Goodbye to a little trooper

I lost a friend today.

She was a tiny little person who had an enormous impact on me - and I want her to be remembered.

I met Sreyleak on a stinking hot day at Hope for Cambodian Children Orphanage (HfCC) in Battambang, Cambodia. It was my second day as a volunteer, which meant I was basically walking around, trying to work out how to join the furious current of daily life here - and make myself useful.

Luckily, day two fell on Khmer New Year and I was able to sit back and watch the festivities, while kids of varying sizes (and hygiene levels) treated my sweaty limbs like a jungle-gym. One of the house mothers approached and sat down, carrying what I thought was an infant in her arms. As I looked closer I discovered that she held a small child, with a body that was rigid with cerebral palsy, writhing with discomfort in the heat. The little girls face contorted as she struggled for breath and as her jaw clenched, I saw broken baby teeth.

I watched my friend, an osteo, perform an impromptu examination of her and struggle to swallow his emotions. It nearly broke my heart and I left that evening feeling useless. What could I possibly to do? (You see, at this stage I was still naively thinking about how I felt, what I could do, how I would contribute - the usual echoes of modern-day narcissism).

The next day I watched as my friend assessed the four special needs children, Sreyleak the little girl included. Again, the scene was heart wrenching and I walked outside feeling totally pathetic. How arrogant was I - thinking I could come and a make a difference with nothing more than good intentions?

I was about to give myself good kick-in-the-butt when I heard Sreyleak crying inside. I gritted my teeth and headed back in. Her temperature was 39.5 degrees and she was struggling, sweating and shaking her tiny fists. I felt like she was pleading at me to do something. Instinct said get her to hospital, but the HfCC nurse was insistent Sreyleak would improve with a dose of paracetamol (as she had done on countless occasions - apparently). So after a protracted hand-signal conversation, and a promise that a doctor would be called if she worsened, we trudged home.

I slept little that night, preoccupied with how Sreyleak was faring. I knew she was much stronger than she looked - after all she'd survived worse. But how much can one little body take? How much should it have to?? (As a baby Sreyleak had suffered severe lung damage from Tuberculosis, and her parents simply left her alone on a roadside. To die, to be found... we'll never know. Thankfully she was discovered by a kind soul who brought her to HfCC).

By morning Sreyleak's fever had broken and it was crisis averted - again. But she had made an impression on me I will never forget. So I plucked up the courage to hold her.

I was hooked. I cuddled and soothed and sung songs to that girl for hours, just trying to pour as much love as I possibly could into her every day for six weeks. It’s the first time I've felt something close to what parents must feel for their children - that I would do anything, absolutely anything to protect her from another minute of suffering.

Hanging out with Sreyleak when she was in a happy mood was something else. I rocked her back and forth on an exercise ball, gently exercising her little limbs as instructed by my friend - who had devised an exercise and eating program to aid the development of Sreyleak and the other disabled kids. Seeing her face, arms and legs relax as I rocked the ball back and forth making funny faces was priceless. She'd look at me like I was crazy, but then crack a face-splitting grin.

I also discovered that Sreyleak loved music - firstly from singing to her and then by bringing my iPod to our exercise sessions. She started relaxing so completely on the ball that she slept soundly on it, and on many occasions my friend found me cramped awkwardly on the tiles, while Sreyleak lay fast asleep beside me. Other times I would pump Cher's Greatest Hits at full volume and spin around the bungalow while she squealed (happily, I think).

The day I left HfCC was the hardest day of my life. Saying goodbye to the kids and our new friends was gut-wrenching. But giving Sreyleak that last hug broke my heart. I wanted to believe I would see her again, but knew that poor tormented body probably wasn't long for this life.

When I returned to Oz I resolved to do whatever I could to help Sreyleak and the disabled kids, and with support from family and friends, we raised enough money for a full-time disabled care nurse at HfCC. Someone to continue with the program's we had put in place and to measure their development. But most importantly - to spend quality time with them.

Over past 10 months we had learned that Sreyleak, and the three others, had put on weight and made huge developments in terms of their alertness, strength and ability to interact with the other kids. However it was an email from the HfCC chairwoman in January which delivered the most positive news to date - Sreyleak was the happiest Jenny had ever seen her, and a far cry from the sickly child she remembered from a visit 12 months earlier. So we had done it - we made a difference. And not for ourselves - for her. 

