Hormones, Anyone?

Example One
My cat hates me. Yesterday morning, she went for her first-ever trip to the vet. When I collected her at the end of the day, various vital components of her reproductive system were missing and she'd been inoculated against everything short of old age. She spent all last night and most of today cowering in an empty beer carton her palatial feline penthouse in the laundry, emerging only to look at me reproachfully before staggering into the bedroom and wrapping herself in my dressing gown. Every time I approach her, she cringes. I am obviously the Bitch Mum From Hell. Reasoning with her doesn't work. This is upsetting me more than it should.

Example Two
Three-way conversation at the gym between Your Correspondent, friend and trainer Sam, and Sam's new [female] client (who I'd never met before):

Sam: (to Your Correspondent) Hello Mrs A ... soon to be Mrs M.
New Client: (looking at Your Correspondent) Oh, you're not, are you?
Niki: Getting married? Yep, 'fraid so.
New Client: Any way I can talk you out of it?
Niki: Nah. No-one had much luck talking me out of the first two ...
New Client: I'm on my second and if I'd known then what I know now ...
Sam: (to Your Correspondent) But this one's the last, isn't it?
Niki: Yeah. The first two were just practice runs to help me increase my sexual repertoire and transform me into the wildly desirable creature standing before you now.
New Client: (stares open-mouthed)
New Client: (laughs uncertainly)

Example Three
Even though it's been ten years since I read The Celestine Prophecy, I still haven't become fucking invisible. It's pissing me off. I was feeling a bit unwell today and awakening to find I'd become invisible while I was sleeping could've been just the little boost I needed. Maybe -- just maybe -- The Celestine Prophecy is a crock of shit. This guy certainly seems to think so.

Example Four
Was it really necessary to yell at the Dreamboat for never turning off the outside light and neglecting to rinse a plate last night? Probably not. Perhaps when my cat loves me again and I don't say stupid things at the gym and I actually do become invisible and I'm a lot less hormonal, yelling at the Dreamboat will finally be abolished as well.

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Salute to Jack

I never used to pay much attention to ANZAC Day, other than relishing the opportunity afforded by the extended weekend to get drunk for three nights running instead of two.

Then I met Jack.

"You'll love Uncle Jack," said my then-boyfriend. "He's a war hero. He never talks about it, but he's an amazing old guy. You two will really hit it off."

I looked at him doubtfully. I had very strong views about the taking of life and my childhood perceptions of war had been coloured by my brother's puerile comics and TV images of the Vietnam conflict. Plus, thanks to a rather harrowing experience with a schoolfriend's grandfather when I was eleven, I hated old men. Nope, things didn't look too promising on the Niki Meets Uncle Jack front.

My boyfriend's family had got together for some birthday or other and this was the first time I'd met them en masse. I was nervous and uncomfortable, so I sneaked outside for a cigarette.

An old man walked slowly up the driveway on the arm of his wife. I tried to hide the cigarette behind my back. He winked at me.

"You must be Niki. I've heard a lot about you, love. Good to meet you. I'm Jack. This is Molly."

It was love at first sight.

Later in the afternoon, when I sneaked outside again, he followed me.

"Can I have one of those, love? I'm not supposed to smoke and Molly'll kill me if she catches me, but hey ... at my age, you're bound to go one way or another, so I don't see how one fag'll hurt."

'Uncle Jack' was Jack Hinton, New Zealand's last living Victoria Cross holder at the time, and one of the gentlest human beings I've ever met. I adored him. He and I had some sort of unspoken understanding. I'm not sure what it was, but we just seemed to feel comfortable around each other. We'd sneak out at family functions and smoke cigarettes and chew the fat. We never talked about the war or anything 'heavy'. Mostly he asked me questions about myself. I think one of the reasons I loved him so much was that he actually listened to the answers.

Jack had been badly wounded in the war. It left him sterile. Not being able to have kids was his greatest sorrow.

I learned more about him as time went on ... how he'd been captured twice and escaped each time. His escape attempts were legendary because he never gave up. It earned him a nickname. I can't remember it now, but it was something along the lines of 'Walkabout Jack'. The last time he was recaptured, he was made to swear on his honour that he wouldn't make another attempt. He promised and was as good as his word: he never tried again. People were like that back then.

