Stalky Gets Stalked

Now this is going to sound like a crazy story - and yes, there have been some crazy stories on this blog - but no joke, I was honestly stalked by an old lady the other day.  So there I was, innocently wandering around the library on a Saturday afternoon when I came across one of those moments when someone is blocking your path.  Over-thinker that I am I often take too much time to ponder the predicament of someone blocking my path.  Sometimes I'll turn around and find an alternative route, sometimes I'll say excuse me and sometimes I'll just slip on past.  It depends on the situation.  Sometimes it's just easier to find an alternative route than to get a woman and her shopping trolley and her dog and her kids to move to the side.  Anyway, on this occasion I was faced with an elderly woman and her walking stick.  My first instincts are to find an alternative route as it seems rude to say excuse me to an elderly woman and her walking stick.  Then I think that's a condescending thought.  Then I realise there is plenty of room for me to slip past so engaging in conversation may not even be necessary.  Then I realise I've been stood there far too long.  So I snap myself back into action and shimmy on past.  Quietly, innocently, smooth like a ninja.  But the woman does give me an odd look.  Like perhaps I've offended her.  I smile politely and continue to check out my books.  So I head back outside, walk down the road, cross the street, walk down the road, cross the street again and stand at the traffic lights.  I'm a fast walker.  I have short legs but I'm a fast walker.  The next thing I'm aware of is someone standing too close for comfort at the traffic lights.  You know how people get into your personal space and you can kind of sense them.  I chanced a glance to my left and who should I see?  None other than the woman from the library.  Spooky.  Coincidence that she's going my way?  Maybe.  But with all due respect, how does a woman with a walking stick catch me up so quickly.  The lights turned green and I continued along my path, striding a little more purposefully then before.  I pass a newsagent and decide that maybe I'll treat myself to a trashy magazine.  I head inside and who should appear seconds later?  The woman from the library.  She heads to the other side of the magazine rack and starts browsing.  I too, continue my browsing but cannot find the trashy magazine I favour.  I slope towards the door only half aware that I may or may not look like a shoplifter and then dart back out onto the street.  She follows immediately! Now she's being brazen.  I flew down that street as if a land dwelling shark was nipping at my heels.  I crossed the road, cut through Wooloworths and was back to the car without even looking back.  I got home and regaled the story to Mystical Roo who agreed that yes, it was a bit peculiar.  Now I'm going to have to seriously think every possible route blocking encounter for fear of getting chased by a woman and her walking stick!

A Sad Day for Stalky's Plants

The plants in happier times...

I'm ashamed, disappointed, close to devastated, to admit that all but one of my plants have died since moving to the city.  This turn of events has me deeply saddened.  My plants have kicked the bucket and sloped off to the compost heap in the sky.  Considering all the things we went through - horned caterpillars of doom, the first blossoming of potential lemons, chillies that finally turned red, tomatoes that planned world domination - it feels like a great loss to me to finally admit that yes indeed they are all dead.  And at first I blamed myself.  I had traumatised them with the move.  I had neglected to introduce them to the new neighbourhood.  But honestly, I didn't understand what had gone wrong.  The watering schedule had been adjusted according to season and they were still being fed regularly.  I continued to talk to them and offer them words of support.  But leaves began to wilt, branches began to fall and I watched in horror as my army of plants toppled over.  Even the mighty mint has perished.  The mighty mint that grew into such a beast.  The only survivor is the rosemary and he now has pride of place on the balcony where I'm determined to keep him going.  The sad thing is I still haven't managed to let my lemon tree go.  Even though the leaves are all gone and the branches are brown I still check to see if anything might be blossoming.  I have discussed my woes with Rabby who concluded that the demise of my plants is most likely due to the positioning of our new balcony.  The plants died because they weren't getting enough sunlight.  The one thing I can't control (short of moving again) is the positioning of the damned balcony.  So for now I'm having to put my green thumbs on hold until me move again to sunnier lands where the plants can live in peace.  I still have my indoor plants - the peace lily and the unidentified dangly thing - and the rosemary is still going strong.  For now this will have to do.

Pavement Rage

Having gone from walking to work in a small coastal town, I now walk to work through the big city.  I walk to the bus stop, get the bus and then walk from the bus stop to work.  I figure my walk through the city is about fifteen minutes depending on weather, green traffic lights and the height of heel I've opted for on that particular day.  What I've come to realise over these past few months is that pedestrian traffic is almost as annoying as vehicular traffic.  And one can experience pavement rage, much in the way that one can experience road rage.  People are annoying.  For someone with fairly little legs I tend to walk quite swiftly.  I figure if you're going somewhere then you might as well get there in decent time and give your legs a work out whilst you're at it.  But there is always someone waiting in the wings to thwart my plan.  Some dawdler, some zig zagger, some slow coach who wouldn't know a green man if it bit him on the bum!  Just like driving on the road you get bumblers who sit in the fast lane, people who cut you up, people who switch lanes with no warning, people who crash into the back of you, people who stop with no warning and people whose reaction to the lights (or in this case the man) turning green is so slow that the precious window of time when it's your right of way is wasted.  Wasted!  And then of course there are cyclists.  And you must get out of their way because even if they're the ones cycling on the pavement and they're the ones speeding along, if you fail to get out of the way then you will get hit.  Being a pedestrian has never been so stressful!    

1800 Steps

Mystical Roo tried to kill me the other day.  Death by stairs!  1800 of them to be precise.  OK, so maybe Mystical Roo wasn't actually trying to kill me but I think he enjoyed my suffering.  On the weekend we ventured up to the Blue Mountains, which are conveniently just an hour from Sydney.  There are some beautiful areas of National Park with - yes, you guessed it - mountains but also rainforest.  We decided we'd go on a walk and whilst walking is not normally an issue for me, climbing down a mountain and then up a mountain is.  Mystical Roo wanted to tackle the Giant Stairway, which is 900 steps that take you from the top of the mountain to the bottom.  My first cause for alarm was that the guidebook advised a high level of physical fitness was required to complete the walk. My second cause for alarm was the sheer steepness of the steps.  My third cause for alarm was the number of people coming back up the steps who looked positively knackered.  My fourth cause for alarm was being halfway down the mountain, legs shaking, realising the only way was up, or down, but either way involved more steps.  I complain - and yes it was hard work - but it was spectacular.  The views were incredible and once my head stopped spinning I was able to appreciate where we were.  Once at the bottom we chose to walk through the rainforest and saw some gorgeous waterfalls.  The best bit about this was that we didn't bump into another person.  It was just me, Mystical Roo and the rainforest.  A lyre bird put in an appearance at one point but he doesn't really count.  I think the walk took us just under two hours and shockingly I made it down and back up again without having to resort to piggy back tactics.  Unfortunately, in my unfit state, the last two days have been agony as my legs react to 1800 steps.  Mystical Roo has been happily mocking me as I waddle around the house with stiff calves and thighs.  He has no sympathy whatsoever.

