More Wacky Adventures Embarked Upon Whilst Not Watching LOST Part 3
The next three or four days of work were quite different from what they had been up to that point as The Ashes Series had come to Perth so the majority of the ICs at the office were being sent to work at the WACA for the duration of its stay. This meant that instead of going to the office in Leederville each morning we would be going to the WACA, where we needed to be by 7:00am rather than 7:30am, meaning I had to get up at 5:00am rather than 5:30am. I didn’t find this particularly objectionable however, as even though we had to be there half an hour early we got off around 2:00pm, as opposed to 5:30pm as we generally did. Furthermore we only had to actually work for a small portion of the time we were actually there, specifically the first hour and a half between the gates opening and the game starting, and then during the forty minute interval for lunch, as we were not allowed to be selling during the actual game itself. We had to wear a yellow t-shirt and cap (and I made sure to slather on a lot of sunscreen in addition to this) and were given a bum-bag for money and stickers that we had to mark who we’d already sold to. Once we were dressed and geared up Pete went through our pitch and explained how the day would work before we went to our assigned areas to wait for the gates to open. I was assigned to the grassed area since I was short and would have to kneel down to get onto the level of the people sitting there.
I felt a lot less awkward about selling tickets at the cricket even though the cause, in this case supporting junior cricket, was not a matter of life and death like the Life Saving campaigns, and the prize, a cricket bat signed by the Australian team, was less objectively valuable. I think this was largely because I considered us less an annoyance and more part of the cricket day experience, as things like sport, beer, pies and gambling just seem like things that belonged together in my mind, thus people hadn’t had the full Ashes experience unless they’d bought a ticket from us (it also helped that their chances of winning were much greater due to the smaller pool of buyers and that the tickets were only $2.50 each, even though we encouraged people to buy them in lots of four and generally succeeded in doing so). With that in mind I tried to make myself part of the enjoyment of going to the cricket, greeting people in a warm and familiar way, having a laugh with them when the opportunity presented itself, offering the kids stickers regardless of whether their parents bought tickets or not, and due to the environment coming off as far more Australian than I ever have before. I in turn had a really good time myself, despite generally not being interested in sport or attending sports games. Pretty much everybody I spoke to was really friendly and in good spirits, and were generally pretty open to buying tickets, which is how I managed to do fairly well in such a shorter space of time. On the day I was given the entire grassed area facing the score board to myself I managed to make a little over $150. For the first time in my life I found myself wishing that Australia was even more sports mad than it already is, so work could be like that all the time, as then it would be the ideal job.
After a day at work at the WACA I made my way to university to usher for the latest Panto. My role in it was limited to one night’s worth of ushering and audience participation because when it had been decided that Pantosoc would be doing a Christmas panto I wasn’t sure I would be in Australia for that period (plus I didn’t know about the auditions when they were on anyway). Turns out I was going to be there, but with the amount of work I had to do there was no way I could have been in the show anyway. As far as I’m aware it was the first Christmas Panto ever, differing from other pantos in that it was the third panto that year, showing during the end of year break, quite shorter, with proceeds going towards charity, and suitable for children, which was possibly the most notable difference, as our pantos generally aren’t known for their family friendliness. It was kinda weird seeing all the people bringing their small children when I got there. Before the show started I went backstage to see all my panto buds, and was overwhelmed with affection and belonging when I met them there, realising how much I had missed them. At work everyone was generally rather nice and supportive, but they had quickly come to regard me as the peculiar misfit and I really did not find it easy making real friends amongst their number, as my interests were so far removed from their own. With my panto buddies on the other hand, I felt at home. Being an usher proved more complicated than expected in that Simon and I, another pantee who was just ushering this time, had to listen to a rather long briefing from the manager of the Dolphin Theatre regarding things such as safety regulations and so forth, but when it actually got around to the ushering itself our duties were pretty straightforward; check the tickets, poke our heads out the door every now and then and check the seats for lost belongings at the end. The show, Pantosoc’s take on Princess and the Pea, was brilliant, even with much of the adult humour that our pantos generally thrive on removed. It was my first time watching a panto in its finished form without having first seen it rehearsed, and to be honest it was only then that I really fully appreciated how freaking funny we are. Samantha and I had written a scene for the panto, although much of it had been changed since what we had written was probably too long and raunchy, plus I think what they ended up performing was as funny, if not funnier, than what we had written.
