I like bands that are so new, they haven't even formed yet.

I saw this on a t-shirt a few days ago and it first of all made me laugh then second it yanked me back a century or two to when I was a teenager.  As I travelled in reverse through time, to a period when I was more awkward than what I am today, when I was half child, half woman, with small breasts and puppy fat. When school was my life, my parents a cross to bear and what was hot and what was not was more important than being true to who I am on the inside. 

I remembered being 15 and the friend I had who epitomised this t-shirt’s copy. She had older siblings who were at university and because they were infinitely cooler than we were, she spent much of her time loitering around them. They kept her informed about what was happening on the music scene, using multi-syllabled words they had just learnt from a text book or dictionary to describe the complexities, subtleties of the depths of musical awareness they were embracing. So between these informed uni students and  Triple J, she liked to pretend she knew what was going on.

“Oh have you heard blah blah,” she’d say casually – lording her musical superiority over me.

“Nope, not yet,” I’d say, feeling ashamed at being such a musical pariah.

“Oh, really, you haven't heard them? How strange? They’re really cool. They’re like, defining the whole social-music paradigm, writing post-modern elliptical lyrics that, like, are mobilising whole tribes of people to find their higher self. The beats are practically telling people to move away from capitalism and towards a shared consciousness of enlightenment. You know? ”

Did I mention they were doing Arts Degrees?

Anyway - in addition to knowing everything about the music business, or at least as it applied to 19 year olds, she also decided that she knew everyone in our age group throughout the district.

Each week, we were subjected to an inter-school sports day, where we would climb onto a stinking, rotten bus that rattled and clunked with every wheel rotation. These buses are likely to be accountable for the entire denigration of the ozone layer. For the privilege of getting high on Co2 that was pipped, like elevator music into the bus carriage, we paid $3.50 for the ride 20 minutes down the road to another school.  Once off the bus, the first person who could nonchalantly tip their head in the direction of another student native to the school, and have the nod reciprocated was, for a fleeting moment, completely cool.

Before getting on the bus my friend would always talk about the person she knew, loudly, “I am so looking forward to seeing William. He’s, like, totally into art and stuff and I just adore him. I can’t wait to see him again”. I’d nod and smile, while quietly wondering why I’d never heard of William before this day or hung out with him at parties or during the holidays.

“Oh, I only see him sometimes, and he doesn’t like new people or else, I’d introduce you,” she say when asked.

When we’d arrive, jump off the bus and look around, she’d say, “oh I think he must be sick today.”  Your friends are sick at every sodding school we visit? Are they all afflicted with the same disease? Are you the carrier? Am I at risk?

Basically, this was the high school equivalent of the girl I went to primary school with who, when bored, would place one hand over her nose and mouth and put the other hand up her nose.  When confronted, she would say, “I was just flicking my front teeth with my thumb nail.”  I thought the same response at six as I did at 15: Bullshit.

While I knew she had no friends at other schools I didn’t have the ability to catch her out, simply because I didn’t know anyone at the other schools, either. Until one day before our next sports outing, I asked if she knew Paul Wallace. “Yeah, totally, I know him,” she said.

“You know Paul, tall, brown hair, plays soccer and is on the debating team?” I asked again to be sure we were talking about the same guy.

“Yes, I know Paul, his mum knows my mum.”

Oh the mum defence. That’s a game changer. We can’t question anything when you throw “my mum...” into a sentence.  I smiled and nodded then turned my head away as I muffled a snigger. I’d completely made him up. There was no Paul Wallace in Grade 10 at that school. Pure fiction. Ha. Bam. Caught you out. Little pants on fire.

Oddly, from that day on she never did rave on about how many people she knew from everywhere so on some level, she must have realised I’d busted her. It didn’t stop her being a complete pain in the ass about music though. I’m still considering sending her the t-shirt.

Summertime and the living is, well, easy. Or at least, so it seems from here.

I’m sitting here, wrapped in a blanket, in my pyjamas, wishing it were summer.

