So long, blogspot!

I have moved here: http://annikskelton.com/

So this is Christmas

Around this time every year, my mother sits at her computer for a day and types up her annual "Skelton Family Newsletter." This usually opens with a witty anecdote about how domestically inept she is, describes something stupid my dad has done, bitches about the fact that my brother still lives at home, and then reveals everything embarrassing I've done during the year. Mum then prints out 400 copies and mails it to all her friends, family, neighbours, co-workers, bible study group, TAFE classmates, hairdressers, therapists and accountants. It's up to me to avoid all those people for the following 12 months.

Past newsletters have included the following:

• Annik has stopped going to church in order to pursue a life of sin (2001)
• Annik lost her virginity (2002)
• Annik went drinking instead of studying for any of her HSC exams (2004)
• Annik got alcohol poisoning (2004)
• Annik has been dumped by the same boy three times (2005)
• Annik has begun experimenting with drugs (2006)
• Annik failed her uni degree (2006)
• Annik has gained a stack of weight (2006)
  
  ...and so on.

I wonder what little gems Ma will choose to include this year? She has quite a selection to choose from:

• Annik has quit no less than five jobs throughout 2008
• Annik got her nose pierced and refused to remove the ring despite various infections
• Annik lied to an entire South African community in order to exempt herself from completing a volunteer work assignment and gain compassionate priority for an international flight
• Annik had a seizure and wet her pants in front of a thousand odd people at the Hordern Pavillion
• Annik can't remember her own birthday because she was so intoxicated she spent 3+ hours straight sitting on the same couch in front of a fan

I know I'm not a supermodel, you arsehole

I once dated what I thought was a smart guy. On our fourth (and final) date, we were out having drinks when I made a joke about being a supermodel.

"Oh my god!" he snorted, "That's hilarious! I mean, you're gorgeous, but you could never be a supermodel!"

I know that, cocknose.

You people are weird

Since setting up google analytics (which I am obsessed with) I've realised that everyone who finds my site through a keyword search is just hearing me bitch about whatever they've googled. Except this guy:

"trust me im a doctor nude kitty" sent 1 total visits

Now what in the hell is that about?

A lesson in eloquence

When I was nineteen, I shared a house in West Ryde with a twenty-six year old tradesman. This meant that 80% of the fridge space was taken up by beer and the TV could always be heard from halfway down the street, but apart from that, he was an acceptable housemate.

When summer began, my housemate's co-workers started coming over regularly to work on their cars in our large backyard. Undeterred, I continued my strict sun-bathing regime and spent every afternoon lying on the trampoline in a bikini. Gradually, I gained the attention of one of these guys, and once I knew I had it in the bag, I told my housemate to hand over my phone number.

"Why would you want to date him?" my friends asked, "He's a tradie."
"Don't be so judgmental," I scolded, "Just because he breaks stuff for a living doesn't mean he isn't intelligent, charming and interesting."

A week later, I received the following text message:

Hey, how rya? Do ya wanna go out 1 nite dis week n grab sum food n shit?

I sunbaked in the front yard after that.

Why I hate Easter

My extended family has always been split into two categories: Dad's side, and the exciting side. Seven people came out of my maternal grandmother, twenty-two people came out of those seven people, nineteen people came out of those twenty-two people, and another person has come out of those nineteen people. Mixed in have been twenty-six spouses, two adoptions, and three dead babies. Trying to remember everybody's birthdays is a total bitch.

When I was still young enough to be forced into family holidays, my parents would cram my brother and I into the Commodore and drive us up to Bundaberg. There we ran amok and slept at whatever aunt or uncle's house we happened to end up at after sunset, until my mother could no longer stand the heat, crammed us back into the car and drove back to Sydney.

I spent most of my time in Bundaberg at my Aunty Di's house. Apart from the lure of a sprawling mulberry tree and the privilege of helping my Uncle Ken make home brew, I chose this particular house because I was fascinated by my older cousin Alix. She had inherited her mother's fierce temper, lack of patience and volatility, and their arguments could reach spectacular heights in mere seconds.

