Blurb from the Burbs

2008-05-14T12:05:00.005+09:30

Petrifying Public Speaking

I am running an hour long session next week on Work/Life Balance and my gut is already doing some staccato stomach squeezes in nervous anticipation. My session is during The Unholy Hour: after lunch on the final day of a rather serious conference. How in Cadbury's name am I going to engage a room full of strangers when all they want to do is wear their screen-saver expressions, eat the last of the good biscuits and get a good head start on the peak hour traffic?

For some reason, I can goof off with friends, during meetings, karate classes and even on radio but the thought of actually standing up as the sole focus of attention, trying to convince the people staring at me (or are they checking out my Ayers-Rock-sideways arse? dog hairs on the bottom of my trousers? a king-sized boogie blowing in the breeze of my left nostril?) that I have some idea of the subject matter truly terrifies me. As Seinfeld once noted, most people nominated public speaking - over death - as their biggest fear in life. "So they'd rather be the one in the casket than the one still living, delivering the eulogy."

Imagining the audience naked doesn't work for me. It just leads to nightmares where it is me who is naked, normally behind a podium, trying my damnedest to hide the fact that I may be wearing a shirt and jacket on top, but have nothing on below the waist. Besides, wouldn't it be harder to entertain and engage a completely unclothed crowd - they'd certainly be much more easily distracted, surely.

Perhaps that’s why I’m enjoying writing from home so much. I can ration my time in front of strangers or even the need to ‘perform’ in front of co-workers. No need to dress like a professional, add the right amount of comment during planning sessions or have to speak authoritatively about some obscure part of government legislation to a member of the public I'd dearly like to shove under a bus. There's also no requirement to facilitate team meetings, convince senior management as to the wisdom of my ideas or be called on to answer a difficult question during a leadership seminar.

However, this session is about my book, and why I, the Poster Child for how NOT to achieve work/life balance actually found the ways and means to achieve it. All well and good, but how can I spin that out for 60 minutes before resorting to "Let's open it up to the floor," (and instead hoping the floor would open up to me and let me disappear forever), giving them a half-hour early minute or resorting to finding some funny YouTube clips that only vaguely relate to my topic? What if I forget what I was going to say? I'm not sure I can go noteless like Andrew Denton or be able to spin off some witty anecdotes in quick response to the situation. "Er, I seem to have forgotten what I was going to say...."Amnesia used to be my favourite word, but then I forgot it," heh heh, sweat sweat, blush blush......

Several years ago, I did a brain dominance psychology test at work and it revealed that I tended to perform pretty well in front of others, but suffer stress before hand, usually by throwing up before walking on stage. Too true, although 'throwing up' should be cancelled and 'crapping daks and farting like a flute' inserted instead.

Even during relatively innocuous occasions I've suffered at the hands of facing the public. Making the speech at Taka and Justine's wedding, my left knee shook so badly that the beads and sequins on the neckline of my dress appeared to be flashing, and after enduring a live telecast of 'Wheel of Fortune' as a 'lucky' contestant, I immediately regurgitated the complimentary chocolates and champagne the second I walked off the set. Even teaching high school students felt like a performance in front of a particularly picky and hostile crowd: how many times, in a work situation, are you faced with a fifteen year old looking you up and down and then asking sullenly, 'So how old ARE you, Miss Read?"

Back to now, or next week to be precise. How should I handle this presentation? Reliable old Powerpoint with some dot points and slightly humorous photos thrown in to keep them staring straight ahead and amused? Straight speech and copies of detailed notes to hand around? Minties and a mini group meditation? Or open up a stand with the sign 'Buy My Book Here' ??

Who knows, except the surety that I'll lose at least a couple of kilos in the hours before I start.....

2008-05-12T08:20:00.001+09:30

Workplace Wevenge

Co-workers are a great deal worse than family. Yes, we know that you can pick your friends and you can't pick your family - and co-workers in this scenario firmly fall into the 'family' category. Sadly though, it's even worse when you consider that you spend more of your waking hours at work. The last thing you need is to spend that time with colleagues who possess the personality and intelligence of bathroom tiles and IR laws prevent you from giving them a hen-peck or dead leg like you could do to your siblings during times of frustration.

