Open Seseme

Making all these grand travel plans has made me realise that I'm not a very flexible person.

Once I get it in my head that something is going to be a certain way, I obsess over it. I build it up and build it up and build it up until it sits upon a pedestal so high that nothing can reach it. Reality stumbles at its feet. And I am ultimately left dissapointed by my grand expectations.

In fear that my overseas trip is going to fall subject to this flaw of mine, I am making conscious efforts not to develop unachievable expectations. I figure, by having no pre-conceived ideas about how things are going to be and not creating fantastical scenerios in my head - like meeting Prince Charming or bumping into Anna Wintour in the street and her offering me a job - I can't be left miserable by what reality dishes out.

Therefore, I am being open-minded, flexible and accommodating.

And it's speaking of accommodating that I was recently faced with my first test - before I'd even left the country.

Before heading off to camp, I will be spending my first two nights in New York at the Hostelling International Hotel. Beds are bunk beds and accommodation comes in the form of the following:

1. One room with four beds 

2. One slightly larger room with six beds.
3. One even larger room with eight beds.

4. One very large room with 12 beds.

Hmm - a far cry from the queen mattresses and 3000 count cotton sheets of Los Angeles SLS Hotel.

So here in lies the question - When staying in a hostel where it costs a golden goose egg to have your own room, do you...

A. Fork out for the more expensive rooms, share with three to five other people and be tucked in nice and tight beneath your comfort zone.

B. Forego buying a few coffees over the space of the next week and opt for the eight bedded room

C. Slum it with the other poor-as-beggers backpacking plebs and opt for the cheaper room which comes with the complimentary experience of being out of one's comfort zone and meeting random people you might never see again.

Tricky... very tricky.

As I weighed up the options, bouncing back and forth between the 4 bed room and the 12 bed room, I realised this was a defining moment. If there was ever a time to break through my inflexibility, barge through the Holier Than Thou travel routine I've developed (a result of travelling for work and getting spoilt for choice with pillow menus), then this was it. 

So I made my reservation, clicking on the 12 bed room and keeping all my appendages crossed that I don't get stuck with someone who snores.  

I'm so flexible, I'm like a human pretzel.

And with the $15 bucks I saved by sharing my sleeping quarters with 11 other travellers, a pretzel might be just what I buy as I take a walk through Central Park.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cure

I’ve developed a thing for feet. Not a fetish as such. I don’t get woozy when I see them. I don’t want to dip them in a chocolate fondue fountain or stroke them while crooning “My precious, my precious”.

My thing for feet is more of a concern, a personal interest in their health and well-being. Just like some people spend their pay packet on products fit for cleaning, cleansing, toning and abolishing acne from every square centimetre of their sunny disposition, I finance the world of feet care. Nail clippers, moisturising creams, pumice stones and buffer pads. I have one whole bathroom draw dedicated to my feet maintenance, not to mention a collection of nail polishes which could revival the OPI headquarters.

Who knew there were so many shades of red?

However, upon graduating from university, accepting my first real job and suddenly coming into more monthly pocket money than I was accustomed, my fascination for foot care took toe treatment to a luxurious new level.
I discovered that you don’t have to soak your feet in your own bath for half an hour before bursting a blood vessel trying to pumice your foot calluses into obscurity. You don’t have to put your back out trying to clip, file and buff each individual toe, nor carefully apply perfect layers of Cherry Red nail lacquer only to kick your toes on your way to the kitchen. In fact, the tedious task of foot care can all be left up to the trained professionals at your local nail salon.

How could I have not known about this before? How could I have gone 22 years without experiencing the sheer, blissful indulgence of having someone tending to my toenails with so much professional passion?

Indeed, the best sins are those which feel disgustingly glamorous. What could be more indulgent than paying a woman to rub my feet with her own two hands as she sees to my every crack, callous and cuticle?

