Incu = in queue

K emailed me some details about a sale for one of the shops he likes – Incu. A three-day, warehouse sale that started on Friday morning at 9am and went through to Sunday at 6pm.Would I go with him on Friday morning, his email said, “and buy him lots of stuff?” Hmmm.

It wasn’t so much the buying-him-stuff that I was worried about, more the getting-up-early, trawling-through-tables-of-discarded-clothes-in-desperate-search-of-a-bargain and dealing-with-hungry-wannabe-fashionistas-stuff that I wasn’t neccessarily keen on. I’m not, nor ever have been, a fashionista in even the most broadest sense of the word, and quite frankly, hanging out with people with bad haircuts, skinny jeans, black bras under white or grey tops, and lots of bangles (and of course the dubious accents they all seem to put on) starts to wear me down.

But I am in love. So I went. And I stood by the side of the road at 9 in the morning with all the other desperados trying to snag themselves a bargain. I knew I had a work call at 11 so there was no way I was going to be able to stay past 10.35 (unless I wanted to be late for the call I was running). We shuffled up the footpath, inch by inch as the minutes passed. Until finally we were third in line. It was 10.40. I got a glimpse of the inside of the warehouse, with the racks of clothes thrown together as throngs of people waded through them, before I had to go.

One hour and forty minutes of my life that I am never, ever going to get back. Longer than most of my conference calls that I am at least getting paid for. Standing on the street corner, feeling like a tight ar$e because I want to rifle through piles of clothes to get a bargain rather than pay full price. And I didn’t even buy anything.

That was my first and last warehouse sale. Unless it’s Liquor Land.

Personal Paining

So I’m week three into my personal paining training and so far, I’m not loving it. I’m loving being able to spend some QT with my girlfriend who is fit and inspires me. But I’m not loving, the sweating, the out-of-breath-ness, or the red face. But most of all, I’m not loving the pain. The pain when I’m running up a hill, the pain when I’m crunching my little beer belly out, and the pain when I’m doing lunges and squats. And the worst pain of all. The pain that comes a day or two later.

And I am sick to death of people telling me it’s “good pain”. People. I have one thing to say. What-farken-ever! Pain is another word from suffering. And as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing good about suffering.

I checked on the internets and a definition for pain is “An unpleasant sensation that can range from mild, localized discomfort to agony” – again, the key word is not “good”, it’s “unpleasant”. Are we seeing a theme here people?

Anyway. No more writing. I’m off to soak in a radox bath. Hopefully that will ease the suffering tomorrow.

Airconditioning

As I’m sitting here writing, I have two men behind me arguing over my heating/cooling system. This is, hopefully, the last in a series of events that have dragged on and on for months. It all started… when we moved into our apartment. And the heating didn’t work. Not a big deal really, in March, when the weather is mild. But as the weather grew colder, we wanted some warmth.

I called my property agent, and he said he would sort it. Now, no offence to any property agents out there, but let’s be honest – when you’re dealing with rental properties that your company earns about $10 a week on, let’s be brutal, you don’t really give a large rodent’s behind.

I called my property agent about 10 times before he got someone out to look at the heating/cooling unit. The dude came and had a look and told me he would call me when the part he needed came in. 6 weeks and 10 more phonecalls. He came back. And got the thing working. For a week. Then it broke again..

After about call number 10 this time round, I was getting, let’s say, a wee bit frustrated. I rang at 8.45 in the morning and explained to my property agent, as calmly as I could that 1. it was cold in our flat. 2. he advertised heating when the apartment was advertised. 3. we don’t have heating. 4. he has promised us heating. 5. i was getting sick of calling him. and 6. that he was slack and i was getting frustrated.

And my wonderful property agent’s response? He replied with, “You know what? You are very mean? You even are calling me so early in the morning!” (my property agent isn’t a native English speaker – not sure if I did his heavily accented, extremely frustrated tones justice.) This was at about 9am by the way. 9am. I was at work. My colleagues were all at work. AND he called me nasty! I hadn’t even started!!

