do thunderstorms cause BO?

Me?

Frightened of thunder?

Don't be silly.

I'm big. I'm brave. I'm male. There is no way I would be scared of something so scientifically explainable.

I don't run away. I don't hide . I don't seek out small places. I don't quiver or hyperventilate or flatten my ears.

Big brave macho blokes like me are never ever afraid of just a little noise.

It is pure coincidence that there happened to be thunder at the same time I became aware of my personal hygiene problems. Honest.

the right thing to do

Only one post last week. Sorry about that. No excuses. It wasn't like I didn't have anything to write about. I did heaps. I just seemed to have had my mind elsewhere. No, actually, I didn't seem to have my mind elsewhere, I DID have it there. And I know exactly where.

But I fixed it.

I have just booked flights to Townsville for this Wednesday. I can't let my girl fly off to war without someone there to wave her goodbye (and, probably, weep buckets). With her husband out bush and her little sister arriving an hour after she does customs, she was due to leave alone.

Now, it's not going to happen.

As an added bonus, I will get to see my baby and welcome her to her new home.

My credit card might not be happy but my head and my heart are.

they are telling me......

My logical self knows that there is no foundation for it to be true. There is no evidence for belief. There is no scientific back-up, no documented facts. My logical self knows it's a load of codswollop.

My logical self is usually strong, usually wins.

But my emotional self is so bloody tempted. It would be so nice to believe, so comforting.

Usually, my rational self gives my emotional self a good talking-to when it wants to stray. It is usually enough.

But the temptation to try and disprove logic can't always be quelled. And, time and again, there is just enough truth to put logic into question.

Tarot cards, mystics, spirit guides, angels, psychics, palmistry. All mumbo-jumbo. Right? It can't possibly have any credence. Can it?

Then, how the hell, time and again, can these weird women (in lurid Indian cotton skirts and Tibetan shawls) know stuff?

I am sceptical. I give nothing away. I remain impassive. I don't want to hear truth. My logical self knows they are charlatans. It knows.

And it's not true. None of it is true. They are just lucky guesses. Right?

Of course they are. I know this. My logical self will win. It is scientifically impossible. Of course it is.

I will not believe.

I cannot believe.

I do not believe.

But, oh, by the goddess, it's tempting.

shhhh

Can't write

Reading Harry

p317

East, west, home is best

Earlier this evening we had thunder and lightening and torrential rain. We even had hail. It was driven by huge gusts amongst the already strong wind.

It didn't matter to us. We had a roaring fire in the hearth and a belly full of fragrant beef curry. We were warm and dry and snug in our nest.

The rain has now settled into a steady downpour and the wind has blown itself out. The hail and thunderstorms have scudded off to the west.

The fire has collapsed down into a huge heap of red glowing coals. T and Gray are snoring quietly in the spare room and my husband is hidden under the doona in the next room. The dogs are dead to the world on their cushions near the fire and cats are festooned over the backs of chairs.

Soon I will take my weary self off to bed. That pile of goose feathers is looking mighty tempting. I shall join the other in the arms of the Oneiroi.

Sometimes home is just the best place to be.

long distance dressmaking and other (less) maternal skills

A couple of weeks ago I received a series of emails from B. She had a regimental ball to attend and was having trouble finding a frock she liked in Townsville. She decided to buy online instead. Problem was, she wasn't sure which of a series of frocks, would look best on her. She did the obvious thing and sent me a heap of options, asked for my opinion and then bought one of the alternatives that I liked least. The frock arrived a couple of days ago (US to Townsville in 6 working days! Amazing).

When I had listed the reasons I wouldn't choose that particular frock for her was that, being big busted, she would have difficulty getting a good fit on the bodice. *satisfied sigh* How right I was. The frock fitted her perfectly everywhere except the bust. She had taken it to a dressmaker who had told her it wasn't able to be altered. So she did what all kids do in these circumstances. She rang Mum.

After several phone calls and a mass off pictures by email, I was able to get an idea of the prospects. It is a satin frock with hailstone netting over the lining. The bodice is ruched heavily. Here's a photo (worn by a model, not my daughter)

Not the easiest alteration job. But doable.

My daughter is an inexperienced sewer. If her hubby had been home I would have advised that he do the job. He wasn't there (out bush again), so it was up to the two of us, very long distance. I talked her through it all, step by step, in a series of calls. To my great relief (and, I guess hers), the alterations were a success. The frock now fits her DD like a glove.

Go us!

Tonight we have a works dinner to attend in Bunbury. Other than that, and the whole frock business I have nothing much to rabbit on about. So I shall publish the results of schmoozing musing instead.

The award(?) I received yesterday didn't come with an instruction manual. But, I figure, it's my award and I can do with it what I will. And what I will is this.....

