Saturday, 14 December 2013

The Last Hurrah

Greetings Earthlings, from planet Boganville! Oh okay, it's more like a Sydney suburb in NSW, Australia, which as far as I'm aware, is on planet Earth. DETAILS. It certainly seems like we bogans are creatures from the planet Zorg, though, right? Don't answer that...

This post may be my last hurrah for the momentous year of 2013. And what a year it's been for myself and my family. Jam-packed with all our usual under achievements and boring as bat shit astonishing escapades.

I wouldn't even  know where to begin. Oh right - January. That's usually the first month of the year, I believe. Here goes nothing. I mean, seriously and truly - NOTHING. But I figure since I'm noted for posts about nothing, why break this record now?


We ventured up  north to Queensland and the beautiful sunshine coast where it was, not surprisingly, quite sunny. I'm taking a wild guess here and assuming that's why it's referred to as The Sunshine Coast. You think? While there, I turned 42 and did not discover the Meaning Of Life AT ALL. I blame it all on Douglas Adams, quite frankly. He shouldn't have set me up for such lofty expectations of this age. HOW RUDE.


This is the shortest month of the year. I only mention this because I can't remember a thing of what I did during it and I have to make up something. Traditionally, my Dad would always go on a February Diet for this reason. Instead, I broke the tradition by eating like a Wildebeest* (and becoming one) because, you know - REBEL and all that. Not to mention a glutton. Hey, we weren't mentioning that!!


Mr 8 became Mr 9. Moving on, as I can't remember anything else from this month...


Easter! Which means chocolate! That would be the highlight of April for  me. Shut up.


I'm sure something happened in May. At the very least I would eaten and showered and even fed my kids occasionally.  I think. I hope. Maybe. Well, they're still alive, aren't they? HUMPH.


June was so crazy, action packed and momentous that I struggle to put it all into words! So I won't. You're welcome.


Mr 11 became Mr 12. There was cake involved.  Nothing to do with the birthday, there just always is  cake involved in my life. Which finally caught up with me when I had a blood test and discovered I had high cholesterol and blood sugar. Classy.


Micky Blue Eyes turned  50. There was more cake and yet more food. What else?


What can I say about September? Seriously, WHAT can I say about it? Help me out, here. I need to make some shit up....


Is the month that comes after September. Always has, always will. Interestingly, it's also the only month that begins with the letter O. I mention this purely because I don't want to mention cake again. Oh. Oops.


In this magnificent month Mr 4 became Mr 5 and Micky Blue Eyes and I celebrated our 18th Wedding Anniversary WITHOUT cake!!  I know! I can't believe it, either!


Well, here we are folks, limping through to the finish line of the wonderful year we've called 2013. Mr 5 has 'graduated' from pre-school and heading to 'big' school next year. Mr 12 is also heading off to High School. He had his Year 6 Farewell this week and looked rather dashing in his outfit.

Meanwhile, yesterday I received the best and only Christmas present I want when Micky Blue Eyes has his annual procedure and received the all clear from Cancer for the 9th year in row!! Now, THAT'S worth celebrating! With cake. Too bad we didn't have any. Oh well, wine it is, then!


*Pauses to take a long sip*

Ahhhh - refreshing!

Now, where was I? Oh yes - December! Unfortunately, I failed in my frantic efforts to cancel Christmas, which means it's going ahead on the 25th as per usual. This year we are spending the day at home. I can't remember ever having done that since the boys were born so I'm actually looking forward to it.

Then, 2014 shall arrive and we are heading off for another one of our ubiquitous bogan jaunts. This time to the Central Coast where we shall be staying in a lovely cabin type arrangement, because why stay here in the cramped conditions of the Bogan Box with 3 boys fighting over a computer when we can go to even more cramped conditions and do the same thing there? Makes perfect sense, really.

Well, folks, that's it from me, except to wish each and every one (well - there's at least one) of my lovely readers a very happy festive season and a wonderful New Year!

*It turns out that Wildebeests mainly eat grass, not cake. Who knew?

Linking up with Robomum for The Lounge. Better late than never, right?

                                              Was 2013 an action-packed year for you?

Monday, 2 December 2013

I'm Dreaming of A Cancelled Christmas....

Good morning Groovers and Shakers, welcome to another Monday, the most universally loathed day of the week. It occurs to me that there seems to be rather a lot of songs written about Mondays considering that it is a much despised day.

Think about it:

Manic Monday
Rainy Days And Mondays (always get me down)
Monday Monday (can't trust that day)
I Don't Like Mondays

Hmmm, I think I'm starting to see a pattern here.

Anyway, the point of this post was not to talk about Mondays but to confess to how I really feel about Christmas. Since I have just spent the last couple of months trying to desperately to cancel it - to no avail - I think my feelings are rather obvious. I'm trying to work out exactly where this antipathy to the silly season comes from. The only answer I'm left with is my rather unhelpful tendency to catastrophise everything.

After all, I don't really have that many people to buy gifts for. Nor do I sweat it out in the kitchen on the big day cooking a gigantic traditional turkey Christmas lunch with all the trimmings. No way. We tend to go with the seafood and salads option in our family.

Some people will be horrified at this declaring that it's not really Christmas without a Turkey or a roast dinner. However, my Mother being the sensible woman she is, steadfastly refused to ever cook a roast on a hot Summer's day when my brother and I were growing up, so it's never really been a tradition for me. We live in the land of Oz, therefore no White Christmas for us! It doesn't make sense to have roasts when you're already roasting, people!

Instead, we had this off beat tradition of going out for dinner on Christmas Eve to a Chinese restaurant, because if you're going to have traditions they may as well be classy ones. And what could be classier than spring rolls and fried rice?  Over the years this tradition faded, but we have finally decided to re-ignite it and are heading out with my parents for some sizzling platters on the 24th before coming home, leaving the carrots out for the Reindeer's and then bundling three excited boys full of anticipation and MSG into bed. Should be fun.

On boxing day we are invited to my brother and SIL's home for a good old fashioned Aussie BBQ. On the actual day nothing is planned. Besides being woken up at Stupid O' Clock by three excited boys screaming that Santa's been. Again - should be fun.

I have, in fact, begrudgingly accepted that Christmas is on and I am not able to cancel it, much to my disgust. I even tried to get into the spirit and put the Christmas tree up yesterday. Okay, technically it was actually Micky Blue Eyes who did it. Mr 9 and 5 helped to decorate it and the results were quite stunning. In a sort of abstract bogan way. No photos, so you'll have to imagine it.

