I'm starting to feel Whole Again

Yesterday I had an appointment with Chelsea Westminster Hospital. Orthopaedics clinic. And the news made me wanna cry.....for joy.

Of course, Preston rode to that clinic! Here I was, sitting around in my lycra, holding my bike pump, looking sweaty, surrounded by people on crutches and with limbs in castes. Before I had the procedure, I would turn up on my bike, and hobble into the clinic. I imagined everyone thinking....'well what ya expect....riding a bloody bike with a limp!'

So, sitting in that clinic felt good yesterday. When they called my name, I strode in. I imagined everyone thinking '...what the hells wrong with her...she looks fine to me..'!

It's been so long since I strode with confidence.

You see, about 8 or so years ago, I damaged my knee. I tore a ligament in the back of it. I had an operation in 2001 to fix it. It didn't work. I then had a cyst removed. That didn't work. I had an operation last year in May. May 13th to be exact. Friday the 13th.That didn't work. Then about two weeks ago, I had another cyst removed. For some reason, it feels really good.

And much to everyones disgust, I have tested my knee in the last week. Of course Preston just cant take all that well meant advice. Stuff like...'now take it easy wont you', and 'don't do too much'. For the record, thanks everyone for that advice, but I hate hearing it. Hate being told what to do. Hate living in 2nd gear. Never have, so why start now

So Preston went to a party last week and danced her heart out. Half way through the night I thought....'bet Ive screwed my knee up tonight'. It doesn't matter when I took the plunge, whether it be now or in 6 months...if the knee is gonna screw up, its gonna screw up.

So I woke up last Saturday morning, and wow......it didn't hurt!

So riding the other day, I decided to push it. A few sprints outta lights and cranking it up a hill in the saddle oughta do it (if its gonna go). Nup. It still felt good the next day.

So many times in the past, I've felt that sick feeling go through me as I felt the knee twinge...showing signs that all was not well. Its kept me awake, aching after a ride or a night out. Maybe all that will happen again. But for now, I feel better than I have felt for years.....

I'm not limping. Not favouring my good knee.

On the way home from work last weekend, I rode past some people practising softball. I decided to ride right up to them and ask if they were a team. They were. Its pre season and they're looking for players. I joined in for a bit. I told them that I have a knee problem so possibly would have to play on a base and not run when batting. Wow. Maybe Preston will get into a team sport again!! Have wanted to play softball, baseball, and fencing among other things for a while. But that damned knee.

I have always had a romantic view of cycling Europe. Imagining myself doing the Alp 'Duez. Maybe that idea is not 'off the table' yet.

I'm starting to feel whole again. And Preston is excited. It's time to put life into 5th gear again!!

What Makes Preston the happiest of all!!!!!!

Since I was about 19 years old, cycling has been a huge part of my life. I didn't have a bike as a child. Not sure why. I asked for one so many times. I guess my folks thought it wasn't that important. Maybe they were scared I'd do something silly...like go and get myself killed. I used to watch my neighbours ride around. They had a bike to spare sometimes, so I would ride it. As usual, learning was a case of my brother saying...'just ride Jenn...I'll hold you up from behind', only for me to hear him laughing in the distance and shouting out 'NICE ONE JENN', as he hadn't been holding me at all.

I started commuting to work on my first bike....a road bike. Cant remember how much it was. It was my main source of transport. I loved the freedom it gave me. I realised I could go anywhere...there were nothing I couldn't do. Remember my friend Andrew and I riding into the centre of Sydney. Was about 14km. We took the main roads. I was amazed we had ridden that far. I was tired yet had a sense of achievement. Didn't really look back from there.

I was about 20 when my brother bought a bike with clipless pedals. What is this? You lock your feet into the pedals? But what if you fall off? That's weird? I bought a bike about 6 months later with clipless pedals. Of course, Preston started riding even more, throwing myself into the challenge. I would ride to work, ride to the pool, ride to parties and of course ride to the beach. The only thing was, the beach was about 20-30 km away.

