I Know You ~ September 2010

I was feeling pretty good about myself. Feeling rather urban-chic sitting in the window seat of a Newtown cafe. I was there “writing”. The word writing has inverted commas around it because that’s not really what I was doing. I was actually sitting there feeling pretty good about myself while I sipped a coffee with my notepad open in front of me. The open page of the notebook was blank because I was far too busy patting myself on the back about being rather cool to stop and jot anything down. On an egotistical-wanker day I call this “writing”.

Anyway, there I was, minding my own high-and-mighty business in my new scarf (which was, like me, pretty damn cool). I heard a ruckus coming from behind and down the street. I turned to see an old hobo-looking man, dirty and rambling, stopping people in the street one by one and yelling something at them. Of course, each person he stopped reeled away from him and walked quickly on, which left him free to accost the next person, who would do exactly the same thing.

As I watched the old man making his way along the street yelling at people one by one I thought, ‘Oh yeah, I know you mate – you’re the crazy, old, abusive drunk who always seems to be drawn to me. That’s great! That’s just great – I’m just sitting here enjoying my coffee and trying to get some work done, and now I’m going to be yelled at by some wacko. Great!’

… As could be expected the old guy found his way to me in my trendy Newtown window seat. Damn it. I could now smell the dirty and hear the foul language he was yelling. He was frothing at the mouth and hollering at me, “YOU’RE FUCKED!” … ‘Yeah’ I thought, ‘yeah, I’m fucked am I?! Am I?! … I’m just sitting here minding my own stylish business, being a decent, unobtrusive citizen, and I have to put up with some asshole calling me fucked … Well’ I thought ‘that’s fucked!’.

The old guy staggered closer yelling at me, “YOU FUCKED!”. I gathered up my note pad and pen silently cursing him and asking some invisible god that I don’t believe in why this sort of thing always seems to happen to me.

As I stood up from my delightful window seat he reached out and grabbed my arm with his shaking, grimy hand and pulled me in towards him. I glared righteously at him and was just about to pull myself free when I realised he was asking a question: “You fucked?” … I stared at him and asked “What?” … “You fucked?” he asked again and waved a piece of paper that was in his free hand in my face “You fucked? … Cause the medication leaves me fucked – too shaky to read!” … I looked at the piece of paper and realised that there was a hand-written address on it. He was asking me to read the address for him. As I reached across and took the piece of paper from him I noticed a hearing aid in his ear and realised why he had been screaming his request. He was neither drunk, nor belligerent. He was deaf and on medication that left him jittery.

A massive ball of shame found its place in my judgmental belly and I blushed as I read him the address at top volume. My floundering ego tried to justify my hasty dismissal of another human being with the flimsy rationale that I would have responded differently if he hadn’t been using the word “fucked” … ‘why didn’t he just use another word?’ I thought. But the truth is, the word he used was exactly right. Fucked. He knew it, and so did I.

After he yelled his thanks into my ear I yelled back at him, “NO WORRIES MATE – I’M FUCKED TOO. OBVIOUSLY!”

Let me be clear, there are complete assholes out there. Ones who yell and call you names and should be avoided. But as far as I’ve seen, you can rarely tell the assholes by their manner, the clothes they wear, or your first, distant impressions. On that day the asshole was sitting in the window seat of a Newtown cafe feeling pretty good about herself and “writing”.

Don’t Tell Anyone ~ August 2010

A very dear friend of mine shared a secret with me. I’m not telling you what it was, so don’t hold your breath. What I will tell you is that my admiration and sincere connection to this friend grew exponentially when the secret was shared. I felt more human for the sharing, even though it had nothing to do with me, and I felt far less alone. I felt a sameness. I was inspired by the bravery of the reveal.

I take absolute pleasure in people sharing truths. Regardless of whether they’re gritty, naughty, silly, lovely, shameful, grotesque, beautiful, ridiculous, or whatever. To me, there’s nothing better than real stuff. I am also aware of the valuable beating that my demanding ego receives when I disclose something personal – I am human, and when I’m revealed there’s no pretension of ego that can cover that up. Good.