The main reason I dread the silly season is basically because of the shopping. The fact that it is entirely my own fault that I tend to leave this until almost the last minute despite vowing never to do so again is completely IRRELEVANT.  Also, I have the internet at my disposal with a plethora of online shopping opportunities so why I don't plan ahead and do this is beyond my comprehension.

I tend to assume that it's all up to Santa.  So get that red suit on and the sleigh ready and get to it, old dude!  What do my boys want?

Mr 12 wants a PS4 which only costs an arm, a leg and a kidney, so I'm counting on you, Santa! Mr 9 wants Lego and some obscure Club Penguin paraphernalia which does not appear to exist in any store, so again - your job Santa! And Mr 5? Well- he only wants every Lego set made in the whole World Ever, all of which cost around a gazillion dollars. No problem, right Santa?? I'll consider it sorted!

Just one question - you don't hang out with that lazy old Dinner Fairy, do you?? If you do, she should definitely be on your Naughty List. She has been very naughty. Very, very, very naughty INDEED. And no - I have NOT been reading Enid Blyton again. Shut up.

Okay folks, that's enough from me.  Only 23 days to go - but who's counting? 

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

                                                      Have you been naughty  or nice?

Friday, 29 November 2013

More Boring As Batshit Bogan Bullshit - Because I CAN

Hello from Boganville! Yes, I am still alive, thanks for asking.

I'm trying to write something here even if it's crap. It's hilarious how I put the word 'if' in that sentence. Funny me. I'm SUCH a comedienne. Or something.

Anyway, what can I say about all the things I've achieved whilst missing in action?

I'm a svelte size 10, addicted to exercise and healthy eating and planning an amazing trip to Europe on our private jet while we wait for our mansion to be built, Micky Blue Eyes having finally followed through on his promise of becoming a millionaire by the age of 40, ten years later??!!

Nope. Can't say that. I CAN bore you with the same old boring as batshit bogan bullshit, though. You're welcome.

In fact, I've been missing in action because I've been extremely busy doing lots of interesting, important things. What, you ask? Okay, you didn't but I'm telling you anyway. So ner.

Here is a comprehensive list:

Sleeping some more
Eating some more
Reading some more
Shopping - but only because I needed more food so I could resume;
Shopping again - but only because I needed more books so I could keep on:
Sleeping -because all that reading and eating is EXHAUSTING.

I may have showered at some point, too. After all, I would have needed to frequently with all that exertion. Exhausting. Phew.

In between all of this monumental effort I did manage to schedule in a pap smear which was fun. SAID NO ONE EVER.

I also managed to schedule in a Girls Day Out with some friends and a spot of shopping, having finally accepted that Christmas is not going to be cancelled. I ventured to the shops with some trepidation expecting the familiar wailing of Mariah Carey but instead there was more of the old Jingle Bell Rock action happening which is quite jolly and cheering at first. However, I suspect that in another 26 days or so I shall be Jingle Bell Rocked OUT. Says the woman who can listen to the same Carpenters songs over and over and over for 30 years. Shut up.

On that note, (listening to same songs over and over) I not only DO NOT care what a fox says but I do know what I would like to say to the creators of THAT particular ear worm as my boys are rather enamoured with it. If you do not know what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky.

While shopping, after having lunch with the girls, I ventured into Target, being classy like that, where I spotted a fetching shirt and vest type arrangement which I thought would do for Mr 12 to wear to his Year 6 Farewell. I popped the vest over the top of the shirt to see what it would look like. When it looked good I took it to the cashier and handed it over absent-mindedly. The cashier proceeded to scan the shirt but not the vest just as absent-mindedly. I had unwittingly ended up with a bargain. Or became a closet kleptomaniac. One or the other. Ahem.

It also transpired that Micky Blue Eyes and I had completely forgotten that it was my mother-in-laws birthday that same day until my father-in-law reminded us. Therefore, I came home from lunch and went straight back out again for dinner with the the out-laws. The next morning yet more shopping was planned with my parents. This meant I had to go out AGAIN in order to drink coffee and spend money. I mean, honestly it's exhausting and extremely rude to have to suffer indignities. HMPH!

Also, Mr 12 had his final High School Orientation on that same Monday and I had forgotten to complete the necessary paperwork for his bus pass application and so forth. Oddly enough this kind of scatter brained forgetfulness does not seem to endear me to Micky Blue Eyes. Sigh.

In a futile attempt to become more organised I had printed out some calendars, filled them out with all of our upcoming things to remember and pinned them on a cork board near the computer desk. Somehow they managed to go missing. When Mick found them again I realised I had totally forgotten to take Mr 5 for a free hearing test at his Kindy the previous Friday. Oops.

I had actually managed to score a hatrick of forgetfulness. Mother-in-laws birthday, High School paperwork and a hearing test. This could mean I'm already on the slippery slope to Alzheimer's or that I have ADD. Or all of the above. Interestingly, I have taken online tests for ADD and scored through the roof for having it but what I am meant to do with this information I don't know. After all, it hasn't changed a thing worked out so well receiving my Ass Burgers diagnonsense. Sigh.

On a brighter note, at least I never forget to eat like some wacky people! So that's something, right? Ahem. And I never forget to feed my children. Mostly. They don't even have to dig for worms anymore! It's been raining so there'll be plenty of snails for them. Done. Dinner sorted.

And I don't even go to paid work! Can you imagine if I did? I'd probably forget my own children's names! Oh wait...

There's a reason I call them 'honey' or 'sweetheart' all the time and Mr's 12, 9 and 5 here. Oh dear.

On that note, I'm sure there was more I was going to tell you - but I've forgotten what it was...

Until next time, take it easy and I'll catch up with you later!


What have you forgotten about lately? 

Monday, 11 November 2013


Today, November 11th, 2013, Micky Blue Eyes and I are celebrating 18 years of wedded stress! Uh, I mean, bliss. So here is a bunch of old photos I dug out of the cupboard for your perusal.

Here we both are in High School. Not the same one, though. Considering that Mick is 8 years older than me, so he'd finished high school before I'd started.

Years later we met. We gazed at each other across a crowded Rotaract function- and made absolutely no impression on each other whatsoever. However, somehow a year or so later we ended up dating. At which point I was so taken with him that I apparently wrote him a love letter which I also found helpfully tucked away in the cupboard with all the dusty old photos. It contained a rather charming poem I wrote which went:

Roses are red
Voilets are blue
I couldn't find anyone else
So I thought you'd do

Touching, right?  How could he resist? He couldn't. Here are two of my favourite wedding photos. I think I like them because I had no idea they were being taken. Of course Mick isn't in either them but that's a minor detail. He was only the groom, after all.