One my way home I spoke to a rather interesting woman at the bus stop about my university degree and the subjects she used to teach, and we took the same bus to train station which we found had been taken over by the Barmy Army returning from the cricket. Together with them we ended up singing “Rule Britannia” and getting draped in English flags, before the train arrived and English boarded singing “We All Live in a Convict Colony” to the tune of “We All Live on a Yellow Submarine” at the Australians. It was all pretty awesome, so that, the play, and the fact that I would be going away soon enough managed to somewhat cancel out the fact that I was exhausted and my legs were aching like a bitch from both wondering around everywhere during business to business and then crouching down constantly at the WACA.
By Christmas week the folks and I met Uncle Pete and Auntie Liz at the airport where I was to finish the Australianisation that the cricket started and take my first trip to Bali, making that the second time I’d been to a foreign country that year, as well as in my life in its entirity. We flew with Garuda Airlines, an Indonesian airline which had me feeling a little more suspicious of the turbulence and shaking wings then general, although it ended up being nicer than in Qantas in many respects. I had signed up for a fic exchange at angelfiends and as I knew I would have no time to write once I got back to work I took the time to make a start on my fic whilst my father annoyed my mother by laughing too loudly at something on his personal screen. It was evening by the time we reached Bali, where the differences between the tiny island I was visiting and the massive island I’d just left struck me. When coming into the airport at Perth during the night the city is made obvious by the bright, densely packed and far spread lights that mark its many buildings. Coming into Bali at night, I saw a swampy landscape beneath me almost looking like a tropical Venice that could so easily be swallowed by the vast ocean we’d just flown over, with a few dim lights embedded in the dense vegetation. The airport we arrived at was very small and simple, similar to the Karratha airport I had visited many times in my youth, and it seemed almost as though the people that had got off the plane were the only people there. My mother often said that when she had taken my sisters to Bali when they were young teenagers all the Balinese boys were constantly hitting on them, and she told me expect the same treatment. When I went up to the young man at customers one of the first thing he asked me was whether I was married, and I found myself thinking “Wow, they really don’t waste their time!” When I told I was here with my parents he told me that I next time I shouldn’t come with my parents but with my boyfriend; I agreed with the parents part.
Having been to Darwin a couple of times and experiencing its wet season, I’d thought I’d pretty much experienced the apex of humidity, but I stepped out into Balinese air. Immediately I was overwhelmed by astounding clamminess that permeated the warm air, out-stripping the levels of humidity that even Darwin had to offer. There was also a distinct, appealing sweetness on the air. This was my first time in a third world country, and I couldn’t help but think of myself a crude, over privileged westerner there to take advantage of economic disparities. The Balinese men waiting outside were all wearing long skirts, or perhaps they were sarongs, and one such man picked us up and took us to the van that would be our transport to the resort. My parents and Liz and Peter sat in the back rows of the van whilst I volunteered to sit between the driver and the man who collected us, the lack of a seat belt apparently not an issue. The man was very nice, and made conversation with us as we traversed the extremely congested streets of Denpasar. In the darkness I could tell that the roads and streets were in a crumbling state and disrepair, and noticed an instance of English swear words graffitied on a wall, but those streets themselves were bustling with life and activity.
We arrived at the resort that Liz and Pete frequented, where they were greeted by a Balinese woman who worked there and knew them well. The resort was decorated with Indonesian and Hindu sculptures, since Bali is one of the few parts on Indonesia that is primarily Hindu as opposed to Muslim, and was full of lush vegetation. We were taken up to the lounge where were given welcome juice, which was fucking delicious, then shown to our rooms. I was given a separate room to my parents, something I was very grateful of, since my Dad’s terrifying snoring is just the beginning. Our rooms and bathrooms were identical, and pretty freaking awesome, the highlight most certainly being the shower, pictures forthcoming (probably)!
I think that shower may have been the best part of the holiday, well, maybe. After checking out our rooms we headed to the outdoor bar which was right near the beach, which we took shelter under as the rain began to pelt down. The menu had some pretty exciting cocktails that I began to sample, along with a really nice sandwich and the little Balinese peanuts that are so much tastier than peanuts in general, as my parents similarly indulged in alcohol and chatted away with their friends. At that point a deep irritation began to develop in me as I realised that despite being in a new and interesting place I would be stuck with my parents and doing things on their prerogative, like pretty much every other holiday I’ve been on before. So I started to get drunk and discuss reincarnation with the bartender, and my parents made us leave.