Absent Stalky

Well what a bad Stalky I am.  No blogging since...since May.  This is what happens when you move to the city and get a full time job.  You run out of time for blogging!  I've been conscious of letting the blog slide and will pledge to do better.  Methinks my days of daily posting are gone but I'm going to try and commit myself to weekly entries.  I don't have much time for writing at the moment but the crazy happenings of Little Stalky world are still going strong and if I don't vent these crazy happenings then things just get even crazier.  And there's only so much crazy a person can handle.  So, if anyone out there still cares - this is my attempt to get back into the blogosphere.   Stay tuned!

Spots and Wrinkles

Once upon a time I held the belief that on leaving my teens and entering my twenties, spots would be a thing of the past.  My skin would be clear, blackheads would be banished and everything would be ticketyboo!  Well, at twenty-seven not only do I still continue to get spots - my skin is actually worse now than when I was a teenager - I've now started to worry about wrinkles!  And I'm sure there are people rolling their eyes as they read this but honestly, the surprise lines on my forehead are starting to cause me alarm.  They actually need to stop causing me alarm because then I wouldn't have lines to worry about.  This is what happens when you lead such an adventurous life - surprise lines happen.  So yesterday I decided to take action and went to the pharmacy in search of an anti-ageing product.  I figure prevention is better than cure and everyone is always going on about night creams and what not.  I settled on an Olay night cream, which is meant to fight the seven signs of ageing.  I also picked up some more cleanser, which is meant to help oily and acne prone skin.  Honestly, how is it fair for a woman to be buying these two products at the same time.  Give me spots or give me wrinkles but please don't give them to me at the same time!

The Freaky Toilet

I'm being harassed by a toilet.  I know, it sounds crazy, it sounds out there, it sounds...exactly like something that would happen to Little Stalky.  But honestly, the ladies loo at work is actually evil.  I head in there, innocently enough and as soon as I open the door the toilet literally growls at me.  It growls.  Or in toilet terms, it kind of gives an aggressive half flush.  Can a half flush be aggressive?  Well, actually yes it can.  It makes the flushing noise, it doesn't actually flush and it makes me jump every time.  It's like it's snapping at me as I walk through the door.  The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke.  The second time it happened I thought it was weird.  The third time it happened I thought it was suspicious.  The fourth time it happened I though it was down right sinister.  I have to brace myself on approach lest I leap and yelp.  I kind of want to bring it up with the other girls but I've only been working in my new job for three weeks and I don't want them to think I'm weird.  They perhaps need to get to know me a bit better and understand my ways before I broach the subject of possessed toilets.  I wouldn't want to scare anyone.  But I need to know if that toilet is just out to get me or if it does it to everyone.  The last thing a person needs, especially with a full bladder, is to have toilets causing unexpected surprises!

Anzac Day

It was Anzac Day for Australia and New Zealand yesterday, a public holiday that recognises and remembers the troops who have fought and who continue to fight.  Mystical Roo, Monster Noggin and I ventured into the city to watch the parade.  Sydney was transformed into a completely different city than the one I've come to know in the past few weeks.  The streets, normally packed with people and vehicles, were deserted and all of the shops were shut.  I saw a woman laying in the middle of the road, camera in hand, taking photos of her children.  It was probably the only time of year when a person could get away with laying in the middle of the road in Sydney without the risk of getting run over by car, bus or bicycle.  In total contrast, if you hit the right part of the city you could see massive crowds lining the pavements as different battalions marched the streets, flying their respective flags.  It was an impressive sight and I must confess that I became choked up on more than one occasion.  After the parade the pubs literally began overflowing with men in uniform.  Monster Noggin was pleased.  And then the beer started flowing.  Mystical Roo was pleased.  And we stopped off at Darling Harbour for lunch.  Little Stalky was pleased.  There is a tradition on Anzac day for copious amounts of drinking and a gambling game - legal only on this day - called two-up.  I've never witnessed anything quite like it and to be honest, I still don't think I understand it.  It's like a game of heads or tails but with two coins and an exchange of money.  There are drunken people clutching notes from a modest $5 to a monstrous $50, shouting "$10 for heads, $5 for tails!"  Someone takes them up on their offer, someone holds the cash (there's a lot of trust involved), some dude throws the coins and everyone cheers.  Money is then passed around depending on the turn of the coin and there is much rejoicing.  I hear this game dates back to the trenches, which is why it's played on Anzac day.  It's a crazy atmosphere and there's literally no room to move but there's such a sense of comradeship that you feel completely safe.  Everyone is in a good mood and everyone just wants to be friends.  If you happen to find yourself in Sydney around Anzac Day then watch the parade and then get yourself down the pub!  It's a unique Aussie experience.     

Battle of the Brollies

After many days of glorious sunshine and what some of us had come to think of as a belated summer, this morning the heavens opened and it poured with rain.  I'm sure I've made mention of this before but when it rains in Australia it really rains.  There's no drizzle, no light spray in the air, this is full on, torrential rain.  And of course this morning it hit at rush hour, when many a person heading to work is hopping on and off public transport and generally dashing around the city.  This in turns leads to masses of people with umbrellas!  It's already a tight squeeze at the traffic lights but throw umbrellas into the mix and it's chaos.  There are big umbrellas, little umbrellas, wonky umbrellas, inside out umbrellas.  Umbrellas of all shapes and sizes.  Now there seems to be a certain umbrella etiquette that most people have got the hang of.  You anticipate the approach of another umbrella holder and you both kind of swing your brollies to one side so that you don't clash.  Or, as I've been finding, if you're a little person like me and you come across a tall person you can kind of bend your knees a little bit, they can stand on their tip toes a little bit and presto!  Another clear passing.  Unfortunately not everyone is as polite.  Some people just go barging through, spraying water all over people who are shorter than them.  And then you get the person who is so intent on hiding behind their umbrella that they're not actually looking where they're going and just end up barging straight into people - umbrella first.  Now, I know I'm not one to talk what with having walked into a telegraph pole and all but when there are other people around I always watch where I'm going.  No one wants an umbrella in the eye!

