My Love Life, or Lack Thereof

- I tried posting this last night but my internet was, as usual, being a real bastard. -

It is a well documented fact among my circle of acquaintances that my love life is certainly much less than ideal. For example, I have been single now for the past five years; and of my only two boyfriends, the first was one of my best friends (no real complaints there) and the other I went out with for a grand total of thirteen days. Every other potential relationship I've had since then has been fraught with peril and pitfalls. But, courtesy of work, I have an epic new story which is so absurdly typical of how my life seems to function.

At the beginning of May this year a large family group came in to celebrate the birthday of a particular red-headed young man. I was assigned to wait on their table and, during the course of the evening, this same young man asked me to stay behind and have a drink with him once I'd finished work.

Well, it was his birthday. You can't deny people things on their birthday. I agreed, and immediately began to panic.

The last date I'd gone on had been over six months previously and was just a bit of a disaster. The most exciting topic of conversation we'd had was about the properties of steel. He was an air-force engineer, I was working on a design project incorporating steel... and yes, the conversation was just as dull as that explanation. Enough said. Incidentally, this man got married three months later. Huzzah.

So it was with some trepidation that I approached this date – or, as I liked to think of it, my impending doom. I had a massive freak-out to some of the staff, who were both amused and sympathetic. My manager signed me out early AND offered my date a free drink (curse him and his fuzzy beard. I was so panicky I was keen to work until closing).

In any case, as I was changing out of my work gear into more normal clothes, I reminded myself of one of my fundamental philosophies: The secret to life is to go through it pretending to know what you're doing. And so I went into the date faking confidence and calm I did not feel.

The date went well enough. He seemed to be quite a nice person, but unfortunately I was still to panicked to take a serious interest in him. We chatted about all the normal things – work, study, music, etc. with only a modicum of awkwardness, and afterwards he walked me to my car.

“This was cool,” he said. “I'd like to take you out to dinner some time.”

If I'd possessed even a modicum of guts and good sense, I would have said something like, “I also enjoyed tonight, but, alas, I do not think I am ready to pursue a dating lifestyle. It is most unfortunate, but I must refuse your offer of dinner.” I very much wanted to say this. Unfortunately, I am a coward. What I said instead was, “Well, perhaps you should”, in a voice filled with suggestion as a sweet smile played across my face. We exchanged numbers and I gave him a hug – yes, I actually hugged him. It was his birthday, after all.

Then I hopped into my car, went home, buried my head under a pillow and tried to blot out life.

He rang me two days later to try and arrange another time to meet. Luckily, I had the excuse of a hectic work and study schedule that wouldn't allow me to see him for at least a week. And after that, I invented all these elaborate reasons as to why I couldn't see him, because I am a coward and can't tell someone when I'm just not interested in them. Finally, I outright lied to get rid of him, and the upshot was that he ceased to phone, text, or even notice my existence whenever he happened to come into work after that. (There is no need to tell me I'm a terrible person. I already know. See my previous post: Everybody Lies for another example of my skills at deception.)

I implimented a no-dating-people-I-meet-at-work policiy and assumed that would be the end of the story. But I was wrong.

Several months passed. And tonight, the story came to a startling conclusion.

The red-headed young man came into work this evening. He hung about in the bar having a few beers with his mates. We resorted to our usual scenario of pretending not to notice each other. A little later, I saw my manager (a different manager to the aforementioned one) speaking to him.

“Hey, you know those guys you were talking to? Do you know them?” I asked him shortly after.

“Only the red-haired one,” replied my manager. “He used to come into my old work quite frequently.”

“Really?” I exclaimed. “I went on a date with him once.”

He grinned. “You know, he came out as being gay about six months ago, love.”

Time, proverbially, came to a halt.

“Noooooooo,” I gasped. “He's not. He didn't. You're kidding me.”

He wasn't kidding me.

I did some mental calculations. The beginning of May was almost six months ago.

This man, a very short time after going on a date with me, decided to accept the fact that he was gay.

I thought: This is such a me thing to happen.

I howled with laughter. I had to. It was a choice between laughing or crawling into a muddy hole in the ground and hanging a “Do Not Disturb” sign outside.

The Problem with Venting

"Zara," I said, "You are becoming quite unbearable to live with."
I looked around the room. The table was decorated with a collection of used plates, many adorned with the shrivelled husks of used teabags. On the sofa a blanket lay discarded, its folds overflowing onto the floor; dvds were scattered, homeless, around the TV. "Are you referring to the current state of my physical surroundings?" I asked in reply. "Admittedly, I have been a tad lax when it comes to the more housewifely side of things. But that's just because I've been working so much - you know I'm working 40 hours this week? Even though I'm a student with two huge assignments and an exam coming up? And that I'm working six whole days in a row? And don't forget that when I work I do so for about six hours and don't get to sit down or take a break. Is it any wonder that when I get home I collapse upon my sofa and have no energy for things like cooking and cleaning? Or even writing, which is what my whole life is supposed to be about?"
"Your physical surroundings are indeed substandard at present," I observed. "Although I am very used to it. You're not the most, hm, shall we say, fastidious of individuals. But that was not what I was referring to. Actually, I was referring to what you have just so aptly demonstrated."
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
"You've been very negative recently. All you ever do is complain about work. I'm beginning to wonder if people are getting sick of it. I'm getting sick of it. You're usually so ridiculously positive. You know - skipping about the place saying things like 'Fantastic!' when someone asks how you are. What has changed?"
"Nothing has changed," I mumbled. "Except, well, there's a lot I'm not happy about at my work, like I said. That's why I moan. Because I'm grumpy."
"EXACTLY!" I cried. "You're GRUMPY! You're never grumpy! You consider it an offense against yourself to have any sort of negative emotion! Snap out of it, woman! There is always something to complain and get upset about - and yet you never do, because you think it's a waste of time and energy. You find it easier to be happy. Which brings me back to my question. Why so angsty? What has changed?"
"Your face has changed," I snarled.
"In that case, so has yours," I replied good-humouredly.
"Harumph," I muttered.
"Which reminds me of something else. You're actually considering cutting your hair short. Even during the whole getting-upset-and-driving-off-the-road fiasco you didn't cut your hair."
"I thought about getting a tattoo, though," I pointed out.
"But you didn't, because you did other stupid self-destructive stuff," I snapped. Good heavens, I thought. I'm beginning to lose my temper.
"Yeah? Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm human! I'm ALLOWED to get angry and upset from time to time! Everyone else does!"
"Ahhhh," I said wisely. "I think I see what has happened. Oh, my darling, you are branching out into the world! You are encountering people with different mindsets, people who don't consider anger and annoyance to be something to be wrong and set aside! And you think, ah, these people who bitch and complain and get angsty still function as people and live their lives! Surely it is alright to get grumpy about things occasionally?"
"But it very well could be! Humans experience anger and other negative emotions for a reason. It's a message letting us know that something is wrong. And at present, work is full of wrong. Hence my anger and annoyance. Which is why I complain."
I seized a cricket bat from my Cupboard of Miscellaneous Metaphysical Items and proceeded to beat myself with it.
"Don't - complain!" I cried, emphasising each word with a good, hard thwack. "By all means feel the angst - but don't pass it on to other people! Sharing negativity just begets more negativity, which does not do the world any good."
"You are right, of course," I said hastily, ducking another swing of the cricket bat.
"And another thing! If work engenders such feelings in you - get another job!"
"I've been looking!" I cried. "It's hard - I've no guarantee that another, similar job would be any better! It could be just as terrible, or bad in a different way! At least with my job I can feel like I'm actually doing something to better my comunity - waitressing for the Waitakere Licensing Trust is probably ethically better than anywhere else."
"Who said anything about waitressing? Do something different. Apply for that job driving chickens about the place. Or the one at the home brewing store."
"Oh, haha, now you're just being silly," I said. Although I had to admit, driving those chickens around did sound appealing.
"I'm not. Something different would be good for you. Promise me that tomorrow you'll go look for a new job."
"I'm working tomorrow," I said morosely.
"Well, on Wednesday then."
"I'm working Wednesday too."
"How about Thursday?"
"I think I just agreed with one of the other waitresses to cover her shift on Thursday..."
"FRIDAY!"
"I'M WORKING ON FRIDAY BECAUSE APPARENTLY I HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO WITH MY LIFE!"
"Fuck, Zara," I said, awed. "You're right. Your work life really does suck. Get a new job."
"Okay," I said humbly.

How to Write a Book

She took a stick and outlined on the ground the whole alphabet along with the punctuation marks, and asked me how many letters there were.
               “Twenty-six,” I replied.
               “You see, that is a very small number of letters. Can you call what I have outlined a book?”
               “No,” I answered. “It’s just an ordinary alphabet, that’s all. Ordinary letters.”
               “Yet all the books in the English language are made up of these ordinary letters,” she observed. “Do you not agree? Do you not see how simple it all is?”
              “Yes, but in books they’re – they’re arranged differently.”
              “Correct, all books consist of a multitude of combinations of these letters. People arrange them on the pages automatically, guided by their feelings. And from this it follows that books originate not from a combination of letters and sounds, but from feelings outlined by people’s imagination. The result is that the readers are aroused by approximately the same feelings as the writers, and such feelings can be recalled for a long time. Can you recollect any images or situations from books you have read?”
              “Yes, I can,” I replied, after a moment’s thought.
              For some reason I recalled Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and began to tell the story to her. She interrupted me:
              “You see, you can still depict the characters from this book and tell me what they felt, even though quite a bit of time has gone by since you read it. But if I were to ask you to tell me in what sequence the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet were set forth in that book, what combinations they were arranged in, could you do that?”
              “No. That would be impossible.”
              “Indeed, it would be very difficult. So, feelings have been conveyed from one Man to another with the help of all sorts of combinations of letters and forgot them right off, but the feelings and images remained to be remembered for a long time.
              “So it turns out that if you link emotional feelings directly to these marks on paper without thinking about any conventions, one’s soul will cause these marks to appear in just the right sequence and combinations so that any reader may subsequently feel the soul of the writer.”

