me, myself and I

Writing is more than words. Most people know this right? Well maybe not, because at the end of the day you either open a book to the first page, get swept away and buy it or put it back on the shelf. No harm done. Except to the author who slaved for weeks, hours, months and days on writing the very prose you just so casually disregarded.

It’s nothing personal. After all it comes down to taste and style. For this very reason I’m nervous. It’s hard enough to write, but it’s even harder still to get your head around the fact that the baby you are nurturing may one day, turn out to not be readable or in fact very good.

I have my own writing style, as does every aspiring writer/author, but I’m not arrogant enough to assume that this is the way people would like to read. So with this in mind I have been doing some research.

For a Chic lit style book you might ask? Yes, even though I have ‘experience’ in the world of men and women as well as dating and relationships including the embarrassing and hilarious situations you can often find yourself in, it still needs research.

I can’t stop thinking about the first page, I’ve written about nine chapters over the years (this needs to be 12 by the time I’m done) but it all comes back to the first page. I’ve written and re-written it a hundred times.

In thinking about this first page, the main thing I always come back to is tense. I have always related to and loved books which are written in the present tense and told via first person. When I open a book and the character jumps off the page and starts talking to me like a mate I’ve met for coffee. That’s when the true fun begins. Not when I’m reading about how the character has willowy size 4 figure, long ash blonde shoulder length hair, a cupid bows mouth and eyes which are a stunning aquamarine. That is more likely to make me think, who do I know like that? And do I really want to know more about them?

If it feels like someone you know or would love to know and who is or has been in the same situation as you, that’s when my interest is piqued. So this is what I’ve tried to do with the lead character in my book. Lisbeth. I have been writing Lissy’s voice for years but its only now as I ponder tense and read and re-read my favourite books that I realise the only way to tell her story is via first person.

While some of the stories and situations she finds herself in are inspired by real life and imagined events, it is very much a work of fiction. So it’s with this in mind I’m starting to re-write many sections of the book.

It’s a torturous but rewarding process as I start to hear her voice become stronger, more eloquent and relatable with every change I make.

Hopefully by the time I’m done, when someone opens the first page they won’t be able to stop themselves from turning to the next and the next.

But just in case, the next time a book on a shelf catches your eye and you skim to the front page, give it another 30 seconds and perhaps even turn to the second page. Someone’s heart and soul has been poured into that and you may just find yourself or someone you know hidden amongst the words.

Xx

J

introducing the big red..

So while life might be indeed slower watching the jacarandas bloom and fall and kookaburras mock all who pass, I don’t want to turn grey before my time.

With this in mind I decided to go for my first Gympie local run. No big deal you may say but for the runners out there, it’s daunting. You have a regular beat; a circuit you follow that is familiar as the back of your hand. It has markers where you know you need to push yourself and others where you can go easy if you’ve overdone it lately.

Trying out a new run circuit for size is always dicey. It can affect your pace, momentum and focus and I must admit I was more than a bit nervous to try out the new route I had plotted. A quick little 5km run not far from home. Bordering some bush but not so much so that I’d be fighting snakes or bushrangers for my patch of the path.

I went with mum in the car to check it out beforehand as I plotted it. It seemed easy enough, at the time that is.

I’m an evening runner through and through, but as I didn’t know the area I thought a morning run would be ok for the first start. Not the best of ideas really especially considering animals are most active in the morning.

Did I mention Gympie is in a valley? So it has quite a few hills. Change that it has A LOT of hills.

So I started off on my run, struggling up the hill on our street and then careened down under. Gathering speed and turning up my volume I started to get into the swing of things. I dodged some of the branches on the paths and then crossed over a park where a session of boot camp was getting underway. I surreptitiously decreased the volume on my head set to listen in on the session, to see if the trainer was as hard core as those in Brisbane. I heard him shout out “that woman is running faster than all of you combined, get going you lazy lot”. I must admit it spurred me on. Until I saw the hill ahead.

