The Dog and Donkey Show

All my life I have wanted a puppy to call my own. I wanted one that would fit in my pocket, that would follow me around, ecstatic in my mere presence. I wanted a fluffy one, with a round belly and big eyes. I wanted a little dog that was small enough to be an inside pet, one who would lay at my feet and no one would notice.

And what Yours Truly wants, Yours Truly generally gets - that is, of course,  after Yours Truly begs, pleads, cries, whinges, creates convincing Powerpoint presentations, gives the silent treat
ment, stamps her foot, carries out nationwide surveys and calls various radio stations to rally behind her cause.

Never give up on your dreams, kids.

Anyways, that is how The Boyfriend and I ended up bungled into his truck, rattling our way up the mountains to procure the cutest canine ever known to man. I had him all picked out - a white Maltese Shih Tzu cross, the eldest of the litter, a healthy, bouncy cherub of a dog. I could barely contain my excitement. The Boyfriend struggled to steer as I gripped his entire head in a hug of gratitude, weeping tears of joy, praising all the gods I could remember the holy names of.

"This is the best day of my LIFE," I proclaimed, turning down the radio for the seventh time so The Boyfriend could hear me utter these heartfelt promises for the seventh time. "This is going to be AMAZING. He will be the best-behaved dog in the WORLD. I will buy BOOKS. I will buy INSURANCE. I will buy you a PINT."

The Boyfriend's eyes were fixed firmly on the road, his lip set. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet. I felt like he knew something I didn't. I didn't care.

The lady who owned the dogs was enormous, her jovial presence made all the more overwhelming by her protruding stomach. She led us to the litter.

The puppies were about the size of a babies fist, blindly trotting around, bumping into the cupboards, yelping and nibbling at one another's ears. They were the stupidest, most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes on. I glanced at The Boyfriend, whose expression had also softened. My heart swelled - I wanted to take them all home.

I spotted the white one I'd been besotted with. I picked him up and he was pudgy and lovely, but as I did so, a weird little brown and white one caught my eye. His teeth poked out over his upper lip. He walked in a diagonal line. His ears were perky and lopsided.

"The runt," the large lady said, nodding in the brown and white dogs direction "The others won't let him near the milk. He's a bit weaker than the rest."

The breeder might as well have performed a cleverly choreographed dance in a bikini, holding a flashing billboard with my name in luminescent letters pointed towards his little face. The runt was curled in my arms minutes later, a giant hole in my purse and a big smile plastered on my face.
We got home and Alfie - I'd his name picked out for the last two years, which might give you some indication of the extent of my obsession - started to pine. He keened all night long. I woke up and held him like a baby, which didn't help at all. I assumed my lack of fur and excess nipples was doing little to assure his motherless heart, and cried with him.

I cannot imagine that there was ever a more poignant moment in The Boyfriend's life than at half two that morning when he was rudely jilted from much-needed sleep by the dual high-pitched wails of his new tiny dog and his girlfriend, the latter crying rivers through her Sudocrem-slathered face, hair askew, nose running alarmingly. I could see in his eyes he was weighing up the positives for remaining in this beguiling relationship. He closed his eyes, resigning himself and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"What. In the name of God. Are you doing."

"Alf..Alfie m-m-misses his maaaaaaaaaammmyyyyyyy..." My sobs broke anew, making the glass shake in the window panes. "I...I...I'm supposed to be h-h-his mammyyyyyyy....!!!"

The Boyfriend responded by pulling his pillow over his head, not in the mood to deal with that particular bout of insanity. I picked up Alfie in a snotty huff, and stormed down to the bathroom, where the dog proceeded to spray me with the runny excrement that seems to be the token of all new borns.

The first weeks were tough. The regular bowel movements and incessant barking aside, I literally threw myself in front of a car the day Alfie escaped the front garden and tried to scare down a passing 4x4 by plonking all two pounds of himself in front of it and growling. It was a lot of responsibility for a veritable disaster-piece of a human being such as myself but I persevered -under the ever-watchful eye of the well-rounded Boyfriend.

Alfie shat - a lot.

He urinated - more than I thought a dog that size would actually be capable of expelling.

He howled.

He hated his walks, and dragged on the lead.

He was quick to snap at Dobermans and German Shepherds, a lack of unawareness of size and stature only matched by my own idiocy while inebriated.


But even with all that said; even though we had finally been granted our visa, and even though we were finally making the long-awaited plans to get a house of our own with a long lease - Alfie was the first thing that made Australia feel like home.

Discrimination Nation

For our entire first year in Melbourne, The Boyfriend and I had been house-sharing. Privacy was non-existent and when I was in one of my notorious bad moods - which came upon me suddenly and violently, much to the chagrin of anyone within a twenty mile radius - I had no where to vent. I felt very claustrophobic. 

At one point, I even reminisced about our time with Fat Shite and Sour Puss, entertaining the theory that maybe they hadn't been so bad and that I simply struggled with space sharing. Such was my temporary insanity - I knew I had to get out before before being besieged by similarly ludicrous thoughts.

Fat Shite was, and always will be, a thundering imbecile in all hypothetical universes.

In saying that, The Boyfriend and I began the arduous process of procuring a little house of our own. 

The sponsorship was in the bag - we had four years to work in Australia. The Boyfriend was contracted with the company who granted him the visa, and I was free to try my hand at whatever I pleased as a de facto. We would be able to apply for permanency after two years on the visa, and everything seemed to be slowly coming together. We could enter in to a twelve month lease - a notion heretofore shelved as a mere passing fancy.

I insisted we live by the beach. I wanted sand, sea, and sun; and I wanted it on my doorstep. The Boyfriend brought to my attention other, more affordable, more logistically sensible locations and I snorted derisively, arching my eyebrows to point towards bayside.

Every weekend was spent at viewings. We traipsed through glorious newly-builts, shabby weatherboards and pokey apartments. We applied for every single one that piqued our interest and received tens of rejections promptly afterwards. 

Perplexed, we couldn't understand why getting a house was proving such a challenge. We had full-time guaranteed work and glowing references. We had narrowed our search to pet-friendly accommodations. We offered six weeks deposits instead of the traditional four. We were doing everything right, and still getting knock back after knock back.

I was in work one day. Mr. Delhi was eating his breakfast and I was making coffees for some customers. The Boyfriend and I had put in another house application, and were anxiously waiting to hear back from the real estate agent. 

 The house was a pig-sty; our last resort. It leaned slightly to the right. It was painted a dirty yellow. There was broken windows in the porch, and a shed at the back that the landlord solely claimed for his apparent collection of rusty bicycles. We applied purely out of panic. 

As I steamed the milk, I felt my phone go off in my pocket. 

Ten minutes later, I was smoking a cigarette and cursing everyone who walked by. We'd been rejected, yet again. The landlord wanted someone local.

I've talked to a lot of Irish people who have moved to Australia and the majority have had some complaint or quibble when it came to securing a place to live. Young Europeans have a reputation of being careless backpackers down under, and landlords are reluctant to entrust their property to a couple without roots or ties to the locality. They want long-term renters. It was a desire I can understand now, but couldn't fathom at the time. Homelessmess for The Boyfriend, Alfie and I loomed ever closer.

The Boyfriend's youngest sister and her friend - let's call them Shinaynay and Awnyayyay - were on their way to Melbourne. The Boyfriend's entire family were certain the girls wouldn't make it, such was their lack of faith in Shinaynay's navigational prowess. They arrived, drooping and wide-eyed from the journey. The Boyfriend showed them to their makeshift bedroom in the back porch. It had been erected from plywood and impatience in just under two hours - and it showed.

We planned to get stinking drunk that weekend to gloss over our misery. Beanie Face joined us in our debauchery, along with his brothers - of which they are too many for me to bother naming or completely recall. 

We went to the local station and were awaiting our train towards the city, when we were approached by two burly, gun-toting policemen. 

"Get your feet off that bench," one grunted at The Boyfriend, who had been sitting on the back of the bench, feet firmly planted where one would normally place ones arse. 

The Boyfriend did as much, but the policeman remained steadfast. "There's signs everywhere saying you can't put your feet on the benches," he scolded, hand on his weapon. 

We all looked around for these signs. There were none, and The Boyfriend remarked on their absence. And I don't mean he made a brassy comment highlighting the cop's bullshit. He actually said "Sorry, I didn't see any."

Then, in an act worthy of the badge, the policeman demanded to see all of our passports. He questioned our visa validity. He asked us where we were living, and when we would be "going back home." We were asked to repeat ourselves frequently, such was his inability to distinguish legible sentences through our seemingly incomprehensible accent. 

I was sure we were all going to get shot in defence of a bench. The ludicruity of it all was almost enough to make me laugh aloud. Almost.

Our train rocked up just in time. We bailed on, and left the chuckling policemen at their post, forty kilometres from the city, at a suburban railway station. 

I was seething. The minute we disembarked, I strode right into the closest bar, ordered reams of tequila shots, smoked three cigarettes at a time. I pointed fingers at unknowing strangers, admonishing them for their assumptions, lecturing them on their convict history, dribbling inebriated insults and tarring them all with the same proverbial brush.

