The Wills and Kate show

I certainly hope you've stocked up on your tacky quasi-royal embossed mugs, plates, toilet seat covers, tea towels, retarded cardboard cutout faces, vomit bags, thimbles and condoms.  

Who doesn't need it.

Wills is finally marrying his Kate in a couple of days in front of an audience of 850 billion people or some such.  I don't care terribly for weddings, but I appreciate the entertainment of the royals, which is a satisfactory explanation for my excitement over the nuptials.

Their big day happens to be on a Friday, which has been made into a public holiday, no doubt in a futile attempt to keep those pesky commoners out of the way of the royal carriages.  It's so messy and inconvenient when the bourgeois are trampled by all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men.  

And I'm sure the various Commonwealth leaders and other distinguished guests (i.e. not the Beckhams) can get their 2ICs to fill in for a few hours while they take their leave. Alternatively, someone could ask the Middle East to stop blowing up our soldiers until the weekend.  

The wedding brouhaha is still all very top secret. The last thing the Royals need is the Fleet Street journalists (italicised for the purpose of sarcasm) picking apart every wedding detail and creating pie graphs and flow charts to show how much money is being wasted on security and cream puffs, and which hapless Govvie estate should benefit instead. 

I suppose it’s a bit presumptuous to say these journalists can understand statistics. It’s kind of a moot point anyway, because accuracy is not generally a priority for the tabloids.

Prince Charles tried to ban kitsch merchandise this time around, which is understandable considering the evidence from his own nuptials can still be found in most households throughout the Commonwealth. It doesn’t matter what the event is; mug commemoration is tacky. Charles knows this and wanted more for his boy.

Unfortunately for 'the Firm', trashy merchandisers had templates of the couple ready to go in their factories in China in preparation of a royal proposal.  Although, William is rather more aesthetically pleasing than his father was on his wedding day, and Kate is fortunate that she is not getting married in the eighties, a point she will appreciate in years to come when she is asked to autograph her face on millions of platters around the nation.    

It’s anyone’s guess what Kate is going to wear. Hopefully it’ll be classic, elegant and bear no resemblance whatsoever to any of Vivienne Westwood’s creations. And I hope she doesn’t fancy any Aussie designers or we’ll never hear the end of it here. 

The pressure on Team Kate’s hairdresser and make-up upperer will be immense, so I'm sure there will be professional counsellors on standby for any emergencies, armed with words of wisdom, extra-strength hair spray and handfuls of kohl pencils.

The quaintly named Bucklebury in Berkshire, Kate’s hometown, has already been invaded by curious tourists and international media. Apparently the Americans have a particular fascination with Wills and Kate. The local folk in towns that breed celebrities never to cease to amaze me with their nonchalance and downright annoyance that people dare come to their village to snoop, never mind the fact their pesky visitors will likely invest back into the community. 

Bleed the tourists dry, you fools! They are Americans; they don’t understand currency that isn’t American.

The Buckleburites should be excited that anyone has taken an interest in their pokey little village, which is actually quite beautiful, but won’t be for long. Although some locals aren't fussed about all the fuss.

Local pig farmer, Julian Taylor, says “it won’t bother me; the tourists aren’t going to come to see the pig farm”.

Mr Taylor makes a valid point, but I disagree. The American media have descended on Pommieland, and as soon as the find where the hell Bucklebury is on the English A-Z, they’ll be all over the pig farm like a fat kid on a cupcake.

Three of my favourite things

Question.  What in the world is cooler than three F/A-18 Hornets flying over your head?  That's right; there is nothing better.  End of story.

Flying Awesomeness

This morning, while watching our diggers march through the streets of Canberra on Aunty ABC for ANZAC Day commemorations, I got wind that three hornets would be coming through very shortly.  I knew this because I heard their familiar grumbling in the distance.  And, I must say, I have got my FA-18 routine down pat now.  FA for Fast As.


As soon as I hear them, I race madly around the house to grab my camera, clumsily assemble it for optimal viewing, and race out to the balcony in less time than it takes them to do a gigantic loop around the Tuggeranong Valley.  When I say Valley, I mean the entire Snowy Mountain region, not just down to the Hyperdome.  I'm pretty sure they are immune from double demerits on easter weekend, but who knows with the ACT Government.  The RAAF probably get speeding tickets all over the country for going 950 kilometres over the limit in an 80 zone.



