work that you could be doing.

But now I am back at uni, every time I do anything unrelated to my education, I am left with a guilty feeling, knowing that I could be using my time more appropriately. That spending 12 hours one day trying to finish the 1989 Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Bros. all the while telling myself that is in fact related to my uni work, as I had a debate on the significance of computer games in society coming up, was in fact a highly enjoyable way of avoiding researching 2 major essays that I have due in the next fortnight.

Jiminy Cricket and I, although we have many differences and some days I feel like attacking him with a can of fly spray, are slowly learning to work together. He's always there, making sure that I don't waste too much of my time with my Nintendo and although I hate him for it, the feeling I get when my assignments are handed in on time is worth it.

The Mecca of Space Food Enthusiasts

Okay, so this blog is not specifically related to uni, but as a student, high energy snack food is crucial in effective study and I was just far too excited about my discovery not to include this here..........

On my latest grocery shopping escapade to Woollies I made a momentous discovery.

Now I am a bit of a wanderer when it comes to grocery shopping, I like to take my time, saunter down each aisle, perusing the shelves carefully to see what is on offer. I think this is born from the fact that I don't actually get out that much, and that a trip to the local co-op is in fact a highlight of my week.

Now, as I am a fairly healthy person I normally skip the chocolate/biscuits aisle, but on this occasion I threw caution to the wind and hesitantly stepped foot into the brightly coloured wizz-bang passageway of junk food. What possessed me? Was it a gnawing curiosity of what lay inside these multitudes of shelves containing pretty boxes and packets? Or was it simply low blood sugar? Whatever it was, I soon found myself surrounded by a variety of advertising ploys aimed at everyone, from white-trash toddlers, to upper-class baby boomers. Because when it comes to junk food, there is no discrimination based upon race, religion, age or class. Everyone loves a bit of sugar and fat rolled into a great tasting and euphoria-inducing snack. Jumping out at me were psychedelic cartoon characters and neon animals to entice the kiddies. At the other end of the scale were seductive images, rich colours and expensive looking packaging to beguile even the most aloof of adults

So as I wandered slowly, my senses heightened by the sheer excitement, taking in the Old Gold, the Chicos, the Oreo’s of various flavours and the more expensive boxed gift chocolates on the fringes, I spotted something I never would have expected. Something, that if you told me that morning still existed, I wouldn’t have believed you. I would have called you a liar, a cheat, and promptly thrown you from my home. Something I believed to exist only in my past along with Slap Bands, War Heads and Hyper colour t-shirts. I spotted on a bottom shelf, underneath the Savings Brand jelly beans, tucked away, almost hoping to remain unseen, several boxes of Space Food Sticks in their somehow familiar red boxes, with a BMX bike rider on the front.

My reaction was dramatic. My pulse quickened, my mouth became dry and my hands sweaty. I looked around furtively, hoping no one appeared to break the spell that had been cast on me. Was it real? Was I dreaming? Were they really playing “Everything I do, I do it for you” by Bryan Adams over the PA system or had I actually travelled back in time to 1991 when the love affair with space food began? I approached the small red boxes carefully, like you would a mirage, or the end of a rainbow desperately hoping that they wouldn’t disappear when you got close. Only when my fingers closed around the cardboard edges did I return to 2007 and the fluorescent glare of the supermarket aisle, with an over-whelming sense of fulfilment coursing through my veins.

My excitement was palpable, in my wildest dreams I never would have even dared to imagine a return of the beloved Space Food Stick. I thought I was just going to have to continue living a half-life, never feeling content with the snack food available to me. But Lady Luck had sparkled in my direction and brought back my favourite childhood treat.

I finished my shopping in a daze, frequently averting my gaze to the spot in my trolley where my Space Food Sticks lay, seemingly giving off a soft glowing aura. As I approached the checkout and reached for my purse, it’s lightness jolted me back to reality and the memory of my limited shopping budget returned to me. I had arrived at the moment of truth. Do I forsake the holy grail of snack foods, or the nutritious foods that will sustain me throughout my days? My decision was instinctive, my movements swift, as I hid a head of lettuce, some potatoes and an ear of corn behind the chilling drinks that preceded the checkout.

