Formally Speaking

It's school formal time in the land down under. This is a weird phenomenon which didn't quite exist when I was a school leaver but now it has a life of its own. When I was a girl, there was one school formal. It marked the right of passage from year 12 (6th form in my day) into the wide world. It was usually themed and there was no compulsion to have a 'partner', just attend, have a soft drink, chippies and dinner in the local Community Hall, a few speeches a bit of a dance. I made mine in a borrowed Sailor's Outfit to match the boyf's . . not quite your feminine icon but the trousers were comfy. Then an after party where we smooched to Led Zeppelin or Earth Wind and Fire or had a spliff in the corner whilst chilling to Dark Side of the Moon or Smokey Mountain Way. Revelry was followed by a long drive to Palm Beach the next day to sleep and recover.

When my kids were in their mid school years - year 10 to be specific, the formal is a big thing. It's like a bloody Debutante's Ball. Black tie and long dresses. Hair is professionally coloured and coiffed, make-up professionally done, months are spent planning the outfitand 'the look'. I had to work really hard on DrummerBoy to convince him that wearing a bright blue suit would make him look like Dick Tracey's alter ego and that a stylish black suit with an uber flashy waistcoat might be a better choice but at least with him, the cost was mitigated by a hired item. All we had to purchase was the shirt and a nice pair of shoes which incidentally were never worn again!

ClareBear was more of a challenge as we scoured shopping centres from Penrith to Double Bay looking for something different. She didn't want to look like a merangue or have one of those stiff satin hired jobs. After an exhausting ordeal we finally settled on a pretty bright pink chiffony bias cut shoestring with sparkly Jimmy Chu style strappies.

Then there's the vehicles - the mode of transport to take you to the formal had to be weird and wonderful - a fire engine, police car, tank or at the very least something vintage or veteran. The arrival at the venue of choice (which in itself was always somewhere posh) was very, very important. Adam chose vintage, Clare - sirens and a police escort - someone's dad would be in trouble! Yep,they were real police cars!

Year 12 is a far more sedate affair. More of a cocktail do where the kids dine in front of the parents' shared tables of 8 at the back. I didn't attend either of my children's Year 12 formals for that reason. What's the point of me sitting next to some parent I've never met whilst my kids and their partners are waaaaaay over there having fun and not really caring whether I was there or not. Then I have to take the steak because there are only two menu choices served alternately, aeroplane style. The person next to me doesn't eat red meat and I really wanted the Chicken Kiev. Formal speeches, formal meal. Lots of sucking up to teachers and a few awards then the brats are set free on the world. Strip into their beach gear and lob on some unsuspecting parent's premises to party hard while we all go home and lament our lost youth.

Now the coup de gras . . . Whilst prattling in the quadrangle at work today as we admin girly swats often do . . .I discovered that there are now three series of formals attended by Australian school children. Year 10 and 12 we've covered . . . University leaving? Nope, they're way over that formal stuff by their early 20's . . .guess, go on . . .Year six! Yep, last year of primary school. They're now hiring suits, getting their hair and make-up done, even choosing novelty transport. The parents have to learn a special dance and the night begins to cost. Instead of the old bottle of red pop and a packet of crisps, it's now a catered affair, a date necessary, a corsage a must . . . I dunno, what's the world coming to . . .next thing you know there will be Kindy Formals, Day Care Debs or God forbid a passing out parade for newborns . . .if so, just make sure you point the camera the other way please!

Happy Thanksgiving

Ooh ooh ooh . . .Happy thanksgiving to my American bloglings and podlings: Brianf, Jefferson Davis, Wordnerd, Kate Moon Topples and Dr Don. And the plethora of anonymous US visitors who are too shy to comment! Wish I was there!

Some of My Best Friends Are Geeks

Now before I get into this angsty bit of prose, it's important that you know I am not an IT person. I have two home computers, a Mac which I have no idea to use as it's ClareBear's Design Machine and a cheap as chips 5 year old Dell which is now considered an antique but serves my bloggy purposes for the moment. My skill is influencing and communication according to a barage of psychometric tests I've endured over my many careers. I am considered a 'creative' with the ability to communicate complex issues with abject simplicity. I think that means so that a moron will understand. I think this is why I've always been nominated to 'deal' with IT types. I have patience, ask the right questions and I'm not afraid to have a go at the simpler troubleshooting.

However, I returned to work today amid chaos and collusion. The planned server upgrade for the weekend, orchestrated by our lovely little IT Geekybyte failed over the weekend. An issue with our industry database and some data integration instructions not being available. OK that sounds like I know what I'm talking about but basically it means that Geekybyte wasn't well supported and had to halt proceedings - all would be completed next weekend.

Despite an email I had sent to all staff saying that if the new servers weren't fully implemented this weekend, they would be next weekend, absolutely everyone assumed they would roll in on Monday to a bigger, brighter, better, faster (Gawd, sounds like a Daft Punk lyric) operating system. Obviously, disappointed they began to fume. Whilst I was standing next to Arky at an Automatic teller in Federation Square, all hell was breaking loose at work. Outlook had stalled, people couldn't log in, Word was freezing, Excel was crashing . . . only the very cool Argentinian had nothing to say about the matter. I was contacted by Charmers to troubleshoot the Outlook issue and thanks to Arky was able to resolve that particular problem over the phone but today . . . ahh today . . .

Every man and his dog reported problems. The message I got was, Geekybyte will be in on Friday to resolve them. Now that's not in his contract, he's supposed to offer support within 4 hours! Apparently Charmers had fought with Geekybyte who had been arrogant in response. Thommo had clashed with Geekybyte and the hairs on her arms were still raised with angry static. TheMostAnnoyingParaplannerInTheWorld (TMAPITW) signed incessantly at the slowness of her computer and the odd surprise pop up. TheBoss retained his Sgt Schultz demeanour. Sgt Bilko seemed unaware that anything untoward was going on. TheReceptionist was all a flutter and TheMauritian managed to delete a whole Excel Worksheet and blame it on server malfunction.

Fine, fine, fine . . the Bitch is back with her battle gear on so Geekybyte was emailed, frostily I might add. Aspersions about his ability and perhaps having bitten off more than he could chew were made. I also called his mobile but to no avail. Even I became a little hot under the collar, flung the 'F' word about in relation to IT people having crap communication skills, vented via MSN to Ark and aroused as much sympathy as a shrew deserves by the way, they stick together you know. By three I even shouted at a Tree Hugging Hippie volunteer manning the phones at the Wilderness Society because he couldn't operate a telephone . . poor mite, wasn't his fault.

So you get the picture. The workplace is a festering viper pit. Men pretty calm. Women like a rampaging rut of pre-menstrual monsters all ready to lynch this 8 stone, kid with skin that's never seen sunlight because their computers were . . well . . .SLOW?

Poor little lamb must have got a fright from the catty email. Departed his conference in Canberra and turned up on the doorstep at 4:30 to 'explain' what had happened. All was plausible. Most of the issues very simple to resolve and the slowness . . . well that will just have to wait until next weekend when the new servers are up and running. The whole thing was a lack of communication and for the most part a misunderstanding.