Here we are, happily married, having over priced lobster for my 25th birthday. I must be approximately a hundred years old now, because it feels that long ago. Sigh.

Skipping over a few boring years to my 30th birthday when I was rather up the duff but unaware.

Later that same year, heavily pregnant and by now aware of the fact but only just. Long story. Tragically I look in much better shape when I was very pregnant than I do now. Ahem.

A few years later at our friend's wedding where I was Matron of Honour.

Celebrating our anniversary in 2006.

At our niece's wedding at Mt. Tomah Botanical Gardens, NSW, February 2008.

Later that same year when I was extremely up the duffian with Mr 5.

At this point I seem to have run out of photos which is weird because I'm such a shy person show off who is always running hamming it up for the camera.

But here is one taken on Mr 12's birthday in July this year, even though I usually don't post photos of my boys because I don't want to embarrass them with their bogan parents. Then again, isn't that what parents are supposed to do?

Happy 18th anniversary Micky Blue Eyes! It does seem like a long time. That is until I think of my parents who are also celebrating their anniversary! 47 years!

Happy anniversary Mum and Dad!

Oh yeah, I haven't forgotten it's also Remberance Day so - we will remember them! It's a good way to remember your anniversary too. Ahem.

I must confess I'm not sure if this is my shortest post but I'm linking up with I Must Confess anyway. So ner!

When is your anniversary (if you have one)? How do you celebrate? 

Sunday, 3 November 2013

Life And Other L Words

You may have noticed that I have been missing from this space lately. If you haven’t then I would prefer it if you would please just pretend that you have for the sake of my fragile ego. I might cry otherwise and it wouldn’t be pretty. It would definitely be an ugly cry. Hideous, even. Not that you would be able to see it but I’m hoping that just the thought of having that image in your head would be disturbing enough.
The reason for my absence is very simple and can be summed up in one word *:


That shit gets busy sometimes.

Not to mention the other L word.


SHHHHHHH!! I said don’t mention that word!  Oh right, it was me who mentioned it. Silly me.  As if I would ever be so frightfully lazy that I simply couldn’t be bothered boring you with this blog. That never happens. No way. Well, not very often anyway. Ahem.

Anyway, I may as well bring you up to date with everything that has been keeping me as busy as a blue arsed bogan fly. On that point, do flies really have blue arses? I digress but you know me, always asking the important questions.  Back to being busy -I was going to let you know what has been keeping me so busy. In keeping with the lazy theme I will do so in the good old convenient ‘I can’t be arsed with anything else’ bullet point form.  You’re welcome. Here goes:

  • Children: I have 3 of them. They are rather time consuming, requiring constant feeding, bathing and cuddling on a daily basis. Who knew? It was so much easier having a pet rock. (It was a 70’s thing. I’m showing my age. Sigh.) Except for the cuddling bit. Children are cuddlier, I must admit.
  • Husbands: Actually just one husband.  He is here ALL THE TIME. All day. Every day. Constantly. He regularly attempts to engage me in conversations about things I have no idea about. Like finches or shares. He even made me feed his finches worms. This may be grounds for divorce. Did I mention that he is here ALL THE TIME?? Don’t get me wrong, I love the man. I’d just love it if he left the house occasionally too. Of course I’m conveniently ignoring the fact that he did go to Darwin for 10 days recently (which is why I had to feed the finches) and to Wollongong  just the other day. Minor details.
  • Mr 4 became Mr 5 yesterday.
  • Mr 5 had Kindergarten Orientation this week with two more sessions to go.
  • Mr 12 had High School Orientation with more sessions to go.
  • I bought a new Dyson. This has resulted in me momentarily becoming all domesticated and actually using it regularly.  I’m sure the novelty will wear off very soon.
  • I am trying desperately to regain Exercise Addiction. Between this point and the former, I fear the end is near.
  • I also bought some new saucepans. This was all good until I realised I had to rearrange the kitchen cupboards in order to fit them anywhere. And possibly even cook with them occasionally. Ahem.
  • Counselling- my regular counsellor buggered off or something so I had to start over with another one. Hmph. Then, after I had one appointment and booked another, they had booked me in with yet another counsellor. It’s like a game of Musical Counsellors. Awesome.
  • I finally rang up again about a so-called Adult Asperger’s Support group only to be informed by a woman sounding like a bogan Shazza (not that there’s anything wrong with bogans, of course) that the group was for carers of people with Asperger’s not people with Asperger’s. Natch. Why would we need support? We’re a bunch of self-absorbed, stimming, monologuing arseholes with no empathy. Silly me.
  • Wallowing ,like the big sooky la la I am. See previous two points.
  • Yet another L word – Lego. Dealing with Lego in some way or another takes up an extraordinary amount of my time. Buying it, assembling it, and cleaning it up from every corner of the house so I don’t suck it up with my Dyson.
  • Children: Yes I know I already mentioned them. But they really do take up SO MUCH TIME that I thought they were worth another mention. I’m not complaining about this. In fact, I’ve been deliberately spending more time offline in order to spend more time with my boys. This has resulted in the following games, mostly involving Mr 5 and sometimes Mr 9:
  • Pretending to be a dog. Mr 5, not me. I’ve gone so far as to actually give him water in a bowl. If I give him a collar and leash that would be taking it too far, right?
  • Pretending to be a bird hatching out of an egg and building a nest. Mr 5 again. Ditto, if I put him in a cage that’s going too far, right?
  • Hide and Seek- an old favourite. However, I can now no longer squeeze into the same hidey holes as I did when Mr 12 was little which is rather disconcerting. Apparently not quite disconcerting enough to make me pass on the cake for Mr 5’s birthday yesterday. Classy.
  • Blue screen of death – this happened with one lap top which means we have only one and Micky Blue Eyes uses this for work. So I miss out until we get another one. Sigh.

Therefore, I will most likely continue to be missing in action until Christmas. Oh NOOOOOOOOOO, I said the C word!!  I tried to cancel it but nobody listened!! HMPH.  Okay, that’s it until the next exciting episode of Days Of Our Bogan Lives. I will be busy with all of the above when I am not sulking  in the corner about my failure to cancel Christmas. Sniff. 

Later, dudes.

What has been on your bullet list lately?

*The fact that I could sum it all up in one word did not stop me from banging on with another nine hundred or so. You’re welcome.

Monday, 14 October 2013

A Post About Nothing

I Must Confess I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. Just so we're clear, I repeat: NOTHING.

Well, nothing interesting, anyway.

But that's never stopped me before.  So, in keeping with the Seinfeldian theme of this blog, I bring to you a rather riveting post about nothing. You're welcome.

