No answers, just more questions...

Years ago I had a workmate who would take 2 weeks annual leave every year, the same time every year, and to much the same destination every year. He would talk about it for months before his trip. Off he would go with his family, returning 2 weeks later suntanned and looking relaxed. And within the week, he would be planning the next year's leave and the treadmill would start rotating again.

I used to look at him and think that was not the way I wanted to live my life. I was determined my life would be more than just 2 weeks of sunshine every year. That my work life balance would be... well, more balanced!

And yet, here I was (prior to my recent trip to the States) not having had a holiday for nearly 3 years! Not only was I not living his dream, I was living my nightmare! It is hardly surprising that people are now saying I look like a new person. That I look younger. That I am more relaxed!

It was long overdue, and the holiday was the break I needed.

Having said that, it wasn't quite what I had planned... I was hoping during my 6 and a half weeks away, to spend some time thinking about what it was I wanted to do. With my job, with my flat, with my (non-existent) relationship. With my life. My job, my home and my relationships all need change.

I had planned on taking time out to reflect... to really explore the things in my life that were making me unhappy. To make some decisions as to where I needed to go to start turning things around. And to put some plans together as to how to do it.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for all I have. My friends, my family, my home... even my job. But the fact is, I don't feel happy. I feel like I am treading water. Surviving. One day at a time.

And the thing is, in the end, it didn't quite go the way I was planning anyway... As I said, I had a great time, it felt like I was away f o r e v e r. And maybe just taking that time out, set things in motion.

Because just the day before I left, I was told that my job was changing. That by the time I returned, another person would be employed to run the studio and I would return to a more 'hands on' role. Back to being a mac operator while someone else took the reigns. It came as quite a shock. And of course, while I was away it was on my mind quite a bit. It left me in a state of uncertainty, over which I had absolutely no control.

True to their word, on the day I returned to work, there was a new studio manager starting in my old role, and my working life changed significantly.

What does this mean?

Where am I heading?

How do I feel?

What next?

Right now, I don't have a clue.

I am just going with it and enjoying being back as part of the team.

Letting go. Holding on.

Bed bugs! Bed bugs! Bed bugs! There, now just try not to itch, I dare you!

Seriously, up until now we have been having a dream run. The weather has been good, we have been catching up with old friends and hanging out doing the touristy things... we've been having a great time. Sure we have had blips along the way... where we haven't been able to work out a bus timetable, or internet hasn't been available, or people have been snappy... (Oh actually, that would probably be me!) but boo hoo! Really we have been travelling along very nicely thank you very much.

Until today, that is.

It started with Mum's luggage going missing in action. Maybe it got homesick and decided a side trip back to Australia was in order. Maybe it is vacationing in the Bahamas, or maybe it's just decided to stay in Detroit (beats me why, I for one couldn't wait to get outta there!)

And if it is stolen? Then screw the effers who took it, because, quite frankly, it's really messed with our plans dammit! And I hope you are happy with your old ladies knickers!

But the luggage going missing is just the half of it... or at least the catalyst for the miserable parts of our day in any case.
Let me have a whinge, get it all off my chest and then I can begin to like America again. Because right now, the love affair is over.* Right now I am sitting in some dingy little hotel room, somewhere in no-mans land between two casino precincts in Atlantic City, with the door locked, too afraid to turn on the TV in fear of electrocution, having just eaten bad takeaway pizza for dinner so that we could get back to our hotel in the relative safety of daylight.*

Right now, Mum is trying to decide which of my t-shirts she can wear in the morning. And I have just finished checking my bed for bugs.* And for most of the day, we have been waiting for someone/anyyyyyone to call us to let us know if they have managed to track down Mum's bag. To even answer the help number we have been calling for the last 4 hours would be nice.

We hadn't even decided whether to stay here or head down the coast, but once we realised Mum's luggage had not appeared, we were out of options. We had to stay and hope that the bag was returned, and we had to find accommodation... in a City that thrives on the tourist dollar... on a Saturday night... in peak season... And so we called the number given to us at the airport and arranged it all over the phone.

Big mistake... Paying over the phone, was big mistake number 2. Staying in a hotel called Super 8? Not so lucky!

