Commissioner O’Callaghan

Western Australia Police Headquarters
2 Adelaide Terrace, East Perth
Western Australia 6004

Dear Commissioner,

I am writing in support of your sentiments today as published in The West Australian (Monday 17 January 2011).

Not only would I like to congratulate you on the great work you are doing, but also point out that while the liquor industry might not hold you in high esteem, the rest of the law-abiding community in WA certainly does.

I’m sure I don’t fit the standard profile of someone who might send you a supportive letter – I am a 33 year old, single, professional female with a university education, living in the vibrant inner city suburb of Leederville. I enjoy going out to clubs and pubs as much as anyone and I have done so since I moved to Perth from Albany at age 18. Unlike everyone else though, for the past two years I have abstained completely from alcohol – not because I had an issue with it – though I do now recognise that like most of Australia’s young people, I was in fact a social binge-drinker from age 18 to 24. Thanks to a series of fortunate coincidences, I started on this course and have managed to resist both the automatic urge and the peer pressure to go back to drinking.

A group that I stumbled upon called Hello Sunday Morning (http://hellosundaymorning.com.au/) was instrumental in helping me explore the reasons why I found it (to my surprise) so challenging to quit drinking altogether. By writing a regular blog about my experiences, I joined with other young people (now more than 200 across Australia) in unravelling the reasons why alcohol has become a teenage right of passage in this country. Why we would rather risk our lives, our freedom, our friends and our dignity than be seen to be ‘soft’.

I’m not against alcohol and I don’t want this to be any kind of anti-alcohol rant, but I am against the rampant abuse of this substance which is tearing our society apart. It’s a powerfully addictive social crutch for 95% of people in all age brackets and all walks of life.

Remember that not that long ago, the cigarette industry was up-in-arms when it was banned from advertising in magazines, billboards and in sport. And now the unthinkable – countries such as Ireland and Scotland have even banned smoking in pubs. Australia is leading the way with teenage smoking rates down to an all-time low This was a concerted effort to push against the scourge of irresponsible commercial interests and fight for people’s rights (even against their own collective will).

The same can be done with alcohol and the liquor industry. As I’m sure you know, in Norway, their drink-drive limit is 0.02% and they have a substantial range of commercial non-alcoholic beers on tap in every pub, so that being a non-drinker has no stigma attached – you can still enjoy a round with your mates and not appear any different.

I would like to advocate for a zero alcohol drink-drive limit in WA and across Australia. This would help to shift that dangerous grey area, when people make the indiscriminate decision to flip a metaphorical coin and drive home after ‘a few’, not knowing if they really should or not and thinking “she’ll be right mate”.

Thank you for leading the way – keep up the great work and don’t ever give up.

Kind regards,

Ebony Frost

I find, thinking big often puts the small things into perspective.

I have a tenuous grip on my imagination at the best of times, so fairly regularly, if I’m looking the other way, I will turn around and find it has run off down the street, waving dramatically as it goes.

I just wanted to jot down a few of the gems my imagination has come back with in the past few days… you never know, it might get you thinking.

how do I work this thing again?

You wake up tomorrow and …

… the internet is gone, never to return. For those of you who were born into the digital age, this might be a tough one to fathom, but think about what your life would be like if, for some cosmic reason beyond our control, the web was gone forever.

… the world’s oil supplies are destroyed and petrol prices hit $150/L. The situation is expected to stay that way for the foreseeable future. What would you do with your car? How would you get around?

… a massive solar flare knocks out the major mobile phone networks. Estimated time to get back on the air is 6 months. How would you cope without a lifeline in your pocket? Is it liberating or infuriating?

… a new international convention outlaws alcohol in every form. Within 3 months production, sale, consumption and trafficking of alcohol will be as illegal as heroin.

I’d love to know what you guys think

So, what I’d like to know is… how should we define waste exactly? Where is the line between:

“oh he/she could’ve been so successful at <insert profession here> … so much talent but gee, what a shame”

and

“oh yeah, he/she is amazing at  <insert profession here> … they’re really ahead of the game, so talented”

Who decides that exactly? A straw poll? A national magazine?

Or does the person themselves not necessarily know that they rock? Do these conversations only go on behind their back?

Wouldn’t it be reflected in their career progression I hear you say, their salary, the car they drive. Well sometimes, sure. But not always, no.

If you like stories with a moral, then read on. If you fancy happy endings, well you may be disappointed…

Those non-West Aussies might not know the story so well, but back in early days of our great state, there was a very talented and intelligent man by the name of CY O’Connor.

O’Connor was an engineer from Ireland, who’d spent time working in New Zealand before Sir John Forrest, premier of WA, offered O’Connor the position of engineer-in-chief . In reply to his inquiry as to whether his responsibilities would cover railways or harbours or roads, Forrest cabled ‘Everything’.

Both Forrest and O’Connor had known the toughening experience of surveyors working in unexplored places. O’Connor was the more sensitive, with wide and cultivated tastes and a passionate sense of justice for men of all degree. For the next ten years they worked closely together.

Forrest’s first demand was a harbour at Fremantle to accommodate the royal mail contractors, the Peninsular & Oriental Steam Navigation Co. and the Orient Steam Navigation Co., whose vessels were the largest steamers coming to Australia.

The resulting Fremantle Harbour is still one of the finest in the world, having served as a base through two world wars and as a port for countless fishing vessels, ferries and leisure boats over more than a hundred years.

(the following is taken from http://adbonline.anu.edu.au/biogs/A110059b.htm)

…

During his time, O’Connor effected striking improvements in building and operating the government railways.

With the rush following the discovery of rich gold at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie , the lack of water became extremely serious.

In November 1893 responsibility for water-supplies on the goldfields passed permanently to the Department of Public Works: O’Connor established the goldfields water-supply branch.

Just when O’Connor began work on a plan to provide an abundant, permanent supply of fresh water for the Coolgardie goldfields is not known, but by mid-1895 his plans were under way.

With limited resources but with the enthusiasm of his staff, O’Connor made plans. By the end of October 1895, designs and estimates—showing alternative materials, pipes of varying dimensions, three different quantities of water—were ready for Forrest. The scheme was imaginative and dramatic; simple but bold. The scheme could be completed in three years and was estimated to cost £2½ million. Forrest accepted it but he had to convince parliament, and persuade it to support the raising of a London loan.

O’Connor suggested that the scheme be submitted in 1897 to a commission of experts: he visited London where three British engineers commended the plan as entirely practical, the greatest undertaking of its kind yet constructed. But nothing stilled the local opposition, criticism and attack.

Two years passed, from his own initial approval of the plans, before Forrest obtained the parliamentary support for the Coolgardie Water Supply Scheme that he sought. Even then, delays occurred.

Forrest and his friend Sir John Winthrop Hackett, editor of the West Australian, commended the plan. Both Forrest and O’Connor saw it in a wider context, as part of a related plan to enhance the colony’s development: a harbour at Fremantle; railways and communications; water for railways, potential settlements, goldminers; and, later, the western link of an Australian transcontinental railway.

In February 1901 when Forrest withdrew from the State government to enter the first Federal parliament, his dominance was not repeated. Short-lived, unstable governments left the Coolgardie water scheme and O’Connor vulnerable. Work was well advanced, but at a crucial stage. His decision to use on the water main a novel, electric caulking machine provoked a storm.