Not having to do anything other than sit their like a lazy lard with a foot fetish. Sure, I can choose to throw my nail technician the occasional bone by chatting about the weather or the differences between Fairy Floss and Cotton Candy pink. But it seems nail salon employees are about as eager to speak to you as you are to put your darling, dainty toes through a meat mincer. And so it is that we both keep to ourselves, them washing my feet like I am Jesus and me continuing to flip through my trashy magazine with all the airs and graces of the salacious celebrities I’m reading about.

Okay, so putting out the pennies for a pedicure does seems to assume the type of caste system long outlawed by Western politics, but I figure the concern I hold for my 10 little piglets is keeping at least five bunion beauticians in business, so it's not as sinful as it seems.

However, there is a small problem with becoming familiar with this kind of treatment. When you lose your job and become suddenly poverty stricken, any unnecessary expenses must be immediately exterminated. And that means no more salon spas, no more deep tissue toe massages, no more fantasy feet. When the times are tough, one must become her own bunion beautician.

Returning to the days of scrubbing my own feet flat and rubbing moisturiser into my own calluses and holding a steady hand as I carefully paint each individual toe is only a further assurity of my demise. I'm sure it's how celebrities feel when their careers take a plunge into obscurity and nobody offers them free Chanel to wear to the markets.

While I must come to terms with this sad culling of pleasure from my life, with it comes the opportunity to re-connect with my footsies. After all, once this tumult of bad luck is over and I finally get my foot in the door, it's them I'll have to thank.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: So About What I Said)

Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

Bestie and I went out to The Sheaf on the weekend - a watering hole in Rose Bay which attracts some of the more attractive animals from the Sydney jungle, and is therefore an attractive destination to frequent as a young, single female.  A good time is always guaranteed there. It's a bit like Brisbane's Royal Exchange Hotel- except without the ever present stink of stale beer and vomit wafting up from beneath the deck's floor boards.

It just being Bestie and I, we found ourselves to be easy targets by gentlemen who were out on the prowl. It's that whole 'divide and conquer' techinque - two women standing together alone are much easier to speak to than a whole gaggle of women. Anyway, I would have been fine with all this useless chit-chat if the men who were approaching us weren't rude, judgemental idiots.

Upon being approached by a duo of men, (who in honesty, and judge me if you will, we wouldn't have blinked at in any other circumstance), both men began talking to Bestie, leaving me to stand silenty with my hands in my pockets, listening to their conversation. I wasn't grumpy. I wasn't bored. I was simply being silent. However, despite this being the case, one of the gentleman who appeared to be the alpha, turned to me and said, "Why are you so serious?"

Me? Serious? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as serious as a joke store.

To which I replied, "I'm not being serious. I'm just standing here."

To which he replied, "Well, you look serious. You look serious and unapproachable."

Me? Unapproachable? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as unapproachable as an excited puppy in a playground.

To which I replied, "Get out of my face, you judgemental ass! Why don't you take your serious and unapproachable and stick it were the sun don't shine!"

Ha - not really.

But what did follow was a rather heated conversation about this man judging me without any clue about what kind of person I am.

Now while I understand and agree that something like 80% of what you express is through body language, I don't understand or agree with this man coming up and accusing me of being serious and unapproachable. As far as I am concerned, I was being neither. I was being silent. I was waiting for the conversation to take a direction I could join in with. And if this man wanted to get to know me, he could have asked me anything else other than "Why are you so serious?" He could have asked where I was from, what I did for a living, what kind of shampoo I like to use - questions I would have been happy to answer and which would have given him a little insight into the kind of girl I am. But no - this presuming idiot decided to go fire up all my cylinders with 'serious and unapproachable.'

What I didn't appreciate was the fact that, according to this man, I was not allowed to be silent and inactive. I was not participating in the conversation because it was not my conversation to participate in, not because I was being haughty and disinterested. What was I meant to do? Whip out a sudoku while my friend finished her conversation? Whack a toothey fake smile on my face in case anyone was confused about whether I was happy and excited to be there? I WAS happy and excited to be there! And if this man had taken the time to start a conversation with me before jumping to conclusions about my being 'serious and unapproachable' he might have worked out that I am A HAPPY AND EXCITING PERSON TO SPEAK TO!