I’m sure this hill wasn’t in the circuit when I did the pre-run lap with mum. Surely I wouldn’t have signed off on having such a thigh burner in my route? What to do? All eyes from the boot camp were still on me and I felt the obligation to perform, perform, perform. I didn’t want to turn around and just amble in a different direction, I also didn’t want to puff out midway up like the non-energiser bunny and fall flat on my face in front of everyone.

So I kept persevering. But step by step, my run got slower, I’m sure those girls in the park where now going miles faster than my snail pace. I sneaked a glance back at them all. The trainer had his hands on his hips and was staring in my direction. Shit. Double shit.

How do I get myself into these situations? Suddenly I started to feel my spare key start to slip from the spot on my hip down my leg. As I worried about catching the key without stopping and losing momentum I didn’t notice the big red roo to my left on the footpath. In fact I didn’t see him until we were less than a metre a part. Face to Face.

He was stained a dusty red, double my height and standing on his tail and back legs. He had no plans to relinquish his part of the path which was home to a tree with some kind of nut which he was maliciously munching on while eying me up, his next human victim.

He was what many would class as a ‘boxer’ type kangaroo and let out a scream. The roo stood firm and I thought what mum would say when she got a call from an ambulance saying I’d come off second best to a kangaroo who had ripped me from chin to toe. At the same time I fell off the side and onto my knees.

My scream no doubt attracted the attention of the boot campers who would have looked up to see a fully grown woman on her hands and in knees, as if in mock worship in front of a big red kangaroo. The roo looked at me like I had rocks in my head and bounded away.

I recovered my senses and struggled up the hill with a bruised knee and ego. While I’m the first to admit I’m hard of hearing, there was no missing the voice on breeze which reached me; “Silly city girl.”

My country camouflage had officially been blown. Apparently country folk don’t scream at roos on a regular basis especially when they are terrified of being torn a new one.

You’d think after that experience I’d be plotting a new run route or better yet a route to the nearest treadmill, but no I’m off to do the same route today, later this afternoon.

I’m ready to go toe to tail with the roo again, to prove once and for all I can be more country than city, at least for a quick 5km run that is. Watch out Gympie, a new road runner with a Rambo attitude will be out on a street near you soon.

Xx

J

country currency..

It’s safe to say that my first week as a lady of luxury in the country has been a bit of a blur. I’m still finding myself getting lost amongst the jacarandas and paddocks, I’ve only just discovered the main drag of town and caught glimpses of hidden gems scattered about town I intend to explore.

Some of these gems I’ve yet to discover include a traditional fudge shop (purely for research purposes only), one of the oldest butchers in the area which is decked out like they used to be in yesteryear, the old valley rattler steam engine and some ramshackle buildings that look like they have more character then big kev himself.

It’s only been a taste of country so far, but what I’ve sampled has been more than enough to whet my appetite for country living. Of course I’m not really 'country’, my parents don’t own chickens (the neighbours do so perhaps I get brownie points for this) nor do they own cows, more than one dog or even an acre of land. But somehow it still feels country.

The houses near where we live are close together, suburbia like. While we back onto bushland, it’s by no means ‘country living’. You won’t see me fetching eggs with my wellies on and a broad brimmed akubra, milking the cows or feeding the pigs any time soon. Despite that, kangaroos, galahs, cockatoos, magpies, wallabies, possums, rabbits and bandicoots all make their presence known in some form or another.

The whole town itself has a bit of an undefinable air to me. It’s hard to explain. My mother was born in its borders, my grandmother was also born and raised here as was her mother. Some of our relatives still live in the area as well, having previously run dairy farms.

The Queenslander my nanna’s mother used to live in still exists and it’s not far from where we are now. She used to live right by the railway tracks and had to lift up the traffic beam every time the train was nearby to stop sulky traffic and eventually later, cars.

As a former gold rush and pioneering town, Gympie is a name that’s most likely to elicit more smirks then smiles. When I told friends in the UK that this was where my parents were moving to after calling the Gold Coast home for two decades, they unoriginally asked ‘is that where the gimps live?’

