Diary of a future star of the literary world

And now a word from the 'No More D*ck Pics' girl - Samantha Mawdsley Pt 1

2016-06-21T06:28:00.001+10:00

My name is Samantha Mawdsley and I am not funny, just so you know. If the people who love me the most were to describe me, they would use words like sweet, honest, enthusiastic, caring, generous, ditzy, sensitive, or loud. But they would run through a heck of a lot more adjectives before they got to funny. My dad said "oh, I don't know. You're funny in a quirky way" so even he doesn't rely on me for witty one-liners and acerbic zingers. So know that I didn't do all this to become the next Amy Schumer. In fact the only reason I did do this is because James told me not to. Pure and simple.

I also want to address the fact that I have seen a handful of people dismissing 'No More D*ck Pics' as fake. To be honest, I can see where they're coming from. James did start to turn into a stereotype of the kind of dudebro who thinks sending a happy snap of their junk is an opening line. But rest assured (or depressed), this whole exchange actually happened as reported. I have also been approached by many other women who have received e-Polaroids from Mr D*ck Pic himself. That, of course, does not confirm that James is a real personal profile, but I hope it does confirm that I didn't create a fake profile and send myself unsolicited penis imagery. Of course, if I sent them to myself, they're no longer unsolicited but that's getting a bit circular. Just rest assured that there was somebody I don't know logged into the account known as James.

So what actually did happen? Let me start from the start, in my own words.

I went to bed after having a few drinks while watching the Euros at around 1.30am on what was technically Sunday June 12. As always, the last thing I did was check my Facebook. That's when I saw the little notification - but why in the hell would somebody be commenting on a restaurant review I left months ago? Now I know that James knew what he was doing. If he hadn't commented, I would not have received any kind of notification and would not have checked my filtered message requests for weeks, if ever. Who actually looks at them?! And I guess James wanted to engage with me. Or he wanted me to engage with his penis anyway. But I hypothesise that he wanted both of us to be online at the same time so a conversation could ensue. I suppose I obliged.

To begin with, my immediate reaction was a mixture of revulsion and humiliation. I am not ashamed to admit that I have been the victim of this kind of sexual harassment offline too. When I was 15 and wearing my school uniform, I was in a public library waiting for my trampolining lesson to start. I suddenly heard a strange noise beside me. I looked over at the man there and noticed that he was staring at me intently while masturbating. I instantly went numb and felt completely powerless. I felt a hot mix of shame and fear and for some reason, my body did not or could not react. What I wish I'd done now is jump back while screaming loudly. I wish everyone in that library had turned to see what the commotion was and found themselves staring at an exposed penis and a terrified schoolgirl. I wish he'd been tackled by good Samaritans who came to my aid, and he'd been arrested. I wish I'd bravely pressed charges and, with the support of my family, faced the perpetrator and ensured this never happened to another girl. But what I actually did was quietly shift in my seat so that I couldn't see him, wait until a minute or two had passed, and then quickly take my books to wait in the gymnasium reception. At this point, I wonder if there are men reading who don't understand and feel they would have reacted differently. I wonder if there are women reading who completely understand and feel they would have done the same thing. If that is the case, please take a moment to ponder why that is.

So here I am, twice as old, feeling those same feelings. And with the bravado that can only come from alcohol and a buffer of 4,426 miles, I chose a different reaction - which was anything but staying silent, really!

My first response came from a place of anger and wanting him to just go away. But I didn't want him to feel like he'd elicited any kind of emotional response from me. Yes, I fell back on the lazy and ridiculous notion that 'bigger is better', but I have the feeling that was the level James was playing at and the lowest common denominator is always the easiest. So I googled "large dick pic" and found a somewhat lengthier penis to show James.

And this, dear reader, is where I thought this whole event would stop. But James was not impressed with this response and tried to call me out. When he said he was "nice", I decided to ignore the fact he obviously meant by complimenting my eyes (yeah, ok...) and pretend I thought he meant by sending me a portrait of a penis. I was then as "nice" as I could be, alternating between saving photos and sending them on to James.

James responded with some misogyny. After my cheap shot about penis-size, I suppose I deserved it. But James called on the misogyny and raised me some homophobia - what a class act!

Like that annoying friend showing you their favourite movie for the first time, I am going to poke you in the ribs and say here comes the best part - then I'm going to mouth along with my favourite quote...

I just want to puke just stop please

Cue more phallic pinups...

For some reason, James suddenly decided I had besmirched his penile honour and leapt to its defence! I never insulted his penis, but trust me, it really does have a bump thing on it. I don't know why he got so defensive. I didn't want to go the low blow of penis-size again, but I did want to highlight how unremarkable his penis is, so I told him so.

Then I realised what I had said - "sea of dicks". Like I said, I am not funny, but I laughed at that, and promptly sent him another wave of wangs.

James was unimpressed and tried to explain that there was something wrong with me. I, of course, brought out my piñata of logic and beat it with my stick of truth. But James was too busy missing the point elsewhere.

Happy with my obvious victory, I was content to be done and leave him with a final trading of insults.

Buuuuuut the temptation to get in some more sneaky unsolicited dick pics was too much. I figured he would give up as he was clearly getting nowhere with me - I was impervious to his manly charms!

But James just kept checking his messages. Like, did he think that instead of another wiener, it would be me saying "My beloved! Please wait! I fear I have erred, for I now see that yours is the only willy for me! Whilst thou ever forgive me?"

I apologise if my next comment comes across as homophobic, but please know it was actually meant to be completely seriously! Obviously I don't actually think James is gay, but I do 1,000% think it's ok to be gay! But if I do inadvertantly offend anyone, I wholeheartedly apologise!

For the record, that is the actual site I was getting the penises off. Maybe you could play Bellend Bingo? Or not. So I kept up with my belief that he would tire of my steady stream of schlongs...

And this was very nearly where it ended until this...

If you notice, there is now suddenly a nine minute jump in the time. That's because I stopped talking to him at 1.38am to screenshot the entire exchange, and this took me until 1.41am. It is timestamped that I didn't even consider doing anything with this conversation until this vile little weasel told me not to. I didn't screenshot anything else for another nine minutes.

I swear this was accidental. It was only as I typed "lots of penises" that I was all "LOL - I did it again!". Like I said at the start, I am not funny! I was also unprepared for this because the careful observer will notice that I started repeating penises.

I also gave the piñata of logic another whack and this time it broke! But James dodged all the sweet candy realisations...

Instead, he triumphantly held aloft a nugget of misogyny!

I then vaguely accused him of paedophilia only to have him jump on the word 'little'. I meant the penis pics that were little, rather than the pics of a little penis, but I guess James has a complex or something...

You can see it's now 2am, I am really tired and I just want him to stop. It is only pure stubbornness that is keeping me going at this point (and tiredness is not an excuse, I apologise for the following casual comment which is not trans-inclusive).

You can see again that I really thought the conversation was over (2am screenshot!)

My little cogs are turning over and it is starting to dawn on me that of all the possible outcomes of a guy like James sending a woman an unsolicited dick pic, the one they fear most - perhaps the only one they fear - is being publicly outed as a digital flasher.

Despite how tired I was, I was still clearly remembering the way the conversation went. I am pretty awful to argue with, and wasn't going to let this talent be withheld from James.

You can see I even start getting antsy thinking that he will suddenly delete the conversation (although I am not sure that is even possible in hindsight?) and I screenshot while he was still typing. Turns out he was busy getting pretty damn desperate...

But I am really starting to tire now and don't have it in me to keep arguing.

Realising his feeble attempt at mustering niceness might have been in vain, seeing as I haven't gone weak at the knees over his insistence that he was "kind with me girl", he reverts back to his default position of misogyny and swearing.

I didn't know what I planned to do with the screenshots at this point, but I figured a safe bet was sending them to Bye Felipe, an amazing instagram account and podcast that calls guys out on their behaviour when dealing with women who are not interested them in. I didn't care that he didn't know what the hashtag meant and decided to go to sleep.

Now as I settled in to sleep, I wondered what I would do with the pics. I decided that since James was in America and had a few more hours left of awake time, if he decided to apologise I would not post the screenshots. That was absolutely and honestly my decision as I went to sleep.

Now I only have around 400 Facebook friends, most of whom I know from real life, so the post going viral was not actually a possibility I considered. I thought a couple might get a laugh from my sense of humour, and maybe one or two would even share it. So when I woke up and there was nothing in my inbox (he hadn't even blocked me or anything), I decided to do the only thing that James seemed to fear.

I uploaded 45 screenshots in an album I titled 'No More D*ck Pics', covered the offensive parts of the pictures with Facebook stickers and hit publish. It was such a non-event to me. I called my dad in Australia as I usually do and even mentioned it to him, just so he wasn't shocked to see me posting something so sexual. After explaining what a 'dick pic' is, Dad told me he was proud of me for standing up to the twerp.

When I got off the phone, I checked my Facebook. The post had been shared about five times by then. More shares than I'd ever had before. My friends had also started commenting and two said they wanted to send James pics too. I laughed at the screenshots they sent me when they did. At that point, I knew James would be aware that I had posted it and that was literally all that mattered to me regarding the whole incident - that he didn't get away with it. But then the number of shares started going up. And up. And up. My friends were delightedly commenting s the numbers hit 500, 600, 700. 1,000 and still growing!

The next morning when I woke up, the post had over 10,000 shares. My Facebook filtered messages, a button I never thought of before, suddenly contained hundreds of messages - "Are you THE Samantha Mawdsley?" I was flooded with friend requests. In the 15 minutes it took me to walk to work, 'No More D*ck Pics' was shared another 300 times.

It was then that I said to my boyfriend "umm... I think I'm in trouble..."

Thanatophobia infographic

2016-03-28T09:15:00.002+10:00

In 2010, I created a Facebook support group for sufferers of thanatophobia (the fear of death). Managing this account can at times be stressful and difficult, but it is always rewarding - especially when someone tells me how much the group I created helped them.

A lot of questions get asked by newcomers to the group, as they struggle to learn if they are alone in the way they feel. With that in mind, I created a survey for members of the thanatophobia support group to take.

When more than 100 people responded, the only way to extract the complete data set was to pay, but the lovely members of the support group chipped in to raise the money to access the survey responses.

I have interrogated that data and designed this infographic to display, at a glance, some key facts about thanatophobia.

As I work in data analysis, I believe all of these results to be statistically significant, with the caveat that it is true of people who admit their phobia and seek help on the internet / Facebook.

For a high-quality version of this infographic, please follow this link: http://imgur.com/zDjCTjQ

Please note: You must credit SAMawdsley.blogspot.com if you reproduce this infographic.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

What mental illness feels like ...for me

2016-02-17T06:28:00.000+10:00

Not everyone knows what it feels like to be mentally ill. And no two mentally ill people feel exactly the same.

But to me? Mental illness feels like...

... looking in the mirror and seeing the worst person in the world - and that's a secret you desperately need to hide from everyone.

... you understand the awful subtext behind everything people say - but then being told you don't. And you don't know whether people are just denying it, or it's really the truth.

... you always need to prove that you are worthy - of your job, of your friends, of your partner, of your family, of... well, existing.

... everyone in the world has your problems too, but they are just dealing with them a lot better than you are.

... you are listening to constructive criticism, but only hearing "you are shit. Like, you are really shit. I'm trying to say this as nicely as I can, so pay attention: You. Are. Shit."

... you just want to rant, and rave, and scream, and cry, and tell somebody all your problems. But then you don't want them to be burdened by your problems, or worse - to think less of you.

... you're absolutely exhausted from being mentally ill, that even getting out of bed is a massive achievement. But of course you can't celebrate that because everyone gets out of bed every damn day.

... you know people care as such, but they don't want to hear about your petty issues. Not really.

... when you speak, you need to finish speaking as quickly as possible because everyone is just bored of what you're saying and you don't have anything of value to contribute anyway.

... people will only like you if you take medication, because the real you is not good enough.

... everyone thinks you're pretending, or "milking it".

... successes are accidents, circumstantial, easy for everyone to achieve, or not even noteworthy.

... your body is so tired at the end of the day, but your mind needs to go over every detail of the day, the week, the month, the year, every year since you born, before you can finally sleep from sheer exhaustion.

... you try so hard not to get sick, but your body just fails you. But it fails you so often that you're sure that people think you're just faking.

... you don't know if your feelings are real or if you're just "over-reacting because she's mentally ill" or "just sensitive because she has anxiety issues".

... you've told your story so many times that it's just boring to everyone - but you don't have any other story to tell.

... every problem that anybody has is your fault. And if you can't think why it's your fault, then it's because you are so selfish that you didn't even notice you were ruining someone's life.

... people are only your friend because they feel sorry for you.

... you're just waiting for your workplace to figure out you're completely incompetent, so you try really hard to not appear utterly useless.

... you've figured out what people don't like about you, so you try extra hard to not be those things - and instead come off as annoying in a different way.

... every time you're not invited somewhere it's because you are not wanted, or not really a friend. Because if you were - you'd have been asked, right?

