Ok, I'll admit it. I really REALLY hate public transport. Yes, it's convenient, and yes it still is cheaper than driving, but it just plain old sucks.
Let me explain why it sucks so much.
The passengers.
I'm not a fan of crowds, but more so than that, I'm not a fan of crowds in confined spaces. It's why I don't do the Easter Show or music festivals. I'm sure the bus driver allows about 30 more people than it's actually licensed for on. He either can't count, can't give a shit, or both. Now, I don't mind a bit of arse in my face... if it's a nice arse. But generally there are no hotties on public transport because they are all super successful and driving to work in their nice company cars, so the quality of arse is just not there. Old man arse is never a good thing in your face first thing in the morning. Then there's the sickly mofos that cough, sneeze and splutter their way to work, sharing the love and eventually making me crazy sick. Keep that shit to yourself dammit. And how could I forget the moles that insist on having highly personal and annoying mobile phone conversations for all to hear, the freaks that don't believe in the institution of deodorant, arse trumpets, and the fat arses that have no choice but to sit on you because they just don't seem to make bus seats like they used to.
The climate.
Ok, this is the one that really sends me over the edge. It is like the fucking Arctic Circle on wheels. WTF is that shit about??? I've been told it's because they don't want the windows to fog up with the 362 people they have on board. I think that is scientifically impossible. And even if it is possible - it's a goddamn bus. You can't see out of the windows anyway. Use your freaking mirrors and learn how to drive that thing properly so I don't have to start wearing my snow gear to and from work every day.
The timing.
Public transport, in theory, is a good thing. It's meant to save you time and money, which in some instances it does. But unfortunately the transport system where I live, The Twilight Zone, is the shittest system in the world. Calcutta has a better system than we do. In fact the logistics of flying a shuttle to the moon are better. So what it boils down to is me paying 50 bucks a week to sit in a transportable refridgerator with a pack of arseholes for nearly 3 hours a day. That's 15 hours a week - if the traffic is reasonable. 15 hours that I'll never recover. That could be so much television I could be watching. I could be sleeping. I could be picking the lint out of my belly button, I don't know. But I just could be doing something a lot more productive.
Now can y'all see why I like driving my car so much? Think I might move to LA.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Hoochies in minis
And no, I don't mean the car.
To all the little 19 year old Miss Thangs out there, and to a Miss Thang in particular that I've had the utter misfortune of encountering twice in the last 2 months, here's a little tip... when you dress like a hooker, you look like a hooker. Leave the hooker look to, well, hookers... and Paris Hilton.
Ok, let me break this down for you. Short, micro mini skirts and low cut dresses are not, I repeat, ARE NOT the new black. Contrary to popular belief, I don't need to see what you ate for breakfast, as much as you'd like to show me, but I'm really not down with that. Although I must say, it is highly amusing for me to watch you try, rather unsuccessfully I might add, to sit down without the whole kit and kaboodle heading north for the winter and ending up somewhere around your neck. Haven't quite mastered the art of that one I see. Maybe if you attached some weights to the bottom of your mini, it might help the situation? Although then we'd probably end up seeing your rack, and God knows I really don't want to see that... although if I was a guy I'd actually be attaching the weights to your mini myself while you weren't looking.
What is so damn annoying about hoochies in minis is that no matter what, they will always turn guy's heads. None of the rest of us ever get a look-in when there is a hoochie in a mini in da house. I've thought about going the hooch myself and slipping into something a little more short, but I honestly don't think the greater public is ready to see my glow stick excuses for legs. Plus there needs to be some serious, and I mean serious 'back burning' down there if there was a chance it could ever see the light of day due to my mini.
No, I think there needs to be some of us to keep the balance. Sure, I no longer have the body of a stick insect - gravity and age have taken care of that for me, but I believe that you can be sexy without wearing an outfit that gives the world a poonani preview. I can go out, show a bit of rack, but not too much, show a hint of knee, and still look like I'd be alright in the sack.
So to all the hoochies in minis, I say whatever. There is a time and place for such attire - time would be about 2:30am, and place would be a brothel in Kings Cross. Remember, you might be the chick that guys want to fuck, but I'm the chick they want to actually spend the rest of their life with.