Little Stalky and the Bus Driver

The latest addition to my adventures has been venturing out by bus.  It's not like I've never been on a bus before but I'll confess that it's been a while.  The last place I lived had one bus a day and no one knew where it went so catching the bus anywhere wasn't really an option.  Living in the city is like bus heaven.  There are buses everywhere.  Not only that they're ridiculously regular and keep running after 6pm.  Amazing!  So I've been on the bus quite a few times now and have only once got it wrong.  But once was enough and now I obsessively quiz the driver to ensure I'm on the correct bus.  I was caught off guard the other day when the bus driver quizzed me.  He was a cheery fellow and as I hopped aboard he asked why I hadn't caught the earlier bus, the bus that had turned up just a few minutes before the bus I was on.  I must confess that I was somewhat baffled.  A)  How could the bus driver know where I was going and B)  How could the bus driver possibly know that I'd opted to ignore the earlier bus.  As it turns out the bus driver had assumed I was going into the city centre (it must have been the suit) and had been driving in the opposite direction and seen me sat at the bus stop.  Permanently punctual, I fear being late and so will arrive at the bus stop a good fifteen minutes before I need to be there.  Any hoo, I regaled the bus driver with the tale of my getting on the wrong bus and he was sympathetic.  He happily talked me through the various different stops, the different ticket types and how to know which side of the road you should be stood on.  When we arrived at my stop, with me already an hour early for my appointment, the bus driver offered to take me on a ten minute tour so that I could get a better idea of where everything was.  Now this - I think - was very kind of him but I was very aware that I was the only one left on the bus and didn't think it prudent to be taking ten minute tours with bus drivers.  I'm fairly sure it was innocent but you can never be too careful.  I thanked him for his time but declined the offer.  I hope I didn't hurt his feelings!

The Quiet Life

The next few blog posts will no doubt consist of me talking about things I'm discovering in the city.  Well, discovery number 1.  Surprisingly, I am finding living in the city to be a much quieter experience than living in the country.  I thought that we'd have more noise from the traffic crossing the bridge and maybe the dozens of neighbours who live above us, below us and either side of us.  But no.  It's been utterly peaceful.  So peaceful in fact that the only sounds I hear is the tweeting of the birds.  And - very importantly - not a pigeon in sight.  Last night I heard a boat horn but that was it.  In our previous flat there were constant disturbances.  Thursday night karaoke night, Friday night band night, Saturday night drunk night.  There were the massive coal trains that seemed to cause the whole town to vibrate.  There were the hoons who would constantly rev their engines and play loud music.  There were the non existant neighbours who, when they did turn up, made their presence known by blocking me in the house with their car and a cleverly positioned clothes horse, spraying me and my washing by watering their plants and thundering up and down the stairs like a herd of elephants.  So far I've yet to even see a neighbour.  So that's point number one.  City life appears to be fairly quiet!

Moving on a Budget

The weekend just gone by was the weekend of the big move.  And as big a move as it was, we still had to do it on a budget.  A budget that pretty much extended to the hiring of a small truck for less than 24 hours.  So here's the numbers:  one small truck, three people, a two hour drive to Sydney, two households to move.  Waking up on Friday morning with those numbers in my head made for a daunting start.  But then, I got up at 7am, where as Mystical Roo and Monster Noggin had been up since 4am.  They ran a load up in the ute and the trailer and then returned around midday with a truck.  We loaded up Monster Noggin's belongings and then the three of us returned to Sydney.  That truck was an experience.  The three of us were squished in side by side and there was no air conditioning, no radio and no chance of getting above 80km/h.  There were a couple of hills where things got decisively iffy.  Still, at least we weren't stuck in the massive traffic queue heading South.  We bounced along, taking much longer than normal to get to Sydney, and I got a really warm bum because I was sat above the engine.  When we finally arrived it was after 5pm and we realised - with ever growing horror - that we still had to go back again, load up our house, drive all the way back and then unload. What a mission.  But we cracked on and the three of us started to haul furniture up two flights of stairs.  All I can say is thank God for Monster Noggin because she can carry some seriously heavy stuff.  If it was left to me to help Mystical Roo then we'd still be sat on sofas outside of the front door.  We scurried back and forth, we battled with angles, we had fun on the tail lift and then finally we were back on the road, downing energy drinks and talking nonsense.  When we got stuck in that southbound traffic (oh yes, a turned truck continued to block the road well into the night) we broke into song and started waving at fellow truck drivers.  Games were played, super powers were discussed and Thai food was ordered.  When we arrived back at our flat it was 9.30pm and Ammy and Treacle were ready to help us load up our furniture.  There was more scurrying, more moving up and down the stairs and poor Monster Noggin had to tackle Mystical Roo's underwear drawer.  11pm and we were back on the road to Sydney discussing the fact that a) we had to get the truck back first thing in the morning and b) there was no way we could start unloading at 1am without angering all of our new neighbours.  The truck continued to bounce, Monster Noggin got cold and I continued to have a warm bum.  A petrol station stop saw Monster Noggin harassed by a staggering drunk and a staggering drunk seen off by a rattly old truck.  More energy drinks were consumed and by the time we reached Sydney at 1.30am we decided we would just have to get up early and quietly unload first thing in the morning.  A mattress, linen and pillows were snuck up the stairs and the truck was parked up for the night.  Sweaty, stinky but totally exhausted we set our alarms for 5.30am and crawled into bed for a rejuvenating four hour sleep.  6am and we were back on it, sneaking down the stairs and skulking back and forth with the "quiet" furniture.  No talking, no giggling, no heavy breathing.  We were like ninjas in the early morning light.  7am and we figured that was it - the truck was brought round, the fridge was unloaded and we started to move the "noisy" furniture.  There was much success and we offloaded the truck before celebrating with a big breakfast.  Then it was back to the flat in the relative comfort of the ute to load up the last of our furniture.......We've been back and forth to Sydney more times than I can count in the last three days.  We've worked so hard but finally, finally are moved in.  And whilst we really need another weekend just to recover, check out the view from our new apartment!

