Imagine the possibilities

Thanks to my bestest Big Brother and his girlfriend I am currently the proud owner of a $50 Dymocks Bookstore voucher that is burning a hole in my bedside table top drawer. In true Clare-style, wanting to leave nothing to chance I have been browsing the interweb, compiling a list of all the books that I want to get so that when I get time to get to the store I am not sitting in a corner for 3 hours with a pile of books around me, sobbing quietly to myself because I want all of them but can only choose a few. This way I will have a plan of attack, I will go directly to the books that I want, ignoring the others who will reach out to me begging to be read and I can be in and out in relatively short order.

Which brings me to the reason why I am putting you through reading this. In my travels through the far reaches of the web, I came across a Synopsis for Inkheart. It was recently made into a film with Brendan Fraser playing the father Mo (Mortimer). As I read first one, then three more book reviews to see if it was worthy of the list, I was drawn into this idea of being able to read people in and out of books. Couple this with a Plinky prompt asking me what I wished for my super power and as you can imagine, this skill of Mo’s and his daughter Meggie began to take on a certain appeal. All my life I have seen books as a way of escape from reality and have lived a large portion of my life in other worlds with other people.

While I still think it would be awesome to be able to fly or travel through time and space at will, the thought of being able to read myself in, or someone else out is quite appealing. Think of the fun I would have. I would be mugged daily by screaming Twi-hards begging me to read into existence their very own Edward Cullen or Jacob Black. People could ask to be whisked into a Jane Austen so that they can dance the night away and live happily ever after in some manor or other with a dashing young man with a quizzical brow. I could go meet Frodo, Atticus Finch or try to talk some sense into Juliette the silly twit. I could get a look at the scar shaped like the London Underground on Dumbledore’s left knee. How wonderful would that be.

And people I am less favorably inclined toward. Well I’m sure a trip to the Mistress of Novices in Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series would do them the world of good.

*since writing this I have bought the Complete Works of William Shakespeare and still have $20 to spare, what’s not to love about iambic pentameter*

“I shall the effect of this good lesson keep
As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,
Whilst, like a puff’d and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads
And recks not his own rede.”


What is in a name?

Good Morrow Blogosphere! This post is proudly brought to you by The Lady in the Office who just got me Hotcakes for Breakfast.

I have been thinking as I am usually want to do about things in general, and my Blog Title in particular. As you may or may not be aware, when I started this blog I was in this strange limbo-land. Emotional, mental and spiritual limbo. I was convinced that it was in my nature to keep searching for that evasive happiness which like the end of the rainbow would always be just out of reach.

Like Cain I had resigned myself to the fate of the restless wanderer, without a clear destination, purpose or dream, living with a Gypsy in my heart, unable to settle.

As Lewis Carol so aptly put:

“If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”

Every morning I would wake to two paths and while still rubbing the sleep from my eyes I was forced day after day to pick a path, hoping that nothing unpleasant would greet me as I turned the page.

I do not want to live this way anymore. Life is a journey and because of the joy set before me I will continue to seek that pot of gold hidden at the end of the rainbow. However, I was not meant to live like the restless wanderer Cain was cursed to be. I may not be aware of it at this point in time but I am convinced that there is a greater purpose in my life than to wake up and survive another day.

Instead of misdirected and uncertain steps, I want to take bounding leaps of faith.

So, I come as I inevitably must to the point. I think I want to change my name from Gypsy Heart to something else, and because I think you are all rather fabulous I would like to hear your opinion on the matter. Whether you think I should keep the name or whether you think I should change it; and if so what would you suggest I change it to.

Hoist the Colours!

*I know you Americans spell it color but I think it looks too short.*

On to business. This Sunday, the 19th of September marks one of my favorite days on the calendar. I am talking obviously about International Talk like a Pirate Day! Drinks all around!

On this day, nerds the world over will be coming out in force, donning their pirate hats, their peg legs and their eye patches and going about their business ah talkin’ lyk this argh.