... people only invite you to things because they feel sorry for you, or out of social obligation - so you say no so that you don't burden them with your presence.

... you are constantly on the verge of a major catastrophe, and that you need to constantly be prepared for it, but you don't know what it actually is, or when it is actually coming.

... you get that the people you love (and who truly do love you back) don't want you to die. But if you did, while it would hurt initially, eventually they would realise they are in fact better off without you in their life.

... if you don't commit suicide, then you're not that mentally ill.

I searched for an image that represented how I feel, but ultimately it was this image, from the first line of Google image search results for the words "mental illness" that spoke to me the most.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Please note: This is not a plea for help. Ultimately, I am currently undergoing treatment on the NHS. I am technically classified as disabled, but I work full-time and lead what I like to think is a fun and productive life. This is just putting the figurative pen to paper on what being mentally ill feels like to me.

For clarity, I have been clinically diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, complex post traumatic stress disorder, and thanatophobia.

What does mental illness feel like to you?
If you've never been mentally ill, can you imagine how it might feel?

Are you secretly a paleontologist? The ultimate dinosaur quiz!

2016-01-04T02:51:00.003+10:00

I love dinosaurs, I really do. And I recently did a course called Dino 101 at the University of Alberta. The course if offered via distance education and you can check it out here - It's completely free and I highly recommend it.

From my study notes, I created this Buzzfeed quiz to test others on their paleontology knowledge and to brush up on my learnings myself.

The aim is to get 10/10 and prove that you are famed paleontologist and Jurassic Park consultant, Jack Horner.

Give it a go: Are you secretly a paleontologist? The ultimate dinosaur quiz Be sure to let me know how you get on!

Are you secretly a paleontologist?

Miss SAMawdsley xx

What is your passion?
How do you keep your mind active?
If you could study anything, what would it be?

PS: If that's too sciencey for you, then let me tell you which dinosaur you were in a past life - take the quiz here!

I know which dinosaur you were in a past life

2016-01-03T05:08:00.002+10:00

Through the powers of science and... well... mainly guessing... I have figured out how to determine which dinosaur you were in a previous life!

YAAAASSSS!!!

All you need to do is fill in this quick quiz that I made: I know which dinosaur you were in a previous life.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Please note: This quiz is for entertainment purposes only and you should not make any decisions based on the results of this quiz.

Which dinosaur were you in a past life?
Would you have picked me for a Stegosaurus?

Fancy!

PS: If you'd like something a little more based in actual science, try this: Are you secretly a paleontologist - the ultimate dinosaur quiz

My weird, old-enough-to-be-my-dad crush

2014-06-30T06:26:00.000+10:00

Born on July 7, 1940
Started his musical career playing percussion in a skiffle band
Joined another band in 1962, replacing Pete Best
Left handed drummer who plays a right hand kit
"My dog plays better drums!" - Muhammad Ali
Has never had a solo UK number 1 hit
Honoured with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in February 2010
Married twice, neither time to me, and currently to a Bond girl
He was the narrator of Thomas the Tank Engine
Born Richard Starkey, in Liverpool, England

Ringo Starr (The Beatles)

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Did you guess who my crush is? At what point?
Who is your favourite Beatle?
Who is your secret, not-age-appropriate crush?

Vlog: The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe

2013-09-02T01:53:00.000+10:00

"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm."

- Edgar Allan Poe (Thank you, Matt)

I'm trying to get into vlogging as well as my usual blogging. I literally can not use any video editing software but am going to teach myself.

If you have any requests for vlog topics (or even blog topics) please leave them in my comments section. All suggestions will be considered!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

What is your favourite poem?
Who is your favourite poet?

ALWAYS talk to strangers

2013-07-16T07:29:00.000+10:00

I can clearly remember learning all about 'Stranger Danger' when I was about 6 or 7. A stranger was any adult I didn't know. Strangers were scary people who were always coming up with clever and cunning plans to steal me on my walk home from school. Never mind that I didn't ever walk home from school, I was taught that's when they were going to strike! I was so paranoid about strangers - even women, because I was that weird 6 year old who read newspapers and knew all about Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. The first word I remember looking up in a dictionary is 'garotte'.

With this in mind, it's taken me a long time to unlearn the paranoid lesson here and replace it with a sensible approach to life. You see, after moving to the other side of the world, I've learned you should ALWAYS talk to strangers! I don't mean it exactly like it sounds and we should all be running around shouting at each other and trying to engage in conversation with every person we should meet (but Jesus, London! A friendly smile every now and then wouldn't go astray!) But I think the lesson we all need to learn is that (with common sense) we should absolutely not be afraid to talk to strangers!

Just since I have been in London, I have had some amazing adventures with complete strangers!

When I was on my way to Berlin to meet friends from high school, I was travelling alone. My flight left so early that I was actually forced to catch the last bus to the airport and wait until 6.25am when my flight departed. As I arrived at the bus stop, I saw some others with suitcases and asked them if I was at the right stop. A lone girl and a lone guy said I was. When the bus arrived, I started chatting to the girl behind me in line - asking where she was off to. We sat next to each other on the bus and chatted for over an hour. We were both waiting for early morning flights so I asked her if she'd like to set up a camp with me on the floor of the airport. I said I had chocolate and Red Bull and she offered some chips (crisps for my UK friends). As we got off the bus, I stood beside the lone guy from the bus stop. So I told him of our plans and invited him to join us. He eagerly agreed and when we were settled, he bought us all hot chocolates. It was a fun six hours. The girl was able to get some sleep knowing her stuff wouldn't get stolen and the guy and I chatted about Italy and travel. We had breakfast together when the airport shops opened and at 6.25am, I caught my flight leaving behind Roxy and Francesco, my new friends!

Roxy, me and Francesco in Stansted airport

When I arrived in Berlin, I had over 24 hours to spend on my own. I made my way to my hostel and steadfastly refused to sleep and risk wasting a second in this new, amazing city. So I took a bus tour and saw some incredible sights. I had already decided I would be pushing myself so had bought a ticket to the Fun. concert. Stupidly, I misread 2100 as 7pm and arrived two hours early for the show. I joined the queue of excited Fun. fans and kept my ear out for a chance to talk to someone. Sadly, I was thwarted by my lack of a second language as everyone around me spoke German or French so I just waited. And waited.

Finally the gates opened but all people with online tickets had to present their tickets at a booth behind us in the line. The group of girls behind me gathered all their tickets into one pile and passed it to the closest girl who went to hand the whole stack over in one go. On a whim, I tapped one girl on the shoulder and pushed my ticket towards her. "Could you do mine too, please?" I begged. She handed my ticket on to her friend and turned back to me. In very good English she asked me why I was by myself!! Turns out of the three girls, two spoke very good English! The other spoke both French and German. The girls asked if I'd like to watch the concert with them. They shared their Pepsi, held my place while I bought my tour shirt and took photos to pass the time. We had a blast!

They stayed behind to hunt autographs from the band. I was forced to drag my poor body that had been awake for near on 42 hours by then back to the hostel leaving behind Carole-Ann, Lea and Celine, my new friends!

Carole-Ann, me, Lea and Celine at the Fun. concert

In my hostel, Simon, one of my high school friends had finally arrived and after a big day, we were in our bunks resting. A nice guy who was staying in our room started chatting to us and ended up inviting us out for drinks. Well, Simon was too tired but I was determined to have fun. After all...

So we wondered down the road from our hotel chatting. He was Brazilian and had seen quite a few European countries. We traded stories of our adventures and compared notes on our home countries. He bought a round of drinks and I bought the next round. The next day, Andrew, my other friend from high school arrived. Simon and I waved to him from the hostel room window as we saw him approach. Then we decided to hide in the bathroom while the Brazilian pretended to have booked out the whole room for his birthday and convinced Andrew he was in the wrong room. He played the part perfectly and I still laugh thinking about poor, confused Andrew while Simon and I stifled giggles in the bathroom. Then the four of us went out for dinner! It was fantastic, but he had to leave to go to the next country that morning. But when Fred left, we waved goodbye to our new friend!

Andrew, me, Simon and Fred at the hostel bar

The next night everyone from room 505 at the hostel was having drinks. I went downstairs to get something from the room. On my way back up, I noticed the button for calling the down elevator was crooked so I tried to straighten it - accidentally pressing it. When the doors opened for no reason, a girl was standing there by herself. I apologised for pressing the button. She said it was ok and she was trying to decide if she should go to the bar or the lobby. I said 'the bar! Come on! Come back up with me!' So she did. I have never got along with a girl so quickly and so well. We were chatting about everything and sharing stories. She was American, travelling Europe. I sadly learned she wouldn't be going through London but we swapped Facebook details and hung out all night! I know she will gladly host me in New Jersey and she knows she is welcome in London anytime! My biggest regret of the whole Berlin trip (which will one day be rectified) is I didn't get a photo with Jennifer, my new friend.

Jennifer

Then there is the pinnacle of these stories. The absolute epitome of why you should always welcome a friendly stranger in to your life. Matt, my best friend in all of Europe! All of the Northern hemisphere in fact!

Zombie Marilyn Monroe and Tony Stark

I met Matt in a pub when I was with my brother. The series of little coincidences that lead to our actual meeting is astounding considering how much he has affected my life here in London. As much as falling off my scooter sucked, if I hadn't of I would not have met Matt as I would have been at work that day instead of testing out my recovery with a small day out before returning to work the very next day. We met when he called my brother out for making fun of the way Americans write the date backwards. We started chatting and nearly two hours later, swapped Twitter details. Matt came to visit me after my shift the next day and we went out to London Dungeon the week after. We've pretty much seen each other every week since. I introduced him to football and made him a Liverpool fan and he in turn taught me about baseball and made me a St. Louis Cardinals fan. For Christmas I bought him a Liverpool jersey and he bought me a Cardinals one. I took him to his first EPL game and one day, he will take me to my first MLB game.

Me and Matt at Anfield

When I went to LA last year, he arranged for his sister (who is an incredible girl who I am lucky to call a friend!) to play tour guide for me on my first night alone. We got on so well that I left Disneyland early to spend my last day with her before heading back to London.

Me and Matt's sister Boo in LA

When his sister visited recently, we spent heaps of time together taking in the sights of London.

Matt, me and Boo on the River Thames

Matt asked me to join a co-ed softball team with him and now we play every week. I have in turn made some more amazing friends on the team who I hang out with outside of softball.

Evan, Matt, me, Kieran, Krista, Aneil and Sam
Just some of the Basejumpers softball team!

I've also met Matt's other sister and even his Mum. Matt has hung out with my dad and was even with us when he visited his childhood home for the first time in 50 years. One day soon I am going to go to America and Matt will show me around his parts. I hope he comes to Australia so I can teach him how to throw a boomerang and wrestle his first croc.

I was talking to a friend from my softball team and he seemed shocked to find out how Matt and I met. But without that friendly act nine months ago, I wouldn't have even been having that conversation with a softball teammate. I have had some amazing adventures and these are only some of them. I love my life in London and the people I have met are a huge part of that.

And it's all because I ALWAYS talk to strangers.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Have you had some amazing adventures with strangers?
Have you ever made friends with a stranger?
Has talking to a stranger ever gone wrong for you?

How to save a life

2013-05-31T00:36:00.001+10:00

Oh picture it a little girl just a beautiful eight year old
Trying to live through this life in a crazy world
Years past and one bad move
She finds herself as a teen and her life in ruins
What could have happened if we stopped and took the time
Showed that girl she had meaning and a purpose to life
Maybe avoid that downward slide
Would you tell her the truth?
Or let her live in a lie?

It all just seems to change
When you see it as a life to save

So would you save a life, save a life?
If it was do or die
Would you save a soul, save a soul?
Even if it's not your own?
If you're the hands and the arms that reach
Would you save a life from drowning?

-Manic Drive

I saw her as soon as I walked out of the front door at work. She was young, tiny and skittish. She should not have been out this late on her own. I was on my way from the closing shift at the pub and I had a friend walking me home. She swung around at the sound of our voices, but hurriedly turned away and kept walking. I fell in step behind her and she stole a look, eyes wide and fearful.

"Are you ok?" I asked gently.

"Yes, thank you." And she turned around. Please don't talk to me.

She crossed to the other side of the road. Please don't follow me.

My friend suspected drugs. I suspected mental health problems. Naive? Maybe.

I watched her - tugging at the arms of her jacket - feeling suffocated by her headphones - searching wildly for a direction to walk in.

"Excuse me, can you please tell me where I am?" Not a normal question. I crossed to her side of the road.

"You're in Harrow. Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes." No.

"Where are you trying to get to?"

"I don't know."

"Well how about a train station? I can get you to a train station. You can walk with us."

I was offering a crust of bread to a small, frightened animal - and hunger got the better of her.

"Yes, please. Are you sure?"

"Of course. What's happened? Why don't you know where you are?"

"I ran away."

"Where from?"

"A & E."

"Why were you there?"

"... I cut myself."

"Oh... I used to cut myself too."

Her eyes snapped up to mine. Searching. She's lying.

"Thank you for not being judgemental."

