Today has left me feeling exhausted.

I'm tired of drama, and expectations.
I'm tired of feeling as though I'm working and working and working and still not getting anywhere.
I'm tired of second guessing myself.
I'm tired of being unsure about what I want for myself, and how to get it.
I'm tired of waiting for things I want RIGHT NOW.
I'm tired of the mundane, the everyday.
I'm tired of thinking too much.
I'm tired. Full stop.

It's been said a thousand times before, about how nice it would be to step back in time to when things were simpler. To when we could look at things without being cynical, or sarcastic. To when there was barely a thought into the future at all; when we lived for the moment, and that was as far as our minds would allow us to go.

For me though? At this second, in this place, at this moment, it would also be nice to jump right ahead. Past the current insecurities and whinges, past the incessant rantings and whinings, into a different place.

It isn't as though I'm trying to escape it all, or that it is all too hard. I'm not exactly saying that. One can never actually escape from all of the uncertain parts; but instead? I'd like to just move away from where I am now, and look forward to DIFFERENT insecurities and whinges.

Whether they'll be better? No idea. Will I still feel the same as I do now, just in another time? Maybe. But hey. A girl can dream.

For now, I'd settle for someone reading me a bedtime story, and being greeted by a sleep where I really can escape my mind, at least for a short time..

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It was the red nail polish that started it all.

There were other factors involved too, of course. The air itself had been ebbing with tension, a thickly humid heat that wafted gently, as though one could cut through it with a knife. The kind of evening that seemed almost alive, breathing, waiting. Others felt it too, I could tell; the vibes coming off them were unsure, anticipating. I was not alone.

A woman approached me. She possessed a strange beauty; not conventional in any means. I was drawn to her hands; they were slender, with long fingers and pale, white skin. In contrast, her nails were short and square, and adorned in crimson paint. They fixated me.

The hours passed.

Later, I sat motionless in my car. The passenger seat was empty; I was alone. A humid, sticky breeze flowed through the two partly open windows, feeling strangely soothing on my forehead.  The lights from the town glinted in front of me. I watched them.

Just then, movement distracted my eyes from the city ahead; a creature stood frozen in the glinting of the car headlights. I saw panic reflected in its eyes, but in a blink of my own, it was gone. I stared at the empty spot where it had stood, idly pondering what had spooked it, wondering where it had fled.

My eyes moved from side to side, surveying the brush on either side of the headlights. To the left, there was nothing. To the right, I was greeted with an alarming vision that forced me to gasp for breath. Where my passenger seat was once vacant, now sat a figure, cloaked in black.

"I am sorry to startle you," announced the voice, speaking in soft, yet bold tones.
"Not at all." I reply heartily, as though to cover my surprise. Already though, I can tell that my visitor is amused by my reaction to his appearance.
"Is it done?"
"Yes. It's done. In the back."

At that, the figure nodded briskly and left the car, exiting as silently as he arrived. He moved to the rear of the car and lifted the trunk; from here, my view was obstructed. Without moving my eyes from the quiet view of the city below, I heard a shuffling, a thud, and then silence.

Something landed on my lap, tossed casually through the open window. Without looking down, I knew what sight would greet me; a wad of bills, loosely bound together. An appropriate price. Turning my head, I saw a dark figure on the dirt. Covered by a woven rug, the only shape apparent in the moonlight was a slender hand; blood red nails caressing the ground.

The figure re-appeared at the window. I bowed my head; he returned the gesture.

"Good."

I started the engine, reversed and headed back to the town.

Fore more Sunday Scribblings, go here.

Too often, I find myself reliving that fateful day.

Too often, I find myself wishing that things could be changed.
Too often, I wish the little things that went on that morning could be erased.
Too often, I wonder what else could have happened had things been said and done differently.
Too often, I wish I could have stopped time.

The questions are endless. They haunt me, day in and day out. They greet me in the morning, and they plague me as I seek sleep at the day's end.

If I had bought the damn milk the night before, instead of rushing home to be near you. If we had stopped at one cup of coffee that night, instead of staying up into the wee hours of the morning. If I had woken up before you in the morning, rather than craving the warmth of the bed. If you had chosen toast or pancakes for breakfast, in the place of cereal. If I had called you back into the room, to snuggle together for longer. If you had decided to drive your car to the shops, instead of insisting you wanted to walk and enjoy the sunshine. If the driver of the car had chosen to stay home and sleep it off.

I miss you.

Too often, I cry; why couldn't it have been me, and not you?

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Funnily enough, I have done a lot of people watching lately; I blame the circuit course at the gym, there really is nothing else to do apart from watch the other ladies working out OR stare at the floor.

Picture this;

A woman of average height, who is quite fit but oddly proportioned for it. She has...

***************

You know. That just isn't working for me. I feel awkward describing someone else, even just for character reference. So shoot me. I'll just do myself. From someone else's perspective. Or at least, I'll try. -gulp- Part fiction/part reality/part a story in itself. Yipes. Let's try again.

Picture this;

I've seen this woman before; sitting in her car at a set of traffic lights, idly watching the world go by out her window. My car is in the lane next to hers; stationary, just the same. A perfect place for observing.

She seems of average height, although possibly a little bit taller than most. Her hair is lying on her shoulders, golden strands glinting in the sunlight as it moves through the tinted car windows. It lays flat and untouched, though shortly starts blowing in the breeze inside the car (air conditioning vents perhaps?) so in a quick motion, she pulls it back off her face and secures it with an elastic band. While she does so, I observe her hands. She wears no jewellery apart from a black banded watch; I wonder why this is so?