I don’t blame them, it’s an unusual name of a town nestled in the midst of the Mary Valley. A town bypassed on the way to coastal holidays. Quickly forgotten and little more than a Hungry Jacks or Red Rooster fix or toilet stop for most.

But for me it’s now home and I’m still trying to figure it out. I, like most are used to rudeness and impolite folk. I’ve written a post on it previously and I’m sure it won’t be the last, being one of my biggest pet peeves.  But in Gympie, it’s a different story.  I have been stopped several times by the sheer friendliness of everyone in the local centre while doing food shopping and getting odds and ends.

Smiling seems to be the currency of the country. I can’t go anywhere in town or around without someone asking me how I am, how I know people, what my name is and what I do for a living. For someone used to rudeness, it leaves you a bit overwhelmed. Slightly shell shocked even,  with the realisation that the concept of personal space is not something that’s widely indulged up here.

As a result of being around all these steadfast smilers, I’ve found I'm starting to turn into one as well. God forbid. I’ve caught myself walking and smiling like a silly git over nothing other than a smile or nod between strangers.

Just the other day while walking the dog, I came across a spritely, crinkly old fella in his akubra leaning against a ute that was more road then roadworthy, looking every inch the rough Australian larrikin. He couldn’t have been a day under 80 and as I approached he took off his threadbare hat and gave me a ‘morning’ and smile for free.

I hadn’t done anything to deserve it apart from crossing his path and he could have just as sooner turned his head and kept within his own personal space.

Instead his one act made me pass on another five smiles that morning to dog owners, fellow walkers and runners alike in turn making me feel like some kind of smile beneficiary, dolling them out left, right and centre.

Maybe it’s all the free time on my hands that made me notice all these exchanges, perhaps all the eucalypt in the air has made me go soft or perhaps I’m just seeing far too much good in what is very much a random act between strangers.

All the same you can’t deny there is a different currency in use in the country, whether you live in town or on the land, or are just passing through and best of all, it’s free.

Xx

J

Steam trains ahead..

Pics of the weekend...


1) a sneak peak at my life size bday cake - a massive cupcake :)

2) one of the gorgeous jacaranda trees in the area

3) night's mackerel sky

4) warning old fashioned steam trains ahead :)

Introducing the world's biggest bookworm..

Me. Yes I have and always will be the world's biggest book nerd and since I've started this self-imposed, navel gazing, book writing sabbatical it's made me think a lot about the kind of book I want to write.

I'm no Ghandi, I certainly haven't travelled to India, Indonesia and Italy (well Italy yes but only for the cultural experiences, not gelati scoffing, wine guzzling and perving, honest) so I can't write about becoming enlightened, nor can I write about helping to change the world through world peace or joining an action group in Africa to build housing for starving children. I've never climbed a mountain higher than my driveway, cycled through Antarctica or somewhere cold and I've certainly never shaved my head for a cure or done anything outrageous apart from a select couple of tattoos and piercings in discreet and hidden places.

No the one thing I can write about, the topic I do know a lot about is men and specifically relationships. Not the secrets to them, but the misfortunes and most importantly the laugh out loud cringe moments when you realise what you never thought would ever happen, is happening and its happening to you.

Boys. Men. Sex. Love. It’s the perennial topic, I know it’s been done to death but I've always found it them to be the topics everyone wants to talk about. When you've had a few wines, you don't want to talk about that guy who cured cancer (which should definitely be applauded) instead you want to talk about the guy who you shagged recently who has a nose picking problem. Fact.

Just recently I was watching a documentary where an international counsellor was talking how she was responsible for assessing the mental health of female refugees who'd escaped an African nation awash with civil war. These women had experienced rape, murder and all kinds of atrocities first hand. Naturally when she went to speak with them individually she was prepared for tales that would make most shake in their boots. Instead, the one thing most of the girls wanted to talk about was love or guys they had met in a refugee camp and how their lives were torn upside down by it.

Even in the midst of all that grief and despair, there is a very human part of us that just seems to come back to one thing: boy + girl.

