Monday, December 20, 2010

I Believe I can fly...

My grandparents live on a golf course. 

That's right you read it correctly, you open their back garden fence and walk right onto the grassy, well mowed lawn of a respectable 18 hole golf course. A very handy happen stance if it's your hobby, and it was, or is rather. With two metal knees, a bad hip and extremely well permed hair my nanny still manages to do her 9 holes or so every weekend with the girls (that is ladies of her between 60 and 75 age group). What's more she's still extremely good at it. I still remember the time she attempted to take me out for the afternoon and after almost continuous swings and misses decided the golfing gene had definitely skipped a generation. A fact she was happy to tell me in a statement that went something like - "Well your rubbish aren't you" shattering any delusion I had of it simply being a bad day. 

My golfing dreams aside, it's not all "rubbish" when it comes to my skills in activities on the green. For example I can walk around the course whilst dodging golf balls quite successfully (I haven't been hit yet), I am rather skilled at spotting balls in the long grass when shots go astray… careful to avoid deadly brown snakes that may be living in the vicinity and after a few years of driving experience I am a relatively accomplished golf bugger driver. Ok so I wouldn't say this was always the case - no I haven't been hit with a ball or bitten by a snake, but I have had a run in with some plants. A black boy to be exact - back when it wasn't politically incorrect to call them such, I think they're now referred to as Grass trees. 

It was christmas night, we were celebrating at our grandparents, when all the kids (that is all 6 of us) decided we would take the golf buggy out for a spin. There's something about driving any sort of moving vehicle that is incredibly thrilling when you don't yet have a license and are still too short to reach the pedals. Well after years of pleading with my oldest cousin Paul we agreed that having grown an inch or so over the holidays, I was finally ready to have a go. I took my seat in the drivers side and slide to the edge in order to get my toe on the pedal, noticing quickly that I could barely see over the steering wheel. 

Call it the christmas spirit but my cousin either didn't or pretended not to notice and continued his brief instructions. right is go left is stop - turn the steering wheel slowly in the direction you want to go and take it easy on the pedals. I nodded, feeling excitement well up inside of me… I lightly put my foot on the accelerator and got a laugh from the passengers behind me "you have to press harder than that Lesley" So I did, I think it was the joy of going fast for the first time in my life combined with the fact that I had a steering wheel in the way and bad night vision but within a minute of feeling the wind on my face we felt the car slam into something and I went flying out. Cue "I believe I can fly" as you imagine a skinny little 8 year old flying through the air onto the freshly mowed grass. I lifted my face from the dirt, spiting grass clippings out, and marveled at the fact I had no serious injury. Everyone came running over to see if I was ok, some genuinely concerned, others attempting unsuccessfully to hide their laughter.

In fact Paul was the most concerned… that was until he saw the damage I had done to the buggy. For those that have never known someone with a short temper let me explain it. imagine a very fast car that can go from naught to 200 in 30 seconds… that's what it's like for a person quick to anger - you could see the emotion well in him, like a red tidal wave advancing from the bottom of his neck to his forehead. I remained on the ground hoping that if I still looked helpless and disabled he may direct his eminent torrent of abuse on something or someone else. I sat waiting… and waiting, but nothing happened. "Get in the back" is all he said. So piling back into the buggy we headed back to the house, scared and wary of Paul's eventual outrage but even more so of what Granddad would do. 

This is when the story takes a surprising turn, something to this day I am still baffled by. We were right about one thing, Granddad was not happy - we waited in another room the next day while he sat with Paul furiously explaining his disappointment. I could hear yelling and table fist slamming, waiting with dread for my name to be called to join the barrage of reprimand. After about 15 minutes Paul walked in, steely faced and tight lipped. "Does he want to see me now" I gulped, worried that I may actually wet my pants. Paul just looked at me, a sort of sadness in his eyes and just shook his head "Come on" he answered "Let's go to the garden and play". So we did, I don't know if it was the shock or the fact I was easily distracted but I forgot about it after that. I found out later that Paul had taken the wrap for me, something he neither owed me or was better off doing. If anything, as a bit of a goody goody, I probably would have got off quite lightly compared. I never told my granddad it was me, and when he died it's the one thing I regretted (however mum is sure he knew), maybe he did, maybe he thought I would punish myself enough (which I did). I don't know, all I know for sure is that, people will surprise you, and that when others say you are still too short to drive, they really mean it. 