I started training, cycling about 60-80km a day. My friends just accepted that Preston was into another sport. But cycling wasn't just another sport. It was my time. My thinking time. My time to push myself, whilst taking in the sights, smells etc.

I quickly became quite fit. Quite strong on the bike. I started going cycling with a guy, who, although a bit of a loose canon, was incredibly fast and fit and an A grade cyclist riding for 'Northern Suburbs' Cycle Club. When we rode, we would climb hills and descend like mad people. I would try to maintain the same line through a corner as he did.....but that was scary. He never used the brake and just leaned into the fastest, scariest corners. But he taught me how to corner fearlessly. Years later, I would find myself riding that same route. There was a 1-2km downhill section. I had met a couple of guys on the road, a few k's back who I ended up riding with...seasoned guys. We were doing the downhill, and I was on the front, taking those crazy corners, thrilled at the freakish speeds and lovin them descednts. When I reached the bottom, I had lost the guys. When they finally caught up, they couldn't believe how I had taken those corners. I guess I had a good coach.

I started going on cycling holidays. A couple of trips to Tasmania and a 2 week tour around the south island of New Zealand. Magnificent views, amazing climbs....even more amazing descents.
I met a guy, Peter, on that trip, who I ended up falling for. He became my partner in everything, including cycling. He got me into racing. Except, when I got into racing, my enjoyment of cycling diminished. I'm competitive. But when I realized I was beating myself up, busting everything so that I could become the best, I stopped. Racing that is. Not cycling. I guess I know my limitations. So Preston was back on the bike.....cycling excessively, and loving every minute of it.

I find London a hard place to live for cycling. I cant get on my bike, Ruprect (named after a character from the movie Dirty Rotten Scoundrels), cycle for 10kms and be out of the big smoke like I could In Sydney. Have to throw it on a train. And don't get me started about the weather!

So friends that know me, know that I have had a knee problem for about 8 years now. Bloody thing has stopped me from enjoying my cycling. I have even taken a few years off because of it. But I have decided that the pain I have from cycling is far outweighed by the pleasure! I just cant ride like I used to. Used to be able to climb mountains, in the saddle, but now, I have to not push myself too hard. if I do, then I am hobbling!

What the hell!! I don't care! I will cycle till the day I die. It makes me happy. Nothing can beat the feeling of knowing you have reached somewhere on your own steam.

Watch this space. Preston has plans to start cycling Europe and the rest of the world!!!!!

My Childhood Experience



Please bare with me on this. This is quite a cathartic experience. I don't talk about my mum. I probably need to. Sometimes people who have known me for ages, stumble upon the fact that she is dead. I don't offer the information. One thing for friends reading: I'm not writing this so that we can talk about it. I don't wish the subject to be brought up. Period. I don't want sympathy. Maybe some will understand me more. This will pretty much be one of the only times I have talked about her illness without being drunk.


Growing up, I never felt that my mum was ever truly happy.
She was homesick. Missed her family, and friends, not her birthplace, England. Maybe the same will be for me. My self-fulfilling prophecy.

I remember my mum having strange episodes when I was as young as 10yrs old (or around there). I remember trying to get her to sign a sick note because I had been off from school ill at home the day before. She forgot how to sign her name. My brother and I became frustrated with her, wondering why she couldn't do something so simple.

I used her memory lapse to my favour in future times, convincing her that she was signing for my being sick, when I wasn't. Convincing her because she literally couldn't remember.

I remember her losing her handbag practically everyday. We would search for it. I was angry she had lost it again. Looking back, maybe I was actually scared. Did other mothers have problems like this?

We found her hand bag in the washing machine. Among other strange places.

She used to get names mixed up, getting stuck to remember mine and David's (my brother) name, sometimes calling us each others name.

Dad was never home. He worked two jobs from 6am in the morning until 9pm at night. Until recently, I didn't realise how much David and I covered up from him, not telling him the problems we were having with mum.

I heard stories recently from neighbours. They had previously kept them from us. One day, they found mum, frantic on their doorstep, saying that a strange man was in the house and she didn't know what to do. Turned out it was Dad.

