Morning Pages & Basketball Shots

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know. We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course. While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength. She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au/).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path.

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do. In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises. I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit. I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort. However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages. I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates. I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do. But the Morning Pages I found quite useful. Eventually. That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning. Long-hand. A brain-dump as such. To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron.

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me. I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations.

But I soon came to learn the difference. When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop. With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages. Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall. One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun. I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’. I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child. Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest.

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager. The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop.

So, the homework exercise should have been easy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me. Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework. Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But... Perhaps it is not too late. A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20. I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed).

Another few weeks passed. But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court. Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful. I had no ball control. My shooting action felt ugly. But… no one else was around to see. I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free. Free to play.

I have been twice since. My ball control still sucks. I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills. But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going. Once or twice a week would be fine. Soon I will feel more confident. I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line. But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do. It will just be about ‘doing’. About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again. Work through it. Do what I like. Skip over what I don’t. Who knows what will come next?

Borrowed time

Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.

My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.

He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.

So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.

Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.

His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.

Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.

After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.

I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.

We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.

We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.

He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.

Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…


The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.

Do-over

I used to think it was very strange that my brother had an uncle younger than himself. Even stranger, the fact that my grandmother had her last child (at 40 years of age), after her eldest child – my mother – gave birth to her first child (at 20 years of age).

Now that I have reached the meteoric heights of my 40s, it seems less strange. Well, not the 20 year gap between my grandmother’s first and last child, or the notion of becoming a grandmother at 40, but having a child at 40 doesn’t seem strange at all.

What IS strange to me, is the concept of people still having kids in their early 20s, which means that by the time they reach my age, they could well be a grandparent. When I see shows like Australian Idol or the like, I am shocked that the performers’ parents look my age. I wonder how someone my age could possibly have almost-grown children when I, myself, am still contemplating (only now) embarking on the parenthood journey.

Today I received the quarterly magazine from the college I lived at while I attended University. Each time I one arrives, I scour the pages, considering the photos of current college residents. Unlike the broader and more diverse University population, they are usually fresh out of school and in their late teens or possibly their early 20s.

I try to remember my own face at 18 years of age and wonder how I compared to the bright-eyed enthusiasm beaming back at me from the Alumni magazine. Putting aside the fact that the college did not print a newsletter when I attended, I cannot reconcile the fact that 24 years have passed since I first entered the musty and unwelcoming corridors of what-was-to-be-my-home for a couple of years.

Even as I typed that line, I thought that surely it must only be 14 years. Surely my subtraction has gone awry somewhere? It means I have to wonder what the hell I have been doing for the past 24 years! It means I look at the current shiny batch of collegians with envy, and – worse still – regret.

Why can’t that be me, I wonder, wishing more than anything that I could live the past 20 years again. Differently.

I want a do-over. I want to hit the “Undo (Typing)” button and be 18 years old with my whole life ahead of me.

I cannot begin to even think of the number of things I would do differently. And that’s sad. There are so few things I would do the same. And that’s even sadder.

I remember my brother surprising us with a visit home from university when I was in my final year of high school and sitting exams. He picked me up from school and though I wasn’t one to stress about exams in those days, I was probably complaining about what was expected of us. I still remember him telling me to make the most of that time. High School. He said that everything gets harder after that. University. Work. Life. He was right.

My niece cringes when I try to offer her ‘life lessons’. Usually about important issues – don’t start shaving your legs unless you really have to; don’t over-pluck your eyebrows; white heels are never a good look etc. But, there are some lessons I wish I had paid more attention to when I was younger.

I recall being at basketball training one day, at a time when I was only 15 or 16 but playing in a senior women’s representative team. A teammate, who seemed old at the time but was possibly only about 30, told me how much she envied me; how much she wished she were me. To her, I had all of this potential and my life ahead of me. To me then, in the throes of a battle with anorexia and life seemingly bleak, she made no sense. And yet, I have remembered the incident. The conversation.

I feel the same when I see a group of young women – fit, healthy and alive. Before life’s pressures start to wear one down. Before bits start to sag. Before exercise becomes a chore to fit into a busy day. Before you suddenly realise you are in your mid 30s and single and wonder where the hell life has gone.

My life is (I hope) far from over. But there are so many things I should have done, that I didn’t. Decisions which should have been different. Rules obeyed and dreams deferred. There is some saying about how you should regret only what you have done. Not what you haven’t. I would like to think I could live by this tenet in future, so that I am not sitting here in another 20+ years, writing of my regret.

So then – if they would listen - I would be saying (to these collegians staring back at me as I turn the magazine’s pages) to make the most of what you have. You only get one chance and life is shorter than you think.

Everything old...

I discovered something about myself this morning…. I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song. Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!). Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but (either-way) it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new.

Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!). Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes. I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.

A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”. And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music. And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.

Everything old is new again, it seems.