Anyway, his loss. Bestie and I made a quick getaway to the bar where we ran into a strange South African man who said he thought I was adorable. And then kissed me on the lips. But it's okay, he was gay.

At least, I think he was. You never can tell at The Sheaf.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex and So About What I Said)

The Customer is Always Right (Unless They're Wrong)

Today was one of those hectic days that makes me stop and realise how much I hate my life.

They don't come around all that often, which is good because I hate it when they do. I was working a full-day at The Cafe (7:30am -4:30pm, which I realise is not what you white collar workers consider a 'full-day' of work but is a hell of a long time to be on your feet) and I was getting absolutely slammed. It's like everybody woke up this morning and thought "Hey, let's go to that little cafe in Surry Hills and harrass the floor waitress by being the shining example of the worst customers ever."

They arrived in droves and they just kept on coming. I couldn't keep up with the demands and had so many hands waving in my face I was worried I'd lose an eye. As I cleaned up after a table of four, with the next group anxiously tapping their feet in wait, I remembered what it was I hated about waitressing.

1. You go through shoes at least once every 3-6 months. With so much oil and food particles ending up on the kitchen floor, not only do your shoes start to stink, but they start to rot. It's gross. You quickly learn not to wear your favourite shoes to work because they will only end up in the trash (tied up in a bag, inside another bag). Even Volleys aren't immune to this fate.

2. The menu is not a guide. The menu isn't there to look pretty and to give you an idea of what the cafe keeps in stock so you can make up your own dish at will. The menu is the menu. And, dear customers, if you don't want what is on the gourmet sandwich you're looking at, then take your lazy butt up to the sandwich shop where they will happily cater to your fussy preferences. Being picky not only makes the waitresses and the kitchen staff annoyed, but it slows everyone down which means you don't get your meal as fast as you'd like. So really, the only person suffering is you. Oh, and me.

3. Customers who get agitated because their detail deficient ordering means I have to ask a lot of questions.
Example:

Customer: "I'll have the beef sandwhich please."
Me: "What kind of bread would you like that on?"
Customer: "Well, what kind of bread do you have?"
Me (in my head): They're written on the menu you idiot! Stop wasting my time!"
Me: "We have sour dough, multi grain, soy and linseed or turkish."
Customer: "Sour dough."
Me: "And would you like your sandwich toasted?"
Customer: sighing and looking agitated. "Yes."
Me: "And would you like a drink?"
Customer: "Yes, I would."
Me: "And what would you like?"
Customer: "A bottle of water please."
Me: "Would you like table water or to purchase a bottle of still or sparkling?"
Customer: looking even more agitated. "Table water"
Me: "Is there anything else?"
Customer: "Yes, I want a coffee."
Me: "What kind of coffee would you like?"
Customer: "A long black with a side of milk."
Me: "Would you like hot milk or cold milk."
Customer: "What is this? A bloody interrogation?"
Me (in my head): Well if you bloody said what you wanted, I wouldn't have to ask you so many questions! Make up your mind before you wave me over and we won't have to have this stupid conversation!

End Scene.

4. Customers who think they're first to be served as as soon as they've sat down. If you've come into a cafe that is packed to the rafters and you've managed to find a seat, the first thing you should do is be greatful you found a seat at all. And then sit tight. If the waitress is running around like a chook with her head cut off, that means she's busy. If she doesn't come over to you right away, it doesn't mean she's a terrible waitress who deserves to be burnt at the stake. It means she's busy. If you wave at her like you're drowning in a rip and she acknowledges you, that means she knows you're there and she'll be with you when she can. If there are other customers waiting to be served, that means they've been waiting longer than you and therefore the waitress will serve them first. SO WAIT YOUR BLOODY TURN! SHE'S BUSY!

