When Ansett airline closed down in 2002, we became loyal to Virgin Blue then Virgin Australia.
This morning, thinking we would buy a Virgin lounge pass, we discovered there is no longer a Virgin lounge at Cairns airport.
We dropped the Apex car rental off an hour earlier than necessary at 11:00am, so that we had plenty of time to navigate roadwork delays between Port Douglas and Cairns.
Naively, we believed we would able to drop our bags off at the airport, to access the shopping and dining opportunities prior to flying at 2:50pm.
We were greeted by closed Virgin Australia check-in desks, opening at 1:20 pm. Hopefully, we sit, occasionally gazing over at Virgin staff seated behind the check-in desks.
Other passengers arrive, speak to smiling staff, they are sent away.
I had refused to believe an online review of Virgin having become a budget airline.
For an idealist, reality is the foulest tasting pill to swallow, let alone digest. Gaily floating around on a cloud of optimism and wonder one second, to thudding to earth, gasping in lungs of detritus, the next.
From experience, a sound night’s sleep goes someway to reset and resume the ascension of the ladder of acceptance and commitment, through adaptation and evolution.
My delusions of grandeur know no bounds!
It is the King’s (previously Queen’s) birthday, long weekend in Queensland. A perfect opportunity to reflect on personal and financial duties whilst enjoying a break.
Balancing optimism with responsibility is a dance requiring grace and acknowledgement of reality. How do you strike that balance in your own life?
I find it amusing the path our lives take, in my case largely unconsciously. A benefit of aging is being able to review and share threads of the journey.
On this Thursday commute, I’m listening to the original 1979 Broadway cast recording of Stephen Sondheim’s musical adaptation of Christopher Bond’s play Sweeney Todd on Spotify. Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury star as lead characters Benjamin Barker and Mrs Lovett.
My fascination with the darkness of humanity as described in books began as soon as I was old enough to venture to a public library, unaccompanied by an adult. My junior years were spent engrossed in tales of Egyptian reincarnation, vampires, hauntings, ghosts, the supernatural, and witchcraft.
I fondly remember multiple borrowings of the above hardback, The Dracula Myth by Gabriel Ronay, 1972* from Harborne Library. It introduced me to 15th century, Vlad III (Dracul), ruler of Wallachia, in modern day Romania. He ordered two Turkish envoys be impaled because they refused to remove their turbans, and 16th century, Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Báthory who bathed in the blood of virgins to keep her youthful looks.
In the ‘70s, whilst holidaying with my family in the Channel Islands, I devoured the contents of the above paperback, a memoir of ‘Edward Paisnel, a predatory paedophile nicknamed the Beast of Jersey, who was convicted in 1971 for an 11-year reign of terror. Paisnel believed himself to be the reincarnation of Gilles de Rais, and committed his crimes in the bizarre outfit depicted on the cover of this 1972 biography by his wife Joan’**.
In 1984, after completing four years at college in Worcester and Blackpool, I returned home to Droitwich Spa, completely disillusioned by the prospect of a career working in hotels. I was successful in gaining retail employment at Russell and Bromley in Worcester. It was here, I met my dear singer friend, Georg.
By then Sweeney Todd had opened in London. Georg sat me down to watch a video of this performance. I was absolutely entranced by it. I still have a CD of the original cast recording from Broadway.
My husband and I have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Sweeney Todd a couple of times at the Sydney Opera House. We also enjoyed the movie version with Johnny Depp as Sweeney and Helena Bonham-Carter as Mrs Lovett.
For me, the staged production of Sondheim’s version of this melodramatic gothic thriller will never lose its appeal.
Winnie-The-Pooh by A. A. Milne, illustrated by E. H. Shepherd was one of my first favourite childhood books. I won a paperback copy early in infant school for a hand painting picture. There was a commemorative ex libris inside the front cover detailing the award, my name, date, and class.
I was once described as being like Eeyore. The old gray stuffed donkey character. According to Wikipedia, ‘generally characterised as pessimistic, depressed, and anhedonic.’
I see myself more like Winnie-the-Pooh. ‘Despite being naïve and slow-witted, he is a friendly, thoughtful and sometimes insightful character who is always willing to help his friends and try his best.’ (Wikipedia)
Upon reflection, Pooh represents my usual optimistic self whereas Eeyore is an inner glum voice.
