You can’t deny that supermarket aisles are the true unsung heroes of the supermarket. People rave about variety and price but where would they be without those quiet and unassuming patches of linoleum between the shelves? Without aisles, how would they see the produce? How would they access their favourite box of muesli bars and their preferred brand of cheese?

I’m similarly impressed by train platforms. Trainspotters are misguided – clearly the platform is the marvel. What’s the point of trains if you can’t get on board?

This brings me to the Spinifex Hotel which is, in effect, a train without a platform, a supermarket without an aisle. I’m imagining the back-story goes something like this. You bought the Spinifex Hotel a year or two ago and, like all good entrepreneurs, saw plenty of room for improvement. You set to work with a few changes to the menu, a few refinements to the visual appearance but, most importantly, you addressed the inefficient use of space.

A few quick calculations and you figured you could fit an extra fifty bums on seats and the owners of those bums might purchase an extra fifty chicken parmas so you set to work sourcing tables and chairs.

The problem is this: where you see inefficient use of space, I see dance floor. You’ve kept the jukebox but left nowhere for people to dance. Let’s consider those million and one televisions you’ve got fixed to the walls playing and replaying endless sport. Where would the footballers be without an oval? The cricketers without a pitch?

Prior to your takeover, the Spini was renowned for its great outdoor dance floor and its fabulous live music. In a town like Derby, with a small and loyal population, it’s important to play to your strengths.

Don’t worry, this problem isn’t beyond fixing, I’ve been thinking it through. You should move the pool tables to the larger room and the couches to the smaller room. This would leave ample space to create a dance floor near the jukebox. I say ‘create a dance floor’ but it’s as simple as leaving some space. You’ll be impressed with how quickly we fill it with our moves.

Your loyal toe-tapping patron,

Ayesha

Jokes, jokes, I know you’re not Amanda. I’m Amanda.

But I’ve called 0414 xxx 051, right?

Jokes, jokes, this is a letter not a phone call. I’m not crazy. I thought I’d write, rather than call, because I know you’re up to here with people calling you and asking for Amanda, so please let me explain.

0414 xxx 051 used to be my phone number and now it’s yours. That’s the connection. I got a new number a year or two ago and was slow to spread the word – mostly because I was struggling to let go. See, the thing is, I was in love with my old number. Deeply and profoundly in love.

The affair started back in 2000. I’m well aware you may not have been born back then – I know nothing about you except that you own a mobile phone and, these days, mobile phone owners are getting younger and younger. For all I know you’re five years old and 0414 xxx 051 is the ten digit number that connects you with your lift from kindergarten or the number your parents pay the bill for while you watch Yo Gabba Gabba on your iPhone.

Back in the day, mobile phones were not for kids. In fact, owning a mobile phone was exclusively for self-important wankers (if you are only five years old, apologies for my language – hopefully your reading skills aren’t so advanced). For normal folk, the idea you were only contactable by phone during certain hours was perfectly acceptable. Sure there were answering machines – get this: actual machines that sat on your bench and spoke to the errant callers – but even that was different because, when you missed a call, you phoned back ‘at your leisure’. These were the days when people popped over for a cup of tea without calling and sent birthday cards in the post. And if you were going out to meet someone, you arranged the details with the specificity of an orienteering exercise, you didn’t just say, I’ll meet you in the city somewhere.

For young creative types like myself, getting a mobile phone was considered a sell-out so I was by no means an early-adopter. I was 24 when I realised that maybe this new fan-dangled craze was here to stay. I could see the benefit of owning a mobile phone but still, once I’d caved, I apologised for being so modern. When people asked for my number I’d say, This crazy thing? It’s only for emergencies.

Yet time flies and, before I knew it, 0414 xxx 051 and I had spent ten happy years together. My attitude changed significantly during those years. By the end of the decade, when someone asked for my number, I was pleased to be able to recite 0414 xxx 051 because those ten digits meant I’d stumbled across a new friend or a new job opportunity. Those ten digits meant if someone was thinking of me they could shoot me a text message to say, Hi. And if someone was in a crowded place and knew I was nearby they could call and say, Meet you by the tree to the left of the stage in ten minutes.

