The Adventures of Trail Mix - Malaysia 2009 (Part 1)

Now that the thong tan on the tops of my feet is starting to fade and the glaring red of my hydroid sting has turned to soft pink bumps it is time to pour myself a glass of the good stuff, sit down, pick up an electronic paper and pencil (aka keyboard and blogger window) and chronicle one of the most amazing adventures this little peanut has had the pleasure of undertaking so far in her short life.

And so, without further ado -

Trail Mix Take Malaysia!

DAY 1. SYD_PER_SIN_BKI (via Qantas and Air Asia)

On the 30th of June, 2009 I packed my large yellow North Face duffel full of all sorts of oddities including 6-inch black heels (of the "all sorts of hot" variety), Tiger Balm, irreplaceable and expensive jewelry, jeans, shorts, band aids, 2 rolls of Charmin Ultra (the 4-ply version sporting colourful images of golden retriever puppies donning snorkels, quite fitting I thought..), 2 pairs of sunglasses, 1 pair of socks, the oldest thongs in existence (which inevitably makes them by far and away the most comfortable), ranch flavoured Goldfish crackers, the self-constructed "Small Book of Sabah" with all sorts of well-organised and odd information plucked from blogs, off-the-beaten-track-tourist info sites and the odd "rough guide" page, a checklist of required experiences (see below) and clothes for most occasions.

The taxi driver picked me up far too early and

drove like a demon through the pre-dawn, empty streets of Sydney ensuring that I arrived at Kingsford-Smith with a ridiculous amount of time to kill, at 4am.

I curled up looking like a snoozing oxymoron in a black and white tailored skirt suit, aforementioned 6-inch stunners (heels), gently napping on a duffel the size of my entire person.

Soon after the small check-in booths gained their disgruntled Qantas ground-staff occupants I checked my beloved bag through to Singapore and breathed a happy sigh which can only come from a lack of luggage.

Exercising some ghost-like swiftness (aka "confidence and seeming like you belong will get you anywhere") I pulled up a cushy armchair in the Qantas Club and munched on some pikelets with rhubarb and ricotta for second-breakfast.

SYD_PER was uneventful (as it generally is at 6am) but third breakfast of sausages, "poached" (yeah, seriously guys, that egg was hard bloody boiled!) eggs and grilled tomatoes was actually decent. I considered having a glass of champagne and orange as a pre-morning mimosa but decided it might endanger admitting to my inner-alcoholic and stuck with sweetener-saturated tea instead.

*Unfortunately due to a delay - ok, hang on, quick interjection on behalf of airline personnel everywhere:

I understand, dear friends and frequent fliers, that it is annoying when your aeroplane is delayed. You miss meetings, have to rearrange taxis and friends acting as such and it generally puts your day out by a few hours or so. Oh you poor baby! Suck it up, you chose to fly. You could have chosen to drive, or take the train, both of which have fantastic OTP (on time performance) but take a substantial amount of time, money and effort (yes - from YOU, McLax!) Flying is quick, efficient (particularly with the crash record of our beloved national carrier), you might even get fed a single-serving meal or make a single-serving friend (5 points if you get the reference..) and hop from city to city with your bum firmly splaying

itself on a relatively comfortable seat. Airlines are enormous, bureaucratic, cluster-f*cks of companies with people buzzing like proverbial bees in a two-letter-abbreviated hive attempting to relay information like signals in the brain of someone with Alzheimer's. You have absolutely no idea of how many papers, computer codes, telephone calls, befuddled and unintelligible hand-held radio communiques, tags, and loud-speaker announcements it takes to get your relative pressurized metal tube in the air to deposit you in your destination city of choice. This doesn't even begin to mention the papers, buttons, switches and other debacles the boys (and occasionally, girls) up the front have to sift through to get the thing to V-1 and not spill their coffee. So please in the future if you are annoyed, rather than making a fuss which can be heard in the other hemisphere, post-pone your 8.30 meeting to 9am, take a deep breath, push the call button to order an alchoholic beverage and say "oh well, at least I don't work for them!" - ok, rant over.*

Now, We were slightly delayed into Perth and due to a tight connection I was fidgeting with my jewelry and tightly crossing all of my fingers.