Anyway to keep to the programme.. I have two men in my apartment now, arguing over how to get the darn thing fixed. I don’t really care how they do it. It would just be nice to have some heat when it’s cold and some cold air when it’s hot. That’s not too much to ask is it? I don’t want to have to call my property agent again and get nasty..

** Just as an aside to this (not-very-interesting-venting-of-the-spleen) – the two men were hunched over the airconditioning unit, when Mate decided to come out and say hello. I have never seen to grown men (with a combined age of at least 100) jump so high in their lives! Farken hilarious!! x

Carparking schemer

A few weeks ago, I put up a sign in the lift in my building asking if anyone had a carpark available that I could use. I was prepared to pay $20 a week in whatever form they wanted (EFTPOS, cash, whatevs) and was ready to rock and roll whenever they were.

A few hours after I put the sign up, I got a phone call from some dude telling me that I could park in his park for $25 a week. But my sign said $20? “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I want $25″. Right. So, you think you deserve $25 for a car park you are currently getting nothing for, because I went to the trouble of putting up a sign. Hells still looking warm mate. No chance.

And in my ever so delicate manner, I said this, “I don’t think so mate, I’ll see if someone has one for $20 and if they don’t, I’ll get back to you, alright?”

And then my sign was pulled down. Funny, I didn’t take it down. And I know building management didn’t take it down. So I put up another one. Which was taken down soon after. My car park schemer was determined that I wasn’t going to get my $20 a week carpark. I put up 6 signs in total and I can only guess that he took down 6 signs. Muthafarker!

So I went to a different lift (our bulding is big and spreads out – there are four different lift shafts) and I put up a sign, and the very next day I got a car park. Sucked in carpark schemer. I’m only paying $20.

OUCH!!

I have been wondering about what to blog about all day. And then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. I was out running some menial errand, and on my way home thought I would go a different way into my building. Sounds simple enough and I am sure people a lot less intelligent than I have managed to get to their apartment without the physical damage my body incurred.

I entered via a different entry than normal and made my way to my life shaft… all sounds simple. Then I went to walk into my lift shaft. Through the glass window, that was obviously so clean that I didn’t notice it was there.

Now, being the callous bitch that I am, I have laughed at other’s misfortune many, many times. And I probably will again. But JESUS H CHRIST!! it hurts when you walk into a window. And having the big nose I regrettably inherited from my mother, it was the main point of impact. Blood was gushing everywhere and I was trying to catch as much of as I couldd, until I realised that I was better (and cleaner) just standing over a bin while the blood flowed from my nose, straight into it.

I’m sure I’ll be laughing about this when the pain goes away, and I’m sure I’ll get the expected “why not just pay for the nose job you always wanted, you tightarse” from all and sundry. But in the meantime, fark it hurts!! Watch out for clean windows!

Oh the pain!

I can hardly walk today. Actually, I can hardly move. My legs are sore, my arms are killing me. My upper and lower back is in pain. And I’m sure you can all guess why.. the old phenomenon of an extremely unfit person at the start of the new exercise regime!

I have a very good friend who is not only good-looking, smart, funny, you know, all the usual stuff that make men LURVE her.. but she is also extremely fit. I think fitness is her passion.. she goes to the gym 6-7 times a week. And she loves it. In the same way that I love wine, or cheese, or anything else that does the opposite to me of what her passion does to her. And I admire her. Because she doesn’t brag, or boast about how fit she is or what good shape her body is in. But she always looks good.

But back to me. So this friend agreed to do some training with me. I have been walking every day for a few months now and have dropped a bit of weight already, but wouldn’t mind reducing either the beer gut or the batwings, or preferrably both, so am going to put my love of comfort aside and allow someone to hurt me.