Many have a complete disregard for so called 'chick lit' books, fluff and nonsense, but at the end of the day I'd rather read about a girl who I can relate to rather than a girl who lives a dream life or achieves some far flung global peace prize act. Everyone has the obligatory books on their book shelves that make them look smart and educated. The ones which are cultural and speak volumes about the owner as being one of those 'creative types'.

But what about the books you always reach for? For me, the books that always have stayed with me and are the ones I go to recommend to others or re-read are those who have made me laugh out loud or cry with laughter. Just thinking about some chapters in Danny Wallace's Yes Man or Jessica Adam's Single White Email make me start to smirk and smother a giggle. And if I'm completely honest, while they didn't change my life in any profound way, they certainly made me smile and laugh and for that I'm grateful.

So as I use this blog to procrastinate about the book I'm trying to write, why I'm writing it and how it will be written I hope for three things really;

A) to finish it
B) for at least one person to read it
And C) for it to make someone laugh.

If I can do all that, then and only then will I consider it an accomplishment:)
x
J

Ps. attached are a few pics of books I've come across in the local book exchange. Classic country western books that are traded like comics by fully grown men. Awesome.

It is also home to rows and rows of corset ripping mills and boons. It seems mills and boons are doing a roaring trade in gympie :P I've never actually read one so perhaps my next challenge should be to read one and see once and for all what all the fuss is about.. til next time ....

rows and rows of mills and boons..

country and western comic anyone?

Just give me a home amongst the windmills

some random local sights I came across today which made me feel like tipping my hat and uttering a yee ha

X
J

Pics of the day..

The George Clooney of dogs: Gorgeous as ever, our black lab never fails to keep me company when faced with a keyboard and a blank computer screen..

And glimpses of a gympie sunset, they grow them beautiful up here..

let the countrification begin..

The bags are unpacked, bond is returned and I've exchanged the sounds of cars beeping in the morning for magpies.

Instead of being shocked away with electronic beeping from my phone I now have a black wet nose from our family Labrador as my alarm clock, nuzzling me awake most days.

The day I arrived I went along to a local get together, it was a free bbq sausage sizzle and I'm not one to turn down free food or drink so I went along.

While there I got wind of some waitressing work at a newly opened restaurant and cafe and before long I was talking to the manager, putting myself forward for some casual shifts. 

With a bit of personal PR I had somehow arranged to come in on Monday to have a chat about some potential work to supplement my savings while I write by day.

Definitely a step in the right direction, that is until he uttered his parting phrase, 'just bring along your cv'.

Normally I'd be completely confident with this, seven years experience in Journalism and PR? Got that. Client and staff management? Absolutely. Issues and Crisis Management skills? No problem. Social media campaigns? A walk in the park. But none of this showcases my ability to make a cappuccino, or make sure someone's meal is accurately delivered to their table. Neither does it promise that the wine I'll need to be uncork is not left with it partially embedded, forever tainting a $70 bottle of merlot.

Oh yes that. I can safely say I've never spent so long on a CV or agonised on how best to hide my skills. Not that I'd think they'd judge me on the fact I've had a corporate career, but I must admit it does look a little odd. So I pushed my waitressing skills to the top of the list and highlighted my days spent behind espresso and wine bars during my university and early journalism days.

I neglected to mention I hadn't made more than three espressos at once in more than 5 years, my plate setting is more than a little rusty, in fact I've been known to just give guests spoons and coffee cups for wine and the last time I wore a simple black and white number, it was for a cocktail event, not for serving them.

Not to mention the shoes, heels just do not do when it comes to waitressing. Something I learnt in my very early university days. I still recall my second shift at a tiny Italian restaurant in a pair of gorgeous black heels which I spent a small fortune on because they looked more smart then causal. I very ungracefully went A over T in front of staff and customers alike with a tray of red wine, turning my black and white ensemble into a pink and black affair. Lesson learnt. Smart and casual is a very very fine line to tread.

But all this was getting ahead of myself, he hadn't actually offered me the job yet. Prior to going in I ummed and ahhed about what to wear, smart casual is such an insidious term. No two words can a girl into fashion turmoil faster. It really should be banned from the English language all together.

