The End

I never wanted to go to university. I thought it was a waste of time, and it looked very boring. Thanks to a career advisor at school who wouldn’t leave me alone and a God who seems to have had other ideas, I ended up in a course at Deakin University anyway. The uncertain origins of my academic career did not stop me from believing that I was fully qualified to offer advice to other students about how they could best survive the uni experience—drawing, of course, from my own extensive personal knowledge (as described in the cringe-worthy ‘About’ page). That’s how this blog began.

Three years, four homes, six trimesters, twenty two units and countless assignments later, I have finished that degree. And this blog is finishing, too. I should apologise now for the lack of advice—that really dwindled once I realised I had no idea what I was doing, or how to do it.

When I was nineteen, I complained of how old I would be when I finished university. It’s strange to remember how those three years stretched ahead of me, a black void, and to look back now, seeing the timeline of those years. It was nothing like I imagined. Not even a little bit. For one, it wasn’t boring. (Okay, sometimes it was boring.) I hated the first year of studies. In the second year, I majored on my strengths and enjoyed it. This last year has gone far too quickly—and yet the last few weeks couldn’t go quickly enough.

Also, I’ll admit: to those of you who told me twenty-two wasn’t old (wait for it)…you were right. I forget that I’m an adult. I don’t eat enough, and I eat the wrong things. I stay up too late. I sleep in. I should check my car oil more often. I don’t.

Speaking of cars—they’ve featured pretty heavily. I learned that I could fit five boxes in the boot of my Toyota Corolla, another three in the middle seats, and two on the passenger seat, with miscellaneous items piled on top—but that I could not fit in my electric piano. I drove that car with a screwdriver after some thieves broke in and smashed my ignition barrel. I cried to a friend in that car, unsure of where I’d be living in the coming months. I drove it to death going back and forth between my home and my family’s. (Literally to death—the radiator started leaking 10 o’clock at night at the beginning of a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and that was that.) I have another car now, but it will never hold the place in my heart that my first car did.

They say that it takes a village to raise a child, and to be honest, it’s taken at least that amount of people to stop me from keeling over at any point during this experiment. For instance, there is the dad of a friend who spent several hours changing the ignition barrel in my car after it was gotten to. There are the friends who have checked up on me and shared their homes and lives with me. There are those who have taken me to doctor’s appointments, to hospitals, who have looked after me when I’ve been sick. And fed me. So much food. (I think God knows that I don’t cook for myself properly, so He keeps sending along other people who will.) Everyone who prayed for me. My family for donating me to Melbourne (and many other things). When I moved up to the city I knew probably two people, and now I have friends everywhere.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: thankyou. Thankyou to everyone who’s been there for me. Thankyou to everyone who has read this blog.

In summary: it’s been hard, but it’s been worth it.

The end.

The Overeager Student

 

If you’re a teacher – in fact, if you’ve ever been in a classroom – you’ll recognise that one kid in the group who always has the answer to everything. This is the student whose hand shoots up before you finish giving the question. They’ll answer even the questions they don’t know just because they want to say something.

I like to call this particular type of person the Overeager Student, a.k.a. ME.

That’s right, folks. I am, and always have been, a chronically overeager student. It began back in the good old days when I was competing against my siblings around the kitchen table. It continued during my VCE years when some of my long-suffering teachers would say at the sight of my raised hand, ‘Thanks, Beth. I know you know the answer. Anyone else?’ And it continues in the university tutorial, where my internal struggle between showing off and letting-other-people-have-a-go absorbs a considerable amount of my mental concentration. In fact, I suspect that part of the reason I find writing so appealing is that I can express my thoughts as often and for as long as I want without worrying about commandeering a class discussion. (I may add that the term ‘discussion’ is far too loosely applied these days. Plato would probably be appalled at what passes for rigorous debate in many of today’s uni classes.)

I suspect that my fellow classmates view the Overeager Student with a mixture of relief (“We don’t have to say anything!”) and resentment (“She thinks she knows everything!”). However, I am going to make a concerted effort to portray the Overeager Student as someone who is human, just like you. They suffer, just like – okay, their struggles are probably different to yours. What I mean is that the similarities outweigh the differences.

As an exercise in empathy, therefore, I present Inside the Mind of the Overeager Student.

1. They spend a lot of energy holding their answers in just so that you can have a chance to speak up.

Now that I’m older, I know it’s polite to let other people participate in a discussion. I have a policy of waiting and looking around the room to see if anyone else looks as though they know the answer, or as if they might have a bright thought. I let a few other students have a go before I speak up. This is much more difficult than it sounds.              

