Here’s something that happened today: I met three dear Facebook friends in real life. In all honesty, I’m still emotionally rocked by the last time I met a Facebook friend in real life, but this went WELL. THIS WENT MUCH BETTER THAN LAST TIME, although to be fair, they didn’t come and stay in my home, insult my coffee, and tell my children that she’d crush them like a bug. These three were excellent. Marvellous. Overwhelmingly lovely. I’ve been extraordinarily homesick since I’ve been in Sydney, and it disappeared for the brief time (VERY BRIEF; 45-MINUTE BRIEF) I was with these three. They felt like family. I gave them each one of Paul’s best-selling Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm t-shirts, which of course weren’t best-selling at all, which is why we’ve still got a crate left. What I’m trying to say is: don’t underestimate online friendships. They’re precious. Treasure them.
Walking back from F45 this morning, a woman stepped directly in front of a car. She was in a real rush to get in the queue for Centrelink, and was very nearly squished.
I’m on the plane going home to Perth now. I’m glad to be going home to Perth. I’m not overly impressed by the air hostesses on this flight, although I could be swayed by the man who looks likes like a small, round Freddy Mercury. To clarify, Freddy is an air host, not a hostess. Like, he's an actual male. I like his moustache. The lady hostesses are not young, and I think perhaps have lost their zest for air travel. One lady hostess told me I couldn’t put my laptop in the front pocket for take-off and then got a bit snooty when I said I didn’t have a laptop bag, just a plastic carrier bag from Newspower, which also contained the kids’ guilty-mamma presents.
The well-dressed gentleman sitting next to me on the plane has brought his own tea bags. I admire this. I could never ask for hot water to make my own tea, just as I could never ask for a drink outside of regular drink-delivery hours. I would rather die.
I need to be at home now. I’m all peopled out. I have done too much peopling in the last 48 hours, and I need to unpeople. I miss my own people: large, middle-sized and small.
I didn’t much care for the F45 I went to in Sydney, just as I didn’t much care for the F45 I went to in Melbourne. I love my F45, which says more about the fact that I don’t like situations outside of the norm than it does for the totally fine F45s around our fine country. I know where I am at my F45. I know where to sit and where to stand, where to put my keys and where to wee. I didn’t know any of these things at the other F45s, and it was unnerving. Also, EVERYONE high-fived at the end of F45 in Sydney, and truth be told, I would rather die than high-five, FACT.
I’m sitting in the emergency exit seats, which means that my TV is tucked down in the armrest. I really want to get my TV out to watch Nigella Express, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it without knocking the leg of BYO-teabag man next to me. It’s not a risk I’m prepared to take.
During the Change the World work event yesterday, I found a quiet table with two comfy chairs to hide and unpeople for five minutes. Then, weirdly, given that there were LOADS of quiet tables with accompanying comfy chairs, a young Asian man sat down in a comfy chair at MY quiet table. Directly opposite me! And then, when he’d finished his coffee, he left his paper cup on the table and walked off. I found the whole situation most unsettling.
I really want to watch Nigella Express. I’m also really cold, but there’s no way I’m standing up to get my coat out of the overhead locker. I’d have to stretch up and there’s every chance my belly would be exposed and my belly button would be at eye level with BYO-teabag man.
So, here’s a thing. I left Sydney with two massive suitcases filled with random Change the World event shit. I can’t be any more specific than that, because I didn’t check the interior of the cases; I just picked them up and checked them in (frowned upon). When I arrived in Perth, I stood by the luggage conveyor and had a moment of abject panic, because I realised I had no idea what either of the suitcases looked like. Aha! That was okay, because my boss had sent me a photo of them, earlier. So that was good, that was fine. I knew what I was looking for … and it was the exact suitcase a lady was picking up from the conveyor at THAT VERY MOMENT. “Excuse me,” I said, “there’s every possibility that’s my suitcase.” “It could also be mine,” she replied. “Hmm, okay, let’s open it and see.” We did just that, exposing a male wardrobe of underwear and those funny flip-flops that people wear after sport and showering. “Is this your suitcase?” the lady asked, to which I was forced to reply: “I don’t THINK SO, but it could be.” “It could be?” “Yeah, it COULD be. I don’t KNOW what’s in my case. It COULD be male underwear and funny flip-flops. I mean, it’s UNLIKELY, but it COULD BE. Like, the thing is, I’m actually picking up my boss’ case. She’s still in Sydney. She asked me to take this case back to Perth for her.” “And you don’t know what’s in it?” “And I don’t know what’s in it, no.” At that EXACT moment a young man approached us, quizzically, and said, “That’s my stuff!” Which was awkward, yes, and left both me and the other woman in exactly the same predicament we’d started this encounter with (sans suitcase).