ONLY THREE MORE SLEEPS!

Until Bill Bailey.

I’m going to find the blueprints to the State Theatre and stealth my way in to meet Bill.

You have NO idea how flippin’ excited I am.

THE BILL BAILEY COUNTDOWN!

ONE WEEK UNTIL I GET TO SEE BILL BAILEY!

Be in the same room as him.
Breathe his recycled air.
Listen to his beautiful voice.
Laugh at his hilarity.
HOPEFULLY meet him.
Wouldn’t that just be wonderful? For me at least.

Ohhhh please let me meet Bill Bailey. Being so close, yet so far would just kill me.

Sickbay Re-Visited: Memories of Primary School

During the course of your schooling life there would have been many wonders to behold, many things to learn and places to explore. But perhaps, for myself at least, the most wondrous and important thing I discovered at school was a little place called Sick Bay.

Oh I can still smell the familiar whiff of paracetamol and bandaids (sometimes the smell of vomit overrode all).

It’s difficult for me to relive a time before Sick Bay was a part of my life; it simply hurts too much. But, for you, oh valued reader, I will do just that.

I had lived six years of an unfulfilled life before the glory of Sick Bay was revealed to me, and I think deep down I knew all along that something was missing. I went all through kindergarten and part way through year one as a perfect little student. I took great joy in counting to one hundred and reciting the alphabet numerous times, connecting the dots and writing my name in the right size and font, until one event changed my life forever.

I threw up my mandarin at recess.

The teacher on playground duty made me have a drink at the bubblers before getting an older student to usher me to the office, fresh tears streaming down my face. Mrs Hammond, the office lady and my friend Luke’s mother, took me under her arm and directed me down a hallway and into a small room.

I didn’t know what to expect, but what lay before me was a sight unlike any I had ever seen before in my life.

Three beds were lined up in a row, complete with pillows and blankets and a little red bucket beside each. Colourful posters and pictures and artworks that previous occupants had created whilst residing in the aforementioned beds adorned the brick walls, and the room smelled like peaches and all purpose cleaner.

But that wasn’t the best part.

All along the back wall, underneath the window, were three huge plastic boxes, each filled with a different joy. One was filled to the brim with stuffed toys of all shapes and forms, for the kindy kid to cuddle when they needed it; the next overflowing with books of many different reading levels, from Spot books to Babysitters Club novels (I enjoyed reading both), but the third was what captured my heart and had me wanting more of Sick Bay.

It was chock a block full of art supplies; paper, crayons, textas, glue, scissors, water colour paints.. It was like I had actually slipped through to an alternate dimension, or for you Enid Blyton fans, climbed to the top of the Far Away tree and into the land of Take-What-You-Want. I never wanted to leave.

But they called my mother, and she came to pick me up from school early without fail every time.

I became so familiar with the sick bay during my primary school years that I knew to get in before lunch to secure the bed that didn’t squeak, and that if Aaron was in the sick bay before you you’d miss out on the dinosaur story book because he’d sit there staring at the damn cover the entirety of his stay. Oh, how I adored Sick Bay.

Any time life was getting too hard, or school was getting too easy, or whenever I just wanted some quiet time, I would feign some sort of illness.

Headaches were a popular choice. So was nausea. Oh, and twisted ankles were always a winner.

My mother never was a silly woman, so she soon realised what was happening, and one day told myself and Mrs Hammond that I would not be going home early unless I had a temperature or threw up.

That wasn’t a problem, as I could have stayed in that glorious room all day long, but mother soon cottoned on and the rule was extended to encompass visits to the sick bay.

I tried everything to make myself throw up. Sticking my fingers down my throat didn’t work (and still doesn’t to this day), and neither did eating my lunch then chasing boys around the playground.

One day my friend Jessica Chandra (I’m almost positive that was her name) told me that eating blades of grass would make me throw up. I asked her how she knew that, she told me that one time she got hungry and ate grass, then threw it up afterwards.

So I tried it. All it did was leave a strange taste in my mouth, but didn’t make me sick.

I was left no choice but to wait until I was really sick to visit Sick Bay again.

Pretty soon I gave up, and Sick Bay was pushed to the back of my mind, but to this day I still occasionally think of that fabulous place, and all of the wonder it held.

I wish at this stage in my life there was a similar place to just go and have a sleep when the world is getting too tough, or when you just can’t be bothered. Looks like I’ll just have to make do with the lounge in the staffroom at the school I’m working at. Those little beds just don’t seem as comfy anymore.