An augmented version of column originally published in On Our Selection News August 17, 2016

My obsession for making lists and lining up my pens is going to kill me… and see me die alone.

As a 20-something who is nowhere near as wealthy and famous as I thought it’d be as a child, I’m trying to do a bit of soul searching. The time has come for me to start seriously mapping out my future. I’m trying to find out who I am and what my grand purpose is in life. I need some real answers. So of course I’ve turned to online quizzes.

I thought I’d start off with the Type A or Type B personality test. I answered the questions hoping for the former. I thought being a Type A was a good thing. From what I’d gleamed from magazines and Hollywood’s portrayal of successful people, I thought falling into this category meant you liked lists, colour coding and achievements. You got things done and you did it all in a power blazer. Your apartment is neat and you have a luxed out bloody diary/day planner. It all sounded so fun to me.

If you read my last post, you would know that I came to my own conclusion – that I’m neat, I rant and I’m fabulous (I didn’t need an online test to tell me that). But here are the actual results. And they are less humorous observations and more predictions of my doom. Because it turns out falling into this category means you’re falling into an early grave.

According to the computer-generated free analysis I was given, I should really be paying more attention to my cardiovascular health. The test was originally created not so people could justify their tense, busy lifestyle and jerkward behaviour while trying to get to the top. It was designed to see if you were more expected to experience heart problems, most likely caused by stress.

According my results, my daily existence is “heavily tinged with impatience and hostility”. If my test results are to be believed, I explode the jagged barbs of my concentrated anger at others like some kind of flame-throwing echidna.

And if I don’t burn whoever is within a five-metre radius of my verbal hatred, I end up stewing in anger and frustration. My fury simmers slowly in the crockpot of my soul for weeks on end and when the lid is finally lifted, you don’t end up with zingy pulled pork. You get dished up the tough, stringy corpse that is my rage. Everything is burnt to a crisp except the crackling, which is still chewy and limp.

Apparently my behaviour is both damaging to my health and “extremely harmful” to relationships – which perhaps explains why I spent the last Saturday night watching the ABC with my parents instead of having a laugh with friends. Family are like the friends you had in your country primary school with less than 30 kids – forced to like you because there is a lack of other options.

I turned to this test for answers, but all it gave me was a kick in the guts. Sure, I may well be a stain on humanity, but no one wants to hear that actually confirmed.

Butt he silver lining is that while my hostile personality means I may die alone, I won’t have to live too long in misery because my spiteful ways could cause early heart failure. So while I may be a Type A, it turns out I’m also an optimist.

Originally published in On Our Selection News, August 13, 2016

Sick days aren’t as fun as they used to be.

If you were like me as a child, you would have liked Maggi two-minute noodle sandwiches, had an unhealthy obsession with the Olsen twins and you would have tried to chuck a lot of sickies.

The idea of staying home while you’re supposed to be doing other things was so exciting. You could do anything you wanted. You could watch those educational entertainment programs on ABC and then play with Barbies and maybe even go grocery shopping with Mum.

And if you were actually sick, you got so much attention. In a family of three other girls, this was important. Because the limelight generally had to be shared, as did toys, bedrooms and, sometimes, seatbelts (but only for the skinnier of the siblings – so thankfully I was spared. Although I also like to reason that I was a much more valuable child, and therefore deserved the bare minimum of state road safety considerations, otherwise known as my own seatbelt). And as the third child out of four, I even had to share being the middle child. So any little morsel of extra attention tossed out by our parents like table scraps out the back door was snapped up quickly by the metaphorical stray dogs we were.

Once, both my eardrums burst simultaneously. Between doses of painkillers, my mother had to literally hold me down on to the bed while I flailed about, screaming in agony like a child possessed. I had quite meaty limbs and the diaphragm of an opera singer by that time, so this would have been quite an ordeal for my poor mother. But I was the focus of the household at the time, so it was worth it. Sure, I may never be allowed to scuba dive, but at least it got me a solid week’s worth of airtime.

Unfortunately, as an adult, sick days have lost their appeal. Because as a child all you had to worry about was the Friday spelling test. If you missed out, it wasn’t a big deal because you only needed to master the words that were in Harry Potter to get by. But now, you have things to do. Documents to type, forms to submit, etc.

