Four Walls And A Door

In my empty room, cross legged on the floor
I look around, at four walls and a door

I think of all those walls have seen,
If only they could talk of what’s been

They’d speak of feeling lost and unsure
In the empty room with a mattress on the floor

They’d speak of broken hearts and tears
Of being alone, first time in four years

They’d speak of learning to let go
Of people, jobs and all you know

They’d also speak of moving on
It takes a while before it doesn’t feel wrong

They’d tell of new faces, starting to mend
Of learning to let someone in again

They’d laugh and talk for hours on end
Good times on the phone to a faraway friend

Of very late nights spent dancing till dawn
Of hungover sleep ins and all day yawns

They’d speak of epiphanies, journal entries of mine
Dear diary or something, the usual line

Of finding oneself within those four walls
Learning and growing, you fly and you fall

I look fondly upon those four walls and a door
Now my bags are all packed, empty room, on the floor

One of many I’ll remember calling my own
When I look back one day, on the rooms I’ve called home.

Musings On A Supermoon

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artwork by @mysticmamma

Isn’t it wonderful that despite everything that has been happening in the world this past week – protests, a controversial election, an earthquake – us humans can still stop in our tracks and gaze at the moon?

Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock lately – or in a bunker, depending how terrified you are about the Trump presidency –  you’d know that last night, we were lucky enough to bear witness to a supermoon.

It was the closest that great mysterious orb has been to earth since 1948 and thousands turned out to catch a glimpse. Like many Melburnians, I missed out thanks to some inconvenient cloud cover, but it kind of warmed my heart to know that flocks of strangers were gathered down on the beach, rugged up, eyes towards the sky, just waiting for the moon to make an appearance. And it wasn’t just people in my immediate vicinity that braved the night – all around the country – nay, the world – people set up camp to catch the sunset and hopefully sight the supermoon as it peeked over the horizon.

With all the distractions and man made wonders we have in this day and age, it’s comforting to know that we can still come together and be left in awe of the natural wonders that surround us. In a time where there are divisions between us, the fact that nature has the power to unite us restores my faith in humanity a little.

You could stand two people from opposite ends of the earth together, in front of any natural phenomenon, supermoon or sea, and for a moment, their differences don’t matter. Their skin colour, religion, place of origin – none of it matters. All that matters is the way their eyes light up in awe, the way goosebumps crawl over their skin and the way their heart feels full. When something beautiful moves us, we all  experience the same physiological reaction – proof of our shared humanity. 

The hype may have faded, the moon may be back to its normal size tonight and it’s likely that you’ve gone back to your daily lives and distractions, but I urge you not to forget about the constant presence of beauty around us. Take pleasure in a vast ocean, a fragrant flower or a starry sky. For the opportunity to be in awe is always there. The opportunity to share a moment of humanity is always there. Sometimes we just need to look up.

HE AIN’T YOUR GURU

When I settled in for a solo Netflix sesh tonight, I never imagined I’d be standing in my bedroom one hour and fifty-five minutes later, butt naked (save for my I ❤ NY t-shirt), crying, with my hands stretched to the sky.

Excuse the slightly inappropriate visual but I couldn’t help but tear up as an epic score built around me and Tony Robbins voice, a deep, husky voice like no other, blared from my MacBook Pro. Not your average Monday night, huh?

I’m an emotional person to begin with. I watch proposal videos for fun and the other day I cried remembering when Dobby the house-elf died in Harry Potter (My friends can confirm – they were on the receiving end of some runny nose, ugly-crying-face snapchats, #nofilter) but I found Tony Robbin’s I Am Not Your Guru documentary absolutely moving.

He talks a lot about breakthroughs and I doubted I’d be experiencing anything particularly life-changing from the highlight reel of a six day seminar filmed in the US in 2014, but I can safely say that I had a few revelations throughout and I spent a good part of the two hour duration crying.