My relationship with 0414 xxx 051 was terminated in the most mundane way: I changed phone providers and wasn’t allowed to take it with me. At the time I was heartbroken but I’m pretty much over it now. I’ve filed it in the part of my brain where I keep old jobs, old houses, ex-loves and clothes that grew unfixable holes before I was sick of wearing them.

But in the past few months I’ve randomly run into people who’ve said, ‘You never told me you changed numbers so I’ve been calling someone who is not you.’

You don’t need me to tell you that that someone is you, kiddo. You’re the recipient of the calls for Amanda, you’re the one who’s had to roll out the ‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number’ spiel. I’m sorry about this, really I am. But what I’m not sorry about is that my ten digits have now become your ten digits (in a phone number way, not in a freaky double hand transplant way). I hope they bring you as many kind words, killer jokes and clear navigational instructions as they brought me. As a symbol of the passing of the digits, I metaphorically double high-five you.

Sincerely,

Amanda

‘Counterfactual thinking’ is the human tendency to ponder what if… or if only…

For example, someone might think to herself ‘If only I’d made a speech at my sister’s 21st, she would know exactly how awesome I think she is.’

Or, ‘What if I’d had the foresight to go to Toastmasters every week for a year leading up to Potahter’s 21st birthday and I suddenly loved the spotlight so much that I not only did a speech, but also an interpretative dance to demonstrate how much fun we’ve had together over the years?’

‘What if this dance artfully and eloquently conveyed to the thoroughly engrossed audience how we used to dress in identical clothes when we were little, how Potahter would follow me round and how I loved it, how a man on a plane once asked her to laugh less loudly please and how it made me want to bash him?’ What a dance it would be.

According to psychologists, counterfactual thinking can lead to regret and regret can go a few different ways. It can niggle away at you like a stone in your shoe, send you spiraling into depression or be an uplifting force that pushes you to learn and grow.

The Internet has some tips on how to embrace regret and move forward. (Tangentially, the Internet also has tips on how to make your dog smell better, how to dress in gamine style, how to build an LED camcorder and how to hide that you’re on a diet.) The key points for overcoming regret are: ask for forgiveness and make amends, grieve, examine what you have learned and make a plan for the future.

To get the ball rolling, I have something to ask. Will you, Potahter, forgive me for not making a speech at your 21st?

I know that on the scale of things people do to one another it’s no biggie but I really do feel bad. There are so many things I could have said. I had six years to experience the world before you came along so I know for certain my life is better with you by my side.

Please get back to me soon and let me know what you think. I’m keen to move on to the next stage (grieving and examining what I have learned) and after that I’ll make a plan for my future.

First thoughts are it’ll involve 17 years of Toastmasters so I’ll be ready to speak at your 40th. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just get really drunk.

Much love,

Spanna xx

Everyone has a story. In fact, everyone has multiple stories. Some stories play out in the real world and some play out in our minds. I don’t mean that as in, ‘In my mind, the universal acclaim of my art affords me a lifestyle where the word Centrelink has no meaning to me whatsoever, and I can travel the world and never have to worry about how I’m going to pay next month’s rent and, oh yeah, I’m married to Michael Fassbender and our sex life is OUT OF THIS WORLD and on top of that he totally loves making me tacos and doing the dishes and ironing my expensive frocks and, guess what, he knows all the right settings on the iron so the fabric never ever burns.’

That’s what’s called a delusion. What I’m talking about is an inner narrative. In many ways, your inner narrative is the most important story of all – its influence reaches into each and every aspect of your life. The good thing is it’s completely and utterly yours to tell. Want to know who the star of your inner narrative is? It’s YOU. And guess who writes the script? You again. You’re the star and the writer and you play all the parts. Kind of like Eddie Murphy in Norbit.

