Midvale School for the Gifted

My favourite cartoon ever is one of Gary Larsen's. It's well known. (See below)

Unfortunately, this cartoon has often come to represent my life. Far too often do I find myself in "Midvale" moments.

I've had a few of these rather unfortunate moments over the last 24 hours.

Some background.

One of my least favourite memories is the day I started at a new school when I was in grade three. Before we moved to the Adelaide Hills, to the picturesque but badly named town of Myponga, I was just a normal school kid. I had a small group of friends, I went to brownies, I played with the kids next door - a fairly normal childhood.

Then everything changed. First up, my mother cut off my long hair to a rather dire bowl cut, telling me that all girls in the country had short hair. We moved to a place there the nearest kids were about a kilometre down the road, away from the suburban streets and the nearby friends.

Then a week after shifting house, I moved to the local primary school at the start of third term. I was sick to my stomach scared - I remember my tummy rumbling away with nerves - after all, here I was, this new kid, I kept questioning myself. Would these country kids like me? Was I going to fit in? Would my hair be the same? Was everything going to be alright? 

Mum tried to reassure me the night before.

Arriving at the school, I can only recall being horrified.  All the girls had long hair. Here I was with a bowl cut. Then sometime in the morning classes we had reading. Sitting on the ground, listening to the teacher, the urge to break wind came over me, as it does most people once or twice a day.  Then disaster. My turbulent stomach got the better of me - I burped and farted, concurrently, and loudly - so most of the class heard. 

The ensuing mayhem quietened after a few minutes, but I'd made my mark. Horrified, I tried to disappear in the carpet, humiliated, knowing that my chance of making a good impression had gone. It didn't help that a week later I went into hospital to have my legs fixed, spending the next three months on crutches and in plaster boots - and the rest of my primary school days were dogged being not allowed to play sport and being in and out of hospital for more treatment. It didn't make for a happy time.

So now, some thirty five years on, I still find myself dreading first days - with all the same concerns. Will I fit in? Will the other kids play nicely with me? Will I be smart enough? Will things all be too hard? Will the others find me too loopy?

Being a consultant, I've got a game plan. I go in to new roles as a professional. I try and keep personal details to a minimum for the first few weeks so that the natives don't get scared away. I try and make sure I follow the rules of the place - keep to the dress code, keep my hours in check with everybody else, make an effort to get on - and this generally works. By the end of a few weeks, my workmates will discover that I'm a holistic healer, run, look after cats, come from a town called Myponga, barrack for the Crows, dislike Oxford commas, read tarot professionally, have things on at night like dream group and masons and all the other quirks I possess that work mates will tend roll their eyes at. Over the years, I've noticed that my idiosyncrasies are tolerated more, or maybe, I just don't care that much - I'm me, bad luck, you'll get used to me in the long run. I don't hurt anybody - my life is just a bit full and a bit different.

Regardless, I started a new role on Monday at the telecommunications firm, Your Money Is Important To Us, Inc (TIMIITU). I was hand picked for this role by one of he managers and after a few hiccoughs with the contract, I fronted up to meet the team on Friday and started with them yesterday.

Thankfully, the team are a dream - lovely people. The work will be interesting. I have a been given a new laptop to work on, which I managed to configure with minimal help. Being a very large telecommunications company, it's expected that your LAN login, phone, door pass and email won't arrive for a few days, but with the help of a key drive, I got reading major documents and starting to get my head around what they want me to do.

By 5 pm, I was ready to go home. Dutifully, the new laptop was locked into a cupboard - and I faithfully put my new locker key on my key ring next to my car key. I remember this clearly. I was talking to to colleagues and I placed the locker key on my key ring next to the car key. I thought about it. I remember doing this.

Home was a long way off on Monday night. Walking home, first stop was at an office supply company to buy myself a notepad, mouse and keyboard for work (easier to bring your own, being one of the largest telecommunications companies, you're not going to get office equipment out of them - especially being a contractor). I went to masons early, setting up the hall (and didn't tell anybody about the freemasonry stuff - give that a month or two). Came home, had dinner, went to masons, came home again, went to bed, showered dressed, walked to work.

On arrival at the new office, I placed my handbag down on my desk, took my bunch of keys to the locker - to find the locker key gone - not there. Zip. Nada. Disappeared.

Hand on heart, I remember putting it on the key ring, next to my car key.

I proceeded to look through my handbag for the key. Like many women, my handbag is a bit of a tardis - I could live off it's innards for a week at times. It was upended, completely. No key. The project manager asked if there was a dalek in the bottom of my bag. Oh dear.

I checked the desk I'd sat at the day before. I checked everywhere I could thing of. No key. No laptop. No documents. No water bottle - all locked in the cupboard.

Second day in, I'm branded the project nufta. This won't be lived down.

It's grade three all over again.

I was asked if I could pick locks. I replied in the affirmative, but only Yale locks and car doors pre-1985. Something I picked up at university college... Opps, not supposed to admit to that either.

One of the team leads was taking a stationary order. It was requested that they got me a combination cable lock. Pointed jibes came from all directions over the day.

Thankfully, the problem of the laptop was solved quickly in five minutes. After all the blokes in the team had a try of picking the lock with a variety of safety pins,  paper clips and other sharp stationery items, with no luck, I went to see the facilities guy. It's amazing what a guy called Lennie in an Anthrax t-shirt can do with a letter opener and a bit of brute force.

Laptop liberated, I got on with the day.

The second "outing" came when in a meeting early afternoon. One of my colleagues, somebody I knew from the old consultancy was complaining of a neck ache. 

"Give me your thumb, I'll fix it."

She looked at me, eyebrows raised.

"Just do as you're told. Like Jonella, I'm a reflexologist." This girl knows Jonella too.

"Ah." She gave me her hand.

Two minutes later, the relief was showing on her face.

And I realised that my vow to keep my "other life" quiet had gone out the window.

So much for keeping schtum, in the background and fitting in.

I suppose it makes me a little more memorable.

So tonight, the laptop was locked in a colleague's locker and I walked home.

 Arriving home, the first thing to strike me - the locker key was sitting in the middle of the lounge room floor.

I reckon the Gods of the Midvale School for the Gifted came to extract some brownie points or something...

Regardless, I'm still hopeful this contract will be a good one. If this is the worst thing to happen to me, I'm a very lucky woman.

Px

Bums and Boundaries

11.11.11.

A very large, very imposing full moon in Taurus hangs in the sky.

If the ether was going to crack, today was the day. Of course, it did.

6.55 this morning all was well. Contemplating getting up and going for a run, even though my right side gluteus medius had woken me up in the night, throbbing. Your bum shouldn't throb. Bums are for sitting on and keeping you upright when you walk. They shouldn't wake you up aching in the middle of the night.

