Pronunciation.

"It isn't 'Channel' you moron- it's 'Chanel'."

"Ooooh, but Charlotte! Chanel doesn't rhyme with flannel. My tee shirt has to rhyme."

We're going on a Bear Hunt.

"You know, it wouldn't have run off if you didn't stand in plain sight with a boulder".

Living in Bushland is renowned amongst teenagers as being a pain in the arse. A royal one at that. No real cinema, definately no clubs (and the only pubs are outfitted wih resident flannelette wearing bogans) and general lack of similar aged people means once you hit your late teens you are usually moving out of home much earlier than financially viable or making the longgg drive to Bondi three times a week.

I have always forgotten what lies about a half hour drive to my West, down Victoria Pass and along the Bells Line of Road. Clarence Dam has always been the lazy go-to, or the point of call for a local thrill-seeking adventure. As a Uni destress we collected a picnic together, 'borrowed' the Paj. and set off for a day of rock jumping and bush bashing. Having not made the trek for years I thought my Echo would also make the journey and was offended to say the least when someone refused to let me drive it. The anger quickly subsided when I realised that the road has decreased to such a state that four-wheel drives would probably be a pre-requisite.

If only they didn't bolt and chain the gates to the Dam entrance.

Gates have never stopped the masses moving to Clarence on a hot Summer day. And luckily, we weren't the ones using the bolt cutters. Literally, a 100 people greeted us in the winding Valley, everyone geared up with Eskys, pool chairs, climbing ropes, LiLo's and hats. Real 'West' boys used their over-sized wheel utes to bump their way down the hillside, narrowly avoiding flipping cars on fellow Clarence'rs.

We spent hours at Clarence, soaking up the sun and drinking cool Pina Colada's thanks to our ingenious idea to float most of our non-perishables in the freezing water. We avoided food-disaster, saving our Esky from sinking as we floated it across to the Island rock yet missed our oppurtunity to rescue our dry clothing which was soaked three dog paddle steps in (imagine someone dog-paddling, with a fist full of clothes reaching above their heads). We watched the abseilers compete with the rock jumpers for prime position before laying in the last of our Clarence rays and making the trek home.

You'd think that a day like this would serve as the perfect reminder as to why I still live in the wonderful place I do. I have the amazing oppurtunity to live in a World Heritage listed zone, a quiet community based around the diverse value systems of its members. It's a place where you can celebrate Winter with a mixture of hippies, pirates and young children wrapped up in gauzy fabrics.

It only got better once we arrived back at Funny Farm, farm because obviously it is a farm and funny because we were once left in charge (and if you know me, I do not do farm - nor rampant ducks). We had a few hours of sun left so we retired to laze by the pool, soaking up rays and learning how to pogo jump on a stick quite obviously not made for pogo jumping. This however quickly went down the toilet - we had a kangaroo in the backyard.

Tom, and Tom, thinking they were Steve Irwin's replacements quickly scaled the fence. One Tom not-so quickly, he got stuck on the top before promptly falling into the horse trough, but he lives in Paddington now so his scaling days are somewhat over.
Hiding behind a large pile of twigs and leaf matter, the boys plotted their next move. Whilst Buchanaman Tom thought a slow, steady approach was best, Horse Trough Tom had better ideas. That was to grab the closet object, a large boulder and stand right in the middle of the paddock. So while the Real Bushman was slithering through the grass, the other had undone about 10 minutes of careful preparation by trying to catch the wallaby by surprise, upright and in the middle of nowhere with a rock above his head.

After a charge from Pony towards the Toms (and yet another failed fence jumping attempt), we retired.

The Mountains have never been so good.


Me: Swimmers, Bonds. Hat, Goorin. Sunnies, RayBan.

Chanel: Do not try this at home.

CURRENT BAG: Chanel Reissue in metallic black.
Where was it purchased? Hong Kong, Christmas 2007.
Where is it now? On my floor, not my brightest storage area.