It’s spring next week and I’m holding my breath. Soon, the Jacarandas will be in bloom. Soon, the sun will dry out the earth, the air and the water. Soon it will be scorching hot and every inhalation will burn my nostrils. Soon I will start sweating as soon as I wake up. Soon, I’m not going to be able to sleep because the sheets stick to me like glue. Soon, I’m going to boil in my own skin.  Soon it’s going to be summer and I can’t wait.

The humidity will soar – in conjunction with the mercury. The heat will rise from the rooves of houses and the bitumen and I’ll be able to see it and I'll think it marvellous, reminding me of old school Australian films that used that locked off shot of the heat sizzle rising from the road to indicate just how remote some of the properties are.

The fruit will be amazing. I’ll over-indulge in lychees, mangos and watermelons that will be so ripe and juicy that I’ll need to eat them over the kitchen sink.

LSH will grumble and say “I’m melting” wicked witch style at least four times a day. The dog will pant, with her long tongue hanging to the floor. She’ll either position herself under the air-conditioning or on a cold patch on the floor, moving every few minutes, to find a new spot not warmed by her body. I’ll spend at least three weeks deliberating if I should have her shaved, only to have the vet tell me that some dogs are actually quite vain and it’s likely that shaving her will make her feel self-conscious. So I’ll leave her hot and panting so as to not destroy her self esteem.

My little black car will be a hot box of steam. When I jump in it, my sunglasses will fog up from humidity. I’ll be able to wear bright colours for a full six months, instead of the customary winter blacks and greys. I'll be on my way to a lunch with the girls, we'll be drinking, eating and laughing - as we can only do under the big bright blue umbrella sky of summer.

But, by Christmas Day, I’ll wish I could stand in the middle of Antarctica, if only for a moment, for a reprieve from the heat. I’ll stand in front of my wardrobe in January looking at the winter clothes stacked haphazardly on the top shelf and wonder if it could ever possibly be cold enough to wear them again. I’ll quickly look away, because sometimes, just looking at a jumper makes my skin freak out into a sweat.

By next March, I’ll be so totally over summer. Tired of sweating from just sitting on the couch. I'll be tired of having my make-up slide off my face as soon as I've put it on. I'll be tired of trying to straighten my hair, only to have it spring back into a curl, like the little recalcitrant it is. I'll be frustrated with being covered in a permanent layer of silt, that my damp skin has attracted during the day. I'll be tired of wondering if I smell and if having sweaty feet is weird. And I’ll have forgotten just how excited I was just this past August.

Still, right now I’m under a blanket and I’d rather not be. Right now, I think summer’s going to be wonderful and I simply can’t wait.

Realisation: the grass isn't always greener.

Almost two years ago now, I had a massive accident.

It was very traumatic and I underwent copious amounts of therapy to get me back on the right track, as the accident left me in a state of shock, confusion and mildly depressed.

You see, I was thrown, head first, into my thirties.

A year and a half later, I have lost the ability to use my 20s. My youth, exuberance and the foolish belief that I could achieve anything, was ripped out from under me, so suddenly, I hardly saw it coming and crashed with a thud into the reality of domesticity.

I’m probably mostly sad about no-longer believing the world is my oyster, that I’m unencumbered, free and can do anything, that I can change everything anytime I like. As now, I have a mortgage and a dog and we’re talking more seriously about planning for a child. It seems like life is all mapped out before me. It’s then that I start to hyperventilate. Brown. Paper. Bag. Anyone?

That was until yesterday, when I had breakfast with some dear friends. Blindly, we ended up at Racecourse Road, so named because it’s the road you have to drive up, wait for it – to reach the racecourse. Mind blowing, right?

Right, so we’re talking, sharing stories of the ridiculous and falling about laughing, when a tsunami sized wave of nearly naked early 20 somethings comes stumbling on plastic high heels, towards us.

Being a bit prudish about not having my bits hanging out from the top or the bottom of my outfits, I might have been taken aback when we were practically beaten over the heads with breasts, thighs and va-jay-jays. The boys thankfully, had their bits tucked away inside their suits.

