The best thing about 2004 was the whole damn year.

For Your Correspondent, at least. I think 2004 was probably the best year of my life so far.

I spent the first six months living in a remote town that I loved in West Australia and working as a radio presenter in a job that I never, in my wildest fantasies, thought I'd get a shot at.

In the second six months I travelled across a vast stretch of what's probably the most spectacular countryside in Australia, got married, had two honeymoons and moved to a town that's so cool its Council cancelled the New Year fireworks display it was sponsoring and instead donated $30k to a relief fund for the earthquake/tsunami victims in Asia.

2004, you're going to be a very tough act to follow.

2005, take note.

Drinking in large volumes should commence about now.

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Q: When is a girl in a cheesy internet ad not a girl in a cheesy internet ad?

A: When she is a bloke.

That's right, O discerning reader. Someone's playing naughty tricks on us and they think we don't notice. They assume we're too busy checking our emails to look closely at their tacky little advertisements for 'cheap' loans and 'personalised' fortune tellings. They think they can illustrate their 'product' with anything vaguely resembling a human female and our poor bombarded brains will fill in the gaps and assure us we've just glanced at a gorgeous woman. Which is supposed to make us whip out our credit cards in awe and gratitude and spend up large.

But are these women gorgeous? Are they even women? I give you Exhibit A:

Check out the jawline, chin and overall shape of the face. I'd be willing to bet this is a bloke in drag. He's advertising psychic readings but look closely at the expression in the eyes -- the poor guy appears more horror-struck than in tune with the universe. Maybe he's just had a couple of wisdom teeth pulled ... or been handed the bill for the collagen lip-work.

On to Exhibit B:

At first sight I thought this was also a guy in drag wearing a very bad wig, but I've since changed my mind. I don't think this person exists at all. The fact that we're looking at a line drawing rather than a photo is a bit of a giveaway (what's with that weird underarm action in the dress department?), but there's also something else to consider: do human eyes ever get that far apart in nature? As for their expression -- positively demented. And note the oversized lips again. At least one graphic artist in Crappy Ad Land is feeling ripped off in the oral gratification stakes, methinks.

So ... what do you think? Babes, boys or some ad designer's invented ideal? Feel free to express your opinion. About anything. You know it's what I live for.

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You know you've reached the absolute depths of "new town/no friends/completely sad and pathetic" syndrome when your 70-something mother tries to think of ways you could spend New Year's Eve:

Dowager Empress: What've you got planned?
Niki: Nothing.
Dowager Empress: Ach, why not?
Niki: Well, the choices involve either staying at home and feeling bored, or going out and mingling with strangers and feeling depressed.
Dowager Empress: But it's not as if you're on your own. You've got [the Dreamboat].
Niki: Yep, there's that, alright. We'll be bored and/or depressed together.
(pause)
Dowager Empress: Does this town you're in have a good Irish pub? Why don't you go there?

Kilkenny on tap; wall-to-wall smokers frantically puffing away before the ban comes in at midnight; live music ... and no-one's ever a stranger in an Irish pub.

The woman's a bloody genius.

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No silliness from Your Correspondent today.

It doesn't feel right, given the tragic events currently affecting thousands of people on our figurative doorstep.

Normal vapidity will resume tomorrow. Come back then.

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Well, that was fun.

Your Correspondent, after waking up on the couch at 5:30am, takes note of the following:
1. Nearly every light in the house is still burning
2. There's a totally illegible, half-written SMS message to god-knows-who on her mobile phone
3. CD cases are scattered all over the floor
4. Five empty bottles (one of champagne, four of wine) are dotted around the place
6. A partially-eaten chicken is wrapped in foil on the kitchen bench and half a pavlova is dissolving in the fridge
5. A hangover is onsetting, the likes of which even a binge-drinking old soak like herself has experienced but rarely in her lifetime

She crawls into bed beside the Dreamboat. She recalls putting him there the night before, sometime after the three or so hours they'd both spent on drunken phone calls to friends. Her nerves are jangling. She suspects she's still pissed. She needs to relax. Twiddles are in order. The Dreamboat, awake but also in the throes of a hangover, is powerless to resist.

Niki: (admiring her handiwork) There. Christmas twiddles. Beautiful.
DB: Amazing how you can get away with anything if you just put the word 'Christmas' in front of it.
Niki: That's true. For instance, I did two very special Christmas farts only five minutes ago.
DB: (after a few seconds of intense concentration, lets rip a Christmas fart of his own)
Niki: You bloody copycat! Go find your own innovative Christmas activity.

