Best in class

I've been working on my main skill base over the past few days, focusing on the areas where I'm strongest. The result? I have confirmed that I am even better at procrastination than I thought. But on the plus side, I'm also going to be a little better organised and stronger out of this particular bout. Because I've not only tidied my sewing table enough to mean only a couple of things have to be moved if the urge to create comes upon me (and during a procrastination binge, that has been known to happen), I've also re-arranged the furniture in my bedroom so that things kind of work better, apart from one awkward corner (far better than the whole wall of awkward that I had before). I've purged my wardrobe, my chest of drawers, I've sorted my vintage pattern collection, I've gone to a vintage fair, I've attempted - unsuccessfully - to see The Hangover 2, and successfully wandered to my brother's for a refresher viewing of the first one.

About the only thing I haven't yet managed is the dishes (that's my next task) and the actual study I'm supposed to be doing. I think I've finally reached professional levels in my procrastination. I've hit my peak, and I'm debating upping the ante again, by deferring next semester while I re-evaluate how much I want to study for at least 2 years more to go and spend my days somewhere that may or may not suit me. How enthused I am at using my entire allowance of annual leave for the next three years on practical experience rounds. Or whether I should just take the advice of my brother's girlfriend and get into the clothing thing a little further, since, as she observed, I'm clearly quite passionate about it.

Yes, that's right, I'm apparently passionate about something other than books. So perhaps I'm studying the wrong thing. Perhaps I don't actually need to study at all, and have all the skills I need. But whatever I decide, I have about 5 hours to pull together my next assignment for submission if I fancy keeping my options open about this particular path. And I can't face it. So instead, I'm off to clean the pan I used to make pancakes earlier today (yes, I'm studying, so all semblance of a healthy diet has gone out the window, even if I haven't achieved any actual study).

So, that's another 20 minutes wasted. Clearly, I excel at this whole thing. If only I had something that would lead me to study as procrastination...

The lesser of two evils

I've just let the Talker know that it's unlikely that there'll be any more dates. And I feel like a complete heel for doing it. Because on the whole, he's a pretty decent guy, it's just there were too many niggling doubts in my mind for me to continue with it. I spent too much of the time during our dates (the parts before alcohol befuddled my mind, anyway) trying to convince myself that he was right for me. I'm not generally into self-delusion, so I've decided that it was best for everyone if I just ended it.

Maybe part of the reason I'm sensing a distinct odour coming from my own behaviour is that I did it by text. At 10pm. In response to a text from him saying that he was feeling really good all day on Saturday after our Friday night date. And I used a slightly more wordy version of "it's not you, it's me". Yep. World-class shit, sitting right here at the keyboard.

But why is that? Sure, my timing sucked, but isn't it better that I told him up front than going the ignore route that I would have taken had he not been such a decent guy? Or that I took the time and trouble to come up with an explanation for my reasoning, that gave him some clarity for why it was happening, and an idea that it wasn't because he was a crap date? Yes, my method of delivery was cowardly and pathetic, but we'd been on three dates. It's not like we were living together or anything. And this was they guy who told me he wasn't looking for anything serious (I may have used that against him in the "we have to talk" text...but it's kind of true). So what did I really owe him? I've been on the receiving end of the fade out after a third date, and it wasn't hurtful. I did consider doing that with this one, but thought it required a more definite response. So for being a responsible adult, I get to feel like crap.

I swear, if dating doesn't get easier, I'm asking my parents to take over and arrange a marriage for me...At least then they'd have to handle the break-up.

In my home town

At the risk of seeming self centred (hello, I've been blogging about my life for almost five years now, and still stamp my foot a little when I realise just how few people have come back more than once in that time. What, my ramblings aren't worthy? But I digress. Hmm, perhaps that's the problem?), I'm about to blog my personal life again. Yes, that's right, folks, welcome to another world of the completely insecure embarking on a dating exercise.

The boy I've now seen twice - let's dub him the Talker, for his ability to talk the leg off a table - has suggested meeting up this weekend. But he hasn't suggested any locations, obviously assuming that with my many years living in Melbourne I'll be able to suggest somewhere suitable. I knew it was a mistake to come across all "oh yeah, you have to try this place" on the first date. So I've just spent almost an hour googling ideas. And you know what I've come up with? A sleazy, vile pool hall; ten pin bowling. Then I hit the joys of suburb-based streets; Brunswick St, Fitzroy; Fitzroy St, St Kilda. Really? I lived in this city for most of my life, and that's the best I can come up with as suggestions for what to do? Where are the cosy venues with great food and cheap drinks? Where is the quirky back-alley basement bar? Because the truth is, when planning a night out in my home town, I'm a dead loss.

Meanwhile, you guessed it, it's coming to the end of semester. I'm in full procrastination mode. And that might be why I'm planning on doing a whole lot of research into suitable date venues over the next few days. Procrastination task at the ready? Students, stop your engines...

Wanted: Forward impetus

I'm not sure what it is about me that makes me so restless, but I'm currently having a serious bout of career blues. I'm bored senseless at work most of the time, and sick of spending my nights studying to try and get somewhere else. I think it might really just be the onset of a Melbourne winter, and it being just on a year now since I left London. I think I'm entitled to a little angst, to be honest.

So, anyone who isn't prepared for a bit of self-pitying moaning, look away now. I promise that the next post will be more upbeat. Probably.

Everyone who hears about my current study plan gives such a negative response that I've started to believe them. What started out seeming like a great career move for me - get to read kids books without anyone looking at me strangely, get 10 weeks holiday a year, don't need to have the greatest attention to detail - is becoming more and more like something that I will end up hating. Sounds like a familiar tale, to tell the truth. So what do I do about it all? Do I keep studying, in hopes that it works out OK in the long run? Or do I call it quits now and find whatever it is that I'm really supposed to do? Knuckle down, rent a cottage somewhere with no distractions, and actually finish writing any one of the four or so books that I have in various stages of completion so that I can attempt to get them published? Chuck everything in and just work as a temp until I find myself a career that fits? Switch out of my current job into something similar that at least pays better? Or find myself a rich man and live a life of ease and luxury on someone else's dollar? Perhaps hold off and attempt to score myself a job in academia?

That's always been the problem with me and careers, though. There's always been too many choices on the table, and not enough will to narrow it down. Too much dreaming, not enough reality. Not to mention not enough specificity in my skill base. Jack of all trades, master of none. The only thing I know for sure is that I need to make some kind of change. My current work is driving me to distraction with the lack of challenge, and that's without factoring in the monumental levels of stupidity in the people I deal with on a daily basis, from the co-worker who is unable to shut the fridge door (and then unable to hear the annoying beep it makes when she does this), to the nut job residents of the estate, or the lazy arse council workers who take three months to act on something, but still manage an appropriately surprised voice every time you talk to them.

