Brighter Orange
Posted on 2008-Jun-2 at 10:07
Hmmmm... I believe that I have blogged before that life can be a funny old ride. I believe that I have also blogged before that life can be a not-so-funny old ride. Well guess what? It’s back to being a funny old ride again. I can hardly believe what has just happened...
I know I haven’t been here for awhile (*hangs head in shame...again*) and so I suppose I should pick up from where I left off – that is, feeling extremely sorry for myself as the Fundinator and I packed up the Poo Brown Flat in preparation to leave Perth for Orange and to live for a time with my mother. Well, fortunately, that all went off more or less without a hitch and on the May 1st we said our final Poo Brown goodbyes and flew from the west to the east coast. We flew into Sydney, to be precise, where we spent a couple of days. This initial diversion also took some of the sting out of the move because, of course, the Fundinator had not been to Sydney before and so I could again play the proud tour-guide and show him all the famous spots that he had only previously seen on the telly.
Sydney turned on some lovely autumn weather, pleasantly cool and clear - especially after the hot haziness of W.A. The beers were cheaper than in Western Australia and we sampled them goodly as we made our way around the City of Brides. The only hiccup was when the entire harbour ferry held it’s breathe as Fundy publicly declared our precious Opera House to be “a bit seventies” (Hmmph. The nerve!). However, noting the profusion of grey-brown smoked glass panelling glinting in the sun, everyone then breathed out again with a resigned sigh and a chuckle. He was right. :D
Of course, we also had to pay homage to that old trusty haunt of my youth: Bondi Beach. Here the Fundinator dipped his toes into the Pacific Ocean for the first time and we both solemnly saluted the exact spot where once, in the late 80’s, a seagull shat directly into my sun-baked belly button from a great height. I still laugh at the chances of this happening – me wearing a bikini, I mean.
Next it was down to Wollongong for a few days and, although we have been together for nearly three years now (how fast has that gone!), time to officially introduce Fundy to my good old Dad. No worries there and cold beer was soon cracked and the conversation flowing. Dad is originally from England, too – hence my handy dual passport - and, although he hasn’t been back there since 1966, notes were compared, sports discussed and heights measured (at 6’4” Dad is just marginally taller than the Funds). I just sat back and enjoyed the manly rapport, pleased that it was all working out well.
A few days later it was our final sojourn – over the Blue Mountains and into central western New South Wales. Back to Orange. Or back for me, anyway. For the Fundinator, of course, it was his virgin trip. The poor man.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my Mum and it was great to see her and my Orange-dwelling relatives and also for Mum and the Fundinator to finally meet, but a sense of gloom and failure settled over me like a grey cloud as we crossed the town limits. Oh, wait a second, that really was a grey cloud: the wintry, damp weather matched my mood. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here and again disparaged the series of cosmic events.
I tried to put a brave face on it. I really did. I showed Fundy around a bit (pointing out the old lady shop and insisting on burgers from Stans, etc) but to me the whole town just seemed to be full of death, divorce, boredom and sickness. No one had much of anything good to say (“Ohhhh, you’re here in winter... why?... well I hope you’re prepared, it’s just awful...”) and though we trudged the streets and employment agencies looking for work, even those whose job it was to facilitate it were all doom and gloom (“Well, you’ll be lucky to find a job in this town at this time of year... all the fruit’s off... mechanics need tickets in New South Wales, didn't you know... Oooh nooo, admin work is rarer than hens teeth...”). Feeling very dejected indeed, Neil picked up forms for shelf stacking in Franklins and I considered going back to being the drive-thru chick at McDonalds (the job I had when I was 15). Staring into our schooners along with the other jobless gits at the pub, we seriously considered turning around and going straight back to Perth and never leaving the comfort of a boom town ever again. Except we had no money. We had no nothing. Well, Mum and I had a fight. It only took three days. Even our most discerning friends and relatives had earliest bets on five. It was all very depressing indeed.
Then things started to look up. Sensing the pervading aura of hopelessness, Mum raised enough money from somewhere for us to buy a bombed out old station wagon. Of course we have to pay her back – but we have wheels! Thanks Mum! This widened our radius of work opportunity considerably and we set about printing resume’s and salting them around with renewed gusto.
Then Neil lucked out. He happened to talk to the boss of a machinery hire company who gave him the name of a person to talk to at a specific employment agency and, thanks to this secret handshake, Funds now has work. Oh it is a job that he can do standing on his head and is a bit boring but he likes it well enough and it is decent-enough money coming in. It's a start.
