I fell off a flying fox (approx. 1992)

2. I Fell Off A Flying Fox

As a general rule I’m not a very well-coordinated person. However, what sets me apart from others is that even though I know I’m uncoordinated, I have still managed to participate in and fail at a surprising number of unnecessary physical pursuits.

This little tale traces the dawning of the realisation that I would never be a gifted, spring-loaded athlete, blessed with skill and poise. I think I was nine, so the scene was certainly set early.

As most children my age were trampolining (more on this in another post), back-flipping into swimming pools and taking jumps on their bike, I always had my doubts. However, I could never be considered a ‘chicken’, and was instead driven by an unsaid social and environmental pressure to engage in such activities myself. Activities that I now consider foolhardy at best. At worst? Deadly.

The setting of this story is a park in Bendigo (as well as Bendigo Base Hospital). The protagonists? A flying fox, a hot jam donut and a long car trip.

Our family had taken a trip to Bendigo and we were soaking up the last sunshine of a particularly happy Sunday before leaving for home. One of countless fun-filled family holidays we enjoyed in my younger days.

So what does a family do before loading up the car and driving 3.5 hours back home? If you answered ‘eat a hot jam donut and then go to a park’, you’d be correct.

It was the aforementioned social pressure and an ideal of ‘wanting to fit in’ that found me on this fateful afternoon playing in a seemingly care-free way on a small playground in Bendigo. While my typical playground pursuits were undertaken with a strong respect for gravity – slides, swings, whizzy-dizzies at best – today was unique in that this particular playground featured a Flying Fox.

It just so happened that a caravan selling hot jam donuts and other treats had positioned itself in close proximity of this playground, and it was decided that it would be a great entrée for a play session.

The experience of eating a jam donut, which to that point I’d never sampled, was probably a seven out of ten for me. The jam wasn’t too hot, the dough tasty and sweet and it was coated with a generous topping of caster sugar.

Little did I know that it was this tasty, cinnamon-tinged caster sugar that would be the factor behind my eventual downfall.

After a rapid but enjoyable donut consumption experience, I swept over to the playground and began to engage in my usual activities of swinging, sliding and spring-loaded-horse-rocking. Until I saw my sister having what appeared to be an amazing time on the flying fox.

To this point in my life, the flying fox held little appeal. It wasn’t something I’d had a lot of experience with. Manangatang wasn’t known for its playground innovations, and the stock swing/slide/whizzy-dizzy combo held sway for generations.

But seeing my sister step onto the platform, grab the handle, swing her momentum forward and slide to the other side appealed to me at that moment. Quite possibly it could have been a coming of age. A confidence booster.

So I wandered over bravely to the platform, and being encouraged by all around me I grabbed the handle and pushed off.

The rest is a blur, but my patchy memory and the tales told by others present on that day suggested that a combination of my lack of coordination, the height of the flying fox and the icing sugar on my hands culminated in the fall that led me to black out for a short time. I am told that I landed squarely on my head.

In those days there was none of modern society’s namby-pamby rubber padding or even bark chips beneath playground equipment. These were harder conditions driven by harder times. Which was evidenced by the concrete-hard compacted dirt and faded memories of broken bones past beneath this flying fox.

If given the power to express itself directly, my skull may not have been so flippant about a safe landing zone.

The next thing I knew I woke up in Bendigo Base Hospital with a small ‘Gold Digger’ toy purchased to help me feel better. It did, but I must admit that through my confusion the only thing I could think about was that I wasn’t as keen on hot jam donuts as I once was.

But while a short hospital stay and a diagnosis of a mild concussion might seem like a fitting end to this unfortunate tale, the truth is far more telling. The punctuation mark on what turned out to be a derailed afternoon was a swelling sensation of nausea I felt outside of Sea Lake on the return journey.

I had never vomited in my life to this point, and have only done so once since (from any causes, remarkably). My memory of it was sketchy, but I do recall depositing back my donut to the earth from which it was created. Poignant indeed.

What did I learn from this?

It was certainly the dawning of the realisation that I’m not the most physically adept person out there, and set the scene for what proved to be an accident-prone teenage phase.

It also meant that I would never again touch a hot jam donut. Even the hipster-led trend of donut balls stuffed with jam and chocolate sends shivers down my spine. Icing sugar has escaped further scrutiny, but it’s on notice.

I stood on a tooth (2010)

1. Stood on a tooth

People stand on things all the time. Chewing gum, animal poo, mud, the ground. I could go on...

Standing on things is an inherent consequence of biped perambulation typically exhibited by humans. Yes, while you might see people wearing shoes on their hands if you go to Hay on the wrong weekday, we as humans tend to stand on things all the time.