Filmed over the course of the seminar, the documentary follows Robbin’s from his California home to Boca Raton, Florida where his Date with Destiny seminar is attended by 2500 each year.

I won’t go into anymore detail on the documentary – what’s the point when you can watch it and experience it for yourself? – but I will say this. There is nothing like watching people on the precipice of change, people so psyched and high on life that they are dancing and clapping and shouting as if they are at the best party in the world.

Some of the people you’ll meet are on the verge of taking their own life and are attending the seminar in a last ditch effort to find meaning and purpose. Like I said, it’s moving stuff. 

I love seeing people experiencing raw emotion – it’s what makes us human – and Tony Robbins, in all his rockstar-like, big-chested glory, has a gift for getting all the feels. 

The Los Angeles Times described it perfectly –

“Spellbinding…. A concert of human emotion. It may change your life.”

I’m not usually one to write movie reviews but when something makes me ‘feel’, I can’t help myself.

If you are still wondering why I stood pantless in my room, bawling and waving my hands in the air, I suggest you schedule in a Netflix-without-the-chill sesh ASAP.

PLEASE NOTE: I am big on participation, so I actively took part in whatever Tony Robbins was telling his audience to do

PLEASE ALSO NOTE: Removing your pants is NOT a requirement, I just happened to not be wearing pants at the time…

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Me lol.

 

 

 

Happy Endings (not that kind)

We all love a happy ending – and no, not that kind of happy ending (minds out of the gutter please) – I’m talking about the kind of happy ending you’ll find in a movie or a book, where all the loose ends are tied, problems are resolved, the guy kisses the girl and everyone lives happily ever after.

Of course, not all stories end this way, but often when they don’t we are left feeling cheated, as though we just invested our time into something that did not leave us feeling satisfied. I for one prefer a story with a happy ending.

I like to see characters happy at the end of a book or movie because I like to think that we will all have our own happily ever after in real life. Perhaps being raised on a diet of Disney princesses and good triumphing over evil has something to do with it, but I’ve got to wonder what kind of expectations these happy endings instill in us.

Happy endings make us forget that life goes on after the credits roll and the final chapter ends. It makes us think that we’ll be blissfully happy forevermore once we’ve won over the guy, gotten the job, lost the weight or beaten the enemy.

I consider myself a very optimistic person – more of an idealist than a realist (not always a good thing) but after thinking about the happy endings, I’ve decided that perhaps the ol’ heartwarming, tear jerking, warm and fuzzy finale does more harm than good.

I’d like to know what happens to the characters after the big happy ending. Life goes on, I’d say.

After waking from her slumber, I’m sure it wasn’t all roses for Snow White and Prince Charming. Surely she eventually tires of the Seven Dwarves antics. Perhaps the Prince feels threatened that Snow White has so many guy friends and she’d totally get sick of explaining herself – clearly she gets along better with men because she had issues with her stepmother.

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FINDS ABANDONED COTTAGE. CLEANS IT.

Movies and books often sell the idea that life is a fairytale and once you’ve found true love or solved the problem at hand, someone hits the pause button, leaving you in a state of eternal happiness. We all know that’s not the case but I guess since reality isn’t like that, it’s nice to think happy endings exist somewhere.

As another year draws to a close, we approach an ending of sorts. I’m not a fan of the period between Boxing Day and New Years. It’s like limbo, a time when you aren’t doing a whole lot and you’re just waiting for the next year to hurry up and arrive.

Unlike the endings in movies and books, we know that something else follows this particular ending, whether the finale is happy or not. And that’s exactly how life is. We know that whatever happens there will be something else after it.

So no matter how the final scene of 2015 is shaping up for you, don’t forget that there’s more to come. Although another 365 days have ticked over, it’s not the end of your story, it’s simply the beginning of another chapter and there’s always room for a sequel.

HOMELESS BUT HUMAN

Tonight I hung out in the city. It was a really warm evening, the perfect night for a stroll, taking in the sights and sounds of Melbourne’s CBD at Christmas.

