Knowledge November - Day 28 - Shiteous Shopping




















Unlike most women I know, I hate shopping. Especially clothes or shoes for me.

There's only so much jewellery you can wear in 'real life'. Big rings get clumps of soap caught in the claws holding the stone and dangly earrings is like having your own self-serve torture treatment as they grab at your hair and dong off the sides of your jaw. Jeans, once the perfect pair is found, last for years and get better as they get older and the three dresses I currently own have each been bought for a special occasion and only worn for that occasion.

Thousands of much better bloggers and writers have written of the horrors and time-wasting associated with trying on clothes in shops and changing rooms. The queues; being told you have one garment too many; the terror of a size too small but no-one to run in and find the right fit; the three-way mirrors showing your thighs in triple-dimpled glory and the single hook that's supposed to fit three jackets, your winter coat, four shirts and a skirt as well as your handbag on it without falling to the floor and landed in a puddle of spilled red slurpee syrup. That's all I'll say on the matter.

Instead, my anti-change room strategy is to actively embrace PayPal, e-bay, online stores and mail order brochures. I know my size and what styles suit me and am happy to select what I need when I need it. ("A black top, Kath? Now there's a surprise" laughs Love Chunks).

My mother, on the other hand, adores shopping and browsing and Sapphire has clearly inherited this trait.

I love spending time with both or either of them at this activity as long as there's no rush to find that perfect gift, or outfit, or kitchen utensil but we can chat, linger, look at stuff for no compelling reason and stop for (good coffee), cake and lunch.

It is then that I find gifts for my loved ones - the book for LC, the tops for Sapph, the hilarious game for a brother, the gorgeous bangles for a sister-in-law, the funky scarf for a friend, the bright-and-busy pressies for Sapphire's birthday party buddies and the cards that make you laugh out loud at their cheeky brilliance. They may be found in January or June and will be carefully hidden away in my secret little gift cupboards, ready for wrapping in December.

When the teacher at Sunday School would say, 'Giving is much better than receiving' this was an impossible thing for a six year old to imagine.

But she was right. Sure, she wasn't right about 'Pray to God and he'll give you what you ask for' because there was NO tin of Big Sister self-saucing chocolate pudding on my window-sill the following morning (I didn't risk asking for an elephant or house of gold because I thought I should consider his work-load and start modestly), but I do get a tiny little buzz of happiness when I think, "Yes. Dad will love this 'Sometimes I wake up grumpy; Other days I just let her sleep in' barbeque apron," or "Dare I risk buying Rob another book when he's proudly admitted to not reading anything other than the newspaper and TV guide since 1985?"

And yet I've also found that giving to a charity and saying to someone that 'I've donated the money I would have spent finding you a special gift so that a family in Rwanda can own three chickens' doesn't quite cut it. It's a fantastic idea to donate; don't get me wrong, but in this society there's still something pretty damn nice about receiving a gorgeous gift that someone has specifically found for you, even if it's small.

So I do donate to charities and feel good about it and don't bother with Christmas cards - all that writing, enviro-catastrophic waste of thin cardboard and cost of postage stamps easily adds up to another donation that saves 100 friends having to pick their stupid, meaningless, mass-produced 'look how many friends I've got, aren't I popular' tacky cards up off the mantelpiece every time somebody opens the door and enters the room.

Family get gifts, but ones that I've carefully thought about and chosen, not just a voucher or a slip of paper saying, 'There's a goat in the Philippines making a family of eight very happy right now' when it really means, 'Your loved one couldn't be arsed getting you a gift so they made an online donation - which we do appreciate and think is great, as we're sure that you do too, but your beloved then just tore this strip off the bottom of the tax deductible receipt we sent and thinks that it excuses them from having to put any thought into you at all.'

I've learned that we need to do both - give to people in need and give to the family and friends we love, no matter how small the present. A handmade card from Sapphire is cherished by me because she devoted time to planning it and making it. And she put her weeks' pocket money into the huge 'Guide Dogs for the Blind' money box at the supermarket that week.

Knowledge November - Day 27 - What's the difference?
















Here's a story I particularly like:

One day a man was walking his dog along the beach after a storm. The tide had washed thousands of starfish onto the beach. They were still alive, but only just. A woman was making her way along the shore, throwing starfish into the sea, one by one.

“Hey,” the man called out, “there are thousands of starfish on the beach. You’re not going to make a blind bit of difference!”

The woman stooped, picked up a starfish and threw it back into the sea. Then she smiled at the man and said, “Made a difference to that one!”

Pieces of litter are my starfish. They're everywhere in our suburb.

Litter is dropped by high school kids to-and-from school and during lunchtime strolls to the five fast food outlets nearby; it flutters out of council rubbish bins as the trucks' lifting mechanism struggles to flip them into the back without spillage; it appears on Friday, Saturday and Sunday mornings after pub night staggerings and the technicolour junk mail mates with the leaves of the plane trees to create even more unsightly mayhem.

Most people see it, have a quiet 'tut tut' about it and then keep walking or unlock their door, step inside and promptly forget all about it.

I can't do that any longer. As I walk up my tiny street with Sapphire and Milly every day, I spent half of it bending over to pick up dropped bottles, cigarette packets, chip bags, soft drink straws and leaflets; placing them in whichever neighbour's wheelie bin is within reach.

Sometimes Sapphire helps and sometimes she rolls her eyes in embarassment. "Can't you just walk by for once, Mum?"

Then, twice a week I arm myself with long-handled BBQ tongs and shopping bags and leave Sapphire at home with LC. Milly is my sidekick, eagerly sniffing out the forgotten sandwiches, chicken bones and mouldering apple cores that are scattered in the school yard. She's long since discovered that beer cans and cigarette butts aren't particularly tasty. Thirty minutes of 'touching my toes with tongs' leaves a spotless school and street and provides me with some rather satisfying grunt work and thinking time.

However, like bad summertime TV and party-hommus morning breath, its return is inevitable. The very next day, before the first lesson has started, there's already a few bunched up tissues, a Big M carton or two and some balls of gladwrap up against the cyclone fencing.

"See Mum, you'll never get rid of it, no matter how often you do it."

I pause, bend over to pick up the ones on the street-side of the fence and carry it in the hand not holding hers.

"I know love, but every piece I pick up is one less that everyone sees. One less making the place look uglier, dirtier and more neglected than it deserves to be. It's my home, my neighbourhood. If I don't make a start on it, who will?"

Perhaps this is just as small, but KIVA is an international microfinance website that alleviates people from poverty by lending them small amounts to start up their businesses and feed their families. I'd heard about the genuine leg-up that microfinancing can give people from poverty-stricken communities via some documentaries and KIVA has been recommended by a friend and some reputable reports on other websites.

KIVA reps were able to see and hear first-hand how small grants of only $100 - $150 had been used to build ongoing livelihoods that could provide for a family. They heard stories of people who were able to sleep on mattresses instead of dirt floors, afford to take sugar in their tea daily instead of occasionally, and buy fresh fish for their families a few times every week rather than once a week. Instead of meeting the poor and helpless, they found themselves meeting successful entrepreneurs who had generated enough profits from their small businesses to create a real impact on their standard of living.

I believe they have the passion, energy and dedication to put some real strength and success behind their aims. I've started up a Blurb from the Burbs/Gone Chocco lending group. If you click on the title, it should take you straight there and if you wish to donate a few dollars to an individual or collective who needs some cash to get started, it'd be great.

Starfish, pieces of litter, a few bucks. It all makes a difference.

Knowledge November - Day 26 - What the movies have learned me



















Most of my lifetime has been spent watching American-made movies and television. A bit of British stuff has crept in at times and maybe some Canadian (without me really noticing) and a smidge of art-house sub-titled stuff, but mostly American.

Apart from being able to list more US presidents than Australian Prime Ministers, US movies have taught me many things about life over there that differs so greatly from my own.

Stuff like:

* When the hero or heroine returns back to their apartment, they never turn the light on, instead preferring to read by the street light streaming in through the window or when the fridge door is open. This love of darkness seems particularly prevalent to private investigators and forensics experts. Why examine some DNA or vital alien clue in a well lit laboratory when you can do it with a portable torch or a cigarette lighter?

* Likewise, they'll wearily sort through their mail, dump it on a table and listen to their answering machine. They'll have message after message on there, from syrupy voices saying 'Hey honey, how come you haven't called me?' to a couple of generic ones from their celluloid parents asking about their health. I'd be lucky to have more than two in an entire week that aren't just recordings of someone hanging up and not bothering to leave a message.

* Labor starts immediately. If a character is pregnant, her cervix will be ten centimetres dilated; waters splashed all over the shop and whatever strongly-worded argument she's engaged in will cease as the baby's head starts to emerge - all in the time it takes you to unwrap a Lindt ball. No 'count the minutes between the contractions, darling, the ante-natal teacher said they'll send us back home if it's more than five minutes' for these characters but BOOM - instant baby!

* Said babies, when they emerge two minutes later, look around three months old and smeared in red jelly. Otherwise they're gargantuans that would surely have the Guinness Book of Records staff popping over with a camera and a set of scales.

* Back at home, if a character offers you a drink, it will come from a bottle of scotch that's conveniently in the living room. As you do. If it's coffee they're offering, the receiver always says 'black' so that the star doesn't have to faff about finding milk, asking about sugar or sweetener and so forth. Tough luck if you don't fancy a neat Scotch or black coffee - "Erm, can I have a glass of water or a diet coke with some ice in it?"



















* Sneezes are fatal, or at the very least require a hospital stay. There's no 'Gezundheit' or 'bless you, go get a tissue you pig' in the movies - it's a coma, bereaved rellies at the bedsite in tears, wasting away whilst still remaining heart-rendingly beautiful and all accompanied by a gorgeous string-laden soundtrack. Spilled bedpans, over-worked nurses and rooms of six patients or more separated by too-short curtains are only ever seen in UK-sad-sack films or dodgy comedies.

* Yanks luuurve their celery sticks, don't they? If a character is going to come home with a sack of groceries, it's in an old-fashioned brown paper bag (last seen in Australia in 1975) with a bunch of celery poking out the top. Apart from our rabbit getting a stick or two each week, the rest of ours tends to go all droopy and then slimy before it drips down the back of the fridge and ends up as a green puddle under the vege crisper bins.

* Whatever groceries are purchased on screen, they clearly get their money's worth. In any scene featuring a conversation over the dinner table, the all-American family has put out enough bowls of steaming vegetables (not celery), gravy, mashed potatoes and bread to feed a classroom of ravenous teenage boys. No removing the self-serve option or saving on how many dirty dishes are created by instead slopping a bit of stuff on a plate in the kitchen for these fictional families.

* Eating the food takes an eternity. The camera will show someone at the precise second the fork leaves their presumably full mouth and for the duration of the scene they'll be chewing that mouthful. Either they're eating Wrigleys for dinner or the actor is an anoxeric, lactose-intolerant, coeliac vegan who is praying that the scene will be wrapped in just one take.

* Ugly girls wear thick-rimmed glasses, pony tails and denim overalls. No acne scars, dented noses, bulging eyes, double-chins, warts or lumpy arses are evident. A mere pair of contact lenses and new threads sees them turn into hot swans who can sing, dance and entrance the high school hunk.

* If the characters are trick-or-treating or at a fancy dress party, none of the costumes are ever home made. They look more professionally put-together than anything appearing at the Myer Christmas Pageant; even if done by a 'loser' or nerd with a complete lack of social skills or available money to rent a good costume.

* Chiropractors and a decent nights' sleep aren't important exist in movieland. In the evenings, if people wish to talk to each other in bed, they'll have their necks virtually cricked at a cruel 95% angle by resting up on at least four pillows. Even when the bedside lamp is switched off, the pillows all stay in their stack of torture and curtains remain open with a huge moonbeam appearing across the face of the sleepers that seems brighter than the lamp ever was. In my room I need the blinds firmly shut, no more than one puffy pillow, the mouthguard inserted, one last loud honk into my hanky and the fan on before Mr Sandman is ready for a home visit.

There's plenty more out there - the busty girl who always ventures into scary and dark situations is always dressed in a skimpy singlet and sexy shorts and never the neck-to-knee towelling bathroom and aqua blue crocs that I wear and baddies always treat even their friends and henchmen badly and are even worse when it comes to accurately aiming or shooting their guns at any of the goodies. Everyone's phone number starts with 555 but they rarely say 'goodbye' when they hang up, and the astonishing news event that shapes the course of their lives is always running at the exact moment they decide to switch on the tv.

What have US movies taught you?

