Seven Things To Know About Me

I've been tagged by Jack McMadwith a 7 things about me Meme . . and since I like talking about myself whether anyone's listening or not, I'm accepting the challenge. Timely actually as I am about to go Christmas Shopping and won't have the stamina for a 'real' post today!

Here are the rules of the Meme:
Post on your blog . . .
Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I like weird, off the wall, point of difference people. Seriously, normal people like me bore the pants of me so I like the odd bods, geeks, creatives, nutters, musicians - even some Americans
2. My mother once made me sit at the table for 3 hours because I refused to eat Cauliflower Au Gratin - it smelled like sick - a neighbour came in and hand fed me the cold slop so I could go and play . . . it scarred me indelibly. I now love anything with a cheese sauce
3. I spent some time in a solitary confinement cell in a pretty floral dress and a pair of red stilettos.
   
4. I have driven a Police Range Rover down the M1 with the siren on and lights flashing and no, it didn't result in my spending time in a solitary confinement cell.
5. I now only own three pairs of shoes - all of them sensible
6. I bought a horse at an auction and had nowhere to put it when it was delivered. It spent three nights inside the swimming pool enclosure without falling in
7. I talk to myself incessantly. I am often caught out having a heated conversation with myself or others, alive and/or dead. Does that make me mad?
   

OK tagging 7 that haven't already been tagged with my little blogroll isn't easy but here goes:

Brianf
Jefferson
Nonny
Absolute Vanilla
Clare and Jem
TheBenchwarmer
Brian Damage

Happy 21st DrummerBoy

Once upon a time, turning 21 was a milestone. You received the key to the door, it was your passage into adulthood. Today, 16 marks your sexual maturity and 18 your political, social and educational passage into adulthood. Yet some kids still celebrate both birthdays with huge parties, pissups and presents. Being the tight arse pragmatist that I am, I issued an ultimatum to mine . . celebrate one or the other but no double dipping. Both opted for the 18^th ‘bash’ but the 21^st ‘significant present’. So that’s the way it was. ClareBear was given holiday spending money and today . . my little prince turns 21 and has his holiday in Phuket paid for all bar the beer and beach massages. Yep, my little curly lad is all growed up into a big boofy, argumentative, won’t be told, scruffy lookin' nerf herder with a heart of gold, a strong sense of family obligation and a deep affection for his mum and sister despite his constant moaning that I nag him about sheet changing and cutting his hair.

Little AB came into the world in a hurry and hit the ground running. I almost had him in the lift . . no time for comforting epidural’s with this little tyke he was ready and able. He was a sweet toddler with masses of curly blonde hair and a propensity to blow wet raspberries when ‘driving’ any form of equipment from tricycles to Tonka Trucks and despite the lack of influence from a male adult, he grew up decidedly blokey. Yep, the usual porn under the mattress, swearing like a trouper to the point that his mouth was often washed out with Morning Fresh as a deterrent and getting into trouble for doing doughnuts in cul de sacs and underage drinking resulting in projectile vomit all over my dashboard. Bless my little angel!

He applied himself to his education as needed and survived the HSC and three years of university, I suspect without reading more than a dust jacket which surely is a mark of super intelligence. He wasn’t a great sportsman but had an interest in golf, baseball and soccer Xbox and Playstation. In fact for a long time, our DrummerBoy had just a select few friends and could be considered quiet a loner. That is until motor bikes came along . . remote control cars, pocket bikes and the band. When he turned 12, I bought him a ready made drum kit as a surprise . . . he jumped out of his skin. Since then the kit has been refurbished and new cymbals and skins added but it’s basically the same little budget set. The following few years saw him put together a little band called Indecent Exposure at a time before he could drive. I was the Drummy Mummy, helping lug equipment to and from spurious venues from the local ice rink to dodgy dives. When he literally ‘grew’ out of them he and a friend established Aktor . . .now he’s excelled in his field and has been offered gigs with quite reputable bands but he’s loyal to his posse and will stay until there is no reason to remain. The title Rock God suits him . . he is a legend in his own lunchtime.

DrummerBoy is obliging . . he’s a hard worker whether it’s crawling through roof and wall cavities for BabyBro threading data cables or lugging 25 kilo bags of salt for pool shop customers or pruning roses and laying fertiliser for Tutti Frutti Nursery . . .physical labour has never bothered him. He will mow when asked (bear in mind this is about 3 hours’ work on acreage), he lugs when asked. He maintains our swimming pool which is more than any of the other men in our household have ever attempted to do. He begrudgingly puts out the sulo bins each week and brings them in again but he does it. He is moral and has a strong sense of what is right and fair . . woe betide anyone who treats him unfairly or tries to rip him off. He is the master of the consumer complaint and justice will be his. He is a fine chef. Messy as all hell with a tendency to add just one secret ingredient too many but the boy can cook!

He is more like me than I care to admit. He won’t be told but has to experiment. He has a life plan and is doggedly focussed on achieving it. He is a tender and attentive boyfriend without being pussywhipped. He will have the last word (which sometimes takes a while if the two of us are at it). He is incredibly fair and a creature of reason. He’s gracious and well-mannered and reason for the many compliments I receive on his upbringing. He rarely leaves the toilet seat up and has only once attempted to blow up the house with balsamic vinegar and pool acid!

He’s a born organiser (not domestically but you know what I mean) and effectively Aktor’s Manager by default. He is fiscally irresponsible and spends more than he earns (another trait he has inherited from his mother) but he’s also very generous when money is flowing in.

And today . . . he’s 21 years old. We're not having a big celebration, just Thai in Parramatta but it's a special event nonetheless . . . My baby no more. Happy birthday sweetness and light. I’m proud to be your mum!

Best Drummer In Australia?

Well maybe, sort of, kinda . . . the boys in Aktor played in the Emergenza Regional Final on Saturday night at Sydney's Metro. Unfortunately, my recent neutering meant that I was a little too fragile for the mosh pit so I didn't attend but the lads were well supported by friends and family. They qualified on the night into the final 7 but missed out on the major prize which went to Van Dolls - congratulations boys and enjoy the trip to Germany. Well done Aktor, it's the experience of a lifetime and lets hope some record company saw you as possible signons. I heard first hand from BabyBro that you were nothing short of spectactular!

So, disappointed but pumped, they partied hard in a premature celebraton of DrummerBoy's 21st on Tuesday. Needless to say, it's been a bit of a 'lost' weekend.

Best of all, DrummerBoy was awarded the 'Best Drummer' accolade by the judges and has won a complete Sabian Cymbal Set . . . desperately needed I might add. Best Drummer out of all the entrants who qualified from across the country so I guess that makes him the best drummer in Australia . . .Congratulations baby! You're the best advertisement for a $500 Billy Hyde kit ever! He should sponsor you!

All Hail Aussie Weather!