You know the types: the frustrated old Cardigan who guards the stationery cupboard with his life; the Girlfriend at the pub who backstabs you at the office; the graduate know-it-all with an attitude larger than his IQ; unflappable old lag whose age you can guess by counting the rings around her coffee cup; and the evil egomaniac boss who was born, raised and trained in the fiery caverns of hell. Just to name a few.

Getting revenge on these office anals can be a very tricky business. Firstly, you don't want to appear like an unhinged bully or mentally deranged stalker. No, revenge office-style requires patience, delicacy and careful planning. Here are a few ideas for those of you who wish a great more than a paper cut on your comrade cube citizens:

The Raw Prawn. Legend has it that Aussie soldiers in World War II would snort, "Ah, don't come the Raw Prawn with *me* mate," if they felt they were being treated like a fool. Well this is the time to make your *co-worker* the fool instead. Unlike ex-boyfriend's apartments, it is the rare office that has curtain rails to hide raw prawns in, so you'll have to practice your long shots at home with a long-dead crustacean and the slot of your toaster.

When you think you're proficient enough, simply stroll past your victim's car, whip out your prawn and aim it at the grill directly between the windscreen wipers and the windshield. Remember, it is vital that your shot gets the prawn in there first time so that you don't leave any incriminating fingerprints. You probably won't be there to witness it, but the mind-numbingly awful odour of a prawn slowly going bad especially when dispersed via the air vents on long, hot drives home will be severe. Rest assured too that the suffering driver is very unlikely to discover the source of the smell.

Cost one prawn.

The Nigerian Talking Clock. This is a classic, beloved of all wronged people everywhere. Except maybe Nigerians of course. Spend a few valuable minutes looking up the international dialing code and number for the Nigerian talking clock. "After the second stroke, the time will be.." When your co-worker has left their desk for the weekend, dial the number and leave it off the hook until they arrive back on Monday. Said co-worker will be struggling to explain to the accounts department just why their outbound calls increased by seventeen thousand percent in one week.

Cost: 2 minutes of internet search time.

The Audio Assault System. This requires a great deal of technical proficiency, so may only appeal to true cyber geeks (like my darling husband Love Chunks). He has informed me that there are ways of rigging a computer so that the sound is unbearably loud and can blurt out all sorts of unfortunate pieces of information like "I'M DOWNLOADING PORN!" at the most inopportune moments.

Cost: sleeping with an IT guru. Try it, you might find that you like it.

Sugar Substitution. If you're a regular dipper into the shared, coffee-crumb-infested sugar bowl in the office kitchen, you will need to ween yourself off the evil stuff for this to work without your own taste buds being blasted into smithereens. Before your co-worker slumps in for their regular cup of java, substitute the white sugar for salt. Trust me: the totally unexpected taste of salt mixed in with coffee is likely to leave the sipper with a hairstyle they hadn't planned for when getting ready that morning.

Cost: a bag of salt.

Finally, for those with no social life and lots of newspaper, we have the Scrunch-a-thon. A lot of office doors are left open so that cleaners can get in and empty the bins over the weekend, or, failing that, have windows above the door that can be jemmied open. Get yourself a nice selection of beer and chips and tear a page out of the pile of newspapers in front of you. Scrunch, and throw in. Yes, your aim will get better the longer you try. Hopefully you will stagger home in a jolly mood and leave your co-workers' office filled with an ocean of black-and-white balls of paper to wade through.

Cost: your time.

There's plenty more where THOSE ideas came from.....

2008-05-07T13:26:00.004+09:30

Early Mothers Day pressie

We all dread being woken up at 2:00am but when the phone rings at 8:30pm you're not normally expecting any bad news and the telemarketers have normally left their offices to catch the last train out of Mumbai.

Except for last night. Sapphire and I were watching a DVD documentary about a year in the life of a mob of kangaroos and we were stunned at the photography and how much we learned about these beautiful creatures that we hadn't known before. We had both showered and were warmly snuggled up together on the lounge in our dressing gowns, enjoying a few squares of chocolate. Love Chunks had just phoned us from Woomera, sounding homesick and not a little envious of our broadband wireless facilities and access to the coffee machine.

Then Dad called. "Your Mum's had a car accident, but please don't worry......"

Yeah, right.

