Last week I was off finishing up a contract when I noticed one of the girls in the office staring at me, the type of stare normally reserved for the blacks drinking from whites only water fountains in Missippi during the 1960’s, gays attending an evangelical church conference, or a severe burns victim. ‘Is everything ok?’ I asked, putting my pen down. ‘Your left handed’ she pointed out, almost accusingly. Obviously she’d never seen a ‘Southpaw’ up close before, perhaps her only exposure being a leftie idiot savant who ‘liked sling blades’ but accidentally beat children to death with rocks. I could see it in her eyes, the sort of eyes that said ‘being left is a choice so don’t flaunt it round these parts.’ ‘And you’re ok with it?’ she continued. ‘Ok with what?’ ‘You know, being all left?’ ‘It’s not really something I can do anything about, I was born this way.’ ‘My grandma says it’s a choice.’ ‘You’re grandma isn’t the most educated of people is she?’ ‘Well at least she ain’t a leftie.’ …this was not a time for ‘touches’…. I picked up my pen, partly in an act of defiance, partly because there was work to be done ‘You can get it fixed right? – like there’s lots of mutations they can fix these days’. “It’s not a mutation’ ‘I’m just surprised with all the advancements in technology you haven’t done anything bout it.’ ‘It’s not something you can fix’. ‘Oh, that’s a shame – I’m sure if you wanted to change you could, but I guess you minorities like your soap boxes. Personally couldn’t think of anything worse.’ ‘Really? You couldn’t think of anything worse then being left handed?’ She spat out what was left of her chewing tobacco and sized me up one last time. ‘I had to hit a ball with my left hand once, looked like a spastic - now if you ask me that ain’t no way to live.’ And with that she went back to work, or posting anti abortion rhetoric on the web, I didn’t want to speculate. This wasn’t the first time I’d faced the ‘idiot brigade’ (a group of like minded people generally set up to pontificate about subjects they know little to nothing about). At a pub once playing pool a small man, who after inadvertently trying to touch my vagina 2-3 times while trying to reach his beer, noticed rather suddenly as I was about to take my shot that I was in face left handed – he called it out from the other side of the room ‘well fuck me till Tuesday she’s a leftie…shit hand jobs but gotta give em an A for effort’. So now we were bad at manual labour, which further compounded what the lady at the supermarket check out once said to me as a signed for my purchase. ‘you think you guys be extinct by now, what with survival of the fittest and all, I mean statistically you’re more likely to be schizophrenic, more prone to alcoholism, dyslexia, Chron’s disease and mental disabilities…like you hear all them people going on about how getting rid of a kid when they have the downy gene, if it were me and my kid was a leftie, I’d have to say I ‘d give it some thought – I mean most of you can’t even cut paper.’ Ok –she was right there, most of us (lefties) remember primary school and being allocated the special green Crayola scissors sans blades! And it didn’t matter how many times you tried to tell the teacher that you didn’t have a learning disability you were never allowed on the swing like the other kids and, were supervised unlike the right handed kids in class whenever you required a toilet trip, or any other trip that involved being responsible for locking your own door. Registering at a doctor’s surgery one day, my boyfriend noted that I had failed to put anything in the ‘suffer from any other condition we should know about’ section. ‘You should let them know you’re a left handed.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Cause what if they give you the wrong medication?’ ‘Maybe you should put down you’re Jewish’. ‘That’s being stupid, it’s not an illness – it’s something you’re born with.’ ‘But what if they give you medication for Christians?’ ‘What a stupid thing to say Lou, for a smart girl you can be so ignorant sometimes, I mean you try being part of a minority.’ I was banned from writing on the board at school because I was a ‘smudger’, a devout Catholic wouldn’t sit next to me once because I was powered by the hand of the devil; this was a girl mind you who masturbated next to me 8 months later in church, but to her credit she used she used her right hand – the hand that Jesus would’ve used. My mum even took me to a left-handed support group once (where you could buy the T-Shirt; ‘Once you’ve turned left you won’t want the rest’), where an expert on the affliction came along to talk to us (he was right handed). He told us that in his experience that being left handed was just one of life’s anomalies – sure we all had a predisposition to violent primitive crimes, but we also be geniuses in the making, basically that we made up the extremely gifted – we all smiled – but he continued – ‘but a majority will find that you make up the extremely compromised’, and we should be encouraged to get involved in wrestling and boxing – any sort of primitive sport that doesn’t involve thought or reason – we were after all left handed and according to Darwin’s theory of evolution should’ve been killed off years ago – and then he asked if there were any more chocolate biscuits left to go with his tea The mutants in the room all grunted, some even banged their chests...but chose not to attack...our time would come.

