A friend of a friend had organised a big party in a nightclub. She had hired the entire venue. For a small cover fee, we got a DJ, cheap drinks and nibbles for the night. Best of all, I got to play with a roomful of people I'd never met before for the night. My idea of heaven.

A group of us met up beforehand and did the girly dress-up thing while sinking a few drinks. We were in the mood to play up and have a good time. I love frocking up for a party. Makes me feel positively delicious.

We arrived not too early, not too late, dressed to kill and looking for fun. We headed straight for the bar, flirting with everything in between in the meantime. Lots of talent. I chatted up the barman and the guy next to me as a warm up. I was feeling good.

The crowd was fun, the music was great and we were having a great time. I'd just taken a break from dancing and was reclining gracefully on a couch when I spotted a guy looking at me. He was cute.

He was quite tasty actually.

Snappily dressed in a suit, cheeky smile. It was all of the good. I met his eye, grinned like a Cheshire cat and waited for the line to be reeled in.

You would think I would learn wouldn't you.

Like iron filings to a magnet, he made his way across the room and sat down beside me. And with a straight face, he asked, "How would you like to go into the bathroom with me and give me a blow job?"

My adamant refusal puzzled him. I actually ran out of ways to say no, in English and in several other languages.

"We could go outside and do it if you like..."

Like I had a problem with the LOCATION of where this romantic rendezvous would occur? It took him a little while to grasp the concept that it was not the WHERE that I had a problem with, it was the WHAT.

He also seemed to have difficulty with the idea that I didn't get anything out of his offer. I carefully explained to him that, surprisingly enough, the idea of going down on him right now didn't bake my noodle, grotty bathroom or equally grotty alleyway notwithstanding.

Comprehension finally dawned.

"OH! I'd fuck ya after!"

Oh, gee, thanks. No, really. You're too kind.

By this stage, I wasn't just giving him the cold shoulder, there was an Antarctic breeze blowing between us. I had turned my back on him, only to come face to face with one of his mates.

"I'm really sorry he's acting like this," he apologised.
"Not as sorry as I am," I replied.
"He's not really like this," he insisted loyally.

Uh-huh. He was bitten by the flaming arsehole bug tonight. Right.

Is it too much to ask for a little mental foreplay beforehand? I'm a sexual being, don't get me wrong. I just like a little flirting, a little play before we get down to the sweaty stuff. Believe me, stimulate my grey cells and I'll offer to do things that are illegal in most countries.

But then again, these days, how many people warm the engine before they pull out of the driveway?

Perhaps this is just the frog-kissing that we all need to go through before we find our prince. I just wish someone had warned me about the toads.

[Postscript: The night wasn't an entire waste. I woke up the following morning to find... the most gorgeous black feather boa I've ever seen. No idea where I got if from, but damn it looks good!]

First things first.

- No, my parents were not hippies.
- Neither am I.
- Yes, it's 'Tree' like in plant.
- No, it's not just an internet handle.
- No, I'm not tall and willowy.

How does a girl end up being called Tree then? I'm glad you asked.

Way back in the dim dark ages, my parents were duking it out over what to name me. It took them months to agree on something. Dad wanted to call me Jean, after his sister. No offence UberJeanie, but I'm not a Jean. On the other hand, mum wanted to call me...

...sorry, this takes me a moment to admit...

Oh gods, she wanted to call me Edwina.

Kill me now.

Eddie. Winnie. The opportunities for humiliation were endless.

Fortunately, she was convinced to give me the one name they could both agree on. It was the name of a friend of hers. Mum liked it because it looked pretty and she didn't think anyone could shorten it (an Australian characteristic that really annoys her. She later found out that there are ways to abbreviate the name. And if anyone calls me by those names, I hurt them. Badly.)

What she didn't realise is that nobody can spell the variation she chose and very few people know how to pronounce it.

It became the bane of my existence.