In 1902 while he was in South Australia advising its government on an outer harbour for Adelaide, harassment intensified. In parliament much criticism was uninformed, malicious and unbridled. Eventually O’Connor submitted a detailed memorandum, rebutting a long list of criticisms aired in both Houses.

The Sunday Times was vicious and defamatory (so nothing’s changed then – ed). These attacks, and the silence of the minister and the government, wounded him. Depressed, affected by neuralgia and insomnia intensified by overwork and nervous exhaustion, O’Connor needed a respite not controversy.

O’Connor’s confidence in his scheme was vindicated on 8 March 1902 by a successful preliminary pumping test of six miles (9.6 km) of the water main over the most difficult part of the route. That evening one small leak was discovered near Chidlow’s Well. He arranged to accompany the engineer in charge of construction to the site on Monday. That morning, 10 March 1902, he prepared for his customary early ride but his usual companion, his youngest daughter, was unwell. He rode alone along the Fremantle beach past the new harbour, then south to Robb Jetty, where he rode his horse into the sea. His deft revolver shot ended his life.

He had left a note: ‘The Coolgardie Scheme is alright and I could finish it if I got a chance and protection from misrepresentation but there is no hope of that now and it is better that it should be given to some entirely new man to do who will be untrammelled by prior responsibility’.

O’Connor had been a man of strong personality, initiative and imagination. He was compassionate, forward looking and seemed to many contemporaries a genius. With his varied interests and quick wit he was a delightful host, and a man of strong family feeling.

A bronze statue of O’Connor by Pietro Porcelli was later erected at Fremantle.

By the end of 1902, as planned, the work was completed for the estimated cost: the great reservoir was ready, the pumps installed, the main laid to Coolgardie and extended another twenty-five miles (40 km) to Kalgoorlie. The water had completed its carefully regulated flow begun eight months before in the Helena River valley at Mundaring. On 24 January 1903, amid great rejoicing, Forrest turned on the water at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie. He praised O’Connor, ‘the great builder of this work … to bring happiness and comfort to the people of the goldfields for all time’.

…

Whenever I think about giving up, I always think of CY O’Connor. If only he had backed himself for a few more months, he would have been alive to see one of the greatest modern engineering feats of our time – a feat that he conceived and planned against a tidal wave of scrutiny.

So, is this the ultimate story of the tall poppy? Was O’Connor so far ahead of his time that only a few other men could see what he saw?

I also often think of history’s great artists and musicians who lived and died in poverty, never knowing their own genius and that their work would go on to be adored worldwide.

We all have a talent that we should be cultivating and we all ‘waste’ opportunities. And assuming we have the luxury of ‘wasting’ any time at all in achieving our goals, how much is acceptable?

Between you and me, I’m worried I’ve wasted too much of it already… and time is certainly one thing we can’t get back.

So, my advice would be, if you know someone who has a talent, make sure they know about it… help them to see they mustn’t waste what they’ve been given.

Do you see what I see?

So much of how we see this world is a result of imperceptible factors. We look, but we don’t necessarily see. We see, but we don’t always understand.

It’s the tiny grains of sand that make 80 Mile Beach, the thousands of metres of altitude that make our sky blue, the Aero ‘bubbles of nothing that make it really something’.

There are few things more satisfying than seeing a knowing smile and an emphatic nod as you describe your own observation – your own view of the world – and it’s immediately reinforced. That’s what we’re all searching for. We all want confirmation of our own reality.

But reality, as we all know, is completely subjective. Much like the truth… your own version all depends on where you were standing at the time.

Have you ever been halfway through discussing someone you’ve just met with a friend, when you realise that your friend – who met them at the same time – has seen the polar opposite of what you’ve seen?

How can this be? Surely our interpretations of reality can’t be that different… we were standing right next to each other!

And then, you realise… you’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book – you forgot to look past the smokescreen, to check for hidden wires, to question how the magician could possibly have cut off her legs.

So many times I have bought into other people’s inflated view of themselves – the delusion lasting for months or even years – before I realised how far off the mark I really was.

From thinking people were better looking than they actually were, to thinking they had better intentions than they actually did, I was wrong more often than I was right.

Far from being black and white, or from categorising people into ‘good’ and ‘bad’, I have now discovered how to read others’ intentions and agendas with greater speed and accuracy than ever before. I’m sure you could argue that this comes naturally with age and maturity. I would also argue it comes with sobriety.

Since I quit alcohol I have honed my ability to shatter smokescreens. I can now pick people at a mile. I know their game, I can read their M.O. and I gauge their own rating of their physical qualities against my own objective measures.

Not only is this helpful in avoiding timewasters and assholes, but geez, is it satisfying when someone steps right into the spot you prepared for them! Gold.

Even though we joke about ‘beer goggles’ (helping people get laid since 1789) it is also true that by drinking, we create a giant smudge over our ability to remain insightful. Without even knowing it, we misjudge and misread people’s intentions. Sadly, it also means we can miss good intentions even when they are right under our nose.

I think a huge part of my newfound ‘people reading’ mechanism comes from my own understanding of myself, which has gone from 50% to 95% over the past 18 months.

I would argue that you can’t really know anyone else until you know yourself and that you can’t accurately question the basis for others’ self-projection until you have your own rock solid island of confidence on which to stand.

So, I can say happily, from my own humble little rock that I have built for myself, that I can finally see reality with clarity, and I can see further now than I ever have before.

From the Woman Whisperer to The Big Ad and the original I could do with an Emu, how ’bout you?, beer ads have captured the imaginations (and wallets) of ‘blokes and sheilas’ across the country.

So how has this happened?

Well, obviously some kick-ass creatives are behind the final product, but it’s more than just smoke and mirrors driving these successful campaigns.

Advertisers have cleverly made a beeline for the one thing we are all searching for: a clear, solid and purposeful identity.

We all want to know who we are, what we are made of and why we’re here.

Pretty fundamental questions, applicable to any culture on the planet, you might argue.

Yes and no.

Inherently, Australians suffer from an identity crisis on a national scale.

We’re only young after all… 200 and barely approaching puberty (just wait til the hormones kick in… we’ll probably dye the flag black, add some studs, change our national anthem to Killing in the name of, refuse to speak to the Kiwis and send Queen Lizzie & Prince Phil a blood-stained note that says we hate them and we never want to see them again…)

When you think about it, we came here on boats; rocked up uninvited, having run away from criminal pasts and unhappy existences; had ongoing fights with the land owners; squatted until they let us stay; borrowed half a flag and started farming arid land with no idea what we were doing.

So. You can see why we might have a few collective insecurities.

I recently sat in on a presentation about ‘marketing alcohol to kids’ which was an overview of alcohol product marketing in the UK from a British academic.  He presented a few ‘mood boards’ and product keys for mainstream alcopop and beer brands, which were pretty disturbing in terms of their insight into consumer behaviour patterns.

What struck me is how tuned in these ad agencies are to what we want as human beings. How well they firstly, define the different identities on offer and then secondly, lure us to them, without even blinking.

So, we not only think the ad is hilarious, or slick or exciting, but a part of us screams out “Yes! That’s me!! That is TOTALLY me!” and then a second, even less conscious part says “Well, next time I’m out, I’m gonna be drinking that beer, because they understand me… they know me and that will reinforce my idea of me”. Almost the adult equivalent of being a doc-marten/def-leopard-t-shirt-wearing teen and thinking ha – that will tell the world who I am (‘cept for the fact that 70% of your mates are wearing the same thing… duh!)