"....she's been transferred from Strath to the Royal Adelaide Hospital on a back board so that they can properly x-ray her for any neck or spinal injuries."
I was unusually silent, listening. Dad continued, asking politely, "So it is OK if I stay at your place tonight?"

Funny what levels of manners you can still have under strain. What did he expect in response, a "No, actually. It's Tuesday night and Sapph has school tomorrow" ?? Sapphire was thrilled to give up her bed for Grandpa and slot into Love Chunks' empty spot with me, and, after being reassured that Grandma was not seriously hurt, she scampered off to her desk, calling out, "I've got to make her a really good 'Get Well Soon' card." The outcomes of the kangaroos' year would have to wait until later.

Dad arrived at 2am, exhausted but relieved. He'd spent several hours with Mum in the Accident and Emergency ward, surrounded by the wails, screams and groans of their Tuesday night intake. "One bloke had clearly lost a fight with his mate and a crowbar, and a couple of coppers had to spend the remainder of their shift sitting by the side of his bed. Another woman was as high as a kite and determined to undo the handcuffs that were securing her to her bed - your Mum might as well have been wheeled into the middle of the Christmas pageant for all the rest she got."

I had waited up for him, knowing that Mum was OK but still wanting to see Dad, hear it directly from him. Several stitches were dropped from the blanket square I was clumsily knitting - one of Mum's many community projects, this one being the provision of bed blankets for a homeless shelter.

It was nice lying next to Sapphire's warm, tiny body, hearing her breathing and surreptitiously reading the card she'd left on top of Grandpa's guest towel. The card was festooned with pop-up love hearts (thanks to an Origami book and a fondness for sticky tape), a portrait of them both sitting on the rock together at Kangaroo Island and 'I love you Grandma - you are the best there is and I'll hug you as gently as you'll let me.' How on earth did we make this kid?

Mum's x-rays showed no fractures and her back was described by the doctor as 'sprained'. Dad and I went to see her as soon as Sapphire was dropped off at the school gate, Milly the dog yanking at her leash to be allowed inside the classroom for a sniff but, as usual, being denied.

Dad explained that Mum's clothing had been cut by the paramedics. Sliced off, so they could insert the back board and keep her still. "Good thing I remembered to grab her PJs and gown before I left, or I'd be tempted to get her to fill up the tyres with air at the Portrush road BP in her arseless hospital gown." We both laughed harder and longer than we needed to, filled up with my strong coffee and relief.

There Mum was, in bed number five, floral flannelette pyjamas and a spot of mascara, nivea face cream and a nice slick of shimmery pink lipstick. Bruises on her arms from the medics' attempts to draw blood and finding that the shock of the accident caused her veins to retreat further than a taunted turtle. "Your back will be looking blacker than the sky out there," I said, kissing her.

She told us that her biggest worry was the need to do a wee during the ambulance ride. "There I was, pretty well naked down the front, begging them to find a bed pan. Unfortunately it couldn't be used because I was on a board, so they shoved a bunch of towels under me and said to 'go for it'," she recalled. However, she got a weird case of performance anxiety and couldn't do it until the ambos considerately stopped off for a coffee and stood chatting outside whilst the towels changed colour.

She held both our hands as we walked her slowly to the car - how was she going to clamber inside Dad's much-used, dusty old 4WD? With ease - no stooping, just sliding in, smiling. They drove me back home and as we reached our street, there was Sapphire, her teacher and her classmates, standing in front of the building site of a McMansion near our house. I remembered that they were studying buildings and architecture this term.

Dad stepped on the brakes and called out to her. "Grandma's OK, Sapph! Come and say hello!" She did, as did her mates, and Mum looked as though she was enjoying the attention. Sapphire looked as though she'd scored the 'Show and Tell' jackpot for that week at least.

At home, Mum was settled in our best reading chair, enjoying another round of strong coffees and some of my homemade Nigella breakfast slice. Milly took great care to sit at Mum's feet, licking her hands whenever they were low enough. "Well, do you still want to cook me lunch on Sunday?"

"Oh and in the back of the car - if it's not broken - is a casserole dish I bought myself from Big W yesterday. If you haven't got me a present yet, you can give me that if you like."