2. Sometimes, they feel a little odd.

Take it from me. It’s not normal, at nearly twenty-two years old, to be sitting on the edge of your seat in class because you’re so darn excited about discussing intersectionality and the matrix of domination. I’ve learned to blend in and fake ignorance, reluctance, and an unwillingness to speak up etc. in certain situations just so that I don’t stand out so much.

3. They don’t always use big words just to confuse you.

            Sometimes big words just slip out! Today in class, I referred to a scene in a text as representing a ‘microcosm of racial conflict and inequality’, and felt the majority of the other students turn as one to stare at me. I then had to become an impromptu dictionary and explain what a microcosm was. Now, I love acting as an impromptu dictionary, but it can tend to have an alienating effect on my peers.

4. They suffer from a very real fear that the teacher will move on without having heard their brilliant response.

This is probably not something I should be admitting in public, but there is a certain level of anxiety working upon the emotions of the Overeager Student. Waiting to give other students a turn carries with it the possibility that the Overeager Student will miss out on the opportunity to share their own brilliance. Egotistical? Yes. True? Also yes.

 

I don’t suppose teachers or schools or universities, for that matter, will find a solution to the condition of the Overeager Student any time soon. If you’ve had an experience with a particularly irritating specimen, or if (horror!) you are one yourself, comment below!

Journey: Part 3

Dear Readers,

It’s been a while, I know. Sorry about that. The lack of activity is partly a result of my being honestly busy, and partly a result of my being an incurable procrastinator. There is, I have been told, a particular personality profile that is vulnerable to procrastination; this is comforting because it suggests that this failing may not be entirely my fault. I was discussing procrastination with a group of friends once, when one of them said (and I quote), ‘I never procrastinate.’ My response: ‘How do you live?’ I told my aunt of this, and her response was ‘They must have something wrong with them’. This leads me to suspect that she may also belong to that particular personality profile. I should also mention that this particular non-procrastinating friend is very truthful and also very organised, so I have no reason to doubt the veracity of her statement, no matter how much I might doubt her ability to survive such a lifestyle.

Anyway, here I am, procrastinating by writing about procrastination…I can procrastinate with everything, even the things I enjoy. It is not uncommon for me to finally acquire a particular film that has been on my wish list for an extensive period of time, only to leave it on my shelf for several days (or more) for the apparent purpose of procrastinating on pleasure. (Whether or not this increases my enjoyment of the film when I do actually watch it, I have no idea).

This is the third and final instalment of my ‘Journey’ epistles. I am afraid that if I drag out the narrative any longer, consequent episodes will become rather similar to a lamb’s tail – messy, long, and needing to be chopped off for Health Purposes. (If you’ve ever wanted to know why a lamb’s tail is long and a sheep’s tail is short, now you do. It’s called “docking”, I believe. Just think of that next time you see a lamb frolicking about in the meadow.)

Cloncurry, QLD to Gormandale, VIC

Having survived Stranger Danger on the road and the complication of camp kitchen fridges, my sister and I set out after one night in Cloncurry and arrived the next evening in the tiny town of Morven, QLD. It was a very long, very boring drive. Morven did not have a caravan park, so we stayed on the recreation grounds. This is really just a patch of dirt next to a footy oval and small playground. There is something appealing about being able to muck around on the swings and monkey bars before bed, but this joy was short-lived as I gave myself serious friction burn by going down a slide in pyjama shorts. Also, that night I heard Noises. Luckily, since getting over my phobia of ghosts, I am not easily frightened – not even when lying in a tent in the corner of a glorified paddock in a town in the middle of, well, nowhere.

We arrived in Southport, just below Brisbane, the next evening; and both of us were in a rather bad mood. We were also in bad need of a shower. As for our ute – the colour of the paintwork was anyone’s guess. For all they knew, it could have been a smudgy orange-red shade of dirt. Our entrance into the very clean, very white, and very professional reception area of the Meriton Serviced Apartments was one worthy of a comedy film. Things are never great when the guy behind the desk is better dressed than you are. He was, however, very helpful and didn’t comment on our travel-stained clothing and bleary eyes.

It was after perhaps two or three trips to the car and back that Brianna and I both stepped out of the apartment to get more belongings, and I pulled the door shut behind me. ‘You’ve got your card, right?’ I said.

