"This town stinks," I declared, after only having been in it for twenty-four hours.

(And when I said stinks, I said it in that nasty tone with the curled upper lip, which is in fact The Mothership's patented way of saying the word. During the turbulent teens, when I was such a fucking badass, she would often tell me, "Your attitude stinks!". Usually I'd done something criminal, like buying a CD instead of saving for The Future, or complained about the dishes, or refused to herd a flock of sheep. "Your attitude stinks!" she'd say.)

Anyway, there I was in Princes Street with hands on indignant hips, my sister nodding in agreement that Edinburgh stinks!

But you must understand the context. I didn't mean it stank as in it was a horrible town. Oh no, I had fallen in love already. There was the castle, the pubs, and a sighting of a dozen kilted blokes enroute to the rugby. I just meant it quite literally was a bit whiffy. There was some bizarre scent in the air, kind of savoury, kind of moist, kind of unpleasant...

"It's dog food." Rhi said suddenly. "It smells like dog food."

"YES! Tinned dog food."

"I'd say specifically it was Chum or PAL Puppy Food."

"Freshly opened."

It made sense. The dogs of Edinburgh were comparatively cheerier than dogs from other lands. There was a certain jaunty angle to their wagging tails, a joyous ohboy ohboy expression as they sauntered down the streets and examined each other's arses. If you were a dog and the whole world smelled like the lid had been ripped off a giant can of dog food, wouldn't you be happy?

But there was no evidence that this was the source of the smell. And to add to the mystery, the smell seemed to worsen when we moved into our flat the following week.

"So how do you like Edinburgh?" fellow employees or random strangers would ask us.

"Oh we love it, but it smells funny," we'd reply.

"What?!"

"Yeah it does. Like dog food. Especially near our house!"

Yet we wondered why we weren't making new friends.

Weeks passed and we got used to the smell, but it still puzzled me. I even consulted with the quiet black labrador next door.

It wandered over quietly one night when I was sitting on the back step. It gently placed its right paw in the crook of my arm and snuffled its wet nose in my ear. It was a very quiet and still dog. Its name was  I AM MICROCHIPPED, according to the tag around its neck.

"Hey Dog," I said, "Don't you think Edinburgh smells like dog food? You know when you just open the tin and the smell hits you? All the goodness of horse chunks, chicken gizzards, monkey buttocks and gravy? Is that why you guys are so happy?"

"Who says we're happy?" said the Dog.

Finally we noticed we were living a block away from a large brewery. All those hops and yeast and good times belching from the chimney stacks would definitely account for that heady aroma. Plus, there's a slim chance it's actually an elaborate front for a Chum factory.

There were three little rabbits on the nature strip on the way to the bus stop. They nibbled the grass, adorably arranged in ascending size order. I was mentally coating them in chocolate and coloured foil when it occurred to me, that would make a cool photo.

So I dug out the camera. One bunny heard the zoom zooming and zoomed off into the bushes. Bugger. I crept forward and press the shutter. B2 nicked off. The third remained, the tiniest and most wriggly-nosed. But just as I knelt down and got the shot looking pretty, he accelerated. There were grass stains on my knees and the bus sailed past without me.

The next day I was walking through The Meadows. It was a sexy summer day; sunlight squeezed through the trees, lady joggers jogged by with breasts that did not move. In a clearing there was dozens of pigeons gurgling to each other. Along came a dalmatian, long-legged and goofy, bounding between the birds in that goofy dalmatian way. The pigeons just ignored him.

Naturally the caption came to mind first, "Dog Among The Pigeons". Ah ha ha, you're so funny, you, I said to me. Finally I remembered that I hadn't taken the bloody picture yet. But by the time I wrestled with my backpack and got the camera fired up, the dog streaked away in pursuit of a poodle.

Then a little kid barrelled into the frame and sent the pigeons reeling. He was blonde and annoying and had spotted a squirrel. The squirrel spotted the kid. The kid prowled around the base of the tree, grubby fists outstretched. The squirrel scrambled, but instead of going straight up the tree, it ran around and around the trunk in a spiral, and the kid followed, around and around. And so began a ridiculous chase that begged to be accompanied by zany music, like Benny Hill. It would have made a great photo, but I turned around and walked away.