Absolutely Mum. If this is the car-accident-you-had-to-have, and all you did was run off the road in wet weather and end up in a ditch, then you've won the jackpot. And so have we.

2008-05-05T12:30:00.002+09:30

Joyless Jobs

Growing up, if we ever dared tell Mum that we were 'bored', she'd send us out to the shed to grab an ice-cream cartons' worth of almonds and be forced to crack them all into an old Nescafe jar.

Not only was it even more boring that whatever the hell it was we'd been complaining about originally, but my fingers normally got hit by the hammer a few times and my skin would be bleeding from scrabbling at the hard, splintery shells before long.

However, such jobs were few and far between in my pretty idyllic childhood. In my later teenage years, however, my folks were trying to generate some more income to pay for three kids about to start uni and live out of home. And thus started the first of a rather long line of Joyless Jobs on my CV, the first being: Cucumber Polishing.

Dad and my brothers picked the cucumbers and Mum and I stood in the packing shed, sorting them by size, cleaning the dirt off them and packing them into boxes destined for the Adelaide produce market. Mum had a few old teatowels to help us do the job, but the actual, er, 'polishing' was incredibly suggestive, nonetheless.

Now you need to put this scenario into context. I was a shy sixteen year old, still yet to enjoy any horizontal happenings and my mother was (and still is) a very elegant and proper lady. Pleasuring a truckload of phallic salad veges with my parent doing the same alongside me was more embarassing than watching a torrid sex scene or tampon commercial with my grandparents.

I didn't know whether to laugh out loud and incur Mum's disapproval or to silently blush and hope that none of my friends popped in to visit. Surprisingly, it was Mum who started sniggering. This then set me off and we laughed until our stomachs hurt, tears streaming down our faces. Not a word was said, but it was the ideal way to recognise the obscenity in our actions.

Years later, after graduating from uni with a BA in Major English Texts and Roman Art and Archaeology, the ANZ Bank decided that I'd make an ideal graduate trainee for the world of finance. Soon ensconced in the position of Assistant Bank Manager, I was utterly miserable. Charging customers LAFs (loan approval fees) for literally doing nothing, trying to be interested in accounting procedures and being a lunch time teller wasn't my idea of what paid work should be.

We did have some good times, however. The photo here shows how carefully we looked after Elton John's glasses collection when they were being displayed at OPSMs around the country. As soon as the doors were shut, we'd crack open a few beers, wear a selection of his shades and try and add up the cash. Seeing Mark do some expert hand-stands in the strong room was always a highlight, as was his evening banter with Jasper:

Mark - Hey Jasper, I can't believe you've still got your tie on

Jasper - Hey Kath, I can't believe you've still got your skirt on.

Despite the positives, after two years I'd had enough, convinced that mortgage lending wasn't my destined career path. I did a nanny course and went to London. The nannying job lasted three weeks before I left in disillusionment and disgust. Having to wash - and iron - three kids' bed sheets every single day was humiliating, as was being told that my clothes could not be washed with theirs and I had to use a cheaper brand of powder. Starting at 6:30am and finishing at 8:30pm was not fun, especially when the mother - an unemployed 'interior decorator' was out shopping or waiting for her daily in-home masseuse to arrive.

Perhaps living in a home as a housekeeper to adults would be better. And it was, for the most part, except for Monday mornings. Mrs D suffered from Multiple Schlerosis, and was at the stage where she had a nurse come over twice daily to change her dressings. She ate like a bird because she was no longer able to walk or use her arms too much, but every week, on the dot, she needed to make sure that her struggling body could produce a poo.

Yes, as she told me, "It's more embarrassing for me than it is for you," but it didn't make Mondays any easier. She would forgo her usual decaff for a triple strength Nescafe, ask me to lift her onto the loo and leave her for a while. No matter how prepared I thought I was, whenever I heard the 'Errrp!' of the buzzer it still made me jump.

I'd go back into the bathroom, lift her gently up and back onto the pad-lined wheelchair and have a look down.

"Is it enough, Kath?"

Invariably, my answer, swallowing a sigh, was, "No, Mrs D. It isn't. I'll have to put you back on to see if any more will emerge."

After six months of housekeeping in Finchley, a 'Banqueting Traineeship' opened up at the Savoy Hotel. A friend from home recommended I apply, reasoning that they were looking for hard-working staff who could present themselves well, learn quickly and use their brains. Oh and you could eat and drink there for free.

