When we studied maths, we were made acutely aware that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Then, many years ago, I took my children onto the Zig-Zag railway at Lithgow and travelling back and forth has obviously made an impact. . . ClareBear now takes this to grandiose proportions by zig zagging across three continents . . . This is her travel map for the first six months of next year . . . .to make it worse, her travel companion gets all the Frequent Flyer Points because she paid for the tickets on her mate's credit card . . .
My little trip to Melbourne in November may not be quite as exciting but I have managed to take the direct route . . .
I love my Outlaws. I've known them for 28 years. ChattyBetty and SpunkyArt are as much a part of our family as anyone and even though I've been widowed for 20 years, we keep in touch. They love their grandchildren and ClareBear particularly as the only granddaughter holds special charm for them. But there is one event that we attend each year out of loyalty that we loathe. The Melville Family Tree. Melville was ChattyBetty's maiden name and it's a gathering of the clan. But there's no caber tossing or highland shenanigins with this lot. It's water bombs and geriatric races for a paltry 50cent piece.
ChattyBetty was one of 14 children. Country family, good Catholics. A close knit family who lived through rural hardship before moving to Sydney from Wagga and establishing lives of their own. I started going to this event, usually held on the second week of October when I was 'courting' (now there's a quaint word) my lovely Ray. It was fun and used to be held on an Uncle's airstrip. Warm weather, picnic food, silly games and the chance to catch up with family. There seemed to be loads of people my age at that time, early 20's and it was fun flirting and chatting. Then with small children, it was a hoot watching the little tykes stuff themselves stupid with icecream then worrying about them throwing up on the trip home.
But these days, some have passed on - old and young. I have little connection with other members of this enormous family and we gather beneath a galvanised corrugated iron roof for lunch, more silly games and raffles to raise money for next year's hire. Don't get me wrong. I love the opportunity to catch up with my Outlaws and a few of their friends, but I simply don't know these people and my kids are even more distant. There are obviously families who socialise outside this event and find it pleasant to have a day out together but they stick to their cliques and I hardly know their names. Ray's brother's children haven't shown for years with the exception of LankyJack who also gets dragged kicking and screaming by his parents.
I know all attendees are important to ChattyBetty and Spunky Art, I even know some of their names but being greeted continuously by a string of elderly people who insist on crunching their water crackers and talking at the same time is well . . laborious. Not to mention the times someone says "Owww, is this AdamJ? My he's grown into a lovely big boy!" or putting pressure on ClareBear "Awww there's plenty of time yet to find a husband. Maybe you'll meet a nice boy overseas." (she's 23 for goodness sake, no biological clock ticking there just yet!) It's only one day a year so we make the sacrifice. I've missed it once in 28 years because thankfully it once fell on my birthday and I'd made other plans . . . I know it means a lot to them that we make an appearance and it's probably not as bad as the expectation when I'm there but as the kids get older, it's harder and harder to force them into this family obligation. I sometimes wish I'd remarried just to avoid the event but nobody asked me!
And my contribution to this day of coleslaw, ham off the bone,barbecue chicken, Woollies nibbly bits, ice cream and lollies? . . . Bread rolls! That's right, I am the bearer of the bread. So I'll show off and bring neat rapeseed knots, wholemeal batons, pumpkin and olive bread and they'll all say "Oh, this bread is unusual . . what are those seeds on top and what are those brown bits". It might be a humble offering but I'll do it in style . . .
Post script: actually it was a really hot day 35 in the shade. I met Doris, Aud and Barb, had a few champers . . .joked with Spunky Art who was on great form with viagra jokes. Hugged Aunty June (who my daughter had no idea about) and left gracefully. Once home, DrummerBoy made wierd cocktails involving bitters, lemons, Red Bull and Vodka and we spend two hours chatting and dipping our toes in a slightly too-cold-for-mummy-to-get-in pool. Finished nicely with two slash horror flicks. All in all . . a good . . . well rounded . . . family day.
Research shows Australian internet users are the world's most frequent searchers for websites using the keywords "Nazi", "Tom Cruise" and "marijuana" on Google search engines. Now what on earth does that say about us? And any agressive comment on Godwins Law will be deleted!
The top searchers for other keywords were as follows:
Jihad - Morocco, Indonesia, Pakistan - what, no Iraquis, Iranians or Palestinians
Terrorism - Pakistan, Philippines, Australia . . .Paki's harbour them, Phillippines train 'em Aussies are paranoid about them
Hangover - Ireland, UK, US - . . Aussies know how to hold their liquor!
Burrito - US, Argentina, Canada - US deport them, Argentina grows them, Canadians want to know what they are.
Iraq - US, Australia, Canada - coalition of the "We were too scared to say no"
Tom Cruise - Canada, US, Australia - Why, oh why, oh why?
Britney Spears - Mexico, Venezuela, Canada - Shy ugly men looking out for themselves.
Homosexual - Philippines, Chile, Venezuela - Well travelled ugly men looking for little boys.
Love - Phillipines, Australia, US - Ugly Australian and US men looking for a ping pong jugglers and housekeepers.
Botox - Australia, US, UK - vain little wankers we are! I am smiling - permanently
Viagra - Italy, United Kindgom, Germany - haha . . now we know why Italians are great lovers, we all knew the Brits are wound tight and the Germans . . .I have no idea
David Beckham - Venezuela, UK, Mexico - well that goes without saying - all soccer nuts!
Kate Moss - Ireland, UK, Sweden - Coke heads!
Dolly Buster - Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia -Ah we all love a skimply leather-clad, botox lipped, techno porn queen!
Car bomb - Australia, US, Canada - what the?
Marijuana - Canada, US, Australia - Yeay spliffers of the world unite! Thanks K8 I love that word.
BirdAnonymous has tagged me for The Pharyngula mutating genre meme. Now it’s a little confusing but I finally figured it out (bloody science student I suspect). She's one of my few Aussie bloggers so I can't refuse. I had a go last night but endured a brain bleed just reading the instructions. It was a little clearer this morning . . . so I'm having a bash never let it be said I am short of being a good sport!
There are a set of statements below that are all of the form:"The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…". Copy the statements, you may modify them in a limited way, carrying out no more than two of these operations:
You can leave them exactly as is. You can delete any one You can mutate either the genre, medium, or subgenre of any one question. (this was the bit that confused my simple brain last night!)
For instance, you could change "The best time travel novel in SF/Fantasy is…" to "The best time travel novel in Westerns is…", or "The best time travel movie in SF/Fantasy is...", or "The best romance novel in SF/Fantasy is...".
You can add a completely new question of your choice to the end of the list, as long as it is still in the form "The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…". You must have at least one question in your set, or you've gone extinct, and you must be able to answer it yourself, or you're not viable.Then answer your possibly mutant set of questions. Please do include a link back to the blog you got them from, to simplify tracing the ancestry, and include these instructions.
