A very Monesy Christmas!

The silly season has well and truly come this year; I have been out nearly every night at something. That, hangovers, a cold, doing my back and getting the cold back, I’ve been a bit of a mess of late! Coupled with the few boyfriends I am trying to maintain – Christmas has been hard work!!Those of you that know me well know how much I love Jesus. And how much I also love an indulgence and specifically over-indulgence of booze. The Christmas work parties are frequent, so frequent in fact; I decided to give up booze again for lent next year. That was until I found out that lent went for 46 days that fell smack bang when I was in Australia and South Africa. As I’ve been looking forward to the wineries in South Africa and knowing Jesus too loved indulging in the red stuff (amongst other things, his mainly famous for turning water in to wine), I have decided to change the date of lent thus restoring my liver post the new year’s celebrations - from 1^st January to the 15^th February. I’ve spoken to Jesus, he is fine with this.

Last year I forgot to get a flu jab, cos I arrived at a weird time, this year, the amount of times I’ve had some form of flu, I was booked in for the jab the first day it became available. The lady laughed that I was the only person under 60 booked in on the first day! This winter I’m bulking – I got weighed the other day and I’ve nearly hit 70 Kg’s almost 5 kg’s over my most enormous weight ever. Not only do I eat dessert every night – I get anxiety if I don’t have the ingredients to make dessert- crepes are my specialty. I have almost nearly ran out of Caramello koalas too, at my peak I had 9 packets in stock, I’ve been rationing them out and now have only a few koalas left. Hopefully someone else visits soon as I’m in need for some Strawberry Freddo’s too!   

Although it’s unseasonably warm here, it is starting to get cold and that combined with Christmas approaching I’ve been much more conscious of those doing it tough. I’ve made mates with the local homeless man Mark, taking him coffee and bikkies, or fruit on occasion, or having a chat about life. I also just got in the mail a reminder from the Red Cross that it’s time for me to give blood- thankfully it was in my gap between colds so I got to save a life this Chrissy. Once I got caught talking to my bike and the man that caught me goes “it’s fine, someone once told me even a rock has a soul”, I think the moral to my story is most people have a soul, so try and remember to  give to those in need if you can.  

I remember being anxious going to bed each Xmas eve as a child. I was always so worried I would get coal from La Bafana – I wonder if Mrs Begalow frightened all the kids in to believing they would receive coal, but whatever it was, each year I was convinced I would get coal, as I was a particularly naughty child! I used to always sneak to try and catch Santa, or put pepper in the sandwiches I left out for him. When I grew up we used to have Xmas Eve Cocktail parties at the Bortolin’s with mine and Bianca’s mates dropping in intermitted and Lynny supplying her amazing hospitality as usual.  Tonight- Xmas eve I’m spending at my good friend Catarina’s house, with her precious daughter Amelie and her mum and dad. My tremendously talented mate Lily is in town so she has been looking after me during this second bout of cold and is also celebrating Christmas with us. London does Christmas well, with lights everywhere and rude Christmas suits and jumpers.  

Christmas morning in Sunderland Circuit we would pop over to the Tripodi’s after we woke up and opened our gifts. It was an annual tradition that Yank and I have kept doing as we have grown older, they now have little families of their own so it has been amazing watching them excited on Xmas day. Although it was different when we lost Lell’s dad Vince, it always felt like he was around anyway sitting in his chair, telling amusing jokes and stories or being told off for making marks in the carpet with his frame ha-ha!! Lell’s mum Francis is the ultimate hostess with the mostess also, with lots of chopped fruit platters early in the AM for us to consume. I’d then duck off home, and grab Nonna for mass (also timed so I didn’t have to do too much cooking in the morning, as much as it pained mother who was diligently cooking for us and the oldies. Mass would finish and we’d be back to mum’s just in time for lunch at which point Granny and Pa would join with Aunty Bett. This Christmas I’m off to mass with my friend Joy. I’ve explained to her my annual Xmas outings to mass with my Nonna (not only my get out of helping mum to cook Xmas morning)-  they were Mones and Nonna time, so Joy knows she is pretty awesome to stand in for Nonna this year! Almost every year I’d take off after lunch and head to Hoddo’s for Mez’s fudge (and to see the Hodgson’s), I’d then be back in time for dins at mum’s – which was generally a seafood extravaganza and Aunty Sally and Uncle Bri baby would drop in later on and that would be midnight before you know it.

Last Year's Orphan Xmas

This Christmas lunch is at Lissa’s place where we’ll be partaking in an orphan Christmas lunch with 13 of us. My fam will be spread between Aus, the Philippines and Heaven this Christmas. Boxing day, instead of the annual pilgrimage with Daddy to the MCG for the Boxing Day Test Match / KB’s birthday, I will be enroute to Gatwick to fly to Gran Canaria. Average temp all week of 24 degrees. A bit of Fomo kicked in and I managed to snag myself a last minute return flight for 150£ whilst I was bored in a workshop about IT/AV at work. My goal is to bring home a Spanish ham in my luggage so Bianca Lambert and I can file off slithers and be little wogs together! I hope everyone has a great coal free Christmas, surrounded by their loved ones, present or ever-present in the bright stars in the sky Buon Natale!

#MONESISM'S



Birthday Eve

Wow, 30 came, and so much has happened! Stevie J has left the Cats, the Cats didn’t make the finals, Australia got smashed in the test cricket, Buddy Franklin got sad, I’ve been boating in Greece, and we have ourselves a new PM! 