In a 2003 talk at Sydney Town Hall, Tom Stoppard said “it’s not the moments of genius or perfection that are amazing in a person, but the moments of humanity – honest interaction with the world”. I agree. So, this is for that friend who secret-exposed and said my writing is a proud and honest path, and for the others that shared their secrets with me in the past (you know who you are). Not because these secrets are exceptional in any way, but because they’re true. I apologise in advance for any discomfort these disclosures might cause:

Secrets I’ve got:

1. If I fart I will almost never admit it. Even when there’s only one other person in the room. I don’t care that they know it wasn’t them. It wasn’t me either.

2. When I use the phrase “almost never” I actually mean “never”.

3. If I see a cashier looking strangely at the amount of sweets I’m purchasing I’ll lean in, roll my eyes, and say, “another party!” when the fact is, they’re all for me.

4. As a little girl I often daydreamed about becoming so dazzling beautiful that “everyone would be sorry”… Whatever the hell that meant. In truth I still find myself daydreaming about that now. I’m 32.

5. I secretly believe that excessively smart/attractive/funny/successful people are somehow mocking me just by existing.

6. I spent thousands of dollars on telling therapists how much they were helping me. I did this regardless of whether or not the treatment was effective, because I wanted them to feel they were doing a good job, and I couldn’t bear the thought of them not liking me.

7. Once, when I was 17 and very stoned, I laughed so hard at a television show that I actually wet myself, leaving a big damp patch on the couch. I blamed the dog.

8. I have an eating disorder that has nearly cost my life. More than once. Every confronting emotion I experience feels like hunger.

9. When I explained to my French hairdresser last week that I hated my hair, she said “But why? Eet ees just your ‘air!”. She was so right that I wanted to punch her.

10. When other people are right my instinctual response is almost always to be annoyed.

11. I’m so ego-driven that the phrase “it’s not about you” is all about me. And I can’t figure out how it could not be.

12. When unanswered emails begin to pile up in my inbox and I’m being too childish to deal with them, I will deliberately not open my email account for days. I do this because I’m pretending I don’t know they’re there, and I can’t get into trouble for not dealing with something I don’t know about… Did I mention that I’m 32 years old?

13. I still loathe the tap dancing teacher who made me be a pumpkin in the dance recital when I was 8. She said I was talentless and part of me will always believe her.

14. As a kid I was busted by my grandmother as I was “practicing making love” to a pillow in my room. She stared for a moment, didn’t say a word, turned, and then left. We never spoke about it. It still makes me want to die of shame.

15. I secretly believe the following 2 things at once, and both are terrifying:
- Firstly, that my Mother is the only person who will read this.
- Secondly, that everyone in the world will read this.

This may be the bravest, the stupidest, or the most self-indulgent column I’ve ever written. It could be all three of those things. At any rate, it is the truest – I’m still squirming from the honesty – fighting the desperate want to scrap the whole thing and replace it with something that makes me look good. Better. More perfect. But I’m a little more humble for the writing. And I know you won’t tell anyone.

Smart Princess ~ July 2010

Recently, I was bored. Seriously lacking in inspiration. Given my inflated sense of my own intelligence I took to trawling through dense publications on modern philosophy to try and kick-start some stimulating ideas. “I want witty, with depth” I kept thinking, “big ideas with a humorous kick … meaningful stuff”. Smart.

As I read and re-read Descartes’ opening paragraph I found myself fidgeting. I’d sideways-glance out the window and indulge in another fantasy about a nobel prize win and the to-die-for frock I’d wear to the ceremony. “Who should I thank? … Well, Descartes obviously, because I’m about to paraphrase his brilliance in a new and profound way …”. Smart. Yes. “Now, where was I up to in Principia philosophiae?”. Paragraph one. Still. I felt dumb.

As I realised that this path to inspiration wasn’t working I decided to spend some time watching other people being interested in stuff. Yes. I’d watch the inspired!

As far as inspired goes, I don’t think you can go past Carl Sagan. It’s not just his kermit-the-frog-sounding voice and gargantuan intellect that keep me enthralled, it’s something more. There’s a charisma about him that defies taste, I think. Just like with Brad Pitt – it doesn’t matter what you’re into, you’ve gotta love him.

