Dear Mum, I'm sad on my trip of a lifetime.

This is an actual email I sent to my Mum this morning. I guess this is the honest side of my adventure.

Hey Mum,

I wish I knew why I seem so 'not myself' to you. I think you hit the nail on the head when you said I'm "very tired and a little lost". I think because it's "Seamus & Carol" I feel a bit like a third wheel. Not in the bad way, just that there's nobody here who is just for me. A friend or anything.

I don't think I'm homesick because like you've said before, I just didn't have much in Australia keeping me there. I mean, I miss certain people of course, but not "home" so much. Home isn't even there anymore. That was demolished during my first week of being here. I even managed to have a moment about that.

But I am having fun. I've been to a Liverpool game. I've been to Tower of London and London Dungeon. And I've reminisced about our adventures. Remember how we found London Dungeon to begin with? That was so much fun and a story I love telling. Last night we went to see Rhod Gilbert, a comedian & I laughed so much.

I've made a friend, I know I've told you about him, & he texts me every day so I don't feel so alone sometimes. And if I do, I can talk to him about it. He was really good to me last week. Texted me for hours telling me everything would be ok. Said I could call him - but I wouldn't because I was crying. He made sure I was ok. Walking into the pub the day we met him was the best decision I've made since being here, I think.

I know that makes it sound terrible. Sometimes it all gets too much. It does. I admit that. But I'm ok. It's also hard because like last night, Tuesday night, I said good night to Seamus & Carol. I said "Good night, see you... err..." And we figured out I won't see Seamus until Friday and Carol until Saturday. That's how I live. So even though I live with Seamus & Carol, I get really lonely.

I don't think I've made you feel any better about me writing this email. But I just want you to know I am ok. I am having a blast and I'm starting to make friends - with people from work and strangers from Twitter. It's the twentieth century! Or the twenty-first...? I can never remember.

I'm going to make a list of things I want to do on my days off so I have things to look forward to. I can wake up, look at my list and say "What am I going to do today?" And I think I'm going to ask work if I can drop back to four days a week. Four nine hour shifts is still 36 hours a week, so I can still have my pocket money working those hours. At this rate, I'm earning money with no time to spend it, which is great for my bank balance but bad for my sanity! :P

Anyway, I love you lots and I'll talk to you soon. Sorry I wasn't able to talk yesterday morning. I was off to work...

Love, Sammy Seal

xx

At the Natural History Museum! Dinosaurs! 

Traitors' Gate!
Tower of London: My favourite place in London! 

Shooting stuff. 11 out of 12 stuffs! 

You'll never walk alone!
At a Liverpool game! 

Wembley Stadium for England v Ukraine!
My two best guy friends have gone now... :( 

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Have you ever been sad when you're meant to be happy? 
• Have you ever had people sense you're not OK when you yourself can't even verbalise why you're not OK?

Of hot pink scooters & teal blue hair

So here's a fun fact. I've been to England three times in my life. In that time, I managed to visit the Accident and Emergency department before Saint Paul's Cathedral. That has to be some kind of record. Albeit, not one I deserve any sort of kudos for.

So I moved to London three weeks ago. No big surprise there. Back in Australia, I used to injure myself a lot. Maybe a small part of me had hoped that this was something about air pressure, my relative position in correlation to the sea level or my distance from the equator. Or maybe just the amount of football I played. Apparently it's not. It's just me.

Week one of my new life in London found me with a double barrel shotgun in my hands for the very first time. This would give people who knew me cause to seek cover or flatten themselves in an attempt to preserve life and limb. But you see, I'm not uncoordinated, just unfortunate. Only I came off injured from my first ever attempt at clay pigeon shooting. That means the target is not only small, but moving through the air at a very fast rate. I shot 11 of my 12 targets before retiring with recoil injury. The trainers were stunned into shock and awe, I'm not exaggerating. My military trained brother only shot five from 12 so, you know, I think I can say I am a natural with a shotgun - as long as I don't have to shoot it any more than eight times or I am in severe pain for days.

Week two started on a positive note! I got a job at a lovely pub! I was so full of energy I went home and washed the dishes from last night's dinner - and promptly sliced my pinkie finger open across the knuckle on broken glass. My brother was very ill and I like to think he would have taken me to get stitches if he wasn't a mere shadow of a corpse. Instead, he cleaned the wound and patched me up while I put on my brave face (read: cried & curled up on the couch in the foetal position).

I did not let a minor flesh wound dampen my spirits however and sought a mode of transport. I took this task very seriously. After all, I am 27 years old. I am a published author. I have new employment in a prestigious pub on top of the second highest hill in London. So how did I choose to get to work?

