Author: Penny Potter

Freedom. Adventure. Curiosity. Laughter. Nature.

What the harm in tri-ing?

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Fancy doing a triathlon? Running, swimming and getting on the bike? Sure, easy. No sweat! Just do half of the Olympic route, don’t set your standards too high time-wise and bring a few mates to do the other legs.

Suddenly the pinnacle fitness event is as easy as getting cash out of the ATM.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The difficulty, then, is finding the will. The motivation, that’s the real kicker. Not so easy to find. It’s more like looking for $50 notes in old winter coats. A rare occurrence, but occasionally you’ll have some joy.

My triathlon career began today after Shorn’s hot girlfriend and Shorn Lowry himself asked me to run for them. I lept at the chance. I have been in a state of frenzied excitment since last Wednesday when I got the almighty call-up. With just five days until the event I managed to get in one rather strenuous run, which I was still aching from this morning. I was not confident of my fitness.

But I had the will. I was the Glory Seeker. I was bringing home the team.

And with Kirby’s competitive streak I had some great inspiration.

She set a cracking pace with the swim, smashing out 750 metres in 11 minutes. Shorn was hot on her heels, cycling through 20kms in 36 minutes. There was really no option but for me to suck up my aching muscles and get to work. 5kms in 25 minutes was all I could manage, but that just in line with the ambitious goals Kirby had set for each of us.

“If it’s not a challenge, it’s not a goal,” she says.

As I waited for Shorn to get back from the rabbit warren of cul-de-sacs that is the Bribie Island bike route, an older lady and I began chatting. To put it in context the triathlon is chock-a-block with middle-aged folk. I’m not being ageist here, but at first take it’s surprising how diverse the field is in these gruelling events.

As Kirby was writing Shorn off: “he’s had a stack, for sure,” the lady told me her story. “A few friends and I just get in and give it a go,” she explains.

“We’re not very fast, but we just like to say we can do it.”

What an attitude!

So there we all were, just casually kicking some goals on a Sunday morning. The team-spirit kicking around was strong and organic. High fives were being bandied about as if we’d finished a cryptic crossword.

Plus, the event was done and dusted by 10am. Usually I’m still lolling around in my sheets at that time on a Sunday, but variety is spice, and all that.

All of the proactivity got me thinking about motivation and giving things a go.

Reverse parking, for example, is something I casually chucked in the too hard basket when I was about 20. I was happy to never attempt to fit my beast of a car into a tiny slot again. I’d had enough of mounting and unmounting and mounting and unmounting the kerb. Doing it in front a building site when one very nice gentleman had to come out and direct me, that was the final straw

So, no more reverse parking. “That’s not for me,” I delightedly told all and sundry, basking in the liberation of acknowledging my non-existent skills.

My mum, of course, spolied such complatency. “You’re probably a bit young to be just writing that off, Pen,” she warned me.

Smarting from the comment, I learned to back my car into tight spaces. The feeling of achivement is almost palpable. I might as well have cooked a few ducks for Sunday dinner and made Peking sauce from scratch.

“Did you see that,” I sometimes yell at complete strangers. “I didn’t even touch the kerb.”

Once upon a time marathons and triathlons would have been in the same basket. Now, I know they’re going to be painful, but try to give it a shot anyway.

It does open up the field to failure. Ewww, that horrible word. Failure! But keeping that door closed is like going through life without ever pairing Tasmanian blue cheese with a South Australian Shiraz.

It’s a life half-lived.

I reckon, if the mid-50s mother-of-five can do it, then so can I. Why not? The only thing that stands between us is motivation and determination.

The next bastion is water polo. Since a particularly gruesome season in my second year of uni I have shied away from that sport. “I almost die when I try to play water polo,” I delightedly tell my pals. Once again, if you acknowledge that you’re not good at it, you never have to try.

Perhaps I need to change my ‘tude.

“Water polo is an evil sport and I have no desire to play it,” is what I’ll start touting. Or I could gather some inspiration and dive in again.

