Ping pong helps me ignore the caffeine-induced voices in my head

What did you do today? Did you go to a jewellery supply shop and help pick out a soldering iron, and then play ping pong in what was possibly an art installation? Huh. That's a coincidence.

To explain. Since Monday, my boss has been saying to me in an ominous sort of way 'we need to talk about your progress'. The progress meeting was initially scheduled for 10a.m. Monday morning. Then it got pushed back to Monday afternoon. Then Tuesday morning, then Tuesday afternoon, and so on and so forth until this afternoon (Thursday) when the meeting finally happened. It was less of a 'let's all tell Tash how terrible she is at her job' affair than I had thought it was going to be, but I'll get to that. The point is, for the last four days I have been working myself into a state of COMPLETE AND UTTER TERROR that I was going to get shouted at. Because, and I'll let you in on a tiny little secret here... I'm terrible at my job. Like, painfully bad. I also hate it with a passion, which goes a long way to explaining why I'm so bad at it. The only thing that stops me from completely checking out and just playing Minesweeper and googling pictures of baby dormice all day is that my fear of getting into trouble slightly outweighs my sense of miserable apathy towards my work.

By this morning, I was a jibbering mess. I just wanted to get the shouting at over and done with. I drank a giant coffee, then went and got a second giant coffee because someone asked me to go to the coffee shop with them, so by midday I was a jumble of nerves and anticipation, and hallucinating slightly from all the caffeine (that's a thing, it's not just me being melodramatic).

L, my work buddy (also known as the Hair Hamster) noticed that I was verging tears and/ or magical laughter and asked me to go on an outing with her so she could spend her birthday money. We went first to a jewellery supply store, where she spent an inordinate amount of time taking to a man about soldering irons. While waiting for her I checked out the sale table, which is always dangerous, even when there is nothing there that I could conceivably want or need. Nevertheless. It took a bit of work to convince myself that I do not really need an economy pack of white cotton gloves (it was only $5 for 50 - I'm sure I could have found a use for them) or a jewellery display case in the shape of a book, just because it was half price.

Then we went to Gaffa, which is absolutely lovely, and you really have to go there if you're in Sydney. It's a tiny private art gallery split over two levels of an old office building in Clarence St., and it shows very small collections from an eclectic bunch of artists, though the focus tends to be on jewellery. I saw some absolutely stunning pieces, and I'm definitely going to go back when I've saved up my pocket money.

Kyoko Hashimoto

Momoko Hatano

There was an installation composed of a sculpture a little man hunched up in the middle of a room swathed in black cloth, which visitors to the gallery were encouraged to write their sad thoughts on. L was all for drawing a picture of a penis, because she is just a simple being, but I convinced her to write 'I am worried that I will never feel happiness' (geddit? hahahaha) instead, because I am just as immature as her, but, as I said above, more scared of getting in trouble. Then we went downstairs to the cafe, and there was a little glassed in room off to one side with a ping pong table in it. So we played some ping pong. A few people stopped to watch us, which made us paranoid that it was actually an art installation that we were defiling, but no one shouted at us, so it was either an interactive piece, or it was just a ping pong table.

By this stage I was feeling much better, so we headed back to the office, just in time for the meeting. My boss went round the table. The advertising manager got told off a tiny bit. Then the online editor got a little bit of a talking to. Then came my turn. I had to explain myself, which I did by shrugging, letting my bottom lip wobble a little bit, and saying 'ummm, I don't know. I'm sorry'. There was a moment of tension... and the conversation moved on. And that was it. I mean, I definitely got the feeling that I am not going to walk out of this job with a glowing recommendation, but I also didn't actually get told off, so I'm putting the progress meeting outcome in the positive column for today. Only just, but still.

What else.