Australia is known for being a bit racist, Ireland is known for being a bit drunk. 

That night, both stereotypes were immeasurably justified, by one ridiculous policeman and one equally idiotic Yours Truly. 

Discrimination breeds discrimination - and that's a lesson I'll be forever grateful for learning. 

Bob's Your Carbuncle

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. And I mean, let me describe myself physically. I'm sure you've got a grasp of my self-deprecating, perpertually cynical, self-pitying personality. I'm about to paint painfully accurate pen-picture of Yours Truly.

Brace yourselves.

The Boyfriend tentatively describes me as being "of medium build" which I have naturally translated as morbidly obese. I have an abnormally large forehead. I, like many others I am sure, spent a large part of my existence over-plucking my eyebrows. I also have a tongue that requires more room than my prominent eye-teeth are willing to supply, which results in a lispy, sibilant quality to my speech. In short, I spit a lot when I talk, a tendency I literally cannot control. 

To add to all this horror, I have to contend with a propensity for acne breakouts that actual doctors have likened to the carbuncles on the bottom of boats.

It's something to do with my ridiculously inefficient immune system. My body, along with all its other shortcomings, is seriously lacking in iron. Couple that with growing up with Da Mudder's charred Sunday roast beef dinners, and the inevitable distaste for red meat that followed, I grew up a pale, sunken-eyed, boil-ridden girl. 

When I was fourteen and on the precipice of puberty with all the wonderful side-effects that accompany that exciting transition, I got my first carbuncle.

 It hung off the side of my face like an aching weight, a veritable mass of green and yellow pus, immovable and unsusceptible to every single acne-fighting cream, gel and soap bar that is known to man. The thing had its own orbit and I don't think one person looked me in the eye for the entire year I had to haul it around the school corridors.

I was subjected to abundant laser treatments and poultices before my very expensive and very useless dermatologist finally stumbled across an antibiotic that banished the boil for good. 

The dermatologist in question was left with a healthy college-fund for her son and a clap on the back for cracking a difficult case. I was left with slight scarring on the left hand side of my nose and an esteem-level firmly rooted in the soles of my feet. 

Anyway, years passed and the carbuncle never surfaced again, and I - eventually - was again able to look at my reflection in the mirror while washing those prominent teeth I was telling you about. 

And then I moved to Melbourne and after leaving my shitty job with Boss and Sappy, I got another shitty job with Mr. Delhi. To be fair, it was one of the only jobs I've had over here where everything was above board, pay-wise. 

I also genuinely liked Mr. Delhi, and adored my colleague - let's call her the Punjabi Princess - who was also from India and one of the nicest, most diligent and humble human beings I have ever had the pleasure to meet.  

And while The Boyfriend and I waited to hear whether we were going to get sponsored for the second time, and while things rapidly deteriorated at home with the new housemates Todd and Copper, and while in the throes of nicotine withdrawals,  a carbuncle pushed its way back into my life. Specifically, on to my chin. 

It was my third week at the greasy spoon and I was sporting a spot on my chin that had South African poachers sniffing the air in incomprehensible, innate desire. I was staring at the ground. I had asked the Punjabi Princess to serve as many customers as possible so as to avoid the questionable looks and open-mouthed gasps. I had been expertly manoeuvring my face to the right to obscure the worst of the rhino-esque horn protruding from my face. I was secretly pleased with my coping mechanism.

But Mr. Delhi was a very blunt and... vocal individual. When he rocked up to check on proceedings at the cafe, he could not help but wildly point at the offensive sore.

 I nodded, smiled empathetically. 

"Hoho...yes.... A spot, yes... Yes,yes, I do know it's there... Hideous, yes... Hoho.... Yes, I should stay off the beer... Hoho."

Inside, I was repeatedly stabbing him in the eye with the serrated knife I held in my hand. But I kept it together and hid my despair admirably. I didn't even have a smoke that evening.

I felt very adult. 

However, after the third consecutive morning that he greeted me with the same exclamation of disgust, I had a compete mental breakdown. 

I cried. 

I cannot believe I cried. 

I usually save my tears for when I know I'm losing an argument with The Boyfriend. It was a mortifying display of emotion. 

Mr. Delhi blustered profuse apologies. I accepted, snottily and gracefully. 

I decide I had to go to the doctors that afternoon. I got off work early, and waited almost two hours before the receptionist let me in to see the man with the prescription pad. I babbled my complaints and demanded some antibiotics. To my complete surprise, he gave me a years worth of pretty pills and sent me on my way. I'd finally found something I liked about Australia - its lackadaisical practitioners of medicine.

I had my hand on the door handle when he asked me if I'd been doing anything differently in my life lately. I thought about it for a few minutes. I then puffed out my chest a little and proudly announced the nine days I'd gone without a fag. To which he replied - and I kid you not here - "Ah, yes. That can cause skin breakouts. Your body is reacting to the sudden lack of nicotine. You probably shouldn't have gone cold turkey. Maybe cut down slowly."

Strike that previous statement. I'd found something I loved about Australia. 

Escape from Maxx's Gaff (If You Say It Fast, It Sounds Like It RhymesWith Alcatraz. Honest. Go on. Try It.)

Day Five, 0545hrs

I was late for work this morning. My sleep was broken and uneven, punctuated by moans and groans from Maxx's room. I can only assume he had decided to view one of his many pornographic DVDs late in the night and his vigorous and vocal appreciation of the film had been long and loud. Realising the hour, I leapt from the bed and pulled on some pants. 

I opened the door a crack, and put my hand over my mouth to force back the bile that had climbed my throat. Maxx was wearing some sort of transparent kimono and dancing with an invisible partner in the sitting room. Temporarily frozen in horror, I stood staring as he made his final pirouette. There was no music, which made the whole display even stranger. 

He pupils, though minuscule, widened slightly as he rounded to face me, which I took as a recognition of my presence. His hands dropped to his sides to hide his modesty and he took off out the back door. I grabbed my Myki and dashed out the door, fervently hoping my brain would do me a favour and suppress the entire scenario. I'll probably need to consume a lot of alcohol to aid this process, but I'll do it - for my health.

Day Seven, 1830hrs

The cafe is closed today due to a bank holiday. The Boyfriend is working, however. He leaves at the crack of dawn and I bring my book and accompany him. He spends the entire day doing his jobs, while I simultaneously read and sleep in his ute. It was better than the alternative.

Day Eight, 2143hrs

We sat down to watch a movie tonight. Maxx was out the back in his shed/house, distributing pills to his neighbours' children. As you do.

The police stopped by half way through Adam Sandler's epiphany. They asked us where Maxx had been that day and what had he been doing. Tod, our housemate, was somehow shunted to the front door to answer the police queries. 

The officers were about seven feet tall and wide, with huge guns toted at their belts and looks of extreme disdain plastered across their chiseled faces. I was, for some unknowable reason, convinced we were going to be arrested and went in to the bedroom to retrieve our passports, as if they would be of any discernible use in a drugs bust against our dodgy landlord. I'm not all that great at thinking on my feet so when it was my turn to answer whether I knew of Maxx's previous whereabouts, I simply gurgled and felt my eyes fill with tears.

I loathe myself at times. Actually, most of the time.

Tod was thankfully able to brush aside my muteness and convince the men that we were innocent and frankly clueless as to what was going on in the house. 

We need to move out. Tod and Copper don't have the money for a deposit somewhere else but surely they see the necessity in getting away from this semi-naked nazi and all his associated madness?

Day Ten, 1057hrs:

I got really, really poleaxed last night. I'm talking five litre boxes of wine poleaxed. All I remember from the evening is confronting Maxx in his silken - and free-hanging - bathrobe. I slurred and pointed my finger aggressively and shouted that he was, in my opinion, "reeeeeallly, reeeeeeeally fuckin' weeeeird. Like, reeeeeeaaallllshsshshhhhlurrrp." I then sort of slumped into my own lap, finger still doing a fine jaunt in Maxx's direction. Oh, alcohol. How you transform me.

Max stared at me for a while and sucked in a wet breath.

He replied, bug-eyed and unblinkingly; "I like you."

I kid you not.

I think I might die here.

Day Fourteen 1236hrs:

We have convinced Tod and Copper of the urgency of finding somewhere else to live. Maxx declared the front garden as a cigarette-free area, which was pretty much a notice of inhabitability in our eyes.

Tod and Copper had decided they weren't going to pay the owed last weeks rent and so our departure is to be silent and stealthy. 

I've decided to wear the fluffiest pair of socks I own, so as to dull my walk out the door.

 Stealth defined, me. 

Day Fifteen 1647hrs:

Tod occupied Maxx with pointless conversation, while The Boyfriend carried our belongings from the house of horrors to the ute. 

At one stage, I saw The Boyfriend literally duck and roll with a laundry bag in his arms. 

Day Sixteen 1023hrs

We are out! We are free! We are fobbing off Maxx's phone calls with impromptu hang-ups and lots of "going though tunnels"! 

Ah, the liberty. Everything is going to be a-okay, from here on in. We're living with good friends, in a good area. It's good vibes all 'round. 

I might try and give up the cigarettes again! 