I had the most spectacular welcoming to my 30’s commencing with a Medsailors team dinner and the sculling of some rose (this was not my idea), followed by the release of the rose` in to some bushes (sadly, this is not the first time the plants have been watered by rose`). Anyway the climax was definitely waking up nude (it was too hot to sleep clothed) and getting a hug 

from our skipper- perfect Mike, (who unfortunately was clothed) followed by some boat balloons and some gluten free ice cream cake dessert with my boat buddies- who made me feel as ‘special’ as I most genuinely am – literally the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER and I’m having more shenanigan’s this weekend! 

Birthday Morning Waking up to my Card!

What has 30 brought with it? Well, I’m still single and have dominated my life so far single, though you’d rarely have known it as I 

Hair of the Dog Champers - FAIL

call most of my male friends ‘boyfriends’ or ‘my boys’ as I affectionately refer, and have done so since ‘my boys’ used to visit the house and I’d feed them pasta and killer milk shakes, while Lino tried his hardest to scare them off. The feeding has continued…it, along with my shaking leg has become my mating call. Although, don’t stress guys- it’s not always a case of me being an ‘opportunist’, it is mostly the fact that my wog hostess skills mean that I have overcooked for one person and just need a hand to finish off my food. I hate wasting food, as my precious Nonna lived through the war, and never wasted anything. Once, hungover I ordered big at brunch and when it arrived could only manage four bites, so called my wife to come and assist. Nek minute my wife rocked up with her cling wrapped smoked salmon to add to the corn fritters I’d barely touched and delightedly she finished my meal.

Wife finishing my meal!



 Monesism#1: Mones’ numerous ‘Boyfriends’…

There is coffee shop boyfriend, bike shop boyfriend, netball boyfriend, Yorkshire boyfriends, Lagos boyfriend, and there are two boyfriends with inappropriate nicknames just to name a few... most of their nicknames are relevant and assist in story telling so for this purpose I can’t get through this blog without mentioning another of my ‘boyfriends’ – Ultra Marathon James.

One London night in June, post visiting my mum and dad’s temp London abode and consuming a mere three bottles of wine with Catarina, I decided to stop halfway enroute home and visit my Ginger friend Stu’s work circa midnight (after he texted me he was hungry).. Thoughtfully, I rocked up with half a bottle of wine and a slice of gluten free bread... after annoying him a bit, I noticed he was actually doing work (and he kind of got shitty with my Jesus last supper contribution of bread and wine) I decided he was boring and begun the rest of the walk home- a mere 1km stumble after numerous bottles of wine. Some 200m from home I noticed a dude wearing a water back pack thing with his business suit, so naturally my backward at coming forward self told this stranger that he ‘looked ridiculous’ and I asked him if he’ ran home like that?’ as I overtook him. He then ran up beside me and struck up a conversation before being slightly too forward and trying to kiss me. Having just seen Lino, I could hear him in the back of my head saying ‘Who is this dickhead?’ so I told my new friend he wasn’t allowed to kiss me until he took me on a date- naturally, our first date was the first place we found that was open- The Brown Cow which closed on us, and so we headed to the Durrell for our first date just before 1am. I nearly fell asleep at the table and so naturally agreed that he walk me home *(literally next door) as the lights simultaneously came on. I grabbed his phone number and messaged him after a few months (when I remembered I had it) we caught up again and it turns out he is moving to Australia in December. I don’t know if it’s a theme but a few of my ‘boyfriends’ are doing an exodus from the country. Girthy (inappropriately named BF) was the first, and then tinder Ryan and yesterday one of my York boyfriends informed me he is leaving too! Soon I will require a new boyfriend to date- so I made the exec decision to apply for Channel 4’s Dinner Date…. fingers crossed I get cast and can cook my new dinner date boyfriend a scrumptious Gluten Free feed.  

 #Monesism2: being a Glutard

I know it’s painful to dine with me, however if any of you have had the pleasure of my company when my instant rash forms and my belly triples in size to become my affectionately named friend ‘Pumba’ you would understand it’s not through choice. I also am unsure as to whether my Hernia ‘Hermes’ was born from eating Gluten and my stomach expanding through my belly button or whether I gained him when I lifted all 83 kegs of Andy Eden up when Jimmy Bartel scored a goal in the outer, however, as not anyone took a liking to him or the gluten rash, I am now living my life as a Glutard.

Perfect Mike With Us Girls

The boat was hilariously fun with eight of the most amazing chickas a girl could ask for. I couldn’t have been spoilt anymore. It was so funny upon boarding and seeing our skipper *youngish tall brunette (criteria met) and he asked who ‘gluten free’ was. I said I am, and he said ‘cool, I am too a bit’ so naturally the joke instantly came in my head that it would be a lovely gluten free wedding cake tower! So our initially nicknamed skipper Mike turned in to disco Mike instantly when he played some ripping tunes on his pod then by that night PM and I noticed he was capable at doing most things i.e. paddle boarding, skipping the boat, putting up with my creep comments, and showering, he gained the nickname ‘Perfect Mike’, which is signed on my birthday card. Unfortunately there was no reciprocity with my creep advances ha-ha.  