The Rules of Patience

I am not a patient person. And, I know there are sometimes when I operate at the other extreme. Irrationally so. I hate that I do everything at break-neck speed, from eating and speaking, to reading and writing. I just find it hard to pace myself. To plod. I occasionally find it very difficult not to finish people’s sentences, or ask if there is any point to their long-winded diatribe, but can generally force myself to demonstrate some restraint, allowing me to function in polite society. I realise too however, that some people are just dawdlers - with no inbuilt concept of time, or so laid back that they don’t worry about it anyway.

That said, there are some occasions on which I feel justified in my impatience. And, as my new resolution is to write less self-deprecating blogs, this is (instead) a rant about those occasions.

As Exhibit A, I offer you… the supermarket. As a single woman who shops only with hand-baskets (never a trolley), I sometimes pity the women traipsing around, toddler on one side moving in slow motion, grabbing at everything and a howling baby ensconced in the trolley. At this point in time, this is not a challenge I face. I am in and out. Fifteen minutes max. Eight minutes is my recent record. I rarely have lists and avoid unnecessary aisles. I am generally on a mission. I know what I want and where to get it. So, my pet peeve does not just involve those who get in the Express Checkouts and have basket loads of things, as this is sometimes unavoidable if the other checkouts are laden with fully-loaded trolleys and their hapless owners. The actual scanning of items doesn’t usually take that long. Instead, my biggest frustration comes from those who feel compelled to use the Express checkouts (aptly named for those in a hurry) and then (seemingly at the last minute) decide to pay with a credit or debit card.

Until recently I never used plastic in the Express lanes. I thought it was rude and offered an unnecessary delay to those behind me. I would go to the Autobank machine before going into the supermarket, even though it sometimes meant paying an additional fee. Though, not-amazingly, others didn’t show me the same consideration.

I do sometimes use plastic now, as you can mostly skim your card as soon as the person on the checkout starts scanning your groceries. This means (and, people – listen clearly) YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY HAVE FINISHED RINGING UP ITEMS before you leisurely reach into your bag to locate your purse, to then dig out your credit or debit card and then skim it through the card reader. It means you can actually skim it through WHILE the items are being scanned, thereby saving time – not to mention the sanity - of the growing queue behind you. In my less rational moments, as the dawdler in front of me is staggering away, I always find myself compelled to (loudly) comment how much I hate people who do not make an effort to skim their card early. HELLO PEOPLE, THESE ARE EXPRESS CHECKOUTS. If we had all day to dilly-dally, we would queue up behind those who like to fill their trolleys to toppling-over point.

Another cause of angst for the less-patient of us are those who dawdle along busy inner-city footpaths at peak times (before work, lunch time and after work). Most of us are rushing to catch a bus, get to work or grab some food and get back to the office, so there is nothing more frustrating than those who walk 3, 4, 5, 10 abreast at a snail’s pace and essentially blocking the entire footpath. The rest of us – in a hurry - find ourselves ducking one way, then another, as we try to work our how to overtake the offenders without actually ramming into the outermost dawdler, or barging through the middle.

Of course, as school holidays are almost upon us, I am trying to prepare myself for the most annoying of footpath-hoggers. Visiting tourists and leisurely shoppers, out for a day in the big city. Pottering along the footpaths, occasionally stopping dead in their tracks to work out where they actually are, causing unsuspecting workers to ram into mum, dad and the kids, clad in their big-city-clothes. I do realise (of course) that this makes me sound terribly patronizing – but time for some of us is at a premium. I rarely leave my office during the day anyway, but as a rule I never venture out during school holidays.

Finally (for the moment anyway!) my final annoyance is one which will soon be a thing of the past. I have written before about the tedious bus journey to and from my workplace in the city each day. This in itself is a source of angst. I live only 4kms from the city but peak hour traffic means my journey (via express bus) each way is anything from 40 – 60 minutes. Most travelers are regulars. Soberly (and somberly) going through the daily ritual and as impatient as I am for the journey to end. But… then there are the others. Amateurs, bus-catching ingénues or perhaps just selfish, ignorant SOBs. They amble on board then pull out their wallets. They then discover they only have a $50 note to pay the $2.90 fare. Causing the driver to dig around for sufficient change or count it out in $1 coins! Fortunately these serial pests have annoyed enough people that most express buses are becoming prepaid-only buses. Interestingly, the public outcry didn’t last long. I am obviously not the only one frustrated by the delays caused by the disorganized or the selfish.

I have a friend who is a dawdler. She is sometimes stunned at my impatience and surprised that I worry about things that might only amount to a few minutes’ delay. And it is true. A minute or two is not (often) life or death. While I know I am overly anxious about time – always have been and always will be – this is not solely the source of my frustration. Much of my anger arises from people’s lack of regard for others. We do not exist in isolation. Instead we subsist in a bustling world of people bouncing off one another. Where we are all busy, frantic with too much to do in too little a time. We shouldn’t be making it harder for each other. We should be trying to help each other out. Making it a bit easier for the drone next to us to make it through the day.