Contents:
- Mimco cream and gold studded couch/pouch
- Ray Ban vintage cut Wayfarers in black
- Samsung slide-y phone
- enough P1 plates to stick on about 8 cars
- oversized keychain, made up of large gold and diamonte heart with lots of little hanging gold and crystal hearts, a true trash piece
- Mimco cream bow headband
- Hong Kong travel guide
- 2 invoices from Maximillia.com
- toothbrush and dental floss
- half a packet of Nurofen
- large amount of candy including a bag of Clouds, two Crunch bars and two packets of Extra White
- YSL Everlong mascara, Chanel lipgloss, Lucas PawPaw tube, weird organic Japanese illuminating powder compact + brush
- 13 hair ties, 46 bobby pins
- 7 train tickets

I'd like to think I treated my cheaper bags worse.


Me: tee, Tom's old and grotty Spanish bull tee.
Story: At the Old House, a winter's day with the central heating on 30 degrees. Thomas made me grilled swordfish for lunch and took photo's of me lazing in his tee which has now become adopted into my wardrobe. A standout memory from our Love Affair.

Seven Winter Classics.

Winter, the idea brings shivers up your spine and rampant thoughts of creamy hot chocolates, fluffy eiderdowns and knitted clothing. Winter, like Summer is normally defined by the aforementioned items as well as a soundtrack that gets you through the cold snap.

Here are my Seven Winter Classic, with Seven Special Winter Memories.

1. Black & Blue by The Herd.
The Herds latest studio offering, politically and socially outspoken is fantastic for those long drives. If one track could be chosen off the album to signify something more romantic it would be Black & Blue. Based on the current governmental situation this track is perfect for grooving too and thinking about who you want to be.

2. Skinny Love by Bon Iver.
Hanging with the ex-boy was never a favourite past time, but Winter has changed us. Both appreciative that we have salvaged a friendship from some very smoky ashes of our failed childhood romance. Skinny Love is a beautiful piece, that was playing over and over at a time where we could have lost everything or kept what was left.

3. Time To Pretend/Kids/Electric Feel by MGMT.
I know you should never group in these type of things, cheating is never acceptable. But these three songs are nearly inseperable in my memory. They are my Winter. And if you don't know why, please see my previous post.

4. Hometon Glory (Shinobe One edit) by Adele.
Without mentioning the small fact this may turn into a massive Skins list, Hometown Glory is an amazing, heartfelt track and something that resonates so deeply this winter. I'm back home, I'm moving on (and moving up) and I'm growing in more ways than one. I've learnt my true friends and I know now the importance of home. Nothing makes you learn as quick as a snow storm, a old love letter and a wet blanket.

5. If I Knew You by The Presets.
The ultimate soft, sashaying, mellowed dance track. My very favourite off Apocalypso, If I Knew You is the one song I find myself continually dancing alone too this Winter. Its arm-raising, hip-shaking, feet-tapping good. It suits Chloe patent black shoe boots, 3am recovery dance sessions and the odd kiss on the cheek.

6. Their Cell by Girl in a Coma.
The softcore beat, the MK Olsen endorsement and the heroin chic name, they make Winter warming cooking bearable.

7. Love Cats by Tricky.
It's not everyday your token Male at work turns around and starts singing The Cure to you. Well, maybe it is. I don't know. All I know is that we crank this cover every Saturday at work, the chilled femme voice giving the track a fresh and unique vibe. Winter means a thriving cafe and Love Cats is a track that has gotten the surliest of customers tapping their feet (not mentioning the most open of Mountain residents belting out the tune whilst waiting for their Latte's).

I think I have more than Seven Winter Classics.

I said Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.

"This is our decision, to live fast and die young. We've got the vision, now let's have some fun".

Last night I went to a 'Farewell House' party, but it may as well have been 'Farewell Youth'. I didn't know that growing up was as fun as it has been, and last night I reached the realisation I am entering a new phase, with new friends and foes, new fashions and new follys.

Since the days of high school Anna and her family have opened up their massive, beautiful property so that we could get drunk, get dancey and celebrate whatever the hell we wanted (half the time lacking a good excuse). Saying goodbye was always going to be hard, memories of first kisses and first 'wayyy to drunk' nights with a good mixture of ages thanks to Anna's older sibling and his friends.