I have decided to pass on the award to just three people. There are lots out there that I feel deserve it but I think keeping it short and sweet is the way I want to go.

The first recipient is pretty obvious. He's your friend, and mine, the amazing and wonderful Art This man is an inspiration. He's gone from zero (or, maybe, less than zero) to having it all in such a short time. He's the epitome of what one person can do with will power alone. Yet, despite all he's been through, and all he still goes through, he always has a clever crack or a comforting word. He truly is a champion schmoozer.

My next choice is Karyl. Full of a wonderful lust for living, she shares it with all of us. Inclined to be a little self-depreciating, she needs to know just how much she inspired, lifts, supports others. A well deserving schmoozer.

My third choice is someone else who I originally found in Diaryland.). It is Lena. Here is a person who, regardless of the trouble in her own patch, is there to support, encourage, sympathise and generally be an all-round friend to those around her. This woman is good stuff.

Not only is it shower and gym time, I've totally run out of stuff to say. So, that's your bloomin' lot.

I not only rock, I schmooze too!

"Schmoozing is the natural ability “to converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection.” Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship"

My mate Jen has named me as a Schmoozer! (Thanks Jen)

It's a good thing she gave me something to write about because I am pretty well written out this morning. And I had SFA to write about.

The weather (cold, wet and all kinds of yucky) isn't entry-worthy. Absolutely nothing of note happened yesterday. I talked to the kids but it was routine catch-up, not news. I had my mate for dinner (I made my MIL's oxtail recipe) but, again, nothing of any social import. My husband is (almost) never newsful (occasionally routinely a source of griping and whinging but not newsful).

So, thanks again Jen. Not just for the nomination but, also, for giving me something writeworthy to fill today's blank page.

Now I am going to go and finish schmoozing through the rest of my buddy list and use up the rest of the words I have left in their comment sections.

changing rooms

The parts of my childhood that I remember (and I don't really remember all that much from the early years) don't lead me to believe that my mum and I got on all that well. It may be an illusion and I only recall the bad bits in that regard but that's how it seemed to me. We were definitely at odd throughout most of my teen years. I always loved her, we just didn't get on. I left home as soon as I was able, to "get away from her" (as I put it then).

During my early adult years, I was busy gaining qualifications, getting married, having babies and setting up home. Our only contact during that time was (what I call) the duty area. Birthdays, Christmas, births, deaths. Most times it was Mum who initiated things. It didn't help that my husband found Mum's company trying (and made it obvious). She was my Mum and my kids Grandma and we loved her but we didn't really have much to do with her. It seemed like that was just the way things were meant to be.

When we moved over here, I was very aware of her pining for the kids. I kicked myself in the arse and made a concerted effort to keep her in the loop. I took masses of photos of everything we did and sent them over to her. I got the kids to ring her when they had any news (merit awards, scout camps, test scores etc). We made the trek across the plain twice (my god that was a nightmare with a station wagon full of bored kids) and they came to visit a couple of times. It was not unpleasant, (the demands of kids and my father's failing mental health kept us too occupied to rub sparks off each other) but still a duty.

Things changed pretty dramatically when my father's cancer was diagnosed.

Dad's health failed fairly quickly and he was in and out of hospital a lot. I made several trips over in the 11 months it took the cancer to kill him.

During that time, I had some huge discoveries about my Mum, and my Dad and the nature of their relationship. What I learned was a real eye-opener.

I learned that, since the first days of their marriage, my father had maintained absolute and total control of their finances. My mother been given a housekeeping allowance and had to survive on that amount. Even when she was working, her wages had gone straight into my father's bank account. The only money Mum ever had was what he gave her.

She had absolutely no idea what their financial status was. She had never had access to any of their money. Dad had paid the bills and allocated the funds and run the bank accounts. She wasn't even a signatory on the accounts. She owned nothing, the house, car, everything, was in Dad's name. She had no credit rating. Financially, she didn't exist.

When Dad got too sick, Mum had to take over the finances. She had to learn and she had to learn fast (and she did a mighty fine job). She also learned that, whilst she had been scrimping and saving on her meagre housekeeping budget, Dad had been sitting on a very comfortable nest egg.

Over the months of my father's illness, and the time afterwards, I discovered that his financial constrains on Mum were just the thin edge of the wedge. He had controlled almost every aspect of her life. And mine. Mum had never had any say in any important decision. His word had been law and Mum had hidden it from my sister and me for all our years. We had both constantly blamed Mum for the many nos we got during our childhood. It wasn't until I was in my 40s, and watching my father die, that I discovered the truth. I am not saying that my Dad's way of doing things was necessarily wrong, just that Mum had no say. In most cases, she would probably agreed with his decisions, given the chance.