5. Customers who butt in. If I could punch every customer who's butted in while I've been serving someone else, half of Brisbane and half of Sydney would be walking around with black eyes. Customers who butt in are generally regular customers who have forged some kind of 'surface level friendship' (which isn't a real friendship, it's only surface level) with the waitressing staff and therefore believe they are of greater importance than all other customers. They're not. They've just a regular customer who is butting in.

6. Regular customers who expect special attention. I would walk over hot coals for some of my regular customers, they are that nice and understanding. Others, I would throw onto the coals and then break dance all over. Just because a customer comes in every day, orders the same thing and are known by name, doesn't mean they can make demands or demand special attention. Yes, you're a paying customer, therefore you are going to pay for the same service everybody else in the cafe is paying for. Unless you want to tip me for it and then you can have whatever you want. I'll crown you the King of Sheba and kiss your feet if it means you'll stuff 5 bucks in the tip jar. But unless that's the case, no deal.

7. Sore feet. You think wearing uncomfortable heels to work is bad? Try being on your feet for 8 hours straight.

8. Customers who order one thing and once you've written it down, change their mind so you have to scribble it out and make the docket messy and confusing. And two minutes after you've handed the docket into the kitchen, decide they want rye toast instead of sour dough because they suddenly realised that sour dough is white bread in disguise and is full of carbs which would make them fat and unlovable. So you have to piss-bolt into the kitchen and change it before the naive kitchen hand puts the sour dough on and wastes a perfectly good piece of bread on a customer who is too indecisive for their own sanity.

9. The general lack of gratitude and the misunderstanding that just because I'm a waitress, means I'm a stupid, uneducated nit wit. Sometimes, I feel like printing a T-Shirt for work that says, This is not my real job. This is a no-other option job. This is so I can pay my bills and feed myself when I'm hungry. I'm actually a hard-working freelance journalist, who once worked as a full-time writer for a credible publication but now works from home and only gets paid when she gets commissioned. I went to University. I got a degree. I graduated with honours. I'm smart and savvy and independent. I'm not just a waitress with a death wish. SO STOP JUDGING ME!

10. Coming home at the end of the day with coffee splatter on your legs, arms and somehow behind your ears, coffee grind underneath your fingernails, second-hand smoke in your hair (and lungs), the stink of sweat and food all over your clothes and a general dissatisfaction with the world.

I know most people (and for a time, myself included) think that waitressing is a second class job. But I beg you, for the sanity of waitresses everywhere who are actually out-of-work artists trying to get by or university students trying to pay their rent or suddenly unemployed struggling freelancers who are going overseas in two months and need to make an much money as possible, by any means possible.... be kind to your waitress.

And give her a bloody big tip, because she may just write a rip-snorting blog which could turn your name to mud.

Ciao for now. xo

Such is the Life of a Writer

As you can see, we've had a bit of a Autumn clean out here at The KH Chronicles. I've been meaning to do it for awhile. The original zeal I had for the layout had grown a bit mouldy and a lot of the sections I had included with the hope of posting in regularly, hadn't been used in quite some time. KH Commentary was getting a repeated flogging, while Silver Screen was barely seeing the light of day.

So I thought it was about time I did something about it and voila! New layout! With the easy-click Blogspot, it really is as easy as that.

As I clean out my own blog trash, I'd like to send out some cudos and a warm hug to Erica Bartle over there at Girl With A Satchel. Having been through a particularly tough week in the eyes of the media, she too, has decided to have a bit of a makeover and initiate some changes at Girl With A Satchel. It takes guts to admit to yourself that you've made mistakes, let alone admit them to your peers and the public. And while I love every inch of Girl With A Satchel (after all, it was what inspired me to start my own blog), I heartily commend Erica for the changes she is making and her strength in the firing line of the often cruel and quick-to-judge media.

