A well deserved cliche

Paperback Writer will be on haitus until late next week.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda

Before we begin: I’m not writing this to receive murmurings of sympathy or ‘thinking of you’ comments or messages. I’m writing this because this is my space to vent, as I choose.

It’s been a long time since I’ve regretted anything. But something happened this year which I now regret deeply, to the point of wishing it never happened, and I am trying desperately to block it out, to forget. But I can’t. So I am choosing to write about it here in the hope that I can at least relieve some of what has been building up inside me for some time now.

I went to a party a while back, on my own.

(That’s not the thing I regret, by the way)

I went, feeling more than a little apprehensive about going in the first place, and about going on my own.

I nearly didn’t go. I nearly went home (alone! On a Saturday night! Heavens!) to sit in the lounge and drink my troubles away with a beautiful wine glass and a two litre cask of Whatever Was On Special That Week.

I went to this party.

I was half cut when I got there, and considered leaving after a drink and a cursory hello to those I knew. Then someone shoved a vodka martini in my hand and things changed. Things changed even further when someone turned up with a bagful of happy pills and other Class A narcotics.

I know that I could have chosen to say no. I could have refused that extra line, the next beer, the next pill. But I didn’t. I said yes to it all and then courted more, flirted for more, offered money for more. I have replayed the scenes that I remember over and over again in my mind, wishing that I could somehow reverse time and take a different path.

I flirted. With more than one boy. With several. I decided at some stage that it would be a great idea to take my ex-boyfriend into the front room of the house for a deep and meaningful discussion about our relationship, now that it had moved from boyfriend-girlfriend to platonic.

Then we decided it would be a good idea to move it back again and take all our clothes off and have a jolly good time of it all.

This is all deeply intimate stuff, I know. I am taking a deep breath and continuing, however. I know I am risking a lot by disclosing this information, but despite of what I fear, I want something good to have come from this experience.

If, during that front room experience, I had been in better control of my facilities, I no doubt would have noticed that someone had snuck a video camera around the closed door of the room and pressed ‘record’.

But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t know anything about it until a week later, when someone mentioned it to me in passing. In passing. Hey Jen, by the way, we’ve got some pretty damning video footage of you and your ex from the party.

Oh, really? Thanks for letting me know straight away, and offering to delete it. Actually, instead of letting me know, how about you upload it on to your computer and show it to everyone who was at the party, before you mention it to me, in passing.

I could have gone home after that. I should have gone home after that. I wish – oh, man, how I wish – I had gone home after that.

But I didn’t. I chose to stay. Chose to continue partying. Chose to flirt with another boy. Chose to snog another boy, in a room full of people, including the ex-boyfriend I’d just been fooling around with in the front room.

Chose more beer, more vodka, more flirting. Chose more drugs. Chose more snogging.

Much of this I can’t remember. Much of this night is blanked out. I just cannot remember it happening. But apparently it did. I have the scars to prove it.

Now, a considerable period of time after the event, I’ve heard all the whispers about who disapproved of my behaviour, who couldn’t believe I’d behave in such a fashion, who thought I was/am a slut, who admired me for my balls, who never wanted to see me again, who now had no respect for me what-so-ever.

I was out of control at that party. I had no control over myself, over my actions, my decision-making capacity. I allowed myself to become this other person, this person who snogged whoever was nearest, and why? I don’t know why. I don’t even remember most of it.

I feel appalling that this even happened. That I cared so little about myself, that I allowed myself to take part in these things, these acts, these choices; with little heed for consequences. But I was there. That was me. If I could change the course of events of that night.

But I can’t, so now I must live with it.

I feel sick, just sick and rotten inside when I think about what happened. What I allowed myself to do. What I allowed to happen to me. I hate that it happened at all. I wish I could forget.

Lessons? I know that I have a problem with drugs and alcohol. I have a problem with acceptance, and with giving and receiving love. I want things to be different, to be better for me than they are. To live a better life as a result of making better choices.

I don’t like the Jenjen who comes out when I drink too much and party too hard. She’s so hungry and desperate for love and attention, she takes anything coming her way. She seeks anything out, if there’s nothing on the horizon.

I still cry when I look back and see her running around this party, flirting, drinking, snogging. Everyone else can see it. Everyone but her.