And so he did ... that is, if you consider spending an entire day on the couch with one's spouse, watching DVDs and eating non-stop to be 'innovative'.

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Merry Christmas, superheroes. Enjoy the day.

I have a present for you. It's a song. In fact, it's the quintessential Aussie Christmas song. If you're easily offended, proceed no further or listen to Saint Rolf's très wholesome Six White Boomers instead. (I was subjected to this throughout my childhood so I don't see why you shouldn't be as well. And if you want even more punishment in the form of dreadful Antipodean Christmas songs, listen to a grab from Sticky Beak the Kiwi. Then read the lyrics.)

If, however, your sensibilities aren't too delicate and you fancy something a bit irreverent, head on over to Kevin Bloody Wilson's site and click on 'Free Xmas Download'. Wonderful stuff.

Now get off the bloody internet and celebrate. And don't say I never give you anything.

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Ben Elton has a lot to answer for.

If it hadn't been for his book Past Mortem, I wouldn't have jumped online three months ago and registered on one of those 'old schoolfriend' websites.

The medicinal half a dozen beers I'd had that night played no part whatsoever in this decision. They were merely brave little soldiers who'd nobly sacrificed themselves in the battle I've been waging over the last few months against insomnia. No, the blame rests squarely with Ben Elton.

Isn't it a total shit the way things come back to haunt one? The Dreamboat registered on the Friends Reunited website (featured in Mr Elton's afore-mentioned literary work) over two years ago. And oh, the mockery, the scorn he had to endure when he informed Your Correspondent of this harmless act:

"What's the bloody point? If you really gave that much of a stuff about people you went to school with, surely you would've stayed in touch? I think it's hypocritical to suddenly get all interested again. Definitely a mid-life crisis sort of thing. Wanting to re-live the past and paint it all rosy."

The Dreamboat, long accustomed to Your Correspondent's occasional, pointless rants, merely nodded mildly and continued writing emails.

I don't harbour a shred of sentimentality about my high school years. They were confusing and reeked of teenage pathos. I spent the entire time in a state of defiance against parents, teachers and other kids, even those I'd formed some sort of alliance with. I never considered these latter to be real friendships; they were temporary relationships formed only because we were stuck in the same place at the same time. I couldn't wait to leave school, and the moment I wiped the Alma Mater's dust from my regulation brown shoes (brown, for god's sake ... brown! Oh brown, how I loathe thee!) for the last time, I severed all ties.

Three years ago, my class had a reunion. The Dowager Empress (aka Mum) forwarded me an invitation to attend a 'fun weekend' consisting of a church service, a tour of the dear old school and a netball game. The climax of this not-to-be-missed occasion was to be a plain but nourishing meal at a local family restaurant.

I scanned the list of those people they'd managed to track down. Then I scanned the list of those they hadn't. It was like going back in time and reading the weekly detention list. All the misfits, miscreants and people most likely to be interesting adults were Missing In Action. My name was on that list too, which I kind of liked, but it wasn't sufficient inducement to fly to NZ for the reunion. If there'd been even a hint of mayhem in the offing -- drink, dope, nightclubbing, wild and uninhibited dancing, etc -- I might have been tempted. But alas, no. And besides, I've always sucked at netball.

So my own double standards vigorously slapped me around the face three months ago when I read Mr Elton's work and, in the throes of insomnia-induced madness, found myself signing up here.

I don't know why even the thought of my high school companions coaxes out the Smartarse Within, but in my profile I described myself as "a collector of fine husbands", "childless and thankful" and "profoundly irritating". And in the part where you're supposed to blather on about your school memories I wrote, "Ah, yes. The best years of my life ... apparently."

After I'd finished, I smiled triumphantly in the knowledge that no-one would ever initiate contact. And then I basically forgot all about it ...

... until last week, when I received an email from the site. The sister of a former classmate was requesting access to my contact details. It threw me a bit, but I authorised access to my email address anyway. And since then ... nothing.

I don't know about the etiquette of this stuff, so this is where you, dear superheroes, get to help out. Am I supposed to reciprocate? To ask to be initiated into her Inner Circle? And then who emails whom first? Is there any actual point in being listed on sites like these? Does anything worthwhile ever come out of it? Do I even care?

