The game's out there, and it's play or get played (a love letter.. )

Dear The Wire,

I realise we haven't known each other for long, probably a good 6-10 months at best, and I know this may be slightly premature, but I just wanted to put it out there and tell you something that may come as a surprise. It may be foolish, especially as our relationship still has about ten hours to go before we reach our natural end, but I feel the time is right. I have seen enough and know enough about you to reach a forgone conclusion: I love you. A serious statement I know, and one I have mulled over continously on bus rides, over Lupe Fiasco playlists and while having conversations about the state of society, American culture, drugs, gun violence and lots of bad things that happen in the world (granted, the last thing doesn't happen too often these days but I'm almost positive that if I could speak in an intellectual manner while drunk on Jager that these are the subjects I would broach).

And I think that I really mean it.

It is so difficult these days to find somebody like you: somebody that is so thought-provoking, intelligent and somebody that doesn't dumb down for an audience and most importantly, doesn't talk down to us. Somebody that always has something to say, but isn't arrogant or too sure of themselves, too caught up in their own hype and the overbearing compliments that go hand-in-hand with being so totally brilliant. I realised this today, as the thought of us parting becomes so unbearable. I don't even know how long we have left together, 9-10 hours at best. And then it is finished. All that will be left is memories rehashed, old quotes and scenarios that may get played over in my mind. I want to reach the end more than anything, I want to see if you live up to expectations and the overblown compliments you receive. If it truly is this great ending everybody says it is, if everything can duly be wrapped up (if it ever could be, which I know it can't..) if the ending is satisfing enough to know there will be no more. I won't lie to you, I worry.

It is types like you that make me wish I could do something as big of as an achievement as your creation. If I could write scripts and stories, and if I had the adequate resources to go and do painstaking research, I would want to be like yours. If I could characterise so perfectly the flaws and paradoxes of human nature, I would endeavour to be like you. If I could sum up the fragmentation of a broken and corrupt society and the lost fight that people face everyday in a world of drugs and guns and violence, I sure would want to do it like you. If right now I owned you on DVD and could play out the remaining ten hours we have left and then go straight to work and work all night knowing we were all done, all over, I would do it. I can't, but know I would if I could.

Truth is, I've had feelings like this before. Albeit not on the same scale, but I have had a few lustful and longing trysts. Lost will always have a very special place in my heart, one that has been going for years and we still have unfinished business. But don't be jealous, you are on very different scales and you will always trump. Rest assured.

Today, I indulged in some 5.02 with you and you brought me the return of Avon, just for a few precious minutes. I could feel how close we are to the end; you are destroying boundaries and rules: Avon and Marlowe, Bunk and McNulty, the FBI (!)... and I can barely tear my eyes away. In all seriousness, I don't think I have the spunk or the ferocity to go off and try and help in a situation I think is completely redundant. The problems that you highlight in American culture and society are ones I find really fascinating and are ones that I'm sure make other people think I'm a massive sad act and grade A dork. It's why I always wanted to travel North America first: there's something about it that makes my ears prick up and take an interest and that is no mean feat.

I don't know where the rest of our road together will take us, but know this: at this moment in time, in my eyes at least, you are about as flawless as a TV programme can ever be.

Always,
Francesca.






















P.S. The pictures are for pretty-purposes only, and to draw attention to two of the most KICK-ASS moments in the game so far.. dare you to disagree.

Anything to declare? Yeah. Don't go to England.

Boy, do I know how to neglect a blog. It has been approximately 49 days since I last posted something that I like to think was intelligible but possibly nondescript writing and I think it is high time I rectified my quite frankly shocking attempt at updating you home folk on what the fuck is going on in my life.

1. My name has informally been changed to Frankie. It wasn't my choice, it just happened. I remember one sunny day in Cardiff (I may be exaggerating for dramatic purposes) Guy told me I was going to be like one of those Tourism Australia adverts: "She left Fran. She came back Francesca." That has happened. Just my name sounds more like a pet, small child or yappy boxer.