Humans. Really quite stupid creatures, aren’t we?

It also struck me that the reason anti-drinking campaigns don’t work is because they say “here’s what you don’t do” …and they forget to say the all-important  “here’s what you do instead”. Choice is all-powerful in regaining control of your life.

I could give you loads more examples, but I’m sure you have seen them all. Interestingly, only 3 of the top 30 best Australian TV ads of all-time were for beer but when you think about how many product categories there are in the market, that’s probably quite a significant percentage.

Anyway, my point is… when you give the booze a break you get the chance to rediscover your real identity, without any props or crutches – beer identities or anything else artificial. You might find it’s a little dusty and moth-eaten, but nothing a bit of spit n’ polish can’t fix.

I will leave you with a few other non-alcohol brands that also do a good job of capturing elements of identity and selling it back in a can:

Schweppes Solo: the thirst crusher – slam it down fast. Targeting the alpha male, highly charged, physically competitive, the modern-day hunter/triathlete. The original pub squash has been crushing the thirst of Aussie men since 1973.

Nutri-Grain: iron man food. The younger demographic of the Solo target. Teenagers & young men wanting to grow into that masculine form, dying to get stuck into being a man. Fit, clean-cut, the ultimate sporting physique.

Nutri-Grain bars: feel great  (I hadn’t seen this US one before but it’s pretty funny…)

Lynx: the Lynx Effect. Girls look hot wet, guys don’t. Works on both sexes (as long as you’re not Germaine Greer).

With a brand mission to: ‘give consumers the edge in the mating game Lynx has continually evolved to develop fragrances that bring guys closer to their ultimate girl’, I have to report that, yes gentlemen, there is actually something magnetic about the smell of Lynx – it totally works on me!

Down with love? Really?

It’s true. We love love. If love were running for PM, there’d be no need for a televised debate.

Love can cook? Move over Adam and Callum.

And if love had a competitive streak, then hello Australian Idol, we have a winner.

Love is perhaps the single most unifying force on the planet. It transcends all languages, crosses all religions*, can be gone in a week or wait a lifetime to arrive.

It sees no skin colour, has no age barrier and can survive unimaginable odds.

So we agree. Love is the unbeatable hand, the hole in one, the checkmate (no condom pun intended… okay maybe just a little bit).

But how much choice do we actually have in the matter? Do we choose when love starts? When love ends? Who we love?

Well, I would like to think so, I hear you say. But, maybe not…

Today’s BBC report Is love just a chemical cocktail? brings everything we think about love into question. Perhaps we’re just a product of our primordial past, making rich meaning of behaviours that are all actually controlled by a handful of chemicals?

Shot of oxytocin, anyone?

It begs the question… is our universal obsession with love nothing more than the equivalent of pi = 3.14? Are we being taken for massive a ride, carrying the entire weight of the entertainment, advertising and publishing industries on our backs?

Do novelists and scriptwriters know something we commoners don’t?

(have I just asked more rhetorical questions than Carrie Bradshaw? Possibly)

The two highest selling movies of all time**:

Avatar – an unlikely love story set in a fantasy land, headed for doom

Titanic – an unlikely love story set on a majestic ship, headed for doom

Are they just playing to our number one weakness or tapping in to something more primal?

Down With Love the classic farcical tale that parodies early feminists and takes the audience on a hilariously unpredictable chase to a satisfyingly textbook finale advocates “Just eat some chocolate, forget the man, and take control of your own life.”

However – spoiler warning – despite all notions to the contrary, it does all end in love.

CBS News reported last week that new research on the brain shows losing a lover can have the same effect on a person as trying to kick a substance addiction.

Love Addiction: Tough to Kick goes on to explain that the behaviours of a person post-break-up are parallel to someone who may be fighting a serious addiction, like cocaine.

“We found activity in a brain pathway that is exactly the same brain pathway that becomes affected when you’re profoundly addicted to cocaine and nicotine,” says biological anthropologist Helen Fisher.

“These are brain regions associated with intense romantic love, physical pain and deep attachment. So, you’re craving this person. You’re madly in love with them. Deeply attached to them. You’re in physical pain. And you are obsessed with somebody,” she explains.

Now lets just compare this for a minute to the process of kicking alcohol (even if we swear black and blue we are not addicted)… intense feelings of self doubt and uncertainty, cravings, physical pain, deep attachment, fear of life never being the same without it… spooky huh?

And the advice they give to the lovesick?

“Don’t lie in bed. Somebody’s camping in your head. Don’t lie around and ruminate about what went on. Go out with friends. Get hugs,” said Fisher.

In other words, go make a life for yourself – get on with it.

Hmmm… kinda similar to the HSM approach, wouldn’t you say?

Fisher’s study also found that our brain region associated with deep attachment becomes less and less active the further you get away from the lover.

So the further you get away from that last drink, the clearer your thinking becomes then? Well, doggone it, I’m heading for a Nobel prize here kids

*no, Jedi does not count

**film buffs, please don’t bother trying to correct me on this

I’m finally reading Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom. He talks about the great leaders who influenced him as a child and how they described leadership:
“A leader, he said, is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go on ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realising that all along they are being directed from behind.”

As a child, the first time you see one of your parents sick or hurt, it comes as a real shock. It makes you stop and wonder, exactly who the hell is in charge around here then?

They’re fallible? They’re mortal? Surely not.

Surely the strength and warmth and endless energy and patience they’ve displayed throughout my life is as solid as the earth itself. And then you learn that even the earth can move (not usually in an ’89 Martika kind of way, either).

Following this weeks news that Chris had a close call, I was shocked. I hope you were too. It serves as a gentle slap in the face – a call from afar that says “are you sure you’re making the most of all this?”  However, Chris is right not to read it as a ‘sign’ of anything – it was just one of those random things that life throws out once in a while.

Two weeks ago, I was involved in a car accident. My car has gone to auto-heaven. My body is still recovering.

Two days later, a car ran a red light and missed my Mum’s car by a few inches. I was in the passenger’s seat.

Yesterday, my brother offered to drive me around to look for a replacement car (he was driving his new car that he worked really hard for) and an idiot changed lane without looking and slammed right into the side of us. I was in the passenger’s seat.

Is somebody trying to tell me something??

Not especially. We make patterns, attribute meaning, to give us peace of mind. We look for reasons to paint over the idea, stave off the awareness, that chaos rules our lives.

At my age, it’s probably statistically likely that I would have been involved in 3 or 4 car accidents. This was my first, so I count myself lucky (and a good driver, while I’m at it!).

I had to fly to Sydney last week for a quick work trip. I was booked on the flight home to Perth at 7.25pm and due to a combination of factors outside my control, making the check-in time was looking unlikely.

7pm: I race to check-in. I’m told in no uncertain terms that I’ve missed the flight.

“But, it hasn’t taken off yet!”

“Sorry, check-in is closed. You missed it.”

SHIT!

Now, maybe it’s due to the fact that I was an only child for the first 7 years of my life, or maybe it’s my eternal optimism, but I don’t take “no” very well and I wasn’t about to give up there.

So, I resort to a highly sophisticated tactic: begging.

“Nope, sorry, Nothing I can do,” she says, straight-faced.

“Please, please, please… Is there anyway you can get me on that plane?”

“No. You’ll have to stay in Sydney the night. You can fly at 6am tomorrow.”