"Did you pick up some bacon?" Alix would ask, standing in front of the open fridge.
"Oh.. Sorry, I forgot." Aunty Di would reply.
"Well I'm not making dinner then. You can all fucking starve!"
"Don't talk to me like that, you bloody prima donna bitch. Get the hell out of my house!"

Then Alix would slam the front door, climb into a boy's car and speed off down the road. It was better than fireworks.

My relationship with my own mother was based on rare and polite exchanges, but I was willing to try and liven things up.

The week before Easter, my kindergarten class was a frenzy of activity. We drew bunnies, made cards, and fantasised about eating chocolate until we vomited. Meanwhile, our mothers competed fiercely to create the best Easter Hat for the annual Easter Hat Parade. Well, most mothers... As usual, my Mum forgot about this until the night before. "Aww crap," she said, staring at the calendar, "How the hell am I meant to make you a hat before tomorrow?" Then, exhibiting about as much enthusiasm as she showed for housework, she glued some glitter and bunny ears onto one of my brother's baseball caps.

"I can't wear this," I protested, "It's stupid!"
"Don't worry," she promised, "I'll be there to deck anybody who makes fun of you."

But on the day, as I stood in line waiting for the Easter Hat Parade music to begin and cringing with embarrassment at all the other kids' cool hats, Mum was nowhere to be seen. Finally, halfway through the ceremony, she appeared at the back of the crowd with a cup of coffee in hand. I decided this was a good time to try out my newly learned conflict-resolution skills.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU BLOODY WITCH?" I shouted across the quadrangle.

Short of hearing, and thinking I had called her a "bitch", my mother marched through the lines of children, dragged me out of the Easter Hat Parade, and belted me in front of the entire student body of my primary school and their parents.

I did not win the Easter Hat Parade that year.

A few moons ago, I was drinking at the Ettamogah and watching my friend mack onto some guy in the beer garden. When they pulled apart for air, he smiled, stroked her hair, and puked all over the table. I think that's awesome.

Bye, Bert

The only memory I have of my grandfather is from the late eighties. I sat at the kitchen table of the small Bundaberg flat he and my grandmother lived in while my mother sat outside with Nanna smoking cigarettes. Grandad hummed and poured iced water into a tall glass, then dropped in a tablet of Berocca. To my enchantment, it fizzed and spat and turned the water a spectacular shade of orange. I assumed this was some forbidden adult-substance, like coffee or alcohol, but Grandad suddenly pushed the glass towards me. "You can have the first sip," he offered with a wink. I immediately adored him.

My grandparents met in Algeria in 1942. My grandfather, Bert, was stationed with British forces there while my grandmother, Annik, worked as a clerk with the French Intendance Supply Corps. Despite his many attempts to talk to her, Annik pretended not to speak English and ignored him until he one day asked her to go to the cinema. All five cinemas were requisitioned for the use of the military and only soliders were allowed to buy tickets - it was a tempting offer. "Alright," Annik said, "But only with my mother, my grandfather and my brother." Bert agreed and from that day on became a friend of the family. He and Annik fell in love, then he knocked her up and went to war. The only news my grandmother received of him during the next two years was a telegram saying, "Bert missing in action. Presumed dead." which one of his sisters had sent in an attempt to stop him from marrying "the French girl." Another year passed before Nanna received a letter from him saying that he was actually alive, and could she come to England to marry him? She did, and the rest, as they say, is history.

When I was five years old, I was racing through the house one day when I knocked over my mother's favourite vase. I carefully stacked the pieces so that, from a distance, it looked as normal, and left it on the shelf. Later that night, I heard my mother crying in her bedroom. I went in, head hanging, and told her that I was sorry I broke the vase.
"It was an accident!" I swore, "I'll get you a new one! Please don't cry, Mum..."
"No, darling," she said, "I'm upset because your grandfather died today."
"Oh!" I said, "That's good."
And I went to play with my brother's transformers.

All creatures great and small

When I was thirteen, my family lived in then-rural Kellyville. One morning my mother was driving me to school when a bird ran out onto the road and went under our car.

"Oh fuck," Mum said, slowing the car and peering into the rearview mirror. "I think I hit it."

I swiveled in my seat. Sure enough, a pigeon lay mangled on the road behind us. As I watched, it raised a bloody crushed wing and waved it in the air as if to say, heeeelp....

