My Sporting Life, Part Two

As the dust settles within the sprawling bohemoth that is Telstra Stadium, and as Melbourne celebrates its NRL victory with beers, and as Manly commiserates its loss with....well, beers, I guess - thoughts once again turn to the team sporting achievements of my own youth.

VOLLEYBALL

The only sport I played through the entirety of my five years at high school was volleyball. I still adore volleyball, even though I haven't played for years. I could never serve, nor spike at any great speed, but I was a dab hand at a dig and set quite daintily. Besides, there were six players on a reasonably small court, so I figured if I missed there'd be someone close enough by to fix my errors.

Trouble was, the coaches seemed to notice my errors, and it was with great pride I ended up on the Open C volleyball team in Year 12. This was the third-string team, expected by all accounts to fail miserably. However, we perserved, and ending up winning the premiership. I like to put it down to skill and enthusiasm, but the truth is we were just slightly less crap than our opponents. That's the true key to victory.

I particularly remember one game, where, all of a sudden, when we were a few points behind in a crucial game, I was suddenly blessed with the ability to serve. Unlike my brother, who mastered the high-speed, high-impact jump-and-smash-the-shit-out-of-the-ball style of serving more commonly seen at the Olympics, I had not even managed to get my arm around the underarm serve. I'll punt the ball with all the strength my puny pecs could manage, but it would still flop embarrassingly short of my side of the net, or my terrible aim would see it shoot off at a 90-degree angle. Either way my turn at serving would never last very long. But this one day I booted across over ten successful serves. It absolutely turned the game around for us, and I've never been so impressed with myself.

At least, that is, until I took up what would be my final team sport at St Paul's School for Miscreant Boys and Oh Yeah, Now Girls As Well.

SOCCER

I mentioned in my previous post about the sad decline of our powerhouse hockey team. I played in Year 10 in the Open B team. Come Year 11, I made it back onto the Open A with many of the same girls from that double-premiership winning side. However, the competition was much tougher, and our coach insisted we have fitness training at 7am twice a week. It required a lot more work to do less well in competition, and stopped being as fun as it had been in previous years.

It was lucky then, in my final year, St Paul's finally introduced soccer for girls. Many of us hockey girls defected to soccer because a) it was virtually the same game, only no sticks b) our coach was one of our male classmates and c) it just looked like a barrel of laughs. And with more important things that sport weighing on my mind (like whether or not I should even bother trying to pass Maths B), it was just what the doctor ordered. Our soccer season began as a debacle and finished a triumph of carefree gaiety over skill and discipline.

We wound up being given the boys' old team jerseys, because - can you believe this - they didn't LIKE them and had ordered new ones. Yup, that's what it was like being a girl at a male-dominated school. We had to bring our own white shorts, which are always fun for girls to wear, which we teamed with these bright red-and-white checked jerseys. We didn't really care that much, come to think of it. At least we looked the part, all lined up in our uniforms. And it gave us the edge on the opposition - they had to wait until we started playing to discover we were all shit.

That's not strictly true. There were good sportswomen on the team. But the season was a very late addition, we only had three games, and we'd had very little practice time. Again, I tried to make up for my athletic Asperger's by jumping around and shouting at the top of my lungs. My friend Briony and I, bored one Maths B lesson, came up with a team name: the St Paul's Streakers. We then proceeded to piss off the entire First XV rugby squad by bastardising their non-official team song and turning it into our own:

We're St Paul's little Streakers, loved by everyone
We love to play our soccer, and go on naked runs!
Singing la la la la, ladies are the best
St Paul's little Streakers, we're better than the rest!

We took great pride in yelling that at the top of our lungs at any opportunity. You can't say we're not a classy bunch, us private school girls.

Somehow we managed to score a victory in one match, but lost the other two. I remember our coach Will, who had the patience of a saint, later thanked me for turning football into a "combination of ballet and Xena". To this day, that remains one of the best compliments I have ever had.

Sadly, organised sport hasn't been a part of my life since those heady school days. I did circuit gym classes for a while, if that counts. Also, I got pulled in as a ringer on an indoor netball team a couple of times (I was still crap, and wound up playing - you guessed it, Goal Keeper). The closest I come to team sports these days is ironically on the Nintendo Wii.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick someone's arse at tennis again...

My Sporting Life, Part One

So.

Sport.

Good ol' sport. Grrrr, sport. True blue, fair dinkum, green & gold, up your cazaly, howszat, who's your daddy, Aussie Aussie Aussie oy oy oy... sport.

It's a big sporting weekend - Geelong has today smashed Port Adelaide by a grand final record of 119 points to win its first AFL premiership since 1963. And tomorrow, rugby league fans will get behind Melbourne to win the NRL grand final - for no better reason than apparently Manly sucks.

Let it be known from the outset that these days I am generally indifferent to most sport. The only team I support is the Brisbane Lions, and I'm honest enough to admit I hitched my wagon to that club's rising star around the three-peat premiership years. However, I continue to be a supporter in this time of "re-building", because I know they'll be on top again someday soon. Also because ruckman Jamie Charman is simply gorgeous.

...

...But enough drooling over Jamie Charman. My own history of team sporting involvement is a chequered board of loss and ineptness, married with a great sense of enthusiasm. There's a good reason why I always won the "Best Team Spirit" award, but never the "Best Team Player" gong. And that reason is because while I could bellow the school anthem or team war-cry, run up and down the field hurling abuse at opposition and cheering on my teammates - I couldn't actually hit a ball to save my life.

NETBALL

My first memory of getting a right royal shaft was in Year 6 netball. Miss Williams, the bosomy spinster Year 4 teacher-come-netball coach, had divided us into an A Team and a B Team. I found myself, amazingly, in the Goal Attack vest for the A Team. Oh, I love it when a plan comes together! After a couple of practices, where the A Team usually ran rings around the B Team, Miss Williams decided to swap me out with Nicole Buckley. All of a sudden, I went from a sweet gig on the top team - to Goal Keeper of the B Team. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport Goal Keeper is like the Jar Jar Binks of netball. Sure, George Lucas might reckon you're important to the game, but really you're just a big irritating Space Jamaican that nobody likes. It made sense to me though, as I hated running (still do). So I spent two years up one end of the court in a constant defence position, right arm and left leg in the air, trying to defend balls that would inevitably get in the net. Yup, I was a shit netballer.

HOCKEY

That didn't stop me trying out for netball come Year 8 and high school. Fate intervened however, in the shape of the St Paul's Year 8 hockey team. The school had only just begun accepting girls the year I started, and there were only 25 in my year. Only ten of those girls wanted to play hockey - and you need 11 in a run-on side. I jokingly suggested that if they couldn't find anyone by the day before their first game, I would play for them.

The day before the game, the two Year 12 boys who'd signed on to be the team coaches appeared in the door of my Japanese classroom, begging me to play. I told them I'd really been joking as I hadn't ever played hockey ever, and really wouldn't know how. They told me not to worry, as they'd give me a quick demo the next morning before the game. All I had to do was buy some shinpads and a mouth guard.

It was no problem with the netball coach - she already had more than she needed for a team and was quite happy for me to go (must've heard about my primary school netballing years). So the next Saturday morning, I turned up at the opposing school's oval. I'd borrowed my brother's soccer shinpads, which, as I was to find out, are not really up to the task of handling hockey stick blows. And my Mum and I had completely screwed up the instructions on the shop-bought mouthguard. We hadn't melted it enough for it to properly mould, so I basically had a harsh strip of plastic wedged into my face for 60 minutes. Joy.

The coaches gave me a stick, showed me the basic techniques, and briefed me on the need-to-know rules - which mainly involved not slamming someone else in the head. With that, we were off, 10 girls with prior experience of hockey, and one with absolutely no freaking idea. They'd slotted me in as "right inner", running between the centre and right wing. All I had to do, they said, was move the ball up if I got it, and pass it to either one of those positions.

At half time, I was still confused, and the score was nil-all. That was actually an achievement, as all girls' sports so far that first year had suffered from the lack of numbers. There had been very few wins in basketball and swimming. But all that was about to change.

Little Diana Ratcliffe, who'd been hidden in goalie gear for the first half, came out to take over the centre position. The second half, for me at least, passed in a blur. Diana was a speed demon, and I, even then, was in no condition to keep up. Diana didn't need me at all, if she passed at all she went straight across to the wings. She scored three times, and along with the rest of the girls worked excellently in defence. The result at the full-time whistle was a 3-nil win for St Paul's.

Shock. Awe. Excitement. An actual win!

From then on, I was a hockey girl. I invested in another mouthguard, and some proper shinpads. Eventually I bought my own purple hockey stick (how I loved that stick!). We kept on winning, primarily due to Dinie's brilliance, but helped in no short measure by the nine other girls - talented and dedicated to the team. I like to think I helped; I certainly know I got better as the season went on. And of course, I was the loud one, yelling and singing the war cry like a crazy person. "Green and red, we are strong! Loyalty, can't go wrong! S-T-P-A-U-L-S, St Paul's!"

As our winning streak extended, the school began to pay attention. We were doing better than any other team - not even the First XV rugby boys' had our success. Eventually, we got about a hundred onlookers at our "grand final" - although having won every match, we'd already stitched up the premiership before the sticks had even clashed. Premiers! I got a pennant and everything. For the first time in my life, I was on a WINNING TEAM. It was a great feeling.