"Of course I wouldn't judge you. Yeah, I used to cut my wrists. Just to feel something. What did you cut?"

"My arms."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Can I see?"

No.

"Please? I just want to make sure you're ok."

She peels her jacket back. Blood is trickling down her fingers. I see scratches. Shallow, angry, red scratches. There is a tattoo on her wrist and it looks like she has been trying to erase it with something sharp (A protractor? Maybe that was just me.) She will feel a tight burning sensation there - I remember that feeling.

She turns her arms over.

Oh, that's where the blood has been coming from. I can see muscle. Clean slices, inches long, expose her flesh and her pain is oozing from the gaping wounds.

I don't react. Not with my face.

"You need to get those wounds stitched, sweetie." I don't know her name. "Please let me take you to the hospital."

"No, I'm fine. I don't want to go back."
Don't push it. Move on.

"Who was there with you? Didn't you have friends or family with you?"

Friends? Family? "No, they wouldn't let anybody from the ward come over with me."

"The ward?"

"I was on the mental health ward. They were taking me across to A & E but I ran. I don't know why."

"Well we need to get you back - just for the wounds. They're too deep. They won't heal on their own." I don't even know which wounds I am talking about.

"Please, no. I can't go back."

Don't push it. Move on.

"Why not?"

"I've been there for 11 weeks. Some of them are nice, but not all of them."

"Did someone there hurt you?"

"No." I don't know if she's telling me the truth. I've believed everything she's told me but I don't know if this is true.

A police car cruises past. She ducks behind me and emerges on my other side.

"They're looking for me."

"Who?"

Everybody. Nobody. "The police."

"Why?"

"Because I ran away." Are you even listening?

I don't think anyone is looking for her. And that's a reflection on them, not her. She ran. They had one less patient to tend to.

Don't push it. Move on.

"Where are you going to go then?"

"I don't know." She looks up at me. Her eyes search mine. I don't know what she's looking for but she finds it there. "Don't judge me, but I want to jump in front of a train."

I don't react. Not with my face. Again.

"Sweetie, no." I still don't know her name.

"Why not?"

"Because I've been there. I tried. I understand. But if my family & friends let me do it, I wouldn't be here now."

I want to tell her if someone saved me one day when I was alone, my dad would be more grateful than words could express. I wanted to ask her to let me save her - on behalf of someone who loves her very much. But there didn't seem to be a someone.

I tell her about my own suicidal period. She tells me she's glad I'm still here. I tell her I am too. And one day she will feel the same about herself.

"Isn't that the train station there?" Why are we walking past it?

She noticed.

"I can't let you go. I have to take you to the hospital. I promise I'll stay with you." I mean it. "We'll just get your wounds tended to and then we'll leave."

"They won't let me back out. I'll be put back on the ward."

"I'll ask if you can be released back into my care." I don't know if I mean it. I just want her to stop bleeding.

"They won't let you."

"You have to get those wounds closed, sweetie. Please?"

She looks at me again - eyes searching. Is she trying to get rid of me? Or help me?

Don't push it. Move on.

"C'mon, sweetie." I smile and start walking towards the hospital.

It works and she comes with me.

"What is your name?" my friend asks. I've forgotten he is even there.

"Sam."

Now it's my turn to swing around. I stare at her. Why would she lie?

"My name is Sam too!" It's the first time I can remember introducing myself as Sam instead of Samantha.

For a moment we giggle and share this moment. It's like we're having a normal conversation on a normal street. We forget that I am a stranger trying to convince a suicidal runaway from a mental hospital to return to care.

A door slams and she jumps. The moment is lost.

"It's not the police. It's ok. Besides, they're looking for one girl - on her own. You're with us. You're not on your own anymore."

She believes me and looks visibly relieved. She's right. The cops won't find me now.

She looks up at me and smiles. It's a wary, untrusting smile. A jolt runs through me. I realise I read her wrong. She's right. I'm not alone.

She starts telling me about her sister. She died three years ago during an epileptic fit.

I don't know what to say. I ask if this set off her troubles. She says they started before that.

It was the wrong question.

Suddenly she stiffens and stops walking.

"I can't!"

I look up. If we turn this last corner we're at the hospital.

"Please, Sam. You need to get the wounds closed." Which wounds?

She runs across the road to the island in the middle. Her run is stiff and looks painful. She's not going to outrun me. But I'm not going to drag her either.

She turns to face me.

"Please, you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. I'll go to a friend's house."

"Which friend? I'll come with you. Let me get you somewhere safely. You tell me which friend and I'll take you there."

She looks at her phone. I can see her scrolling through contacts.

"I don't know anyone who will be awake now." The saddest voice. The saddest lie. I don't know anyone who will care.

I don't know if she's right. I hope she's not. But either way, she has nowhere to go.

Then a car comes speeding towards us. She slowly starts back-peddling towards the road.

The train.

She's going to jump.

I can't remember the question I asked her, but she stopped and looked at me. The car passes safely behind her.

She turns and limps across the road.

"Please don't follow me."

"I'm not. I'm coming with you. It's that simple."

She turns and looks at me. Why aren't you going away? I'm pushing. Just leave.

She tries to run. I grab her with one arm and pull her to face me.

"Sam. I'm not letting you go. Please let me help you. I want to take you to the hospital. I can't make you, but I can stay with you. Please."

"No, you don't need to get involved."

"I know how it feels to see no other way but you need to believe me. You aren't meant to feel like that. Let them help you. Let me help you."

I see a car pull up on the other side of the road. It's a police car. I reach an arm out to block her exit - just as she sees the car too. As she looks over, police officers are emerging from the car.

She turns to run - right into my arm. I swing her into me and hold her - careful not to hurt her forearm.

"Nooooooooo."

"Please! Help her! Help me! Help!"

"Nooooooooo."

The way I'm holding her is more like a hug and she is forcing herself deeper into my chest, falling into my embrace. The cops are vaulting the fence now. She realises she's not going anywhere and stops fighting. Now she is hugging me. I hug her back, so tightly. My hand cradles her head. I'm crying.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam."

The officers pull her from my arms but she is holding on to me. I don't let go of her either.

"We've got her. We've found her." The officer is radioing his colleagues. He radios our location. They were looking for her after all. I'm glad.
She screams. They've grabbed her arm - the wounds. The congealed blood falls away and the wounds reopen with venom.

"Stop! Her arms! Be gentle! She's not running, let her go!"

The officers instruct her to roll back her sleeve. I help her as she winces. Another officer dives in with a medical kit. I help Sam to the ground. He winds a thick bandage around the first part of her arm.

"You. Hold this." he barks, placing my hand on hers, holding a bandage in place.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry." I'm still crying.

I can't see her. She's hidden by her hair and has slumped.

I look up. We are surrounded by at least seven emergency vehicles. Cops are diverting traffic. About 20 people are surrounding us.

But I am here for Sam. I promised.

Her phone and headphones are in the way. I pull them off. It's an iPhone. She had her iPod playing and the last song's album cover art is on the lockscreen.

"Walk through the Fire" - Buffy the musical.

Who is this girl? What 18 year old listens to the Buffy soundtrack? I can't let her go.

"I am putting my number in your phone."

I try. She has a password on it.

"Sam, what is your password?"

She gives it to me. No pause. She just gives it to me.

They start to bundle her up and move towards the back of one of the police vans.

"Can she come with me?" She reaches towards me.

The officers look at me. I promised her I would stay with her.

They ask Tanya, a social worker.

"Are you her friend?"

Sam is right behind me, two cops helping her into the van. She's co-operating.

I look the social worker straight in the eye.

"Yes."

They put me in the middle part of the police van. I have her bag over my shoulder. They open the door between us so I can hold her hand.
I see the tattoo on her wrist again.
"What does that say?" I can't make it out through all the deep, red scratches.
"Stay Strong."

We drive to the hospital and I walk with her to the emergency ward.

She is put straight onto the nearest bed.

They close the curtain between us. I need to pee. But I don't move. I take a few steps towards a sink. I need to wash her blood off my hands. But I can't leave her. Even though she can't see me. I promised.

A cop comes to talk to me. He asks me if Sam called me. Did I come to pick her up? I shake my head.

"I only met her tonight."

He asks me the same question rephrased a few different ways. He can't comprehend why I was with her - why I had walked so far and for so long with her?

"Because I've been there."

I ask him if I have to leave and he says no. Then I plead with him - when the time comes that I have to leave her, please make sure she knows I'm being told to go by the hospital or the police. Don't let her think I've abandoned her. He smiles and says he will.

A nurse follows him. She asks me to sign her mental health sanction papers. I do. Under relation, I put friend. I don't know why I don't own up to not knowing her, but I don't.

They leave me. My friend is still with me. I hadn't really noticed.

I realise I still have her bag on my shoulder. It's so light. What does someone like her have in her bag? I want to know who she is and I'm ashamed to admit it, but I looked.

Her phone. A red lipstick. A ventalin spray.

I see a bundled up wad of paper. It looks old. It's a folded up booklet.

I flip it to see the cover. A cry is choked in my throat.

Her sister's funeral booklet. It's from early 2010. It's dog eared and dirty. She has carried it with her everywhere. For three years. Since she was 15.

"Ok, Sam. We're going to have to take you back to the ward now."

I bury the booklet back in her back and arrange my face into a smile.

She comes around the curtain and her face is shocked. She's still here. Why hasn't she left me?

"I promised you I would stay."

I reach out and she falls under my arm. The police officer lets me walk with her to the ambulance that will transfer her back to the mental health unit.

I hold my arm around her. I am trying to make her feel safe. But I am also making sure she doesn't run again.

It's not an ambulance. It's the police van again. My heart sinks. They bundle her into the back again.

I go to make my way to the middle section again but the door is slammed before I get there.

A nurse tells me they have my details and will call me to update me on her condition. Ok.

She tells me I can then advise the rest of her family on her situation. Oh no.

I confess. I only just met her tonight!

She looks at me and then looks at the paperwork. I don't know if she's annoyed or confused. Maybe both.

"Well we have your phone number. If she wants to contact you, we can give it to her."

I tell her to remind Sam I put my number in her phone.

I stand there, stunned. I didn't get to say goodbye.

Then a police officer comes around the back of the van.

"She's asking for you."

And he slides the door open.

I dive in and wrap my arms around her.

"I can't go any further with you. I'm sorry. I just wanted to help you. You'll get better. And when you do, you'll realise how wonderful it is to be here, I promise." I kiss her on the forehead. "Now promise me you will get better."

She looks at me and smiles.

I hold her cheek in my hand.

"You're very brave."

The door between us slams shut and the police van takes her away. She's alone again.

And I break down. Sharp wracking sobs rip through me until my chest hurts.

I wail about being 18. And her name being Sam. And Buffy. And losing her sister at 15. None of it makes sense, but I can't stop crying all the same.

We can't get back inside the hospital. Staff only entrance. So we walk down the hospital ramp.

Suddenly my phone rings. The nice police officer offers us a lift home.

I gladly accept.

At my door he shakes my hand. He promises to come into our pub soon. I hope he does. He tells me I did something very few other people would do. This breaks my heart.

It's 2am. I collapse into bed, sobbing. I look down and realise I have Sam's blood on my shirt.

A few minutes later, I received a text message.

Dad told me that I may not be able to save her. But I gave her one more day. One more chance. And all I can do is hope that it's enough. And one day, we can look back on how we met and where she is now - and we will both be thankful for it.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

UPDATE: She texted me telling me she is feeling better today. I am hoping to get up to the ward to visit her soon.

Sassy's Dating Dictionary

2013-03-26T05:13:00.000+10:00

I'm currently sitting on my bed, wearing ugg boots & a hoodie, eating my third donut & watching Dawson's Creek - so maybe I'm the last person who should be writing about dating, but here I am anyway.

I'm not the most experienced dater. I was in a long term relationship that had its beginnings in high school. I rebounded from that into a relationship in university that ended violently. Physically violently. Back to the high school boyfriend and, other than a few hiccups, off periods and frogs along the way, I was with him until 2010. We even bought a house together. Since that long term relationship ended, I've only called one other person my boyfriend.

Now that I am dating, I have found myself stumbling through a veritable minefield of mistakes that a single girl can make. These vary from making assumptions about the guy's intentions, failing to define things and not knowing how to extricate myself from situations that are probably my own unwitting doing. And boy, have I had some adventures! The simple truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing!

Have you heard the saying "You don't know what you don't know"? That's very true. I didn't know that I didn't know how to date until I tried to do it. But the thing is, I'm not sure anyone actually does! Because there are certain words that apply when you are dating - terms that you will use throughout the course of your budding relationship - and nobody knows what the hell they actually mean! The meanings people can apply to the same words is so ambiguous. Two people can mutually agree on a term, and that's fine, but more often than not, their interpretation of that term is not even in the same sport, let alone ballpark. So I am going to define them, here and now. And this will be the universal truth that these terms actually mean.

