Sydney

The seats in our office are covered in a cling-wrap like plastic.  When I first saw them, I thought it was the wrapping because they looked new.  Lucky I didn't tear it off.

I have since learned that it is common practice for some Indonesians to wrap their new furnishings in this thick clear cling wrap-like substance so they stay looking new.  It's unsurprising really cos stuff gets dirty here pretty quickly.  Or maybe my apartment has just because I am a bit of a sloth.

Anyway, the cling wrapped chairs mean that, when you wear a skirt or dress, the backs of your thighs stick to the chair and it's kind of sweaty and gross.

It reminds me of the way your butt would stick to the seats of the bus on dusty bush school excursions in the middle of summer.  You would be stuck there on the bus, literally, three to a seat designed for two at my povvo public school, to go on some sort of unenlightening educational adventure in the scorching heat, when all you really wanted was an icecream and to go home early.

The only thing I remember about most of those excursions is the uncomfortable heat.

Or, the sticky seats remind me of going to the beach in Sydney when you unfortunately end up on one of the old STA buses with the plastic seats and no air conditioning.  This often seemed to happen on the bus route between Bondi and Bondi Junction.

Your own sweat only added to the salt water dripped on the seats by people returning from the beach… and other people's sweat.  Eww. The windows would never open enough for you to breath adequately, and you would be bumped up against by American tourists carrying surfboards that I highly doubt most of them knew how to use.  Once I sat next to a Japanese tourist on the route, who started readying herself for the intense surf on the bus by donning a swimming cap and goggles.  It was like she thought the bus would stop at Bondi and everyone would just get tipped straight in to the ocean right then and there, with no time to prepare.  The bus ride back was always worse, because there was no reprieve, like going for a swim, at the end of that journey, and you usually had that feeling of being covered in sand.

But yes, in short, plastic covered furniture may be practical, but it's not usually comfortable.  Imagine making out on a plastic covered couch or something.  Ick.

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So, I'm sitting at home, completely organised (I believe so anyway), waiting for an appropriate time to call a cab to the airport and twiddling my thumbs.

It's been a crazy few weeks getting to this point, but crazy is also exciting and I'm very excited about what awaits me in Jakarta.

I've had some lovely farewells over the last few days… but farewells are hard so I've preferred to take the "see you later approach".  A boozy night last Saturday dancing to Britpop, a boozy night on Thursday with my Village Voice work family (ex-work now), breakfast with my brother and uncle this morning, lunch with the gorgeous Soph (mmm pancakes… took these pics of the city on the ferry home) and dinner with my posse of hot mammas at a Mexican restaurant where the sangria and margaritas were flowing.  As well as many a text message from beautiful people wishing me well.

Leaving makes you feel so lucky.  Not only are you lucky to be going on to new and exciting opportunities, you also realise just how lucky you are to have so many amazing people in your life who are hard to leave behind.  People who encourage you to be yourself, people who support you chasing your dreams, people who give you embarassing nicknames like "Trashlee" and "Pashlee", people who have bankrolled a fair few of your adventures (hi mum and dad…) and people who are just damn fun to be around and who you know will always be friends no matter what far flung place you decide to relocate to.

So I feel very lucky today.  I don't carry a good luck charm with me when I go travelling because, firstly I'm not a superstisous nutbag, and secondly, who couldn't be lucky with all of you in my heart?

Love you all xxx

Enough mush, I have a plane to catch.

(Taken on my new point and shoot that my beautiful work people got me.  No, the scissors aren't going in the hand luggage.  Yes, expecting to be slugged with huge excess baggage fees. Blurry because I turned off the flash and it was too dark.  But the camera is amazing!)

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Pack, buy things, pack, unpack, reconsider, repack, buy things, find no room for them in case, unpack, reconsider, repack, dump stuff at Vinnies, have an unsensibly boozy farewell without farewelling anyone for fear of emotional overwhelm, turn need to replace car headlight and a broken Ikea plate into emotional vessel for overwhelming sense of loss and joy and excitement and fear and stress, stress some more, write stories for work, pack up desk at work, fill in wanky corporate forms about whether my experience with the company was positive or negative, email contacts, finish work, get a bit sad in the car home on last day of work, run more errands, pack, start cleaning room, unpack, reconsider, repack.

Get a bit sad.

DENIAL DENIAL DENIAL.

Get a bit excited.

Realise what needs to be done today.

SWEAR WORDS SWEAR WORDS SWEAR WORDS.

It's only two more sleeps until I am a resident ofJakarta.

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It's all been a bit of a flurry. I've unexpectedly landed a job in Jakarta on a new English language paper starting up there. I am very excited, but madly trying to get organised because I start there in just a few weeks. So I need to pawn off my Ikea furniture and "catch up" with everyone as well as buy things I probably don't need to buy here but will feel unsecure not having over there. There's a million things to organise.

But for you, dear reader, it means the blog is probably about to get much more interesting. Less Australian Idol commentary, more humorous stories about how my lack of Indonesian language skills has got me into trouble yet again. Less observations on D-grade Australian celebutards, more reflective commentary on the comings and goings of Jakarta life.

But I don't think the blog will see much love in the next few weeks, so just be patient. There will be good stuff coming, I promise!

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Our paper recently moved into a different office (well, half our paper, but that's a long unfunny story) and you need a security pass to access the building.

That in itself is pretty unextraordinary for most offices these days.  It's hardly surprising that the secrets of community newspapers need to be fiercely protected.  But I often wonder, if we didn't have passes, if people would just wander in off the street and start doing our job without being paid. I'm often tempted in cafes to do that when I have been waiting too long for a coffee.

However, I realised this evening (after somehow leaving my pass at home… it's not as if it's something you take out of your bag to use once you have left the office, I don't know how it ended up on my dresser), that you also need your pass to get out of the office.  It's very cruel and difficult when you happen to be one of the last people still tied to your keyboard at 6.30pm to discover that you can't actually leave work.

The only option is to greatly annoy another unpaid-overtime-working-desk-monkey, get them to walk all the way to the exit and swipe their pass so you can leave.  It's especially awkward when you don't know any of the people in the office.  And I imagine it's not best practice in case of a fire or other emergency to trap your workers inside the office.

But I think maybe the whole "swipe and leave" system is designed to shame people into just staying in the office overnight to keep turning the grinding wheel of capitalism rather than dragging some sullen office inmate away from watching YouTube clips of people harming themselves to open the door.

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