Finally, pass it along to any number of your fellow bloggers. Remember, though, your success as a Darwinian replicator is going to be measured by the propagation of your variants, which is going to be a function of both the interest your well-honed questions generate and the number of successful attempts at reproducing them.
• The worst earworm in pop music is: Never Again by Kelly ‘makes my ears bleed’ Clarkson
• The best alt-country album in country music is: Murder Ballads
(Ok I sort of cheated, I hate country music!)
I tag the following poor saps: Because she's way smart K8 the Gr8 Because he's a good sport Jefferson Davis Because he's got lots of readers who might pass it on Grandad
Now next time someone tag me with something easy like . . ."10 Things You Should Know About Me . . ."
It’s Friday, nothing of note has happened which is a good thing after the ‘excitement’ of the past week. Lunch with Thommo who is also ailing thanks to a nasty rheumatoidy thing so we compared notes over a nice piece of John Dory and a chardy.We’ve had the weekly admin rant about Themostannoyingparaplannerintheworld who is still up to form.Sleighted our bosses for being patronising grumpfarts completed the filing (except me because chose to browse You Tube instead.) It’s 4:50 as I write and 10 minutes before I pick up sticks and walk right through that door . . . ah . . .Jane's Addiction just popped right into my head . . .enjoy - Happy Friday chickens!
There are few events that lead to me eating Conoisseur Gand Marnier Ice Cream with choc coated almonds from the tub and alternating with Weiss Passionfruit and Cream icecream or washing my curtains. These apparently are my deep stress release valves.
Why am I indulging in these mad antics? Well I don't talk about my health, I am rarely unwell apart from moaning constantly when I get a cold and I don't particularly like old people who go on and on about their varicose veins or sit at the table rubbing their tennis elbows and arthritic knees. I can't stand being peered at over bi-focals and listening to complaints of failing eyesight. Of course I'm sympathetic to the frail and ill but there is the tendency to go on about it just a tad too long, just a smidge too often. And, in my lifetime, I've only ever been in hospital to have my tonsils out, a quick de-coke and valve grind after a miscarriage and two babies.
However today I have had to absorb a lot of information - too much information. Besides the Crimson Wave turning into a Sunami over recent months I've enjoyed rude health. However, recent examinations into the explosion of mensus have revealed that my reproductive system, useless as it is, is in fact not worthy of being carried around by me any longer. I wanted to lose weight but this is ridiculous. A decent sized lump on my left ovary and a thwacking great fibroid in my once productive womb have necessitated a number of humiliating probes and prods and more blood tests than I care to admit to. Now that I have tracks on my inside arm and the digging and delving is over I have finally acquainted myself with a rather handsome South African gyneocologist who has seen more of me than any of my lovers ever did and managed to smile through the process and talk about old times.
Apparently, I am to have my womanhood removed on 29th November (I checked out his hands to make sure they weren't shaking) . . . so look out Thommo, Struth Ruth, TheTeacher, Arky and Sparky . . . my visit with you next month is the last big bang and I intend to behave badly.
At least 6 days in hospital and an inability to drive for 4 weeks will be long enough to kick the bad habits. Who knows, I might finally achieve my New Year's resolution of losing weight, giving up smoking and getting laid (well the first two are on the cards). If I ask him nicely, I wonder if he'll throw a tummy tuck into the bargain. And, I avoid that menopausal thing apart, I am told, from a tendency to flush hot now and then. Oh joy and in the summer heat to boot!
So don't feel sorry for me. I'll do plenty of that myself. But here's your big chance to get it off your chest, compare scars, tell me your stitched up stories . . . I want this to be light and entertaining so no staff infections please.
. . .now . . .who's gonna lend me a laptop six days without blogs or email and I'll go ballistic!
I am embroiled in a battle regarding the pros and cons of being a readhead. Strange actually because I'm not . . . at least not last time I looked and whilst I had a tinge of auburn as a girl, I have no idea what colour my hair is these days. That then qualifies me to be unbiased and sit on the fence in judgement of the 'bluey', 'ginger' , 'red-head' and 'carrot top' . . . I have red-headed friends, I also have friends who are in love with red-heads, friends who would like to be in love with red-heads and even friends who hate red-heads. Love 'em or hate 'em everyone has an opinion. Apparently, if you love redheads, you're in luck because red hair is the new black . If you're not so keen, you probably need to move to the southern hemisphere or Asia where there are fewer about.
Redheads do have some special attributes. It’s true . . . redheads feel pain more acutely but respond to morphine more readily, are less likely to tan and more likely to burn, have fair eyebrows and eyelashes and low tolerance for sunlight. They also age more slowly due to lack of exposure to sun. They have the highest risk of skin cancer and the chance of being deficient in vitamin D. They are also said to be 'hot tempered' although if you're a readhead who's been brought up teased and bullied, no wonder you've got a temper! They are also generally regarded as having a high libido so that's a good thing surely?
What brought on this polarisation over redheads escapes me. Red hair was very popular with the Elizabethans. Reubens would have been lost without his swooning Gingers and Botticelli's Birth of Venus a disaster. Tori Amos wouldn’t be famous and Julie Anne Moore wouldn’t look so good in green.Hell our own Nicole Kidman is a redhead beneath. I have had difficulty coming up with handsome redheaded males hough, unless Mick Hucknall counts - I dunno - Malcolm McLaren isn't my idea of a hot date any more than Robin Cook is and Rupert Grint is a little too young to work out quite what he's going to look like.
So how did they get red hair?Red hair follows what geneticists call an autosomal recessive mode of inheritance. Each parent carries a recessive 'red' gene. The same MC1R gene responsible for red hair in humans crops up in other red creatures: red setters, chestnut horses, highland cattle and red squirrels. It is estimated that versions of the MC1R gene that cause red hair have been around for 20,000 to 40,000 years with the highest proportion being in Scotland, and 35% of Irish citizens carrying the gene,10% in England. All united by their Celtic past.
And if you believe the latest internet hoax about red heads dying out, don’t.It’s just a rehash of a similar article published about blondes. The genes will still exist regardless of where the people go. It only takes two carriers to find each other attractive for there to be a chance of a new redhead being born.
Oh and remember to eat your vegies. Poor nutrition can result in hair turning red. This is seen in third world countries particularly where severe malnutrition affects the pigmentation of hair that is normally dark brown.
So next time you’re tempted to harass someone whilst circling them on your BMX bike shouting 'Ginger! Ginger! Ginger!' The redhead can comfort themselves knowing that their harrassers could quite easily be carriers of the ginger gene . . . and remember the words of the Boss "you have not lived 'til you have had your tyres rotated by a red headed woman". Make of that what you will.
