Thoughts From the Weekend

1. On Friday night:
"Tomorrow's my last ever Saturday Breakfast Show. Better make sure I get lots of sleep ... after this beer."

2. At 2:15am on Saturday, after tossing and turning since before midnight:
"Fuck."

3. During the show:
"Hey, this isn't as bad as I thought. I don't feel sad at all."

4. Ten minutes after the show has finished and a bouquet of roses has arrived from the Dreamboat, with a card bearing the message, 'Great show':
"Why am I crying?"

5. At a dinner party on Saturday night:
"Why is it that the Dreamboat will question, debate and argue with almost everything I say but when a male friend orders him in Mandarin to scull full glasses of red wine, he meekly acquiesces?"

6. On Sunday morning:
"Does NOT throwing up in our friends' car last night in any way make up for the fact that I DID throw up on the hosts' driveway?"

7. On Sunday afternoon:
"Who else would get a bloody earache two days before she's due to board a plane?"

8. A minute later:
"If my eardrum ruptures in mid-flight, will I scream?"

9. On Sunday night:
"I can't remember how to do quadratic equations. Shit."

10. Two minutes later:
"What are quadratic equations for, anyway?"

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Shit We've Bought

The money's been flowing out of the Karratha Imperial Palace recently in a fashion remarkably similar to 'breaking the seal' after drinking three pints of Kilkenny. It's been a veritable retail frenzy. Admittedly, most of the purchasing has been done by the Dreamboat, and while Your Correspondent would dearly love you to believe that this is due to her being so highly evolved she has no need of material possessions etc, in reality it's because she has no money. As usual.

Of course, all this stuff we've acquired is Very Necessary And Important to our impending big trip around Australia's Top End. Here's a rundown of what we got and why we got it:

1. Snorkel (for the fiery chariot, not us)
Ostensible reason: So we can cross swollen, crocodile-infested rivers without wrecking the engine.
Real reason: Because it looks fucking cool.

2. Fridge
Ostensible reason: So we'll be able to maintain a healthy and varied diet of fresh meat, veges, fruit and delicious legumes.
Real reason: To keep the beers cold.

3. Roof Rack
Ostensible reason: For easy, no-fuss storage of the second spare tyre that was purchased at the same time.
Real reason: To advertise the fact that we're serious, kick-ass explorers who know what we're doing, as opposed to the rest of the common tourist rabble.

4. Solar Panel
Ostensible reason: To charge the separate battery unit that powers the fridge.
Real reason: It's pretty. Besides, a small fortune's already been shelled out, so what's another $750?

5. GPS (Global Positioning System)
Ostensible reason: So we'll never get lost if the Dreamboat's dozens of incredibly detailed maps fail us.
Real reason: The Dreamboat wanted one for his birthday.

6. Hammock
Ostensible reason: For relaxation at the end of a hard day's GPS consultation and driving.
Real reason: So the Dreamboat has somewhere to sleep if we have a row and Your Correspondent kicks him out of the tent.

7. Digital Voice Recorder
Ostensible reason: So Your Correspondent can interview all the colourful Outback characters we're bound to meet and then make a fortune selling their stories to magazines.
Real reason: To record drunken farts around the campfire.

Update
How could I have forgotten ...

8. The Spotlights
Ostensible reason: To avoid ploughing into kangaroos and roving cattle in the unlikely event we'll be driving after sunset.
Real reason: Outback porn film shoots. Of course.

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As if the Loch Ness Monster wasn't enough ...

The Dreamboat's younger brother works as a policeman in the Scottish Highlands, so it stands to reason that we've dubbed him Hamish Macbeth.

We'd long suspected our wee Hamish filled in his days by taking damn good photos of the local countryside and having prolonged naps in his squad car, but it appears there's something not quite right in the Highlands, as this recent email from him attests:

"Thought I'd tell you about a freaky thing I saw at work today.

