Swiss world problems

We've all heard of First World Problems like this:



...and not only recognised them, but also had a laugh at the wins:

....and now I think it's time to share some Swiss World Problems with you all.  Geneva is universally and consistently found to be the second or third (depending on the poll or survey) most expensive city in the world.  First, if just rent per income is taken into account. No wonder all of the nurses who changed Sapphire's IV drip in December lived in France and I haven't had a haircut since Christmas.

Milly and I did our usual walk in the park this morning and found a homeless man sleeping in the fenced 'Off Leash' area right alongside the clanking cranes and drills of the building site next door.  This unpeaceful doze was further ruined by his being barked at by a puzzled Alsatian who was accompanied an angry lady in a fur coat who'd just parked her brand new Beamer nearby and was gesticulating at a council worker to get rid of the unsightly sleeping sod.  A bizarre scene that set me thinking. 

What are Swiss world problems?  Here's a few that spring to mind:

Stupid government is trying to restrict holiday homes and ski chalets to only twenty percent of all the properties in each town. NO WAY!

Didn't get to see Arnold  Schwarzenegger speak at the Geneva summit last week - only 3,000 invitations were issued.  

Had to leave the Ferrari in the outdoor car park because of the crowds at the International Motor Show.

Freshly baked bread was warm when I walked home, but stale by the time I wanted it for lunch.

L'Occitane almond oil hand moisturiser takes too long to rub in and leaves glittery specks of crushed pearls afterwards.

That unbearable feeling when you slip on your winter coat and your jumper arms ride up halfway through the sleeves.

You let someone cross the road at the yellow lines and they don't give you the nationally acknowledged and expected 'nod of thanks'.

One IKEA pillow is too flat but two are too high.

Bircher meusli is just too complicated to chew for breakfast on mornings when you're running late.

Chocolate blocks are on special, tightly-packaged in groups of ten. But there are only seven days in a week.

Only have a two hundred franc note in your wallet but tram ticket machine takes five franc coins.

Bloody husband forgets to bring back any duty free from his last overseas business trip.

Damn Victorinox knife cuts my finger again.

Judged by John Martins

It's funny how being a mother to a twelve year old child leads to a lot of reminiscing and 'that reminds me of the time' conversations. These then lead, later on, to deeper ponderings and analyses of events long since past and dealt with.

As we were about to get into the car for the school run this morning, Sapphire said, "You're the same age as Madonna, aren't you Mum?"

Despite being unshowered, wearing polar fleece, tracksuit pants, ugg boots and holding Milly's lead and my Wellington boots, I stopped short in horror.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO Sapphire! She is TEN YEARS older than me."

Sapphire ignored my offended stance and waited patiently for me to open the doors. "Oh yeah, that's right. It's Kylie Minogue who's your age."

It was difficult to stay huffy at her when the rear vision mirror showed a new age spot on my left temple and two cornflake boogers in my eyes.

"Mum?"

"Mmmmmmm?" Reversing out is difficult, not just because I automatically crane my neck to look the wrong way. Space is challengingly tight, and other residents like to roar around the corner in their posher and much larger vehicles.

"Do you like Madonna?"

When we'd made it out onto the street where I now feel confident enough to drive on the wrong side of the road and hold an animated conversation, I had a think about this. "Well, she's had a very long career and her facelift treatments are one of the better ones out there but I do wish she'd perhaps try singing about something a little less twenty-something oriented. She's had two marriage breakdowns, got four children and lived a full life, so surely she could try wearing pants, singing about adult issues and pose with her legs crossed for a change."

"But looks matter, don't they Mum?"

Don't they indeed.

My daughter is beautiful. Truly beautiful, but she doesn't believe me and walks hunched up in anxiety and self consciousness across the tarmac to the school yard. She fails to see the appreciative glances that get thrown her way when we're out and about, and worries that she's not 'flat and thin' like the not-yet-developed, a full-year-younger, gymnastic queens of her class.

When she got home from school, we shared a diet coke on the balcony and I took her back to the summer of 1987. It had been buried and forgotten in my mind until reawakening, unwanted but timely, today.



Second year uni had finished and I was not looking forward to going back home to my fifth summer of cutting apricots whilst standing on a cement floor under a boiling hot corrugated iron fruit packing shed to earn money for the year ahead.

John Martin's - South Australia's most beloved department store - were advertising. They were looking for university students to work right up until the post-Christmas sales. No experience necessary. They wanted intelligence, hard work and the willingness to provide unceasingly friendly customer service. My best uni buddy Joanne and I decided to apply together. Neither of us had ever worked anywhere not involving fresh produce or small children. She grew up on a riverland orchard where picking grapes and oranges helped earn her pocket money and, apart from apricot cutting, I could only add babysitting to my slim resume.

We filled out the form and sat outside a dingy, fake wood-panelled room with plastic chairs for our turn to be briefly interviewed. Both of us got five minutes to answer a couple of short questions. Four hours later we walked back to college and went in search of a late dinner in the kitchen.

Jo was offered a job in the Manchester department the following day. I was rejected.

A week later, the local newspaper featured a small article revealing that the HR manager of John Martin's had been recorded admitting that there was an unwritten policy of selecting only good looking uni students for holiday work. I spent the night in bed curled up, sobbing.