I met lots of new people tonight. They were just like me – they smiled and they laughed, they had stories, they enjoyed a chat as much as I do. The only difference – at the end of the night, I caught the train home to a cool shower and a warm bed. They, on the other hand, are still out there somewhere, on the streets, setting up camp for the night.

There are homeless people in every city. We see them but most of the time we walk past them, diverting our gaze and deflecting their requests for a dollar. I’ve done it myself.

Tonight however, I sat on the ground with them – with me, was my friend Alex, the founder of One Road Home and a small bunch of other volunteers. We were all there for the same reason: to bring Christmas to the streets.

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One Road Home generally provides hygiene packs to Melbourne’s homeless but tonight, eight sleeps out from Christmas, we were delivering hand-picked and hand-packed Christmas gifts and goodies. The jocks and socks a necessity perhaps, but the hand lotion, cap and wrist-watch more or less a little luxury that our friends on the streets often miss out on.

I’ll be honest, I was a little bit nervous before heading out for street outreach tonight. I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes I’ve been afraid of the homeless. I was afraid for no reason in particular, but I put it down to fear of the unknown and fear of the other.

The unfamiliar can be scary, but if tonight’s experience has taught me anything, it’s that although their situation may feel unfamiliar to us, the homeless are really no different to you and I.

I saw it in the way that Travis expressed his gratitude for our Christmas gifts – just the way I’d express my thanks for a present. I saw it in the way Lilly proudly showed us a photo of her gorgeous daughters, as any mother would. And I most definitely saw it in the way that Jeff, a talented artist, dug through his bag to find a pen for Alex to write down her business name. She wants him to design a logo for her and he searched for that pen with the fervour and professionalism of a graphic designer, about to jot down notes about a new client.

The ‘other’ only exists in our perception of people and that needs to change. Our mission was more than just giving out Christmas presents. It was to remind our friends on the street that they are valued, they are worthy and they are human. It was to remind them that, at a time of year when consumers are spending thousands of dollars around them, someone is thinking of them.

A person’s situation doesn’t make them any less of a human being and not only do the homeless need a helping hand, they deserve to be treated with dignity. I’ve realised what a difference one can make with a friendly smile, a kind word or a nice gesture. Although we may not be able to provide a solution for their circumstances, it costs absolutely nothing to treat a fellow human being with the respect they deserve.

Tonight, I am going to bed thinking of the people I met on the streets.

Bill, Travis, Lilly, Jeff and so many others. They were children once, like you and I, most likely being tucked into bed by their parents, dreaming of the presents under the Christmas tree. Tonight they are sleeping on the streets.

It was a good feeling, giving out Christmas gifts to the homeless, but I can honestly say that tonight, they gave me so much more.

Find out more about One Road Home here 

A Tribute to Beccky

They say you don’t realise how full someone’s life is until they die.

Until the people who know them come together to celebrate their life. Until stories and cherished memories are shared. Until people talk about what an impact the person has had on their life.

Looking at Beccky’s Facebook page tonight, it is clear that she has lived a very full life in her 23 years. She’s touched the lives of so many, but it didn’t take her passing for us to know this about her.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of knowing Beccky will be aware of her health struggles, but more importantly they’ll know of her endless positivity, her smile and her unbelievable strength through it all.

Four years ago Beccky messaged me asking for advice about her Year 12 Drama performance. She was nervous, so I told her:

“Do it and enjoy it while it lasts. Think to yourself, this is my last chance in drama, my last chance to do something I love, so make the most of it. It sounds silly and a bit extreme but just imagine it’s the last performance you’ll ever give, and just give it your all. You only live once, so just pretend it’s the performance that people are going to remember you for.”

Reflecting on it, and drama aside, Beccky’s life was her greatest performance of all. She lived it to the full, she made the most of every moment and opportunity, and the courageous way in which she lived her life is something she will be remembered for.