Meanwhile, I rang people and looked in the paper and smiled nicely and applied for anything that I thought I might be able to get away with. There really wasn’t much around at all but I did my best and at last people started to call for interviews. I even got a call back from a consultancy company that I randomly emailed in desperation (I don’t want to go back to that caper if I can help it). Then the most amazing thing happened. I got a call back on a job I actually wanted. Badly wanted. Would have killed and maimed for, actually.
I couldn't believe that they would actually advertise for such things, but there it was. Staring open-mouthed into the little local freebee paper that they put out every week I saw the magic words: Position Vacant – Writer/Photographer, Full Time.
I nearly didn’t apply, you know. My first thought was “oh wouldn’t that be great...” followed by “if only I had a chance...”; nevertheless, despite feeling that there was no way I would ever possibly be considered, something propelled me to spend the whole weekend meticulously going through my old photos and academic publications and blogs to actually try. I spent hours and hours putting together an embarrassingly greenhorn and rudimentary ‘portfolio’ and even shyly asked a few people their opinion on it before writing an honest here-I-am I-know-I-have-no-experience-but-please-please-pick-me cover letter and sending it in.
And now *drumroll please* you are looking at (well, reading) the latest intrepid reporter for Orange Photo News. Heehee!
Like I say, it is only a little freebee paper that comes out every Thursday and so it's not like I am going to change the world with any hard hitting editorials. But in the wierdest sort of way I feel so pleased with myself. The articles are feel-good pieces and interviews with town locals, leaning heavily on community pictures and stories. You know the type of thing: Granny Mavis turns 110 this week and credits her longevity to beer, pies and a daily dose of Worcestershire sauce or some such thing (*insert picture of old dear with crotcheted blankie and a gummy grin*).
I start tomorrow and I can’t wait!
The pay is absolutely terrible but, out of a pile of applications (including a swarm of young media graduates from the local university), the Man offered the job straight to me. I just couldn’t believe it. Perhaps it was the example story of the Spanish Space Toilet that did it? Heehee!
And so things have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous and I have spent the last seven days turning down a variety of alternative jobs offered to me from other interviews. Even though they pay more, I don’t want them. I want to do this. I really do.
And I also want to say thankyou to all you fantastic people who have ever read my blog in the past and encouraged me to write. I don’t believe I would have ever had the confidence to apply for such a job had your voices not rung in my ears. Particularly yours, Dr Dog. Thank you.
So stay tuned for the continuing adventures of The Luckiest Girl Alive. I’ll be able to blog more often now. After all, it’s my job. :D
I know I haven’t been here for awhile (*hangs head in shame...again*) and so I suppose I should pick up from where I left off – that is, feeling extremely sorry for myself as the Fundinator and I packed up the Poo Brown Flat in preparation to leave Perth for Orange and to live for a time with my mother. Well, fortunately, that all went off more or less without a hitch and on the May 1st we said our final Poo Brown goodbyes and flew from the west to the east coast. We flew into Sydney, to be precise, where we spent a couple of days. This initial diversion also took some of the sting out of the move because, of course, the Fundinator had not been to Sydney before and so I could again play the proud tour-guide and show him all the famous spots that he had only previously seen on the telly.
Sydney turned on some lovely autumn weather, pleasantly cool and clear - especially after the hot haziness of W.A. The beers were cheaper than in Western Australia and we sampled them goodly as we made our way around the City of Brides. The only hiccup was when the entire harbour ferry held it’s breathe as Fundy publicly declared our precious Opera House to be “a bit seventies” (Hmmph. The nerve!). However, noting the profusion of grey-brown smoked glass panelling glinting in the sun, everyone then breathed out again with a resigned sigh and a chuckle. He was right. :D
Bloody tourists! :D
The Sydney Opera House. An amazing building. The roof is literally stuck on with Araldite (a brand of superglue popular in the... um... seventies.)
Of course, we also had to pay homage to that old trusty haunt of my youth: Bondi Beach. Here the Fundinator dipped his toes into the Pacific Ocean for the first time and we both solemnly saluted the exact spot where once, in the late 80’s, a seagull shat directly into my sun-baked belly button from a great height. I still laugh at the chances of this happening – me wearing a bikini, I mean.
Fundy does Bondi
.
Next it was down to Wollongong for a few days and, although we have been together for nearly three years now (how fast has that gone!), time to officially introduce Fundy to my good old Dad. No worries there and cold beer was soon cracked and the conversation flowing. Dad is originally from England, too – hence my handy dual passport - and, although he hasn’t been back there since 1966, notes were compared, sports discussed and heights measured (at 6’4” Dad is just marginally taller than the Funds). I just sat back and enjoyed the manly rapport, pleased that it was all working out well.
