The creative outlet of a budding actuary

2009-01-17T18:10:00.004+11:00

The times they are a changin’

I remember clearly a very hot summer day almost a year ago. It was the kind of day when you feel as though all of your energy is being sucked from you as you walk alongside the black shimmering road. When you feel like you want to crawl into the refrigerator as soon as you get home just to get away from the heat. I was standing at a crowded tram stop on St. Kilda road, trying to block out the tormenting squeal of Formula 1 cars buzzing around Albert Park Lake. I looked down the street and saw a gust of wind, stirring red dust and leaves in its wake, approaching rapidly; the cool change had arrived, bringing instant relief from the draining heat. This memory sticks in my mind because it is the only time I have actually been able to see and feel a cool change arrive. Normally I’m only semi-aware that the cool change has come at some point well after it has happened.

Sometimes change is obvious and distinct, but most of the time it creeps up on you and you don’t even realise until you reflect on your life years down the track. Despite this, people often like to separate their lives into different periods. A classic example of this is New Years Eve; somehow we like to think that 2009 is completely different from 2008, but does anything really change once the clock ticks over past midnight? In most cases – no. Sometimes, people can be even more superficial and link change to a material object, “My life will be different now that I have this new sofa.”

Right at the moment, I’m semi-aware that change is coming; I feel its presence, but have no idea if it has come already or even if it will come at all. Recently I heard the fantastic news that I’d passed my final actuarial exam, which means no more study; no more stressing before exams and then stressing some more afterwards whilst waiting for the results. Fortunately I managed to get through it all without failing a subject, which to non-actuaries probably means absolutely nothing, but is a pretty special thing to actuaries. I’m not really fussed about that though, I’m just glad I didn’t have to go through anything twice; I don’t think I would have been able to handle it. Anyway, the point is that my education has finally finished, and now my learning begins. That’s why I feel that change is coming.

To be honest I’m a little bit scared really. When I was studying, at least I had a constant source of focus and motivation; I had little time to dwell on my thoughts. Now that I have free time, I reflect and I think about things a lot. I realise that I have a lot to work on until I am the person that I want to be.

I doubt I’ll be content just working during the day and then going home afterwards and doing nothing. So, my plan is to do something. I want to learn a language, get some new hobbies, write a book, work on my weaknesses and last but not least, get back in touch with the social side of my life, which I’ve neglected for so long. I need to spend more time with my friends, my girlfriend and my family. I need to set aside more time to have fun and live life.

Gee, I just noticed that this is starting to sound like a New Year’s resolution, but that’s not my intention at all. It’s a plan really; a plan to have a full happy post-study life. O brave new world.

And yes, I will try and write on my blog more; I’ve neglected that a bit too.

First things first though. I’ll get back to finishing logging my European holiday. Last time I left off, I was leaving Paris for Nice.

Nice – a town that is a catalyst for bad jokes

Yes, Nice was…pleasant. Now let’s just move on.

It was a little bit sad having to leave Paris so soon, but the rest of France beckoned. We checked out of our grimy youth hostel and made our way to ‘Gare de Nord’ to get two tickets for Nice. After waiting around the station for a bit, we crossed town to ‘Gare de Lyon’ and hopped on board a shiny TGV – the French equivalent of a Japanese bullet train – bound for Marseille. With efficiency uncharacteristic of the French, we departed on time and sped through rolling green pastures towards the port city of Marseille.

We had the unfortunate displeasure of sitting near an arrogant man who decided to watch a bad French comedy on his laptop, without earphones, for the entire length of the trip. Police sirens, corny romantic music and canned laughter, which was followed by the inconsiderate man’s laughter, was the soundtrack to what would have otherwise been a pleasant journey through the French countryside.

We changed to a comparatively dilapidated and slow train at Marseille. It snaked its way along the scenic coast towards Nice, that is until it stopped due to a ‘strike’, which lasted for half an hour. I’m convinced it was just an excuse for the driver to go and sit by the beach and smoke, drink wine and eat cheese. Still, we weren’t exactly in a hurry, so it was no skin off my back.

I felt a tingle of excitement when I caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea and also when we stopped at famous towns like Cannes. The trip got a little bit boring after a while though. Europe looks tiny on the map in comparison to Australia, yet it takes a surprisingly long time to negotiate.

Nice didn’t exactly put on its pretty face to greet us. We pushed our way past bus loads (or boat loads?) of American tourists, to the main street, which happened to be the perimeter of the red light district. Perhaps people who frequent these areas don’t like to walk very far? I can’t think of any other reason why it would be right next to the train station. In any case, nothing says welcome quite like a neon sign blinking “Sex, sex, sex.”

It turned out that our hotel wasn’t very far from all of these shenanigans either. The hotel was a cheap pokey one-star affair, whose main boasting point was their participation in the annual Nice Carnival. As a result of this, several paper maché Carnival costumes, which looked like they were straight out of that James Bond film with ‘jaws’ in Rio, were dotted along the flights of stairs to our room. They scared the heck out of me; their eyes stared blankly and they grinned inanely; I swear they moved when I wasn’t looking. Shudder. Chris seemed to love them though – always one to be mesmerised by truly evil things.

Scary carnival costume - photo courtesy of Chris

We were a bit peckish after all of the travelling, so we wandered out to grab a bite to eat. After getting out of our creepy hotel and walking past the red light district, Nice turned out to be quite… err… good. It reminded me of Melbourne actually, complete with trams and all. I almost felt as though I were walking down Bourke Street in certain parts.

We were a bit too hungry to explore the city for too long, so we settled for an Italian restaurant (of all places), decked out with tables with the stereotypical red and white check tablecloths and a with a plump old Italian waiter, with black hair slicked back with greasy Bryll Cream, but who spoke French. Italy isn’t that far from Nice… so it was ok. The wood fired pizza I ordered turned out to be rather tasty in any case.

The next day we decided to go to Monaco. We decided to pick up some breakfast and lunch from a either a boulangerie or a patisserie. By now we’d learnt that your money lasts a lot longer if you don’t eat lunch at overpriced cafés each day.

Ah breakfast in France, the best meal of the day. There is no better start to the day than munching on a crisp freshly made French pastry. I became quite a pastry addict whilst in France and developed a particular fondness for ‘Pain aux Raisin’ – sweet pastry with custard and sultanas shaped in a spiral.

We managed to find a truly amazing place to get our breakfast and lunch. To this day I still think about it. Their pastries and their baguettes were beyond delicious. Their ‘Pain aux Raisin’ was a work of art: glazed with sugar, plump juicy raisins, creamy custard, finished off with orange rind and crisp pieces of malt. Oh yeah. The only problem was that nothing else since has matched that first pastry ‘hit’.

We made our way to the station to get a train to Monaco. Something seemed to be wrong though. The station was packed with confused American tourists and none of the trains on the departures board seemed to be going to Monaco. Still, Chris and I thought we’d be savvy and try and use the ticket machines to avoid queuing with the Americans.

We got the tickets with no dramas, but then we didn’t know what to do with them. We walked around looking as confused as the Americans. Chris went over to ask a station attendant what was going on. I asked Chris what was happening when he got back, “Umm, I don’t know man, he just mumbled a string of French at me. I think I caught ‘left’ something.”

Now it was my turn to try and find out what was going on. I lined up at the information counter, running a line from my phrasebook over and over in my head: “Which platform does the train to Monaco go from?” The Americans ahead of me were all asking in English and I felt immensely superior to them, right up until the point where I got to the counter, spoke my badly pronounced ‘phrasebook French’ and received a rapid response – in French. Damn, I have no idea what he just said, I thought. I stepped aside feeling a bit silly.

The French weren’t getting it. The way it was supposed to work was that I would speak my bad French, they’d be surprised and impressed and then respond happily in fluent English. As I spent more and more time in France, I realised the best approach was to ask, “Parlez-vous Anglais?” or “Do you speak English” in French. That way it looked like you were making an effort, but you didn’t actually have to know any French at all. Brilliant.

Anyway, we ended up having to ask some Americans and realised that there was a rail strike – lazy French – and that no trains were going to Monaco. Try again tomorrow.

Our plans weren’t set in concrete, so we just switched things around a bit and decided to spend the day exploring Nice instead.

It was a wet and gloomy day. We spent most of our time dodging the rain because we were too cheap/lazy/proud to buy umbrellas. That’s how we ended up in the Matisse gallery – to get out of the rain.

Now, Matisse is supposedly a famous artist from Nice, but we didn’t find his work at all appealing; Chris especially. We killed a few hours walking around making snide and sarcastic comments before deciding that standing in the rain had to be better than spending another minute in that place. From then on Matisse became a synonym for bad/rubbish/lame.

We dodged the rain some more before searching the city to try and find a ‘Carrefour’ store that we saw advertised on a billboard on the side of the road. Carrefour is a massive ‘department-grocery-everything-you-could-every-need-under-one-roof’ type store. Best of all though, they have an excellent selection of chocolate.

We walked down the street before being asked for a light by some youths. Ah France, so many smokers, but cigarette lighters seemingly in such short supply. It is great not speaking the language, you can just say ‘I don’t understand’ and move on without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.

Although later on, saying ‘I don’t understand’ didn’t seem to work. We walked down the street for a bit longer before three young ladies standing in front of a small garage stopped us. They couldn’t speak English, we couldn’t speak French; it was a communication breakdown. After a few minutes of their frantic gesturing, we still couldn’t work out they wanted. They sighed and tried a new approach. The girl with copper coloured hair and a black leather jacket pointed at her Vespa, which seemed to be stuck. Ahh, it finally clicked, she wanted help lifting her Vespa out onto the street, so I did, and then we were all on our way.

We eventually found Carrefour in a smallish shopping centre and I almost gave in and bought an umbrella at a ‘low low price’, but decided against it. We’d already managed to dodge the rain for this long, why give in now? I did stock up on chocolate though.

Eventually after some more general wandering, we decided to try and find some dinner. I was on the hunt for ‘Socca’ which is apparently a pizza/crepe, of sorts, made from chick pea flour and is a speciality of the region, but it turns out it is more of a market dish rather than a restaurant dish. Still, the search for Socca took us to the waterfront and down an alley to an out-of-the-way restaurant serving local specialities.

The restaurant turned out to be one of the best during the trip. A likeable waiter with flared grey hair, a cheerful voice and a carefree demeanour showed us to a table. The menu was scrawled in white chalk on a small blackboard on the table. The walls were thick and the place was dim and had dark tones, almost like a cellar, but much cosier.

Our waiter realised that we were struggling with the menu, so he brought over a young waiter who, not only translated the menu for us, but also gave us a story about the origin of each dish. After she had finished her spiel, I wanted to order about five different dishes, but settled for a traditional slow cooked hearty stew called ‘daube’. We ordered a demi-bottle of local wine and began our meal. The place started filling up with locals who were starting their weekend celebrations. It became quite lively, as the place also doubled as a bar.

The food was excellent, the ambiance great and the cheerful waiter topped it all off by offering us free shots from the bar after our meal. While Nice may be a little dull sometimes, the food and the waterfront area makes it a truly special place. Well worth a visit.

We called it a night and decided that we’d renew our quest to get to Monaco the following day.

2008-07-26T12:27:00.004+10:00

Fully sick mate.

Having ended the last entry on the subject of being sick, it is somewhat fitting then that I begin this entry on the same subject – albeit a different case. I somehow managed to pick up an annoying bug, which has meant that I’ve had to take two days off work and live on toast and water. I’m tired of being sick and I’m sick of being tired; the illness is just so draining. If there is any silver lining, I guess it has given me time to slow down and reflect.

Still, with some luck I’ll be back to health soon and running at full pace again. Sherly has been great throughout all this given that I’m not very good at being sick – I just hate being helpless that’s all.

We’ve been going out for more than two years now. I took her out to a swanky Japanese restaurant (Yu-u) in the city to celebrate followed by a visit to a Japanese bath house the following weekend, both of which were very enjoyable. Sherly has been ultra busy lately with work and uni and I’ve been a bit worried about it all, but I guess she’s always been hard working, so no doubt she can handle it.

Last weekend as part of a ‘get to know my home city better’ kick, I thought I’d check out the Melbourne Open City event, where several heritage listed buildings were opened up for public viewing. The line for the first – the Manchester Unity boardroom tour – was absurdly long and it took over two hours. The time wasted would have bugged me more if it hadn’t been for my foresight to bring my study notes with me. I managed to get through a paper or two, which the old ladies behind me seemed impressed with.

The reason why I waited – and this may seem a little geeky – is that Manchester Unity has a special appeal to me because of the sickness tables that their English parent company produced in the 1800’s. I remember using the tables as an undergrad and felt compelled to see an offshoot of the company that compiled them.

The building was impressive. It was from a completely different time. A time when profit maximisation and rigorous expense minimisation were almost unheard of. A time when insurance companies spent their wealth freely on grand buildings and lavish functions. When name and reputation was everything.

The halls were adorned with paintings and carvings and led to a set of lifts with big bronze doors with embossed Manchester Unity symbols. Small touches such as unique cornice designs for each floor, so that anyone with a good memory could know where they were if plonked on a random floor, confirmed that mass production was a mantra yet to be followed.

Manchester Unity Tower

The tour guide explained that a (rich) dentist now owns the top floor of the building including a three level tower at the top, which he uses for the purpose of a multi level operating room, presumably for Melbourne elitists who want a view while getting their teeth whitened. We were taken along the rooftop and then to the boardroom.

The boardroom wasn’t as grand as I had been imagining, but maybe that was because the dentist had taken down all of the paintings and jewels the morning before he decided to let all of Melbourne walk through. Fair enough too, he obviously didn’t get rich by being dim.

The most fascinating part of the room was a 15m long, single piece glass table top that had been imported from France. The logistics of getting it onto the 11^th floor in 1840 when it is too wide to fit through the doors or windows are just mind boggling.

The building was impressive, but I’m not sure whether it was worth the long wait. Others on the tour seemed to be convincing themselves that their time hadn’t been wasted by emphatically telling people in the queue how ‘lovely’ and ‘worthwhile’ the tour had been as they exited the lifts.

Plaza ballroom

Next was the Plaza ballroom beside the Regent theatre, which apparently had been restored recently after being flooded for many years. The ballroom was impressively grand and as I stood looking across the carpeted floor lit by numerous chandeliers I squinted and tried to imagine a Melbourne in its golden era with society types watching a play and then proceeding to the ballroom in their extravagant outfits.

Anyway, enough about Melbourne – back to Paris.

Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa

After my morning walk, I met up with Harry for breakfast. Today we planned to see the Louvre. I was convinced that it wouldn’t live up to its hype, but it proved me wrong. The Louvre is a feast for the soul that everyone should experience at least once in their life. The only problem is that now Australian galleries pale in comparison and it is hard to get excited about the quarterly ‘special exhibits’ that come along and their relatively exorbitant admission prices.

The Louvre

I’m sure I would have appreciated the Louvre all the more had I not been getting sicker by the minute. After a few hours of browsing the artwork, I became more interested in the locations of toilets – the toilet symbol was the Mona Lisa to me. I understand that it is a magnificent old building, but the lack of toilets was farcical. At times I was reassuring myself, “Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa; it would be sacrilegious.”

After a few more hours even Chris was getting a little bit tired of the Louvre. We were both a bit ‘cultured out’. I think you really need to see the Louvre over a few weeks rather than try and cram it all into a day.

Our next stop was the Notre Dame. The intense heat of the sun was making things worse for me and by the time we got into the Notre Dame, I was feeling really quite ill. I thought I was going to vomit in the Notre Dame for sure, which would have been even more sacrilegious, so I told Chris I’d meet him back at the hostel and left. I’d run out of water to drink and I only had large denominations of currency and couldn’t buy any, so I staggered around the Paris streets parched and exhausted, trying to find the nearest metro station.

Finally I was able to spot a funky art-deco ‘metropolitan’ sign and walked down the stairs to the underground platform. It was a real struggle to walk back to the hostel and when I got back, I collapsed in my bunk bed and slept until the next day.

Centre Pompidou – The inside-out building

I was healthy enough to see some more of Paris the next day, but still not fully recovered. It was annoying walking past patisseries filled with delectable pastries and just feeling nauseous.

The view from the Eifel Tower

We spent two more nights in Paris and were able to see a fair chunk of the city. Our approach was to see one or two landmarks each day and walk through the streets to explore Paris in between.

Arc de Triumph

It isn’t the landmarks that I remember most of my time in Paris however. To me, Paris will always be associated with relaxing in a beautiful park on a gentle spring day, watching Parisians go about their daily lives whilst munching on a yummy baguette. Paris really is lovely in the springtime.

Eifel Tower

2008-06-22T21:51:00.002+10:00

Europe, at long last

It was a holiday of contrasts: the riches of Paris to the poverty stricken small towns of Morocco; lush green forests to arid ashen deserts; grimy youth hostels with odd roommates to five star hotels with portly porters willing to please for a tip; biting cold to searing heat and back to a winter chill once more. We journeyed relentlessly, always heading forwards onto new cities, never looking back; there was no time for nostalgia. We were in a city never more than a few days at a time and were guided by the limits of the train network. In crooked lines we cut our way across the continent on slow trains and on fast trains with the vague notion of needing to head south to Casablanca.

I think constantly adapting to all of this change made things feel a little strange when I got back. Things were the same, but not really. Work was the same, but not quite. My eyes were closed at night, but I wasn’t sleeping.

Anyway, I’ve been back for a few weeks now and things are becoming normal again. The holiday afterglow – where your own city seems new and exciting again for a brief moment – is fading.

Paris

It took around 34 hours from Melbourne airport to reach Charles de Gaulle airport. When I fly I always get the yearning to flick a switch and lose consciousness until I arrive at my destination. Forget first class, not remembering or having to experience the flight at all is the only way to fly. Still, I finally arrived, conscious and exhausted.

The French have their own (albeit quirky) way of doing things and it feels as though the airport is designed to stamp this impression on travellers from around the globe before they are allowed to enter the country. Instead of a bus or a monorail between the gate and the terminal, at Charles de Gaulle, there is a moving walkway that travels for kilometres through what feels like an underground bunker up hills and down them. It must almost be one of the longest moving walkways in the world.

Whilst waiting for the bags I tried to run through the scraps of French that I had learnt in my head. While I should have been revising useful phrases, the only thing I could hear over and over was ‘Je suis fatigué… Je suis fatigué … Je suis fatigué’ (I am tired). My blue chubby bag slid down the chute and Chris’ soon followed. We hoisted our hefty packs on our backs and went to find customs before realising we were out of the airport. Talk about lax controls. I was in France. It felt good to be in a country again – once you walk through the international departure gates and begin your journey, you aren’t really in any country anymore; you’re just a human in transit; you don’t belong anywhere.

The first opportunity I had to try speaking French was when trying to validate our rail passes and get a free train trip to the city centre. I was nervous and took the easy option, asking in French, “Do you speak English?” Fortunately, almost everyone in France seems to speak English and as long as you make an effort to try and communicate in French, they don’t seem to mind speaking English with you. In fact, my French was so bad that people just started speaking English to me, perhaps to save their language from being butchered by my awful pronunciation.

It was a Sunday; the trains weren’t very crowded and people didn’t seem rushed. We arrived at the central station (Gare de Nord) and could have kept going to find our youth hostel, but after travelling for such a long time, all I wanted to do was to get outside into the fresh air and walk about. So we decided to head to a café just outside the station.

Paris was everything I imagined it to be. Low rise buildings with balconies filled with red flowers in hanging pots, narrow streets with small Citroens and scooters whooshing by, pavements crowded with relaxed diners at busy cafés. We found a café, ordered some Perrier and soaked up these new surrounds. It was sunny Spring day and most people seemed to be in a carefree mood.

Fatigue soon won out though and we decided to try and find the youth hostel. We took the metro and zipped underneath the city and walked for a little way with our heavy packs to the hostel. We arrived and checked in with little fuss. It was a reasonable place, but it was a 10 person share room, so each day I wondered what roommates the new day would bring. Fortunately, none of the people that stayed in our room over the four days were intolerable, but a couple came close. I slept fairly well on the first night, but woke at an excessively early time. I didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, so I showered, got dressed and went for a wander. This was to be my routine during the holiday.

Early Morning in Paris - Garbage men and pigeons

The streets were deserted but for a few garbage men dressed in green uniforms and pigeons. I walked along past stores that were barricaded shut, hoping to find some sign of activity. I guess I’d always imagined Paris to be the kind of city that never sleeps. It was a public holiday though and we were a little way out of the city. Finally I came across a café that was open, so I ordered a coffee, French style – two shots of espresso with no milk – and sat outside. I pulled out a note book and started writing. I loved just sitting there, in Paris, watching the city slowly stir awake as the day grew brighter.

Perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea to get up so early and load myself up on coffee whilst still recovering from the long flight. So began two days of sickness, where I felt as though I were going to vomit on precious artworks or in sacred places and where the thought and sight of all food turned my stomach and made me nauseous. Not the ideal start, but I grew to love Paris – one of the world’s greatest cities.

2008-04-11T23:15:00.002+10:00

A Spot of Fun to Distract from Reality

I came across this tag while reading a friend’s blog, so I thought why not? Constant study is getting me a bit down and it has been a week at work that I’d rather forget.

The idea:

1. Put your music player on shuffle.

2. Press forward for each question.

3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense. No cheating.

4. With the answers, give your own comments on how it relates to the questions.

5. Tag someone else

Alright, I’ve got a nice glass of red at the ready and I’m going to chill out for a bit. itunes is fired up and I’ve merged my playlists for a truly random experience. Don’t let me down now music library…

How are you feeling today?
“Uptown Girl” Billy Joel.

Oh damn… what an awful start. Umm yes, the rough edged blue collar downtown guy singing about inter-class unrequited love – tricky.

Ok I’ve got it. After slaving away in the steel mill (and by steel mill I mean an air conditioned swanky new Docklands office) all week I really look forward to seeing my girl Sherly who is uptown (directly North in Carlton).

Will you get far in life?

“Take me out” Franz Ferdinand

Yes I’ll get far, but ‘I know I won’t be leaving here with you’ (or anyone for that matter).

How do your friends see you?
“Harder Better Faster Stronger (Live)” Daft Punk.

Umm, well the less said about this one the better, especially the ‘live’ bit. Moving right on then.

Will you get married?
“Look What You’ve Done” Jet

… you mentioned the M word.

What is your best friend's theme song?
“Lean on Me” Bill Withers

Go itunes! Yup, gotta love my mates Harry and Irz. Actually we tend to sing this song on the streets when we’ve had a bit to drink.

What is the story of your life?
“Hello Hello” The Cat Empire.

If at first you don’t succeed try again.

What was high school like?
“Blues Brothers Theme” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Imagine black suits, black ties, black sunglasses and a mission from God.

What's in store for this weekend?
“Nasty Girl” Inaya Day

Haha… oh dear, I shouldn’t have included my club playlist. Well, one can always hope…

How's your life going?
“Cello Suite No. 1” Bach

So true, my life is exactly like Bach’s cello suite 1 right now. Frankly, I’m so glad that cello suite 2 didn’t come up, because that would have been absurd.

How can you get ahead in life?
“Gimme Some Lovin’” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Yup, asking people for some lovin’ always gets you far.

What's the best thing about your friends?
“The Rhythm” The Cat Empire

My friends always find time to appreciate the lighter side of life.

What song will they play at your funeral?
“Worthy is the Lamb” Choir/ Religious Hymn

*sob* He was one worthy lamb alright that boy. Seriously, what the heck is this doing in my playlist anyway?

How does the world see you?
“Great Southern Land” Icehouse

Well I’m a little offended. I’d like to think people see me as more than that…

Will you have a happy life?
“Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D major” Beethoven

Yes. Yes I will. Not feeling all that happy about including my classical playlist though.

Do people secretly lust after you?
“All I want for Christmas is you” Oliva Olson – Love Actually Soundtrack

Well, I guess they do. That’s news to me.

How can you make yourself happy?
“Respect” Aretha Franklin

I’ve got to show myself and others a bit of respect. All I’m asking is for a little respect.

What should you do with your life?
“Stuck in Moment you can’t get out of” U2

Apparently I should just be nostalgic and live in just one moment of my life.

Will you ever have children?
“Billy Jean” Michael Jackson.

Yes, but I will deny responsibility. ‘The kid is not my son.’

What song would you strip to?
“It had to be you” Frank Sinartra

Ahhh I’m a romantic at heart.

What does your mum think of you?
“I don’t remember” Powderfinger

Oh gosh… I hope not. How sad.

What is your deep, dark secret?
“It just takes some time” Jimmy Eats World

I won’t tell you just now.

What is your mortal enemy's theme song?
“Relax, don’t do it” Duran Duran

Yeah very fitting. I can see us grappling over a gun James Bond style. ‘Hey, relax Goldfinger, don’t do it! Save the world from the evil death ray.’

What's your personality like?
“Can’t Touch This” MC Hammer

Alright, I might have issues with letting people get close. Let’s just move on, ok.

What song will be played at your wedding?
“U.F.O” Sneaky Sound System

Very appropriate wedding music.

The end….

Alright, I tag Sherly and Irz (update your blog fool).

2007-12-17T22:59:00.000+11:00

Time Keeps on Slipping

The year really has just flown by. I’ve always hated that statement, but I find myself using it nowadays strangely enough. For one thing years don’t fly, for another each year is much the same length and finally 365.25 days don’t exactly go by in the blink of an eye; try watching Titanic 2500 times and I bet it will feel like eternity. Then why do so many people feel the need to say this ludicrous statement around this time of year and more intriguingly, why am I starting to say it?

Believe it or not I’ve had this discussion with Chris on more than one occasion and he puts it down to memory compression – you tend to cram important memories together and filter out irrelevant ones, so if you’re trying measure the year by viewing back through your memories, the compression effect will always make it seem a lot shorter than it actually felt like at the time. I’ve always thought it was a good theory, but why then does the effect seem to get worse with age; old people are the most notorious users of this loathsome statement. Is it because as we hurtle towards the inevitable end our perception of time warps so that the years seem ever shorter? Or is it because as we get older, we have less important and exciting memories meaning that the memory compression effect is stronger? I really don’t know the answer, but all I know is that this year has seemed to go rather quickly.

It has been over a year since I’ve started work now. What’s more, my thoughts about my first year have been given a jolt by the starting and subsequent training of the new grad to replace my role when I rotate. As I see his eyes bright and full of energy and sense his scorn at the sometimes tedious tasks we have to do, it makes me reflect on how I’ve changed, if at all.

I wouldn’t say corporate life has sucked out my soul, but I have adapted to it somewhat. I even find myself voluntarily putting bullet points into e-mails and reports nowadays. It probably isn’t all bad though. Where there was flair and individualism there is now efficiency and team skills. Things I have improved on are assertiveness, confidence and analysing consequences before actions, while things I feel I have lost or slipped back from are creative thinking, reflection and the ability to chill out; even when I have time off I feel I want to maximise every second of it; I can’t seem to just relax any more. Still, it has been a good year. Tough, but pretty good overall. I’m proud of some of the things I’ve been able to achieve and think maybe I can see myself having a future in the corporate world. I do notice it is making me become more politically left though for some odd reason.

Anyway, enough reflection, there is some time to go before the New Year. Sherly got her PR recently, so I’m thrilled about that and took her out to dinner at a nice French restaurant in Port Melbourne. Apart from dining out, we really enjoy cooking together. Sherly loves to cook, I love to eat Sherly’s cooking and it is time where we can chat and help each other out, all in all a great combination. It works out swimmingly.

I’m planning a Europe trip with the lads and can’t wait, but there is still a lot to do and achieve before then.

Back to the Malaysia holiday…

You can stay under my umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a…(3)

My lunch was swinging to and fro precariously from my pack held only by the ever stretching handles of a plastic bag. For it to drop would have been a real shame given how hungry I was expecting to be at lunchtime. Perhaps the sight of my swinging lunch bag as I strode along the narrow bumpy track was strangely hypnotic to Chris and Irz who followed behind as I led in the first leg of the walk.