7.20 a.m. I was under my duvet (doona) a howling, hyperventilating, sobbing, naked mess.

7.30, I was dressed in my running gear, loaded back pack in hand ready to leave for work where I was meeting Desi for a run, tears dried, breathing regulated.

8.15 a.m I was limping around Fitzroy Gardens at a half jog/walk. Not good. My bum is now hurts when I walk. I'm also smelling like footballer and sitting on a bag of frozen peas looking at my options to all sorts of things.

Lunch with Glen Waverley helped get through the day. A lot of good came out of crying on the shoulder of an engineer. Engineers will normally pat your hand if you cry around them (if they haven't run a mile in the other direction) The say, "there, there, it's going to be fine" before they try and fix the problem. Sometimes that's what you need. I needed that today.

Glen Waverley's nice and gentle as engineers go. He knows he can't fix things but he can soothe over a few of the frazzled nerves. He's quite good at that. And he laughed at my glute injury. But this is what men do when you mention bums and farts and things below the belt - and this is okay too.

So what is going on?

The injury first. About two weeks ago I went running with Trin and Desi - I went out too hard and fast and my right glute ached. It was fine by the following day. Last weekend I went and did pump and the 1000 Steps. The glute was a little twangy but nothing too bad. Saw Pinochet Monday, did Spin on Wednesday. No dramas. Last night I went to run for the consultancy in the BRW Corporate Relay.

Something in me was saying I was setting myself up for failure. Having the word "confidence" branded on my arse, there is a bit of me that says I'm setting myself up for a fall.

My team was well matched team - we all run 5 kms in about 30 minutes - no biggie. I was the second runner. Getting the timing tag from my team mate I started on my way. A kilometre in and the twang had come back. 1500 metres in and things were getting worse. I dropped my pace down to minute walk, two minute run intervals. Half way round and the ache abated a little, only to come back at 3500 metres, then it dropped off again. I reckon I got round in about 32 minutes - no shame in that at all - especially on a gammy leg. After chatting with a few of the folk from the consultancy, I made my way home - rump aching slightly, otherwise fine.

This morning, my right butt cheek felt like concrete, nurofen isn't touching the ache and I'm limping. I'm here sitting on my frozen peas. Great.

I'm checking in with my massuese tomorrow, but I think I'm going to be banished to sitting on this bag of frozen peas for a few days. Joy. I can't run on this now - it hurts to walk. I'm supposed to be running in the inaugural 14 kilometre City to Sea on Sunday. I don't see it happening at the moment. I don't want things to get worse. I like running too much - I think this is going to have to be nurtured - Kilometres in the pool, not on the road for a bit. Stick to weights and the bike. I'll see what my massage therapist says.

There, that's the easy one covered.

So what caused me to end up a sobbing mess this morning? An unexpected phone call.

I've done something big and brave and possibly slightly stupid. I've put myself back on an internet dating website. This has been done partly against my better judgement and partly in an attempt to restore my faith in humanity and the world in general. And yes, I know that my last sentence is contradictory. In a nutshell, it's me saying to the universe, "Okay, I'm ready for a relationship." The fact that the last time I was in anything that remotely like a relationship was twenty years ago in London is beside the point. The fact that all of this freaks a part of me out, well that is beside the point too.

Also, I'm willing to discount my history with internet dating and start on a fresh page.

This is quite a big thing for me. Huge. It's like disregarding Africa in an altas.

After meeting now let me see... hmmm, here's some of my internet dating history. Mr "I keep my nail clippings in a jar", Mr "Oh, you know, can you put on another 20 kgs to keep me happy (I've since lost 20 just to make sure he never comes back),", Mr "I have sooooo many issues, mainly to do with my Mother", he who had one leg and sort of forgot to tell me before I met him - not that it was an issue, but it would have been nice to know about before I met him, Mr 'I don't do intercourse - it's not for me' (Like, WTF... after six dates... and yes, I'm that shallow) oh, and the bloke who met me at the museum and his second words to me were," Oh, you're one of those brainy chicks, aren't you." Like that was going to go somewhere. You can take the boy out of Coburg... Oh, and Draenog - Welsh for hedgehog - egg bald - again nothing wrong with that. My friend, Alice, who was vetting my respondants at the time had him pegged as a probably on the Aspergers spectrum instantly. I should have listened to her.

And this has left me second guessing everything. If this is what I attract, why the fuck bother.

I've also had some really pleasant evenings out over the years as well - met some interesting people who you cross paths with for dinner and that's it. Nothing more happens, and that is cool. Evenings of good conversation and that's where it ends. Fine.

So, with some trepidation, I put myself online not expecting anything and not going chasing either. So after ten days, this fellow gets in contact. We chat a bit online - a bit - my time is limited. I feel okay about giving him my mobile number. Numbers can be blocked. I was okay about this. Fine. Chat some time over the weekend.

He calls at 7 a.m.

A few small facts about me. I hate talking on the telphone. There are a few people I can talk to on the phone. Most of them are overseas or interstate. I'm particularly dreadful on the phone with people I don't know. I'm happier meeting somebody blind for a coffee in a public place. I prefer to look at somebody when I talk to them - I pick more up that way - as aurally, I take everything at face value and it's normally to my detriment. When I know people, I don't have to judge what they are really meaning. New people in the phone just don't work with me.

Secondly. Until I've had a shower and a cup of coffee in the morning, I'm really not nice to be around. I can't function without getting wet and a triple ristretto with some steamed milk. Constructing sentences is a chore. I need to ease into the morning.

Okay, and before you say it - yeah, probably a mistake picking up the phone at 7 a.m. This I realise. My family call around this time - but being family, they understand that I'm going to be grumpy. I call them before eight - but I know they're going to be up, and being family, we tend to grunt at each other anyway.

And then the killer - his first question, "Why is a gorgeous and intelligent woman like yourself single?"

And here is the rub. Caffeineless, night grot ridden, naked, groggy - how the hell do you answer this?

And I don't have the sense to say something like, 'Can you ring me back at a reasonable hour, you halfwit.'

But how do you answer a question like this?

I haven't met the right person? I've been out of a relationship for a year? I move around a lot with work? Up until three years ago I though all men were stupid, abusing, raping arseholes and I've been encased in an extra thirty kilos of blubber to try keep people away. I dunno - just hasn't happened for me.

The hackles rose.

Then a half accusatory tone - how dare I say I'm bad on the phone. My voice says that I'm articulate, intelligent and sexy.

What bullshit!

It's 7.05! I sound husky as Mrs Krups is making my coffee. I sound husky until after the coffee has been drunk and the shower steam takes the rasp out  of my voice.

After about five minutes of trying to get out something that consisted of "Look, it's not a good time, I need to get out the door, I don't the fuck know what to think about anything, now go away and let me go for a run." I put the phone down, ran into my bedroom, jumped under the covers and started to howl.