I held my breath as each electronic beep of the scanner brought me closer to my monetary limit, each time fearing it would be the end of my dream. I let out a gasp when she finished, so loud that I startled several of the checkout team and with a huge, slightly frightening smile, I handed over my money and took into my possession the Mecca of space food enthusiasts.

Now, some of you may have never had the great honour of eating food that has been especially designed for consumption by astronauts. Astronauts don’t just get your average Joe Bloe kinda of snack food. They get highly engineered, extensively researched and packed-full-of-flavour kind of treats. They are not like your ordinary human, who has to be a slave to gravity or who extols the virtues of ‘life on earth’. They have experienced life beyond earth and for that they treated like Gods, with their dehydrated Neapolitan ice cream and nutrient-dense food in stick form.

When you eat space food you wonder why you have spent your entire life eating food of the plebs when you could have been living the high life. It’s like drinking Moet when all you have had in the past is Passion Pop, or Heinz baked beans when you have been filling up on Home brand. Horizons are expanded, and a brighter future rears its head. Where you previously saw bad you now see good. Where you saw traffic lights, you now see trees. Wandering teenagers turn magically into frolicking antelopes. Airplanes into heavenly maidens playing celestial tunes on their harps. The world you thought existed was merely an appearance to a mind lacking knowledge and experience of space food. For connoisseurs of the space food genre, the sky’s the limit.

When I left the shop, I headed towards my car, clutching my prize to my chest and hissing at passing shoppers, who in no doubt in my mind, were coveting my discovery and plotting to kill me. I slid into the car, hastily locking the doors and disentangled myself from the green bag that contained my loot. As I removed the box, with the BMX rider smiling knowingly at me, I heard strains of the celestial music and I knew at once that my moment had come. I eased out the first stick and removed it from it’s wrapping. The first stick was always the greatest because you knew there were still five left, just waiting to be consumed. I took my first bite and I knew that my memory had not fooled me. The sweet chocolaty flavour and chewy texture brought me to the verge of tears, so much so, that I almost reversed into the trolley return. My return trip back from the shops was exceptional, each Space Food Stick providing even more pleasure then the last. Sadness only came when my hand reached the bottom of the box, but I reminded myself that greatness must not abused and space food was not to be trifled with.

No one person has the power to possess all the space food in the world and we must be grateful for what small allowances we are given.

As for why there is a BMX rider on the front of a Space Food Stick box? It is a mystery that many great sages have spent their entire life trying to answer. Maybe when we can answer that we will attain enlightenment and live permanently in the bliss of the space food variety.

Meet my fellow Murdoch Bloggers... I insist

I am not the only one ranting about my first year at Murdoch. For more hilarity and interesting insights into Murdoch life, please check out the following link.

http://www.murdoch.edu.au/News/Meet-our-1st-year-bloggers/

Statistics made me do it

Statistics show that those who do not make friends within the first few weeks of university are far more likely to drop out, not finish their degree, and most probably continue to lack essential social skills throughout the rest of their lives, relegating them to solitary careers, such as Night Filler at Coles, or Web Designers. Since I do in fact want to become a web designer one day, I was torn between which road to follow, leaning slightly towards staying friendless as it seemed to add to the mystique that I have been working so hard on attaining. I mean, I already have friends don’t I? Friends that know what my favourite drink is, how many tattoos I have, whether I am a morning or night person. Friends who have shared many a hilarious moment, who at the mere mention of the word ‘snowpea’ fall into peals of laughter recalling a shared experience. Friends who aren’t fazed by my tendency to over dramatise everything, and to tell stories with many unnecessary flourishes of the hands, as if I am an old Italian man, hawking his wares on the streets of Sicily. Why would I want to make new friends who wouldn’t appreciate the intricacies that make me….well me? Because if I was to one day become a successful web designer, I would need a degree. And to get a degree, according to statistics, I would need uni friends.