A few years before he died, Jack received a letter from a girl in Germany. Her grandfather had been Jack's last jailer. The two had become as near to friends as was possible, given the circumstances. The German had told his grand-daughter stories about Jack and she'd had the idea of reuniting them. In her letter, she invited him to visit them in Germany.

He went. A New Zealand TV crew accompanied him. The two old men hugged. They went back to the prison camp, now in ruins, and reminisced. The last camera shot showed them walking down a cobbled street with their arms over each other's shoulders.

A couple of years later, I had the idea of writing Jack's biography. I rang my (now ex) boyfriend and asked him to mention the idea to Jack and let me know if he was interested. He called back a couple of days later. Someone else had got in first and the book was being launched the following week. Jack died soon after.

I believe there are 'just' and 'unjust' wars. I believe Jack's war was a just one. Any that have come along since are questionable, in my opinion. I still have very strong views about the taking of life. But I loved Jack. And I think of him every year on ANZAC Day.

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It's the Saturday night of a long holiday weekend and we have nothing to do. Or nothing, that is, that we particularly feel like doing. The Dreamboat is out, buying wine. Shortly, we'll watch The Bill. Then we'll probably watch a movie.

This is called 'practising being married'.

And on the subject of being married, kindly note that a new poll is up. Your Correspondent recently sat in a hairdressing salon and was handed a thick, glossy magazine devoted solely to wedding bouquets. I repeat: nothing but flowers -- what's hot and what's not in the floral kingdom; different bouquet styles; how to coordinate your foliage with your dress. In short, a whole lot of expensive bullshit designed to stress the hell out of the unsuspecting bride who'd really only wanted a few white gardenias held together by a rubber band or something.

As you're probably discovering, when Your Correspondent finds herself overwhelmed by all the important decisions she has to make, she does the sensible thing and asks hot water readers for their advice. So hop to it, superheroes ... help me with my wedding bouquet dilemma. Please.

Results of the last poll ('How should Your Correspondent advertise her bethrothed status?') are as follows:

First, with 17% of the votes:
A wardrobe that's identical to the Dreamboat's in every respect.

A three-way tie for second, with 15% of the votes each:
1. A ring, badly drawn in black marker pen, with a tarnished sequin in the middle stuck to the flesh with super glue
2. A flashing light affixed to a beanie, and a portable PA system broadcasting "Gettin' hitched, gettin' hitched", 24 hours a day
3. Leather chaps, spurs and a bull-whip (my personal favourite)

Next, with 13% of the votes:
A pearl necklace (probably the Dreamboat's personal favourite)

Following on, with 9% of votes:
A bracelet, intricately woven from local ornamental grasses by a wizened old craftsmen who smells funny

And a four-way tie for last place, with 4% of the votes:
1. A ball and chain
2. The Dreamboat's name tattooed on Your Correspondent's forehead
3. A chastity belt
4. A wedding dress

Thanks to everyone who voted. Please vote again. Press that little button until you want to puke from exhaustion. You'll get a gold star in heaven and angels will hover over your house singing enchanting medleys of Enya songs 'cos they love you so much. What more inducement could you possibly need?

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Great hot water Revelatory Moments #1:

I've finally worked out why Mother Nature created bladders ...

... they're to get you out of bed in the morning.

Come on, you know it makes sense. If you didn't have one, would you bother?

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"Connubials"

Warning: From now on, you'll probably start hearing a lot more about our impending wedding. This is because last Thursday signified the six-month mark ... at which point the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent realised it might be a good idea to actually start organising the damn thing.

Planning a wedding is just like going shopping, I've learned -- kind of boring and unpleasant, but necessary. In fact, weddings are even worse than shopping because there's so much hype and so many stupid little details that you, the bride, are supposed to be really, really interested in. They're invariably included in those dumb timetabled lists you see in bridal magazines:

Twelve months beforehand: You want to be as radiant as possible on your Big Day, so now's the perfect time to treat yourself to a nose or boob job.

Eleven months beforehand: Stress is a bride's worst enemy. Soothe away the tension with regular facials and colonic irrigation.

Ten months beforehand: Remember, the man of your dreams wants to share in the preparations too. He needs to feel he's contributing and included, so give him something to do, such as working lots of overtime to pay for that dream house you've got your eye on.

Nine months beforehand: Diet, diet diet! Brides often over-eat to combat pre-wedding tension. Pawn your engagement ring and book monthly liposuction sessions.