The Story of Rupert

I was happily driving in my car yesterday afternoon when I felt a strange tickling sensation upon the back of my hand. I glanced down.
"BLEEARGHuuuuuuurrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" I yelped in shock and alarm. A small green praying mantis was perched upon my hand. I suppressed my first instinct to flail my arm about until it fell off - what had this poor, innocent creature ever done to me except surprise me with its presence? As a way of apologising to the praying mantis for my earlier rude shrieking, I decided to give it a name - Rupert. So now, of course, I had a dilemma as well as an insect on my hands. I was driving along the motorway, so I could not exactly open the window and release Rupert into the wild. Rupert, I decided, must remain for now on my hand, and when we stopped I would find some convenient shrub or tree to be his new home.

This was all good, in theory.

For the first few minutes Rupert looked like he was having fun. Perhaps he enjoyed the sensation of rushing along at what for him must seem incredible speeds. He kept rocking back and forth and rubbing his pincer-like forelegs together in glee.
"Aww," I said, gazing down at him fondly. "Rupert's such a little daredevil. So cwoote!"
Ah, yes. Rupert the Daredevil. Eventually he must have become bored merely sitting upon my hand, for he decided to take his adrenaline rush to the next level. He decided to move.
"Aha! Ahhhaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhehehehe!" I shrieked in near-hysterical laughter. He was unbearably ticklish. He meandered lazily across my hand, sending me into paroxisms of giggles, before taking a brief stroll across my steering wheel.
"Yes, Rupert," I choked, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, "this is a good place for you to remain. Please stay there for the rest of the duration of the journey."
Rupert was a rebel as well as a daredevil. He actually had the temerity to disobey me and crawl back onto my hand and once more I was subjected to his torturous tickling.

At long last he decided to climb onto my sleeve and make an expedition up to my shoulder. I felt like an environmentalist pirate.

But you know how driving is. You become distracted; there's so much to think about. When I reached my destination I looked for Rupert on my shoulder - and then all over my sleeve, on my seat, on the window, heck, I even looked under the seat. He was gone. Vanished. Never to be seen again.

O, Rupert! You brought me joy and laughter, however briefly. I miss you. Please come back to me, or at least flip me a text sometime to let me know if you're okay. I hope that, wherever you are, you are happy and living your life to its greatest potential.

The Day Her Car Was Weeded

You may have noticed that I haven't posted anything in a while. This is because exciting things rarely, if ever, happen in my life. It makes a terrible story, which is why I don't write about it.

But today, I have a story.

And not just a "story". A Story. An Adventure Story, featuring such fantastic plot devices as a long journey, dense fog, a crochet needle, and obnoxious weeds.

The story starts on Monday morning when Zara wakes up feeling depressed and not knowing why. Sometimes Zara gets irrationally angry and frustrated with life. She is so miserable she actually chose to leave her staff work party far too early simply because she couldn't stand to be around people. (Before this, though, she'd found herself a book and started reading, much to the disgust of her colleagues who were all getting drunk downstairs.)

Tuesday is no better. In fact, it's much worse. In a way, it feels like she's two people - there is normal Zara, who is functioning much the same as usual, though with noticably much less energy and enthusiasm ("flat" is the adjective someone used to describe her). The other Zara is shrieking like a madwoman inside her head, keeping up a constant furious stream of insults, expletives, and generally negative commentary on every single action Normal Zara and everyone around her is doing. Work that evening goes something like this:

Normal Zara asks a customer whether she might possibly take their order, an unnaturally wide smile stretched painfully across her face.
Crazy Zara shrieks a very angry name inside of Zara's head, though whether she's directing it at the customer or Normal Zara is unclear.
The customer hems and haws over whether to order steak or pork and asks for a recomendation.
Normal Zara replies that the pork is much more delicious.
Crazy Zara goes on an angry rant with the main points being that, a), Zara is a vegetarian and promoting any form of meat makes her a liar and a hypocrite and b), the customer is a sadistic evil bastard for wanting to eat meat in the first place. She is very impolite in her choice of adjectives.
Later on, Tom-the-Manager asks Zara how everything's going. "All good?" he asks.
"Yep," mumbles Normal Zara, somewhat unnormally unenthusiastic for her. Usually she practically skips with glee and uses words like "Awesome!" and "Fantastic!".
"Cool," says Tom-the-Manager, and stalks off.
Crazy Zara erupts at this innocuous statement and reflects on all the many ways she would like to rip out his liver, force it down his throat and choke him on it, while flaying his ridiculously fluffy beard off his face and using his blood to repaint the ladies' bathroom.

And so the night wore on.

Sitting in her car after work, Crazy Zara seizes control of Zara's body. She shrieks and cries and hits her head on her steering wheel, all the while shouting, "Why? Why?" But neither Crazy Zara nor Normal Zara know the answer because they don't even understand the question.

***

On Wednesday Zara decides to try to make herself feel better. She sleeps in, makes herself pancakes, knits, and watches endless episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Nothing works.

Work that day is a repeat of Tuesday. Zara has had enough. She spontaneously decides to go on a road trip to the one place in the world where she has only happy memories of - a little-known, decidedly ugly beach near Tapora, a village perhaps fifty people in the world have heard of. Her grandparents used to take her fishing there during the summer when she was a kid. Zara often says that she considers fish to be highly-evolved plants and therefore justifies her eating them. In truth, whenever she eats fish, she is reminded of the love of her grandparents and the happy times she spent with them. She loves this beach. She feels as though everything there was a gift especially for her - the mudflats, the mangroves, the crabs that scuttle anxiously away over the sand, the jellyfish stranded across the receeding tideline (a most unwelcome gift, that), the many types of shellfish to be dug for, the mullet that leap out of the water as the sun goes down, the grass that feels for some reason much pricklier than anywhere else, the black swans that honk obnoxiously to each other in the shallow water, the public garden made out of driftwood and beach-scavenged items... somehow, the existence of these things seems much more significant here than anywhere else. If there is any one place that could ever make her feel happy, it is here.

Zara decides to make an expedition of it. She goes home and gets those items she thinks she might need - blanket and pillow, her crochet and writing pad, and a few other extra goodies. She sets out.

She's driving a bit too fast. She's feeling reckless and wants to do something mad. She copes well enough on the wider, better-travelled road from Auckland to Hellensville. After that, though, the road gets steadily windier and narrower. Heavy fog has set in and visibility is low. This does not dissuade her, although she slows down a bit once she turns off onto the road to Tapora. Tapora is such a nowhere place that parts of the road aren't even sealed. They definately don't have any recommended speed signs as you go around corners, which she had relied on earlier to help navigate some of the trickier corners.

The inevitable happens. She takes a corner too fast. Her tires skid on the gravel and suddenly she is swerving wildly. She veers off the road, somehow managing to drive along the side of a very large, steep bank - at least a 50 degree angle. She is convinced the car is going to flip, that she's going to continue to roll down the bank and she's going to hit her head and break her neck and die and her can of drink is going to go flying over all her crochet - but she bounces, her car flies up into the air and crash lands into a two metre high clump of kikuyu grass, narrowly missing an ancient cabbage tree and a small stream at the bottom of the bank.

Zara spends approximately a third of a second marvelling that she is alive. Her predominant thought is of how embarassing this is. She fires up her engine, puts on the four wheel drive mode and tries to power on up the slope. How terrible. Apparently her gigantic off-roader isn't very good at keeping off-road because no matter how hard she tries, her car will not move. Eventually she gives up, turns off the motor, sits back, and laughs heartily.

For someone who up until recently was very depressed, she can see only the good side of the situation. How awesome is this? She's stuck in a ditch on a deserted road in the middle of the night, her car will not move, she can't get reception on her phone, but HEY! It's a new experience and totally fun! She decides to wait until early morning when hopefully some local farmer will come by to tug her out. Until then, she might as well get some sleep. But first she decides to calm down by crocheting a little. The image of a young woman crocheting at one in the morning inside of a giant vehicle parked half-way down a steep bank in one of the most abandoned roads in New Zealand strangely appeals to Zara and she laughs heartily. She is enjoying herself immensely and she suddenly realises that her depression is cured. This only serves to make her feel more awesome.

Eventually she sleeps, curled up in a ball in the back seat with the seatbelt digging into her.

***

At around five-thirty in the morning traffic starts to drive by. A logging truck stops and checks to see if Zara is still alive. He looks slighly stunned as a ridiculously over-cheerful young woman excitedly and happily informs him, that, actually, everything is amazing, and they both exclaim in awe over the path of destruction Zara's car made, revealed in the light of the logging truck's headlamps. He can't pull her out, but does inform her that the rest of the logging crew were to be around shortly. Zara hops back into her car and crochets as she awaits rescue.

Five men in utes and one park ranger later, Zara finds herself back on the road - but not without mishap. The towrope the first man drove all the way home in his ute to fetch snapped as he tried to pull me out. Thankfully, the park ranger had a special cable thingy and that worked much better. Unfortunately, the entire underside of Zara's car is now covered in grass. People always complain about kikuyu. Farmers don't like it because it takes over the paddocks they craze their livestock in. Gardeners don't like it because it invades their gardens and leaves it a giant, weedy mess. There are endless horror stories of people who have tried and failed to remove kikuyu from their gardens - it's so difficult, it's nigh impossible. What you don't generally hear about kikuyu is how hard it is to remove from cars. The first man in the ute - name of Daniel - very kindly spends a good hour and a half trying to pull all the grass out from her car. It was twisted all around the drive shaft which - apparently - is a bad thing and can't just be left. He has to use a hand saw to slice it off. But he succeeds after much pain and effort, and Zara is left in awe of friendly Kiwi men and humanity in general. This man is now three hours late for work and it's his daughter's fifth birthday, and here he is helping some useless city girl weed her car and being wonderfully good-natured about it.

Zara plans to courier a pack of beer to him. She figures it's safer than driving and delivering it herself.


***

And that, dear friends, is the end of my story.

I stopped by in Wellsford to see my dad and tell him the story. I accosted him outside his work and said, "HI! Guess what! I have a totally awesome story to tell you!"
He looked apprehensive. "You're engaged?"
"Er... no."
He looked positively fearful. "You're pregnant?"
"No!"
"Well, what, then?"
"I just crashed my car! -" and he put his head in his hands and he wept. But not literally. Because that would be weird.

Genetics

I was at my mum's house the other day scrounging for a free cup of tea when I heard this interesting sentence spring from my mother's lips as she sat working in her bedroom.