On Tuesday, my manager took me into a small meeting room for a ‘there’s nothing wrong’ discussion. I was momentarily lulled into a false sense of security. After a preamble of ‘change is a good thing’ and information I already knew, I learned of a reorganisation. In line with a company policy of a maximum of ten in a team, a need to build capability, and improve customer service, I was being moved to another team, the week after next.
I don’t operate well face to face when feeling threatened. Becoming a faun; externally, I appease and please, adopting a vulnerable and cautious stance despite inner turmoil. I expressed guarded displeasure then returned to my desk in stunned silence.
In the five and a half years with my current employer, I have worked in the same team, focussed on supporting clients back to state funded health roles after sustaining workplace injuries. During this time, I have experienced two challenging line managers and two wonderful ones. The uncertainty of a new manager, new team dynamics, and colleagues with limited knowledge and experience in supporting health clients felt overwhelming.
In engaging with change, I remind myself of Pooh’s sunny disposition, a source of comfort and inspiration. While uncertainty looms, I’ll lean on his resilience, turning negatives into positives and crafting strategies to adapt. Writing this post is my first small step toward accepting the shift and embracing the unknown. I still have a job, and I will navigate this chapter with optimism and determination. Change may be daunting, but it’s also a powerful catalyst for growth.
I considered presenting a blank sheet. After all how do you paint something unseen? Weightlessness came to mind, such a heavy word to describe something ethereal; unseen, lighter than a feather.
My imaginings are viewed through a water element induced feelings lens. Increasingly with age, earthbound gravity anchors me as I am dragged along the ground like a hot air balloon basket being divested of collected paraphernalia. It doesn’t seem to matter how much is discarded I just can’t seem to get my carcass of the earth.
Both versions of the abstract watercolour are posted here.
The first feels heavy, constrained, forced, and overworked.
I am happier with second version.
I was aiming for:
Purple for spirit, and I believe, evolved thought
Yellow for the air element, in my view also sunny hope filled optimism
Blue resonates for me as free limitless sky high thinking
While white space represents light and calm
A decade or two ago, I was fascinated by people who read a book while completing gym based cardiovascular training. In contrast, I felt like I was soaring as I listened to dance music. The beats, sounds, and crescendoing voices motivating my body to pump and work harder to lift me higher and higher.
Nowadays, finding the music in the gym too loud, I can’t be bothered to try to compete with my earbuds. Dialling up the volume sets off my tinnitus. I can complete forty minutes’ exercise in the aerobic heartbeat zone while reading a book on my phone. It works on the reclined bike, elliptical trainer, and treadmill.
As I am working on a concept for an abstract watercolour earth element painting, carrying on from last week, I decided to share a couple more primary school reports.
I have no recollection of class 2.
From the above, it appears class 3 was split into two terms. The first was taught by Mrs Elway whom I adored. Mrs Elway played the upright piano in the school hall. It had an elaborately embroidered drop cloth affixed to the back of it.
My technicolor memory of Mrs Elway merges with the black and white film ones of English actress Margaret Rutherford. They both appeared to be nurturing, driven, crone spirits.
There were no excellent scores in class 1. At 6 3/4 my performance had markedly improved.
I don’t know why I missed 43 days of school other than having measles, chicken pox, and debilitating bouts of tonsillitis culminating in having them removed at the grand terracotta brick Ear Nose and Throat Hospital, junction of Edmund and Barwick streets, Birmingham.
After getting over the pain of healing wounds, I loved being in hospital. I have vivid memories of the late Victorian ward with beds either side of a central aisle with a table in the middle for meals. I loved the jelly and ice cream they served post op. Eventually, I was allowed to eat cornflakes although they had to be scratchy.
Good for P.E. Games? Perhaps due to it consisting of musical statues, throwing beanbags, maypole dancing, and running around.
Note, needlework was now added to the curriculum. Mrs Box taught us to hand stitch, embroider, and use a sewing machine.
Mrs Elway kindly reports I ‘tried very hard, particularly with reading and writing. Particularly good at collecting nature specimens.’ I admit to proactively contributing to the nature tables in most classes. Perhaps I could have been a botanist. Excellent for art and handiwork encourages my current endeavours.
