Last Friday, the eldest daughter had to leave the station to go back to boarding school. At 13 – even if young girls can be proper bitches – I’d say boarding school must be the greatest thing ever. Yes, maybe my idea of these schools is based on the movie Wild Child and the books I read when I was 13 myself, but I reckon it’s (if not a lot, at least a little bit) like that. You have meals together with your friends, spend evenings together, do homework together – maybe it’s a bit too much togetherness, but it’s basically like camp, but with classes, right? Anyway, it’s probably the only child in me talking, because here it seems to be the worst event of the year. I have heard the words ‘I hate boarding school’ so many times by now, it’s actually crazy. If it were me, I couldn’t wait to go back to school; play sports, see friends, have weekends out, sneak to the boys’ school, secretly buy vodka and get a bit drunk (you know, at 15 or so), it just seems like so much fun – and at this point, counting down the days to go back to the city, surrounded by all these back to the grind-vibes, I feel like I’m going back to boarding school as well; the Wild Child version that is.

I’ve never really been a rebellious teenager; I was a total nerd about my grades, never snuck out of the house, never really smoked or did drugs, never got obscenely drunk – I saved most of that for university, so my best friend could hold my hair back, not my Mum – but living here without any other workers, abiding by the family’s rules, I feel like I’m 15 again – and this time, I can’t wait to get my rebel boots on.

There’s lots of things a good girl doesn’t do here: she doesn’t smoke, she doesn’t swear, she doesn’t listen to the new Taylor, she doesn’t twerk, she doesn’t wear short skirts, she doesn’t get tattoos or things pierced, and most importantly, she doesn’t not find herself that one good boy to take his name and have his children. I told one of the girls I wasn’t so sure about the whole name changing thing – after all, say I become a famous writer, that’s my fucking merit, not my husband’s – and the poor thing almost had a heart attack. She finds it astounding I don’t have a boyfriend – same, to be honest, I mean, look at me – but I reckon she thinks it’s weird because I’m so old, not because I’m so insanely good-looking, really smart, way too funny, and overall a great catch. What can I say, turns out I’m not a good girl.

Anyway, only seven days left before I can go back to being my own version of a good girl– give or take a few, because naturally, I’m so stupid to tell them to take their time on holidays and that I can manage a few extra days (spoiler alert: I saw this massive snake this morning, I can’t manage). Once I’m back in Sydney, the first things I will do include saying shit and fuck as a response to everything, buying insanely high heels and ridiculously short dresses, getting some extra holes punched in my ears, slamming tequila at a bar, and kissing all the boys – and even though I’m 100% into dick, I might even kiss all the girls, just because I fucking can. You’ve been good to me, Queensland, but it’s time for good girls to get bad.