Tag Archives: anxiety



I mentioned last post about how I’ve been trying to not use my phone when I’m doing social stuff, because I want to be a part of things. It’s harder than you’d think, because we’re so conditioned now to document every meal and moment, and to take and re-take photos to prove our spontaneity. There’s a place for this, yes, but for me? I’m trying to be more in the moment.

But sometimes, I really do not like the moment.

This morning was the icing on a particularly nasty cake I’ve been baking for a while now. I was running late for a cycle class, and I do not cope with being late. So I took what I thought was a shortcut, and found myself going straight past the gym. I turned around and promptly repeated the exact same sequence of turns, and again… going straight past the gym.

As I sat at the lights waiting to do a third u-turn, I heard myself say something. Actually, it was pretty loud. Chances are the person waiting at the lights next to me also heard it.

One thing I am good at doing is talking to myself in ways that I wouldn’t dare or even dream of talking to other people. And to prove a point, I have turned what I said into a beautiful meme:


And looking at those words, I feel ashamed of myself. I would unleash total fury at anyone who dared to use those words towards someone I love. Even towards someone I don’t know. You don’t talk to people like that, not in my world.

Except… I do. To myself.

And I’m sitting here, writing this, and I just want to cry. Because I know I meant it, at the time.


When I eventually got to the gym, I pushed myself through a big cardio workout, because I’d totally and utterly missed the class I wanted to go to. I was stretching afterwards, and a woman who’s become a good friend plopped herself down opposite me to chat.

We talked about time. About how moments are so important, and without investing in the importance of time – instant, immediate, now time – life kind of loses meaning.

It reminded me of a conversation I had last night, where again time was the topic. Don’t rush time, don’t force yourself forwards into things you can’t possibly predict the best outcome. Don’t worry about things that you don’t have the information about yet. Just be now. Time.

Which reminded me of a conversation I had on Sunday. Time. Time doesn’t exist, you just have now as your guarantee. Don’t let anxiety mess with now.


I need to remember those words I said to myself. Not because they’re true. But because of the horrific cruelty behind them, that I directed to myself. And I need to remember how I spent that moment, that time. Because life is so fleeting. I cannot put more time into talking that way to myself. Because fuck.

I might hear me.

I thought about things that I have heard other people say about me.



photo by @kimmi_joy


There comes a point where you can make a choice.

And I choose moments. I choose now.

And as hard as it’s going to be to change the thought patterns of a lifetime, I choose to remember that I have done something amazing. That I am strong.

And that I am about to help other people set themselves free.




There’s a fork in the road and it’s loaded with kale.


Regular visitors here and to the Facebook page would have picked up on a bit of a shift in gears at the Naughty Corner.

I’ve never really hidden much from this blog.

I’ve written about all sorts of shit, haven’t I. The ups, the downs, the ins, the outs. We’ve been together through this blog for I think about three years now. And I’ve loved getting to know you, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride thus far.

The thing is, as my own life has changed and twisted and turned, so has the blog. I just feel like it’s something worth talking about, so that you know where I’m at and I know that I’ve been upfront and honest – things that are priorities in my life, often to the mortification of those around me!

I started this blog sitting on a hill at the Byron Bay Writers Festival. It came out of a decision to write more regularly. And I’ve tried to write here fairly regularly. I know there have been quiet times, but I’ve usually come back and explained the reason behind the silence. And it’s like coming back to an old friend. I love your comments and your likes and your questions. Because the other aim of my blog was to make sure people knew that they were not all alone. Be it mental health, same sex attraction, being on the spectrum, chronic awkwardness – it was important to me to make sure that people knew there was someone else.

And I’m still here. Tapping away on the keyboard.

But yes, things have changed.

You see, because this blog represents my life, it’s taken a turn.

A turn towards documenting weight loss, getting active, making changes towards a better quality of life. And I know that this isn’t everyone’s power smoothie cup of tea. But I wanted to be honest, so here I am, pointing out the obvious in my delicate way.

I’m still blogging. I’m still ridiculous. But I have a goal. And I’d love to take you with me as I close in on it.

Because there’s this thing:

Many years ago, back when I lived in Sydney and was at the peak of my weight training and fitness, I had a small idea that one day I might be a personal trainer. But then life happened, and I left that idea on the side of the road that I was stumbling along.