Eight months beforehand: Don't neglect your hair -- it's your crowing glory! Spend at least fifteen hours every week discussing your coiffure requirements with your hairdresser. Don't hesitate to call him/her for advice at night and on weekends. He/she is a service provider, after all. That's what service providers are for.

Seven months beforehand: A beautiful bride is a healthy, glowing bride. Drink plenty of water and spend a month on a beach in Tahiti for that sun-kissed look.

Six months beforehand: Will your hands let you down on your wedding day? Fortnightly manicures are an absolute must at this stage. Don't forget to spoil your tootsies, too. Have regular pedicures to ensure you and the man of your dreams will treasure those barefoot honeymoon walks on the beach at sunset for the rest of your lives.

Five months beforehand: If you haven't already sent out your invitations, do so now. Balance is everything -- make sure at least 80% of your guests are wealthy, stylish and totally un-photogenic. Don't invite people who will try to compete with you for everyone else's attention (pregnant relatives, babies, the elderly, diabetics).

Four months beforehand: Today's bride knows exactly what she wants and won't settle for anything less than perfection, so don't be afraid to assert yourself. It's your wedding, after all. If the photographer's a philistine, or the cake's a steaming pile of crap, or the hair and make-up 'professionals' seem totally incapable of transforming you into Cameron Diaz even though that's your express desire, communicate your dissatisfaction loudly and at every opportunity. How else will these people learn?

Three months beforehand: Step back and take a deep breath. Planning a wedding can be a very consuming process and it's important you don't neglect all those other important areas of your life -- like designing the nursery, for instance.

Two months beforehand: Enlist the services of at least five fawning beauty therapists to tint your eyelashes and shape your eyebrows. Don't forget those regular deep-conditioning treatments for the perfect wedding-day hairstyle. Have every other hair on your body permanently removed by laser.

One month beforehand: It's perfectly natural for brides to feel a bit overwhelmed at this point. Make sure you take some time out for you. Pamper yourself. If necessary, pretend to call the whole thing off three weeks beforehand to give yourself some breathing space.

As you can see, I have a lot of catching up to do in the next six months.

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Domestics - Part Two

Dishes ... man, do I hate doing them. Give me a basket of ironing, or even a dunny that's a bit worse for wear, any day. My eyes won't exactly glaze over with delight, but at least I'll do what has to be done. Dishes, however, are a different story. Dishes fill me with a visceral horror. I was born for better things than doing dishes.

It wasn't until I shacked up with the Dreamboat that I experienced the earthly bliss of living in a place with a dishwasher. Forget bridges, computers and the wheel ... dishwashers, along with automatic washing machines, are undoubtedly the human race's greatest inventions.

We dwelt happily with these most excellent appliances in Brisbane, Newcastle, Whyalla and Melbourne. Then we moved here, to good ole Karratha. OK, so we got air-con, but everywhere in Karratha has air-con. It's impossible to live here otherwise. As far as Your Correspondent's concerned, it's also impossible to live without a dishwasher, but the Company that gave us the house apparently disagreed. Bereft, I've been. Utterly bereft.

Anyway, I do the bloody dishes, but I do them with ill-grace and only because I hate dirt and mess even more than standing at the sink. I like to think this is a sign that I've matured and acquired a measure of self-discipline because you see, my superheroes, it wasn't always so. And here, to illustrate, is the little story I promised you:

I was nineteen and recently married. Hubby #1 and I had bought a house from his mother¹ and were cheerfully playing at being grown-up. I'd clean the entire house every week. This included washing the outside windows and polishing anything fashioned from former trees. Nothing escaped my duster, vacuum cleaner or impressive collection of chemicals. Nothing, that is, except the dishes.

Our 'house' was by the beach. It had been built as a holiday shack, so the place and its facilities were rather basic, to say the least. There was no hot water cylinder. Rather, there were two of those Zip water heater things -- a large one in the bathroom and a small one in the kitchen.

The bathroom one took three hours to heat and supplied enough hot water for either one bath (there was no shower) or two loads of washing in the tiny twin-tub machine that chewed up every item of clothing we possessed. Needless to say, I only had time to bathe once a day .... something that came as a huge shock to someone who'd been used to jumping into the shower whenever she felt like it.