Brianna looked at me. ‘No, I thought you had yours.’

‘But I put it down because you had yours,’ I said. The dreadful truth hit me. We had locked ourselves out after being there for barely ten minutes.

Down to reception again for another key card; several moments trapped in an elevator with two guys in suits, avoiding eye contact and trying to pretend I wasn’t aware of just how derelict I looked; back up to the room to let myself (and Brianna) in; down to reception to return the card.

Apart from that little hiccup, and the even deeper bad temper it left us in, the rest of our stay was delightful. We only had to call reception two more times – once because we couldn’t connect to the Wi-Fi, and once because our DVD player wouldn’t work. Brianna saturated herself in the Disney channel while I saturated myself in sleep and alone time. I had noticed in Darwin that Brianna had a distinct fear of room service, which manifested itself again in Southport; she only let them in once, as she was convinced they would go rifling through her belongings. On the other hand, I felt strongly that it was ridiculous that I should have to wash dishes when I had paid for someone else to do it for me.

We made the obligatory trips to Dreamworld, Whitewater World, Movie World, and Wet n Wild; we forayed down to the beach, observed the hordes of schoolies, and went back to our apartment. We only got slightly lost a few times. In fact, by the end of the week, I was so geographically aware that I could help a young schoolie find out which tram he should take. He accepted this as proof that I was a local.

Him (confidentially): ‘I don’t know how you guys put up with this every year.’

Me: ‘We don’t live here.’

Him (very cheerfully): ‘That’ll do it!’

We also ventured out into the spa and pool attached to the apartments, where we met a girl from Colombia and her two parents.

Much to my regret, we did have to leave sunny Southport behind us and travel on to Sydney. It was a bleak fifteen-hour drive, and when we arrived at last, it seemed that the whole city was booked out. It took us until 10:30pm to find a place to sleep. I can recommend booking ahead if possible – it is never pleasant to be sitting in a shopping centre late at night, in a strange city, calling various accommodations and hotels, only to be rebuffed time after time. We even contemplated sleeping in the car for the night; but since, typically, Brianna and I disagreed over which location would be the safest place to sleep, it’s just as well that we didn’t have to.

Next night: Melbourne; and then on, finally, to Gormandale.

Brianna hadn’t seen Gormandale for nine months. She held up very well until we turned into the road that passes by our parents’ home, and saw balloons lining the roadside, attached the trees. At this point, she began crying. (I could only feel thankful that we had barely ten metres more to drive, since she was behind the wheel, and navigating a vehicle with obscured vision is hardly safe.) She cried when she saw the ‘Welcome Home’ sign hanging from the porch, and again when she saw Dad and our younger brothers.

That was when Mum arrived. Brianna and I had been comparing notes on how she would react upon seeing her youngest daughter after nearly a years’ absence. Both of us expected high emotion, so I was shocked to see Mum walk up to her and say, with absolute composure, ‘Welcome home, darling.’

Then she stopped, and burst into tears.

There was the mother I knew and loved.

So we laughed, and cried, and talked, and it was all very strange and new and yet not, and after that there was the task of cleaning unpacking and and getting back to normal life (always harder than you think it will be), but feeling glad to be home.

And thus endeth my Journey.

 

The Journey (Part 2)

Kakadu to Cloncurry

On our final day in Kakadu, we went to Gunlom. In wet season, it’s a foaming waterfall. In dry season – when we visited – it’s a red and black cliff face guarding a silent pool, slippery with algae and stagnating at the edges. The echo of the waterfall is visible in pale rimy stains on the rock face, streaking down towards the plunge pool.

Here we met a guy and girl from ‘up north’ (probably Arnhem Land) who thought we were Swedish or American because of the way we talked. That will give you some idea of the difference between the thick accent of the north and that of the south. Of course, we were hasty to remove that suspicion from their minds!

Before I tell you the next story, let me assure you that like all good parents, my mum and dad taught us from a young age that we were not to talk to strangers. Add to this my own vivid anxieties – fuelled by stories of travellers disappearing without a trace while crossing the interior – and the chances of us stopping along the road to talk to strangers was not really very high (or so I thought).

So we’re driving from Threeways Roadhouse, NT, to Cloncurry, QLD, and we’ve crossed the NT/QLD border. We’re about ten kilometres from the next town and I’m driving (which is a surprise all on its own, because my sister is quite protective of ‘her baby’). That’s when we see a caravan, big and white and bulky, pulled over on the side of the road. Next to the caravan, and wildly waving us down with a jerry can, is an old man.

