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“What are your green flags?” was the opening question that he chose to respond to. 
“I can cook” is what he chose to write. 
I wanted to respond with “That’s not a green flag, that’s just a basic survival method.” But I didn’t. I just left it, and after 24 hours, as is written into the mechanics of the app we had matched on, the conversation just ‘poof’ disappeared. Which was probably fortunate, I didn’t have the energy to get myself into thatconversation. I get it, he might have been making a joke (but if he was, do better sir), but if he wasn’t, now that’s a bit sad, isn’t it? It’s 2025, you’re a 30-something single man and you think that it’s a ‘good sign’ that you can fend for yourself? He didn’t even bother to mention if he could do it well – perhaps a communicational flaw on his behalf, but we will never find out. 

It might have been interesting at least, to engage in the conversation though. I mean, I’ve had so many chats with guys about what their ‘signature dish’ is – spoiler alert, 9 times out of 10 it’s some variation of a pasta. Frequently carbonara. But I haven’t yet had a conversation with a guy about whether he actually can cook. Like I said, by this age you just assume it’s a given. 

I’ve been described as the type of person who could ‘have fun talking to a brick wall’ – which I wouldn’t say is entirely true. I once went on a date with a guy that lasted less than an hour since he wasn’t really giving me anything and I didn’t have the energy to just keep on going. But despite that one experience, the friend who described me that way wasn’t wrong – I generally have a lot of fun yapping away – but my preference is that the brick wall – I mean, person, talks back. A bit of bounce, a little bit of back and forth keeps things fun. 

But after a while, it can get tiring. I’ve (almost) gotten so sick of my stories that I consider adding in little white lies to make them more interesting for me to tell. 

So, it got me thinking about the things that come up, repeatedly, the standard reactions that I get, that I could almost put money on, and the questions that put me to sleep. And then there’s those tangents that keep things interesting – either in an endearing and fun way, or in the way that makes me take a mental note to share that with my mates in the group chat as soon as I can. 

So, here’s a bit of the mundane (to me…) these are just some of the many conversations I find myself in, time and time again. And after meeting as many people as I have on the apps and then in person, well, it does get a little exhausting.

I attract health trauma stories

I think there’s something about me that screams “tell me your hectic health related tales” – some kind of neon sign above my head that glows “sympathetic set of ears over here”. It’s weird because I’m usually horrified by whatever they have to share – but that doesn’t stop them. I’ve previously mentioned the guy with the broken ass hole but strangely his story was more appropriately shared than the guy who spent almost 20 minutes letting me know about his gum disease treatment plan. There was no end of date kiss.  

People want to know why I support St Kilda Football Club

And I get it. They’re certainly not the obvious choice. If you were choosing a team, you probably wouldn’t go for the perpetual losers. Unless your decision making is motivated by spicy drama. The only reason that I follow the Saints is that at the point I was looking, they were the most controversial club in the league. I won’t go into details but it’s not a good story. It always gives my dates the chance to judge the absolute shit out of me. And I welcome it. If you can’t handle me at my most unhinged teenage decisions, then you don’t deserve me at my informed sensible 30-something life choices. 

You’re all so curious about why I moved to Melbourne from Adelaide

I don’t know why this bit of small talk irks me so much. Perhaps it’s because it inevitably brings up things that I don’t want to necessarily talk about on a first date. Jobs that I hated, relationships that were truly awful and an untimely death. It seems innocuous enough and I know I’m guilty of asking similar questions to others, but I wish I didn’t have to answer this one. Saying “work” and “I’ve always loved Melbourne” are both true and always get us through it, but when I’m tired and going through the motions of the chat, some days I just don’t want to deal with this sneaky little trick of question. 

And apparently my job must be ‘really fulfilling’
If I got a dollar for every time I got told that my job sounds ‘really interesting’ and ‘super fulfilling’ then I could probably afford to pay for an on call boyfriend and stop with all this silly dating business. I’m not complaining, I’ll take the compliment, but lately I’ve been wondering if I should start making up different careers just to see what reactions I can pull out of the chats. 

And a little more of the strange, weird, and quirky…

I was once asked if I liked catching pigeons. I’m not sure what answer he was looking for but I’m pretty sure that what I said was wrong (I said that I found them difficult to grab and that I wasn’t interested in catching mites. His face didn’t hide his judgement particularly well).

Recently a man opened a Bumble conversation by joking that the dictionary was the best book he’s ever read. He kept the bit up for 3 days’ worth of conversation (I absolutely encouraged this behaviour). 

Once, multiple times across a 3 hour chat a guy mentioned how much he really likes carwashes. He particularly likes taking his 3-year-old nephew through them. And you know what? I was happy for him. I was glad he found something he really vibed with. Car washes. I just probably only needed to be told once.