To all the little 19 year old Miss Thangs out there, and to a Miss Thang in particular that I've had the utter misfortune of encountering twice in the last 2 months, here's a little tip... when you dress like a hooker, you look like a hooker. Leave the hooker look to, well, hookers... and Paris Hilton.
Ok, let me break this down for you. Short, micro mini skirts and low cut dresses are not, I repeat, ARE NOT the new black. Contrary to popular belief, I don't need to see what you ate for breakfast, as much as you'd like to show me, but I'm really not down with that. Although I must say, it is highly amusing for me to watch you try, rather unsuccessfully I might add, to sit down without the whole kit and kaboodle heading north for the winter and ending up somewhere around your neck. Haven't quite mastered the art of that one I see. Maybe if you attached some weights to the bottom of your mini, it might help the situation? Although then we'd probably end up seeing your rack, and God knows I really don't want to see that... although if I was a guy I'd actually be attaching the weights to your mini myself while you weren't looking.
What is so damn annoying about hoochies in minis is that no matter what, they will always turn guy's heads. None of the rest of us ever get a look-in when there is a hoochie in a mini in da house. I've thought about going the hooch myself and slipping into something a little more short, but I honestly don't think the greater public is ready to see my glow stick excuses for legs. Plus there needs to be some serious, and I mean serious 'back burning' down there if there was a chance it could ever see the light of day due to my mini.
No, I think there needs to be some of us to keep the balance. Sure, I no longer have the body of a stick insect - gravity and age have taken care of that for me, but I believe that you can be sexy without wearing an outfit that gives the world a poonani preview. I can go out, show a bit of rack, but not too much, show a hint of knee, and still look like I'd be alright in the sack.
So to all the hoochies in minis, I say whatever. There is a time and place for such attire - time would be about 2:30am, and place would be a brothel in Kings Cross. Remember, you might be the chick that guys want to fuck, but I'm the chick they want to actually spend the rest of their life with.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Am I bovered?
Well, the time has come to try and figure out how the hell everything is going to fit into the suitcase, and how the hell one is going to get to Heefrow with 100kgs of luggage. In the meantime, here are a few random thoughts...
Favourite UK sayings
1. Am I bovered?
2. Cracking
3. Tidy
Always remember, what seems like a bargain in reality isn't because you still have to double it.
London transport system - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London shopping - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London weather - ffffffuckkkkkk me
Sydney weather - oh yeah
Don't take people pummelling you on the tube personally - just bite your tongue, as hard as that may be (my tongue is now hanging by a thread).
You can only see so many galleries in one day. 3 is probably too much. Over the galleries.
When the sun is out, make the most of it, because you won't see it again for months.
Why can't Primark, Topshop and H&M open stores in Sydney??? Fuck Sportsgirl, Portmans and... all of the others.
Let the airline allocate your seat, because then you have someone (that isn't you) to blame for the shit flight.
Arriverdeci Old Dart. It's been fun. A little wet, pretty goddamn freezing, somewhat overcrowded, a tiny bit expensive, but an awesome experience. See you again in about 10 years time when I've managed to pay off the MasterCard.
Favourite UK sayings
1. Am I bovered?
2. Cracking
3. Tidy
Always remember, what seems like a bargain in reality isn't because you still have to double it.
London transport system - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London shopping - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London weather - ffffffuckkkkkk me
Sydney weather - oh yeah
Don't take people pummelling you on the tube personally - just bite your tongue, as hard as that may be (my tongue is now hanging by a thread).
You can only see so many galleries in one day. 3 is probably too much. Over the galleries.
When the sun is out, make the most of it, because you won't see it again for months.
Why can't Primark, Topshop and H&M open stores in Sydney??? Fuck Sportsgirl, Portmans and... all of the others.
Let the airline allocate your seat, because then you have someone (that isn't you) to blame for the shit flight.
Arriverdeci Old Dart. It's been fun. A little wet, pretty goddamn freezing, somewhat overcrowded, a tiny bit expensive, but an awesome experience. See you again in about 10 years time when I've managed to pay off the MasterCard.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Snow Globe vs Snow Cone
Lucky I flew into London when I did, otherwise I would've either been stuck in Dubai, or sliding off the runway at Heathrow. A few hours after landing it started snowing. Which was pretty exciting because I've never actually seen snow falling before. It was like waking up in a snow globe the following morning. Everything was covered in a soft white blanket, it looked like a postcard. And it snowed, fluffy flakes of frozen water floating down from the sky. Still it snowed... and snowed. To the point where it was the heaviest snow fall that London has had in about 20 years. What is it with me and extremes? Last time I was here, it was the hottest summer they'd had on record. I'm like freaking El Nino.
