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Published: June 26th 2010
God, I hate this stupid laptop. I hate Microsoft. I loathe and detest everything to do with wifi.
I also hate Virgin Blue for losing my luggage. I abhor the World Cup this time - a curse onto the rotten, spoiled playboys of Brasil, Portugal, Spain, Chile, and England.
Now you may be getting the impression that I'm a bit jazzed up at the moment, and you wouldn't be wrong - after all, my thyroid meds are in the lost luggage, my eyes are bulging out like Marty Feldman's, I'm all frazzled by the massive flights, the missing meds, too much weak coffee, bad, boring football, and the general stress of finishing school on Tuesday and flying to the other side of the World the next day. I'm not actually complaining, despite what you might be thinking.
It all could be worse: I could have got my hand trapped between the giant breasts of the blonde twenty-something I was sat next to for fourteen hours from LA to Brisbane. My desperate attempts to free my hand having failed, I could have been forced to gnaw off my arm just below the elbow, only to break my dental prosthetic and choke on the plastic bits, only to receive the kiss of life from the strange and toothless ancient asian woman who sat on my other side for the fourteen hour flight grunting and snuffling in a slithery reptilian gurgle.
I exaggerate.
She was actually a rather pleasant and pointed woman fron San Diego, via Shanghai and Brisbane, harassed to distraction by the dreadful behavior of her bratty, college-age daughters. If there were any reptilian snuffles it was from me that the sounds slithered. As usual, I started to develop a cold the moment a trans-continental flight was on the immediate horizon. I covered it by slugging on cough medicene and suppressing the scratchiness with alien throat clearings every few minutes much to the delight, no doubt, of my premium class pals.
You see, the apparent misfortune of the inevitable four hour American Airways delay in Boston had two unforeseen and fortuitous side effects, namely, getting to watch the Germany vs. Ghana and Serbia vs. Australia games in a pleasant airport bar with an amusing Irish barman and various bar friends including the first Ozzie of the trip, and secondly, having to run across the LA airport with full pack in time to check in for the Brisbane flight. I know this may not sound particularly fortuitous, especially given the distances involved and the lateness of the hour - however signing in three minutes before they closed the check in had its benefits including the upgrade to my asian and giant breasted Australian blonde's hallowed section of the plane.
I finally saw the 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' and loved it. Also 'This is it', 'Percy Jackson' and some gritty crime thing set in New York with Richard Don't mention the gerbils Gere and Ethan Hawke. Finally relaunched reading 'The Blind Assassin' for which Margaret Atwood won the Booker Prize, but which for me has also won the celubrious annual Lurking Next To My Bed Refusing To Be Read prize, a slightly more dubious award, I'll grant you.
Yesterday, and to a lesser extent, today have been blurred by sudden and deep episodes of sleep, giving each day a slightly preeternatural glow. All I've seen of Australia so far has been the inside of my brother's apartment, his comfy sofa and wide screen TV upon which Portugal, Spain, Brazil and others did nothing to generate anything other than more of the torpur that already is nesting in me.
I suppose one thing that's handy about having an over-active thyroid gland and no medications to combat the effects of it is that staying up till midnight for the first game and waking up at 4:00am for the second game will be easier. Unless I have coronary heart failure, of course. You see that positive thinking of mine in action: one good thing about the games being so relentlessly dull is that my heart is being protected from the dreadful effects of over excitement.
Enough of this drivel: time to go out and take a look at downtown Townsville while I wait for those bastards at the airport to find my luggage.
Yesterday, after spending twenty minutes describing the contents of my luggage to the Virgin Blue rep. at Townsville airport - to a pleasant young woman named Skye, who probably didn't need the detailed descriptions of my jazzy underwear choices, there was a delicious comic pause. Skye broke it: 'Oh, and welcome to Australia'.
See you on the flypaper!!
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vicki
non-member comment
at least the plane got there
it can only get better?