Knowing that Sreyleak is no longer suffering is a comfort, but it's bittersweet. She opened my eyes and my heart in a way that I never thought possible - and selfishly I had hoped to see her again. But I'm certain she is now in a place that's far better place than anything the world could offer. Happy, giggling and - with any luck - dancing to "If I could turn back time" at full blast.

RIP beautiful girl xoxoxo

Have we over e-volved?

I'm going on a diet.

And no, it isn't the Lemon Detox or a powdery meal-replacement endorsed by Biggest Loser alumni. This diet is called Cyber Slim, and it has a very simple premise.

Low gigabytes.

You see when it comes to internet usage; I've become a glutinous pig. My habits have grown from the occasional email and news wire check, to compulsive, nonstop feedings that start at breakfast and end moments before I go to sleep. In fact, after some particularly lengthy sessions, I have to flop back on the couch and pop my top button open to breathe.

It's pure greed. Fuelling my insatiable appetite for anything from breaking news and emails, to blogs, Facebook, Twitter, music downloads, celebrity gossip, special offers and holidays I can't afford. You name it - I'm all over it like a $2 cyber hooker.

But I'm not alone - this internet gluttony is an over-indulgence shared by many. We all have friends who are eternally online, and I'll bet I'm not the only one whose knee-jerk reaction is generally wow such and such should get a life. Yet we fail to draw the obvious parallel that we're always online to catch them.

Although I've recently noticed a trend at social events where some turn their nose up at being online. You know the type, people who claim they haven't seen this or that status update because they're far too busy and important for such trivial matters. When in all likelihood they're running to the loo to like, tweet or re-tweet something every five minutes. He who doth protested too much, no?

But I realised just how dire things had become when I started hiding my online presence. Offline on Facebook, invisible on Gmail or away on Skype - yet still very much online. On its own not such a big deal? But last night a close friend living o/s logged into Skype on the rare occasion I was 'available' and within seconds an incoming call flashed up. Shit, hide! I thought, frantically logging out. I don't want to have an actual conversation!

I know what you're thinking. I mustn’t really like said friend, right? Well that couldn't be further from the truth. So as I sat guilty on the couch I wondered - if I don't actually want to talk to people, what the hell was I doing on Skype? Was I no better than some common voyeur, lying in wait to make sure my friends and family were what - still alive? Did I simply want to prove that I was alive too?

I suddenly realised that I'd been bouncing around these sites so habitually, that I’d actually forgotten their purpose. Skype is for phone calls and talking to people. And to make matters worse, I had been perfectly content to skulk around offline, reading things about people and leering at their photos, than I was to actually speak to them.

It finally occurred to me that a greater force than I was at play here and - like so many others - I'd simply fallen into its sticky trap.

FOMO. Fear of missing out. A social phenomenon that has existed to some degree for centuries, but here in the 21st century, has found its perfect breeding ground in the internet.

While there are doers and doubters, haves and have-nots, or quite simply the cool and uncool, there will always be FOMO. But in the old pre-internet days, if I wasn't invited to a party my initial thought would probably be - maybe they lost my address? And I could sleep at night, safe in the assumption that some external factor had intervened.

But not these days. If I log into Facebook and see that 67 friends are invited to a party, and no corresponding invite is waiting on my home page - there's nowhere to hide. I am simply not invited. (And somewhere behind the screen there are little Facebook minions pointing and cacking themselves laughing I'm sure).


But it's not just invites. I, we, we're all addicted to updates of any kind. Like when I'm bored at work and check Gmail 27 times a day. What do I expect? A long lost relative to email and say I'm entitled to a lazy few million in inheritance or a country estate? Because it would be good news, surely?

I think that as a society we've been rewired to need new information at regular intervals or we start twitching - which explains why breaking news FOMO is now more prevalent because of the internet. In my office it's like a daily battle to see who breaks the most sensational headlines first.

Trust me, one day that annoying colleague is going to turn around and say 'Oh my god they just cured cancer!' and we'll all be slapping our legs under the desk, thinking damn I wish I'd seen that first.