Today it was warm, 30C, humid and from about 3:00pm there was the distant rumbling of approaching thunder. Enough to make Lily seek refuge wedged between the couch and the little side table. Enough to warn us to get the washing off the line. Enough to advise that there would be a welcome relief to the heat in the way of a summer storm. About 4:30 ish a mighty sweep of wind came billowing in from the north west, the rain began to drive at about 45 degrees and we had hail . . . not just nice little bouncy bits of ice but hail . . golf ball sized hail . . .it was quick, it was hard, it was deafening on the car port roof, violent and it was all over in 10 minutes, leaving nothing but an eery steamy haze over the garden as the heat evapourated these giants.




To give you an idea, Clare and Fringelet were watching this in their bikinis . . it wasn't cold although the water produced by melting hail was. It was HOT. After the storm, it's now about 28C, overcast and humid. There is still ice in our valley gutters and against the laundry wall. This country is weird when it comes to weather.

SS Secrets

Grannymar has just found out that in the event of an electrical outage, she can be put on a “Critical List” due to her failing health and need for warmth and a telephone. How did she find out? Simply by ringing her electricity provider to notify them of some power surges affecting her lighting.

Why, oh why, do WE have to bear the burden of responsibility in finding out about these things? Why is the SS so secret? They are funded by our taxes so we should know of their existance. Social Services are mean't to provide a service to society which by it’s fundamental nature suggests that the public be made aware of the service provisions available! It’s like some international conspiratorial secret. “Don’t tell the punters what they can get out of social security and we won’t have to do any work.” Is it some sort of plot so that governments can brag about their massive budget surplus whilst those in need remain that way?

Well be aware my friends. Whether you’re aged, have a disabled family member or occupational therapy issue . . . you can get support for a very low price or even free but my God, you have to fight to find out about it!

Years ago, I had an ageing aunt. Sharp as a tack but crippled with Arthritis, she moved to Australia in her twilight years at age 72. After much consideration she bought a villa in one of these “Over 55” retirement villages. It seemed fine. New accommodation, panic buttons in kitchen and toilet, 24 hour access to medical support, a community bus to take you into town on Pension day. Indoor pool, one hole golf course, nice view of the mountains, activities and games room . . . you get the picture.

What they DIDN’T tell us, is that once you are involved in one of these schemes, you lose access to a plethora of community services that you would otherwise qualify for if you owned your own home/flat/unit in an ordinary street. Whilst there are some fees payable by those who can afford it, no client is left in the lurch due to an inability to pay as long as they are in their own home and not an 'aged' facility which includes over 55 retirement complexes. By investing in this property . . . and we didn’t know at the time because nobody told us . . . she disqualified herself from:

• Meals on wheels
• Home help (cleaning – shopping)
• Occupational therapy
• Home visits by Western Area Health nurses and physiotherapists
• Companion visits by volunteers
• Transport assistance
• Gardening and mowing assistance
• Home modification

As her health failed. She was forced to move and sell. The panic button was nothing more than an alarm linked into the local (full paying) medical centre which closed at midnight, there was no home help and no desire to provide any unless she paid full dollar for a commercial cleaner or housekeeper. Small blessing but she passed away in hospital while my parents were looking for nursing home accommodation for her.

On another occasion, my father after having a bowel resection and looking pretty good for a while there, succumbed to metastatic liver cancer. He was pretty fit for a long time but when the crash came, it came quickly. He was incredibly tired, he needed some assistance with hand rails in the shower, special mattressing to prevent bed sores, nursing help, home visits by doctors, someone to assist showering him (he would have died rather than have his daughters do it) and despite the best efforts of BabySis and I to keep him comfortable, we wondered how on earth we would receive these services.

Again, only through the mother of one of DrummerBoy’s friends who works within the service, did we hear about the Western Area Health Service and their provision of palliative care ‘at home’. Once linked in, they were fabulous. They dealt with showers and occupational health and safety and counselled us as carers but had I not had access to that one person that briefed me on their existence, we would have struggled.

So, my point? I guess we have to take it on board that Governments, local or otherwise, will not ‘tell’ you about services that are going to cost the taxpayer money. It’s up to individual punters to find out about their entitlements whether it’s Centrelink benefits and pensions, a Senior Commonwealth Health Card that discounts your meds, $1.00 a day travel on all Sydney Public Transport for retired people, local area health and occupational therapy, respite for carers of people with a disability, financial support for carers the aged and the disabled, Council services to make life a little easier or in GrannyMar’s case, the ability to be on a register in the event of an emergency. This seems quite advantageous . . .out here, electricity providers recommend you install a generator!

Caveat emptor my friends . . be aware and become familiar. Had my aunt bought a little townhouse in the centre of Castle Hill and taken advantage of the services available to her, she would have survived much longer, I have no doubt. And my Dad? Well nothing would save him but we were able to care for him at home and make his last days comfortable and familiar. That’s really important in my book!

Cherries for Nuthin and Yer Ham Fer Free

Thommo and The MerryWidow have been banging on about the Castle Hill Growers Markets, normally held on the first Saturday of the month. Being diligent little local grower supporters and lovers of the gourmet and environmental, they get up and at ‘em at 7.00am on each of these Saturdays to peruse the purveyors of fine spuds and smallgoods which are apparently much better than those bought in the shops and for TheMerryWidow to purchase her month's quota of fresh herbs.

I like growers markets, don’t get me wrong. I’m not much of a fan of things ‘baked’ or otherwise ‘prepared’ in someone’s probably slightly insanitary kitchen and am always a little suspicious of the odd blowfly possibly landing in someone’s pickles or preserves while they’re cooling on the sill but otherwise, I like fresh fruit, veg, smallgoods, verjuice, olives and tapanades . . .I just don’t like getting up and out by 7.00am on a Saturday morning.

So, taking pity on her royal groundedness, Thommo delayed her sojourn to the markets this morning and picked me up at 9.00am. Very civilized. We met the MerryWidow there and had a browse. Got to say, I was way impressed. The quality of the stuff was fantastic and tasting was encouraged so for breakfast, and serenaded by a pretty young girl and her violin I had:

• Stuffed Olives
• Kalamata Tapanade
• Champagne leg ham
• Soy roasted organic duck
• Goats cheese
• Chili Parmisan
• Cherries
• 2 flat whites with one . . .

Embarassingly, I bought nothing as a quick visit to the Eftpos machine revealed that I have -$2.54 in my bank account . . .damn the multi access Visa network. Someone held off processing my latest card debit.

Kipfler chat - The MerryWidow Does a Deal with SpudMan

Thommo buys Swiss Browns

Fabulous Flowers

Vampire protecton and sugar snap peas

Organic Breads - Yum!

They're open again on the 22nd so I'm going back to stock up for Christmas goodies! Or maybe I'll take the family and we can go a free Christmas lunch.

Tight arses of the world unite! Come along to the grower's market.

Hormones or the Hump?