I pretty much have blanked a lot of what happened. The forgotten names and faces; my intolerant reactions to such obvious problems. Guess I wanted to believe that this was just a case of a bad memory. When I found out it was early-onset Alzheimer's, my first question was, 'how is it treated'.

Alas no treatment.

There are certain times that, when I think back to them, bring me to tears. Some just make me feel sick. I arrived home from school one day, walked in the back door, and mum started screaming at me. She was demanding that I left the house. She didn't recognize me. She was afraid of me. I was afraid for her. I was deeply affected. She eventually calmed down. She eventually realised who I was.

People with Alzheimer's start to lose their short term memory first. Long term memory stays with them for a while. That's why bilingual sufferers always revert back to their mother tongue. Although mum wasn't bilingual, she did revert back to experiences from her years growing up in England.

When studying for the HSC, I would wake up, get mum up, get her in the shower, wash her urine soaked bed down, wash her, sit her down to breakfast, and go to school. She would sometimes fight me in the shower. Sometimes she would look at me in despair, and I would see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. A look that asked, 'What is happening to me?'David and I kind of shared the burden. I cant really remember it...exactly. I just know that I was guilt ridden by my reaction to it. Resenting my mother for being sick. Resenting my father for not showing her love in the years leading up to her illness. Hating myself for not being the dutiful daughter.

She eventually was admitted to a nursing home. The day they took her, she knew something was wrong. Nursing home staff were there, convincing her she was going on holiday. She looked at me with resentment as if I was the culprit. I resented my neighbour, Jenny for being there. Taking over the situation, explaining to mum that it was just a short trip. Inside I was screaming..'fucking-well butt out bitch....This is something you should not be a part of'.
I felt guilt because I wanted mum to go, while my heart ached for the wonderful woman she had been. The sickly ache in my chest was almost too much.I didn't want to face it anymore. I didn't want her to forget me. Didn't want her to look at me with contempt. Wanted to feel normal. Maybe I will never feel quite normal.

The years that followed would find the lapse in time between my visits growing longer. I would leave it for months between visits. This was fairly heart wrenching for me as the longer I left it, the more obvious the deterioration. Forgetting to walk. Forgetting to chew. Eyes that only showed recognition of who I was in mere fleeting moments. Eventually, eyes which never showed recognition.

I think I have denied so much about it, that I am unable to remember what happened and what it was like. To this day, I will start to remember mum, and feel a little sick, because remembering her means remembering her illness. I cant seem to divorce the two.

We got the call that she had taken a turn for the worse. My father, David and I rushed to the home. We stood around her bed as her laboured breathing slowly came to a halt. Her final breath was a long sigh. It was over. I felt guilt, relief, pain. Lots of pain. I felt like a fraud. How could I mourn her death? I had hardly visited her in her final years. I'm sure David felt the same.
I was studying nursing at the time. I had an assignment due in that week. The day she died, I went to my university lecturer to ask for an extension. She gave me 2 weeks. I failed that semester, and hence the whole year. I failed 5 out of 9 subjects. I did not return to nursing.

I was unable to accept people's sympathy. Didn't want them to ask me how I felt. Didn't want them to hug me. Didn't want to talk about it. After all, this was no big surprise. We knew she was going to die. I tried not to cry, but to no avail. I did though, keep it to a minimum......in public.

My experiences have seemed to shape my future relationships. I seem to put up an independent front. I am afraid that if I come to rely on people, then if they leave, I will experience the same feelings of loss I have felt from the loss of my mother. I would love to place my trust in someone. To let them shelter me. Alas, this scares me so much.

I will opt to do things by myself. Afterall, I started looking after myself from the tender age of around 14yrs I think.

Mum was a very jovial character. Always smiling. Or so I'm told. I resent the fact that I never got the chance to have an adult relationship with her. Have girly chats. Get her approval/disapproval on boyfriend's. Go for coffee. To say sorry for not being the helpful daughter she had expected. I think we would have been great friends. We would have been almost best friends. She could have told me childhood stories. She could have been proud of me for my achievements.

