Don't Spare Me the Details

The Ghost of Chistmas Past

2011-12-29T14:06:00.002+11:00

The wrapping paper is in the recycling bin, the turkey carcass has been picked clean and the final cracker pulled. Christmas has come and gone again yet somehow I feel like I missed it.
Maybe the magic of the season was tempered by the lack of excitable young children in the house. Teenagers might enjoy the day but they don't have that same breathless wonder they did only a few years ago.
Perhaps over exposure to the commercial aspects of Christmas (the shops here were pimped out in tinsel and Xmas sales from mid October) somehow inoculated me against the charm of the season.
Or could it be that the Christmas cards from far flung relatives still trickling in through the post box have left me with a subconscious sense of not quite reaching the big day yet.
Whatever the cause, Christmas left me completely ambivalent this year.
I do hope it's not an indication of Christmas future.

Bah Humbug!

2011-12-22T06:45:00.003+11:00

It just doesn't feel like Christmas.
The tree is up, gifts are wrapped. There's turkey in the fridge and fruit cake on the sideboard. Shops are crowded, television is a never ending parade of Christmas "specials" and carols are being played on the streets.
But the Christmas spirit is yet to move me. Somehow it all feels a bit hollow.
I'm drifting through the season in a dream-like state not quite wanting it all to be over but not anticipating the day either.
What ever happened to the thrill and magic that used to accompany Christmas? When did buying and wrapping gifts stop being fun and start being work? Where did this lethargic attitude to it all come from? Will it pass before the big day arrives?
I'll just keep on going through the motions and see where it all leads.

Size Matters

2011-12-07T13:32:00.003+11:00

Apparently it's true what they say, size matters.
At least to men, anyway.
That's the only explanation I can think of. Why else would my hero insist on having the biggest one?
I managed to convince him that something smaller would be better.
And he agreed, eventually.
But only to something slightly smaller. As it was, it only just fit into the car.
I must admit though that I've got used to the size much faster than I thought I would.
Perhaps at heart size matters to us girls more than we like to admit.
Though it may be that after a week of watching the tiny tv the wide screen only looks huge in comparison. On the other hand maybe it is really massive. That's what you get for letting a man choose the TV.

Death By Dusting

2011-11-24T11:33:00.003+11:00

During my childhood my family moved house-a lot. I continued my nomadic existance right through to my mid twenties when having children forced me to put down roots. Which is to say, the idea of packing up a household consisting of not only myself, but also my hero and, at that point, two small children, filled me with dred and so through pure terror/laziness we bought our little house in the suburbs. I tell you of my vast number of past abodes so that you know when I say this is the dustiest house I have ever lived in, I've got a good base for comparison.
And this is the dustiest house I have ever lived in.
I'm not talking about a fine layer settling on neglected ornaments here. I'm talking about a quilt of dust as thick as the A-K yellow pages over everything. Now you might think that's to be expected if you haven't dusted in sixteen years but this particularly aggressive dust accumulates within days: certainly less than a week. I've long since surrendered to the inevitablity of the dust. Once every month or so I go into a frenzy then between times I just wipe over the electrical appliances and brush away the spider webs.
As an aside we have particularly diligent spiders here. Once I set up the ironing board, went away to get some water to fill the iron and by the time I got back there was a web string from the ironing board to the window sill. I have a witness. I made my hero come and assure me I wasn't seeing things. It does seem a bit unfair that we should have webs when you consider the size of the huntsmen that make their way in here. But back to the dust...
So yesterday I decided it was time to do some dusting. I wiped and vaccuumed and flittered about with the synthetic feathers (supposedly static to pick dust up not just blow it about). It all looked lovely, and probably will do for a few days.
Then last night I turned on the television. Reception was absolute rubbish-or so I thought. I put up with the flickering for a while then gave up and changed channels. Again with the bad reception. In fact every channel had a shockingly bad picture. And then-POOF! The screen went completley black.
We tried everything in our repetoire (basically unplugging it and plugging it back in) to no avail. Our TV was dead. Dead as a doornail.
I'm not sure what went wrong but I think it was the dust. The machine had probably accustomised itself to operating in a dust rich environment and then I came along and cleaned up. It just couldn't cope.
I'll be much more selective about my dusting in the future, that's for sure.

Gotcha!

2011-11-21T06:57:00.002+11:00

My men were watching the V8 Supercars on TV and I came in just as one was leaving the pits (a car that is, not the men). I paused and watched it swing back out onto the track. Then said as deadpan as I could manage, "He didn't give way."
The look of shock and disbelief on my hero's face was priceless, as for just a second he thought my comment was serious.
Oh yeah, gotcha!

The Year That Was

2011-11-10T13:54:00.002+11:00

The defining event of the past year has been My Hero's unexpected health issues. Much of the past eight months has been spent in and around hospitals and researching supplementary treatments (mainly dietary) while trying to keep things at home as routine as possible. This has meant downplaying the seriousness of My Hero's condition so as not to worry the children. With the Professor of Pedantics half way through VCE and Master of the Bleeding Obvious about to enter senior school the last thing either needs is to be worried about their father's health. Fortunately it hasn't been too difficult since he has few overt signs of illness.
On a happier note Boy Genius succeeded in getting a place at his first choice adult centre. He now attends Beachlynn Centre. He's settled in well and by all accounts really enjoys the program. Though it would take over an hour to get there via public transport, it's only about half an hour drive from home, so we bought a little car for me to ferry him out and back each day.
The car has also come in handy for the Professor of Pedantics to learn to drive. Yes, she got a learner's permit: and she's keener than she is skilled. At least I've got a year before Master of the Bleeding Obvious can get hers.
So that's the edited hilights of the year that was. It really doesn't sound like much but the time has swept by in a blur. I just keep breathing deeply and telling myself that everything is going to be just fine and so far, it has.

Password Recovered

2011-11-05T12:12:00.003+11:00

SURPRISE!!!
For anybody still out there dropping by, you may be wondering why I haven't posted for over a year.
Well, the embarrassing truth is, I forgot my password and have been unable to log in, lo these many months.
So why didn't I use the recover password function? I tried, I really did but I am stupid. Note to self: do not make default email address for recovery password the address which you require the password to access.
Idiots fall down before me, for I am your queen.

Customer Relations

2010-10-06T09:35:00.001+11:00

My mattress, which has been looking rather worn for a while now, finally gave up the ghost -a little spring poking its end out of the side. This coincides with council hard rubbish collection next week and the fortuitous arrival of a flyer in my letterbox detailing a mattress sale at a local factory warehouse. I took this convergence of events to be a sign that the time was right to buy a new mattress and promptly commenced researching mattresses.
The prices offered by the warehouse were very good value so I took myself there.
I was the only customer so had the full attention of the saleswoman. She asked me what I was after and I explained the need for a firm, supportive mattress. Naturally she showed me their top line product, and though I had no intention of spending over $1000 on a mattress I sat on the bed anyway curious about how good it could possibly be. I sank in a good three inches before I felt any support and told the saleswoman that I preferred something much firmer, like the mattress I already had. And she responded in exactly the same tone, and almost the same words, as the character Barbara from the bank world adds: If you like your old mattress so much, why are you buying a new one?
For a nanosecond I thought she was making a joke but her face and body language said otherwise. My instinctive reaction was to take my custom elsewhere but the prices were excellent and the mischievous imp inside me instantaneously came up with a plan to have a bit of fun. Without batting an eye I answered: Because we broke ours.
She then proceeded to show me the rest of their range. On each mattress I lay on my back, rolled over onto my side then sat up and bounced a bit finally culminating in kneeling and swaying slightly. After the third time she asked, in the exasperated tone one would usually use with a truculent two year old:
Is there a reason you’re bouncing and kneeling on the beds?
Straight faced I reply: I have a very active sex life.
Like a cartoon character, her jaw almost hit the floor. I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. I selected a mattress for myself and on impulse decided to buy one for boy genius as well since his was getting on and the prices were so good. I explained I also needed a double bed mattress for my son. She once again showed me their top line model and I told her I wouldn’t be spending over $1000 on a mattress. She then showed me their most popular model. I sat on it, it felt soft yet supportive and it was very well priced so I said I’d take it. She then asked me if I wanted to lay on it and give it a bounce. I couldn’t resist, in my most appalled voice I answered: I won’t be sleeping on this one. It’s for my son.
I held it together long enough to pay and arrange delivery then had a good old giggle all the way home. I probably shouldn’t have teased the poor woman like that but I’ve never know such poor customer service in my life-and I’ve dealt with Myki.

Missed Milestone

2010-08-26T10:31:00.002+10:00

Last Saturday the country went to the polls, for all the good it’s done. I went and did my democratic duty at the local community centre; since my hero was at work I had to take boy genius with me. As we waited in a queue that I’m sure could’ve been seen from space, we were approached by the usual suspects handing out ‘how to vote’ cards. Each and every one of them attempted to give one to boy genius and that simple act made me a little sad.
Boy genius turned 18 earlier this year. He’s now old enough to vote. And he never will. Even though voting is compulsory here.
At least he got to vicariously enjoy his first non-voting experience. He got to line up for ages on a windy grey morning and listen to the bored conversation of strangers discussing the chances of rain. He got to stand beside me in a booth while I numbered squares. But best of all, he got to post my votes in the boxes, an activity that filled him with delight the likes of which I’m sure the scrutineer didn’t see again that day.
Voting complete we slipped into the shopping centre next door and rewarded his good behaviour with the morning-tea of his choice and a peep at the 2011 Melways on display at the newsagent.
I know some people find voting to be a pain (obviously not those people in some countries that risk grievous bodily harm or death and trek for days to reach a voting booth anyway) but just you try to take away their right to vote. Boy genius will never be able to exercise that right whether he wants to or not. He’s an adult but he’s a child, it’s a mixed blessing we live with, but the reminders occasionally make me wistful for what might have been

I Blame Insomnia

2010-08-15T09:04:00.002+10:00

My relationship would outlast the zombie apocalypse!

