Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 20, 2020

Ok, so if last week’s column didn’t make me seem like an… interesting person to live with*, this one might make that clear.

* I mean, I’m not always Housemate of the Week, but I AM technically always Tenant of the Week… because my housemates are also my landlords and  I’m their only tenant. 

I was talking/ranting about the volume numbers on TVs and radios and other things of that digital nature. Basically, the number HAD to be either a multiple of five or an even number.

And, look, I thought there was a bunch of other people who think like that, but now that I’m thinking about it, the only people I know who do that too are very closely connected with my family. This makes me think that perhaps my family has infiltrated their brain to influence their behaviour. I remember having this conversation with a friend about why she did it and she was like “oh, because you girls do it”. It’s obviously quite concerning that we could have that much influence, but also interesting that if we had such influence, this is how we chose to wield that power.

Anyway, there’s a few other related behaviours that I’ve noticed I engage in which might fall under this “it sounds like it’s not a big deal but it actually is a big deal, thank you very much” umbrella.

Clearing the time off the microwave clock once you remove your food: Failing to do this just seems quite reckless to me. Say you put something in the microwave for a minute but take it out after 46 seconds. You’re left with 14 seconds on the clock. It looks like that microwave has unfinished business. It looks like you’ve removed your item from the microwave prematurely for stirring purposes and you intend to put it back in for the remaining 14 seconds. But you don’t. You’re done with the microwave. But you don’t let it know. You just leave it there, with 14 seconds to go. I mean, isn’t that hurtful and confusing for the microwave? And what about the next person who comes to use the microwave? They have to clean up your digital clock mess. I mean, they either have to wipe those remaining 14 seconds or add them to their total cooking time. No. I think once you’ve finished with the microwave, you close the loop, clear the clock and let everyone move on with their lives.

The toilet lid must always be down: I’ve spoken about this before and I will speak about it again, but you gotta contain the filth of a toilet by shutting the lid when you flush. I’m going to introduce you to something which you might wish you’ve never heard of: toilet plume. It’s a term that describes the invisible vortex of particles that shoots up into the air when a toilet is flushed. And because there’s a whole lot of… yuck that goes into the toilet, it’s pretty sickening to imagine tiny particles of that yuck spewing out of the dunny inside this plume of air. This is especially horrifying if the toilet is in the same room as the bathroom, and you picture the yuck particles landing surfaces throughout the room. I mean, that means your innocent toothbrush could be sitting on the sink minding its own business and be hit with an invisible wave of yuck. I know shutting the lid is an extra step in an already laborious process, but I think the two seconds it takes to shut the lid is absolutely worth it.

You have to wash up as you go: This isn’t so much about being anal, it’s about avoiding work later on. I mean, I really don’t enjoy washing up. I will significantly alter my methods to avoid creating more washing up. But I know that dirty dishes are unavoidable. So I make a real effort to clean things as I go when I’m cooking a meal. Because once I sit down and tuck into a bowl of yum, I want to be able to fully relax. I don’t want to have the knowledge that there’s a sink full of washing up waiting for me once my eating is done. I want to be able to forget that dirty dishes are a fact of life and that we’re all on a never ending cycle of preparing food and cleaning up for all eternity. So I do tend to take over the whole kitchen when I cook and will clean any dishes in sight while waiting for my food to cook, which can come off as quite passive aggressive when your housemates’ dishes are in the mix. Thankfully, they’re well-versed in my quirks and, as far as I know, don’t take it personally. They also haven’t asked me to move out yet, so I think I’m justified in saying that I “seem like an… interesting person to live with” as opposed to “seem like a nightmare to live with”.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 22 , 2020

I’m not a particularly superstitious person.

I’ll walk under ladders. I’ll open umbrellas inside. I mean, I won’t crack a mirror because I don’t want to release the spirit of the demon entombed inside it and unleash evil in the world, but that’s got nothing to do with keeping bad luck at bay.