"In January a local man phoned us and said he'd seen a lion on one of the roads on the peninsula.

"We all scoffed and presumed he'd had a few too many sherries. Then, a couple of days ago, someone phoned to report a similar sighting, not far from the first. This time the cat was described as looking like a lioness. Well ...

"About 9pm on Tuesday 25th May, I was by myself, driving the police car along one of the roads near to the Coulport missile depot.

"The countryside around that road is pretty rugged and forrested.

"As I came over the crest of a hill at about 70mph, there, in front of me, about 100 yards away, was an animal.

"This animal was crossing the road from right to left, and didn't even look in my direction. I can only describe it as a very large, fawn-coloured cat. Much larger than, say, a labrador dog.

"I understand why the previous witnesses described it as a lion, because it did indeed look like a female lion.

"As soon as I came home, I did some research on the Net and, after looking at numerous photos, I'm now convinced it was a puma.



(Your Correspondent's note: this isn't the puma ... it's a pic the Dreamboat's brother sent us to illustrate what the animal looked like.)

"When I saw it I slammed on the brakes and slowed down, as I watched it cross the road and disappear into the undergrowth. I stopped the car at the point it left the road, jumped out and, without thinking about it first, ran into the undergrowth after it.

"Yes, I know, not the brightest thing to do when you've just seen a lion.

"I went about 20 feet into the bushes and suddenly realised that might not have been the best course of action, so I stopped.

"As I stood still I could hear, about 15 feet in front of me, the sound of something moving, fortunately in the opposite direction.

"I waited and listened as the sound grew fainter, then disappeared altogether. Then I returned to the road.

"As I traced my steps back, I found a trail of what appeared to be deer droppings and I wondered if perhaps the cat was following it.

"When I got back to the car I wasn't sure what to do: do I call it in? Would anyone believe me? I eventually went back to the office and slowly started disseminating my story and most people seemed to believe me, which was good.

"I found a site on the Net that's dedicated to big cat sightings in Scotland and apparently there are about 1000 every year, and rising.

"When I go dayshift I'm going to phone the Zoological department at Glasgow University, as apparently they have an interest.

"I must admit I'm a born sceptic and don't believe in ghosts or UFOs, but I certainly will pay attention next time anyone on TV is talking about big cat sightings in the UK."

As he said, sightings of big cats are apparently common in Scotland ... so there'll be no raised eyebrows over the veracity of the Dreamboat's brother's story, or you'll have me to deal with. I'm very scary, you know.

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In Which Your Correspondent Meets a Famous Australian

It was 4:20pm on Friday. I was sitting in the studio at work, presenting the afternoon show. Smiling across the desk from me was a guy with a guitar. In another thirty seconds I'd be interviewing him and he was going to play a couple of songs from his latest album.

If you read this blog regularly, you'll know of Your Correspondent's weakness for guys with guitars. I'm not sure why, but put me in proximity to a lone guy with a stringed instrument and I fall into a kind of trance. It's been like that since I was a teenager, so you'd think that Friday's scenario would've had me in raptures. There was only one hitch: the guy in the studio with me was (and still is) a Country artist -- a very well-known one in Australia and New Zealand. And apart from recognising his name, I didn't know a thing about him.

The Dreamboat and I have very eclectic tastes when it comes to music. If you're ever invited to the Karratha Imperial Palace and get the chance to browse through the royal CD collection, you'll see what I mean. Country music, however, is one genre neither of us has ever really been interested in. Maybe it's because we were both city people and it just didn't seem relevant to our life-styles. I remember being very surprised when the Dreamboat told me Country music was huge in regional Scotland. Then he took me there four years ago and I saw what he meant. It goes without saying that the genre's absolutely massive in regional Australia as well. At least 60% of my music playlist on any given day has a Country flavour, or owes a great deal to Country's two cousins: Blues and Folk.

