No Longer Listless

I'm very organised today. I've launched on a new project at work that I'm actually quite happy about. It involves lots of timelines and getting things in order, so I began thinking about getting my own 'business' sorted and wrote a list:

Paint the inside of my house which is looking decidedly grubby and neglected because I've done little to it thinking a bulldozer would have been long through like a Vogon battleship building an intergalactic highway.

Wash my car. For the first time in I don't know how many years, this weekend we can hose our cars (damn now I've no excuse for a dirty car) It needs a 'good going over' as my mother would say, inside and out. Who knows what I might find in the bowels of the boot or under the seat! It'll be interesting to actually see what colour it is, I've forgotten.

Book my passport application interview because you never know, I might win that overseas trip or have a rush of blood to the head and spend the weekend in Paris. The papers have been completed, signed and witnessed, I just need a Postmaster's stamp and I'm ready to roll. Only problem could be the two year old photo . . pfft

Book into my photography class at TAFE which I've procrastinated over for two terms. One because my partner in crime had touch footy and couldn't come with me (clearly had his priorities wrong) and the second because funds were a little short at the time. Now I have no excuse, so will do it and attend next semester. I have a Mickey Mouse Canon EOS 40D SLR and two lenses and no idea how to use the manual settings which results in lots of black when I try to take pictures of possums.

Fix the pool auto cleaner before the Liquidamber leaves begin to fall which will be any second now, clogging up impellars, blackening the bottom of the pebblecrete and forcing me to put hands in icy water as skimmer boxes explode with the weight. Curse my sister for giving that tree to my father before the pool was built! It will be restored to it's former glory by summer.

Get the pressure hose out and clean away the duck poo. Seriously, I put my car in for a service today and a colleague picked me up this morning to get to work and there must have been forty wood ducks munching on the over grown grass at the front they have adopted our pool over the winter as their safe haven and the coping stones have become a daffy dunny.

Fix the kitchen cupboard that came off it's hinges last night thanks to a slightly exhuberant opening by a thirsty DrummerBoy looking for a glass and a stressed hinge which has simply snapped. The kitchen's only 5 years old! Either we clearly drink too much or they don't make 'em like they used to.

Replace my living room sofas with a decent sized lounge and sofa bed. They should have been tossed years ago. No amount of steam cleaning is going to clear the gunge so it's time for something new and no self-respecting couch potato can schmooze on a dirty sofa (I'll wait until I've painted).

Check out two year interest free deals on a new washing machine. Mine's screaming like a banshee under the stress of washing filthy King Gee gardener's clothes and the pump means I have to be on stand by to get a 'syphon' working during the spin cycle. I should have been a Queens Guide I'm so handy.

Book a family week in Hawks Nest in January just to chill and watch the dolphins and read and eat fish and chips on the Tea Gardens Wharf while the sun sinks slowly in the west and wear nothing but bather's and sarongs and thongs for the whole week. I might even try to find a dog friendly rental so that Lily can at last frolic in the surf and immerse us in sandy doggy slop.

On a more immediate note - Start a course of glucosamine to help with my ailing fingins and hands which are feeling increasingly arthritic and red clover to stem the hot flushes - don't ask, I'm the only person who sleeps without bedcovers in the middle of winter - it's better than dealing with the crimson wave and 'moon cycle' as my friend calls it.

Oh and buy a present for BabySis who's birthday it was today but has gone pretty much unmarked. Shame . . we don't do cake and jelly any more or wear silly hats and frilly dresses.

Happy Birthday Doo-Doo! I'll swing by on the weekend!

While my Heart Gently Weeps

The weight of the world seems to have hit me today. Possibly because there's been some sadness on the blogs I visit and possibly because it's hump day and possibly because I watched 2 hours of news because I've missed it over the last couple of days.

I was going to write a diatribe on social injustice and how unforgivably horrible we are to each other or about how selfish and seclusionist we've become and how we've forgotten the basic moral values of looking after those less fortunate than ourselves even though some would take advantage of small kindnesses.

How we should hand the reins of power over to the young and let them determine their own future since we're making such a hash of it. Someone like Severn Suzuki who's 1992 plea to the UN Earth Summit seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Boy would she make an international benevolent dictator! How there's still oil in Alaska from the Exon Valdez, 20 years after the fact and Exon Mobile is taking fishermen to the US Supreme Court because paying them out might set a dangerous legal precident. How Afghanistan after 20 years of conflict is suddenly seeing the advent of suicide bombers, never before heard of there. How blowing up poppy fields is seen as a way to curtail heroin supply rather than offering Afghans a more lucrative way to make a living. How Zimbabwe is ruled by the machete and the tyre necklace and nobody wants to stop it. How Ethiopia is once again sinking into famine or Sudan has hardly any support - even Medicins Sans Frontiers deems it too dangerous to work there apart from a team of 11 who chose to stay in Turalei and Agok.

How three US warships carrying aid were sent back home by Burma's cruel junta due to a real fear that they might invade - such is their reputation. How countries are slipping into recession due to bad management and corporate greed. How pharmaceutical companies are fighting the distribution of cheap and generic medicines for AIDS and worse still, curable diseases. How children in Cambodia with missing limbs are still playing in mined paddy fields while a meeting in Dublin deliberates over whether cluster bombs are appropriate yet China, the US and Israel don't even send a delegate. Or how Australia still sells yellow cake to countries who will not sign an anti neuclear (George, it's NOT Nucular any more than film is filum) proliferation treaty.

How the technology for improved fuels and energy (such as replacing diesel with chip oil!) is available but nobody seems to want to put it into commercial production. How the homeless are getting cold this time of year and how another friend is battling his demons with depression and drugs and I am powerless to help.

I was going to write about how disgusted I am that the news can juxtapose a story about abject poverty in Brasil then seguay with a commercial for MacDonalds or interest free electrical goods. Or about the poor quality of the press who seem to focus on politician's petty squabbles and reams of football coverage or celebrate Tiger Woods win at the US open, hack actors and super models and the real stories are relegated to page 9. How the Hell can we pay sports people millions of dollars for kicking a ball, sinking a put, weilding a raquet . . .spend millions on fantasy films and watch a sizeable part of the world suffer in abject poverty.

