DAY TWENTY-FIVE: Having a go on a horse

25 Sep

MUCH as I’d like to blame growing up in the cultural wasteland that is Slough for my lack of equestrian experience, it wasn’t like we’d never heard of horses there. Somehow, the opportunity just never arose. I wasn’t one of those girls who went around whinnying and flicking my ponytail anyway.

Until now. This stuff’s great! Having seen my ad (see Day 10) on the noticeboard of our local train station, good sport Rachel introduces me to Ed, who looks at me impassively. He’s a pony, rather than a horse, but that’s okay – he can be my inbetweener. I nearly vault right over him when I climb on, though.

Ed seems to understand English and responds to pretty much everything, not just “whoa!” and “shit!” These things really bounce, don’t they? At first it seems I have a faulty pony who is making me bounce double time, but soon I get the hang of it, with a two point trot, a standing trot and a squeal-ridden canter for about 0.5 seconds.

Keeper? Move ’em on, head ’em up, rawhide! (Yes.)

View from the driving seat. That's right - NO HANDS!

DAY TWENTY-FOUR Making pictures in coffee

24 Sep

Little do we know this jug's about to start bucking like a broncho.

I’VE always wondered how baristas make those magic flowers in your cup of coffee. Finally tiring of my endless musing, I went along to Gridlock Coffee in Melbourne and pestered World Latte Art Champion Con to show me a few moves. He can free pour like nobody’s business.

Whaddaya know though (Joe), it’s not as easy as it looks. Con stands behind me and helps me wobble out a five-leaf tulip like he’s teaching me to play pool. Then it’s my turn to go it alone. Faster than you can say “Ow, that’s hot,” I’ve run out of cup.

Keeper? I’m leaving this one to the professionals.

Easy does it.

There.

DAY TWENTY-THREE Harassing a salty seadog

23 Sep

THE Polly Woodside was launched in 1885 in Belfast, sailed all over the world, and was eventually brought out of retirement (purchased for one cent) to live again in Melbourne’s South Wharf… although she’s closed today, of course. Still, I spot this grizzled looking dude at the wheel and I’m certain he’s a waxwork (they had boiler suits in the 1800s didn’t they?) until he gives himself a scratch. I get a passing seaman type to persuade the old fella to pose for me, although he isn’t that amused and shouts something inaudible at me from the deck. Cool.

Keeper? Seen it now.

DAY TWENTY-TWO: Learning not to intimidate men sexually

22 Sep


MEN are very fearful of me, but I don’t know why. It’s like, they like me… but then as soon as I put the moves on them they run away like little girls.*  I decide to ask Flirt Diva Sue Ostler what the hell I’m doing wrong.

CASE STUDY 1: I’ve been out to dinner with this well-known hornbag a few times. I have to assume by the fact that he keeps asking me out that he fancies me — only he never makes a move. After our last date, at which he tells me he’s single and hints of his prowess in the sack, I text him and suggest he puts his money where his mouth is next time. He agrees lustily… and then disappears off the face of the earth.

Flirt Diva: This hornbag has displayed all the traits known officially as Running Scared. Botttom line, “don’t talk the talk if you can’t walk the walk”. And as a man who’s used to swinging his willy around town, I suspect he needs to be in control – and that means calling the shots. He’s not ready for a ballsy woman. He can’t handle it. You’ve intimated the bejesus out of him. He needs to man up. He’s not man enough for you. And deep down, he knows it.

CASE STUDY 2: A drummer (for shame) is flirting with me at a festival and it’s all going great guns (until he shows me a pic of his grandchild and I gasp: “I didn’t think you were THAT old”), but I totally fail to make a move, despite what I interpret to be meaningful eye contact. Days later I email him and express my regret at not having kissed him. I don’t say anything graphic, but I DO leave a trail of dots at the end. And we all know what THAT means. He does not respond.

Flirt Diva: There you are dishing out shag-me-senseless-smiles one minute, and rendering him impotent the next – what did you expect? You don’t suppose that recoiling in horror when he showed you the pic had anything to do with it, do you? And while it was ever so kind of you to express your regrets via email afterwards, not to mention the saucy dots at the end… let’s face it, he ain’t convinced. Newsflash – he’s a drummer! We are talking a LOT of testosterone, not to mention ego. He’s not going to take the risk of being bitchslapped by your rash impulses and unpredictable wily ways any time soon. He sees trouble with a capital T. He’d rather step away with his dignity intact than face the disease commonly known as “must-blurt-out-every-thought-I-think” that’s hardwired into your nervous system. Frankly, he’s too old for this shit.