It started badly, afternoon drinking made way for an early start to festivities which weren't the same as we remembered. Young children (little brothers) drunk off their heads, wearing shiny tracksuits and ugh boots crushed our mental images of a mountains reincarnation of our Sydney-lives. It tooks us hours to realise that they were just us 5 years ago.
And like every house party, you get your Police and you get your angry Annas Dad who put an end to the raucous behaviour at midnight. Except unlike us, they were turfed out rather than experience the great group sleeping experience in the guesthouse. Finally, it was just us. Year Twelve 06 (with the exception of our favourite few).

Midnight changed last night for all of us. Spending hours around the open fire thinking of ways to escape the madness of the Lads and underage drinkers were finally over once the clock struck. We made our way to the guesthouse out in the garden, where we'd left our decks when they were taken over by the Trance Brigade, pillows in tow to slowly drift off to sleep. Nothing is ever as you plan.

In a final farewell the decks were turned back on. Lumpy dropped MGMT, softly breaking the cold air, our feet moving quietly on the carpet. I truly don't remember a single word being said. The music just got louder, enveloping everyone in a mixture of swaying, stepping and twirling.

Soon enough we were laughing and dancing, singing at the top of our lungs. Coupled up with significant others or our best friend, we hit the evenings high point in style like we haven't done in a while. Hands were raised, hips were sashaying.

Leila and Maxxy-Fresh, Lumpy and Buchanan, Rads and Mil, Anna and Caz, Tom and Tom, Steph and Pahli, Emily and Grant, Greeny and Murphy.

Last night was our coming of age.

Me: Top, Stella McCartney. Shorts, Sass & Bide. Boots, Minnetonka (photo's taken from Peche's 18th).

Hong Kong Garden.

"My liver is slowly punching me from the inside. Does that mean more Sambuca?"

A Hong Kong Christmas is what many may view as a total non-event. Little decoration, even less Church-related activities. Christmas in Hong Kong was not what I ever expected. I got decorations, one Sunday morning Mass complete with special mentions and a memory bank full of antics to please even the hardest of punk rockers.

It started off badly. A formal cocktail party high in the hills of Discovery Bay where the rich play. And I mean play, on their own private golf courses (made slightly easier by the 'no car' rule - every family either buying a $400, 000 golf cart or pulling out their mountain bikes). Lacking appropriate cocktail gear I felt out of place amongst the Prada heels and Marni dresses though that soon disappeared. Drunk and wealthy is a combination I find incredibly appealing. Young girls put on tulle-skirted reindeer costumes to perform especially for the night, and heated debates about the best clubs in Soho were fought, won only when champagne glasses were thrust down in emphasis. Driving home a little more than tipsy in the golf cart was one of the better highlights. Though realising we'd stolen someone elses by accident, and not caring, was ultimate.

Whilst not for the Holiday Season, the festivities were rampant throughout our stay. A day of heavy shopping was followed by a family dinner in The Bay, a quiet and relaxing end to something that was enjoyable to say the least (hello Lanvin!). What wasn't relaxing, but more than welcome, was the messages from across the water on HK Island to say we were meant to be at the latest, hippest bar opening in Lan Kwai Fong. So we left dinner with plates of prawns half eaten to trek our way over thinking we'd mingle with a few locals and maybe bag a free cocktail upon arrival. But no.
We arrived to find our names on a special list, gaining us entry to the Private Room, decked out in Louis-style with black brocade and laquered chandeliers (only my dream fit out). We snuggled in on floor cushions, velvet luxe to an unimaginable extreme, only to have an array of cocktails to test at our disposal. That was a better start to the Holiday Season.

And finally, the last great story must be devided into two separate parts. These named Action and Consequence (but can also be known as Before and After, Sane and Insane etc.)

So, Action: after a casual dinner at Cafe Duvet where we gorged on Spanish Tapas and Bombe Alaska whilst nestled on outdoor beds we decided to test the helpfulness levels of a 24hour, alcohol selling, 7/11. Surely, they would get to a point where even a pimply 15 year old would stop us buying cheap beverages soley created for the drinker to embarrass themselves. But no, and this point we did not realise until well into the night. 5am actually. It was at this point, when eating from an all night Breakfast Bar we started to rehash the events of 10pm to 5am, 7 hours of reasonably contained madness.