But I can’t really talk. I am the girl who once, floating on the delusional high of a building crush that can only come from talking to an incredibly hot man, boldly proclaimed: “I fucking love trains!” 
As the words came out my mouth I thought “oh god, this is it, this is the statement that ends the date…”
But just as quickly as I’d said it, he responded “me too!” 
And I know what you’re thinking, “It’s true love, you found your matching weirdo! What a pity these hilarious posts are set to dry up. I’m happy for you Alicia but can’t you just keep dating to keep things interesting for me, the reader?”

Well dear reader, do not fret. There was no second date. We do, however, regularly see each other around work. But that’s a story for another time. 

Alcohol has a lot to answer for, especially when it comes to the choices that I have made around dating. 

As we race toward the end of the year and I count the many questionable conversations that I’ve engaged in, a common culprit to fuel the fire can be found in liquid form – often gin, sometimes beer and when the weather is cool, a red wine. 

Or if he’s paying, a fancy cocktail. 

Actually, that’s a lie – anyone who knows me knows that I very foolishly go round for round and insist on splitting things down the middle most times. 

I know, I know, I should be letting them pay a little more. Heck I’ve realised that I even shouted two complete flogs dinner this year – in one of those instances it was because I realised that I didn’t think he could pay even for himself (he had recently spent a lot of money on dental appointments which he shared far too much detail about way too early on), and in the other instance it was kind of worth it because I got the story about going on a date with a nudist who refused to admit to being a nudist. But those are stories for another time.   

Today I’m here to fumble and muse about the topic of booze and banter combined with strangers, and unpack how I blame gin and tonics for the fact that I went on a second date with the bloke who came to be known as Hands Man. 

At the start of 2021 I decided to give the dating apps a proper go. I was a short-lived experience, but I was determined to only go on first dates at cafes – purposefully free of alcohol and clouded judgement. Well, it wasn’t long before I was in a relationship, but also back in pandemic lockdown mode. 

A few brief stints on apps between then and the start of this year were not so consciously booze free, and the results were varied. Upon kicking off 2024, when, as all good readers of my bullshit writing would know, I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the dating algorithms, I held no such noble aspirations. I didn’t even consider sober dating. I did, however, give general sobriety a go. 

January came and went in a blur of seven first dates – I hustled hard that month. But as February rolled around, so did the idea of ‘Feb Fast’ in my gorgeous group of friends. And you know what? I only went one first date that month. 

So, we reached the end of February and drinking on dates came back with a vengeance (okay that’s dramatic, but I must say, adding booze back into the equation made dating seem more appealing once again). 

At the beginning of March I went on a date with a guy who ended up going by the name ‘Hands Man’ amongst my group of friends. He wasn’t my normal type. Very British teeth – and look, he couldn’t help that, he was British, but knowing how much money my parents spent for me to have good teeth, I’m kind of less attracted to people with bad teeth. Petty, I know, but I can’t override my brain chemicals on that one. 
But the conversation flowed well (actually, what happened is that early on the date I found out that he had previously spent about ten years working for Mckinsey – the famously culty and wildly cooked consulting company). 

I was fascinated. 

We also seemed to like the same music, so we chatted away. Four drinks in, on a school night, and the haze had swept over me. I was fooled. Hands folded in front of me he grabbed them from across the table. At the time it felt… romantic? A smooth move to transition over to a kiss. Which we did. Questionably with a table between us but we made it work. He walked me to the corner, and we went our separate ways, but not before a good night kiss. 

I walked home with a dopey grin on my face – this guy seemed okay. There were also a lot of boxes being ticked – he owned his place, he had a (very) good job, was fun to talk to – colour me surprised. 

But here, dear readers, is where reality sets in. Or the beer goggles get violently ripped off. 

Date number two followed four days later. A public holiday Monday. He picked me up in his Volkswagen Golf. Respectable, safe, European. It’s hideously shameful what a functioning car being operated by a man who has a licence to drive one can do to me – I guess that’s how low the bar is. 

But the moment I sat down beside him, I started to see things with clear eyes and mind. He went in for a kiss straight away – sure, we had shared a moment on date one, but that was under the influence – I needed time to get comfy. And the kiss itself was executed with far too much comfort, confidence, and certainty from his side. A second date does not mean a full pash is a certainty up front. I was caught off guard. 
He drove us to a brewery and the conversation started to go to places I wasn’t comfortable with. He spent a lot of time talking about his deep love of his cat. A big ick for me. But let’s not be flippant, there were also some major red flags conversation wise. He would immediately switch to straight down the line questions: “What parts of your body are you self-conscious about?”, “When was the last time you had sex?” and “Can you see any themes with how your past relationships have ended?”. Valid questions, I suppose (well maybe not…) but without any segue or context they were jarring and concerning. The vibes were so deeply off for me. 
I was quickly regretting that he was in control of our transport home and aware of where I lived. 