I have to find myself a grown up mature job sometime soon, though. It's too early for a mid-life crisis, and too late for me to be still in kidulthood. I'm a thirty-something. Surely I should be settled in some area of my life by now, rather than in an eternal state of limbo. But no. I'm still in exactly the same position I was in six years ago. And three years before that. And god knows how many years before that. Dear god, I need momentum. Someone give me a shove, please...

Better the devil you know?

I've known L for quite a few years now. We first met in a dance class back in 2002, I think it was. I shared a flat with her in London. She's an occasional reader of this blog - very occasional - and a regular contributor of inspiration for content. Today's post will be no exception, although she might be surprised to read descriptions of her self that are bound to follow. Because as good a friend as I consider her, there are a few things about her that I would dearly love to change, and I don't just mean her obsession with the idea that she is fat because she doesn't neatly fit what she has come to believe is the perfect body shape. There are reasons why we very rarely discuss politics, and one of those reasons reared it's head today.

In many respects, we have similar backgrounds. Our father's both trained as teachers, although mine left the profession when I was still in primary school. We both went to the local state school before moving on to private secondary schools and then to university. We both know what it's like to be in a family that has to scrimp and save, that there's a difference between something you really want and something you really need. And as long as we avoid certain no-go areas of conversation (religion and politics, the twin minefields of most conversational gambits), we get along like a house on fire. But in those areas, our views are such polarised opposites that conflict is bound to arise, and I find myself compelled to challenge her on how and why she can come from where she has, yet still hold the ideas that she does. At the same time, I'm rational enough to think that there's no doubt she has similar queries about my views.

Anyone who has read this blog more than once over the many years I have been writing it now (I think there's one of you out there...) would know that my own leanings are so far to the left that I'm a virtual socialist. I get fired up about the big issues of social inequality, by prejudice, by ignorance. I admit, ironically, I'm not terribly tolerant of people who don't agree with me on these points. Luckily, L and I were friends long before I discovered her inbuilt prejudices against what she today described as "total scum".

Now don't get me wrong here. There are people in the world who would merit that description a million times over. People who lie, cheat, steal, and plenty more. But I don't think that you deserve the epithet simply for being poor and, if you're lucky, working class. Last time I checked, there wasn't a means test on the right to consider yourself a decent human being. Nor was there any reason to think that because there are people of "reduced means" living in an area, people who get their hands dirty for a living, who may not have had the same chances as you or may not have had the same inclinations as you, that it must be unworthy of your attention. Poverty certainly is no justification for being branded scum. Yet L, an otherwise rational person, is so blinded by her prejudice - and acknowledges it - that she would not consider living in an area where there were such people. Nor would she look at an area that was home to many migrants, a large gay population, or any of a wide ranging variety of groups she is prejudiced against in the abstract sense. She is capable of suspending her judgement when faced with an individual case - I think it comes more from an innate politeness that stops her from giving offence - until she actually knows a person and then is more likely to consider them on their merits. Her judgement is so irrational and arbitrary that her definitions are flexible; the English, for example, are not migrants.

Bearing in mind that this is an intelligent, well-brought up woman living in the twenty-first century. You'd be forgiven for thinking that her views were those of a ninety year old woman back in 1952. Although progressive in some ways, she holds firmly entrenched views that cannot be swayed by any logic, views that, until recently when Tony Abbot's political aspirations saw the culmination of a slow drift to the right in Australian politics, most would be wary of expressing for fear of being considered as almost a fascist. I'm not calling her a fascist - I want to make that perfectly clear - just saying that, as much as I verge on socialism, she verges on fascism, the opposite ends of the political spectrum. I might lightly banter with her on the subject of her prejudices, but I sometimes want to hit her over the head about them, until she sees how far to the right she occasionally gets. I'm sure she feels that same feeling about my leftist, pinkish politics. So we avoid the topic when we're thinking clearly. When we're not, we manage to steer into safer waters soon enough to avoid a storm. But I wonder, sometimes, if that's the right thing to do. Because my understanding is that prejudices should be challenged, especially where they appear illogical. Where people who see the world differently sit quietly by while others grow in bigotry, trouble can brew. Sure, she's my friend, but if I can't challenge my friend, what do I do when I see the same bias in a stranger? Where does it end?

On that entirely too serious note, I should probably explain the context of the statement. She has been looking to buy a house, so we were doing the rounds of the open houses today and found ourselves in an area that she was probably less familiar than she might have been. "I guess it's not likely that complete scum live around here, is it," she observed, leaving the rest of us spluttering. No, we assured her. The ones poor enough to fit her definition of scum would not be able to afford to live in the area. They, like her blogger friend, would be forced to rent something a little further out of the city, on the wrong side of the upside down river that messily divides Melbourne's suburbs from each other.

I don't think she'll be buying the house in question, but no doubt she'll end up with something in a similar area. And I can't help but think that the cafes that line the streets where she will live will be filled with a certain type of person, someone who goes out on the weekend to sit with a chai latte and read the newspaper, smugly congratulating themselves on being able to afford to boost property prices to the point where a person earning an above average wage can't get a loan to buy a vacant block of land on the fringes of the city, let alone afford to build a house on it. Patting themselves on the back because they have been fortunate to escape the "scum" of the city, even though the parts of Melbourne where they live were for decades the slums where the scum thrived. And I wonder at the vagaries of a world where two people who have so much in common can find themselves on opposite sides of a fence, staring across a yawning divide that neither one is prepared to cross; the Yarra river of ethical and political debate, and I wonder if I find myself on the right or the wrong side, and if there is any way to make her see that the world is a richer place on this side.

Just one of those days

Some days, you wonder why you bother. The days when you don't want to get out of bed. When you don't want to leave the house. You don't want to spend two hours standing talking in circles with one of the world's most persistently annoying people, while his wife is in tears beside him protesting that you don't know what she's going through. Actually, you know in excruciating detail what she's going through, because you've heard it for the past two hours. And that's just on this one day, in this one meeting. When he husband called you four times the day before, you heard it again then. And when he comes back into the office later that afternoon for another crack, you know exactly what he's going to say. Because part of his persistent annoyance is his ability to say exactly the say thing, over and over again, without even varying the wording.

This particular man is one of those people who is a shade of grey. Not even a shade with an exotic of impressive name, like French Grey. He's just grey. You get the feeling that he repeats himself so often, because experience has shown him that nobody really listens to him the first time around. He's one of life's victims, the sort of person that nothing ever goes right for. I have to wonder if it's a chicken or the egg situation though; which came first, him being a boring, anal retentive, leech, or his inability to get people on-side? Scratch the wondering, I think I know.

So, it was one of those days. The kind where you work hard all day, even if it's just prying lose the tick of a purchaser who has burrowed into your skin and is slowly poisoning you, but don't actually achieve anything - not even getting rid of the tick, or any of the others like him who have filled your voicemail box while you've been dealing with him. A day where you get home and want to have a drink to get rid of the day, only to find that there is nothing in the house to drink, not even the dregs of a month old bottle of wine in the fridge that was saved for cooking.