A hoon? Me? Maybe.

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Guys with turbo-charged cars. They’re tossers, right? Well, actually I’m going to jump off my pedestal and side with the hoons on this one.

A great friend of mine, let’s call him Nick, because that’s his name, was on a hunt for some new wheels recently. I was horrified when he started gushing over a Subaru WRX he was thinking about forking out for. It even had one of those grates on the bonnet. So uncool.

“Think of the environment,” I pleaded. He did look sheepish, but admitted his fascination with the car had deep-seated roots. It must be one of those boyhood things the guys cultivate while the girls are learning to cook and sew.

I was not convinced. “C’mon you’d be much better suited to a van.”

“Think of the camping trips.”

Still not swayed, I launched the full offensive on the spectacle he’d make of himself. “You’ll look like a tosser,” I reminded him. His best interests, of course, were at the heart of my tirade.

“A complete tool.”

It was a bit mean, but I thought my cause was worthy. I was fighting the good fight against these offensive cars. They’re so noisy. So bloody bad for the environment. And, comparing muffler sizes, really, it’s not cool.

I see the merit in my slightly older-style car which offers a more sedate driving style. Hills are a challenge, I admit, but it’s just so lovely to get a close view of things as I dawdle past. How nice to be able to count the sections of sidewalk, instead of the colours of cars. It’s the little things.

Still, Nick got his dream car.

And he has been a happy man with those keys in his hot little palm.

At first take I had to temper my hard-nosed opinion, just slightly. It looked more like a Beamer than one of those horrid white sedans with an utterly unnecessary blow-off value. Surprisingly, it was not even that loud.

Still, it was fun to have a dig at Nick’s car. “You’re such a yuppie,” I would tell him, hypocritcially, as I luxuriated in the passenger seat, pleased to be in a car that was made this side of the Sydney Olympics.

Today, however, all of my reservations about the WRX, except it’s enviro score – which still shocks me, were blown away with one nippy burst of the turbo.

Within seconds of placing my hands on the steering wheel, my inner hoon started agitating toward the accelerator.

Oh, the power! What a thrill. Whipping around a corner was almost like bungee jumping. My pulse quickened and an involunatry grin spread across my face. The rush. The speed. The pick-up. The grip. Oh dear, I had become what I had loathed.

Or perhaps I was just broadening my perspective, I bargained with myself.

I must add here that Nick even complimented me on my driving: “you go allright in a manual, Penny,” he said, slightly shocked by my enthusiasm for his demonic car. That was all the encouragement I needed! He even called me a hoon. The two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic emerges yet again.

So, I’ve fallen in love with a sports car. I anticipate I will probably dream about rally driving tonight. And yet my old 1990 model beast is showing no signs of spluttering her last splutter anytime soon.

Until she does, I’ll continue to call WRX drivers douchebags and I’ll speak at length about their exorbidant fuel usage. It’s the only way.

On the inside, however, my inner hoon will continue to lust after the gutsy car with its fancy volume knobs on the steering wheel.

Photo by Josh Miller/CNET.

She who cooks.

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It is a habit that has upset almost every flatmate I have ever had. Even my ever-tolerant mother has expressed displeasure at my ability to accrue washing up. I am the kind of girl that is just never happy with a performance in the kitchen unless every pot, pan, bowl, spatula, can opener and grater has been used at least once.

My favourite red pot: I like to get that dirty at least twice.

There are a few reasons for the disorder.

I reckon a pile of dishes that resembles the leaning tower of Pisa is a brilliant distraction if the fare is below par.

The felafels may be bland, but look at that mess! If it looks like you’ve pulled out all stops, the appropriate noises will be made.

And then there is my obsession with feasts.

One of the real delights in burning the bottom of every pan is the array of dishes you can create. A feast is not a feast without seven different dishes, at least, and a pile of leftovers that easily last a few weeks. If you’ve got a kang kung stir-fry alongside your gado-gado and rendang then you’re scraping the sides of Indo cuisine rather than serving up cliched satays.