Oh yes, my hair is still falling out with reckless abandon, but either I've come to accept it, or I am in denial about it, in which case there is almost certainly some horrible emotional outburst in the offing when I finally come to deal with it. I think it's the former, though. I've been looking at other women's hair a lot over the last couple of days (in a totally non creepy way), and I've noticed lots and lots of women my age with partings that are slightly too wide and patchy, or who have thin or even bald patches on the back of their heads, or with sparse patches around the temples, and I feel much better. I have also made an appointment to get my hair cut next week - I've realised that the thing that is freaking me out more than anything else is that I have totally lost control over what my hair does, and I am - it may shock you to learn - quite the control freak. I'm hoping that if I go and get a style more flattering to my hair-lite situation, it will make me feel slightly more in control, and stop me from completely losing my mind.

And that's more or less it for now. I've got an evening entirely to myself for once, so I'm indulging in a dinner of beer and crisps, and later I will eat a banana paddle pop. I will also watch last night's First Tuesday Bookclub, and stroke the screen tenderly every time Jennifer Byrne speaks, because I love her and I want to be her. OK, that last thing was a bit creepy, but my reasons for loving her have nothing to do with her hair, so the creepiness is mitigated a tiny bit. 

Who likes hairy hippies, anyway?

The hair situation continues unabated. I'm shedding hair like a dog in summer - I'm literally leaving little trails behind me everywhere I go. I have finally stopped standing in front of the mirror, sobbing and keening hysterically to the tune of Hair, but I'm still freaking out a bit. However. I have been to the doctor. I have been probed in all sorts of unpleasant ways (including one ultrasound that, let's just say, the gentlemen in the room will never have to undergo. It was pretty awful, and the worst part of it is that the ultrasound technician didn't even buy me dinner first HAHA! No, in all seriousness, I actually came out in tears), and it looks as if I am basically in fairly robust health. The doctor is pretty sure it isn't female pattern baldness, mainly because the hair is falling out from all over and not just from the crown, which is what would usually happen if I was just getting screwed by my genes.

So. The conclusion appears to be that I am suffering from stress. Nice one, Tash. I have in the past allowed my anxiety to induce migraines, crying jags and nausea, but this is the first time I have been so wound up that things have started to fall off. The upside is that it should mean that my hair will start to grow in as normal again in a few months, so I just have to suck it up and deal with it until then.

But because I am someone who has never had any trouble seeing the cloud around the silver lining, I have started to investigate the wigular opportunities available. I mean, chances are this will all sort itself out in a few months, but if it doesn't I want to be prepared*. Now then. There are these people, who look lovely - you'd get a cup of tea, and probably a homemade biscuit with those guys, and I think if worst comes to worst, they'll be my first port of call. There are also some people who look downright creepy.

There's a company that advertises 'REAL HUMAN HAIR', and which gives all their wig styles names, giving entries that read; 'JANE HUMAN', 'MEGAN HUMAN' and 'LIZ HUMAN', which makes me uncomfortable. I don't think I want to be reminded that I'm wearing someone else's hair. I also would never want to be classified as 'NATASHA HUMAN', as if I need it to be pointed out that I am.

The same website also offers the following wig care tips;

How to Care for your Wigs and Hairpieces.

 Taking care of your wig or hairpiece is extremely important. With the proper care and cleaning your wig will look great and will last longer. You may not be able to control the different environments your wig is exposed to each day but proper care will help overcome any exposure to unfavorable conditions

1) Fill a large bowl with enough cool to lukewarm water to fully immerse your wig. Don't use hot water or it will remove body and may damage fibre.

2) Dissolve approximately one tablespoon of wig cleaner or shampoo, along with one tablespoon of baking soda. Swish & swirl your wig around in solution.
If the front of wig or cap has makeup on it, make a paste of baking soda and shampoo and gently scrub with an old toothbrush until clean. Baking soda acts as a cleaning booster and will usually cut though the heaviest makeup or styling product residue in the hair or on the cap.