The water heater in the kitchen provided hot water enough for one sinkful. The sink was the size of your average bathroom hand-basin. The dishes from a meat-and-veg dinner equated to three changes of water. I was working full-time, had three hours dancing practice every night and didn't have the time to wait for stupid water heaters to do their thing. It all started to get a bit hard. So I stopped doing the dishes every night. Then I stopped doing them every other night. Eventually, I ended up doing them once a week.

There wouldn't be so much as a clean spoon left in the place. Pots would be stacked on the floor because there wasn't any free bench space. Dishes would get a cursory rinse and then be piled wherever I could find the room. This wasn't exactly desirable so eventually I hit on a solution. Every Sunday I'd fill the bath, add any cleansing agent I could get my hands on (dishwashing liquid, clothes powder and the occasional splash of bleach), throw everything in and let it all soak/dissolve for two or three hours. Then I'd empty the bath, trundle in and out with piles of crockery and cookware and scrub the shit out of them in the kitchen sink.

This state of affairs couldn't continue. The world frowns on little girls who don't do the dishes every day. The gods would no doubt wreak vengeance on Your Correspondent for her cavalier attitude to kitchen hygiene. And, sure enough, one Sunday afternoon Nemesis came a-calling ... in the form of my mother-in-law.

This woman hated me. She'd given birth to ten children and her last hope for a priest out of the brood had rested with the youngest: Hubby #1. Your Correspondent was the filthy Jezebel who'd destroyed this pious wish. There was nothing I could've done to ever win her over. There was plenty I could do, though, to cement her loathing ...

So she rocked up unannounced one particular Sunday afternoon. Your Correspondent opened the door and her wee heart went pit-a-pat in triple time when her mother-in-law opened her mouth and uttered the following words:

MIL: Thank goodness you're home. I really need to use your toilet.

The toilet was in the bathroom. Where the bath was. Where the entire contents of Your Correspondent's kitchen cupboards were being joyfully eaten away by the most potent chemical soup known to humankind. Where the stinking miasma of dishwashing liquid, clothes powder, bleach and four-day-old burnt roast chicken hung heavily in the air.

You get the picture.

Niki: No! You can't go in there, sorry.
MIL: What are you talking about? (moves towards bathroom door)
Niki: (actually runs in front of her and bars the way). I'm sorry. You just can't.
Hubby #1: (mouthing) What the fuck are you doing?
MIL: (determinedly reaching for the door handle) Don't be silly. Why not?
Niki: Er ... you won't like it.
MIL: Honestly, Nichola. (pushes past, enters bathroom and closes door behind her. Sound of indrawn breath.)

She emerged five minutes later, with lips pursed so tightly her mouth looked like a sphincter. She never spoke directly to my face again. Nor did she ever again visit unannounced. The day Hubby #1 and I split up was probably the happiest of her life.

The moral of the story: if your mother-in-law ever shows up when you've soaking a week's worth of dishes in the bath, hide under the fucking bed and don't answer the door.


¹ Never, never, NEVER do this. Not only will Mother continue to view the place as hers and assume she has unrestricted visiting rights, but when you and hubby split up she'll conspire with your former spouse to sell the house without your knowledge. If any of you EVER buy real-estate from your in-laws -- particularly if they dislike you to begin with -- I'll track you down wherever you are in the world and box your stupid fucking ears myself. Got it?

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Domestics - Part One

Doing housework has got to be one of the most thankless tasks ever devised by the human race. It's time-consuming, any satisfaction derived from the results is fleeting at best and other members of the household never appreciate the hovel's pristine state as much as you, the drudge, think they should.

Take our cats, for instance. I've learned to lock them out of the laundry when I clean their litter trays. If I don't, one of them will quite happily jump into a tray and lay turds of colossal proportions while I'm still pouring in the clean litter. Then I'm compelled to remove the offending fecal matter while it's still fresh and disgusting, because I don't think it's asking too much to want to enjoy the satisfaction of a clean and odourless litter tray for five freakin' minutes, is it?

Despite all the disheartening aspects, somewhere along the line I've learned to enjoy doing housework. It's another of those lamentable character flaws I've acquired over the course of my life, like never following advice and refusing to eat cabbage in any form and abandoning the wearing of nicotine patches.