He is most definitely a Stranger and I suddenly remember a story I heard on the radio news bulletin when I was a kid of maybe ten or eleven. It involved isolated roads, broken-down vehicles, helpful passers-by and a fired shot. It did not have a happy ending. On the other hand, along the traffic is few and far between. The sun is so intense that on the horizon, the heat ripples like water across the road and reflects the sky so that you can’t see where road ends and sky begins. Could I conscientiously leave someone on their own out here? While I’m hesitating, indecisive, my more philanthropic sister says, ‘We’d better stop. Lock the doors.’

We pull over. Brianna puts down her window. The old guy comes up, breathless and sweaty and carrying his jerry can; he is not a happy sight. He is wearing shirtless, and he is not skinny. If you can imagine how an undercooked lump of bread might look if it got sunburned, you’ll have some idea of what confronted us.

‘Can you help an old guy out?’ he begins. I am of the opinion that this sounds suspicious, just how a criminal might start a conversation with two naive girls. ‘Me and my mate, we’ve run out of diesel,’ he continues. ‘Can you give me a lift into town so I can fill up my jerry can?’

Besides the very legitimate difficulty of fitting him into a ute already packed full of belongings, the idea of making small talk with him for ten kilometres to town and back is hardly appealing. Fortunately, my sister has other ideas. She offers to give him some of our spare diesel so he can get himself to town. He is tremendously grateful, and Brianna jumps out to help him.

After introducing himself, ‘What’s your name?’ he asks her.

Here Brianna adheres to that excellent principle of assuming a false identity when in Uncertain Situations. However, instead of inventing her own, she steals my identity and second name: ‘Ruth,’ she tells him.

He indicates myself, still sitting, distrusting, behind the wheel. ‘And your friend’s?’

‘Beth,’ she says.

Well thanks, Brianna. I am not impressed. If she stole my second name, she could at least have offered me hers! (Her later defence was that she ‘couldn’t think of anything else’, and that her second name was too old-fashioned for someone our age. ‘And,’ she said, ‘he would have thought it was weird if we both had names starting with R’ – her second name shares its initials with mine.) Thus I was stuck with my own identity while she got off completely.

We finished the process of filling his car with diesel – or rather Brianna did, because like all responsible little sisters she had told me to stay in the car. I am in the habit of doing as I am told. In this instance I stuck with established practice. After that, the old guy and his mate (a small skinny man with a tan) followed us into town, where they refilled our jerry can and sent us on our way, emphasising their gratitude. They told Brianna that they would be sharing this story all over the Gold Coast, in which ‘a girl called Ruth gave us diesel!’

Good for you, Ruth.

The servo we stopped at had only one diesel pump, and for obvious reasons Brianna decided against waiting for them to finish with it. We drove on without filling up. About thirty kilometres down the road, we knew we weren’t going to make it to the next petrol station. So it was our turn to pull over and spend a panicked few moments refuelling from our jerry cans, watching the shimmering horizon of the road and hoping that we’d had enough of a headstart to prevent the old guys from overtaking us. Luckily, a road train was the only vehicle to pass by.

That night we arrived in Cloncurry in a state of deep fatigue. We’d been travelling for three days. When we got to the caravan park kitchen, our lives were further complicated by it having two fridges – one emptied on Tuesdays, and one emptied on Thursdays. Brianna and I looked at each other. ‘What day is it?’

We had no idea. I tried to calculate by thinking back, but it was no use. In the end we had to ask the people swimming in the pool nearby. It was a Wednesday.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

The Journey: Part 1

To all my lovely readers,

I’m back!

In the last three-and-a-half weeks my younger sister and I have travelled through five states and four capital cities, crossed dry flat scrub and green forested mountains, and slept in tents, swags and serviced apartments (the latter most definitely being my favourite style of accommodation). All this has resulted in many unusual and highly entertaining anecdotes for your reading pleasure.

 

Western Australia: Sturt Creek Cattle Station (Halls Creek)

My older sister and I flew from Melbourne to Broome, where my younger sister collected us in her 4WD ute and took us back to the station – an eight hour trip. It was hot. It was very hot.

On my first morning in the station, I was woken by a wet sensation dripping steadily onto my face. My immediate thought was that some abominable insect was nearby – this is the outback, people, and you can’t be too careful. Happily, I was mistaken. The ceiling had sprung a leak. Something to do with the air conditioning freezing up – I couldn’t get the facts straight, but before too long the trickle had become a deluge, and necessitated the hurried acquirement of buckets and towels to contain the waterfall.