I like to get things done. And by “get things done” I don’t mean, “spend five minutes coughing up a single clump of infection”. I spent the last three days napping. That may sounds delightful to some, but I’ve hated every minute of it. I planned on filing my tax return and then researching frivolous items I could spend said tax return on. I planned on making pumpkin pie. I had several unimportant magazines to buy. And I planned on writing this down in my diary and highlighting it in the appropriate colour. But was unable to do any of this because of a little case of bronchitis.

And let’s not forget about the #gainz that have been lost while I’ve been too tired to stand. I’ve missed numerous gym classes and therefore am going to have a sloppy rig to deal with.

But the worst part about adult sick days is fact that you have to fish for attention. Because we all assume adults can take care of themselves accordingly, or let hospital staff do it for them if it’s really serious. Now the attention from being sick doesn’t come easy. You have to ask for it. It’s the fourth day I’ve endured symptoms, and I’ve already sent out at least five snapchats, two texts, and had one phone call with Mum. Maybe I just need human contact, a hug. But I offered the dial-a-doctor a handshake and he, quite wisely, declined.

Update: two weeks later and I’m not only still trying to shake the snot, but I also have conjunctivitis.

It’s good to have ready access to headshots of Byran Brown, in case of emergencies.

I have been told that I am a hoarder. This might because I still have my notebooks from Year 11 or a tattered newspaper cutout of Karl Stefanovic that was plastered on my college door by a delightful soul in 2011. I don’t really think it’s a problem yet because I haven’t found any dead mice in amongst my swag of unnecessary belongings (not so for my little sister by the way). I will throw things out or donate items to charity if I think I don’t need them anymore. And since moving interstate and back again, I feel it’s under control. But I can admit that I may have a hoarding problem, or at least hoarding tendencies.

This is not just in relation to physical stuff, but virtual stuff. Namely, Safari tabs on my iPhone.

Funnily enough, I hate having more than three tabs open on my laptop because it’s too much clutter in my address bar. But iPhones allow you keep dozens of tabs open without having them obstruct your view. It’s like a bottomless virtual third draw.

I have about 17 million tabs open in Safari just in case I need to use the web page in the future. I refuse to close them. I know I should, but each time I go to Google something on my phone on an already-open tab, a little voice in my head says, “you might need that information one day” and I open another tab. I see it like taping over something, and I can’t live with that. I still haven’t forgiven my oldest sister for taping over our Simpsons episodes with some sappy Grey’s Anatomy bullshit and that was like seven years ago. I can live with silently resenting my sister, but resenting myself would drive me insane. When you’re your own mentor and spiritual guide, you have to be careful not to let yourself down.

Plus, I feel like keeping your web history in the open means you don’t have any skeletons in your closest. Shutting tabs implies you have something to hide. Putting them out in the open means that, if I were to die and someone had to go through my phone, they wouldn’t be shocked. They’ll know the charred remains (I’m obviously going to die saving someone from an explosion) they’re burying are those of a self-invovled weirdo and hopefully tailor my funeral accordingly. Because the last thing you want is one of those basic funerals where they play Let It Be, talk about how infectious the carcass’ smile was and serve scotch fingers. I want my funeral to be so fabulous that mourners start live Tweeting it.

As such , here are the sites/searches I deemed too important to close:

A Google search for stein glass: I put up an Instagram about eating gravy and mashed peas out of a stein. I wanted to make sure that “s-t-e-i-n” was what I thought it was and not some offensive German word. You don’t want to look like a dingbat on the ‘gram.

Details about a meet and greet with Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton: The Just series was my damn childhood. There’s no chance I’m going to miss meeting these guys. I don’t care if I’m 24. I’ll knee all the seven-year-old little fuckers in the face to knock them out of my way.

A Google search for Diarrhea: I am surprised how often this word comes up in my text conversations yet how much I struggle with spelling it. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing…

A Google search for Brighton The Nanny today: The conversation came up after I was discussing the death of the woman who played Grandma Yetta. Plus, it’s important to know what the stars of yesterday are doing today. I have to say that Gracie is probably doing the best after leaving the Sheffield house.

A Google search for Bryan Brown: Because you need 24-hour access to the face of rugged manhood.

