MissLeonie.com

Be warned, this is going to be a very philosphical post.

Sometimes I have these thoughts enter my brain so casually that, although I know they are a product of my own mind, they surpise me anyway. Somehow, these ideas are so contrary to my nomral way of thinking that it’s almost as though someone else put them in my head. It’s enough to put the fear of God in ya.

This particular idea was that, as a child, time never passes quickly enough. Sinterklaas (or Christmas, take your pick) is still six WHOLE nights of sleep away. Your birthday isn’t for another nine months and six days (which, according to the schedule pinned to the wall above your bed, is exactly 1 + 31 + 31 + 28 + 31 + 30 + 31 + 30 + 31 + 31 + 4 = 279 days away, unless you forgot to cross out a number yesterday, which could be true cause Sesame Street was terribly exciting and a negligence in the crossing out area of life is not altogether unlikely). Even the end of the summer holidays is met with great enthusiasm. All the leisurely hours got a bit boring, and you’ve bought a beuatiful folder with a bear on it, and from this year onwards, you’[ll be allowed to use a pen!

Yet my current life is filled with deadlines and not-enough-times; not enough almost-times. I didn’t realise it until I noticed myself counting down the days until I’d be allowed to open my Sinterklaas presents sent to me by my (awesome!) family. I’m counting the days and the nights of sleep until the 5th of December (disappointingly enough, I didn’t think to pin a sheet of numbers to the wall). Although I am dreading my return home - I have to do SO much packing, and did I mention saying goodbye to the boyfriend, not knowing when I’ll see him again? - I also can’t wait for my mum’s tea and cooking, my sister’s hair-dying antics and my dad’s side-splitting stories.

That, in turn, lead me to think that life could be a lot more pleasant if I could change my attitude towards time. I’m going to start counting down the nights of sleep, like a 6-year-old. Time is going to pass, we don’t get a say in that, so we might as well find or create a reason to look forward to it.

Just two nights till Canberra! And only five until Sinterklaas!

I got up at 5:50 am this morning. My French exam was at 9:20, which meant I had to catch the 7:23 train to be on time. I’m not a morning person. Getting up before 7 am is a crime in my book. My opinion on appropriate times isn’t quite mirrorred in this household, as at least two people get up at 5 am every day, and being asleep until at least 8 o’clock on weekends is considered a waste. Yeah. Anyway, got up, managed to regain consciousness and see colour, got out the door and was amazed. The Netherlands are a bit gloomy in the early hours, but Australia just seems to ooze freshness and beauty.

I’d decided against bringing my camera to uni with me, because I didn’t feel comfortable about leaving it at the aforementioned Bag Collection Point. Boy, did I regret that decision on the train trip back.

We crossed the bridge over the Hawkesbury, the train drove through the tunnel, then back into the light. That’s when I first noticed the white clouds of burning gum tree smoke. And the helicopters. We went around a bend and I could no longer see any of it, but thought it would be a good story to tell nevertheless. It was as close to a real fire as I’d seen. We swerved round a bend in the opposite direction and I saw the smoke again. Then I suddenly realised I was heading in that exact direction.

The tracks next to the Hawkesbury river are incredibly close to the water on one side, and bush on the other. There’s nothing else: no roads; no houses, except across the water. Nothing but two train tracks, water and bushland. And the bushland wasn’t happy. As we got closer, the train slowed down more and more until it finally halted completely. There were three helicopters, one of which kept scooping water out of the Hawkesbury and dumping it on the source of the thick smoke ahead. I kept calling it “that scoopy thing,” which tells me I should really work on my bushfire lingo. The train driver informed us that there was a “bushfire ahead and we would wait here until it was safe to continue.”

I sent Liam a text along the lines of “I’m on a train, looking right ahead and it’s very, very smoky. And did I mention the helicopters? And the smoke? And the helicopters? Also, the train isn’t moving.” It was all quite surreal. We all just sat there, watched the helicopter scoop scoop, felt the train carriage shake as another helicopter came flying over, saw the smoke get thicker. After about half an hour, the smoke started to clear up. Fourty minutes later, we were moving again. I saw no flames (disappointing!), but as we drove past, I saw a ground crew of firies, and a bit of coaled bushland.

For anyone who is familiar with my insane fear of fire - odds are that anyone who knows me is - I would like to stress that I was extremely cool throughout the whole thing. I figured that if I were ever going to see a bushfire up close, it might as well be right next to a river, you know?

I’m never leaving the house without my camera again.