Now, herein lies the rub. Non computery types don't want to know how to use computers, they want someone there, 24/7 to pander to their whims and solve their problems . Geekybyte types want to solve their problems but in this case are outsourced and have a 4 hour telephone response time and a 12 hour on-site response time. Clearly something had been lost in the communication. Umm, that would be my fault.

He said: She was rude and snapped at me and wanted an immediate on site response
She said: he was arrogant and took an hour to call me back
He said: These problems won't exist next week
She said: it's all your fault I can't log on
He said: well maybe but you just have to change "Administrator" to "Parkside"
She said: Well it shouldn't have been changed to "Administrator" in the first place
He said: Point taken, sorry about that
She said: My excel spreadsheet is empty
He said: well you've deleted data
She said: but this didn't ever happen before you came along

Get the drift? Add another 20 lines and you see my afternoon with absolute clarity (I was not the 'she' saying these things by the way - they are a composite of complaints)

So, tomorrow I will have to call a meeting of the minds. Explain the 'arrangement' we have with our outsourcer and lower service expectations. Some smartass will try to change the subject completely and ask for a new screen. Another will then demand that we get someone who is capable of answering our every beck and call but for $150 an hour. (Tell 'em they're dreamin') Then, I'll have to go to Geekybyte and ask him not to be 'arrogant' and 'patronising' which are actually euphemisms for knowledgeable and technically minded.

I don't mind him. OK he says funny words like, 'offline' and 'hung applications' and 'go to start run'. But for some reason, my workplace wants his head on a platter more desperately than Herod wanted John the Baptist. Who's gonna protect him whilst I'm gone? Some of my best friends are geeks of the highest order. TheBenchwarmer isn't rude or arrogant, Arky certainly isn't rude or arrogant and I really don't think GeekyByte is either, just a little lacking in communication skills but in my experience, they make world class macchiatos, damn good tour guides and delicious barbecued beef. Not to mention a natural ability to play Guitar Hero Where would we be without their geeky little bones? They'd just say "Meh" and rule the world anyway . . .

Hot Flushes, Road Trips and Fun With Friends

I'm back from what is arguably one of the most beautiful pieces of coastline in Australia, the Great Ocean road extending from Airey's Inlet to beyond Pt Cambell. It's wild, blue, rugged and has the most amazing cliffs and free standing rock pylons battered by the sea. Of course, my camera decided to do a bunk on the first day and refused to open the lense so I had the advantage of borrowing TheTeacher's Sony D-SLR. I think I've found my new interest and may make the investment and buy myself an early Christmas Present.

The trip started slightly whacky as we waited at the wrong gate to board our plane. Qantas ended up combining three empty flights and changed the boarding gate but we were so enjoying our $9 champagnes and nattering at the bar that we didn't hear the announcement "Greaves Le Nevez and Bainbridge . . . you are delaying QF 546 to Melbourne, please make your way to Gate 23". Ah, it was all in good fun although I realised that I haven't actually 'run' anywhere for quite some time, let alone from gate 11 to 23 on a shiny terazzo floor! Maybe that's why I don't feel crash hot. Could have damaged some of the wobbly bits.

We started with eggs benedict in a book shop - the only way to start a day then moved on to Monsalvat, home of the Heidleberg school of artists, a higgledy piggledy hotch potch of french reproduction buildings that encourages craftsmanship and artists from all over Victoria. From guitar makers to dressmakers, painters and sculptors, it's well worth the $10 entry to wonder around and the photo opportunities are plentiful.

Monsalvat Artists' Retreat - Heidelberg

Then we hit the road. It was hilarious, old friends, catching up for the first time in a year. Four women, two hot flushing, two awaiting the joys of menopause, all in great need of good coffee, managed to road trip from Melbourne along the Geelong coast and down to Airey's Inlet and in great comfort and style I might add. We were comfortably packed into a state-of-the-art Toyota Kluger, complete with ringing bells and whistles, GPS navigation and all the electronica to ensure we were heading in the right direction. Although the argument is still going on as to whether it was 'gold' or 'mushroom' in colour. I think Struth Ruth is mixing her metaphorical mushrooms if you know what I mean.

We stayed in the cutest, most cluttered(in a nautically overdecorated way) little blue weatherboard house surrounded by a lovely cottage garden. We nattered, we giggled, we cooked, we shopped, we blissfully talked about the lack of mugaccinos and the crappy Saturday markets at Apollo bay. We walked the beach, we fossicked in the rockpools, we admired stunning views, walked up to the lighthouse that featured in Mad Max and Round the Twist and enjoyed a restaurant dinner which was way overpriced but hey . . .we were on holiday.

The highlight of the trip, besides being with good friends, was definitely the 12 Apostles. It's a long drive along the Great Ocean Road in southern Victoria but unlike the rest of Australia, the scenery seems to change more frequently. Once we emerged from a towering forest of Mountain Ash and headed towards that, wind-battered, rugged, cliff-lined coastline, it's well worth the trip. It's windy, very windy. The surf was huge, the Southern Ocean blue as the Amalfi Coast. Very spectacular and quite frankly, took my breath away. No photo can do it justice and I've seen plenty. Hopefully my shots will turn out and once TheTeacher downloads them, I'll upload them to Flickr.

Beginning of the 12 Apostles - thanks to the one in the foreground falling over,
there are now only 11 but many more in the making

After four days our local guide, TheTeacher, who lives in Melbourne, dropped us at the airport. We hugged and lamented that it would be a while before we see each other again. Thommo and Struth Ruth went home, I caught the shuttle to Flinders Street Station and was met by Arky and his lovely partner 'Nore and felt very important sitting in his vintage Mercedes to spend a couple of days them in the city. After scouring specific city stores for a particular cut of beef, the name of which escapes me but was very important for Ark to procure, we headed back to their little house and cracked open um . . . I think it was about 8 bottles all up but we stopped counting after 4. It's the first time I'd met 'Nore even though I'd talked to her on Skype and we'd emailed and thrown stuff at each other on Facebook. She's lovely, emotional, strong-willed, easy to talk to - Her first words to me "We are going to have fun!" Bless . . .and it all started out just right. These are two of my internetty friends . . .well not quite. Met Ark on a Helldesk and he was so helpful and friendly that we played a little via email and stayed in touch even though he's now moved on to better things. I didn't know it at the time but 'Nore also worked for a company with whom I have dealings. He visited me in March so it only seemed right to connect when I had the opportunity. Whilst 'Nore spent time with her own visiting family, Ark and I discovered the highlights of the city including a brief walk through Crown Casino (mainly because it was cool!) Federation Square. A masterpiece of modern architecture housing various artsy fartsy buildings, cafes, forecourts and a stage, shops and arts centre. You either love it or hate it. Actually, only the intense heat emanating from the cobbled square made me hate it . . . quite a lot.

We sighted the Aussie Netball team after their world cup victory, browsed an occult bookshop, bought geeky gadgets at Minotaur. This is a great shop. Pop Culture icons, fantasy, science fiction, models, dolls, t-shirts. I could have spent much longer there and managed to purchase talking dashboard toys for the kids . . . Darth Vader was a winner!