On this.

Don't worry, it's made for adults. Or kids that weigh up to 100kg. Whatever, I fit on it, ok?!

And this was fine for my first few shifts. It was better than fine, it was fun. It was a conversation starter with my new coworkers and the patrons at the pub. Oh, and the feeling of flying down the second highest hill in London, daring myself to hold off on the brakes, feeling the wind in my (now blonde, purple and blue) hair was simply breath-taking.

Going home on Friday night / Saturday morning at around 2am and realising as I neared terminal velocity that I had no brakes thanks to a light dampness on the ground was breath-taking in a completely different way. In a split second, maybe even less, I had to decide whether to chance it with actually reaching terminal velocity before careering out on to the busy road this hill intersects with and hoping I could control the corner at full speed (if I made it over the speed bump alive, that is) and that no cars, trucks or buses would be wearing their usual path down that main road - or abandon all faith in a safe passage and simply abort the mission there and then.

Well I made my decision and I stand by it.

Ok, so I didn't stand for long.

My feet couldn't keep up as I tried to run at the speed my body mass was travelling at. Basic physics. Or gravity. Whatever, I stumbled and hit the bitumen. Hard. I ripped open my new shoes, tore three holes in my woollen tights (and the skin underneath on my knee and my ass cheek), grazed the heels of my palms and the pièce de résistance, smashed my entire shoulder into the ground as the lower half of my body collapsed. My skin was saved by my work shirt and Edgar Allan Poe hoodie.

Aptly, my iPod played "Goodbye yellow brick road" and Sarah Blasko mourned her own sad story about a painful road through my headphones. I sat in the gutter and cried. My hot pink scooter lay abandoned and skewif in the middle of the road. My hair, once free and windswept, started to matt to my face in a mixture of tears, sweat and light misty rain. Finally, with all the dignity I could muster, I picked myself and my scooter up and limped back to work.

My coworkers haven't known me long but even without my expressive face, it's not hard to tell when a girl hobbles in, mascara streaked down her face, hair a mess, holes in the uniform that minutes ago was pristine and dinosaur backpack hanging askew, something went wrong. As Wayne, the head chef put it to my boss, "Evel Knievel here didn't make her jump."

No Wayne, she did not.

I haven't been back on the scooter yet, but I will. It's too much fun. I will however, be purchasing a helmet. My mind boggles at the lack of laws here that allowed me to ride legally without a helmet. I also marvel at my own stupidity that I thought I was too cool or too invincible to wear one.

For the last four days I've been throwing up and at times, fighting in and out of consciousness. I've been in a lot of pain. I had to go A&E to get X-Rays. Thankfully and miraculously, nothing is broken. I have done severe muscle damage to my shoulder, will still be in a sling at the end of the week and have only today (Wednesday) managed the admirable feat of typing with two hands. Obviously, I haven't been able to work, thus haven't been able to get paid. I've relied on the generosity of my brother and future sister-in-law to keep me fed and looked after - including fetching my spew bucket and washing my dinosaur PJs for me when the fevers have rendered them unwearable.

In conclusion:

Expectation!

Reality.

And I'm going to Saint Paul's Cathedral before I kill myself!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What's the worst accident you've been in?
• Do you remember the slow and painful process in a blow by blow, second by second account?
• Have you ever been sick or injured in a foreign country?

Adventures in red tape

In case you haven't heard, I moved from Brisbane, Australia to London, England last week. Bit of a change if I'm honest. I quit my comfortable, safety-net job and landed in London with a plan to live with my brother and his fiancee and hope that... well, hope that everything turned out ok.

The most daunting part of this whole expedition (other than the flying part, of course) was getting a job. Europe has made no secret of its tough economy and from what I read in the media, jobs are few and far between. So my plan has always been to get a bar job and study to attain my referee's certificate and start refereeing football.

I signed up for my referee's course before I left Australia so I had already outlaid £130 in the hopes it would lead to steady work (and, in all honesty, career advancement to say, refereeing the women's world cup!?)

So you can imagine my surprise when I found a pub that I fell in love with, cheekily asked if there were any jobs going, was asked to drop off my resume and attended a job interview where I actually answered the question "So how long have you been in England for?" with "well what day is it? Tuesday? Then one week and one day!" I got the job.

