Top Gun

Recently I was paid a visit from a super hero.

It was not the first time I had crossed paths with this stunning creature who ignites the skies. I had met him before and we had come together a few months after that, quite randomly as these things go.

A F18 Fighter Pilot, the super hero calls himself a free spirit - a mad keen surfer who chases the waves in Micronesia and travels the world for work. With his intrepid lifestyle, it's a surprise I met him at all. I've hardly moved from this town in two years and when I do it's to visit friends and family in Adelaide or Sydney.

But life works like that if you let it. Super hero and I met through a mutual friend. The more people you reach out to... the more introductions find their way.

In the short time of our acquaintance - super hero turned my humdrum existence on its head. He inadvertently reminded me life can be an adventure and with the right people on board, a whole lot of fun.

Super hero's long gone, no doubt saving other mere mortals like me from the mundanities of everyday life. He said to think of him when I see jets flying overhead. But F18 fighter jets don't often pass this way. Nor do people like him. But for the brief moment they do, their super powers keep us fully charged.

Learning from Marilyn, it could all end today

I'm a huge Marilyn Monroe fan - I can't remember when my fascination began, but it's been years and years and years. So many years that I am now the age Marilyn was when she died. I'm 36 and two months old. Marilyn Monroe was 36 and two months old (01-6-26 to 05-8-62).

It's made me think about my life and her life - and how one so short in relative terms can have so much impact. At the same age, I find this inspiring. I have also thought how lucky I am to have escaped what Marilyn didn't. World and media focus, mental illness and drugs.

It's also made me consider what comes next.

At present for me life is in limbo. I am living in Melbourne - but don't particularly want to be here any longer - so I've made steps to move on. I have entered the Green Card Lottery and find out next year (May 2011) if I become a US citizen. My father, slightly bemused by this prospect, took it on himself to do some research into my chances for success and reported back "I think you can forget it." He read that millions applied last year and just over 1000 Australians won - not sure which stats he pulled from, but the bottom line is; unlikely. I've also met someone who has entered it for the past five years - so he's living proof, the odds are stacked against us!

I have a beautiful pet dog who I have written about here before. He's 16.5 years old - already well past average life expectancy. I had a boyfriend with the promise of setting up home and having kids - but he chose to exit stage left. So now I'm in between boyfriends and plodding the single trail - wondering if I will ever have children?

I was working in an office throughout my 20s and early 30s, but now, I'm at home consulting on my own - driven by my desire to be with Walt the dog and to determine my own pace - in life and work.

Many things feel in between. But it ain't bad overall. I'm proud to be strong enough not to be led too much by keeping up with the Jones' and feeling as though I should be doing what society says I should be doing.

In God's Waiting Room

I have been meaning to write some more about my 16 year old dog while he's still with me, because I'm feeling he's slipping away each day bit by bit.

My dog, Walter, is a handsome Shetland Sheepdog (think smaller version of Lassie) who as a puppy my mum brought back from Adelaide (to Melbourne) with her on a trip with dad. We'd lost mum's beloved German Shepherd about a year before quite unexpectantly and through family friends had been introduced to a dog breeder in Adelaide - which inevitably brought us Walter.

Meanwhile during this time I was at uni and had developed a mad crush on an Arts student called Walter. He was heavenly looking - everyone saw it - and for a long time my friend Linda and me called this stallion 'Wild One'. It would be "Oh, there's Wild One" and I'd have to run off and eat a chocolate Magnum to help fill the void of burning desire...!

Wild One wore black; black jeans, black tees and being of Euro/Asian descent he had gorgeous brown tinged skin, black hair and deep brown eyes. I later came to learn his name - Walter - and like any lovestruck teenager brimming with thoughts of first love I did nothing at home but rant onto my mother about Walter this and Walter that.

As a bit of a joke, my mother called the new puppy - Walter. And to add further mirth, she called him Walter Warwick, as I'd dated a Warwick not long before.

While Walter the dog's namesake never returned my lustful affections - remaining the great unrequited love of my life - he did once say to me when I ran into him at a cafe years later: "Yeah, I heard you named your dog after me..."

Walter the dog, had become what Walter the man never could - the love of my life.

Today, it's just me and Walt, and I've been honouring this relationship by working from home to be with him through the golden years.

Walter is a most special dog.