Only this morning I was buying a coffee at Store Street and I saw the menu had smashed avo, so I asked “Do you have gluten free bread?” the chick was like “No, it doesn’t taste as good” to which I replied, “You clearly haven’t shit yourself before”. Then she went red and retreated with “well I actually like gluten free bread”. Ha-ha… great Segway for the next #Monesism:

  #Monesism3; #MonesSaysItHowItIs

Most of you know I am very honest and very backward in coming forward. I’m mostly always right too, not to the extent of Perfect Mike or my friend Liss who is mostly always right too. Most of my greatest moments are football related… Lino has always been scared that my teeth would get knocked out with some of my comments. There was the time at the Grand Final, Cats V Hawks 2008 where I got absolutely wasted, grabbed a policeman’s radio from his belt, and said over the radio “Go Cats”. He was mortified and threatened to kick me out. There we go that moving line… I think I just crossed it! Then there was the time at the MCG at the Cats V Freo final where I was getting tormented from a bogan Freo supporter (standard) outside the box I was dining in, and I told her to call 1300 GO JENNY…

My lovely boat beauties

Most recently in Ios, when I became friends with some dudes from Maroubra and we went out and they were playing ‘Mr. Splashy Cashy’ and spending up big (I couldn’t work out why they had so much coin, so naturally just assumed it was drug related, however they were very inclusive with me so I really took no notice and I was having a super night out with them, pretending to punch the bouncer (he acknowledged that my boxing has been paying off). Anyhow one guy had 2035 tattooed on his back so I asked what Marty McFly (Back to the Future) did in that year? …he didn’t think it was funny, and said it was a post code, to which I showed him my 3844, 3057, 3068, 3227, SW67LY and SW65SB tattoos (jokes)… I continued to hang shit on him and his mates asking if their tattoos were modelled on Daryl Braxton from Home & Away. It literally wasn’t until the next day at the beach when I saw my ‘bouncer boyfriend’ and he affectionately hugged me (only after I promised I wouldn’t punch him) that he informed me they were indeed Bra Boys!!! 

IOS

But then whatever my foot in mouth has got me to 30, I’m sure it will continue. Thanks for coming along with me on my journey. Let’s hope the next 30 are just as kind and exciting. Let’s face it – you’re only as old as the person you’re feeling. So right now I’m 24.

Juxtaposed Antipode

If ever there could be a defining moment of me as a bipolar, it would be now. Not only do I feel like I have two lives across the other side of the world, I am so toey and on edge about things, bored and underwhelmed and somewhat overwhelmed also. I can’t work out if its because I’ve been a bit sick lately, or if the lack of salt water and sun has finally torn me down, but this lack of vitamin D and this pale white at mid-summer is definitely not agreeing with me, I can’t stop thinking about my perfect place- somewhere between Torquay, Melbourne and London. And I can’t work out if I’m as happy as Rolf Harris in the 70’s or as sad as Mitch Clarke, whether I’m a Yaris (a cheap hybrid) or a Tesla. Maybe it is just the weather thing, but at the moment I just feel so detached. I feel like I’m on the new earth that’s just been discovered. Am I ok and everyone else isn’t, or vice versa?

There are so many poignant moments in my life and I wonder as I approach 30 (or as Girthy likes to refer; Dirty 30) if I have suddenly become a reflective person, or I am just being melodramatic, but i can't help but wonder that when I had the choose your own adventure option, I just chose the wrong way. What about dudes... Have I been too picky, or are they all just dicks? Have I focused too much on experiences that I forgot I was getting older and have left all that life stuff too late? Or instead of ‘seizing the moment’ have I just been running from it? Whatever it is, I have hit the age where I can’t tell anymore whether people are generally interested or just taking the piss… after all we all know how entertaining I can be or maybe i'm just taking the piss! Conversely, I am a self-proclaimed opportunist- the first to give 100%, or jump on board some spontaneous idea  – anyone keen for a short flight and some sun tanning action this weekend??  

I’m in this transient state with two lives across opposite sides of the globe. Even when I made a phone call the other day I was using a hybrid of the English phonetic language and the Aussie ‘Wheel of fortune based phonetic alphabet;’  ‘B is for Boris, O is for Orange, R for Romeo, T is for Tango. I was relieved when I called Australia and the lady on the receiving end said ‘S for Sugar.’ People have started to notice me in my transient state, which when I’m depressed doesn’t happen until I’ve got drunk and made an absolute dick of myself. Telling my mate his step dad has hairy shoulders, or me overindulging in Berlin, waking up with a ‘100 year hangover’ and vomiting in a recycling bin- although are quite low points in my life, however do not qualify as I’m mostly happy. I’m just either too happy or in a bad mood. Actually a colleague rang me last night and said (although jokingly) that he doesn’t think he will be able to cope if my bad mood continues. And a colleague just now, I tore his head off once he enquired how I was, literally forgetting that that’s what all English people do ‘ya right?’ ‘you ok?’ gahhhh, most annoying question!!! “I’M FINE here on my newly discovered Earth planet!”  

 http://www.express.co.uk/news/science/594133/Kepler-452b-How-long-take-humans-reach-Earth-2-could-we-live-there

Le Tour De Amstwerpen

Oh its been hot. So so hot. It's been awesome. I love the heat. I love sleeping nude. And whilst most Brits are looking for a deep dark hole to hide from the heat, I have been savouring it. In fact, the other day it was 35 degrees and during the height of the day heat I decided to go for a long walk to get an ice cream, it was so calm as most people were in doors, I strolled around and lined up in the sun for a good 20 minutes, listening to everyone complain.

 

The heat is my better place. I even took it a step further and went out all night, drinking cocktails and eating dirty Chinese with my old flat mate Chidda's (one of the criminal barristers- not Tony the owner of murderous Cat Dog). In fact, it was the perfect day and night.  London is awesome in summer. It’s light outside until quite late, which encourages you to stay out and savour every moment. This often goes hand in hand with drinking, so it has been encouraging that I have finally got off my arse and bought a gym membership to coincide with summer. I signed up for a free trial and completed 9 classes in two weeks, got an instant four pack, which gave me the inspiration to continue, in the hope it will grow to a sixer. I may soon compete at the Serena Williams gun show.  

