I had to get stitches! Here's what happened:

I had to go to a studio shoot in the outer suburbs of Melbourne. It started off terribly: the guy and I were both getting pretty annoyed. The light was wrong and his flash wasn't working, or something. 'Urgh', he said. 'It doesn't do this often. I'm getting some new equipment later this year.'

'Yeah, yeah', I thought grumblingly. 'Maybe you should call me when you do.' We fumbled on. It was pretty dismal. But then- ohhhh- towards the middle of the day things turned around completely! The sun came flooding through the windows, like in some Hollywood film, and he started getting dazzling shots.

Lighting is important, but modelling is really about putting energy out for the camera. It's a lot like acting. I have discovered that if I am putting out real energy (instead of that fake energy that people usually put out for the camera! big, cheesy grins, and all that) then I will give the photographer a great shot! If I am thinking about something that inspires me or puts me in a good mood (or even a bad mood- as long as it's real) then the camera will like it. If I'm not- if I just don't have a thought in my head- then the shot won't be anything special. So... modelling teaches me a lot about who I am- what actually does inspire me! It's an amazing process and I really like it.

We got some great shots that day. I was in catsuit-style outfit against a flowery background. The colours all clashed, but that mysterious thing happened where... it worked. Some shots were just so sweet: in others it really looked like I wanted to kill you. I can't remember what was going through my head- I think all the pent-up frustration was coming out. Anyway, the guy was thrilled (they were for his folio). The light worked out, and as soon as that happened a switch was flipped in my head so that I started performing brilliantly. It felt good! I drove home in the best mood. :)

The feeling evaporated when I arrived home and found my window closed. I had left it open so I could get back inside! (astute readers will at this point get some idea of why I might end up needing stitches). :) The morning had been so busy... I had to get up at 4am to shower, eat, do my hair and makeup, get my clothes ready, and drive out to the middle of nowhere, arriving at 9am sharp. When I was ready to leave I couldn't find my house key ANYWHERE...it has happened to everyone, right? :)

(Well, with me I guess there was a little catch. It had happened once before and my flatmate had asked about the open window, voicing concerns- quite reasonably- about safety. I'd said 'yeah, I lost my key. It's a safe area, right?' She seemed to agree: no big deal.)

Sometimes I am home alone at night because F. works late (I will call her F. for flatmate: she may not want the rest of this story broadcast to the world!). A couple of times I heard scary noises and told her how freaked out I got. 'Never worry, Sandra!' she told me. 'It's such a safe area! I've lived here for ages and I've never seen or heard anything [criminal].' I had these words in the back of my mind when I left my window open a crack. I really, really didn't think that she would care!

So when the window wouldn't open, I had no idea why. It is old as hell, I eventually decided, so it got stuck. 'I'll try to get in through the back', I thought, and went next door- hauling a grocery bag of fruits I had picked up- to ask for some help. The guy responded with heartening neighbourliness, pulling a bin to his backyard wall and giving me a leg-up so I could climb over the fence. I toppled into our backyard, covered in leaves and barbs after shimmying down the garden wall, and found our back door locked as well. No good.

I went to him dejectedly and asked for my fruits back. 'I'll go hang out at a cafe or something till she gets home.' I tried to call F. but she didn't answer. Then I texted her: 'Did you close my window? I am locked out!'

When she didn't reply I became even more certain that she had nothing to do with the closed window. My flatmate is not a bitch or a busybody by anybody's standards: she would not (with her knowledge of my history) close the window, locking me out all day, and then not even message me to tell me! With this in my head I went to the window to give the side panel one last bang. I just needed to loosen it! This time I missed. The side of my hand hit the glass, and my arm went straight through the window, shattering it.

There was one instant of sharp pain, and then numbness (very strange: that was the only pain I felt until I arrived at the hospital to get a series of needles). Just one second, and then that glorious stream of red shot from my arm. Blood landed all over me and splattered onto our front porch. I let out a wail as what I had done sunk in!

'Ooh, I heard that!' My neighbour was coming around the corner, carrying my fruits. He had heard the glass shatter. I lurched around the bushes like a monster, wailing and doubled over, with blood streaming from me. It must have been a nightmarish sight, but he kept cool and ran inside to get a rag: 'Hold that around you, tight as you can', he told me. I obeyed and sat down, pressing tightly to retard the circulation through my arm, and he went to the phone to call an ambulance.