It's not an uncommon name. In fact, most people have known somebody with this name. It's just that it has about half a dozen variations (that I know of) and everyone with this name is EXTREMELY particular about the spelling and the pronunciation. Whenever I meet someone with the same name, we compare notes. We smile and nod understandingly when there is agreement.

I have stood in front of people and carefully and slowly spelled out my name for them. And watched them spell it however the hell they like. I've seen it with astonishing vowel combinations and silent letters that not even I had thought existed. I've seen every variation on this name bar 'Luxury Yacht'.

Not even my favourite author could spell it correctly. When I met him for the first time at a signing, he made two attempts before I insisted on Tree.

My friends in school became fed up with trying to spell my name right. Or pronounce it correctly. So, they decided to call me Tree. Short, sharp, easy to spell and everyone can pronounce it. And nobody EVER forgets my name at parties.

After mum's second divorce and subsequent name change, my friends began to refer to her as Mrs Tree. It was just easier. My brother started calling me Tree. Mum started calling me Tree. My aunt, bless her little cotton socks, insisted on Treetree. There were variations--Tree-bone, Treecle--but always Tree.

I knew there was no going back when I was going to an old school friend's housewarming party and lost her address. I rang her mum to ask for her new address. Her mum knew me very well.

"Hi Mrs P, its XXX. I've lost Mel's address for the housewarming tonight. Could you give it to me please?"
"Who is this? I don't know a XXX."

Bear in mind that this woman's eldest child had just moved out of home, she wasn't going to give the address out to a complete stranger.

Comprehension dawned.

"Mrs P, it's TREE."
"OH! Tree! Well why didn't you say so?"

When I came online, I had to be Tree. Of course, I had to distinguish myself from all the other hippies on the web and it had to be a variation on Tree that I could live with. No tree382@hotmail.com for me! At the time, I was addicted to X-Files fanfiction. There had been an excellent story where Scully's character was referred to as Lady Miss Red.

Lady Miss Tree. Hmmm, that has a certain je ne sais qois. Hang on a gosh darned minute... It makes another word as well! I sound all mysterious and interesting!

The clincher was when I compared Tree to my birth name on the Kalabrian's Baby Name site:

Your first name of Tree has made you a friendly, approachable, and generous person. Generally you are good-natured, though at times you can be blunt and sarcastic. As you are naturally talkative, you find it easy to meet and make friends with many people. This name inclines you to be sympathetic and generous to those in difficult or unfortunate circumstances. You can be firm, positive, and independent in your own ideas and in reaching your own decisions, yet when it comes to taking action or following things through to completion, you often need encouragement. You respond quickly to kind words or any appreciation shown you. There are artistic, creative abilities in this name that you could express through music or singing, or, in a practical way, through sewing or interior decorating. You enjoy freedom from monotony and are stimulated by unexpected opportunities for meeting people, entertaining, or pursuing activities of a carefree nature. In your work, you find it difficult to be neat and orderly. You rarely plan things ahead of time, or follow a routine. Emotion and feeling, the desire to be carefree, friendly, and happy, are the driving forces in your being, rather than shrewdness, ambition, and material success. You could experience headaches, or problems with your teeth, ears, eyes, or sinuses. Health weaknesses relative to the functioning of the liver could appear.

I was destined to be Tree. Right down to the health problems.

Pity about the tall and willowy part, though.

Now, I'm the kind of girl who gets asked on dates by total strangers on the street. It is a complete mystery to me as to why this happens. It's not like I'm Elle Macpherson's twin sister or anything like that. I'm not wearing Impulse. Perhaps it's a conspiracy. Maybe I'm the lead in my own version of the Tree-man show and each instance has been a blatant ratings attempt. But this blog isn't about my personal delusions. It's about grocery man.

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. Sunny and bright. I was wandering around my local supermarket buying my weekly groceries.

I hadn't made any particular attempts with my make up or hair. I was wearing a pair of ratty, faded cut-offs and a t-shirt.

Nothing glamorous.