I’m not a big pill popper at the best of times, but recently after finding a lump under my arm (nothing serious) and a last minute scheduled flight to Edinburgh, I was a little stressed. Based on this, my doctor prescribed me some Valium, a little bit of sensory deprivation he called it ‘in a bottle’ for my long haul flight. Previously the only thing that had kept me sane on while ‘flying’ thousands of miles in air was the idea that on board my flight was the cure to AIDS and my ‘miracle’ flight was going to be ok, cause the world needed to be ok; that the pilot had an important dinner date he needed to keep at the other end, promise he’d made to his little girl that he’d be home for Christmas/ her birthday/ that school play – and he was going to honour that promise no matter what, because no matter where he was in the world he lived for her happy days and to keep that blood oath he’d made to her on the day she was born, that he’d always be there to see her face when she opened her presents on Christmas day/ her birthday…you get the idea, and is wife would be there too and she’d smile, a smile that said ‘you’re a good man’. The pilot’s story would unfold in more detail as I made it closer to my destination, but with the recent spate of planes being pulled out of the air, I was concerned that my pilots wife had found out about 6 year old on and off affair he’d been having with a ground crew member in Hong Kong and now they were involved in a bitter custody dispute over their daughter – about where she got to spend Christmas, and maybe he had begun to think that without those Christmas/ birthday mornings he had nothing left to live for anymore. Valium was my only hope in making it to Edinburgh – I could only rely on myself from now on. I’ll say at this point – I think it’s not wise to take a pill before entering customs, where upon getting through passport control you draw attention to yourself when both of your comfy and functional flight shoes fall off and you fall over them and fall on a customs official. ‘If you could just step over here with us madam’ ‘It’s ok really, I’ve just taken a pill and it’s gone to my head’ ‘You’ve taken a pill?’ ‘Yeah, in case the pilot decides he can’t go on anymore’ ‘Are you saying there is something wrong with this flight?’ ‘Oh, I think I know what this is about – I’m not a terrorist’ ‘Why would you say terrorist?’ ‘I always get stopped at airports under suspicion’ ‘You’ve been stopped before under suspicion of terrorism?’ ‘It’s sorted now, Interpol got rid of the flag next to my name’ ‘Ok, madam if you’d like to accompany us this way’ ‘But I’ve got a flight to catch.’ ‘You’ve just admitted to Australian customs officers that you were once detained by Interpol under suspicion of terrorism.’ ‘You’ve taken it all out of context, this always happens’ ‘I wasn’t detained – I was flagged, and anyway it was a mistake – it was to do with some fraud charges I was supposedly facing – but it’s cool, the embassy got involved and the safe house they put me in was cool.’ ‘Madam would you like a legal representative present?’ ‘No – I just need to get on this flight’. ‘And why this flight in particular?’ ‘I bought a non-refundable ticket’ ‘So you’re not coming back’ ‘I think you’ve got it confused with a one-way ticket’ ‘Don’t play smart’ ‘I was just trying to help – and anyway my buzz is about to wear off so I need to hop on that plane’. ‘Do you really think you’re fit to fly?’ ‘I’m fine – maybe it’s your captain you should be concerned about…’ ‘Captain Stokes is a fine captain.’ ‘I’m sure he is…. but tell me, has he told you about this wife?’ ‘We didn’t know he was married’ ‘He’s going through a bitter custody battle right now…won’t even be able to make it home for Christmas’. ‘We didn’t even know he had a kid’ ‘You weren’t to know, how could you? It’s the kinda thing a man keeps bottled up. He’s just trying to save face. Imagine the unrelenting isolation he’s going through right now, coming to terms with the fact no one loves him, needs him or adores him anymore.’ ‘His passengers need him’. ‘Do they? Or will we be mid air when it hits him that he never wants anyone to have to feel the pain he is feeling and so in one final act of trying to save humanity from itself he plunges one of your planes into the ground.’ Subsequently my flight to Edinburgh was detained as they led a confused Captain Stokes off the plane – in shackles for this own safety. I hoped for his sake he was married with a young daughter that might love him again in time for Christmas.

Leaving a friends birthday party with a close friend of mine, a rather cute man confronted me, a gay man but still cute in a way I could appreciate. He asked me if I could light his fire, we giggled, I battered my eyelids, my friend rolled her eyes, lit his cigarette and proclaimed 'oh for fuck's sake Lou, he sucks cock!'


Fair point.

I waited in the cold, looking for a cab as my friend finished her ciggie, making idle chit chat with my newfound man friend when he asked how long my friend and I had been dating. I laughed, warming my hands in my pockets.' We don't date.'

'But you're both gay right? I inhaled deeply, adjusting my scarf.

'No.'

'Oh wow, I'm sorry, I just assumed because you were leaving together…' he trailed off.

Correct me if I'm wrong but last time I checked the phrase 'leaving together' did not always mean 'I'm leaving now to go get finger banged by my same sex travelling companion.'

I was just about to say something when my friend piped in, rather enthusiastically 'but it would be awesome if we were both gay, because we'd be great together'.

My awkward silence said it all.

'What? You don't think we'd great together?

'Let's not get into that here'.

Cute boy put out his ciggie and looked to be heading back inside, 'sorry guys, I didn't mean to cause an argument'.

'It's fine really; she's just had a little too much to drink – let's just get in a cab and go. I'm tired.'