It's the kind of day that can make you start looking for a new job, only to realise that your references are all out of date, and you don't think putting your current boss down would do the trick. Where you find quite a few jobs that seem pretty well paid that you think you're qualified for, but you also don't think you should apply for them because you know you're studying and that you're going to need to take some time off soon to deal with the practical rounds of teaching that will be coming up soon - something that new employers won't like at all.

Yep. It's just one of those days.

The Dating Game

It was a second date. The first had gone well, really only ending because we both knew we had to work the next day, finishing up with a walk to the tram stop and a polite kiss on the cheek. I'd put it down to him being a gentleman in the old-fashioned sense. On the way home he'd texted to say that he'd had fun, and that we should do it again soon.

So there we were, a little over a week later, meeting up once more. Somehow he brings out other sides of me. I'm normally pretty punctual to anything afternoon or evening (the morning is a whole other story); two dates, two late arrivals. We wended our way to a little Italian restaurant down a lane way, over a bar, and, in light that I later realised was entirely too harsh for anyone trying to impress but feeling a little insecure, we proceeded to discuss the joys of old-fashioned comfort food, the mysteries of public transport, exactly what constituted a hipster and why we would never be one (I disagree, I think he does have a little of the hipster about him, but nothing full-blown, or I never would have agreed to a second date), and various other topics before agreeing to move on to drinks.

Our second venue was the polar opposite of the restaurant we'd eaten in. The restaurant hasn't changed since 1978 when diners were held hostage at gunpoint - maybe earlier, I'm not sure. It was cheap and cheerful at its best. The bar - sorry, cocktail lounge - was an entirely different story. We climbed the stairs in hopes of a table with a view but found ourselves instead with a view only of a canoodling couple, and an epic drinks list. So we talked on, getting through, somehow, a bit of philosophy, gender roles, cultural reinforcement of tradition and suddenly I was on the receiving end of a completely unexpected question.

"So, I'm not sure how to say this," as alarm bells began to ding in my head, "but what are you hoping to get out of this?" Talk about a question without notice. I was left scrambling, trying to assemble an answer that wouldn't scare either of us, something suitably non-committal either way. To buy myself a little more time, I asked for clarification. Out of what? "The whole RSVP process, I guess."

That was a little easier, gave me a little more wriggle room at least. I still wasn't sure how to answer it, but I felt comfortably able to come up with something nice and evasive. "That all depends what I find," I told him, a bit of a giggle attached to break any ice that might have been forming. Time for revenge. "What about you?" I asked, watching him squirm. And squirm he did, attempting to duck and weave, and finally acknowledging that it was a ridiculously awkward question to have asked. But not before dropping something on me that I can't shift from my mind. My evasion was obvious. His was not so much evasion as partial truth, I think, although the lack of certainty has left me over-thinking things ever since.

Because he's not looking for anything serious, he was careful to make clear to me. To the point where he implied that he was just looking for friendship. I wasn't pleased, but I was OK with that. We get along well, I don't have many male friends, and we venture to places that I've never made it to before, by virtue of his touristing (he's not from Melbourne originally.) Sure, there are a few things about him that I'm not sure of (his take on gender roles, for a start, followed closely by his inherent snobbery) but it's nothing that I haven't been exposed to before from friends, and certainly not deal breakers. So although things paused and struggled awkwardly after his question, we stayed put and worked through it. It probably helped that we moved onto another bar soon after.

Several hours later, we were saying our goodbyes. Bearing in mind what he'd said earlier in the night, I wasn't expecting much. My tram was coming and it was close to the last tram of the night, as far as I knew, so a long goodbye was far from my mind. Yet the kiss goodnight was not the friendly, polite kiss on the cheek that I'd half been expecting. It was a little different. The look on his face, and the goodbye as I ran off to board my tram (rather, bus replacement service, but that's a whole other story), suggested that he was surprised I was leaving so quickly. I snuggled down into my seat as the bus pulled out, and, ipod in place, settled in for half an hour of reliving and examining. I still couldn't get to an answer that suited me.

My confusion grew when I was walking into my flat and my phone buzzed with a text. "How is it I didn't kiss you sooner? And why rush off so quickly? Would have quite liked if you'd stayed a little longer." OK, I thought to myself. Nothing serious, but a little bit of fun, potentially to be had. I can see how that might happen, without thinking too much yet about whether I wanted that for myself. Closer consideration would have me saying no, I think. Confusion grew more this afternoon. I somehow found myself in my messages archive on RSVP. His profile has become inactive. I'm pretty sure it was active when I looked in the same place the other day. So somewhere along the line, he's decided to go another way. I just have no idea which way that is, or whether I would want to go the same way.

Why does it all have to be such a muddle? It was all so much more simple before he blurted out that question, when it was just a question of liking each other. Now, with the element of potential commitment also introduced, I'm a long way out of my comfort zone and not entirely sure of the rules of the game. But then, I never really knew the rules of dating in the first place...

Upwardly mobile

I've been cruising real estate websites while I've been off work (the back injury is healing...so is the throat infection that I got from hanging out in doctor's waiting rooms too much). Part of this was looking for a friend who is genuinely in the market for a new house. The other part was me wondering if there was anywhere in Melbourne I could afford to buy a place. Turns out that the answer is no.

Drives me a little crazy to know that although searching all of Melbourne in my price bracket returns 8 pages of hits, not one of them is suitable. I don't qualify to live in student only developments - and my God, there are a hell of a lot of them, fully furnished one room and a toilet style - nor am I in the market for a car parking space in the city. So I started looking a little further afield. And then I found it.

I found a nice looking block of land on the Melbourne side of Bendigo. Or was it Ballarat? I can't remember now, and it's not vital. Either way, it's about an hour from where I live and work now. A little more research, and I found that I can build on the block for about my price limit. And building in a regional area, I could even get a bigger grant from the government. So there you have it. About an hour out of Melbourne, I can afford a house. Hell, I could maybe even save a little, based on what the mortgage repayments would most likely be, assuming I was earning the same as I am now.

But there's the rub.

There are next to no jobs listed in the country that I qualify for. Nor are there people that I know. Sure, I have ideas on how to meet people when moving to another place now. But do I really want to do it, just so I can have my own place? Surely there is a better solution out there...Trouble is, I have no idea what the hell it is. As a single person who doesn't work in a well-paid industry (or at least for a generous employer), and someone who hasn't managed to save due to a debilitating travel habit, I have no deposit saved. Property prices in Melbourne have risen over 100% in the past decade and, although the market has slowed, are still continuing to go up. So where does that leave me? Renting, that's where it leaves me. Until I decide that the country life is for me. Then? Well, we'll see...