Knowledge November - Day 25 - Forgiving and Forgetting

I've received an email from no less than fourteen people in the past month, either written by an old lady whose name escapes me (Joyce Butterwell or somesuch) or Reg Brett, who both seem to be 90 years old and authors of 'The Plain Dealer' column from Cleveland, Ohio. I'll leave it to them to take each other to court and claim rightful ownership of the published and emailed wisdom.

Whoever the hell it was, they once wrote a list of 45 life lessons; most of which I've already seen on coffee mugs, bumper bars and t-shirts but this one rang a few bells:

Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.

I know that Joyce or Reg or whomever has my best interests at heart, because there's no point in dwelling on bad situations that happened in the past or things I can't change or understand.

But what I hate - yes, hate - apart from people saying 'Don't take it personally' are people who automatically assume that because you can't forgive or forget something, you haven't moved on in your life.

Bulldog Craplock was my last 'office-based' boss and treated me despicably. She actively bullied me at work and then used her power and privelege to have me forcibly transferred from her office despite admitting in front of me that I was an excellent at my job.

My husband, LC, was a witness to my despair and powerlessness every night for a month. Unbeknownst to me, he tried to get her on the phone at a time when he knew I was out of the office to see if he could find out what the real problem was and how it could be resolved more reasonably. She then hung up and said to a fellow colleague, H, "Well well well.... why don't I get my husband to do my crying for me?"

H was appalled but kept silent. Bulldog was her boss too.

Three days later, Bulldog was informed by the HR department (her willing helpers in moving me on via the Enterprise Agreement) that I'd finally broken down and been admitted to hospital. Her eyes were dry until she read an email that LC had sent her, describing what she'd done to me. He threatened to send it on to everyone that she and I worked with: then the tears started to flow.

H heard her crying and assumed that it was due to her disappointment at being knocked back for an ARC grant because she'd put her name on as co-researcher on too many projects to be feasible.

She rushed in to see what the problem was.

"You know, don't you? You know what I did," bleated Bulldog.
H nodded, a bit afraid. "Yeah, I got the email too."
"Oh no, what have I done? Who else knows?"
H started to think that Bulldog was overreacting a tad. "Don't worry Bulldog, it's just me and the two PhD students who wrote the application who got the ARC response. Besides, there'll be other grants and we've got enough funding to cover the next few years."

As Bulldog wiped away her tears and visibly brightened in seconds, H realised that she hadn't been weeping over lost grant money at all. "Oh thank god, H! Um, right, of course you're right, there's plenty more cash in the sea...."

With the help of NTEU, I received a small pay out and my fellow staff with other job options (not easy when you're an academic researcher in a narrow subject field) soon left Bulldog's employ as a sign of solidarity and disgust. I used the money to work from home as a wannabe writer, pretending I was on a half salary for a few months.

Then, of course, the book was published, and I scored a few interviews and articles. I blogged more often and was invited to chat on radio. The chocolate gigs got bigger and better, and I loved the semi-regular segment on the commercial airwaves and the seat-soaking exuberance of not knowing who was calling on the other end of the (live to air!) line.

Moving to Melbourne saw a couple of TV spots, a weekly radio gig with Beautiful Bernadette and freelance work for the Age. A fitter, faster body, happily-settled-in child, fulfilled husband and a life that feels like it's full of interesting options instead of dull obligation.

My spies tell me that Bulldog has since endured a few well-earned dollops of Karma, and that's good enough for me - I'm not burning for revenge or thinking about her incessantly. Every now and then the pain of what she did comes back (you don't forget a stay in a psych ward too easily), but I then look around me and it disappears. What the experience has taught me is to fight hard (thanks NTEU), keep good notes of what happened-and-when and never, ever put up with being treated unfairly or badly.

So please don't say, "If Bulldog hadn't have done what she did, you wouldn't be a writer now, would you?" because that is simply not true. It has been me who actively sought out new areas to explore and tried (and will continue to do so) my best to get in there, grab at them and do 'em. My good fortune will never excuse her evil, egotistical and destructive behaviour and I will never, ever forgive her for what she did (not that she's apologised or asked for forgiveness). Why should I?

Knowledge November - Day 24 - Old Bag Aspirations



















I was talking with Sapphire's best friend Juliet's mother, Tracy, about the challenges and joys of living in a small, densely-populated inner city suburb and the resultant layers of cultures, litter, noise, fun, friendliness, drunkenness and planning problems it entails.

She shared with me her recent bravery in telling off an insolent seventeen year old boy for stealing mail and littering. As she was walking home from the shops she spied a young dropkick yank out a letter that was sticking out of a mailbox, rip it up and scatter it along the street to the general mocking laughter of the five other dropkicks with him.

Tracy did what - as we've both since recognised later - a few of us 'forty something' women are starting to do: she went all Angry Old Bag on him. She bolted across the road, jabbed her finger at his chest and told him to pick up the mail and put it in the bin or she'd report him for mail fraud and littering.

He of course said, "Make me" and folded his arms insolently across his chest as his buddies looked on, but he severely underestimated the power of the Angry Old Bag. Tracy had undergone some training with the FBI in the US some three children, a PhD and two countries ago and was able to rattle off enough legal gobbledegook to convince the Acne-ed Arse that she could arrest him on the spot and perhaps even whip a taser out of her Green Enviro Shopping Bag to press home her point. He sullenly snatched up the papers, put them in the bin and stalked off, with his mates laughing at him instead of Tracy.

"I'm too old for them to be interested in ogling, yet young enough to take them on," she said.

Fiona, another mother at the party drop off, nodded and said, "Yeah, I want to be an Angry Old Bag too," and recounted her 84 year old neighbour giving the auctioneer across the road a real mouthful when he refused to take bids in one-thousand-dollar increments, preventing a young couple from joining the buyers.

"Soon, she had the crowd giving the auctioneer a slow clap and he backed down," she said admiringly.

Regular readers of Blurb from the Burbs will know that I've already recognised the Angry Old Bag emerging from inside me and am starting to actively cultivate her. After all, once you find that first chin hair......










In the past month alone, I've:

* Told off five teenagers for throwing Red Rooster cartoons on the footpath. They put them in the bin when Milly the dog trotted over insisting on making friends and receiving some pats. The kids have sat in the same spot each lunch time and not littered again since.

* Said, 'Could those jeans be any lower on you?' to a boy on the way to school. He ignored me, but seeing as I walk past him every day I have noticed that he's not worn those particular trousers since then.

* Butted in a conversation on public transport. Three people were talking about their housing commission flat in Footscray. "Of course, it's 'Spot the Aussie' where we are, with all the African refugees and that." I leaned in and said, "And that's a good thing, isn't it?" and shocked them into nodding. Glumly of course, but at least it wasn't telling me to enjoy sex elsewhere or starting an racist punch-up on the number 57 tram...

* Snobbed off 'Schnauzer Woman' who decided that she did know me after all, especially when she'd just overheard our local councillor (a fellow parent at the school) talking about a grant I'd won for a litter project

* Helped a lady in a motorised scooter fill up her plastic bags in the fruit and veg section of Safeway (those green capsicums are a bugger to reach); and

* Discussed with other budding Angry Old Bags just how cool we think it is that 82 year old Peter Cundall, recently of 'Gardening Australia' fame and regard had been arrested outside Tasmania's Parliament House for refusing police instructions to move away from the steps as he joined protesters in calling for Royal Commission in the approval of Gunns Ltd's proposed Bell Bay pulp mill in the state's north.



















I hope at 82 that I'm still able to get fired up enough about something to slip on my homeypeds and tracksuit and bound out of the house to join in the fight.

Knowledge November - Day 23 - Five Years' Time

During our lowest, most stressed, anxious, grief-stricken or most humiliating moments, we've often thought, read or even said, "Think about it: in five years' time, will this matter?"

I've learned that five years - in the past or ahead in time - is an eternity.

Five years ago, I was a manager of fourteen busy staff for an unpopular-but-very-necessary government agency. Eighty million dollars of expenditure per year was under my watchful eye and having to drop everything and respond to an urgent query from the Minister's office by midday was a constant part of working life.

My salary was very good for someone of my skills and age at the time in fairly small Adelaide. My boneheaded-but-blessed boss, Mal Function, was on the magical six-figure salary that was almost within my grasp. He was of the earlier generation that moved up the ladder of pay rises and job titles by birthright; by the time I arrived it was either wait for someone to die and/or have to re-apply for your own position (with seventeen pages of selection criteria that had to be addressed and supported) every six months. I wanted that salary: no, I deserved it. How else was I show to everyone that I was successful?

It was four years of waiting with Sapphire in the car for the Childcare Centre to open its doors at 7:00am so that I could be at my desk by 7:30am reading emails, writing reports and eating chocolate from the vending machine for breakfast. After ten hours of this each day, I'd head home and switch the laptop on at 8.30pm for more work after Sapphire went to bed. Sometimes on the weekends, I'd say to Sapph, "Would you like to go on a bus ride with Mummy into town and draw on her whiteboard" so that I could do even more work.

Strangely enough, I started to find that my physical body was starting to protest about my never-ending lunge for the big bucks and promotion.

The dentist made me a mouthguard to stop my teeth from wearing away due to nocturnal grinding, but I bit through it. He doubled the thickness and I cracked it - not from grinding this time, but clenching. Six of my teeth then had to be capped and crowned to protect the spongy and painful layer of dentine that my grinding had exposed, with a new protective cover lacquered over the top that could withstand a fiery car accident. Bedtimes had me smiling at Love Chunks like Hannibal Lecter with a lisp.

Soon, however, night time grinding wasn't an issue because sleep just wasn't happening. My first prescribed sleeping pill - temazepam - was a gift from God. To be knocked out for five straight hours was so blissful. No tossing and turning, or crazy thoughts or worries about work I'd forgotten to do..... I rationed them carefully; worried about addiction and lack of effectiveness, but lived for Wednesday and Sunday nights when I got to pop a tiny pink pellet onto my tongue.

Irritable Bowel became Pretty Pharkin' ANGRY Bowel and nights were spent shivering on the toilet at 3am, huddled in pain, producing nothing. Day times it was diarrhoea, carefully hidden in between meetings and from other visitors in the staff toilets. My face started to smell permanently of the fizzy splatter of lime-flavoured heartburn tablets.

My strategy to cope with the 'bit of stress' was to increase the exercise I was doing. Six and twelve kilometre runs weren't enough to tire me out and improve my energy levels; it was time to get into half-marathon training. And hey, if it was vital to be at the Childcare Centre by 7am, then I'd have to be up at 4.30am in order to get a decent run and shower in before drop off.....

And thus my physical, mental, social, emotional and aspirational breakdown was pretty well covered from all angles and I remember being half-walked, half-carried by LC into an ambulance before waking up in a hospital bed the following day.

Five years later, I can look back at the (thankfully) distant past and quite clearly see that the money, job title, staff, corporate credit card, cab-charge vouchers and home laptop docking station wasn't worth the split fingernails, blurred vision, churning stomach and night-time sobbings. Nor did it signify to anyone that I was a success story in any way.

Five years later I manage no-one, catch public transport, live in jeans and my job title certainly emphasises the 'free' in freelance. Sleep sometimes eludes me, but it mostly provides me with the rest I need. Irritable Bowel rarely progresses beyond 'vaguely miffed' and the migraines that visit me now are not due to clenched jaws, scrunched shoulders or fear.

Five years later Sapphire is my daughter, friend, angel, nanna and nagger. She's no longer on my 'Quality Time - Must do' list, but is a genuine part of my day, my life. Her spirit reverberates throughout our house and my heart. We laugh, talk and wear clean clothes. I am a success now.

Five years later LC and I are stronger, better, lighter. As the rain poured down yesterday and we huddled in the shelter waiting for our tram to arrive, he touched my cheek and said, "I know I'm not a demonstrative guy, but do I show you often enough how much I love you? How much I need you?"

This, the question from the man who carried me into the psychiatric ward on two occasions, sat by my bedside through it all, took me home and hugged me into accepting and realising that I did deserve safety, comfort, security and forgiveness.

The man who empties my migraine sick buckets, pays all the scary bills, allows me to wander the streets with our little orange dog seeking inspiration and beauty and who teaches our daughter to think more deeply, care more selflessly and play more joyously.

The man who, in spite of all I've done, still wants to hold my hand, lay beside me at night and laugh with me over our first morning coffees.

YES!

Knowledge November - Day 22 - Reading will make you (want to) go blind

I am an automatic reader. Cereal boxes, graffiti, traffic signs, upside-down articles being read by other people; it all goes in via the eyes and is unconsciously deciphered by my brain.




















