Chook Sh*t Happens: Julie Hayes' Cruise Diary of Glamour, Grime, and White Shoes

There are moments in life when you feel like absolute royalty. For me, one of those moments happened somewhere between Circular Quay and the open sea, sprawled out on a sun lounger like I owned the joint, first Long Island Iced Tea in hand, as our cruise ship glided under the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Now, if you've never experienced that, let me tell you — it's something else. The captain gave the horn a proper blast as we passed beneath, and the sound bounced around the steel like my grandkid let loose in a drum shop. Everyone cheered and laughed. I may have even waved regally at no one in particular. (In the photo below, we met some friendly locals.)

For a brief, shining moment, I was Queen of the Pacific.

And then I looked down.

Chook sh*t. Right there. On my shoe.

Not metaphorical. Actual, honest-to-goodness, farmyard chook sh*t.

And just like that — bang — I was no longer Queen of anything. I was straight back on the farm with old Mum.

Old Mum had a way of keeping things real. I'd come home from university, full of big words and bigger opinions, convinced I was basically the family's intellectual revolution. She'd listen, nodding along, with polite interest. And just when I thought I'd impressed her, she'd land it:

"Well, that's all very good, Jule… but you've still got chook sh*t on your shoe."

It wasn't criticism. It was calibration.

A gentle reminder: Don't get too carried away, love. Stay grounded in the earth.

Standing there on a cruise ship deck, somewhere between Sydney and New Caledonia, I realised some things never wash off. And maybe they're not meant to. (In the photo below: tried every cocktail on our card, very successful there!)

The cruise itself was everything you'd expect: water so blue it looked edited, islands like postcards, cocktails with more umbrellas than ingredients. I've never met a more aggressive toilet flush, and I had visions that if I sat on it while it flushed I'd temporarily look twenty years younger and ten kilos lighter. I decided not to try that, having had the follow-up thought of creating a suction so strong I'd need help breaking the seal before it would let me go.

Mystery Island felt like stepping into a screensaver, but as you walked through the frame, the boredom and disinterest of the locals and the sullen belligerence of the younger generation made me think of the sorry places of our own country.

Vila was warm — read: sweat running down every crack — and welcoming of tourist money, a little chaotic in that charming, life-is-happening sort of way. What struck me most, however, was the ironic juxtaposition between the poverty and the white shoes.

Everywhere — everywhere — there were people with spotless white shoes.

The White Shoe Walkers.

Not just "reasonably clean." I mean gleaming. Blinding. Almost spiritual.

I became mildly obsessed. When did white shoes become such a status symbol? How do people do that? How do you travel, live, walk through the world and keep your shoes that white?

I started noticing them everywhere — at breakfast buffets, by the pool, on shore excursions. Crisp white sneakers, untouched by life. Meanwhile, I was over here collecting stains like souvenirs.

It may have been that I was trying to make the most of my cocktail card, but it got me thinking — not just about shoes, but about life. (In the photo below: did a bit of dancing with the cast of Encore Encore the burlesque show!)

Because those shoes started to feel like a metaphor.

Some people seem to live like that, don't they? Everything neat, organised, compartmentalised. Their lives look like those shoes — fresh out of the box, unscuffed, Instagram-ready. You don't see the mess. You don't see the mud. You definitely don't see the chook sh*t.

And I found myself wondering: is that real? That kind of perfection — how could it be? Or is it just well-maintained obsession? Where do you even find the time? I spent half my mornings looking for my shoes, never mind having the time to clean them. And when I do clean them, they never come up to the standards of the White Walkers.

Do they clean them every night as some sort of ritual? A quiet moment before bed — wipe the day away, polish it up, presentable for tomorrow. Like monks tending to their souls, but with sneaker cleaner.

Or maybe they've just got a whole cupboard full of white shoes. One pair gets dirty — out it goes, next pair steps in. Fresh start. No evidence.

Don't get me wrong — I love a good white shoe. I recently had part of the driveway redone so I can get out of the car in the rain without immediately regretting my life choices. It's a small luxury, but I'll take it.

Still, no matter how paved things get, life has a way of finding my shoes. I've tried having two pairs. I promise myself that one will be bar-to-car shoes — changed the moment I get home — but somewhere between the garage and the back door, I think, I'll just go and shut the chooks in. I'm always straying off the path to see, touch, or look at something interesting.

A bit of dirt here. A spill there. The odd metaphorical — or literal — chook incident.

And maybe that's the point.

As I lay back on that sun lounger, somewhere out near the Coral Sea, I realised I'd spent half the trip trying to figure out other people's shoes instead of appreciating my own.

Because the truth is, my life isn't spotless. It's messy. It's layered. It's got history stuck to the bottom of it. It's got farmyards and classrooms and grief and laughter and all the bits in between. And yes — it's got chook sh*t on its shoes.

There's something grounding about that. Something honest.

Those marks? They're not failures. They're evidence. Proof that you've walked through something, that you've wandered from the path, that you didn't just tiptoe around the edges trying to keep everything pristine.

Maybe the people with the whitest shoes are working very hard to keep them that way. Or maybe they just haven't stepped off the path yet. In the clutches of my third Long Island Iced Tea, I decided the White Shoe Walkers were aliens — because it's just not natural. (In the photo below: glammed up for Elegant night!)

As for me?

I'll take the occasional mess.

I'll take the reminder from old Mum, echoing across years and oceans: Don't forget where you come from.

Even if it shows up at the most inconvenient moment — like under the Sydney Harbour Bridge when you're trying to feel like royalty.

Because here's the thing about queens.

Even they have to watch where they step.

So next time you notice someone with perfectly white shoes, have a little think. Not about how clean theirs are, but about how lived-in yours might be. And whether, perhaps, that's not something to be quietly proud of.

Chook sh*t and all.