After a little running in heels and an annoying $8 domestic-to-international-transit-bus ride I checked in, grinned at my single-digit boarding pass, happily accepted the proffered glass of Charles Heidsieck Brut Reserve, pulled a woolly maroon blanket over my legs, slipped off my shoes and relaxed into my bed in the sky.

Fourth-breakfast (aka "lunch") was a lovely roast beef salad with cherry tomatoes, feta

and my favourite vinaigrette dressing. Delicious! Particularly when imbibed while swathed in Morrissey pajamas.

Singapore Changi Airport was...an experience. I undertook a spot of duty-free shopping (perfume), finally treated myself to a piece of jewelry I've been hunting since I was 10, Facebook-stalking which resulted in a nauseous and utterly irate resolve and what (little did I know) would be my last normal-tasting diet coke for the next 9 days. Out through customs, grab the bag, check in, drop the bag (12kg - yes!), back through customs, sigh.

Air Asia deposited me in budget, jovial, Jetstar fashion from "Singapore to Kota Kinabalu, Sa-BAH!" as the chief flight attendant told us no less than 20 times on the 1 hour and 45 minute flight. Not bad, particularly since I've had more expensive cocktails in happy hour at my local...

I arrived in KK, terminal 1 and happily greeted my bag, scooped up all brochures, maps and other pieces of future scrapbook paraphernalia on offer and exited the terminal. I was greeted with photographers and people dressed in odd island costumes. Needless to say after 20 hours and 3 flights this was disconcerting and I failed to notice my Meandering (and occasionally misguided) Macadamia sneak up behind me, spy style.

*slap!*

Into a cab we went and off to the budget accommodation M had arranged via iPhone earlier. A cockroach met us at the door and brought our things to his lair.

Ew.

The "double room", equipped with 2 bunk beds built in the era of Julius Caesar and

disconcerting splash-like stains on the walls (picture Leonardo di Caprio's room in Bangkok in "The Beach") was a disaster and decidedly NOT what M, nor I, had in mind.

One more late night/early morning cab ride took us (with enormous difficulty as seems to befall the majority of the local population) to the Best Western Kinabalu Daya - fantastic! We deftly dropped the bags and duck downstairs for thin beers and locals belting karaoke sub-standard even to drunk aircrew at The Cage. We had a marvellous evening/morning culminating in 7-11 take-aways comparable in price with a seat on Richard Branson's inaugural Virgin Galactic flight and odd snacks, for the origins of which neither of us could even generate a hypothesis.

DAY 2. KOTA KINABALU_RANAU ("via Zephyr") (part 1.)

PEANUT: "Hey! So I heard about this place in Ranau where they give you fish bait, dip you in a river and hundreds of carp "massage" you! Seriously, let's go.."

MACADAMIA: *wtf*

PEANUT: *grins and shifts from foot to foot with excitement*

MACADAMIA: "shit."

And so, it was decided the next morning that a quick tour of KK in search of sustenance was in order (breakfast at the hotel had inevitably been slept through). It eventually consisted of food of an unknown origin at a small outdoor "cafe" where, despite the 2-page menu there really was only 1 dish on offer and I believe it consisted of rice and...things... M had a juice the size of Centrepoint and I enjoyed some crispy banana with satay sauce (I had hoped it was a form of caramel or chilli - no such luck).

Kota Kinabalu is a bit of a dive during the day. It's grimy and, if the cat feeding its kittens in the gutter didn't make it feel like home the smell of rotting excrement prevalent along the docks surely would.

I gather from the locals that it is quite a spread out city and some parts are nicer than others but personally, it doesn't rate very high on Peanut's Preferred Places.

Back to the hotel and I dropped the "fish massage" bomb on my nutty buddy and after he scooped up his heart (which fell out through his rear) he, being a true adventurer, gritted his teeth, hired the cheapest car on offer and took the wheel bound for an afternoon of being fondled by the fishies.