And I don’t know what to do with her. For the life of me, I just don't know.

A letter

Dear Jen,

I’ve noticed that you haven’t been coping so well lately, so I thought I’d send you a few subtle hints just to let you know that I’m SO over the way you treat me.

I thought the sunburn thing last weekend really was the last straw. I mean, did you have to fall asleep in the sun? What would your mother say? It serves you right that a week later you still can’t lift your arms over your head because it’s too painful and your legs are itchy and peeling. I mean, sunburnt armpits? Really, there's little wonder you’re still single.

And you weren’t paying attention, even by that stage, so I whacked a couple of cold sores on your lips. Then gave you a nasty cough. How are you enjoying that green phlegm thing? I amaze myself sometimes, that I can come up with something so impossibly disgusting. Team that with the on-off-on-off head cold thing, and I reckon I’m on a winner, don’t you?

And what’s that? You can’t hear me? Well, that’ll be your middle ear infection, then, won’t it? Yeah, that’s right. The one that woke you up at 2am this morning. Are you enjoying the pain yet?

Hmm. Guess not. I wonder if my message is getting through yet.

By the way, are you coping with those crippling period pains I let rip this morning, when you got on the bus? That’ll learn you for eating so much chocolate and drinking so much coffee when you’ve got PMT. You know what happens, but you persist in doing it anyway.

Jen, I’ve got to tell you, I’m sick of how you treat me, so I’m going on holiday. Do me a favour while I’m gone and go see a naturopath, or a doctor or something.

Hey – and here’s an idea – eat some green vegetables or (God forbid) a piece of fruit once in a while. Go on, I dare you.

Sincerely,
Your body.

She's baaa-aack

Thank God. Dooce makes a most welcome return to cyberspace.

The trans-city bus from Camberwell to Northcote will depart in three hours

Hello, and greetings from the Transit Lounge.

I’m waiting for my lift to arrive, and wondering if I’ve done enough cleaning here at Camberwell. Which is bizarre, because the place is covered in dust that hasn’t moved for 20 years, according to local folklore.

The home-owner’s daughter let herself in last weekend (how outrageous … she didn’t knock or phone beforehand … I could have been doing ANYTHING … which I wasn’t, aside from playing Freecell, but that’s not the point) and had a wander about. Checking up on me, I s’pose. She stopped at the wall just inside the family room and said, ‘You know, this place could do with a fresh coat of paint’. It took every muscle in my body to restrain myself from saying ‘No, what this place needs is a really fucking good clean’.

I have learned some fantastic things while I’ve been here.

1. Dusting, while a bothersome chore, is necessary and purposeful. At least once or twice a year, anyway.

2. Do not collect too much stuff. All that will happen is that dust will collect on it and it becomes another thing to clean.

3. If you washed something yourself in the dishwasher, it’s probably clean. If you get it directly from a cupboard, it won’t be.

4. When I get old and have a large, grand old house, I’m hiring a cleaner to keep it spic, span and sparkling.

5. You CAN have too many Wilbur Smith and Tom Clancy novels. They do your reputation no good.

6. Only get the newspapers delivered if you actually intend reading them.

7. There are other interesting and quirky places in Melbourne besides Fitzroy and Northcote (who’da thunk it?).

8. Silence is valuable, golden, and worth relishing when you can get it.

9. If people annoy you, get a dog. Or a cat. Or both.

10. If you don’t use the manchester in your guest linen cupboard often enough, it will get dusty and give your guests hayfever.

11. The definition of ‘soundtrack’ does not include the noises of your housemate having sex. Ever.

12. I really enjoy living on my own, and should aim to make the most of this realisation.

13. Cable TV might seem like a good idea, but 47 channels is really just too much to choose from. It’s easier just to turn the television off and read a book. Preferably not one by Wilbur Smith, Tom Clancy or Dick Francis.

14. You should always check the used by date on stuff in someone else’s fridge. Case in point: last night I checked the fridge and found some yummy looking corn chowder in a plastic sealed container. Just before I opened it, I thought, “Hmmm. Best be checking the used by date on this thing before I open it.” It expired in April 1999. 1999, people. How can you leave a container of chowder in your fridge for three years? So I put it back in the fridge. Hey, I’m just the housesitter. I’m not responsible for safe food handling.

