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The Splendour bug

Published in On Our Selection News August 1, 2013

I hate bugs.

Not the beetle kind of bugs, they aren’t bad guys at all; it’s the stomach bugs of the world that are the real menaces.

I say this with a fresh sense of hatred off the back of festivites over the weekend. I, like many of my footlose and fancy free peers, headed along to the Splendour in the Grass music festival near Byron Bay.

On the second night I was jovially strolling into the festival without a care in the world, ready to drink in the goodness of Empire of the Sun and The National when the blessed stomach bug struck. And oh Lordey did it strike fast.

Within minutes of feeling as though I was “in a bad place”, I was on my hands and knees violently emptying the conents of my stomach onto the muddy ground. Unfortunately, the phrase “once you pop you cannot stop,” (a phrase made famous by Pringles, which coincidentally, I had been enjoying earlier in the day) and the great stomch emptying continued into the night. As the National was reaching the climax of “Mr November” (youtube it and then you will know how devestating it was that I missed it), I was writhing around on a jacket that some kind soul had laid over the mud so I could sit as I dry-reached.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I discovered that I couldn’t hold down toothpaste and was shaking like a leaf, that I was advised to go to the medic tent.

This was a place that I never hoped I would end up. The medic tent was a place for hardcore pill takers and people who jumped off poles into a crowd of waiting security guards, not for little old me. I was a dignified person and I did not belong in a medic tent. Or so I thought.

It turned out that this was no time for dignity; alas, I believe my dignity was on left in a chunky puddle in the festival the night before. After stumbling in and crying to the red frogs volunteers, it turned out that I was in exactly the right place.

(Incidentally, I found out that I wasn’t the first small town journo who drunk fluids with my veins. Either us rural news hounds have  really know how to party, or we have terrible immune systems. I suspect it was a lot from Column A and a little from Column B.)

I was told that I had picked up a severe bug that had been going around the campsite, was promptly put on a drip, and immediately regetted not bringing my phone to photograph the evidence of this experience.

From this low point of my life, I took in a few lessons. Lesson Number One: anti-nausea drug maxolon works fast (I could pinpoint the exact moment that my stomach stopped churning and it was glorious); Lesson Number Two: music festival medics are greatly appreciative of patients whose ailments are not drug or alohol related; and Lesson Number Three: there is such a thing as a “gastro drawer”.

With a renewed sense of appreciation for the medical advances in our society, I sprung back to the campsite and headed into the festival, sporting my taped-on cottonball like a badge of honour.

Bugs are indeed the worst; they strike at the least convenient moments, they steal your dignity and they essentailly turn you into some kind of sub-human. But this is where Lesson Number Four comes in: if you can find the silver lining to losing most of your stomach lining, you can still come out on top.

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This one did not

Harriet the Skulk

In my line of work, I often feel like Harriet the Spy.

 (for those of you who don’t remember Nickelodeon’s epic first motion feature and Michelle Trachtenberg’s glorious introduction to fame)While I don’t have a Nanny following my around and I’m not a fan of tomato and mayo sangas, I do have an admiration for Rosie O’Donnell and I do creep around taking notes about and pictures of individuals going about their daily business.

The difference is that Harriet’s spying is pretty exciting, and from the vague misty corners of my mind, eventually produce meaningful results. The results of Dannielle the Spy are far less exciting and produce zero moral lessons. One of the many reasons why my life isn’t a movie and Harriet’s was. My spying is much more mundane, and instead of being risky but worth it, mine are just awkward.

While Harriet’s activities are probably against the law and definitely against moral codes, she gets away with it because she’s a cute little child. My “spying” either happens in public spaces or at functions/presentations/meetings/any form of gathering, which makes it neither illegal nor unethical, if I’m caught out my fate is worse than a minor stalking conviction: it is the awkward conversation – where you have to repeat the name of the paper you’re from thrice (which is followed by a geographical description and a weak joke about some town landmark or slogan) and explain that you’re not getting the person’s name or any intimate personal details, all while trying to be quiet enough not to interrupt preceding’s but doing so anyway.