Last weekend I took off after work to catch a plane to Amsterdam to watch Le Tour for a couple of nights. After a brief anxiety stint due to my inability to project manage my own life, I required a short rapid sprint from the Stansted express that takes 40 minutes to make it to my plane on time, so understandably I was exhausted on arrival in Amsterdam, eating a late dinner and calling it a night, half high on the 2nd hand weed that filled the air. 

 

I woke up in the morning and took off for the time trial in Utrecht. I was pretty annoyed with the fact I couldn’t see much, so walked in to town to get a good spot. I managed to find a spot about five-abreast on the river bank, but again, it was hard work to see anything and my tippy toe calf stretch was rapidly making my patience wear thin. I noticed not many people were lined up over the other side of the road. So I did a reconnaissance which involved a massive trek down a river bank and a stroll over a bridge and popped up over the other side, lodged myself up on the fence just in time to see the riders speed past for the time trial. It was sweltering.. my fav. So after watching a hundred odd riders, I was quite exhausted so decided to catch the train back to Amsterdam town to my hostel, which was a traditional ‘coffee shop’ on the canal on the edge of the Red Light district. The next day I travelled to  Antwerp. I sat myself next to another guy without a reservation and he had a ripping bike, so we started talking Le Tour, with his sexy French accent. He was well impressed and checked out my LeTour photos, I had an awesome one of a Giant Alpecin team member I shot at the time trial but couldn’t identify who it was. He was like ‘that’s awesome, that’s my best mate Warren’ haha so hash tagged him in and have my first famous follower on Instagram. After being asked to move a couple of times, I became quite aware that I’d in avertedly got on the fast train instead of the regular one that took double the time and cost half the price. My plan was to play dumb to the instructor. I had almost got away with it when he came around to check tickets, about 15 mins before the arrival in Antwerp. He told me to take my earphones out when I showed him my ticket… and proceeded to tear shreds through me. I told him that there was literally no one at the train station to assist, and I had asked one person which train was to Antwerp and he pointed at the train I boarded. I failed to tell him that just as he pointed, it left the platform, so I waited 17 minutes for the next one, and boarded it. Anyhow after the lecture that apparently they tell you in four languages, he told me I should pay 69 euro. I told him it was ridiculous and I genuinely had no idea. Considering it wasn’t a lie, and the next stop was Antwerp (my stop) he let me go. Phew!

 

Belgium… highest populous of ISIS members- FACT… although I’d not have known so in Antwerp. I found it quite hip and edgy, albeit it lacked some night life, it was a happening daytime mecca. They had some really cool fashion shops and design shops, edgy cafes. The hostel was like a semi luxury hotel. And my room was huge. That night however I got back to the hostel and noticed there were small shoes in the room- child shoes. I thought how ridiculous, surely not? But sure enough my fears were confirmed when a lady came in with her child- a little dude. I had some heated words with management about the fact that it was inappropriate for a child, let alone a boy child to be in a female dorm, I said it wouldn’t be allowed in a dudes dorm, cos I could be Cliff Richards (too soon?). Regardless I got over the fact, spent as much time as possible out of the room, which also meant I was lining up for waffles at 9pm with the Hockeyroos drowning their sorrows in indulgent waffles having experienced the trauma of finishing third- so after having some sweets with my new found friends, and second famous social media followers, I went to the hostel for some shut eye. Unfortunately a menacing mosquito thought nothing of the thought, the mosquito buzz, killing my night more than an overtired sleeping child. I woke up tired, with an itchy left arm covered in bites. Grrrrr.   

It was an early-ish rise to watch the depart from Anterpen. Again, I found myself buried in the crowds of people, again chancing it for a better position after becoming fed up and finding a spot on the fence at the race start after being told to get out of the way by none other than Quintana, who came up behind me to join the race. After brushing shoulders with some famous superstars it was
time to route to Brussels for a final night prior to my train to work the next morning. It was here that I had the delight of yet another reason to never stay in a hostel. A nasally Chinese lady who snored louder than a large man. I proceeded to wake her explaining that she snorted like a pig and telling her to roll over. When the snoring continued and 3am beckoned, I went down to reception and asked them to do something. I switched rooms, to a quiet new one, where everyone was sound asleep. I nestled in for a good snooze, but was awoken again, by obnoxious roomies who set their alarm for 5am and were still getting ready quite loudly at 7am. Naturally I told them off. One retorted ‘is it my fault I’m getting up early?’ I said, ‘No I usually wouldn’t mind, except I have to go to work, I haven't had any sleep because I switched rooms as an overgrown woman was snoring and YOU'VE taken two hours to get ready, you have been so fucking loud- you obnoxious selfish bitch'. I survived without getting my head kicked in and have since decided to implement a ‘no dorm room after 30’ policy, prior to remembering I have one booked in Ios for a 2009 reunion at Francesco's. (At least there I’ll have partied and passed out and won't need to go to work the next day, so I’m less likely to find the lack of sleep frustrating.)

I made it to work via my first 2^nd Class Eurostar experience by lunch.. Again, something I don't love having experienced the luxury of first class. Maybe I am starting to grow up. Ha.

 

 

Morrokin to Manchester

I survived lent- 40 days with no alcohol at all. It was 3am on the way to the airport and I was craving alcohol and thirsty, oh so thirsty, so was stoked when upon arrival at Stansted Duty Free there were samples of flavoured vodka. The man was so excited I had given up alcohol for Jesus he gave me one shot of caramel and one of chocolate.