As Dad got sicker, Mum blossomed. She became strong and decisive and capable. And independent.

She started to defy him. Just in little things at first, like wearing a red jumper when he had decreed that red didn't suit her or buying a cheap tin teapot to replace the expensive but crappy pourer that he had selected. As she grew more confident in her abilities, she pushed it even further. She got rid of the blanket on their bed and replaced them with the doona which Dad had, for years, refused to consider. She put photos of the grandkids on display in the lounge room even though Dad thought it was tacky. She stopped drinking the traditional before dinner sherry that Dad enjoyed and had a glass of white instead. She bought (and used) a microwave.

By the time Dad died, Mum was running things very capably and doing it her way. After he died, she displayed an assertiveness I found amazing. Despite huge pressure from (nearly) all around her, she handled things in the way that made her feel comfortable. (For example, she shunned the church funeral that was assumed, much to my sister's disgust, and opted for a family-only scattering of the ashes on a beach.) These were giant giant strides for my Mum. For a woman that had spent the last 50 years being told what to do, she had blossomed into someone that, not only knew her own mind, but acted upon it.

During that time, and in the years since, I have met my mother for the first time. Not the person that she was told she should be, the person she is. And I like that person very much.

This is just a preamble to what I am really thinking about.

Last week, I had a call from my sister. Kat and her hubby had been to visit Mum (and to collect some antique furniture that she was giving them) and were both dismayed at her frailty and breathlessness. The breathing problems are not new but they have been, in the past, associated with stressful situations. The frailty has been increasing over time.

I rang Mum the next day. She immediately asked if Kat had called! (She knows Kat sooooo well.) We discussed the issues raised and cleared the air.

But it got me thinking.

M and I talked about it quite a bit over the last week. And we came to the same conclusion.

The time is coming (fairly rapidly) when Mum can't live alone. She is steadily going blind with the macular degeneration. This is limiting her mobility and, as a result, her musculature is shrinking. My sister is right, Mum is frail.

The idea of her moving over here into a unit and/or house close by is a stop-gap measure. Before long she will need assistance on a reasonably large scale. Moving into a retirement complex is, again, short term unless it is attached to a nursing home type facility. And a nursing home would kill Mum. Having so recently rediscovered her independence, to have it taken away again.....

And we have four empty bedrooms.

Mum doesn't need care, she needs assistance. And who better to give it than me? But she still needs independence. And she can have that here.

We have looked into the logistics and it will be easy to make her comfortable here. I have a builder coming next week to see about knocking down the wall between two of the smaller bedrooms and making one large room. It would be a comfortable bed-sit size so she could have her telly and an armchair for some privacy. She could have her own little nest but still have the support and company of a shared home.

I rang Mum yesterday and put our idea forward. I told her it was a joint decision and we both wanted it to happen. I asked her to just think about it as an alternative to other plans on the table.

The ball is now in her court.

the bane of having boobs

Today is the day, that all women of a certain age have to endure, when I allow some total stranger to play with my boobs. Then squash them in a nasty big X-ray machine. Yep, it's mammogram day for me.

I have been remiss and it has been 3 years since I last attended. I am supposed to be going annually because of the (benign) tumours I had removed a few years ago but, let's face it, any excuse with do to avoid that day. Mammograms are definitely not fun.

In the past (other than post surgery), I have always attended the mobile unit that visits our area. Last year, when my reminder came, the van had already left the area. Excellent excuse to not go. I had even used that excuse the year before.

This time I gave myself a good talking-to. Self, I said, don't be a bloody wuss. It's a tiny owie for the greater good. Get your arse to the van.

The van (as per usual) was not in our area so I was given an appointment at the Rockingham clinic. I wrote it on the calendar and, almost immediately, started contemplating not going. So I sabotaged my own weakness. I rang a mate who lives in the area, told her I would be up that way, and why, and make a date for a post squishing lunch. Now I was tied in.

Now, I understand the necessity and the effectiveness of regular breast checks. I am all in favour. I understand why so much pressure is needed to get good shots and I understand why that causes (momentary) pain.

But there is one thing about the whole procedure that I fail to understand.

Why, when you arrive, and they stick you in a cubicle and instruct you to strip from the waist up, do they give you a gown to put on? It is an all female clinic. You strip off, put on the gown, walk ten feet to the machine, take off the gown, have your boobs (wo)manhandled into the vice machine, put the gown back on, walk ten feet to the cubicle, take off the gown and toss it in the dirty linen skip. The gown is to hide your boobs (from the people who are going to see and touch your boobs) during a ten foot walk? Um, why?