But the worst part of all… every moment we were sitting, at the brewery, in Fitzroy eating ice creams and at one my favourite pubs later in the day, at every moment he could, his hands were on my hands. All over them. Grabbing them, stroking them, and by the time we were in the beer garden at the Wesley Anne he could not stop kissing them. I think there might have even been a bit of licking. I’m not sure though because the trauma part of my brain absolutely jumped into action to block out the memories. As I willed time to pass, I hoped that none of the staff had seen this happening – I like the pub, I wanted to be able to show my face there again without being known as the girl who had her hands repeatedly assaulted by a man who talked about his cat more than all the other topics that we covered combined.  

But I was confused. I shouldn’t just stop seeing him because of his constant need to be touching my hands with his lips – especially when he ticked so many other boxes… should I? 

Of course, I came to my senses and realised that the screaming alarm bells in my brain were correct and that just because a man had his shit together – a house, a good job and a drivers licence (all things which I have myself…hmm), that is not a good enough reason to just ‘see if maybe he’ll grow on me’. No, absolutely not. 

He seemed surprised – responding to the text I sent saying it had been ‘nice getting to know him but that I didn’t see it going any further’ with a message that read “That’s surprising. But ok. <crying emoji>”. 
I mean, I had let him continually fondle my hands for three or so hours and answered all his direct questions without calling him out on the weirdness of it all. I could kind of see how he might have been confused. That was on me.

I initially blamed my skewed judgement on the fact that we had gone headfirst into the drinks on date number one and that alcohol had been to blame. But I can’t place all the responsibility for questionable choices in its hands. I had been blinded by box ticking and my sick curiosity about the inner workings of consultancy companies. What can I say, I’m weird like that.

As I look back over the list of thirty-two names in my notebook, all members of the “2024 first date with Alicia club”, most encounters involved a drink or two at least on my behalf. In fact, only four of the first dates on this year’s list were conducted fully sober. And on at least one of those occasions, I made a bad call and went on a second date with someone who was… bizarre. Perhaps I had still been drunk from the night before – that might be the only explanation for that judgement call. Or more realistically, I was distracted by a feeling of hope and optimism, happy to look past some quirks that, in that instance at least, were less quirks and more like incredible personality flaws. Once again, a story for another time. 

If you’re looking for a bit of deep insight into the part that booze plays in our culture, I’m afraid I may have misled you in an attempt to create some kind of importance around what was essentially a story about a guy who just couldn’t stop touching and kissing my hands. 

You’re welcome. 

I decided that it was time to get back on the proverbial horse (read: sign up for dating apps again) just before Christmas in 2023. My mental health was in fine form (truly), and I was fairly certain that I could handle whatever came my way. Unfortunately, at the very moment that I had this lightbulb thought, I found myself in rural South Australia, hundreds of kilometres from Adelaide, and hundreds more again from home in Melbourne. The only app that allowed me to set my location back home without charging a fee was Hinge, so that’s where I dedicated all my efforts at the very start of this recent journey.

And sure, I could have used any old app and used my location settings to survey the talent nearby, but I’d made that mistake in the past, feeling all too awkward when I spotted the guy that I’d been chatting to for the past few days having a yarn with my dad at the pub like they were old mates. I wasn’t in the mood to be reminded of the fact that everyone in a 30km radius had some kind of connection to my parents and that mum and dad would know everyone who popped up as I was swiping. And so opted to plan for my future and only seek to line up dates for my return to Melbourne. 

I was like a dog with a bone, or more accurately and literally, a 30-something woman looking for a bone. I used my daily limit of likes before lunch every day then waited for the conversation to flow. Fortunately, for the sake of my sanity and social cohesion, the internet reception on my cheap city centric phone plan was terrible, so any time I was away from the Wi-Fi I needed to take a break from the chats. But despite that, and despite the busy festive season calendar, I was able to sustain some connections who were keen to meet once I returned to Melbourne. In fact, with a week free from work once I returned, I planned to pack my calendar full of opportunities, determined to make the most of my new-found confidence and vigour.  

Tim* was set to be the first cab off the rank, purely based on timing and availability. And Tim solidified the first lesson that I was set to learn from this little jaunt into the world of contemporary dating: sometimes you actually can judge a book by its cover. And it was a lesson that I would be reminded of over the course of the year. At other times it would be proven completely useless, but in this instance I was briefly concerned that I might be in a hidden camera show due to the accuracy of our assessment as the date unfolded. 

Despite what I said about nicknames in my previous post, some of the characters across the saga of dates that I have experienced have earned their nickname before we met-up, and Tim was one of them. You see, before I jumped in my car to head back to Melbourne I sat and shared some of the profiles with my brother and his partner. 
“Oh he has very sad eyes”, declared Jade as she scrolled over Tim’s profile.
“Yeah, that guy has really seen some things.” Said my brother, Nick, as he sympathetically handed the phone back to me, clearly none too impressed by anything that was being put on offer. 