'No, I don't get it.' I could see she was getting more upset 'we're great mates, your dog likes me, your dad even made chicken soup for me…'

A crowd had begun to draw 'look, you're making a scene, shut up.'

'I'm not going to be silence on this. I'm a great girl'

'Yes, you are. I'm not debating that, it's just..don't make me do this…'

'Say it, go on, you know you want to'

'You're not my type. There I said it. Happy?'

The crowd drew breath, as my friend lit another cigarette.

'What? You have a type now – I've seen the guys you've hooked up with lately – seriously you have a type? That's just bullshit!'

Finally a cab pulled up and I pushed my reluctant friend into the backseat. We both fell silent.

'I don't get you Lou. Don't you want something comfortable, something predictable?'

'No' I whispered under my breath. 'I want more.'

We drove off into the cold wet night and I couldn't help but be reminded of an incident much like this one….

It was 2002. A bunch of us had gathered at my house for a dinner party. A few bottles of wine in, a game of Yatzee and chocolate cake the conversation began to become more intimate. Each of us revealing some of our most personal desires. My friend Sophie stood up. It was her turn. 'If Louise was a man I'd date her, we're great together.'

I remembered that dry feeling on the back of my throat, the way I looked away as she waited for me to reciprocate, the humiliation in her eyes as I helped myself to another piece of cake wishing this moment away.

It was no surprise she'd fancy me as a guy. I knew I'd be her type. Olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes, arty and a good cook and yes, by my own admission we often finished each others sentences, but as she stood at the end of the table, begging me to answer with her silence I knew in my heart she could never be my type if she was a guy.

Sure, I could lie and we'd gone with our lives, occasionally joking to friends about how like a married couple we were, but I'd know in my heart it was wrong. I couldn't live a lie and she couldn't ask me.

I needn't have said anything, we could've got on with the evening as planned but I felt compelled to make things right.

'Hey, enough of this. Sophie I think we've run out of wine sweetie, why don't you make yourself useful'. I could see the tears in her eyes as I tossed her the car keys.

Yes, I knew what I was doing. It was a rainy night, sure she'd been drinking…but I digress…

The smell of freshly urinated grass first thing in the morning can't truly be described by anyone that hasn't awoken on a bit of lawn, skirt riding up around their waist and the promise that this might be their last day on earth, but believe me I did not set out to finish up this way…

My friend Steve and I weren't spending enough time together. He was insistent we meet up on the weekend and have good chin wag, it was comments like that that had led me to push away from Steve, but like a cat trying to get a dead bird out of skirting boards he kept coming back. In hindsight I should never have encouraged my best friend Frannie to sleep with him, but he told me he was dying and I thought I'd do the guy a favour and so I introduced him to Frannie who after a recent pap smear scare was looking to rejoin the human race.

He wasn't dying, not that he was lying. He'd step on a rusty nail earlier that day and had been lakse getting a tetnus injection and had been feeling a bit off all day. Frannie though had her suspicions 'he didn't shag like a dying man – he was more like the warm up guy on Wheel of Fortune, he worked on the theory I'd probably seen the show often enough to work it all out myself and he just occasionally yelled out encouraging vowel sounds'.

Frannie's lack of interest in pursuing anything with Steve led her to give him my number and it turned out that when he wasn't crying he was a pretty good guy to hang out with and when I say hang out with I mean a phone call once a year around Christmas generally when I'm about to go into a tunnel and my phone just drops out. So for whatever reason now he wanted a face to face. I agreed to meet him for dinner, drinks and food in a controlled environment with little chance of him bursting into tears or bringing his mother along.

'I'm not eating chicken anymore' He told me as the waiter took our order for two medium rare steaks. 'Nothing off a carcass, it's just so cruel.'

'Not to burst your bubble Steve but steak much like the one you just ordered comes off a carcass'.

'Common misconception Lou, it comes from the rump'

'Which is part of the skeletal system, the carcass of the animal'

'Granted its supported by the carcass, but it's not entirely reliant on it, the rump doesn't need the carcus to survive'

'I think you're thinking of squid'

'And you Lou are refusing to think full stop'.

The problem was had Steve been an ex of mine, or an off cut of a night of pity then I'd have no trouble treating him with the contempt he deserved, but this was complicated. It was like meeting up with a friends ex-husband to distract him from the restraining order that had been served on him early that week with lots of 'she told you she needed her space, this isn't so much about you as it is her new husband that really thinks you can't let go' or my personal favourite 'if you hadn't slept with her mum there's a good chance it would never have gotten to this'.

Our food arrived, my second bottle of wine decanted, his mineral water poured and we settled into round two for the night.

'Why did you and I never hook up Lou. I see a lot of potential in you Lou.'

'I was gay when I met you'

'Guess it was just bad timing'

'Yep'

'You still gay?'

'No, just turns out it was something I ate that night'

'Funny you say that. I've met someone'

I nearly fell off my chair.

'Do they know you've met them?'

'Yes, she'd been on at me for ages to go out with her, it was pretty pathetic but what is it they say 'give a girl a bone'

'You said that to her?'