Losing a parent when young is a hard thing to deal with. I'm beginning to realise that watching a parent die slowly without dignity is even worse.

Tipping the Balance

After my tirade on a host of song lyrics I feel duty-bound to bring to your attention, some truly fabulous lyrics.

Please indulge me. The following lyrics are romantic and just make me feel schmoopy. And I have to ask. What woman wouldn't want her nearest and dearest to think like the lyrics of this song. One can only dream........

The Luckiest
by Ben Folds

I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?

And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you

Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

Lyrics Which Should Be Banned

The other day, I was listening to a Jon Bon Jovi song (please don't mock me), when some of the songs lyrics wafted through my consciousness. I thought to myself.....did he just sing ....'she was a Venus de Milo in her sisters jeans'? As I was online, I raced to a song lyrics website and lo and behold, there it was. An example of such appalling lyrics, that I was knocked sideways.......let me share with you my discovery

That night I made a move, man I felt hard
When I put my hands in her cookie jar
She was more than a girl, she was a cabaret star
I was a deer in the lights of a speeding car
Nothing's what it seems
She was a Venus de Milo in her sister's jeans

The song is Jon Bon Jovi's 'Queen of New Orleans', (I said DONT MOCK ME!).

I know, I know. You're wondering why Preston is listening to this. Can I state for the record, that Preston is not perfect (contrary to popular belief). Sometimes I get it wrong. Horribly wrong. So much so, that Preston may have to resort to self flagellation as penance for such a vulgar crime.

Anywho, I got to thinking about how many songs out there are flagrantly pushing the boundaries in standards. After some research, I came across a whole load of bad rap lyrics (who would've known). I decided to bypass these as there were far too many.

So..... I have some major contenders here. Have a read.

Open a soda pop, watch it fizz and pop

The clock is tickin' and we can't stop

Open a soda pop, bop-shi-bop-shi-bop

The clock is tickin' and we can't stop

Britney Spears, “Soda Pop”

When the rainy days are dying, Gotta keep on, keep on trying
All the bees and birds are flying Ahhhh...
Never let go gotta hold on and Non stop 'til the break of dawn and
Keep on moving, don't stop rocking Ahhhh...


5ive, "Keep on Moving"

You're the one who makes me feel alright

When I look into your eyes, you know you're really out of sight

I'm for you and you're for me We could stay together so easily

POP POP POP POP POP POPSICLE!

Girl, can't you see? You're the one, you're the one for me!

[Chorus ]

POP POP POP POP POP POPSICLE!

[repeat to fade out]

New Kids on the Block, "Popsicle"

Ok.....I admit. It's easy to find crap lyrics with these particular artists. So just to prove that Preston doesn't just pick on crap boybands and talentless popsters, here are some lyrics from a more respected bunch (well, up until u read these lyrics...then u decide if ya still respect them).

Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun.

If the sun don’t come, you get a tanFrom standing in the english rain.

I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.

I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.

Expert textpert choking smokers,Don’t you thing the joker laughs at you?

See how they smile like pigs in a sty,See how they snied.

I’m crying.Semolina pilchard, climbing up the eiffel tower.

Elementary penguin singing hari krishna.

Man, you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe.

I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.

I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo.

The Beatles "I Am The Walrus"

Whilst flying through an azure cloud

A crystal girl I'd spy

She kissed the blue bird's honey tongue

And stuttered as she sighed

I wish to sing the chicken song

Ching-A-Ling song is fine

I'd give my jewels and caviar

To make this daydream mine

Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling,

Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling,

Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling, Ching-A-Ling

Doo dah doo doo dah dah, Doo dah dah dah dah dah dah dah

David Bowie "Ching-A-Ling"

And I couldn't POSSIBLY leave this blog without reference to this song. Read the lyrics. Weep. Read them again. Thank Christ this is probably the only time you will EVER come across them.

I stab people, 4, 5 people everyday

I tried to see a shrink to stop that shit but it ain't no FUCKing way

I stabbed him, stabbed his nurse and his fucking cat

Stabbed them! Stabbed them all like that

I stab people I know, I stabbed Alex, my manager

He was like, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I stabbed him in the gut!