So after enjoying a day indoors - some would say trapped, I'd say enforced R&R courtesy of Mother Nature that allows me to sit on my arse for a day in a foreign city watching the entire series of Flight of the Conchords without feeling guilty, something very strange happened. This beautiful white fluffy snow turned, and it turned bad. Ice ice baby. Now, that in itself isn't that bad a thing, but when it is located on the footpath it becomes slightly interesting. It's like being in the middle of an episode of Funniest Home Videos. It's rather sneaky, this ice. It's Jeckle and Hyde ice. You think you have a handle on it, then you take your next step and it's almost arse over tit. What is great is the BBC in these situations. Apparently people falling A/T is national news. So they set up a camera on a busy crossing somewhere in London, and proceeded to spend the day filming poor innocent saps flying through the air and landing where the sun don't shine. It's so mean, but so funny - it's ok for me to laugh because I almost fell over a few times myself... almost.
So, what is it London? Delicate, peaceful and pretty snow globe, or hardened, evil, grit flavoured snow cone?
I guess it's snow cone, with a side of freezing my nuts off thanks. Jesus, it's cold. I mean, it isn't THAT much colder than say Melbourne in the winter, but when you've come from 38 degrees, it may as well be the freaking Arctic Circle. Actually, I think that's on the Picadilly Line. And already, I am over the layering. It's a daily ritual to spend a good hour layering yourself up with nearly everything you have in your wardrobe or suitcase. Only then am I ready to waddle out to reality and attempt a trip into Oxford Circus. Then it starts. Layers go on, layers come off. Layers go on, layers come off. It's like this pain in the arse dance that one must perform upon walking into a store. Outside it is 1 degrees, but inside it's about 30 degrees. It is doing my head in. I can only manage about 4 hours of being out and about because a) wearing so many clothes at the one time is making me so agitated that I literally want to grab someone on the street, take them by the collar and just scream in their face, and b) I'm so sick of going from being so cold that my flesh feels like a corpse to so hot that I'm sweating like a schlepp. If I don't end up getting really sick, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
At least today it's raining. That's something a bit different. Then some of this evil ice might finally melt away. I tell you, London is really turning it on for me. What will tomorrow bring? Hail perhaps? Sleet? Fog? Only time will tell.
So after enjoying a day indoors - some would say trapped, I'd say enforced R&R courtesy of Mother Nature that allows me to sit on my arse for a day in a foreign city watching the entire series of Flight of the Conchords without feeling guilty, something very strange happened. This beautiful white fluffy snow turned, and it turned bad. Ice ice baby. Now, that in itself isn't that bad a thing, but when it is located on the footpath it becomes slightly interesting. It's like being in the middle of an episode of Funniest Home Videos. It's rather sneaky, this ice. It's Jeckle and Hyde ice. You think you have a handle on it, then you take your next step and it's almost arse over tit. What is great is the BBC in these situations. Apparently people falling A/T is national news. So they set up a camera on a busy crossing somewhere in London, and proceeded to spend the day filming poor innocent saps flying through the air and landing where the sun don't shine. It's so mean, but so funny - it's ok for me to laugh because I almost fell over a few times myself... almost.
So, what is it London? Delicate, peaceful and pretty snow globe, or hardened, evil, grit flavoured snow cone?
I guess it's snow cone, with a side of freezing my nuts off thanks. Jesus, it's cold. I mean, it isn't THAT much colder than say Melbourne in the winter, but when you've come from 38 degrees, it may as well be the freaking Arctic Circle. Actually, I think that's on the Picadilly Line. And already, I am over the layering. It's a daily ritual to spend a good hour layering yourself up with nearly everything you have in your wardrobe or suitcase. Only then am I ready to waddle out to reality and attempt a trip into Oxford Circus. Then it starts. Layers go on, layers come off. Layers go on, layers come off. It's like this pain in the arse dance that one must perform upon walking into a store. Outside it is 1 degrees, but inside it's about 30 degrees. It is doing my head in. I can only manage about 4 hours of being out and about because a) wearing so many clothes at the one time is making me so agitated that I literally want to grab someone on the street, take them by the collar and just scream in their face, and b) I'm so sick of going from being so cold that my flesh feels like a corpse to so hot that I'm sweating like a schlepp. If I don't end up getting really sick, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
At least today it's raining. That's something a bit different. Then some of this evil ice might finally melt away. I tell you, London is really turning it on for me. What will tomorrow bring? Hail perhaps? Sleet? Fog? Only time will tell.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch... WTF???