'No, I did that to her'.

I gulped at an empty glass, another drink was in order. I was breaking my latest rule – no drinking around others.

'But then she got all weird'

'She'd probably sobered up'

'No, she doesn't drink. It's really very refreshing, you should try it sometime Lou'

'There are lots of things I should do, but generally I do what I shouldn't – point and case sitting here with you right now.'

'Ouch – you're just drunk'

'Yes and I'm going to get going in a minute before my brain truly starts to grasp some of the things you've said tonight'

'You're just like my new girlfriend'

'No I'm not, for starters I'm not a minor'

'She's 40 actually – older then me and you. A proper woman. She's certified'.

'They don't hand out certificates'

'They should and warning signs, I mean she got upset because I wouldn't got down on her'.

My steak revisited my throat but I pushed it back down.

'It's just not natural Lou, like if I was gay fine, it's part of the job description but I'm a guy, I mean help me out here Lou'

I slowly picked up my purse.

'I don't think we can be friends anymore Steve.'

'Oh don't tell me you like that stuff Lou…christ not you too'.

'Someone will stab you one day Steve, I'm just giving you a heads up on that'

'Fine be that way, but I reckon you won't find one guy who's ok with doing that to a girl, well maybe a queer'

'Frannie has chronic herpes Steve – enjoy'

And with that I left, and what I'd failed to realise was quite how drunk I was and at some point I passed out on what I believe was my way home…

….so waking up it took a few moments for my body to figure out where it had landed, where my brain in all it's learned knowledge had decided I'd best be suited to bring in the new day. That place was my parents front lawn, complete with my father weeding in one corner and much to be horror, my mother languishing on a desk chair and prodding me a stick and yelling at her dog 'Henry get away from your sister, put your leg down, down…oh honestly I've never seen Henry pee on someone so much – he must think you're his girflfriend'

It was high school and ok, by my own admission my short hair, black Levis jeans, bloodstone boots and Jack Daniels t-shirt but me at a distinct disadvantage with the boys. Not to indulge the stereotype but I wasn't the kinda girl you'd ask to split a milkshake with, no I looked more like the girl a knowledge hungry high school boy might come to for advice on fisting.

Then came the summer of 96 and with it came the shedding of my sexual ambiguity and out sprung a bonefide boy fancying girl (granted I'd still kept the souvenir of being about 7 pounds overweight, but I wore it well, namely in my breasts, and anyway I was more then willing to work it off with any member of the boys 1st Eight Row team – I had to settle on the 3rds; private school politics).

But the boys were noticing me and I'd recently developed a talent for giggling and batting my eyelashes. As such I found myself being invited to parties for the first time based on my bustling wit and less to do with my earlier approach of 'you can put it anywhere I can't reach'.

One such party was at my neighbour's house on a Saturday night. She was the year above me at school and for a short while we were friends, until she picked up a pamphlet on 'Bullying, bitching and f&*kwit behaviour' and became an instant convert. Now there was a boy at this party - Peter, slightly older, less inclined to wash and shave, more inclined to smoke Wini blues and call girls 'babe'. HOT!

It was set; I had a date with pash rash and passive emphysema and then Jared showed up. Tall, gangly, most certainly a virgin in every regard and recently suspected of playing with himself behind his Cello in music class, Jared opened every conversation with me the same-

'Hi Lou, can I touch you…get it it rhymes….good times, good times.'

'No Jared. Shut up and die'.

He'd then spend the next hour or so sulking and then finally I'd feel bad and dance with him and let him touch my wrist.

The truth was though this was high school and hanging out with Jared, well it made me a loser, and at 16 I'd take the potential labelling as the 'town bike' over being a known associate of Jared Robuckle any day.

So pulling my t-shirt down and my skirt up I made straight for Peter, he liked short girls and as long as the school midget Katie didn't make an appearance I was in a with a shot.

'Hi Pete'

'Oh hi Lucy'.

'It's Louise'

'I thought it was Lucy'

'Oh you're right. It is. I forgot. I'm always forgetting things like that, I'm such an idiot' (cue giggle)

'Cool – so do you go to school?'

'Yeah, I go to your school'

'Cool'

HOT!!!!!!!!

…and then I could've been as in as Flynn, nothing was going to stop what happened next.

I felt heaving breathing on the back of my neck and knowing it wasn't the good type I was reluctant to turn around, there was a distinct home invasion feeling in the atmosphere.

'Hi Lou…'

It was Jared – why was he not dead? I'd told him to go and die somewhere. Could no one commit to basic direction anymore?

'…good times, good times…' he mumbled.

Something was wrong.

'I really like you Lou…' and with that he threw up all over me, and looking at Peter's face as he ran away I suddenly knew why so many teenage girls killed themselves, oh and then it started to rain.

It's not often you get someone's life placed firmly in your hands, that power to decide if someone lives or dies and unlike the time my little sister locked herself in the fridge and I knew the right thing to do was let her out before she suffocated to death, I was conflicted over to whether to save Jared from choking in a pool of his own vomit. Surely it was his decision – conscious or unconscious?