Wearing shoes is a surefire approach to minimising the negative impact of standing on less desirable objects and I should say up front that I'm a staunch advocate of shoe wearing.

However this story is about an unfortunate protagonist (myself) standing barefoot on a human mandibular molar. For those of you playing along at home that's a tooth.

The story begins with a rather typically festive evening in London's West. A grotty and rather antipodean suburb called Hammersmith was the scene for the beginning of this tale; specifically inside a bar. 

My good lady wife and myself had been purveyors in jollility that eve, with the occasion being the proximity of some good friends and the participation of Australia in the Football World Cup.

While Australia lost comprehensively that evening to Germany, our group had decided to celebrate simply being alive and together in another city. A few beers and a sneaky souvlaki later and we were ready to go home to our hotel in Chelsea.

Given our relative lack of funds and the unusual clarity and mildness of this particular London evening, our minds were made up to walk this 5km journey rather than take a cab or unlock the puzzle of the buses.

While this walk home involved a few small incidents, like a stop for Pringles at a random convenience store, a conversation with several groups of drunkards and a quick bathroom break down a side alley, the act of standing on a tooth is the one that stood out.

Like something out of a good Seinfeld episode, the event was the confluence of several small and seemingly insignificant events.

First, our choice to walk would have to be high on the list of such events. The fact that we'd been to Barcelona some weeks earlier also contributed.

While a trip to Barcelona is not usually enough to cause one to stand barefoot on a tooth in a completely different city in three weekends' time, this one was. After all, we had both purchased a new pair of canvas street shoes that made us look incredibly fashionable but required some 'wearing in'.

My wife was clad in said shoes this fateful evening. As to be expected, they were causing her some discomfort as the canvas struggled to give like a new pair of skinny jeans on a chunky clothing store saleswoman. This discomfort was the direct driver of the removal of said shoes from her feet.

Now being an empathetic and attentive boyfriend as I was/husband as I am, I elected to remove my shoes as well. I suppose it represented some (admittedly non-sensical) show of solidity in the face of adversity. You can see how this may have been a contributing factor.

The final factor that worked to drive a tooth into my foot was the yet-to-be-confirmed fact that a human had lost a tooth in the proximity of the exact footpath that I chose to walk on to complete my journey.

I believe that I must have stood on it for a while prior to noticing its intrusion, which may seem odd to someone who doesn't know what already blistered feet on asphalt feels like. But I soon figured out that the general blister pain was being accentuated by a rather acute digging sensation.

You can imagine my combined shock, disgust and (to be frank) awe at discovering the nature of the podiatric intruder. My wife between loud laughs and mouthfuls of Pringles identified it as a tooth, although I probably didn't need to be told.

As I mentally Googled what the potential consequences of someone else's tooth being embedded in the heel of my foot could present for me, the few hours between getting to bed and dawn slipped away.

I can't even tell you what happened to the tooth. I'd like to think some dishevelled street dweller came upon it quite by chance to complete his collection of human teeth.

What did I learn from this?

This situation was completely new to me and taught me a few things about the way the world works.

The first lesson is that a man standing on a tooth must appear hilarious to his partner.

Additionally, I was pleasantly surprised to note that the force of an 82kg man standing on a tooth isn't enough to force said tooth through the skin on his heel. For this I am glad.

I also learned what a mandibular molar is and what its root looks like when imprinted into my right foot.

But I'd be a fool to ignore the lesson that it's not a great idea to walk barefoot for 5km through London after 1am. It would seem obvious, no?

Things that I've done...

After the tumult of last year's career-morph and its orbit of chaos and mood swings, I've got to a space where I've had more time to reflect on the craziness that ensued. This includes what has become the best 'terrible four-day job story' ever heard among friends/relatives/colleagues/strangers.

I think writing about these events made them just a little more manageable for me. Additionally it led to me thinking about the other strange experiences I've been involved in over the years.

Upon creating a list of said encounters, my mind has identified that I have a curiously diverse and quite strange collection of life experiences. I'm not saying that I've led an odder life than anyone else per se, but just that I have engaged in and lived through pretty weird stuff.

I'm now thinking that I'll probably just write about these too as time comes upon me - in the main for posterity purposes as I'm quite sure that nobody reads this thing anymore.

I'll also try to eke out some sense of learning or life lessons for each encounter. After all, it would be troglodytic indeed for me to just drift through such things unchanged or uneducated.

Having said that, I foresee an issue with determining what I have learned...

... the ultimate demise of flight DAW817

As the windows rattled and the hostesses put away the drink trollies I began searching for my life jacket. It was clear that things had turned to crap and that this flight was going nowhere but down.