I lost my mother to cancer 14 years ago - Walt was two.

He has seen through every significant love in my life and relished having a new 'alpha' male about the place during this time. He's seen the relationships fail, mourned their loss and been a darn fine comfort to me in trying to make sense of it all. Walter has been a staunch support. He's seen me cry more than anyone - hovering to let me know he's there - watching. In these times, he's stuck to me like glue. And when things are going ok - he's off doing his own thing - usually resting - but often with one eye watching.

We've been through so much in the past 16 years - my mother's passing, getting another dog (free to good home) as a companion, only for Maggie Charly (cross Lab/German Short Hair pointer) to turn on Walt and gnash him so badly that with the recommendation of a dog behaviouralist "I have grave concerns for Walter's welfare" I had to have Maggie Charly put down at age eight (Walt was 12 at the time).

At 10 Walter became the "miracle survivor" of tick paralysis - I had been away and my boyfriend at the time didn't notice anything wrong (he hadn't been around to notice) but fortunately when he did see Walt, and intuitively suspected as a doctor, something was very wrong. I'll never forget leaving what I thought was a healthy pet one day to hear the voice of the vet on the other end of the line saying "50/50" by chance of Walt making it through the next.

In his old age, he's grown mostly deaf and has episodes of dementia - he ended up in Albert Park Lake in Melbourne one evening on a walk wandering across the path and falling into the water. A passing jogger yelled to me as I searched for Walt "Is that your dog swimming in the lake?".

We've lived in Melbourne, Darwn and Sydney together and he's travelled with me to Canberra, Adelaide, Mount Gambier, the Mornington Peninsula and Beechworth (Ned Kelly country) in Victoria. This dog, you could say, has lived a cat's life (nine lives).

We're currently in Sydney - having endured an 11 hour car trip from Melbourne to stay a fortnight in a beautiful home on the harbour - wide open spaces, just me and Walt.

I watch him laying across from me, resting so quietly that I'll often spy his rib cage for signs of breath. I bless every day he's here to share in my life.

Small talk turns deep with strangers

I've read about what I'm going to write about here on at least one other occasion. A female columnist wrote about connecting with strangers not so long ago in the Sunday Age's 'Sunday Life' publication, and I've bought Beth Orton's CD "Comfort of Strangers" based on the same premise. The other night, I saw a play, "Intimacy", part of the Melbourne International Arts Festival, which was devised around the concept of the intimacy that can develop in conversations with strangers.

My friend, Nicole, works at the play's theatre company and she will often organise tickets for me to see the season's works. By now Nicole has an accurate cursor of what I like and don't like in my theatre productions. And more often than not, she knows to put my bum on the seat of the more traditional works. I like a story and I like that story to encompass the full gamut of human emotion. I want my plays to be meaningful. A Leo star sign; we gravitate towards drama.

On Friday night Nicole offered me a ticket to Intimacy - a play based on the principal character's real life experiences of meeting random people - ie strangers -and asking them if they were open to conversation. The play is a result of those who agreed to partake and the essence of what was said during that time.

Nicole conceded Intimacy wasn't the type of theatre she would usually recommend for me but in her own words: "there's something so subtle and honest about(it)and I thought you'd appreciate that". Once again, her street smarts to my tastes hit the mark.

The reason Intimacy worked so well for me is that it could have been me in that play. The lead character takes himself out on his neighbourhood street one Friday night in thriving St Kilda and asks passers by if they are up for a chat. He's on his own for the night and just feels like talking. He knows he could call a friend, even go out with a friend, but tonight, he seeks something new. A connection of a different kind.

And so we are led through the play with four different characters he meets and in each exchange the audience sees a snapshot of what these people are about.

The day after seeing Intimacy I called Nicole to debrief. We both had a chuckle about some of the awkward pauses in the play that are typical between strangers coming together. For example, once finished talking about one subject, it's more than likely you'll hit a standstill as you have no historical context to the person you've just met, until eventually one of you says something and off the conversation rolls via its new tangent.

No less than an hour after hanging up from Nicole I experienced my own Intimacy moment. Another of many I've experienced especially as I've gotten older - or perhaps more to the point, my dog has gotten older - as he walks a snail's pace and I wait on - a prime target for passing people inclined to stop and chat.

The last two connections I had with strangers unravelled a tremendous depth of personal information - something that only a good friend or family member would usually be privy to.