Take the How Long Would Your Relationship Survive in the Zombie Apocalypse? Quiz at JessePetersen.net

This is one fun and clever piece of marketing for Petersen's book "Married with Zombies". While it's not the kind of book I would usually pick up I stumbled onto the quiz while surfing the net in the wee small hours and it's piqued my interest. It sounds fascinating and fun. Or maybe I just need more sleep.

I Had A Dream

2010-08-02T11:33:00.001+10:00

Last night I dreamt that my washing machine was chasing me around the house.
It wasn’t my real washing machine and it wasn’t my real house but in the way of dreams I knew that both this white good and this residence were mine although I wouldn’t be able to identify them on waking.
Eventually I ran outside and hid amongst the bushes around the letterbox. Obviously not my real letterbox which stands alone at the end of the driveway because I would not plant anything that might attract bees to a place I must visit regularly, but again in the dream I knew the letterbox was mine. The washing machine eventually found me and we danced around the letterbox dodging each other. Eventually a friend appeared. Again not somebody I actually know just a generic person who my dream self identified as a friend. They distracted the washing machine while I cut off its power cord (with a handy pair of scissors that mystically materialized in my hand).
This did not have the desired result of stopping the washing machine dead.
In fact, it seemed to irritate it and I had to run off down the street with the washing machine in pursuit. And while I didn’t look back I knew the machine was morphing into something else but I’ll never know what because at that point I woke up.
This all probably says something deep about my psyche. Not sure what. Feel free to analyse if you care to.

Resolved?

2010-07-16T11:49:00.004+10:00

The year has hit the half way mark and I thought this might be a good time to review the progress made towards my new year’s resolutions.
Surprisingly enough, there is progress to be reviewed.
So far this year I’ve managed to see seasons 1, 2 & 3 of The Tudors in their entirety. Likewise I’ve watched all three series of Primeval completely. I’m part way through the first series of Dead Like Me and I’ve even managed to see a couple of movies I missed at the cinema (though let’s face it I miss most movies at the cinema).
I’m slowly working my way through my cd collection. And while there have been a couple of OMG what was I thinking (All Saints-really?) there has been much more rediscovery of old favourites (Eva Cassidy and Bryan Ferry).
I’m making inroads on my library list, even though said list is growing faster than I can keep up with. I’ve also finished off an anthology I’ve had sitting around partly read for 10 years, yes, that’s right ten years and now I’m working my way through another partially read collection. While I haven’t yet finished any particular series I am working my way towards the end of a couple and following up on trying new authors that have been recommended to me.
Attempting new recipes hasn’t happened so much as trying new recipes of old favourites. Not surprisingly we tend to prefer our version rather than the newer ones. But I have had a go at a couple of new recipes that worked well and I still intend to try my hand at others as the year wears on.
I’ve not made the progress on craft projects that I would have hoped for, arthritic fingers keep my knitting to snails pace and prevent me from doing any cross stitch or tapestry at all. Hopefully when things improve (which they do on occasion) I will be able to get back into things.
And finally, I’ve made a concerted effort to wear more of my wardrobe. It’s actually been a bit of fun. Old clothes are just like new ones if they haven’t seen the light of day for a couple of years.
So forward ho, into the rest of the year.

Pop Quiz: Home Economics (aka Domestic Science)

2010-06-08T14:09:00.002+10:00

You’re heating something up in the microwave and it accidentally erupts. The appropriate action to take is:

a) clean it up right away

or

b) leave it there to go all hard and deny all knowledge when your mother later finds the microwave covered in caked on crud that now needs to be scrubbed away

Everybody espouses the correct theory but nobody passes the practical.

Fish and Chips for Tea

2010-06-04T10:47:00.000+10:00

In the past my house has not been the focus of poltergeist activity so when a very loud, yet dull, thud reverberated through the place at around half past five last night, accompanied by a chorus of “what was that?” from the girls, my first thought was that the cat had knocked something off a bench. But even as I made my way to the kitchen I knew that was unlikely. As far as I knew, even if he dared to jump up, there was nothing out on the benches for the cat to knock down. Unless, of course, in a burst of nuclear mutant strength he’d pushed the microwave onto the floor (he hadn’t).
At first glance nothing in the kitchen seemed amiss-but there was something not quite right. A few seconds later I realised that I could not see the oven light. The glass was completely opaque. Steam, perhaps? Surely not food, quiche (the contents of the oven at the time) after all, is not known for its explosive qualities.
I turned the oven off and cautiously opened the door. There was a kind of gritty-crunchy sound as black glass scattered broadly across the floor at my feet. The inside of the door had sort of imploded. Naturally boy genius found this fascinating: hot, broken glass nothing was going to keep him away from that. It was no small effort to get him out of the kitchen but eventually I managed with promises of going to the shop to get fish and chips for tea.
The oven still being under warranty I reported the incident to Westinghouse. Apparently, though rare, this is not an unheard of situation. After ascertaining that nobody was hurt they have pledged to repair of replace the broken door by next week.
In the meantime boy genius’s interest in the oven shows no sign of waning. I’ve only had to hear him ask “oven?”, “where’s the oven?” about twenty thousand times in the past twelve hours. He even found the camera and took a picture.
I have long suspected the kitchen is out to get me. The ignomious death of our last oven just eight weeks ago had seemed proof positive. But the behaviour of the new oven has removed any lingering doubt. Unless of course this is the opening overture of a poltergeist haunting.

How Had I Never Heard of...Shaun Tan

2010-05-31T10:22:00.000+10:00

I had never heard of Shaun Tan when the Professor of Pedantics brought home a copy of his book Tales from Outer Suburbia. I don’t know how it is I managed to miss such a talented local artist but I’m glad the situation has been rectified.
This picture book is aimed at older children but there is so much to be found in it for adults that I would recommend it to everyone.
His use of language is deceptively simple-delivering a depth of meaning and emotion well beyond the words. Likewise the illustrations are sketchy at first glance but on examination contain a phenomenal amount of detail. The stories are even presented in a delightful manner. For example, a poem about destroyed poetry is presented as an amalgam of torn pieces of paper.
Tales from Outer Suburbia is delightful, embrace your inner child and read it.

Bye-bye Baby

2010-05-26T14:05:00.004+10:00

Yesterday Boy Genius turned 18.
There was no wild night at the pub with mates-just a small party at shcool, followed by a quiet night at home. Once my hero gets back from his current job we'll do something special to mark the occasion. His godmother baked him a cake-as she always has-and got a bit of a surprise when hearing her voice he wandering into the kitchen stark naked to say hello. After he was appropriately attired, candles were lit and blown out with almost as much joy as the chocolate mud cake was then eaten.
If I'm honest I must admit that when he was born I never really consisdered what his 18th would be like. But I would never have guessed it would be like this.
In some ways I feel a little sad about all the things he's missing but on the upside I never have to worry about him getting drunk or doing drugs, going halves in a teen pregnancy, getting into fights or a dozen other things 'normal' lads of his age get up to.
So I'm sad but not too sad-really.

Tempus Fugit

2010-04-20T10:18:00.001+10:00

Ain’t that the truth!
It feels like only a couple of days since I last wrote and yet the date of my last post shows it to have been, in fact, weeks. The Big Event during that time-The professor of pedantics turned 15.
The event was marked by a trip to the theatre. I accompanied four teenaged girls to see Mama Mia, and inadvertently, a nude cycling protest.
The stage show was just as much fun as I remembered-even if white stretch satin and platform boots did feature heavily in the encore. And while my group didn’t dance the entire way through like the pink-enwrapped four year old in front of us, I’m sure they enjoyed the show.
I’m uncertain of their feelings about the nude cycling. It was, to say the least, somewhat unexpected. We emerged from the underground car park to the cheering of those at sidewalk cafes and the honking of taxi horns, as a group of about fifty cyclists rode by in the buff. There was much averting of eyes, blushing and giggling. I thought the smiley face painted on a passing bum a friendly touch.
I’m not entirely sure what the cyclists were hoping to achieve, I can only hope their message got through to somebody (and that those bikes weren’t rented-eewww).

On an entirely unrelated note: Lucy has not bothered contacting me through more traditional channels, so I guess I’ll always wonder who she was and what she wanted. Or more likely, not.

Who's Lucy?

2010-03-12T11:28:00.000+11:00

Last night my next door neighbour dropped in with a phone message for me from Lucy. I was very surprised, not in the least because I rarely actually speak to Lucy (mainly our communication is via email) and if she needed my phone number surely one of our mutual friends would be approached before a neighbour. My neighbour and I had a quick chat about how strange it was, she passed Lucy’s phone number on to me and, noticing it was a Queensland number and not the NSW number I have for Lucy, I gave it a call thinking perhaps she’s moved.
All I got was an answering machine telling me to call back during business hours. Strange, but okay, maybe Lucy had called from work for some reason.
Not ten minutes later the neighbour from the other side came by. Lucy had left a message on her answering machine. Lucy’s trying to contact us, she knows we live next door, could somebody call her back and give her our phone number. I went in and listened to the voice on her answering machine. Lucy has a distinct New Zealand accent. She is not the Lucy I know.
I later confirmed this by calling my friend Lucy just to check. We had a lovely catch up chat-Hi Lucy!
We are all now curious as to why somebody would go to the trouble of finding out my neighbours’ numbers when trying to contact me. Our phone numbers are not similar so Lucy couldn’t have misdialled a digit and serendipitously ended up speaking to my neighbours. Our surnames don’t begin with the same letter, let alone having the same name, so she couldn’t have been trawling the phone book for us and called the right name, wrong street address.
Whoever it is had to make a real effort to contact my neighbours. If you know a name and address (as this person does) then obtaining a phone number isn’t hard. It’s not like it’s a state secret or anything.
Unlike trying to find out who Lucy is via the number she left me-apparently that’s illegal in Australia (damn those privacy laws!).
So, Lucy (no surname) if you’re out there, I won’t be calling Queensland again. If you really want to contact us, you have a name and address, might I suggest the quaint, old fashioned, traditional letter or if times are desperate-a telegram.

Myki and Me: A Love Story (NOT!)