The rain was persisting and so realising I wasn't going to be getting to know Peter in the laneway next to the bins anytime I soon, I dropped to my knees and picked up Jared's head. He drew breath, tried to open his eyes and then started vomiting again, this time down my top –, my own personal money shot.

Seven hours later I awoke to find Jared passed out next to me, one hand trying to reach my wrist, the other trying to get down his pants. Quietly I picked up my shoes, reconciled that the vomit was going to have be shampooed out of my hair and made my escape.

That should have been the end of it, but oh no the Victorian government had to be all serious about school being compulsory and 'you will be going back to school on Monday Louise –whatever happened on the weekend, well young lady you've made your bed and now will just have to lie in it.'

'But mum, that's problem – it was the wrong person, wrong bed'.

'Explain to me Louise, when did beggars become choosers?'

I retuned to school, ready for the stares, the whispers, the gossip, the tabloid press, but to my relief there was nothing but by my own admission it was 6.30am in the morning and I was hoping to make it to the library before anyone noticed I still existed, and that's when I discovered Jared standing by my locker, my vomit covered bra clutched in his hand.

'Hi Lou..can I-'

'Why have you got my underwear!'

'You left it behind and why are you yelling at me?'

'You have my underwear!'

'Underwear you took off when we spent the night together'

'Underwear you threw up on'

'Yes, when we were doing it'.

My world stopped.

''We did not do it – you were unconscious'.

'How do you really know we didn't do it, you were asleep'.

'Basic logistics idiot boy'

'I'm just saying I didn't feel like a virgin when I woke up the next day'

'Well I didn't feel like a virgin when I woke up either, but then again I didn't go to sleep one!'

'Exactly! Ha! You admit it – we sooo did it.'

'No, you threw up on me and kept passing out in pools of your own vomit. No one would come near me because I was also covered in vomit and so I spent most of the evening holding you up over a toilet.'

'Maybe we can just agree to disagree on this one…?'

'No'

'Oh'

I watched as he fingered my bra.

'Can I have that back'

'Finders keepers'

'What!'

'Ok' reluctantly he handed it back, his fingers now lingering around my wrist.

'What do you want Jared?'

'I just thought now that we're officially boyfriend and girlfriend…'

'Are you retarded?'

'I just wanted to sit down like adults and talk about us, thought maybe I could buy you a milkshake?'

'Oh and then what? We go down to the army barracks and I give you a hand job?'

'Christ Lou, that wasn't what I had in mind…I mean after we did it I thought we'd be talking blow jobs if anything'.

I'd like to say Jared mysteriously lost his penis that day. I'd like to say that I wasn't so easily swayed by milk products and declined his invitation of a milkshake – to be honest there are a lot of things I'd like to say I never did.

Dear Lou, just a quick note…
Thursday, May 8, 2008

Hey Lou lou,

Just a quick note to say I've gone to the pub with Ry and Jonesy and I've left some leftover lasagna in the fridge for you (I just put back what I couldn't stomach).

Hope your day was good. You looked a little pale when you left for work this morning, sure wish you're feeling better by Friday! My birthday! I'm really excited, in truth because I haven't been feeling very well lately. I went to Dr Barrow's yesterday and turns out I've caught something, don't panic, nothing serious, just a mild STD. Good news is, I know I didn't get it off you (you fithy bitch! – JOKE! Lol).

It's not like the time I nearly gave you 'pregnant'. Remember that? Course you do, but this is situation is a little more severe would be my guess. It involves some antibiotics and some alternating creams. So if you're suffering from any sort of burning or itching probably best you go get checked for the clap too Lou (oohh that ryhmed).

Can pregnant women get the clap? not that you'd know…here's hoping! (well you're not pregnant…awkward)

Hey, important! The doctor will probably ask about a gestation period, I've pretty much got it narrowed down to the weekend you went away with your mother. I went over to Sam's place with him and some mates and then their secretaries showed up (not to make you jealous, but secretaries in the gaming/nightclub industry are hot!).

I'll admit I had a bit to drink when I started playing the 'let's wear each other's undies game', but I'm pretty sure I didn't get the clap from such a harmless game, moreso it was when I fucked Rhonda on the toilet seat – but get this, interesting fact – most likely didn't get it off the seat cos Rhonda told me toilet seats are even cleaner then keyboards! Insane, I know!

Rhonda is pretty into hygiene, she made me wear a dental damn. They taste funny – god hope you never make me wear one (fingers crossed, wink wink).

Anyway, if you feel like a drink just text me and I'll let you know if we're still at the pub – hey, also just a reminder that the bins need to be taken out tonight and someone left a message on the answering maching about my cake for Friday – it's chocolate right?

See you soon, but not to late.

Love you

From your man!

An ex-boyfriend of mine rang me at 3am this morning and from what I could remember at that ungodly hour we didn't exactly part on the best of terms 5 years ago, I doubted this phone call was going to end any better.