I've mellowed slightly on the domestic front over the years. I no longer clean, scrub and nuke every surface of the house with hospital-grade disinfectant every other day like I used to back in NZ. It took the following exchange with my dear friend Leaks at Christmas to reflect back to me just how obsessive I once was:

Leaks: I started cleaning the house last night in honour of your visit and then I thought, Fuck it. She'll be drunk soon enough and won't notice the dust.
Niki: Aw hell, Leaks, you didn't have to clean anything anyway ... like I'd care.
Leaks: But those times when I used to come over and we'd drink wine and stuff ... the place was always spotless.
Niki: That was just me ... how I was back then. One of the ex's friends once told me he never felt comfortable at our place. He said it was 'like a bloody museum'.
Leaks: Actually, I have a confession to make ...
Niki: Yeah? What's that?
Leaks: Well, one night I went to use your loo and I couldn't help myself ... I ran my finger over the top of the door frame, just to see if it was even a tiny bit dusty. And you know what? It wasn't.
Niki: (hangs head in shame)

Don't get me wrong; I don't love housework but when I'm in the mood to do it, I enjoy it. I don't even mind cleaning the oven, probably because it's something I don't have to do all the time. There's really only one domestic chore I utterly detest ... but that's a story for tomorrow. It'll be worth the wait, I promise you.

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Happy Easter and so on.

We've spent roughly half of the last three days watching movies, planning our wedding and being bored. Saturday's radio show went fairly smoothly with only one mishap: I accidentally disconnected my headphones and was forced to scramble around on the floor under the desk trying to reconnect them in the middle of an interview.

We camped overnight on Saturday at Cleaverville Beach with friends Sam and Chiz and their dogs. Your Correspondent over-indulged in the liquid refreshments, as is her wont, and spent most of Sunday in a somewhat delicate state. This wasn't helped by the realisation that we'd left the billy at home and couldn't boil water for cups of tea and coffee. We couldn't wash the dishes either, but when you're hungover in 38degC temperatures, that first cup of tea for the day far outweighs any other considerations.

So it's Easter Monday and I have to confess that I feel really ... flat. I suspect the Dreamboat does too. He's been following me around the house wearing a rather forlorn expression and openly admitting he's bored. More than once in the last couple of weeks he's mentioned how good it would be to take a long road-trip again. I know how he feels. Even though we love jetting off overseas (well, apart from the flying, if you're me), you just can't beat travelling by road and staying in funny little motels with hand-written, misspelled information compendia.

When the Dreamboat's contract finishes at the end of June, we're considering taking two or three months to drive up and over Australia's Top End. It'll be the perfect time of year weather-wise and it's unlikely we'd ever get another chance to see that part of the country at leisure. It will also mean we can drive right around to Brisbane and find ourselves a temporary nest before the holy hot water nuptials take place in October. And, as Sam and Chiz will be leaving town around the same time and heading in the same direction, we'll have some good company for at least half of the trip.

Superheroes, I think we have a plan.

But now ...

... on an entirely unrelated note, I've been thinking a lot lately about annoying turns of phrase. You know -- the sort that make you want to burst out of your pantaloons Hulk-like and inflict major damage whenever you hear them. I've got my job to thank for this totally unprofitable use of grey matter; the subject was brought up a couple of weeks ago as an idea to generate talkback and I haven't been able to get it out of my head since. Anyway, after much deliberation, here are the four turns of phrase guaranteed to make Your Correspondent turn all green and muscular and psychotic every single time. Feel free to add your own ...

1. "It's for your own good."
Always employed by someone in a position of power who's preventing you from doing something you really want to do and is too lazy to explain the real reason.

2. "Co-dependent"
God, I hate this term ... mainly because it was bandied around ad nauseam by Ex Hubby #2 after we split up and was used by him to explain why said splitting-up and the resultant breaking of Your Correspondent's heart was a Good Thing. Of course, he never took the trouble to find out what it actually meant. Psycho-babble at its worst.

3. "You should ..."
I don't fucking think so, thank you very much ... unless I've asked for the advice. And chances are, I haven't.

4. "The Bible clearly states ..."
... that people who use this opener to 'prove' the infallibility of their views on any given subject are mindless drones.

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Yesterday's nicotine patch stayed on for three-and-a-half hours before being consigned to the work rubbish bin.

That's an improvement of 700% on Tuesday's effort. Seven hundred percent! I'm so proud of myself! This 'wearing patches' thing is a doddle.