I was wandering down an aisle when I spotted him.

He was drop-dead, curl-my-toes, don't-mind-me-I'm-drooling gorgeous. Long hair, swarthy features, sparkling blue eyes and a killer smile. If this was a Jim Carrey movie, my eyes would have been on stalks.

He was standing by the registers. He looked my way. Being an idiot, I dropped my gaze and became fascinated by the salsa display beside my shopping cart.

I spotted him again down another aisle, but I don't think he saw me. I made a decision. "If I see him again, I'm going to catch his eye and smile." After all, what harm can that do?

Sure enough, as I pushed my cart up to the registers, he was there, a couple of registers over. The check out girl had nearly finished ringing up his purchases. He looked up. I caught his eye. I offered him the most dazzling smile in my repertoire. He smiled back. I melted. He picked up his groceries and walked out of the store.

Had that been the end of the story, it would have been enough for me. That smile had made my day. Grinning like a fool, I grabbed my own purchases and walked out of the supermarket.

He was waiting outside. He walked up to me. He asked me what the time was.

Now, I don't know about anyone else, but I know precisely when someone is asking me the time and when they are just trying to get my attention somehow. Nearly every one of those street encounters I mentioned earlier have begun with the words, "Could you please tell me what time it is?"

He didn't give a fat rat's arse about the time.

Something inside me was singing and dancing and yelling "WOO HOO!" an awful lot.

He asked if he could walk me to my car. I said that wasn't necessary. I wasn't going to tell him I was about to walk home with my groceries, I do have some survival instincts. He asked if he could walk with me. I said he could. He asked if he could carry my groceries. I insisted that I could manage just fine.

We began to chat. We exchanged first names and made small talk. He said something that revealed him as a non-local. Turned out he was from Sydney. We chatted happily and by the time we were walking past the video store, he was asking for my phone number.

Previous experience had taught me well. I don't give my number out. I mumbled something about being hard to catch, he should give me his. He refused. Point blank.

Small alarms started buzzing in the back of my head.

He persisted, so I wrote a fake number on a scrap of paper for him. He followed this by making a couple of remarks that just made those alarms ring a little louder.

He kept referring to my bum and how wonderful he thought it was. Now, this baby's got back. Most of the comments I hear about my butt are not complimentary. Ordinarily, I would have thought that this was wonderful, but my gut instincts were kicking in big time. There was something creepy about Mr Tall, Dark and HaveSome. And I was getting near my apartment. I needed to offload this guy.

We got to the next street corner. I said something about being near a friend's place and that I was taking these groceries there to have lunch with them. He grabbed my arm, looked me square in the eye and asked, "Can we go back to your place so I can have anal sex with you?"

O_O O_O O_O >_< O_o

Call me an old fashioned girl if you will, but don't I even get a coffee first? Or plain ol' vanilla sex? Or even a surname? Nope, he wanted to go straight for the golden ring.

Pun intended.

I made it abundantly clear that not only was he not going to have anal sex with me, but that if I ever saw him again he and future generations of his family would regret it. Horribly.

So, dating tip number eleven? Surname, coffee and missionary before coming in through the back door, thank you very much.

Hell, the web is a perfect place to be someone you're not.

I recently read back over what I have written here to see if I look any different here than I perceive myself in real life.

I've met many people in real life that I first met online. I'm even going to the US at the end of June to hook up with a few more (and "THANK YOU, SWEETIE!" to the kind Xangan who offered me a bed on my trip. Not this time, but next time!) Nearly every single one I have met in real life has been just as they are online.

There are a couple of exceptions, one of whom is quite open about the different personalities. But just about everyone has been the same.

A couple of years ago, an old high school friend did the great Aussie exodus. She deferred university for a year and backpacked through Europe. I wrote her regularly. When she got home, she said the nicest thing to me.

"When I read your letters, I could hear your voice. You wrote like you were talking to me."

In our night-out blog discussion, I was assured that reading this blog is like talking to me.