Drive safe this holidays ^_^ 

Monday, December 13, 2010


When your a kid, going to a restaurant can be really boring, especially when the company is comprised mainly of adults. The idea of a child being better seen than heard tends to apply and you end up forced to sit there amongst clinking cutlery and plates listening to the 'grownups' of the table go on about work and commitments and many other topics that have absolutely no relation to you. They may as well be speaking in another language, which can seem the case if your parents have jobs that tend to involve a completely ludicrous amount of jargon. The KPG's and the CPI's, investments in BMO's and SJ who apparently was seeing MR behind PK's back. The amount of acronyms the average work environment can come up with is actually quite startling, in fact I'm sure if this creative energy was funneled into something more constructive, productivity and idea generation would abound. Alas, I digress, my point was that adult conversation can be really really boring! 

Even now I found myself stuck in the middle, no longer young enough to be amused by the romance of my knife and fork (yes I used to pretend they were married, with the smaller, entree set becoming their children) but I'm not yet old enough to have succumbed to the average pressures and annoyances of being an adult and working a job you either don't like or aren't particularly happy with.  Not to mention I haven't accumulated enough life experience to be annoyed by most of the things around me that fail to meet my expectations or high standards. 

So being at any table with adults, or even just people you can't relate to, can lead to mind numbing, comma inducing boredom! Thank goodness I managed to think on my feet, so when the prospect of yet another night spent moving my knife and fork around the table avoiding the spoon and keeping up with the smaller yet equally shiny silverware sent me into fits of narcolepsy, I decided I was going to occupy myself. This had to be done strategically, I couldn't appear to be 'acting up' neither could it seem like I was bored with the parents, insolent, or that I had disappeared. A parent can sense these things quite expertly, unless of course the conversation moves onto politics or problems faced by their respective industries, a case where they tend to spend the next hour one upping each other. I thus want to share with you, my lovely readers, ways in which you can occupy yourself discreetly and thus maybe keeping you from empaling yourself on your fork after having to 'actively' listen to topics that are as interesting to you as watching paint dry in a white room with no furniture. 

1. If your in a pizza place, elect to help them fold takeaway boxes - not something for my older readers but great for you kids, it not only gets you away from the table but the parents are usually so enthused by your eagerness to be helpful and you are in 99% of cases offered dessert. 
2. Ask for dough, this can work at any place that make's bread or pizza, while away the hours making cute little snowmen and unflattering effigies of your boss. If anyone asks, you can better concentrate on conversation when your hands are occupied
3. Make up stories about the people sitting around you on other tables, highly amusing and can entertain for hours - just be careful, if you start laughing at an image you've conjured about a particularly strange couple next to you be sure that the laughter matches the conversation of your friends. I have often placed giggles or comments in highly inappropriate topics of conversation due to lapses of concentration, not something I enjoy being remembered for. 
4. Fold napkins, hard when dining at a more fancy place where linen has been chosen over more disposable materials, but still a great way to work on your origami skills.
5. Go to the 'bathroom'. In other words, excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, and go and find more interesting people to talk to instead. If asked why you took so long just say you got locked in. If you are somehow caught having a conversation with someone else, quickly imply that these are the people that saved your life and exit the situation quickly. 

Good luck bloggers, 
and may your meals be filled with interesting conversation


I just entered a competition and could really use your help! 

All I need is for you to go to the address bellow and vote for my portfolio -
no sign up required, just follow the link and click on the 5th star ^_^ 
Thanks everyone! 