3) Rinse your wig in plenty of cool to cold water, do it 3 or 4 times to make sure the shampoo is completely rinsed out.

4) Rinse your large bowl out and refill it with fresh water. Dissolve one or two tablespoons of conditioner in water. Swish & swirl your wig around then work the mixture throughout your wig. Do not rinse. Lay your wig on a towel and pat it dry with another towel or paper towel to remove excess moisture.

5) Place onto a wig stand and let it dry.

6) When the piece is dry, comb it out gently layer by layer usually starting at the bottom and work your way up.

****Please do not comb Curly pieces****

Which is just such a poignant image that I started crying again.

Then there's this one, which is how I've always wanted my hair to look. I might buy it even if my hair doesn't fall out. Or I could just get a job as a children's entertainer and get a bunch of clown wigs. 

Eh. I'm really have a shitty time with all of this. Everyone has been so lovely and supportive, in their own ways. Jo has told me he'll always love me, even if I'm bald. But he refuses to grow his hair long to make me a wig, because apparently it would be creepy for us to have the same hair. Whatever. Why isn't it creepy when we wear matching outfits then, Jo? Well?

When I told my mum I thought my hair was falling out she burst into tears. She wailed 'you've got your Grandmother's hair!'**. Then she cried for a few minutes. Then she said, very intensely, 'don't you worry, we're going to get you the best wig money can buy.' Then she cried again. That did not make me feel better, but I know her heart was in the right place. 

Various other people have offered advice, reassurance, chutneys and jokes, all of which have been been gratefully accepted, though no one can top L, my work buddy, who has taken to referring to me as 'that thin haired freak'. But with love. So it's OK. I think. 

I'm trying my darndest not to think about it. Que sera sera, and all that. But writing about it really does make me feel better, so expect to see more follicular fear, more coiffure qualms, and more bouffant bathos.

*The odd thing is that I know a girl whose hair grows like bamboo, so she grows it long and then cuts it off and donates it to wigmakers. She's a lovely person, but I really hope I don't end up wearing her hair. It's a bit too Silence of the Lambs for me. 

** And it wasn't that great when she had it, boom boom. 

It's hard to mope when you're choking on bubble tea

Dear me, but the last few days have been a bit grim, haven't they? I should just change the title of my blog to 'Tash Tells a Sad Story' and have done with it. So, just for a change, I'm going to tell you about some things that won't make me cry as I write about them.

Yesterday I had lunch with some people from my office, which was nice, except that someone decided we were going to go to the seventh level of food court hell and eat bain marie Chinese food. Jesus Mary and Joseph, but it was awful. For one, there was the whole bain marie aspect - call me crazy, but I have a tiny problem with eating food that has been stewing in a warm bath of salmonella and grease since the dawn of time. My philosophy of eating is that I should never have to pay money for a prepared meal that I would be embarrassed to serve to someone if they came round to my house for dinner. If I'm paying money for you to give me food, it should be because it's something I can't make myself - I'm not saying everything has to be Michelin standard. I'll happily eat a McDonald's apple pie, because, as much as it only barely classifiable as food, I couldn't make it myself because I lack a deep fryer and access to industrial chemicals. But this Chinese was just crappy. They had about 16 dishes, only one of which was vegetarian. How did I know it was vegetarian? Why, because it had a sign floating in it that said 'Vegetarian Food'. It was spectacularly awful. But while we were having lunch my friend told me some VERY BIG NEWS that I am not allowed to tell anyone, so I won't. Rest assured that it was VERY BIG indeed, and I am honoured that I am among the handful of people who are privy to it.

After lunch we went and got EasyWay drinks, which are billed as 'Australia's healthiest bubble tea'. I will take their word on that. Mine was a taro milk tea, which is a worryingly vivid purple colour, and in spite of the fact that it clearly says on the side of the cup 'beware of choking', I choked on my bubbles. I know what taro is, but I wasn't expecting the flavour, and I can't quite describe it. 'What is that taste?', I asked D. 'I don't know, but I like to think that it tastes like carebears', he replied. Which, somehow, is actually not far wrong.

