A Poem for Tony

There are a few things which make me angry. Pretty high on that list are sexism, racism, climate change deniers, stupidity, and people who are bad at their jobs. As you can imagine, therefore, I’m not a big fan of the current Australian Government. In fact, the last federal election sent me into an unparalleled fb friend cull, and I still can’t talk about it without getting a rage headache. Not just rage at the politicians you understand, but at those morons who were uneducated, greedy or simply short-sighted enough to vote for them. (Deep breaths Laura, deep breaths).

Now, as we’ve seen before, when I get angry I like to write angry poems (to Greyhound coaches; to my travel agent). So, here is, as requested, a hopefully cathartic and highly sarcastic explosion at our dear prime minister, Tony Abbott. In verse.

Dearest PM Tony, it’s little old me,
Wanting to say please DO take down ABC.
Impartiality has no place in journalism,
When it compromises values like good Aussie patriotism.Cos I’m just like you, our feelings the same:
To think other nations equal, it’s a crying shame.
You’re doing a great job, don’t listen to journos
Screw those balanced bastards, let’s of them dispose.

And the UN! How dare they suggest
That our actions toward asylum seekers aren’t simply the best?
Protocol on Refugees? Treaties galore?
I didn’t sign ’em, so I say ‘what for?’

And as to these upstarts, the ICJ
Us spying?  Rigging prices?  They’re being led astray.
So don’t worry, dear Tony, I say screw the law
Ignore our commitments with gusto and guffaw.

Then there’s those bloody boat people, how dare they intrude?
And how dare they say their return is so rude?
There’s opportunities where they came from, I can’t believe they’re so lazy
Instead on a cruise–surely they’re crazy!

At least we’re doing a great job, clearing the way,
Immigration’ll nab ’em, once we clear all the cays.
And I’m so glad we’re destroying the Great Barrier Reef
I hate fish, and coral, and tourists, believe!

Then there’s ‘global warming’, what a complete joke
And cancel the carbon tax–what total hoke.
And there’s news that we’ve added to our temperature scale
What reporting is this–another ABC fail?

And speaking of getting hot under the collar,
There’s another thing about which I’ll holler:
Those impudent Canberrans I’ll have to disparage–
They tried to legislate to allow gay marriage!

Thank goodness you were there, Tony, my hero
You destroyed that legislation, set them right back to zero.
Because this ‘love’ between other people is surely our business
How dare they claim rights, it’s all a great menace!

And speaking of things to do with people and beds
What a stroke of genius, giving $200 to newly-weds
And taking it away from disabled and old
Straight marriage is more important: way to be bold!

Then there’s your foreign policy, about which I can’t say
Because all I’m good for is a roll in the hay:
Don’t you worry sir, we’ll get to that bit
Cos, after all, it’s one of your hits.

While Indonesia threatens with missiles and planes,
It’s nothing to me if it goes down the drain.
And as to our vaunted relationship with China?
What do I know?–I’ve got a vagina.

And we all know what that’s good for, don’t we old chap?
It all comes down to what sits in my lap.
You’re the guy who sold his daughters on national TV-
“I’m the one with hot daughters, so vote for me!

But of course you’re right, despite what I thought
It must have been that I was wrongfully taught
Though I’ve got two degrees and have written a book,
I should be despatched to the kitchen and immediately cook.

I know, cos you’ve told me, men have these ‘aptitudes’,
(I can’t believe I’d listened to Y gen attitudes!)
If I did aught but housework, it’d be nothing bar tragic:
I’m good at these things, because vagina magic.

Keep stripping that money from higher education
We don’t need any more qualifications in our great nation.
Cancel the program, cancel the class;
Those ‘professionals’ at unis just sit on their ass.

Then there’s the NBN, the national broadband network
I have a great secret, don’t think I’m a jerk:
This whole internet thing is ‘evil’, it’s plain to see
The train’s full of people staring at phones on their knee.

It’s brought no benefits, it’s not useful for work
We don’t need it for community or to go to the kirk.
And while I guess I admitted in Russia it’s faster,
It’s fine staying slow, ignore these past ‘masters’.