From single to boyfriend / girlfriend

Single: This means you do not have a boyfriend or girlfriend. You may or may not be open to the idea of potentially having one, but you will be upfront about this. Every person who may be interested in having you as a boyfriend / girlfriend will be aware of your feelings on this subject as you will have been clear with them. But if you are not content to be in this state, do not proceed to the next one! This is very important!

A date: 'A first date' shall be defined as the initial scheduled meeting of two people who are basically auditioning each other to be a steady sexual partner with emotional investments; and a view to carry out said arrangement on a permanent basis and potentially co-habit and maybe even procreate while sharing a surname.

There will be certain indicators that you are on a date. Most, if not all, of these will apply.

You will have paid careful attention to what you are wearing, what you smell like, how smooth your legs are / face is and will specifically avoid talking about topics such as exes, crazy penchants and weird medical histories.
You will be nervous about who pays for what on this occasion and it will inevitably lead to a bit of a debate. You will judge the other person based on the viewpoints shared and eventual outcome of this debate.
You will make a huge effort to be engaging, witty and delightful in the presence of the other person.
You will be hoping the other person kisses you.
You will be eager to tell someone (probably a member of the same sex) about whatever transpires. Depending on your gender, there will probably be either giggling or high fives. Maybe even both. Who am I to judge?
If it goes well, you will want to do it all over again. Note: If you do repeat this with the same person, it will be called 'a second date'.

If you find yourself scheduling something that looks like this, stop looking like a tool or a complete try-hard and call it by its correct name! It's a date. Suck it up. If it's not a date, do not expect anything that even remotely resembles sex to ever eventuate. You lost that privilege when you refused the term 'date'.

Dating: After going on more than three 'dates', you will be deemed to be dating. Counting the dates out loud after this point is a bit weird, but note that you still need to mentally keep a tally of the dates.

'Dating' means you have an unspoken agreement that you will go on another 'date' and usually comes into play after the third date is mutually agreed to have been pleasant for both parties. Spending time together is becoming less nerve-wracking and you are starting to settle into being yourself but you are still considering your options. You may be dating more than one person at this time - but this is the last chance to do so if you are to progress further with this person.

Seeing someone: That mental tally of dates you have been keeping but not really talking about anymore? When that number has reached eight, you stop saying 'dating' and now refer to 'seeing someone'. If you have lost count, use this cheat: If your first date was over two months ago but you have seen each other regularly in the interim, you should now be using the term 'seeing someone'.

The term 'seeing someone' can be broken down rather simply. You are 'seeing', as in regularly viewing (perhaps in varying states of undress), one person. Note the 'one'? As in singular? You should only reach this benchmark with one person at a time. Note: If you do not wish to proceed to the 'seeing someone' stage, stop the 'seeing' part. This will avoid confusion for both parties.

Relationship: There will come a point during the period of 'seeing someone' that you decide that you have been exponentially satisfied with the previous months. This one person has started to spend time at your house and vice versa, rather than always on neutral ground such as a cinema or a restaurant. It's not awkward if they stay overnight. You've met some of their friends. There are starting to be expectations born from precedents set out over the last few months. If you don't have specific plans on a Saturday night, it is assumed you will spend it together. If they come over yours in the evening, you now expect that they will stay the night. And things would probably be easier if you could leave a spare toothbrush on their bathroom sink.

You are now about to be in a 'relationship' and should soon start using this term. If more than four months have passed since that 'first date', you need to immediately have a discussion with the other person. Especially if you are the guy. This is like the probationary period at a new job. You were expected to carry out your duties and showed up to work on time. But an evaluation still needs to be conducted with a manager before you become a fully-fledged employee. Your individual reviews and expectations will be laid out and a decision whether or not the arrangement is mutually beneficial will be agreed upon. If the outcome is in the affirmative, you have reached the level of 'relationship'.

Anecdote: I haven't had many official boyfriends - and hardly any in my adult life - but my favourite beginning of an official would have to be my most recent ex. I was driving to his house from his friend's. He was in the passenger seat and suddenly said, "If we were officially in a relationship, other than our relationship status on Facebook, would anything really change?" I thought for a moment before replying, "No, not really." "Cool," he said. "Let's do that then." See? It doesn't have to be a giant stress.

Boyfriend / girlfriend: Now that you are in a relationship, you can finally use the terms 'boyfriend and / or girlfriend'. You may only have one of these at a time! I cannot stress this enough. This is the holy grail of the dating experience. By this point, if you both aren't happy to use these terms, get out now! You are wasting the time of the other person and that is absolutely not fair. Other than that, it is like playing Monopoly but all the properties have been bought. Everything else is either by negotiation or just runs its course. And who knows how or when it will end?

Miscellaneous terms

Going out: This means you are 15. And in high school. You have never actually gone out anywhere at all but you are free to use the term boyfriend and girlfriend. You will also have written their name all over your student diary surrounded by love-hearts. And this will be in whiteout since it's the only way to see anything written over the permanent marker you used to scribble out the name of the last person you were 'going out' with.

Catch up: I use the term 'catch up' a lot. I live overseas and with a huge time difference, it is so hard to keep up to date with the people I love the most. I'll text my girlfriend, "OMG! haven't chatted to you in ages! We need to catch up!" Because 'catch up' means to run over everything that has happened since I last saw / spoke to someone. So why have guys (And I definitively use the plural) texted me suggesting we should catch up?

This outburst was prompted by an arrangement of what should have been called "a first date":

Well 15 hours later he texted me and we arranged to "catch up" tonight - my first available night thanks to working all the time. But what does that even mean, "Catch up"? Catch up on what? Everything that happened since last Wednesday? Or maybe the last 27 years when we hadn't known the other existed? "I was born in 1985, on a warm Spring morning..." What a stupid thing to say.

From now on, if a guy asks to "catch up" I'm going to assume he has gossip for me and subsequently has no interest in me as a female.

So there you have my no-nonsense dating dictionary. Now if we can all agree to stick to these definitions, it would make life easier for everybody involved!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Do you agree with my definitions?
What dating terms do you need defined?
Has the ambiguity of dating terms ever caused you confusion or heartache?

Making time to be bored

2013-03-23T10:26:00.001+10:00

Note: I am still working on Part 2 of 'Disneyland & this semi-charmed kind of life...'

When was the last time you were bored? I mean mind-numbingly, kick-the-dirt, nothing-to-do bored?

I am so bored right now...

I can't exactly remember my last time, but I know it was in 2009. This is because I got my first iPhone in August of 2009 and I haven't truly been bored since. With constant internet access, there is always something to do - even if it is just refreshing my Twitter timeline. "Bored" has now taken on a new meaning. I will do something pointless just to avoid feeling bored - even though the "something pointless" is boring! I just feel better that I am doing any menial task. In fact, I clearly remember waiting in line at Subway sometime in 2010 and thinking to myself that I needed to follow more people on Twitter because my timeline wasn't updating quick enough. I also once spent late nights trawling through interesting hashtags to find cool people in England or America to follow so that they would be tweeting while the rest of my Australian Twitter feed was sleeping and my timeline got slow. I not only actively avoided being bored, I took precautions to ensure I would not be bored in the future.

Lately, I've decided that I need to stop being entertained 24/7. I just don't need it. Instead of seeking entertainment, I think. Remember thinking? Just letting your thoughts run? Sometimes I word text messages to people that I will never send. Sometimes I sing lyrics. Sometimes I replay conversations. Sometimes I ponder my life.

Yes, it is often boring and being bored is not something people normally actively seek. That is the point. But it can also be liberating. Do you know how many times I have had epiphanies while bored? The time spent thinking when you're bored is different to that time just before you fall asleep. Your mind is clearer, your inner voice a lot more audible and your logic a little more attuned. It is when I am bored that I come to conclusions such as, "In all actuality, he didn't text me once between when he asked me on a date and when he texted on the day to confirm. But I never doubted how much he liked me back then. Nothing has changed. He just doesn't text that much." This was a nagging thought that had bothered me for days and in a moment of being utterly bored, the answer suddenly came to me. It has [sadly] reduced my stress levels!

In a life where we are so connected, I have decided that there are moments when I can just turn off and de-stress. I plan to take advantage of this. Relish it, even. Of course, it is a sign of the times that this doesn't ever mean being uncontactable. For me, that would be counter-productive as I would stress more - imagining crazy, elaborate emergency scenarios in which lives would be lost because I didn't answer a call or read a text message. My phone even sits on the sink while I shower. But I am going to continue to withdraw myself from constant entertainment, and this is how.

* I used to have a TV & DVD player in my bathroom. I would watch episodes of Buffy in the bath. Before that, I would always read a book in the bath. Even in a shower, I would play music and dance. It's fun, but you miss out on being bored. So I am now having showers and baths sans-music or without placing my laptop on the floor.

* When I walk somewhere, I am no longer taking my iPod as a default. It is reserved for long periods only. The 45 minute journey to meet my friend on the other side of London meets my requirements. My 15 minute walk to work does not. Instead, I walk and let the sounds of traffic and birds blend into a melodic hum - the soundtrack of life. Real life. While music may not be as much of a boredom-killer as screwing around on an iPhone, it can detract from thoughts. "Should I look for a new job? What do I want out of life? Maybe I could... Oh my God! I love this song! This is my jam!"

* When I am waiting for something like an appointment or a friend, I try not to check my iPhone constantly anymore. With Twitter and Facebook in my pocket, I can always find someone online to talk to - something else to think about - a news story or blog post to read. But I don't need to. At least, I shouldn't need to. Today, my friend was running late. Having my iPhone allowed me to get the text message telling me as much and that was great. So I sat in a coffee shop to wait. But after sending two or three tweets and posting a redundant picture to Instagram (nobody cares what my hot chocolate and piece of carrot cake looked like!), I decided to just sit. I put my phone on the table in front of me and I just stared vacantly out of the window. Thinking. I thought about the last time my friend and I hung out. I thought about what we would do today. I thought about some things I hadn't told him and would bring up in conversation through the day. And when he did arrive, I was in such a good mood and so happy to see him. All because I was bored.

I am ok just to sit and do nothing...

With all these life / mindset changing epiphanies and mood enhancements, I am actually starting to rather enjoy being bored. Perhaps you should give it a try next time you reach for your smart phone just because you're "bored".

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

When was the last time you were truly bored?
What do you do to actively alleviate boredom?

Disneyland & this semi-charmed kind of life... Part 1

2013-03-07T04:04:00.003+10:00

"Ok, kids. What do you want to do tomorrow?" Dad would ask.

"Go to Disneyland!" I'd shout.

Everyone laughed, knowing that it would never happen. But it was always fun to dream. And we'd end up going to the pool, or a car event. But as the self-proclaimed "Happiest place on Earth", it was my dream (and the dream of every kid on the planet, I imagine) to go to Disneyland.

My younger cousins have been going on almost annual trips to America for years. Of course, this always includes Disneyland in California (or Disney World in Florida). I love them to pieces but words cannot adequately express my jealousy. It ached deep inside of me. It highlighted everything that sucked about growing up in a financially poor, single parent family.

My Dad worked hard and my brother and I never went without. In fact, we were discussing last weekend how Dad did everything he could for us, including paying for flying lessons for my brother to help him achieve his dream of joining the Air Force. He also saved up for me to have SCUBA diving lessons to achieve my (never realised) dream of becoming a marine biologist, even though the plan never eventuated when I instead failed the dive medical and ended up enduring months of hospital visits. All this when, in all actuality, anything beyond food on the table, a roof above our heads, clothes on our backs and fuel in the car, were pretty much luxuries.

But there was still a part of me that felt a sharp sting of jealousy whenever I saw photos of my cousins' trips to Disneyland. I think as a child, and then a teenager, it was only natural. There were so many framed photos on their walls and their faces, so happy, yet unaffected by the sheer fortune of their situation, smiled at me. The Disney characters all kids can name hugged them tightly. I asked them questions about Disneyland and they told me stories of breakfasts with Disney stars, wild rides with crazy special effects and breath-taking shows. They showed me their signature books and I read off the names of Disney royalty whose pens had scrawled so beautifully across the pages. They showed me their pin collections and I learned about Disney pin trading. To think people did this as a hobby was astounding. They brought me back my own souvenirs and I marvelled that they were from Disneyland - really from Disneyland! Funnily enough, they never got me my own pair of Mickey ears. As I got older, the sparkle and fantasy started to wear off. A new jealousy struck me. I would never... never... experience Disneyland through the eyes of a child like they had - like so many other children had. But as is my way, a childlike spark in me never gave up on the pure wonderment and magic that is Disneyland and I continued to view it as the "Happiest place on Earth" - not just for children, but for me too!

For me, Disneyland was a pair of personalised Mickey Mouse ears perched on your head. It was a half an hour wait to ride Pirates of the Caribbean. It was posing with Alice and asking her to sign your autograph book. It was eating cupcakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse. It was finding the hidden Mickey on every ride. It was staring up at Cinderella's Castle and imagining being a real princess. It was laughing at the ridiculous face you pulled when you looked at the photo taken somewhere in the darkness on Space Mountain. It was staring in wide-eyed amazement at thrilling stage shows, breath-taking light and water spectaculars and seemingly impromptu entertainment on every street corner. It was waving at every Disney princess as she passed by in the Disney parade. It was hugging Mickey Mouse. It was wondering through aisles of merchandise and picking the few items you simply could not live without. It was hugging the people near you because they were there, you were happy and one day, they might not be there. It was taking silly photos, candid photos, posed photos. It was days spent smiling - where nobody argued or bickered. It was... magical.