"What should I do now? I am uncertain. Perhaps we should confer to discuss this? Yes, this would be a wise thing indeed."

I peeked around her bedroom door to see if she was on the phone. No; she was sitting in front of her computer scribbling hastily on a piece of paper.

I withdrew to ponder what this might mean. It sounded like my mother was having a conversation... but with whom? Herself?

And then it hit me - my mother has long drawn-out conversations with herself the same way I do. And that means that her phrase should have run more like this:

"What should I do now?" asked my mother in frustrated appeal.
"I don't know," replied my mother, rather unhelpfully in her opinion.
"Perhaps we should confer to discuss it?" my mother asked through gritted teeth, barely concealing her impatience.
"Yes, this would be a wise thing indeed," agreed my mother.

And what I want to know now is: Is having in-depth discussions with yourself a universal thing? Or is it limited to a few select people who pass this trait on to their descendants?

Everybody Lies

"Everybody lies" is the catchphrase of that most cynical of TV doctors, House. As sad and depressing such a catchphrase is, I can't help but think it might be true.

This is the story of how I told a lie.

I know that for many people I am the paragon of a Good, Decent Person, practically a saint, and I know that to admit to lying would shatter their image of me, and possibly their souls as well. Please, Dear Reader - do not feel distraught as your very concept of the world swirls and reshapes around you. Rather, rejoice in the knowledge that you have taken a step closer to understanding a Universal Truth and accept this new perspective of the world. And, I beg of you - offer me forgiveness for my wrongdoing, that I might feel ease within my soul.

To fully understand the context of my lie I must take you back in time to a morning a few days after my twentieth birthday, where I sat alone and despairing upon my sofa as I realised how pointless my life was. I was not studying. I had no job. I sat around all day occupying my mind with sci-fi-related nonsense. Where, I asked myself morosely, was my life going? What useful task occupied my days? I felt myself to be an utterly useless person and I decided to console myself by having a small glass of the sherry left over from my legendary Christmas trifle.

(I fear I may have inadvertantly destroyed yet another image people have of me - that of how I am not the type of person to sit at home drinking alcohol at ten-thirty on a Thursday morning.)

As tends to happen when misery, myself, and alcohol come together, I ended up drinking a little bit more than just a small glass. I ended up finishing a good third of the bottle.

I stumbled over to my computer desk, shouting "WHEEE!" whenever the earth seemed to rock a bit too much, and plonked myself down into my chair. I embarked on one of my infamous conversations with myself.
"Right, my girl," I said to myself, "you could sit here and be drunk and continue to do nothing. Or - and I highly recommend this second option - you could sit here and be drunk and search for something to do with your life."
"Goo' idea," I slurred, and I logged onto TradeMe and began to search for jobs. At my first hazy glance there seemed to be, typically, nothing available that I could do. But as I scrolled back up the page I saw a listing for a waitress at a place named the Hangar.
"Aargh!" I roared as ancient resentment towards the Hangar bubbled within me. When I was sixteen I was homeschooled, and one day as I was supposed to be doing my much-hated maths I began to reflect on the impending closure of Hobsonville Airbase and daydream about what possible use the old aircraft hangars could be put to. I created this elaborate fantasy of one of them being converted into this arty muso bar where non-mainstream bands would perform while their bow-tie wearing artist friends would recline in refurbished retro lounge seats sipping the more unusual types of alcoholic beverages. There would be a gallery lining the walls where pretentious people could come and make snide comments about the nature of art. My imaginings got even more elaborate until they included acrobats descending to perform in mid-air above the stage and an in-house five-player string quartet. I named this place... the Hangar.

A few weeks later I was driving down a road close to my house where I read a sign: The Hangar - Opening Soon. I swore elaborately inside my mind and shook my fist at the gods of creativity for sharing my ideas with lesser minds. And I set aside all hope for it being an artistic haven and resented the Hangar with all my heart, a feeling that continued for four whole years.

So, naturally, when I read their listing for an enthusiastic, outgoing person, no waitressing experience necessary, I clicked the apply button. Yes, I was that desperate.

As I filled out the application the combined effects of self-doubt, resentment, and sherry led me to do something I have never done before - I filled out the application with phrases littered with sarcasm. I praised myself to the highest heights - Why would you not hire me? I wrote. I am brilliance personified. Speaking with all possible modesty, my skills and talents are of such greatness that to fail to hire me would be a waste and a disgrace - and so on. I used adjectives of such praiseworthy complexity that I'm surprised God himself did not strike me down for my use of hubris.

Is it a lie when you say untrue things about yourself, even if you're being completely sarcastic about it?

I sent off the application, where I assumed someone would have a couple of minutes laugh at my expense before consigning it to the trash.

It's funny how life turns out.

Two days later I recieved a phonecall asking if I could come in for an interview. By this time I was sober and had returned to my normal, optimistic, self-confident self.
"Oh! Yes! Certainly! Great! Wow!" I said, all the while thinking: Holy crap. They actually took me seriously.

Buoyed by my success of unintentionally getting an interview, I turned up to the interview determined to impress. Boy, I wanted this job. I was witty and enthusiastic. I made them laugh. I came up with ingenious answers and resorted to sweet innocence when necessary. No doubt my usual impressively descriptive hand gestures were in full swing. All was going well. Until...
"You appear to be a quite, um, enthusiastic person," observed Alton, my interviewer.
I felt a brief moment of panic.
"Now Zara," I scolded myself, "we have talked about this before. You have a tendency to come across as being quirky and eccentric and most new acquaintances just don't know how to respond to it. Please, tone it down and for heavens sake try to act normal. And come up with a decent excuse for your behavior, ASAP."
And this was it. This was when I lied. I succumbed to my self-inflicted peer preassure and I said...
"Ah, yeah. I... had... coffee, this morning."
Oh, I'm sure the very gates of heaven trembled at my words.
"It must have been a great coffee," grinned Alton.
"Oh, yes, it was!" I said enthusiastically. Doomed. Condemned. A dark inkblot exists next to my name in the Book of Life where God dropped his pen in horror. "It's South Indian coffee. It's so concentrated and strong that you're supposed to drink it in shots... but I had a full cup size." And so the lies went on.

Well, I got the job. It seems that, contrary to what my parents taught me, lies and alcoholism do get you somewhere in life. But not without penalty.

On my first day of work I met my manager, Tom.
"I hear you're pretty fond of coffee," he said.
"Oh-ooh-ah," I replied.
"Alton said to me, 'Tom, you're going to like this girl, but you're going to have to be patient with her when she's had coffee.'"
"Oh, goody. I have a reputation," I said faintly.
"I'm going to feed you coffee sometime just so I can see what you're like!" he exclaimed.
And he did. He brewed me coffee so strong that I couldn't sleep that night and turned me into a trembling zombie the following day. Which meant I had to have more coffee to get me through work. Which of course meant I couldn't sleep again...

I am now a coffee addict. I cannot sleep. I cannot study. I cannot traverse a corridor without skipping madly.

Oh, let this be a lesson to you, my friend. Never lie. Not even a small lie. There are always consequences to every lie - even the most seemingly innocuous ones.

Lists! Oh, Glorious Lists!

"So," I said to myself one day, "If you were to write a list of your favourite books... what would be on it?"
"Well," I replied, "I would first feel obliged to write two lists - one a list of my favourite authors, and the second a list of my favourite books."
"But why?" I questioned. "Surely the same authors and books would turn up on both lists?"
"Not necessarily," I replied. "Some authors I adore above all others for their great skills and strengths in certain areas; however, sometimes an author I do not very much appreciate writes a stunning and awesome book deserving a place on my Favourite Book List. You understand my problem."
"I do indeed," I replied. "However, I also know you quite well; you rejoice in making lists. Indeed, making lists is one of your favourite activites, along with alphabetizing your bookshelves and DVD collection."
"Ah! Alas! You have hit upon my darkest secret," I cried. "I am indeed just as you claim I am. The sight of a well-ordered list never fails to stir excitement in my soul; and my deepest pleasure is arranging a bookshelf to my satisfaction."
"'Tis true, you are a strange individual," I remarked.
"Hush!" I scolded. "I am making a list, and you are distracting me."


My Top Five All-Time Favourite Authors

1. J.R.R. Tolkien.
The reasons for this are, perhaps, obvious. Ah, Tolkien, Father of Fantasy, Creator of Hobbits, a traditionalist beacon of hope in the stormy seas of modernity -
Why are you being so ridiculously poetical? Hurry up and get to the point.
Shut up. I'm writing.
I'm just saying that perhaps you should try and explain your opinions with a little less digression - you do have a tendency to write far more than you have to -
I said shut UP.
Tolkien is famed for his incredibly detailed and and realistic world-building. As you read his works, his world of Middle-earth seems to spring to life out of the page - indeed, it is almost as though Middle-earth is a character in its own right. People are always astonished about how a fantasy world could seem so real. But what they don't realise is that Middle-earth is indeed real. Tolkien wrote The Silmarillion, the Hobbit, and the Lord of the Rings as a type of pre-history of the world. So when you read his joyous descriptions of Middle-earth, you are not gaining pleasure from some unknown alien fantasy world; you are being filled with love for the real world, our world, as it is, or, perhaps, as it should be. For Tolkien was writing at a time when cities were beginning to spread like an advancing army over the face of the world while cars and artificial stone became the foundations of our society -
No one is interested in your philosophical musings. Move on to the next author.
Fine.

2. Robin Hobb
Robin Hobb's greatest ability seems to be her understanding of human nature. Her characters are intricately detailed, their motivations believable and understandable, and none of them are perfect. Fitz, the main character of her Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies, is one of the most infuriatingly annoying characters in the series - yet, because you understand him, you can't help but love him.
However, sometimes the opposite is true. The Fool has to be one of my favourite characters in all of literature, despite knowing almost nothing about him. Who is he? What is his relationship with Fitz? What is his real name? Is he even a h-
Be silent! You are spoiling the plot.
Sorry.

3. Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Her plots and ideas may not be exactly original (all her books are based on Celtic and European folklore), but she certainly has a unique way of writing about them. Her descriptive powers are beyond anything I have ever come across - people often say Tolkien has a fantastic archaic style of writing, to which I say, Phaw! You have obviously never read CDT. To which they reply, What is CDT? And I explain, CDT are the initials of a female Australian Fantasy writer whose descriptive powers and vocabulary should be described as legendary -
Unnecessary tangent.
Fine, then you write this, if you think you could do better!
I didn't mean -
La la la la la la la la. I'm not listenning to you anymore and I'm not writing this list.
Stop being so pedantic.
Your face is pedantic. La la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar.
Alright then. I can do this.