The path was not testing in the initial stages and was only moderately uphill. We reached the first of eight (or maybe it was nine) rest stations within half and hour and basking in our own arrogance and confidence we made light of the climb and pushed on past the rest stop. Each group we overtook made us more ever more cocky. Irwin was strangely quiet though and knew Chris and I were being foolish; he’d climbed the mountain before and knew our confidence was misplaced as we’d barely scratched the surface.

The path started to get steeper and harder and the flat bits in between hills all but disappeared, replaced by ominous awkward stairs. Along the path we passed several workers whose job it was to carry heavy loads to the top of the mountain each day. We marvelled at their efforts but later on when we realised that every single building and structure on the mountain had been carried up painstakingly piece by piece by these poorly paid workers who are sometimes 80 year old women, we couldn’t help to think about equity or lack of it in the world.

We started to tire. We were sweating, panting and trudging along and we’d barely even climbed 500m in altitude yet. By the time the third rest shelter came along we were ready to have some lunch.

The shelter was crowded with other climbers – who also thought it was a good spot to have lunch – and we wandered around for some time trying to stake a claim to a place where we could eat. Our packed lunch was a little unusual but we scoffed it down without too much discernment. Whenever a piece of food dropped to the ground, a small rat like creature scurried from the safety of underneath a bin to brave the sea of exposed legs and grab it.

A large group of Korean tourists began to annoy me. Firstly they all flew a group flag that said K2 on it, which made me mad, as Kinabalu although a mighty mountain hardly compares to K2. Secondly they were loud, not just American tourist style loud, full on shouting non-stop loud. Thirdly the women wore makeup for the climb showing total disrespect for the climb and the mountain in my eyes. Fourthly, they obviously had too much money, as they all were ridiculously over equipped for the climb. Fifthly they showed utter disregard for other climbers. Sixthly several drank straight from the tap with their mouth over it. Seventhly they made loud chanting noises. Eigthly they were old… not sure what that has to do with anything, but it makes it on my list anyway. Ninthly they hogged the path and gave no thanks when people let them pass. And tenthly one was wearing a ridiculous shirt, I think. Yes it’s fair to say that that tourist group gave me a lot of rage and they did a lot of damage to the reputation of their fellow countrymen in my eyes.

Grumblings about the ‘K2 morons’ aside, we started climbing again. It was spectacular how the foliage by the path changed the higher we climbed. Trees became less dense and more stunted. Occasionally a break in the trees offered a spectacular view of the valley far below.

We began to suspect that Clarence and all the other guides had a secret elevator to the top of the mountain, because no matter how far we got ahead of him, he always seemed to be there at the next rest stop before us, smoking as if he were waiting for a bus. It was strangely irritating. Actually irritation seems to be a recurring theme for me looking back and was possibly due to the strain and lack of oxygen.

Signposts and shelters were both a joy and a curse as they indicated our progress. The trail got tricky in spots with steep slippery stairs a regular occurrence. Although our pace slowed as the day wore on, we were steadily reaching our resting place for the night – Lamban Rata. At this point I remember trying to decide in my head which was worse, the four day charity bike ride or the climb? And at this point it was still an easy decision – the bike ride, clearly.

At one point, big droplets from a tropical rain shower plodded on our backs and faces prompting us to stop and put on our incredibly unfashionable rain jackets. We even huddled in a rest shelter – when we reached one – with some English climbers who were talking about scrabble and who offered us some biscuits. The rain wasn’t to last though and turned out to be as fickle as a Melbourne thunder storm. We trekked on.

Eventually we felt as though we were almost at rest point for the night; it had been quite a while since the last indicator sign. At this point we bumped into a French man, who we thought was being helpful when he said the hut was 1 hour away, but realised soon after was being an utter arsehole when we in fact discovered the hut was but 2 minutes away. The French man was another thing on that mountain that irritated me…

The accommodation was mainly small huts dispersed among the trees off the trail with one large distinctive hut in the middle where there was a restaurant and warm showers for those staying there. Why, there was even a dilapidated volleyball net strewn between two rusty poles for those who had energy to burn and had the foresight to pack a ball.

We were relieved to reach the rest stop but perhaps a little too tired to feel a sense of achievement just yet. We took a few half hearted photos of the view that was now available and made our way into the large hut named Lamban Rata. A clock outside displayed the time and temperature. It must be about one of the only places in Malaysia below 10 degrees. We wearily stepped inside and made our way to the check in counter observing other climbers looking about as exhausted as we felt. We decided to dump all our bags off first and then come back for a jolly good cup of tea.

Our hut was about 5 minutes up the Summit trail and was far from impressive – a cosy steel shed construction with 3 bunk beds crammed inside – but it looked like the Ritz to us. We all claimed a bed and crashed. We weren’t sure why there were 6 beds when there were only three of us, so we all stole an extra blanket each in anticipation of a cold night.

Each of us lay sprawled on the bed staring blankly at the graffiti carvings of previous owners on the dark green wooden slats surrounding the beds. We would probably have stayed there all night had our hunger got the best of us, so we decided to head to the main hut and get some tea and stay there until dinner.

We sat down on faded orange plastic chairs by a window that offered a decent view. A lonely plant stood in a narrow glass vase with a retired helpless air – its leaves decayed and withered. Our speckled table lay nestled between the postcard/snack stand and the kitchen. The Sabah tea on offer was hard to go past, so we all poured ourselves a cup. We pondered where we’d come from and where we had to go over tea, our bodies slumped in the least straining position possible. It may have looked a little odd, the three of us sitting like that, but almost everyone else had the same retired look, almost matching the lonely plant on our table.

Irz appeared to doze, Harry began a pen sketch of the hut and I pondered. As the hours ticked by and the daylight faded, the hut became more and more full of weary hikers. We had an unmemorable meal. Time continued to tick by.

Eventually we summoned the energy to head back to our little hut and turn in for the night. I was surprised at how much energy everything took at this altitude. Even standing up and walking a few paces required large gasps of breath to do. I began to worry about the rest of the climb and for the first time that day I started to think that it was possible that I may not be able to reach the summit.

Lamban Rata is at 3200m above sea level, an altitude that is just not comprehendible coming from the flat land of Australia – it is 1km higher than the highest Australian mountain.

We staggered back along the trail to our small hut. I was gasping for air along the way. This added to my concerns. Once we reached the hut we stood around and took some photos. Next to our hut was an identical neighbouring hut and a toilet that looked like an old style outhouse was a short distance along a path from both huts. The view was pretty good and the sense of freedom and the novelty of being on South East Asia’s highest mountain suddenly sunk in and filled me with a mild euphoria that swept away my aches and worries.

We got chatting to our neighbours, who were a group of friendly backpackers from Ireland on a world trip. They were around our age and were easy and interesting to talk to. As we exchanged travel experiences the conversation drifted to accommodation in Kota Kinabalu and Chris, Irz and I simultaneously decided to neglect to mention that we were staying at a luxury resort for fear of scorn from our new acquaintances, so we mentioned that we were staying at a small backpackers lodge instead.

As the night wore on we decided to turn in and went into our hut to get some sleep ahead of our 3am summit climb the next day. When the lights went off, silence filled the room and my eyes shut, yet my mind stayed alert and buzzing.

Sure I was thinking about the climb, but what was worrying me was the fact that I was breathing at a pretty fast and deep rate even though lying down is one of the least strenuous activities possible. How on earth was I going to cope with climbing if I was out of breath just lying down? The worry ate and ate at me. What if I can’t make it? I convinced myself that I would ruin our entire holiday if I had to give up on the climb. Fear grew and festered in my mind, churning my stomach. These pointless silly thoughts continued, until I realised I wasn’t sleeping. The best I could manage was a drift into deep thought.

…

The cosy fire flickered next to us providing a gentle warmth as I chatted with my family about the holiday I was planning with my friends. The food was good and the atmosphere homely. I was feeling happy about being here with my family on my Sister’s birthday. How busy life has become now that I appreciate a meal with my family so much. I remember as a teen, dining out with family sometimes felt like more of a chore. Funny how we change.

A sceptical question asked by my Sister disturbed my thoughts. “So you’re climbing a mountain on your holiday? Why on earth would you want to do that?” I didn’t give much thought to my response. “Because it is there,” I replied perhaps a little too arrogantly.

It’s funny how some people’s idea of a holiday is to revel in the comfort of a nice beach in an English speaking country, while others really want to get out and push their limits on holiday. I could see my family and I were at different ends of the spectrum.

So what does drive us to climb mountains? Why do some of us look up at a tall peak and think, yeah I’d like to try and climb that? I guess it is for the same reason we came down from the trees, the same reason we sent men to walk on the moon: the desire to go beyond our limits; test what we’re capable off. Some of us take it literally, physically climbing mountains while others climb mountains in other ways, in their jobs or study.

I changed the subject. It wasn’t the day to argue about our thoughts on the perfect holiday.

…

The unmistakable metallic clunk of a key turning in a lock pierced the silence and shook me out of my thoughts. What the? The bright lights came on suddenly. Each of us sat up wondering what the hell was going on. It became evident that the cabin wasn’t exclusively for us; we now had 3 roommates. Talk about horrible timing. Cursing and muttering, we all returned the blankets to the beds above us and asked our new visitors to turn the lights off and be quiet.

Chris later named one of our roommates Mr. Tuberculosis due to the seemingly endless coughing fits he seemed to be having. Mr. Tuberculosis and his buddies were also loud snorers and drifted to sleep very quickly. After about 30 minutes of their snoring and coughing, I heard Chris curse under his breath, “just kill me…” What luck to get such horrible roommates at this time of night.

It didn’t make much difference to me though as I’d already conceded that I wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep. I just wanted 3am to come around so I could get the climb over and done with.

The night seemed to last forever. It was the kind of night where you stare into space for what seems like hours only to check your watch to find that less than 20 minutes have gone by. Annoyingly I finally got to sleep barely half an hour before we had to wake up. The alarm went off just before 3am. It was time to make the final push and climb the mountain.

We paid our roommates back for their midnight intrusion by making as much noise as possible when we got ready. After much stomping, loud talking and light flicking we decided enough was enough and closed the cabin door sealing Mr. Tuberculosis and his buddies inside.

It was a crisp morning. The lack of artificial light made for a bright mesmerising star lit sky. Condensation lingered in the air as we breathed out; proof of a chilly morning. Harry, Irz and I weren’t the only early risers, with our Irish neighbours getting out for the occasion also.

After a little bit of waiting around, Clarence our faithful guide came bounding up the track bidding us a cheerful good morning. This is the moment where Clarence shone and proved invaluable. Instead of walking off on us and taking the sherpa elevator, he stuck with us closely and helped us navigate the tricky rock path to the Summit.

We stumbled and trudged our way along the summit trail, up rickety stairs, never quite sure if we were putting our feet on solid ground or not. After walking at a steady pace for an hour, we got above the tree line and the rest of the climb was up slopping rocks to the Summit. At one point we stopped to have a rest and take in the surrounds. We all switched our lights off and looked around. What an eerie but pleasant sight it was. Darkness was all around except for the lights of Lamban Rata well below, from which a thin stream of the snaking torch lights wound up the path, which looked like glow worms crawling in a darkened cave.

We pushed on. Thick ropes helped us scale up the sometimes steep rocks. Irz was fading and seemed in pretty bad shape. We were now stopping quite frequently and one or two groups caught up and passed us. As I watched Irz bending over and panting at each break, I felt worried and helpless. I really felt like pushing on to get it over and done with while I still had the motivation.

After continuing for a while in this stop start fashion, we reached the final gate before the summit. A Malaysian man, who looked uncomfortably cold, sat in a booth and wrote down our names before letting us pass. We stopped for some water and to snack on some muesli bars before making the final push.

Some more climbing and we reached another milestone – the final sign post indicator. Our spirits picked up and we knew somehow that we would make it. Irz was still battling. Not long after the indicator I suffered the same affliction as Irz. I was overcome by exhaustion and nausea. Each crevice in a rock looked like an ideal place to rest and vomit, but I crawled on metre by metre. It was surprising to feel like this as I felt pretty fit before the trip and had put in a decent amount of training including climbing up and down the stairs at work (18 flights) every lunchtime. I felt as if suddenly I were a 50 year old fat smoker to whom every step was an effort. The air just felt so thin; even though I was panting I felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen.

Chris and Clarence were fine. They seemed to have no trouble and Chris was still cheerful enough to make wise cracks. Irz and I started to slow to a crawling pace, cursing loudly with each step and cursing more for each rock we had to negotiate or climb. We saw Chris fade into the distance. Irz and I conceded that Chris was the overall winner and we spurred each other on. The best motivation I could muster was to talk like Sam from the Lord of the Rings movies, “You can do it Froddo…” The rocks were very steep now.

We moved on to mindless chatter to keep our minds busy. We couldn’t see any lights ahead of us and had no idea how far it was to the top. Then, suddenly Chris appeared at the top of the rock pile in front of us and declared “This is the top fellas. I win… losers.” Irz and I glanced at each other with a look of relief and joking resentment towards Chris.

And then we’d done it. We saw a small group of climbers silently sitting around on the rocky summit, solemnly appreciating the surrounds and their achievements. The pale green metal summit sign confirmed that we were in fact at the top, 4095m above sea level. Phew. Things felt pretty good right then.

2007-11-07T23:41:00.000+11:00

Kicking my Feet up and Chillin’

Goodbye study, hello free time. It sure feels good to have the exam over and done with. If there is one pledge, which I always seem to make and break after exams, it is to make the most of my free time; to live life. The great thing about finishing an exam is that you suddenly find a lot of time that wasn’t there before and that jolt to your system can be enough to help you emerge from the murky depths of self imposed hermit-dom into the light to be a normal member of society again.

A few days before the exam I got so frustrated with study, I took a walk. I meandered along random alleyways until I found myself at St Kilda beach. I sat down on a stone wall looking out to sea and just contemplated the surrounds. The masts of several sail boats stood tall and mighty; they were fragmented silhouettes against an amber sun ready to set. I stared longingly; how I wanted to stay to watch the sunset. After a few minutes though, I had to turn around and get back to study, vowing silently to come back after the exam. So, this is my pledge: To read more, to write more, to go out more, to contemplate more, to visit my parents more, to see my friends more, to walk more, to bike more, relax more, watch more sunsets, stare at the stars and last but not least, spend more time with my girlfriend. Now that it is written down I might guilt myself into doing it all.

I can say I’m already off to a fairly decent start. On Cup Day I took Sherly away for a spontaneous holiday to Mornington Peninsula for a day of relaxation and indulgence. We had lunch at a winery, where we enjoyed the local produce and impressive gardens. Sherly and I were both inspired to start a garden of our own and grow fresh herbs and vegetables, heck I’ve even planted some zucchini in a pot on my balcony. After lunch we made our way to Melbourne’s very own attempt at a hot spring. The surrounding foliage, abundance of flies and lingering Strine accents gave it a very Australian tinge to a very Japanese concept. I think at some points, Sherly was more focused on killing flies than on relaxing, but we both enjoyed ourselves. It was a much needed break and I think both Sherly and I are much happier for it.

Sherly at Montalto Winery and Olive Grove

Anyway, back to the Malaysia trip…

You Can Stay Under my Umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a…(2)

A few hours of poolside revelry and we started to burn. Well, I should say Harry and I started to burn, while Irz just got more tanned. Considering the fact that we were getting burnt coupled with the fact that our hunger was growing, we decided to head into town to see what was on offer.

While waiting for the free shuttle bus, we loitered in the lobby, observing the coming and going of hotel guests. Given that it was a luxury resort, which we were only at due to good fortune of being hooked up with a good deal through Irz’ aunty, there were very few patrons that fitted into our demographic. Most guests fell into the category of Malaysia’s well to do salary men on a family vacation with their wife and boisterous kids. In fact I don’t recall seeing anyone our age at the resort. It was as if there were a demographic warp that sucked out a whole chunk of ages, leaving only the old and the very young.

Soon after observing this, the metallic clinging sound of a bell bounced around the expansive plush lobby, prompting us to trudge out into the humid air. Our bus, or rather, our ‘Bas’ was lacking a degree of manliness. I could imagine it rolling into a parking lot at the end of the day and having all the other buses snickering at it in mechanic roars: “Vrroooomm… Look here comes Barry, isn’t he looking dainty… Vrrroom Vrooom.” It was painted in bright green and purple, had decorative curtains with tassels… yes tassels and had seats with doilies. I can’t recall, but I’m pretty sure Chris would have commented how unmanly the bus was.

We found some shops after a few minutes and hit a bakery. Our eyes lit with glee at the low low prices as we greedily stocked up our trays with baked goods. This was all well and good until we actually went to eat our goodies and realised that they’d all been injected with copious amounts of sugar – brown, caster, white, saccharine, anything sweet was in there – causing us to wonder what the Malaysians were playing at. It really spoils the party when you gear up for a nice chomp on a savoury piece of garlic bread or a cheese twist, only to find that you’re eating a piece of cake instead… a garlicy piece of cake. Disappointed we headed to the supermarket.

Knowing full well the enormity of the task ahead of us the next day, we stocked up on supplies. Water, chips, chocolate and Twisties were all chucked in the basket, along with a pair of thongs for me, as I forgot to bring a pair and refuse to shower in a hotel without them. More or less satisfied with our student-like grocery shop, we headed back home in a beaten up Proton taxi painted in the colours of the Malaysian flag.

Irz's photo: Chris and I lazing around

After unloading our supplies, our thoughts turned to the sunset. “I’m going to get some good shots, it’ll be sweet.” Irz eluded with a mouthful of ‘Chicken-ator’ Twisties, “Yup, I’m going to try some light painting.” As for me, I was looking forward to a good hour of lazing around watching the world slip into twilight.

Sunsets can be a bit of a cliché, a bit hackneyed, but there’s just something about them that never gets tiring. I guess nothing helps you contemplate life more than taking the time out to watch and truly appreciate something that happens every single day; the mystical limbo between day and night.

Irwin's Sunset Pic

Irz was pretty content with the shots he took, but was a little less satisfied at the portrait shots he took of Chris and me. His idea was to take a photo of each of us that captured the essence of our lives and personalities. He was struggling. “Chris, how would you take a definitive Trav picture?” Chris, who was growing a little tired of Irwin’s musings on photography, began to suggest farcical ideas, which didn’t please Irwin very much. Nevertheless, Irwin tried various gadgets and lenses but still couldn’t quite manage it. I guess it would be hard to capture my character when I myself struggle to define who I am and where I am heading. Maybe a definitive photo of me would be a slightly blurred and moving body on a sharp clear background; a transient character trying to find a place and meaning in the world. I never suggested that to Irz, but I’m no photographer or artist so I don’t really think I was in the right place to be giving tips.

After no decision on a definitive Trav photo, we decided to get some dinner at the resort. We sat on tacky chairs – that were dressed in tuxedos – and ordered expensive Malaysian style Western food. The mood was relaxed and the soothing breeze blew through the open air dining area. After downing some food and drinks we chatted about the adventures Irz and Chris had been on so far. Interestingly enough we avoided the issue of the mountain climb. Sure it was all at the forefront of our minds, but I guess we were all contemplating it silently and inwardly. Personally I was anxious and bewildered; I had no idea what it would be like or whether I would be able to manage the climb.

There was no drinking or going out that night; we hit the hay early in preparation for the early wakeup call and long day ahead. It was just as well, as I was utterly exhausted. I think I slept the most soundly that night out of all three of us, despite being on the fold out bed.

The incessant whine of a telephone rudely disturbed the blissful silence of early morning. Irwin cursed, picked up the phone, mumbled and went back to sleep, mumbling some more. Soon after, a mobile phone alarm began to sound, followed by another and another. It was a regular early-morning mobile phone orchestra in our room – totally intolerable. We brushed ourselves up, packed our bags and made out way down to the lobby.

A mini-van arrived for us, which we staggered into and collapsed on the seats. Our Malaysian guides tried to break the ice by telling us that our driver was Nicholas Cage. Chris and I managed a polite but forced chuckle, while Irz, the man of no false pretences, lent his head up against the window in a quest to catch up on some sleep.

We were taken along bumpy neglected highways further and further away from Kota Kinabalu. It was far too early to talk, so we simply communicated only when absolutely necessary by means of hand gestures and grunting, usually only to ask for a biscuit or a bread roll.

After an hour or so on the road, we took a refresher break at a petrol station. I found the contrast in employment levels at petrol stations in Malaysia bewildering compared to petrol stations in Australia. Usually, an entire busy petrol station will be manned by one gawky awkward teenager on award (minimum) rates who does all tasks required. In contrast, this petrol station looked as though it was part of a ‘reducing unemployment’ strategy. There must have been a staff of at least 10 floating about, some who’s only job, it seemed, was to scrub the petrol pump, which seemed rather pointless.

The road began to get steeper as we crossed the neighbouring mountains. Regular (albeit immature) conversation started again, kicked off by an odd looking road sign we spotted. Mount Kinabalu was in sight, and gee it looked daunting; it reared its head high above the clouds; the king of all mountains in South-East Asia.

Eventually we reached the park headquarters, which were a short distance from the official starting point of the climb. We examined the map of the summit trail, which happened to be carved onto a large wooden information board including the rules of world heritage sites and the carefully constructed motto: “Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints.” Given the petrol station experience, I wouldn’t be surprised if the information board alone employed 100 people in its construction and a further 5 full-time for its maintenance.

Mt. Kinabalu information board – employing hundreds since 1950

“Looks high,” one of us pointed out, to which the others agreed, “Yup.”

After some administration work was completed, we met our mountain guide, a man who shares the same name as a carriage on ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’; Clarence. He was a cool, down to earth and fit man who has probably climbed the mountain more times than most people have walked to their local shops.

Chris offered Clarence his bananas from his packed lunch (Chris hates bananas) and we were driven to the entrance gate of the summit trail, also known fondly as the ‘power station’.

We stopped at the kiosk for some last minute supplies before stepping through the prison-like gates to the trail. As soon as we stepped through, the gate was shut behind us, as if to say “Now don’t return until you prove yourselves as men.” And so the arduous climb to the peak began with a deceptively easy descent…

2007-09-15T23:20:00.000+10:00

You can stay under my umbrella…ella…ella…a…a…a (1)

Sometimes you don’t even realise that it is happening, but a certain song gets locked into your mind as a poignant reminder of a significant point or event in your life. ‘Mika – Grace Kelly’ reminds me of the sweltering summer that I moved out of home, ‘Bon Jovi – Living on a Prayer’ reminds me of the frivolous carefree days of backpacking in Japan with my mates and ‘Snow Patrol – Chasing cars’ reminds me of standing in rolling fields of purple lavender with Sherly by my side on our summer getaway. Now that I look back, I know without a doubt whenever I hear ‘Rihanna – Under my Umbrella’, Teh Tahrik, the humid pungent air of KL, the savoury taste of Roti Telur and the feeling of breathlessness on Mount Kinabalu will race through my mind.

They say that if you look like your passport photo, you really need a holiday. Well, let’s just say there was no possibility that customs officers anywhere in the world would have had trouble matching my passport photo to my face when the holiday finally came around. On the day I left Melbourne I felt exhausted and burnt out, I think the holiday came just in time actually. I’d just gone through a month long busy period at work, which was even busier than it should have been due to my colleague being away for almost the whole time through illness. I was staying back until 10pm most nights and eating dinner at work each day. My suit seemed to be constricting me tighter and tighter as each day passed while the fluorescent lights buzzed and glowed until they worked themselves into the backdrop of my dreams. One day I got to go home early (around 6pm) and I remember feeling a rising torrent of rage when another man in a business suit sat next to me. How come he gets to go home at this time? I bet he goes home every day at this time. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? How could I be angry at a stranger just because he was on his way home? That’s when I knew I really needed a holiday. Fortunately I only had to work a few more days until it finally came time to go to Malaysia.

On the final day at work, I was typing away at my desk right up until the point where I was going to run out of time to get to the airport. I told my team leader I really had to go, switched off my PC, stared out onto the horizon of snaking streets and towers of buzzing lights and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, it’s time. I swung my bag over my shoulder, pushed through the glass security doors, hit the down button on the lift and walked out of the building without looking back.

It took some time for it to sink in that I was on holidays. I met Sherly for dinner to say goodbye, but my eyes must have seemed dazzled and distant, my hands cold and my movements robotic. I knew I was going to be away from her for a week, and that hurt inside, but my head was dizzy with thoughts of the long day just passed.

I ended up running late and made a mess of the goodbye. I guess goodbyes are never easy though. I ran off towards Collins St, big pack on my back, while Sherly faded into the distance behind me. Somehow my running paid off and I ended up catching the ‘skybus’ on time.

I sat back letting the traffic noise, the propaganda from the Melbourne tourism video and the blue lights of the bus seep into my mind and mix with the white noise of my frazzled unconnected thoughts. I exchanged SMSs with Sherly to make up for the far from perfect goodbye and pulled out my study notes.

The queue at the airport was long and it took a good hour and a half to get through. By the time I got to the gate, it was time to board. Time passed in an unmemorable fashion and soon I was being rocked to sleep by the gentle hum of the jet engines and the rich deep sound of ‘Ray Charles’ singing. It’s never easy to sleep on planes though.

I thought I could sleep a bit more at KL airport before my flight to Kota Kinabalu, but the incessant blaring of announcements in four different languages and the chimes of the attention music put that idea to rest. I resorted to looking over my study notes instead. I justified that it was ok to do that because the holiday hadn’t officially started yet.

More flying, a blissful drift into sleep and soon I touched down at Kota Kinabalu airport. The thick humid air hit me like opening an oven and the aroma of ‘famous amous’ cookies invaded my senses. KK was nothing like I had expected. It was more like a Polynesian island city rather than the overdeveloped industrial mega-city I thought it would be. I trudged wearily towards the luggage carousel, hearing two familiar voices. “Hey Trav!” Chris shouted, to which Irz added, “Hurry the f___ up!” I looked over and beyond the customs ladies and the railing I saw the silhouettes of two of the three stooges. My face cracked a huge grin and I went to get my bag. The customs ladies gave nothing more than a disinterested polite glance when I showed them my muesli bars and they waved me through.

There against an unfamiliar background my two oldest and closest mates stood, sporting goofy grins and holding a quickly scribbled sign which read, “Travis Elsum esq.” We got a taxi and sped off towards Sutera Harbour – a luxury resort where we were staying. Chris and Irz proudly pointed out the features of the resort and described some of the misdemeanours they’d experienced already. In KL, they’d managed to stumble their way into a gigolo bar by mistake and Chris had already had several people try to scam him. I was proud of them; this was going to be a fun trip for sure. I was given a new burst of energy and life.

First stop was the expansive pool which had a spectacular view of the coast and a Polynesian style poolside bar. We all jumped into the soothing water, swum around and made our way to the underwater seats by the bar. Soon, three frosty cold Carlsbergs were placed in front of us and we all took a gulp. I laid back into the pool looked at Irz who raised his glass and smirked, “Good to have you here,” I looked over at Harry who looked equally relaxed and said “Welcome to Malaysia Trav!” That’s when it hit me. That’s when my holiday started, right then and there. Welcome to Malaysia. I was here, half way around the world in this idyllic location with my best mates who have been around almost half of my life. The guys I first got drunk with, the guys that got me through tough times, the guys that I got lost with in Tokyo and ran with along the slippery snow filled streets to make the last train. Welcome to Malaysia indeed. Bring it on, I thought before swimming up and taking another gulp of beer.

2007-06-17T13:07:00.000+10:00

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. (Douglas Adams)

It has been a while. My how the time flies when you spend your weeks wishing it was the weekend. It has almost been 7 months now since I started full time work and finished uni. I can’t say that I’ve fully adapted to the corporate lifestyle yet, but slowly, like a rock on the shore, I am being worn down and given time I think I will get used to things.