I'm sure you're all bursting to know what is going on in the dim, dark recesses of my mind. It is well known that I am extremely deep, enigmatic and introspective. Always brooding, ruminating and contemplating the very important issues in life such as:

Why did Karen Carpenter have to pass at 32?

Why can't I have my cake? And eat it too?

What can I have for dinner? Especially when that pesky old Dinner Fairy refuses to show her luminous face. Hmph.

Why is Gilbert Blythe a fictional character? And why couldn't he love ME not Anne?! I have red hair!

In addition to such pressing issues, I am also constantly wondering why exactly is it SUCH a herculean task to keep a house consisting of approximately 7 rooms anything even remotely resembling clean or tidy? Therein may lay the answer....

If I am really being my usual happy, sunny, perky, cheerful, positive self - and we all know that's always the way I roll - there may be a few other things I would pause to pointlessly ponder over, such as:

Why am I so shy?

Why am I so introverted?

Why do I have Ass Burgers?

Why do I have dizziness/middle ear or some fictional thing I made up according to some specialists?

Why do I keep asking pointless questions?

I have been dutifully trotting off to see my counsellor. She gave me some information regarding an Adult Asperger's Support Group which was not terribly far from Boganville.  Therefore, I did not have an excuse to procrastinate about going to one anymore. But I did anyway. I put off making the call until after the school holidays. Finally, I pressed in the number. A robotic voice informed me: No one is available to take your call! Please leave a message after the tone. So I left one, tripping over my words and feeling foolish as I did so. That was nearly a week ago. Nobody has called back.

Meanwhile, I had an appointment scheduled with  my counsellor which was confirmed with a phone call from the centre. Half an hour later somebody else called back and said my counsellor isn't doing counselling anymore and would I like to make an appointment with somebody else?  This is annoying when you're a shy, introverted Aspie. Having to start over with a  new counsellor. Sighing, I agreed but she said she would have to ring back with an appointment time. That was days ago. Nobody has rang me back.

I suppose that means I have to go to the tremendous effort of ringing them again. If I get the machine again, I should leave a huffy. indignant message. Except I won't. Because I'm too nice. GAH.

Why can't I be a BITCH?  I went for a whole two paragraphs without a pointless question so I had to slide another one in. Shut up.

In other extremely fascinating news, I need to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I am going to get one on Thursday or Friday. This will probably be the most exciting thing I do all week. I was perusing the Bogan Box last night and thinking that it resembled a brothel until I realised that I have no idea what brothels actually look like. They're most likely MUCH cleaner than my house. I mean, just think about it. If you were going to have kinky, illicit sex you'd want to be doing that shit on freshly laundered sheets, right?

In the midst of all this excitement I managed to win Slapdash Mama Sarah's Blogaversary Competition! I've never won anything so this was quite thrilling indeed. She wrote a lovely poem about me or actually about Boganville I think, which was quite charming and you can read it here. Thanks Sarah!

Of course this leads me to another confession. In writing this poem, Slapdash somehow managed to 'out' me and reveal my darkest secret.

You may be shocked to discover that I am not really a bogan despite my Boganville address. GASP.

Oh okay, I outed myself in the comments (and every other week here in my own space, when I bang on about The Carpenters). Minor detail. Anyway, since I've really got nothing else to write about except the same old boring as batshit bogan shtick, I think we can all just overlook that and go with it, right? Besides, whether I'm really a bogan or not is debatable. I live in bogan territory and that alone is enough for some folk. So ner. Added to the fact that I write gibberish with dubious attention to grammar and phrases like so ner. So ner. NER NER NER NER!!

THIS turned up in my Facebook feed the other day.

 To the person who posted it, it worked. I am, quite frankly annoyed that nobody is with me on this cancel Christmas thing. It will be your own fault when you feel like poking your own eyeballs out from hearing Mariah Carey wailing about what she wants for Christmas for the billionth time. You've been warned.

Another thing that has been bothering me of late is the fact that I suddenly  remembered that a few months ago a lovely blogger presented me with one of those Leibster Awards or some such thing. Anyway, because I perpetually have my head lodged firmly up my posterior and I'm SUCH a space cadet I have forgotten who that lovely person was and not responded. So, whoever you were THANKYOU. It's not you, it's me, okay?

And that brings me limping to the end of this pointless post about nothing. Stay tuned for the next post when I'll actually blog about SOMETHING. Or nothing again. You never know. Ahem.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

'                                      Should  I really ask another pointless question? Oh look, I did!

Thursday, 3 October 2013

An Open Letter To 2013

Dear 2013,

First of all, four words.


Okay, that was five words. I have more.

It seems like only yesterday that I welcomed you whole heartedly with my usual quiet night in wild, crazy party, eagerly anticipating everything that you would bring. As fireworks exploded in a frenzy outside (nothing to do with NYE, just a typical night in Boganville) I mapped out an exciting year filled with amazing experiences, opportunities and achievements.

There I was, picturing myself six months down the track, slim, sleek and superior having succeeded in sticking to that major health kick/diet/fitness extravaganza we all aspire to on January 1st. This was the year. It was all happening. No excuses. After all, I was turning 42 and I would finally know the answer to The Meaning Of Life. It's 42, right?

Therefore, I was poised to possess all the wisdom of the ages come January 15, 2013 when my 42nd birthday rolled around. Wrong.

Instead, I remained as clueless as ever. By August I all I had achieved was high cholesterol and blood sugar levels. Classy.

Additionally I was certain that 2013 would see us finally living in that McMansion in Boganville Heights but we remain firmly ensconced in the Bogan Box like happy little sardines. Or not so little sardines in my case. Ahem.

Apparently it already October. That cannot be right. That means that Christmas is around the corner despite my frantic efforts to officially cancel it for this year. Nobody seems to be taking any notice and I'm afraid that the next time I venture to the shops there will be tinsel everywhere and Mariah Carey warbling about all she wants for Christmas. MAKE IT STOP!

I mean, for goodness sake, 2013, couldn't you have just let the Autumn months linger for a bit longer this year? The leaves are all pretty, it's sunny through the day and cool enough at night to sleep which is a win/win situation for everyone. But now we're heading into Summer which means not only will it be Christmas but also frightfully hot and we can't have that or I'll whinge just like I whinge when it's too cold. At least I'm a consistent whinger. That's something.

I simply can't understand why, when there is so much technology these days that nobody has found a way to stop time. Seriously, 2013 you are just moving along frightfully, awfully, alarmingly, shockingly, astonishingly, amazingly and any other word you can bung 'ly' on the end of, fast.

Yes, I am well aware that an abundance of adverbs is the sure sign of a lazy, novice writer but I've never pretended to be anything else, have I? So ner. I'm going with it.

