I didn’t wake until midday today. Last night I attended my second Tango lesson. Boudjaka, as six degrees of separation goes, made contacts in the Tango scene though his film. To give some background, I’ll explain the connections.

The day we were shooting the film at the Hotel Elevarge I moved from spectator to participant. Originally I was given boom mic duties. A sub plot had the ex lover of the Scandinavian guy in the Hotel bar with her current fling. This current fling’s character was a rich guy who was showering her with gifts she was happy to receive but her heart still lay with the Scandinavian guy, although he was too poor to satisfy her wants.

An Argentine guy was to play this part but the shoot ran over time and he had to leave. Enter Mick White. The scene changed from Spanish to English and we had to improvise the lines but it went well.

The lady acting as the ex lover, who is needless to say typically attractive, works for a non-profit organisation that places people who want to volunteer with organisations that require assistance. She manages the Scandinavian volunteers.

Her good friend, Felipe, is the Tango teacher and holds the lessons in his apartment in San Telmo, very close to the Hostel.

So taking into account these connections I arrive at the apartment to find, as if a wish list had been hand delivered by god, half the females, dark brooding Argentine beauties and the other half golden blonde Nordic goddesses.

Now, you may say, wait a minute it couldn’t have been that good. I can assure you it was better until, after going through the introductions I found out to my disappointment that 90% of the females had their partners there.

Holding the lesson in the apartment had the advantage of being intimate but it also meant there was no where to hide. Thankfully a young lady from Norway, Sandra, took pity on me and lead me to the floor when the teacher called us to begin. She spends four days of each week volunteering for a variety of welfare organisations. A kind person that must have a soft spot for those less fortunate. When it came to the tango I was as a deaf, dumb and blind beggar to her. As the class would prove, I may also have had a limb or two missing, in the least a missing right foot replaced by a left. The poor soul didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

To enhance the suspicion that she was the result of Mother Theresa’s Immaculate Conception, I again discovered after the event, her boyfriend was in attendance all night but, despite being a capable dancer herself, she laboured alongside my best impression of Frankenstein’s monster.  Sainthood would be her just reward.

After the class most of us had a meal not far from the hostel. My lack of Spanish put me on the periphery but it is comforting to sit back and just observe people interact.

Following the meal was the milonga. This time I was purely a spectator. I walked one of the Norwegian girls, Mui, to her apartment before reaching the Hostel at 4am.

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole night.

All this is not the main point of this post but a preamble to explain why I woke late but in a fantastic mood. Shortly this would change.

Showered then left for the café. Normally I can sit and read at the café without distraction. Today at the table next to me, two American men and an English women were sitting and talking, naturally, in English. Because I could follow the conversation part of my attention was diverted and I couldn’t fully immerse in the story. For twenty minutes their entire conversation was about how they were maximising their wealth here in Argentina, who their accountants were, which lawyer they were using etc.

An elderly lady approached their table offering for sale a strip of paper with small flower petals glued to the paper. While I thought the pieces were intrinsically beautiful, it was primarily used as a tool for begging without being so blatant. They waved her away.

My blood boiled instantly. She came to me next and I chose one and gave 5 pesos for it. Nothing for me but it would be lunch for her. I couldn’t concentrate afterwards so I went inside and paid for my coffee. All the while a tirade was building that I didn’t think I could hold back. I still held the paper in my hand when I came outside. Almost involuntarily I made straight for their table. One step away, when all three stopped talking and looked at me, a wave of calm washed over me. Instead of firing both barrels, I gently placed the paper in the middle of the table and slowly offered each, in turn, a look of pity I hoped they would feel. They said nothing and I went on my way.

I am no Saint. I am not about to cast the first stone for I have been trying to use the financial system for gain. But there is a difference between trying to build a home and buying a second summer house in Malibu.

I am still angry as I write this.