The best advice

I'm going slightly stir crazy at the moment. My back is still not all it should be, so I'm hemmed into my flat quite efficiently. And everybody wishing me well and offering help is actually driving me to distraction.

One of the things I've been learning while I've been if not laid up then at least slowed down, is that back pain is one of those things that everybody either has a cure for, or can recommend someone who does. So much of it is contradictory that it's of next to now use, but people feel obliged to offer up their kernels of knowledge, and I have to accept all of them like a grateful beggar on the street. I might be drawing things in a fairly harsh light here, but I've had so many recommendations of good chiropractors, osteopaths, physiotherapists, doctors, acupuncturists and masseurs that if I took them all up not only would I not be able to move even as much as I can now, I'd be getting shuttled around like a tennis ball, shunted from end to end, as I ran to all the appointments.

It's not that I'm not ungrateful. I do understand that it was concern that drove my grandmother to offer to call my aunt if there was anything wrong with me (although why I wouldn't just solve all the problems by calling my mother, who is not only a damn site closer, but able to drive, I have yet to figure. At the very least, surely I'd just call the aunt directly, if needed?). But folks, really, there's a limit to how much of this I can take, and I've about reached it. Thank god I've been a little more mobile today, even if it was just a grandmotherly shuffle. There's a light shining at the end of the tunnel. And best of all, it's not offering me any bloody advice.

The thing

I have discovered some of the words that you would never really think about, but don't want to hear from your doctor. Don't jump to conclusions, it's not anything deadly. Just not what you want to hear.

I might have mentioned that I've messed up my back. It's still not better. And I took a day off work yesterday to go and see a doctor about it. When I described what was going on, his first words, before he'd examined me, were "how much sick leave do you have?" Not reassuring in the slightest. He then proceeded to cause more pain in my back than anyone has any right to do just by poking someone, and getting paid for the privilege.

But there you have it. I'm now standing, with my computer propped on my sewing box, instead of resting on the desk, and trying to avoid twisting. I'm off work until at least tomorrow, and I'm promised another bout with Doctor Bedside-Manner tomorrow. Meanwhile, my mother, who has back problems of her own, is worried silly, largely because of my grandmother hinting that my bad back is the result of a genetic mutation inherited from my mother, and offering to do everything from my grocery shopping to my dishes. As tempting as it is to let her do the lot, I realise that any inches given will be taken, run with, and multiplied until she is "just popping in" all the time. Thanks, but no.

So I'm trying not to let it stop me from doing too much. For instance, tonight, I'm off to a comedy show. I'm just planning on getting an aisle seat so I can stand up as necessary, that's all. I'm hoping laughter is the antidote for the words you don't want to hear when you think you're just going to be given some exercises to strengthen your back, because sick leave should never be used when you're actually sick. Such a waste...

The Art of Distraction

I've stuffed my back again. I must be getting old, it's happening more often than it used to. Now, something as simple as sleeping can have pain shooting down the back of my legs and radiating up to my shoulders. I've been using it as an excuse to avoid doing dishes (although interestingly, the number of dishes used seems to have multiplied in inverse proportion with my will to clean them). That little half bend at the sink had me throwing in the towel, before it had wiped a single plate. Tonight, I felt that I ought to bite the bullet and get on with it, before I ran out of tea spoons. Funny how they're always the first things to go.

Of course, my will to do the dishes actually increased when I realised how much study I had waiting for me. Because I've taken the masochistic jump and enrolled in that teacher training course I mentioned way back. Part time, I should be able to teach in three years or less, depending on how soon I get myself to a point where I can quit work and study full time. So in around 5 years I should be standing in front of my own class, then. Pfft. Like it will ever happen...But either way, it inspired me to wash the dishes. And now the spasm that caused in my back has me propped carefully on the couch with a comfy cushion squashed in just the right spot while I recover once again.

Of course, all of this is not just a distraction from the lock on my spine. It's to distract me from the fact that, once again, I'm waiting for a seemingly nice boy to get in touch with me so we can meet up and see if we're as nice in person as we seem via email. I'm sweating on my inbox like I never did over results for study, even though I know the boy - let's call him Ernie - is pulling midnighters at work for a week or two and is therefore unlikely to contact me. Either that, or he's miffed about certain parallels with Ray Martin that I jokingly pointed out. Actually, thinking about it, I probably shouldn't have done that. Just like I shouldn't have started writing about him, because now I'm going to get all paranoid that I've done something stupid, yet again. I need a "Quick! Look over there!" distraction. But when you're in your own head, it's a little hard. So I think I might have to get back into some of the things I've been putting off. I think I have some movement in my back again, and an airer full of clothes is calling me. And my new flatmate (did I mention that I have a flatmate now? All part of the trying to get to a position to fund full time study plan...as an added bonus, she's hardly ever here and when she is, she keeps to her room. The perfect flatmate, in many respects) gets back from a holiday on Thursday, so best not have my underpants on display in the living room. I don't think we know each other well enough for that yet.

Right. Arse off couch. Here we go.

Bugger.

Oh well, was worth a shot.

My Kitchen Rules - or at least my scones do

Today is cold and miserable, in spite of the extra hour gained thanks to the end of daylight saving. So what better day to do some baking, I figured. Being without the classic baker's kitchen that my mother possesses (pantry always stocked with rations in case of siege; she could survive for a month on tinned food alone, without cooking a thing), I decided that scones were the order of the day, but they were a little bland for my taste. I figured I'd hit up my trusty friend google for some inspiration on variations, other than the usual cheesy scone, and boy did I open a minefield.

Turns out that the simple scone recipe I've been using since child hood (self raising flour, butter and milk - it doesn't get any easier) is not to be found anywhere online. Instead, there was a website boasting that it had an egg-free recipe - since when were eggs involved? - another with baking powder, eggs and cream, not to mention countless other twists. And that was just for the basic scone itself. I'd heard of a mix using plain flour and lemonade before (always looked down upon by my otherwise easygoing mother and grand mother, but favoured by the cooking-hater Nana), but never had I considered that there could possibly be so many ways to bake a scone. The humble scone, typically served with jam and cream, delicious any way you look at it (although not usually described as light and fluffy, as one American website had it...light and fluffy is no suitable vehicle for jam and cream, methinks, or at least in the proportions that I enjoy it).

So here I am...looking down the barrel of not finding a suitable variation on a classic because I got bogged down in the mire of what exactly is involved in the basic recipe. Who dared to mess with a classic, I ask you? Not me. I've got my milk, I've got my butter, I've got my flour. In about 20 minutes, I will also have my scones. Somewhat longer than that, and I might even fill in the pitiful few readers out there with an update on exactly what has kept me offline for about a month. But let's not be too rash. After all, baking waits for no man. Or woman. Or blog.

White nights

I've got insomnia at the moment. Even though I'm ridiculously tired, my brain refuses to shut down for the night. The off switch is broken, even though the gears are moving slower. Or they're moving slower until I put my head on the pillow, at any rate. So what better way to while away the wee-sma's than blogging about it, and thereby sharing the pain with the blogosphere?