So begins the hunt. Each person I passed now was a potential friend. Although I had many people in my classes who I would give a cursory wave to as we passed each other, there was no one who I would have invited over to my grandmothers house for her famous Chicken Schnitzel (as I have now been vegetarian for five years, I would be served the famous frozen fake chicken nuggets, made from soy, instead, of course). I felt like a hunter stalking its prey, considering each person and deciding whether or not to take the shot. Those I considered ‘good meat’, I would stalk, placing myself in their path so they had no choice but to say hello to me and realise in that instant that I was a great friend to have and would bring much humour and chocolate into any relationship. Those who were ‘bad meat’ were swiftly avoided allowing them to continue on with their herd, unknown to my presence.

One day, as I was scouting Bush Court for potential friends, I heard a call.

“Kacy” it yelled, rattling me, as I knew that it wasn’t a common name and therefore was most likely to be referring to me. I turned and saw in the distance, herded into a neat circle, basking in the sun and sharing the kill they called ‘lunch’, a group of people from one of my tutorials. I was unsure, as I turned to walk towards them, to whether their call was one of mocking my loner status, or a genuine offering of friendship. I felt like I had now become the hunted, my body tense, like a deer startled by a hunter, ready to bound away at the first sign of danger. Nose to the air, sniffing out anything to indicate friend or foe. Wariness clung to my steps even though a smile graced my face. As I greeted those I knew and waved broadly to those I didn’t, I began to worry that I had in fact misheard their call and had just plonked myself, uninvited into their circle, demanding friendship. Their smiles and joking manner, however, put me at ease and I even began to speak with subdued hand gestures, not wanted to scare them off this early, but giving them a taste of what it was like to be friends with me.

Even though they didn’t know my favourite brand of soy milk, or that I was learning to play the piano, these people were genuine, kind and funny. And I realised that all friendships start small and eventually, as well as keeping me on track with my degree, these people that I was sitting with could very well, one day know everything there is to know about me.

You know you're a student when....

Today I came into some money.

As dodgy as that sounds, it involved no pick-pocketing, swindling or even gambling. I simply got a refund and found myself with the dizzying amount of $65 at my complete disposal. Now in the past, when my income far surpassed my daily expenses, a windfall of $65 would go unnoticed, taken for granted, slipped into my wallet to be left unthought of between some old Supa Value receipts and shopping lists. Or it would be spent on a new season of Quantum Leap on DVD. Or a set of Superman pyjamas that I had been lusting over on eBay. Or a Nintendo character stuffed toy from Fremantle, most probably Yoshi, to add to my collection. In fact, pretty much anything non-essential. But now as a newly poor student, still reeling from my first pay slip since going part time, I clutched my unexpected $65 desperately to my chest, hissing and snarling at passers-by, as I was convinced they were out to rob me. The idea of spending my money on anything remotely exciting and fun didn't even cross my mind, as I ran out straight to the supermarket to buy food. Now it's not like I have been without any kind of food for weeks or anything, but the pleasure I felt at buying chocolate flavoured soy milk, capsicum and a really big box of Nutri Grain was possibly more appropriate for say, the birth of one's first child.

I'll be eating well tonight.

Essays and Family Guy

8 years have passed since I last wrote an essay. A lot has happened over the past 8 years and although my essay writing skills have laid dormant in the depths of my mind for this time, I assumed all it would take is a quick dust and polish and they would be as good as new. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been using language and writing for these erstwhile years. Surely essay writing will be just like writing an email, or my shopping list. And surely quoting and referencing will be just like when I hear a really funny line off Family Guy and rush to find a pencil and some paper so I can later refer to it and experience the humour all over again, carefully noting the ‘author’ of the line so as not to misquote them or to be accused of plagiarism by a friend far more educated in all things Family Guy then I.