I’m not going to say anything as trite as I’ve started a new chapter of my life, but I feel like my life now is distinctly different from what it was 7 months ago. Looking back, I’d say there was a distinct change when I moved to Canberra and again when I started work. Call it what you will, but things are different now and I think I’ve almost finally got my head around the change. This new phase is more demanding, less frivolous, somewhat less rewarding and more serious, however it is better in many ways too. I feel that now I’m more independent and less obsequious and passive. I can stand up for myself a lot better now plus I feel I’ve become more decisive and assertive, which is definitely a good thing.

The one thing that has always run through my distinct life stages are crazy fads or compulsions. These fads are a little hard to understand, especially for those around me. In the space of a year I’ve turned from someone who hoards into a minimalist. I used to collect and save almost everything imaginable thinking that one day I’d look back and cherish it, but now the sight of junk infuriates me and I have to get rid of it. It just so happens that this latest fad has combined with another one, where I have created a budget and like sticking to it. These have drawn power from each other and the result is a mega ‘ebay’ monster – I’m selling almost everything on ebay. I just hope my next phase isn’t hoarding again, because it would be awfully sad to buy all of my junk back again one piece at a time. But who knows, tomorrow is another day.

Work never seems to be quiet – I always seem to be rushing to finish this deadline or that project. After preparing several reports and several versions of each report I’m beginning to learn a thing or two about what is and what isn’t acceptable in a document intended for people in the company in positions much loftier than a humble graduate. I have noticed that in the workplace, words like ‘high level’ and ‘proactive’ are splashed around exuberantly, as are bullet points and acronyms. This is rather unfortunate, as ‘proactive’ is one of my most hated words of all time, plus I’m not too fond of acronyms or bullet points either. Once I read a paper that used ‘proactive’ no less than 150 times. I know it was at least that many, because each time I saw that word my muscles tensed and I started getting violent urges towards the paper. Amazingly though, to this day that paper is still in tact – not even a single page has been ripped apart in rage. Now that’s what I call control.

On numerous occasions, I tried to put a little colour and flair into my reports by adding words not typically in the acceptable vocabulary of business reports. No matter where I hid these words, they were spotted and crossed out by reviewers. I tried to use ‘zealous’, but it was rejected, as were ‘savvy’, ‘audacious’ and ‘vehement’, which was a real pity. Oh well, at least I have other outlets.

One morning I sat down at my desk and noticed a repugnant odour and immediately started looking around to discover the source. Soon, after examining my shoes, I realised that I had stepped in something nasty on the way to work… oh dear. I rushed off to the bathroom to remove the abominable object. I’ve always been a little queasy at the sight and smell of disgusting things, so I started scrubbing my shoes with one hand and vomiting at the same time. It wasn’t until I’d removed it all off my shoe that I stopped vomiting. Phew. Then it was back to work as if nothing had happened.

Speaking of being sick, Sherly has been ill for a while now and it has been very straining on her and me as well. I’ve been worrying and worrying, all the time. Through trying to find a cure she has been delegated through almost the whole medical system, which has been frustrating for both of us. At various times the doctors have said it could be this or that, each time freaking us both out. I think we’ve both discovered that doctors and hospitals for some things can be totally useless. Her Mum is here now, which I think will really help her out. I just hope she gets better soon so that things can get back to normal for her and for me too.

Right now I’m really holding out for a planned trip to Malaysia with the lads. It has really been too long since we’ve all caught up. I just miss sharing a beer with them and talking rubbish and walking aimlessly. It was really hard to get the time off work and I ended up having to cut my holiday short and pay a $400 fee for the change. Geez. If anything positive can come out of it, at least I’ve learnt a thing or two now about requesting leave.

Until next time,

Take care.

2007-02-17T18:08:00.000+11:00

A T-shirt Makes for an Excellent Pillowcase
A lot has happened during my three month writing hiatus, so much so that I won’t be able to come even close to squeezing it into a single entry, but to quickly bring you up to speed: I’ve graduated, I’ve started work, and I’ve moved into a flat.

The title of this post sums up the whole transition really: I’ve gotten by, albeit not very smoothly or conventionally. Incidentally, the little piece of advice in the title is unquestionably true. At the moment, I’m just trying to work out whether it was my own ingenuity or whether it was some advice a friend gave me that seeped into my subconscious. Come to think of it, it is most probably the latter. Irregardless, if you ever find yourself ready for bed and your sheets still haven’t dried from the wash, just slip an old t-shirt over your pillow and sleep on top of the mattress protector.

Leaving Canberra and starting working life in Melbourne threw up changes and challenges that I never contemplated. During the first few weeks of work, I felt like a majestic tree living in nature that had been suddenly dug up, potted, and put under the bright lights on a show room floor of some tacky discount department store. Every working day I woke up early, sat in traffic for an hour and a half, worked all day on tedious spreadsheet manipulations, sat in traffic for another hour, got home, ate and slept. This was what my life had come to. Instead of being respected by my classmates and my students, I was now an incompetent newbie who knew next to nothing about the work that was required of me. That hit me pretty hard. The one thing Melbourne had going for it, was that Sherly and my family were here. If it weren’t for them, I’d have been screaming to go back to Canberra, in fact I’d probably be enrolled in a PhD course by now. One week I received an e-mail from the ANU asking if I’d like to spend the summer researching GLM’s (Generalised Linear Models) with one of my former lecturers in Canberra and I almost wept when I read it.

Piled on to that, I moved out of home a little earlier than I’d expected and so yet another transition was occurring. Although, Sherly was of immense help and organised a fridge and a washing machine and helped me buy and assemble my furniture from IKEA.

For weeks I wasn’t myself. My soul was screaming, and my creative side was yelling out too, I couldn’t make sense of anything. I was angry, frustrated, stressed, impatient, quick tempered and generally grumpy – all of which, I don’t see as traits of myself.

But finally, very slowly, things are settling down again. I’m finding myself again. It may take months before I feel comfortable and confident with work, but that is a challenge that I’ve got to face. Actually, when poring over some old diary entries, I realised that I hated Canberra and life there when I first moved. For now though, I’ve got a great place right by Albert Park, close to the tram, close to MSAC (Melbourne sports and aquatic centre), close to the Chapel St. shops, and close to the lake, so whenever I miss Canberra I can just walk around it and imagine ‘Lake Burley Griffin’.

In summary, I’ve taken my first tenacious steps into the real world, looked around, and am now motivated to keep stepping forward rather than turn back and spend my life on solid ground.

Phew, that was a little heavy, but I needed to get it off my chest.

So, onto the lighter side of things, I’ll cut to my last day in Canberra. I’d just finished my final exam and walked from room 101, where it was held, back to my college room and began to pack. I met some friends and we went to lunch one final time. It was an abnormally cold day and it was raining. In fact, I recall it rained on each day of my exams – my ‘formulae and tables for actuarial examinations’ book now has rain spec marks on it. Despite the cold, I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. I don’t know why, but I have a quirky habit where I refuse to wear a jumper after I declare to myself that it is past mid-Spring.

I felt quite sad whilst eating my ‘Pad Thai’, and even more so, on the walk home. After reaching college, I headed back to Civic once more to meet a classmate. I had originally suggested we climb the local mountain together, but due to the weather, I suggested coffee instead. Just as well, because whilst sitting down enjoying the coffee, it began to snow! Brrrr. As I sat shivering in my T-shirt, I wondered why I had to have such warped principles that forced me to wear a T-shirt when it was snowing outside.

Ideally, I’d like to have headed back that night to surprise Sherly, but my mind was exhausted from the long exam period and I didn’t finish the packing until late. After all, I had to squeeze my entire room into my small Honda Civic. So, on my last night I packed, had a celebratory gin and tonic by myself in my room and contemplated leaving Canberra.

The next morning, after I loaded everything into my car, I shut the boot (well rather I pushed hard on the boot until it shut) and I looked up at ‘Black Mountain Tower’. I actually spoke a farewell out loud to Canberra. I recall I said, “Good bye Canberra, you’ve been awfully good to me.” After that I sat in silence and drove off, my car laden with all my possessions. There is a lot of truth to what I said out loud that day; Canberra has been very good to me. In the two years I was in Canberra I felt I achieved so much and had a lot of good fortune. I finished a masters degree (with merit), I completed all of my part I and II exemptions from ‘the institute’, I secured a job, I tutored and gave lectures, I grew immensely as a person and last but by no means least, I started a relationship with my long time love, Sherly. All in all, it was a very happy and prosperous time for me and I’ll remember it always. Canberra will always have a place in my heart.

I got pulled over by the police on the way home. They were conducting breath testing by the side of the road next to a sign that read: ‘Heavy vehicle inspection bay.’ Due to this sign and the fact that a cement mixer in front of me was pulled over, I naturally assumed they were inspecting heavy vehicles, so I was quite surprised when the plump policeman in his fluorescent vest leapt on to the road waving his arms vehemently at me. I’ll admit that I wasn’t exactly packing lightly, but surely I wasn’t classified as a heavy vehicle. The policeman immediately assumed I was drunk, and I just told him of my confusion apologetically. In his finest condescending country drawl, he informed me that I had to be tested. I began to draw a big breath in preparation, but yet again to my surprise, all I had to do was count to ten whilst speaking into the microphone. Either I wasn’t drunk or my pronunciation was perfect, for I was allowed to drive off again.

This time when I drove through the gateway to Melbourne and saw the dazzling city lights, I had a giddy sensation upon realising that this time it was for good; I was no longer a visitor; I was back.

I unpacked hastily whilst saying a quick greeting to my family before hitting the road again to visit Sherly. This time when I saw her, coupled with the usual joy was the realisation that I would be able to see her all the time now. There would be no lengthy drives or tiring train trips, only a drive from Rowville to Carlton.

I made the most of the two weeks before work started. I made pottering around into an art form and was most efficient in my relaxation and unwinding. I took Sherly for a trip to Daylesford for a couple of the days. I know what you’re thinking… I’m fully aware of Daylesford’s reputation – not that there’s anything wrong with that – but it also happens to be a very relaxing getaway destination for heterosexual couples as well.

If I were to describe Daylesford in one word, it would be – dainty. I think that is the best one word description, plus it offers a delightful little alliteration. You swing around a roundabout into the main street and the town welcomes you with open arms and a slightly over-eager melodious voice. The town is gay and proud, it’s there, it’s queer, get used to it. Why, even the sweaty labourers waft the delicate scent of ‘CK One’ cologne instead of the usual ‘BO Ultra’ found wafting from labourers in most towns. Each shop along the pokey street is aimed at pampering your senses rather than providing for your needs. Coles supermarket is hidden away in a little alley, while decadent cafés and day spas are plonked in the middle of the highest traffic areas.

Since I’m a big fan of mineral water, we decided to check out the mineral springs first. I imagined how glorious it would be to drink effervescent mineral water straight from the source, and I was gleaming in anticipation. Sherly began to tip out all her water bottles to collect such a bounty, while I tasted the water. BLEEECCCCHHHKK. It tasted foul, no, foul is too kind, it was an abomination - a rusty gassy concoction bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the bottled variety. Fortunately that was the only disappointment of the trip, well that and leaving.

Inevitably the holidays ended and the time came for my foray into the real world – the land of unrealistic expectations and deadlines, pressure from shareholders, German-like efficiency, where you swear people are looking at you and seeing dollar signs and where grey ethical decisions are made instead of the usual black and white.

So long Canberra and so long uni life. I’ll miss you both.

2006-10-22T21:54:00.000+10:00

Drawing to a Close
Lately while wandering around campus, I’ve felt a sense of finality coursing through almost everything that I observe. The little ducklings that plague the uni are almost all fully grown up now, friends have become healthier both mentally and physically and most of my classmates all have plans about what they are doing next year. Although I will leave Canberra permanently in less than a month, I feel content; I feel that when I leave, everything will be just fine in my absence; Canberra doesn’t need me any more nor do I need it. Of course, it isn’t my intention to sound as though a whole city depends on me and needs me, that’s far from the truth, all it is, is just a feeling really; I feel that the time is right; I feel neither happy nor sad to be leaving, it is just something that I have to do. I guess to convey it a little better, what I’m feeling is the same as when you are just about to finish a really good book: as you draw ever closer to the back cover, things start wrapping up as the writer prepares a thoughtfully constructed goodbye to the characters you’ve become so attached to, then the end inevitably comes and you place the book up on your shelf as a reminder of a world you briefly lived in.

So soon it is time to go, but until then, there is one last thing to do here, and that, of course, is to get through my exams, which incidentally are quite soon.

Anyway, back to the final day of the bike ride…

Day 3 – The Final Day
Call it a gift or a curse, but I always seem to wake up just a bit earlier than everyone else. On the plus side, it means that I don’t get woken up by those annoyingly over perky morning people (you know the ones I mean). That morning my legs were aching again, and again I didn’t want to get back on my bike, but inevitably the time came and we were on the road one final time.

By the time the town stirred, we were gone; we were no more than a fading memory in the minds of the townsfolk. While the discarded cups and chip packets that littered the main street were clear evidence a festival had been held the day before, we left no trace. Perhaps though, if you looked really closely, you might have been able to see the faint tracks of 15 bicycles, on the road.

The ride was much the same as each of the other days, except that we were all a little more fatigued. On this last day, I had a love hate relationship with the little green indicators on the side of the road. When they indicated “Y 50” I was furious, how dare they lie like that, Yass must be closer than 50km, I’m sure I’ve cycled more than 10 km. But when they indicated “Y 5” I was most happy with them, Oh little indicator, you’ve brought me so much joy. I know that must sound a little strange, but you have to keep yourself amused somehow out there.

Eventually it was ‘Y 0’ and hence we were in Yass. We stopped in the park and collapsed on the grass. The support drivers brought around snacks and lollies, which we took with outstretched hands. I got up and hobbled over to a support car to get my phone out and message my parents and Sherly that I was alive and well, now that we had phone reception again. We were all rather quiet and were focused on finishing off the final stretch of the ride. Artou’s knee was giving him a lot of pain, but he wanted to keep going, so we brought out the tiger balm and also taped his knee up. Another rider, Erin, decided she couldn’t go on, for no better reason than she didn’t feel like it. We’d also lost another rider at the end of the second day, as she had to attend something in Sydney, so now there were 13.

After the short break, we all dragged our aching bodies back onto our bikes. We cycled through hilly Yass and eventually came to the busy Barton highway, which is the road that links Canberra to the Hume highway. The little green indicators now read “C”; a sure sign that we were almost home. Before “C” though, we reached. “M”, or Murrembatemen, which is the last small town you pass through before reaching Canberra. As I was cycling in to the rest area, where supposedly people from college were going to meet us and bring lunch, I heard wind rushing past and then felt something whack me behind the ear. What the... After a moment of confusion I discovered the culprit: a black and white magpie, who was soaring off into the distance. Oh no, magpies... The magpies were in the trees right by the rest area and were being over zealous in their attempts to keep their babies safe and so were swooping at everything that moved. Considering this and the fact that the people from college with our lunch, were running late, we decided to press on, which was a decision greeted with much groaning.

A few kilometres out, Artou’s knee finally gave out and he couldn’t go on any further. We sadly loaded him and his bike into the support car and waved goodbye. And then there were 12. The mounting casualties were starting to play with my mind, and all of a sudden I felt incredibly sick and starting considering what would happen if I had to be sick whilst cycling along. I felt sorry for the person behind me. Stop worrying, you can always pull over if you really think you can’t hold it in. I pressed on.

The stretch between Murrembatemen and our lunch stop was the hardest of all, I felt. The suns rays beat down on us relentlessly and the hills didn’t seem to end. When we finally arrived, we all collapsed. I really didn’t know how I could go any further; I was cursing my big heavy bike. It was only 20km to go, but it seemed like a massive task now. I wiped my forehead, but the sweat had dried up long ago and had left salt; I wasn’t in the best shape. I quickly fuelled up on some lunch and felt mildly better. It was time to set off again.

I got a burst of energy when we crossed the ACT border line and when a car full of John’s people, driving back home after the long weekend, honked at us in encouragement. Soon enough, we arrived at Gold Creek, our final rest point before reaching college. From here on in it was all bike paths.

After a brief rest we were on our way home; the final stretch. Erin and Artou joined us once more. We weaved through the narrow bike paths and grew in speed and energy as everything started becoming familiar again; we were almost there. Couples walking together gave us startled looks as we whooshed past, ringing our bells. Eventually we got to the car park of the O’Connor bowls club, where we were to regroup before riding in together. College was only an easy two kilometre ride from now, but as it turned out, things weren’t that simple. One of the riders, Kiwi, had managed to get lost, even though we had been keeping tabs on everyone. We all looked for him frantically but with no luck. After about half an hour, we had to leave, as people were waiting for us at college, so we all sent our thoughts out to Kiwi and rode off. As we rounded the final corner before college, we rang our bells and heard the cheers of 100 or more of our fellow residents who had turned up to greet us. We were surrounded by cheering residents all shouting words of encouragement.

We were subjected to boring self promoting speeches by politicians who had given up their afternoons, and soon after the crowd began to disperse. After sitting down for a while, we saw Kiwi, in his bright blue bike shorts, running beside his bike, rounding the corner. We all rushed out to greet him. He was sweating profusely as he had run the final stretch since he had had a puncture. We all smiled, laughed and slapped him on the back. What a character.

After some more formalities, I headed back to my room, had a shower and just lay on my bed for a good 20 minutes. As I stared at the speckled ceiling, I smiled. I had done it. And then I thought, never again!

After the ride…
Everything went on pretty much as usual; I went to classes and I studied. The following weekend I hopped a train and headed back to Melbourne. I couldn’t stand it any longer in Canberra; I wanted to see my girlfriend, Sherly, again.

As I walked along the platform I saw her standing by the entrance. She looked so beautiful. I rushed over to give here a big hug. We headed back to her place and she fed me some tasty soup that she had made. After spending time with her, the previous three weeks, the bike ride and everything else, drifted away, and all seemed right again; I was relaxed and happy. I saw her the following night and we shared a nice meal that we had both helped prepare. The next morning I woke up early and cooked eggs benedict for Sherly and brought them down to her room. I looked at my watch and realised that I was late and that I should have left already to make my train. I started to panic and Sherly just smirked to herself in silence as I rushed around, gobbled my breakfast and rang the taxi company. It was far from a perfect goodbye, but realistically any kind of goodbye was always going to feel bad.

The taxi got me to the station very quickly and the train was late anyway, so I needn’t have worried. Oh well. Soon enough I was sitting on the train and rattling my way back to Canberra.

2006-10-13T21:17:00.000+10:00

Fluff; harbinger of tragedy

Exams are looming, theses are almost due and assignments are abundant, so it is no wonder that most of us are becoming a little more superstitious than usual. One delightful little superstition, that is unique to the ANU, is linked to the so called ‘fluff of doom’ phenomenon. Every year at some time in October or November, the row of trees near union court drop their fluffy white spores, which drift gently to the ground and dance in the wind with the grace of snowflakes. By the end of the day, the ground is covered by a fluffy white blanket of snow-like spores and the hay fever sufferers walk around with red eyes and red noses; they curse Canberra spring under their breath. Anyway, legend has it that if you haven’t started studying by the time the fluff falls, you will fail your exams. On Wednesday the fluff fell, much earlier than usual, its arrival a massive kick to the self confidence of students. However, if you aren’t superstitious and don’t suffer from hay fever, it really is a spectacular event.

If the fluffy white spores are like snow, then the next day was a blizzard of seeds from another variety of trees. It was a very windy day, and thousands of flat sharp seeds blew all around the campus. Walking to class was like walking through a severe snowstorm. This week, only the aftermath remains. Like an unsuccessful invasion, tiny seed warriors lay sprawled in piles all over campus along with their fluffy brethren, not to bother us again for another year.

Anyway, I should get back to talking about the bike ride…

Day 2
When I can’t muster the motivation to get out of bed in the morning, I focus everything and spring out of bed like a madman in a sudden burst of energy. That’s what I did that morning, except I was zipped up in my sleeping back, so it didn’t really work properly, and all that happened was that I writhed in my sleeping bag, but was still stuck inside. Eventually though I got out, and as soon as I stood, my leg muscles screamed in complaint, “You want me to ride another 80 odd kilometres? You must be mad!” of course it wasn’t in words, but rather spasms of sharp pain, but nevertheless the message was clear.

We shared a modest breakfast, got ready and we all groaned in discomfort as we sat back on our bikes. By 8:30am we were on the road, pedalling out of Cowra. The day before, we’d all found it hilarious and inspiring when Kiwi played ‘Bicycle’ by Queen, but today when he played it, we wanted to pelt him with rocks. After the angry curses of the mob, Kiwi quickly played something else.

We cycled along, passing much the same scenery as the day before, stopping every now and then in rest areas or simply in the driveways of farm properties that all had insipid saccharine names, like: hill view, rock haven, green pastures or happy meadows.

If all roads lead to Rome, then you could say that hardly any roads lead to Boorowa, but the ones that do are all frustratingly hilly. One hill was particularly demoralising; it seemingly kept going. Just when you thought you’d reached the top, you’d come around a bend to see the road steeply sloping up to the horizon. I’d had quite enough, so I abandoned sticking with the pack and took off by myself. I feel the best way to get up a hill is to do it as quickly as possible. I zoomed past the other riders and several of the more competitive ones followed. I pedalled like a madman, huffed and puffed like a steam engine, and finally reached the peak, where there was a pull in area and a well earned rest. I skidded my bike to a halt and smiled in accomplishment along with the other ‘breakaway’ riders. We waited for the others.

After a few minutes, it was clear that the hill had claimed a casualty. Zane, not far from the top, snapped the rod that joins the pedals together, hence rendering his bike unusable. The support car collected his bike, but not him, no, Zane, being the proud man that he is, jogged the rest of the way up the hill. We all clapped and hummed chariots of fire as he came in, sweat pouring from his face. During the break we fitted him up with a replacement bike and we were all ready to roll again.

We were going at a steady pace, so we put off having lunch until we got to Boorowa. Finally, after a long day of cycling, and covering around 85 kilometres, we arrived and rolled through the streets of Boorowa. The tiny town had a festival atmosphere brought on by, of all things, a festival, specifically the ‘Irish Wool fest’. As we rolled past one of the many pubs, several drinkers enjoying their lazy Sunday afternoon spurred us on.

We arrived at the church where we would be spending the night. It was the same place we’d stayed at last year on the ride when we had passed through Boorowa, so I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. We were all rather famished, so the first thing we did was scoff down a simple lunch. We brought the bags inside and all claimed a spot on the carpet for the night. Within minutes of settling in, the girls all had their phones out and had befuddled looks on their faces. “I’m not getting a signal.” “Me either.” “Who are you with?” “Optus”… “Telstra”… “Vodaphone”… “Orange” laughter. None of the carriers had a signal, except for the CDMA network, but who has that, honestly? So we faced the prospect of no communication until the following day. The girls had been through a lot: no showers, having to pee in bushes by the side of the road, having to put up with being outnumbered by guys, but this was too much for them; they were distraught. Actually I was a little annoyed as well, but only because it meant I couldn’t get a message out to my family or my caring girlfriend that I was ok. I was hoping that they’d figured that there may be no reception.

The first thing on my mind was a shower, but the prospect of a country town festival was too much, so I headed into town with the others. We cut through deserted streets, dirt fields and past overbearing wheat silos before reaching a dog show, of sorts. Various teams in matching brightly coloured shirts with tasteless names like ‘The K9s’, raced their dogs through an obstacle course. We were all in our matching ride shirts, so several of the teams were eyeing us off as the competition, “Hey Brandine, lookie ‘ere and them blue shirts, they darn tooten don’t e’en ‘ave a dog b’ween ‘em, ah-hyuck.” Actually that’s a little too harsh, the people of Boorowa seemed rather cultured and nice, and the ones actually racing the dogs were yuppies from Sydney, with too much time and money on their hands.

Our favourite dog was a docile, awkward Irish wolf hound. They’re the ones that look like a large mutant dog-man beast; they’re massive. Surely, this obstacle course designed for little dogs was no match for such a creature, but we were wrong, very wrong. The wolf hound lumbered lazily and goofily and three little dogs finished in the time that it took to finish. Still, we loved it all the more, and became its only fans. We cheered and cheered for the goofy wolfhound.

When we got sick of that, we swarmed on the main street like a new gang announcing its arrival in a city. We missed the running of the sheep, where a herd of sheep are set loose and they run through the main street. I was a little disappointed by that. Little stalls selling crafts or food were dotted along the street and a sizeable mix of locals and tourists were taking part in the festivities. The thing on our minds more than anything else though were drinks and ice-cream, so a local pointed us in the direction of a good ice-cream store, even offering us tips, “It is better to get two scoops, since it is only $3, but one scoop is $2.50.” Who would have thought the locals would have such a grip on consumerism. Perhaps I should have argued with her that if your enjoyment of the ice-cream is a diminishing curve related to the amount eaten, then it’s possible that one scoop is actually more efficient, but I kept my mouth shut and instead said something appropriately stupid, “Mmm… ice-cream. I like ice-cream.”

One thing I’ve noticed with country towns, and perhaps Australia in general, is that they are all so celebratory of their heritage and history. At the festival, there were people dressed up in ‘olden day’ clothes and there were steam trains rolling through the streets. The town isn’t even 200 years old though. In Europe, people probably ride bicycles that are older than that. Australia is a very young country, and people can’t seem to come to terms with that. Imagine if Singapore (also a young country) did the same thing as Australia: at festivals people would dress up in clothes from the 70’s and talk about what life was like back then in the ‘olden days’. Well I guess it is important to remember your heritage to some extent.

We all got a little bored of the town, so most of the riders headed to the pub, but I thought I’d head back and take a shower instead. It turned out a few of us had the same idea, so we took a car down to the caravan park. I brought my ‘Bi-lo’ thongs and borrowed towel and walked into the caravan park’s amenity block and took a soothing shower.

I waited outside for the girls to finish. I waited and waited. Bored, I took a look at the surrounds. I loath caravan parks. They are full of annoying old people who clog up the roads lugging their caravans, and then when they reach their destination they live exactly how they would at home; complaining about young people and decorating tackily. My youthfulness was attracting attention and several well to do caravaners reported me to the manager. Minutes after standing there scornfully observing the surrounds, minding my own business, Tina Turner, the large middle aged grumpy manager of the caravan park, came barrelling out from her office accusing me. Tina shouted, “Can I help you?” I casually replied,“I’m just waiting for my friends. They’re in the shower. You know girls, they take forever.” Tina was not impressed. In a menacing voice she asked, “Well have you paid to use the showers?” I was feeling on top of the world and cool as ice after the shower, so I just calmly offered “Well no, but we’re on a charity bike ride and I believe we were offered a shower by the park. We left a donation last year when we used the showers.” Tina’s scowling face returned to normal and she muttered “Oh… yes yes” and walked away. I laughed to myself and waved to the group of old people who had dobbed me in. I tried to intimidate them from a distance as much as I could with my youth and found the effect I had on them hilarious. Finally, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, the girls came out of the showers reporting similar incidents with the old caravaners.

A while after getting back to the church, the rotary club arrived to cook us some dinner. Most of the group, including our leader, were still in the pub, so we had to talk to the Rotary club to keep them busy until our leader got back. I made the mistake of calling them the Lions club, who I’m sure are the Rotary club’s sworn enemy, oh well. Soon enough, everyone was back and the familiar sizzling of the barbeque could be heard.

After the dinner, the group wanted to go to the pub (again) to watch the rugby league grand final. I thought I’d go along for lack of anything better to do. Drunken locals crowded around the big screen with beers in their hands, laughing and slapping each other on their backs, several wore akubra hats. I was amused at the scene at first, but a short while later I got bored, so several of us decided to go to the café across the road instead.

The ‘café’ was more like an ‘open till late’ grease house and had the serving staff to match. They were large women who looked as gruff as men, with arms as thick as tree trunks. Their bulging muscles flexed as they flipped burgers or dipped chips into the deep fryer. I lost my appetite, but the others got milkshakes and we sat on the street and chatted.