Instantaneous to landing in North Africa I had obtained a nice deep cough. Sunny Africa was beckoning and straight away we had bartered for a large transfer in to town, except when simple Robbie said 200 after we’d agreed 150 for our large vehicle, which turned out to be a Mercedes sedan that usually seated 5 and not 7. After Tosh briefly blew his massive lid we agreed for a 150 cab fare in our small large vehicle and cramped six weary travellers: B, Tosh, Nev, Robbie and Stace and I were enroute to the Riad Hostel Equity Point in the Marrakesh Medina. Thinking my cough would subside we went for a walk to check out Marrakesh and had found a bar that sold alcohol within a couple of hours- Kosy bar. Enjoying my post lent beverages I was disappointed it was Good Friday and I couldn’t accompany my new found taste for alcohol with some juicy meat.

Urgh not again Africa! This cough had worsened to the point of an inability to breathe and a banging headache. After a brief cry on Nev’s shoulder my awesome crew in the London fam looked after me/left me be whilst they headed out for some opening night shenanigans. I was spontaneously woken by a man running through our private room in to the shower- thinking I was dreaming!! Wide awake now and pounding on the door for this dude to get out, he finally ran out of the room in his towel. You have my attention Sir! As i was awake and thinking it was wasteful to spend a night in (massive FOMO setting in), as my headache had temporarily subsided I decided to venture to the rooftop bar for a mingle. There I met a man whose looks instantly captivated me, when he invited me to sit with him I thought all my Christmas’s (or Easter’s) had come at once! At one point I interrupted him and said ‘sorry, I am not listening, I’m too busy thinking that if your eyes were blue you would look exactly like Brad Pitt.’ Haha smoothe Mones. Mr Norway Brad Pitt loved it and as Jesus would have- offered me some of his wine.

Day 2 was spent exploring the Medina more. After a brief hide and seek starring B and I from a drunken man that somehow always found us to annoy us, we found some cones of salt and pepper squid and indulged. B, Tosh and I decided to get a traditional massage to relax. This massage took B and my relationship up a notch when we were asked to strip nude and enter the Hamman. Whilst some nude women rubbed out boobies I started to wonder what the hell was going on but was a massive fan of the nipple scrub. The lady speaking to us in French ordered us in to the sauna room then put the tap on max, setting the room temperature higher than any sauna I’d ever been in. I didn’t want to be a wuss, but it was freaking hot, and B and I weren’t sure whether we stayed in until we were unconscious and they stole all our money and sold us as sex slaves (a la the movie Taken) or we had to head out when we were over it. Suspecting the latter, I found the exit, and again was forced to endure another delightful nipple rub by the nude chick. When she ushered us in for round two in the Hamman steam room, we decided we would try hard to stick it out longer. This time, B caved and we headed up for our (clothed) massage. Upstairs in the 'Taken' chamber I was given a gorgeous masseuse. (B’s not so good). There were times I wondered if she was accidently touching my vagina. Not sure whether it was part of it or not, I waited until the lady said ‘just relax for a minute' and left the room, I made a couple of strategic coughs to see if B knew what was going on I finally said ‘B, what’s going on?’ and she goes ‘I dunno, she said just sit and relax for a minute, ten minutes ago and now I’m over it’ then I go ‘I felt like they touched my vagina a couple of times’ and B said ‘yes, I definitely got my vagina touched a couple of times’ to which we both started laughing awkwardly until we were reunited with our masseuses and told to get changed. We spent the next few minutes speculating how Tosh would have felt if his bean was flicked by a male masseuse and not semi nude hot ladies as our V-jay-jays had. Prompt hysterical laughing! We closed out the night with a nice family dinner at a cool belly dancing club place and B and I shared a few bottles of wine...

Feeling hungover / sick/ fragile, the next day we took off for the coast – Essaouira At least we thought we were, until our driver stopped half way, and said he was going to turn back to Marrakech cos we hadn’t paid. Basically Fat head had spent the whole night prior to on the phone trying to get us a bargain transfer even though we had already confirmed one, and incidentally double booked (mind you at least he had booked it cos us clowns would’ve struggled to do anything!), so we were picked up that morning by the bargain one, and not the one we had paid for. After a good half hour of comical ‘hello’ phone calls which is kind of a ‘have to be there joke’ we were back on our way with our none the wiser driver to the coast. Thankfully as I was not coping. The rest of the trip was almost uneventful until the driver goes 'look' to which we did and saw goats in a tree. He sped past, leaving us all convinced we had gone mad and B insisting it was the goats eating the Argan seeds. We decided to confirm on wiki as B was not having the best track record for the day adamant that it was not uncommon for Stace to have three names, and taking at least 10 minutes realise we meant three first names.

I took awhile to perk up and soon we were downtown indulging in some amazing seafood for less than 10 euro each, I was coughing so hard I was almost vomiting the food as I ate it. Gross. We had some drinks (I absconded from alcohol almost fearfully) and a late dinner followed. What a great town, much more relaxing. 

                                                                         

Our final day in Essourara was poolside, a little girls retreat (which is a little joke as Stace is a boy) whilst the boys played golf. A few G&Ts and a highlights or lowlights streaming of the Cats thrashing by the Hawks followed by another nice dinner and up the next morning to head back to Marrakech. The next hotel was in the new town which didn’t really have much going for it by the looks of things, but Stace and I took off in search of some food. We had a great little explore/ lunch until my overcooked chicken on one side was raw on the other side, but apparently that’s all a part of the service here and you have to pay for food you could possibly die from. I didn’t feel sick instantly so my fingers were crossed and met the others before heading back in to the Medina for our final dinner as a family and tucked in to the Moroccan equivalent of a Hungi- lamb or beef cooked in terracotta underground. Although it was rich and oily it was super tasty and considered the calorie use indulgent yet necessary. We followed dinner with some cocktails and sheesha at what would become my fav place in Marrakech- La Salame and were joined by my Egypt met Kiwi Londoners, Angie and Ben.  

