Posts Tagged ‘Kerri Sackville’

It’s a long story but let’s just say I started my recent trip to Sydney by rummaging through a bin at Melbourne airport for a plastic bag so I could meet Tiger Airways’ stringent luggage policy.

And it got me thinking – and not just about whether or not the Channel 7 crew filming the series ‘Air Ways’ had managed to capture that magic moment on camera. It got me thinking about how more people really should give me money to fly around the world having adventures that may (or may not) involve me pulling plastic bags out of public bins.

I mean, listen up, prospective sponsors:  I’m an adventurer! A pioneer! A natural born travel writer!

Here’s the kind of thing that I got up to in Sydney:

  • I went to Kerri Sackville’s book launch where I had to make my own name badge because I think Kerri must have secretly uninvited me suspecting I’d only get drunk, try chat up her publisher and blow raspberries into Mrs Woog‘s cleavage. Which is exactly what I did.
  • I subsequently ended up in a random bar in Darlinghurst with my gay toyboy ex-husband where we chair-danced with an inflatable doll and shoveled handfuls of free condoms into our bags. Good times, Rick. Good times.
  • Hungover the next morning, I got lost in that vortex of consumerism called ‘Westfield Bondi Junction’ and almost took a nap on a bed display in David Jones. In the end, I had to ask a stranger where the train station was. Yes, a stranger! And even then, I managed to get lost again.
  • Instead of watching some televised wedding that evening, I drank cocktails out of jam jars in a Melbourne-style bar in the heart of Sydney. Which was ironic because, as a Melbourne-based girl, I rarely get to drink cocktails out of jam jars in actual Melbourne bars.
  • I found myself talking to one of my many Sydney-based cousins, The Tall Man, who thought he’d be amusing and ask if I’d ever thought about starting a blog. Unfortunately for both of us, I thought he was suggesting I start a bog which then led us into a rather frightening conversational space about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet.
  • I ate the world’s most delicious caramel eclair (probably not the best thing to follow up the previous point about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet).
  • I used the toilet in Kerri Sackville’s personal en suite bathroom. Yes, I did. I’m sure this was a major breach of etiquette but a) I wanted to enjoy the magnificent views that the en suite afforded me and b) I thought it might bring Kerri and I closer together. And lo, here we are. Closer together.

    I am, like, totally grabbing her knee and - in Kerri's own words - she is, like, totally trying to shove her hand down my top.

  • My flight home was delayed and, while I basked in the strip-lit ambience of Sydney airport, my husband texted photos of our youngest child, with easter egg-smeared face in front of the TV in his pyjamas at 4:30PM. So at least I knew the kids were in good hands while I was away.
  • I fell asleep on the plane but unfortunately woke up at the very moment my body began to fall sideways into the lap of the alarmingly good looking man I was sitting next to.
  • I turned my mobile phone on before I was inside the terminal.

See?  Adventurer.

Actually, I don’t know why Channel 7 don’t just base their next reality TV travel series on me, quite frankly.


BTW, you should totally buy Kerri Sackville’s book ‘When My Husband Does The Dishes‘. Just saying.

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In just over a month, I’m attending a blogging conference in Sydney where a group of about two hundred people will get to see what I really look like. Well, not what I really look like, because I’ll probably brush my hair or something, especially for the occasion.

For a while I contemplated going in disguise as someone called Stephanie who had a blog called “RAINBOWS! AND! LOLLIPOPS!” (Please note the creative use of exclamation marks). Either that, or hiring a body double with more shapely ankles and a better dress sense than me to attend in my place.

I also thought about wearing a KISS mask, which I could take off to reveal full KISS makeup. Which would be totally cool…  if about 30 years out of date.

See, the truth is I have some anxiety about not meeting the expectations people have of me – especially since I don’t know what those expectations are. I mean, what do those precious few people who read my blog who aren’t blood relations or currently involved in a lengthy court dispute with me think I look like? You know, other than extremely drunk.

I’ve been thinking about this even more since an incident on a weekend visit to Sydney,  where I randomly ran into fellow-blogger, twitter personality and all-round hottie Kerri Sackville on a train platform.

Kerri, to her full credit, recognised me immediately because she has the privilege of being my Facebook friend and thus having access to the trillion photos I post there and my deepest, most intimate thoughts about what I’m cooking for dinner and the price of bananas (“Bananas… WTF?”).

However, while I was initially sure it was her, I quickly became filled with doubt.

For one thing, the Kerri-in-my-mind was at least six feet tall, perhaps even seven. I’ve based this assumption on the few head shots I’ve seen of hers and the way she writes. There’s something about the lack of exclamation marks in her copy suggests stature. I’m sure there’s a scientific study somewhere to support this.

But the Kerri-on-the-platform, however, was positively elfin. Why, I wanted to pick her up and tuck her in my front pocket she was so petite.

So to cut a long story short, I ended up dissing this apparent Kerri-alike and continuing my train journey by myself.

Turns out, via the magic of twitter, it really was her (and, it should be noted, it really was me, too) and so we ended up meeting up for a power breakfast the next morning, where we fell in love over the course of a two hour power conversation.  I won her heart by telling  her she had spinach in her teeth and she won mine by spitting poached egg all over me.

Who said that romance was dead?

Anyway, the point of all this is to say the following to any bloggers attending the conference next month: please go all zen and empty your mind of any expectations you have of me and, in turn, I promise not to vomit on your shoes and/or drag you up during the dinner-dance to do The Macarena, okay? That way, I think we’ll all be happy…

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