Something inside felt violated - not that he said anything bad or nasty or the like. Something broke inside me.

More to the point, my boundaries had been violated, whether he meant to do this or not - these boundaries I've spent so much time cultivating got smashed in a five minute phone call.

I gathered myself quickly and got on with things, not dwelling too much on my reaction to all of this. Yes, I did ponder why is it I don't meet nice men to fall for who are like my lovely male friends. I thought about how it was the best times I've had have been with people I've connected with over time, making strong friendships through learning about each other slowly. Then there has been the occasional dalliance where chemistry takes over. But these have been rare. Lots of fun, but fleeting.

Trin gave me some bits of sound advice - and sent me something that made me think. It read, "You are too intelligent to be the thing that gets in the way of your dreams." Too true.

So this crack in the ether left a pall on the day. I got quite a bit done at work - the rest of my team being in Sydney I was left on my own to crank up the iPod and get on with things, drown out the best of Sherbet, Phil Collins, Billy Joel and every other dodgy 80's hit with The Pixies, Nick Cave, Florence and the Machine and PJ Harvey. This worked to keep me half sane. Lots got done. I skipped out half an hour early, needing to get away and get some air and sunshine.

The question that darted in and out of my mind all day - do I call the half wit back. Does he deserve a second chance? Do I take myself off the site or leave myself on it.

Ah, it's all too hard. I'm not even going to throw in the fact that I've lived alone for the best part of ten years, I can't remember I last woke up next to somebody, let alone anything else remotely intimate and comfortable.

A couple of macarons, collecting the mail and a trip to my favorite witch shop I felt somewhat restored. In Spellbox, I spun the wheel - just to see what was around me. The little note the wheel delivers read as such:

Adventure.  Take a risk. Follow your bliss. From fear now depart, connect with the heart. Prepare for an amazing adventure to start.

Bloody universe.

____________________________________________

Days without ice cream - 19 - though the temptation to go get a litre of Maggie Beers Burnt Fig Jam and Butterscotch ice cream nearly did me in today.

A Letter to Seb

There's been a lot of talk about dealing with baggage of late. It would be remiss of me if I didn't clear some of my own.

Being a long weekend, I've managed to put a heap of stuff on ebay, send a bag down to St Vincents, do a bit of tidying and get things ready for what looks like a busy week. As Ah-Sole, my work nemesis, is being let go at the end of the month (yes, the Project Manager saw sense) my workload is about to increase so it's a good chance to do all this and have a bit of a rest before all hell breaks loose .

Then comes the other junk that has to be dealt with. The hard stuff.

Something came up last night which gave me something to sort. And sort quickly.

Whilst chatting to a friend on facebook last night I did a bit of looking around, as you do. I'm no cyber-stalker, but there are times, once in a blue moon, when I'll have a quick look around and see who's about from my past - just look, I'd never contact the people involved. I'm not the sort to make too many waves.

So last night, I tapped in the name, Sebastian Smith, not thinking that anything would come, but there he was on facebook, small child on his hip, smiling for the camera. Current location, Sydney, Australia.

Sebastian, or Seb, is the only man I've shared a home with. Three torturous months in a North London share house. Twenty years ago. Once I left the flat we remained in contact - a sort of friends with benefits arrangement - for another three years, seeing each other fairly regularly until we both moved house away from the district. The last time I saw him was on a tube platform in 1997.

With all the navel gazing I do, I almost never revisit the Sebastian years, or the relationship with Sebastian, even though he was the guy who was in my life the longest. Some of it has been effectively blocked out - and the rest I'm pretty comfortable with. It wasn't a good time. It wasn't a great relationship. He no longer blights my psyche. It wasn't him. It wasn't me - it was just never meant to be.

Besides the arguments, the acrimony, the not wanting to go home, the tears and the tantrums, there were good things about Seb. He could be kind, he could be funny. He was really intelligent. And despite the torturous relationship, he always held me while sleeping - which looking back, was lovely - and probably the thing I remember about him most fondly. He's also the reason I fell into banking, discovered the Pixies and the Violent Femmes - so I have that to thank him for.

I spent the rest of my last night having a chat to my former self. My twenty-four-year old, tortured, miserable, prickly self. We needed to have a chat. Over the past ten years, inner child work has really helped me. This time it was more work with my inner young adult - time to get to the bottom of some stuff. The poor girl was a wreck - but we had a great chat. A lot of it was talking of the future - soothing her frayed nerves, giving her something to look forward to. It was okay. There was no need for tears.

But to clear the last of Sebastian, I thought of writing him a letter - more to clear my own head than to reach out to him. What would I say to him? What would I want to say?

Well, here goes.

Dear Seb,

It's over fifteen years since we last saw each other and this is very out of the blue. I've often wondered where you ended up. Last time I saw you, you were still talking of returning to South Africa - though from the gamut of South African friends over here, it seems to have become less a viable option. To see you're in Sydney - hope you've made it home. From the photo, you look happy. Cute child.

I rarely think of what happened twenty years ago - there isn't much point in rehashing the past. It wasn't a good time and there was a heap of stuff going on that I had really no idea about. But I will get to that later.

Since seeing you last - from memory that was somewhere around the mid-nineties, lots has changed. I now live in Melbourne. I now work in IT as a Technical Writer, Quality Analyst and sometimes Change Analyst - yeah, go figure - me who hated computers. I've had short stories published. I've travelled the world a couple of times over. My proudest moment have been running a couple of half marathons - yeah, I know, go figure that one too and starting to get my writing out there. I've never married and I have no kids - but I see this as a good thing as well.

After wracking my brains, wondering what I would want to say to you, all I could come up with is to say sorry. Sorry that you had to know me when you did and sorry for what I must have put you through. Undiagnosed depression is a bitch - I have to apologise for having to submit you to that. I know I was a nightmare to live with. I had no idea what was going on - I think you had more of an idea but there was no way out then. Thankfully, after some great help, sought too late in some ways, but just in time in others, the worst of that is under control. I'll always have to manage the depression - but at least it's now under control and recognised. It makes me a lot nicer to be around.

Of my life now - I'm content enough. I have a great friends, a good lifestyle, lots of variety and travel. For a woman in her forties I can appreciate it for what it is. It's a freedom I didn't have in my twenties. The ability to take on opportunities.

I don't dwell on what would have happened if things were different - I'm not even looking to get back in contact. I just needed to get that off my chest.

May life be treating you well - from the photo, you look happy - and you really can't ask for any more than that.

Best wishes,

Pandyx

I will never send this to Seb. I know that I was contacted by an ex-flame seeking forgiveness for the stuff he put me through as he was in the middle of a 12 step program for sex addiction. I flung back an email which read "Thank you for your email. Now fuck off and never contact me again." Seems I'm willing to forgive some, but not others. This bloke was a complete waste of space.