Though they certainly could have been more exciting in different company, things didn’t turn out too bad. Over the next couple of days Liz and Peter took us shopping in Denpasar, where absolutely every single Balinese person we passed was trying to sell us something, whether it be t-shirts, sunglasses, temporary tattoos, hair braiding, massages, pirated DVDs, newspapers from various regions, and the list goes on. “Imagine trying to make your living like this,” my father said to me. “This is how I make my living,” I reminded him, as I remembered being in the inverse position whilst refusing a Balinese person hawking out to me. Dad thought that was pretty funny. Much of the things they were selling were clearly geared towards Australian tourists; many of the singlets I had seen on sale I had also seen worn by the people in the poorer regions of Perth (fine, the more bogan regions) I had been or would be sent to in my work. There were large cracks in the street paving, extension cords running across the hallways in the shopping centre and men working on the tops of buildings with no harnesses or protection equipment of any sort, serving as a reminder of the lower standards of safety in the country, which was in a sense rather intriguing to someone unaccustomed to it. When we couldn’t get a maxi taxi the driver of a regular taxi just had me sit on my parents knee, issues of safety and legality apparently not a problem at all, although I doubt seatbelts are a legally compulsory over there anyway. Furthermore, it didn’t seem as though it was possible to have a really bad accident that would necessitate a seatbelt as the traffic was so thick that the vehicles all had to go at snail pace most of the time. The traffic was one of the truly amazing things about Bali; whilst in Australia and New Zealand, vehicles (theoretically) stick to a side of the road relevant to their direction of travel, and there are fairly strict and precise rules that one may (again, theoretically) observe the traffic following. In Bali the road is one big, glorious clusterfuck that just somehow manages to work. The road barely seems to be divided into two directions, people just drive all over it. This may be largely due to the fact that there are few car and trucks, but loads and loads of scooters and motorbikes. I saw whole families squashed up together on the same bike, and woman on a scooter with her little dog at her feet. On dashboards, outside of people’s stalls and just lying in the streets were little square baskets woven from bamboo leaf containing things like incense, biscuits and small amounts of money. I assumed they were some sort of daily ritual offerings and I did my best not to step on them.
You could hardly buy anything in Bali with less than a thousand of their currency, but that was OK because a thousand of their currency was equivalent to about one Australian dollar, or maybe it ten thousand of their currency, I can’t remember exactly. Anyway, even after the conversion thing everything was still super cheap, plus Auntie Liz who’d been there loads and loads of times before liked to barter to get the prices even lower, so I managed to finally get a pair of Top Gun shades for the equivalent of around five bucks and a sweet skull watch to take home for Jess for about ten or something, and they’d charge like twenty and fifty bucks at least for shit like that in Australia. Of course, the quality is a lot lower and the watch face had fallen off the wristband by the time I got it back home, but still, cheap! The watch was one of the few things I could get for Jess as I couldn’t take anything wooden or stuff like that through customs, and a lot of the cool stuff on sale was wooden, like all the wooden dongs they seemed to be selling everywhere. I also got a couple of pretty sarongs which I ended up giving to Daisy because she brought me back some stuff from Japan.
There were a couple of times when women with babies came up to us with their hands outstretched begging for money, and I noticed there were a couple of other women with incredibly swollen necks who evidently had some kind of disease, and those kind of things were clear indicators of the poverty of the region, yet I got the impression that despite this it was more of a happy place than a sad place. The vast majority of people we met were very cheery and friendly; they may have just been acting that way because we were tourists and tourists are their bread and butter in a non-cannibalistic sense, but they just seemed so genuine, especially the hotel staff. Almost every night we went to the bar near the beach where we’d chat with the staff who by the end of our trip felt like our friends, a number of them already being Liz and Peter’s friends; one of them even added me on Facebook. Our main driver who took us around to some other parts of the island apparently became so close to some West Australian tourists who were very frequent visitors to Bali that they ended up paying for him to visit Australia and stay with them for a while. When I asked him what he thought of Australia he said he found it “very different”, very neat and orderly, and I had the feeling that the subtext of what he was saying was “uptight”, because that’s certainly one comparison I would make. Hell, almost anywhere would be uptight compared to the lush, humidity laden, OSHA disregarding, tropical paradise that it Bali.