What made the whole thing more surreal was that I knew it was him even before I heard him wheezing into his asthma inhaler down the phone, it was my amazing sense of reluctance to answer the phone that made me absolutely sure it was him, but I answered nonetheless – I was curious.

The last time I saw him he was sobbing into a Bacardi Breezer at The Espy, proclaiming everything was his fault because and I quote 'I can't find you attractive no matter how I try.' I was onto my 5th shot of tequila by then and couldn't help but think what a nasty hang over he was going to have if he continued with such surgery beverages; but really he was dumping me so it wasn't of my concern anymore. He ended the night with gently looking me in the eyes and declaring 'this is so much harder then me for you, so much.' And then if memory serves correctly, he cried some more.

At 3am on a Monday morning I had a hunch he was probably drinking again. I'd heard he'd quit stone cold about 3 years ago, and I remember feeling slightly cheated because most of our relationship had involved him inebriated, with me constantly reminding him that I was his girlfriend and not some hooker every time he rolled over after a big night and found me lying beside him.

'Are you serious? What are you calling me for? – and just to get straight to the point, no my legs have not gotten any longer since you last saw me, so if that's what you were calling for better get ready to cry yourself to sleep darl.'

Silence. I let out a long breath.

'How are you?'

'I'm really good Lulu, thanks for asking. It really means a lot that after all this time you still have it in you to ask me how I am. No really Lulu, I mean it.'

'Are you on drugs?'

'You've always know how to make a guy feel wanted Lulu.' He curtly piped in.

'Oh I get it…great…are you calling me because you're about to kill yourself? Surely there is some 1800 number you can call, because right now when it comes to men I'm the last person you should be calling. It's like the 1970's you're a cute female brunette with car trouble and I'm Ted Bundy…basically for the love of God my advice to you is jump.'

Again silence.

'Do you want me to call your mum or something? She'll save you from killing yourself, I'm sure of it – it's kinda her job and she loves you, inappropriately but it's a form of love I guess – tell me what is it when a women projects all the failings of her marriage onto her son?.'

'I'm not trying to kill myself Lou. I just rang to talk.'

'Has someone died? Has your mother finally died, because if she has the world is finally a less judgemental hell hole then it was – what do you say? Hi five!?'

'No Louise, my mother isn't dead, and she didn't hate you…she just preferred blondes and she really was allergic to the sound of your voice, no matter what fantasy you might've made up- you gotta let it go.'

'If you're not going to kill yourself, I'm hanging up. This is a waste of both mine and your time, it's not like I'd even go to your funeral. Seriously if this was call to tell me you were dead I'd really have to stretch to even contemplate attending your funeral'

'I think my girlfriend is cheating on me and I need some advice.'

'..and you've rung me…'

"I know this might be a little awkward, but I was hoping you could see past our time together and…'

'And?'

'It hurts Lou; it really hurts to even think that she might be with someone else, lying to me. I can only imagine how it must have felt for you, given you were in love with me'.

'I think you've got me confused with someone else'.

'No – you're Louise Sanz and 5 years ago you were in love with me'.

'I liked you yes, but loved you…we were only together a month. I don't even get attached to TV shows that fast….'

'Ok, so maybe you didn't love me, but surely you felt something when I was feeling someone else'

I was a little confused at this point.

'Are you calling to tell me you cheated on me?'

'Of course not…'

I breathed out a sense of relief

'You already knew…I'm sure I told you'

My stomach fell to my feet.

'No, no you never told me that; you told me you couldn't date me because I was Milo not a Quik girl…but the whole seeing someone else behind my back…no that never came up.'

'That's probably because I didn't see that as a reason to break up with you Lou. The cheating was the one thing I didn't see being the end of the us – you and your ways was the end of us, but the cheating it was just part of us.'

'No, I think you'll find the cheating really didn't involve any part of me….'

'Don't be crass Lou'.

'What – you stuck your dick in someone else while we were together and you call me at 3am to tell me…'

'I didn't call to tell you…I thought you already knew…it was an honest mistake…geez you always do this, change the topic, and make it about something it never was about in the first place.'

'You're an idiot.'

'At least I can feel things Lou, at least I know I'm being cheated on…you, you had no idea, that's how self involved you were….'

'Self involved, or maybe was it because I thought better of you…trusted you…you're making me feel ill.'

'You…you're talking about your feelings? This isn't about you Lou, it's about me and how I feel…and right now my world is falling apart and I've turned to you and you shun me…shun me for one little mistake 5 years ago. She was my best friend too.'

'My best friend?!…what one earth?'

He fell silent one last time.

'I'm not going to apologise Lou, I haven't done anything wrong except be honest with you. She did this thing with tongue and wasn't afraid to make me feel vulnerable…'

'I'm concerned about your definition of honesty….'

'My definition of honesty should be more then good enough…for you.'

'You cheated on me'…

'Did I Lou, or did you cheat yourself?…think about it'.

'You're an idiot'

'I know you are but what am I?'

'A cheater?'

'I know you are – oh you got me good there Lou…got me good…'

We both laughed.