I searched and applied for jobs like some kind of job maniac. I spoke to many friends, family and potential employees. I also built a gate for the front yard, but in hindsight that was my mind's way of creating a distraction. And that's another story.

But all was in vain. While my new gate stood proudly on its hinges in the front garden I was unable to achieve my ultimate aim of bailing out of this doomed flight. I knew then that I just had to skull another beverage and hope to survive the impact.

Sunday passed by and with dread lapsed into Monday. My first day in a new role didn't feel quite as exciting as it should but I packed my new bag, jumped on a tram and decided to meet my fate head-on.

I had received a timely email on the Friday before telling me that the organisation did in fact have an office and I was duly provided with the address. This was my destination but upon arrival I found there to be no sign of any such company on that floor. It turns out that this office was a rented space and was in fact only accessible for five days each month. This I wasn't told.

The plane began to take another dive as I received a phone call and was told 'meet me downstairs, I'm in a red hatchback and we're going to Dandenong for the day'. I don't presume that everyone knows what Dandenong is like, but let me disabuse you from a theory that it's a lovely place full of happy people and the smell of success.

On the way to this heaven on earth I was informed that the topic for research that I'd be doing today is sexual wellbeing products. A fancy name for condoms, lubricants and toys. Enough to make anyone blush, but I don't think it really sunk in for me as I was still getting over the fact that I didn't have an office and was instead going to be outside Dandenong plaza for the whole day.

Halfway through my first Subway cookie (which was admittedly moist and delicious) one of the pilots began talking to a large and unattractive Dandenong local about her bedroom habits. My digestive system was kind enough to process this cookie in the face of adversity, but the gag reflex almost let it all out when I was told that I was to run the next interview with a gay male from Heidelberg.

The rest of my first day was a blur, but I did note that smoke began flooding the cabin at this point. I'm not sure if it was the numbing cold of Dandenong at that time of year, the sickeningly pungent smell of Subway bread or the ongoing sense of menace from legging-wearing bogans, but things were looking grim indeed.

Through a mist of sensory confusion I waded and only once I had reached the relative safety of inner Melbourne did the doubt about my ability to last the crash in one piece descend upon me.

The second day saw much of the same, although through the smoke I did note that we went to Waurn Ponds instead of Dandenong. Oh, and that the pilot started driving erratically and almost caused a series of accidents on the Princes Freeway by driving at 60km per hour and then speeding up again.

At this point an engine had fallen off and things in the main cabin had got fairly raw. Abuse was flying around the cabin and as the pilots were seemingly absent I was asked over the P.A. to travel to Ballarat to stand in the condom aisle for four hours. Like a market research pervert.

Accepting my fate and knowing full well that this would be the last day my career would have on earth, I bravely fuelled up the Golf and drove into the abyss. Ballarat is cold at this time of the year. Seven degrees in fact.

An explosion was imminent as I stood in aisle 12 of Ballarat Coles. Many things passed through my mind in the last moments before the impact.

Could I actually intercept fate and kill myself before the crash? Well, Aisle 12 had lots of Panadol and I thought that at a pinch I could choke myself on one of the cords from the private label brand electric kettles they sell. Or eat enough tins of Karicare Gold Plus for me to be driven crazy from the sounds of weird children laughing.

But that was the easy way out - I'm anything but gutless. Although the more I heard Natalie Imbruglia's 1997 classic 'Torn' blaring out of the crackling supermarket speakers (I counted one per hour) the weaker became my resolve.

The last thing I remember before the plane was torn asunder was a homeless man coming up to ask me where the vegetable stock was. I didn't ask whether he meant cubes or powder. I could easily have told him where Coles's surprisingly good range of torches was, but vegetable stock eluded me. 

As I clumsily replied in the negative, something made me wonder whether that man was once a market researcher like me. My condoms and lubricant was his stock powder, but the bad music and seemingly pointless work was the same.

He may have started out a young and ambitious man like me but instead of his plane crashing it was repaired and refuelled in the air, like some endless loop of confusion and pointlessness. 

I was awoken from my musings by the crash of the impact. Sparks flew, well overloaded baggage fell on heads and there was general chaos. In the midst of this chaos my resolve became set. I was to resign and was to do so straight away. 

I may yet be able to salvage something from this flaming wreckage.

...and then things got a little weird

About two weeks into the journey there were some strange noises coming from the cockpit.

An announcement was made over the P.A. regarding some qualitative fieldwork which I was required to do every week for the rest of my foreseeable life commencing at 10:00am and finishing at 8:00pm. Something about going to supermarkets and asking people about the minor and irrelevant details that they like or dislike about that supermarket at that specific point in time.