The next year, when we were all in Year 9, the same eleven girls returned to defend the championship. Again, Diana led the way, and again, we were victorious. Undefeated premiers for two years running. On top of it all, at the end of term sports awards, I won the trophy for Best Team Spirit. Sure, I couldn't run to save my life, and when I thwacked my stick I got mostly grass, and only sometimes ball. But damnit if I didn't make up for that with cheering and sledging. That, my friends, is my natural sporting talent.

But those halcyon years of 1993 and 1994 were sadly not to continue. The next year would see us reach the "Open" level of competition, putting us in the selection ring with increasing numbers of Year 11 and 12 girls. Our new coach, the ironically-named Mr Broom, would divide us, and the best - like Diana - would be rushed into Open A, while the dodgy (yours truly) would be shunted back to Open B. The team dynamic would never be the same. And St Paul's would never win a hockey pennant again (at least not for the next three years while I was there; I haven't cared enough to inquire whether it's happened since I left).

Tomorrow, Girl Clumsy's Sporting Life continues with tales of victory in third-tier volleyball, and the rise and joy of girls' soccer. Stay tuned!

A Facebook Moment

Picture this. Five people standing around chatting outside a theatre after a show. It's all good fun, and the talk naturally turns to all things impro (the five all being directly or indirectly involved with the Brisbane impro scene).

One person brings up a recent exchange of impro-related messages on Facebook. Flurried remarks are exchanged between four out of the five people. The fifth - a Facebook luddite - stands silent, mystified.

Welcome to the Facebook Moment.

As regular readers of this blog may know, I don't have very many regular readers. I decided to join Facebook to try to drum up more traffic to this site, my "real" blog, the one true repository of my exuberant verbosity and charming tales of journalistic and general incompetence.

Of course, that hasn't really worked. The RSS feed of this blog onto my Facebook profile means if people care enough to read my wild ramblings, they can just click on that. But chances are they really don't care that much - a brief scan of my status update or latest poll question is enough for most people. I have, at last count, 123 "friends" on Facebook. I didn't realise I actually knew that many people. But that's the joy/tragedy of Facebook - no matter how tenuous the real-life connection (if one exists at all), you can be instant pals in cyberspace.

But a quirky side-effect for me is noticing the occasional blurring of lines between real-life and the Facebook world. On Facebook, you're you, but you're an uber version of yourself. You put up the content and pictures you're happy to show to the world. I should know - I put up travel photos because I'd like everyone to think I'm a fearless adventurer with a taste for the exotic. I've noticed many women put up their glamourous wedding photos, and I assume it's for the same reason.

The people on Facebook that you actually see, in real life, on a regular to semi-regular basis, know the truth. They know I'm a complete dag desperate for approval. But it's as if there's a conspiracy of silence - a "What happens on Facebook, stays on Facebook" rule. I believe this is a unspoken understanding - because chances are your friends are also complete dags desperate for approval and they won't tell if you don't.

Sometimes, though, this rule is forgotten, and you get a scene like the one described above, where something expressed on Facebook seeps into your real-life conversations. Hence, the Facebook Moment.

I've had a couple of people ask me in person, and without prompting, "So did you finally finish that writing?", merely in response to a status update of mine where I mentioned being close to finishing some writing. There's been a couple of other little incidents like that, just simple conversational canapes that give me a moment's confusion, before I turn to the person with a puzzled expression and the say the words "How did you....? Oh, yeah right, Facebook."

I wonder if we will see more and more of these Facebook Moments in our lives as the weeks and months and years pass. Will natural conversations evolve as they used to, or will we increasing rely on recent Facebook activities to inspire conversation and rapport?

And where will that leave people like the fifth person in the introductory example - people who remain steadfastly opposed to joining Facebook? I've known several people who've joined simply because they're "sick of being left out". Will everyone eventually fold before the terrifying prospect of online social exclusion and the subsequent fall-out on their actual social life?

Facebook fills me with many more questions, but they are deep, philosophical ones that strike at the very heart of what it means to be a friend, quantity versus quality, and the willingness of the current generation to seek identity through fame. That blog though, must be for another day. Right now, I have to go and check Facebook, to see if anyone, anyone at all, has read my writing.

The Woman Slept

The woman's task was done, and a great tiredness came over her. She lay her head down on a bed of mossy grass, and she slept.

The woman slept as the grass grew to surround her body in a cocoon of green. She slept as wars came to ravage her land, and as peace followed to resow the seeds. The woman slept through the cries of children, through the tears of mothers and the rage of fathers. She slept as flowers opened their petals out to feel the touch of sun, as trees thrust skyward, as rivers carved watery paths through the earth.

The woman slept through seasons, through torrential rains, through crippling drought, through fires, through earthquakes, through storms and tempests both natural and of man's creation. She slept as things changed, as they remained the same, as the others tried to figure out which was which.

The others begged the woman to awaken; but she would not, for her task had been immense, and her need for restful nourishment unmatched in the history of man. The others turned away, and the woman slept still. She slept for so long, she became a myth, a legend, a figure of conjecture and ridicule. Yet the woman knew none of this, as she lay with her head on the mossy grass, in perfect repose.

The girl heard stories of the woman in her youth, and fixed her mind on finding the sleeping lady. She abandoned home, family, comfort and dreams in order to seek the truth. She journeyed long and far, listening to ancient tales of sleeping giants to help guide her closer to reality. The girl travelled for so long, she was near the end of childhood when she finally found the cocoon of green, hidden from the world for so long.

She said, "Woman, I am come. Sleep no more."

And the woman was awake and in front of the girl within an eyeblink, and the girl felt herself wrapped in warmth and strength and thousands upon thousands of years of knowledge, light, and happiness. And the girl knew it all in an instant, and wished to never leave the life-giving grasp of the woman, now awake from slumber for the first time.

"But what was your task?" asked the girl. "What did you do those many years ago, that you must sleep for so long?"

The woman smiled, her face alive with awakeness, but still as calm as before.

"I had to empty my mind," said the woman. "Free it from all thought until one could come to waken me,

"But how can you give me this strength?" cried the girl. "How can you know what it is to be alive, when you have been sleeping, empty of mind, far away from the joys and the troubles and the history of the world?"

"I do not know," said the woman. "How can I? I have been sleeping. I am learning from you."

And the woman freed the girl from her embrace. The girl lay her head down on the mossy grass, the truth weighty on her soul. Her mind raced, then slowed, then emptied, then stopped. Her task done, a great tiredness came over the girl, and she slept.

My apologies, I am extraordinarily tired and really have no idea what the hell this is all about. I think I've been reading too much Phillip Pullman...

Needing to Wendt

I went to the launch of a new Breastscreen Queensland ad campaign this morning. Worth $1.5 million over three years, it aims to increase the number of Queensland women over 50 having regular mammograms. After doing research in their key 50-69 demographic, the state government picked veteran journalist Jana Wendt to be the "face" of the campaign (despite the fact that by my reasoning they should be looking at another part of the anatomy entirely).

I saw Jana as I walked in. She was standing in a corner, reading her notes; her elegant size 8 figure impeccably clad in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. Her jawbones would slice diamonds; her cheekbones cut through steel like a knife through gravy. Her hair, far from the big black bob of the A Current Affair years, was perfectly cut and freshly styled; it framed her face like a painting. Her simple yet impossibly glamourous reading glasses were poised so close to the tip of her nose I feared they would fall off; yet there they remained, implacable, not daring to slip and defy the Grace of Jana.

As the journalists gathered and set up equipment, and we waited for the Premier to arrive, she stood quietly near the refreshment table, chatting to Breastscreen staff and re-checking those notes. I longed to approach her, but what would I say?

"Hello, Ms Wendt. My name is Natalie. I'm a journalist too, and you've always been a role model...."

"Hello, Ms Wendt. People always told me I was going to be on the telly and be the next Jana Wendt... I'm still waiting for it to happen, ha ha..."

"Hello, Ms Wendt. I have to ask - what did you really think when Marg Downey imitated you on Fast Forward?"

While pondering my options, Anna Bligh arrived, and without any hesitation, made straight for Jana on the other side of the room. They shook hands and spoke warmly. Damn! I thought. That's the kind of style I need. Enthusiastic, yet still classy. I guess that kind of poise must come with knowing you're the most powerful person in the state.

They began the media conference, and Jana spoke clearly, concisely, with perfect intonation and minimal "ums". Note to self: you see? That's how you get to be Jana Wendt. No "um"-ing. Once finished, she returned to the fold of Breastscreen Queensland staff, as the Premier took questions on other topics.

I'm not sure what happened in the end. I had been standing up the back, my vision half-obscured by a pillar. I had to wait for various cameramen and journos to shift it before I could reclaim my microphone (which had run out of batteries, thankfully near the end of the conference). When I turned back after packing my kit, Jana was gone.

Gone! One of the most respected and credible journalists in Australia - gone! Vanished before I could work up the nerve to say hello. She will remain, until the next alignment of the stars puts me within gawping distance again, that glamourous, elegant figure - the Jackie Onassis of the Australian broadcast media. Mysterious, untouchable, unknowable. I could never compare to her physically. But I will start working on my "um"-ing.

A Day in the Life, Part One

0900: Woken from blissful slumber by a phone call. The call was in relation to a Secret Writing Project, which I don't want to go into yet, until it's all good to go.

1000: Pilates. Nice workout (as much as pilates can be called a workout, as you don't particularly get sweaty), with some new arm work on the Reformer, as well as some standing work that really got my thigh muscles engaged.