Turns out that was the easy part. I am a British citizen thanks to my lineage so I am entitled to work here. I am also entitled to not work here and claim benefits. But I've never claimed benefits in Australia and so I don't plan to do that in England either. Upon being offered a job, it became apparent that I needed a bank account for being paid and a national insurance number (NIN). Back in Australia, this is like a tax file number, I guess.

Making the call to get the NIN was horrible. The woman on the other end of the line sounded a special breed of mind-numbingly bored of her job and very suspicious of my motives.

"And why do you want a NIN, miss?"

"Because I want to work. I've been offered a job and I'd like to take it."

"And why don't you already have a NIN, miss?"

"Because I've only just got to England."

"So when did you get to England, miss?"

"A week ago. September 3."

"A week ago? And you say you already have a job, miss?"

Not the best response, apparently. So I have an appointment with them on October 1. Might have been earlier without the attitude, I suppose. But today I got my letter explaining when my appointment would be and how I needed to bring proof of identity and proof of address.

I got excited about this letter coming today because I planned to go into town to open a bank account. This letter, sent to me at my address from a government agency would be great proof of address to get my bank account. Or so you would think. I chose Barclays because they sponsor the English Premier League and I've always wanted a Barclays account. They turned me down because my letter from a government agency was not sufficient proof of address. I needed something more - you know, like a bank statement. The lovely Barclays' guy, who saw the obvious redundancy of the situation since I was sitting with my brother, who I live with and who has all the proof of address they needed, had a minor coughing fit that sounded something like "Go to Lloyds of London. They'll probably give you a bank account but do it today before this bank account application denial goes on your record and nobody will give you a bank account." I hope he feels better soon.

So on a hunch, Seamus and I went to Lloyds. Barclays guy was right. They didn't care that all I had was a letter of confirmation of an appointment with the NIN people as my proof of address. Not at all. But they were not taking my word for it that I had a job lined up. No sir. They wanted a letter from my future employer stating they would be letting me work behind their bar. Seriously. To open a freaking bank account. Not a credit card, I didn't want their money, just an account for my own money to sit in and the bank to earn interest on. But of course, I didn't have this letter of employment yet because I needed to provide my future employer with some bank account details for them to complete my employment. Oh yes. Bureaucracy gone mad!

So I had to traipse up the hill to my pub to get my future manager to write a letter saying "Yes, Samantha will be working for minimum wage pouring beers for the good people of London. Please, for the love of Batman, give her a damn bank account so our patrons can get beer!" Or something to that effect.

I returned, letter in hand (with a With Compliments slip stapled to it, for that official touch) to finally get a bank account with Lloyds of London. Now I can start work at The Castle tomorrow.

On the way home, I nearly died of laughter when I realised something.

The NIN people mailed me a letter demanding my proof of address.

I opened a bank account using the NIN people's letter demanding I get proof of address.

I will get a bank statement with this same address on it.

I will take this bank statement, obtained using the letter of demand to get proof of address, to my appointment with the NIN people and use this statement as my proof of address.

Red tape. Not half as sexy as it looks.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Have you ever been the victim of bureaucracy gone mad?

Samantha vs Samantha-on-Zoloft

A song for every emotion, right? Well this is how I feel.

Stage whisper: "I am on medication...!" I know, right? Shocking. But seriously, I am not ashamed to admit it. Like someone who is diabetic needs insulin to function better, I too need Zoloft to deal with my OCD & anxiety. But many people are ashamed. And people who should be on medication resist it - for numerous reasons, the biggest, I believe, being the stigma attached and the "crazy person" label that comes with it.

I went on Zoloft in March last year after a bout of suicidal thoughts and behaviours linked to my thanatophobia and my recent (at the time) OCD diagnosis. My head is not a fun place to be. Not by any stretch of the imagination. When my psychologist suggested I go see a psychiatrist, I knew what was coming. What is a psychiatrist if not a psychologist with a prescription pad, right? But even when the psychologist handed me the script, I looked at his outstretched hand with disdain. His hand hovered before he registered that I was not going to make any motion towards accepting his prescription. So he put it on the desk beside me. And when I left, he had to practically wrestle it into my hand. What followed was not pretty and I owe a few people a great debt of gratitude for how they rallied around me. I was not well.

The thing that frightens me now is, I am still not well. I leave for England in 71 sleeps and I decided a while ago I don't want to be on medication on my holiday. So I've been gradually weaning myself off the tablets. And it's been going fine. My withdrawals are beginning to subside and I'm able to go longer and longer between tablets. But I have regressed. I've been feeling it slowly happen over a period of time but I have been trying to deal with it - to ignore my paranoia, to self soothe and to control my anger. But tonight was a major slap in the face for me.