After an hour or so the others emerged from the pub and we walked back to the church and turned in for the night. I slept well in the knowledge that there was only one more day to go.

2006-10-06T09:30:00.000+10:00

Le Tour de NSW
I don’t think I want to even look at a bicycle for at least a week, let alone ride one. The good news is that I survived, more or less unscathed as well, apart from the temporary groaning of my muscles. Pain and sunburn aside, I feel good; I feel I’ve achieved something. And I’ve managed to raise around $140 for the ‘Solomon Islands Appeal’ – the college’s own charity project whereby infrastructure is built in poor communities.

The Day Before
It all began with a cramped car trip up to Orange late on Friday afternoon. Our driver, Dave, was a real man of the country; a true Aussie bloke. The various stickers on the back window of his four wheel drive combined with his accent and manner left no doubt in my mind that this was the case. I’m probably the opposite in most respects to the stereotypical Aussie country bloke; a city slicker at heart. I think this is the reason we’d never really gotten to know each other that well before the trip; there seemed very little point.

Seven of us in total crammed into the four wheel drive, luggage and all, and it was tight to say the least. By 5:30pm we were on the road and began the trip to Orange. All in all, it took a bit over 3 hours and my legs were cramped by the end of it. I spent most of the trip anxiously assessing the height of each hill we went over in the knowledge that we were riding back exactly the same way.

After a little trouble finding the others in Orange, we finally pulled in at destination – an incredibly wealthy and expansive private school. I did what I always do after a long trip, I got out and groaned loudly whilst stretching all of my muscles. The aroma of the awaiting barbeque caught the attention of each of us – the weary travellers. Before eating, we were shown where we would be sleeping and we carried our luggage with us. The school was most impressive. On the way to our sleeping quarters, we walked past an indoor pool then through a mega gymnasium, past weights rooms, up the stairs past a room filled with billiard tables, then past several squash courts until we arrived at a floor with a cushioned mat rolled across. We were all a little awestruck; none of us could remember school being so luxurious. The facilities wouldn’t be put to shame by even the AIS, and this was just the sports section.

After ooh-ing and ahh-ing, we headed back outside to the car, where our dinner was awaiting. We were provided steak sandwiches by the ‘Lions club’ and ate them in a science laboratory. On the walls, posters encouraged students to eat beef, while other posters showed the various stages of the cattle slaughter process. This was a county school for certain, and not just any country school, a mega rich one for mega rich farmers. The posters and the lab environment made me a little queasy as I ate, but I was hungry after the journey, so I still managed to eat all of my dinner.

Ideally we all should have gone to bed early, given the enormity of the task ahead of us, but due to the impressive nature of the facilities, we all stayed up late playing. I shot a few hoops with some of the guys, I watched as others balanced on gymnastic beams and I revelled in the foam pit. It was like a 5 year old kid’s dream of being locked in the school gym overnight and being able to do whatever they wanted. I just loved jumping and somersaulting into the soft foam pit.
At one point whilst we all gleefully enjoying the facilities, Zane abruptly halted and yelled out an obscenity. Zane is an awkwardly built, loud talking, crude thinking Aussie bloke. He looks like a thirty-something typical Australian tradesman and has the mouth to match. Each phrase that comes out of his mouth is either some joke about sex or about toilets. Despite all these arguably lacklustre attributes, when combined, somehow he becomes a real character and a funny guy. After cursing, in a strine accent, he conceded “I’ve forgot my towel.” Just I was about to laugh sympathetically, I realised I’d forgotten my towel as well. Bother. Later in the night I realised I’d forgotten thongs for the shower as well. Fortunately though, one of the support car drivers gave me his towel, as he was driving back to Canberra the next day anyway.

As the night wore on, our joyous playing in the gym continued. Eventually though, our logic overruled our youthful frivolity, and we all went to bed. We all slept in our sleeping bags on the padded floor spaced closely to each other; it was just like camp again. I lay there staring at the ceiling, worrying, until a gentle calm washed over my mind and I fell into a blissful slumber.

Day 1
We shared an anxious breakfast together. People hardly spoke except for the more flamboyant characters. We weren’t ready to ride for hours, and each minute waiting was agonising; I just wanted to get started. Eventually though, we were underway and rolled out of Orange. Once out of town, the pack opened up and we all went at our own pace. I was enjoying the country scenery and couldn’t imagine why I had been worrying so much; surely the ride wouldn’t be that bad, after all, I’d survived it the year before. Ten kilometres into the ride, we were told to ride in a tight pack together, so we all stuck behind Kiwi, the mad New Zealander with bright blue bike shorts and a blaring stereo strapped to his bike.

The start of the ride was pleasant. I enjoyed the scenery and the remoteness of the areas which we cycled through. Unlike Melbourne where points of interested are separated by a labyrinth of streets dotted with houses or other buildings, out in the country, tiny towns are spread far apart, and in between them is void of anything that resembles civilisation, bar fences. Some fields were barren, some had sheep, and the more interesting ones were a glorious golden colour made up of canola flowers. Golden rolling hills looked like sand dunes under the clear blue sky. Just outside a town named ‘Blaney’, lush green hills had large white wind generators on their peaks. I don’t know how people can complain about how wind generators look; I think they look great, a welcome break from barren fields.

We passed many kangaroos, but unfortunately they were of the ‘road kill’ variety, and each time we passed one, we copped a lungful of pungent air. Most of the day was spent keeping left of the white lines that marked the shoulder of the road, whilst trying to avoid potholes or debris. Soon enough the hills started, but fortunately on the first day, they were mostly downward sloping. I began to realise how slow my bike was compared to everyone else’s when we got to the steep downhills. My bike is a big black, heavy and of the ‘dual suspension for the sake of dual suspension’ variety. In other words, it is meant to be cool for a kid, but not really meant for long distance riding. While I was in my top gear and peddling madly, the other riders drifted past me effortlessly, without even peddling. My front forks shuddered and made a terrible sound as if they were about to collapse. I lost ground going downhills, but made it up again going up them. So although uphills were harder, for the sake of keeping up with the other riders, they were better.

Several hours and sixty odd kilometres later it was time for lunch. We pulled into a rest area and unloaded the ute. The area was nothing more than a small clearing by the railway line with one decrepit picnic table. It felt good to take a break and we all enjoyed it in our own ways. Artou, a Russian exchange student, immediately got out some tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, not exactly the image you associate with cyclists. Each to his own, I guess. Artou is pretty much everything that you’d imagine a Russian person to be; he drinks heavily, smokes heavily, has a thick accent and is very loud and confident.

It was just about time for the Grand Final to start back in Melbourne, so Kiwi tuned into the radio to the broadcast and we spent the rest of the day’s riding listening to the final. The sound didn’t travel all that well, so at times we had to pass the score along, yelling from rider to rider. One bike had broken down just a few minutes after lunch, so we quickly swapped it for the spare bike that was brought along.

After a long exhausting 105 kilometres of riding, we finally pulled into ‘Cowra Public School’. This school was far less impressive, but as soon as we arrived, the ‘Lions club’ fired up a barbeque, which made us quickly forget about anything else.

After a satisfying dinner, we began to settle down for the day. We were all exhausted and looked in bad shape. Our legs were already aching and a few riders were red as beetroots – sunburnt all over. I learned that there were no showers available, so we would have to wait until Boorowa to take one. This news was most unwelcome to the other riders and I; we were going to have to rough it and put up with the smell.

Most people wanted to check out the local pub, but I wasn’t really interested, so I stayed back. I looked over my bike, and realised that the mechanic at uni, a docile old man who would be at least 90 years old, had made my brakes too tight, so it was as though I had been riding with my brakes partially on the whole way. I quickly got out my allen key and fixed them up, checking over the bike afterwards. When I’d sorted out everything else and washed myself as best I could without a shower, I decided to check out the town of Cowra.

Apparently Cowra had a fairly sizeable Japanese prisoner of war camp during the 2nd world war, but I’m not sure if it was for actual soldiers or just Japanese people living in Australia at the time. Anyway, now the town has quite a bit of Japanese culture, including a Japanese garden and several restaurants. The garden was out of town and would have been closed, so I instead decided to walk through the main street. It was a bit like every other country town in Australia really; several pubs and an ad hoc mixture of family owned shops in old buildings and large multinational franchises. Only the pubs and ‘Bi-lo’ were open, so I went there and got myself some thongs for the shower in Boorowa – I didn’t fancy exposing my feet to the kind of germs that would be present in a caravan park shower block.

By about 10:30pm almost everyone was back, and we all fell asleep pretty quickly, to a cacophony of snorers

Days 2 and 3 to follow. Stay tuned.

2006-09-29T00:15:00.000+10:00

Bicycle, Bicycle, Bicycle, don’t want to ride my…
In this multicultural and unique country in which we live, it is a little disconcerting to think how prevalent stereotypes actually are. They exist in all shapes and forms and almost all of us are guilty of following or believing a stereotype to some extent. A thought occurred to me, that the actuarial profession is virtually founded on applying science to prejudice. Maybe that should be the new motto of the institute of actuaries. The premiums that you are charged, be they for life or general insurance, are based on several factors that have been statistically proven to affect your risk level. In fact, insurance is perhaps the only industry that is legally allowed to discriminate based on age and gender provided there is sufficient evidence to show distinct differences; provided science can back the stereotype.

Perhaps the reason my mind drifted to these thoughts, is due to the fact that it is multi-cultural week at college. Each night in the dining room, a different continent is represented in the food, the decorations and in performances. Last night happened to be ‘European night’ and the dish that was used to capture the essence of the glorious culture and the entire history of Europe was, yup you guessed it, Spaghetti Bolognese. As with many stereotypes, it was not even justified; Spaghetti Bolognese is actually an American creation, not an Italian one. On the whole though, the week has been very enjoyable and one of my friends, Vijey, has been rushed of his feet trying to organise the whole thing. He has done a capital job and should be commended for it.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but the file sharing network at college is a thing of beauty. It almost makes living at college worthwhile. Movies, still being shown to popcorn scoffing masses in theatres, are available at the click of the button; fast and free. Thanks to this network, the other day I was able to watch ‘An Inconvenient Truth’ free and in the comfort of my own room. If you haven’t seen it yet, I strongly recommend it. Even if you’re a 4WD driver, bush bashing, high impact lover of emitting CO2 (in other words an American), by the end of the film, your environmental benevolence will be cranked up a few notches. Of course, there are plenty of insipid and self-indulgent rambles by the presenter, Al Gore, but on the whole, the movie leaves a lasting impression and I was happy to see one of the data sets I’ve dealt with before being used in the movie. As Australians, we should all feel obliged to see it. We are the country with the highest level of CO2 emissions per capita and, along with America, are one of the only two developed countries that haven’t ratified the Kyoto protocol, in other words we are an absolute disgrace. This certainly is one of the many many things we should not be following America in.

I’ve been fairly busy with uni work and also training for the upcoming charity bike ride. I’ve notched up over 150 kilometres over the past few weeks and hopefully will be all set for the ride, which starts on Saturday. The training ride last Sunday was hellish. Sunday, the day we’d dedicated to the ‘long’ training ride, turned out to be a horrible one for riding. I was pedalling madly whilst being belted every which way by hail laced strong winds. I was only wearing my short shorts and a t-shirt, so I found the conditions abysmal. At the end of it, I was so sick of riding and wanted to just give up on the ride, and the worse thing was that I had to do another ride at 7am the very next morning.

The last training was on Wednesday morning and I’m feeling a little better about the whole thing now. I’ve raised a fair amount of money for charity, so I hope it all helps. Tomorrow I set off for Orange, and will ride about 300km over three days back to Canberra. I’ll be sure to write an entry about it when I get back, so stay tuned!

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-09-16T18:30:00.000+10:00

Spring ‘Non –teaching period’
I always go into mid-semester breaks with the loftiest of intentions. I always tell myself that each day I’ll wake up early, go for a swim then study all day, stopping only to go to the gym or for a bike ride. In fact, in the last few weeks before the break if something doesn’t get done, it is fine: the mid-semester break is coming up; I’ll get all my work done then. But then, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the break comes and goes without me having even come close to doing everything I wanted to get done.

This break though, I’m rather happy with how I’ve spent my time. Sure, I didn’t wake up early each morning and swim (actually my toes didn’t even come close to dipping in anything close to resembling a pool), but I enjoyed myself, I did a lot of exercise and I got the majority of my work done bar one assignment. Right now, as the sun sets to mark the end of a beautiful spring’s day, the only thing remaining before travelling north is to say goodbye to Sherly and say goodbye to my family.

During the break, Sherly was suffering from tendonitis in her fingers, no doubt due to overworking on her computer science projects, and she was in a considerable amount of pain. I tried my best to be there for her as much as I could to support her and make things just that bit easier for her. I was terribly concerned for her; she had to miss several exams that she had been studying hard for. It wasn’t all doom and gloom though, we shared many good times together and I’ll cherish them for a long time.

On Wednesday I had a corporate lunch at AXA, which was organised as a ‘meet and greet’ and ‘congratulations’ event. I dressed in my finest suit and caught the train in, but foolishly didn’t take my umbrella and got drenched by the pouring rain. At the lunch, I was hoping my cologne was overpowering the smell of my saturated suit. I felt foolish asking one man “So what area do you work in?” only to later find out that he was the CFO of AXA for the whole Asia Pacific region. Overall it went relatively well and my yearning to start work was rekindled anew.

One evening, I decided to go to church with Sherly. For quite a while I’d been putting it off, as I feel that religion and church is not some pet show or shopping centre that you go to with your partner just to make them happy, it is a house of God and you shouldn’t be there unless it is your own personal will to be there. I’m not a very religious man at all, but finally I felt that it was right, that I should go; so I went.

Years of bible bashing tends to make people instinctively tune out when others talk about religion or church, and that’s why I guess I was so shocked when I arrived at the church despite Sherly telling me several times exactly how it would be. The service was held in a large auditorium at the Freemasons hospital on Victoria St, and I gasped as I walked in. The room was dark with flashing laser lights with hundreds of people gathered around the stage, singing along and dancing to the sizable rock band that was strumming upbeat tunes. It could have been a rock concert for all I knew. I turned to Sherly and asked in disbelief, “Are you sure this is church?” She just laughed at my shocked expression and grabbed my hand and led me down to the ‘holy mosh pit’. I was hesitant and stiff when dancing and generally felt awkward and uncool, which was definitely something I wasn’t counting on feeling in a church. But as the time passed, I relaxed and looked around and realised it was just a diverse group of individuals expressing their devotion to their religion in the way that came most naturally to them.

The entire service was rather surreal; it was like religion had formed a partnership with M-TV. The sermon was delivered by a charismatic man in a funky suit and included props and pastors who looked like models. All in all it was an interesting experience and I’m glad I could share it with Sherly.

On Thursday I thought I’d spend the whole day with Sherly and take her to see St. Kilda, Acland St and Chapel St. So, I arrived at 11am, just as a said I would and greeted Sherly, still in her pyjamas. After much prodding and coaxing she finally got ready and we boarded a crowded tram and rattled our way to St. Kilda. By the time we’d reached the esplanade, it had turned into a beautiful day, and I looked like a fool carrying an umbrella in my hand. We disembarked and walked along Acland St, deciding to have lunch before tasting one of the many delectable cakes that adorned the windows of several small bakeries. We strolled along the beach and found a nice bench to reflect and absorb the surrounds. There is something about the salty smell of the thick sea breeze, the squawk of gulls and the gentleness of the sun’s rays bouncing off golden sand that makes for such a relaxing environment.

Despite being allergic to alcohol, and despite me pleading with her not to pick a cake with liquor, she did and was itching all the way to Chapel St, turning red in the process. “I told you now, didn’t I?”, “Yes…” She murmured in the same tone as a child would after disobeying advice from a parent and then suffering for it.

Despite my deeply embedded hatred of shopping stemming from many days of my childhood school holidays stuck in clothing stores waiting for my Mum, I had decided to take her shopping. I knew she would enjoy it and that would be enough for me. So, we wandered up the street, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the other while Sherly entered almost every clothing store. I don’t how women can derive such joy from trying on countless clothing items while buying only a very small percentage, but I could see Sherly was, so that made me happy enough. The day eventually drew to a close and we ate a simple dinner back at her place.

I met up with Chris and Derek the following night. Over Thai food, we caught up on all the things that had been happening in my absence and I enjoyed seeing them again. There was somewhat of a sombre mood to the evening though, but that didn’t stop us all having a good time together. On a burst of spontaneity, we decided to wander the city in random directions and see where we ended up, but the problem with having city streets designed in a grid, is that it is not very easy to lose yourself; you’re only ever metres away from a main road, which was something that Chris was quick to point out.

Tired of the fruitlessness of our pursuits, we walked back to Melbourne Central in response to the call of warmth and Japanese crepe ice-creams. Only Chris ended up getting one in the end and we sat with him whilst he ate. After being shooed away from that area, we made our way down to the train station, where Derek made a statement about the probability of train arrival times. I was running through my head whether or not I should correct him, and like magic, a distraction presented itself in the form of 10 women dressed in traditional national dress costumes, and I thought I’d let it slide. Derek’s train arrived and then mine a little while later and the three of us parted company once more.

I’m not over the moon about heading back, but it is the home straight now; only 6 weeks of classes to go. I’m kind of looking forward to finishing, though at the same time a little reluctant to enter the ‘real world’.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-09-05T21:45:00.000+10:00

Canberra in the
the springtime

Of all the seasons, none arrives with such exuberance as spring does. In Canberra, the seasons are perhaps more pronounced and distinctive than any other city in Australia, and so it is the perfect place to observe the arrival of spring. Strolling around the lake or around campus, you can see the delicate blossoms of hundreds of cherry blossom trees, and smell long forgotten scents that linger in the air. You can see the changes in the people as well – in their clothes and in their moods. Thick coats and jumpers, in dull shades of black and grey, have been shed and cast to the back of cupboards, where they will lie dormant for nine months. There is nothing like those first few days of spring, where the sky is clear and the suns rays give a soft gentle warmth and everything seems perfect; the kind of day where you want to do all your tasks out in the sun.

The last two weeks were quite hectic ones and so passed relatively quickly. Last Tuesday I delivered another one of those lucrative lectures, this time for a 1st year compulsory stats course. Hearing about my lecture last semester, one of the stats lecturers decided that it would be helpful, for her students, to incorporate my ‘Dealing with Stats’ lecture for semester two, into one of her lecture slots. So after a few meetings and several hours tweaking my slides it came time to deliver a lecture to the ‘STAT1008’ class at ANU.

The lecture was held in the largest lecture theatre on campus, MCCT1, and at least 50 people had shown up. I’d decided to dress up a little, and thought it would be a good time to debut the ‘twin polo shirts’ outfit. I’ve seen it a fair bit in Melbourne, but I’ve yet to see someone in Canberra wearing two polo shirts at once. It sounds kind of a silly outfit now that I think of it. My heart was palpitating wildly in anticipation as I stood in front of the lectern looking out into a sea of sceptical faces. I could imagine that they were thinking: What does this guy know, and why is he trying to teach us these things?

After Bronwen (the lecturer for the course) introduced me, I got underway, rather shakily actually. The problem with the lecture this time compared to last time, was the motivations of the audience. Last time I was preaching to people who had actively made a decision to come along, but this time I was preaching to an audience that probably didn’t want to be there and probably had much better things to do, such as study for mid-semester exams. This is the reason I was so nervous to begin with.

After a while I settled down and got into the swing of things and began to engage and captivate the audience, I could see it in some of their faces. A few walked out, but that was to be expected. I know when I was in first year, if someone tried to teach me study strategies I would have walked straight out. I guess that is symptomatic of human behaviour though: people are quite resistant to advice and tend to only appreciate it in hindsight, when they’ve made the mistake for themselves. So who knows, maybe at the end of the year a few students will think, Hmm what that guy, who looked like Mr. Bean, said really makes sense now, if only I’d listened to him then.

But it made it all worthwhile seeing the faces of the students who I was clearly getting through to; I know that perhaps I’d helped them somehow. At one stage in the lecture I almost burst into laughter. My neighbour, the one who calls me Tee-Rav or Travisty depending on his mood, walked into the theatre late and saw me lecturing. The look of bewilderment on his face was priceless. He hurriedly turned around to leave, but then turned around once more to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. He was spinning in circles, like a dog chasing its tail.

I was in a cheerful mood when I finished my last mid-semester exam on Thursday morning, as it was my last piece of assessment before the break and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I could go back to Melbourne.

On Friday I spent the day finishing off all my errands, packed and then went along to an end of term barbeque organised by some of my actuarial classmates. They’d told me to meet them at a certain barbeque area by the lake, but the problem is, there is a multitude of barbeque areas around the lake, in fact perhaps the stretch of road by the lake has probably one of the highest rates of barbeques per kilometre in the world, or at least the country. I found myself at a rowing club, in the middle of a wedding and in an obscure carpark, before finally finding them.

It was a perfect spot really: The barbeques sat nestled between a lovely pagoda and a bank of pink vibrant cherry blossom trees in full bloom, with the sun setting against the reflective calm lake in the background. But with all my troubles finding the place, I knew it was not meant to be a perfect evening. For one thing, the lovely bank of cherry blossom trees I mentioned, had a sleeping vagrant underneath them, who I woke up as I walked past. He spent the whole time mumbling, cursing and rambling loudly, slowly getting closer and closer before asking us for a cigarette. After the sun set, there was very little light and it became cold rather quickly. I was in charge of bringing drinks and bread, but confusion between our roles resulted in yet another problem. You see, I neglected to bring a corkscrew, as I classified that as a barbeque utensil, which was Robert’s job to bring. Robert classified a corkscrew under the same category as drinks. So in the end, we had wine but nothing to open it with. It didn’t bother me; I wasn’t going to drink it anyway.

Chris, a nice guy in a batman t-shirt that I’d just met, said he’d heard that if you wrap a towel around the bottle and bang it against a tree, the cork will pop out. We all failed to comprehend the physics behind why it would work and I couldn’t recall a ‘Mythbusters’ episode where that had covered it, but these guys looked in need of a drink; their eyes were flicking side to side in desperation. So I volunteered to be the fool who would bang the bottle against the tree. Thwack, thwack, thwack… Nothing. The cork didn’t pop out, but truthfully I was just glad that I wasn’t covered in wine, with shards of glass lodged in my hands.

The next brilliant idea was to push the cork into the bottle. That failed. When it came to combining the two ideas and smashing the bottle against the tree after half pushing the cork in, I felt it was time to leave. I said goodbye, used my phone as a torch, and walked back to my car. All in all, it was an amusing evening and probably was more enjoyable than if everything had gone smoothly.

I’d decided to surprise Sherly by showing up a day earlier than I’d said I would, so I drove through the night after leaving the barbeque and ended up outside her door with ‘Krispy Kreme’ doughnuts in hand. By the big smirk on her face, I could tell she was happy to see me, or maybe just the doughnuts!

The next night I took my Dad to watch an A-league football match for his birthday. We were part of the record breaking fervent crowd at the Telstra dome that saw Melbourne Victory beat Sydney FC 3-2. It was quite a fun evening actually and Dad seemed to enjoy himself.

It is great to be back again and I’m looking forward to spending the next two weeks down here, even if I will have to do several assignments.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-08-20T19:55:00.000+10:00

A Brief Escape
The next two weeks are shaping up to be extremely busy ones. It is that time of semester where mid-semester exams, assignments and regular study, coincide and merge together to create a behemoth creature, ready to devour the unprepared and unsuspecting student. For the nerds among us, it is kind of like a final fantasy game, where you are walking along (hours from the last save point), just about to finish the stage, then “BAM” out of nowhere that poignant boss battle theme music starts up and you’re smack bang in the middle of a boss fight. If you haven’t levelled up your characters you could be in serious trouble. Err… I’ll stop the nerdiness now, I swear.

I’ve observed a few things lately that have made me so amused, that I feel compelled to share them. Firstly, I saw a car the other day that had a Canberra number plate (strange huh…) with a slogan “Feel the power of Canberra”. And I thought Victoria’s motto was bad.

The second occurred when I was watching the Australia V Kuwait soccer match. The match was of abysmal quality, but the real gem came from the unlikeliest of places – the commentary. Football terms and commentary are notoriously full of innuendo and double entendres, but this one was simply too rich. The commentator in an English accent commented “Muscat applied the pressure from behind, while Dodd applied the pressure from the front, and the sandwich on the Kuwati player seemed to have good effect.” Anyway, enough of the sillyness.

I was lucky enough to get away last weekend and go back to Melbourne. I’d decided to take the train and thought it would be quite an enjoyable way of travelling. I’d always had a fondness for trains and thought it would be a romantic way to travel – rolling through the open countryside of our great sunburnt land as the carriage rocked gently with the soothing ‘clickety-clack’ sound of the wheels. I’ve now discovered that train travel, well on ‘country-link’ anyway, should not be romanticised; it is a horrible experience.

I’m sure I would have enjoyed the journey alright if it hadn’t been for the people on board. I don’t know why, but for some reason, train travel seems to be the choice method of transport of some of the loudest, strangest, most inconsiderate and boganish people in the country.

Despite this, the journey went relatively quickly though, partly because I made use of the down time and studied, but mainly because I was so looking forward, with each passing minute, to seeing that special someone. I kept imagining her warm smile as we first saw each other at the station.

After a tiring journey, the train finally pulled into Spencer Street. I must say, the station is a very impressive gateway to Melbourne, a bit like the Japanese stations but on a smaller scale. It is such a shame though that the only ones who are there to appreciate it, are such an undesirable mix of people.

Unfortunately a taxi strike had thrown the city tram network into disarray, so Sherly was going to meet me at Melbourne Central station instead. I transferred to a suburban train that was going through the loop.

You don’t really realise how small and insignificant Canberra actually is, until you’re smack bang in the centre of the city on a busy Friday night. So many people, so many shops open, so many cars. For the first few minutes I was feeling a little daunted and uncomfortable. I waited for Sherly outside the tram stop and observed the surrounds. Such an elegant and stylish city. I was pleased to discover that there is now one of those ice-cream places from Japan with the crepe cones in Melbourne. If you haven’t tried one already, definitely give it a go and I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

Before long I saw a flustered Sherly rush past me in the direction of the station. She was looking as stylish and beautiful as ever, but I didn’t get time to think about this; I had to run after her. We embraced once I’d caught up with her and it was then that everything felt right again, I was home, this was my city, I belonged.

She took my hand and we strolled together up Swanston St. until we found a tram and caught it back to her place. She cooked me a lovely feast for dinner, consisting of: okonomiyaki, curry chicken, rice and salad. Sherly is a terrific cook incidentally and I devoured the meal rather quickly, as it was the first tasty meal I’d eaten since… umm I think since the last time she cooked for me. The okonomiyaki was especially excellent. As the night wore on we talked and caught up on everything, and each moment in her presence washed a gentle calm over me, clearing my jumbled mind.

The next day I went to the Dandenongs with my family for lunch. It was great to see them again and I caught up on everything that had been happening in my absence. Outside the restaurant there was a remarkable dog, it was easily the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t the HK ‘The Dog’ style cute with big eyes and a big nose; it was more subtle than that. If it entered a dog modelling contest it would win, paws down. You might think I’m a little strange at this point, going on about a dog, but before you judge me you should understand that this dog had such pull, that people in the restaurant were walking outside (in the middle of their meals) to take pictures of it and play with it. Actually it reminded me of how Ferrari owners park their car outside cafés and sit by them and bask in the admiration of the other patrons.

I went into the city to see Sherly again that night and ate delicious okonomiyaki again. She was extremely busy with uni and work, so I was really grateful that she gave up the time to see me again and cook for me. Once again I had such a lovely time, but before long, the weekend was over and I boarded the train at 8:30am to go back to Canberra. On the train I slept and studied and everything generally was far more tolerable this time; my mind on the return journey was far clearer and calmer.