"Shit," Mum groaned, "It's still alive. I can't just leave him there like that!"

"That bird looks like it's in a lot of pain," I observed. "It would be inhumane to simply drive away."

Mum sighed. "You're right. I have to do something."

She reversed until we were behind the bird and squinted at it through the windscreen.

"Poor little fella," Mum said, shaking her head, "I hate thinking of him hurting like that."

She pushed the accelerator and we ran over it again.

"All fixed, darling!" Mum smiled, patting my knee reassuringly.

Wax on

As I lay on the beautician's table, a middle-aged Greek woman applied hot wax to my legs and patted on cloth strips. Each time she tore away a strip, she grunted and licked her lips. Together, we worked in silence - her inflicting; me enduring. When she got to my bikini line, however, she straightened and made an announcement:

"There's two things in life I never done."

I've always been intrigued by people, places and products that define themselves by what they are not, rather than what they are. Surely it's quicker if we just cut to the chase?

"Small-talk," I guessed.

"No," she replied, "I never had a nose bleed and I never threw up."

"I've never had a nose bleed either," I sympathised, "But I've thrown up a lot."

"I never threw up," she repeated.

"That's ridiculous, everybody throws up."

"I never did."

"But you must have," I pressed, "When you were a baby. Babies throw up all the time."

"I never threw up. You should get laser, save us both this shit," she advised, nodding towards my crotch.

I did.

Top 100 Books of All Time

Last weekend, the Sydney Morning Herald website published Angus & Robertson's list of Top 100 Books of All Time. The list was compiled based on the votes of 26,000 readers and confirms my long-standing suspicion that people are morons.

Here's my own little list.

Top 10 Reasons Why the Top 100 Books List is About as Definitive as a Cowpat:

1. The Harry Potter series stole first place. Has the world gone mad?

2. My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult scored 5th. This is one of those books I stupidly read simply because every idiot around me went on and on about how wonderful it was and claimed that it changed their miserable lives. So I read it, and then I tore out every page and wiped my arse with it. The plot of My Sister's Keeper is based entirely on a single ethical dilemma: is it right to take an organ from one child (against their will) in order to ensure the survival of its sibling? After debating this throughout the whole goddamn book, and including many tedious courtroom scenes filled with ridiculously inappropriate behaviour from the characters, Picoult neatly sidesteps the issue altogether by killing the protagonist in a car accident and leaving all her organs up for grabs. I almost expected to turn to the last page and read, "And then they all woke up and realised it was just a dream!" Fuck you, Jodi Picoult, you wasted four hours of my life and I want them back. I could have used that time to read something better, like the phone book.

3. Rolling in at number 8 was Tim Winton's Breath. Don't get me wrong, I totally heart Tim Winton. I would probably have sex with him based on his writing ability alone, and Winton is about as attractive as a dog's bum. But Breath just didn't cut it for me. The plot was shaky, the characters confusing, and the ending unsatisfying. The one thing Breath proves is that even if your idea is shitty, you can get by on superb writing skills alone.

4. April Fool's Day by Bryce Courtney slides in at number 25. Again, I love a bit of Bryce, but April Fool's Day is hardly his best work. What about The Potato Factory, Jessica or Four Fires? They piss all over a (sometimes) whiney account of Courtney's son's death, punctuated by uncensored rants against the public health system. On the bright side, you'll never shower without a raincoat again.

5. In 27th place is In My Skin by Kate Holden. In My Skin is a great read, but mainly for shock factor. Every bored housewife loves reading about a high class heroin-addict whore. Who cares if she can write? She's exciting. Idiots.

6. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini is ranked 29th. After The Kite Runner, I was expecting big things from Hosseini. Unfortunately, A Thousand Splendid Suns is about as engaging as a brick wall. I didn't even finish the fucking thing.

7. In 32nd place is Atonement by Ian McEwan. What the deuce is wrong with people? Atonement the book sucked even harder than the movie! McEwan seems to have taken a leaf out of Picoult's book too for the ending - after labouring through three hundred pages of meaningless romantic crap, you find out that none of it ever really happened in the first place.

8. Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist comes in at 57th. Oh god, now I'm really angry. The Alchemist is another book I read because everyone in the world recommended it to me. I thought it was a load of horse shit. This is by far the most boring, meaningless, mind-numbing novel I've read in the last year. Through Santiago's journey, we are supposed to realise that no matter how unattainable our dreams seem, if we just have the courage and determination to pursue them, we will succeed. This, my friends, is why so many losers try out for Australian Idol and cry when they don't make it through. The reality is you will probably never achieve your dream - that's why it's called a dream.

9. At number 89 is Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. WHY THE FUCK IS THIS SO FAR DOWN THE LIST? Sedaris is a goddamn genius. He's the Einstein of the twenty-first century. In fact, I think SMH's list should have consisted solely of Sedaris' work.

10. This is not a list of the Top 100 Books of All Time. It's a list of the Top 100 Commercialised Crap Published During the Last Fifteen Years With Some Token Austen, Bronte and Dickens Thrown In to Create an Impression of False Credibility.

Diseases/illnesses/conditions I have self-diagnosed at some stage of my life:

• Glandular fever
• Pneumonia
• Cancer of the brain
• Arthritis
• Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
• Epilepsy
• Appendicitis
• Broken ankle
• Leukemia
• HIV
• Anaemia
• Receding hairline
• SARS
• Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
• Emphysema
• Alcoholism
• Insomnia
• Heart murmur
  

Why I have a cat

Me: What exactly does the groomer do for your dog that you can't?

Kahlee: I bath her myself, but the groomer is supposed to give her a clip, clip her nails, express her anal glands, etc.

Me: I'm sorry, I thought you just said express her anal glands??

Kahlee: They get stuff in the glands in their butts, and if they're not expressed every 6 months it can be painful for them.. You kind of squeeze on their butt.

Me: Surely that's not really necessary? Do dogs in the wild walk around with sore butt holes all day?

Kahlee: Dogs in the wild don't eat processed biscuits.

Me: Another tragic example of how humans have ruined the world.

Trust me, I'm a doctor

My earliest memory is of lying naked next to my brother on the burnt orange carpet of our hallway in Candowie Crescent. I sucked on black jelly beans and cried silently while my parents rubbed a foul-smelling ointment into my skin. Holding my nose, I tried to ignore the revolting cream that was applied to my entire body from the neck down, but these things are hard for a three-year-old. This entire process was repeated for four consecutive nights, and then I was allowed to bathe as normal.

Years later, I realised my parents had been treating us with sulfur. Dad brought lots of things home from work, but scabies was the best - microscopic bugs that burrow under the skin, lay eggs, and create a red rash that resembles an allergic reaction in appearance. As the eggs hatch and the mites crawl around underneath the skin surface, the infected person develops a terrible itch, scratches the shit out of hisself, and often develops a secondary infection. My father had been working as a GP in a local nursing home in 1989 when they experienced an outbreak among the old folks. They treated the residents and doctors but didn't think about the doctors' families, even though scabies is extremely contagious and transmitted readily through skin-to-skin contact. For the remainder of my childhood, I would have an intense fear of insects. When I found out about bed bugs, I slept in the bathtub for a week.

My second earliest memory is of my father forcing me to solemnly swear to never practise medicine. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, for years I replied, "Not a doctor." Teachers and creche workers were fascinated by my inclination to define myself by what I was not, or would not do, rather than the opposite, but that ended up being the professional direction I would take as an adult. It's as if I have a giant list of every career possible and am slowly crossing them off one by one after each failed attempt to make a living. (Eventually, I assume I will be left with my dream job and a string of bad references.)

Dad only worked one job, but he had a hard life. He spent years building his practice and getting patients, and then the rest of his life trying to get rid of them. Admittedly, our number was never listed in the phone book, but do all other forms of advertising go completely unnoticed? An entire generation of Australian adults simply lived without medical care until they met my father at a dinner party in the eighties. Whenever I was dragged along with my parents, I would watch the other guests' faces light up as they chatted to Dad. "Oh! You're a DOCTOR? That's so interesting, because I have this pain juuust heeere..." and they would reveal the body part that grieved them. Even as a child, I was always amazed at the rudeness of these people. If you met a hairdresser at a party, would you hand them a pair of scissors and request a trim? If you met an accountant, would you ask them to do your tax before dessert? If you met a cleaner, would you ask them to pop into the kitchen and tidy things up a bit? Fuck no. But people thought nothing of pulling my father aside at tupperware parties, trivia nights and bible study groups and making him inspect their genitals. Over the years, almost every family friend, relative and member of my parents' church has adopted my father as their GP. Dad has dirt on everyone in the Hills.