You see, Harriet’s spying was kept at a safe distance to prevent her from being caught, thus revealing her spy status and all her bitchy secrets (SPOILER: that happens. I can’t remember how, but it’s pretty heartbreaking – I can remember feeling some sort of pain on her behalf. I also feel fictional movie characters’ embarrassment – which makes a lot of movies hard to watch. I’m a very empathetic person, as it turns out). My “spying” is kept at a safe distance to prevent me from being caught in conversation.

I prefer to get an action shot, get the general vibe of what’s going done and vamoose.

Today’s action shot was a man digging a hole, and another man looking at said hole. Unfortunately, this digging and hole-watching was going on behind not one, but two construction barrier fences, a strategically placed wheelie bin and an entire playground fortress. While I could have stood on the path as opposed to skulking behind the insufficient cover that was this bitter-sweet play equipment, I didn’t for fear of conversation. This is partly because the men, being in the middle of work for a council project, would have told me they couldn’t be in a picture. And there’s nothing more awkward than someone saying you can’t get a picture. My counter strategy is a mixture of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and “it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission”, which of course results in creepy skulking.

There’s a specific art to this manoeuvre, one that is refined over time. Rule Number One: don’t make eye contact. If you acklowedge that you are person and they are a person by looking at them, your cover is blown. Rule Number Two: you don’t really have a “cover” per se; if you try not to look like a journo, you generally look like a creepy douchebag taking pictures for personal use, and that doesn’t warrant a friendly response. Carry around a notepad even if you’re not taking notes. It establishes your character and therefore you purpose of photographing. Rule Number Three: even though you don’t technically have a “cover”, don’t blow your cover. How? By following Rule Number Four: move like the wind, strike like a snake. Non-terrible-vaguely-poetic-Chinese-warrior-instruction-immitation translation: Don’t dick around. Get in there, get it done and get out. The second you slow down or stray from your task is the second someone tries to talk to you. Just take a photo and go.

It feels like you’re doing something illegal or unethical, because you’re rushed and jittery and even a little dizzy sometimes. You feel kind of dangerous, unstable even. You begin to question the moral fibre of your being. This has nothing to do with skulk-related adrenaline, and, of course, everything to do with the fact that these “missions” always occur right before lunchtime.

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This one made it to print

It snot goodbye

Published in On Our Selection News July 25, 2013

Goodbyes are pretty awkward.
In my time, I’ve been witness to countless beautiful goodbyes

in movies and television shows, and since I base most of my knowledge of life off television, I’ve been grossly misinformed. I have been led to believe that 84% of major goodbyes are said in airports, 8% in train/bus stations, 7.9% of other transport and approximately 0.1% involve a spaceship and a glowing finger. Every single final goodbye, I was led to believe, had a moment in which words were said through a knowing stare between both parties.

Goodbyes in real life, I have since found out, are much less powerful, and usually involve someone saying “sooooooo…” before trailing off.

Even the most casual of goodbyes are a nightmare. There have been too many times when I’ve waved someone off only to discover we’re walking the same way and then one of us will either have to make some kind of joke – which will mean prolonged small talk and then ANOTHER goodbye when you do finally split directions – or pretend to be busy so as not to notice the other person.

The trouble is that goodbyes aren’t always as simple as a “catch you on the flip side”. There are a lot of questions to think

about, especially when you aren’t expecting to see them in a long time.

What are you supposed to say to someone when you know the likelihood is that you will probably never see them again? Are you supposed to say something profound? What level of emotion is appropriate for the amount of time you’ve know this person and the significance of the relationship? In this situation, a length of a hug can mean the difference between a possible couch to sleep on abroad and the Facebook friend- count suddenly being one less.

Chances are that one of the two parties involved in the good- bye will over estimate the intensity of feelings and will spoil everything. This is something to avoid. No one wants to be that person who collapses in a fit of tears and wiping their nose on their departing casual acquaintance’s favourite jumper.

The trouble is that you have to think of some final words to finish on. If I were a film/show, I’d want my character to be witty and somewhat stoic but with the right amount of feelings to make the audience believe I had a heart of gold. So this is what I try to do in real life.