The first three months saw me serving champagne and cocktails to the rich and famous, which was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. Unofficially, we bar staff had umlimited access to whatever alcohol we were serving at the time, so a helluva lot of Bolly was sucked down, as was a lot of smoked salmon and stilton filched from the hors'doeuvre platters on the way back to the kitchen.

One evening I was looking for my boss, Ed, and couldn't find him anywhere. "He's under there," gestured Nick, towards the trestle table. And so he was, in a coffin pose, dead to the world, lying on top of four crates of tonic water. For that to have been comfortable he must have certainly drunk more than his fair share of freebies. Not only that, but a thin layer of linen was all that was shielding him from a ballroom of patrons including Fergie, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Liza Minnelli, Nick Faldo and Michael Aspel.

However, like all Joyless Jobs, there always comes the time to leave. And that time, for me, was after eight weeks in the kitchens. It was a sunless hell of 16 hour days, burned fingers, being sworn at by world-famous chefs who clearly enjoyed bullying unknown galley slaves and dodging the groping hands of sly waiters in the service lift. The closing soundtrack to the Benny Hill show springs to mind when I think of that time but preferably with some grungy guitar solos to indicate that I wasn't enjoying any of it.

I left the Savoy feeling physically exhausted, suffering from a never-ending flu, and desperately needing funds to not only pay the rent on my dog box but also my frightening credit card bill. For the next three months, I worked as a kitchen-hand in a Mental Hospital, and learned a lot more than how pleasant it feels to hoick your trousers up under your armpits.

The remaining year or so of my time in London was spent in a serious Debt Collection department of a major bank, being the last person on the phone to a borrower before the bailiffs came to repossess their home. Making these phone calls were about as cheerful as a dead kitten under the kids' Christmas tree and I needed a good ten minutes respite between each call to psych myself up for the next deluge. Deluge of lies, insults, fury, sneers, threats, tears, sad stories and - worst of all - numb surrender. People sometimes posted in their keys, writing 'Here, take the house', and yet the cruelty of lending too much to people a couple of years earlier who now earned too little for a home worth much less meant that I'd still have to chase them and say, "Thanks for your keys, but you still owe us another fifty thousand pounds."

Upon returning to South Australia, I applied for the Graduate Diploma of Education at Adelaide Uni, figuring that it would give me a year on Austudy and time to think about what I really wanted to be when I grew up. Teaching high school kids English, Social Studies and History sure as hell wasn't it. Thirteen year old Darrel, in a year nine English class straight after lunch, let out a loud and odorific fart. He was happily basking in the laughter and admiration of his peers and clearly enjoying not having to open up his graffitied copy of 'The Crucible' for a while yet.

I did the only thing I knew how to do - opened my big mouth.

"Good on you Darrel, you've now released a few more valuable braincells that you honestly can't afford to lose."

The class laughed - at him now, instead of with him - he blushed, put his head into his book and we resumed the lesson. The head master was strolling past the classroom at the time, and wanted a word with me after school. "You can't put down the students like that," he explained, "It hurts their self esteem and sets a bad example of how to treat others." Fair enough, but when a fart eats into learning time, what other tools did I have? None, other than to look for a new job at the end of the year.

Which I did, after finding myself engaged to Love Chunks and following him back to Melbourne. WormWorld Security saw that I'd done some soul-sucking debt collection in London and appointed me. As the only non-smoking, non-pokie-playing, non-Victorian in the all-female team, I was the rank outsider who was left answering everybody's phone whilst they grumbled about this new-fangled rule about not being allowed to stay inside and smoke at their desks. It was a short walk home to Flemington, it paid for petrol in the 1973 Volvo and allowed me to sit Australian Public Service Graduate Selection Tests.

Think nearly fifteen years in various Government agencies, departments and units. Graduate Trainee, Ministerial Liaison Officer, Speech Writer, Program Director, Team Leader, Directorate Manager, Medical Manager, Research Administrator. All were very stressful and each role, public service program and budget planner had about as much spare cash to throw around as a Big Issue vendor - not one workplace offered free tea and coffee, let alone a cup, teaspoon or milk!

