Partial and belated F5.

Do you have any recurring dreams?

I have three - driving a speeding car with no brakes, missing the bus, and turning up to my final exams and realising I forgot to study and/or turn up to class all year.

My mother, she has three recurring dreams too. That is, three copies of Recurring Dream - The Very Best of Crowded House.

"Well I don't know, I had a copy at home and then I forgot I had it so I bought a copy for school, and then the third one? Some cloning going on in the CD rack perhaps."

This is the same woman who once was alphabetising her CDs and told me to put Recurring Dream under H.

"House, Crowded!"

"Right. So by your logic that one there goes under Z for Zeppelin, Led?"

"Right!"

Have you ever written your dreams down?

My dream journal started in July 1999 when I was heavily medicated and having some real crackers that I wanted to record for prosperity. I'd make myself wake up and I'd scrawl down the details in the dark, not even stopping to put a light on lest the details fall out of the brain.

The links here are scans from the journal, so have a gander. First I get pulled over by a ranger and searched for smuggled native animals then see some goldfish swimming in air. Then there's a horrid nightmare in which my sister drowns in a dam and an opportunistic man tries to sell me Dam Protection Insurance. And then I encounter a cult and run naked through a pub.

This here Pussycat page is two years old today.

Can you believe I've been crapping on for two whole years? Surely I will run out of things to say soon. I'll be calling up The Mothership and asking, "So. Done anything funny lately?"

There was going to be a redesign and other birthday goodness, but these things never work out as planned. Oh well.

I am so disturbed by that freakytown featherless chicken. What's next? Are they going to breed a headless footless model? That'll save even more money! Or how about chooks emerging from the egg already encrusted in the eleven secret herbs and spices?

So, here is the very first Pussycat entry.

Me and the birds, I think we just got off from wrong foot from the very start. Or is that the wrong claw? I'm not sure. But it seems we're destined not to get along.

It started at age five when I got pecked on the head by an emu. We were at Billy Goat Hill, this park in my hometown. There were no Billy Goats to be seen but instead plenty of kangaroos, wallabies and emus. Families would flock to the Hill on weekends for barbeques, then feed leftover scraps of food to the wildlife.

I was a little tacker and quite unconvinced by the flimsy barrier of chicken wire seperating me and this emu with the beady red eyes. Go on, chuck him some bread! said my stepmother encouragingly. I wrinkled up my nose. Come on, he's a friendly fella!

He was making grunting noises deep in his throat, his eyes darting from side to side. I was sure he could smell my fear, perhaps the wooly hairs on his spindly neck were full of fear-sensing sensor thingies. I trembled and stepped back from the fence, but the emu thrust his head forward and made a grab for the bread, but missed and pecked my head instead.

There was no real damage done, at least not in the short term. Perhaps we can now attribute my various neuroses and inability to find a new job to the brain damage inflicted by that evil bird.

Growing up on a farm, the most common feathered enemy was the magpie. As much as I welcomed the glorious warmth of springtime, I knew it meant Magpie Season. All across the countryside, sqwarking magpies were hatching sqwarking magpie babies, and fiercly defended their offspring by dive-bombing all innocent passers-by.

We tried everything to deter them on our walk home from school. Funny hats, umbrellas. Some people say if you wear an icecream bucket on your head and draw eyes on it with a texta, the magpies will freak out and leave you alone. We tried this, running across an open lucerne paddock, and let me assure you, it does not work. We'd tiptoe through the long grass, glancing nervously at each other, hoping silently that this time we'd make it home unscathed. But then you'd hear a screech and they'd come spiralling out of nowhere, a black and white blur dropping right in front of your face, then soaring upward again.

A particularly vicious magpie lived in a tree just outside our yard. Every morning and night we'd have to go out and feed our herd of pet lambs. We'd brandish two bottles of milk in each hand, so to feed as many lambs at once as possible, yelling at them to drink "faster! faster!" before the magpie realised we were there. But more often than not he'd come barrelling at us and we'd dive to the ground, the lambs prodding us with their snouts to make sure we were alive.

It was Rhiannon who came up with the ingenious solution of the skipping rope. I'd come out with the milk bottles, and she'd walk beside me with her skipping rope, whirling it around her head like a lasso. The evil magpie watched in confusion, but didn't come anywhere near us.