4. Isaac Asimov
I find his ideas original and inspiring.

5. Vladimir Megre
His books have changed my life.
Wait, is that ALL you are going to say about him? You're not going to explain, for instance, just HOW he's changed my life? My goodness! You have no concept about how to instil interest in the reader!
At least I am sticking to the topic at hand.
Fine, I'll explain, and I'll do it in just one sentence. His books changed me from being Generic Fashion-Obsessed Female to Nature-Loving Wannabe-Self-Sustaining Gardener Living On One Hectare Of Land With Husband And Children Surrounded By Likeminded Families On Their Own One-Hectare Plots, Thereby Creating A Better And More Beautiful World, One Garden At A Time -
If you were writing this in Microsoft Word, there would be a little green line wobbling under that sentence.
That's because Word has even less of a concept of grammar than your average Twilight fanatic. Ha! Score!


My Top Five All-Time Favourite Books

1. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Please see my detailed description above about Tolkien to understand why I love this book so much.
See? I can be succinct.
Well done.

2. Co-Creation by Vladimir Megre. In this arguably non-fiction book, the Siberian hermit Anastasia describes the concept of "Kin Domains" and the benefits these homes and gardens can bring to the people living in them. There is also a description of a flying, burping brontosaurus, and why such creatures are extinct. It turns out it's because no one could figure out why God should make a flying, burping brontosaurus in the first place, and so the poor creatures died of grief. I want a flying, burping brontosaurus. I would call it Deathbreath and it would fly around and fetch me strawberries.
You realise that the brontosaurus is not the most important thing about this book, don't you.
I do realise that, you idiot. Kin Domains are the most important things in the book. And, oh, look, what does it say in the first sentence of my description? "KIN DOMAINS."
Don't forget about the concept of "co-creation". It is the title of the book, after all.
Now look who's going on "unnecessary tangents".
I just think that if you intend to describe something, you ought to do it properly.
Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm just sniggering at your self-contradiction.
"Co-creation" is the philosophical concept of Man and God working together to create something that brings joy to everyone. (It's the catchphrase of the series: "Conjoint-creation and joy for all from its contemplation!" Apparently this is what God wants more than anything.) When someone designs a garden, they are essentially using nature - God's creations - as their artistic medium. So, in a way, Man, God, and Nature all come together to "co-create" a garden. It's a fantastic idea that has nothing whatsoever to do with shampoo. It's what made me want to take up landscape design. And, oh, by the way, do you know what these co-created gardens are called? KIN DOMAINS.

3. The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. It's the prequel to The Lord of the Rings! It's long and difficult to read and I've read it nine times!
Stop bragging. No one is impressed.
O contrare. I am SO impressed with myself.
Well... I admit, it is a great achievement. Very few people manage to read it through even once.
I cannot say I understand why. There are some awesome stories in there. Like the Tale of Beren and Luthien. Imagine what that would be like in a movie.
Terrible.
Yes, most likely.

4. Life of Pi by Yann Martel. I LOVE IT. It's one of those books that really make you think and question everything, and I'm sure no two people come away from that book with the same interpretation. It's also hilariously funny.
It's an attempt to answer the question increasingly relevant in our society about which is better - science or God. The answer is God, obviously.
Yes, well, that's your interpretation. What about the "meercats"? That was obviously made up, making the science argument much more likely -
But bananas can float -
Oh please, he had a flipping tiger in his boat and he didn't get mauled to death! That does not happen in real life! He obviously made it up to comfort his traumatised soul! Just like people do when it comes to God and religion.
Yes, well, the tiger is much better than cannibalism. Therefore, God wins.
Yeah, you're probably right.
Moving on.

5. Beauty by Sherri S. Tepper. Eco-feminist sci-fi at its best. You never know what's going to happen, though obviously the antagonists are always male and the trees usually triumph.
At least she's not anti-God in this book.
Yes, that makes a nice change.


"My goodness. I've come to the end of my lists," I said. "I feel a strange pang of loss echoing in my empty heart. Do you think I should expand them to my 'Top Ten All-Time Favourites'?"
"No. You've already expanded the lists far longer than they needed to be," I replied.
"Pshaw! You are merely jealous of my brilliance and you seek to hinder me wherever possible!"
"I would never do such a thing," I said indignantly.
"Ha!" I cried. "Don't forget, I know you as well as you know me."
"Yes, this is true. And I know how irrational you can become."
"Your face is irrational," I grumbled.
"My point exactly."

Coopers Beach - Days 5 and 6

Day 5 - Sunday

I awoke on the final full day of camp feeling tired but still strangely happy. The leader's meeting that day consisted mainly of discussing the previous night's banquet, with my main complaint being that it should have gone on longer. People promised to improve it for next year, and I subsided, appeased.

It was the final chapel time that day, though because it was a Sunday and the chapel was in use by members of the Coopers Beach community we had to have it in the hall instead. It was my final dance session. I was sorry it was over, but I was cheered up by watching people "skateboard for Christ". This was just one of many awesome illustrations used by the preacher at this camp. I shall forever shed a tear for the ill-spent lives of Zack, Mack, Slack and Jack whenever I read the parable of the wheat seeds. And who can forget the stirring allegory about how humanity seeking God is like Australians trying to swim to New Zealand?

That morning all the older kids would be heading offsite to spend the night at some other, much more interesting location (boys and girls separately, for various, hum, health and safety reasons). But first we were to go collectively to a river with awesome cliffs and a waterfall.

We piled into the cars, and an hour later, due to an interesting case of bad organization, we finally set off to the waterfall.

It was a very beautiful place. Twenty-metre high cliffs soared over a deep waterhole, and some of the more adventuresome people ended up jumping in off the cliffs. Izak did not. Head Leader Peter did. As Izak said to him much later, "You had more balls than I did." To which Head Leader Peter replied, "I don't have three."

Those unwilling to risk life and limb to enter the pool had to scramble down steep, pale rocks that reflected the sunlight and burnt into your feet. It was a most uncomfortable journey. And then when you reached the bottom the riverbed was filled with sharp, angular rocks that made wading through the water difficult. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful spot, and I found myself an interesting little spot where I contemplated life and discovered a hitherto unknown (to me) species of freshwater snail. (Also known as Potamopyrgus antipodarum.)

Strange fact you may not know about me - I love being surrounded by the beauty of the natural world. Well, that's not the strange fact - I'm sure everyone knows that - but what you may not know is that being in nature also makes me incredibly angry. Because whenever I should go someplace that oozes natural beauty, inevitably I think, well, this certainly is very beautiful - by why the hell am I expected to travel vast distances to see it? Why do I wake up each morning to a view of artificial grey rock slathered across the ground? Why did previous generations seem to think that ugliness was tolerable and nature unimportant? Why could they not instead create a beautiful place for me to live in and that I could add beauty to in my turn? And then follows a feeling of intense anger and displacement which a psychologist would probably say was deeply rooted in my childhood but which makes me say, "GRRR!" So it was with a decidedly angst-ridden heart that we left the waterfall and travelled to what I consider to be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen - a privately-owned beach known as Paradise Bay.

When I first saw this place I decided I wanted to write a story about it. (And I am. It's just taking awhile.) I find its beauty inspirational. So you might think that being here would cheer me up - but no. I was still in a really bad mood, no matter my attempts to claim otherwise.

"You look really sad," Junior Leader Sophie remarked as we lounged around the tent set up for our use.

"I am not sad," I replied with dignity and a freakishly optimistic smile. "I'm melancholic. It's a completely different thing."

The other girls, under the authority of Head Leader Sandi, we intending to take a walk along the beach to the rock pools down the far end of the beach. I'd been down that end of the beach the previous, and though I found it beautiful, I really needed some time to myself. So after the girls wandered off, I walked down to the water and spent a good half hour standing in the waves raving like a madwoman as my shorts grew steadily wetter.

I grew calmer. When everyone returned from their walk I was sufficiently sane to carry on an ordinary conversation during dinner, assemble driftwood into a bonfire, and drag our sleeping bags around it in preparation for sleeping under the stars.

I settled down near to Fellow Leaders Sara and Shannon and listenned with the all fascination of an explorer encountering a strange culture as they sang songs by people like Justine Baber and Tailor Swish. Or something. Feeling a need to express my own cultural identity, I recited Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll with my usual panache and, when the stars and full moon arose in all their glory, pulled out Izak's classic romantic joke.

"That's no moon," I said, in a dreamy voice with love filling my eyes.

"What is it?" they asked.

"It's a DEATH STAR!" I shrieked, all pretensions to romance abandoned.

"What?" asked Shannon, sounding slightly bewildered. Sara looked equally confused.

"Have - have you never seen Star Wars?" I asked in shock.

"Not in years," said Shannon, and "Nope," said Sara.

I clutched a hand to my chest. "This hurts me. This physically hurts me," I cried.

They looked at me incredulously, but mercifully were unable to comment further as Sandi started up the devotional time.

Mindful of my status of leader (though I had long since stopped feeling like a leader - it's one of the nice parts of going on the overnighter, it's like a holiday from responsibility) I contributed to the discussion of the Bible verse and made several deep insights which I have now forgotten. This was followed by the customary prayer to finish. I put my head down on my pillow as I listenned to Sandi pray and... I fell asleep.

An unspecified time later I awoke to someone shaking me.

"Whazzappening?" I muttered groggily. It was still dark, though the campfire had burned down almost to cinders.

"It's raining. We're heading up to the tent," someone said.

"Argh," was my eloquent response. I sat up unwillingly. I was surprisingly comfortable and warm lying in my sleeping bag on the lumpy sand. The shining stars had been clouded over with, well, clouds, and light rain was indeed beginning to fall.

There followed the interesting experience of walking barefoot through a cow paddock in the dark towards the tent. This was surpassed only by visiting the long-drop surrounded by pitch blackness and unusual scents.