“Oh god noooo… I can’t stay here, I REALLY have to get back,” (Nothing wrong with Sydney mind you, I was just already in the I’m-going-home mindset and was like a dog with a bone.)

7.05pm: I am sent to the sales desk (mainly because I think the check-in girl is sick of looking at my pathetic expression)

“Computer says noooo. 6am tomorrow is all I can do” (she literally says this, I am not trying to make it sound more like Little Britain for comedic purposes. I swear I would have laughed if I didn’t feel like punching her.)

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Of the 100s of flights I’ve taken all around the world, I have never even come close to missing one and I was not about to start now. Especially not one work had paid for!

7.08pm: By this stage, I am literally in my own personal sauna and feeling like I need to puke and poo in equal proportions.

“If you didn’t have your bag, then maaaaybe we could get you on the plane” (my bag was only 15kg by the way)

Right, lose the bag.  Why didn’t you say so?!

…Shit, where?

7.10pm: I phone my cousin back, who’d just dropped me, and ask if they can come back and pick up my bag.

“We’ll be there in 5 minutes.”

“I’ve got 2 minutes or they won’t let me on the plane.”

“Right, dump the bag out front. Exactly where we left you. We’ll grab it.”

I look around. Security are looking at me suspiciously (or is that my paranoia?).

If I dump my bag, they’re gonna clear the whole damn airport. Shit.

I spot a guy on his phone, having a smoke and pacing. I signal with my eyes to my bag and mime “I’ll be back in one minute, be a good chap and watch my bag will ya?” He nods.

7.14pm: I sprint back to check in (dumping bag and running = not suspicious AT ALL)

The girl at the counter who gave me 2 minutes has gone. Of course she has! Flabbergasted, I race up to the guy at the next counter.

“The girl… (puffing, pointing) she said I could maybe still get on the plane (eyebrows, pleading look)…. I’ve dumped my bag… PLEASE!”

“No, no sorry, it’s too late, Gate‘s closed”

F*!@!

“Oh god damn!” (throws head onto check-in counter dramatically)

“Please, please, please… Is there anyway you can get me on that plane?”

Looks into my eyes. Sees that I am clearly about to crack if he says no.

“Ok, let me call the gate. No promises though, ok?”

“Sure, yes, yes, thankyou, thankyou” (tapping, fidgeting, twitching ensues)

7.18pm:  He swings round in his chair to make the call.

“Yeah, got a late passenger here. Yeah.. says she was stuck in traffic. Yeah, Ebony Frost is the name. Nah, no bag. … yep… yep… Cheers mate”

He swings round to face me.

“Ok, you have 2 minutes to get to gate 13”

“Thank you!!!! Thank you!!!!”

Throwing my stuff through security, I realise gate 13 is about a 2km sprint.

F*!@!

7.20pm: I arrive at the gate heaving, wanting to vomit and pass out at the same time, thanking my lucky stars I always wear runners for flying and saying sorry to the girls in the office who were not going to get the crispy crèmes from the airport I had promised.

At this point, I could barely speak and was well aware of the fact that they still did not have to let me onto the plane.

7.21pm: The man at the gate looks at me seriously.

“If you were flying Virgin or Jetstar, you wouldn’t get away with this y’know”

“I know, I know, I always fly Qantas… I love Qantas… I’ll tell all my friends to always fly Qantas,” I say through heaving gasps, trying to use lips that won’t work because they’re as dry as the Nullarbor.

“Yeah yeah, go on… get on,” he smiles at me and hands me a boarding pass.

“Oh thankyou thankyou – thanks so much!”

I sit down in my seat and spend the next hour double checking that I am actually on the plane, I am really going home, have not accidentally got on a flight to Darwin instead and have not died of a cardiac arrest for trying to run faster than my legs would carry me.

I was so very grateful to the staff who exercised empathy while still using their best judgment. They didn’t delay the plane by letting me on, they didn’t relax the rules, but they didn’t just give in to me either.

I began to realise how much we take for granted when it comes to complex activities like flying.
Flying in a commercial passenger plane is an extreme privilege and its only safe for us to do so because lots and lots of people take their job very seriously and thank god they do. Thank god they never take any of the rules for granted or get blasé or flippant about the activity that we’re engaging in, because it sure as hell seems to be human nature to keep assuming we can evade consequences and expecting that all those bad things you hear about, well they just “happen to someone else.”

Today I wrote a list of all the things I want to accomplish in my current stage of life, before I join most of my friends in moving to the ‘married with kids’ stage (I’m ignoring the fact that moving to the next stage is actually statistically unlikely to happen at all given that I haven’t even been on a date in 6 months… I am therefore assuming that at some point, if it’s meant to, then it will happen and the horrible potential reality of being ‘left on the shelf’ well, that will just happen to someone else..?!) … so this is quite tricky, because I don’t actually know how much time I’ve got, but if my biological clock has any say in the matter, then it’s a couple of years max.

The list I wrote reads more like a dot-point memoir for an entire life.

What the hell is wrong with me? Having spent two years battling a fatigue illness that taught me not to overwork myself, and learning to live the old adage “without my health, I have nothing,” it seems, I am still no less ambitious.

And I guess it comes back to Chris’ post, where he quite rightly says we don’t know how much time we’ve got. I guess that’s why I’m in a hurry to tick off the things on my to-do list.

I don’t ever want to leave this place, but I know that one day I’ll have to, so forgive me if I run past you at the airport, crispy cremes in hand… I just don’t want to miss a single thing.

Life is full of blind corners and one of them hit me out of the blue last week.

I was parked in a marked bay on the side of the road, waiting to pick up my Mum after her French class.

It was 9.30pm, I had Triple J on the radio and was just thinking how quiet Northbridge is on a Tuesday night… as distinct from the weekend, when its heaving with girls and guys out to party (and depending on the time of night, out to vomit on the footpath, or punch each other in the head)…

Then, in my rearview mirror…. LIGHTS. SIRENS. SQUEAL. SMAAAASH.

The police had been pursuing a guy with a suspended license, who decided that braking was not in his repertoire and instead he would try and jump from the driver’s seat to prove that he was not the driver (!)

My car was his brake. Oh and the huge 4WD parked in front of me – that was my brake.

I knew I was injured straight away – I felt the pain shoot through my back as my body was thrown forward like a rag doll. And because I was parked, I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt.

I could see in the rearview mirror still and got a glimpse of the police jumping out to arrest the guy. I thought I would just stay put in case they were chasing him because he was on a shooting rampage (you never know!).

The Police did an amazing job – they were so attentive and caring. Then the ambulance arrived to assess me, put on my neck brace and take me to emergency.

Then, hilariously, due to a communication error about what kind of accident it was, a giant wailing fire truck full of beefy firemen arrived to cut me from the vehicle (which I clearly didn’t need!).

I would have been in heaven if I could have actually turned my head to look at any of them. Mum tells me they were suitably hot. DAMN.

Anyway, aside from my car being a write-off (I patted myself on the back for being smart enough to have comprehensive insurance, since the other guy didn’t even have a license!) my injuries should heal in a month or so and I will be back to normal. Well, a more enlightened version of normal.

It’s all the things we take for granted that get thrust into the spotlight when accidents happen, isn’t it?

If he had been going 10kms faster, I could have gone head first through the windscreen. I could be a paraplegic or have brain damage. It might take four people to roll me on my side so I could wee into a pan that a nurse holds under me. But thankfully, I am one of the lucky ones. I still have my dignity, my body and brain in one (albeit shaken and sore) piece.