Does she own pretty trinkets, and has simply forgotten to wear them on this particular morning? Does she prefer silver or gold jewellery? Would she wear a bracelet, or just a ring or two. Which fingers would she wear her rings on; is she married? These questions will need to lie unanswered in this moment.

The lights change, and her car accelerates. With a shake of my head, I realise that our chance encounter is over. I continue along my merry way. About five minutes down the road, my car brakes at another intersection. I happen to look to my left, and to my surprise, there she is again.

She is glancing out the window again and stares right at me. Although she is looking in my direction, I get the feeling she is not really seeing; More like she is just doing the motions. She reaches down to her dashboard and fiddles with something. I crane my neck a bit, and see that she has an Ipod sitting in a console; perhaps she is changing songs?

I wonder what she listens to. Is it old classic music, like the music coming out of my stereo right now? Or is it something more contemporary, some band which I wouldn't even know the name of. I wish her window was rolled down, so I could hear. Her lips are moving to some unknown tune - her actions are reserved though, not carefree. Perhaps subconsciously she knows that she is being observed?

Feeling nosey (and very stalker-like) this time when the traffic lights change, it is my car which disappears first. Soon enough I arrive at my destination, and walk into the supermarket. Needing to select just a few items, I begin making my away around the aisles. Once done, I walked to the registers; then realised that I had forgotten to get milk. Ironically, I am greeted with a sense of dejavu.

Yes, it is the woman again, this time standing. She is not lean, and is wearing a summer skirt and a top with sleeves. Maybe she wears this sort of clothing to cover herself up, perhaps she feels uncomfortable wearing today's summer fashions. Not that I blame her myself, what with all the horrible clothing that is around these days.

Several young children run past her, playing a game of hide and seek while their mother frantically pushes the grocery trolley towards the dairy area. I watch, as one of the kids tumbles into the woman, causing her to nearly drop her low-fat milk. She gives him a look, which makes him turn and scamper off; in that one look, her eyebrow raises and her face becomes stern. She notices me then, shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and then she is off - heading to the front of the store.

Grabbing my carton, I follow her. She gives a small smile to the girl at the counter, makes no small-talk, pays with a debit card, and out she goes. Even the way she walks is interesting; once again she is looking, without really seeing. An interesting character indeed, this one.

We go off in different directions. As I get back in my car, I turn to the left and see a tall man folding himself into his very small car. He pulls out his cellphone; I wonder if he is calling someone else, or whether it is he that has been called.....

***************

Well, I tried to be as realistic about myself as I could; I do actually sing along in the car (and own an Ipod converter thingy). My hair is a part of me that I love, although it drives me crazy and ends up tied back the majority of the time. I am not a skinny person, and dress accordingly (at least, I think so!) and am a big fan of nice skirts. Oh, yes. My tolerance for children acting bratty is in the negatives. Don't judge me on that one; I get enough of them in my classroom at work. Hopefully this fit with the prompt, even though it is not exactly as the instructions hinted.

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Isn't it funny when something just pops right into your mind after reading a prompt?

This week, I'm going to keep it short, sweet and completely unoriginal. Well, original in that I thought of it and that it means alot to me, but unoriginal in that I didn't actually write it. If only I could lay claim to such brilliance but alas! I cannot.

Here are the lyrics from one of my favourite bands (from a couple of years ago, but I still love the old stuff now) - Taxiride. The song? Is called SKIN.

It could have beenThe smell of your skin.An innocence I've never seen,Find myself reaching for you.I couldn't ask for anymore,Feels like I've met you once before;You've opened the door to a brand new me..

Some things are meant to be.Now you've shown me the way,Got me thinking that maybe..Something just keeps telling me,If I gave you my word;Some things are meant to be.

A message left on your machine,Now I'm waiting for the phone to ring.It's in the way you look at me;I'm trying so hard to believe that..

Some things are meant to be.Now you've shown me the way,Got me thinking that maybe..Something just keeps telling me,If I gave you my word;Some things are meant to be.It could have been,The smell of your skin..

Some things are meant to be.Now you've shown me the way,Got me thinking that maybe..Something just keeps telling me,If I gave you my word;Some things are meant to be.If I gave you my wordSome things are meant to be.

It's one of those songs that is hauntingly beautiful, and absolutely perfect live. It's amazing and classic and I still feel it rings true to me right now.

Enjoy other scribblings (most likely more indepth than my own!) right here; http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

How appropriate; my Year 1/2 class has been learning about procedures all term. My turn to do something different, though.

I guess there are many ways to take the "Instructions" prompt, but I'll take it as I see it. Remember - always start each step of your method with a verb, kids!

How to begin a lifestyle change, in 10 easy steps!

Things You Need;
A Mirror, Self-Consciousness, Some cash stashed away, Motivation and Enthusiasm. Or at least one of the above. But definitely the cash.

Step One;
Decide that your current efforts aren't working. Have a good cry to anyone who will listen, and decide to try something new.

Step Two;
Spot an ad on television while you are running and watching Oprah (preferably at the same time) which shows a sure-fire (and probably expensive) eating programme to help lose weight.

Step Three;
Ring the fore-mentioned company. Check out menu, food looks good, decide "What the heck?" and go for it.

Step Four;
Read out credit card numbers. Buy programme for one week trial. Feel guilty for spending, but excited for being pro-active. Anticipate the food that will be delivered.

Step Five;
Walk past womens gym that has opened in local shopping centre. Pop in, be mesmerised by the circuit course, be sucked in by the helpful store owner, and walk out - with a 12 month membership. Ka-Ching!

Step Six;
Eat healthy food. Eat normal food too. Have fun eating, and NOT being on a diet.

Step Seven;
(Optional) Attend line dancing course, jump around like a crazy woman with no co-ordination, but have a wonderful time. Win raffle - that's a free class next time! Hoorah!