Apparently it is a busy weekend. Apparently there are few spare beds in the entire city of Atlantic City. And accordingly, rates rise becuase of it... and so we have ended up paying WELL over what we have paid for ANY of the accommodation we have had so far, for a hotel that is FAR WORSE than anywhere we have stayed thus far. In fact 'slumming it'* would be a fair description.

Think gunge, think stripper bar next door*, think sirens and noisy neighbours (and it's only 8pm) and you are on the right track so far... We can't wait to leave in the morning. And rest assured we will be leaving in the morning, WITH OR WITHOUT Mum's bag!

*Don't panic, I am prone to exageration.
Canada update and photos on the way, just had to get this off my chest!

Actually, it's 48 sleeps from today... (oopsie)

Oopsie.
Slight miscalculation.
I have 48 sleeps from TODAY before I leave for the states.
(Not that it really matters, but I just wanted you to know).
Not to worry.
The countdown has begun.

If patience is a virtue, it certainly isn't one of mine...

Many months ago, Mal and I called it a day. He moved into my front room and we both got on with our separate lives, whilst we continued to share our living space. I've gotta say, anyone I have told, has looked at me with a combination of shock and confusion and wondered at how it was working.

Mostly it worked ok. For both of us. And I am happy to say, we are still friends. He has recently met someone else and moved in with her just last week. So I now have my flat all to myself, and I am LOVING it.

But it's a weird thing. Now that I have my space and I have so many things to do, I also find I have to ask for help when there are things to do that I cannot handle alone. It's not something I particularly like to do, as I prefer not to impose on other people's time. But that is the way of being single again - I just have to ask if I need help. To assemble furniture. To move furniture. To paint a room. In the end, I decided to pay a painter to do the room as I recently developed tendonitis in my wrist and thumb and did not want to aggravate it.

So today the empty room is being painted... and while the painter works away in my soon-to-be studio, I am in my room sorting through stuff and clearing space so that I can move my desk and my computer out of my bedroom and into the studio. The bed is piled high with books and the things I had been stacking up or hiding under my desk for the last 6 months.

I am trying not to pace.

After the painter finishes, I have a friend coming over and she and I will tackle the Ikea shelves* I bought on the weekend. Then move some furniture.

Once the 'heavy' moving has been completed, there is still much to do. I will manage the rest on my own... the organising, rearranging, hanging pictures, and rearranging again... I love this stage, so it's a struggle to even sit still and wait right now. If patience is a virtue, it certainly isn't one of mine.

It's Wednesday. I have the day off. Tomorrow I am back at work, and I know I will want to be here, but I will just have to (continue to) be patient.

Breathe 1, 2, 3...

*Special thanks to my friend Lyn who came to my rescue for the Ikea collection combat mission! And to Lou for making up the Ikea assembly team! You guys are great and I couldn't have done it without you! Thanks. xx

What can I say, I'm a procrastinator...

If only I could refrain from talking completely...

I believe if people are genuinely sick, they should take a day or two off work to recover. If they make their sniffling way into the office, they are doing no-one any favours. They should stay at home and NOT spread their germs across shared work surfaces, where their colleagues pick up the baton and join the relay. Their 'working like a trooper' attitude does nothing to alleviate the issue. The spread of disease continues through coughs filled with airborne germs and the smearing of germs around shared kitchens, bathrooms, telephones and keyboards. For a couple of weeks now, work has been suffering the effects of one such 'situation'.

Normally I watch, as one by one, others around me fall victim to the latest illness. Many disappear for a few days of recovery before retuning to the fold refreshed and well slept. Others stick around to "push on". Usually I avoid the passing of bugs from one work colleague to the next, politely declining generous offers to share their ills. Usually.

This time however, somewhere along the way, my body, without my permission I might add, took up the offer and joined the party. It started with a tickle in my throat, which turned to a slow warm singe and then a full burn within a day. A cold was soon added to the mix, and, exacerbated by breathing constantly through my nose, a dry persistent cough. Before I knew it, I was suffering the effects of "The Dreaded Lurgy".

I found avoiding talking was my best medicine. At home alone (with Mal at work) the conversation was limited and generally went unanswered, and I was mostly ok. If only I could refrain from talking completely. At work, where talking was unavoidable, my coughing was impossible to contain. And so the last two days I have been at home resting.

Yes resting. Me.
And I am feeling so much better for it.
I'm ready to face the world once more... and start talking again!