To my immense amusement and utter delight we were introduced to the "Zephyr". A minuscule motorcar which barely rose to 6-foot M's mid-section and made the Smart Car look like a Mercedes Saloon model. It was maroon in colour and power-steering? No way!

My first "ripped-off-in-Asia" story came shortly after we stopped at the Sabah Parks office and I used my Yankee heritage and Toorak phone voice to secure us a climb up the tallest peak in SouthEast Asia (little did I know what I'd unwittingly signed us up for!) the following day.

Pulling into a petrol station the ape-like attendant scooted over to us and made a face which eluded that he wanted to know how much petrol we required.

Imagining the Zephyr had a tank larger than a can of coke we estimated 50RM (about $15AUD). While M and PetrolMonkey filled the tiny car I went in search of a chilled can of phenylalanine-drenched, carbonated liquid. I had no luck and returned to the car where M asked if I'd paid the bill yet. I hadn't been aware this particular responsibility had been left in my hands but obligingly went inside and said "pay?". Exchanging 50RM and requesting a receipt (for scrap booking) I went back to the car to find out from M that the mini-motor coach had only held 30RM worth of petrol. *sigh* M was decidedly pissed off but as it was my first Malaysian-mishap I shrugged, told myself that perhaps it would go to fuelling the missing-link culture's evolution and regarded the tropical but unremarkable landscape zooming past.

Amusing Model/Actors and Their Typical Lack of Awareness

A brief observation on why I have suspended my wanton desire to be included in the wily world of wannabe actors:

Exterior, Fox Studios professional entrance, Sydney Australia, day.

Interior, Casting House, day. 

~The room is full of attractive 20-somethings lounging anxiously in wait for their name to be called by the single casting agent and her camera in the small studio through the door marked "quiet-filming in progress". The aspiring actors/models/singers and the odd dancer discuss their agents, recent castings, hair, nails, fashion weeks, whether to invest in botox or the latest spray-on jeans and who landed the Sprite commercial last week.~

Enter PEANUT, casually dressed in jeans, ankle boots, tank top and grey knit jacket with fur collar. 

PEANUT scans the room, scoops up a translucent green clipboard, casting details sheet and pen and makes a bee-line for the chair situated furthest from the manicured 6-foot tall blonde Claire Danes stand-in primly perched on the sofa next to her Versace bag.

The seat PEANUT selects is near to an oddly horsey girl of approximately size 10. MODEL/ACTRESS is in her 20's, stringy blondish-brown hair and an obvious penchant for yo-yo dieting. With an amicable vibe MODEL/ACTRESS seems the lesser of the evils in the room as an occupant of the closest seating position.

With an air of resolved disinterest PEANUT fills out the single page questionnaire with her stats, agents details and whether or not she has undertaken any jobs for competitors of the product on advertisement in the past 3 years. 

To her interest MODEL/ACTRESS is completing the same single-page document with a contemplation and scrutiny typically reserved for final exams and employment IQ tests. 

PEANUT looks on bemused as it takes MODEL/ACTRESS nearly 15 minutes to answer the 7 questions. 

MODEL/ACTRESS looks up and sees PEANUT regarding her with amusement and perhaps a pinch of pity.

MODEL/ACTRESS

Oh hi!

PEANUT (quickly smiles)

Hi

MODEL/ACTRESS

Ooh I'm nervous! What's this casting for?

PEANUT

Coke

MODEL/ACTRESS

Ooh ok!

*silence*

MODEL/ACTRESS

So what do we have to do?

PEANUT

Oh, just the stuff it said on the brief - throw snowballs at each other

MODEL/ACTRESS

Ooh like REAL snowballs??

*extended silence*

*PEANUT suppresses the urge to roll around on the floor and literally explode with laughter*

*PEANUT opts for further silence and a smile*

PEANUT

No. Not real snowballs.

