Thursday, August 10, 2017

Poverty Blues

With the upcoming election in New Zealand, I've been thinking alot about the gap between rich and poor. I have previously been of the opinion that if you're at rock bottom, you get the fuck up, dust yourself off and do everything within your power to change it. It's nobody's responsibility but your own. Now I've never, ever been rich so this is not an opinion that was formed from the top. But I've always tended to roll my eyes when somebody tries to blame 'the system'. But you know what? The system is totally effing me in the aye right now, and I'm starting to really understand the frustration. See, my car isn't registered or warranted, and I got a big ole fine for driving it that way. But I can't afford to get it fixed because I have to pay the bloody fine. So I'm saving for the fine, so that I can pay that, so that I can take it for a warrant it doesn't need, so I can get it registered with THE SYSTEM. I have also recently launched a business 4 months ago, with the full intention of changing my situation for the better, true to my beliefs. I am so proud of what I have built, and how quickly it has taken off, I really am. But in this whole time, and through all this success, I'm yet to even pay myself a wage. I pay thousands in rent and rates, hundreds in tax on what the shop earns and on what I pay my staff, I pay hundreds in power and eftpos and phone line rental and god knows what else. And guess what I get at the end of the day for all my hard work. JACK. SHIT. All my money goes to rich people with big coffers. It's really fabulous to know that all your hard work is going towards making rich people richer. Meanwhile, I've just received another rates bill and also a dog registration bill from the same council that I still owe the fine to. There's even more layers to the clusterfuck. I have seperated from my husband. Don't be sad for me, it's the best decision I've made in a long time. I'm not worried about him reading this because when he first discovered I liked writing he stated quite clearly, 'Don't expect me to read anything you write, I don't like reading.' Cheers, dude. You'd think I would have run to the hills at that point, not a decade later. But I digress. At the moment the kids and I are living in the house we own together and he is living at his father's house. It's hard, it's confusing for the kids, and it's unsettling. But guess what. The government won't financially support me getting set up in a rental somewhere because I am not being physically or mentally abused (the mental abuse I feel I could debate, but alas). We have to save for a $1800 bond deposit for a rental before we can set up something more permanent, but how the hell do we do that when we are earning less per week than our bills require? And even if we manage that, we are then looking at well over $300 rent per week on top of the mortgage and rates on the other house. Which again, is impossible to afford. And yet big companies like Sanitarium continue to pay ZERO TAX because they come under the charity bracket. However, if I buy one of their products I have to pay fucking tax on it! THE SYSTEM IS FUCKED. Unless you're already rich. Then it will rain on you gifts that you don't need and can afford to live without. Joy. What am I going to do about it? I'm going to work my god damn tits off until I can get my business to a point when I become one of the rich ones robbing the poor. What choice does the system give me?

Monday, May 16, 2011

Tits Out!

I know it's been awhile since I've put up a blog, naughty naughty. I guess nothing has inspired me up until this point. You will never guess what has finally inspired me; TITS! And today it is all about looking at 'em. No, I don't swing that way, not that I can't appreciate a nice breasticle. I have just finished reading an article about a lady who was breastfeeding in a cafe, and was asked to drape a tea towel over her breast. The woman was so disgusted by the request that she has created a massive uproar. The issue has become so big, in fact, that the cafe has had to close it's Facebook page. Breastfeeding mothers have decided to boycott the cafe, cutting a significant chunk of the cafe's earnings. The media has also sided with said booby flopper, spouting claims of discrimination against what is the most natural process on the planet. Is it just me, or are you also thinking,'Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?'
I don't know about you, but I prefer not to be looking at someone's big milk filled flap jack while I'm trying to enjoy a meal. How hard is it to be a bit discreet? I think breastfeeding is a lovely way to bond with your child, great for their immune system, all that wonderful stuff. But I don't want to bloody see it! I've got nothing against nudity, I promise you. My skin and I enjoy a bit of time together when the weather permits. However, I do have something against people being forced to view it.