I am here...

I've been crazy busy at work and on top of that I have a cold, so all of my 'free' time has been taken up curled up in bed, in sleep therapy. I have a list of posts just waiting to be written and posted. Stay tuned... updates are on the way.

Armed and Dangerous...

Today as I drove to work, I saw my life flash before me.

I seriously believed I was about to be involved in a serious car accident. Two cars beside me were so close to colliding (a collision which would have involved me and possibly two or three other vehicles) and I am still astounded they missed each other. Thankfully for us all, the accident was avoided. Without going into details, I can say it was only a combination of hard braking, quick lane changing and a large amount of luck that saw us through unscathed. There followed loud greetings with horns from numerous vehicles in the vicinity and much animated gesticulation. It made my heart thump a few decibels louder I can tell you!

What scares me is that I share the roads with these people on a daily basis and not only are they putting their own lives at risk (and whoever is unlucky enough to be travelling with them) they are also endangering me! It continually astounds me that so many drivers are so agressive, so impatient and so incompetent.

And so here follows, a substantial list of some of the dangerous driving practices I see regularly on the road. This is my chance to get it off my chest... Feel free to join in by adding your experiences to the comments at the end of the post.

Bad drivers and what 'cheeses me off'
(Aussie term meaning what gives me the s**ts!)...
Dangerous lane changing - zig zagging between cars in heavy traffic at great speed with limited space (more often than not to little or no advantage)
Cutting across three lanes to avoid missing a turn off. Check the signs people.
Tail gating. The practice of driving at full pelt within feet of the car in front is crazy.
Does anyone realise that undertaking is actually illegal?
But then, what alternative do you have when the right lane (the fast lane for Australia) is blocked by some moron driving at 85kmph (in a 100km zone), refusing to budge!
Swapping lanes into the lane in front of me, and then slowing down.
Cutting into limited space between cars, when there is more than enough space after.
Overtaking on double lines (illegal in Australia and all other countries I have visited)!
Beeping when the lights have JUST changed.
Patience people! Patience!
Overtaking dangerously and then turning at the next intersection!

And then there's the tunnel. The speed limit is 80kms an hour. Not 65! What is it with people who decide (because we all know there are speed cameras in the tunnel) that they have to go at least 10km UNDER the limit? Funnily enough, these are often the same people who charged past earlier breaking the land speed record!

And speaking of that, don't you just love the people who INSIST on doing 80 on 100km country roads and then when the opportunity arises to pass - you guessed it -THEY SPEED UP! ARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Drink driving? Don't even start me on this one!
Get a taxi. Get a bus. Get a LIFE!

OK, I'm guessing you are sensing a little of my frustration by now. Certainly it is difficult to stay calm and be patient sometimes. But these are the times when patience and tolerance is required most.

And yet, how can you be tolerant of this sort of behaviour...

Just last week, as Ames was driving along the Geelong-Melbourne Highway to work, she noticed a fellow driver with a large book balanced on their steering wheel. Yes - believe it or not - this person was READING as they headed down the highway at 100kms an hour! Aye aye aye!

I have seen people putting on make-up and people getting changed! I know someone who eats his breakfast (a bowl of cereal complete with milk) as he drives to work as he is always running late! I have even seen someone driving at 100kmsph, eating KFC AND puffing on a cigarette (yuck) - yes all while in 'control' of a vehicle. I have no doubt if the mobile had rung they would have answered that too!

These people are out there. They share our roads. They forget their manners and they neglect the most rudimentary laws. They don't carry guns, they aren't crazy terrorists. These are people like you, like me, forget that the vehicle they are driving is as good as a loaded weapon. Breathe people breathe.

Drive carefully... and I will endeavour to do the same!

Feelin' hot hot hot!

Melbourne is known by it's residents as capable of four seasons in one day. It is often erratic and unpredictable. Umbrella's are carried year-round by many locals, even when the weatherman has promised a fine day. It is currently summertime in Melbourne and true to form, we are being treated to lots of hot weather.

For those of you in Melbourne, you will know what I am talking about, but you will probably NOT be reading this post however, as you will most likely be down the beach or cooling yourself poolside. For those of you who are elsewhere (maybe even in snowy climes overseas) this is just a taster of what it's been like for a while now...