OK, time for a shower and some clean clothes (but no deodorant - don't you just HATE that bit of the proceedings?) before heading off to Rockingham to waste laundry. I shall read buddies and make comments when I get back.

noises

I was sitting outside earlier and I heard a plane going overhead. This isn't unusual. We have an airfield a few Ks down the road. Small planes buzz across the sky all the time. In summer the CALM spotter planes do boglaps on hot days. Hearing a plane is nothing new.

Usually, the planes are high. I can hear them but it isn't intrusive. This morning's plane was low. And loud. It made me look.

The RFDS logo was clearly visible on the plane's tail. It made my heart do a flip and I thought "someone's in trouble".

In years gone by, emergency vehicles all had a distinctive sound. Ambulances went be boo be boo, police went wah wah and fire trucks wailed. And, in those days, they were all just emergency vehicles, even police. No-one thought of the coppers as being "after you". They were there to help. They directed traffic (does anyone else remember The Skull from the corner of Swanson and Flinders in Melbourne?), they found lost children and gave directions. Occasionally they gave a young lout a bit of a scare or chased waggers back to school. Sometimes they might catch the odd criminal but it had nothing to do with us. The heelers, in those days, were our friends, not the big bad they are today.

When we heard a siren we knew someone was in trouble. Not bad trouble because of what they had done but needing-help sort of trouble.

Sirens were not used unless it was urgent. There was none of the constant wailing we hear on the latest cop shows. There were no protocols for Code 1 situations. Use of sirens was discretionary. And they were used rarely.

As a kid, most sirens we heard were fire trucks. We lived in a bush area and fire was a constant threat. If the fire was bad, we might also hear a policeman wah wah-ing his way up to help.

I have vivid recollections of my mum's reaction to sirens. She would stop what she was doing, look up and listen. Then she would say "someone's in trouble" and go outside to stand on the road and look for smoke. No matter what siren she heard, she would look for smoke.

If a neighbour wandered out to the road (as they often did), or was there before her, she would greet them with exactly the same words. "Someone's in trouble." Then they would search the sky together.

AS I stood on my verandah this morning, watching that little plane pass overhead, I heard my mother's voice in my head, loud and clear. I felt a sudden urge to walk out to the road and scan the horizon.

Someone's in trouble.

Early learning is a hard habit to kick.

cute as a button

I was pottering around in the garden earlier, picking up some lemons that had fallen from the tree, and I found a button. It was red and round and had black spots. I recognised that button. It came off a dressing gown I used to own.

It brought back many memories.

When we first moved over here, we were to be in temporary accommodation in the city for the first few month because my husband was to work up there. Our vet advised that our dog, Frieda, was too elderly and frail to cope with air travel and months in kennels. We decided to leave her with my parents (who were currently dogless) to see out her twilight years.

We nearly survived the 6 months in a rental without a canine member to the family. Nearly. But we eventually admitted that a home without a dog is not a home. The landlord had ruled no pets so we needed to get something sneaky. We opted for a miniature dachshund. Her name was Tsarina. We called her Sar.

We managed to conceal her presence for the final rent inspection (she hid in the park with one of the kids) and moved her into our new home. But half a dog very rapidly proved to be not enough. Much as we loved her, we needed a proper sized dog (and some company for Sar). After much family discussion and research, we settled on a cocker spaniel as the ideal friend for our family.

I went to see several breeders and viewed many litters but none of the pups jumped out as the one for us. I began to think that, maybe, we should fall back to our second option and get a lab.

Then I went to Pam's kennels and met Jess.

She wasn't called Jess then. She was Nefertitti. And she was my dog from the time we set eyes on each other. She was already 4 months old, much older than the other pups we had viewed. She was jet black and incredibly beautiful. We took her home.

The kids chose Jess as the name (after some pop star/actress I think) and she became part of the household.

But, from the word go, she was mine. Not because I chose her but because she chose me. She would play with the kids or Sar and walk with anyone who jangled a lead but, if she had to choose, she chose to be with me.

From the moment we brought her home, she dogged my footsteps. She sat by my chair at night (or snuck onto my lap). If I was gardening, she was under the nearest shade, watching. If I was cooking, she watched from the kitchen floor. If I was asleep, she lay outside my bedroom door. And, if I was away, well, that's where the button comes in.

No matter who else was home, if I left the yard, she went through the same ritual.

I have had this related to me so many times there is no room for conjecture. Summer or winter, rain or shine, day or night, this was her routine. This is what she did.

She would go to the front gate and sit, waiting, for about 10 minutes. If I had not reappeared, she would go inside and collect the first item of mine that she found. This was usually shoes, cigarettes and lighter or my handbag. Clothes of mine out of the dirty washing basket were a firm favourite, as was my dressing gown. She would then cart her contraband outside and sit with it under the lemon tree. She was even know to desert new-born pups in their whelping box to make her collection and do her vigil.