These were to be in supermarkets everywhere except for within 30 minutes of my home. I could envisage myself to be writing reports about bruised peaches and disorderly pasta shelves for the rest of my career.

Not to be perturbed (after all I was already at cruising altitude) I decided to ask a simple question in return. "I've just signed a contract for a 38 hour week and now you're asking me to work 10 hours plus travel on one day in every week. Is there a system for time in lieu to ensure I don't get overworked?"

The plane began to shudder and took a fairly serious nosedive when I received a reply email with a pithy yet obtuse subject line - 'Lol!'. The 'lol' (which is internet-speak for 'laugh out loud' I have since read) was one thing, but the inclusion of the exclamation mark was as alarming as it was volume-enhancing.

After processing the content of the email - including some choice quotes such as 'you haven't even started here yet and you're asking for time off' and 'what do you think this is? do you want a real job or not?' - I decided it best to go into the cockpit to clarify what must have been an administrative error. Or at least a short-term brain lapse from a capable pilot.

Upon entering the cockpit you'd understand my shock as I realised that my pilots were in fact an aggressive and savage Welsh poet and a disorganised  and overly emotional cat-lady living in the hills of New Zealand. They sure looked the same, but all signs and controls were pointing to an impending disaster.

I retook my seat and put my seatbelt on a little tighter. Things weren't looking quite as rosy as what they once did and the hamburger I ate started to process a little quicker than what it otherwise would. The turbulence might not end here.

Smooth sailing on flight DAW817

It was a warm day in late January when I considered boarding the plane. 

I'm not a typical passenger when it comes to career change. I take my time and I plan my journey carefully. I had been thinking about a flight for months (six at least), so when I got a call from a pilot to say that I had an opportunity to fly I was eager to impress.

I was told that there were co-pilots. The one I met with presented as a professional (if slightly emotionally detached) British lady who seemed incredibly switched-on. This is a good thing for a pilot to be (switched on, not emotionally detached).

Based on this interview I earned myself a second interview with the second co-pilot. This one appeared as a slightly eccentric but warm and friendly cat owner living in New Zealand. I own a cat, so I felt like this was OK. As the organisation I was to fly with was British it was not a surprising thing that this co-pilot was also British.

After meeting with the pilots and feeling good the process progressed to me chatting to flight control (the global CEO based in the UK). This was a Skype-based interview featuring me wearing a suit up top and no pants (newsreader-style). It was a hot day and ventilation is important.

Pleasingly the flight path was approved and booked in for departure, although the formal paperwork was to be completed. This included the actual offer of a job.

As the weeks went by I went from excited about the flight to slightly concerned that the whole thing wouldn't get off the ground. I had to attend to a minor detail in March (my wedding) so was otherwise distracted from the lack of progress for a few weeks.

With a little psychological manipulation on my part I received the paperwork after 10 weeks and eagerly signed my life away. The last pre-flight ritual was to leave my old job (which I liken to going through security and immigration).

This was about as hard as I expected it to be and it certainly filled me with the dread and fear of risk that comes when you leave the country for a new horizon. But I was brave and did it - after all there was a new career at stake.

Optimism was high as the plane was boarded and took off. In a short four weeks I would arrive at my destination. I sat through the safety demonstration (which as usual I never took any notice of) and did up my seat belt to a comfortable tightness. 

This was going to be some flight. I ordered a hamburger (which was no doubt going to be microwaved) and kicked back.

Cause for an update

I've realised recently that it takes something of significance to make me write my blog.

Significance is a funny word. We attach it to things like buying houses (I've done that since my last post), getting married (that too) and other major life changes.

While I've been on a roll with buying a house and getting married I thought it would also be wise to complete the 'trifecta' of significant and stress-inducing life changes within six months. That's right; I decided to change my job.

While changing jobs is not in itself a big deal (even though I had been at my existing job for almost seven years) this particular job change attempt produced for me the strangest week in my life.

As I boarded a plane for Sydney I thought of a metaphor for the events that unfolded in that fateful week. I likened it to a career 'plane crash'. While it seems a little extreme it's hard to deny that there are some parallels.

The plane itself represents my aspirations and hopes for a fulfilling future career. The story starts from boarding and progresses to smooth sailing at altitude (the seat belt signs were even turned off). But then of course the tale outlines the ultimate plummet to earth and the process of picking through the wreckage to salvage the black box.

I do hope that this black box may provide a tale of caution to future job change attempts.

This story will take some time to detail as it is the details themselves which make this tapestry even richer. 'Confusing' and 'weird' are about to confront you like a shark with knees that can breathe air. Allow me to indulge myself with a few separate posts.