Sometimes it scares me how charmed my life is. There are moments that the cataclysmic scale of coincidence, luck and fortune collide to alter my world in such a way that it takes my breath away and has even, at times, reduced me to tears. I am blessed and I know it. The day in November last year when my Dad said "Can you get time off in early December?" was one of them. I asked why, as I was in London and had only recently started a new job. I was confused as I knew Dad would be in America with my uncle, aunty and cousins and couldn't understand what I could need time off for. His response floored me.

"I thought you might like to come meet us in California and come to Disneyland with us..?"

“Here is the world of imagination, hopes, and dreams. In this timeless land of enchantment, the age of chivalry, magic and make-believe are reborn - and fairy tales come true. Fantasyland is dedicated to the young-in-heart, to those who believe that when you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.”
-Walt Disney

To be continued...

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Why isn't my life a romantic comedy?

2012-11-08T08:26:00.002+10:00

I was raised by my dad and my brother so I've not really done many girly girl things. As the only female in the family, I kind of felt I needed to assimilate or die. So I am more comfortable driving a manual car than baking a cake. I've changed my own oil in my car but I have never changed a baby's nappy. I'm deadly accurate with a gun but I fail miserably at make up. These masculine tendencies extend to my film habits. I've honestly never seen 'Dirty Dancing' but I did cry at the end of 'Terminator 2: Judgement Day'. That pretty much sums up what I'm saying here.

I've never been one for romantic comedies. But now I have a sister (in-law) and I'm starting to feel a bit more at peace with the fact that I am a girl and it's ok to hope a man will sweep me off my feet, despite my awkward, unlucky-in-love nature. I'm allowed to think Vivian Ward (Pretty Woman) is just as awesome as John McClane (Die Hard). (But I will never, ever accept the message that Sandy Olsen sells females! Honestly, do women actually watch 'Grease' and realise how she gets the man in the end? By stultifying herself and smoking!)

Tonight my sister and I watched a movie called 'New in Town' starring the super gorgeous chick flick staple, Renée Zellweger. She moves to a new town for some work and some guy who she seems to fight with more than she flirts with ends up being the love of her life. And it got me thinking, why doesn't that happen to me?

I'm a waitress just like Julia Sullivan (The Wedding Singer) but no oddly handsome singer who lacks self-confidence but makes up for it with a guitar has ever serenaded me on a plane. A guy did write a song for me once. But he recorded it onto CD, with a piano-keyboard backing track and him playing guitar... It was called 'Fire' but I didn't really get the lyrics. It wasn't on a plane. And Billy Idol wasn't there.

In high school, I may not have worn glasses and a ponytail and had *gasp* paint on my overalls, like Laney Boggs (She's All That) but I did wear pigtails every day for a year and weird cartoon character socks. I also made my own jewellery out of wool and beads, which is kind of like making my own prom dress, à la Andy Walsh in Pretty in Pink. The dreamy quarterback never realised I was actually quirky and pretty with a beautiful soul... Maybe it's because I went to school in Australia and there was no quarterback (and I'm not sure I'd describe any guy I went to school with as 'dreamy' anyway.) Or maybe it's because my life isn't a romantic comedy.

I have been a journalist just like Rebecca Bloomwood (Confessions of a Shopaholic), Andie Anderson (How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days), Bridget Jones (Bridget Jones's Diary), Jenna Rink (Suddenly 30), Josie Geller (Never Been Kissed) and the poster girl for journalism and love, Carrie Bradshaw (Sex & The City). But I have not had even one date thanks to my journalism. Not one. Let alone met the love of my life in hilariously unlikely circumstances.

I currently have blue hair like Ramona Flowers (Scott Pilgrim vs. The World). It's not a stretch to compare my scooter to Ramona's rollerblades. I could probably even muster up seven exes, if I included high school and despite the fact that I did break up with most (if not all) of them, I don't think they'd fight some guy so he could prove his love for me. They've moved on. And in the interim, no adorably dorky geek has had a prophetic dream about the awesomeness that is me. Though honestly, I'd prefer if Young Neil fell in love with me anyway.

I'm comically accident-prone, just like Cam Wexler in 'Good Luck Chuck' but no gorgeous Dane Cook look-alike has ever suddenly declared me his one true love. Remember my most recent first non-date? If you've not read this post, you can't possibly understand just how unlucky and clumsy I really am. But rather than being endearingly cute and charming, I fear I am seen as a hazard and threat to life and limb.

Why, oh why can't my life be like a romantic comedy? My life can and does often resemble a comedy. Perhaps a comedy slash tragedy. But it's not romantic. There's no romantic comedy that my life mirrors or holds parallels with.

Oh, wait. Yes there is. 'He's Just Not That Into You'. And I'm Gigi.

"Girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up. If a guy punches you he likes you. Never try to trim your own bangs and someday you will meet a wonderful guy and get your very own happy ending. Every movie we see, Every story we're told implores us to wait for it, the third act twist, the unexpected declaration of love, the exception to the rule.

But sometimes we're so focused on finding our happy ending we don't learn how to read the signs. How to tell from the ones who want us and the ones who don't, the ones who will stay and the ones who will leave. And maybe a happy ending doesn't include a guy, maybe... it's you, on your own, picking up the pieces and starting over, freeing yourself up for something better in the future. Maybe the happy ending is... just... moving on.

Or maybe the happy ending is this, knowing after all the unreturned phone calls, broken-hearts, through the blunders and misread signals, through all the pain and embarrassment you never gave up hope."

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Does your life, or the life of someone you know, resemble a romantic comedy?
If you're life was a movie, which one would it be?

I Heart My Body 2012

2012-10-26T09:06:00.001+10:00

It's that time of the year again. Time for the "I Heart My Body" campaign & beautiful women everywhere, of every shape and size, to tell the word not only that they heart their bodies, but also why.

I participated in the "I Heart My Body" campaign last year and for the most part, received nothing but positive feedback. But I dedicate this post to the haters from last year. Why? Because I'm doing it again. Because I do heart my body and in the spirit of the campaign, I am shouting it from the highest mountain top I have: My blog.

I love that my body puts up with the beating I give it - football and scootering down huge hills... It may not always serve me so well. It's terrifically unco. But it keeps on going and keeps on being beautiful! This year, I am highlighting my favourite parts of my body.

I heart my body!

I heart my stomach. It may not be perfect but it's the part of my body that makes me feel sexiest

I heart my stupid little middle toe on my right foot. I don't know what its deal is but like the rest of me, it's not perfect and a little bit quirky for no good reason.

I heart my freckles. It's taken me a loooooong time to get to this point after years of teasing, but I do. Especially the three freckles on my right knee that spell out VIP. Can you see them?

I heart my smile. This is another thing that has taken me years to love. My smile has always been my most complimented feature, with the words "Your smile just lights up a room" being the most common compliment I receive. But after 13 months of braces, I finally see what everyone else has always seen and I heart my smile.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Name three things you heart about your body!
If you have a blog, join the I Heart My Body campaign here!

Adventures on first non-dates

2012-10-23T13:46:00.001+10:00

One of the joys of being an Australian working in an English pub, especially one that isn't on the tourist trail, is I am a bit of a novelty. I say joy, but sometimes it gets tiring. I get asked a lot where I'm from & I have the same conversation with customers three or four times a day.

It's also a conversation starter with guys which can be a good thing. It can also be a bad thing.

Well last week it was a good thing when a guy decided to try his luck chatting me up. I hadn't noticed him to be honest as I was in work mode where all customers are equal. But he had noticed me & despite having no interaction, stayed behind to talk to me while his friends went to their table. I now know it's because he thought I looked "interesting", whatever that means.

So when I turned to help him, he didn't want a drink or anything, just to talk to me. He heard my Australian accent & said he wanted to guess where I was from based on said accent. I don't believe you can do that so to prove it, I let him try. For the record, I am from Brisbane. So the following conversation then took place.

"I think you're from Perth."
"No."
"Well then you're from Sydney."
"Look, you can't tell where an Australian is from based on their accent."
"Yes, you can. I mean, I know you're not from Brisbane!"

So even after that cringe-worthy opening, he persisted in talking to me. Turned out we were both from Brisbane - about 15 mins drive apart. He's a vet & we chatted easily. Obviously I had to get back to work soon after & he said it was nice chatting to me & we should "catch up" sometime. I thought nothing more of it.

As his party was leaving, however, he came to the bar to say goodbye.

"It was great to meet you, Samantha."

"Thanks, you too."

"Like I said, we should catch up sometime!"

"Sure."

"So... can I have your number?"

"Oh... ok!"

So I turned to grab a bit of paper to write my number on.

When I turned back around, he had his phone out. That's how often I do this, I completely forgot people have phones.

He was a bit shocked but covered with, "Oh! Old school! I like it!"

I scribbled my number down and gave it to him. As he left I realised two things.

1) He probably thinks I gave him a fake number so he couldn't do the creepy "Ring and check" thing. (Guys, don't do that. Ever!)

2) I've not given my UK number out before and what are the chances I gave him the wrong number by accident?

Well 15 hours later he texted me and we arranged to "catch up" tonight - my first available night thanks to working all the time. But what does that even mean, "Catch up"? Catch up on what? Everything that happened since last Wednesday? Or maybe the last 27 years when we hadn't known the other existed? "I was born in 1985, on a warm Spring morning..." What a stupid thing to say. But what he didn't say was the D word - date. At no point did he mention going on "a date". And nobody ever does.

When did the date die out? I don't think I have ever been on a date. I've been on things that looked like dates and very well might have been, but they were never called that. I've also been on things that looked like dates and were not. That's the worst. It's painful and you can feel your heart being ripped out of your chest when you come to the sickening realisation that the person opposite you has absolutely zero interest in you as a member of the opposite sex - and you'd done your hair and carefully chosen an outfit to impress them and still you were rendered a genitalia free Mattel product. That ****ing sucks.

So I never assume anything is a date. This jaded cynicism has served me well so I do not apologise for it at all. Tonight was no exception. I acted as if it might be, but never assumed, lest I be disappointed.

If you've ever wondered what I'm like on "a date", this is it. I'm awkward. I talk about a million things and randomly interject with useless facts. The guy mentioned December 8 tonight. I interrupted to tell him that was the date John Lennon was shot. I don't know why. I just blurted it out. Then I was eating dinner and I dropped my knife. It just plumb fell out of my hand. It clattered off my plate and headed towards the floor. The guy gallantly tried to catch it, but so did I. I got there first, bumping him away, knocking him off balance so he threw lettuce all over himself. So I end up bright red, clutching a greasy fork with lasagne all over me and he ends up looking shocked covered in lettuce. That's what I am like on a date.

But it can't have been too bad because he invited me back to his place to meet his housemates. He lived across the road from the pub. I accepted, happy to meet more people. Plus there was a puppy! Well we all sat in the lounge room talking, listening to music and watching YouTube videos. Then his housemates discovered it was his birthday - I know, right? So one of the girls offered us some berry liqueur she had made. She poured it into six shot glasses. We all said cheers and clinked glasses. I then threw the shot into my mouth... mere milliseconds later, my eyes began to water and I nearly choked. It wasn't a shot. Everyone but me knew this. They'd all sipped delicately. I was stuck with a mouthful of burning alcohol and big juicy berries, unable to chew or swallow from pain and humiliation as everyone laughed their asses off at me. The guy, once he realised what had happened and that I clearly was not coping, gallantly went to get me a glass of water. Everyone else told me I could spit it out, but by then, I'd managed to choke the liquid down. The berries were still there, so I couldn't talk. But I couldn't chew either. It was horrible.

I eventually got it down and once again, found myself bright red and looking decidedly inelegant.

I was having so much fun, I missed the last train home. Here in London, the trains stop at midnight or something stupid like that. The guy offered to let me sleep on the couch, or his bed. We were talking later when he asked me if I understood that he wasn't looking for anything serious. And that this wasn't "a date" because there's so much pressure when you put labels on things. So... yeah. I understood. I had my jaded, cynical guard up anyway, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't wound me. Each time I feel that disappointment, no matter how much of a defence I have put up, my armour is still chinked. And I felt used. Why bother talking to me at all if you don't want "anything serious"? And if you don't have "anything serious", what do you have? He'd told me he was leaving for Australia for a few months already and he moves around a lot doing temp / contract work in his profession. So I had my suspicions. But still...

But as a grand finale to the spectacle that is me, this happened. I called myself a cab. It arrived and I said my goodnights on the back step. I turned to make my graceful exit, leaving with my head held high and dignity in tact - when I slipped on the wet stairs, shrieked, fell on my ass and bounced halfway down the stairs.