The ploy worked for weeks, until the magpie got brave and rushed us. Rhiannon weilded the rope with great speed and precision. It whirred like helicopter blades. There was a great thunk, a few feathers and an alarmed Arrrrrrrrk!

He survived the ordeal, but didn't mess with us again.

Most terrifying of all was Plover Season. The plovers were pure evil and lived up the back of my little school. They would perch on a dead gum tree, assembled in rows like a choir.

Around August, their chilling voices would rattle down through the pine trees and into the classrooms. Aaaaack ack ack ack! We'd drop our pencils and shudder. They cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. But instead of flying monkeys, we had big white monsters with spurs on their wings.

Plover Season coincided with Athletics Season. Athletics Season meant our little school was thrown into preparations for the Small Schools Athletics Carnival. Even the most uncoordinated clod (eg. yours truly) was forced to particpate. Training involved a twenty minute run every morning around the school perimeter. The Sadistic Bastard Principal and the Sadistic Bitch Teacher (who happened to be The Mothership at the time) would stand in the middle of the playing field with their arms folded, laughing and chatting and drinking cups of tea, while us students ran endless laps.

For the most part, the track was good, crunching through beds of pine needles, leaping over cow pats; but there was a large stretch of open space with nothing but a wheat crop and the old dead gum tree. At the sight of two dozen small running kiddies, the plovers would lift off their branches, Aaaaack ack ack ack! My heart turned to shit as they wheeled overhead. We'd squeak and squeal and dive to the ground as the sound of their wings rushed by our ears. Or we'd just run and run and run until we reached the safety of the pine trees.

One day I was on my third lap, red-faced and petrified as I trotted past my mother. I tried to communicate with her with my eyes. Please Mum, I know you're my teacher and you're not sposed to do me any favours, but please, don't make me run up there again. Pretty please?

She took a slow sip of her tea and grinned maliciously.

"Come on Shauna. You better pick up the pace, otherwise they'll catch you and rip your hair off with their spurs!"

Forget performance enhancing drugs, all you need is to sick a flock of plovers onto any given Track team, and then you'll break some world records.

It's been years, but my sister and I still get a chill when we hear the wuh wuh wuh wuh wuh of rapidly flapping bird wings. Once we were in Sydney and walking along Darling Harbour when we heard that horrible sound, shrieked simultaneously and dropped to the pavement. It turned out to be a humble pigeon, but you can never be too careful.

I would just like to say that this whole thanks but no thanks you're too inexperienced not confident enough too overqualified not as good as that guy over there too tall short browneyed twolegged for this position caper is getting very tired very fucking quickly!

1977. to 1981 —  Really don't remember.


1982. Next-door neighbour Bradley's treehouse, handcrafted by his father in solid pine, nestled in an ancient pepper tree, complete with devoted mother bringing tasty snacks at regular intervals.


1983. Erin, Kelli-Ann and Marnie with their long flowing hair, just begging to be arranged into elaborate ponytails, braids and bunches. I am tortured by Rapunzel fantasies but lumped with a cropped red helmet.


1984. Tracy's unshakable ability to colour inside the lines, using her expensive brand-name brand-new implements, not skanky stubby pencils handed down through three generations of tight arses.


1985. Susie's genuine three-storey Barbie™ doll house, not shoddy homemade plywood construction. Also her Sale of the Century board game.


1986. Ballerinas.


1987. Anyone who's Dad didn't drive an mortifying bright orange Valiant Charger.


1988. My sister's prowess with cartwheels and handstands.


1989. Kids with chocolate Paddlepops from the school canteen.


1990. Brenda and Kelly's perfect hair on 90210.


1991. Kylie's parents, the Mum who cooked dinners and the Dad with sparkly eyes who told dirty jokes.


1992. Anyone with a part-time job.


1993. Anyone without a part-time job, or at least one not at KFC.


1994. Anyone without acne.


1995. Anyone with a drivers licence.


1996. Anyone with a drivers licence who could comprehend calculus.


1997. Anyone who could handle more than one drink without feeling the need to get naked and/or sing sea shanties.


1998. Anyone getting laid.


1999. Anyone with a job.


2000. Anyone without a job, especially those good for nothing bludging university students who know nothing about the Real World™.