2010-02-08T14:16:00.002+11:00

When the Victorian government decided to spend a couple of million on the public transport system it didn’t opt to replace train tracks that seem to buckle in the heat every summer, neither did it choose to increase services during peak hour, nor to man stations (a radical concept that would create employment, reduce fair evasion and be of service to the public). No, the Victorian government decided to overhaul the one part of the system that seemed to be working quite adequately-the ticketing system.
They decided to introduce Myki.
In theory it’s a great system-in theory.
As the mother of two regular train users there’s been more than one occasion when a monthly ticket has met a soggy end in a uniform pocket long before its expiry date. And I’m no stranger to the words “mum, my ticket’s run out”, usually heard at ten to eight in the morning. So I liked the idea of Myki. A plastic card has a greater chance of surviving the spin cycle and being able to keep track of ticket validity and top up accounts online could be a real time saver. So I duly applied for, received, registered and activated Myki cards for the family.
And that’s when the trouble started.
The week before school went back I found myself at the local railway station and decided to load tickets onto the girls’ cards so they would be ready for use. The first transaction went well. I had no trouble purchasing a ticket for the master of the bleeding obvious. Delighted with how easy the system was to work I went ahead with a second transaction. Part way through the ticket purchasing sequence the screen went black. A few seconds later it started flashing system error/out of service. O-oh!
When I got home I checked the account, no ticket had been credited. I checked my bank balance, payment had been made.
I’m sure there are systems in place for this eventuality, so I call Myki. It takes fifteen minutes for the operator to understand my problem (I paid for a ticket and it wasn’t credited to the card-not rocket science folks). I am assured that the ticket will be credited to the card within twenty-four hours.
It was not.
So I called Myki.
And explained the situation again.
I was told that the system had gone down (I fairly much had figured that one out for myself), offered profuse apologies and told the situation was being investigated and a ticket would be credited to my account within forty-eight hours of my original report. In the mean time would I like to purchase another ticket to ensure the card was valid to travel? As it happened, yes I would. So I purchased a second ticket for the professor of pedantic’s card.
All appeared to work well on the first day of school and although I had received no refund or ticket credit, I gave Myki the benefit of the doubt and let the situation rest for a further two days.
Since it was now five days since my original report and I have heard nothing I call Myki.
And explained the situation again.
The operator tells me that a ticket was credited to my card twenty-four hours after my initial report. I explain to her that I purchased that ticket and my enquiry was in regard to the ticket for which I had been charged but not yet received. Hmm, tricky. I’m referred up the line.
Yes, they understand the problem. Do I have a receipt? No the system shut down after taking my money but before issuing a receipt. Did I pay by cash or card? Card. Then my bank statement will show a debit to Myki without a corresponding credit to the Myki card. Could I forward them a copy of my bank statement? (My second thought was lucky I used my card. My first thought was what? Your system fails and the onus is on me to prove you took my money!! My third thought, if you’re interested, was and if I’d used cash I’d be stuffed at this point.) The situation will be resolved within forty-eight hours of receipt of said evidence.
It was not.
So I called Myki.
And explained the situation again.
Yes, they have my bank statement. And there is a credit on the account. I point out my second purchase and ask if there is a second credit to the account. After much waiting, to-ing and fro-ing, they don’t know. My report is being referred up the line. Somebody will contact me within forty-eight hours.
On Saturday master of the bleeding obvious reports that her card is failing to touch on and has recorded a debit.
So I called Myki.
Who couldn’t help me at all but assured me somebody would look into it by the end of next week. I pointed out that meant I couldn’t use a valid ticket for a quarter of the time I had paid for (and yes, I had a receipt to prove it). Awfully sorry but there’s nothing they can do.
So I wait until this morning and…
I call Myki.
And explained the situation.
Over half an hour of negotiation later they agree to rectify the erroneous negative balance. (Because even in a Myki world 7 days is not 28 days and school buildings do not wonder between transport zones) This should correct the problem. I’ll know for sure in twenty-four hours.
And, no, there has been no further progress on the other situation.

Quite frankly Myki is a total balls-up. The system went down and it is me that is out of pocket, inconvenienced and has the aggravation (and expense-all those phone calls) of sorting it out.

Myki might be haemorrhaging cash but they’re not going to stop the flow by taking money from the little people. They’re going to drive us all to boycott the system.

Electronic ticketing systems have been in place all over the world for years (London’s Oyster card comes to mind). Surely the Victorian government could have installed a system that was tried and proven elsewhere. At the very least they could have asked what problems arose with those systems and anticipated similar issues here-an ounce of prevention, as they say.

In the mean time my advice is to avoid Myki for as long as you can. That way they may have the system sorted before you’re forced to use it. And if you’re game to give it a try don’t use cash-you may need to prove your purchase with a bank statement.

Hand all fixed

2010-02-01T13:20:00.002+11:00

I'm pleased to say that my hand's feeling better,
I'm suffering nearly no pain.
And, as I am sure, you can tell from this post,
I'm back to typing again.

Here endeth the shockingly bad poetry-Hey I was in pain and didn't want to suffer alone.

Ouch!

2010-01-22T08:31:00.001+11:00

Examintation provides no explanation
No swelling or bruising discolouration
Why it hurts so I can't understand
I wish I knew what I have done to my hand

Why I...

2010-01-14T23:22:00.002+11:00

like the music of Within Temptation. Here's one reason:

And here's another.

Failing Resolve

2010-01-06T00:46:00.002+11:00

So, here it is almost a week into the new year and I am yet to commit to a resolution.
In the past I have valiantly failed to drink two litres of water a day (easy enough in the summer but as the temperature fell so did my water intake), exercise for 30 minutes a day (because, as any mother could tell you when you need to be in three places at once and something's exploded in the microwave and you can't get from the front door to the letter box without a machete the first thing to go is exercise), lose weight (no that's not a conjoined twin behind me, it is, in fact, my arse), or live more spontaneously (who was I trying to kid. Military campaigns have been fought with less precision than boy genius's daily routine).
Inspired by these heroic failures past I have decided to run with the idea of the unfinished. This year I will endeavour to complete, or to at least make substantial progress on, the unfinished craft projects, unread books, unwatched DVDs and undone jobs about the place generally.
I'll report back as to how it goes.

Verily I say...

2009-12-31T09:48:00.000+11:00

Yuletide hath passed me by with unwonted haste.
One moment I was felicitating my husband on the anniversary of his birth ere I knew it the last of the turkey carcass is discarded and I stand on the threshold of a new year.
So I send thee salutations for the season passed and pray fervently for a salubrious new year for all.

Because

2009-11-05T11:29:00.000+11:00

Because I was nauseas I didn’t take my antihistamine.
Because I didn’t take my antihistamine I couldn’t stop sneezing.
Because I couldn’t stop sneezing I threw my back out.
Because I threw my back out it hurt to move.
Because it hurt to move I limited movement.
Because I limited movement my joints started to stiffen up.
Because my joints started to stiffen up I thought I’d get some exercise.
Because I needed exercise I thought I’d go for a run.
Because two weeks ago I could run for half an hour I thought I’d be able to do it okay.
Because I struggled to make it to 20 minutes I gave up and went home.
Because I gave up and went home I felt pathetic and miserable.
Because I felt pathetic and miserable I attempted to cheer myself up by eating comfort food.
Because I was very sorry for myself I ate a lot of comfort food.
Now I feel nauseas and lethargic.
In just two short weeks one piddling little irritant has led to a spiral of crappiness that I just can’t seem to pull out of.
Please feel free to give me a cyber boot in the pants.
Because I really don’t have time for this.

Stonehenge Photos

2009-10-13T10:13:00.002+11:00

Testing, testing. Can I load photos? This should be a trio of stonehenge photos. One traditional view (outside the ropes), one inside the circle and one with picturesque sunset on an upright.

Thanks St Anthony

2009-09-29T13:53:00.004+10:00

I may have mentioned that while we were away we lost the memory card from our camera and with it all of our photographs from London, Paris, Bath and Stonehenge. We looked everywhere, tearing my mother-in-law's house apart in the search, and to my great disappointment couldn't find it. When we returned home we even removed the linings of our suitcases in our hunt for the missing memory card. All to no avail.
So imagine my surprise when I walked into my bedroom this afternoon and saw a memory card sitting on top of my satchel-as if it had fallen from the ceiling.
I didn't want to get my hopes up and loaded it into the camera thinking I'd probably find 200 pictures of the cat. But lo-there was the Eiffle tower winking back at me!
It was the lost memory card-with most of the photos intact (London seems to be missing but I will continue to work on it.)
I don't know where the card was, or why it has turned up now but I am happy to have it back.
As the patron of lost things St Anthony gets my thanks-as does whoever petitioned him on our behalf (since it wasn't us).
Now as soon as I work out how it's done I'll be able to post some photos.

C25K

2009-09-18T12:15:00.004+10:00

This morning I completed day 3, week 9 of the couch to 5k running program officially graduating from couch potato to “runner”. I use the quotation marks because most people could probably walk faster than I run. Hey, I can probably walk faster than I run. Even so, I did it and I’m quite pleased with myself.
I ran, okay jogged, for time rather than distance. Nine weeks ago shuffling along for one minute was a bit of an effort. Today I can do thirty continuous minutes with the same amount of effort. I figure this means that my fitness has improved, though I have no objective way of measuring that.
Now that I’ve made it this far I am determined to stick with it, aiming to increase my speed/distance. (I am currently only running about 3.5-4km in half an hour as opposed to the 5km the program targets so there’s lots of room for improvement.)
If you’re interested in checking out the program for yourself (or just to see what I’m talking about) you can find it here:
cool running, couch to 5k running program
It’s not particularly easy but neither is it very hard. And if I can get my fat, middle-aged, arthritic arse through it then anybody can.