Step Eight;
Dig up mother's old line dancing music, and practice sporadically at home. (Decide to teach your class at school said dances, and become tremendously excited.)

Step Nine;
Go to gym every day for training sessions. Sweat and pant and turn red.

Step Ten;
Complain about stiffness. Have lovely partner give sports massage. Fail to stop talking about being a gym member to anyone who will listen. Enjoy it!

I guess having a public blog fits in well with the prompt for this week.

I'm always conscious about what I write, who might be reading, and what implications my words might have - no matter how harmless they seem at the time. I don't use names for school related posts. I don't use colleagues names. I don't use names of people who I think would feel uncomfortable if they knew it was made public.

So I sat here wondering what to write about today; what DON'T I actually write about? I like to think I'm pretty open; Even though I am completely aware that this is public, I'm still pretty honest about my opinions and my ramblings (or at least I would like to think so.)

All I could come up with? That I don't write about my fears that often.

With no further blabber, here are a few.

# I fear not finding work again for next year in a place where I feel comfortable.
# I fear not doing as good a job as other (more experienced) teachers, even though I feel completely at ease teaching my guys.
# I fear I'm a person that others aren't interested in spending time with, compared to more outgoing people.
# I fear what people think of me - I'd like to know, and I wouldn't like to know at the same time, you know?
# I fear that I am a hindrence to my family, with still living at home.
# I fear not knowing what the future holds.

I guess they're pretty standard fears? I don't know. I found it really hard to actually think of things that hit home to me to post about - I just don't know. Maybe one day I will take each of those and go into it further, but today is not that day.

On that note - what I WILL write about later on this afternoon once Jen gets home and sends me some photos - is what a good time I had last night.

Have you ever wanted..

..to just keep ripping open the damn cookies until you finally read the fortune that you wanted all along?

That's sort of how I feel at the moment, when I think about fortune cookies.

Perhaps it's because the fortunes are always so generic, so processed, so run of the mill that I'm cynical? Perhaps it's because we don't really even have fortune cookies all that much where I am and it is all a big novelty event.

I wish the fortunes were personalised. Wouldn't that be nice?

At the moment though, I'd love to be anywhere but here on a Friday night. I'd love to be out eating Chinese food (or possibly Thai, but I wouldn't be choosy, promise!) with people that make me smile. I'd love to be at the end of a scrumptious meal and awaiting the rest of the night that lay ahead. And of course, crumbling a cookie between my fingers and eagerly awaiting the infinite wisdom laying between the sugary layers.

My personal fortune? Would probably be something along the lines of this;

"She who stops eating these damn cookies and gets her butt on the treadmill is the smartest cookie of all."

Good times! Anyone care to join me for a night out?

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It's been a long week; so I figured my take on this weeks prompt would be a light hearted one, inspired by my stressful-yet-funny class.

The Monster Chronicles by 1/2S

These are all excerpts derived from the workbooks of my students. My class is a Year 1/2 composite, so the kids range from 6-7-8 years of age, mostly 6 or 7 though. For anonymity (as per usual) I will just include the kids initials, but the words are always more important than their names, anyway!

This weeks Sunday Scribblings fit right in with our creative writing; we've been using the topic of M O N S T E R S to get our thinking caps on. These are just a smidgen of the stories I jotted down to share with you.

The Strongest Monster (by C. & J.)
Once there was a monster. He was the strongest monster on Earth. All his monster friends were strong too. They eat people for dinner when they are hungry. They drink people for dinner too. The monster is going to the church.

The Monster and the Bear (by P. & A.)
There was a monster that lived in a cage. The bear was friends with the monster. The monster was friendly. The bear was playing with the monster. He liked playing with the monster. The next day the bear was hungry so it went to find them food in the water.

The Strange Monster (by D. and E.)
There once was a very strange monster that lived under D. and E.'s bed. He had blue fur and he had purple eyes. And it had a pink tail.

The Hairy Monster (by K. and S.)
The hairy monster went into a cave and found another monster. He got scared in the cave because he looked so ugly.

The Scary Monsters (by S. & S.)
Once there were 5 monsters who loved to play with other monster friends. They liked to be scary. They went to go find food for everyone to eat. They played with balls.

So there you have it! I am rearing literary geniuses, no? Maybe if you check back here tomorrow, I will take a photo of the Purple People Eater Monster Mask my class used for their now famous assembly item. Heeee.

For more Sunday Scribblings visit here, and enjoy!

The day starts off just like any other day.

The damn cockatoo, Gage alarm clock goes off promptly at around 7am, when the morning sparrows decide to try and steal some seeds from the backyard aviary. I try to ignore it, but it just keeps on screeching beeping at me. I toss and turn in my bed, and try to ignore it. Finally, it ceases. I roll over, groan, and flop back down under the quilts. My partner prods me in the ribs, but I ignore him and try to go back to sleep. Sleep is precious.

After a while, the air grows hot. I kick the covers off and wearily emerge to face the new day. Taking a peek next to me, I let out a snort of amusement - my goodness! Rusty's hair is just all over the place today; talk about bed-head! I do love him though, and they do say that loving someone's scruffy hair and morning breath shows your true feelings, right?

I grab a quick breakfast, no time for nothing more than a snack. Time is of the essence. Gulping some water, I scurry off to work - I get halfway around the corner when I realise that I left Rusty behind. Drat! As per usual, he is still asleep when I get back home. I push him out of bed and nudge him out the door. Work work work! He looks grouchy which is to be expected, but he'll cheer up in no time. He always does.

Rusty and I are both in the security business.

