Warming up with Brandi

Some people like a tissue, some toilet paper, others a towel.

I met Brandi when she was a waitress. She was the kind of girl men looked at. Blonde hair and a tight body. A great smile. Warm and friendly. She was easy going and had few expectations from life. Uncomplicated in her attitude. She was also a few credits short of a nursing qualification but I wasn't sure she'd ever finish her course. I don't think she was either.

Brandi chose her men much like she chose her birth control. She was messy with it. And at 26 years old she had a young daughter to prove it. The daddy wasn't around. Not that she didn't know who he was, they'd even tried to make it work for a little while. He just decided fatherhood wasn't for him and moved back to his hometown.

So waitressing in a small logging town she'd meet all kinds of men. Most of them single. Desperate for company. Always trying to get close to her. When there was little industry there were also few people who stayed. With four or five dollar stores and bargain centres on the main street, the town wore it's economic climate on its sleeve.

Brandi's older brother was married with kids and ran the local Doggie Daycare. I knew him from dropping the dog off. He was outdoorsy type in a wilderness community, so Brandi was introduced to many of his friends. Mountain bikers, mountain climbers, kayakers and kiteboarders. The guy she was seeing when we met was a mountain biker and appeared to be much like her. Easy on the eye but not much driving force to do more than enjoy the things he enjoyed doing. And Brandi was one of those things.

When they got together there was fire. It was frantic. Fun. They'd drink together and laugh out loud around the pool table. And Brandi had that air of someone who liked sex. She was sexy. Perky little breasts and a tight ass that looked great in jeans. The way she looked at him when he came in to pick her up after shift told you that they had a good time.

One day she was running late for work and threw on her clothes from the night before. She always looked disheveled her clothes unironed, bleached blonde hair carelessly pulled back. Waitressing at the pub the only real uniform requirement was the apron they gave you.

After a couple of hours on the floor running between the kitchen and the bar, Brandi started to warm up. She started sweating. Putting down plates of burgers and fries at a table of guys, they asked for tomato sauce and as she walked to the waiter's station to get it that's when she could smell it. The distinct smell of sex. She knew she hadn't showered but that wasn't it. She actually smelt like cum. She walked the sauce back to their table and went to the bathroom to check herself out. She washed her hands and smelt her armpits, cupped her hand over her mouth and breathed out, washed her face and the back of her neck, but nothing. There was nothing crusty in her hair. Turning around slowly in the mirror front, then back. Nothing on her shirt. Nothing on her skirt. It was as she was turning back, filled with confusion when she finally saw it. There it was. The culprit. She'd almost missed it. Between the shoulder blades, across the back of her black t-shirt was a white snail trail. The heat of her body warming it up until it gave off it's scent. His cum.

That's when it dawned on her. She'd reached down on the floor after sex and grabbed whatever she could find to wipe off and hadn't remembered she'd used her t-shirt until it was too late. Once she was busy at work. With only the clothes on her back. Her body had warmed up and revealed all. For all those around her to see and smell.

Some people like a tissue, some toilet paper, others a towel. Brandi, she uses her clothes. And that day, everyone in the pub knew it.

What a boob!

I admit it. I’ve been involved in drunken sexual experimentation all in the name of science.

I have at least four friends who have had breast augmentation – a boob job, fake breasts implanted, their tits perfected. I say at least because I've been caught out. The first girlfriend, I had no idea she had even had it done because I have a theory that everybody gets something. Some girls a pretty face, some a spectacular set of boobs. So it just never occurred to me that hers weren’t real.

We’d spent a night drinking red wine. Several bottles because we worked for a man who had unlimited funds and an outdoor cellar with plenty of wine on hand. Rumour had it the wine had frozen over the winter and was no longer any good anyway. We didn’t care. It did the job. Relieved our boredom and kept us chattering and entertained for hours every night after work.