A Big Thanks

2009-09-11T13:36:00.002+10:00

I have returned from my time in the UK with an addiction. I love trashy magazines. Not of the celebrity gossip, latest Hollywood diet and fashion kind, but of the reptiles really rule the earth, crop circles are really messages from beyond and my cat saved me from poltergeist variety.
I’ve always loved a good ghost story (having lived in a couple of haunted houses myself) and I do have a soft spot for a good conspiracy theory (or, let’s be honest, even a bad one, in fact, I don’t know which is more fun-completely whacked out theories or those plausible enough to make you wonder). While we were away I discovered a plethora of magazines devoted to these and other out there subjects. My nearest and dearest simply don’t understand my fascination and I’m sure the in-laws are just a little concerned about what my hero has married into but I was delighted to discover ‘chat It’s Fate!’, ‘the Fortean Times’ and their many contemporaries.
Sadly Australia offers no equivalent reading material, so you can imagine my delight when a friend offered to pick me up a couple of magazines while she’s passing through London. However I do believe that she may now be regretting the offer given that being seen purchasing the requested material makes her feel a little bit (and here I quote) “like a sky clad, crystal bedecked, om chanting, Gaia sentient fringe dweller”.
So I hereby acknowledge the sacrificed dignity and extraordinary embarrassment that she has suffered on my behalf in the purchasing of this material. And to any who doubted her, yes it really is for a ‘friend’.

Trip Report Part 6

2009-09-02T11:35:00.000+10:00

Being a total ancient monument whore (I’ll do any of them, anywhere, any time, at every opportunity) I was quite keen to visit Stonehenge. Several past visitors warned me that it wasn’t anywhere near as good as they’d hoped-the site was crawling with like minded tourists and you can’t get close to the stones themselves. It was suggested that I give Stonehenge a miss and visit some of the lesser known standing stones that dot the area. But to me that would be like telling a visitor to Sydney to forget the harbour bridge, icon that it is, and go check out some other bridge, the city has heaps of them. But in deference to the advice I found a tour company that took a limited number of people inside the stone circle after hours. This nicely circumvented the crowd and distance problems.
The tour took us to Bath for the afternoon where we visited the Roman Baths then spent a couple of hours wandering about the city. My imagination was captured by the idea that over two thousand years ago someone else was sitting at the edge of the bath in the exact same spot that I was in. The day was sunny and warm, a band played in the park and a few characters wandered the streets in regency costume. Nature and man seemed to conspire to show off the place at its best.
After we left Bath we travelled to Lacock, a village pretty much unchanged since Saxon times, for dinner. The tiny township was dressing itself for its latest movie role (apparently it’s often used in this capacity) so the roads were all covered with sand and gravel giving an even better idea of how the place would have looked way back when. Dinner at the oldest pub in Lacock (there are two pubs in this four street town) was nothing to write home about but the service was efficient and the place charming. I’m sure they did their best with the volume of customers they had and it’s not as if they were advertising themselves as the home of fine dining. Even so they win the dubious honour of the third worst meal eaten out while away. If you ever get the urge to visit Lacock take a picnic.
We reached Stonehenge at sunset and were given free access to the site. Standing back behind the ropes I can completely understand why some people might not find the structure as impressive as its image would have them believe. But what a difference a few feet make. Once inside the circle your entire perspective changes. Up close I found the structure spectacular. I must have taken about a hundred photos (and if we hadn’t lost the memory card I’d be able to post a few of them-but that’s another story).
Did I feel any mystical connection to the site? No. I suspect that any magical vibrations the place may have held have long since been drained away by the thousands upon thousands of visitors and are now so slight as to only be apparent to the supersensitive, of which I am not one.
But it really is one awe inspiring piece of engineering and I’m glad I got close enough to touch the stones because, as I said earlier, the difference that contact makes is amazing. So maybe there is a bit of magic left in the old circle yet

Paris in the Spring Time

2009-08-25T10:48:00.000+10:00

My hero took a notion that it would be nice to visit Paris, since we were in the neighbourhood (Europe being the neighbourhood). Given that our time, and French, was limited (“Ou est les crayons?” not being the most useful of phrases, unless of course, you are seeking pencils,) we decided that a guided day trip would be our best option.
We travelled from London to Paris via the chunnel. The train trip took a little over 2 hours (around half the time it would take to reach my mother’s place from here) and wasn’t scary at all-if you can keep your mind off all that water over your head.
We spent the morning being bussed around the streets of Paris passing by all the main tourist sites, which were more impressive in reality than I’d imagined, though what sticks with me most was the recurrent panic that struck whenever we turned a corner onto the right side of the road. I had no idea just how wrong being on the right hand side of the road would feel.
Naturally our day included a visit to the Eiffel Tower, where due to a mix up with tour dates, the tour company comped us lunch. The restaurant was everything you would imagine. The view from the first floor of the tower was spectacular even though the day was overcast. The food was delicious, although staff and fellow diners would be forgiven for believing we thought otherwise when Boy Genius critiqued the coffee in a manner which transcended all language barriers. (He stood, pointed at his cup and said very loudly “Eww, yucky.”)
After lunch we took a cruise along the Seine before spending the rest of the afternoon at the Louvre-which naturally included a visit to the Mona Lisa. Philistine that I am, I wasn’t particularly impressed by her but in my own defence that might have been due to the number of spectacular art works she was surrounded by.
There was a slight incident with Boy Genius as we were leaving, suffice to say the French security guards showed exceptional support and understanding.
I had never really had a desire to see Paris but after this brief trip I am quite keen to return for a longer visit without the entourage. The city made an obvious impression on Master of the Bleeding Obvious who has embraced her French lessons with a passion and is determined to go back someday. If I don’t improve my own French, I just might take her.

Translation Fail

2009-08-19T10:06:00.001+10:00

I lately received an annual progress report from World Vision. These reports invariably take on an overly thankful tone that makes me uncomfortable (we chose to sponsor a child for many reasons-none of them a desire for approbation), so I usually give them a quick scan and file them away. This time my eye was caught by its opening paragraph which reads in part:

It is for me a great honour to write on behalf of your sponsored child and his community to express our heartfelt gratitude to you for your unvaluable support. (emphasis mine)

Putting aside the fact that our sponsored child is a girl, I was greatly amused. Is this a passive aggressive attempt to get us to increase our donation or an unfortunate translation glitch? I’m going with the latter. I’m sure it is my invaluable support they appreciate.
It gave me a laugh anyway.

Trip Report Part 4: The Tower of London

2009-08-06T15:01:00.000+10:00

Naturally our time in London included a visit to the Tower (as a place of historic significance a morning spent there allowed me to justify taking the girls out of school for six weeks).
I thought the most impressive view of the Tower of London was as we exited the tube station. You come up into daylight and there it is-big impact. The morning was showery, necessitating the purchase of a grossly overpriced ‘souvenir’ umbrella, but the rain held off long enough for us to join a guided tour, led by a beefeater with a great knowledge of history and a very dry sense of humour. His commentary (though I’m sure long rehearsed) felt spontaneous and his little asides about modern life at the Tower gave the place vivid colour.
After the tour we duly stood on a moving walkway and were conveyed past the crown jewels, which, to be honest, were not nearly as impressive as I had expected. The crowds we were warned against did not eventuate, which was a good thing seeing as how the dodgy weather encouraged those people who were there to stay inside.
During our time in London we also managed to stroll past the houses of parliament, admire big Ben, and not tour Westminster Abbey. This last was a decision of Boy Genius, who after walking around the outside flatly refused to enter and suggest the alternative ‘go home have afternoon tea’, and so we did.
Thus concluded our time in London, more or less.
There was a lovely, lazy day spent visiting my hero’s brothers, but I’ve decided not to go into the intimacies of family contact in this recount of the edited highlights of our trip.

Trip Report Part 3-The British Museum

2009-07-27T09:57:00.000+10:00

On the holidays I went to the British Museum and I saw a Stone chopper from Tanzania and the Rosetta Stone and a Colossal bust of Ramesses the Great and the Assyrian Lion Hunt reliefs and the Parthenon sculptures and an Easter Island statue Hoa Hakananai’a and a turquoise serpent from South America and a Cloisonné jar with dragons and a Jade Terrapin from Allahabad and the Lewis Chessmen and the Sutton Hoo ship burial and a Mosaic of Christ and the Basse Yutz flagons and the Flood tablet and the Royal Game of Ur and the Mummy of Katebet and Samurai armour and loads of other stuff.
This may give a slight sense of me in the British Museum. I’d barely have time to appreciate one thing when the next would catch my eye and I was off. All ethical conflicts I felt prior to my visit melted away as my sense of wonder slipped into overdrive. I could have spent a week there rather than just the three hours I had.
If I ever return to London this museum will be the reason why.

Trip Report Part 2-Hampton Court Palace

2009-07-22T14:03:00.000+10:00

Our stay in London was short and our itinerary circumscribed by a combination of the girls’ interests and Boy Genius’s rather, mercurial, behaviour.
One of the first things we did was visit Hampton Court Palace. I must admit that I had no particular interest in hiking out to Hampton Court but a few people told me it was a great family day out and I do think it was worth the trip.
The architectural and decorative features of the palace are magnificent (I particularly liked the chimneys) and its history fascinating. In the morning we tagged along with a guided tour that looked at court life through servant’s eyes. We had hoped to do the complementary tour from a courtier’s perspective later in the day but Boy Genius found the king (or at least the actor with the huge codpiece playing Henry VIII) upsetting-I suspect it was the loud carrying voice-and so we retired to the gardens for a picnic.
The gardens were lovely, the roses being in full bloom, and the afternoon was warm enough that I was grateful for the shade of large trees. I think the children enjoyed the maze in spite of the school group that was also there racing about and squealing as school groups are wont to do. We returned to the palace and managed to get a quick glimpse at most of the state rooms before Boy Genius deemed it was time we left.
I would have to agree that it is a great family day out and I would consider returning there for a couple of hours without the entourage so as to get a decent look about.