The longer I was gone, the more things she would collect. It was as if, by surrounding herself with my stuff, she was reassuring herself that I would be returning. If I was gone all day, the pile could be huge. If I had been out for more than a few minutes, it became a ritual for me to have to reclaim all the items under the tree when I came home.

There is only one way that button could have found its way to the lemon tree. It went there in the slobbering jaws of Jess. She was my friend, confidante, and companion for 14 years. She was, at times, my sanity.

I put the button back where I found it.

loving the ute

I may have mentioned, some time ago, the T and Gray borrowed the ute whilst his old bomb was being fixed. I rang them a few days ago, both to enquire how Gray's new job was going and to remind them that I would have to retrieve the ute soon(ish) so it could be shipped back to R.

It seems that, despite his staunch support for owning old Holden's, he accidentally fell in love with the ute. So much so that last night he went out test driving one for himself. And (this is a bloody big and), he is trading in the Kingswood as a deposit. Yep, trading the Kingswood.

That car was his first love. He doted on that bomb. It drained his bank balance with its petrol guzzling V8 and its constant repair needs. He chose to spend several grand shipping it over here when he moved rather than being parted. He pays through the nose for insurance and preferred to remain carless after it was nicked rather than concede to its loss. Yep, he full on loved that car.

And he's trading it in.

IF he continues to make big grown-up decisions like this, maybe it won't long until that elusive engagement ring adorns my middle daughter's hand.

celebrating the fear

I has a call from my adorable son-in-law yesterday. He was over the moon with excitement.

Several months ago, when deployments were being handed out, he was more than a little pissed off to be told he was going to Timor (again). Pissed off and disappointed. It isn't that he thinks Timor is not a worthy place to serve, it is that it is a very routine posting these days. He has spent many years practising and perfecting the skills he needs as a recon specialist and has never had the chance to use his craft in earnest. Even his stint in Iraq was spent guarding diplomats and VIPs.

Yesterday he was told that his deployment has been changed. For various reasons they are having to replace a couple of the corporals that were in the original pick for Afghanistan. They chose our boy as one of those replacements.

Not only will this give him the chance to perform some genuine recon work, last night they gave him the second hook he needs to fill the role. He only received his first stripe in January. To be promoted again, in such short time, is almost unheard of (particularly in infantry). He will not only be doing what he has trained so hard to do for so many years, he will be doing it as a seco!

The added advantage is that he and B will both be in country at the same time. Phone calls will be in the same time zone and can be arranged to fit in with known availability. There might even be opportunities to see each other, in the flesh. With a little help from the Padre, they may well get mid deployment leave at the same time and place. This is all very good news. For both of them.

It has always been very easy to love the man my daughter chose to bring into our family. I am also immensely proud of him. He's a good man.

The downside of all of this is that, rather than cruising through the motions in (relatively) safe Timor, he will be on the most dangerous patch our boys are currently covering. He will be doing one of the most exposed jobs. Doing what he loves will mean putting his life on the line like never before.

Not long after he called, I had another call from his wife.

B is currently doing her pre-deployment training. Yesterday was a nasty one. Yesterday was filling in forms for next of kin notification and updating wills and insurances. When she came home she had to call up her NOK choices and instruct them in how she wanted the situation handled in case of injury or death. She also had to tell me (because I am her primary NOK with her hubby also deployed) about her preferences for hearing bad news from home.

It was a double whammy this time because there are two lists to consider. My son and I are on both lists.

So, in amongst all the celebrations at J's promotion and new deployment, there was the underlying knowledge of what could be. I am pleased for him. I am pleased for them both. This is what they want to be doing and they are doing it well. I will joyously celebrate along side them.

I don't need to tell them of my fear.

They know

there is news and then there is NEWS

My husband came home with a muted grin on his face last night. Not one to show any emotion usually, a muted grin is big stuff.

He is also not one for talking much (unless he is totally pissed and then it is usually absolute rubbish). Last night he talked before he was even half pissed. This is huge.

The reason for his out-of-character behaviour was soon apparent. Things had gone more than well at work.

For the last umpteen years he has worked for a joint venture. As of the beginning of this month, the minor partner has taken over full control of the company. This has meant some big changes.

Yesterday the new CEO called M in for a chat. It seems he is worth more than he imagined. He was given a new job title (Executive Manager of something or other), new duties and a substantial pay rise. He accepted the increase and rejected the title (apparently being an executive anything is wanky). He was totally chuffed.