So we were drunk and talking about sex, as girls do, and we got around to breasts when all was revealed. From then on all I could think was I wanna touch them. I want to know what they feel like? What guys feel? I knew her chesticles looked good, better than my soft and ever descending real ones, that had I had the choice would have been much smaller. Much easier to run with and much less likely to be the first thing that men looked at when they looked at me. But alas that was not the case and I grew to love them over the years.

My friend was down with me going the grope because she was a bit drunk and is good like that. I knew a male colleague or two had already had the chance to feel them and she's very comfortable in her own skin. So as we stood there in our clothes face to face, me with one of her breasts in my hand, and she with one of mine in hers, I could feel the firmness of breast that had eluded me all those years.

And while they certainly don’t feel natural they don’t feel bad. They're not little rocks. Rounded on top yes but the implant is pliable. Once it’s warmed up every morning that is. It would seem like just another chore in my day to have to rub my breasts into shape. But I guess I might find the time if I no longer had to fold them into my bra though.

It’s hard to get past the fact that fake boobs look good too. In such a visual world, no sag at the side in a sleeveless shirt and nipple not pointing somewhat south would be nice. Being braless without a sweat building up under them in summer would make me happy too. There's an American comedian who does a great bit about giving it to your woman from behind and knowing that you're really good if the titties are swinging around like a propeller. Every time I bend over and get a pendulum happening I'm reminded of his comedy.

African Jungle titties was what I renamed my girls after breastfeeding two kids! Well they were babies, I'm not one of those crazy ladies that feeds her kids breast milk into their toddler years.

Photo courtesy of National Geographic Magazine 1959

My other girlfriends have had their boob jobs more recently and all felt they had nothing if not very little to begin with. And they wanted to look different to men. I guess that if I felt I’d never had much breast then I might be envious of other women who have bigger ones. I just don’t look at women that way. It never occurs to me whether women have big or small breasts. Unless of course they're so big you can't help but wonder how much back pain the woman has? Punky Brewster had that problem and had a reduction from memory. 

I don’t identify myself as different to men because of my breasts. There are plenty of other reasons I've been shown to be different to men and most of them are less what a man sees physically and more the way a man perceives himself in relation to the role of his mother. 

I'm not silly. I  know men look at my breasts and I’ve gotten better about showing them off and not trying to hide them. I just never wanted them to be their sole focus. Two lumps of flesh under my chin more interesting than my face or my personality. More often than not blocking my vision of my feet and pulling my back forwards. The twin peaks as some call them. Well not mine if I'm flat on my back. More like two fried eggs each yolk trying to flee as far as possible under my armpits from the other.

Women love to call other women out for having had a boob job. As if they've done something wrong by trying to buy a place to stop their necklace from swinging around their neck when they walk. As if they're wrong for trying to draw the attention of men, when a basic need for many is the love of the opposite sex and/or procreation. As if women with fake boobs have some sort of secret power they don't have. With a bit of effort anyone can decorate a cake to make it look tasty. It's not about having fancy ingredients. 

If I’d paid to have bigger breasts then I’d need to have them on display at all times. After all, based on what I’m told, I think that’s why women get implants, to be recognized as feminine. And you don't buy a boat to keep it in the garage under a tarp.

What would you prefer? Bigger? Smaller? Or perfectly content with what I have?

ps When one friend recently had her boobs upgraded I asked her to request to keep her original set. And she did. The doctor put them in a little box for me and I will keep them as an antique for my daughter. One day she may be able to sell them on ebay as a collectors item. Like an original Mac Computer!

I love myself, I want you to touch me

I'm one of those people who loves to be touched by strangers. I'll even pay good money to have someone touch me. And it's completely random too. When the mood takes me I just decide I need to be touched and find someone who'll do it. And then we arrange a fee for said touching. It's a simple exchange really.

I have trouble understanding anyone who doesn't love it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love to be touched by people I know too. Especially because they rarely request a financial transaction to do so. But when there's money involved it can be easier. Easier to get the feeling required. With people I know it can be difficult to demand it how I like it.