Lucky it wasn't a date or I might have been embarrassed.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

When was the last time you went on "a date"?
Was it specified as "a date" or not?
Have you ever been a victim of the "non-date" or "the event that looks like a date but is not, actually a date at all"?

Dear Mum, I'm sad on my trip of a lifetime.

2012-10-17T22:01:00.001+10:00

This is an actual email I sent to my Mum this morning. I guess this is the honest side of my adventure.

Hey Mum,

I wish I knew why I seem so 'not myself' to you. I think you hit the nail on the head when you said I'm "very tired and a little lost". I think because it's "Seamus & Carol" I feel a bit like a third wheel. Not in the bad way, just that there's nobody here who is just for me. A friend or anything.

I don't think I'm homesick because like you've said before, I just didn't have much in Australia keeping me there. I mean, I miss certain people of course, but not "home" so much. Home isn't even there anymore. That was demolished during my first week of being here. I even managed to have a moment about that.

But I am having fun. I've been to a Liverpool game. I've been to Tower of London and London Dungeon. And I've reminisced about our adventures. Remember how we found London Dungeon to begin with? That was so much fun and a story I love telling. Last night we went to see Rhod Gilbert, a comedian & I laughed so much.

I've made a friend, I know I've told you about him, & he texts me every day so I don't feel so alone sometimes. And if I do, I can talk to him about it. He was really good to me last week. Texted me for hours telling me everything would be ok. Said I could call him - but I wouldn't because I was crying. He made sure I was ok. Walking into the pub the day we met him was the best decision I've made since being here, I think.

I know that makes it sound terrible. Sometimes it all gets too much. It does. I admit that. But I'm ok. It's also hard because like last night, Tuesday night, I said good night to Seamus & Carol. I said "Good night, see you... err..." And we figured out I won't see Seamus until Friday and Carol until Saturday. That's how I live. So even though I live with Seamus & Carol, I get really lonely.

I don't think I've made you feel any better about me writing this email. But I just want you to know I am ok. I am having a blast and I'm starting to make friends - with people from work and strangers from Twitter. It's the twentieth century! Or the twenty-first...? I can never remember.

I'm going to make a list of things I want to do on my days off so I have things to look forward to. I can wake up, look at my list and say "What am I going to do today?" And I think I'm going to ask work if I can drop back to four days a week. Four nine hour shifts is still 36 hours a week, so I can still have my pocket money working those hours. At this rate, I'm earning money with no time to spend it, which is great for my bank balance but bad for my sanity! :P

Anyway, I love you lots and I'll talk to you soon. Sorry I wasn't able to talk yesterday morning. I was off to work...

Love, Sammy Seal

At the Natural History Museum! Dinosaurs!

Traitors' Gate!
Tower of London: My favourite place in London!

Shooting stuff. 11 out of 12 stuffs!

You'll never walk alone!
At a Liverpool game!

Wembley Stadium for England v Ukraine!
My two best guy friends have gone now... :(

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Have you ever been sad when you're meant to be happy?
Have you ever had people sense you're not OK when you yourself can't even verbalise why you're not OK?

Of hot pink scooters & teal blue hair

2012-09-27T04:07:00.001+10:00

So here's a fun fact. I've been to England three times in my life. In that time, I managed to visit the Accident and Emergency department before Saint Paul's Cathedral. That has to be some kind of record. Albeit, not one I deserve any sort of kudos for.

So I moved to London three weeks ago. No big surprise there. Back in Australia, I used to injure myself a lot. Maybe a small part of me had hoped that this was something about air pressure, my relative position in correlation to the sea level or my distance from the equator. Or maybe just the amount of football I played. Apparently it's not. It's just me.

Week one of my new life in London found me with a double barrel shotgun in my hands for the very first time. This would give people who knew me cause to seek cover or flatten themselves in an attempt to preserve life and limb. But you see, I'm not uncoordinated, just unfortunate. Only I came off injured from my first ever attempt at clay pigeon shooting. That means the target is not only small, but moving through the air at a very fast rate. I shot 11 of my 12 targets before retiring with recoil injury. The trainers were stunned into shock and awe, I'm not exaggerating. My military trained brother only shot five from 12 so, you know, I think I can say I am a natural with a shotgun - as long as I don't have to shoot it any more than eight times or I am in severe pain for days.

Week two started on a positive note! I got a job at a lovely pub! I was so full of energy I went home and washed the dishes from last night's dinner - and promptly sliced my pinkie finger open across the knuckle on broken glass. My brother was very ill and I like to think he would have taken me to get stitches if he wasn't a mere shadow of a corpse. Instead, he cleaned the wound and patched me up while I put on my brave face (read: cried & curled up on the couch in the foetal position).

I did not let a minor flesh wound dampen my spirits however and sought a mode of transport. I took this task very seriously. After all, I am 27 years old. I am a published author. I have new employment in a prestigious pub on top of the second highest hill in London. So how did I choose to get to work?

On this.

Don't worry, it's made for adults. Or kids that weigh up to 100kg. Whatever, I fit on it, ok?!

And this was fine for my first few shifts. It was better than fine, it was fun. It was a conversation starter with my new coworkers and the patrons at the pub. Oh, and the feeling of flying down the second highest hill in London, daring myself to hold off on the brakes, feeling the wind in my (now blonde, purple and blue) hair was simply breath-taking.

Going home on Friday night / Saturday morning at around 2am and realising as I neared terminal velocity that I had no brakes thanks to a light dampness on the ground was breath-taking in a completely different way. In a split second, maybe even less, I had to decide whether to chance it with actually reaching terminal velocity before careering out on to the busy road this hill intersects with and hoping I could control the corner at full speed (if I made it over the speed bump alive, that is) and that no cars, trucks or buses would be wearing their usual path down that main road - or abandon all faith in a safe passage and simply abort the mission there and then.

Well I made my decision and I stand by it.

Ok, so I didn't stand for long.

My feet couldn't keep up as I tried to run at the speed my body mass was travelling at. Basic physics. Or gravity. Whatever, I stumbled and hit the bitumen. Hard. I ripped open my new shoes, tore three holes in my woollen tights (and the skin underneath on my knee and my ass cheek), grazed the heels of my palms and the pièce de résistance, smashed my entire shoulder into the ground as the lower half of my body collapsed. My skin was saved by my work shirt and Edgar Allan Poe hoodie.

Aptly, my iPod played "Goodbye yellow brick road" and Sarah Blasko mourned her own sad story about a painful road through my headphones. I sat in the gutter and cried. My hot pink scooter lay abandoned and skewif in the middle of the road. My hair, once free and windswept, started to matt to my face in a mixture of tears, sweat and light misty rain. Finally, with all the dignity I could muster, I picked myself and my scooter up and limped back to work.

My coworkers haven't known me long but even without my expressive face, it's not hard to tell when a girl hobbles in, mascara streaked down her face, hair a mess, holes in the uniform that minutes ago was pristine and dinosaur backpack hanging askew, something went wrong. As Wayne, the head chef put it to my boss, "Evel Knievel here didn't make her jump."

No Wayne, she did not.

I haven't been back on the scooter yet, but I will. It's too much fun. I will however, be purchasing a helmet. My mind boggles at the lack of laws here that allowed me to ride legally without a helmet. I also marvel at my own stupidity that I thought I was too cool or too invincible to wear one.

For the last four days I've been throwing up and at times, fighting in and out of consciousness. I've been in a lot of pain. I had to go A&E to get X-Rays. Thankfully and miraculously, nothing is broken. I have done severe muscle damage to my shoulder, will still be in a sling at the end of the week and have only today (Wednesday) managed the admirable feat of typing with two hands. Obviously, I haven't been able to work, thus haven't been able to get paid. I've relied on the generosity of my brother and future sister-in-law to keep me fed and looked after - including fetching my spew bucket and washing my dinosaur PJs for me when the fevers have rendered them unwearable.

In conclusion:

Expectation!

Reality.

And I'm going to Saint Paul's Cathedral before I kill myself!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

What's the worst accident you've been in?
Do you remember the slow and painful process in a blow by blow, second by second account?
Have you ever been sick or injured in a foreign country?

Adventures in red tape

2012-09-15T07:03:00.002+10:00

In case you haven't heard, I moved from Brisbane, Australia to London, England last week. Bit of a change if I'm honest. I quit my comfortable, safety-net job and landed in London with a plan to live with my brother and his fiancee and hope that... well, hope that everything turned out ok.

The most daunting part of this whole expedition (other than the flying part, of course) was getting a job. Europe has made no secret of its tough economy and from what I read in the media, jobs are few and far between. So my plan has always been to get a bar job and study to attain my referee's certificate and start refereeing football.

I signed up for my referee's course before I left Australia so I had already outlaid £130 in the hopes it would lead to steady work (and, in all honesty, career advancement to say, refereeing the women's world cup!?)

So you can imagine my surprise when I found a pub that I fell in love with, cheekily asked if there were any jobs going, was asked to drop off my resume and attended a job interview where I actually answered the question "So how long have you been in England for?" with "well what day is it? Tuesday? Then one week and one day!" I got the job.

Turns out that was the easy part. I am a British citizen thanks to my lineage so I am entitled to work here. I am also entitled to not work here and claim benefits. But I've never claimed benefits in Australia and so I don't plan to do that in England either. Upon being offered a job, it became apparent that I needed a bank account for being paid and a national insurance number (NIN). Back in Australia, this is like a tax file number, I guess.

Making the call to get the NIN was horrible. The woman on the other end of the line sounded a special breed of mind-numbingly bored of her job and very suspicious of my motives.

"And why do you want a NIN, miss?"

"Because I want to work. I've been offered a job and I'd like to take it."

"And why don't you already have a NIN, miss?"

"Because I've only just got to England."

"So when did you get to England, miss?"

"A week ago. September 3."

"A week ago? And you say you already have a job, miss?"

Not the best response, apparently. So I have an appointment with them on October 1. Might have been earlier without the attitude, I suppose. But today I got my letter explaining when my appointment would be and how I needed to bring proof of identity and proof of address.

I got excited about this letter coming today because I planned to go into town to open a bank account. This letter, sent to me at my address from a government agency would be great proof of address to get my bank account. Or so you would think. I chose Barclays because they sponsor the English Premier League and I've always wanted a Barclays account. They turned me down because my letter from a government agency was not sufficient proof of address. I needed something more - you know, like a bank statement. The lovely Barclays' guy, who saw the obvious redundancy of the situation since I was sitting with my brother, who I live with and who has all the proof of address they needed, had a minor coughing fit that sounded something like "Go to Lloyds of London. They'll probably give you a bank account but do it today before this bank account application denial goes on your record and nobody will give you a bank account." I hope he feels better soon.

So on a hunch, Seamus and I went to Lloyds. Barclays guy was right. They didn't care that all I had was a letter of confirmation of an appointment with the NIN people as my proof of address. Not at all. But they were not taking my word for it that I had a job lined up. No sir. They wanted a letter from my future employer stating they would be letting me work behind their bar. Seriously. To open a freaking bank account. Not a credit card, I didn't want their money, just an account for my own money to sit in and the bank to earn interest on. But of course, I didn't have this letter of employment yet because I needed to provide my future employer with some bank account details for them to complete my employment. Oh yes. Bureaucracy gone mad!

So I had to traipse up the hill to my pub to get my future manager to write a letter saying "Yes, Samantha will be working for minimum wage pouring beers for the good people of London. Please, for the love of Batman, give her a damn bank account so our patrons can get beer!" Or something to that effect.

I returned, letter in hand (with a With Compliments slip stapled to it, for that official touch) to finally get a bank account with Lloyds of London. Now I can start work at The Castle tomorrow.

On the way home, I nearly died of laughter when I realised something.

The NIN people mailed me a letter demanding my proof of address.

I opened a bank account using the NIN people's letter demanding I get proof of address.

I will get a bank statement with this same address on it.

I will take this bank statement, obtained using the letter of demand to get proof of address, to my appointment with the NIN people and use this statement as my proof of address.

Red tape. Not half as sexy as it looks.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Have you ever been the victim of bureaucracy gone mad?

Where I belong...

2012-09-05T20:28:00.001+10:00

I was bullied in high school. I was a social outcast. It hurt, it destroyed my confidence and in a way, it crushed my spirit. While I know the initial bullying was for something stupid and outside of my control (my family & I did a milk run... I know, right?), my overly-enthusiastic, somewhat offbeat & eternally optimistic personality seemed to bait my bullies into damaging my self-esteem as much as possible. Even teachers recognised I was a little bit odd. In the last English lesson of high school, my teacher gave out a literary quote, hand picked for each student to reflect her feelings for us as individuals. Mine?

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."

---Henry David Thoreau---

And that's what I have always done. I'm still overly-enthusiastic. I'm still somewhat offbeat. And I'm still eternally optimistic. But I'm also still very insecure that all these qualities I possess combine to make one really irritating human being who "deserves" all the bullying she got.

Until I joined a football team in 2011.