You are your own hero, your own best friend, your own worst enemy, your own sage, your own fool. And you can make these characters say and do whatever you want because they are all YOU. When your own worst enemy commandeers your inner narrative and tells you that you’re no good, that after all these years you’re getting nowhere and that you’ll never make it, simply call, ‘Cut!’ Tell her she’s wrapped for the day, for the week, for the month. Tell her that, though her performance was very convincing (almost too convincing), she probably won’t make the final cut – most likely she’ll end up on the cutting room floor where she belongs. Tell her to leave the keys to her dressing room on her way out and if she steals the mascara you’ll have lawyers onto her quicker than she can say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ Then rewrite the script and cast your own best friend.

This is something your own best friend would say, ‘How many people in this world can call themselves a dancer / choreographer / performer / maker / writer / poet / activist? Amaara, you are phenomenal!’ Or maybe she’d say, ‘Struggle and disappointment visit far too often but celebrate the small wins and keep on going. Relish the journey because success goes to the last one standing.’ And if your best friend was anything like Jimmy Dugan from A League of their Own, she’d say, ‘It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.’ Then she’d grin and say, ‘Enough with this serious talk (and Tom Hanks impressions) – you need a bubble bath.’

She’d run it for you and carefully test the temperature of the water with her elbow. Then she’d step away and fade into the background. She’d let you soak in complete silence, absorbing that perfect unity that comes with shutting down all inner narrative, a break from both the negative and the positive mind talk.

And then, out of that sweet silence, Fassbender will call from the kitchen, ‘Hey babe, you feel like tacos tonight?’ Wouldn’t THAT be the day.

Much love,

Amaara x

Willy Wonka was an arsehole. A creative genius, yes, but an arsehole nonetheless. He took a group of kids on a tour of his chocolate factory and then treated them as collateral damage when they fell into vats or exploded.

This is okay though, because Willy Wonka is fictional. His creator, Roald Dahl, is known for despicable characters who are the delight of wicked children and adults alike.

You are, Monsieur Chocolat, a chocolatier like Willy Wonka. But you are not, I sincerely hope, an arsehole.

I love your café. It has been amazing addition to my neighbourhood. I’ve spent time peering through the little window to see how the chocolate is prepared, chatting with your friendly staff and I’ve appreciated the thoughtful way you answered when I enquired about the sourcing of your beans. On the whole, my experience of your enterprise has been exemplary.

Your chocolate is amazing yet a recent experience has left a bitter taste in my mouth. I visited with a friend one busy Saturday and a staff member kindly offered to split my bill. She was very clearly new to the job. When she asked you the process for doing this, you admonished her in a humiliating, excessive manner.

I don’t know the backstory. Maybe only two minutes earlier you had clearly explained to her that bill splitting is a no-go zone. Maybe as part of your standard induction for new staff you’d had her get ‘We DO NOT spilt bills’ tattooed across her lower back and yet still she forgot.

The thing I do know is this: the whole interaction was awful. I felt awful, she must have felt awful and it made you look awful. So awful that since this occasion, no matter how much I crave a hot chocolate and a cosy hour with a book or a friend, I cannot bring myself to set foot through your door.

This is not in protest: I know the absence of my patronage will have no impact whatsoever on your business. It is quite simply that I now feel a little bit sick when I think of you.

Eventually, I’d love to give your café another try and am hopeful that getting this off my chest will help me do that. I’m also hopeful that you’ll think twice before being rude to your staff again, especially in public. The fact that you have a window for customers to watch chocolate making suggests you know you’re selling an experience. Watching someone be intimidated and humiliated is not what I’d call a palatable experience.

Yours sincerely,

Miranda

Do you know what an eroteme is? You probably do, being a professor and all. I have to admit that, until I looked it up just now, I did not. I don’t mind telling you that. The best way to improve oneself is to allow that we all have surfaces that could do with a spit and polish. Nobody’s perfect, right? We all have room to grow.