My next earliest memories are of late-night trips to nursing homes to certify bodies. Mum was out a few evenings during the week and Dad couldn't leave me at home by myself when one of his patients died, so he took me with him. The first time, I waited patiently in the home's common area. I sat quietly and pulled leaves off a pot plant, but within minutes I was surrounded by gnarled geriatrics with glossy eyes. They shoved pieces of fruit into my pockets and tugged at my hair. One woman proudly introduced me as her granddaughter, then smacked away the hands of anybody else who tried to touch me. They drooled and moaned and hacked and couldn't hear a damn word I said, which was probably a good thing as I was pretty feisty for a five-year-old. After that night, I chose to wait for Dad in the same room as the corpse.

Not only North-West Sydney's preferred medical health professional, my father was also the go-to guy for household injuries and neighbourhood emergencies. I probably set the precedent when, one night in the early nineties, I jumped out of the bathtub and ran naked through the house. Still wet, I slipped and cracked my forehead open on the cement step in our kitchen. Instructing my brother to clean the pools of blood off the floor, Dad made me lie on a beach towel in the back room and calmly stitched my face back together. Years later, getting up to pee during the night, I would see the exact same scene happening in the kitchen after one of my brother's friends fell off his motorbike. People regularly arrived at our door with sprains, burns, grazes, cuts, dog bites, stuffed backs and split lips. Friends seemed to bring to Dad what they were embarrassed to take to the medical centre. He once dug a small bug out of a girl's eye with a Q-tip, flushed a bead out of a boy's nostril after he intentionally inhaled it, and sedated a friend's son after he had tried to scrape their mashed kitten off the road outside their house. Dad was brilliant during emergencies and could treat his own children without batting an eyelid, but when it came to general illness or ailment, my brother and I always went to our mother. Mum had cool hands and stroked your hair; she made you honey tea and prepared hot packs or cold packs or steamy rooms; she rubbed Vicks on your chest and dabbed calamine lotion on your mossie bites. My father, on the other hand, only ever had one piece of medicinal advice for us: "Take two panadol and lie down for half an hour." Nevermind the fact that I couldn't swallow tablets until I was ten - lying down for half an hour is practically impossible when you're a kid. No matter what symptoms we had, Dad's advice was always the same. It was as if he couldn't take us seriously unless we were bleeding or bruised or broken. I spent seven years complaining of headaches before Dad sent me to a specialist. Mum received even more useless advice than me - whenever she complained about an ache or pain, Dad simply said, "Aww that's no good." One day, Mum snapped. "Eight years of medical school and that's what they teach you? THAT'S NO FUCKING GOOD?" After that, Mum started seeing a female GP at one of the surgeries Dad owned.

Through eavesdropping on my father's phone conversations over the past twenty-two years, I like to think I've gleaned quite a bit of medical expertise. (Although I once overheard him tell a patient to "take two panadol and get a divorce.") Dad was always stupidly giving patients his home number, and they'd ring every night the minute we sat down to dinner. I listened attentively as Dad rattled off medications, dosages, statistics and warnings. I also disgusted myself thoroughly by reading his medical journals and learning far more than a child should about the body. At school, I showed off my drug-company pens and notepads (Zoloft was way cooler than Mambo!) and surveyed the playground carefully at lunch time. Whenever a student fell or injured themselves on the monkey bars, I dashed over. "Don't worry," I would reassure the growing crowd of spectators, "My father is a doctor." And they would make room for me accordingly. Then I would inspect my classmate, poke them in various places and ask if each one hurt, nod gravely, and escort them up to sick bay. There I briefed the school nurse on the incident and offered my diagnosis before she rolled her eyes and kicked me out.