Tommy Austin, also known as The Rock God, and I had sat for nearly every one of those hours contemplating life, planning my impending marriage to Pete Doherty (a friend of Tommys) and my subsequent divorce due to running off with Tommy. We had also played with the two large Bull Mastifs belonging to the local Tattoist couple who kindly offered to ink us for free (but were turned down when they slurred a few crucial points).
Buchanan and Big Arthur however were lacking in the quiet and reserved drunken state that I possessed. Believing that you didn't need a skateboard to truly skate they spent a large chunk of the eveing running through DB Courtyard, pretending they were on skateboards. And loudly made all the appropriate sounds. Including multiple large crashes into business fronts.
Finding ourselves a little worse for wear and eating bacon and eggs with extra sauce and mushrooms made us think about possibly getting home. We had proved what we had set out to achieve, that we could buy (and then drink) as much as we needed from that little American chain. Despite this, our 500m walk home still took us just over an hour. As everyone needs to praise the Gods from the pebbled shores of DB beach before they get home.

And now, to Consequence: it was Sunday morning. And it was just after 6am. I knew that I was required at Church that morning and asked Arthur specifically to wake me with enough time to get decent. Sadly, a knock on my door at quarter to nine meant that he had forgotten. Bearing a large 'recovery' breakfast in bed platter for the non-Believer Thomas I was kindly informed by Cesca, resident 6-year old second cousin that she "couldn't wait for me to take her to Sunday School". I chose to ignore this, believing I couldn't get it together with 15 minutes to go. Though, when I got the "Two minutes to go!" tap on the door I registered I wouldn't be getting out of this that easily.
Outside, the sun shone a little too brightly on my non-washed, unbrushed state. Arthur, pleasingly enough, looked a little worse than myself and after a few choice words from me, I determined that he too had chosen to try escape our Catholic fate. In the longgg golf buggy ride we subtley explained our situation to my Cousin who laughed and said she'd give us Panadol after the service. But she never explained our roles in the service.
Upon arrival we were ushered in quickly, seems we were late. And after a short introduction about the Scripture the Priest stopped to welcome two special guests with deep connections to the Church, known as Charlotte and Arthur (whose father was Minister there years previously). There we were, hungover/still drunk and in Church being introduced to a rather large, clapping congreation.
It didn't finish soon enough. After brief family history sharing and mouth fulls of the Blood of Christ which brought tears to the eyes of my male companion we escaped. And not soon enough. Arthur shared his Port with the outside cricket field and I nearly shared mine with the pavement on the ride home. Thus, consequence.

That was my Hong Kong Christmas. In brief detail. Special mention should include the Fischer Price guitar given to Little Arthur who asked if he could trade it for the Angelina Ballerina pop-up given to Cesca, a very failed Thank You dinner which once again had to be saved by Jantana, Tom losing his passport in Shenzhen and me very nearly leaving him there, going up the Peak in a tee and skirt to find it colder than Thredbo in Winter and the Gin & Tonics made by my lovely cousin that renderred me so unconcious her husband had to report to my father on the phone that I was "Not infact a drunk, Annie's G&Ts just happen to be more like Gin shooters".

Happy Holidays.

pink Pavola and two microphones.

"If I was to lift the top off the Chocolate Fountain whilst it was on, would anything happen?"

It's a sad thing that long gone are the days of taking over Chateau Roberts. Years 11 and 12 were filled with weekends spent trying our luck at Singstar, stuffing ourselves with Mrs Roberts famous CheesyBaconBread and getting at least 12 people in a 4 person spa bath where the water sat at boiling point and thus felt like you either had 100 people in the spa or someone had pee'd right next to you.

Vague memories of painting the living room with melted chocolate come to mind. As does the dessert I toiled on for hours to serve Glen, James and Michael, only to have them ruin it with a bottle of pink food colouring. Tipping cups of water (contents and cup) over the balcony into the loved-up couples spa parties occupied our balmy summer nights until we were allowed free run of the massive freezer in the garage. Home to Golden Gaytimes, Magnum Almonds and enough Cookies and Cream to stuff Corrie's stomach.

Singstar only works when it's sung in Glenbrook, when you're drunk on good friends (and Absolut Citron).

Me: Top, Country Road. Scarf, old Carla Zampatti.