I have not had the need to quantify the times I have been immersed in a book, unaware of my surroundings, only for some stimulus to cause me to switch from imagination to the here and now. If pressed I would hazard a guess that it would be in the tens of thousands. Of all these occasions I cannot recall a moment like I had today.

Returned to The Walrus Bookstore and purchased The Kite Runner, for I sought a less difficult task than the one set by Jorge Luis Borges', The Aleph. Made my way to Plaza San Martin and sat down to read. I was away with the story, dream like, when I had cause to lift my gaze from the page and regain a sense of my surroundings.

Before me was a lady walking across the Plaza. She wore dark brown boots with black pants over the boots, not contained under knee high boots as seems the standard. A fitted waist length black velvet coat, her dark brown hair worn up and a pearl for each ear set against her olive skin. To say she was beautiful would not be contradicted by anyone seeing her, but the fixation for me was that, one moment lost in a story and the next given this sight, for she walked without ostentation, I felt an overwhelming joy.

I projected nothing on her, no desire to possess her or even know who she was, it was simply a delightful moment.

A Day in the Life

Plaza San Martin, Central Buenos Aires

A vastly different week from the first.

Having covered the notable areas and sights of Buenos Aires during the first week here, I have now settled into a very casual routine.

I wake about 9 and have the breakfast the Hostel provides. I retire to the Café Origen where, having visited the place twice daily since my arrival, I can sit and a café con leche is made and placed at my table without having to order. I let the rush hour pass (9.30 - 10.30) and return to the Hostel to check the news.

Set off for a stroll which is interspersed with periods of reading if I pass a nice place to sit. Find my way back to San Telmo, I have now ditched the city map, and buy a lunch of empanadas de pollo, carne or a tortilla.

Exercise consisting of push ups and sit ups to which I have recently added skipping takes me to siesta from 3 - 5pm.

Wake, shower and again to the café for a long period with a book.

Evenings I leave to fate.

The El Eteneo Bookstore, Buenos Aires.

I sit in an ante room of the Hotel Elevarge. My purpose for being here is to view the final day of shooting on a short film directed by my room mate, Bujaka of Cameroon. The film will portray the love story of a Scandinavian man's fall for an Argentine lady, Dora. Bujaka wrote the script for one of the receptionists at Hostel Carlos Gardel. Broadly the plot has a foreigner falling in love, through the tango, with a lady called Dora. By coincidence the male lead of the movie fell in love with an Argentine, through the tango, called Dora.

This week I have…

Seen the Argentine National Orchestra perform in the vacant Harrods Building on Avenue Florida at the end of a day that included visiting El Eteneo, rated by the BBC as the second most important book store in the world. Viewed, due to the curiosity of Silvia, a fetching polish lady now living in London, the recreation of the history of Argentina from independence in 1810 performed by the Argentine military in period costume complete with musket fire and cannon blast. A lunch under glorious sunshine in the swish barrio (suburb) of Palermo and a tranquil stroll through Japanese gardens.

Had the pleasure of reading Jorge Luis Borges in his native country but sadly not in his native tongue.

Attempted without success, but through no lack of effort, to watch Boca Juniors play and in the process gained an insight into just what the team means to the down trodden residents of La Boca.

Had the privilege to see the tango danced in the milonga (dance hall) Cathedral. This gathering place is where the tango is danced by portentos (residents of Buenos Aires) for pure pleasure and not as a performance. I would not have had this pleasure if not for the good graces of the Mexican, Eduardo. After seeing the tango danced in this way I now realise that any attempt by me to dance the tango would have the same result as an Elephant trying to tip toe through tulips. Despite the best intentions it would end in disaster.

I have heard a German sing and play the blues as if he was born and raised in Mississippi and I have heard a Chilean trio play jazz as if it was a natural as breathing. Both of these events occurred in the common room of the Hostel.

With distress I have seen people attempt to scrape together a living by any means they can in a country that has no social security and felt helpless that any assistance by myself would only provide a temporary respite.

