A few little trinkets that have nothing to do with anything else.
1. The Train Track Trance Fiasco – Just STOP!
You may have read in the post before previous that I had a rather unfortunate pratyahara (withdrawal of senses) situation where I missed my train station I needed to get off at and thus almost missed my flight. Let me explain.
The above photo marks out the route I was to undertake to get to Sydney International Airport. Green marks where I hopped on board, yellow my intended exit, and red where I came-to and got off. Pretty unideal.
You see, when I write I literally become immersed in it. I notice nothing; the time, convos conversing around me, where I am. I literally am fully focused on my prose and pronouns; all else goes unregarded.
Which is why I ended up 13 stations past my intended stop in Ingleburn.
Unless you have such an activity that you lose yourself in also, you are probably completely discombobulated as to how this could occur. I’m pretty unsure myself. All I know is that when I retrieved from my trance and asked the gentleman to my left how long until the airport and he replied “It was about an hour ago love”, I flew into a frenzy.
Using the WordPress app on my phone means the time at the top doesn’t show whilst engaged in it. Fantastic when you’ve got nowhere you need to be and you are unaware of how long you’re taking, but pretty unideal when you have prior engagements or are restricted to a time frame. Such as needing to catch a flight home to NZ.
So the next stop I leapt off like an Olympic high jumper, and sprinted across the overpass to catch a train to rectify my situation. 15 mins until next engine. Shit.
I sat on a bench and made friends with two Israeli fellows – “No no, I don’t want a bite of your ham bum. But thank you for the offer” (no, not innuendo; a literal sandwich) – before herding myself on board when my carriage arrived.
It’s then I saw the map and realised how far out I was. Fuck.
It was 4.46pm. Check in for my flight “closed” at 4.50 (so 5.20 or so, I presumed). I was going to be cutting it extremely fine.
I think I held my breath the entirety of the journey, expelling it only on flinging my passport in the automated machine and receiving my boarding pass. I had been extremely fortunate in that the train had turned to express the final eight stations, and we blitzed through at a cracking pace. Should we have stopped at all of the eight, I would have most definitely been stranded in Sydney.
I hurtled through the check in hall to customs, flinging my backpack and belongings down at pace. The security staff had a good old chuckle at my dishevellment as I frolicked around in my making it with ten minutes to spare. Time for a pee, a squirt of perfume from duty free and an upload, I rejoiced.
A bomb swab guy asked me to please open each and every of my bags to stuff his stick in (no, not innuendo) (how do the tools even work to realise the residue?) and I did so with pleasure.
Unfortunately in my haphazard packing that AM, a pair of my undies had been placed in haste right at the peak of the pile. As I unzipped at speed, said undies flew across the conveyor belt and fell back below the security screening.
I wish I could say it had been a pair of lovely lingerie. You know, lace, a nice palette, that sort of thing.
Unfortunately they were in fact my “slumber pants”; i.e my rather large undies that while being the comfiest things in the world, are not the most attractive.
The poor bomb swab guy flushed a faint fuschia as he retrieved them from the out of bounds area. I thanked him profusely. He informed me I had no bombs in my bags. I thanked him again. And walked away clenching my undies in my hand.
Catch yah Sydney.
2. Naked Ambition
Also a Sydney situation.
Every AM I rise to perform 45 to 60 minutes of yoga. It calms me, stretches me and makes me feel sensational. Being in Aus did in no way mean a day off.
So I flung open my curtains, joyous to find my third floor apartment had the first streams of sunlight. I picked out a patch of floor and proceeded to make my way through my usual AM sequence.
It was about 35mins in that I noticed the towering building across the road. On first sighting it had appeared opaque, with its tinted windows rendering the innards invisible. With the movement of the sun however, I was now able to see inside. And clap eyes on the group of lads nestled around a desk a few floors up. Staring down at me and having a jolly old time.
You see, booking a seat on the plane with only carry on had me being very selective with my clothing choices. While I had running gear in my reach, a jaunt around the block the night before had me preferring not to put it back on. So I’d had a shower and decided to just assume asanas in the nude.
I hope those desk bound dickheads enjoyed the downward dogs.
3. Rice Resucitation
Yesterday I caught the train into town to do some odd jobs that had been on the urgent list for a fair awhile (get bridesmaid dress measured, get new running shoes that don’t aggravate my wonky knee, etc). I’d chucked a few items in a bag and set off. Two of which were my iPod and a big bottle of h20.
When reaching Britomart I’d reached in for my iPod to listen to tunes as I hiked up the hill and was rather downered to find my water had leaked all over my gadget. So what did I do? Whipped into New World for a bag of rice, of course. Praise be for Uncle Ben (well, Sun) and a drop-down special.