Both these incidents were triggered by the women commenting on Walt's feeble gait and how fragile he is. They both asked "how old?" And on both occasions, entering into a conversation about Walter soon evolves into a conversation about you and the other person accompanied by general life observations.

The woman yesterday revealed she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and the lack of bedside manner of the surgeon assigned to her had aggravated her to the point she gave him the bird as we call it colloquially - the middle finger - and said "fuck you" after he was done realing off the standard steps of cancer treatment. It was clear from the scenario she painted that the "Mister" surgeon had treated her not as a human being, but as a number. The message in her recalling this tale was "don't let others tell you what you must do (in this context, about Walt the old dog and when it comes to letting him go). You decide."

The other exchange I had recently that left its footprint was during one of my regular visits to the local fruit and veg market.

The woman was elderly, I'm guessing Russian by her accent, who like yesterday's introduction, commented on Walt's old age, my old man (dog) had been slacking several paces behind me.

We only spoke for about 15 minutes but within this time shared tears! She told me how an old stray cat was the soul to her existence. She cared for her mother at home and the two of them derived so much joy from the once hapless moggie who had found its homecoming in their arms some years before. She had experienced intense heartbreak; her only son committed suicide and from memory, she was the one to find him.

So while not traditional theatre, Intimacy truly struck its chord for me. It's a play where those who take the time to 'stop and smell the roses' will feel their own chill of 'deja vue'.

Nice is the new black

I recently had the fortune to be in the company of two very great men. In the short time we had working together these two greats imprinted my heart with a memory stamp I will hold dear for some time.

The first, American film director, Tim Burton, and the second, the Director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Glenn D Lowry (Tim Burton photo above, Glenn D Lowry below).

In Melbourne, where I live, I don't often cross paths with people of this stature so when an old work buddy asked me what I was doing for the week Mr Burton was due in town to open Tim Burton: The Exhibition at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI), I cleared my diary and jumped at the chance.

You see, I've wanted to be an actress from the moment I knew what it meant to be one. Growing up, I thought actors never aged, that every time I saw the same film (and I would have seen Grease and The Wizard of Oz some 300 times), the director had to rally the actors all over again, and they would assemble to replay their parts. That of course was when I was little. I thought it was a wonderful way to cheat growing old.

I realised acting wasn't for me at 22. I could act, but I would not be able to rely on my acting skills alone - they weren't of the calibre that would see a legendary Hollywood career and having a size 14 figure, I realised I wouldn't be able to fall back on a model figure, unlike so many young actresses who began on the catwalk and moved to celluloid with one smoulder and unclipping of their bra strap.

So instead, I forged a career in PR with aspirations to one day work in the creative arts.

I've always loved being around people who are making a contribution and have made a difference to their vocation. That's why I've steered my career to include working with politicians and high-level business people. I've met and worked with the Prime Minister and many other Ministers at Federal and State level as well CEOs of Top 500 companies.

And so when Mr Burton came to Melbourne in June 2010 - I was psyched (along with the several journalists scheduled to meet Mr Burton).

Nonetheless, I am a pragmatic person and of course, those we put on pedestals rarely live up to their heights. But Mr Burton did - and then some. And so too, Mr Lowry - the Director of MoMA, MoMA the first exhibition space to host Tim Burton: The Exhibition. Apparently in season three of Gossip Girl one character (Jenny) turns to the other (Nate) and asks: “Do you want to go check out the Tim Burton exhibition at MoMA?” Classic. Art imitates life and vice versa.

Devoid of pretension, full of appreciation, graciousness and gentile - these men demonstrated to me that being top of their fields does not mean they escape their manners and common courtesy.

I suspect (particularly before the Global Financial Crisis), a lot of Wall Street bankers and corporate heavyweights practice their days just like this - treating people as necessary tools to use and abuse in the A to B pathway towards sating their own greed.

Both Mr Burton and Mr Lowry are powerful, rich and successful. The exemption is, and this is what impresses me, they are both extraordinarily NICE.

Mr Burton spoke to journalists about the importance of forging a connection with people, to tap into people on that emotional level, to relate to the everyday man.

This sentiment carries to his movies. Mr Burton shook my hand, looked me in the eye, smiled and greeted me with ease. On the job, he approached his numerous media interviews with humility and enormous generosity.