As I sat down and began to watch his “Cosmos” series on DVD I came to understand that the charisma of Carl Sagan is due to his utter fascination with absolutely everything. He’s one of those people who can express their sincere enthusiasm for something so clearly that you feel you’ve wasted your life not pursuing the object of their interest. As I watched I wanted to be Carl. Yes. Smart like Carl.

Of course, at this point, I wasn’t able to think of a single thing that I was even mildly enthusiastic about (except Carl). I stopped the DVD so that I could slip into utter despair that I wasn’t even smart enough to find inspiration, let alone smart enough to be smart with it.

No more than 10 minutes later a package arrived in the mail. It was addressed “to Georgia Keighery the Columnist”. Opening it I found it was a birthday present from my darling Uncle Marco. In his infinite wisdom he had sent me a copy of a hard-back Disney book entitled “World of Princesses: A glittering guide to being a princess”. The target audience for this publication would be between the ages of 2 and 8.

Contained within the big, pink, sparkling book a girl can find gems of wisdom on everything from how to use ribbons or flowers in your hair if you want a “simpler look” than your tiara, to which fabrics are best for your ball-gown. I poured over the pages advising you not to worry if your portion-size at a royal banquet is too small (there’s probably more courses on the way apparently) and informing you on how to pin your hair back if you’re a princess who likes to read. There are pop-ups of castles, cut-out princesses with a variety of paper princess frocks to dress them in, your very own Royal Ball Dance Card … And, the creme de la creme: instructions oh how to braid your pony’s mane (without the stern caution against leaving my horse’s hair in braids overnight, I would never have known).

I spent a solid 2 hours completely engrossed.

In one of my favourite quotes of all time, G. K. Chesterton said, “We are perishing for a want of wonder, not a want of wonders”. So very true. I’d like to add “a want of tiaras” to that. The truth is, when I get caught up in lofty ideas of “intellectual engagement” I generally forget to pay attention to to my enthusiasms (doused in glitter though they may be). I get so caught up in wanting to be “smart” it becomes positively slapstick and I become utterly bored.

As Jalal ad-Din Rumi so fabulously put it: “Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment”. Well I’d happily trade what little cleverness I have for a copy of “World of Princesses” any day of the week … Did I mention that there was a paper tiara that you could tear out of the book and fold into a headpiece? … Well there was. And I’m wearing it now. I have never felt more full of wonder. And I have to say, I look very smart in it!

In Praise of Average ~ June 2010

Here’s the thing: I’m average. That’s not such a brilliant revelation on the surface of it, but for the longest time I’ve been in denial. Stick with me here, this is a celebration my friends!

I realised recently that there has been a low-level panic going on in the background of my life. I’ve been frightened, I think, of my own capacity. Despite all evidence to the contrary, my ego rigidly wants to believe that I am exceptional. I’ve been afraid of my own “exceptional” capacity for darkness, for light, for helping, for hindering, for honesty, for delusion, for happiness, for sadness, for working, for slacking-off, for gratitude, for ingratitude … my capacity for being every side of every coin. As though mine is a capacity beyond others.

Average seems never to have been an option from me where myself is concerned. Why? Who am I to believe, even secretly, in my own ability to do or feel anything beyond all other human beings? It’s ridiculous.

Why should I believe, until now, that “okay” is alright for everyone else, but not for me? Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s important to strive. I truly believe it is! But the hilarious paradox is that this belief that I can, and should, do better than average, means I let myself off the hook almost continuously. I’ll shy away from doing certain things at all, simply because I can’t guarantee that I’ll do them well! Like a tantruming child who wont play if she can’t win. When I’ve been bad, I’ve believed myself to be the worst person in the world, and when I’ve been good, I’ve secretly thought of myself as God’s gift to humanity … Ha! When I think about attempting something new, or brave, or honest, I wrestle with myself for an eternity because I’m so afraid my humanity will show – how horrific. Even now, writing this, I’m fighting every instinct to delete it all and write about some recent “success” even if I have to make it up … And in the end, I waste a disgusting amount of time being concerned about “getting it right” or making it “perfect” and have little or no steam left when it comes to actually doing the thing.