A New Adventure

So, exciting news in the world of Little Stalky.  Mystical Roo, Little Stalky and Monster Noggin are moving to Sydney!  Mystical Roo, Little Stalky and Monster Noggin are moving to Sydney...this weekend!  Holy pigeon!  Yes, we've been hunting for a while and have today been given the OK on an apartment.  This has been the cause for much celebration because for the past few weeks we've been anxiously biting our finger and toe nails as we desperately searched for a home.  I don't know if anyone has tackled the rental market in Sydney but it's a complete nightmare.  The people seem to outnumber the rental properties by about twenty to one, making it hugely competitive and highly stressful.  The last month or so has seen us driving all the way to Sydney to run from property to property as we tried to catch each fifteen minute viewing window, all the time watching over our shoulders for "the woman in the grey tights".  Mystical Roo could possibly qualify as a stunt driver for all the  impressive weaving and parking he's done in a city that doesn't appear to be designed for cars.  We've seen the good, the bad and the smelly and the relief we now feel at actually having somewhere to live is indescribable.  So, Stalky fans, it will soon be the beginning of a new chapter in Little Stalky world as Little Stalky and the gang tackle the big city.  Can you imagine the adventures?  Can you imagine the chaos?  Now, I need to start packing because I haven't done anything and we move on Friday.  No pressure!   

Laughing in Your Sleep

There are a number of things that might wake me up of a night: bad dream, noisy drunk, need to pee, too hot, too cold, phone going off.  Sometimes, it's Mystical Roo that wakes me up.  He snores on the odd occasion and has once or twice nearly pushed me out of bed.  He claims he was asleep the time his arm connected with my face but I still have my suspicions.  Any hoo, stuff wakes me up.  But the other night was a first when I woke up to the sound of laughter.  Blurry as ever when being woken up in the middle of the night it took me a while to work out what was going on.  Laughing drunks?  No, it was in the bedroom.  TV left on?  No, not that.  Mystical Roo?  Ah ha.  Yes, Mystical Roo was laying on his side and laughing his head off.  What I couldn't fathom was what Mystical Roo had found so funny.  And why was he laughing so loudly when I was trying to sleep!  I wondered if Mystical Roo had received a late night text message, a joke or a humorous video.  But in the grey I could just about make out his phone sat on the bedside table.  Had Mystical Roo had an insanely funny dream?  I was awake enough by this point to actually question him.  I gently asked him why he was laughing.  His response? "In the club."  This made no sense to me so I asked him again, only to get the same response.  Two things went through my mind at this point.  1)  Was he referring to the infamous 50 Cent tune "In Da Club" or 2) was he still tittering after watching an episode of "The Inbetweeners" that saw them in a club.  I was confused and it was only when I realised that both Mystical Roo's laughter and response made little sense that I deduced that he was indeed laughing in his sleep.  Not talking or screaming like a normal person but laughing. Oh well, at least he's happy when he's asleep.

Little Stalky's Number Seven

I've come to realise that grumpy old men - and I mean grumpy old men very specifically - have major issues with my handwriting.  I'd like to point out that I'm not being sexist, ageist or moodist and I'm not saying it's every grumpy old man out there, but there are certain grumpy old man who have been complaining, to me, about my handwriting.  So you're wondering what this is about?  How is my handwriting causing offence?  It's specifically when I write out access codes for these grumpy old men to use to open the gate.  I give them a six digit number, written in nice bold numbers in a big black marker.  Yes, my handwriting is not the best but these numbers are more than legible.  The main beef (this is a technical term) that they seem to have is with my use of the number seven.  It's because I write my sevens with a cross - you know, the European seven.  I've always done it this way and feels it helps to differentiate between a seven and a one.  The amount of grumpy old men who point this out is getting ridiculous.  They make such a fuss about it that anyone would have thought I'd written in a foreign language.  Just for fun.  The weird thing is that no one else has a problem with my sevens.  Every other person is fine.  It is only the grumpy old men.  They like to use the seven to try and put me down.  They point at it and sneer before questioning what it is.  They look at it, knowing full well it's a seven, before asking rudely why I write my sevens in such a silly manner.  They squint at the card and hold it in my face before demanding to know what number the seven is.  It's a seven!  You fool!  I can accept that perhaps there are people who've never seen a European seven but is there any need to be rude about it.  Do you have to bring attention to the girl standing behind reception just because you disagree with the way she writes her sevens.  Someone even pulled me up on my number two (stop giggling) the other day.  He literally scowled at me and demanded to know what "that" was.  I politely replied that it was a number two, to which he told me it looked nothing like it.  It bloody well did look like a two.  He needed to get his eyes checked.  So I get picked on a lot for my number sevens.  The number two was a one off.  But I refuse to submit to their tactics.  I will write the number seven how I want to write the number seven and I will not conform to their tyrannical, number inhibiting ways.

Little Stalky's Leg

Who knew that taking the rubbish out could be such a dangerous experience?  Not I!  But apparently it is, as I found out when I was attacked by something unidentified and pointy just the other day.  There I was, innocently taking out the rubbish on my way to work.  The rucksack was on, the headphones were in and the sun was shining.  All was fine in the land of Little Stalky until I swung the bag up to throw it in the bin and felt a painful scratch across my thigh.  I looked down and saw a long mark across my leg.  There was a pause - that moment when you hold your breath and wait to see how deep it is - and then blood started to flow.  I'm a little bit squeamish about seeing my own blood but oddly enough the only thought I had at that point was "oh dear, I'm going to be late for work."  Having dumped the offending bag I was torn between "walking it off" and dashing upstairs for a plaster.  As it turned out walking it off was not going to be an option as it was bleeding quite a lot.  I cursed the bin bag, ran upstairs and grabbed the medical supplies - a couple of plasters shoved in an empty ice cream tub.  I washed the wound, slapped on a mountain of Savlon and covered my leg in one, two, three, four plasters.  I figured that should do the trick until I got to work and could complain to the girls about my injury.  So I took off, walking faster than normal to make up for lost time and arrived at work without losing the leg.  Luckily for me there was not one but two first aiders on that morning and they both took a look at the leg.  Then everyone else in the office looked at the leg.  Then the postman arrived and looked at the leg.  My left leg got almost as much attention as Angelina Jolie's leg did at the Oscars.  The wound was rubbed with alcohol (that stings), rubbed with iodine and then covered in a much more substantial plaster.  I felt satisfied that the wound had been taken care of until both first aiders told me I would need a tetanus shot.  Really?  It was just a scratch.  It wasn't even that deep.  But the wound was inflicted by an unknown source - it could have been a bin bag dwelling shark - and it was best to be on the safe side.  So what do you do when you're unsure of whether to heed this advice?  You ring your mum, who is not only your mum but who also was once a nurse.    You will accept her answer as definitive.  So when your mum tells you to get the tetanus shot, you grudgingly accept that after the simple task of taking the rubbish out you now need to get a needle stuck in your arm.  I'm never putting the rubbish out again.  