Beccky might have wanted my advice on acting, but I think we should all follow her example when it comes to living.

I interviewed Beccky two years ago for a journalism assignment. We spoke about her kidney transplants, how her health had affected her life and how grateful she was for her family and the second chance she had been given. I asked her what it meant to her to have received kidney donations from her both her parents. “It means the world,” she told me, “I feel like no matter where I go I always have them with me. I feel loved and so overwhelmed. It’s hard to explain how it feels. It really is just an amazing gift of life.”

Like everyone I am so heartbroken to hear that Beccky is no longer with us. Beccky overcame so many challenges in her 23 years, but last night we lost her to cancer.

Despite her body losing its fight, we all know how strong Beccky’s spirit was. Through all her struggles she maintained her smile and unbelievable strength and that’s where she triumphed.

Beccky and I weren’t best friends, we rarely saw each other but we spoke occasionally and I feel so privileged to have known her, and to have been able to share some of her story.

Like I said, they say you don’t realise how full someone’s life is until they die and often we don’t tell people how much they mean to us when they are here.

Beccky was the exception. Her strength inspired all who knew her and people often told her how much they admired her. So take comfort in the fact that she probably left this world knowing how loved she was, and though her life was short, she well and truly left her mark on the world.

Liz Taylor & I

Elizabeth Taylor and I were always pretty close. I can’t remember the first time we met but she’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I wished she wasn’t around but other times I liked having her there because she always made me feel unique. The only time she really worried me was two weeks ago, when I thought she was trying to kill me.

I should probably mention that Elizabeth Taylor is the mole on my right cheek and not the legendary Hollywood actress. My mole was baptised Elizabeth Taylor for two reasons:

#1 – Elizabeth Taylor, the actress, had a beauty mark on her cheek in the same spot as mine

#2 –  I hate the word ‘mole’

I wonder how the real Elizabeth Taylor would feel to know I named my mole after her.

Two weeks ago I decided to have a skin check because I’d never had one before and I thought it was about time. I’d noticed a freckle on my arm had gotten a little darker and I wanted to get it checked, so I made an appointment and ventured into the city.

The appointment was going well (as well as can be expected for an appointment where you basically have to get naked) until the doctor noticed Liz Taylor. He began questioning me about her, asking how long I’d had her, had she gotten darker? Bigger?

I told him I’d had her for a while, since early high school at least, because I remember being very offended when a boy had told me I had black texta on my face. I thought beauty spots were supposed to make you beautiful.

The doctor said he was as suspicious about Liz Taylor as Eddie Fisher was before he found out she was cheating on him with Richard Burton. He didn’t really say that, but for the sake of the story, lets pretend he did.

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He told me that under the microscope Liz was a blue-y, black colour (normal moles are supposed to be a solid colour), that she was an irregular shape (normal moles are supposed to be symmetrical) and she measured 5mm which was close enough to 6mm (a warning sign) for me to get it checked. He recommended I get a biopsy done, to make sure the mole wasn’t a melanoma and he referred me to a dermatologist.

I left the office feeling sad, scared and vulnerable. I’m 23 and all of a sudden, for the first time in my life, I had a health concern. I’ve always considered myself to be in pretty good health. The worst I’ve come up against is a broken arm and a tonsillectomy, so I’ve had a good run. I do get a little paranoid though – like the time I stepped out of the car in Yarrawonga and stood on something sharp and immediately self-diagnosed AIDs. I was 12 and there were no syringes in sight. False alarm. But now, all of a sudden I was faced with the prospect of something very real and very scary.

A few days later I had my appointment at the dermatologist and she also expressed concern about Liz Taylor. She said rather than taking a sample of Liz and leaving me with a scar on top of a mole, she’d rather remove the whole thing and get it biopsied. I made another appointment to have it removed and the five days in between were not pleasant.