If you see nudity in a magazine, you can close it. If you see nudity on the television, you can change the channel. But if you see nudity halfway through your ceasar salad, which you have paid way way too much for (that's a whole other issue), you have no choice but to either look at the tit or abandon your expensive meal. I don't feel this is a fair choice. I understand that breastfeeding is a necessity, but I don't think this is a good excuse to do it uncovered. Let me put it to you this way: If a man has a penis disease that means his penis is always piping hot and itchy, then this is something he cannot help. The poor guy spends every minute of every day in pain, scratching his willy red raw. Does this mean that he has a right to flop that willy out in a cafe and scratch it in front of everyone? It's perfectly natural to scratch an itch, one of nature's most natural instincts, why can't he do it in front of the customers? I will tell you why. Because it takes away the general public's choice about what they have to look at. I can tell you now, that man would be arrested if he pulled that sausage out in public. And yet his need is just as urgent and necessary as breastfeeding. I don't want to see his one eyed trouser snake, and I don't want to see your bulbous milk factories. I'm trying to eat a salad with a big fried egg on top that looks suspiciously like get the idea. Cover it up!

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Dirty Thirties?

I'm turning 30 on Monday, and so I thought I would broach the subject of ageing. Now, I'm usually quite funny about getting old, and recall quite clearly my 10th birthday. I had an awesome birthday party, with a clown and games and the works. And I was having a ball until someone said to me, 'You're double figures now, no more single figure birthdays.' Well. I went to my room and cried and cried, grieving for the loss of my single figure years. My god, soon I would be sprouting pubes and growing tits and being expected to act like a grown up. The shame and horror of it all! (As it turns out, it wasn't long before I started longing for these things, and was unlucky enough to be a 'late bloomer'. If only I'd known that on my tenth birthday!) So, you are thinking, how on earth is she coping with the big three oh? It isn't my birthday yet, so I guess I can't truly say how I feel until the day arrives. But it's only a couple of days away. (Cue Jaws music, der nen der nen der nen...) And I have to say, I'm kind of excited about it! I guess birthdays force you to do a mental checklist of how much you have lived your life to date. And when I think about it, my checklist is looking pretty good! I've been a fridge mechanic, an employment consultant, worked at a record label, been a dive instructor, a massage therapist and many many more fascinating jobs. I've roamed the mass expanse of desert in Australia and everywhere in between many times, I've lived on a luxury catamaran in Tahiti for a month, I've lived amongst the rainforest, I've lived right on a tropical beach where crabs walked past my window, I've lived on a dive boat on the Great Barrier Reef, I've lived on a hill looking out over the ocean. I've shagged my way through some of the most beautiful specimens in Australia, and many from other continents as well! I've had passionate relationships inbetween these shags, each of them changing the way I view the world and myself. I have met the man of my dreams and fallen in love with him on the reef, in the tropical Whitsundays. Not only that, but I have married him on a tropical beach in Vanuatu with all my closest friends and family around me. I've swam with sharks, turtles, eels, barracudas, stingrays, manta rays, dolphins, and so close to whales that their song vibrated through my body. I've held snakes, crocodiles, owls, sugar gliders, and many more. I've been up close to dingoes, wallabies, kangaroos, wombats, and many many more! I've patted a white rhino, I've hand fed dolphins.

Now that I think about it, I'm surprised I'm not exhausted! Maybe I need to settle down, stay in the one job for awhile, and save some money? The only thing that truly scares me about turning 30 is the thought of breeding. You see, my body clock is not ticking. At all. I like kids, I enjoy watching them learn and grow, but I definitely don't want the little bastards living with me! I suspect that children are the biggest lie in society. I believe other mothers only tell you it's awesome so they can suck you into joining them in their misery. I don't see how stretching your vagina beyond natural boundaries, to give birth to something that wakes you every 3 hours, so you can feed it and then scrape that food off their arse a few hours later as stinky baby shit, so they can tell you they hate you thirteen years later, is fun? I do have one friend who is a little more honest with me about motherhood. On one ocassion she grasped me by the lapels and urged, 'Sarah, DON'T HAVE CHILDREN. You will get stuck here like me, and you will have no life, and no freedom.' Hm. And more recently she advised me of the best time to have children. 'Have them as late as you can, put it off. Wait til you're, like, fifty!' So, the only thing I don't like about turning 30 is the fact that my body clock will soon kick in, I will be betrayed by my own body into giving birth, and I will spend the rest of my life paying for it. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? What a cold, hard cow! I'm sure I will love the stinky, vomiting little skin sacks, by the time they come, but for now I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that the DIRTY THIRTIES is not a rumour! Brace yourself husband, brace yourself!!!!!