  

 Up early the following day I said goodbye to the London troops and head in to town to tag in Angie and Ben. I spent the day with them on rooftops savouring the sun in my long leggings and shoulder covering t-shirt prior to deciding to take some clothes off and meet them at their Riad- Riad Layla only 400m from my hostel. Complacent without the boys as my shields, I forgot I was on my own in a Muslim country and soon found out the 400m walk in denim shorts to their hostel was equivalent to one of the worst most vulnerable dashes of my life. Seriously, actually, after Egypt, I will say that yes I think it’s a cultural/ religious thing, and yes, I think although I shouldn’t think like this, I do, I need a break from lazy, fat leery (I know this does not reflect the wider community but yes, generally Muslim) men. At one stage I had a man yell out to me “hello” and I said “hi and kept walking... he said “are you scared of me lady?” I said, “No Why?” and his response was; “cos I am Muslim, because I am a terrorist”. I kept walking and shaking, astounded and feeling like a tall white girl in shorts in a marketplace. Trying desperately to ignore it and find my friends riad I asked a lady for directions, she put me in touch with a young man, who started leading the way up a dark lane, winking at his friend who was following. Uneasy I stopped. I actually felt like crying. Thankfully he took

me to the Riad, and then demanded I give him money. Considering I’d made it 9/10ths of the way without him I yelled at him to leave me alone and offered him 1 dirham, all I had on me. (Rack off people, stop trying to make money from what should be being nice.) Thankfully I was united with Ben and Angie and their awesome Riad Manager, an Italian lady who was so glorious in their picturesque sanctuary of a Riad, Riad Layla.

The afternoon was again used to obtain some sun rays and a snooze, finally the doxicycline I’d bought over the counter had kicked in and my cough had started to dissipate. Rooftop Riad cards and G&Ts were followed by a night again at La Salame for Ben and I as Angie caved, however we were good and only had two cocktails.

Waking up feeling a little hungover was strange, as I’d only had two apricot mojitos, but ignoring that fact I spent the day at my new hostel with a James Bondesqe dude Gav and a West Londoner I’d describe as Ali G (although he could kill me if he knew I said that), named Rams, finally ending the night at La Salame again for some sheesh and apricot cocktails. This time, they recognised me, and gave a shot of another cocktail and because I was so excited I danced up the stairs falling up them and spilling half of it to my embarrassment.

Again I was surprised to wake up feeling like death. And wondered if the lack of sleep had finally caught up to me. Feeling nauseas, I ignored it as a hangover and made my way to the airport.  Arriving at Marrakech airport to head home, I was relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I had the best time, but I was so sick and my mouth was so dehydrated. I noticed the familiar taxi pulled up behind me, the large Mercedes and the round driver, déjà to end my holiday with the same dude that I first saw upon arrival. Even though I was weak I managed a private chuckle to myself. I was lining up at the airport to buy goods and I only had 10 dirham’s left and they wouldn’t accept my card. I had to ask a lady at the airport if she could buy me a water because I only had 10 dirham’s left. I almost kissed her when she obliged, but I was so weak, by this stage I was vomiting and the vomiting just wasn’t letting up, and my stomach was sore. Finally we were boarding the plane. I couldn’t wait to get onboard and purchase a massive bottle of water and a feed on the plane and then try and sleep through the banging headache and pass time/ forget the fact I felt awful. I was sitting next to some concerned Aussies who had spent two months surfing in Morocco; they fed me some ibuprofen and some mineral salts and tried to make me feel comfortable knowing I was struggling with life. The attendant let me go to the toilet before the seat belt sign had been removed, so I did and sat back down dying for water to see the trolley next to me as though my prayer had been answered. Then the worst news I had ever heard. Ryan air Flight FR3557 had no water on board. They had forgotten to load water on a 3.5hour flight!! Never again Ryan air.  

After what was close to the worst 3.5 hours of my life, I boarded the train to Manchester feeling and looking like shit and contemplating ending my life to relieve my pain dreading the two change 3+ hour train ride ahead of me. In fact by this point, barely able to move my legs and turning a deep green colour the train inspector let me sit down, told me to go to sleep and he would wake me when I needed to change trains. It was such a relief to be home and have the English customer service. Although the service was better in Marrakesh than Egypt, it is far from world class. I don’t know if it’s a northern African thing or a religious thing but the majority of the men are crass pigs most of the time, always trying to deceit you and the women seem to lack confidence to do anything without having the input of a dude. All I know is I need a break from Africa for a bit, and I quite frankly need a break from a Muslim country. I don’t like treading eggshells all the time, or feeling vulnerable wearing shorts 400m to visit friends.

Manchester was great. It felt like I was home as soon as I landed in the UK

and had the awesome train instructor be nice without demanding coin- so you can only realise how excited I was to discover Manchester had trams! I treated myself to a delish dinner of Malaysian and put myself to bed, still tired and run down from the awful plane. I woke up the next day and explored. I was staying in the Northern corner which suited me as it was edgy and had lots of cool coffee places. I acquainted myself with a place called Sparrow and fig and went there three times in two days. Sarah arrived later on and we head out for a dinner, three bottles of wine and some cocktails at a trendy VIP place for important visitors to Manchester. Like Posh spice, Becks, and Simone and Sarah. I admitted to the barman I had no idea what anyone was saying to me and he said ‘I’m from Ohio can I have your number?’ Realising first he was a baby, and secondly he was blonde so failed one of two criterion I decided to give in, what the heck- I’m 29 and apparently at my sexual peak, so what’s a phone number here and there, plus I need to get a boyfriend soon as dad is even quizzing me now! He didn’t call. This is a good thing cos I didn’t understand him anyway.