My grades slipped significantly under the tuition of A.M. Lloyd, of whom I have no recollection. Maybe due to my father ‘running off to be with that Walker woman’ as my mother frequently shrilled whenever my five year old brother and I needed to hear it. Dad left us the day before my eighth birthday. I don’t remember whose choice it was. I know my Mom would not have been able to silently endure adultery. At least during this time I had a flair for ‘oral work’.
The formidable jacket and skirt suited headmistress E Lyon would have been sporting a French pleated hairdo while signing off on this report.
I am consciously stating the obvious when I write, spending quality time with family is limited when you live on opposite sides of the planet.
When we moved to Australia in 1998, my niece was a child. We are getting to know her and partner as adults whilst they take working holiday breaks from Spain here. Initially in 2018/2019 and again this year. We just spent a joy filled time swapping stories and creating happy memories with them over Christmas.
Whilst reviewing my sketchbook, my niece and partner were drawn to a rendering of a Pink Airhead from March 2024. They remarked on the way the character had developed over time.
Today’s whimsical Airhead represents both outward airy lightness through the pink rocks/stones and inner darkness contained in the black outlines.
‘Pink rock’ is a play on words reflecting a lack of self confidence to display goth/punk/emo individuality. I believed, to be accepted, I had to hide my true self and conform to societal norms. I wonder where this belief began.
As a shy young teen distracted by fantasy, horror, sci-fi, and daydreaming, I expressed myself through coloured handwriting. Setting aside traditional black and dark blue, I favoured apple green and turquoise inks in my fountain pens. Both of them intermittently leaked over my fingers and exercise books. Also, I had a hot pink felt tip pen reserved for doodling, sketching, and creating organic shapes filled with circles/bubbles.
Going further back, in the first class of primary school 1968-1969, taught by Mrs J. Booth, I have three distinct memories: winning a prize for hand painting/printing; enjoying singing along to “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)” accompanied by guitar; and exposing myself in the communal handwashing area of the unisex toilets.
I have no recollection of the reason why, having removed all of my garments, I minced out, hands in the air from the cubicle like a bawdy butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Nor do I remember any repercussion of my action.
Up until that point, I believe I was as carefree as any other five year old. I dressed my teddies, floated around like a bird, and coloured in.
Above is my report from the end of the first class of primary school. 3 (satisfactory) for conduct stands out from the 4 (good) grades. I suspect this was due to memory number three above.
My new boss said, it is one thing to record positive feedback in the notes of a telephone conversation and another to receive an email. When one of my clients takes the time to mail a thank you card that is something else.
I feel humbled by the recognition and thankful for being able to make a positive difference in someone’s life.
For the last two years I have been in a state of threat at work. While the employer proclaims it is a place of inclusion and authenticity, I wonder if this statement relates only to the loud and pushy at the expense of others. Perhaps I am not resilient enough, unwilling to speak out, and too sensitive.
When my values were tested too much, I fought back (in a shy introverted way). I was labelled ‘emotional’. I resorted to my go to fawn response with underlying frustration and at times anger. I aimed to please and appease by sacrificing myself.
Over the last twelve months, somehow, I sustained this tiring performance, achieving a personally unnecessary glowing annual performance review. Satisfactory would have been enough.
When I recently found out the perpetrator was being reassigned, I felt numbness and disbelief.
I developed fawning from ages 9 to 16 years. The seemingly constant aggression directed at my mother and brother by my first stepfather brought firsthand experience of rage, domestic violence, and abuse. I largely kept my thoughts and feelings to myself. Withdrawing my marshmallow being behind a protective shell. As soon as I was able, I fled away to college.
At the beginning of this week, perpetrator free, I felt like a huge weight had lifted from my shoulders.
This painting reflects pleasing and appeasing while dark emotions and discontent underlaid my view of my workplace. The grey background represents compromise, neutrality, control, and practicality. I am represented by an anonymous outward facing ovoid, outlined with dark blue and red inks. The teal inner self displays responsiveness, integrity, and practicality. It contains pink organic shapes of kindness, caring, and compassion; essential for my role. Salt adds fractures to the composition.
In my late teens and early twenties, I experienced hospitality working as a casual, selling fish and chips at Neptune’s Pantry, as a banqueting waiter at the Raven, hall porter at the Chateau Impney, and barman/porter/night manager at the Windermere Hydro hotels.
