Tuesday 3rd March 09 – Byron Bay

My feet are falling apart. Like a bad haircut, living a shoeless life has a certain faze one must go thru before obtaining a smooth, Mouwri like unfoot area. Mine feel like someone has krept in my room in the night with a rusty cheese grater, and mistaken my poor, unloved soles, for a wedge of parmesan.
I also have a feeling that I may be the illusive verooka culprit whom I have heard whispers about around camp, as I laugh in the face of those who don thongs (flip flops) to take a shower.
You have to admit that the image of a young, leggy, yoga toned, barefooted beauty, skipping gaily to take her mourning douche, is somewhat shattered when you bring a pair of grotesque, rubber shoes that make the most teeth grinding noise into the picture, and no matter how hard you try, you wont be skipping anywhere but into the nearest ditch.
I sit here with one ear phone in, plugged into my dear Topoll waiting for the joyous noise that means my beloved boy has come on line to have a good ol Skype. Note, this is the closest form of affection I have had in 3 weeks so is some what exciting to one cooped up with 24 females, 24 hours a day.
But lo, it seems he has more exciting plans as our ‘date’ was scheduled for 8pm and it is now 8.25.
I fear I have been stood up.
So now I will leave my slightly sandy, ant filled cabin, to dart across the garden brandishing my torch, the only weapon I have to protect against the snakes, frogs and wilder beasts, to meet my dear friend Becky to practice our yoga for tomorrows assessment where I will be told if I am ‘competent’ or ‘not yet competent’.
I think I know the answer already.
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