New Years eve was 42 degrees. At 37, there was no respite on New Years Day. No rain. No thunderstorm or summer downpour to clear the air. No such luck. It was relentless. It was so hot, we retreated gladly into my relatively cool flat with a few cold drinks and a DVD.

When we eventually reappeared it was to make an air-conditioned dash to the local Kmart where we purchased a pedestal fan (which by the way, at $14.95 is an absolute bargain!) to circulate the air at home...

As the coast-bound roads ground to a slow crawl, the beaches reached fever pitch and the city grew quiet, we decided staying at home was a good decision. Local retailers ran out of ice and many homes found themselves without electricity when the power companies were overwhelmed by demand.

While we stayed at home, down the coast a section of highway melted and travellers were diverted to single lane local streets where they crawled their way slowly to their destinations. People headed for the coast spent hours in their cars, battling with every other city dweller trying to escape. Finally they found their small patch of sand and then alternately cooled themselves in icy surf and baked (fried) themselves under the sun.

My flat, as I have said, is relatively cool. Whilst in winter it is tending more toward Arctic, in summer I forget my cursing. The benefits of its 1930's double brick and ground floor positioning is a blessing. For a few days at least, if we close out the worst of the heat, we remain immune.

The plumbing is not so protected from the heat however. By 11am the cold water tap is running at a temperature warm enough to do the dishes. By 1pm, laundry shrinks in a cold wash. If I want to clean my teeth without scolding myself, I have to get water from the fridge. By 3pm, when I flush the toilet, I notice steam coming from the bowl.

Leaving the flat is like taking a walk in a fan forced oven. It is intense. Nighttime brings a little relief. And then as the sun rises on a new day, it starts all over again. Yep it's official. Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, we're all feelin' hot hot hot.

Today is 35 degrees. Tomorrow is Saturday and the forecast is for another day of 37... maybe if we get going early enough, a trip to the beach might be in order.

Time for a cold drink... Cheers!

The storm before the calm...

It has been pretty crazy here for the last few months. Work has been busy, home has been busy, I have been busy. Finding time has been difficult. I have been trying to write, trying to exercise, trying to draw, trying to blog, AND trying to spend time with family and friends along the way. First there was the 40th birthday, then the fun run and now the interview.

The interview is for a course I want to do next year. It is an entry level arts course - fine arts and contemporary craft to be exact. It is two days a week for 16 weeks (2 terms) and will mean I have to go part time at work for that time (no complaints by me, and work have agreed to release me for that period). If I get in, it will be an opportunity to immerse myself in the arts and have intensive training in both drawing and painting and supplementary lessons in sculpture and print-making amongst other things.

Entry is by application, interview and presentation of a portfolio of work. This is completely new to me. It is a confronting experience to hand over your work, for strangers to evaluate. With no experience of this situation I have been trying to work out what they might be looking for - hoping that my art is up to scratch.

The preparation has been daunting. Where to start? What to include? What to discard? And then, just to complicate things, they pushed the interview forward a week earlier than I had expected and so there was the additional time frame pressures. I find it really hard to judge my own work and I also believe that perceptions of one's own work can be miles from reality. One only has to watch a show like Australian (or American) Idol to realise that! My inner critic is well known to me (we meet regularly) and quite vocal! I needed some feedback. Thankfully over the last couple of weeks I had a chance to show some work to a few people and the response has been good.

Last night I was lucky enough to get some guidance from my friend Angela who helped me organise all my pieces into a logical order (and we agreed to remove a couple of pieces) and we talked about the sort of thing that might come up in the interview. It was invaluable. Not only did she help me with the folio, she also gave me a boost in confidence and sent me off feeling more comfortable with the whole process.

Anyway, the interview was today.

All went well. They were friendly and interested in my work and listened to my answers. I have no idea if I will get in. They said I am the sort of person they are looking for, but that they have 40 candidates for 16 places. They did say they liked some of my pieces, but didn't comment on everything. They made particular (positive) comment on some of my observational drawings, so that was good. They flicked through the folio as we talked.

All interviews are today and tomorrow, so I should know by the end of the week. As they said, with 40 applicants, they have no idea the range of work that will walk through the door in the next 2 days, so there are no guarantees.

Did I introduce you to my inner critic? She's right here - say hi!