Day Twenty One 1545hrs

Everything is not a-okay.

And I just bought forty Marlborough Gold. 

The Eff Word Features Prominently Here

I am painfully aware of my many, many flaws - and daren't defend them -  but I do ask that people accept them or excuse themselves from my overbearing presence, as I simply can't be arsed changing my person to suit the easily offended. One of these flaws is my embarrassingly acute naïveté.
 Gullibility was a burden I carried across the international borders, saddled to my shoulders like a teething toddler. Australia was going to be the answer to all our problems, where all our dreams would come true, where careers would start and houses would be bought. Oh, the humanity.

If you're planning on doing the Australia thing and are trying to secure a job, take this advice from someone who's learned the hard way  - lie through your fucking teeth about everything.

For starters, lower your expectations. The path to making it in Oz is fraught with obstacles, and sometimes it is difficult to clench ones jaw against what seems like a relentless tirade of setbacks.  You won't wear cork-screw hats; you won't change race in the ever-present sun; you won't forget what rain feels like. Your arrival will probably not consist of a warm, arm-outstretched welcome; you probably won't dine at the Sydney Opera House every other evening; the people you promised to rendezvous with will probably live more than an hour away.
 In fact, everything is about an hour away.

The working holiday visa can be an absolute nightmare. You can only work for six months at a particular job, which leads to your application being overlooked due to a lack of commitment. You aren't an Australian resident, so, even though you know you can perform the duties with your hands behind your back, your application just won't make it past screening.
There are the few lucky ones - the tradespeople with papers, the engineers and nurses, or the people who have one of those elusive Friends-Of-A-Friend-Who-Can-Get-Your-Foot-In-The-Door (a rare creature indeed, nowadays). Those folks will fare just fine.
But if you are a pasty, blushing Arts graduate (s'up?); or have no degree or trade to your name; or if you haven't an occupation-implied degree - I'm looking at you, Business and Science and All Other Miscellaneous graduates - you have one glaringly obvious option: hospitality. 

It's a good one if you are running out of money, and want quick cash. It'll pay the bills, and the work isn't exactly back-breaking. Genrally, it's cash-in-hand so the six-month time limit is avoidable. You'll feel you wasted those years in college - let's be serious, if you've done an Arts degree, you probably have anyway - and you'll feel under appreciated. You'll balk at the early starts - I still struggle to unstick my eyes when my alarm caterwauls in my ear five times a week at 5.30am.
You'll soon grow tired at the corporate customers constant accent mimicking, and condescending tones. You'll want to rip your managers face off when they painstakingly teach you how to operate a sweeping brush (I've had four jobs here and I've been "taught" this particular skill three times, without ever even getting the chance to display my prior knowledge of a well-brushed floor) You'll be talked down to, and you'll probably meet some of the rudest people in your life over that counter.
But you'll also meet some of the best. My first job alongside Boss and Sappy was undeniably heinous at times, but it's also where I met some of the finest individuals gracing this planet (shout-out to N, N, E, E, L, K, S, B, R, L, C and I). Mr. Delhi could have treated me a bit better in hindsight, but I wouldn't give up his friendship for the world. It was working in a cafe that I met my first Polish and Lithuanian immigrants in Ireland. Working alongside them dispelled many a notion I hadn't even realized I'd been holding true.
It was working in a cafe that I met a Indian girl arranged into a marriage by her family to gain access to Australia so she could work and make a life. Arranged marriage seemed a hideously unfair and almost barbaric practice in my mind until I met her and her husband, and witnessed first-hand the love they genuinely felt for each other.
It's through working in hospitality I have gained an understanding of the importance of treating everyone equally. I'll never have notions about myself, and I have no time for those who consider themselves above certain works or associations.I used to shy away from the customers in suits; now I high-five them as they strut through the door.
I'm not saying that I'm fulfilling all my potential, or that my job is something I'm totally happy with. It's not as challenging as I would like. The reason I've changed jobs so much is probably due to boredom.
I don't think its unfair to say that most Irish parents consider their children successful after a stint in college and a nice secure office job procured soon thereafter. It's an ingrained attitude that is inevitably passed on to the following generation.
I count myself among those who once believed in these simplistic and lofty ideals. "You're good at writing. Do journalism." There's a sentence I've pretty much been battered with since I first got the elusive "three stars" on an essay about penguins when I was nine years old. Such a straightforward conclusion, my little life and my little goals wrapped up in a neat little sentence.
Well, fuck journalism. I don't want to write what someone else wants me to write, within a deadline someone else determines. I will write for myself, and not just because I am most likely the only one interested in what I write (and Ma, of course.)
Australia has been far from perfect, and most days I agonize about whether we made the right decision. It has, however, given me the confidence to be myself, and I'm not a bit ashamed to tell you all that Yours Truly is a proud Cafe All-Rounder, well rounded in every sense of the word.
So if you're over here, and you're not making the millions your cousin's friend's girlfriend's brother claims to be making as High Executive Bejewelled Fucking Chancellor of all the Mines in Western Australia, don't panic.
You're doing just fucking fine.

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do The Opposite

So now that we were not-so-settled in at Maxx's Den of Debauchery, Yours Truly had to secure another source of income, post-haste. The Boyfriend insisted I didn't take the first job I came across, that I negotiate a wage, that I try to get a position worthy of my time and effort, somewhere I would be happy. I laughed off his lecturing prattle, insisted with an arched eyebrow that I was fully mature enough to do my own job-hunting, thank you very much.
Then, I asked him for a lift to a place miles away where I had secured an interview the following Monday.
He agreed, and as the sun made its slow ascent into the air that foggy January dawn, The Boyfriend and I were on our way to Prahran, a suburb just five kilometres from Melbourne's Central Business District. Prahran is an area primarily dominated by full-time, fake-breasted, 4x4-weilding mothers. Most of the shopfronts displayed are dedicated to high-end fashion brands for toddlers, organic and vegan-friendly cafes, or hand-crafted jewelery and sarongs. Every hand is immaculately manicured, every pair of eyes hidden behind Chanel sunglasses, every cup of coffee is Fair Trade.
Amidst such spectacle, stood Yours Truly attired in my Kmart finest, shoes worn to the sole, pants slumping at the crotch due to over-wear, sweat running down my forehead from the deceptively gentle-looking slope I had to climb to reach the place at which I desperately needed to be hired. Several Glam-Mams shot me disturbed glances. I hadn't time to worry about their haughty opinions - I had an interview to ace.
The cafe looked as out of place on the street as I did - more of a greasy spoon compared to the monochrome stylization of its counterparts. There were about six tables inside, and a small sandwich bar. It was a far cry from Sappy and Boss' set up in the city, and at that moment in time, that suited me to the ground.
No one was around. I was supposed to be meeting a man with a heavy Indian accent; the owner, in fact, of the cafe. Let's call him Mr. Delhi.
 After half an hour of waiting, I decided to ring him to see what was causing the delay. He apologised most profusely, and assured him he was on the way. He told me he would get his "associate" to let me in, so I could sit and wait in comfort. Moments later, a bedraggled looking man in too-tight shorts slowly opened the door, and invited me to wait inside for my interviewer.
I could hear The Boyfriend's voice in my head, shrieking at me to leave right now, to try the job sites again that evening, to forget about this man who couldn't even deign to keep his own appointments.
So I sat inside and waited, staring at the ceiling determinedly, so as not to view the Associate's rather confrontational outfit (it was a cold morning, the poor cratur)
Finally, Mr. Delhi  arrived in a flourish of Hindi and Punjab, shoes polished to the point of blinding, hair swept carefully to the side, chef's coat clearly visible at the collar of his overcoat. He thanked his Associate, who was really just the guy renting the room upstairs over the cafe. He shuffled back upstairs, grumbling and pulling his Speedos out of his arse.
 Mr Delhi bid me sit down ad we talked for exactly four minutes. He asked me all the normal questions and I answered as honestly as I could, considering I could barely understand what he was saying. His accent was insanely strong and I suddenly felt a pang of empathy for the many Aussies who'd responded to The Boyfriend's linguistic idiosyncrasies with mere blank looks of confusion and sometimes, actual pain.
On a completely unrelated note, here's a tip if you're coming to Australia and want a cruisey job - try hospitality. You can't go too far wrong making a sandwich, the money is decent, you don't have to work weekends and an Irish accent accompanied by a relentless smile will get you anywhere. On a related note, don't stay in any hospitality job for too long - it can become absolutely soul destroying if it's not what you love.
Then, all you can do is write blogs to vent your frustration.
Anyway, The Boyfriend picked me up after my meeting with Mr Delhi and listened quietly to my synopsis. He scowled when I was finished. "Where would you be goin'?!" he spluttered "All the way out here, for him not to even show up 'til ten minutes ago? D'bollicks." The Boyfriend is all about punctuality.
I was offered the job and I took it. The Boyfriend shook his head in bafflement, his advice unheeded; Yours Truly simply happy in the knowledge that I could afford cigarettes again.
We're very different really, The Boyfriend and I. Mostly, in that he is almost always right, and I am almost always wrong.