I already know the answer to that last one. But I'm interested in your thoughts/experiences.

And as for you, Ben Elton Esq., if you ever stumble across this: thanks a lot for resurrecting the spectre of Schooldays Past. Maybe we can get together to discuss it sometime ... after an invigorating game of netball.

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I have the answer to all your Christmas woes:

Gin.

Yes, gin ... that marvellous spirit distilled from grains and flavoured with the berries from the juniper bush. Commonly known as Mother's Ruin, it has a reputation for reducing its imbibers to sobbing emotional wrecks. But that's bollocks, I tell you, bollocks.

Gin makes everything wonderful. Yes it does. Especially when it's poured with restraint and then mixed with ice and Bitter Lemon or tonic by someone you love.

After three or four of these efficacious potions, the whole world suddenly becomes completely bloody sparkly. You no longer complain about the immense stress your neighbour's outdoor light display is putting on the national power grid. Those TV actors singing souped-up versions of Christmas songs actually have really great voices. And they're so talented and attractive. And you really should start watching whatever homegrown show they appear in because it's bound to be fascinating. And isn't Christmas just, like, totally rad?

But if it's proof you're wanting, just look at the following examples from Your Correspondent's own life. They highlight her dramatic differences in attitude Before Gin (way before, actually ... in bed on Sunday morning, to be precise) and After Gin (earlier this evening):

Before Gin
Dreamboat: We're going to have a great Christmas.
Niki: Yeah, I suppose so.
Dreamboat: We will. It'll be fun ...
Niki: Yeah.
Dreamboat: ... and besides, we'll have each other.
Niki: So what?

OK, I have to admit much giggling ensued after this. But they weren't those special, twinkly giggles you get from a couple of glasses of gin.

After Gin
Niki: Here's your dinner! I don't know if it's very nice or not, but never mind!
Dreamboat: How's your drink?
Niki: Oooh! There's still some in it! I'd better fix that!
Dreamboat: Would you like another?
Niki: Yes, please! It's bloody nice, isn't it? Thank you so much for making it for me!
(two gins later, while falling asleep on the couch)
Niki: Yeah, I don't think this Christmas will be too bad after all ...

So, if you're dreading the idea of cooking an emormous Christmas dinner, the leftovers of which you'll still be eating in the second week of January ... drink gin. If you're quaking at the thought of spending five hours with the in-laws, gnawing on leathery drumsticks while you watch your kids fight with their cousins over their toys ... drink gin. If vegetating in front of the TV watching the Queen's Christmas Message and praying your digestive system can handle the day's culinary onslaught just don't do it for you anymore ... drink gin and toast me in gratitude for helping you get through the day.

You may now thank me profusely. Then vote for the crappiest Christmas song of all time on the hot water 'let's get fucking festive' minipoll.

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Hedging bets on comments

Some of you might have noticed that the comments disappeared on Thursday. Every single one of the little bleeders, lovingly accrued over the last two and a half years.

I posted a plea for help on the enetation forum on Saturday but haven't yet heard back. I've had a look on other sites using enetation and whatever the problem is, it only seems to be affecting me.

I feel a certain amount of loyalty to enetation, as I do to anyone who offers a free service and then cops a lot of abuse from ignorant arseholes the minute something goes wrong. On the other hand, I'd really like to have a working commenting facility.

So I'm hedging my bets. I've installed HaloScan as an interim measure, but left the enetation code in the blog template in case one of their guys can work out what's wrong.

Did you need to know this? Probably not. But if someone from enetation comes a-visiting, I want them to know I'd rather have my two and a half years of comments back than desert them for another host.

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This year we're having an "Orphans' Christmas".

If you're not familiar with the term, an Orphans' Christmas is when you celebrate the joys of Yuletide without the company of family or friends. Perhaps, like us, you're living in a place where you don't know anyone. Or maybe you're just really unpopular.

Thanks to that habit the Dreamboat and I have of moving to new towns only a week or two before Christmas, this will be our third festive season of the "orphan" variety. The last one was just after our arrival in Karratha. The time before that was during our incarceration in Whyalla, South Australia.