We discussed putting the extra money straight into his super (we have to make that grow fast-ish as he is nearing 60) and whether or not we wanted some of the bonuses available (like gym membership and home phone, which we don't and car and health care, which we do). Talk on the topic lasted all through dinner (roast pork) and into dessert (blackberry crumble and custard). We were still going strong well into coffee (even though I thought we had pretty much covered everything at least twice by then).

It is the most he has talked since his outrage at the Tampa affair.

It is wonderful news and I am well pleased for him (and our bank account) but I reckon my news was even better.

For the first time in many many years, I was wearing jeans. Me! In jeans! IMHO this is worthy of the 6 o'clock news. Pay rise and an executive title? Pale by comparison.

Stop talking money, Mr Executive, and notice my arse!!

it gets on my goat that.....

One of the disadvantages of being an avid newspaper reader is that I periodically get hot under the collar about one (or more) of the topics the journos write about. When this happens, I do one of three things. I can either have a good rant at an available ear, mail off an outraged letter to the editor or I can fill my blog full of ranty goodness. Today I am choosing the blog route.

Don't say you weren't warned!

The bee in my bonnet, this time, is over education. In the last week or so there have been several articles about the effectiveness of our public schooling.

There was concern expressed by the staff at local universities about the falling competence of new students in the maths and science departments. They suggested that calculators should be banned for, at least part of, the exam process. They claim our kids are becoming technology smart and numeracy poor.

Yesterday it was written up that a collective of principals had proposed a new marking/reporting/testing system. Apparently the current method causes undue distress in some kids because they are doomed to fail. Those poor kids that labour strenuously to achieve a mediocre C are being made to feel second-rate by the kids that sail through to an easy A with minimal effort. The principals want to eliminate ABCD marks, get rid of exams, report in this new (truly appalling) levels method and have an aptitude test for uni entrance.

Today it is reported that the curriculum council wants to introduce super duper new calculators for high school maths. It seems the "new" graphics ones that were introduced a decade ago are now superseded with something better (and probably much more expensive).

In all of these reports, there is no suggestion that any of the proponents have consulted with any of the other experts involved in the field. There is also no indication that they have liaised with their consumers.

It seems to me that most "experts" in the education field have forgotten two basic principles.

The first is that they are public servants. They are there to serve us and our needs and wants. They are not there to engineer our society into their concept of a better place. They are there to serve.

Rather than experimenting with new education methods (that have often been trialled and rejected abroad), perhaps they should stick to the tried and true system of actually teaching our kids to function is society, as it is, with competent literacy and numeracy. They should listen to their bosses, the parents, the future employers and instructors, and give the ABCD reporting that is requested. The public pay their salaries and, therefore, should be able to demand they supply the service for which they are paid.

The second principle that seems to have gone by the board is the that all people are not created equal.

Although it is politically incorrect to say so, there are still dumb bums out there. Equally, there are super bright kids. There will always be extremes in ability. Just as there are natural athletes, or prettier kids, there are also natural mathematicians and linguists. No amount of social engineering will change this.

Making kids feel good about themselves is all well and good but we are supposed to be preparing these youngsters for the world outside school. The real world.

The world where nobody cares about your self-esteem. Where they care about your ability to read, write, add without a calculator and do what you're told. Where higher education doesn't slow down for them to catch up. Where your ability to pay the rent and feed your kids depends on your bosses demands. Where those nerd kids that got the easy As will be their bosses.

The same principle has also been forgotten in consideration of the teachers themselves. Like every other strata of society, there are shades of grey, the good, the bad and the mediocre.

There are some totally amazing teachers out there. Equally, there are some that are truly abysmal. Some for whom teaching is a calling and a passion and some for whom it is just a job. Odds are that most kids will be taught by teachers that are competent but, by no means, outstanding. Some will be taught by the worst. A rare few will be blessed with a truly great teacher at their blackboard.

All these new and (supposedly) wonderful teaching methods rely on the coalface teachers to implement the changes. These overworked, adequate but uninspired teachers cannot be asked to change the whole academic ethos. Most teachers are battling to instruct their 30-40 kids in the basics. Few, particularly those at high schools with only 4 or 5 hours of contact time with each class, have the luxury of actually getting to know the kids they teach. (The only kids they notice are the exceptionally good and the discipline problems.)

So, what we end up with is some wonderful theory being presented in a half-baked, ill-prepared manner in the classroom. The good teachers will do it well, but they are very much the exception.

I am not slanging off at teachers. All I am saying is, that like the rest of the world, they represent all points on the parabola. If they were all paragons, with infinite time, they could make a go of any teaching method. As the average Joes most of them really are, they will make a dog's dinner of all those grand theories.

There is an old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". We have had successful education of the vast majority of our kids for many generations, using a tried and true method. It wasn't broken so why are they trying to fix it?

