You can never feel lost

Four years ago, after a particularly testing series of events in Perth, I decided to run away for a while. Feeling like I had lost myself, the only logical solution was to lose myself some more – in the Queensland outback.

After months of travelling deeper and deeper into isolation – through cane fields and empty pastures and rainforests and ghost towns – I found myself in Surfers Paradise. At the time I couldn’t think of a worst place to live. All of the pollution, run-down theme parks, doped-out surfers and silicone-boobed bimbos. And yet, for all of its hyperreal ugliness, the Gold Coast gave me everything that I needed – serenity, clarity and… inspiration.

But, most importantly, the Gold Coast gave me Dominique.

A week after arriving, I moved in with Adam – the quintessential ‘Paradise’ bloke: architect, surfer and commodore enthusiast. As the rental section of Paradise News had brought us together, I had low expectations of us becoming friends. To my surprise, within a week of sharing abode, I discovered that Adam was not only the sort of guy who would put the toilet seat down, he was also deep-thinking, honest and kind.

It made sense, then, that his girlfriend at the time, Dominique, would be equally wonderful. Dom and I would spend hours on Adam’s balcony, talking about our lives, loves, hopes, dreams and sporadic nicotine habits. I stayed with Adam for no longer than 4 months yet, in that time, I felt like Dominique was one of my closest friends.

Sadly, after I moved back to Perth, we didn’t keep in touch. We both had busy lives and lazy email practices, but somehow I knew that we would cross paths again. The last place I imagined this path to be was London…

Four years later, Dom and I work within 2 streets of one another, continue to share sneaky cigarettes and long conversations, and have as much to talk about as ever. I don’t care what anyone says, sometimes running away does help to solve your problems. With friends like Dom, you can never feel lost.

A very happy unbirthday to me

Every day that isn’t my birthday, I sigh with relief. It’s not that I’m scared of getting old – I’m actually very excited about being able to wear comfortable shoes and ill-fitting leisure wear without being scorned upon by my peers. And don’t even start me on the thrillingly lazy prospect of using a commode.

What bothers me about birthdays is all of the fuss: the cards, the presents, the parties and, most gruesome of all, the obligations. There is no other day in the year when I would so much as consider mixing completely incompatible groups of friends, let alone work colleagues, in a tiny enclosed space. More so I would never sentence myself to any situation whereby my presence is suddenly so illustrious that the mere act of blowing out candles rouses applause.

Birthdays are a performance, a Broadway extravaganza with no interlude and no chance of escape. And I'm no Ethel Merman. Every other day of the year, my mostly serene disposition is an accepted (and possibly admired) part of my persona. But, on the magical day of my birth, demonstrate even a hint of introversion, disinterest or modesty, and the world feels rejected. Give me unbirthdays any day.

There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life.Music & Cats.
- Albert Schweitzer

I like people who like cats

Despite the common misconception that cat-lover is another term for ugly lesbian, feline fans possess a certain grace, dignity and charm. Dogs need constant affirmation and so do their owners. They are high maintenance and self-involved. Look at me. Love me. Play with me. Huh, huh, huh.

Cat lovers, like their pets, are most often peaceful and self-contained. They would prefer to sit for hours in the sun, meditating on the mystery of their existence, than running from activity to activity. Frisby. Running. Food. Cat lovers are more dreamy than they are productive, more imaginative than they are practical. I like people who like cats.

I dream of wearing elegant shoes that tap tap tap on the pavement with that delightful 'busy professional' echo.

Comfort shoes are no comfort

When I was a child, my ultimate idea of being an adult was defined by a sound. TAP. TAP. TAP. The echo of my mother’s high-heels on the pavement. For obvious reasons, namely my large hoofers and the fact that my height already equals four pairs of stilettos, I will never experience this thrilling resonance. I am sentenced to a life of converse sneakers, sensible flats, moccasins and… silence.

Why is it that shoe companies assume that ladies with big feet have terrible taste, no personality and/or are over 60? Comfort is not the main thing. Comfortable shoes are no comfort to me. With my luck, this predicament will not be rectified until I am 80. I can just picture myself with my pastel nylon dress, visor, support tights and devastating pair of Marc Jacobs kitten heels. Then, and only then, will I finally feel like an adult.

Bums don’t always smell

As much as I wanted to catch the express train home from Heathrow Airport, cutting down the journey by at least an hour, my meagre funds simply wouldn’t allow it. No-one likes facing the London Underground after a glorious holiday: transferring lines, lugging 20 kilos of luggage across gaps and over platforms and up stairs, in 28 degree weather (which equals 40 degrees in the tube milieu). There was little chance of the Spanish biscotti, I’d so kindly brought back for my colleagues, surviving intact. But, sooner or later, I knew that I had to plunge back into reality.

Close eyes.
Inhale.
You can do this Louise.
Buy ticket with last £3.80.
Enter train number one…

Enter malodorous looking homeless man. As he stood beside me, holding onto the railing with both hands (thus exposing his damp armpits to the United Kingdom), I suspected that this plunge back into reality would need to be executed with tightly blocked nostrils.

My spirit fading along with my holiday glow, something of a miracle occurred. The aroma of sweet lavender soap suddenly drifted into my nose. It was a scent that I hadn’t experienced for a long time, not since living in the country, not since hugging my grandmother. Surrounded by perspiring Englishmen wielding cans of beer, I was utterly perplexed: from whom did this heavenly bouquet originate?

And then it hit me.

It was coming from the homeless man. Despite his stained clothes, bare-feet and abundance of plastic bags, he smelt wonderful. I had learnt an important lesson - bums don’t always smell. If only more bums smelt like this, I would become the
donating, philanthropic type. 'Oh, go on, buy yourself a lovely bar of lavender soap!'