Have you ever noticed that you can't complain about being tired without someone in the room assuring you that it's nothing, compared to how exhausted they are/have been/were five years ago? Or is it just because of the people I work with that I'm thinking that? There's the middle aged Greek woman, who manages to complain about being happy, and the middle aged plastic surgery fan who is the stereotypical sales woman, right down to being in the process of trading her sports car for a four wheel drive that is unlikely to ever venture off road. She says it's to drive her dad and his friend around now that they can't do it for themselves. Anyone who has seen the elderly attempt to climb stairs will realise just how bad an idea is it to have a car they have to climb into. But I digress...

Not surprising, really. Lack of sleep does that to me. I should be happy and content at the moment. I've finally received the results of my thesis, and I passed. I weighed myself today, and have actually managed to lose a little weight - I could put it in percentage of my goal, but I won't, because that's a little depressing. I have had an almost moron free day at work, and have money in the bank (it was pay day on Tuesday). But it was also Valentine's Day on Monday, and the few morons who came in were spectacular (yes, I'm talking to you, Mr there-are-no-white-lines-on-my-street-why-are-we-so-left-out). While I should be thrilled with my thesis mark - it's a distinction, for anyone who cares, something I would have been thrilled to get in my architecture studies - I was a little disappointed; I have no right to be, when I submitted it knowing there were huge holes in both my arguments and my research, but there you have it. I think I know what I want to be when I grow up, and it involves more study, and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. But I've applied anyway, and now I'm trying to work out the logistics of maintaining a job while I study, getting through the study in as short a time as possible, and figuring out how the hell you can keep a full time job AND fit in the practical experience component of a teacher training course. Because that's where I want to get to. Teacher training. Only I'm not there. Nowhere near. And I haven't heard any confirmation about my application. And it's freaking me out. In fact, pretty much everything is freaking me out right now.

I spent some time looking into how much money I would need to buy my own property, and how much the banks are likely to loan me. And it turns out that I would actually need to have more money saved than I plan on borrowing from the bank if I'm to get my hands on anything halfway to what I want.

Out of curiosity - I was bored, the thought popped into my head, and my laptop was both there and on - I looked into going back to the UK. I find myself missing the crispness of a cold morning. I blame the humidity. Except that it turns out that they have put a stop to the visa that I had before, so I'd need sponsorship. And the only industry I'm trained for has gone down the toilet, so even if I did decide that I wanted to, I couldn't go back. And it peeves me no end. Except I wonder if I could...because I do have a letter...but then again, my visa expired, and...it's all so complicated and its so late, and...

It's the middle of the night and I'm lying in bed blogging. It seems the sky is falling in tonight. Except it's not. Oh, and I just found out on Sunday that not only is my sister-in-law pregnant, but so is another person I know. I'm not supposed to tell because she's only 7 weeks gone. But there you have it. That's another thing I have no idea how to get to.

I really shouldn't blog when the weight of the world is bringing me down. The sky isn't really falling. It's just another Melbourne thunderstorm in a summer that has already seen more natural disasters befall the world than I can ever remember coming so close together. Perhaps it's time to try and sleep again. I'm sure the world will look better tomorrow. It has to - it would be hard to look worse, right now.

Away from the bright lights

There's been a whole lot of attention focused on Queensland weather recently. And with the massive floods, followed by a cyclone, all within a month, it's little wonder. And it's not just happening in Queensland. Around the world, the weather seems to have gone just a little bit mad so far this year, much to the delight of certain media outlets who feed on the "thank god it's not happening to me" side of the public. And again, fair enough. I can see why the dramatic footage of record snow falls, landslides, cyclones, and raging torrents of flood water attract an audience.

The recovery process is now drawing all the attention here. The proposed levy to rebuild after the floods has been pretty well condemned by many - in spite of the fact that it averages out to less than a dollar a week for most people. The opposition leader has been condemned for attempting to cash in on the floods, running a party fundraiser on the back of the unpopular levy. We're being warned to prepare for sub-standard and expensive fruit and vegetables in shops, with the suggestion being that it's our duty to buy these goods to support the farmers in their time of need (although how we're supposed to know for sure that the damage was caused by floods I don't know; for all I can tell, it might just be that the grocers have found a way to get rid of damaged goods for a ridiculously inflated price). Volunteers are flooding into Queensland to get everything off the ground again.

Don't get me wrong about what's going to be written next. I feel for the Queenslanders who have gone through this. The loss of property and, worse than that, the loss of life, has been terrible. The state is understandably reeling from the events of this year and must be wondering what is going to hit them next. But at the same time, they are not the only ones who have been hit by this, not by any stretch. In fact, there are communities in Victoria that have been flooded out four times in the past six months - farming communities, who had weathered a seven year drought, only to be inundated when they just get a crop that looks good and is about ready for harvest.

And now it's come again. The two cyclones that have lashed the north of the country, weakened enough to be downgraded below cyclone classification, joined forces and headed south, where they ran into another front that was headed north. They all came together over Victoria for a weather event that seems to have had at least one meteorologist all but salivating. There are parts of my state that have had their annual rainfall come down in a two hour period. The Yarra might not have flooded, but the Lodden and Campaspe, the Mitta Mitta, and the Murray, as well as many others, are all up and about. There has been flooding in the north, the east, the south-east, flash flooding in Melbourne. No, there has been no loss of life, as far as I know only one serious injury when a girl was crushed by a falling tree. But please don't for a moment think that what has happened here is any less worthy of attention, because it's long term effects will be just as widespread. Perhaps the most dramatic photo I've seen was not a gushing torrent of water - although there are a few of them from a wide variety of places. It was a photo taken in Laverton of what looked like a swamp. It was covered in dead birds, who had not been able to withstand the winds that came through with the storms that hit the area overnight. Victoria has never known anything like it, and the forecasters say there is more to come. A quick look at the Sydney Morning Herald website, though, you'd think it was any other day. The weather is wrapped up in the fourth lead, a story which deals largely with the combined impact of cyclone Yasi on Queensland, Victoria and the Northern Territory before finishing by saying that the heat wave in Sydney is, in fact, unrelated. Surprise, Sydney-siders, it is summer, after all.

When the people who should be informed about events by media outlets like the SMH are complaining about the flood levy to rebuild Queensland, perhaps it might do to remind them of events on a national scale. Have a thought about the billions of dollars that could be spent here in Victoria, where the area responsible for fruit and wheat is doing it tough. When your bread costs more, think of the Wimmera and their six months of flooding that has wiped out the wheat crop. When you can't get grapes, think of Mildura's fields, currently under about a metre of water. Then look at the $1 a week it could cost to get Queensland on the road to recovery; wonder if any of that cash will make it to the areas that have gone unnoticed, because they have been overshadowed by the bright lights and the spectacle in Queensland. God knows half the people in Melbourne are barely aware of what's happening. How on earth would the rest of the country be expected to know?