MODEL/ACTRESS

Ooh good! That would be so cold! *giggle*

*PEANUT suppresses the urge to throw up*

Our Comical Cosmos and Goodies for the Girth-Conscious Gourmet

It's good to have confirmation once again of the twisted, ironic sense of humour I have always believed our Universe possesses.

Tonight I had a craving, as I have numerous nights before since my first exposure to the oxymoronic existence of "low fat pate", for the luscious lack of taste but creamy texture of "faible teneur en matières grasses pate". When seasoned liberally with cracked Tasmanian pepper berry and Murray River Pink Salt the pate is a treat which one feels no qualms devouring throughout an episode of MasterChef. (For those who have not found themselves addicted to this particular reality cooking program yet it is important to eat for the duration of its hour-long time slot since if you don't you will surely clean out your fridge and pantry in one enormous mouthful when the episode concludes. The dishes contestants are required to concoct are typically so hunger-inspiring ones taste buds must be entertained in conjunction with the senses typically appeased by television.)

Scouring the local providores for this expensive little treat for hours on a late wander through the Darling of streets near which I live, my search was, alas, fruitless. (Duck liver and peppercorn-less as well I might add!)

On my return home from the lengthy hunt all I could think of was the lone establishment I knew stocked the product I craved. I decided to satiate my adoration and closer-than-appropriate relationship with my ex-supermarket, the indescribably prodigious Pyrmont IGA. 

Eager with anticipation I crossed the ANZAC Bridge, not even partaking in the common practice of speeding when traversing this construct - I was savouring the minutes until I would once again wind my way up the ramp from the car park, find myself greeted by the Bank of Queensland ATM and its neighbouring umbrella basket and turn the corner into one of my guilty pleasures.

Pulling into the side street and parking garage with time-honed skill (once you can do this post jugs of barley and hopps laden water on a Wednesday night full of rubbish food and fuming at the other team's unjust victory you can do it under any circumstances..!) I shifted back and forth in my seat like a child jumping from foot to foot in a candy store giving in to the excitement of being surrounded by multitudes of sweets and suppressed the silly grin which somehow kept sneaking its way back across my face.

I pushed the button for a ticket, drove around the corner, glided into a park with ease, closed the door and flipped the keys around my index finger Angelina-in-Mr-and-Mrs-Smith style and made my way in what I hoped seemed an unconsciously casual manner through the sliding doors, all the while consciously quashing the crocodile grin and feelings of elation at the "Welcome to Pyrmont IGA" sign which greets you on your exit from the car park.

*amorous sigh*

I spent the better part of...well, a while...wandering the aisles, picking up delicacies and boutique branded products, inspecting them and carefully replacing them on their shelves (yes, a sordid number ended up in my basket for purchase but we'll leave that topic).

Anticlimactically they were out of stock of my particular desired pate but I soon found one with most of the same attributes. After I quietly chuckled through the checkout at my Confessions of a Supermarket-aholic escapade I ran smack into two people I hadn't expected to see for quite some time, if ever again. A couple for whom the matter of my attendance (or disappointing lack thereof) of their upcoming nuptials has been a continuing source of confusion and negotiation due to recent events. 

Several moments of slightly awkward conversation and niceties relating to my rationale for venturing out of my suburb to procure grocery items and the cursory discussion of "how work, life, weather, Wednesday night hobbies (or their recent hiatus), etc are treating you" we parted ways and I returned to my little red vehicle and once inside let loose with "OH. MY. GOD!!!" 

I repeated this phrase for the duration of the trip home and have been doing so intermittently since. 

The universe certainly has a sense of humour, I'll give it that. Some call it "a sign", others call it "fate", personally I think it's downright f*ing hilariously ironic. 

Post-Script. The substitute pate was palatable - the originally desired product is by a Queensland-based company called "Ronda Pate" - more info on this website. 

Ronda Pate - Seafarmers Quality Foods

For the girth-conscious gourmet.

