Under Sleep.

This morning I got up at 4am to catch an early flight, and now I am a little scared of myself. Because past experience of tired-me, says I am a loaded cannon. A loose fire-arm. A whole host of gun-related analogies.

Because when I Under Sleep I do lots of stupid things, which I will discuss further in a sec.

Sometimes I don’t even realise I’ve Under Slept it can creep up so gradually. A second hot-chocolate here, an accidental episode of ABC’s ‘Model Agency’ there, and next thing you know you’re seriously wondering how come that German model doesn’t just RELAX, when what you should be wondering is how you will pretend to be a normal, awake grown-up tomorrow.

Luckily the ‘stupid things’ (mentioned above) come with their own 'thought-clues', which I believe are designed to help me recognise Under Sleep.  And over time I have come to acknowledge these thought-clues as old friends, and to greet them knowingly upon their arrival in my head (which is always unannounced and awkward - like when your boss dresses as Santa to the office Christmas party).

Typical 'thought-clues' can include:

1. ‘Where did all of these bruises/scratches/grazes come from?’

Answer: All the things I have recently started absent-mindedly walking into.

2. ‘Gosh, I certainly have been dropping lots of things lately.’

This has in the past included (but has certainly not been limited to) alcoholic beverages, anything glass, other peoples’ wedding rings.

3. ‘Where did I leave my phone/keys/wallet/coffee/laptop/car?

Answer: fridge/medicine-cabinet/roof of my car (usually that last one).

4. ‘I can see that it’s not that funny, but I am giggling anyway’.

This one can be quite pleasant for observers- particularly good for the self-esteem of those in my life prone to telling poor-quality jokes.

5.  ‘That’s certainly not how it sounded in my head’

[Insert any number of accidentally offensive comments here.]

I like to think that these thought-clues provide an opportunity for me to rectify the problem before something really really bad happens. And by ‘really really bad’, I mean an above-average amount of accidental self-harm, or the loss of all my friends through super-annoying and clumsy wedding-ring-dropping behaviour.

And now to bed.

The brownie I bought myself after a particularly unfortunate bout of Under Sleep - when the bocconcini in my salad turned out to be... quail eggs. 

How Many Foods Can You Cook in a Wok?

So this week I got a job. It’s a job that sounds cool. It’s near my house and in the morning when I walk there I’ll buy coffee from a cute café where the barista wears hawaiian shirts.

I start my job in two weeks, which gives me a lot of time prepare, and also a lot of time to purchase things I don’t yet have the money for. Also, it provides me with two weeks of actual holidays to spend doing holiday-things, without having to write job-applications. After this next two weeks, holidays will be a commodity to be nurtured and treated sensibly. Like bank accounts. Or puppies.

When I was little, holidays were exciting, magical, and most importantly happened four times every year. Both my anonymous parents were teachers, and so their holidays coincided with mine. At the time, I didn’t realise their occupation was the reason for our ability to take family holidays. To me, it seemed infinitely sensible that the world just stops four times a year, so that everyone can be with their families and eat ice-cream (never mind the people who serve the ice-cream… maybe my family’s holidays were somehow staggered with theirs').

It certainly never occurred to me that when I grew up I might not get my four designated holidays per year.

It seemed (read ‘seems’) insane.

When I was growing up, my family spent many of our holidays camping in various coastal towns. As mentioned previously, most my memories from these events revolve around ice-cream. Also disagreements of which foods can be cooked in a wok (not as many as you think, Dad), and disagreements over the rules of Gin Rummy. Our last family holiday began with my wok-loving father putting up metal tent-poled in a lightning storm (while my mother and two sisters cried at him from the car), and ended with some unpleasant (and lasting) tension between my anonymous sister Bridget and I regarding ‘Who left the tent open in the rain?’ (and I swear it was probably not me. Plus, the Tarago was a pretty sweet second-choice sleeping option, in my opinion). Anyway.

When I got a little older, I realised that only The Lucky Ones; school-teachers, get four holidays per year. Meanwhile, other perfectly good grown-ups make do with much less. It is my believe that the doctors, administrative workers, engineers, council workers, draftsmen and hawaiian shirted baristas that I know all work quite hard too. They suffer the same three-thirty-itis as teachers. They know the pull of the Freddo fundraising box (and have had to live through the twenty-cent price increase) the same as teachers.

And yet, when it comes to having time out to eat ice-cream and cook wok-food, these poor plebs are annually under-compensated.

After some caffeine fuelled thought (the most reasonable kind), I have decided that there ought to some kind of dramatic Holiday Uprising. A ‘Huprising’, if you will. I will lead it through the powers of this blog (with my eleven ‘followers’ in tow), and you can join if you like. We'll can Hawaiian Shirts (Up for discussion).

Hmm. It comes to mind that I have a lot of friends who are teachers. Also more family members who are teachers than who aren’t. Also, I think at least five of my eleven ‘followers’ are teachers.

But I reckon together we could take em’.

Another potential Huprising outfit that I found in a sewing magazine. Seems like it'd be good for all ages. And would also work at bedtime.