And how could I forget–I love big oil,
Promise you’ll subsidise, and the Greenies you’ll foil.
It’s clear fossil fuels are the way of the future–
And those big mining co’s could sure use a booster.

But back to the fish, and the forests, and trees:
Declassifying World Heritage areas makes you the bees’ knees.
We need no trees in our future, after all, we’re Aussies,
And we know that air’s just as plentiful as mozzies.

I know there’s those reports about Australian living standards–
Second to Norway?  We’ll surely them hand it.
And clearly this sits not on liberties, nor education;
No need for such things to be super-nation.

It sits not on our economy (it matters not you’ve no plan)
Nor on our environment–I think you’re the man!
And obviously we’re intrinsically better than all other places
Take that, rest of the world, up in yo faces.

Because as we all know, it’s not circular logic;
(Which I don’t understand, for reasons gynaecologic)
Australia’s the best, we don’t need to try
So fuck everything, for this job you’re the guy.

Tony: “it dismays Australians when the national broadcaster appears to take everyone’s side but its own and I think it is a problem.”Tony: “[asylum seekers are] people who are attempting to break Australian law” (more links: 1, 2, 3, etc) 

(ICJ =International Court of Justice in the Hague)
Charges by East Timor. Asylum seekers allegedly mistreated; towed to Indonesia, in defiance of international law.Tony: “Jesus knew that there was a place for everything and it’s not necessarily everyone’s place to come to Australia.”


Tony: “The climate change argument is absolute crap, however the politics are tough for us because 80 per cent of people believe climate change is a real and present danger.”








Tony: “I think it would be folly to expect that women will ever dominate or even approach equal representation in a large number of areas simply because their aptitudes, abilities and interests are different for physiological reasons”; “The problem with the Australian practice of abortion is that an objectively grave matter has been reduced to a question of the mother’s convenience.”; “What the housewives of Australia need to understand as they do the ironing is that if they get it done commercially it’s going to go up in price and their own power bills when they switch the iron on are going to go up, every year…”

kirk = church in older dialects


Tony: “Why isn’t the fact that 100,000 women choose to end their pregnancies regarded as a national tragedy approaching the scale, say, of Aboriginal life expectancy being 20 years less than that of the general community?”






Ladies and gentlemen, my prime minister:

Не привыкайте никогда and squishy hearts.

“I used to be like you,” said my friend Louise, with the involuntary condescension common to happily married couples everywhere.  “Then I fell in love, and my heart got squishy.”

“Louise,” I replied, turning to her, “I only just barely stopped myself from pushing you down the stairs.  Don’t even!”

Louise laughed and thanked me for not pushing her down the stairs (she works next to me, so is used to the rage).  I think I was partially suffering from end-of-the-week exhaustion, but my goodness was it a trial of a week even without people preaching the virtues of romance.  Eugh, it’s like everybody suddenly realised that it was Valentine’s Day and they were single, and I have been inundated.  Phone; email; facebook; people on the street.  Thank goodness that’s over—and other than somehow agreeing to go out a couple of times in the next few weeks (and why? why?!!), I escaped unscathed.  I’m leaving the country again in 10 months; I’m not going to waste anyone’s time.