I never told Jo about the article and she held that job beyond the post-Christmas sales, working Thursday nights and Saturday mornings for the next six years as she successfully completed her honours and PhD. She worked hard and deserved every dollar she got.

But yes, looks matter.

"But I think you're beautiful, Mum."

This, from a fresh faced, blue eyed angel, who can't see even a glimpse of it in herself. Instead of denying it as I'd normally do, I just hugged her and said, "Thanks love. So are you."

"And guess what - John Martin's is no longer in business."

Open windows

We've never lived in an apartment before we came here and now we're up amongst the tree tops on the eighth floor of an eleven storey building.

Apartment living can be cramped, but this place is significantly larger in size than our snug little one-and-a-half fronted cottage in Flemington. Milly has adapted to the lack of garden and back door facilities extremely well, being content to snooze and snuffle around from room to room until it's time to head downstairs via the lift into the Dog Forest. Where she once trembled in fear when the elevator doors clanged shut and it descended to the ground she now wags her tail, because a ride in the lift means a walk.

Upstairs there's no garden to tend (fine by me and LC) and two hallways that would easily be converted into bedrooms if we were back in Melbourne with a budget for renovations.

Despite this - and having three toilets - we only have the one living space for eating, piano practising, telly watching and view gazing. Furnishings are kept to the minimum for ease of access and my beloved luxury item number two* is stored in LC's and my bedroom.

The treadmill. An expensive towel rail for some but a vital part of life for me. With an ageing body that now hosts a dodgy achilles, a bung calf muscle and plantar fasciitis, my runs are now down to three days a week for 6 km a time. I'm slower now too - no longer galloping at 12.6km per hour, but a relatively sedate 11.2 for the first five kilometres and last gasp 12km/hr for the final km.

Still, with that trio of trots and a long morning walk with Milly, my heart rate is a mighty fine 56 beats per minute while resting and I seem to be able to continue to inhale all matter of chocolate, wine and cheese-related Swiss specialties without looking too obviously rotund.

I've written before about the benefits for me beyond the cardiovascular. It helps keep my Black Dog at bay and gives me time to reflect, think up new writing ideas and reminisce about all kinds of weird and wonderful events. And, to be utterly honest, there's little that makes me feel more proud of myself than knowing I've slogged and sweat my butt off before breakfast, even if it doesn't look like I have.

So, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after Milly and I get back from our walk, I change into my runners and plug in the treadie, strap on my bum bag and headphones and switch on the iPod.

"Annie waits for the last time....."

Three and a half kms in this morning and I was in The Zone, endorphins a-coursing, positive vibes a-pumping and singing along loudly and proudly to every fourth word of each song "Annie waits ----- for a call ....was it always the same?"

Sweat flicked onto the dashboard and Milly turned around to rearrange the pillow she snoozed on at the end of the bed. The view, from the right side, was of the bare winter trees and grey clouds sprinkling a few half-hearted snowflakes.

Things were really firing up today. I audaciously flicked the speedo up to twelve km per hour right from the start and sang along to every word.  My eyes were closed as I imagined that my legs were going to hurl me down the track......

"You've got to be the prettiest girl

I've ever witnessed in the whole world
Hear me can you hear me? Hear me can you hear me?
Hear me can you hear me now......"

Ratta tatta tat!

I nearly got flung into the bedside table in my shock. There, on a crane platform slowly moving upwards were two removal men, grinning at me.  'Bonjour madame!'  

I wasn't sure what to do. Stop and what, stand still and wave until they putted upwards beyond my floor or nod and keep running as all serious athletes would do? The first option seemed faintly ridiculous, but the second option would hardly work seeing as they'd already had a chuckle at seeing me sing to myself with my eyes closed like a sheltered workshop employee on a fitness kick.

So I did what I always do when faced with French I cannot speak and people I cannot converse with. I gave them the 'thumbs up' and a smile, got back onto the treaddie and kept on going, thanking the powers-that-be that they weren't putting by an hour later when I'd invariably be starkers and freshly showered.

I'm starting to love this place.

* Milly is luxury item number one

Pant-less at the podium

Most of us have recurring nightmares, don't we?

Love Chunks has one where he's on the toilet, pants around his ankles, busy daydreaming as he waits to drop a couple of Andrew Bolts off at a the pool.

Then, he looks up and notices that he's in the middle of a street. Adelaide's Rundle Mall, to be precise. Right by the silver balls. Shoppers are walking past; fully clothed, and he's there with the sides of his arse on display.

Sapphire has one where she's floating peacefully down a river, until it eventually becomes less peaceful and out of control. She normally then wakes up and throws up - it's her 'Yep, you're sick; you're really sick' nightmare.

Mum has one too. She's on a bushwalk with Dad, and steps off the national park path to pull down the knickers and have a quick splash on the stones.

Lo and behold, a bus load of Japanese tourists come trooping around the bend on the lower path, getting a white mooned greeting from a seventy year old. When she woke up ---- hang on, that actually happened to her, it wasn't a dream, true story.

As for me, there are two that crop up time and time again and have been doing so since my early twenties. The first is based on a real life event - being late for an exam.