Then we had a good long bitch session about people from our office, or the others did at any rate. I don't really know anyone else well enough to have anything in particular against any of them, though I did venture the opinion that the Talky Designer Man is a bit of a wanker, and this was solemnly agreed to by all parties, so I feel as if I held up my end of the social contract.

There, that's a much nicer post, now, isn't it? It's hard to be sad when you're badmouthing your colleagues and pretending to drink a carebear.

Nice try, McCarthy

Yes, it's that time again. I am looking for another job. Seek and CareerOne are getting a lot of looks at the moment, as is the UAC website because if I go back to uni no one can judge me for not having a job, right? Students are the wave of the future, right? 

Anyway, I was looking on Seek just now at the Arts, Media and Entertainment jobs under Graduates. In all of Sydney there are 42 jobs in this category, and I'm pretty sure there are more arts graduates than that running around out there. I can't kneecap them all - I'm just one woman - so the competition is obviously going to be pretty stiff for the decent jobs, even with my several weeks experience sitting at a desk trying to look as if I have a clue as to what I'm doing.

Luckily, I found this ad;

That

That's me! I'm a socialist! I read Noam Chomsky all the time, I'm on the e-newsletter list for Australian Marriage Equality and I even just dyed my hair a little bit red, and... wait. Oh. Not that kind of socialist. Um. I might have to ask my husband before I can commit to this sort of work. Um. Good luck with that, though.

Women's magazines: making my gender look like a bunch of morons is all they are good for

I am no fan of fashion magazines. Sometimes if I'm getting my hair done I'll flick through one at the hairdresser's, but most of the time I avoid them because they tend not to contain information that I consider interesting on any level. I don't really care that much about what's fashionable right this minute, besides which I would rather spend my money on books and meals out than the latest must have dresses/sock suspenders/fake glasses accessory*. I don't wear much makeup or spend all my time obsessing over my weight, and I really do not give a shit about which celebrities are sleeping together/breaking up (in fact, I’d be hard pressed to name most of the people I see on the covers of these magazines in the supermarket, but then I don’t really watch TV or many movies). 

Now I'm not saying that people who read these magazines are shallow and intellectually vacant. I never actually said that, and you can't prove it. Everyone needs their mind candy, and I know that there are plenty of smart, switched on women who read these things. My choice of mind candy is books by Terry Pratchett and PG Wodehouse, and there’s nothing inherently better about my choice (pssst: I’m lying, my choices are obviously better). I did buy Cleo, Cosmo and the rest fairly regularly at one stage, but it’s been a long, long time and I can honestly say that I’m happier without them. I can't even enjoy them on a kitschy level anymore, and I just find them repellent these days.

All of which is an introduction to me saying that today I have been on the Glamour magazine website, after I was directed to an article there by another website. And sweet zombie jesus, it's even worse than I'd remembered. Looking at that website was simultaneously hilarious and horribly, bleakly depressing, sort of a mix of mumsy passive aggressive nagging about doing something nicer with your hair, and obvious padding written in a sort of desperate ‘aren’t we having fun!’ tone. The overall result reads like what would happen if you fed every copy of every fashion magazine from the last twenty years into a computer and had it randomly spew out headlines based on what it had absorbed. The sentences make sense, in that they are usually recognisable as sentences, but that’s about as much as you could say for them. These are some of the fascinating 'articles' featured in the online edition;

• The Crazy Place to Apply Blusher That Will Have You Looking Ubersexy in Seconds! 
• Daily Outfit Idea: Try Sneakers With Your Skirt This Weekend
• Which of These Eco-Friendly Outfits Would You Wear on a Date?
• Can Oversized Sunglasses Be TOO Big?
• Why Blue is Now the Official Eye Makeup Colour of the Week
• Yet Another Way to Wear Lavender This Season

Bread and circuses, mascara and shoes. This is why humanity is doomed, and on the basis of crap like this, that might not be that much of a tragedy. 