Such was my introduction to station life.

We stayed at Sturt Creek for six days. Stepping outside felt rather similar to being wrapped in a hot wet towel. Even inside, the air conditioning wasn’t completely successful in keeping down the heat (particularly when it was leaking out of the ceiling). There was a creek – Sturt Creek – about a hundred metres from the house. It was a wide grey sheet of water, stretching right and left as far as you could see. It had mud that sunk halfway up your shins, and little fishes that nibbled at your skin while you waded. One of the station hands was an expert at picking up mussels from the mud with his toes. We often went to this creek in the evening to cool down. On our final night, while we were swimming in the dark, we could see orange and yellow and red lightning on the horizon from a storm a long way off. Above us, the sky was perfectly clear, and speckled with stars.

 

 

Northern Territory: Darwin, Litchfield and Kakadu National Park

After leaving the station, we drove across WA through Katherine and up into Darwin. Before dropping my older sister off at the Darwin airport, we went to see the Jumping Crocs. I was of the opinion that such an excursion was highly unsafe, and my apprehension did not improve after our tour guide warned us to keep all our limbs inside the boat because ‘you will lose it if you put it over the edge’. However, we did see some impressive crocs (as a matter of interest, most of them are black – not green). My younger sister thought they looked cute, but I am still hard-pressed to agree with her.

Darwin, I am sure, has many lovely resorts and accommodation opportunities. We managed to find one where every building (including the brick ones) had been painted a dark Irish green. Now, no matter how friendly the staff (and they were friendly), nor how modern the pool (and it was modern), a resort where the predominant colour is a dark Irish green cannot be very welcoming. It was abominable. We stayed there four nights. We never managed to accustom ourselves to the green.

Next stop: Litchfield and Kakadu. The photo at the top of this post was taken at the Termite Mounds in Litchfield. As for Kakadu – well, if you haven’t been, you should go yourself, because words can’t describe it adequately, but there is one part that you need to hear about. On our map given to us at one of the stops we made, my sister and I saw this little dot marked ‘Alligator Billabong’. Well, for some reason we determined that we were going to get there. First we had to find the (very dodgy) 4WD track that led up to it. That took us over an hour – we passed it the first time. When we finally did find it, I nearly gave up the idea. The first part of the track curves sharply up away from the main road. It’s narrow and washed away in some places by deep ruts. But down it we did go. An hour later, having braved fallen branches, deep puddles, and some serious off-road driving, we reached Alligator Billabong.

For some reason, I always thought billabongs are small, but they’re not. They’re like lakes, except not as wide. And Alligator Billabong – it was worth waiting for. When you drive onto the bank, you see this long sheet of aqua green water, the banks covered in thick long-leafed tropical bushes. There’s a tangle of foliage growing half into the water, where no doubt crocodiles like to hide. It’s the most relaxing sight you will ever see in your life – except for the fact that you know there are crocodiles around and that it is really far from safe.

The big question: did we see a crocodile?

Oh yes, we did.

It wasn’t as large as it could have been, but there was an older crocodile slithering along in the shallow water of a small estuary leading into the billabong. My younger sister took photos. (She takes photos of everything). But we stayed away from that area. I, for one, was not keen on losing my life to a reptile. There are better ways to die.

Alligator Billabong was definitely the highlight of Kakadu.

 

To Be Continued

I’m Leaving

           Not permanently. I’m going up north to Broome, Western Australia to see a younger sister that I haven’t seen since March. She’s been riding horses, chasing cattle, cooking sausages, swimming in waterholes and doing other things that typify the Australian Experience.

I am not one who usually enjoys camping etc.; I have a track record of catching cold the first night and spending the rest of my time in Outdoor Habitation suffering from a runny nose, sore throat and stuffy head. My most recent camping attempt nearly ended before it began when one of the cords that held a pin for a pole that held up the whole tent…snapped. (I fixed it with several safety pins from my recently purchased first aid kit. It was very resourceful and Scout Boy-ish.) I did, however, manage to avoid a cold with the aid of Vitamin C, cold-and-flu tablets, and several layers of clothing.

