Happy New Year? Definitely!!

My son asked.

She said yes!

What a grand way to begin a new year.

(the ring can be seen here)

I'm still here - just!

I've been extremely slack about updating here. I've been a little on the busy side.

I've armed myself with paintbrush/saw/sewing machine/secateurs/rake/wheel barrow/hammer first thing in the morning and, by the time I put them down at night, I am too bloody knackered to type an entry. My inbox is bulging, the number on my google reader is probably at maximum and my back is a million years old but the inside of Mum's room is ready (or will be once the glassier comes this afternoon). The outside (we are making her an enclosed courtyard garden) is still only about half done but it was a lot more work than I thought it would be.

She arrives in four days.

I shall catch up on all my buddies when the work is done (or when it rains). I might even put in some pics!

Until then, my shovel is waiting. I have fence post holes to dig.

a prickly present

When we moved to this town (nearly 19 years ago), the neighbourhood welcomed us in different ways.

The woman next door came in as I was lugging boxes around only a few moments after the removalist's truck had left. She introduced herself and her three daughters (then aged in their early teens). She had obviously been watching the unloading because she asked how many kids I had and how old they were. She then offered the services of her daughters as babysitters.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and they were all freshly bathed and in their nighties (and brunch coats!).

I met the bloke on the other side the next morning. I was hanging out a load of washing (at about 6am) and saw movement over the fence. There was a (quite good-looking) young man standing on the back verandah. He was stark bollocking naked, bugling a longneck and pissing over the verandah edge. When he saw me he gave a nod and grunted "morning". He then shook his drips and went back inside.

The neighbours were interesting so far!

The neighbours across the road introduced themselves in the person of their youngest son. He hung over the gate one morning and asked if he could play with my kids. He and my son were best mates within a week. I didn't meet his parents for another couple of months (although I did see them drive off to work in the mornings and heard them bellow for Wayne to come home in the evenings).

We gradually met most of the town over the first few weeks. There was the weird yank who took great pride in is tanned scrotum collection (and was the one and only person I have ever heard say "god damn motherfuckering son-of-a-bitch"). There was the elderly couple that lived in the only weatherboard house in town and drove a lime green Valiant. We met Darby who was the local wood merchant and Bo, the local sculptor. Ina introduced herself when she rang to complain that my kids were walking the dogs around town in their pyjamas (the dogs were wearing the pjs, not the kids). There was Nelly, who ran the local servo and knew all the gossip (and pumped every customer for information, which she embellished and shared liberally).

There was Mike, the Welsh truckie, his wife and their ever expanding brood of red headed daughters. There was Rosemary and her roo-shooter husband. There was Drew, the local stud muffin. Ted, at the pub, who drank all his profits. John the mechanic (with a glass eye).Old Mrs B who got lost all the time going to visit her mate Beryl and Old Mrs Wills (as opposed to Young Mrs Wills) who used to sit on her front porch and watch the traffic all day. The local Headmaster (and his teacher wife) and his gang of delinquent children. We met Fiona (the dike) and her brother Glenn (who was later jailed for kiddie porn).

It was a typical small country town, full of long-time families and imported weirdos. Within a few months, we knew them all.

But, on that first day, we only met two. There was the next door lingerie clad neighbour and Mr Driscoll.

That first evening, after I had eventually herded the kids home from their exploration of their new turf, we ate a late dinner and I sat the older kids down on the back verandah to read them a story while M put the baby to bed. It was heading for dusk and we were nearly finished our chapter of The Once and Future King when one of the kids noticed and elderly (and very scruffy) man walking up our drive. He greeted us with a huge smile, and in a strong Somerset accent, undimmed by decades of living down here, he introduced himself as Albert Driscoll.

He was so short and stocky, he almost looked dwarfed. He was unkempt in a manner only found in elderly bachelors living in the country. His feet were covered my well worn carpet slippers and his trousers looked as though they had once been part of a brown suit (probably de-mob). He wore a jacket from a charcoal grey suit (well patched), a frayed once white shirt and a holey blue jumper. His head bore a flat cap with a frayed brim. His age I guessed at somewhere in the mid 70s (I never found out an accurate number).

Against his chest was clutched an enormous misshapen root ball. It was his welcome gift .

I made him tea and found some biscuits and he stayed and talked for half an hour or so. Before he left, he helped M plant the root ball next to the front gate.

That first summer, very little happened to the root ball. A few straggly shoots let us know that it wasn't dead and that it was a rose.

The next year it really got going. It produced a lot of new growth and a brief crop of tiny pink button-hole blooms.

Once it got going, it went feral. It sent up shoots as thick as my thumb. It rapidly covered the whole fence and wound it's way across the gate.

It swamped the crepe murtle and blended with the honey suckle. It crawled across the wood shed.

Wherever it touched the ground it grew roots and started a new plant. Except the new growth had single white flowers instead of the pink.

Despite my constant pruning (no, actually, it was hacking), it grew into an enormous mat of foliage and flowers.

Today, I bit the bullet and attacked it for real. I have chopped and hacked and rooted-out and generally massacred. Some parts were so thick I had to use the loppers. I have an huge, ginormous pile of cuttings (and mangled, much prickled fingers).

I have managed to disentangle parts of the crepe murtle and uncovered some lilies that I planted years ago (that are, remarkably, still alive).

The sad thing is, all these pictures were taken today. After I did my hacking.

It might take me a week (and several blood transfusions) but I'll get there.

Mr Driscoll's roses will be tamed.

Or I'll be pricked to death trying!

*swat*

Most of the people I know have a stand way of greeting others.

My husband says "hi dee hi" and my son says "what's going on?". I have a pommie mate that always says "alright?". Others say "G'day" or "hello" or how's it going?". There's "how y'going" and "what's up" and "morning". I have an elderly acquaintance that greets everyone with "who's this here, then?" and my best friend always just says the person's name.

That is, for most of the year.

In about mid November it all changes. Everyone suddenly has two distinct greeting. There is there usual, run-of-the-mill salutation for inside meetings and the standard November/December greeting for outside.

"The (sometimes insert expletive) flies are friendly."

It is invariably accompanied by the great Aussie salute.

Where the hell are the dung beetles?

out with the old

So, we have a new government. And a brand new Prime Minister.

The party made lots (and lots and lots) of pre-election promises. They are going to spend vast amounts of money on lots of very popular things (none of which will directly affect us). There are to be tax cuts (which are nice but not really necessary for our income bracket). He's going to water down Workchoices and get rid of AWAs (which, again, doesn't touch us) and do other nice things job wise. The troops are being brought home from Iraq (no timetable of when or whether this includes our field hospital and engineers) but increased in Afghanistan (which will effect us). There are lots of positive plans about "the environment" but, as Peter (I can't sing or dance) Garrett will be in charge, the whole idea is pretty scary (does that man ever think or bother to do research before he opens his mouth?).

Fiscal policy will stay pretty much the same as it has been because Mr Rudd played the me-too game. Interest rates will rise because they are doing that world wide. Petrol will still be expensive. House prices will remain ridiculous. Pensioners will (again) only get a token rise.

Like the whole bloody campaign, the outcome is all very ho-hum *yawn*

What wasn't boring about the weekend was our visitors.