Furthermore, I had envisioned 2013 as the year when I would finally be able to write one of those smug, posturing end of year Christmas type posts/letters bragging about how completely fabulous, marvellous, stupendous, momentous and any other word you can bung 'ous' on the end of, the year had been for us.

Instead you will be stuck with my usual self-deprecating drivel. You're welcome.

Frankly it's all your fault, 2013. You have left me NO TIME to achieve anything. Okay, so I've had a whole ten months. Or nine months and 3 days. Minor detail. Ahem.

There is only approximately 80 something days until Christmas and in that time I have SO MUCH happening. Mr 4 becomes Mr 5 in a month's time and begins Kindergarten orientation. Right after he 'graduates' from pre-school. When did that start happening? Four and five year olds graduating complete with cap and gown?

I could have sworn he was only a baby five minutes ago. In addition to this, Mr 12 will be heading off to High School in 2014. While my heart will burst with pride, at the same time it's all a bit disconcerting that they are growing up so quickly and I just need to hit the pause button for a while. It's making my head spin.

At this rate they will all be grown up and become young men and I'm not ready. What on Earth will I blog or tweet about without my little men? I might have to actually get a life! Scary.

When I was a little girl 2013 seemed so far away and futuristic, now it's nearly over. I was certain somebody would have invented a time machine by now. Sigh.

I know you won't listen, 2013. You will be done and dusted practically before I finish typing. My head will spin right off my shoulders and I will spend months trying to catch up, still writing 2013 when it's 2014 just so you can continue to mock me. You win.

I'm off to try to frantically do ALL THE THINGS in less than three months. You have forced me to think about Christmas shopping in October. Who does that? Intelligent, organised people, you say? See? You're already mocking me. It's Mocktober. In fact, I've decided I'm over you, 2013. Bring on 2014.

2014 will be sensible and crawl along at a snails pace, right? Or I'll just start the whole mess over again...*sobs*

 Yours Regretfully,


Linking up with Robo for The Lounge.

                                 Are you getting into the Christmas spirit? Or is 2013 spinning out of
                                                                 control for you?

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Are You Being Served (By A Freakazoid)?

Customer service is certainly not my 'thing'. In fact people are not even my thing, period. Which is odd considering that I'm supposed to be one. Debatable. I may look like something resembling a person, albeit a rather unattractive one but I'm quite positive that I'm not one. Unsure what weird kind of alien species I am, really but my friend Randa came up with the word Freakazoid and I like it so I'll pinch that.

How does this Freakazoid know that Customer Service isn't her thing? Because she is a Freakazoid, that's how. The fact that she talks about herself in the third person just adds to the whole Freakazoid phenomenon.  Additionally, she also worked in a Customer Service type job for 3 years back in the 1990's. It wasn't much fun. I guess that might be why it's called work. Ahem. More specifically it was a call centre for N R No Way, a rather well known insurance and motor side assistance concern.

The point of this post is that I am not going to complain about any poor Customer Service that I've received. Instead I am going to take the opportunity to say this:

If you ever called N R No Way between the years 1994 to 1997 and dealt with a whispery voiced, ineffectual eejit who didn't know the answers to any of your questions then put you on hold a rather annoying amount of times in order to go and find out before eventually cutting you off, it was probably me and I am deeply and sincerely sorry. Terribly, terribly, frightfully sorry. And no, I can't get through a post without channelling Enid Blyton. You'll just have to deal with it. Smashing.

Furthermore, if you received a quotation from said ineffectual eejit ie. me and then barked into the phone "What was your name? Melissa, was it?" intending to ring back later, only to ring back and have difficulty locating the 'Melissa' you spoke to, that was because my name is actually Vanessa but I didn't correct you because obviously I wanted to dodge your return call.

Again, ever so sorry. Sort of. Kind of. Okay, not really. Bloody people!  Just because I was getting paid to provide service to you didn't mean I liked it! Seriously. What exactly do want from me? I was trying to be nice here and apologise but I can feel the judgement. How DARE you judge me?!

I do not deserve such judgement. I'm a nice person! All those cranky people wanting cheap insurance and ringing me were mean and nasty and annoying! Honestly, how RUDE is it to expect the sales assistant on the other end of the phone to know what they were talking about and pitch their voice above a whisper? Hmph.

I couldn't seriously be expected to deal with such trivial matters as Customer Service when I was clearly a writerly genius waiting to happen. Shut up. I could write the great Australian novel if I wanted to instead of a boring as batshit bogan blog. I just can't be arsed don't think the World is ready for that much of my sheer brilliance yet. Ahem.

While we are on the subject of my abysmal Customer Service ability I will also say that if you were an insufferably arrogant car dealer salesman type person who rang me and bellowed some sort of nonsensical code like thing at me such as "ALPHA, FOXTROT, ROMEO, BRAVO, 8900767198!!" and expected me to know what the actual fuck you were talking about and to be able to type all this information quicker than the speed of light and then became all belligerent and shouty when I couldn't keep up and demanded to speak to my supervisor, then I have two words for you:


On second thought, no. Not those two words. I do not wish to fuck you. I wouldn't touch you with a barge pole. Partly because I have no idea what a barge pole is exactly but it sounds heavy. So yeah, no barge poles for me. Also, you are probably a hideous, balding gargoyle in an ill fitting suit with gold chains. Ew. Instead try this:

I think I feel better now. You will be happy to know that I resigned from the job and never tortured anyone with my dubious Customer Service skills ever again. And I never will. I've found an easier way to torture people. This blog. So ner.

A final thought on Customer Service. Well, not really a thought, more like an anecdote. I don't really remember any stories of horrifying Customer Service (besides my own woeful attempts) but rather an establishment not actually providing the product they were renowned for.

This happened once when we drove through  the drive through of a popular fast food chain. As you do, because this is why they are called drive throughs because you drive through them, you don't walk. That would be silly. Plus it would totally defeat the purpose, which is to be as bone lazy as possible while purchasing junk food. It just makes the path to obesity that much smoother, which I think we'll all find is quite handy. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I'll get to the point. Eventually. Soon. Alright, now.

This particular fast food concern is known for serving chicken as their main type of food. Let's just call them Red Rooter. Again, I must thank my esteemed friend Randa for this excellent turn of phrase. The following happened.

We cruised to a halt at the ordery thingy ( I have no idea what you call them) to hear the usual monotone "What would you like?"

To which Micky Blue Eyes replied "One whole chicken please."


Then the monotone voice came again. "Sorry, we have no chicken."

Excuse me?

No chicken? At a chicken shop. Red Rooter no less.