I tend to get homesick at Christmas if I'm not spending it with my family in NZ. I miss the dramas, the endless cooking and the total bloody chaos that always characterises our get-togethers. Take last year, for instance. We'd arranged to cart an entire Christmas dinner for eleven people out to the farm where my youngest brother was living. Shortly before we were due to leave, he rang to announce that his temperamental water supply had been cut off and -- what with it being Christmas Day and all -- there was no hope of getting anyone out to fix it. We went anyway. Your badly-hungover Correspondent, forced by circumstance to drink more alcohol instead of the life-affirming H2O her beleaguered liver craved, spent the afternoon playing swingball with her nieces and peeing behind trees.

The original plan this year was to spend Christmas with the Dreamboat's family in Scotland. It's been a very long time since he last did this and Your Correspondent was wildly excited by the prospect of her first cold Christmas. But then there was the little matter of a wedding to be paid for ... so no mulled wine or Christmas Day Bond movie on the BBC for us.

Usually, I'm the one who gets all excited about Christmas trees and trappings. The guys who unpacked the moving truck on our arrival in Townsville either sensed this or just succumbed to a fit of sentimentality. Whatever the case, the box housing the tree was prominently placed on the floor next to the dining-room table, where it would've languished indefinitely if the Dreamboat hadn't taken action.

He'd obviously decided to inject some Christmas spirit gradually. First, he unpacked and set up the smaller tree. (Yeah, we have two. He bought the little one to take with us one year when we were travelling.) Then he plugged it in. It's one of those fibre-optic jobs and looks cool in a tacky sort of way. He smiled proudly. He frequently drew it to my attention, wearing a 'now it's your turn' expression.

After a day of this, I caved in and reluctantly hung our Santa and snowman door hangings from a couple of knobs. The Dreamboat was delighted. Sometimes I think he equates living with me to training an obstinate puppy.

On Saturday morning, emboldened by his success, he cast restraint to the winds and set up the big tree, with decorations located conveniently nearby. Then he went out.

I looked at it. I looked away. I wandered off and did something. I came back. I pictured tears welling in the husbandly eyes upon coming home to find the tree still bare. I draped some tinsel around it. I made a hot drink. I faffed around some more. I hung the lights. I rang my mother, the Dowager Empress. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, the decorations came out of their boxes and suspended themselves from the branches.

So now we have two Christmas trees standing side by side in the living-room. Orphans we might be this year, but at least the path from the festive table to the festive couch in front of the festive TV will be very well-lit.

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Letters in Response to Thursday's Events:

Dear Personal Trainer at Local Gym,

Let's face it, you sucked. I know I was spoilt for nineteen months in Karratha, training under fitness wunderkind Sam, but if you admit you don't know anything about ab exercises utilising a fitball, how can you honestly call yourself a trainer? You seem like a very nice person but I think I'll have more success if I write my own exercise programme. No hard feelings, etc.

********************

To the Woman in the Dark Blue 4WD

I'm not a mind-reader. I didn't realise you were expecting me to vacate my parking space immediately so you could slip into it. I thought you'd miscalculated your U-turn at the traffic lights, which is why I waited for you to go past before I pulled out. Waving your fist and mouthing obscenities at me while you accelerated by was not a good look.

You have no idea how glad I am that you didn't get the park. Serves you right for messing with someone who'd just been poorly personally trained.

********************

Dear Friendly Woman at the Dreamboat's Work Function

There's a line that should never be crossed. On one side of the line is low-alcohol beer and lots of water. On the other is red wine. I crossed that line, I admit it. Which is why the remark I made about your husband came out slightly skewed. What I meant to say was that he resembles the actor who plays Pippin in LOTR. I wasn't comparing him to a hobbit.

Hope you believe me and we can still be buddies.

********************

Dear Big Boss at the Dreamboat's Work

Your story was fascinating. It really was. It's just that I suddenly had this irresistible urge to be somewhere else and when the Dreamboat called me, I simply had to run to his side. Besides, there were two other people hanging on your every word. I'm sure you understand.

********************

Dear Guy Who Works with the Dreamboat

I'm sorry for brow-beating you about the Da Vinci Code, especially as we'd only just met and you said it was the first book you'd read in your adult life.

I still think you should read Holy Blood, Holy Grail next, though.

********************

Dear Dreamboat

Words cannot express how delighted I was this afternoon to hear you still have a job.

So when's the next piss-up?

********************

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Things to Do in Townsville, as Suggested by the Contents of Your Correspondent's Letterbox

On the one hand, we have this:

"You are invited to a Creative Memories Open Day ...

"Come along and enjoy a great day of fun and friendship while you learn to create meaningful photo albums that will last a lifetime ...