15. Don’t think that helping yourself to a gin and tonic from your host’s very well stocked bar each night will go un-noticed. The gin bottle does not automatically refill itself, more’s the pity.

16. There is such a thing as having a house that is just too big.

That’s all for now, folks.

I’ll report once I’ve returned to the noisy surrounds of Chateau Waterloo.

Ahem.

And on it goes ...

Well, I gots to tell you, folks, never get sunburnt on your armpits. It hurts like buggery. So, as suggested by some wise women in the comments section from yesterday’s blog, I am going bra-less. Normally this would cause me a great deal of pleasure, but with pain like this, it’s not really all that sexy. Truly, guys, it’s not. I wonder what mentioning ‘bra-less’ is going to do to the hits I get from google? I got one yesterday from someone who wanted photos of Kylie Minogue in stockings. They stayed here 20 minutes.

Anyhoo, now that you all know I’m wandering around sans bra, you may also like to be made aware of the following:

1. People in this organisation have no concept of what a deadline really means. I am getting tired of chasing people up (senior management people) for their monthly reports. Oh, Jenjen, I’ve been away all weekend, I had to go watch my son/daughter/cousin/sister’s adopted Vietnamese baby at his blah-blah carnival/song-and-dance-fest/help at the school fete/buy new shoes for a wedding/compete in a marathon. I don’t care. Basically. They have to write a small report each month. That’s it. It’s not much to ask. It takes about half an hour to do.

2. The blogmeet is on tonight, and I am still debating whether to attend or skip it. I’ve RSVP’d, but the same people are going as last time, and I’ve met them all already. And it’s not that they’re horrible people, but … I’ve met them all already. Besides, I have two giant and horrendous cold sores on my top and bottom lips. This happened at the last blogmeet too. Perhaps these events are connected. Anyone who’s ever had a cold sore before will agree with me when I say that I feel like throwing the nearest paper bag over my head and not emerging from under my doona for five days.

3. Ze lovely Momo is on hiatus until October.

4. Kieran has a job, at last.

5. Sean can’t stop talking about himself like he’s the subject of an on-going news story. And yes, I know there’s a more grammatically correct term for what he’s doing, but I can’t think what it is right now.

6. I have rediscovered the very readable world of Matt at A Bright Cold Day in April. Yes, he’s in Sydney, but he wears my ‘pithy’ tag with pride.

7. House sitting is nearly over, already. I can’t believe how quickly three weeks have gone by. I have come to learn the following: the dogs are cute, but complete wussbags; the cat is perpetually grumpy, and a bully; and while there is a lot to be said for having The Age home delivered seven days a week, one would probably need to actually read the papers to make this service worthwhile.

8. The end. For today, at least.

Ze weekend

Friday night I finally got to establish beyond a shadow of a doubt that Miss Momo IS REAL. We went to see The Black-Eyed Susans and Died Pretty play at the Prince of Wales in St Kilda. The gig was ace. Momo is ace.

On Sunday, I made the very foolish decision to fall asleep poolside completely bare of any sun protection products. Hence, I was viciously burnt and took yesterday off work. I couldn’t walk, and any contact with fabrics of any kind made me want to vomit, so I thought it would be better to lie in bed in a state of hallucinatory semi-sleep rather than go into work and stare at a computer screen for eight hours, incapable of doing any work.

Today, I am back at work.

I am in pain, people, and let me tell you that you can’t afford to fall asleep in the sun. Nuh-uh.

Hello, my name is Jen and I have PMT and I'm on deadline

Dear everyone,

I cannot believe the IMBECILIC nature of the people who work here.

When I call and ask to speak to someone, you uneducated, blonde, fake-nailed, bitch-face slurry, don't you DARE leave me on hold for FOUR minutes without any indication of whether the person I’ve asked to speak to is on another call or in the office. If you do, I will hang up and call you back to complain. Loudly. To your boss.

Is it really TOO MUCH TO ASK to get up-to-date proofs around here? REALLY? It is? Well, there’s a surprise.

And hey – you know when I told you that I needed that material by September 9? I WASN’T JOKING. It's called a FUCKING DEADLINE, you moron. Do you want to take the calls from irate readers complaining that they haven’t got their publications on time? HUH? DO YOU?