I mean, I’m already pretty lucky – I was born in Australia and just so happened to be cut out of a woman who was already in a great, loving family and, despite my middle name being a little less than trendy, I think I ended up with the best name out of all my sisters (however, I was recently informed by someone who read an alarming article forecasting that Danielle would become the Karen of 20 years from now because there’s so many Danielles out there around my age – and me having a double N would be extra Karen energy because I would sassily say “ah, actually sweetie, it’s a double N”).

I’ve never won a meat tray, but I know I’m a lucky person. So when I do things that could be considered superstitious, it’s not so much about luck.

It’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.

It’s a bit about my upbringing. It’s a bit about habit. It’s also something that is best explained by quoting one of the greatest fictional legal minds this country has ever seen: it’s the vibe of the thing.

* Yeah, so I used a new pen for the drawings and I shan’t be using it again. In case it’s not crystal clear to you, this book says “Australia’s constitution: It’s the vibe of the thing!”

Some people might think that my insistence on having volume settings on either even numbers of multiples of five is superstitious. I mean, I get quite agitated when I’m in the same room as someone who turns up a TV and leaves the volume on some heathen number like 27 or 19.

It makes my skin crawl.

If I don’t know the person that well and am trying to slowly reveal my true self to them in gradual form, I won’t spook them by speaking up. I’d prefer for my true ways to encroach on them bit by bit so they don’t realise what they’re dealing with until they’re in too deep – like a slowly rising tide creeping up on an innocent sand castle just trying to live its life.

But it’s also very, very hard to just leave the volume on that disgusting number.

I can feel that 27. It screams inside my head. It’s like tiny hermit crabs scuttling around angrily under my skin.

I mean, when it’s just me in control of remotes or dials, I adjust the number to be either a multiple of five or an even number without thinking. It’s hardwired into my brain to the point that I don’t notice it when I’m on my own.

It’s pure habit.

And it’s only when I’m with someone who doesn’t confirm to this way of thinking that it becomes obvious to me.

I try to remember why I’m this way, because it feels like it’s always been part of me. I have it on good authority that one’s brain doesn’t stop maturing until about 25 so now my brain is hard and brittle, like cheap old plastic cup left out in the weather for a few months. But when I was younger, my thought cauldron was soft and malleable, ripe for moulding by guiding hands. Both fortunately and unfortunately, those hands were often those of my eldest sister.

She was always bringing home glamorous cool girl ideas to pass on to us girls – crimped hair; saying “talk to the hand” with a sassy roll of the wrist; Hanson. I owe her a lot.

I have a feeling she picked this up somewhere from one of her cool Year Seven friends and insisted on enforcing a strict evens or fives regime in the Maguire household. And, just like the Hanson poster she glued to her bedroom wall, it stuck.

But now I think it’s more than just coercion converted into habit.

Because I like the vibe of fives and even numbers.

Five is a fantastic number and it’s everywhere you look: five senses, five vowels, five Spice Girls (Victoria Beckham may not have gone on the last tour, but she’ll always be a Spice Girl in my heart). And even numbers just work. You divide them up and they’re never alone. There’s always a partner for the other number.

Odd numbers – besides fives – just feel wrong. Chaotic, even. I don’t know how to explain it, but odd numbers just seem like dodgy people.

Of course, you can’t explain this to someone you don’t really know that well, so it’s best just to enforce strict control over volume settings at all times. I mean, they may think you have control issues, but that’s clearly much better than the truth.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 15, 2020

I’ve snapped.

I’ve gone months of deprivation of one of the biggest sources of elation in my life. I’d managed to put it out of my mind for a long time, but when something gives you so much bliss, you can only go for so long without it before you start getting the cravings. The hunger eats away at your willpower like cola eroding a human tooth.

You try to find the satisfaction in other ways. Cleaning the stovetop. Intensive vacuuming. Shining up the taps in the bathroom. Anything to take your mind off the one thing you can’t have.

And, look, that can be pretty satisfying, don’t get me wrong. But when you’ve got a particular itch you need to scratch, meticulously cleaning the bathroom isn’t going to cut it.