Being a writer brings with it certain responsibilities, responsibilities I am very wary and respectful of when I am writing for print publication. I double check my facts, I read over every line and assess their different interpretations. I make sure the copy is bullet-proof before I file, because once it's printed, it can't be un-printed.

Sure, statements can be retracted and apologies made, but there will always be copies of your words, whether on hard paper or simply ringing in the readers' ears. People think that the news grows old, that it becomes replaced, but the news is like an elephant - it never forgets. Just like Julia Roberts explains in Notting Hill, "Newspapers are forever" - the day may end, the newspapers may get thrown away and the stories may go out of date, but they can be referred to and brought back to the forfront at any time. Newspapers are forever in filing.

And it's easy to forget that blogs work the same way and therefore deserve the same respect and wariness. Like Erica explains in her post, blogs are, by their vary nature, biased. But while we can write whatever we like with as much opinion, gusto and freedom as we care to divulge, we must still take care and responsibility for what we are posting, just like we would when submitting for print publication.

I faced this very dilemma last week when writing Dear Lara Bingle. While The KH Chronicles does not operate on nearly as high a visitor turnover as Girl With A Satchel does - in fact many of my readers are my friends and family and are therefore more forgiving - I am still responsibile for what I post here. While the way I write and what I write about is biased, cynical, sarcastic, ironic and often subtly offensive, that doesn't prevent me from suffering the same consequences as what I would if this style of my writing was published in a larger forum. After writing Dear Lara Bingle, I questioned whether it was suitable to post (especially given the current defamation issue between Lara Bingle and Fevola.) After some careful wording, I decided to go ahead and post, crossing my fingers that the relatively unknown KH Chronicles would not suddenly find itself in the middle of a media hail storm.

We are all entitled to our own opinion and while we verbally share these with freedown between each other, it does become a completely different story when they are written down and shared in a public arena. Such is the life of a writer. Sure, you can giggle or commed the writers who bravely share their tactless opinions each week in their newspaper columns, but guaranteed, their emails and pigeon holes are flooded daily with abusive letters and detailed complaints at the comments, no matter how hilarious, they have publically made.

So dear readers, I encourage you to support the writers you love to read.They go out on dangerous limbs to bring you content which can be interpreted in a million different ways and can leave them dangerously open to being shot down. However, while our opinion can fast be our undoing, it is what makes us unique and to lose it, would be to become one step closer to living like the machines.

Ciao for now. xo

GO.SEE: Shady Pines Saloon, Darlinghurst

Saddle up your horse and shine up your spurs, cowboy. We're heading to the Shady Pines Saloon.

If you've ever dreamed of swaggering into a Western bar with your thumbs tucked into your pants, chewing tobacco and with a sneer that would put Clint Eastwood to shame, this may be the place to do it.
The Shady Pines Saloon is but another of the boutique bars to crop up in the Surry Hills/Darlinghurst/Kings Cross area, but unlike the shabby chic stylings of many of these intimate watering holes, the Shady Pines brings a whole new niche to the market.

As its name suggests, the Shady Pines is a fully decked out saloon bar, complete with mounted stag horns, skinned cow rugs and the kind of tables you should be dancing on in a corset and a ra-ra skirt. There's an authentic selection of beverages (and the usual for those not so brave) and best of all - a free bowl of unshelled peanuts for guests on arrival.

And don't go expecting Black Eyed Peas to be pumped out the stereo. If you've got a problem with Jonny Cash and Dusty Springfield, that's definitely going to be a problem.

But it's all part and parcel of this great concept which is pulled off stylishly by owners, Anton Forte and Jason Scott. The kind of bar which you'd find wracking up big business in LA works just as well in down-town Sydney.

Giddy up, I say.

Shady Pines Saloon
Address: Shop 5, 256 Crown St Darlinghurst, 2010
Hours: Daily, 4pm - midnight
Menu must-have: The free bar nuts - delish.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: The Friend Ship

When we're younger, our friendships hold all the possibility of lasting forever. We exchange 'best friend forever' necklaces like there some sort of tangible promise and believe they're going to hold strong the bonds that will last us in to the future.

