It was my last day of work today. It may be lame to admit, but I keen (almost anxious) to launder my uniform, just so I can officially ziplock it away for the next year.
I fly out on May 28th and won't be putting my nose back to grindstone until March 2012. That is if I find a job.
But I will be keeping busy with my freelance writing. In fact I'll be reviewing these native Perth boys tomorrow night and I'm pretty damn excited as I feel like dancing. I do, I do.
I’m closing the book. Change is a foot.
I’ve just pressed send on an important email. Yes Sir/Madame, I’m putting in my notice. I am resigning.
Now I’ve only got a handful of days (and many, many Easter eggs) - till I’m a ramblin’ vagabond.
I spend about forty hours a week with people aged eighty plus. The topics of conversation range from bung hips, that silly Charlie Sheen, gammy knees to how bizarre Ellen DeGeneres’s dancing is.
But the quirky diversity of our conversations has frizzled out the past few weeks. We've become focused (perhaps fixated) on the upcoming Royal Wedding.
I was never much of a royal watcher. In fact I didn’t realise how many publications are dedicated to just that – watching Royals. But I’ve been swept up in the hysteria. We sigh and moan over the possible colour pallet of the wedding day, debate whether the couple will kiss on the balcony, reminiscent about William’s once luscious head of hair and ponder if any corgies will be present.
The ladies cross their knitting needles and click their tongues in exasperation, that the event is still two weeks away.
Then I found 'Knit Your own Royal Wedding', the knitting group could easily whip up a wedding in a week. Then once all the hoopla is over we can still get the Queen to dance Ellen style
I used to work in a dressmaking department. I was never celebrated for cutting straight lines, in fact I was rubbish at it and always sneakily added an extra 20cm to each costumer’s request to make up for my lack of scissor skills.
When not acting as a renegade sales assistant behind the counter, I took pleasure in keeping the rolls of fabric tightly wrapped and evenly spaced on the shelves. Needless to say this was a fruitless task as chaos reigned as soon as the costumers came into the store each day.
So I find these pictures all rather pleasing to the eye.
I finished my new grad year yesterday. I thought I would be high fiving every man and his dog, yet I felt melancholy that it was all over.
To cheer myself up I scrolled through my playlist and stumbled across Soko.
A couple of years back I saw Soko playing at Sunset sounds, “I’ll Kill her” had been on high rotation on triple J for the last 6 months – after hearing it thirty odd times I started to hate the song with a passion.
Given there was nothing else of note playing during her festival time slot I decided to give Soko a shot. A petite French girl with a cheeky demeanour hit the stage – after one song I was intrigued. By three songs in I was a fan. By five songs I was filing it away as one of the top 10 gigs I been.
Then her voice turned gravelly and a tear trickled down her face, suddenly it built up into a torrent of tears. Yet she kept singing about dandy cowboys, baby cats and wet dreams. The crowd started to call out, asking her what was wrong, people offered hugs, speculation that someone she knew passed away or that she had a broken heart ran rampant. Yet she kept battling through the songs. Finally with one song to go she announced in her lilting accent that she was retiring.
Gosh it’s sad when a good thing comes to an end.
Especially when you didn't realise how good it was till it was gone.