1100: Home again, showering and getting ready for lunch with the Wah and his parents. It's actually the Wah's birthday today, and in all the hullabuloo surrounding the new television and Wii, combined with my working, writing and general exhaustion, I have accidentally somehow maybe - forgotten to get him a present he can unwrap. Whoops. Still, the Wah is very gracious, and was happy enough to play said Wii until it was time to head out to lunch.

1130: I have a chat with my Mum on the phone - unfortunately, she has to have some medical tests done. She's got no problem with that, she just wishes her doctor wasn't away on holidays so she could have them done sooner. Apart from that, she and Dad are well, and enjoying their new holiday apartment on the Gold Coast. Apparently Dad has bought a pedal-powered canoe of some sort. With a sail. That's my Dad for you.

1200: Picked up Wah's parents from respective workplaces and headed to the Continental Cafe, a French restaurant in the Valley I can highly recommend. Try the soy and lime chicken breast with coconut risotto. Yuuuum. Today I chose the coq au vin, while the Wah had delicious blue cheese penne with spinach. Mmmm. Cream brulees and ice-cream to finish, and then it was back to work for Wah's Mum, the train home for Wah's Dad, and back to Chez Clumsy for Wah and I.

1400: Back home, and I begin trying to work on aforementioned Secret Writing Project, which is hampered by being unable to not listen to "Get This" on the radio. Damn you, Tony Martin. Actually, no, I'm sorry. I could never be angry with you.

1500: The Wah decides to go for a wander into the city, to pick up some library books and comics. More procrastinating from me, as I look at the screen and try to think of words that sound right, and most of all, make sense.

1550: "Get This" all but over - now I can work!

1600: Doorbell rings. The fiend is here. Unexpected, but not unpleasant. However, Wah is still in town, so I tell the fiend he must amuse himself with the Wii, because I really HAVE to work on Secret Writing Project for at least an hour and a bit. The fiend doesn't seem to mind, except at the point where he loses a thumbnail due to excessive nunchuk thrusting.

1610: OK, procrastinating over - now I can work!

1700: The Wah returns home. Hooray! He has bought himself another Wii game. It is a crazy one called Wario Smooth Moves. I return to my post in front of the computer, forcing more words out onto the screen.

1800: I decide to call my grandmother in Vanuatu to check something out for my Secret Writing Project. We end up talking bollocks for 20 minutes. She's hosting a quiz night for the Vanuatu Amateur Theatrical Society on Saturday night, then catching a 7am plane down to Brisbane for a month's respite with family. I told her she'd better kick right on through, and she said something about "I'll just have a few more beers and I'll be OK". Is it right that my 82-year-old grandmother has a cooler social life than me? Actually, you know, I'm quite fine with that.

1830: I start getting ready for Impro Mafia. I'm performing, so I drag out the team t-shirt, which really, really needs a wash. Oh well. At least it saves me half an hour trying to decide what to wear so I don't look porky. (An impossible mission altogether, some might argue). I try miserably to style my hair with my ghd straightener (seriously one of the top two inventions ever, the other being fridges with built-in ice-dispensers). My hair desperately needs a cut, but I'm putting it off until closer to the dreaded high school reunion. However, something exciting happens. I find a hairband in a tray of crap, and my hair's grown enough to actually tie most of it back into a tiny little ponytail. I haven't been able to do that in about two years; the reason why I was so surprised to find a hairband in the flat in the first place. The boys compliment the style - hmmm, maybe I should keep growing the hair a bit? See what happens?

1915: The Wah, the fiend and I leave for the Stones Corner pub, and impro craziness. I go upstairs to warm up, and the boys head off for sushi love down the road.

2000: The show begins! It's a weird first half for me, and two of my three scenes were quite awful. However, a song about "something feminine", which turns into a description of a pre-date beauty routine, was quite nice, and salvaged an otherwise ordinary first half. The second half was better on average, with an Understudy scene involving cheating with Britney Spears, and a final musical in which I played a nun so pure and pious, she converted the Son of Satan himself. Aww.

2200: Post show drinkies! The Wah has a few birthday Kronenbergs, the beer a preference to the woeful selection of whiskys on offer at the T-Bar (Slate? Are you kidding? Johnny Walker? Are you looking for a smack in the face?). We talk the usual bollocks with the improvisers and friends, devoting a fair amount of time to discussing just how good the Wii actually is.

2300: Return home to find Mark knee deep in what looks like Season Two of "Alias". I make myself a chicken and lettuce wrap, and head into the computer room to start typing up a bunch of bollocks about my day. I decide to forego any more work on the Secret Writing Project, as I have to work at 9am tomorrow, and still have ten pages or so of "The Amber Spyglass" by Phillip Pullman to finish (after giving up so close to the finish around 1 o'clock this morning). Any writing done now will surely not be worth reading, anyhow - best to get a reasonable night's sleep so I can concentrate on finishing said Secret Writing Project after work tomorrow.

2400/0000: The Wah and Mark are back on the Wii, Wah finally with a good whisky in hand (an 18-year-old Glenlivet). I hope he's had a wonderful birthday, despite my shocking lack of preparedness. He deserves to have a rocking birthday every year. And I say "nighty-night!".

Based on an idea from Michael, which seemed like an especially good idea considering the stress of the Secret Writing Project. This was my day off too, I'll have to do another of these during a work day.

The Joy of Wii

Just over a week ago, Chez Clumsy took delivery of a beautiful shiny new Nintendo Wii. It's a combined birthday present for both my partner and I, as the anniversaries fall within 20 days of each other.

Because of my writing challenge, I haven't spent as much time as I'd like mucking about with this brilliant piece of technology. And it is brilliant, because with its simple yet addictive games and motion-sensitive remote, it's the first console that's held my attention since the Nintendo Entertainment System.

Ah, those good old days of left-to-right view only video games. I tell you, the world of gaming peaked for me at Super Mario Brothers, and it has never quite reached those dizzy heights again. The main reason is because video games - with all their jumping and spinning and shooting and confusion - give me motion sickness. I can't stand to look at them for more than a few seconds. There's just too many options. Super Mario Bros was great - there were only so many actions you could perform. You get the mushroom, you grow bigger. You get the flower, you get fireball power. You jump up and down to hit and break blocks and collect coins. Every few levels you beat a big baddy. Then you do the whole thing all over again, with slightly different coloured blocks. Sheer genius.

I played so much Mario as a kid, I can still play the tinny theme music perfectly in my head. And when, joy upon joys, Greg downloaded old-school Super Mario Bros into our Wii system (courtesy of the wireless internet hook-up - ain't this newfangled technology grand?), I found myself immediately hitting the same blocks for secret coins, moving Mario in exactly the right way to catch the mushroom and kill the turtle, venturing down exactly the right pipe to find a secret coin depository, and making the accompanying "boing" noises in my head.

It's amazing how things stick with you. But the Wii is not just about re-living past glory days of gaming, it's about embracing a new style of play. It's been an absolute hit in Chez Clumsy - easily winning over Greg and our housemate Mark, both dedicated PC gamers (they're playing a game involving plunger-shooting bunnies even as I write), and entrancing visitors.

But I put it to the ultimate test today by bringing in some actual children: my cousins Tiffany and Amber. At 11 and 8, they're around the same age my brother and I were when we began playing Nintendo, and they've never owned a console. The most video gaming they've done is a few trips to an Intensity game parlour, courtesy of my Dad. I wanted to see how a couple of young girls would react and interact with this Brave New Console.

I'm pleased to say that upon arriving to pick up the girls this evening, my aunt was immediately beseiged with cries of "Can we get a Wii, puh-lease, Mum?" Negotiations to earn half the purchase price themselves soon followed. Schemes were being dreamt of, even as the tennis, bowling and baseball matches continued. Even my aunt got in on the act, taking on Tiffany in a boxing match. All three of them loved the process of creating "Mii"s - the little bubble-bodied avatars players create to represent themselves in the games. They even created one for our collective grandmother, and we were all howling with laughter as they tried on different hairstyles, trying to achieve just the right level of boofiness, and adjusted the size of the glasses and wrinkles.

Interestingly, Tiffany chose to make her Mii dark-skinned, even though she's no more than olive. Mind you, Amber chose to give hers a moustache and a beard, which perhaps indicates they still have their imagination intact, as opposed to all us adults, who try as vainly as possible to make our Miis look like a true-but-cuter representation of ourselves.

The novelty of the remote design was not lost on my aunt, who always though video gaming was a passive, sit-in-front-of-the-screen-thumbing-controls activity. Here the girls were getting physically into their games: Amber running around the living room as if it was a real tennis court, trying to make her return volleys; Tiffany lining up on home base, getting ready to pound the baseball as if she were Barry Bonds. Their physical commitment demanded mental focus - while continually trying new games, the girls stuck with the activity for hours without a break.

I am determined now to spend a bit more time on the Wii, if only because it's good for some physical exercise. I'm already far behind Greg and Mark, who are on university holidays and able to devote several hours a day to improving their "Wii fitness" and remote technique. But I don't need to rush it, the Wii will be around for some time (barring an errant remote flying out of hand and smashing the control box), and I want to incorporate at least a few hours a week to childlike play.

Perhaps one day, I might even finish Super Mario Brothers.

Yours truly, flanked by Tiffany with Amber posing in front. Aren't we a fine bunch of cousins?

Clockwork Oranges

I like to do a bit of blog-trawling on the ye olde internet, and today I came across this quite remarkable photo:

This group of gals is involved in, of all things, a Pillow-Fighting League here in Brisbane. Now - leaving aside the politics of whether or not a Pillow Fighting League is good idea - tell me, what's your FIRST reaction on seeing this photo?