My younger sister is a highly experienced camper and so I feel that my chances of survival with her by my side are fairly good. We will be on the road for the entire month of November, driving across the top of this brilliant continent to Darwin, through Kakadu, and down the east coast. There is a fairly high chance that we may face unexpected danger in the form of crocodiles, flash floods, or sisterly disagreements. (And remember that this is Life on the Fun Side, so it’s bound to be fun.) What I’m trying to get at is that you, my lovely readers, will probably be on the receiving end of some highly exaggerated tales upon my return.

If you’re worried about me, that’s very nice. It means you love me. But please don’t. Worrying is an unnecessary exertion of energy. You can pray if you like; it would be much more helpful. My sister’s ute is a manual, and I usually drive automatic. She probably won’t let me drive, but you could pray just in case.

I will take my first aid kit, hayfever tablets, cold-and-flu tablets, Vitamin C, warm clothing, cool clothing, boots, books, my laptop, my phone, all necessary chargers, and a tent.

On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn’t bring the laptop.

Until I return (hopefully),

I am your faithful blogger,

Bethany.

A Collection of Annoying Posts and Advertisements

We’ve all seen them – those posts on Facebook that make you roll your eyes and scroll faster. (Or, if you’re the type of person who gets sucked in easily, click on the link and waste another five minutes of your life. I’m not judging – I’ve fallen into this category more times than I care to admit.) For everybody’s convenience, I’ve provided a breakdown of the more annoying posts that arrive uninvited in our newsfeeds. This way, you can roll your eyes at all of them, all at once.

• “Click here to find this grandmother’s one crazy trick for reducing fat! Doctors are furious!”

The poor doctors, they get a beating. Not that they’re always doctors, mind you. Sometimes they’re dentists who don’t want you to know about some miracle home cure for toothache. Sometimes they’re skin specialists who are living out their days in fear that you’ll discover how to get rid of wrinkles on your own (oh wait – not on your own, but with the help of a very friendly link!). I’m beginning to wonder how anyone in the medical or health profession makes a living these days. Miracle cures are everywhere.

• “He turns up on her doorstep with a bunch of flowers. You won’t believe what happens next!”

            Really? Are you really sure about that? Granted, no guy has ever turned up on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers, but my lack of experience in the area doesn’t reduce me to a state of blind wonder. Or gullibility. (At the risk of being labelled a hypocrite, this is the only sort of link that manages to lure me in. Yes, I’m ashamed. My natural curiosity, combined with a nasty brand of scepticism, at times proves too strong to resist.)

• “The photo XXX doesn’t want you to see! Like and SHARE!”

            As XXX usually refers to a celebrity or other high-profile individual, I do begin to question whether the person who found this photo and put it into circulation is in fact privy to the wants and ‘does not wants’ of said celebrity or high-profile individual. I am also left wondering whether XXX cares overly much. And even if they do, guys, haven’t you ever heard of Photoshop?

• “This Australian (Victorian, Melbourne, single, stay-at-home) Mum (grandmother, student, friend’s housemate’s step-aunt) makes millions from home each day! And YOU can do it too!”

            This is one of my personal favourites. The primary amusement derived from this post is that it changes slightly depending on who the website thinks I am. Most of the time they go with the generic stay-at-home-mum thing. I do stay at home a lot (…a lot) but I am most decidedly not a mum, so their chances of luring me in are quite low. Again, who thinks up these things?

• “Don’t stop reading or you’ll die!”

This has got to be the best. It is usually found scattered about in the comments sections of various posts by people who, I’m assuming, are afraid that if they don’t share it they’ll die. I do feel that their threat is rather futile. You mean I’ll die? Like everyone else? If we were all accustomed to living forever, I can understand how the thought of dying might be a little concerning, but we’re not. Sometimes they add ‘you’ll die in three days’, but I’ve tested that out and I’m still (mostly) alive. There goes that.

Now that I have gotten all that off my chest, I might begin to think about analysing how, and why, people are motivated to interact with these links and share them, like them, or click on them. I feel this might lead me to some rather interesting insights into the psychology of Some Internet Users.

Is there something on social media or the wider internet that really annoys you? Anything I’ve missed? Comment below!

The State Library of Victoria

Last Saturday I caught the train to the State Library of Victoria for the first time. At Flinder’s Street, two different people asked me if I knew where the train was going. This is a sign that I have finally transitioned into a Person Who Looks Like They Know What They’re Doing, which for a country girl in the city is quite a big deal. On the other hand, those lovely folks could have simply listened to the announcements (which is what I did and is a much more reliable option).