Try being the key word in that sentence.
And never is the difference between “trying” and “achieving”

so stark as when you’re trying to orchestrate a meaningful departure. I’ve had a couple of international exchange student friends, so I’ve had a few stabs at the goodbye-forever- performance. I once said “have a nice life,” to a departing friend, which I thought was good at the time, but looking back, we haven’t been in contact again…

I’ve tried the play on a personal joke technique, the old forced tears routine and I’ve even pulled out the group-hug-so-I- don’t-have-to-say-anything-profound card. And they’ve all been rubbish goodbyes – nothing like the movies. There’s no powerful soundtrack or meaningful glance that sums up your entire relationship; there’s just prolonged awkward silence and eye-contact avoidance.

It is very confronting to have the knowledge of when you’re going to see someone for the last time. Usually the people you aren’t too keen on drift out of your life, and you happily never see them again. Most of the time you won’t be aware that the last time you see someone is indeed your last encounter, so it is very rare that you get to consciously set the tone. So when you have that opportunity, the pressure is really on.

The best thing you can do is accept that the big goodbye is not going to be glamorous, and that you will probably embarrass yourself. There will be extended pauses and no one is will be sure of how to respond.

But these are the things that make goodbyes unforgettable. And if nothing else, goodbyes are about leaving a lasting mark on the person fleeing from your company. Maybe all that mark will be is a wet patch of snot on their shoulder as you go in for the teary hug, but at least it’s something.

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This one made it to print

True Colours

Originally published in On Our Selection News July 18, 2013

I’m a little wound up.

I’m worried about the Australian way of spelling – not the Australian way of life, but of spelling. You see, I’ve just typed the word “colour” into a Microsoft Word document, and there is a ghastly red squiggly line mocking me with its indication that I’ve spelt this word incorrectly. I thought I was writing what the Concise Oxford Dictionary describes as “a sensation produced on eyes by rays of light when resolved as by prism into different wavelengths,” but as far as Microsoft Word is concerned, I’ve just written incorrect dribble. It’s as though I’ve just smashed my head against the keyboard and tried to pass of the random combination of letters I’d hit with my face as a word.

What’s even more infuriating is when I’m sending a test from my smart phone and I use the word “colour”. This time, I don’t even get the courtesy of a rue red line – my word has automatically been bastardised to conform with the American spelling system. This means I then has to go back and correct the correction that the rude person called “AutoCorrect” corrected automatically without asking. Sometimes AutoCorrect is not only rude, but stubborn and won’t back down without a fight. Sometimes I have to go back three or four times to un-Americanise a word – it’s very impolite.

Cast your eyes upon this: color. It looks wrong, doesn’t it? I just tried to read it phonetically, and I said “coal ore”, which sounds more like something that will eventually kill all the nice polar bears (because apparently climate change only affects the polar bears) as opposed to something that can brighten a room. I’ll admit that phonetically, “colour” isn’t exactly the correct combination of letters, but it is nice on the eye.

I know it’s wildly ethnocentric (judging one’s culture based on the assumption that your own is correct or normal – thanks commu degree!) but I think we have a right to retain our signature, even if we did snag it from the motherland.

That is not just about “colour”, or the absence of a “u” here and there, it’s the fact that the youngsters of our nation may not recognise the difference between Australian English and American English. This is because we are in increasingly digital society – we spend a lot of time on computers and on our phones. This isn’t really a problem, in fact it’s quite brilliant, but it does have its downsides besides the cheeky repetitive strain injuries and obesity it is credit with causing. A problem is that the companies that make these devices we love so dearly (myself included), are American and so the default spelling setting on these devices are set to American English.

This wouldn’t be such a bad problem if it wasn’t fro autocorrect and spellcheck. They are both excellent idea, and have saved many a mark for correct spelling and provided plenty of laughs when they are slightly off the mark. But these tools are telling the user that the word they are actually spelling correctly, say “colour” for instance, is spelt wrong.

Look, Australian kids these days are very busy people. They have lapping to do, they have sandwiches to throw and YOLO hashtagging to do. I worry that in between these activities they won’t have time to go back and correct their auto-correct’s automatically American tendency. I understand that language is fluid and changes with time. Things change and I get that. But I feel like we need to hang on to our apparently unnecessary “U” or our curvy “S” in the place of cold, heartless and pointy “Z” in words like “realise”.

The world is heading to globalisation where languages will be shared and we will skip and dance merrily under rainbows with major trade deals, but that day is not today.

Show your true colours Australia, that’s why I love U. Because “colour” is beautiful like a rainbow.

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