This is the way I talk. I even try to punctuate it and lay it out the way I speak. If I was really anal, I'd even put in [pauses] pauses for effect.

So, there you have it. I am me, here or in real life. What you read is what you get.

And no, I don't have a funny accent.

So, are you you online? Or are you something you wish you were? Or even something you would like to experiment with to see if you want to be?

[Insert snippet of me as Buffy the cheerleader in a blatant bid for more e-props!]

I've discovered that there are an awful lot of people out there who think they can buy their way out of anything. Expressing their emotions, accounting for their behaviour, admitting they were wrong... the list goes on.

This story begins many, many years ago. I was in my first longish term relationship. We were learning as we went along, bumbling from one issue to another. The ex had rapidly learned that receiving things made me all mushy. Now before you write me off as a materialistic bitch (or a typical bloody Taurus in VeryModern's case), when I say receive things, I mean anything. A poem, a surprise phone call, a daisy you stole from the neighbour's garden. Something that says, "Hey, I thought of you today, so I did this for you."

Gets me every time.

The problem is the ex got things a little backwards.

We argued like any other couple. Nothing violent, just the usual tiffs. I would sometimes provoke him, just because I like a good dust clearing every now and again and he tended to let me walk all over him most of the time.

There was just one problem.

He had a real problem admitting when he was wrong.

Not that he was wrong all of the time. But when he was, he couldn't seem to admit it. Or apologise.

One day, after a particularly heated discussion, a dozen roses arrived for me. Not long stemmed, not boxed, not even red. No card. Just a dozen roses.

I knew who they were from and I knew why.

I forgave him that once and let it drop.

Big mistake.

Like Pavlov's dogs, he heard bells ringing.

The next time we had a difference of opinion and he was in the wrong, another dozen showed up the following day.

Pink, yellow, white, mixed, fragranced, unfragranced. You name it, I received it.

It began to get tiresome.

The next time the florist visited, I rang as soon as they arrived.

"Did you get the flowers?" he asked, sheepishly.

"I was expecting them," I snarled.

No roses arrived the following day.

White Roses--Deborah Conway

You weren’t the first to send me red roses
And you weren’t the first to give me away
I’m not the only one to have my fingers burned
But that was a one-way conversation and you got the final word.

Forget-me-nots forgotten
White roses
Regrets and promises collide
I’m still flying
A flag for you
A blue heart, red eyes and white roses

It's true, lovers swap red roses
But white ones from you spell the end of everything fine
Yellow roses are for jealousy but you
Don't send me them, you send the ones that mean we're through

Chorus

You weren't to know that something was making me blue
Keeping all the sunshine away
You said "Forever" and I took you at your word
White roses make a lie of everything I've heard

Chorus

Believe it or not, I was a debutante.

Why on earth was I a debutante?

I tend to be a 'what the hell' kinda girl. It meant I got to frock up, learn some neat dance steps and I didn't have anything on that night. So what the hell.

It took months of planning. Dance lessons, dress fittings, all sorts of nonsense. Some of it was a hassle (and my partner was a complete twonk), but mostly it was a laugh. And a bit of a chance for this outer suburban, not born with a silver spoon in her mouth girl to show up the 'Brighton Set'--the snobs at my school.

I decided that, since this was a significant night, I would invite my father along. I had not seen him since I was four, but I had been writing to him regularly. He accepted happily and said he'd be there with bells on.

I was thrilled.

The night arrived. Mum and I adjourned to a hotel nearer the venue to prepare while my step-father and my brother suited up at home.

I was nervous as hell. Apart from stage fright, this would be the first time I'd have seen my dad in nearly 12 years. I wanted to make a good impression. Had I not been wearing elbow length white gloves, I would have gnawed my nails to the bone.

I kept peeking out of the room they kept us girls in before we were to be presented (how much like a wedding is this?) No sign of my dad. I began to panic. He wasn't at my family's table. He hadn't shown...