Then I was going to whinge about my pool cleaner being broken and that seemed so middle class and superficial or how one of my kitchen doors has broken, and the nasty brown stain on my ceiling is being exacerbated by winter rain. Or how sudden expenses seem to appear just as I seem to be getting on my feet with finances, or that my dog eats better than most third world children. Or how I have resolved not to visit my daughter in London this July because the money would be better saved and spent on a proper holiday rather than 3 weeks in a Greenwich bedsit while she works. The guilt tonight is all consuming as I sit preparing a dinner of Atlantic salmon and baby peas with a glass of cheap chardonnay and wait to be lifted by the comedy shows screening on ABC.

Maybe it's the winter blues. It's grey and leafless, damp and uninspiring. Empathy is a bitch and being powerless to do much more than support a couple of well-meaning charities is so very frustrating. Maybe this day, my cup is half empty and tomorrow everything will be half full. I have no reason to complain. I am healthy, happy, warm, fed, clothed, housed and loved. There is no wolf at my door so why do I feel like this?

Then . . .I got in my car, cranked up the radio on TripleJ expecting alternative or indie rock and they reprised something I had heard earlier in the year. In fact I thought at the time I had tuned into the wrong station and I never caught his name. Not only are George Harrison's strains beautiful and sad and soulful . . but this guy gives them a new interpretation on a wonderful and unusual instrument. Take the time to hear it through. It might not cure the blues but it will lift your spirits, just a bit. Grandad, Ian, AV, Gleds and Paddy . . .and of course, ClareBear . . . this is for you.

Boardroom Bananas

There's nothing more likely to bring out the inner feminist than two days in a boardroom with five men, three of whom are partners, two who never say please or thank you to the receptionist who belts across the road to bring you your triple strong, extra hot, skinny latte or arrange for your luncheon sandwiches. Or who scatter their mint papers all over the table, leave their cups and plates and treat the only woman in the room as if she's been grabbed from the typing pool! Yep, yippee kay ey! I've been in a meeting for two days solid. Locked in a room with a bunch of blokes who talk too long over the unimportant things and play lip service to the essential. Now I have another hat to wear . . . Business Succession Coordinator! I'd better get a pay rise this July! I blame their mother's who obviously never taught them to push in a chair upon departure. It's an uncomfortable feeling knowing that each thinks about sex every fifteen minutes apparently! I want to put wasabe in their mint slices and toothpaste in their Oreos, that'll fix the boardroom bananas!

Grass Widow

Hole in one!

I walked into work this morning and The Elder Statesman, The Boss and Char were talking about Tiger Woods epic putt at the US Open. Apparently he's drawn level with another golfer and they'll have to play the whole 18 holes again . . .what? No penalty? No play off? No best of six? They were all very animated and excited.

I don't understand the passion for golf. I come from a long line of successful golfers. My father actually severed family ties and chucked the rest of us on a tin can boat and emigrated to Australia because he could no longer afford the golf fees at Romily Golf Club (oh the shame!). My mother took ladies day on Thursdays very seriously and ended up playing Pennants and enjoying the 'mixed' on Sundays. My brother changed Christmas for a game of golf (we used to celebrate on Christmas eve but there's a boozy golf comp on so it was moved to Christmas day and now everything is over in a rush. And my brother in law won trips to America by virtue of the fact that he could play in the left-handed championships. Even my son at an early age was 'enrolled' by Grandpa and has a 'good swing' and a 'long drive' apparently.

My husband was only deemed a suitable match because he was Vice Captain of the Golf Club and played off a handicap of 2, therefore 'must' have been a decent chap despite leaving me as a grass widow for weeks on end to the point that I forgot what he looked like in the daylight. Our holidays comprised driving mega miles to compete in the Coffs Harbour Championships. Easter was spent in freezing and soulless Canberra for the ACT Championship. I spent many a Sunday pulling a golf buggy during 'pennant' season in an attempt to seem interested in his sport but never, ever had the inclination to learn the game. It's something you do when you're retired, I told myself. Yet people go giddy over golf!

Why do golfers only wear one glove and who hits a ball with their legs apart and one arm rigid? Keeping your eye on the ball apparently is very difficult and the reason most beginners have difficulty connecting a bat that is way to small with an equally diminutive plastic, dimpled sphere with a bit of lead in the middle!

It is also mandatory to avoid all sense of colour coordination and dress abominably. You may also wear a stupid hat. Then lug a load of metal sticks around a manicured lawn and use them to occasionally slam a ball into at tiny hole so small they need to put a flag in it, called a 'pin' on a special bit of 'bent' lawn that nobody is allowed to walk on without spikey shoes and has obviously been cut with a sharp pair of dressmaker's scissors. Apparently, these obviously named 'greens' (whoever came up with that one had a vivid imagination) can be fast or slow but in all my caddying life I never saw one move at all.

I don't understand Ladies Tees, Men's Tee's and Championship Tees - sounds like a varied apparel collection . . then you can bogey (sounds like something better left up your nostril) . . .birdie or eagle. If you've got a long drive (no not as in a road trip to Brisbane) you can possibly score an albatross. Oh the image of snot and dead birds scattered on the fairway is too much to bear! Before you actually do anything you need to address the ball, clearly it knows not where it is to be delivered. From the Tee you 'drive', short shots you 'chip'. You come in over or under par and if you get a hole in one, the said ball is usually mounted on a plaque and taken 'straight to the pool room' for everyone to admire. "Oh look, a golf ball on a plaque - how impressive!" You can 'shank'and 'slice', 'chip' and 'putt' and if your ball goes in the rough it's hard to find. If it goes in the water, you need a telescopic ball retriever . . .and when they get dirty you need to wash your balls in a purpose built ball washer! If it's out of bounds you take a drop. It's the one place where Big Bertha is popular, you use an iron to hit on the fairway (I could probably manage hitting a little ball with my Philips Steam Shot) and a sandwich, I mean sand-wedge to get you out of a bunker.

Then, even if you do have a 'par' round, you come back to the 19th hole and describe every shot in painstaking detail whilst I look into the bottom of my glass and my eyes glaze over!The 19th hole becomes a refuge and ensures you're always late home for tea or asking the barmaid to fib when the wife rings to ask where you are. The trophies usually comprise a boxed set of bath towels, too small to wrap around a midget or something hideously domestic to bribe the little woman. When I got married, he had the Glory Box!

