A fear of sunroofs

I've got some very important news to share with you all.

I have been officially* self-diagnosed with a type of anxiety.

At 28, I have regretfully and quite forcefully begun the transition into 'adulthood' and making 'adult decisions' and so as part of that I recently decided to purchase a new 'adult-ish' car.

No more scented novelty air-freshener thingos hanging from mirror, no more piles of CDs being destroyed under the feet of passengers, no more (shock) McDonald's wrappers being left on the backseat.

No this is a full-on legitimate adult car and it's one of the car's features in particular that I am incredibly frightened of. The Sunroof.

It began when I got into the car for the first time. The dealer said to me, 'Go on, try out the moonroof' (I later learned that 'Moonroof' is in fact wanker dialect for 'Sunroof' and the two are in fact the exact same thing)

I paused, nervously, because I hadn't actually driven the car before and was afraid I might destroy something, but then summoning my inner Y.O.L.O, I thrusted my finger at the 'Open' button et voila the roof began to slide open. Then it stopped, stammered for a bit and began to close again, then open again and then close again, the dealer quipped "Oh that's never happened before." I was a nervous wreck.

About a week later I decided bravely to have a go at the sun/moon/star roof again, I nervously pushed the button to open, it slid open and all of a sudden glorious sunshine filled my car with warmth. It was delightful, I was thoroughly enjoying the feel of the warm sun on my head, until 30 minutes or so later when it began to burn,  and in fact on having my head inspected later that night, it was confirmed that I had indeed sunburned my scalp.

I see you lurking there Sun.

Another two weeks passed before I decided (this time with hat firmly on head) to explore the sunroof once more. It was brilliant, the fresh air, the warmth of the sun, the sounds of birds, it was instantly relaxing. Until I saw it. A truck driver ahead of me, throw a half-finished milkshake out his window. I was instantly plagued with self-doubt, what happens if someone in a truck throws their drink out the window? Will I wear a truckers milkshake? While thinking through a series of very possible but entirely unlikely scenarios in my head the unexpected then happened, a small twig with two leaves attached fell into my lap. From the roof. I freaked out and put my foot on the brakes. The sunroof was closed once again.

Then finally one night this week, while driving and having a (hands-free) phone conversation with a friend, it all became clear. I began my nightly ritual of sitting in 'Park' for 2 hours on the M4 Motorway. It was a beautiful night and I decided to live life on the edge (because clearly that's the sort of guy I am) and opened the roof.

I continued talking to the friend when all of a sudden she said to me 'You sound nervous, what's wrong?' - I hadn't noticed a distinct change in the tone of my voice but then realised it must be because the sunroof was open! "Oh nothing, I just opened my sunroof". "Don't tell me you're scared of your sunroof too?" my friend asked. "I have the exact same fear every time I open mine! It always seems like a nice idea in theory to have one but actually they're fraught with problems," she added. I paused, slightly relieved that I wasn't the only one, and said "We must have Sunroof Anxiety."

So there you have it, that's how I realised I had a problem. I'm taking steps on a daily basis to try and fix that, but have come to the general conclusion that the safest time to open the sunroof for me is at night, when it's not actually sunny. Ohhh, so that's why they call it a moonroof...

*Dr. Google

The Travel Diaries: Dallas

When I first step through the gates of Dallas Fort Worth Airport the unmistakable stench of leather hits me. Stereotypical, yes, but I put it down to the fact that a good 80% of the people waiting at the baggage collection terminal are wearing leather - boots, jackets, pants, they're positively dripping in cow like gravy on a roast.

I hop in some transport and make my way downtown. The drive is a highway, like most entrances to American cities, peppered with fast food shacks and discount warehouses. Dallas is no different - except instead of the ubiquitous McDonalds and Starbucks it's Taco Shack and Denny's - both proclaiming to offer a unique spin on home style cooking. Having sampled the latter, I can confirm that the only thing that echoes home about those places is you'll be wishing you were back there.