The RAAF are pretty bang on when it comes to timeliness, but ANZAC ceremonies don't always tend to be, which is to be expected when you invite politicians along.  So I had the good fortune of watching these jets circle in the distance for about 10 minutes.  I imagine it wasn't very exciting for the pilots - who were probably working on their morning crossword puzzles - but it was fairly awesome for me. 

But I did do a bit of thinking about where I should locate myself for when they eventually headed into town.  They needed to get through me to fly over the service at the War Memorial, but the cunning little jets tend to bypass residential areas when they are coming in low.  As it turned out, they thought it best to fly directly over my house, wing tip to wing tip, while I snapped away like a paparazzo on meth.  So exciting. 

Superstars on Space Mountain

Sorry, this post is not about celebrity spotting on Space Mountain in Disneyland.  It's very similar; but remarkably different as well.  In this instance, Space Mountain refers to Mount Stromlo in Canberra, and the stars refer to those twinkly, twinkly little things in the night sky. 

So a few nights ago I went star trekking up Space Mountain to attend a lecture on the twinkly little things, presented by one of the vastly intelligent peeps who work at the Mount Stromlo Observatory.  The Canberra Astronomy Society (CAS) run monthly presentations on various astronomy-type topics presented by various scientist types, in conjunction with their general meetings. 

I attended my first one last month on entropy, which I found thoroughly confusing, yet extremely fascinating.  Considering I'm not much of a first responder in a physics-type emergency, and considering the ins and outs of basic entropy did my head in for a couple of weeks, I bravely decided to travel up the mountain again.


A red dwarf



I feel like a grand fraud going to these talks. As if someone is going to notice and yell out, "she's only got an IQ of 17! Send her to the telescopes - off with her head!" But I can play along.  After the talk, when questions were asked of the presenter, I turned my head to the questioner, nodding and smiling in agreement, with one finger pointedly tapping my chin.

As it turns out, stars are far less confusing than entropy.  Once upon a time, about 14 billion years ago, there was a big bang, and everything went poof and there was craziness all over the universe (which may or may not be a very loose description of entropy).  Planets and stars and galaxies and other cool outer space stuff were causing a big brouhaha.  Now, I can't remember exactly how stars are formed, but they are mainly made up of hydrogen, and helium and a bunch of heavy metals.

Stars spend most of their life - or their main sequence - fusing hydrogen.  I don't remember why, but it sounds like quite a productive way to while away a couple of billion years.  It sure as hell beats working in the public sector.  This nuclear fusion is constantly pushing out, but gravity constantly pushes everything in.  So just like people really; except replace nuclear fusion with KFC.  Although, our gravity doesn't always work so well.  Perhaps we could replace hamburgers with nuclear fusion and end the so-called obesity epidemic. 

In their twilight years, usually when they are even older than Queen Elizabeth II, stars exhaust their supply of hydrogen and become red giants (sometimes) and start making iron, which sounds an awful lot like the biography of Donald Trump.  Apparently one teaspoon of red drawf can be as heavy as 10 billion tonnes, or something equally as weighty.  You would certainly need some strong and sturdy cutlery before you even think about venturing out there.  There are also white dwarfs, black dwarfs and many other colourful dwarfs in the great multicultural universe.   

Disclaimer: Astute observers and smart five-year-olds may have noticed, through various subtle references in my description of stars, that I have absolutely no idea of what I am talking about.  Which is a valid point, I imagine.  What do you expect - do I look like a friggin' scientist?  If you want to know more about stars, or be less confused, go read Wikipedia.

Spooks and Extras

Movie extra opportunities in Canberra? There aren’t any, silly. Please try somewhere that makes movies and television shows. Like any city that is not in Australia.  Cities with more cultural type thingys, and fewer public servants. 

London has the awesome but extremely clichéd Spooks.  L.A. has everything, including the now defunct 24 and the brilliant Criminal Minds.  Canberra has Catalyst and Parliamentary Question Time. As far as I'm concerned, this lack of production of visual entertainment in Canberra is a ridiculous oversight, and indicates that our taxpayer dollars are being whittled away on programs that no-one cares about.

ABC: “We cater for minority groups and the millions of Catalyst fans spread all across the globe, blah, blah, blah, blah.”