Romance is something I have been thinking about a lot for the last few months (eg here), partly because it’s something that as a traveller, I don’t get to play with much; and partly because of my book.  My novel is an absurdist fairytale, which gets more and more satirical as I redraft it—but fairytales are supposed to have happy endings, and everybody’s supposed to fall in love.  However, that’s so very different to real life, and I like to write the truth as much as I can, even if it’s in a very silly way.  What’s more, everything the rest of the world seems to find romantic seems like destructive bullshit to me.  I mean, 50 Shades of Grey?  Abuse!  (As opposed to a trusting bdsm relationship.  Also, for the best book review ever, see here—I actually couldn’t bring myself to read Twilight fan fic mommy porn, so read Katrina’s review instead).  On the topic of Twilight, how is a really, really old guy stalking, harassing and obsessing over  a teenager romantic?  And how is all the angst?  Eugh, and speaking of angst, why does every chic flick ever either (a) promote battle of the sexes bullshit (this isn’t a freaking war, people!) or (b) have miscommunication as the entire premise of the movie?  Oh, you didn’t say what you meant, and then you cried about it, and then you said it after all but it was too late, and then you went and tried to get over it while silently moping, and then finally your life was vindicated when the other party ‘fessed up and now everything’s all hunky freaking dory?  How is that something to aspire to?!?!  And then there’s the freaking books.  I read about fifty romance books last year trying to get a feel for writing in that style, and it was all so annoying.  God, it’s like every single one had some difficult love triangle (I don’t understand how you could be in love with two people at the same time), or some man in need of reforming (how about you just don’t date douchebags—hypocrisy accepted), or just lots of sex scenes which the protagonist inevitably views as romantic, even when they’re blatantly not (how about you come to terms with your sexuality, and don’t need to justify or confuse it with love?).

Google has let me down, but I once read something by John Cleese which pointed out that there’s very little difference between the prescriptions of romanticism and the symptoms of clinical depression.  It was funnier when he said it, but.  So do I think romance is dead/fiddy-faddy/whatever?  No, not at all.  In writing the book, I couldn’t figure out whether I was desperately cynical, or desperately romantic—and I really feel like they should be opposites.  I think I’m going to make a table.  Yup, it’s table time.

What culture tells me is romantic

  • abuse
  • angst
  • obsession
  • miscommunication
  • stalking
  • love triangles
  • ‘fixing’ somebody

What I think is romantic

  • trust
  • intimacy
  • compassion
  • respect
  • loyalty
  • acceptance
  • partnership

Stoopid culture.

The other thing that really bothers me is summed up pretty nicely in this quote from the only gossip page worth reading (so hilariously harsh, it’s irresistible):

[W]hile they’re hot, the majority of non-famous chicks think they’ll be hot forever, so they date and bang bar owners, DJs, club promoters, tattoo artists, and musicians. Then when they hit 28, they’ll marry the first dude who calls them back the morning. That’s usually Harold in accounting with the 2004 Chrysler Seabreeze because he’s gone more than a year without his power being disconnected.

It can’t be just me who sees this every day, right?  People (usually ones who don’t know me very well) tell me that I should just ‘choose someone’, and as long as they’re nice to me, who cares?  Well, me.  Because as one of my favourite blog entries ever so eloquently put it, sometimes people are an ellipsis and not a period.  The rest of my life is like a book, why can’t this be, too?  And if I can’t have the Big Love, if I can’t be with someone who’s as hungry for worlds and places as I am, who I can truly love and trust, then why would I choose an unsettling mediocrity over the life I have now?  It’s incomprehensible.

And now, because it seems timely and appropriate and super Russian, here’s my (quick and dirty) translation of Edward Asadov’s poem “Never Give Up on Love” (Эдуард Асадов, “Не привыкайте никогда к любви”).  Corrections are of course welcome.  Also note that I translated “не привыкайте” variously as ‘never give up’ and ‘never get used to’.  As usual I went for idiomatic rather than literal translation, like with Я Вас Любил (Пушкина, конечно!) a while back.  And yes, there’s one sentence which I just had no idea how to translate.  You’ll see it.

Не привыкайте никогда к любви!
Не соглашайтесь, как бы ни устали,
Чтоб замолчали ваши соловьи
И чтоб цветы прекрасные увяли.

И, главное, не верьте никогда,
Что будто всё проходит и уходит.
Да, звёзды меркнут, но одна звезда
По имени Любовь всегда-всегда
Обязана гореть на небосводе!

Не привыкайте никогда к любви,
Разменивая счастье на привычки,
Словно костёр на крохотные спички,
Не мелочись, а яростно живи!

Не привыкайте никогда к губам,
Что будто бы вам издавна знакомы,
Как не привыкнешь к солнцу и ветрам
Иль ливню средь грохочущего грома!