From all accounts media interviews are not Mr Burton's favourite thing but he revealed an intimate piece of his private life, for example answering one journalist's questions to do with “What I know about women” with candid charm.

“You could say our meeting was quite primal,” he said of Helena Bonham Carter whom he met on the set of his film Planet of the Apes.

As well: "It's better late than never..." for him and Helena to have children (Mr Burton was in his 50s when his son and daughter were born).

He talked about old girlfriends, meeting one, a German woman in London, and feeling an instant connection to her and his new city. Everything about the circumstance was foreign but to him, he felt like he'd come home. This experience appealed to him having grown up feeling like a foreigner in his own country.

He noted that no matter how successful one becomes in life, no matter what great things can occur, that if you have a predisposition to feel sad or lonely, a tendency to gravitate to the melancholy that it's in your DNA, and thus remains so. No amount of success or happiness will diminish that side of you.

Here I was sitting next to and listening to a man who has directed some of Hollywood's biggest names: Johnny Depp, Dianne Weist, Jack Nicholson, Sarah Jessica Parker, Glenn Close, Danny DeVito – the list goes on.

Mr Burton was so human and grounded. But I felt like I’d met an angel.

Glenn D Lowry is the Tim Burton of the art world - ie you don't come much more successful.

The day he was lined up to do three consecutive interviews on ABC Radio - Virginia Trioli, ABC Breakfast; Jon Faine, ABC Mornings and; Amanda Smith Art Works - Labor called a leadership spill and Julia Gillard was contesting Kevin Rudd for the role of Prime Minister.

Overturned by local and hard news, the first two interviews with Mr Lowry were cancelled. The grace with which he reacted to the last minute cancellations astounded me.

There was no drama, no tantrums, no: “Do you know who I am?” rants.

“It happens, I completely understand," Mr Lowry said, adding: “It's a good time to be in Australia. You see what happens when Mr Burton comes to town?” Magical.

Snoop dog

As a woman who fancied her career path to either take to the stage, or the pen (ie journalist), I'm one who likes to take an active interest in (almost inhabit) other people's lives - their thoughts and feelings - get the insights and know-how to what they're all about. A woman's sixth sense digs deep.

Don't throw stones at people in glass houses. I am renowned as an eternal foot in mouth girl, blunt, constantly offending or upsetting people, but it's been in surrounding myself with a wise and socially aware crowd, that I feel in my dirty 30s ;-) I'm finally coming around. I centre myself on peace (achievement with help in partnership from those aforementioned). While certainly flawed, I try to be well meaning in action and intention, and believe I'm getting there....almost.

An inheriently social person, in moments of solitude and perhaps in the name of nostalgia, I'll find myself....snooping.

Checking out facebook profiles, googling the internet for signs of 'where are they now?' - the people I've burned (or they've burned me), grown apart from, let go, broken up with or simply lost track of.

By prying into the ghosts of the past I am glimpsing a piece of what was to what is today - and it's quite intoxicating - detective like. With this folly, old friends or lovers, become yours again when their photo smiles back at you in albums posted and their voice is heard through wall post entries.

For weeks post a breakup I would intermittenly check the facebook profile of a society ex girlfriend of his - I liked to see her latest photos - check out what she was wearing, doing, observe through the privacy of my own home and safe screen divider, how her life was panning out post him. In my eyes, we were the road kill of a shared but defunct relationship with a fallen prince. With the dulls of heartache lifted, so has the spell of cyber courting her, he's gone and she no longer rates on my radar of concern....although I do someday think I would like to meet her in real life. There I go again. It shouldn't matter because when you move on from past loves so do you move on from the insecurity of having their ex-girlfriends live somewhere there in your psyche.

And just like ex loves, the ex girlfriends, broken friendships, and lost acquaintances are probably best left in the reality of the past not to be revisited -as tempting as it is with one click of the mouse.

Under our skin

If you will permit me to have a Carrie Bradshaw moment - I have been thinking of the beauty within pain. Pain of heartbreak that is.

Looking back at lost love it’s easy to slip into the romantic delusion that your heart belongs to your lost love and the fact it is no longer there, brings about a feeling of loss so profound the pain is palpable.

To be denied the connection you had with someone - a love and lust that can no longer feed in the physical realm - is to find yourself in a world of solitude, of aloneness that leaves us in a state that is nothing less than aching.