A recipe for moist coconut cake: This is an important recipe. It has a whole container of sour cream in the batter. Sour. Cream. In cake. It’s actually the best. When they say moist, they mean it. This cake is damper than the knickers of a 45-year-old woman a Magic Mike screening.

A recipe for Best Ever Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting: I love carrots, I love cake and cream cheese frosting is so good I would seriously consider eating it off the floor of any bathroom in Fortitude Valley. I would consider contracting tinea of the tongue just for a few seconds of that dairy delight.

Nevamaycakes.com.au: This girl makes great cakes, and sometimes you need to see a great cake to remind you that life is worth living.

A video of Noni Hazlehurst reading Go the Fuck to Sleep: I went to a baby shower recently.

A recipe for pumpkin scones: Dad has recently take his “see, I’m from the country” act up a notch, and is now growing actual edible produce in our backyard. And because it requires absolutely no upkeep and, in fact, happened completely by accident, Dad’s growing pumpkins. It was an unplanned patch, but a welcome surprise.

My father has been trying to produce fruit for years. We have these unidentified citrus trees scattered around our backyard. Each year they blossom and then start growing these yellowy-green citrus-esque balls and each year we hope they turn into something we could make cocktails out of. But each year they stop growing once they’ve reached the size of golf balls and then drop onto the grass like a puddle of wee. We’ve tried cutting into these disappointment balls, and they taste like shit. So it’s a real tease that we have something that resembles fruit but can’t be eaten. I imagine how it would feel similar to being a parent and finding our your child likes Adam Lambert or something.

So when our little block on the edge of town happened to grow something vaguely edible, it was jubilation station. We had a horse living in our backyard (we didn’t own it, it was rescue horse our neighbour wanted to save from being made into Swiss meatballs) and Dad would throw it some veggie scraps, like it’s life wasn’t horrific enough without having to eat our unwanted green waste. Anyway, among those scraps must have been some pumpkin seeds which were magically fertilised by some of the horse’s leavings. And by gum, in a few months we had an actual pumpkin patch. So Dad, not knowing what to do with his newfound fertile power, often offloads them on to me and my sisters; his other accidental fruits.

Long story short, I have a lot of pumpkin in my life right now. You know what they say, when life gives you pumpkins, make pumpkin scones.

A Google search for chicken goujons: Like chicken chippies, but more fun to say. It’s very difficult to spell for a filthy Westerner like me with no culture and no respect for French words.

The weather radar: Because sometimes you want to know what the rains are doing… mostly if you’re looking at having to converse with a man over the age of 50 who has a good Akubra and a work Akubra. You know the type.

The website for comedian Sarah Pascoe: I heard her talking on the radio about books she’d done about the female body. I’m running out of vagina jokes, so I think poking my nose in a book such as that one would be helpful. Like, why should the cervix have all the fun? When will it be fallopian tubes’ time to shine? A Google search for a neo mastiff cross with great dane: My sister and her husband bought a puppy and being four hours away from it is hard for me.

The movie schedule for my local cinema: In a small country town this is pointless because they only play kids movies. Did you know there was an Ice Age Five? Why the fuck does the world need that?! What is wrong with everyone?!

Capricorn Daily Horoscope: Because when you’re as indecisive as me, working out whether you should go for a run at a particular time is a huge dilemma. I find horoscopes, as trivial as they may be, do sometimes help in the realm of using them to justify your decisions. Like not running.

A YouTube clip of Ralph Wiggans saying “go banana”: Obviously.

Nigella’s chocolate olive oil cake: I have a friend who can’t eat dairy and shouldn’t be eating gluten. But she should be eating chocolate cake. Nigella doesn’t want people like this brave soul to miss out, and neither do I. And because this stuff is based on almond meal, I can pas it off as healthy.

Chlamydia symptoms, women: Research. Chlamydia is an excellent metaphor for many things in life, but if you really want it to have the same sting to your verse you need to back it up with facts.

Billy Crystal Lion King: He wasn’t on The Lion King. But whoever played Timon obviously was channelling one of the world’s most delightful men when he was in that voice recording booth. And why wouldn’t you? He’s a wonderful creature. I really hope that he hasn’t done anything creepy or criminal that leaks out as he gets older. I really want him to be as wholesome, yet edgy as I imagine him to be. In fact, if something shady came out from his past, I’d probably ignore it. The same goes for Steve Martin, Diane Keaton, Bette Midler and Kerri-Anne.