After over 30 hours in transit, I've finally come to a conclusion... long haul air travel and me just don't mix. In fact, we are like oil and water, drinking and driving, Madonna and Guy Ritchie. I was so optimistic, but alas, it just isn't meant to be. Long haul air travel, indeed you are not my friend. I've also come to another conclusion... that combination padlocks and me also don't mix. I should've known what I was in for at the gate waiting for the flight in Sydney.
I bought a combination padlock for the carry on bag that I was taking on the plane that contained my money, phone and change of clothes for Heathrow. Of course, I managed to change the combination in the process of putting the lock on, thus rendering my bag impenetrable until I found someone with bolt cutters that could cut the f*cker off. Awesome. Remind me never to buy a freaking combination padlock EVER AGAIN. Of course no bastard between Sydney and Dubai had any clue as to how to help me. Needless to say the problem was very easily solved by a member of staff at Heathrow who managed to get the bag open in about 10 seconds flat. Did I feel like a dick? You bet. But it meant I got through immigration in about 3 minutes, so it was worth looking like a tool for.
So, after sitting at the gate in Sydney for over an hour, the plane was finally ready to board. The lady sitting next to me was lovely. If I wanted someone to invade my personal space like that I'd go to the Big Day Out. The mole managed to occupy every square inch of space. I had to do something. So I reclaimed the armrest in a quiet but forceful manner. I needed to let her know ok bitch, you can have my leg space, but you ain't taking my arm space too. Also, I've come to the conclusion that maybe online check-in isn't such a good idea. What I thought were voids turned out to be the toilets. So for a good 20 hours, I had the privilege of knowing when every mother f*cker on the flight was having a bowel or bladder explosion.
Dubai was nice, in a fleeting way. The plane was so late, I had just enough time to go through security, stare at the totally covered up ladies waiting in line with me, find someone to open my bag, realise there was no-one that had any clue whatsoever, then board my next flight to Heathrow. Which brings me to the A380.
The A380. To say that it left me underwhelmed is an understatement. That plane was basically the same old economy, but with more f*cking people jammed into a bigger space. I have never seen queues for toilets like I have on that plane. Again, never do online check in. Not only did I have to deal with people's bowel and bladder evacuations, but I also had to deal with the freaks lining up. Perfect. What I'd like to know is where the hell is all of this extra freaking space I was promised? I tell you where it is, in bloody business and first class.
So, I get on the plane, and walk down to aisle 66. I call this the aisle from hell. It should have been aisle 666. I had to sit next to this boy, who was the spawn of the devil, and his grandmother for 8 hours. But this boy was no ordinary boy. He was, hmmm, I would say he was an autistic chav with his equally chav grandma. Imagine the worst child on Supernanny - I was sitting next to it. He reminded me of a more skinny, annoying Haley Joel Osment. He talked like a cross between a total geezer and the dude in Some Mothers Do Ave Em. I couldn't help but be rude and ignore him. He ACTUALLY made my skin crawl. That's quite hard for a child to do usually. At one point him and his grandma were having a smackdown in their seats. I was THIS close to asking the air hostess to be moved to another seat. At one point he was watching Mamma Mia, and singing out loud to the songs. Not a pretty situation for anyone.
Finally arriving at Heathrow, skipping the queue because of my retarded padlock, my suitcase just happened to be one of the first off the carousel. Oh yeah. I'm loving Heathrow already. So after getting changed, I managed to work out the whole tube deal, got myself to Kings Cross for 4 pounds, and finally met Em. YAY for me. I am woman hear me roar - grrrrr.