I can’t wait until the mid-sem break, but right now I have to concentrate on the task at hand; tackle that boss.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-08-09T21:12:00.000+10:00

Yee-Haw…
The weather has been splendid this week, sending a message as faint as the sweet fragrance of an early blooming camellia, that spring is coming. I expect this week is just an exception and next week will be especially cold and wintry. It is just a hunch, but I tend to be right about these kinds of things.

The college is magically undergoing a transformation this week, which coincidently corresponds with the upcoming ‘parent’s weekend’, where residents’ parents come up for the weekend to visit, funny that… The corridors are smelling lovely after being sprayed with eucalyptus, new dining room tables are in the process of being installed, the lawns are being mown, the netball ring has been re-erected and the gardens are being manicured. It is quite laughable how superficial the college heads can be. Surely every parent has already been told about the sometimes unliveable conditions of the college. Maybe they just want to make us look like liars. Satisfied parent: “Oh I don’t know what you’re complaining about, it is lovely here.” Student in disbelief: “But…but… it is never like this normally, I swear!” Angry parent: “I’ll give you something to swear about!”

I don’t really mind, I find the whole thing rather amusing. I’m just going to sit back this week and enjoy the good weather and the comparatively pleasant smell and look of the college.

I’ve been up to a few things lately, notably the ‘Bush Dance’ and a ski trip. I didn’t really want to go to the bush dance, I had neither the time nor the inclination and I wasn’t thrilled about having to part with $35 to go. However, through a poor response from college residents generally, the organisers became quite desperate. They were asking me almost every day if I was going. Each day politely I told them that I hadn’t quite decided, but it wasn’t likely. I mixed that technique with avoidance and thought I’d be able to get out of it. The dance was for charity, but the way they were promoting it sounded as though it was going to be one big booze fest, which I wasn’t at all interested in. “5 free drinks and $2 drinks thereafter,” the advertising material boasted. Sharing a bus back to college with drunk residents dressed in country clothes isn’t my idea of a fun night.

I thought I’d been successful in getting out of it until two organisers knocked on my door and tried with extreme desperation to get me to come. I have quite weak resistance to desperate pleading, plus I imagined the worries that they were going through about not selling enough tickets and making a loss, so I begrudgingly reached into my pocket, took out my wallet and bought a ticket.

I thought perhaps I just wouldn’t go and would just write off the monetary loss, but a few of my friends had been roped into going as well, so I thought I might as well go along. The theme was country and western, but I showed up in a very metro outfit, which consisted of a striped French cuffed shirt (with cufflinks), a black jacket, dark RL denim jeans and Zu shoes. Not exactly very county, but I didn’t care, I was felt it was good enough of me just to turn up.

The dance was held in large barn, made from corrugated iron, which was down a dirt path in the middle of nowhere. Every attempt to be true to the ‘country’ theme had been considered by the organisers, right down to the stench of farm animal excrement that lingered in the air. Mmm… got to love that country air. We had the right side of the barn to ourselves; there was a divider between our area and the left side. I have no idea what was on the other side of the barn, it could have been anything. The floor was wooden, the roof was high and the triangular trusses were exposed, the walls were a rusted corrugated iron colour and hay bales were scattered sparingly for good measure. A band was set up on a makeshift stage that imposed itself on the room, but the focal point would have to have been the large mechanical bull that was surrounded by a blow up cushioned ring.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but Canberra gets cold at night, in fact very cold, into the negatives for most of winter. That night was no exception; it was cold, very cold. It turns out that large open iron barns aren’t terribly great insulators, so most people were shivering, especially the girls in short skirts and abbreviated tops.

The party, just like the barn itself, was taking a while to heat up. I chatted for a while with Vijay and Garima, who both seemed a little bored too. We moved over to watch people riding on the mechanical bull, which was rather amusing. The idea was to climb on the bull and stay on it as long as possible, while it bucked and spun. After observing for a while I noticed a pattern as to who was good at riding the bull and who wasn’t. Firstly, girls tended to do a lot better than guys (I’ll assume because they have better balance, but you can draw your own conclusions), thin people did better than fat people, short was better than tall and confidence seemed to help also. I was even thinking of how I could build a model to predict riders’ times, until I realised what I was doing and stopped. You’re at a ‘fun’ event, don’t think about statistical models…geez.

Vijay and Garima both had a go on the bull and they did quite well, Vijay even broke the record I think. After their turns we headed outside, where the temperature must have easily been below zero, and ate a barbeque dinner. We shivered as we ate and quickly raced back inside as word began to spread that our head of college was going to ride the bull. As my model would have predicted, he didn’t do at all well (maybe I should have built an age factor into the model as well… Stop it!). After the crowd around the bull dispersed, I decided I would have a go, so I climbed on and it started bucking and spinning. It was rather fun, albeit a little strange. Given that I am of reasonable height, thin, male and wasn’t confident, as the model would have predicted, my performance was average; not brilliant but not terrible. It was fun though, especially when I hit the cushions with a thud after being thrown off.

The crowd started warming to both the band and the venue and soon people began to dance, either to keep warm or because they’d be drinking. You could easily tell each person’s reason. The band played covers of well known rock songs and were quite talented. I especially liked it when they played ‘Living on a Prayer’. No night out is complete without that song being played, I feel. Eventually though the night drew to a close and I caught the bus home, which actually wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined; no one was drunk enough to the point of vomiting.

On Saturday, it was an early wakeup call, then a bus trip to Perisher Blue for a ski trip. The trip was all paid for by the college as a thank you to all the voluntary academic mentors. I was glad to get another chance to go skiing, especially when I didn’t have to pay for it.

The bus arrived at bullocks flat and after being decked out with skis and boots we all caught the train (or the ‘ski tube’) up the mountain to where our lesson was being held. The lesson was quite useful, as finally I learnt how to do parallel turns, although I’ve not mastered them yet by all means. After the lesson a few of us had lunch together and then went off for free time. I went off in a group of four, but very quickly we were separated. I ended up skiing with Caz, as our abilities and our confidence were quite closely matched. We started off on the beginner slopes, and then tried our luck on a random green level slope. Perhaps we took a wrong turn, because after a while we were skiing on a narrow steep path with large trees and rocks either side, which was rather scary. At one point there was a steep decline leading into a corner and I was right behind Caz, I watched as she fell in spectacular fashion, spinning at least 4 times before coming to a rest. Since I was watching her fall and wasn’t concentrating on going down the hill, I had an equally spectacular fall. When I got up I heard cheering from some people on the nearby chairlift and I waved in acknowledgement. My goggles were laced with fine fragments of snow and had ended up around my neck. I went to check on Caz and noticed her poles were about 15 metres away from where she’d fallen. We brushed ourselves off, collected our poles, high fived each other and then were on our way.

We didn’t have a map and got a little lost, but after a while ended up heading in the right direction. We successful rode the T-bar up to the terminal and caught the train in time after meeting up with the others. On the bus I took my jacket off and I smelt terribly! I was really embarrassed and regretted not bringing deodorant, but fortunately, everyone else seemed equally as smelly, so the only one who would have noticed would have been the bus driver…poor guy. It certainly was a fun day, but something was missing, I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I had on the falls creek ski trip.

I have been missing a certain somebody far too much lately, so this weekend I’ve decided to go back to Melbourne to see them. I’m sure glad I won’t be at college for parent’s weekend.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-08-01T10:47:00.000+10:00

Travvy Goes Green
It is three weeks into the semester and things are starting to settle down. Although I’m not overloaded with work yet, it is starting to come in at a nice steady pace. I was getting a little jittery in the first week, since I didn’t have much to do in the way of study, yet all my friends seemed to be very busy. I guess most people would count themselves lucky if they were in such a situation, but it made me feel edgy and uncomfortable. I need to feel that I’m working at least as hard as everyone else or I feel like I don’t deserve things that I achieve, maybe I just like working hard.

This Sunday I went along to an organised tree planting event. In case you didn’t realise, it was the ‘National Tree Planting Day’ on Sunday. Several of my fellow college residents and I caught the bus out to a place called Cotter. As we were snaking our way up a mountain with dense forest either side of the road, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was bothering; surely the last thing Canberra needs is more trees. Our destination though was more or less a tree deserted plot of land, so that made me happy enough.

I armed myself with a pick, some trees and various other items essential to the modern day tree planter and set off. Although featureless and flat from a distance, up close the field was most unpleasant. Blackberry bushes were rampant as well as other thorny bushes and I walked straight into one, as though it were a cactus and I was one of the various characters from an early slapstick cartoon. Ouch. I cut my hands a little while digging as well, but the rest of the day was more or less incident free. It felt kind of good to get out and do a little physical work in the bush. I was getting my hands dirty, I got to use a pick and it was all for a good cause. When I was feeling particularly manly and energetic, I started whacking the especially large rocks that were loitering in the many ditches of the field. Surprisingly after a few contacts with the pick, they shattered apart.

I was whistling along and having as much fun as you probably could planting trees, when a new resident at Johns asked if we could work together. I’m a rather independent person and don’t really like working in groups, in fact you could say I hate it, but reluctantly I said, “Sure thing.” The guy just stood around, except when I went to dig, he’d say “No, I’ll do that,” proceeding to attack the ground like a madman with his pick. I didn’t really like this, for digging was an essential part to enjoying the process and besides, I felt I wasn’t working hard enough. Very soon he got tired, which I was glad about as it meant I could take over all the tasks of planting. He asked me what he could do and after mulling it over I said, “Maybe you could start watering all the trees that have been planted.” He was happy, as it meant he had to do barely any work and I was happy as I could do it all.

Eventually though it was time to go. I was proud as we drove away when I looked at the field and saw all of the work we had done. The milk carton guards that were placed around the trees were lined up neatly in rows down the hill like miniature soldiers in a formation. I can now print lecture notes to my heart’s content without any feeling any guilt.

That evening I got to do yet more physical work, this time helping a friend move her bags and boxes out of her room. She was leaving to go back to America having now completed her degree. It will be strange not having her around and I’m going to miss going to watch her perform in operas.

A few things have been bugging me about college lately, and number one on the list is the state of the bathrooms. Some people seem to have the hygiene standards of apes, not even managing or bothering to press the button to flush the toilet. And it happens quite often. The other day there was vomit or something that looked like it in the sink that someone hadn’t even bothered to wash down.

My net connection has been down since Saturday afternoon and the computer guy said it was something he had never seen before and is in the process of fixing it. My phone has a light that blinks when I receive messages and turns off when you check the messages, but this light is now permanently blinking. Every time I enter my room I get excited that I have a message only to check and realise I don’t. I get the feeling it is going to be another one of those special cases where the college ‘fix-it’ person will scratch their head and say “Hmmm… well I’ve never seen that happen before.”

Quite a few new residents have moved into college for the new semester and although most of the ones I’ve met seem quite nice, some are quite bizarre. One is a total sleaze and is a discriminatory curry offerer. The other night in the dining hall he was going around to all the tables and offering his ‘samba curry’ to anyone that wasn’t white and by the way that is not a euphemism. Anyway, he sat next to me once and was slurping and eating so loudly, which I really hate.

I think all this is bothering me only because this time more than any other I’m missing Melbourne. Oh well.

It’s not all bad though, I’m still having fun. I recently watched a pre-season A-league soccer match that was being played in Canberra and the weather has been quite nice lately, plus it is good spending time with my Canberra friends.

My subjects all seem interesting enough, although one of my lecturers is quite terrible and her lecture notes are fairly useless. This is really quite annoying as it is a subject that could be made to be really exciting if a lecturer like Steve Stern (a plump witty family man from America) or Kostya Borovkov (a hilarious tall lanky lecturer with a thick Russian accent who says ‘God Bless You’ to anyone who sneezes in his class) were teaching it. Sigh, what a disappointment. Oh well.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-07-24T17:25:00.000+10:00

A Random Thought
If a picture is worth 1000 words then how many words is the average film equivalent to? Well, the average film would have, I assume, a frame rate of 24 frames per second (ie. 24 pictures per second), and the average length of a film is around 84 minutes. Hence the average film would be worth 24x60x84x1000 = 120960000 words.

So there we have it. If a picture is worth 1000 words, then the average film is worth 120960000 words. Now, say the average novel is 500 pages long and assume that there are around 300 words per page, then the average novel contains around 150000 words, which means that the average film provides the same information as 806.4 novels, and all in the space of 84 minutes.

Hence films are an incredibly effective way of conveying information. Conclusion: watch more films.

Of course you may argue that this finding is invalid since each frame shown in a film is not independent from the last. But the saying doesn’t mention independence at all, so this isn’t a valid ground for argument.

Well that’s all from me.

Please don’t say I’m an idiot if you decide to comment…

2006-07-23T18:20:00.000+10:00

Winter Reading: Book Reviews

I thought I’d get around to reviewing some of the books I read over the winter holidays. There are few activities that are more relaxing than reading by an open fire on a comfy sofa whilst sipping various blends of tea, with milk and no sugar…

The rating system is as follows:
α α α α α = Life Changing
α α α α = Classic
α α α = Good
α α = Average
α = Was thrown on the fire (or it will be)

Brave New World: Aldous Huxely
My rating: α α α α

Quite simply this book is a masterpiece. I think it should certainly be added to the list of books one must read in their lifetime.

The book uses the powerful device of a rather strange futuristic utopian world as a medium to comment not only on capitalism but on societies and their aims as a whole. The novel is set in the year ‘693 After Ford (Henry Ford that is)’, where babies are produced through a process in factories, any mention of parents or mothers is blasphemy, recreational sex and drugs are strongly encouraged, members are conditioned in their sleep by a form of hypnosis, a strong hierarchical society exists and everyone is happy all the time.

In the early stages, the reader can’t help but think the book is simply going to be a stinging criticism of Capitalism, and this impression is reinforced by the names of the main characters: Bernard Marx and Lenina. Reading on though, you realise it achieves so much more than that. Not only does the writer use this medium of a futuristic utopia (arguably), but also halfway through the novel he introduces a character that is taken from the ‘savage reservations’ and brought back to live in one of the civilised cities. This character’s loss of innocence and struggle to comprehend and integrate with society is equally as powerful. Many issues are examined through these devices such as: religion, capitalism, happiness Vs knowledge, not to mention many aspects of all societies such as: class division, equity and stability.

One striking part of the novel for me, was when the savage, who has gained a different kind of conditioning in the form of reading ‘The complete works of William Shakespeare’ religiously, falls in love with Lenina, who has been conditioned by society.

The book is always pleasurable to read, although can be quite depressing at times, especially the ending. It is never dry and is reasonably simple. In summary, there is no reason why you shouldn’t read this book right now.

Kafka on the Shore: Haruki Murakami
My rating: α 1/2
I picked this book up, because it was written by the author of ‘Norwegian Wood’, which I enjoyed immensely. What a mistake it was though. I haven’t read a book this bad for quite some time. I was amazed that the same mind that brought ‘Norwegian Wood’ to life could create something so awful. I kept wading through the pages trying to find a spark that made the book worthwhile, but I never found it. At times I got the feeling that the author was just writing for the sake of writing, just spewing out page after page of irrelevant dribble trying to see how many pages he could write.

Murakami goes overboard with imagery and philosophy, which doesn’t fit at all with the age of the main character, 15. Characters introduced include ‘Johnnie Walker’, ‘Colonel Sanders’ and a man who can talk to cats and make fish fall from the sky. The author throws caution into the wind and tackles supernatural ideas such as parallel worlds, UFO’s and destinies. This comes off rather badly in my opinion. Also, social taboos are touched on as if they were no problem at all and there seems to be no reason for bringing them up.

Perhaps I would have thrown the book on the fire if I hadn’t been in Canberra when I finished it and hence fireless.

Avoid this one at all costs.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime: Mark Haddon
My Rating: α α α 1/2

This book is simply superb. It is a daring and unique concept, but it is pulled off extremely well. The novel is written as though it were the effort of a 15 year old autistic boy, Christopher, to write a book. The language, style, pictures and maths allow the reader to easily believe that this book is authentic; that they are actually reading this boy’s story. Some readers may be put off by the simple language and abundance of pictures, but this is unmerited, as the story and the concept are exquisite. Sure, the book doesn’t spew out images relentlessly like the Murakami book I reviewed above, but I can live without “… waves crashing in and out again and again” being mentioned on almost every page. Quite simply, it seems that the author doesn’t try too hard and yet the depth he achieves is commendable.

Christopher is an autistic child (well it never says this, but that’s what I assumed), who lives with his father in Swindon, England. He attends a ‘Special Needs’ school, since his social skills are almost non-existent and he has severe behavioural problems. He is however rather good at maths and is the first student in his school to take the A-levels for maths. As the story progresses you gain an insight into his mind and learn to appreciate abilities that to us that seem natural, such as: blocking out irrelevant information and understanding facial expressions. Christopher begins his story as a murder mystery to see who murdered the neighbour’s dog, Wellington, but by carrying out this investigation the reader and to some extent Christopher, discovers far more than expected.

This book has a remarkable insight into the effect of domestic disturbances on children and of the enormous strain of raising a special needs child, not to mention actually living with a condition such as autism. Again, it is a rather depressing novel and makes you feel utterly hopeless by the end.

The book though did mention maths quite frequently and included an appendix with a delightful little mathematical proof, which I liked. And yes, I checked, the proof is mathematically acceptable.

This is unlike any other book you are likely to read and is not exactly conventional, but you should definitely give it a try.

2006-07-17T23:34:00.000+10:00

Ski Trip
The holidays are now over as though they never even existed and I am in Canberra once more. I arrived yesterday and I’m not sure why, but Canberra felt more like home than it ever has before. I wasn’t altogether annoyed or angry to be back as is sometimes the case, and yet at the same time it was the least motivated and happy I’ve been to leave Melbourne. I guess I’m kind of getting used to and enjoying living my life in two worlds. One world I am organised, disciplined, study and work hard, look after myself and the other world I can catch up with all my old friends, enjoy Melbourne’s culture, relax and laze about. I guess I’m growing attached to that physical distinction and separation between my two lifestyles.

Actually it was the first long drive I’ve done recently by myself for a while, so I was back to speeding and singing Aladdin again, “Oh Prince Ali glorious he Ali Ababwa… Stong as 10 regular men definitely”, ok I’ll stop now. I’d been doing far too much driving really and this time more than any other, it was really quite tiring and straining, even with all the singing. But I made it in one piece thankfully and I’m back in Canberra, back for another semester.

Everyone looks happy and refreshed and even the life form that was growing at the bottom of my sink has been removed by some sink fairies that must have come into my room in the holidays. I love the start of semester; everyone is so care free and happy.

The last few days of my holidays I embarked on a trip to Falls Creek with Sherly, Chris and Winnie. I’d organised everything right down to the 2:30 am wake up time, which I really hated myself for. I doubt I would have got more than a few hours sleep that night, which is something I really didn’t want to do given the long drive. Still though, I stopped at Winnie’s place in Glen Waverley first at around 3:15am then picked up the others a bit later and headed to the mountain.

Although I didn’t really get lost, I sort of took a wrong turn, which meant a long drive on a deserted road through thick fog, which wasn’t exactly the most fun, but still we arrived at the ski hire place at around 7:30am and were decked out with our ski gear. It took a while really, and a family dressed in matching fluorescent ski suits (overalls almost) seemed rather annoyed at us, but it wasn’t our fault really, it just takes a long while to fit ski gear. Besides you can’t feel sympathy for a family in a matching fluoro ensemble. Well I can’t.

Chains in the boot at the ready, I started the steep winding drive up the mountain. I have a personal loathing of holding people up or inconveniencing people, so I was keeping up the pace set by the Audi V6 in front, throwing my little four cylinder car around the corners to make up for the lower power. The g-forces evidently got to my passengers, as I saw a pale faced Sherly clutch her mouth and stomach and request rather urgently that I pull over. Fortunately there was a little pull in on the left side so I swerved off the road and came to an abrupt halt. Sherly jumped out immediately and doubled over…

I decided to take it a bit slower when we set off again, but to no avail, as not long after I had to make another urgent stop. The winding roads were getting worse and the pull in spots were becoming scarce. My eyes apart from evaluating the corners, were scanning the side of the road for places I could stop in case of an emergency.

Soon the call came when there was no conceivably safe way of stopping, “Err… Trav pull over,” Sherly squeaked. I floored the car, crossed my fingers and swung across the other side of the road into a snow bound pull in area in front of a blind corner. Phew, scarey. The car skidded and whirred as we took off again. There was no more excitement on the trip up and soon we had arrived at Falls Creek. I had a little run in with a parking attendant who called me ‘Sharp as a bowling ball’. I don’t know why, but I really feel insecure when people call me thick, it is silly but I almost felt compelled to take out my degrees and show him my marks. So pathetic…

We strapped on our bulky snow boots, slipped on our gloves and put on our goggles and walked to the ticket office. Unfortunately there had been a blackout on the mountain, so the queue took rather a long time and my plans to make the 10 o’clock lesson went out the window. Eventually though we were on the ‘Falls Express’ chairlift on our way to the main ski starting point.

It was quite a nice day and there was decent snow cover, although it was not the nice powdery stuff, it was the grisly icy man made variety, but not to worry. I’ve hardly been skiing enough times to have developed snow pretensions. The scene was fairly chaotic; people of all ages were whooshing past with a purpose and destination in mind, and I barely remembered how to put my skis on.

Chris and Sherly had their ‘total beginners’ lesson at 12, and Winnie and I had to wait until 1:30pm for our higher level lessons (well not much higher in my case). Once I saw them off I decided to explore some of the nearby gentle slopes, and sure enough the memory of how to ski (badly) came back to me. The lesson was quite interesting and useful and I learnt the valuable lesson that you’re not supposed to plummet at high speeds down steep slopes, you are supposed to turn to lower your speed. So I learnt a snow plough turn. The day was a little disappointing in the fact that I didn’t really get to spend time with the others, which didn’t make it as fun, but I still enjoyed myself.

Our communications were somewhat crippled by the uneasy usage of mobile phones, but somehow we all found each other and took the chairlift back down to the car park. I think I only had to pull over once on the way down. Eventually we checked into our apartment in Mt Beauty and it was most impressive. A two story modern design, with a kitchen stocked with every conceivable utensil, a fireplace, a large plasma TV with surround sound and separate bedrooms with comfy beds. It was luxurious to say the least.

The girls were a little tired and sick in Sherly’s case, so they sent us to get some groceries for dinner. Chris and I are used to ‘roughing it’ on our holidays. We once ate gluggy rice mixed with sweet chilli sauce for one dinner on a trip… I’ve never really been fond of sweet chilli sauce since. Given this trend and the fact that we thought we were all tired and couldn’t really be bothered cooking, we picked up frozen food and a few other items. You can never go wrong with frozen food, or at least we thought… When we arrived back, Sherly and Winnie looked mortified at what we had brought home for dinner and even more so when they were actually eating it. We all retired to bed rather early, given that we were all very tired. I don’t have to tell you I had a very pleasurable sleep that night.

The next morning I told Sherly to suck some ‘Barley Sugars’ as we were going up the mountain to help her with her motion sickness and it seemed to work, as we didn’t have to pull over once. I was feeling rather satisfied at the success of my home remedy, but this joy was short lived as Sherly got out as soon as we arrived and rushed off to the toilet.

Again we missed the 10 o’clock lesson, but this time we were able to ski together for a few hours which was nice. The last run we attempted before lunch was called ‘Wombat’s Ramble’ and is apparently the longest beginner run in Australia. I set off first and my yearning for speed sent me shooting down the mountain without any real effort to slow myself. I was cruising along and all was well and good until I saw the big patch of dirt that marked the end of the run. For some reason I thought I’d just ski onto the mud and pull up gracefully, but oh how wrong I was. The sudden difference in terrain pulled up my skis almost immediately, and by the laws of inertia, my body continued hurtling through the air and I smacked into the hard unforgiving mud, face first. My jacket and pants were covered in mud, my skis were scratched and I was cut and bruised through my pants and gloves. I think my puffy ‘man jacket’ absorbed most of the force of the fall though, so I am very glad I was wearing it.

After a moment lying in pain I dragged myself up and decided to stand a bit before the mud patch to warn the others. Winnie skied to a stop soon after and I realised she had also had an encounter with mud further up the slope. Ahh you’ve got to love Australian ski resorts.

We had lunch and took the chairlift back up for our lesson. The lesson wasn’t much use apart from the fact it was held on a slope I hadn’t got around to trying yet. I met up with the others after my lesson and it was time to leave.

This time, not surprisingly, Sherly and Winnie wanted to come with us to get dinner. Chris and I just watched as they loaded the basket with all sorts of non-frozen food. They prepared a lovely meal, better than the meals I would eat under normal circumstances, and we were all satisfied after finishing it. We stayed up a little later this time, but didn’t exactly party or anything, we just watch some TV and headed to bed.

After a long drive back, it came time to drop everyone off and I went back home to prepare for the trip to Canberra. I was so exhausted from all the driving and skiing and could have collapsed in a ball somewhere, but I dragged myself into my car again and went to visit a friend one last time before heading back. I didn’t care how tired I was, I wanted to see them one last time.

The next morning it was a frantic pack and then another long drive, this time to Canberra. The first 300 kilometres of the journey I had just driven in the opposite direction not even 24 hours ago. Sigh.

Still, now I’m back after enjoying a very relaxing and pleasurable holiday. I’ve got to get back into uni mode and start waking up early and studying again.

Until next time,

Take Care.

2006-06-28T15:43:00.000+10:00

Fairytale turns into a reality show… poor Socceroos

I’m back in Melbourne and can’t believe how much has changed while I’ve been gone. It wouldn’t have been more than a month since I was away, but it is remarkable what has occurred during that short period. Apartment towers have been completed, shops have changed and they did something with the Sandridge Bridge over the Yarra. Incidentally the bridge looks absolutely horrible; a scar on the face of Southbank. I’m sure the government said that it was going to be a grand reconstruction: a giant Ferris wheel, a shopping strip, truly a world case development. What have they done though? They’ve stuck two bright yellow construction beams and laid some concrete and called it complete. The whole thing seems to have been completed in a hurry on a shoestring budget. I’m only hoping it is temporary. But all that aside, it is very nice to be back, albeit a little strange.

Melbourne, it seems, has totally succumbed to world cup fever. I’ve never seen so much excitement in the city before over a single sporting match, let alone one of soccer. Cars fly Socceroos banners, youths kick soccer balls in the street and little kids run around kicking coke bottles impersonating their Socceroo heroes, whose names they actually all know. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn I was in a city in Europe.

On that note, I did watch the match last night and although it was possibly one of the cruellest ways to exit the world cup, I was nevertheless proud of the team and proud to be Australian.

I had my final exam on the Friday morning and within 8 hours, I was out drinking and celebrating the end of exams. With a reasonable sized group of my friends, I headed out to dinner and then after pottering around Canberra for a little bit, we headed to our final destination: Academy nightclub. One of the Ministry of Sound DJ’s was mixing there that night, so it was a natural choice given that the end of exams and that event coincided.

I was feeling a little ill from the heavy meal, but after many drinks (too many) I felt far better and far looser. Soon enough, I joined the others on the dancefloor and jumped and bopped my pent up stress and frustration away to the techno beats of John Course. I had quite a night actually despite waking up the next day with ringing blocked ears, smelling of cigarette smoke and wondering how to apologise for some of the more questionable dancing I did with a friend in the heat of the moment. Still it is all part of the big night clubbing experience I guess.

By Sunday I was fully recovered and ready to drive down to Melbourne. Unlike normal, I thought I’d be a little more sociable this time and invite some people to take a lift down to Melbourne with me. I tried to pack lightly, but still ended up filling about three quarters of the boot. I just hoped that the girls would be far better at packing light than I was. They were… How embarrassing. Still, I was spending three weeks in Melbourne and they were only spending three days.