But somebody had to be the first. And I had time to spare – holiday time. So on a sunny summer’s afternoon I ventured into the city and was happily reminded of the fact that I could in fact spot someone based off of a curated collection of photos that they chose to share on their profile (but don’t worry, there would be plenty of times throughout the year that would leave me wondering if I was talking to the correct person, until they would explicitly bring up a detail from our messages, when I would breathe a sigh of relief).   
And it was nice to realise that I was capable of holding a pleasant conversation with a stranger while sinking a couple of pints. But throughout the meeting it became abundantly clear that Nick and Jade had been onto something. You see, Tim was beautifully curious in his approach to conversation; he asked a lot of questions about my family, and the stories that I had up my sleeve bubbled out of me naturally, as they do at most times. In turn I would ask him questions about his own life. And multiple times throughout the couple of hours that we spent together on that day he would begin to tell a story and then pause, catch himself and say “oh no, actually that one is too sad” before stopping and moving onto another topic or another tale. 

After the third time I started to wonder if my life was perhaps a little bit scripted. It almost made me laugh. But that would have been brutal, considering Sad Eyes Tim was really living up to the assumed description. The perceptive take from Jade and Nick turned out to be bang on, and after that encounter I couldn’t unsee it. 

I wasn’t sure if there was anything between us worth exploring further but it was my first go on the merry-go-round for a while and he had talked about being particularly passionate about condiments, a quality that I, a lover of chilli jam and caramelised onion, found somewhat appealing. So, we agreed to meet up again when he returned from a planned hike in Tasmania. Unfortunately, that meeting never happened because he turned out to be just one in a long line of incredibly slack men who I would encounter over the course of the year (a tip for any men reading this, a little bit of enthusiasm can go a long way – but don’t get weird with it, okay?). Long story short, we teed up a time and a date but hadn’t confirmed a venue. On the morning of the planned encountered I messaged to check where we would meet, and…crickets. Until about three hours after we were supposed to rendezvous when he sent a message saying “Oh yeah, that’s right, we were supposed to have a date tonight. I forgot. What a pity, the weather is stunning, hope you found something fun to do – should we reschedule?” 
How about “no” Tim.
And I did find something fun to do that night. I cooked myself some vegetables and watched an episode of whatever show I was binging at the time. It was glorious.

But Tim served a purpose. A few, in fact. Of course, he confirmed that pictures can, in some instances, tell an incredibly rich story. He played a little part in giving me the confidence to keep talking to strangers from the internet and he absolutely showed me that people will let you down – but streaming services rarely will. 

*Not his real name, but his real name was a single syllable name, a shortened version of a longer name. In fact, his real name is on my list of ‘names of guys I’m not too stoked to date’, not because it’s a bad name, just because it’s one that is a little too close to home. The familial home.  

“Do you know how you’re going to die?” he asked, with a sincere tone that implied this was a question that he had thought long and hard about his own answer to and not one of the silly type of questions that most people liked to throw around on first dates. 

“No” I responded, somewhat caught off guard, “but I did write a will the other week, just because I thought that I should probably have one.” I explained, just sharing that little bit of information because it was honest and true and for no other reason at all. I didn’t realise that the mere mention of life admin involving paperwork would cause him to doom spiral, sharing out loud how stressed he was by the realisation that he didn’t have a will, especially since, as he went on to share, he was almost certainly dying of cancer. Or at least, he had convinced himself he was dying of cancer.

And that little scenario was an outtake from an evening that doesn’t even rank as close to being one of the weirdest dates I’ve been on this year. In fact, for many other reasons it was a perfectly fine date. This was despite the fact that he shared some information that would earn him the nickname ‘Broken Ass Aaron*’ amongst my friendship group. The venue was nice enough, he paid for a couple of drinks and even ordered some chips, and despite the moments when it veered into health care trauma dumping from his side of the fence, the conversation was fun and flowing well enough. That’s the standard we’re working with my friends. And after going on a total of 31 first dates this year (with a few second, third and other subsequent numbers thrown in), it’s a pretty standard standard. Very few of the scenarios I find myself in glow, but they sure do entertain my friends.   

While some dates have been better than others and many have certainly been weirder than expected, the number one thing I’ve learned is that people will often surprise you – and mostly in a pleasant want. The other thing that I’ve discovered is that having an active dating life makes you infinitely more interesting among your friendship group. I’m not sure why I spent years building a broad base of hobbies and ensuring that I was well read and watched all the right movies and TV shows when I could have just been going on hectic dates so I could have something to chat about with my mates. And while I know that deep down my friends do want me to be happy and to find what I’m looking for, there’s absolutely a desire within them for the unhinged stories to just keep coming. And fortunately for them, they just seem to be never ending. 

It’s said that insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting different results – and if I keep going on these same dates from the same dating apps and expecting things to turn out any differently, am I insane? I’m going to say no, I’m actually a beautiful, hopeful optimist. You’d need to be to imagine that there’s still anything worth looking for out there, at least based on what I’ve seen. So actually, full circle journey, maybe I am insane. 