So back to erotemes. As you’re probably aware, an eroteme is a question mark, also known as an interrogation point, an interrogation mark, a question point and a query. So there you go, that’s something new I learnt today. What about you? Any triumphs of learning in your neck of the woods?

Maybe you learnt that a question mark is a punctuation mark that replaces the full stop at the end of an interrogative sentence. Wait, no… forgive me. Most likely you know that already, having learnt it back in primary school.

Perhaps you learnt that a question mark is NOT to be used after a polite request that seeks no verbal response? I’m being rhetorical. As a recipient of your departmental emails I know for a fact that this is one area of learning where you have not been making ground.

Some example from your recent mailings:

Can I wish you well, Fay, in your new endeavours? 

Can I convey our congratulations to Joy for this appointment?

Questions such as these do not need a question mark because they seek no response.

Can I wish you well…?  – You already are!

Can I convey our congratulations…? – By asking it, you’re doing it!

As important as it is to admit when you don’t know something, it’s equally important to stand strong when you do. You know you can wish Fay well, and you know you can convey congratulations to Joy. These are within your capabilities, so no need to question – just state. People appreciate decisiveness and positivity, especially in times of uncertainty such as these…

Sincerely,

A concerned member of faculty

Are you a fan of Meg Ryan? It’s okay if you’re not. She sells a certain type of cute that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. What about romantic comedies in general? I’m not talking Aniston or Heigl, god help us all, I’m talking the classics, like The Shop Around The Corner. It’s a 1940s film that sees two warring shop assistants ‘unexpectedly’ fall in love with each other as anonymous pen pals. Whacky, huh? Your local video shop will probably have it.

In 1998 a remake of dubious quality was made, called You’ve Got Mail. Meg Ryan plays Kathleen Kelly, owner of The Shop Around the Corner, a charming little bookstore crammed with quirks and family values. Tom Hanks plays Joe Fox, top shot executive of Fox & Sons, a nasty big chain bookstore, which threatens to obliterate Kathleen’s livelihood. Little do they know, they’re corresponding anonymously via the deliciously modern media of ‘the chat room’ and ‘electronic mail’ and, you guessed it, falling in love.

Things have changed since 1998. Firstly, it’s no longer possible to fall in love anonymously over the internet. If Kathleen Kelly could have Googled NY152, emailer-of-her-dreams, she would have traced him back to Joe Fox, executor of her business nightmares. Their little love affair would have come to a screeching halt.

Secondly, fear of the department-style bookstore now seems amusing and old fashioned.  All because you, Jeff Bezos, were ahead of the game. As early as 1994 you were founding Amazon.com, a little idea that would have made both Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox shudder with dread. ‘Selling books in a store?’ you were laughing. ‘Quit flirting in chat rooms, kids, and start using those boxy laptops for your own capitalistic gain!’

Are we both thinking the same thing, Jeff Bezos? Given how things have changed in the book business since You’ve Got Mail, and given your leading role in this change, perhaps it’s time for a remake! In our new version, you will star as you – founder, president and CEO of Amazon.com – and I will star as me. In the interest of modernisation let’s drop the antiquated theme of anonymity. My name is Sarah Henshaw. I live in the UK and run a small independent bookshop on a converted narrowboat called The Book Barge. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook and my blog.

Full confession: my heart didn’t exactly skip a beat when I saw your pic on Wikipedia. That said, when I read you made Forbes’ Billionaires list, I fancy I did feel a little flutter. In the interest of this being a romantic comedy, I’m willing to kiss you at the end.

Full confession, part two: there’s a twist in this new version. I joined the bookselling business already knowing of your reach. I joined because I knew independent booksellers were being put out of business and I wasn’t happy about it.