My gorgeous son, and his significant other (when the hell will he marry that girl?!) came down to help us celebrate the patriarch's birthday.They brought prezzies, which is always nice, but they most importantly, brought themselves.

They arrived late afternoon on Saturday. After much hugs, the cab-sav was opened and we sat and nattered while dinner cooked. A quick glance at the telly gave M a pleasant birthday gift of the party he supported getting voted in but election conversation was vetoed as we had all voted for different parties and that debate is one that is never going to be won.

We stayed up late and caught up on all the news and gossip. It was wonderful.

Sunday was a lazy day. S did a bit of marking at our dining room table but, mostly, we all just slothed. My son introduced me to the joys of Facebook (and signed me up!) and showed me a few other sites that are accessible now that we are on broadband. A pleasant lazy day.

I guess poor Johnnie Howard had a pretty shitty weekend. But I didn't.

freak of nature?

I either have the world's first push-me-pull-you dove with a head at both ends....

....or she's hatched another chick.

Yep. It's a chick.

But, couldn't she have found a better place to breed than the nesting supply basket? Birdbrain!

psst - wanna buy a vowel?

It's been a while since I did a quiz. Obviously time for another one.

I thought, maybe, I'd find out how much of myself I have exposed in these pages (or how well you remember). There will, as usual, be an outstanding prize for the winner (if you are happy to supply a snail mail addy).

1. I have a huge dog. What is his name?

2. I live in a (pathetically) little country town. Where is it?

3. Which of my family are in the army?

4. We are renovating our house. Why?

5. My best friends is

a) anorexic
b) an ICU nurse
c)having an affair
d) pregnant

6. What sort of vehicle does my youngest drive?

7. My husband's dog killed Peanut. What was Peanut?

8. What does my son do for a living?

9. I have kids living in which Queensland town?

10. Do I have any siblings?

11. What colour is my hair?

12. I'm a bit of a sports tragic. Which sport?

OK, see how you do. Answers in comments or by email (the is a link at the bottom of the page).

There will be a proper entry tomorrow. I promise.

may the speed be with me

Guess who's got broadband?!?

Yep. The one and only ME!!

YAY

There are lots of other things I could be writing about because I have had an interesting couple of days but I am too busy playing with my super quick browser. Maybe tonight.

Or tomoorow.

Did I mention that I have broadband?

*happy dance*

an interview with Jen

Now that my brain is not sleep-deprived moosh, I can actually write a proper entry.

A few days ago, Jen had an entry in which she answered questions designed by one of her readers. She offered to send questions out to any of her buddies who asked to join the game. Here are the questions she sent me (and my answers).

1. What are the joys, and what are the sorrows, of having children in the military?

The joys, I suppose, are mainly those that I have for all my children, military or not. Watching them grow, mature, experience life. Pride in their achievements, in their demeanour, in their responsibility.

There are two joys that are particularly attached to their military service. The first is my pride at their choice of career. It is not an easy choice. It is not just a job but a all-consuming life. That they feel strongly enough about the defence of our country, our national social responsibilities and protection of our values is a matter of huge pride for me. A joy indeed.

The other particular joy was unexpected. It is the knowledge they share with me about their contact and (often quite intimate) understanding of the foreign cultures with which they have contact. Through their deployments overseas, they have been exposed to both the country in which they are stationed and the foreign nationals with whom they serve. That process of learning with, and through, them is a great joy.

The sorrows. Hmmm. Many, yet able to be condensed into two easy words. Fear. And distance.

Fear for the things they see, the things they might have to do (or have done) and fear for what could be done to them. As a mother I want, no, need, to protect my children. No matter how grown up they are, that need will never leave me. Yet, in the places my kids are sent, that is so far from possible, it is fantasy.

There is also fear that they have so many secret from me. There are so many thing they can't ever tell me. I know that they have been witness to (if not part of) horrific things yet I can't be part of the process of coping and acceptance. I guess that fear is also part of the sorrow of distance.

They are, whether abroad or on our soil, physically very far from me. They are also emotionally remote in areas I cannot even begin to understand. Our relationship has become one of mail and phones and secrets. A sorrow indeed.

2. You seem to be a great cook! What is your favorite recipe of all time.

I must preface this by saying I am more a lover of eating the food than preparing it.

So, favourite recipe. This one is a whole family favourite and is what we eat for breakfast on Christmas morning. (And, yes, I know it is a dessert recipe but, meh, Christmas is that sort of time.)

Passionfruit Flummery

In a bowl mix a heaped tablespoon gelatine powder with a cup of sugar. Slowly mix in a cup of cold water. Set aside. Boil 2 cups of water with the shells of two passionfruit. In another saucepan blend 2 tablespoons of corn flour with the juice of two oranges and a lemon. Slowly add a cup of the boiling water. Stir over a low heat until it turns thick. Pour in the gelatine mixture, still stirring. Add the pulp of 8 passionfruit and pour into a serving bowl. Refrigerate for several hours until set.

3. What are your favorite luxuries in terms of time to yourself when your hubby is on a business (or other trip)? For example, my mom’s best friend has macaroni and cheese every time her husband is away, because she adores it and he hates it. What do you choose to do?

I think the thing I like best is that any sense of a timetable goes out the window. I can eat when (and what) I like, I can get up late or burn the midnight oil, I can go out in the evening. What I choose to do is exactly what I bloody well like because I don't have to constantly take someone else's demands, desires and moods into consideration.

Bliss.

4. What is the thing that you’re most looking forward to in terms of becoming a grandma?

Sharing.

Knowledge, experience, love, cuddles, stories. Yep. Sharing. With the child. With my daughter. With her man.

And watching.

Watching the child grow. Watching my daughter grow as a parent. Watching a couple become a family.

And spoiling.

That's a grandparent's job. To spoil the kid outrageously.

So there you go. My interview with Jen.

I think it is only right and proper that I offer the same deal she did. So, if any of my buddies would like me to pose four d&m questions (based on my reading of their writings) for answering in blogs, let me know in my comments space and I will email the questions to you.

*yawn*

It is really sad when, after a whole weekend of totally flogging my body in the garden and having the bed to myself (yes, he's away again), I can't sleep. I'm tired as but just I rattle around like a fart in a bottle. Slumber eludes me.

I've watched appalling television (I think a WWE film qualifies as appalling), had a nice warm shower, done a crossword, knitted. I've even tried a long midnight walk. Sleep just isn't coming.

So I shall see if writing an entry and reading some buddies makes the sleepiness come.

Trouble is, I've got SFA to write about. There've been no shipwrecks or murders, nothing to laugh at at all.

I could have a whinge about the breadwinner (he came home, sat on his arse and made sympathetic noises about my gardening exhaustion and then buggered off again), but that is so boring it would put everyone else to sleep.

I could give a run-down on my feelings about the election next Saturday but that gets covered in two words. Over it.

I could answer the interview questions that Jen sent me but that requires using a brain in a slightly less mushy condition than the one I am currently operating.

Ah. Idea. I could tell you the story about my daughter and the snake and show you what a Echis carinatus astolae (saw-scaled viper) looks like.