I don't cry easily. And I wasn't going to cry over this. Dammit, I was going to walk out onto that dancefloor and dazzle the room, whether he was there or not.

Inside, I was dying.

I was presented. I managed a full curtsey in a white duchess satin sheath dress (and my partner copped a good look right down the front of my dress as I did so). I waltzed, I foxtrotted, I tangoed and I rock and rolled.

I was a star.

He wasn't there.

Bet you're thinking, "The rotten sod piked on her and just sent her roses..."

Close, but no cigar.

I arrived home. A dozen, boxed, long stemmed red roses awaited me. With a card. Explaining that my father had been hit by a car while crossing the road and was in hospital but he hoped my night was wonderful and that he was thinking of me.

They had arrived while my step-father was home.

The card had been opened.

I asked him why it had not occurred to him to mention that the flowers had arrived.

Apparently, it wasn't his business to be running around telling me things like that.

Sure. Fine. Whatever.

If other betrayals had not occurred later in my life involving roses (and only by the dozen, I might add), then I would have entitled this Why I Hate My Step-Father. But they have become somewhat symbolic for me.

Blue irises are more than welcome, though.

My aunt and uncle had offered to take me on a holiday one Christmas to Queensland. I was 16. The idea of me going off to make mischief with my similarly aged cousin for several weeks in the sun was too good to pass up. The only catch? My cousin and aunt were already up there, having flown up. I had to drive with my uncle.

For three days.

Let me give you a bit of background to my uncle.

He's a lovely guy, really. Great sense of humour. His favourite trick is driving past an abbatoir, then lowering all the electric windows and locking them down so you can't escape the stench. Or perhaps screaming "INDIANS!" at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason and scaring the absolute bejesus out of you (the correct response I later discovered being "COWBOYS!")

He is also a significantly older gentleman. SIGNIFICANTLY.

Let me remind you how old I was.

And how long the trip was.

Can you see where this is going?

It was bad enough when we pulled up at a hotel for the night. The looks I would get. The looks he would get. No point saying, "But he's my UNCLE!" Uh-huh. And the cheque is in the mail. And he looks like money so I couldn't even try, "Don't you think I'd have better taste than to fuck him?"

So here we are, in a hotel. It's about 5am. My uncle is a very early riser. I am not. Since I was not awake to talk to, he decided to go out to the car to get a book to read.

He forgets the car alarm is set.

His glasses are in the hotel room.

He can't read the car alarm panel to switch it off.

5am, the car alarm is screaming, my uncle is yelling my name and EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the hotel is out on their balcony ready to watch the fun.

I sum up the situation. There is only one thing to do.

Yours truly enters stage left in her underwear to switch off the alarm. I almost waved to my adoring fans.

Thank you, thank you, fuck you all very much. I'll be here through Thursday. Try the fish.

A friend of mine recently said that all underwear stories are good stories. I have a number of them. Tell me yours.

I'm a bit of a wimp when it comes to things that go very fast and turn me upside down. I've tended to avoid them when I can. If the relevant deities saw fit for me to be upside down, they would have equipped me for it.

Anyway, I had a bit of a crisis a couple of years ago and adjourned to a relative's holiday house on the Gold Coast (the equivalent of Florida) for a couple of weeks to sort my head out. The Gold Coast is full of theme parks and the like. My baby brother challenged me to ride some of the rollercoasters while I was up there.

He challenged me. How could I resist?

My first point of call was Dreamworld. It has a rollercoaster thoughtfully dubbed The Thunderbolt. Twin loops, not much else. It took me a couple of attempts to get on. I chickened out several times. But finally I was on, second from the front.

Eeep...

Ka-CHUNK, ka-CHUNK, ka-CHUNK, they dragged the carriages up to the top and released us.

Into absolute hell.

I don't remember much. I spent most of it screaming my lungs out with my eyes squinched shut while I was rattled and banged around in the carriage.