I finally got around to telling the Dreamboat about it all during a phone call yesterday afternoon. I deliberately didn't inform him on Tuesday because I was far too busy being in a toxic mood when I got home from work. He wasn't worthy to learn of the Patch Project.

Now I'm wishing I'd kept my mouth shut because he's exhibiting that most tiresome of masculine qualities: the Dispensing of Unasked-For Advice.

Dreamboat: You should buy new patches.
Niki: Why?
Dreamboat: Because those ones you're using have expired.
Niki: So?
Dreamboat: Well, they're not going to help you give up smoking.
Niki: But I'm not trying to give up smoking.
Dreamboat: Then what are you doing?
Niki: Seeing how long I can wear a patch before I rip it off and have a cigarette.

Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

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How Not to Give Up Smoking

1. Wake up the morning after you’ve had a migraine, with a taste in your mouth resembling that of a compost heap that’s been liberally dosed with fermented broccoli-and-blue-cheese soup.

2. Resolve once and for all to give up smoking.

3. Make half-hearted effort to smile encouragingly and then give self unconvincing pep talk that includes motivational phrases such as “you can do it” and “of course you won’t get fat”.

4. Search through assorted painkillers and flu medications in kitchen cupboard for that (unopened) box of nicotine patches you bought a couple of years ago in Melbourne.

5. Remove patch from wrapper. Pretend it’s a stick-on tattoo. Attempt to convince self that nicotine patches are cool and fun.

6. Note the expiry date on the patch: 7 July 2003. Surely there must be some nicotine residue still active?

7. Affix patch to inner arm. Press heavily. Sigh heavily.

8. Spend the next half hour surfing Internet while eating breakfast.

9. Note that the skin under the patch is starting to itch.

10. Think “fuck this”.

11. Stand up, strike heroic pose and scornfully tear patch from arm, in a gesture reminiscent of a demi-god (or perhaps a Marvel Comics hero) when s/he is liberating him/herself from the shackles of some evil dude, thus symbolising the nobility, dignity and glory of the triumphant Every [Wo]Man who has succeeded in casting aside the fetters of oppression, ignorance and subjugation.

12. Smoke three cigarettes in the next hour.

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Two reasons why yesterday was tough:

Reason One
We wanted to pay a tribute on the afternoon radio show I'm currently producing to James Regan, the SES (State Emergency Services) volunteer who died on the weekend while attempting to rescue a British tourist at Karijini.

We couldn't do nothing; it happened in our patch, the story had dominated the news here since last Friday and James Regan was the first SES volunteer to die in West Australia since the service started 40 years ago.

It was my job to find someone who knew James well and would be prepared to come on air to talk about him. After a few phone calls, I was put in touch with a man who agreed to talk live at the beginning of the show.

Writing the script was murder ... how to do it without either sensationalising what had happened or descending into tacky sentiment? In the end, I kept it very short.

When the time came for the interview, I called the friend, asked him if he was ready and then handed him over to the presenter. He only talked for about three and a half minutes, but it was a very emotional experience for everyone concerned.

Afterwards, I got back on the line and asked the man if he was alright. "No, not really," he replied. He was crying. I was trying not to. I felt awful for putting him through it.

Even though our intentions with that interview had only been good, I found myself hating the media just a little ... how it elbows its way into people's lives and almost always gets what it wants, purely because of what it is and the hunger it feeds.

Reason Two
After work, I went home to get changed for a work-related dinner I'd been invited to. I had just under an hour before I was due to be picked up, so when the Dreamboat offered me a beer and suggested we go outside for a cigarette and chat, I happily trotted out after him.

We'd sat down, lit our smokes and I was just reaching for the beer when I looked up at the sky. At the top and slightly to the right of my line of vision was a long, thin bar of what looked like water.

Niki: Oh fuck.
Dreamboat: What is it?
Niki: Oh fuckohfuckohfuck.
Dreamboat: (peering into the sky) What is it? What's wrong?
Niki: Oh fuck. I'm getting a migraine.

In the short time it took to have that conversaton, the bar had thickened. A zig-zag pattern ran through its middle, dividing the bar into small triangles. Each triangle was a different colour - blue, red, green - and the colours were brightening by the second.

