Mad April

Much has happened since the last blog post. An aeon might indeed have passed.

In the space of two months, I have been dutifully exhausting candlelit burners, LED lights, and creaked the arms of my sunnies. Today, I can safely say that I am at once a journalist, an author, an assistant events coordinator, an assistant marketing and communications specialist, and all-Vicki.

In the past few weeks, I find myself roaming in and out of metal cages holding 4,000 chickens and Indian Runner ducks. I have talked to international show judges with cat-loving hearts big enough to surpass even my unchecked adoration for our feline friends. I tasted the new hot dog-slash-waffle creations by Sydney’s funfair moguls. I’ve chatted with celebrity chefs, with dancers dressed as flowers, with retirees, children, with a trio of Wyandotte Bantam chickens (secretly).


I’ve helped to keep around 10,000 displays of feathers, glitter, and kinky leather in check at the annual LGBTIQ parade. This involved a lot of barking at failed walkie talkies.

My work as an author for an upcoming publication for the University of Sydney has led me shuffling between corridors, huffing and puffing to make it in time for meetings with university academics.

The list of ‘I Have’s is non-exhaustive. When asked why it is that I do this, I would have liked to say that it is out of altruism that I – notorious night owl of the house of Choh – enslave myself for the better of the communities I serve. In all honesty, it is by accident. Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it to roll out of bed at 5am, de-nauseate myself by taking a swig of fresh orange juice and a cup of cap’. If it is worth it to throw myself into far-flung communities who have not seen many of “those Asian ladies” (which I confess irks me like nothing else… I often have to encounter this within my own journalist work at a Sydney show for example).

I wonder….

If I am blessed.

But I shouldn’t wonder.

Fact is, I am. I’ve done more than I can imagine. I’ve sunk phobias into their suffocating depths. I’ve learned that people and animals are far kinder than what we feared.

I would like to take an opportunity to reflect on the people who have touched me. My mother, who when I absolutely need it, would drive me home from the station after a hectic day. My friends, I can name four whom I would name the future godparents of my future (or non-existent) children, who have been there to cheer me up with notes of encouragement, quips, and an arbitrary stroll around Sydney CBD for art galleries.

Let’s face it, I’ve aged. I find art galleries to be more exhilarating than a debauched night out.

So who’s up for the Biennale with me?


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