How do I know if it's my hormones acting up, being stir crazy or genuine angst at things not being the way they are when I'm in control? I feel incredibly guilty. I've had a bit of a teary hormonal, breakdowny night tonight. Not sure whether it was Clare's spilling nail polish remover all over the sealed slate floor which has turned my nice black South African into white and toothpastey splotches or Adam freaking out big time about the big Emergenza final tomorrow and my guilt at not being able to attend the big night and planning being totally wasted until Tuesday which means his room will remain in the rodent attracting state it has been in for the past FIVE WEEKS. Maybe it's his turning 21 on Tuesday and my realisation that I can't bully him into submission any more and if he wants to sleep in dirty sheets he can or just hormones kicking in because I've felt so well over the past week maybe my pituitary gland has finally realised that my ovaries are in a bin somwhere and is having a wobbly, or maybe just the denial of simple freedoms such as driving. I am FIERCLEY independent and not having my usual freedoms is killing me. (It's week one of a four week driving moratorium) I am not within an easy walk of the shops so I miss my independence big time.

Anyway, I feel guilty that my car ignition has broken and will cost about $1000 to repair - hardly worth it considering the 15 year old Accord is only worth abou $2,000 anyway so even if I wanted to break the curfew, I aint going anywhere! I feel enormous guilt that I haven't done the usual pre-Christmas maintenance, guilt that I haven't yet bought my Christmas cards and I only send them to people I don't usually see much of so they need to be out by now. Guilt that I only have $80 in the bank until the 15th but just spent $1100 on a new camera . . . fuck I only have two pairs of shoes and some rubber thongs . . .I am not a clothes horse, I drive a 15 year old car . . . surely I can spend a little on my self without being wracked with guilt. Then I'm just bloody angry at kids who are so chilled at the prospect of housework and linen changing . . . "Ahh relax mum, I'll do it Tuesday . . ." or "don't worry, I changed my sheets last month". All well and good but I'm going commando because no washing's been done! (actually I don't mind it too much, feral suits me) But really, is this important? . . I'm happy for them to stew in their own filth as long as they don't bring MY standards down. It's my house, It's my environment, my mortgage and I insist that all but their festy little boudoir's are clean, sweet smelling, vacuumed and dusted once a week . . . I have standards!

Then, I'll have another cry . . top up my glass and probably sleep like a baby. I think I need someone to make love to me like a thrashing machine or to take out my angst on a punching bag. Thommo's taking me to the growers market tomorrow so I can wreak vengence on large vegetables and feel guilty about eating an organic egg and bacon roll!

Indulge Me

Boring post today . . . I have been playing with my new toy around the back yard. A Canon EOS 400D 10 mp Digital SLR. I know about six buttons and have browsed 2 menus. I have worked out the focus and how to upload photos to my PC. I haven't a clue what the ISO button or the WB or Jump buttons do but I'm getting there. I've played with my big lens and definitely had a Nananoo moment "Whoooaa!" There's nothing terribly interesting to photograph today except rabbits and magpies so I might go out and catch some birdies with the boofy lens early tomorrow morning. My apologies in advance for the self indulgence but it's my blog, bla bla . . .

A fencepost without a fence . . .

Gardenia - the hedge smells wonderful in summer!

Robyin Gordon Grevillia, just bout to bloom

The Lily Pad

Plumbago

Patterson's Curse

Funny what you find lying around the garden!

Close up of seed balls on Liquidamber
(This is the tree that sheds into my pool every July/August)

"Awwww rirrypirrry helping to put up the schparkly rights . . . the bewfulls bewfulls"
. . . sorry, she has that effect on me.

POQ PC

Because it’s Christmas . . . well because Christmas is approaching, there is much in the news, on the blogs and in conversation generally about what this means. There is rampant political correctness with Americans being encouraged to call their Christmas Tree a “Dream Tree” and to refer to the Christmas Break as the “Holiday Break”. There is pressure on early childhood educators to de-Christmas their decorations and nativity references in an ever expanding multi-cultural curriculum. Even in my place of work where two out of the three partners are Christians, we send Wilderness Calendars to clients so as not to offend, the large Jewish client base that we have although interestingly enough, we receive Christmas Cards from some of these clients.

Now I’m all for being polite. I’m all for having empathy and tolerance for race, religion, customs, creed – even dress code. I have no problem if the Christians want to wear a cross around their neck to school, if the Muslim wants to wear the hijab or the jew forgo Christmas for Hannukah. I have no issues with religious specific schools, Christian or Islamic. Everyone has the right to preserve and practice their faith. I don’t care if gays want to appropriate the rainbow as their symbol of sexuality. I don’t even care that Red Santa is an advertising logo for Coca Cola . . he’s a jolly old souls and he makes me happy!

What I do care about, is the noisy minority dictating policy and actually effecting change without the plebiscite of the wider majority.

Some news items this week:

Cairns Santa Sacked For Being too Personal

A retired actor come Myer Store Santa was sacked because he said “God Bless You” to some of the store patrons and complimented a child on the attractiveness of his mother. Upon being asked who brought the child to Santa on that particular day, the boy replied “My mummy, she’s over there”. Santa’s retort, “Oh yes so she is, what a very pretty mummy you have!” Is that sackworthy? Jesus if someone commented on what an attractive mummy I was, I’d take it in my stride, my ego would swell and I’d have to go up a hat size!

Roadside Memorial Removed After Complaint

Just north of where I live, a poor father of 2 lost his life when his motorbike was collected by a truck. His distraught family erected a small plaque mounted on a custom wooden frame, no more than a metre long. This was installed at the side of the road on the council owned verge. It was a sweet reminder of the man this family had lost, in a location that they passed every day. One person complained that this was a distraction . . . how many? Yes you read right ONE fucker complained and the council removed the plaque. I really hope this family puts a petition together to reinstate the plaque which unlike so many was not adorned with distracting flowers and teddybears, nope, just a simple carved wooden sign and a candle.

Ho Ho Ho – Politically Incorrect

An attempt to prevent Santa’s from saying “Ho Ho Ho” because it could be offensive to women and frightening to little children, was thwarted this week as Political Correctness gone mad . . .apparently ‘Ho’ is a derogatory word for an American Black woman so what place it has here I don’t know and how a preschooler would make that association absolutely escapes me!

People, this is Australia. We are renowned for being forthright, insulting, apathetic. We call a spade a fuckin’ shovel. Although it takes a bit to stir us into actioon, we dont allow others to come the raw prawn so why do we put up with this namby pamby sucking up to one or two dissenters who’s delicate sensibilities would have us sanitise, life the universe and everything. It’s bloody un-Australian and has to be stopped.