Maybe the squirrel jumped on the boy's sandy head, cracked it open with an acorn and gorged on the contents. But knowing me, cursed with the reflexes of a 90-year-old on a porch, I would have missed the shot for sure.

Sweet relief...

More T in the Park photos here!

"Do you know what I love," she says to him dreamily, their limbs all tangled on the back seat of the bus, "I love that feeling when you fill a whole notebook with stories or shopping lists, and then you flick through the pages over and over... you can hear the ink crackling...

"So what do you love?"

"Hmmm." He thinks for a long while. "You know when you get a big spot on your face, right. All day you're just busting to pop it but you know it's not the right time. So you wait and wait and let it get to that boiling point. Then you finally squeeze and that's what I love, that little rush you get when it just whooshes out so perfectly and neatly."

"You fucking make me sick!" she sqwarks. She removes her leg from over his leg and his arm from under her arm. She picks up the ridiculous little handbag and scrunches over beside the window.

It was bound to be a great day, you could just sniff it in the air. The beer, the sweat, the sun, the music, and that was just on the bus ride. The guy behind us slurped and burped his way through another bottle, chanting "T in the Park! T in the Park! T in the Park!". Another one cheerfully 'sang' the entire catalogue of Nokia ring tones as he blew smoke in his girlfriend's face. Halfway the bus stopped and a dozen people stumbled outside for relief, dropping pants or lifting kilts or squatting in the heather.

After 90 minutes queuing under a cloudless sky, we were in. We wandered around the various tents and stages, watching a few bands that we were clueless about. Soon we were at the top of the hill overlooking the Main Stage, eating ice creams and giggling at The Proclaimers. The familiar dorky haircuts and dorky glasses were accompanied by radioactive red faces from the afternoon sun. It was bit breezy and everyone was complaining about the poor sound, but it was still fantastic hearing thousands of drunken Scots belting out 500 Miles in those sexy accents.

We shuffled down the hill to snooze through The Cardigans, pondering our next move. By the end of their set we were quite close to the front of the stage, and the crowd was building behind us. It was time to make the big decision -- do we move and get to the Super Furries and The Datsuns and so forth, or do we settle in for the night?

It was over three hours until REM were on, I wasn't sure if my notoriously thimble-sized bladder would hold out that long. But being from Australia, I reasoned this could be my only chance to see REM ever, let alone so bloody close-up. As I said to Rhi, "REM could die tomorrow. We must stay!"

Moments later Idlewild were on. I admit I know nothing about them, and didn't hear a note, because the crazy crowd sang every word, loudly and drunkenly. It was fantastic. And violent and insane. I felt so very old, everyone around me surely needed a note from their mum to attend. With sprays of acne on their chins and beer on their breath, they jumped and jumped and jumped, so I jumped and jumped and jumped too, having the time of my life, but all the while waiting to be plucked out of the crowd and carted back to the nursing home. One guy who couldn't have been more than 17 kept putting his arm around me and singing in my ear, then sneaked his hand down the back of my jeans.

"Oh! I'm so sorry lady," he said to my bewildered expression, "I'm just a wee bit sloshed."

"No worries," I replied, before muttering to myself, "It's okay! REM could die tomorrow!"

Next up was The Flaming Lips. A last minute call-up to the Main Stage after Jack White broke his finger last week, they instantly charmed the crowd. The usual array of dancing furry animals were clad in red and white garb a la The White Stripes. Then in swooped Wayne Coyne in a red cape, launching into a nice and dirty cover of Seven Nation Army, growling into a megaphone with giant balloons and confetti flying all over the shop. It was an hilarious start to an unforgettable set. There were yetis and nun puppets and fake blood and Peter Buck and robots and a song called Thank You Jack White For The Fibre-Optic Jesus That You Gave Me.

By now it was 8.30 PM, another two-and-a-half hours until it would all be over. We were pushed even further forward, so tight you had to stand on tiptoes to get a gulp of the breeze. But we decided it would be better to dehydrate rather than to drink up and be forced to give up this spot for a trip to a skanky Port-a-loo. Onward brave little bladders!