* By the way, I know that this isn't as much of a trend as it was a few years ago, but I'm still outraged. When did it become OK? I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. I don't like contacts and am not a candidate for laser surgery, so glasses are my only option. I actually don't mind wearing them most of the time, but let's be frank here - my crappy eyesight is a (very, very minor) disability. So why is it OK to be all 'oooh, glasses are cool' and pretend to wear them? Seriously, you wouldn't wear ornamental braces or use a crutch from Sportsgirl, so why pretend to have a problem that you don't have? 

days

Do you have 'those days'? I have 'those days'. 

I consider myself to be a scrupulously rational person. I'll happily stand under a ladder and smash mirrors over a black cat without worrying about anything other than the fact the the RSPCA has me on file.

And yet. I have 'those days'. Maybe when I get up in the morning there's not enough coffee left and I have to stab myself in the leg with a fork just to wake up properly. Or maybe I've forgotten to wash the shirt I wanted to wear that day. Maybe it's that I make the mistake of reading the paper first thing and find out that some knuckle-dragging mouth-breather has decided to give Andrew-twat-face-arse-head-Bolt his own TV show (REALLY? This is a thing now?).

Whatever it is, sometimes I have those days where nothing seems to go quite right from the moment I wake up, and it feels as if the day is somehow doomed.I had one of those days today. Everything just felt wrong, right from the start, and just as I expected, I had the kind of day that is mildly inconvenient without actually being catastrophic. Today's unedifying parade of mediocrity consisted of;

• What should I wear today? (forty-five panicked minutes of costume changes later) Fuck it, the first outfit I tried on will do. Jo (trying to be helpful) 'wow, you sure like trying on clothes!' Me (in tones of rising hysteria) 'my legs don't look right in anything!' Jo; 'ummmm...'
• Bad Hair. Look like Worzel Gummidge. Straighteners only make it worse.
• Bus is thirty minutes late and my seat is buckled on the corner, which makes my back hurt.
• No replies to important emails at work. At a loose end. Sit around trying to look busy. Nod off in front of computer, try to make it look like intense concentration. Fail spectacularly. 
• Try to sublimate increasing sense of impotence at work into enjoyment of shopping. Shop does not have my size trousers. Why am I being punished for having lost weight? I am now AVERAGE size, and subsequently, can never find my size in any shop ever. Must lose/gain 10kg. 
• Go to library on lunch break. Everything I want is on loan.
• Lunch is unsatisfying because microwave at work is crap and because I feel pressured to let other people have a turn with the luke-warminator before I have heated my food to optimal temperature. Tepid zucchini gives me a stomach ache. 
• Brother makes dinner, forgets that I am vegetarian. Have toasted cheese for dinner. Everyone else has chicken.

Bluuuurgh.

The dreaded cankles (now including graphic illustration!)

I've been hanging around on the internets even more than usual lately because I have a cankle.

This isn't a great photo (I say that as if there's such a thing as a good photo of a swollen limb), and it doesn't convey quite how repellent it actually is, but you get the gist.

Apparently I have a cyst in my knee sack (that's how it was described to me) and aside from being massively uncomfortable if not outright painful, it has made my whole leg puff up and makes me walk slightly lurchily. And I'm not even allowed to complain about it at work because my work friend had leg cancer a few years ago and she's permanently lost all sensation in her foot which makes her limp all the time, and so I feel sort of as if I don't really have anything to complain about. Until I come here, where I let it all out. (I am also not allowed to mention my husband in any context because my other work friend is going through a soul destroying divorce. I'm starting to run out of socially acceptable things to discuss.)