And hurt me she did. We did sprints, boxing, push-ups, sit-ups, dips, more boxing, more running, and more for over 45 mins.. And today, two days later, thanks to DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness – a real anacronym used by real gym-peeps), I am in agony. It started in the middle of the night when I woke up needing to go to the toilet and realised I was too stiff and sore to move. That was true pain – the heart-breaking decision of whether to get up and ache in every part of my body (ok, not every part, admittedly my face doesn’t seem to hurt), or hold on tightly, while laying very still, and try to limit the pain to just my bladder. Alas, my bladder won out and I had to get up. The memory still makes me cry now.

And, unlike my friend who doesn’t talk about how training, I am going to let you all know that I have done it – because for a little porker like me, it is a MASSIVE achievement – and I’m not suffering alone!

Fun times at Sydney airport..

So I’m back in wet, rainy, miserable Melbourne – only kidding!! I wrote that to get a rise out of all you Victorians. Let’s start again.

So I’m back in fabulous Melbourne and it’s great to see Miss Loulou (who is a Sydney friend who happens to be here) and of course, flatmate-that-I-love (who is now ex-flatmate-that-I-love). V festival is going to be great tomorrow with a bunch of crazy chicks..

Anyway. My blog isn’t about Melbourne. It’s about Sydney. Sydney airport to be exact. And how I got there at 4ish yesterday afternoon for my 5pm flight.. At 5pm I was told to come back at 6.30 for an update on where our plane was.. At 6.30 I was told we would be leaving in an hour. At 7.30, same story.. The plane finally took off at 9.15. NINE FRICKIN FIFTEEN! I wouldn’t have minded if they had told me at 4 or 5 that it was leaving at 9.15. I could have headed home, plonked in front of the TV (probably with some plonk!) or I could have read a book on my couch, or I could have called a friend and hung out for a few hours, hell, I could have gone home for some self-lovin’!! I could have done ANYTHING with my 5 hours.. but no. Instead, I lugged around a laptop bag as I went between the bar and the departure gate waiting for updates.. which of course was as far away from the bar as it was possible to be!

By the time we got to Melbourne, it was late and all my friends (who I had planned to have dinner with) were asleep. AND because I’d been bored and chatting to every man and his dog during my 5 hour wait, the battery on my phone was dead. And the $60 cab fare back to the city is always a winner to top it all off. Oh hang on, to top it off PROPERLY, is the torrential rain that has poured all day today. Awesome. Love it.

My suicidal turtle

Mate, the turtle, made the journey with K (the love) and I up to Sydney. He hated the travel in the shoebox so much that he sulked for two week after we arrived – to the point where K was treating him like a teenage son: “Is that turtle going to get up today? It’s 11 o’clock?” or “Is the turtle going to grace us with his presence this afternoon?” or my personal favourite: “All that turtle ever does is sleep his day away! Doesn’t he have things to do?”

It took me a few days to convince K that in actual fact, the turtle did not have things to do.. see life is pretty simple when you’re a turtle.. You get up, you maybe crawl out from under the towel your very kind owner has put you under the night before, you mope around the place, going nowhere in a hurry, you eat some beef heart, or turtle tucker, or if afore-mentioned owner is being really lazy, pellets, you maybe do a poo, have a swim, and then go back under your towel for another 36-48 hours of sleep. It’s a good life if you can get it..

So why then, is mate the turtle now a little bit suicidal? We have moved into an apartment building and we have a balcony. (You have probably already guessed that we aren’t on the first floor!) And unfortunately for us, Mate can fit under the railings of the balcony… and doesn’t seem to have any qualms with stretching his elongated neck over the edge to see what is all those metres below – with me holding him tightly so he doesn’t accidentally stretch too far. I’ve had some friends staying (the Irish princes) and they suggested that surely the turtle was too smart to throw itself off the ledge.. but I don’t think so. Turtle’s brains aren’t very big, you see, and I don’t think their spacial awareness is as.. existant.. as ours. Besides which, even if hewas spacially aware, that turtle is a risk taker – I have seen it do some very, very dumb things..