I'm back to being anxious and paranoid. My team lost at football tonight. It's your fault. They aren't happy that they lost. And now they all hate me. Even more than they already did. We let in seven goals. Because you suck and you let your team down. But we did get two goals. Yeah, no thanks to you!

I'm back to being angry and temperamental. I actually had the ref pull me out of the game to have a stern word to me because I was mouthing off. And your team was ashamed to know you! I am not a "mouthing off" kind of girl. But that's the thing, you see. I am. Samantha is a "mouthing off", angry, snarky, acidic, paranoid girl. Samantha-on-Zoloft is not. The paranoia, I could deal with (sort of) because that's all internal. But having no control over my behaviour and finding myself yelling at opponents and the ref is horrible. When a girl blatantly and deliberately fouled me outside of the ref's view, a small voice piped up, "Just hit her! Just punch her square in the jaw!" But I am not a hitting person! I've never hit anybody in my life! But again, I guess Samantha is. It's Samantha-on-Zoloft who is not a hitting person. Samantha tonight had to fight very, very hard not to obey that small voice.

I'm finding it hard to verbalise my feelings right now and explain why I am unhappy about this. You see, I don't have a problem with being on medication. I think my problem lies in the fact that I need it, or I feel I need it, to be a better person. I have heard people say the nicest things about me lately. I'm actually in awe and humbled by how highly people seem to think of me. But now, and it very well could be the paranoia talking, I feel like all these people like Samantha-on-Zoloft, not Samantha. Who I am, in essence, is not good enough. So who am I really? When you need medication as a diabetic, nobody judges you but when your symptoms manifest to the point you feel the need to apologise to your team for your behaviour (and I did) then you feel somehow less than perfect. But I suppose, considering how anxious, paranoid and irrationally angry I am lately, I should give the public what it wants. Or who it wants.

The other danger I find myself in is being so tired. I don't mean like, I need a nap. I mean I am drained of  all emotion, will and drive. It's the same feeling that preceded my suicidal episode last year. And I made a promise to those who helped me that I would do everything they asked me to do to get better... and stay... here... alive. And part of that was admitting when I feel like this. And I guess, this is me admitting that I do. So Samantha - anxious, paranoid and irrationally angry Samantha - should submit to Samantha-on-Zoloft. And you know how there is a song for every emotion and situation? (Or maybe that's just me...) but the song (slightly adjusted) comes to you courtesy of Eminem.

"I've created a monster, 'cause nobody wants to
see {Samantha} no more they want {Samantha-on-Zoloft}
I'm chopped liver.
Well if you want {Samantha-on-Zoloft}, then this is what I'll give ya."

Or at least, I should. Right?

Miss SAMawdsley xx


Questions:

• Are you or have you been on medication for a mental health issue?
• How did it make you feel? What about if/when you came off it?
• What do you think of people who need a tablet a day to function?

Please remember that Samantha wrote this, not Samantha-on-Zoloft.

It's probably irrational, unbalanced and warped but it's not attention-seeking, I promise.

But please be gentle as I have blogged my own truth - and that takes courage, right?

Please don't make me turn comments off.

Breaking news: Girl wants to lose weight

I am going to England in... *checks Countdown app* ...two months, 23 days and 11 hours.

This is approximately 12 weeks. So I've decided that I want to lose weight before I leave - for numerous reasons. I'm not 100% happy with my shape, I wish I was a bit skinnier and yes, I worry about what people (read: guys. Ok, one guy!) think about my body. I'm not as secure as I like to make out.

I am 167cm tall and I weigh (I think) about 62kg. My scales don't have a battery in them right now. But regardless, I am not my goal weight which is 56kg. I am healthy but I am not skinny. But when I expressed this plan to lose weight over the next 12 weeks, through good old-fashioned diet and exercise, I was met with a lot of resistance.

I announced it to my dad in the hopes he could encourage me - to making better decisions when choosing food and to ensuring I do some sort of exercise every day. Dad responded: "Women would kill to have your figure". And I know he's right. Someone who weighs 80kg or who wished they had the classic hour glass figure I have would kill to have my figure. But I am not perfect and don't think I would ever be someone's ideal. In fact, in Hollywood, I would be the fat girl. I'm not making this up. I am the same height as Megan Fox. Now add 10kg because she weighs 52kg. And look at her. All walking around, living, breathing & looking hot without her organs shutting down. (Side note: We also both have brachydactyly. But I only have it in one thumb...)