The problem with my Dad is that he's too nice. He treats all our friends and family for free, even though he would never dream of using their accounting, consulting, plumbing or basket-weaving services without paying them. Even when he does things through the books, Dad accepts "alternative forms of payment." One of his patients, a greengrocer, gives us boxes of fruit after each appointment. An elderly Philippine lady with no medical insurance pays Dad in bizarre desserts (green things with jelly and spaghetti and mousse.) Most of the time, he just bulk bills everybody, even the "struggling" retired couples who request vaccinations before their overseas holidays and then drive away in their sports cars. Dad genuinely cares about his patients though, and he always puts their safety and wellbeing before his own. One day his most annoying patient, a recovering alcoholic, showed up to an appointment blind drunk and twirling his car keys. Rather than letting him put other road-users in danger, my father drove the patient home, stopping on the way to buy him KFC because the lush hadn't eaten in days. After dropping him home, locking up his car and tucking him into bed, my father then walked the 6 kilometers back to the surgery. In January.

As a side project to general practitioning, my father regularly taught sexual education at a local highschool. This meant that while he usually sidestepped awkward father-daughter chats by cutting a relevant article out of the newspaper and leaving it on my desk, he thought nothing of sitting me at the kitchen table and placing a condom and a carrot in front of me. “Practice makes perfect!” he declared, while I looked up at my mother pleadingly. I was thirteen.

Despite the scabies, career limitations, dead bodies, phallic objects and constant interruptions to daily life, having a father who is a GP has its perks. I can get scripts for anything, we have enough medication in the house to kill a rhino, there’s some great gear on hand whenever I have an emergency fancy-dress occasion, and people assume I’m rich. Unfortunately, I also have an unusually high tolerance to panadol…

The Music Blogs

TMB has officially launched! It's totally excellent. Go and check it out, especially my posts.

http://themusicblogs.com.au/

Got a light?

It's 9am and I've been up for four hours. I woke up at the butt-crack of dawn because I had a bad dream where my brother died - the fourth in a string of nightmares this week involving dead animals, cutting off my face with a razor, and being raped by wild bush-pigs.

No, I haven't been smoking crack before bed every night. I've been wearing nicotine patches.

Nicorette is possibly the greatest legal substance I have come across in the course of my adult life. Nobody knows you're wearing it and you get all the wonderful benefits of nicotine seeping directly into your skin without the pesky process of smoking, smelling like an ashtray, and the various safety risks associated with holding a flaming object in your mouth. I can wear my nicotine patch on the bus, in restaurants, at the office, around babies, and right next to the bar when I'm out drinking.

The problem is that rather than overcoming my addiction to nicotine, Nicorette has simply shifted the mode in which I absorb it. While wearing a patch, I am calm, relaxed, energetic and productive. The second the patch is removed, I feel antsy, yell at coworkers, pick fights with my boyfriend and cry. I also smoke cigarettes.

Over the past four months, I've noticed a developing pattern in my nicotine use. From Monday to Friday, I wear patches (approx $20 worth), and try not to think about cigarettes. It's hard work, especially when a lot of my friends smoke, but I often make it through the whole week without smoking once. This is not only due to Nicorette, but also stems from a strong sense of self-control, my ability to overcome temptations, and my incredible resolve. I like all these qualities in myself so much that I want to reward myself for them at the end of the week. I do this by having a cigarette.

Oh yes, as soon as 5pm rolls around on a Friday, I pack up my desk, rip off my patch and smoke until I feel sick. This is sometimes achieved within 2-3 cigarettes, but if I'm planning on drinking over the weekend, I usually just buy a deck in anticipation that I will be a walking chimney until the following Monday.

Now I'm no accountant (hang on, yes I am) but if I used to smoke two packets of cigarettes a week (~$26) and now I wear 15mg patches 5 days a week and smoke one packet of cigarettes over the remaining two days ($20 + $13), I'm really no better off financially.

Why is this stuff so fucking expensive? I run out of money, try to go patchless, SMOKE and then wind up right back at the start of the Nicorette 16-week goddamn program. Sure, I fall off the bandwagon every now and then, but isn't that to be expected? God didn't create the world in a day - he created it in SIX days, and then he took a cigarette break.