A boong is a boong, I was a dirty pommy bastard when I arrived here, Kiwi’s are still sheep shaggers. Spiks, Micks and Wogs deal with it. A curry muncher does and a towel-head wears one so get over it. You can pray to Mecca or play with your Dradle . . .use a fork or a chopstick . . . wear a hajib or a cork hat for all I care. Take it with a grain of salt. Have a sense of humour. Imagine if we all pointed at each other and started laughing at our differences instead of whingeing about upsetting each other Now, check you're knowledge on some real Aussie values and get off the politcially correct bandwagon.

1: Which of the following is NOT an Aussie value?

A: Telling jokes that involve New Zealanders and sheep, or Asians and homework.

B: Ignoring Warnie's off-field transgressions because he is the Sheik.

C: Living in England and claiming Steve Irwin was being reckless.

D: Rubbishing Australia's parliaments and politicians.

2. What is Australia's official language?

A: Yes.

B: Que?

C: I am very happy to be in Australia.

D: English

3: What does "girt" mean?

A: Sorry, could you repeat that in English?

B: Encircled.

C: Confused.

D: Destroyed, as in "Mark Latham girt my camera".

4: What is the significance of April 25, 1915?

A: Phar Lap won the Melbourne Cup.

B: The Anzacs landed at Gallipoli.

C: John Howard became Prime Minister.

D: Greg Norman choked at the Masters.

5: Who is Australia's head of state?

A: Alan Jones.

B: George Bush

C: Tony Abbott.

D: Queen Elizabeth II

6: What is the significance of the number 99.94?

A: It was Don Bradman's Test batting average.

B: Interest rates were this high under Labor.

C: Bert Newton will retire at this age.

D: Pi (without sauce).

7: Which of the following is an Australian native?

A: Russell Crowe.

B: Mel Gibson.

C: Jackie Kelly.

D: The red-bellied black snake.

8: Which of the following was an unbridled success?

A: Naomi Robson's mission to rescue Wa-Wa from cannibals.

B: The Joh-for-Canberra campaign.

C: The Leyland P76.

D: The 2000 Sydney Olympics.

Answers:1,C; 2,D; 3,B; 4,B; 5,D; 6,A; 7,D; 8,D:

Rate your Aussieness:

8: Welcome, cobber, want a beer?

6-7: No worries.

4-5: Near enough.

3-4: That'll do.

0-2: At least you had a go. Come on in.

Nurrells No More

I am very proud of myself. I am now in my 7th non smoking day after having the habit since I was 16! Despite outward appearances. I couldn't tell you how many people are surprised when they see me smoking for the first time "My God! I'd have never picked you for a smoker!" or "You so don't look like a smoker" . . . whatever a smoker looks like. Perhaps the fact that I don't have nicotine stained fingers or a raspy cough counts for something!

I've mentioned that we were ten pound poms. Immigrants to Australia from England in the 1960's. (stay with me, it is relevant) My father had a job to come to in Australia but it involved a two year stint in Melbourne then an interstate move to Sydney. The move to Sydney happened during my formative years. I'd just had time to make friends in Victoria before the huge wrench. I tearfully left my first boyfriend behind, Steven Rodriguez, I wonder what he's up to now?

The upshot of all the moving and shaking was a term at Carlingford High school in what was then, 2nd Form . . . I was 14 years old. At the time, I wasn't sure whether my parents would buy a house in the area or whether this last term of the school year would be my only one at this particular school. It was important to connect, to make friends, to not feel like the transient new kid. It was here that I met Kate. Like all my best friends, she was pretty, happy, popular, thin as a whip . . . she knew everyone and everyone knew her and I was lucky that she too was a horse owner so straight away we had something to talk about which of course managed to get me into the inner sanctum of her circle of friends and gave me a sense of enormous belonging.

Once Dusty (my horse), was shipped up from Melbourne, Kate and I became inseperable companions. We rode every weekend, we stayed at each other's places. We holidayed together. We shopped together. We met boys together . . . we learned how to do the 'draw-back'.

Yep, back in the day when you could buy a pack of Viscount tens for 90cents (the pack was just small enough to stick in one of those "Fibs" stretchy bra's and withstand the jiggling of a gallop along Rexona's manicured nature strip. We would go down Loyalty Road, now lined with light industrial offices and factories, to a small but beautiful sandstone creek. The horses could splash in the water and we'd picnic on one of those huge flat, water-worn sandstone shelves and smoke ourselves stupid. We blew smoke rings, blew smoke out of our noses, inhaled and giggled. That my friends was the beginning of a long and expensive relationship with nicotine!

I did end up moving after that term, into Sydney's Northwest where I've pretty much lived ever since. Kate and I still keep in touch - she now lives about 5kms from me. She has of course given up. In fact most of my smoking friends gave up by the 80's. Thommo and TheBoss used to smoke . . . I remember fagging on in the car from Sydney to Adelaide! Can you imagine? The MerryWidow just stopped before having her babies and never looked back. Ark stopped about six months ago to save money. In fact only one or two of my contemporary friends smoke. TheBenchwarmer virtually chain smokes foreign cigarettes and Ryan tends to toke more than he should.

So, I feel quite good. TheBenchwarmer came over with lunch yesterday (he's so sweet) and although the thought of bumming one of his smokes did cross my mind, it really didn't bother me that much. Despite the fact that for years, I've smoked Benson and Hedges 16's, I only ever smoked half a cigarette, only ever smoked early in the morning and in the evening and at Friday Chardy lunch. I've come to the conclusion that addiction isn't the problem for me, it's the 'habit'. It's about changing habits, doing something different to the norm and I don't even think about it. Just as well really because smoking anywhere other than your own home is becoming more and more difficult and at $12 a packet of 25 the cost is prohibitive.

So, it's the beginning of the journey. ClareBear is elated. I'm putting the savings into a piggy bank that she gave me, to go towards my little trip next year and seriously, given the amount of time on my hands at the moment, I'm doing pretty well.

Apparently if I don't smoke:

• My teeth won't stain (unless of course I keep drinking tea and coffee)
• I won't get wrinkles (that could be a plus)
• My penis will thank me (whoooaaa)
• My sex life will be better (um need a partner first)
• My children will live longer (not if they keep driving the way they do!)
• I will smell nicer (and your point? Dogs already like me?)
• I will be richer (well if I hadn't bought that Canon EOS maybe)
• I will be less 'anxious' (who says I'm anxious, I'm not anxious, I'm perfectly relaxed!!!)
• I will think sharper!
• My sense of smell will improve (great, DrummerBoy's bedroom will be even more odouriferous)
• I will be happier
  
• My sense of taste will improve (I'll move from Target to Versace . . .)
• I will have to change my profile picture . . . and the biggest benefit and the funniest . . .
  
• I will reduce my risk of impotence! Ooops . . too late!
  

So, the end of an era . . . my lungs will thank me . . . my children will love me and my bank balance will grow hopefully! Now just you wait and see . . . I'll go and get run over by a bus!

Feliz Cumpleaños Clare

It's nice when you can share a champers with your kid!