Trip Report Part 1

2009-07-20T10:26:00.000+10:00

I shall not start the recount of my grand journey at the beginning, though it could be argued that wherever one begins a tale that is, by virtue of its placement, its beginning. But with all due respect to the title of this blog, the details of the train trip and connecting bus ride out to the airport are of such mundanity as to be unworthy of mention, unless it is to comment upon their very ordinariness. (Which I have now duly done.) Suffice to say I found the airport bus to be a cheap, convenient and fast way to get to the airport. Likewise uneventful was the 3 hours spent skulking around the airport lounge before our flight (a time frame insisted on by the airlines that seems a little excessive to me-but it’s their plane so it’s their rules).
Upon check-in QANTAS acknowledged my, as yet untold, greatness by upgrading us all to premium economy. This meant more leg room, wider seats, bigger TV screens, larger tables and champagne on boarding. Having since travelled long haul in economy (and don’t worry you’ll be hearing all about it later), I, for one, am sold on the premium seats and will be booking them for all my future long haul flights.
The flight was comfortable and enabled me to catch up on a couple of movies I’d missed (Yes Man and The Changeling). I ate well, drank moderately and slept minimally.
We walked straight through customs at Heathrow without slowing down and were met by a nice man with our name on a card that drove us to our flat in Earl’s Court. Our accommodation at The Mansions in Earl’s Court was excellent and much better than I had expected for the price. The two bedroom flat had a kitchen complete with dishwasher and washer/drier and great water pressure in the shower-particularly considering we were 5 floors up. It really was only a 5 minute walk to Earl’s Court tube station and not much further to a large Sainsbury’s (which immediately become boy genius’s supermarket of choice-no Tesco for him!).
We were in London for five days, six if you count the morning and night of our day in Paris, seven if you count the morning we flew out to Belfast. This served the twofold purpose of allowing us to acclimatise to local time before we descended on family and to justify taking the children out of school for six weeks by marching them around some of the historical sites of the city. And let’s be honest I had a bit of a wish list of things to see too.
Our Adventures in the Great City of London to follow….

I'm Baaack

2009-07-12T15:47:00.001+10:00

And I'm knee deep in washing.
Details to follow once I get myself sorted.
About the trip that is, not the washing.

Packing It

2009-06-02T06:01:00.002+10:00

With only a few hours to go until we fly out the mood here is semi-controlled chaos.
I'm down to my last three lists of things to do before we leave and now I'm just wondering if they have kitchen sinks in the UK. Not to worry, I'm sure I have one here in the bottom of my handbag somewhere, just in case.

Bright Idea

2009-05-22T10:58:00.001+10:00

It has been very foggy here this last week. In fact, it is almost 11 o’clock in the morning and I can only now see the house on the other side of the street. The trees beyond are still dark shapes shrouded in mist.
Somebody has foreseen trouble on these foggy mornings with traffic in the area around Southland shopping centre. This is a very busy place at the best of times. I hate to imagine what it must be like during a dark and foggy morning peak. And foreseeing trouble somebody has done something about it.
Just as you approach the junction of the Nepean Highway and Cheltenham road they have set up a road side sign. It is only of moderate size but makes up for it with flashing yellow lights that spell out the words:
PAY ATTENTION
Alternating with:
HIGH COLLISION INTERSECTION
I can only assume that this is supposed to promote road safety. But I wonder how a flashing yellow sign, placed right on the intersection isn’t a distraction. When visibility is poor I need to concentrate on the road not on new eye catching signs looming up at me out of the fog.
I have visions of early morning drivers being distracted by the flashing yellow lights and concentrating more on figuring out what the sign says than on the road in front of them.
Well done for effort but I’m not convinced that this will prevent more accidents than it causes.

The Dark Mark

2009-05-12T10:33:00.001+10:00

Last week my back passage was brown, now it’s frozen.
No that’s not a euphemism. Frozen, as it happens, is a very pale mint green colour. I thought it would be a white tint but it is most definitely, unmistakably green.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
It was just unexpected.
But let me go back to the beginning.
My hero is once again on enforced holidays (what I have come to think of as recession leave) and as any of you who have met him might have guessed, he is not a man who is happy to veg out in front of the telly for any amount of time.
He was pacing around the house like a caged animal so I pointed out the sad state of the rear hallway, told him it needed a bit of freshening up (which it did but straight men don’t seem to be able to pick these things) and sent him to the shed in search of paint.
Over the years our shed has accumulated a wide range of partly used paint tins in assorted colours. I told him any colour would do so long as there was enough paint to cover the walls.
He returned with almost four litres of frozen. I have no idea how frozen ended up in our shed. It is not a colour that I can remember using nor can I picture myself choosing it. But it’s inoffensive and so onto the walls it went.
It took only two coats and the brown was gone and in its place is frozen-fresh and bright.
But as the paint dried it became apparent that he had missed a spot. It was a very small spot, only around half a centimetre big, at around hip height. Looks a bit like a smudge where somebody has accidentally touched the still wet paint. Not a problem, he dabbed over it and the spot was covered.
But then as the paint dried the spot reappeared. That’s okay though, another tiny touch up and the spot was covered. But then as the paint dried…
Seven coats later we can still see the strange dark mark.
It has become our house’s version of the indelible blood stain at the foot of the stairs.
My hero refuses to accept defeat. He wants to sand it back completely, gouge out the plaster, refill the hole then paint over the patch.
Maybe that would work. But I’m afraid to let him try. What if it doesn’t?
For now we must suffer the presence of the dark smudge.

The $850,000 question

2009-04-30T06:43:00.000+10:00

Apparently I have WON the UK NATIONAL LOTTERY!!!
Extraordinary. Particularly considering I’ve never even heard of the Online Sweepstakes International program, let alone bought a ticket.
But that’s a minor detail. All I have to do to claim my winnings is send my personal details to some stranger and they’ll send me a check for 850,000 pounds sterling.
I’m usually a little wary of giving out that kind of information over the internet but Mr. Emmanuel Loiseau is obviously a man of honour. After all he went to a lot of trouble to track me down via hotmail, especially considering that I never even bothered to buy a ticket in his lottery. And it must have been difficult to find me since my hotmail address bears no relation to my actual name at all.
So how to spend my new found wealth.
I want to put this windfall to the best use possible but there are so many deserving charities and let’s not forget family and friends.
The decision has been a hard one but I’ve decided that nice prince from the displaced Nigerian Royal Family needs it more than anybody else.
So Emmanuel, if could forward my cheque onto him that would be brilliant.
In the meantime, there’s a lot of lotteries out there I haven’t entered, I’m going to sit back here and rake in the big bucks.

Potpourri

2009-04-23T11:33:00.000+10:00

I know, I know, it’s been quite a while since my last post. I wish I could say I’ve been busy with Important Things but the truth is that I’ve been preoccupied with a whole lot of nothing much. That is, after all, what life in the suburbs amounts to: a string of mundane, repetitive tasks occasionally punctuated by an Event. And my life, of late, has been blessedly devoid of Events.
However, time ticks away and even in my inconsequential household history is being written, albeit a rather dull history, though no less noble for its insignificance. But please, judge for yourself.
My Hero had some recession induced holidays during which time I finally got him to paint the lounge room ceiling-a job he’s been promising to do for quite a while. Cough-2 years-cough.
The girls introduced him to the joys of you tube. They quickly realised their mistake when he spent the next three hours getting drunk while singing along with video clips of the Dubliners. (I know what you’re thinking and it’s too late: we’ve already bred.) Fortunately for all concerned he’s computer illiterate and can’t remember how to access the site making an encore performance unlikely.
The Professor of Pedantics turned 14. She opted for a low key event. We were joined by four giggling girls at a local Mexican restaurant, where cheese allergies were accommodated and a good time was had by all.
The Master of the Bleeding Obvious has started high school and is coping well in spite of the fact that all the teachers hate her, the uniform blazer has shoulder pads and her best friend isn’t in her class. Truly her bravery knows no bounds.
Both are very excited about their upcoming trip to Ireland and quite taken with the idea that they have cousins. Cousins being exotic personages that other people talk about but of which my girls have little personal experience to speak of.
Boy Genius continues to improve slowly but surely. We’ve been experimenting with medication regimes and have finally struck upon something that seems to work for him. He’s still not quite back to normal but is much closer than he was a few months ago. Violence and aggression are practically a thing of the past. Though he still requires a lot of behavioural management, which can be exhausting, I am cautiously optimistic.
So optimistic in fact that in the last couple of weeks I’ve actually begun to believe that he and I will be able to accompany the rest of the family over to the UK in June. Something I really didn’t believe would be the case back in March. Fingers crossed.
As for myself to those of you who have noticed my absence and were concerned enough for my well being to get in touch, thank you. When I’m at my lowest and loneliest (and I have been living there of late) it’s always nice to be reminded that I do have friends. (And in the back of my mind I sigh in relief to think that should I die somebody would notice me missing before I was completely consumed by a ravenous cat.) From now on I promise to make more of an effort to post regularly. Whether I have anything to say, or not.
Yes, I will.
Stop laughing.

A square inch of truth

2009-02-26T10:20:00.000+11:00

The woman in the picture is not smiling.
Nor is she wearing any make-up to soften the sharp lines of her face.
She may have been pretty once. In the way that anyone young and slender is. But she is no longer young or slender. Her face is wrinkled and has the unmistakable roundness of somebody carrying more than a few extra pounds.
Her hair is unstyled and just a bit frizzy.
Her eyes are blank.
At first glance this is a woman with nothing to lose. I’d not want to meet her in a dark alley, that’s for sure.
But on closer inspection she just looks tired.
Passport photos, there’s no hiding from the truth.
I really do look like that.