Well guess what minority groups are watching, ABC?  Probably not the crap you serve up every night. (Disclaimer: this inference could be true; but it could also not be true). Well, okay, Spooks is on the ABC, but they only show that because it has intermittent subtitles, due to its recurring storyline that involves many actors who ramble on in broken Russian.  No-one really cares what subtitled quasi-Russians are saying – as long as they are tough and mean and look like they eat nails and human thumbs for breakfast.

I can't believe how much spooking they do on that show out in the open on the mean streets of Westminster.  The mean, mean, mean streets of Westminster.  It's anyone's guess how these spooks stay in one piece - what with all those bankers and politicians lurking about.  And why are the streets always deserted anyway? That NEVER happens in London. And there is no chance in hell of being able to fly through the traffic like they do without getting stuck behind a red double decker bus or two on Piccadilly. Get real. 

A friendly spook



Any why is there always some stupid woman hanging around an agent, making his day job very difficult with her incessant whining about their relationship and future together? Same goes for 24.  In his heyday, Jack Bauer had to suffer, along with the rest of us, as one severely stupid woman after the other threatened to derail his mission and completely jeopardise national security.

Anyway; extras.  I think if you want to be an extra in Canberra, it will have to be on Parliamentary Question Time. You could sit next to Julia, and read the newspaper or smoke a Cuban cigar.  Depends on what the script calls for really. 

I guess the key skills to bring to the role would be an ability to sit, stand, walk, laugh hysterically when nothing’s funny, sleep like no-one’s watching, glare with vigour, throw Molotov cocktails; you name it, you'd better be able to handle it.  I imagine it would also be fairly useful to practice some stunt work in your backyard too.  Perhaps some light commando rolling and diving across chairs and desks.  That sort of thing.  Then give the ABC a call.

There are some TV shows that you can participate in, however.  If you hold up an IGA and/or intimately involve yourself in a hostage situation, you will likely end up on WIN evening news; especially when it is time to shoot the court scenes. And then you'll be, like, totally famous.

Declutter drugs

Why is decluttering so difficult? I am currently trying to throw out objects that don’t and have never had any particular significance to me.  So, why am I finding this process so traumatic and difficult?

I have a storage unit filled with useful, and many more less useful, personal items that I haven’t seen or heard from in two years, but when I “visit” them (1st red flag), I can’t work out for the life of me (2nd red flag) how I have coped without them for so long. For example, I have a pair of black, sturdy platform shoes, that were glued to my feet in the early 00’s, that I haven’t worn for a good eight years. I know they sound terribly glamourous – prison warden chic, as it were – but I loved them.

They were a tad chunky, a tad heavy and a tad ugly, but for some incomprehensible reason they were my faves for quite a few years.  And then there is the long, dark green velvet (yes, velvet) skirt I have for reasons I cannot fathom.  It's very soft and comfy, but I can't leave the house when I am wearing it without being accidently mistaken for Anne of Green Gables.  Better being mistaken for Anne than Gaga, I suppose.



Coop in urgent need of a haircut

I recently saw the movie Limitless, where the beautiful (not in this picture, right) Bradley Cooper pops these pills that enhance his senses 100-fold, allows him to use all of his brain, and gives him an IQ in the thousands. I love how the first thing he does is write a book in three days (he's a copywriter). Anyway, so I jumped onto the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) website, looking for word that these super-pills had been approved.  Pills that if I popped like jelly babies will make me as smart as Al Gore.  Oh, wait, they would need to take AWAY from my IQ to make me as smart as Al Gore.

It wasn't terribly important to me that they had been given the all important FDA gold stamp.  But, alas, it seems these magic pills do not exist.  I am shocked.  It turns out that Limitless is just made-up.  A whole bunch of hokum.  I wish someone would tell me these things before I get all disappointed, because the accuracy and attention to detail in Hollywood flicks… geez, foiled again. The same thing happened when I saw Al Gore’s soul-destroying, action-packed psychological thriller, An Inconvenient Lie.

I would never have picked his movie as made-up bullshit, what with all the scaremongering, lying, delusional scientists, absurdly inaccurate charts and graphics, and the fact it was narrated by renowned science-fictionist Al Gore. It's amazing how far Hollywood has come with special effects. I’m joking; I never saw his retarded mockumentary. And if I had, I wouldn’t admit it.  If I could make someone non-exist with my mind, it would be Al Gore.  