I was last touched in Fiji. I paid good money to a young girl. Nui was her name. Not too young mind you, at least in her twenties but definitely younger than me. And her age was not something I chose. She was simply interested in touching. And she was nice too. That helps.
Nui is still looking for the right person to be her partner for life, so until she has babies, touching is her thing. We shared a little personal information, you see. Some idle chatter to break the ice.

People spend all sorts of money to feel good about themselves. Dressing themselves in pretty clothes, riding around in fancy cars, getting haircuts, tattoos and fake breasts, paying for sex, going out to events and dance parties, drinking only the high-end alcohols, taking holidays...

Me, I like the touch of another human pressing on my skin and rubbing away 

all of my bodies stresses. Being massaged is my special treat to myself.

It's unfathomable that the human body doesn't take a beating every day in one way or another. And while the body's very equipped for the amount of stress on muscles, organs and even the skin as it carries the mind through life, its very helpful to allow those stresses to be released. Its both relaxing and refreshing.

Sure a good hot bath can work wonders too. But physical touch is known to keep us connected as humans. To keep reminding us of our spiritual side.

I've had many massages over the years, some paid, some free! And I often buy massages for friends and family as gifts.

I've fallen asleep during a massage or two, even snoring. Knowing I was snoring because it was so loud I woke myself.

I've been massaged fully clothed, which was kind of like being stretched by another person. Think chewy that you pulled from your mouth as a child while you held the other end between your teeth. Nonetheless something I would do again.

And I've had my bare breasts massaged by a lady whose young children played on a mat beside us. Ah Thailand, land of the happy ending, for both men and women I guess?
(Mind you I was never massaged in the golden triangle, so the titty rub might be as far as they go with women? Not that I asked for it either. It was quite a surprise! And it's a funny feeling trying to decide if you will offend someone by saying 'no rub my boobies please' so I just let it happen. Chalked it up to yet another experience.)

I like it hard. I like long strokes, cupping, shiatsu, pounding, kneading and I love hot rocks.

It is the kindness of these complete strangers that touch upon which I rely.

It can't be easy to be presented with a naked body in all it's shapes and sizes and knead away at it, having to touch bumps, lumps, scars, crevasses and all types of moles and holes until relaxation creeps over the soul. Wondering if your touch is a wanted touch? An enjoyable touch? 

I've never been massaged by a man I didn't know. And just realizing that, I will make it my next massage experience. I know they're out there. Massage men for hire. My only worry is that the touch of a man I don't know might not feel the way the touch of a woman does? It might feel better? I might like it in a whole other way?

Music for White People

Some things are inappropriate, simply because times have changed. Just ask Paula Dean or more recently at Halloween, Julianna Hough. Both of whom have been considered to be disrespectful to black people. Is that the right word? Black? Or is coloured the preferred term and if so preferred by whom? It's not my intention to offend.

I tend to be drawn to things that are controversial though. And to me, often inappropriate is up to the individual.

I bought this sheet music at an auction house many years ago. It cost me $10. I wish it wasn’t ripped but that's another story. Its still a very good sign of the times and how they have changed. Back then it wasn’t considered inappropriate by many people. It was entertainment. Today however some of the songs are likely very offensive.

But I’m still fascinated. Look at songs. My favourites are 'Mary’s gone with a Coon' and 'My best friend was Mother.' Not songs that would be appreciated today. As far as I know Minstrel performances no longer exist, so they're quite out of context simply as sheet music. It’s still amazing to think that these songs would have been written, played on the piano and possibly even recorded. Mind you future generations (even my own right now) might think the same of Miley Cyrus's song Wrecking Ball with accompanying horrible video!

Additionally the picture of the man on the cover of the book, I'm guessing was to encourage sales of the sheet music. Its Billy Kersands. He was a black comedian-dancer and very popular in his day, particularly for his work in blackface minstrelsy. In his performance he is thought to have been able to find a balance between trying not to reinforce the negativity of social sterotypes and enjoying social satire.

I wonder if Ms Barwell, whose name is in handwriting at the top of my sheet music and whom I imagine to be a white lady, had any opposition to learning these songs or whether she entertained others with her renditions on Sunday afternoons?