It was an almost insane task trying to fit fifteen people into the tent. I felt obliged due to my status of Chief Female Leader to take the least desirable space by the entrance which was most susceptible to rain. I should add that there was no floor to the tent; I was sleeping directly on the ground, lying in who knew what. Still, I do not complain; my position came in handy when one of the girls began to snore loudly. I discovered that if I stuck my head outside of the tent the sound of the wind and waves sufficiently drowned out the snorer. Of course, this meant I would be getting horribly wet; yet, after much shifting and shuffling positions, I discovered this was infinitely more bearable.

Sleeping outside in the rain on cow-infested ground. Not something someone of my famed delicacy and sensibility would appreciate, you think? Not so.

I loved it. When I have my own home and garden I am going to sleep outisde. My house shall become a place merely to store my books and sleep in winter.

When I woke up the following morning there was what I hoped was dirt smeared across my face, I was thoroughly soaked, and I was happy. As we drove back to camp, I felt gratitute that I could experience such events.

We arrived back at camp. I won't bore you with the details of what we did next, but essentially it was a mad cleanup before all the parents arrived to pick up their ickle darlings from camp.

The kids left, seemingly forgetting half their luggage to judge by the amount of stuff in the lost property.

It is a source of pride and irritation to me that I am now Chief Female Kids' Leader as I had to go to the famed Leaders Meeting. Ostensibly supposed to run for a mere twenty minutes, the meeting easily stretches into the hour-and-a-half range. Last year it went for over two. This year, only a select few of the leaders were to go. I was supposed to represent the Female Kids' Leaders due to my overwhelming years of experience (five).

During the course of the meeting, someone brought up the idea of a quiz night for next year.

"Oooh!" I said excitedly, bouncing in my seat. I love quizzes. And I'd be able to partake in a non-physical activity.

"Zara's excited," said Head Leader Tony.

"She can organize it next year," said his (much more pragmatic) wife.

"Oh! Really? Yay!" I said.

"That's if she's coming next year," said Ancient Head Leader Dez.

"Of course I'm coming next year!"

"Well, you say that now," said Dez. "But I am old. I have seen much of life. You could be married and pregnant next year."

"Dez," I said, speaking over the strangled yelps of laughter that filled the room, "There's a good chance I won't be pregnant this time next year. Don't worry."
His earpiece must not have been working, for he did not appear to hear me.

The meeting ended (at last); and then, oh, then, the worst part of camp happened, the part I dread ever year: leaving.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I love everyone at this camp. They are my other extended family. Leaving is always sad because you know you won't see them for another year. Most years some of the Lincoln Roaders (Izak and I, mainly) hang around for an extra day with the others; but this year, for various reasons, we were heading down on schedule. I felt like crying. Seriously.

The drive home was fun. Head Leader Peter was feeling sleep deprived and had to stop every hour or so for caffeine breaks. George fell asleep with his head hanging forwards; a slow, steady stream of saliva poured from his mouth as he slept, and Izak and I amused ourselves for awhile getting as much of it as we could on camera. Elliot picked up a copy of the Auckland Property Press from a service station and we surveyed the houses and properties listed, spawning long conversations related to architecture and landscaping. I have decided to make Elliot become an architect. He has no choice in this. He WILL become an architect.

We hit traffic coming over the Brynderwyn hills and Peter and I had an argument about whether a certain tree outside our stationary window was a kauri or a rimu. Obviously, it was a kauri, and I said as much to Peter, who did not seem to think my qualification as a landscape designer was sufficient to comment on the species of a tree. Apparently a pastor knows more about these things.

Throughout the trip I also wrote a story and annoyed everyone by refusing to let them read it. For those who love me enough to read this blog, I shall say give this as an explanation: The previous night, during our prayer session (before I fell asleep) I was reminded of a dream I'd had the night before I came to camp. It was an awesome dream. But I'm not going to tell you what it was about - not until a certain event I have code-named "Secret Project Airport" has occured. Until then? HA! You are NEVER going to know. But I think I will mention it from time to time... merely to tease your mind.

At last we reached Auckland and... home. I threw my luggage into a disused corner of my room and joyfully rushed off to take a much-needed shower (I hadn't had one since the previous day!!!). As the hot water flowed over me, massaging away the ingrained dirt and sand from my scalp, I thought...

Boy, that was an awesome and action-packed camp. It's gonna make one long and interesting blog.

Coopers Beach - Day 4 (part 2)

Saturday - continued.

Lunch that day was not the most ideal for a vegetarian - American hotdogs. Though I consumed an ample amount of buns and salad, I felt a distinct lack of protein in my meal. Being a delicate soul that requires regular protein or risks days wracked in bed-ridden misery, I felt it wise to eat during free time that afternoon a few crackers with hummus to sustain me through the horrors of the afternoon. Though I had come through the Leader Hunt that morning relatively unscathed, I still had my doubts about the Great Big Hairy Beach Race still to come. I snuck into the kitchen and made myself some crackers along with the requisite cup of peppermint tea, retired to the private Female Leader's cabin, curled up on the big double bed and read while I ate.

The relaxed atmosphere, combined with the peppermint tea, made my eyes feel very heavy. My book fell heedlessly to the floor as I fell into a deep sleep I hadn't known I needed.

I woke up an hour later, yelping, when the siren went to assemble everyone for the Great Big Hairy Beach Race. It was most irritating to have such a beautiful sleep disturbed. Never-the-less, I awoke feeling much more energized. Surely, I thought, I would be able to handle this race. I set off to join my team in great confidence.

Of course, this had to be one of those occasions when positive thinking does not necessarily make for a positive experience.

The first part of the race involved six members of each team eating, in succession, a single dry weetbix each. Naturally, my team not having the greatest fondness for me after my evil-ridden bedtime experience, nominated me as being on of the six weetbix eaters. I sighed mournfully and dramatically, but decided not to complain too much. The key to getting through this unscathed was to play to my strengths. As strenuous activity was not one of them, anything else was to be focused on and done the best I could. I waited for my turn, saying nothing as I allowed my saliva to accumulate.

Eating a dry weetbix is much like eating delicious sawdust. The weetbix quickly absorbs all moisture in your mouth, leaving it dry and making it impossible for you to swallow. I pride myself that I did not take very long to eat my weetbix - our team was second off the mark to charge down the hill, run to the beach, and partake in the next part of the challenge - a search for a lolly buried in the sand. In this, too, I acted with full enthusiasm.

Unfortunately fate did not smile on us that day, for though we were the second team to reach the roped-off lolly area, we were the fourth to find our lolly. It was most disconcerting.

I won't go into too much detail of the events that followed - filling a hole-ridden bucket with cups of seawater, only to have it tipped over my head afterwards; burying a flag in the softest, most temperamental sand imaginable; hangman (which I solved - "Princess" - thus supporting my team with my intellectual prowess); transporting a tire down the beach without touching it; burying said tire without touching it; dragging four of our smallest teammates in a sack across the beach; and running as fast as we could between each activity. The activities stretched all the way across the beach, so there was a great deal of running to be done. I ran at a steady pace I could handle, and arrived only slightly later than my campers who somehow were able to get there faster than me on their short, stubby legs.

Finally nothing remained but to run back to camp. My campers all sped off, leaving me behind to slog my way along. My general unfitness, combined with a certain, hum, female ailment turned each step into a thrust of agony. The best I could manage was a fast walk. I apologised profusely to my campers as they ran back, shouting "Hurry up, Zara!" before running ahead once more. I was so slow that Fellow Leader Elliot and his team were in danger of overtaking us; but I made it at last, and at the very end managed to tie with them for first place. I could feel the glares of my campers stabbing into my back as they knew as well as I did that we would have come third-exclusive had I been able to run faster. I felt completely miserable. I took myself off to have a shower, for the bucket of water tipped over my head had left my hair riddled with sand.

Showers tend to have a mystical affect on me. No matter how miserable or angsty I am, I always emerge feeling better. I took myself off to visit my campers and listened to their good-natured teasing in fair humour, and promised to take up badmington so that next year, I would not be so unfit.

That evening there was to be a special Hollywood-themed banquet night. As a form of amusement during the banquet, we were to build "limosines" beforehand out of bamboo, flax, and wheels hewn from a tree trunk.

Perhaps all the running throught the day had exhausted most of my team, for it seemed that only Fellow Leader Ryan, a couple of campers, and myself were the only people working on our "limosine" (actually more like a three-wheeled go-cart). Junior Leader Sophie and Other Elliott lolled about on the grass giving each other back massages, and the rest of the team followed their example.

Of all the activities we did that camp, that was the one I enjoyed most. I loved being able to use my mind to come up with the most efficient and functional design possible. Juggling possibilities, reviewing options, thinking what if this were to go here, instead of there; finally, I felt like there was something to do that I was good at. Fellow Leader Ryan was also fantastic; together with our two solitary campers we came up with a design featuring an x-frame that was quite sturdy, though the wheels were not quite in alignment and our use of flax left the aesthetics less than satisfactory.

After that we had to run off and get ready for the banquet - it was rollicking good fun, swapping jewellery and makeup, offering compliments to one another, and forcing Fellow Leader Sara into something a bit more styling than shorts and a top. (We half-succeeded. We managed a nicer top, though she retained the shorts.)

It occured to me ten minutes before the banquet began that that evening Izak and I were to do a skit. We'd been planning the skit for the past week or so, yet we had only come up with the ending that morning. I ran off to locate Izak and Elliot, who would be helping us out, and demanded we run through everything - but the hooter went to summon all the campers, and all we had time to do was hastily assemble props. Izak cut out a large piece of paper to use as a dropsheet. We found an innocuous location to store a chair and we issued Elliot with strict instructions as to the method of its deployment. Izak gave me his i-phone. I found a pair of scissors but, as I looked down at the dress I was wearing, belatedly realised I had no pockets to store it in. Seeing no other alternative, I shoved the scissors down the inside of my bra and anticipated an uncomfortable evening spent covering up winces as the sharp points of the scissors poked into my ribs. The ladies in the kitchen shot me several strange looks as I did so. I am convinced that they now thought me totally mad.

Then came the banquet. The hall had been done up with balloons and fairy lights suspended from the ceiling, and a red carpet led up to the front door. Former Fellow Leaders Rosemary and Jono had come up from Hamilton to visit, bringing with them a soundsystem and disco ball. A large patch of floor had been left bare for the evening's entertainment. I took one look at the disco ball and empty space and decided, right then, that there would be dancing afterwards, no matter what.