Mine was: "Wow, that girl in front is so pale!"

My immediate second thought? "Hang on, why are all the other girls so ORANGE? And, apart from that brunette, why do they look all look the same?"

The fake tanning craze is reaching epidemic proportions in this country. My partner's sister - an Australian now residing in Scotland - was disappointed while visiting recently to see that Aussie girls appear to be following the lead of their U.K. counterparts, and dousing themselves liberally in whatever California/ Caribbean/Spanish/tropical "glow" they can get their hands on.

And what's worse, the "barbequed chicken" look is becoming the norm. A tan is supposed to be evocative of good health, but that goes back to the mid-20th century idea that only wealthy people could afford holidays in the sun. In these times of economic prosperity, most of us can afford holidays, and even if we can't - we live in Australia, for goodness' sake. Ten minutes outside is all you need to cop enough Vitamin D to see you through to Christmas. Nobody wants to tan naturally anymore, and that's fair enough, considering the very real risk of skin cancer. But nobody wants to wear their natural white. So we've turned instead to this sham trickery. We're walking into the salons and beauty bars to achieve that "just walked off the beach" look.

Now I'm definitely speaking from a biased point of view here. I am, sadly, blessed with doughy, pasty white skin. I once tried putting fake tan on my legs. Admittedly, this was way back in 1996, and the technology has probably advanced a lot. However, back then, my legs went orange. It was particularly bad timing on my part, as I had phys-ed that day, and got to display my carrot-stick pegs to not only my class, but the entire school, as a fire drill went off in the middle of the lesson, and I got to spend well over an hour parading around the meeting point in shorts. The experience left a somewhat bitter taste in my mouth, and I am yet to be tempted back to the world of fake tanning.

But from what I can discover from others who've had it done, it's messy, sticky and smelly. Whether you're spray tanning or using do-it-yourself lotions, the downside to your bronze beauty appears to be an undesirable odour, unfortunate sheet-and-towel staining, and, as the tan wears off, flaky white spots on your skin and orange bits all over your clothes. Mmmm, sounds attractive.

Yet women are putting themselves through all of this to achieve yet another now-standard measure of' "attractiveness". If you look at the photo above again, you'll see most have also bleached their hair blonde to match. I wonder if their breasts are as fake as their hair and skin colour? The sad reality is that it's only the inclusion of the Pale Girl in front that makes us realise how hardwired we have become to believing that this "porno" look is realistic and natural. This is what "hot" chicks look like now, and yes, while I realise there are probably non-Zoo-magazine-reading men out there who prefer something different, I worry we're all going to keep lathering ourselves up with this stuff until we're all clones of Pamela Andersen or Jenna Jameson.

The whole thing is ironic. When you travel to Asian, African or Middle Eastern countries, you will find all sorts of cosmetic products and procedures available to make your skin more "white". I personally had requests while in Beijing to be photographed because of my pale skin colour (although my 178cm and size 14 frame may have also been a factor). Everyone else in the world is trying to become more "white", because our idealised Western beauty has made it desirable. Yet we in the West are trying to go the other way! We're trying to be darker, but it's not working. We're ending up as mere clones of one particular form of ideal beauty - a bunch of Clockwork Oranges.

But I retain some hope. The fact that the photographer has chosen to put the Pale Girl in front, rather than sidelining her or trying to hide her behind one of the others, signifies that at the very least he appreciates her individuality. We just need more Pale Girls included amongst the Clockwork Oranges, and then we might start to rewire our grey matter and remember than orange is a fruit, not a skin colour.

Many thanks to young Laurel, from whom I stole this photo. I wish you all the best in the Pillow Fighting League - and hope you thwack those girls so hard, their tans flake off.

Aisle be damned

I couldn't help but exclaim "...and about bloody time!" while reading this article, on a Swedish church's ban on the practice of fathers walking their daughters down the aisle on their wedding day. Quite frankly, I have never understood why this misogynistic tradition continues despite the fact that the Victorian era ended well over one hundred years ago.

The Lutheran vicar Yvonne Hallin, quoted in the article, sums it up best, saying couples who marry "are equal when it comes to finances, politics, values ... but when they come to the church ... the woman suddenly turns into a man's property". Halleujah, my vicar sister. We women of the West are the grand-daughters of the Suffragettes, and the daughters of the Feminists. We work, we vote, we spend, we drive, we are able to live our own lives without the dictates of others. We generally do most of the wedding planning, yet on the day itself, we allow ourselves to get passed from our fathers to our husbands like a frickin’ meat tray? Where’s the logic in that?

Now before those enamoured with traditional wedding features tell me they’re expressing their free will by choosing to include and honour their fathers in this way – you’re right, of course.* I acknowledge that being able to make that choice is a good thing. It’s taken me some years, but I have finally accepted that it is the sincere wish of some women (including dear friends of mine) to have a wedding with all the trimmings. That is their right, and I will defend that right, as they say, to the death.

But I also maintain the right to object to traditions with sexist undertones (no matter how subtle) being kept alive just because they’re “nice”. In my mind, there’s nothing more evocative of women having freedom to choose than being able to walk confidently up to your husband-to-be and say “I'm here babe - let's do this thing”. Even better would be the couple making that purposeful walk together. You want symbols – what better to say we’re walking together towards our future? We’re choosing it – together. What I advocate is a further change in attitudes when it comes to weddings, to weed out the more archaic traditions, and create some new ones of a more equal nature.

At the wedding of my boyfriend’s dear sister last year in Scotland, both her mother and father walked her down the aisle (it was actually the driveway of her parents-in-law’s utterly charming country home) for the ceremony. If you must include this practice in a wedding ceremony, that’s how it should be done. Both parents, supporting their daughter as she and her groom create a new family out of two existing ones.

I am in general, fairly turned off by many of the traditions surrounding weddings and marriages that some women seem to embrace. Name changing, for one. Woah, Nelly. I thought we’d outgrown this one. I object to it primarily because it is not an option men have to consider, and it again echoes the idea of woman as property, and transferable.** My surname is an innate part of me, and I don't believe it shows disrespect to any partner to maintain that heritage. I choose to honour my partner by committing to a life with him; and I choose to honour my father by keeping the full name I received at birth. Having him traipse me up a strip of red carpet seems to me to be something of a hollow substitute.

I like to think I have at least a bit of a romantic soul (I am, like all proper ladies, besotted with Pride and Prejudice), but I certainly don’t buy into archaic wedding traditions. I applaud this particular church for carving out a different path, and hope it will continue developing a more progressive style of wedding that truly reflects the needs of modern Western partnerships.

And let’s face it, for many brides the “walk down the aisle” only exists to allow the woman her glowing moment, so everyone can squawk at the gown and tear up at how beautiful she looks on her special day. Now, if that’s what float your boat, why would you want to share it with your Dad? He’s going to block at least one side of the assembled masses from getting a good look at you. Plus he’s probably going to trip over your hemline and burp inappropriately. That's just what Dads do.

*Yes I am avoiding a debate on social constructs, thanks for asking.

**Of course I realise it’s a patriarchal hand-me-down – it’s my father’s father’s father’s name, not the graceful Devoy of my mother, the fiery Khambatta or earthy Gerraghty of my grandmothers, nor the very British Pritchard of my great-grandmother – but they were all men's names as well, and you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Chasing anonymity

The Chaser boys are at it again. Today they showed up at Sydney airport, trying to steal luggage belonging to North Queensland Cowboys players who had arrived in town ahead of the NRL preliminary final tomorrow night. In an obvious take on the new OJ Simpson drama in the United States, the Cowboys looked on with grins as the Chaser boys attempted to take their "memorabilia" by force.

Now that's a funny stunt, but really, it's hardley breaking-APEC-security level, now is it? Frankly, you have to feel sorry for the Chaser these days. The group's sheer notoriety means anything they try to pull in the view of other media will get reported, just in case it's one of those ones that might get them into trouble. They've lost a lot of the element of surprise that was once their most powerful weapon. Politicians know who they are now, and they're working on their witty comebacks. Don't get me wrong, they're inventive and more than capable of hitting the right buttons (see the recent 'Save the Irwin' sketch - youch!). But it makes me wonder if the boys will be able to survive the media attention, or if they're far too visible now to ever go back to flying under the radar, and will eventually implode under the burning glare of the mainstream media.

My opinion is The Chaser's War on Everything can and will continue, as long as the writing and satire remains sharp (the program does have its flat spots, but 80 to 90 per cent of it is like a razor in a zoot suit) - and as long as it remain on the ABC. The boys may have begun their broadcast careers in commercial (late nights on Triple M - I remember because I used to listen and cackle), but they've found their niche at Aunty. Kath and Kim may get away with a commercial switch, but its satire is in the suburbs, and even commercial television welcomes the piss being taken out of its core audience (see Today Tonight). Bagging out politicians, spin doctors, big business, the advertising industry - you've got to maintain your own relative independence. The Chaser may not see themselves as the ultimate arbiter of right and wrong, but while people think they think they do, they must stay commercial-free.

Way back in 1996, I began watching a little show called Good News Week. As far as I could tell from surveys around the schoolyard, only me and one of the school captains watched it. I fell in love with the show, and it wasn't just because of Paul McDermott. OK, it was mostly because of Paul McDermott (so dark and handsome! witty! so attractively bitter!), but I liked the format. It was a fun take on current affairs, and benefited from good writing, clever guests and tight editing. By 1997, it was a solid hit, with a lot more fans than just me and Todd Vallance. (G'day Todd, wherever you are now. Going to that school reunion, by the way?) By my first year of university, I had joined the UQ Good News Week Fan Club (run by the same despot who oversaw the kingdom of the DAAS Fan Club), and even attended a live taping of the show at the Suncorp Piazza.