Monday, December 6, 2010

Honest truly I do

I have pretty strict parents. Not mean, or cruel, but definitely strict. Report cards were often littered with margined comments of - "need to improve". My school bag would be graded at the end of each day with gold stickers rewarded for organization and cleanliness. Bedtime was strictly adhered to and most shockingly to my classmates, there was absolutely no tv on a school night. "Not even when you eat afternoon tea?"
"How about the morning??"
"No cheese tv?" (apologies to my international readers for this unabashed  Australian reference) 
This would continue until boredom availed and a sense of hopelessness crept in. You may now be thinking along the lines of my peers. "What? No TV, not at all??" but to be perfectly honest, the 'saying ignorance is bliss' is true to it's meaning. I really didn't know what I was missing out on. 
The only thing I was aware of that need changing was my bedtime. Bedtime was 7:30, no I wasn't 4, it was a time set well into my high school years with the only difference being that later on I was allowed to read for an hour once under the covers. I quickly discovered that the well placed timing of reading lights being switched off and on meant that this could be extended to at least 11. That is unless mum stumbled in earlier and switched them of for me, grumbling about waking her up. I became hooked, hooked on the feeling of staying up past your bedtime. I longed for new years eve where beds weren't laid in till after midnight. I loved the sounds that came with the night, the scurrying of possums on our tin awnings, the loan cars crawling down the street and the faint clinking of glasses from the people next door who, like me, appreciated the late hours of the day. 

You can now fitly Imagine my delight when we received the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on one particular christmas day. I didn't really know the movie, in fact it's live action contents didn't thrill me at all at first. Our video library comprised 90% animated films with the exception of mums creepy 80's workout instructional's. That was until I read the back, there in tiny black font, right beside the barcode, was the number 144. I realized with a surge of excitement that it meant the movie was over 2 hours long. 

Do you know what that meant?? It meant that if I timed it right, when mum said "you can watch one movie before bed" this baby could take us into hours WELL after our bedtime. How could they be so naive I thought with glee, this movie was my ticket to late nights, to staying up, to being a grownup. I must have watched that movie at least 52 times that year. Every week when given the choice of what movie we'd like to watch it was out of it's case and into the VCR before mum even finished the sentence. Alex and I even endured the disgustingly sappy "lovely lonely man" by Scrumptious so we could stay up 3 minutes longer. Although sometimes the thought of her swinging and running round her garden on fast forward was too much of a temptation to resist. 

That year it became our mission to stay up. Something Alex gave up soon enough when the thought of going to bed with lights still on was more comforting then the impenetrable darkness of being the last one in bed. For me though, it was just the beginning. As time wore on I came up with new and more elaborate ways to push back my bedtime. Homework commitments, tidying my room, I still remember the night I took out all my clothes from the drawers and convinced mum I wouldn't be able to sleep till they were all folded neatly away.. . I realize this doesn't exactly make me a night time rebel to be idolized by small children looking for ways to escape bedtime, but it was never about not doing what I was told - something I couldn't really conceive of due to what I'm sure was elaborate brainwashing techniques by my parents. No, staying up offered more than the thrill of being up when you shouldn't. It was an escape, a time when I didn't have to be anyone, or talk to anyone. There was only blackness, and in the blackness, the opportunity for my imagination to create worlds. 

Happy imagining everyone 


Speaking of movies I love, if you haven't seen Coraline yet you need to! in fact, stop reading right now and go and get it and watch it tonight! ^_^ 

Monday, November 29, 2010

Listening to your elders

As you grow there are things adults will tell you to do that are meant, not only to keep you alive, but stop them from having to explain to social services why the soon to be dot to dot game of bruises speckling your body are result of stupidity rather than abuse. For example... don't run across the road, this makes sense, cars are larger, stronger and much faster than you, if it came to a fight it is easy to see who would stand victor in the end. How about - Don't stick your hand into fire... Fire is hot, again an unhappy result from this union does seem likely to occur. 

So when my cousins said, don't stick your hand in the pool table you would think I'd take head their advice. They were after all older, more experienced and generally spent less time injured than I did. However my ability to rationalize any instruction unfortunately lead me down the wrong path. You see, when weighing up the size of the ball and my cousins aim, I honestly thought I had nothing to worry about. I will never forget the mind numbing pain of having all your fingers crushed between a hard wood plank and a heavy ceramic ball... I spent the rest of the holiday in a bandage with the throbbing of every small bone in my fingers providing a constant reminder that it's always best, to listen to your elders.. well most of the time anyway. 