Burnt out

2009-02-10T13:00:00.001+11:00

Disaster, catastrophe, calamity-the English language doesn’t seem to have a word adequate to describe the devastation caused by the bushfires.
“Worse than Ash Wednesday” is not a phrase I ever expected to hear in my lifetime but at 173 dead (as of this morning, the number is expected to climb) and entire towns burned completely off the map, there are no other words that come close to encapsulating the tragedy that’s unfolding here.
What makes it all the more incomprehensible was that the fires were expected-it is after all, summer, the temp had been above 40 degrees every day and we have been in drought for 12yrs-and prepared for but they came on with such speed and ferocity that there was no hope for those caught in their path.
I am overwhelmed with relief to be able to report that my brother, his family and their home are all safe. I fervently hope that you can say the same for your loved ones.
There was a sad nostalgia when I saw the news last night. My grandmother’s previous home (she moved in with my mother late last year after suffering from a stroke) no longer exists. It, along with many of the surrounding houses and the local shop, were reduced to ashes. I could barely believe the news crew were standing on what would have been her driveway.
A number of my cousins were evacuated. They are all fine but are yet to discover whether or not they have homes to go back to.
We are truly blessed to have lost nobody.
And though I never thought to say it I’m damned proud of the government response. Both local and federal. No bullshit, no hesitation, just send in the army to back the CFA and hand over cash to those who don’t even own the blankets they’re wrapped in (even the liberals have shut up for a minute about deficits and payouts).

Hot, Hot, Hot

2009-01-30T07:56:00.002+11:00

How hot is 43 degrees celcius?
So hot our tomatoes cooked on the vine.

I can't take much more of this

2009-01-14T19:55:00.000+11:00

Tonight he punched the printer-twice.
He then reached out for a fistful of the jagged broken glass.
I screamed no.
For a second he stopped.
He looked me directly in the eye.
Then quick as a flash grabbed the glass and threw it.
There is no way anyone will convince me that in that moment he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.
How he wasn’t cut I don’t know. (He was at this stage naked having removed all of his clothes and thrown them, he’d run out of other missiles and had already up-ended the bins.)

Happy New Year?

2009-01-06T13:50:00.000+11:00

Ever been to the circus and seen a juggler balance a set of spinning plates on top of a row of staves? Each plate needs to be kept spinning at just the right speed to maintain its balance. The juggler runs back and forth twisting and twirling the staves to keep everything from crashing to the ground.
That’s pretty much been my life this last month with boy genius’s moods the plates and me a singularly inept juggler.
Since weaning boy genius from his medication all has been going well. At least it was for six or seven months but that’s all changed in a sudden and massive way. Every waking moment for the last month I’ve been haunted by a sense of dread while I wait for the inevitable crash. I don’t know when, I don’t know where and I don’t know how hard but I know for sure the crash is coming-boy genius is going to lose his temper at some point.
Picture a 2yr old in full tantrum mode then replace the child with a 16 yr old, 6ft tall man.
The triggers for the tantrums remain uncertain, as does the level and direction of their violence. His sisters have taken to spending their days at friends’ houses or shutting themselves away in their rooms. We’ve had to restrict ourselves to essential outings only (snatch and grab from Safeway) and remove any object small enough to be launched missile style during a blind rage. The worrying tendency to self harm is manifesting even in his calmer moments. He has begun to bite his fingers down until he exposes the nail beds. Keeping him constantly occupied or distracted as a means of circumventing the tantrums is no longer effective.
Presented with the events of December our GP has conceded that perhaps the neurologist was a bit premature in weaning boy genius from his medication. Faced with the spectacular failure of this drug-free trial he has given us a script and referral to an adult specialist.
We will hopefully see improvements in things soon.

Going Global

2008-12-10T09:52:00.000+11:00

With the world in, or on the brink of, recession and the Australian dollar on a par with the Biddelonian Jangu Nut, my hero and I have decided that this would be a great time to visit the motherland. Or at least his mother’s land, my mother lives a scenic four hour drive along the coast.
Aiming to hit UK shores in their summer (because although it would be nice to be there for Christmas I was born and bred here in the colonies and doubt I could cope with an Irish winter) means getting our act together now. Which, it will come as no surprise to anyone-except it seems my hero-is more difficult than you would anticipate.
My hero would seem to believe that taking a family of five half way around the world is no harder than dropping into the post office and picking up a zone 2 metcard. He is wrong.
We will need passports. Which means getting full birth certificates, since the statements issued when the children were born are not acceptable. I could have applied for them online. But that would mean finding appropriate identification, having it notarized by the police and posting it in to a government department, crossing my fingers that neither the application forms or my I D went missing.
So I chose instead to go into the city and wait around for half an hour in person then walk away with them in my hot little hand. A process than was not free, nor easy. I had to check the details on the certificates and there he was under previous issue of parents. Thomas Kieran. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. It did bring tears to my eyes. But my stomach soon reminded me that it had been five hours since I had eaten and I got over the shock quick enough.
Now I have to apply for the passports themselves. A process I’m sure will run smoothly and easily, restoring my faith in the system. Let’s see if there really is any power in positive thinking.
After much searching and sorting we settled on dates and I found airfares that won’t leave us completely bankrupt, though I’m not entirely convinced that we won’t have to hang our arms out the windows and flap.
Next on the list is finding accommodation. Naturally we will be spending the bulk of time with family but after sitting on a 22hr flight with 3 children I want to do some tourist stuff while I’m there and that means a couple of weeks travelling. I’m thinking self catering cottages. For a week in the Republic of Ireland and a week in Northern England. Sort of a base camp from which we can so day trips.
So for those of you in the UK any recommendations greatly appreciated. Particularly accommodation you found good or companies you’d warn against. But also places you would recommend we visit or avoid. We will be hiring a car for our time outside London so transport not an issue.
Car hire, there’s something else I need to get sorted. It never ends.
And here is where I take a break to do the Christmas shopping. Because there is nothing as relaxing as fighting crowds while piped Christmas carols worm their way into my brain.

A conversation with Boy Genius

2008-11-26T08:28:00.000+11:00

He came running in from the school bus, giggling and waving his arms. It had obviously been a good day.
Hello, Boy Genius
Hello, mum
What did you do at school today?
Cooking.
What did you cook?
Sandwiches.
What did you put on the sandwiches?
Glad Wrap.
One of the good things about living with autism-it opens you up to seeing the simplest things in a different way.

A smashing time

2008-11-14T10:48:00.000+11:00

Three days in a row of over 30°C without the benefit of a warm weather preamble and we’re all feeling a bit hot, tired and emotional. Some of us have words to express our discontent, others have only action.
The action boy genius chose to best exemplify his feelings was to slam his (empty) dinner plate onto the table.
Unfortunately this resulted in the surprise breaking of the plate (I mean really, who could have seen that coming) which is, apparently, best dealt with by standing up, screaming at the top of your voice and smashing your dining chair onto the floor as hard as you possibly can over and over again.
I had to assume by the lack of blood on boy genius and the vigour of his ongoing chair smashing that the only thing damaged was the plate. I managed to remove the offending fragments and made the, I think not unreasonable, suggestion that he take a deep breath and calm down. However he seemed to believe that a more efficient method of achieving a calmer state of mind would be to pour a glass of cordial over his own head then slam the glass onto the table. (The glass was fortunately made of sterner stuff than the plate and survived.)
This necessitated a quick trip to the bathroom where clothes were violently removed and forcefully put into the laundry basket, all to the mantra “don’t hurt yourself” (said while pinching his own arm). A shower and hair wash to remove the sticky cordial residue was then in order before he could storm off to his room from whence he appeared fifteen minutes later in his pyjamas to flop onto the couch and announce “feel better”.
The frustration of being unable to express himself verbally is obviously hard to cope with. The frustration of cleaning up after his frustration is also hard to cope with (I can assure you the last thing I felt like doing was moping sticky green cordial off the floor, table, chair and walls). And if this is any indication of what to expect this summer is going to be very hard to cope with indeed. I may need to buy some plastic plates.

It's funny coz it's true

2008-10-25T11:41:00.001+11:00

more music charts

It's My Birthday

2008-10-18T08:00:00.001+11:00

Just thought you ought to know

When in Rome

2008-10-15T12:15:00.001+11:00

….bring me back the tackiest papal souvenir you can find. But be warned competition for most tasteless memento on my shelf of tat is fierce. The contenders are:
• The dual A-side medallion featuring both Popes in glorious living colour. Reminiscent of the photographs one sometimes sees embedded in grave markers in modern lawn cemeteries this piece is positively tasteful compared to-
• The clear acrylic paperweight featuring not one, not two, but three church fathers etched within; rotating stand with multi-coloured up lighting optional. Nothing says piety like a ‘batteries not included’ sticker on the box. This, however, is stylish and sophisticated when compared to-
• The Pope Snow Globe. Formerly a front runner in the can-it-get-any-tackier-than-that stakes I feel its innate crassitude has been out shone by-
• The Plaster Pieta. This plaster replica of Michelangelo’s Pieta fulfils the Artist’s Ultimate Vision. I am certain that if temperature sensitive paint had been available in1499 he would have splashed it indiscriminately all over his bland marble sculpture. The addition of glitter to this timeless piece is nothing short of genius. I am so glad the manufacturers spared no expense in production.

A big thank-you to Alex for her ongoing contributions to this phenomenal collection. No really, thanks, thanks a lot.

Only 12 more shopping days until my Birthday

2008-10-05T13:16:00.001+11:00

Thought you'd like to know.

Seeking Sympathy

2008-09-24T07:42:00.003+10:00

I have cut my thumb.
It hurts-a lot.
It is bleeding-a lot.
Nobody here cares about my pain and suffering.
Does anybody, anywhere?
Show you care-leave a comment.

Costume Drama

2008-09-17T13:40:00.000+10:00

There are many things about motherhood nobody tells you.
The acute observer may notice these things but usually they go unseen and unspoken of, particularly by the childfree portion of the population. There’s a conspiracy of silence surrounding the more unsavoury duties of motherhood. And it is mothers who invariably end up with this particularly onerous task.
Yes, I’m talking about making costumes.
So far this year I’ve had to come up with:
A sixties mod-it’s amazing what can be achieved with a mini dress, false eyelashes and a bit of teasing and hairspray
A medieval maiden-where velvet and chiffon came into their own and a passion for gothic dresses was established
A peasant-earth tones only, mob cap, mercifully, provided
And now I need to fit an Arabian Nights theme.
I headed off to the op-shop with the Professor of Pendantics and high hopes of some harem pants left over from the early nineties or at the very least a decorative crop top. Two hours later, having trawled through every place likely to harbour costumes or clothes from which costumes could be constructed we were back home empty handed.
It was in desperation that I dragged out a bag from the back of the wardrobe with thoughts of piecing something together from some old sarongs.
And there it was-a sheer black skirt with some vaguely Arabic gold print. I remember wearing it back in the day with a black crop top. More digging and sure enough I found it. With a bit of adjusting it could do.
The Professor tried the ensemble on-and it fit!
No adjusting necessary. Hoorah!
(I’m not sure what shocked me more. The fact that my baby can fit into clothes I wore in my late teens or the fact that I was once that thin. Look see there’s the evidence-she’s wearing it.)
So tomorrow I have to develop RSI sewing tiny gold elephants and bells onto the crop top. Then I can breathe a sigh of relief until the next costume notice comes home from school.