2001. That chick at the gym with the perfect body. Her limbs are long and elegant, muscular but still feminine and curvy. Her skin is tan but not in that Roasted On A Sunbed way. An hour of gruelling Body Combat class means a delicate sheen of sweat that enhances her perfect skin, whereas I am glazed and pink like a Christmas ham.


2002. Babies: Sleeping, eating, farting. What a life.

That's three times now I've dreamed about Alex from Big Brother.

I am becoming one sad little individual.

Last night I dreamed that all of my high school class got voted into the house. I was obsessesing about how huge my arse must look like on national television, but overcame this in time to start winning Alex over with my charm and wit. We were getting along just fine. But then what happened? I turned my back for one second and there he was, getting cosy in the backyard spa with a girl who was Miss Popularitypants in my class.

Does anyone else have horrible high school flashbacks in their dreams? Certain characters just pop up to ruin a perfectly good moment. Stomping over my poor little deepsleeping heart, making me feel as inadequate and invisible in my dreams as effortlessly as they did back in the schoolyard. Bah!

Thank you, all you wacky people, for your interesting suggestions for new car names. After lengthy deliberation, we have christened our little red beast.

THE WINNER: Manuel
(suggested by Simon)

RUNNER UP: Florence
(suggested by JD)

NOT EVEN CLOSE: Purplish Viral Infection, Lady Margaret Deathstrike, Great Aunt Spagnum, Pedro the Panty Merchant.

HONORABLE MENTION FOR MOST VIGOROUS CAMPAIGNING: Screaming Silence of Your Impending Doom
(repeatedly suggested by Mattay)

The winning name just clicked right away. We initally thought that the car was female, but now it's just going to be a girly kind of boy. We also like the Fawlty Towers reference, it recalls that lovely image of Basil Fawlty thrashing his broken-down Mini with a tree branch. I've felt like taking a branch to the car myself lately, with my frustration at learning how to drive the bloody thing. But it's not the cars fault I am lousy with a manual.

My experience with the stick is pretty pathetic. I got my learner's permit the day I turned 16 way back in 1993, but nobody bothered teaching me to drive. I had one disasterous lesson with the Mothership on our farm. She kept pressing her foot down on the Phantom Brake in the passenger seat, nagging and snapping, You're in the wrong gear, you're going too fast, you're going to hit that sheep, etc. I didn't come anywhere near the bloody sheep, though the fence was rather close.

Next thing it was February 1996 and I was off to uni and needing a car to get around. But I had not had one single driving lesson since the sheep incident. So the Mothership finally conceded that it was time for me to learn. I'd been on my Learners for over two years, and now I had to learn to drive in two weeks.

The man assigned to the task was Bob from the Totally R.A.D. Driving School. It was like, totally rad! I totally forget what the R.A.D. stood for, but Bob was a rad guy. He had made a little Lego model of a clutch, which he liked to whip out every time you stalled, which in my case was quite often.

"Now this is the clutch, Shauna," he say in the hushed, awed tones that one usually reserves for some magical mystical occurence. "Now this is a bazillion-carat diamond that I dug out of my backyard with a teaspoon, Shauna."

He would turn the little Lego crank and the little Lego gears would spin and he'd explained how it worked, and how my mission was to get to know the clutch. I would nod blankly and smile. Over the next ten days he'd show me that Lego clutch a further fifty times, plus show me the wonders of reverse parallel parking, clutch control and using your mirrors. I stalled and swore, went too fast or too slow, but he was patient and spoke to me in soothing tones.

"Now, go back a gear, easyyyy, easy now! Turn the corner, Shauna. Turn the corner, Shauna. Hey that rhymes! Hehehe."

The big day of the test rolled up and of course my chronic nervousness kicked in. I had thrown up my breakfast and all the mantras Bob had taught me seem to have been purged too. I sat in Bob's Totally RAD Festiva as the RTA dude drummed his fingers on his clipboard, waiting for me to start. But my mind had gone completely blank.

When you know how to drive, starting a car is something you do without thinking. But for me, with about 5 hours of driving experience and being generally loopy and uncoordinated by nature, it was hopeless. I turned the ignition on, got into reverse, and tried to take off. No dice. I did this three times and was about to burst into tears when the guy coughed politely and said, "Have a think about what you haven't done yet." I looked around for a good minute or two before finally realising the fucking handbrake was still on.