But you know what?

I’m fit now. Yes I am still fat. But I am getting closer every day to my goal weight, through a mixture of sensible eating and dedicated exercise. No short cuts. No fads. Just making choices, every single day. I have an army of supporters, including my beautiful beloved, the flatmate who isn’t my flatmate anymore, my awesome family and friends, and one very dedicated trainer. And I’ll get there.

So, in a couple of weeks, I’m heading off to an information session. To start a Certificate III in Personal Training. I know I’ll need at least a Certificate IV to actually do anything, so by starting now, at this place, I am giving myself another year to keep working towards my fitness and weight goals.

I’m totally shitting myself about this. But I reckon I can do it. And it feels ridiculous to be putting this out there on a public forum – but fuck. I want to do this and I’ve worked my arse off to get this far. Yes, I’m still fat. But I am fit. And every day I am capable of doing more and more.

And I’d love it if you stuck around.

Because I’m still going to be blogging. About doing life as my body shrinks. About taking on challenges that freak me out. About navigating gym classes and fun runs and lycra and the sore bottom of spin class. But most of all, about being myself in the Naughty Corner while I plod on towards a dream.

Come with me?

Lucked Up


I got dressed for the gym today then immediately got changed. I wanted to go to the gym but my head is so bleark at the moment. Very frustrating battle of wills occurring regularly. But I thought to myself, I won’t let it beat me – I’ll go out and finish some Christmas shopping.

Because that will help.

Doing battle with crowds.

Parking wars.


Six seater strollers blocking aisles.

But I persisted.

I was in Big W for about 5 minutes, hunting everywhere for stockings. The kind that you wear on your legs, I’m not sure why people wear stockings, I used to wear them for school and have holes in them by recess. Anyway I needed them for a game at Cubs on Monday night. Logic told me they would be in the underwear section. Near the socks, I reasoned.

But there were no socks in the underwear section.

I was close to losing my shit when I heard a voice say “Some people are so fucking rude!”. I turned around and saw a friend of mine with her two kids, both sporting massive grins because Skunk (they’re two of my Cubs) didn’t spot them. We made plans to grab a coffee then went on to finish shopping.

It turns out that Big W now has their socks near the shoes, and the stockings are indeed with the socks.

I then met up with my friend with a coffee in tow, and promptly got shat upon by a bird.

Now, apparently this is good luck. I have a feeling that the person who deemed a head full of bird shit ‘good luck’ is also the same tool who suggested that it is good luck if it rains on your wedding day. After encouraging me to buy a lottery ticket, my friend wiped the shit out of my hair.

I drove home, returned to my funk of a mood. I don’t know what is going on in my head but it isn’t nice there at the moment.

Yesterday, beloved and I were driving somewhere, and a 4WD pulled out in front of us. In my panic and fright I wanted to get out of the car. And I was rude to my beautiful beloved. And I felt like a total bitch of a person. I apologised and bawled and tried to explain that I don’t know what’s wrong with me but something is wrong. But I don’t know what – just that horrible anxious feeling that fills my head with a sense of doom.

When we got home, beloved stopped me and said, “Instead of thinking about what is wrong, let’s say a few things that aren’t wrong: It isn’t you. You’re not wrong. You’re OK. This stuff is just external.”.

She’s the best ever.

On my way home, one of my favourite songs came on the radio. It’s kind of like a unicorn, I hear it really rarely but when I do it fills me up with hope. So I kept on driving, so that I could hear all of it. And I sang badly and loudly and just drove, swallowed up in the bath of music and splashing around in it, letting it wash away all the shit in my brain.

And it helped.

Then I went home and did the same thing, but in a shower, and removed the actual shit from my hair.

Swings and roundabouts.

Moon and More


I shared this morning about how that pain in the arse anxiety had been lingering around this week making a nuisance of itself. I write about this kind of thing fairly openly. The reason? Because I figure if I have to battle with this kind of thing, then I can’t be the only one. So by writing about it, I am letting at least one other person know that they aren’t all alone. Makes pretty good sense to me.

We’ve had a funny old week.

I turned 38 a week ago, which we marked by getting a birthday tattoo. I’d been wanting to get this one for a long time, so it was really special to see it finally etched onto my skin:


My mum’s signature, and a butterfly in ‘her’ colours. 