There's no treatment for my cankle except rest, so I've been sitting still even more than I usually would over the last few days. And I've been looking back over my journal from the last week, which where I found this list of things that I've found interesting or just that I've found, and which I haven't really got  any idea of how for how I could share them any other way. Stick around, I did a bunch of interesting stuff last week and I'm going to tell you all about it later. But first these things.

Here we go;

1. I've been typing web addresses into the search bar lately because an environmentally friendly Finnish person told me that every time you google something it uses as much energy as making a cup of tea (the fact that I have had my laptop on for two straight days does not figure in this calculation). And I've noticed that when I'm at work I commit a Freudian slip when I type in Australian addresses, usually rendering them as www.sitename.coma.u. 
2. Did you know that there is a nun doll museum? Or that there's a thriving market for nun dolls? I didn't, but now I feel the strange urge to own a nun doll. Or just to say it over and over again; nundollnundollnundoll...  
3. Why is that that the sweets in chemists' shops are always the kinds of sweets you don't see anywhere else, but which are incredibly soothing and make you all nostalgic and moony? Black jellybeans! Wagon Wheels (I didn't even know they made them any more!). Eucalyptus drops! Diazepam! No, wait, they keep that one locked up in their pharmacopoeia and I have to endure suspicious looks and pointed warnings about not mixing it with booze before they'll give it to me. But I reckon that if Wagon Wheels required a prescription they would work just as well.
4. I go past this ad every day on my way to work (it takes up the entire window of the optician), and it makes me laugh every day. It looks like the most massively uncomfortable social gathering you'd ever be unlucky enough to attend. The kid is hiding behind his grandma, but it's no good, the creepy uncle has reached behind her back to rub him on the shoulder anyway while grandma prattles on unrelentingly about her childhood. The couple in the middle have clearly fallen nastily out of love but are putting on a show for the family. And the girl on the left is obviously butting into the conversation with a poorly timed 'what are you taking about?' just as the couple are exchanging muttered profanities through brittle smiles.

The other notes in my journal say 'cuthbert', 'edible dormouse' and 'which book', for reasons that I'm not really  sure I remember, so you've earned a reprieve until I can remember why.

more gloom

Why does one have to work? WHY? To quote The Clash, as one should always do in moments of extreme emotional stress;

It's no good for man to work in cages
Hits the town, he drinks his wages
You're frettin', you're sweatin'
But did you notice you ain't gettin'?

Word.

Seven working days in and I am over this shit. The work is not hard, but it is, how can I put this...soul crushing. Marketing is really not for me. I am far too emotionally fragile not to take rejection of my carefully thought-out schemes personally. I spend all morning thinking about how I can help various people have businesses that suck slightly less, and then when I tell them how they can be more awesome they shoot me down. It's just like high school all over again, except that my hair is way better these days.*

Even my diary seemed to be conspiring against me today. It's the Permaculture Diary, bought  because it was marked down to $4 in the ABC shop, and because I felt that professional people should really own diaries. Because it is designed for rudderless hippies (which is why it was on sale - hippies don't need day planners) it has little inspirational quotes scattered throughout the pages, and today's was from Kahlil Gibran; "work is love made visible". 

To which I say: Suck it, Kahlil.

I got my first job as soon as I was old enough to work, and up until I ran away to Spain last year I had basically never had time off. Having had five months of holidays, I am ruined for life. I mean, getting up every day at the same time? I can't cope.

The one thing that made this day not completely awful happened on the bus on the way home from work. I was slumped up in my seat by the window, not really looking at anything, when I noticed that in the lane next to the bus was a car with a kid in the passenger seat who was leaning out the window and waving wildly at the bus. I gave him a little smile and a wave back, and he looked as if it had made his day. Did you ever play that game 'sweet and sour' on car trips? It's a great game for when you've become too bored even to play counting games, and when you've lost the energy even to squabble. Basically, you wave at people, and judge them 'sweet' or 'sour' based on whether they wave back. We used to love it, but I never thought at the time that, just maybe, I'd made someone's day a little bit less miserable by doing it.