Honchos on the headland: Dad and Fundy at Stanwell Tops
A few days later it was our final sojourn – over the Blue Mountains and into central western New South Wales. Back to Orange. Or back for me, anyway. For the Fundinator, of course, it was his virgin trip. The poor man.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my Mum and it was great to see her and my Orange-dwelling relatives and also for Mum and the Fundinator to finally meet, but a sense of gloom and failure settled over me like a grey cloud as we crossed the town limits. Oh, wait a second, that really was a grey cloud: the wintry, damp weather matched my mood. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here and again disparaged the series of cosmic events.
I tried to put a brave face on it. I really did. I showed Fundy around a bit (pointing out the old lady shop and insisting on burgers from Stans, etc) but to me the whole town just seemed to be full of death, divorce, boredom and sickness. No one had much of anything good to say (“Ohhhh, you’re here in winter... why?... well I hope you’re prepared, it’s just awful...”) and though we trudged the streets and employment agencies looking for work, even those whose job it was to facilitate it were all doom and gloom (“Well, you’ll be lucky to find a job in this town at this time of year... all the fruit’s off... mechanics need tickets in New South Wales, didn't you know... Oooh nooo, admin work is rarer than hens teeth...”). Feeling very dejected indeed, Neil picked up forms for shelf stacking in Franklins and I considered going back to being the drive-thru chick at McDonalds (the job I had when I was 15). Staring into our schooners along with the other jobless gits at the pub, we seriously considered turning around and going straight back to Perth and never leaving the comfort of a boom town ever again. Except we had no money. We had no nothing. Well, Mum and I had a fight. It only took three days. Even our most discerning friends and relatives had earliest bets on five. It was all very depressing indeed.
Then things started to look up. Sensing the pervading aura of hopelessness, Mum raised enough money from somewhere for us to buy a bombed out old station wagon. Of course we have to pay her back – but we have wheels! Thanks Mum! This widened our radius of work opportunity considerably and we set about printing resume’s and salting them around with renewed gusto.
Then Neil lucked out. He happened to talk to the boss of a machinery hire company who gave him the name of a person to talk to at a specific employment agency and, thanks to this secret handshake, Funds now has work. Oh it is a job that he can do standing on his head and is a bit boring but he likes it well enough and it is decent-enough money coming in. It's a start.
Meanwhile, I rang people and looked in the paper and smiled nicely and applied for anything that I thought I might be able to get away with. There really wasn’t much around at all but I did my best and at last people started to call for interviews. I even got a call back from a consultancy company that I randomly emailed in desperation (I don’t want to go back to that caper if I can help it). Then the most amazing thing happened. I got a call back on a job I actually wanted. Badly wanted. Would have killed and maimed for, actually.
I couldn't believe that they would actually advertise for such things, but there it was. Staring open-mouthed into the little local freebee paper that they put out every week I saw the magic words: Position Vacant – Writer/Photographer, Full Time.
I nearly didn’t apply, you know. My first thought was “oh wouldn’t that be great...” followed by “if only I had a chance...”; nevertheless, despite feeling that there was no way I would ever possibly be considered, something propelled me to spend the whole weekend meticulously going through my old photos and academic publications and blogs to actually try. I spent hours and hours putting together an embarrassingly greenhorn and rudimentary ‘portfolio’ and even shyly asked a few people their opinion on it before writing an honest here-I-am I-know-I-have-no-experience-but-please-please-pick-me cover letter and sending it in.
And now *drumroll please* you are looking at (well, reading) the latest intrepid reporter for Orange Photo News. Heehee!
Like I say, it is only a little freebee paper that comes out every Thursday and so it's not like I am going to change the world with any hard hitting editorials. But in the wierdest sort of way I feel so pleased with myself. The articles are feel-good pieces and interviews with town locals, leaning heavily on community pictures and stories. You know the type of thing: Granny Mavis turns 110 this week and credits her longevity to beer, pies and a daily dose of Worcestershire sauce or some such thing (*insert picture of old dear with crotcheted blankie and a gummy grin*).
I start tomorrow and I can’t wait!
The pay is absolutely terrible but, out of a pile of applications (including a swarm of young media graduates from the local university), the Man offered the job straight to me. I just couldn’t believe it. Perhaps it was the example story of the Spanish Space Toilet that did it? Heehee!
And so things have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous and I have spent the last seven days turning down a variety of alternative jobs offered to me from other interviews. Even though they pay more, I don’t want them. I want to do this. I really do.
And I also want to say thankyou to all you fantastic people who have ever read my blog in the past and encouraged me to write. I don’t believe I would have ever had the confidence to apply for such a job had your voices not rung in my ears. Particularly yours, Dr Dog. Thank you.
So stay tuned for the continuing adventures of The Luckiest Girl Alive. I’ll be able to blog more often now. After all, it’s my job. :D
Tourists again: The Fundinator and I say cheeeese in the Blue Mountains
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