Or maybe that’s a cop out. Maybe I just like mess. OK, I admit it, I love the mess.

It’s so liberating to riot through the kitchen leaving a trail of chaos. I liken myself to a European settler with my ability to leave the natural environment in disarray.

A mate of my walked into my room a few weeks ago and, without stopping to put on her social filter, exclaimed loudly “how can you live like this?” Oh, what a glorious mess that was. Weeks it was, before I could see the floor of my room.

However, today I may have outdone myself in the mess stakes. I had a little cook off.  By myself.

Flying solo in the kitchen is a huge error. Already, I’ve done four rather ambitious loads of washing up. And there’s more to go. I’ll admit it is immensely satisfying that the red pot has already been washed three times, and it is dirty again, but  washing up is not where my strength lies.

I make the mess. The suckers that I cook for, they get to clean up.

My favourite rule at home was always “if you cook, you don’t have to do the dishes.” And did I cook. I still have the scars from the vicious old potato peeler

If ever I was beaten to the chopping board – my Dad also loves to create a superb mess in the kitchen – I’d have to think outside the box to avoid the dishes. Ma and Pa would be outside enjoying the fresh winter air, leaving my brother and I to an impressive stack of pots Dad had dirtied.

My screams would bring Jan running.

I’d have welts like zombie bites all over my body from my brother’s malicious tea-towel flicks. I still don’t know how he gets the end to bite so badly! There’d be water and suds all over the benches and windows. Rob would have to have a second shower on the nights that I decided to throw the rinsing water on him. Gosh, those were the days!

I understand not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the kitchen. Take one of my friends. I don’t want to name her, so we’ll just call her Zahara. She has beautiful long black hair and a Costa Rican husband.

Zahara is very good with take-away. She knows exactly what she wants and how to order it. Usually she will have some small change in her wallet. Her car is never without petrol, so her trips to pick up food are never complicated. I am sure that she does not even need the menus anymore – the numbers of several reputable outlets are probably permanently stored in her phone.

In a moment of generosity and frugality I made a business deal with Zahara. For the usual price of her weekly take-away I would cook her a week of meals. Winner, winner chicken dinner.

Herein lies the reason for today’s cooking catastrophe. The kitchen was destroyed after I had carefully crafted four pizzas, one large batch of spaghetti bolognaise and a Sri Lankan chicken curry (the curry doubled as payment for one of the bets I lost to Shorn Lowry at the cricket. The lawn is yet to be mowed.)

Cheese and grated zucchini were splattered across the floor. The stove top looked like it had been caught in the middle of a tomato fight. There were no pots left in the cupboard.

It was a beautiful mess.

But, this is the biggest issue with the deal Zahara and I had struck. She was not there to immerse her hands into the hot, soapy water and sweep the floor.

So, the dishes piled up and I kept cooking.

Now, imagine the almighty mess after I whipped up some spinach and fetta filos, baklava, coconut rice pudding and hummus.

I could not even recognise the colour the stove had been in the morning. The floor resembled a chook house. Food scraps were littered across the benches like roasted English tourists on a Thai beach.

It was shambolic! Oh, and it felt so good.

Luckily, Shorn and the hot girlfriend were being treated to dinner. And she who cooks, does not wash up.

Photo #1 by Ali Rae.

Do not look up.

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Keep your eyes fixed on the ground. Watch each step. If you really need to stretch your neck, you can look straight ahead.

Looking to the side is also not allowed. You can see the rocks falling from above when you look to the side.

Looking up, that’s a disaster.

The boulders, perched ever so precariously in the landslide-ridden hill are grinning at you, taunting you with their imposing stature. Oh, you’re so tiny and insignificant. The glacier beneath your boots, your stunning, slightly lesbian-looking boots, is creaking and groaning.