2. I quit work experience. To cut a long story short to spare you, I had been working my arse off in two jobs for two months and I was beginning to blame something I love for how tired I had become. I looked in the mirror and I couldn't even see that I looked like a haggard bitch because I had hollows where my eyes used to be. It was a blessing in diguise, all the more time for Jagermeister.

3. Jagermeister. My new frenemy. This thing happens when I drink it that can only be described as common sense blackouts.

4. I moved house. It's a sweet fucking deal.

5. I have a camera. That's exciting. Except all I do is take photos of us blind drunk instead of photos of the pretty city I live in. Every so often I get a big excitable splurge of energy (one such splurge happened tonight while I was flicking through an Australia book - "Ohmigod, what even is a Chinese Friendship Garden? Wait a second, I haven't even been to the Botanic Gardens yet...hey, you can do a walk from Hyde Park to Circular Quay through them... I am so totally doing that! Next week on my day off, definitely!") where I think I am going to go on fun day trips. I am almost certain this will happen some time soon, when I am not nursing a disgusting hangover of epic proportions and can barely go outside for fear of vomiting over strangers.

6. HEAT. HEAT. HEAT. Christ almighty, I nearly had a heart attack on Melbourne Cup day. Melbourne Cup is the like Grand National, except all the Australians go fucking bonkers and get fucked up. It's dubbed 'The Race that Stops the Nation'. Give me a break. Anyway, I had to start work at 10am and as I am notoriously bad at getting up I set about 1,053,490 alarms. I woke up at some point, panic stricken because it was so hot it felt like it was about 1pm. I consequently flew out of bed in a mad, sleepy haze, scrambling to get ready. I then decided to check the clock. It was 7.30. AM. And it was boiling. And I wasn't impressed. I spent the rest of the day sweating profusely and complaining about the fact my hair was sticking to my head in an unflattering fashion and my face decided to melt off. Since this day, we have had a few days of 41 degree heat. Sometimes I forget this and go out in jumpers and leggings. Needless to say, there is room for adjustment.

7. I am actually genuinely starting to like bartending. There is not even a hint of irony or sarcasm in that statement. It's true. Go figure.

8. I leave Sydney in one month for Perth. It is going to be an approximately 5,442km trip. We have a car and a new buddy joining us. It's actually getting real. I'm still shitting bricks I won't be able to afford it and I'll have to cut it short, but I am prepared to be at one with nature, sleep under the stars and slaughter kangaroos to stay on the road because I can't fucking wait.

9. I think I'm going to come back to Sydney when the six weeks are up. Originally I was going to carry on up WA but I definitely will be out of funds by this point. Which means, new job, new living arrangements, new pals, and another transition period. Not sure I want to do all that again when I quite bum Sydney already. I figure New Zealand will be another big transition so as long as I get to see everywhere I want to see while I'm in Australia then I am all good to come back. It's quite a nice feeling.

10. I've been gone 5 and a half months. 6 and a half in Australia to go. It feels like forever but like two weeks at the same time. I got excited today when we went to Cris' new house because there was a British pound on the floor. That is how removed I feel from the UK. When I spoke to my Mum a few weeks back I said about two words to her and she instantly went "What's happened to your accent?". I have since been extremely self-concious and try and sound more British than normal to over-compensate. I will never say things like 'heaps', and I'm trying not to say 'no worries' or 'pash'. If I come back with even a twinge of an accent, I give somebody, not fussy who, permission to backhand me. Hard.

11. I applied for my NZ visa eligibility and I'm all good to apply. Whey-o. Still figuring I'm going to head over for a ski season when my Australian visa runs out in June. Because, by this point, I should get all my tax back and be rich beyond my wildest dreams. Know why? Because Australia is taxing the absolute SHIT out of me. When I begin to complain I have to remind myself that I GET IT ALL BACK. EVERY CENT. IN YOUR FACE TAXATION OFFICE.