It’s  all these basic elements we forget are held so tenuously in the hands of fate – the things we cling to as fellow human beings: dignity, compassion, loyalty…. These are the things that get us through. We are all in this together, as Ben Lee so wisely says.

So, how many of those things do we throw away when we binge drink? Dignity – check. Compassion – frequently. Loyalty – sad, but often true.

Hello Sunday Morning is about redefining our relationship with alcohol, yes. But also, it gives us the chance to redefine our perspective on life.

Since the accident I have had two dreams (nightmares) in which I had downed an entire bottle of passion pop (poor taste, subconscious, poor taste). I felt like I had committed the worst of betrayals. Yet it was only to myself. But why is betraying yourself any more acceptable than betraying a friend? If you don’t like yourself a great deal, then it makes sense that you would have no regard for how you end up.

To take Sunday morning (and any other morning for that matter) for granted by wasting it on a hangover is a slap in the face to the healthy, full-bodied life we’ve been given.

If this sounds melodramatic or over the top, feel free to scoff. But come back to me when you’ve been at the scene of a serious accident and tell me it hasn’t changed your mind.

A friend of mine is about six weeks away from having a precious baby girl. Yesterday, some of her friends organised a ‘baby blessing’, something I had never been to. It was a real salute to the mother, something we don’t really have in our culture (don’t even mention hallmark mother’s day) and amongst other things, we all lit a candle and spent a minute thinking about everything our own mum’s went through to bring us into the world.

I know it sounds wanky, but it was really awesome.

And splashed across the news this week, of course, were the tragic stories of the young men we have lost to war. Good men who loved their families. I’m sure those wives and children would do anything to have one more Sunday morning, one more chance to hug him tight and say I love you.

I will never forget a beautiful phrase my Mum wrote to me in a letter when I was in London… “we are all human, fragile, unable to see round corners”.

So from now on I’m going to spend some time every Sunday being grateful for everything we have, aware that the next corner will bring unexpected challenges and adventures. Maybe this is the religion of a new generation.

Say hello, and thank you, Sunday Morning.

Heads turn. People ask questions. ‘Noise’ appears. Some people pat you on the back. Others don’t like it one little bit.

Options materialise. Something shifts.

There’s an Eastern philosopher by the name of Osho who has some pretty intense ideas about Zen. I haven’t yet found a philosopher with whom I completely agree, but I do like some of this guy’s thinking around the idea of Zen (which is supposedly the ultimate state of mind, where we no longer ‘exist’ in an ego sense, but just become ‘part’ of everything around us – a bit full-on for my liking, but anyway, I digress…)

Osho writes that “When the shoe fits, the foot is forgotten” meaning that when things are right, we don’t think about them, we just are: we just exist in the moment and enjoy it.

Think about that for a minute. You don’t really ponder having a head until you get a headache, right? You really have no idea you even have an appendix until it threatens to burst, and you have no awareness of the inner workings of your knee until you injure it and can no longer walk up stairs without it clicking loudly.

And similarly, you don’t question your relationship when its going well and you never think twice about work unless something’s up.

For some people this ill-fitting shoe might appear more often than not. We have all experienced the anguish and torment of ceaseless thoughts of someone or something that is seemingly impossible to resolve.

I guess this is the very opposite of Zen. This very un-Zen like behaviour has often led me to drink.

Getting drunk used to be my Zen.

My foot, my hand, my head – everything was forgotten, just for a while. Then, oh boy, did they all come screaming back in the morning.

I have realised that the thing about getting drunk is, you surrender control. Not just to someone else, but to everything else. You surrender complete control of yourself and your fate on that occasion to whatever influences decide to take the reigns. And if the consequences of that surrender could be harmlessly contained in that one location, for that one space of time, then that would be something. But there is no such guarantee. In fact, you can almost guarantee the opposite – that the effects of your control-less spree will be far reaching and permanent. If you’re lucky, you can come back from most of it.

More than ten years ago, one of my best friends lost her father in a tragic car accident. A seemingly harmless stretch of well-travelled road leading back to our hometown; a head-on collision; the other driver off his head on alcohol and a cocktail of other drugs. Her dad had no chance. He left behind two beautiful daughters, a swathe of devastated family, friends and colleagues who loved him.

All because the other driver, who also died along with all his passengers, offered up control of his life and got behind the wheel of a car.

I think about this all the time and still it doesn’t seem real. Or right.

We all have different base levels of control we can exercise in our own lives. How often and to what degree we choose to take the reigns is largely determined by our own level of self-awareness.

Some people love the feeling of being out of control. I am not one of them.

This is the main reason I have never touched drugs. You hear about just one pill or one trip messing up someone’s psyche for life and something instinctual tells me I would be one of those people.

And its really not about taking risks either. I am not risk-averse. I will take calculated risks when the time’s right.  In a parallel universe I am pretty sure I am a rally car driver, Lara Croft, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Or possibly all three.

I will never go sky-diving or bungee jumping, because I guarantee you I would be the person who blacks out and misses the whole thing.

For height, hot-air ballooning is more my style.

So anyway, I’m not judging people who do take drugs. If your life is so boring or messed up that you need to swallow who-the-hell-knows what crap to make you have a good night well good for you.

OK. So maybe I am judging them. But whatever. I’m not about to get on any nearby high horse for fear of falling off… or being called a hypocrite.

Alcohol is a drug, after all. And I could never claim that I haven’t spent a large number of nights and mornings at its mercy. Made many boo boos, pissed many people off, put myself and others in danger, ruined relationships, worried my Mum, broken the law, punished my body and almost certainly destroyed many brain cells.

But not in the past year. And for that, I am hugely proud.

I just did a quick calculation of how much money I think I have personally spent on alcohol over a 10-year period from the age of 17…. Are you sitting down? I suggest you sit down…

$30 000.

Right. Really glad I did that. NOT. (It could even be more. That’s a pretty conservative estimate).

So that deposit for a house that I have whinged about not being able to save for the past, oh lets say, 10 years? And the HECS/student loan debt that STILL pesters me every pay day? Sigh.

So, what can we control then? First impressions are a good start (when I want to look smarter I wear my glasses to meetings!). And unless we’re celebrities, politicians, underworld figures or sports stars, then we should be able to control our public image.

Some elements are well out of our hands, like the global economy, petrol prices and the weather. Some, we have a small and restricted say in, such as who we vote for, which school we choose for our kids and our immediate environment.

It’s commonly understood that the higher our level of personal control over our own lives, the happier and more peaceful we will be.

The type of control that interests me is the small but powerful shifts we can make to take control back from other people and substances that have taken the reigns while we were languishing out the back somewhere.

Unhealthy levels of control by family members, partners, bosses and friends can go unnoticed until you decide you want to change something. Take a new direction. Shake things up.

Be prepared that some people will try and stop you, for their own selfish reasons. Some people will be jealous, and some just annoyed because you’re not sitting neatly in your box. Some people feed on controlling others… just controlling, not because its better for you, just because it’s the way they like things. If you’re a kind person, you might not spot this right away. You might mistake it for good intentions.

Much of life we have no control over. We lose people, lives end, people fall out of love, friends get sick, families drift apart, people make poor decisions, governments make stupid laws, prices rise and pet fish die.

The more control we lose, the more we fight to get it back.

To do this, we often use the only thing in our reach – our own bodies. I have been guilty of over-criticising, over-exercising, under-eating and other forms of punishing micro-control.