So nerves aside I opted for flats, a black skirt and pink top, hoping I'd be more memorable if I wore colour, of course it could always go the other way with him remembering me as the silly corporate girl who tried to turn cafe. I researched a la carte place settings online, where knives and forks go (somehow over the years I'd forgotten this), what temperature the milk needs to be and most importantly if I should tie my hair back or not.

But it turns out Gympie is more casual than smart when it comes to job interviews. He took my CV, had a quick look and said he'd get me in for a few shifts next week. Just like that I've jumped off the corporate ladder and into the frying pan so to speak.

Everyone must think I'd be shaking in boots and plain mad for trading in a high paid corporate career for a minimum wage with an apron while I work on a pipe dream, but I've never felt better. The freedom of it is overwhelmingly liberating and makes me think perhaps this whole smart casual thing isn't so bad after all...

x
J

rustically charmed

And so I have arrived and just this morning, while taking the dog for a walk I discovered a junkyard for classic cars where they are restored to their former glory days. I couldn't resist sharing a few shots..



here's looking at you kid..

rust bucket heaven.. 

 old but still in style

 in good company

 shine and polish..

love at first headlight

 

not long til I'll be doing a bit of this..

a dear john letter from the rat race

Three days til D day. Til l I throw it all in. Bags are packed. Flat is clean. Stuff is moved.

The flat has been cleaned to within an inch of its life. In fact, I've had more of a relationship with my cleaning cloth then people this last week. It's not a bad companion with the exception of its conversational skills.

While the keys get handed back today and I say goodbye to living on my own for however how long, I feel like a proverbial snail, carrying my home on my back. In fact most I'm sure most will avoid me on the road because I look like the  woman who lives in her car.

My poor little Festiva is jam packed with an old style 1930's vacuum cleaner, mop handles, doona covers, pillows and boxes and a random chair as well as an assortment of clothes and cleaning products.

So after spending the night on a constantly deflating air mattress at a very generous friend's house, I headed off to work today with '3 days to go' ringing in my ears. Perhaps due to the radio, or the fact I was in a hurry, or perhaps the fact I chose to ignore the transit lane sign I somehow ended up smack bang in front of a traffic policeman. Mistake number 1. I honestly am not the best at sign language so when he thought he was gesturing for me to pull over,  I took it to be him saying to keep going.

So when I did he started doing the angry arm dance and told me to stop. It wasn't until I pulled up next to him that he said pull over in the next street that I started to get an inkling then that perhaps this morning might not turn out in my favour. So in a hurry to get it over and done with I zoomed off. Mistake number 2 for the day.

Unfortunately for me and the police officer, I didn't wait for him to get clear of the car and somehow managed to run over his foot in the process of my departure. In my rear view mirror I saw him jumping up and down and yelling. I was torn, do I do what I originally was told to you and park around the corner, or would this be considered leaving the scene of an accident?  I stayed put and went to get out and asked if he was ok. He yelled, "You ran over my foot, how do you think I feel? Go park your car now". By this point though, the traffic was now standing still, all staring, all staring AT ME. School kids in cars were sitting with their mouths open, mothers were tsking and there were more than a few smug smirks and laughs being directed my way. They were all thinking the same thing at once "a) typical female driver and b) thank god it isn't me."

I went and cautiously parked the car waiting for the tirade to come. And it came, for a whole 15 minutes before he issued me with a fine for the transit lane violation and after repeated apologies, decided not to proceed with an assaulting police office charge.  I suspect this may have been an arrestable offense. Relieved and more than a bit unnerved for this unexpected start to the day I tried to drive off but instead of taking my time, breathing and just taking extra care. I tried to rush away. Mistake number 3.

In my rush I bumped the car which was parked in front of me. Did I say bump? I mean jolted. The other car moved a couple of centimetres. I looked to all the drivers still craning their necks to watch the goings on, the policeman who was back to staring at me and shaking his head and I looked to the car in front. So I got out, went and put my licence details on the parked car then got back in my car and drove off. In the wrong direction.