Perspective

Living abroad is hard for many reasons but the one that proverbially cherry-tops the situation in its entirety, is the ever-present fear of someone getting seriously sick back home. The Boyfriend and I both left grandmothers at home, and considered ourselves fairly lucky to count ourselves among the few of our collective friends to have living grandparents as part of our respective families.
When New Years Eve in 2012 rolled around, we were calling Maxx Power's house of horrors our home. Tod and Copper were great housemates and even better drinking comrades. They were still jobless, but had accepted that this would most likely be the case until after the seasonal holidays.

As a result, money was tight. The Boyfriend and I were still pinching pennies, resigned to the fact that we would soon be shelling out thousands for return flights to Ireland and also terrified of the impending impoverishment once we touched back down on Celtic soil. Tod and Copper were flat broke, and avoiding paying Maxx the rent by offering to fix various problematic electronic devices around the house. It seemed to be working in their favour, and so we decided we would indeed celebrate the end of the year - in a fashion. We bought some five litre boxes of wine - you read that correctly - at a cool thirteen dollars each, and made a half-arsed plan to stumble into town once we were suitably inebriated and watch the fireworks.

At five in the afternoon, we were all shitfaced. I had seized control of the music playlist, and was allowing exactly thirty seconds of every song before loudly exclaiming I'd discovered a better one and proceeding to play that instead. To this cacophony, The Boyfriend, Tod and Copper were playing a boisterous game of charades, cigarettes hanging from every corner of every mouth. It wasn't our finest moment, and it wasn't the most sophisticated of soirees. But we carried on the pretense, boldly ignoring every job- and money- and future-related worry that so obviously plagued all of our minds.

Maxx wobbled in to join us for a while, waving a giant black sex toy around while blowing pungent cannabis smoke in my face. I sat there, grinding my molars to dust, painfully aware that this was only our third day in the house, resolving in my temporary, anger-fueled lucidity to get new accommodation as soon as was possible, no matter how short the time we had left.

The Boyfriend and I were having a cigarette when he got the phone call. Initially, we assumed it was his family's expected well-wishing for the new year. I could hear The Boyfriend chattering away from our room. Slowly, his voice got lower and my gut sank.

His grandmother, at an awesome ninety-three years of age, had passed away during the night. We would not be able to make it home for her funeral and that was almost harder than hearing the news of her death. Absence, unfortunately, comes part and parcel of living twenty six hours of a plane journey away from where you grew up.

Granny had had a typical big Irish family, and had been widowed as a young woman. I can only imagine what Ireland was like at the time, I can only guess how hard it would have been to raise a family of eight when a man was the sole bread-bringer and one suddenly found themselves without that man. I can barely fathom how she successfully survived it, and went on to become a grand- and great grand- mother. I'd only met her a couple of times, but remember one thing clearly - her huge, calloused hands. She was clearly a woman unafraid of hard toil, a woman used to graft. Her hands were physical reminders of her achievements. She had lived a life and lived it long and well.

And as The Boyfriend regaled us that afternoon with fondly remembered  stories of his father's mother, half-sad and half-amused as he lost himself in nostalgia, I realised that some things cannot be fixed and that some things cannot be changed. I told myself that night that if Yours Truly can live long and live well, I'd be considered among the greats like Granny. All my worries over visas and jobs and idiotic housemates and smoking and the future would pale in comparison.

 I'd live up to the Irish mantra, and assure myself it would all be feckin' grand.

We toasted Granny that night as the fireworks exploded overhead and for the first time going home didn't seem like the end of the world.

Fifteen days later, we got an email notification that our application for a 457 visa had been accepted and that we officially had the right to work and live in Australia until 2017.

We were sponsored. I like to think The Boyfriend's grandmother got sick of my whinging, and threw us a bone.

Weird to the Maxx

Christmas came.
The Boyfriend and I escaped the bustle of the city to spend the three days he had off over the holidays out in Philip Island , a popular holiday destination off the coast of Victoria. We made our traditional dinner with all the trimmings and took a cruise around the island.
When we arrived back at the Birmy, The Boyfriend was contacted by an acquaintance from home, who had been unlucky in securing work in Brisbane and so had traveled, with his girlfriend, to Melbourne in the hope that he would have more luck down south. We'll call this guy Tod; we'll call his girlfriend Copper.
Tod and Copper were living the other side of the city, in a proper house, with the landlord residing in a granny flat situated behind it. It sounded like a pretty sweet set-up.
Tod explained how they paid their rent weekly - it cost as much as The Birmy, but they were basically getting an entire three bedroom house to themselves. Though the landlord's presence in the background was undeniably a little awkward, Tod assured us it was an infrequent intrusion upon their privacy and rarely, if ever, an issue. For all intents and purposes, they had the house to themselves for a fraction of the usual cost. Tod then proceeded to inform us about the second available room in the house and The Boyfriend and I did something that won't exactly shock anyone who has picked up on the pattern by now - we made a(nother) Really Stupid Decision.
We packed up our stuff and were ready to give the middle finger to The Birmy the next day. We loaded The Boyfriend's truck, and made the precarious journey to Preston from Fitzroy, fervently praying we wouldn't be pulled over by the police for the haphazard mattress placement.
When we arrived at the house, there were gates surrounding it that would put Fort Knox to shame.The house was invisible from the street due to the height of the fence. It was decorated with notices declaring watch dogs on the property and how unwelcome strangers were. I listened for growling while The Boyfriend called Tod. He came to let us in. We waited outside as he slid the copious bolts to the side. We shared a familiar look of dread. Finally, the gate creaked open and Tod immediately helped us bring in our stuff. I grabbed a few pillows - because I'm not above playing the weaker sex card when it suits me - and stepped inside.
My heart fell to my feet. The walls were adorned with pictures of wide-eyed children-of-the-corn-types, complete with black irises and floral-collared paisley dresses. They stared down at us menacingly as we dragged - or in my case, hugged - our possessions through the living room, which  was in itself a veritable obstacle course of carpets, cushions and armchairs. The kitchen was stock piled with teetering towers of mismatched crockery, the bathroom was plastered with helpful signs reminding us to flush and replace the lid after use. We opened the door to what was to be our new room and saw a sofa bed unfolded near the window. There was a stone counter at the opposite end of the room. Another girl with black eyes observed our walk-through from her framed picture at the door.
As we unloaded, we caught a glimpse of a skinny, bald man ducking his head in and out from the back yard. It turned out this was our landlord.
He was bald and hunched, skinny to the point of sickly. One of his eyes swiveled ever-so-slightly to the right and he chewed hungrily at his bottom lip. He was wearing a sarong and a white wife-beater. If one was to judge a person solely on their appearance, one would judge this guy as bat-shit crazy, straight off the mark.
"Maxx Power," he introduced himself as, holding out a shaky hand. "Two x's" he added. He gestured towards a mangled leg, jutting out in a perplexing fashion from his transparent beach skirt."I was attacked in Malaysia, they tried to cut off my leg," he supplied helpfully, providing an explanation where none was requested "I used to play soccer. Had to change my name. Yeah."
Maxx showed us the rooms we'd already seen and then made us reread some of the signs in the bathroom. He showed himself into our room and surveyed the mounds of clothes we had brought with us in boxes. He fingered through some of The Boyfriend's overalls, much to The Boyfriend's chagrin, and held up a scarred hand in epiphany. "I know where we can store your uniforms!" Maxx said, his face alight.
He scrambled back to the living room and started pushing the fifteen-seater modular out from the window. He grunted and groaned, pulling up one of the many rugs. What he exposed beneath appalled me.
There was a trap door hidden beneath the sofa and the carpets. I can't even begin to contemplate what he might have been keeping down there without tasting bile in my throat.
"Can't keep it open too long. Be afraid the girl I have chained up down here would crawl out," he joked.
 I think.
 I hope.
This was all the information I needed. I elbowed The Boyfriend pointedly and we retreated to the bedroom. We sat on the fold-out sofa bed and stared at the tiled floor.
"Why is there a counter-top in here?" I asked, after several prolonged moments of funeral-like silence.
The  Boyfriend shrugged. We exchanged a look.
"We've made a mistake, I think."
The Boyfriend doesn't speak much, but when he does, he generally utters some hard-hitters. "Was he wearin' a fuckin' dress?"
Maxx Power. Don't forget the second 'x'.