For now, the storm is over and it's time to relax a little.
Thanks to everyone for your patience, your enthusiasm and your love and support.

Fingers Crossed!
I will let you know as soon as I do.

Airport reunions...

I have a thing about airports. It's a kind of love hate relationship. I have spent far too many hours in the discomfort of airport terminals. They may look different, but they differ little worldwide. Never comfortable. Impersonal. A meeting place at best. A place to stretch. Destination emotional rollercoaster.

Farewells, reunions - it matters not. I cry watching strangers in their heartfelt embraces, their awkward good-byes, their joyful hellos. In need of some emotional theatre? Head to the airport. And that's just with me! And I'm even worse when it's about me and the people I love. I have cried (well sobbed uncontrollably would be more accurate) on any number of occasions, and believe me - It generally ain't pretty.

It's Thursday night in Geelong. It's cold and it's raining. My brother and his girfriend are due to return from 6 months absence. I have missed them. We have been in contact, but it is never quite the same as being able to see them in person and I am happy to be the meet and greet delegate.

Avalon Airport is an ugly destination. Neither Geelong nor Melbourne wish to claim it as their own. It's arrivals hall is a mere cubicle, a bunker of grey cement surrounded by cyclone fencing and stale portable toilets. It contains little more than a few understaffed car hire counters, a luggage carousel and a half a dozen sticky plastic chairs. The sliding doors in the far corner of the windowless fortress, refuse to open to people on the inside, intended only to allow the travelllers a grey welcome. Duelling stringed instruments may well be playing over the intercom, if one could hear it throught the static. A flickering flourescent tube completes the b grade movie atmosphere...

To my relief, the plane is (virtually) on time and the waiting is minimal. It is not long before I see their tanned smiling faces., and the grey surrounds fade as the sliding doors open.

There are no tears. Just smiles and warm embraces. Welcome hugs.

Welcome back. It's good to have you home.

The "Three Strikes and You're Out" rule...

I work with a couple of single women and we often talk of the trials and tribulations of the single woman. It came up at work again just last week, and I told them about my rule... and it made me laugh and I thought I would share it share it on my blog...

Last year (pre Malcolm) I was wondering just what this 'dating game' was all about. Single at the age of 38, I was wondering how I was meant to meet a man. It seems everyone had advice, though the best advice I got, was from a long time friend who said if I wanted to meet someone I had to advertise. Now she didn't mean the personals (though this wasn't off the list of possibilities) no, what she meant was, if I wanted to meet someone, I had to get 'out there'. The best way to do that was to tell all your friends and family you wanted to meet someone, and let them know what you were (or were not) looking for. Network basically. Sounds simple yeah?

Well, I did as she advised and told all my family and friends to set me up with any eligible (and suitable) men and added my only criteria. 1. He had to be taller than me, and 2. No alcoholics. It seemed a pretty fair and reasonable request.

I decided I had to keep an open mind, and was going to be more successful with fewer restrictions. Regardless of an open mind however, I had a rule. Three strikes and you're out... This could fit any form, but it allowed for a few minor hiccups. And so, having made my announcement, friends and family came through with the 'goods' (or should I say, the goods, the bads and the uglies!)

This is how my first blind date went last year...

24th May 2006
And so it has come to this...
A friend from work says "I have found you a blind date and he's perfect for you"
Another "Keep your expectations low and you won't be disappointed"
And another "You have nothing to lose"

My friend was excited. Convinced. She had found me my 'perfect man'. So I called him. We talked briefly and it was decided. Or rather, what was decided was it was all up to me - where to meet, what to do...

And so with a major case of the nerves, I finally decided and it was arranged. I arrived, on a cold Saturday morning at Max Brenners (chocolate cafe extrodinaire) at QV in the city, and I waited. I was early. Just. I hate being late. I don't like having to wait and I hate making others wait for me. So, I grabbed a seat and I waited.

My fingers tapped. Late late late. Not good. Being late was definitely strike one.

This was a blind date, a meeting had been arranged and it is rude enough not to be on time. It was ruder still not to call until after the arranged meeting time. 5 minutes after we were meant to meet he called, and he arrived 20 minutes later.

Honestly. I understand nerves. Even the clammy palms. Really I do. (Let's face it, he had sat on a tram for 30 minutes and given himself time to think). I did understand. I was nervous too.