But the good food in Texas, well that's just great - I prepared to sacrifice an artery for a slice of Texas chicken-fried steak with biscuits - which, if you possess the 'Is Chicken of the Sea, Chicken or Tuna?' mental depth of Jessica Simpson, let me clarify - that's a beef steak coated in a batter that echoes fried chicken, served with country gravy and biscuits, not Iced VoVos or Tim Tams but more like savoury scones. It was delicious.

After eating a fried animal, I settle into my hotel, The Magnolia, which I have to admit is really rather lovely. It's set in the old Mobil building and features grand lifts and old school furnishings but still has the elements of a modern hotel. My room is huge and gives me a great view of the city below, there's a milk and cookies service before bedtime and a the next morning a buffet breakfast fitting of the largest waistbands.

I decide to walk around the Dallas landscape for a while, the first thing that strikes me is how empty the town is. Maybe the early 80's grandeur of the TV show sharing the same name fooled me, but I was expecting a large, bustling city buzzing with action. The reality instead was a city with quiet streets - too quiet - and no atmosphere. Every second building had a For Lease or Closed sign up which made it feel a lot like the city had permanently 'Gone Fishin''

It was refreshing, if not annoying, to see though that down towards the infamous site of JFK's assasination that you'll find activity of both the tourist and haggler variety. Having been to Europe a few times now I can spot the hagglers a mile away - in their grey jackets, baseball caps and swag bag full of overpriced counterfeit 'genuine' tourist items.

In the process of darting away from one I invariably ended up almost in the arms of another. He told me his name was Sherman (I didn't ask) he wanted a hi-five (I didn't want to) and offered to give me a walking tour of Downtown (I didn't need it). Politely declining his services I walked on towards my destination only to realise Sherman was following me in the way a stray dog follows a naive boy home, the difference being I had no intention of keeping him.

Sherman stalked, sorry walked, with me down to the site where JFK was shot - he pointed out the 'X' marks on the road that mark the first and second (fatal) shots, the grassy knoll famously quoted and the window on the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository that creepily stays open till this day.

I'm not going to lie, it was heavy. Sherman, sensing I was amazed and shocked by the scene, took the opportunity to use some moving words. "Sure is a historical scene... speaking of historical, I'm selling these here JFK newspapers, badges, flags, stickers, they're 100% official, not counterfeit at all, I promise." I looked at Sherman, once again politely declined, lying that I had left my wallet at the hotel (sorry Sherman if you're reading this - but I doubt it).

Having ditched the hustler, I walked over to the former Texas Book Depository. It was amazing to be standing in front of this building - I went over the footage in my head and couldn't believe I was standing on the site itself. If I'm honest, that is the only thing worth checking out in Dallas, and if you see Sherman, hide your wallet.


Next stop: My true love: Austin, Texas

Five days in hospital

In 2012, I've spent more than my fair share of time in and out of hospitals. From a personal health problem earlier in the year that saw me trialling the menu of our public health system (tip: avoid anything with 'roast' in the title) through to spending the last week with my dad as he underwent major surgery.

It's amazing though what I've learned about hospitals as both the person under the sheet and the person tucking in the sheets for someone else. I've decided to jot a few of those points down.

1) Nurses - Seriously, these guys and girls do an amazing job. Much like the patients they dote over they come in all shapes and sizes and moods too, but they're doing a thankless job that involves a lot of hard work and a incredible smorgasbord of shit situations.

I now make it my mission to find out more about the nurse that's working with me or with my family. If they don't freely offer up information I don't push, but if they do, I listen. I think some of them appreciate it. I've heard stories of horror patients, of family histories, I found out that one of the nurses used to run her own Thai restaurant and another was completing her fourth consecutive 13 hour shift.

Some can be cranky, some can be lovely, but more often than not we fail to take into consideration they're working ridiculously long hours, they're on their feet almost all day and yes, they have families and lives too.