“I never knew Biscuit as a dog, but I did know her as a table. She was sturdy, all four legs the same length…”
(Griffin, Stewie, 2000, The Road to Rhode Island, In Family Guy, USA)

How wrong I was. As I sit here and write my first essay in years, each word painfully flowing from my fingers into the keyboard, face screwed up in literary agony, I breath heavily with exertion and the end of each sentence is celebrated with a nice lean back in the chair and a jatz cracker. As I watch the word count creep closer and closer to the magic number which I know will put an end to my painful reintroduction to essay writing, I find less things to distract me, as the promise of liberation becomes more reality than a mere dream of freedom.

The Week Five Phenomenon

A strange and unfamiliar feeling invaded my body as I set out for uni. Was it the tofu casserole that I had eaten last night? Or maybe it was the realisation that I had four assessments due already that week? You know, the one that normally resides, sitting comfortably, in the background of your mind, never quite leaving you alone, shouting, mostly unheard, every time you do something else besides study. I was convinced that it somehow had stolen its way to the forefront of my mind and was currently fighting for control of my body, thus causing this unexplained feeling. But as I strolled confidently from my car across Bush Court to the seemingly hidden and out of the way room to which I visit once a week for one of my tutorials, I was hit with a blinding realisation of what that unfamiliar feeling actually was. For lack of a better description, I labelled it the Week Five Phenomenon.

I suddenly realised that I no longer felt lost.

No longer did I walk slowly, meticulously scanning each sign as I passed, hopelessly praying to find one that matched the room number on my print out off Myinfo.

No longer did I have to try to maintain a cool demeanour when I realised I was walking in the complete wrong direction and had to do an obvious about-face, trying to avoid the eyes of the other students who could tell that I was lost and were either secretly laughing at me or feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.

No longer did I linger after a lecture hoping to catch someone who looked like they may be heading off to the same tutorial as me, so I could follow them, all the while trying to act like I am not in fact stalking them and about to steal their small change and their iPod.

No longer did I find out that I was in fact following someone who was heading off to the Ref and not my next class, thus finding my genius plan thwarted and then having to anxiously scan the crowds to find someone else who looks like they too may be going to my next class.

No longer did I have to plan my day with half hour time frames slotted before each class to give myself time to wander the deserted halls of the EH building, convinced that I have somehow sashayed into a restricted zone and would promptly be told off, left to scurry red faced from the teachers lounge, just so I would have time to find my room.

No longer did I turn up to my classes 20 minutes early to be faced with at least half a dozen others who had obviously also scheduled ‘getting lost’ time into their timetables. Faces plastered with shock, that they hadn’t indeed gotten lost.

In the erstwhile weeks I had managed not only to find all of my lecture halls and tutorial rooms, but even all my assignments boxes. And throughout my wanderings I had even discovered the offices of a unit coordinator or two. I had traipsed newly familiar paths and sought out multiple other ways to get where I needed to be.

I felt a disproportionate amount of pleasure at my discovery, more suited to say, the discovery of gravity, or a cure for cancer. But although I didn’t conceive a grand solution to any of the greater problems of the human race, I had achieved what seemed impossible merely a few weeks earlier. To be able to stroll the campus, stop and chat with friends, enjoy the sunshine, all the while knowing exactly where I was headed.

The many things that become severely important when trying to study!

As I sat at my desk, trying desperately to convince my wayward mind that I in fact really did want to be doing my assignment, my eyes came to rest on a picture of an iMac that hung from my cork board reminding me of the sweet days that would soon be upon me, and any chances of concentrating on something that was not an iMac, were dashed.

My visions of 24” screens, Quad Core 3.2GHz Intel Xeon Processors and sleek packaging that draws me close to weeping with anticipation, were blinded by a startling solution. Not only could I get out of my hot box of a room, and the guilt that follows me around the house whispering softly in my ear every time I sit down to watch an episode of the Amazing Race, but I could also be doing something directly related to my education thus silencing my guilt completely. I jumped onto the Internet with a speed that normally accompanies the arrival of a new DVD in the mail, and found that there was a free Art Show in Fremantle, on which I could base my shortly due Critical Analysis on. I felt a sense of accomplishment usually reserved for after I finish cleaning the house, and proceeded to rifle through my closet trying to find an outfit most closely resembling that of a young, funky yet slightly nerdy art critic.

