When I was four years old I pretty much had the world sussed out. I knew where wind came from, I knew that girls were icky and I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was going to be a police officer, or a fireman, or an astronaut or some combination thereof. Now, at twenty-two, I've discovered that most of what I held to be true was not as cut and dry as I had thought.

Sadly, time waits for no man and before I knew it I was only a semester away from graduation. The point is driven home whenever I talk to people and they ask about University. Usually the conversation goes something like this;

“So you’re still at University?”
“Yeah, well I’ve only got one semester to go.”
“Oh great! Then what?”

Then it all falls to pieces. The person stands there with their smile gradually becoming frozen and fixed while I stutter and mumble, increasingly desperate to say something that will satisfy them. Lately I've taken to making up complex lies that will get them off my back but if pressed I will confess to the truth, that I don't know what comes next.

But if I've learnt anything so far it's that not knowing what comes next isn't the end of the world. Getting the piece of paper doesn't immediately guarantee you a job in your dream area but it's a start. Sometimes a start is enough, a vague direction instead of an explicit set of instructions. Now if only I could convince the people who keep asking me what I want to do with my life...

I think it's safe to say that I have not led a particularly boring life. Most people my age have not had invasive medical procedures, been threatened by a dangerously insane Swede, performed actual feats of magic or gotten into fights with old ladies at the gym. In fairness most of these experiences are hardly things I've sought out and many is the time that I have really hated the situation that has fallen into my lap. True they are usually hilarious in hindsight and hopefully the event of which I am about to speak will become one of them.

For those of you who know me well I don't really need to explain how I get to and from University on days that I have class. But for those of you who don't, strap in. It's going to be exciting. On days that I have class I dutifully load up my satchel, ensure that my fly is done up and then I walk. It's not a long walk, nor is it particularly difficult. There is a minor incline but once I had walked it a few times I feel I built up the stamina needed to get up it every day. The walk itself is not the subject of this little episode, rather it is the people I see.

I like to listen to music, it makes a walk easy and sometimes I pretend I'm Rocky only without all the pointless running and getting into shape. Music also cuts down on the amount of thinking I'm able to do when I walk to Uni so that, when I finally get into class, my head isn't full of the usual crap like "I wonder what would happen if I had laser vision but I couldn't control it." Another feature of music is that it cuts down on the awkward interaction I would usually have to have with the people that are out watering their gardens or washing their cars. Normally I could simply nod, smile and maybe mutter a 'good morning' or a 'garden looks lovely' and then pretend that the song I was listening to had reached a particularly dramatic crescendo and I could therefore be excused wanting to draw out any subsequent dialogue.

A few days ago I was making my way up to campus when I spotted an elderly lady walking out of her house and hacking vigorously away at some weeds. She looked up, spotted me and smiled. My earphones were in so I did my usual; nod, smile and then I made a perhaps fatal mistake. I waved. The old lady, perhaps mistaking this wave for some sort of secret handshake, started to gesture furiously at me. I was rather taken aback but as she continued to gesture I was able to work out that she was calling me over. Normal people would probably have a little alarm bell that would ring at this stage, warning them to simply pretend not to have seen her and continue along on their merry way. Sadly I don't.

I paused my music, took out my headphones, looked both ways, and crossed the road to where the lady was still gesticulating furiously. Immediately she began to grill me as to what I was doing walking along this stretch of road, why I had a satchel and how frequently did I take this route. All of these I answered as honestly as I could, bearing in mind that I was beginning to run late for class. I'm not convinced that my responses actually meant anything to her as she waved them aside and began a five minute monologue about how frustrating her neighbours were and their efforts to utterly sabotage her garden. Like any person raised to be polite I made the appropriate, "Oh I never", sorts of declarations. The sort that indicate you sympathise with the person but that's really where it ends. This was to be mistake number two as she clearly took these to be oaths of loyalty and began showing me all the vandalism around her property and finally extracted a promise from me to keep an eye out for any vandals messing with her trees. Readily I agreed and then made my excuses to leave, thinking that would be the end of that. Unfortunately, as I learned today, it was not.