But before we did the inking, beloved and I went to a writing awards afternoon tea. I’d entered a writing competition a couple of months ago, and got an email inviting me along to the presentation to the winners. It was on my birthday so I figured, why the hell not. And beloved and I went along.

But it turned out that I totally WON! I took out first place with my piece, “Check Out”, which you can read here. Let me know what you think. The writing competition coincided with the International Day for People with Disabilities. I wrote about Aspergers.

Here’s me with cameras in my face. Awkward.


Winner winner, chicken dinner!

The weekend was of course the Santa Run. It was awesome, and I am still really proud that I did it.

But then Monday. Then Tuesday. Then Wednesday. And now, Thursday.

And for some reason, the culmination of those days resulted in a bit of a slump, with anxiety lurking around behind me as I try to navigate my days. I don’t know what the cause is, I don’t think there is a single cause.

But there is good news.

Because after I told the lovely folks on the Facebook page that I’d been duelling with anxiety, several of them said “Same here”. And just like that, I wasn’t all alone. And it helped, enormously. Because we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

A bit of a smile to end the day upon:

Beloved and I have been doing the Elf on the Shelf thing this year. I’ll do a full post about our Elf and his adventures later in the month, but this morning I had a brilliant idea. Beloved was fast asleep after coming home from a night shift. I was boiling Christmas puddings, when it came to me: The best ever idea for our Elf. It involved a bauble from the Christmas tree, some string and a big piece of tape. I positioned him, then woke up my beloved. As she got out of bed I started singing Wrecking Ball. She gave me a look for introducing Miley Cyrus to the bedroom, but when she opened the floor she collapsed into giggles.


So, you know. Life. It goes up and down. In and out. But we’re not alone. There’s always someone to talk to, be it a friend or a doctor or a relative or a pet or your reflection. They’re all valid resources. And days are temporary, there’s another one on the way. And in the meantime, there are always elves.



Often over-rated and seldom to visit the Naughty Corner, I am giving myself a firm dose of logic today.

It is the eve of my first fun run.

To say I am shitting myself is putting it mildly.

So I thought I would try to logic my way through this one.


Variety Santa Fun Run. Yes, I do have to wear a Santa suit.

1. What if I can’t do it?

Oh, please. You do this distance every day on the treadmill and follow it up with the rower or the bike. You can do it.

2. What if I get flies on me?

You probably will. But you can douse your shirt in that stuff that keeps the little buggers away and is meant to have no smell but really smells like death. Problem not solved, but definitely decreased. Besides, if you have flies on you then so does everyone else.

3. What if I come last?

Shut up. Last year you were learning how to walk. You’re doing it, aren’t you? Fuck it.

4. What if people laugh at me?

See the answer the question 3.

5. What if people notice me and think I’m crap?

If people notice you they’ll probably just think, “Good on her!”. I mean, really. Are you going to be doing it and judging everyone you pass? No. That’s right. So you’ll be fine.  And I know you think differently but you’re good at being decent to other people. So don’t worry.

6. What if people make jokes about my belly making me look like Santa.

Those people are dicks, don’t listen. Besides they should have seen you 20 odd kilograms ago. Fuck that.

7. What if I hurt myself?

What if you don’t? Besides there will be first aid tents, they would have made sure the course was flat and safe. And you don’t fall down now. Your ankle is fixed.

8. What if I can’t run?

Then you’ll walk. Plus, see the answer to question 3.

Ultimately, you will be fine and you will finish it and you will piss it in. Honestly. And it is less about the time and the speed and more about getting this first one out of the way. Then you’ve done one. You’ve done one! Besides, you’ve raised money for Variety (if people want to donate they can do it here), and you know what? There probably won’t be many other people there who have learnt to walk in the last 12 months. That’s you. This time last year, this was you:


Fresh out of the brace.

This is you now.

You run. You walk. You do stupid heavy weights. You row, you bike, you run up and down stairs. You’ve been training hard for the last 3 months. You have an army of people who are backing you all the way. You’ll be wearing Bessie, you’ll look as silly as everyone else in a beard and hat.

And you’ll do it.




I know it isn’t nice to use the word “hate” but you know what? I fucking hate change. Particularly when it is change for a stupid reason.