A trip to the doctors' is a visual feast of reading matter, and that's without even considering the out of date magazines on the coffee table: 'Brad and Jen - pregnant at last' or information pamphlets on the counter: 'STDs and You.'

My bladder was starting to squeak every time I crossed my legs, so I tentatively snuck into the toilet adjoining the waiting room. Hindsight is a regretful and pointless exercise, but I've discovered that it's not fun being an automatic reader when using the toilet facilities in a medical centre. Besides, you're at a medical centre - aren't you already worried enough about your health to have made the effort to go there in the first place?

Blue-tacked on the wall directly in front of me and expertly aligned at eye level was a cobalt blue poster screaming: DO YOU SUFFER FROM BLADDER WEAKNESS?

Um, well 'yes' for right at that moment, because that's why I was in there, reading the bladder blurb. But then the infernal poster asked, HAVE YOU EVER...? and the Wound-up WorryWart barely repressed within me took over. 'Do you plan your day around where toilets are located? Do you avoid exercise in case of urine leakage? Laughing? Do you choose to miss the bus instead of running to catch it?' Oh dear....

I dragged my eyes away and looked above the basin instead. GET TO KNOW HERPES, the red brochure stuck on the mirror commanded.















After a few moments, my knowledge of the condition had considerably increased. For example, did you know that one of the first signs of genital herpes might in fact be flu-like symptoms, as in sore muscles, headache, fever or chills? Apparently the herpes microbe creature germ thingies prefer 'soft skin' such as lips, genitals and the anus and it's cheering to know that approximately one-in-eight Aussies have the condition. Who cares about what we spend on health as part of our GDP when we have a statistic like that to be proud of. Mention that during the lull in your next dinner party conversation.....

Back on the bog things were not improving, reading matter-wise, because next to the loo roll holder a nurse had tactfully placed a sticker, advising that BOWEL CANCER IS A MALIGNANT GROWTH THAT STARTS IN THE LARGE BOWEL (COLON) OR RECTUM.

That seemed correct and yet was surely very bad luck for the poor bastards who had it. But
wait, there was more sobering news for any of us automatic-readerbathroom butt-heads who couldn't help but read further: 'A faecal occult blood test is used to effectively and efficiently screen for cancer.'

Well you'd certainly hope it was effective for the stress of having to back out a big one, catch it without spillage or splashing and then carry it into the doctor's office in a hopefully non-transparent tupperware container. And yet: 'These are not diagnostic tests - they cannot tell if you have cancer. They are used to identify people who need further testing.' That didn't sound at all comforting and I started to wonder what the diagnostic testing stage would be like - a three kilogram sample that is required to be crapped out into a four litre icecream carton and refrigerated at home for a week before delivery?

Understandably, I wasn't expecting too much positive news when my eyes then unwillingly alighted upon the sticker on the liquid soap dispenser. 'Crohn's disease and ulcerative collitis (IBD) can cause diarrhoea, rectal bleeding, abdominal pain and can adversely affect the eyes, skin and joints.' It was all fabulous, really. Still, at least, typed in bold, was the hopeful question we all yearned for: 'How can this be treated?' After mentioning a few drugs, the brochure sadly concluded, 'Unfortunately, despite much research, the exact cause of IBD is still unknown.' Marvellous.

After an exaggerated eternity it was finally time to flush, re-dress the southernmost parts of my body, wash my hands, dry off and get the hell out of the scary little room. And yet my urge to read the rest of the material overtook my sense of foreboding. 'Skin Spots to Watch' sported some truly gorgeous colour photographs of basal cell carcinomas, squamos cells, melanomas and Seborrhoeic Keratoses to look forward to the next time I dared ask the doctor to connect the dots on my back; heaps of blah about a new contraceptive implant that admitted in tiny print 'this, like other contraceptive devices, is not 100% effective'; and the eye-wateringly witty 'Managing Menopause and Osteoporosis.'

As my now-shaky hands reached for the door handle to escape into hopefully more positively-decorated waiting room, the smallest poster caught my eye. Ah, the irony of it - 'Come see us at the Anxiety Disorders Clinic - we will help you stop having those panic attacks.'

What I really needed was to be more like my brothers, who choose to read, bless 'em.

Knowledge November - Day 21 - Using my ears

"Please don't sit at the front," said Love Chunks as we walked into the stuffy classroom that still smelled of post-soccer sandals, arm-pits and old sandwiches three hours after the ring of the home time bell.

But I insisted and pretended I hadn't heard him. I knew that by surging ahead, he'd probably follow and sit next to me, even if it wasn't his ideal place.

"I hate sitting at the front - what if there are some little tackers who are brothers and sisters of other kids at the concert and they can't see over our big heads?"

"Stuff 'em," my hand flicked up as if shooing them and LC's issue point away. "We got here first and our kid is in the concert too."

Amidst the squawks of toddlers, the flap-flap-flap of paper programmes being used as fans and the fidgeting of excited performers waiting their turn sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a seven year old playing 'Hot Cross Buns' kick-started the show.

"Ssssh", Love Chunks mimed and tapped my arm, as the loud 'ZZZZZZzzzzzzip' of the camera carry-bag was opened.

Ohferpharksakes how the hell am I supposed to get my camera out quietly? Isn't it like a packet of chips at the cinema or a band aid on a hairy leg: rip it open and get it over and done with? Pompous Old Git.

"Sit Down" he hissed again a short time later, just as quietly but with more urgent menace in his eyes.

Again, I ignored him. POG.

I had made us sit at the very front so that I could get a photo of our little darling playing her viola. She's very good at it damnit and has diligently practised her musical pieces and taken particularly gentle care of her beautiful instrument.

Her piece was the standout of the night. Played not just accurately but with attention to timing and holding out some notes, lingering on others for emphasis and skipping along to build up the rhythm. It may have merely been titled 'Study' but my eyes were moist.

Love Chunks was right, of course. I couldn't stand up and distract her and being right up the front meant that this was the photo we ended up with:

I'll listen to him next time.

Knowledge November - Day 20 - Sufferin' Shufflin'

I'll come right out and say it - I'm in love with my iPod.

It's right up there with my other favourite electrical appliance the dishwasher except that Big Burly Borry's a lot quieter and pleases the entire family, not just me.

Trouble is, I've got the iPod Mega Giga-Byte-a-Thon Super Schlong model (the official name has escaped me) and Love Chunks and I decided to upload our entire CD collection onto it.

That's a lot of CDs - roughly 400 - and they range from 1960s classics to today. Yes, admittedly most of them reside firmly in the 1980s and contain songs that are commonly played far too often on Fuddy Duddy FM which is why we never listen to them anymore.

Despite this, before we shifted states and houses and jobs and schools I spent a couple of weeks sitting with the poota on my lap in front of the telly in the evenings loading on every single damn album we owned, even the dud ones that only had the one song worth listening to (The Pursuit of Happiness' 'I'm an adult now'), or the choices that were made during more easily impressionable times (yes, 'Metallica' really fits into my music collection. No, it's not because of a bloke, why do you ask?) or those for specific purposes ('Look, the pan pipes sounded awesome when that Peruvian band played them live at the markets and it'll be great for tonight's dinner party, honestly').

So, even with over 4,000 songs to choose from, it's no real surprise that my playlists only number 12 and ten of these are to keep me running.

Today however, I decided to live on the edge. I was going to press 'Shuffle' and run my strength-sapping, energy-draining, heart-hurting, soul-straining eight kilometres to whatever song turned up. No jumping to the edge to twist the bum bag around to the front, have my sweaty mitts clumsily grapple the slippery silver box and fast forward to the next song, no. I'd put up, shut up and run up to the very end.

Well, what I've learned from that decision is that iPod Shuffle is for idiots.

Shuffle just means that the evil little device picks out songs that Love Chunks must have bought in his pre-Kath, pre-clear-thinking and pre-taste days and that Apple wanted to dust them off and see what they sounded like in my head phones.

I present you with the RUNNING list. Note that I usually need loud, fast, energetic, inspirational and/or angsty rock songs that keep to the rhythm of my legs, the pound of my heart and the gasp of my breathing....

Play me - Neil Diamond

Grasslands Chant - The Lion King original Broadway cast recording

Move Closer - Phyllis Nelson

Save a Prayer - Duran Duran

I've been waiting for you - Abba***

Don't know why - Norah Jones

Fantasy Impromptu in C Sharp - Roger Woodward

Buachail An Eirne - Clannad

Between the Shadows - Loreena McKennit

There's no one - The Whitlams

Vienna - Ultravox

It was, without a doubt, the hardest run I have ever done in my life, including the half marathon where I threw up on the bank of the Torrens River at the 15km mark and the 23km run when my left big toe nail came loose in my shoe.

*** Yes, dear Abba are my most favouritest band, but this is. not. a. song. to. run. to. EVER.

Knowledge November - Day 19 - Egotistical expectations

Yesterday I was in the city meeting up with some friends who I used to work with in the dark days of Amanda Vanstone taking over the Department of Employment, Education and Training and scuttling the existence of the CES offices. Bill and Sue survived and in fact thrived and were keen to see what a stay-at-homer like me was up to (and, no doubt, looked like these days).

It was a fantastic lunch and we had over a decade to catch up on with genuine promises to stay in touch more regularly next time. As I waited for my ride home at the Elizabeth Street tram stop, my head starting pounding ominously (please Mr Migraine, at least wait until I get home), so I let a tram pass so that I could breathe in a bit more fresh air instead of stale commuters' BO.

The air on one of the city's busiest thoroughfares wasn't much fresher, unless you consider truck fumes, old prawn heads in bins and clowds of secondhand cigarette smoke from office workers to be particularly aromatic. As I slurped from my water bottle, one of the saddest sounds in nature reached my ears. Yes, that of a trapped butterfly, smacking its tiny little forehead over and over on the windowpane of the tram shelter, desperately trying to get to freedom outside.

This black and orange beauty needed saving, brother. As gently as my man-hands and long, ET-phone-home fingers could, they slowly closed around the distressed insect, trapping it. "Don't worry little one," I cooed, knowing I sounded like a loony but who cared: I was surrounded by deaf iPod-wearing travellers who regarded jeans hanging lower than their buttocks as sensible clothing.

I opened my hands in an exaggerated, 'The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Music' gesture, and the butterfly buggered off as quickly as it could. I sat back down on the bench, mentally patting myself on the back for being such a caring environmentalist willing to put my money where my mouth was. No, make that my hands where my mouth was, or was it my brain where my hands were, or...

Anyhow, my ego was stoked and fit to burst. As was my bladder I then realised. There were no loos immediately apparent other than the techno-toilet across the street which I've always been afraid to use. Time was of the essence though, so I snuck into the foyer of a large office building nearby and dashed into the disabled toilet.

Creak.... "Ooops, sorry!"
"JESUS, I'm in HERE!"
Oh. My. God. Someone had opened the toilet door and I was directly in their full view - as well as most of reception - with pants around my knees and blowing my nose loudly into some scrunched up toilet paper. What the hell happened to the concept of one good turn deserves at least three minutes of alone-time in the bog?

Thankfully, the door opener had disappeared, no doubt shocked to the core at seeing me in there, fat fluoro arse-cheeks and white cottage-cheese thighs on dazzling display. Eschewing the blow hand dryer, I dashed out into the sunshine again, hands dripping, cheeks blazing and making a fairly good job of being intently focussed on rummaging through my backpack looking for the apple I'd flung in there that morning.

I bit into it decisively, trying to crunch away the lingering odour of embarassment. Patoooey! I took one look into my apple and saw the healthy snacker's nightmare - a brown hole and only half the worm.

Where was the good turn I was due for saving the boodiful butterfly? Maybe I'd check my lotto ticket at the newsagent or see if I could slip down a Chunky King-Sized Caramel KitKat without my metabolism noticing.

Several minutes later, I was strolling down Racecourse Road, smiling again, loving the ease of travel to and from the city centre and the quirkiness of my neighbourhood. I grinned at the local wino coven under the bridge, feeling friendly and magnanimous. I was a broad-minded, supportive and non-judgmental person who ---

--- just swallowed a fly. No point in spitting it out, it was too far gone for that.

Oh well that was probably my reward. A tiny bit of protein and one less blowie around to annoy me.

Knowledge November - Day 18 - Patience















Patience has never been my strong point.

Whereas my brothers could set up the wooden blocks, Meccano or Lego and create intricate little cities in our pool room (yes, we had a pool room that Darryl from The Castle would have loved), for days on end, I’d have a go for a while and then once all the fun of setting it up had ended would wander off, already bored.

Dad would teach the boys how to play Crib and Chess on our caravan holidays, look over at me hunched on the bunk with my nose in a Gnid Blyton and say, “Would you like to play?” knowing that my answer would always be a muttered, “No way Dad.”