Beach Bum

Backpacking around the US I met Mike. We were staying at the same hostel in South Beach, Miami. He was fresh from interviews hoping for work on Sovereign of the Sea, a Carnival Cruise Liner. I was simply on holiday. Enjoying a break from real life and catching up with a friend.

Mike was from Canada and he liked a drink. So did I. So we spent the fair part of a week at the beach or in the South Beach bars. It was great.

In an area with a lot of homeless people, particularly because of the warmer weather, the hostel would lock the front doors after a certain time and you would simply buzz the buzzer, look through the glass doors and either wave if you knew the person on the desk, announce your room number or hold up your key.

I’d worked in hostels on a previous trip to the US so I knew how important it was to feel safe as the desk clerk but I also wanted to feel safe inside as a guest. The system worked for all.

More often than not, we left at a reasonable hour and after the 'triple D': dinner, drinking and dancing, we would come back at a very unreasonable hour. It was not unusual to break off from our bigger group of traveller's socializing, made up of Brits, Aussies, the Canadian and an Israeli, into smaller groups. Not everyone wanted to get messy and all the guys were always trying to get laid so we would often walk home without them.

Mike was a happy-go-lucky guy with a gap between his teeth that made him remind me of the kid on the Mad Magazine. He was obviously more handsome than that kid. One night we went out with a couple of hostel newcomers and Mike gravitated to the German girl Elke. She was nice and she had a smokin’ body.

When the rest of the group headed back to the hostel they came back with us. So it was strange in the morning when the desk clerk from the night before was telling everyone that Mike and Elke had come back to the hostel at 5am, and had to buzz for entry. The desk clerk said she was wearing only her top and underwear and he was in her jeans.

Word to the wise and doe-eyed traveler, nothing is sacred in a hostel. Everyone knows everyone’s business.

After we’d gotten back to the hostel Mike and Elke decided to take a walk along the beach. The stars were out, the waves were rolling into shore, so they sat down and were kissing on the sand. One thing led to another and they decided that with no one around they’d have sex. Mike removed his clothes and put them in a pile beside them and he lay down on top of her.

They were getting their groove on when from the darkness a homeless guy ran up and grabbed Mike’s clothes and ran off down the beach. Mike gave chase but it was fruitless. The guy was too fast and Mike had left a half naked woman alone on the beach where they’d just been robbed.

So naked and without clothes, he had to wear Elke’s tiny jeans back to the hostel and she wore only her top and undies.

If it wasn’t for the loose lips of the desk clerk, forty other strangers might not know of Mike’s embarrassingly funny night on a Miami beach!

Get in the back baby - Lets take a ride

I love old advertisements.

They're wonderful to look at and this one is from a much more civilized era. Gloves, hats, ties and men sat in the back. Apparently he simply swung in and stretched out. This car was all about the roominess. 

Not the miles to the gallon, not the engine, not the safe tires or the fact that it was a lovely mint green but it's appeal was in the ability to ride with your briefcase or your friends beside you!

Courtesy of National Geographic Magazine

When I'm looking for a new car it's all about whether I can fit the car seats in - so maybe they were actually onto something back in 1959!

What Rubbish

The same Judith Reyne, Vice Principal of my school as mentioned yesterday, is the mother of James and David Reyne. James being the lead singer of Australian Crawl, popular band in the 1980’s. Now an independent recording artist. And David, being an actor and musician who has enjoyed a full and long career, in various areas of the Australian Media Industry. Most recently I think I heard his voice as the voice-over for The Apprentice Australia?

Photo Credit: Zimbio.com

As the Year 12 students were looking towards careers beyond school many successful people in a variety of fields would come to the school to talk to them. Mrs. Reyne was instrumental in having one of her son’s come and talk to the girls about their careers and what they did to get into the Media Industry. One year it was James then next it was David.

There was always rumour of when they were coming. And the same girlfriend who would sneak into town with me for chips and gravy had an older sister who had told her David Reyne was coming this particular year and at what time. His arrival was scheduled for after recess. So my friend Vanessa and I decided to be late for class and wait and watch for him to arrive. Maybe even meet him?