Dreamworld very kindly offers a photography service on The Thunderbolt. At the bottom of the first loop, they take your picture. The two girls in front of me were aware of this and posed, waving and smiling attractively. Behind them was something that made Munch's The Scream look like a beauty pageant winner...

I declined a copy of the photo.

But I had done it. I had conquered my fear. It was completely horrid, but I had ridden a rollercoaster all by myself. Even upside down! I was feeling cocky. Next stop? Seaworld. The Corkscrew.

As you may have guessed, The Corkscrew has a corkscrewy bit in it. I queued up, didn't chicken out and hopped onboard. It was... pleasant. I only screamed a little. I even had my eyes open a bit. I EVEN considered going on again.

I was getting good at this rollercoaster lark.

I was feeling pretty confident.

Only one more challenge faced me. Warner Bros Movieworld.

Lethal Weapon-The Ride.

That should have been my first clue.

But I had mastered The Thunderbolt AND The Corkscrew. I wasn't going to let a bad Mel Gibson spinoff bring me down...

Hmmm, no carriages this time. You hang, in a harness type arrangement from a track above your head. Your feet dangle in the air...

But I had mastered The Thunderbolt AND The Corkscrew. I could do this.

I settled into my harness and held on tight. They dragged us up the first incline. I looked down. Holy Mary Mother of God... Panic started to set in. I looked out across the view. Much nicer, much more soothing, quite pretty actua...

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The eyes were squinched shut and I screamed like rats were biting into my naked flesh. I was like washing on the spin cycle. I had no idea which way was up. I opened my eyes. I looked between my feet.

A bird lazily flapped past...

That couldn't be good.

I squinched my eyes shut again until I thought I was upright again. I peeked. To my right was the ground.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad...

The eyes stayed squinched and the screams continued until we came to an abrupt halt.

I peeked.

I was right way up.

I wasn't moving at high speed.

I was going to be ill.

The girl seated next to me looked at me like I was a psycho with a knife. Screaming for that long at that pitch will do that to a person, I suppose.

I can now say, with great authority, that rollercoasters suck. Like Hoovers. And I won't be going on one ever, ever again.

And that has nothing to do with my sex life. ;>

They have meant several different things in my life. When I was very little, they were boring places where we waited to greet someone from far away. The new arrivals would be tired, overburdened with luggage and impatient to leave.

When I was a little older, they were exciting places. Places where I got to turn my back on my regular life and fly to exotic locations, to return with exciting stories and wonderful memories. This time I got to do the leaving. People came to see me off and came again to meet me coming back.

Not long after that, airports were places where my heart was turned to ashes in my chest, where my eyes ached from crying, where rage battled despair and where pain decimated me. I was leaving and I was left. There was no one there for me.

Now, they are simply places I pass through on the way to another client meeting. They are cold and clinical, filled with souls in suits too engrossed in their cellular or palm pilot to notice much around them. I leave, I arrive, it makes little difference.

There is no one there to greet me.

8:30pm. No streetlights. Fog. Gravel road. Me in a Buffy the Vamipre Slayer cheerleading outfit (complete with pigtails held by little fuzzy pompoms.) There are no words in the English language for how lost I am right now. I've never driven to my friend's house before and I've never been there at night. I'm miles from home, in the dark, DYING to go to the loo, screeching expletives at the roadmap and lost, lost, lost, lost, lost.

Wes Craven would be creaming his jeans at this point.

Fortunately, as witnessed by this post, nobody with a hook instead of a hand found me and reduced me to gobbets of Tree. I managed to figure out where I had turned the wrong way, found the house and arrive with sunny smiles for the host.

But not a good start to the evening.

Even the theme for the night had given me grief. 'Come as your favourite sports star!' Sport? Oh, that thing that comes on between the news and the weather...

Sport... favourite sport star... coming up a blank here. Lessee...

I bellydance.

Nope, not a sport.

I read.

No Olympic medals there.