The one good thing about golf courses is no children . . .maybe that's its appeal. Ankle biters under 12 are forbidden! Nope, I know those who play it love it with a passion, but golf . . .it's for the birdies.

Come On Baby Light My Fire

Whilst waiting for the action, one drums . . .



Or poses for a photograph in their "let's pretend we're rural firefighter's " gear . .
But eventually there has to be tongueage . . chuck a snag on the barbie . . .



Then of course blow shit up . . .



Sit around feeling toasty . . .



Wear a few glow sticks . . .



Take a promo shot of the band . . . .



Award a prize for the best home made OH&S Outfit . . .


Mix it with family (ThePlummer and Babysis)

Act up in front of the camera with a glowstick that doesn't glow for a flash . . .

Yeh, good night. A little restrained due to fear of reporting but a good night. It's 1.00am. I'm going to bed. They're still toasting their tootsies and eating spring rolls and sweet chilli sauce. I think I may have guests for breakfast!

Friday Funny

Well another week has rolled by without incident. Always a good thing and the weekend is upon us woo-hoo! Just had drinks with the Merry Widow and planned our dream trip whilst going 'awww bewfuls' at the new puppy. Simple things amuse me these days! Then found this:

Blow-up dolls and dressed-up dogs are among the "passengers" drivers in New Zealand have been using to get around transit lane rules. Drivers in the Auckland suburb of North Shore can only use the lanes if there is a minimum of three people in the car or face a $NZ150 ($A120) fine.

The lanes, which can also be used by buses and taxis, are designed to ease traffic congestion by encouraging carpooling. "They've certainly found some creative ways to try to circumvent the rules," says North Shore City Council traffic safety manager Andre Dannhauser of New Zealand Police, "But it's important to us that we enforce the rules properly."

Some drivers have put blow-up dolls and mannequins in the car, while others have dressed up dogs in children's hoodies. Another driver quizzed about the whereabouts of a third passenger quipped "he's in the toolbox in the back seat", Dannhauser said.

He said an earlier scam involved students making themselves available at the beginning of a transit lane to drivers and then getting out at the end. "They stopped after a while - fortunately they got tired of running back up the hill to the start of the transit lane again."

Hahaha . . here's a little fun to 'rap' up the week.

Burn Baby Burn

Well I hope not but if we didn't hazard burn, maybe!

In 1995 when the family moved to the new house in Kellyville it had been heavily wooded. Large Eucalypts were cleared but only to make space for the rambling new house and a plethora of 'stumps' the size of giant's fima's were bulldozed into an awesome pile.

A survivor so far threatening to fall on my carport! Branches have done so - twice!

The lower end of the paddock had already been cleared and the stumps were pushed up there for safe burning on a regular basis. So began the annual Queens birthday bonfires in an effort to finally disintegrate these hardwood corpses. For 30 years now, we've had a bonfire on or near the Queen's Birthday long weekend. Outside fire season, safely and sometimes with legal fireworks sometimes with the odd stash bought by ThePlumber from 'Thunder'. Don't ask. More clandestine than an illicit drug deal and far less satisfying in the end.

Now back to the present . . .It’s been raining in Sydney over the past three months with few bright and dry weekends. Atypically, everything is damp. As always happens with eucalypts, shit has fallen off . . everywhere. There’s a fallen tree over the paddock fence and another balancing precariously over the neighbour’s cyclone fence. Both need a good chainsawing and stacking on the bonfire. The bonfire itself, has been neglected and will be built to it’s former glory by about 6pm on Saturday night. Little at the moment but the saplings behind are seedling 'toast'

Big as it seems, it’s basically kindling comprising fallen twigs and branches with eucalyptus soaked leaves and a few substantial logs underneath. Within 20 minutes of being lit it’s a gentle glow. Nice to sit around, share a few bevvies, warm the tootsies, sacrifice that sweater that your girlfriend always hated and generally have a feral evening in a silly hat before lobbing into bed smelling like an ashtray with a face full of smoke and charcoal under your fingernails. Sweeeeet!

Remember how the Firies turned up last year and berated me as the irresponsible adult for not having a permit for a burn (then posed for photographs as they departed) ? I narrowly escaped a fine so thought that this year, we’ll do it right.

The fire permit application is not a simple process. And bear in mind, we are outside the October – April Fire Ban period. First I need to receive an Environmental Protection Certificate which warrants the burn of piles up to 150cm in width (Oops – our bonfire is about 3 metres but no mind, nothing a rake can't fix once she's aglow).

A woman from the Rural Bushfire Brigade, who takes her job very seriously because she’s a public servant you know, inspected our property yesterday. I called this morning to see if we had been ‘approved’ and indeed we have but only after being given plenty of advice about it being too wet and causing smoke, about mulching instead of burning and being considerate of the encroachement of suburbia . . fuck suburbia! What consideration do I get for being hemmed in and covered with dust whilst their fancy pants houses are excavated and erected. What consideration do I get when power tools scream all weekend? What consideration do I get when your poxy alarms go off while you're swanning around the Whitsundays on your yacht? Was the woman blind? Did she not see the ‘mulch’ in my gutters and around the garden that is now six inches higher than the level of our concrete verandah it surrounds! I bet she lives in a friggin’ McMansion with a cowra pebble garden and not a real tree in sight!

Seriously this dons my garden beds and gutters

What? Too damp! Has the woman never seen the explosive potential of a gum leaf when exposed to a Bic lighter? These are trees which ignite from a cigarette butt! Would she rather us do what the Rural Fire Service do and begin back burning on a windy 30 degree day often setting fire to inaccessible gulleys? Surely being ‘damp’ provides an extra safety precaution. (I swear there are more bushfires ‘started’ by backburning and arsonists than back yard burners) As for creating smoke which may waft into encroaching McMansions and mess with their hypersensitive olfactory – won’t happen. The petrol will take care of that! Seriously, one quick douse, a huge bang and all the damp stuff is instantly dry! No smoke. What little there is, will waft across the valley with the westerley breeze and accross the golf course, well away from encroaching suburbia.