Sea Scuzz

I went for a surf on Sunday with Mystical Roo and Monster Noggin and was quite frankly shocked at the state of the ocean.  It was filthy.  It was a beautiful sunny day and normally the water is crystal clear but on Sunday it was brown and muddy.  There was scuzz (an official term) floating on the surface and just foam everywhere.  Mystical Roo and Monster Noggin informed me that this was because of all the rain we'd had.  The rain water collects pollutants off the surface and then it all drains back into the ocean.  A week of heavy rain has therefore caused scuzz and foam.  Disgusting.  But that didn't stop us going in.  Because apparently we're disgusting.  There were so many people out there I figured it couldn't be that bad.  Actually, it was quite rank and after about half an hour I decided to go and sun myself instead.  Unable to get past the waves and out into the deep (because I am too small and weak) I was just getting smashed in the face with wave after wave of foam.  And as much as I tried to keep myself up and on the board the inevitable happened and I went under water.  I went under the foam and face first into the brown murky water.  Nasty.  But not as nasty as the kids who were playing in the foam.  They were rolling in it, picking it up and throwing it, bathing in it.  I took Watson and made a swift exit.  There's really only one place for foam and that's on top of a beer.

Little Stalky Likes the Leopard Print

It's stylish and practical 

Stalky fans may be aware that I am a lover of all things leopard print.  I know leopard print can be seen as tacky and I know that there are some less than appealing stereotypes of leopard print wearing folk out there but I like to think that my use of leopard print has it's own Stalky style.  And leopard print has been an integral part of many Stalky adventures.  Who can forget the leopard print umbrella (LPU) numbers 1 and 2, both of which perished in horrible storms.  Or what about my leopard print wellingtons that have proved essential in the declogging of drains and the unflooding of balconies.  In other non weather related leopard print adventures, I enthused over how Google Chrome let me customise my browser with it's own leopard print design. Hell, even the blog has leopard print.  I have leopard print swimwear, leopard print dresses, leopard print scarves and shawls.  I have leopard print shoes and I once even purchased some leopard print tissues, though these were sent to another leopard print lover, Bear Z, as a gift.  Yes, I send tissues in the post as gifts.  My latest addition to the leopard print family is a leopard print phone cover, which not only protects my cool new phone but makes it stylish too.  One day I think I'm going to put on my leopard print bikini, my leopard print wellingtons, my leopard print shoes and my leopard print scarf, whilst making a phone call on my leopard print phone, writing a leopard print inspired blog on my leopard print themed blog on my leopard print themed browser.  I know what you're thinking.  Is this what I'm doing right now?  Am I sat here typing in a bikini?  Well, no.  It's bloody freezing to be honest.  All I have to do now is invest in some leopard print bedsheets.  Mystical Roo is willing to cut a deal.  Leopard print bedsheets get the thumbs up if he can have some Norwich bedsheets.  What a stylish pair we shall be.

Little Stalky's Over Active Imagination

Do you ever have moments in the shower when you totally freak yourself out?  Like you're stood there, thinking about nothing more important than what to have for lunch when all of sudden, out of nowhere, your brain starts remembering scary details of horror films.  And you remember that people in horror films get attacked in showers.  And then you realise that you're home alone.  And the wind is whistling.  And the rain is raining.  And the door creaks.  All of this is happening and you've got shampoo in your eyes, so you can't open your eyes because it will sting but you really want to open your eyes because all you can imagine is someone stalking towards you with a knife, gun, axe, pitchfork.  So you rinse the shampoo in record time and open your eyes only to realise that you have a really, really over active imagination.  Or is that just me?  Because this has happened to me on more than one occasion and I really spook myself.  I don't even know where I get these ideas from and maybe I should start locking the bathroom door but then I think I'd be imagining someone shimmying in through the skylight.  The skylight that doesn't open.  But still.  I was thinking about this because the other day I had an extreme freak out.  I was showering, as you do, pondering not very much at all, when I heard the door creak.  Of course there was shampoo in my eyes at this point and of course I started wondering if there was a stalker at large.  Mystical Roo was at work, I was alone and the door was unlocked.  We all know that I get randomers opening my front door - who's to say that one of them didn't make it all the way up the stairs.  So I set about rinsing the shampoo but wouldn't you know it, something really did make a lunge for me.  I felt it - on the back of my leg (obviously some evil being had snuck into the shower without me hearing it)  a kind of wet, rough hand followed by a sharp grazing sensation.  Obviously, someone with manky hands was going for my ankles with a blade.  Obviously.  Or, when I finally opened my eyes, an exfoliating glove and my razor had toppled and hit me on their way to the floor.  Yes, that's right everyone, I was attacked by an exfoliating glove and a razor.  It was the exfoliating glove, in the shower, with the razor.  Will my adventures never end.

Jumping Pillows

I had never heard of a jumping pillow until I moved to Australia and started working in a holiday park.  Someone once asked if we had a jumping pillow and I pictured a bedroom style, bedroom sized pillow.  After initial confusion I confirmed that we did not have a jumping pillow.  I then set about finding an Australian to explain to me exactly what a jumping pillow was.  As it turns out a jumping pillow is almost like a bouncy castle, though without the sides and roof.  It's a massive inflatable pillow that kids can jump on.  I encountered my first real life jumping pillow when we went camping last weekend.  Exciting times.  There were no rules to say the jumping pillow was not for adults and we figured that as long as there were no children using it then there would be no harm in us having a quick bounce.  And bounce is what we did.  We bounced high, we bounced low, we bounced sideways.  We bounced for less than a minute before becoming utterly out of breath and exhausted.  My God!  These things are so easy when you're a kid but put a grown woman on a jumping pillow and she becomes an exhausted mess.  Then of course there's the acrobatics.  You know, cartwheels and back flips and what not.  Apparently, once you hit your twenties, your body doesn't want to bend and flex in the same way it did when you were ten.  And it gets really cross with you the next day and shows you how cross it is with very achy muscles.  Jumping pillows are exhausting.  We were shown up by a young boy who turned up and started doing back flips.  Unable to do back flips ourselves we then started encouraging the boy to up his tricks.  One back flip.  Two back flips.  Three back flips.  After eight back flips in a row the kid seemed a little dizzy so we gave him a round of applause and then retreated back to our camp.  He probably went back to his mum to tell tales of a bedraggled group of adults demanding a show of back flips.  But that's the jumping pillow.  It brings out your inner child.  And whilst your inner child is demanding you leap around like a lunatic, your outer adult is screaming at you to stop.