It’s always amused my father that my ability (and therefore interest) in completing crosswords or those hellish cryptic versions is akin to that of a squashed snail's and I don’t want to expend any valuable time on trying to improve those skills. Same goes for Sudoku, Edward DeBono’s ‘Mind Pack’ (still unwrapped after 12 years), inscrutable word puzzles and Christmas games of Scrabble with my mother or brother Rob where mathematics and careful placement of tiles in order to earn a higher score is required on top of merely formulating a word.

Boggle, on the other hand, is MY game. Two minutes of sand and a mad scribble on paper. Perfect. Not unlike the way I make an omelette – a quick beat with a fork then into a cereal bowl and nuked in the microwave for 45 seconds; the same time it would take to come up with at least 10 words of six letters or less.















And yet, once a child arrives, the quantities and qualities of patience undergoes a huge change.

I still don’t eagerly flick to the puzzles section of the newspaper or want to know what the hell kind of Nintendo pip-pip-pip game Sapphire is engrossed in or trade fish or farm animals for pearls or hay bales or some kind of online flim flummery on Facebook but I can sit at a kitchen table for SEVEN hours rolling tiny strips of paper onto satay sticks.

Sapphire was keen to spend a day with me doing arts and crafts and stood at my side as I tapped away on the keyboard, brandishing her large ‘You Can Do It’ activity book in front of my face. “Mum, Dad’s not here, we’ve got all day and you said you wanted to do something with me today and THIS is what I want to do.”

She had me at ‘Dad’s not here’, and the associated guilt involved in having an only child, a free Sunday and heaps of spare coloured paper and glue sticks. Alrighty then.

We cut, rolled and glued until our bellies rumbled and fingers ached. We broke for lunch, then resumed our painstaking task, with Sapphire wisely noting that “this is something that they probably do overseas for us to buy at the Oxfam shop” and that no, she didn’t want to be as famous as Lady Gaga or Britney Spears “because then people would only love me for my money, not for me, and you’ve said that love is hard to find and precious to keep, so I’d rather be unknown and liked even though my hair goes BOING on one side and I can’t breathe out of my nose.”

Colours were carefully selected and discussions held on what kinds of jewellery we’d make for the important women in our lives. (“If I made a bracelet for Dad, he’d say ‘thanks love’ and then hang it on his handlebars so that he could lose it”) and why those women were important. “My Auntie WC is interested in exactly the same things as me and is my best friend on Facebook,” “Auntie S is very beautiful and never loses her temper,” and “Grandma always finds the right thing for me to play with or wear or do and has lots of friends at church called Rhonda or Helen.”

My neck today is sore, not so much from the constant bending over our beadwork, but from slyly turning leftways to sneak some views of my daughter as she worked. Her slim neck, cobweb-fine hair, soft skin, rose-bud lips busily chattering and long fingers nimbly rolling the paper. How did we make such a beautiful creature?

This patience has given me the privilege of spending time with her, laughing at our silly songs and our made-up swear words. At 5pm, I push my chair back and say, “It’s time for you to feed Skipper and for me to rustle up something for our tea.”

She stretches back languidly and nods. “Mum, you know that Taylor Swift album you got me last year?”
“Mmmm?”
“She has a song on it I like. It’s about her being with her Mum and it’s her best day.”
I put the onion on the chopping board, pausing to listen.
“Today is like that.”

Patience makes me cry.

Knowledge November - Day 17 - Well, is it?

Is life better after turning forty one?

I remember when my mother turned forty one, way back in 1981. To my almost-thirteen-year-old self, the actual number sounded old, but she looked young, beautiful and was full of energy.

She had a high school teacher and all-round handyman and cricketing-fanatic husband, two boys aged 14 and 10, myself, a friendly cat called Sox, a house completely paid-off, two cars and skin that made all the girls in my class rush out to buy Nivea because that's what I told them she used everyday.















Mum could feed a family on a shoestring budget, make her own clothes, encourage plants to produce fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers in a climate best suited to camels and sun-bleaching bones and abhorred the expense and the laziness of take away meals. She completed her matriculation four years earlier by attending evening classes at the local TAFE (then called the 'Community College'), studying when us kids were at school and typing out her assignments at night when she'd put us all to bed and came out second in the state for her results.

Pauline Florence also read newspapers to the blind, did more than her share of stints in the school canteen, covered books for the library, had a Meals-on-Wheels run, starred in several musicals, made costumes, sang in the choir and umpired netball matches.

She was a hard act to follow. What the hell have I learned at the same age?

Not much it seems. Instead, it's more a case of what I should know by now but still keep doing. Ridiculous things like:

- Eating an orange straight after I've cleaned my teeth.

- Forgetting - every single time, every single day of my life - which direction to turn the key in order to open our front door, back door, car door, parents' house door, brothers' house doors; having a guess and getting it wrong. Every single time.

- Drinking coffee after 3pm. This has only proved wise if I choose to be lying in bed at 3am, singing 'You're hot and you're cold, You're yes and you're no, You're in and you're out, You're up and you're down' over and over in my head whilst on a lumpy, hot pillow, scratching my legs with toenails that need cutting so urgently I get out of bed, give them a trim, hop on the computer to check out LOL-dogs and start re-naming every snap in our digital photo album from 2005 to 2007.....

- Scoffing spoonfuls of Milo straight from the tin. Being desperate enough for a chocolate fix to have to resort to a powdered malted milk flavouring is sad enough for a kid, but as an adult? One older than twenty who is no longer living on Austudy allowance? Naturally, when there's no-one around when I start digging that spoon in someone still walks in and catches me. It's some kind of Kath Law of Stupidity and Immaturity that isn't entirely undeserved.

- Eating drinking cocoa from the tin, which is even more shameful. I've found out the painful and embarrassing way that this low behaviour leads to coughing fits if you inhale instead of swallow the powdery dust.

- Scrubbing the base of the shower/bath when I'm in there doing my own, erm, scrubbing - one day that Jif creme cleanser is going to splash up into a painful place where the sun don't shine.....

- Making nervous and inappropriate remarks to people I don't (yet) know very well. Such as "Hey, do you want to feel really handsome? Go do some shopping at our local Safeway," before a meeting starts and then finding out that his wife is the property manager for the retail site there. True story.....

- Changing hairstyles. At forty-one, my hair knows what it wants to do. Like a reality show contestant, it just wants to sit there, doing nothing. As such, trying anything new just doesn't work. I don't have the elegance or confidence to carry off a new look. A few weeks ago my hair lightened and cut in a shaggy style that allowed me to roughly tousle it forward and give it a bit of height instead of brushing it back, Lady Di circa 1981 style. Love Chunks' reaction? "You look like the Love Child of Strauchanie and Margaret Pomeranz!"

- Poking Love Chunks in his precious bits which perhaps isn't the best way to commence a discussion on why his throw-away remarks might be misinterpreted by me during my PMT week.

I remain, therefore, a work in progress.

Knowledge November - Day 16 - Mindless Modesty



















After dropping my towel on the bench, yanking off my shorts and t-shirt and subtlely picking out the lycra that insists on travelling northwards I fling myself over the tiled edge to quickly hide myself under the sparkling blue water.

Pathetic, isn't it? As if the entire population in the local pool at that time has any interest in stopping their laps and staring at me and my wobbly bits as we enter lane four. I know that I don't do it to anybody else (too busy in my own gasping personal agony ploughing ever so slowly up and back in the water), so why do I continue to think that I'm so fascinating that other swimmers want to see what this 41 year old is about to do - gosh, in her bathers, at, gasp, the pool?

Whilst the tiny dot that is my intelligent mind understands this, I still feel very self conscious and my attempt at a confident walk from the bench to the edge of the pool always degenerates into a recognisable imitation of Mr Bean's nervous little flappy-handed run.

After my swim, however, things are different. I've done sixty laps without stopping, possess the body of a Grecian goddess combined with the strength of a sleek leopard and the hopeless halibuts around me will be gazing at me with awe as I emerge, dripping and golden, from the water.

Nah. Not one pair of adoring goggles is directed anywhere near me but are instead looking down through the floating bandaids and pubes at the painted black line on the bottom of the pool in their own physical hell. This rebuttal is also reflected in the glass wall leading to the change rooms which remind me that my body is still the same as it ever was - chunky, white, decorated in party-popper spider veins and the sort that looks a thousand percent better with clothes on; especially winter clothes.














When I was pregnant there was no room for modesty. Being a minor medical freak, much of my time was spent with my hands under my bum and knees touching the far sides of a gurney as several students were invited to a) see me, b) have a look 'up' me, and c) very occasionally have a feel inside as well.

"Ah get over it, you prude," my mates would say. "Wait until the actual childbirth; you won't care what you show or to who as long as you can back that baby out with the least possible pain."

Alas, none of the above was true. Sapphire took 29 hours to emerge and Love Chunks and I pushed and grunted through three shifts of midwives, obstetricians and interested students. Throughout it all I still wore a long t-shirt with a sheet over my knees so that from my vantage point I could at least feel as though everything was covered even though my birth canal was directly in line with the door which was located at the end of a very long corridor. What a charming view that must have been for other nervous fathers or lost catering staff wanting to find the geriatric wing instead.

When we returned home triumphant and then terrified at the thought of just how we were going to look after a tiny baby, the local nurse popped in to have a look at my stitches. I blushed redder than the blood that was still oozing out of me every time I moved. I lay on the bed and struggled into my frog leg mode.

It didn't help things when she blurted out "Jesus!" at the sight.

"What? WHAT??" Love Chunks and I said in unison.
"Oh, um..." she struggled to retain her composure. "Oh, it's er n-n-nothing, it's just that you've got a fair old cut down there and it's, um, well, let's just say it's great that you're home and ----"

She turned away and took a deep breath before continuing with, "---Oh stuff it. I've never seen a bigger cut than that one - you're lucky they didn't slice you an extra butt crack!"

Definitely not what a nervous new mother wanted to hear when all hopes of a cursory glance, an affirmative, "Yes, it all looks good," and being fully clothed again within a ten second timeframe were dashed.

Nearly eleven years later, a recent pap test was a real barrel of laughs as well. My usual female doctor was selfishly off sick, so would I mind if Dr Checks did it? What was I meant to say, right there in a crowded waiting room - no way? And why should I refuse - was he, a doctor for several millennia - going to be so carried away with desire during the scraping that I'd be in moral danger? Or, worse - would he laugh? "Oh no, that's fine", I said weakly, "After all, I've had a baby, so there's nothing to be modest about any more," wishing like hell I actually believed it.

Dr Checks merely gave me a cursory "Good morning" before getting right down to work. It was patently obvious that pap smears for him were about as appealing as they were to me. Five minutes into it, my cheeky side emerged through the embarassment: "So, Doctor, what's the thing you hate doing to patients the most in your job?"

He paused to think and looked me in the eye instead of the tampon tube. "Anal exams without a doubt. All men hate them and I hate doing them - especially at the end of a day when they're - shall we say - a bit ripe."

My modesty issues evaporated for a moment. "Fair enough, but what about well, this?" I replied, gesturing at me, him, his gloves and that scary metal springy salad tong thing.
"Nah, this is OK. Women tend to be more relaxed and, to be honest...." he trailed off.

I wanted to hear him finish the sentence. "Yeah, to be honest....?"
"Well - and please don't take this the wrong way - but, up on the table here, you're all just slabs of meat that we have to do things with, that's all."
"Oh, right."

That sounded rather deflating - a slab of meat. Yet, it might be a good way to view things so that I could finally rid myself of this ridiculous girly modesty...

Later, in the changing room after swimming I tried to remind myself that I was merely a slab of meat and should therefore have the psychological cojones to have a shower and wander proudly out in the nuddy and get changed in the main area. Sadly, I couldn't do it. Despite pap smears and babies, I realised that I am still not prepared to stand there in my birthday suit in front of a dozen strangers, and instead got dressed in the confines of the soggy-floored shower before emerging like a self-conscious thirteen year old in her first bra.

Unfortunately this shy behaviour got me more stares from the change-room chicks than if I'd just been relaxed enough to get dressed in front of them. One old gal with boobs swinging freely below her navel raised an eyebrow at her equally gravity-challenged friend as if to say, "Now there goes a strange one....."

Perhaps she's right. Still, if only I could manage the lap swimming in my board shorts and rashie vest......

Knowledge November - Day 15 - The Age of Awkward














Boys tend to be rather clumsy and clueless from about thirteen to seventeen years of age.

It is a time of cruel contradiction: puberty starts and so does an interest in (mostly) girls yet they themselves are physically and emotionally at their most unattractive.