Years ago, when I was about 13 years old, my family and I went on holiday to a place called Arragón, in Spain. It is a beautiful area: the people are lovely, the environment is beautiful. It’s also very, VERY hot. The place has the questionable honour of being the first (and only) place that’s ever made me sick due to the temperature. We recorded a temperature of 28˚ at midnight there. This morning, Liam came by as per usual, so I could put bandages round his ankles. “What do you think the temperature is?” It was just after 5am, the coldest time of day, and it was 30˚ outside…

I had my first Macquaire Uni exam yesterday. Making my way down was interesting, to say the least, as it was very smoky outside. Think Zeeland fog, but with smoke. I don’t think there was a local fire. Instead, it’s proof that the fire in the Blue Mountains is completely out of control. Liam, who was at work, about an hour south, said they had the same smokiness there. However, on hot days, you never know with fires out here. There are visible signs of bushfires (or back burning) all along the train tracks. I made my way down alright though, and the only back burning I saw happening was due to the distinct lack of a sunscreen regime of some girls. Due to Bag Naziness (see below), I couldn’t take my camera with me, so I don’t have pictures of the smoke. Bit of a shame.

I was unsure of how to prepare for this exam: the tutorials had been good, interesting and valuable, but the lecturer was hopeless. There was no way anyone could know all that should have been (but wasn’t) covered in the course. To make matters worse, Macquarie Uni are the no-possible-way-of-cheating-within-a-sixty-mile-radius Nazis. You are not allowed to bring bags into the examination room, but are requested to drop them off at one of the designated Bag Collection Points. This means that if you don’t want to queue up for ages (so I had been warned), you shouldn’t bring anything. That’s a no to going over your notes on the train then. Mobile phones are the work of the devil: if you are found to have one on you, you will never see this university again. Pen bags? You are joking, right? No pen bags? No pen bags. Instead, you are requested to bring your writing equipment in a transparent plastic bag. And don’t even think about bringing coffee into the exam room: only clear drinks are allowed. By the grace of God, you’re allowed to keep your purse on you, but God does forbid you put it on the table. Tables are no place for wallets, instead, we would prefer you stack these under your seat. As we have hawk-eyed examination supervisors, no one will be able to even lean in the direction of your money before being expelled for three lifetimes, so it’s OK.

Like I said, I was warned that Bag Collection Points have huge queues. Most classmates recommend not bringing a bag. I brought my notes and figured I’d leave them outside of the classroom. If someone stole them, may the power of Theories of Writing be with them, cause I wouldn’t need to look at those notes ever again. I even brought my notes in a transparent plastic bag. However, being a sensible, fully integrated exchange student, I had also brought my Billabong cowboy hat - would the Examination Supervisor Stürmabteilung allow hats to enter the room? I didn’t want to risk it, so I did the whole Bag Collection Point thing anyway. And there was no queue.

I brought a hat, because as mentioned before, it was scorching hot. And I’m a nice blue-pinkish type of pale, thus extremely susceptible to the Scorching Power of Australia. We only just didn’t hit 40˚. I didn’t have my phone with me, because of the whole “I’m not dropping my bag off anywhere” thing, so I walked home from the station. When I got there, everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Walking? In this weather? I’ll have to refer to another Spanish holiday: if you can manage walking to the toilet building on a huge campsite on the Costa Brava at midday, walking home from the station when the sun’s almost down isn’t that big a deal.

We’re back online! Don’t worry, I was only temporarily on leave (that, or the hosting and domain name companies hadn’t processed Liam’s payment yet). I’ve been so busy doing absolutely nothing: it’s great.

I’ve been reading in the morning sun, cuddling little Bailey to death (with or without a fascist moustache), getting to know my camera, preparing the pool for serious swimming action… And I’m also in the process of writing something. I have always wanted to write. I’ve always thought of myself as a writer on the inside. Someday I’d get to writing that story. Someday I’d get started on my first novel. I had work to do - textbooks to read, essays to hand in. But someday, I’d get to it. Absolutely.

But what if someday is today? When then is now? Lisa Chappell has done an amazing job. Not only has this former McLeod’s Daughter had the courage to leave something safe to pursue her lifelong dream of recording an album, she’s recorded a great album. An album that starts inspiring you as soon as you hear the title. She’s right - what about When Then Is Now? Her music isn’t what I’d normally listen to, but I somehow feel compelled to support her brave leap of faith. Fortune favours the brave? The album is folksy, bluesy and straightforwardly simple. Lisa’s voice with minimal instrumental accompaniment. Simple but gripping lyrics. I couldn’t help but think - if she can leave a successful and popular TV role and sell her car to make a demo, all that to finally sing… Why can’t I just type up a page in Word?