There exists a fine line between being aware of, and accepting, those things in life we can’t control and, for everything else,  learning to practice adequate levels of self-control.

Today I started yoga again. It’s been a while and I’ve missed it. I find the peace and tranquility I can get from a yoga or pilates session more peaceful than most things.

Even a beach swim, as much as it centres and calms me completely, is peppered with tiny, remote thoughts of rips and sharks, which kind of stops me from relaxing completely.

I think that’s right. No one should really relax in the ocean, or it will eat you alive.

Surrender control to the ocean and it will swallow you whole. Think you have it mastered and it will prove you a fool. For 100 days you can ride it, day after day and have the best of times, it may appear to go whichever way you ask… and then, just as easily, it can buck you off and you break your spine. Ride it with respect and awareness and you’ll be just fine.

Some might say alcohol is much the same.

Another wedding at a winery... Chui Lin and me

But now, after watching my friend’s little boy grow over the past year (he is just 2) I have come to realise we are born all kitted up, done, perfect, whole and robust. As we grow up, other people, knowingly or not, with good intentions or bad, mess with our traction, tip dirt in the fuel tank, smash the windows, crunch the gears and skew the steering, until we are no longer road-worthy. Sometimes we even do these things to ourselves, under the misguided belief that it will make the ride smoother, or the engine more powerful.

When all we have left looks like something from the end of a Dukes of Hazzard episode (circa 1979), what we really need is a patient mechanic and a little time off the road.

I have just been reading the latest edition of my favourite magazine, Frankie (until Frankie, I had not bought a ‘women’s magazine’ for about 8 years because they are evil and make me hate my very normal size 10 body), which featured a hugely entertaining article by a girl who attempted to go a month without plastic (not as in credit cards, as I first thought, but as in plastic packaging). She finds the whole process extremely difficult, a little controversial and highly confronting:

“A lot of people interpreted my decision to abstain from plastic as a criticism of their own consumption habits and became immediately defensive. They rolled their eyes and clucked disapprovingly and asked, sneeringly, what I was ‘hoping to achieve’,” writes Rowena.

In the past year, I have had many people ask me what I was hoping to achieve from not drinking. Not that they are that upfront about it. It’s more in their tone of voice, their eyes, or possibly a little in their eyebrow … slightly raised, squished to one side, held a little too long to go unnoticed.

I went to a hen’s party last weekend. The invitation said ‘entertainment included’. My first thought was ‘Eew. That means strippers… gross.” Thankfully, I was wrong. Instead, we had three topless men from the fireman’s calendar serving our drinks.

Yes, ladies – REAL firemen.

Can rescue me from a burning building? Affirmative.

Oh and you used to be a surf lifesaver? Excellent.

So, therefore, can rescue me from sinking Titanic? Check.

Is tomorrow too soon for us to get married?

I saw my chance to get up close with fireman number one when he seemed at a loose end and asked if he could pour anyone a drink…

Me: Ooooh, yes please, I need a drink

F1: Certainly, what can I get you?

Me: A lemonade please

F1: Really? Just a lemonade?

Me: Yep

F1: So, are you the skipper tonight?

Me: Er no. Well, I mean, yeah, I am driving, but no, that’s not why I’m not drinking.

F1: (looks perplexed. Clearly I have dazzled him with this intellectually dizzying concept)

Me: Um, y’know. I’m just not drinking at the moment.

At this point, perfectly built fireman number two turns around and joins the conversation.

F2: So, is this like, a health thing?

Me: Well, kind of. And kind of a social experiment. I haven’t had a drink for a year.

F1 and F2 exchange puzzled looks.

F2: What, not at all?

Me: Nope

F2: Yeah, but do you like, go out to pubs and stuff?

Me: Yep, I go to all the places everyone else goes.

F2: Yeah, but do you actually like alcohol?

Me: Yes indeed.

F1: Yeah, but do you have a partner?

Me: Nope (wink, wink F1, here’s your chance…)

F1: Yeah, see I reckon I could do that if I had a partner, no problem (well, here I AM!!!)

F2: Nah, I don’t reckon I could do that, partner or not. If one of our mates said he wasn’t drinking, I reckon he’d get told to shut the f up and buy the next round.

F1: Nah, see, F2 here, he likes wineries too much

F2: Yeah, and pubs.

Me: I see

F2: Come to think of it, I might be an alcoholic. Er, hehe. Er,  hmm. (walks away, pondering that thought)

So, how do I explain my reasons for doing this? What am I hoping to achieve?

It came to me after watching Jaimee’s post (which is hilarious by the way).

Two things:

I needed a break.

I wanted clarity.

I am making good progress on both counts. So, I guess only time will tell how it all pans out.

…And in the meantime, I may have just started a little house fire

The romance sucks you in like a black hole and you’re left reaching for the tissues and wondering why you haven’t met a Hugh Grant lookalike who owns a travel bookshop and worships the ground you walk on.

Sigh.

Keeping the romance alive in Notting Hill

What I want to know is … has booze killed romance? Do we have to drink to win someone over?

This week Chris Raine talked about sober sex and how alcohol changes ‘hook ups’. But does it also change how we are wooed?

Whether this is true, or cultural myth, it seems like in our grandparents era, a lot more effort went into wooing the girl: freshly picked flowers, carefully worded letters, butterfly-inducing phone calls, genuine compliments on her appearance… and from the girls side as well, a lot more effort went into each meeting: the dutifully pressed clothes, the carefully pinned hair, just the right amount of perfume, the baking of cakes, commenting on how handsome he looked…

A blog I stumbled across seems to think prince charming is long dead…

…

“BREAKING NEWS:  Prince Charming was NOT spotted today [or ever for that matter]  galloping upon a snow white steed, harboring a large shield for warding off dragons or scary people with guns, while traveling  through the enchanted forest to rescue a long- haired, bottle -blond damsel with daddy issues.  Sources have revealed that the reason he was not spotted was because he actually does not exist!
[ Cinderella’s response to the shocking news: “You mean I’ve been sweeping up all this soot and ironing my evil stepsisters’ button down shirts and there's no fricken prince at the end of the tunnel?  What kind of CRAP is that?!” ]

Ladies: let’s just get something straight.  Prince Charming isn’t around.  He jumped the border and he’s headed for Atlantis.  To my knowledge he hasn’t even left a close relative or body double to be your shoulder to cry on.  He didn’t even leave his snow white stallion around the stables for you to pet.  His mother, the Queen of Nonexistent Men, found this note under his pillow:

Dear Completely Delusional Yet Surprisingly Hopeful Women of the Land,

“I feel like a classic fool.  [the imaginary Prince is British, of course]  I could no longer keep up this silly charade.  Blessed Respite! I am nothing but a fake.  I’m a big, fat (but very trim), dodgy  phony. I don’t have a steed, or a stallion, all I’ve got is an ‘88 Ford Fiesta.  I don’t ward off dragons, I run in the face of danger.  I run! I am nothing but a yellow- bellied coward, a coward I say!  My entire life is a farce, and I am the only one to blame.  Except for my mum who is partly to blame.”

Cheers,   Prince C.”

…

Mad Men: real romance or really clever illusion?

Now, I’m not suggesting we go back to the 30’s, or even the 50’s… you only need to watch a few episodes of Mad Men to realise everything that glitters is not gold.