That’s not the end of it, the EPA certificate then has to be taken to Kellyville Firestation and they need to issue a permit. This task is not so bad since I arrive there at the change of shift and it’s wall to wall firies. God we women love these guys, even the sooty smelly ones are deserving of a calendar. (Ok gratuitous sexual perve over . . it’s been a long time between drinks.)

So very nice fire chief called Kevin is VERY empathetic and understands completely the fun of huddling around the fire. We have a very long chat while he explains that he's only doing his job and they're not treated well by the public and they need more than a 2.5% wage increase since the CPI is 4.2%. We discuss changing Kellyville, beaurocratic red tape and how if they’re called they may have to come out anyway but as long as we’ve got permission they might stay for a sausage sizzle unless needed somewhere else. In fact, they’d be happy to come out and blow shit up for us if we’d like. (politely declined, I don’t think they’d approve of the toilet paper firestarter or the fiery flying fox which traditionally sparks the first flame.) He couldn't find his permit book and the delicious smell of roast beef permeated through the fire station so I think he had dinner on his mind. He'll drop the permit in! Despite my protestations, he was quite insistant and sure enough at 6:00 a fire engine drives up my driveway, Kev gets out and hands over the permit. Now that's just showing off! He's lovely. Understands that kids wanna have fun. Hates the beaurocratic system but says he might see me Saturday night in the big red truck for a snag and a mag. I have a feeling they'll drop in whether there's a call or not!

So, done and dusted. If it doesn’t rain, we’re on . . . we can burn baby burn – all legal like! Boys, no fireworks, bungers, sparkler or bottle bombs. I will be watching!

And whaddayaknow . . I feel another Talking Heads song coming on . . . That reminds me, must pay House and Contents Insurance tomorrow.

Now a quick shout out . . if there's anyone willing to queue outside the Apple store on George and King on opening night next Thursday, 19th June and grab a free T shirt for my lovely boy Crispy in Melbourne . . there will be a prize, you have to be in the first 2500 after 5.00pm opening to qualify. I'd do almost anything except queue outside the Apple store for 24 hours for his geeky bewfulness.

There's Nout Queer as Folk

Lesbians are revolting!

Now calm down ladies, I'm not pointing fingers.

True, the natives of the Greek Island of Lesbos are revolting because gay girls have hyjacked their national identity by calling themselves Lesbians. Proper disgruntled are the those who live there, that their namesakes choose same sex relationships and it is something up with which they shall not put!

Three islanders from Lesbos told a court last Tuesday that gay women insult their home's identity by calling themselves lesbians. The plaintiffs - two women and a man - are seeking to ban a Greek gay rights group from using the word "lesbian" in its name. Also known as Mytilini, Lesbos was the home of the ancient poet Sappho who praised love among women, hence the origin and ultimate suitability of the term to describe female homosexuality.

"We are very upset that, worldwide, women who like women have appropriated the name of our island," said Dimitris Lambrou, a magazine publisher who is one of those bringing the complaint with other islanders. "Until 1924, according to the Oxford English dictionary, a Lesbian was a native of our isle," he said. "Now, because of its new connotations, our womenfolk are unable to call themselves such and that is wrong."

On a more serious note, the hearing coincides with a highly charged national debate over gay rights. Lambrou insists he has "nothing against lesbians" who flock to Eressos - a resort on the island that is famed as the birthplace of the 5th century BC poet Sappho - and whose contribution to the local economy has been considerable.

But human rights campaigners say the court action has been motivated by barely disguised homophobia in a nation that remains reluctant to accept gay people. "No other group faces such discrimination in this country," said Grigoris Valianatos, a long-time homosexual rights advocate.

"The [Orthodox] church is literally out of control in its approach towards us, the media full of hate speech and the conservative government both hypocritical and indifferent," he said. "This trial is a reflection of the homophobia that prevails in Greece."

The increased visibility of gay people - including the first marriages between two lesbians and two gay men last week - has been met with consternation by some, with the ruling conservatives holding emergency talks to deal with the issue. Odd, as California and Australia revisit legislation and gay rights that those in Greece are still pushing jelly uphill in a bid for acceptance. Stranger still when you think that their ancient forebears immortalised their homoeroticism.

Frankly, I don't fancy their chances . . . a new name for same-sex girly swats . . . I don't think so, it would be easier to rename the occupants of Lesbos . . . Lesbithians, Lesboans, Lesbonites?

Or maybe our famous Dykes on Bikes will become Motoring Mytilinis . . . has a ring to it!

Once In A Lifetime

I watched a rubbish DVD last night “Fools Gold” with that Matthew "Oh my God bod" Machonachie and Kate squintyeyed, whatevers, skinnyblonde. The plot was basically about a treasure hunt for some lost dowry, safely sunk on a galleon called Aurelia!

Didn’t that open a can of worms! The ship upon which my family travelled to Australia as ten pound poms was called Aurelia. Yep, sometime in September in 1968, The brood from Cheshire arrived in Southhampton for the journey of a lifetime. Mum 34, Dad 36, me 11, HippyBro, 9, Babybro 7 and Babysis 2.

We were very impressed with the ship until we realised that it was in fact the P & O Fairstar that actually had us agape and agasp, complete with white linen, floral displays in the dining room and full fare paying passengers.

Notice three rows of portholes below deck?

We were to follow her fablious giganticness across the globe wishing it was us on her lofty decks instead of squished on the tiny Aurelia creeping demurely behind her at every port. No flowers on our white tablecloths - I can't even remember if there were table cloths! It was an Italian owned and run ship but originally made in Germany and named the Huscaran and after just one voyage was seconded by the German Navy and saw service as a troop transport, armament freighter then sub marine depot and was eventually captured by the allies in 1945! Far Canal! She was refitted in Liverpool in to carry 775 passengers and Sold to Pacific Canadian. She became a Beverbrae . . .seriously she brought refugees from Bremen to Canada and freight from Canada back to Europe. In 1954 she was sold to Cogedar Line and renamed Aurelia. She was rebuilt for emigrant service to accommodate 1,244 passengers with the sole purpose of supporting emigration originally from Italy and eventually from England. She re-measured at 10,022 GRT. Her first voyage was from Trieste to Sydney. Incidentally carrying the mother of a girl I was to meet in 1995 and eventually write a 50th birthday speech which is how I found out about the Aurelia connection.