Annik's Tip of the Day on 12seconds.tv

La Response

Dear Miss Skelton,

Thank you for your feedback regarding your experience in our Myer Castle Hill store. We were sorry to read about the difficulty you have recently experienced while shopping, and appreciate having the opportunity to respond to your concerns.

It is always disappointing to read that our customers are dissatisfied with the service in our stores and we sincerely regret any inconvenience caused to you. At Myer we are committed to providing our customers with quality service at all times and customer satisfaction is an integral part of this commitment.

Please be assured that your feedback has been passed on to Chris Hind, Store Manager at Myer Castle Hill to enable him to review that stores customer service expectations.

Once again, thank you for taking the time to contact us. We trust we can meet your needs more effectively in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Antonella Theodore
Myer Customer Service
295 Lonsdale Street

I'll feed your back...

Thankyou for your feedback. Your information has been sent.

Following is a copy of the feedback you sent to us. We recommend you print a copy for your reference.

.

Name: Miss Annik Skelton

Suburb: Baulkham Hills

State: NSW

Postcode: 2153

E-mail: neekerz@gmail.com

Feedback: Complaint

Department: Electric

Store: Castle Hill Myer (384)

Feedback: Went to Myer at Castle Hill last night to buy a Macbook - sizeable purchase which I'm sure would have helped you guys make budget on what looked like a quiet night. Hung around the computer section for quite some time without being offered any kind of service from staff. Approached middle-aged female employee as she was passing and asked for assistance. She vaguely gestured towards a young male employee sporting a "soul patch" who was drinking from a large McDonald’s cup and having an animated personal conversation with his friend/potential shag. Blondie gave him digits and left - good for him. Tried to attract Patch's attention as he ignored me and walked away to the Service desk. Waited around some more. Began dismantling display table in an attempt to gain attention from Myer staff with no success. Waited longer. Made eye contact with another male employee and waved to him while he was serving other customers. When finished he also walked away to the service desk. Approached service desk and asked for assistance. Was informed that the product I desired was unavailable. Okay so that last part wasn’t really the employee’s fault but it was the icing on the cake. Will go to David Jones next time.

We will endeavour to contact you as soon as possible, however if your matter is urgent, please do not hesitate to telephone our Customer Service Centre on 1800 811 611.

MYOB

"Sometimes I steal things," my boyfriend told me on our second date. It was a little early in the relationship to be revealing criminal tendencies, even petty ones, but he'd piqued my curiosity.
"Like what?" I asked.

"Only small stuff," he reassured me, as though an item's monetary value was entirely dependent on its physical size. He would happily pocket an iPod or a pair of cufflinks, but he drew the line at a watermelon.

"Oh" I said, nodding, and mentally added this piece of information to the scorecard I keep for every man I date. This particular detail went in both columns: "Pro: spontaneous. Con: thief."

People always seem to be over-sharing with me. Perhaps I appear to absorb shocking news calmly, or maybe I seem non-judgmental. Whatever the reason, it has led to some knowledge I would have preferred not to receive.

“Be careful with those,” my mother cautioned me one day during my seventeenth summer, referring to the latest migraine drug treatment my neurologist had prescribed, “Topamax totally killed your father’s libido.”
“Oh don’t worry,” my boyfriend offered, “Annik’s libido is fine!”

That same year, I spent Christmas day cornered in my aunt’s living room as she clutched a glass of chardonnay and confided to me that she had discovered her first grey pubic hair. “I’ve got a snatch like a grandmother,” she sobbed, as I looked around the room wildly. Where the fuck was everyone? Eventually I spotted my brother and pushed him onto a chair. “Aunty Lorraine wants to talk to you,” I explained and escaped to the kitchen. There, my Nanna was baking honey jumbles and humming to herself. After placing a tray in the oven, she glanced behind her, then grabbed my hand. “Would you like to smoke a joint with me, dear?”

Despite my neutral facial expressions, perfected through years of being unsure how to react in social situations but wanting to appear cool, I do judge. I judge every single one of you, harshly and without mercy. I hope that some people get cancer. I hope that others get hit by trucks. At the very least, I pass along all that sensitive information you bestow upon me to whoever happens to be listening.

Still want to chat?