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Whistle Blowing

I have a confession to make: I am a whistle blower. If I see something that doesn't look right, I will e-mail or phone whichever government agency that claims to be able to do something about it. If I see you stealing from your workplace, I will tell the manager. If I see you being mean to someone else, I will walk right up to you and tell you how much of an asshole you are being. Yes, when I'm old I will probably keep a log book of all my neighbours' comings and goings. I will be the crazy lady with her nose poking out of her closed curtains, waiting in some sick twisted hope for something illegal to take place. I admit this. But for now, it is more about having the balls to speak up when you see something that doesn't look right. Chances are that you are wrong. But what if you're right?

Probably the most frustrating thing about being a whistle blower, is that the system is FUCKED. Let me start by telling you about the time in Cairns where I couldn't get to sleep. It was 2am, and I heard two people whispering in the car park below our unit. Being worried about my car getting stolen, I went to the window to keep an eye on the goings on. A man and a woman were standing next to a white car, whispering and looking flustered. My curiosity was raised, what were these scallywags up to? My brain travelled through many possibilities; about to steal a car, having a fight, dealing drugs, etc. But I did NOT expect to see what happened next. They opened the back of the car, and tugged on a long object wrapped in a white sheet. It looked very heavy. They got on either end of the sheet, both ends twisted and the twist being carried. As I gazed down at this sheeted object, I realised one end had the shape of shoulders and a head, and the other end tapered in like legs and feet. It bent a bit closer to the end with the shoulder shape. My heart leapt in my chest. I could hear my pulse in my ears. There was no mistaking it, that was the shape of a body. Now, I'm known for a good imagination at the best of times, but to this day I am SURE I was looking at a body. I could even see the shape of the buttocks through the sheet. I swear on my life. Believe me, as I stared at it I tried to imagine what else it could possibly be that could make more sense. Nothing else came even close to fitting. They took the 'object' up to the unit next door to ours, and came back down for a crate of tools and various other objects. The man returned back to the car and was getting a few more things from the back. I lifted up my phone to try and get a photo of him, and of course pressed the wrong button and it made a loud beep noise. The man leapt behind his car and hid there for a long while. Now you tell me, is this the actions of a man just doing some 2am renovating on his unit? No.

For the rest of the night I heard many loud and strange noises coming from that apartment, including what sounded like a circular saw. Then, at about 6am the two people came out of the apartment with the same sheet rolled up on both ends, however now the object contained therein was alot smaller and compact. I spent the rest of the day trying to convince myself that it was all perfectly normal, that they were probably installing new carpet and were on a mega time limit and so had to stay up all night doing it. But I could not get the image of that thing being removed from that car, out of my mind. When I returned from work later that day, there was a lady standing in the car park on her mobile phone, a basket of cleaning products in hand. She was talking very quietly and glancing my way nervously, but I just so happened to hear what she said while I was getting my bag out of the car. 'It's all cleaned up. Yup. Even on top of the cupboard. Yup. Okay.'
Them being my neighbours, I was very scared of them knowing that I knew something. So for me, calling the police was not an option. Especially seeing as I felt like I was going crazy, surely I hadn't seen what I thought I'd seen?