The Dating Game

I might have mentioned before that I've been putting a tentative toe back into the murky waters of internet dating. There hasn't been much success. Admittedly, I haven't been pursuing it too hard, but there are a few reasons why. Two glaringly large ones, to tell the truth.

The first is pretty straight forward. Although I've been checking out other people's profiles, I haven't really been up for attempting to contact the ones who were interesting, as a general rule. No good reason why, I just tend to click away before letting them know I'm interested. On the rare occasion that I do click the 'wink' button, there's generally no response. Seems my profile isn't attractive to them. Which leads me to the second reason for my dating fails.

My profile is, I think, fairly straight forward, slightly amusing, and on the whole, better crafted than most of my blog posts. It sets out my criteria as far as age, distance from a set point in Melbourne for them to be living, all the usual things. Yet somehow, this all gets ignored. So far, the contacts from this profile have ranged from the aging locals to the age-appropriate Swiss.

Now call me nuts, but there is something a teensy bit wrong about a 57 year old man winking at a 30 year old, even if it's only electronically. It's old-fashioned and potentially age-ist, I know, but there you have it. If you're old enough to be my father, chances are that I'm not going to be interested in you, whatever you might see in magazines about young women and their billionaire sugar daddies.

Also, if you live across the other side of the country, chances of a healthy long term relationship, not good. Even worse if you're on the other side of the world. And for those who are both twice my age AND on and entirely different continent - perhaps even planet - take the comments above and double them. Triple them. And add in sound effects of me dying laughing at the thought that you meet the criteria of having a bit of a brain.

Yeah, I know, it's harsh. And given, as a friend observed today, that there are no single men left in our age group who aren't single for a good reason, or broken beyond saving by the load of baggage they're carrying, perhaps I shouldn't be so choosy. But dear god, there has to be a better way to meet someone. If anyone knows what it is, please let me know. Because there's no way in hell that the internet is going to work for me.

Monumental Stupidity

One of the hazards - or perks, depending on your point of view - of my work is that I get to deal with the public on a semi-regular basis. Most of the people I deal with are just ordinary folk, going about their business and interacting with me in the way you'd expect as they attempt to get the designs for their homes approved. Some, though, are special.

Take the phone call I had late last week. It was on my direct line - you have to have been running an office on a mobile phone connection for more than 6 months to know just how exciting that statement is! Direct line! Luxury! - and I answered with the usual greeting.

"I was just wondering if you're back from the Christmas break yet?" asked the dimwit on the other end of the line. He is, to date, the most ridiculous person I've dealt with. One of my colleagues snorted when she heard. And fair enough too.

Then there was the landscaper who came into the office today to tell me that someone else had damaged the storm water system, and water was gushing down the hill near where he'd been working. I went up to take a look and discovered that a neighbouring developer had tapped into the water mains on that street and yes, water was gushing down the street, but not from the point where the main had been tapped. It was burbling up from the middle of a nature strip, right about the point where I could see signs that the landscaper's backhoe had been operating. I haven't confirmed anything yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it might not have been solely the neighbours' fault that the water was flowing so freely.

There's the serial complainer, who comes in every Monday with a variation on the themes of 'cut the grass so my kid can play in land that doesn't belong to me without me worrying that he'll get bitten by a snake that I'm the only one to have seen', or 'can't you make that person build on their land?' Or perhaps my personal favorite, when is the phone going to be connected? Because I have a crystal ball, and more clout than him in this area, even though for the past 6 months he has been told that we don't know any more about it than he does.

There's the couple who called me back in November to complain that someone had been dumping soil on their (unfenced) lot. I arranged to get the dumper to clear it, but in the meantime it rained. And it kept on raining. Every time a bobcat appeared on site, down came the rain. Until eventually, someone else started dumping. It was inevitable, really. Vacant land in an estate under construction is always treated as a dumping ground for its neighbours. You'd think they'd have learnt from the first lot. But no. A third lot was dumped there over the Christmas break. And suddenly, after I'd done the hard yards and gotten 2 of the 3 dumpers to clear their spoil, it was my fault. I was supposed to advise this couple where they could send the invoice for having the remaining gravel cleared. It was disappointing that they hadn't been aware that we did not undertake the maintenance and security of the land that they were the proud owner of. Have they never looked across the road and seen the mountain of crap that is growing at the dead-end of a street? Or perhaps they might have noticed that our maintenance guys struggle with the land that we still do own, let alone the stuff that we've sold. She should talk to the serial complainer. He's certainly noticed.

Honestly, apart from the stupidity - which is rampant - I've never met a pettier bunch of people than some of the residents of this estate. They complain to each other about us. They complain to us about each other. Occasionally, they will band together and just complain. Loudly. Over and over again. Because apparently, repeating the abuse changes the response into something more favourable to your cause. Yelling at me, yeah, that's going to make me continue to go above and beyond in an attempt to help you. Abuse me now, and then expect me to speed up the approval process for you? It's only going to end in tears. And I think they might be mine.

Yes, I've got January-itus, the illness that afflicts those who have not had more than a week off work in six months. The disease that grabs you when you walk back into the office that first day of the new year, knowing that most people you know are still lazing at home for another week. Knowing that you'll run out of things to do because your industry doesn't fir up until the third week of the year. I've also got off-probation blues, a sense that perhaps I could be doing better elsewhere now I've got a whole six months of experience behind me. The uncertainty that if I jumped ship, like I'm tempted to do, I would end up somewhere that made me actually think, that challenged me, that demanded I put in the hours that I have always hated and avoided.

And in all of this, only one thing is certain. By this time next week, I will have dealt with more people. And more of them will be completely batty than will be sane. Oh the humanity.

Giving in to temptation

I have finally succumbed. I should have known it was coming. It's only been acts of supreme will power that have seen me last this long. Perhaps that was why I could never quite kick my cola addiction, I was diverting some of my self-will into avoiding the moment when I would give in. But it's happened. Sometime last week, I caved in and by the end of Monday, I was holding it in my hot little hand.

Yes, I have once again admitted that I am a super nerd, and jumped back on the Apple bandwagon. I am now the proud owner of an iPhone.

Of course, if I was a true nerd, I would have painstakingly typed this blog post into my phone, just to get the little message on the bottom that tells you I have sent this from my iPhone. Because you need to know that I am online, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, where ever I may roam, whatever I may do. I can be switched on all the time. But sadly, my hands, hot as they may be, are not really that small. I have yet to master the art of typing with reasonable accuracy and something vaguely resembling speed. So I'm on my trusty laptop.