At every corner I watch in awe at the feminine beauty the passes me by.

A great deal more has happened…but I would spend all my time relating it so that I would not have time to experience more, therefore…

All is well.

 

I sit on the mezzanine level of the Hostel Carlos Gardel, San Telmo, Buenos Aires. I am winding down after my first full day here.

I arrived yesterday afternoon after a faultless journey from Brisbane. I had the good fortune to spend my last week in Australia on the Sunshine Coast indulging the hospitality provided by Josh Williams. Josh’s sister extended the send off with digs in Brisbane and a lift to the airport. Mucho gracias.

The horror show I anticipated from Aerolineas Argentinas could not have been further from the truth. I could not have asked for more. The surprises continued when the bus ticket from the airport to the city included drop off at your desired accommodation. From my glimpse the city takes pride in the provision of services. I am embarrassed by my reliance on English. I had ample time to gain some basic Spanish. I will rectify this.

The scope of the city is extraordinary. I walked with only minor breaks from 7am until 3pm and only covered a small portion. During this period the city’s arteries pumped with a solid steady beat. I don’t know yet what regulates the pulse, but café culture, pride in appearance, heavy smoking, both residents and their vehicles, and a barely covered passion help  push things along.

My first attempt at drawing money was an abject failure. The machine ate my card. The bank representative managed to convey to me that I would have to return tomorrow to collect my card. A gentleman who was watching proceedings had a quiet word to the lady, then I was told to wait. In a few minutes she returned with my card. After using my passport to confirm I was the person named on the card she handed it to me. I not sure what he said but I thanked him for his intervention.

I tried the card again and it worked although, only a small daily limit is available. While food seems to be cheaper than Oz, many consumer items are comparable or dearer. The hostel is clean and the other travellers considerate. I have just returned from a small Café/Bar just down the road where I watched The Argentine National Team defeat Haiti 4-0 in a friendly. All is well.

A back, a pack and a dream

I was waiting for it to kick in. A double dump of discharge delight and backpacking bliss. It happened the moment I clicked the lock shut on the shed door. With the worldly possessions I didn’t need firmly secured and all the worldly possessions I required contained in a pack, I felt as free as a bird. As free as a bird with 20 kilos on its back can be.

Having spent the last four nights on the block I woke yesterday with plan of attack. From the friendly ladies at the local bakery I was told it reached as low as 2 degrees celcius. So the sting in my nostrils that woke me during the night was a true indicator. While my brain was registering the sensation in my nostrils my eyes were sending their own message. The moon must have set, exiting stage left, allowing the stars to, well, shine. The scene was enough to cause me to emit an involuntary and audible ‘fuck.’

The next major population centre north of Stanthorpe is Warwick. After breakfast in town I started the half hour drive there. Warwick has twice as many residents as Stanthorpe. It rode to early prominence on the sheep’s back. The district is the birth place of Jackie Howe, recording breaking sheep shearer and dapper singlet wearing man about town. The burghers of the town decided to flaunt the wealth of the settlement and erected sandstone buildings befitting the growing status of the shire.It is a pleasant place.

Back in Stanthorpe I booked a taxi to collect me from the storage sheds. I washed the ute and prepared it for a long rest. It was symbolic to wash any remaining salt from the vehicle, a cleansing that provided a close to the chapter that had been open for six years and the beginning of the next.

It was arresting to see only a backpack lying there. When I think of the head long rush many people are under to insulate their lives with things and the contrast of how little we really need to sustain us, I felt good to be on the side of less is more.

The lock clicked shut and there I was….a back, a pack and a dream.

To the Manor Born

 

I spent last night on the block and I'm happy to report the weather was kind. It was not a Bear Grylls moment. If it were possible to halt my gaze abruptly 50 meters fore, 150 meters aft and 50 meters either side from this photo I would be Lord of all I surveyed.