Job Cunt

Christmas was coming up and The Boyfriend and I were stoic in our hatred of Australia, the country that had rejected us. In the run up to the festive season, it was easy to shake off such a spurning by reminiscing about the Emerald Isle and all the annual traditions we were missing by wasting time Seeing The Wizard. We immersed ourselves in old photos, loudly exclaimed how weird it was that December's temperature hadn't plunged below zero and indulged in many a Skype call to Da Mudders and Da Fadders and Assorted Siblings.
I spent my days at work insisting to the few that would listen that the inevitable return to Ireland was all that was keeping me smiling. Internally, we were shitting sizable bricks. I checked my pathetic bank balance hourly, willing some windfall to scare away any doubts. The fact was, the plan was crumbling. We had intended to get sponsored and to stay in Australia until things at least picked up somewhat back home. We hadn't prepared for the monumental brush-off, and our confidence had been shattered. It just goes to show that thinking positively is dangerous - and it is for that very reason that I have always remained a distinctly cynical and negative individual.
I'm very health-conscious.
Anyway, I had to approach Boss and let him know about my situation. I would be leaving a month after Christmas and he was closing up shop for three weeks. So I needed any hours he could throw my way to fatten up my moth-eaten purse.
Apparently, I had spent too long building up the courage to speak with him about it because one fateful day, in between squeezing Sappy's generous haunches, he called me over to the coffee machine. He sighed and hummed along to Bob Marley - the musician of choice for the rich, white capitalist partaker, don't you know -  and gently informed Yours Truly that my services wouldn't be needed until the end of January, although everyone else would definitely be back when he re-opened in the first week of 2013.
"But I'm going home at the start of February!" I exclaimed, my heart doing a flip.
Boss scratched his hairless head and I caught a whiff of his herb. "Yeah, well. We don't actually need you until the of January."
A vein bulged in my eye, making it quiver a little in its socket.
"I heard you the first time, Boss," I murmured. "But I cant afford to wait until then. I need a job after Christmas; I need to make some money. I have to go back to Ireland! Haven't you heard about the Recession?! It's been in the papers and everything!"
I wasn't exactly putting forward a very convincing case. What I wanted him to see was that I had been here a year, one of the only five that had lasted that long in his illegally run cafe of hell, the only part-timer. I'd worked on Saturdays, taken minimum wage, helped out in any section that needed it, tactfully ignored his blatant adultery, smiled at his clueless wife, made his snot-nosed children their vegetarian, gluten-free sandwiches. I had served this man's senile bigot of a mother, smiled when she spilled her scalding hot tea down my forearm in her haste to pour. I had crawled into his fridge to scrape the mossy cheese out of the grooves. I had never mentioned his use of the girls bathroom for his frequent and fragrant bowel movements.
I peeled that bald bastard a boiled egg every morning for his breakfast for eleven months.
A.
Boiled.
Feckin'.
Egg.
Every. Morning.
I balled up my fists, the list of my anti-accomplishments from the year flitting miserably through my mind in a tragic slideshow of failure.
I thought I was going to lose it right there. I thought I would just throw my hands up in the air, knee Boss in his over-active gonads and squat to take a shit on one of his god-damned tables. Tables that I had polished, nonetheless.
Instead, I shrugged, and mumbled a sentence I will forever regret.
"Eh... so... I probably shouldn't come back after Christmas then? Eh?"
He smiled, ever-so-condescendingly, and agreed that that was probably the best course of action. I fought back the tears and informed the staff of my "decision", mentally kicking myself for such diffidence.
I clung to The Boyfriend that afternoon, wiping my snotty nose in his cobweb-strewn work shirt, cursing the world and being characteristically dramatic. I had a couple of weeks left working with Boss and Sappy and the crew and vowed I would exact my revenge.
I had been used and abused, I told myself.
It was terribly unfair, I muttered in bed that night, over the sounds of our neighbors'  rambunctious fornication (which he was now indulging in with a French girl, of which there could be no doubt if one was to go by her loud and continuous Gallic appraisals of his copulating skills)
"It's a feckin' gyp!" I assured my reflection the next morning, as I washed my teeth alongside two of the spicy-smelling Nepalese guys.
I strutted back to work, determined to voice my anger.
That afternoon, I was elbow deep in floor cleaner, scrubbing the stairs. My eyes stung and and the chemical was making my fingers swell slightly.
As I scrubbed, Boss came downstairs.
"Just been to the toilet. You can do them next."
I couldn't just smell what he'd just done up there. I could taste it.
Rolling my eyes behind his back was the closest I came to assertiveness. I am a very ridiculous and unfortunate human being, but at least I am aware of it. What's your excuse?

How To Deal With Grown-Up Problems, The Wrong Way.

The Boyfriend and I dealt with rejection the best way we knew how, which led to what we now reluctantly recall as The Great Binge of 2012.

We met up with a friend from home, who was in Melbourne studying at one of the universities. We'll call her April. April is probably the best fun you will ever meet embodied.

Anyway, we arranged to meet up with April one Friday night, post-gut-wrenching-Rejection. Yours Truly was pretty much a settled resident of Oblivion Town by the time she arrived, and almost smashed my overflowing wine glass against her cheek whilst embracing her in a sloppy, tear-stained hug. Beanie Face also put in an appearance and I was loudly slurring predictions of a wedding date between the two by the following year, much to the chagrin of the couple in question.

Now. There is a certain level of drunk that Yours Truly attains that should, by rights, exclude me as a member of the human race for the duration of that inebriation. I express opinions I do not hold; I laugh at things I don't actually find funny; I pretend I enjoy music that I really find painful to endure; I begin arguments with strangers about things I know nothing about, and then, when I am subsequently and inevitably rebutted, I finish said argument with a middle finger and a storm-off into a closed door. That is the level of drunk I was for the entire weekend that made up The Great Binge. And it was in this barely-upright state that I stumbled from The Birmy, on the arm of the equally hammered Boyfriend, determined to have the best night of my life.

Firstly, I played Cilla Black to April and Beanie Face. I cornered April as we queued for a bar and stage-whispered how good I thought they looked together. Beanie Face tapped me on the shoulder, insisting he could hear every word I said. I gave him what I must have thought was a conspiratorial wink, but which was actually a really long, really slow blink. When we finally got in to the bar, Beanie Face was all ready to make his move on April. Paving the road of romance, I bought everyone a round of tequilas - "The traditional ssssshot of LOVERRRRRSsssh!" I informed everyone within a ten mile radius - and rather aggressively pushed April and Beanie Face into each other.

Figuring my job completed, I waddled over to the bouncer at the front door, the very bouncer who had hummed and hawed over whether I would prove a liability if allowed pass through his precious red rope. I pulled on the red rope, laughing manically, and began to express how sober I actually was, how I actually always acted in this fashion, that I actually had a Bachelor degree, if he didn't mind my saying. This conversation, however riveting I may have imagined it, was short-lived, as I went tumbling arse-first through the door on to the pavement outside. I decided I didn't want to get up, either.

I stayed there, defiantly smoking a cigarette, while the bouncers gave me ample warning that they would have to resort to calling the police should I remain on the ground, outside the pub. Eventually, The Boyfriend came out, smiling from ear to ear - which seemed to be the height of his intoxication - and pulled me into a standing position. Like a fawn just expelled from the womb, I shakily found my feet and resolved I would not walk away from these bullying bouncers without imparting some cold, hard truths. "Call the poleesh, then. Sure they're only gobshites. And ye are only gobshites. YOU ARE ALL DIRTY, SMELLY GOBSHITES! So there!"

Sometimes, my wit astounds me in its ability to crop up when it’s most needed.

The next morning, I refused to accept reality. We had Bloody Marys for breakfast. Beanie Face and April were looking very close, and I mentally - and wrongly - took the credit for that union. I reckoned I deserved reward for my skillful set-up. That's how I found myself in the Salvation Army, picking through peasant blouses and floral, ankle-length skirts at one in the afternoon, declaring every garment I laid eyes on the pinnacle of fabulous, stinking of tequila and scaring away even the most hardened street-winos.

That Sunday was the most painful of my life. We'd no visa. We'd a grueling hangover. We'd a sack of clothes from Salvos that didn't even fit.  And I'm pretty sure I earned a life-time ban from every bar in Fitzroy.

That Monday, though, it was a bit easier to get up for work. I began to think about the trip back to Ireland in a positive light. In a few months, I'd be seeing Da Mudder again. I'd see my friends, and the rest of the family. I'd have a night out and my drunken persona would be avoided, but accepted. It wouldn't be so bad. I thought about going back to college, getting a Masters. It wasn't the end of the world.

Halfway through the day, I got a text from The Boyfriend. His company were insisting they needed him to stay on. They'd hired a solicitor.

They were going to try to sponsor us again.

Heartbreak Hotel. Seriously.

There is a place in the hipster-infested suburb of Fitzroy called The Birmingham Hotel. It is a pub-cum-hostel, renown as a temporary residence for the cash-strapped and backpackers alike. From the outside, it resembles the sort of lopsided, looming structure you'd expect to see on the poster of a Stephen King novel. From the inside, it brings to mind a Nepalese spice house run by Nepalese men clad in Nepalese animal skins. 

Anyway, this is where The Boyfriend and I found ourselves unpacking all our belongings three months  before Christmas. Our visa application was still processing and we remained clueless - albeit naively optimistic - as to what direction our future would take. It took us several hours to unload The Boyfriend's truck of our various hoarded possessions, and after the deed was done, we stood in the middle of a room eight feet wide by ten long and stared at our lives, momentarily filed in cardboard boxes.

We sorted the room as best we could, even managing to divide part of the room into a semblance of a living room, complete with TV, sofa and kettle. We surveyed our work, mentally clapping ourselves on our aching backs. We were convinced this was a provisional arrangement, that we would be renting our long-awaited unit-by-the-beach in no time, that we could happily turn our backs on the shoddy, short-term accommodations available to people on an interim stay, that we could finally rid ourselves of the shackles that restrain any Working Holiday Visa holder. It was the only thing that motivated me to haul my arse to work in the mornings and endure the endless stream of snobbery from the apparently cultured clientele that frequented the cafe.