I really enjoyed the company even though it meant I couldn’t do my usual pretending to be a racing driver whilst singing along to Aladdin at the top of my voice. Dana and Teresa sat in the back and slept the whole way, but Mi’er stayed awake and we had an interesting chat on the way down. One good thing about the trip, was that I had the chance to visit Violet Town, since we were about to run out of petrol. I’d always wanted to pay that town a visit, since it shares the same name as the town where you start in Pokemon. As I’ve pointed out to many people before, I was into Pokemon before it was cool and was one of the first in Australia to play and get into the game on the ‘Gameboy’. The town although nothing like the pixilated version on the Gameboy, had a certain simple charm about it. There was a main street, along which, two pubs, a post office and a few other various stores were dotted either side. Unfortunately there was no petrol station and I was getting a little creeped out by the eerie nature of the town and Mi’er’s colourful ghost stories, so I did a U turn post haste got the heck out of there.

I was quite amazed that Mi’er was still awake after more than six hours in to the journey, but after finding petrol at Euroa, I cranked up the heat, which along with the dark starry sky created the perfect environment for sleep and she was soon out like a light. Heck, even I felt like sleeping… well not really, I feel a strong sense of responsibility when other people are in the car.

We eventually got to Melbourne and I dropped Dana and Teresa off at their hostel. I parked near crown and tried to find a good restaurant for Mi’er, but they all seemed to be closed, given that it was late on a Sunday night, so I just took her to a place in the casino. I reached home after midnight and didn’t get a chance to say hello to any of my family.

In the afternoon the next day, I met up with Mi’er and showed her around Carlton before heading back to the city for dinner. I got a call from Chris inviting us to watch the big match at a live site at Telstra Dome and so to fill in the time before the match, after dinner I took Mi’er to the Croft Institute. By the little twinkle in her eyes as we walked through the seedy ally, I could tell she would like it.

After an enjoyable drink, the time came to go to Telstra dome, so we hopped on a tram and walked over the bridge once we got to Spencer Street. The city had gone soccer mad, cars honked and yelled ‘Go Aussie’ as they passed, face painted youths draped in Australian flags walked and joked in upbeat fashion, groups of hardcore fans blew whistles and sung and guys kicked soccer balls to each other.

We dragged a few chairs in front of the big TV in the cozy Medallion club at Telstra dome and camped there until the game began. All was going quite well for the Socceroos and I was having quite an enjoyable time apart from having to listen to the insipid commentary of the ‘know it all’ guys behind me that felt compelled to share their opinions on ever aspect of the match. Perhaps even more interesting than watching the match, was observing Mi’er getting excited and nervous throughout. This is the English literature girl I mentioned last time who normally deplores sport of any kind. At times she was perched on the edge of her seat and flinched with every close shot on goal. She even declared that she would buy and wear a Socceroos jersey if Australia won, which was something I just had to see.

Unfortunately it wasn’t to be. Despite growing hope and expectation throughout the match that it would go to extra time and Australia would have a fairly decent chance of winning, a dubious penalty call ultimately ended Australia’s world cup run in the last 10 seconds of play in heartbreaking fashion. The crowd dispersed quickly and quietly in a state of disbelief.

As I was walking Mi’er back to her hostel I came to realise two harsh things. Both the plucky Socceroos’ valiant quest and Mi’er’s brief foray into sport fanaticism were over. Darn, I so would have enjoyed seeing her in a Socceroos jersey.

After dropping her off, I realised it was about two and a half hours until the trains would run again. I decided to pointlessly walk back to Chris’ place, stay there for half an hour or so and then walk back to the station. It certainly was a long, cold lonely walk, but it gave me a lot of time to contemplate the semester just passed and everything that I had put off thinking about. Along the way I passed many glum faced football fans, who walked silently with their heads down in stark contrast to how they were behaving just three hours earlier. I noticed some had taken their anger out by knocking over wheelie bins. But for every 20 glum Aussie fans, there was a car full of screaming Italian fans. One car full of Italian girls yelled out to me as I crossed in front of them at the lights. Also, a drunken Italian guy rapped insulting lyrics at me as I walked past him with my head down. The rest of the walk was mostly uninteresting, except for a break dancing and rap contest I came across while cutting underneath Flinders St. station.

Chris said he would leave the door open for me, but when I got there it was locked. I reluctantly gave him a call and he came down bleary eyed, having just gotten out of bed. I felt so bad for waking him, I really should have just waited in a Maccas or something. Oh well. I had a brief nap on the sofa until 6am and then braved the cold once more to wait for a tram. By 8am I was home and fell asleep soon after my head hit the pillow.

I am so looking forward to spending three weeks resting and relaxing, doing whatever I feel like doing.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-06-14T21:51:00.000+10:00

Exams and World Cup amidst the Cold Canberra Winter

I have been sitting in my room at my desk for uncomfortably long periods since the start of the exam period. My world at the moment consists of my cramped little desk, books and notes, and the occasional trip down to the dining room hall to eat. This (and possibly tiredness and stress) has caused me to notice and be critical of things that I never would have before.

Right now I’m having a power struggle with the dust on my desk. It accumulates gradually in the background whilst you are going about your life until one day you are sitting at your cramped little desk and you notice that there is dust everywhere, centimetres thick. I haven’t succumbed to cleaning it away just yet, but I am observing it carefully. It seems to scrape away at my existence, seemingly declaring that no one is living here. But I am here, I am living and breathing every day at my cramped little desk, even if there is no proof.

As if to exert my existence upon my room, I now leave proof that I am alive: muddy shoes strewn haphazardly on the floor, scrunched up paper in my bin, empty cups of tea, anything that will prove to the room and me that I am here day after day at my cramped desk.

Phew… exams sure do make people act strangely. Why just the other day, I noticed that one of the most unlikely characters has been clenched by the iron grip of world cup fever, which is undoubtedly due to exams. She is a deep, complex, philosophical, introverted arts student with a real talent for understanding the significance of literature, who normally deplores sport and exercise, and yet just the other day I was amused to find that she has been watching the world cup.

While I’m on the world cup, I must talk about Australia’s exciting win over Japan. I’d spent the whole day at my cramped little desk and was studying up until a few minutes before the start of the match. Actually, I did manage to get away from my desk and play soccer for a little bit, which was much needed rest and exercise if such a combination exists. Anyway, I headed to the junior common room (JCR) where the match was being screened. Around 50 fellow residents were crammed around the big TV, with more streaming in by the minute. The match kicked off and the lights were turned off. It was quite amazing, the large group acted almost in unison; grunting, yelling and ‘ohhhh-ing’ simultaneously. Australia was doing quite well until a dreadful decision was made by the referee (who the commentators constantly referred to as the ‘Egyptian referee’ for some reason). Schwarzer, the Australian goal keeper went to catch a routine cross from a Japanese player, but as he did he was knocked off balance by a disgraceful tackle, which would have been better suited to a rugby field. The ball sailed into the open net and the goal was allowed. “That’s a foul!” The large mass of people screamed in unison. The Japanese fans and players on the TV didn’t care, they celebrated the disgraceful goal in an intolerable fashion.

In response Harry Kewell made an amazing run down the right wing and slammed the ball just over the crossbar. After that the Japanese seemed to get worse. Every time an Australian got close to a Japanese player, they would dive melodramatically like a puppet on a string. I know diving is somewhat embedded in modern soccer, but this was beyond ridiculous. Perhaps these were the teachings from their South American coach, for it certainly didn’t come from Japan; honour is so entwined with Japanese culture.

The Australian culture seemed reflected in the crowd in the JCR. Australians don’t like dishonesty and even more they hate whinging, overacting and faking, so understandably the crowd was getting very agitated when the Japanese players dived. But the players showed the Australian fighting spirit and never gave up, relentlessly attacking until finally Cahill scored after a nicely placed throw in. Oh gosh it was amazing. Every one of the 50 or so people jumped high in the air and screamed at the top of their lungs. We bounced, jumped and hugged each other. Apparently the joyous screams could be heard reverberating around the college.

When we all calmed down someone asked me what would happen if we drew, to which I replied, “Historically teams can go through on 4 points. So as long as we beat Croatia we should be fine.” But that was an unnecessary observation, for minutes later Australia struck another fine goal. Then minutes later they put another one in. By this stage we were all beyond ecstatic. Australia had won its first ever world cup match! I found it amazing that a single game of a sport which has largely been out of favour in this country could incite so much passion and joy. Long live the world cup!

I had two exams today, and gee it was cold this morning. Apparently it was negative 5 degrees and it certainly felt like it. The ground and cars were covered by thick white frost. I had to warm my hands up in reading time so that I could write properly when writing time came around. I looked at the forecast, and it seems negative temperatures during the night are here to stay. Brrr…

Oh, before I forget, I discovered the most amazing thing in an ‘Actuary’ magazine (yes they publish an actuarial magazine, pathetic I know…). There is a picture of an actuary in there who looks remarkably like Mr. Bean. People may think I look like Mr. Bean (I don’t see it personally), but this guy is a dead ringer! I aim to meet this guy and take a photo with him, just so I can show it to people who say I look like Mr. Bean. “Look, this guy looks like Mr. Bean, not me!” I’ll say after pulling out the photo and pointing persistently. It will be ever so grand.

I have one more exam to go and then freedom for a few weeks. I can’t wait!

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-06-02T09:44:00.000+10:00

Exams looming
Understandably, since receiving the good news on Tuesday, I’ve been in a kind of daze, a sort of state of constant euphoria. Somehow though, I still can’t come to terms with the implications of the news; everything seems surreal. I get the feeling that everything good that has happened will fade away into nothingness as I regain consciousness as though from a pleasant dream. But it is real. Finally, the arduous, trialling graduate work application process is over and now I can return to Melbourne at the end of the year and do what I enjoy doing. I could almost weep with joy at how the whole thing has turned out.

I guess I put a bit too much pressure on myself, which I always tend to do, so at times I felt absolutely worthless and rejected and thought I’d never be able to get a job, I questioned what I was doing in Canberra, I questioned everything. Finally though, on my last chance, the final play, my fortunes turned around and I secured a job in the company that I most wanted to work for, located in the city I love. What an ending. And now that it’s over, my nerves are frayed, my heart is still racing and it doesn’t seem real.

I left off last time by mentioning that I was late to the final interview because of the fog in Melbourne. Although I was late, I had phoned a few hours earlier to explain my predicament and the people at AXA were very understanding. The interview seemed to go quite well. I had to present a 15 minute case study to a panel of four interviewers and then be questioned about it and then about myself in general, for the remainder of the hour. When it was over, I stepped out of the building and walked up Collins Street to Spencer St. station (I refuse to call it Southern Cross) and caught the train home.

I was so exhausted from the early wake up and all the dramas that occurred, so I just relaxed for the rest of the day. I strummed on my guitar, I watched ‘Frasier’ DVD’s and I wrote and it was all much needed relaxation. The next day I spent mostly with my family. We enjoyed a nice lunch in the Dandenongs and had a fun time bowling.

That night I met up with Sherly. We had dinner at a Thai restaurant and Sherly was so worried or maybe just curious as to whether the food would be too spicy for me. I think she envisioned me having to go to hospital after the dinner because I couldn’t handle the spice. Truthfully though, I had such a lovely time at the dinner and found the food to be quite superb and not even that spicy. It was great catching up with Sherly again even though fortunately it hadn’t been that long since we had met up. She is certainly a girl that can always make me laugh and feel good about myself. She found it hilarious the large volume of water that I had consumed during the dinner despite insisting that I didn’t find it spicy. After the dinner we went for a walk and ended up sitting down in a quiet park off Lygon Street.

It was a beautiful night. The clouds rolled in through the cold night air, engulfing the city skyline in fog. Patches in the clouds above revealed a starry sky; sparkling diamonds on black velvet. We both just stared at the sky above becoming lost in our own thoughts. I silently hoped and prayed that I would get the job so that I could be back in Melbourne permanently.

Soon the time came for Sherly to meet up with Alfred to see X-men, so we left the park and walked to Melbourne Central. We met up with Alfred, who like Sherly and I, had a vaguely distracted look in his eyes caused by the knowledge of looming exams. Their movie was about to start so I said good bye and caught the train home.

On Monday I was supposed to hear of the decision made by AXA in regards to employing me, but when I finally received the phone call, I was told that a decision hadn’t been made, as neither of my referees had been contactable during the day. So, early on Tuesday morning I went and chased up and prodded my referees and soon after I received the phone call informing me that I had been offered a position.

I could barely concentrate for the rest of the day. After calming down, I went to buy champagne to celebrate. That evening I took Caz to a nice restaurant in Manuka (Canberra’s most sophisticated and trendy suburb) to celebrate. The dinner was very enjoyable, but bitter-sweet when I realised that I would rarely see her again once I moved to Melbourne. When we got back I thought I’d invite my friends over to share the news and the champagne. Caz told me that she had to get ready and that she’d meet me in 10 minutes in my room and then we’d go around and tell people.

Stupidly it didn’t click why she had said this, until I heard whispering outside my door. Oh that’s what she was doing, I instantly thought to myself, she has organised a surprise congratulations gathering. In that moment I was surprised though and thought that would be the best time to open the door and act surprised. “Congratulations!” The sizeable group yelled out, and perhaps I did actually look surprised.

The cork popped open and effervescent liquid flowed joyously into glasses. Our glasses clinked and we all took a sip of the champagne. In that moment though, it wasn’t just my Canberra friends that were in the room, it was all of my friends all sharing the happy moment.

Sadly, I think it is inevitable that friends at times have to say goodbye to each other and live great distances apart. However, I think if the memories and bonds of friendships are strong enough, it is possible to always feel that your friends are close by. And that is exactly how I felt that night. I know next year I am going to miss my Canberra friends immensely, but the good times we have shared will remain in my heart always and will mean that they are never far away. Besides, I intend to visit Canberra every so often.

That is a long way away yet, I still have a long way to go and still have a large amount of time to share with my friends in Canberra, so there is no point thinking about it yet. Right now, I no longer have time to contemplate all of the implications of my new job, I have to get into exam mode and study study study.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-05-30T10:39:00.000+10:00

*NEWS FLASH*
I received some positively splendiferous news today and ever since I’ve been (figuratively) bouncing around my room, shouting out ‘Fuuuu~~~!’ and ‘Wooooo’ and making any other excited noises that one might make. My neighbours must think I’ve gone absolutely mad.

The news is that I was offered a graduate work position with AXA in Melbourne! So as of December, I’ll be back in Melbourne. Thank you to all who were so supportive during this rather taxing process.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!!!!!!!!!!!!

Woooooooooooooooo!!!!

I’ll write a proper entry when I’ve calmed down a little bit.

Until then,

Take care.

2006-05-27T11:19:00.000+10:00

The case of the missing laundry basket
Things have been quite hectic lately, however I certainly don’t seem to be alone in this respect; everyone I have spoken to lately seems rushed off their feet. Quite a lot has been happening generally, and mostly everything was turning out wrong until one momentous day in the laundry room. You see, at college we are given a laundry basket that has our room number on it, but in the chaos and confusion that occurs in the laundry rooms, the baskets (which all look the same) get mixed up, and this is what happened to mine a while back. Some how I ended up with room 3075’s basket and had no idea what had happened to mine. Recently though, I saw my original basket perched on a shelf in the laundry room and I immediately claimed it back. It was quite amazing, once I had it back, my fortunes seemed to turn around; I got a second interview with AXA, my Microsoft Word started working again and I began to reconcile an important friendship.

Of course that is not to say that I have an emotional attachment to my laundry basket, it was just an interesting coincidence I observed. Some people at college do however seem to have a particular emotional attachment to their laundry baskets. I have seen signs around my floor notifying others that their laundry basket has been ‘stolen’ and ‘legal action’ will be taken unless it is returned. I found this quite hilarious really; I honestly think we are turning into America. We are part of the British Commonwealth damn it, if we are going to copy anyone it should be the British, not the boisterous and tasteless Americans. That’s not to say there is anything wrong with America of course, I guess I’m just a bit of an Anglo-phile. I can just imagine ‘The case of the missing laundry basket’ going before the courts, please grow up people! And another thing, why are there some escalators that go up on the right side instead of the left these days? Even our escalators are being Americanised, AHHH.

I realise I haven’t spoken about some of the interesting characters at college for quite some time, and feel that I should. Firstly, I must write again about my neighbour. If you recall he was the Italian guy who called me ‘Tee-Rav’. Well he has changed slightly, now he likes to call me ‘Travesty’ Hmmm… He and several others in my corridor, derive endless amusement at yelling out to the college across from John’s. “Hey Burgman,” he will yell at random times, “Hey Burgman,” he’ll yell again, and then once more. One weekend he invited his mates over and there must have been at least seven of them who packed into his tiny college room. For fun, they ran over to Burgman College and ran around yelling out “Hey Burgmanm,” which caused a chain reaction of yelling “Hey Burgman,” throughout my corridor. I guess you just have to laugh.

Oh there are so many characters, but I’ll only mention one more this time. One guy is obsessed with German culture, in particular, Hitler. When I’m studying, I sometimes hear him wandering the corridors drunk, yelling German phrases at the top of his voice. He seems to think any German phrase sounds unbelievably cool, so he is probably walking around screaming something like “I would like to know how to get to the flower shop please.” He listens and sings along to a German heavy metal singer, called Ramstein, at ungodly hours. The funny thing is though, he was actually born in England. Oh dear.

I left off last time on the somewhat negative note of being rejected for a graduate work position. That weekend, I decided I wanted to get away from things and fortunately a PhD student named Magnus, invited me to go bushwalking. So he, Ludovic and I set off to climb a mountain. As I was driving there, specs of rain fell on the windscreen, which caused all three of us to look nervously at the sky before staring straight ahead. After a lengthy silence, we almost all simultaneously said, “It’ll clear up.”

The road turned from highway to a deserted winding country road with a high speed limit, which I absolutely adored. I perhaps went a little bit faster than I normally would have (or should have) with other people in the car, but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity of enjoying such a lovely stretch of road. To me it was highly therapeutic, even more so than the walk.

Eventually we got to the mountain and started walking to a place called square rock. It was a jagged limestone rock formation atop the summit, which offered mesmerising views of the lush valley below. We stared out to the horizon and basked in the utter silence. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional crunching of the seaweed rice crackers that Magnus had brought along, which were very tasty incidentally.

The college ball was fast approaching and I was quite looking forward to it. At that stage, only one of my good friends was planning to go and the rest were uncertain if they would. I remember last year I had quite an exciting time at the ball. The band, I remembered, was superb and played jazz and pop covers with funky looking electronic instruments. Everyone was dressed in their finest and all danced along joyously to the upbeat tunes. I think formal wear is the pinnacle of fashion; a woman never looks better than when she is dressed in a slender elegant evening gown (umm... actually I can think of another ‘outfit’ when women look even better than that).

I got a call one evening from Harry, who passed the phone over to Irwin, who was down in Melbourne for the week. It was the first time I had heard his voice since that bitterly cold morning in Yokaichiba, Japan, when we had said our goodbyes. He answered in true Japanese style, “Mushi Mushi.” Anyway after that 10 minute conversation, somehow I was convinced to ditch the ball and fly down to Melbourne for the weekend instead.

Honestly the whole thing came at a bad time. Now everyone, it seemed, was going to the ball and it was shaping up to be a fantastic night. And the last thing I wanted to do was more travelling around, but mates are mates and it is part of the code that you would do anything for them. So I found myself on a jet again flying to Melbourne.

When I had left Melbourne after the break, I had set myself goals of what I wanted to achieve by the time I stepped back into my room. I remembered this and felt quite guilty and disappointed that I had achieved none of them. But how was I to know how everything was to turn out? It felt a little strange being back, almost as though I didn’t deserve to be there. See for me, Melbourne represents the reward after enduring a strenuous semester of uni, a kind of sanctuary if you will. I guess the experience and the general feeling seemed a little surreal, as though I was still in Canberra and I was just seeing my family and friends through some virtual image that we were all somehow able to share.

Anyway despite this, I headed into the city to meet up with my friends. We eventually all met up in a bar called Spleen. For some reason that I have no idea why, a visit to this bar has always tended to coincide with a defining point in my life. A few years ago, I met up with Chris and Irz in that very bar and came to realise something very important. And this time I was also working through a lot of issues. It is quite a nice bar actually; the upstairs area has low lighting, relaxing tones and comfy kitsch furniture. Derek, Chris and I waited with beers in hand for Irz to arrive.

Soon enough, a familiar figure bumbled up the stairs and approached us with knowing grin. I was quite surprised; a completely different looking Irwin shook my hand. He had hair in the style of a trendy Japanese pop star and wore the clothes to match. I couldn’t recall him ever being that fashionable, but after talking to him for a while, I realised it was the same old Irwin. It certainly felt good being reunited as a group again and we reminisced, laughed and caught up over beers, Stella naturally. Once again in that bar, after drifting into a deep thought whilst the conversation went on, I came to another important realisation. I’m certain there is something special about that bar.

Soon though, it was time to move on, and we went on a bar crawl (of sorts) around the city. Of course I’m not going to divulge many of the details of the night, for that would breach both the mates’ code and the gentlemen’s code. One highlight for me though, was (after we had had quite a few drinks) singing ‘living on a prayer’ as a tribute to the good times we’d shared on our holiday in Japan. We all sung with passion, vivaciousness and volume, which received several strange looks and laughs, but gee it felt good. Besides, Irwin and I didn’t care what people thought of our singing; we were from out of town. It was a different story for Chris and Derek though.

Curiously later on in the night, we bumped into a bunch of old guys in suits, who were also singing together. I remember wondering at the time if that would be us in 60 years. Chris and I joined in their song, Derek asked one of them who the president of the UN was and Irwin was otherwise, umm occupied.

I really needed a night like that and arrived back in Canberra with greatly improved clarity. Who knows when the four of us will get a chance to all meet up again. I just hope it isn’t too far away. Although I feel I missed out on a fun night at the ball with my friends in Canberra, I don’t regret my decision to fly down to Melbourne.

On Wednesday, it was time to fly down to Melbourne again, this time for a job interview with AXA. After the interview I had the chance to catch up with Sherly. I was waiting for her and when she arrived, she had come straight from the computer labs, and was wearing casual clothes and glasses (which I’ve never seen her wear before). I was quite amused and charmed by a side of Sherly that I’d never really seen before. She was a cute little nerd and I found it to be quite cool. We said our hellos and then ‘nerdy Sherly’ disappeared in to her room and then magically ten minutes later, ‘supermodel Sherly’ came out, sunglasses and all. It was kind of like ‘Superman’, except she didn’t get changed in a phone booth, she took a lot longer to change than Clark Kent and I thought she looked a lot better than superman.

We had a rushed dinner, but it was still really nice to catch up. I felt quite bad, as I hadn’t realised that Sherly had a major project due the next day and couldn’t really afford to take time off. Still, I am very thankful that she did.

Uni started to get really busy and I reverted to my hermit like state, only leaving my room for meals and classes. After some time of intense study, I felt as though I was going a little loopy and decided to take a night off, so I went to a karaoke night that was organised at college. A ‘singstar’ game was set up on a big screen and singers could select their preferred song from any one of the versions of the game. The room was packed with college residents, who were all singing along. I mustered the courage to get up and sing ‘eye of the tiger’ – an eighties classic. As I was about to perform, I heard some smart sarcastic comments such as, “This should be interesting,” but I feel that I shut those people up quite sufficiently after doing a performance that earned me a third place for the night. The night went on and only the most hardcore karaoke fans remained.

I’m sure some keen observers may have realised that Caz (who featured quite regularly in my early entries) hasn’t been mentioned at all in any of my recent entries, and there is a good reason, which I’m not going to share. Anyway, let’s just say our friendship hasn’t been in the best shape of late. As the karaoke night wore on though, at one point we ended up sitting next to each other and so naturally started a conversation, given that we are both civil adults. After a bit of talking we ended up agreeing to perform a duet together, which was followed by several more duets. Caz incidentally is a superb singer and on the night came second only to Robin, who is a singing sensation. Soon, we began to talk and joke like old times and I began to realise how much I missed the close friendship we used to share. I think we made some progress that night and I hope we can restore our previously strong friendship, but I guess only time will tell.

Well now I am in Melbourne once again. I flew down this morning for a second interview with AXA. I was running so late in the morning I almost missed my flight, and then fog in Melbourne delayed the plane from taking off, which resulted in me touching down in Melbourne only 15 minutes before I had to be in the city.

As I was rushing out of the exit, a tall man approached me and asked if I needed a car to take me to the city, which was quite fortunate as it meant that I avoided having to wait for a taxi. The car was a luxurious limousine and the driver spoke in a strong commanding voice, which was very similar to that of the driver in ‘Transporter 2’. He got me to the AXA building, in fairly good time, so that I was only 10 minutes late for the interview.

I really hope I get the job, but again I guess only time will tell.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-05-12T12:59:00.000+10:00

Come fly with me, come fly, let’s fly away.

The past few weeks have been incredibly exhausting. I’ve been travelling around so much so that now my bank balance is low, yet my frequent flyer points are high. Right now, I feel as though expectations are tugging on me to a point where I feel completely stretched out. I’m physically in Canberra, yet Melbourne is tugging on one arm and Sydney on the other and I don’t even know where I belong any more. It is really quite ridiculous. I warn you that the graduate work application process is a real strain; it is equivalent to taking on at least one extra subject in terms of workload and perhaps 3 in terms of emotional weight. Still, I can’t complain, I am thankful for everything I have achieved so far and I’m sure one day I’ll get a good job. *fingers crossed*

I wasn’t even back at college three days before I had to jet off again. I arrived at college on Sunday evening and fortunately missed out on the ‘Sunday Roast’ dinner. As I stepped through the door and walked up the stairs, I was overcome by the feculent stench that one would typically associate with three hundred students living together in close quarters. It is amazing, when you have been living there for weeks you don’t tend to notice it, but when you come back it seems intolerable. I guess there is a lesson in that somewhere: sometimes you are not even aware a problem exists until you revisit the situation. Having said that though, the smell of college isn’t a problem that one can fix, so in that situation it is best just to adapt; not even be aware of the problem. Anyway, on Tuesday I left for Sydney.

I was surprised to see that the plane I was to board, was a small propeller driven one, which didn’t seem highly trustworthy. I thought arriving in Sydney in that plane would be much the same as handing the keys of an old ‘Datsun 120Y’ to the Vallet at a premiere ball. I was very sceptical and I swear I heard banjo music as I stepped on board amongst the other heftily sized Canberrans. Although I must admit, I was quite charmed by the little aeroplane; more than anything it made me realise what is actually involved behind flying. The props roared to life ferociously, buzzing in their torment, moving the plane faster and faster. We took off and the landing gear rose and clunked back inside the holding bay. We maintained quite a low altitude compared to a jet, which made for some spectacular scenery. The sun was close to setting at the time and so its rays were reflecting off the multitude of little dams along the way. There were hundreds scattered everywhere and they looked remarkably like shiny teardrops on a harsh arid desert.

The plane approached Sydney and the landing gear folded out in anticipation. I stared at the tyres finding a sudden connection with them. I know that may sound a little strange, but the reason for this was because I saw much similarity between what this semester of uni has felt like. As the tyres were lowered, they could see the runway approaching and what was required of them, but there was little they could do to prepare, then suddenly the ground was upon them and ‘thump’ they were thrust into action spinning frantically to deal with all the forces exerted on them. Although quickly, I found consolation in the fact that that is what tyres are designed for, it is their purpose, and for them to sit idly by on a shelf somewhere would be a total waste of what they are capable of doing. I smiled to myself at being reassured by an aeroplane tyre.