You tell me, is that not exceptionally silly? … Probably not actually.

In terms of “average”, why is it so frowned upon? What is actually wrong with it? … I’ve decided I’m going to be happy to be robustly “middle of the road”. It’s a relief, in a way, to finally surrender to, and enjoy, my pedestrian nature. I’m raising my glass to mediocre. It’s an un-sung non-hero. Without un-outstanding people like me, exceptional people wouldn’t be exceptional … they’d be the rule.

The over-achievers slogan says “Refuse to be average!” … Well, I refuse to not be average! Someone’s got to do it. And am good at it. I hereby, fully and wholeheartedly embrace my median ways! I’m going to stand right here and provide a measure for unremarkable. You can judge your success by your distance from where I’m standing if you like. I don’t mind at all.

I do need to find a way to quieten that part of me that keeps whispering under its breath, “Yes, yes! You could even be exceptionally average!”. In fact, if you look close enough, you’ll see that I’ve managed to turn averageness into an ego trumpet right here in front of you. I suppose there are parts of my head that will forever remain lodged up my own behind … In an average sort of way of course. And proudly so.

Silent Cheers ~ May 2010

It happened again the other night. I fell in love with Joanna Newsom when I saw her play live. Ms Newsom sounds like the love-child of Kate Bush and a Gelfling from the movie The Dark Crystal. And she plays the harp. As she tickled my ear drums, I silently cursed my own idiocy for not spending the entirety of my youth mastering the harp and learning to sing. Why didn’t I just focus?! … If I’m honest I also fell in love with her violinist, and with her drummer.

It happens all the time. I fall in love with other people’s amazing talents and quietly bemoan my own averageness. “I excel at the mundane” I’ll think as I frown at myself. I’m the master of hospital-corners on my bed sheets. I’m a virtuoso with find-a-words. I’m gifted in the area of light chit chat. Groan. I’ll see a ballet and the child inside will whinge that I should have stuck with the dance lessons despite my teachers assurances that I was, and I quote, “Awful”. When I went to the circus last year I planned to take a 12 month course in the arts of trapeze and contortion. After I watched the movie 8 Mile, I vowed to become a rapper immediately as the credits rolled.

In truth I have exhausted many hours imagining myself in front of a crowded stadium, panting for breath, as I bow before an adoring audience who cheers and claps my stirring portrayal of Lady Macbeth. Or, my magical rendition of Tchaikovsky‘s piano concerto. Or, my scintillating delivery of world-changing performance poetry. I have spent just as many hours wondering how I’ve managed to waste my thirty-something years of life not making these daydreams a reality. What have I been doing?

Today however, as I dropped my fork at lunch and managed to catch it just in time before it hit the ground, I heard something fabulous in my head. A stadium audience inside my scull cheering and applauding my catch. As I held that fork-that-hadn’t-touched-the-ground, I felt just as proud as any footballer possibly could after a winning goal. The crowd in my head loved it. I grinned uncontrollably.

When I got to the station after lunch I arrived on the platform just in time to see my train roll in, and I was able to walk straight onto it. The crowd went wild. When I had the exact change for my newspaper the adoring fans went bizerk.

Erma Bombeck once said, “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me’.” … I don’t believe in God, but I have come to realise that there’s a lot to be said for celebrating what you’ve been given. Sure, I may not move people to tears in a concert hall, but I really can drink a daiquiri with some pizazz. I can’t hit a tennis ball to save myself, and I’ll never be a world-class figure skater, but, when the lights change to green on my approach it feels, just for a moment, like the world is actually revolving around me. That crowd full of fans may be imaginary, but they’re loud as hell at times. Maybe no one else can hear them, and that’s fine, but they’re delightfully easy to please. And they help so much when it comes to celebrating the tiny victories. I plan to sneak a curtsy in the very next time they cheer. It’d be rude not to.