But interesting it is - this state of melancholy can also be tantalising, consuming and addictive. The state of mind that allows itself to be lost to and idealise the past is an escape from reality, the now, the present, where we are and where we need to journey.

It's the elixir of anaesthesia.

Sure our (now ex) boyfriends may have been the best thing since sliced bread but the universe paves its way in unforseen territories and if she forces us to part - it is essential we honour this and accept the inevitability our step is to build a new life sans Don Juan.

Find our own feet and tread the next gradient solo.

Until the future man of our dreams falls in our lap, it's our romantic connection to the nostalgia of the past that keeps lost loves at the forefront of our minds and in our present.

Ready made families

I've read that where we are in life is where we have chosen to be.

I've also subscribed to the words from the poem "Desiderata" by Max Ehrman ever since they came to my attention when a trader cited them in his weekly newsletter after the stock market crashed in 2007 (and my share portfolio with it).

"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

I've also taken solace in: "you never forget the ones you've loved" from the French film, Apres Vous, when missing the boys I've said goodbye.

When the chips are down, it's in these trinkets of wisdom that I'll often lean.

And then there's children.

I would love to be a mother and often beat myself up about not having children. But in reverting to my opening line, it has had to have been my choice.

My maternal instinct is there - the relationship is not.

The answer? Play surrogate.

Two friends of mine, both mothers with three, are employing me as their babysitter.

It has brought a whole new lease of life! I role play mum, and my friends take their breather. Win win.

I'm practicing motherhood.

I've been a pet owner for 16 years - ask any committed pet owner, they will confirm, the pet is our fur child.

But there's something to be said for being a part of your friend's family. You love your friends, you (usually) love their kids. And when six year old Willy says: "I love you Cazi", it makes me melt.

The Kevin Bacon Party

For a long time now my city has been renowned for its lack of available men seeking a long-term relationship with 30 something women. It seems most hetro guys have partnered up before they hit 35 and it's slim pickings for us girls left on the shelf.

Whatever the reason, there are a truckload of single Generation X women in this city and not enough guys for us to go around.

Enter...The Kevin Bacon Party!

I plan to host a targeted, singles evening for Generation X professionals with a penchant and means for the good life. To grab my single contenders' attention (and more importantly cajole them into attending), we will avoid the innuendo that people who go to such functions are 'desperate and dateless' (...there goes the working title "What Melbourne Man Drought? It's Raining Men!").

I have called my endeavour The Kevin Bacon Party where people will meet their match six degrees from Kevin Bacon and from eachother.

Most Generation Xers will remember the Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation game? Heck, the namesake created a charity (sixdegrees.org) based on this notoriety. I've workshopped the connections and here is one scenario:

We start with Kevin Bacon (1 degree), who has acted in A Few Good Men with Tom Cruise (2 degrees) who is married to Katie Holmes (3 degrees), who stars in Don't be Afraid of the Dark. I've shared a bottle of wine with the publicist for this movie (4degrees) who met Katie Holmes and I'm the party organiser (5 degrees) which brings its attendees six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon.

I know singles' parties are a dime a dozen. I've seen them regularly advertised by the dating site, RSVP, as well as the speed daters and even commercial radio stations (especially around Valentine's Day).

The difference I hope can be achieved with The Kevin Bacon Party is attendees a) will be quality and b) will be connected at least six degrees from someone else in the room. So it will be a party among friends of friends. Everyone likes to meet their new mate through a friend - it's a good, solid reference point.

My experience as a 35 year old woman is I've generally run out of puff to trawl the city bars on a Friday and Saturday night looking for new talent. I remember it working well in my 20s but that's also the catch - there's the age varient. I've moved on 10 years (cougar I'm not...yet).

Essentially, I'm not alone in my vintage for giving up the gas or being disillusioned that most guys who hang at these places are in their 20s. That doesn't mean us old farts are ready to turn from love. Oh, no. We're ripe for it. We just need the right place, people and connections to get us over the line.

If I start the ball rolling to lead the troops down the aisle - here's the current plan:

We go high-end, $150 per head. It's cocktail themed. Dress up; but guys won't have to worry about wearing a tux and girls can hold off on the gown (save this for your wedding day).