While walking home from a productive few hours in the library I was spotted by the old lady and once again she furiously motioned at me to cross the road. With a sinking heart I did. When will I learn? It turns out the little old lady had sought legal advice from a friend who had told her she needed to catch the vandals in the act. She proceeded to drag me around her garden showing me hundreds of different cuts on her trees that, honestly, looked all alike and that she could have done herself along with a whole database of photographs of the various cuts. Then she told me all about her evil neighbours who were trying to drive her away and how they had poisoned her trees and were cutting them back. Halfheartedly, I asked why she didn't just report them to the local council and then her true madness was really revealed. While many believe in conspiracies as vast and varied as 9/11 being a hoax, Harold Holt being kidnapped by Soviets and Aliens secretly running the world, this little old lady had set her sights to a far more mediocre one. Namely that the local council was in league with her neighbour to get rid of her. I had unwittingly walked into the plot to an action-thriller except that instead of Bruce Willis and a pretty girl, I had an elderly lady who was probably a little bit senile. But oh how much worse it gets.

During this conversation the old lady had clearly decided I was to be her agent in the black, her silent partner, the ace in the hole. She didn't just want to complain, she wanted to recruit me into her invisible war. So invisible, in fact, that she was the only combatant. She asked me if I knew of any surveillance cameras that she could purchase and I, due to not being google, told her honestly that I did not. Though if I thought that was to be the end of it I was mistaken. The little old lady pulled out a Filofax (who even uses those anymore?) and asked me for my mobile number, so she could contact me once I had researched surveillance cameras for her (something I never agreed to do). This is the point I am most ashamed of. This moment. For when she asked me for my mobile number I couldn't just say no.

From day one I have had manners ruthlessly drilled into me to the point where, if someone were to stab me with a knife, I would probably apologise for inadvertently taking their knife with me. People may know me as sarcastic and sometimes rude but in social situations like this one my manners are the only experience I have to fall back on so when this little old lady asked me for my number I did the only thing I could. I gave it to her. Admittedly I had the presence of mind to give her my old number so, with any luck, I'll never hear from her again but she still managed to get me to write down not only her name, but all three of her mobile numbers and a blind system which would allow us to communicate without her neighbours finding out. Because, as she pointed out, they might open her mailbox and take any letters I leave for her.

Genuinely at this point I feel I have only two options, the first is to simply take part in this insane little war against her neighbours and the second is to fake my own death and then take a different route to University every day.

The really sad part about this story is that every single word of it is true.

The late but final part of this series is here. Any fool can drop an assignment in a submission box but here at Jono's blog we show you how to do it in style.

Cover Sheets

Your epic essay detailing the rise and fall of the fax industry will become an anonymous assignment when it goes into the submission box. Unless you've taken the time to build a close relationship with your tutor (or bribed them) they won't know who you are or what your writing style is. With that in mind you should make sure your name and student number is on every page of the assignment and, more importantly, that there is a cover sheet on there. Without one your assignment might spend days, bouncing from department to department, until it eventually lands on your tutor's desk and they immediately deduct 100000% for being late. Cover sheets can downloaded or found outside of your submission box. Online submissions usually require a cover sheet as well but tutor's are sometimes more forgiving.

Referencing

Remember that great quote you found and included on that fax machine assignment? The one that really brought all your points together in a way that you just couldn't manage? The one you forgot to reference? The one that you're now being accused of plagiarising? The one that lost you your place at University? Always check all your references are in place. Forgetting to reference isn't an excuse that will carry much weight. Also always check you're using the referencing style your professors want. Full referencing guides are available on the library portal.

Turnitin

This is a wonderful program that scans and compares your essay to its huge database and finds any plagiarism. If you simply copy and paste a whole section from Wikipedia then the chances are turnitin will pick up on it and you'll get caught. Not every unit requires you to put an essay through turnitin first but you should always check with your tutor. The important thing to note is that turnitin can take as long as 48 hours to get your essay back to you. Allow for this time because your tutor might not accept it as a valid reason for your assignment being late.

Otherwise you've finished your first University assignment. Once you put it in the box do your best to completely forget about it. Stressing over what result you are going to get won't do any good. My advice is; clean up the mess from the hours of sitting in front of your computer, eat a healthy meal and then go out and do something fun. Regrets about what you should have done can wait.

Pre Departure

On the 30 of October 2010 I received a phone call from my mother while I was at work. My father, Charles Jeffery Gurney, had suffered a fatal heart attack. A week later I stood under the hot sun in a garden in front of more than a hundred people and stumblingly read out a small speech I had written. These were the words I wanted to say, the words I needed to say. I’m going to put the speech, in its flawed entirety, below. I’m going through a tough time right now and it probably won’t get any easier any time soon but I promise you that I will make every effort to put up blog posts whenever I can. 

My father passed away two weeks ago so the blog has gone on a bit of a hiatus. Luckily my friends have provided me with some guest posts in my time of need. 