Sad isn’t it that birthday’s don’t have the charisma or oomph that they had as a child.I remember organza covered party dresses with tulle underskirts, in 'don’t-take-home-to-mother colours'. My Nana bought me one in lilac with a satin bow belt and shiny black patent shoes – the sort that would have been banned at prissy girls schools because they were enough to mirror my underwear!My mother hated the dress and fretted over the shoes. It was dry clean only and I remember getting an almighty stinger of a slap across the back of the legs for walking along the brick wall adjacent to our house and smearing it with creosote from a telegraph pole . . .minutes before we wereto leave the house.My ‘other’ party dress was purchased by my Grandpa. Gorgeous black velvet with a red panel down the front and little shiny pearlescent buttons.Again, dry clean only . . .I think they were doing it to piss my mother off!
Then there was the party . . . always the predictable games. Pin the Tail, Musical Chairs et al. Food was specific.Fish paste sandwiches, egg and cress and occasionally something we actually liked such as spreadable cheese.There always seemed to be a pink blancmange in the shape of a rabbit.Little waxed dishes, brightly coloured to match the paper serviettes, filled with multi-coloured jelly and of course the cake.The taste of which was not important.It was all about colours, candles and cream! My two aunts professional in patisserie did me proud with crinolined ladies, and a variety of animal replicas.
The presents were inexpensive and either broke within minutes of opening or were as durable and predictable as the knitted jumpers that I used to get from my Grandma . . . she of the practical ilk (not the one who bought party dresses), reliably sent brown paper packages which squished disappointingly as only hand made garment wrapped in brown paper can. And all I wanted was a horse riding lesson and a pair of pink sparkly Cindarella Slippers was that too much to ask?
The birthday parties I hosted for my two when they were young were quite different.Both have a birthday within 11 days of each other so as children, they were combined affairs.Not a fan of screaming children, resolving “he took my lolly. . “ fights or dealing with petulant “my mother won’t let me eat chocolate” smart asses, I used to consider an ‘entertainer’ to keep the little mights out of trouble.We had a succession of Fairies, Magicians and face painters but the food was decidedly different. The kids chose . . . savoury dips and cruditesor little party pies (a strictly Australian thing), tiny savoury mince pies, fully encrusted with pastry and dipped into lashings of tomato sauce.Little boys (baby frankfurts) . . equally doused in sauce. Sometimes served with matching sausage rolls. Fairy Bread– another Aussie stalwart of white bread triangles sprinkled with 100’s and 1000s.Fruit, lots of fruit. December being summer, there’s no shortage of strawbs, kiwi fruit, rockmelon, mango . . .all to be dipped inI warm chocolate sauce. Gifts were practical and since their birthday is so close to Christmas, it became the 'expensive' present event with Christmas being 'stocking only' and usually comprising practical items.
The games have changed as well. It’s tie your hands behind your back and try to eat a doughnut on a string, Marco Polo in the pool, or musical statues to some American R & B rapper and because of the size of the block, a treasure hunt was always popular and gave mum and friends a chance to have a quiet drink and a chat before the mele recommenced. Don’t worry, we knew where the marauding hoard was because the treasure was planted inside inflated balloons which had to be burst to grab the booty!
Today is my birthday.I have now had 51 of them - if you include the original rite of passage.Feels like 25.It’s not a particularly significant one and it’s a Tuesday so no cause for great celebration but some lovely people have wished me well and for that I thank you.It’s nice that even virtual friends somehow find these things out and wish me happy returns.
It's not that I didn't celebrate at all. I had a lovely lunch on Sat'dy with the InLaws and a beauuuuutiful breakfast at Regels Rendezvous with ClareBear, DrummerBoy and the Fringelet on Sunday morning. I also now have some sweet smelling melts for my oil burners and a voucher for $100 to spend at will . . .I suspect that when I get home DrummerBoy willl have bought my favourite Iris and something very ‘useful’ like oven gloves or wooden spoons or perhaps a permanent chain and shackle emanating from the kitchen sink.I’ve splashed out on prawns for a pasta to die for at dinner and TheBoss has just walked in with a tell-tale foil bottle bag and a very elegant tipple of Grant Burge. OK so I haven’t got a mauve organza party dress but I feel pretty spesh. Thank you everyone for making me feel so!
Monday, October 15, 2007
OK if the post's a little long, at least watch the video . .
What follows, is the gist of an argument DrummerBoy put forward during a University debate on the feasibility of sustainable energy and the cause of carbon footprints. His is the serious bit. The jury is out on whether I agree with him.
Fossil fuels are the remains of plant and animal life that are used to provide energy by combustion; coal, oil, natural gas. Almost everything is derived from fossil fuels. The shirt that you're wearing, the paper you have in your bag, the bag that’s holding the paper, the plastic that wrapped the bag, that holds the paper, which was also probably once wrapped in a petroleum based product. The car that you drive, the train you ride, or shoes that you wear. Not to mention the computer in your back room, the food you eat, the movies you watch, the milk you drink - all have been created, processed, pasteurised or affected by fossil fuel utilisation. Whether it’s the transport powered by oil products, coal used to provide your electricity, or gas used in your kitchen, fossil fuels have infused the very fabric of society.
Some renewable energies may be a cleaner alternative but what is renewable energy. Where do we get it and is it the panacea to our ills are they really renewable?
Hydro: Not enough rivers to supply current population levels Nuclear: still relies on a natural resource (Uranium) and brings a huge disposal problem Wind: Limited in it’s application and effectiveness Solar: dependent on the sun, fine weather and improvements in solar technology to make it more affordable and compact Ethanol/Recycled Oils: Not enough production capability to supply heavy users of petroleum.
Fossil fuels are needed to provide the heat required to smelt and manufacture components of renewable energy plants. Plastic and metal componentry used in systems such as hydro-electrical plants, solar panels, hydrogen cells or hydrogen power units.
Model predictions claiming fossil fuels or more directly their carbon emissions are the precursor of global temperature rise, have been used as weapons of proof of causal effects on climate change. However, reviews by the IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change) agreed that in several sections of reports written on the last 100 years of climate change, there are still huge uncertainties associated with claims that fossil fuelled carbon emissions are causing climate change. They agree that one model on its own can be quite convincing but when other factors are considered, the evidence becomes unclear. Trends overlap, making it impossible to draw on one certain conclusion. Even the IPCC cannot PROVE that climate change is caused via fossil fuel emissions.
Despite all of the current models, an article by De Freitas in 2002 has shown in fact that temperature changes PRECEDE CO2 changes, bringing even more uncertainty with the current models.
So do fossil fuels create the pollution that’s driving climate change? It is unequivocal that climate change is occurring.
From 1910 to 1940, the global temperature rise was at 0.4 degrees, and fossil fuel usage produced 2 billion metric tonnes of carbon. From 1940 to 1970, global temperature declined by 0.2 degrees. It’s fair to assume (based today’s models and evidence) that fossil fuel usage would have increased exponentially with population and industry . . It did, to 4 billion metric tonnes of carbon.