I order food just to stab the guy when he gets there,

I don't care

I stab anybody anywhere

(uh, uh) thereI stabbed the mailman, he was pissed, he tried to mace me

I'm to quick with the stabbing, come on, come on, taste me

I stabbed Twizted, Jimmy Madrox, I stabbed 'em

Myzery stabbed me OWW!! Goddamn him!

I stab old people, ladies, little kids,

I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!

I stabbed a fat guy in the but (hehe), what?

I met Pete Rose and stabbed him, twice in his nipple

I'm Violent J, I stab people.Maybe somebody can help me [4X]

Insane Clown Posse, "I Stab People"

Goodness! Their mother's must be proud!

My Friend Fritzy

I have a wonderful friend named Fritzy. She's Austrian. She's Jewish. She's approximately 4'7 tall (or short whichever way you look at it). She's 85 years old.

Firstly, I'd like to state my dismay at how many of my friends (after hearing I have an 85 yr old friend), have asked me if she's financially well off! Shame on you.

I first met Fritzy when I was working in home care for a West London nursing agency. I was debriefed at headquarters. Apparently, Frederica was 80 years, and needed assistance with her daily routine because she had broken her arm after falling off a sun lounge whilst holidaying in Switzerland. On ya Fritzy!! My immediate thoughts were that I was going to meet a live one here. Possibly a haughty type.

So off I rode.....A-Z in hand...off to find this thrillseeking granny.

When Fritzy opened the door, it was like a comedy....I was looking straight ahead to say hello and slowly averted my eyes down....down....down further. She came up to just below my chest. I felt like an amazon in her presence. Her thick Austrian accent intrigued me and brought a smile to my face everytime she uttered the word 'Und' (apparently German for 'and').

I helped her bath, get dressed and get her breakfast prepared. I also had to put her arm in a sling. She didn't ask me to do this. She just referred to the cloth tie that she was supposed to wear but no worker prior to me, (there had been 4), could manage to put on her correctly!!!! So Preston was like...."do you have the triangular bandage?" She was impressed I knew the correct name. After I had fixed her arm in it correctly, she showered me with praise....went something like this......'Und, und...you're AMAZING.....you're so c-l-e-v-e-r......so smart...und...und'.

For the record, can I just say that Preston does not think she's clever and amazing for correctly applying a sling. Shame on my predecessors for not knowing something so simple. They must of trained in the dark. Ha...there goes my sense of humour again...like they trained.....hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah.

Anyhow, Fritzy and I developed a friendship over the following months until it was time that she didn't need me anymore. Except, Fritzy pretended that she still needed help, so I would get to her place, where she would make me coffee and we would sit around and chat from 9-10am every morning.

Piece by piece, I found out about her life. Growing up in Vienna. Escaping the Nazi's by fleeing to England, (her brother to Sweden). Her parents didn't escape. How she met her husband (a Polish Jew). Her life in London. Her travels. Her friends.

I think people underestimate the aged. In a youth-infatuated society, we overlook the wealth of information the elderly possess. Fritzy doesn't have to consult with a history book to remember the war. She can reminisce about London over the last 60 years, commenting on how it has changed, both for the better and worse.

She has thoughts and feelings like everyone else. And Opinions!!!!!! Dont get her started on Blair and his bogus alliance with Bush!!!

Just the other day, she was down about the fact that she has had to give up bridge because she has trouble remembering the cards played and feels she lets her team mates down. I was trying to console her, saying that at least she got 50 or so years playing time behind her. But she set me straight....she first learnt it at age 70! What a dynamo!

Fritzy and I go walking in summer. We catch a couple of buses from her place in Shephards Bush to either Hyde Park or sometimes to Regent's Park. The pace is slow....extremely slow...but we walk along, taking in the sights and smells, marvelling at the frantic pace that revolves around us.We often walk from Lancaster gate to one of the cafes, where we order coffee. She never lets me pay. I never protest. She loves treating me. I love that she loves treating me.

She has been mugged three times in the last 4 years. It makes me sick to think that people would take advantage of such an obviously frail and open target. But I guess thats why they do it.