Across the course of 31 first dates this year I have done my fair share of data collection. And I think the data has helped me to slowly make better choices (read: “doing things ‘differently’ as I go on, and therefore, not insane). However, as shocking as it might be, it did take me almost 9 months before I decided to only go on dates with guys from apps that I found attractive. It took me about 25 dates before I made a strong judgement call to stop thinking “oh but he might have a great personality” and deciding to meet them based only off that. From number 26 onwards it was hotties only. Historically I’ve been one to go for someone based on their personality – but historically hasn’t exactly worked out for me. 

Because it’s the question people always ask, before I wrap up this introductory tale, I’ll give you a sneak peak of what might be ahead (should I be motivated to write more of these tales).

Everyone always asks, “what’s the worst date you’ve been on?” – and that’s a silly waste of a question, because the ‘worst’ aren’t the funniest – but they’re entertaining enough. 

It’s a tie for the two worst dates of the year –it could either be Tramp Stamp Lockie** or Hands Man – they were both equally as ick – though I didn’t realise Hands Man was so bad until the second time I met him, so perhaps he doesn’t count. 

And yes, every date I’ve encountered has earned himself a nickname. Except for one. He was just a nice guy that wasn’t for me. The rest either earned their name early on, making its way into the notebook I’m keeping track of them all in straight after the date (or after a bit of workshopping with my friends), or they started with just their regular old name in the book but as time went on, it became abundantly clear that based on their behaviour, they no longer deserved to be protected. In fact, ‘Hands Man’ actually started out being labelled ‘Lovely Lewis’* but by the end of the second date, the trauma he had inflicted upon me (and specifically my hands) warranted the nickname he is now known by.  

But for now, that’s all you get. Just a preview. Just a couple of their names – or nicknames. I intend to share more, but I’ve got a reputation to build as the ‘fun dating friend’ and I worry that if I spill all my stories too soon, you’ll stop reading. Plus, I’ve gotta keep something up my sleeve – maybe date number 32 will go so well that I’ll stop being able to collect stories and settle down for my happily ever after…. Yeah… right. 

*I would like to say that I have changed people’s names to protect their privacy. But I’ll let you be the judge of whether I am that concerned with protecting said privacy… (Okay, yes, I changed their names, I’m scared of legal repercussions). 

**Actually, in that instance I have kept his real name – Lockie. He was a real knob, so the more people who know his real name, the better. I could even tell you his surname if you wanted – that’s what was he had tattooed as his tramp stamp to earn him the name ‘Tramp Stamp Lockie’. And no, I didn’t see it with my own two eyes, another guy I was on a date with on another night saw it and told me. Because Lockie showed him (I’ll write the tale up some time). Moral of that story: there are risks associated with refusing to leave your suburb to go on dates. 

“I’m so exhausted, how is it only Monday?” says the message I just sent to a co-worker. 

It’s ten past five in the afternoon and I’m in the same room that I’ve been in pretty much all day, from the moment I woke up. I’ve transitioned from my bed, to the adjoining ensuite, briefly to the kitchen, back to this same room, logged on to the computer, worked 8 hours and now I’m lying back in bed in a half-hearted attempt to unwind. It is not going well. If I can muster up the energy, perhaps I’ll do an exercise class via zoom, in, you guessed it, this same room. I know moving to some music will momentarily make me feel better but knowing that the feeling of joy will be so fleeting doesn’t make me enthused to get changed into work out gear. Knowing that all there is to do after is wander to the shower, then eventually back to bed isn’t much of a driver either. 

I’m lucky to have work, but nothing about the slog of getting through the day when my desk is only a meter from my bed makes me feel all that lucky. But I shouldn’t complain. I have so many friends who haven’t worked for months now. If I allow myself to feel anything other than fortunate for the regular wage, I’ll be racked with guilt. Be thankful, that’s what I have to tell myself.  

It’s a cycle of psychological self-harm. Remind yourself, some people have it far worse, many of them close friends, hate yourself for feeling so negative when in contrast you’re ‘so lucky’, feel sad that your friends are having such a bad time, hate yourself for feeling sad instead of being able to help them. Try to help them, try to find an end in sight. Feel like a failure. Repeat.  

It’s been weeks since I started to emotionally shut down. At first it was a gradual decline, but I have felt it become steeper in the past week or so. I can’t exactly put it into words, but now I really know what people mean when they use the phrase ‘shell of a person’. I feel like I’ve developed a kind of harsh exoskeleton that acts to protect me, not letting much of the bad in, but at the same time completely blocking out the good, the nice, the warmth. I really feel nothing. And feeling nothing weirdly hurts, it aches, a whole-body pain but numb at the same time. It’s survival mode, I know. I’m doing it to sustain myself, subconsciously and to enable myself to still try desperately, somehow to support those around me. To be the good friend that I would like to pride myself on being. I don’t feel like I can. 