Да, в мелких чувствах можно вновь и вновь
Встречать, терять и снова возвращаться,
Но если вдруг вам выпала любовь,
Привыкнуть к ней – как обесцветить кровь
Иль до копейки разом проиграться!

Не привыкайте к счастью никогда!
Напротив, светлым озарясь гореньем,
Смотрите на любовь свою всегда
С живым и постоянным удивленьем.

Алмаз не подчиняется годам
И никогда не обратится в малость.
Дивитесь же всегда тому, что вам
Заслужено иль нет – судить не нам,
Но счастье в мире всё-таки досталось!

И, чтоб любви не таяла звезда,
Исполнитесь возвышенным искусством:
Не позволяйте выдыхаться чувствам,
Не привыкайте к счастью никогда.

Never give up on love!
Do not resolve, no matter how tired,
To silence the nightingales of your heart
And allow those beautiful flowers to wither.

And, most importantly, never believe
That things all come and go.
Yes, stars fade, but one star
called Love always always
continues to blaze bright in the heavens!

Never give up on love,
Exchanging happiness for habit,
Like a flaming bonfire for tiny matches,
Don’t trifle with such things, and passionately live.

Never get used to those lips,
As though you’re too long familiar,
Like you never get used to the sun nor the winds
nor downpour amidst the booming thunder!

Yes, petty feelings can exist again and again—
Be met, lost and regained once more—
But if you find yourself amidst love,
Immerse yourself like your very blood has changed
Or to the last drop the time you’ll fritter and lose!

Never get used to happiness!
Unlike the dawning light of combustion,
View your love always
With lively and constant surprise.

Love, like a diamond, disobeys the years
And never becomes small.
Marvel always at that, whether you consider it
Deserved or not. Judge ourselves not,
For happiness exists in the world regardless.

And so, love is not a fading star,
But an art inevitable and sublime:
Don’t let your emotions lose their breath,
Never, ever give up on your happily-ever-after.


The In-Between

I remember that when Jess and I went to go see the Inbetweeners’ film, the couple next to us were so offended that they left.  It pretty much made my night.

The Inbetweeners is a hilariously filthy and awkward TV series about four Brit guys who aren’t quite teens and aren’t quite adults—hence, ‘inbetween-ers’.  This concept of being ‘in between’ is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.  People are in between childhood and adulthood, in between jobs, in between partners, in between home and the office.  In between meals, in between diets, in between chapters, in between shifts.  The In Between seems to be the time we don’t think is important—we’ve just left one important thing and are killing time until we reach the next one, if not actively struggling toward it.  These events are the book ends by which we define our day, our week, our lives.  We even do it with birthdays—first it’s every year, then double-digits, then a teenager, a legal adult.  Then it’s 21, 30, 40, as if the time in between is suddenly accelerating and less important.  Everything becomes this obsessive row of events we have to tick off, a sequence  which defines a thoroughly normal, ordinary life.

Naturally, I do it too—my events are just a little different to normal.  Rather than numbers, career or ‘life’ events, it’s travel.  Travel, travel and travel.  I’m currently, of course, ‘in between’ travel, and thoroughly miserable.  Whereas others seem so happy to build their careers, to have a steady home to go to, to know exactly what will happen and when, I find it seriously freaking oppressive.  When I’m in the ‘real world’, I have to work.  And I have to sleep.  And I have to make sure to eat healthy, and exercise, and ‘go meet new people’, and ‘but you have to go on a date’, and ‘look good’ and meet a thousand friends and obligations and all to a fucking schedule.  Every single moment of the day is so timed, so controlled.  Alarm at 06:40, leave the house at 07:42.  Catch the train at 07:53, stop to get lunch at 08:32 and get to work at 08:34.  Do the task list.  Go to the meetings.  17:00 schedule tasks for tomorrow, 17:05 leave work.  17:16 catch the train, 17:31 run up the stairs to make the connection.  Go to the supermarket, get home at 18:55.  Cook; be clean; make sure you’re tidy.  Feel guilty that you haven’t exercised, that you haven’t gone to see friends, that you haven’t achieved anything for yourself in the day.  Go to bed, make sure you’re asleep by 22:40—and do it all over again and again and again.  It feels so entirely devoid of humanity, as though I were a slightly hyperactive (ok, really hyperactive) robot.  And I just don’t understand why we do it to ourselves.  I can’t see the point of a life like this.  If not for social media, I would rarely have time to communicate with anyone other than my colleagues (in an office where everyone sits in focused silence).  I cross paths with my flatmate a couple of times a week, but she’s out even more than I am.