Of course, I’m referring to mowing the lawn.

I’m well aware that we’re in the height (or is that the depths?) of winter. And I know that winter isn’t the time to be mowing the lawn. It’s the season when the mower goes into hibernation deep in the darkness of its garden shed cave, surviving off the stores of fat it built up of the summer months.

Winter outdoor jobs include cutting firewood and backburning and clearing space for a garden bed you’re going to end up ignoring after the first few weeks of spring.

Mowing is not a winter job.

But it’s been a relatively mild winter in my neck of the woods. Aside from that one weekend where it felt like I was back in Armidale, the weather has been pretty pleasant.

Now, I know it sounds like I’m bragging to you all, what with the frosts and icy Darling Downs winds, but if it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that Brisbane gets very hot and sticky in summer to the point where one’s thighs fuse with plastic seating.

We haven’t had a lot of rain here, but there was enough of a rain and sun combo to encourage the grass to do a bit of growin’.

It’s not as if the backyard looked like a jungle or anything, but it was a little untidy. It’s kind of like when your bed has a few crinkles in it and you can’t resist pulling the quilt taught so it looks like no one uses the furniture or even lives in your house.

There was no pressing need to mow.

It wasn’t about safety – I assume the snakes fly north for the winter so there’s probably none of those slithery bois lurking around in the grass. And it’s not a house inspection thing – the people I live with own the place so the only people I need to impress to keep living in the joint is them and I think I’ve already done a pretty good job of that (I’m think they keep me on because of my A+ banter on the house whiteboard).

It’s more of a compulsion thing.

I was missing that feeling you just can’t get from other household chores. I mean, finally cleaning that stubborn soap scum from the shower comes close, but less people see that.

Of course, when there’s a sense of guilty pleasure there’s also the compulsion to hide what you’re doing. But mowing the lawn is very public; those machines aren’t quiet. The neighbours would definitely hear. And I knew what they’d be thinking:

“It’s winter. You don’t mow the lawn in winter. And if you’re going to mow the lawn in winter, which you defs shouldn’t do, you probably shouldn’t do it before the sun has a chance to wake up properly and dry the morning dew off the lawn.”

Would they think I was a fool? Would they think I had a mowing problem? Would they think I was sending a passive aggressive message by using loud machinery in suburbia at 9am?

But you can’t live your life worrying about what the neighbours might think.

I also really, really wanted to mow. So I started that mower anyway.

And when the motor roared, the smell of cut crass wafted into the air and I could see that first length of crisp lawn, all of those thoughts drifted away.

My reward was that sense of satisfaction  you can’t get from completing any other task…and the sound of someone else’s mower running in the distance.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 8, 2020

Ok, I’ve got another extremely irrelevant, trivial hot take that nobody asked for, so prepare to roll your eyes.

I’m getting real tired of all the negativity surrounding high mileage on cars.

Yep, I’m aware of how dumb that sounds. But hear me out.

I know that a lot of Ks on the clock means the car is old. And old isn’t as good as new. It means the parts aren’t all whizbang, shiny and working perfectly. It’s generally safe to say that a car that’s clocked up a hecktonne of Ks probably isn’t running as smoothly as a brand new car. And, look, you want a car to be safe on the road so you’re going to avoid driving a rattly old death trap if you can.

Those are logical points. And I get that.

But aren’t cars supposed to travel long distances? Isn’t that the whole point of them; to transport humans to places that are too far for humans to travel on foot? Like, are you going to drive a 100,000km and then just chuck your car away?

I’m no automobile expert (in case that wasn’t already made clear by my ill-informed hot take) but I feel like cars are supposed to go further than up to the shops and back. So shouldn’t the fact that a vehicle has covered a lot of ground and can still function be something to be respected? Revered, even?

It’s like society’s obsession with youth, but in automotive form. I mean, there’s some aspects about aging that doesn’t look like the most fun you’ll ever have in the world. But, geez, being alive for a long time is pretty impressive.