Quiche: A guide by Boy Genius

2008-09-11T09:50:00.000+10:00

To make:
Cut up steamed cauliflower and broccoli into small florets. Remove ALL traces of stalk. This is Very Important.
Fry finely chopped capsicum, onion and bacon until soft.
Grate cheese.
Crack five eggs into a big bowl. Remove shell.
Mix everything up together, pour into pastry case, bake in oven.
To eat:
Use brown fork (this goes without saying really. Brown fork has mystical properties that only Boy Genius is aware of. Nobody else may ever use brown fork for fear of erasing these properties. Boy Genius can not eat at home unless he uses brown fork.).
Separate ingredients from quiche using an esoteric system, possibly based on colour or perhaps texture. Eat one ingredient at a time. No ingredient may be eaten until the previous ingredient has been consumed. An electron microscope is helpful at this point to ensure no atom of previous ingredient remains rendering quiche unfinishable.
Sure it’s time consuming but the effort is worth it.
Quiche is good.

Pop Culture

2008-09-03T09:44:00.000+10:00

I’m getting old.
The evidence is irrefutable.
No, I haven’t found any grey hairs and my laugh lines haven’t reached the point where I need spakfiller and a trowel to smooth out my skin.
It’s worse than that.
Much worse.
I’ve started to pop.
I pop things away. I pop things in. I pop things on. On occasion I even pop things under other things. I wish I could say that was the extent of it, but alas no. I’ve started to pop down to the shops, pop over to visit friends; I’ve even popped out for a minute.
Nobody under forty pops anything or anywhere.
What next?
A blue rinse and an excess of cardigans.
Hmm. It is a cool-ish morning. I might just go pop on a cardigan.

A Vistit to the Dentist

2008-08-28T08:20:00.000+10:00

On prominent display in my dentist’s waiting room is a certificate advising that he is a qualified and recognised hypnotist. I spent a brief moment speculating as to what role hypnosis could play in modern dentistry.
Could a person strengthen their teeth through the process of hypnotic suggestion? Probably not.
I was forced to assume hypnosis is offered as an alternative form of pain relief. I can’t be sure since he’s never been silly enough to suggest I try it. When it comes to pain I’m definitely an old fashioned give-me-the-drugs kind of girl.
I scanned on skimming over the expected infection control certificates and various assorted degrees until a small certificate up in the corner caught my eye.
It appears that all members of the practice are proficient in cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.
I’m not sure whether I should be finding that reassuring or not.
I know some people find the dentist to be a bit scary but does the sound of a drill frequently lead to heart attacks?
I pondered this while I sat in drug induced numbness having my jaw pulled about but came up with no definitive answer until it was all over and the receptionist printed out the bill.
Now I understand when and why the heart attacks occur.
On the plus side I have great teeth (or maybe I just think so as a result of post hypnotic suggestion).

Nice Weather for Ducks

2008-08-21T10:39:00.000+10:00

It’s raining here this morning-a rare occurrence these days. So rare in fact that I quite enjoyed the novelty of using an umbrella when I went out earlier. Just imagine how happy the ducks must be.
I’ve never really understood why it is assumed that ducks like wet weather. Sure they seem to like paddling about on the water but does it necessarily follow that they love the rain. At least, I’d never seen any supportive evidence. Until today.
I just saw two ducks out in the park, splashing about in the small muddy puddles and pecking at things in the long, wet grass. They really did seem to be having fun doing their ducky thing in the rain. I wonder if they’ll keep at it should the predicted hail eventuate this afternoon. Even ducks must have their limits.

Making a Point

2008-08-06T10:04:00.000+10:00

Boy Genius is now sixteen. This means he is old enough to hold his own concession cards and apply for various government assistance schemes.
It’s been a long, hard road but all paperwork finally in order now we simply need to provide one hundred points of identification.
In addition to his birth certificate.
Easy, no?
NO!
Health benefits care as issued by federal government=unacceptable.
Companion card, photo id as issued by government after filling in 27 (approx) pages of forms=unacceptable.
So what is acceptable?
Motor Vehicle Driver’s Licence-did I mention he is sixteen?
Registration Certificate from a national professional registration board (eg, doctors, nurses, dentists)-did I mention he is autistic and has a functional vocabulary of around 50 words?
Firearm Licence, Electoral Enrolment, Marriage Certificate-did I mention that he is SIXTEEN and AUTISTIC?
Finally I managed to pull together sixty points of identification but where to get another forty? I scan the list of acceptable documents and there is only one possibility that I haven’t explored. A Bank Card is worth forty points.
Can you guess what happens next, boys and girls?
That’s right! Boy Genius now has a Visa card.
A Visa card of his very own.
Did I mention that he’s sixteen and autistic?

Is this what Bentham and Mill had in mind?

2008-07-17T10:04:00.000+10:00

Our household, like so many others, subscribes to a fundamentalist utilitarian philosophy. Our everyday decisions fall back on the principle of utility by default.
(You remember the Principle of Utility, surely: We ought always to produce the maximal balance of positive value over disvalue. Or in lay terms: greatest happiness for the greatest number. )
When applied to baking this means that the number of biscuits produced should be evenly divisible by the number of children in the household. Happiness for them with biscuits, happiness for me not listening to them argue over who got more biscuits. Maximal positive value achieved.
But this happy balance was thrown off by the Professor of Pedantics going to visit a friend, leaving us with an extra biscuit.
Boy genius was the first to identify the problem.
“Where’s PP?” he asked.
“Gone out,” I reply.
“Where’s PP biscuit?” He looks expectantly at me.
As an initiate I understand that he is asking for his sister’s biscuit since she is not here to defend her right to it.
So there it is-Moral Dilemma.
If I give him the biscuit then his happiness increases but the Profs happiness is bound to decrease when she returns home and her biscuit is gone. This of course assumes neutrality on the part of the Mistress of the Bleeding Obvious, though in reality she will also be unhappy that she did not receive an additional biscuit.
Things were not looking good for boy genius and the biscuit. Then I recalled that the principle of utility allows for unjust social distribution-this is one of its main faults.
It was obvious that boy genius’s level of happiness at having an extra biscuit far outweighed the combined unhappiness of his sisters at missing out on the biscuit and my happiness at seeing him happy had to be taken into account. And so the biscuit was his.
Ethics in action.
But I’m not sure this is what Bentham and Mill had in mind.

Zoological Physics (domestic practical)

2008-07-02T16:35:00.000+10:00

How much water can a 4kg, long haired cat displace from a 45lt fish tank?
This is a question that has plagued us, lo these many years. But now, thanks to Tiger’s valiant efforts, we have the answer.
For years his attempts to immerse himself in said fish tank have been stymied by the presence of a heavy glass lid and uncooperative housemates (who have the rather annoying tendency to put him outside should they catch him in the throws of aquatic investigation).
But persistence pays. And Tiger has discovered that if you land on the fish tank with just the right amount of force, at just the right angle, the lid can be made to slide into the tank allowing unfettered furry access to the water below.
In the course of his experiment he not only answered the pressing question of water displacement but also incidentally confirmed the long held belief that cats are not overly fond of swimming and established that wet glass does not make the perfect springboard for exiting an aquarium.
Tiger appeared surprised by these secondary discoveries.
Scribbles, the fish tank’s lone resident, appeared startled by the sudden appearance of a cat in this watery world. But then axolotls have no eyelids so Scribbles always looks startled, even when sleeping.
So how much water can a 4kg, long haired cat displace from a 45lt fish tank?
About two completely sodden, but not dripping, bath sheets worth.

Putting it graphically

2008-06-18T14:28:00.000+10:00

more graph humor and song chart memes

The next stop is...Medicare

2008-06-11T13:07:00.001+10:00

Being, as I am, philosophically opposed to private health cover, I am happy to pay for those specialist services boy genius requires that the government doesn’t provide and graciously accept the Medicare rebate they offer.
Collecting this rebate means a visit to the local (though these days there are so few of them they might well be called regional) Medicare office. It’s been quite a while since I made the pilgrimage so this morning I girded my loins (ie, put on comfy shoes and grabbed a book) and hauled myself in to Southland.
As I said, it’s been quite a while, and things have changed since I was there last.
The Medicare office now has the welcoming ambience of a railway station waiting room. Sure a nice railway station with carpet and upholstered seats but a railway station waiting room nonetheless, complete with old newspapers left on seats and a gumball type vending machine. (The trap door of which pierces the entire room with a sharp crash every time it is dropped. This is every few seconds because once a child sees it they can’t help themselves and have to lift that damned flap.)
Instead of the single queue they now have a ticketing system very similar to the one at the deli, you know, where you take a number then wait until you’re called. Every few minutes a mechanical voice (that sounds very much like the woman who announces the stops on the Frankston line-adding to the station atmosphere) calls out a ticket number and a window number. I had to repress the urge to yell BINGO! when my number finally came up.
I suspect the changes are meant to make the system somehow more efficient or the Medicare experience more pleasant, perhaps both. A pointless waist of public funds since a bureaucracy is a bureaucracy and it is not in its nature to run efficiently and with the possible exception of a few retired station masters railway waiting rooms aren’t considered particularly aesthetic.
But I do have an idea that could make the Medicare offices a more pleasant place for everyone, staff and clients alike-
Get rid of that bloody annoying gumball machine.