Today is officially ClareBear's birthday. She is 23 years old. Like all mothers, I feel as if it was just a couple of years ago when that epidural kicked in and she was delivered comfortably and easily whilst her father enjoyed a roast chicken dinner to fight off the feints. (True story and a condition she's inherited!). She was the model baby. Due in no small part to copious doses of phenergan to fight a rather nasty skin rash which I developed instead of the 4 day blues! Text book really. Fed every 4 hours, crawled on cue, walked on cue, talked on cue. Took a bit longer than most to toilet train but she's never looked back. Never a biter, a whinger or a crier except at 5.00 'happy hour' like all babies when they're hungry, tired and just plain bothersome. Always smiling and gurgling, playing and imagining.

Tantrums were few and based largely around being dragged off those large toys that gyrate and vibrate outside supermarkets for just under a minute if you're dumb enough to put a dollar in and give the kid a thrill. Rarely disceplined beyond a naughty corner now and than and a whallop for running off in a shopping centre and getting dangerously close to the exterior sliding doors that led onto a main road.

She was a pretty little girl. Fine blonde curls, big hazel eyes . . . her father's good looks and more often than not off with the pixies. No reflective surface was passed without her poncing in front of it, dancing like a fairy flitting among the flowers and oblivious to onlookers. She's never been much for caring what others think.

From being in kindy, she's been able to set goals and achieve them. When they were young, we had a gold star system . . . Clare always made her targets. Right to the point of matching me dollar for dollar to purchase the cutest little dappled Welsh Mountain pony ever, through to 'earning' a trip to Disneyland because she never had 'could try harder' on her school report throughout her whole 7 years of primary school.

She loved reading, riding, dancing, dressing up . . . pop music, chocolate and sparkly stuff. She played patiently with her little brother from his birth to now, where despite the odd meaningless dispute, they are also the best of friends. It's very satisfying for a mum to know that in her absence her children will get on, cooperate and help each other.

She was bright academically but wasn't top of the class, she wasn't the most popular girl, she wasn't the most beautiful, talented or athletic but she embraced life with gusto, enjoying ballet, jazz, school theatrical productions, netball, soccer - in fact anything she turned her hand to, she took on with verve and joy and dedication. She worked really hard through school and had an amazing UAI . . . She laboured long and hard over 4 years to gain her degree in Graphic Design at one of Australia's foremost Fine Arts Colleges, despite the heart-breaking pretention of some of her tutors. She loved hard and fell hard but picked herself up again and still lives life to the full. Even now, she works full time, plays soccer and tennis and goes to the gym. She parties hard, sleeps late, studies Spanish, plans her trips and is for all intent and purposes completely independent. Financially, emotionally, physically.

She is intelligent, funny, attractive, irreverent. She is articulate yet swears like a trouper. She is complacent but unafraid to voice an opinion. She is moral but just a little bit naughty. She is popular without it going to her head. She is thoughtful without being a suck up. She is well-travelled and constantly learning. The things she is not mark her as special. She is not arrogant, she is not boastful, she is not prejudiced, she is not bigotted, she is not materialistic or frivolous, she is not patronising or pedantic . . . she does not hold a grudge, she is not lazy. She is balanced in every way - a great ying to my yang . . . she even's my scales on a daily basis.

She makes me proud through her thoughtfulness and good manners. She makes me proud of the way she conducts herself in public with her youngers, her peers and her elders. I am proud to call her my friend and that's a rare thing for a parent. She (along with DrummerBoy) is the Executor of my Will, my Enduring Guardian, my confidant, at the moment my nursmaid and washer woman and of course my first born.

So my darling, many, many happy returns. Stay happy, healthy, safe. Have fun without encountering danger, explore without taking unnecessary risks, be free without losing all sense of responsibility and and be generous without being wasteful.

I love you always Feliz Cumpleaños querido.

While the Cat's Away

While this old moggy was away, her little mice began to play and in a way that wouldn't have been considered cool at an age when it might have been considered 'more appropriate'. Combine a bunch of 21-25 year olds, 25 metres of thick plastic, a very illegal soaker hose and buckets of bodywash, shampoo and conditioner and you have a 23rd birthday party that ClareBear will remember as her best to date (and to think all that money I wasted years ago on Magicians, Fairies and Face Painters!). Some of their morning after bruises and scars were worse than mine!

The all important run up. The better the run, the further you go -
Jem in front, Clare hot on her heels

Westie has focus and style but not taking any chances
that the shampoo might not be 'no tears'

Mitch might be a good surfer but his control of the 'mat' is dubious. Drops in on Clare and wipes her out!

Karma . . Curly follows suit and wipes out Mitch

Mantrain - Westie, Brad and Macca

The master of speed, style and sheer panache - Brad!

Not even running over Brad prevents Luke from maintaining his pose for 25 metres

Curly . . um . . well yep, that's just Curly

Run Lily, run . . . and you thought Labradors were slow!

What's All The Fuss About?

Ahh this hospital thing is a doddle! I'm obviously one of those high pain threshold, quick healing types. Yep, had major surgery at 11:00am on Thursday 29th and was let out of jail this morning, just 3 days into what should be a six day stay. Ahh . . . I can breathe fresh air, sit in the sunshine, eat fresh fruit and veg instead of reheated slop, pat my dog and order my children about.

Despite my reservations, everything went according to plan. Booked into the Hills Private at 6.00am on Thursday morning to find that the gyny wards are full so I've been given a private room in the chidren's ward. Now this my friends, is pain worse than death, crying, sick toddlers, whining and screaming. So I've worked myself into a blood pressure heightened frenzy upon admittance into my very cheery orange walled room with pretty blue curtains with red Volkswagens posted on them. "Do you usually suffer from high blood pressure" asks the affable Leslie. No I don't, it's the thought of being woken every four hours by crying small creatures that's winding me into a lather. Fortunately, there was only one little girl in children's ward and she was no bother except when they stuck things into her about four times a day poor little mite. Reminded me of Clare at that age, she was in for intensive asthma treatment and rehydration but very good as littlies go. Yeay, kids ward with no kids - a coup!

Anaesthetist pops in, asks all the usual questions and kudos to this man. Never met him in my life but have emerged pain free and alive so gold stars all round and I can't even remember his name.

11 ish, delightful little fresh faced porter called Mitchell wheels me into the bowels of the hospital, without exposing my naked posteria in a very stylish gown. We chatter down to where the operating theatres dwell. All hidden in the basement, windowless and sterile. He's just finished his HSC and thinking about what to do with his future. Sweet little boy with a good sense of humour so we joke about the lovely paper hat's we're wearing and he wishes me luck as I'm pushed along the traffic jam of surgery victims for that morning and parked promptly in a 'waiting bay' outside Operating Theatre 2.

