Six Energy Drinks! Is that all?

The world’s most powerful leaders now communicate like Year 8 boys fighting near the bike shed.

“I’ll bomb you.”
“No, I’ll bomb YOU.”
“We’ve got bigger missiles.”
“Well WE don’t care.”

Honestly, watching the US and Iran carry on lately feels less like international diplomacy and more like two kids squaring up behind the portable classrooms while everyone else nervously backs away holding a juice box.

Meanwhile the rest of the planet is sitting there thinking, “Could you idiots maybe calm down before petrol hits twenty dollars a litre and the world catches fire?”

Every statement sounds like it was written by a bloke pacing around after six energy drinks. Every response sounds like someone yelling, “Say it to my face then!”

And of course the media treats it like the world’s most expensive reality show. Dramatic music. Red flashing graphics. “WAR IMMINENT.” Then twelve hours later: “Peace talks progressing.” Then five minutes later: “Massive retaliation possible.” Pick a lane.  

The frightening part is that these aren’t children in a schoolyard. These are grown adults with armies, missiles, oil routes, and the ability to accidentally ruin the global economy before breakfast.  

And still they posture. Threats. Ultimatums. Chest-beating. Public tantrums dressed up as “strategy.”

At this point, diplomacy seems to consist entirely of:

1. Threaten war.
2. Deny threatening war.
3. Go on television.
4. Repeat.

The whole thing feels less like leadership and more like ego with nuclear capability.

The world doesn’t need alpha males with fighter jets. It needs one adult in the room saying, “Right. Everyone sit down and stop acting like dickheads.”

Ouch! Everything Hurts!!

Yesterday I fell off the back porch like an elderly magpie trying to escape a wheelie bin.

One minute I was walking outside like a perfectly capable adult. The next? Gravity stepped in like an unpaid intern desperate to contribute. Down I went. Straight onto the ground with all the elegance of a dropped fridge.

Everything hurts.

Not in a dramatic “take me to hospital immediately” way. More in a “why does my elbow hurt when I blink?” kind of way. I’ve discovered muscles I didn’t even know existed. Even my hair feels bruised.

The worst part is the delay. You hit the ground and for three seconds you lie there thinking, “Maybe I’m fine.” Then your body starts sending official complaints to management one by one.

Knee? Ruined.
Hip? Furious.
Back? Filing paperwork.
Pride? Dead at the scene.

And so the first five minutes, I lied there and howled. I wanted to say to the Squeeze just cover me in dirt and leave me here!

And of course nobody falls normally anymore. There’s always some ridiculous flailing involved. I apparently attempted interpretive dance on the way down. If there’d been security footage, it would already be online with circus music behind it.

The Squeeze did that thing people do where they try not to laugh while also asking if you’re okay. Which somehow makes it worse. Don’t smirk at me while I’m folded into the garden like broken patio furniture.

Anyway, today I’m moving around the house like a haunted Victorian woman with a spinal condition. Every time I stand up, I make a noise that sounds like an old wooden ship.  But I have to move! There is so much to be done...

Aging is honestly just your body becoming increasingly committed to slapstick comedy.

I haven't even been through the paper yet which is when the real comedy begins!

Group Therapy…

There is something uniquely Australian about dragging yourself to the football in weather that can’t decide whether it wants to freeze you to death or cook you alive. And yet there we all were, marching toward the stadium to watch Geelong Cats take on Sydney Swans like it was some kind of religious pilgrimage.

The crowd was already buzzing before the first bounce. Half the people looked emotionally stable. The other half were Geelong supporters screaming about holding the ball before the players had even run out. Football really is the only place where grown adults can lose their minds over a bloke named Gary (we still miss Gary senior, let alone junior!) 

We squeezed into our seats carrying enough food to survive a minor apocalypse. Meat pies. Chips. Drinks. The kind of dinner that says, “Cardiologists hate this one simple trick.”

The Squeeze immediately became an elite-level coach from Row P.

“MOVE IT!”
“KICK IT!”
“WHAT WAS THAT?!” 

 As though Chris Scott might suddenly stop the game, look into the crowd and yell, “Hang on everyone, Carol’s husband has a point.”

The game itself was chaos. One minute Geelong looked unstoppable. The next Sydney came charging back and the entire stadium developed collective high blood pressure. Every near mark caused fifty thousand people to inhale at once like a giant asthma attack.

And the umpiring. Dear God. AFL fans don’t actually attend football to enjoy the sport. They attend to passionately boo men in fluorescent clothing for three straight hours. Some bloke behind us spent the entire night explaining the rules incorrectly at full volume to his girlfriend, who looked like she was reconsidering every life decision that led her there.

By the final quarter everyone around us had emotionally deteriorated. Voices were gone. Nerves shot. Beer prices criminal. Yet somehow there’s nowhere else Australians would rather be than freezing in a stadium screaming “BALLLLLL” at strangers.

And honestly? Walking out afterwards with thousands of other exhausted supporters, still arguing about free kicks and bad decisions like any of us actually know what we’re talking about, is part of the fun.

The scores; The Cats (Geelong) won; we were 107 to Sydney 80’

Football in Australia isn’t just sport. It’s group therapy with scarves.

Back To Reality

Home again. Back to reality. Back to washing mountains, mystery smells in suitcases, and wondering why we thought buying extra clothes meant we’d somehow avoid laundry. We wouldn’t. We never do.

The house looked offended we’d left. Dust everywhere. Benches needing wiping. Plants hanging on by a thread. And me? Absolutely buggered. Holiday adrenaline has officially worn off and I’m operating somewhere between “functioning adult” and “woman found asleep holding a sandwich.”

Still… it’s my birthday today.

So despite the chaos, the Squeeze is taking me out for dinner tonight which honestly feels less like a celebration and more like a rescue mission. If I make it through the entrée without my head slowly lowering toward the soup bowl, I’ll consider it a success.

Travel is funny like that. You spend weeks wandering around eating, drinking, laughing, buying things you definitely didn’t need… then you come home and immediately get attacked by three suitcases, seventeen loads of washing, and the crushing reality that nobody else cleaned the house while you were away. Rude, honestly.

But it’s good to be home too. Exhausted, slightly sunburnt, poorer than when we left, but home.

Sheez, I need to find enough energy to put real pants on for dinner. Pray for the Squeeze if I start snoring into the bread rolls.

Ok; We Are Off the Plane, But Buggered

Not much to see here but tomorrow, when I've got my brain back (and my new computer working...) we will see! Suffice to say we made it home in one piece, exhausted - but alive!