If you could chose between an older and a newer model, the newer one would, in most cases, be a logical choice. In an older model there’s a lot more wear and tear when it comes to things under the hood – just to be clear, I’ve switched back to talking about cars here, I’m no longer talking about people. The upholstery has a bit of a musty smell to it. The paint’s a bit faded.

And, yes, these things aren’t features you look for when buying a new car.

I mean, no one’s ticking the “mysterious sweat stains on the seats” box when filtering through used cars online. And you’re not going to go into a dealership asking only to see cars with faded stickers sprouting slogans you don’t agree with on their bumpers.

But you can slap newer stickers over the top of those old ones with improvised, hand-written slogans such as “Love it or… help make it a nicer place for everyone and try making some new friends instead of being a cranky pants who complains all the time”.  You can steam clean the seats. And you can just ignore the paint issue because it’s just paint on the outside of an item that’s supposed to safely carry you over tough terrain and, so, of course it’s going to get a little sun bleached (this is where I drop another hot take about washing the exterior of a car being a futile waste of my time and resources. My thinking is that because cars are supposed to be outside and outside is a place where dirt is, there’s no use pretending my outdoor car hasn’t been exposed to dirt. And in my head can hear my brother in law disagreeing with me, pointing out the rust-creating nature of salty sea water and the safety issues of baked on dust on windows and, yes, the brother-in-law who apparently has a presence in my head makes a good point, but to him I say that the closest I get to any hard core driving is listening to the greatest hits of Metallica as I drive to work).

I know you should look for a car with low mileage and, if I ever buy a new car, I’d probably go for one with lower Ks on the clock, but I wouldn’t want to become the embodiment of a low-mileage car. Because the human form of a low-mileage car would be kind of boring. What kind of stories are they going to be able to tell over a schooey? Are they going to be able to tell you how much the fine is for keeping rabbits in Queensland because they’ve driven past the warning signs at the border so many times? Will they be impressed that you were able to hold in a wee from Guyra to Clifton? How many conversations have they had with themselves in the dead of night on a straight, flat highway to try to distract themselves from a ghost story they just remembered? I mean, that’s character building stuff, the time spent on the open road.

You could say that I don’t know a lot about cars. You could say that this perspective has something to do with me confronting the fact that I’m getting older. You might even say that I’m forming this view because I’m terrified of my own impending obsoletism and need to make some kind of justification to help me sleep at night.

And, look, you’re not wrong.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 1, 2020

We’ve all got fears and phobias.

I am not a fan of heights. Well, more accurately, I don’t like the idea of my soft, fleshy body falling from a great height. I’m scared of most things that have the potential to cause me grievous bodily harm.

And, when you think about it, there’s actually a lot of things in this world that could possibly maim me in some ghastly way. Boiling water from the kettle. A dodgy gas line. Irons. Cars. The oven. All the crows and magpies in my neighbourhood who haven’t yet realised that, if they coordinated their efforts to overpower me, they could pick away at my flesh until there was nothing left of me.

But that’s not really what I think about (I mean, except for the bird thing) on a day-to-day basis. I boil the kettle without fear. I casually drive off in my car. I avoid the iron but only because I can’t be bothered and I can get away with not wearing crisply-ironed shirts to work. It’s all very mindless.

I don’t think about the actual harm these things would do; instead, the things that take up my brain space are the fears about small inconveniences I’d have to endure as a consequence of my mindlessness. They’re far from horrific but they’re not things I would desire to happen.

Here’s some of the mild fears I think about on a regular basis:

Driving to work with my prescription sunglasses on and forgetting to bring my inside glasses with me: I can see some things without my glasses, I don’t think it’d be able to sit at my desk and be productive without those blessed lenses. So I’d be sitting there at work with a pair of sunnies on, like I was trying to hide my bloodshot eyes from the people I work with. I don’t want to have to put up a sign that reads: “I don’t think I’m cooler than you. On the contrary, I’ve left my inside glasses at home and am doomed to look through the shadows all day”.