Some of these nearly naked girls, who had clearly spent ages getting ready had not thought to practice walking in their shoes and had, after only half an hour, taken their tight, ill-fitting, plastic and cheap versions of the more comfortable, leather equivalents, off. Some were already feeling insecure about the length, or lack thereof, of their skirts, tugging at the hems as the fabric started to bunch up around their waists. By the end of the day, I’d imagine, these same girls would stumble down the street, shoes in hand, mascara streaming down their faces, fascinators in pieces, breasts falling out over the top of the strings of fabric now holding them in place perhaps, if the audience is really lucky have a lace thong out on display.

It was only 9am. They had a long day of drinking, pretending to watch the horses while trying to find a mate, to...uhm…well, practice mating with, ahead.

Now why would I want to do that again? Why would I want to go through the pain of being 20 or 21? Do I really want to go back to a time when I had no money, had to follow fashion trends to the nth degree, worry about finding a job, plus try to find a bloke interesting, intelligent, funny and with any luck – good looking - to date, in a bid to conform with society?

So what if I might have put on a couple of kilos. So what if I can’t wear anything remotely “on-trend” for fear of looking like an idiot. Sure I can’t get blind drunk and spend the next day curled on the couch feeling sorry for myself…Oh wait, nope that’s not true. I managed to do that two weekends ago – only it wasn’t funny and I’m still cranky for wasting 50% of a perfectly good weekend!

Now I don’t have to worry as much about what the future will hold, because I’m already in it. I don’t have to worry about never getting a job, because I have one and I’ve had a few, so I know I am able to fool people into believing I actually have a clue.  I don’t have to buy plastic shoes anymore out of necessity, but now rather, if I do, it’s out of choice. I don’t have to worry if the bloke I just met will call me. I have a bloke I rather like and he calls me because he wants to, and mainly because we make each other laugh, not because he’s deluded into thinking I’m some sort of princess or hussy. 

So, hopefully, after seeing the pre-train wreck that is the start to the races, I will stop mourning the loss of my 20s* and hopefully, well okay maybe, just for once in my life, take a moment to enjoy what I’m doing, right now without planning what’s happening tomorrow or wishing I could relive yesterday – particularly since when yesterday drunkenly struts towards me, it doesn’t look like something I’d want to be a part of. 

*Mourning the loss of my 20s must be attributed to my blogless and completely hilarious friend, Chi, who in planning her 30th said she was going to have a wake. She didn’t have a wake, we were instead invited to share a feast of French food and too many bottles of champagne. Much better.

I am also reminded of my very talented friend, Cathy, who was published in One Book Many Brisbane’s. If you have the time, be sure to read: Trashing the field. It perfectly encapsulates the race day that we saw the start of.

A Sundays worth of memories

There’s a certain smell that sends my olfactory senses into overdrive. The memories evoked are thrust into the forefront of my brain and are watched in my mind’s eye like an old silent and scratchy home video.

Whenever I come across the strange combination of smells that is stale cigarette and dog (rarely, I admit), I am reminded of my Grandma. Not quite the scent of lavender one would have expected. None-the-less, when my nostrils flare to that particular mix of smells, I am dragged back to a time when I was little and the half hour journey from my family home to that of Grandparent’s in Watford, would send me to sleep.

I’d awaken, groggy and grumpy (a trait I seem to have held onto over the years) outside a series of brilliant, dark and rich green hedges that I was too small to look over and for some reason they held great mysteries for me and my cousins. We were convinced little people lived amongst the branches and leaves of the hedges, and we constantly peered and prodded into the hedges hoping to catch one of the tiny people frolicking amongst the branches, fairy style.

My parents would open the back passenger door and I’d slump out of the car. We’d walk along the  pathway, from street to door, smelling hydrangeas and dodging bees. Ringing the bell, we’d hear, “Len, Len, they’re here,” my Grandma would yell to Grandad, wiping her floured hands on a tea towel and rush to the door to greet her middle son, his wife and grand-daughter.