In the past Liz had only worried me for vanity reasons. My right cheek, where Liz had made herself at home, was my ‘bad side’, so in photos I always posed with my cheek turned. Now Liz felt like an enemy, who had invaded my life and was threatening to ruin me.

My main concern wasn’t being left with a scar on my cheek. If there’s one thing this experience has taught me, it’s to be grateful for my body, even the parts I don’t love so much – a sentence I came across in a book I was reading last week summed it up perfectly. The protagonist had just found out she had breast cancer, when she had a revelation,

“Too late you realize that your body was perfect – every health body is.”

I felt stupid for all the time I had wasted worrying about imperfections (as most of us girls do) and all I wanted was to know that I was healthy again.

The week before my surgery, I spoke to friends and family about it. I was going overboard with worry and although everyone was telling me ‘It’s going to be fine!’ I really needed the reassurance. At times, I imagined the side of my face was hurting and had to convince myself that I was imagining it, terrified that there could be evil cells spreading throughout my face. Finally Wednesday came and I waved goodbye to Liz Taylor for good.

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CATCH YA!

The surgery was minor, only requiring a local anaesthetic and it didn’t hurt much at all but I left with a few stitches and a fresh wave of worry. I would go back Friday to have the dressing changed and they would hopefully have the results by then.

That’s when the paranoia kicked it. I started remembering all of these instances that might have been signs from the universe, telling me to go and get my skin checked – the article I wrote last year where I interviewed a plastic surgeon about detecting skin cancer. Kathy Gardiner, the incredible woman I met through one of my freelance jobs who was battling Advanced Metastatic Melanoma. Even the Cancer Council poster on the back of the toilet door at The Golden Vine Hotel on trivia night. In hindsight it seemed like I had been ignoring all of these signs and I was angry at myself for not having taken action sooner.

Today I got a text msg from my dermatologist:

Msg from Dr Schofield: Hi Hannah, no cancer cells on the specimens from surgery. Just strange moles, all gone now. Best wishes, Clare.

The RELIEF. All of that worry for nothing. Ok, so you are thinking what a drama queen I am and yes, you are right. But when you come up against something like this, your mind can’t help but tick over at 100 miles an hour. You can’t help but imagine what your life will be like if it is something sinister and you regret the time you spent worrying about trivial things when you were healthy. I’m so lucky that my results were fine.

I wrote this piece for a few reasons (not just to showcase what a babe the young Elizabeth Taylor was) and I don’t mean to make light of this topic. I wanted to describe what it’s like to have a health scare and to make people realise how lucky they really are when they have their health. However, the main reason I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) today is because I want everyone who is reading this to go and get their skin checked.

At 23, it had never crossed my mind to have a skin cancer check and I’m sure there are many others who haven’t considered doing it either. But do it.

It’s better to catch something early, than catch it when it’s too late. It’s better to know your skin well, to know how at risk you are and to keep an eye out for any changes.

I’m so lucky that Liz Taylor was just an unusual mole and I’d much rather be left with a little scar on my cheek than having to constantly worry about it. I have also resolved to wear SPF 50+ sunscreen everyday and next time I’m at the beach I won’t be trying to get a tan. Don’t give me that look, Liz. It’s not worth it.

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Now that I know she wasn’t trying to kill me, I kind of miss Liz a little. Who knows, one day if I get sick of my scar and you notice a spot reappear on my right cheek, it might be black texta afterall.

I’m no expert, but if you want to find out more about the signs of skin cancer you can read up about it here

If you’d like to follow the journey of the beautiful Kathy Gardiner, aka The Naked Gardiner, check out her blog here

The Deflowering of an IKEA Virgin

Yesterday I woke up, as I have for the past 23 years of my life, an IKEA virgin. Little did I know that by the end of the day,  not only would I have popped the IKEA cherry, but I would find myself assembling my very first flat pack. I don’t waste time.

At 6pm I picked up my then-boyfriend from work, dressed in an ensemble I deemed suitable for perusing the aisles of IKEA. Chuck Taylors, black jeans and a khaki jacket. Casual in a way that says, “I know my way around affordable Swedish furniture”.