2010 ARIAs. Epic fail.

I would just like to join the rest of the nation in saying a big WTF to ARIA's organisers.

What the hell were you thinking??

I sincerely hope that Hilary Clinton wasn't channel surfing as she prepared to turn in for the night at Crown Towers. In fact, I hope that abomination of a broadcast was not watched by any member of the international community. How embarrassing.

We can at least thank social media for giving us a platform to air our grievances, and let those responsible know just how poorly we rated their effort. As one jaded-viewer said yesterday, watching the show was like witnessing a train wreck. A really, big ugly, train wreck.

How bad was the pseudo-Green Room presentation area? Aside from being poorly lit and grossly disorganised, what was going on with the random industry twits boozing on with their backs to the camera? And of all the talented people (read: actual nominees) we have in Australia, how on earth did Rebel Wilson, Dylan Lewis and Nat 'I don't know why I'm yelling' Bassingthwaite constitute an entertaining presenters line up? Honestly when Ricki Lee started playing for the gay vote while interviewing Eric Stonestreet (in fact a straight man who plays a gay character), I dry retched.

Although I did feel sorry for the Chaser boys who were left babysitting Bob Katter on live national television. What an absolute mongoose. (Yes I really hope Hilary wasn't watching that bit).

The fact that uber-kooks Angus and Julia took out the top gong was rather fitting in the end. They've made a fortune from their well practised social awkwardness, and let's face it, just by opening their mouths they could have everyone looking at their shoes during a perfectly good awards ceremony.

Between the Aussie cricket team and the ARIA's there wasn't much to be patriotic about last week, was there? Although in the interest of being constructive, I propose the following formats are considered for the 2011 ARIA's:
1. A barbie
2. Live broadcast from Dylan Lewis's mum's place
3. Inviting members of the pubic to perform live karaoke between awards
4. A singing animals segment a la Funniest Home Videos

My baby’s got a secret

I have something pretty serious to get off my chest, which has been bothering me for some time. And whilst it isn't keeping me up at night (yet), it has begun lurking in the background, occasionally popping its head up to engulf me in a tidal wave of guilt. It is then, that I want to run and shout this confession from the rooftops. So I figure it's time to own up.

Now in publishing this statement, I realise that I risk becoming a social pariah, not to mention attracting derision and ridicule from certain quarters. But I'm afraid its purge now, or forever hold my peace.

I love Starbucks. Actually I love, LOVE Starbucks.

There, I said it. I will now pause while you mentally or audibly poor scorn on me, call me a sell-out, a commercial whore and maybe even delete me from Facebook.

Do do do…


Do do dooby do…..

All done?

Good. Now if you could just let me explain.

I love Starbucks - ohmigod that feels good - because it is a thread that is intricately woven throughout my cherished travel experiences. Minus a few obvious exceptions (although I wonder how high the Kenyan Masai could jump after a venti triple shot?) I have a matching Starbucks memory for almost every stamp in my passport.

I remember escaping the winter cold of London inside Starbucks during many a shopping jaunt to Oxford Street. Taking a sightseeing break at Starbucks in downtown Madrid and eyeing off the dark-eyed boy working the milk steamer. In Lima, Peru, my travel companion and I stumbled across Starbucks on a sweltering hot day and revelled in the icy goodness of a coffee frapp.

Downtown Vancouver boasted a Starbucks on almost every corner, and I spent many cosy Sunday's reading and sipping delicious spiced apple cider, trying to forget my homesickness. In March, I sat in Times Square for hours watching Manhattan buzz by from a Starbucks window and in northern Thailand during May, I practically fell to my knees when the familiar green circle came into view, and I tasted my first real coffee in weeks.

It's not even the world’s greatest blend, you say. I know! But oh the choices! The hit, the sugar, the buzz and even the music! For those who do not deign to enter Starbucks, they often play old-crooner compilations like Frank, Dean and friends - which just adds to the romance. You can be miles away from home in a completely new world, but Starbucks is at once familiar. A beacon of reliability in a world of uncertainty.

Ok that was too far. And certainly by admitting that I've allowed myself to be wooed by Starbucks doesn’t mean that I condone some of the methods their boardroom Dr Evils have used to semi take over the universe. Yes, damn them and their dirty tactics! The lack of social conscience Starbucks as a corporation have shown at times has been quite despicable. There's no denying it.