Stay safe everyone ^_^

I never really drew on the walls, but I was fortunate - or unfortunate (not sure yet) to hear the story of a little boy that was caught painting the walls with his poo - this entry goes out out to Nat that has to endure stories (and visuals) like this every week. 

Monday, November 22, 2010

What colour should chicken be?

After a an unsuccessful attempt at cooking dinner last night (should have listened to my instincts when they said not to put the whole stock cube in the stir fry), it started me thinking on all the other culinary disasters I have managed to survive in my time as chef. As I've told you before, mum enjoyed giving us independence, pushing us on numerous occasions to take initiative and look after ourselves. When I was around 10 years old, her sights turned to the kitchen. Having always asked for company there, we had on many occasion watched with fascination as she would create dishes from scratch. A fan of simple and tasty meals, they usually consisted of some type of meat and veggies, although occasionally it would branch into something really creative, like her family famous "Stack". That is a whole bunch of different veggies sliced wafer thin and piled high amongst generous dollops of persian feta, olive tapenade, pea sauce and topped with a sprinkling of parsnip chips. mmmmm, Stack…. Ok I'm back (had to go down and get a snack, I think it may be dangerous for me to write about food, may have to lock myself in a room in future). I must also mention our own creative endeavors - times that usually involved forcing each other to eat things we knew the other was allergic to or disliked intensely. Any way the point of that little digression was that it was not our first time in the kitchen, nor was it the first time we had been told to help prepare things for the table. 

So when the time came for my duties as "big sister" to extend to putting dinner on the table, I was happy to oblige. Cut to the night in question. All I had to do was take the crumbed chicken fillets out of the freezer, follow the instructions and make a salad… seemed simple enough. So carefully removing the chicken from its brightly colored box and dropping the fillets into the pan I turned on the oven to 180 and pushed them to the back. Done, now to the salad. Looking back on it, I must admit it wasn't my most impressive assembly of greens as it really only consisted of lettuce with copious amounts of dressing. In fact I think the ratio was something like 3 parts dressing, one part salad. However, although highly vinegary, it didn't taste all bad. By about this time I heard the ding on the oven and seeing heat rising from the now golden crumbs of the chicken, I grabbed our rooster oven mits and carefully slid the chicken from the hot interior. After placing them on a plate along with some tomato sauce I had made into a cute yet slightly wobbly smiley face, with the salad on the side, I headed out with the plates for us to enjoy. 

We had decided to eat in front of the tv, where light was scarce but our bean bags provided a sort of chair and table in one. Having never been able to do more then one thing when tv was involved I had a nibble of my chicken and lost interest as the show moved on. My sister however, never letting anything get in the way of a meal, had torn through her salad and half her chicken in about five minutes when a splash of unexpected light came bouncing of the tv and onto her plate. "Um Lesley" she said softly, concealed by her bean bag "Yeah?" I replied absentmindedly 
"umm… is the chicken… well is it supposed to be pink in the middle?" My eye's widened as I realised what she had said, not answering I cut my chicken in half to inspect the damage and sure enough not only was it pink but almost completely raw. Struggling to get out of the bag I put down my plate and told her to stop immediately. That the chicken was fine but I should probably put it in for a second go just in case. I left her in the lounge room looking confused and slightly green. I felt terrible, my first time making dinner and I was being faced with the possibility of jail for poisoning and killing my sister with dodgy chicken. 

I decided to re-cook the chicken and pretend like nothing had happened… after all, Alex had shown on more than one occasion that she had the stomach to handle such food based afflictions. Amazingly she ate the other half, and after a big glass of milo for dessert felt fine.

So for those kids reading this that are about to approach cooking of chicken for the first time, make sure you cook it all the way through, I mean siblings can be a pain, but poisoning them definitely isn't the solution.