So I took the one option left to me. I e-mailed Crime Stoppers. I gave them the whole story, the address, even the number plate of the vehicle. I said I would rather remain anonymous, but could not send my e-mail without completing the 'contact number' section. I stated very clearly that I had no interest in getting involved, and hoped that the information I provided could help. Less than an hour after sending me e-mail, I received a call on my mobile from Crime Stoppers. I was therein asked to recount verbally everything I had seen. I was then informed, by a very curt and doubting old mole, that these were very serious allegations I was making. And that for anything to be done about them, I would need to go down to the station, identify myself, and make a statement. This would be what I would class as 'getting involved', something I had no intention of doing! If I wanted to get that involed in it, I would have just gone to the station in the first place. Isn't that the idea of Crime Stoppers? Being able to make anonymous reports without having to stand up in court in front of two murderers and explain how you spied on them from your bedroom window? I refused to go down to the station. And get this. The whole thing was never investigated. Ever. A week later the unit was rented out to an asian student, and the whole thing just faded out of existance. I never received another call, police never attended the unit to ask questions, nothing. So what was the point? The message sent to me was this, 'Unless you're willing to stand up in front of criminals and recount what you saw, no matter how frightened or at risk it makes you, then absolutely nothing can be done.' Hm. Fuck you system. I hope my friend in the sheet is haunting your lazy arse right this minute, turning your shower hot and cold and then hot again, putting bed bugs in your bed, pissing in your morning coffee.

Now, all this happened over three years ago. So what, you may ask, has inspired me to suddenly share this story that so freezes my bones and makes my heart race at the mere memory? Well, as some of you may know, we have new neighbours. They are two very young looking girls. I met them when they had their couch stuck in the doorway. Being a master of puzzles, I couldn't resist going over and directing them through a series of movements and angles that would assist in getting the couch inside successfully. They were very grateful, and seemed nice enough if not a bit rough looking. And still in pajamas at 2pm in the afternoon. But anyhoo. Turns out the walls between units are even thinner than once thought. (Many apoligies to our previous gay neighbour, who we now realise must have been able to hear us shagging, farting, and pissing ourselves laughing quite regularly while he was trying to sleep.) Our new neighbour has two babies, both of whom I haven't met face to face yet. However, I have had the pleasure of listening to them scream their poor little lungs out for the last three nights running. Yaye for me. But the part that is really bothering me, that is nagging at my sense of right, is the response I get to hear from the loving, nurturing mother their very lives depend on. Let me list some of the responses I can remember off the top of my head:
"Shut the fuck up, you idiot! I'm trying to feed you!'
"Shut the fuck up, you cunt."
"What the fuck is wrong with you man?"
Yes, you read correctly. This new born baby is being called an idiot and a cunt by it's mother on a regular basis. And what, may you ask, has the baby done to deserve this? It has cried for it's basic needs: food, a nappy change, etc. Small babies don't cry to be a pain in your arse, they cry because they need something. It's the only method they have for communicating, you dipshit! Now, I have a phone number for a hotline that can be used to report family abuse. However, I have been told that nothing can really be done until there is evidence of the child being physically abused or...get this...dead. I can still phone and report what I hear, but no action will be taken. Now, just last year a little toddler named Nia was tied to a washing line and spun, dropped, hit, put in a dryer and left to die in her cot until an auntie found her unresponsive 24 hours later. She died not long after. On investigation, the police discovered that the next door neighbours had seen Nia tied to the washing line, and didn't do anything. Family members reported observing many occassions where Nia was mistreated. And said nothing. So the question for me remains:

Do I stay the hell out of it, and mind my own god damn business, like the rest of the world? Or do I stick to my whistle blower roots, only to be spoken to like I'm an idiot over the phone, by someone who thinks I'm overreacting? And even if I do phone, what will it achieve? It won't be investigated, as there is no evidence of physical violence. I'll be lucky if it even gets written down on a file somewhere. There can be no doubt that they have bigger fish to fry around here. So, what would you do?