I naively thought that the REM crowd would be more sedate than Idlewild, but as soon as Michael Stipe skipped onto the stage, the shoving and kicking and mad crush started. Oh he was amazing, charisma dripping from every pore, it was impossible to take your eyes from him. I don't know how it sounded way up the back, but down there it was wild and beautiful. My shoelaces got shredded, a bottle of Fanta exploded over my hair, a topless woman almost fell on Rhi's head. During The One I Love Stipey jumped off the stage to press the flesh and of course there was another frenzied surge forward. I turned into a pathetic squealy fan-girly mess and came yay-close to touching his hand, but instead grabbed the pointy ear of the guy in the front row wearing a Batman suit. "Hey! Doooon't touch the earrrrrs!" he shouted back.

REM played a delicious 100 minute blend of old and new tunes. The long arm of the TV camera swept over us periodically, everyone jumped and flung their hands with even more vigour. On the screen it just looked like one big swirl of deleriously happy faces, no hint at all of the insane stomping and vomiting and groping and passing-out going on below the surface.

The day ended at 2AM with a frenzied dash for the bathrooms when we finally got home. And then, sleep, followed by counting of bruises.

Bloody brilliant :-)

It is ridiculous that I have been hired as the Personal Assistant. He is having to remind me to remind him to go the meetings. Asking me to organise your working day is about as logical as asking Elizabeth Taylor how to fix your crappy marriage.

I have newfound respect for the cool efficiency of secretaries and PAs. Meanwhile, I've stabbed myself three times with the stapler, written on the whiteboard with permanent marker, and cannot grasp the concept of folding letters so the address shows up in the window envelope. How can I organise someone else when I can't even organise myself? Where's my bloody PA? It would be nice to have the little secretary there every morning, handing me some toast and a glass of orange juice. Time to get out of bed, ma'am. Here are your messages. Here are your pants. You have three minutes to get to the bus stop.

Now I am somebody's secretary for two and a half weeks. Today I was reunited with my old friend, the Staple Remover. Then I got acquainted with an industrial-sized Shredding Machine, desiccating some Important Documents. The machine was covered in hilarious warning labels - apparently it is a bad idea to dangle your necktie and/or Rapunzel locks over these fearsome jaws of death.

In this office the desks are sandwiched together, so it's easy to spot who is reading a novel, who is on the phone to his wife, and who has his index finger wedged firmly up his nostril yet again. Are you looking for buried treasure? Must you dig so vigorously?

I took my lunch outside and found a nice spot under a tree, where a strange fluffy bird peered down at my salad. His monotonous chirp sounded precisely like the shooting noise in Space Invaders. Which was music to my ears, so long as he agreed not to drop a bomb on my head.

The sky was heavy and glowering, the wind slightly bitey. I must be getting used to this climate, because I found myself thinking, "Mmm, sure is warm today!". Back in Australia, you'd have said it was miserable, perfect for chucking a sickie and curling up on the couch with Oprah and a jar of Nutella.

It is remarkable how The Mothership is able to annoy us, even from this incredible distance. We had all our mail redirected to her house, and she feels it is her duty to open our bank statements and credit card bills and provide insightful commentary. Why did you spent money there? Can you afford that? Have you got enough money left to eat? You better be eating vegetables!

Over the past few months I've been bombarded with nasty letters from Optus, insisting that I had not paid a phone bill that I insisted I had paid before I left Australia.

When letters from debt collectors arrived, we finally worked out what the problem was. I'd paid the bill via internet banking, and had selected "Optus" from the drop-down list of past payments. I did not realise that the list was linked to an old Optus account from a previous address. So basically I'd paid money to a dead account. So The Mothership goes on a mission to get things sorted:

Dear Shauna,
After several calls, have managed to sort out your "little" problem. All is fixed. Your Credit rating is still intact, so that's good news. So...always type in correct details - never do drop down when paying accounts!

Of course the smugness of her tone filled me with an irrational rage. So I fired back this snooty message:

Mother,
You didn't even bloody know what a drop-down menu was until I told you!!! So why don't you...