167cm (5'6") & 52kg (115lbs)

I feel I am a few kilos overweight. I know my dad is wary because I had an eating disorder non-specified (EDNS) when I was around 15 or 16. I starved myself for days on end and as well as the milk run, I did around 500 sit ups every day - sometimes twice a day. I was the same height I am now but I weighed 52kg. That's more than 10kg less than I weigh now and the same as Megan Fox. So I know damn well there is room for improvement. I don't want to be that skinny. I went on a camp & when I came out in my bathing suit, the rest of the attendees were shocked at how skinny I was. And thanks to my hour glass figure, I'm not exaggerating, a guy actually managed to put his hands around my waist, touching both middle fingers and thumbs together to completely encircle my waist. It was a stretch & contorted my waist, but he did it. But having said this, the official underweight BMI is 18.5 and I had a BMI of 18.6 so I still, technically, wasn't underweight.

I currently have a BMI of 22.2 and am aiming for 20.1 (which would give me the same height & weight as the "curvy" Jennifer Lopez or the stunningly gorgeous Jessica Alba) so I am not in any way endangering my health.

167cm (5'6") & 58kg (127lbs)

I know I'm not fat but I still could be skinnier, fitter and more toned. So I am choosing healthier foods.

• I used to have dessert every night but I am cutting that out.
• I used to have 2-3 glasses of soft drink (Coke is my poison of choice) every day but I am going to try for only one with dinner, or even none.
• I plan to have two pieces of fruit every day and try to drink more water.
• I am completely cutting out takeaway.

I exercise a lot for fun but in addition to my football on Monday nights, training on Thursdays & a game every weekend, I plan to add more.

• I want to do 30 minutes of stretching / yoga every day to lengthen my muscles and increase flexibility.
• I want to go for a 7km ride or a 3km run every Tuesday and again on either Friday, Saturday or Sunday, depending on when my game is.
• I plan to do light weights while I'm watching TV.

So rather than tell me I'm stupid for wanting to lose weight or insist that I'm perfect just the way I am, know that I thank you for your kind words and concern, but please just support me! Or if you feel like it, maybe even join me!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

PS: I recommend downloading "My Fitness Pal" to track your diet & exercise. Add me: Princess_Sassy

Questions

• Have you ever tried to lose weight? Do you have any advice for me?
• Have people ever not supported you in something you want to do?

Don't shove me out of the nest!

"I'm 26 years old and I still live with my parent."

Saying that out loud sounds kind of dirty & shameful, doesn't it? When you think of people who live with their parents, the stereotype is typically an unemployed virgin with no friends. And they eventually become serial killers. If I look around at most other 26 year olds, they live in shared units with friends, in awesome apartments with their partners or they even own a house. But I'm not them. Well I have been pretty much all of those people at some time or another in my life (Wait! Except the unemployed virgin with no friends!) I moved out of home when I was 17 and four months old. And I moved 4 hours away by myself! I lived in a share house with five strangers but I quickly I moved in with a new boyfriend and stopped going back to my real home. That didn't go well and I moved back home with Dad after 18 months.

I was with my Big Bad ex for years while living at home and after a while it occurred to me that he lived with me. It was never really discussed or anything, but less of his stuff was going home and eventually he stopped going home too. After a while we decided to save up and buy our own house. So we did just that in May 2007.

Some people may be shocked to learn (or to remember) that I used to be a home owner. Yep. I used to buy Better Homes & Gardens magazines. Don't get me confused with someone else, I never cooked, I hated cleaning and I had a room that was just for unfolded laundry because the wardrobes sucked! But I had my own home and had even wondered if maybe the spare bedrooms might not be spare forever. Well they weren't because eventually we realised that while we could afford to stay in our house, we weren't going forward and we put the house up for rent. Big Bad Ex & I moved back in with Dad. In case you're wondering how a relationship fares when you move back in with parents, the answer is badly. It sucked as a couple. I like it because I'm happy at home but as a couple, not so much. I wouldn't say living with Dad was a contributing factor to why I broke up with him but it helped make me unhappy enough to realise I was wrong, he didn't really get me & I didn't want to be with him forever.

As I said, I was happy living with Dad but so was Big Bad Ex. He just... didn't... leave. So I did. I moved in with my cousin. It was the best year of my life to date. We had so much fun. We would go on late night coffee runs, hosted amazing parties, had the best set up of our stuff & had friends coming & going all the time. I learned a lot about who I am as a person while living in the unit. I became so much less angry (yes, I used to have a vicious and acerbic temper.) I learned to self soothe - a skill I never had until then. Like I said, best year of my life.