On the evening I arrived in Stanthorpe it was raining so I opted for a room at a Pub in the main street. Camping is wonderful but its results are not conducive to 'normal' human interaction. I still had some tasks to complete in town so presenting myself to the good people of Stanthorpe ripe and unwashed would not be the first impression I was hoping to make.

I’ve secured and paid for the storage shed. Upgraded one of my key cards to one that contains a chip. I read that many ATMs will now not accept a non chipped card. With this addition I am confident I have all cash access bases covered for the trip. Went for a short walk in Girraween National Park. I wasn’t aware of the extent of the features in the Park. Serendipitous. Took a whistle stop tour of the wineries south of Stanthorpe and figuratively drank in the place.

Yesterday morning I sat at outdoor table of a bakery in the main street enjoying a coffee. People in Stanthorpe drive slowly, walk slowly and talk slowly. It is as if someone has hit the slow motion button and it suits me to a tee. The powers that be have made a reasonable attempt but the large footpaths of the main street require beautification. The business owners should take the lead.

It is encouraging to note the number of backpackers in town. There must be scope for another establishment to cater for them. This will be my focus on return.

Camping on the block did reveal just what a task it will be to transform it to my vision, a task I will relish. 

Kindness to Strangers

In every major city, to a lesser or greater extent depending on welfare provisions, beggars populate street corners and Sydney is no exception. Some entrepreneurs attempt to increase their takings by displaying signs. The signs vary from stating the obvious about their predicament to what they intend to use the money for. Some try humour, some try honesty, some barely have the capacity to remain upright and this was the state of the beggar I passed on George Street this evening.

I have become hardened to their plight over time. In my adolescence I was sympathetic. When I had a greater understanding of the welfare provisions I became less sympathetic to their homelessness but more understanding of the choices that put them in this state. When I experienced it for myself, I understood that no amount of help would change their situation if they weren’t willing to help themselves.

I have come to the point where now my engagement does not go beyond a smile in passing. So it was with this mindset that I passed the guy who was sitting cross legged and only a short distance from head butting the pavement. As I approached, a lady coming in the opposite direction stirred him from his state and handed him an apple and a piece of banana bread.

He was grateful and she seemed happy as she walked on. It was so simple in its execution that the ripple effect cracked my hardened heart. A terrible cynic would say she was only acting to make herself feel good. Even if this was the only motivation, so what.

All this washed over me after I had walked about ten paces past the scene and it literally stopped me in my tracks. I turned to look at him and he was taking the first bite of the apple. I looked at her as she waited to cross the street and I felt like walking to her to say thank you but initially I didn't know what I would be thanking her for. As I hesitated the walk signal turned green and the moment was lost.

If I saw her now I would thank her for an act of kindness that has caused me to reflect on my own behaviour and some good will come of that.

To Keep the Rabbits Out

Another iconic structure has failed to keep the rabbits out. Rabbits are taking over Sydney.

Raise a foot to the Havaiana.

I am loathe to follow a trend. For an item to gain my imprimatur it usually has to stand the test of time. An exception to this is if an item's innate qualities transcend the pack mentality of popularity, if it can stand on its own two feet, then sign me up.

I was waiting for a hamburger I had ordered from a Take Away last night when through my daydream I noticed a lot of Havaianas. Five out of six of us were wearing them and we were spread among the major demographics.

I have lived through the time when the 'double plugger' was the only choice in air conditioned footwear. Most commonly associated with stubbies shorts, jackie howe (wife beater) singlet or flannelette shirts when cooler weather arrived. For footwear, it was carrying major baggage.

Not only has the Havi broken the image problem the thong had, they are pret-a-porter. Double pluggers had to be broken in. The unforgiving rubber required a commitment commensurate with the wearers gut, i.e. big, to see them through to any level close to comfort. To top off the coup, those good people at Havaiana allow us to pay four times what the plugger cost and we are happy to do it, they are walking out the door.

From a footwear triumph to footwear tragedy. 