Are We Having Fun Yet? ~ April 2010

I was asked recently by a very concerned friend if I was all right. We were in one of the most idyllic places on earth as she asked me this. She asked completely out of the blue. After assuring her that I was “Fine! … Good! … Excellent!”, I realised that my brow was furrowed in deep focus. I must have looked like I was scowling. Hence her question. The reason for this scowling, I realised, was that I was trying to concentrate very hard. I was expending every effort to make sure that I was taking in all the loveliness of the place I was in. I was absolutely straining to ensure that I wasn’t missing any of it. This is one of the most beautiful places you’ve ever been Georgia, so soak it up, you won’t be here for much longer, and if you don’t take full advantage, you’ll be annoyed that you missed it … The degree to which I was panicking over “missing it” before I’d even left was almost harrowing. I wanted to luxuriate in the moment so much that I was exhausting myself trying.

I can often dress my own ridiculousness up as eccentricity or “character” … but not in this instance. This situation is waving a very brightly coloured flag that plainly reads “Silly!”. And as soon as I noticed this farcical little paradox, I realised how often I wind myself up in it – wrapping myself up in my own, brightly-coloured, silly flag and saluting to the captain of absurdity: “Captain!”

When a friend asks me if I’m happy it can send me into a tail-spin of panic. I’ll think, Ummm, am I happy? Good question. Am I? … I mean, yeah. I guess so. I don’t think I’m unhappy. I haven’t really stopped to think about it … Maybe I’m actually unhappy and I’m in denial … or maybe I’m deliriously happy and I’m just the sort of person who’s never satisfied … I don’t even know if I’m qualified to say what happy is and what it isn’t … Am I? … And what if I say I’m happy now, does that mean that there’s no more room for improvement – like I’m declaring that this level I’m at now is the benchmark for happiness? That’s like giving a 10 out of 10 – I may want to give happiness a higher score than this later on … It may get better … Oh God … And invariably, after a long pause while all this runs through my head, I’ll say “Yeah, I’m not bad”. And the question of my own happiness has usually left me a little tortured … a little unhappy.

… Now salute – “Captain!”

It reminds me of a badge my mother used to wear in the 1980s that read, “Are we having fun yet?”. Mum always got an amused comment from someone when she wore it (which was often). It also became a sort of catch-cry in and around our house. While negotiating the domestic chores with her un-helpful children for example, just after explaining that the cleaning does actually have to be done every week, my Mum would take a deep breath, smile and ask calmly, “Are we having fun yet?”. She’d use the phrase as a reminder to herself and others to lighten up and get on with it, but it also meant something else. Just like me bursting an internal valve trying to enjoy a beautiful place. Or beating myself to intellectual death with the question of the existence of happiness. There’s that delightfully ironic conundrum: You can’t possibly be doing it if you’re asking yourself whether or not your are (you just stopped doing everything, so you could check).

They’re such great questions … Are we having fun yet? Is this it? Is this the fun bit? Is it happening now? Am I doing it right? … Am I enjoying myself now? … Am I relaxing? Listening? Loosening up? … Am I loving it? Am I happy? … Tell me when it’s happening won’t you, because I’d hate to miss it.

“Captain Ridiculous!” [salute]

Gardyloo ~ March 2010

I have come to appreciate that my mind is a small yet enjoyable place. I’m not given to expansive thought so much as tiny delight. Recently, I found myself in Edinburgh, Scotland. Me and my little mind. Edinburgh is a place I’d always wanted to visit, and as I had expected, my mind crackled audibly as I stood in front of buildings that were built in the 1600s – for an Australian, it’s difficult to comprehend that kind of history in a structure. It hurt my tiny mind in a wonderful way. The beauty and history dripped from every facade and the layers of hundreds of years of human life were palpable. It was awesome.

The most resonant thing I came away with however, was a little piece of information that a tour guide shared with us. On a nighttime tour of the underground vaults of the city (“the city of the dead”) our charismatic tour guide explained the city’s lack of sewage system hundreds of years ago. The city was surrounded by a wall enclosing it in an area half a mile by a mile wide. With crowded residential structures that towered 9 stories high (2 stories underground and 7 above), and no sewage pipes, as our guide put it, “the street were filled with excrement – literally”.