It seems to me that all they needed to do was, rather than change the world for every student and teacher, find a method of catching the kids that fell through the cracks of the existing system.

And, maybe, admit the politically incorrect idea that some kids are just never going to shine and need to learn to live with it.

Now, don't even get me started on the abortion that is OBE....

I rock (apparently)

Well bugger me drunk! I don't know what I have done to deserve it but I have been nominated twice as a

I had pretty much resigned myself to having any future rocking taking place in a Jason Recliner (probably one of those ones that tilts to help old farts stand up). As for being dubbed a "girl", I thought that was long past. It seems I was wrong. There are people that think I deserve the title.

Thanks mates.

Now, if I understand the process correctly, I have to nominate five more bloggers to carry the crown. This is going to be a tad tricksy because so many of my regular reads have already been named. I'll do my best but, if I renominate someone who has already joined the crew, well, you know that must just be extra-rockin' type gals.

My first candidate is Mary. A fellow Aussie that is opinionated and smart and a damn fine read.

Second on my list is Ava. Another strong, capable woman, trying to make sense of our modern world. A mum rearing the wonderful K single-handed. Definitely a rocker (even though she 's a pom).

Next is another Aussie (albeit a very new one) and is being nominated regardless of gender. Judd is a dynamo that tackles everything with gusto. Not exactly PC, he always amuses.

Number four is a totally amzing woman. Ochweidnit is clever and articulate and has been showered in a mass of very mixed blessing in the last little while. She definitely rocks.

And my last nomination goes to D-missus (and the D-misses), the long-suffering family of the D-man. I don't know whether any of them actually blog themselves, but anyone that can inspire as many stories as tha D-girls do have earned their guernseys.

*groan*

For weeks now, Robbie McEwan has been inviting us to "watch proper tough guys".

Last night (Aus time), the lads pulled on their religion-revealing Lycra, perched on their nut-crushing saddles and took to the tarmac of London in a road-ruleless demonstration of their toughness. Yep, the first day (or the 8km prologue day, I think it was just a teaser and the actual race starts tonight) of the Tour de France.

The spectators thronged the streets. The commentators wound their voices up to excited trebles with every dramatic moment. My husband was glued to the screen. I lasted maybe 5 minutes before I rediscovered a conclusion I reach at this time every year.

Whilst my husband will watch every bloody minute of live action (plus the recaps), as will may others, I will not. Because I know the truth.

Televised bike racing is as boring as.

IMHO, there are two types of sport. The first type is the watchable ones. Games where lots of stuff is happening all the time. Games like cricket, basketball, football (of all codes) and baseball qualify because there are lots of people doing lots of different things constantly. The sports like icedancing, gymnastics and tennis get a guernsey because we get to see individuals performing spectacular and amazing physical feats. These sports look as if they would be a fun pastime as well as good viewing.

Then there is the second type. The non-watchables. Probably great fun if you are a participant, boring as for spectating.

I include golf in here. And long distant running. Car racing definitely qualifies. And so does the Tour.

Absolute bat shit.

Paint drying.

Grass growing.

I am sure these blokes are mighty fine athletes. I know they show great skill and endurance. Their machines are state of the art.

It's not their fault that they're boring.

Oh god, there are three bloody weeks of this.

fatness

First day back at the gym yesterday.

My membership was up for renewal just before I left for Queensland and I decided to cut down to one session a week with my PTI. Yesterday was the first of those sessions, so it was assessment time.

I had to do all those nasty things like get on the scales and have my measurements taken. I dread that printout from the scales. It says really cruel things (politely transcribed to numeric form but cruel none the less). Yeah, I dread those times.

But, yesterday, I was in for a pleasant surprise. The numbers (at long last) are starting to show results for all my hard work. I'd lost a total of 28cm off my measurements and my weight was down nicely. But the best of all was my body fat analysis.

Not only has my visceral fat decreased by more than half since I started at the gym, for the first time in a very very very long while, my body fat percentage is in healthy range. Only just, admittedly, but it's there.

I was mighty chuffed.

it's all about Ben and Paris

We are one of those families that feels that the day hasn't begun properly if we haven't read a newspaper. We buy at least one every day (except Christmas and Good Friday when the bastards don't print one). We read them cover to cover and do all the puzzles. We are (ever so slightly) addicted to newspapers.

When I was in Queensland, I went into withdrawal. My daughter doesn't read the paper at home, she scans the copy in the cribroom at work. No papers in the house.

I survived for two days and then I went out and bought the only one that was available, The Townsville Bulletin. It was crap. Parochial doesn't even touch how limited it was. But it was the only one there so I read it. (And watched ABC and SBS news a lot.)