A postcard I sent out recently about the launch of my new website - I promise next week I'll have a picture actually relating to the entry 

Have a great week everyone! ^_^

Sunday, November 14, 2010


When you're little, batteries can seem as elusive, extravagant and priceless as gold. Especially when they are in charge of powering the things in your life you value the most. There's no greater disappointment than opening up a new toy and discovering the batteries haven't been included. They weigh a lot too, making the small cases seem even more impressive. Oh and don't even get me started on the ones that have the little button on it so you can check the amount of juice it has left, I think I wasted more battery life digging my grotty little fingernails into the tiny bumps than using it in the actual appliance, proved by the small crescent shaped grooves perpetually dug into them. 
It's awful as well when you discover your new toy has more than 2 slots for them, meaning you'll probably only get to play with it twice a year, there's no way your parents are going to keep you supplied with that much battery power for long. 

So yes, batteries are like gold, they're expensive, hard to come by and look amazing incased in the right cocoon of appealing accessory. You may feel this is something I discovered whilst reflecting on my youth, but you would be wrong. I knew it from a very young age, it was after one particular day, the day my casio keyboard died. I may have mentioned that until I started playing the trumpet I wasn't an impressively musical child. My abilities reached as far as being able to mimic the chipmunks in song and short but high energy  performances on air guitar. Performances that looked more like I was holding an imaginary stick that I would strum repetitively with a limp hand. Not too impressive. One day however, in a moment of what I can only assume was insanity, my parents gave me a little 2 octave keyboard, with the batteries already inside! I loved that keyboard, played it whenever I could, that is, hit the demo track (wake me up before you go go) and let my little fingers fly. I played in my bedroom, put on concerts, played on the stairs, in the car on the… you get the idea. One day, after having noticed the light on the far right side flickering, it stopped mid octave slide. I couldn't believe it, apologizing to my imaginary audience members I tried desperately to turn it back on, sliding the power switch back and forth, wiggling the batteries, swapping them around. Nothing worked. Head down and keyboard tucked lovingly under my arm I headed to my parents den ala Matilda appealing to the Wormwoods for a book. "What do you need a book for??" "To reeeaaad" 

Luckily my parents weren't as cruel, they had however had enough of my demo track and sighted short funds for a reason to wait for my next round of batteries. I was crushed. No longer able to play the track, I would sit at the keyboard pretending it was on and closed my ears to the thud of my fingers pressing the darkened keys. It was a sad day, a sad week, a sad month… this went on until finally, my dad couldn't handle it anymore and in a moment of weakness he came home with a fresh set of shining new energizer batteries and threw them on my bed. "There you go Lesbes, don't use them all at once" I couldn't believe it, I hugged the plastic case for 2 seconds before attacking it's cardboard back with scissors like a starved child trying to get to food. Carefully pulling them out one at a time a feeling the weight in my hands I placed them into the back of the piano. When the last of the 6 batteries had been correctly slotted into place and the back was clipped in I flipped it round and tentatively slid the power switch to on. SUCCESS! The light went on as if the power had never left, next came the demo track - accompanied by a groan from the next room. 

I remembered it like it was yesterday, starting with the imaginary chords then to the slide, rounding it up with some good ol' fashioned honky tonk (slapping as many keys as I could). I remember then taking it over the the steps to the second story which had been conveniently placed over the front door, slotting my legs through the gaps and waiting with bated breath for my step mum to come home. I've never seen someone get more of a shock in my life as I heard her keys in the door and pressed the demo at full volume, she shrieked looking around wondering how the dreaded music had made a come back only to see dads sorry face in the hall way. "She just looked so sad"… Yes children, never underestimate the value of a good pout. So to end, remember that even when the bright lights of tiffanies beckon there's always the electronics isle in woolworths that can mean just as much. 

Monday, November 1, 2010

I'm Ok... Really!