So – I spent a very industrious afternoon making “turtle safety barriers” to go under the balcony railings – I’m not sure why you cant buy them, I’m sure there must be a huge demand for them.. and do you know what the turtle has done ever since I thwarted his kamikaze attempts.. that’s right – went and sulked under the towel – I haven’t seen him for days!!

Prahahahahahahaha

*So, my keyboard does weird things when I attempt grammar – apologies..

I havent written for a while, and this time its not because Ive been working like a mother trucker. Rather, Ive been gallivanting.. as I write Im sitting in Prague with my lovely ex-flatmate from when I lived in ma wee Edinburgh.. and what a fab time weve been having.. well, actually, not that great a time in Prague.. but a farken AWESOME time in Split. We are both brown as berries thanks to days and days spent by the beach on the Dalmatian Coast in Croatia. Was AH-MAY-ZING!! But Prague.. hmm..

So, we stayed here a week ago.. the room was charged to our other friends card. We then get an email from the hotel saying that because the toilet had broken and flooded and they had found a condom in the pipes – and a peach stone, but thats not quite as interesting.. or is it -so they had charged her card a second time.. for 7000 Czech Crowns, or about 500 Aussie dollars. For a condom.. Hmm.. For three girls, who had arrived after midnight, crashed out almost immediately and checked out again before 10 am, we were a little suprised to say the least. Two of us had gone for a walk in the morning and I really take my hat off to our girlfriend if she had managed to find a boy to use a condom – and maybe a peach – in the very short space of time we were away.. Although, in hindsight, she DOES have a cute Scottish accent.. Hmm..

Anyway, so we explained our case with the receptionist, the other receptionist, the two managers, the police, the tourist police, and have been given instructions to take it up with either a Czech magistrate !! or the Prague Business Inspector.. but anyhoo.. I digress.

The trip is fab. Life is good. Prague rocks, but Croatia – man, it was AMAZING! And avoid the BlackStar or Clementin hotel in Praha at all costs.. they have condoms in their toilets. And peach stones.

Busy-sick-over-it

Hi gang! Thanks so much to those of you who keep checking back even though I have been slack and not written regularly for a couple of weeks now. Singapore took it out of me and work has been hectic- I have had some rotten cough for weeks (verrry attractive, let me tell you! Actually, the cough is so bad that the other day a lady from work suggested I go to a doctor.. When I told her I had already been three times, she said, “maybe you need.. a.. um.. specialist.”

When I questioned why, she said, “i don’t want to scare you sweetie, (always a bad sign) but it might be lung cancer! You smoke heavily, no?”

No. Actually I don’t. Nor have I ever smoked in my life. But thanks for the words of advice.. and thanks for not wanting to scare me. Appreciate it. Cough, cough.

Anyway, the point of the blog was to say thanks to everyone for checking back – especially Pia who not only checks back regularly.. but then sends me messages asking me why I haven’t written. Thanks love!

Whatevs slocos.

My lovely friend D, who I travel with quite often, and lurve most of the time (*this story pretty much makes up the rest of the time when I don’t lurve her so much) rang me the other day to tell me that she was coming to visit me down here in Mexico Melbourne. I was very, very excited until she told me she was coming on the weekend of October 11-12. I had already discussed that weekend this week – with my Dad, who had wanted to come down and walk the 5km walk as part of the Melbourne marathon.  I mentioned to her that he would be down, and why. She giggled.

“Well,” she said, “you’ll be impressed, I’m bringing N and glittergirl with me.” And as soon as she said glitter girl, I knew.

“I’M NOT RUNNING!” I said -  getting it in quick before she could even think about broaching the subject.

“Come on,” my friend coaxed. “It will be fun.”

Fun? Running ’til I’m out of breath, my large mammary glands bouncing all over the place causing pain, my body aching during and for days after the event because of my complete lack of fitness and thin, lithe active people looking pitifully at me as I slouch along the road with the same landspeed as a three-toed sloth at the end of the run. Not my idea of fun. At all.