Notice one row of portholes below deck?

Later incarnations saw her reborn as a Mediterranean cruise liner, for 177 passengers (now you get the picture of how many people were on this little ship!) Romanza and then Romantica – she even survived an engine fire and was eventually taken to Alexandria in 1997 for scrap. Quite a life the old girl had!

We all have differing memories of the six week sojourn having never been on a ‘cruise’ before, we had no expectations . Families were split into different cabins. I don’t really know why. Mum, Babysis and I were in one cabin to ourselves. Dad, BabyBro and HippyBro shared with Alain Fageurey and a non-English speaking Spaniard called Christian. All BabyBro remembers is the Spaniard forcing him to smoke Gitanes or some other strong French cigarette and being locked out for periods of time while Alain entertained the ladies.

Babysis remembers the p urser. He would approach with arms waving as if about to shout out a warning and kiss her spaghetti smeared face, pinch her cheeks and announce to everyone in a bellowing voice “Ciao bella . . wanna day I’ma gonna eata that kid!” He never seemed to tire of kissing this disgustingly sauced (literally) two year old or pinching her chubby cheeks. She was a poppet of a kid with short-cropped, dead straight, blonde hair and massive brown eyes. He loved her.

My memories are of a pungent odour near the galley, attending school for a few hours each day, colouring in Australian native animals and learning the words to Waltzing Matilda. This was apparently introducing Aussie culture to the foreigners . . . we Poms had been exposed to Rolf Harris and Skippy and knew all about Australia.

I remember everyone being so ill that the place was deserted crossing the Bay of Biscay other than the brave souls who believed that rising and falling with the storm waves would help them acclimatise before hurling their breakfast over the side. We were all incredibly sick for four days.

I was very disgruntled at almost being a grown up and forced to eat at children’s sittings which comprised invariably of spaghetti bolognaise and ice cream for dessert and cups of incredibly weak tea with powdered milk sachets. In fact a quick round-table at our family lunch the other day, revealed that we did indeed eat little else than spag bol for six weeks. None of us could remember breakfast or lunch.

There were parties, dressups, crossing the equator shenanigins and fun. . . all it seemed, for people a little younger than my parents or a little older than me. There were movies, and play centres, and a teeny weeny swimming pool . .it wasn’t a large boat. And I had a pair of blue buckle shoes with a kitten heel that matched the colour of the ocean and I saw my first albatross and sea lions – I loved those shoes.

I remember Las Palmas where I celebrated my birthday and received a pretty Spanish fan. I remember a disgusting birthday cake which, instead of frosting, was spread with coffee flavoured butter and a sprinkling of icing sugar. I remember the NO Blacks signs in Capetown where we had a wonderful milk shakes with fresh milk (only powdered for the peasants) and I remember having afternoon Tea in Kings Park in Perth . . more toasted sandwiches and thinking that this place wasn’t so bad after all!

Because it involves water flowing and change and how my father must have felt and I just like it!

Chips Gravy and Other Useless Information

Since I am absolutely hungover from overimbibing during a family lunch yesterday which concluded at 9pm and after about 8 bottles of very good red and chardy, I have little to offer. Many brain cells have been relegated to moosh but Kath Lockett tagged me and saved the day. Go on, have a go, you know you want to!

What was I doing 10 years ago?

Much the same as I'm doing now. I've been in stasis for the past 10 years. I had a 13 year old daughter and 11 year old son, little money to rub together as my savings dwindled and working in the public service with great hours and crap money. Social life was largely 'at home' events with friends BYO barbecues with the exception of a season ticket to the Ensemble Theatre. We did a lot of camping which was fun. I had one of those trailer tents that I could easily erect by myself with only a little help required from kids "hold that pole" in order to erect the annex. Another joy (read moment of madness) of that time was buying horses and being able to ride over the back with my daughter, and son on a bike in tow, before all the new houses went in. Life was simple and uncomplicated and comprised largely of work and an over absorption with tweens.

Five snacks I enjoy in a perfect, non weight-gaining world

I'm not much of a snacker to tell the truth. Often a day goes by and it's 3.00 before I realise that I haven't eaten anything. Hence my propensity to carry weight, my body is in constant 'famine' mode but here goes:

Hot chips and gravy from the local chippy which hasn't suffered since the Greeks moved out and the Koreans moved in.

Phoques Cove King Island brie with lavosh and strawberries - I never quite worked out how to pronounce 'Phoques'.

Iced coffee without the cream (you get more iced coffee that way)

Baileys Irish cream on ice (now reserved to Christmas only)

I'm pushing for a fifth . . .probably a Wendy's Mocha Chiller or Boost's All Berry Bang!

Five snacks I enjoy in the real world

MS mini-chocolates on the reception desk at work, 70cents each (I do it for charity - honestly)

Bacon Lettuce and Tomato toasted sandwiches. The sort of healthy snack if you forget the mayonnaise

Pistachio nuts, salted and in the shell except pick the shells up off the floor they hurt like tiny pieces of lego if you tread on them in bare feet

Prawns . . .Queensland tigers, in the shell. Not quite a snack but a treat nonetheless.

Wholegrain vitawheet and Vegemite, for some reason these have the regular habit of dislodging old fillings and result in remedial dentistry. The most expensive snack I've had this year.

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire:

Pay off my debts and the kid's HECS bills

Buy the block next door to my sister, clear all the crap away and build a dream house

Donate a sizeable amount to homeland charities like the Salvation Army or the Smith Family. Charity begins at home.

Travel . . Paris first . . then perhaps Scandinavia and spend Christmas in the snow all snooxed up with a blazing fire and a turkey feast. Then map a path around the world to visit bloggers and overseas friends.

Hire a personal trainer to force me to shift my ass and get into a regular exercise regime

Five jobs that I have had:

Strawberry picker - it wasn't very successful I was fired after 1 day for eating the profits. I didn't mind, it was hard on the knees and was only paid $1.50 an hour.

Chicken packer at KFC from 16-21, fun times since most of my family and friends also worked there. It paid for travel, a car and a horse and we got to take leftovers home at night to munch during the Saturday night creature feature. I never found out what was in the 11 secret herbs and spices, they arrived in plain white packets with no ingredients listed.