"Our experienced Consultants will be there to give you all the instruction and support you need to complete a special album page that you can proudly share with your family and friends. This page will be a reflection of you ..."

And on the other, we have the latest Neighbourhood Watch Newsletter:

"Wilful Damage: Yellow Excavator damaged, caused after offenders placed dirt in engine oil filter in Stage 1.3 on the estate -- $20,000-$30,000 damage done."

It's highly unlikely I'd ever engage in either activity, but I know which one sounds like more fun.

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After each time we've packed up and moved, I've gone through a phase of not wanting to leave the house. I dread walking out the front door. I look for excuses not to. It's as if my whole life shrinks to fit the dimensions of whatever new dwelling we find ourselves in.

How long this phase lasts and the degree of reluctance I experience seem to be directly related to the size of the city or town where we’ve moved. If it's a smallish place, I get over it after a week or two. If it's a large city, I end up having conversations with the Dreamboat like the one we had in Brisbane not long ago:

DB: Did you go out today?
Niki: Nah.
DB: How long has it been since you left this apartment?
Niki: Four days.
DB: Bloody hell.
Niki: And that’s a problem … why?
DB: Well ...
Niki: Look, don’t worry. I'll go out when I'm ready.

The Dreamboat has learned not to press the issue any time the 'when I'm ready' phrase is used. He knows the 'when I'm ready' phrase really means, "I adore you, O Light of My Life, but as it'll be totally fruitless to pursue the subject we've been discussing, I suggest you drop it so we can do something useful, like watching a movie and/or drinking wine."

This vague anxiety I always feel after a move isn't powerful enough to prevent me from doing what I have to do. I still go to the supermarket or wherever else I need to go. I do actually leave the house. I just don't want to.

I think part of the problem this time around is that we don't live in a 'street' or a 'road' or an 'avenue' or a 'crescent'. No, we live in a 'pocket'. I shit you not. When we have to inform someone of our new address, we insert ‘pocket’ in the bit where normal people with normal lives living in normal places insert ‘street’ or ‘terrace’.

The Dreamboat has a theory that a pocket, in this context, is a piece of bitumen that’s shaped like a table-tennis paddle and is too small to be called a cul-de-sac.

Let’s not forget, however, that a pocket is also where you put things for safe-keeping. It contains them. It keeps them close and confined. That’s what it’s designed to do.

So I'm trying to get to grips with the possibility that I may never escape. Long after my timorousness has evaporated and I’m raring to take on greater Townsville and its environs, my snug little pocket in the ‘burbs might refuse to release me. It'll permit me to go as far as the letterbox, but no farther. If I try to resist, I'll be brainwashed into docility by that sinister something-or-other that always hangs around eerily quiet new housing estates.

But even that has its consolations ... because when you consider that our neighbourhood appears to be infested with cane toads, being confined to quarters for the next twelve months may not be such a bad thing after all.

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The Week That Was

Well, the laptops are unpacked, along with most of our other worldly goods … all seventy-something boxes of them, plus furniture.

It’s bizarre to think that four short years ago we moved from Brisbane to Newcastle with everything we owned in the back of a Rav 4. Now we need a bloody shipping container to hold it all.

We arrived in Townsville late last Monday afternoon.

On Tuesday morning, we rocked up to the real estate agency to collect the keys to the house we’re renting. Your Correspondent struggled visibly to control her impatience as a bright, efficient young thing lectured us on the rules, regulations and restrictions governing the lease. The struggle was lost somewhere around the time we were warned there’d be random drive-by inspections of the front yard. That was when Your Correspondent made a pointed and very audible exclamation of disgust.

(brief rant) I mean, honestly. I know they have to do it; that they have no idea what sort of people we are and even though we look reasonably clean and harmless and respectable, appearances can be deceptive and all that, but I get so sick of this shit. I wish there was a database of Terrific Tenants we could get on to, so we wouldn’t have to sit through fucking inquisitions and lectures every time we move. I’m not getting any younger, y’know. (brief rant ends)

The furniture arrived on Wednesday and Your Correspondent cheerfully floundered through boxes and wrapping paper to create a workable kitchen.