At this point, I had to save the message as a draft because I was at work. But instead of hitting save, I accidentally sent her a half-written email. To which came her infuriating reply:

dear shauna,
ah! this is your second "???" with technology....don't let it become a habit!
Hope your reception job goes well - you can do anything with all that background in KFC. Just let them keep "greasing" your palms...more holidays abroad...Greece? Ireland?
Anyway, must be off, the dog needs a run.
Love Mumsy

I've never known anyone that I so badly wished to simultaneously hug and smack down.

There's big trouble a-brewin' with my iBook, Harvey. Read on...

The Poo is into the Wimbledon final! This is good news for Australia, and particularly good news for fans of aesthetically-pleasing male tennis players.

He's got the tattoo, the dreamy long legs... if only he'd shave that annoying fluff off his chin. And let's not forget he has the best grunt in the game - it's a rather saucy uuuuhhhh that can really fire up ones imagination.

So tune in, Australia! Set your alarm clocks and support this little Aussie battler! Who cares if he lives in California?

Wimbledon haiku:

"Tim Henman to win"?
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Ha ha ha ha ha

UPDATE:  Oh Poo. My wee heart is broken! But you'll be back! We love you! And well done, Federer. He's crying! Oh don't you want to cuddle him? I love an emotional winner!

People over here always ask about the funny "creatures" and "wee beasties" from Australia. Where to begin? There were possums holding running races in our roof each night, kamikaze magpies, lambs who followed us to school one day, spiders in the shower, and a big brown snake curled up on the front doormat as I was about to step outside one summer morning.

And of course there were mice. One day the vacuum cleaner died, so we brought in the "spare" from the garage. We switched it on and a dozen mice shot out of the hose, a wheeling squealing blur of tiny tails and feet. The Mothership hollered, "Secure all exits!" and we ran around uselessly with rolled-up newspapers.

There were further dangers lurking in the garage. We had a huge metal garbage bin filled with dry dog food. Once I noticed the lid was ajar, so I went over to investigate. The bin began to rattle and growl. Inside was Agro, the most tempremental of our sheepdogs, his scrawny body curled around the circumfrence. Clearly he did not want to share with his colleagues. In the end Rhi and I had to lift him out of there with some golf clubs, all snarling and coated in red dog food dust.

Last week I was receptionist at possibly the world's busiest recruitment agency. Reception is a dirty bitch. You can't swear when you hang up the phone, and you have to actually do you hair in the morning, you must smile and be polite, you can't nick off to the bathrooms for a nap without anyone noticing.

All day long the "candidates" traipse in, all scrubbed and awkward in their suits, CV tucked under their arm. They look so full of hope, or so painfully desperate, not knowing their handiwork will most likely be transferred to the cobwebbed place where CVs go to die.

Of course, there are some grubby little buggers that don't deserve a job. If you can't be bothered to bathe or chisel the crumbs and cat-hairs off your pants, then I can't help you. But for the most part I'm extremely sympathetic, knowing I'll be in their boat at the end of the week. And some people try so hard that you want to give them a big cuddle. Like the sweet old guy who just got made redundant after 45 years, or the apologetic middle aged woman returning to work and confessing that she's scared of computers.

One guy came in with smouldering looks, thick Spanish accent and three years experience fixing vending machines. I perused his CV. Interests: extreme sports, reading, salsa dancing. "We're actually only looking for office staff," I explained sadly. But I've got a job for YOU, baby... oh yes.

Armed with an incredible three days experience as a recruitment receptionist, I was snapped up by different agency this week. This place is mercifully quieter. I sit at my desk with a little security television beside me, watching the world outside. It's been raining, and I can see the windscreen wipers on the cars, people wrestling with their umbrellas or picking their undies out of their arse cracks.

There's three different businesses in this building, so there's three different entry buttons outside for visitors to press. So I sit here watching them squint at the nameplates, hoping they don't press my button. Please don't press my button, I silently urge them. Please. In much the same way I glare at the phone and will it not to ring. Why? Because every bloody time I can't understand who they're asking for or what they want. These accents have me stumped. I ask them to repeat it, but it's all Blah Blah Blahdy McBlah to me.

"Archie Jones on line two for you!" I trilled to the manager this morning, only to find out later it was actually her Aunty Joan. People should just send e-mails, or write letters, or send good old fashioned smoke signals, it would really be much more convenient for me.