“For this section we need to be quickly walking,” your guide tells you. “A German man died here last week.”

Great. Bloody great! Not even the German could hack it.

Then again, perhaps you will think to yourself “at what stage did you think it was going to be easy, hiking through the effing Himalayas.”

“You’re a bloody idiot,” you may want to add to the internal tirade.

In fact, you’re arguing away so merrily with yourself, giving yourself a firm dressing down that you forget where you are. And you look up.

Oh dear. The rocks are a-comin’.

“Just wanted to go for a wee stroll in the mountains, eh!”

Sure, you love a challenge and fancy yourself a bit of a let’s-make-a-fire-with-the-map-when-you’re-lost type of girl, but what’s the point of bringing your mortality into such acute focus.

That is exactly the point. In such dangerous situations we truely feel alive.

Recently, I came across an idea for my impending China trip. A secret informant whispered in my ear about the Mount Huashan Teahouse Trek tucked away in the middle of the Orient. I think they were telling me as a gag, a you-wouldn’t-believe-what-these-idiots-did joke, but dangerous hikes are my thing.

And this one has everything: cable cars, sheer cliffs, rusty chains, dodgy wooden platforms, an obscenely high drop and, of course, a relaxed attitude to safety. Down with red tape, I say!

Image

Get me there!

As I’m checking out a few happy snaps from the brush-with-death hike, I wonder how far I could go.

I love to take a good risk.

For example, those cheap momos the nestled-in-a-gutter vendor is pushing, they look good. Yes, I’ll have ten thanks. Of course, I want the hot chilli sauce.

Or, sure I’d love for you to drive me around the coco plantations in your Jeep. Of course! Why not! Yes, let’s have some drinks while we’re driving, that’ll help supress the fear. No, seatbelts are definitely overrated.

That is living.

But here I am, wondering whether I’d like to be one of the 100 tourists killed every year on this trail. Would the view be worth it? The tea at the top, would it give me the runs? Are there going to be many good-looking, rugged men on the hike? (A hike like this is sure to be teeming with adventurous gentlemen…)

But, the biggest question of all remains: am I brave enough?

About here my mother will interject and say bravery and stupidity are synonymous when I am involved.

Is she right? Will the danger prove too alluring? Like a ten buck note that just burns away in your pocket until you waste it on chips and gravy.

Let’s wait and see.

I’ve found this great new diet.

Posted in diets6 Comments

Beer and pizza. Five slices of cheesy, meaty goodness (yes, five) and an icy Corona. Boom! My Slow-Carb diet is out the window.

I did not even last a single day.

Best of all, I don’t even care.

There’s always tomorrow. Or I could try a different diet. Like the one where you don’t eat anything that has ingredients you can’t pronounce. Or the one with the 80/20 rule; whatever that means.

Chances are I am not going to stick with the program for more than five hours, so no point being too picky.

The dieting thing – it’s a bit of a lark, really.

How indulgent, to be able to cut out food groups and bring them back in on a whim. No sugar today, no dairy tomorrow. Liquids only for a few weeks. There is no bounds to the fun you can have.

In fact, I’d say forget about skydiving and treat yourself to a restricted eating program. How fun to watch 300 grams come and go so quickly. Actually, if we’re talking about last week, for me it was more the case of 1200 grams just coming and dossing on my hips for about five days. No worries. I got rid of it with lentils and a bit of exercise on Monday and Tuesday

What program will I subscribe to after last night’s pizza? This could be my chance to try the Paleo diet.

Recently my mother accused me of being into “all these fad diets.” She says it as if I’m some sort of junkie or compulsive pen-stealer. I am really scraping at the edges of socially acceptable behaviour, according to Jan.

Really, I just want a bit of a challenge. Being a vegetarian for the week is just like trying to run in thongs in the rain and not get mud on the back of your legs. It’s fairly annoying, but it requires thought and precision.