There's a bit of lying around in the ass exposing gown with my silly paper hat on and special anti DVT leg warmers, just outside the operating theatre. It's similar to queuing at the movies waiting for the first session cleanup before you're allowed in. The anaesthetist, pops a pain free canular in my arm in preparation for the operational dose and I'm asked a million times by a swag of different theatre staff:

Them: "You're here for a hysterectomy?"
Me: "Yep"
Them: "You're having your tubes and ovaries removed"
Me "Yep, the lot"
Them: "You're name is Helen Bainbridge?"

Finally, transferred onto the operating table, a quick chat with the surgeon about Put and Call Options and the fact that you can now have installment warrants in your self managed super fund and it's lights out.

What seems the proverbial 3 seconds later and I'm in recovery. (Actually about an hour and a half later). Feeling good thanks to copious amounts of morphine and a nice wash. Handsome doctor tells me it was a difficult surgery thanks to severe endometriosis which didn't show up on the scans, a baseball sized tumour on one ovary and a bunch of fibroids that were causing all the bleeding troubles in the first place. However, all went well and he'll pop in and see me later.

So apart from being very sore on the actual wound sight and a rather tight feeling across my abdomen, I have a smile on m dial thanks to self-administered morphine, a catheter, three lines administering saline, antibiotics and pain killers and am warm and comfy in my little orange room. It really wasn't that painful so I stopped the morphine at about 2.00pm, just an hour after coming out of recovery. It was making me incoherent and not really doing much for me. Thommo came for a visit and was surprised how 'perky' I was. Clare came later and we chatted about what had to be done before I came home. Handsome Doctor came in and said he was going to see Elton John in the Hunter Valley over the weekend and would pop in on Monday to assess the damage but all was good from his end of the knife.

Friday, tubes are out, painkillers disconnected and I had a shower, fortunately without the assistance of either Leslie or Sylvia . . . neither of whom I fancied seeing my nudity despite the fact that they had both blessed me with an anti-inflammatory suppository in the dead of night. Crept up behind me so to speak! They said they can give them to kids without them even waking up . . woke me up with a start I don't mind telling you! Never had one in my life!

Then launched into the first three series of Six Feet Under on a borrowed laptop. No internet unfortunately so , DVD's only. I was well stocked and setup for the entire weekend.

It seems that the BIG deal with this operation is one's ability to pass wind. In fact multiple and frequent farting is encouraged and rated on a scale of 1-10. A little pfft or polite fluff, is not considered enough for you to move onto anything other than a liquid diet - a full blown flatulent fart, will see you given a solid three course meal. Credit to my surgeon, all the potentially leaky bits didn't, and I qualified for a steak by Saturday lunchtime. It was so awful that it also qualified me for the next criteria before leaving, the passing of a poo . . .damn thing gave me the squits!

The nursing staff were great, the food was absolute bollocks and by this morning (Sunday) I'm feeling a million dollars and walking laps around the car park whilst two women who had the same procedure at the same time are still hobbling around and clinging to the corridor walls! So, when Handsome Doctor phoned in to check on his patients, duty nurse Cheryl advised that Mrs Bainbridge is doing so well she's got itchy feet and wants to go home. Yeay . . . he cleared me for six weeks of further convalescence and much to ClareBear's chagrin, she was woken from a fitful slumber to pick me up at 10:00 am. The house is a mess (there was a BIG party here yesterday for her birthday) but I don't care. I'm out of that institution, I feel fine, I don't need any pain killers, just have to make an appointment on Wednesday to have the stitches removed and it's all over! Only humility prevents me from declaring myself a legend in my own lunchtime! Forgive the bragging, I'm normally the humble type . . . just glad to be home. Thanks everyone for your kind wishes, lovely flowers and hamper. I'm afraid DrummerBoy and Kahler, I couldn't convince them to put my innards in a jar for your respective analysis and shelf ornamentation. And DrummerBoy . . . no, there were no 'teeth' in the ovarian cyst. (now you can all go eeeeuuuuuuwwwww!)

Impending Neutoronomy

Ha! I'm s-o-o-o-o glad I took a day off before my surgery. I started the day right with a half hour lie-in. Hilarious . . woke at 6:00am! Hey! That's a half hour sleep-in! I am a mutant, my internal alarm is persistent and regular as clockwork. I tried to roll over and take it easy but my body was screaming for a cup of tea so pushed the hound off the bed, made a cup of Irish Brekky then checked the blogs. So far, a normal day. Then swanked over to the Vampire's to give blood, that was fun . . . it's still pumpin thank goodness! She bruised me this time so I look like a junkie. Actually I have no problem with needles and feel constantly embarrassed that I don't donate enough blood. Although I don't think my A RH- is very valuable as a cross match these days. So, denuded and a little woosy by the loss of a little blood for my op (just in case, always the pragmatist) and further blood work to make sure they don't pump me full of type O instead of A, I headed off to the Chemist. I have to take 4 super duper antibiotic tablets with a meal tonight and NO ALCOHOL *sobs uncontrollably* So the plan is to have an early afternoon drinky poo then a meal, dry out by 10 then the drugs . . . . sorted!

11:00 am and my lovely Outlaws popped in on their way to a lunch and dropped off all sorts of freezer food. Sadly, none will be left by the time I get out of hospital. DrummerBoy will have consumed the lot: Spinach and Fetta Triangles, Mushroom and Chicken Pasties and a home made Quiche - but at least that means my staple store in the pantry will remain untouched. He prefers 'ready mades' to actually putting ingredients together, even though he's quite the chef so for now, my tomato stir throughs, coconut milk, rice, pasta, baked beans and pizza bases are safe.

Sadly, work got on top of me so I had to go in this afternoon and finish the Newsletter and brief the troops - not my best effort I have to admit. I've left a few loose ends. I still haven't updated the website or completed a big mail merge to clients who will be receiving a Wilderness Calendar for Christmas but then again, it won't do any harm to leave a few things undone . . . proves I actually can justify my existence. Even Sgt Bilko was quite sweet and TheBoss of course. The self-obsessed Elder Statesman cranky as ever said nothing. I hope his prostate plays up over the weekend and gives him a severe case of brewers droop!

While I was at work, the hospital rang with the brief.

Her: "You need to show up at 6.00am with your Medicare card and you'll have to pay your $200 excess prior to admission"
Me: "Ooh nice surprise. I thought I was up for $1000. Do I get a private room"
Her: "Yes if there's one available - are you just staying the one night?"
Me: "Um I don't think so, I'm being neutered"
Her: "Oh, well you'll be with us for a few nights then - in that case, you'll need a clean nightie and some toiletries. Don't forget your toothbrush"

I am in good hands . . .really . . . I think . . . or will they send me home after day 1?