If I can swing some sort of cunning plan I will be rounding up a group of friends to join in the merry jig and be about the business through the city all decked out in our piratey best. If any of you wish to join in, leave a comment and I will get back to you re details.

In the meantime, feast your peepers on this ‘ere beauty.

Clare… or so you thought *doom music*

Ahh Plinky, you really should think before opening such a can of worms. It is not entirely universally known that I haven't always been called Clare. Close your mouths readers, you'll catch flies. Yes sweetlings it is true. Once upon a time, Mumsy and Dad brought home a little bundle of joy and promptly called her Melissa Joan, and then forgot.

Confused? Me too. Blissfully unaware of this fact I lived my life, was enrolled in school, got a bank account, a Medicare card and all those other things legal people get, until I turned 15 and a thought came to me one day. Where oh where could my birth certificate be? By this time in my life I was living with Dad and his new wifey and so they, in answer to my plea, went about the motions of applying for a copy of my birth certificate. A month passed, nothing, another, still nothing. They couldn't find me. In all the records there was nothing to be found of a Clare Ann born to my parents.

Well that's just Jim dandy now isn't it? I have been living my life, not knowing that as far as the government was concerned I didn't exist.

My entire life perspective (well as much perspective as a 15 year old can have) was changed, or so I thought. About 3 weeks later Mum and Dad pulled me aside. They had received a letter from Births, Deaths and Marriages in response to their enquiry. They had found me. Hurrah, except I was registered under a different name. Hold the phone. How am I supposed to deal with that? Hysterical crying that's how. I'm not sure how rational that response was but to a 15 year old girl who just discovered that she wasn't who she thought she was it seemed like the only logical thing to do at the time.

Turns out Daddy Dearest registered me as Melissa Joan mistakenly and then decided that Clare Ann sounded better but never thought to jump through any legal hoops to make the change official.

This formed the starting point of a 3 year mission to 'fix' my name. Because I wasn't seeing Mumsy at the time and because I was under 18 I needed both my parents to sign the change of name form and after repeated attempts to get forms filled out, signed and posted with the correct fees to the correct addresses with no success, Dad decided that the best way to go about 'fixing' my name was to leave it for me to do when I turned 18 and could do it myself.

Thanks parentals.

Now before any of you start calling me Mel, I have legally changed my name to Clare so no wisecracks please.

Powered by Plinky

Chicken… Who? Me?

Buck Buck Buckark!

In case you hadn’t made your merry way to this conclusion already, let me spell it out for you. I am a grade A chicken who’s backbone has the consistency of a liquorice stick. If there is something that could bite, claw, peck, wriggle, flap or scuttle its way towards my person do not be surprised if I turn into a screaming ninny who needs to be pried out of the linen closet with a crowbar.

Demon Mouse

I remember a few years ago I had an incident with a mouse. It was during an earlier stint of living with Sister Dear and I had one particular mouse who liked to pop in and visit me on occasion. Now I would like to say that this didn’t bother me and that I could go about my business with minimal fuss and bother, but that would be telling a big fat porky. I was terrified of the creature. I had mouse traps laid across my floor in such an elaborate labyrinth that if you were to wake up for a toilet break during the night you’d have to climb along the window sill, leap for the dressing table, then open the bathroom door with a coat hanger before swinging from a towel to the toilet and then gothrough the whole process in reverse to get back to bed. 
This mouse was a genius though, he would deftly manoeuvre across my room before disappearing under my bed and do whatever crafty things mice are want to do under people’s’ beds in the middle of the night.
In a pitiful attempt to protect myself from the tiny beastie, I would curl up in the very center of my bed and barricade myself in with pillows. I would tell myself that the mouse was not stupid enough to venture ONTO my bed to get me but my imagination would not let me rest. I was half convinced that the mouse would sprout wings flying monkey style and beat me to death with a knitting needle in my sleep.

One such night, I was watching the cocky little blighter run across the room and dart under the bed when I decided that I was not going to be a prisoner in my own bed anymore. Throwing caution to the wind I set my blankets straight and leant up against the headboard and started reading a book. This obviously is what the devil creature was waiting for. Not one minute after I was settled in I felt something crawl onto my lap.