I bought a combination padlock for the carry on bag that I was taking on the plane that contained my money, phone and change of clothes for Heathrow. Of course, I managed to change the combination in the process of putting the lock on, thus rendering my bag impenetrable until I found someone with bolt cutters that could cut the f*cker off. Awesome. Remind me never to buy a freaking combination padlock EVER AGAIN. Of course no bastard between Sydney and Dubai had any clue as to how to help me. Needless to say the problem was very easily solved by a member of staff at Heathrow who managed to get the bag open in about 10 seconds flat. Did I feel like a dick? You bet. But it meant I got through immigration in about 3 minutes, so it was worth looking like a tool for.
So, after sitting at the gate in Sydney for over an hour, the plane was finally ready to board. The lady sitting next to me was lovely. If I wanted someone to invade my personal space like that I'd go to the Big Day Out. The mole managed to occupy every square inch of space. I had to do something. So I reclaimed the armrest in a quiet but forceful manner. I needed to let her know ok bitch, you can have my leg space, but you ain't taking my arm space too. Also, I've come to the conclusion that maybe online check-in isn't such a good idea. What I thought were voids turned out to be the toilets. So for a good 20 hours, I had the privilege of knowing when every mother f*cker on the flight was having a bowel or bladder explosion.
Dubai was nice, in a fleeting way. The plane was so late, I had just enough time to go through security, stare at the totally covered up ladies waiting in line with me, find someone to open my bag, realise there was no-one that had any clue whatsoever, then board my next flight to Heathrow. Which brings me to the A380.
The A380. To say that it left me underwhelmed is an understatement. That plane was basically the same old economy, but with more f*cking people jammed into a bigger space. I have never seen queues for toilets like I have on that plane. Again, never do online check in. Not only did I have to deal with people's bowel and bladder evacuations, but I also had to deal with the freaks lining up. Perfect. What I'd like to know is where the hell is all of this extra freaking space I was promised? I tell you where it is, in bloody business and first class.
So, I get on the plane, and walk down to aisle 66. I call this the aisle from hell. It should have been aisle 666. I had to sit next to this boy, who was the spawn of the devil, and his grandmother for 8 hours. But this boy was no ordinary boy. He was, hmmm, I would say he was an autistic chav with his equally chav grandma. Imagine the worst child on Supernanny - I was sitting next to it. He reminded me of a more skinny, annoying Haley Joel Osment. He talked like a cross between a total geezer and the dude in Some Mothers Do Ave Em. I couldn't help but be rude and ignore him. He ACTUALLY made my skin crawl. That's quite hard for a child to do usually. At one point him and his grandma were having a smackdown in their seats. I was THIS close to asking the air hostess to be moved to another seat. At one point he was watching Mamma Mia, and singing out loud to the songs. Not a pretty situation for anyone.
Finally arriving at Heathrow, skipping the queue because of my retarded padlock, my suitcase just happened to be one of the first off the carousel. Oh yeah. I'm loving Heathrow already. So after getting changed, I managed to work out the whole tube deal, got myself to Kings Cross for 4 pounds, and finally met Em. YAY for me. I am woman hear me roar - grrrrr.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The things I do...
I love the ocean, particularly when I am not in it. I don't mind being near it, and in fact one day I'd love to live somewhere that has a view of it, but I've come to the realisation that I actually don't like being in it. And more than not liking being in the ocean, I'm really not a huge fan of being on the beach. Take today for example.
I really wanted to prove a point to people, what that point was I actually don't know. But as someone who resembles a British backpacker, with my pasty white flesh and insipid looking complexion, I felt the need to at least once this holiday feel sand between my toes. Which would've been lovely if it wasn't like sticking my feet into an oven that's been on 180 degrees for 4 hours. The dry skin problem on my feet is now no longer an issue, as most of the skin has pretty much been burnt off. Perfect. Who knew that sand could get so hot by 10am in the morning?
I must admit, I nearly didn't go through with it. There is an iron man event happening over this coming weekend that was being set up when I was down there. There's nothing intimidating at all about seeing fit, tanned and toned guys and girls in their Uncle Tobys' outfits doing promotional activities just a few metres from you on the beach when you currently resemble a beached whale. Hey, the way I figure it, society needs balance - not everyone should look like a golden adonis, and dammit I'm happy to do my bit to keep that balance... clearly.