So what the bejeezus has all this got to do with decluttering? Um, I can’t remember. Oh yes, if I had one of these jagged little pills I could clean up my shite in no time flat.  Sure, I would be addicted to a dangerous, soul-destroying uber-drug, have constant headaches and seizures, and experience time-lapses that take me from Friday to Monday in the blink of an eye; but I would be all decluttered! Oh, and I want to write a novel as well.  And in the end, Coop doesn't die.  Bullet dodged.  Come on pharma companies, let’s get this happening.

Queanbeyan Quartier français

The French Quarter, Queanbeyan. On exquisite April mornings in Le Dodsworth Hauteurs, I like to ride my bicycle into la ville de Queanbeyan, taking in the impossible tranquillité of the hurlement (yell) of cockatoos and the subtle répercussions of the idiots locaux automobiles, as they prepare to head into town for a petit pisser du jour.

On my ride, I take in the délicieux scents of freshly cut herbs, foie gras, bird excrement and other various non spécifié odours, and I snort in admirablement at other feisty smells as I near the l'avenue de fromage moisi et graisse (avenue of moldy cheese and grease). The dewy dawn air blanchits my breathe as I bid my bonjours to a local mademoiselle, who wanders the gouttière (gutter) collecting various fresh produce from the local boite (trash) dotted along the pittoresque route on the le boulevard de bogans.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle!”, I wave frantically while flicking my tasselled handlebar bell.

“F*%#@ off”, she grunts.

I have always loved La Queanbeyan. It reminds me of a grande country town, with friendly human visages and petit amigos everywhere you go.

While the monsoirs like to while away their day in the gaztrillion pubs, many of them remain in le populaire establishments until late in the evening; preferring to walk home along the queanbeyan rivière at the fraiche dawn, away from the harsh polluer des joueurs (foul players), or get a lift in the chariot de paddywagons.

I whizzed onto the bustling Grand Rond (big roundabout) on the Route du Bungendore, chiming my bell and directing traffic on the circle de suicide.

“GET OFF THE ROAD YOU STUPID F%#@!!!”, says one of locals, greeting me in the usual quoi que manner.

“Oh yes, good day to you, monsieur!”, I said, waving back.

The townsfolk and I would exchange pleasantries all day if we could.  I love the hustle and bustle of this part of the Secteur Obèse (fat quarter), with its shiny, riche asphalte surface and boulevards bustling with idiots de village and classe ouvrière, heading off to collect their welfare profites from sécurité sociale and participer in some early afternoon combat de pub.

I park my bike on the la maison de vélo (home of bike) and enter the razzle éblouit of the l'arc d'or (arch of golden) into the jaune and rouge brick building that houses the la maison de hamburgers, owned by the famous cuisinier Monsieur McDonald.

I enquire about the fresh products of the day to the young monsieur behind the compteur, with an eye for a de graine de sesame seed (bread roll) or lasagnes d'escargot or les pommes de terre ont cuisiné dans le vin with 12 herbes secrètes (potatoes cooked in wine with 28 secret herbs).

“Fresh? Um, the sweet and sour sauce packets arrived in a box yesterday?”, monsieur says to my delight.

“Oh, lovely, may I take ten please?”

“Whatever.”

Full of de joie after my brisk and savoure purchases, I positively skip out the l'arc d'or and allow the succulent l'odours de village to direct me to my next destination on the l'avenue de pépites (avenue of nuggets).

I often leave the village with a grand trolley brimming with l'homme a fait (man-made) fresh fruit and veg and various delicat knickerknackers that I don’t need or want, but provide équilibre in my trolley and ensure I will look tres faux and pertinent yet blasé on my journey back to the grand maison.

Hire-a-Dolphin

From my vantage point, which I would loosely describe as east of my television set, it was a beautiful Wednesday morning in April on the New South Wales Central Coast.  The decommissioned frigate, the ex-HMAS Adelaide, was waiting patiently just off Avoca Beach.  She was due to be scuttled at 10.30am after a 12-year campaign by local supporters to have this warship meet its final resting place in this beautiful part of the world.  The 11th hour push by environmental activists to stop the scuttling had failed, after the judge in the court case denied their (insanity) plea.  

HMAS Adelaide in her heyday -
fighting global terrorism


With moments to go, red smoke plumed into the air and the five-minute warning siren bleated from a small boat.  But five minutes passed, and we got nothing.  No promised pyrotechnics (which I've never seen the point of during the day); absolutely nothing happened.  The news stations scampered to find something to talk about and the Adelaide waited; listing widely but gently in the wind.