We used Google Maps to navigate the journey, parked and made our way through the shopping centre towards our destination. The purpose of our mission – to find a nice, cheap book shelf to house the crap currently littering my bedroom floor.

When we reached the store, the entrance immediately confused us. I wondered:

“Is this it? Do we go up those stairs? Why is there a cafe? I thought IKEA sold furniture. Actually I’m kinda hungry. I wonder what Swedish food tastes like? Nope chicken meatballs don’t tickle my fancy. Is that even Swedish? Oh well. To the furniture department!”

Most people compare their excitement to being ‘like a kid in a candy store’. As I saw the showroom for the first time, my excitement was more akin to ‘being a kid in Harvey Norman!’ I’m not sure what that says about my childhood, but for some reason I’ve always had a strange fascination with furniture stores that are set up as actual rooms. I had to refrain from racing into each display I liked and shouting “This one’s my room!”

Instead, we walked through each display like the adults that we are, pretending to make cocktails with the props, because only adults can drink alcohol. Walking through one apartment setup I was reminded of the scene in 500 Days of Summer when Summer and Tom jump on one of the beds at IKEA and Tom says “Darling, I don’t mean to alarm you but there’s a Chinese family standing in our kitchen.”

“Hey” I say, “This reminds me of that scene in 500 days of Summer where they jump on the bed and…OH MY GOD don’t look now but look who just walked into our lounge room!” Enter Chinese family. Couldn’t have timed it better myself.

We walked through about 10 different departments until we finally found the shelving section and by this point I had no concept of direction whatsoever. Blindfold me and spin me around for good measure, cos I ain’t gettin’ outta here without assistance.  Apparently the Swedish enjoy mazes so much that they incorporate them into their shops.

I chose a shelf and then, being the IKEA virgin that I was, I had no idea what to do next. Luckily Aidan had more experienced with IKEA and he filled out the little form with the product details. One of the staff members pointed us in the direction of the warehouse, where we could collect the shelf, so off we went, back through the maze.

I like to think that it was a bit like the maze in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, in that you never know what kind of scary thing might be around the next corner. The scariest thing we encountered was a middle-aged couple making out in the kitchen department –  eyes closed and everything. I regret not pointing them in the direction of ‘bedrooms’, it’s the one time ‘get a room’ would have been both appropriate AND convenient.

We found the warehouse, packed the flat pack box into a trolley and headed towards the registers.

The staff member serving told me that if we scanned our receipt we wouldn’t have to pay for parking and she also told me that IKEA is 2.5km. Not sure if she meant in width or length or perimeter but I acted amazed.

We finally got the shelf in my tiny car, and lets just say if we had to break quickly, it most definitely would have ended up through the windscreen. Before we could escape the craziness, a lady ran up and asked if we could watch her stuff while she went to get her car. I felt like telling her that she should know better than to trek through a 2.5km maze on her own, but I smiled and we waited for her to get back.

Driving home, I looked at Aidan and said, “I don’t really like IKEA. It’s too big and I didn’t know what to do…” But I suppose that’s what most people say after losing their virginity. Maybe I’ll like it more next time.

Sex ethni-City

“All we talk about anymore is big balls or small dicks. How does it happen that four smart women have nothing to talk about but boyfriends? It’s like seventh grade but with bank accounts. What about us? What we think, we feel, we know, Christ! Does it always have to be about them? Just give me a call when you’re ready to talk about something besides men.”
Miranda Hobbes (Sex and the City)

Sitting in the middle of a restaurant today, surrounded by clinking cutlery and the scent of coffee, I looked at my three girlfriends and announced “We are basically the ethnic version of Sex and the City.”