So why do we do this?  I really have no idea.  It’s a life so devoid of passion, of connection, of creativity or spontaneity.  There’s just no meaning to it.  If I weren’t saving for Belgium, I’d definitely be working part-time, so that I could have time for actual life.  But there’s always going to be a Belgium, whether it’s paying off a mortgage or saving for retirement.  My flatmate from Russia joked that I should move to Perth when I retire in 50 or 60 years—he said that even if I put the brakes on now, it would take me at least 30 years to reach ‘normal human speed’.  But that is exactly how I don’t want to be living—at least, not if it means living like I am at the moment.  Pretty much the best I can do is try to squish myself down and close my eyes and wait until the end of the year, when I’ll be hanging off the edge of the world once more.

So I guess nobody likes the in between.  I just wonder why our book ends are so different.

Wise blue hippo says “balance is key”.

Hands Down

Some of the alternate names for this post which had me giggling inappropriately on the train:

  • All Hands on Deck
  • The Handover
  • Pants Party
  • The Masturbation Poem (less euphemism, more accuracy)

Today a friend commented on an article which suggested, through fallacious ‘science’, that people should masturbate less.  I wasn’t quite sure if it was a joke.  I mean, who doesn’t like orgasms?!  Robots?!  (News-flash with an emphasis upon the ‘flash’: I’m pretty sure even robots like orgasms, biological imperative or not).  Haha and under the heading of ‘Men: 5 Reasons to Stop Masturbating ASAP’, it had a picture of what was obviously a woman’s hand.  Sexy good times for all!!  (Note that I’m hoping the article was an April Fool’s joke, but either way there are a lot of people who appear to have bought into it, which makes me sad face.)

So now, with no further foreplay delay, I present to you a poem about masturbation.  It’s not even an angry poem this time—I just thought it would be fun.  Enjoy!  (I know you will.  Ayyyy.  😉 😉 ;))

I had a talk with my phone today,
It was being quite contrary.
It would not type ‘masturbation’
(I think it thought it lairy.)
And so I was forced instead to use
A little imagination
And I found some euphemisms
To suit my sweet flirtation.

To wank, to jerk, to flick the bean,
To come into your own;
To shake the snake, a solo flight,
Dial the rotary phone.
Tame the shrew, work one out,
Teach the Cyclops the lambada;
Wrist aerobics, digitise,
Show yourself some ardour.
Playing naked air guitar,
Giving a low five;
Spank the monkey, find yourself,
Do the downstairs jive.
Spin a record, choke the chicken,
Play upside-down piano,
Have safe sex, do handiwork
Give yourself a go.

We’ve heard all about going blind
And growing hairy palms
So instead I’ll list the goods,
To sooth all of your qualms.
Now listen up dear reader,
The benefits go on for hours
But the most important is that
It gives you super-powers!
I swear I am not lying,
though there’s more to tell.
(And let’s face it, masturbation
is an easy sell).
It helps you wake, it helps you sleep
Stops cancer of the prostate,
Reduces cramps and yeast infections
what a happy state!
Improves muscle tone and orgasms,
For both women and men
And the best part of it all
is it releases endorphins.
‘And what are these endorphins?’
I think I hear you say,
They’re the things that make you feel good
When you have a play.
Then of course there’s oxytocin
Which makes you want to hug.
It makes the world a cuddly place,
it’s a great old drug.
And you know what this means, right?
If these things you increase?
With happiness and cuddles,
We’ll bring on global peace!
Then there’s the boost to your immune
system (I’m a fan)
Between that and better sleeping, and lower blood pressure, and learning how to have multiple orgasms, and coping better with stress, and being more focused, and fighting depression, and increasing self-esteem, and helping with chronic pain
It makes you super(wo)man.