In his divine Scottish accent, our guide then proceeded to explain the way that the “toilet” worked. It was a bucket in the corner of the room, which, once filled, was taken to a window (if you lived on or above the 3rd floor) and emptied out the window. Before emptying the bucket out the window, the carrier would lean out and yell “Gardyloo!” to warn people passing underneath that it was about to rain excrement! I honestly think it’s an admirable thing that there was some warning. I do. And it’s childish I know, but as soon as he’d told this tale the word kept repeating in my mind.

I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since – Gardyloo (gär’ dè lòò’). There’s something that has stuck with me about the possible applications of this Scottish declaration … “Look out below! There’s a shower of feces on it’s way!”

Think of how one could revel in the use of the word: when you’re telling me that it’s nothing personal, but my loan application has been declined … Gardyloo! Or, when I’m about to tell you it was the train and not my oversleeping that made me late … Gardyloo! Or, when the recorded voice at British Telecom says my call is important … Gardyloo! … Oh so many reasons to yell out this marvelous word!

What I really love is the opportunity that this word opens up for us to celebrate bullsh*t. There’s so very much of it around. And often times, there’s nothing wrong with it per se. It is the fertilizer upon which many good things grow. However, it is important, I think, to point it out sometimes. Too often we see a whole load of bollocks and refrain from saying anything. Too often it’s uncomfortable or impolite to point at the bull-dust and call it what it is. But every now and again, it is titillating and downright liberating to declare out loud that what’s raining down in front of you is complete sh*t. It’s celebratory. Quite often the fantastic stories and little half-truths are far more enjoyable than the truth. If done right, then acknowledging that falsehood can be a sort of salute: “That’s a load of dung – and that’s okay – but I know that it is, and I’m going to call it that!”. Hoorah! Gardyloo!

It is possible that I need to grow up, and should be ashamed that I could come away from such a divine place being so excited by this one word. Gardyloo. It’s also possible, that at some point today, or this week, or this month, you may find yourself in a position where tilting your head back and yelling “Gardyloo!” is the only reasonable thing to do. I encourage you to yell it. Just once. With a smile on your face. Salute the showering mess. Gardyloo!

All Over The Place ~ February 2010

I’ve been spending long, distracted hours staring into middle distance again. It tends to happen after a visit home. Daydreaming. When I snap myself out of it to concentrate on the task at hand (i.e. being a writer) I find I am smiling, so it’s not all bad. But I have been feeling a bit … well … all over the place.

The human cognitive process is set up to make judgements and generalisations. We instinctively establish filters, both consciously and subconsciously, to differentiate between things. It’s nifty really. It begins with our earliest stages of self-awareness. Our developing consciousness decides, “this is me, that over there, is not me”. Who hasn’t played the game where you ask the baby “where’s Mummy?” and everyone applauds when the kid points in the direction of their Mum? And we continue to observe and develop a set of opinions and positions about ourselves and the world for the rest of our lives.

After spending more than six weeks back home in Sydney, I have returned to Singapore. In less than two weeks I’ll be moving to London. “Home. Not home. Sort of home … Me. Not me. Maybe me.”

What’s been distracting me is a pulling sensation between places. If my mind is tousling between reliving recent memories of loved ones in Sydney on the one hand, and trying to work in Singapore on the other, then where am I? If there’s a tiny future-bound part of me that has already taken up residence in London (I can see her clearly sipping tea in a coffee shop, scribbling notes and being pompous) then where am I? Am I here in Singapore, or back there in Sydney, or projected forward into London? I have to say that I don’t have the answer.

However, one quietening thought has struck: I do know one place where I definitely am … I am here. Yes indeed, I’m right here. In the blackness of the letters I’m typing onto this screen. Curled up in this word. And this one. I’m definitely wrapped around these words here. My grubby fingerprints are all over this sentence. And I’m stealing a kiss with this one, like it’s a secret lover.

And, joy upon joy, you’re here too … In fact, you were part of that stolen kiss. You minx! You’re wrapped up with me in these words, just by reading them. I am boundlessly grateful to you for that. It’s nice to know we are here … Especially when I’m all over the place.