From 1970 to 2000, the temperature rise was the same as 1910-1940, however the carbon output rose to a staggering 9 billion metric tonnes. Leading me to believe that the two figures (temperature rise and carbon output) are not correlated. If they were, we could safely assume that carbon output would reach 9 billion metric tonnes and a temperature rise of 2 degrees..
Ice core carbon testing has provided us with much historical truth. 13,000 years ago temperature increase rates of 10 degrees per 50 years were recorded, many times more than today’s figures.
This is a statement from the IPCC:
“It can only be concluded that there is no demonstrated evidence that links fossil fuel use to global temperature increase, and that the dominant effects of natural factors are still in play.”
OK that's the serious stuff . . . my own experience of climate change is as follows:
The Day the Tarmac Burned My Thong
New Year's day, 2006. We knew it was going to be hot. Sydney in January is usually around the 30 - 35 mark, high humidity and a cooling thunderstorm after a couple of days or a southerly buster vapours through after dark to bring things down to a temperature where sleeping with out being draped in a wet sarong is possible - I don't have aircon, just standard fans so the best way to get a good night's sleep in the heat is to wet a sarong, lie stark bollocky naked prone on the bed and cover you're entire body with the wet sarong - crank up the fan and enjoy the cool.
The day started like many other with hangover breakfast of fried bacon and eggs, the verandah protecting the house from direct sunlight but already the crickets were chirping, cicadas making their deafening buzz and birds had already retreated to the shade . . . always a sign that it's gonna be a stinker. ClareBear was at Muwullimba on the Sunshine Coast with friends so only DrummerBoy and I remained at home with BabyBro and Stressany next door. They have the luxury of ducted air conditioning and I could dull hum of the aircon fan blowing already.
The temperature was rising significantly.Hot Tip: never have a thermometer on your verandah post, the temptation to watch the mercury rise is overwhelming and you psych yourself ito physical exhaustion long before the temperature justifies it. So, curtains were drawn, doors were shut, we hunkered down with Monty Python and a couple of Sci Fi DVD’s and switched on the fan.It was tolerable until the temperature reached about 39 at midday.We started to sweat, BabyBro invited us next door for lunch and to bask in the aircon but we were mid-movie and motionless so we declined.
By about 2.00pm, the mercury had risen another few degrees and by 2.00 it hit 45 . . .we have daylight saving in the summer so this was just about the middle and hottest part of the day. Birds were perched in the plant pots, their beak’s agape. Dog were comatose, hugging the toilet bowls to keep cool. We dipped in the pool, dried by the fan, dipped in the pool, dried by the fan. Direct sunlight on the pool meant that it was impossible to stay outside for any length of time without burning to a crisp and being no fan of melanoma, we just wanted to get ‘wet’.
Suddenly we were overwhelmed with a need for icy watermelonOf course, it’s New Years Day. Nothing is open except the servos and no watermelon satisfaction there.Even the ice has run out.So who doesn’t celebrate New Years? The Chinese bless ‘em so about 40 minutes in an icy Corolla and feeling cool as cucumbers we pull up face the oppressive heat.The breath of satan hit my face and the tarmac was melting onto my thongs.I mosey through the wilting bok choy and cabbage, glancing at mine host and say something lame like “Hot isn’t it?” Talk about stating the bleedin’ obvious. Yeay, watermelon a plenty!Make the purchase along with a couple of chocolate Paddle Pops and back in the car.
By the time we returned, the mercury had stabilised at 46, in the shade on the verandah.The aircon next door had packed it in and Stressany is submerged up to her chin in the pool.The giant liquid amber had nicely shaded the pool by now and BabyBro was in the throes of making Mango Daquiries. That’s pretty much how the rest of the afternoon went. We submerged like albino hippopotamussess.Drank daquiries and literally turned into prunes.
The Chinese factor came good at about 7:00pm when we all decided we were very hungry and staying in the water a moment longer would constitute a health hazard.DrummerBoy was sent up to collect the order, no delivery on NYD.We ate outside and as dark encroached were blown away by a stirling southerly buster.Windows and doors were once again opened to receive the cool and the wind swept through the houses bringing relief.Within about an hour, the indoor temperature had dropped to 'comfortable' and the mercury to 25!
This might be a sweet anecdote but it is unusual to see temperatures over 39 in Sydney and that's considered bloody hot! Last summer, we had 3 days over 40 and this year, our Winter was cold but much shorter than usual, Spring is already unseasonably hot. We are in our 11th year of drought and NSW is under permanent water restrictions. No longer can we blame it on El Ninio or his contrary sister.
It is a fact that the planet is warming, temperatures and sea levels are rising, humidity is declining. Whatever the cause, it's vital that we unite, recognise the problem and do everything in our power to reduce it's impact. So peeps. Think about your level of consumption, your carbon footprint, your habits, your needs and wants . . . whether natural or man made, we are in an environmental crisis and the footprint we need to reduce . . . is ours!
And if you read all that . . .well done, give yourself a gold star!
This blog is a journal, a reflection of my moods, my woes, my joys, my recollections, life in Australia and random blitherings. It's honest and it's personal. I received some sage advice from a friend not to write about family or things personal and whilst I understand where he's coming from, that defeats the purpose of maintaining this record. However, I need to be mindful of the effect such writing might have on others.
This blog is not intended to amuse/entertain others although if this is a side product of it's existence, I am delighted. I want something for posterity no matter how humble. I don't structure it's contents or rewrite. I rarely edit anything other than spelling errors and it's written in the moment, from the heart and sometimes before my brain is in gear. Stream of consciousness without the pretention so sometimes, just sometimes, I am over critical and hurt someone's feelings. For this I'm sorry. I have had contretemps with BabySis, a misunderstanding combined with a black mood. Fortunately, because we are close, we have been able to sort it out and remain close. It struck me that I can be vitriolic about my siblings and despite being a positive and optimistic person for the most part, I am also a cynic and can and do articulate the worst in people. It's so easy to be critical, especially if I'm succumbing to other pressures. "You always take it out on the ones you love" and what might remain pillow talk if I had more than a labrador to talk to in bed, is sometimes expressed here. However, this weekend I have enjoyed the best of my family. So this is a tribute to some of them because without them I am nothing and completely alone.
BabyBro is a wonderful neighbour. He respects my privacy. Sure we borrow milk and coffee and tomato paste and soya sauce occasionaly and sometimes forget to put the garbage out or face off after a few to many but we don't interfere with each other's lives. We trust each other, we share our emotions, our opinions, no matter how different. Our children have grown up together, attended the same schools. We share financial issues, personal issues. He is strong willed, in control, often funny. He rarely sits still. He has rewired our outdoor area, refurbished our pool room. We use his Barbecue, tables and chairs, we shade under his massive pool umbrella he shares expenses without the blink of an eye. We delight in twighlight drinks in the summer whilst dipping our feet in the pool. We enjoy spontaneous lunches and dinners together, we've holidayed together, celebrated and mourned together and by and large, we get on extremely well. He is a good husband, a great provider and a loving father. He respects my children and their achievements and is a noble and moral person. These are his strengths and I applaud them in him.
