Advice Part 63- My wine bar fantasy

One of my worst traits (and yes, there are many bad ones) is that I have a REAL problem with my endless pursuit of “wild flights of fancy” and “hare-brained schemes.”

In the past year, for example, I have SERIOUSLY considered

a)      Hosting a Pedro Almodóvar film festival

b)      Moving to Spain to teach English

c)       Quitting my job and writing a novel

My advice to young players is that idle daydreaming is all very well and good, but it’s best to realise that sometimes, fantasies are best left in the ethereal realm....

How do I know this? Read on....

A few months ago, I was walking through my suburb when I saw that a shop was up for lease. And, needless to say, my imagination immediately began running riot. This was the ABSOLUTELY PERFECT opportunity for me to OPEN MY OWN, PRIVATE BAR! Just think of it.....

• I wouldn’t need to commute to work- I’d just walk up the street.
• I could have a few drinks ON THE HOUSE and not have to catch a cab home.
• I would never have to worry about horrible music, as I’d be controlling the tunes
• I’d have a legitimate excuse for foraging around in second hand shops, searching for furniture
• AND I could spend DAYS coming up with a suitably witty name for the establishment

I got so excited about this that (I hate to say it) I actually contacted the real estate agent, asking how much the rent was.

It was only then that I started to realise that this was an absolutely ridiculous plan because....

• I don’t have any money
• The rent was $65,000 a year (plus costs). And that’s not even considering the money needed for hiring staff, fitting the place out, and ordering stock
• I have NEVER worked in a bar, so I’d have no idea how to make even the simplest drink
• I am not a “night person”, which is a bit of a problem if your establishment’s key trading hours are in the evening
• AND last (but not least) I wasn’t able to think of a single witty name, let alone a selection....

Consequently, the wine bar was placed on the proverbial “back burner.”

But I’m confident in the knowledge that in a few months, I’ll probably have another equally impractical and unachievable mission occupying my time.....

Advice Part 62- Babies

Having reached the ripe old age of 31, I have started to notice a disturbing trend. Many of my peers are forming relationships (!!!!), getting married (!!!!) and having children (!!!!). This means that I am now having to interact with babies on a (semi-) regular basis.


This would all be well and good. Except that babies HATE ME.

My advice to young players is that if, like me, you have a rather negative effect on younger citizens, then this provides you with a great opportunity to revel in your single and childless status.

How did I reach this conclusion? Read on.....

In the last two weeks, I have had two eerily similar experiences at my local cafe (yes, the one with the "witty banter"), where I have run into acquaintances from yoga who have recently had children. The same near identical conversations ensued....

• Me (approaching yoga buddy and child): Oh! Hi there! Haven't seen you at yoga for a while! How are things going?
• Yoga buddy: Yeah, good. I've been pretty busy with this one (indicating offspring) so I haven't had time to go.
• Me (sympathetic face): Of course. (Awkward pause, whilst realising that I must acknowledge the elephant in the room). So. This is the baby, eh? What's his or her name?
• Yoga buddy: It's a her. Her name's Lola.
• Me (trying to delay the inevitable): Wow, great name. She's very cute.
• Yoga buddy: Here, you should have a hold! Lola, meet my friend.....
• Me (starting to panic): No, no! She looks very comfy there. Don't disturb her.
• Yoga buddy (thrusting baby at me): Oh, you must!
• Me (beginning to get very shrill): Look, babies hate me. I'm not good with them. You hold her.
• Yoga buddy (grinning away): You just need a bit of practice. And Lola loves EVERYONE. Here she is!

With this, the seemingly happy baby was thrust at me. I tried to do some "amusing baby things." I smiled at it. I pulled funny faces. I tried to "coochy coo". I pointed at its mum and grinned.

But all to no avail.

It began screaming and shrieking and waving its tiny fists in the air, whilst I hastily handed it back to its parent.

• Yoga buddy (looking a bit shocked): Wow. She's never done that before. She really didn't like you, did she?
• Me (triumphantly): No. But I told you that!

The thing is, I have NO IDEA why babies hate me so much. Are they like horses, and can smell my fear? Is it something to do with my hair and glasses? Do I emit a "childless and loving it" odour which puts them off?

God knows.

All I can say is that sometimes being eternally single does have its rewards....

Advice Part 61- "Witty" banter

There are few things I enjoy more than going down to the local cafe every afternoon to get my obligatory skinny flat white. However, since I have become a "regular" (i.e. someone who doesn't have to say their order, because the barista knows exactly what I'll be having), this pleasant interlude has taken on a more stressful vibe.

Why? Two words. Witty. Banter.

My advice for young players is that it is all well and good being friendly with your local cafe folk, but just be aware of the risks of venturing into "banter territory."

How do I know this? Read on....

A few months ago, I started working in a new place. And naturally, one of the first things I did was to find a purveyor of caffeinated beverages near my place of employment.

In choosing a new cafe, these are the criteria I used:

• Coffee tastes good i.e. barista actually knows what they're doing.
• Reasonable price. No more than $3 for take-away.
• No more than 5 minutes walk from work
• Attractive staff

Anyway, after a lengthy process which entailed my visiting four potential "locals", I made my decision.

All was fine and dandy at first. Until the regular barista decided that I was "banter-able."