While I was distracted by the goings on in my book, the mouse had hightailed it up the valance, crawled onto the mattress, negotiated the folds of my blankets and scurried his furry little self onto my lap. The shock stopped me from reacting for about 3 seconds and then the mouse was flying across the room. I’m not sure exactly what happened between the shock and the mouse’s impact with my bedroom door but before I knew it my systematically arranged mousetraps were going off like a line of dominos.

You know what was a real smack in the face though? Once I’d finally regained control of my limbs and the last few mouse traps went off like aftershocks, I tiptoed my way around my room looking for whichever trap had managed to catch the mouse, and I couldn’t find it. Somehow he had managed to evade the mouse apocalypse that my room had been and flee the scene intact.

Cunning your name is Mouse.

Something is not right

Shhh. Everyone just stop talking and listen for a second. Do you know what that is?? It’s the zipper on a pair of jeans hitting the inside of the washing machine. Do you realise why this is relevant Dear Readers? Do you really? No? Well let me enlighten you.

I CAN HEAR A ZIPPER PING PINGING AWAY ON THE INSIDE OF THE WASHING MACHINE!!! This is never a good thing. There is currently a door, three walls and a running fridge between me and said washing machine and the reason why I can hear it is because apart from my typing and the voices in my head there aren’t any other noises to be heard.

Usually I would hear Rhyno running about and launching himself off of things. Chubbling has almost gotten the hang of the whole walking gig so no matter where you are in the house you can always hear step step step bump, step step step bump. Sister Dear and Sister Dear’s Husband are usually engaged in some sort of good-natured bickering or some sort of child raising dictations directed at one of my hapless nephews.

Silence as a rule does not bother me. I like it when the world stops making noises at me. But this quiet at home sounds too hollow to be comfortable. It’s less quiet and more an absence of sound. Eerie to say the least.

So with that I am going to go and bury all of the horror movies in the back yard and put on something from Disney, and if anyone thinks it would be hilarious to rock up to my house wearing the Scream mask and toting a huge realistic plastic knife with tomato sauce dripping from it I am going to shoot you. I am not even kidding.

To Hell in a Handbasket

Oh Ruddles... you killed our Love Fern

Julia’s back! *doom music* After bulldozing her way into Leadership, sending Kevin to get the knife pulled out of his back and skidding into power in the last election with 2 seats more than the coalition, Labor Leader Julia Gillard is now the voted in Prime Minister of Australia.

*A minute silence while we mourn*

I’m not going to pretend to be a political guru but I did promise to keep certain people up to speed with the going on of our nations governing powers. After weeks of a hung parliament, most Australians are past caring who has won the election as long as someone has. Personally, the thought of hearing this…

for the next three or four years is going to do my head in.

3… 2… 1…

Good morning blog world. It turns out sleeping is for the weak, and in light of this I am still awake more than 3 hours after my usual bed time and I would like to thank nail polish fumes and a strong coffee for my being here tonight, or should I say this morning? I’m confused.

On to the order of business for the day. Currently, I am perched on the edge of the bed in Big Brother’s spare room typing merrily away on Little Brother’s laptop. I am resisting the urge to mosey through his personal files but am resisting, mainly because I am terrified of what I will find. Little Brother and I have a history of things found on laptops that are better not discussed in polite company and yes dear readers, I am leaving that entirely to your imagination. In other news, I, in a moment of either brilliance or stupidity painted my nails black today. It’s kind of a novelty because up until recently I was a nail biter so the fact that I have nails to paint is a feat in itself (hurrah). I couldn’t practically feel the angst building up with each stroke of the nail brush. Grr. This is also the reason for my being affected by the nail polish fumes. I’m still waiting for the pixies to stop running around, they are making my eyes itch. 