I cook really good Thai!

Lycra not required, although I could probably get a judges ruling from the Iron Chef on whether it is a sport or not...

I decided that cheerleaders were vaguely sporty and Buffy had been a cheerleader and I had a Sunnydale High t-shirt... Hey, government policy has been made on shakier evidence! :P

People had gone to real effort at the party, though. Skiers, soccer players, football (Australian Rules) players, even a Monica Seles complete with knife protruding from her shoulder. The host's brother showed up in drag as a netball player. His breasts were so perky I nearly wept with jealousy.

I told my fly fishing story (see previous blog) to a friend. (Hey, it's my story, I'm going to get as much mileage out of it in RL as I do online!) Turns out he is an avid fly fisherman.

"Oh bother," said Pooh.

I delicately extracted my Sketcher-clad ladies size 8 from my mouth and became intimately acquainted with the dessert table.

But all in all, not the worst night of my life. Especially when I discovered the effect of pigtails and white ankle socks on the SO...

I'm usually pretty good at telling people in no uncertain terms, often using single syllable, good old fashioned Anglo Saxon terms what I think of them when I don't like them very much.

Last night, my nerve must have failed me, because I was trapped in the office with a bunch of the most tedious, moronic, dull, uninteresting people I have ever met in all my life. [insert Tree's patented glare-over-the-top-of-the-frames look]

Dear god these people were dull. The company I work for has recently been bought by a much larger company. Last night was drinkies with the local branch to show off our new digs and introduce ourselves.

It should be pointed out that we have met some of these people earlier and, as Strawberry Fields pointed out to me today, at the time they felt the need to tell us how much fun they were.

If you have to tell people that...

I want you to do something for me. Have a look at the picture I have put in my profile. Go on, I'll wait here for you...

Now, do I look like the kinda girl who needs to change her knickers at the thought of fly fishing? Especially when said fishing is conducted by someone with a Scottish accent who allows you to smoke the fish right there on the boat?

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are Xangers out there who could think of nothing better. But do I look like that kinda girl?

No.

I'd rather poke myself in the eyes with chopsticks.

And I'd rather eat a plate of live spiders than stand next to some twonk raving about the joys of it.

So what was it that stopped me from telling the twonk exactly what I thought of him, his mate with the Scottish accent and his smoked Tasmanian fish?

This I don't understand.

I should have poured my beer over him only it would have been a waste of good beer.

I need to sharpen the edge of my tongue. I'm obviously not nearly acidic enough. Or maybe he was too stupid to realise that I wasn't interested. Was walking away to get nibblies while he was mid-sentence not enough?

Or maybe I was so busy thinking about how to kill him that he interpreted the look of pleasure on my face as interest.

All I know is that there is no way I'm ever getting trapped like that again. Never ever, ever. And I think I may even carry a small knife on my person just to make sure of it.

[Waits patiently for the penny to drop for the northern hemisphere folks.]

Brilliant blue sky, cool crisp air and lots of piles of lovely stompy leaves to kick through and jump into. Perfect, perfect, perfect. If I'd had the opportunity, I would have taken one of my workmates up on the offer to go throw a frisbee in the park across the road from the office. But the last time I did that I split my favourite suit skirt from hem to hip. Ooopsie.

I don't have a favourite season, as such. Just perfect examples of what that season should reflect. Such as today for autumn. Walking along the beach snuggled up in thick cuddly jumpers (sweaters) with the SO, eating fish and chips out of newspaper in winter. Sitting out on the grass in the first sunshine of spring with a good book (and a bottle of sunscreen when you're as pale and ghostly as I am.) Or gathered with friends in summer twilight at the botanical gardens with bean bags, a gourmet picnic and the bats flying overhead as you wait for the outdoor movie to start.

Yeah, not so much a favourite season as things I love to do during that season.

And to the lady who smiled knowingly at me as I kicked a great pile of leaves into the air while I walked to work today, thank you for understanding.