I love Fritzy.

We're Dealing with People's Lives Here!

In my many years experience working in the field of social care, I have come across some situations that would make your toes curl. Some situations that were downright appalling and abusive. Situations where the quality of care, was non-existent.

I would say, on the whole, that when it comes to front-line staff I have deducted a foolproof (pardon the pun), formula for the make up of staff. Basically, take the average IQ of a society.....then deduct approximately 20. Scary huh.

Reminds me of a really good put down I once heard. Goes something like this,'...Can I get the blueprint to your brain....cos I'm building a fuck wit...'

Good social care workers are like gold dust. Keeping them motivated in their job is a managerial nightmare.

My sense of humour keeps me going. I laugh at the idiotic questions, responses, and general ineptitude of workers. I laugh while secretly being dismayed at the lack of initiative and standard of care. I try to not think about the fact that a close family member was probably subjected to a standard of care that was rushed and lacked the humanity that is so, so necessary. Something as small as the stroke of someones hair, the gentle touch of their hand to show that you care. Maybe when their relatives seem not to care.

I started out working with aged people. I shudder at the 'production line' care that I was trained to give. Time restraints and under-staffing meant that those poor people were subjected to rushed care. I rebelled to some extent, taking more time when getting people ready for their day. Alas, a belligerently stubborn hierarchy would forgo my approach, in favour of a tragically efficient routine, which meant that people were given less choice, less care, less humanity.

I moved on to learning disabilities, working for government run group of residential care homes. I ended up working for a power-hungry manager who was abusive to both staff and tenants. Am glad I worked in that environment, because I always gauge my managerial performance against that twit of a manager.

Anyhow.

I have been beaten up, beaten down, chased up a street on New Years Eve, while trying to dial 000 (Oz emergency number), kicked, stabbed, had hard objects thrown at me, called a bitch, slut, cunt, and Aussie cunt (a favourite of mine). And you reckon I've had enough? Not a chance. Cause when it all blows over, these guys need people to support them. I'm no mater. I get frustrated like anyone else. And when something works.....like a breakthrough where someone learns a new skill, well the rewards are immeasurable.

So, it irks me, that front-line staff lack the initiative to think outside the box. When a tenant/client raises their voice, it is branded as 'challenging behaviour'. "Ooh....lets get the aggressive disabled person on a behaviour modification programme..." So I'm faced with 'trigger happy' staff who take offense when being called a 'bitch'. ???? I take issue with this.

God....I could go on forever, but no doubt will return again and again to this topic. To end on a light note. An agency staff member rang me at home yesterday morning...at 0745 hrs, to ask me whether she should call an ambulance or the police, because a female tenant had been slapping herself very hard in the face. My response?

Preston : Has she knocked herself out?

Agency worker : No

Preston : Does she want to press charges against herself?

Agency worker : No

Then my guess is you don't need an ambulance or the police.

True story.

Stay tuned for more to come soon.

My Life In Two Boxes (not including my books)

Came across some photos that I brought back from my recent trip to Oz. Old photos. My brother and I as children. Me through the years. My friends on various nights out. My gorgeous mother. Got me upset. Remembering old times makes me both laugh and cry. I did more of the latter.

When recently in Oz, I had to sort out the possessions I had stored at my fathers house. He is moving and cant take my stuff with him. I can be a hoarder at times, yet when sorting, I am ruthless. Boxes and boxes of possessions were discarded. In the back of my mind was'...well, if I ever move back, I can just start again...' Sometimes I feel my life has been a series of starting again. I limit my possessions so that when I move on next it will be easier to move. I limit my friends so that its easier to move on.

In the two boxes were items that represent particular times. Old photos, a stuffed toy, love letters, an old jewellery box. Old books are a particular favourite of mine. I can remember receiving them, how they smelled, how they felt. Old children's books like 'The Muddle-Headed Wombat', 'Princess Tales', 'The Magic Pudding' and 'Blinky Bill'. I would read them over and over again. I remember my mum telling me that if I rubbed a particular picture with my finger, it would bring the smell of that picture alive. My imagination was great, and I conjured up smells and feelings that I would never forget. Sounds silly, but I found that time magical, stable, safe.