This is what my daughter found on the way to the ablution block the other day. She, and one of the medics, caught it with a bucket so it could be relocated to a less populated area. (Not much of a story, I know, but , meh, it comes with an illustration)

It doesn't look like much, sitting in the bottom of it's grotty bucket, but it is one of the most poisonous serpents from the region.

OK, that was my grand effort. I've got nothing more. Time to read the creative genius of others.

can you feel the serenity?

It's a balmy 22 degrees, I'm home alone, Schumman is playing in the background over the trill of cicadas. All's right with my world.

I'd write an entry but, quite frankly, I can't be arsed.

introducing..... "The Graygan"

Ladies and gentlemen..... meet my grandchild.

May I present "The Graygan".

going batty

When we were up in Townsville, we spent a lot of time sitting on the back porch (clothed!). The night noises were so very different from those at home. The geckos barking on the wall as they chased biddies, the cane toad making disgusting cane toad noises, the tree frogs chirruping, the palm fronds rasping together in the breeze and some restless birds chittering and flapping in and out of the trees.

Or, we thought they were birds.

When I managed to get a closer look, I realised we where hosting a flying fox party. They had found a bunch of ripe fruit in one of the neighbour's palms and were having a feast.

It was at about this time that I discovered an interesting thing about bats and cameras. They just don't go together. You can't aim at something you can't see! And, if you do happen to fluke it and capture the creature, the flash makes the eyes the only thing visible.

After many tries, this is all I managed to take.

(This is what you would be seeing if I was a half-way decent photographer....

but I'm not so I had to steal that one.)

Anyway, the reason I am waffling on about fruit bats is because of an incident that happened to night. Which was a repeat of something that happened on Sunday.

We were just about to go to bed. I was in the bedroom and the man was in the bathroom. They were the only two lights on in the house. Suddenly, what I thought was a big moth swooped past my head. I followed the movement and realised we had a little mouse bat chasing moths around the room.

We flapped towels around to shoo it out and it headed straight out the back door.

We get a few of them around, particularly when the Bogongs hatch. We have never had one in the house before (other than a small orphaned one my neighbour vacuumed up because it scared her). It was quite a buzz.

I don't know if it was the same fella, but I had a wee visitor just a while ago. I was catching up on some diary buddies and, whoosh, there he was doing boglaps round the room.

Maybe the aircon disorients their radar or something but, for whatever reason, I rather like having the odd bat drop in.

naked grandmothers (and other frightening things)

The thermometer on our porch hit 41+ today. I didn't actually melt but it was a near thing.

The crazy thing is, the last week has been beautiful spring weather and I've felt totally ploppy. Along comes a mid-summer scorcher and my mood soars faster than the mercury. A day that should have completely knocked the stuffing out of me and I'm on top of the world.

I did some shopping, I spent a couple of hours in the garden, I cleaned out the aquarium and even did some housework. I achieved more on this single leaf-wilting day than I have in the last week.

I took the dogs for a good long walk just as the sun was setting and came home and watered the garden. I took a nice, sinfully long, shower (cool water, washed my hair) and then sat out on the back porch, stark bollocking naked, and luxuriated in the feel of a warm zephyr on my damp skin.

Some days are just so perfect that not even foul weather can spoil them.

If I try hard and long, I might even convince myself that my glorious day has absolutely nothing to do with my husband flying off to Melbourne for a week!

feeding the troops

One of the things that had my baby quite excited about my visit was the prospect of some "mum" cooking. She had given me a list of some favourites that she wanted me to produce during our stay. It was quite an extensive list.

The idea of spending most of my "holiday" in the kitchen wasn't particularly appealing but, what could I do? I'm a Mum and that's what Mums do. Not necessarily cooking but the whole bend-over-backwards thing to spoil pamper make their kids happy.

She warned us, on the trip back to the house, that she had been routinely eating in the mess and that her fridge was pretty empty. This was somewhat of an over-estimation.

Her crisper held sprouting carrots, some limp celery, half a very brown avocado and some extremely elderly cherry tomatoes. The shelves had 2L of out-of-code milk, assorted tubs of expired fruit yoghurt, several containers of anonymous leftovers and a variety of condiments.

While the others caught up, I went shopping.

Over the following week, in 35 degree heat and 90% humidity, I produced lasagne, two batches of apple slice, stew-with-a-lid, Maz mince (don't you love those recipes with family names?), satay beef, 4 dozen pasties, 10 dozen sausage rolls, chocolate slice, bacon and egg pie, spicy chicken wings and a birthday cake.

My baby was suitably grateful.

One the Sunday evening, when we had the lasagne, she had invited around her three particular friends (all AJs). I had met them (briefly) last time I was there and liked them all. This time round I got to know them better. She has established herself a really good (and caring) support group. I very much like all three of them.

One of the friends, a lad named Benji, came around again on Wednesday night to share the pasties. He's a good-looking kid, a country boy from southern Queensland (wheat and sheep farming family) with a fun, down-to-earth nature. She is adamant that there is no romance there but there is an awful lot of touching and looking and intimate actions. She might think he is "a good mate" but I am quite sure (and M and T agree) that he would like it to be more. I would not be disappointed if it blossomed. He's a nice kid (for a boatie).

We shall see.

I didn't spend quite all of my time in the kitchen. We did other things but, with the washing pile calling, that shall be an entry for another day.

return of the melted

I am back from the hot and sticky place (why doesn't it just rain already?).

Like most good stories (and bad, for that matter), this one starts at the beginning. We picked up the pregnant one late on Friday evening and headed off for the airport. I shall miss details of the flights because plane travel is tedious enough to do, let alone read about. When we arrived at Townsville we decided to get off the plane separately to make the surprise more dramatic. The old fart and I got of first and were greeted by our (strawberry blonde!!) baby in the arrival lounge. She was thrilled and all huggy and misted up slightly. We did all the greety stuff and procrastinated a bit when she tried to lead us off to the luggage carousel. When I caught sight of her sister coming up the ramp I said "you know how I said we were bring your prezzie with us and it was pink? Well, it's actually yellow and pink and there it is" and I turned her round and pointed to her big sister.

The reaction was all we could have hoped (and then some).

She started to quiver and whimpered a couple of times. Then a sound came out of her that started like a siren winding up and developed into a full-throated scream. She then flung herself at T and wrapped her arms and legs around her. There were a lot (and I mean a very big lot) of tears.

She startled all the other people in the arrival lounge with her noise but they very quickly realised that it was a good time sound, not alarming. Her father and I stood grinning, feeling a pleased as at the way our surprise had been received.

We belatedly headed off to the baggage area with the girls going down the escalator glued together like Siamese twins.

When we got to the bottom, I looked at my two girls merged into one huggy unit. Bliss. Then the conversation between them went something like this...

T - "Pretty good prezzie eh."
R - "Yup"
T - "Can you think of anything that could make it better?".
R - "No way, best present ever".
T - "It wouldn't be better if I was, say, pregnant?"
R - "You're not"
T - "I am"

The whimpering came again. She went to hug. Drew back. Patted her sister's tummy, still whimpering. Then the whole siren squeal/scream started again while she hugged herself and stamped her feet.

It was a pretty auspicious beginning to our holiday.

And on that happy note, I shall depart. My inbox in chockers with update notifications and I haven't worked up the guts to sign into google reader yet! The number is going to be scary.