I can share a wry grin when witnessing a female in the wee hours of the morning barefoot with shoes in hand, a victim of fashion. Usually the shoes have seen out significant dance floor action and the feet are rebelling or one too many has caused sleek stilettos to become wobbly boots. All par for the course.

On a recent drive through the city there was a procession of young ladies with shoes in hand, walking from the cross to the city and the night was still young. Whoever is setting these trends must delight in cruel and unusual punishment. Long live capitalism !

Meeting of the Minds

Partly, a desire to have a last look at some of the iconic areas that make Sydney Sydney and partly to arrest my ever expanding girth, I have been taking early morning runs in Bondi, Circular Quay, Woolloomooloo, Darling Harbour, The City and Kings Cross.

This morning it was Kings Cross. I parked at Garden Island and began there. 

It was still dark when I reached the Nightclub strip and amongst the collection of strung out junkies, hookers, bouncers and hardy souls searching the food vendors to place some solids in stomachs that for some time had only felt liquid, I saw a bloke that was leaving a club, each of his arms around the waist of a stunning looking lady, book ended by beauties, all three laughing loudly.

By the frown that developed when he saw me, I gauged that my presence was a reality check that the night may not last forever and whatever responsibilities he had before it began were still around and may have to faced sooner rather than later.

I didn't mean to rain on his parade or maybe I'm projecting to much on the moment but it seemed like a meeting of the minds. He was thinking, as good as this looks it would be wiser to be where you are now and all I was thinking was, I'd like to be where you are now.

An unabashed fontist

Having lived and worked in the confines of a ship for a long period I have developed a thick skin against the foibles of others. I grant latitude to peoples idiosyncrasies. I have become tolerant of behaviours that once I would have addressed.

What is beyond my grace, something I cannot abide is a font that was in vogue but thankfully has fallen out of favour. As with all prejudices, I instantly dismiss the users of this font and whatever they are trying to convey. If I see it in a presentation a heavy mist rolls over me and I start to consider why someone didn't sterilise the shallow gene pool this cretin was spawned in and spare me the misfortune to have to suffer this. If I see it in an email, delete. If it is used to promote a business or product I give it a wide berth and wish a plague o' both their houses.

I won't name the font for a precious few to still cling to it and I want to see them as they are. If I did name it they would disown it, that's what they are like, spineless. I urge you to be vigilant you never know where they will strike next.

Through rose coloured glasses.

Despite years of State of Origin indoctrination and all the bile spewed forth by Queensland supporters concerning residents of New South Wales, up until this afternoon I was a Sydney convert. When a discussion about the merits of Sydney arose I was quick to nominate as a speaker for the affirmative. The most common argument presented by the negative side is traffic congestion.

For the better part of five years my workplace has also been my home. When ashore in Sydney I call HMAS Watson home. Occupying the south head of the entrance to Sydney Harbour, HMAS Watson and the surrounding suburb of Watson's Bay is far above my station, so if not for the Navy's natural predilection for prime waterfront real estate I would not know Sydney's pleasures or be spared its pain.

This afternoon I had reason to climb down from the Ivory Tower that is HMAS Watson, join the unwashed masses and experience the pain of their daily commute.

An outdoor clothing retailer was holding a warehouse sale in the western suburb of Lidcombe. I still required a few items for the trip to South America so I set off straight after work. It took me 40 minutes to reach the city and another hour to make it to the warehouse in Lidcombe. I must state that for me it was an enjoyable novelty and at times I saw the better side of human nature. Not being familiar with the route I was often stuck in the wrong lane and people showed me more courtesy than I deserved.


On occasions when the traffic was bumper to bumper, I would look to the people in the lanes either side of me and some seemed pleased with their lot but mostly I thought of Henry David Thoreau's statement that, "the mass of men (sic) lead lives of quiet desperation."

I tried to console myself by thinking the jobs that required them to go through this daily frustration were worthwhile but that is a long bow to draw. Thoreau also commented,

If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.

he then asked the question,

It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?