I’ve known my best friend since we were five. Even back when we first started kissing boys, I always imagined her as a mum. I never imagined that when she had a child it would be at least six months, possibly longer before I met him. I’d always thought I’d be one of the first bad influences in my best mates’ kids’ life. 

Last year I watched a wedding via live stream and cried buckets full of tears of happiness for my friend as she married the love of her life – as well as a few tears of sadness that I couldn’t be there to share the joy. There was a small part of me that enjoyed the novelty of not wearing heels and drinking without having to organise a lift home. This year I tuned into my grandmother’s funeral on live stream. I certainly cried, but for the most part I just felt numb. There was no novelty in the surreal feeling of watching my family grieve through a screen as if they were actors on a low budget show, knowing that they were having that experience at the exact same time as I was, many miles away. 

Every day I walk past signs that remind me how long it’s been going on – the once creepily adorable spoonvilles are run down and tattered, rainbows in windows made to distract children in 2020 are faded and my favourite local pub has a depressing statement in the window. 

Last year, when it came to cases, 700 was a figure that terrified me. This year, 1,800 is oddly just a number. Interstate friends have questioned, how do you feel about the numbers? I can’t. I can’t because I don’t really feel. I ache. 

On social media my interstate friends share semi conspiratorial posts; ‘do you really know anyone who’s had COVID’? They don’t. We do. Last year I knew those who had it. This year, I know of the unavoidable cases who made it to ICU, they were waiting for vaccination that hadn’t been made available to them – it should have. 

How will we emerge? Broken each in our own way. Last year we all spoke with pride in the resilience we showed. This year, there will be many of us who carry this pain for a long time to come. I know I will.   

I’m not sure that there has been a day that’s gone by in which I haven’t danced. 

For all my thirty-one years on this planet, I’ve jigged and jived and boogied along, through the good, the bad and even just the bland (my feet tapping about under the table to music only existing in my head throughout some of the most mind-numbing meetings that have ever existed). 

The joy that I feel when moving to music compares to nothing else, all my favourite memories involve me busting a move, so I am sure you’d be surprised to hear me say that for years and years I’ve been terrified to engage with formal dance classes. 

As kid I’d get my groove on every year for my drama school’s end of year performance but at that time I all about the ‘serious’ acting – I wasn’t in it for the jubilant musical theatre numbers that we were forced to perform to keep our parents happy. When I stopped doing drama classes, I stopped engaging with any form of structured dance class and I didn’t feel like I’d lost anything whatsoever. I was, however, always the first and always the most sober on a sweaty dance floor at teenage parties. 

Friends of mine did dance classes outside of school and they just seemed too cool. I was not cool, a feeling that permeated deep down into my soul, rippling through all my extremities. I never felt like I’d be accepted into any form of dance class – they were for effortlessly cool girls who looked a way that I felt I didn’t. But boy was I wrong, and I wish I’d known it sooner. 

I found freeform dancing in my early 20s through the incredible No Lights No Lycra, a space that has stolen my heart a million times over, but when the pandemic hit, I realised that I needed something a little more; a connection, a community, an identity, and a motivation. 

I’d encountered Mix Tape and the gorgeous Annabella a few years prior when conducting a photoshoot and it was love at first sight– but sometimes a love that strong can be intimidating! It took me until we were forced to join classes via zoom for me to give it a red hot go and immediately, I was hooked. All though 2020 I sweated up a storm most weeknights and all Saturday morning as I danced along to 80s hits and booty shakin RnB bangers. I loved every second of it, and even on the days when I felt like the weight of the world had me down, if I could manage to get up, tune in and bust it out, I knew I’d feel a million times better. 

As the world began to return to a semblance of normal, I started to get scared – would I lose the brilliant experience that I’d gained throughout the year? Would I be able to hack it at an in-person class away from the safety of my bedroom? I swallowed down my fears and pulled together my post isolation courage to push me along and signed up to an in-person session and guess what? It was even more fun than via Zoom. 

As 2021 kicked into gear I wanted to go full in – I signed up to two performance classes and worked my way towards a cute little concert with new pals that I’d met along the way. It was, without a doubt the best way I could have kicked off the year. I should never have been intimidated by those dance classes way back when because guess what? Women are the best and women cheering each other on in the way that we all did as we worked towards and then pulled off an awesome performance was just the most brilliant feeling. I am so grateful that I was able to experience that, learn from that and know that I now want to go back and do it time and time again. 

Repeated lockdowns have meant that we needed to cancel our second performance course of the year and return to zoom classes, but knowing that I can tune in and dance it out has made what is otherwise a pretty shitty situation pretty darn awesome for the fifty or so minutes that the tunes are blarring, the moves are happening and the zoom is the place to be. 