2) Patients - When I was in hospital earlier this year there were no beds available in the general area of the hospital and so I was kept in the geriatric ward. My bed neighbours were at least triple my age and slept almost triple the amount I did too. One woke in the middle of the night screaming obscenities - the full alphabet of swear words - the other cried constantly. I just lay there and listened and wondered what their lives were like. How did they end up here? And why exactly was nobody visiting them.

A patient in an adjacent room at the hospital my Dad was at looked incredibly lonely. I noticed day in and day out that she had no visitors and spent hours sitting in the chair staring at the window. I'd forgive if the view was lovely but her window faced the roof of a carpark.

It was hardly riveting stuff. One afternoon I said hello and asked her how she was feeling. She turned to me, smiled cautiously, and began to chat away. I couldn't help but sit and listen and hear her story. It was incredibly sad but she remained optimistic and despite not having any visitors give her flowers or balloons she felt as if she was still loved.

3) Food - When you're in hospital the stuff on the menu is hardly the stuff Matt Preston would rave about. It's not a hatted restaurant, it's not the hip new place to grab a bite, it's not even a sub-standard food court cafeteria. It's hospital catering, made in rooms just near the rooms were people get carved up on a daily basis. You can hardly expect it to be gourmet but it does what it's supposed to do, numb your cravings a bit.

The thing I've noticed about hospital menus is that they always follow the same format. It's always the cereal and toast combo for breakfast, lunch is a salad, a sandwich or if you're lucky a hot meal. Dinner is a meat and three veg situation, or maybe a curry of some description. Just don't get too hung up on the descriptions - they're not exactly truthful I've learned. A roast is just a word used to veil overcooked meat, if it says it's a sandwich chances are it's on heavily-buttered Wonder White and dinner vegetables are usually always over-cooked and under-seasoned carrots and zucchini.

There's hospital-grade jelly, the stuff that even a hippo could bounce on, there's hospital-grade meat (see also: hippo) and when you're a visitor, the ubiquitous black coffee with an Arnotts Nice or Milk Arrowroot on the side becomes your best friend.

4) Room decor - This ranges from pale blue to pale pink all designed to numb the brain into a submissive state of relaxation.

The random framed print on the wall of something vaguely roman, perhaps a flower or something designed to lift the spirits. The carpets and curtains are usually muted beige with pastel patterns and there's off-white, lots and lots of off-white.

There's that classic hospital smell too, which reminds you of what it might be like to live inside a bottle of Pine O'Cleen. When you spend more than a few days in hospital (and hopefully you don't) you begin to realise that the place is designed to do exactly what it says on the packet. It's a place of rest, to get better and restore your health.


So that's it really. After spending almost a fortnight this year (and hopefully that'll be it for a long time) I've come to realise that this is a place to get better and nothing more. If you complain about Australian services, you really should check out rooms in hospitals around the world. We take a lot for granted and at the end of the day it's a hospital ... not a Hilton.

One night (only) in Canberra

Last week I was fortunate (?) to spend an evening in our nation's capital, Canberra. No, I wasn't part of the #humanbrochure that seemed to clog up my newsfeed that week, I was just there for work. Sidebar: Did anybody else think the Human Brochure was a sequel to the Human Centipede?

Now for those of you not geographically-inclined, Canberra is a quick 50 or so minute flight from Sydney in a plane just small enough that you might be able to purchase it in bulk at Costco.

There with a colleague for work, we decided to spend the night before an event having a meeting over dinner. Exhausted and facing the prospect of an early morning we chose the hotel's restaurant as the easiest solution to getting some food with minimal walking and/or effort.

The place was called Red Salt and, to be fair, it had all the charm of a convention centre. As we came down the stairs we were presented with chairs and tables, almost a hundred of them, and not one of them were occupied. There also seemed to be a distinct lack of staff too, but we confirmed that the restaurant was indeed open for business and so we took a seat and waited.