But for me, walking into Starbucks is like getting a hug from an old friend.

So not all of my friends are going to like each other, I concede that. But how can I fight it? When I sit here at my desk on a random, uninspiring Friday morning and one sip from my grande skim iced-vanilla latte sends me spiralling suddenly into a precious treasure chest of memories?

Today Times Square… tomorrow who knows?

A horse is a horse, of main course?

At the risk of inciting bitter retorts in the comments section (although maybe not such a bad thing seeing you ‘followers’ never bother to comment). I’m disillusioned with Masterchef.

Don’t get me wrong I enjoy the show. Divine food, sexual tension between the contestants and George professing at exactly the same time each episode: ‘I think it needs more salt’. But now people are posting photos of their nightly meal on Facebook, and yesterday I was forced to sit in the kitchen while a family member who-shall-remain-nameless talked me through his wondrous, visionary method for a la carte Eggs de Scramble. I was thinking, turn it up! Do you really deserve a medal for knocking up eggs on toast?

Meanwhile Matt Preston seems to have lost all sense of portion control, but that’s a whole other can of Grain-fed Worms infused with Truffle Oil and Rosemary.

Yes, Masterchef has a lot to answer for.

But what really floored me is news that the Minister for Agriculture & Food in WA has “approved the slaughter of horses for human consumption” (as read in The Age today), and a local ‘gourmet’ butcher will begin selling fresh horse steaks next week.

Now I must stress that when it comes to religious and cultural beliefs, I'm not casting aspersions on the diet choice of other races, where it is wholly acceptable to eat various meats including that of a horse (and by wholly I mean fully as I doubt they eat horses whole). What irks me is that the great Australian bandwagon will soon be in full swing with punters queuing up to try it; because Masterchef has made people think it’s not only acceptable, but trendy.

I apologise to those who think that, as I am not even vegetarian, these comments are hypocritical, inconsistent or both – horses for courses and all of that. But quite simply, I draw the line at eating horse meat. So friends, be warned, I will not take kindly to be being offered some at the next bbq I attend.

After all, Winston Churchill was clearly speaking metaphorically when he said: “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” The inside of a man, not insides!

Lessons in not very much at all

I have never really had reason to be bored. Not for prolonged periods anyway. Something is always going on, coming up or happening next. And generally, when I'm up to my neck in work or a slave to my social calendar, it's dreaming about time off and relaxation that keeps me going.

But an involuntary break - like the one I’m on now - is far from relaxing. I spend nearly as much energy feeling bored and directionless as I could be working. Apparently reviewing all the various holes in your life 64 times a day does not create sufficient mental fatigue as to induce sleep. Not even 90 minutes of hot yoga can do it. Round and round it goes... and like any reasonable over-active brain, it holds both sides of any conversation.
Hugh Grant had no qualms being a lad of leisure in About a Boy. But while he happily settled in to watch the UK equivalent of Wheel of Fortune every afternoon, I can’t even bring myself to turn on the television. Because it’s a slippery slope when it comes to daytime tv... there's no going back. As soon as I utter one sentence containing the words Kerri-Ann, Oprah or Danoz Direct, I'll know I’ve hit rock bottom.

Volunteering has crossed my mind. Whilst not exactly lucrative it would give the soul a squeeze and a sense of purpose. Particularly post-orphanage there are plenty of children’s charities around which I would love to be involved with. But I tend to think that while I’m embedded in my surly what-am-I-doing-with-my-life mood, I might be more a hindrance than a help. They’ve got enough problems already.

The offer of some pub shifts for cash is not one I could, in good conscience, pass up. As well as giving me something to do for a few weeks, it was supposed to help alleviate my financial constipation. A situation that is exacerbated by the fact that the only pastime I seem to enjoy lately is shopping! Ah yes the lure of retail therapy is as powerful as ever. South Wharf, Harbortown, Highpoint… name your two-syllable retail mecca and I’ve been there. But alas when only shifts starting at 9pm Friday and Saturday nights were offered to me, I had to gracefully decline. I mean if I can't spend weekend nights in a wine induced stupor with my friends, then I'll have to start drinking by myself during the day. Hello slippery slope...

What to do?
What to do, what to do...