Their butt-ugly faces are spotty which only serves to highlight their big noses; they have fuzzy chin hairs that can only seen against bright sunlight and overly-pointy Adam's apples that work overtime to produce embarrassing yelps and squeaks in the middle of sentences.

My friend Di, a battle-weary mother of two grown up sons, once sat down next to me, rearranged her pearls and said bluntly, "At fifteen they're tripping over their feet and using their hands to grab every bit of food they can see. Their willies grow far larger than their brain power or common sense can ever hope to catch up with." Yes, she adores her sons and would do anything for them, but even she could see that they were about as graceful as a truckload of plucked emus and about as pretty.














Teenage boys, like teenage girls, tend to congregate in packs, albeit ganglier ones. There's lots of self conscious hooting laughter, pushing, shoving and slouching. Armpit farts, spit balls out of bic pens and ear lobe flicking are their most natural habits when socialising together. They somehow manage to effectively communicate with each other, yet I've never seen a boy in this age-range sit up straight or raise his eyes further than crotch-level when he's speaking, mumbling or grunting a response.

Posh Spice has a lot in common with these fellas, believe it or not. Both breeds have skinny little pencil necks with huge soccer ball heads and concave (real) chests. Both tend to have legs the width of pipe cleaners and the fashion sense of retarded blind men. It is obvious that neither listens to the wise fashion advice of their mothers, nor pays attention to what other more sensible people around them are wearing.

Teenage boys’ hands, too, seem to be huge, way out of proportion to even their noses, heads, willies and feet. My theory is that God designed it so that they had the best gathering tools for food. Having two brothers, I can vouch for this - Mum had barely put the groceries away and they had already smelled it, scooped it, and eaten it. She got so desperate that she ended up storing the TimTams in the vegetable crisper, but even that didn't work: they ate their way through the meat tray, dairy case, plastic trays and cabbage in order to find the rewarding chocolate biscuit base.

Their massive mitts had amazing dexterity in terms of delicately buttering and spreading a dozen SAO biscuits without them so much as shedding a grain of salt let alone cracking; plus they could make up a cup of Milo Mud (half milk, half Milo) without spilling a drop on the counter. They could both reach the magical top 999 score on my palm-sized Donkey Kong II game, yet seemed to be physically incapable of being able to aim their jocks within a 50m radius of the dirty-clothes hamper or ascertain that the 5ml in the bottom of the orange juice carton might not be worth putting back in the fridge.

Shamefully, at the ages of 12, 13 and 14, I had yearned for men similar to these. Young, idiotic males who could barely open their lunch boxes, let alone pick up the vibe that bookishly quiet Katherine Read, two rows behind them, was desperately in love with their intelligent, sporty, funny, hunky side. Plus their ability to expertly throw chunks of chalk down Daniel Panizzi's unenviable bum cleavage during geography. 'Oh if only Anthony would notice me, he's the only guy in the class taller than my shoulder....'

The luxury of reminiscing about these painful crushes over two decades later has shown that I should be grateful that they were clueless. My husband tells me that, at that age, a girl would have to strip naked and write 'Take me NOW Stud' on her chest in liquid paper for a bloke to get the general idea that she might be interested in pashing him behind the agriculture wing after cricket practice. A shy prude like me would have died: my - admittedly unsuccessful - method of courtship was to ignore the object of my affection entirely.

Despite this, I now see these Pubescent Doofuses walking past our house on the way to the local high school, at Red Rooster and outside 'Game Zone' and want to reassure them. I want to clunk their shaggy heads together (to get their attention: otherwise they think I'm someone's mother about to embarrass them or lecture them) and say: "Look love, you're butt ugly now, but wait until you're eighteen. The girls (or boys) will be falling over you. In the meantime, eat well; don't pick your zits and PULL YOUR DAMN PANTS UP!"

Has there been a more ridiculous male fashion than to have your jeans so low that your boxer shorts are completely on show, and the bum pockets reside just above the knee? All this does is make the wearer look completely arseless, and not in a good way.














All is not doom and gloom for this teenage testosterone tribe however. Somehow, their bodies stretch up and they cease the self-conscious hunching of shoulders, their skin clears and their faces reassemble themselves into something worth gazing at. It's a mysterious process but nonetheless an amazing one. If they'd only outgrow the farting.... but that's a completely different story.

Knowledge November - Day 14 – The Cheap Seats

I was chatting to a father of a friend of Sapphire’s. We might live in the same neighbourhood, but it’s a small triangular-shaped pocket that consists of four towering blocks of Housing Commission flats and several million dollar-plus heritage listed mansions.

As such, we can see the Mysterious Monolith atop tower four from our place, but David is a throw of a tennis ball away from Cashed Up Crescent.

I mentioned that I had been invited to Ladies/Oaks Day at Flemington racecourse and was looking forward to going.

“What marquee will be you be in?” he asked.

I laughed and said, “Huh, that’ll be the day – nope, I’m in general admission, hoping for a patch of grass to lay down the picnic blanket.”

As I walked home with Sapphire, it dawned on me that I’m never going to be the girl (okay, woman) who’ll get to see the grand final in a corporate box, wear the coveted wrist band ID for entry into the Melbourne Cup birdcage extravaganza or be listed as a VIP on any guest list.

Growing up in a country town with a school teacher father and home-based and later-administrator mother gave us limited opportunities for anything other than sport, BBQs and school fund raising events. Mum recalls that the town had a social pecking order that featured doctors’ wives and parents whose children were packed off to boarding school but even they only got free note pads and syringe covers as gifts in the seventies.

I’ve never travelled business class let alone first and still feel a bit of a thrill when we’re on holiday as a family and Love Chunks uses his Qantas Club card (so that they don’t have to pay for a business class ticket when he flies overseas for work) and we get to go in and snack away to our hearts’ content.

My two years in London may have given me loads of opportunities to see many West End shows but all were paid for through the half-price ticket booth bought the same afternoon in Leicester Square or only cost five quid. All seats were situated so far up my knees quivered uncertainly if I leaned too far forward over the rail to see more than the top of the backdrop.

There have been freebie movies and comedy shows but the payment required has been the necessity to produce a reasonably eloquent written account of it afterwards. Books too have been enjoyed without any damage to my wallet but they tend to be an ‘Uncorrected Proof Copy For Promotional Use Only’ with a thin cover that creases easily and doesn’t add any colour or sophistication to my cheap pine bookshelves.

I was never a hot young chick that the bouncers waved through ahead of the line or dated anyone with access to a corporate box. Love Chunks can get slightly discounted weather bureau calendars but that’s about as far as his access to freebies and glitz extends.

So, on Oaks Day we dressed up, took along our nibbly things, had sensible shoes on to replace our heels when needed and set a ten dollar betting budget for the afternoon.

My shoulder wasn’t tapped to enter Myer’s Fashions on the Field; Rebecca Twigley didn’t rush over to interview me as I sashayed past with my blastic bottle of Yellowglen to enquire about the brand of my dress ($69 from Rockman’s as it happens) and none of my horses paid off the mortgage or required a return visit to the TAB.

In General Admission I instead met Ruprecht's Australian cousin, two women with hats taller than their own bodies, a bloke with the exact same hat as mine (my Mum's actually) that he snaffled from his sister, applauded a trilby-wearing bloke in pointy white shoes as he was shuffled off to the divvy van (the only one we saw for the entire day), had a chat with the winner of Best Shoes of the Oaks (yes, it's a separate category) in her $2900 Dolce and Gabbanas, photographed a young hopeful wearing a dress made out of pig face and turf grass and enjoyed Carmel's home made chicken wings with only the rose bushes separating us from the horsies.

I hope that I made my mother proud, who when she loaned me her hat and earrings said smiling, "Now I don't want to see photos of you getting drunk in the car park and being splashed all over the news and in those nasty My Face Web pages, you hear?"

Yep. I returned home sober, non-sunburned, un-arrested and ten bucks poorer and in time to meet up with Sapphire for the 3.30pm after school pick up. It was great fun.

Knowledge November - Day 13 - My Beholders

I'm still a bloke magnet

.... for the steak and lamb butchers at the Queen Vic Market: "Come over here darlin', I've got legs on sale that are even better than yours!"

.... for fat fifty-something guys driving white delivery vans: "Nice knockers for an old chick."

....for my local postie (as he handed me over my fifth parcel of chocolate samples): "I reckon that you could be my ideal woman."

.... for the toothless drunk who sits on the park bench by the railway station: "ShowushyertitshSchweetie, c'mere"

.... for male dogs who like to demonstrate their animal attraction against my leg or by actively sniffing my bum when I crouch down to pat them

.... for four year old boys who enjoy my fart jokes and, when visiting my house for the first time, rush into the bathroom and yell, "WOWee you've got toothbrushes that PLUG into the WALL!"

.... for anyone reeking of stale cigarettes and vodka but needing $2 to take the bus home

.... for Rain-Men in nipple-grazing high-pants who like to chat on trams. "I live by myself now you know, which is why I've got this shopping cart here, see?"

.... for old security guys temporarily plucked out of retirement who left their specs at home and insist on seeing ID before I can buy a champers at the races "Yer a spring chicken, yes you are love."

.... for the rotund bloke in the straining, too-small ACDC t-shirt who smokes on the balcony of the second floor flat next door and sees me burst out of the shed after my run; huffing, puffing and sweating profusely. "Morning mate, well done," and gives me the thumbs up signal.

.... for Love Chunks.

He leaves for an overseas work trip to France today and refused to let me come along as his 'other' and share his accommodation (of course I'd pay for the flight and sort out care for Sapphire and Milly and Skipper) because he's worried about abusing his travel privileges and the taxpayer dollar.

I'm frustrated at this sedate stance that sets him apart from nearly everyone else I know who travels for work (including everyone else attending the same conference that he is) and jealous about the location he's visiting (Toulouse) and sad when I realise that my own self-preserving career choices mean that generously funded-trips are never going to feature in my future so I snort and call him a POG which stands for Pompous Old Git and only partly mean it as a joke yet I'm already aching at the thought of him not being here with me for a week or so and miss his strong arms, smell, feel, voice, eyes, POGgy humour.........

Knowledge November - Day 12 - White washing














Fellow blogger Lorna Lilo was chatting about the warm weather we’ve had recently and reckons she gets sunburned sitting too close to the light bulb and spending “a day in the sun is something that would require major preparation to the point that by the time I was ready to go out summer would be over. Women can't just chuck on the shorts and head out.”

I realised that I also get burned standing on a railway platform in the middle of winter under heavy cloud and that too often I’ve noticed the ‘what the hell....?’ looks of passersby if I’m wearing my running shorts and feel morally obliged to stop, introduce myself and explain that my legs are indeed whiter than fluoro tubes but are a much less reliable source of illumination due to rarely having the covers taken off.

My face is so pale that – if my legs are hidden in jeans - people always furrow their brow in concern and think I’m recovering from a viral infection. This unwanted whiteness is never more apparent than around the pool wearing bathers.

One thing I’ve learned is that I owe my mother big time for insisting, even in the early seventies, that swimming in a t-shirt and slicking my face with zinc cream was a must. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, especially when frolicking with two brown brothers and bronzed, pool-owning neighbours, but she saved me countless peeled noses, raw shoulders and freckles.



















Although we have all known for years that a tan is risking sun damage and skin cancer, I defy anyone to line up two women of the same body size and appearance - with the only difference being that one is tanned and one is not - and not admit that the tanned one looks thinner, fitter and healthier. Carrying a little extra weight is easier to hide if you’re golden brown: cellulite is no friend of the cottage-cheese coloured.

On our last tropical Queensland holiday, I was naughty. I decided to do my utmost to get a tan. For the entire ten days I slathered every visible part of my body with factor 30+ sunscreen, rotisserating myself half-hourly like a lazy-boy-bound take-away chicken. I swam 40 laps every late afternoon with the sun beating down on my arms, back, shoulder and legs and moisturized every evening with a fevour that Mrs Nivea would be proud of. Sunburn did not dare venture my way once – surely I was attaining a tiny, tiny bit of pigment? Surely I was no longer the whitest one in the pool?

All too soon, our lovely holiday was at its end. Strolling back to reception to hand over the key, the porter remarked to me, “Welcome to our resort Mrs Plugger. Have you just arrived?”

I decided that it was time for some chemical assistance. The plastic tube’s promise of a Sunless, Golden Glow For An Ultra Natural Tanning Result was impossible to turn down. The morning after we arrived back home, the fake tanner came out. Or, as cosmetics companies prefer, ‘Moisturising Bronzer.’

