New Year’s Revolution

Converted Pumphouse Accommodation, Lake St. Clair, Tasmania

This year, I’m not making a resolution, I’m starting a revolution.

(n)  the act of resolve; a decision or determination: to make a firm resolution to do something.


(n) a sudden, complete or marked change in something.

I say that I am not one for making New Year’s Resolutions, because, well, everyone does it.

The declaration of a resolution free New Year is like the final middle finger to conformance and being just another bland ‘sheeple’. But who am I kidding?

There is nothing like the promise of a new year, a fresh start. All the fuck-ups of the last 12 months wiped clean from your slate, or so your conscience hopes.

I’ve realised, the practice of making resolutions, in itself, isn’t so terrible. Goals, plans and the embrace of change can never be a bad thing, but the implementation and action part is where we often stumble, let alone keeping them going.

It dawned on me that the very word ‘resolution’, it’s very definition and ideology, is reason itself for my inaction of late. Life threw me a curveball and I’ve been happily telling that story ever since. You know, life is shit but it’s ok, I’m making plans. I’ve been firm in my decision to change, my resolution.


Yes this year, I’m making a REVOLUTION

Enough is enough. If you want this life, you’ve got to fight to keep it. You’ve got to slog away, day in day out, to make the most of it. Yes, you may well get tired, but moaning will get you nowhere. You have been dealt this hand, you were given this life for a reason.


Make a difference, carve your mark and leave a legacy.


New Years Eve is a personal time for me, tragic events of the past have made it a night to commemorate those close to me that have left this life. I’m so fortunate to have found my soul mate, my best friend, who also seeks a quiet celebration (although his reason is he hates people and parties!). It’s also partly because the expectation of an amazing night always results in disappointment.

Vintage Accommodation Tasmania
This year, we watched the sun set on 2015, and our belated honeymoon, in the middle of Cradle Mountain & Lake St Clair National Park, Tasmania, staying in a converted Pumphouse.

As we left the communal dining room at the shore house, champagne bottle in hand, giggling the length of the jetty at our social ineptitude, sharing our black humour and the distasteful jokes that we had both been saving for the moment we were out of earshot of the other guests, I suddenly felt in awe of the moment, of its rawness. It was real.

We should have been those polite, friendly guests that enjoyed the chance to meet new people, in this modern concept of communal/shared dining. But the truth is, the couple we were sat with were exceptionally boring and more awkward than us – and that’s ok – they might have disliked us too. Whilst I’m not advocating unwillingness to join in, or rudeness even, I’m saying it’s ok not to be like everyone else, you don’t have to do what the guidebook tells you. It’s ok to put the Lonely Planet guide down.

I have been desperate to see some Aussie wildlife. I joked that I might write to the Tasmanian Tourism board to suggest they change their slogan to something like: ‘Tasmania: Land of the Roadkill’. I can’t believe how many dead kangaroos and wombats I’ve seen on our road trip.

Desperate to see a live animal, I questioned my husband, Mr Mac, on how big the Roos get, what damage they do to cars and what a driver’s instinct might be if one jumped out.
And then it happened.

A kangaroo jumped in front of our car, whilst I was driving 70km/h (way under the speed limit I might add).

Mr Mac was asleep, I slammed my foot on the brakes, screamed and grabbed his leg (no idea why) and, fortunately, managed to stop short of where the kangaroo crossed. It was just a baby. I cried out of shock, I think, my hands shaking for at least half an hour. I was so relieved that we were ok and also that the Roo was ok. Yet all I could think of was the time spent planning this whole trip, minute by minute; out honeymoon could have been railroaded by a dopey kangaroo that doesn’t know how to cross the road.

Up until that moment I was hellbent on making our honeymoon perfect. I didn’t want to admit the truths of this adventure: the best restaurants are always full, everything else is closed and, in any case, I don’t think the food is as great in Tasmania as they all say. I don’t like Tasmania much as I should (though it really is incredibly beautiful).

Life is not perfect. It cannot be curated like a museum exhibition; life, like your vacations, cannot be planned to the finest detail, you can never be prepared for the curveballs. But it’s how you throw them back that counts.

After the Roo and particularly on the jetty in the middle of the lake, watching the sunset, I realised that I’ve spent too long planning and not enough time doing. I’ve been unwavering in my decision to change my life, I’ve not changed those plans at all. But I’ve not acted on them either.

This year I’m making a revolution. It actually started ‘last year’ (last night) on New Years Eve. We threw out the guidebook (figuratively) and went against the grain, sleeping through the midnight celebrations.

After all, in the words of my dearly missed father, the early bird gets the worm.

And this year, this little early bird will fly.

How are you going to start a revolution in 2016?



Ps. I loved my time in Tasmania and would still highly recommend it! Just plan first and perhaps don’t go at Christmas!

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