hear me roar

So yesterday Katy Perry rocked up to a fancy girls’ school in Melbourne to mingle with the students and share wisdom. Got me thinking about who’d darkened the doorstep of my old school – Kildare College – and given us life lessons. Can I just add that we had the worst uniform eva. Like, it was brown and white check and in winter we wore an itchy brown tunic that buttoned at the front with a lemon round necked shirt. The kids from the neighbouring high and tech schools called us Brown Cows. And we were.

But I digress. From my addled memory, there was the Shire President who banged on about the joys of civic responsibility and rates and...oh I forget, think this is where I carved “shut up” into my arm with my trusty school compass. And let’s not forget the local sheep farmer who bought in Blackie, his big hairy sheep, to shear. Big, hairy, smelly and not happy that a roomful of girls were giving him the once over. And let’s not talk about how the sheep felt. So I applaud the girls at Loreto Mandeville Hall for conning persuading their teachers that Katy Perry, famous for her tassle-twirling bras, retro hairstyles and sassy songs, will steer them on the right path. Beats aiming to be a shearer.