That particular driver took us out the city one day to see the nearby volcano. As we drove out of Denpasar we passed rice paddies, cages full of puppies, bottles full of yellow scooter fuel and workshops where craftsmen had created amazing carving of Hindu figures. In the traffic young men trying to sell newspapers weaved in between cars and vans; we watched one chase after a car after the traffic began to move whilst he was exchanging money with of the occupants. Apparently hardly anyone in Bali actually lives in the cities; rather they all live out in the villages and come into the cities to work. As we got further out into the countryside the setting became less obviously geared towards tourists, as my mother discovered when she tried to use the toilet at a service station only to find a basin thing in the ground. She wasn’t very happy. On the way to the volcano our driver had us stop over at a plantation for things such as coffee and coco, where some similarly friendly Balinese people who worked there showed us around. They had these little creatures in cages that they would feed coffee beans, and then apparently the ones it would poop out were the very best of the beans, and they would use that to make a very special coffee. They sat us down at a table and gave us a bunch of cups to sample their various products, included the special coffee. I didn’t try it, not being much of a coffee enthusiast, but I did try their ginger tea and hot chocolate, which were rather divine. They also gave me some of the fruit that was growing around the plantation that I had never seen before, which was quite delicious, and we bought a slab of their rich chocolate to take with us.
On our way up to the mountain we were pulled over by the police, and I watched our driver pull a little bit of cash out of the glove department to give to one of the officers. Apparently it was normal for the police in Bali to pull over drivers for “inspections” that can last for an hour or so unless the driver provides a small bribe. We eventually made it to the top of the mountain and took drinks in a restaurant where we could view the volcano, which was indeed quite an impressive sight. On the journey back we watched the Balinese children returning from school, which apparently ends quite early because it just gets too hot. They were young school girls in neat uniforms with pigtails all sharing scooters going up and down the treacherous roads of the mountain, chatting to one another as their scooters rode side by side and our vehicle weaved amongst them. We stopped to look at a rice paddy where a bunch of children came up to us trying to sell things like pencils and postcards. One of them told my mother that she liked her hat so my mother gave it to her. After she did that the children began to swarm around us exactly like puppies would swarm about people with biscuits and were still pressing up against the glass as we drove off, and I found that quite hilarious. Before returning to the city we lastly stopped over at a Hindu temple where we all had to wear sarongs in order to enter. We had stopped over at a similar if smaller temple on the way to the market place a day or two earlier, where some of the many stray dogs we saw around the island were being cared for. We had also stopped over at a monkey garden or something, which was awesome because well, fucking monkeys.
Whilst the disrepair of the city had a certain charm in itself, and the lush rural nature of the countryside was quite a thing to see, the pretty much impeccably kept resort (save the keyboards full of tiny ants) was the seat of indulgence on the holiday. If the simple fact of being of holiday away from an insane job wasn’t enough to make one face the upcoming day with a positive attitude, it would be impossible to be in a bad mood after enjoying the daily breakfast buffet supplied by the resort. Cereals, waffles, pancakes, French toast, bacon, eggs, sausages, dumplings, cheeses, pastries, noodles, porridge, juices, milks and list of deliciousness goes on. I had long before decided that I had no real interest in being super rich, as one can only buy so much luxury before it all becomes useless excess, but the thought of waking to such a readymade feast every morning almost had me seriously reconsidering my stance. The bar offered a number of delicious cocktails and I think I almost sampled them all before we left. I’m pretty sure I drank more in that week than any other week of my life. There were squirrels all about the resort which got me pretty excited as I don’t believe I’ve ever actually seen a squirrel in real life before. Mum got chummy with an Indian/British woman from Germany who she invited to sit with us one night as we drank cocktails and ate pizzas between the pool and the beach. She apparently was a scientist working for Bayer and I was interested to hear about both life in Germany and her work in science.