But in 1999, the show defected to Channel Ten, who thought they were getting a massive instant ratings booster. They got that for a few weeks, before disillusionment set it. It wasn't the same. It got extended out, allowing more crappy jokes and bollocky guest banter in. The variety-based spin-off GNW Nite Lite was just an excuse for Paul to sing a series of duets with hot rock and pop chicks. And by 2000, I was getting well over Paul's singing.

Gasp. I know.

But it wasn't just me - the rest of Australia seemed to feel that way too. Ratings dropped, never reaching the highs of the ABC days. The show was cancelled by the end of 2000.

I'm optimistic about the Chaser though. They know commercial money isn't worth sacrificing national broadcaster cred, at least not with The War on Everything. They've also already recorded a sketch imagining what the show would be like if it was, as rumours earlier this year suggested,bought by Channel Nine. They know that would be thrown back in their face if it came true - and I think they'd rather cop jail time over the APEC stunt then wind up hosting another The Nation.

The Tip of the Iceberg

I watched an interesting documentary on the ABC this evening, entitled "The Iceberg That Sank the Titanic". Now the sinking of the Titanic on its maiden voyage is so infamous, it passed into popular myth before the Carpathia had even picked up the survivors. Like billions of others, I saw James Cameron's film, which served to reinforce to me that a) teenagers in the early 20th century flipped the bird and shagged in cars, b) giant jewels are worth hanging on to for years and years, just so you can have a poignant moment of self-realisation and drop that sucker in the big wide ocean, and c) Billy Zane is an over-actor. But I've never seen the disaster to end all disasters portrayed in the way this documentary did.

That is, from the point of view of the iceberg. That's right, the iceberg.

Apparently its name was Jimmy, and it had had a rough childhood. Dad left early, Mum turned to the bottle for comfort. It didn't want to drift into the shipping channels and destroy the greatest luxury liner the world had ever seen, but you know, it just couldn't control itself. It was the Titanic's fault anyway. Should've looked where it was going. I mean, the iceberg's sorry about all the people that died, but it didn't drown them on purpose.

I mean, it's a genius concept. Take a well-worn story, revamp it with dramatic shots of icebergs breaking off the side of Greenland, cut with archival footage of the Titanic's construction, add a dramatic voiceover detailing the iceberg's 15 000-year journey from snowflake to compacted ice monster from hell, and describe the entwining fate of the two leviathans. Pow, the BBC throws money at you.

So, with a focus on scoring some of that 'dynamic historical recreation drama series' cash myself, here are some other ideas for documentaries with a quirky never-before-seen angle:

The Black Death - from the point of view of the rats.

It's not easy being rattus rattus. You gotta eat all manner of shit to survive. Then you pick up some dodgy fleas from Outer Mongolia and bam. Throbbing buboes starting to burst out all over your dirty, furry body. The Black Death pandemic of the 1340s is estimated to have cost up to 75 million human lives. But won't someone please think of the rats?

The Reformation - from the point of view of the Islamic world.

What, no more Crusades? You got better things to do now? You gonna argue amongst yourselves now, is that what you're gonna do? You're getting so good at inter-faith wars, you getting into intra-faith wars? Stupid Protestants and Catholics. We Muslims have got saracen swords rusting thanks to a lack of head-chopping-off practice. I guess we gotta turn our attention to maths and medicine and shit. (I don't know when the Caliph of Constantinople became Robert de Niro, but there's your genius casting right there).

The Hindenburg - from the point of view of That Guy who said "Oh! the humanity!"

That Guy who said "Oh! the humanity!" had a lot more to give with his life. But his journalistic career would be forever overshadowed after that fateful May day in 1937, when the LZ 129 airship caught fire while landing in New Jersey. But That guy who said "Oh! the humanity!" in response to the inferno engulfing the magnificent zeppelin would forever be known as That Guy who said "Oh! the humanity!". And that's a tragedy. That's so tragic, it deserves a searing cry of loss and anguish to encapsulate the feeling for all time. But I've yet to come up with something appropriate.

The 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami - from the point of view of a Brisbane radio journalist on a dull Sunday afternoon at work.

What's that story in wires? Something about an earthquake in the Indian Ocean, with nine dead. Oh, that's a shame. A coincidence though - it's exactly one year since that huge earthquake destroyed the Iranian city of Bam and killed 30 000 people. I might do a story on that. (An hour later) Hey, what's this - flash flooding in Sri Lanka? Weird. Wonder if it's got anything to do with that earthquake? Nah, too far away. But better do a story. (An hour later) Oh, the death toll from that earthquake has risen to 100. Not good. (An hour later). Wow, Sky News is reporting several hundred dead and a tsunami. Yikes. (6pm) One thousand dead! Holy shit, this is awful! This is my last bulletin, I hope the death toll doesn't get any worse overnight...

The Strange Tale of Jamie Lacey

Sometime in September 2004, Jamie Lacey took a lot of drugs. Amphetamines, mainly, but also some acid. He was in a pretty hyped-up state by the time he decided to break into a neighbour's house in Milmerran, west of Brisbane. He knew the tenant was away, the house had been dark for days, and he scoped it out thoroughly before forcing his way in through a window.

Jamie Lacey doesn't remember a lot about that night. He doesn't remember exactly which night it was - only that it was sometime between the 1st and 23rd of September, and that's only because that's what the police told him. He credits his memory loss to his drug abuse, something he's struggled with since his late teens. What details he does remember are far too embarrassing to talk about. He's a bit ashamed.

The tenant came home at the end of September, and found her bathroom in disarray. Pornographic magazines were strewn around the floor, and on the benchtop, and the shower screen was broken. She called the police.

Attending officers soon realised the case was not the straight-forward break and enter they'd been expecting. For starters, nothing was taken. However, the vaccuum cleaner had been removed from its normal resting place, and left scattered on the floor. Their attention was also drawn to a strange construction that had been left in the bathroom - a Toilet Duck detergent bottle, with a wooden "protrusion" sticking out of it, and a latex glove covering said protrusion.

It seems both had been used as sex aids.

Police didn't charge Jamie Lacey over the offence at first. They questioned him; and even went as far to search his room, discovering a black bag filled with condoms, latex gloves, cream and a tapered wooden stick. Jamie Lacey told police it was his "masturbation bag". But the recovery of DNA samples took time, and successful matching took even longer, and it was only in the early months of 2007 that Jamie Lacey was arrested.

Jamie Lacey fronted the Brisbane District Court on Wednesday September 19, 2007. He pled guilty to one count of break and enter and one count of wilful damage, in relation to the broken shower scene.

The nature of his awkward and somewhat bizarre activities during the break in was discussed in detail by the prosectutor, defence lawyer and judge during sentencing. Jamie Lacey had not been charged over the apparent misuse of household appliances, but the fact something of a serious sexual nature had occurred necessitated the discussion of a possible prison term. However, the fact that Jamie Lacey had been high on a drug known for its side-effect of increased sexual stimulation was taken into account. Jamie Lacey's lawyer also argued that it couldn't be conclusively proven that he had abused the vaccuum cleaner. To which the judge replied, "I'm sure your client didn't hoover the carpets".

After an hour or so of to-ing and fro-ing, the judge brought down a sentence of 12 months' jail, to be served as an intensive correction order in the community. He took into account the fact that Jamie Lacey had been performing community service admirably (after a previous offence), had stopped breaking into properties, moved to a different town, tried to get over his drug problems, maintained a steady job at a meatworks for two years (inspiring his boss to write a glowing reference), and was supporting a partner and a seven-month-old baby son.

The mother and son sat in the public gallery, directly behind the plexiglass back wall of the dock in which sat Jamie Lacey himself, while all of this went on. The baby, who had the sweetest face you're ever likely to see on a child, behaved well, apart from the odd "goo-goo" sound. When the judge announced that it would be counterproductive to put Jamie Lacey in jail, forcing his partner and son to live with relatives, the mother contained the big smile that wanted to burst out over her face, and settled instead for bouncing her knee up and down, faster and faster, for the little boy's amusement.

When the judge was finished, and Jamie Lacey was allowed to leave the dock, he made straight away for the stroller, which had been parked on the right-hand side of the courtroom, just in front of a bench at which sat several journalists. He quickly made sure the safety break was off, and followed his partner and son out of the court.

Jamie Lacey was gone. His story made the wire service, and at least one radio news bulletin. How much his story will be re-told, giggled at and goggled at, is up in the air. How much Jamie Lacey will regret that strange night when he took too many drugs is indeterminable. How responsible a partner and father Jamie Lacey will turn out to be is the only thing that matters now.

Based on a true court story I attended today. Names are true, as the matter is on the public record. However, it is not my intent to cause further harm to Jamie Lacey, merely to recount this strange tale.

9 Songs

I have had my mp3 player for two weeks now, and you would think I would have embraced the technology by now. But no, I'm still somewhat confused by this new piece of equipment, and even more so by the software, which apparently is nowhere near as efficient as iTunes. So all I have on my iRiver is about 50 songs which were already on my computer, including a few that were my brother's choices but somehow migrated their way across the USB cable anyway.