Land Shark?

El Kenco recently brought a video to my attention that absolutely, one hundred percent, without a doubt, proves the existence of land dwelling sharks.  Or, as the lady in the video says, land shark.  I think it's a culture thing - she's American, I'm English (living in Australia) so to her it's a land shark and to me it's a land dwelling shark.  Either way, sharks that live on the land and not in the sea is obviously an international problem.  So I thought I'd throw the video out there as evidence of land dwelling shark activity.  Be warned Stalky blog readers, this video has many naughty words so if you're offended by that kind of thing then don't press play.

Balcony Dwelling, Strawberry Eating, Grape Hating Lizard

I've been aware of a lizard hanging out on the balcony of late.  He's not always there but every now and then he  pops out from behind the BBQ and says hello.  It's my belief that he now lives behind the BBQ.  I'm not really sure what lizards munch on but I decided that I would give him a strawberry.  And not just any strawberry but a strawberry from my very own garden.  What a lucky lizard.  It was at this point that Rabby informed me lizards were, are and probably continue to be carnivorous.  Still, I offered the lizard that strawberry anyway.  Of course as soon as I came over the lizard ran for cover, fearful of the giant lump that was lumbering towards him.  I made my offering and then returned to my seat.  It wasn't long before the lizard poked his head out and came to investigate.  He seemed highly interested in the strawberry and after eyeing it curiously he then proceeded to circle the strawberry before diving in head first.  That lizard mashed his face into the strawberry like it was the best treat in the world.  If I'd thought it was possible that lizard would have had his little lizard paws, claws, mits, wrapped around that strawberry.  He was loving it, coming up for air once in a while and opening and closing his mouth with a somewhat thoughtful expression on his face.  The lizard then spent the next ten minutes or so returning to his BBQ, coming back and circling the strawberry, mashing his face into the strawberry and then retreating.  So excited was I by this development that I decided to lay out an offering of grapes too.  Evidently the lizard does not like grapes because I haven't seen him since.

Step Away From the Magazine

Does anyone else get nosey when queuing at Woolworths?  Or at Coles.  I don't want to appear biased.  Whilst I'm waiting at the check out with my trolley full of stuff I find that I end up examining the contents of other people's trolley full of stuff.  I can't seem to help it.  I watch people unload their shopping onto the rubber belt (I'm sure it has an official name) and I find myself comparing shopping.  Comparing shopping or merely wondering how many cats a person has to be buying that much Felix.  Or Whiskers.  Again, I don't want to appear biased.  I don't want to be accused of product placement or anything like that.  Anyway, I got thinking about this today because whilst shopping in Woolworths this morning, Rabby and I were queued behind a woman who had nothing in her trolley but magazines.  Magazines.  And this wasn't just a few magazines but actual stacks of magazines.  And the weird thing?  It was all the same magazine.  No variety, no mixture, just one magazine.  Rabby and I exchanged raised eyebrows and I had to fight the urge to ask the woman why she was buying copious copies of just the one magazine.  She may well have sold out the shop.  If I had wanted that magazine - which I didn't - I would have been sorely disappointed.  Because one woman had just bought them all.  All of them.  And I can't help my curious nature.  I want to know why she was buying that many of just the one magazine.  Is she in the magazine?  Is she doing that thing you sometimes see in films where a person will try and buy all the newspapers in their town just so that someone they know won't see an incriminating story.  Was Woolworths just her first stop?  Was she headed to the newsagent next?  Maybe she just really likes the magazine.  Or maybe she really hates it.  Or maybe she owns the magazine and wanted to boost its sales.  There are so many questions and none of them are answered.  Tis a frustrating life that I lead.

Carrot That Tastes Like Soap or Soap That Looks Like Carrot

As a blogger it's interesting to see where your traffic comes from and it's somewhat astonishing to realise that people from all around the world are reading your random ramblings.  What's even more astonishing though is the search terms that seem to lead people to Little Stalky World.  I check this out from time to time and whilst some people are also concerned about what might be eating their lemon tree there are an awful lot of people searching for carrot that tastes like soap.  I think this is what I find most surprising.  Why are so many people searching for carrot that tastes like soap?  Is there some sort of problem with the carrots out there or is there a genuine market for people who want carrot that tastes like soap.  And what do these people think when they read my post about the time I was eating carrot that tastes like soap?  Are they relieved that they're not the only ones out there who've eaten carrot that tastes like soap (I know I am.)  Or they simply bemused at the bizarreness of the eating of carrot that tastes like soap.  I've been pondering this only because this seems to be the most popular search term that brings people to my blog.  I honestly didn't realise that there were so many other people also thinking about carrot that tastes like soap.  It seems there really is a problem with the carrots out there and perhaps someone - I don't know who - needs to address it.  Is it a problem with the carrots or is it a problem with those of us eating the carrots?  Is there a faulty taste bud that makes certain carrots taste like soap.  Or, as I think I might have discussed before, is there some psycho out there, making soap, carving it into a carrot like shape, sneaking into the grocery stores and fruit and veg shops and swapping the normal carrots with carrot shaped soap.  Who would do that?  A soap psycho.  But what do I know?  I'm just the girl who rambles on about carrot that tastes like soap.  Now I've put carrot that tastes like soap so many times in this blog that maybe the people who are searching for carrot that tastes like soap might well read this.  So, if  you've been searching for carrot that tastes like soap and you've stumbled across this blog, would you mind commenting and discussing your problems with carrot that tastes like soap.  Thank you.