On Thursday morning, after twenty-four hours involving three different flights (on her part) and a substantial amount of money (on mine), our cat was delivered from Karratha. Your Correspondent fell upon her joyfully. The cat’s response was somewhat more restrained, given that five months had passed since she’d last seen us and she’d subsequently forgotten who we were. The fact that she was totally freaked out and dehydrated and panting like a dog didn’t help either. Nevertheless, it took her all of two minutes to work out how to open every sliding wardrobe and cupboard door in the house, and within an hour she’d managed to shed five tonnes of fur on the couch, by which time I knew she’d settled in and life had returned to normal.

We spent our first night in our newly-functioning bedroom on Thursday as well. Setting up this room was a revelation for me: it turns out the Dreamboat owns four times as many clothes as I do. There’s a situation that needs redressing here -- no pun intended.

On Friday night we had our first run-in since the wedding … as happens when you’re trying to finally settle into a new life after five months of distinctly unsettled living. But at least our 'home theatre' was operational.

The weekend saw the return of connubial bliss and we celebrated by buying a new fridge. And a kettle. And assorted mixing bowls. And an iron. And alcohol. And a copy of Don Juan DeMarco. And then applying for a wireless broadband connection. And watching The Return of the King (special extended DVD edition). And yea, life was good.

Which brings us back to Monday. Today I tackled one of the biggest unpacking jobs of all – books, DVDs, videos and CDs. The sheer number of these rivals the contents of the Dreamboat’s wardrobe. All are now in their place. And in order. Heaven help the luckless soul who unwittingly messes any of them up. (The Dreamboat's response when he saw the fruits of my labour? "And you say I'm anal.")

So, now you're up to date with what's been going on and this rather ordinary entry concludes. That’s the problem with unpacking stuff and setting up a house -- it’s kind of boring. Just think of today’s post as a bit like the Book of Numbers in the Old Testament: tedious, but part of a greater whole.

Maybe I’ll smite someone tomorrow.

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And it's hie on over to Townsville

The Dreamboat and I are packing, cleaning, loading up the fiery chariot and in a couple of hours we'll be setting off to commence the next phase of Project: Drinking Our Way Around Australia. So I guess I should write something about Brisbane. A wee tribute, if you like.

It’s not easy. I’ve lived in Queensland’s capital twice in the last five years, for a combined total of only five-and-a-half months, so I’m not exactly what you’d call ‘intimate’ with the city. Brisbane is where I mark time. It’s the place where I live while I’m waiting to live somewhere else. You could say that in the ongoing journey of Your Correspondent’s life, Brisbane is basically one big transit lounge.

Having said all that, I like the place. I do. It’s sexy, it’s vibrant, the climate’s great, the restaurants are terrific (especially this place and this place and the wonderful Savini at Kangaroo Point), and how could I not think fondly of the city where the Dreamboat and I tied the knot?

And that's all there's time for. Back in a few days, superheroes. Play nicely while I'm gone.

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I'll be in so much trouble for posting this ...

Scene: It's Tuesday night. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent are sitting on the couch. We've watched some TV but now there's nothing decent on. The Dreamboat is wearing a gym singlet. Your Correspondent is grabbing small tufts of his underarm hair and rubbing them between her thumb and middle finger so they stand out like quills. She calls these little sculptures ‘twiddles’.

The Dreamboat really, really hates twiddles.

Niki: Should I let my own armpits grow?
DB: If you want.
Niki: Would you like it if I had hairy pits?
DB: Wouldn’t bother me either way.
Niki: Have you ever had any other women with hairy pits?
DB: I don’t know.
Niki: What do you mean, you don’t know? Surely you would’ve noticed.
DB: Alright then … not as far as I can recall.
Niki: What about if I shaved my head? Or got a Number Two on top and a Number One on the sides like you do? And then dyed it green?
DB: Up to you.
Niki: Would you be ashamed to introduce me to all your new friends in Townsville?
DB: No.
Niki: But would you like it?
DB: You’d look a bit strange …
(pause)
Niki: What about if I shaved off my eyebrows?
DB: Don’t do that.
Niki: Why not?
DB: Just don’t.
Niki: Can I shave off your eyebrows?
DB: No.
Niki: What about your pits?
DB: No.
Niki: Your legs?
DB: No.
Niki: What about your (censored)?
DB: No.
Niki: Can I write about this on the blog?
DB: NO.
Niki: Can I make up your face? Just to see what it’d look like?
DB: No.
(pause)
DB: What’s up?
Niki: I’m bored.
DB: I know.

It's uncanny, the way he can tell ...

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On the long road trip from Karratha to Brisbane, the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent fell passionately in love.