Girl Friday - can't call them that any more. Clerical support to two product managers. One of them had a hyphenated name and an awful stammer, it was hard not to laugh. I was 'broken in' with an old electric typewriter and carbon paper. Remember that . . white to the client, pink in the file . . .I never worked out what happened to the blue copy.

Copywriter/Marketing Coordinator in an in-house Creative Dept. for an American multinational. Great job. Did it for 15 years before being made redundant by an asshole called Michael Coldwell because he thought I threatened his rise to power. I guess I did, he's now Managing Director the prick.

Project Manager for a national policing agency. I was PA to the director and project manager for the National Fingerprint Identification System (NAFIS) replacement project. Did such a good job that Amanda Vanstone, the then Minister for Justice, granted our $50 million request to replace outdated technology and took the project to Canberra and laid everyone in Sydney off! Good parting package though so I wasn't bovvered . . .

Three of my habits:
Lapsing into smoking cigarettes more often than I would like

Having two cups of tea and one cup of coffee, every morning before I go to work. If one is missing, the day just doesn't start correctly . . is that a bit OCD?

Chewing the quick on my fingertips when I'm nervous

Five places I have lived:
I've lived in many more than five places but these were the best of them:

Born in Stockport Cheshire where I lived until I was 11 and we became 10 pound poms and emigrated to Australia

Donvale Melbourne where I began high school, bought my first horse and had my first kiss but didn't stay long enough to make many friends

Kings Cross - although my mother insisted it was Elizabeth Bay because it was a posh flat even if there was a call girl across the hall who insisted sitting naked in front of her window.

Parramatta, just across from the gaol in a tin box flat with 70's burnt orange benches and second hand furniture. Lived there just after I got married and had dinner parties on a fold away picnic set. If I stood on the toilet seat and peeked out of the bathroom window, I could actually see inmates being hosed off the roof during a prison riot. Also had our car stolen from the carpark and the man downstairs complain because we 'walked too heavily' across the lounge room.

Kellyville Sydney . . where I am now on five glorious acres being encroached upon by McMansions and civilisation and nosey neighbours who call the fire brigade every time we have a small pile burn because they think it's public land and we're causing a nuisance. A place where we once never had to lock cars or doors. Great place to raise kids, have parties, ride horses but plagued by a mass of ever dissiduous gum trees that have made me and my leaf blower inseperable.

Five people I want to get to know better:

I'm copying Kath here and tagging, because I really do want to get to know these people better. They're intelligent and intriguing and when I have my billion dollars I will certainly visit them in the real rather than the virtual world - if they'll have me that is!

Thriftcriminal

Grannymar

Jefferson Davis

Steph

Melissa

My Old Flame

Personal stuff today. Well it is a personal blog. Last night was Friday night. I didn't post. Had little to say and besides, I was distracted by some very good company that I have been enjoying a little more than usual lately. We ordered pizza, poured a beer, lit a fire and photographed the moon. We chatted about ISO settings, the frustration of living with tradies who don't fix stuff, future potential and overhanging branches that form nice little bridges towards the roof for a variety of vermin that we are still trying to eradicate.

We fell asleep watching National Treasure and woke up in time to watch an hour or so of Rage (music video) Nope, not some new lover or long lost friend . . .just me and DrummerBoy. He has grown up and we have become peers rather than mother and son, although make no mistake, I still rule the roost!

Last week a significant piece of mail arrived - DrummerBoy's Degree. Like his sister, he also has denied me the cheesy mortar board photo and opted not to attend his graduation ceremony in April. So, the degree arrived unceremoniously and without pomp. Three years of Horticulture culminated in a rather plain looking piece of paper with a very non-varsity looking logo but a degree it is. Well fought and won by someone who is not particularly academic but can put in the effort when pushed. I'm thrilled that he stuck to it although in hindsight we both agree, an apprenticeship would have been a more practical course. Still it's a degree and kudos to the boy . . . hopefully it will open doors and already he's talking about further study in building and construction.
He's a good boy my boy. I've come to really appreciate having him around since ClareBear swanned off overseas and has now been gone four and a half months. She is enjoying the company of friends in Toronto for the next week before flying across the pond to the UK. I last heard that she was practicing the Tim Tam slam thanks to a parcel of Aussie made goodies that I sent to Fraser's for all the ex-pats in his household to enjoy. I miss her. I miss her much but her absence has been wonderful for the 'second fiddle'. We used to joke (with an element of truth) that she was the 'favourite' child. Simply because she was very easy to get along with and conflict between us was rare. Although I think there was a slight 'seething' below the surface where DrummerBoy felt he was sometimes pushed into the background whilst the golden girl did her thing.

Before her departure, DB and I argued a lot. Mainly because he's very similar to me. Doesn't like being told what to do, doesn't like it when I raise my voice. He's one of these 'talk to the hand' can't be told types who has to try everything out for himself and often gives me the pyrrhic victory of being able to say "I told you so . . ." Although I rarely do. We're both opinionated and unafraid to tell it like it is. We've had a lot of "I'll discuss this when you calm down" retorts but - having had him home one-on-one has been a blessing, especially since he started work a couple of months ago.

It's hard work. Eventually, he'll be project manager for a landscaping firm but in the first instance, he's been put to hard labour in order to learn the ropes, get a feel for life on the ground floor and to understand the plight of those he will eventually manage. This has been a great learning curve for him and he's beginning now to understand why I come home sometimes, frustrated and cranky and needing to vent about the day. Our evening conversations are all about work, frustrations, future plans. He's out by 6am and home by 5 with little break in between. It's tough work, carrying, lugging, stacking, digging . . .and he's knackered by 9. Rain is no impediment to this company which has issued all it's workers with 'wet weather' gear when lesser landscapers would be standing under the eaves or heading for home. I'm really proud of the way he's applied himself although occasionally the GenY attitude comes through. He wants to be promoted after six weeks, looking for something more satisfying . .you know how it is. He might not stay with this bunch but he has a new confidence without arrogance. He knows he has much to learn but he also knows he has tertiary qualifications and skills. He understands that he's a babe in the employment wilderness but will not allow others to take advantage. He has a good head on his shoulders.