No. Didn’t think so.

And you know what else? Do I look like a FUCKING SECRETARY to you? DO I? No. Didn’t think so. So don’t waltz in here when I’m BUSY and TELL me to take down some notes. You are an ADULT (although your behaviour may indicate otherwise). You have arms and a brain. Use them.

Oh, and one more thing? When I call and ask to see the material that you SWORE would reach me last week, don’t give me that WOBBLY VOICE SHIT. I’m not buying it, I’m past deadline, and YOU’RE NOT HELPING.

One day

One day he’s gonna cook me a meal
A big, grand, slaved-over meal
With finely crafted entrees, and beautifully stacked desserts, laden with ruby-red strawberries
He'll pour me a glass of the finest wine, without having to be asked

And one day he’s gonna treat me like a goddess worthy of worship
Rub my feet ‘til I moan from the pleasure of it all
Run me baths filled to the brim with silky water just hot enough,
steaming with the aromas of lavender and ylang-ylang

One day he’ll come home with flowers
Armfuls of roses and gerberas and lilies and sweet, sweet tulips

One day he’ll be interested in my new clothes
caress the newly styled hair on my head
Ooh and aah over the colour treatment

Tell me I’m gorgeous
That I make his life complete

One day.

One day.

Finally, some sense of it all, and this is all I have to say

Thank you, Matt. A most biting and succinct synopsis of September 11.

And this, from my most favouritist law student, Minderella: "good fucking god, if only we COULD forget."

That’s Melbourne for you

One of the things I love about Melbourne is that there is always more to discover. I’ve had one of those days today.

A few weeks ago, New Boy and I were zipping around in his car on the way to the mailhouse. We passed by a Salvo’s op-shop, and said to each other, ‘we’ll be back to visit that one day’.

And that day was today.

We sneezed our way through dusty bags of 50 cent bargains, perused the seemingly endless aisles of women’s dresses and coats and lingerie and plates and bed-spreads and men’s three piece suits. Avoided the ubiquitous greasy-haired old man hanging around in the bric-a-brac section.

Didn’t buy anything. We did, however, decide to walk a different way back to work.

Took a turn up to Grey Street, which is considered quite a famous street in St Kilda, so I am told. As we ambled along, in the shy spring sunshine, we came across a shop called The Bitch Is Back. It sells ‘groovy’ 70s furniture. As we continued up Grey Street, we stumbled upon the Sacred Heart Mission op-shop.

What a tremendous discovery. As always, a find increases in its tremendousness the less you were expecting to find. I wasn’t really expecting much.

The op-shop is in an old church hall and they have gone all out on the funk. There is a mezzanine level, which is only open to staff, but from which hangs the most lovely collection of antique umbrellas and parasols. The changing rooms have pink fake leopard skin curtains. The music they play over the loudspeakers is a Jive Bunny Beatles medley. There are rows of beads swinging gently from old rattan bookshelves, and beanies and red velvet hats hanging from the corners of badly framed 1960s prints, hung crookedly on the walls.

The racks were just sufficiently full of colour-clashing combinations of pantsuits and jeans and jumpers and sparkly tops and beanies and denim to make you actually slow down and take pleasure in your looking. At the Salvo’s everything is so tightly jammed on to the racks that I find I just scan along the shoulder lines, looking for interesting fabrics, and only occasionally pull something out. But not at Sacred Heart. The place is warm and inviting, without being cloying or too dusty. You want to take your time. Sit down and have a cup of tea, even.

I nearly bought a dress, and that hasn’t happened in a long time. It was gorgeous! However, I erred on the side of common sense and decided that since frou-frou and frump weren’t in this season, or any time this century, I would keep my cashola safely ensconced in my wallet, and buy food instead.

Wordnerds of the world, unite!

I have set up a blogring for wordnerds. Send me an email if you wish to sign up!

A memo

To: All staff
From: Boss in waiting
Subject: Use of coffee mugs
Sent: Tuesday, September 10, 2002

<--------------------------------------------------->

Dear staff,

It has come to my attention recently that some of you are not paying attention to the convention surrounding the use of theme-specific coffee mugs.