It's funny what you inherit from your parents. Round eyes, a nose that points up, earlobes that attach to your neck. Parent/child similarities often consist of a long lists of physical attributes and behaviors acquaintances love to comment on. I'm not talking about when your a kid either, in fact often you settle into them. After 23 years of suspicion over my origin (I've mentioned my pasty complexion amongst a family of tanned) I'm just starting to notice how much I'm beginning to look like my mum. It's nice in a lot of ways, like finding a group of people you have something in common with, knowing you belong somewhere, not to mention a topic of conversation with relatives and family friends you never see and have nothing to say to. This sense of kinship and implied conception however can come at a price. Sure I got my dads sense of humor, both their artistic inclinations and my mums fierce sense of independence but I also got my dad's lack of physical prowess, their combined short stature and my mums weird pertinacity to attract strange people. Most importantly I've inherited a curse from the family that means no matter where I go or what I do it's almost impossible to stay anonymous. Take the other night for example. I hadn't seen my boyfriend in a while and choosing the middle of the week to rendezvous we headed to the movies in Bondi for the 25th anniversary of "Back to the future". 
I'd arrived late thanks to Sydney peak hour traffic and managed to settle in my seat just in time for the pre show festivities. So far so good, a late arrival had not spoiled my quest to remain one of the crowd. I cuddled up to my boyfriend and we laughed as we watched self professed BTTF nerds excitedly answer trivia questions in exchange for DVD's or Blue Ray's generously sponsored by Universal. Not knowing the world well enough I hadn't made a fool of myself answering a question wrong, or tripping down the aisle in an attempted to collect my prize. It's safe to say at this point I was feeling confident - I had gone a whole day of relative anonymity. Then, disaster struck. Relaxing further into my seat, unaware of impending doom I looked on as the host announced he was sadly out of trivia questions and would now resort to throwing DVD's into the audience… my muscles tensed… this sounded like trouble. After a brief pause as he collected himself and placed valuables at a safe distance, he picked up the box and taking on the persona of a trained Ultimate Frisbee sportsmen begun flinging them carelessly into the audience. Men dived into the aisles attempting to catch them, laughing and holding their prizes in triumph. My gut told me this gayety wouldn't last. Suddenly I noticed the host turn to face our direction, he still had some left. Eye's wide I watched as he flung one into the front, then another - wait it was a trick shot, it went spiraling in the other direction. Surely that was it, there couldn't be anymore. I waited, breath caught in my throat. 
To my horror there was one more. A shiny beacon of hope for everyone, a weapon of mass destruction for me. With a glint in his eye he cocked his arm back and spun his wrist around like a pro cricketer ready to bowl the opposition out. All four discs of extra features slowly spun towards me, I couldn't move, A hand shot up deflecting the blow only to strengthen it's arc as it came towards me. There was nothing I could do, bracing myself for impact I shut my eye's, too slow to lift my hands in time. BANG, the corner of the heavy plastic penetrated my glasses and went straight into my eye. I was down, withering in agony in the seat as tears sprung to my eyes. I could hear whispers of concern and disbelief spread through the cinema like an air born pathogen. With that one blow, I had become famous. The host called up guiltily to see whether I was alright (contemplating whether he had time to run out of the cinema before police were called) unable to open my eye and embarrassed for my tear streaked face I buried my head in the my lap and raised two feeble thumbs up to the crowd hoping it would communicate that I was indeed going to live and would appreciate it if the people up the back would turn of the lights so I could continue to cry in privacy. At the end of the film as we walked out I saw people looking around for my exit, whispering excitedly as though it was the highlight of their night… It probably was. 
We met some of my boyfriends friends and looked on as they realized I was "the DVD girl". That my friends is the story of my life. I'm perpetually The ________ (insert word of your choosing) Girl". So if your ever anywhere you see someone getting attention for something beyond their control, it's probably me, and know that I would appreciate you going back to you business and letting me continue with mine in private. 

Thank you 



Saturday, October 9, 2010

Wait, you want to know about me?

Hey everyone

I know it's been a while. I promise to have a proper entry for you up here soon, in the meantime though I wanted to tell you about an interview I got to do with the fantastic Ziggy Nixon. 