We feasted on a roast dinner and a delicous chocolate brownie dessert. The evening was OC'd by Head Leaders Tony and Dave, who punctuated events with frequent 'yo mama' jokes which were, by their nature, inevitably lame. I showed off Izak's i-phone to various people, basking in their admiration for its sleek, styley design.

"Can I hold it?" someone asked me.
"No, sorry," I replied. "No offense, but it's my precious, and I don't give it to people unless I really trust them."
"I see," she said, looking disgruntled.

Unfortunately she also spotted the scissors as I surruptitiously tried to shift them from an uncomfortable position.
"There's a pair of scissors stuck underneath your dress!" she cried in alarm. Heads up and down the table swivelled in my direction. I felt it useless to dissemble.
"Why yes," I said. "Yes there is."
A multitute of mouths gaped open.
"Um, why?" someone thought to ask.
I quickly cast my mind around for a decent enough reason.
"Self defence," I said, firmly and confidently.
"What?" everyone chorused.
"Self defence," I repeated, and added, "I carry a pair of scissors around with me everywhere."
"But why?" asked Other Elliott, bewildered.
"Well, it's illegal to carry a knife around, you see," I explained.
"But why carry them around in the first place?" he asked.
"Like I said, self defence." I focused on him and said, quite seriously, "You never know when you might need them."
"Even at a kids camp?" he asked incredulously.
"Even at a kids camp," I reiterated. "There are psycos about wherever you go."
Seeing that everyone was still staring at me with a look of disbelieving surprise, I felt a need to go on. "I usually carry them around in my pocket, but of course this dress doesn't have any. I have a special bra-holder to keep them in for times like this, though I prefer not to wear it because it gets quite uncomfortable." I fiddled with the scissors as I spoke.
"I'll bet," said Other Elliott faintly.
"Yeah, I've been meaning to get it padded for a while now."
"Can we see it?" asked Shelley interestedly.
"Excuse me," I said acidly. "We're in the middle of a banquet. I am not about to strip off in front of everyone just to show you my bra."
Shelley was unable to reply, for at that moment Head Leader Dave stood up and announced that Izak and Zara would be doing a skit. I rose gracefully to my feet and headed towards the front. I was still holding the i-phone. I made to hand it to someone to keep for me, then decided to just keep it in my hand.

Izak was talking to everyone in the hall. "Hey guys, I hope you're having a really great time at camp," he said. A loud chorus of Yes! was recieved in response. "Zara and me have a skit we're going to do for you-"
I cleared my throat noisily and rolled my eyes. Curse Izak and his ungrammatical English. He turned to look at me.
"Zara and I," I corrected him.
"Oh, right," he said, laughing. "Sorry. In case you don't know, my name is Izak and this is Zara. Me and Zara -"
"No, no," I snapped, interrupting him. "Zara and I."
He looked at me incredulously. ""Would you rather you just did this yourself?" he demanded.
"Oh, don't be silly Izak - I am merely of the opinion that if we are to do a skit in front of people, the least you could do is attempt to speak properly with full regard for the rules of proper English grammar," I said, quite reasonably.
"I know what this is," said Izak. "You don't trust me, do you?'
"Of course I trust you!" I said indignantly.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah!" I glanced down at the phone in my hand. "I - I trust you with my i-phone."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes."
"Go on then, pass it here."
I smiled and tossed it to him. He fumbled trying to catch it, and it fell with a heart-sickening thud to the floor. We stared at it in horror.
"Woah, crap," said Izak.
Hysteria rose in me. "Ah!" I shrieked. "Ah! Argh! ARGH! ARRRGHH! YOU BROKE MY I-PHONE!" I fell to the ground and began to hyperventilate.
Izak crouched down beside me. "Breathe, Zara, breathe, just take deep breaths!" he shouted.
I followed his advice, sucking in air with deep, pain-ridden gasps.
"Okay, take smaller breaths, smaller breaths!" Izak cried. "It's okay, just calm down!"
I began to calm down. "You - broke - my - i-phone," I hissed menacingly.
Izak had the grace to look shamefaced. "I'm really sorry about that," he said. "If it makes you feel better, I trust you, too, with my looks and stuff..."
"Really," I said coldly.
"Yeah, I mean, you've got a real knack for that sort of thing... I would totally let you cut my hair if you wanted."
I whipped the scissors out from my bra. Izak looked apprehensive.
"Er, yes, well, you can't do it now, I mean, we don't have a drop-sheet or anything," he preambled.
Elliot rushed out at that moment carrying the sheet of paper and spread it out on the floor.
"Oh. Yes, well," floundered Izak, all excuses fled. "Best get onto it." He bent as if to sit over, and Elliot placed a chair beneath him.
I grinned evilly and sauntered over. I seized a lock of his hair and began to chop. Gasps and cries of no way! issued from the audience.
I held up some hair and let it fall to the floor.
"Hm," I muttered, studying Izak's hair critically. "Whoops..."
Izak spun around. "What, what, what did you do?" he cried in alarm.
"Nothing, nothing, it's okay, just turn around and I can correct it -"
"YOU DON'T SAY "WHOOPS" WHEN YOU'RE CUTTING SOMEONE'S HAIR!" he bellowed, leaping out of his chair and turning to glare at me.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I snivelled, "I can fix it -"
"Have you ever cut anyone's hair before?" he demaned.
"I - I cut my Barbie's hair once," I said defensively.
"Oh, yes, and how did that turn out?"
"Well, she sported quite an interesting pixie-cut for a while..."
"Right, whatever," snorted Izak. "I reckon we're just going to do this the old-fashioned way with a traditional team-building activity."
"Traditional way?" I asked.
"Yeah, like you stand there, and I stand here -" he moved to stand in front of me - "and I fall, and you catch me. Got it?"
"Yep, you fall, I catch you, totally got it," I said, taking up a stance ready to catch him.
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, just go!"
"Really?"
"YES!"
Izak toppled forward and face-planted himself upon the floor. A cry of pain escaped him.
"OH MY GOSH, ARE YOU OKAY?" I shrieked, running and crouching next to him.
"Arrrrgh," moaned Izak. "You were supposed to catch me!"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" I sobbed. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine, calm down, I'll be alright," he said, attempting to stand up. He tried putting his weight on his leg. "OW!" he cried, and collapsed in agony.
"Oh my goodness, are you hurt? Are you going to die? Oh please, tell me you're not going to die! Do you need anything? What do you need? Tell me what you need!"
Izak cut over my panicky babble. "I need you to call an ambulance!" he shouted, mouth pinched in pain.
"Okay, okay, I've got it!" I cried. I scrambled to my feet and darted around anxiously. "WHERE'S MY PHONE?" I shrieked.
"It's there on the ground, where I dropped it!" he yelled.
I frantically pushed some buttons. "It won't work, it's broken!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" we shouted in joint cries of despair, and froze.

"End scene," said Izak to tumultuous applause.

The "limos" were tried out after this, and our team got the highest marks for steering and stability for it did not wobble or even break as some others had. We were in danger of getting points off for its less than appealing looks, what with the flax flapping about haphazardly, but I quickly came up with an excuse and said that we, Over the Hedge, were trying to channel our team spirit by having it resemble a large bush.

We also had a race to see who could get furtherest down the hill. Again, our team won. Our team shrieked and clapped and cheered, and I, on an emotional high from both the success of our skit and our limo, hugged as many people as I could.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and the banquet was no exception. As soon as the banquet was declared to be over, I rushed up to the sound-crew and demanded they play music we could dance to. They played some tunes from the 60s and I began to dance, and tried to convince other people to join me. Mostly I got weird looks, particularly from Elliot. I know I must have looked a bit of an idiot, dancing extravagantly all by myslf. Izak gave it a fair go, and a couple of others did to, but it wasn't until they began to play "We Will Rock You" by Queen that people got really into it. I had a whole baccanalia of campers stamping their feet and clapping along to the music. I sang and danced and laughed and people joined me. Then someone had the bright idea of pulling the balloons down from the ceiling, and there followed a massive balloon-popping frenzy.

It was one of the most happy, excitable buzzes I have ever experienced, and I am proud to say that I helped create it. In fact, the only thing better than creating that buzz was destroying it afterwards.
"BED! TWENTY MINUTES! NOW!"

Ah, bliss.

Coopers Beach - Day 4 (part 1)

Day 4 - Saturday

Another day arrived with hideous punctuality. I stumbled off to the leader's meeting dazed, confused, and barefoot - much like everyone else there. I learnt that there would be two activities that day which struck fear into the depths of my soul - the Leader's Hunt and The Great Big Hairy Beach Race. In previous years these activites had revealed the extent of my general unfitness for all to see and scorn. Despite my having lusciously long legs, they seem to lack the ability to move very fast. Or for very long.

I moaned and took myself off to visit my campers, who complained about my over-the-top bedtime ritual. They actually managed to succeed in making me feel guilty. I decided to try and be nice to them for the rest of the day to make up.

My team mysteriously acquired another male leader that day in the form of Ryan. I discovered this when he sat down at our table during breakfast wearing a leader's shirt and started getting to know some of the campers. I shrugged and accepted it.

After breakfast there was yet another singing/dancing session that I managed to work my way through without mishap. I secretly enjoyed myself tremendously. Izak and I were also in charge of doing the memory verse, so we created an elaborate pictorial version of the verse that people had to try and decipher. Their task was not made easier by a platypus-like owl to represent the word "who" and a mustache to represent "man".

And then began the Leader's Hunt. The purpose of this game was to search up and down the rather extensive beach and look for Head Leaders who had disguised themselves with varying degrees of success, say "I like to move it move it" a la  Madagascar, and claim a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that had to be assembled at the end.