The time has come now my dear friends,
my readers smart and fools
To suggest a couple of things to you
which you might consider rules.
One thing that is quite popular
amongst all sorts of folk.
Is auto-erotic asphyxiation
(that’s where yourself you choke).
But you must be careful, friend,
For thousands meet their end;
So if you want to cut down on your air,
Always invite a friend ;).
If you’re given to materials,
there’s one thing to remember:
If you confuse porn with sex
You’re like to be dismembered.
Another thing, a little tip,
You’ll want to think about
The slight miscommunication
In the phrase to ‘rub one out’.
This doesn’t mean outside, my dears
(well, maybe on occasion)
Don’t be seen by kids or unwilling,
or you’re off to the station.
(I see a raised hand at the back—
You have a question, pet?
Why yes my dear, I did forget
Not on chatroulette).
One last thing, ‘fore we get back
To matters at hand,
Don’t use those who don’t want you
To get to orgaz-land.
This means that without invitation,
No pressure over text.
And certainly no calling them
While you’re giving yourself the sex.
Cos people are not toys, my dear
Though there’s stores for that
And while we’re on the topic,
Let’s have a little chat.
If you’re open-minded,
There’s some things you can try
And the internet’s your market,
If you want to buy.
There’s dildos and dil-don’ts of course,
and vibrators, to boot
Then flesh-lights for the guys as well;
The need I’ll not dispute.

And now my friends, my job is done,
I’ve discussed bodies’ demands
And now you’ve the information,
I’ll leave you in good hands 😉


  • Laci Green, a sex-positive youtuber and blogger.
  • SourceFedNerd’s TableTalk on the stigma around male sex toys.  Also includes hilarious impressions of male vs female orgasms.  (They talk about shoes for quite a long time first–the show’s amazing anyway, but it skips to the above at 13:00).
  • Ian Kerner, sex-positive psych and an amazing writer

Bachata y di-carster.

Dasha is an awesome Russian/Kiwi chic I met back in December (under some fairly hilarious circumstances which are inappropriate to write about), and have hung out with a few times since.  On Friday, strangely after another Russian friend had just bailed on me, she texted me asking if I wanted to go to a Bachata (Latin dance) festival the following night—a completely obvious yes.

The night started off weirdly, when I managed to arrive on time.  Not even just on time, but early!  I’m usually too beset by random adventures to be on time.  Anyway, I was on the bus and nearly there when I got a call from Dasha, saying her car had broken down and she would be late.  No biggie, I sat under a light on campus and read my book.

Anyhoo, an hour ish later Dasha arrived and we headed into the venue.  I’ve since realised that every time I go to a gig at the Roundhouse, things get a bit weird.  Like the time I went to Oktoberfest with some friends there, and magically and completely accidentally ninja’d my way past a 5000-person line to get inside.  Mad skills.

The concert itself was epic.  Dasha’s sister was over from NZ performing in it, which is how she came by tickets.  Ohhh it made me so nostalgic for my month in Colombia and all of the people I met and danced with there.

There were some truly amazing acts.  I’ve always loved Latin dance for just how amazingly passionate and sexy it is.  I wish I had even an ounce, or inch, or some other kind of Imperial measurement of that sensuality—it’s amazing!  (On the other hand, pretty stoked I’m not doing this on stage—esp with a guy I’m not seeing!)  It was done in two parts, with world champions in the second ‘act’, and amateurs etc in the first part.  The end of the first part got more and more naked and more and more hilarious.  There was a big samba, so there was a lot of ass and beads and things.  Then there was a group called ‘Juan Direction’ (lol) which was just guys.  Was genuinely not expecting them all to rip their clothes off.  Then as the final act there was a big group of people who were all wearing like bobble-heads?  Totally weird but hysterical.