CASE STUDY 3: Okay, I’m actually seeing someone in this instance… I think. We roll around for the first time; it’s great. The next day he texts to ask how I’m going and I respond in a lewd manner. He texts back: “Maybe it was the olives you ate last night.” I mean, what the hell? Surely one cannot come on too strong AFTER one has already done the deed?

Flirt Diva: Hah! You’ve met your match. He’s playing you like a finely tuned mandolin. You had a roll around and it was great, so what does he go and do? He displays the classic trait commonly known as: “treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen”. And you fall for it like a proper little ingénue. He’s got you right where he wants you. Frankly he expected more of you; so did I for that matter. Where’s your fast and feisty comeback?

Keeper? What, me? No, apparently not.

* I even have this effect on other people’s men, as I discovered when I illicitly sent a rude message to my friend’s boyfriend from her phone, purporting to be her. He shut her down.

DAY TWENTY-ONE: Riding the roller coaster at Luna Park

21 Sep

I’VE been trying to tell you, I really am a wowser. So this ‘scenic railway’ excursion (that’s the massive rickety roller coaster to non-Melburnians) is a big deal.

“Help!” I scream futilely into each abyss.

“Did you know this was built in 1912?” Clare says, not heeding my request.

I fail in my attempt to keep my eyes open, but then the ‘scenic railway’ has a ‘technical failure’ of its own. Luckily it’s only with the souvenir photos at the end, so you’ll have to take my word for it that I was sat right at the front.

Keeper? Yeaaargh!!

I looked a bit like this on the ride...

DAY TWENTY: Getting the internet to read my runes

20 Sep

I RECKON only the cosmos could know whether I’ll ever pull my finger out and learn to drive. I decide to let the randomly generated runes of Facade.com give me a clue. Promisingly, I’m dealt Raido, the rune of riding. Less promisingly, it’s reversed.

Anyway, here’s a very good – probably the only good – song about runes.

Keeper? Nuh.

DAY NINETEEN: Message in a bottle

19 Sep


WHAT kind of a kid doesn’t send a message in a bottle? Even tackers should have a bucket list, but I never got round to it. Now’s the time to make amends.

Up in Point Lonsdale I take a scenic walk with my friend Anna, a conservationist, and find a good spot to lob a Schweppes bottle into the sea.

On the pier we find a great spot to launch my sickly note dedicated to friends new, and I send it forth when no one’s looking. Bye bye, bottle, race you to the shore.

On our way back we spot a gummy shark’s head, which a man picks up and makes talk for his two-year-old kid.

Keeper? Yes. This is fun.

DAY EIGHTEEN: Driving a steam engine

18 Sep

WOOHOO! Yeah, revellers of the Blues Train, that righteous honking is me, riding with my boys Dale and Wayne at the engine, totally in charge of that whistle.

Wayne is a boilermaker by trade and engine wizard by nature. He buys and restores old steam bangers ready for the scrapyard.

There’s plenty more woohooing, yahooing, naa-na-na-na-naing and whey-hey-hey-heyta-minuting going on in the carriages as we hammer along the route between Queencliff and Drysdale.

Whipping up some combustible blues are loop pedal sorcerer Claude Hay, hollerin’ and fussin’ Lloyd Spiegel, hellzapoppin’ soul sister Andrea Marr, and the highfalutin’, sharp shootin’… um … rootin’ tootin’ Chris Wilson Band. The Mayor of Bluestown, Hugo T Armstrong, plays Jim’ll Fix It for the day, letting me drive this thundering, chundering beast down the track, if you can call sitting and taking photos of my legs driving… and I think you can.

hot

hot

How did that one get in there?

Keeper? Any time!

DAY SEVENTEEN: Pilates

17 Sep

My pelvic floor muscles are going great guns this week!

Keeper: Yes.

DAY SIXTEEN: Asking strangers to pray for me

16 Sep

“HOW can we pray for you?” queries the form on Pray For Me. After you type in your worries and press send, it’s forwarded to a network of churches across Australia, members of which will duly mumble in your name. (Begone, cynic – it doesn’t follow up by asking for your credit card details.)

At first I thought this must be a service for non-believers having a bit of a waver – when we were kids my brother would occasionally instruct me to pray for things, being the rogue church-goer of the family as I was – but no, seemingly it’s for Christians who want that extra oomph.

There is no celestial choir when I press send, or even an email receipt, so it’s a slightly anti-climatic experience. All we can do is sit and wait.

This passive aggressive little number was on the feedback page:

I have sent several requests to you in recent month’s so I am not sure what this one was for. But I will let you know: I lost my job (I had asked you to pray for a witch at my office) I didn’t purchase the house that I was planning to buy for my mother as settlement day was the day I lost my job. However, I do believe that no matter how bleak things look, all things work together for good for those who love God. Bless you all

Keeper? Praying for my brother’s soul may feel more rewarding.

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