Door flung wide, she’d wrap me up in her arms, crush me to her stomach and heavy bosoms and sing, “oh you are a funny-un, with a nose like a pickled onion and a face like a squashed tomato...” Or she’d screech, in an acquired Hyacinth Bucket English accent, “Oh my little duckie.” I breathe in her soft, crinkly, white skin that smelt faintly of perfume or perhaps Yardley talc, cigarettes and of the wonderful German Shepherd, Bess, who was my first four legged best friend.

All 60 kilos of Bess would bounce from the living room, down the skinny and short red carpeted hallway in one giant leap and onto my dad. Her tail would nearly take my head clean off as it thwacked from side to side. The hallway credenza was battered into submission by that giant of a dog. My Grandad would stride down the stairs and arrive in the shortest hallway of all time that rather unimaginatively drew the house together, and draw me to his stomach, while looking at me questioningly, but with much love, as we were shuffled into the kitchen/dining room for our Sunday feast of roast beef, the creamiest of roast potatoes, the tallest and lightest of Yorkshire puds, all drizzled in thick onion gravy. Oh and some torturous brussels sprouts on the side, which I’m now pretty sure, don’t come from Brussells.

I have some very fond memories of my Grandma.

She would cook every minute of the day. Baking was her thing. I am sure most women of her generation cooked, but I’m fairly convinced she was the best in the county. Out of necessity, she made everything from scratch.  Her cakes were extra-ordinary. Those Battenburg cakes, with their crazy cross coloured squares, are still my favourite today – but I've never seen one in Brisbane, jam drops, eccles cakes, all made at home to share with her family. Sometimes, the cakes would include just a hint or a dash of cigarette ash. 

Grandma smoked during everything. She knitted with a fag hanging from her lips. I’d stare at that ash as it grew longer and longer, she’d feel me staring, look up and wink at me. That slightest movement would send 3cms of ash tumbling into the knitting, which was likely my next jumper. Of course, she’d do the same thing when cooking. I’d sit next to her on a chair, too short to stand on my own, as she rubbed butter and flour together and occasionally gravity would attack the hanging 3cm of ash that couldn’t clutch onto the white of the unburnt cigarette paper anymore, and it would fall into the cake mix. I’d stare wide eyed, mouth agape, up at her and she’d smile back at me, wink and say out of the corner of her mouth, at least the side that wasn’t still smoking, “don’t tell anyone.” Of course, I never did. Never any need. Everyone knew, but we ate everything just the same.

My Grandmother would dance the Charleston in the kitchen/dining room, in her beige well pressed pants with a crease sharp enough to slice your fingers, a beige jumper and a long string of pearls bouncing as she waved her hands at me, eyes glinting under her eyelids, that had drooped with age, laughing like a teenager and telling me, “you’re no fun,” as I sat puzzled as to what on earth she was doing.

Of course the one thing I know about her that isn’t one of my memories, it’s not even one of my dad's, this one belonged to my Grandad who said, that during the war, my grandmother rode a motorbike. Of course, instead of driving in a straight line – she rode in one of those “Wheels of Death” globe shaped things made out of steel. I can see why you’d fall in love with a woman like that. A woman that can do anything is a woman who can ride a bike upside down. She must have been completely crazy, full of enthusiasm and completely devoid of fear.

Occasionally these memories will waft over me and tug at my heart¸ pulling it into my stomach and make my chest tight, as I heavily swallow a lump in my throat. Even now, as I type these thoughts out that have been swimming in my head all day, I have to swallow deeply, press my lips and flare my nostrils to control the tears that are welling. I wish that I could ask her to teach me how to dance the Charleston, how to make pastry - properly and how to ice a cake neatly and to just to talk about her life – something I don’t think I did as a kid.