It turned out that a huge pod of playful dolphins had ventured into the exclusion zone, no doubt curious over the activity and masses of people and boats in their playpen.  The scuttling had been scuttled.  I can relate; if I had a buck for every time my best-laid plans have been scuttled by a bunch of nosy dolphins.

At least 50 of these little sea monkeys held up the process for a good hour and a half, having a great old time leaping about in the water and just generally being cute.  It is always entertaining listening to TV anchors trying desperately to find something to talk about when all they are showing the viewing audience is an ocean bubbling with white froth and the occasional dolphin doing a triple pike backflip.  If only those ocean-faring creatures knew the chaos they were creating, and how happy they were making the greenies.  Perhaps it was Bob Brown and his cronies dressed in sleek, grey inflatable pvc suits.

You'd think the greenies would be happy about the scuttling. The HMAS Adelaide will create an artificial reef, a human-made underwater structure that is generally built to control erosion from the shore and to promote marine life in a sea floor that otherwise doesn't have anything very exciting going on.  It's ironic that an attraction named after the city of Adelaide is being used for the purpose of tourism.    

Also ironic is that warships like the Adelaide are part of the reason insufferable greenies are able to whinge endlessly to the media.  If we didn't ship troops off to wars on these frigates back in the day, and still to this day, we'd likely be a communist country by now.  And I would love to see Bob Brown and his deluded cohorts try and whinge about the government under a communist regime.

While waiting for the main event, Sky News passed the time talking to a woman who seemed to be from Avoca Tourism, who waxed lyrical about the area and how cool it is having hundreds of dolphins just off shore, as if it happened everyday.  And if I didn't know any better, I would say that the dolphins were an 11th hour PR stunt by the Avoca Tourism Board.  It felt like a PR stunt, but I have no idea how that would have been carried out.  Perhaps there is an illegal Hire-a-Dolphin company operating on the Central Coast.

Sky News also spoke to two insane, unreasonable green activists, who answered every questions from a journalist with "it's leaking lead paint! OMG! We're all gonna die!!", which it's not, and we're not, but I suppose you need to come up with something - anything - when you've got nothing relevant to say. 

Aside from the whinging of the activists - who tried to steal the Adelaide's thunder - I thought it was so sad that, instead of talking about the rich history of the frigate and the Royal Australian Navy, Sky News gave all the airtime to tourism folk and nutty environmentalists.  I would have liked to hear the views of someone who had served on the ship perhaps. 

Some ADF officers spent years on the frigate, serving their country, fighting wars in our name.  And on the day that we should be talking about its history, all the media is concerned about is its environmental impact (which is negligible) and how much money will be invested in the area through the ship's new role as a tourist attraction.

The HMAS Adelaide fought in wars for Australia.  It took just 60 seconds for her to sink to the floor of the ocean.  No great movement in the water, just a very fast and smooth ride to start her new life.

Media should name names

The Australian Defence Force Academy (ADFA) says that it is 'more than just a university'.  Oh, ain't that the truth.  That's ADFA as in the Defence military kindergarten, not the Australian Dried Fruits Association.  But I'm sure they'd understand if you got the two confused.

The Australian Defence Forces (ADF) are really good at defending us; which is useful, because my only expectation of them is to ensure we don’t turn into a country that is anyway different to how it is now. I want them to fight wars in foreign lands, rather than wait until the enemy rocks up here. I want them to stop the bad people among the legitimate refugees from traipsing illegally onto our shores from god knows where, and I want them to kick the arse of any terrorist who plans to obliterate us from the inside. And as far as defending all things Australian, I think they are doing a tops job.

I am very comfortable and confident that the ADF know how to handle any shituation that involves war, intelligence, national security, machine guns, bad people and other defence type matters. That said, I have no confidence whatsoever that they can handle incidents involving women.

The latest Defence scandal involves an 18-year-old student at the Australian Defence Force Academy (ADFA).  The girl, known as Kate, went to the media after the Defence head honchos allegedly ignored her complaint that she had unknowlingly been filmed with a webcam while having sex with another student, while another six male students watched in another room.  Yes, Kate broke the rules by fraternising with the opposite sex, which is banned at the academy.  But that's not the key issue.