At the moment The Fringelet is deep into study for her final Uni exams and so his social life has been somewhat curtailed. This has given us even more opportunity to chat, cook, play and I finally feel that I really know the young man who has been in my life for 21 years because now we can talk to each other without competition, we can argue civilly, we have more in common than ever before as grown up life takes hold.


That's a rare thing. I know many younglings who deeply love and appreciate their mothers but don't have that extra something. I appreciate being his confidante and his friend. Maybe it's the privilege of single parenthood as I've said before, maybe I'm different, maybe he's different whatever it is, I thank my lucky stars that not only do we get on, but the Fringelet too is like a daughter to me . . (saved myself from the mother-in-law jokes with that one!)

It's the simple things . . ."I'll shout you a pizza", "let's light a fire and have a beer", "I'll teach you how to play Call of Duty or Rainbow Six" (failed miserably I might add) "I can fix your washing machine . . " and lately . . . "I love being home in the evening, it's so relaxing". What? My son likes being home with his mother! Excellent! I'll make the most of his company whilst I can. He's no longer the curly haired toddler with dribble on his chin. . .or the reckless teen trying to blow things up with chlorine and vinegar (although I wouldn't put it past him) he's happy, intelligent, good-humoured, responsible (most times), healthy, employed, in love and comfortable with his old mum . . I like that about my son.

You can all go "Awww" now.

Baino Has a Cry

I hate bloody computers, can't live with them, can't blow them up! The Dell is in its death throes and keyboard lights are flashing and the mouse is frozen. Unlike the little varmints that have moved in subsequent to our mass poisoning of roof rats a few weeks ago and we suspect that there's been some cable chewing due to Adam's inability to play online games in his bedroom (which is a good thing because he won't surface if he's embroiled in a Tom Clancy face off).

No amount of plug twiddling, rebooting or swearing is going to make the old girl function so she's been turned off for the night. If a good kip doesn't sort her out in the morning, I'm off to buy a new hard drive.

So I'm relegated to the iMac which is old, slow and the keyboard sticks and when I'm talking to people I sound like I'm broadcasting from an empty baked bean can. We forget how we take technology such as PC's so lightly. I really need a new flash megaterrabytical one so that I can have Youtube, Wiki and all my other applications open at once instead of bunny hopping between the two hoping that one will work better than the other. My PC at work is spiffy. I mean State of the Art and we have ADSL2 which is speedy and responsive. This is little consolation given that I've decided to take tomorrow off to do some much needed maintenance and get my passport application sorted . . I need a functioning PC!

At home, it's log in, get a cuppa tea or do a wee and if you're lucky, the Windows will have loaded and be ready to use by the time I've finished but only after telling me that your telcab library (whatever that is) won't work and I haven't optimised for the past 170 days when in fact I did it just yesterday . . .I swear!

Then there's Skype which has this wonderful way of just having a nano sleep every 20 minutes so that whoever you're talking to online has to twiddle their thumbs while I wait for it to reactivate. Time for more tea and wee. Thank goodness Grannymar and my other Skypeypals know I'm not being rude when I refuse to answer for 10 minutes while Skype appears to buzz off for a cuppa as well!

All I want, is a fast internet and a keyboard that doesn't stick. Although it gives me an excuse for poor spelling and typos! For an addict like me, it's enough to drive me to television! Aaaaaggggghhhhrrr . . .now I can't even add a bloody pic!

Ooh! Ooh! Speaking of which there's something on about how to buy knickers that make you look five kilos smaller . . .CYA!

The Benchwarmer

Had a spontaneous (they always are) lunch date with The Benchwarmer today. He is like no person I’ve ever met. I love him to bits and he has a good hug on him. He’s enthusiastic, intelligent, disorganised – despite a plethora of laptops mobile phones and Blackberrys. He’s reliably late (except for lunch with me because he knows I’d do my block). He's needy and impetuous, spontaneous and hot-blooded, exciting, full of ideas. I always come away from our soirees energised and wanting to throw in my job and go on some new venture with him before coming back to earth and realising that at my age I can't make a living selling geeky T-shirts or copywriting some obscure website. I need something more concrete than a fabulous idea! And he's full of those. He’s well-read, intellectual, romantic, and slightly self-obsessed yet selfless, does that make sense?

He’s one of the few people I can sit down with and have him distracted by mobile phone calls. He apologises because he knows I don't like it but he takes the calls anyway. Or a pretty blonde sitting behind us only to enquire about her Oraton Umbrella or Louis Vuitton Satchel, making me wonder if he's actually trying to pick up while having lunch with me or just interested in the fashion icons. So deep and yet so shallow. The man is a walking oxymoron.

The Benchwarmer first came to us as receptionist a few years ago. A tumultuous romance during his HSC year had seen this incredibly bright selective school student bomb his exams so we provided a filler and a meagre income until he decided what he was going to do. He revolutionised us, thrilled us, made us laugh and infuriated us - had he not left , I probably would have fired him but we've always stayed in contact.

He bought headphones so that he could multi-task at the reception desk. He filled in with IT solutions, he was designy and helped me with marketing material. He bought decent biscuists and did a regular coffee run (Espresso only for him, none of this instant shite but it worked out well for us) He was fun, noisy, emotional, outspoken. Clearly this lad was not going to stay long in a servile position paying a pittance. He was promoted ‘upstairs’ and became an Administrator at which he excelled but it wasn’t enough. Soon he was organising everything, solving problems and providing forward thinking solutions but nothing was exciting enough to challenge his inquisitive brain. Often, I’d have to call him at home at 9:30am to ask if he was ill or coming in to work only to have him arrive 15 minutes later, still smelling of the club, cigarette smoke and alcohol and wearing the same gear he’d gone out in the night before and waxing lyrical about some family drama or other that had prevented his punctual arrival at work. I remember him apologising profusely for deceiving me in order to attend job interviews and pretending to be sick. Rather sweet. Recognising his skills, he soon secured a prestigious almost six digit salary with a huge company.

Sadly, with the market downturn, he’s been downsized with a sizeable bunch of the IT crowd but doesn’t seem to be taking it too hard. It’s an opportunity . . . and at 23 he has a lifetime of opportunity ahead.