It seems that the saddest thing about grandparents is that they are never around for long enough. Of course, we moved to the other side of the planet, so never really could make the most of having my grandparents around.  I only saw her one more time, it was when I was 14. Such a crappy age and I never appreciated anything back then – and occasionally, if I'm honest, still don’t. The thing is,  I’d be happy to see her, if just for an hour, to be squashed by that air-expelling hug/heimlich manoeuvre and have her sing, “...with a face like a squashed tomato – oh you are a funny-un,” and then fall about laughing, with her big blue, Angela Lansbury like eyes sparkling, with happiness.

So, just casually, who's your office pervert?

I drive to work. Every single day.  I have to. And I hate driving to work. I would much rather sit on a train and control my motion sickness, than drive.  Alas, I drive and as a result, I'm often dodging an accident - caused by someone else, or watching someone who swerves from left to right, incapable of staying in their lane.

I arrive at work and regale my team with the miracle of my safe arrival. They all nod and smile, knowingly, and say, "Yeah, the road is full of idiots. No-one can drive anymore." We share, round robin style, driving tales of woe about how they too, saw an idiot driver this morning on the way to work.

I never questioned the validity of these arguments, until one day a few years ago; I drove behind a colleague, who drove like a lunatic. She was all over the road, checking her phone, not indicating, not merging until the last minute, changing lanes for no reason, driving in the right hand lane at a slow speed etc. Unbelievably, she arrived at the meeting safe and sound.

At the following week's Friday drinks I said "since there are 30 of us around this table, and because of the undisputable facts relating to the law of averages, one of us must be a bad driver," I pause for dramatic effect, looking coquettishly underneath my eyelashes at the disastrous driving colleague. " I mean, think about it - we can't all be great drivers, at least one of us has to be crap, right, it only stands to reason. There's a bell curve to driving like there is to everything else." Of course, no-one thinks they're a bad driver. If they do, they won't admit it in a public setting.

But it got me thinking.

Now, I've realised that the tone of this blog is lowering faster than a pair of porn star's panties, but I started to question how many people I have worked with and what they might get up to in their nocturnal activities - in a completely not weird way.

I used to know a dominatrix, when I was younger. She was very insane, but also, in light of her career choice, more normal than one would expect. If she walked passed you in the street, you'd never think she tied men, and some women, up. Or walked over them in stilettos, whipped them and sometimes even burnt them, just for fun.

She told me that the boring looking Clark Kent types have the odd insatiable and sometimes embarrassing cravings for the perverse. Living in my little bubble, I found this all very fascinating. We're not talking about the colleague that told me about the intricacies of her vibrator purchase, or about the woman who once professed she desperately needed a holiday so she could get some action with her husband. We're talking about the ones who have an S&M closet, the ones who visit the prostitutes, or the ones who advertise for a third sexual partner, so their husband can watch the action from the closet. Oh wait, I know of one of those. It's the life of a friend of a friend of mine.

But, again, as the law of averages suggests - one of these folk must walk among us at work. And while I honestly couldn't care less about what people do in their own time, it makes me laugh a little that we all go to work, looking respectable and then at night and on the weekends there are some who are completely different. I used to work with a woman who wore bad fitting shift dresses to work and ugly court shoes. I was told she was a Goth on the weekend. I can't say I was altogether surprised. I'm not sure why she felt she couldn't be herself, nothing that outrageous about being a Goth.

There must be loads of people like this. Those that are totally different at home to who they are at work. The ones that have two lives, and are never going to be able to be true to who they really are because of fear of being ridiculed. Or perhaps, these folk believe they have to stifle their true selves because perhaps who they are will shock and appal. There's the argument that without laws, we'd live in a state of anomie - a crazy sociological term that means without laws, rules and social pressures, we would all be running around naked, shagging everything that moved, killing people, overthrowing the government etc. Still, we should be able to deviate a little from the norm, surely, to at least wear what we want and be who we really are, at work?

Anyway, aside from the dark realms of humanity, I sometimes wonder, who, in the office, am I taking instruction from, giving instruction to, collaborating and negotiating with or influencing, is the one who goes home pops a dog collar around their neck, chains themselves up and has someone whip them, for pleasure?