We marvelled at the ceiling in the ANZ bank and winced at an exhibition of art which comprised some bloke smashing and eating vinyl records and dragging a guitar behind a ute in someone's back paddock. I just hope he didn't get a government grant for the works otherwise I'm in the wrong game. We managed to visit five bars in an attempt to regain our composure after trapsing around in the heat. And before you make assumptions, only three beers and two champagnes were imbibed . . .soft drink was far more thirst quenching! We then met up with 'Nore and family for a light dinner. Crown Casino disappointed as the forecourt flames which are supposed to ignite every hour on the hour were a no show so after another round of Lemon Lime and Bitters, we headed home to put on our comfies. I love staying with people who wear tracky daks and T shirts.

We were pretty exhausted by Tuesday and frankly, I felt a lurgy coming on, held at bay only by some borrowed analgesic so we lounged and watched Ark mastering Guitar Hero and viewed multiple episodes of six feet under and the latest download of Top Gear while we all lamented the loss of winter. Melbourne was HOT. . . too hot . . . I shan't be disparaging about their cold climate again.

Then flew back Tuesday night. My fear of flying pretty much conquered althought I still hate that taking off bit. I was very brave and flew on my own. Naturally, the man in the seat next to me was doused in Joop, possibly the most disgusting aftershave ever created. It manages to blend with that end-of-the-day man smell and simply proliferates the sickly combination of cheap musk and body odour! Of course, I booked a seat over the wing so that if it did fall out of the sky, I'd be the first to go. I didn't even panic when we had to go into a holding pattern over Wollongong due to only one runway approach being used thanks to high winds in Sydney. May have had something to do with my oncoming delirium. Not sure what's wrong. No cold, no cough but definitely feeling flushy and fluey. So after six days leave I have lost all credibility with my employers by ringing in sick! Hence the rather banal post today, my imagination is feeling a little run down.

So to my darling friends, TheTeacher, Struth Ruth, Thommo, Ark and 'Nore . . . thank you all for making it a real break before my house arrest from next week. I love you all and look forward to doing it again next year! And if anyone knows where I can buy the full set of Six Feet Under . . . gimme the heads up!

Gimme A Ball Park Finger

I'm too excited to post today so in deference to my Irish friends, an oldie but a bloody funny sound byte. Bear with it and you won't ever wonder why I have such an affinity for the Irish:



Back on the 21st! Have a great weekend . . . I certainly will! *goes to the toilet for the 10th time due to cabin fever*

Let the Festival Begin (In a Coupla Months)

God I love this building . . .

Today I was researching our Summer Corporate Newsletter and I've realised that January is a pretty good month for the yarts, in Sydney. Despite the pretty wonderful weather ( with the exception of the welcome odd summer drenching as an evening storm wafts through), there's loads to do. Sydney Festival an event that tempts us arty farty types through the month with loads of cool events from performance to exhibitions, the avant garde and the commercial. Where else can you see Brian Wilson feebly pretending to sing "Good Vibrations" and Cyprus Hill perform at "Good Vibrations" all in the same month. and . If you're into Theatre, Ballet, Opera . . the ole oprey is lit up in her best but it's expensive.

Me, I like the freebies and over past years we've seen some fantastic stuff from Portuguese Dance troupes spraying the crowd with fireworks during a bawdy play on the opera house steps . . Shakespeare in the park . . . free concerts on the Opera House Forecourt, Lady Chatterly's Lover at Vaucluse House (complete with nude sex scenes, that was a bit confronting I don't mind telling you) and outdoor cinema and fireworks at Mrs Macquarie's Chair. There you watch films on a screen which is hydraulically lifted from a pontoon floating on the water. The harbour is just beautiful, with the lights, Opera House and the old coathanger in the background. You don't mind paying $30 entry and $10 for a glass of Verve or risking being bombed by fruit bats as they migrate towards the Moreton Bay fig trees at dusk, in the Botanical gardens. Believe me, you don't want to receive a little figgy parcel from a flying rodent, the size of a small cat!

Innocent enough from the air

A little bigger up close!

The city is bathed with coloured lights, significant buildings highlighted and the foreshore comes alive with everything from buskers to art installations.

It all starts with the New Year's eve Fireworks. Now that the kids are older we don’t spend as much time there. We used to pile in the car after school and head straight for the city. We have however, spent many a New Year's Eve arriving at Mrs Macquarie's chair at 2.00pm, picnicking with friends and taking turns to stretch our legs around the Botanical Gardens whilst someone remains to secure our vantage point. There are fireworks at 9.00pm which are enough to satiate little children but the real charmers go off at Midnight and the harbour is awash with boats from the humble 'tinny' to the classy catamarans all bobbing up and down like so much flotsam and jetsum. The crowds are huge but it all seems to go without too much malice. Except once I lost a pair of $200 Raybans in the dark. There is now a well shaded garbo wondering Sydney with my very spesh sunglasses on. I learned my lesson and now by them from the local servo for $12.

Nothing sets off fireworks like the Harbour Bridge. That little heart is a firework! Seriously.

Among the free events this year are some which captured my imagination. Now I'm not being paid by festival organisers, honestly. It's just that with daylight saving and balmy nights, you'd have to be mad not to take advantage of this very special time and place:

Movies in the Overflow - free movies are screened on Friday and Saturday nights throughout January at a natural amphitheatre in the 2000 Olympic site. Can't do better than a freebie.

Darling Harbour is a restaurant and tourist district. It's normally very well 'Westy' and a place to be avoided but for a couple of weekends in January, there is a French performance installation "Iiotopie". Apparently, they use light, sound and pyrotechnics to tell the story of an everyday man whose humdrum life is turned upside down one morning when his head inexplicably bursts into flames. Everyday objects are transformed into mythical creatures, - all ingeniously floating on the surface of the water.

Airvag are installations that fill parks and streets with colourful interactive sculptures that delight adults and children alike. As night falls, these beautiful objects begin to glow and sway transforming familiar spaces. 1500 square metres of structures to be climbed and jumped on, to chase around or just lie on and look up into the sky.

Then if we can be bothered to go early, there is Jazz, Opera and Symphony in the Domain on three successive weekends. The Domain is a large green inner city space. When I first came to Australia, you could wander through this park on a Sunday morning and those with an opinion would be mounted on their soap boxes chanting religious warnings or pointing political fingers. I'm not sure if they still do it. I suspect it's one of those nice European traditions that has finally died out. This year there's El Barrio or Spanish Harlem Jazz, Mendellssohn and Stravinsky's Firebird with some more modern additions by John Adams, Benjamin Britten and Antonin Dvorak. Then finally, the opera (um, I'll ditch that one. Not a fan . . I put it in the same box as Poetry . . . I know it' clever, I know it's art but I just don't like it. My apologies to any poets out there . . it's not you . . it's me . . . only two exceptions John Donne's Mending Walls and any opera that has a zebra in it!)

The Domain stage

Finally there's Ghostgarden which promises to take us on a surreal journey through the Royal Botanic Gardens. Punters are given GPS technology and Pocket PC's to unravel a trail of the 1800s, when Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens were a zoo and parklands. We are to be immersed in the tale of Jack and Lucy and their impossible love. The narrative unravels as we wander the Royal Botanic Gardens' paths and gardens. Sounds intriguing doesn't it.

Interestingly, whilst writing this post about high art and entertainment . . . I have been brought back to the real world of commercial theatre - a Ticketmaster email announcing the dubious launch of "Singalong Sound of Music" . . If it's what I think it is . . . you'll find me in the Ghostgarden, not following the bouncing ball!

