A hole lot of fun

When I was little (well, even littler) my sisters and I spent a considerable amount of time playing archaeology in the garden (we weren't allowed to watch TV like normal kids). We had varying amounts of success over the years: a few buttons, numerous fragments of crockery that my mother convinced us were from the stone age, and one particularly glorious day when we dug up an old, Victorian iron. I remember this so clearly (I think even my mother was genuinely impressed by that one) and I felt so proud as she found us old toothbrushes to clean up our spectacular find.

One day - clearly distressed that I hadn't managed to top that last find and no longer satisfied with stone age crockery - I asked my Dad what would happen if I dug a really, really deep hole in the garden. "Eventually you'd end up in Australia, where all the upside down people live" was his matter of fact response; albeit one with a smug, knowing grin.

I was heavily into gymnastics at the time* and had built up a bit of a reputation for always being upside down myself, even in England. This sounded PERFECT!

"How long will it take?" I asked, eagerly.

"Well, if you're going to dig a direct hole, you'll need to get through the Earth's molten core - which will be pretty hot so make sure you take some water - and then back out the other side. I reckon you're looking at about 20 million years or so" my Dad replied (knowing my Dad, he'd probably actually attempted to calculate the exact time frame using a series of intricate algebraic formulae before revealing this answer).

I looked my Dad up an down, quizzically, and then looked down at my plastic spade. It was pretty sharp - I fancied my chances at shaving a few million years off his estimate. Plus, I didn't really know how long a million years was anyway, so I wasn't going to let that put me off. No, I was going to go for it - I was determined to get myself to Oz. I was going to dedicate the rest of my life to this crusade, even if it meant missing gym practice on Monday.

Two whole weeks I dug that hole for. Ten minutes a day after dinner for two whole weeks. At one point I was pretty sure that the bottom of the hole felt a bit warm, but I never did make it to Australia. Twenty years on and I kind of feel the same as I did then. It was a long shot and I feel a little silly for thinking I might be able to make it. I threw everything I had into a desperate attempt to make it to Oz and I didn't get there. But, I should still be proud that I almost made it and at least I know I tried. Very hard. Australia feels like a distant dream now but I'm not going to give up on the idea of it. It felt good to be chasing a dream and I was smug every single time someone said the words "Oh, I heard about that job and I really wanted to apply but I didn't think I stood a chance"**.

I live my life by the theory that it's better to regret doing something, than to regret not doing something. If there's one thing I've learnt from all this, it's that I love this point of view. I'm proud of myself; proud that I had the guts to enter, proud that I made it so far, proud that I gave up everything and worked so hard to try and fulfill my dream, proud of everything I achieved along the way, and proud that I managed to have so much fun doing it.

Life is an adventure. My path didn't take me to Oz this time, but I'm eager to see where my next venture will take me. Anyway, I can go to Oz another day... I'm pretty sure I still have that spade somewhere...

* I mean heavily into gymnastics - by the age of nine I was basically just an inverse, tiny ball of muscle, training 5 days a week and doing 100 press-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups at home each day.

**Ironically, this statement was once followed by, "It's a rollover this week, you should buy a lottery ticket."