Little Stalky and the Gang Go Canoeing

It was Australia Day yesterday and in the spirit of spending time with family whilst enjoying the country in which we live, we decided to head out for a spot of canoeing.  There were ten of us in total and thanks to the expert planning of Treacle, were all kitted out with sparkly hats, party poppers and noise makers.  What more do you need whilst canoeing.  Beer?  Yes, we had that too.  The weather behaved and we were able to set off on the river with just a light smattering of cloud and nice warm temperatures.  It was a nice route with the river flowing steadily and one or two rapids to challenge our paddling skills.  Most of the rapids were tackled with no problem - a few of us back to front - but mostly no problem.  But there was one rapid that thwarted a number of us.  I was thwarted.  But thwarted only because I'd gone to rescue Mystical Roo's hat.  It had flown into the water and Mystical Roo had gone through the rapids seemingly unaware that he'd lost his sparkly headpiece.  I dove to the rescue but then got myself in an awkward position for going down the rapids myself.  In fact I got wedged against a rock and was unable to free myself.  Every time I pushed myself away I got pushed back again.  I was stuck.  And what did Mystical Roo do?  He turned around, pointed, laughed and then got his camera out.  And that's the thanks I get for saving his hat!  No, it was Monster Noggin who came to the rescue.  She heroically paddled over, risked getting stuck herself and then pulled me to freedom.  Women have got to stick together because men just point, laugh and take photos.  Meanwhile, after being freed, the rapid then took another two victims.  Two who happened to be sharing one canoe.  Two who happened to hit a rock, wobble, unbalance and then capsize.  Mystical Roo was still on the camera and managed to get actual video footage of this along with evidence that he was laughing the whole way through.  Ok, I'll admit it - we were all laughing.  But it was rather funny.  There were party poppers floating down stream so we had to coordinate the canoes to undertake a party popper rescue mission.  After the excitement of the rapids there was much lizard spotting and although no one believes me because I was the only one that saw it, bright purple bird spotting too.  I hadn't even had any beer at this point.  Or been attacked by leeches.  I was NOT hallucinating.  It was a nice way to spend Australia day and a great way to enjoy the outdoors.  We finished off with a surf at the beach followed by fish and chips.  Now that's a good day.  

Monster Noggin Meets Trolley Dude

This is quite possibly the biggest development in Trolley Dude history.  So big in fact that I don't even know where to start.  Trolley Dude, hard working herder of trolleys, best Woolworths worker out there.  We've followed him for a while.  We've commented on his hair.  We've seen his rise, his fall and his rise.  And now...Monster Noggin has actually spoken to Trolley Dude (cue dramatic music).  I was tucked up in bed on a Saturday night when my phone awoke me to advise that a text message had been received.  A text message?  In the night?  Who could it be.  It turned out it was Monster Noggin.  But it wasn't an ordinary text.  Oh no.  This was a photo message.  And who did I see in the photo?  Monster Noggin posing with none other than Trolley Dude.  I was agog.  And totally impressed with Monster Noggin's Trolley Dude spotting skills.  It was quite possibly the best picture I'd ever seen.  Yes, I was shocked that Trolley Dude was out and about in public but who knows, he might have been on a covert trolley mission.  He might have had a trolley with him for all we know.  Anyway, Monster Noggin later told me that she had a full on conversation with Trolley Dude.  She explained that he was famous and appeared regularly on a super amazing blog.  Trolley Dude seemed unaware that there is an international Trolley Dude signal and that a number of us use it when we spot him at Woolworths.  Monster Noggin also asked if he'd lost his Trolley Dude powers when he cut off his hair.  Trolley Dude had apparently seemed confused at this question.  Confused?  Or feigning confusion because we know too much.  I say that's more likely.  So, contact with Trolley Dude has been made.  What will this mean for the future?  How will this change the way Trolley Dude spotting works?  I guess we'll have to wait and see.  

Will is Overthrown

I've not made mention of that feral pigeon in quite a while now but Will, as he is more commonly known, has been about and up to his usual tricks.  Until now.  It appears - and I don't want to jinx it - but it appears that Will has been overthrown by a massive posse of cockatoos.  I have never known cockatoos to hang around our neck of the woods but for the past week they've been flying in and taking over the place.  It's always the late afternoon and early evening and they arrive like clockwork.  These birds are fairly large and they seem to fly in packs.  They also make on hell of a racket.  They squawk when they fly, they squawk when they land.  They squawk when they're sitting still.  And this isn't a gentle cooing or a melodic bird tune.  This is full on screeching.  They're possibly the noisiest birds in the world.  So they fly in, noising up the place before performing a variety of acrobatic tricks.  You've got cockatoos hanging from branches by their beaks, cockatoos spinning around electricity wires, low flying cockatoos that skim your head.  It's a cockatoo circus.  They're like a rowdy gang.  And they're a rowdy gang who have totally taken over Will's territory.  I haven't seen that pigeon in days.  He's obviously gone into hiding.  The question now is whether or not Will will return.  And if he doesn't, does that mean the gang of cockatoos is here to stay?  

Little Stalky Goes Deaf

As a learner surfer I spend a lot of time under the water.  I somersault beneath the waves whilst Watson flies off in another direction.  This time spent underwater had a bad side effect the other day when it caused me to go totally deaf in one ear.  Shocking.  You might think I had a load of sand in there.  Maybe some seaweed.  Maybe even an ear dwelling crab.  But no.  It was wax.  And not of the board variety.  My ear clogged up and for a few days it was like living in a bubble.  Everything was echoing and seemed very far away.  It made going to work a barrel of laughs.  I was fine on the phone, with the handset pressed up against my good ear, but I couldn't hear a word anyone was saying in the office.  I encouraged my colleagues to throw things at me but I could hardly do that with customers.  Instead I opted for shoving my good ear in their general direction and hoped that my squinty concentration face didn't scare too many people away.  There were many things that got misheard but generally I made it through.  In fact, I think the bad ear did me a service when it calmed down a potentially angry customer.  Gearing up to give me a mouthful about something that was totally out of my control I actually stopped the man, indicated the bad ear (which had cotton wool shoved in it) and apologised because I couldn't hear properly and could he possibly speak up.  I obviously won the sympathy vote because after that he was perfectly pleasant and even seemed apologetic for getting angry at the girl with the bad ear.  Maybe I should go around with cotton wool in my ear more often.  Anyway, I'd been on the ear drops for three days but nothing had cleared so I made an appointment to see the doctor.  The ear was so bad that when I was in the surgery I didn't actually hear the doctor call my name.  I apologised and advised it was because of the ear.  The doctor asked me if I'd hurt my neck as I was holding my head at a funny angle.  I replied that I was simply angling the good ear at people.  She laughed.  The cause of the blockage was wax and I was offered the chance to get my ears syringed.  The nurse warned me that some people get dizzy and find it a weird experience  but I found it to be quite pleasant.  It was almost refreshing having warm water whooshing around your ear.  Apparently I have very small ear canals, which is why they got blocked.  It also meant that a lot of water went whooshing over both me and the nurse.  The hazards of small ears.  But I felt the ear clear and my hearing rushed back to me in a matter of seconds.  I excitedly announced that I could hear again and the nurse excitedly showed me all the crap that had just fallen out of my ear.  No ear dwelling crabs in sight.  I had both ears done for good measure and now my hearing is as good as new.  So far, it's been a very productive day!  