I leave you with a photo of my two girls snuggled up on the spare mattress where T slept.

from a hot (and steamy) place

My 100th post. And it's going to be a mighty quick one

I'm in Townsville and I am sating myself on hugs from my baby.

I shall write (and, if you're lucky, post photos) when I get back.

phantom service

On Monday my next-door neighbour got connected to broadband.

I got all excited and immediately checked my number on the Bigpond site. Disappointment. It came up as ADSL unavailable. Bugger.

Just for shits and giggles, I put my neighbours number in to see what the page would look like when I eventually got eligible.

It came up as ADSL not available.

I went next door and we checked his number using his Bigpond supplied ADSL modem and service. Same answer.

It seemed my neighbour had been supplied with a service that the provider said was not available.

I rang Bigpond. I explained the situation. They explained to me, in very simplistic and patronising terms, that I was wrong. He must have wireless. We must be on different exchanges. His must have satellite.

I was insistent. I pushed. Very politely but I demanded answers. She went off and consulted supervisors and tech support.

Eventually, with no answers forthcoming, she said she had put my case in for dispute resolution and someone would ring me in less than 10 days.

I was still rather porked off. The girl had tried her best but I wanted answers.

I got onto the Bigpond website again and eventually found a (well hidden) feedback form. Once again I explained my case.

This morning I got a very polite answer which said, in part...

"I understand that you are querying about why ADSL is not available to you at this time.

I have reviewed your query and I can confirm that each phone line runs along a unique path from the exchange to the premises the phone line connects to. In some cases, this may mean that a neighbour next door may be able to access ADSL, while another neighbour can't. I apologise for the inconvenience.

Despite ADSL not currently being available, we ....."

No no no no no. That was not my question. My question was "why does my neighbour have a service which you say cannot be supplied? And can I have it too please?"

I wrote back. I, once again, explained the whole scenario. (With his permission) I gave my neighbour's phone number and Bigpond log-in name again. I re-asked my question.

I shall now wait.

Again.

waiting for paint to dry

I am sure there is a way to paint ceilings without getting splattered. I just haven't found it.

Having (painstakingly) removed all the bloody glow-in-the-dark stars and planets (never buy your kids showbags with free stickers!) and drenched myself in hot sugar soap solution, the first coat on the ceiling has, at last, gone on. Mostly on the plaster but, also, liberally sploshed on the walls, floor and me. (There is also some on Oi but quite how that happened I don't know. He wasn't even in the room.)

Second coat will go on as soon as I have finished up with blogging.

Hmmm, this calls for some procrastination. So, a small story.

A few weeks ago I got an email from my daughter in far off (and not very nice) places. Amongst the news she made a request for some books to be sent over. She said she was currently into biographies, the "girlie bleeding-heart" type. I put a plea out to my (almost)DIL because she reads that type of stuff and also had a quick scan through my bookshelves for anything suitable. I sent her off a couple of my books, including this one by our very own CosmicThis morning I got another email from my girl. Amongst other things she said...

"I need more lip balm, the body shop one, and are there any more books by Murray? I loved the warm fuzzy one. Weve all red(sic) it even the godman."

So, if you haven't bought her book, maybe you should. After all, a gaggle of faraway soldiers in a nasty place (and me) can't be wrong

More procrastination.

I filched this from Jen (who probably nicked it from other people)

The instructions are: Bold what you have read, italicize those you didn't finish, strikethrough the ones you hated, put *asterisks next to those you’ve read more than once, and put a + cross in front of the books that are on your bookshelf. Underline books that are on your "to read" list.

the list, and my reactions to it:

+Anna Karenina
*+Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One hundred years of solitude
*+Wuthering Heights
+The Silmarillion
Life of Pi: a novel
+The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
*+Moby Dick
Ulysses
Madame Bovary
*+The Odyssey
*+Pride and Prejudice
*+Jane Eyre
*+A Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov
+Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
+War and Peace
+Vanity Fair
The Time Traveller’s Wife
+The Iliad
+Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs. Dalloway
+Great Expectations
+American Gods
+A heartbreaking work of staggering genius
Atlas shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West
+The Canterbury Tales
The Historian
+A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
*+Brave New World
+The Fountainhead
+Foucault’s Pendulum
+Middlemarch
Frankenstein
+The Count of Monte Cristo
+Dracula
*+A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
*+The Once and Future King
+The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
*+1984
*+Angels & Demons
+The Inferno
+The Satanic Verses
+Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
+Mansfield Park
+One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
To the Lighthouse
*+Tess of the D’Urbervilles
+Oliver Twist
+Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
+The curious incident of the dog in the night-time
Dune
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
+Angela’s Ashes
+The God of Small Things
A people’s history of the United States : 1492-present
Cryptonomicon
Neverwhere
A Confederacy of Dunces
+A Short History of Nearly Everything
Dubliners
+The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
+The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
+The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake : a novel
+Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
+Lolita
+Persuasion
+Northanger Abbey
+The Catcher in the Rye
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics
+*Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
*+Watership Down
Gravity’s Rainbow
*+The Hobbit
+In Cold Blood
White Teeth
+Treasure Island
+David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers

I hadn't realised how many books my hubby had bought and I hadn't yet read. Time to rattle my dags.

OK, this second coat isn't going to do itself.

I'm tired of.....

As I get older (which I seem to be doing with a distressing speed), I find myself far less patient than I used to be. Things seem to get on my wick that, in previous times, I would have calmly accepted. I choose, increasingly, to ignore or avoid those things that irk me.

Some things can not be avoided.

In my perfect world, I could go a whole day (just 24 little hours) without being bombarded with news (if it can be called such), analysis, opinions, statistics and media releases about this bloody election. I could, just for that day, have the newspapers actually report the news that matters. I could be Rudd-less and Johnny-less for one entire day.

With another month for the political pundits to reach their fever pitch, I doubt I will see any break in the bombardment.

As for Ben bloody Cousins.......

oops

On Sunday night, I was cleaning my toenails with a toothpick (as you do) and I slipped. I managed to stab myself in the deep meaty spot where the nail, toe and cuticle meat. It caused pain and a small amount of blood.

Yesterday (having forgotten all about it), I headed off to town to get some fruit and veg, meat and bread. I wore ordinary old cloth slip-ons. Nothing tight or evil. By the time I got home (having shed my shoes for the drive) the toe was throbbing and mighty uncomfortable. On examination, it was also hugely swollen and bright bright red.

I gave it a poke (as you do) and it was all oozy.

As the day wore on, it got sorer and sorer and redder and redder and fatter and fatter. By last evening it had become the pounding centre of my existence.

Time for a little home nursing.

Armed with micropore, ZO tape, gauze and magnoplasm, ( courtesy of my strapper's bag)I got to work. I gave it a good clean with hot soap and water, then peroxide (well, as good a clean as I could achieve given the owiness factor). I anointed it liberally with gooey magnoplasm and topped it with gauze. I then wrapped it with paper tape and a skin of ZO to keep the goo in.

It looked ridiculous.

I kept waking during the night every time the doona touched my toe. I ended up sleeping on the spare mattress (with the cat) with my foot sticking out.