So thank you small child in the ridiculous Lexus 4WD, you will never know how much that helped me today.

*My 'best friend' in high school used to tell me on a regular basis that my haircut made me look like Fabio, and that I had hairy toes. If I knew how to get in touch with her, I would send her the bill for my anxiety meds. 

blurgh

What kind of day did you have? Was it like mine? Was it a day when you ended up having to go and have a tiny cry in the toilet because you don't understand your job and everyone is horrible to you? To be fair, just when I was at my snivellingest point one of my FOUR bosses actually gave me some useful information, and then the lady who sits opposite me actually spoke to me for the first time, so it did get better.

But I still ran away a bit early so that I could get home early enough that I don't have to immediately go to bed, and so that I had time to trawl the internet for pictures of baby aardvarks, possibly the only creature on the face of the earth more fragile and pitiable than me right now.

Cheer up, there are still squirrels

I've got the post-holiday blues in a bad, bad way. For one, I'm really, really jet lagged, which is making all the little annoyances utterly unbearable. Such as the fact that it's stupidly hot and humid here. There's no good TV in this stupid country. And what's with the generally poor quality of weekend newspapers around here? 

I haven't got a job at the moment, which is stressing me out a bit.  I have been extremely happy as a lady of leisure for the last few months, and would be happy to continue loafing except that I haven't had a job since August of last year, and the tank is running a little dry. I have applied for the job seekers allowance, something that feels very odd to me. I've never had anything at all from the gov'ment (except for indirectly through Jo's student allowance), and it feels very wrong to ask for money. Much in the same way that I have trouble with the whole Facebook thing because I am basically incredibly socially awkward and given to endlessly dissecting my interactions with human beings, trying to determine whether I had at any point said or done anything offensive or that might have put me in a bad light. Being so forward as to ask someone to be friends with me goes against every perpetually ill at ease bone in my body, and asking for money, even when I am fully entitled to it, makes me even more uncomfortable.

Which means that I have to get a job as soon as possible so that I can go to Centrelink and proudly declare that I no longer need their money, because I am a good person who deserves a gold star. Job hunting sucks at the best of times, but right now I'm so tired that I can barely form coherent sentences, and  I'm also incredibly depressed at the fact that Dee Why stubbornly refuses to magically transform itself into Pamplona. Every day, same old suburb. Sadly, no one has as yet has offered to pay me to sit around reading and looking at the internet for hours a day, which is where I feel my talents lie. The kinds of jobs I'm going for generally have requirements along the lines of 'excellent communication skills' and 'attention to detail', and these are things that I am not really au fait with just at the moment. The last cover letter I wrote used the word 'skills' in every sentence, and ended with a long, rambling paragraph about how I am really good at saying stuff and things. No one wants to employ jet lagged Tash. 

And, just to top it all off, I got a letter from the tax office today informing me that I owe them quite a lot of money which is now very overdue, and if I don't pay it by the 1st of February they are going to take me to court. This was the first I'd heard of any of this, so I called the ATO in something of a tizz and had a little cry down the phone to the call centre guy who was obviously very uncomfortable about having a sobbing, wheezing woman on the other end of the line. It turns out that I have to start making HECS repayments because I earned $150 over the threshold in the last financial year. If I'd known this, I would have taken a day off work last year and wouldn't be in this position.

So I suppose the take away message from all of this is; I'm tired. I'm sad. And it's too freaking hot around here.

Luckily, I found something to cheer me up when I was browsing through some photos from our trip. On our last day in London we were walking through a park when we were accosted by a squirrel, which made Jo's day. I know that all English people are required by law to hate squirrels, but to backwards colonials like us they are the epitome of Beatrix Potter/Sylvanian Families charm. Ah. That's better. I feel much less like crying myself to sleep now. Thanks, adorable squirrel!