How naïve of the Defence heads to believe that dismissing this complaint would be the end of the matter.  What the hell is wrong with these men?  They need to stick to playing with their guns and tanks and not involve themselves in negotiations with any members of the opposite sex, ever.  Because it always seems to turn out badly.  And now a former naval officer has come out, claiming she was raped in her sleep by a fellow officer, and I hope many more people come forward, as difficult as that may be for them.  The ADF has had this coming for a very long time. 

And then we have the media.  Whenever something controversial is going on, particularly when it involves a government department, you can bet your bottom dollar that a journalist will be censored by their news organisation if they upset the applecart. In this case, the requirement is to not upset the highest echelons of the Defence Department, in fear of losing key contacts, and thus the journalist will end up covering trade fairs and dog shows, rather than getting any big scoops from key sources inside the government.

So the while the media whinge endlessly about their impartiality, and how it’s their sole purpose to expose the truth and keep the public informed, in reality, it’s a lot muddier than that. The media and government exist in a complex symbiotic relationship. It’s a two-way mechanism – needing each other, but also needing to keep the other at arm's length. You think it’s just as simple as writing a story and exposing the truth? Get real. We only get a sanitised version of the truth; a version that generally won’t result in any of the top brass going out to pasture on a controversial note.

But doesn’t the public have a right to know who's raping women in the armed forces? Sure we do, but we aren’t going to get the whole truth. The media always claim they protect the identities of bad people because of defamation laws, but I want to know why, even after court proceedings, the media does not, or is not allowed to, name names? Isn’t this hypocritical, given they claim their role is to inform the public?

And I think it would be pretty easy to identify who put it on Skype.  Surely the public is entitled to demand that the media expose the truth.  Expose the jackass who raped (it might be under ACT law) Kate, the others who watched on Skype, and the top brass, and/or government members who decided to cover it up.

Protect the source (Kate), but expose the predators. I don't want the identity of these men protected. I want their faces on the front of all national newspapers, so they can deal with the fallout. Surely the Defence Department would think again about their leniency in cracking down on rapists if there was even the possibility that the faces of these dropkicks would go viral.

Any excuse that is rolled out in defence of protecting their identity is based on an outcome I'd be happy to see - like they won't get work anywhere (cry me a river), or they'll be rejected by women (sounds like a community service to me), or the top brass have had a honourable career (they did, until now).  I don't care what happens to these people, I just want them exposed for who they are.  I really, really would like to see them exposed for who they are.

And let's be clear; the media do not give a stuff about protecting identities of people like Kate; all they care about is ratings and circulation figures, and you only get these through big stories, which you only get by retaining the rapport with the higher echelons in government departments and other business and industry leaders. They sure as shit do not care about protecting society, specifically ADFA women, from men who rape.

These ADFA guys are a small bunch of really rotten eggs among the good eggs in the defence forces. I think we should ship the rotten ones off to the hot spots right now - no training, no guns, no armour, no chance in hell of getting out of there. Perhaps the Defence Department needs a female Pal Sec to act as Defence Women's Relations Liaison, or something to that effect. We could get an outrageously annoying feminist in the role and watch the boys squirm.  Germaine 'name and shame rapists' Greer comes immediately to mind for some reason.  No-one can emasculate quite like Germaine.

The Queanbeyan peace accord

So, I'm back in Queanbeyan territory, where the men have mild mental retardation and the women are all related.  Literally, just one big, happy family.  I first moved to struggle town back in 2005 - a move inspired by the wildly successful advertising campaign  - "city benefits, country living". In reality, it's more like "welfare benefits, deadshits live here".  I moved out of Queanbeyan two years ago when the realtor sold the house I was renting without asking me if I wanted to buy.

LJ Hooker Queanbeyan - you're the best.  No, you are; you're the best at screwing your tenants over.  Nobody does it better.  And now I am back here for two weeks housesitting, in the house I used to live in.  Yes, that's unusual, but the house is next door to my sister's, so it's not that weird.  And the new owner is lovely, so it's all good.

Back in the complex, and it doesn't feel like I ever lived here previously; it feels like a completely different space, which is a little odd really.  Although, I do keep doing things subconsiously that I used to do - like reaching for a towel on a hook that doesn't exist anymore.  The furniture is different, and nothing feels the same, which is good I suppose, because I was sad to move on.