So, like the 5 year old I am, I rang glittergirl. To dob on D for trying to get me to do something that would only be negative to my life. And she assured me that she had tried to convince D that I wouldn’t be up for it – god bless her cotton socks.

Anyway. So in the end, i answered all of their emails with my short, succint message, that I thought captured the spirit of my enthusiasm. “Whatevs team. Whatevs.”

And so we got the name “Team Whatevs”

Until glittergirl told us that she was in a team (for another event) called “Frorets”. This, imaginatively, is short for “frolicking retards” – coined by her hubby – very farken funny indeed, more so if you actually knew glittergirl. And I like it so much that we are now called the “Whatevs slocos” – sloco being short for “slow coaches”.

So, if you happen to be at the Melbourne Marathon and you see an overweight girl clutching her chest as she has a heart attack, crawling towards the finish line (probably the 10km, but the result will be the same!), give her a shout and yell “Whatevs slocos!” – it will be me, and I will appreciate the support. I sure as hell don’t get it from my good friends.

Today..

Today was not a great day… the ex is still being his usual awful self (he gave me back “our” car and told me to sell it to pay out our loan (something I’ve been wanting to get sorted for months!) - just a shame he left massive dents and scratched on BOTH sides of the car AND told me he’s not going to get it fixed – not to mention, the car is now unregistered, uninsured, and unserviced – thanks a lot farkwit. Thanks a farken lot.

Then there is the new man. Whom I liked. Like, really, really liked. But it just wasn’t happening. So I had to let him know. And let him go. And he wasn’t too impressed. But oh well.  You win some, you lose some. Sorry Mr Dong.

Then there was the work – where I have been told that I can’t go overseas (because my top client is doing a very important piece of work, etc, etc, which I totally understand (but would have rathered go on an international 3-day bender)) AND was then berated by my manager because some dude in India doesn’t have his passport ready. Like this is my fault? Um.. Doshite ne?

Anyway. tomorrow is a new day. And a few wines tonight will no doubt sort me out.

101 reasons to be a lesbian – my most convincing reason being…

With a few PerezHilton embellishments.

Anyway, so I started a new blog – if you want to check it out: http://101reasonstobecomealesbian.wordpress.com

It’s not all about the guys like the one above who are the lowest of the farken low (yes, for those who have been wondering, the guy above is the ex-loved one – will explain his latest antics to make my life miserable in a seperate blog entry). The new blog is more about disastrous dates, ridiculous relationships and the jokey jocks we share them with. And, no, the stories aren’t all mine.. I have a lot of friends who have told me a lot of stories, over a lot of glasses of wine to contribute to my other site.. Enjoy!

Sick and/or hungover?

I have had the most annoying cough for days and days and days and yesterday I had had enough. I marched myself up to the chemist and asked for the “most hardcore over-the-counter cough mixture for a dry, hacking cough”. The woman gave me a nasty looking container and assured me it was the strongest thing I could buy sans prescription. I folded it into my jacket like contraband and rushed home, eager to “get it into me” ASAP to get rid of this stupid bloody cough as soon as possible.

At home, I poured the mixture into a spoon and prepared myself for the disgusting-ness that would be my salvation. Imagine my surpise when the sweet, sweet strawberry taste hit my taste buds! What sort of medicine claims to be “hardcore” (you know the score!), and tastes like strawberries?!? I ask you! What sort of fool did that chemist woman take me for?

I guzzled that medicine all day, ignoring the warning to have no more than 20 mLs in the space of 8 hours. I was sure that the more I had, the better I would feel. Kind of like vodka – same, same but different.

And then this morning, I woke with an almighty headache. But not the fluey, stuffy, sicky headache you normally get with a sore throat and shocking cough. More the type you get after you’ve been drinking loads and loads of… vodka. That’s right. Vodka. I am fairly certain that I had a hangover. And I haven’t had a drink in days (which in my world, is a lifetime). That cough mixture was indeed “hardcore” – the chemist woman was right!