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. Unfortunately I’m currently in a stage and location in life where I don’t really keep any “company”. The closest thing to “company” for me is the Harry Potter figurines that stand around the rim of my bathroom sink for decorative purposes. You could argue that this is perhaps a contributing factor as to why I don’t keep human company, but I beg to differ.

Anyway, because of a lack of humanoids I choose to surround myself with, you’ll have to find other things that tell at lot about me. Thankfully, there are many things upon which you can base your perceptions of me on. My many split ends and unprofessional-length of hair is an option, so is my DVD collection. But the other night I happened to stumble across The Breakfast Club while surfing the channels, and while it did make me wonder what kind of horrific scars one would sustain from shooting themselves with a flare gun, it did prompt me to think of the scene where The Basket Case tips her handbag out.

You can tell a lot about a person by what they lug around with them all day, everyday. The old saying “you cannot not communicate” perhaps is best proved by the analysis of a person’s handbag/satchel/hessian sack and the contents inside it. There’s a lot that can be deduced from these objects and the fact that the owner chooses to keep them on their persons whenever they leave the house. These are the objects one determines they cannot face the outside world without being in close proximity to. In short, these are the things that one needs to feel at home anywhere. Like a snail lugging its house around on its back, so too are our handbags which provide comfort and shelter of some emotional kind. Plus revealing what’s in your handbag is really trendy on Instagram and racks up a shit-tonne of likes depending on how expensive your personal items are.

So I’m going to dump my purse out on to the couch/internet:

Here’s a comprehensive annotated bibliography of completely necessary items which goes into my bag that I insist on hauling around with my every day*. I’m going to try to justify each object’s place in my personal sack to myself.

Wallet: obviously. Because we are living in a material world, and I need to be able to trade currency in order to obtain goods and/or services.

Deodorant: because I don’t want anyone to know that I sweat. Ever.

Two plastic forks and a plastic spoon: because you never know when you’re going to be faced with a tub of yogurt or a container of fried rice without an implement with which to shove it into my gob. Think it’s superfluous? Try eating yoghurt with your fingers, then come tell me I’m a hoarder. I’m just prepared for the inevitable.

14 business cards from my old job: because you never know

Just one business card from my current job: because I guess I am a little underprepared for some things.

A plastic bag: to give my items a watertight barrier should I be caught up in an unexpected rainstorm.

A list of my friend’s siblings in the order they were born: in case I forget (because it’s pretty embarrassing when I mix Marcus up with Tom).

A spare key to my car which has the top broken and therefore I can’t keep it on a keychain anymore: because I can’t keep it on a keychain anymore.

A sachet of Vegemite: in case I get stranded in the bush without any source of Vitamin B.

Breast tape: to stick my clothes to my bare chest to hide my feminine shame.

Travel tissues: because when your nose is runny and you think it’s funny, well it’s snot.

My old iPhone 4: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011.

An iPhone charger: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011 and it runs out of battery.

An iPhone charging cord: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011 and it runs out of battery and I can’t find my first charger but I have a USB port.

A blue USB someone leant to me and did come back for: in case I need to save important documents, usually after hacking into the Main Frame.

A scrunchie with Santa Claus on it that my grandma made to match the Christmas dress she made me as a kid: because I have long hair and I like to eat food. You try eating food with a metre of hair blowing around.

White socks: in case I forget my other socks and I’m heading to the gym from work. Running in just sneakers with nothing between the soles and your footskin is awful.

Keys to Grandma’s house: you never know when you’re going to need a Tim Tam, and my Grandma has shitloads of the bastards.

A deck of Greek Ancient Lovers playing cards: in case of an emergency round of Kings Cup comes up and there are no cards.

Blue highlighter: for marking my court notes.

Five wooden beads on a loop of string: so I can be ultra glamorous in an instant.

A bundle of 12 pens and a pencil: because journalism.

Two plastic rings: you just never know.

Diary: because I like to keep track of my meaningless life by colour-coding my appointments.

Glasses case with my old glasses in it: in case my newer, magnifying glass strength glasses are trampled and I need to see things.

Glasses case with my watch and earphones in it: because the I’ll be damned if I’m going to try to run without Jason De Rulo humming in my ears. I keep my watch in there for security reasons. Those reasons don’t have to be rational.