Disembarked at Melbourne Central – coincidentally, when I was young I had nightmares about elevators like those at Melbourne central and it was quite a shock to discover (a few years ago) that they did exist. Reminds me of when, in Year 9 or so, I read about two young British princes smothered with pillows in the Tower of London by their uncle’s command. This event impressed me so much that I decided to write a story about it. As I only knew the name of the older brother, I called the younger brother Richard…only to discover a little later that the young prince was, in fact, called Richard. Creepy.

Now as I approached the entrance of the State Library of Victoria (terrible signage by the way – or perhaps I’m just bad at reading signs) I was munching on a burger (it was lunchtime, okay) when a swarm of seagulls almost decapitated me in a dastardly attempt to steal my food. Those birds are lethal! After surviving this attack and also the woman who was handing out pamphlets on organ harvesting in China, I got inside with my life intact – more than can be said for the stateus of Famous People on the lawn, who are pretty much at the mercy of anyone or anything.

The library was nice and clean and had no birds. I found two books on the Thracians for a novel I’m working on (if you have ever tried to find out about Thracians you will understand how exciting this discovery is). Because of the sheer amount of interesting and informative literature in this place, I did consider starting at the start of the first shelf and proceeding through to the end of the last shelf, reading every book that looked useful. Unfortunately I don’t think I’ll live long enough for that. So I had to be content with a few hours of reading and three or so pages of notes. About Thracians. And Other Things.

Left at about 4 o’clock. A small Asian boy and a tall Indian man were playing chess with the large set on the lawn. They looked as though they took it very seriously. No talking. Reminded me of those old cowboy films when the two guys are standing there, facing each other down, but neither of them ready to make a move. I hope the man let the boy win, but somehow I suspect that really he was the underdog – that kid gave me the impression of One Who Knows What He Is Doing.

While standing and observing the game in a completely non-stalkerish way, an old man walked up to me and said, ‘Lots of bullies round here, eh?’ Presumably he was talking about the gulls but as he was of a rather dilapidated appearance, not quite old enough to be harmless, and I am 110% I do not know him, I didn’t wait around to find out.

Thus endeth the trip to the State Library of Victoria.

What is the strangest conversation you’ve ever had with a stranger? Have you ever visited the State Library of Victoria? Do you have a phobia of elevators? Comment below!

I’m a Real Hipster Now

It’s my naturopath’s fault. If you don’t want to stop living a normal lifestyle that is slowly killing you, avoid them at all costs – they’re dreadfully realistic about the impacts of sugar, lack of sleep, and exercise.

This naturopath, lovely lady that she is, spent several months trying to unearth the source of my baffling fatigue. Without success. So, after exhausting most other possibilities, she spoke the two most dreaded words: Food Allergy. What could I do? I submitted myself to the blood test. The intervening forty-five minutes gave me plenty of time to reflect on the future course of my life. I knew I’d show up positive for something. At the end of the forty-five minutes, I walked back into her office and sat down.

‘So did anything show up?’ I asked.

‘It’s dairy,’ she said.

That is how my life changed Forever.

My naturopath tells me that my blood told her that I’m severely allergic to dairy: off-the-charts, she-only-sees-three-patients-a-year-that-are-this-bad allergic. (I never do anything by halves.) To cleanse my poor body of this toxic substance, I’ve been put on a dairy-free diet for twelve weeks. That’s three months, people. That’s a quarter of a year. With no dairy whatsoever. ‘And then,’ she says, (trying, I suppose, to be comforting), ‘you’ll be able to have dairy, say, twice a week.’

When I was kid, I had more than my fair share of gluten-free, wheat-free, and dairy-free diets. Some of my bitterest memories involve eating rice-puff cereal (gluten-free) with rice milk (dairy and gluten free), a combination that tasted something like dirty water. Even though I was about five or six at the time, my older sister resorted to feeding me like an infant to get me to eat it. The eczema (the existence of which motivated these awful diets) persisted cheerfully despite my mother’s best efforts. By my late teens, the eczema had mostly subsided. I rejected the enforced healthiness of my childhood and spent a few glorious years eating whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. The verdict of ‘dairy-free’ tolls the death knoll to my rebellion.

Let me put this into perspective for you. That’s no icecream. No yoghurt. No cheese. No pies (milk solids in the pastry). No chocolate. Let me say that again: no chocolate. The horror of it!