As you may well be aware, many staff prefer to use their own coffee mugs brought in from home or bought specifically for use at work. Often these mugs are theme-specific and have sentimental value. Some theme-specific mugs seen in this office include Richmond FC, Felix the Cat, Farside cartoons, Starbucks (God forbid), poorly worded jokes ("You don't have to be crazy to work here ... but it helps") and a few pooncy ones with flowers and fancy handles.

There are several plain, cheap and crappy non-specific mugs the company has begrudgingly made available in the kitchen for general use by low-lifes such as new staff and temps, and by normal staff when their theme-specific mug is in the dishwasher.

Please refrain from using theme-specific coffee mugs that do not belong to you, or Missjenjen will hunt you down and lob bazookas in your general direction.

Back to work, kiddies, back to work.

Silence is golden, and blissful

Me: Hi guys.

Dogs: [tails go thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: Did youse have a great day? I know I did.

Dogs: [thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: Waddaya reckon about dinner tonight? Eh?

Dogs: [sniff-sniff]

Me: Yeah, I think so too. Risotto it is then.

Dogs: [thumpa-thumpa-thumpa]

Me: And what takes your viewing fancy this fine evening on Foxtel, hmm?

Dogs: [wag tails and eye off space next to me on the couch]

Me: Friends? The Bill omnibus? How about some cricket? Footy? Tennis? Bad black and white movies?

Dogs: [snuggle up next to me and look up at me adoringly]

Me: Nah, I’m gonna have to veto that. Let’s just watch some news and see how we go.

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: Well, don’t complain. You’re dogs. I’m human. I have opposable thumbs, and that’s why I’ve got the remote, and why you sleep out the back at night.

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: How bout a glass of vino, to kick things off?

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Wanna play on the internet?

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Okay, well, I’ll just read the paper for a while.

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [silence]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: Ahem.

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [slurp]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: [sigh]

Dogs: [silence]

Me: This is a bit blissful, really, isn’t it?

Dogs: [sigh]

Me: I think so too.

Dogs: [silence]

Creative processing, effective editing, and air hockey

Took part in an interesting exercise last night. Wayne asked me to look over a piece he was writing, and as we are both wordnerds, I agreed to take a look and edit at will, on the proviso that he didn’t belt me with an air hockey puck at any point during the evening.

Wayne is a writer of such talent I could never –even with years of practice – get as good as he is. I don’t think he’d seen anyone edit stuff so close up and so personally before, and he has only really edited academic writing. What I found appealing was that I don’t normally edit fiction, and I very rarely edit an author’s work when they’re sitting right next to me. So it was an eye-opener of an exchange for both of us.

Wayne had written this piece in an unusual style for him, and that particular style is something that I’ve honed my writing and editing skills on.

He said later that he had been very interested to see me work – that I was so fast and made it appear a real skill. It’s gratifying to think that someone thinks I’m skilful at what I do! And there is a real art to editing effectively, and creatively (yes, you can do both of these things). It’s a real buzz for me when it pays off. Note: taking out errant apostrophes and correcting overly verbose paragraphs is not a buzz. Ever. It’s just annoying, and can often lead to me waxing lyrical about the state of the education system today, and how no one appears to value the English language any more.

What I found fascinating was watching Wayne go through the creative process – watching how he took an idea, or a word, or a phrase, and then built on it, shifted it, tweaked it, and then handed it over to me to smooth into the finished product.

It’s a turn on, folks, a real turn on. Nothing sexier than a man who’s into words.

(Hello. My name is Jen and I am a wordnerd).

Coulda-shoulda-woulda

I could write something, I suppose.

I could write about how I got another sanctimonious email detailing in great depth how disappointing the latest editions of the newsletters were, because stories weren’t printed exactly as the instructions had … instructed.

I could write about how sick I am of receiving emails of this ilk, and how wonderful it would be to just once – just the once, even – receive an email or even a phone call about how good the newsletters are looking, or about how I was doing a good/decent job. Is it that hard to give someone positive feedback?

I could write about how I have a ton of work sitting in front of me, mostly stories that need re-writing because apparently a degree in anything isn’t enough to teach you the basics of spelling, grammar and syntax these days.