He was late. His palms were sweaty. I bought the drinks and that was only Strike 1.

Funnily enough, the 'date' went reasonably well. Given we didn't know each other and the situation was foreign to us both. He was nice. Yes NICE. Conversation was easy and we chatted and drank and wandered and talked. And at the end we both agreed it would be NICE to catch up again. Sometime.

"So" I can hear you saying "he was obviously nice, and the date went well and that's only one strike. And you agreed to meet again. So, what's the problem?"
Oh yeah - there's more.

His email address was written down and (after trying a number of combinations) I finally got through. It was 2 days before a reply. Busy over Easter, he suggests we catch up the week-end after. Sounds good. I replied via SMS. Later, when I received no reply, I sent an email. It rebounded. Twice "Email account full". Aye aye aye!

And so the week-end approached and I heard nothing and so, after a frantic week at work, and thinking maybe he didn't get my SMS, I got home at 6.30 on the Saturday night and I decided to call him.

"Not a good time" he says. He was about to go out ... and ... here comes strike 2 ... "It was arranged before I got your SMS"

Oh. He did get my SMS, but sent no reply. Hmmm. Not good.

"Can I call you tomorrow?" he asks. "Sure" I say.
And very quickly here comes strike 3. Are you ready?
I know it's gripping stuff...
Sunday. No call as arranged.
... and there you have it strike 3 and you're out.

Ask and the universe shall provide...

A story about white feathers...

Many years ago now, when I was working and living in London, there was a woman who was coming to London to hold a seminar that I wanted to attend. Her name was Denise Linn. Denise is an international lecturer, healer, and author who teaches about the benefits of working with subtle energies, feng shui, and space clearing.

OK, go with me here, I can already hear groaning from some people. Keep an open mind...

She teaches from wisdom she has learned from Native Americans as well as from other native cultures around the world and is a widely acclaimed speaker. Nowadays she has written 14 books, covering areas which may or may not be of interest to you from Feng Shui to Sacred Spaces. In any case, I really wanted to go and see (hear) her speak. The sessions were unsurprisingly rather pricey. And so, whilst I wanted to go - a lot - I couldn't really justify the cost.

Part of her marketing said if white feathers started to appear in your life, then it was a 'sign' you were meant to attend. I am pretty open minded about these things, however I am also of the belief there are a lot charlatans out there. Unfortunately there are also a lot of gullible people who follow blindly without questioning and this sort of ploy could well be looked upon as a bit of a gimmick (or at worst a scam). I was a little bit cynical, never the less, I decided to keep an open mind and be more awake to any signs that might come my way.

Over the course of the next few weeks I did find white feathers entered my life. Or perhaps I was just more aware of them! Of course they were in the park around areas where birds gathered and of course they were around areas where there was open air eating and birds picked their way through spared crumbs. It was, I decided, an excellent marketing tool... I was not an easy convert.

The day I walked to the bus stop and a white feather drifted down from the sky and landed in my hand, it did seem a little out of the ordinary, and yet I remained unconvinced. The week-end before the talk, I sat in my front room arguing within my head as to whether I should just 'bite the bullet', pay the money and go along to the seminar. Finally I decided I needed a stronger sign, something more conclusive.

I asked that white feathers come to me in the form of a pattern. That would be the only way I would be persuaded. And then I went for a walk.

My partner and I walked to Chiswick House and gardens. This heritage house is beautiful and set in a 65-acre estate in West London and it was a local favourite on a Sunday afternoon. I did not speak of my 'request'. We talked as we wandered along and enjoyed the fresh air and quiet escape from the busy streets. Not far from where we planned to stop for a drink in the garden cafe, I looked down to the edge of the path and there, delicately arranged, were 5 single white feathers set out like the spokes of a wheel. Seriously. It took my breath away. There was no question. White feathers. Just as I had asked. Amazing.

Needless to say I attended the seminar and was impressed by what I heard. Denise was indeed an interesting person to hear speak. She had a certain calm and belief I admired. I couldn't tell you the details now (it was nearly 20 years ago and the details have faded somewhat) but I do remember her words touched me at the time. White feathers still remind me of that magical moment.

There's nothing like an airport for bringing you down to earth

Let it be known before I begin...
1. I hate being late.
2. I don't like flying.
3. I do like children - most of the time.
That's the truth as I see it.