Rescuing..

Friday night, my gorgeous girlfriend Loulou (who was down from Sydders) and I went to some very funky bars in the city. In (afore-mentioned) Sydney, a “hole in the wall” is usually along Oxford Street somewhere and also known as a “glory hole” (chuckles) but in Melbourne, it’s actually that.. a sneaky doorway you tentatively open to uncover an awesome little bar. There are drinking establishments in every little nook and cranny here and it is often a surprise and delight to discover them in places you just don’t expect. So, we went to a few of these places and had some lovely cocktails (lychee mojitos – mmm..) and a good girlie chat.

In one of the bars, we sat, chatting away, when a man approached our table. He was not the most attractive man, and when he spoke, it was clear that he wasn’t the most charming either. He was, infact, arrogant, annoying, self-absorbed and charmless. But because we are polite ladies, we let him drone on and on (and on and on) about himself.

Until his friend approached. And in a stage whisper, asked.. wait for it.. “Do you need rescuing?”

Sorry?!

WTF!

Does he need rescuing?! Lady, take a look at the picture in front of you. Your mate is standing at OUR table, insulting US with with tales of himself. We are the ones that are trapped by the damn wall. And you are asking HIM if HE needs rescuing?

You’re farken kidding me.

Byron…

…AKA: Paradise on Earth, and once again, it didn’t disappoint. I was there with 4 girlfriends and we ate, drank, lay by the pool, drank, saw the sights and drank the week away. It was amazing. I would go so far as to say that even the three days of rain we had at the start were forgiven as the place got warm and sunny and gorgeous after the clouds moved on to a better place.

Ahhh, Byron, the place of massages, crystal healings, pamper packages and loveliness. And Hare Krishnas. Who I love. My travelling partner D, not so much. The last day we were there, a few of us went to sit on Main Beach. For those who don’t know Byron, there is a big lawn between the beach and the Beach Hotel, and you will find a vast array of interesting people sitting, lying, lounging, standing and walking here. After a week of self-indulgent relaxation, I was surprised to hear D come out with: “Those people. I don’t get it. They shit me. What are they doing? I just don’t get it.. Looking at each other with those bloody bells, staring inanely into each others faces. With bad hair and even worse clothes. I don’t get it!!”

I gazed over to see a group of about 5 Krishnans (sic? how the hell do you spell that?) sitting in a circle, singing happily, peacefully jingling their little bells and gaxing lovingly into each other’s eyes. I also saw a bearded, 50 something drunk (who looked like he may not have showered or shaved since 1975) stagger over to the group to hurl a mountain load of abuse at them…

At which D turned to me and said, “now, that I get!”

Big Day Out

OK – so it was a while ago and SO much has happened since, but I wanted to write to let some of my absent friends know that it was a great day and I was thinking of them. Especially to my music festival buddy for a few years – Philomena from Land Fer Feckin’- you were missed.

So, Melbourne’s Big Day Out was held at Flemington racecourse, where I had spent a drunken day a few months previously at Derby Day, wasting money on nags and cheap champagne. It was a bit of a dustbowl but the lineup was pretty incredible (http://www.bigdayout.com/lineup/melbournetimetable.php). I had two friends fly down from Sydney for it, and flatmate-that-I-love came along for the fun times as well. It was a gorgeous day in Melbourne-town and we were dressed in festival-suitable attire. My favourite was Kate Nash - http://www.myspace.com/katenashmusic - love her. The big stage bands were great (Rage Against the Machine, Silverchair, Arcade Fire, Grinspoon, etc) as well as the old LCD Sound System in the dance tent.

But, there is always a but. Why the hell where we locked behind a fence because we wanted to drink? And why were the queues for everything (wristbands, drink tickets, food, water, everything) so damn long? I love nothing more than holding my beer as I rock out to the band, but alas, it was not to be at this Big Day Out. The cage was miles back from the stage and all the old booze hounds like myself had to stand and admire from afar. I wouldn’t waste my beer on some minor anyway – not sure what the organisers were thinking. This aside though – it was a good day out at the big day out.