I’m not hapless like Kathleen Kelly, who closes The Shop Around the Corner and trades in bookselling for a career as a children’s author. I’m going to continue selling books because I believe there’s room for us both. I’m not completely without entrepreneurial understanding; I get where you’re coming from with Amazon.com. Warehouses offer far better book storage than a narrowboat, book storage increases choice and customers love choice. Warehouses also allow for bulk purchasing which leads to cheap books and customers love cheap books.

What I’m scripting for our film is that you start to understand where I’m coming from. You climb on board my narrowboat (not a euphemism; this film is PG) and discover that bookselling can be an art. And because wealthy people love art, you’re insatiably intrigued. You invite me out to dinner, somewhere with tablecloths and candlelight and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata playing in the background. Over oysters and champagne, you ask me if it’s hard running a business day-in day-out, while knowing the financial return will hardly cover the bare necessities of food and shelter. I say, ‘Sure, it’s hard. But satisfying too.’ My eyes light up as I explain how passionate I am about selling books and bringing a bookshop to the people via the canals, from no fixed address. You say, ‘It’s kind of like selling books on the internet, then?’ I say, ‘Kind of, but not.’

Then I explain how it’s not only a space to buy books but also to attend readings and meet fellow booklovers and writers and like-minded souls. I tell you how thrilled people are when they discover The Book Barge. How it taps into something romantic that’s in all of us.

At the mention of romance, members of the audience who are experienced viewers of romantic comedy will think ‘here we go!’ and lean a little forward in their seats.

But we defy their expectations and our conversation turns instead to the topic of wealthy benefactors. I tell you about how, in the olden days, benefactors were all the rage. How it was an integral form of philanthropy to show support and appreciation to those who were pursuing non-lucrative, yet culturally and creatively valuable careers. I tell you that, without his wealthy benefactor, we wouldn’t be sitting here listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Spoiler alert: by the end of this film, you and I will have singlehandedly resurrected the patronage system. As promised, there’s a kiss. It’s not a ‘promise of things to come’ kiss. It’s more of a ‘Thank god you’re not putting me out of business or taking over The Book Barge’ kind of kiss. The kind of kiss that says loud and clear, ‘Thank you for appreciating the art in what I’m doing and providing me with no-strings-attached financial backing.’

You know the kind, right? Give me a call to find out more…

Yours sincerely,

Sarah xxx

Let’s talk about what a great friend Sophie is to you. As her cat, I know I’m biased but all the same she IS pretty ace. Remember how you guys used to love watching Puberty Blues? Or how you went to Turkey together? Or what about the time you both stalked that boy? CLASSIC! So many happy memories of that ilk. SO MANY.

Hey, a thought just occurred to me: sometimes things can seem too good to be true, don’t you think? Sometimes things are so beautiful and perfect you have to pinch yourself over and over and over again just to be sure it’s really happening. But then you end up looking like Gwyneth Paltrow after she’s had a cupping massage and, from there, it’s a slippery dip down to trawling through the Goop archives looking for tips on how to truss a chicken while wearing a Calvin Klein slip dress.

So you see, sometimes it’s good to have a little bit of dark amongst all that light, know what I mean? Just as every cloud has a silver lining, every silver lining needs a little bit of cloud.

How’s this for a cloud: you went to Echuca for a mini-break with your BF (not the cloud) and Sophie, lovingly and selflessly, house-sat for you while you were away (not the cloud). She decided to bring me along for company (oh look, there’s a little whisp of cloud over there on the horizon). You have a bird called Drazic (cloud moving closer) – or, should I say, you HAD a bird called Drazic (cloud is directly above). One day Sophie, innocently and unintentionally, left Drazic’s cage open and I managed to catch him while she was out of the room. Cloud. Rain. Thunderstorm. Flood.

On behalf of myself, I want to say sorry. It was inexcusable and no way to treat a host. On behalf of Sophie, I want to say sorry again, and I truly hope it doesn’t affect your friendship which, keep in mind, is still beautiful and so very close to perfection. ‘Cept now there’s a little bit of cloud to offset all that silver lining.