BabySis is possibly the most cheerful person I have ever met. She's bubbly, chatty, funny, irreverent. She has impeccable taste and is the life of the party. She is intelligent although often self deprecating. She is well read and more openly emotional than me. She is a loving mother and a supportive wife. She doesn't let the anal get her down. Where I scream like a banshee and can't relax until the house is clean and the washing done and benches free of clutter . . . she spends time fund raising for the school, reading to and playing with her kids, working on her friendships, because the other stuff isn't as important. She feeds and waters my horses, she makes me coffee every Saturday morning and takes the time to chat about children, life and the things that matter. She loves my kids. She loves her family. She is married to ThePlummer who also values the principal of family and all it entails. Both appreciate the importance of siblings and the notion of family in spite of our failings. She is forgiving, very forgiving. Especially when I'm bossy or controlling and believe me, I can be. She is my confidant, my rock and my shoulder to cry on as I am hers and the nine year gap between us is nothing now that we have reached maturity.
HippyBro is a difficult one. I love him but I rarely see him. He's entrenched in an alternative lifestyle and has no need for the closeness of family. He's always been the one running ahead, the one squirming out of an embrace but that's just him. And though we have grown apart, he was wonderful when my boy was a child. He took every neice and nephew to the snow each year when their turn arose. He spent hours doused in mud from mountain bike riding with DrummerBoy. He bought thoughtful gifts for birthdays and Christmas. He babysat along with Grandpa whilst I went to Europe with ClareBear for six weeks spending hours playing cards and monopoly. And despite the distance between us now, the importance of that involvement during DrummerBoy's formative years was invaluable.
So in a nutshell these are just some of the strengths of my siblings. They are not perfect, neither am I but without them, I am not complete. I guess it's true, families are like fudge - mostly sweet with a few nuts. Our most basic instinct is not for survival but for family. Most of us would give our own life for the survival of a family member, yet we lead our daily life too often taking our family for granted, complaining about their failings rather than focussing on their strengths.
Feelings of worth can flourish only in an atmosphere where individual differences are appreciated, mistakes are tolerated, communication is open, and rules are flexible -- the kind of atmosphere that is found in a nurturing family. -- Virginia Satir
He started out a little squished thing wrapped in a blue bunny rug. Grew into a pretty toddler with blonde curls cascading to the point where Granny's asked 'her' name. He rode a pedalless plastic horsey and made raspberry noises to the point where dribble made his chin go red. He graduated to training wheels and soon managed a two-wheeler and demanded to ride it to school across busy roads. I reluctantly agreed. Then he stretched out a bit and wanted more excitement so the Giant mountain bike was his best friend until he was old enough to drive. It gave him practice on the lumps and bumps and high school steps. Grazed elbows and knees seemed perpetual but the sweaty smile of a hard ride made his face light up. Then came the motorised version . . . he's a natural . . . he no longer dribbles on his chin but my heart jumps into my throat when I see pictures of him doing tricks off a 40 foot ramp. Whatever happened to my little dribbly tricycle man?
I'm getting into this Snaptober, I mean Phoctober thing!
Ages and ages ago, I mentioned that BabyBro had joined a Greyhound Syndicate during a drunken weekend at Indie 500 on the Gold Coast. One of his friends raced the dogs and his mother was a trainer and the syndicate bought a puppy Go Black Teddy, affectionately christened 'Jason'. It was funny, or so we thought. The dog was trained, grew and made a promising debut in a few country races. He was all set to break the big time but sustained an injury to his thigh. The one and only time I saw him race (I'm not a fan of animal racing), he seemed lovely . . . and achieved a noble third place. A shiny black dog with a gentle nature despite the fact that he'd been blooded on rabbits and chickens. I distinctly remember a conversation I had with BabyBro's friend in January this year:
Me: So if he doesn't hit the big time, what happens to him Todd: We put him down Me: What? How can you invest so much time and affection with a dog and then put them down. You let him in the house for crying out loud! Todd: They don't make good pets, they fight and attack anything that moves, besides we've already got two retired dogs Me: But what about rehabilitation, there are places that will do that like Greyhounds as Pets Todd: Yeh I suppose Me: Todd, whatever you do, don't put him down if he doesn't work out. We've got five acres, we can build an enclosure or arrange for rehabilitation Todd: OK, if it comes to that, I'll let you know. . .
He didn't. Go Black Teddy was euthanased two months ago.
Bastard. There is some justice in the knowledge that his wife has just left him because he was getting a bit on the side. Jason was only 3 years old!
I'm really angry tonight. Partly because of an email I received from my sister over the teensy weensy bit of land we're selling to the water board and her 'clarification' of who gets what share. She's so materialistic and if she cries poor mouth once more, I'll challenge her to a house swap! As if we need to have that old tale reiterated. Babysis . . .you get 1/5, always had, always will. So get off my case! You'll get what's coming to you.
Partly because I spent the best part of my lunch hour with a rather attractive red-head shoving a 15 inch KY Jellied probe up my shoofter and photographing my ovaries and partly because someone I know is being treated particularly badly by their employer and he's a good operator and partly because Sgt Bilko is back on Monday and partly because I'm fat and partly because i have an addictive personality and partly because . . I've been listening to Radiohead's new CD all afternoon.
I need an outlet. I've had a go on the walking machine but that just fed the anger . . I walked more and more aggressively, sweated more heavily, puffed louder but the scream within would not surface. Then I watched a violent movie to try to get it out of my system but it was lame. Don't rent 28 Weeks Later . . it's rubbish. So, had a couple of drinks. Fed the dog and watched the news. And that made things worse. Tabloid tearies and the bloody horse flu combined with the upcoming election of two parties so similar I don't know for whom to vote and whatever footy star on a $4 million contract managed to beat the poo out of some poor unsuspecting bastard in some Queensland pub. Did nothing else happen in the world today?
Then the bogongs started flitting into the kitchen. Not en masse as in the city but enough to make the down lights flicker and give me a headache. Then the kids bedrooms are not just adorned by the indescernable piles of clothes some of which are clean, some of which are dirty but like a bunch of Iraqis in a souk I can't tell the good guys from the bad. I'm angry that ClareBear's talking about packing her stuff in boxes and she's not even leaving the country for 3 months. Then there's the small matter of just $25 in the bank and payday on Tuesday! Everywhere I look, everywhere I go there are irritations that normally don't bother me but today . . everything is pissing me off.