Knowing we would be in trouble for being late to class outweighed the opportunity to meet a celebrity. So after hearing the bell we casually gathered our books and took our time getting ready for class. We loitered at our lockers and walked slowly towards the classroom. There was something nice about being the only people wandering outside classrooms as classes were happening around us. And it was a lovely spring day too. The air had the promise of summer not far away.

We walked and talked and headed in the direction of our classroom and soon we were rewarded with a glimpse of David and Mrs. Reyne walking towards us. We nudged each other and tried to stifle our nervous giggling. Our plan had worked and as they got closer we presented as the young ladies we were supposed to be.

“Hello Mrs. Reyne” we both chimed as she walked towards us, hoping for an introduction. Me personally hoping that David simply fell in love with me on the spot and we would wander off into the sunset together.

“Hello girls.” She then pointed to the ground. “Could you please pick up this rubbish and put it in the bin on your way to class?”

“Yes” we chimed looking down, both incredibly deflated. Our one chance to meet a celebrity and we were asked to perform the degrading task of picking up someone else’s discarded rubbish, right there in front of him.

How embarrassing!

Here's the Punch Judy

I struggled though the last few years of senior school. I was restless and bored. I’d been working part time at Kmart for a couple of years and had enjoyed the freedom of having my own money. I wanted to work in film and yet my school curriculum was geared towards maths and sciences. Something I was also good at but had little interest in. If it didn’t interest me I didn’t want to do it.

I chose courses that seemed fun. Things I could do easily and one of them was Squash. Squash meant that we had to walk off the school grounds to the courts. You were never allowed to leave the school grounds during the day. The school was responsible for you from the minute you go there in the morning until the end of the day.

After squash it was recess, and once the Phys. Ed teacher drove past us in her car back to the school, I would persuade my girlfriend to come with me into town where we’d buy hot chips smothered in gravy. In turn we’d be the envy of many other students who were only able to buy health foods from our tuck shop.

The powers that be would always get wind of our detour and invariably I’d end up in the Vice Principal’s office. I liked to say I had my own chair in there. In Year 7 I’d been called in as part of a group suspected of writing “Yvette M is a dirty red rag” on a classroom blackboard and while I had no involvement it was a scary time. By my final years I didn’t care. My parents had paid so many fees for my schooling over the years that I felt the school was in no position to kick me out. Especially not for simply walking into town at recess.

Mrs. Judith Reyne was the then Vice Principal and she was a well-spoken lady with a gentle touch. When I think of her I’m reminded of the Queen. Other Vice Principals over the years had been a little more aggressive when they were forced to correct behaviour. Mrs Reyne tried to work out what the problems I was having were and tried to appeal to my intelligence. I can still hear her now reasoning with me about why the school had rules and why I should be able to follow them. I liked her. But she still had a job to do and if anything I felt I was letting her down.

I was 19 years old when I went to work for an Actor’s Agent. Stacey. She’s a whole other story but to cut a long story short, years after I worked for Stacey, Jennifer Saunders would do a perfect impersonation of her in her sitcom Absolutely Fabulous, down to the relationship with her daughter, Saffron in the sitcom, Gretchen in real life.

Stacey represented many actors I recognised from Australian film and television and I was delighted to be interacting with them and having inside knowledge of their careers. I basked in my role as receptionist, talking with them, making tea and coffee and updating their biographies. It was a fantastic introduction to the Media Industry.

All of the actor’s headshots were stuck on the wall. Men on one side, women of the other, in no particular order. Well not that the actors nor I knew of. This allowed Stacey, when discussing a casting opportunity with a casting director, the ability to see who might be suitable to present as a good fit for the role. It was there I saw my Vice Principal, Judith’s face on the wall. She was an actor prior to her role as a teacher and Vice Principal and was now pursuing acting professionally fulltime. Stacey had agreed to represent her.