With our completely different ethnic backgrounds, none of us reallllyyy fit the mold of the original SATC gals, but for the sake of the topic, I am bestowing upon myself the role of Carrie. I know, I know, I don’t have the hair for it, but I’m the writer of the group and I am using my friends as the subject for an article so I think I qualify. Four ethnic girls in the city, I baptise us “Sex ethni-City”, get it?

Lunching with these bright, intellectual, ambitious friends of mine, I began to think about the different topics that make up our conversations. Here we were, chatting about all kinds of interesting things, and yet, women our age are often thought to be gossipy and somewhat shallow, consumed by tinder dates and finding a boyfriend. So for the sake of smashing that stereotype I’ve decided to share some snippets from our leisurely luncheon. But first, a story.

. . .

The other night, at the bar where I work, one of the male bartenders had a trio of his friends loitering near the beer taps. They were there for two hours at least, trying to scab free drinks enjoying the atmosphere. I don’t want to be judgmental in the way that I describe them, so I’ll let you decide for yourself what type of guys they were based on some of their conversations, as follows…

“Stylistically, what is your favourite movie?”

Trick question. A question like this cannot be answered with your ‘real’ favourite movie. ‘Anything with Leonardo DiCaprio’ is therefore not a valid answer. A question like this demands a pretentious answer, so I said ‘A Single Man’ by Tom Ford, because it’s pretty cinematic, thanks to it’s use of grainy film stock, a focus on colour and close-up camera angles. I watched it when I was 14 and didn’t really get it, or like it that much at the time but guess what, it’s now apparently my favourite movie STYLISTICALLY. Not many people have seen it which worked in my favour because the less well-known the movie, the more pretentious. Turns out none of them had seen nor heard of it. Hannah – 1, Guys – 0.

Guy to one of his friends: “Would you rather, have sex with three hot supermodels but no-one believes that it happened OR not have sex at all, but everyone thinks that you had sex with three hot supermodels?”

This question isn’t even worth an explanation, I am sure you understand the type of guys we are dealing with here. I will add,  for the guys in question, both options in the above multiple choice are, and always will be, hypothetical.

When I mentioned to the bartender that he and his friends have ‘interesting’ conversations, he proceeded to ask, “Well, what do you and your friends talk about?” I think I brushed it off with some pathetic answer like ‘I dunno, relationships, boys…” My answer was partly because I couldn’t be bothered telling him what we talk about, and partly because I respect my gals too much to divulge what we REALLY talk about, because GIRL CODE, but I instantly regretted not offering a better answer.

So with that in mind, sitting around the table at lunch today with my friends talking about things other than relationships and boys, I decided I was really proud of us. To prove it, here are some of the stimulating and diverse topics we covered today…

  • The threat that artificial intelligence poses to mankind and that by the time the media starts fear-mongering around this topic, like it currently does with terrorism, it will probably be too late and the robots will have ended the human race. Same goes for global warming.
  • The fact that one of the girls mums may have overheard her and a guy friend swapping explicit stories of their sex-capades. Mortifying.
  • The transgender debate, and the different opinions people have around this topic. Someone brought up a documentary that suggested being allowed to remove one’s penis is no different to being able to remove limbs for sexual gratification (yes, apparently there are people in the world who fetishize the idea of cutting off their own limbs), raising the question – If gender reassignment is legal, why do we frown upon limb removal for sexual reasons. This one caused some debate.
  • Whether a watch at Fossil, which claims to be ‘rose gold’ is in fact ‘rose gold’ because we are pretty damn sure that that particular gold is not overly ‘rose-y’. We know our rose golds.
  • And of course, our plans and dreams for the future and what we are currently doing to get there.

I could list plenty more topics, but that’s probably enough for one blog post. Obviously some topics are meaningful, others not so much. Right about now though, I wish I had a time machine, so I could rewind back to work Friday night, and have that bartender ask me again “Well, what do you and your friends talk about?”

Since time machines don’t currently exist, perhaps I’ll just send him the link to this blog instead. Or suggest that he keep an eye out for ‘Sex ethni-City’, coming to a screen near you!