 I just wanted to say Red Rooter again. I'm really mature. Shut up.

Becoming rather annoyed at this news, Micky Blue Eyes exclaimed "Is this a fucking chicken shop, or what?"

They ignored this, instead asking "Is there anything else you'd like?"

We really just wanted the chicken and figured Red Rooter was a sure thing for it. Apparently not.

"No thanks. " Mick growled and we sped off feeling rather annoyed and still hungry for chicken.

How rude of them not to have any chicken when they were a chicken establishment who at the time were known for proudly proclaiming:

 Australia, your chicken is ready! Hmph.

Imagine going to the bank to withdraw money and they say "I'm sorry. We have no money."

Imagine going to a florist for flowers and being told "I'm sorry. We have no flowers."

Imagine going to a bakery for bread and being told "I'm sorry. We have no bread."

Actually that last one would be okay because they would usually have cakies so who cares about boring old bread when there are CAKIES.

No, I can't get through a whole post without mentioning cakies either. Shut up.

Right, that's it from me then. As you were.

Linking up with The Queen Of Awesome for The Lounge.

Do you love providing Customer Service or are you more of a Freakazoid like me?

                      Any customer service horror stories you can tell me so I can comfort myself
                       that there are worse Freakazoids than me? There is, isn't there??

Monday, 16 September 2013

Escape From Boganville: It's Controversial (Not Really)

The weekend before last I managed to escape from Boganville.  I have barely managed this in 42 years except for the odd holiday here and there. Born and bred bogan. That's me. Classy. Naturally if an opportunity arises to escape from here, I would wish to visit somewhere glamorous and exciting. A faraway place bursting with culture and sophistication. Luckily, this place fitted all the above criteria. Two words.

Wagga Wagga. Or is it one word repeated? Whatever.

This exciting escape presented itself to me when my Mum mentioned she was heading there to surprise my aunt for her 70th birthday. I figured I'd tag along. It was decided that I would go with my parents and Mr 9 and 4. Micky Blue Eyes and Mr 12 already had a Darwin adventure planned for the following week.

The plan was that myself and the boys would sleep over at my parents house on the Thursday so we could leave early on Friday morning, stopping at Maccas for breakfast and returning the following Monday. So it was that I slept in my old bedroom with Mr 9 and 4, which is still painted a delightful  shade of peach However, most of my Queen Anne bedroom ensemble has disappeared with only the beside table remaining. The room now sports two beds, a 'king' single and a single. Therefore I spent a relaxing night in the King single cuddled up to Mr 4.

I woke up early.The boys were still blissfully asleep having been up late the previous night chattering away. Finally I had to wake them.  Pointlessly, I called to them to wake up. Nothing. I tried again.  Still nothing. There was only one thing to do.

"Wake up! It's time to go to Macca's! Do you want to go to Macca's?" I shouted.

Two sets of eyes shot open. "YES!" they chorused.

They were up and dressed in record time. And we were on the road. Which isn't very interesting to write about. We passed the time playing Eye Spy. Mr 4 wanted to control the whole game, which resulted in him and his brother fighting. Quite a relaxing way to spend a car journey. NOT. Eventually they dozed off for a while and we made it to Maccas at Goulburn. I've never seen two boys devour hot cakes and hash browns so fast. Anybody would think I never feed them. I do. Sometimes. I can't help it if that bloody Dinner Fairy never shows up! Shut up.

Hours later we arrived in Wagga and found our motel. Unfortunately our room was upstairs. Unfortunate because LAZY. Once again, shut up.

The plan was to head over to my cousin's house and surprise my aunt which we did. She was surprised but delighted to see us. We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and drinking endless cups of tea. I worked out that it had been roughly 8 years since I'd seen my cousin and she'd never seen Mr 4 (soon to be 5). The sooner somebody invents one of those beaming up devices the better. Come on inventors it's 2013 already!

I won't bore you with every tiny detail of the weekend because it might sound like all we did is eat, drink and talk. Which we did. Is there a problem with that? Ahem. A wonderful time was had by all and we made it back home on Monday.

At this point you may have noticed that there is nothing remotely controversial about this post at all. And every one of my other posts. I  have to confess, I don't really do controversy. Instead, I do a lot of blahing. It's totally a verb, okay? I should know because it's what I do quite frequently. Feel a bit blah about everything and anything. Spend a minute, hour, day blahing. But I am trying to be a bit less 'blah'. But I have to confess it is most decidedly uphill work. When you have a tendency to 'blah' trying not to is a bit like pushing shit uphill while wading through quicksand. But I digress.

In fact when I saw this on The Lounge's FB wall I figured I should probably quit blogging.

I don't really do any of those things. Other than maybe giving people a bit of chuckle from time to time. And tweeting Can't really say my tweets are Earth shattering, though. Especially after spending a whole day a few days ago tweeting Carpenters lyrics while everyone else was tweeting inspirational #pbevent stuff. Sigh.  But that was one of the reasons I figured I could get away with it. Nobody was paying attention to me because they were all at that ProBlogger thingy. Ahem.

Plus, who says Carpenters songs aren't inspirational? At least one of them encourages the listener to:

"Sing, song a song! Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear! Just sing, sing a song!"

So, I may as well apply the same theory to my blog  regardless of the lack of controversy or cutting edge posts. I'm just going to:

Blog! Blog a post! Don't worry that's it's not good enough for anyone else to read! Just blog! Blog a post!

Everybody join in!


Lazily linking up ridiculously late with Kimbooli for The Lounge.

Also linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Have you made any escapes lately? Do you like being controversial?

Monday, 9 September 2013

The Buried Hopes Of A Bogan (Or Something)

It's hard to believe that I could have any regrets. I mean, just look at my life. I'm a 42 year old unemployable, overweight bogan living in a fibro box in Boganville. It doesn't get any better than that, right? However the truth is, my life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes now. That's a sentence I once read in a book and I say it over to comfort myself in these times that try the soul. Not really. The first part about the buried hopes, anyway. I've just always wanted to use that line out of Anne Of Green Gables. Ahem.