Ta-da! ~ December 2009

You have to be clear about things. Being that I’m not the most sensitive or intuitive individual in the world, I know what it’s like when you’re expected to just pick up on something, or get a hint. Generally, I miss those hints. Subtlety is not my strong suit. Mostly, you need to be very clear with me. And I truly appreciate people who are. If I’ve annoyed you, upset you, you need me, tell me and I’ll move mountains to be there or resolve it. But please don’t sit silently and hope that I’ll figure out what you need with my incredible extra sensory perception. I wont. Not matter how hard I try. In fact, many a time, I’ve fallen all over myself trying to help, and ended up doing the opposite.

It was for reasons of clarity that I took up the “Ta-da”. It was about 6 or 7 years ago now, and I’d just finished a conversation with my dearest friends. We’d been saying that the responsibility of friendship is, in part, about showing someone else how to care for you. I realised that there were a lot of moments that left me wanting in terms of attention or praise (I am a hog of these two things). If for example, I had just mixed drinks for some guests, and there was no “thank you” or “Mmm, yum!” … I would quietly feel unloved and unappreciated. The truth is that I was neither of things. More likely, my guests were distracted in conversation. But most importantly, they didn’t know that I needed a “thank you” in order to not have my drink-making turn into proof of my deepest fear that I am worthless. The guests didn’t even have to mean it. After all it wasn’t really about what they felt – it was about what I felt. Like a child, swinging, unwatched, on the swings … Why aren’t they looking? Mum, watch me swing?!! … You see, it may be that I have failed to emotionally mature, but I still often feel like a kid. I need Mum to watch me on the swings damn it. The only thing that has changed really, is my ability to hold that need in, and use it as secret ammunition against myself and others. Not nice. So I began to use the “Ta-da” as a way of signaling to others the part where their involvement was required. “Please love me now” if you like.

Like a child who’s just performed a double somersault, or a magician that has just pulled a rabbit from a hat: “Ta-da!” … If I place a nice meal on the table and there’s been no appreciative comment, I can just “Ta-da!” and sure enough, people will take their cue and either compliment me, or better still, clap! If I stumble on a broken footpath, but catch myself just in time and you fail to notice, “Ta-da!”. If I’ve got a new party dress … “Ta-da!”

Some days, when I’m finding it particularly challenging to just be me, I’ll sidle up to a friend and, without saying or doing anything else, I’ll “Ta-da!” … And because they’re the best and most patient friends in the world, they’ll “oooh!” and “ahhh!” and applaud… And then I feel better. Because sometimes you just need a little applause. Sometimes, even though it looks like it’s not taking any effort on your part, it really really is. And we all want to appreciate each other and be appreciated – it’s just a matter of when and how. Well, with me, you can rest assured that you’ll always know when and how: After the “Ta-da” and with applause. Simple.

… Ta-da!

Cuppa Tea’d Be Nice! ~ November 2009

Helen remembers it was pre-World War II. She was a nurse. Some of the patients on her ward were there for psychiatric reasons. “One lovely old duck” she recalls “was in one of the ‘closed rooms’ on the ward”. A ‘closed room’ from what I can tell, is equivalent to a padded cell. On her rounds one day Helen checked in on the old duck through the slit in the door, and couldn’t see her. “She was nowhere to be seen, so I called the warden, which is what you did when you wanted to enter a closed room”. The wardens were like body guards for nurses in these situations.

Once inside, Helen found the woman in a corner, “She was stark naked” says Helen, “and she had put her tin potty on her head. When she saw me, she looked up, and with a beaming smile said, ‘A cuppa tea’d be nice!’ ”

Helen recalls her response to the nude, thirsty senior, “I looked at her and said ‘Yes it would dear. A cup of tea would be very nice!’ ”

I know this story is true, because Helen is my grandmother. The story is a family favourite. In fact, the phrase ‘a cuppa tea’d be nice’ is one that has rung through our family for my entire life. It’s like a comfortable slipper to a whole family.

It is pertinent, not only because we all enjoy a good cuppa, but also because we often find ourselves in situations that are not unlike that lovely old duck’s – metaphorically naked, with an upturned potty on our heads. And what else is there to say when you find yourself like that? … Nothing. But it’s best to always be honest about your inclination towards a nice cup of tea.