Them heels are a aloive wiv duh sound of myoooozeeeek!
an' sawngs I 'av 'erd for a fousand yeeeeeeers!

Black Fingernails and Blue Hair

I was asked over the weekend how to bring a wayward teenager back onto the ropes. Not a truly wayward teen but one whose dress code doesn’t fit his parents expectations, one who’s giving a bit of lip to his mum. One who’s going through that sulky, baggy-panted, hoody phase. One who’s finding his feet and showing signs of disrespect. Anyone who’s had teenagers in that 13-16 age group probably knows what I mean. We used to call my niece a ‘teenage poo’ for her tantrums and arguments, her messiness and disrespectful chat but she’s all 'growed up' now, cleaning house, working hard, finished her degree and in a successful relationship – I think her being happy has a lot to do with her disposition these days and I can’t wait to see her at Christmas.

I don’t know what I did right. I didn’t have perfect teenagers but I didn’t have the moods or tantrums either. Good and responsible behaviour was rewarded with little freedoms and it seemed to work. Respect was engendered and most of all issues were and are, discussed in intimate detail and they have always had the opportunity to put their point forward whether I agreed or not. The phrase ‘never go to bed on an argument’ comes to mind. Most of all, I wasn’t afraid to tell them that I was new at all this too. I had never raised kids before and that I was also on a learning curve and didn’t have all the answers. Mind you, being a widow helped. Instead of blaming my situation, it was actually advantageous. There was one rule, one arbiter, one court of appeal and I was defender, prosecutor, judge and jury. Firm but benevolent.

Children are wonderful at finding the chinks in your armour and taking advantage. If mum and dad are arguing or separated, they’ll take advantage of that and use it for an excuse not to conform, to be rude, to assert themselves and to play one parent off another. If mum and dad are too authoritarian, they’ll use that as an excuse and sneak out the window when grounded. If mum and dad are set in their ways, inflexible and uncommunicative, their child will be the same an remain closed and uncommunicative about issues that may be of the highest importance or conflict with their parent’s beliefs.

Let’s face it, these betweeny years are difficult for kids. Too young to be treated as independent adults, too old to be treated as children. Little access to social networking beyond the playground, hanging round the mall, joining the local church group or spending hours in front of a computer. Can’t drive, can’t work beyond getting a few bob for washing dad’s car, mowing the neighbour’s lawn or babysitting the brats next door.

I was the eldest and therefore the most highly disciplined. My objections were tame and I was never too controversial, although I remember almighty rows with my parents. mainly over lack of freedom and being judgemental about boyfriends. Even at 20, my father used to stand and flick the outside light on and off when I was being dropped home, just to let me know that he knew where I was and probably what I was doing. I had a 12:00 curfew and was often locked out of the house if I missed it, dragging a sleepy 11 year old out of bed to let me in.

My siblings were different. The hold over them diminished according to their age. In those days, the worst thing the boys did was grow long flowing locks and smoke behind the toilets at school. This for some reason didn’t cause anywhere near as much consternation as the long hair which irked my mother beyond reason. She then worked on my father and almighty arguments would arise over what? The length of their hair? It was clean, well-groomed just long. It’s just a way of showing parents that you’re fledging the nest. That you want to be different to their generation even though you might be conforming to another group. Emos don’t see their dress code as a uniform despite the fact that large groups of them huddle all dressed in black with half mast trousers, silver chains and black spikey hair. The surf culture don’t think they’re conforming but they wouldn’t be seen dead in Best and Less clothing, it has to be Billabong boardies or Mambo T-s. The surf is God and Beer comes close. The Hoodies emulate black American gangs with their oversized tracky daks and secret hand shakes. Even the language includes words like ‘dawg’ and ‘bounce’.

My point is, that the teen years are years of rebellion. It just happens in varying degrees. It’s not fair to expect your kids to be exactly like you, to want to conform to your ideals, politics and ideas of good behaviour. What’s important is good manners, values, principles and morals and you can have those no matter what you look like. And being able to cut free from the ties that bind – even just a little bit - is also good for a kid's self esteem. Of course if your kid’s right off the rails, it’s harder to bring them back on track by the time they've reached their teens, closeness needs to be cultivated while they’re young through love, conversation and non violent discipline.

If they’re doing drugs, underage drinking, breaking and entering or indulging in violent behaviour then that’s a whole different problem that needs more discussion than I’m capable of offering here

My advice. Keep your marital problems to yourselves, it’s not an issue for your children to deal with. Keep pillow talk where it belongs – in the bedroom. Show a united front with your children and discuss your differences in private. Be there when they need you and hang in the shadows when they don’t. Be understanding of their mistakes, not condemning. Show them love and physical affection. Don’t try to buy them off. If they’re just breaking the mould, dressing differently, listening to music you hate, being rowdy with mates - that’s normal. Encourage them to come home and make it easy for them to entertain friends without you prying. Drop them off and pick them up from parties and gatherings. Set a curfew but make it reasonable. These days things start late and end late. And you thought sleep deprevation ended with infants!

Respect is a two-way street. Don’t think for a minute that you haven’t been observed in your behaviour. Every disrespectful thing you do is burned into their psyche and will more likely than not be thrust back at you when the time is right.

For some, it’s an easy passage to adulthood. I was lucky. Mine have never used their home situation as an excuse for bad behaviour. I was a firm disciplinarian but also an understanding parent. There’s nothing they don’t know about me and little I don’t know about them. An open, honest relationship, plenty of trust and a little responsibility plus an ongoing dialogue in the teens probably helped. Most importantly, keep perspective. Don't sweat the small stuff, save the lectures for the really important issues. To be honest, my house has been filled with tatooed, pierced, dreadlocked alternative types over the years and the ones I've had to look out for are the clean cut straights. Butter might not melt in their mouth but they can be deviously deceptive.

There Was a Moth in My Knickers

I was bringing in the washing today, as you do. Folding myriads of g-strings, pop socks, jeans, Tshirts and socks and a moth flew out of my knickers. (The ones I was folding, not the ones I was wearing). So, in the contemplative mood that I was . . I began to think about what the hell does one wear for 5-6 days in hospital. And then there's the knickers . . .people will SEE THEM. I mean, I know my mother always told me to wear a nice pair just in case I was run over by a bus but really . . .This time . . .lots of people will see them and just because they're medical professionals . . . I have my pride! So it's time to revamp the lingerie. I'm not the pyjama kind although I do have a couple of Peter Alexander bottoms which I generally wear with a Tshirt. I don't want to be swathed in 'brunch coat' or a chenille dressing gown but my very expensive velour one might be a bit ostentatious. I bought it in a fit of peak for a girly weekend and have worn it once. Silk . . nah, not for this sows ear so here I am planning a bloody wardrobe for a hospital visit! I figure I'll be in a gown for a couple of days. You know those lovely blue scrubs with yer ass hangin' out. But for the rest, one should look presentable. Visitors will come and go and lets face it, vanity, thy name is woman.