So by the time I'd got to work I had somehow perfected a traffic violation, assaulted a police officer, hit a parked car, gone in the opposite direction of my work office and somehow got lost in inner surburbia Brisbane and in the middle of it, caused a traffic jam.

Brilliant start to the day if I must say so myself, what better note to end my last week in the rat race on.

x

J

cinderella musings..

I seem to living in a bit of a cinderella time warp.

By this I don't mean that I have two evil step sisters and step mother breathing down my back or a fairy godmother in the wings ready to turn things from ordinary to extraordinary or  even a prince ready to whisk me away to a happy ever after.

No what's got me thinking about cinderella, is all this cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. I'm getting ready to move out of unit and the inevitable bond clean has been looming over my head for a while.

Those who know me well, know that cleanliness or tidiness I should say has never really been my strong suit, always with the best of intentions, I seem to descend quite regularly into what I call organised chaos.

The process of packing this organised chaos, is just that. Chaos. In a bid for extra cash and to avoid having to move everything with me I turned to  gumtree.com the bargain, basement shoppers paradise to sell all my worldly goods and possessions.

And while on the whole it was successful (15 out of 12 items sold), I have come to the conclusion that people who use web to find bargains are a bit.. original.. by that read kooky and just a tad unusual.

I've had some odd requests from people on the hunt for a bargain:

· One man wanted a photo of me sitting on the lounge he bought before he left as a souvenir, I told him in no uncertain terms that this made me uncomfortable and the cost of the lounge had now gone up another $20 due to his odd behaviour. He promptly paid and left. Something to think about for addressing other freakish behaviour in the future.

· One woman wanted a photo of me on the bike so she could see the size proportion. So I obliged and sent her a text with the pic of me on it. She then said it wouldn't be suitable and when I asked why, she said she couldn't see herself on it and the fact I had brown hair made it hard to picture. Enough said.

· The day I posted the ad, I put up 7 pots for sale (I had murdered the plants in them, so they were just dirt) and by 5am the next day I had received 15 calls and one guy came by at 7am to pick them up. It literally was the first thing to be sold. Keep in mind these pots were plastic and black and green, no collectors’ items.

· I had two boxes of Tupperware, one woman wanted me to send pics of the sizes of them and the colours and if I could take pics of them all lined up. Naturally with all the effort involved she didn't end up buying them

And it goes on and on, there was one girl who paid in full for a wall unit she just never came to pick up, and the guy who came and just seemed to scope out my unit and the doors very closely. Luckily I had a radio in the other room and pretended my flatmate was in there. I probably should have known he'd fit the odd bod category when he introduced himself as waldo.

A quirky fact for you - more than 70% of people who turned up expected me to help them lug the furniture, including fully grown men with double the muscles of myself. Not to self, next time put on a fake neck brace so all the heavy lifting is delegated to the freaky people rushing to claim possession of someone else's stuff.

So with all my worldly possessions now in storage or in other people's hands, all that's left is to clean, clean, clean and hopefully avoid passing out from the fumes of oven cleaner.

Already my vacuum cleaner has died in an explosion of sparks, I've patched up holes in walls only to put my elbow through it again less than 30 mins later and the moths and spiders lurking under and around cupboards will keep my nightmares well stocked for many months to come.

Best get back to it and think it’s high time I admit to myself,  that no matter how long I look at this bottle of mister sheen, he's not going to turn into my prince or fairy godmother.

x

J

the only thing to fear is fear itself..

A bit speechless about the hole Steve Jobs will leave in the world. You don't have to be a tech geek to appreciate what he was and what he achieved. Big dreamers and thinkers are what keep us inspired and always looking forward.

Makes me think about my fave quote from him. There are a few, but this is definitely in the top 5.

"Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything -- all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart. ... Stay hungry. Stay foolish."
-- Stanford University commencement address, June 2005.

It's never to late to get naked and foolish..

x 

J

The return of the gentleman

All these thoughts about common courtesy, decency and general good manners got me thinking about an experience I had in London last year.

It gave me hope that gentlemanly behaviour and chivalry does exist, it just needs a bit of mouth to mouth now and again. So I thought I'd share...