Back in time for a quick chotapeg and chain smoke my remaining cigarettes. Roit . . I think Im ready. I have two new large pinky/bluey T-shirt style nighties and a pretty pair of pink pumps with stars on them - all colour coordinated of course and thankfully they cover my less than fabulous knees, a new 'hotel style' cotton dressing gown, three pairs of black yoga pants, two new T shirts. A bevvy of Bridget Joneses which I'll trade for pretties once the scar heals and just for good measure, I bleached my Havainas so they're nice and turquoisy and clean looking. Packed my toiletries bag, complete with about 3 kilos of Naprogesic. Man that's a wonder drug - I sure hope it works in the area where my bits used to be, certainly did when they were still in place and some ibuprofin just in case. I'm not taking ANY chances on running out of Analgesia, private hospital or no! Also bought some American Indian preparation called Black Cohosh and Red Clover or something which is supposed to be good for menopausal symptoms. Apparently, we're straight into it after the op . . . I'll be flushing and sweating all over the place (Why does that make me think of Fat Bastard from Austen Powers?) DrummerBoy asked if they'd give me the bits in a bottle! I think not baby puppy! I've packed some smellies and lip gloss and of course the ubiquitous curl taming creme so I don't look like a nappy headed ho when visitors come. Bang the Gong, We Are On!

Thank you to all of you who have wished me well. I'm a woos and need the positive reinforcement so it's much appreciated, especially from the progeny of course, Christine Hyphen (who lent me 3 series of Six Foot Under and Hamish Macbeth), Thommo and her lovely, lovely, lovely, seven second hugs, Strawberry Girl, Brian (who's lit a candle for my unrecoverable soul bless his gaelic tattoo), Daz, Vanilla and Steph (means a lot coming from you two ladies who are not in the best of health yourselves right now so reciprocal healing thoughts), BabyBro and BabySis and the rest of you who have ventured into the oestrogen zone recently. (I wonder if I'll be less emotional once I'm neutered?) Anonymous . . . you'd better let me know WTF that bird is or I'll go insane!

I've put my order in for a bit of 'tightening' and a 'tummy tuck' so who knows!

See you in about 5 days! Unless it all goes pear-shaped in which case . . . . it's been a hoot and say 'hello' to Paris for me!

You caption it and make me smile!

All I Want for Christmas is . . . ummm . . . .ummmm

The Groovy Granny rang me last night to ask what I would like for Christmas. Yep, she's an organised possum that one and we have our Christmas celebration with her and Ray's Brother, his wife and their three boys, the week before Christmas day. We now draw a Kris Kringle, a Secret Santa - each draws a name out of a hat and has a maximum $100 spend for one person instead of us all busting the bank for each member of the family. We can then buy a 'decent' gift and spend less time opening and more time sweating around the dining table in 35 degree heat with silly paper hats on, sweating into our traditional European roast dinner, complete with pudding and home made custard before we switch into our sarongs and languish on the deck looking out over the Skillion at Terrigal and noting sagely how very lucky we are.

This year, it's so, so hard. I've been thinking and the things I need are well, none. The things I want are well, few. I like a real 'present' because it shows thought and effort and is received with grace and thanks. I don't much care for a voucher because there's always that $12 that is unspendable at the end of the day unless it's a Coles Myer voucher which I can spend at well, Coles, Target, Liquorland, and a number of other outlets to get full value.

But seriously, beyond the big things, the impossible things like world peace, a new American President, a Qantas round the world ticket and an end to third world poverty what could I possibly need? I'd like a new car . . . the old Accord is starting to behave strangely but ClareBear is going oveseas next year so I'll have a spare. I'd like a holiday but that would never come in at under $100. I'd like a new Canon EOS 400D with interchangeable lenses but that's exorbitant. I'd like DrummerBoy to change his linen once a week. I'd like a Jason recliner and a home theatre system to go with it. I'd like the Japanese to stop killing Minky whales for 'research'. I'd like to buy new blankets for the homeless guys in Parramatta Park. I'd like a nice corporate suit that fits well and makes me look like all the other suits when I'm in boardroom situations but then I'd just be another mumbo jumbo asshole running it up the flagpole or throwing it on the tarmac to see if it sticks. I'd like a new mattress or even a new bed or a 6' 2" hairless German who knows how to cook and give a good foot massage but we all know that aint gonna happen so . . . my list is modest. She won't buy anything on it because she'll consider it trivial and not 'gifty' enough but seriously I'd like:

A pool noodle
New wooden spoons (you know how they get all black weird shaped at the end)
2 new pillows
Some 'melts' to put in my oil burners - Lavender, Sandalwood or Tea Rose
A couple of pairs of anklet socks for walking
A car air freshener
A quirky dashboard ornament
A bronzer in a compact
A new doorknob for my bathroom door (currently held into closed position by a face washer draped over the top of the door to help it wedge tight into the door jamb)
A new Holland blind to replace the one that refuses to roll up in my dining room
A handyman for a day! Now there's one that won't come easy! . . .and of course . . .
some new champagne glasses because I've broken the ones given to me last Christmas.

There . . . mind you, I'll probably get a lettuce spinner (yes they make such things), a linen shirt with gold embroidery which I shall pass on to the homeless people in Parramatta Park and a bottle of Moet and Chandon which is very nice but gone in an instant.

So kiddywinks . . what's on your Christmas list and don't tell me you haven't even thought about it! December this weekend folks, time to trim the tree, plan the event, dread the rellies (although I don't I must admit, I have a deep affection for Christmas and lots of fun celebrating it - I've already got my Carols by Candelight candles). Time to get into action for that one day of the year that unites and separates. Maybe this year, I'll manage not to smash the table.
Don't ask!

Can you see a little bouncy Santa on the floor . . .
he kept bouncing for about 10 minutes after his traumatic fall from grace!

Bewfuls Boy

Becks . .golden balls . . . bless his Pepsi stained soul is in town with the US Galaxy team for a demonstration game tonight. I'm sure he only went to the States for the money to pay for Posh's Jimmy Chu's. ClareBear grabbed tickets to the Sydney United / Queensland Game last night and Posh's hubby ponced onto the field along with his little known American mates, with his slightly unbalanced tattoes and number 4 bob and waved to a less than crowded stadium.

Now I have to say, I'm not sure what all the fuss is about. I'm not a great follower of soccer but I know he played for my brother's all time fantabulous team Manchester United (Our house dons an Old Trafford plaque above the front door an other United memorabilia - the man's possessed - Babybro not Becks) before he moved to Real Madrid. I know he can bend it, I know he's sold out to a country who calls football running to the 10 yard line and shouting ' hut hut hut' . . with a funny shaped ball and body armour worthy of a Halo warrior. (Wordnerd and Brianf are gonna kill me!) But, and as you know there's always a but, the guy looks like a GOD in an Armani suit. He's just fine as a man can be until he opens his mouth. Go Becks baby, you're eye candy at worst. But just look at the intellect . . .

