When I was in Primary School...

A REFLECTION THROUGH THE KAS ANNUAL MAGAZINES 1990-1999

 

I started out in reception, just like any other kid. I couldn't spell the word "doing" or the word "ballet" but apparently, according to my 5 year old self, that is what I wanted to do with my life, ballet. Pretending I could was as far as I got.

In Year One I liked shopping... in Melbourne... and the city's warmth. It would be another 20 years almost before I made it to Melbourne and from vivid memory the weather was (excuse my French) SHIT! And I didn't go shopping there either, I was too busy sight-seeing with my brother and his girlfriend and their baby.

1992 saw me wanting to join the army. What was I thinking?!?! Half the other girls in my class wanted to be a jockey. Sorry, but I'm the only one who turned out small enough. And my brother correctly predicted that he would be working in Adelaide 10 years down the track.

Year Three in Mr Bartrams class I liked the slack parts of school (stories, recess, lunch, art) and the nerdy bits (maths and science) but hated P.E. (an opinion which never changed), language and cursive.

In 1994 I was voted by my class mates in Year Four as having the "Biggest voice for the littlest lady". People were sick of my ear piercing screams by the end of the year as I was constantly trying to out-do myself. These days I save the screaming for when 300kg of bovine is chasing me.

In Year Five I was quite over school. It seemed I was not enthused at all. Though my friend Victoria had big ambitions. She declared she wanted to own a horse and work with them too. Dream achieved!

My Year Six teacher, Mr Whyte, was always keen to challenge my class mates and I and so I thrived! I got a merit certificate at the end of the year for being a bit of a goody-two-shoes (though my name was spelt wrong). I participated in Festival Choir. I think I even had a go at SAPSASA netball and tennis.

In Year Seven my name was spelt wrong again. We went on camp to Adelaide where I was photographed in the stupid hat that I used to religiously wear. An excursion to De'Estrees Bay had me meeting my future brother-in-law though I didn't know it at the time. I played SAPSASA netball again. Some of my art made it to page 68... where my name was spelt wrong again. I dressed as one of the Seven Dwarfs for Book Week and had my name spelt wrong again. And I was still a nerd, gaining a certificate of distinction this particular year, and had my name spelt wrong again.

My first year of high school my name was spelt correctly in the class photo. I had an uncredited piece of art on page 113 as well as a bit of Photoshop fun on the following page. I went "Above and Beyond the Call of Duty" for maths according to Mrs. Johnston by competing with 24 fellow students in the South Australian Maths Talent Quest (still a nerd) and coming equal third with a few other class mates. A photo of me appears getting passed along by fellow students with their hands in the air for drama.

The only evidence of me attending KAS in 1999 was a piece of visual art. Other than Patto's contribution of my art I had dropped off the schools radar. I had left, very much unwillingly, to attend, what I deemed to be, an over-crowded, suburban school. My years at KAS were over before the school year itself was even out. And even though I attended the school for over nine years... they still couldn't spell my name.

Irashai Mase

Life with the Tigger is never dull. Especially when I travel. Leaving my two, precious, four-legged daughters behind with a mate, I hit the road through heavy rain and headed to Darwin. My dramatic change of plans meant that I was now going to be flying to South Australia rather than driving. I stayed with my friend in Humpty Doo that night and we stayed up for hours just chatting.
The following day it was another friend, Stace, that I was going to catch up with and she was going to take me to the airport. Both of us being hungry we decided lunch was on the cards so off we went down to the Wharf and dined at Ocean Fresh. There were things on the menu that we had never seen nor tried before so we selected 4 things on the entree menu and decided to share them.
After spending the morning talking oysters with my friend in Humpty Doo then watching a cooking show featuring oysters on the television not even an hour later you can imagine what I was craving so first up it was Oysters Vinegarette. They went down well... just like the Gazpacho Oyster Shots (sadly non-alcoholic so lucky we had a glass of white wine).
Next was Buffalo Mozzarella and Pickled Octopus. The Buffalo Mozzarella was not anything we expected it to be. No buffalo beef at all! Just chunks of mozzarella on slices of tomato with balsamic vinegar drizzled on top on a bed of rocket. The octopus on the other hand, I didn't mind it, but Stace couldn't even finish her tentacle. God bless her she tried but with me red-faced from laughing at her gagging, she spat out the last piece into a napkin while I laughed at her more.
When the waitress asked if we would like more wine we declined, then realised the time, paid our bill and scooted off in the pissy, little hire car so I could miss my flight to Adelaide. This put me in a fantastic mood of course.
After being miserable and unmotivated and Stace feeling fluey and headachey in the motel room for an hour or so we decided to get out and do something. So we went to Crocosaurus Cove on Mitchell Street and scored a Locals Pass for being Territorians. We were kept amused by the various reptiles, amphibians and fish especially by one pissed off goanna. One of the handlers fed a rat to a Woma Python and we watched mesmerised as it tried to consume the rodent. The same handler brought out a Bearded Dragon that we both held, now I want one as a pet. Originally the dragon was named Brock till one day it laid eggs and now it is known as Brooke. She was off to a kids function to be tormented by various, over-excited children.
When we finished poking at perspex we headed off further down Mitchell Street to Go Sushi which boasts the largest sushi train in the Territory.
"IRASHAI MASE!" I had the absolute life scared out of me when we stepped through the door. Every employee yelled out "You're very welcome" in Japanese.
Stace and I sat down at the train and looked at all the Japanese goodies streaming past us. Thankfully, a large pamphlet told us what each dish was. One by one we pulled down a plate that interested us and by the end of the night we had eaten between us Smoked Eel, Inari Tofu, Seaweed Salad, Seafood Syumai Dim Sum, Crab Avacado Sushi, Vegetarian Sushi, Prawn Parcels, Lobster Mornay, Tuna Nigiri, Beef Nigiri (the beef needed shooting because it was still running around the paddock), Green Tea Ice Cream and Daifuku Rice Cake which was gluggly and despite it's pretty pink appearance was not near sugary enough. To top it off was another glass of wine each and a shared bottle of Asahi, a Japanese brewed beer.
The following day I made my flight. We made a point of having lunch at the airport so that I wouldn't miss it. I got grilled at security by a a pimply, scrawny up-start because I had forgotten about a pair of nail scissors in my toiletries bag and a knife in a corksrew that I never knew I had. But I didn't miss my flight and after a while of dordling around the terminal I was on my way to Adelaide via Sydney.