The venue is Comme, our champas is Moet. We engage local companies to donate products for door prizes. The event extends to men in Sydney, Canberra and Adelaide (it is a Melbourne man drought afterall) and any interstaters wishing to swoon our Melbourne girls are welcome.

Tickets are limited.

Sat 28 August 2010 from 8pm (block out the date!)

And last but not least - the event's success will be dependent on all of us. Please put your thinking caps on and nominate all single people you know who fit the bill. Help me spread the word about The Kevin Bacon Party and encourage single Generation X professionals to get in touch with me (carolinejamespublicrelations@gmail.com)

We particularly need men - so think hard who you know, work with, live next door to, do yoga class, say hi to at the footy or meet at the gastro pub. Think of it as helping our fellow mankind.

It is my mission to find the Generation X man or woman of your dreams!

Life gets in the way of a good run

I live close to two running tracks - one winds around a large, scenic lake and the other is a favourite among CBD and inner city joggers, locally referred to as 'the Tan'.

These running tracks have become my second home and I've been a consistent jogger for about four years now. Having said that, I got back into running before then, in my late 20s, spurred on by a bad breakup. I hit the treadmill to release pent up emotions and like Forrest Gump, "I just kept on going."

My thrice weekly effort averages 30 minutes a go (the Goldilocks 'just right' for me) and in this pursuit I'm rewarded with benefits.

I recall the Nike running scene in 'What Women Want' with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt:

"It's quiet, just the sound of her feet on asphalt. She likes to run alone. No pressure, no stress. This is the one place she can be herself. Look any way she wants, dress, think anyway she wants. No game playing, no rules."

Many runners hit the track at dawn but I prefer to run late afternoon (I've since read the body's core temperature is warmer between 4 - 7pm, presenting an optimal time for exercise). It's nature's call that surges me along after a day's work.

On the track my mind empties its daily junk and sweats the big and small stuff. With a few strides, I've entered the runner's zone.

Unfortunately, sometimes, life gets in the way of a good run.

Tonight the first hiccup in my running ritual came from a near miss with a cyclist. As I began my steady canter, I caught him in my peripheral vision hurtling towards me. This mind and body interruption was not to be my last. Ahead two women were engrossed in conversation and had failed to notice (or more likely just didn't care) that they'd taken up the full width of path by walking side by side. I veered off course to pass them. Along the track there were more walkers and runners, some with dogs skirting from one side to the other. Not to mention the rowers that needed avoiding as they carried their boats from the sheds to the water.

Then there's going to the Tan for a run. This comes with its own irks. There are traffic crossings, office workers not watching where they walk on the journey home (distracted by mobile phones). And once I've finally reached the track, I'll share it with the many corporate types going on company group runs as well as solo fitness fanatics whizzing past like a bolt out of the blue.

It's a jungle out there where only the fit will prevail. Lucky for me, fitness is part of the deal when you go for a run.

Inner city living with noisy children

Weren't the outer burbs built for the defactos and marrieds once baby made three? Not in my world.

I've been working from home for almost three years now and while I'm used to my opera loving (retired) neighbour blasting arias more often than Opera Australia can perform La Boheme, I don't think I'll ever get used to inner city brats using my street as a playground.

In my uber chic suburb there are several young families who have toddlers and primary school children. The kids delight in using the narrow, one-way streets as their own backyards. One can hardly blame them, in the packed like sardines world of inner city dwellings, there is hardly room for lawn.

Among us, particularly precocious parents block streets to set up cricket games as well as hog the local patch of park to kick a footy with their budding next generation Chris Judd. Unless passer bys are watching their own game, we are guaranteed to be road kill - of the 'hit by a football slash cricketball' kind.

While I hate to think that having children would boot me out of my choice of suburb, and know it is wry of me to begrudge the parents who choose to stay put after Baby Goo Gaa beds in...there is a part of me that resents them for sticking around.

Not to mention most of these people are loaded with high income cash, and thus have the luxury of inner city living while occupying a mansion. But more often than not, lack of inner city space does translate to compromise.

I guess it will remain a love hate relationship.

There are some neighbourhood children I would happily swap for a well-behaved pet, but others who are sweet and endearing. They wave and call hi as they zoom past on skateboards.

So perhaps ma and pa, it comes down to you. Live where you will and grow your family as you please, but next time the house youngster is screaming up a storm; can you do me one neighbourly favour? Send little Sammi Jo to the naughty corner and not onto my street.