12. Is it wrong that I fancy Matt Damon a little bit?

13. I dyed my hair again. As luck would have it, as soon as I did it I started pining for my light brown, sun-has-made-it-go-retarded locks. As more luck would have it, Australia is pretty fucking sunny about now so I think it's already fading. Way to go, 41 degree heat. I knew you'd be good for something.

14. As the months go by and I realise I've been gone for longer, the more I realise that I can't imagine life at home anymore. And I've come to accept that life goes on for everybody back there, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I've gotten over the fact that it's gotten to the point where nobody even notices you're gone anymore. I've been getting pretty pissy with some people back home who, no matter how hard I try to keep in contact with, just aren't reciprocating. It was, and still is, a bit difficult when people you care about so much are being shithouse. It kinda pangs in the heart a wee bit, know what I'm saying? But I am slowly getting over the hard, cold fact that the world does not revolve around me. And according to Google, I am 10,666 miles away from home. Pretty omnious, hey. Anyway, I suppose what I'm getting at is that (this is as deep as this blog will get, promise) you begin to learn what and who is important while you're gone. I will continue being mad about the lack of effort until one day that anger and frustration will simply no longer exist, and that will be the precise moment I stop giving a shit. I look forward to it. More the fool you.

15. I STILL haven't changed my flight back to London. My current flight leaves on 31st December 2009. Which is about 18 months too early. Whoopsie. Must get on it. I really, really, really don't want to go home. You can't make me BA, I will go kicking and screaming. I can be quite fierce when I set my mind to it so don't test my limits. I reckon I'd have the ability to make a 23hour flight a living hell for everyone on board. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Bart Simpson, you are my idol.
I realise my fighting talk is somewhat to be desired.

16. There are other things I would love to discuss to provoke lively debate but I am too scared to because I know my Mum reads this blog and although she may be 10,666 miles away, she still managed to evoke fear (Hi, Mum!).

17. I don't have a fucking clue why I did this in numbers. Must be my penchant for lists.

Not a whole lot happening to tell you about travel wise, but that will all change come January 2nd and we hit the Great Ocean Road for our mammoth road trip across SA. Then I will have photos that aren't documenting a night of common sense blackouts and me hanging out with my ex-friend Jager. We actually all managed to do semi-sober dinner and drinks last night, maybe we're all growing up. On second thought, maybe not.

Meet Me on your Best Behaviour, Meet Me at your Worst...

I've been meaning to update this for ages.

Annoyingly enough, I haven't really had anything to put? I'll give you a bit of a play by play to highlight how my week usually pans out:

Monday: Work.
Tuesday: Work Experience.
Wednesday: Work Experience.
Thursday: Work Experience/Work.
Friday: Work.
Saturday: Work.
Sunday: Work.

In my free time I usually do one of three things: eat, sleep or watch films. Everybody keeps asking me for fun stories of my adventures, but in truth, my adventures have been put on hold while I try and save up some cash to fund them. It's easier than it looks. Living in Sydney and trying not to save money is an absurd notion. The other day I was walking to work and came to the corner of George and Market where I stumbled upon a homeless man while I was waiting to cross the road. I gave him some change. Very nice, I thought. A good deed. As I was strolling along George I came across a second homeless man by the Apple store. Again, I managed to fumble around and find some more change. Again, I thought to myself, I outdo myself with my generosity. I carried on walking along George, trying to avoid the onslaught of suits so I wouldn't collide with one of them and find myself on the wrong side of a briefcase wielding monster. As I came to Wynard station, by Bar 333, there sat a third homeless man outside the 7/11. By this time, I had well and truly been raped of loose change and had nothing to offer. I felt horrible. I felt like I had been favouritist with who I had chosen to donate to. What if I had chosen the wrong ones? What if this third man needed my 50 cents more than the others? By this point, there was only one thing left to do: keep walking and avoid eye contact. I'm not fucking made of money.

And that is why it's impossible to save in Sydney.