It's a tough job. A big perimeter, not enough hands on deck, you know the drill. I'll complain, sure, but I don't mind it really. And it comes with some perks too. Good food, good accomodation, and company visits to the big-house all the time! Those folks sure are good to us. But, back to the job.

We scale the perimeter several times, checking for security breaches. Something seems not quite right. It's too still; too quiet. I give the signal to Rusty and he nods, understanding my instructions. We have both seen something which needs attending. Urgently.

Bounding into position, we work in silence. In the distance, I can hear the chattering of my co-workers going about their days, but for the most part my attention lies in the north west corner of the perimeter. Without speaking, I know that Rusty can see it too. He's a good partner, very intuitive, if not a little reckless. I hope he'll act by the book this time around. Sometimes, he drives me bonkers.

Living up to his nature, Rusty suddenly springs into action - weapons drawn, on the attack. He startles the intruder; but it stands its ground, gazing mildly down at us. After a heated argument, time consuming and rather noisy, all is sorted. The intruder relents, the perimeter is secure - for now. All in a day's work. The company is happy; we are invited to the big-house for supper tonight.

We head for home. My stomach rumbles, I can't wait for dinner tonight. Rusty feels the same; he always gets this look in his eyes when he's hungry. After dinner, we were warmly invited into the big-house. It's so lovely there, I never want to leave afterwards. But duty calls, and everyone there has a big day ahead of them tomorrow - so we bid our farewells and retire for the evening.

Just before I close my eyes to sleep, I give Rusty a hug, and sigh happily. How could there be anything nicer than resting besides the one you love?

This was a fictional story but it's funny how many "true" things I tried to use. We do have a very screechy cockatoo. My dogs do sleep on a bed outside, with quilts to snuggle in. The intruder really IS just like that - an evil cat, who likes to tease and torment! And I think that they lead a pretty darned happy life. I would like to REALLY know what they are thinking one day though...

Dedicated to Max, Rusty, Gage, Bella, Lucy, Sally, Katie and Penny. What can I say? We love the animals!

Instead of going off into fiction-land, this time it's all about me. You've been warned!

I'd love to say that I could still be anyone.

I write love to, because in reality I know that isn't possible. I'm not being negative, possibly just pragmatic? Let me explain.

I could never be a ballerina, for example. Call me crazy, but I don't quite think that Aly in a tutu is anyone's cup of tea. As well as the fact that the only dancing I can do, is the form that looks alright after many a few er, 18+ beverages.

Realistically, though? There are lots of things I could still become.

# I could be a mother/ aunty/wife.
# I could be a better teacher.
# I could be a writer.
# I could be a great traveller.
# I could be a road tripper.
# I could be a proud pet momma. (I sort of am already, but .. on my own.)

There are also lots of things about myself that could change, that I could become. They could be for better or for worse (heck, all of the future is unpredictable) but they are definitely worth pondering.

# I could become someone's confidante.
# I could become more patient.
# I could become a fitness fanatic.
# I could become a party animal.
# I could become a person who is not terrified of going to the dentist. (Think that's random? I have a dental appointment tomorrow and I am still. freaking. out.)

But ..

When I think about what I actually want to be some day? I think (with all of its cheese factor) the main answer is this;

To be happy.

And you know? I'm getting closer to that every day. I like the road I've taken, even if it has had some hard turns. I'm comfortable where I am right now, even if there are things in my life that I need to tweak and untangle.

Some days I just want to speed up everything -- I want to be ME in five years, in ten years. I want to be out of this phase of life, and into the next. But lately, I've been happy just living for one day at a time. I wonder if that will change eventually, too? I suppose these are just even more of my ramblings..

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Apologies for always being so darned early (more like Friday Scribblings..)

BUT being a day ahead in Australia as well as being off sick with a flu cold, leaves me no choice BUT to be early! Random words today. No promises for creativity and the like - I blame the snot-monster living inside my head.

She woke up that morning with an abrupt start.

It was not as though the air around her was full of sounds, rudely interrupting her slumber. In fact, it was the complete opposite. The air was still. There were no sounds at all, save for the ticking of the watch that lay on the bedside table on yonder side of the room. Her very own breath did not even make a sound, as she half-rose into a sitting position and took in her surroundings.

Why did she always have that eerie feeling of not knowing where she was? One would think after ten years of doing this, she would have become accustomed. Accustomed to the change, to the movement, to it all. No, this was not so for her. That same feeling greeted her in each new hotel room she visited, in each city that bustled around her, in each character.

She was alone for now.

The peace would not last long, this she knew. For the world of calmness and stillness would be shattered, the illusion ruined, the moment she stepped from that room.

She envisioned the future as she shimmied into her suit. The day that lay ahead. The next day. And the next. In her field of work, it was hard to do this. Who knows what may lay ahead. Even her superiors could not tell her that. The future remained a mystery.

Staring into the mirror, she adjusted her barrettes. Her hair was a mass of auburn strands today, neatly clipped back from her face. She liked this look; what a shame it would not last long.

After brewing herself a mug of steaming coffee from the kitchenette, she reached into the small leather case that rested on the floor. Right on cue, a shrill beep emitted from its depths. Fishing one-handed for the cell phone, she pulled it out and read the flashing message.

-T. Lobby. 1100. Munez, Thomas. Rpt @ 1300. 555-8824. -C.

Automatically, she added the information to her memory and wiped the message clear. Her motions were so habitual that they did not require thought. They simply occurred.

A barrage of familiar thoughts flashed through her mind; Was this what she wanted? What made her choose to accept that first fateful mission all those years ago? Was this path the right one? Was she fated to live out her days in the company of so many strangers, yet ultimately end up alone in a random hotel room? Did she still want this life?

Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, she reached for the doorknob to begin her day. She could ponder all she liked, but she still had a day to start. Still alone. Always alone.

The life of an agent is a solitary one.

I've never been one to jump right in and share my opinions freely with others.

With friends, yes, absolutely, possibly too much, but with strangers? I tend to passively observe rather than submit my thoughts to them. Alternatively, I find it strange when individuals provide me with their own 2 cents worth - especially those people who don't know me.

It has always amazed me watching those people who are comfortable getting close to other new acquaintances. The sort who can offer advice and words of wisdom, without even giving it a thought. Whose nature is just to throw themselves heart and soul into this other persons life, come what may.

I sometimes wish I could be like that.

Although on the other hand, sometimes I am glad I am not.

My personality is different. I prefer to watch people first. To look, to observe, to try and puzzle out their quirks, their backgrounds, what makes them tick. To attempt to at least know them, before I offer my own suggestions.

I'd like to think I'm a fix-er.
I've always wanted to be a fix-er.
And I get quite miserable when I'm faced with a problem that I can't fix.

Sometimes, my 2 cents do not even matter. Sometimes, I can learn as much as I possibly can about a person, but it still doesn't help me. Sometimes, people simply do not want my 2 cents. And that is fine.

This year, I've been privileged to be in a position of power. It may not seem like a powerful career in the grand scheme of business and the like, but teaching is one heck of a power trip.

I am seen as the power figure of twenty-six children. These are children that could change the world one day. Scratch that. These are children that WILL change the world one day.

I need to make sure that my 2 cents are not all that they hear. They need to create their own 2 cents. They need to develop their own ideas, their own opinions, their own selves.

And you know what?

Twenty-six x 2c = Half a dollar. Just imagine the possibilities.

More Sunday Scribblings can be found here.

I think we have all been a thief at some point in our lives.

Even if it is not in the most "conventional" of ways, we've been there. Perhaps we have not gone so far as robbing a bank or stealing a car, but we can be thieves in all sorts of avenues.

I thought long and hard about this prompt, and one thought kept coming back to me.

The idea of being a thief -- to myself. Of being solely responsible for robbing myself of experiences. Of stealing away from the moments that I "should" have had.

It sounds unusual (and possibly doesn't make sense) but I think we can be our own worst enemies. Every time we shy away from something that intimidates us or challenges us, we are robbing ourselves. Every time we stick to the familiar and known, we are robbing ourselves. Every time we run from change, we are robbing ourselves.

I know for a fact that I have done this. Perhaps it is because I have felt uncomfortable stepping outside my comfort zone. Perhaps it is all to do with feelings of self consciousness. I can't say. But all that I do know is that looking back, I realise that I have indeed been a thief.

Do you think that one day, years down the track I will awaken and wonder "What If...?"

What If... I had done this?
What If... I had done that?
What If... I could have done this differently?

But as I write this, I am enlightened. Life isn't meant to be full of the "What If's..." It's all about the "What Next..." And that's what I'm looking forward to now.

I decided to do this one as a memory recount rather than fiction, just because my heart is not in the right place to be creative today.

Rewind back to January, 2004. J. and I had just had a lovely lunch (of McDonalds, I believe!) at the airport with both sets of parents, our luggage had already been checked in, all we had now was time. I remember the pictures being taken outside the glass windows of the "passengers-only" area, I remember the tears, I remember feeling so paranoid; "Could I even do this (sort of) on my own?" But then, the time came and we left everything behind.

This was, as you may have imagined, the beginning of our Europe trip together, and even though it was 2 and a 1/2 years ago, it feels as though it were even further away than that. On the contrary though, there are some memories which I feel as strongly a if they happened yesterday.

We had been lucky enough to be given seats in Economy class which were near the exit doors; seats in the row which had no seats in front of them. What did this mean? More leg room! It also meant that during take off and landing time, the crew would sit facing us, which was rather amusing. Those are faces that would make an interesting character sketch, indeed; faces of absolute blankness, seeing as though they had done this (and would do this) a thousand times.

I remember feeling terrible after the plane trip to London. I had started the journey with my contact lenses in, but a few hours into the flight took them out and put on my glasses; the ventilation made my eyes so dry that they hurt. I also walked off the plane feeling as though I was suffering from a shockingly bad cold, so I didn't feel too wonderful.

I remember feeling completely overwhelmed by the sheer size of the airport, and thankful that J. had been here before and knew where to go.

I remember feeling paranoid that our luggage (mine in particular) would have somehow been left behind, or smuggled off, or left on board, and all of those other crazy paranoid fantasies people have when they cannot see their luggage. Our baggage was late off the plane, so I sat down in a corner of the airport and ate gummi lollies. When the time came, I remember standing at the baggage claims area freaking out (silently) because while J. got his luggage at once, mine was nowhere to be found. It still amazes me that our bags were checked in together, yet his came out on the first rotation and mine did not come out until about the third!

And then, we were out of the frantic airport, out into the freezing cold air where dozens of buses appeared and disappeared. Thank goodness for J's brother, who came and picked us up, showed us the right way to go, and our adventure started. And what an adventure it was!

Highlight baggage experiences;

# Trying to repack a smaller bag for our Contiki tour, where the luggage weight is lower than what the plane trip allows. This continued all the way to the breakfast area of the morning we left, where we were constantly rearranging our things to make them fit. We were JUST over, but they allowed it.

# Every time we purchased a souvenir, having to do the baggage shuffle in order for it to fit.

# Me realising that in all of my haste, I had forgotten to pack a pair of dressy shoes to wear out to all of the nights out (including Moulin Rouge, fancy dinners, etc etc); leaving me wearing a pair of closed in Colorado shoes with open skirts. Bleh! I cringe to this day.