Photo Credit to Wentworth Cell Block H (AKA Prisoner) www.wwwentworth.co.uk

It was an interesting day when Judith visited her agent. The former troubled student now knew about the former Vice Principal’s career and had access to her contact details. On this day, the former Vice Principal was offered a chair in my office!

More Colourful than a Black and White Movie

My grandmother was from another time. In fact I watched so many matinee movies with her over the years that I actually thought she was originally from a black and white world, where all people did was sing and dance. It didn’t occur to me that the film simply didn’t have colour and that the dresses, coats and hats were possibly red, green or even lavender.

Gran only wore dresses and stockings. I don’t think she even owned a pair of shorts. Or a pair of socks for that matter! She was well into her 70’s when we finally got her to wear a comfortable pair of tracksuit pants. Of course, they were never worn outside. That would be unheard of.

For cooler days she wore hand-knitted cardigans. Long coats if she had to go out into the weather. I can still feel the soft wool of her cardigan against me as I hugged into her. I was ever careful of her lovely brooches too.

When she went out she carried a large black material bag. The bag was big enough to carry everything she needed. Her purse, if it was likely to rain an umbrella and a lottery satchel – she played the same numbers for years. No such thing as a quick pick back then.

She had her knitting in a small satchel in there that she'd produce at the footy or a weekend BBQ. Gran was always knitting something for herself, my grandfather or baby clothes for the hospital auxiliary. She made clothes for my dolls too.

And somewhere deep in the bottom, was an occasional chocolate bar or bag of chips for us grandkids. I loved that bag for all it held. It was not unlike Mary Poppins bag I guess, although I never saw her pull a hat stand out of it.

When I had a sleepover at her house I’d wake early and she would already be up with the tv on, sitting in front of the fire, a New Idea magazine on her lap and a cup of tea on her side-table. Pyjamas were not an option. That’s what men wore. She always wore a nighty with a dressing gown over the top. The nighty’s length was always well below the knee.

On her dresser was a powder that she would pat on her face. I would watch her comb her hair and fluff it up ready for the day. It never hung limp like mine. For special occasions and when her hair had lost  its body she went to the hairdresser and had her hair set. I could always tell when she’d had it just done. It looked just like the ladies in those black and white movies. And I don’t remember it any other colour than grey.

Gran was one in a million. She took us for rides on the bus to the shops. She would play ‘gotcha back,’ an indoor version of chasey, which my grandfather would grumble about. He didn't like running in the house. We could run into the pianola or the cabinet filled with rolls. Gran gave us soft drink and let us sip it as we ran around, another thing my grandfather would grumble about. “If you were really thirsty you’d drink it,” he’d say.

And best still, when she came to our farm, Gran would ride with me on the back of our 50cc motorbike, still wearing her dress, stockings and not so sensible shoes. I only have great memories of a wonderful woman who stepped out of a black and white movie into my colourful world. 

I wonder what grandmother traits I will one day be remembered for? Probably my time will be known as the old days before everyone had a flying saucer and wore a onesy everywhere!

p.s. My mother assures me that funny looking helmet was regulated safe for motorbike riding. Safe maybe, ugly YES!

This won't hurt a bit

What you can’t see won’t hurt you! I think it’s the same with what you hear. If you take no notice of negative people and naysayers then you will get on with enjoying your life.

I don’t have enough fingers to count the amount of times people have stabbed me in the back, called me a bitch or simply been mean to my face because they envied me or felt that they were more entitled.

To be successful in any field you have to have what is commonly referred to as a ‘thick skin.’ 

I think a ‘deaf ear’ helps too.

Without goals and focus it is easy to be distracted by people who want to tell you that you can’t. If you never heard no or refused to hear it, then you’d still do what you wanted to do. If I’d heard it was a ‘fruitless task’ then I’d never have dual citizenship and would have given up on pursuing an international career in film.

Some people refer to it as tenacity. I love it when someone older says that I’m tenacious. It’s because they recognize it as a good quality. A quality I think is necessary to get ahead in life. Well occasionally luck will do it, but that’s not something you can rely on.