The next day was so exciting; it was just a massive build up. I had brunch with Sarah at Fig and Sparrow then headed to the game as we had an executive suite awaiting us with hot pies and alcohol. Steering clear this day of alcohol so I could take it all in I waited nervously waiting for the game to start and watching the QPR Chelsea game- and I couldn’t believe my eyes- Harry Redknapp has turned black! QPR were really challenging Chelsea but I was confident Chelsea would score a cheeky one just to fuck it up for the rest of us. Which is what happened…shit times, and relegation potentially for my equal second fav team QPR. We left the bar and walked in to the ground.

The buzz of old Trafford was outstanding. I was so far in my element that I was shaking and smiling at the same time, enjoying every moment. It was so loud in the ground the roar when the player’s names were called out. The piercing noise for kickoff and the catchy kitschy tunes! I thought we would get smashed Man City had an impressive team sheet so it didn’t surprise me, though it upset me when their first goal went through. Gahhh Man Shitty are so much like Chelsea they always get the easy goal after all the hard work the opposite way! But then whack elation, we scored, and it was a brilliant goal, the crowd lifted feeling every goal which was awesome cos we managed to slot through another couple. We played amazing. I was so proud to be there at that moment and have witnessed such an awesome game…. If only QPR got up. 

My mould was made at plaster fun house!

As its circa International women’s day I’ve decided to write an opinion piece on what its like to be a woman that is loud, outspoken, opinionated (and mostly always right)/ ME.

At Uni us girls accounted for 5% of course participants. At my first job outside of uni, women made up 0.0065% - there was Amy Pitchford and I, the site secretary Mary, one plumber called Sharon, and 800 men onsite daily. I was the first point of call at 7am inducting guys onsite which was generally a shock to their system. I was told early on that I had to choose family or a career…  I would like to have both, so I just need to earn enough money to afford a nanny (or manny) if I choose to one day have a family. I won’t compromise. My career has helped me form a thick skin. I have been belittled and treated so badly it has made me question myself, and my ability. One project manager once told me at a site BBQ my job was to stand at the bread and make sure the boys didn’t take too many bread rolls. I told him I hadn’t done 4 years at uni to stand guard at a bread stand and proceeded to be first in line, grabbed two bread rolls and my sausage first.

My biggest regret was crying in front of my dictator boss when asking for my pay to be looked at, I haven’t asked for a pay review since. The reason I find it difficult to be a chick, is the hormones that come with it- it makes me feel like I am losing control and for a control freak, that is often too much to handle. I’ve suffered from panic attacks and anxiety since my uni days. Its generally hormonal, combined with stress and some other trigger points- sometimes illness or death. Most of the time it creeps up on me, and I only notice when I I become withdrawn, sad, and begin to hit the bottle. Thankfully, I have learnt to identify it and usually only get one good alcohol fuelled performance before I reign it in. I am quite strong willed, and luckiliy not an addictive person, so I give up booze for a period until I’m healthy again. I also go and get a tuning every now and then at the psychologist, try and eat healthier, and exercise more, I have also found that watching a film like ‘Hotel Rwanda’, visiting sick people in hospital or volunteering at homeless or refugee centres helps put me in perspective. It is important for me to realise at times like that how lucky I am and that my problems are minute comparatively.The industry suits me down to a tee, I think I am a weak person, and feel it strengthens me. It makes me hold my own, not only managing men, but being managed by men. I’ve never been directly managed by a woman. So it is with great strength and certainty that I can conclude that often, men aren’t very good at management. They generally aren’t intuitive. Like tonight, a dude i work with thought I would be able to read his mind and know what he wanted and then completely re- wrote something I’d submitted- even though I thought I hadn’t done a bad job. I knew when I was enroute home I would have an email from him when I got home- and I did (thankfully they are also stupidly predictable). I have a very confident exterior so it may surprise you that I second guess myself often. This year is a big one for me – dirty thirty!! I couldn’t feel so much more accomplished, and so much underachieved at the same time. I have spent the last 10 or so years applying so much pressure on myself I have never had nails, when I am really stressed I get IBS and a twitchy eye. I know it sounds gross but I don’t think people usually talk about those sorts of things. I feel guilty and mull over most things, thinking I am stupid if there is a mistake (a la tonight)....  Funnily enough- most people are too embroiled in their own lives to notice when I’m mental. I also suffer from ­(self diagnosed) imposter syndrome. I have my house in Torquay, but I would’ve liked to have two. I have travelled nearly 40 countries and so many more planned, but feel like I should’ve seen more. I’m living my bucket list… and still struggle to convince myself I have done enough for my age. I could happily give or take my career, which I still think I have fluked.

My most poignant upload is the picture of Princess Di sticking her finger up with the phrase ‘Well behaved women rarely make history.’ In fact this represents some of the women I admire most; Including the late Princess Di herself, Emily Roebling - who taught herself engineering and finished the Brooklyn Bridge, my old housemate Carolyn Tan who designed the flappy wing bits on Boeing 787’s whilst raising her young family, even though I don’t rate them, Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher and Old Jilly Gilly (who although I rarely agreed with), I admire that they held their own in a male dominated, egotistical position and had more balls than most men.