As I said, I don't want to make waves. I did ping him a small message which read "I occasionally pondered where you ended up. I can see that you look happy. Cute kid."

I think that I've laid the ghost of Seb to rest. I feel at peace.

Snot and the City

I hab a code id da doze.

Or more to the point, I have a cold in the nose - and a sore throat - and really I don't feel that bad, even though I'm emitting snot at a rate of knots and this is not pleasant for anybody, me included.

Waking on this rather dreary Saturday to the early alarm, I knew I should be getting my sorry bum out of bed to go meet Trin to do two laps of the Tan - but I can't force myself  to run when I'm teeming snot. I have a cold. The rules state that I don't run when I get a cold as it only makes things worse and I'll have bronchitis in a matter of days. However the rules say nothing about walking if I feel like it. Or doing easy exercise for the day.

Trin had been warned the night before that I was having an early night and that there was a good probability that I wouldn't go for the run - but I'd be there at the 1000 Steps later in the day.

In between the missing run and the steps, I had to make a trip into the city. I was to meet up with somebody I went to primary school with. The joys of facebook reconnected us a year or so ago, now it was time to meet face to face for a coffee - see where we were at some twenty five years on.

The thought of this meeting has been scaring the sweet bejeezus out of me for a week.

I walked into the city with some trepidation. Thinking I was taking my time over the four kilometres I made very good time. Bummer. Taking my time I relished the stroll down Flinders Lane, marvelling at the Adelphi roof pool, checking out the menu at Ezard, looking in the trendy shop windows, watching the coffee set drinking their teas. And there she was. On time. Kylie McDonald. She hadn't changed at all.

The last time I saw Kylie McDonald was probably the last day of high school. I remember a few things about Kylie. She was one of the popular kids at primary school - I wasn't. She made a crack when I had to go to school in a wheelchair that they should kick me out and race around the playground in grade six. It never happened. Thankfully I only had to go to school in a wheelchair for a few days - then it was a couple of weeks on crutches. It's funny, but I do remember that - and I don't remember that much at all from primary school - I recall next to nothing if I'm truthful.

You have to remember that I went to a primary school where there were only a hundred kids - composite classes. In my grade seven year there were twelve of us. I've obliterated these years from my mind - I know I was miserable.

From what I recall, Kylie was smart, like me. Kylie played netball. I didn't. Kylie's Mum worked at the school. Kylie had two pretty older sisters. Kylie was Myponga establishment. I wasn't - moving to the town when I was in grade three. When I was at primary school I thought she had a pretty great life. I rather envied Kylie Martin.

Through high school, things were a little better. Thankfully neither of us were bullied. I was strange enough to be left alone, Kylie was close enough to the popular kids to be unnoticed. I always admired her ability to make friends - something I never mastered until university.

Kylie and I shared many classes. Both of us were in the academic strand  - we suffered a Yeti for a physics teacher in year eleven - the only two girls in the class. We were both good at Maths and Chemistry, and generally we ticked along okay. She was always far more popular than me, friends with the Willunga Kids - something I never was - I was a weirdo at school and had a few misfit friends to hang around with. Things got easier by the final years. I was smart, I would be okay. Kylie was smart and fairly popular so she was in the same boat.

A thoroughly lovely time was had today. The thing that struck me was we've had parallel lives in many ways. Both of us worked our way up the chain the hard way - now we're both professionals in our respective fields. Both of us have travelled the world, been about the place. Only recently, she moved in with her partner, later in life than most of our school friends who were married with kids in their twenties. Both of us have had the indignity of having relatives ask "So when are you getting married?". Both of us know the half pride, half shame of walking into the store at Myponga and greeting Mary-Frances Scarpantonio - a year above us at school, married to a local guy, mother of six, grandmother of one, and telling her of our latest overseas jaunt. She tells us about how her brood are getting on. I had to remind Kylie that Mary-Frances has sisters in London and Rome working professional jobs. She made her choices. And how do I know this? My parents live next to Mary-Frances' parents. At Myponga. Kylie's parents are still in the district too.

It's funny what you remember and what you don't. It's even stranger how you get remembered. Kylie said I should try to come to the high school reunion they had last year. I flatly refused. Why would I want to see people who never really liked me from twenty years ago? She then told me of how, when they were organising the event, one of the popular kids - one of my main academic rivals - Robert Rose -was asked to get the word out. His response to this was "Where the hell is Pandora Behr when you need her?" I never thought I would get a second thought from the Willunga kids. Ever.

She also mentioned how she and I were pulled out of class in year seven and asked if we wanted to sit a test for a scholarship to a prestigious Adelaide girls school. How different could life be if we had taken that opportunity? At the time, she didn't want to. I wasn't allowed to sit the test. As I said, strange what you remember.

Will I see Kylie again. I hope so. She comes to Melbourne occasionally for the football - I might join them - save me the indignity of watching the Crows lose to St Kilda with Alice and Dougall.

Walking home the long way, I collected some magic, green, horse pills from the naturopath - the ones that kill colds quicker than any other medicine the doctor gives you, came home, changed and waited for Gloria and Gaynor to collect me for the walk up the steps.

There is something to say for losing weight and getting fit. Even with a head cold, I made it up those sodding stairs without stopping, without actually stressing that much at all - though much slower than I would normally do - in just over thirty minutes. Tracey and Sienna both finished today too - which was excellent.

And now, I'm home, about to go to bed, taking the cat with me to keep watch.

A good day was had.

Despite all the snot.

Things Left Unsaid

Things have been improving over the last few days.

Flora called, Pierro will stay with Natty in Canberra and she will go the the funeral alone, meaning I don't need to go up there. Pressure off there. It's been an incredibly emotional few days regardless. Monday was spent at home, in a mild version of shock. I wish, at times, I wasn't an emotional sponge. At least I've got ways of coping with this now - coping better than ever before. Exercise and a great support network make all the difference.

So now, with the Canberra trip abandoned I can get back to the joys of job hunting.

Yesterday's interview was at a top-flight consulting firm. For the first time in this job hunting period, I felt half excited. I felt that I'd actually like to work for this company. Not something I've been feeling for a while.

Strangely, it was one of the better interviews I've attended in years. I had no idea what to expect, but I fitted in well with the interviewer who seemed to get what I was about , just as I got where they were coming from.

It was a bit of a revelation of an interview. It also had me looking at the answers I was providing. What do information do you give? What do you leave out? What do you bury at the base of a sandpit encrusted with cat poo where you know nobody is going to go.

It was an interesting experience.

First up, I didn't look like me. Walk down the street and I was near unrecognisable. As I've lost 9 kgs this year all ready, my standby suit that I've used for interviews is now on the big side. Big enough to be swamping me and it is now sitting on the pile to be taken to St Vinnies. So the black jacket and skirt, in the wardrobe for when I got skinny again was donned. Hair in a bun, kitten heels, bespoke bracelet, red leather handbag, make up.