A girls’ night out namebadge sticker: because maybe I am a haorder.

Five empty single-serve Mentos packets: because a kind-hearted councillor feels sorry for me for having to sit through hours of council meetings and throws me the free sugary treats councillors get on their table to keep my body from shutting down.

Anticol lozenges: because I work in an office environment in a cold climate.

One strawberry and one chocolate flavoured condom: in case I get into a hot and steamy situation, I’ll look so wild and spontaneous because I keep favoured contraception on my person at all times. Plus it will also double as a water carrier should I be lost in the wilderness. You always need to be prepared for being lost in the wilderness, and, to be honest, I’m a little curious about what chocolate flavoured creek water would taste like.

A “rump rewards” loyalty card, with one stamp on it: because we all aspire to one day earn a free steak by paying for and eating other steaks.

Three promotional magnets: because I can’t say no to the friendly faces at the court registry office.

Six half-used tissues: yeah, that’s not hygienic. They won’t be going back in there.

13 small, golden safety pins: in case of emergency tears in fabric/good try ribbon presentations at primary school ball games carnivals.

An A5 notebook: for ideas about my television series.

Two types of dermatitis ointments prescribed to members of my family: because I never think to go to the doctor and I have a tendency to scratch my afflicted areas when asleep/drunk/asleep while drunk. I get it on my fingers and that’s not great for handshakes.

A pack of “visiting cards”: this impulse buy was an aspiration to leave actual calling cards when my plans to spontaneously burst into the living spaces of my friends and families are thwarted by them not being there/pretending they’re not home. I have yet to leave a card, but when I do turn up unexpectedly and my victim isn’t there, I’ve be ready for them.

A fictional docket detailing the cost of each of the items in one person’s home mailed to me for promotional purposes: so I could question the drongo who estimated someone would own $200 worth of socks. I planned on weaving Rob Kardashian’s weird sock venture into my rant about conniving insurance companies. Watch this space.

A form stress ball shaped like a traffic light: because you should never depart on red. My dad actually gave one of these to each of my siblings for Christmas one year. They were given out back in the days when he would drive a lettuce truck. He’s a strange man.

Two nearly empty tubes of coldsore creams: because those bastards need to be nipped in the bud or else you end up with leprosy of the face.

An old hair tie container with a single outstretched hair tie and one of the two nearly empty tubes of coldsore creams: I live in fear of being without something to tie my hair back. I used/lost all the ties already except for this one which lost its elasticity. Even if it does a terrible job this will get me out of a sticky situation. The cream is in the case for ointment containing purposes.

A small blue mini notebook with a golden pencil: because I need to write down the deep and completely poetic thoughts I have while out and about. I might also be a little bit glamorous.

Four Zyrtec tablets: sometimes my eye swells up for no reason and I refuse to not pat dogs I come into contact with. The two are absolutely not related. Absolutely not.

A single pain killer tablet: I might find myself with a headache that’s painful, but not too painful that it requires two tablets to put an end to my suffering.

My tax return summary from 2013: if those blood sucking auditors come for me, I’ll be ready for them.

An astronomical bill for keeping my 20-year-old car running: it’s paid; it’s just there. I can’t really explain it. Maybe I’m trying to remind myself that even though my car is being held together with thumb tacks, it’s still one expensive ride.

The menu from the place that does Indian wraps: we all need somebody to lean on.

Seven pieces of rubbish paper I haven’t thrown out yet: because I haven’t thrown them out yet.

One bobby pin: honestly, it’s amazing I have this. It’s the sole survivor out of heavens knows how many. You get don’t question its presence, it deserves your respect.

*Ok, so this here is actually the contents of my bag a few weeks ago. I spent far too much of my weekend moving my glut of possessions interstate to be able to throw something together for my Sunday feast (of my words). This here is something I prepared earlier. Interestingly, the inventory of items in my bag has increased astronomically. So I may just serve up a round of seconds later on, depending on how crippling my writer’s block is. Grab a fork my friends! 

There’s nothing like packing up all your worthless possessions to remind you how cool you are.

