The women’s bathroom of the Redback Tavern on a Sunday afternoon in July; packed with shrieking, drunk Australian women, this is the beating heart of young travelling antipodean culture. Tanned and slim and wearing as little as possible, four of them are in various stages of preening. They seem invincible and oddly glamorous. There is someone crying the Ugly Cry over some guy called Macka. Or Chook. Their soap opera chat of an Acton share house, with their dossers and rosters is a more than a little bit fascinating.

Waiting for the loo, I listen intently, and laugh with them as someone recalls the naked, sleep-walking flatmate from Toowonga. I suggest that tomato sauce on the genitals when he next passes out on the communal sofa. This gets a laugh and I am suddenly part of their group. Where are you from? A kiwi?! How long have you been here? When are you going home? The tall blonde one is wiping smudged make-up from under her eye, and she catches my gaze in the mirror as I duck into the stall. ‘Mate has anyone ever told you that you look like Geri Halliwell?’ I laugh it off and tell her she is mad. But secretly I am bursting. YOU think I look like Ginger Spice? You with your perfect figure and your thick, blonde hair? You with your brash confidence? You must be drunk.

I suddenly feel like I am back at school, waiting (hiding) in the toilets until the Alpha Mean Girls have changed and smoked in the showers before PE class.

A little drunk, I wonder if I am actually 14 again. I flush the loo and step out to their waiting judgement, half expecting ridicule. But it is agreed, something about my eyes and smile and the ginger locks. I laugh and thank them and tell them to have fun. Washing my hands, I look in the mirror. It’s 2005, the summer of my year of living dangerously. A week ago I was in Spain, running with the bulls. My tan has faded, but my hair is lighter, longer than usual. My size 14 jeans are really loose and with the wide brown belt, my waist is smaller than ever, the fitted strappy top is a coral colour, it suits my colouring. I can’t see the resemblance, but I love what I am seeing.

It’s me, at last.

Behind me is a dark haired young woman, waiting for the loo in a large black t-shirt and baggy jeans. The Camouflage Uniform. She folds her arms over her belly, catches my eye for a second and looks away. Embarrassed, sheepish.

I want to hug her and say I see you.

And I know how this place is so fucking intimidating and its full of drunk, confident, beautiful people and that can be terrifying when all you want to do is stay home where its safe. I know that you probably wore that because its neutral; a nothing, sexless outfit in this place where you can smell the desire on the sweating, grinding bodies, and you’ve probably learned to be funny and bright, coping mechanisms so that you are accepted, and out there the music is so bloody loud, there is no chance of a conversation. I get that this crowded bar, full of people and music from home, can seem like the most foreign, lonely place in the world. I want to tell her that six months ago, I was her.

But instead I give her a big smile and go back to my waiting friends.

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