Apparently footwear of some sort for wondering the corridors of ailments is mandatory. I'm not sure my ugg boots will fit the bill. Ok, I've got that nailed with a pair of Havaianas (thongs or flip flops to those who don't know). And I bought a couple of pairs of uber comfy yoga pants so that's the bottom bits sorted. I guess the tops will be ruled by temperature. I mean gone are the days of the 'matinee set' or the 'bedcoat' and I don't want my visitors to see me in my jimmy jams. I have a $100 David Jones voucher that I got for my birthday which will buy me a silky nightie or a single pair of pyjamas so that's not really a good use of the funds and frankly, I'm not the slinky type. So, yoga pants and 3/4 T's it is and I can recycle them when I get home. Easy peasy . . so all that's left is a few pairs of half decent knickers, hopefully without the Bogongs attached.

Fear of Flying

I have a fear of flying. I suspect my aviophobia extends beyond the fear of handing over a boarding pass but that's where it starts. I'm afraid of a lot of things . . . change, anaesthetics, giving up the cigs, rejection, jaywalking, dark alleys, under the bed, walking into pubs alone . . . but enough of my insecurities . . .

Back to literal flying. I also have a great love of travelling so in order to do one, I must face the other. I've travelled a lot, not as much as I would like but in some ways the long hauls are better than the short. After spending 28 hours in a plane, you become blase and the fear subsides and you get free booze and cute little trays with funny food and free movies which make sitting next to the smelly Christian Bikie from Hell more bearable. For me, when air travel is involved, the destination becomes more important than the journey, meeting up with someone you've never met or haven't seen for simply ages is its own reward. It's the island hops and short stops that really make me fearful.

It begins with the booking. These days all done over the internet with a piece of plastic, automated and no ticket issued, just a reference number. It's the first disappointment and the first point of panic. No 'issued' ticket so you don't get the feeling that you have just bought yourself a nice little gift, just the horrible hollow panicky feeling that you might have made a mistake and booked a trip to Timbuktoo instead of Melbourne. So much so that you have to look at the unceremoniously named 'e-ticket' a hundred times to make sure you got the destination and the date right and that your credit card isn't going to be debited for $3000 instead of $300.

Then there's a lull until a week before the trip. And that awful sick, "God I've got to organise how to get on the plane . . " feeling hits. My travelling companion starts talking about whether to drive, get a taxi, get a lift to the airport, park overnight and all I can think about is twiddling knobs and checking that the seat belt works and are the safety directions are clear, how old is the plane and is my Will in order and who will feed the dog if I die? It's all-pervasive and invades every thought with that odd blend of excitement and terror.

Then we arrive at the airport and that wonderful smell of aircraft fuel and the incessant hum of warming engines and the occasional scream of incoming and outgoing jets gets the adrenalin rushing but not in a pleasurable way. I always manage to travel with someone who wants to be the first on the plane and sit there for 20 minutes waiting for other travellers to bustle by. Not this little black duck. I'm in the transit bar downing Gin and Tonics as if it's lolly water, taking my pulse and willing myself back into a resting state. Then it really is last call time and as one of the last to enter the flying coffin, I'm in a cold sweat. The stewards smile sweetly and point me to my seat oblivious to the fact that I'm dying inside. Bags stowed, belt checked, aircon twiddled and a cursory glance over the wing to make sure all its 'bits' are intact and we start to move backwards before turning towards the runway. Some guy who sounds like he's pinching his nose tells me the weather conditions and mentions in passing that it might be a little bumpy but we hope to reach our destination at 18:30 . . . quick check under the seat to make sure the life jacket is there . . . as if I'd get enough time to put it on as we plummet towards the Tasman or into the Great Dividing Range.

Then the worst bit, the bit the kids like, the bit that makes most people go "Weee here we go!" and reminds them of thrill rides at cheap amusement parks. The bit where the bile climbs into my throat and I think I'm going to be sick . . .nope, not the take off . . .the seconds before . . that pause at the end of the runway where things go incredibly quiet before becoming incredibly loud and we roar off towards the mouth of Botany Bay and I'm sure we're going to end up in the drink. The bit that makes me feel like I'm being pulled backwards by the Demon before being launched at a thousand miles an hour down an infinite loop.

Once up, I'm fine . . its a fate accompli . . . I'm out of control . . .my life is in someone else's hands so might as well relax, read the in-flight magazine and order another G & T until it's time to descend. Unless of course there's turbulence which there often is on the shorter flights . . .the minute they stop serving beverages, I freeze like a wax dummy and think about all the unfinished business I have even though I thought it was all under control.

I know we're heading down long before anyone else. The pressure builds in my head while business men browse their Financial Reviews and giggly women chat incessantly about the special purchases they're going to make once on the ground and how much they enjoyed Phantom of the Opera last time they visited. Mummies prepare their children by wiping their snotty noses and briefing them on what Granny looks like. Snooty stewards are policing the aisles making sure everything is stowed and your half full glass of gin is confiscated with a flourish.

Im already worrying about the landing although by now the G & T's have kicked in and a warm, lustrous glow surrounds me. I look and feel like a halo'd angel with a Mona Lisa smile until we really start to dip and I have to clutch the arms of the seat until my knuckles go white and clench the glutes until my bum's sore. I grit my teeth and hope that my ageing fillings can stand the pressure. My ears pop and now, worst of all, there's a widescreen displaying our descent and approach and I can see the tilt of the plane as the tarmac rises to greet us . . . I know you see, that most accidents happen on landing or take off. This is why the panic ensues at these particular times. I'm not comfortable until the nose wheel is on the ground, the red lights go off and the plane is dawdling at walking place into the terminal. Actually, I'm not happy until I'm off the thing and hugging friends at the airport and looking forward to quality time with people I spend so little time around these days.

Well over the next few weeks, I'm doing a lot of flying. Not just in the literal sense but venturing into the unknown and I'm surprisingly calm this time. Maybe all those long hauls and island hops have finally desensitised me. Maybe I've decided that facing fear is better than avoiding it. Perhaps not quite like Erica Jong's Isadora . . .but I can embrace these new events and deal with the fear in a more mature and resigned way . . . if not, there's always Gin and Tonic. I just which they served it in a schooner glass.

Friday Frippery

I have been in battle with a smartass from a fund manager all day
I have $1.92 in the bank
It is raining very hard and has been all week
Crispy isn't happy cos his KISS cover band is changing lineup
Daz is incommunicado or in love, I've yet to ascertain which
Brian is having a long weekend and drinking Vodka
JD is off with the pixies
Grandad is tearing the health system apart
AV is waxing lyrical in her darkroom
DrummerBoy will be Drumming
ClareBear will be partying
Thommo has her day off
TheBoss has gone on a golfing holiday
K8 is playing nursmaid and cleaning windows
Kate is probably knitting and nursing a migraine
Nonny will be up to high jinks
Anonymous will be taking pics
Terrence is probably tipping cows
Wordnerd will be watching the game
Ian preparing his sermon
Ryan is counting down the days till he gets his shiny new 'ute'
TheBenchwarmer will be drinking coffee, lamenting lost love and smoking too much . . .
If I left anyone out, I'm sorry . . .

So to the rest of my bloggy friends . . . . . . . have a lovely weekend wherever you are. It's all good . . COS IT'S TIME TO GO HOME . . . .

And here's a little Aussie band with a song that I like, I just wish I was young enough to go to their concerts without looking conspicuous - Gyroscope with 'Snakeskin' - not quite what someone my age should enjoy . . .but then, I'm a little different.