Cooking for my gluten-free, vego flatmate is a riot. Spaghetti bolognaise, one of my favourite foods, but also a representation of slothful cooking, is a no-go area when Amber and I are feasting. On the bright side, meat and pasta are traded for quinoa tabouli; a crappy little butter cake becomes raw chocolate brownies. And the things you can do with tofu. Wow!

Last year I followed Sarah Wilson’s ‘I Quit Sugar’ diet for two months. Not an inch of sugar passed my lips. Jan did not approve. In fact, she seemed genuinely pissed off to have lost a chocolate-and-liquorice-eating partner in crime.

That was a semi-successful diet. I lost a bit of weight and a few centimetres off my waist. No afternoon energy slump, and all that jazz.

The best bit, though, was having a little goal. A side project that did not cost any money and would still shock my mother; it was perfect.

She is still upset about losing her Clinker companion. Poor thing, she has no-one to share the gloom with when the packet is accidentally left in the car and the chocolate melts off the candy and the what-colour-will-this-Clinker-be surprise is gone. Plus, there’s nobody to weigh in on the pink versus green debate. Dad is useless here. He prefers yellow. Huh? So naturally Ma feels like she’s lost a limb when she buys Clinkers now.

But, hey, I didn’t eat any sugar for two months.

For the slow-carb regime I’ve been living off lentils and avoiding potatoes as if they’re likely to possess me.

So, one night of beer and pizza, was it worth it? Well, it was a shake-up from the lentil routine; one night when I did not pretend to be Neil from the Young Ones.

And in diet-land, there’s always tomorrow. I’ll make a fresh dhal.

I am the Knight.

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I can do the Damsel-in-Distress thing. I’ll happily let any man, woman or dog help me out of a bind. Sometimes I even forget my lofty feminist ideals and get men to carry my groceries for me. Or just carry me, especially if it’s a steep hill.

My preffered role, however, comes with a cape and a breastplate. I do the Knight-in-Shining-Armour caper brilliantly. Brilliantly, but not modestly, it seems.

I think this comes from the two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic. It didn’t matter if Rob and Nick were practising their target shooting, mowing lawns, fishing, four-wheel driving or sneaking a packet of salt and vinegars out of the cupboard. I wanted in. Bugger being a girl, I can hit a six into the chook house and throw stones at goannas. (Please note, I do not recommend throwing stones at goannas. They are savage beasts.)

Take tonight, for instance. I’m sitting at home pigging out on a salad. That’s right, a big, healthy, nutritious salad. Then, the bat-phone vibrates silently on the kitchen table. There is an Emergency. It’s understated, but urgent. And I am the first Superhero to be called.

Sophie has left her lights on, bless her, and is stuck at the train station in the rain with a flat battery. What a sucker!

My switch from post-work-wind-down mode to full-cape-and-jumper-leads was instantaneous. I was sitting in the peak-hour traffic going nowhere within minutes.

To the other side of town I flew, in my suped-charged Camry. It’s an extraordinary car for jump starting. Actually, I think it’s the first time it has been doing the jumping instead of being jumped, but that’s a different story and features mechanical terms which turn me into a Damsel.

At the scene I was straight to work, peering closely at the frigging battery and wondering which was negative and which was positive. The lack of clear markings was a severe hindrance to an otherwise remarkable jump start. Engines purred. Mine shuddered, actually, but let’s not get bogged down with trivia.

It was unfortunate, really, when the jumper leads had to go back in the boot and I had to remove my cape and armour.

I will say that Sophie was an excellent Damsel. How lovely of her to let me be the Knight, even if it was just for the night. Ha!

Silly point.

Posted in deep backwards squareTagged , 3 Comments

I’m sitting in the Southern Upper at the Gabba devouring a barbeque chicken with Shorn Lowry. We both freely admit that we are more excited about feasting on the bird than the cricket. Warner hits a belter, straight to the boundary, but I’m more interested in my drumstick.

