Well. I haven’t blogged for, like, ever (at least 2 weeks). I apologise to my three readers out there – I understand that this may have been upsetting for you. Actually, truth be told, you probably didn’t notice.
But I’m back now.
I did a last-minute trip up to Sydney during that time. It all happened very quickly. I decided on the Monday to go back, and then by Wednesday I was packed up and on my way to the airport. The trip there was… hellish. I underestimated how long Susie and I would take for our traditional halfway point coffee on the way to Launceston, and we arrived at the airport with 6 minutes to check in. I pretty much dropped and rolled from the car, and stumbled into the airport in an ungainly fashion (hey, it almost looked like I was at a job interview!), dragging my 20kg suitcase (how did that happen?? I thought I’d packed light!). Whenever I get anxious/fatigued/underfed/over-caffeinated, my hands have a tendency to shake. And on this particular day, I was 3 of those 4 things. I did my very best to check in, ran up to the counter, and tried to control my hyperventilating.
My plane ended up being delayed anyway, so I had to time to chill out, and try and eat something. I ducked into the toilets at one point, and when I came out Susie was standing there, holding my handbag in front of her, and telling me that, “TheyjustsaidthatyourplanehasdepartedalreadyandIdidn’tknowwhatwasgoingon!!!” so I snatched my bag from her, and charged to the security point. Turns out that they were fibbing – people were just boarding. Jetstar, you trickers.
The flight itself was fairly unremarkable, apart from my sudden realisation that if I’m reading while the plane takes off, I get a sudden and severe bout of motion sickness.
I arrived at Sydney in one piece, and caught the train from the airport to Central, and then from Central into the mountains. Of course, I chose a flight that coincided with peak hour. If you’ve never been on a Blue Mountains train, they’re basically the same as normal trains, but the little end compartments are smaller, and don’t have space for people with, say, a heavy suitcase. I was crammed into that space with about 7 other people (personal space? Don’t be silly…), and the humidity of the day became apparent. My travel fatigue was hitting me, and I kept glaring at this guy sitting on the floor across from me. “Oh, look at you, Mr. Hipster Man, with your hipster hat and your guitar casually strewn on the floor. Look at you looking all comfortable and filling out the Sudoku puzzle in the free newspaper with your pencil. Who carries a pencil? Oh, a hipster dude of course. Freaking hipsters.”
Meanwhile, I was sweaty, attempting to fend off the hordes of people that kept walking past, and trying to not lean against the guy standing next to me. He had a rats tail. I’m pretty sure that they’re contagious.
Anyhoo, after all of that, I got to my Mum’s house intact, and went and sat in the corner for a while, rocking myself and mumbling that maybe if I had a hipster hat, things would have been different.
I didn’t get up to a lot while I was there – it was a pretty short trip really. The highlights included getting some new piercings to replace my sternum piercing that I bode farewell to last year, meeting Bondi Vet Dr. Chris Brown (in Penrith Plaza of all places), rescuing my friend at 5am after his car had broken down, and making him call me Sarah, Lord Of The Universe, Rescuer Of Ryan From The Ravages Of Rouse Hill (I REALLY like alliteration), and hitting up the local markets and op shops with my Mum.
I also did a bit of domestic stuff at my Mum’s place, like dusting and whatnot. I’m not sure what came over me, but it just happened. Don’t expect it to become a regular thing.
Michelle often makes fun of me for the fact that I am quite particular about the way that I like things done. There was an ongoing joke when she took over my market stall for me (in February) that I would leave measurements for her as to where everything should be placed, and I would expect photos to prove that she had followed my instructions.
I’m not really that bad though.
Anyway, it struck me while I was dusting, that it all makes sense. My Mum’s place is immaculate, and decorated with all manner of vintage accoutrement. Not just decorated, but painstakingly and precisely placed pieces (ahhh alliteration. You make me happy) are throughout the house. But it doesn’t look like a museum or anything. Everything comes together to make a beautiful, warm home with lots of stories and pieces of interest. What this equates to with dusting, however, is that every time I removed some items from a shelf in order to dust, I would place them in EXACTLY the same configuration on a nearby table, so that I could replicate the set-up when I put things back. My Mum has been known to spend over an hour on flower arrangements – I’m not going to mess with that. It’s no wonder that I’m following in her footsteps.
The trip back to Tassie was fairly unexciting. It involved a car trip, 2 train trips, 2 plane trips, and another car trip. It went for about 10 hours, and made my brain melt a little bit.
On my second flight (from Melbourne to Tassie), as we were preparing to land, I looked at the guy sitting across from me. And wondered, “Is he?... No, he can’t be.” I tried to keep reading, but had to sneak a look at him again. “Holy crap… He’s praying.”
We're all going to die.