Obey . . Obey . . . Obey

OK we're all now adults but it's still my house, my mortgage, my rules. (Gawd, I sound like a Dalek " Obey . . obey . . .obey . ." We have had a rule in our house for yonks "Let me know where you are going, who you are with and what time you'll be home."

OK When they were in their teens, I had some control over my younglings and frankly, keeping me informed has become largely habit. By obliging over the years, they have been granted more and more freedoms when their playmates were often not allowed to venture forth. I allowed a 16 year old girl to stay out all night during the Olympics . . .and a 16 year old boy to go camping in the wilds with others of his age simply because they were very good at practicing this little rule.

As they grow older however, they sort of think it's no longer necessary. Their life is their own and theyshould be allowed to do as they please. Not so, says the Dalek master, they must still inform me of their whereabouts so that I sleep at night, don't cook meals for people who are a no show or have nothing in the fridge when there are six for dinner that I didn't know about.

So, the rule stay's chickens, as long as you stay. It's simply good manners to let your parent, flatmate, wife, husband, partner or housemate's know your movements . . . except the bowel kind, that's just nasty.

Kicking the Habit

I am one of those filthy smokers. I have been for years. I only ever smoke half a cigarette which makes it even more silly and expensive and I don't smoke during the day except for the Friday chardy lunch with Thommo. . I have my 'breakfast' of a couple of cigs, two cups of Twinning's Irish. Then, when I come home, I make up for lost time and smoke about 10 fags with a bottle of wine throughout the evening.

I was cajoled as a teen down by the creek in Loyalty road by my newbie friend Kate who told me to 'do the draw back'. Eager to make friends and fit into one of the many schools I attended as a teen, I complied and that was the beginning of a lifelong habit. In those days, you could smoke in restaurants, bars, theatres, at your workstation . . . even in designated smoking rooms in hospitals. Can you imagine? Now you cannot smoke anywhere other than the gaming rooms in hotels (providing they have iceberg ventilation), beer gardens or your own home.

I gave up when I was pregnant . . both times . . .true! Didn't smoke for the duration then startedup again once the babies were born. Ray didn't smoke so why did I? Thommo smoked, TheBoss smoked, Pauly Boy smoked, even TheMerryWidow smoked . . . over the years they all kicked the habit but I plugged on blaming circumstance, stress, hard times, hard work and "Hey I like it . . I only smoke half . . bla bla bla . . .".

Similarly with alcohol. I never drank during the week, just the usual weekend benders or wine with a meal on the weekend. I never drink in the morning and only ever at lunchtime if it's a special lunch. I only drink wine or Champagne. I don't hide bottles under the bed or secret them in whilst nobody's looking but I am what could be described as a 'moderate to heavy drinker' importantly, I rarely get drunk. OK I over do it at Weddings because the booze is free or the occasional Bonfire night - it helps me deal better with cranky Firies.

Seriously, I know my limitations. I gave up completely in the late 80's and lost a shit load of weight (due more to hard work than lack of alcohol consumption I hasten to add), it was fantastic. Looked good, felt better . . then again, crisis after crisis and alcohol became a crutch and while some of the drinks I enjoy, most just pop me into a nice calm place where I can deal with the world, work, loneliness, anger and all those destructive emotions that creep in now and then. It puts me in my happy place and tastes nice to boot. Prozac with flavour.

A deal has been struck. The riot act has been read again by ClareBear and DrummerBoy and I suspect the Fringelet is also in cahoots! They're pretty serious this time. It's about time actually and the timing is just right. Time to put that $12 per packet in my wallet not my mouth. Even the awful warnings that appear on Australian packets haven't prevented me and the dreadful shock ads on TV just prompt me to change the channel. But now its time to stop whining about never having any money begin to save myself. As a drinker, it's about time I learned the word 'moderation' and saved it for a glass of wine with a meal and celebration times.

So, here's the go. I'm off to the outskirts of Melbourne from the 15th to the 21st so I have a few drinkies with the girls on the Great Ocean Road . . they would be disappointed if I didn't show usual form. Then I have a date with the Lovely Lenore and GeekBoy so again, I cannot disappoint in the drinkies department but as the only smoker on the entire trip consumption of nurrels will have to be vastly reduced so as not to offend.

Next step, try to maintain the reduction in imbibing and inhalation through to the 29th November when I go in for the removal of all things within the oestrogen zone and endure, instant menopause after the operation and a 5-6 day stay in the institution from Hell - which by the way costs more than a five star hotel in Europe and I'll bet the food ain't as good!

Satan will pale to insignificance in comparison to my mood I'll vouch. Dante hasn't even seen an inferno like my life from 29th November to the 29th December. Once home, I will become completely dependent on a 20 and 22 year old in terms of lifting, bending, stretching and doing. I will be restricted to 10 minutes exercise a day for the first couple of weeks with no alcohol, no smokes, lo cal diet, no driving! If I can handle that insanity for 4 weeks, I think I will have cracked the addiction code!

Well it's a plan and we all know how good I am at making plans . . . Actually GeekBoy/Arky/Crispy or whatever his nick name is this week, gave up thanks to a nicotine patch, lots of encouragement from the girlf and the motivation to purchase expensive geeky gadgets . My motivation? My trip to Paris next July!

Sometimes I am Serious

Two of the most memorable experiences of my life, the most wonderful, the most intimate were the birth of my two children. Within seconds of the arrival of each, the pain, the puffing, the waiting all faded into obscurity as each little slimy bundle was handed to me. This little miracle made from nothing but pure love (OK and a little slap and tickle). All jokes aside - and I could tell you a few - they arrived perfect, all pieces intact, kicking and screaming . . . healthy, defenseless and the most precious people in my life then and now. Little bundles of noisy leakage at both ends. Hurting them, shaking them, sexually abusing them was and is inconceivable. Even the thought of piercing ClareBear's ears as a toddler or circumcising a four day old son were abhorrant. Why would I mutilate such perfection. I didn't want to change anything about them. Even though they were denied a father at a very young age, they have been raised with love, warmth, respect and honesty which has helped them to become the amazing young adults they are.

Today, A cross-border investigation into a European wide child-sex network led to 92 arrests in eight countries. It involved 18 European police forces and the Australian authorities, Operation Koala led to 40 arrests in Britain, 21 in France, 11 in Spain, eight in Sweden, five in Belgium, four in Italy, two in Iceland and one in Denmark. Using the name of such a cuddly marsupial to challenge such an ugly operation seemed more than disgustingly ironic.

The main suspect was nabbed in Italy, laden with cash and large quantities of paedophilic materials. Italian police arrested him as he was apparently trying to leave for Ukraine, where the vast majority of the victims are from. The news story continued: Often young girls aged nine to 16, the victims were lured into a Ukrainian studio where photo shoots would become increasingly explicit and end with the victims being sexually abused, the investigation found. They were lured with promises of modelling careers in the west. According to Europol, 21 of the 23 victims were from the Ukraine. The other two were Belgian girls whose father forced them to take sexually explicit pictures. He was arrested last year for their rape - his own daughters - He was their FATHER! Over 2,500 clients accessed . . .wait for it . . .
1.5 million paedophilic images by internet. They are as bad as the abusers. Degenerate in every sense of the word. And we want to pass legislation against smacking our kids?