'So any advice about the girlfriend and the cheating thing..?'

I adjusted my pillow.

'Well if you want my advice…'

e eats little girls fingers...

I'd never really given it much thought until today, but nearly every boy in this city looks the same - and to cut what is no doubt going to be a long and winding story short, it was that very cameleon like nature that led me to sharing a coffee with a complete stranger who decided to tell me that he'd tasted human flesh - but only by accident.

For those of you that read this blog...and it's starting to get quite the following - my grandfather considered subscribing yesterday. He didn't - well for those of you that have, you'll be well versed in my complete disdain of the public transport system, namely Melbourne trams and as such I've got my 9-to-5 sneakers leading me around town, giving me a grand sense of superiorty as I read about Global Warming with my 4th cigarette of the day...

Around somewhere between a little wine bar and a 7-Eleven I accidently made eye-contact with someone waiting by the lights. He raised his eyes to mine and I thought 'here we go, I'll see his face fall, crushed as he realises I'm not one of those ladies that charge by the hour' - but instead he gave me an awkward smile, I returned the favour and after an excruciating 10 seconds of awkward smiling and obligatory eye contact I couldn't help but thinkthat I knew this guy...maybe we went to school together, maybe we pashed on a train for a dare back at grammer school..or maybe a friend had dated him, christ maybe I'd dated him...he seemed a little too good looking for that to be the case so it was more likely an aquaintance of mine had slept with him and I'd been the girl on the other side of him saying something witty about mixers...

I could see he was suffering the same debilitating dilemna as I and so I stepped forward and put out my hand...'Hi..'...he laughed, 'oh hi..it's Rick.' ...I was relieved, I'd never found a Rick attractive so at least I'd never done anything wrong with him..'oh, I'm Lou - Bec's friend.' -ahhh...there is was the recognition..and I'd just thrown out a random name of a girl I knew in the early 90's...'yep, Bec - christ it's been a while..' - listen, at that point I'd like to say that the awkwardness subsided and I knew what we were both thinking, we were both now stuck talking to each other about some girl named Bec that we might have known and coming to grips with the reality that we'd probably never met before....but oh the lies we weave....

I'd also like to say the conversation went beyond this point, but as I finished off my take-away latte and he asked if he could have my cup - he was big on recycling..or maybe he collected women's spit...and he asked what was in my shopping bag..I realised I did recognise Rick, he was everyboy I'd ever met...but he had a special quality - he laughed when I told him I had a chicken in my shopping bag, ( suddenly I felt pretty) ...yep, chicken for one..it was good for soup...I was a big fan of the depression...he then proceeded to destroy the magic by telling me that chicken did taste like 'person'...turns out his sister cut her finger off by accident with a stanley knife one day and on a dare from his older brother he ate it - gave him the runs for days....someone marry me soon...

Don't Cha Wish Ya Girlfriend was Hot like me...Don't cha!

I wear eyeliner. I make no apologies for that, but when it results in me getting forcibly removed from a stationary train…I start to get a little pissy.

For some reason I often get mistaken for a hair dresser, even the girls that have been doing my nails for the past few months still think that, even though I have corrected them on many an occasion. Comments about how my eyes are tired from staring at a computer screen all day, how I adore their hand massages because as a 'writer' my wrists feel constantly strained (and this is not due to being a chronic self pleasurer as some might allude to…). I've even bought in published articles I've written from reputable magazines and asked if I could leave them in the waiting room for their other clients to enjoy (to this day they have denied my constant requests).

One might be wondering at this point what this has to do with another tale of my woe? I'm on my way there.

I bought my train ticket at the window (I like to think that somehow this small gesture keeps someone employed – and gives me brownie points in hell). The transaction apparently went smoothly, that is until the ticket man told me how much I reminded him of his wife. She was a bitch and she was also dead. (I'm now a big advocate of ticket machines at train stations).

I ventured to platform 12, as directed, purchased a newspaper, tossed the sports section, and hopped in what I failed to notice was a stationary train.

After about 10 minutes of being stared at by a small blonde man who blessed me under his breath every time I tried to avoid eye-contact with him, I got up to find out what was going on and dreaming of the day I'd have my own personal driver, who with the slap of a glove I could fire for such insubordinance…when suddenly I was confronted by a woman who bore a striking resemblance to a brick wall – the kind kids bounce tennis balls against, or as a high school kid you pashed behind.

Her name was Sarah, though when we were at high school together, she was referred to as 'the terror'. Rumour had it, that upon graduation she had tried to flee to New Zealand to shack up with some guy she'd met on the Internet. She'd run into strife when, while going through the metal detector she got a little worked up and was aggressively subjected to a cavity searched to make sure she wasn't carrying a bomb. She would later recall the incident as the only time she'd ever needed help cuming. I was a little scared of her, and to top it all up she was a certified ticket inspector.

'Well, well – if it isn't Louie Da Fly' she rumbled. 'Barely recognised you for a minute, but then I watched you for a while through that window and then it was just like I knew it was you, cos I had this dream about you once and you were in it and your hair was really short – so that's how I recognised you cos you looked like that girl in my dream, but she was proper tall and you're not that tall are you?'