But maybe, alcohol has blunted our senses, made us lazy, usurped our initiative, til all we have left is the ability to regurgitate ‘proven’ one-liners we’ve read in some dating article.

In the eight months I have been single, I have had three guys ask for my number. One turned out to be a stalker.

The second I had two great dates with and a first kiss that felt like I was fifteen again – I actually said to myself, ‘shit, how am I gonna do this sober?’ – but it was actually great. Then he disappeared to North America, and I never heard from him again!

The third has messaged me a few times, but I don’t hold out great hope.

I also got a pash on New Years Eve, which was reasonably unexpected. He was drunk but I was sober. At the start of the night, I thought there’s no way I’m going to fancy getting up close with a random guy. But there was one guy.

He had an accent, was persistently romantic and he was only here on holiday (great combination!).

He won me over by spinning me round the dance floor all night and telling me about 300 times how beautiful I was. I have never, ever had a man tell me that so openly before.

As the night progressed and he got too drunk however, it was obvious to my sober self he was trying to get me into a dark corner to do as he pleased (would I have been so alert if I was drunk?) and his manner became more aggressive and needy. When I said I had no intention of sleeping with him his touch became rough, so I disappeared like Cinderella into the night.

Maybe that’s the problem with alcohol. A little bit brings out all the lovely stuff – the things you think, but are normally too reserved to say. But then as soon as you tip over the balance point, it becomes primal and animalistic: the alcohol wants sex and stabs the romance in the back, stepping over its dead body on the way to the bedroom.

I’m probably one of those naive girls who has read too many fairy tales, but just in case… if you see prince charming trotting round on his white horse, send him my way will ya?

Perth was under attack on Monday night, with hail the size of tennis balls, flash flooding and 120km/hr winds.

Despite some damage to property, a few evacuations and some scary driving conditions, thankfully we are all ok.

It’s strange (and a sad indictment of our generation) that we don’t know our neighbours until we experience a major natural disaster.

All of a sudden the inhibitions are packed away and people rush to talk to each other – complete strangers – about this amazing, terrifying experience they’ve just had.

Perth sunset after the storm... everything is calm again

A sense of community can only come from shared experience and I guess when something huge happens which is out of everyone’s control, all of a sudden we have something in common.

Reflecting on Chris Ruddock’s post, I thought it pertinent to point out that a community is exactly what we are building right now, through our shared experience of HSM. Even though we are on opposite sides of the country, different ages, backgrounds, interests, education, careers… we all have a shared understanding of what we’re trying to do.

In 2006, I set out to build a community around the talented artists and designers we have in Perth and give them an outlet to sell their work and build a brand profile. Unwrapped is now Perth’s favourite designer market and together, we have built a pathway from the classroom to the big wide world. I felt that, as a group, we could do anything, but individually, these talented students and graduates were getting lost in the wash of commercialism and suffering a lack of confidence in their own abilities.

The step they needed to take was too big and they couldn’t see how they could make the jump alone.

A community means I’m never alone.

Even aside from the storm, this week has been a pretty exciting one for me. I’ve been offered a senior marketing and pr role with a very worthy and dynamic not-for-profit. It is an exciting new challenge, but one I feel really ready for. Finally I feel like the story – my story – is shifting and one brick at a time I am building the life I want… much like my favourite pick-a-path books as a kid! …Except I would always read every alternate ending and then go back and pick the one I wanted

There is no ultimate time frame for those who are doing HSM, but for me, it has become obvious that even a year wasn’t enough. The reason I say that is because it took me so long to unravel what was really going on under all the layers, that after a year I feel like I have only just begun.

I was explaining to Mum the other day that when I drank, it gave me a temporary escape. Now, that may sound harmless, but what I was escaping from was reality. And dealing with the truth and all the implications that holds.

I have been in three serious long-term relationships and each of them had their share of challenges. Rather than cutting my losses at the first serious sign of trouble, when my gut instinct said ‘this is never going to work’, I persisted in trying to fix them for way too long for a number of reasons:

1. I am a hard-core optimist and give people way too much credit

2. I am a romantic and thought that at the time he was ‘the one’

3. Every few days, I would escape from the problems by getting drunk, thereby never really facing the full effect of how unhappy I was, because it was interspersed with frequent occasions of inebriated ‘elation’.

So, what have I learned by taking away my crutch of drunken escapism?

1. It’s fine to be an optimist, but the very moment someone does something that hurts you or takes you for granted, you say so. Loudly. And if it continues, you walk away (that may sound harsh, but I don’t have time to waste giving people multiple chances to be nice to me… it’s really not that hard!).

2. I now know there is no ‘one’ person for everyone – there are lots. It’s just random luck and circumstance which ‘one’ you end up meeting and falling for. But if you know yourself, and you’re keeping it real all the time, then one of those ‘right’ people will be attracted to you. He or she will find you. However, if you are not projecting an image that is authentically you, that’s when you end up attracting inappropriate partners.

3. So how do I deal with having no ‘eject’ button, no alcohol-fuelled escape pod? I use the same methods I used as a kid… I run, swim, ride my bike, hang out with my family, do a dance class, watch a movie, visit my friends, draw, take photos, go to museums and galleries, bookshops, bake a cake, grow flowers, crank some tunes up and sing loudly…  in other words, I live fulltime in the present, still dream optimistically about the future and every now and then reflect on the past to remind me of the lessons I have learned.

In reality, there are no short-cuts. There are no quick fixes. You will not win lotto (sorry, but someone had to say it).

Reality is hard work and it’s tiring. But it’s real. And it’s tangible. And it’s also so much more rewarding than living in a sea of denial and popping your head up every now and then to look around and go, ‘Eek! Where am I now?’ only to duck back under again.

Maybe the dishes can wait...

Last night, I was reading a great article in Women’s Health magazine about our attitude to time and how it is shaping our society. From a new book called The Time Paradox, they quote a 2008 study (replicated from 1989) which found that people are spending less time with family and friends and more time using ‘time saving’ devices, like computers, email, fast food, microwaves and sms to try and get ahead. But despite all of this, people report being just as busy as they were 10 years ago. The authors of the book recommend 3 strategies:

• Make peace with your past: take meaning from whatever happened and move on
• Live in the now: concentrate only on what you’re doing right now, rather than trying to do everything at once
• Be mindful of mortality: remember that time is your scarcest resource, so respect it and use it wisely.

I mentioned in my previous post a book I am reading called Stuck, which is getting more and more interesting by the page… the author has delved quite deeply into what makes us form bad habits and how we can break them.

Drinking is really just a habit. Breaking that auto-pilot mentality of ordering a drink when I went out was one of the first hurdles I encountered. I will leave you with a snippet from Stuck:

“We all have behaviours we wish we could stop, but say we can’t.

We have to want to stop to stop.

We have to stop to stop.”

For most of us, managing our own limits is part of the burden of growing up. Some days it’s harder than others. Sometimes we need mum to remind us to eat our greens and stop watching so much TV. But 99% of the time we manage to be law-abiding, polite, socially acceptable citizens.

Aside from the odd speeding fine (sooo sorry officer, I honestly thought this was an 80 zone!); the occasional binge (what packet of kingstons?) and splurge (But I really had to buy three… they were on saaale!) I think I do ok. But it wasn’t always like that. I haven’t always been good at limits.

So who manages your limits once your parents turn their back on the playground? Is it your boss (no one needs more than 30 minutes for lunch!); your lecturer (Frost, tell me you’re not about to ask for another extension?); the police? The council? Your landlord? Your coach? Your partner? Or, despite the fact that you’re an adult in every sense of the word, is it still your mum and dad?