We spent Christmas Day at the resort where I spent much of the time lounging by the pool popping my porn writing cherry for that angelfiends exchange. We went to the special Christmas buffet that night where the Indian/British/German scientist joined us and sat by me whilst we watched the performance of the Balinese dancers, before they invited us up on stage to join them. A bunch of us went up there and tried to imitate their dancing, and one dancing girl in particular tried more or less in vain to correct my enthused but clueless attempts. I was quite charmed by her friendly attention. We were given little packages of Indonesian candy, or at least candy sold in Indonesia, for joining them. I had been given another before the dancing started because apparently I still look like a tween. I gave one to a woman that worked behind the bar who had a young son and ate another whilst sitting in my hotel room and watching copies of The Reader and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World we’d bought at a shop full of pirated DVDs for the equivalent of a dollar each. The movies were awesome but the candy was pretty gross, but I also had the chocolate we’d bought at the poop coffee plantation to eat which was rather nice. The only commercial candy I bought in Bali that I liked had been Blueberry Ice Cream flavoured Oreos which pretty much blew my mind when I saw them. I also saw cheese flavoured TimTams which was the biggest WTF moment of the journey.
Due to the achiness of my body which was in turn largely due to work I felt that it was only fair I take the chance to indulge in a massage at the resort’s spa. Looking through the massage menu outside the door a woman emerged from inside and asked me if I was interested in receiving a treatment. I responded that I would but didn’t know what to get, and she recommended a two hour massage and exfoliating scrub, so I just went with that. She then asked me if I’d like a man and a suddenly felt like I was visiting a brothel. She brought me inside, where I was mildly transfixed by the rainbow Buddha fountain, and she gave me a fancy drink of water and asked me to select oils and salts with scents that had titles containing words like “orgasm” and such, which really made me feel like I was going to brothel, making me increasingly bashful and anxious. I was then introduced to my masseur, a young Balinese man, who took me into a back room and told me to take off all my clothes, wrap myself in a gown and lie on a table, which made me really, really feel like I was visiting a brothel and quite vulnerable indeed. But then he at least left the room, so I complied with his request. When I was ready he came back in and set about doing his masseur thing which sorta felt like having my limbs being tugged off at one point, but not necessarily in an unpleasant sense. He pressed his hands downs on my back, which felt very much like what I’d imagine it would feel like having a chimpanzee walking up and down your back. He had me roll over to massage my front, at points lifting the sheet that was covering me up over my waist to massage my legs and thighs, and though they had given me underwear to put on I still felt rather self-conscious as I knew my pubes, which I generally try to keep under cover, were all out there. I just told myself that he’d probably seen this kinda thing a million times before and let myself get back to focusing on the unusual sensation. Lying on my front again, I thought I felt him pulling my underwear down, and I whimpered in discomfort, causing him to quickly reassure me as he was just lowering them to massage my lower back. He asked me if I trusted him, to which I dubiously respond with the affirmative; he then climbed onto the table above me to push down on my back, and I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that. Once he had massaged *almost* every inch of me he moved onto the body scrub, which was much more painful than I was anticipating. I must say, I had a difficult time hiding my discomfort; I thought going to a spa was meant to be an indulgent pleasant, but that just really hurt Charlie! However, it was kind of worth it because it made me smell so fucking good. He left me to let me rinse off the salt in a nearby shower, and I was amused to see that my entire body had been rubbed red. After that he came back in and gave me another rub down with some oils to inform me that my massage was over, and I made a mental note to bring a friend along next time so I could laugh at them feeling awkward.
It’s important not to drink the water in Bali if you are not Balinese (it kinda tastes like sea water anyway), otherwise you risk Bali belly, or put less nicely, the shits. Despite not drinking the water my mother somehow managed to get them the day before we left, and though she seemed alright before we left the hotel she still asked me for some of my pads in case she had “an accident”, in her own words, which squicked me a fair bit, but I guess it was pretty practical. On the plane trip back I had a window seat and my dad sat next to me; he kept pointing out ships in the ocean beneath us, which I couldn’t see, much to my father’s incredulity. As we neared the Australian coast I finally spotted some of them; they were little orange lines in the water, looking about as big from the plane as a plane looks from the ground when it’s way up in the air, which I suppose makes sense. As the coast came into view Dad noted that a number of the ships were gathered around a jetty that he identified as Cape Lambert, the place he used to work. I peered as directly beneath the plane as I could and noticed that we were flying over a densely populated region in the middle of the desert, Karratha, the place I was born. I looked back out towards the direction of Cape Lambert and it was then that I spotted Wickham, most easily identified by the small green oval, which was surrounded by a faint smear that I realised were houses. It was only then that I truly appreciated how tiny my old hometown is.