The Wonderful Fishes of Oz and Inclement Commencement Cruising

Ok class, who wants to be dependent on a solid weighted tank for oxygen while excessive atmospheric pressure exerts itself on your body mass underwater until your air runs out (read: low)?

*jumps up and down* “OOH! OOH!! Pick me, pick ME!”

I am a diving peanut! As truly amusing as that image may be it is true. I have come to the conclusion after two days of submerging my small form underwater for extended periods of time assisted by a compressed air cylinder, uncomfortable mask/snorkel apparatus, regulators of various varieties and a brilliant little vest contraption aptly termed a "buoyancy control device", were I offered the opportunity I would happily exchange my (quite large in fact! - "all the better for yelling at you with, my dear") lungs for gills and take up residence *to the tune of* under the sea. *dances around to the crab from The Little Mermaid singing merrily*

Since I was small my favourite dreams were those in which I was a) flying or b) breathing underwater. I have yet to jump off a high surface and have the result be anything but broken bones, sprained limbs/joints/muscles or brilliantly multicoloured bruises BUT I have now found (thanks to the influence of a situation -and person- far too convoluted and confusing -and adorably aggravating- to recount here but to whom I will be forever grateful) that there is a way to enable my second dream to come true. It is as marvellous as expected. 

I must halt my auspicious account of the singular delights of scuba diving to insert a bit of product placement. DIVE 2000 are fantastic. The instructors have been excellent (and emphatically amusing), whilst the book was arduous and written for large inhabitants of a country I proudly hold a passport for who posses minds smaller then a serve of "kiddy fries" at McDonalds the DVD skimmed through it easily enough with some 1980's-era, Bahama-

dwelling "hunky" (I use the vernacular of the age!) male inhabitants to keep your eyes occupied while your brain absorbed No Decompression Limit tables unconsciously.

Next weekend will see further accounts of the unlimited enjoyment of being underwater and I'll include some photos of the multitudes of fish I intend to romance in hopes of being adopted into their number Jungle-book style.

____

In other news I recently completed the first semester of a qualification in Travel & Tourism. With honours. We celebrated the commencement in true "Travel & Tourism" fashion - on a coffee and cake cruise operated by Captain Cook (a company I now qualify for heavily discounted escapades with) Cruises on an afternoon in Sydney Harbour. 

The day was dingy and subfusc but somehow my camera managed to capture the best of a blustery situation - I believe it sees things through the rose coloured eyes of a tourist. My little Circumnavigating Coolpix. 

We bobbed through "seas" of what I termed "slight" and others grieved "severely sea-sickness inducing" swells (of MAYBE a meter and a half) for the majority of the afternoon. Several classmates spent the voyage with faces firmly planted in heads (of the nautical variety) whilst I spent it simulating a shutterbug. Taking peculiar photos with inanimate objects (i.e. photos eating a ferry in the distance) and "We're On A Boat!" gangster shots with friends. All in all it was a lovely afternoon.

 

Delectably Detrimental Delights and Peregrination by Proxy

Today I am a green-eyed peanut. Since I returned from my Seattle Soiree the travel I have managed to undertake has been utterly and completely by proxy (or vivid imagination) through my uni course. 

Brochures depicting young and gorgeous people enthusiastically jumping off boats on the Amalfi Coast, couples clinking glasses on exquisite train journeys across Europe, intrepid explorers taking silly photos with monuments and statues in far off, seldom trod corners of this big, wide world. *sigh* and travel messages containing tantalizingly few details of police encounters, boat trips full of beer and bravado and blissful kisses from the European sun. *fumes* *grins* *crinkles up nose and narrows eyes in playful jealousy*

My adventures have been of the home and university variety of late. Several accounts are to follow:

Yesterday I arrived home after a day distinctly akin in pressured finite timings to an episode of "24" and felt an overpowering need to bake something sugary with a high chocolate content and dates, always dates. 