It got me thinking about music - which to me is a lot like art. I may not know what's good or bad, I just know what I like. Consequently, my music taste can be described as "eclectic"at best, and "dodgy" at worst.

Here, then, is a selection of some of those songs, and why they mean something to me. They're in playing order, which appears to be somewhat alphabetical.

"Mr Wendell" by Arrested Development. I didn't know a lot about protest-type music when I was 12. Then "Tennessee" by this group came out, and I really listened to the lyrics, which spoke of intolerance and injustice, but with a really catchy tune. They also released the very mainstream and wonderful catch-cry song "Everyday People", but it's "Mr Wendell" that I like the most, a cautionary tale of why we should listen to a wise, story-telling homeless man. I also remember naming an insect Mr Wendell back in Year 8, when the song was popular. Another schoolgirl and I kept him in a little pink cardboard house we made for him. Somewhat ironic, in hindsight.

"Catch" by Kosheen. I first heard this song when Channel 10 used it as the theme for a reality TV show called", from memory, "The Fugitive". Sad but true. Still, I love the kaleidescopic sound of the chorus, with the words "Out of my way I'm running/ I'm going to catch you if I can" taking on a sexy yet menacing tone. Makes me want to put on heavy eyeliner and sing spookily straight down camera, preferably with flashy effects behind me.

"Die Another Day" by Madonna. I adore Madonna, so most of her songs are favourites of mine. I detested this one on first listening, but it's now become one of my extra special faves. It sounded so foreign as a Bond theme when I heard it first, but I truly believe now it's one of the best. It works absolutely perfectly with the movie, seemlessly interweaving with scenes of Bond's torture in North Korea. "I'm gonna suspend my senses/I'm going to delay my pleasure/ I'm going to close my body now" captures how Bond gets through all that time with sanity intact. It also mirrors well with Toby Stephens' bad guy, after all, he was the one who had lived to die another day.

"Jump Around" by House of Pain. "Pack it up, pack it in/Let me begin". I don't know much about these guys, except that they sure do have "more rhymes than the Bible's got psalms". I remember dancing to this song at school dances in the mid-90s. You really can't help but jump around, especially to the chorus. It's a special song for Greg, I and particularly with Simon, but also now with Mixmaster Mike, our Liverpuddlian friend we met in Greece. We spent a night in Ios absolutely thrashing ourselves silly to this song. "I'll serve your ass like John McEnroe/ if your girl steps up I'm smackin' da ho". Genius.

"How Bizarre" by OMC. Don't ask me how I know, but OMC stood for "Otago Millionaire's Club", and they were the most famous Otago-based Maori band since... um, probably ever You couldn't get away from this song circa-1997. It was on high-rotation, and it's catchy guitar chorus got into everyone's head. Nobody could remember the verses, but everyone knew the last line "Wanna know the rest, hey/ Buy the rights!" It suffered from over-exposure, but going back to it 10 years later is quite a pleasant bop down memory lane.

"Scandalous" by Mis-teeq. Ah, another of those mis-spelled, punny band names. No idea what else they've done, but boy do I still love to put this one on loud. Its really simple, two-beat riff just makes me want to throw on the stripper heels, stand in front of a fan going full-blast, and break out the dance moves. And while it sounds like an ode to sexy sex, the lyrics "A one night stand just ain't enough/ I need some stimulation baby/ A little conversation maybe" gives away the girl-power message.

"Magic Carpet Ride" by Steppinwolf. Specifically the first half, with those lovely opening lyrics "I like to dream", and the ultimate melody. It's instant feel-good music, mostly because it's been used in every movie and TV show where they need to set an instant feel-good tone. I know the second half is all good guitar work, but once he's stopped inviting me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride, I get bored.

"These Words" by Natasha Bedingfield. I don't normally like love songs, but this one gets two thumbs up for a) being a true celebration of love and life and b) being all about how hard it is to write a sappy love song. The joyous melody is backed up by clever lyrics, such as "Read some Byron, Shelley and Keats/Recited it over a hip-hop beat/I'm having trouble saying what I mean/with dead poets and a drum machine". This song was popular in mid-2004, just when Greg and I were on holidays in the UK, and we heard it a fair bit. Greg used to mock the fast "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you" chorus line; but it just imprinted into my head as a wonderful life soundtrack song. When I hear it, I still think of driving around country U.K. in early autumn, with the sun still shining on the rolling green hills and quaint villages with their stone houses; running around neolithic monuments; and hanging out together just talking crap and being silly together.

"Life is a Highway" by Tom Cochrane. One-hit wonders look out, this is the daddy of them all. We may never remember what Tom Cochrane went on to do, but we've all taken something from his one great message: "Life is a highway/I wanna ride it all night long". You put this on at a bar, and I will pay you money if people don't end up singing and air-guitaring. You're probably already doing it now. It's a classic song format, complete with low-key verses, rock-out chorus, moody bridge, and anthemic sing-a-long before the big final chorus and harmonica fade-out. It reminds me of family car trips, looking out the window at fields of corn crops, and wishing I could have been in Tom Cochrane's music video, with my own torn jeans, shaggy blond haircut and for some reason, nuns.

The Old Man

The old man shuffled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. His knuckle-bones cracked as he grasped the cupboard handle above the stove, reaching in for a mug. He sighed.

He had been powerful, once, but it was a power bestowed by his chosen career, and the pinnacle position he had occupied. Once removed, forcibly, from under him, he discovered that the strength he thought was his own was an illusion, an oasis, created by his mind. His age, which had never been an issue before, was suddenly confronting. 70 was not far off. The mind now knew it, and could no longer trick the body. Time had caught up with him.

He poured the boiling water into the chipped mug, which was labelled “World’s Greatest Grandad” in bright red letters. A sentimental keepsake; his wife would rather he stick with one of her fine bone china mugs, but he insisted on using this one. The words went around the mug, and as he drank his tea he could tilt his hand just so, in order that the words “World’s” and “Greatest” featured prominently in his vision, while “Grandad” was concealed by his palm. He would think about better words to complete the description: “Leader”, or “Australian”. Those thoughts served to warm his insides as much as the Earl Grey did.

He zipped up his green tracksuit jacket. At least he still had strength enough for his morning constitutional. He pushed open the back door, fixing his glasses firmly onto his face, and headed out into the warm summer morning.

The streets were still awash with dawn sunlight; it was his favourite time of day. He knew the air would be full of butcher-bird melodies, even though he couldn’t particularly hear them, having left his hearing aid on his bedside table. He turned right out of his street, admiring the white roses that grew in the front garden of the elegant home on the corner.

The old man didn’t see the Jeep Wrangler backing down the driveway to his left. When a blur of black and silver finally appeared in his peripheral vision, it was too late. The man’s knees weren’t quick enough to spring him into action; neither time nor strength were on his side anymore.

He lay on his back, eyes skyward, staring at the perfect blue dome above him. He pondered in that moment how little time he had spent looking up: always it was sideways, forwards, backwards, around. The perfect blue calmed him, and made him think of God. He had only ever paid lip service to religion before, but it occurred to him now that if the truth about anything was anywhere, it was most likely up, unrestrained by gravity, personalities, stories, policies, desires, thoughts, opinions, motives.

But suddenly the blue was gone, obscured by the blurry face of the Jeep driver, who had jumped out of the vehicle in panic, yelling for help. His worried eyes brought terror back into the old man’s heart, when he’d been so happy just a second earlier. He tried to move his eyes beyond the driver’s face, back to the blue. But the feeling was gone.

The old man sighed. He had been doing that a lot lately. He tried to think of warm, kind words about his contribution to the world, what people would say. Oddly, he could only think of his chipped mug, and its inscription, “Grandad”. He knew there were two other words, but they wouldn’t come to him now. “Grandad”, he thought, that’s me. He tried to remember what else he had been, what he had done, how he had lived his life. But none of it would come, except “Grandad”, emblazoned on the mug in red letters.

The old man closed his eyes. He clung to the last word. Grandad would have to be enough.

Close Encounters of the Perverted Kind

My childhood, for the most part, was like an episode of Little House on The Prairie. Now I've never actually seen Little House on the Prairie, but it seems to be the comedy stereotype for an idyllic, innocent youth. If it's good enough for cliched comedy writers, it's good enough for me.

While my parents certainly had their fair share of arguments, and I certainly got a few beltings for misbehaviour, I was blessed to have a nuclear family with a mother that stayed at home to look after us, a father who earned enough money to buy a new Holden every three years and take us overseas, and a younger brother who was kind enough to avoid the face when he grew old enough to beat the shit out of me.

I know. I'm so frickin' white middle class it hurts.

So it gives me great delight to look back on two eventful occasions in my life that I can legitimately call: Potentially Dangerous Encounters With Sexual Perverts. The first one's a bit serious, but if you get through that, the second one is kind of hilarious, in a disturbing kind of way.

October, 1990. My tenth birthday party – one of the greatest-ever weekends in my life. I had invited five girlfriends over for a sleepover. They arrived late Saturday morning, and we began by making string balloons. You know where you cover a balloon with glue, wrap in in string, wait for it to dry, then pop the balloon, and voila! A beautiful, artistic, stringy creation. Then we hit the pool. Then some dancing in the rumpus room, followed by a party dinner, with all of my Dad's best food. Saturday night we chatted, as only ten-year-old girls can, before a game of Truth or Dare (as usual, everyone wimped out on the Dares), and eventually sleep.