This is the result.

I look like Jessica Rabbit's scary accountant sister. Flora said I looked like and undertaker when she saw the photo. What Flora wasn't seeing was a really pretty cobalt blue top under the suit jacket that takes away a bit of the ferocity. Still, as most people are used to me in fisherman's pants, jeans, t-shirts or dresses, it's a bit out of the norm. As for make up - my normal eyeliner and mascara has been upped - but thank goodness for mineral foundation - it feels like you have nothing on your face.

As a rule, in interviews, you go back through you last few jobs. Rich, the guy interviewing me, wanted the full story. Oh, my.

For once, scraping around the truth wasn't going to cut it. I had to be as honest as I could.

He also started back at high school. He wanted the unadulterated story. Oh hell. Here goes nothing.

Rich: So tell me about high school.
Pand: Not what you expected. One of the worst high schools in South Australia at the time. Outer metropolitan hardnuts and country kids mixed in a school that didn't really cater for academics.
Rich: And you were dux of the school.
Pand: No, but in the top five.
Rich: With an Arts bent at high school?
Pand: No. I matriculated in English, Maths, Chemistry, French and Music. The marks were all were all in six marks of each other .

Well, this is the truth. Willunga High was not the paragon of educational virtues. There were four others who's grades were better than mine. Of a class of a a hundred only a handful went on to university. I'm also the only one in the state with a B plus in Math, Chemistry, French and Music.

Rich: What did your parents do?
Pand: Mum was a nurse, Dad ran the rubbish dump, among other things.

Truth as well. What else are you supposed to say? Can't mess with that history. Not so much educated at the University of Hard Knocks, but I've gone through life with the odd challenge. It's made me resiliant, hopeful and rather cunning. Hell, I come from a town called Myponga! That's a handicap in itself.

Rich: And what did you go into university wanting to do?
Pand: I wanted to be a French teacher.

Again, the truth. Thing is, as soon as I got to university, I hated the way they taught French. I wasn't that enamoured with university. I really had no idea what I wanted to do other than I didn't want to get married and have kids early.

Rich: And you went to London in 1991.
Pand: After university. I fell ill in my third year and repeated that final year part time. Glandular Fever wrecked me.
Rich: How did you support yourself at university?
Pand: I worked in a department store during that time, attending lectures at lunch time.

Mostly the truth. I did work in a department store, but in the sub-basement warehouse area, putting tickets on merchandise. The world's most soul-destroying job. You don't get much lower than roles in a sub-basement - the only way is up.

Rich: And you spent eight years in London. Did you have some kind of right to abode?
Pand: Yes. Grandparent entry.

Blatant lie. But who is going to check? He doesn't need to know about my furtive entry to the UK via Ireland or my six years as an alien. I paid my taxes and didn't get caught. We'll leave that alone.

Rich: And why did you return to Australia.
Pand: My grandmother was turning 100 and my sister was having a baby.

Again, truth. I left out the bit that my father had died and I felt I could come back. Employers don't need to know that bit.

We went through my more recent employment history.

Rich: And what do you do best in a role. What is your best fit job title?
Pand: Switzerland or Geek Liaison?
Rich: Explain.
Pand: Switzerland is the place you go to for refuge before getting things done. Don't ask how or why, but stuff gets done in Switzerland - a nice neutral place to go to for solace and regrouping. And Geek Liaison, because that's what I do. I can talk to geeks. I can also talk to engineers, the post room guys, the cleaners, the General Manager - you name it, I can talk to people and tend to get stuff  happening. I'm from the country. I have the charm and gormlessness to be able to do that.

Well, this is true too. I'm about as gormless as they come.

Rich: And you want to be a writer. So you want to write the great Australian novel?
Pand: Nah, I'd rather be the next JK Rowling.
Rich: Why her?
Pand: I like her imagination.

For once in my life, whether it be to my detriment or not, I got to be mainly honest. When asked why I left a job in a software company I answered, "Abject boredom. I can't sit in front of a computer all day - does my head in." Rich got told about my desire to run a marathon next year and my need for work life balance.

But for the stuff that's sitting under the cat poo in the sandpit.

The tarot cards. Prospective employers can have a look at them when they get moved into my desk drawer three months into the contract.
The fact I'm into Kabbalah, Wicca and other spiritual stuff. None of their beeswax frankly.
My reflexology practice can stay hidden for the while too. I'm not sure employers would relish somebody who plays with feet on their books. It's just a bit too strange for corporate Australia.
And yeah, they don't need to know about the three Mills and Boon Manuscripts in my bottom drawer or the fact that I was once a member of Young Labor, many, many, many moons ago.

For the moment, I'm just the well dressed, articulate, intelligent woman looking for a new role, somewhere where there are a few challenges and a lot of variety.

Part of me thinks its the stuff that I leave out which is more interesting.

I'm being recommended for a second interview. We'll see how it goes.

Pandxx

They know they can survive...

Yesterday appears to have been a dreadful day for many.

Amidst the destruction of Christchurch, I'm happy to report my friends Geetangeli and Bill are fine, their house in one piece, though they are waiting news on a couple of friends. My thoughts go out to them.
My mother rang to tell me about the visit to my aunt - the first time she'd seen her since the accident over a month ago. It was a rather distressing visit, my aunt, in her delirious state asking my mother to come and visit again before she passes over. My mother is a lot like me - all tough on the outside but marshmallow within. I know it's killing her to see her like this - but what can you do other than be there for her on the other end of the phone?

Then Georgie let it be known her father and brother were in a car accident - her brother walking away while her Dad was in intensive care, slowly recouperating but still in an awful state. Thankfully, he should recover fully and the news is getting better, but it's still dreadful.

Then the cherry on the cake - a friend had her heart broken properly for the very first time. A complete nightmare to watch as she slowly imploded after an awful day.

But what can you do but be there and listen? And think about what you've learned.

Maybe I'm getting better at having my heart broken. Maybe I'm just older and wiser and know how to bounce back better. Or maybe I know how to protect myself now, seeing the danger signs before the real heartache sets in.

Watching my friend, I had a think. Just how many times had I had my heart broken properly? Not a necessary parting of company or a moving on - the real feeling of heartbreak, where it feels like you've had your insides removed with a rusty spoon and you cry for days. The type of heartbreak that no amount of ice cream, chocolate or wine can fix.

The type of heartbreak that changes your life.

I think I scored a four. Four times I've had my feelings stomped on to such a degree that I've been put out of action for a day or so. After that it gets a bit easier - then it's just the dealing with the aftermath of what has happened - and that's when the fun really starts.

These breakups come with a theme song. Something that was playing on the radio at the time that will always remind you of the break up and how you bounced back. Stupid thing is that these songs will always be among your favorites. The songs that for some reason will bouy you when nothing else will.