Sydney was dreary and the footpaths and roads were soaked. It happened to be Anzac day, so hundreds of guys were walking around the city in their sailor uniforms. I’d booked into a hotel that was supposedly close to the station and right next door to PwC. I think the sheer volume of teasing I gave Irwin about his inability to find hotels when we were in Japan, came back to haunt me. Like him, I’d failed to write down where it was or memorise the directions, I was confident that everything would be fine. While walking down Market Street I saw the large neon illuminated letters of “Mecure Grand Apartments” on the side of a building and so I was brimming with confidence. All I have to do is head towards that building, simple, I thought. My bag was heavy and my shoes began to get wet, but finally after a long walk I reached the building and walked around it to find the entrance. To my dismay, I couldn’t find anything that looked like a hotel lobby and so I had to resort to stopping and checking the name of where I was staying, which to a man is a signal of complete defeat (not quite as bad as asking for directions however). “Oh, what the Dickens?” I muttered under my breath, causing a Sydney-Sider to look at me strangely and walk in a subtle wide arc to avoid me. The name of my hotel was actually “Medina Grand apartments”, how could I be so stupid, I was thinking to myself. Fortunately I had a map of Sydney and found where the place was: it was ages away! I drew a deep breath, picked up my heavy bag (filled with books) and walked in the direction of where I had come, my feet getting further soaked by the pools of water lying on the ground.

My misadventures didn’t end there, for when I found the right building, I couldn’t find the entrance. I walked around and around and found myself in the lobby of some apartment complex and in doing so freaked out some more Sydney-Siders. Finally though, I found the lobby and felt an overwhelming sense of achievement, the magnitude of which should never have been able to be derived from the simple task of finding a hotel. I checked in, stepped into the lift and hit the button for floor six twice. Nothing Happened. I noticed a slot with red and green LED’s and so I swiped my hotel card and hit the button for level six, twice. Nothing Happened. I hit the button a bit harder this time, hoping this would achieve something. It didn’t. I was beginning to feel a sense of claustrophobia and the lift stunk of cigarettes and alcohol. Finally though, the doors opened, HAHA success, I thought. Unfortunately though, it was just another guest using the lift and I was still on the ground floor. He looked at me inquisitively in a way that seemed to question why I was standing in a lift (that stunk), not doing anything. As if to explain myself, a pre-emptive explanation if you will, I spoke to the large man, “I can’t seem to get to level 6.” The man confidently swiped his card and pressed the button for level 6. Nothing Happened. “Hmmm…” he mumbled to himself proceeding to examine his hotel card, before giving up. After all, there is a limit to how kind you can be, especially to a strange boy in a smelly lift who looks like Mr. Bean. “Well I’ll get you to level 5,” he conceded. I thanked him.

I thought once on level five, I could take the stairs to level six, but after wandering around the floor, I found nothing. What kind of a hotel doesn’t have stairs? I decided I would go and see the concierge to sort things out. As I stepped back into the lift, I felt as though I wanted to give it one last try, so I swiped my card at tapped the button for floor six, twice. Hurrah. The button stayed illuminated and I felt the lift move. Again I felt an overwhelming sense of achievement that one really shouldn’t be able to derive from successfully using a lift to get to a certain level.

I walked through the corridors to find my room. As I examined the card to see what room I was in, I chuckled to myself as I discovered I was staying in ‘room 101’. I wonder what will be behind the door? I tried to think what my greatest fear actually was… Don’t worry if you missed that, I thought I’d be snobbish and tie in a literary reference, it won’t happen again.

Anyway, I heard the most horrible mechanical grinding sound as slotted my card in and opened the door to a dark room. I’m pretty sure I didn’t jump, but I was scared, it serves me right for finding literary significance in a hotel room number. The room was typical, but looked the height of luxury compared to my college room. The first task, I thought, is to relax and go for a swim, so I put on my bathers and went down to the pool.

The pool was quite secluded and dimly lit and I was the only one there. I jumped straight in, kicked off the wall and started my freestyle stroke. Immediately all the stress in my mind and the aches in my body washed away and I imagined them leaving a greasy trail behind me as I swam onwards. I swam and swam, lap after lap until I was feeling really good and then got out.

It was amazing, everything seemed far more tolerable after that, the lift even smelt like expensive cologne now. What a difference a swim made. I strolled around the somewhat beautiful Darling Harbour and tried to find a place where I wouldn’t feel strange eating alone. I found a cool little ramen bar and decided it was perfect. I ate while looking across the harbour, thinking about what all my friends would be doing at the same moment.

For a long time I really enjoyed living in that swanky little hotel room, but a somewhat disconcerting feeling came over me. As I was lying on one side of the double bed, I looked over at the cupboard and saw my suit hanging loyally, and I suddenly imagined that it was ten years in the future and I was a lonely business living far away from my friends and family. I hated that feeling and prayed that I would always be able to balance work life and a life where I could see my friends and family. I don’t want to be one of those cold hearted workaholics that obsesses about the market 12 hours a day and goes home to a lonely well furnished apartment.

In the morning I checked out of the hotel wearing my suit, looking far more respectable than when I had arrived. I was refreshed and ready to start the big day. I got stuck with an interview first, then had to do a numerical and a written test followed by group activities. The whole day was draining and I was glad to see the end of it. I caught the train back to the airport and flew home, on a jet this time.

Over the next few days I was a looking at my phone almost every second of the day, waiting for a response. Finally it came, when I was at work, tutoring a student. My heart sunk as I heard the key word ‘unfortunately’ and I knew I had been rejected. I thanked the man for his feedback and went straight back to tutoring. What else could I have done? I can’t believe I came so close to getting a good job and ending the taxing grad work application process, but I’ll have faith that it was for the best. Hopefully I will get an even better job in Melbourne, so I can be amongst the people I love in the city I love.

Until next time,

Take care.

2006-05-07T20:32:00.000+10:00

A project

Inevitably at some point in his life, a budding actuary gets delusions of grandeur and thinks he can write a book. This has occurred to me at the ripe age of 22, and so I have begun to write a story. I’ve finished the first chapter and I’d love it if you let me know what you think about it. Please be gentle though, it is the first time I’ve written before. I have no doubt there will be errors and I think the whole thing needs to be refined and tightened up a bit, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nevertheless. I’d appreciate any comments, suggestions or criticisms (as long as there aren’t too many). So please, print it off, sit down on your favourite chair, with a glass of wine on a rainy afternoon and read. If you need further motivation to read it, you might like to know that there is a steamy love scene at the end of the chapter ;)

Anyway, here is the link.

http://gargomania1story.blogspot.com

2006-05-03T17:32:00.000+10:00

Back amongst politicians, government workers and old people

Canberra is undeniably beautiful at the moment; the natural surrounds are exhibiting a spectacular display, one final proclamation, before winter. Strolling around campus, one can see a cacophony of rich bright reds and yellows. Withered leaves flutter gracefully to the ground, forming haphazard coloured piles. The paths are covered with crisp leaves that make a familiar ‘crunch’ sound as you trod on them. The leaves linger in and flood the gutters of the roads and when a car drives past, they leap, swirl and dance behind it before falling once more.

Although I have always tried to appreciate each of the seasons, I never really had been able to appreciate winter until my trip to Japan. For me, winter always marked a time of sadness, emptiness and death; the leaves have fallen off the trees, the nights seem everlasting and generally there seems to be a lack of life. Finally though, I have realised that winter is an essential part of an endless cycle, a time for reflection. An image that sticks in my mind is that of a Japanese garden we visited in Kanazawa: a bustling microcosm of life suspended in the thick pure white snow and the translucent frozen lake. I think this was the turning point for when I started seeing beauty in winter. Winter is the time for nature to rest, recover, revitalise and reflect before spring arrives, when trees burgeon and the birds do whatever it is that birds do in spring (I’m not going to give you the ‘birds and bees’ speech). After all, how can one decide where they are going if they don’t stop and think where they have been?

Before I mention any more about Canberra, I’d like to talk about the remainder of my holiday in Melbourne. On the Wednesday I had to make another ‘fly by’ visit to Sydney, this time for an interview with PwC. I must make an effort one day to visit Sydney when I’m not half asleep and out of my mind with stress and nerves, I’m sure it is a lovely city, not as nice as Melbourne, but nice in its own ‘obvious’ way. Anyway, the interview was quite informal and seemed to go well. Afterwards I went straight back to the airport, flew home and spent far longer in traffic getting home than the flight took.

On Thursday night I went to Sherly’s place for dinner. This was arranged, because almost every time I spoke with Sherly online whilst in Canberra, we would always discuss what we had eaten for tea.
“Have you had dinner yet Trav?”
“Ahh yeah Sherly… There was cartilage in the chicken schnitzel they served us. I don’t want to think about what else was underneath the layer of crumbs. Oh and they gave us crunchy rice as well. Have you had dinner yet?”
“Yeah I have Trav. I had: quenelles of eggplant, pecorino, raisins and pine nuts on tomato ragout with grilled zucchini”
“… Please cook for me Sherly when I come back.”
“OK Trav…”

I had tried Sherly’s cooking before at Cheryl’s housewarming and was impressed, yet I still didn’t really know what to expect. When I arrived at Sherly’s place, she took me to her room, where four delectable dishes were siting atop a small table. We sat down on the IKEA stools and began our meal. Each dish was truly delicious and, to comment in the style of ‘iron chef’ judges, took me on a wild culinary adventure. The way the ingredients were accentuated reminded me of the spring time and I felt that the ingredients had served their destiny and were happy being part of such a tasty dish. It was a lovely meal and lovely company, I can’t thank Iron Chef Australian, Sherly enough! Next time if she agrees to cook for me, I think I’ll give her a themed ingredient and have her prepare the meal within a time limit of one hour. Allez Cuisine!

The following night I again had the pleasure of Sherly’s company. We decided to see an act at the comedy festival and all in all had quite a fun night. Before the act started, Sherly was ‘warming up’ her jaw in preparation to laugh, by opening and shutting it, which was really quite amusing and unbelievably cute.

Soon though my holiday was over and it was soon time to go back to Canberra. After a frantic day of finishing off uni work, I had a lovely dinner with my family at a Thai restaurant and spent the rest of the night in the city celebrating Cheryl’s new job at AXA. I met up with Sherly and walked her over to Alfred’s apartment, where we met up with Cheryl, Dennis and Alfred. Our destination was Robot Sushi, a bar dedicated to Neo-Tokyo culture. We met Winnie at the bar, took a seat and ordered drinks. The general consensus was that the bar was disappointing and so we headed to ‘cookie’, a bar that never fails to please. After sitting at ‘cookie’ for a little while, we decided just to head back to Alfred’s place and have a few drinks. Unfortunately I couldn’t stay long, as I had to drive to Canberra the next day, so I said goodbye and left.

Sherly was kind enough to walk with me back to my car and when we got there, I drove her back to the party again and walked her to the door. We said our goodbyes and then she slipped through, caught the lift and was gone. I stood watching her, waving helplessly. A wave though, a simple flapping of the hand, does not and cannot adequately describe all things felt or needed to be said. Goodbye, Take Care, I’ll miss you, Look after yourself, It really was nice seeing you again, Thanks for making my life brighter, I hope to see you again soon. *Flap flap flap*

The next morning I said goodbye to my family. *Flap flap flap*

2006-04-27T20:53:00.000+10:00

Happy Birthday to me…

A visit to Melbourne is incomplete I feel until I do several things: spend time with my family in my home, dine in one of Melbourne’s restaurants, catch up with Chris, stroll through the CBD and Carlton and last but by no means least see Sherly. Until Saturday I had done all but the last.

On Saturday night, several of the old actuarial gang had decided to visit Cheryl in her new house in Rowville. Given that I hadn’t seen most of the gang in ages and due to the close proximity of my house to Rowville, I decided to drop by. As nice an area as Rowville/Lysterfield is to live, it is one that has been somewhat neglected by the public transport system. You see, in Melbourne, the vast majority of the public transport system was built in the 1930’s when new suburbs like Rowville and Lysterfield were still farmland and the network has hardly been updated since. Public transport just doesn’t buy votes it seems and despite almost the entire population of Rowville unanimously demanding a rail service, not one resident would want a rail line passing by their house. Hence Rowville remains a stranded suburb, bursting in growth fuelled by the great Australian dream and the relative convenience of affordable private transport. Consequently, the roads clog and choke under the extreme pressure, which happens to a point where traffic jams and grid locks occur on roads that are 30kms away from the city. It is a ridiculous situation and the solution offered by the government (to build more roads) is equally as ludicrous, but hey it is home and a darn good one at that.

Anyway the point of that socio-political commentary was to highlight the fact that Sherly and Alfred had no way of getting to Cheryl’s house, so I decided to offer my services as a driver and pick them up from the closest station, which is Glen Waverley, about a 25minute drive from Rowville. As always I had let time escape me, when Sherly called to be picked up from the station, the Pavlova was still baking, my room was a mess and I was barely ready. Nevertheless I somehow got most things together in 5 minutes and drove to Glen Waverley. Rain was cascading and everyone was running around me seemingly in random directions.

Everyone, it seems, has a different style when caught unsuspectingly in heavy rain, some have the ‘bent down head covered with both hands’ run, some have the ‘ducking with jacket pulled over head’ run, some have the ‘arms flailing’ sprint and some have the ‘sure and careful puddle avoiding’ run, but whatever style, no-one wants to get wet.

There was an undeniable aura of freshness that came with the rain, almost as though the parched land was breathing a sigh of relief at having its raging thirst sated. I didn’t do any silly runs through the rain, I simply put my hands in my pockets and appreciated the freshness and the cool sensation that each droplet gave as it struck my neck. I was happy, I sported a large smile as I walked to the station, I was about to see Sherly again.

I looked around the station until I saw her standing underneath the shelter. She gave me a warm smile as her big beautiful eyes locked with mine. Sherly is a girl of mesmerising beauty, but who is even more beautiful on the inside. She is one of the most kind hearted, honest and supportive people that I know and to go with that she is also one of the smartest people I know (and I know lots of smart people).

I pulled the car around so Sherly and Alfred didn’t have to get wet and I drove them to Cheryl’s house without getting lost even once. I briefly chatted to Cheryl to see what she had been up to and then I had to excuse myself to go home and finish making the Pavlova and clean the place up.

I returned bearing a Pavlova and was promptly invited back in to the house. By then everyone else had arrived and soon we started chatting against the backdrop of Oprah dispensing her advice and gems of wisdom on a big television. We ate (Sherly’s meatloaf was superb incidentally), we chatted and we played ‘uno’, which most of us needed a refresher course in how to play. As the night pressed on I went to get a bottle of wine from my place and took Sherly with me to show her my house. I gave her a tour in near darkness and with a whispering voice, as it was quite late and my family were sleeping. As we were leaving, Sherly something in one of upstairs windows and asked, “What is that?” To which I replied, “Oh, that is just my sister peeking.” What a strange sight it must have been for her to see: her brother with a strange girl and a bottle of wine driving off into the night.

We got back to the party and some of us decided to start drinking. Unfortunately I accidentally ‘christened’ the carpet of Cheryl’s new place by spilling my wine on it. Soon after I decided it was probably a good idea for me to head home.

When I woke up it was Easter Sunday and lunch was almost ready. Dad had cooked a nice meal and we ate together as a family, possibly one of very few times this year that we have actually managed to all sit down and eat a meal at the same time. That night Dad, my sister and I went to the comedy festival to see Dylan Moran, whose dark twisted style of comedy had us laughing for the bulk of the show and caused us to drop quotes from his act the whole evening. On that night I decided I would stay in Melbourne as long as possible, until the following Sunday.

My birthday was on the Monday and I headed into the city to meet up with Chris and Derek for lunch on Sydney Rd. Derek is one of the good friends I made during my undergraduate degree at Melbourne Uni. He is, if there could be such a thing, a fourth stooge to our core group of three stooges (Chris, Irz and I), an honorary stooge if you will. He is full of amazing and perplexing facts and often broaches topics that cause Chris and I to stare at him in shock and cause passers by to subtly walk past several times in order to hear him out.

I think the problem with birthdays though, when you get older at least, is that they force you to reflect on what you’ve achieved, where you’re going and ultimately come to the realisation that you are a helpless blob of matter being thrust relentlessly down a one way street on which the only two things that are known are what you have seen so far and what is at the end of the street.

Although, birthdays are also a day for one to feel loved by their family and friends and that warmth outweighs any other inevitable negative thoughts.

Until next time, take care.

2006-04-14T23:20:00.000+10:00

The non-teaching period
The holidays (if you can call them that) couldn’t have come at a better time. It felt really good to drive away from college at 130km/h, whilst singing “Prince Ali fabulous he ali ababwa…” at the top of my voice. I imagined all my frustrations being left behind in the endless desolate undulating hills along the way, just try and keep up with me now I was thinking. Ideally I would have loved to have been the only car on a winding road with the crystal blue sea crashing to the left and a lush rainforest to my right, but the Hume Highway was just as nice. Truly it was great just to get on the road and drive, drive away from everything. For eight hours the only worries I had were: my… that truck is awfully slow, is that a speed camera behind that bush up ahead, where is that darn petrol station… I really need to go to the bathroom. After about seven hours driving I caught a glimpse of the Melbourne city skyline and oh it was so beautiful. I was home again.

I honestly don’t think I will find a city I love as much as Melbourne. It is a city that you can probably get to know within a day, but to truly understand all its mysteries and secrets would take a lifetime. I love its winding hidden alleys, the little shops with crazy owners, the sandstone buildings, the bustling trams, the plethora of culinary delights, the dirty brown Yarra and the crazy weather. Enough rambling, in short it felt darn good to be back in Melbourne, back home.

Despite being exhausted from the drive, that night I decided to get back on the road and head to Kew to attend a college friend’s 21st birthday party. I walked in the room whilst the speeches were on and slinked into the crowd. I looked around at the room and was quite shocked to see several people from college. I should have expected it, but it still felt strange, like my two worlds were combining. It was surreal to see the people I see everyday in Canberra, in Melbourne, it just didn’t feel right. Nevertheless it was still really good seeing them and we all had quite a bit of fun dancing. Afterwards I had to drive a bunch of drunken people to the city, but their amusing drunken ramblings made it well worth the effort. The girl sitting in the front kept rambling about eggs Benedict and at one point tried to turn my indicator on. She leant over pushed the lever on the left hand side of the steering wheel and of course the windscreen wipers came on, to which she cried “Whooooaaaahhh.” I stared at her blankly as she flung herself back in her seat in shock. “Wow everything is so different in Melbourne,” she declared. Her boyfriend (who was possibly slightly less drunk) piped up from the back, “It is European style cars who have their blinkers on the left of the steering wheel, it is not just a Sydney thing.” To which she replied “Ohhh… I really feel like some eggs Benedict. Mmmm hollandaise sauce.”

We got to the city to find that the bar we had planned to meet at had a restricted entry policy that night, so the drunkards piled back in my car and we headed to Crown. Not much happened there really; we just waited around for everyone to reunite again. I was about to fall asleep so I excused myself and went back home and had a solid sleep. I woke up and made myself some eggs Benedict and spent a lazy lazy day.

Unfortunately my holiday turned out to be anything but. I had to frantically finish off all the graduate applications, which I finally did on Wednesday night. Once I had them finished it was time to do the many assignments that would be due in the first week back.

During Wednesday I caught up with an old uni friend, Jessie. It was really nice seeing her again and we had lunch at a little café down one of Melbourne’s many trendy alleys. The food was so nice and it was so good to catch up on all that had been happening in each others’ lives.

Thursday I had to make a fly by visit to Australia’s ‘bling’ city, Sydney. I woke at 4:45am, went to the airport, arrived in Sydney, took a taxi and wandered the streets until I found the building I was looking for. The building I was looking for contained the room where the PwC information session was to be held. I was invited to the information session so that I could learn about the company before the first interview. I got to the PwC concierge area at the exact stated time, got my name badge and waited around. As I looked around at the small group of other hopefuls I imagined I was in the movie ‘topgun’, except a geekier version where we battle with our knowledge of stochastic differential equations rather than with jet fighters, I wonder who is the best, I thought.

Unfortunately my fantasy was ended when a mass of people in suits flooded into the room. There must have been at least 200 of them and the information session was only for two departments of the company. We hoarded into the lifts and went up to a crowded function room where people in blue badges looked excited and hung on every word of the people in orange badges who looked bored. Blue badges were the hopeful applicants and orange badges were the workers. The girls wore lots of make up and short skirts and they batted their eyelids at the guys with orange badges. I spoke to a few workers from the actuarial department who, surprise surprise, were hanging together right at the back of the room. I was so exhausted and my eye was twitching because of this, so I am sure I wouldn’t have made a terrific impression, but not to worry.

After the session I walked up Market Street to St. James station and hopped on a train that took me to the airport. The one thing that Sydney has over Melbourne is that it has a quick, cheap and simple way of getting from the airport to the city. I must have looked like I knew what I was doing at the station, for a lady came up to me and asked me which train went to the airport. “Why I believe it is the next train,” I offered politely. To this she cracked a thankful smile, but before she opened her mouth to thank me, I added “But I am from out of town so I’m not certain.” Her smile turned into a frown and she walked away without another word.

I certainly slept well that night and woke up a bit before the brunch that my sister and I organised at our house. My parents went all out and covered our kitchen bench and dining table with platters and platters of tasty morsels. I picked one of my best mates up from the station, a man who we all call Harry, whose actual name is Chris. Chris and Irz would have to be my two closest mates, many call us the three stooges, but whatever we are named we have been the closest of friends since high school. Our friendship was formed by having to wait around for long periods of time after school each day and was maintained by our love of walking aimlessly whilst talking about the stupidest of topics. Unfortunately these days we all live in three different cities, but nevertheless if we happen to meet up, instead of being excited to see each other, we just walk and talk crap like we always do. Still, we all actually have a lot in common: We have terrible luck with women (well maybe not Chris, although I’m sure he’d say he does), we all think quite unconventionally, we love talking in stupid accents and hmmm… Actually maybe we don’t have that much in common, still though, we have a friendship that seems to be evergreen (*touch wood*).

I drove Harry back to our house and slowly the other guests started arriving. For most it was the first time that that had seen my house. While we stuffed our faces with the delicious food we all caught up, which was very nice. All in all the brunch went quite well despite the abundance of food that was left over. It really was a lovely way to spend a Friday morning and I was so glad that I could see so many of my old friends before going back to Canberra.

Unfortunately my time in Melbourne has to be cut short. I have to be in Sydney again on Wednesday, so I’ve got to leave Melbourne on Tuesday and drive back to Canberra. Oh well.

Until next time, Take care.

2006-04-03T22:25:00.000+10:00

Finding a stochastic model to describe my life

I would love to write a happy entry on all the fun things I’ve been doing this week, but alas I don’t feel that I can. Instead though, I’m going to combine my creative side with my mathematical side to make some sense of how I’m feeling right now. I hope it all makes sense.

***

Let’s call the start of uni this year time point zero and plot a time series index depicting my overall satisfaction with the state of my life. Imagine if you will, a share price chart, but replace share value with overall satisfaction. Alright, so my overall satisfaction started at the base value of, say, indifferent. Since uni started there was definitely a fluctuating upwards trend in this graph continuing until about week 5, imagine a Brownian motion with positive drift. Around the time of week 5, investors (ie. My mind) started doubting the prosperous progression of the market (ie. My life): it had never happened like this before, surely a constant upwards trend wasn’t sustainable. For a few days though the investors were proved wrong; the trend continued upwards. Tensions were mounting, a flood of papers and articles (ie. My thoughts) were being published about how the trend couldn’t continue upwards until one day in week 6, ‘thwack’ the market crashed. Panic struck investors, the value of the market dropped rapidly and substantially to far below its starting value.

Some investors were optimistic that this was a large fluctuation and that the value would restore in a few days, but the crash continued, amplifying and gaining strength. Bad news events arrived to the market one after the other, until the market finally settled at an overall low level. Aftershocks continued however.

Papers and articles published were numerous, but they all came to the same conclusion. Perhaps a Brownian motion with drift is a poor model for the market, maybe a standard Brownian motion would be better; perhaps value is supposed to fluctuate in a random fashion around the base level of indifferent. Research continues on the issue. It is now widely accepted that the value can be well modelled by a standard Brownian motion process with additional shocks arriving according to a Possion process with parameter lambda and with sizes corresponding to a gamma distribution with parameters alpha and theta.

***

Ok, so you’re probably thinking, huh? What was that all about? Well, it is about time I think that someone expressed themselves in terms of Brownian motions and Poisson processes. Besides, I feel much better now. Until next time, take care and hopefully I will have some good news to report.

2006-04-01T07:28:00.000+11:00

Feeling so lemoned

Lemoned? I hear you asking. That’s not a word is it? Well no, but it is a slang, a new word that has been born in the unlikely place of John XXIII college Canberra. And I’m so glad that it has been created, for it is a perfect description of how I feel…

Let me explain this crazy new word. Loosely speaking to feel lemoned is the equivalent pain and feeling that a guy would get if a lemon was thrown at full force at his most private of parts. So yeah, that is how I feel, emotionally lemoned.

It has been a taxing week and one I would sooner forget. I’m not going to write about it, at least until I’ve had time to reflect on it anyway. All that is relevant now is that I am completely lemoned. Well perhaps I had one nice occurrence during this horrible week, but it was a mere flicker in the deep black night.

Anyway, to kind of deal with it, I have written a poem. I hope you like it!

A Frosty Morn’

Once upon a frosty morn’ ,
Feeling lost, cold and worn,
Beneath a majestic tree I chose to rest.

Looking out across the landscape,
I felt a sudden sense of heartache,
The surrounds, it seemed, were bereft of life.

No flower from the ground was springing,
Not a bird could be found soaring or singing,
A bare and dormant scene it was.

But as I began to ponder,
Something curious coming from yonder,
Did grasp my attention and disturb my thoughts.

A gentle breeze caressed my face,
Speaking of a warmer place,
Carrying the scent and bearing tidings of spring.

In my very soul it did evoke,
A foolish overwhelming hope,
That winter had passed and life would return once more.

Though to my heart it was revered,
From whence it came it disappeared,
The harsh wind of winter punishing my frivolous yearnings.

Underneath the majestic tree I reside,
A hapless fool but still with pride,
Dreaming of the springtime…

2006-03-27T10:38:00.000+11:00

Bike, Lectures, Grad work applications and the Opera

I am becoming so frustrated at the amount of work I seem to have to do at the moment. When I get any free time, I have to apply for graduate positions for next year, which all close at the ridiculously early time of the end of March or the start of April. I am so sick of sucking up to global financial services behemoths that I feel I want to chuck it in and become a pop star or a writer or something else creative. Sigh. Anyway I’ve created an hour for myself in which I will write and write until the right side of my brain feels nurtured again.

Last entry I described some of the interesting characters at college and there are so many I still have to tell you about, but this entry I thought I would mention something that deserves to be talked about; the food. John’s college provides its residents with three meals a day, meaning that no cooking and the effort associated with this is required. It sounds good in theory and was one of the prime reasons why I chose John’s over other colleges, however like all theory, in practice everything is totally different.

For Tea and Lunch, we are provided with a hot meal and there are pizza and sandwich making facilities and a decent salad bar. Again, in theory this sounds ok, however, I don’t know whether it is the ridiculously small budget the college allocates to feeding us, or whether the chefs are to blame, but the food is bad, really bad. Caz and Gabbi aren’t coping so well with it, most nights they have to resort to eating bowls of cereal or fruit.

After weeks of observing the food provided, I am quite sure that I have calculated a pattern. With a certain degree of confidence I have constructed a model for what food to expect, I’ll explain it now. Firstly the meat generally stays the same, but its degree of preparation varies as each night passes. On the first night in the pattern, the meat is seen in its most pure and least prepared state, which I dub ‘slab of meat’. Really a slab of meat is what it is; a thick chunk of meat that is tough, burnt on the outside and red on the inside and is often found with globs of fat and arteries running through it. Perhaps even worse is the ‘gravy’ that they provide, that consists of the fatty juices in which the ‘slabs’ have been stewing in whilst cooking. “Gravy?” The dinner ladies ask, to which I invariably open my eyes widely and shake my head side to side furiously.