I don’t recall ever running away from home as a kid – but I do recall almost scaring my mum to death when I decided to walk to the Ashton kindy fete. 

The year was 1995, as a shy five-year-old, I was surprisingly keen on the local social scene – the highlight in my calendar was the kindergarten fete. 

I’d been looking forward to that fateful (geddit?!) Sunday in September for what felt like months. It was likely only days, but because like most five-year old’s I had an attention span of a hungry Labrador, it felt like I’d been counting down to the event for the entire year. I was only a recent kindy graduate, my career as a big schoolgirl had just launched. The carefree days of endless the sand pit play that kindy offered was fresh in my mind, as was the taste of those Styrofoam craft noodles that I’d occasionally nibble on when the teachers weren’t looking. 

I woke up early that morning (okay, so I don’t actually remember specifics like that but I’m trying to set a scene here so just let me use a little creative licence) and was excited as soon as I opened my little peepers. I imagine that I threw the quilt off of me, sat bolt right up in bed and squealed with glee “kindy fete!” just like a character in an American tween film but even more pint sized. I would have been adorable. The reality was probably way less cinematic; I probably woke up sleep picking my nose– I have nothing to base this on, that’s just the kind of five-year-old that I imagine I was. With almost one hundred percent certainty though, there was a cat sleeping on my head, attempting to suffocate me in the way that cats were put on this earth to do. 

Another thing that I remember as a fact is that I started my painful line of questioning almost as soon as the day began. In the kitchen mum was preparing breakfast; “when are we going to the Kindy fete?” I enquired. “Later” she replied, ignorant to the fact that as a tiny human my concept of the passing of time wasn’t top notch. When kids in cars ask, “are we there yet?” it’s not to be annoying (okay, sometimes it absolutely is) but it’s also because they don’t bloody know. Location and timing are concepts that you’re not fully aware of at five. Heck, at 30 I’m still baffled as to why some days (the ones where I’m working) drag along slowly while others (Saturdays and Sundays) race by with wild abandon. 

At the time that this day unfolded, back in ‘95, my mum was twenty-nine. When my mum was a year younger than I am now, her Sunday meant mopping the floors while a painful five-year-old followed her around, undoing all her hard work and nagging her to near insanity. She also had to put up with my brother who at that stage was three and probably still pretty damn cute – though that wouldn’t last long. 

By mid-morning Mum was beginning to crack – I saw this as a victory on my behalf; I’d worn her down and I’d finally get to go to the kindy fete. After about the thousandth time questioning “when are we going to the kindy fete?” her answer changed. She quickly and grumpily snapped “well how about you walk then?” and with that I turned on my heels and hightailed away. She probably assumed she had upset me but as a five-year-old I’d yet to grasp the concept of sarcasm, instead she’d filled me with enthusiasm and resolve – I would in fact walk there.  

A quick Google search today tells me the journey from home to the location of the kindy fete was almost 8km. A one hour and thirty-eight-minute walk for a grown adult – apparently. If I’d had access to Google Maps or it has even existed back then, I’m sure I probably still would have given the walk a good crack. Not wanting to be the only one to get into trouble, I rounded up my brother and convinced him to tag along. As I mentioned though, he was only three (well, three and a half) so there wasn’t too much convincing needed. I grabbed my little handbag and what ended up being five dollars in gold coins (an amount that I thought would go a long way) and out the gate and up the road we headed. 

Now in defence of my parents, for anyone wondering how they could just let us walk straight out the gate and up the road, the truth is, they wouldn’t have seen us. It was a big yard and a big house, plenty of places for us to be that weren’t right under their feet – meaning we could easily escape undetected. The road we had to walk along, Greenhill road, had a speed limit of 80km per hour. Cars zoomed on by, but that didn’t bother us because just like wild animals we didn’t get have the cognitive ability to fully comprehend the danger of high speedy traffic. We were just happy to be on our way. 

I remember stopping to wee but I don’t recall either of us feeling tired or tempted to turn back. We took weeing turns in a ditch at the side of the road hiding behind a tree. Not long after that, our journey was cut short. Dad pulled up with a stern look on his face and told us that we needed to get in the car. We’d made it 1.5km – an impressive effort, which I fact checked just now with another quick Google. Dad seemed angry and I remember being a bit surprised at that. As much as I guessed that I might have done something wrong, I could also say with all honestly that Mum had told me to do it. With that firmly mentioned, Dad quickly resolved that he couldn’t be mad at us – but he could, he figured, be a little bit mad at Mum. Instead of driving straight home, Dad drove us to one of his friends houses. I didn’t realise until later that this was his way of making Mum stew, thinking it had taken him longer to find us. Mean but probably justified – she had, after all, flippantly told a child to take an 8km walk (sorry Mum!) 