The magnoplasm seems to be doing it's work. The toe is markedly less owie now but I shall leave the dressing on for the full 24 hours.

Isn't it crazy how all-consuming these tiny injuries can be? I would much rather cope with a surgical wound or a broken bone than a black nail or a pimple up my nose.

And what is even crazier is that, when I next get the urge to clean my toenails, and there is a toothpick within easy reach, my slothful nature will probably lead me to tempt fate all over again.

a lazy entry

I stole this from Lena because memes are so good for procrastination.

A HEAP OF MEMES1. Spell your name as it sounds.
Fee-oh-nah

2. Are you available?
For?

3. What is your favourite number?
52 is pretty good right now

4. Favourite colour?
On me? As furnishing? In nature?

5. Least favourite colour?
Puce

6. When is the last time you cried?
Proper cry rather than blubbing at a movie? When B left for Afghanistan

7. What should you be doing right now?
Sugar soaping the ceiling in the new "Grandma room"

THE CANS:

1. Can you blow a bubble?
In water - yes. With bubble gum - nope.

2. Can you touch your toes?
If I cross my legs or bend my knees. Touching one's toes whilst standing is bad for one's back. (That is my theory and I'm sticking to it.)

3. Can you whistle?
I can make noise. Whether it can actually be classified as a whistle or not.....

4. Can you wiggle your ears?
No but my Pop could. It was his coolest attribute.

5. Can you roll your tongue?
No. I can turn it up-side-down though.

6. Can you tie a cherry stem with your tongue?
WTF?

THE DIDS:

1. Did you ever want to be a doctor?
No.

2. Did you ever receive an engagement ring?
Yes, in 1975.

3. Did you ever want to be a fire fighter?
Not only wanted to. Was. For 15 years.

THE DO’S:

1. Do you believe in God?
No. I don't DISbelieve, I just don't know.

2. Do you know how to swim?
I am Australian, therefore I swim.

3. Do you like roller coasters?
Never been on one, never been tempted.

4. Do you own a bike?
Own - yes. Use - no.

5. Does your car get good gas mileage?
I drive a Getz. They run on the smell of the proverbial oily rag.

6. Does your family have family picnics?
Not any more. We used to regularly meet my parents halfway between our houses and picnic when the kids were small. We also used to meet the in-laws in a park because our kids were way too boisterous for home visits!

7. Does your home have a bookcase?
Nine. All overflowing.

THE HAVES:

1. Have you ever been to Canada?
Yes. Love it. If I had to live somewhere other than here, Canada would be my second choice (after NZ).

2. Have you ever gone fishing?
Reluctantly, yes. I even caught a fish. It was gross. Now, crabbing, on the other hand......mmmmm crabs

3. Have you ever seen a celebrity?
I shared a lift with David Duchovny once, passed Mohammed Al Fayed in a foyer, had my back signed by Russell Morris and Johnny (when he still was Johnny) Farnham, had breakfast at the table between Tony Greig and Ian Healey, threw Johnny Young out of a hospital ward, stood next to Kim Beazley Jr at the airport carousel, spilt water on Angry Anderson and sung for the queen.

4. Have you ever been on a motorcycle?
I went out with a bikie a few times in my misspent youth, my best friend owned a PeeWee 50 when I was a kid and my SIL owns a Harley so, yeah, I've been on the odd bike.

THE HOWS:

1. How much money do you have on you right now?
On me? None. In my purse? A couple of hundred.

2. How many cars have you owned?
Me personally? Legally - one. It was my son's Monaro and it was cheaper (way way cheaper) to insure if it was owned by his mum than the 19yo youth he was at that stage. All our family cars have been registered in my husband's name.

3. How many jobs have you had?
Bloody hell, this is dredging the memory. Paid jobs - fruit picker, kindergarten assistant, nanny, student nurse, ward sister, day care, charge sister, fire-fighter, fire fighting instructor, OH&S nurse, agency nurse, farm hand, industrial trainer, soccer team strapper, assessment manual writer, army officer, cadet instructor, grief counsellor. I think that's all. Unpaid jobs - P&C secretary, committee treasurer, committee secretary, fire-fighter, wife, mother (cook, cleaner, chauffeur, counsellor, teacher, wet nurse, nanny, clown etc etc etc), kindergarten president, tour guide, . That'll do.

THE LASTS:

1. Last person you hung out with?
If it can be called "hanging out", my husband. Proper hanging out would be with my neighbour Peg.

2. Last thing you said out loud?
"move you lazy fat dog"

3. Last time you ate at McDonald’s?
I had Maccas for brekkie when I was last in Townsville

4. Last grade completed?
Year 12 (it was called matric in those days)

5. Last thing you bought?
newspaper

THE WHATS:

1. What is the temperature outside?
24 (and a bit) on my back verandah (at 1006hrs

2. What time did you wake up?
At 5ish for a wee and at 0640 to get up

NUMBER TWO SURVEY:

1. What is the last mistake you made?
I did a typo about three answers back

2. Is the sun shining?
Sure is.

3. Can you successfully blow up and tie a balloon?
Is this hard?

4. Do you like text messaging?
neither sending nor receiving

5. What do you eat the most at your best friend’s house?
Rarely eat, mostly drink, usually diet coke.

6. Boyfriend/Girlfriend?
yes, I have friends of both genders

7. Are you wearing any make-up right now?
LMAO I think I might still own some that hasn't expired but probably not.

8. What are your plans for later?
Sugar soap and paint

9. What is your favourite DDG song?
I have no idea what this means. Hang on while I google. Apparently it is something called Drop Dead, Gorgeous. I am still none the wiser.

10. Is there any drama within your life?
Things only become dramas if you allow them to do so. Life presents challenges to overcome and problems to solve, not dramas. I currently have neither challenges nor problems of any note.

11. What is a song they need to stop playing on the radio?
I listen to 97.7 Maybe they should stop playing Schubert's lieder, I don't like them much

12. Are you happy with life right now?
I am content. I have periods of happiness. They outweigh the bad times.

13. Does anyone like you?
Yes. Life would be pretty bloody sad if this answer was a no.

14. What is your current obsession?
I don't obsess. It takes too much effort and I am basically lazy.

15. Do you have a dog?
I have an Oi. Zoologically, he is a canine. In all other ways he is just a member of the family (albeit a rather hirsute one). We also have a Dizzy but she is my husband's concern.

16. Ever been kissed under mistletoe?
No. But I once pruned some off our tuart once.

17. Would you ever smile at a stranger?
Would and do. All the time.

18. Ever pulled your pants down in the street?
Not in adult life.

19. Do your toenails have nail polish on them?
No

20. When is the last time you wore eye-liner?
about 1974

21. Last curse word you said was?
bugger (is that a curse word?)

22. Are your lips chapped?
No

23. Are you currently jealous?
Only of the big D for having a dishwasher.

24. Do you own an ipod?
No. Doubt I ever will.

25. Did you have a dream last night?
None that I remember

26. Are you mad at anyone?
No

27. Who is the loudest person you know?
My middle daughter.

28. What is going on this weekend?
SFA as usual

29. Done any spring cleaning lately
Why, yes, yes I have. I threw out some fat clothes, donated some books to the needy and cleaned out my underwear draw.