Exam stress is a common dream to have and is quite literally every student's nightmare. They usually concern sleeping in and missing the exam, not being early for the exam but unable to get to the final destination due to being stuck in traffic.

In 1987, Adelaide still had the Grand Prix. The very first one in 1985 was held on my birthday and as I heard the whining sounds of fast cars being televised in the pool room at the other end of the house, I sat in my bedroom studying for my matriculation English exam the following day.

For the next few years, I realised that having a birthday in early November invariably meant being locked in my room, re-reading illegible lecture notes and goofing off by painting my toe nails.

Back to November 1987. I was in second year uni and Dad was driving me from Murray Bridge to Adelaide Uni for my 'Pre-Scientific World View of History' exam. Yeah, second year Arts was not exactly focussing on career-specific topics, but in terms of reading, research and essay writing, knowing the details of Paracelsus, the four humours of the body and lingering beliefs in witchcraft was all my brain was filled with at that point.

Until we hit Pulteney Street. "Grand Prix traffic, I reckon," Dad said, peering over the steering wheel at the long, l-o-n-g line of cars going nowhere.

Fifteen minutes of no moving, my left leg began to jiggle. "It's OK, kiddo, we'll get there," Dad said, looking straight into the 'If you see this, then I've lost the bloody caravan' bumper sticker of the car in front of him. Also not moving.

Half an hour later, I tapped at my watch. "Dad, they'll open the doors in fifteen minutes time and I don't think----"

"It'll move, Cackles.* It has to."

Forty minutes later and I had my first, grown up experience of cold sweat pooling in my arm pits.

"Calm yourself, Kath. Take a few deep breaths, you'll get there on time."

A further five minutes had me squirming on the seat. "Dad, I know you mean well, but I have to run for it. Now."

"But Pulteney Street's about two kilometres long - do you want to arrive all puffed out, stressed and sweaty?

"I already am, Dad."

He nodded, in what we all know is the universal sign for Fair Enough. I pushed open the passenger door, grabbed my back pack and legged it, blonde spiral perm flowing like windblown pot noodles behind me.

My dunlop volleys started to eat at my ankles. They were made for lounging in; being crossed under desks, not running wildly. I kept on.

My jeans rubbed around my middle and the crotch got hotter and damper. I kept on.

My backpack kept wheeling from shoulder to shoulder, banging the lower part of my bag and causing my t-shirt to ride up like a crop top. I kept on.

The hallowed spire of Bonython Hall was finally in sight. Yesssss! Daggy old Flentje theatre was in nuffy old Napier next door. I clattered precariously down the steps, trying hard not to think of the consequences of slipping and smashing my face, hooned like a nervous dog on floor tiles to the right and flung the doors open with a mighty CLANG as they bashed against the wall and back again, almost pushing me over.

Sweat was running into my ear cavities as I wheezed for air and tried to stop a bunch of weird little white spots obscuring my vision.

Seventy students, all seated and all reading the exam questions, turned in their seats to stare at me.

"Hough hough, the traffic ------  Hough hough Grand Prix ------ Hough hough left my dad ------  Hough hough ran like hell------" a drop of sweat flew off my hand towards the exam moderator who was, mercifully, also my tutor. I bent double to try and regain my breath, wet hair now slicked to my face.

Seats creaked in unison as the students went back to their papers.

"Sit down over here," she whispered kindly. "I can give you ten minutes extra if you like."

I thanked her and sat down, ignoring the wet-pants feeling of my bum on the vinyl chair. My Darth Vader Hough hough  puffs eventually subsided. The white spots faded to nothing and there was still a dry spot on the top of my legs to wipe my palms down before picking up the pencil.

"Time," the examiner called. I had finished with the others after all.

Dad was waiting for me outside, looking very concerned. "How did you go?"

I hobbled over towards his outstretched arms; blisters now evident, body all BO-ey and generally exhausted.  "Pretty well I think, Dad. At least I lived this one instead of dreamt about it."

This real life event still does replay in my dreams, but only occasionally.  My more common recurring nightmare is not about the almost-missed exam; it's about getting up to make a speech in front of a large, expectant audience. The spotlight is in my eyes and, as I clear my throat and lean forward into the microphone to start, I feel a coolish breeze.

Yep, I'm naked from the waist down.

* Cackles, thought of by Dad because I laughed a lot as a teenager. "Still, it's better than being called plain old 'Cack'," he pointed out.

Pre-migraine Meme

I've had these meme questions sitting in the 'draft' folder for a while now, and can't remember who I stole it from. Memes are good when your brain is fried, Mr Migraine is just arriving for an unwelcome visit but you feel like writing something before he kicks the door in........

1. Tell us who the last person was that you showered with.
Just my good self armed with a puff full of douche gel. That still cracks me up - calling a shower a 'douche' here in French-speaking Geneva. Before that it would be years and years and years ...... even then it featured Sapphire who was around two at the time and we were in a hotel room that didn't have a bath. Getting in the shower with her seemed like the easiest way to get her clean.