In my Mum’s defence (and I will defend that woman until the end, through thick and thin, especially now that I’ve read extensively about pelvic floors and birth trauma. All mothers are saints for loving their children after the pain they inflict upon their bodies. Sorry, tangent) but yes, in her defence, she was twenty-nine and raising two kids, working and keeping house. I’m still too flaky to commit to keeping a pet alive. I want a dog, but my brain has convinced me it will somehow jump off the balcony – so I can’t even conceptualize the worst-case scenarios I’d drum up with a kid in the world. My Mum was not to blame… entirely. Despite that, Dad still made her sweat it out a bit. When we finally came home, she was a wreck. Part of me feels a bit guilty about the stress I put her through that day, but if I started to think about all the stressful scenarios that I should feel retrospective guilt about I’d need more therapy than I can afford – so I’d rather just bury that thought. 

Eventually we did get to the kindy fete – after Mum finished the cleaning. I don’t actually remember much about it, but I do remember that Mum bought me a beaded necklace with my name spelled out on it. It cost $7. She emphasized that if I’d made it there on my own, with the $5 I had in my purse that I wouldn’t have been able to get it. I’m not sure what point she was trying to make though. 

For many years the story of my attempted adventure to the kindy fete was shared by my parents. I’m not sure if it was an anecdote meant to display my fierce determination or express the fact that all parents fuck up sometimes. Either way it taught me a valuable lesson – one which could be used for both good and evil: never say something to a child that you wouldn’t want them to take absolutely seriously. 

I sit at home on my couch in Melbourne writing a reflection of my shortest yet most absolutely brilliant Adelaide Fringe festival so far.

It’s the last weekend of Fringe, my boyfriend has jumped on a plane to head over for the final weekend party and I’m here with beer, my laptop and party tunes playing from the TV (which has made me realise that Mandy Moore’s ‘Candy’ really didn’t get the credit it deserved- or maybe that beer is stronger than I thought…)
I’m a bit sad – it’s the first time I’m missing the closing weekend party since I was 17 and I don’t know if I’ll survive without getting loose on the dance floor while everyone sings along to Toto’s Africa and the DJ pauses the chorus and it’s just people screaming I BLESS THE RAINS DOWN IN AFRICA into the Adelaide parklands (happens every year, you can’t deny  crowd of overtired artists what they really want)… but I had to come back to reality – it would have been far too easy to stay existing in the beautiful yet exhausting world that was this years amazingly wonderful festival!

Despite the fact that I was only in Adelaide for half of the festival, and the fact that I saw far fewer shows than I have in recent years, it was still my favourite. Without a doubt.

 

I’ve been performing in some form or another for the past five years and I’ve been seeing shows since I was a kid – really getting into the flow of things when I hit year 12 at school but this year was different because I got perform a show which I co-wrote with my wonderful friend Mikayla Lynch and people really loved it! That’s not to say that I haven’t been in shows people have loved before (if people hadn’t liked the other stuff I probably wouldn’t have kept doing shows…) but for some reason I was more worried about this one. For starters I was writing for two characters – I’d written stand up as myself and performed improv as a character but I’d never really, in a setting where pride and money was on the line, written for one!
I was working with some who I hadn’t worked with before and even worse, we were located in different states meaning that collaboration sessions had to occur via Skype with work flow being managed via online programs (I bloody LOVE Trello!).
Our venue fell through at the last minute.
I didn’t know if I could pull this off (I had faith in Mikayla but I was more worried that I’d make her look bad…)

 

But I really wanted to do it! The original and very vague idea for the show was born out of a real bad time – cold wintery Melbourne in which I was having a pretty awful time mentally. Work sucked hardcore and I was still figuring out how to make new friends in a new city (making friends is hard as an adult!) but I was heading to my favourite No Lights No Lycra regularly to keep my spirits up. It was dancing around like an absolute twat that I had the first idea – and Mikaya’s name popped into my mind – and from there, I messaged here and things…just…rolled.

Oh and the venue falling through? The AMAZING Raj House team stepped us and gave us a home at the last minute!

Flash forward to February and we’d sold tickets…we had reviewers coming…we had 10 shows booked in plus spots at variety nights and we were shitting ourselves – would people ‘get’ these two weird characters we had written? Would they get the jokes? Would they think we were being serious…was it obvious enough? Would our bits fall out of our costumes?

But it worked. It. Just. Worked.

Probably because we worked our assess off to make sure that it did.

And I saw some amazing shows. And I danced with amazing people and I drank too much beer (and some champagne that came in a can…which was…a thing that happened)

So read this please and make me feel less sad about missing the last weekend of Fringe – because I’m just bloody thankful I got to be apart of it and have a bloody AMAZING time (and maybe…keep an eye out for Cheryl and Chardee at a festival or on a computer screen near you…cough…cough).

P.S have a read of some of our sikkkkk reviews (including an beautiful **** review below)

Weekend Notes

All Over Adelaide

The BLOODY Advertiser 

Stage Whispers