My cousin suggested I join & promised me that all the girls were a great & it was a very supportive team. I trusted her & honestly, it was the best decision I ever made. I was terrified going to the first training session. Dad, who just plain loves football, came with me. I was convinced that everyone would hate me, that I would just be "the new girl" and that I would not fit in.

I could not have been more wrong. Dad was straight away asked to be the assistant coach and the girls welcomed me as one of them. Not a single one treated me like I was anything but a friend and much appreciated teammate - and I mean for my personality, not for my (questionable) football prowess.

I was going through one of the worst periods of my life when I joined the team. I was actually suicidal and being part of a team that felt like they needed me helped save my life. I couldn't let them down when, by signing up to the team, I had made a promise. And I keep promises. Some of the girls knew about my troubles. They happily let me be number 7 to appease my OCD and it has been "my number" ever since. I "missed" one training session but what the girls don't know is I was actually there, in the parking lot, sobbing my heart out begging my dad to just let me kill myself. I tried so hard to be at training but I couldn't do it that night. But even despite it all, I knew, and I know now, that they would never judge me for all this.

Of course I signed on again this season. After our coach declined to continue, Dad was asked to be coach and he loves it - he genuinely loves all the girls and brags to his football team about what a great group of girls he has. Dad and I actually sold our house (after 20 years there) and moved closer to my teammates. Prior to this, we had lived 45 mins from my home ground. That's how much of a difference being part of this team has made to my life. Our biggest life decision in 20 years was made with the consideration of where my football team plays.

This season I tried to come off my Zoloft (which I am on for my OCD) and I became irritable and actually nearly got sent off in a few games. But my team understands me. They accept or dismiss my apologies as unnecessary and they love me anyway. It may be even because of my honesty. I don't know. All that matters to me is that they love and accept me.

I missed the last game of the season this year because my flight to England was 35 minutes before kick off. At my last game, most of the team agreed to come out to dinner with me to celebrate. I was only missing one game (and hope to be back in Australia in time for the next season) but they did the most amazing thing for me. After hearing of my Will Blog For Music campaign, the girls raised $100 to contribute and signed a huge card for me.

I cried. In many ways, I still feel like that bullied, outcast little girl, so to feel so accepted and loved by an entire group for exactly who I am, flaws and all, means more to me than any of the girls could possibly understand.

Today I spoke to Dad and he told me about the last game of the season that I missed to catch my flight to London. The girls, the amazing group of girls that I am so honoured to call my friends, wore yellow tape on their arms (the way other sporting teams were black arm bands as a mark of respect after a death) to show that I was there with them in spirit. I wear yellow tape on my football socks, that's the link there, but when Dad told me that, I cried. They didn't do it "for me", as in to tell me to make me happy, they did it "for me" in that they genuinely care about me and wanted to feel me there in spirit with them.

My team! See their yellow arm bands for me?

Since it was father's day, they also signed a father's day card for Dad and gave him a box of chocolates. Seriously. That's the group of girls I am talking about. That is my group of girls.

Even this post doesn't capture how I feel about my football team. How do you explain the way you feel for people who made you feel like a worthy human being, who welcomed you entirely for the first time ever and who, in essence, saved your life? I'm known for being quite verbose but in this case, I simply have five words.

Thank you. I love you.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Who do you owe thanks to?

Where do you feel the most comfortable?

What's been your experience with team sports?

Saying goodbye.

2012-08-25T00:04:00.000+10:00

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
~Annie

I leave for the UK in barely over a week. I will be gone for at least four months. So I have to say goodbye to a number of people. But goodbye seems so final, so inflexible. So one thing I make a point of when bidding farewell to people I know and love is to always say "see you later." If you know me in real life, it might be something you've noticed. And if you haven't, you probably will now.

I do this because I need that person to know I want to see them again. It is more a promise than anything else. Maybe a request or even a demand. And I do this fully expecting to actually see that person again.

I have said 'goodbye' twice, knowing full well it would be the last time I saw that person. They knew it too. One was my 80+ grandfather. The other was a two and a half day old baby. There was tears, heartache and a most surreal type of grief. It is something I wouldn't wish upon anyone, though I know it to be a stark reality of life.

But how do you word your goodbye when there is hope but you still know it may very well be the last time you ever see that person?

"Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well."
~Lord Byron

Tomorrow, I have to say goodbye to someone I know and have come to love and expect to be in my life. While I hope upon hope that it isn't the case, it is quite possible this person may pass away while I am overseas. I am devastated at the lack of support and hands on care I can offer. Together we fought this situation over the last year and we were told it was beat. And we rejoiced. But now, barely a week before I leave, we have been dealt the harshest of blows and the fight is back on. This time, with one less person to carry the burden.

A kind word and wishes for a speedy recovery mean a lot. Sitting by a hospital bed and being the smiling to face the greet the emergence from an anaesthesia means a lot more. I considered staying but it has been expressly forbade. Saying 'goodbye' is my only option.

But I've thought about it and I think the best thing I can do is to stay true to myself. Tomorrow I will say "see you later".

I request to see you later.

I demand to see you later.

I promise to see you later.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

Have you ever had to say 'goodbye'?

If all else fails, read the instructions...

2012-08-16T15:52:00.001+10:00

A Gummi Bear gave me some very good advice today.

Gather round and let me tell you a tale. Dad and I were reregistering my brother's car because I forgot to pay the rego. I'm clever like that. Dad was attaching the new number plates when I leaned in the car and realised it smelled damp. You know that wet dog smell? There was a Super Cheap right there so I decided to buy an air freshener in the hopes it would mask the wet dog smell. There happened to be one there called Cotton Candy and despite my car having having a completely neutral smell (except when 20 footballs are in the boot) I bought it for my car. I put one called Energy in my brother's car and Dad drove home. I put my cotton candy one in my car and drove to work.

To say my car smelled of cotton candy would be an understatement. The smell was overwhelming after one minute. I wound down the rear windows. I tried to focus on the rainbow road ahead of me and avoid the gumdrops cars. I was still in Candy Land when the Gummi Bear hitchiker I picked up back on Lollipop Lane asked if I was sure I had installed the air freshener right. I was offended. I may not have used air fresheners before but come on! How hard is it open a pack, take out the air freshener, hang it in your car and drive and enjoy the cotton candy aroma with your Gummi Bear hitchhiker passenger? (I believe he said his name was Cyril).

I humoured Cyril anyway, and looked at the directions. It turns out there are instructions for using an air freshener. You only take the air freshener out of the packet a tiny little bit more each week. This avoids potent hallucinations in which you're trapped in Katy Perry's California Gurls film clip.

This isn't the first time I've been caught out like this, either. Just this week I made my dad tomato soup (from a can, because Lord knows I am not a domestic goddess). At the shops, I bought him the single most expensive can I could find. After all, he was sick! I got it home and heated it up in a saucepan. So far, so good. When Dad began eating he said "Wow, this is really thick soup!" I proudly explained that I bought him the most expensive soup I could find! Nothing was too good for my sick father! He then asked me how much water I had to add to this brand of soup. ... ... ... err... none? Yeah, turns out soup is actually what is known as 'condensed'. This means "Just add water". One direction. It was right there on the can. "Empty can into saucepan. Fill can with water and add to saucepan. Heat." That was it, all I had to do. And I failed.

A few weeks before that I was at a party. A girl was drinking Ribena and adding tonic water to it. I asked her why she was doing that. She explained it was just like adding water but fizzier. I asked her why she would ever add water. She looked at me like I was idiot (fair call) and slowly explained "That's how you drink Ribena. It's like a cordial. You add water." Want to know why I stopped drinking Ribena? Because I thought it was so ridiculously overpriced when you only got two or three cups out of each bottle. I never actually read the instructions...

So my new motto! No matter how self-explanatory or obvious it may seem, I am going to start reading the instructions on absolutely everything!

Cyril the Gummi Bear agrees.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Have you (or someone you know) ever ignored instructions?
What are some stupid instructions you've seen?

"911, what's your emergency?"

2012-08-14T20:14:00.000+10:00

Have you ever found yourself in an emergency situation? One that you can't handle yourself so you need to call the professionals - ambulance, police, fire brigade?

I have, but because I was alone with my older brother, he was the one to call the authorities. We were home alone and suddenly I looked up and saw a man covered in blood standing in my hallway. My brother had let him in because he had come to our kitchen window begging for help. The people trying to kill him were outside and started banging on our windows, screaming for us to let them in. Seamus called the police (although an ambulance arrived too) and instructed me to run around the house making sure every window was secured. I was terrified, naturally, but my brother was the one to deal with the emergency and I just followed his orders.

Tonight, I faced an emergency situation on my own. I went to get chicken nuggets for dinner - because I'm 8 years old - and on the way, saw what I thought was a fender bender at the roundabout ahead. I moved into the right hand lane to go around but the two cars in front of me didn't move. The drivers were watching the activity beside us.

Two guys were standing at the driver's door of a Commodore. I watched as the two guys sauntered back to their car when suddenly one guy bolted back to the Commodore and tried to open the door. The driver reefed it closed again but didn't get it locked in time and the young man leaned in and started bashing the driver. Immediately, my brain screamed at me to do something! I picked up my phone to call '000' (the national emergency number here in Australia. Suddenly, and I wish I was making this up, my brain frantically argued, 'no, no! Call 911!! This is a real emergency!' Well done, Hollywood. Well done.

Thankfully, common sense prevailed and I called '000'.

As the phone was ringing, I got out of my car to go intervene. I don't know what I intended to do. I'm 5'6" and around 60kg but I couldn't do nothing! All of a sudden I noticed that the ringing phone was getting quieter. My fancy car's bluetooth phone system had my call and if I left the side of my car, I would not be able to summon help. So I began screaming: "Stop! Stop hitting him! Leave him alone! Just stop!!"

Finally a calm voice on the other end asked, 'Police, fire or ambulance?' I forgot they would do that. I thought the person answering would be immediately able to help. In a panicked voice I hope to never hear again, I pleaded for the police and gave her the suburb and state I was in. She put me through. By this stage, the man from the Commodore had half been dragged, half got out to defend himself.

The phone rang. The operator said she'd try another number. The phone rang again. The operator tried another number.

I watched helplessly as the attacker started sparring towards the Commodore driver. He raised his hands to defend himself. Then the attack got more vicious and he lunged towards the driver, punching wildly. The driver, panicked and trying to back away, tripped, landing on his back beside his rear tyre. The phone continued ringing. I continued screaming at him to stop! But he didn't. He leaned over the driver and began punching him repeatedly. The phone continued ringing. I tried again to make my way towards the incident, thinking I could run back to my car or scream my location to the police officer when they finally answered.

Finally a man from one of the cars that had obviously began to build up behind us came to the rescue. I couldn't hear him but I continued screaming, urging him to stop. I realised I needed details so I took this opportunity to take down the number plates of both cars using my phone. The attacker eventually let up and sauntered back to his car. Then seriously, both cars drove away. I know, right? Madness.

I considered telling the operator I didn't need the police anymore but I decided I should at least report what I had seen. And I was connected. The police officer I spoke to said I did the right thing. She insisted it was better that I wasn't able to leave the side of my car to intervene as much as I wanted to. Despite her assurances, I feel like I was useless. I know it could have been very dangerous and I could have been hurt but I really wish I was able to have done more. The officer was also impressed that I had taken the details of both cars. Unfortunately, due to the dark and the positioning of the cars, I wasn't able to identify the make or model of the second car. It was just a black 4WD that I didn't immediately recognise like I could with the Commodore.

So all things considered, did I do the right thing? I know what I did was right, per se. Sitting back and doing nothing would be wrong. But how did I really handle the emergency?

Firstly, I momentarily went to call '911'. That shows a clarity of thinking and presence of mind, right? Can you say 'panic'?

Secondly, I couldn't make my brain work enough to turn my car's bluetooth system off to enable me to make the phone call while simultaneously breaking up the fight. Between three huge men. But still! It's the course of action I wanted to take.

Thirdly, was that desire to intervene a mistake? If I was able to run over like my instinct demanded what would have happened to me? The likelihood is nothing other than some choice insults but the possibility ranges from damage to my property to serious injury to my person.

Fourthly, I thought about gathering evidence. I had my iPhone - as does much of the population - and what tools did I choose to use? The notepad. Seriously. I typed the number plates of both cars as a note. When I got home, after I finished crying and blubbering about how much I hate the world, shaking and trying to ease my headache, Dad asked me if I'd taken any photos. Err... no. Why not? I clearly remember thinking 'Take note of what these people look like. Remember the scene. Focus on as much detail as possible." Or... I could have taken a photo. Why didn't I think of that?

Just take a second to consider how you should react in an emergency.

Remember to stay calm, make keeping yourself safe your main priority, focus on getting help and concentrate on obtaining and/or remembering as much as you can for future reference.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

Have you ever had to use your national emergency number?
How do you think you have previously coped with an emergency?
If you've never been faced with an emergency situation, do you think you would be ok?

#WBFM Are dogs really man's best friend?