2. Tell us about your favorite tee-shirt. 

I used to wear 'Diet Stinks' quite a lot but it, um 'shrunk' and didn't make the cut to squeeze into the 23kg of luggage we were allowed to bring over to Geneva. That's my story and I'm not going to change it.

3. Has anyone ever hit on you even though they knew you were taken?
Not in recent memory. I think I'm too old, disinterested and tired-looking to give even the faintest whiff of intrigue or availability. Actually, I did get propositioned by a bored female prostitute on a Friday morning, close to Christmas. Apart from economic necessity, it might also have been the intoxicating combination of a nanna cart, sensible shoes, fat face and my visible excitement at going to a lovely old church to participate in a second hand book sale.

4. Do you plan what to wear the next day?
Nope. I log on to check the weather forecast in the morning; think about what I'm up to for the day and what's clean and then decide. The plainer the better for me.

5. How are you feeling RIGHT now? Why?
Tired. The apartment gets stuffy at night because the blinds are shutters that roll down and then shut out not just the noise and lights outside but also the fresh air.

6. What's the closest thing to you that's black?
Watch strap and scuffy black boots. Sensible flat ones of course.

7. Tell me about an interesting dream you remember having.
I'm someone who rarely remembers their dreams but, funnily enough, last night's is still with me - I was stealing hair conditioner from Migros, the supermarket nearest our home. Why I have no idea..... if I was going to risk life and limb shoplifting, surely I'd choose something more valuable. Like say, meat here in Geneva?

8. Did you or might you meet anybody new today?
Yes. Milly and I chatted in broken French to an elderly lady who stopped to give her a pat. Plus the Fratman and a door-to-door salesman who wanted to sell me an automatic security system. "Non merci."

9. If you could be doing anything right now (or perhaps after you finish this ridiculous meme) what would it be?
Mr Migraine is starting to knock at my door and I'd love to take a nap, but worry that I'd be out of it for too long and be unable to sleep tonight. It's the warm weather and a built up bank account of lost sleep and finally feeling a bit more relaxed about things and feeling my eyelids get heavy and wondering if it's really worth sweeping the floor or following up the online accounts or zZzzzzzzz......

10. Do you floss?
Every night. I have Love Chunks to thank for this. Before we lived together, I thought flossing was something the dentist did to make your eyes water during a check up. He rather politely informed me that my morning (and hey let's face it - lunchtime and evening) breath might improve if I got rid of some of the (unnoticed by me) flotsam and jetsam lurking in the gaps.

11. What comes to mind when I say China?
HUGE economic power. Always the third word after reading 'Made In' on the back of any and every product that was purchased in Australia. Here it is just as likely to have 'Made in Switzerland' on it, but cost ten times as much. Tupperware (and its alternatives) might as well be made out of platinum here for the price.

12. Are you overly emotional?
Yes damnit and I wish I wasn't. I hate it that tears are always close to the surface and I can't shake things off and get over it like a mature, well-rounded and confident person.

13.If you could listen to just one rock album (CD, vinyl or mp3) which one would you pick ?
Super Trouper by ABBA. Played over and over in 1981 when I was a miserable and lonely Aussie girl living in Scotland. Loved every song and it made me feel..... comforted. It's no classic by any stretch but sometimes music or songs have that certain element that helps when you need it most.

14. Do you bite into your ice cream or just lick it?

Insightful question! Um, lick madly at first and bite when it all starts dribbling down my hands, my wrist and drops plop off the end of my elbows. I'm not really a big ice-cream girl and rarely have one in a cone or in a bowl. Ice-blocks are more my things or I'll go straight to the chocolate and avoid the icy, melty bits in between.

15. Do you like your car?
Yes, Pierre the Peugeot 207SW is an adorable little silver spunk! Our previous car, Maggie the Magna, was sixteen when we sold her in May 2011 and Pierre is the first brand new car for Love Chunks and myself.

16. Do you like yourself?
Sort of. It's been an up and down relationship with many lessons learned, shocks discovered and things to look back on and smile about. Or wince.

17. Would you go out to eat with Charlie Sheen?
No. I never liked his stupid TV show; never thought he had much talent; never understood how he was admired for being 'successful' and wish that he'd had a vasectomy years ago - how many kids and wives have been left on the roadside now?

18. What was the last song that you listened to?
Something played by WRS - World Radio Switzerland, that caused Sapphire great embarassment. 'Beautiful' by One Direction. I haven't seen a music video in years, and it was catchy, so my hands tapped the steering wheel. Her shame and dismay at my reaction was both intense and scornful. The only other songs we've heard have been the US-dominated, middle-of-the-road soft rock classics played at every shop in Geneva we've visited. "More than words to show you feel.....That your love for me is real...."

19. Are (or were) your parents strict?
Fairly. Dad was a high school teacher so was well aware of the temptations and pitfalls. Mum only insisted on a curfew when I had my first real boyfriend - my remonstration that I'd easily be able to do as many naughty things before 1am as after didn't hold water.

20. Have you ever wondered what attending a wild orgy (if only to watch or...) would be like?
No. Movies like 'A Clockwork Orange' and 'Eyes Wide Shut' and several bad novels read under the covers as a teen dampened any interest or enthusiasm for the practice.