"Ha! Haaaaa hahaaa," I whimpered as I took off the handbrake and proceeded to stall twice more.

I had failed the test utterly and miserably before I'd even left the freaking RTA car park, but the bastard still made me do the rest of it. I went over the speed limit twice, I stalled again and my reverse parallel park was a dog's breakfast. I waited til I'd given Bob his Totally RAD car keys back before running into the loos and sobbing.

Hehe. I ended up going for my licence again the day before I left for uni. In that time I'd accquired The Bird, who was an automatic. I passed just fine, despite turning up the wrong street since I'd been to busy being nervous to listen to instructions properly.

About two months later when my sister turned 16, Mum started teaching her to drive right away. Grrr. She says not teaching me to drive is a sad chapter in her mothering history, but at least she'd learned from her mistakes and now knew how to get things right when Rhi got her licence. What am I, the experiment child?

We caught a bus to Goulburn at 6am last Saturday. The bus had come from Adelaide and was on its way to Sydney, so it was full of sleepy backpackers. I had a window seat but the fog was so thick that there wasn't much to look at outside. Instead we listened to the crazy guy three rows behind us.

He'd boarded the bus with us at Canberra. He had spiky brown mullet and a slightly manic grin. He lumbered up the aisle and found his seat.

"G'day!" He stuck out his hand to the guy beside him. There was a strained English-accented "Hello" in response. We hadn't even made it down Northbourne Avenue before the crazy guy launched into his life stories.

"So, September 11, mate. Can you remember where you were when it happened?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "I was in Sydney at the shelter, and there was this crazy guy, you know how there's always a crazy guy. He's standing out the front there looking crazy, he's got an eye patch and everything. I go to walk past and he grabs me and he's slobbering and slurring, The world is gunna end mate, two planes just flew into the towers at New York, there's people jumping out and the worlds gone mad! Whatever, mate, I says. No it's true, I saw it on the telly! Go and look!

"I was gunna go look at the telly just to humour him, but they'd already locked the telly away for the night, they lock it away so noone flogs it during the night. Anyway, he kept going on and on about it, he had this little transistor radio and he was trying to find a station, and he was ranting about planes and burning bodies and shit.

"Anyway, he was crazy. You can never trust a bloke with an eye patch. We were gunna call the doctor and have him hauled off to the hospital. But we went to McDonalds instead. I was standing in the queue goin' Haw haw, planes flying into buildings, what a dickhead, when this huge burly guy pokes me in the back and says, Oi, it's not funny, roight? I said Ahh, fuck off!

"But then I notice they've got the telly on and they're showing that footage over and over again. Jeeeesus chroist, it's for real! I said. The big fella looked like he was fully gunna hit me, so I said Sorry mate, I had no bloody idea!"

I rolled my jacket into a ball and leaned it against the window, snuggled in and tried to sleep. But the windows were cold and slick, my jacket kept sliding down the glass and my head went with it, landing on the window frame with a thunk.

"The other day I was reading a study in Readers Digest about men and the pressures we are under today. Did you realise the pressure we're under, as men? So many boys in high schools are toppin' themselves coz they can't handle all the pressures and the expectations. It's okay for girls, you see, noone really cares what they do with their lives. They are not judged like us men are. If a boy wanted to help his mum bake a cake, he just can't, mate. Because of society. The pressure of society. You can't be a real man and bake a fucking cake."

The bus was sleepy and quiet except for the crazy guy's relentless rambling. Sunlight was starting to seep through the fog. Along the side of the road I could see spidewebs in the trees. That's something you never notice during the day. But in the morning the light is soft and you see thousands of silvery webs, stretched out between the branches. Across the aisle, an impossibly tall guy reading a German translation of John Grisham book, tried to stretch his legs out between the seats.

"Pythagoras, mate. Do you know about Pythagoras? He's the one that did the triangles. Do you know how he did the triangles? He was looking up at the sky one night, I think it was around 6000 B.C. He was looking up at the stars and he connected the dots in his head to make the triangles. Pretty amazing, yeah?"

I nodded off for a good twenty minutes. Soon we were near Goulburn so my sister nudged me awake. The crazy guy was still on Pythagoras.