Supposing it was a rhetorical question I chose not to answer. Instead I smiled politely, and tried to get off the train –'Look it's really nice to see you again Sarah – do you know what's happening with the trains?'

The storm came suddenly, without warning – 'What? Aren't you even going to ask me how I've been? What I've been up to? Is this what happens when you get famous all of a sudden?' (So sudden – I was caught completely unawares…)
'You heard me! Someone told me you'd become one of those celebrity hairdressers, so I Googled you and there you were and I found your blog…ooh, so now you're published…but I read it, not my cup of tea if I'm honest, but I thought I'd at least be in there somewhere – but it's like you've forgotten me – why? Are you too busy with all your famous friends and their famous people parties? (I'm going to point out at this point that I was running late for a meeting at an employment agency…)
Trying to ease the tension, I went for humour 'I'm more of a stay at home with a DVD type gal.'
'You're not funny,' spat back Sarah.
I hung my head 'I know.'
A few seconds passed with neither of us saying a word.
'You wear eyeliner', she stated.
'Yes, yes I do.'
'I'm rubbish at it. Eyeliner that is.'
The door was only inches away….'It's pretty easy, practice really.'
'Teach me' she asked, 'Um, I really have to go.' I responded, like a coward.
'No, I've got a break coming up, we could go to the girls bathroom and –'she was insistent.
My discomfort was growing.
'I really must go Sarah, if you'll just let me-'
'-oh now you're in a hurry – you were sitting on a stationary train a few minutes ago and didn't seem in a hurry.' (damn Connex!)
'Listen Sarah, I'm getting the impression and correct me if I'm wrong – that you think we have some sort of friendship that I'm obligated to rekindle – well my recollection is of a girl who smeared dog faeces on my locker – in short Sarah from what I recall you are no friend of mine!'

She said nothing for a moment. I imaged for a second that she might step back, nod her head and let me get on with my life – I was wrong.
'Can I see your ticket?' flipping out her official ID.
'My ticket?'
'Is there a problem. If you can't produce a ticket madam I'm going to have to escort you off the train.' Ok – so she wasn't taking my little outburst as well as I'd hoped.
Searching my handbag, I began to panic, when suddenly I spotted the ticket at my feet.
As I bent down to pick it up, I felt a clammy hand take my arm and start to forcibly remove me from the train.
'I'm sorry, but failure to produce a ticket when asked is an immediate on the spot fine of $180.00' – I swear she was grinning.
I looked at the little blonde man with pleading eyes, needing his help, to look within himself – to acknowledge that while he'd been mentally undressing me he'd remember seeing my ticket drop from my bag to the ground. Both myself and Sarah stopped for a moment as he cocked his head, opened his mouth and proclaimed – 'Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?…Don't yah!'

Part 2

As the evening progressed it became apparent as I watched an old class acquaintance stuff sandwiches down his pants that this was less like a school reunion, but more resonate of a dysfunctional family Christmas, complete with crap speeches and the odd indiscretion brought on by too much 'wine in a box.'

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Looking around the room, sipping on soda water (because there are so few opportunities to be deliciously sober and yet be so entertained), I realised there were more then a few individuals that I'd shared an awkward moment with…and then the memories came flooding back.

 

The raise of any eyebrow or an acknowledging nod hid a myriad of sins, like when cousins find each other attractive and maybe they fool around in the hollows of a tree out of the site of dad and Uncle Tom at the BBQ debating the ultimate steak for low fuss grilling; and then maybe no matter how hard they scrub they can't wash away the shame and maybe they still go to sleep every night with lust in their hearts and the promise of hell in the afterlife. Maybe.

 

There was the hockey player who would try and provoke me into violently attacking me. As a rule he would generally do this by throwing something at my head. I'd eventually respond by slamming his arm in a door. Then he'd wrestle me to the ground to defend his honour, I'd pretend to scream and then we'd get spooked by his mother coming up the corridor. He'd quickly untie my hands and I'd go home.

 

Then there was the old class princess who also moonlighted as the school bike, where upon entering university she stole my rather impressive debating CV and claimed it as her own. This forced me to accept a D ranking after being branded at liar at her hand and maybe I was promptly expelled because I through a chair at one my team members who amended our topic of 'Has Political Correctness Gone Too Far' – to – 'Have Personal Computers Gone Too Far' – not to spoil the outcome but we lost the debate…but I wasn't angry about any of it, as I offered up the princess an acknowledging nod, revelling the fact that once upon a time she smoked a joint of pubic hair telling me at the time that I would never be cooler then her. I chuckled at the irony.

 

Of course there were others – the slightly drunk and confused lass who kept trying to grab my crutch all night and begging me to hug her so she could feel something…anything…and then there was the born again Christian who delighted in telling people I got drunk once and honestly thought garden gnomes were a threat to national security. Well, they are.

 

So slightly bumped, but unscathed I made it though the night…that is until the phone call……