Being out and not having a spare hair tie on my wrist: I usually have two on the go, but at the moment I only have one. It’s a little risky because if I blow my hairtie, I will have nothing to hold my hair off my face – which is especially necessary when it comes to eating, concentrating, engaging in any kind of physical activity, existing in a windy area or just generally being alive. Sometimes I try to think about what I would if I ended up in situation where I was without a way to tie my hair back and I have to stop because it’s too confronting.

Running out of milk for my tea: Look, I know I can just duck over to the shops to get more milk, but I don’t want to be caught without that cow juice when I really need a cup of tea and I’m in a vulnerable state. What it it’s cold? What if it’s late and I’ve already showered? What if I’m feeling like a bit of a sooky la la? I don’t want to have to put on shoes and go into a shop in those circumstances, but I also don’t want to have to go without a cup of tea.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 24, 2020

Ok, so I know I talked about clothes last week, but apparently there’s a lot of unpacking to do there.

There’s honestly so many ways to look at clothing. What is I mean is that it can be about more than encasing one’s body in fabric and protecting your soft, fleshy body from the elements.

In the privacy of your own home, clothing can mean something completely different to the role of clothing when you’re in the outside world. When you’re at home, clothing is mostly about comfort and how it makes YOU feel – unless you’re living with someone super judgemental who has strong opinions against messy buns and singlets.

But in the outside world, I would argue that clothing can be about more than the practicality of putting a layer between a public bench and your private parts, beneficial as that may be. It’s about communication. It’s about projecting an identity. It’s about persuading other people that you’re not a piece of poo bobbing around in the toilet water of life.

It’s about what other people think, whether you think you care about that or not.

What triggered this deep contemplation about the role of clothing was my housemate, who said it was weird that the fabric or colour of your clothing determined whether you could wear said clothing in public.

I mean, I still don’t really have the answers there. I like to think that wearing something with confidence will soon convince people that your threads are suitable for the occasion, but confidence will only get you so far – especially if you’re trying to get into a fancy bar. I mean, the bouncer might appreciate your high self-esteem, but that won’t change the fact you’re covered in food dye.

There are dress codes everywhere you go, but they’re not always printed out in black and white on a laminated sign that tells you not to wear thongs or dirty work shirts.

Sometimes, they’re unwritten. The dress codes are laminated in our minds and stuck on the wall in our brains.

It’s like how when I go for a jog, I wear this oversized unisex t-shirt that hangs down to my knees. I also wear a pair of lose running shorts inbuilt bike pants, which protect me from the dreaded thigh chafe and gives me somewhere to put my phone so I can listen to music without having to hold my phone in my hand like a chump.

But the shirt hangs lower than the shorts, making it look like I’m only wearing an oversized shirt with nothing on underneath. So when I’m in that outfit and not running – say, if I’m too puffed to continue and I have to make the walk of shame home – I feel pressure to tuck one corner of the shirt into the band of the shorts to show that I’m not just wearing knickers under that top. And it’s weird, because the outfit in no way changes – I mean, tucking in the shirt doesn’t change the length of the shorts – but the tucked in option feels so much more appropriate for public wear.

It’s those weird tiny details that make you feel like you’re better dressed, but you haven’t really changed anything.

Like, I’ll put my watch on if I want to make an outfit that’s teetering on the fence between “sloppy” and “put together” fall firmly in the paddock of the latter.

For example, I have a marle grey (which is another way of saying “it looks like the static you’d see when a TV wasn’t working back in the days before digital TV and their blank error screens”) jumper that I’ll often pair with a pair of high-waisted denim shorts. Depending on the occasion, I’ll feel the need to look a little more polished. So I’ll put on my watch and suddenly it looks like I thought more about what I’ve put together outfit-wise. And I suppose I have, because I’ve thought to put on a watch, but it just looks a little more… proper? Less… slouchy? More acceptable?

The weird thing is that my watch ran out of battery long ago, so it doesn’t serve any practical purpose except for making people think that I’m less slapdash than I actually am.