It was time to downshift. Just do a bit of admin and contribute to a department or university with subject matter and goals that genuinely interested me and allowed me to leave for home, unencumbered with laptop or files, at 5pm. As so it came to be. All was good and well for about a year, but then my boss, Bulldog decided that whilst it was fine to enjoy the services I provided above and beyond the level of my paid role, it was not fine to let me have any support or credit for those services.

On slightly less emotional and angry reflection (and several months later), I can see that she was all ego, hyperbole and no longer had any new academic or real world ideas to offer anyone. She was merely a legend in her own lunchtime, and someone bent on ensuring that any real opportunities available to her staff would instead be snorted up by herself. Karma will come, Bulldog, even if I won't be in your employ to see it.

And finally, I have arrived at the Self Employment stage of my working life. All the tracksuit pants, uggs/crocs, singing out loud opportunities, talking to the dog and availability for school pick-ups and coordinated playdates I can poke a stick at. Time to read, research, write and just fling myself into things I have a real passion for. Time for being a better mother, partner and friend. Time for helping out others at school and in the community and even do a bit more work around the house. Time to work out, run, walk and take a few photos. Time to laugh and realise that it's not a luxury but a necessity.

You know what? Folding clean washing doesn't seem so bad when I've spent the most part of the day happily tapping at the computer, hearing my dog softly snoring in her beanbag at my feet.

2008-05-01T13:45:00.005+09:30

Zimmers and Zingers

There's been recent chatter in these parts about old people having babies, such as when is an 'older father' considered to be too selfishly old? When he can't remember the name of his kid or be physically able to pick them up?

On the other side of the age divide, one of my lovely neighbours is still grieving for her nineteen year old daughter who died suddenly and explicably from pnuemonia in Alice Springs.

Another friend spends three hours a day looking after her elderly mother-in-law who is now in a supported care facility due to suffering from Alzheimers. Jane considers that in reality it is the carers and family members of the Alzheimers sufferers who are the real victims because some things that are said can still be unspeakably cruel. She was told by the mother-in-law just yesterday that, "You know, I really thought my son would have done far better than you," whilst Jane was actually helping her get dressed before feeding her breakfast.

The only way I could cheer her up was to tell her a story that my Mum told me a few years back. Mum is a beautiful singer, and has participated in many a musical, church choir and singing group in her time. These days, in her Probus-Pub Lunching-Power Walking-CWA Victor Harbor Groovy Grannie days she's in a local singing group that regularly visits the retirement villages in the area.

At Christmas time, they were in the middle of a particularly tuneful version of 'O Come All Ye Faithful' when a white and whiskered female resident, sitting in the front row, grabbed her zimmer frame and loudly said, "F**k this S**t, I'm getting outta here before I bloody cark it from hearing any more f**ken' Christmas carols." What made her outburst even more dramatic was her exit - it took her a good five minutes to make her way across the stage and through the saloon doors to her room, cursing all the way.

Mum's eyes still crease with laughter when she recalls the event and we've both surmised that some of these dear little old grannies have had to spend their entire lives doing the right thing by their husbands, children, church groups, community and society that some spring must ping out of their brains and let loose the obscenities they'd never have dreamed of using in their younger days.

Not including the miseries of Alzheimers, I hope I get to be one of those crabby old ladies who lets rip with a few Eff words and gets automatically pardoned due to her advancing age. "Don't mind Kath, she's harmless."

Wouldn't it be nice to see a middle-class, white boy from the eastern suburbs with his jeans around his ankles and boxers on show and just say, "Pull yer f**king pants up, you useless drop-kick."

If you live to be one hundred and have to endure some bored cadet reporter shoving a camera in your face and patronisingly (and loudly) asking you how it feels, wouldn't you just love to be able to respond with something like, "How the f**k do you think I feel, foetus! Bloody ancient, so get the hell out of my way and stop wasting what precious time I have left!"

Why not end the wait in queues by simply croaking out, "You better bloody serve me now before my filled-up Depend undergarment soaks through to the floor." That'd clear the way forward to the front quick smart. Alternatively, try acting out the building site fantasies in reverse. "Whoo whee sonny boy, there'd be some lessons I could show you now that your eighteen year old girlie there won't find out for three more decades to come," or, "I'd give you a ride on my zimmer frame any day."