For Decorative Purposes Only?

2008-06-04T16:23:00.001+10:00

Four pregnancies in as many years may have put an end to my svelte girlish figure but my more ample proportions don’t maintain themselves. This requires the regular consumption of chocolate. Though admittedly alcohol also plays a part. However, that is mainly medicinal-without the fortifying drink motherhood would drive me mad. Excess calories are merely a side effect.
Mother’s day has well come and gone again. The annual offerings of chocolate have been made, accepted and consumed. My selfless children once again sacrificed themselves and ate the ones I didn’t like. As if such a thing exists (okay there is that tasteless white filth but they know better than to call that chocolate within my hearing). We all know that there is no chocolate I don’t like, just like I don’t actually prefer the burnt bit of anything, this is just a pretence that allows them to eat the gifts they gave me. You know what I’m talking about, all mothers play the game with their young.
Anyway, presentation is everything, so naturally my chocolates came in the prettiest cup the St Louis mother’s day gift stall had to offer. Fine imported porcelain covered in pink and purple unicorns and fairies. I exclaimed my delight and rushed to the sink to wash off the made in China sticker from the bottom of the cup.
That’s when things turned weird.
Underneath the sticker were the words For Decorative Purposes Only, Not Intended for the Serving of Foods or Beverages.
It’s a cup. If it can’t be used for the serving of food or beverages what’s the point of it. In fact, if it can’t be slung in the dishwasher it has no business being in my kitchen.
That aside, it has left me with a picture of somebody somewhere with rooms full of display cases holding similar overly feminised cups that have never know the glory of serving food of beverages.
I feel a little sorry for them.
The cups that is.
And maybe the person too.

Cubed Carrots?

2008-05-28T11:44:00.003+10:00

I barely dare say it but I think the tag team vomit-a-thon that has been my life this past three weeks might finally be over.
A warning to the squemish, the following could make you sick...
Isn't it amazing how your mind can focus on the smallest of things in order not to think too much about what it is actually dealing with. As I was mopping vomit and emptying buckets and washing towels I was distracted by the presence of cubed carrot.
I have never taken the time to cube a carrot in my life and yet here it was, in all its regurgitated glory, bright orange and beautifully diced. And it's always present. Where does all this cubed carrot come from?
I have a theory. I suggest the appendix, hitherto believed to be purposeless, is actually a carrot processing and storage organ. Any carrot consumed, in any form, during your lifetime, is taken in by the appendix where it is compacted, cubed and stored. Reverse peristalsis triggers the release of this cubed carrot ensuring all vomit contains this essential element.
In case you get the wrong idea, it hasn't been all spew, all the time. It just seemed that way. Particularly when the cat decided to join the general heave fest, coughing up a few early morning hair balls for me to start the day.
There has been lots of Other Stuff going on here as well, which I hope to update you on over the next couple of weeks.
Stay tuned

Are we having fun yet?

2008-05-07T10:51:00.003+10:00

I suppose that depends on whether or not your definition of fun centres around cleaning up vomit.
And in spite of what everyone here seems to think (to paraphrase: hey, you were a nurse for all those years vomit mopping must be your area of expertise), mine does not.

What did the Romans ever do for us?

2008-04-18T10:20:00.001+10:00

The Edithvale wetlands can be a truly lovely place, particularly on mornings when a light mist hugs the ground and sun spotlights the treetops. I was walking along basking in the wonder of it all when my commune with nature was interrupted by a long column of school children.
There were hundreds of them, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Further, I discovered as I rounded the corner at the golf course and beheld a never ending stream of them crossing the bridge. It would seem the entire student body of a local primary school was heading out for the day.
For some reason they reminded me of a Roman army on the march. I think that is exactly what a Roman legion would have looked like. If Romans had been about four foot tall, worn navy blue uniforms and carried water bottles instead of weapons. And had recently been defeated in battle and so were staggering about a bit out of formation. And were not in the least unhappy about their defeat and were laughing and joking with one another and ignoring their centurion’s commands to stay to the left.
Okay, so maybe they weren’t anything like a Roman army on a forced march. But when I saw them that was the first image that sprang to mind.
How impressive were the Romans? It’s been over two millennia since the Empire was at the height of its powers and they are still alive in the mind of a middle aged woman living on the other side of the world in a country they never even imagined existed.
Just goes to show what a mastery of Latin can do for a culture.

Don't Cut the Wires

2008-04-10T06:20:00.000+10:00

It was the maniacal giggling that gave Boy Genius away. There is simply nothing in his bedroom that funny. I braced myself and went to discover the source of such unbound joy.
“Don’t cut the wires,” he said, handing me a fistful of black spaghetti that was, until very recently, the cables connecting the television to the vcr.
When an obsession involves potential electrocution and the costly replacement of household items you tend to discourage it (and install a top of the line electrical trip switch).
You’d think after more than a decade of chanting the mantra Don’t Cut The Wires some understanding would sink in. You would be wrong.
These wires were well and truly cut.
But how? We monitor scissors with a vigilance usually reserved for schedule 4 drugs.
“How did you cut the wires?”
“Clippers.” He opens up his fist to show me his nail clippers. I swear he looks proud.
It’s true, where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I’m torn between being worried and annoyed at his continued cutting of wires and admiring his ingenuity.

No more swinging from the chandeliers

2008-03-31T02:37:00.002+11:00

Picture a chandelier.
No, that one’s far too nice.
Make it domestic, circa 1974.
Give it five arms.
Terminate each arm in a clear plastic bowl especially designed to maximize dust collection.
Festoon the entire thing with ropes of clear plastic beads.
Make sure the wire knots holding everything together are clearly visible.
Liberally sprinkle with large faceted plastic teardrops, which look like nothing so much as … well, large faceted plastic teardrops.
Overlay it all with a patina of age.
This was the first thing I saw every morning.
For the last 13 years.
Finally it is gone.
It will not be missed.

In Loving Memory

2008-03-18T15:59:00.001+11:00

Thomas Kieren would have been 14 today.

Strange Times Indeed

2008-03-13T09:41:00.004+11:00

It is 9 o'clock in the morning and I am roasting a chicken.
Time was I would have considered this a strange thing to be doing at this hour.
Not anymore.
In the past few weeks I've mopped floors at 2 in the morning, scrubbed the shower at 11pm and baked cakes at midnight.
Tell me I'm not alone.
What have you done at atypical times?

Tired of Reality

2008-03-05T13:29:00.003+11:00

Reality TV: Fascinating commentary on society, providing insight into the structure of communities and the esoteric workings of cultural subgroups or complete crap-discuss.
I just don’t get ‘reality tv’.
I can see where tv station management are coming from. In these times of economic accountability it’s all about the bottom line, and reality tv, with its incomprehensible cult following, provides maximum return for minimum outlay. No actors, no script writers, minimal scenery and make-up/wardrobe costs, what’s not to love?
But what’s the attraction for viewers?
Maybe the first wave of reality tv offered something new and different but the longer these shows run the less they have to offer. And don’t even get me started on “Fill-In-The-Blank with the Stars” type programmes. Apart from the fact that the definition of Stars as used in the title of such shows is somewhat liberal, who cares?
Sure I could shrug and say if I don’t like reality tv I don’t have to watch it and leave it at that. But its insidious presence leaks out of its allocated timeslot and into that of the few programmes I can be bothered with.
And it is this that annoys the hell out of me.
What is so compelling about these shows that they must run overtime by up to twenty minutes? From the inane rubbish I’ve been exposed to while waiting for something half-way decent to start, I can’t tell.
Really, if you’re a fan explain it to me, I’d love to understand the attraction.

Fish Bottle is Yucky

2008-02-27T11:35:00.001+11:00

It was the noise that brought me running.
The unmistakable crash and thud of a small object hitting the wall at great speed.
It took me a moment to recognize the orange and green confetti spread across the lounge room floor as fish food. But once that had registered it took me no time at all to identify the same flakes clinging to boy genius’s lips.
I swear I’d only left him for a moment. He was contentedly watching his Harry Potter DVD and I thought I would take the opportunity to go make the beds. How was I to know that a 15 year old would suddenly decide to try eating fish food? He’s never shown any inclination to taste things before.
Apparently it wasn’t the gourmet treat he’d expected-hence throwing the can at the wall, I suppose.
The forceful stomping on the way to the bathroom told me two things. Firstly, building on a slab was a wise choice and secondly, this wasn’t over yet.
Fortunately the tantrum held off until after he’d rinsed his mouth out. Then it was full-on, throw-yourself-on-the-floor and flail-your-limbs-around-while-screaming. I’d give it a 7/10. It loses points for being at home rather than in a public place, for having a recognisable trigger and not being too unreasonable in the circumstances (yes, we do have a fairly liberal interpretation of unreasonable).
After around 10 minutes he’d calmed down enough to stand up and tell me that “fish bottle is yucky”.
I’m willing to take his word for it.

Eulogy for the Unnamed Goldfish

2008-02-18T13:19:00.001+11:00

He was a good fish
He was an old fish
He is a dead fish
We commend his scaly soul to Heaven
And consign his earthly remains to Werribee

As I waited to ensure he made it around the S-bend I couldn’t help but compare his passing to that of Gil, one of his forerunners.
Gil, also orange and of carp ancestry, merited the full state funeral. When he was found ‘sleeping funny’ and the nature of his posture explained there was much weeping and heartfelt sorrow. He was buried in an oversized match box out under the grape vine and prayers were mumbled by the mourners as he was laid to rest.
That was around seven years ago. It doesn’t seem like such a long time past. Yet today those same children who wore black arm bands at Gil’s funeral are practically teenagers and noted this latest loss with a simple “Mum, I think the orange fish is dead.”
While I am glad they can accept that death has its place, and I do appreciate that fish don’t really lend themselves to attachment (they aren’t exactly the cutest or cuddliest of pets, be honest) part of me laments the maturing of the compassion and innocence displayed in the outpouring at Gil’s funeral.
Goodbye Unnamed Goldfish. I hope your life with us was as happy as any goldfish could expect.