It was a strange experience to walk through the supermarket for the first time after I went dairy-free. The dairy aisle had become mildly threatening. So too the frozen meal section (why does everything have cheese?). I wandered up and down, disconsolate, asking myself, ‘What am I going to eat?’ But just before I had a meltdown, I found the confectionary aisle, and discovered that most lollies don’t contain dairy at all. I bought a packet of party mix and felt much better.

There’s one major upside to this whole affair. Having spent much of my late teens trying in every way possible to fit in with the mainstream culture (or at any rate, not stand out), I can now proudly say that I’m a real hipster, because I can order a soy chai latte, and it will be legit. The downside? I no longer really care about fitting in with the mainstream.

Rating of Dairy-Free Specimens So Far Attempted:

• Cappuccino with rice milk: 0/10. Tastes like dirt.
• Soy chai latte: 8/10. You almost forget you’re not drinking real milk.
• Dairy-free chocolate: 8/10. Much better than I expected.

(You can tell I’ve hunted down the important foods in life…)

Are you dairy free? Gluten free? Paleo? (I’m still not sure what that means, but hey.) Know someone who is? Are you a soy chai latte drinker just for the sake of being hipster? If your answer to any of these questions is ‘yes’, please comment below. Till next time! xx

Apollo Bay

I’ve been on holiday to Apollo Bay on the Great Ocean Road. Before we go on, you should know that this is quite a big deal as my only other memory of Apollo Bay was not one to encourage a return visit.

During an ill-fated bus tour of the Great Ocean Road, my younger sister and I stopped in Apollo Bay for lunch. We disembarked with strict instructions to return to the bus pickup point at 1 o’clock. Which was simple enough, except that both of us left our phones on the bus, thinking that the other sister had theirs. The result? An uncomfortable and cross hour spent eating in a funny-smelling restaurant whilst periodically running to the neighbouring restaurant to check their wall clock. At this stage we were both carsick, tired, and counting down the hours till the end of the tour. This was just the beginning of our troubles, but that’s another story…

Anyway, I felt a great deal more optimistic about this encounter with Apollo Bay for two reasons. One, no buses. Two, we (being myself and a friend) had not one, not two, but three highly capable adults to make rememberance of phones or purses or even warm clothing mostly unnecessary.

I won’t bother describing the scenery because descriptions are boring. If you’re desperate, you can always google it. Having said that, the scenery was very nice.

We had Mexican Pizza at George’s Food Court

Thankyou, George’s Food Court, for introducing my friend and me to the joys of a tongue-tingling, lip-numbing heat that makes your eyes water and your cheeks burn. I knew Mexican Pizza would be spicy hot, but the degree of spicy hotness quite exceeded my expectations. Not to mention its ability to make every other flavour of pizza taste as spicy hot as the Mexican (which in my opinion is quite unfair). It’s probably all a money-making scheme, considering that we had to make a dash for iced coffee to cool our tortured mouths. (Which we wouldn’t have bought otherwise.) Meanwhile, our highly capable adult man calmly consumed the rest of the Mexican Pizza without any negative side effects whatsoever.

Introducing The Beach (including Sand Castle)

Even though I neglected to wear enough warm clothing and ended up in a highly capable adult’s enormous coat that made me feel something like a penguin, the beach was the site of a great achievement.

Dah-dah-dah-dum…

The Sand Castle.

Truthfully, it was a Sand City, with walls and turrets crafted by the highly capable adult man and my civil engineer friend. It had a moat, a gateway, two buildings resembling overgrown volcanoes, and several twig sentinels. And seaweed at the gateway for palm fronds. (It was Palm Sunday, so at the last minute we decided our Inca City really ought to be Jerusalem. Architects of sand cities, you see, have all the power.)

It wasn’t warm enough to swim, but that didn’t stop Some People from getting rather wet frolicking about in the waves.

Board Games and Charades

They say you should announce your writerly biases upfront, so…the reason I enjoyed these games so much is because I was usually on the winning side. (I am a notoriously poor loser.) We stayed in some old stables (refurbished for non-horsey residents of course) and in the evenings, got together to play some rather intense games of Pictionary and Charades. All credit goes to my partner, the highly capable adult Lady One (there was also a Lady Two), who was undoubtedly the mastermind behind our team.

As a side note, Pictionary taught me something very useful: ‘landing gear’ does not refer to a bailing pilot’s parachute.

Of course we did so many other exciting things…visiting ice cream shops, waterfalls, and taking long walks…but this will have to do. For now, at least.

What have you guys been up to over the Easter Break?