Some people like cryptic crosswords. Others grapple with 5×5x5 Rubik’s cubes (check out the speed cubing warning on the site). Me, I like to deceipher acronyms in real estate ads. The challenge of staring at letters until real estate marketing sprouts into my head, it keeps my mind sharp.

Solutions to latest Property Profile Magazine

EASY

• WIR – Walk In Robe
• w/s/steel stove – with stainless steel stove
• u/c parking – undercover parking

TRICKY

• OFP – Open Floor Plan
• DLUG – Double Lock Up Garage
• STCA – Subject To Council Approval

WHAT THE?!

• pol brd t’out – polished boards throughout

NEED YOUR HELP

• Lock up garage & additional OSP
• Single garage and GDH

Don’t get me started about personal ads.

There’s a big report due at the end of the month. This week I’ve worked a 6.5 day week (I’m going into work today too!). I know it’s not admirable or healthy to work overtime and not be paid for it but it feels like a much more difficult decision to make when when it’s happening to you.

I have mixed feelings. Firstly, I am proud that as a graduate, some of the most experienced people in our company have given me so much responsibility. They trust in my ability and commitment to produce much of this report. It’s a fascinating project about contaminants leaking to the ocean and I feel like my report will make a real difference in reducing the environmental risk to the ocean.

I’m certainly capable of working overtime. I thought that I’d be tired after 5:30 PM, my normal home time, but I find my brain accelerating. I’m still productive at 8 PM. I think it’s a legacy of doing homework in the evenings.

Yet, I can, at an intellectual level, appreciate that my life would be unbalanced if late working nights and office weekends became a habit. In the “Time is money, the budget can’t take it” consulting industry, it would be easy to become a slave. The people who care about me worry that I will be unhappy.

I have to be very clear about this: No one at work is pressuring me to work overtime. In fact, my job manager, project director and team leader are (would be) horrified (if they knew) that I’m working so much. How can a graduate be in this situation?

Yet, if I don’t do it, the work won’t be done in time. The company (I) would disappoint the client, disappoint the EPA… And it’s my work. I’d rather work overtime than to deliver anything less than a good quality report on time.

I don’t know what to do. It’s my pride in my work and my commitment to my team, versus my work-life balance.

My job manager is trying to get us time in lieu. That is, time off to make up for our overtime (she’s worked long hours alongside me). It will all depend on whether or not the client agrees to pay us the additional costs. If they don’t (as they have a right to because it wasn’t in the original contract), then tough luck for us, I suppose.

I found myself being annoyed in a very focused way today. Cindy is one of our company’s support staff. I really like her. She’s a bit younger than me but has worked for my company for longer, is friendly and chatty, and always offers me chocolate drinks.

Today she bounced into our pod.

“Hi everyone!” she drawled. Drawled? I swivelled in my chair. Cindy had just come back from two weeks in USA. Only two weeks and she had the full American accent. She was flattening her a’s and pursing her o’s and holding her r’s. She said ‘cell phone’ instead of ‘mobile’, ‘mom’ instead of ‘mum’, ‘take out’ instead of ‘take away’.

“Wow, Cindy,” my pod-mates marvelled. “You’ve lost your Australian accent!”

“I had lost it within three days,” she said proudly. “Look at these! Calvin Klein jeans — only 30 bucks! Everything’s so cheap. I’ve spent so much in two weeks. And omigod, I lurve Taco Bells. Do we have Taco Bells here? I’m so addicted to it.”

I listened in bemusement, thinking, “I spent two weeks in USA and I didn’t get an American accent. Those jeans are cheap because of cheap Mexican labour over the border. Taco Bells is Americanised Mexican food. There’s much better food around.”

I think Cindy has been struck down by a severe case of USA Worship. Symptoms? Wholesale, unquestioning adoption of American culture.

How annoying.

I still study one university subject a semester for my Diploma of Chinese. I sat down at the exam yesterday. At the announcement of reading time, I opened the exam paper and quickly scanned the entire document.

Gee. This looks a bit short. I don’t know if it’s much longer than the one-hour class tests. I guess that means I’ll take my time and make sure I polish everything up.

Steady working.

Fifty minutes later.

I’ve finished! What’s the time? It’s only been 50 minutes? Really? I still have more than an hour. I have done every page, right? Let’s see. Page one, two, three… seven. I guess so.

I’ll… check over my work again.

Three minor changes later.

Well. I’ve killed fifteen minutes.

What’s everyone else doing? Still working.

I can’t leave yet, there’s no point. Damjan’s meeting me at 5 PM. That’s ages away. I guess… I guess I’ll just sit here. It’s warm and quiet, better than the cold outside.

Five minutes later.