Anyway, onto my regrets. Deep regretful sigh. SIGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Surprisingly I do have  a few. I think it would probably be a good thing to confess to them and let them go. I'll feel so much better and move forward free from regrets, a huge weight finally lifted from my shoulders. That, or I'll just add this post to the list. Who knows? Only one way to find out. In no particular order I present my list of bogan regrets:

  • I regret decorating the living room of my parents house with a texta pen when I was around three years old. Sorry Mum!
  • I regret kicking that boy in the shins at school when he tried to comfort me because I was peeved about not getting to go home early one day when my brother did. Even though I don't remember exactly who you were. Sorry, dude.
  • I regret reading my Enid Blyton books under the desk at school. (Actually, no I don't. Honestly, what 10 year old book worm could put those books down and concentrate on their long division just when George and Timmy the dog were about to catch those nasty smugglers? None, right? The thing was impossible.)
  • I regret cutting off my long hair when I was 14.
  • I regret then thinking that a mullet perm was a good idea. Or any perm.
  • I regret wasting so much energy thinking I was 'fat' when I was younger.
  • I regret turning down that lucrative modelling contract when I was younger because I thought I was 'fat'.
  • Okay, there was no contract. I just made that last point up to see if you were paying attention. As if you would believe that anyway. Did you? Don't answer that.
  • I regret making that up, okay?! (Not really, I have to get your attention somehow. Ahem.)
  • I regret saving up a sizeable chunk of money when I was young, ostensibly so I could go overseas and then just getting married and putting it into a mortgage and never going, because now that will never happen. An even deeper regretful sigh. SIGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
  • I regret perceiving being such a quiet person as extremely negative trait and not seeing it as a possible strength in having a library career.
  • I regret the consequence of the above perception. This resulted in me 'burning my bridges' in almost every job I had. I ended up leaving because I believed it was only a matter of time before I was fired. I have since learnt that this is common thing that Aspie's do.
  • Sometimes I regret not knowing that I am Aspie sooner than age 40. Unsure if it would have made any difference so I don't spend too much time on this regret.
  • I regret turning down Brad Pitt's proposal because then he went and married that bloody pouty Angelina Jolie biatch.
  • Okay, you caught me making up stuff again. I admit, it was a bit obvious that time. As if anyone would turn me down for Angelina. Unthinkable, right? Pfffffffffffffft.
  • I regret replacing my exercise addiction with a cakie one because now I'm struggling to reverse that.
  • I regret going to Weight Watchers a few years ago and doing so well, losing weight, only to fall off the wagon spectacularly and regain. See above point.
  • I really regret that anxiety has become such a presence in my life and is something I struggle with constantly. Enormous regretful sigh containing all the sorrows of the ages. SIGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Having now confessed to such a long list of regrets I must add that I am (slowly) learning to accept myself and the way things are right now, rather than focusing on 'could have beens' and 'shoulds' and 'what ifs' and all that maudlin stuff that can be quite draining and a waste of energy. After all, I haven't listed any murders, have I? Oh wait. I accidentally murdered my dog. Oops. Long story. I do deeply and profoundly regret that. Sorry Betsy!

Right. That's it. Nothing else. I've never been arrested, been caught naked or done drugs or anything illegal. Damn. I'm actually frightfully boring. Maybe I better go and get arrested just so I can add something interesting to my list. I regret being boring. On second thought, being boring is what I do best. Especially with this blog. You're welcome.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

   What are your regrets? Or do you have more of an Edith Piaf approach to life and have no regrets?

Thursday, 29 August 2013

The Nerdiest Girl In The School


TIME: 1983

PLACE: Boganville High School, the main quadrangle.


 Picture it.  A time when raging cases of TES were everywhere, (Tragic Eighties Syndrome). Bad perms, bubble skirts and Duran Duran....

  Noise and activity flurried all around me.  Shouts and laughter that didn't include me, pierced their way into my consciousness, as I sat all alone at the edge of the quad. I wasn't part of any of it, but a spectator, silently sitting there, alone, reflecting on my tragic life as a nerd-girl.

A group of girls appeared in front of me, all of them laughing, sharing jokes with the kind of effortless rapport that was alien to me.  I felt them looking my way.  I tried not to notice, tried not to care.  Just then, one of them broke away from the group, approaching me.

Squirming uncomfortably on my seat, I looked towards her hopefully.  "Hi, how are you?" she edged nearer, smiling. I mumbled something incoherent.  Staring at me quite innocently she asked: "I was just you shave your legs?"

It must be noted that, I did not, in fact, shave my legs.  A situation that, at a mere 12 years of age, did not bother me in the slightest. (Come to think of it, doesn't bother me in the slightest at age 42 either.  In fact, I might have to get Mick to run the lawn mower over them presently, as they are so hairy.) But I digress.

However, since it seemed to bother the other girls at school, I figured I'd ask my mum if I could begin.
Me, with all my friends, aged 12

"No," she replied "you're too young.  Once you start doing all that, you never stop.  You've still got plenty of time."  At this point, I imagine any other girl would have decided to completely ignore their mum, sneak into the bathroom, pinch a razor and do the deed anyway.  Not this tragic nerd-girl and Miss Goody Two Shoes.

I trudged back to school, legs still hairy, book in bag.  Books were my major companion at recess and lunch.  Another example of my tragic nerdiness.  I'd chosen books over flesh and blood friends. Here's how it happened.

I used to have something resembling a friendship with another girl in primary school.  I use the term friendship loosely.  It consisted mainly of her bossing and patronising me, like the time she convinced me to go to Jazz Ballet with her just so that she could then condescendingly tell this uncoordinated klutz that if I tried really hard I might be as good as her next year.  In all fairness to her, no amount of trying or practising would have ever made me good at any form of dancing!

I put up with Miss Patronising, or Pat as I shall call her, the type of person who might patronise God himself, because I simply didn't have any other friends - other than imaginary ones, and I figured being patronised and condescended to was preferable to spending every minute of school life achingly lonely and friendless.

Anyway, during 6th grade, she unceremoniously dumped me as a friend, steadfastly ignoring me and leaving me in the dust for a cooler group.  Consequently, when she rang me during the Christmas holidays, shortly before starting high school, I possibly should have been on guard.  Instead I scurried over like a timid mouse after any crumbs.

I suspect we might have had the Barbies out at one stage.  As we were about to start high school, you might expect Barbies dolls to have been a bit lame at this point, but I continued playing with them unperturbed.  Pat, on the other hand, was clearly worried, as she began to give me disdainful looks as her lecture began. 


"You know, you have to act tough in high school," she began, importantly "otherwise you'll have no friends."

 I carried on dressing Barbie, oblivious to the seriousness of her tone. "But don't worry," she added "I'll still hang around with you, as long as you stop reading books."


I gaped. Stop reading books? Wouldn't it be easier to just stop breathing?  Did she mean all books, or just Enid Blyton books? I mean, I kind of knew that I was getting to old for my frequent trips up the magic faraway tree.  A place where I seem to have permanently remained.  Off with the pixies. 

There was NO WAY I could stop reading books.  The thing was impossible.  Consequently the 'friendship' was over.  Gloomily, I trudged home, wondering where all the 'kindred spirits' from my beloved 'Anne' books were.