I’ve never lived my life conforming or with compliance. I was at secondary school listening to a motivational speech by the late Jim Stynes. It was the furtherest thing from motivational I have ever witnessed. Everyone was banging on about all their problems and it was just making everyone sad. Not many people know this, but I watched a good friend slowly be taken by cancer at a very young age. Her motto was “Live for today, learn from yesterday, and dream of tomorrow.” She died just before her 21^st birthday, having fought so couragesly for 10 years. I struggled sitting there listening to private school kids whinging about their parents making them become lawyers or similar first world problems, so  I put my hand and asked to be excused.  when he asked why I wanted to leave I said “I am lucky, I have grown up free, I go to a private school, If I died today, I would say I have had a good life.’ He said he had never heard that from someone of my age, so let me leave.

Behavioural studies, self awareness courses, a palm reading, tarot cards and head readings, the odd self help book on occasion (the problem I have is most of the time they just reiterate what I already know!) all just add to the confusion. In fact, if you read about me, you’ll realise what I’ve known for quite some time. I am not normal. In fact, my mould is unique. When god created me with my long legs, short torso and toe thumbs, he broke the mould.

I am prolifically honest to my own detriment. That line that people mostly draw, is shifted outward for me. In fact one new years resolution I decided to try and be nicer to people, and I ended up making a man cry circa mid Jan. The problem I have is that there is no ‘know when to lie’ filter. I just say how it is, or at least how I think it is. That line I draw, that shifts for me, has been there creeping forward for nearly thirty years. I get encouraged by shock treatment and have always done so. Some of my fondest memories are of mum grabbing my leg under the table prompting me to shut up; it would only encourage me more. Most recently I wrote a generic Facebook post, that someone thought was specific to them, and I got battered in a status back, saying if I didn’t like what I saw then I should unfollow or delete them. The irony was if I wasn’t tagged in the rhetorical status, I wouldn’t have seen it as I had already unfollowed them. Not because I don’t like them, but because everyone has different interests and mine is not babies…and hers is not seeing me with my “manly face” in a bikini apparently. Just yesterday I told a colleague at work that I liked that he had cut his beard as he was starting to look like a jihadi…. back handed complements are my speciality.

It wasn’t until 2009 travelling the world that I realised I didn’t need much, all I had was in my backpack. My 13kg of belongings, I could take them anywhere, travel the world, surround my self with my friends, still call and speak with loved ones, but be a recluse when I wanted.  Rarely people identify me as someone who likes spending time on my own.

I’m not certain what lies in the future. I stopped dreaming about the future when I was very little. I thought id be married with kids at 27 at the latest. 27 came and went. I have new goals, mostly ‘what country will I travel to next?’ Rather than find someone and settle down, I would like to find someone that can keep up!!! I am great when I am in love. The other day I was so happy to be in London I was literally skipping down the road and I’m not even in love at the moment, so imagine how awesome my mood is when I am! It takes me so long to realise though, by the time I have, the dude is completely over it, has moved on and I end up heartbroken and having to move countries just to avoid them (2:1).

I think constantly, even in my sleep. I joke about marrying well and retiring, but know if I do I would be awesome- chairing all the charity boards, and volunteering my spare time to things I enjoy and won’t actually do nothing. I’m too socially ambitious. My friends are my personal measure of success.  I’ve accidentally built my own little independent empire. Although I could easily live without a dude, I don’t want to. I think it’s taken me until now to realise that I may not live out my days as per the norm- get married, have kids, live happily ever after. I don’t see the point of wearing a white dress and saying I want to spend the rest of my life with someone- what if I get bored?  I might wear a coloured dress (my mother wore blue!) and have a party. Or I may want to spend it with someone, or many someone’s (polygamy= I doubt, but hey- it’s an option), I might live out my end of days with my best mate Laura and our adopted greyhounds or with my mate Catarina as I often joke out in the country with a thatched cottage (her daughter Amelie recently drew a picture of her house, mummy’s house, dad’s house and Simone’s!), I might have children with a gay friend (wow that came out loud). I might move to Germany, stay here, or move back to Australia. Who knows? …. I may even wear a white dress.  

Fast Facts:

-            Virgo/ Ox: Independent, Loyal, straight talking, hardworking.'Being dictatorial or opinionated are the two only real weaknesses in the Virgo Ox personality. Virgo presents a calm and collected exterior but on the inside, nervous uncontrolled intensity in the mind, trying to figure things out, how to improve everything, analyzing and thinking. Virgo has a constant drive to improve and perfect, this can lead to extreme pickiness and finickiest. They are pure, their motives are honest never malicious and they want to accomplish something.”

-            Extrovert, Strong Activist

-            My name means ‘She Who Listens’

-            I use both my Left and Right side of my brain equally however am not ambidextrous

-            IQ = 136

-            I rarely talk about work and detest talking about work, unless you have an awesome job and I am in awe of how smart you are (like Geoffrey Rush, Kevin McLeod) and request that you talk about work i.e. immunologist, pilot or my French housemate that studies brains etc.

-            I love cranes, planes, screw piling rigs and bicycles.

-            My favourite band is Metallica.

-            I had three jobs at 15 and used to wag school every Wednesday because I had Math and English and found it easy, so took driving lessons and worked instead.

-            I wanted to be a nun when I was little (because I watched Sister Act and liked their outfits), and still love Jesus more than most people. Except my family and friends who are my utmost.

-          My friends nicknamed me Simonia because I have had pneumonia three times, equalled only by salmonella and I’m an asthmatic and allergic to penicillin (don’t forget, cos I always do!)

-            I could run, swim and ride forever, except I get bored, so choose to never do more than spurts of 6kms, 1km and 10kms respectively.

-            I talk to my bike. And think he has a soul.

Happy International Woman’s day ladies, we’ve come a long way- and we still have a long way to go. #beheard.