And waited. My colleague made a joke about the ambience and made a quick pit stop. While she was out, four or five different tables filled. Suddenly there were diners and a bit of a buzz - although it was near impossible to hear them over the freshly-downloaded jazz muzak blaring through the speakers.

An elderly man and his dining partner sat down and were promptly served. He barely glanced at the menu before asking the waitress 'Is the soup of the day the seafood chowder again?' She answered in the affirmative before he spat out loudly "It was SHIT". I chuckled behind my stained menu and recorded that moment to memory so thatI had a new story to tell at dinner parties. Brilliant.

Cruddy soup-of-the-week aside, the dirty menu had some pleasant surprises on it. Duck breasts, red wine reductions, expensive steak. The front page of the menu explained the restaurant's name was taken from the beautiful red-tinted salt flakes that were produced from the inland banks of the Murray River. By using the salt, the menu proudly proclaimed, they were both paying homage to Australia AND seasoning our dishes. I was feeling both patriotic and hungry.

We both ordered from our over-attentive and under-educated waitress who could barely answer our simple questions about some of the items on the menu. We ordered zucchini and pea fritters, a sirloin steak and a corn-fed chicken breast with sides of green beans and kipfler potatoes. Delish.

While we waited for our meals we decided to enjoy a drink. Not having had more than two drinks in three or four months I went all out and asked for a Southern Comfort with fresh lime, my colleague, a Merlot. Both arrived, both looking slightly suspicious.

The Southern Comfort arrived in a glass that looked as if it'd been half-filled with green cordial. The flavour confirmed my suspicions and I glanced over to the bar to see if the pourer was under five. My colleagues merlot came in a glass that could have doubled as a bathtub, both in size and because of the amount of bubbles in the glass. The wine was frothing excitedly as if it was screaming out 'I just came out of a bag!' to the cafeteria-like room.

Undeterred by the quality of our drinks, our entree of Zucchini and Pea fritters arrived. We looked at the plate oddly. In front of us was a Zucchini flower, some snowpeas and a cauliflower all coated in tempura. Not exactly a fritter, but still quite nice, we joked with the waitress. She didn't get it.

Abandoning spiked-cordial drinks and frothy wine, our mains arrived next and seemed to be almost as described. Our sides were a bit odd, but nothing worth a complaint at all. There was one issue though, one of seasoning. My colleague asked for some red salt, a their menu had proudly boasted. She told us they didn't have any, but offered white salt instead. How exactly can a restaurant named after an ingredient not have any stock of that ingredient? I was miffed.

A few passing drinks later and bellyful of red salt-free chicken, we were jovial and laughing about life, about work, about families, about epic greek tragedies and the like. Dessert was ordered, her cheese, me a salted caramel parfait that was both not a parfait and not salted, but I wasn't fussed. We continued to joke about the venue and the night that was.

When it came to paying the bill, the previously over-friendly catering manager was very curt with us. Did he hear us talking about the bad music? Maybe he heard us talking about the distinct lack of salt? Who knows... but as we left the set of The Shining and went back to our rooms I thought to myself, gosh I could do with some salt and vinegar chips.

Customer disservice

I often look at those review websites and laugh at some of the things people write. "They said my eggs would come hard boiled and they were soft boiled", "I assumed the movie Deepthroat was about dental hygeine," etc, etc.

I never thought really that I'd be the kind of person who would leave a review though. Sure I'm occasionally flirt with Foursquare check-ins and recommendations and maybe do the old Yelp or two, but it's never really for any other reason other than boredom or because I really really really liked something I'd eaten.

This week I've been challenged to think about this area very differently. They say when it rains, it pours, and based on the ridiculously poor levels of customer service I've been exposed to this week, if it had rained, I no doubt would have been sold an umbrella with holes in it and had I complained I was getting wet, would have been told it was all my fault.