All that we ate!

The Habits of Nocturnal Wildlife

Everyone has their little falling-asleep nuances. But none I have found more strange than the one that I am currently experiencing. Some people turn on night-lights (but they wouldn't willingly call it that). Some drink a warm beverage. Some people, like me, have a teeny-tiny background noise. I play a movie on my laptop but have the volume so low that it can only just be heard.
Helping a friend move into the home of a bachelor that works away saw me temporarily staying at the same residence as was offered by the man himself. It was quiet and peaceful and we went to sleep early so we may feel refreshed for work the next day. Then the bachelor went on his fortnightly break...
He cracked open cans early in the morning and got around all hours of the day or night in his vehicle or on his quad bike. He had sessions with the neighbour and fixed flat tyres at 7am. But at night, when he went to bed, he did what I thought was rude and strange. He turned the stereo up. And I don't just mean up a dash, I mean up alot. Whatever was on the radio be it ABC or Hot100, it was blaring out of the speakers at goodness knows what decibel! And here were my friend and I, lying in our beds, wondering 'what the hell, could this bloke be serious?'
I slept one night with the pillow wrapped around my head, window and door closed and I could still hear that racket. The following night I just bailed. I'd fallen asleep but around an hour later the bachelor cranked up the radio and hit the hay. I was wild. I felt like tearing out the radio from the shelf and throwing it in front of my car and running over it a few times. Instead I grabbed my swag and threw it in the tray of my toyota and drove out the gates to camp further down the road, away from the din, so I could get some sleep while being attacked by mozzies.
I returned the next morning to find I should have been a little more patient. At some point during the night the power had run out (the solar panels charge batteries which provide electricity for the house. If it's too overcast during the day or too much power is drawn then the batteries run out of power therefore so does the house). I should have waited out for the power outage. I would have got alot more sleep. Instead I camped up down the road to the sound of frogs and crickets and cattle in the scrub. When I woke in the morning everything was soaked in condensation. When I returned to the house, he didn't even know I had left until I arrived back.
But seriously, who does that kind of stuff? Who turns the radio up before going to bed rather than down or off like most normal people would? I know who. They don't have to work (they're on break or have no job). They drink when most people are at work. They come in at all hours and wake everyone up with their noisemaking and their cooking of strange concoctions they regard as dinner. They watch their movies loud or play their music loud and keep everyone else awake. Yeah, I know who. I've lived with a few and I am definitely more than over it!

The Tee-Totaller (An Apology)

I wasn't sure if the invitation to the party extended to me so I gate crashed. I rushed to get ready when a lift to get there was offered to me. I met some people at the party that I was neighbours with for some time and never even knew it. We hit it off and next minute the girl was offering me a rum. I wasn't driving home this evening, someone else was, so I accepted.

Next thing I know I'm yelling and laughing and having a good time. A bit of a blow out after such a long time of being the good, well-behaved, responsible one. When I discovered one of the party guests had snuck away I staggered off to find him to drag him back. I got pulled up halfway to one of the houses by one of my friends who, in her own drunken state, tried politely to ask me to curb my swearing as best I could.

"There are children around!"