Only recently, the laptop hasn't been terribly trusty. So now that I've given in to the iPhone urge, to match my 2 iPods, the thoughts are starting to creep in. Damn those new iMacs look good. I could really use a 27 inch screen. And since my poor baby PC is riddled with viruses that no bloody virus checker seems able to eradicate, the pressure is mounting. I want one. I can already see the arguments building about why I need one. It will be like the iPhone, which I kidded myself was a necessity because my old phone was starting to freeze and was losing some of its functions. Of course, the iPhone doesn't necessarily have the lost functions, but it was necessary, in spite of that. And I got such a good deal. I really would have been almost negligent to leave it there, to have missed the opportunity to buy what, by all accounts, is the most troubled Apple release to date.

Sure, I know the problems. I knew them before I spent 4 days solid playing with the damned thing, meaning that every night it needs to be re-charged. I knew that the App Store would be my downfall. And yet I bought it. Because I am a nerd. Because it has the shiny Apple logo on it. Because it's just. So. Damned. Pretty.

Yep, the temptation is mounting. And, as Alfie Doolittle sang in My Fair Lady, "With a little bit o' luck/ When temptation comes you'll give right in". Then again, Alfie was a 'natural philosopher' in the original version of the play; he knew enough to add another verse which, for me at any rate, usually follows the temptation - "With a little bit o' luck/ You can have it all and not get hooked." Except that's the problem with Apple products. Once you've had one, you are - well, I am - often exactly that. Hooked. Perhaps I'd best put the phone out of sight for now...

Peace, out

My guest has departed the scene and I have my flat back to myself once again. It's a true luxury that I hadn't really appreciated until I kept having to curl myself up on the 2-seater couch, rather than stretching full length on the 3-seater as my visitor did every night (side note: I'm quite a bit taller than her...so how come she always claimed the longer seat?). Two days after Christmas, Guest and I set off on a road trip to Sydney, along with a recently-returned L. That all 3 of us survived the road trip is a testament to the power of biting your tongue, turning the other cheek, and simply walking away when necessary. Because as much fun as Guest was in my flat, she became even more so on the road - and that was travelling in separate cars.

It seemed that nothing L or I did was going to get her pleased about the route and itinerary we had planned for the road. She wasn't happy with the hours spent wandering Raymond Island looking for koalas, until she'd seen enough to make both L and I over-tired and grumpy. She made the almost fatal error of disagreeing with L's pronouncement that the light was gone for photography. If there's one thing (other than Excel spreadsheets) that L can be counted an authority on, it's photography. Guest, with her small point-and-shoot camera that she needed to pull the lens out of by hand to take a photo, ought to have known better than to question the knowledge of the person who was clearly better equipped. When we declared that we were tired and hungry, we were declared to be 'boring'. I notice that we weren't so boring when we gave in to her demand that, since it was her birthday, she was claiming the big bed in a room on it's own while we were in bunks next door. To be honest, I think at least part of the reason for giving in was to escape from her for a few hours.

So there we were, the next day, apparently managing to get her back up again by selfishly refusing to veer across oncoming traffic on a blind corner so she could take a photograph of coastline that looked remarkably similar to what we looked at all day. Things improved a little once we got the part where we - rather, I, as the one who had travelled the coastline as a little tacker on family holidays - had decided stops could safely be made. But even there, having been told that we couldn't see her gesturing out her window, given that we were in a car travelling in front of her and all, she took the credit for "suggesting" various stops. But we gritted our teeth and soldiered on to Bateman's Bay. It was unfortunate that our hotel had also been chosen by several schoolies age kids, who were partying it up in a few rooms. It was equally unfortunate that I was angry enough from earlier events that the kids bore the brunt of it; Guest certainly wasn't prepared to do anything other than moan about the noise, and L wasn't ever going to act on any annoyance she felt. Fuelled by days of pent up frustration, I thumped on the door and put the fear of God - or worse, his mother - into a teenage boy, and frightened an older man hanging out with a few teenage girls into actually acting on his promise to call a taxi. I was figuring we'd need the sleep to maintain the calm the next day.

The last stretch of driving, between Bateman's Bay and Sydney, seemed to me to offer only a few good stopping points - the major one being a minor diversion to Jervis Bay. Before we set off from our hotel, I dutifully informed Guest of the plan, only to have her tell me that she was planning on stopping at any beauty spots on the way through, whether we did or not. Stuck in traffic almost the entire way, I couldn't help but enjoy the thought that the roads stayed stubbornly distant from the coast until the Jervis Bay turn off.

We managed to lose her going through the barriers into the national park, and, in spite of catching her at various points ('Why are you eating lunch in the car park? You should go for a walk and carry your lunch in with you.' 'We saw your car parked there and were waiting for you, we thought you might not have eaten.' 'Oh, shame. You must take a walk through there. I'm off to Cave Beach, see you there.') didn't see her again until New Year's Eve, when frantic texts all morning were more insistent that we be at the park I'd found out about by 9am.

To be honest, I was kind of dreading spending a day with her by that point. But L and I agreed that we would go - although it was 9:30 before we even got up, having "forgotten" to set our alarms - and wait it out. L established herself in a bunker and proceeded to roast in the 36 degree heat. I attempted to steal a little of the shade that Guest had herself borrowed from the neighbouring Irishmen, but kept being told to move myself further down as the shadows shifted throughout the day. Heaven forbid that she should have to shift herself to the other side of me and inconvenience herself in any way.

But still, Sydney does nothing well if not new years. The fireworks spectacular shook a by now very drunk guest lose from her boring friends, and we parted shortly after midnight. She hasn't been heard from directly since. There have been no thank yous for having put her up in my flat for a week, for having clothed her when she moaned about the cold, for feeding her (not just while she was in the flat either, but also supplying her with breakfast and lunch for the whole road trip). There was no acknowledgement of the planning that went into the trip, for finding our New Years spot, for L and I standing guard over our patch of ground while she and the others wandered down to the railing for the best possible view of the 9 o'clock fireworks. The only reason I know she made it home safely is because she posted on Facebook that she'd had a great night. I haven't posted a new status since; for all she knows, L and I ended up in the Harbour when passengers surged to get on the one and only ferry that arrived around 1:30am. Clearly, I am no longer of any use to her.

L and I made our way back to Melbourne over 2 days. They were largely peaceful days, once L managed to navigate us back to where we'd parked the car (it was at her brother's place; given the trouble she had getting us there in the first place, I should have known I'd need more specific directions from the concierge at the hotel to get us there). The early days of the new year were enough to wipe out the unpleasantness of the last days of the old year. Until I got home and found the wodge of ginger hair still stuck on the drain of my shower, the dusting of talcum over the floor, the screwed up mess of bedding in the spare room. And as it all came crashing back into my memory, I was able to take a deep breath and let it all go. Because no way in hell is she going to be crossing the threshold of any place I'm staying ever again. As if thank you was so hard to say.