Gossip will always exist. But by not entertaining it, I have enjoyed a varied and entertaining life. When others are not supportive I take it as a sign that they are more interested in what they need, as opposed to being someone who wants the best for me.

And first and foremost I choose to focus on my own inner voice. I decide what happens in my life and I’m responsible for all of my experiences good and bad. Focusing externally is self-defeating and you are less likely to hear truth anyway. Only you know your desires, your strengths, your weaknesses and yourself.

In a celebrity worshipping society where someone with as little talent as Sylvester Stallone has at acting, you know he has to have turned a deaf ear to people somewhere along the line to be earning more money than most scientists and doctors!

Get back in your box Snoopy

Seems like everything from the 1970’s and 1980's is popular right now. I see things on social media that start with 'Remember this?' quite often.

I don’t have to remember anything. We have it all. We kept everything. That was the beauty of being from that era. You still had your grandparents around who had survived the depression and they taught you the value in keeping things. Besides the fact that the older toys were built with better parts, and just lasted longer than the newer toys made in China.

My brother, Matt and I have our original Atari. The joysticks are a little worse for wear but only because their rubber covers have come off. The unit and games like Space Invaders, Frogger and Ms Pacman all work fine.

We have our original Jack-in-the-Box from the 1970’s too. It’s Snoopy. While Mickey and Minnie seemed to have survived the passing of time, Snoopy is more dated. I guess it’s all down to marketing?

Sure our Snoopy-in-the-Box is somewhat dirty and has some tape holding the bottom on. But that's because we loved him. We loved the scare factor so much and would giggle for hours at the feeling of fright, even though we knew exactly at what part of the music he would jump out at us. And his soft black felt ears would stick out unless you pushed him back deep into the box. But he works perfectly more than 30 years later. That was the quality of the toy. My kids enjoy a good Snoopy scare now.

We also have our original Nintendo hand-held games. I have Donkey Kong Jnr and Matt’s handed over his Green House and Parachute. My partner and I still play them. Admittedly mostly on the toilet because that’s the only time we get peace from our kids. But the old games are still a great deviation from playing Words with Friends, Scramble or Angry Birds.

Matt has cars too. Things I never even knew he had as a kid. He’s got boxes of old lego, matchbox cars made from diecast metal not plastic and he’s got a great little Mazda RX7 with a gear shifter on its roof. I haven’t seen a car like it on the shelves today.

There’s nothing like finding something in an old box that reminds you of when your life was simpler. Childhood and adolescence memory triggers can really make you smile. I’m just worried that I’ve started to use terms like, “In the old days” and “When we were little” because that only serves to remind me that I’m getting further away from that carefree time. 

I have to go, Ms Pacman is backed into a corner, one kid is pulling the stickers off the Rubik's Cube again and the other has one end of the metal Slinky jammed in the door and is pulling on the other end until it's straight! 

"Listen here you brats, when I was young..." oh dear there I go again!

I'll get the Bill

Bill was my partner at my Year 12 Dance. He was a lovely guy and I was happy when he said yes. He was a friend of my first boyfriend who’d recently dumped me, after a gold ring and 2 years of passionate love. That kind of love where you think you can’t live without the person. You know how intense 16-year-old girls in relationships can be.

I digress. Let’s get back to Bill! He was handsome, kind and very well kept. I always thought he was cool too. Bill was into art, alternative music and fashion. And he was also quite shy, compared to my vivaciousness. A quality in men I still find appealing.

On the night of the dance Bill stood out amongst the other guys, all of whom wore black or grey suits and had on bow ties. Instead Bill wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a two-tone tie. His sandy coloured hair was longish and nicely styled as opposed to many of the guys short back and sides. 

Bill was the perfect date. And quite simply, we had a great time.

At the After Party, held at a schoolmate’s house, we enjoyed a few alcoholic bevies and the hours slipped away while we enjoyed loud music and much laughter. 

It was late in the night when Bill leaned in to kiss me. I was startled. It hadn’t occurred to me that this would happen and I stopped him. I’d never really thought of him in that way, aside from the fact that the ex-boyfriend saga was still much too raw.

