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The packing does it for the Hackpacker. My own realisation of imminent travel came with an impromptu purchase of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Its a book that I have long held close to my heart, and one of a very very few that I have read more than once.

The first time was at Uni, natch. The second was when I was doing a week long residential course on 'leadership' as part of a Masters. This basically consisted of a Gulag-style Canberra mind-fuck during which the presenters (who were a couple, incidentally, which made it creepier) seemed to have adopted 'No. of People Made To Cry Per Diem' as their main KPI.

Personally, I did not want to be made to cry. I was heading home from that little jaunt on the Friday to sell my house on the Saturday, under circumstances which had caused quite enough weeping for one year, thank you very much. It was not a time in my life when getting in touch with my Inner Sook was going to do me or my professional reputation any good at all. However, in a moment of all-too-rare genius (if I do say so myself) I took Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with me. At breakfast each day I filled up on caffeine, sugar, and Hunter S. Thompson.

Apart from being a great pleasure in itself, it was magnificent preparation for the days Programming. By the time I made it to the morning's first session, I had already dealt with hallucinatory bats and all manner of other adventures. After that, the rest of it was water off a duck's back. I did find myself imagining the presenter as a giant walking iguana a few times, but I don't think that was a bad thing.

Seeing me through that little trauma is reason enough to love it, but I also think it has one of the best opening paragraphs of any novel ever written. I haven't actually read every novel ever written, but you get my drift. If you have not had the pleasure, I urge you to turn off your computer and rush out and find it, right now.

I left all my books behind when I came North (it still smarts), but I was very pleased to find an edition with the same cover I had in the 80s in Waterstones, though it seems to be rather more 'flouro' than I remember. I stood there in the queue of the Princes street store, watery sunshine bathing the newly-hatched daffodils across the road, wearing only four layers of clothing (it is spring, after all)thinking, in three days, I will be there. I will actually be in Las Vegas. I am in delicious anticipation of fear and loathing ensuing forthwith.

I really wish I still smoked. Etcetera. I will just have to satisfy myself with rolling down the window and screaming:

"Holy Jesus! What are these goddam animals?"

"And then it was quiet again."

People That Impress Me#3

When I was a small and innocent child, I was raised to be a revolutionary. Or at least that was how it was supposed to turn out. I am yet to live up to the expectation, I am afraid. I like to think I have an appropriately vigilant eye for injustice, but I am not sure how much the hearbreaking experience of having to be the the 'token aboriginal' in a game of rascist Monopoly (no property ownership, pay double rent and if you go to jail you never get out) really contributed to the outcome.

It did mean, however, that while my friend Jenny was sticking posters of the Bay City Rollers on her wall, I was dutifully mounting earnest and informative little pamphlets about Ned Kelly. We glossed over the whole murder bit, back then. Sacrifices had to be made in the midst of class warfare. It was the 70s, after all.

Anyway, the hero worship didn't really stand more adult scrutiny, though I still think he writes one helluva letter. Nevertheless, it gives me a particular flush of pleasure to see that our own and much beloved Paula Hunt is making sure that the latest generation of whipper-snappers get appropriately acquainted with this little bit of Victorian history, by producing a wee volume on the Bearded One himself, called Outlaw Son.

This follows fairly hotly on the heels of a very lovely volume Wild Colonial Boys.

All this relentless publication is acheived, mind you, while she also looks after all those punters (and Hunters) at the MCG in her spare time.

Impressed? Not 'arf.

Yeah, fuck you, too, Richard!

It all started because I have a terrible deadline looming that I am struggling to meet. Spending four hours on the internet searching looking for good mobile phone deals was therefore inevitable. I have always been a pre-paid kinda gal, but I do love a gadget so, and there was these lovely ones, all shiny and lovely. All I had to do was sign up to a little teensy weensy little 18 month contract and pay them a little bit of money up front. Just £8.50 a month and a new Lovely Shiny Shiny would be mine. Delivered straight to my door. Easy. Nice. Shiny.

Besides, if I actually purchased a phone, it meant that the four hours that I had just spent tooling around on the internet was not time-wasting, but responsible, well thought out consumer research. I was good, not bad.

I filled in all the little boxes on the screen, and they said they Lovely Shiny would arrive the next day. I would have a new Lovely Shiny and a phone contract, just like a grown-up. I was excited. Then, a couple of hours later, they sent me another one saying that I wasn't allowed to give them my money. Not this week. Last week, of course, Virgin Media was happy to sign me up and install cable internet, TV and telephone for about three times the amount we were talking about now. This week, nada. They were kind enough to offer me the opportunity to pay some credit check agency in Essex twelve quid for the priviledge of telling me why I was no longer worthy, but apart from that, I could fuck off.

I was a little hurt.

Resilient little bunny that I am, I found another deal with another company the next day. In fact, this one was WAY cheaper, so the day before's events seemed like a little caress of luck(so much for my consumer research of the day before). All went well. They asked me more questions, which I found encouraging. The address bit took some time,because they wanted three year's worth. I decided to gloss over the Sydney flat and the brief soujourn in Morningside and stick to just three addresses for the last year. After that,there was just the Elwood Hibiscus Palace.

This time I got two e-mails. First, telling me that they got the form. Secondly, telling me my order had been lodged and I could expect my Lovely Shiny forthwith. Gadget greedy, I dreamed of all the things I could do with my new gadget. I couldn't actually think of any that would be particularly useful, but whatever they were I would be able to do them in style.

Having run out of distractions, I actually did some work. Then another email arrived. And a text. They didn't want me either. A double-barelled rejection from this lot, just in case I was in any doubt. The odd little episode of rejection I can handle. The mini-series, however, I was finding unpleasant. To give them their due, though, they at least had the good grace to tell me that the problem was not having lived in the UK for three years. And they didn't try and charge me twelve quid for the knowledge.

Then another e-mail arrived. Right back at the start, I had sent Verging Meanier an e-mail to ask if I could just add a phone to my already purchased bundle. Yesterday, they hadn't replied. Today, 24 hours after Virgin Mobile had told me to fuck off and take my business elsewhere, they replied. They advised, in that annoying Virgin chirpy-chappy prose that makes you want to slap the little fuckers, that they would absolutely LOVE to help me. Was I aware they had a deal for as little as £8.50? All I had to do was call their Sales Department and they would sort it all out. They would have rung me, they said, except I hadn't given them a phone number, i.e. the phone number that they had provided me with the week before.

I toyed with the idea of writing back to tell them that I was aware of their £8.50 a month deal, having tried to purchase that very deal the day before, but by this time I was half convinced a balaclava-clad swat team was downstairs in an unmarked van preparing to storm the flat and take my internet away.

A minor aside. I was allowed to VOTE here from the moment I arrived.

To cut a long story short, I therefore remain a pre-paid girl, and by all accounts am doomed to remain so for another two years. No Lovely Lovely Shiny for me.

Fuck you, too, Mr Branson.