# Lugging our "Contiki-bag" up Paris staircases which were less than 1metre wide and frustratingly winding!

# One elevator in the whole hotel; basically meaning lots and lots of stairs every time!

# Arriving back in London once again and then repacking yet another bag; this time for our Scotland one-week adventure! This bag had no wheels, alas. Meaning that a duffel bag sounded like a great idea at the time, but oh boy did the bag hurt our arms and shoulders after walking around for a few hours looking for our bed and breakfast. Ack! Thank goodness J. has muscles.

# And of course -- the typical, end-of-holiday baggage freak out. The freak out involving thoughts like "I can't afford to pay excess baggage!", "Last time I was only charged per kilogram over, so don't worry, er, we can't be THAT much heavier!", "Are bathroom scales accurate?", "I KNEW you shouldn't have bought that ____ (insert souvenir here)", "We'll just have to wear layers, it's cold outside, we'll be fine."

All packed, wishing London goodbye, racing for the station to take us to yet another station to take us to the airport - we managed and we made it home, baggage intact. Memories... Every time I find myself recounting this experience, I want to go back so badly my heart aches.

When I think of hotels, I think of two different times in my life.

Time #1: When I was younger.

For the longest time, I remember hotels as relating to my father's work. He was a sales rep, constantly on the road all around New South Wales, and sometimes other states too. When we could, especially in school holidays, the whole family would drive along with him. When I think back, it isn't as though we really had a choice in the matter - if mum wanted to go, we all went! They were fun times. Memories of the old station wagon Fords, the fighting over the backseat space, the activity books that we had made for us to keep us occupied (and quiet!) are still pretty clear.

To this day, something that always jumps out at me remembering all of these trips are the different hotels we stayed at. Usually just little places, nothing flash but nothing horrid either. The best, BEST thing about staying in this hotels? The room service the next morning for breakfast. Don't ask me why this is something that I remember, but ordering tinned spaghetti on toast somehow seems much more exotic when someone else makes it for you. Sadly, the family trips stopped after my brother and I decided we were much too grown up for road trips with the folks. As well as the fact that dad doesn't drive to such places anymore, he flies now. Alas!

Perhaps the one thing that I reflect most upon during this hotel-hopping time of my youth, is this:

Hotel Toiletries.

To this day, we still have a stash of those complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, of body washes, of soaps and showercaps under our bathroom sink. (Possibly the most disturbing product? The Hair and Body Wash concoction. How can one bottle contain all of the wonder products to wash not only your skin, but also wash and condition your hair? Sounds marvellous. I think I'll pass.)

My dad also has a big collection of them which I believe he takes travelling with him on his many journies. And dare I say it, this family has also been known to take hijack innocent hotel towels when the need so arises, and lock them away in the linen cupboard, never to be seen again. Mwahaha! -shifty eyes-

Time #2: When I have travelled.

I have been fortunate in my life to have travelled a bit in my young life. I have visited the west coast of America twice with my parents, in 2001 and 2002. I also visited Europe in 2004, and was lucky enough to experience a wealth of different countries and cultures. Here's to hoping I will be able to do so again in the future, I adore travelling.

It became a given during my Europe trip to spend copious amounts of time in the Contiki bus, wondering about the sort of hotel we would end up in next. After sitting in the bus for sometimes hours on end, getting out of it and lugging the suitcases up stairs was all worth it JUST to see what sort of a room we would end up in this time. Because J. and I were sharing the same room as well, the rooms were usually of a good size. Habit for me was dumping the suitcases on the floors, opening every door in the room, checking out windows, opening drawers, reading hotel information on dresser tables, the lot. It's as though each hotel room has it's own personality, and it was my job to find it out and experience it. *le sigh* Good times.

For the most part, the hotels were just gorgeous. Not too flash, not too simple, just standard, European accomodation. With bathrooms and big showers! Yes! We were lucky enough to only have one real shocker of a hotel, and one absolutely amazing experience too. You'd like to hear about them? Of course you would. Heck, if you've read this far down the page already, why not?

Luxury: Whilst we were en route to Rome, our Contiki tour manager had a phone call telling him that the hotel we were staying at had been double booked, and that we were being placed in a last minute accomodation arrangement. He warned us that whilst this new hotel might not be too flash (as he had never stayed there before), at least this one would be in the heart of Rome, so much better for our touring purposes!

The bus pulled up in front of this small hotel, which we all automatically assumed was ours. However, the tour manager exited the bus and crossed the street, going into this gigantic hotel with rather posh writing on the door. Turns out, we had been placed in 5 star accomodation for two nights! I wish I could remember the name of this hotel so I could show you the picture, but let me tell you this; Imagine sticking your head out the rather small window overlooking the main street, turning your head to the left and seeing the Ancient Rome ruins. Just amazing! It also had marble bathrooms and this amazing old fashioned bed. Not to mention being greeted by staff in suits downstairs, and even patrons in suits in the elevators. We must have looked a sight to them in our jeans!

Doozy: Venice is known for it's beautiful views and it's history and personality. For us though, it was remembered not only for this (and it's miserable freezing cold weather) ((and it's carnivale atmosphere)) (((and it's drunken dinner parties! with face painting!))) but also for it's rather lousy hotel! It was a small, privately owned hotel on the outskirts of Venice - It wasn't on the island, as we had to catch a boat across to get to the city itself. I was apprehensive the minute I walked inside, seeing as though the elevator looked about three thousand years old, and I'm not the best of friends with even modern elevators.