The first of the One Day finals, Australia versus Sri Lanka, was a ripper match. It had everything; impressive one-handed catches on the boundary; balls smashed out of the ground for six; rowdy Sri Lankan supporters; a jump-out-of-your-seat finish; and, of course, beachballs.

There’s no need to stop reading if you’re unfamilair with cricket and perhaps missed out on the six-and-out, one-hand-one-bounce fun we had as kids. This is more a post about the off-field shenanigans. For me, the crowd’s antics are the sole reason to hoof it to the stadium. Let’s face it, you do get a better view on the telly.

The atmosphere though, is where it’s at.

I’ve never seen more Sri Lankan flags flapping and Sri Lankan people chanting. They have a pretty imposing flag, too, with the reds and oranges and a big bloody Lion staring at you. The commotion the away-fans created tonight was reminiscent of someone giving birth. There were drums, tambourines, hand-painted signs. A cannon, even. In my opinion the ruckus surpassed the Swarmy Army and the Barmy Army. Only South American soccer fans have showed me more enthusiasm.

For the home team, the local lads often provide a bit of an ambience.

The guy behind me, for instance, insisted on commentating the entire match. “That’s wide,” he’d say, very laconically. Or “that’s a four.” The match did include several fours and wides, but never when he called them. He was determined to give me a bum steer. I’m not sure if he was trying to trick me, but I was decidedly confused about the match whenever I tuned into his observations.

In fact, I spent much of the game confusedly trying to understand the field placings.

I successfully used the phrase “that was a good cover drive,” in context early on in the match and fancied myself a cricket buff. I was determined to know more so I could one day trade the grandstand for the plush commentary booth. With Lowry’s assistance I managed to lock down Off Stump and Leg Stump. Long On and Long Off followed relatively easily.

Mid Wicket and Square Leg is where it all started going wrong. They are in exactly the same place.

But it did not stop there. “What’s the difference between Fine Leg and Deep Backwards Square,” I demand of Lowry, “they’re the bloody same thing.”

“About 20 metres,” he answers, a smug grin on his face. He loves knowing about these things.

After half an hour’s extra tuition, I think I’ve got it. I can name almost all of the cricketers and their possies. I even know their numbers.

Without warning, however, the batsman changes and it all goes awry. Left-handedness and right-handedness have never created such crucial changes. Except maybe in golf.

Fine Leg, or was it Deep Backward Square, is now the Third Man and there’s another dude up near the First Slip.

“Who’s that,” I ask. “Oh dear. It’s a new one.” Lowry puts his head in his hands. “That’s the Gully,” he tells me, a note of resignation in his voice.

I do the maths and there’s still about two hours left before we’ll be clinging to the edge of our seats. I change tactics.

Despite my obviously inferior cricket knowledge, Shorn Lowry, did not mind making a few bets with me.

We wagered icecreams on how high Australia’s tally would be. The drumsticks were my shout.

Then we bet on when the game would finish. I owe Lowry a bloody dinner for that one.

Just for good measure I decided to back Sri Lanka. They were down and out for a while, but teased me with a come-back and hit some brilliant runs. Ultimately, however, I’ve also been charged with mowing the lawn this week.

Really, I’m lucky to get away without owing an oven clean and a car wash.

A big shout out to Amber for the tickets. Thank you!

Photo from ESPN Cricinfo

Down the rabbit hole, I go.

Posted in rabbit hole2 Comments

My Disney education is sorely lacking.

I have worn my cultural dearth as a badge of pride for years. It’s good fun to watch people screw up their face, incredulous, as I tell them I have not seen the Lion King. Or Alice in Wonderland. Or Mary Poppins. Even Grease alluded me as a child.

I like to say I was outside playing. Eating worms, is the more likely story. Or building dams in the gutter with my brothers.

Sitting inside with the telly on just didn’t cut it when there was exploring to be done. I like to think that’s the reason. It’s not because we were too busy watching obscure documentaries and the ABC News at 7. Surely not.