Let's start at the beginning of the week and change a couple of names along the way. My Dad finally escaped the 24 month-long shackles of his phone contract with Fodavone and had decided to sell his soul to another telco that favours animals in their advertising campaigns.

I went through the process with him, and because I wanted him to be able to use the latest technology, decided to buy him an iPhone too. Everything was going great, the new phone company rang and told me the good news, my address was confirmed, my number was confirmed and Dad's phone was on the way.

Then I got a text at 8am in the morning explaining to me that my phone was about to be delivered. To my work address. As I sped (legally, naturally) to work I wondered what would happen if I missed the delivery. I told myself not to worry and shrugged it off. They wouldn't give me one chance to pick it up, that's ridiculous! I chuckled to myself, which probably made me look insane to other drivers around me.

The laughs came too soon. At 9.15am the doorbell rang at work, it was my phone! I went to collect it. The angry troll-like woman from Pestenger Post Couriers by Australia Pest, barked my fathers name. I explained he wasn't here but that I had ordered the phone, in my name, had paid for it on my credit card, given my license as a form of ID and had already spoken to the call centre who confirmed I could pick it up. She refused to hand it over. She then decided to call the number she had for the recipient of the package. It was my number.

Proving to her that I was in fact a real person and that she was in fact holding my new phone, I thought it'd be easy and she'd smile and hand it over. Not true she said and I was annoyed. She then barked angrily at me, threatening to return my parcel to the post office ... a whole two doors down. I told her to leave and decided to ring Sloptus.

Well the lady on the other end in the remotely-located Sloptus call centre wasn't exactly helpful. You see, she explained, because my father could not be there to collect the phone, even with 30 minutes notice, it would have to be returned to the factory and re-allocated. I wouldn't be able to get it sent out again, instead I'd have to cancel the order and wait another 7-10 business days for another phone. The exact same phone I had held in my hands ever so briefly an hour earlier. I found that ridiculous, but she wasn't accepting any of my argument. I asked her if the call was being recorded, she confirmed, and I proceeded to tell her that perhaps Sloptus should hire the animals they feature in their commercials to work in their call-centres instead. It was mean yes, but I was at the end of my tether.

So you'd think this experience alone would cause me to run to the hills, strip myself of all material possessions and live the rest of my days Amish style. No, instead I decided to order a digital printed canvas for a work function online with the popular photo gift website Crapfish.

Ordering on Crapfish is easy. You select your gift, upload your photo, chose your delivery method, pay and hey presto, a novelty mug/photobook/canvas/dogbowl is on its way to you. Well, it should be that easy.

 I needed the  canvas for a function on Thursday... six business days away. I completed the familiar checkout process and selected Express Delivery as an option which promised a 3 business day turnaround. What a luxury, I thought. My receipt mocked me otherwise, whilst I had selected a 3 business day turnaround it could in fact be 7-10 business days in peak periods.

Doesn't sound very express to me, right? I decided to hop online to the live chat with a Crapfish representative who I don't believe was really called Lolly. Lolly was helpful at first, if not a bit confused, but told me about a convenient new service where, if I ordered a certain size canvas, I could pick it up instantly from my local retail store Craymart. I got a confirmation email, Good News! Your canvas is ready to collect at Craymart Broadway, please collect it.

Excited (yes, little things excite me at times) I got in the car and drove to Craymart. Since I had last been there it had undergone a renovation,  done by a designer who clearly asked one of the former members of Hi-5 what they saw while they were tripping on acid.

Briefly distracted by the strange possibility that I had accidentally walked inside a clown's rectum instead of a shopping centre, I went to the photo desk, confirmation number in hand and prepared to collect my canvas.

The 10 year old behind the counter went to get it for me. She came out, with a forlorn expression as if I'd accidentally just told her how The Hunger Games ends, and told me that they had run out of materials to actually mount my canvas. "We can give you the printed bit and you can stretch it yourself if you like" she unhelpfully offered up. I explained to her that when you pay $300 for an item you generally are expected to not have to assemble it yourself, IKEA excluded of course.