I buried the iPod deep in the grains and strapped it in with a hair tie wound round a few times. It had worked on my phone that took a swim last year in Bali, so I was optimistic it should once again do the trick.
I went and met one of my lifelong best friends for lunch. Xtina, with an “X” (ingrained – pun in this context – in me from high school; she’ll never be with a “Chris”).
Midway through our continuous chatter my bag spilled out by fault of a rogue foot, and my bag of rice was visible.
I told Xtina of my drowned iPod and she looked at me with an expression a mix of bamboozlment, amusement and a touch of pity. “Only you would go and buy a bag of rice,” she said. “And only you would still have an iPod. Are you still in 1996?”
Informing her it wasn’t even an iPod touch didn’t do much for my cred.
Rice and iPod currently under massive fuck-off chest of drawers in a bid to get some pressure on squeezing out every drip of water. Hopes are still high for life.
Update: iPod has sung its last song.
4. To My Credit
“I’m never going to get a credit card,” I’ve insisted from a young age. “And if I have to, I’ll put it off as long as possible, like until I have a home and need to buy stuff to fill it.”
Which is why I now (not a home owner in the slightest) have my first credit card. (Notice a theme in these posts? How I declare I’ll never do/buy/say/etc something, only to completely disregard previous declaration and do it within an average of 3.5 years?) (Credit card only obtained for pure purpose of securing a sound credit rating).
Do you know exciting it is to be the owner of this piece of plastic? I feel like such an adult. It whittles the debit to the back of the wallet. And with my chosen name “A Rose Wortman”, I get a chuckle out of it everytime.
So for the past week since its arrival, I have been putting every purchase on it (then immediately logging into my banking app and transferring the spent sum from my everyday account).
Will such small joys continue? I’m banking on it.
6. Some Park Lark
Have you ever been a patron of Park&Ride at Auckland Airport? What stellar service. Although it could be classed as partial robbery for the hefty fee, it’s well worth the expense to be able to cruise through customs, catch the quarter-hourly transfer bus and get to your vehicle.
But it’s pretty unideal when you don’t make note of exactly where you parked your ride. Even more so when you touchdown at 1am, the carpark is chocca and you kind of can’t remember what your automobile looks like.
Also makes the gherkin situation even more Delmaine (if you work out that word pun play, please let me know; Kim Dennis, I’ve got high hopes of you) when you’re calling out “Betsy Hay!” in an irrational hope your car may respond to your name, and the security dude asks if you’ve lost your mum. Even furthermore when you don’t want to let on you’re actually calling out to your car so you pretend you have lost your mum and have to conduct an entirely false search for her and invent a fake phone call from said “missing mum” to falsify a find.
After a fair while roaming the rows (was that the mound of tussock I tripped on in my way in or was it that one over there?) I finally spotted Betsy in all her glory patiently awaiting my return.
We got there in the end. And she started like a champ.
7. Sleepyhead (The Mattress Make and Me)
As a youngster one of my favourite pastimes was to pretend other abodes were my own. Like going to open homes, reading the Property Press, going to pal’s places. I’d invision what I would change in such spaces, like the placement of items, colour schemes, adornment choices.
So whenever a trip to Harvey Normans in Mt Wellington to dither over furniture came up, I was in wholeheartedly.
The M.W H.N has the most fantastic makeshift bedrooms. The set ups are all along the back wall, about six of them, with actual “walls” dividing them. I always adored them, and was delighted to see they were still there upon my visit yesterday (10cent 6×4 photo prints, booyah! Xtina once again asked if I was the only person under 80 who still put together photo albums of all my snapshots).
Sp I decided to revist such kiddy joys and make my way round all of the “rooms”. Ooooo I wouldn’t put that pillow there; that black-on-black is magnificent; I like that lamp. Then I saw the plushest feather down bed I’ve ever seen and couldn’t resist a little lie down.
Unfortunately, I rested my weary head a touch too long and sunk into slumber.
The angel that is floor saleswoman Tracey – “Can I call you Trace?” – gently awoke me after a good 22min kip to enquire whether I’d like to test a Posturepedic.
8. Breakfast Giggles
Last last weekend I logged onto my laptop and had a hearty chuckle.
With the Herald as my home screen (in a bid to keep up with current affairs; pity I never make it past Life&Style) the headlining story declared, “French Toast” and went onto to describe the AB’s blowing to pieces of the French rugby side.
This splendid pun has – to take a much-loved phrase from Deb – really tickled my fancy, and has me doubling over in mirth a good handful of times a day.
That saying, “Enjoy the little things in life because one day you’ll look back and realise they were the big things” has started to resonate with me. (Do you know how long it took to find an image with “realise” and not the Americanised “realize”? Bain of my life. But there was NO WAY I was uploading a wrong spelling, no siree).
Pop on point.