It's my first ever and probably only ever interview so I'd love for you all the check it out. Ziggy really did his homework for the questions, which means after reading it you may know more about me than my parents, but I tried to make the answers as fun to read as I could ^_^ 

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Did you fall in?

As we may have previously established I just happen to be a bathroom reader - yes that's right, I'm one of a small but very dedicated group known fondly as the bathroom readers institute, they even have books specially made for us. 
For those of you that like to get in, do your business and get out I can understand why this may be a hard thing to understand. "Why sit there in your own stink"? I can hear you saying. Your probably the same person that won't take baths, usually for the same reason "I refuse to sit in my own filth". Well I'm sorry to say I am the complete opposite, I'm not saying I fantasize about siting in stink or filth but there are things I like to take my time with. 

Alright, so that was probably more information than I should have shared so lets move on. The point is I spent time on the toilet, something you need to know to understand the rest of this story. 
It was on a rare night out to our local chinese restaurant that after a large water and more than my fare share of rice ships I felt the urge and excused myself accordingly. Locking myself in I was surprisingly quick to do what I needed and was back at the door within a few minutes. To my horror, the lock wouldn't budge.
I could immediately feel the stall shrink to half its size as I jiggled the lock furiously back and forth. Folding my shirt around my hand I tried again, using all my strength. I started to sweat. "Help" I called feebly trying the lock again. I looked up hoping to see a gap between the sides of the stall and ceiling, enough to climb over. It was a solid wall, I was completely closed in. Fighting back tears I sat on the floor knocking on the door at sporadic intervals hoping someone would hear me. 

Minutes ticked away and no one raised the alarm basing assumptions on my history of lengthy bathroom visits. As my family ate and talked I felt more alone in the stall thoughts of abandonment swirling in my head. 
20 minutes later mum had finally noticed my absence. I remained on the cold floor, my tummy growling as thoughts turned to the dishes that were now being served and what I'd have to eat if I was forced to stay in the stall forever. 

Just as I lost hope I heard a faint knock on the door."Lesley, are you ok in there" relief coursed through my body as I sprung up and called through the door "I'm locked in mum, help me". After what mum assures me was not a snigger I heard her fumble with the lock, swearing under her breath. "Hang on Les, I'll get you out". I waited for what felt like ages as I heard all sorts of strange sounds emanating from outside the door. All of a sudden the lock gave a jerk and gave way as the door was wrenched open. 
There stood mum, a knife in one hand and the lock in the other. I fell into her arms close to tears and she led me back out to the table, pausing once to hand a waitress the lock saying something about the fact it may belong to them. 

We finished our mongolian beef and fried rice then left and never returned. So my advice for this week is simple, when going to a public toilet - always look for your emergency exists and have a knife handy, because you never know when your visit could turn into a stay. 

Dedicated to other bathroom readers ^_^

Monday, September 13, 2010

Stronger than blood


Throughout my life you've always been 
My bestest friend and enemy

We've played, done trades and shared it all
You've taught me more than I recall 

We think the same and look it too
When I got sick it passed to you

I know your secrets
and you know mine
All your freckles
Every laugh line 

I know what you'd say 
and what you'd do 
I know you so well  
I can mimic you 

There's things in life
that go unsaid 
so I thought I'd write them down instead

I love you more than you could know
no matter what you do 
or where you go

I'm always here
my little one
Proud of everything 
you've been and done

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Down in the Deep


The waters deep 
The sea bed far
bellow the waves
that crash afar

The light filtered
like christmas lights
that twinkle shyly through the night

I feel so free
yet all around 
the waters press
as I've been bound 

I listen hard 
for sounds that might 
allude to signs of other life

Instead the only sound I hear
a distant humming in my ears

Then in the corner of my eye
a flash of colour shoots right by

But now the breath 
that once I took 
is fading fast
no time to look 

I reach above and kick bellow
until I see the surface glow
I break right through 
then dive back down 

There still much more
that must be found

Expect a few more poems over the next few weeks... I recently found my year 9 journal and some of them aren't half bad ^_^

Hope you all had a fantastic weekend and the dads of Australia had a great fathers day!