The instructions, well, instructed me to get in the shower, shave everything worth shaving, exfoliate everything worth exfoliating, get out, dry off and moisturise everything worth moisturising. All was going swimmingly until.....

KNOCK KNOCK – “Mum! Can I come in to the bathroom to wash my hands?”
“Um, can you drag a chair into the laundry and use the tap in the trough?”
(uncertainly) “Oh, OK.”

The bronzer was applied in smooth, even strokes with very little applied to the dry areas of heels and knees. As I sparingly rubbed it into my elbows, it reminded me of what Billy Connolly once said: ‘Elbows are where God put his left over testicle skin. He thought it was a sin to waste it.’

Next step read ‘Let set for 30 mins before wearing any clothing.’
Thirty minutes, it was bloody freezing in there and I had to do the school drop off in twenty.....

Dammit, I’d forgotten to bring in my watch. One elephant, two elephants, three elephants, four….. My fingers were turning blue. Perhaps a jog on the spot would make things a bit warmer. Perhaps not. The lack of elasticated underwire support made things in the chest area rather painful and my buttocks were still reverberating a minute after I stopped.

Bing Bong Bing Bong went the front door bell.

Marvellous, that was just flippin’ marvellous. Our bathroom was directly in line with the front door, and I had no intention of providing any sort of visual comic relief to the hapless visitor.

In the meantime all I could do to keep warm was a sort of crippled side-to-side shuffle like a teenage boy at his first disco, and hope that the visitor would leave soon---

“Mum, there’s a guy from the post office here for you. He’s got a package that he says you’ve gotta sign for.”
Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart. “Where’s your Dad? Can you get him to sign it?”
“Dad’s in the toilet.” And not likely to emerge until the first orange leaves of Autumn.
“TELL HIM I’LL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES,” I yelled to her through the keyhole. My lovely little one relayed the message.
“Mum he can’t wait around, he’s got other deliveries to do he says.”
Stuff all this – “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
“Sign here please.” He didn’t even look up. It felt nice and warm in my dressing gown and I no longer cared if the thirty minutes were up.

“Whew, what on earth is wrong with you?” said Love Chunks, sniffing at me suspiciously as we settled into bed that night.
“Bronzing lotion,” I muttered.
“FAKE TAN? Why? You’re a whitey and you can’t change that, it’ll look strange. It smells strange….”
“Yeah well, it’s OK for you, brown boy. You just have to think about wearing shorts and you’re nice and tanned. I hate being mistaken for the first full moon every time I bend over to pick up the newspaper.”
The bed was shaking slightly in the darkness. We weren’t doing any horizontal folk dancing, LC was laughing.

The next morning found me in the shower, frantically trying to exfoliate off the orange streaks. Clearly my application technique was not as smooth or even as I’d hoped. There were distinct finger print marks at the back of my neck and a generous amount of lotion run-off had decided to settle within my cleavage, forming a fetching fault-line of orange zig zags. My legs were golden but my feet looked as though they’d been varnished in a hailstorm. As for my arms, well, on their own they appeared sun-kissed, but I’d been too stringent in ensuring that my palms didn’t turn orange, so my hands were still pallid. It gave the impression of the gloves worn by Mickey Mouse.

Since that first and last dalliance with the fake stuff, I’ve often mused to Love Chunks that fellas have it easier on the physical side. Their clothes are functional, hair removal is optional, bodily excretions are actively celebrated and long board shorts and rashie vests are de-rigeur at the beach.

...which is why, at 41, I wear 'em too. It means that I only have to slather my face and feet with the dreaded 30+ and can hide my blinding white from others on the beach.

Knowledge November - Day 11 - Disgusting Dilemmas

I've read via several sources that a lung specialist in Innsbruck, Austria, believes that nose-pickers are generally healthier, happier and most likely to be better in tune with their bodies than non-nose-pickers.

Dr Friedrich Bischinger believes that society should encourage children to nose-pick-and-eat. "It's a great way of strengthening the body's immune system. Medically it makes sense and it's a perfectly natural thing to do."

Well, if it prevents cancer, heart attacks and AIDS, I'm all for it. I think......

Many many bloggings ago, I previously admitted to blowing my nose in the shower as one of my regular, bad habits. It clears everything out, saves on tissues and makes my groggy sleep-laden head feel about a kilogram lighter. That's right, I'm not ashamed of this daily spring-clean of the sinuses. However, I do not pick it out with my digits or eat it.

In my reception year, I remember seeing the object of my (somewhat misguided) affection, Matthew, sitting directly in front of me in the school Activity Room. We were at an assembly, held inside because of the rain, and Matthew was mostly focussed on the inner recesses of his nasal cavity as opposed anything our deputy principal Mr Miller had to say.

Sadly, I found his actions fascinating - I was only five-and-a-half, after all. Then, after surveying the glistening green globule on his index finger, he put it into his mouth. There were conflicting feelings of revulsion and fascination swirling within me as I saw the look of preoccupied enjoyment on his face. Perhaps I should have a go as well, I thought. And so I did. It didn't take me long to find something worth picking out, and I sucked it from my finger.

Bleccccch, it was salty, tiny and horrible. Even now, goosebumps are springing up on my arms and my scalp as I write this.... Any early stages of a crush for Matthew disappeared quicker than mum's chocolate crackles at a birthday party. How on earth could he do that?

Thirty six years later I still haven't worked out the answer to that particular question, and if I saw Matthew again (his parents still know my parents), it would take me at least six glasses of sparkling shiraz and a handful of funny mushrooms before I'd dare bring it up.

What I do know is that, mostly, the pick-and-eat debacle showed me at a very young and impressionable stage in my life that if something seems different but also disgusting, avoid it.

'Disgusting' is normally a pretty strong indicator that it's best to stay away. Key examples of this have included:

• Eating a bowlful of melted copha, icing sugar and cocoa powder. Mum had been in the procss of making up some chocolate crackles but for some reason went outside, distracted by something Dad was making in the shed. The first few mouthfuls tasted like heaven, the other 27 were disgusting. As were my pale pink-turned-bile-brown bed sheets, blankets, pillow, hair, teddy=-dog and face later on that night.....

• Trying Philippa's Dad's roll-your-own smokes during a sleepover when I was 13 - It was OK when Philippa tolerated me 'bum sucking' the first ten whilst we squinted at a section of the Rocky Horror Picture Show on the driveway screen visible from her bedroom window but thene then she insisted that I do the 'drawback' and suck the smoke in. Soon after ,'Sweet Transvestite' wasn't how I was feeling when the room began to spin and there was only the hood of my sleeping bag to unload in....

• Riding the 'whizzy' in the caravan park playground for a full half-hour before setting off on a 450km drive with my family - I was not alone in this episode of stupidity. My two brothers were with me as well. All three of us continued to sit there, grunting out smart stuff like, "I feel a bit woozy now," but not having the sense to get off. We hadn't even driven 10 kilometres through Coff's Harbor's banana farms before the sick cartons at the back of the landcruiser were full. Dave's even sloshed over a tiny bit and splashed the speaker in the door. Dad was not happy.

• Being served a home made steak-and-kidney pie by my boyfriend's mother the very first time I had met them and had a meal over at their house. I somehow ate it by cutting it into very small pieces and swallowing them whole (washed down with his Dad's throat-burning home-made wine). The evening got worse when I went to the toilet which was adjacent to the living room and in order to avoid making any discernible noises (the brick veneer walls were paper thin), I leaned forward on the seat to enable my yellow essence to roll quietly down the inside of the bowl. Not that night - somehow my spraying action was stronger than I anticipated and the wee shot up the edge, under the seat and started pooling onto the tiled floor at the base. This resulted in ten minutes of me mouthing OH SHIT to myself (ah the irony) and oh-so-silently mopping up the mess with toilet paper whilst trying not to retch from the smell or have the kidneys return up from whence they came from the constant bending over.

There you have it: just a few things that seemed sort of digusting at first and remained disgusting. Go with your first impressions always.

So, don't pick your nose and eat it. I'm betting that this Dr Friedrich Bischinger was a tubby guy with a lazy eye who ate sunday school paste. He may have a stronger immune system, but I betting also that his little black book isn't exactly bursting at the seams.

Knowledge November - Day 10 - Repeating myself

We've all sat at the dinner table during a family get-together as adults and said to our fathers as they launch into telling their favourite story "Yeah Dad, I remember you telling us that one before, it's great..." and listened as he continued to tell the tale, haven't we? I know I have.

Sadly, this apple has plopped dangerously close to the tree. So close it's touching the trunk and sort of going all rotten and soft and starting to get sticky and meld into the bark.

The other day Sapphire and I had finished chatting to some mutual friends at the school gate the other day and were walking home with Milly. Sapph sighed and said, "You know I've heard all your stories now Mum. I could recite them."

And the little insect did, in an accent that I can only describe as Hilda Ogden Gone Ocker. Am I that bad?

Yes. I'm that bad. Not with the accent but certainly with trotting out my trusty stand-by stories at dinner parties, getting-to-know-you stories at BBQs and making small talk before concerts, movies or meetings commence. Or blogs, if the full truth be told.

Love Chunks and Sapphire are resigned to enduring these tired tales when I'm waffling on to someone new, but have promised to raise a warning eyebrow or even kick me under the table if I'm in danger of repeating myself to them or friends who have progressed beyond the 'So I found myself trapped in the Cheops pyramid passageway with Abdul the tour guide behind me groping my arse' introductory story phase.

I'll try my best to stop if they or anyone else smiles tiredly and says, "Yeah, I remember you telling me that." I honestly will.

However Sapphire has also listed a few phrases that I overuse to the point of distraction around the house. These are:

Am I made of stone - of course I'd like some chocolate!
How come you're not ready yet Sapphire?
Whew-whee, did you just drop one?
And I mean that from the heart of my bottom
Thank God I'm no longer a teenager and have to pay attention to what's in fashion any more
Crikey!

Never let it be said that I don't do the least I can possibly do
There are some real shockers in this world, Sapphire
...... and that drop-kick over there throwing his rubbish out of the car window is one of them.

I can't give any of them up or I'll be silent. That's what I've learned.

Knowledge November - Day 9 - The original blonde Joke

Why was the blonde frowning at the orange juice carton? Because it said ‘concentrate’.

Har har har. No prizes for guessing that I am a blonde. I am also educated, a published writer, a trained teacher and facilitator, a qualified solo sky-diver and book reviewer who escaped a rape scene by punching the man so hard in the face and I'm considered acceptably intelligent by most people who know me.

Okay, so that’s nothing different to any other blonde out there trying to eradicate the dumb-blonde stereotype, but I’ll add this – it’s all true and I am a *natural* blonde.

No, my hair wasn’t just blonde as a child and now darker as an adult, it is still blonde. It is the colour that my hair-dresser says is the most sought-after shade by ex-blondes or brunette wannabes who go to her salon for highlights, touch-ups or a complete transformation. Unfortunately it is also extremely fine and cannot support even a coloured rinse through it without taking on the hue in a deeply fluorescent fashion (a painfully embarrassing lesson learned when putting through a henna highlight in high school). It does, however, get a few streaks put in to thicken up my hair slightly or I risk having it all fly off in a gust no more powerful than a kitten's hiccough.

In deference to my mantra of ‘One Minute Only,’ my hair is kept short and I avoid wearing make-up as much as Paris avoids a book store. When I do occasionally put on some mascara or lipstick, I either resemble an ageing Emo clown or the first female member of the Clockwork Orange Droogs (but minus the outfit!).

Instead, it is easier for me to play down the blonde hair/blonde brain perception by not placing much emphasis on my appearance. My clothes are neat, clean and allow me to fit into the crowd without looking like a wrinkly fashion victim or a fifty-something librarian. I’m no Katherine Heigl, but I’m no Pig Troll either; just a Low Maintenance Mother with a million more important matters on her mind (Where are my litter tongs? Why does Mark Dorman get paid to write a column? How come all the vegans I know are fat?)

Pamela Anderson is a mere year older than me and is the living embodiment of the Bottle Blonde with eyebrows and lips she has to draw on like a cartoon and painfully bloated breasts that ensure an ever-dwindling income from Tommy Lee's tape sales and the added bonus of being extra protected from impact if she ever finds herself in a car crash. Her career has mostly involved attending events wearing a smile and sequinned dental floss and having extremely poor taste in men (ditto for Paris).

Pammy and Paris reinforce the stereotype of the dumb blonde and encourage those who aren't yet featured on internet pages the world over. These acolytes are often ordinary suburban women who spend an inordinate amount of time on their physical appearance: dried, long yellow hair, ridiculously square manicured nails that clearly show that the hands are seldom used for anything more demanding than a straightening iron and outfits that scream out ‘Desperate Bar Maid’ instead of ‘Destined for the Boardroom.’