21. I say cottage cheese. You say:
I'm on a diet. It's boring, it's not fun but it's a food of some sort that's only in my fridge when I'm serious.

22. Have you ever met a celebrity?
In my three month stint as a barperson at the Savoy in London in 1991 I served a few - Liza Minnelli, Nick Faldo, Fergie. The biggest tipper was the Chancellor of the Exchequer!

23. What was the last movie that you watched at home?
Life of Brian, followed by 'The Holy Grail' - we thought that it was time for Sapphire to discover them. Luckily, she loved them both. "Brave brave Sir Robin...."

24. Is there anything sparkly in the room you're in?
The silver crackle on the inside of the Cailler branchee wrapper, bubbles in my long-forgotten glass of water and glints of light bouncing off the various camera/iPad/data sticks scattered over the desk.

25. What countries have you visited?
England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, New Zealand, France, Spain, The Netherlands, Greece, Italy, Indonesia (well, just Bali and Ubud if I'm totally honest), Malaysia, Germany, Singapore,Luxembourg. Oh and Switzerland now.

26. Have you ever made a phone call while you were drunk that you've regretted? If yes, do tell.
I don't think so....... or if I did, I honestly don't remember it. I do remember, during O-week at first year uni staggering back to a friend's room and trying to write down the next day's timetable for introductory lectures. The next day I slept in, felt utterly sick and missed them all which was a good thing because what was written down was utterly illegible - not even sure it was in English.

27. Bacon or sausage?
Bacon. Always bacon. Sausages are full of a heap of stuff and then, maybe, a bit of iffy meat so they're best avoided.

28. How long have you had a cell-phone?
My first was in 1998 when I was pregnant and LC wanted to make sure that I was always in contact. I had it for another couple of years after that and always felt really embarrassed by it because it was the last of the brick-sized phones. Since then I've gone for the simplest and cheapest because I hate SMSing and all that fiddly stuff.

29. Who invented chop sticks?
The song or the eating utensil? If it was the song, my mother would personally like to kill them. Her one and only rule when playing her piano was that Chopsticks was never, ever to be featured on her hallowed ivory keys.

30. Who are you going to be with tonight?
Sapphire and Milly at home as Love Chunks is in Washington for work. I was going to take Sapph to an Aboriginal art exhibition at the UN, but forgot to send in an RSVP in time and the security is so tight that it was too late to put our names on the security-checked list. So home it is. Then again, home is the best nightspot in the world with friendly locals, comfortable clothing and food and amenities close to hand.

31. Are you too forgiving?
Maybe. Although I've found that I've been furious and rock-hard angry over some incidents in life and very understanding about others. In hindsight it can be pretty interesting to think back on what was unforgivable and what was eventually OK.

32. When was the last time that you were in love?
Still am. Coming up to nearly nineteen years and counting.

33. Tell us about your best friend.
I wish there was an 's' after 'friend' - Love Chunks is my favourite boy friend.
Jill I've known since I was two days old. She's strong, beautiful, smart, funny, kind and interested in others. Just writing about her makes me smile and wish that she was sitting right here so that I could give her a hug and put the kettle on.
Milly might be a dog, but she spends more time with me than any other (visible) living creature.
And Sapphire. Darling daughter and terrific company.

34. What was the stupidest thing you learned in high school?
Algebra, sewing (I left Home Economics still unable to thread a bobbin into a sewing machine) and every single PE class.

35. What was the last thing that you cried about?
Being here in Geneva, trying to find my 'place'. It's a work in progress for me and the language barrier means that English is hard to find, as is reading matter and someone to provide you with information or the services you need. I worry about whether I'll find paid work here or what my real role is but it passes and I realise that yes, I am emotional and double yes, a huge worrier.

36. What was the last question you asked?
"Where's the squirrel?" Milly had stopped in her tracks, barked excitedly and yep, sure enough, there were two squirrels playing in the branches above.

37. Favorite thing to do this time of the year?
Almost springtime in Geneva, so it's still new to me. Open the living room windows as the heating is still on but the sun is amplified through the glass. Admire the view from both sides of our building (Jet D'eau from the bedrooms, Jura mountains from the living room). Eat the berries that are now appearing in the shops. Sleep with just a thin blanket. Take Milly for a walk in the mornings without having to wear a beanie or gloves.

38. If you had to get a (or another) tattoo, what would it be?
I'm not a fan of anything visible or words so I'm not sure. If I *had* to (ie forced at gunpoint), I'd love to work out how to have the Southern Cross put on but in a way that showed I love my origins but am NOT a bogan redneck. Not sure if that's possible though......

39. How would your best friend describe you?
Not sure - I've put her through the wringer over the years. Maybe quirky, chatty and determined? Food obsessed? Worrywart? Lovable odd ball?

40. Have you ever seen the Twilight films?
The first three, sigh. Sapphire has read all the books and yes, I took her to see the movies. Just like Mills and Boon for teens and, bad writing/acting aside, Ms Meyer is really advocating hanging on to your virginity for as long as you can - any wonder that parents are buying the books for their kids? What a relief it was when 'Breaking Dawn Part I' came out and Sapphire said that she was 'over it' and happy not to see it.