Life in The Birmy was not one I'll remember fondly. Our room was cramped and yet worth over 200 dollars a week. We were situated a floor up from the bar itself and various lives shows featuring faulty amps and badly tuned instruments kept us awake most nights. Sleep was unattainable on a street where revelers, trams and strobe-like street lights habituated. 

A walk to work or to the Woolworths at the end of the street was inevitably coupled with a tirade of abuse from the various drunken and drugged-up. 

The Birmy's other occupants were largely lovely, most notably one of the girls I met while working alongside Boss and Sappy, and her boyfriend - possibly the world's most likable couple. But even their presence was dimmed by the constant companionship of the strange older man who lived upstairs and spent most of his time staring into a computer screen at the top of the fire escape, watching everyone's every move out of the corner of his eye, and the floating fecal matter the Nepalese boys liked to leave as tokens of their existence in the only toilet I was ever brave to chance using. 

The bar downstairs probably didn't help matters, because it became way to easy to get drunk and inform the landlord - who was always keeping a stool warm in front of the taps - that he probably was a bit old for his much better-looking significant other.

However, dreams of our sponsorship kept The Boyfriend and I going. We'd check out real estate websites on our days off, paupering ourselves week in and out to ensure we would have the money necessary for a deposit for a nice place when the time eventually came. We would keep tabs on the job websites, keeping track of any opportunity that might garner me stable employment once my eligibility improved. I kept a watchful eye on rescue centers, reminding The Boyfriend daily that he had promised we could get a dog once we had sorted ourselves out in Australia.

When summer set in, it was almost impossible for me to keep living. I arrived at work with sweat dripping from my armpits, regularly mopping my forehead with my apron, immediately volunteering for any fridge-cleaning work available. 

One evening, as the temperatures touched 33°C and my body physically gave up its fight to stay alert, I fell asleep amid the sounds of my Norwegian neighbors' violent love-making to his most recent conquest. I woke up what seemed like hours later and found The Boyfriend sitting at the end of the bed. His head hung downwards, his shoulders were slouched. It was a most un-Boyfriend-like posture and I said as much.

He wordlessly handed me the piece of paper he'd been clutching and all I remember reading were the words "has been rejected". 

In one sentence, our plans had fallen apart. We now had to decide on another course of action, one without a nice house, or a dog, or security. They sound like small inconveniences to the regular reader but to an Irish couple like The Boyfriend and I, who had their useless degrees under their belts and a lifetime of part-time positions in front of them, it felt like the whole world had banded together to sample the Nepalese boys' dinner and shat on us. 

Sighing, we decided not to make any decisions at that very moment. We refused to dwell on whether we would stay another year in Australia and try again, or whether we would apply for a visa to work in Canada, or whether The Boyfriend would work with his father for the rest of his life, or whether I would go back to college to get my teaching diploma, or whether we would start applying for jobs in Ireland. We simply bought alcoholic beverages from the handy pub downstairs and got a bit drunk by ourselves in the beer garden, with the creepy older guy tutting unabashedly from the top of the fire escape.

How Not To Be A Tourist

The hardest thing about recalling events that occurred over a year ago is the actual recalling itself - it seems I have made a critical chronological error and misplaced some events that I simply cannot leave out should my misadventures be recapped in an accurately Murphy-law-like manner. And so I ask your forgiveness, fair readers (yes - that's you, Mammy), and request that you haul your mind back a few weeks, before we pawned off Dallas to the Estonian, before Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl went their separate ways, to the day that the Boyfriend's sister and her friend - hereby referred to as Donkey and Fire Crotch, respectively - landed in Melbourne as a stopover in their round-the-world trip.

The girls were the dream of every tourist trap in town. Their first outing into the city saw their return to the house that afternoon in matching tracksuits in blue and red, each with an accompanying jumper emblazoned with a kangaroo silhouette and the word "Australia" in black capitalized calligraphy. 

As we were working during the week, we tried to organise fun things to do for the weekends we had with the girls. The itinerary was as follows.

Weekend One:

Afraid they would end up penniless at the mercy of the market floggers, we decided to visit Mornington Peninsula miles from the city for their first weekend. The Peninsula is renown in Victoria as being home to the wonderful Penguin Parade - where actual baby penguins traipse up the beach to the joy of the human spectator - and spectacular views of over three hundred seals that have made homes of the rocks that jut sporadically a short way from the coast.

We rocked up to the lookout point that Saturday, and the minute we stepped out of the car, black clouds raced over to piss their contents all over our heads. The Boyfriend and I plastered some manic grins on our faces, and soldiered on down the walkway, the wind whipping at our faces, Donkey and Fire Crotch desperately clutching their matching jumpers to keep the cheap fabric from unravelling. It turned out that the infamous penguins wouldn't be making their pilgrimage until dusk, and since it was only just gone nine in the morning, the general consensus was to forego that particular sight and it's outrageous price-tag. We asked the lady at reception about the seals we'd heard so much about - turns out those guys are near impossible to reach in hurricane-like weather in winter and unless we were willing to man a dingy, there was little chance we were going to come face to face with any clapping, barking blubbery mammals any time soon. We took some blurry photos of the grey landscape, and made our way back to Dallas.

Weekend Two:

"We'll go out and get drunk!" I suggested merrily. I'll keep this one short (hold your breath): 

Cali Gurrrl jumped off the tram fourteen stops early from our intended destination. 

Cali Gurrrl - somehow - lost one of her shoes.

Beanie Face jumped off thirteen stops early to find Cali Gurrrl.

I awoke from my peaceful slumber on said tram after much prodding to leap off still-moving tram twelve stops early for no decipherable reason.

We - somehow - reached the city. 

We crossed a bridge in Melbourne city about four times while we steadily got rejected from every pub that has snaked its way into the city's darkest crevices.

Donkey - somehow - discovered one of Cali Gurrrl's disappearing shoes in her handbag.

Donkey subsequently hurled said Shoedini off the bridge as we crossed it the fourth and final time.

We got a taxi.

Donkey got sick in the taxi.

The Boyfriend had to pay for damages and Cali Gurrrl woke up at some ungodly morning hour to knock on everyone's door to ask if they'd seen - of all things - her shoe.

Weekend Three:

"Will we drive to Sydney?"

The Boyfriend was responsible for this inspired suggestion. We all piled into Dallas, and hit the road midday that Friday. Eight hours later, we were spinning in circles in Sydney, the cars undercarriage scraping worryingly off the bumpy Sydney roads, The Boyfriend's eyes about to pop out of his very skull in frustration as he screamed at me to find the hotel. I regarded the printed off Google maps directions, suitably perplexed and pointed in random directions until we eventually arrived, an hour after check-in time. A large, dreadlocked Nigerian woman came to the door after several extended doorbell rings, and led us angrily to our cramped room. We spent the day knocking around the city, visiting the Home and Away set - which was disappointingly devoid of any topless surfers - and taking the typical screen shots of the Opera House. 

We bought tickets for the Sunday to go whale watching, smugly reassured with the company's "whale-guarantee" sales pitch. That very smugness was quickly banished when, after three hours at sea, we had only spotted what could have been a whale's tail from a distance, while other boats crowded around the actual specimens, blocking our view. Our boat slowly disintegrated into chaos, as our mostly Asian counterparts all proceeded to be struck down with an overwhelming sea-sickness.

In saying all that, as we rocked back in forth in our stinking boat, vomit riveting past perilously close to our feet, with the "experts" excuses for the lack of whales coming thick and fast over the intercom, I was actually extremely happy. 

Donkey, Fire Crotch, The Boyfriend and I could not stop laughing the whole way back from Sydney at our sheer bad luck. And as the two girls made their way back to the airport a few nights later, I can admit I shed a tear for the little bit of home they brought with them that rainy July in 2012, just when we needed a bit of Ireland the most.