We greeted Sunday morning with another swim, before deciding on a walk down to Cash's Crossing, the then-single bridge that connected Albany Creek to Eatons Hill (it was duplicated a couple of years later). Our property backed onto the great divide, with the North Pine River still flowing through it, so it didn't take us long to walk through the gap in our back fence, through the land of the Good Shepard Baptist Church that surrounded us on two sides, out past the Scout Den at the back of them, then down the cement path to the river.

We wandered along, six girls, with my brother and his friend along for company (whenever one of us had a party, the other would always be allowed to invite their own friend so they wouldn't feel left out). As track wound around towards the bridge, we saw a man standing just near it, astride a bicycle, but stationery, with one foot on the ground, watching the river. He seemed old to me then, but in hindsight he would have been no more than 18 or 19, with a boyish face and short hair. A yellowy t-shirt, from memory. We group walked up and under the bridge, and three of the girls decided to climb four metres up the slanting support wall, to sit in a nook under the bridge itself. Two had to take off their shoes to do it; the other two girls and the two boys decided to go on ahead. I waited at the bottom of the support wall, near the shoes.

I don't remember the man watching us; but he must have been as he didn't continue on his ride. I had my back to him, watching the girls as they admired the graffiti sprayed on the underside of the bridge. When they tumbled their way down, we waited while two of the girls put their sneakers back on.

It was then that the man clicked his foot onto the pedal, and rode over and around to us.

“Hey girls, wanna make some money?”

We blanched.

“You show me yours and I'll show you mine”.

I don't remember what the other girls looked like – I think they were like me, part surprised, part confused.

I spoke first. “No!” From memory, it was a fairly disgusted-sounding no. It must have been forceful enough, as the man didn't try to press the issue. He simply circled us once more on his bicycle, muttered something like “Your loss”, then rode away, back up the path we had just come down.

The four of us looked at each other, then took off in the other direction, catching up with the other four who'd wandered out into the sunshine and long grass on the other side of the bridge. We told them what happened, and we agreed we had to rush back and tell my parents. By the time we left the creek, emerging back out behind the Scout Den, there was no sign of the man on the bicycle. We kept our eyes peeled the whole way home, but our house was on acreage, and the roads were at least a hundred metres away.

I remember my mother was hanging laundry, or doing washing, or something on the ground floor of our two story. I vaguely recall rushing up to her in a swirl of white bedsheets fluttering on the line, but that may be my overactive imagination. We told her, in rushed breaths, interjecting with each other, what had happened.

From there, I don't remember much. We stayed close to home after that, jumping back into the pool and picking up with the inflatable toys and body boards where we had left off. I don't remember if Mum or Dad told the girls' parents when they came to pick them up; I don't know if Mum or Dad called the police, or if any other action was taken. I should probably ask them some day. We may have mentioned it at school, but it was soon forgotten, at least publicly. I don't know if that incident made me any more aware of child abuse, or paedophilia, but it certainly at least reiterated the “stranger danger” message. It was my first encounter with an ugly flipside of life, one that thankfully would continue to be completely alien to my everyday experiences.

Of course, I have no idea what happened to the man on the bicycle.

August, 1998. Seventeen years old, halfway through my first year of university, not really a child anymore. But certainly not adult enough to be ready for what greeted me on a drive home one night.

I had gotten my first role in a uni drama production, and it had been opening night. I played the Chorus in Oedipus Rex. A one-woman chorus, but it was a modernised version, and I was playing a journalist - the commentator, if you will, on the actions of a bloke who had, ironically enough, a bit of an Oedipus complex. We'd had the traditional red wine and cheese after-party, and I had gotten into my gorgeous little blue Barina (beep beep!) to head home.

I was stopped, as usual, at the top of Burns Street, at its intersection with Moggill Road. Despite the fact it was nearing midnight, I still had to wait a while for the lights to go green. It was during this period of idling, that I noticed a figure walk out from behind the wooden fence to the left of me, and round the front of my car. Thinking about how the show had gone, I wasn't 100 per cent focused, but I still remember having these vague thoughts:

“That bloke looks like he's coming towards me. That's strange. He is. Hang on, what's he holding in his hand, around hip level? Wait, what's he doing at my window?!?!?!”

The man, who was wearing a red checked flannelette shirt and walking in a fairly hunched fashion, had been holding what appeared to be a sausage in his hand. It was, as you've probably all guessed by now, a penis. I certainly hope it was his, but you never can tell. Perhaps he found it on the ground. Whatever had happened, he was keen to show it off. He came up to my car window and, well, presented it to me. That's the best way I can describe it; it was like he was a waiter showing me my wine selection for approval.

I wouldn't say I was freaked out, even though there was a man trying to insert his member into my half rolled down window. Again, I was just part surprised, part confused. Then it hit me; what the FRICK?

I yelled “Oh, are you right?!?!”, grabbed the winder and started rolling. In hindsight I wish I'd said something zing-ier like “You call that a penis?” or “What is that, a Cheerio?”. But that was all I could manage as I slammed the window shut. To this day, I think that if I had had an automatic window, I would have caused some serious damage. At that moment, the traffic lights turned green, and I shot off across the intersection, keeping my eyes forward until I was over the crest of High Street, Toowong.

I drove home in a daze. Several times I actually convinced myself that the whole event – which only took several seconds – had not happened. Why would anyone want to stick their penis through a car window? I thought about contacting the police, but what would I tell them? You probably will not believe me, but I couldn't recall anything about the penis itself, in terms of size, colour, or foreskin presence. Of course, I didn't really look. I never saw the man's face either, as obviously it wasn't the part of his body at my eye level in the car. I think he had straggly, longish hair. Certainly not enough for a police description.

I resolved that at all costs, my mother must never know. She still worried about me being out late, and would call to ensure I was safe. I had just started a play, and didn't want to get Mum even more fretful about the safety of the university and its surrounds at night. Ergo, unlike the man on the bicycle under the bridge, she must never know.

But that didn't stop me telling everyone else. After a few days of convincing myself that yes, a man really did try to stick his penis through my car window, I began to see the funny side, especially considering how close he was to a Lorena Bobbitt-style amputation. These days, while I very rarely mention the man on the bicycle, I'm still more than happy to peel out the penis story.

I often wonder what became of both of these unfortunate men. I hope the first one's in jail; I hope the second, if his particular peccadillo remained relatively harmless, received some good psychological help. And while I love a good story, I think I'm relatively happy to just have two close encounters of the perverted kind in my anecdote folder.

Based on a suggestion from Michael.

Why Stayin' Alive is the Best Thing to Do Before You Die

On the top shelf of my bookcase, sandwiched between a "Complete Works of William Shakespeare" and Machiavelli's "The Prince", sits a collection of five little books. It's a Rough Guide series titled "Ultimate Experiences", and it was a gift from Vodafone, believe it or not (my partner Greg was also encouraged to choose a gift: he chose to plant a couple of trees, presumably to replace the paper my books consumed).

The "Ultimate Experiences" are broken up into Journeys, Wonders of the World, Wildlife Adventures, Ethical Travel and World Food, and there are 25 of each. I may have failed Year 12 Maths B, but I believe I remember enough of the "multiplication" process to work out that equates to 125 "Ultimate Experiences". I've been through the books, and managed to tick off six of the Wonders of the World, six of the World Food, and 1 of the Journeys. There's a couple of the local Wildlife Adventures that I could include (spotting platypuses in Australia and kiwis in New Zealand) that I could include at a stretch. Plus I've been through the West Highlands of Scotland, just not on a train as the Journeys one suggests. So, at a stretch, that's 15-and-a-half "Ultimate Experiences" that I've had. Out of 125. Seems a bit, well, depressingly low.

It got me thinking about those "Things to Do Before You Die" lists, and whether they're really as motivating as they're supposed to be, or just a gloomy reminder of the brevity of life, and how we're probably not going to get around to a lot of stuff during it.

Let's face it. These kind of lists are a pretty self-indulgent creation of modern affluent Western societies. I doubt you'll see much mention of them before the turn of the 20th century, and even then they were members of the British or American elite, coupled with the odd adventurer/nutjob. I can imagine for most people living in times of old, their "Things to Do Before I Die" list might look more like this:

1. Eat food.
2. Get money.
3. Make it to 30.

Come to think of it, that list is still relevant for hundreds of thousands of people living today. All in all, we're fairly fortunate to live in a sphere where we can give SERIOUS thought to activities beyond basic survival. I'm not trying to slam us for being wastrel Westerners, but really, going to a Death by Chocolate night does sound a bit indulgent by comparison.

There seem to be two components to these types of Lists. There's the "OMG this place/experience is so awesome you will never understand life, the universe and everything until you have seen it/done it/had it/bought the T-shirt". These are normally your big-budget travel items like trekking the Appalachians, camel-riding in the Sahara, seeing an opera at La Scala or visiting Graceland to see Elvis' death toilet. While I have many of these on a wish-list, it's unrealistic of me to think I'll achieve every one. I'll just keep prioritising until a lack of health, wealth or alive-ness stops me. But for many people, these simply aren't affordable, or even desirable. For some, their best-ever vacation might come from a family trip to the Sunshine Coast.

The second category within the List is "Fairly Ordinary Things We Do Reasonably Regularly and Include So We Can Feel Better About Not Doing More of Category A". These are things like planting a tree, throwing a party for a friend, having a pet etc etc. Wow - I didn't realise learning to juggle was worthy of inclusion on my tombstone! "Here lies Natalie/Boy, was she good at quoting Blackadder". Surely these things are just a part of life, to be experienced as and where possible, as and where desired? It's like Scene Selection being listed as a "Special Feature" on DVDs. I'm sorry, but, no. It's just a part of the entire viewing experience.