There's the resident on the corner of George opposite Supre that I really want to buy some socks for. I saw him on my way home from work the other night and he had no socks on. He had a sleeping bag and a big cardboard sign and a jacket and even a little makeshift seat. But no socks. In this weather, I struggle with my shoes on let alone barefoot. I am still contemplating whether it's patronising to buy a stranger socks. What if he thinks I'm a condescending moron and throws them back in my face? His corner is pretty busy, it would most definitely cause a scene. I may have to bite the bullet and put his poor feet first. Screw my own dignity, socks are a must. When I have come to a decision, I will let you know.

Aside from the various array of men in my life, there is another prominent reason why I find myself short on funds. It is the same reason I ended up with a 70 pound library fine at university and it is the reason I should never be allowed to borrow things with a time limit on them. On Tuesday I rented eight DVDs. Rachel Getting Married was due back Friday and it is now Monday morning. I've managed to watch a grand total of 10 minutes. I have watched two out of eight DVDs. Last week one of my housemates took Hunger back for me because he is kind and I am lazy. If he hadn't taken it back, I don't doubt it'd still be sat in the pile of unwatched gems under the TV and my fine would be verging on beating my record.


I met Krista in Bondi last week and we had a chat about January and our fun travel plans. She wants to start looking at cars next month. Oh yes, because the homeless population will have surely been housed by then, and my DVD shop will most definitely have closed down. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to save with all of these lurking problems. There is always a setback: a week of rain that makes it impossible for me to walk to work. I MUST get a taxi. What's that? Umbrella? Unreliable. Bus? Unpredictable. Or maybe there is my inability to time manage. I'll get up at 1, sit down for a minute, then hey presto! It's 4.30 and I'm due at work in an hour and a half. Whoever said there aren't enough hours in the day was dead on. I will be indebted forever to the person who can conjure up a real life version of Bernard's Watch. Yes, that is a challenge. I propose you, Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof.


In other news, I've nearly finished Atonement. I manage to cram a few precious pages in a day on the way into Bondi for work experience. I hate it. I made such a fatal error by watching the film first because it's ruined the ending. I did a terrible thing when I first started reading. I actually want to punch myself in the face for it. I flicked to the back and read the end. I figured, hey, I know it anyway, it's not really cheating. But now I know what happens and it's like when you scream at some really dogshit horror film in spite of yourself.. "What is she doing?...what are you doing? Why are you going into the derelict abandoned house alone...Well now the power's gone out...Run. Go back. For fuck's sake! Run! RUN!!! Oh, now you're dead. WHAT DID I FUCKING TELL YOU." Except in this instance it's more like "No Robbie, don't go looking for the twins alone. Go with Cecilia and Leon. No. Don't. No Robbie, don't go alone! Briony, you didn't see him, please don't say you did...you KNOW you didn't!! Oh, for fuck's sake. There goes the fucking happy ending." You know it's going to happen, it's fate, written in the stars. But that doesn't stop you willing it not to. Therefore Atonement, as beautifully written as it is, has been a horribly unpleasant experience and I almost want to do a Joey from Friends and put it in the freezer and forget about it forever.

I heard Meet Me on the Equinox and I have forgiven Death Cab for putting it on the Twilight soundtrack AND having every gossip rag in the world's new favourite awkward couple in the video. I forgive them because it's really fucking good. I forgive them because I went back and listened to Narrow Stairs after and it was like my ears had a holy epiphany.


I wrote a half post about all that music piracy shit Lily Allen started spouting off about at home but now she's decided to back the fuck off, it kinda seems a little redundant. I might finish it anyway, I felt fairly articulate. I want to do one about film journalism too. Unfortunately my mind isn't in a very clever state so I fear my blogs will get consistently less witty, more trivial and far more boring. I have succeeded with this one, I know, I know. Hush.

We watched Election today. It was good.





And also, if you haven't seen this, it's fascinating. Promise.



Targets for next post:
- Be more coherent.
- Allow less brain farts.
- At least try and be interesting.
- Up the wit.

