And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
In which I crush on rainy Italy.
In which I crush on rainy Italy.
I panic. We panic. I swear a lot. It’s basically what you’d expect a scene with two Aussie girls in a little Italian town to look like. There are impatient Italian drivers yelling and gesturing furiously, an old man watching as he smokes from his balcony, horns bleating, lots of nervous sweat, a dog.
Day 1 of my incarceration…
The college is closed to those not in residence but we have an invitation. So, at the porters lodge we tentatively say that we’re here to see ‘The Master’.
What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
400m, 200m, 100m…. And I’m still in predator alley.
You know you’ve done it right when the waitress eyes off the table speculatively and then has to strategically remove the sugar bowl to accomodate all of your food.
At one point the Kangaroo brings chocolate strudel — which the doctor bans. It’s the thought that counts I suppose …but I bloody well wanted that strudel.
After two days of skiing, it’s easier to name the parts of me that don’t hurt. My fingers. My forearms. My neck.
I’ll give you a clue. In grade one, she taught me how to make really good, firm, round mudballs. Another? In grade 5, she and I surreptitiously looked up the mysterious F-word we’d heard on the playground in my children’s dictionary (no joy). We’ve unwittingly matched our outfits many times in the 28 years we’ve been friends — we shared a love for denim overalls. We’ve been netball team co-founders, pen-pals, joint amateur theatre producers at the tender age of 10. Still no?