41. Ever walked into a glass door?
Many times. Not hurt myself though, just my pride.

42. Have you ever slapped someone?
As a kid, yes. Having two brothers means that a slap - as well as a good dead leg, hen peck and typewriter maneouvre - is part of the job description.

43. What hair style (for you) would you like to see return?
Mia Farrow / Jean Seberg / V for Vendetta-era Natalie Portman. I'm too old to be bothered with long hair.

44. What was the last CD you bought?
It would be too many years ago to remember - it's all itunes now, baby. Then again, we did put our CDs into storage before moving here as it was too hard to part with them.

45. Do looks matter to you?
To a point. No-one wants to run away screaming from the person with an enormous gaping nostril where their eyes should be, but someone who spends more time preening or rearranging their jeans to defy the laws of physics so that half their undies are on display but they can still walk is just as much of a worry.

46. What's the hardest bill to pay every month?
The rent, which eats up 40% of our income. Considering that our kitchen, bathrooms, wall tiles and floor coverings are all originals from 1970 it seems very steep. Living in a city that profits so handsomely from UN and overseas workers can really sting at times, especially when locals assume that we're all on enormous salaries***

47. Do you like your life right now?
Yes. LC is enjoying his job; Sapphire is happy with school and her group of mates and I feel as though I've got a group of friends I can rely on and have fun with. An income would be nice too, but I'm learning that it'll come when it comes.....

48. Do you have good vision?
Perfect. Never had a problem, but my mother has glaucoma so I have to get it checked regularly.

49. Where was your facebook picture taken?
In Luxembourg by Sapphire, with my ski parka zipped up as far as it would go. LC said I looked like a bear's gynaecologist.

50. Can you waltz?
Vaguely, but need to led. All forms of dancing - old, modern, drunken or utterly sober - scare me to death.

51. Do you have a job?
Kinda sorta. Freelance stuff that pays very little but does occupy my grey matter and my time. Have also won a position as an English tutor but now need some kids to tutor. Is it wrong to be hoping for a couple of kids in Geneva to be currently flunking badly enough for their parents to seek out my services?

52. What was the most recent thing you stole?
Some gorgeous-smelling shampoo from the Novotel in Luxembourg.

53. Have you ever crawled through a window?
YES - Jill had to shove me through their bathroom so that we could get inside her house without the key. (You can read about it here)

*** We're not.

Blubbering in my birthday suit

The phone rings just as I am about to turn on the shower tap.

Naked, I dash out of the bathroom to answer it. We don't have an answering machine and it could be one of eighteen agencies/employers/UN departments/email contacts/referrals/freelance company/tutoring firms I've recently applied at with a job offer.

Nope, it's Carol. "How's Milly going, Kath?"

Carol and John very kindly looked after 'ol furry face while we were in Luxembourg. Having left their beloved fifteen year old pound pooch back in Australia with their grown up daughters, they were keen to have access to a dog for a while again.

Milly was given full run of their house, taken on the bus, on outings to Chillon Castle and Nyon and enjoyed lots of walks and attention. You couldn’t find two nicer people to leave your dog with – she had just as good a holiday as we did.

Therefore it was merely bad luck and unfair timing that Milly developed a bladder infection and no matter how many times I tried to reassure Carol, she was acutely apologetic. “It’s OK, Carol. Milly is likely to have had it before you looked after her. She’s happy and she’s eating, so it can’t be too hard on her.”

And it isn’t, really. Her basket, mattress, covers and blankets seem to rather effectively impersonate a Carefree advertisement because of their ability to ‘draw away moisture’ so she can ease her creaking body out of the bed and not be aware of the gallon of wee soaking through to the floor.

Or the carpet.

Or the puddle on the kitchen tiles that Sapphire slips in barefoot.

The apartment is festooned in just-washed dog clothes, making me marvel at how much gear a twelve kilogram animal requires. There’s a frequent lapping sound in the background as she drains her two water bowls before sitting on some enormous white dog toilet-training mats, her nose clearly dry.

Milly’s eyes widened in alarm when the vet took her temperature yesterday. The reading showed that she had a slight fever and a yellow puddle was left on the stainless steel examination table for emphasis.

The vet retaliated by injecting her twice in the back of the neck: firstly with an anti-inflammatory and then an antibiotic. With Milly’s paws back on the floor and a bill for 400 CHF in my shaking hand, he also gave me some liquid medicine that I was to syringe down her throat twice a day. “And please phone me tomorrow and tell me what her temperature is.”

My shock at the bill was temporarily forgotten. “Er, how am I supposed to do that?”

He grinned, enjoying my discomfort. “You have a thermometer, don’t you?”

“Well yes, but it’s for Sapphire and----“

“You can clean it afterwards,” he interrupted, laughing. “And yes, you slip it into her anus and not her mouth.”

“Uh huh,” I smiled in apparent agreement and said goodbye with absolutely no intention of doing that to Milly. I’m already in awe of how well she stands being probed, bled and injected without complaint, staring at me as if to say, ‘well you seem to be OK with this, so I trust you,’ so there was no way that I was going to be the one to do those kinds of things to her.

Four hundred francs. Straight onto the credit card and three weeks of hard-won freelance writing income gone quicker than free beer on a Friday.