30. Anything bothering you?
Nope

31. Do you do cheerleading?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

32. Did you wish for anything last night on 11:11?
Huh?

33. Do you drink coffee on a regular basis?
Love the smell, hate the taste. I'm a tea person.

34. Do you wish you were someone else?
No. A different me at times but no someone else

35. What jewellery are you wearing?
0

36. Funniest thing that happened last night?
Oi sat on the cat

37. Are you easily amused?
too easily at times

38. Can you lick your elbow?
Anatomically impossible

39. Do you know this song, we stay fly no lie you know this?
That would be a no

40. What piercings do you have?
Ears. One hole

41. Do you have a crush right now?
Only on The Rock but that isn't a crush, it is true love.

42. What are your plans over the summer?
Hibernate and avoid the heat (and, maybe, move Mum over here)

43. How’s life going for you?
Pretty bloody OK

44. What is on your mind just this second?
I need a wee

45. Favourite vacation spot?
Luxury hotels. Location doesn't matter

46. Do you have on chap stick?
No, never have

47. What hurts right now?
nothing

48. Do you like school?
This is a "did" question rather than a "do". And, yes, at times I liked school (and at other times it was total shit)

49. Is this survey good?
Good for wasting time and procrastinating.

50. Sneak out lately?
I'm a grown-up, I don't sneak

51. Last thing you had to drink?
Pineapple Juice

52. Do you want a tattoo?
Yes, which is a good thing because I'm told they hurt like hell to get removed.

53. Want any more piercings?
No

54. Single or taken?
This is a hard question. Legally - taken. But should The Rock become available.....

55. How long have you been single/taken?
A very very long time

men's work

Eighteen odd years ago, when we first moved here, M brought home a small, nay, minute, gum in a tube. He planted it in a large vacant area out the front of the house. That wee treeling struggled to establish itself amongst the tangle of long grass and the thoughtless assaults of kids and dogs. Eventually it got some roots down and grew a bit. And a bit more. Then a lot more. Then heaps and ridiculous heaps more.

That feeble few leaves on a two inch tube plant identified itself as a Tasmanian Blue Gum. The same Tasmanian Blue Gum that grows to 100 feet in the wild and up to 150 as a specimen.

It kept growing. The pale round juvenile leaves were replaced by the dark green adult straps. The bark shrunk and peeled from the ever expanding branches. The tip towered over the house and the canopy shaded everything for yards around.

About five years ago we bit the bullet and got the tree loppers in. With much mess and noise, they reduced our towering timber to a manageable height.

It looked deformed and ugly for a few weeks before it set about doing what it had proved to do best. It grew. New leaves were followed by new twigs and then great heavy boughs. The tip soared up toward the sky once more.

Last month we got a notice from Synergy. Some of the Blue Gum branches were getting too close to the power lines. We were ordered to cut it back or they would massacre prune it for us.

This morning Mr Hamilton and his boys arrived to do the job. They brought a cherry picker on a huge truck because this is what was waiting for them.

With one in the picker (attacking with various chansaws) and two on the ground, they slowly reduced the crown to,well, to a handful of bald sticks (albeit very fat sticks).

This is what our majestic gum looks like now.

It is still over 40 feet high but a lot less pictureque.

They also removed a couple of branches off the curly willow that were hanging over the roof (breaking a tile in the process), chopped a misplaced ficus off at the socks, trimmed a wedge into the lemon tree that we had stupidly planted under the supply line and gave the bougainvillea a good hair cut.

All the off-cuts were collected up (right down to the last fallen leaf) and loaded into a huge munching machine to be turned into instant mulch and spat out into the truck that towed it.

It was a busy and noisy morning (and did bad things to my chequebook) but it accomplished a job that needed doing.

Oh, and they gave my cotton palm a bit of a trim too.

---

And, for those of you that asked for an explanation....

"I don't often barrack for (root for) the poms (English). In fact, not often equates pretty much to never.

Yet, tonight, I almost found myself singing God Saves the Queen in my excitement at the possibility that they might wipe the arrogant scowl off Sebastien Chabal(a French rugby player)'s hairy mug (face).

Carn (come on) the Poms (English team)."

I'm not racist but.....

I don't often barrack for the poms. In fact, not often equates pretty much to never.

Yet, tonight, I almost found myself singing God Saves the Queen in my excitement at the possibility that they might wipe the arrogant scowl off Sebastien Chabal's hair mug.

Carn the Poms

WARNING: reflex scratching will occur

My regular Wednesday night dinner mate came around as usual. We sat outside, gossiping and smoking way too much.

We talked, mostly, about her new job. She has recently gone from being a school-based counsellor to being (in my understanding) someone who tackles the causes (and finds the cures) of truancy in 16yos. She has gone from having a great deal of very close contact with the kids to a more supervisory role.

During the discussions, she deviated and asked me about the skin condition on my scalp (which has cleared up nicely, thanks for asking). She wanted to know it if was contagious. She'd had a really itchy head, to the extent of making it bleed with the scratching, which had been a major symptom of my psoriasis. Having established that it wasn't catching, she asked me to investigate.

She spent the rest of her visit wearing Gladwrap round her conditioner-drenched head.

Yep. Nits.

I'll wait while you stop shuddering.

It seems that her contact with those troubled kids was closer than I realised and left more than just an entry in her resume.

I never had nits as a kid and I wasn't aware of any of my friends being infested either. (We all got worms a lot but never nits.) My first experience was when my eldest daughter was in kindy. We went through about 6 month (and umpteen bottles of KP24) before the outbreak was controlled. Again, when I had two in high and two in primary, we went through an appalling outbreak. It was nearly two years before we managed to have an infestation free home. (The papers, at the time, were full of stories of everyone else being in the same predicament so I didn't feel too bad.)

My mate has lots of hair. It comes down to her waist and is the thickest hair I have ever seen. Her ponytail is as thick as my wrist.

It seems times have changed since my kids suffered and all the nasty chemicals are now considered unnecessary. The current control method is to smother the buggers with either oil (preferably Tea Tree) or conditioner. Following the Health Dept instructions, we anointed her scalp and hair liberally with conditioner. It took a whole 600ml bottle (but she smells good because all I had was Fructis).

I took embarrassing photos of her looking like Capt Condom to send to B (but not post here because that would be just too cruel as I have never figured out how to fuzz the faces out on pictures).

And I naively thought that my (outstanding) curry would be the highlight of the evening.

Somewhere out there a mother is weeping. A wife. A father. A child. Brothers or sisters. Friends. Mates.

But the padre didn't come to our door.

It wasn't our boy.

This time, the fates have been kind. To us.

But not to everyone.

pass the Spakfila

The builders have gone. At long last I have my house to myself again. And (as a real bonus) I can get into the study once more.

The work went well and looks great (r as great as it can look until the paintwork is done and the carpets down). The fact that it is absolutely bucketing down outside may delay the painting process for a while. The new rending and plaster needs a few nice dry days to cure. Once that is done I shall get my painting clothes on and tackle the walls and ceiling. (Is it just me or is the whole sugar soaping and spaking the worst part of painting?).