J. and I had the furthest room away from civilisation! It was in the top floor, had an attic roof which left us ducking if we walked towards the window. The neighbourhood itself was absolutely deserted, I don't think we ever saw anybody walking around. Creepy. I could go on and on about that hotel, especially the part where they forgot that Contiki tours required breakfast, and so went about rationing our cereal and toast to us, but I won't. But I simply MUST leave you with information about this hotel's bathroom. For a hotel bathroom is possibly the most important part of the room!

This bathroom was all tiled, had a sink, a toilet and a shower. Er, the shower had no "step". Therefore, when the shower was turned on, the water simply flew all across the floor. It was a rather big bathroom (and yes, it had a drain!) but there was no angling in the floor - the water simply just rolled wherever it pleased. It might have been alright, had the rest of the hotel room been carpet. Therefore, after each shower, we ended up with a large wet carpet patch outside the bathroom door. Interesting. Ha, speaking of memories, that reminds me of the very first hotel J. and I stayed at in England while we were awaiting our Contiki trip to start! However, let me summarise it in saying that we both learned that SHOWER CURTAINS STAY INSIDE THE BATHTUB-SHOWERS. We learned the hard way. Wait? Is that even right? Or have I got it backwards again? No wonder we flooded that room, too. -whistles-

Hotel Randomness.

Disclaimer: Some of the rambling below comes from watching one-too-many forensic investigation shows on the Crime Channel of our cable TV. Mother, if you are reading this, perhaps we can stick to the Comedy Channel while we're eating our dinner from now on?

On a completely random and off-topic thought, have you ever wondered about the sorts of people who have stayed in all of those hotel rooms before you? Was the person who slept in that very bed you slept in, happy or sad? Were they alone or with someone? What were they thinking? What was going on in their lives in the time that they rested in that very hotel room. Did they watch free television? Did they lie on the bed and miss home? The possibilities are endless..

And just what would you find if you possessed one of those blue light torches and shone it around your hotel room?

Perhaps that is something better left to the imagination. Or to the Crime Channel. Or CSI.

I used to think we were like two peas in a pod.

We had this amazing connection. The way we were drawn together at all was something only the fates decided. We loved the same things. We felt the same way. We shared the same inclinations and personalities. We loved each other.

I wish I could just link you here. But I won't.

Why do I talk in past tense?

Because I am alone, and I am confused, and I am hurting.

And I sort of feel like that abandoned pea that is left stuck in the end of the pod after the rest have all been snapped free. I don't want to be snapped free yet.

In fact, I don't want to be snapped free anytime soon.

I'd prefer to stay right here in my pod, thankyou very much.

And I want to stay here, with my fellow pea by my side.

I don't want to be alone.

The alarm went off; music filled the room.

She awoke slowly, stretched groggily and burrowed back under the covers. The music continued. The music changed. The longer she lay there, hiding from the world, the music went on. Fast paced, to slow, to easy listening, to the drone of the radio announcer's voice.

This was a morning ritual for her. To wait, as long as she could possibly wait before she arose to face the day. And each morning, there was one song which would be 'her song' for the day. That unknown song which would be playing just as she pulled her frame from the bed and stretched to turn off the alarm. That song is the song that would shape her day.

She had been subconsciously doing this for as long as she could remember. Strangely enough, the song which happened to be playing always, always seemed to have lyrics which would somehow become apparent and connected to the unknown day which lay ahead of her.

She waited. She wiggled her toes. She yawned widely, savouring the pleasure that came from  wallowing in her sheltered haven from the world. She knew the time would be soon.

That time came. Her second alarm beeped furiously. She turned it off quickly, and waited; ears pricked for those new lyrics.

And I don't want the world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.


So, it begins.

Another day.

Just like all the others.

But maybe, just maybe, today would be different. And she believed with all her heart, that her new song would be a part of it. She arose, turned off the dial, and headed for the door.

I find this post very, very appropropriate!

Why, you may ask? Because as I type, I am staring rather fondly at my bed -- and looking very much forward to laying down for the night and dreaming. Yesterday's late night (ha!) at trivia has ensured that I am a very tired girl.

When I first read the topic today, I instantly knew what to write about. My inspiration came from my lovely mother who is possibly the most fantastic scrapbooker in the world. It's true. Sitting on her study desk right now, is a scrapbooking page which is almost completed. It talks about my whole family, and how different we are -- and how we sleep. Little quirky bits of trivia about each and every one of us which makes us unique, especially when it comes to our beds. I thought I'd think about my OWN stance on myself and sleeping, and write some facts that come to mind. Enjoy!

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# I cannot stand sleeping on soft, squooshy pillows. Give me a pillow that is firm, and I shall be off in dreamland in no time. I adore pillows. Still on the pillow topic, I also have a fascination with LOTS of them. At present, I have four and 2 cushions, however I have at times had up to six. I grumble each time we have guests stay over, seeing as my bed is the resident pillow-hotel. I lose one every time, guaranteed!

# I used to not be able to sleep at all in the daytime. Now, I can. It helps if I have one of those eye masks, but if I'm tired and sick, usually nothing can keep me from falling asleep.

# I prefer to sleep with lighter clothes on, but cuddle up under my lovely quilt. I usually don't wear warm clothes while I'm asleep. Strange, eh? I don't know why. Perhaps it's just the feel of the quilt on my skin? On particularly cold nights I've tried to dress more warmly, however I usually end up tossing half the bedcovers onto the floor and making a gigantic mess.

# Changing bedsheets is one of the most horrible house chores ever invented. It irritates me to no end and makes me whine lots, and I don't exactly know why.

# Although, come to think of it, sleeping in a freshly made bed is really, really good. If only someone invented the self-changing-sheets-and-pillowcases bed. That's something every household needs.