Some of these head leaders were actually pretty creative. Some donned wigs and read books on the beach. One found an isolated carpark and sat inside his car. Two others pretended to be council workers erecting a wall around the public toilets, though the bright blonde Marilyn Monroe-style wig one of them was wearing tended to give them away. There was a strangely pale Arab sitting upon a grassy knoll, a shellfish gatherer, and, most bizarrely of all, a gorilla in a tree. This last caused some locals whose property was adjacent to the beach some consternation. What was a gorilla doing in a tree? These neighbours must have had minds of sharpest steel for they quickly deduced that this was not a real gorilla but, in fact, a man dressed up as a gorilla. This did not alleviate their worry. As they peered surruptitiously out of the large windows of their beachfront mansions they became convinced that the gorilla was some sort of paedophile luring children in with his amusing choice of outfit. Why else would many different groups of children be induced to say "I like to move it move it" in such excitable fashion? I am uncertain as to what exactly transpired thereafter, but I believe the police were called and the gorilla was forced to explain his occupation of Christian Kids' Camp Leader.

My team actually did not do too badly. Whereas last year my energy was devoted to trying to simply stay alive while my team shouted at me to run faster, this year it seemed like I was the Motivator of the group.
"Hurry up, guys!" I cried as I strode quickly onwards. "Stop dawdling! We're lagging behind!"
As my team wearily chased after me I found myself called upon to explain the meanings of "dawdling" and "lagging".

At last we had collected all but the final piece. We'd already walked up and down the beach twice; what had we missed? Luckily another team was in the same boat, and we decided to ally and trade information.
"Did you get the Arab?" asked Other Elliott loudly, trying to speak over the wild cries of a rambunctuous group of children who were playing nearby.
"Yeah, we got the Arab," replied Luke, the leader of the other team. "Did you get the guy who was hiding in the grass?"
"Yes, we found him," I said, but apparently I was invisible or at the very least inaudible that day because Other Elliot did not seem to hear me.
"The guy in the grass? I don't think we got him," said Other Elliott.
"We did get him," I said again.
"Hey, did we find the guy in the grass?" Other Elliott asked the other members of our team.
I sighed and gave up on the whole conversation. I stared around at our surroundings. We were standing on a grassy bank surrounded by pohutukawa trees, knarled and bent like old men. A whanau of Maori sat at a nearby picnic table surrounded by the remnants of their lunch. The matriarch of the family sat and surveyed her domain while a man, presumably her husband, reclined on a towel on the ground next to her. Presumably, the group of loud children belonged to them. As I watched, Fellow Leader Izak turned up with his group and advanced towards the reclining man, giving us surruptitious glances.
"I like to move it move it," whispered his team. The reclining man reached and pulled out from under his towel a piece of a puzzle and handed it to them.
"AH!" I said in surprise, for I suddenly percieved the man to be none other than Head Leader Peter in clever disguise. I spun wildly around to my team, who were still arguing about the man in the grass. They still did not hear me, so I emitted such such an agonizing scream of pain-ridden irritation that I'm surprised the locals did not perk up their ears and wonder who was being murdered in such a gruesome fashion.
"AAAARRRRRRRGGHHH!" I shrieked.
"What?" everyone asked me.
"THERE!" I shouted, and pointed at the reclining man and Izak's team who were now legging it as fast as they could back towards the beach.
I was gratified to hear an answering chorus of "AAARRRGH's". Together, the two teams swarmed over the grass towards the reclining man.
"I LIKE TO MOVE IT MOVE IT!!!" we bellowed, and there was some confusion as Head Leader Peter had to sort out which two teams were accosting him. The other team got their piece first and tore off down the beach to Head Leader Terri who had the final piece. We got ours and ran off after them, and the final agonizing seconds of the race came down to who could assemble their puzzle quicker.

We ended up coming fourth. The other team came third. We still cheered loudly and congratulated ourselves at being so brilliant.

Coopers Beach - Day 3

Day 3 - Friday

Morning came, once again, far too soon. I stumbled blearily out of bed at six in the morning and moaned at the almighty pain in my back. Those beds are killers. I dressed and arrived only slightly late to the 6:30 leaders' meeting, where we discussed the events of the upcoming day, listened to a Bible reading, and attempted to look attentive.

That day we had some truly awesome activities lined up: the annual Tide Fight and an event known, oddly, as "Tabloids" despite its distinct lack of any possible connection to old fashioned gossip magazines.

But first we had a worship session in the morning, and though I sucked a bit less than I'd done the previous night, it was still filled with agonizingly spazmodic actions on my part. I smiled brightly and put the whole affair behind me.

Afterwards, the camp clothed themselves in their swimming togs and proceeded en masse down to the beach for the Tide Fight. The object of this game was for each team to build a spectacular fortress around their flag below the tideline, and the last flag to succumb to the incoming tide was the winner.

I'm generally pretty useless at any sort of physical activity. My muscles have atrophied from long hours doing nothing save read, drink tea and draw intricate planting plans. While everyone else in my team were getting down on hands and knees and weilding shovels with competitive frenzy, I tried my best to help out without collapsing in exhaustion. Mainly this involved compacting down the sand the others raised around the flag while dodging flying shovelfuls of aforementioned sand.
The hour allocated for sandcastle construction passed; we threw down our shovels and with whoops of delight leapt into the sea for a swim. The water was delightfully warm, and we had great fun splashing each other and shrieking when the occasional big wave swept over us.

After an hour or so of this, however, we grew tired of frolicking in the water and meandered back to shore. All of us were by now ravenously hungry, but for some reason no one seemed inclined to order the kids back up to the camp for lunch. It turned out we were waiting for the tide to come in and sweep away our fortresses, but because we'd built them just a little bit too high up it was taking much longer than expected. After muttering furiously with a few of the other leaders, I approached Head Leader Tony and Head Leader Dave and did my best to convince them that we should head back up for lunch.

I succeeded. We all cheered and feasted on American hot dogs. Or, in my case, a vegetarian filled roll.

After lunch came the "Tabloids". Essentially this involved each team spending fifteen minutes each at a variety of activities trying to earn points for their team. Activities included were making our way across the obstacle course, shooting at the rifle range, firing water balloons with a giant slingshot at team leaders (I enjoyed that one!), filling a bucket with water passed from person to person down a line, zooming down the flying fox as fast as possible, and seeing how many people could get down the waterslide and climb up again afterwards without collapsing in exhaustion. I sucked at the obstacle course (my poor wee muscles!!!), did fairly well at the rifle range (I actually managed to hit something - all that time I spent with Izak shooting his neighbour's chimney had served me well), had water ballons flung at me (most of which did not manage to hit me, for which I was quite disappointed), passed cups of water with willing cheerfulness, had a go on the flying fox, and point-blank refused to go down the waterslide. Five years of watching campers being mauled and maimed by this waterslide has caused me to never set buttocks upon it. I claimed it was tradition for me not to go down and cheered everyone else from the sidelines instead.

Our team kicked butt. We came first and second in pretty much everything. I was so proud.

That afternoon the leaders also led their teams in a small Bible study. We did this every day for the rest of camp. Most of my girls were extremely over-excited and shrieked and shouted with laughter all the way through, disturbing other nearby groups. We also tended to go off on some very strange tangents. It was when I caught myself giving a detailed description of the Greek myth of the Elysian Fields and how it compared to the philosophies of Plato that I realised things had gotten out of hand. Still, I tried my best, and managed to put an innovative spin on our study by leaving them with the idea that if you obey your leaders and be nice to each other God will be pleased. Now go and clean toilets without complaint. Ah, the Bible - another weapon in the arsenal of a kid's camp leader.

I used the reverse of this argument with some success later on. If you don't stop poking me with that stick, God will get angry and smite you. I felt a bit bad at misrepresenting God in that way - but it worked. The threat of a god who smites stick-pokers must not be underestimated.

Then followed the general camp routine. Dinner. Duties. Free time. I spent that evening learning some new songs and dance moves with Sara and Shannon. I had high hopes for the following morning. Perhaps I wouldn't suck as much. We were so carried away that we didn't realise that the kids' bedtime had arrived until someone looked at the clock and said, "Hey, it's after ten!"
"Aaaargh!" I shrieked, and ran as fast as I could out of the chapel.  I raced across the carpark and tore into the kitchen. "Are the kids getting ready for bed yet?" I demanded of the kitchen staff.
"Ah, yeah, they headed off to get ready about ten minutes ago," said one lady who looked slightly wary of the fevered light that was no doubt shining from my eyes.
"Noooooooo," I wailed, for I knew that ten minutes was long enough for the kids to get mostly ready. "I can't believe I'm missing it! This is my favourite part of camp! I get to be mean to children!" Quite certain now that the kitchen staff thought me totally mad, I ran full-tilt out of the kitchen and into the dorms. I surveyed my campers. They were in the last stages of getting ready for bed, but they were doing it in such a lackluster fashion that it brought tears of rage to my eyes.
"YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES UNTIL THE LIGHTS GO OUT!" I bellowed, and watched in satisfaction as the kids began to scramble in fear. I was extra mean to make up for my previous absense. When the lights went out I took a zero-tolerance approach to talking, telling them to shush with such vehmance I'm surprised they did not quake with fear. Those braver souls who defied me even then with their whispered conversations suddenly found themselves sleeping away from their friends. I was mean. I was relentless. I have never enjoyed myself so much as I did then.

"Zara, you're so mean," said my Junior Junior Leader, Shelley, the next morning. "You're so nice and fun during the day and then you're all horrible at night. It's like you're a completely different person."
"Yes," I said in satisfaction. "You are absolutely correct."

Coopers Beach - Day 2

Day 2 - Thursday

The night following the leaders meeting was spent sleeping in the dorms. Or should I say, Emilee and Mikayla attempted to sleep while every other female in the dorm embarked on a long-winded chat session. I was in a cubicle with Sara and her friend Shannon. Shannon was to be the third member in our trio of music leaders. I found out that Sara and Shannon had some experience dancing and singing at camps and what-not. I felt a growing unease.

We eventually fell asleep, and despite the soothing sound of the waves from the nearby searoviding a nice atmosphere for relaxation, I decided after being startled awake for the umpteenth time by a minor noise to invest in some earplugs. I require total silence to sleep.
p

Day arrived much to soon. I decided to skip the morning prayer meeting and attempt to get some extra sleep.

Later, after a delicious breakfast and clothing myself in one of the hideous blue camp leader shirts we were obliged to wear, I ambled out to the front of the hall to await my campers. It's a strange fact that my campers always seem to be the last to arrive. Other campers turned up and their leaders happily led them away to show them to their dorms, but where were my campers? I began to feel strangely morose. And bored.