During my three years living and working in London I became more than accustomed to all the cut throat tube door entrance shoving, discreet elbowing, guerilla hand bag maneuvering and tactical eye contact avoidance that comes with the daily tube and bus working day commute. The mantra  most repeat to themselves is it's every man and woman for themselves and keep calm and carry on.

But for one night only, towards the end of my stint there, chivalry was the order of the hour and a gentleman made an appearance, this time not in the form of the pages from a Jane Austen classic or from one of my silly daydreams.

I was stuck on the C11 bus with many other tired weary souls who just wanted to get home. The bus was already packed to the rafters, and I was one of many standing. It was a perilous choice, either lean my face away from one commuter's musky, sweaty armpit only to end up pushed up against someon's back which was already damp and slimy with back sweat.  Hardly the setting for a chivalrous act to say the least.

When the girl hopped on the bus, she looked bedraggled and I barely noticed her. She looked how I felt. Her hair was wet from the drizzle, she had far too many sainsbury's shopping bags and her handbag was dragging along the ground. I saw her stumble near the first row of seats then make her way to the standing section where we were all trying to maintain our balance and ridiculous bubbles of personal space at the same time.

Suddenly a man who until now had looked completely sane and normal in his work suit and tie stood up in the first row of seats and shouted at her "Are you going to apologise for that?"

The whole of the bus averted their eyes, but turned down their ipods in mild interest.

"I said sorry, what did you expect your leg was in the aisle?" she replied back.

"You don't just step on someone's foot like that, show some respect," he shouted back at her. Shouting for no reason at all really, as the bus had fallen completely silent by now.

"You saw me struggling but you didn't move, I just tried to get past," she replied and shook her head to dismiss the ongoing conversation.

He was practically going purple in the face with anger by now and blurted out "Stupid fucking cow," and sat back down shaking his head.

The rest of the bus seems to be in a bit of mild shock and I must admit I too was shocked that a stranger would speak to someone else like that, let alone a man to a woman.

I looked around at the other men on the bus who were  swapping looks of outrage with each other when one man raised his voice, "That kind of language is uncalled for when talking to a lady, I think you should apologise for that," he said clearly and evenly. To which many on the bus retorted with 'Here, here".

The purple faced suit man stood up and turned around incredulous and said "The stupid cow deliberately stepped on my foot. No need for that kind of behaviour on the bus and I was sick of it," he responded, clearly not ashamed of his outburst and more than happy to go into bat for another argument.

To which the gentleman replied;

"Regardless, no one should be spoken to like that. Show some respect for all the women on the bus. Imagine if she was your sister or mother, you wouldn't want someone talking to her like that. I don't care if her heel ended up chopping off your wee little pinkie toe. It's uncalled for you should be ashamed of yourself,"

I swooned as did many other women on the bust. That's right, I swooned for  this ordinary, hum drum looking fellow, with a wedding band (I noticed this when he first spoke up) who hadn't struck me as overly memorable five minutes earlier. Chivalry is sexy, boys please note.

The angry man went to pipe up again and the girl interupted and said this particular passenger does this everyt ime she gets on, if its not her, its someone else who has pissed him off and he has a go at them.

The angry man was starting to rant now and have a go at The Gentleman saying,

"I fucking deserve to be left alone on my home from a hard working day and not have to put up with rude bitches on the bus.." 

and he was going further when another bloke piped up and said:

"All those who think this man should shut his mouth or get kicked off the bus raise their hand now,"

And wouldn't you know it, the whole bus put up their arms including the bus driver who tapped on his microphone and said, "For those of you who can't see I've got my arm up too, so you, mister trouble maker big mouth, you can shut it and let us all get home in peace or get off"

The bus broke out into a random applause and the purple angry man sat back down grumbling and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the journey. What added icing to the cake was every person who went past him on the way out said "Excuse me, Excuse me" and made a big deal of being overly polite when they went past angry purple faced man. 