I’ve written before about how the number of ripples my brain can cope with is three. That might be three major events, three upsets, three issues, or in this case, three changes. I’m at three now and yesterday I woke up to discover my special pillow (affectionately referred to as pootoo) has a tear in it.

Just… just fuck this.

My head knows that change is something that a lot of people have trouble with. But when sameness is what helps you thrive, the ripples that change make feel akin to those whopping big waves at the beach that dump you to the bottom of the ocean, fill every nook and crevice with sand, then laugh at you as the stagger to your feel minus your swimmers.

Oh my GOD Scouty just made the most horrific smell. I must change rooms. Hang on.


Seriously how does such a delightful fur baby who gives endless love and just wants to play create such smells? How does this happen?

Actually it’s kind of what change makes me feel like. A growing awareness of impending doom, straight from the bowels of hell. It becomes overwhelming and there is nothing to do but either breathe it in until you are physically ill or evacuate.

need sameness. Life doesn’t stay the same. And so I developed ways to deal with the ripples life throws just as a part of the human condition. But it’s not so easy this time. You see the way I developed those ways has changed. Since I met my therapist, I realised for the first time that I’m not completely useless. I learned what it was that made my head the way it is. I found ways to work with it instead of against it. I got through things and started to thrive. But I feel a bit like this:

Imagine you have a shitty car. This is quite easy for me because I used to own a Kia. You take your car off to get serviced. You’ve seen many mechanics in the past who have simply patched what’s wrong and sent you on your way. But now you’ve found a brilliant mechanic. You take your Kia in and it receives regular work. Things start to change. Windows go up and down. You don’t stall as much. The clutch doesn’t snap. You start driving further and further. You gain confidence with the car and start being pleased that your lemon is now more of an orange.

Then you find out that the mechanic is moving. The best you can hope for now are those patch up jobs. And as your car sits idling in the driveway of the mechanics, the exhaust starts to splutter. The wheels begin to tremble. As you back it out to return to a smaller radius of safe driving areas, the wheels fall off.

Sure, there are other mechanics. But when every other mechanic has only been able to do patch it jobs, you’re kind of left with nowhere to go. The car is in the driveway but you don’t want to drive it because you know it’s not going to be able to get the help it needs if something goes wrong. The best you can hope for now is a courtesy car while your car splutters along from crisis to crisis.

That brilliant mechanic? Not using their mechanic skills anymore, even though they are the absolute best.

The cars the mechanic helped? They either manage the change or splutter to silence.

I have no idea what’s going to happen. I met a new “mechanic” today and he spoke to me like I was a three year old. Stories of houses and shoes. I still got there though, and I made an appointment to go back.

Will the car make it? No idea.

Will my brilliant mechanic return? I fucking hope so.

There’s nothing worse than wasted skills. And there are a lot of people in Newcastle who need a good mechanic.

And now Scouty has followed me to the study and released another hellish odour.

Time to get my joggers on and head to the gym. While it’s still there. Because yay and hoorah. That’s changing too.

Some days you’re just not full of sunshine and light.

How do you manage with change? Any tips?

Get Stuffed


Today is Melbourne Cup Day.

This is the image that won the internet for me today:

Source: Marie Claire

Source: Marie Claire

That’s Michelle Payne, the only female jockey riding in the Melbourne Cup and the first female jockey to win. And I love that she used the phrase “get stuffed” in her victory speech. How completely Aussie is that!

I’m not going to pretend to know a lot about the Melbourne Cup, nor about the horse racing industry. But what I do know is that my beloved’s daughter works in this industry, and I know her love and compassion for horses. For me, beloved’s daughter is the closest actual source that I know when it comes to racing and the way horses are treated. Beloved’s daughter might not know how to hang a wet towel and she might struggle with getting rubbish into the actual bin – but the love she has for horses and the expectation she has that they be treated beautifully seem to be in keeping with her chosen field of work.

Beloved and I went to the local pub for their Melbourne Cup lunch do. We went last year too, and I won Best Footwear (my post-op ankle boot). I didn’t win this year. I’m in normal shoes now.

While we were there I was chatting to a woman who worked at a place that sounds like… Parby’s Dies. Just a quick chat. Then I went back to my beloved. About an hour later, I walked past her and I saw her turn on her stool at the bar, and very clearly heard her say, “big girl, big girl, big girl”. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and returned to our table.