But like all good things, eventually it came to an end & in an effort to save money again, I moved back in with Dad (Big Bad Ex has finally moved on, though is still in regular contact with my dad). I've been here for eight months now. I'm happy here. It's just Dad & I. We share the cooking & cleaning - even though that mainly consists of heating canned soup & somebody doing the dishes. We play football together on Monday nights & he's my football coach. He plays on Wednesday nights so I get the house to myself. My friends are always welcome & they come around quite often.

Now I live rent free while I save up money for England. But I pay a big portion of the bills including the phone, internet, electricity and rates. Ok, maybe I pay most of the bills. But I don't pay rent & I definitely don't do my fair share of work around the house so I guess it all evens out in the end.

I don't see why society should look down on me for living at home. Is it the fact that I'm single that is the problem? Should I have settled for boyfriends that didn't make me as happy as I deserve to be and force myself to live with them? Should I waste my chance at a savings account so that I can live with strangers in a unit? Should I sacrifice my chance to live in England for a few months so I can instead do the exact same things I do in Australia but in a house that my dad doesn't live in? It all seems so pointless and I haven't heard any argument that makes me feel like I'm not making the best decision. So you know what? I don't care.

"I'm 26 years old and I still live with my parent."

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What do you think of people in their 20s & 30s who live with their parents?
• When did you move out of home and why?
• Have you ever moved back home and & how did it work out?

Will blog for music

Anyone who knows me would be well aware that I am going to England in a few months time. For me, this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. My brother currently lives in London with his fiancée and I will be staying with them. I am going to England to get to know my soon-to-be sister-in-law before she leaves all her family and friends behind to start a new life in Australia. I will also be helping to arrange the wedding and help make preparations for her to make her big move. In reality, this trip is not something I can really afford. I work for a charity and as expected, I really don't earn a great wage. You may already know that I am raising much of my funds on Ebay, selling anything I can get my hands on. I have become a hermit and anything that costs money and does not help to get me to England has been effectively banned.

Regular readers would also know that I am a big lover of music. I collect records - scouring second hand shops for 50c treasures that I proudly display in a cabinet. I lament that I was not able to grow up in the 70s and see that pinnacle period in the evolution of music for myself.

Well this may surprise you but as much as I love live music, I don 't own an iPod. But I desperately want one for my trip. I am terrified of flying and music is my biggest distraction. I have so much music I would love to listen to but no way to bring it with me.

So I have turned to you - my dear and loyal readers; people I have shared myself and my soul with implicitly. From the feedback I have received, I have made you laugh, I have made you cry and I have made you think. And now I am asking you to give something back.

Now I am not the kind of person who expects something for nothing. I was raised by a single dad, I have been gainfully employed since I was 10 (that is not a typo) and have cleaned hotel rooms rather than accept government handouts. I also like to think I can make the world a better place. So I would like to present my campaign...

* Will blog for music *

I am officially raising funds for an iPod and have chosen to also collect money to donate to the charity Musicians Making A Difference (MMAD). I have chosen MMAD because it's a charity that helps emotionally and socially traumatised children express their pain in lyrics, find their voice in singing and escape the world through music to help them survive. I have had my fair share of pain and I understand the escape music can provide.

So here's the deal.

A 160GB iPod classic is $279. I will donate 10% of my earnings to MMAD until I raise $279 at which point every cent over that amount will be donated. My going away party is on August 25 so that will be the last day of my fundraising campaign.

What I am asking is for you to donate a minimum of $2.79 - 1/100th of the cost of an iPod. But as I said, I do not expect something for nothing and I have promised, I Will blog for music so in exchange for your donation, this is what you will get.

• 500 words published on my blog about absolutely anything. Challenge me. Make me work for your donation. Pick a topic you love. Pick something controversial. Ask me to review your website, blog, Twitter account, etc. Pick a topic you think I know absolutely nothing about. Be vague or be specific. If you donate the minimum of $2.79, that's $0.00558 cents per word, so get your money's worth!
• 10% of your donation will be donated to MMAD and to changing the lives of kids who have had an unfair start to life. You can help share the power of music and enrich their lives through song - or smashing the heck out of a drum kit!
• If you email me your favourite song & a photo, I will put that song on my new iPod with your photo as the album art (whatever photo you choose - it can be you, your Twitter avatar, your favourite picture - anything!) I will make your name the album name so every single time that song plays, I will think of you and smile! I promise I will keep this on my new iPod for the life of the device.