Please forgive us,

Minou the Cat

Elvis is dead. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but it’s better you hear it from me than some complete stranger. Also, John Lennon is dead too. Double whammy. Take a moment to regroup, I can wait.

On a brighter note, there’s this film called Star Wars and it has jedi knights and lightsabers and a wookie and is pretty fun actually. Check it out next time you’re at the DVD store. Oh yeah, we have these things called DVDs now. They’re discs that play movies in the same way that tapes used to. These days it’s also possible to download movies as files. To do this, you need something called a personal computer. Don’t freak out: these are really common and easy to use. You’ll pick it up easy.

What else? Oh yeah, Britain’s first female prime minister has come and gone, as has New Zealand’s. Here in Australia, our first female PM is serving as we speak. The Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War officially ended. Babies can now be born by fertilising egg cells with sperm in a test tube, Nelson Mandela was freed and became the President of South Africa, and Hong Kong was returned to China.

There’s been bad stuff too, of course. A hole found in the ozone layer, a nuclear accident in Chernobyl, a massacre in Tiananmen Square, genocide in Rwanda, a terrorist attack on America, retaliation attacks on Afghanistan and a war in Iraq (two actually).

Why am I telling you all this? Well, Dave, it’s simple. It seems that somehow you managed to get yourself stuck in a time vortex and are hovering somewhere back in the early 1970s. You are what is known today as an Unreconstructed 70s Male. And that’s not a compliment. The thing is, Dave, the world’s moved on. Women, for the most part, have thrown off their shackles. We are not your indentured slaves, nor are we mere sexual objects for your perving pleasure. If you want to have love affairs or friendships or even just cordial working relationships with women, you’d better get to learning this and fast.

The other thing, Dave, is that, despite what you may think, your time vortex has not stopped your aging process. You are a man in your 50s. You look like a man in your 50s. Chances are, women in their 20s are going to look at you and think of their fathers. Most of the time, they are not going to look at you and think of getting it on. It’s probably worth keeping this in mind.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed working on your boat in Portugal. You’re not a bad guy but some of your behaviour just doesn’t cut it anymore. Women who sign up to work with you deserve to be treated with respect and, frankly, if you don’t give it to them, you’re going to find yourself in some very sticky situations. Worse case scenario, you’re going to find yourself in court.

I don’t want this to happen, not for you and certainly not for the women who put their trust in you when they agree to come and work with you. So here’s what you should do: don’t expect women to clean up after you; if someone does something nice, like cooks you a meal, thank them and mean it; above all, don’t make lecherous or humiliating or offensive comments about a woman’s sexuality or appearance. You’re the boss, it’s inappropriate – let me introduce you to the phrase ‘sexual harassment’. Look it up. There’s this new-fangled thing called the internet that’ll tell you everything you need to know.

Sincerely,

Hannah

And thanks for the zines, Hannah! Very cool.

Your family: who you can and cannot marry – negotiating a potential minefield 

You’re a good-looking woman. You come from a good-looking family. Maybe, on occasion, you’ve caught yourself thinking: If I played my cards right, I could have good-looking babies with my good-looking brother.

STOP RIGHT THERE.

Marrying family members is rife with social, moral and legal complications. You can’t just jump in blindly without first considering the facts.

But what’s that I hear you say? You can’t make head nor tail of the Attorney-General’s website with its officious “thou shalt not” jargon? But what you do understand are the directions on the back of your packet of Byron Chai?

Well consider this specially concocted Fact Sheet…

Review your family for people you find attractive. Leave this list to brew for twenty minutes. Return to your list and determine the level of closeness between you and those you are attracted to: do you share parents, grandparents, does this person call you ‘mum’ or ‘dad’? Remove from the list any direct descendants or ascendants. Also remove any adopted siblings. Leave on the list cousins, second cousins, aunties and uncles. Let your feelings simmer until you have selected the family member who has the optimum level of spice. Ask them out on a date.