The other thing I've learned about heartbreak - it's one of the best ways to learn a lesson quickly and well. It shakes things up to a point that  you know things can't continue.

So, of these incidents, let me see.

The first one is always the worst - as you have no idea what you're doing.Thank goodness first love only goes away once.

So, it's 1985, Careless Whisper is on the radio (joy, music to slit your wrist by if there ever was a song) though the theme song for this break up is Reckless, by Australian Crawl - still one of my favorite ever songs. Strange - something you associate with so much hurt is something you love so much. I suppose I remember the good with the bad. Tooling around the Fleurieu in his yellow Datsun 180B, his trying to teach me BASIC, lots of firsts, lots of normality.

The lad - Spotty Youth. Computer Nerd. Off in Adelaide working his first job. I was still back at Myponga completing matriculation. He dumped me at a party. He no longer wanted to see me any more. All I remember is taking to my bed for three days, mostly crying and talking to the dog in that time. I had no comprehension of what was going on. What had I done wrong? Why didn't he love me?

Sixteen-year-old me had no idea how to cope with all this. I didn't have friends to talk to about it. My parents were busy living out there own marital hell at the time - couldn't turn there. It was awful - and it took about two years to finally get him out of my system completely. Which is a pity. These days I'd be back in the saddle in a few weeks.

Break-up two was more a revelation.

The lad - Pretty but distant South African. Location - London. Theme song Feels Like Teen Spirit .

Looking back, twenty four-year-old me had the emotional maturity of a labrador puppy. Ready to love anything for any reason. If I was to meet the South African now he's probably be written off as an arrogant pretty-boy with delusions of grandeur. We'd been pen friends for years before we hooked up in London. Me coming to terms with everything, he apparently had the world in his hands. Wrong person, wrong time. We lived together for three months and at the end of this, he kicked me out - giving me a month to leave.

Remember crying for days - in between looking for houses in the Willesden Green area. I was out in a fortnight and life started to get better - a lot better. Stupidly, South African and I kept seeing each other on the sly for another two years - again, a bad move, but looking back, having him out of my life on a day to day basis was good. I found my feet. I found new friends. I got better temp jobs. And things moved.

Feels Like Teen Spirit always gives me a sense of freedom. It's my current ringtone. It reminds me that no matter how much crap gets dished out, I'm better than it all.

The South African was out of the system far more quickly. I learned to move on. I learned to heal. Took up a massage course. Took up an acting course. Life got better.

There's a  favorite quote of mine from a rather dreadful movie that came out about that time. "Damaged people can be dangerous.... they know they can survive." I'm not sure I'm dangerous, but I know I'm not to be underestimated. It's times like this, when heartbroken, on shaky ground, up against the odds, that the best in me comes out. I have to remind myself of this.

Break up three happened four years ago. More a minor blip on the radar, but it still hurt. I'm sure, to this day, it was the universe saying, "What are you doing with that cretin!" It really wasn't a good match. He was depressed, angry, disillusioned by society and a complete noddy - though a noddy who was affectionate and rather good in the sack.  Hmmm. I thank the universe to this day that he went back to his morbidly obese ex (one of the reasons he dumped me was because I was too skinny.)

Glory Box reminds me of him. I have to thank him for letting me go. My self-esteem blossomed after he went. You have to look for the good after all.

And the last time - two years ago. Caught me by surprise. Never felt love at first sight before. Not sure I want to go through that again. Not strong enough to fight the joys of unrequited love, the whole situation hurt like hell. Time and motion took away the pain.

The tune that goes along with this is Jeff Beck's Brush with the Blues. There is something about a wailing guitar and a snare drum that fits the situation. It goes with the memories. Somewhat bittersweet and somewhat joyous. A strange tune  - very unlike my normal musical tastes. But I still love it, even if it's referred to as Track Six.

From all of this, I get that it's the moving on that makes you strong.

As a new friend of mine calls her blog, fall down seven times, get up eight.

It's not really how you handle the initial pain.

It's all in how you come out of it.

Taking Stock

I'm at home, nursing this week old sinus/throat/chest infection. I really don't feel that bad, but the doctor's advice was to stay away from work and get better, take the antibiotics and rest. By rest I believe that means mooch around the house and get some gentle jobs done rather than infect the throng at Tin Can, String and Whistle. It also means I can get some jobs I've been avoiding done.

The big job at hand is one set to me by the career consultants. Fill in a questionaire about my work history over the last twenty years.When Sue, my contact said I had to do this I felt nauseous. You mean I have to think about the wasted opportunities, the misery and desperation, the abject boredom... okay, positive, Pandora. "You mean I have to go back to when I was putting price stickers on stuff in the sub-basement of a department store in Adelaide?".

She said no. She asked me to go back to my first real, proper full time job. Ah, London, 1994. So that was the date we decided on. That takes out some of the pain. The four pound an hour admin jobs in dodgy companies in Neasden, the three months at a lease company as a car buyer, the time at the car dealership and best of all, the two months spent in Hounslow working for a recruitment company - yes, I was a recruitment consultant - the only job I've ever walked out of.

What Sue wants me to do is look at why I took the job, what were the key challenges of the role, what my major acheivements were, what skills I used, what the fit was like  for people, culturally and work/life balance and why I left the job. Hmm. More confonting stuff.

I think this is a forum for all the stuff I can't put on these forms that will be going to the Career Consultant.

1994-1999 - Lehman Brothers, London

Why I took the job: My boyfriend at the time had started to work in finance after a few years in the family book shop. He was making eight quid an hour. After working at jobs for half that money it looked like a cash cow and I wanted to prove I could do it. It took me a few weeks, but I got a job doing data entry which lead to other stuff. We'll gloss over the fact that I didn't have a visa to work there. We certainly will gloss over the fact I stayed for five years.

Key Challenges in the role: Abject boredom through repetition. Dealing with mega egos with money. Coping with a bullying tax accountant named Beth - it was my first real experience of being bullied - and I coped by crying, and taking the issues straight to management saying nobody had the right to treat me so. She was reprimanded and gave me a wide berth after that. The main challenge was doing something I really didn't enjoy for 10-12 hours a day for five years. It equated to burn out.

Skills used: Fast typing, attention to detail, nerd liaison (the ablility to talk to both business and technology is a rare skill I'm finding), my sense of humour, the ability to drink large qualities of lager and still get home on the tube. Denying the fact I was miserable for many years - hence the Queen of Denial. My burgeoning IT skills were beginning to out here, but I had no idea how to make the transition. Knowing if my immigration status was found out I'd be thrown out of the country, I kept a low profile and cruised in the drudgery.