What surprises me is how impervious these cult films are in our culture. For example, I was introduced to Star Wars last year. For 23 years I went without seeing those epics. Then, I was convinced to trudge through the entire six episodes. It is six, right? And I enjoyed the films immensely. But I knew half of the characters before the DVD had started playing.

I was petrified of Darth Vader during my childhood, without ever being confronted by him. As an adult he was still truly terrifying.

Luke Skywalker; he was like an old family friend who moved to Romania.

May the force be with you; I’d been saying that for years, like some fool blindly guessing what the context was.

Alice in Wonderland has caused quite the stir, too. Today, after a blissful morning at the markets, Shorn Lowry, his hot girlfriend, and I were taking a rather long stroll home. So long, in fact, we had to stop at a boutique brewhouse to quench our thirsts.

Over a pale ale and a dark lager my cultural ineptidue, and Alice, dogged me again.

“How could it have happened,” Shorn and the hot girlfriend wonder, about me missing Alice jump down the rabbit hole.

“I was playing outside,” I smugly reply.

Shorn is not having a bar of it. “We’re going to watch it this afternoon,” he says. “You just have to.”

But then, we all wonder whether the film will have the same impact on me as an adult as it did on all my peers who got in on the action as kids. Will I enjoy the Alice adventure? Or have they romanticised these fairytales amongst memories of their own awesome childhoods?

We decide on the Johnny Depp version – for obvious reasons.

Once again I note how many of the themes in the movies I already know well; the White Princess; the Hatter; a few spoonfuls of Wishful Thinking; the rabbit hole; and, of course, Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

But then there are some delightful moments of genius that blow me away. I won’t spoil it for anyone else who is yet to broaden their sphere to include the delightful children’s movie. Actually, I wouldn’t want to be showing that film to the young-uns at all, it is bloody scary in parts.

I will say this, however, Alice in Wonderland is as much for children as adults. The film’s beauty is tied to the edifying themes which are relevant regardless of age. What a delight for me to just be finding the story now. And, best of all, I’m so behind the times that there’s plenty more goodness where this came from.

It’s never to late to jump down the rabbit hole.

Can I interest you in a bum steer?

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I donned my pretty dress and pearl earrings. I splashed on some mascara and chucked on a pair of thongs – you never want to look like you’re trying too hard – and caught the bus into the city. A trip into town is almost a glamour adventure for a girl that works in the suburbs.

The $5.20 one-way bus fare was a bit steep, I thought. But that’s how it is in the Big City.

Not to be waylaid by the delightful pie shop and other Big City treats, I headed straight to the visa office. I walked in the door of the Chinese conslate with confidence. The man at the door took one look at me and a juicy grin emerged from his bushy beard.

“You look happy today,” the security guard says. “But I’ve got bad news for you,” he adds, clearly delighted with himself and his bad news.

The consulate is not the visa office, I soon find out. This guy reckons he’s already told about 30 people that this morning. He’s not bothered in the slightest. Clearly, watching all these people get it so wrong is good fun for Mr Security Guard.

As he pulls out the mud map of where the actual visa office is, he indulges in a few stories. One sucker, he tells me, came in looking for a visa. The guy was from Adelaide and “he thought he’d just get it done while he was here in Brisbane.”

“I told him, mate you’re going to have to go back to Adelaide. They don’t do them here.”

“And they don’t even have a visa office OR a consulate in Adelaide.” He is almost rolling on the floor in rapture at his own wit. Am I really at a consulate, I begin to wonder. I’ll admit, it’s a great yarn and a great attitude to the constant barrage of visa queries this guy must face. I wonder what the guy from Adelaide thought?

The joke reminded me of a similar piece of mischief I indulged in a few weeks ago at my brother’s engagement party.

I was dutifully preparing lunch for the whole crew. I had eight chicken and salad wraps layed out on the bench and I was feeling just  a little too virtuous. Always dangerous for me, feeling too virtuous. So I chopped up a few hot chillis and distributed them amongst the wraps, giving a few of them that extra bit of spice. “That should liven things up,” I thought and rubbed my hands together, just like Mr Burns would.