I could write about how I lay-byed the most ridiculously expensive set of sheets I’ve ever (almost) bought, on Saturday, just because I could. And for your information, the set cost $199. It was reduced. It’s Egyptian cotton, 400 thread count.

I could write about how comfortable my new shoes are.

I could write about how farken awesome it is living at Camberwell, and about how wonderful it was to lie in bed last night, listening to the rain and wind, and having the house in utter silence.

I could write about meeting someone recently who has intrigued me much, much more than anyone I’ve met in a long time.

But perhaps I’ll just play another game of Freecell, instead.

Time is on my side

I was 13 and petrified. At 13 I was a complete mish-mash of emotions and hormones, which were very busy racing around a tiny body with braces and big boobs.

You see, I had committed an unthinkable, unforgivable act. I had conducted a faux pas of such a high order, it was unlikely that anyone would speak to me for the remainder of my five year sentence at God Awful Private College nestled smugly in Perth’s inner southern suburbs.

I had lost a watch that belonged to A Trendy Girl.

I was dead meat.

At the 1985 athletics carnival, Amanda had deigned to talk to me between races. She wasn’t a Trendy Girl; far from it, but she was right in the middle of the pecking order. Trendy Girls talked to her, Nerds talked to her, everyone did, really. Even teachers.

She was wearing a Swatch.

Now, if your formative years were in the 80s, then you know what I mean when I start talking about Swatches. In 1985 EVERYONE who was ANYONE owned a Swatch.

I didn't own a Swatch because my family was so damn poor. I had no job, thus no cashola, and my mum was but a humble public servant. Swatches were way, way down the list of Purchasable Items.

So, as I sat next to Amanda between races at the 1985 athletics carnival, I expressed some awe about the presence of this Swatch on her wrist. “Oh,” she sniffed. “That’s not mine. That’s Nicci’s. She lent it to me earlier to wear while she was racing.”

I breathed in deeply. Dare I? I did. “Can I try it on?” I asked, barely believing there could be even a slight chance that she might say yes.

Amanda sighed. She sniffed again, her fingers closing protectively around those oh-so glamorous bits of plastic and finely wired machinery, glancing at me as she did so. “Weeeellll … maybe just for 10 minutes. But DON’T lose it, or Nicci will kill me, and then you.”

I nodded in disbelief.

I strapped the Swatch on to my left wrist, and wished desperately that I had some friends I could show it off to. I didn’t, so I contented myself with just wandering about the oval, stretching a lot, using my left arm.

Sometime later, on the bus back to school, Amanda asked me for the Swatch back. I looked at my wrist and couldn’t believe what I saw.

NOTHING. THE SWATCH WAS GONE.

I checked my bag.

Nothing.

I checked my other wrist.

Nothing.

I checked my bag again.

Still nothing.

I checked my sneakers.

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, NOTHING.

I was dead meat.

Sure enough, Nicci and Her Gang were less than impressed. They wanted to know how I was going to compensate for the loss.
What could I say? What could I do?

Then, a flash of inspiration: I would call my mother. She would have an answer.

I used the 20 cent phone up at the quiet end of the quadrangle. I wedged myself into the cubicle as tightly as I could, to take advantage of what little protection the open-aired booth offered me from Nicci and Her Gang, who had me surrounded. I wasn’t going to weasel my way out of this one. Nuh-uh. I was gonna pay, and pay big time.

The 20 cent clunked into the machine as my mum answered the phone. “Mum,” I squeaked. “I’ve lost this watch … I don’t know where it is … what am I going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” my unsympathetic mother snapped. “I’m at work. Why are you calling me here?”

“Muuu-uum, I need HELP. What am I going to do?”

“Well, where’d you lose the damn thing?”

“I don’t KNOW.”

“Well, Jennifer, we can’t afford to buy a replacement, so you’d better work something out.”

“Okay.” [thanks for nothing, mum]

My heart sank as I hung up. NOW what was I going to do?

Nicci moved in. “What did she say?”

“Erm … err … nothing really. I’ll check my bag tonight when I get home, maybe the watch got caught up in some clothing or something.”

“Right, well, I’ll call you tonight to check, then. What’s your number?”

Nicci wrote my number on the back of her hand in neat, girlie script. I knew she would call. And I didn’t like it one bit.