The days’ mail wasn’t much better: a further 5750 CHF (on top of the several thousand we’d already paid) from the hospital for Sapphire’s stomach treatments late last year, 250 for a blood test done by the GP and a bill for 1000 CHF from the school to ‘reserve’ her place for next year. A thousand francs to type a kids’ name into an Excel spreadsheet.....?

I added them to the ‘Bills Due’ pile that was starting to buckle the solitary little paper clip holding them together and put them on the top of the printer. They’d just have to wait.

Emails were due to be read – what was going on in the Gillard V Rudd stoush? Did my folks have any preferences for holiday bookings when they arrived here? What were those LOLdogs up to?

Oh. Despite fulfilling all of the selection criteria and the manager agreeing several months ago that I’d be ideal for the job, they’d ‘omitted’ to inform me that, due my husband already working in their organisation, they were not permitted to offer me work. Not even from-home, two hours a week.

Same goes for a role in a different section to LC’s, editing a newsletter for roughly four hours a week. An enormous conflict of interest apparently.

UN vacancies now. Part time jobs are rarer than a supermodel with a sandwich and most require overseas travel for a third of that time. How does Burkina Faso, Mogadishu or Basra sound?   But today there was a part time job – an admin assistant on the lowest of the lowest classification level, two days a week – perfect! 

Maybe.  I would have to demonstrate a ‘thorough understanding of UN administrative procedures (via an examination) and have at least five years experience working in the UN. English and French are the two working languages, with priority given to applicants who also have German and Spanish/Arabic/Russian as a fourth language.’ Oh, right. 

Wait – wait – someone saw my freelance advert and wants me to edit their research report!

I then spent an hour reading through the ‘how to’ documentation and the attached Literature Review chapter before deciding that yes, I can do this and do it well. It’s obviously a PhD thesis and a very, very poorly-written one. He says on Skype, “I’ll pay you for an hour to see how you do, and then, if I’m happy, we’ll set up a contract for another ten hours.”

Fine by me. The hour is measured by the freelance website time-tracking device so he can see that I’m working solidly; mostly with ‘track changes’ on.

I waited for Skype to burp itself on again. ‘Oh,’ he wrote in an email ten minutes later. ‘I really like your editing, but I actually wanted you to write some stuff for me, you know, fill in the gaps so that it’s not so patchy.’

No wonder he cowardly emailed me instead of speaking to me directly. My response: ‘Peter, dearest, it’s YOU who supposedly read all of those articles and are now summarising your learnings and findings, not ME. There is no possible way I can write linking sentences or expand on studies, theses or books I’ve never read.’ I wanted to end with, ‘Unless I can share your doctorate with you?’

No response back, except the one automatically generated by the freelance company exactly three minutes later. ‘Your contract with Cheater BoyXYZ is now terminated. Total payment earned: 18USD.’

So he even went so far, as my ‘employer’, to deduct two bucks from an already bargain price.


...............“Kath? Kath are you still there?” Carol sounded concerned.

I started to blubber. “Carol, I’m sorry for crying on the phone but apart from prostitution or nannying, I don’t know what else to try to earn a few bucks here and even when I did apply for a nanny job looking after two small boys for a ten hour day, she only wanted to pay me thirteen francs an hour so that she could do her diplomat-level job." 

Milly nudged my leg. With her bladder infection rampant, I didn’t dare risk fobbing her off any longer. Besides, I’d run out of dry towels. “Gotta go Carol, Milly needs a trip to the Dog Forest downstairs.”

I de-nuded myself, grabbed The Fratman-Approved apartment-friendly kit of Wellington boots and towel and took her downstairs to relieve herself. We entered the bike storage room afterwards for me to wipe her feet clean and to change out of my boots as well as dump some papers into the communal recycling bin.

Zzzzzzziiiiiiip –ooooh, the edge of the squashed cornflakes box scornfully slashed a cut across my palm. It wasn’t particularly deep but blood dripped freely. “Damn!”

And this has happened before and it’ll happen again but I bent down to unclip Milly’s lead and give her ears a scratch at the exact moment she leapt up to sneak a slurp across my nose so that CRA-A-A-CK, her rock hard head smacked into my nose.

“Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart!” I screamed, staggering blindly about the room in pain before getting my trousers caught on the mudguard of a bicycle.

When sight was restored, it was a gruesome scene that appeared before me. Blood spatters all over the floor, the edge of the skip, the plastic bag holding my boots and Milly’s lead. Had Dexter snuck in to visit?

It’s amazing what two wet wipes can do and, fifteen minutes later, we exited the bike storage room.

On our way to the lift I saw The Fratman pushing his wheelie bucket and mop across the foyer. “Bonjour Monsieur,” I called out cheerily, idly wondering why he didn’t respond with his usual “Tres Bien” at the sight of my boots-in-a-bag and Milly’s foot towel. He seemed in a real hurry.

Back upstairs, I put off having a shower before compulsively checking my emails again.

Good news at last. No, not kids to tutor, an article to research, paper to edit or administrative work to undertake but our spare car parking spot was now officially rented to a neighbour.