The Grand Gesture

Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn't glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.

I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did 'want' John Cusack's character (Jake), Diane Lane's character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.

As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.

In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.

In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape - to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.

I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.

The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.

Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.

I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?

Playing with the big boys

I realise I usually write about the important stuff: television, movies and dieting, but sadly I find myself compelled to stoop to writing about politics. And this is because I have to admit to being a bit embarrassed. And though I am easily embarrassed, it is usually because of something I have said. Or done. Or worn.

This time it is not even really my fault. I am just tainted by association.

Having all-but-ignored news and current affairs for a few weeks (not sure why other than waning care factor) I have just had my parents visiting and so have been subjected to a barrage of television and radio news.

So this exposure, on top of my weekend newspaper ritual has highlighted a recent theme, which has resulted in my current state of embarrassment. I find myself wondering how on earth 'it' has come to this. And I ask, "When did we suddenly become so uncool?" And by 'we' I mean 'us'. Australia and Australians.

Okay, in all honesty we were probably never really considered (by anyone other than ourselves) to be that cool - having recently been led by Mr Magoo for what-seemed-like a millennium and by a few dodgy characters before that. But, at least we (in true Australian-style) showed a healthy disdain for what others thought of us. In that way we were too cool to be cool. Or something.

So, what has me currently shivering with distaste is how desperate we seem to have become. Like little puppies with tails wagging madly, waiting for someone to pat them; or like 50 year old women dressed like 20 year olds hanging out at a bar. We reek of desperation. To be liked. Or more specifically - we want to be liked by the right people. We wanna hang with the cool kids and play with the big boys. And by we, I mean our media and our politicians. I find myself shocked at how excited 'we' are to be seemingly moving from the kids table and invited to sit with the grown ups.

As I understand it, our Prime Minister (aka Kevvie), through his witty climate change and economic sustainability repartee has seemingly given us something to crow about on the world stage other than some acting A-listers, the occasional sporting hero and our pristine beaches. Well, so says our media. And, even the most avid of Kevvie-haters seem impressed at his recent performances which have catapulted us from southern-hemisphere-obscurity to centre stage.

But, when did we become such 'try-hards'? Such wannabes? As I pour through the weekend papers, I cannot tell if the media is truly excited that our first lady got to lunch with Michelle Obama or if the reports are indeed some tongue-in-cheek reference to our desperation to join the cool kids' table.

Sure I think Barack and Michelle Obama are pretty groovy and I suspect my mouth would drop to the floor at the sight of them, but surely other world leaders who are (on paper anyway) their equivalents should not be quite as awestruck by their presence. Shouldn't they be treating the US President as just another world leader rather than a superstar with whom they clamber to be photographed?

What does it say about us that - as a nation - we are thrilled at reports that Barack Obama seems to like our Kevvie? Assuming that we are now seen by those-that-matter as one of the big boys (when, in fact, we may fade into oblivion as the fickle international political agenda moves on). We are like a desperate singleton at home after a first date, planning the perfect wedding to the guy she has just met! I cringe when I think of how smug some of those gun-toting, homophobic, puritanical (sorry I am generalising) Americans can be, when leaders such as ours, salivate just to be in the same room as theirs.

I don't know if I blame Kevvie. After all, he doesn't seem quite as desperate as Prime Minister Magoo was with his (then) counterpart, and quite frankly Barack Obama is way cooler than President Bush (# 1 or 2) - not to mention, a million times more legitimate. Who can forget that period in Australian politics when George Jnr took Mr Magoo to his private ranch and declared him his deputy sheriff in the Asia/Pacific region? And surely the (then) government's manouvering during that time - including our role in Dubya's "War on Terror" to thwart the Axis of Evil - will remain one of our less stellar achievements.

But, this desperation to be 'accepted' still plays on my mind. "Aren't we better than that?" I ask hopefully. On one hand I feel that Kevvie is doing us proud in his own smug 'I am the smartest kid in school' Mandarin-speaking way; earning brownie points through legitimate intelligence and good policy, rather than brown-nosing and joining ill-advised wars for the hell of it.

On the other hand, Kevvie and our media are coming across as WAY too happy with our G20 performance which is why I actually find myself cringing with shame - not at our efforts to join the big boys; but at our desperation to do so. Aren't we cooler than that. Whatever happened to Aussie ambivalence? To not giving a damn what others thought of us?

Aspirations are fine and a legitimate voice in international politics is worth chasing, but I think we are walking a fine line. Hanging with the cool kids is a worthy goal, but we need to be careful that - as we have done in the past - we don't have to sell our souls to get there. If we do, perhaps we should think about focussing on our own backyard. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with being a big fish in a small pond.