He was great about it because there was nothing but goodness in Bill’s being. He offered all the things a girl would want in a boyfriend. He showed loyalty and consideration. He was stylish and well spoken. He had more balance than my seemingly one-sided ‘crazy’ and he’d make any girl’s parents proud too. I look back now with regret. But only at not letting things unfold. What was the worst that could have happened? He’d also be a really good kisser?!

Bill is Bill Granger. Owner of Bill’s restaurants in Darlinghurst and Surrey Hills in Sydney Australia, along with four Bill’s restaurants in Japan and one in the United Kingdom. He is the writer of eleven cookbooks. Bill’s five TV Series are viewed internationally as well as in Australia. He has appeared as a Guest Chef on Masterchef Australia and is winner of several prestigious industry awards. He is an entrepreneur, is as stylish and creative as he ever was and is happily married with children. He’s just a really great guy!

Is there anyone is your past that you would have liked to have a ‘do over’ with?

p.s. Yes, that is 1980's hair. And it is a perm!

Cheese? Yes Please!

When I was in Grade 4 I had a Reader Cover. It was a hard black cover. Much like the stuff ring binders can be made from. You would put the book you were reading into the cover and it would be held in place with a piece of white sewing elastic that you would loop through the middle page of the book. The cover was to help protect the library books and borrowed school books from the damage young kids can do.

I have no idea what books I ever read that year but I have a clear memory of the sticker I put inside that Reader Cover. 

It was red and yellow, so the bold and bright colours help remind me. But it’s really the words on the sticker that I have in my head. It was a little like a tongue teaser. And I knew to say it really fast! So maybe it came with a matching television ad?

I’ve recreated it’s look to the best of my recollection. I think the words might have run together with no spaces on the sticker? Although the words themselves are definitely perfect. This is what great marketing to children looks like. And better still, it would work equally well today. My kids love rhyming songs and little ditties. I didn’t understand it’s marketing impact until years later.

I’m not into free advertising but the brain behind this one should be commended for simple but effective marketing of a brand. A brand that was known for its great advertising back then over 30 years ago, and still is today. And if I eat a meal from the ‘Golden Arches’ occasionally, I never get anything but a Cheeseburger Meal!

Big Ears = Big Life

There are no ‘do over’s!’  There is no dress rehearsal! And there will be no run through, read through or try again’s! I learned in my youth that I really only had one shot at making my life interesting. Interesting to me. But I also wanted people to talk of my interesting life when I passed.

My grandfather told great stories. Long stories… so by genetic default I may tend to ramble, but none-the-less Grandad’s stories held my attention. He talked of his life. He talked with animation and he smiled when he told stories of the past. He wasn’t always as cheery as he was when he was talking about something he was passionate about.

I liked his stories. And he came from a different time of course. Some place called ‘the old days’ and he was old, so it made sense. There were no cars, people wore suits and hats everywhere and you married the first lass who would go to a dance with you, in ‘the old days.’

Waiting for Grandad to get to the punch line, taught me to be a good listener. It’s something I hope to instill in my children. And with the way they tune out, I realize it’s going to be quite the task.

But a good listener is told all sorts of stories. Personal stories. Stories people want to share about their lives, which can often be fascinating and inspiring. Being empathetic and non-judgemental certainly helps people be open to a chat too.

When others talk to me I’m given a wealth of information, I’d never be able to read in books. Sometimes I hear opportunities that I may never have thought to seek out. Other times I’ve learned things like being grateful for not being a boy who was circumcised at 12-years of age! Ouch!

Alongside pursuing my own dreams and goals, my life has been enriched by choosing to experience things that others have told me about. Not all their stories have driven me to challenges. Yet some were life changing.

Being a Summer Camp Counsellor was not even on the radar, but meeting an English girl in a youth hostel in Miami helped me down that path. From there I wandered down another path to a new citizenship and years of living a diverse life, well off my original plan, in a foreign country.

What will people say about how you lived your life when it’s your time to leave the earth? And I don’t mean, when you move to Mars!