Ladies and gentleman, all that can be yours for as little as $2.79. Like I said, that is the minimum amount to get all this and you are of course, more than welcome to donate more! Remember, the more you donate, the more I will donate to charity and help children through the power of music. Wow. If 100 people donate $2.79 I will raise enough for my iPod but I will have written 50,000 words in the name of my cause. That... is kind of daunting. But none the less, I promise here and now, I Will blog for music.

So how do you donate to these fantastic causes and get your 500 words and name / photo on my iPod? Simply donate through PayPal, using the 'Donate' button on the right hand side of this blog or by sending your donation to my PayPal account samantha.mawdsley@hotmail.com through the PayPal website - if you don't have PayPal, simply send me an email & I can provide you with my bank account details. Then let me know (by commenting or emailing me) what you would like me to blog about, what song you want to add to my iPod and what photo you are setting as the album art.

This has been quite hard for me to write as I am not the type to ask for help. An amazingly kind Twitter friend once offered to donate money to help me get to the recent Pink Floyd concert but I could not bring myself to accept the charity. If you can't afford to click the donate button to your right, know that I still love you and would be very appreciative if you could share the link to this blog post through Facebook, Twitter, email or hiring a mobile billboard to drive around your city. So thank you for playing along and I look forward to hopefully having some fun with you!

Miss SAMawdsley xx


PayPal: samantha.mawdsley@hotmail.com
Email: Miss.SAMawdsley@gmail.com

Ts & Cs
One blog post / song per person (unless an amount is negotiated - I may be swayed! :P )
No porn or inappropriate photos. I will happily be sharing the iPod with younger cousins.
Blog post topics must be appropriate for all ages as I have younger readers too.
I will endeavour to post your blog ASAP. I'm too broke for a life, so it's not like I'll be too busy!
I will post the final amount raised in a blog post & include a receipt for the amount donated from MMAD.

Adventures in packing for England

I'm thinking about packing for England and I'm so excited! I leave really soon. And by really soon I mean in nearly 5 months. But a girl can never be too prepared, right?

I've been to England twice before - once for September - October 2006 and again for the whole of March 2010. My first trip was pretty cold. I wore jeans every day with a singlet or Tshirt and a jacket. If it was really cold, I wore a black parka. My shoes were either joggers or my converses. Upon going through my photos, I barely wore a beanie or scarf - though I definitely took a beautiful long black scarf with me.

October 2006, Hyde Park, London

In 2010 I learned what cold really was. Again, I wore jeans every day. On the coldest days, I even wore long johns underneath. I then wore a thermal underwear singlet with a long sleeve shirt over it. These were gorgeous ones I borrowed from my cousin that have thumb holes to keep you really warm all the way to your hands. I then wore a sloppy joe over that and a parka over that. To top it all off, I wore a scarf and beanie and snow boots or my Adidas sneakers. I seemed to have themed my whole suitcase to go with white. I had a white parka, white beanie and a white scarf. They came back really dirty & I regret that choice.

March 2010, Natural History Museum, London

So what have I learned? Well obviously, not to wear white again. It also won't be that cold this time as I will be arriving just in time for September so I'm happy with one beanie and scarf set. I think. I'm basing my suitcase on black this time. I didn't really co-ordinate my clothing for my first trip. Lesson learned. So I have picked out my basics.

• black parka
• black scarf
• black beanie
• black fingerless gloves
• black over knee socks
• black knee high socks
• black Edgar Allan Poe oversize hoodie
• three pairs of jeans

I have a reversible Nightmare Before Christmas hoodie - black on one side and black & purple thick stripes on the other. I'm wondering if I should take that?

And shoes? I don't have any knee high boots. Weird, I know. Should I get a pair? I thought I'd just take my black Converses, black zombie kicking boots and like... my white Adidas sneakers? And socks - I thought 3 x ankle socks, 3 x socks, 3 x knee high socks and a pair of over the knee socks. That's 10 pairs of socks. Then I was going to take two pairs of black stockings.

I was so excited when I figured out a way to wear my red tartan mini skirt! Over black stockings with a pair of black over the knee socks and my black Converses. I've got a variety of long sleeve tops that I plan to wear with various Tshirts over it. It seems really boring but it also seems easier for packing. I also have a black and grey jumper dress that I can wear with similar sock things to dress up for night time. Oh, night time. What do I wear out? A guy looks hot in a pair of jeans and a shirt but what does a female tourist wear out to dinner? I need high heels! What if I go on a date!? Oh God! *hyperventilates*

But then how many pairs of underwear and socks do I take? Do I take any sexy bras and panties or just the super comfy nice ones? Seriously... I am so stressed about what to wear now... Lucky I have... oh, look. 4 months, 19 days, 14 hours, 12 minutes and 11 seconds until I have to be on the plane. I should start packing now...