Then we get to highschool, our Peter Pan ideals get shot to hell and those cheap necklaces we once treasured becomes knots in the bottom of a jewellery box. We grow up and change. We make new friends and with these new friends, we make new promises.

Then highschool ends and we all dispurse and start living the lives we were born to lead. We walk down different paths and make difference choices and meet different people and soon those best friends we so truthfully promised to stay in contact with forever, are nothing but names on a Facebook friends request.

When I think about how many friendships and best friendships I've made over the last 22 years and how much work has gone into keeping those friendships alive in the face of, well, life, it makes me worry about the fate of my current friends. Will they too suffer from this seasonal change which seems to take place every few years? And if so, when is it that we meet the friends who are going to be our 'best friends forever?'

I hate wondering if the people that I'm sharing my life with now, what can be argued as the 'best years of my life', are going to be there in a few years when my life, once again, changes. When a boyfriend becomes a husband, when I become a mother, when my babies become children, when those children become adults. Will the people that I'm living my life alongside be there for when all that happens? Or will they too, only go on to be referred to in past tense?

We all want the Sex in the City-style relationships that last beyond youth, beyond marriage and beyond motherhood. I want to believe that this is it - that the people that I consider my friends and my best friends are the people who are going to be the guests at my wedding and the family friends to my family and on my bridge team in the retirement home.

I guess I just don't want any more friendships to end up knotted in the bottom of a jewellery box.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

MAIL BOX: Dear Lara Bingle

Dear Lara Bingle,

RE: That not-so-attractive and rather naked photo of you and the media fallout which has the all too familiar stench of a publicity stunt.

In the beginning, there was a part of me that sympathised with you. Being not nearly as attractive as yourself or having the kind of physical attributes that drive the boys wild, I find myself faced with your same dilemma on a regular basis. Not that I get caught out in my birthday suit, but that a hideous and embarrassing photo of myself becomes the property of the all-seeing, all judging public.

Afterall, when you're a member of the Facebook revolution, this is just something you have to come to accept, isn't it Lara? The fact that when other people take photos of you, they can then do with them what they like, including posting them on Facebook for all of the Facebook world to see. Too many times, Lara, too many times have I logged in to see some heinous, horrible photo of me looking like a haggered old woman or the twin of Susan Boyle. It's just not fair, is it?

And some what worse for you - getting caught without your kit on! How embarrassing. Good thing you look the way you do because if it had been me, I'm pretty sure all the tabloids would be questioning why they were running a picture of a giant frumpy albino Cabbage Patch doll.

Yes - I sympathised. I condolled. I felt your embarrassed shame. That is, until I heard the rumour that you sold your side of the story to Woman's Day for the tidy sum of $200,000.

Then I was not so sympathetic.

If this was true, as least you wouldn't be one of those WAGS who's riding on the cricket pads of her all-too-wealthy cricket playing husband. At least you'd be out there making you're own money. And it really makes me question my existance in the world when I think about how many cups of coffee I would have to serve in order to make $200,000 and how many hours your interview with Woman's Day would have gone for before you would have had enough money to buy yourself another Aston Martin.

Despite the designer perfume I'm pretty sure you're probably wearing and even despite the fact that you're brand new agent has denied it, I can't help but smell that all-too-familiar stench of a publicity stunt. It's hanging in the air like that faint whiff garbage juice gets when it's been sitting in the sun too long. Can you smell that? Perhaps we should call your new PR agent to see if he can smell it too?

Well, good on you, Lara, for standing up for women's rights and all that jazz. You're doing a fine job. Not too mention, earning a few extra dollars to put towards your big wedding celebration. When is that happening again?

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Chop Chop

A few years ago, I made the monumental mistake of cutting my hair short. I did it on a whim, a really stupid, irrational whim. My luscious long locks were hacked off into a blonde bob, one I didn't know how to style or maintain correctly and the whole drama resulted in me becoming self-concious and overly precious about my hair.

