Ever been tempted to give up dating altogether and just stick to SMS romance?

Mobile messaging is great for first contact, flirting and of course, party alerts. But then you get face to face with a master texter and their attentive digital flirting is replaced by fascinating (not) verbal insights into the general merits of Holden versus Ford, adjustments to the footie laws and how to get high scores on the latest PlayStation game.

But then if you try hard enough and wait long enough, one day all your stars slip into alignment and you find yourself on a real date, being intellectually stimulated by Brad Pitt's younger, and slightly cuter brother.
And what happens?

Warm eye to eye contact turns to hot embarrassed flushes as his attention moves upwards from the two pretty blue eyes he's been gazing wistfully into, to the third one throbbing away on your forehead. The spell is broken; your romantic evening is savagely assaulted and left bleeding in the gutter.
It's a fast and particularly painful death.

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How good is camping?

One to one with nature; away from the house (which you wish you could afford to move out of); hanging out with your mates; enjoying the peace of the bush or beach; talking rubbish deep into the night; being the last to leave the camp fire; beating the kookaburras up in the morning; avoiding washing at all costs…burning fat-filled snags for breakfast….eating stacks of chips and chocolate…..guzzling heaps of warm sugary fizzy drinks……breaking out in explosions of uncontrollable zits…….attracting blood-sucking monsters……

You just can't beat the great outdoors.

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You never forget your first festival.

Just getting out of the house in holiday time and out from under the parental view is good enough. And the fun of choosing just the right outfit that will survive many hours, if not days, of abuse whilst maintaining an impression of absolute cool.

After you enthusiastically wait up front listening to the support act to the support act to the hastily rearranged headline act - dredged up at short notice from your dad's era due to the sudden break up ‘because of musical differences' finally your all-time favourite band rocks it. The time of your life kicks in thenso does reality.

Your ears are screaming, your bladder's aching, you've waiting far too long to go and you're half a marathon away from the nearest portable toilet; where you join a queue of 20 or so fellow sufferers as flushing water and toilet paper run out simultaneously.

In the middle of the country's worst drought in half a century the heavens open and the parched ground quickly converts to a river of mud through which you wade to the distant catering shacks. Here, a cardboard tray of cold noodles sets you back 15 bucks and only a large block of fruit and nut will take the flavour away, and the grease from your teeth.

And just as it can't get any worse, a burning feeling and the horrified looks of fellow festival-goers tells you that the pimple breakout that's been maturing all week is now bearing fruit.

People move away from the disaster zone for fear of flying debris.

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You've picked up your Tight-ass Tuesday cut price movie ticket, worked your way through a bag of Twisties, a bucket of cola and a choc-top and are now settling back for a couple of hours of premium Matt Damon action.

But who let the local RSL outing in? We're only five minutes in with the lights barely dimmed and already every other line has been repeated by multiple voices for the benefit of those whose hearing is battery-powered.

Then the scrunching starts. Why in the world do multiplex owners sell candy with three layers of packaging, all of which are made from the noisiest cellophane known to science?

Next, the Nokia Symphony drowns out all else, closely followed by the loudly whispered phrase “I'll have to talk quietly, I'm at the movies” or similar.

And the chewing gum you've just gripped is so fresh it's still warm. And the pop corn you've been offered feels like it has been recycled via the carpet three times. And they've got the reels in the wrong order so the final movie stand-off happens after twenty minutes.

Then just as you forget all the distractions and turn your attention to addressing the ripened pimple that's been brewing for days, the one and only quiet moment of the movie takes you by surprise and the distinctive ‘pop' of zit pressure released, echoes around the walls.

Faces turn in your direction as you resolve to renew your relationship with the local DVD store.

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Who are the warped minds behind current clothing designs?

Just as you've developed a healthy layer of personal insulation to help you through another vicious Australian winter, some genius comes up with the bright idea of combining cropped tops with what the older generation call ‘hipsters' (and just for the record, I really don't care that the low cut waistband was ‘actually invented in the sixties' along with, as far as I can gather, excessive nasal hair and the embarrassing mindset of trying to be young and ‘trendy' forever).

So your belly creeps downwards while your bum tries to escape upwards, creating a delightful bulge reminiscent of an overfilled cream bun oozing under pressure.

It's no consolation that we fashion victims all look as bad, except of course the smug models who should be force-fed those cream buns in the first place, to bring them a little closer to reality. I'd still like to lay my hands on the invisible villains who decided that midriff bulge should be a fashion accessory.

And as if that isn't enough, all this stress over fashion and beating the bulge has got an invisible villain of my own burning a hole in my chin. Stand by for the eruption.

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