I am here looking after a neurotic cat called Cat, more formally known as Neurosis, but thankfully she answers to Cat, as it would be awkward yelling "Neurosis!" into the night.  She is a rescue cat; ie. suffering from a range of psychological disorders, and she is rather disgusted that I am in her space.  Cat and I agreed on certain things at first - like I was to leave the room when she sauntered through, and I was not to make eye contact with her.  EVER.  However, I have been here for five days and she is coming around to me, bless her little white sock paws.  And she really is so thoughtful.  I checked my diary the other day and she had added a new entry - "clean my litter box".  So very thoughtful.

There is a stray cat called Dusty that comes around for food.  He is a gorgeous little cat, and I'm told he has a home, but I believe he has the worst owners in the world, because Dusty sleeps outside this house, eats outside this house, and probably shits outside this house.  I have now de-wormed him, so maybe the poor little bugger won't be so hungry all the time.  

This is Daisy.
Her identity is protected.

And my sister has two cats - Daisy and Meg - so relations seem to be a little frosty here in Catland.  To be honest, things are less frosty in the Middle East when it comes to keeping the peace.  Cats really need to learn to get over things and stop being so psychotic and obsessive.  Muslim extremists should also take heed: get over your clan shit and stop ruining the world for everyone else.  And stop hijacking our media to garner support for your insane ideologies.  Our media is reserved for Paris Hilton and the Australian Cricket Team.   

This afternoon, when three of the cats were staring each other down, I thought it was such a beautiful day for the beginnings of a new peace road map for the complex.  So I started to go all Ban Ki-moon on them, but relations soured when Daisy decided to scrap her cease-fire and started hissing at everyone else.  You only need one Gaddafi to ruin everything.  So then I went all-Obama on them, and simply denounced the violence and walked back into my nice, cushy, ivory tower oval office where I didn't need to deal with all the bad things in the world.

Self Doubt, Interrupted

As I listened to a speech in the Great Hall at Parliament House in Canberra, waiting to receive my Bachelor of Arts degree, I pondered the significance of the occasion.  Here I was, after six and a half years of multiple essays, presentations and exams; countless tutes, lectures and lecturers; numerous psychological breaks, meltdown and tantrums; thousands of dollars of textbooks; one stupid, incomprehensible textbook that now has a broken spine; many late nights; too many deadlines; hundreds of headaches and panadols; two eye glasses upgrades; and one computer meltdown. 

But yesterday, none of that mattered, as I was about to receive that all-important piece of paper; a symbol of hard work, perserverance and commitment.  But it also represented something much more important to me.  Yesterday I had a bit of a personal breakthrough.  Despite my life-long questioning of my ability to do just about anything, I gave myself a break and thought: "I earnt this, damn it!  I'm wearing a friggin' mortar board on my head, so I fit in here as much as anybody else".

I certainly wasn't so calm and collected when I entered the Great Hall, as I discovered that my old foes, anxiety and self doubt, also wanted a piece of the action. The two graduands who were to be seated next to me arrived soon after, and we spent the next half hour in friendly chit chat; covering uni, career options, current work, travel, family. 

As usual, I was a good 15 years older than most of the kids in the room.  Which is probably for the best, because I would likely have just joined the public service after graduation if I had gone to uni straight out of school.  And if I had joined the public service in my twenties then I would, without a doubt, hate it even more than I do now.  Which is a sobering thought.

Of course we also discussed the more pressing matters of the day, like graduation shoe choice, our hair styles, the appropriateness of certain outfits for such an occasion, the thickness of the robes' fabric, the gradient and workmanship of the ramp we were to come down, and reassuring each other that it was strong and sturdy, and how incredibly intelligent we all looked, and would probably never look again. 

In that half an hour, Anita, Kristy and I - brought together by the ordering of our surnames - became each other's sounding board.  When times are uncertain, people tend to stick together; and we worked through an important social process.  Most of the graduands would have been feeling some type of nervous anxiety, and, looking around me, everyone was expressing it in different ways. 

Some people were sitting quietly, some needed to chat, some fiddled, some closed their eyes, and some were completely indifferent and played angry birds on their mobile phones.  For me, my interaction with these two complete strangers got me through that last half hour, and shot down my internal anxieties and doubts.  Group information processing to release nervous energy and anxiety - often we don't even realise its importance in everyday contexts in getting us through moments that we perceive to be bigger than we can handle.