The Sweat of a Salesman

I should tell you a few things about The Boyfriend. He is a typical Irish man, albeit one living in the wrong era. He is steadfast and conventional. He prides diligence and dignity above all else. He firmly believes that a good work ethic yields ultimate happiness. He is fair and forthright and frustrated with the Celtic Tiger generation.
He's also calm and controlled, avoids unnecessary confrontation and is the most reliable and selfless individual I have ever come across in my life.
Anyway, when Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl ended their relationship, The Boyfriend decided to terminate a liaison of his own. Since being granted the unlimited usage of his company truck, the fickle Ford Mondeo we'd scrimped for had simply been gathering dust and rust in the driveway. In addition, our lease was coming to an end and there was still no word on our visa application. Beanie Face was moving into a new house closer to where he worked, and Cali Gurrrl was back in America. We needed to find somewhere to live and the second vehicle was making the process impossible. The Boyfriend scrubbed the car inside and out, bought some air fresheners, serviced the complicated mess that is under a bonnet and propped a "For Sale" sign in the window. We waited hopefully for expressions of interest.
The Boyfriend's prematurely greying hair was almost white by the week's end, when finally an Estonian backpacker called. The Boyfriend has trouble hearing at the best of times, and was perplexed by the Estonian's frail grasp of English. They reverted to texting after several frustrating minutes, and we arranged to meet in the city to show off Dallas in all her gleaming glory. We crossed our fingers as The Boyfriend turned the key, and with a deafening roar, chugged into the city.
We met the Estonian and his better-looking half at the prearranged time. He was tall, bespectacled and dressed in about fourteen layers of clothing. His girlfriend was half his size in stature and height, and with a voice so low and meek I quickly lost interest in her existence. The Boyfriend hopped out, shook hands and held the door open for the couple's expected inspection. He was in full salesman mode, all smiles and laughing at every word the Estonian uttered. I cocked an eyebrow, not quite sure what was so funny about the statement "We are backpackers", and said so to The Boyfriend - an assertion which earned me an elbow in the ribs from Himself.
Doubled over, I climbed into the back seat as the two men organised a test drive. The Boyfriend settled himself in the passenger side, waiting expectantly. The Estonian just stared blankly at us and finally revealed his reluctance. "Oh, I am not too good driving with the stick, so could you be please to drive around?"
"You can't drive a manual?!" I sputtered incredulously. Dallas was probably the most manual car I have ever come across - even requiring the odd manual push-start in the mornings. Before the Estonian could attempt a reply, The Boyfriend was graciously jumping behind the wheel. We took a spin around the block and the Estonian said he would buy the car if we got an Road-Worthy Certificate. The Boyfriend agreed to this condition very enthusiastically and we spent the rest of our Sunday afternoon pulling up to closed garages. I thought that vein would pop, but The Boyfriend eventually managed to organise a RWC, all circulatory tubes intact.
After some haggling and bargaining with the mechanic, The Boyfriend returned home Tuesday afternoon of the following week, RWC in hand. He called the Estonian and took the next day off. The Boyfriend was beaming from ear to ear, delighted with his victory, eager to rid himself of the depreciating disaster that had been Dallas.
I arrived home from work the next afternoon at about four, and there was no sign of The Boyfriend. At five, I called him to check in. He was two hours from where we lived, having driven outside the city at the Estonian's request because it was apparently "too difficult to be driving the stick in busy city streets".  The transaction was finished and he was just waiting for a train to get back home. He's not one for public transport and I could hear the vein throbbing over the 'phone so I made some rushed goodbyes and promised to have dinner waiting when he got home.
At half past eight, with an ice-cold steak and some shrivelled carrots sitting despondently in the microwave, I rang again. I didn't even get to say hello. The Boyfriend launched into a tirade that I'd imagine most of his fellow train passengers thought was a different language - perhaps Estonian.
"That feckin' gobshite! I gave him the feckin' RWC and all, and I got on this feckin' train, and he rang me after about twenty minutes and said he'd lost the feckin' thing. So I jumped off that train, and headed straight back towards the feckin' dickhead and turned up to find the jaysuzin' thing shtuck down the back seat. Well JAYSUZFECKINCHRIST, I nearly CLOCKED the wanker! And then he had the cheek - THE ABSOLUTE FECKIN' CHEEK - to ask if he could ring me if anythin' went wrong so I says to him, I says - 'Lad, if anythin' goes wrong in this car, don't even think about callin' me.' and I walked away. What a feckin' gobshite, what sorta hoor was he, wha'? DALORDLAMBAJAAAAYSUZ."
This, for anyone struggling, simply translates as "The car has been sold. I'll be home a bit later than I originally thought."

All Good Things Something Something

Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face's arguments were growing more frequent. The end of our lease was looming and, coincidentally, coincided within a couple of months of the end of Cali Gurrrl's working holiday visa.
Their plan was deceptively simple - Beanie Face was to join Cali Gurrrl in America, as she had joined him in Australia. She was working two jobs, and Beanie Face was leaving every morning at six to arrive home every night thirteen and a half hours later. They were saving furiously for their planned relocation to Cali Gurrrl's home town of Temecula. As a draftsman, Beanie Face was finding it difficult to secure a job in California, especially since he couldn't provide the equivalent school qualifications most American employers demand. He paid an extortionate price to complete, and receive the required proofs, of said assessment. He was hoping to begin a four-year-long engineering degree in an university near Cali Gurrrl's home, and she had promised to support him while he studied.
This dedication came at a cost and the relationship took a turn for the worst, neither side having any real fault, both parties merely falling victim to unfavourable circumstances. Cali Gurrrl was a proud party girl and, understandably, wanted make the most of her short time left in Australia. She liked dining out and going to clubs, and was growing frustrated at sacrificing those interests because of Beanie Face's need to save money - an equally understandable action considering he was looking at four years of virtual unemployment as he studied.The tension was palpable and - inevitably - erupted into some very vocal, high-pitched arguments.
The Boyfriend and I overheard a couple of the ensuing rows, and headed straight for the door when we did so, taking long, extended Walks to avoid any awkwardness.
I was at work, tending to someone's gluten free toast with vegemite, when I got the text from Cali Gurrrl. They were over, and she was in desperate need of some girl-talk. And I was the one she came to.
I'm not very girly - you may have already guessed. Don't get me wrong - I bitch, I exaggerate, I cry and get jealous, and all those other historically girly things. But I only indulge in such foolish behaviour when my blood toxicity level is dangerously high after heavy alcohol consumption - and that's not as often as The Boyfriend would have you believe. Generally, I'm quite relaxed about my significant better's comings and goings. Frequently, I try to ignore any niggling annoyances I might have, because I am extremely lazy and can't be arsed with the effort needed to explain my point of view.
This being said, I panicked after reading Cali Gurrrl's message. This was a test of my girly prowess. I bought wine and too much chocolate, and Google'd "Things To Say To Heartbroken People". I schooled myself on the expected sympathetic responses of a girlfriend, and bought a copy of Cosmopolitan. I bought cigarettes and a pink, girly lighter and text The Boyfriend a terse message about how he should just get dinner for himself, as I would be building up Cali Gurrrl's self-esteem as a good girl-friend, something he wouldn't understand as a mere man. I was all aboard the Men Abhorrent friend-ship, a ready member of Vaginas United, ready to lend my shoulder for all the tears she could muster.
Like I said, though - I'm not very girly. Twenty minutes after discussing the topic at hand, I was a bit distracted and couldn't tear my mind away from my growling stomach. I was jealously daydreaming about what The Boyfriend might have cooked up for dinner, trying to keep my teeth from chattering in the growing cold. I tore bits off the corner of Cosmopolitan, smoked endless cigarettes, wondering why simply getting drunk for a week solid couldn't be the solution to every problem.
Eventually, we walked back home where Cali Gurrrl seemed to realise the reality of the situation and became emotional. Beanie Face was inside, presumably breaking the news to The Boyfriend.
The Boyfriend looked as awkward as I felt; we're Irish - being emotionally supportive in the absence of whiskey is literally beyond our realm of comprehension. Our eyes met and we mutually decided we were going on another Walk. We've never been as fit as that period in our lives.
Cali Gurrrl moved out the next day.
And then, there were three.

A Series of Unfortunate Events Completely Unrelated to Lemony Snicket

Bad luck seems to hang over The Boyfriend and I in a big, broiling cloud. Periods of moderate contentment are short-lived and therefore never fully enjoyed - we're always warily awaiting the next disaster to befall us, as it always inevitably does. The months following Fat Shite's return to Ireland revived my fate in an omnipotent deity because whoever They may be, They proceeded to dump Their chamber pots all over Yours Truly. 

The first sign of my impending misfortune was a bird emptying its bowls in my hair while I plodded home from work in the rain. I sucked some air through my teeth, balling my hands into fists, counted to ten repeatedly in my head - The Boyfriend and I were three days in to our second attempt at giving up the cigarettes and this was not helping. Saturated to the skin, I got home to an empty house and realized I'd forgotten my keys. The Boyfriend rocked up two hours later. Naturally, I refused to talk to him because nicotine-withdrawal makes me blame him for everything. I went to bed at about six o' clock that evening, eager to finish the day.

My alarm didn't go off the next morning - I was ten minutes late for work. Boss shot me an angry look. I noticed a red-eyed Sappy hiding behind the coffee machine. The argument they had at lunch time startled customers out the door it was that rambunctious. Every hour passed painfully slowly, and my urge to light up was making my eye twitch.

The following week began. I was waiting to get home from work. Every single person at my tram stop seemed to be sucking on a glorious cigarette and my train was delayed, indubitably, by forty minutes. My fellow passengers were horrified by my behaviour and left a wide berth when the tram finally shambled into view;  lingering behind random strangers, snorting their second hand smoke is - apparently - not a good way to make new friends. I hated everyone and everything.

That weekend, Beanie Face came across a mangled bicycle. I'd been loudly contemplating starting up cycling as a hobby and he is the sort who remembers stuff. He hauled it home, and The Boyfriend promised he'd fix it up for me. The brakes weren't exactly prompt, but they worked enough for me. We put two new tyres on it, pumped it up, washed away the cobwebs. I hopped on the saddle, The Boyfriend doubled over laughing at the sight and once he was done with his little episode of uncontrollable mirth (which stopped abruptly once he saw my stony expression), I tested the peddles. It is as easy as everyone says it is and I was beginning to enjoy myself. But remember I told you the good times are always short-lived? 