Before I even got up to walk to my computer I had a story in my head, defying my enternal excuse. “I never know what to write about, but I can write well if you tell me what to write about.” I suddenly knew exactly what to write. I’m not saying the writing is effortless. I’m very perfectionistic and I love the English language, so I force myself to phrase everything just right. I stir and try the words until they taste just right. I still need a bit more salt, and possibly a few proverbial herbs, but I’ll get there. Someday. Someday soon.

Liam and I were going to invade Sydney tomorrow, but his ankle is playing up out of nowhere (the doctor things he sprained it - Liam doesn’t know when he did that) has put a halt to that plan. So we’re not going anywhere.

Which nicely takes me to the next topic of this post. Where the hell are we going? I’m away from my university for a semester and suddenly, I’m unsure if I want to return to the Netherlands. Where are we headed? What on earth is happening in my country? It feels as though something’s boiling, just minutes away from boiling over, and that scares me.

There is a demonstration against plans to build a mosque in my uni town. I should explain that my uni town is as close as it gets to a Mormon community in the Netherlands. You won’t find stauncher Christians anywhere within Dutch borders, except for a few isolated communities in the middle of the country. However, these people? Have no issues with this whole mosque building plan. Instead, an organisation calling itself the “Nationalist Movement of the People” has decided to pick this quiet, slow town to vocalise its dislike of “foreigners.” No licenses for a counter demonstration have been awarded by the mayor in an attempt to keep the peace. I should also explain that this organisation? Yeah, not from my uni town at all. Consider this a loud “Go home yourself!”

PS. As for the ridiculous female muslim teacher who suddenly refused to shake hands with men, sanity prevails. Despite some “organisation for equal treatment”’s verdict that she doesn’t have to shake hands at work if she feels it’s against her religion, all Dutch political parties have said it’s an important part of Dutch politiness traditions, so shake it. Sadly, this is the first thing they have agreed on since 1990.

Updates? What are those. <insert usual excuse about being busy, it being the final week of uni and all, be sure to mention that updating should resume as normal as soon as next Tuesday passes without my collapsing or throwing myself out of a window due to frustration with a certain essay>

Also, certain people should be receiving postcards by now. If you haven’t, there are a number of possiblities: 1. I don’t have your address, or 2. I’m not sending you a postcard, or 3. I think I have your address, and the people who moved into your old place are thinking they might have gone to high school with me or something, or 4. I didn’t have you address, but I do now, so it’s time to set up camp near your letter box. Chop chop!

PS. I did manage to take a (one) photo this afternoon. And you know you can’t wait to see it. Letter box, photo, letter box, photo: the eternal dilemma.

Those of you who know me know that I am quite nostalgic. Of couse, nostalgic is just a nice way of saying “sentimental hormone-driven sook whose stocking skills would make a hamster proud,” but luckily, we are all nice. Turns out Australia is the equivalent of a nostalgic’s field day, which is quite an achievement for a country that’s only come to exist the way we know it two centuries ago.

See, one of the things I absolutely adore about Australia is that old-fashioned little corner shops still exist here. Sure, they make their money by ripping off school children who are made to wear uniforms that went out of fashion at about the same time corner shops went out of fashion in most of the Western world, but the point is, they’re here. They still exist, and they’re lovely.

There’s one in Asquith, near the train station, that’s run by two of the most lovely shopkeepers I’ve come across. A couple in their early sixties get up every day to serve school kids and locals who forgot something on their shopping lists. Seriously, when was the last time someone OFFERED YOU A STRAW with the bottle of soft drink you purchased? Have you seen many shops lately that sell little resealable bags the type your grandmother uses to store… well, everything (the hoarding most have started somewhere, after all), those bags, with the price written on there in marker pen and lots of happy looking sweets inside? I know there’s one of these in Asquith and I’ve seen another one along the bus route to uni. And let’s not forget to mention my beloved Harden and Temora, two towns practically made up of these little old-school shops.

I don’t know a single town in the Netherlands where you could still pop in for the paper and a bottle of soft drink (WITH a straw). You could do that very thing at a newsagent too, but the point is that we haven’t got any of THEM left either. Magazines are bought at a book shop or the supermarket. Simple.

Simple, but boring. I plan on single-handedly supporting the survival of corner shops as long as I’m here. Just because the band is good. And - alright, alright! - also because I’m a hamster.