This is boring. Why hasn’t anyone else left yet? I’m usually one of the last to leave. I want to leave now… but where can I go? What can I do?

…Hey! I can buy food! Yeah.

Uh oh. I’ll probably end up buying something bad like chocolate or cake or fried chicken. I’ll regret it then. Bad idea, Joan. Better stay here, for the good of your hips.

After ten minutes of staring into the pink ceiling, I bolt up in my chair.

I can buy a smoothie!

Happily, I gathered up my stationary and dictionary, pushed everything into my two bags, put on my (new) black woollen coat, and skipped out of the exam room.

Jana showed me the frog pyjamas her mum had bought her.

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Did she think they was cute or something?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess you can wear them at home…”

“This is why I can’t wear anything that mum ever buys me.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Mum buys all my clothes. Mum bought all this…” I pointed out my new mohair jumper, my form-fitting black pants, my cute black Mary Jane shoes, my sparkly blue headband. “This is my favourite coat,” I continued. I modelled my hooded black woollen winter coat. “The other day, a random girl ran up to me at Melbourne Central. She said, “Excuse me! Could I ask where you bought your coat from?” and I had to say, “Sorry, my mum bought it for me.” “

“So, your mum dresses you?” Jana asked, fascinated and skeptical.

“No,” I corrected her. “She puts a department store in my wardrobe then I dress me.”

From my friend, Sally.

Ok, imagine you have to drive your car in Swindon, and you’re less than enthusiastic about it, since you only recently passed your test.

…

And then you see this:

You’re starting to wonder what that’s about. You didn’t see anything like this in your driving lessons.

…

And a bit further, you stumble across this situation.

The Magic Roundabout!

Birds eye view…

In the peripheral roundabouts you turn clockwise, in the centre you turn anti-clockwise. As you can see, the traffic problem is essentially solved by scaring people into taking alternative routes.

A delightful explanation of the concept can be found at SwindonWeb.

Mesmerising. Artwork, really.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

I like soft apples. People assure me that this is not normal. What kind of freak prefers soft floury apples over hard crisp ones?

I finally revealed this prediliction to mum a month ago.

“What?” she said. “You like soft apples? Are you strange?”

I shrugged sheepishly. “I just do.” And we left it at that.

Yesterday morning, mum looked up from the fridge as I entered the kitchen for breakfast. She stood, closed the fridge door and held up a smallish green apple.

“Joan,” she said, “Um. I’ve dropped this apple on the floor a few times. There are bruises and it feels a bit soft.” She looked at me cautiously. “Do… you want me to pack it into your lunch bag?”

“Yes!” I smiled in delight. Finally, a change from all these shiny hard apples! Mum shook her head in amazement and tucked the apple into my red lunchbox.

I get my camera back tomorrow! I hope. I’ve been missing it. This week, I geared up my campaign to have it back, whole and operational. I rang Consumer Affairs Victoria to ask about my rights for a refund or replacement camera. I’ve called the Olympus service centre every day this week. I’m being a Pest.

Before Wednesday, I could only speak to the customer service people. They have been extremely courteous but can only give me bad news every time I call. I finally got to talk to one of the technicians. He listened carefully to my description of the problem (again) and said, “Sounds like it was a connection fault. There shouldn’t be a problem now because we’ve opened up the camera, re-soldered all the connections, cleaned it and run the sensor through the computer.”

He then gave me a list of all the things they’ve done to fix it. It was a long list.

Joan, it’s time for the camera to come home.

I was scared that the camera would still be broken when it came back but now I’m hopeful that it’s better than new. I’m glad it will be back in time for my weekend trip to Albury Wodonga, a largeish twin town on the border of Victoria and New South Wales. I am dancing in a competition there. Damjan’s coming too. Maybe he will be Official Photographer.

See you all!

My train had already arrived but I wanted to remain on the platform and talk to James for as long as I could.

It was getting close to departure time but I wasn’t worried. I was waiting for the announcement. You know the one: “Good evening, passengers. The next train to depart from Platform X is the ##:## to Destination, stopping all stations to Destination. Train now departing. Stand clear please. Stand clear.” followed by, “Beep beep beep beep,” as the doors slide shut.

Well, that night, the routine skipped straight to the doors shutting. When, out of nowhere, I heard, “Beep beep beep beep,” all I could do was look up in mild surprise.

“Joan, that’s you.” James gave me a firm urgent push towards the train.

I leapt forward and grabbed the doorknob. Made unwieldy by two bags, I nonetheless yanked the doors apart with all my strength. The door panels fought and fought but then reluctantly parted. I fell into the carriage and stumbled on young man who had recklessly decided to loiter in the doorway.

“Sorry!”

I turned back to wave goodbye to James but he was already walking away.