I sent beloved to get our drinks.

My thoughts considered the situation.

She’s correct. I am big. But by fuck I’m working on it, every single day. I didn’t retaliate, didn’t make comment on her physical shortcomings. I didn’t go back to the bar. But I also didn’t go home.

I’m working on it, every single day.

And ultimately I would love to have turned to this woman and shout GET STUFFED.

But I didn’t. Because that would be mean. And I am many things, yes – but I am not mean.

I actually found myself feeling really sad for this woman. Based on the things she mentioned in our brief chat, and her own appearance challenges, and that she thought it was even worth saying something like that, and that she lived in a world where making that kind of comment held some form of validity.

So, it’s been a funny old Melbourne Cup day here. But I think we can all agree on who the real winner was:

The phrase GET STUFFED.

Mental Health Month: Ivy Pearl Roses


Beloved and I drive past the local cemetery several times a week.

I often try to catch a glimpse of the rabbits that swarm to the cemetery for some vampire-like zombie reasons, I’m sure. But this week, just yesterday, I caught a glimpse of a name on a tombstone.

Ivy Pearl Roses

The name made me smile. I disappeared into an imaginary world where dear Ivy Pearl had parents who were early onset hippies, deciding that they would bestow upon their daughter the name of living things, natural things, in the hope that as she grew up she would value the natural world and the beauty that is in it, the restorative nature of life and the like. That Ivy Pearl grew into a woman who spearheaded the equal education of women and girls, a woman who had several dogs and a garden and spent her days writing stern letters to the editor and toddling to the local postbox, licking the stamp and shoving it into place with a thumb that had a nail full of dirt from her garden.

Ivy Pearl Roses.

Not just one rose, but plural. I’ve heard the surname Rose many times, and went to primary school with a beautiful local family of that name. But I’d never heard the surname Roses before. Ivy Pearl was a woman born into an abundance of beauty and buds and growth and fragrance. Her name alone was a three stage reminder of the important things in life: To grow in all circumstances; to remember that even a grain of sand can make a difference; to encourage boundaries and respect, lest you feel the pinch of thorns.

The thing is that Ivy Pearl Roses was transcribed upon an old tombstone. She didn’t appear in the cemetery recently. In reality, I’ve probably driven straight past her a million times, unable to see her name because I’d been trying desperately to spot the zombie rabbits.

There’s this irony that exists in mental health, and being as it is Mental Health Awareness Month, I’m going to share it with you.

You can be going great guns for days. Inspirational as all fuck. You can be fighting and working steadily in your wellness, strong, brave, bold, consistent. And then, life. And then, people. And then, change. And then disappointment. It doesn’t matter what your Achilles heel might be when it comes to your mental health. For a while it literally was my Achilles (which has recovered beautifully, by the way). But eventually, things can start to get harder to navigate. Your world might crumble a little bit. Your brain kicks into overdrive. Tears. Tiredness. It gets hard to form sentences. Hard to concentrate. Hard to wake up. Hard to sleep.

What gets me is that it is unreasonable to expect that life is always going to be a course of sheer inspiration and joy. You don’t get told this when you are trying to recover from mental illness. Instead you learn to measure your wellness by how you feel, instead of how you manage. The reality is that you are going to feel sad if bad stuff happens – and happen, it will. But that doesn’t mean your recovery is over, or regressing. It a side effect of engaging in life. And in my mind, engaging in life is the goal of recovery.

What does this have to do with Ivy Pearl Roses?

That’s easy. Her name is a beautiful reminder of life.

Grow in all circumstances. Remember that even a grain of sand can make a difference. Encourage boundaries and respect, lest you feel the pinch of thorns.

Polishing a turd


Well it’s day four of quarantine. Day two of treatment that my body is tolerating, so three more days to go. If you missed the last blog, I have whooping cough.

Yesterday was spent making soup, yelling at the dogs who seem to have developed a passion for nonsensical barking, crocheting, washing Harry’s bottom and sulking.

But I really have been trying to make the best of it.

Soup. Image by The Naughty Corner

Soup. Image by The Naughty Corner

Every time I am on the nebuliser, I am crocheting. So far I have made six beanies. My GP has assured me they won’t be contaminated, but I’m Glen 20-ing them anyway. There’s a reason for this, but I’ll tell you more about that in a later post, because it deserves a post totally dedicated to that reason.