I have to tell you I got some very mixed signals about limits as a kid. My Mum did a great job, setting some good solid limits. As was my duty, I tested them thoroughly from ages 13-18 and aside from one teeny-weeny outta control party (that I got eternally grounded for) we negotiated and moved on. Lesson learned.

My dad on the other hand, set no limits. Or he purposely contradicted Mum’s limits. And I should mention, they lived on opposite sides of the country, so I wasn’t playing discipline ping-pong in the one household. Still, I have to say my dad did me no favours by neglecting to say ‘no’ at the appropriate times.

Reading Emily’s post, I was reminded of a few truly humiliating things that occurred during my drunken haze that was uni. Probably times when I should have recognised the line for myself and stepped back, rather than hurtling past the limit, pedal to the floor.

I might only relate these one week at a time, just to keep up appearances

My flat mates and I had a house party. I was getting drunker and louder and cheekier by the minute (I tend to push the absolute limits of cheekiness when I drink). Then a guy showed up who had once locked me in his room and tried to make me sleep with him in high school.

Just seeing him on my property made me seethe. I got angrier and angrier, throwing more vodka down my throat until I was so ready for a fight, that’s exactly what I got.

We verbally jousted for about 10 minutes until he said something ultimately insulting (I can’t remember, but he probably called me fat) and I slapped him so hard across the face, I think even he was shocked.

Thrilled with my little victory I ran off and continued rampaging around the garden, jumping on my male flat mate’s shoulders like he was my stallion (yes, that’s right. I was wearing an extremely short dress. Cringe.).

And then came the retaliation.  He pushed my flat mate backwards (with me still perched on his back) and tipped two – not one, but two (even at the time I thought it was an excessive waste) – jugs of beer on us. Well, mainly on me, but my unfortunate steed copped it too.

So then I was drunk, and wet and stank of beer and was covered in dirt.

The entire party was laughing at me. My nemesis and his mates were in hysterics.

I was mortified.

I stumbled inside, barely able to walk I was so drunk. All I remember is one of my best friends helping me out of my clothes and into the shower.

Not my proudest moment.

Aristotle once said, “Anyone can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time, for the right reason and in the right way – that is not easy.”

I was in Oxford Street Books on the weekend and gravitated towards a book called Stuck – Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move on. I’m only about 40 pages in so far, but it promises to ‘expose the complex network of causes for our immobilisation, from fear and denial to powerful messages in popular culture or mass media that conspire to convince us that we’re helpless in the face of our cravings.’

Cool. I’m all ears. Unstuck-ness here I come.

Speaking of coming unstuck… I had my final Level 1 surfing lesson last Sunday.

Almost died.

But didn’t!

I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a wave and then realised a second too late that it’s got way more curl on it than you expected and you have no idea what might happen next?! Couple of underwater backwards somersault’s later and I thought to myself don’t panic, you’re not meant to die like this …and then I popped up.

It was also the end of a really crap week. I was already down and had been looking forward to the Sunday morning surf, so I was pretty disappointed with a near-death experience.

Despite the fact that I was then really quite ready to spit the dummy and give up, once I realised I was alive and amazingly not hurt,  I got back on that board. I was rewarded ten minutes later by a fellow learner dropping in on my wave and then dropping on me!

Thanks. I really needed an 80kg pile-driver to finish me off.

Sprained neck = check.

Despite my moaning, I do feel truly lucky, knowing that Scarborough Beach is notorious for a suspiciously shifty sandbank that paralyses people, shocking rips that drown tourists and crowded surf that causes wave-rage every summer.

Scarborough Beach, aka the dumping ground!

Voted my least favourite beach of 2010. And yet, I got to walk away.

This weekend, although I won’t get to see it, I have a piece I designed in an exhibition as part of L’Oreal Melbourne Fashion Festival , in partnership with the  Australian Poetry Centre, which is pretty exciting.

We were asked to refashion a calico bag inspired by poetry. You can see all the bags here (mine is Item 4) and if you’d like a chance to own one, they are being auctioned, so put in a bid!

One of my favourite poems of all time is The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (I wish he was related, but sadly no). I will leave you with his words…

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

On 15 February 2010, I changed my Facebook status to:

Today = 1 whole year without alcohol. Never felt better. The challenge is set… anyone game?

Amongst the reply posts, one of my friends sent me a link to the Sydney Morning Herald story on Chris Raine and HSM.

I couldn’t believe my eyes – I no longer felt like a lone fish swimming upstream… now I knew there were others (not in any kind of freakish sci-fi way, you understand).

The final challenge for 2009: The New Years Eve Party

So a bit about me… I graduated uni with a double major in journalism and design; I have my own part-time business promoting young designers (called Unwrapped); I live on our beautiful west coast and I’ll let you guess how old I am.

I didn’t understand the depth of my dependence on alcohol until I quit drinking altogether (the same thing happened with sugar, but that might be slightly off-topic), even though by that stage, I had stopped binge-drinking several years ago.

Having first tried alcohol at the age of 16 as a bored teenager living in a small town, my brain soon forgot how to have fun without it. My identity sat down on the footpath, as a hurt and forgotten little girl, and waited for me to come back for her. My confidence had no stability and no real foundation. And I missed the lesson on how to choose appropriate boyfriends.

I had to start all over again.

Of the past 3 years, I have spent 2.5 of them living in London, working in marketing, and I have been privileged enough to see an enormous amount of our amazing planet.

London is amazing, but there's no place like home

I came home because I couldn’t bear to be away from my Mum and brother for another day and because I was very unwell.

I first got sick in November 2007, on a work trip to Houston, Texas, where we were working 17 hour days for 4 days straight. I got back to London and I couldn’t move from my bed. It felt like I’d been injected with lead and my body bruised from the inside out. For days I was in so much pain I couldn’t even have a sheet on me.

I was under so much pressure at work – the directors continued to ring me and bully me until I came into the office again and after a month of trying to push myself through the ridiculous fatigue and pain, I quit.

It was February in London and deathly cold. My goal for each day was not huge. I’d get rugged up and shuffle to Holland Park, about 500m away, where I’d sit with the pensioners in the rose garden and watch the birds until my nose hurt from breathing in.

I’d shuffle home again, only to have to sleep for three hours from the effort. Going up 8 stairs gave me palpitations. I may as well have been 85.

So I finally found a proper, old-school doctor, who said “you have post-viral fatigue syndrome. You need a complete time out.  Stop trying to do anything. Just nurture yourself and get your immune system working again. Avoiding alcohol would be a good idea too, just until you’re feeling better”.

So that’s where it started. I had to forget what my old life looked like and begin again with a blank canvas. I decided I would stop drinking until I felt better.

A year ago it all began... not drinking at a wedding in a Yarra Valley winery!

Over the next few weeks, I will explain how I made it through 12 months of not drinking and why I still haven’t had a drink, despite the fact that I feel better. I’ll tell you all about my ‘Yes’ – my own health being my number 1 priority – learning to surf and learning to be single for the first time since I was 16.

And I hope you’ll join me as I try and work on my exit strategy. At this point I’m too scared to have a drink again, but I need to get past that. Just as astronauts would when returning to earth, I have to make sure I’m travelling at the right speed and trajectory, so I don’t burn up on re-entry.

'Look Up Boy' ... one of my favourite shots from London