For now, the choice I have made is a riskier one than calling some phone line. Much to the horror of my peace keeping, non whistle blowing husband, I am going to wait for the opportunity to chat to her when she is standing out front with her child. I plan to be very friendly and pleasant, and tell her that her child is beautiful and she is very lucky. I will also proceed to tell her that I can hear her calling it a cunt in the middle of the night. I won't sound judgemental, if anything I will sound supportive and understanding. Maybe she just needs help? I'm prepared for a black eye. Bring it on you baby abusing pyjama wearing mole. At least if you punch me in the eye I will be able to get the cops onto you. And if you don't punch me in the eye, at least you will know that I am watching, I am listening, and I am prepared to speak up. And remember: if you have those children taken off you, you may even be forced to work for a living. God forbid. Either way, I'll be watching.....

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Bridezilla Disease

As some of you may know, I am doomed to become betrothed to a kiwi in just over a week's time. A very exciting time, there's no denying it! Now, I always thought I would be a cruisy bride. I always thought Bridezilla Disease was something you were born with. Something reserved for women who don't even realise there is a man somehow involved in the whole charade. I'm here to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that it is not something you are born with, no. It turns out Bridezilla's Disease is something that's given to you by a series of events beyond your control. In fact, Bridezilla's Disease hones in on the areas which are most likely to contradict things you have previously said about being a 'cruisy' bride. Allow me to elaborate, and break down my own BD into a series of events that further demonstrate the scientific proof of the discovery I am putting forth.

Statement 1: 'I'm not too fussed with all that glamourpuss stuff, as long as my man is there, I am there, and the celebrant is there, then the day will be perfect.'
BD says, 'Really? Truly? You don't care? Okay then fucker, try this on for size. Chicken Pox. Suck that up bitch. Still cool with being an ugly bride now?'
BD finds me sobbing in bed, moaning about how I'm going to be an ugly, pock marked bride. It pushes me to question whether my future husband has started packing his bag, not for our trip to Vanuatu, but to go out for milk and never come back. And just when I think I am beating the disease with buckets of Bio Oil and an attitude adjustment, it makes me uncontagious and sends me out into the public. As I open my heart prepared for the sympathetic cuddles and love, I am faced with laughter. At me, not with me. 'What a funny thing to happen two weeks before your wedding! Ha ha ha ha!' HAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'm not fucking laughing. No, no the BD builds up behind my eyes and I glare like I'm about to tear long strips of flesh off everybody. Where is the Sarah that would have been laughing along with everybody? Overtaken by a viscious disease that grips you when you least expect it. The dreaded BD.

Statement 2: 'Hey babe, why don't we go for the room with the spa? We only get married once, lets spoil ourselves! I mean, yes, it will cost us $2900, but it's a once in a lifetime event. Lets go hard!'
BD's ears prick up. Spare no expense, you say? You don't mind paying through the nose for the time of your life? Oh YEAH? Try this then! BD has the resort calling me to tell me I owe them not $2900, but $4000 for our room. And if I don't pay up, I can take my wedding elsewhere. In the worst case of BD that I have suffered yet, I find myself on the phone to a woman in Vanuatu who owns half of Port Vila, telling her if she makes me pay the new quote I WILL take my wedding elsewhere, AND all my guests, and she will be the one losing money! I rant hysterically at her for half an hour, then phone my mother and rant at her about it for half an hour. Luckily my mother could smell the BD from across the ocean, and quickly rang the resort herself and put out the fire. Still want to kick that resort lady in the taco, and am still going to take a big dump on her doorstep after a few wines.

So you see, Bridezilla Disease is a nasty bugger, it goes straight for the goolies. However, my belief is that if you just surrender to BD, just let it win a few times, then it will be satisfied. It will step back, throw it's hands up, and say 'Enjoy your big day. I will no longer interfere.' I hear many stories of weddings that were an absolute disaster leading up to the big day, and then the wedding ran perfectly. I also reflect on one of my half sister's weddings. There were no problems at all leading up to the day. Everything was sorted, everyone was getting along, everything came through perfect. We all sat in a lovely big church, and watched as she walked down the aisle looking beautiful. Watched as her and her husband held hands ready to commit their lives to each other. Dropped our jaws in shock, as a skinny stoner in a Safeway uniform walked past the window, pushing a line of what must have been thirty trolleys right in the middle of the vows. Over rough concrete. Could a bout of BD in the lead up to the wedding have stopped this? The question remains........