So, there are two boxes, sitting at my dad's place in Australia, that represent about 35 years. When I go back there next, I will look through those boxes and smile. Read my books and conjure up smells. Hug my teddy bear, (Commander Crumbcake). Rifling through photos, I will remember the sandpit and how my beautiful brother would look out for me and protect me. Remembering how as a child I would lie down in the front garden of our house, looking up at the clouds, and make pictures. So simple really.
Remember the times I sat around with my friends in that amazing Oz weather, laughing, playing charades, getting drunk, falling in love etc etc etc.

If you would allow me to be all whimsical and romantic, I can say that the soundtrack playing in the background of my life, as I rifle through those boxes conjuring up memories both happy and sad, would be Hoppipolla by Sigur Ros. I have no idea what the song is about as it is sung in Icelandic, yet it has much emotion, with backing orchestra and a cute percussion bell. Kind of represents my childhood that bell. As the photos fly in and out of my line of vision, I feel the music helping to tell a story.

If I were to move now, I think I could fit my last 5 years into a 1 box,(not including my books).

And I think that is how I like it. For the time being.........................

I want her DEAD. I want all her family DEAD! All her pets.....DEAD!!!!


Today, I got to thinking about a character from my past. Someone who, was so intrinsically evil, that if I was playing some weird life game with my maker, and was given the choice that, before I move on to my next life stage, must put a name forward to be contract killed.....it would be this person.

And no! Its not an ex-boyfriend (I only have the utmost respect for each and every one of them......hahahahahahahahahahahahah).

To protect myself, I will refer to her as K******.

Thinking about her, I recall a story my friend Julie told, after attending K's 21st birthday party. After having been there for several hours, Julie turned to her friend Sue and said, "look at the people here....half of them hate her and the other half have fucked her...." (nice one Jules....I will always respect you for that comment).

How true that was.

Now, I hear you saying....'hello....is there a little jealousy going on there Preston?' Well hell yeah. The girl was good looking, popular with the boys AND had great hair!!!! Though, what she did with that hair was a tragedy......the wedge undercut was a complete travesty!!!!!

I remember my first 'dealing' with K. Standing in line at the school canteen, I was 12 yrs old. She was in front of me. Someone pushed me from behind, which had the knock-on effect of me going up the back of K. She turned around and sneered "Fuck off" at me. I was mortified. Nobody had ever sworn at me before, let alone use the 'F' word. She was a bully. But not a dumb bully. A reasonably intelligent bully. AND, she was in all my classes. Oh god the pain!

Did I want to be like her? Popular? No! I just wanted her to leave me alone. Now, I know several of you are probably saying...'But Preston......why didn't you just combat her with your rapid fire wit?' Well, I was a bit more of a quiet one at school. I actually paid attention in class and often would sit up the front of the classroom. No, I didn't have the confidence to take her on.

She could smell my fear.

She hunted in a pack as well. Her fellow dogs included A****, J***, A*****, S** and S*****. A couple of them turned out to be nice people. Of course they always need the back up of others. But, I'm not saying they constantly bullied me. I wasn't really bullied at all. Not by bullying standards of today. They just made some of my school life harder.

It is with great pleasure, that I can report, that at our 10 year school reunion, she wore the most appalling grey taffeta pants suit. The girls at Go Fug Yourself would give her a roasting!!!

That whole reunion thing is something I never want to do again. The reason it is a reunion, is because you have fallen out of touch. And that is FOR A REASON! Cos you never want to see half the dumb-asses again. Its not like you choose your schoolmates. Your thrown into the 'ring' and expected to fight your way out somehow.

Fortunately, I happened to be thrown together with some truly wonderful people! Andrew, Tim, Yulia and Julie.......you are much loved and cherished. You are all on my wavelength(poor you).

Thank god that I came away from school with some truly great friends and experiences!!!

Now.....does anyone know the number for any decent contract killers out there?