Eventually it was time to go—Dasha’s back was a bit too sore for Latin dancing at the party at the end, and there was no way I was going to try it with people who were complete pros at it.  Not without a lot of tequila, anyway.  As it would have taken me a few hours to get home, D offered to drive me.  The only minor problem was that her car had died again and was now parallel parked and blocked in on a major road.

Dash had some jumper cables, so we started trying to flag down a car to casually block one of the lanes of traffic for us and give us a hand.  The first car was a very unimpressed taxi driver, but his battery was on the wrong side so we waved him on his way.  Then we started accosting strangers walking down the street (as you do).  Fortuitously, the guy parked in the car behind us turned up, and we convinced the poor guy to help us.  He looked terrified.

I hadn’t jump-started a car in around 11 years, so I googled and gave directions.  Then huzzah, the car turned on.  D thanked our ‘volunteer’, saying “thanks, you’re the man!”  “No,” he replied timidly, shaking his head and pointing at me.  “She‘s the man”.  Hysterical.

After charging the battery for a while we were on our way, and everything was going swimmingly other than some extremely unhappy noises the engine was making.  Of course, apparently despite holding a GPS in my hand and looking at and hearing the directions, I’m not particularly good as navigator, so we missed a couple of turn-offs.  Seriously though.  What is a ‘slight left’?  I want some damn definitions around that.

We got to the entrance to my suburb, but I’d never actually entered it from that direction before, and the two times I’ve driven within my suburb to the shopping centre, I’ve gotten lost and ended up on a random motorway.  So we again missed the turn-0ff, but I saw the on-ramp to said shopping centre and I suggested we should go up there, rather than end up on the motorway which keeps trying to trap me.  Stoopid motorway.

We got to the top of the ramp with no way out, but the gates are still working, so we figure we can drive through the parking garage and come out the other side.

How, wrong, we, were.  We followed the ‘way out’ sign and the wretched exit was blocked off with a big and very closed garage door.  So here we are exploring the parking garage which is dimly lit, feeling like were in some kind of apocalyptic/zombie movie.  Every exit was blocked, then we managed to figure out how to get down to other levels.

Down and down and down we went, until we ended up in yet another section I’d never seen before—I get the distinct feeling that this parking garage is bigger than the entire suburb.  Then, at last!  Escape!  We thought we’d found an exit—I mean, surely they wouldn’t have the gates allowing people in but not actually letting them out again?  The shopping centre is the one with ever-soulless ikea though, so maybe they do want to trap people.  Yet again, our exit was blocked.

Flummoxed, we stopped.  I wondered whether she could reverse up to the boom gate and I could pretend to be a car and take a ticket, to open the gate and let us reverse out.  Actually, now that I’m writing this, it strikes me that the car could have equally been driving in the correct direction but going out the wrong way.  It was nearly 2 in the morning, so that’s our excuse I guess.

Unfortunately, I don’t weigh as much as a car (!), so the machine didn’t believe me and wouldn’t issue a ticket.  Then I glanced to my right and had a thought.  There seemed to be enough room between the ticket machine and the boom gate that Dasha’s car would fit through—and there was only a low curb to get over.  She came and checked it out and agreed, and there really didn’t seem to be any other escape.  It’s also not like we could leave the car in the car-park overnight, either, in case the battery went again or the whole thing just died and needed to get towed out ($$$)—not an unlikely thing at this point.

Anyway, I videoed our escape.  Things did not go as planned:

Well shit.


In brief other news, the second draft of my novel’s with the editor now, and I’ve started work on the next book.  Partly, I think, to distract myself from worrying about what the editor thinks.  Haha I should get the book back in a couple of weeks, after I come back from an Epic Adventure with two of my besties to western/desert NSW.  As Jess so succinctly put it, “we’ll go on an adventure, and then your life will be over!”  I’m going to have to start recruiting huggers.

Apart from that, I’ve been back in Aus for just over 7 months, and it’s just less than 8 months til I leave—flights booked and everything.  Crzazy!