Once I changed into my Joe Boxer track pants *shudder of fleecy warmth* and Uggs *after-shudder* I consulted the shelves of my half of the pantry. Flour..white sugar..brown sugar...baking powder..salt...umm, DATES! Then I took a peek in the fridge - eggs..and milk! Eeexcellent! And a block of Hershey's 70% extra dark chocolate hand carried from Los Estados Unidos (from whence all fructose-laden goodness cometh).

Expertly creaming the butter and sugar together then adding the eggs, milk and dry ingredients I tossed in an exorbitant amount of dates and chocolate chunks and whacked them in the oven. 

I like my cookies slightly crispy on the outside and nice and gooey on the inside so when you bite into a particularly large chocolate chunk it oozes out of its home nestled in the cookie and inevitably ends up on your shirt/tie/necklace. 

The edges slightly browned after 12 or so minutes on 150 Celsius and I extracted the tray of morsels from the oven and placed them on the stove. The entire house filled with the aroma of freshly baked delicacy and my flatmate magically appeared with eyes like saucers, licking her chops like Sylvester eyeing Tweety Bird, turning him in one image frame from canary to cutlet. 

She has now termed them (with a note written in pink capital letters with highlighter) the "COOKIES OF DOOM (because they're so f*ing lush!)" and neither of us can stop munching on them. Ahh well, at least we live in the House of Metabolism! Redheads do it better you know..

*bites into warm cookie* 

Next - Huzzar for moi! I overcame my Bakers Delight Scone Sampling phobia today! As I walk from the disembarkation point of my first bus I past a number of shops, one of which is Baker's Delight (hence the scone addiction). Normally I wander past, gaze lovingly at the carby, sugary goodness adorning the shelves, wait for an influx of customers and snake a long arm between them to pinch one (read: several) slices of the free-to-good-home scone in the little plastic sample tub on the counter. 

Today there were no customers. It was also raining. And freezing cold. 

"Bugger this rubbish!" I thought to myself, "I'm a human, I have rights to free food!" I psyched myself and, taking a deep breath, entered the little shop. 

"Hi! How can I help you?" said the pre-teen behind the counter, seeing a sale meandering through the glass doors.

"Uh..I'd like a.." I pretended to scan the glass cabinets, "..umm... ok. Look. I'd-really-just-like-to-try-some-scone.-Seriously-I-buy-them-all-the-time-and-I'm-completely-addicted-and-they're-really-really-bloody-good-but-I-have-a-bunch-at-home-and-I don't-need-to-buy-an-more-but-I'd-really-like-to-try-some-is-that-cool??" I admitted with lightning fast speech in her general direction, avoiding eye contact.

To my distinct pleasure she laughed, openly, and said "of COURSE! We do it all the time!"

It was as though an enormous weight was lifted from my part-Jewish conscience and I happily tonged 2 slices of the little baked good into my hand, waved a goodbye to the girls, who were still laughing and merrily made my freezing cold way to the bus stop. Once more - HUZZAR!!

In other news my 16 day adventure tour brochure to Iceland has been printed (after a substantial cookie donation to the people at Kwik Kopy Darling Harbour garnered a large discount) and looks incredible. Someday I want to go diving, skiing, dog sledding, horseback riding, whitewater rafting and lounging in the Blue Lagoon. *shakes fist* "with God as my witness..!"

Last minute I aced yet another 2 exams this afternoon and rewarded myself with end-of-day rice paper rolls.

I passed my dive medical with a lovely aviation doctor in the city yesterday. We had a grand time pinching, prodding and concluding that despite a lower-than-recommended BMI (read: BS) rating I have incredibly good lungs (all the better for yelling at you with, my dear), hearing (for tuning out when you yell back, my dear) and balance (for..well I don't know..balancing I suppose!). 

I actually had a great time and ate far too many blue jellybeans and promised to send the doctor a postcard from my first diving holiday, hopefully not too far away now..!

Tomorrow night is "Diving 101" with this weekend spent submerging in a pool remembering to ALWAYS BREATHE and learning how to empty water from my mask. 

I'm really looking forward to it, breathing underwater has always been a dream of mine.

I shall leave you there, fine readers, until more adventures have I to rehash.