I am well pleased with how the room turned out. I was a little worried that joining the two original rooms would make for an awkward long thin shape. The measurements looked OK on paper but, until you see it IRL, you never know. I was also not sure about truncating the passage to turn the door to the second room into a BIR but it has worked out just fine. The tiling blends it right in.

Here are a few before, during and after pics.

A holey ceiling.

Jack with Spak

Broken wallsA new end to the passageSkank investigates the new BIRPaint needed!

And now I am going to do that scary thing that happens when computer access has been denied for a while. I am going to log into Google Reader. There will be a billion brazillion update from my buddies!

The 88 emails were bad enough!

noisy buggers

I have a trio of strapping men in my house at the moment. Making noise. Lots and lots of noise.

Jack and his crew have arrived to to do the renovations and make Mum's room.

The tiles are off a big patch of the roof and holes have been sawn (and banged) into the ceiling. Jacks young son is in the ceiling space (covered in insulation fluff) making more holes.

It has begun.

jellybean

Yesterday was my birthday. This is not significant in any way other than the fact that it gets me lots of phone calls from my kids. They all rang, one after another. (And sent flowers and chocolates and parcels, bless them.)

I spoke to the boy and emailed him a photo of the flowers he (and his lady) sent. I spoke to my girl in far off places and caught up on all her news. I chattered with my baby (and her BIL) and had a good laugh. Then T rang.

She had a gift for me. But I can't have it until May next years.

Why?

Because it takes 42 weeks to bake and it's only been in the oven for six.

I really really want to share my news but it's a secret so you have to promise not to tell.

Oh, bugger it, I'm going to tell anyway.

I'm going to be a Nona!!

Yes, somewhere around the middle of May I will get to cuddle my very first grandbaby.

I am so excited I could bloody burst.

loads of nothing

I have been appallingly bad at updating here (and at reading my buddies). For a few days I had the excuse of an ailing ISP. For the rest I can only lay the blame at sloth's door.

So, what has been happening in the world of me?

The short answer is - lots. None of it earth shattering so I'll just give the highlights.

One real highlight was my mail. I went up to post my parcels to B (and her mate Pete) and I collected more packages than I sent. There were two from the girl, three from her (ex)Pommy mate and one from my Mum. Aren't parcels fun!

The B parcels were lovely. She had sent me four more pashminas (gold, red, aqua and emerald) and a stunning bed set. The set is a king-size spread with two matching shams. It is silk, deep chocolate brown and a rich glossy cream, a stunning traditional Islamic pattern and heavily fringed. It smelled a bit funky (because of the vegetable dyes) so I have sent it off to be dry-cleaned.

She had also sent me a beautiful carved marble vase. It is a deep earthen brownish grey and has the most hypnotic depth to the stone. It almost looks three dimensional.

The other three parcels were a "thank you" from her mate, Pete, for the parcels I have been sending him (I wrote my own thank you and told him he was a very naughty boy for spoiling me). When I first posted to him, he offered to pay B for the contents. She said a very firm "no" so he asked if there was anything else she thought I would like as a way of thanking me. She mentioned that I collect balls and eggs.

He went ever so slightly overboard! Fourteen (yes, that's 14!) marble eggs (and stands) in all sorts of colours. Some solids, some composites of different stone. There is a deep red (think blood clot), a brilliant ocean blue, the palest of sage greens, tobacco brown. There are striped in cream and brown and mosaic in pale pink and white. I think he bought up every marble egg in the whole country.

What a sweetie!

B had also sent a parcel to her Dad. He got three of those weird rolled felt hats the men wear over there. (They are called pakols.) He got a camel brown, an earthen brown and a pinkish fawn. He looks a right burk in them!

The package from my Mum was, erm, interesting. The gift was a clutch bag. My immediate reaction was "Britany". It is kind of, well, ugly. And tacky. Vinyl, printed and (out of alignment) textured with black and white snakeskin, with a silver chain handle with weird tacky dangly things on it (love hearts and such). Poor Mum, of late all her taste is in her mouth. (I blame the macular.)

She also included a card with the usual birthday greetings and, sticky taped in the centre, on a bit of cut up (yellowed) lined paper, she had put a joke. (Q: Why don't pygmies use tampons? A: They'd fall over the strings.) She is a very weird old lady. But her heart's in the right place.

And, speaking of new stuff, I had a bit of a shopping spree. We had a work do to go to and I decided something new was called for. Something to wear with a pashmina. I ended up buying two black cocktail frocks (because I couldn't choose between them), some red shoes (with the highest heel I have worn in yonks), one of those new U bras and a new (not Britany) evening bag.

What else has happened in my week of sloth?

There is still no news on Mr Minyamoo. It has been three weeks. I think we are going to have to draw a line through his name in the family bible. He's gone for good.

I have probably bored you all enough will my whole lot of nothing doings. I'll send you all to sleep in another update about our weekend at The Vines some other time.

brief

My ISP has been buggered up for the last few days (god I hate dial-up). I have a million or so buddies to catch up on and a proper entry to write.

But that will come after gym.

I wish I knew

Here is the chain of events.

Monday 3rd - my neighbour came in to pinch some lemons. During the chat, she mentioned that she had got an animal trap from the council to catch the dog that has been annoying her chooks. We knew the identity of the dog, and it's owner. This is (from memory) how the conversation went.

Me: Will you call Mr N when you catch it or get the ranger out?
MC: Neither. I'll just shoot the bugger.

That evening, M was due to leave for Argentina. We sat down in front of the fire for a while before he left. When he sat he evicted Mr Minyamoo from his chair.

Wednesday 5th - I noticed that Mr Minyamoo wasn't at his usual daytime nap spot in the study. He didn't come in for his standard evening cuddle session.

Thursday 6th - Mr Minyamoo still wasn't around. I called, hunted all through the shed and garden, walked all the local roads (still calling), tried the park and the waste ground. No sign.

Friday 7th - I printed out "missing" posters and put them up at the school, pub, post office, servo and shop. I asked for anyone who has seen him, or knew what happened to him, to call me.

That afternoon my neighbour rang about a gardening matter. Whilst she was on the phone I thought I would check whether she had seen Mr Minyamoo. This is the conversation.

Me: You haven't seen our black cat have you? He hasn't got caught in your trap has he?
MC: You haven't got a black cat.
Me: Yes we have.
MC: Your cats are black and white.
Me: We've got two black and white and one plain black. I can't find him. I thought he might have been tempted by the bait in the trap.
MC: I didn't know you had a black cat.
Me: Oh, so he hasn't been caught in your trap.
MC: The trap's empty.

There is no sign of Mr Minyamoo during the next week. He doesn't come inside to eat. There is no response to my poster. I continue to look. I recheck every possible place a cat could be hiding. My neighbour doesn't come in for her usual bi-weekly cuppas.

Friday 14th - My neighbour's son comes in to get more lemons. I think it unlikely that a 20yo lad would notice a cat but I ask anyway.

Me: You don't happen to have seen our black cat around, have you?
JC: You haven't got a black cat.
Me: Yeah we do. Well, we did. He seems to be missing.
JC: Isn't your cat black and white?
Me: We've got two of them too. We've got three cats. I thought he might have got into your trap.
JC: You'd have to ask Mum about that.

He heads home with his lemons.