"Pele was a complete player. I didn't see him live obviously, because I wasn't born"

"My parents have been there for me, ever since I was about 7"

"I remember so clearly us going into hospital so Victoria could have Brooklyn. I was eating a Lion bar at the time"

"Alex Ferguson is the best manager I've ever had at this level. Well, he's the only manager I've actually had at this level. But he's the best manager I've ever had"

"We're definitely going to get Brooklyn christened, but we don't know into which religion"

"I always used to go for blondes and quiet girls, but Victoria is the total opposite - dark and loud"

"Well, I can play in the centre, on the right and occasionally on the left side"

Versatile or what . . who cares . . he is hawt!

Waving to God and Speaking in Tongues

Spot the black, fat lesbian in a wheelchair? No? She's not welcome in this place!

I must be in a serious mood this weekend. Lots of thoughts flowing between the ears (Amazing since there isnt much else in there). One of the commenters on this blog is a cleric. He’s a Minister in the Church of Ireland. He’s very intelligent, funny, politically and geographically aware, the sort that you would probably enjoy hearing a sermon from on any Sunday. Interesting really, as a non-believer, I find his site thought-provoking and his comments on my and other blogs unusually secular. It struck me that in a comment criticising the ”God Squad” that I might have hurt his sensibilities, I think not as he’s very broad minded but it also made me want to clarify the comment.

I am not religious. I was raised an Anglican, the Church of England variety and completed all the usual sacraments. I taught Sunday School in my teens and enjoyed the social side of church life, particularly in Melbourne at a little Church we attended in Donvale many years ago. The move to Sydney disconnected that nice feeling as we found it difficult to find a Parish that emulated it's close knit community and delightful Minister.

My mother was a Welsh Evangalist, quite religious but searching for a Church that suited her so we were dragged through the Baptist, Methodist, Wesley and numerous other breakaways in the hope of finding an ‘appropriate’ venue for my mother to Worship. None really worked for her and our churchgoing life was suspended. My father was Church of England and highly principled yet the Priest who attended him during his dying days was the son of a beloved friend and a Catholic, he always considered himself a non-denominational Christian. I married a Catholic and whilst I didn’t convert, I became accustomed to attending Mass and raised both children through the Catholic Education System as promised. I studied Judaism at University and attended the Great Synagogue on several occasions and dabbled as one does in Buddhism many years ago. So, I’ve had some pretty wide exposure to organised religion. Whilst I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense, and I have great scepticism about the e Church at large, I have deep respect for organisations such as the Salvation Army, St Vincent DePaul, Anglicare and similar philanthropics that do great work for the marginalised, underprivileged and the needy. So, why am I so down on the God Squad? Well I'm not. It's just this particular branch of pentacostal ratbags for whom I have no respect.

About 500metres from my leafy little enclave of acreage, suburbia is encroaching. At the end of our road is a large shopping centre, an ice skating rink, a light industrial park (offices and the like) a Convention Centre and the “Till on the Hill”. This is the Australian Headquarters of the Christian Life Centre – Hillsong. Inspired originally by an ex-pat Kiwi, it is an evangelical and pentacostal religious organisation.

They attract their parishioners very cleverly by offering an alternative to the conventional, a new age bible, rock and roll services, merchandising, counselling, medical centres, youth and women’s conventions and a focus on becoming wealthy through knowing God. It’s a safe place for younglings who have not yet forayed into the sinful world of sex, drugs and Saturday night binge drinking. It’s somewhere kids can go before they terrorise the streets on their P plates and it obviously fills a void that conventional Churches have been so far unable to do.

So what’s the harm? They believe in a benevolent and forgiving God. Hillsong's A-Z service delivery is immense, offering something for everyone from medical practices and psychiatric counselling to coffee shops. They encourage moral behaviour, no sex before marriage, respect for God and each other. They’re normal law abiding citizens, bringing religion into the modern age and believe that living your life blessed is better than living your life rich – or do they?

It is all about money and control. They preach that the more successful and wealthy you are, the better equipped you are to support the fiscal needs of the church and their work. They have commercialised religion beyond its biblical simplicity and now have a tangible, strong, influential and fully emerged business and political influence. Ironic that their medical and psychiatric practices have the pseudonym “Emerge”. The atmosphere during services is unrestrained, friendly and emotional, the responses loud and heartfelt. Hillsong promotes that God wants people to live "healthy and prosperous lives in order to help others more effectively". It is a message of "personal effectiveness" so people can make a bigger difference to the world. They are more like an Anthony Robbins motivational conference than a Church gathering.

At last count there were 1100 Assemblies of God churches in Australia under the presidency of the senior pastor of Hillsong, Brian Houston. They enjoy tax free status, as do all Churches in Australia and the evangelising of the masses has led to a complex web of financial arrangements that is impossible to detangle. Whilst they welcome checking of their accounts ‘via appointment’ any attempt by their parishioners do so is ‘frowned upon’.

Houston told ABC television's Australian Story in August 2005 that in the previous financial year, Hillsong had an income of $50million, and had $100million in "facilities". Little has been said about their worth since then. They hold “Miracle Offering Weekends” to raise cash for their multi-million dollar building projects, one of which includes the massive convention centre that sits beside the current Till. An excerpt from a letter to parishioners requesting their financial generosity to repatriate child soldiers in Uganda read:

“Our commitment is that we will give the greater of either 10 per cent or the first $500,000 of the Miracle Offering. Hillsong Church is not built on the gifts and talents of a few, but on the sacrifice of many."

10% well that was big of them - taking the term tithe literally I note. What about the other 90%! They raised $7.2 million! Oh and they can pay via cash, cheque or credit card. I am not averse to fundraising for charitable causes all Churches do it . . . but little is said about the charitable causes and in this case, so little is actually contributed . . . most is sunk into the purchase of valuable land and the building of megalithic facilities and the establishment of new businesses, not to mention lining the pockets of its initiators, Brian and Bobbie Houston.

"If you believe in Jesus," says Hillsong’s leader Brian Houston, "He will reward you here on earth as well as in Heaven”. It is this prosperity gospel teaching that puts him at odds with conventional religious leaders.

And don’t even get me started on Bobbie Houston’s philosophy on women. Young Hillsong women go to high schools to teach female students about make-up and skin care. Fat is out. Do some exercise. Bobbie Houston (the wifey poo) "If I carry weight I feel like a retard.” (I was unaware that being intellectually challenged was linked to weight gain) ... And then there’s this – “How are you going to do anything to surprise your man when you need a hydraulic crane just to turn over in bed?" She also recommends having plastic surgery, if it makes you feel better and it is for the right reasons, and "girls, pelvic floor exercises - can you believe I am saying this? - you know, I have heard that orgasm is not as strong if you are really sloppy in that area". and on her CD She Loves and Values Her Sexuality. Which is all about ‘catching a man’. If you don't look great, you won't get a decent looking husband and, if you already have one, to quote Bobbie, “he'll leave you!”

Tomorrow I will post something funny . . . promise!