The Boyfriend and I were racing each other to the shop - which was located at the bottom of a hill naturally enough - and the brakes were just as bad as they had been moments earlier. Clearly, I was temporarily stripped of any mental capacity, because unsurprisingly, I ended up bouncing off a tyre that reached my chin and rolling onto the bonnet of the biggest 4x4 I've ever seen. I found myself with my jaw firmly planted on the tarmacadam. My ass was literally throbbing.

Thankfully, the driver of the vehicle was more worried about me than his gargantuan wheeled monster. The Boyfriend helped me limp home, where Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl were having a domestic.

The lease was coming to an end and The Boyfriend and I still had heard no word about sponsorship. We didn't want to start a lease without first getting a definitive answer about our visa - it was too much of a commitment and too hard to get out of it if things went awry. We were physically stuck. And the bad luck cloud hadn't even burst yet. 

So I had a cigarette.

Fat Shite, Meet Karma

For a blissful month, life was good for The Boyfriend and Yours Truly. Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face were excellent housemates, readily available every weekend for saturating our tormented brains with alcohol. Jelly shots and sangria and punch were regulars on our pre-drinking list. I enjoyed myself immensely, or so I was kindly reminded by everyone during postmortems the morning-after. I became a bit of a maniacal fixture on the streets of Melbourne on Friday nights - I met and terrified The Kooks, I was refused from almost every upscale pub (wholly the fault of whoever invented high heels), I happily accepted offers of hot chips from the charitable souls who fed the homeless (wholly the fault of whoever made sidewalks so comfortable for drowsy drunks) and tearfully - and regularly - questioned The Boyfriend's intentions and sincerity regarding our relationship (wholly his fault for staying with me so long, if you think about it).

I was making a few nice friends in my workplace and The Boyfriend's work had gotten the sponsorship process underway. We had something to look forward to and that made all the difference.

Fat Shite updated his Facebook statuses with snide remarks abut how wonderful life was in Brisbane with his new job and his new friends. Little did he know, his wonderful life in Brisbane made mine in Melbourne a whole lot more bearable. However, I'm a spiteful thing not-so-deep-down and frequently hoped his balloon-sized head would be somewhat deflated some day.

Some day was sooner than I thought.

I'd remained friends with Sour Puss and her soccer star significant other for purely inquisitorial purposes. Though the jabbing statuses annoyed me, I couldn't help but check their pages to track their progress. It's an embarrassing admission, but I am a thorough-bred country bumpkin and as such, gossip is as necessary as oxygen. So when I randomly spotted that one of Sour Puss' friends had posted a welcome home message on her page, only for the same message to be deleted hours later, I almost shat.

I hollered for The Boyfriend, told him the news. Being the good person he is, he shrugged noncommittally, and returned to his perusal of the broken window latch in the kitchen. 

It was the first morning I was eager to get to work. I barreled past Boss and Sappy, barely acknowledging their yawned greetings and pulled a couple of girls from the deli into the coat room and basically spat out the revelation that Fat Shite had returned home, tail between his chafing thighs. if there is one thing that will unite girls on a global scale, it is someone Getting Their Comeuppance. I realise now how horrendous it was that I was garnering mirth from the failure of another human being, but I literally could not help myself. I couldn't think of a more deserving fate to a more deserving fellow. 

Australia isn't for everyone - I don't even know if it's for me. I understand completely how one could become overwhelmed and abandon this dusty continent for the familiarity of home, but Fat Shite's scary-tale-ending was too hilarious to jot down to homesickness. 

The Boyfriend heard the whole story from home. Fat Shite had lasted six days in total in Brisbane. What became of his dream job, I will probably never know. Apparently, their money ran out and his parents bought them rescue flights. The Boyfriend was painfully wise and silent about the whole thing - "What goes around, comes around", he astutely informed us that weekend, the table around which we gathered scattered with empty bottles of $2 wine bottles. 

I slurred something incomprehensible and slumped to the ground, reveling in what felt like a victory. 

Six months later, The Boyfriend and I were living in an almost derelict hotel for backpackers over an ex-Nazi hangout, clutching a rejection to our sponsorship request, potential doors to progression slamming in our faces, all hope obliterated, traitorous tears brimming. 

And that, my friends, was my own introduction to karma - and she's as much of a bitch as everyone has ever said. 

Handling the Truth with Wine

Let me dispel several misconceptions about the big move to See The Wizard. Ireland is currently a land with a young and educated  albeit jobless populace. This is due to the infamous Recession. The Recession is not merely a period of economic decline in Ireland - it is an all-consuming, depressive cloud of misery that has infected the inhabitants of my beloved emerald isle, rendering most of them penniless and lacking in alternative conversation topics. To me, it was the perfect excuse to explain my lack of job. It's not that I didn't apply for jobs - I did. I just failed to apply for the jobs that pertained to my recently acquired degree, or jobs that were considered remotely reputable.
In short, I did nothing note-worthy after college and had to bail because bumping into the people who thought I'd be a success and repeatedly explaining that I couldn't be arsed becoming a success was getting increasingly tedious. Well, that and the fact that I wanted to see more of the world, or whatever nonsense us twenty-somethings spout these days.
Australia was the new land of opportunity. Everyone knew someone from down the road who'd hopped on a plane and become a millionaire overnight; someone who's homecoming was a spectacle of prosperity and triumph; someone with disposable income and a glorious tan. Naturally, I assumed I would return like all these other friends-of-a-friend - a fanfare announcing my arrival, my person newly bronzed and beautiful, astride a gleaming white unicorn, leaden down with chests of gold coins, backside visibly shrunken. Just the usual emigration-related dreams, I guess.
How life actually unfolded down under was rather different. I mentioned my pathetic phone interview in the cubicle at the Aquarium? Well, it seems this "consultation" was quiet the appropriate prerequisite to my career at Urban Deli. My boss was a bald Rastafarian wannabe, with a penchant for squeezing his female employees in inappropriate places and an unhealthy obsession with Bob Marley. He was running the cafe with his friend/manager/mistress Sappy, whose frequent emotional breakdowns were apparently par for the course according to the other workers. Boss and Sappy had a very peculiar relationship - though Boss had a long-term partner and two children, Sappy evidently had something else he needed and their habitual retreats to the coat room during the work day were long and strictly uninterrupted. One minute they were pawing at each other like hormonal teenagers, the next Sappy was screaming and sobbing, and Boss was turning up the volume on "No Woman, No Cry".
Every day, I waited tables and avoided Boss and Sappy's rip roaring rows. I tried my best to be the best waitress ever but I was incredibly bad at it, what with my natural clumsiness and utter hatred for the job. There one year in total, I witnessed an entire staff turnover before I left. Though the money was amazing by Irish standards, the Australian cost of living was exorbitant and I saved exactly nothing in all my full time employment there.
I applied for better jobs, but was rejected on the grounds of my visa. My non-residency seriously depleted my options - it was either cafe work or nothing. It seemed to me that the only people who could make a real killing were the tradesmen. Unfortunately, my laughable degree in English and philosophy didn't exactly qualify me in that category. And so hospitality it was, and still remains.
Though we wanted to travel, we also wanted to save some money. The Boyfriend was particularly intent on avoiding a return to Ireland in rags, and so we worked constantly and took no time off. As a working holiday visa holder, I was unable to work for more than six months in one job. To avoid this, one must go off the books and consequently lose all ones rights.
To get another years visa to stay in Australia we were required to complete 88 days of regional work. I tried to put a brave face on it, declaring the thoughts of picking fruits among snakes a delightful new experience, but inside I was dreading it.We spent our weekends and our money in pubs with Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face. We lived in a mediocre house for extortionate rent and the dream that was supposedly Australia was growing more nightmarish by the day.
Oh, and I forgot to mention the constant rain. Melbourne is pretty beautiful and interesting and all that, but we arrived to eight months of constant and heavy rain, coming straight from an Irish winter into an annoyingly similar winter here.
The mythic splendour of life down under is just that - a myth. To make it here, you have to be willing to work hard and to do pretty much anything to get there. It's cut-throat for those who don't have a specific profession. And even at that, a lot of people have to go through refresher courses because their qualification is not recognised in that particular Australian state. Of course, these courses come attached to thousands of dollars worth of fees to us non-nationals. It's an arduous journey, and our venture to See The Wizard was slowly disillusioning our young minds. Thankfully, I've always been cynical and horrible, but The Boyfriend deserved more.
Then, The Boyfriend's company then gave us some unexpected good news. They were so impressed with his prowess and work ethic that they were willing to look into sponsoring him, thereby allowing us to stay in the country for a further four years, with potential for permanent residency if we got lucky. It meant we could avoid the regional work, and get a nice house by the beach some day just for the both of us. We agreed and the process began.
It was probably the hardest thing we ever had to do, and it only got worse.
But never fear - this all happened after the $2 bottles of wine discovery. So we don't even remember how bad it really was.