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Vagina Angst

I hereby warn male readers that the following discusses vaginas. I also assure you that all my future blogs will not cover girly topics, there will be a whole range of interesting tit bits. And by that I mean bits and pieces, a variety, not bits about tits. Even though, at some point, there may be bits about tits. So what, you may ask, has inspired me to discuss vaginas? Well, last night I watched a documentary called The Perfect Vagina. It was all about how modern women hate their vaginas, and the efforts they go to in an attempt to make them more asthetically appealing. It got me thinking about my own attempts at vaginal 'landscaping'. No, I won't go into any details other than to say fake tan does not work on chicken skin. Seen what it does to your knees and elbows? Yup. Damn you, porn stars and your all over tan!

When I think of these mishaps, my mind goes instantly to a phone call I recieved one day, from a very distressed friend. Before I even had a chance to say hello, my friend blasted down the phone, 'Sairze, I need your help!'. She was all choked up with tears, and my heart dropped. What had she done? My car keys already in hand ready to run to her, I gently asked what was wrong. 'Oh Sairze, I've done something really stupid, I think I need to go to hospital.' I thought Oh God what has she taken? My heart was racing, what do I do? Should I call an ambulance? Turns out, she wasn't happy with the hair on her flaps. She decided the easy solution would be to use the ole Epilady. You know, that scary little machine that plucks out your hairs one by one, all the while making a grinding sound like some kind of freaky torture tool? Well the Epilady is used to eating up short, pre shaven type hairs. When it got it's teeth around the long hair on her flaps, the thing got greedy. It chewed and chewed its way up the hair, until it's teeth unfortunately found....well.....flap. Yup, this thing had chewed onto her flap and gotten stuck there. She could not get it off. I'm afraid my reaction may not have been the one she desired. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed! And I'm still laughing right now, as I type this. As the tears rolled down my face, I tried to calm her down through my laughter. 'Try pulling it off!' I suggested. 'I HAVE! IT'S STUCK!' she screamed down the phone at me, sending me into more hysterics. Eventually she had to detach the head from the Epilady, and go to the hospital with it still in her undies, stuck on her flap. Hilarious for me, but one of the most frightening experiences my good friend has ever had.

I also worked with a lady who once attempted to give herself a Brazilian. She had been waxing herself her whole life, and was married with two kids. She decided it was time for a bald foo foo, and that her waxing skills should be up to scratch. Well, they weren't. She tore away a nice big piece of hair, and unfortunately took some of her vagina with it. Some six stitches later, some of them internal, she decided she liked the extra hair down there. She couldn't sit down properly for two weeks!

So of course, watching this vagina documentary stirred up many memories for me. At some point, the woman hosting the documentary ended up in tears, devestated at what women were willing to do to their bodies. Granted, she had just watched a young girl get part of her clitoral labia lopped off by a greasy looking Indian doctor. Disturbing. When asked why she was doing this to the only part of our body (lets be honest girls) that can actually give us an orgasm, her answer was simple. Her sister had teased her. I believe her sister's choice of words were something along the lines of 'beef curtains' and 'ham hanging down'. I know! How cruel can sisters be! Well, I have a confession to make. For a long time, I have been teasing my little sister with a similar taunt. Not at all because her vagina in any way resembles anything food like, and to be honest I haven't really seen it anyway. Except for that one time she got drunk and did 'The Turtle', but that is a story for another time. Well, what do I call her, you ask? I have been calling her...Burger Flaps. For years now. This insinuates that she has large flaps that look like the bread roll that holds your burger together. I know, terrible! And so I say to you now, lil sis, please don't get your flaps chopped off, I'm sure their real nice and nothing at all like a take away food. I promise to never call you Burger Flaps again, and to only stick with the tried and true Poo Fingers that you have become so accustomed to.