Should the same question be posed of my occupation I could not say it is worthwhile. As my time in the Navy comes to a close I look back at the great energy I have expended and I am no better than the ant. As far as being regarded as a loafer, it looks promising.

The next time a discussion on the merits of Sydney arises, I will endure the pain and have a leg slung over either side of the fence.

Time for rambling is just begining.

A swagman who goes by the name of Campbell is a mainstay on the dusty avenues of the Woodford Folk Festival. I have spent hours listing to him recite bush poetry and I always marvel at his recollection.

While not of Campbell's genre, Prayer before Birth, a poem written in London during the depths of WWII when it seemed people were intent on wiping themselves out, is a poem I came across sometime ago. I have spent this evening trying to commit it to memory.

Prayer before Birth by Louis MacNeice.

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

When ignorance is bliss.

My local shopkeeper is a Lebanese Muslim. I live in an area that has a proud and vibrant Jewish community.

The shopkeeper serves good coffee and I consider it my primary filling station. The shop closes early in the evening so if I get a hankering for a caffeine hit after this time the alternative is the gelato shop run by a pleasant lady of Italian origins.

The bus stop is in front of the gelato shop and in view of the local store. For some time I felt guilty to be drinking a coffee from the local store in view of the gelato shop, so I would wait down the street to finish the local store bought coffee. On a few occasions this necessitated a mad dash to reach the bus before it pulled away. Why I feel a loyalty or a desire not to offend one store owner or the other is a topic for a later date but I have settled the dilemma by placing a time demarcation. If the local store is open I will purchase from there. When they are closed it's the gelato shop. I tried it on the weekend and felt uneasy so it may take some time to bed down.

Those observant few my be asking, 'why just not have a coffee ?' Last year I quit smoking. I have replaced nicotine with caffeine.

This afternoon I went for a walk and, as is my want, I stopped at the local store for a coffee. Before me a lady was buying some goods and, to judge a book by its cover, appeared to be of Jewish heritage. When the shopkeeper was adding the cost she remembered she wanted some paper towel and asked him if he had any. It was on a high self and when he took a roll down the lady could see another product that had an Australian made symbol. 'Ah where is that one made?' she inquired about the roll he had in his hand. As he was looking she said, 'No I think i'll have the other one, we should buy Australian.' The item was added and the goods paid for. Another quick decision to add a bunch of flowers to her goods and she was gone.

Now, she may have set it as her life's struggle to lift the paper towel workers of Australia from a terrible plight, despite the economic arguments that protectionism in any form creates inefficiencies. It may have been a genuine desire to support Australian manufacturing that did not extend to clothing, textile and footwear workers from the designer labels she was wearing or automotive employees by the late model Volvo she drove away in. It may have been an emotive and impulsive comment. Whatever the motivation was it seemed strange to a bystander such as myself.

In relating these events I am not intending to portray this behaviour as indicative.

As I approached the counter the shopkeeper said, 'A coffee for you ?' I found it hard to resist and said, 'Only if the beans are made in Australia.' He turned back with a smile.

Considering recent events it would have been understandable if our conversation moved to a discussion of the events surrounding the falsification of Australian passports and their use in the assassination of a Hamas leader in Dubai. It is usual, if there are no customers to serve, for us to have a quick chat about the days news. But this wasn't the case. He only said how he was looking forward to taking his kids for a swim this evening after closing the shop.

I have often been critical of my friends lack of awareness of world or national events and their indifference or lack of passion for politics. I don't profess to having even a rudimentary understanding of the causes of conflicts in the Middle East. After some more small talk with the shopkeeper, I left to watch the sun go down over Sydney Harbour. There are horrific things happening in many parts of the world but in this little corner things seem right. 

It may just be that ignorance is bliss.

Every journey of a thousand miles...