Badged by a radge

Have just spent a week up in the gorgeous Byron Bay (http://www.byron.nsw.gov.au/) with some very gorgeous girls but more on that later…

Last night, flatmate-that-I-love came and picked me up from the airport after my holiday. She normally brings my chiko roll mobile but last night was in her mother’s car (as her mother is away gallavanting). I got home, took my car out and did some dodgy reverse parallel parking. Getting out to check out my handiwork, I noticed something on my car. Or rather, something NOT on my car. My car had been badged. As in, some theiving,robbing vandal had taken the badge from the front of my car.

I just want everyone who reads this blog regularly to cast their mind back to an earlier entry where I wrote: “We call the car the chiko roll mobile. Funnily enough, it’s not called that because it’s fabulous. Instead, it’s because it looks like a car that you would drive to watch your boyfriend Shane or Robbo surfing with their bogan mates, while you sat diligently on the beach, ready to run for their chiko rolls as soon as they came in from the surf.”

This should probably tell you that the car isn’t a Mercedes. Or a Jaguar. Or anything even remotely worth badging. The car is a frickin’ Daihatsu! Who badges a Daihatsu?!?! Welcome back to Hellbourne. I kid.

Just wanted to put this in here

A slow day here in the office today as the network does something or other to the something or other. We’ve all been sitting around, complaining about the speed at which our work emails aren’t being sent, and, more importantly, how slow Facebook is. Hmmm. I have had a pretty eventful day though, with my senior management panicking and sending a million emails regarding the same issue (scatter gun approach – super effective, right?). So, everything gets escalated up the chain.. and then it all comes back down. At once. To me. And I sigh my all-knowing, patient sigh, and say, as though I’m a hippie smoking green, “Chill out dudes, calm down.”

Actually I don’t. I am way more subservient than that and go, “OK, what do you want me to do? Sure. OK, ten minutes ago? Sure, no problem.” But I don’t panic. Unlike a few others around me. I don’t really see the point. I’d rather get angsty at Victorian drivers, or rude waiting staff, or the arrogant clients who call me that I can barely bear to speak to, but not my colleagues who I know are doing their best, busting a gut like I am.

So I don’t. I merely nod, or say “yes” on the phone, or by email. And then bitch and moan about it over 20 glasses of wine and a blog entry later.  

Big love. But not that big.

My girlfriend (the one who was in Singapore with the burnt boobs (see previous entry) and wanted my other friend to wear a tracksuit out for her brithday (she features heavily in the pages)) sent me details of her flights to and from Melbourne to visit me. As I clicked excitedly on the pdf I thought how good her visit is going to be – she is coming down on the Australia Day long weekend and in particular for the Melbourne Big Day Out (for those who don’t know what I’m talking about: http://www.bigdayout.com), which is going to be on the public holiday Monday. Flatmate-that-I-love and I are pumped and now even more so that this girlfriend is coming. It’s gonna be loads of fun.

So, anyway.. back to me clicking open her itinery.. and discovering she’s coming down with Jetstar. Which is fine. The airport is miles away, but I love my friends, so don’t mind the hour-down-the-freeway drive. All good. But then I see this:

DEPARTS:                                                                                                                                                                                                    MELBOURNE – Avalon; Tues, 29 Jan, 2008; 0600 hr/ 06:00 am; Avalon Airport

HUH? 6AM? 6-friggin’-am?!?! Meaning I would need to get her there at 5.30 (AT LATEST!), meaning I would need to leave home at around about 4.30 (although at that hour I reckon I could get away with doing 130 k/h because everyone else will be asleep (AS THEY SHOULD BE!!) – but anyhoo). So. I have basically said that I will get them to a bus and they can get a shuttle out there. Is that being a bad friend? Who cares? 6 in the morning the day after a music festival? Yes – it is being a bad friend booking something – anything - at that hour!