One More Sleep!

Tomorrow is the big day when we jet off to Dubai. How excitement! The black and white action is about to take off and we're ready to rock and roll.

If I think I’m going to sleep at all tonight, then I’m having myself on for sure. There will be no sleep happening. There will however, be endless tossing and turning, opening my eyes to stare malevolently at the clock every hour on the hour and running through about 6000 lists in my head, occasionally getting up to double, triple and quadruple check that I’ve packed everything I need, getting up again to pace aimlessly around the house and recount the number of knickers I’ve packed.

Today is Ash Wednesday, and like all good Catholics, I dutifully trotted off to Mass at the Cathedral, where the Archbishop anointed my head with ashes (they’re the REALLY black ones this year – clearly a testament to my level of sin over the past twelve months – sometimes they’re a soft grey colour and don’t stand out as much on the skin).

Usually, I go to Mass early in the morning and then head straight to the office, not venturing out until I go home, so my level of humiliation is minimal. I don’t mind walking around the office all day with a big stain in the middle of my scone as everyone knows me and largely ignores it. The one person who did make a comment is a Muslim colleague (and friend) who wasn't working with us last year and forgot it was Ash Wednesday. We both had a good laugh about that.

Of course today would be different to most years. I couldn’t get to early Mass so had to race into the city for Mass at lunchtime, go to a meeting with 12 other people I don’t really know, pick up a few last minute things and go to buy my foreign currency at the bank, where, inevitably there was a queue the size of half the population of Tasmania. Naturally, I must have happened across every non-Catholic in the known universe between the hours of noon and 3pm, many of whom simply stared at me as though I had a nasty and potentially contagious skin affliction going on – a couple of people even backed away a little at the sight of me. Always great for a girl’s self esteem. Some others were very kind in pointing out to me in hushed tones “I’m sorry to bother you dear/darling/lady/miss, but you seem to have a big black smudge on your forehead. Just thought you should know.” Bless their Christian hearts, the little treasures. Under other circumstances, one would be most grateful to be informed that one is walking around with some foreign object or substance attached to one’s face, but today was absolutely, positively, definitely not that day.

I must point out that, as today is Ash Wednesday and therefore the first day of Lent, I am now obligated to make some sacrifices for the good of humankind and undergo a self-penance until Easter. Each year I usually elect to give up shopping, and specifically, shoe shopping. That may not sound like a sacrifice at all to most people, but trust me, for me it’s akin to self-mutilation. Look what you’re dealing with here. The suffering is truly unbearable because, as that swine Murphy must clearly know because he’s planned the whole thing, I will inevitably find, during the Lenten period when I’m not allowed to buy them, the one pair of shoes on the planet that, without which, I will simply drop dead where I stand. Happens every year, and I have the willpower of a gambler trapped in a Las Vegas casino.

As I’m going to Dubai, I’m not even going to pretend that I could give up shopping this year, so I’ve decided instead to forego the pleasures of champagne and chocolate – specifically Turkish Delight, which for me is the heroin of all chocolate. What on earth was I thinking???? On the plus side, foregoing drinking in Dubai should be a relatively easy task – so there’s one week down out of six. Just quietly, making someone like me forego anything pleasurably essential for the good of humankind seems to be a bit of a contradiction in terms – when I’m denied shoes, champagne and chocolate I just get cross and unpleasant – and after 40 days and 40 nights of being cross and unpleasant, no good to humankind of any description can be salvaged from that situation. I’m more amped up than a bikie who’s suddenly realised he’s misplaced his amphetamine stash. It’s ugly from every angle. I’d rather be slow roasted over a fire than go through this, but it’s a worthy exercise and something to feel great about once Easter has passed.

I was telling a friend this afternoon that I’m just praying that all this heavy rain in Brisbane turns into a flood of biblical proportion, drowning every last one of us so I simply do not have to exist through the next 40 days and 40 nights. However, just when I’d want Murphy to do me a favour, he’ll be hiding at the end of the rainbow under his pot of gold, nowhere to be found. The skunk.

I’m evidently not having enough fun in showbusiness at these prospects for penitent purpose. To make life even more exciting, I’m at that week of the month where no woman travelling wants to find herself. So, I’m hormonal at a tsunami level on the Richter Scale, and without the medicinal aid of either champagne or chocolate to brighten my day, keep me relatively sane and ensure that I’m fit to remain a safe member of society.

How much fun do you reckon I’m having right at this minute? NOT. Put it this way – Nirvana right at this point is a vision of every man on the planet with a very, very large kitchen knife protruding from between his fifth and sixth ribs. I hate to say it, but even Mr Wonderful is included here. Probably not a healthy manifestation, but most neurologically balanced people would agree that you just don’t mess with a woman when she’s in this condition. Just back away slowly and don't make any sudden movements. Not to worry though – I shall be perfectly content once I have a painkiller or two – preferably ones the size of Jupiter, and a good soak in the bath – preferably one the size of a lake. I feel it would be better for us all if I were heavily medicated for the next 72 hours.

As well as being Lent, it’s also Chinese New Year. The moon is a busy little orb this week for sure. This year is the year of the Rat, the first in the new twelve year cycle. I am desperately praying that it will be a year of Rats only in the symbolic Chinese sense, and not in the sense of the calibre of men who will cross my path. I already know more filthy rodents than I can handle and do not need any more of them disturbing my yin, yang and feng shui.

Ah well, what’s a girl to do? Hop on a plane to Dubai, watch some football and go shopping, apparently. Spare a thought for me as I collapse at the end of each day, exhausted (from all that driving a hard bargain with shopkeepers and drooling over Brodie Holland’s butt), and look forward to a…….Shirley Temple and a rice cracker. Oh dear God, I’m begging you, if you love me at all, please just kill me now.

So, it’s Kung He Fat Choi for 2008 and Ma ‘a Salaam from Brisvegas. Eat, drink and be merry, people. Somebody has to, as it clearly won’t be me. All I can say is, Praise the Lord for a good cup of tea.