I had to laugh at the absurdity of a ‘win’ that required no work or skill of my own, yet roughly equated to two hours of freelance writing. Then I had to wipe the keyboard clean - my cut was still oozing slightly.

I laughed again in the bathroom when I saw my blood-smeared face in the mirror and realised why The Fratman scuttled off so quickly...... Perhaps he does deserve a bottle of plonk or a tip this coming Christmas after all – if we can afford it!

Signs of life in Luxembourg

"Mum, you have such a childish sense of humour," Sapphire said, as we sat on the bus on our way to Vianden castle in Luxembourg.

"Yeah, well," I sniffed, "Who was it I heard playing IN MY PANTS*** the other night with her buddies on Skype, mmmmmm?"

She's right though. When sitting here with a coffee, some chocolate and waiting for the holiday snaps to finish downloading, I realise that when the camera was in my hands, the photos seem less scenic and more, well, silly.

Admittedly, even Sapphire laughed at these chocolate bars:



And it was she who spotted the name of this cafe:



....not that we noticed anyone having a hilarious episode in there; just two old ladies having a coffee with their pomerians squabbling at their feet.

We found out later that this guy is a writer of some note. "Poor bloke, to have that as your name," said Sapphire in sympathy.



"I am NOT going to these places to eat. Ever." Like her grandfather, my daughter is a stickler for good grammar, punctuation and spelling.





Where is Wally? Or Walter, as he's known here.



This landlord might need to work on his marketing skills. After his renovations are done of course.



This one puzzled us all. Apart from a nest full of baby birds, who on earth wants second hand food?



The bus was rounding the corner as I snapped this. "Hurry up Mum! Oh for goodness' sake, it's not that funny."
Me: "Tee Hee Ruder Wee!"

She issued a loud, overly-dramatic sigh of exhausted patience. "And you wonder why I want you to stay in the car with the windows up when you drop me off at school."



**** How to play 'In my pants'. Just add those magical three words at the end of pretty well every sentence for cheap laughs.

For example: ""It's been an amazing year," said Adele as she received the female artist statuette from Kylie Minogue.

...can be changed to "It's been an amazing year - in my pants"

I never said it was a mature or insightful or intellectual game!

Luxembourg Locals

It was Sapphire's mid term break because the Swiss darlings need seven days off after a gruelling six weeks of term and, as luck would have it, Love Chunks was going to Luxembourg for work.

As Sapphire's school actively discourages kids being taken out of class to join their parents during term time, this coincidence was too good to pass up. So, erm, what did we know about Luxembourg, other than it was a tiny place that you could supposedly drop kick a footy from one side to the other?

Not a lot.  And yet, some things remain the same wherever we go.

Firstly, I always get asked for directions.  Within two hours of arriving, a woman approached me to find out where the museum was.  Sapphire was able to locate it on the map and show her the way.  The following day a bloke asked me in German if the train we were about to climb onto was heading to Vianden. "Yep," I nodded, when "Ja" might have been more helpful.

What usually makes a holiday something special is the locals you encounter.  We heard as much German spoken as French and found everyone friendly and helpful. The streets were even more spotless than Geneva's ....... except for the mountain of ciggie butts and dog turds on the pavements.  I spent as much time looking down in order to dodge doo-doos (which, when inspected closely, were mostly old bunched up leaves) as I did gazing at the pretty magnificent scenery.

Gotta love a gargoyle.  This was one of four festooning the lower balcony of the Grand Duke's palace, which was modestly tucked behind the main shopping drag and guarded by only two blokes who mostly had their eyes on the chocolate shop across the road.

Possibly a contributor to the preponderance of pavement poos, but this one was carrying an empty Fanta bottle.  She paused just after this photo was taken to proudly show us her prize before trotting further along the river.

This wolf was slightly less active and, despite the perspective, wasn't about to have its head bashed in by a builder's crane.

Nike, the golden goddess of victory and proudly on top of Luxembourg's main war memorial looked pretty dazzling from a distance, but up close, we felt a bit sorry for her.



Being forced to stand at a significant height in a cold country...!  Couldn't they have at least dressed the poor love in something other than the sheerest muslin and kept her dry and out of the wind?



At Vianden, there was another woman who aroused my pity.  Are they lemons or breasts? And I'm no artist, but surely that belly button is where her knees would normally be?

Close up of the bumbled boobies.  One is at viewer's eye level and the other is limply hanging to the bottom left towards the face of the puzzled greyhound below. Not sure that sub-standard plastic surgery was to blame in Greek times......

Nike isn't the only golden creature in town.

..... and the beginnings of the Carnevale weekend saw the train fill with high school kids on their way to celebrate:

Perhaps these two aren't really local, but after a week in a small country, LC and Sapphire certainly felt as though they knew their way around.  Sapphire had her camera privileges taken away temporarily and was not happy about it.

...... but she got her own back the next day with this portrait of her parents, entitled 'We're lost, aren't we?'



At the airport, I noticed a particularly unwelcoming hotel and said to Sapphire, "Oh that's an awful place.  It's loud, ugly and far too close to the airport."

Quick as a flash she grinned, shooting back with "And so are you, Mum."  Little wit bag!

Luxembourg's motto is 'We want to remain what we are.' Words to ponder on, indeed.