I was waiting for a while! He came outside to slather dettol on me, offer me water, and ask if I was going to faint. I said no. The bleeding wasn't too bad- the rag was soaking up, but not quickly. I was very lucky: my arteries must have been intact. I hadn't seen the wound, so I asked what it looked like.

'It's bad!' he told me. 'From what I saw, it's bad.'

But we had handled the bleeding, so he let me inside to use the sink while he looked around for more rags. 'You're sure you're not worried I'll bleed on the floor?' I asked. 'No, no!' he said.

The guy was great that day. You know what: I still don't know his name! We had never introduced ourselves, and only spoken a couple of times when he came over to admonish me about my noisiness. I had never been to his place: he lives there with one other man. I'd always wondered about these guys- I couldn't decide if they were gay or not. They are both late-30s, living together in a cushy flat. I sit outside in the evenings a lot and sometimes I can hear them having little parties and get-togethers. They entertain well... and all their friends seem to be women! One of the guys will be telling a story in a confiding, gossipy voice (lowered just enough so that I can't hear) and every few moments a chorus of female voices will cry out: 'Oh, you're terrible!' and things like that. Sometimes the festive scent of marijuana will waft over the fence.

So I had wondered, but never decided... could just be two swinging bachelors who get along well with women. All my questions about this, at least, were answered as I stood in their kitchen, arm cut to pieces, looking at the pictures of men in Speedos and g-strings that littered the fridge.

He came back from the bathroom with a fresh rag, and soon after that we heard the ambulance hooning around the corner. I went outside and three or four paramedics took over, introducing themselves and asking questions. Then a lady with a camera approached me.

'Ah, Sandra, this is Nancy', said one of the paramedics. 'She's filming for a medical emergencies show. Can she come in the ambulance with us?' Nancy was a polished woman in her 30s, all done up for the camera.

'Oh no.' I said. 'Oh no, I look terrible.' My legs were covered with blood, my hair was a mess, and my top had makeup stains from touch-ups at the shoot that morning.

'No, you don't! It's ok.' He tried to reassure me. 'No, please, I would rather not,' I said.

'Ok...' He gave in and Nancy walked away. Everyone sort of chuckled, and they loaded me into the ambulance.

The ride was enjoyable. The principle paramedic was another 30s girl: one of those pleasant, grounded medical types. I felt absolutely fine at that stage and we chatted: she had the same birthday as me. Actually, I remember really perking up as I lay there: I think I liked the attention! No one has fussed over me like that since I lived at home. We arrived at the hospital and I went through the ordeal of checking in, waiting and talking to a new doctor every five minutes. They perambulate around the quarters independently, not communicating with one another, so that you have to repeat your entire medical history whenever someone approaches you. Finally a lady doctor freed up and said she would be able to do my stitches. I was anaesthetised, and she let me watch as she sewed the wound with one long string of catgut. Very carefully! (maybe because I asked repeatedly whether I would have a nasty scar).

'Hwooh, that's a stellar job!' One of the other doctors I had spoken to came in when she was finished. 'That's neater than it would have been if you got me!' I was glad.

Finally, it was over. I was given antibiotics and told I couldn't drink, drive, work or exert myself for at least two weeks. I would have to wear my arm in a sling, and walk all the way to the dodgy train area to get home.

About 15 minutes into my walk- hot and bothered in the glare of the afternoon sun, exhausted from having suffered such an ordeal after being up since 4am, and under the constant scrutiny of Fitzroy derelicts as I trudged along in my sling and blood-splattered clothes- my phone beeped. I had received a voice message from F. She was finally responding to the text I had sent. I accessed it and listened in silent fury as she delivered her explanation (still unaware of what had happened to me) in the prissiest, most know-it-all-ish, boorishly practical voice:

'Uh, hi Sandra. Yes, I did close your window because it was open, and you weren't home.'

I was not happy.

There is more to this story but I don't want to go into it now! I am in too good a mood to delve into a spiel about the minefield that is human relationships. I reserve the right to continue this rant at a later date (no, you don't have to read it). :) <3

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