People / Cultural / Work/life balance: The people fit was good in parts. I met Lachlan and Verity here, two of my longest standing friends. Most of the traders were arseholes, pure and simple, but there were also come great people there. Culturally, not the best fit. I'm not that greedy or money hungry. I like having money, but not to that extent. Also, working for and American corporate, you're subjected to a hell of a lot of wank. My refusal to play politics didn't help. I'm a bit too easy going for the London office methinks. No work life balance. Ten to twelve hour days five days a week, six in dividends season.

Why did I leave the job: My sister was having a baby and my grandmother was turning 100 and my father was dead. Time to return to Australia. To return to Australia before this would have meant never returning to England. I think that by this time I knew I was burned out from banking.

2000- 2004  Merrill Lynch Australia - Margin Lending Department

Why I took the job: I'd spent the six month on returing to Australia in a dead end role working for the custody department of a Multinational insurance company. I thought the prestige of working for another American Corporate would do me good. I'd done a few corporate actions before I got there and I got lumped in the deep end.

Key Challenges: Dealing with one of the biggest dickheads I've ever worked for in the short term. Dealing with long hours and indifferent management were ongoing issues off and on. By the last year, staying awake was a big thing for me - by this time I was really burned out from banking. I knew it was time to move on, I just needed a kick. Moved to Greece at the start of 2003 for a few months, proving to me that getting out was a good thing, only to have the trip cut short and move back, into the old role. I lasted six months.

Skills Used: Fast typing, organisation, the talent to talk to everybody and anybody, some nerd liaison. Looking back, I wasn't that challenged for not that great a money. Who was I kidding? Time to get out of banking.

People / Cultural / Work/Life Balance: Pretty much the same as Lehman but with nicer traders. Met Blarney and Sam here, two of my inner sanctum and I'm still in contact with a few others. The hours weren't quite as long. The work was just as boring.The money wasn't as good as we were lead to believe. Major self esteem challenges.Too much corporate wank for my liking but not quite as bad as London.

Why did I leave the job: In the end, the abject boredom and need for change sent me back to "do my teaching papers and go be an English Teacher". The plan was to go into a temp job that would let me out for evening lectures and top up my degree to an English Major - then do the Dip Ed. Needless to say, I've never done the Dip. Ed. Strangely, this was the best move I've ever made.

2004: Banking Bastards  R Us- Custody Division: Custody Officer / Test Analyst

Why I took the job: It allowed the flexibility of temping as well as I could get out for lectures at 5.15 at Melbourne Uni. Little did I know it would lead to a career change.

Key Challenges: At the start, keeping awake and not strangling my very inefficient manager. Once on the project it was about getting up to speed with new skills, including testing software and the joys of systems and UAT testing.

Skills used: Fast typing and organisation. Things got better when I got moved onto a project which involved testing corporate actions for the new custody system. Project Centaur - or Banking Bastards R Us speak for White Elephant. It did, however, introduce me to the word of software testing. We have to be thankful for that.

People / Cultural / Work/Life Balance: Surprisingly good. Banking Bastards R Us were actually really good employers and my friends who are still there are really happy. They have good HR, the managers are on the whole pretty good and I was allowed to develop. It was an eight hour a day job, the people on the project in particular were great. Being an Australian Corporate, wank was kept to a minimum.

Why did I leave? They were going to send me back to the business, processing custody crap. After a year in IT, there was no way I could go back to processing stuff. I got out. Also, the salary, being in the business doing the real work was twenty grand lower than what I should have been earning in IT.  It was time to get ahead.

2005: Semi Government Grey Cardigan Brigade - Test Analyst - Project Aquarius

Why I took the job: There was a twenty grand a year pay rise to do work I could do easily. It was a chance to improve my project and testing skills. Also it was near to home and the people seemed nice.

Key Challenges: Working to tight deadlines and having to discover all about a new system in a new sector. Learned more about testing and project management. Started to do some mentoring and training. A good six months was had here.

Skills used: Burgeoning Testing and QA Skills. The ability to beg an antacid tablet off one of the aging grey cardies who worked there proved useful. Generally a good stepping stone project.

People / Cultural / Work/Life Balance: Pretty good, though a bit "grey cardigan / public service" for my liking. The people were great, management good, eight hours a day for most of it. Can't complain about that.

Why did I leave?  Contract was ending, found another position.

2005-2007  Dangerous Software Technologies - Senior Test Analyst

Why did I take the job? More money and a "real testing job". A good opportunity to hone skills and possibly move overseas. This was what was dangled in front of me at the interview anyway.

Key Challenges: Learning a heap of technical stuff. Staying awake. Finding out what it was like to work for a company that wasn't a large corporate. Working in the strangest environment I'd ever experienced with some of the strangest people. Dealing with one person I had absolutely no time for. Collected Alice at this job, as well as still being in touch with a few people. Great socially. Good professionally, just not a place to stick around after a year or so - or you started to drink the cordial neat and smelling like cabbage.

Skills Used: Testing Skills. Found technical skills I never new I had. Patience and a sense of humour needed in abundance.

People / Cultural / Work/Life Balance: People and Work/Life Balance were excellent. Culturally not a great - it was a strange place. It had the feeling of decay. Two years on only half the staff are left there - most have left very disillusioned. It's a pity - they're great people.

Why did I leave? Other than a manager I nicknamed Barney Rubble who I couldn't stand, staring at a computer screen all day did my head in.

And that lead me on to Tin Can, String and Whistle.

But that one if for another blog.

Well, that's the unofficial version. A tale filled with ennui, lost opportunities and quite a lot of movement. I'm so glad my hobby jobs have helped to keep me sane. Now, as the career consultant has told me, is a time to go out and get what I want.

I just have to work this out. At least I know know what to avoid, what I'm good at and what I can bring forth given the right mind set.

Pandxx

Advice for Young Dory

I thank my friend Fletcher Beaver for this idea.

It's been an interesting week for reminiscences. Dinner on Monday with some friends I hadn't seen for over twenty years have made me really look over some of my actions and behaviours. The old statement,"If I knew then, what I know now..." rings so true. What may have happened if I knew what I know now?

Thankfully, I'm a great believer in what is - just is. You are exactly where you need to be at any given point in time. I have no regrets. There are just a few things I would do a little differently, but as there is no going back and changing things, there is no point mulling over it.

So lets wind up the time machine and go back twenty four years.

I find eighteen-year-old Dory, as I was known back then, surrounded by books in the Keith Murray Building of Lincoln College, Adelaide. The room is a mess, books and paper everywhere, a snoopy mug on her desk filled with instant coffee. There is a hideous red, floral bedspread across the single bed, a poster of Marilyn Monroe on the wall. Dory lies on her bed reading Little Dorrit, aware that she's having the crap bored out of her but unaware of how to change the situation. Dory's not good at making changes happen. The words of TS Eliot run through her head like a lament.

"Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

Being cautious to the point of stagnation is young Dory's downfall. She doesn't know how to take risks. She only knows how to be stuck and scared. Eighteen -year-old Dory is still getting over the destruction of her first love, a spotty lad named Stephen, six months before. Dory had never really experienced love until Stephen had come around and she's still perplexed by what she's feeling.

Dory is also unaware that her family situation over the last ten years has dragged her into a depression that she will wear for another fifteen years. She thinks crying yourself to sleep is normal. Dory has no self confidence or self esteem.

She's not popular in the college, nor is she unpopular. She sits at the third table in the dining room - the one next to the Asian students, but far away from the popular kids. She has an amazing sense of bravado, for despite the depths of despair she is feeling, she faces people head on with a smile for the most part. Her friends tend to be the ordinary and the studious - of which she is not the latter. 

So, what would I tell this young, frightened girl twenty years on?

Firstly, she needs a hug and a kiss. She needs picking up, dusting off and told that she is beautiful, inside and out. The mass of reddish brown hair, big green eyes, the long, slim legs, snub nose and dimples are lovely. She isn't ugly. She needs to be told this, and taught how to make the most of it. She wont do this for years either, but I'm telling her now. It's a pity she wont listen.

The next big lesson for this shell of a girl - stop putting yourself down. There are enough people in the world to do this, there is no reason to do it to yourself. Dory doesn't see the quick brain, her ability with words, her kindness or her empathy as anything special. Little does she realise that words will become her life, she is loved and trusted as a friend and her empathy, at times verging on a psychic awareness, will give her the edge in many a decision.

Now, money, Dory. You know how your Uncle John told you to bank at least 10% of every pay check. LISTEN TO HIM! He's right. While we're talking of money, avoid the BT Time Fund like the plague. And the lesson learned in investment banking - don't get emotional about stock or money - live by it. Money is money. It's how you use it that counts, not where you got it from.

Dory also needs to be told to take some risks. Fifteen years later she will be sitting in Fitzroy Gardens one sunny, Summer afternoon, mourning the loss of a colleague, reading "Who Moved My Cheese?" She will read the words, " What could you do if you weren't scared?" and her world will suddenly expand exponentially. Her life will turn around quickly after reading this. She will move to Greece, work on an island, and start to plan her escape from a career she despises and find herself in a much better place. It's amazing how one small book can change your life. I'd leave her a copy if it was written back then. It may have changed things.

Men, for Dory, are always going to be problematic. She needs to realise that for every time she has her heart broken she will only become stronger. Men need to be your friend before you let anything happen, no matter how strong the urge to act on the need for attention or intimacy. As a girl who has never felt loved, she will make a lot of mistakes. She needs to realise how special and beautiful she is. Don't give herself away freely. She needs to learn how to trust. That one will take a very long time to learn too - as without trust, she cannot get close. These will be painful lessons to learn, but she'll get it in the end.

What Dory will not be aware of is that beneath the shell she is one of the most courageous people she will ever meet. She will end up living away from her family and friends, in a foreign country, illegally for a number of years. She will travel the world alone. She will do some amazing things. She just has to reach into her inner strength and run with it. She'll get good at that in her thirties.

Oh, and Dory, you are strong enough and stubborn enough to do ANYTHING you set your mind to. Your forty-year-old self runs half marathons. Don't baulk. Trust yourself and go do it - there is very little you can't do.

And if there were three moments where she would change her actions, and go the other road.

Dory, when you monumentally stuff up an Australian Literature essay in second year and are offered counselling. TAKE IT! It could have got you on the road to happiness sooner. You won't beat yourself up for this as you will learn other lessons first.

Also, sweet girl, trust your instincts. If it doesn't feel good, get out, and get out now. Your instincts are normally on the ball. Always trust them, they will never let you down. You will spend your twenties very lost, even more lost than you are at eighteen. Trust your instincts - they're your signposts to better things.

And remember, dear Dory. Drinking vodka out of your boss's belly button will never lead to any good. Never. Thankfully, only the two of you know about this moment. You wont do that again in a hurry. Belly button fluff vodka will never catch on.

I'll leave Dory to the joys of Dickins and her view of the KMB lawns.

It's good to know she will get somewhere in the end.

Pand

Successful Thistle Sifting

It's 1975. My seven-year-old self, long white socks, school shoes, yellow skivvy, brown pinafore. Hair in long, unruly pigtails. I'm at the Flinders Medical Centre Speech Pathology Unit. Tammy Riley and I have been taken there for my weekly session with Miss Carter.

Tammy has a stammer. She rarely talks in class.

I never shut up.

Tammy goes off in one direction. I follow Miss Carter to her small room, filled with games, letters and sounds. I enjoy this time. Back at school they're doing games. I don't like games where you have to run about. This is far better.

"Can you read this?" asks Miss Carter.
"Yeth."
"Give it a go."
"She things the thongs of Tholomon, they thound the thtart of day."
"Nearly."

I've been graced, since early childhood, with a lisp. Thanks to Mith Carter, age and time, the worst of it has gone. It still catches me out sometimes - words like photosynthesis, thus and thistle - any word where the "th" sound is followed quickly by an "s" - I'm screwed. I'm transported back to 1975, sitting in front of my grandparents singing "All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth." and watching their merriment.

My tea breaks now have a new purpose. Grounded Dutchman has asked me to give him a hand with his speech. Since the accident he's been left with a slur, a common mark of those who have suffered some sort of brain injury. GD's been lucky, his language skills are still there, it's just getting things out. He's more than understandable, but he's also self-conscious of this new imperfection. I've been at him to seek out some real speech therapy, but he is resistant after the therapy he received after his accident. "It's useless. They're no good," he keeps stating.

So tea breaks are now spent working with him. Reading things from the paper. Discussing topics. Making him talk, out loud, and lots.

I'm unsure why he's asked me to help him out, other than being a friend he can trust. And he knows I've done a few acting classes in my day. Where diction and elocution were part of the curriculum. So a bit of searching in the internet and we've come up with some beauties to get his tongue around.

I'd dearly like to get the HMS Pinafore out of my head. He did well with "I am the very model of a modern Major-General." But he couldn't believe that the whole thing is sung in less that a minute.

There's lots of resources on the web, lots of tongue twisters (or tongue breakers as they're known in Dutch) to help get his mouth moving. I remember an old language coach said that singing could help too - but he's welcome to do that in the car. He was tone deaf before the accident.

But I really hope he does seek out some real help. Our sessions at tea break may help - but I wonder what a professional could do for him - a good one.

I still think he's going to be monumentally unhappy with tomorrows tongue bender:

Theophilus Thistler, the thistle sifter, on sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles stuck three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb.

I can't even manage that. Bad Pandora.

I'm still thankful, nearly forty years on, that my parents named me what they did. And not like my thister, Thoothie. (Susie)...