So there I was, sitting across from Troy Cassar-Daley and wondering how the hell I was going to sound knowledgable and convincing in the interview. I needn't have worried. One of my colleagues had given me some background info, which helped a lot, but Troy himself is very media-savvy (his wife works in radio) and a true pro.

He's also a hell of a nice guy. Sure, performers are very good at turning on the charm when there's a mike and/or camera around, but he'd just driven 1,000 kilometres from Derby, he was totally knackered, he was due to give a concert in a few hours and he still did three promos for the studio and gave me a 20 minute interview. It's not as if he needed the interview ... his concert would've been a sell-out regardless.

It went a lot better than I'd feared. He seemed to enjoy himself ... at least, he thanked me three times after the interview ended. He admitted on air he still worries about audiences liking his shows (yep, I know all about that one) and he basically came across as a genuine, likeable guy with a bloody terrific voice.

He performed his songs during the interview and Your Correspondent, much to her surprise, found herself getting all choked up in the middle of the second. A colleague, who (I discovered) knows me a lot better than I realised, said to me this morning, "Yeah, I wondered how you were going to hold it together during that song."

I'm not saying I'm suddenly a great fan of Country music as a result, but I'm willing to take it a bit more seriously than I have in the past ... which surprises me. On the subject of surprise, though, I think the most surprised person of all on Friday afternoon would've had to have been the Dreamboat. He'd ambled into the studios to pick up the car keys, only to find his hand being pumped by a grinning Troy and a "Gidday, mate, how are you?" in his ear. Later that night, he said with a kind of disbelieving grin, "Troy Cassar-Daley shook my hand." I know what he meant because after the interview I'd kind of felt the same way. There's no denying the guy has a fair dollop of charisma.

This coming Thursday, I'll be interviewing an even bigger star of Australian Country music ... but that, as they say, is a story for another time ...

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The 'Final Month' Karratha Fact File

As we leave in exactly one month's time, I thought I should make some effort to share a few of the lesser-known facts about Karratha ... just in case you decide to come here for your honeymoon, or to build an empire, or something.

This fact file may, or may not, be added to on an occasional basis. It depends on my sourcing new and exciting snippets to share. It also depends on my staying sober long enough in the midst of our current social whirl to remember said facts when they've been found. And on the subject of the local social scene ...

Fact One: Concerning Karaoke
If someone took the trouble to do the research, I think they'd find there are more karaoke machines per head of population in Karratha than anywhere else in Australia. People here are total karaoke sluts. Not only are there three venues in town where any drunken sot who feels the urge to bray into a microphone can do so publicly, but karaoke machines seem to be the star guests at most of the parties. While sitting in our backyard on two different nights in the past week, the Dreamboat and I have heard incredibly bad versions of Sonny & Cher's I've Got You, Babe and Frank Sinatra's My Way wafting through the still night air. And last Saturday we went to a party that had not one, but two microphones hitched up to the stereo. Did Your Correspondent succumb to the peer pressure to perform? Not telling. Did the Dreamboat wow the party guests -- not to mention the fire-twirling drunk people next door -- with his karaoke staple, Sweet Home Alabama? You bet.

Fact Two: Wonderful Insights into Parties
There are two types of parties in Karratha: the ones where all the women present suddenly feel compelled to give push-by-push accounts of their childbirth experiences, and the ones where they don't.

There's usually more dancing at the latter.

Fact Three: Regarding Body Art
The comparing of tattoos is a common social ritual amongst women. I am quite possibly the only female in town who's lacking an inky inscription on some part of my her body. This is a serious social impediment and Your Correspondent has been reduced to offering up the scar running through her thumb-print for scrutiny instead. It's not the same, however, and everyone knows it. At the moment I'm sporting a fairly impressive burn on my arm, acquired from a wok that had been sitting for a while in a campfire, and I'm hoping this might be enough to safeguard my social status in the community for the next few weeks at least ...

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Happy Birthday to the Dreamboat ...