My alarm will usually go off at seven and my brain will spend a panicked few seconds trying to get my arm to move and turn it off. I've talked before about my sleep schedule and how I'll often suffer from bouts of insomnia that make the early classes a form of torture for me.

The odd thing is that during the break I had no problem getting up at seemingly ridiculous hours to get to work on time but as soon as I need to haul my ass out of bed for a nine thirty lecture all of a sudden the snooze button on the alarm starts to be abused. Perhaps it's because I now live off campus and actually have to walk for about twenty minutes to get to class or perhaps its because I get paid to show up to work, either way today I had an 8:30 class and that inspired this little post.

Campus is an interesting place first thing in the morning as it is virtually abandoned. If you're lucky one of the cafe's will be open and you can get some life-giving caffeine. There are also some coffee machines on campus now that actually dispense halfway decent coffee for only $2. On Wednesdays the Guild gives out free slices of toast so if, like me, you have to skip breakfast because you've been a bit generous with the snooze button you at least don't have to go into your lecture hungry.

Other than that campus is a serene place before the buses start dropping students off, the long procession from the village begins and the car parks begin to fill up. If you get there really early, as I have on some occasions, you can simply relax on bush court and perhaps get some readings done before your tutorial. When the sun is shining and you've got a free piece of toast getting up early doesn't seem so bad.

Without even realising how quickly it had gone by the break is now over. Next week kicks off semester two and, as always, I find myself grossly unprepared. Partly I think it’s because I’ve been working so much to save up some money before I go back to the 20 hour limit but I also think the break made me lazy. That being said, here are some predictions for the semester to come.

The People

I could devote an entire book to the people I’ve met so far on this trip but that would take a long time so instead I will devote a single post to 4 people that have really stuck out. These individuals have introduced themselves to me, usually while I’ve been sitting in the dining compartment, and each of them can definitely be described as a “Character”

Satan Gilbert Fox

This was the curious individual I mentioned earlier. Mr. Fox is of the belief that he is a direct descendent of Satan. I hesitate to challenge this assumption as he also seems a harmless sort whose only crime is to attempt to sell his various artworks to people sitting in the dining cart.

Mr. Fox approached me while I was working on some other writing project. He introduced himself and shook me by the hand before launching into a lengthy explanation about how he was a direct descendent of Satan and was considered a prince by some. Sadly this would not make him the strangest person I’ve ever met so I didn’t really think much of his behaviour. Unfortunately he then pulled out some very interesting art-work that he attempted to sell to me. I have a lot of trouble saying no to people who are trying to sell me stuff or ask for money so I felt like I was in a very awkward position where I would end up purchasing most of his art. Luckily I was saved by the duty officer who politely asked Mr. Fox to follow him out of the cart where they could have a polite chat.

Apparently it’s not legal to attempt to sell goods or services to passengers onboard the Indian Pacific and Mr. Fox had run afoul of this rule. Luckily for him he was simply reprimanded and given a free meal but he could have been put off the train at our next stop. Not a desirable outcome.

The Proud Nanna

I have sadly forgotten this lady’s name as Kieran and I had been having a few drinks when she approached us and introduced herself.

For the purpose of this post we shall refer to her as the ‘proud nanna’ because that is just what she was. Nanna started by asking us where we were from, before debating with us as to whether we were being honest. Then the usual disbelief followed when she found out I was in fact old enough to drink and Kieran was not my father. Finally she settled down into the booth opposite ours and began to tell us her life story, punctuated with extremely expressive hand gestures.

It was Nanna’s first trip on the Indian Pacific and she had loved every minute of it. The joy of being able to wander up and down at will instead of being confined to a tiny airline seat was the very peak of technological achievement as far as she was concerned. It also turned out that she was travelling with her youngest daughter and her husband who was back in the carriage snoozing. Her youngest was very well behaved, unlike some of the other children onboard, and, apparently, her grand-children.

Nanna was full of stories, many of them unfortunately unprintable, but she did keep us thoroughly enthralled for a few hours and did not kill us (always a plus).

The Married Couple

These two empty-nesters joined in our discussions with the Nanna and introduced themselves as frequent travellers on the Indian Pacific.

They were full of some interesting anecdotes about the train itself; their first trip aboard, the various tricks they use to secure a cheaper sleeper, their habits and methods to deal with the boredom that eventually sets in and their plans for the holiday.