It was my own fault. I was the one who went in 'wanting a change.' I was the one who said "Sure, go ahead and chop it all off." I was the one who sat in the hairdressing chair while the hairdresser cut it way shorter than we discussed and I was the one who DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING.

We've all been there before. We've all sat in the hairdressing chair watching the hairdresser snip away our hard-grown tresses, our mouths clamped shut but our insides screaming, "STOP YOU HAIRDRESSING MASSACIST! STOP YOU SILLY EXCUSE FOR A PAIR OF SCISSORS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!" and yet not said a single word. That is, not until you've got home to the private safety of the bathroom where you ball your eyes out and clutch at the missing locks like they've been horrifically amputated.

When you've been through this kind of hairdressing trauma, you'll find stupid smart-arse people will make stupid smart-arse comments which are somehow meant to make you feel better. "It's just hair, it will grow back" is up there amongst the 10 Most Stupid Smart-Arse Comments Made By Stupid Smart-Arses. It's not just hair, it's an extension of one's physical character and confidence and it doesn't just grow back like some kind of refridgerated fungus. It takes time and time isn't something you have a lot of when you're nursing a haircut that looks like its been initiated with a rusty hacksaw. "Why didn't you say something when it was getting cut?" Because my hairdressing tunic turned into a straightjacket and I somehow managed to swallow my tounge. "Why didn't you say something after it was finished?" Because I didn't want to cry infront of the hairdresser and have to spend the next half an hour sitting infront of a mirror, staring at the thin line of mascara running down my cheeks. "Why don't you go back to the hairdresser and tell them you're unhappy with it?" Because I don't want to become the hairless by-product of Sweeney Todd meets Edward Scissorhands you unsympathetic fool!

Needless to say, while my hair did indeed grow back, I vowed never to go short again and for the last three years, I have been the happy hoarder of a crop of long, blonde locks which no hairdresser has managed to pry from my tight grasp.

Until yesterday, when I had them all chopped off again.

They say a change is as good as a holiday and after everything that I've been through over the last 10 months and despite all my vows and promises, perhaps a change was just what the hairdressing doctor ordered. The long hair had literally become a weight on my shoulders. So armed with opinions I was prepared to voice, I went to my (new and trustworthy) hairdresser for the big short chop. When I came away, there were no tears, no tantrums, no plans to send angry poison letters to my wayward hairdresser and absolutely no regrets.

It's funny how simply getting your hair cut can give you a new lease on life. Without the dead weight of long hair, I felt surprising relieved, like I had shed some sort of burdensome weight which had been holding me back. The world didn't seem like such an unconcorable place anymore. I felt adventurous. I felt like myself again, but a shorter, blonder, bolder version. Say hello to KH 2.0

Ciao for now. xo

Technological Difficulties (and a wee spot of jealousy)

My dearest Chroniclers - my sincerest apologies if you have lost sleep over the last week in worry that I had been hit by a Mack truck, fallen down a Sydney sewage drain or sold all my worldy posessions to join some kind of anti-internet cult. This is not the case. I am alive and well.

My computer however, is not.

The poor thing, despite putting up with me for the last five years, decided last week that it had had enough. It through in the towel - and its hard drive - and went on strike, consequently leaving me completely out of touch with the technological world. It has now taken up a bed in Computer Hospital were its getting a hard drive replacement and a bit of formatting surgery. I've been promised that by the time I get my computer back, he'll be looking better than ever.

So until then, I have to make do on Sister Dearest's swanky, brand new Dell Notebook, which is about the size of of a small tote. While I love my lappy-top dearly and appreciate everything he has done for me, I can't help but feel a little jealous of the Dell. It feels, looks and smells, new. The keys are crisp, the screen is devoid of fingertip smudges and I don't have to wait a freaking month just for it to load an internet page.

But don't tell lappy-top that - he gets so jealous when I type around.

Ciao for now. xo