... the biggest calming influence in my life.

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I suppose I should write something inoffensive and witty to counter-balance that last post which, according to the Dreamboat, was "a bit acerbic" ... but to be honest with you, folks, I feel very pressured at the moment and stress does unfortunate things to Your Correspondent's sense of humour.

Before inviting you to browse through the catalogue of my current woes, I should say that we managed to get everything done in Perth that we'd set out to do. The Dreamboat is now the proud owner of a rather sexy tartan skirt, courtesy of the nice people at the kilt shop. Your Correspondent will be able to wear the wedding dress of her dreams, but sans the tulle wrap because, unlike the model in the picture, she's too vertically-challenged to drape it over her arms without looking as if she's drowning in a large puddle of fabric.

It was naive of me to think I'd be able to get the damn dress sorted out in one visit. Apparently, one is meant to have six fittings for a wedding gown, particularly if one is shelling out an obscene amount of money for said gown and wants it to fit properly. As a consequence, another trip to Perth's been booked for the end of the month. Your Correspondent will have four fittings over a period of one-and-a-half days. The Dreamboat will ferry her back and forth to appointments in a hire car and spend long hours in camping shops, salivating over more gadgets to take on our trip over the Top End.

There's no time. It's crazy. Everything's gone mad. There's so much to think about at the moment that I don't seem to be able to follow a single train of thought through to a conclusion. I start trying to work on one thing, only to end up worrying about something else entirely.

Much of this angst stems from the depressing thought of having to leave my job. I don't want to walk away from it. There have been so many amazing opportunities lately. Presenting Breakfast for a week was terrifying but exhilarating (performance ranged from "tolerable" to "terrible" in my assessment, but at least I got the chance) and at the moment I'm presenting the Drive show (late afternoons) ... something I never in my wildest fantasies believed could ever happen. There are only two more Saturday Breakfast shows to do before my replacement takes over. I don't want to leave any of it. I fucking don't. Waaah.

It's different for the Dreamboat. He's had enough of his job and can't wait to leave. What keeps him going is the anticipation of this big trip we'll be undertaking in less than five weeks. As for me, I start getting excited at the thought of it too, but end up stressing over the idea of here-we-go-again with moving companies; and what to take and what to pack and what the hell are we going to do with the cat; and do I really want to spend two months living in a tent for god's sake; and where will we live in Brisbane; and all that wedding shit to be confirmed as soon as we arrive; and then the actual wedding itself; and will we be moving yet again once it's over; and the prospect of having to start from scratch somewhere new; and will I get the chance to work in radio wherever we end up; and would I be able to stand doing anything else, etc. etc. etc.

I don't have time to go to the gym. I don't have time to visit the hairdresser or the dentist. I don't have time to write emails, clean the house properly, go to writing group meetings or do anything useful for the animal welfare group I support. I don't have time to blog.

Funnily enough, though, I do seem to have time to moan about it all ...

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In Which Your Correspondent Provides Snapshots of Her Recent Weekend in Perth

1. Rude Fat Guys in Uniform
Believe it or not, Karratha has a military outpost. It's called the Pilbara Regiment. Your Correspondent originally thought this might be a collective noun for the town's sentinel chickens. The idea proved erroneous but was a lot of fun while it lasted.

All those damned interesting pictures on its website notwithstanding, I'm not entirely sure how the Pilbara Regiment fills its days. I assume it helps out in Search and Rescue missions when the usual Northern Hemispheric tourists wander around places like Karijini and get lost and/or accidentally kill themselves. I know for a fact that Regiment personnel also serve as wait-staff and in a 'crowd control' capacity at various functions around town. The only other activity they're involved in that I'm aware of is the annual Pilbara Regiment Ball.

This is the perfect opportunity for Karratha's social élite to frock themselves up and pretend they're in a big city boasting frivolous luxuries like public transport and supermarkets that sell truffle oil.