When I got back home, I was so bloody desperate for a "proper" paper that I bought one from a 24 hour servo on the way home. Reading it was the first thing I did after hauling my case out of the car.

Now, I have always know that The West was not exactly the best of papers. It is very much the poor cousin by even national standards. But it is all we have locally (the shop doesn't stock The Australian except at weekends). Even so, what a disappointment.

Having had a break and having to re-establish familiarity with the paper, I have been looking at it far more critically that before. And I have come to the conclusion that it is not just a poor cousin, it is the inbreeder that should have been locked in the cellar. It is total crap.

If The West is to be believed, American boys are no longer dying in Iraq, there hasn't been a suicide bomber anywhere in the world except Scotland, no African countries are having droughts or famines, there doesn't seem to still be unrest in Afghanistan, not a single African refugee has landed on European shores to be arrested and confined, and, gee, even all those black kiddies dying of starvation seem to disappeared.

But The West always reports the important stuff. We know what Hillary Clinton wears on the campaign trail (and Bill backing off the dais)and that the Hilton kid is out of jail (sans make-up). We know all about Ben Cousins (will he, won't he play this weekend). We are fully informed about the possible revamp of Subi Oval (and all the alternatives) and we have every contentious word that Howard said to contradict Costello (oil? schmoil). Prince Charles (not getting his feet muddy) made page three today and the headlines were all about the Glasgow bombing's Aussie connection (maybe).

And I thought the Townsville Bulletin was parochial!

The more I think of it, the more I give major snaps to that newsreader that refused to open her programme with Paris. Some more journalist of that moral standing would be well welcome in my newspaper.

assistance required

OK. I am in need of some wisdom from any cat owners out there that are skilled in the domestic arts.

I accidentally shut a cat in the house today when I went out. The cat peed on the bath mat.

I have washed the mat and hung it outside to destink. Unfortunately, the rancid stench of cat piss seems to have soaked into the floor tiles (or the grout).

I have mopped the floor with my usual cleaner (white vinegar) with no effect. I am not game to try anything else lest I set the smell.

Any suggestions? Proven methods? Things to avoid?

the gardener in me

My daughter and her husband cannot be considered as gardeners by any stretch of the imagination (she's great on the inside of the house, just not outside). Whilst I have a wild and woolly wilderness outside my windows, they have lots and lots of neat even lawn. Their backyard has one lone tree and a couple of golden cane palms concealing the shed. Their front yard had two concrete-kerbed bed with sad and lonely palms in them.

The backyard was beyond my scope. The front yard I tackled. This is what their front garden used to look like (sorry, it's an old pic from the flood, I forgot to take "before" photos)

After much labouring (did you know that you can't shovel river pebbles? The spade won't go into the pile, you have to hand load them into a bucket.) it now looks like this.

Those poor lonely palms now have some yuccas, moses-in-a-cradle and kangaroo paw to keep them company. As well as some might big (and heavy) boundies.

The plants are small yet but will rapidly grow in their tropical climate. Soon it will look lush and bushy. My lass seemed pleased with the results and reported that her other half was impressed when he got back from out bush. I think all my hard work is a vast improvement (even if the plants are still just babies).

P.S. Happy Independence Day to all you US people out there.

queen of the hill

I'm baaaaaaack!

I have nothing particularly dramatic to tell about my trip. Most of the time it was just Mum and daughter time. We went out and saw her favourite haunts, met a few of her friends, took a look at her barracks, did some shopping, that sort of thing. Not exciting, just happy.

The one big thing we did do was conquer a place called Castle Hill. Well, maybe not conquer, but I made it to the top.

This is Castle Hill.

It is only a few Ks from the CBD of Townsville, a huge great lump of rock sticking out next to the mudflats. It is something of a local tradition to climb to the peak and hundreds of walkers tackle it every day. As a result, the local council has spent a lot of time and effort making the paths safe(ish) and stopping them from destroying the flora of the area. They have done an exceptional job (under very difficult circumstances).

The main track up the hill is two and a half kilometers long, spiralling its way through the less precipitous tracts. As the track rises 286m over its length, it is has quite a gradient, so they made it all with steps. Hundreds and hundreds (and bloody hundreds) of steps.

Some are pretty conventional, like this....

but most are a little more rustic, like this.....

We started just after dawn.....

and I lumbered my fat arse up the stairs....

taking the odd rest break on the way up.....

By the time I got to the top I was totally knackered. B usually does the climb in 17 minutes (although, I think she actually RUNS it!). I was inordinately proud of myself for doing it in 40!

We then had the 3Km down hill walk along the road to get back to the car.

As if the walk wasn't enough to make me totally rooted, after a quick shower and change, we headed into the blood bank in town for a small donation.

The things we do when egged on by our kids!