I have a scratchy bit on two of my toenails and it is making me very frustrated.

The cat killed a mouse and ate it on the front verandah.

Oh hang on. Making the best of it.

So, I didn’t have to feed the cat dinner that night, and I’ve got toenails, yay!

Look, I know it could be much worse. And for many other people, it really is much worse.

But as true as that is, it’s also kind of invalidating. Because this sucks. But I’m trying to let go of the things that shit me and frustrate me, and I’m trying to focus on doing what I need to. What I need to do? Breathe. What I want to do? Visit my family and watch movies and make a bed on the lounge and snuggle up and have a steady supply of beverages and pity lavished upon me. I want to make sure my beloved gets Friday Night Pie Night and I want to play with the dogs in the park. I want to fix my toenails.

And then! Then, in the midst of all of this, I stumbled across a video that just filled my heart up with joy.

This is Ethan. According to the page I saw his video on, when this was recorded Ethan was 6 years old. He has Autism, and apparently brilliant parents. Doesn’t this just make you want to weep with joy?

You go, Ethan. You’re a bloody legend.

The Shifting Sands


My head has been completely occupied with thoughts lately.

I don’t think I have even told you about my emergency trip in an ambulance over Easter, or even the visit to my sisters. I’ve just been so caught up in the thoughts that are bothering me.

We live on a beautiful planet. And we’ve treated it like shit, but we’re learning from our mistakes. And we treat each other like shit, and for the most part, we’re learning from those mistakes too. As individuals, we know now that it’s OK to chase dreams and set goals and embrace what you are good at. Generations have changed now. Having a “proper job” and a “career” aren’t really the be all and end all that they used to be. It’s OK to be creative and clever and to have opinions and thoughts and dreams and goals. You can brag about your kids without being a wanker and you can be proud of your kids without being labelled a helicopter parent.

And I think the Internet has a lot to do with that.

And this is good.

The example I have in my head when I’m writing this, is my beloved. She creates awesome stuff with her interior design knowledge. Cushions and clocks and tables and all sorts of stuff. It’s great. It really is. Even if I didn’t totally love her, I would still think it is good. You can check out her Etsy store. But this isn’t about throwing publicity her way.

Because the other side of this is a Facebook page I’ve been made aware of that exists solely to “save” Australia from the religion of Islam. It’s a hate page. It offers frequent videos and rants, full of swearing and incitement to jump on the bandwagon to “reclaim” Australia. And I cannot tell you how ashamed the page makes me feel. Ashamed, but also concerned for the welfare of the person behind it.

This seems like a totally unrelated bunch of words at the moment, but bare with me.

Because here is where I am going with this:

For some reason, this hate page has very quickly grown in support and numbers. My beloved’s page is growing… but slowly. Same with the page for this blog. What is it that makes people jump on board with hate speech instead of creativity, is what I want to know.

Not because I want more numbers for me or my beloved, but because I think it might be offering an insight into what people really are passionate about. And this is a scary, scary thought. Because what if it’s the increased access to a ready audience that fuels this kind of thing. People who have these extreme “anti” viewpoints aren’t outsiders any more. There’s a heap of people ready to support them in their vitriol and not one stops to consider the well-being of the person behind the posts.

The thing is, everytime something like the page I’m talking about starts spewing forth opinions and hatred, more people rise. People who share the #illridewithyou hashtag. People who say “You do not speak for me”. People who can see beyond the actions of extremists and embrace humans, regardless of their religious beliefs. And for every ounce of ignorance, there seems to be double the weight in love and courage and humanity.

Because it just isn’t brave to be hateful and destroy.

It takes a lot more courage to love and create.

And yet somehow, this hate page has garnered a lot of support. And there are plenty more just like it.

Have we turned into a world that supports hatred? See, I don’t actually think that we have. I hope we haven’t.

And maybe, just maybe, that is the conclusion I’m looking for, in this blog post. Because I’m aware I haven’t said a huge amount, not really. And I’ve done nothing to empty the thoughts out of my head. But the crux of it is maybe those two words. And they might be what we need to take away when we see hate and vitriol on social media, alongside our friendships and our creativity and our passions. Two simple words, which are the ultimate response to hate and also to the pursuing of dreams. Just two words.

Here they are again:

I hope.