If I honestly had to come up with a list of ten things I'd like to achieve by, let's say, my 30th birthday (because that albatross is beginning to circle my neck like a garotte), it would be something like this:

1. Not die.
2. Be a good person, and well-liked (including by myself).
3. Continue to have good relationships with my family and friends.
4. Travel frickin' anyway I frickin' can.
5. Be good and get better at what I do, career-wise and acting/improv wise.
6. Earn more money.
7. Develop a new skill (like a language or Photoshop or something)
8. Become techno-savvy.
9. Continue to build an awesome DVD collection.
10. Lose 10 kilos.

I reckon at least the first three would make almost everyone's top ten list.

While I can see the benefit in writing down your goals, and setting timetables to achieve them, I don't believe they should be bookended by Death. It's kind of like my ongoing promises to lose weight. "I swear to drop 5 kilos before my high school reunion. I swear to be a size 12 by the end of the year". I'm just setting myself up for failure. Think about your goals, list them, keep track of your progress - but don't become obsessed by "ticking" things off. You might be so obsessed with achieving your list, that you miss a wonderful opportunity to do something else you had never imagined.

Cecil Rhodes, the famed British businessman, diamond fancier and "empire builder" (ie, he killed a lotta Africans) is reported to have said on his deathbed, aged 48 - " so litte done, so much to do" . This from a guy who gave his name to a country, established a scholarship program that would allow future Prime Ministers of Australia to sink piss in Oxford for years to come, and took home more bling than Elizabeth Taylor after Oscars night. If after everything he's done, he's still feeling regrets, what hope do the rest of us have?

Life is a quilt in progress. Every moment is a piece of patchwork. I'm hoping mine will be a Bayeux Tapestry - which, by the way, is on my list of "Things to See Before I'm Too Old to Understand Medieval French"...


Based on a suggestion from Renee.

A Model Argument

The naming this week of 12-year-old Maddison Gabriel as the “Face” of Gold Coast Fashion Week has prompted yet another outcry from the moral majority. In this case, it’s a fairly justifiable majority, as most sensible Australians object to the sexualisation of young girls, including this one.

You can feel a "but" coming, though, can't you?

Let me be quite frank. I loathe and despise the modeling industry. Some of the time it features beautiful clothes on beautiful bodies – both of which I could never afford. Most of the time it features ridiculous clothing on horrifying bodies – both of which I’m perfectly happy to live without. The fashion industry should be more responsible for the health of its models, and do more to encourage a wider range of fashions for those unfortunate enough to have developed breasts and hips.

That being said, the modeling and fashion industries are the whipping boys de jour, when really, the industry is so fake, fawning, self-congratulating and slimy that we’re fools for paying any attention to what they say about anything. Yet we gasp when something like this happens - when the industry openly flaunts its adoration of youth. The problem is the rest of us have that too, but try to pretend we don't. It's admirable and important that society sets boundaries around "childhood". But it also needs to recognise its genetic bias towards youth, rather than try to isolate the young from it. We live in a digital age, and it's near-impossible to maintain the unreality bubble around them. The best thing to do is accept our failings, try to improve them, and responsibly guide the next generation.

The modelling industry certainly has great potential to be damaging to young women, and I would certainly advise young Morgan to tread carefully. But aren't the problems of eating disorders, body image issues and drug & alcohol abuse prevalent in the acting and music industries, not to mention sport? The potentially corrupting influences on children extend far beyond the catwalks.

But back to the essential issue with Morgan – her age. She turns 13 on Sunday. Kate Moss had her first magazine cover at 13. We love to judge Morgan’s parents for allowing her to pursue this dream so young, but how are we to know the inner dynamics of her family? Perhaps they have discussed the issue thoroughly, and have agreed that one of them will always be present with her at shows and photo shoots, and they will have final say on what she wears. Perhaps she has agreed to commit to achieving a certain academic standard at school in order to be allowed to model. I’m not trying to praise them, simply to say every family is different, and maybe they’ve chosen this path because it’s the right one for them at the moment.

If they try to “JonBenet” Morgan, then hell yes, I’ve got serious concerns. There’s nothing more terrifying than those teeny pageant girls in the trowelled-on mascara. But from the photos published in papers and online today, she looks like a pretty young girl “dressed up”. Yes, it’s a generalization, but most girls like to dress up. Yes, just because she looks 20 does not make it OK. But had nobody said anything, would we have been conducting ID checks? Had the announcement simply been “This is Morgan, model contest winner”, would we have thought “Outrageous! It simply will not do!”. We might have thought “She looks a bit young”, but we would have assumed a competition like that would have had an age requirement of at least 16 or more, and we would have carried on with our day.

If any freak wanting to get his rocks off had happened upon the picture, he would have been satiating his desires over a young girl he would have thought was in her mid to late teens, not thirteen. But chances are, if he was a paedophile, he might find uglier, sicker and all-round abhorrent places online to find images to his liking. Worse still, he might find the little girl next door, or his niece, or his daughter. The irony is, that if anything, this publicity has simply piqued the freak interest in Morgan. For that, I am truly outraged.


Based on a suggestion from Kiesten.

Getting Out of the Pool

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that there is no graceful way to exit a swimming pool.

This fact has been known to me for many years, but reinforced earlier this week during various attempts to pull myself out of the Spring Hill baths without showing too much thigh. Unfortunately, it is a task more difficult than getting Britney Spears in bed by 9pm.

I’ve begun – more fool me – to swim at the Baths in a desperate attempt to trick myself into exercise. The Baths have a pilates room attached to it: it’s small but it’s decked out with all the machinery; and I’ve been enjoying using the amusingly-named “Reformer” to work on my posture, flexibility, and to give my glutes a much-needed kick up the arse.

But the very enjoyability of pilates is also its downfall for me – it’s not an aerobic form of exercise. While you can certainly work up a sweat, it doesn’t leave me red-faced and panting for oxygen after five minutes - hence the need for something more frenetic in my “fitness regime”*, and the decision to take advantage of the pool (use of which is free for pilates regulars).

As a child, I spent my life in the water. But with the onset of high school, I began to pay less attention to the pool. The eventual move to a house with fully-ducted air-conditioning spelled the death knell for frequent swimming. The physical reason for making a swim desirable – oppressive heat – was removed, and it was much easier to sit on the couch with a glass of icy-cold Pepsi Max that don the togs. Of course, there were the inevitable public outings to Wet & Wild or public baths and beaches while traveling – but they only served to remind me of another problem that had been growing insidiously while my thighs remained securely behind a screen of denim.

Cellulite.

Oh yes, the cottage cheese, the string-bags full of onions, the dreaded dimples. I have it in spades, which is ironic, because it looks like it’s been created with spades – like a little line of World War One trenches crisscrossing the Somme that is my upper thigh. Couple that with the blinding whiteness of my pasty Irish-Polish skin, and you understand the reason why I wear board shorts around the water. But wearing boardies while swimming for exercise is a pain in the chunky ass – it limits movement and creates drag. Luckily the Spring Hill Baths are near-deserted during the day, so I decided to take advantage of the empty pool and swim sans shorts.

Thirty laps later, and full of the joy of breast-stroking**, I was preparing to quickly exit the pool from the deep end, and head to my charming little dressing cubicle about four metres away. Unfortunately, one of the pool attendants was hanging around, chatting away on the phone. The only ladder out of the pool was on the other side – which would mean a slightly more graceful exit, but necessitate at least a 20 metre walk back to my cubicle to get my towel. Hmm. Rule that out. I needed to be able to get to the cubicle quickly, so I would have to exit from where I was. I decided against the half-flop onto the edge, knowing I would end up looking like a beached whale in reverse, struggling to pull my hindquarters onto dry land. I resolved instead to do the push-up-and-twist, a neat manuoevre that when performed correctly, makes you look athletic as well as somewhat dignified.

I pushed up onto the bar that lined the length of the pool, twisted my body so my femurs were pointing away from the pool boy, and placed my feet on the bar. I then grasped a handy balcony support pole, and pulled myself up, stepping off the bar and onto the pool edge. A split second later I was in my cubicle, hidden.

Ahhh, a job well done. I reached a hand up to my head, to remove my material swimming cap.

It wasn’t there.

I looked down.

It was still in the pool.

It had come off during the push-up phase of the exit strategy, and was currently floating a metre underwater. That meant I would have to jump back in to retrieve it – forcing yet another exit with thighs on show. Yikes!

With pool boy still present I jumped in, grabbed the cap, and turned round to the bar in one breath. I pushed up, sat on the edge, then quickly turned and grasped the pole, pulling myself upwards.

Yee-ouch!

I hadn’t realised that the forces of gravity activated by jumping down into the water had forced my faded swimsuit bottom to make a journey up Mt Crackmore. Thus the lower part of my gluteus maximus was exposed to harsh pool edge cement, with the turn causing a sudden and painful graze. I quickly limped into my cubicle, hand on rump.

I peeked around the corner. Pool boy was gone. Had he seen me? He gave no indication when I shuffled out a few minutes later, board shorts fully operational.

I’m heading back for another swim in a few days. I think I might have to keep the boardies on, if only to avoid the stinging pain of an arse-graze. At least I know now why the Australian swim team wears those wet suits.

*By “fitness regime” I mean “infrequent physical alternatives to sitting on the couch watching Bargearse and scoffing chips”.

**Get your mind out of the gutter.