Here's to all the vampires on the Gold Coast, may you shy away from the sun with pride. Enjoy.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I try not to let things piss me off, I really do. But sometimes my hand is forced, and I have no other choice but to get shirty. There really are some annoying people in the world, and seemingly, most of them live on the Gold Coast.
Taxi Drivers
Ok, first thing's first. For Christ's sake, do us all a favour and shower AT LEAST once a day. You may not find your aroma repulsive, but the rest of us do. Your cab is not an ashtray, so stop smoking in it and let us at least enjoy a cab trip where we don't get out smelling like a Winny Blue. And remember, we aren't all stupid tourists from the Emerald City. Some of us do actually know our way around, so f*ck the scenic route, get onto the goddamn highway and get my arse over to Marina Mirage toot-sweet. I don't need to spend $35 on a $20 fare just so that I can see the beach flying past at 30km/h.
Shop Assistants
When I'm purchasing something in your store, I expect your full attention. I know you think your riveting conversation with your colleague is as entertaining for me as it is for you, but news flash, it really isn't. Quite frankly, I couldn't give a rats arse about the fact that you are trying to convince your work friend who is standing 5 feet from you to move in with you so that you can watch whole TV series' on DVD all day every day. Surely such important things as that can wait, oh, the 2 minutes it takes to ring up my purchase and send me on my way. And don't keep apologising to me for not giving me your full attention, and then proceed to keep talking and ignoring me. I will get pissed off, and I will let you know that. Which brings me to my next point - don't get shirty at me 'cos I'm shirty at you for talking all the way through the transaction. There's a very good reason why you are on the other side of the counter, biatch.
Bingo at the surf club
Bingo, bingo, bingo. The combined age of everyone in the room would've been 15,872 years. That's a whole lot of annoyance right there. It was like the set of Cocoon. From the old fart sitting near me who felt the need to answer every number that was called out with a yes, no or hmmm, to the pains in my arse sitting behind who weren't even playing, and did not shut the f*ck up the whole time. Bingo is an interesting game. I've never seen people get so excited about winning $2.50. Although I must admit I carry on like I've won Powerball every time I find a dollar coin in an old handbag. I kept a calm veneer as I received my prize of a $15 breakfast voucher, but on the inside I was partying like it was 1999.
Next stop - the beach. Yee haw.
Taxi Drivers
Ok, first thing's first. For Christ's sake, do us all a favour and shower AT LEAST once a day. You may not find your aroma repulsive, but the rest of us do. Your cab is not an ashtray, so stop smoking in it and let us at least enjoy a cab trip where we don't get out smelling like a Winny Blue. And remember, we aren't all stupid tourists from the Emerald City. Some of us do actually know our way around, so f*ck the scenic route, get onto the goddamn highway and get my arse over to Marina Mirage toot-sweet. I don't need to spend $35 on a $20 fare just so that I can see the beach flying past at 30km/h.
Shop Assistants
When I'm purchasing something in your store, I expect your full attention. I know you think your riveting conversation with your colleague is as entertaining for me as it is for you, but news flash, it really isn't. Quite frankly, I couldn't give a rats arse about the fact that you are trying to convince your work friend who is standing 5 feet from you to move in with you so that you can watch whole TV series' on DVD all day every day. Surely such important things as that can wait, oh, the 2 minutes it takes to ring up my purchase and send me on my way. And don't keep apologising to me for not giving me your full attention, and then proceed to keep talking and ignoring me. I will get pissed off, and I will let you know that. Which brings me to my next point - don't get shirty at me 'cos I'm shirty at you for talking all the way through the transaction. There's a very good reason why you are on the other side of the counter, biatch.
Bingo at the surf club
Bingo, bingo, bingo. The combined age of everyone in the room would've been 15,872 years. That's a whole lot of annoyance right there. It was like the set of Cocoon. From the old fart sitting near me who felt the need to answer every number that was called out with a yes, no or hmmm, to the pains in my arse sitting behind who weren't even playing, and did not shut the f*ck up the whole time. Bingo is an interesting game. I've never seen people get so excited about winning $2.50. Although I must admit I carry on like I've won Powerball every time I find a dollar coin in an old handbag. I kept a calm veneer as I received my prize of a $15 breakfast voucher, but on the inside I was partying like it was 1999.
Next stop - the beach. Yee haw.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)