But, then, when I think about it, you could argue that most clothing has that element to it.

Except, of course, what I’m wearing as I write this column in the privacy of my own room: a tattered Christmas-themed pyjama top, no pants and an overstretched bright purple cardigan. That’s obviously 100 per cent about style.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier on June 10, 2020

I love a good bushwalk.

I, like so many of my fellow cooped-up Queenslanders fangin’ for a bit of a freedom in These Uncertain Times, decided to take advantage of the glorious autumn weather and head out for a cheeky weekend bushwalk.

Now, before we go anywhere, I think it’s important to call it a bushwalk. It’s not a hike. I mean, it was a few kilometres, so I suppose you could reasonably describe it as “a fair hike” but, when it comes nouns, I prefer the term bushwalk. Perhaps I’m being patriotic or perhaps I’m being pedantic, but I feel like you can only refer to a bushwalk as a hike if you’re stepping on some significant inclines. I mean, I don’t think it needs to be a hard and fast rule with a cut-off. I’m not saying that all ventures where you’re dealing with an overall slope average of 15-degrees or fewer is a bushwalk and anything over 16 degrees is qualifies as a hike – it’s more the vibe of the thing. Plus, speaking of the vibe, “bushwalk” has much more of an Australian aura, whereas “hike” makes me think of characters on reality TV shows like The Hills going on a stroll around the Hollywood sign in expensive activewear. But it’s not just me being all anti-Americanisation – even though I find myself understanding my father’s deep hated of the use of the word “sweater” instead of jumper more and more – it goes beyond that. “Bushwalk” evokes the sound of whipbirds, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the land of sweeping plains and all that jazz. It’s not just about the act of walking; it’s about immersing yourself in nature and shouting out the random lines of bush poetry you remember from Grade 5.

It also gives you a chance to drop a few g’days.

You really need to be prepared for a bit of a g’day action on the track.  The bushwalk from the other day was one of those tracks that looped back on itself, meaning you would pass people coming back the other way. It wasn’t bumper-to-bumper peak hour traffic, but it was fairly busy. Lots of people were coming past.

Usually, your standard bushwalking track isn’t much more than a metre wide, so passing someone can be fairly intimate. And if you lock eyes, you’ve got to do something to acknowledge that moment of connection.

I think most of us can agree that shooting out a cheeky little “g’day” with a nod of the head is the best course of action, even if you wouldn’t normally whip out a “g’day” in your day-to-day life.

I’ll be honest, I don’t utilise that greeting in many other contexts. Sure, I’ll quote Slim Dusty’s G’day G’day, when confronted with something delicious, impressive or unexpected. For example, I might let out a growler of a “g’day g’day” after pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven. Or if I check on a the seeds I planted and see a few sprouts poking out of the soil. Or if I’m scrolling through my inbox and unexpectedly see a photo of a girl who was on the same Contiki tour as me modelling a tracksuit in an email I was sent by a sportswear brand I keep meaning to unsubscribe from. I use it as if to say, “well look at what we’ve got here”.

But I don’t use it for its intended purposes nearly enough.

That’s the beauty of the bushwalk, you connect with the rugged landscape, but you also get to tap into the stereotypical Aussie inside you, ready to tackle a croc or compare knives.

G’day just says so much. It says, “I acknowledge you as a person and I have general warm wishes towards you” but does so in the space of about 1.23 seconds. It’s short enough to get out so an oncoming bushwalker has enough time to fashion a response. And, let’s be honest, all it requires is an earnest “g’day” in return.

But you want to be the first person to speak when confronted with an oncoming bushwalker so you can establish the interaction as an exchange of g’days. You have to be ready to go, otherwise the other bushwalker might let out a “hey there” or, even worse, a “how’s it going?”, which leaves you on the back foot because you have to answer but don’t have enough time to ask how they’re going in return before they move on, and then it looks like you don’t care how they’re going, which makes you the worst bushwalker on the track.