Putting aside my disappointment at finding a closet full of jeans and t-shirts, I headed towards Fremantle with a smile on my face and Traveling Wilbury’s in my ears.

As my first 30 minutes at the Art Centre passed with only displays of old Merry-go-Round horses and examples of the cells in the old insane asylum in sight, I began to wonder if I had in fact come to the wrong place. The plethora of old people wandering the grounds seemed to confirm my concerns as I expected to be girt by appropriately dressed, young, arty, Fremantlians. Although I was pleased to be the best looking person there, the lack of an art show ate at me like a flesh eating bug. I wandered the grounds trying wretchedly to look like I belonged and wasn’t in fact lost and finally stumbled upon the exhibit I was looking for, that was tucked away right at the back, unsigned and so vague in it’s actual location that I thought they must have done it on purpose to make it more creative. Or to drive off the stupid people, as their displays were so mind blowingly interesting that it was only safe for intelligent people to view. As I found the majority neither mind-blowing or particularly that interesting, my thoughts were filled with worry that I wasn’t as smart as I professed to be, as I sauntered back to the car, finding the outside surrounds far more engaging than the exhibit itself.

My thoughts swiftly turned to food, as I realised how hungry I was. As my blood sugar dropped, my thoughts turned more often to orange juice, jellybeans and hash browns and before I knew it, I was indicating and pulling into my old favourite hangout, the local organic store. Now when one is working full time and earning a decent wage they can be forgiven for indulging in expensive organic produce, but the knowledge that I am now a poor student loomed over me as I tentatively entered the store, wondering if I would set off the ‘poor people’ alarm. The silence and lack of security guards tackling me to the ground shouting, “Can you afford to be here Miss!!” set me at ease and a comforting fondness palliated my tense demeanor. After completing my initial circuit of the store I reviewed my purchases and calculated roughly that to pay for what I had stashed in my basket, I would have to somehow get pregnant, give birth and sell my child on the black market, all in the next 5 minutes, before the old Nonna in front of me finished unloading her San Pellegrino and Pasta Lensi. I again used my superior math’s skills to calculate the odds of accomplishing that feat and my answer caused me to return all but three essential items in my basket. I progressed through the checkout with my drastically desolate purchases and was surprised that I found myself cringing at the exorbitant total as I was quite aware when I entered that I would be using up a weeks worth of icy pole money.

I traveled home, munching on my bio-organic licorice rope and sipping my organic fat-free choc milk, whilst Rod Stewarts voice skipped from the back to the front speakers every time I went over a bump in the road. I opened the window and with my mouth full of licorice, exclaimed to the world “Bring over some of your old Motown records”

O-Week - giving students the chance to run screaming, "What have I done?"

An insistent and irritating beeping was infiltrating my early morning dreaming and no amount of burrowing into my doona would make it stop. As I reluctantly lurched out of bed to switch off my alarm, the realisation that it was the beginning of O-week brought with it a mix of excitement and anxiety, causing me to somehow both rush enthusiastically and dawdle at the same time. One part of me was yelling, in a high-pitched, responsible and financially aware voice, "Why are you leaving a good paying, secure, full-time job to go back to full time university study at 24 years of age? Just think of all the lovely things that you could buy with all the money that you soon won't be earning! If you stay working full-time, you could buy a wide-screen TV....or a house...or even that original retro Transformer that you had your eye on in eBay." Then, of course, the other part of me realised that I didn't actually like that job that I was doing, that uni would get me a job that I adored and that, in fact, I don't actually even want a large screen TV, a house or even expensive Transformers.......well, okay, maybe I do want the Transformer.