2012-08-01T21:23:00.001+10:00

Do you remember in high school when you got an assignment and you would scan the task sheet for the essay topic? If it was hard you would feel yourself drown in a pit of despair. If it was easy, you would casually drop it in the bottom of your school bag to be completely ignored until the night before the due date. Come to think of it, that's what I did even if it was hard. Maybe that's just me. But this little task comes courtesy of one of the sweetest benefactors of my campaign, MK13.

Well this topic for my #WBFM campaign (which you can still donate towards) isn't either of the those things. It's a little bit painful for me actually. My family has always had two pet dogs (with occasional weeks of having one dog). In fact, this is the first time in my life we haven't had any dogs. Dogs are awesome. Our main reason for owning dogs was the security. Not that any of the dogs we've owned have been terrific guard dogs. The best one we had was Sasha, a poodle x cattle dog who would bark incessantly at any stranger but would do so while backing up and remaining a few metres away. For that purpose, we could have got an alarm system. Or a 6' razor wire fence. The dogs were of course wonderful company who we loved dearly but as far as best friends go? No. No, not really.

Well in 2006, for the first time ever, I got my own dog. I wanted my very own pure bread tri colour beagle. I had saved up a lot of money to buy a Mini and I had a little bit left over. I decided I wanted a little boy puppy and found a breeder. My best friend and I drove out on Valentine's Day and I had my pick of the litter. But instead of the little boy puppy I had wanted, I fell in love with a gorgeous little girl. She rode home on Jess' lap and on the drive home, I decided to name her Luna.

Luna and I were inseparable. I took her everywhere I could. She would sit on the passenger seat of my Mini and we would listen to Michael Buble on the old school tape deck. I would sit on my back step and she would come bolting towards me and just leap, with absolute faith that I would catch her so she could settle into my lap (see photo). I bought her everything she needed in red - collar, leash, bowl, toys. She had a little bunny that she absolutely loved. I would even take her with me to Hervey Bay - a five hour trip one way in my Mini and she would sit patiently, even as a little puppy and watch the world go by. I would talk to her or I'd sing and sometimes, when we got settled on the highway, she would crawl over on to my lap.

I may make this sound like a long time but it really was only the space of twelve weeks. Because one day, she slipped out of the fence and was hit by a car. She didn't survive. I was at work. When I got home, I walked into the garage where Dad was and asked him where Luna was. The look on his face. I couldn't describe it but I know he spent the whole day dreading me coming home. I collapsed. I literally collapsed. I screamed. I howled. I became so hysterical that I became allergic to my own tears and my whole face swelled up. The only other time this happened was when my uncle died. I don't remember a lot of the time after this. I have a vague memory of sobbing in my work lunch room. I thought things I'm not proud of and showed weaknesses I wish I didn't have.

She was everything to me and I had so carefully thought about what my life would be like with Luna. I would have her when I got married. My children would have her as their first pet. She would grow up with them. I would always need to live where I had a yard for her. I made those decisions and was prepared for them. But it never happened. She would have been six now. And while I have a best friend, a best friend #2 and a best friend #3, Luna would still be a special kind of best friend. She would always be there for me and I would always be there for her. It's a different kind of reciprocal friendship to my human friends but I can't deny, Luna was one of the best friends I have ever had. When I get back from England, I plan to try again and find myself a new furry best friend, but there will never be another Luna.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

Do you think dogs can be man's best friend?
What was the best dog you ever had?
Do you prefer cats or dogs?

Honestly, I just have thanatophobia & OCD

2012-07-23T23:34:00.000+10:00

I am an honest person by nature. I mean that in the sense that I am not deceitful or deceptive. But I also mean I am forthcoming and open.

Sometimes I worry that I am judged negatively for my honesty and that, in the eyes of an extremely negative or jaded person, I could be viewed as attention seeking. I like attention, yes. I am human. But that is not my motivation behind my honesty - especially in regards to my mental health.

People view the mentally ill in a negative fashion. They just do. They're seen as a little bit scary, unstable and weak. Depending on the type of mental illness, this attitude can vary but it's never exactly positive, is it? I don't want to have people feel that way about me. I don't want them to be on eggshells, wondering what is happening inside my head. And aside from that, I don't want to hide. I am not ashamed of my mental illnesses. I didn't choose them and I refuse to be ashamed of something that is outside of my control.

There is another reason for my honesty too. I want to help people. When I told my psychologist about my attitude towards my mental illnesses and that I refused to be ashamed or hide them, he told me he wished he could bottle my attitude and give it to his other patients. I want people to see that it's OK to be honest. It's not OK to be mentally ill in that you don't need to seek treatment or try to get better, but it is OK in that you shouldn't need to hide or pretend. I think this helps with recovery. I know it helps me with mine!

I also know that my thanatophobia is rare. And if it is not rare, it is rarely spoken of. And one is as bad as the other for a sufferer. So I talk. I share my experiences and my thoughts. I tell my story in real time. And I am honest.

And sometimes, something happens that makes me realise I am doing the right thing. Don't get me wrong, I have detractors. I've heard myself referred to as a narcissist, an attention-seeker, a liar and just a good ol' fashioned nut job. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. I am very slowly developing the thick skin needed to carve myself out a corner of the internet for projecting my voice from. And I don't feed the trolls.

Yesterday, an article was written about me in the Sunday Mail. I was interviewed about my job running the 100+ Club and the book that I have written (which you can purchase here) when the conversation turned to my thanatophobia. I believe the journalist had checked out my social media presence. Anyway, she was so fascinated by our brief conversation that the next day she asked if she could do a whole story just on me and my mental health. This would never have happened without my trademark honesty.

Well a flurry of people sought my Facebook page and in turn, joined my little support group, The Safe Space. They told me they thought they were alone - the only sufferer in the world - crazy. But reading my story helped them. Some, profoundly. And none of this, none, would have happened without my honesty! And my favourite comment is this one, from a lady named Narelle: "I was in tears when I was reading the write up in the Sunday paper this morning. When I started to read other people's messages and their own experience I couldn't believe there were other people going through the exact same fears as myself. It was almost a relief knowing I wasn't alone in this."

So judge away, world. Whisper behind my back, call me crazy and call me a narcissist. But I am making a difference in this world. I am helping people and I am damn proud of who I am and what I am achieving. Honestly.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

Do you ever hide who you are?
Under what circumstances should someone hide their true self?

Happy birthday, BFF

2012-07-15T10:00:00.000+10:00

This is a love story. Plain, simple, pure. A story of the person in my life who out of pure choice, I love more than any other.

Her name is Jessica. I know that now but when I first met her, I kept forgetting her name. My forgetfulness was so persistent that Jess wore a black jumper with her name written in glitter puff paint and fireworks. I still remember that. But there's a lot I don't remember. You see, we were very young when we first met. In fact, I was five and she was four. It was early 1991.

Both our dads played football and were on the same team. At the first game of the season, Jess' dad said to her "why don't you go play with that little girl in the park?" So she did. And other than the fact it took me a while to learn her name, we soon became inseparable. Our families became friends and we soon spent all the time we could together. I wish I could remember what we talked about. We went to different schools but I came to learn all about her life outside of the time spent with me. I knew all her school friends' names. She would talk about Jason and I would talk about Thomas - our "boyfriends".

For a while, every year we would go to the Lord Mayor's Christmas Carols. I would bring my school best friend and she would bring hers. The four of us would dress up like idiots and sing all the carols. We made up "Daddy-Daughter Ekka Day". That's how we pitched it to our dads and they totally fell for it - taking us to the Ekka, handing over money and rolling their eyes as together we yelled "Thanks, Dad!" and took off, leaving our fathers to wander the Ekka together. In 2001 we made going to Leyburn an annual tradition! We actually spent a lot of time at motoring events with my dad.

We made up our own secret language. We wore matching clothes - but with Jess in purple and me in blue (Glitter fairies?). We learned how to put on make up together. When Dad taught me to drive, I taught Jess to drive.

"Sam, you're going to hit that tree."
"No, I'm not."
*hits the tree*
"I told you so."
"Uh oh..."

We started a band called M & M (we can't explain it to this day, but it was before Eminem) and wrote our own song...

"I work on a milk run for $12.10It don't but much but it pays the rent.I work all day and I work all night.Trying to make a living, it's an endless fight.

It's liiiiiiiiiiife! It's liiiiiiiiiiiife! It's liiiiiiiiiiiiiiife. It's life!

I work as a babysitter, minding someone's kidby the end of the night, I've flipped my lid.I work all day and I work all night.Trying to make a living, it's an endless fight.

It's liiiiiiiiiiife! It's liiiiiiiiiiiife! It's liiiiiiiiiiiiiiife. It's life!"

Lyrical genius, right? Yeah, we were like 12. We knew nothing about life.

In 2001 Jess' family decided they were moving to Townsville. To say I was devastated was an understatement. I cried. I told Dad I was moving to Townsville with them. Jess cried. She told her family she was staying in Brisbane and living with me. Neither plan eventuated and they moved anyway. She came down to visit me in the school holidays - her flight was booked with Ansett (remember them? But they collapsed just before she left!) Then we caught the Sunlander to Townsville. It ended up being over 24 hours on a train. Super fun! But for us, it really was. We rocked Townsville.

Her family moved back to Brisbane before school went back in 2002 and her family said she could go to any school she wanted. She chose mine! I could not have been more excited but Jess is almost a year younger than me so while I was in grade 12, she was in grade 11. Naturally we sat together at lunch time and my friends all became her friends. Sadly, that meant the grade 11s assumed she was snobby and did what bitchy teenagers do.

We'd always planned to live together in an awesome unit in the city and have awesome city jobs. That... never quite happened... But we worked together at two jobs. Jess got me a job as a waitress at 'The Tavern'. I got her a job as a waitress at 'The Hotel'.

In the ultimate demonstration of our love for each other, we got matching tattoos. We have four leaf clovers. Jess has it on her left hip (as she is left handed) and I have the mirror image on my right hip (as I am right handed). How do I know Jess is my BFF? She volunteered to go first. a) She was 100% on board with the idea and b) she trusted that I would do it after her.

We've been on holidays together. She came to stay with me in Bundaberg when I moved there for uni while she finished grade 12. We've shared almost every birthday with each other. I threw her a surprise sweet 16 birthday party. We've even spent Christmas day together.

Today is Jess' 26th birthday - the 21st birthday I have shared with her. I have a million stories I could share - the time we went to Rainbow Beach and watched the sunset from the dunes. And the dolphin jumped over the sun. Oh, wait. That was a dream - the time I had a grooming and deportment photo shoot at school and I convinced the teacher to let Jess come even though she went to a different school - the time we went to a movie marathon to watch three movies we had no interest in just to watch the fourth movie, Harry Potter, because we got into Harry Potter just after the first movie finished screening - "Hey there good looking!" "What?!" "...Want some chicken?" - the time we nearly lost my puppy down a storm drain and Jess, quick as a flash and with no regard her her own life (and the fact it was a gross storm drain) leapt in after him and saved Cujo - the time we were part of an actual world record breaking game of 'cram people into a mini' - the time we went to Goomburra for two nights and got completely lost and then when we finally found it we had no food and the lady who ran the place had to give us her own frozen steak and the next day we stole a sunflower to thank her and then proceeded to melt her tupperware while trying to cook microwave popcorn - but instead, on this auspicious occasion, I'll tell you about the time we went to Toowoomba.

I was meant to be on the absolutely compulsory senior camp. So naturally I didn't go. Instead, Jess' parents let her have the week off school too and we went to stay with my mum in Warwick. Mum had an appointment in Toowoomba so she dropped us off at the local shopping centre. We watched Dracula 2000 and wandered around the shops. When we finally got bored, we decided to explore Toowoomba - a pretty small little town. We ended up at a school.

Now remember, we were meant to be at school so students were there and we were dressed for shopping. At 15, 'dressing for shopping' meant tight jeans and tiny, sparkly tops. So there we were ambling around this school when we saw what looked like the office so we brazenly decided to go in. With much flourish, we pushed open the double doors and took a step in. Only it wasn't the office. It was a classroom. Full of students. Many startled, staring students.

We hightailed it out of there. We were giggling and breathless when we saw a very determined and official looking person. And he was clearly looking for us. We decided to face him. I mean, we weren't students, what could he do? We hurriedly chose our cover story.

"Can I help you girls?"

"Yeah, hi! Um, we're new to the town and Mum told us to go have a look at schools we like the look of. So maybe we would like to enrol here?"

The man, who we figure was the principal, looked us up and down.

"Well this is a grammar school. And it is an all boys school. I suggest you leave and enrol elsewhere."

I've known you for 21 years and you have been there through
absolutely everything. When I say you're my best friend,
I'm not just stating a fact, I'm not just shamelessly bragging, I'm
making sure everybody knows that they better not encroach on
my territory - that you are my best friend and I am so proud
and so thankful that I can say that.
Happy birthday, Jess! Love always & forever, Samantha xx

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

Do you have a best friend?
How did you meet and how long have you known each other?
What is your favourite story you've shared with your best friend?

<3 Happy birthday, my Adam. Eight years old. Gone but never forgotten. <3