If blonde is your natural colour, then all well and good. If you’re paying for it to be your colour, then forget it: you’ll be taken about as seriously as Madonna at the Academy Awards.

Then again, I probably shouldn't have walked into the lounge room on way to getting a glass of water and asked Love Chunks "What's the dumbest question I've ever asked you?"

"Does now count?"

Knowledge November - Day 8 - Style by Stealth

I knew right from the start that Love Chunks wasn’t attracted to me because of my car (a Safari Orange-coloured 1971 Volvo) or my fashion sense:

“Hey Kath, bend down and touch your toes, will you?”
“Why?”
“So I can set the table.”

We both laughed and his dislike for my top would have carried a lot more weight if he hadn’t then sashayed – Swish Swish Swish Swish – out of the kitchen wearing his infernally noisy shell tracksuit pants.

It was 1993 when we fell for each other and my expensive, dark green corduroy and paisley patterned overshirt purchased in London in 1991 still had a fair bit of wear left in it in my opinion. Besides, living on Austudy whilst learning how to survive teaching high school kids Australian History and English meant that funds for clothes weren’t available.

Love Chunks’ wardrobe too had a few travesties that he clearly considered were still acceptable to wear in public, like his black leather ‘spray jacket’ style coat with the press-stud shoulder epaulettes, short-sleeved business shirts and stubbie shorts.

It was only at the end of the year when the weather bureau (and a better salary) in Melbourne beckoned LC back and I followed, scoring a debt collecting job at a security firm that was slightly less soul-destroying that performing paid acts of sodomy in bus shelters.

The move from Adelaide provided me with the opportunity to ‘lose’ a few of LC’s most objectionable items of clothing, such as his Speedos.

Sure, he had a fit physique but they were Speedos. Why not cover your genitals in Glad Wrap for all the modesty that tight-fitting, sky-blue lycra provided? And his too-snug, black and brown striped polo shirt that had been witness to key events in his young adult life – year 12, university, residential college, graduate traineeship in Darwin, student teaching in Adelaide, curries with me – had to go. Quietly and with dignity. And, of course, with utmost secrecy, being hastily buried under the lemon tree furthest from the back verandah of our student share house.
When we arrived in Melbourne to our crumbly 1960s flat, we had few boxes to unpack. It was our first home together, and it was fitting that our belongings complemented each other. LC had the sofa, me the dining table. He the VCR, me the telly. He the copper-bottomed saucepans, me the quilt.

Our right hand-side neighbours were silent, with delicious smells of fragrant curries and spices permanently seeping under our door whetting our appetites and the left-hand neighbour assailed us with poor renditions of ‘Smoke on the Water’ via his crackling amplifier. The people above us scraped their chairs on lino at 2am and the woman below at car-park level owned a mouthy cockatoo and liked to smash her own windows whenever she argued with her occasional boyfriend. It was perfect.

A month into the move, LC half-heartedly asked as to the whereabouts of his polo-shirt. Trying to avoid telling him the truth, I spun around, pointed my finger at his chest and said accusingly, “Not so fast, buddy. Where is my green shirt? I can read you like a book, Love Chunks.”
“Well I can read you like a fact-sheet Kath, ‘cos I saw you shove my shirt into the wheelie bin.”

Fast forward sixteen years and I found myself on the very same street as our first residence, attending an Open Inspection out of nosiness, not extra funds. Walking back to our house and towards our bird turd-splattered old Magna, I realised that style and cars are still not what keeps us together.

There’s my thong collection, my one concession to brand names:













Love Chunk’s Babboon Bum bike shorts that are always drying on the towel rack:




















And Milly’s hairs that festoon our clean socks.




















It is Sapphire these days that comments on our outfits, not us. She’ll say:
Hey Mum why don’t you buy those peacock feather earrings from Diva they’re only six dollars and more interesting than the boring hoops you’ve always got on
You should wear clothes like Simone’s Mum. She’s gone back to uni to study art and painting and has got these white boots that are really high heeled and go right up her thighs so that you just can see a bit of her black and purple striped tights under her velvet dress that reminds me of a princess like Rapunzel and she likes to wash her hair in henna
Or you could get your hair streaked a bit lighter like Juliet’s and Sarah’s Mums do and I have to ask - and I’m not trying to be rude or cheeky or answer you back – but why you always think that polar fleece is OK to wear to cafes when you won’t let me wear my crocs there and your running gear is fine to wear on the way to school but I really hate that Ben Lee ‘Love like the world is ending’ t-shirt because it says that you like having sex and I think that that’s a bit rude for someone as old as you......

I took her advice and got my hair streaked.



















Two hours later, I arrived home, did a “Ta Da” twirl in front of her, seeking her approval.
“Oh Mum, you look like a koala bear with those side bits of hair sticking out – why didn’t you get them cut off?”

Love Chunks saw my disappointment and came up and put his arm around my waist, hugging me to him. “Nah you look like Fozzy Bear.”

I bought a seventh pair of thongs as sartorial solace.

Knowledge November - Day 7 - You

"No one is in charge of your happiness but you."

I used to see that saying a lot via calendars, Granny-style greeting cards and email forwards but never really got it until a couple of years ago when my perceived value and contribution to this existence we commonly call 'life' seemed to be sliding out of reach and I was letting down everyone who mattered to me.

It took a bit of professional help, medication and the utmost understanding of experts, family and friends for me to get better and realise that my perception was not the true one and that life would in fact be a fair bit less bearable for those I left behind.

I wasn't 'failing', I just thought I was. I wasn't shaming or disappointing my family and friends; just not talking to them about it. My recovery saw me naturally using the stepping stone method my Dad talked about to see the light eventually appearing at the end of many tunnels and how many things - no matter how simple - were there to just appreciate, take note of or look forward to. The scent of Sapphire's hair, Milly's soft ears, Love Chunk's strong hugs, a mug of hot coffee sipped outside in the sunshine, clean sheets and a kind blog comment.

What really clicked was how I woke up each day. Did I need to feel resentful, grumpy or sad before my feet had even slid off the mattress and landed on the floor? If a blob of toothpaste plopped on my top or I spilt the cereal, was it really going to damage the outcome of my day?

This realisation gave me a choice. I could choose to smile, laugh and move on. And I did.

I can't control everything that happens to me or how I react to it, but I can actively search for beauty, comfort and truth.

And yes, blogging is a huge part of it for me. Thank you for reading!

Knowledge November - Day 6 - Fartin' Fridays

Normally, bottom humor is reserved for the males of our species, but not in this house. Love Chunks, a proud male who enjoys burping, the footy and food, is most definitely not a public or proud farter. He uses the modus operandi of the tooth fairy - we're pretty sure it happens, but have never actually seen or experienced it directly ourselves.

My butt-blasts are slightly less pristine, but most likely are more normal. My method is less Tooth Fairy and more the Tasmanian Tiger - we know that it exists, but anyone who was around to witness it is now crazy, dead or both.

Pregnancy was the exception in my case. I merely had to bend over without giving my ever-increasing body five minutes notice and a quick-but-loud 'Parrp!' would erupt. My poor work mates got sick and tired of my weak, "Oh dear, was it worth the two minutes of fun in Malaysia" line after its seventh uttering during the same meeting. When I was sitting still. If I was ever in the photocopying room loading the second tray with paper they'd stick an 'ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK' sign on the door frame.

Sapphire, unfortunately, has the farting habits of a bogan's 1987 commodore - in your face, frequently loud and very proud. All she's missing is the backwards baseball cap, pounding Doof Doof music and the 'I'm Naked From the Waist Down' bumper sticker on her back.

Despite being raised by two extremely intelligent, kindly, supportive and well-mannered parents, the hidden Benny Hill gene seems to have established itself with about as much delicacy as a moose on a music stand. She may be the brightest in her class and have the ability to read a novel in one sitting but give her the opportunity to force out a fart and she's laughing so hard I can't tell where the joyous tears end and the snot trails begin.

I blame my brother David. I've mentioned before that my younger pest/turkey /brother would derive endless amusement from letting a ripsnorter off right in my face whilst I was ensconced in our huge velvet beanbag watching 'Mork and Mindy'. He and his easily-satisfied cackling laughter were long gone by the time I angrily struggled out of the bag and onto my feet.

He shared a room with me until I was ten, because older - and much stronger - older brother Rob wasn't a good sleeper and didn't tolerate Dave's regular night time asthma attacks with much sympathy. I merely slept through them unless Dave was coming off the Ventolin high and decided to treat himself - and me, only two metres away - to a few doona lifters and giggles. At that stage of my life, I learned early that farting and boys naturally go together like Ape and S**t.

When these sad scenes of childhood suffering are relayed back to Sapphire, she laughs in genuine merriment and admiration. Or should it be described as wicked delight, because she has a laugh that only emerges when Farts, Fluffs, Pop-offs, Bums, Butts, Snot, Boogers, Poos, Willies and Wees are mentioned, preferably in the same story.

Friday nights are the worst. Sapphire's had a busy and eventful week at school and LC and I have had our big weeks at work (yes, 'home' is indeed my workplace but with more loads of washing at break times instead of chats in the staff kitchen). If we don't have plans, we tend to flop out on the lounge and feel the lethargy and tiredness attack us from all fronts.

This increased state of relaxation clearly tempts Sapphire's sphincter section to let more than a few dozen go, echoing the rumble of the trams outside.

"For gods' sake Sapphire, stop doing that or you can go and sit in your room!"

Even Milly is roused from her sleep at our feet, and stares at Sapphire reproachfully. "See? You know you're being revolting when even the dog is annoyed!"

Sapphire laughs so hard that LC looks at her with concern, wondering if her chocolate milk or even a lung is going to come out of her nose and flop like a caught fish on the coffee table in front of us.

"Sapphire," I say quietly, trying another angle, "Do you do these at school?"
"Of course not Mum," she snorts, as if I'm a complete idiot.
"Then why do you do them here at home?"

Again, the 'Mum, You're A Total Mental Pgymy' look in response. "Because I'm at HOME. I can do what I like at home. I spend all day squashing 'em and pushing 'em back up and at home I can let 'em out. It's funny! Plus, I can't help it....." she trailed off, looking at me with her huge, innocent blue eyes that I forever feel as though I could jump into.

"But do Dad and I ever do it to you?"
"No, but Dad NEVER does them. YOU do them to Dad at night time, 'cos he told me," she said, her giggles starting up again. Then a new thought enters her head, and she snaps her head back to me, looking worried. "Mum, you're not going to tell anyone at school, are you?"

Hah, now I've got her! "Well that all depends...... wouldn't the boys in your class want to know about it?"

Sapphire's face wrestles with the conflicting humour of the idea and the sheer horror of its reality. "NO! It would be embarrassing! Josh and Lachie do them all the time and us girls just roll our eyes and say how unsophisticated they are."

I pause, remembering that this is what I told her to say when said boys continued to thump her in the arm and run away, hoping she'll chase after them. She'd come home feeling frustrated, asking me why they did it to her all the time. "Oh boys are very unsophisticated creatures," I said. After explaining to her what unsophisticated meant, she took the explanation to heart, and has used it ever since to account for any bit of silly boy behaviour she's endured.

"OK, it would be embarrassing for you, but is it fair for poor Dad and I to have to put up your pop-offs and their terrible stench---"
"Hey Mum, I can't help how they smell. If I could make nice like our rose toilet spray, I would you know."

It was my turn to laugh. "Fair enough, but you've got to stop playing it up, and you should only do them when you're on your own because it's a bad habit that will soon make you very unpopular. Besides," I added, in what I thought was an added 'load her down with the weight of fairness and dignity' flourish, "When have I ever shoved any of my bad habits in front of you?"

Oh dear, it was too late to retract that last, pompous utternance.

"Well," she shot back, with the beginnings of another wicked giggle session, "What about when I hear you blow your nose in the shower; or when you farted as you emptied the bins outside and then it followed you in? No, Mum don't interrupt me - what about when you kiss the dog and then try and kiss me straight after, or those times when Dad can't believe that you still use the big drawer to frisbee the tupperware lids into instead of stacking them; or when you get dressed into your tracksuit and ugg boots for work and don't put your bra back on and when you always lick the peanut butter off the knife ------"

"Er, OK sweetie, you've made your point. Perhaps I'll just move over to the other sofa where I'm closer to the open door...."

Knowledge November - Day 5 - My one and only dietary rule

.... is this: One good food eaten immediately before or after a bad food will completely eradicate the bad.

