Systems down allows for the writing of blogs. Or, using www.myheritage.com to find out which celebrities you look like most (Vain! You're thinking of checking yourself before reading the rest of my entry), ringing out my passport (we'll come to that later) and shamelessly attending kitchens and toilets unnecessarily. I didn't expect anything less by the time I got to work this morning, half an hour late but not a million miles away from usual, which by the way is a bloody miracle taking into account the morning I've had.  I'm not usually your one to suffer bad mornings. God blessed me with a strong sense of denial, which means I rarely stress about the important things or mundane being the same thing. This isn't to say I don't suffer from stress, but I'll leave that for another blog when I'm feeling overly self-indulgent and less consumed by recent events.  To begin again from the beginning. Apart from little shorts, skirts and t-shirts, I own two hoodies, one pair of warm jeans, one pair of trainers and no umbrella. I wore both hoodies and jeans complete with canvas made trainers on my 20-minute walk home last night in a storm. The intensity of the downpour made England seem a desirable holidaying destination. That was fine. So this morning I layered two t-shirts, a long-sleeve knit and put on my trainers ready for work. My socks were soaked through before even leaving the flat. That was fine, it was just drizzly out now, and I?d dry them out at work. Five minutes in, half way across the first football pitch, the sky was clearly not done and I was soaked through again. I turned around, my knitted top stretched and heavy with the sheer weight of rain water, hair-sopping wet and although I couldn?t hear the squelching sound over the loudness of rain, I knew my feet were drowning inside my shoes. Back at the flat, I dried myself as much as possible with just a towel and no actual dry clothes to change into, I reasoned this would be a waste of time anyway as the storm showed no sign of letting up. Instead, I left with my two housemates for the bus stop around the corner, sharing a broken umbrella made for one. I have a weekly train pass, and never need to use the buses. I hate buses. The experience that followed only rooted my hatred even deeper. My house mates accustomed to this mode of transport swiped their way through and made their way to the back of the vehicle leaving me fumbling for change in my backpack, ?Hi, one to Central please..?, ?don?t go to central ? Next Please!? ?Oh sorry, I mean Market Street..?, ?three dollars?. He gave me change from a fiver in twenty-cent pieces. I dropped them all. People are kind though, and I apologised for myself and thanked them all the time they helped me. Nervous and shaken I realised a calm and composed demeanour was for the time being irretrievable, I stared at the floor for the entire journey. Bus-stop transfer to train station to platform three to seat in carriage fairly uneventful. I used the down time my train journey offered to make plans of recovery. I want my walk from station to work to be dry; I?ll buy an umbrella! I?m hungry and want to cheer myself up; egg n bacon sarnie! And so on.  The station in North Sydney where I work is underground and outside is reached up through a shopping arcade. This was where my recovery could take place I thought. Except when I got there the darkness I learnt was due to no electricity, and the barriers meant there was no access into the arcade, and the official looking people were there to guide commuters through to a temporary exit. The mall had been flooded. The only exit on offer lead somewhere entirely unfamiliar, still with no umbrella, and a street with no shelter. I found my way by usual means asking the people around me. Just before committing myself to a day of work, I dived in a nearby café and ordered myself that sandwich?mmmmmm yum! Two hours have passed, I?m still wet through, but hey I?m being paid to write about it! And as a result I?m feeling heaps better!