I'd kick my dog if I didn't like her so much. And all this only 24 hours after Absolute Vanilla gives me a 'Nice' award. I don't feel nice. I feel like I want to beat the bejeezus out of some poor sap, throw pool balls through the glass window (it shatters slowly like a windscreen, very satisfying . . .DrummerBoy managed to achieve this effect some years ago with a wayward dart!). I want to throw a brick through somebody's window or throw my glass into the fireplace (if only I had one). And now, there's a thunder storm moving in so I'll have to turn off my PC otherwise I'll be angry when lightening hits the ADSL connection and fries my motherboard. So, my friends . . . any suggestions for anger management . . .especially without knowing the cause? There, got that off my chest. Actually . . I feel a bit better now. Fucking hormones.
I know you've all got a lot on your plate with Phoctober and the like but after all my ranting and raving about the power of one and making a difference, Blogger has done the hard work for us. So, on 15 October in your part of the world, write, post, wax lyrical, photograph or do something that relates to the environment to help increase awareness and show that the voices of many can effect change.
If you have a blog and want to join in, all you have to do is use that day to post something related to the environment, in whatever way, shape, or form you prefer. You can pick an environmental issue that has meaning for you and let us know why it's important. Organize a beach or neighborhood cleanup and tell us about it. If you're into fiction writing, give us a story with an environmental theme. Have a podcast, videoblog, or photoblog? Join the fun! The idea here is to have a mass effect on public awareness by sharing as many ideas in as many ways as possible.
If you're game for participating, go register your blog with the 7,001+ other blogs (with 5 million readers!) that are already signed up. Also, see the Blog Action Day blog for more on how bloggers can change the world.
OK it doesn’t have the arty ring created by The Moon Topples which is now showcasing some incredibly talended photographers from the blogosphere.I am shamed by my lack of technical knowledge and ability to choose an appropriate subject, let alone my ineptness at handling a digital camera, so I haven’t joined the Phoctober crew, I just browse their sites in amazement.Take a look at the originator of the idea The Moon Topples Phoctober , or browse through Jefferson Davis, pics, they're really lovely, and I really mean that.
So, because I neither know how to operate a camera or have the photographic eye, I’m just gonna do one post with some bits and bobs from the happy snaps . . .think of it as 'snaptober' . . . don’t take them seriously folks, after the last couple of posts, it's some light relief:
The Coathanger
Night at the Opera
This isn't going to end well
Smal concession to romance
Gimme a home among the gum trees, and lotsa plum trees, a sheep or two and a kangaroo
Yesterday an Australian soldier was killed in Afghanistan.It’s the third Australian death in both Iraq and Afghanistan (except for one guy who was fighting with the RAF). We're great at ducking bullets unless they're from our own guns. The first was a young private suspected of accidentally shooting himself with his own firearm in Iraq. The second, a 41 year old member of the Afghanistan Reconstruction Task Force - the victim of a roadside explosion. The third killed in an anti tank mine accident also in Afghanistan
The media fuss that has followed the death of these unfortunate men is alarming, maudlin, parochial and lamentable. We seem surprised when this happens . . . I don't want to detract from the tragedy because these men were someone's husband, brother, uncle, father but in this instance, they were also combatants put in harm's way and by their own volition. Isn’t that the general idea?They’re trained to fight not just look good in a Dress Uniform! It’s the nature of the job. I wish tabloid TV and the anti-war lobby would realise this and focus on the dickheads that send our troops into frey's that aren't ours. (I'm speaking of Iraq here, I endorse our peacekeeping in Afghanistan which is where the whole attention of the Coalition of the Willing should be focussed to my mind!)
The military has become a convenient way to achieve free qualification, especially for enlisted personnel. Or, you can enrol in the AustralianDefenceForceAcademy and try for a degree along with your military training. Once finished with all the free education and training, there is some expectation that our preciouses may actually go to war.Despite the public outcry!What are they supposed to do stay home and spit and polish their rifles.
Peacekeeping, war, military policing and support for reconstruction is not a Sunday Picnic. It involves fighting, seeing sights you never want to see, taking risk, it’s not for the feint-hearted.Militia embarking on such sorties need a total education on what they’re getting into.Returning soldiers need proper debriefing, psychiatric assessment and ongoing support – sometimes for life.
In an effort to bolster dwindling interest in the armed forces, our Government in its wisdom is now recommending a try-before-you-buy program to recruit into the military. Yep, 1 year’s paid service to see if you like it! Not a bad plan . . . spend your gap year between school and tertiary education or gainful employment learning how to blow shit up and take over the world. (DrummerBoy managed to learn that with a bottle of vinegar and some pool chlorine but that's another story). The recruitment marketing even includes downloadable online gaming to encourage the young to pick up a rifle and fight for Queen PM and country. Is it working? Absolutely. Extreme Battleships and Supreme Air Combat are giving our online gamers a taste of the real thing and recruitment is up for our young would be combatants. But this ain't no Halo pal . . this is war!
What happens to these men an women when they return from the theatre of war.My cousin-in-law was a career soldier.He served in the first Gulf War, Bosnia, Sinai, Lebanon and other combat zones, he worked for the UN, he grew from an active grunt to top brass and retired a happy man at 55.He’s well adjusted.
Another relative was on a pension long before retirement age after flying helicopters in Vietnam.His nerves are shot, he can’t work, drive or function in the normal world but it took 20 years for his PTS to manifest itself. He came home with no debriefing and a raging community who were completely against the war and those who participated in it . . .he was made to feel guilty for being in the army and simply stopped talking about it.
Whatever you think of the current conflicts where Australians are involved, it’s vital that when they come home the balance is maintained.It’s a job. They enlisted but we also need to be cogniscent of their mental state upon their return. It’s important that our military men and women are not demoralised by ongoing criticism of the conflict or left to rot in their own psychosis. It’s we who should take responsibility and our elected politicians that should be criticised. Whilst our soldiers should fight, navy should sail and fly boys must fly, we need to be judicious about the conflicts in which we get involved. Vote with your feet people . . .there’s an election coming up!
This year, strong winds have driven unusually large numbers of Bogongs (not to be confused with the Vogons who built the intergalactic highway of course or aBogun) to the bright lights of Sydney, where they flutter into office buildings and congregate in city parks only to come alive in their millions when the lights go on. Thes moths migrate in spring each year from the Queensland end of the Great Dividing Range into the relative cool and safety of the Snowy Mountains. That's a helluva hike for a pair of pollen coated wings! High winds in Sydney have blown the little blossoms off course and the bright lights of Sydney have attracted zillions. It's one of the few times you see birds, normally which forage in the daylight, congregate in huge numbers over the particularly the well lit harbour bridge to catch the tasty morsels. Also one of the few times you see the poor things splattered against car windscreens and being smashed by brooms all over the city as if they pose a poisonous threat. I feel for the mottephobics but what has everyone else got against them . . .they're just brown butterflies . . . they don't bite or sting and their stay is very short.