So who are these perverts, these awful downtrodden psychopaths. Surely to abuse children or to watch children being sexually mistreated must be the province of the deranged, the lonely, the sexually frustrated or deficient, the mentally retarded, the outcast . . you think? "Customers come from all layers of society - lawyers, school teachers, students, people with no jobs,"

We're all aware of the focus lately on Catholic Priests abusing positions of trust. Or the odd teacher who inappropriately 'handles' a child but this goes beyond disgusting, beyond imagination, these men, and they are invariably men are worthy of castration and incarceraton. Whether wanking over the internet or perpetrating the acts and recording them on film.

These stories make me sick. They are far too prevolent. How many times must we hear of some 40 year old businessman setting up house in Thailand and keeping young boys for his sexual pleasure. It moved me to tears. These maggots get away with unimaginable pain and suffering inflicted on their victims. What makes these men adore the nubile, the young, the vulnerable?

These predators need to be stopped. Not just those who are actively involved but those who get their jollies off watching little children abused in such a way. At risk of trivialising this, there is obviously a 'thing' about some sexual predators with the childlike form. The smooth skin, the hairlessness, the innocence, the ability to manipulate the betrayal of trust, their vulnerability. I'ts like rape - a crime of passion? Bollox, it's about control and manipulation of the weak. It's revolting. I see this androgenism in models who are portrayed as waifish, asexual beings with a Brasilian wax to make them look like 10 or 12 year olds. Stop it! I'm serious. Stop trying to be something you're not. Beyond the age of 12 you are not supposed to look like a pre-pubescent nymphette. You're supposed to gain body fat, gain shape, grow pubic hair, mature physically. Stop appealing to the perverted sexual desires of twisted men.

I am fortunate to have been raised in a highly moral, loving family, where values about the sanctitiy of the body and sex have been discussed and valued. Where touch was important but it was the stroke of the hair or a bear hug that suspended breathing it was so filled with affection. I have passed these values on to my own children who are highly respectful of their opposite sex and not at all expliotationist. Remember, these little darlings, wooed by the hope of a better life are forgoing all innocence with some slobbering 50 something who isn't 'man' enough to attempt a relationship with a real adult. There are things we can do to prepare our children:

• Be suspicious if an adult seems more interested in spending time with your child than with you.
• Be wary of people who are overly kind, affectionate or loving towards your child or who give your child lots of gifts. Remember, most people have good intentions, so don't jump to conclusions.
• Be very choosy about leaving your child with others. Ask your child how he feels about being cared for by that person. If there's any reluctance . . . don't do it.
• Teach your child about different parts of the body and which are his own private parts. Let them know that it's inappropriate for someone else to touch them there.
• Teach your child to try and get away as quickly as possible from any person who makes him feel uncomfortable or frightened and to then tell people he trusts about what has happened.
• Teach your child never to keep secrets that make him feel uncomfortable or bad. Always listen to your child and trust what he says even if you are shocked by it. Act upon the information so your child feels supported by you.
• Teach your child that adults are not always right. This will help your child if a paedophile tells your child the abuse is okay and not to tell anyone.
• Supervis their internet access and know who they are talking to. Tell them to never reveal their real name or address. Install a Disk Nanny or password so they can't access without your supervision.
• Ensure they are supervised going to and from school or are aware of Neighbourhood Watch safe houses
• Teach your child never to go into public toilets alone. Never let a child under 10 go to the toilet alone.
• Ensure you know where your child is at all times.
• Always answer your child’s questions honestly and at a level that he can understand, even if you are embarrassed.
• Things you teach your child will help, but they will not guarantee your child's protection. Children are not able to totally protect themselves. It is up to adults to do this.
• Love them with every fibre of your being until they are old enough to know the difference between sexual predators and the joy of sex.

Of course, this assumes that you are a caring, cautious, wise and loving parent . . .unfortunately, the parents of many abused children are in fact the perpetrators.

OK. I'll jump off my soapbox now.

I Like To Watch

Purple Moon is a Ginger? What the?

. . . Well I do! I like to watch planes flying overhead while I'm hanging my washing out and wonder what their destinaton will be. I like to watch people at bus stops and stations and make up little scenarios like the time I saw a really well dressed businessman scavenge in a bin to retrieve a newspaper that had barely been opened and commence reading it whilst waiting for his train. I like to watch people in shopping queues at the supermarket, the haggard, the excited, the naughty kids, the glum checkout chicks. I like to watch theatre, street art, concerts. I like to look at paintings, sculpture or even sit in my garden at twilight and watch the green gums turn black against a salmon sky (ooh that was almost poetry). But tomorrow, the only thing the whole country will be watching is the race that stops a nation. And if you don't, you're a stick in the mud!

That's right, on the first Tuesday in November a horse race called the Melbourne Cup, starts at about 3:05pm and the world as we Australians know it, comes to a halt for about 3 minutes while 15 or so thoroughbreds run 2 miles. Whether you're a hard core gambler or a sweep recipient like me . . . it's a phenomenan. In my younger days, it was the excuse for a Ladies Lunch, fashion parade and lots of hilarity . . . now I'm a working girl so it's time out during the work day.

Victorians get a day off (lucky lucky bastards). We do 'lunch' wearing a range of assorted silly hats - yep the Nepalese mountain hat gets a guernsey as do the facinators and silly noggin warmers. Tomorrow, we're ordering in Thai, placing our $1, $2 and $5 bets (big spenders all!) and huddle around the television watching the race.

I don't know who's running . . . I don't really care, I'm usually lucky and manage to win a few bob . . we'll drink Champers, pretend we know the form. Wank lyrical about how pretty the little horses are and what a clever trainer Bart Cummings is then knock of earlyish - or go back to our desks at 4.00 and pretend we're working!

If you're lucky enough to go to Flemington in Melbourne, there are three classes of people. The Car Park silly crowd. They dress up, drink a lot and enjoy the race on the big screen. The terrace serious crowd who don't rate the actual Melbourne Cup but place bets on all the day's races and the "Ooh, look, I have a ticket to a corporate tent" crowd who wear ridiculous hats, show too much cleavage and manage to get their photos on the society pages.

Either way, the cup is a great leveller, they'll all stumble back to the station with their stillettoes in hand, hair bedraggled and their hats lolled precariously on their heads. The ties will have been dispensed and thongs replace the highly polished Julious Marlows as the dishevilled mob begins to feel the effects of too much champagne, too many horses, too much gambling . . . it's a wonder any remember who actually wins the event.

My choice "Purple Moon" - I like the name. Irish horse with an Italian Trainer and Australian Jockey . . who says I'm not multinational! Then again, Tawqeet is being ridden by my maiden namesake. Blue Monday is a really nice name and the way I feel most Monday mornings. Scenic Shot is reminiscent of Phoctober. The Fuzz is just a funny name for a slick racehorse and Sermione is trained by one of the best . . .I just hope Mahler comes last . . .probably one of the most boring classical composers ever! Decisions, decisions . . . I'm really glad it's a sweep! Wanna hear something funny? It's going to be a wet track and the European horses like it dry! What the?

Now, where's my money bags, Goong Pad and Pad Thai? Here's the field (apparently Master O'Reilly and Purple Moon are the favourites thanks to Aussie runners being denuded by the impact of flu!