About half an hour later I hear his V8 drive away. As it leaves my phone starts to ring. It is my neighbour. After some preamble she tells me she has just seen my black cat. It had emerged from her ceiling space and she had chased it over our fence.

I went outside. I called and called. Mr Minyamoo didn't come.

Am I wrong to be totally suspicious?

gone

Betty Williams

1935 - 2007

beatae memoriae

We cannot let them be lost in the numbers

Sergeant Craig Brelsford

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

Sometimes, when those rude boxes crossed the tarmac, it is a faceless name. Still one of their own but unknown. Sometimes they are familiar. Sometimes they are much loved. No matter who they were, every single one's departure home is witnessed and mourned. Regardless of colour or country or creed.

Four days ago, the British Ministry of Defence announced the death of Sergeant Craig Brelsford and Private Johan Botha, both from The 2nd Battalion, The Mercian Regiment (Worcesters and Foresters). The OC of their company, Major Jamie Nowell, said "Sergeant Brelsford was killed in action attacking a well defended Taliban position in an attempt to protect and evacuate his wounded comrades. He repeatedly fought through tenacious enemy fire to extract casualties and was hit on his final attack to find Private Botha, also killed in action, who had fallen behind enemy lines - this exceptionally courageous act of bravery and selfless commitment personified the character of Sergeant Brelsford." It is very likely that posthumous awards for bravery will be made to Sgt Brelsford. He went home accompanied by the one man whose safety his life couldn't buy.

Craig Brelsford will not see his 26th birthday this Sunday. Pte Botha will never hold his wife or baby girl again. A folded flag and a shiny medal will not replace what these families have lost.

Six years ago, is a frenzy of post-911 flag-waving patriotic fervour, our political leaders, with our whole-hearted backing, decided to send our military forces out in a "war on terror". Full of totally unrealistic expectations, and the righteousness of our cause, we sent our young men and women away in a chorus of approval.

Then it all went to shit. The nice quick victory we all assumed would be rightfully ours, failed to occur. The WMDs we were promised were never found. Resistance to our "liberation" was vigorous and persistent. Some of the people in the invaded countries had the nerve to no be appreciative. That damned Bin Laden remained elusive (and cocky).

And the number of body bags started to climb.

So, we changed our mind. We conveniently forgot that it was what we had wanted. People started to add up the human cost and, one by one, they decided the cost was too high. The press searched out (and, of course, found) the not so pleasant side of our military personnel. Bleeding children and naked prisoners began to replace the smiling graduation photos as the image of the war. Widows and mourning mothers got vocal in their grief, often blatantly in contrast to their lost loved-ones convictions. The protests got louder and stronger and more political. Suddenly, it is the right attitude, the election winning attitude for every politician. The war we had all wanted to have was the war we all wanted to forget.

Our men and women that are fighting and bleeding and dying in the Middle East are not just numbers. They have names and faces and families. They have dreams and hopes and fears. They are doing the job we asked them to do, the job that we insisted needed doing. Yet these representatives of our ambitions and ideals have been relegated to back page statistics, faceless numbers in a political cat-fight. Ammunition in the war against the war.

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

One was a newbie, familiar to few. One was a favourite, much loved, a hero.

Koreans and Germans and Dutch gathered to see them off. Brits and French and Australians saluted their passing. Canadians and Italians and Americans guarded their path. Soldiers from nations all over the globe paid their respects.

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

And soldiers of 37 nations wept.

Private Johan Botha (and wife)

images from UKMOD

losing a mentor

When I was a kid, we lived in a small country town on the foothills behind Melbourne. We were on a dirt road with more empty blocks than houses. Not long after I began school, builders moved into the block next to us.

It was a very exciting time. I spent hours and hours watching new and interesting things like bricks being laid, cement mixers rumbling and men scampering all over roofs. I made friends with all the workers, from my perch on our fence, and knew well before my parents that the brickie with the crew cut was to be our new neighbour.

I was most impressed by the luxury of their emerging house. It had two toilets, an unheard of addition in those days. It had a patio! It had coloured brick contrasts. It had a built-in barbecue. And a matching brick fence (with built-in letter box). These people were classy indeed.

Once the house was completed, even more exciting things happened. I watched carpets being installed (wall to wall!!) and light fitting going in (circular flouro, way classy). And then, one day, the furniture van arrived. I watched every single item go through those doors. I watched with envy and covetousness. Not only did they have television (my father refused to have one), they had TWO!

But the best part was yet to come. The best part was the fashionable young wife that arrived soon after the van.

Oh my. I can still (more than 40 years later) remember her outfit. She was in a skin tight sleeveless ribbed white polo-neck top, navy blue shorts (that showed her knees!) and silver scuff sandals with jewels on them. And she was wearing make-up! And she had her hair permed and set. She was bold and brazen and I fell instantly in love.

Then the most amazing thing happened. She saw me and she walked over and said "hello" and she offered me a chewie! My very first chewie (it was Juicy Fruit). I went from love to total devotion.

That was the start of many firsts. She was the first grown-up I didn't have to call Mrs Something, she was just Betty she told my Mum. (It was compromised to Auntie Betty because my parents weren't comfortable with the modern idea of kids calling adults by first names.) She fed me my very first steak. I watched my first telly. I tasted my first soft drink. I saw my very first coloured underwear (how brazen is that!).

I became Auntie Betty's constant (and, probably, pretty annoying) companion. Whenever I could get over the fence, I did so. It was a whole other world.

A couple of years later a baby arrived. They called him Darryl (which I thought was really really exotic) and they let me play with him. Another series of firsts came with that little fellow, including the very first willy I ever saw.

Aunty Betty's house became my refuge. And she became my mentor. She (and her husband Lyle) was so very different from my own parents. Modern, relaxed, casually affectionate and open. I had no idea, at the time, that the difference was a class thing. I couldn't understand my father's reluctance to make friends. I was blissfully unaware that these were "working class" people, not "our type". I had no clue that they were members of the new cashed-up tradies that Dad felt were threatening his smug little world. All I knew is that they welcomed me with open arms and allowed me into their lives.

Despite my father's rampant snobbery, the family became an integral part of my life. I wept with them when they lost the twins in the next pregnancy and cried with joy when Shane arrived just before my 14th birthday. I worked at Uncle Lyle's side and absorbed his work ethic and pride in quality. I talked about all my problems with Aunty Betty and learned to see my parents through different eyes. It was their love and attention that kept me grounded through my turbulent teen years. It was from them that I saw how I wanted my future family to be. They were the only non-relatives at our tiny wedding.

We saw very little of each other after I moved interstate but we always kept in contact. Letters and phone calls and cards kept us up-to-date on each other's lives. I probably have more photos of her sons' weddings than I do of my own and I could fill several albums with her grandkids.

Several years ago Betty was diagnosed with cancer. She took the blow in her usual manner. She girded her loins and set in to fight. And fight she did. Through umpteen courses of chemo and radiation and surgery, she always knew she was going to win.

In January this year, they found secondaries. She was winning her battles but losing the war.

Last night I had a call from Mum. Auntie Betty has been put into hospital with pneumonia. I know she will put up the fight of her life but she is not expected to come out again.

The world will be a sadder place without her.