So why are we so disgusted by these fanciful little things. If they were red, blue or pink or yellow, we'd be marvelling at the sight I even have a friend who's mother bought a box of butterflies and released them after her wedding ceremony where they promptly parked themselves on the bride's dress and in her hair to a crowd pleasing "Awwww . . ." But not the little brown buggers, they're pests, apparently laden with arsenic and getting squished and sprayed. I'm up for the brown and boring . . . let the little things be, another gust of wind on the weekend and they'll be off for their Snowy Mountain holiday. They are the Justin Timberlakes of insects . . . they make average looking men, I mean insects, feel good about themselves.
A guy waked into a doctor's office and said "I think I'm a moth". The doctor replied "I think you want the psychiatrist's office just down the hall". The guy replied "I was on my way there but I noticed your light was on". Sorry
I've written before about my mad hair. I'm overweight, 50 years old yet I obsess about this bird's nest of a bonce that never does as it's told. It's grown quite long so tonight, before ClareBear and DrummerBoy head off for their Saturday night out, I asked ClareBear to trim a couple of inches off the unruly mass so that the mountains of 'product' can do their work and make curls. She promptly crashed with a doona on the couch after a big night and a day at the beach. Fringelet is beautifully coiffed and straightening and producting in the bathroom. Amazingly DrummerBoy has the ironing board out. Didn't even know he knew how to put the thing up!. So as a last resort, I grabbed the dressmaking scissors, the only sharp pair in the house and asked DrummerBoy to trim two inches from the ends. "Sure" says he . . happy to do anything that involves sharp objects. Hair is duly wet, combed dag style with a part down the middle and we move outside to avoid unruly hairiness in the kitchen. He sets to work but his action can only be described as 'cavallier'. Within seconds he's cut an 8 inch string from my now straight and conditioned hair. Well too late, start as you mean to go on says I. No point making a fuss he's already botched it.
Five minutes later and I have a 20's bob. Fortunately with curly hair it doesn't really matter if the cutting's straight but boy is it short. Then again, I always wear it up so no big deal. Amid many giggles, we've decided that I saved $95 at Mark and Geoffrey's. OK so I didn't get the head massage and conditioning treatment but the cut's OK actually, well so I thought . . however due to his lack of ability to measure, and the fact that he's a landscape gardener, I'd be wary of telling him you want a 3 foot retaining wall, you'll end up with a six inch damp course!
ClareBear has decided it's the most disgusting hairstyle she has ever seen and has already made an appointment for the hairdresser next week. . . I think it's the first time she's ever been embarrassed to be seen with her mother! Looks like I'm going short again.
I don't often link to other pages, I'm not into ego stroking or saccharine back slapping. I occasionally link to familiarise anyone reading this mess of potage with some of the people who comment and a couple of blogs that I find amusing but today's post by Absolute Vanilla was thoughtfully written and a subject close to my heart - man's inhumanity to man. Whilst peace in our time sounds like the wish of a blundering Beauty Queen and is completely untenable in the real world I know thoughtful souls can make a small difference.
My delemma, I don't know how. Burma is in lockdown. Even internet priviledges have been denied. North Korea is in denial, it's citizens believing that the rest of the world is non existant, China is ever present on the world stage as an emerging economy yet its human rights record is outrageous. Humanitarian aid groups are leaving Dafour, Zimbabwe has become a lost cause.
People on the streets of just about every nation are out of work or have sunk into depths of alcoholism and drug addition, largely unnoticed apart from the signs they place before them begging for money which you know is just going to be used to perpetuate the cycle of depravity and abuse.
Now I'm not preaching because I've done little to help anyone but myself and my family over past years. Apart from the odd contribution and support of conversation, I'm hardly a 'community animal' but it's well and truly in my retirement plan to make a difference to someone, somewhere if I can through active participation.
I'd ask you just to take a look at Absolute Vanilla's article. It gets you thinking, that's a start. If it makes you 'plan' something, fantastic. If it drives you to action even better. I constantly hear people wanting to initiate change but feel they are a single voice in the wilderness . . . you're not . . .of course our lives go on, there's washing to be done, businesses to run, retirements to plan and children to raise but all of us can contribute in some small way whether it's sending clothes to St Vinnies or blankets to Afghanistan. Cash support for an organisation in which you believe, volunteering, political lobbying, protesting or petitioning. Even bringing an issue to the attention of others is broadening their awareness. We will never stop civil rights abuse, substance abuse, unfair invasion or political bullying entirely but it is the role and responsibility of the strong to protect the weak.
That is, you don't value your doctor, or your police until there's a crisis and you really need them. So when there's a crisis . . I'll call on either or both. In the meantime . . I can't stand them. They're a necessary evil if you need to state the bleeding obvious. My usual visit to the doctor is as follows: "I have a cold" he replies "Well all you need is bedrest, fluids and Panadol." I retort, "Yes I know but my employer compulses me to turn up for a Dr's Certificate to prove that my snot is real". The certificate is written, I have two days off and it's business as usual. He doesn't send me for ENT tests, he doesn't insist on a chest x-ray or do a blood test, he doesn't worry about Avian Flu despite the posters in his surgery. He doesn't even want a snot sample.
However, at my age, things start to happen. I'm not going to venture into the oestrogen zone for fear it might put some off but that's where I am at the moment. So, this morning, I pops into my local Doc for a quick diagnosis and expecting to be prescribed HRT or a low dose contraceptive. No. Doesn't happen. "So, you're a widow? Are you feeling any stress?" - "No it happened 20 years ago". "How did your father die?" . . .um Bowel Cancer . . ."Ah, better have your bottom probed by a complete stranger". "How did your mother die?" ummm car accident. "Oh dear . . . we'd better test your stress and thyroid levels." "Are your children healthy?" Well there is the odd allergy "When were you last allergy tested?", "When was your last blood test, ECG and cardiogram?", "When was the last time you had . . .." (you get the gist, one of those proddy things stuffed up yer nether regions - note plural!)
So I walked away with a referral for: Colonoscopy, Ultrasound, Blood Tests, Allergy Skin Pricks, Mamagram, Chest Xray, psychological counselling and a Thyroid Biopsy . . for crying out loud! I'm approaching menopause! So the crimson wave has turned into a sunami and I cry a bit - but not a lot! . . . Why can't I just go into day surgery have an unconscious grease and valve grind so they can do all these procedures at once with me blissfully absent (mentally anyway).
Bugger all that. I'm going to the women's health centre on Monday . . . one little patch and life will be normal. Two little patches and I can give up smoking. Two little patches and a small white tablet and I can deal with life, give up smoking and lose weight - Magic! And no hose up the . . you know what. When I get run over by a bus or beaten by a thug . . then I'll call on a doctor and maybe a policeman. Until then, keep me out of this perpetual cycle of tests, pathology, procedures and prodding. I am not here to keep auxilliary health services in business or to improve state revenue through random breath testing. (Sorry that was a tenuous link to the police theme).