The Beach Umbrella

Don't trust me - I'm evil!

When you're on the beach, what provides equal amounts of hassle and entertainment?  No, it's not a land dwelling shark.  There's nothing funny about a land dwelling shark.  It's large, it's round and it's often stripy.  Not a sunburnt tourist but a God damned beach umbrella.  Beach umbrellas. Why do we even bother.  They're nothing but trouble.  The coast is inevitably windy so unless you've got some sort of anchor attached to your beach umbrella then you can be fairly certain that at some point during the day the beach umbrella is going to make a bid for freedom.  And as I said before this can be a hassle.  Or this can be highly entertaining.  It very much depends on whether or not that beach umbrella belongs to you or someone else.  Because watching someone else running down the beach, chasing their beach umbrella can be hilarious but when you're the one doing the chasing it's often embarrassing and humiliating.  And that's what you get for laughing at someone else's misfortune.  You end up running down the beach, bikini bottoms working their way up, bikini top working its way down and then the next thing you know you've fallen over a small child and fallen into a pit.  A pit dug by the small child.  And your umbrella is half way down the beach attacking unsuspecting tourists.  I suppose you could always ignore the beach umbrella and give it up as lost but someone would know it was yours.  Someone would have been watching and laughing and knowing that you were letting your beach umbrella attack other beach goers.  It's enough to sully a reputation.  So you have to chase your beach umbrella.  Our beach umbrella leapt out of the sand the other day and hurtled off down the beach.  I jumped up just in time to see a startled man holding the umbrella.  He'd caught it mid flight.  I apologised on behalf of the umbrella and he confirmed he was unharmed, merely startled.  Well, an umbrella in the face will do that.  Those things move fast.  So fast in fact that they can fly out to sea, as witnessed today by Bear Z, Rabby and myself.  Luckily for us, it wasn't our beach umbrella that had decided to take an ocean voyage.  This was a red and white striped thing that literally bounced across the beach before ploughing its way through a group of swimmers and over the heads of some unsuspecting surfers.  Nowhere is safe.  A beach umbrella can attack you from anywhere.  I saw a woman in a swimsuit make a vague attempt to follow her beach umbrella but she quickly gave up when she saw how quickly it had headed out to sea.  But there were some valiant swimmers out there who grabbed the thing and pinned it down.  It was a surreal sight to watch three or four swimmers trying to bring in the beach umbrella that refused to go back down.  I think one of them finally managed to tackle it into submission and the beach umbrella was returned to its red faced owner.  I think that beach umbrellas have an agenda of their own.  They're obviously not happy sitting on the sand and giving shade.  They'll do everything they can to avoid this.  Turn inside out.  Flip upside down.  Flop over.  Head out to sea.  I'm starting to think the beach umbrellas are more hassle than they're worth.  I might just invest in a really big hat instead.  

Little Stalky's Shocking Discovery

I currently have three tomato plants on the go at the moment.  Two Baby Romas and one Baby Cherry.  The word "baby" is, in my opinion, a ridiculous adjective for these plants as all three of them are monsters.  Monsters.  The "baby" Romas are so big that they had to be strapped to the railings of the balcony in order to stop them from toppling under their great weight.  A stick was not enough.  No, they needed full on, metal support.  Baby?  I don't think so. But monsters or not, that has not stopped this bad boy from taking up residence in a tomato.  Look at the size of him!  We'd become aware of the fact that there was something - probably a horned caterpillar or doom - munching holes through tomatoes.  I wasn't impressed.  I wasn't happy.  But I did not expect to see this thing!  There he was, in the middle of the day, face down in tomato, ass up in the air, completely unaware that fists were being shaken in its general direction.  This greedy little (the term little and baby are just being thrown around here today) caterpillar had been gorging on this one tomato for so long that his ass had gone all dry in the sun.  He'd burnt his bum in favour of food.  In my humble opinion I think that caterpillar had eaten so much tomato that his burnt bum had then become too massive to actually remove from the aforementioned tomato.  That fat ass caterpillar just couldn't move.  And that is what happens when you eat too many of someone else's tomatoes.  You get a fat ass and then you get stuck face down in tomato.  Unfortunate yes.  Unfortunate to the point where I think I actually took pity on that caterpillar.  Felt bad for the fact that he had a burnt backside.  But he had to go.  I had to think of my plants.  And whilst I've been known to go at the caterpillars with my secateurs I just couldn't bring myself to do it to the burnt bottomed caterpillar.  Instead he went over the balcony.  Away from my tomatoes.  Now it's up to him to defend himself.  And possibly go on a diet.

To Wetsuit or Not to Wetsuit

I have the blue one

With summer (finally) here, Monster Noggin, Mystical Roo and I have been doing much surfing.  I'm pleased with the fact that I can pretty much stand up every time and picture myself as a kind of crab as I bend my knees and balance atop a wave.  Pretty soon I'll be doing handstands and everything.  Anyway, with the hot weather we've been less inclined to wear our wetsuits.  Wetsuits are great in the cooler months but when it's thirty degrees outside and the sea temperature is up a wetsuit can seem pretty uninviting.  Smothering almost.  The thing about wetsuits though is they act not only as a kind of insulating blanket but also as a protector of modesty.  You're free to do what you want in a wetsuit without the risk of things falling out or off.  This is probably less of a problem for Mystical Roo but for Monster Noggin and I, the decision to go wetsuitless is a considered one.  Because without  a wetsuit, what do we wear?  I recently opted for my most secure pair of bikini bottoms and a scratch vest.  I must say that not only did everything stay where it should have done, it actually felt quite liberating being in the water without the wetsuit.  I could feel the water on my arms and legs and had more room to move.  To bend and stretch.  To attempt handstands.  I also felt like I was about to slip straight off of Watson.  He needs more wax.  It's no good leaping on the surfboard only to slide straight off the other side.  The only other issue is I now have surf rash.  Sore arms and sore legs where my skin was unprotected.  So it's a tricky one this whole wetsuit business.  It's hard work putting it on and it's hard work taking it off.  It's very hot.  But it does prevent surf rash and helps keep you stuck to your board.  Perhaps I should be in the market for a lighter version, suitable for summer.  Perhaps I should just man it up and stop complaining.