It wasn't long before Pat was surrounded by friends at High School, while I sat there. Alone. Reading a book.  So I guess she was right. Sigh.  Books will always be my best friend.

To make matters worse, just as I was about to start high school, Karen Carpenter died. Right when I was in the throes of becoming a major fan. I was heartbroken. Of course nobody, least of all the other girls at school, understood my sorrow. Liking the Carpenters went hand in had with reading books and not having a boyfriend. At barely 12 years old. Imagine. Spinsterhood here I come.

 I had been dreading starting high school. Boganville High School was considered to be the roughest school for "under privileged" kids in Sydney's western suburbs. For months I had been hearing horror stories about how the older kids grabbed the year seven kids and flushed their heads in the toilet by way of "initiating" them. Naturally, if you happened to be shy, quiet, liked reading and listening to the Carpenters it could make you a prime candidate for such treatment. I crept around the school playground with my head down, terrified that some sinister bunch of hoodlums would attack me at any moment and drag me into the toilets. Nobody even noticed me. After a week had passed I finally relaxed, realising that maybe some of these horror stories had been exaggerated somewhat.

One morning at recess, I proceeded to read my latest book in my usual position, not far from where the canteen was situated, when I happened to hear a conversation taking place only a few yards away.  Pat was leading it, my ex so-called 'best friend' from primary school. They were discussing Karen Carpenters death which was news at the time.  Pat was saying "Yes, its really sad because they were husband and wife (??!!) and they'd only just gotten married (??!!) and they'd just started out in their musical career.

Normally I was the quietest person on earth, but I couldn''t let that pass.

"That's wrong," I said, surprising them. They hadn't even realised I was there. I went on to inform them that Karen and Richard were NOT husband and wife, but brother and sister and not only that, they had been around for some time and had a lot of hits. Of course, I expected them to be interested and grateful that I had volunteered the information but instead Pat just gave me a withering look along with the rest of them and said "Oh really?" just as if she might have said "Big deal".    

Year 10 formal, circa 1986. I was
already stunningly gorgeous and
talented. So ner.

However, it was while at High School that I began the transformation from a mega nerd from Hell to the person I am today:  a mega nerd bogan from Hell a talented writer and gorgeous, smokin' hawt fox. Observe. I became a published author. Sort of. Kind of. Not really. Oh okay, it was only in the school magazine, but that counts, right? This is the blinding piece of sheer brilliance I wrote at only age 15. A fictional story that I wrote. Read it and weep:


Out here in the country, where everything is fresh and beautiful, it's difficult to believe that all the violence and crime you read about in the newspapers everyday really happens. The air is crisp and clean and the trees stand tall and majestic against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. Kookaburras laugh loudly from their perches and the smell of eucalyptus is heavy in the air.

We had chosen the perfect spot for our holiday, a quiet little cottage in the midst of the country. The mysterious guy my sister was heartbroken over was sure to be forgotten here. Mum was already looking cheerful - and me? Well, I was just trying to rid myself of this strange eerie feeling. A premonition of something awful about to happen. What could possibly  happen out here where the people are greener than the grass?

I walked slowly, admiring the scenery. My mind was racing. What was this feeling? I tried to ignore it, but something told me I was living each day, waiting. For what, I didn't know. But I was soon to find out.

Jessica flew past me on horseback. Horse riding was  her passion, but I stuck to bikes. Even though we were sisters and looked alike, our personalities were entirely different. Jessica was adventurous, daring and very naive. She had just been hurt recently by some guy my mother and I had never even met. I watched her slowly gallop into the distance and settled down under a tree to enjoy the sunshine.

Glancing around, I searched for someone, but there was nobody. I had the odd feeling that someone was watching me. It had been happening on and off all day and it was beginning to give me the creeps. There's no one here, I told myself, determined to shake off this feeling of gloom. But it was there.

And it was still there moments later when I looked up and saw Jessica's horse galloping towards me, but no sign of Jessica. Panic gripped me, my mind full of horrifying visions of Jessica lying wounded from where she had fallen off the horse. Not thinking of the stupidity of my actions, I hurried in the direction from where the horse had come.

It was only when I was lost in a maze of trees that I berated myself fiercely. "Jessica! Where are you?" I called loudly. No answer. And no wonder. I stopped short in utter disbelief. For there she lay at my feet. Not wounded, but dead! There were no words to describe my emotions at that moment. My common sense told me that she couldn't have been killed just by falling from a horse.

"Jessica! Oh my God!" Tears were streaming down my face as I dropped to my knees beside my sister's still body. There was the unmistakable sign that a knife had been used to slit her throat. Somebody had killed her and that somebody was still lurking around waiting to kill me too.

I heard  the foot steps at that moment and turned rising to my feet. There he was. I was face to face with my sister's killer. He wasn't menacing at all. Just an ordinary looking guy. But he held a knife in his right hand.

"Hello, Anne." He knew my name. "Yes, I know you, your sister's told me all about you." He answered my unasked question.

"But she's dead now and I'm going to kill you, too." He stated it calmly, as if it were something he did everyday.

"No!" I fled past him before he could move. Just a moment ago I had found my sister dead. It was all a dream, it had to be a dream, I thought as I ran and ran. I knew he was right behind me.

It's amazing how fast you can run when you're afraid. I raced into the cottage, yelling to my mother, I rushed to slam the door, but he was stronger than me and pushed his way in, grabbing me.

My mother screamed, spotting the knife. He held me in a vice like grip, moving the knife towards my throat. He was bereft of reason, only wanting to kill, destruct.  He didn't seem to realise that my mother was there, quickly phoning the police. But we had to do something fast before I was dead.

Using all my strength, I kicked him hard in the shins and ran from his arms. He dropped the knife in my escape and I grabbed it quickly. He looked around the room as if he didn't know where he was. Then suddenly he fell to his knees, crying.

He was still there crying when the police arrived. A crazy man, familiar with drugs and the guy my sister had been heartbroken over. He was taken away in the back of a police car. We never saw him again. Never wanted to either.

My mother coped well with the funeral, but we both went to pieces afterwards. My sister was only eighteen and she was dead. Dead through the insanity of a very sick man. I realised that I would never forget what happened, but life had to go on and somehow I would face it.


Needless to say, I'm still painfully woeful highly skillful writer, as this boring as batshit bogan blog proves. It's also comforting to know, that thirty years later, I haven't matured beyond the age of twelve. After all, being a grown up is totally over rated. 

Linking up with Rachel at The Very Inappropriate Blog for The Lounge.


                                 What do you remember about your teenage years?