She didn't know what to say. I asked to see her, hopefully, older manager, who as it turns out was a mere two years older than her and clearly had as many braincells. He told me a different story, that the lady who makes the canvas had gone home for the day and that I could pick it up the next day. He decided to check with his manager though - which led me to believe that Craymart employees actually operate Babushka style.

The older manager eventually came out, and speaking with a mouthful of egg and mayo sandwich, told me she had worked an incredibly long day and they'd just had A Current Affair filming them in store and she had been so busy. She swallowed some egg and continued to tell me that unfortunately as they had been undergoing a recent renovation they had had no internet connection and therefore had not been able to download any Crapfish orders in the last two days.

That was obviously incorrect, I explained to her, as I pointed to my printed, online-submitted, artwork, minus a frame - sitting there limply like a body without a skeleton. She swallowed hard (whole egg perhaps) this time and tried to back her way out of this stinky-breathed situation. But she couldn't. The best she could offer was a re-print and a free delivery the next day.

Eventually, 24 hours later I got my canvas. Actually, I got two, because they misprinted the first one too. How lovely. Now if only they remembered to do their jobs properly in the first place.

Well if bad things come in threes, the third was a real doozy - and I promise this is where this whine-blog will come to a bloody conclusion. I had removalists booked in to empty out my apartment today. They came, late and not at all english-speaking, which made it incredibly hard for me to communicate. I'm not being racist, I'm being practical.

Then they drove their truck straight into the tree outside my building and split it in two, not only taking out half the tree but also a good chunk of their truck too. They were annoyed and cursing in native tongue. Eventually they mustered the courage to actually do their job of removing things and set to it. Then they dropped my guitar, and one of my cases, and a box of my clothes, and my bedhead before ending the whole pleasant process by nearly ripping my lounge in half.

Relieved to see the back of their truck (still remarkably in one piece) I left a family member to follow them to my new location. Then I got the phone call. The removalists had arrived and had decided to hold my furniture captive until I paid them not only the fee I had agreed to pay, but also new fees including petrol, extra travel (even though they were booked full well knowing the location) and the best bit - for damage to their truck.

Yes, the truck they had driven into my tree.  A few cursing phone calls later and a whole bunch of screaming they eventually gave up my furniture although not without leaving with extra money. I could not believe my ears, eyes and nostrils, these guys were total scammers. That's a name I'm not going to change, they're called AAA City Removalists, and I'd totally suggest against going with them if you're looking to move.

Of course, if you still do decide to use them, a word of warning. Move all large, established, 30 year old trees in a 2 kilometer radius in case they accidentally drive into them. What absolute fools.

And so that ends my rant blog about my week of absolutely pathetic customer service. Now if you excuse me, I'm off to comment about my local cafe's scrambled eggs on Instagram.

 

Going for a troll

When I was a kid I was read magical stories about winged creatures, vision-impaired mice and caterpillars that were never satiated.

Princesses grew their hair into ladders, wizards cast magical spells and trolls were stinky green ogres that lived under bridges threatening to devour children alive.

Today - and so very lately - trolls have gone from being mythical bridge-dwelling creatures to a label for Internet bullies who use social media as a vehicle for insult and attack.

They're the Internet trolls and they're currently under the spotlight due to a series of recent attacks on high profile celebrities, footballers and authors.

But this annoys me. No, I'm not annoyed because I've been subjected to it, I am because of both the misuse of the label and because society now, all of a sudden, feels the need to step in and 'stop the trolls'

I agree - we should definitely stop the use of faceless mediums like the Internet as a weapon of psychological harm, but tell me, why did it take the bullying of a celebrity to start a 'Stop the trolls' campaign and while you're there also tell me if you think by removing the anonymity of the Internet from someone that they'll stop being nasty?