After completing college in 1984, I was disillusioned by the prospect of working long hours in a hotel for the rest of my life. Back at home in Droitwich, I looked at other options. A newspaper advertisement for a full time position in retail caught my eye. Mom drove me the six miles to Worcester for the interview. It was supposed to take 20 to 30 minutes.
The manager, Michael Dray had me describe the selling features of a fawn Italian leather high heel shoe with a gold piped darker tone lizard skin inverted chevron at the top of the counter (behind the heel). At the time, this shoe was the most expensive in the shop, around £250 in 1984, equivalent to £1000 today.
After spending about two hours with Mr Dray and returning to the car, Mom was both happy I got the job and unhappy for having to wait for me without knowing what was taking so long.
These mixed emotions transferred to me as happiness and anxiety, throughout my employment at R&B. My work colleagues were a wonderful mix, ranging from elder and younger sister types to the outrageous. Other than the manager, I was the only male employee.
Our employment rewarded us with an hourly rate plus a percentage of sales commission. I had not considered the pressure weekly sales targets would have on me. It was calculated using the performance of the store for the same week in the previous year plus a mark up and divided between the number of employees working.
Other incentives included, ends of lines having a ‘spiff’ sticker attached to the box. The colour translated to a one-off £ value paid in addition to commission.
Every person entering the emporium was a prospect who should not be allowed to leave until a purchase had been made. If they were interested in slippers, it was expected, we introduce a matching handbag, polish, shoe trees, signing up for a store card, boots, shoes; you get the picture.
Whilst I had experienced the need to perform at school and college through achieving the requisite grades to graduate, sales was and still is an anathema to me. Anything more than charming, chatting, and cheering on when I disagree with what I am doing leads to poor performance. A completed store card application that passed credit checking earned £1 for the sales assistant and potentially a life of debt for the shopper. In the six months or so I spent at R&B, I did not once achieve my sales target.
Today, I am surprised by my naivety of not thinking things through before jumping headlong into them. In hindsight, I learn through failure by picking myself up and trying something new.
Back to the happy times at R&B, through the ladies collection, my eyes were opened to a world of coloured leathers including, navy, white, cerise, Capri, taupe, chocolate, salmon, raspberry, lemon, lime, emerald, ruby, claret, sapphire, opal, silver, gold, bronze. The men’s mainstay of black and brown occasionally branched out into silver or mid grey, tan and, blue.
I used every opportunity to try on ladies and men’s shoes that took my fancy. I fell into the role of clown, parading around the stock rooms, much to the delight of my coworkers.
We purchased our own uniforms. Males wore a suit with shirt and tie. My female counterparts an outfit selected by the floor supervisor, a tall slim, Miss Dixon. It changed twice per year and did not suit all body shapes.
A condition of our service was the wearing of a pair of ‘shop shoes’ from the company’s range for six months. They were not allowed to leave the premises. Our bags were checked every time we went out. We paid a quarter of the retail price. I chose a £100 pair of tan Moreschi tasselled half brogue loafers with a grosgrain vamp.
During my time there, I attended a course on fitting children’s shoes in Norwich at the Startrite factory so that I could assist during busy back to school periods.
My work mate, Tracey ‘ace face’ Melling ran the children’s department on the mezzanine. Outside work, a goth with backcombed hair, ripped black clothing, and black, white, and purple makeup. Each day, Tracey drew on eyebrows after arriving late to work. I still smile at the thought of the surprised faces of children and parents looking at Tracey without eyebrows or with only one drawn on.
Tracey was hugely creative. During a quiet period, Tracey drew pencil sketches of pigs wearing R&B shoes on the back of Clarks packing labels. I was gifted with the sketches which I copied to paint corresponding watercolours.
I began at R&B during the period of the Autumn/Winter uniform of black skirt and dark raspberry blouse.
Spring/Summer followed, Capri skirt with blouse of splodges of blue, pink, and green.
Fully utilising a 25% discount, my shoe collection grew to include leather soled and lined canvas shoes in two tone blue and in fawn; polished burgundy, black, dark brown, and dark fawn suede brogues, tan boxer boots, the list goes on. Only the Moreschis remain.
theINFP 