I was trapped and alone – nary a friend in the world who might understand, and a most unsympathetic and cash-unfriendly mother, who was of no help whatsoever.

So I told a teacher. Sobbed out my whole story about how it had been an accident that I had lost the watch. That I had no money and no chance of replacing it, but I was very sorry that it had happened.

Mrs Harvey, who I quite liked, and who I later elevated to Idol Status, called in Nicci and Her Gang to Have a Chat. Nicci looked at me with barely disguised disgust and venom. What kind of low-life was I, calling in a teacher to a schoolyard dispute?

I sat on a school chair: a hunched over, soggy, sorry teenager with braces and big boobs, almost consumed by the relief that came from telling Mrs Harvey and having someone on my side.

Thankfully, my decision to Call In The Big Guns paid off. Mrs Harvey was most sympathetic, probably because she knew about my family and our circumstances, and rather firm with Nicci et al for bullying me and frightening me. She explained to Nicci that losing the Swatch had been an accident. Accidents happen. Perhaps she could explain that to her parents, and if they weren’t happy, then they could call her at the school to discuss the issue.

Mrs Harvey excused the other girls, and looked at me very sternly. “Just before you go, Jennifer,” she said. “One last thing. Don’t borrow people’s watches.”

I squeaked my acknowledgement and ran.

What is the value of silence?

1. Hearing myself think.
2. Choosing to have no noise at all.
3. Playing music when I want to, and playing it however loudly I like, and then turn it off when I choose, too.
4. Doing as I like, without justifying to anyone what I'm doing, or how long I might take.
5. Taking one's pick of bathrooms, and know that a) the hot water isn't going to run out and b) that there is no queue waiting behind me to use it, either.
6. Being a fair distance from the city: far enough away so as traffic has a relatively low impact, but close enough to still visit friends.
7. Realising that I am free! And I can stay this way!

The prolific nature of dust in Camberwell

I’m settling in extremely well down Camberwell way.

As I lay drifting off into Ze Land O Nod on Friday night, I thought to myself, “Is that a car I can hear, way down the street?”

And then I thought: “Yes. Yes it is. And that street is a good kilometre away from this house.”

Saturday morning I arose to read the epic letter the home-owner had left for me, which included a detailed list of instructions about dog feeding, putting out the rubbish on Thursdays, taking down phone messages and the like. The letter also mentioned that perhaps I might like to wander down to the front drive each morning to collect The Age, which is delivered Monday to Saturday. “Okay,” I thought. “I could get used to this lifestyle. I wonder if it’s too early to take a sauna?”

Then, after sticking The Buena Vista Social Club on the stereo, and unwrapping The Age, I thought, what I really need now is caffeine. And lots of it. So I headed into the kitchen. I found three plungers (all filthily decorated with dust and grime). Then I looked in the freezer, which is where any self respecting caffeine snob would keep their beans, and sure enough: there were the beans. Unfortunately, they were whole beans, not ground. Which meant that I needed to find a coffee grinder, and fast, because I was getting tetchy.

You know what it’s like when you really want to find something useful in a strange house, and you find everything else but the item you really need? If you do, then you know where I was on Saturday. I checked every cupboard. I found the sugar. I found a mug in another cupboard. I knew where the milk was, because I’d bought it and put it away. I found a teaspoon, in a drawer, but it needed washing. All the dishcloths were so grimy I couldn’t bring myself to touch them, so I just wet the spoon under the tap and dried it on my dressing gown, instead.

But no coffee grinder. I was becoming more tetchy by the minute, and god forbid I sink in to a foul mood on such a gorgeous Saturday morning.

Just as I resigned myself to drinking tea, I spotted an old fashioned coffee grinder up above one of the cupboards. So I began grinding. I began enjoying the smell of freshly ground coffee, and my mouth was truly watering at the prospect of heating up the grounds, placing them into a cup and drinking them, while listening to The Buena Vista Social Club and reading the Saturday Age with the sun shining in.

Then I made the foolish mistake of opening up the little drawer at the bottom of the grinder, to empty the ground treasure into the plunger.

The drawer wasn’t just dusty. It had cobwebs and little dead beasties in it.

I had a cup of tea instead.