"So after the triangles, he later went on to make the Pyramids."

"Wasn't Pythagoras a Greek?" asked his bewlidered companion.

"Yeah mate, but he went over to Egypt. With his knowledge of triangles. He helped the Egyptians build their Pyramids."

He was still talking when the bus finally lurched into the service station. We looked up at the Big Merino and wondered if Pythagoras had a hand in that too.

It was easy to name my first car. It was a Nissan Bluebird, and thanks to my reckless driving, it really flew, man. So it was THE BIRD!

Then it was easy to name the second car Golden Boy, coz he was gold and there's nothing like a Seinfeld reference.

But this new one has us stumped. Perhaps I can't think of a name because I haven't formed an attachment to the car yet (possibly because I can't drive the bloody thing. It's manual and I can't drive a manual for shit, I am having to learn rather quickly).

Anyway, I've decided to hold a Name That Car Contest. I'm not sure what the prize will be. Perhaps the prize will be Golden Boy himself. Of course, you'll have to come here to get him, and give me $3000 or so.

Okay, I will think of a better prize. But here is the nameless one, a 1998 Ford Festiva.

The judges (ie. my very fickle sister's) decision will be final. Enter as many times as you like! Don't be shy!

My sister and I have bought a new car. Well, an old car. Well, not old. Made in 1998. It's my third car and finally I have one made in the nineties. I have come so far!

Anyway, we're getting a joint loan. It will be nice to share the expense of having a car. We decided to celebrate getting into debt by spending $80 on dinner.

The cute and sweet waiter greeted us (as opposed to the cute and funny waiter). He had a big smile and said, "Well, I haven't seen you two in here for awhile! Table for two?"

We had ordered some drinks when Rhiannon said to me, "Did you think there was anything weird about how he said table for two?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think he thinks we're like... together?"

"Together? You and me? Ewww! That's freaky!"

"Well I don't think he realises we're sisters! I mean, we don't look anything alike. And we come in here all the time, just you and me."

"We come here with other people sometimes!"

"Yes but who have we come here with? Emily! Bettina! Jenny! Always girls!"

"Well Andrew came with us for my birthday remember?"

"Yes but he was clearly with Emily!"

"Well I spose next time we come here we'll just have to hire some male escorts."

"I say tonight we make a point of letting the waiters know that we're just sisters."

"Okay, but how do we do that?"

We were interrupted by Funny Cute who took our order. Rhiannon ordered the chicken something-or-other. I asked for the lamb rump with the exotic potato thingo.

"Okay, but it's actually not lamb rump anymore, we're using a different cut now because we weren't happy with the quality of the rump."

Rhiannon looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I tried to mentally calculate the impact of me saying "Oh, what a pity, I do enjoy a bit of quality rump". Would that establish my heterosexuality or just make me sound like an idiot?

Instead I just said, "Well. DAMN!"

Funny Cute went away and Rhiannon said, "I know what you were going to say there, something about liking a bit of rump!"

"Ahh, you always know what I am going to say."

"See! See what I mean? Just like an old couple! We can finish each others sentences, we're living together, we're buying a car together, we go to the gym together, can you see what impression we must give people?"

"I say we give the impression of two sisters who are just unusually in tune with each other as a result of a rather colorful childhood featuring questionable parents, a close bond developing between us as a means of survival. The only two sane ships in a sea of dysfunction, if you will."

"Can we just try and work it in somehow that we're sisters?"

"Okay."

Sweet Cute comes over with our garlic bread.

"You know," I said loudly. "Our mum really likes garlic bread."

But he'd already moved on to the next table and out of earshot.

"Dammit!"

Later on, I was umming and ahhing over the dessert menu. Sweet Cute came over and I gave Rhiannon that look, you know the one where you're trying to give someone their subtle cue? But with tortured eyebrows and twisted mouth, you end up more looking like you're constipated.

She understood, however, and spoke loud and clear. "So what are you going to have, sister dear?"

I tried not to snort from laughter and ordered the apple blackberry crumble. Sweet Cute went away and I hissed, "Do you think he'll understand what you mean by sisters? Like sisters as in we have the same mother?"

We pondered this for awhile, but then I overheard Sweet Cute talking to Funny Cute, "Hey, they're sisters! I never knew!"