I've just returned from an enjoyable day in the Blue Mountains. It is the first walk of note i've had since finishing the Bibbulmun Track. The genesis of the idea to walk the track happened on a half/guts-morning watch sitting off Christmas Island (arr!). I was seeking ways to spend the two weeks leave I was to take when we returned to Western Australia. It would take longer than two weeks but after finding out that a 1000 km walking track existed between Perth and Albany, I thought, it would be nice to say, "I once walked one thousand kilometres." The seed didn't germinate until last year when I posted ashore and could take the time off.

I had no great objective for the trip accept to go 'walkabout'. As I started planning and the time came closer it was evident that I may not have a better period in my life than this to quit smoking.

I finished the walk and I quit smoking (with a relapse on an evening before New Years Eve but we won't talk about that.) Ironically, i've never been in worse shape. Of course I feel much better and my aerobic capacity is potentially much better, it's that now I don't feel the need to test it. When I was smoking I spent a lot of time counter balancing the ill effects with plenty of exercise. I was running flat out to stay in the same place.



One of the requirements to remain ready for deployment is to pass an annual fitness test. The test is not particularly demanding but it does require some preparation. I have this fitness test in the morning followed by an interview with the Commanding Officer of the Base to finalise my discharge. Then the wheel will stop.

This seat isn't taken.

I have an unerring ability to finish a trip on public transport sitting by myself. This is through no overt action on my part.

• I don't intentionally and audibly fart should someone take up a seat next to me.
  
• I don't cuss or make inappropriate comments when people approach.
  
• My appearance doesn't come under any category small minded folk would make a judgement on.
• It isn't a recent development that coincides with my decision, taken after finishing the Bibbulmun Track, to shun the use of deodorant. (If my scent has become a problem my colleagues have either been too kind or too scared to tell me.)
  
• I don't place items next to me or sit in the middle of the seat to make it appear as if it would be a great inconvenience for me to shift so it might be easier to go and sit next to the flatulent guy over there swearing his head off - yes, that's him, the one with the swastika tattooed on his forehead.

I've had children burst into tears when they realise their brothers and sisters have a seat and they're the one that has to sit next to the stranger. I have had people stand, in a packed peak hour bus, rather than come and sit next to me. In my defence, it only takes one stop for this behaviour to set a precedent. The passengers getting on at the next stop naturally assume that if those standing haven't taken up the seat something must be up. It's like reverse musical chairs. The music's stopped, there's a chair but no one wants it.

Statistically I'm at a disadvantage. All my trips are solo. Those travelling in company never have to face the prospect.

Don't take any of this as complaint. A brave soul once made an attempt to sit next to me and for a brief period I was just like everyone else, cramped and uncomfortable. At the very next stop a seat at the front of the bus became available and she made a dash for it just sliding in before an elderly gent was about to sit down.

For someone that uses public transport as much as I do this power I posses is welcome but I would like an explanation. I'm lost as to why. Next time you see me, come and sit down and we'll talk about it.

67 days until take off.

I booked my ticket sometime ago, primarily because I wanted to force my hand. Having booked and paid in full and not having taken insurance I am locked in. This has become my motivation to complete all the other minor tasks I have before leaving.

I am flying to Buenos Aires with the Argentine National carrier, Aerolineas Argentinas. Price was the dealmaker and after reading some reviews, it seems I will get what I paid i.e. very little. Some of the reviews seem petty and I think the reviewer's expectations may have been too high. I am easily pleased and fore warned is fore armed.

I’m fortifying myself with the assumption that whatever savings the airline makes providing a dismal service are spent on maintaining all the pieces of an airplane that allow it to take off, stay in the air for the required distance and land in the correct place, safely.

The owners of the Airline Review website are either struggling for revenue or have a sick sense of humour. The banner advertisement is for National Geographic Channel’s, Air Crash Investigation. I just checked seven other carriers on the website and the advertising was for foreign exchange, hotels, flight booking services etc then back to Aerolineas Argentinas and Air Crash Investigation.

Fingers crossed !