I couldn't find the missing party guest and on my way back to the soiree I found some members had moved to the staff verandah. One lady was trying to teach us all to whistle loudly with our fingers in our mouth. A skill I have always been envious of. But I gave up when my bladder started screaming at me.

While I sat on the porcelain throne I was suddenly attacked... by a broom. After a while the broom wielder gave up and I finished I my business and walked outside. But all was not right. The world would not stop twisting and twirling and I headed straight for the edge of the verandah and heaved up a technicolour explosion. And that's where I stayed. Lying in the one spot, for anytime I moved I would throw up again. People checked on me. And had a giggle as I did at myself. Someone tied my hair into a messy bun. Soon my ride was ready to return home but I turned down the lift.

"I don't want to throw up in your car" I mumbled.

Hours passed on the edge of the verandah. At one point someone rolled me on my side. Eventually I got too cold and moved into one of the bathrooms. I laid out a bath mat and wrapped a towel around me and went back to sleep. Not long after I heard doors being opened and closed. Someone was checking on me again. My alarm went off on my phone at 5am and moments after I was being scooped up and carried off to a room in the quarters because apparently I can't sleep on the bathroom floor.

What little sleep I got in the room was interrupted by my friend ringing me to say she was ready to head in to town. Nevermind that it was a quarter to seven! I climbed over my still drunk friend in the passenger seat and off we went to spend the day in Katherine chasing and talking horses and cattle.

Tee-totaller me regretted accepting those few but very strong rums that night. It was shame job that it took me only two hours to go from perfectly sober to hobo drunk. I went down as quick as a wimp in a cage fight. It was embarrassing that I had to buy a new shirt in town just to look and feel even remotely acceptable the next day. And to all those children that I swore in front of: I'm sorry that you heard some words that you weren't suppose to know till you were just that little bit older!

Hair!

I have always been known for having long hair whether it be when I was a child or now as an adult. Some people though don't realise how long my hair is as it is kept in a permanent bun.
Sometimes I let the length get a little ridiculous. When I was 8 my Nanna struggled to brush my long hair one school holidays and I decided that it was time to cut it despite a competition I'd been having with another girl in my class to see who's hair could grow the longest by the end of the school year.
In 2007 whilst on Kidman Springs Station my hair was so long that the weight alone pulled it out of a bun especially when riding horses. It was so stupidly long that when it fell out of its updo the tail of my hair would get caught between my butt and the saddle and would jerk my head back if I was trotting or cantering. A visit from my mother in early 2008 sorted that out with a big chop. The Rapunzel look was over.
My hair grows at such a fast rate that it doesn't take long to get back to an obscene length. These days I have resorted to cutting it myself. After washing my hair I lean over, flip my hair over, comb it a bit and snip, snip, snip then ask the nearest person for their opinion on whether it is straight or not.

It takes alot of work to have a head of hair like mine. Just not mine in particular. It gets washed once a week or when it feels gross. It gets brushed even less. It can take anything between half an hour to an hour to brush out the rats nest. Over the last month I have done it twice. Once for the races. Once for an up-coming engagement party. Surprisingly though, after brushing my hair this time round, my hair managed to stay in a bun all day. Normally it doesn't if my hair is brushed so that's why it doesn't happen all that often. As per usual though I managed to put together a hair ball that would put even the hairiest cat to shame. The hair balls get so big that it's hard to even see the bristles of the brush.

I must sound terribly feral, but there's a few people out there that already think I'm a bush pig so what do I care. As long as I don't have any dickhead princes trying to climb my golden locks, all is well. 