# I sleep on my stomach, with my arms tucked underneath the pillow (picture me sort of clinging onto it, for lack of a better description.) I cannot sleep on my back. I can only sleep on my sides if I'm sort of half squashed on my stomach at the same time, in a sort of twist. No doubt this has done wonders for my poor back!

# When I'm in my bed, I find it immensely hard to get out of it again. Especially in mornings. Being able to sleep in is wonderful, wasteful but wonderful! I am very blessed to have a lovely (non creaky) bed that I can rest in each day. I mention non creaky because the current bed I owned, went through a phase of being rather noisy. For no reason, other than it began to fall apart after only a month of owning it. It took a case of beer and some hearty negotiation by my dad with the neighbours to have the metal re-welded together. It is now fabulous (and quiet!) once again.

And now, as I try and think of other interesting tidbits to add to this post, I have suddenly come to realise that the very call of bed is interfering with my creativity tonight. What dreams await tonight, I wonder? Perhaps they will allow me to finish off my last "Scribbling" -- seeing as that inspiration also came from the land of Nod. One can only hope!!

This sounds rather lame, but I had a dream last night - and I thought about it the second I woke up, and figured it fit the bill of 'mystery'. We'll see! ((By the way, this is my first piece of writing in a long time, so bear with me on this one and be nice!))

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How we got to this place, I don't know; it all seems too much like a dream. If I pinch myself, I know it is real - same as if I look at the expressions on my peer's faces, I know it is far from but a simple dream. Flashbacks come to me in the night. Flashbacks of a ship, of a storm, of a fury so great it hurts to think of. All I can do now, is wait. Wait to see what happens. Wait to see what is in store. Just wait. And while I do that, think about all that has happened. Think about all that may happen. Think about all that will happen. Wait. Just wait.

They looked around them, stunned. What they saw? A vast spread of lush, green grass with an array of plant life scattered around them. The air was quiet; the atmosphere calm. Even the sounds coming from the trees seemed to feel - right. The only factor that didn't seem right, was the table standing aloof in the centre of the grassy knoll. The old-fashioned table stacked high with fruits and vegetables of all descriptions, all in pristine condition, merely awaiting the individual to pick one up and devour it. It appeared a very inviting feast.

In a flash, it dawned on them why they felt so uneasy. Why was it, that though they had all been deposited in this place, wherever it was, none of them made a move to sample any of this awaiting cuisine? It was not through lack of hunger, for the gnawing had made itself apparent long before they found themselves staring at the spread. No, it was not hunger. It was something else. Something which stilled them from reaching over and taking their fill of the goods in front of them.

One of the men looked indecisive, his face a mixture of expressions. He stepped forward, faltered, and paused in his stride. The others stared at him - wondering what his plans were, all hoping there would be no repercussions for his action. The man shook his head as though clearing his mind. The rest watched, silent. In a flash, the man had moved. The others glanced around, and found him on hands and knees underneath the broad wooden table. One woman gasped.

The man arose, a blank look on his face. In his arms, he carried a handful of rope, fastened tightly together with cord and shaped to form crude nets. Without thought, the rest of the group came forward to recieve a net, and went to work packing them gently with the food provided. Still, not one dared to sample the fruit, until all was placed neatly away.

The group looked towards the man who had made the first move. Without a word being said, it was apparent that he was their leader, their saviour perhaps? He appeared to take this shift of leadership in his stride, and with a tilt of his head, turned to face the trees behind them. He set off, the others following. As they trekked through the forest, netting bags hoisted on their shoulders, it occurred to several of the group that they had yet to utter a single sound. They walked on.

The man stopped at the first clearing they passed. It was filled with an array of plantlife, however appeared to be less harsh than the terrain they had been walking through previously. Hearing a familiar sound in the distance, he pushed back an overhanging fern and was greeted with a sight which brought relief to his heart. A river awaited them, far below the ground on which they walked. A few hundred yards to the right of their position was a waterfall, not a fierce one but a gentle one, which trickled across the cliff and joined it's river-partner with splashes of greeting. Water was something they needed. They would stay here.

The group continued working without speaking. They did not need to speak to know that this would be their place of rest. They did not need to speak to know that how long they would reside here would be unknown. They did not need to speak to realise that the vegetation they carried in their netting was not for eating, but for planting. They did not need to speak to feel that still, something did not feel quite right. They each fell to a job in silence.

The group was small. Only now that they had stopped moving, did they look around to observe one another. The leader stood silent, facing the waterfall with not a movement. The other men appeared in control, busy taming the ferns and plantlife in order to make shelter. The women bustled around, still in utter silence, performing tasks they did not realise they needed to do. One woman instructed her two children, with no words, to stay out the way and stay quiet. The young boy and girl merely accepted this fate, and sat. The clearing was eerily still.

Nightfall came.

The group sat nestled together in the clearing, sheltered by branches of pine and fronds of fern. A fire had been lit. One section of the clearing had already been turned into a would-be harvesting area. Awaiting plantation, it sat, rows of fine soil already paved into crude lots. Buckets created from wood, sat waiting - waiting to be filled with water. The waterfall continued to trickle knowingly into the river. One by one, they drifted into sleep.

Morning came.

The leader awoke with an abrupt start. He was not alone. A glance showed two young children sitting in the rear of the shelter, eyes alert, watching him. Gone, were the other group members. Rising to his feet, the leader observed the boy and girl curiously. They too, had risen when he had, expectant eyes watching, waiting to see what he would do next. For the first time since they had arrived here, wherever here was, the man opened his mouth to speak. Sensing this, the girl halted him with just a look. The boy moved towards the opening of the shelter. He pulled back the branch flap, and with a look, invited the leader to observe what lay awaiting outside.

With a sense of dread, the man clenched his teeth and peered outside..