The art of visiting

I've been playing host to a house guest for the past week. I like to think I've been a pretty good host - provided spare keys so they can come and go as they please, directions at any time of day, suggestions for what to do, and three days of escorted touring that has added about 600km to the mileage on my almost-new car - at hefty cost in fuel considering that it's Christmas. Most important of all, I have taken her along to my family Christmas, making sure that she wasn't orphaned for the day. I have taken her to my friends' Christmas, including buying a Kris Kringle present for her so that she didn't feel left out. I have cooked for her on no less than three occasions, two of them after having been at work all day.

In return, I have had the pleasure of her company, received a bottle of booze, and had my dishes washed twice (although apparently, finding the place where everything goes was a little too much work). I have had my shower clogged with her hair, I have had my bathroom sprayed with water, my tap twisted out of alignment, my spare bedroom made into a bigger sty than I ever managed, every power point touched left switched on, every light in the flat on at various times, a hissy fit chucked when I dared to suggest that on Boxing Day perhaps I might see some of MY friends that I haven't caught up with for Christmas instead of trekking all the way down to the frigging Mornington Peninsula for her to see some friends of her aunt's who she met when she was 20. You'll notice, the one thing I haven't received - any sign of thanks.

I know I won't comment, but I have almost ripped her head off on several occasions, the best one being when she insisted that she knew my mother MUST have a particular cleaning product in the house, in spite of me knowing that she never used the stuff. My knowledge of my mother's house cleaning habits was, of course, inferior, because she dived under the sink and came out with the product in question, and a very smug look on her face (turns out that kitchen benches must be cleaned with disinfectant before dishes can be stacked on them - wiping them with a damp cloth simply won't do). Not sure she noticed it later when Mum picked up the bottle of cleaner and asked where that had come from, because she didn't know she had it. I'm also incapable of even folding my own laundry. A trip to the loo before sorting things into a state that she considered appropriate for them was too big a delay for her. I came out to find her folding my underpants, and not listening when I did everything short of swear at her to get her to bugger off and leave my clothes alone. If I'd wanted to move them, I would have done it myself, as soon as I was out of the loo. We've been mates for a while, but we're hardly at the point where it's fine to fold each other's undies.

Earlier today, when someone cut in front of me as they got on the freeway, and I benefited from the wonderful joy of her driving instruction, about how she would have acted. Me having my foot on the brake was not enough of a response, apparently. I should have changed lanes. I should have done this, I should have done that, because this delightful guest of mine is always in the right, and can never concede that she might be wrong - although she has proven to be so quite a few times. I should know all of this. In fact, I did know it before she arrived, but it had never been brought home quite so strongly to me before. Or maybe it had, during some of the weeks that we spent working together on hotels in the UK. I remember seething with resentment quite often, but knowing that me venting any of it could very well lead to a stand-up fight, so I always swallowed the bile that rushed to spill out of my mouth. And I've done it again this time, biting back the words that I want to say, the times when I can feel the steam about to blow the top of my head off. Or more likely, the top of her head. I'm not known among my closest friends and family for my subtlety, but I'm not close enough to this one that I will blow my top openly. So I seethe and plot revenge, instead.

But if she thinks I won't repay the favour of being the world's most annoying house guest by visiting her in Brisbane in 2011, she can have another think. Of course, I can't chuck a tanty when she doesn't dessert friends and family during the holiday season to chauffeur me around town - her family is still back in South Africa - but I can make life difficult for her. I can run up her power bills, her water bills, I can be messy, I can sit around and watch her prepare dinner after a day at work. I can give her advice on how she should be doing things, I can correct her every thought, wilfully misunderstanding her, and never giving an inch in an argument even when the people involved are talking about completely separate issues. I can do all of this.

The question is, can I do all of that and still keep the friend? I think not, on the whole. And the annoying part is, when she's not being the world's biggest know-it-all, she's great fun. It's just that at close quarters, the fun gets buried in the pedantic crap that she also spews, and the fact that you realise she doesn't know half as much as she thinks she does. I can't see the friendship lasting long-term, in all honesty. But I'll be damned if I give it up before I get a weeks free room, board and transportation in Brisbane.

Bill me

Somewhere out there, some companies have put together a list. On this list is the name of every person that those companies feel can be over-charged on their bills, without anybody noticing. Somehow, my name seems to have ended up on that list.

First there was Lumos, a power and gas company, who keep trying to charge me for power and gas. Two problems. Firstly, they aren't my provider, I go through a different company, which I have told them several times over. They still keep sending me bills. But the biggest reason why I know I don't owe them any money, apart from the fact that my name isn't on the actual bill? It's because at least some of the charges go back before I'd even signed the lease on my flat.

Then the phone company tried it on, adding a ridiculous amount to a bill, but deleting it as soon as I queried it, telling me that if I hadn't been informed about the charge when I signed up, then I didn't have to pay it. The ease with which I got them to take it off makes me think it's a "hit-'em-up-and-hope-they-pay-it" kind of charge. Well, nobody gets one over on this little black duck, let me tell you. Especially not to the tune of $80 a month. It all adds up.

This month, it was City Link who had a crack. I use the toll roads they administer for work, on the rare occasions that I have to head into head office, and even more rarely when I'm heading into town for a night out. It doesn't happen often. So getting a $140 bill for a month came as something of a surprise, especially given that the last month had been a zero balance. I shouldn't have been totally surprised. I'd had a warning shot fired over my bow last week, when they sent me a text saying that my account was being suspended. I couldn't work out why, but didn't get around to finding out why, because I wasn't planning on using it in the near future. But now I want to use it, and I can't. The strangest part is that nobody can actually tell me why my account has been suspended. All the bills that have been issued before have been paid. This one is in dispute, and only arrived in the mail today. The kicker, though, is that the account was suspended 2 days before the statement was even issued.

I have to say, I hate that the roads are tolled in the first place. The most commonly used stretch for me is a road that was built when my mother was still at school. I begrudge having to pay to use it. Before I moved away, I refused point blank to drive on it, out of principle. Notice, time in London has eroded my principles in favour of ease of use. Because it does make my life a whole lot easier, halving my travel time to and from head office. But if the price of convenience is a 25 minute phone call with someone who couldn't actually resolve my query, and could barely enter my problem into the system because there wasn't an automated option, then I'll go back to taking my time to get places. And if they argue that it was my car, I can call in character witnesses to help defend me, because anyone who knows me at all would agree, there's no way in hell that I was passing under one of the City Link gantries at 06:50.

So I'm issuing a warning. I've had enough. Any company that thinks it's OK to over charge me, or add false charges to my bills, don't say you weren't warned. Just ask Virgin in the UK. I am capable of prolonged phone calls where I am able to maintain anger and coherence, all at the same time. It might have taken me a while to get Virgin to do what they were supposed to, but I know how to do it now. And I don't have the cash to throw away on the whims of some accounts department screw up. If you see my name on that list, cross it out. Because one way or another, I'm not paying and you'll regret sending me a bill for something that I didn't use.