On the second night, the meat is seen in its second state of preparedness, ‘chunks of meat’. On these nights, the same meat is now sliced into smaller, yet still quite big, chunks and given an international name, such as ‘Bordeaux beef’, ‘Moroccan beef’ or simply ‘beef curry’. The same arteries and globs and fat can be found in the meat, but this time the ‘gravy’ is included with the meat. On the following night, the degree of preparation increases once more and the meat is seen in mince form, which is served as either a pasta sauce (also given fancy names such as aribiatta) or a ‘chilli con carne’ to be served with nachos. In this state, there are no more arteries or globs of fat to be seen; they are well hidden in the mince. Then the fourth day the meat will be seen in its final and most prepared state, as hamburgers. The next night a different meat appears in its most pure form.

Anyway enough whining, I probably sound like an Englishman or something. Since my last entry I’ve done quite a few interesting things, despite being so busy. On ‘Canberra Day’, which was a public holiday, I went on a charity bike ride. Caz and I had been thinking about doing it for a while, but it ultimately took Vijey to use numerous strategies to convince us to go. In the end we gave in and said we would go. After the marathon four day four hundred kilometre ride we did last year, Caz and I felt ready to take on anything, after all it was only 25 kilometres.

So whist everyone was sleeping in on their day off, Caz and I and all the other cyclists woke up early. I gave Caz a ‘wake up’ phone call, in which she moaned in annoyance, I replied with a simple ‘…yup’ and hung up. After waking up properly and getting some breakfast, all the riders from Johns congregated outside the bike sheds. Soon enough we were rolling along with the crisp morning air rushing through our messy bed hair. We had to ride to the starting point of the ride before we started the 25km event. It seemed that the whole of Canberra was there. There were old people, young people, professionals, kids with training wheels, mothers, fathers, brothers, lovers, mascots, organisers and then there was us; 30 or so tired and dreary college students, all wearing the college colours.

We took a place in the starting line up, which spanned a good 500 meters. The high pitched clinging of bicycle bells rose up as the riders anticipated starting. The kids were laughing and asking, “When are we stating Mummy?” I heard several guys singing ‘Bicycle’ by Queen. I looked down at my front tyre and noticed a thorn sticking out of it. Hmm that shouldn’t be there, I thought and so I yanked it out and then came the sickening sound of air gushing and spewing from the hole. I screamed, “Ahhh a puncture, already, why me?” Caz looked over, somewhat amused. She ripped a bit of the adhesive paper from my arm band and stuck it over the hole, delaying the inevitable deflating of my tyre. I was worrying to myself, Will I make it? Will I have to turn back? Why me?

The actual start was a bit of an anti-climax. Despite how refreshing the diverse mix of riders looked, it meant that the start was incredibly slow. I had to walk my bike in order to stay at the slow pace, but in time the field stretched out and Caz and I went on the hunt weaving in and out of people, pedalling like maniacs and executing pincer movements, where we each would overtake an unsuspecting rider from a different side thoroughly discombobulating them. We sang loudly and proudly as we rode, getting strange looks from riders, but we didn’t care. Our numbers ranged from jazz classics to modern rock. Before we knew it we were in Dickson, where we regularly drive to get pizza when we can’t handle the college food. Then we rode down Northborne Avenue, past Civic and up past and around Parliament House. Hills started to become quite a nuisance and they were getting harder and harder as my tyre deflated. One particular hill I sang a rap song to motivate Caz, “You can do it put your arse in to it,” to which she chuckled in between panting and sang back “I can do it put your back in to it.” Then finally the crest was upon us and we flew downhill screaming “Woooooo.”

Eventually we saw the finish line in the far distance. “Want to sprint home?” I asked Caz, to which she replied “Uh-huh” as she sped up. As we crossed the finish line we were singing loudly, ‘We are the Champions’ (another Queen song coincidentally) and were greeted with cheers from a few people from John’s who had already finished. When we came to a halt I checked the pressure in my tyre, it had very little air left in it, but at least I had made it. We were given a certificate and some fluro bands, which we later discovered, with immense joy, were ‘slap bands’. Remember those?

Caz and I jointly decided that we were in dire need of coffee and cake, so when we got back we showered and headed off to Belconnen to have victory lattes. Well actually Caz had a Chai Latte (With 3 sugars… strange huh?) and I had a cappuccino. We basked in our achievements and thoroughly enjoyed the coffee and cake as we reminisced about the ride.

Exercise that day did not end there for Caz, for a few hours later she was playing or rather dominating in the inter-college tennis final. She won both games 6-0 without even breaking into a sweat and effectively won the final for our college.

The week went by as per normal with the exception of the abundance of graduate work applications that I had to do. These companies demand you to give at least four hours of your time researching and pondering how best to suck up to them. It is absolutely intolerable, but I’m hoping it will all be worth it in the long run.

Anyway, Friday came and it was time for me to give my first ever lecture. The topic was ‘Dealing with Statistics’ and I had to present it in one of the largest lecture theatres on campus, Manning Clark Theatre 3. I arrived early and made my way down to behind the lectern. I was taken aback at how different the theatre looked seen from the perspective of a lecturer. I fiddled with the smooth electronic control system and was pretty confident that I could get all the sound and lights working properly. I logged onto the computer without any fuss, inserted my flash key, loaded the file and sure enough my slides were being projected onto the screen. The starting time was approaching and the theatre was filling up. I paced around the lectern, trying to look busy and important but feeling like an absolute nutter. I tried to avoid eye contact with the students for fear that their eyes would say ‘well get on with it, what are you doing?’ I bent down to get something out of my bag and noticed that the desk next to the lectern could provide me with complete cover. I can always hide under the desk if things go badly, I thought to myself quite ludicrously.

Finally it came time and I dimmed the lights to signal that I was starting and turned the volume of the microphone up. I looked out onto a sea of uncertain faces staring at me, ready to make a snap judgment as soon as I opened my mouth. I began to speak, hesitantly at first, but growing with confidence as I went. I got through a few slides and got up to the bit where I was going to tell a stats joke. When I told it no one laughed, which I expected, but looking out at so many people and not even getting a hint of a reaction was a little disconcerting. I pressed on a little shaken, but nonetheless ok.

What I didn’t realise is how clearly the lecturer can see every student in the theatre. I could identify every person’s posture and body language and was petrified that they were hating the lecture. I think in future when I’m sitting in lectures, I’ll make sure I have positive body language. At one stage I saw Caz walk in and I temporarily stumbled and lost my confidence, but regained it after she took a seat. I didn’t want to appear to be a bad lecturer or speaker, especially to her, that’s why I was temporarily thrown I guess. Anyway I went steaming along, what should you do, what shouldn’t you do, I was preaching like an old person telling off a young kid who happened to kick their ball over the fence. I even got some laughs at times and most people seemed focused on what I was saying, people were even taking notes. It felt quite surreal really. I was just talking seemingly independent of my mind. At times my mind seemed like it wanted to observe itself.

The lecture went on and on until I approached the final slides. A brief look at my watch indicated that I was probably going to finish around 15 minutes early. Darn. Stalling as much as I could I finished the final slide and opened the floor to questions. This was the part I had been dreading the most; I was terribly afraid that someone would ask me a question that I couldn’t answer and would humiliate me in front of everyone. But no one asked a tough question. Even at the end, when students came up to see me privately, they didn’t ask difficult questions. Soon I was staring again at empty seats with the exception of one familiar girl in the back row. I watched her get up and she was smirking as she approached me. Caz thought I had done well and I felt touched that she had given up her time to come and support me. I gave her a hug whilst standing behind the lectern, which felt kind of odd and would have looked strange to anyone who didn’t know she was a friend and not just a random student.

That night Caz and I went to the opera at uni to see one of our friends performing. It certainly was a different and exciting way to spend a Friday night. We rode over to uni, thinking we were 10 minutes late, but in reality we were actually 20 minutes early. Caz rides like a maniac when she is in a hurry, dodging and weaving between people and poles, screaming down narrow corridors into blind corners, but I must admit it was kind of fun. I imagined myself being in a chase scene in a James Bond movie, but a low budget, student version where we had bicycles instead of Aston Martins. We bought the tickets and walked into the theatre. We took a seat and the stage was glowing a dim blue colour and the atmosphere seemed tense in the excitement of what was going to take part.

The singers came out and we spotted Mojo right away. We gawked in awe as her perfect strong voice sung a scene from ‘Die Fladermaus’. It is really common (well for me anyway) to forget about the remarkable talents your friends have and to fall into the comfortable notion that they are just a laid back easy going nice person. When Mojo opened her mouth I was a little shocked to tell you the truth, I know that opera singing is what she does and it is her gift, but actually seeing her perform was another matter. By the way, we call her Mojo because her name is Monica Jones, not for other ‘Austin Powers’ related reasons. The opera finished and we met up with her outside. I couldn’t get over the feeling of being a pathetic giddy schoolgirl, thinking Ooooh we are talking to the star of the show. Of course though she was the same Mojo and after this momentary lapse I thought of her as a I always had; as a friend.

After dropping Mojo home, Caz and I went back to college and watched some Seinfeld and Blackbooks. A perfect end to the week.

2006-03-19T21:32:00.000+11:00

As Time Goes By

Well time has certainly been flying by; it is now the fourth week of uni. Work seems to be piling up and most of my old friends from last year have turned into hermits, staying in their rooms studying, only showing their faces for meals. Well perhaps it isn’t quite as bad as all that, but most people definitely seem a lot busier this year.

My corridor is nice and quiet, plus I get a nice view of trees from my third floor window. My neighbour, Gino, is an interesting character. Whenever we meet in the corridors he screams out “Hey Tee-Rav”, with the emphasis on the‘t’. He’d have to be the only person I’ve met who pronounces my name like that. Whilst sitting in my room I often hear him in the corridors booming Chinese phrases to international students. He has long hair and has looks typical of an Italian heritage, the kind of guy that women would find attractive I suspect. Still he is a quiet and considerate neighbour.

Across the hall there is a guy named Alfred from Hong Kong. He was on my corridor last year, so I was happy that there was a familiar face in my corridor. We talk endlessly about cars and the TV programme “Top Gear”, which we both love. I’m not sure why, but he seems to be a target of thieves, of the bike variety especially. Apparently in the past few years he has had 5 bicycles stolen. Each time he buys a new bike, the value of the bike decreases and the value of his new lock increases. I’m thinking at some point he will hire a security guard to protect a $20 kid’s bike from Toys ‘R Us. Anyway in the first week of uni he had his wallet stolen, the poor guy.

I don’t know how, but there is one guy at college that I only ever seem to see in the same spot. It is always on the short path about halfway between college and union house which is made up of hundreds of concrete dots of alternating sizes with gravel in between the gaps. Really it is a stupid design, people take the most random paths trying to step on the concrete spots and avoid bumping into people. I’m sure the number of permutations for walking across the dots would be in the 4 figure ball park. Anyway, it is always here when we are negotiating a haphazard path over the dots that we see each other. “D-man,” I invariably call out to which he always smirks and yells out “Trav-Daddy.” I am always heading off to class, while he is coming back from the gym. I never see him apart from there. Peculiar indeed.

There certainly are a lot of interesting people at college, but I’ll reveal them all when the time is right.

Quite a lot has been happening lately despite the abundance of work I and everyone else seems to have this year. I guess I’ll start where I left off last time.

Firstly, by the end of the first week I had sorted out my timetable and it was a thing of beauty. All my classes were to be held from Monday to Wednesday, which meant that I would get a four day weekend every week. Despite this beautiful arrangement, I had no clashes, really it was a thing of beauty. You know the feeling you get when you find a parking space right by the door of the place you are going to in a really busy street, well it was like that but at least five times better. I woke each day brimming about my good fortune until I attended one of my “Actuarial Control Cycle” lectures. The pompous lecturer declared, “Some people have a clash with the Monday class, if I change it to 2pm is that ok with everyone?”
I hastily looked through my pleasing timetable and noticed that I had a lecture scheduled for that time. “Ahh I have a clash at that time.” I spoke up gingerly, to which my lecturer replied, “Just you? Ok the lecture will be changed to 2pm Mondays.”
He had tarnished my masterpiece of a timetable, now it was no longer perfect; I had a clash. I glared at him through the entire lecture.

Having a clash hasn’t been too bad so far though. The subject that it clashes with is insufferable and it is a real struggle sitting through the length of the lecture that I can actually attend, so I’m not terribly disappointed that I have to miss the other half.

After the first week of uni had finished, I and many other people looked like they needed a stiff drink and to go out and party. I got my fix on Friday night, when a number of us went out to Mombasa and Mooseheads for what turned out to be quite a fun night. At the end of the night I had to hold my arm around a fellow resident so that I could pilot her drunken stagger in the direction of college. Apparently it is a college tradition that people stagger home in each other’s arms after a big night.

Skyfire was the big event of the following Saturday night. Skyfire is apparently an annual tradition in Canberra, where a fireworks display choreographed to music is shown down at the lake. A large group left college early to walk down to the lake, but Caz and I decided to catch up on a bit of work before going. We ended up having a quick dinner at Macca’s, where apparently half the population of Canberra decided to eat. Quite amazingly most were drunk despite it being only 7:30pm. After scoffing the forgettable meal down, we donned jackets and starting walking down to the lake. We walked through the clean crisp night air down an unlit quiet path beside a dirty river, which had a suspiciously shiny glow on its surface. Soon we heard the unmistakable sound of fireworks being set off, which forced us into a respectably paced run. After passing through the grounds of the national gallery, we saw a large group of people who we assumed were going to watch the fireworks. We chased them along a dirt path amongst trees, ducking and weaving until we found a congregation of people sitting on picnic blankets on the grassy banks of the lake looking at the sky in awe whilst munching on food.

We quickly found a spot on the grass to sit and surrendered to the vivacious atmosphere. Despite all the noise and excitement, I felt quite calm and relaxed and just observed the surrounds. Kids screamed and mothers made noises of appreciation. Lovers held each other closely while marvelling at the spectacular display. Bright exuberant flashes of colour in the sky were mirrored by the white lights of camera flashes that flickered and speckled along the crowded banks of the lake. Caz sat beside me and we both had the same look of appreciation on our faces; we were here in Canberra, here for another year.

The display lasted perhaps fifteen minutes and as soon as it stopped we got up and walked home, back along the dark path beside the river.

The next day was a day of study, but to make things interesting, Caz and I decided to go down to the lake, spread out a picnic blanket and study under the shade of a willow tree. It was perhaps one of the only times that I have enjoyed studying, a simple change of surrounds amazingly made studying so much more tolerable. The water jet that we had a curious encounter with a few weeks ago seemed to taunt us, its water blowing on to us and wetting our notes. When we moved, the water seemed to follow us.

After sitting and studying for a while, drama (as it inevitably seems to do) developed. It appeared that a little girl on a bike had lost her father. After we realised this, Caz without even giving it a second thought, admirably ran after her to try and help her find her Dad. I stayed minding our things watching helplessly as she ran off to catch up with the girl. Apparently she caught up with the girl and returned her to her somewhat ungrateful mother. And then it was back to study.

On the Sunday night we caught up with an old friend and took off up to the peak of a local mountain, set up a telescope and marvelled at the stars. Truly it was a spectacular view. The surrounds were so peaceful, at times not a sound could be heard and the air was crisp and fresh. Stars dazzled and twinkled in the sky as we looked up in awe at them. One thing that Canberra does have going for it is that it has far fewer lights than Melbourne, making perfect conditions for viewing stars.

I started tutoring on the Wednesday and continued on the Thursday. I was so nervous and worked myself into quite a state before starting. I was imagining that the students were going to ask really tough questions and then if I couldn’t answer them they would ask why I was given the job. Remarkably though, the students were all friendly and didn’t ask difficult questions. Actually I guess I quite enjoyed teaching them.

Thursday night was commencement dinner, which is the first of several formal dinner functions held at the college. Typically at these dinners, students dress up to the extent that they look mature and incredibly respectable and then they go there and act quite the opposite; they get drunk on the free liquor and behave like children or perhaps animals. Anyway, this dinner was more subdued than previous ones I had been to and was mildly enjoyable. The food wasn’t spectacular, but it was of higher standard than a regular John’s meal.

It is a proud college tradition to go out and have a big night after each formal dinner. Naturally I wanted to respect this tradition, so I asked around to get an idea of who was going out. I ended up going with a big group of people to get coffee and then the plan was several that of us would go out after that. The problem was, no one else felt like going out after we had finished our coffee, which left me kind of stranded. Fortunately though, Mi’er noticed my desire to go out and so she agreed to have a quiet drink with me. We went to a bar called “Hippo”, which is a place that is Canberra’s attempt at a suave secluded, funky bar. Although not comparable to my favourite bars in Melbourne, it was a decent substitute. The lighting was dim, the furniture comfy, the décor kitsch and vibrant music engulfed the room. We sat on the dark red seats, drank cocktails and conversed freely until the bar closed for the night. After that we went back to Mi’er’s room, had a few more drinks and chatted until the early hours of the morning. It turned out to be quite an interesting night, the perfect end to the week really.

The weekend consisted mainly of study, with the occasional fun activity mixed in. It seemed to fly by and suddenly it was back to another week of uni. Nothing terribly exciting happened apart from a brief trip up to Mount Ainsle again to see the full moon. Despite it being a cloudy night, the others still insisted on going. “It will be clear once we get up there,” they kept repeating optimistically. So I drove the four of them up there and sure enough we couldn’t see anything but clouds. Caz was the most optimistic of the group constantly declaring that it was clearing up and that we’d be able to see the moon soon. Of course the clouds didn’t clear up, but we ended up had a good time regardless.

There is a long weekend in Canberra this weekend, so apart from work on Thursday, effectively I have a 5 day weekend. I know, you hate me… Until next time, take care.

2006-03-13T10:46:00.000+11:00

Forward, by Travvy

Blogging seems to have taken the world by storm and is a medium by which the every day lives of ordinary people, good people, are made public allowing the writer to feel somewhat a sense of stardom. Most blogs sit idly by in a tiny portion of the hard disk of a mighty server somewhere, viewed only by the writer and perhaps a few close friends. However a small percentage are extremely well written and entertain a large audience of curious readers. I must say that I believe my friend Irwin’s blog, http://hoju72.blogspot.com/, fits into the latter category. So it was he who inspired me to start a blog and rediscover my creative side that for years has been crushed with the weight of studying complicated mathematics and investment theorems and other soul destroying work. By the way I am expecting my blog to fall into the first category and hence obscurity.

Back to reality

No matter how long or how pleasurable holidays are, I feel that they are always marred by the fact that they are too short. That is the only criticism of my summer holiday. I know that I have no right to complain, as my holiday was in fact extremely lengthy. I was on holidays for almost three months, a whole season almost, and I got to spend one of those months in Japan with my best mates. Even though I had spent some of the best days of my life and enjoyed most every day, time waits for no one and inevitably it came time to pack up my things and go back to Canberra, back to reality.

I rose early that morning and frantically stuffed last minute items into my car as I tried to beat my self set deadline of leaving by 8 am. I was aiming to get to Canberra around 4pm, so that reception would still be open and I would be able to check into my new room without any drama. So conservatively I estimated that I would need to leave a bit before 8am, allowing for traffic getting through Melbourne.

By about 7:30am my car was looking somewhat amusing. The boot was fully loaded, my bike was nestled in the back passenger bay ensconced with bags and bags of mainly useless items that I felt compelled to take up. The front seat contained a hefty passenger strapped into it; a large heavy old TV. Soon came the time to wave goodbye and pull out of the driveway.

The drive was uninteresting as always. The radio cut out, as it always does, about 50 minutes out of Melbourne and so I was forced, as I always am, to delve into my cassette tape collection. My tape collection is far from impressive by the way. I, like many others, live my life in a world with a vast library of free music in mp3 format that remains on my computer. So, my collection consisted of one or two tapes I had dubbed from one of my CD’s, the Aladdin soundtrack and Queen’s greatest hits.

So there I was buzzing along the hume highway at a conservative 120km/h belting out “Prince Ali” and “We are the champions” in my amusingly well laden car. When I was bored of that I started observing funny town names such as “Beveridge” and rock formations such as “Eric’s crack”. One town, named Holbrook, prides itself on being a submarine town and even sports a large retired submarine in the centre of the town. The problem is though, Holbrook is about 400km away from the ocean, so why they call themselves the submarine town I’ll never know.

Sure enough though, town by town I started getting closer to Canberra. I turned off down the Barton highway and could recall every hill that I had to ride up when I was on a charity bike ride last year. Memories started flooding in and when I saw “Black Mountain Tower”, which is one of the most distinctive landmarks of Canberra I felt a mixture of nervousness of the year that lay ahead and nostalgia of the previous year I had spent. Soon enough I pulled up in the “John’s” carpark and walked through the same halls that I must have walked hundreds of times last year. I was home. Well sort of.

I found my new room, and started transferring my vast mass of junk from my car to my room. Although I was happy to be on the third floor in a nice location, I wasn’t thrilled about walking up and down the stairs carrying my TV and other heavy items. Eventually though I had transferred everything and started assigning all my stuff a place in my room. I was exhausted by the end, but got everything set up except for decorations, which I could do another day. I remember it was hot. Very hot. Uncomfortably so. Perspiration was beading from almost every pore. I must have showered and washed my face a ridiculous number of times.

Soon old friends started arriving at my door. Caz showed up and all the crazy and fun times that we had spent last year gushed through my head causing me to smirk almost the entire length of our conversation. It was really great seeing her again. Later I met up with several other old friends, all who looked different and yet the same. All who were bubbling with the excitement of seeing everyone again and with enthusiasm told the tales of their summers. Yet there were hundreds of new and unfamiliar faces as well. Everything was so similar and familiar, yet so much had seemed to change as well.

O-week kicked off for returning residents that night. The event that night was a “Toga night”, where all the college residents dress up in togas or bed sheets and drink and drink until they get blotto. I decided to opt out of this, partly because I was exhausted from the drive, but mainly because I had an interview the next day. So I drifted into a deep sleep with the loud beat of popular dance songs and the laughter of drunken college students infiltrating and engulfing my hot room.

I donned a suit for the interview the next day. I walked from college over to the “academic skills and learning centre” during the hottest part of the day. The sun beat down on me and my black suit absorbed every colour in the visible spectrum and trapped it inside, but I tried to keep my cool, as I was sure turning up red and sweaty would not leave a good impression. Canberra, unlike Melbourne is based in basically in the middle of nowhere, with no desirable natural features. When Melbourne gets hot, there is always a nice cool breeze that blows off the bay soothing weary souls in its path. When Canberra gets hot, the air seems to stagnate and becomes thick while the heat increases in force as the day goes on. So anyway I turned up, had a brief interview, was completely overdressed it seemed, but nonetheless I was offered the casual maths/stats tutor job and left, thinking “Huh?”

Instead of being excited, which would probably be normal, I spent the whole afternoon in angst about whether I would do well, what it would be like and whether students would ask questions I didn’t know.

There was a cocktail party that evening and I decided to keep going afterwards and head out. So it was off to Mooseheads. Now, Canberra has the reputation of being a sleepy city and possibly one of the lamest cities in Australia, maybe not as bad as Hobart, but definitely a contender for Adelaide. Despite this, with a large student population, the city manages to sustain somewhat of a nightlife. While it is true that this nightlife is compacted into a littering of a few bars, it is still possible to have a fun night unless you are one who loves pub crawls. Mooseheads is the perennial favourite of my fellow college residents. It is a bar that has a downstairs area that has a definite country pub ambiance, which is created by the music that they play and the décor. The middle level is just boring, I’m not even sure what it is for. Upstairs is a dance club, where a DJ mixes the latest dance beats and several funky lights and lasers create a decent club atmosphere.

I decided to head downstairs, which tends to be the favourite area for the John’s kids. The cheap liquor flowed freely and the people on the crowded, sticky dance floor swayed and shook to the country songs. The first years could easily be spotted by the bibs with their names on them that the residents association of the college forced them to wear. It was certainly fun to meet the multitude of bright eyed new people and catch up with the old ones, but most of my good friends weren’t out and I got a bit bored, so I left and ran all the way home. I figured I could use the exercise, plus it got me home quicker.

The party just kept going at college. I woke to hear people rising to get ready for “Fantasy Island”, another big day of drinking. They dressed in curious costumes, started drinking (at about 9am) and boarded the bus that would take them off to a secluded peninsula where they would drink all day. Call me old if you will, but I didn’t feel up to it, it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. They got back some time in the afternoon, sunburnt and hammered, yet still drinking.

I spent the days mainly in my room, organising, decorating and preparing. By Saturday night though I felt like going out again and so I planned to head out with one of my good friends Vijey, a charismatic international student from India. I waited patiently in the foyer but he or no one else showed up. After a while though, another group began to form in the foyer, so I decided to head out with them. I knew the entire group from first year with the exception of a girl called Mi’er whom I met for the first time. We all headed to Mooseheads downstairs, got a few drinks and started dancing. We took over a large portion of the dance floor by forming a circle with linked arms in which we danced and jumped around and occasionally pushed unsuspecting people in the middle. For all its rawness and perhaps primitiveness, the atmosphere of Mooseheads downstairs does allow one to feel a connection with your fellow man and the warmth of good friendships.

After we’d had quite enough, we moved on to an African (or maybe Samoan) themed pub. The dance floor here was far more spacious and comfortable and the less mainstream tunes allowed us to have more variety in our dancing. We spent many hours there, while every now and then one or two in the group would drop out and rest on the seats and then rejoin. We left a bit after 3am and most of the group got kebabs at a 24 hour Ali Baaba store. The night had been really fun and although I had accidentally spilt beer on Mi’er at one stage and bumped her on the head during a poorly executed spin move, it had been really nice meeting her. She is an interesting girl with a unique and refreshing perspective on most things and I hoped that the fun night we had spent would be the beginning of a strong friendship.

Sunday was the college’s official day of rest, yet many still continued to drink throughout the day. I was awoken by a phone call from Caz suggesting that we avoid Sunday brunch and go out to get our own food. It was a great idea; Sunday brunch is notoriously one of the worst meals at college. The idea is people can sleep in and still have a hot greasy breakfast until 1pm, but the problem is the scrambled eggs and bacon fester in their respective metal trays until they become quite revolting to eat. Last year, several of us found hairs in our scrambled eggs and not the regular hairs that one may find, these hairs were short black and curly. Enough said. Avoid John’s brunch.

Anyway we got some lunch and some lovely dessert and decided to go for a walk somewhere. We ended up heading to the lake where we spotted some pedal boats going around. “Ooh lets go on one,” Caz suggested, “we can go under the big water jet.” “Sure, why not” I replied enthusiastically. So we walked around the lake, found the hire place and hopped in our little plastic boat. We only had half an hour, so we pedalled frantically to get to the water jet.

Now for those who don’t know Canberra, the city is next to quite a large lake, which features a large fountain which thrusts a jet of water perhaps 50 meters high and the wind and gravity carry this water and cause it to land reasonably close to the fountain.

We reached the fountain and sure enough I steered us right under it and we got a few drops on us in the process.
“Whoo that was fun hey Caz?” I asked.
“Yeah. Hey lets go under where the water is landing!” She suggested excitedly.
“Umm sure…” I replied.
So I turned the boat around and we headed for where the water was landing. The bulk was cascading in about a 10m by 5m strip, so we thought we’d pedal along the length of that strip. When we entered the “landing zone” the sky turned dark; I couldn’t even see the sun. Water bucketed down on us with immense force, stronger than some of the most vicious rainstorms I have been in and the drops were big and soaking. My instinct was to steer out straight away, but Caz had a maniacal grin on her face and was gripping the steering rod with extreme determination piloting us into the water. All I could do was scream until I wrenched control of the steering rod and pedalled like crazy to get us out of there.
“Whoooo yeah,” Caz exclaimed while laughing heavily at how soaking wet we were.
I’m sure we would have stayed drier if we had actually fallen into the lake and swum back to shore. Although I thought she was a maniac at the time, it is things like this that makes her one of my best friends. We get up to so many silly crazy things and I love her for it. Her friendship really does make living in Canberra so much easier.

We gently pedalled back to the boat hire place and stepped onto the pier dripping with water and with huge smirks on our faces. We made our way back to college and soon enough the last day of holidays was over. It was time to get back to reality.