One woman went past and said to him "Now you have a lovely evening now, smiling is better for you then frowning," and it made the rest of the passengers have a bit of a giggle.
 By the time I got off the bus, The Gentleman had well and truly departed and when he did, he did so to a round of applause from the rest of the remaining passengers.

All in all it was a heart warming  brush with chivalry and  left me wondering if there are other gentlemen out there, perhaps in Brisbane or Gympie even.

There may indeed be hope for chivalry after all...

Is decency dead?

With only 10 days until I leave the big smoke behind and head bush I've started to think about where it is I'm going.

I'm moving from a city of 2million to a town of 10,000. Quite a jump you would say.

But the lack of people might actually be something which is in its favour.

Let me explain, in just today alone;

• I've been given two fingers and abuse while driving (I'll be the first to admit I'm not the best driver in the world, but I'm certainly not the worst)
• I've had someone open their car door onto mine while I was sitting in it without apologising
• I've had a woman jump in front of me in a line at the newsagents 
• I've been served by a post office employee who didn't look at me once when I paid for my postage.

I'm sure it's not just me and frankly I'm far too young to be writing blogs about how the world has gone to hell in a hand basket, but it definitely seems to me that manners and common courtesy is going the way of the dodo.

Acclaimed author and social/cultural commentator  Alexander Mcall Smith  certainly thinks so. He recently spoke at the Festival of Dangerous Ideas  about how this is indeed happening across the board and how good manners, decency, honesty and simple courtesy is now well out of vogue.

I'm sure there are a ton of reasons for this trend, the never ending rat race treadmill, the crackberry and its endless red flashing light letting you know there are emails to be read at all times of the night, social media addiction and the endless pursuit of the almighty dollar all have a hand in the untimely death of good manners.

I'm guilty myself of just saying a rushed and insincere thank you to that tired check out chick at woolies without actually looking her in the eye, or genuinely meaning it when I ask someone how their weekend or day has been.

I do the corporate eye glaze. You know the kind, where you look like you are listening, but no one is actually home and your head is thinking, now when can I check out of this conversation and do what I want, or ask her what I really want to ask? All due to basically being in rush.

 Now I'm checking out of the rush, the rat race myself, I'm noticing the lack of manners and common courtesy more than ever. Just last weekend when I was in Gympie and went to drop off some stuff, the woman in the local convenience store asked me what my name was and if I'd been in there before.

I actually felt like I'd been slapped in the face. When she then said she hoped to see me again soon, (which she will), and wished me a lovely day I actually believed her. And you know what it felt good.

Funny how something so simple can brighten your day.

So with all the madness of my packing and sorting my life out so I can move to the country to focus on my book, its good to know that when people in Gympie ask you how you are and wish you a good day, they really mean it.

x
J

time to get countryfied

Caution has been officially thrown, boxes filled, furniture sold, pictures wrapped and the scent of pine cleaner is in the air. It can only mean one thing really, moving

Only this time, I've decided to trade it all in. It's not just a new flat, flatmate and suburb to get used to. I've thrown in the job as well and at the grand age of 28 I am moving back in the parentals.

Did I mention they live in the country? two hours from the nearest proper city?

Gulp..

I've decided to make good on the throwaway line that I occasionally let slip at parties and social occasions, "yes I work in PR, but I used to be a journalist and am working on getting a book published."

Now to write the damn thing, of course I've done bits and pieces over the years, pulled together the remants of about 6 chapters, but they are going to need some re-writing, especially as I keep changing tenses, style and format as to how best to relay the story that unfolds.

It clearly is going to take some time, so with that in mind I've decided to take some time and put my money where my mouth is and write it.

Whatever 'It' turns out to be.

This means moving back in with the olds as a lodger, doing freelance work (if possible in this turbulent market) and writing the book that has been trapped in my head and heart for so long, lets hope it reads as good on paper as it does in my head.

With one and a half week's left of civilisation, I'm hoping this blog will help chart the success or lack there of the transformation of a girl who has always lived and loved cities to a relaxed and zen country bumpkin turned successful author.

Whoever said follow your dreams, clearly didn't have pack and move in with their parents to get there but as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

x
J