So, if you’re about to go out for a bushwalk, make sure you apply sunscreen, wear a hat and back your water bottle. But, please, do not forget to have a couple g’days locked, loaded and ready to go. It’s critically important.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 3, 2020

Ok, so I’m a coffee drinker.

I’ve spoken about this before, which was a bit of a surprise to some of those in my inner circle who knew me as a strict tea drinker.

But I wouldn’t say that being a coffee drinker is part of my identity. I’m a long way off that. If I had to choose sides, I would of course be on the Tea Team (or TEAm, as we’d call ourselves).

And, in terms of coffee fiends, I’m pretty low rung.

This became apparent when I ordered a takeaway coffee not long ago. I gave the barista my usual order – “a large latte, but can I have that half strength please?” – after which they usually ask for a name to call out when my order is ready.

But on this particular day, they didn’t.

So when it came to the point where they had to call me to collect my warm, mildly-caffeinated milky beverage, they didn’t have a name to shout above the chattering masses. Instead, they could only call out my coffee order.

But instead of saying “a large latte but can I have that half strength please” they called out “weak latte”.

And let me tell you, I was taken aback.

I felt like retorting that, even though my latte was weak, I was a strong woman.

I’ve told a few people that story, any now there’s one cheeky person who, on their last coffee run, apparently insisted on the barista writing “weak latte” on my cup.

I went as far as to post it on Instagram, where I argued that the concentration of coffee in my warm milk didn’t correlate with the concentration of spirit in my soul. But there’s only so much you can put into a Instagram caption before you become a bit much. And, as someone who is routinely referred to as “a bit much” (which is a polite way of saying “geeez, I’m already sick of this person and her obnoxious carrying on”) in person, you really want to veer away from being “a bit much” on social media. That’s how you get yourself blocked.

But I still had more say and, because I can’t go to the pub and therefore can’t have a boozy heart-to-heart with the unfortunate Uber driver charged with getting me home, I’ve decided to do so via this column.

I think it’s important to point out that I don’t drink coffee because I need it. I like the taste and I enjoy the sensation of a hot coffee cup in my hand. I like the grown-up aura drinking a coffee gives me. I enjoy the feeling of importance I get from going out for a coffee run and others entrust me to supply their caffeine. It’s kind of like playing offices, which was my favourite game as a child.

I like coffee, but I don’t NEED it.

Back in the day, I used coffee exclusively to get me through long, late-night drives in my uni days, when I needed to get back to Clifton after being kept awake by assignments and… other uni-related activities. It was a sleep repellent and nothing else.

But I’m not one of those people who desperately needs a coffee to get them going in the morning. Some people need coffee to give them that spark, the spring in their step. But I, as I’ve learned after years in various office and early-morning burger-selling settings, I don’t need coffee. Because I’m one of those Morning People.

Again, a Morning Person is a polite way of describing someone insufferably obnoxious, but with the added annoyance of being chirpy, alert and, worst of all, enthusiastic about life, in the early hours of the day.

My Morning Person-ness becomes extra apparent to those colleagues of mine lucky enough to be on shift with me at 4.30am*. And, hey, even as a Morning Person, I have to admit that starting at 4.30am can be tough. So when you’re Not a Morning Person starting work at 4.30am and the Morning People are within earshot, flapping about with their unwarranted joy and diabolical energy, it would be pretty hard to stomach.

* The other day my chirpy greeting was compared to the great Frank Walker, of National Tiles fame. And they weren’t wrong. That’s the kind of pep they’re slapped with early in the day. And it’s almost like the earlier it is, the peppier I get. Because when it’s earlier, it’s harder to be alive and it’s almost like I feed off this grimness as an act of defiance. I’m sure there’s some kind of legitimate psychological reasoning behind it, but for now I like to put it down to the classic Queenslander underdog complex kicking in. 

Adding coffee to that energy seems like it would be extremely reckless.

So I suppose that, by getting a weak latte, I’m not only protecting myself from a caffeine addiction, but I’m also doing a public service.

I guess that means I’m some kind of hero?