I am going to go to some of Crave and maybe I'll buy a camera and take photos of all the cool shit going on in the city next month. Or I won't and will just post a really boring blog about some film I've seen instead. I'm also going to do a blog about things that grip my shit as a bartender. Number one is going to be when people put their crappy change ON the bar rather than IN my hand which is RIGHT THERE. Number two will be lousy tippers. Number three will be everybody else. Over an' out.

Yes We Can!

So the other day I was on Facebook (be still my beating heart), talking to a friend back home. It would seem that there is one thing on everybody's minds if they have recently graduated, and that would be: so, what the hell do I do now? Every conversation I have is geared around this subject - jobs, places to live, money-woes, etc etc - and every time the conversation seems to end the same: the person on their computer at the other end eventually resigns themselves to the fact that the job market sucks, money makes the world go round and chasing dreams is harder than they originally anticipated.

I'll be one of the first to agree. The job market does suck, money does make the world go round and chasing dreams is hard. But, when I was talking to my friend, I kind of got the impression that what was really missing was the attitude. Obviously not everybody gets the good graces of being extremely fortunate and having a job/pretty partner/nice flat (delete where applicable) land in their lap, but doesn't it all sort of boil down to how far you are prepared to go in order to get what you want? Sitting on a computer applying for jobs does - and I want to stress this - NOT count as 'trying really hard'. If you are slaving away day after day, handing in applications, emailing countless companies, knocking on doors, calling people up and you STILL come away with nothing months later, then yes, fate perhaps is not on your side. Fate may even be trying to tell you something. But until you try that hard, you will never know. The 'I can't' attitude that a lot of people seem to have is truly uninspiring.

Let's have a look at some case studies to highlight my point, shall we?

Internships & Work Experience. Yes, a sad fact about a lot of industries is that they employ a Catch-22 type mantra. 'We can't employ you unless you have experience'. Oh, is that so? Well how the fuck am I supposed to get experience when nobody will hire me? Cue shrug of the shoulders from said employer. Oh well, how helpful. Working for free is never anybody's idea of success, but it is one of the easiest things to score. I know a fair few people whose experience has proved invaluable. When I met with the editor of Time Out Sydney (who, at best guess, it around 31. The Art Director is 26 and used to have his own studio. So there) about my work experience, he told me he had done the same thing when he travelled and that, no matter what people tell you, it really and truly does help. Sometimes I find myself sitting in that office, writing up another press release in a manner that is probably a touch too overenthusiastic in nature, and think 'What the hell am I doing?'. My eyes are turning into Mac-shaped hollows and I feel like a twat anytime I attempt at writing upbeat stories about upbeat events like World Guinness Day or the World's Funniest Island. Such is life, and such is work experience.

Saving up cash. Ah yes, that old chestnut. It's never easy. Ever. When I was selling my soul to a devil that went by the name of Lloyd, I tried to tell myself it was all worth it - the 6am finishes, coming home smelling like stale alcohol and a mood that meant I had a constant expression that read 'Fuck Off'. In capitals. I know that everybody would like to save money fast and doing something that actually isn't all that bad. Whether it's saving to move out or to buy something you really really want or to travel or whatever it is, we all want to do it quick and easy. Right now, I am trying so hard to save money for Western Australia. But this really bizarre thing keeps happening. My money comes in the bank and then, as if by magic, it seems to disappear straight out again. As if there is some mean wizard living inside St George that zaps my money clean away as soon as I get it. Saving money means that life isn't as fun as you want: you can't buy stuff, you can't go out and get fucked on cocktails in Kings Cross every night, and you can't spend money without thinking 'Shit, my weekly budget' or something equally as shit. But! If you want to save money, there is a quick and easy solution: DON'T BUY STUFF. Don't go out as much, do do shitty jobs even if you hate them. The next four, five, even six, months may be shit, but think about the long-term. Think about how amazingly worth it it will be in the end, when you have that shiny new posession in your hand; when you're sitting in a place called home that isn't owned by Mum and Dad, when you're sat on a long-haul flight to fuck knows where. I did it, I hated every second of saving, but it was so, so, so worth it.