Your Correspondent panicked. I can handle the headache (just), but the pyrotechnics that precede it always terrify the hell out of me. I rang the colleague who was supposed to collect me for the dinner and told her I couldn't make it. I'm not sure if she believed me (we'd been talking only twenty minutes earlier about how neither of us felt much like going out) but by then I was past caring.

The entire top and right side of my field of vision was now obscured by zig-zags of colour. If they weren't so ominous, I'd love migraine 'auras' (as they're called) because they're so damn beautiful. And then the pain started. The left side of my head started to explode in slow-motion. I fumbled for a couple of painkillers and betook my hurting self off to bed.

I've had only four or five migraines in my life and I've noticed that the initial period between the 'aura' and the pain grows less each time. I had no warning, other than feeling slightly queasy for a few hours beforehand. The last couple of times, I haven't thrown up either, thank goodness. I just seem to get the fireworks, the sensitivity to light and the sensation that a herd of horses is busily trying to kick my skull apart from the inside out.

I don't know what triggers them. The only one I can definitely attribute to stress was my second. I'm not sure about the rest. Anyway, it's the day after and the fact that I'm typing out a blogging epic suggests the worst of it is over. It still aches, but it's manageable.

And here endeth Your Correspondent's exposition on the subject of why yesterday was tough.

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Last week at work I had a call from a media liaison guy for one of the State ministers:

Media Liaison Guy: I've got a great interview opportunity for your Saturday show. It's ... Ricky Grace! He'll be in Port Hedland on Saturday!
Niki: Fabulous! Terrific! Great! Let's tee something up, for sure! (thinking: who the hell's Ricky Grace?)
Media Liaison Guy: Okay, then. I'll be in touch.
Niki: (immediately jumps on the Net and starts searching)

This is one of the problems inherent in presenting a sports show when the presenter knows bugger-all about sport. It turns out that Mister Grace is the skipper of the Perth Wildcats (national basketball, for other ignoramuses/ignorami like me). I was informed that he's something of a mega-star in West Australia and my interviewing him was a Very Big Deal.

Great! thought Your Correspondent. I'll interview him and then ask him to do a six-second promo for me: "Hi. I'm Ricky Grace from the Perth Wildcats and you're listening to Niki [surname] on [station]."

As is usually the case whenever anything to do with "life" and "Niki" are involved, it didn't quite work out as expected. Ricky (or "Amazing Grace" to his fans) could only do the interview when I was on my break. I'd have to pre-record it, edit it and then run it in the last half-hour of the show. Unfortunately, he called me eight minutes before I was due back on air and there wasn't enough time to do the interview justice. We decided to defer it until after the show and air it next week.

He's a nice guy. There was a Regional Council meeting in Port Hedland over the weekend and he'd come to drum up support for a sport/mentoring programme he's trying to establish for young indigenous people in remote WA communities. We did the interview. He sounded a bit tired. The State Minister who'd brought him up from Perth was in the hotel room with him. Ricky got his name wrong. Your Correspondent chuckled silently. And when the time came to ask him to do the promo, I lost my nerve. He's tired. He's probably sick of the media. I should've organised it earlier in the week.

I tried to console myself: Never mind, I'll get one next time. He'll already know me and it'll be easier to ask. Then it hit home to me that I probably won't be here next time "Amazing Grace" is in this neck of the woods. The Dreamboat and I will have moved on to god-knows-where and I'll never get the chance again.

It's not going to be easy to walk away from this job. I quite like the idea of being a minor media personality in a small town ... the sort of person who could interview sporting heroes and have them say, "Oh, yeah, I remember you from last time. Sure I'll do a promo. In fact, I enjoyed the interview so much I'll give you eight."

I kicked myself even more after talking to my little brother on the phone yesterday. He'd gone with a muso friend to a Paul Kelly concert the night before. His friend had brought along a demo tape. He waited until after the concert and then pressed it into the hand of someone in the crew, asking him to pass it on. The guy said he would.

Maybe he won't. Maybe he'll consign it to the bin. Or maybe Paul Kelly's thoroughly pissed off with getting demo tapes from young musos and he'll throw it away. But maybe he'll listen to it. Maybe he'll be impressed and my brother's friend will get a call in the near future, inviting him to support Paul Kelly on his next tour. Whatever the case, you've got to admire his guts. I wish to hell I had some. Then I'd be able to quash the awful feeling that my radio career will end for good, the second I leave town.

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