Shopping in a shopping centre

I didn’t get a shift from PPR work on ANZAC day this year. Fair enough, in the past three years, I only had a shift from them for this rarely double pay day once. To compensate this miss out fortune, I went shopping in High Point shopping centre. This may sound silly, but given that I am living in the city, a proper shopping centre is unnecessary for my metropolitan life. In ordinary days, Melbourne central shopping mall has more than enough shops, and if I need something quirky I can always go down to Brunswick St. Despite of this, a shopping centre gives a suburban shopping experience that no other city shopping district can construct. Walking in the shopping centre, a family orientated atmosphere whiffs straight onto your face. Babis are babbling in the pram, boyfriend/husband/grandpa and girlfriend/wife/grandma are dawdling in the mall, enjoying the time of being relaxed and looking for nothing but everything. Occasionally, a kinky shop pops up, drawing your attention with an invisible magical string. The smells of exotic cuisine are kneaded together, rise from the food court and make you stop to eye on their menus. Hmm……the whole shopping complex experience usually finishes off in the well posh Myer store, left with a touch fragrant smell in your hand.

Indecisive

I have to admit that I am very indecisive in nature. Cases are ranging from making up my mind to choose what to cook for a meal, tossing between movies for the night, and even now on moving house. After serious considerations and complex calculations, I finally disregard the brilliant idea of living on my own. It is not the time. After all, getting out of this country is the first important priority on my list.

The well casted Godsford Park was on TV last night. This movie was situated in a posh duck shooting resort, where upper class men came together to show off their wealth and made the already messy life messier. A murdering happened half way into the movie; everyone is a suspect. The heavy English accent as well as slow pace made the suspicious theme hard to follow. I fell asleep naturally, like what I used to do when I lived with big C. Z went downstairs just before the murderer was about to reveal, and expected me to watch it for him. When I opened my eyes again, film credits were showing on TV and Z was asking me who was the murderer. He was jumping up on his feet when he found out I didn’t even know he went downstairs, nor even the end of the film. Film is like a perfect lullaby to me. Don’t ever watch a film with me and expect me to watch it from beginning to the end; more than half the chances are you have to find me a bed when it finishes.

In the first half of the year, there are always lots of holidays. I am having three four-day weeks recently: two for Easter, another for ANZAC. Like Aussies, I did nothing but relax and read. Mum and Z does cookings and chucks food in my already jam-packed fridge, boosting my weight scale to a terrified read.

After months of cogitation, I finally quit my hospitality job. Although my weekly income will be significantly less and I since have to spend on a tight budget, I can have my weekend back to do Aussie adventures such as horse riding, bush walking and clubbing.

Another big trip is scheduled on its way. I am planning to drive to Sydney, a ski resort, then back past Canberra and back to Melbourne. This is going to happen in July, possibly with K and
B.

Shyness

Someone told me that I was such a shy girl; I took that as a compliment. As I have said before, I am quite a taciturn person and prefer to sit alone whenever it is possible. I would love to sit quietly and just to let my ideas stream out. However, since I started working, things are coming one after another. Apart from feeling brain drain, I could feel nothing.

I avoid talking to mum. I am trying to satisfy her as much as I can financially, but I am scared that she wants me to comply with all THEIR plans. I don’t want to get their pressure of staying in Australia FOEVER. If that is the case, I would prefer to die in TB.

Melbourne Autumn

After weeks of running on my toes, I could finally slow down, clean up my mess and manage my own matters. A few months tossing between moving out or staying, I decided to choose the first one last week. Although I will only be in Melbourne for another half a year, I desperately need some private space. Despite all the troubles and money involved, I think I deserve to treat myself something better, given that I have been working so hard in the past few years.

In this Easter break, I drove down to Point Nepean. The weather was bleak, unlike the astounding view I saw two years ago. The tip of the peninsula stretches out, reaching the pale face of the solitary skyline. The klunky emplacement bases are eroded, tumbling in the chilly ocean wind.

Every autumn in Melbourne, maple leaves change into their yellow dresses, swooping around dreary man. Breeze is blowing souls away, leaving bodies live aimlessly on the earth.

Numbers trick

I lost communication to the outside world for eight hours today as I left my mobile on the messy desk this morning. The ten Arabic squiggles are the most powerful symbols in human life; it represents flesh in this electronic era. Phone, house, public transport, etc. are all stamped with numbers. Number is the first contacting point to most things. The tricky thing is, once we lose our trace or our memories to certain numbers, we are likely to lose our world. Things like today, I didn’t know what was going on outside my office windows until I rushed back home and grabbed my phone with missing messages and phone calls.

I was wounded all over after the two-day dance camp: a scratch on my face, bruise in the palm and a burnt mark on the finger tip. Apart from these misfortunes, the annual Melbourne-Monash dance camp was great fun. We danced ten hours in total over a one-night and a day period. I took two advance classes: swing and ball room Latin. Although I hadn’t touched swing for almost a year, I was still able to follow most of the steps, yet for ballroom, Irien from Monash taught us Tango! Opps! I believed most people in the class knew nothing of Tango as we all ended up in a big mess. The most delighted bit was the night’s progressive dance. We learnt the Monash group Cha, Melbourne group Jive and Waltz in Barbie Girl music. The camp finished off with a camp fire, in which marshmallow melted away softly and chicken winds were singed with wood ash.

Sunday was spent with family, which happened to be my cousin’s birthday and pre-mum’s arrival discussion. Sore legs are inevitable; colds from this pre-winter season might have also followed me all the way from Mt Evenlyn. I could feel the cold virus was spreading inside my body. My body trunk is strengthless, and tiredness is shown noticeably on my face. Given my poor health state, I still had to uphold my rest of energy to argue with my family members upon mum’s two-month stay in Melbourne. To be honest, I don’t want her to come. She can do nothing to help me recover better but make me even more tired and restless as she would not spend 3hr-return daily to come from my grandma’s house to my house. I will have to spend at least three weeks showing her where to shop and how to take bloody Melbourne public transport to my house.

At the moment, I desperately need more sleep and have a good rest. I am feeling my energy and spirit is draining out of my body to this tiresome family visit. Why my family always do this to me? On one hand they say they are doing good things for me, on the other hand they are cracking them and pushing more harm to me. My sickness is more or less comes from their pressure.

Grand Prix fever

The weather on Sunday was gloomy enough, chilli wind got into your collars in anyway it could, and feelings of depression was up in the air. The fever of F1 was not hence degraded. Albert park was crowded with enormous of F1 fans. Red was the most prominent; it can not be denied that Ferrari is the most populated race car whatsoever. Holding a general admission ticket at a discounted student price, we tried hard to detect a good spot for the most convulsive experience of the fastest cars racing in the world. After sightseeing around half of the venue, we found ourselves a mound right next to a turning corner of the racetrack. The following one and a half and hour was tremendous, shivering in cold to watch Michael Schumacher, Fernando Alonso, and Ralf Schumacher flashed past us. The surge of F1 power is sensational. The only disappointment for me was not seeing M.Schemuchar crashed his car into a concrete fence wall and got totally written off. But still, we saw his trashed car towed past by, with the remarkable red as his superior indication.

Work is getting duller and duller; I am going to look for something new next week. The Australian way of getting paid for doing nothing is not a fortunate but a disaster to me. I am getting good paid for doing little things splash me into a pool of concerns. Should I venture out to try things in my field, knowing that rocks and puddles are unescapable? Or should I enjoy an easy life in the remaining three months of medical treatment?