He's not a real doctor you know - But he's much better looking than mine!
I care about other people . . . . and I often worry too. I don’t always show it but issues affecting others often take up cerebral space and is incredibly distracting. I need all the grey matter I can get just to compensate for the 'affluence of incahol' and the onset of menopause, mad multi-tasking at work, household management, property negotiations and a number of other distractions that deserve my full attention.
Instead, I get all twisted and concerned. I get all anxious and obsessed. All care-bear and worry-wart over the silliest of things.
I get concerned about not keeping in touch with good friends.I have a number of people over on the Northern Beaches that actually care about me . . and I’m lucky if I talk to them once a year . . .pathetic.
I feel guilt at having forgotten to ring my brother in law the other day to wish him happy birthday despite the fact that I know he’s never selected a birthday present or called me in the 30 years we’ve known each other.
I worry about people I’ve never even met . . I read about your lives, trials and tribulations, talk to some of you, email others and have actually met a couple . . I feel involved and it touches me. (In a good way) but sometimes, I think I might have gone too far . . .
I worry about my chicky babe travelling around the Americas with her ‘messy’ friend who incidentally shamelessly announced that she had sex on an outdoor table behind where I was standing in the BeerGarden at the Mona Vale pub. The mind boggles.
I worry about my little lad and his inability to hang on to cash, form a budget or prioritise his spending habits or whether he’s going to break his back on a 40 foot motocross jump!
I worry about my ever-diminishing line of credit as it pays off an ever-increasing mortgage and no signs of developers swanning up to the front door with a briefcase of money.
I care about clients when things go wrong. I’ve lost sleep over share trades, lost forms, slow redemptions that might impact on the settlement of a flat or the comfort of someone going into Aged Care . . .these people have no idea that I get churned about their welfare.
I care about offending people with my straight talk and no-nonsense unsolicited advice. Believe me, I often do and without meaning it.Sometimes it saves lives . . other times it reduces once quite intimate conversations to recipe swaps.
A friend once said “Why the fuck to you care what anyone thinks.” As if I am asbestos coated with an ashphalt inside, some sort of rare exception. I don’t know why but I do. I’m an empathic soul with an enormous capacity for affection and a little experience which can sometimes be of help in Agony Aunt situations.I also get a bit upset if I think that others don’t care about me . . . yeh, yeh . . .I’m needy . . .but it’s better than not giving a damn.
. . .and I haven't even started on politics, the environment, the plight of the oppressed or my own eventual demise . . . .
What do you worry about? Don't want to share it publicly, then email bainbridge1610 at the g-spot.com. I will be happy to give you unsolicited advice and empathise with your situation or provide you with a good telling off!
October 1 marks the beginning of the bushfire season – strictly speaking it continues until 31 March . . .Australia wide. Fire bans are in place.It is illegal to have an open fire without a permit.In some areas, a Total Fire Ban is in place which means no flame of any kind, even a gas-fired Barbecue for fear of precipitating a flaming event.
Households in wooded areas and those surrounded by dry grassland are clearing around their homes, cleaning their gutters and ensuring they have extra hoses connected to the swimming pool, just in case.
This is serious folks.We are in our 10th year of drought and the warmer than usual winter means that little back burning has been achieved by the rural fire service.To compound things, September and October are notoriously windy months . . . and we’ve just come out of our driest September in 20 years.
Only four years ago, BabySis had Elvis http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_(helicopter)dipping into the dam at the end of the street, packed up the kids and a few belongings and moved in with us for two days for fear their house would burn. Nothing could stop the ravaging monster climbing the ravine and indeed, that year, many homes were lost in the local area.
Needless to say, the long weekend was plagued by the outbreak of fire.It’s like someone announces the fire bans and the arsehole arsonists come out of the woodwork to declare open season. . yes . . Every single major fire in NSW (there are now three large fronts burning) was deliberately lit.Whether it’s some fool actually trying to be destructive or an inconsiderate motorist tossing a cigarette but from a car . . . in these hot winds, it can be devastating . . . even glass litter can start a fire . . . One thing for sure, it wasn’t lightening activity. . the storm season has not started.
We even had our own little drama on an overgrown block about 500 metres from our place.It’s never mown or maintained and as Adam and the Fringelet drove down the street from the bottle shop on Monday . . plumes of smoke were rising from the grassland.He called the fire brigade and within half an hour the whole corner was ablaze.For us, a bit of easily controlled excitement (again we suspect it was deliberately lit as this block goes up once or twice a year and nobody lives on it) but for people living in heavily wooded areas, it’s devastating.Gum trees are flammable . . more so than any other thanks to the high alcohol content in their leaves, they also constantly shed twigs, leaves, branches so a hazard reduction policy is essential . . the ground litter is dry as a bone and yet there is always a wanker who thinks it’s fun to ignite.
I’m really sick of this. It’s not just the houses involved, the people, the lost lives and memorabilia, it’s the livestock, the water pollution, the air pollution and the sheer irresponsibility of some people when it comes to lighting fires.I know this sounds rich coming from someone who was recently shut down for not having a permit but that was a pre-season burn and it was contained and safe.All precautions had been met, there was no wind and it was a cool, damp night
. . . 14 years jail isn’t good enough for these dickheads and as we approach another summer with predicted high temperatures, north easterly winds and an 11th successive year of low rainfall . . they should be burned on their own pyres!
I am rarely stuck for words but after yet another day of imbibing for Babybro’s birthday and then staying up far too late playing Trivial Pursuit with the younglings - who penalised me by making me answer the Genus questions while they had the kids versions - I feel like a bucket of smashed crabs.
The best I can do is let you hear me, and some mates from around the globe rambling diversified, twittering and warbling about nothing much and somehow edited to make some sense by the very clever JD (well I'm imagining so, I haven't actually listened myself just yet) – that’s Kilos of Craic, the rebirth of the Jefferson Davis Podcast with a little link there on the right.If you fancy being a fly on the wall and living a little vicariously . . . you might find it mildly amusing. It’s a bit long so takes a while to download . . . if you’d like a transcript . . um . . bad luck, I cut my finger instead of the avocado yesterday so my typing has suffered. I am definitely detoxing for the next 100 years . . . . now where's that kebab?
And last but by no means least . . .have a crack (or is that craic) at this:
You Are Sauvignon Blanc
Engaging and energetic, you have a lot to offer the world - most of it they've never seen anywhere else! You are the type of person who carves your own path in life... and you invite everyone else to come along. The only thing predictable about you is that you could have anything up your sleeve. You're all about sampling all of life's experiences. Both the savory and unsavory ones.
Deep down you are: Laid back and young at heart
Your partying style: Anything goes... seriously!
Your company is enjoyed best with: Smoked meats or spicy food