And ladies, even if your vagina did resemble some sort of take away, lets be honest. The ones who are eating it aren't fussy! Don't deny them the visual! They'd rather eat a burger with a wrinkled old bun and cheap meat,than to not be able to eat it at all. A burger is a burger when you're hungry!

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Hairy Creatures On My Gloves

I have recently moved from the tropical north part of Australia, to New Zealand. New Zealand is the skinny little island to the right of Aussie, the little sister of our large continent. Why did you move there, you ask? Why did you leave tropical rainforest, Summer all year around, the largest reef in the world and bars being open 24/7, to come to a place known as 'The Land Of The Long White Cloud'? Well, one word. Love. Yup, engaged to a New Zoolander. Yes, I am sacrificing much for the man of my dreams. And frankly I'm a little tired of explaining this choice to NZers. So now, when people ask, I simply answer, 'Well, I was sick of spiders.' to which Kiwis always answer, 'Oh yee we don't git bug spiders hee.' Translation: They don't get big spiders here. And to be honest, this definitely sweetened the deal for me! I love seeing sharks, snakes, crocodiles and various other dangerous Aussie animals in the wild. A sighting is not as common as you may be lead to believe, and is a moment to be treasured. Spiders, however, not my thing. Don't like seeing them, don't like hearing about them, don't like them in my house. It's not like an arachnaphobia type thing, I don't scream and run and have a meltdown. I just don't like having them near me. So yaye, New Zealand, no spiders.

After recently returning from a fleeting visit to my homeland, I was kicking back on my couch in Kiwiland (NZ). All was sweet in the land of quiet people and shy furry animals. Until something came running over a couch cushion, hurtling towards me at lightning speed, it's eight hairy legs launching one in front of the other like a 50 metre sprint Olympian. It took my fastest kung fu push flip to launch myself off the couch in time, and I tell you I only just made it clear of the bite zone. There he sat, enjoying the warmth of the spot my butt had just heated for him. A brown, hairy spider the size of my palm. Not your average skinny spider either, a chunky legged, thick bodied, menacing looking beast with fangs over 3mm long! I called my Kiwi to come and catch him, and we put him in a jar. I was pretty sure this little furry friend had found his way back to NZ in my bags, all the way from Australia. We named him The Chief, and decided to keep him for other Kiwis to come and marvel at. A spider like nothing they had ever seen! Kiwis came from far and wide to sicken themselves at the sight of this deadly beast. I decided I had better find out what type of spider The Chief was, so that when showing him off I could reel off scientific facts about bites causing puss filled alcerations, eyeball rot, etc etc.

So I sent a photo to a spider lady in Auckland, asking her to identify my little beasty. Imagine my surprise and pure disgust when she identified it as a native New Zealand spider known as a Vagrant! Wait, no, that can't be right. You people don't get big hairy spiders! Right? Wrong. So I started asking around, and guess what. Not one single Kiwi I know has seen a spider in their country bigger than a fingernail. Quite a rare sighting, apparently. Yaye for me. I move all the way from the land of all creatures deadly, only to be stalked on my couch by the only hairy spider in New Zealand! The Chief passed away in his jar, despite offerings of small flies and ants to mush up. And so, I thought my Vagrant spider visiting was a thing of the past. But no. No, there was the one that ran up the curtain while we were kicking back. And my personal favourite. The one resting on my exfoliating glove. The biggest one yet. My exfoliating gloves live on the shelf that houses all my hair enhancing equipment. On reaching out for my gloves, I saw a black hair tie curled up on top them. As I reached to pick up the glove, yes only centimetres away, I realised the hair tie had a leg! And another leg! For fucks sake! When will it end! Vagrants, I don't know why you have chosen me. Maybe you think I am feeling homesick for all things fang filled? Maybe you like that I don't do regular housework and there are lots of roaches to eat? Maybe you think my love of animals will see you welcomed into my home to live out a happy life? Well my furry Vagrant friend, I'm afraid I don't enjoy being the only person in this country to see a spider bigger than a pin head. And I say this for your own good, if you come anywhere near my humble abode again, I am gunna SMOKE YOUR ASS!