A lot of people bang on about moving house like it’s the worst thing on earth you could have to endure. And I understand that to a degree – you have to do things instead of lay down, and there’s a lot of wiping involved. But the actual packing and boxing of one’s personal goods? That’s hardly a chore for someone with stuff as cool as I have and a memory as selective as mine is.

I’m actually kind of enjoying it. This time I’m actually using boxes instead of precariously stacking my breakables in those Princess Polly bags we inexplicably hoard as sturdy yet depressing status symbols so when we unpack our new housemates know they’re living with a classy bitch who can afford to shop at stores which have fancy paper bags. I usually jut shove everything that can’t shatter into a giant garbage bag and cram it into the boot of my Camry and go on my way.

But this time I’m doing it properly, by wrapping glassware in newspaper, placing them carefully into boxes and labelling them accordingly. And I have to say that I’m quite enjoying this. Not only do I get to look at my cool personal goods, but I also get to wrap things like I’m one of those women with wealthy husbands who work in homewares shops for social reasons (essentially Prude and Trude). But then I get the pleasure of categorising my life into boxes.

I’m not sure if compartmentalising your life is cause of concern or will earn you an achievement sticker from your psychologist (I’ve just sent a test to my friend studying her masters in clinical psych, so I’ll let you know*), but compartmentalising your possessions is a real thrill (if you have nothing else going on in your life, hence my elation).

Already I have two boxes from my kitchen/living area packed away. One says “fragile – frivolous glassware”, which is essentially a bunch of steins, French-style champagne glasses and some delicate tumblers I absolutely don’t need but picked up for a bargain. The other box is labelled “hipster party accessories” which contains bunting made from scrap fabric, two jugs to be used for Instagram-worthy cocktails, vintage scotch glasses and mini milk bottles (these were actually from a pack I picked up at the dump shop; I think there was a juice supplier that went bust and I reaped the benefits).

I actually had to put a stop to my little spree after running out of newspaper (but I know where I can pick up more, eh?) but I think more than anything it was delayed gratification. Like when you save a piece of cake until after you finish work or put off watching a new episode of something until after you’ve showered and put the dishes away – it’s a little treat I am setting aside for my future self. A dangling carrot to get through a busy Monday, if you will.

Because I am already daydreaming about the next few labels I’ll be making with my Nikko:

Horse-related knick knacks

Swan figurines

Novelty crockery that looks like it’s not crockery

Tedious glassware I received as gifts

Pictures of people I don’t yet hate in frames from op shops

Assorted containers to use as vases and tell the world I’m unconventional

Candles and associated goods

These are all categories of items I thought of off the top of my head. It doesn’t take into account all the forgotten treasures I have hidden in my drawers and cupboards.

In fact, I just opened a draw in my desk to discover that I own a harmonica. A harmonica! I had this sitting in a drawer, on the bottom shelf of my mind. And this joy giving, completely un-annoying find may not have been uncovered for years had I not have had to move. Thanks to unpacking the very same drawer I also was reminded of my uni graduation thanks to a bunch of hard-copy photos; discovered my formal partner was either subconsciously filthy or consciously very filthy but incredibly sly as evidenced by his hand making what appears to be the barracuda sign in our portrait; and was reminded that I’m not a total piece of shit thanks to a slightly tattered print out of comments from supervisor on my last ever uni assignment.

Maybe I’m a Sentimental Sally because I recently watched the Playschool 50^th anniversary special or maybe I’m delirious from a lack of sleep and a lingering head cold, but I can’t help but think that this is all good stuff. Maybe by emptying our drawers and cupboards and packing everything into boxes is the best way to unpack our lives. Maybe, by taking stock of all your possessions and deciding what to keep, throw away or store in a trunk for another few years, you’re best placed to decide what you love and what you need to get rid of from your life and what trash you don’t think you can deal with right now. Maybe moving is the ultimate live overhaul. Or maybe that’s all bullshit.

All I know is that I now have a harmonica, which will not go back into a drawer. It’s going into my handbag, for emergencies.

*I’ve since been told that compartmentalising isn’t the greatest if you’re doing so to supress negative emotions or painful memories. She says it’s best to find healthy ways of expressing such feelings. As such, it’s bloody lucky that I’ve also come across my novelty one-piece collection while moving. Because if there’s a healthier way to express one’s feelings than interpretive dancing in a fringed leotard while playing the harmonica, I’d like to hear it.