The night I got back I got a text telling me we’d be working at the WACA again the next day, this time for Western Australia vs Victoria or Tasmania or whatever 20/20 match, and as I had been quite amazed by the some of the architecture and enjoyed the novelty of the experience last time, I decided to take the camera for some snappies. Though I’m in no way a sports enthusiast it was still fun watching the crowd get excited; at one point I took part in a Mexican wave that made its way around the stadium several times before finally dissipating.
I was down to work on New Years Eve, but the guy I was sent out with got ill so we ended up leaving our site by lunchtime, giving me plenty of time to get ready for the New Years Eve party I was invited to. It was the first New Years Eve ever I would be spending with friends instead of parents, and I was expecting a noticeable improvement in my enjoyment. I met up with Stuart to get Vodka and mixers before Julian picked us up for the looong drive up Georgia and Jacob’s house in the hills. On the way we saw I guy passed out flat on his back by a bus stop even though it was only 6pm (at least...I hope he was just passed out) and listened to “Infected Mushroom” on the car’s sound system, while the surroundings grew increasingly rural and the road increasingly bendy. We eventually arrived at Jacob and Georgia’s place, which was in the middle of the bush and surrounded by a large patch of red dirt. We dumped our drinks in an esky in the large shed before some more people we knew showed up, and we commenced the consumption of alcohol, most enjoyably through the medium of jelly cups. Along with Georgia, a bunch of my other Panto friends were there, including Cat, who had come along with her boyfriend. A some point during our conversation she mentioned how when she had seen me at the rally for gay marriage earlier in the year it had made her “hopeful”, and she then proceeded to put her hand on the back of my neck to pull me towards her and whisper that if she didn’t have her current boyfriend she would have asked me out, and I felt rather flattered.
We weren’t all that sure about the exact moment the New Year was meant to begin, as our various time keeping devices were conflicting, but we nonetheless had an enthused countdown in the shed and then proceeded to dance to music by The Lonely Island, Monty Python and Jonathan Coulton, as well as holding hands and singing along with certain songs. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’ve come to associate with the right group of people. As I was dancing Cat came up to me and began grabbing my ass and grinding against me, and I just decided to go along with it. Out the corner of my eye I noticed Ellie looking at us in concern before come up to us to kiss us both on the cheek and hug us, to which we enthusiastically reciprocated. As I had the impression that Cat had been about to kiss me and as I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that I was fairly grateful for the interruption, plus I noticed Cat’s boyfriend giving me dirty looks later in the night I became kinda nervous that my behaviour would one day prompt some guy to punch me in the face, although according to other people at the party Cat’s boyfriend was like that in general.
As people started retiring to bed in the house I remained in the shed with the partygoers that remained awake. I started chatting with a guy I had met at the party that night, who began to tell me about his experience as a bartender, which led onto a number of bizarre and outrageous tales of the “zany” antics of both barkeeps and their customers. I was most certainly enthralled, but as I generally am on the occasions I meet intelligent and interesting people, I felt rather dull and stupid as I had nothing interesting or witty to add on my side of the conversation. I had been planning to get my sleeping bag off of Ellie and her boyfriend, as I had leant it to Ellie at the last Panto after party I had attended, but they had ended up going to sleep before I got around to grabbing it, so I decided to stay up with those individuals who wanted to see it right through until the first dawn of the year. I’m not sure, but I think those individuals were the new guy I had met, Stuart and Jacob. They begun discussing 40K, weaponry, and battle strategy, and having little knowledge of 40K, weaponry or battle strategy myself, I could barely understand a thing they were going on about, and was mainly thinking about how incredibly cold and tired I was. So my first few hours of 2011 were spent listening to a seemingly unending conversation about battle strategy whilst slipping in and out of consciousness and freezing my ass off on a deck chair in a shed of the top on a hill. I think I did fall asleep sitting down as some length of time seemed to escape me between when the sun was just a suggestion on the horizon to when the shed was fully illuminated by its dawn rays, and I was suddenly in a much better mood. Jacob made a joke about having not gamed all year before we made our way into the house where people were gradually beginning to wake up. Jacob and Georgia’s mother was very generous to make me my favourite type of toasted sandwich, like the ones she had served the night before, as we watched the Rifftracks of Batman and Robin on Stuart’s computer. We decided to go into Georgia’s room and gather around her bed whilst humming softly to freak her out, but she was hung over and not very happy to see us, so we were kicked out. Julian, who had slept in his car that night, was nice enough to give me a lift all the way back to my house.