The wraps were divvied and the crew thanked me profusely. “No worries guys, it’s my pleasure.”

Oh and it was such a pleasure to watch the entire party struggle through their lunch. One poor bloke had to lean up against the fence for a good few minutes to get the feeling back in his tongue. Another emerged from the house spluttering and complaining about his lips. They were on fire.

“Geez, you really did a number on us there, Pen,” my dad commented, his voice reeking of pride. Even as he reached for the milk, I could just tell Dad was revelling in the trick.

“You’re a legend, Pen,” he would have said, if he had any feeling left in his mouth.

It was a fine moment, but not because of my lousy trick and everyone losing their sense of taste for the rest of the weekend. They appreciated the gesture of my practical joke. That I had somehow made lunch time interesting. How thoughtful of me!

It’s just like the man at the consulate who found a funny side to his job. His enthusiasm brightened my day.

More jokes are needed, I say.

Let’s bring back the whooppee cushion. Spend less time on sports and other sideline pusuits, such as work. Our creativity should be put to use thinking up good tricks.

It cannot possibly be the weekend yet! Oh yeah, it can. And it is.

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Flatmate number one is off on a beach trip. Flatmate number two, Shorn Lowry, is probably escorting his hot girlfriend to a triathlon or saving the world from people who dump old furniture in parks. I think my parents are probably off on a winery tour. My brother is hanging with his hot girlfriend. Cooking her a nice juicy rib fillet, I reckon.

And me? No plans.

Maybe I’ll do some exercising; like a light walk or some stretching, which is barely exercising at all. I could pack some of my favourite possessions into boxes. Or annoy the neighbours with some sax practice.

Nothing too illuminating there.

A completely free weekend is a rare occurance for a single gal. I’m not bragging here. Keeping busy and social is at the heart of my pursuit of happiness. But, a free weekend, that’s liberating and almost a treat.

There it is, stretching in front of me like an afternoon without snacks after a light lunch. How liberating.

We were contemplating this tonight and then Shorn Lowry puts the unasked question, the one I was avoiding, on the table. “Will you have many free weekends when you’re in Charleville,” he muses. “Like not at first, but after you’ve checked out the place and done all the touristy things?”

I’m stumped. My impending move to Outback Queensland excites me. It’s keeping me in a heady state of anticipation. Life will change dramatically. That’s the point! And I’m not one to get too bogged down with realistic thinking. “You’ve got to get your head out of the clouds,” I can hear my mum telling me, totally exasperated.

“I don’t want to. I like it up here,” I reply in a tone of voice that demonstrates my place in the family: youngest and the only daughter. Ha. Take that!

But there’s that niggly voice, it’s bloody Shorn Lowry – will I be lost without the crazy schedule of coffee dates, drinks, lunches, dinner parties? Gosh, I spend a lot of time eating; maybe I will be thin when I’m in Charleville. Or i’ll just eat alone. Is that sadder than drinking alone? I’ll let you know.

Or I’ll rock it.

All I need is a goal, or a few goals. Here they are: I will create a bountiful garden to tend to on weekends, and probably weekdays too, as is the needy nature of gardens; I’ll join the local netball club, the Yabbie Racing Society and probably the local theatre company; I will learn to paint and to speak another language; I will get to know the local pubs and their inhabitants, maybe I will even get to hang my hat above the bar one day – that’d be a coup; and, above all, I will learn to spend a weekend alone and happy.

Now, for this weekend’s goal. Maybe I’ll sort out my underwear draw and clean out the pantry. Or not. Maybe I could just chill and revel in my liberty. Even, heaven forbid, enjoy it.

Because, the schedule is not going to be empty forever. Next weekend I’ll have that garage sale, and I’ll keep the old green chair, mum. I promise.