Miss SAMawdsley xx


Questions

• What are your rules for packing?
• Do you have any style tips for Winter dressing?

What does it mean to be Australian?

"I am Australian."

I don't say that very often. Mainly because I don't feel like it's true and partly because I'm not sure if it even is true. I was going to say I usually only say it when I am overseas, but that's not true either. I say, "I am from Australia" and to me, there is a difference.

I am from Australia, that much is true. I was born in... a place that is in Queensland. I don't often say where. I don't remember it at all & I grew up in Brisbane. I spent under a year of my life there. But that's neither here nor there. I was born in Australia.

I live in Australia. When I visit a foreign country, I say "I came from Australia" because that is where I live, that is where my passport is from & when I go home, it will be to Australia.

But am I Australian? One of my closest friends has a little brother. He had to do an assignment on someone he knows who was born in England. My friend suggested me. I laughed because I found it amusing that in all the time she's known me (over ten years) she had mistakenly assumed I was from England. She thought the small bit of time I had spent in the town I don't name was actually spent in England. Now how could she possibly have come to that conclusion?

Well let's see.

Am I English?

• I watch a lot of football. And I call football "football", not "soccer". I am a huge Liverpool FC fan. I play on two football teams.
• I have friends in England that I talk about.
• I collect things with the union jack on them. A weird quirk of mine, but still. When my friend went to England, I asked her to bring me back a union jack umbrella - to replace my old broken union jack umbrella.
• I've been overseas twice. Both times to England. I saw other countries too, but both times I was based in England.
• My dad was born in England.
• When I am drunk, I slip into an English accent.
• Some of my favourite shows and movies are English as I really enjoy the British sense of humour.
• My brother is currently in England - has been for nearly four years. I will be going to England at the end of the year to attend my brother's wedding where he will be marrying the most beautiful English girl imaginable.
• I love The Beatles, Herman's Hermits, The Rolling Stones & other awesome English bands.
• The only news I read every day is Daily Mail - A UK paper.
• One of the biggest criteria I have for a guy is he must like football. This often means I find myself interested in English guys. My first real boyfriend was born in England and upon describing him I would always say, "Well, he's only just moved here from England".
• I love Minis. My first car was a Mini Moke & my third car was a Mini Clubman S.
• My family celebrates a very traditional English Christmas with a huge tree, lots of presents, lots of family, a huge feast & games - it's an occasion that goes for about a week but with a whole month of preparation.
• I support England in the World Cup.

But I don't think I can say I am English. Because I was born in Australia and I live in Australia. Thus I am Australian. Right?

But what about my life, other than the aforementioned facts, makes me Australian?

Am I Australian?

• Barbecues are a food to me, not a celebration or anything like that. It's a style of cooking, just like stir fry. I enjoy both.
• I don't actually own an Australian flag.
• My favourite Australian band is AC/DC and most of them were from Scotland!
• I like beer - but I like Carlsberg, an English beer. a Danish beer that I first tried because they sponsored Liverpool.
• I would like to go to the beach more but I have pale English skin. I burn, I stay burnt for days, I freckle, I go back to being pale. I also hate sand.
• I cringe when I hear people using Australian vernacular. "Mate", "G'day", "sheila", "true blue"... they all grate on me! But I happily say "brilliant", "rubbish", "prat" and "cracker".
• I don't really wear thongs. My thongs are G2B sandals. But I do call them "thongs", not "flip flops", so score one for being Australian, I guess.
• I do own a Socceroos jersey! Of course, their name annoys me and I also own three or four English jerseys, not to mention all my Liverpool jerseys. But... no, I probably can't count that.
• I don't watch a single Australian show. Never have. In fact, I walked out of an English class and refused to participate because our unit that term was 'soap operas' and our lesson was to watch an episode of Home & Away or Neighbours, or something. I flat out refused.

So what am I? Do I even have to be anything?

I suppose I'll spend Australia Day this year, like I have every year. I won't go to work. That's about it.

My brother and my friend are both in England right now. They will be celebrating by going to a Walkabout pub and getting drunk together. Why? Because 16,532km away, it's Australia Day. And they're both from Australia. Thus many beers must be consumed. And as far as I'm concerned, that's about as Australian as it gets.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What nationality do you identify as?
• Are you, by default, the nationality of the country you were born in?
• Why do you identify with your nationality? (Or why don't you!)