I realise I'm probably coming off like a jerk. Like, 'oh, listen to her, sat in Australia, preaching about how easy it all is'. No, not really. It isn't easy and I do get it. After every time someone doesn't call you back or after every time you check your bank balance, the heart does that weird thing where it falls to the pit of your stomach and refuses to nudge. Been there. I was there precisely yesterday, in fact, when I paid my rent and realised my saving plan isn't going so well. But I know what needs to be done. There's only one person who can get off their arse and solve the problem and that person begins with a capital M and ends in a lower case e. I have been maxed out and crawled my way out of student-finance hell to save enough to go to Australia. That is probably one of the things I am most proud of about being over here. That I did it. Yay. Woo, Hurrah.

And I will always look back and think, it was because I knew I could. It's cheesy and rubbish and lame, but whatever happened to a can-do attitude? Whatever happened to being positive, even in the face of adversity? Even when it seems like the sky is raining pure dogshit on you, whatever happened to brushing yourself off and trying again? When the conversation between me and my friend was wrapping up, he said 'Well, I admire your can-do attitude' with his countering 'can-not' attitude more than obvious, even 17,000km away, on the other side of the world, penetrating through time zones and the world wide web. I came off the computer furious. Don't admire it, adopt it. And thank me with money and gifts later down the line, when it will undoubtedly pay off.

A Short History of Nearly Everything (Sort of)

So I decided that maybe it was time for a blog.

I always half wanted to do it when I was travelling, but I think the cliches of it probably stopped me. "Hey yeah, look at me, TRAVELLING. Look at all the places I am and what I'm doing that you couldn't give two shits about! How fantastic and self-indulgent! Did I mention that I'm TRAVELLING?".

But seeing as now I'm not really travelling and have set down in one place for a bit, it seems all the more acceptable. So let's bring you up to speed.

I left June 13th, hungover from the Summer Ball and shattered from the 2 hours of sleep that I got thanks to Pete and his bright ideas. When I look back on it now that morning is unbelievably comedic. I snotted all over my old house, my friends and Amy's car. All the funnier was Vicky, who was worse than me, and she was only going for 2 and a half months. Girls, pfff.

Anyway, I'll cut out all the boring, insignificant details of the journey - Singapore, very humid, nice airport, we looked like shit - and skip to the actual destination: Sydney. Woo. I'll never forget getting outside that airport at 6am, thinking I was going to catch pneumonia while we waited in stupid anticipation of that stupid bloody bus. One of us waiting with the bags while the other one went to go and ask person after person where we could catch it. Vicky wearing my ski socks as gloves. Me looking like I was embarking on a hike through the Snowy Mountains. I have never been so grateful to be in a hot shower in all my life.

The next four days I barely remember. I know we did the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge: there are photos so it must be true. We looked like shit, I know that much. I looked homeless and Vic looked like a paedo. A good start. What I do know is, there was lots of rain. So much rain that we immediately decided to fuck off and get to some sunshine. Which meant a ridiculously early flight to Townsville. Townsville. Hah, it lived up to its name.

This is what followed:
Townsville - Magnetic Island - Cairns - Kuranda - Airlie Beach - Whitsundays - 1770 - Hervey Bay - Fraser Island - Noosa - Brisbane - Surfers Paradise - Byron Bay - Sydney

I'm not going to take you through every minute, insignificant detail but instead wrap it up at best I can. If you've made it this far.

Favourite Places:
Yes, I'm a ginormous cliched travller, but there's a reason that every person who does the East Coast goes to Fraser and the Whitsundays. It's because, funnily enough, they are stunning. Look:

If I could handle the constant rocking of boat-life, equipped with a goon hangover (which I can't, by the way), I would've packed it all in and fled the good life for a penniless existence as a deckhand. I'm wildly exaggerating - they're not penniless - but it was that beautiful that it would all seem worth it. Turns out, I'm just not the boating type. What a shock.