No, not with each other, you silly wee organisms. We did that already. I'm talking about something different. I'm talking about the morning we woke up and realised we were besotted with …

… photography.

Yes, photography. Beautiful photography. Pert little pictures in perfect focus. Luscious landscapes dripping with saturated colours. Insightful images. Superb snaps.

To feed our burgeoning obsession, we started purchasing photography magazines every chance we got. We’d lurk in the dark corners of small-town newsagents, salivating copiously. We’d stride down the aisles of city book-sellers, barely in control. We browsed. We bought. We spent a fucking fortune.

The idea behind all this was to become world-famous landscape photographers/travel writers who wander around the world wearing those groovy vest things with all the little pockets, enjoy extended lunches with our publishers and sell framed pics for exorbitant prices through our über funky gallery chain.

We figured six months would be a reasonable time-frame for the acquisition of ‘world-famous’ status. Your Correspondent’s well on the way already -- what with being a blogging superstar and all -- and the Dreamboat’s always been a total legend by virtue of having been born in the first place. Plus, after all those hours spent poring over photography magazines we’re now total experts. We are so up with all the jargon world-famous photographers use: Aperture. Exposure. Etc.

Which meant it was time to get serious. Your Correspondent’s little Samsung 35mm compact had served her faithfully over a number of years and captured some stunning images of drunk people at barbeques in our backyard at Karratha, but it wasn’t really up to the task of shooting stuff that would enable her to retire in eighteen months’ time and live off her investments.

The Dreamboat’s Nikon 2MP digital compact, by contrast, was more than up to the task … or would have been if he hadn’t dumped a load of dripping washing on top of it at the Mornington Wildlife Sanctuary and rooted it forever.

So it was back to our magazines to work out what sort of serious equipment we serious photographers owed it to ourselves to acquire. The Dreamboat decided early: nothing less than the Nikon D70 digital SLR would do. This animal has won truckloads of awards and is generally considered to be the best thing invented since the clitoris.

Your Correspondent, however, dithered. Most people seemed to agree digital was the way to go. Most people thought that film was dying a slow death. Most people didn’t take into account the perversity inherent in Your Correspondent’s nature. Which is why she opted for a 35mm SLR.

So in the week between Honeymoons #1 and #2, I dipped into my rapidly dwindling funds and became the proud owner of a second-hand Nikon F-801 with Nikkor AF 50mm and 28mm prime lenses, an instruction manual, a polarising filter, a little SB-30 flash unit, a green camera bag and three rolls of Sensia slide film.

I packed up the lot, clipped the bag around my waist and took it to Vanuatu. It was bloody heavy. My back ached whenever I wore it. Despite frequent encouragement from the Dreamboat, the camera never saw the light of day until just before we were due to come home. I shot one roll of film on Bokissa Island and most of a second in Port Vila.

The Dreamboat was puzzled by my reluctance. What was the problem? Why didn’t I want to take pictures? What happened to becoming rich and famous and never having to work again? It didn’t make sense.

The truth was, I was shit-scared of my new camera.

I didn’t want to let it do anything automatically. I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted to twiddle around and adjust stuff on pure instinct and produce award-winning pics every time. However life, as I'm sure you're aware, is not like that. Instinct is all very well but it's still a good idea to know what the hell you’re doing.

I got the Bokissa Island roll developed in Brisbane. Eight of the twenty-four shots were so over-exposed the slides were virtually clear. Of the remaining sixteen, three were reasonable … if you ignored their overwhelmingly strong blue cast.

I don’t know to what degree being scared of your equipment hinders your ability to become a world-famous photographer but I’ve decided to press on regardless. My camera may be languishing in its bag as I write, but I’ve always got the jargon to fall back on. I can still talk the talk. Like in that camera shop in Townsville last week, for instance, where I had lots of fun asking the guy behind the counter where he sent slide films for processing and did he have plenty of Fuji Velvia and, if not, how long would it take to get it in and did he stock Manfrotto tripods, etc.

He answered my questions and looked very impressed. He knew he was dealing with a pro. When I turned to leave he said, “Come back and see us, won’t you?”

I inclined my head regally, swept out the door and then spent the next half-hour struggling to silence that scornful little voice in my head: You're completely and utterly full of it. Pathetic!

I really wish the Dreamboat would hurry up and get his D-70 so we could both be scared of our cameras and not have to feel guilty about never taking them out of their bags. It worked with the roller blades ...

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