Flat Out With A Fascinator

During my time working on Mataranka Station there were many pheasants that inhabited the trees around my house. Sometimes they'd lose a feather and I would pick it up and keep it. After adopting Diamond, I kept a round, plastic trough for water in my horse yards and one day one of those pheasants came to an untimely end when it drowned trying to drink out of the trough. I was sad about the death of the pheasant, don't get me wrong, but when its feathers started to drop off its decomposing body I saw it as an excellent opportunity to gain yet more feathers for my collection and then decided to give all those feathers a purpose. Over a year and a half later, that idea became a reality.
Permission for the day off for the Saturday rather than the Sunday was a welcome one. After knock off me and my Canadian workmate headed back to Providence to start planning for the following day. When I got in the shower I cranked up the chainsaw and shaved my hairy man-legs ready for K-Town so everyone could see how pasty they were.
After loading Damians beloved petrol-guzzler-on-four-wheels in the morning with what was needed for the day we headed off to town. First stop: Pick up my precious, dearest Bruiser the Cruiser who had needed his alternator/regulator replaced by the auto-electrician so I didn't cook another battery. So glad to be back behind the wheel of the old boy again. After sorting a bit of other stuff out we hit the shops. We picked up insulators for the fencing we are doing, jumper leads and a tow strap from a auto shop where I also got to catch up with a friend who had followed me into the store, heel inserts for some shoes and after over an hour of umming and ahhing Nicky finally decided to buy a pair of boots (ones that actually fit her).
After popping into the markets for a mango smoothie, ice cream and sushi we headed off down to Chardon Street to start getting ready for one of Katherines biggest social events of the year.
We dropped the roller door on the storage unit for privacy as we donned our outfits for the day. Using the dirty mirrors of the Holden and the Cruiser we painted our faces with foundation, mascara and eye-liner that kept melting. I kept asking Nicky if my eyes looked like those of a transvestite or goth which she eventually got sick of being asked. But soon we were set to go.
We walked through the shopping centre, me with my shoes in hand already due to them being too big (story of my life), dressed to the nines, all for a couple of bottles of water.
We found a park at the showgrounds and the final element to my outfit went on. The crowning glory. The fascinator! In all its sticky-taped pride I slid the head band onto my head and off we set... with me carrying my shoes. The night before was spent painstakingly sticking on the pheasant feathers onto a flimsy headband with sticky-tape to create my cranial masterpiece.
Every male of cattle station relation thought it fit to tell me I have an endangered species on my head. I had no idea they were protected but if the Grim Reaper came for the bird then his physical body, found by me, was up for grabs. Amongst the informative jibes regarding a threatened avian taped to a hair accessory, I copped a bit of "Oh, look. It's Pocohontas" just to mix it up a little.
As per every year, the Buntine Pavillion was chockers. So many people and so many of them I knew and was eager to catch up with. In my head while conversing with a friend I ran through them all "I'll catch up with him, then her, then her if she sticks around..." I'm quite hoping that there was no one I missed out on chatting to. Nicky and I enjoyed laughing to ourselves at the girls whose buttocks hung out below their skirts and dresses giving the blokes an eyefull they liked and the more conservative girls an eyefull they didn't.
But as the day wore on we had to give in to the fact that we still had to drive two cars home that night, one of which was towing a horse float, so we could go back to work the following morning. After leaving the races (of which we only actually noticed one race) we went back to the storage unit to get all our gear organised and pick up the float. By 8pm we were sneaking out of Katherine with the hopes that I won't get pulled up by the cops for being a little naughty.
By the time we reached Willeroo, Nicky was knackered. So after a small stalling incident we pushed the little Holden Rodeo up to the front gate, unloaded a few important things out of it (ie: Damian's beer), put the keys under the seat cover and in true Tigger-style, locked it up and continued on our way home. It was at least an hour down the road before Nicky realised we left all the fuel in the back and it wasn't till I got to bed at 11:45pm that I realised I had locked the keys in the car.
It was a long, jam-packed day. The socialising got me pumped and the driving made me exhausted but it was definately not a day wasted.

The Tear-Jerking Kind

There are alot of movies out there that can make people cry and for me a majority of them are animal movies. I've never watched "Bambi", wouldn't dare to, I'm sure I'd cry especially when Bambi's mum gets shot. I've watched "Milo & Otis", actually many times when I was a child. Each time I cried. I couldn't handle it when Milo got in the basket and got swept away in the current of the river. I couldn't handle the idea that Milo and Otis were going to be separated, perhaps never see each other again. What if Milo drowned when the basket capsized? What if Otis never found him in that hole? What if their friendship was lost forever from the distance? I could not bear the thought.
I cried during "Pippy Longstocking". Can't remember exactly when or why, I just did. So did my best friend.
I cried watching "The Muppets Take Manhattan" while Kermit was singing when all the Muppets separate after a failed theatre venture.
I can't quite remember if I cried during "An American Tail", the movie about a little mouse that gets separated from his family (there's a re-emerging and painful theme here) and washes up in America. My Nanna could tell you if I did or not. She could also tell you that I used to sing "Somewhere Out There" at the top my lungs repeatedly after she took me to see the film. She regretted it for weeks as I yodelled my way around her house. I don't see what she was complaining about, she could have just taken her hearing aids out.
The most recent film to make me cry was "Red Dog". Though forewarned there are sad parts I still watched it and bawled my eyes out for the entirity of the second half of the movie. I almost missed an afternoon tea with friends because I was too busy crying till my face hurt. The other night Damian saw that I had "Red Dog" amongst my DVD collection and asked to watch it. I brang it out for him and warned him that it's likely to make him cry. He point-blank refused to watch it purely on the basis that it was going to make him cry (neither of us like to be seen crying). I've caught him watching a movie that made him cry before ("Veronica Guerin" starring Cate Blanchett by the way). Big deal! There's only one person that I know that hasn't cried watching that film. But the discovery that Damian also cannot handle watching movies that will make him cry especially when they involve animals makes me feel so much better especially since he is not a child. Thank goodness I'm not the only sap!