Reality check

I have been watching an awful lot of reality TV on Foxtel. It's necessary for me working in public relations to be abreast of all the latest and greatest, even if part of the viewing time is dedicated to trash, trash and more trash.

They say you will never work a day if you love what you do and I concede that in living this credo, I must be a winner - I'm a sucker for couch time in the reality sphere and I can

purport a great percentage of this time to the name of research.

Warning - unless you have pay TV, the following names and shows may have no semblence at all to your recollection! But stay with me, there's plenty of reality TV on free-to-air too (read: ticket to mental health: 'why pay for a psychologist when we have Dr Phil?').

Gok Wan is my high street fashion and give me a quick pick me up in the ego stakes hero while old stalwarts Trinny and Susannah have long been making me watch what I don't wear...then there's the adorable like a bickering, married couple Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsopp from Location, Location, Location giving us a glimpse of London and its greater area's flats, apartments and houses. Oh, the joy I felt to learn that Phil is in Oz filming "Relocation: Phil Down Under" bringing him one Qantas flight closer to me.

Then there's the handsome and learned Dr Christian Jessen from Supersize vs Superskinny urging us to maintain a healthy weight using extreme shock tactics by showing us a very fat person compared with very thin...egged on by his sidekick, the kooky and entertaining, Anna Richardson. Who can forget the episode where Anna downed baby food as her main staple for a week as well as copied Beyonce in following the maple syrup and hot water diet?

Alot of reality TV participants have made an enduring career - think Kendra from The Girls of the Playboy mansion who left bunnyville for her own spin-off show and Giuliana and Bill Rancic (Giuliana from Entertainment Tonight and Bill from Trump's The Apprentice) keeping us glued perhaps more so by their good looks than their smug married antics.

In my opinion, the Brits and Yanks do reality best (exception - Michelle Bridges and Shannon Ponton from The Biggest Loser Australia - you rock) and among it all, I've learned how to eat, exercise, dress and date best....Patty Stanger aka "Millionare Matchmaker" where have all the millionaries gone? - your show has been off Arena too long!

In Foxtel land there is enough reality how to's to send Borders' self help section broke.

Like an Abba song I could go "on and on and on" but with a dose of reality, all good things must come to an end.

But to the non-pay TV subscribers I give you some reality tips to abide - never miss an episode of Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls on SBS TV Monday nights (for Pay TVers - he's also on Discovery Channel - we have double dip - whoa!). Bear has clocked up most of his survival skills from his time in the Armed Forces as well as learning from his late dad in the sentimental fashion of father shows son how it's done.

The daytime doyens - Dr Phil and Oprah are worth their weight in gold (obv Oprah's carrying a little more) and yes, The Biggest Loser Australia, while it's a spin off from the US & UK versions, provides cute little quips and affirmations deliverd in true Aussie twang to help boost self esteem and knock off the kilos.

I'm sure there will come a day when I say "enough is enough" and quality TV drama with real (no pun intended) actors takes precedence over my 15 minutes of fame lot, but you know what they say: life imitates art and vice versa. It's blurred. But doesn't have to be. US reality hit, Extreme Makeover's, laser correction surgery will have us boasting 20/20 vision in no time.

The Gym Class Cult

I attend the odd Body Pump classes at the local gym/swim club and the comment: "in life there are pumpers and non-pumpers" by a particularly ebullient instructor a few weeks ago, was no more apparent than in today's 9.20am class (when most people are working).

Comprised majority 40+ year olds, and mostly women, (albeit littered with a few graying men), these pump bunnies came five or 10 minutes earlier to set up - and catch up.

In the few minutes before the instructor had the tunes and iron pumping, some of the 'regulars' cordoned off and engaged in breezy chit chat (in the vein you'd expect to hear at a weekly Mother's Club).

As the class 'newbies' looked on (we had no gym bud to turn to) I began to liken the picture before me to a cult phenomenon. It's true, like attracts like and birds of a feather flock together. This class of happy body pumpers demonstrates our essential need to connect with those like us (pumpers as against non-pumpers).

Who the hell cares if some people's connection comes in chewing while burning the fat with practical strangers over dumb bells and lycra? For me it's fun and curious to watch, and while I strive to remain on team 'pumpers' for fitness sake - I'll be staying on the other side of my step board.