I make no excuses for the fact that I am fairly out of shape. I can run up a hill and not die but push me beyond that and I’ll break down into one of the ‘before’ candidates for the Biggest Loser. With this in mind I was put utterly to shame when the couple described all the jogging and extreme sports they were into. They white-water rafted and quad biked in between all the hiking they did and still found time to work successful jobs, one as a rail engineer and the other as a mad scientist (I kid you not).

The sadder story they told us was how much the Indian Pacific had changed in just 4 years. Apparently the train used to have a lot more services available to the Red carriage passengers. They spent a bit of time talking about the lounge car that used to be available which had big comfortable couches and a fully stocked bar. After a day and a half sitting upright these stories sounded like a paradise that had been cruelly snatched away by a cruel and budget slashing devil.

Ultimately all of these people will get off at Adelaide and, though new people will replace them, it will be hard to replace the bond that we’d somehow created.

Day One

We got on the train without much incident besides Kieran nearly leaving his travelling hat in the departure terminal. Our home for the next three days is two upright red chairs that recline a bit. They are quite comfortable but in that way that will become uncomfortable in the next five hours. Luckily we have a dining car a short walk down the train that we can go and relax in and we are forecast to stop in Kalgoorlie this evening.

This wouldn’t be an Australian train if it wasn’t also a licensed venue so we will be able to purchase beer and wine on board should we feel the need. The advertised food sounds very good but we are pretty sure it will turn out to simply be glorified airline cuisine. The Gold Class carriages have proper chefs (they walk through our carriage to get to their jobs) but we have a very friendly crew manning the canteen so I don’t feel we’ve been wronged.

I did manage to make myself look a bit of an idiot by simply handing the nice man behind the counter my debit card in order to pay for beer and wine. Without any prompting from me he had copied down my passport number, copied my card and opened up a tab for me. I have a nearly paralysing fear of debt and the like so I would have confronted the man about it but he seemed so happy about it that I didn’t have the heart to.

We sat in the dining car and enjoyed a quiet drink while the landscape sped past in an almost hypnotic fashion. I was drinking the classic Carlton Draught and Kieran was sipping at a small bottle of house red. The beer was nothing remarkable but Kieran did insist that I let everyone know just how bad the wine was, comparing it unfavourably to vinegar.

The earlier problem with the account reared its head as we discovered that we couldn’t close our account without spending at least $20 so we ended up with a few cans of coke and some twix bars. The dining car is small considering it serves three carriages but none of the carriages are even close to full yet so we have space to stretch out. More passengers are due to get on in Kalgoorlie tonight.

The current complement of passengers is interesting and we have quite a few ‘characters’ on board. One person in particular seems to think that he is one of the direct descendents of Satan. I haven’t really seen any evidence to support this claim but by the same token there’s none to refute it. Nonetheless we shall be keeping an eye on him and I will keep everyone updated.

I’ve been living in Australia for two years now but the furthest I’ve gotten out of town is the weekly jaunt to Fremantle for work or a visit to Joondalup to see family. With this in mind when the chance came up to visit Sydney I seized on it and the chance to see a different side of Australia.

The original plan was to drive from Perth to Sydney, a trip that would likely take us three days if we drove 9 – 12 hours every day. Unfortunately we decided to scrap this idea as the cost of fuel, food and accommodation would put it out of our budget reach. So the other option seemed to be fly directly to Sydney, it was cheaper and quicker, but ultimately we also decided against this as it wouldn’t really allow us to see much of the outback. Thankfully there was a third option; hop on the transcontinental train from Perth to Adelaide and then Sydney.

The Indian Pacific was the first uninterrupted transcontinental rail train linking Perth to Sydney from late February 1970. The train measures 711 metres, weighs 1375 tonnes and travels a total of 4352 kilometres (roughly 65 hours). The passenger accommodation ranges from the luxury sleepers to the ‘cheap’ seats which are very reminiscent of Airplane seating.

What particularly attracted me to this method of transport was that one of my heroes, Bill Bryson, had made a similar trip and had commented that it was a good way to see Australia. Unfortunately with no publishing company to pay for our voyage we had to choose the cheap Red service seats. Even with a fairly hefty student discount it was still much more expensive than flying.

The train leaves Perth at 12:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday the 7^th of July and arrives in Sydney on Saturday the 10^th of July at 10:15 a.m. We’ll be spending most of our time on the train but there are a fair amount of stops; including a quick stop-off at the semi-Ghost town of Cook, in the mining town of Kalgoorlie, a morning stop in Adelaide, an afternoon trip into Broken Hill and finally we get to Sydney. I probably won’t be able to upload these till I actually arrive in Sydney but know that they will be written on the train.