My campers did eventually arrive, of course, and I took them off to the dorm with a plethora of crazy excitement. I have discovered over the years that first impressions really do work. If you introduce yourself to your campers as being this fun, happy person, they'll go on thinking that, no matter how grumpy you become later. So I skipped along, cheerfully hoisted their luggage onto my shoulders, and smiled and babbled all sorts of excitable nonsense. I got many strange looks, but as this was the effect I had carefully strived for, I did not mind.

Shortly after, Head Leader Peter arrived and reminded me that I hadn't paid my camp fees.

"Not to worry!" I said cheerfully. "I'll just head on up to the shops and get some money out." I went to my cabin and found my purse. As I set off down the gravel driveway, I wandered whether there was any way I could possibly get out of doing the music leading. If Sara and Shannon had lots of experience I wouldn't just end up looking like an idiot next to them, I'd be hindering them, too. I've never danced in front of a crowd before in my life, unless you count my brief stint in my high school musical of High School Musical where I played the part of insane drama teacher Ms Darbus, and then I did not dance so much as flail my arms about spectacularly. Perhaps if I just told them I was too busy, or felt that they could do it on their own, then maybe -

PAIN.

"AAAARRRGH!" I shrieked, clapping my hands over my face. Something incredibly hard had slammed into my left eye. I stared blearily around. I had walked into the wing mirror of a bus. I touched my nose. Was it broken? There was pain, but no moving cartilage as described in various novels. Just bruised, then. I felt under my eye. Was it bleeding? My fingers came away smeared with redness. Ouch, I thought. Still, it wasn't too bad. I shook my fringe over my eye and continued on my way. I kept my head down so that strangers wouldn't think I had an abusive boyfriend or something. I got my money, went back to camp, paid, seized Izak and forced him to look at me.

"Is my eye bleeding?" I asked him.
He peered at me. "Woah! What the heck did you do?" he asked, sounding both amused and horrified.
"I walked into a bus. Does it look alright?" I demanded, now slightly panicked.
"You walked into a bus," he said, as though to clarify.
"Yes. Well?"
"There's... like... a dent," he said.
"A dent," I repeated.
"It's not bleeding or anything, though," he added hastily, perhaps seeing my rising panic. "There's just a line..."
I began to run towards the nearest mirror.
"AAAAARGH!" I shrieked once I reached the bathroom, though it actually didn't look too bad. I tended my eye with loving care, wincing as I rinsed off the dried blood. I donned a hat with an amazingly "larpe" (large) brim and tilted it to sit over my eye as an elaborate disguise. I breathed deeply. At last I felt strong enough to venture outside.
I met Head Leader Sandi coming towards me as I walked. "Wow! What happened to your eye?" she exclaimed.
"Grrrrr," I muttered to myself.

...

The rest of the morning was given over to free time. This meant that the kids were free to do whatever activities around the camp they chose - waterslide, flying fox, kayaks, rifle range, basketball etc. etc. - while the leaders were obliged to run the activities. I was at the flying fox making sure the kid's harnesses were correctly fastened. I gave Mikayla and Emilee a crash-course in harness-fastenning and they helped too. After a while some of the kids convinced me that I should hav a go on the flying fox myself. I must say it did seem very tempting - zooming down the steepest hill I've ever encountered and along over the creek before crashing into some strategically placed tires at the opposite end. The kids' faces were contorted with glee as they lugged the flying fox back up the hill. What the heck, I thought. It sounds like fun. In all my five years of camps I'd only ever ended up going on the flying fox a handful of times.

I strapped myself into the harness, stepped up onto the platform arranged myself on the seat, surveyed the landscape before me, and had an abrupt change of mind.
"Ah," I said. The hill suddenly seemed that much steeper.
"Go!" shouted the kids when they saw my hesitation, and Fellow Leader Sam gave me a shove before I had time to protest.
"AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed. I felt I'd been doing that a lot lately. My stomach flew up into my mouth as I whizzed through the air. The creek was coming towards me. I was sure I was going to crash into a large flax bush directly in my path, but no, I cleared it with ease, and now I was over the creek and my toes must surely be brushing the water, and then the flying fox was tilting upwards as I came towards the end and the tires were looming before me -

CRASH.

The fox hit the tires, my head was thrown back and one of my earrings flew off and landed in the creek. I was too dazed to care. I was unharnessed and after trudging back up the hill towing the fox behind me, the kids gave me grief for screaming so loudly as I went down.
"You screamed!" they giggled.
"And if I did?" I retorted, summoning the dregs of my dignity. "It is so much more satisfying to scream. I can only imagine the profound dullness you must experience as you traverse the skies without even an exclamation on your lips."
After explaining to the kids what the words "profound", "dullness", "traverse", and "exclamation" meant I spent my time trying to convince them to scream as they went down. I cannot say I succeedeed greatly. One boy grunted, "Argh," in an attempt to appease me, but the rest either ignored me or blatantly broke their promises to scream as they went down in absolute silence.
"Bah," I said in disgust.

...

Finally it was lunch time, and already I felt as though I had been forcibly held down and pummeled into a pulp. I was at long last able to take full stock of my team. Other Elliott was my male leader counterpart, with a girl named Sophie being my female Junior Leader. I had not spent five minutes with them before I realised that the two were greatly enamoured with each other. Indeed, for the duration of the camp they spent most of their time gazing soulfully into each others' eyes and inventing excuses to rub sunblock on one another. As for my little campers, they were as follows: Shelley, daughter of one of the Head Leaders; Elle, another relative; and Jodici, Sharkarma, and Tallulah, all of whom appeared to be related in various confusing ways. There were three boys, as well: Mackenzie, brother of two of my Former Fellow Leaders; a tiny boy named Nathaniel; and one other whose name escapes me at this moment. Collectively, we were called Over the Hedge, after the animated movie (this was a Hollywood themed camp, after all). We nodded solemnly in all the correct places during the traditional beginning-of-camp safety speech and were at last able to begin our meal. People were generally pretty astonished when they discovered I was vegetarian, and was compelled to explain just why I was vegetarian while ignoring the disdainful glances from Izak at the neighbouring table, who had seen me eat a double-pounder from McDonalds on more than one occasion.

Somewhat unluckily, my team was on clearing tables that day, and I spent most of my time rounding up unwilling campers and forcing them to wipe down benches and stack up chairs. Other Elliott kept mysteriously vanishing.

The afternoon was spent playing team-building games - tug of war, walking across a field with planks attached to our feet, and tying balloons to our ankles and attempting to pop other people's balloons.

Our team came second in the first plank-walking race, won the second leaders-only race (go me! and Other Elliot and Sophie, of course) and managed to come in third in the tug of war.

Our team had six rounds of the tug of war in a row. Six rounds. And two other additional rounds. This was on average an extra five rounds than what any other team had to go through. I was almost dead by the end. Add to this that the sun was blazing hot and I was wearing the ugly blue leaders shirt over my own top and you will not be surprised when I say that I felt like fainting. I had to drink water and sit in the shade to recouperate.

Then it was afternoon tea, and tuck shop, and more free time, and finally dinner time; and then came the Dreaded Event: chapel time. It was supposed to begin at eight-thirty, but because of my duties I was unable to get to the chapel to practice until shortly after eight. Sara and Shannon were already there going over some of the dance moves. Essentially, I was given a crash-course in all the moves to three songs, going over each of the songs once before the kids turned up. I was not panicking over my lack of ability; I was resigned to the fact that I would look like a total idiot, and my only hope was to dance as enthusiastically and as crazy as possible and try my best to copy Sara out of the corner of my eye.

The kids arrived. The music began. We danced.

Afterwards, Elliot complimented me on how I really seemed to enjoy what I was doing.
"I like how your foot was tapping," he said. "You could tell you were really getting into it."
"Well, I'm glad that my plan worked and that my enthusiasm compensated for other more important things, like skill and actual knowledge of what I was doing," I replied. Truth to tell, had enjoyed it. I decided I'd keep at it.
"You weren't that bad," said Elliot heroically.
"Hah," I said. "Thanks for the compliment, however untrue it was."

Of course, being me, I couldn't help but stride up to people and demand, "What did you think of my dancing?" and smile in self-satisfaction when they were obliged to say it was actually pretty good.

And then, oh, then, came the highlight of my day.

People might find it strange to think that forcing the campers to go to bed is my favourite part of camp. Most other leaders consider it to be the worst possible part due to the fact that the campers are really snarky and just will not go to sleep. But I love it. I stride up and down the corridor bellowing "THE LIGHTS ARE GOING OUT AT TEN O'CLOCK WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!" and watch with amusment the panicked looks of the campers when they realise they have only ten minutes to get ready for bed. I count down the minutes on my cellphone and shout it at the steadily ever-more irritated campers. In the meantime I visit various cubicles and chat to some of the campers, or sing, or spontaneouly start doing dance moves, and inwardly crow in triumph if a camper should say, "You're really weird, do you know that?" Some of the campers happened to be talking about High School Musical, and I bragged about how we did that for my high-school play and showed off my stylie Ms Darbus dance moves to rapturous applause.

At last - "THE LIGHTS ARE GOING OUT IN FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!" I shouted, and flicked off the lights. I ignored the entreating pleas of tardy campers who insisted that they needed the lights to be on.
"Oh, but please, I just need to find my toothbrush -" whined one camper.
"No. You should have done that earlier. Be quiet and get into bed." And, because I didn't want to be too mean, added, "sleep well, my precious."
I spent the next twenty minutes patrolling the corridor growling at people to shut up and go to sleep. Normally, in previous years, there would be Fellow Leader Nicole to help me. She'd been at this camp since time immemorial, but now she'd moved on to bigger and better things. This year, I patrolled alone. It was slightly odd to realise that I was now well and truly a Senior Leader. Every other female leader was here for the first time. I felt old when I realised that most of the other leaders were my age when I first started coming to this camp a good five or six years ago. But I was also quite pleased at the added responsibility. I now have Authority.

At last the campers drifted off to sleep. I was actually amazed at how quickly they succumbed to my will and stopped talking and went to sleep. Normally it takes forever for them to drop off. These campers were the most fantastic I'd ever seen. After a mere twenty minutes of saying shush to various whisper-prone individuals, I judged the room quiet enough for me to get ready for bed myself. I slipped into my sleeping bag, put in my earplugs, and spent an uncomfortable night in a hot, narrow bed.