speculation (PILOTZ!)

Yesterday, at my friend's awesome inner city apartment, in between bouts of panic about this neuroscience exam and eating cheesecake, the following conversation took place:

My friend: So, Mum, Freya's thinking of doing the defense sponsored medical program.
Her mother: Oh, well! You've certainly got a foot in the door here! Come around and I'll tell you what to say at the interview, and I'll make sure people know about you!
Me: ... *had forgotten that her mother is in defense recruitment* Uhokaywowthanks.
Her mother: *eyeing me* Join the Air Force, honey, you'd look much better in a blue uniform than in green.
Me: I HAVE TO GET INTO MEDICINE FIRST.

So I talked to my father about defense medicine and yes, apparently the Air Force is the best way to go.

So I looked up the job specs.

*MARRIES THE RAAF*

(Pertinent points: they still pay for everything, no situps/pushups required for entry, you owe them six years rather than the eleven you'd owe the Army, and they keep throwing around sexy sexy words like ground defence and weapons training and trauma management and aeromedical evacuation.)

Me: Look at this!
Ji: ...PILOTZ!

~

The people in the other ground-floor apartment, having remained very quiet for three months, have suddenly decided that the best way to endear themselves to their neighbours is by playing children's television very loudly on a Saturday morning.

But...it's children's television. How angry can one be, exactly?