TheBenchwarmer is exceptional. He has a mass of forward thinking ideas that just need a little structure to pout them into practice. Lunch with him is always leisurely but he talks as frenetically as he smokes. He’s growing up and for the first time in a long time has time to work out what he wants to do in the future. Whatever it is, it will be powerful, intellectual and involve some new use of technology but with a pop culture edge. I’d wish him luck but he doesn’t need it. He’ll fall on his feet.

My dream? That he’ll establish some sort of cyber business and I’ll just be his quaint old over-paid PA with a little creative writing thrown in. I wouldn’t mind making strong coffee for The Benchwarmer, putting ice cubes in his ash tray, cooking his books, keeping him focussed and giving him relationship advice that he probably doesn’t need. . . then again, he’s got a mother to do that!

Thanks Damian for keeping me away from my desk. Always fun and good to see you so relaxed and happy.

I hired a receptionist today. It’s not been easy making a selection. We’re in a high unemployment period so it’s a job seeker’s market and they can pretty much call the shots. The mature applicants wanted too much money and the juniors are thin on the ground.

I’ve only ever interviewed for two jobs ;

The first was when I was 21, fresh out of Uni, decided that I wasn’t mature enough to teach high school so I dipped out (big mistake that was!)and backed up with a crash secretarial course. Humbling to say the least as the only 21 year old in a class full of 17 year olds! Being taught by the troll bitch from hell who was about my age . . .needless to say, the motivation to absolutely BLITZ the course was compelling! I practised my typing till my pinkies hurt!

That behind me, I needed a job.

I had an interview with the Marketing Manager of an American Direct Selling company. I’d never heard of them but my fiancee worked for a bureau that processed their payroll and so reassured me that they were a big outfit who paid well.

The job – Girl Friday . . can’t call ‘em that any more! Basically an office gofer required to do everything from making tea to typing. I guess I intervewied well and despite the nerves, I felt pretty good at the end until my would be boss announced that he’d love to put me on but I was overqualified and would probably do a runner within months as soon as something better came along! My response simply was “Overqualified be buggered, I need the job!” I guess he liked the up-front attitude that usually terrifies most men and I was put on the payroll. I worked with them for 15 years and had roles from Girl Friday through to Marketing Communications before having a falling out with a pretentious little prick who magically machinated redundancies for the entire creative team.

My second interview was in the public sector, working in the IT department that managed the mainframe for a national fingerprint identification system, national names index, AVO index, persons of interest . . .you get the gist. If someone had something to hide, they were probably on our database. Alternatively, if they’d left fingerprints behind – they too were on our database waiting to be matched with their owners.

I secured this little gem as a long term temp assignment after being made redundant from my previous position in 1995. Apparently, it’s CIO was so difficult to work with that his PA had taken 12 months stress leave! By this stage, I’m older, wiser, desperately in need of a job (despite the pay being paltry) and probably a good choice for a petulant boss.

After 6 months I couldn’t handle the hourly rate any more (administrative jobs pay absolute shit and $22 an hour was bollix for the responsibility I was shouldering plus no holiday or sick pay). I started looking around but fortunately, they decided to keep me and pay out the agency fee. However, being the public service and an Equal Opportunity Employer, the position was advertised and I had to interview for my own job! It was close, there were some good candidates but I muddled through. I had another five fantastic years there and an opportunity to grow, get paid well and enjoy the people with whom I worked. I still lunch with a crowd from this organisation even though it is now defunct and has relocated in another form to the nation’s capital.

So whilst I’ve had more than two jobs, I’ve only ever interviewed for two in over 30 years of being in the workforce. I've been lucky, agency work between jobs or opportunities that have just presented themselves. My current job was offered to me and whilst it’s not that satisfying, it pays well, is close to home and I like almost all the people I work with . . not a bad trade off!

So apologies to the young lady that missed out on the position today. She will have a few more interviews to master, nervy moments to deal with and articulation stumbles to work through. I don’t envy her at all, if only she knew that interviewing and rejecting applicants is almost as nervewracking!

To The Victor Goes The Credit

Today the first of all Australian combat soldiers in Iraq arrived home! Fulfilling an election promise, the Rudd Government will be withdrawing all troops except a small contingency to be utilised for diplomatic protection.

Overwatch Battle Group (OBG-W) and Australian Army Training Team (AATT-I) formally ceased operations in Camp Terendak, Talil (300km south of Baghdad). These divisions were primarily involved in training Iraqi soldiers and now their job is done..

Australian involvement has apparently given the fledgling Iraqi Army the space and time to train, grow and "consolidate into a capable force that has proven itself time and again in recent months." We are no longer needed. Defence Force chief Air Chief Marshal Angus Houston said this afternoon that the time was right for Australian personnel to come home. "The Iraqis are doing the business," he said.

However1000 Australian soldiers will remain deployed in Afghanistan. And rightly so to my mind.

This is good news. Many troops came out of Iraq much earlier however, during the Howard Government's tenure in power - but you watch, Kev will get all the credit:

According to a press release Press Release 42/03 on 17^th April 2003 from the then Minister for Defence, Senator the Hon. Robert Hill including:

• 600 personnel on Royal Australian Navy frigates HMAS Anzac and Darwin.
• 250 airmen and women and support crews deployed with a squadron of 14 F/A-18 RAAF Hornet fighter aircraft.
• A SAS squadron and some of the Combat Service Support Group that provides logistic support necessary for the Special Forces Task Group.
• A Navy clearance dive team

And in June 2003,

• 350 sailors and soldiers embarked on HMAS Kanimbla with a Sea King helicopter, Army landing craft and Army air defence detachment and a specialist explosives ordnance team.

The Howard Government did send another 500 trooops in May 2005 as requested by the British and Japanese to assist with construction and humanitarian work. But now, apart from providing some diplomatic security and consultancy . . our part in this stupid, senseless and falsely justified invasion is over.

Poor John Howard . . lucky Kevin Rudd . . to the victor goes the credit!

Nature Immitating Art

Nothing to report except the Arts on Sunday and Blue Bear at the Denver Convention centre designed by an Aussie and so . . . so . . .cute . . . peek a boo you blue suits!