And Fraser. Ah, Fraser. I had to camp. And not Reading Festival 'oh, what a lark' type camping. Like camping camping. On a sand island. Which is inhabited by dingoes. You know, the rabid dog that bites you and eats your shit. I actually thought the dingoes were adorable. My favourite was a little wonky one that couldn't walk properly. Anyway, Fraser and it's beauty:

See, beautiful.

Aside from these two tourist hot-spots, I had a bit of a thing for Byron Bay. It was overrun with festival-goers when we were there, they'd all come in for Splendour and it was how I realised black was back in fashion, but the atmosphere was fucking brilliant and I loved how laid-back it was.

Worst Places:

Surfer's Paradise is a shithole. I'm not even going to apologise for saying it. I hated it. I hated every second I was there, apart from bowling with Julian. That bit was fun. Because I was inside and could imagine I was anywhere else. I'm not going to elaborate. It was just shit.

Brisbane is overrated. Not much to do aside from South Bank which is alright. I had my fake graduation there where I went around and annoyed people until they gave me their hats which I could then doff like a gigantic pleb. It was fun. That was the highlight of Brisbane.

Highlights:

- Meeting the equivalent of Brady Bunch on Airlie Beach and spontaneously deciding to spend two nights sleeping in their closet instead of leaving for 1770.

- The Frenchies, the first two solid gold people we met on our trip. Plus Dutchie and Israeli.

- The night of the American Navy: two jerks, two girls, one massive argument. On another note, there were so many men that me and Vic didn't know where to look.

- Every hungover day in Cairns. It was all worth it for that bed, the balcony, those drinking games and the stories. Campervan, anyone?

- Walking up Whitehaven Beach on the Whitsundays. I listened to Deadmau5 and it was one of those incredibly pretentious, wanky holiday-music moments. I loved it.

- Noahs. I couldn't hack it anymore in the end, but it felt like a dirty, scabbier version of home.

- 1770: HamMocks, good films and that gorgeous beach.

Things I've read:

- The Rules of Attraction

- Desert Flower

- Gangs

- One million trashy magazines

Currently reading:

- A Short History of Nearly Everything

- 1984

- The Corner

- Atonement

I'm very indecisive.

Films I wish I'd never seen:

- The Proposal

- My Sister's Keeper

- Never Back Down

- Goal! The Movie

- Harry Potter. The flirting was great, mind.

Expanding my film education has been a fucking blast while I've been here in Sydney. I saw some brilliant stuff; Control, Volver, Almost Famous, Magnolia, The Life Aquatic, Inglorious Basterds, Into the Wild, The Squid and the Whale, This is England, The Wrestler, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Vivre Sa Vie, it's been sweet.

And now, the current plan of attack. Still in Sydney, lived in Bondi for about five, six weeks before I moved to an apartment in Pyrmont, which is just behind Darling Harbour. There's this walk I do every day over the Pyrmont Bridge which, when I get a camera, I can't wait to get a good snap of. Lots of big buildings, some water, a monorail. Very picturesque, hey. I do work experience at Time Out Sydney (a challenge but fun), and work at a bar called The Argyle in The Rocks (actually wicked fun. Harks back to my sleeping pattern at Lloyds but it's dosh. I have to learn cocktails. So far, so sucky). On the way to work I go past the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. Every single time, I'm like 'oh yeah, I'm in Australia', and I get excited like a massive doofus. I swear I'm a walking talking cliche.

Got more work experience in October for a film magazine, save up until (hopefully!) January when me and Krista Klump want to get a car and drive down to Melbourne, Adelaide, and do the West coast. I cannot fucking wait. I love being on the move. It's tiring and your mood swings can be fucking badass (just ask Vicky), but there's nothing like seeing new places every single week, meeting new people and all that shit that makes travellers want to do it forever.

Then, New Zealand. If I can. I dunno when, but that's the goal. I don't want to waste the opportunity while I'm over this side of the world.

It's a long bloody flight home.