Sister Dear and Sister Dear’s Husband are currently suspended in space in a giant bird machine hurtling toward the United States of America. They will be landing (hopefully) some time this morning and I am choosing to believe that they are in fact alright and it is purely coincidental that they chose this particular date to land in the US and I have decided that the only option left to me and my overactive imagination is to smother myself with this pillow.

Now that is all out of the way I will get on to the point of this blog post. Which is to announce to you all that in 3 hits time, I will have had a grand total of 1000 hits. This I really do have to credit to the Idiot who is my favorite person of the day and his blog spotlight which has thrust me into my very own 15 minutes of fame. So thank you.

Blame the Idiot

Good evening dear readers. I have been tagged! As far as I can figure,  Jamie tagged the Idiot and the Idiot took it into his Idiot head to tag EVERYONE else. As a result I (and all the other  female bloggers who read this particular post I’m guessing) am responding to this semi challenge like thing with gusto. Bring it!


I would do a great many things of questionable legality to be able to do what Hiro does in the TV show ‘Heroes’. To be able to alter the whole space/time thing would be rather nifty. I could travel everywhere. Who needs to learn about history when you can make a funny face and BE IN history.


Um, I am far too lazy to have a style icon. I wear what is comfy! Seriously though, I don’t think I actually have a style. Someone who refuses to be put into a stereotype or labelled in any other social demographic really shouldn’t own up to coining her look from anyone else.


“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music” Friedrich Nietzsche


“That was so beautiful I cried”



Little Brother put a whole heap of Gangsta music on my phone last week so don’t judge me. The next 10 songs are

All of this – Blink 182
Diary of Jane – Breaking Benjamin
Vacation – Canton Jones
Ghetto – Akon
Life After Death & Taxes – Reliant K
Always Something – Switchfoot
Bring the Rain – Mercy Me
Hotel – Cassidy
What Up Gangsta – 50 Cent
Love, Where is Your Fire – Brooke Fraser

(I hope the ones of mine and the ones from Little Brother are obvious)


Um, morning lately. Since I have to be at the train station by 7am sleeping in isn’t really an option. Also Chubbling and Rhyno haven’t learnt the difference between weekdays and weekends so it’s all one and the same at my place.


Dogs mostly. Cats hurt when they lick you.


Like a gypsy I’ve done more than my fair share of moving. Between parents and family and friends and now I’ve sort of settled. But I never really feel at home properly anywhere. I sometimes get the feeling like I need to pack up my things and start running somewhere. I never know where, I just know that I need to go. Some people might call it itchy feet or the travel bug or something else entirely. I like to think deep down I’m a gypsy, and as soon as the weather is right I will just set out and keep going untill I run out of road.

Anyone for a Doppelganger?

Did I tell you that I have a Doppelganger? Well dear readers, you had better believe it because it is true. A few weeks ago my chum Mr Incognito sent me a picture that he had taken while in a bookstore the previous day. It was a photo of the cover of some soppy romance novel that ordinarily I wouldn’t look twice at. Any who, the model on the cover of the novel looked like me. And not in a ‘oh yes she has some similar features’ this bird honestly looked like my identical twin. It was downright unnatural.

And speaking of Doppelganger… what happened to the good old days when girls ran around in groups all looking like clones of the others? I would walk past such a group with their heads together and their matching skirts swishing in time as they walked along, and chuckle to myself at the novelty and walk on smug in my superiority.

Something happened yesterday that threw me for a six. I have been noticing a growing trend in teenage boys lately with a  growing sense of alarm. The hair in particular is morphing into something between something out of a bad eighties rock video and something out of Dragonball Z. So as I was making my way through the shopping centre to get the motherload of photos printed from Sister Dear’s camera when I stumbled across a group of about 4 boys who looked to be 16. They each looked to be trying to look EXACTLY the same. From the power socket hair with the bleached blonde chucks pointing in all the same directions. To the school uniform with the half un-done ties to the sleeves rolled up to the same point on their fore-arms. The shirts half tucked in and the belt buckle poking out. The canvas deck shoes and various bracelets and ankle bracelets.

The world is going mad!!

Someone wake me when it’s all over