Putting aside my desire to own a large variety of childhood-memory inducing paraphernalia, I allowed my excitement to grow. On arrival at campus, I was met with many new faces, all trying desperately to look like they belonged and wondering if it was cool or not to be wearing your coloured lanyard. I was delighted to see people both younger and older that I. which put to rest my fears that I would be taunted for being 'matured aged' and relegated to the outskirts of university society for the duration of my degree.

Nervous smiles, beautiful surroundings, the dawning promise of a new outlook on life and knowledge. This was the place for me.  

New Years Eve 2008

Remember the days back before slap bands had been banned and when push pops made your fingers sticky. When Uno was king and Super Mario an obsession. Those were the days I remember running down to the local deli to buy 'joker' icecreams and fluffy pink sugary clouds in the middle of a hot summery day. Barefoot as I always was (and usually still am) I would have to scout ahead for the next shady place shaded by a car parked along the roadside, or a rubbish can on the footpath. I would tackle each section of hot bitumen with skill, finesse and as much speed as my little legs could muster. If my next chosen resting place was further than I had judged, and the hot tar of the road began to burn my tootsies, I would progress to the tip toe hoppy jump walk, which is known well to those skilled in hot bitumen crossings. As the summer progressed, as well as developing protective calluses on the soles of my feet, my skill had progressed to the point where no deli was too much of a task for me to get to. Even the one surrounded my a huge carpark with no trees and absolute miles of burning concrete.

Now fast forward to the last day of 2008. Although my habit of wearing no shoes continues, the amount of time I get to spend on bitumen has decreased to almost nothing. Work, friends, spending too much time with my computer. All these factors have contributed to my now woosy feet with no heat protecting calluses anywhere to be seen. I hadn't realised the extent of the woosification of my feet until today.

I had been borrowing a car for a few days and the time had come for me to return the car and jump back on my scooter to continue my reign as Scooter Queen. I jumped into the car and drove off, realising only once I had reached my destination, that I had forgotten to wear shoes. Now under normal circumstances a lack of shoes is no big deal to me. I frequent the shops with no shoes, friends and family's houses, movie theatres and at my most boganish even the occasional pub. But when it comes to having to ride my scooter for 40 minutes on major highways, my shoes are almost like a security blanket and visions of bloodied feet flashed in front of my eyes. Unable to do anything to solve my predicament short of killing a roaming cat to make myself some make-shift pussy boots, I jumped onto my scooter barefoot and fancy free and began the journey home.

Once on my scooter, another problem had arisen. I was wearing a pair of fairly short demin shorts and once straddling the seat my shorts were hitched up so high to the point where I was unsure if I still wore shorts or if i had forgotten to actually dress myself this morning and was currently in public wearing only my knickers. Nice. At least i would give people something to talk about tonight over glasses of New Year's champagne "Now you should have seen this crazy lass scooting down leach highway in a pair of knickers and no shoes!" I was heartened by my ability to bring smiles to random people's faces.

So here I was scooting away, legs, feet and toes getting a damn good tan, when I proceeded to get every single bloody red light. I slowed at each set of lights, praying that they would turn green before I would have to come to a stand still and put my poor little toes on the hot hot road, but alas at every set I had to place my feet on the ground or find myself lying on the road with a 100kg scooter lying on top me and and me most probably crying and swearing.....in a foreign language....most probably elvish. As my weakened feet touched the ground I again was forced to play games to save myself from 3rd degree burns. All my time spent running to the deli as a child was now coming in handy. Who would have thought. I bounced from right toe to left toe, having to quicken my bouncing as the road became hotter and the layers of skin on my feet thinner. The sheer craziness of my situation brought a smile to my face, but the images of what my legs and feet would look like it I fell onto the bitumen at 70km/hr quickly dissolved any humour I was feeling.

To top things off I swear that I was being followed by a white van. I came to the conclusion that the man in the van was following me to check if I really was wearing only knickers on my scooter, as from behind I can only imagine what it would have looked like everytime I brought my legs down and no pants or shorts could be seen from behind.

I somehow managed to make it home and my invincibility coursed through my veins like a drug. I decided that next time I would ride naked....on the freeway.....with a blindfold