1. I hate being late (thus my usual early arrival at airports, weddings, doctors appointments and work). Call it courtesy. Call it obsession if you must. Time is priceless. Once it is gone, there's no refund, no going back. Waiting needlessly is just plain idiotic. In accordance with this belief, I figure if I am early, I should get the treatment that reflects my efficiency. I believe, given that I have not caused any distress through tardiness, that I have not pressured any taxi driver to attempt land speed records to arrive at my destination on time and I have not been required to bribe or flirt with any local officials to avoid speeding fines, that I should get first dibs on the benefits of being first in the queue. I believe I have these rights before those who take their own sweet time and don't care if they keep people waiting. I believe this is how the world should work. What I believe and what is reality is (of course) sometimes POLES apart...

2. I do not like to fly. Despite what anyone tries to convince me, it is not a natural state to be flying 30,000 feet above the earth, and the fact we are encased in a metal cocoon, weighed down with fuel and copious amounts of luggage does nothing to comfort me. Despite being squeezed into a sardine tin with wings however, I do see it as a modern requirement which is as practical a form of transport as it is convenient. Fear not I tell myself, it is safer to travel by air than by car (though far further to fall). And so it is with some anxiety that every now and again, I step into another airport, onto another plane and outside of the comfort zone.

3. I like children - most of the time. Kids can be cute (and quiet) and happy (and quiet) and well controlled (and quiet) and they are fine travel companions. They can easily sit in their seats or on their parents laps and not reach the seat in front of them with their temper tantrum toes. Put them in a plane in a seat directly behind me with their little shoes digging into my lower back however and my delight in their chocolate coated faces and cute clothes quickly dissipates.

Children and travel do not a happy union make. They like their freedom. They like to make noise. They don't understand that other passengers prefer quiet and an uninterrupted read of the in flight magazine. It is not their fault that I do not like to fly within close proximity of anyone under the age of 4! But for me (and surely a lot of parents out there too!) it is to be avoided at all costs...

And so, the saga begins...
The airport was almost deserted. Cleaners were finishing their work, moving buckets and mops to hidden cupboards. Officials were emptying their first cup of coffee for the day and chatting at airport security. Two orange uniformed women waited patiently at the check-in counter, greeting us with superficial smiles and heady perfume. It was early, just after 7am and true to form we were there over an hour before departure.

We went through check-in. The obligatory showing of photo id followed and I ignored the disbelieving, (rather judgemental) scan from the attendant as she compared my driver's licence photo (obtained after much hair straightening and a dusting of make-up) to my some what sleep deprived tussled look prepared lazily one hour earlier. We shared little conversation and as we walked away with a reflex thank you, I pushed my boarding pass into my bag.

It was not until we were about to board that I realised that we were seated at the back of the plane. Row 28. And to make it even worse we were stuck on the aisle without easy access to a window view. Row 28. Seats B & C. The furtherest from the exit on arrival, and the closest to the area often reserved for families with small children.

There are moments when I fly, that I wish I were a child again. There are times I want to scream when the plane is landing and taking off. Noise increases with acceleration. The land shifts. The plane lifts and banks. Ears pop. This is not a pleasurable experience. Screaming at full volume seems like a reasonable response. I too want to stretch out and push my feet into the seat in front of me. Have a hissy fit about being uncomfortable, about the elbows of the passenger beside me, unmoving on a shared arm rest. I want to tear in-flight magazines down the spine and throw them around the cabin for entertainment. I want to pull the hair of the person in the seat in front of me. I want to. I want the hostess to smile and soothe my nerves with a free pack of crayons and colouring book. But as a fully grown adult, more than anything, I just want to get to my destination with the least disturbance.

SO. We were EARLY. We MUST have been nearly the FIRST to check in. We should have got prime seating - we deserved it. We should have been seated close to the front for easy disembarking at our destination. And we should have been far far far away from screaming kids, with their sticky fingers, their leaking drink bottles and their pointy toes! And yet for this flight my theory on 'first in best dressed' was shot down in flames. Yes - our luck was in - there were children behind, to our right and directly in front of us. There was NO ESCAPE! We were surrounded.

And then - as if to top it all off - the flight was late.

Aye aye aye.