William Chong

I’m sitting here staring at books and odd-ends. It’s the first time I’ve considered how many business shirts I need to last three weeks.  Or what is a 100ml bottle, clear plastic resealable bag, and whether these safety concerns matter on a flight whose final destination is a Middle Eastern city.  Never have I wondered if it is wise/unwise to bring stationery in pencil cases. How much Australian currency is too much? Do I need a second bag for stuff to bring home? What’s an opera in the Opera House worth? How much spare time will I have to run the streets of Sydney ragged? Will I be a good working bee? Will my camera hold out for the trip, and how much song-writing is possible?

Sydney, here i come.

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You’re standing in a patchwork of green hills. The mounds of grassy knolls and ledges surround you, dancing free and fondly in the light breeze.

*me-e-e-e-eh*

You’re looking around. The sky is clear azure, a few cotton-candy fluffs. You look at the sheet in front of you – stylised crosses and lines and contours telling you how steep the hill you’ve just climbed is.

*me-e-e-eeeh*

You’re trying to read your map as the sheep watch you with quizzical expressions. The sobering fact dawns on you that you have been racing through fields of poo in the past hour.

And you have been doing it willingly.

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How free I feel right now.

 If you don’t already know, this is my younger brother.

He is one of the select few to have gone to the Macleans Ball more than twice.  HOW is that possible??  You can also see that the car door has been left open.

What do I want to do once I’ve graduated?  Hmm.  I’ll get back to you on that one.

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