Numbskull Nippers and Tricks of Tag Toweling

My life strikes me as odd sometimes.

I spent yesterday wandering around the Blue Mountains (I'll do a whole other post on this) and this morning prancing around with preschoolers dressed as first a pirate, then a fairy. 

The first party was for 3 year olds, adorable as they are I must say there is an alarming lack of innate intelligence apparent in the latest crop of youngsters. 

5 years ago when I first performed children's parties the 3-5 year olds astounded me! They were intelligent, intellectual, conversationally adept (as much as 3-5 year olds can be) with some verging on astute! 

Somehow in the past half a decade the median intelligence quota for this age group has reduced alarmingly.

4 and 5 year olds now seem to be slightly "with it" mentally but 3's are downright dimwitted! Wether it is attempting to coax the attention of them while dressed in suspenders and a hard hat as "Bob the Builder's sister Jane" from where it perpetually rests in most Mosman houses - firmly on their mother's manicured hand clutching her Riedel glass brimming with Dom Perignon - or explaining not to eat the plastic paper from the sides of a cupcake these children are..rocks! The opposite of the "sponges" people often synonym young children to. 

Personally I think I would be extraordinarily upset if I accidentally produced one of these simple minded small-fries! I would imagine that if I put in the effort of gestating the thing for 9 months and signed in blood for the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to raise one I would feel cheated!  

Although it's not often admitted to I imagine most would feel the same way. And of course prospective parents are too wrapped up in the excitement of jumbling their genes in a roll of the deoxyribonucleic dice to consider that this is plausible, much less possible! Everyone thinks their little Jimmy or Jenny is going to be the next Einstein, Barack Obama or at least manager at the local upmarket dining establishment. Then again I suppose that is what keeps us procreating..the possibility of progressing the population through our progeny. 

Blech, musings on a topic which really doesn't interest me. I must be tired. Must be all that left over fairy bread I didn't want to let go to waste..those Hundreds and Thousands are lethal, you know..!

Due to the extraordinarily chilly temperatures already present this winter I have begun an ingenious practice I call "tag toweling". Count your blessings, I will now share its brilliance with you.

It is a commonly acknowledged fact that there are few things more pleasurable then hearing the "BUZZ" of the clothes dryer finishing its hot cycle, rushing to the appliance and climbing into whatever article of newly heated clothing promptly presents itself. (Then again I generally put everything on and bask in the shudder of pleasure that follows) This is the principal behind "tag toweling". 

My bathroom coexists as the laundry with the aid of a sliding door. This means I can place my towels into the dryer before my shower begins and, faster than the speeding bullet, leap from my lobster-bath on tiptoe the two steps to wrench open the dryer door and wrap myself in the toasty cotton treat which awaits me. 

Australia, Sydney in particular, is in for one icy winter they tell us. (So much for "Global Warming"! I think "Global Cooling" would be more appropriate. I think I'll teach myself to hibernate if we ever reach another ice age. Eat too much, curl up in a ball, sleep. ...Ok, not much to teach..) 

The temperatures have been steadily dropping and lately I have found that one balmy bath blanket simply doesn't hold enough heat to satisfy my craving to close my eyes and imagine I'm on a beach in the South Pacific for the desired amount of time. 

So, I hired it an assistant! My two blue towels, one light and one dark (somehow the dark one seems to get hotter..I have no idea if this is scientifically possible but hey, I'll take what I can get!) wait for me to eye the shower with anticipatory excitement, pop them in the tumbler, flip the dial to "hot - 60" and proceed to lather up and wash down for as long as our pathetic hot water heater will allow (still leaving some for my poor housemate). 

When the dials are eventually spun to the right I burst forth from the glass cubicle and mantle myself in the light blue towel. Quickly the heat wears off and in one fluid movement the towel becomes a bathmat and I am engulfed in the dark blue towel. 

Soaking up the placebo of its greater dark-blue warmth a catlike grin appears across my face at my unending ingenuity.

Please folks, feel free to try this at home.