The following conversation now tends to ensue with unfortunate regularity....

• Barista (grinning): Sooooooo, how's your day going, my dear?
• Me (pretending to be absorbed in the newspaper): Err, alright
• Barista: Only alright? That's not what I want to hear.
• Me (trying desperately to think of something witty): Yes, well.....(having a brain wave) How's your day going?
• Barista: Oh, you know. Better now you're here, ha ha!
• Me (trying to look "flattered"): Hmm. Yes. Well. Thanks (Frantically searching for smart quips in deepest depths of brain). Hey, why aren't you wearing your favourite hat today?
• Barista: I have to give the brain a bit of air. Do you like me better with my hat? I always like to please the ladies, you know (big wink)
• Me: Erm.....

This sort of "banter" occurs EVERY DAY now. Although it's even worse on Mondays and Fridays, when I have to endure some "witticisms" about my weekend.

And it drives me mental!

I'm all for a bit of small talk, but this sort of exchange leaves me totally floored. I have NO IDEA what to say, as my organ of wit seems to have shriveled and died.

If it ever existed in the first place.....

Advice Part 60- Glasses

Today, I am going to write about a subject close to my heart, and even closer to my head (sorry, bad joke). And that subject is spectacles.

My advice to young players is that if, like me, you are somewhat blind, DO NOT FEAR the glasses! Provided you buy a pair which suits you, you may even ENJOY wearing them.

How do I know this? Read on....

One morning, when I was about 16, I was walking to school, and suddenly noticed that all the street signs were somewhat blurry. This freaked me out a bit, but I didn't do anything about it until the blurry days started to exceed the non-blurry.

So I went to the optometrist. And thus began my glasses experience....

At first, I LOATHED the dreaded spectacles. I found them crazily uncomfortable, and felt ridiculously ugly wearing them. I would try my best to "accidentally" forget to take them to school, and used them as rarely as possible.

But resistance was futile. 

My eyesight became worse. And worse. Until I eventually had to wear my glasses ALL THE TIME.

This absolutely horrified me. I mean, I am not the coolest person on the planet (ha ha, there's an understatement), so I didn't exactly need a spectacle-shaped signpost to further my stereotypically nerdish credentials.

It was only when I started going out with a fellow spectacle wearer that I realised that glasses can actually be VERY attractive. My ex had an expensive pair of Danish frames which looked absolutely amazing. In fact, if I'm honest, the glasses were the first thing I noticed about him, and I was extremely disappointed when he went through a brief contact lenses phase.

This, dear readers, was the start of my "glasses snobbery."

After realising that glasses CAN look good, I started to develop what could best be described as a fetish for glasses frames. Now, I actually LIKE going to the optometrist, and trying on the different glasses (in the same way that I like going to department stores and trying on hats).

OK, so they can be a pain when it rains. And at yoga. And when you go to the hairdresser, and can't see how much they've cut off until it's too late. But I will not be heading down the contact lens/lasik path any time soon......

Is anyone with me?

Advice Part 59- Fortune Tellers

I like to think of myself as being a fairly open-minded person. So when a friend suggested going to see a tarot card reader, I thought "Sure, why not?" and gave it a go.

However, my advice to young players is that whilst clairvoyants may provide some rather interesting predictions, it's best to retain a HIGH degree of sceptism when consulting one.....

How do I know this? Read on.....

Five years ago, I was in a "difficult situation." I had decided to apply to do my PhD at Oxford, assuming I had a snowflake's chance in hell of getting accepted. Hence, I almost died of shock when a letter arrived, offering me a place.

"Great!" you may think. "Why was this situation "difficult"?" The answer is that because I didn't get a scholarship, I would have to pay full fees. And let me assure you, the fees at Oxford AREN'T cheap. My parents would have had to lend me the money, and I would have had to work for the rest of my life to pay them back.

But it was OXFORD, for god's sake! My mind was awash with fantasies of scarves, bicycles, old buildings, and gallant gentlemen named Rupert Humphrey-Wittingstall, or some such.....

I mulled for months and months about whether to go or not. And COULD NOT decide.

So, in desperation, I decided to go and see a clairvoyant, who had been recommended by a friend. Yes, I was a bit cynical, but hell, I had one week left to decide, and this was about the only option left.

When I arrived at the clairvoyant's lair, I realised I had made a BIG mistake. For a start, she wasn't in, as she "didn't believe in the concept of time." And when she did finally materialise, in a haze of blue eyeshadow and an aroma of patchouli, she was munching on her lunch, which she proceeded to eat throughout the duration of our session.

 Hmm.

In the course of the session, she hatched two predictions of note (and let me assure you, in an hour long session, two predictions is hardly extraordinary):

• One, that "in the next month, (I) would be undertaking a journey to a foreign land" (which I assumed meant that I would go to Oxford) AND
• Two, that I would meet and marry a "dark man in a long black coat"

Needless to say, she was TOTALLY wrong on the first count- I decided NOT to go to Oxford, and instead stayed in Sydney.

The second prediction is more intriguing. I haven't met any men in long black coats yet, and, judging from the clairvoyant's first prediction, I probably shouldn't get my hopes up. But I'm not going to deny that EVERY TIME I see a man in a black coat go past, I do tend to study him closely....Just in case.