Don't pretend that you don't understand my logic because we all do it: inhale a king-sized KitKat chunky and follow it with an orange. Ta Da, you've eaten nothing! The vitamins, minerals and overall goodness of the fruit has effectively cancelled out the evil fats, sugars and carbs of the chocolate.

If those poor, award-wage, fifteen year old whopper wallahs at Hungry Fats and Maccas got a cent for every person who ordered a diet coke with their Whopper/Double Quarter Pounder/Large Fries/Grand Artery/Triple Fudge/Finger Lickin'/Deep Dish/ Fully- Fried Meal Deal deluxes, they'd be kicking James Packer out for not being wealthy enough.

I know that I'm not the only Foolish Foodie Hypocrite in this world - that diet coke tap isn't on constant drip for my purposes only you know. Last week I was enjoying a coffee with my visiting parents at a cafe near our house and Mum ever-so-helpfully noted that my pick-me-up of choice - a skinny latte - was accompanied by two melting moments. Yes, those pesky three grams of milk fat were to be avoided like a department store bra fitting if I was to fully appreciate my 50% butter biscuits.

Another method of using this food combining, self-delusional dietary system to your advantage - especially when time is of the essence and your cravings are not to be ignored - is to incorporate both the good and the bad in the same food item.

The berry flan is one such notable item. It is ridiculously easy to order a hefty slice of this delightful dessert, saying something out loud to your friend like, "Ooooh, fresh berries, my favourite! I'll definitely have this one."

Never mind that said fruits are only a stingy layer covering up a brick-thick wedge of cream-laden, full-fat cheesecake which again rests on top of the crushed butter'n'biscuit base. That's just what we all need - the calorific content of the biscuits to be doubled by crushing them up and resticking them together with butter.

But hey, you had at least three mouthfuls of berries, didn't you?

Another personal favourite is the Sunday roast. It all looks and sounds so good in theory: mouth-wateringly roasted meats (with the fats dripped off onto the rack underneath) with an array of delicately steamed and oven-cooked vegetables. All of which is immediately cancelled out by the salty, oily and delicious gravy that is poured over your plate until no colour is visible except brown. Made entirely from the fats swimming in the bottom of the roasting dish of course. However, you need to remind yourself - you did eat three brussels sprouts and half a parsnip, didn't you?

As I was drafting this I applied the theory in relation to beverages, alcoholic ones in particular. My gin and (of course) diet tonic was strictly medicinal because the fresh lemon juice in it is helping my current bout of the sniffles. I'm not the only one in our household who likes to cling precariously to this threadbare theory. My darling Love Chunks has frequently argued that the 'glass of red wine per day' is good for the heart plus it's chock-full of grape juice. What more could a hard workin' family man ask for. (Apart from a Jennifer Aniston and Angeline Jolie menage-a-trois inside his million dollar marlin fishing yacht but that's not for this blog).

Naturally, as I enjoy seeing Bear Grylls fight for survival in the SBS documentary 'Man vs Wild' by wearing his boxers on his head and drinking his own urine (again), the the fat content of the four rows of Nestle Club Dark I will undoubtedly inhale will be nullified by my merely witnessing his strenous, death-defying efforts and reaching down to pat the dog and resume my knittng.

But does my daring dietary theory actually work? I'd like to think so, at least in my very own KathLand. In hard, cold reality however I still seem to have love handles that you could gather up and tie in a bow behind my back.

Knowledge November - Day 4 - Hardcore Hangovers
























I've learned that drinking a 250ml bottle of St Agnes brandy at an eighteenth birthday party in less than an hour will leave me throwing up long after I thought it was physically possible to.

The same goes for holiday Ouzo purchased in sunny Greece and sipped in a freezing London bedsit and Sparkling Shiraz guzzled like cordial in 35C heat at an Adelaide BBQ that left me sunburned, septic and strung out under a pine tree.

........Or three pints of Guinness swilled at the Dublin factory immediately following a tour that left me so unsteady on my feet that I knocked over a shelf in their gift shop (cunningly placed just outside their pub) and ended up purchasing a Guiness beach towel as an apology before staggering up O'Connell street to my BnB and wishing that Satan would stop stirring my brains with chopsticks and squeezing my stomach like a bellows.

Those hellish styles of alcoholic beverages have never been yearned for, tasted or touched my me again.

It's not just booze that can give hangovers too frightening to ever contemplate risking again.

Tinned peaches were adored by me as a child up until the age of six. As is typical in small children, I ate too much and did the 'ol blanket vomit later on that night that had Mum changing my sheets in the dark and Dad rushing outside to fling the blankets over the Hills Hoist and blast off the chunky bits still clinging to the wool fibres with the garden hose. The over-riding taste and reminder was of the tinned peaches and not the fried lamb chops, vegetables or ice-cream that accompanied them and I can't even see a can of them being opened without feeling queasy to this day

Yet I can eat enough liqueur, dark, milk, nutty, fruity, nougatty, soft, melted, strong, cakey, ganachey, crunchy, crisp, flowing, hot, frozen and molded chocolate to give me a hangover that's rivalled any of my brandy, ouzo, sparkling shiraz or tinned peaches and literally wake up the next morning and think, "Geez I could go a few rows of chocolate right now."

Knowledge November – Day 3 – Size isn’t important

I’m 41 years old today and I’m typing this with a sports towel wedged under my bum to catch the running sweat trickling down the backs of my knees and can hear several choppers overhead keen to catch some aerial views of the crowds attending the Melbourne Cup race.

As I sat in the kitchen earlier this morning opening cards and pressies with Love Chunks, Sapphire and Milly the dog, I mused aloud, “Have I learned anything this year?”
“I seriously doubt it,” shot LC by the coffee machine, making us all laugh.

But I have really. Twelve months ago we lived in a largish double-brick house on a piece of land in South Australia measuring 900 square metres – here in Victoria it’s 220 squares. We haven’t noticed the smaller space but have instead appreciated not being weekend garden slaves or hearing chunks of plaster fall from the ceiling and go SMACK onto the floorboards at 3am.

The gym – okay tool shed – we have is much smaller than our double garage, but it fits in the treadmill since it finally made its way through our delivery-unfriendly front gate. It also houses LC’s new bike and he's looking fitter, thinner and stronger. “Yeah, you’ve downsized yourself by running more this year Mum,” said Sapphire. Thanks sweetie.

Yet my chocolate stash has upsized thanks to GoneChocco and two stints on telly’s ‘A Current Affair’ (thankfully as a fluffy good news piece and not being chased down the street by a reporter as I jam my hand in front of the camera and avoid answering questions on what it feels like to make pensioners poor and homeless). My chocolate contacts have also upsized as I’ve met some really enthusiastic, genuinely friendly and talented chocolatiers, importers, creators and retailers who know more about the brilliant brown beauties than I ever will.

My income is far less than it used to be during my managerial stress-head days or the decline of civilised behaviour with The Bulldog, but it’s more than it was last year which was roughly the royalties from Work/Life Balance for Dummies (ie air and ego) and a tax refund from the previous financial year.

This year I’m actually earning money and still continue to feel utterly thrilled to see my stuff in the newspaper and to work with an editor who ‘gets’ me. I also get the jollies receiving little book parcels in the mail from Jabberwocky in order to review them. Good or bad is fine with me: the fun is in the discovery and in now knowing the delivery man by name.

The city is bigger (over 4 million compared to one million) but the local area is smaller. Joining the Flemington Association has given me friendship with people I might never have met otherwise and stirred a passion that I didn’t know I possessed for history, planning, character and culture .... and good cafes.

“What other changes in size have happened this year,” I again foolishly asked myself out loud in front of my family.

“Your cholesterol has upsized.”
Er yes, thanks darling husband.

“And you’ve downsized your life because you’re 41 now and have less life to go.”
Wonderful, Sapphire, that’s just wonderful.

Love Chunks handed me a freshly-made coffee. “Are you sure you’re not 42? I could have sworn you were 42 today.”

No. Our tiny kitchen just fits in Love Chunk’s coffee machine and the dining table is wedged in so that you need to suck your gut and squeeze in your butt-cheeks in order to sit on the furthest side and dog hairs collect in tumble weeds under the chairs and when Sapphire’s got SingStar going in the lounge room just two metres away it’s impossible to have a conversation but I feel like it’s huge.

It fits in Love Chunks, Sapphire, Milly and myself – everyone I love.

Knowledge November - Day 2 - Don't say it


















Don't ever say "Don't take it personally" to anyone.

Ever.

When you say "Don't take it personally", you're asking someone to accept an insult or an injustice, be publicly humiliated, do your dirty work, lose their job or do something potentially horrible to someone else (like fire them).

It is a meaningless phrase that is often only used to make the utterer feel less bad, not the sufferer.

Saying "Don't take it personally" means that you are also belittling that person's genuine pain and hurt feelings.

Think of it this way: If I came up to your house out of the blue and slapped you across your face and then defecated on your front door step before issuing you with a 'Don't Come Monday' slip, you wouldn't want me to then turn around and say, "Don't take it personally," would you?

Knowledge November - Day One

As longer-term readers might recall, last year I had an Appreciative August, in which I blogged every single day about things I was truly grateful for. Fellow blogger Franzy was inspired (at least, that's my interpretation of it) to start up his own monthly blog theme, but had the wisdom to designate it Single Sentence September which he's done two years in a row now. This year, I've selected November. It's my birth month and often a time I reflect on what I've learned int the past year as I (increasingly) eye another birthday number with equal parts concern and relish.

Knowledge November will see me trying to write on this blog every single day about things I've learned, noticed or realised during my own participation in the hardest event of all - life.

Thousands upon thousands of other bloggers are throwing themselves into NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month in which the goal is to either write an entire novel or at least 60,000 words by the end of the month. The challenge is a mighty one and therefore it's understandable how a lot of blokes - or brave Frida Kahlos - are instead opting for Movember in order to grow a soup-strainer above their top lip for charity with the option of a shave on the 1st of December.

For me it'll be knowledge. Some silly, some wise, some sad, some profound. Or just some.

Today - the very first day of Knowledge November I want to share with you something deeply personal and troubling.

Being a middle child (yes, that could be a separate blog page entirely) and the only girl meant that I used to feel (or liked to imagine, in my more dramatic moments) that I was just the 'spare' kid in the family. Jan Brady was my soul mate; albeit ten years older, many thousands richer and a hemisphere apart.

To me it seemed like Mum and Dad had made a huge fuss about Robert's arrival because he was first and his album was bulging with photographs, christening cards and notations about every aspect of his growth.

Little David's arrival was a huge event because he was the last child. And sickly. And was returned to the hospital for a week because he screamed and made Dad decide to undergo a vasectomy as soon as he could find an available doctor.

The few photos in my baby album - and the fact that my family continually reminded me that my nickname of 'Bubble' was due to resembling a fat SANFL footy player and because I was a chunky-wunky boombah who apparently liked to ride around and around the house on hot summer nights with a bucket on my head whilst the family enjoyed their dinner peacefully inside - reinforced this view.

The other day I saw a two year old girl with her family. She, like me was the middle child with her brother of around four years old was perched upon his father's shoulders and a newborn was sleeping in the pram. My Mum was with me, spending the day in the city before she and Dad flew out to New Zealand for a Grey Nomad experience over the Tasman.

I looked again and saw what they'd done to their precious little girl and clutched Mum's arm. "Oh that's terrible - she's not a wild dog!"

Mum looked down at the ground, showing an uncharacteristic blush of embarrassment. Over a cacophanous shopping centre cappuccino she unburdened herself of something she'd kept from me for nearly 39 long years.

The knowledge I have to impart is darker than being left outside playing with a bucket on my head: much worse. Are you ready? Really ready? Here goes....

I was the only child of the three of us that they put in a harness.

A harness.....! Those awfully humiliating bridles that evil parents make their toddlers wear so that they can't go anywhere fun or further than a metre from the torturer holding the reins who then yanks them back to joyless servitude and submission. Ropes and pulleys disguised in bright materials but never able to hide the fact that they were designed by child-hating Dickensians and still elicit gasps of horror when spotted in public places such as the shops or agricultural shows today.

Dad tried to soften the blow when I rang him, full of accusations, questions and tears.

"You always had a crazy look in your eye and we never knew just when you were going to dash out across the street or shoot around the corner."

Yeah but I was two years old....! Robert was the one who used to ram his head against the asbestos wall when he threw tantrums and David picked white snail shells off the brush fence and crunched on them like cheezels, so how was I any crazier?

I could hear his sigh over the phone line. "Look, we did the best we could do in limited circumstances. It was either that or club you into unconsciousness."

Oh. Maybe it was the best of two options then.