1. Tawqeet (USA), David Hayes, D Dunn, 57, 3
2. Blue Monday (GB), David Hayes, N Rawiller, 56, 14
3. Blutigeroo, Colin Little, L Nolen, 55.5, 12
4. Gallic (NZ), Graeme Rogerson, S W Arnold, 55.5, 24
5. Railings, Roger James, G Childs, 55.5, 18
6. Efficient (NZ), Graeme Rogerson, M Rodd, 54.5, 10
7. Maybe Better, Brian Mayfield-Smith, C Brown, 54, 7
8. Tungsten Strike (USA), Amanda Perrett, Darryll Holland, 54, 2
9. Zipping, Graeme Rogerson, D Nikolic, 54, 22
10. Black Tom, David Hayes, P A Hall, 53.5, 21
11. Master O'Reilly (NZ), Danny O'Brien, V Duric, 53.5, 17
12. Purple Moon (IRE), Luca Cumani, D Oliver, 53.5, 15
13. Lazer Sharp, David Hayes, B Shinn, 52.5, 16
14. On a Jeune, Andrew J Payne, K McEvoy, 52.5, 4
15. Scenic Shot, Daniel Morton, M J Zahra, 52.5, 19
16. Sarrera, Michael Moroney, S Murphy (a), 52, 23
17. Sculptor (NZ), Peter Mckenzie, Ms L Cropp, 52, 8
18. Dolphin Jo, Terry & Karina O'Sullivan, Ms C Lindop, 51.5, 1
19. Douro Vallery, Danny O'Brien, J M Winks, 51.5, 13
20. Sirmione, Bart Cummings, P Mertens, 51.5, 20
21. The Fuzz (NZ), David Hayes, C Williams, 51.5, 11
22. Eskimo Queen (NZ), Michael Moroney, C Newitt, 51, 5
23. Princess Coup, Mark Walker, N G Harris, 51, 9
24. Mahler (GB), Aidan O'Brien, S Baster, 50.5, 6

Well I guess all's well that 'ends' well - Car Park Punters after the race!

Spookily True

I was just mucking about this morning and did this blogthings quiz but it's scarily accurate.

What Your Handwriting Says About You

You are a laid back person with rather low energy. You aren't lazy... you *are* sensitive and empathetic. You are reserved and not very outgoing. You are deeply thoughtful and introspective. You have a lot of control over your actions and emotions. You are balanced and grounded. You know how to get along well with others. You need a bit of space in your life, but you're not a recluse. You expect people to give you a small amount of privacy, and you respect their privacy as well. You are conservative, old fashioned, and a little stubborn. You are resistant to change. You are a decent communicator. You eventually get your point across, but sometimes you leave things a bit ambiguous.

What Does Your Handwriting Say About You?

More Sharies

Ooops, forgot toshare two essentials:

Where I while away the wee hours . . .


Sort of speaks for itself. Notice cheap glass - I am a basher!

Sharies

These are a few of my favourite things:

French Perfume - can't live without it . . Calvin Klein, Rochas and Chanel - life's little luxuries and I don't care if they make me sneeze . .

Genuine Nepalese hat . . no bonfire night is complete with out ear muffs (ugly African CD stacker optional . . .hey! He's Limpopo, now a part of the family - well the family room anyway . ..) My Faaaaaavourite Hat . . .


Curiosity corner . . desk made by my grandad which houses, Japanese lanterns, Grandamas sandwich set, Delft from Holland, Reindeer from Italy, Camel from Dubai, Glass from Venice, china from well . . .China, picnic basket from England, chess set from Australia, Barometer from Wales, Grandma's Tea pot, Bull Dancer from Crete, Pithoi Pot from somewhere in Greece, Duck from Kellyville, Lava man from Vanuatu and Beer pint which I stole from a pub in Manchester and a lantern from "down't mine . . . ee by gum!"

Hub of the house, where people gather, all the action takes place as well as daubing tiles with stroganoff sauce, merriment and Saturday morning cleaning! Does everyone have a junk basket on their kitchen bench?

Now I ask you . . . would an anal retentive clean freak have a fridge like this? Next week it will also have a "What do do whilst I'm convalescing" Roster affixed. Ok that's a bit anal!

Car Troubles

My car is posessed. I have this problem. If I pull up to a halt a little too quickly and turn everything off at the same time I move into park, it makes a kind of shudder and I know when I try to start it again, there will be trouble. The battery is new so the spark flies. It's regularly serviced so I know the fuel is getting through the line and the plugs work. The starter motor is also new so apart from having to bang it occasionally with my shoe, no worries. She's serviced every 10,000ks, lubricated, greased and valve grinded . . so what's her problem? She gets more attention than I ever did!

I turn on the ignition and it makes all the right noises but doesn't catch. If I do this long enough, the ignition keeps kicking over without the engine catching. I can even remove my key and she persists in her rhythmic coughing alerting my dilemma to all and sundry and the only way to stop it is to disconnect the battery. Once done, I just let her calm down, speak zen phrases or chant a calming 'ohm maddy ohm' mantra to relax the diva then have another go. The NRMA man said it's probably a faulty ignition. My mechanic says it could be the fuel line but without being able to replicate it, difficult to tell. (I'm sure he used to be a Systems Administrator).

Either way, it's bloody embarassing. I sit there like a lame duck usually with two inappropriate B rated videos and a couple of bottles of wine in the seat next to me (why else would I go shopping) while nice people come and ask if I'm alright. Give the old girl a little rest. Turn off the radio and electrics, crank the ignition and off she goes to fight another day.

I don't understand. I've looked after her bones for the last five years. She used to be my Dad's car and was lovingly serviced, shampoo'd and polished at Trivett Classic Cars, her tyres blacked and air freshener installed as part of the service . . . she has nice grey sheepskin covers to protect her leathery skin but lately, has been turned into a delivery vehicle with boxes of folders and letterhead on the back seat and rubbish carelessly thrown about. Ah . . Daz always says I'm slow on the uptake . . .that's it. She's got the shits because the regular pampering has come to a halt. Because of the drought and our inability to use a hose, she hasn't had a shower in a year, nobody lathers her bones other than a panicked rub with dish washing liquid as storm clouds gather then she's left out to face the deluge. (DrummerBoy's idea of exterior detailing). Her tyres haven't been blacked for 5 years and she certainly hasn't been polished. Her paint's chipping and the interior resembles a movie theatre after the crowd has left. To make it worse, I think she heard me watching Top Gear last night and probably got miffed when she heard me commenting on how nice it would be to have a new Saab. That's it, project for this weekend, get the old girl gleaming and maybe she'll behave herself. . . just until February . . . Once Clare's gone, we have a spare! Shhhh . . for crying out loud don't tell her or she'll behave even more badly . . .

Aww c'mon boys . . you didn't think I'd leave you out?

Am I a Hypochondriac?

I'm being very blokey today and feeling sorry for myself. I have a sore throat and a hacking cough. I came home from work. I watched Transformers and the House on Haunted Hill II. I fell asleep on the couch and missed the good bits. My antibiotics aren't working yet. Am I a hypochondriac?

You Are 32% Hypochondriac

You can deal well with being sick - even if your symptoms are a little scary. You're occasionally prone to worry about your health, but only when you have pretty strange symptoms.

Are You a Hypochondriac?