The fact is a troll will always be a troll, whether they have a fake profile to hide behind and 140 characters or less to wield or whether they're in the playground taunting other kids, or ostracizing others for the way they look, they sound, they dress.

A bully will always be a bully but ironically it's the use of the very same medium that fuels the 'troll' to advertise an anti-troll campaign that I find even more hillarious.

So it takes multiple harmful insults hurled at a celebrity or three to cause a movement and to instigate change. But it's the same medium that gives fame to people like Perez Hilton who in every sense of the term is a troll too.

You see he too hides behind a mask (his real name is Mario Lavendeira) and made his fame by scrawling insults like 'fugly' or 'trainwreck mess' on the photos of celebrities. Except the masses lavish him with web traffic that many news media sites would kill for.

No, people like Perez aren't trolls, ... they're funny! Trolls, we're told, are bored university workers or teens on Facebook who spend their lives trying to bring others down. But we'll only really take an interest if mean on-heat schoolgirls make one of the members of One Direction cry and shutdown his Twitter account.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all endorsing the 'ordinary' people out there who attack others online or in person. In fact it's absolutely disgusting and should not be tolerated.

What I am saying is that all bullies, regardless of who they bully, should be stopped, and perhaps the Australian news site that was the quickest to adopt an emotive 'we're the heroes approach' to Stop The Trolls, should perhaps look at some of its own content first.

Oh what's that? A feature on how unbelievably bad some celebrities look without make up, oh and the nude photos of another public figure enjoying a private break. Now, that's not very nice at all is it?

There's not a bridge big enough for them to lurk under.

Go back to where you came from

Okay, okay, this isn't an entry about immigration or that smash hit TV show everyone seems to be talking about, I just wanted to score points for using a topical headline for this post which believe it or not is almost actually relevant.

After over 5 years living out of home in two different locations, I've packed up the majority of my beloved belongings, left my partially-owned city loft apartment, hopped back into my barely-driven lately car and have now settled (almost) back at my parents house.

So in summary, I've gone back to where I came from.

Why did I make the decision to move? Well, it's not entirely simple nor is it entirely meant for public consumption but lets say a series of future movements and events have made it pretty clear to me that for the rest of 2012 (and at least the majority of 2013) I will be calling my parental house, home, once again.

It's been about two weeks officially and I have to say it's pretty sweet. Being an only child who practically grew up with my parents, it's been great to have them around and be able to talk about life. I'm 28 and I've been feeling a bit stoic lately but being back home for the shortest of time has already started to soften me up.

I'm eating better - actually heaps better - and due to the abundance of space here I'm actually moving around more, I'm helping my Dad build things and I'm setting personal tasks and actually completing them.

I mean, I just finished building a chicken shed, and now I've got chickens and they're actually laying eggs - like real, farm fresh eggs - and I've accomplished that (with a bit of help from Bunnings Warehouse naturally) in just over a fortnight. I've even found myself waking up 15 minutes earlier to check the chickens.

I'm slowly starting to feel more relaxed. After a health scare in July I was forced to really take a look into how I operate as a human, how I process my feelings and I was reminded of the importance of venting. We all need a good vent now and then, I can feel the stress lumps in my neck shrinking every day. The lumps don't exist of course, but I like to imagine they're there.

Sure I don't exactly have the privacy I had living in my apartment, but doors were designed to close and I've come to realise that my parents actually enjoy the silence/privacy/lack of me watching Cupcake Wars on Lifestyle Food as much as I enjoy some time alone now and then.

So sure, some people are quick to put me in the category of one of those people that moves back home after not being able to hack it on my own, but actually, I've not moved back for that reason at all. I think now, more than ever, I'm reminded that my immediate family will always be there for me, they're the constant in my life, despite how much my career/emotions/credit card bills fluctuate, they remain the same.

And you know, that's pretty damn nice.