The 2004 Ball was held a couple of weekends ago. I know this because the military band engaged to provide stirring martial polkas and the like had been flown in from Perth and just happened to return the next day on the same flight as Your Correspondent and the Dreamboat.

The flight itself was uneventful, if you overlook Your Correspondent's hyperventilation attacks at the least sign of turbulence and the piercing shrieks of the girl who'd found a cockroach in her delicious Qantas lunch. It was only after we'd landed in Perth and were waiting to collect our baggage that the military musos came into their own.

And here's where we learn the dangers of stereotyping. Nearly all of the musos I've met have been gentle, sensitive souls; concerned only with the creative process, scoring recreational chemicals and having sex with star-struck little groupies. The armed forces obviously attract a different breed of musician.

These guys are fat. They're rude. They elbow people like Your Correspondent out of the way at the baggage carousel ... twice. They don't apologise because they're too pig-ignorant to notice what they've done. It doesn't take much of a leap of imagination to picture them spitting into their tubas for the benefit of some poor bastards in a detention centre somewhere and then taking them out the back, beating the shit out of them and posing for photos.

I recently spoke to someone who went to the Pilbara Regiment Ball. She told me some band members ignored orders and made a bee-line for the food when supper was served, stuffing themselves stupid and thereby ensuring that people who'd paid hefty sums for their ball tickets missed out on eating.

Tsk, tsk, you naughty military musos! Your actions are obviously symptomatic of the laxity that's crept into the armed forces everywhere. Where's your discipline? Isn't that what you're supposed to learn in the military? Or did you just sign up because no-one else would actually pay you to tootle away on your bassoon at whim?

There's only one solution for inconsiderate behaviour like this: put 'em all in the army, I say. That'll teach them to pinch food and push civilians around at baggage carousels.

Oh, wait a minute. They already are ...

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Bear with me, guys. I should be able to resume normal posting in the next couple of days, at which time you can expect:

1. An update on Your Correspondent's trip to Perth to procure her wedding dress;
2. A riveting expose on what it's like to fuck up a radio Breakfast programme on at least two occasions;
3. Two (possibly three, possibly more) reasons why the North West of Western Australia is still the best place in the world to go camping, even when you think you're going to a 'secret, secluded' spot but arrive to find half of Karratha already ensconced there.

For these -- and many other -- reasons to defer your untimely exit from this world, stay tuned ...

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Lawks-a-lordy, superheroes, but life's been exciting lately.

Translation: fuck me dead, guys, I'm so under the pump I don't know what day it is. Literally.

After getting up at 4:30am today to do the Breakfast show and eventually leaving work at 3:30pm, I drove home in a somewhat fatigued state and immediately fell asleep. When the Dreamboat woke me a couple of hours later I panicked, thinking I'd slept in for tomorrow's show.

So I'm presenting weekday Breakfast at the moment. Last Thursday and Friday, I also presented the Drive (late afternoon) show. And on Saturday morning, my dulcet tones were once again broadcast over the airwaves for the usual Breakfast/Sport stint. I live in fear of our loyal and dedicated listeners calling in to offer that particularly candid sort of feedback that characterises regional areas: "For god's sake, will you get that bloody Kiwi woman off the air? We're all sick of the sound of her voice."

Despite how this may be coming across, I'm not complaining. On the contrary, I'm thrilled. I'm learning a lot and it's all going to look great on the CV. I guess the down side is that it'll be even more difficult for me to walk away from everything in six weeks' time. Six bloody weeks. I can hardly believe it.

As for the Perth excursion, I'll defer relating the highs and lows of our experience until tomorrow. I have to get up in five hours, you see. And when I do, maybe I'll have a better idea of what month it is, and who I am, and how I can get through the show without sounding like the stammering, half-asleep dickhead who tried so hard this morning to convince the punters that they should enjoy their day.

And on that note ... enjoy your day. Please.

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