And no wearing homy ped shoes with painfully swelled up cankles, or skirts that cut into the waist or unflattering cardigans (~~shudder~~) either. I want to wear fleecy track suits, slip on joggers and anything made of stretch lycra or elastic. Comfort all the way, baby. In fact it's not much different to what I wear now, and I'd like to think that I'm only half - no, a third - of the way through my life line.

We visited an old cemetery on Hindmarsh Island a couple of weekends ago because some of my great grandmother's family were buried there. The stone pictured on the left was there (but not one of my rellos) and the final line amused me: "Died Trusting In Jesus."

I doubt that very much. At only 42 years old, he might have uttered the word 'Jesus' in an agonised list of curse words but certainly not in blind trust. He would no sooner have willingly walked towards the bearded and robed one with trust in his heart and a spring in his step than I would have refused a handful of Haigh's during the Biggest Loser finale.

And why should we?

2008-04-29T13:34:00.003+09:30

Carpeing the Diem

Sitting at the bus stop this morning after walking Sapphire to school, I packed my novel away and just observed the world around me.

Car after car after car after car were bumper-to-bumper on Portrush Road, heading slowly into the city, all with only one passenger in each of them. It was an automatic response to start toting up the cost of petrol and parking fees, not to mention the added stress of arriving and leaving in peak hour traffic. This led on to even less original thoughts - but good ones - about getting the government to subsidise public transport and put in more bus routes all over Adelaide. Buses and stops would surely be easier and cheaper to instal than building railways? And a 'car tax' of, say, $5 for every car that drives into the city area?

On the bus, I continued my idle observations - eyes, ears and nose. The funk of warm bodies wearing woollies not seen since last winter; a gorgeous red 1952 Morris Minor putting alongside us with an added spoiler on the back; a dishevelled couple wearing shredded track suit pants talking about how they were going to handle their parole board appointment; and seeing a bloke leaning on a pallet of beer, waiting for the hotelier to open up the cellar door.

Young female students wearing their uniform of hooded sweatshirts, adorned handbags, windscreen sunnies and lipgloss trying to catch the eyes of vacant uni guys lost in their i-Pods SMS and last minute tute preparations. The bus brakes suddenly, and an old lady falls back into my lap. "Oops, sorry dear," she laughs as she gets off at the hospital. She's lighter than my eight year old and manages to keep hold of her homegrown roses.

A few stops later finds me stumbling through the fierce swing-back bus exit doors onto Grenfell Street, landing in a gutter full of vomit left over from the weekend, now nice and ripe in the autumnal sunshine. The graffiti overlooks an alleyway that is crammed with cardboard boxes, rotting vegetables and urine. The gorgeous heritage-listed brewery and stableyard is hidden amongst the 'No Geek Speak' computer company and a poncy interior design store.

After collecting the books left for me by Georgia, I buy a Feel Good Iced Coffee and decide to spend a moment in the Children's playground waiting for the bus ride back home. Unfortunately, the council workers were there cleaning it. What a shame that it's necessary to have such a professional and permanent-looking sign; obviously a very common occurrence.

Sitting on the benches facing away from the park, I notice how the shops almost look European.

Hang on, why is it necessary to have metal spikes on the second floor?

Some of the wires are bent: from previous robbery attempts or by the person who has to see them framing their view of the city every day? Casting my eyes further down my hands are itching to photograph the vast array of people walking past. Some holding coffees or cigarettes, shopping bags, briefcases, backpacks or the hands of their children.

Beer bellies, boob-shelves, high-heels, ballet flats, loafers, lace ups, blundstones. Shave heads, bad dye jobs, ironed flat, pony tails, number three clipped, Amy Winehouse imitators. Chattering, phoning, eating, reading bus timetables or the just-purchased newspaper. Absolutely fascinating, and again, I don't reach for my novel.

Back in my neighbourhood, I stroll past this Dream House containing the Mean-spirited Mechanic and look across the road, thinking of Kate and Brian, coping with the death of their nineteen year old daughter. Or Bob next door, suffering his second onset of cancer and Dave down the street, ostracised by his family for being gay.

Despite all of this, my eyes are bright and I'm smiling. I'm happy. Happy to be alive, happy to have taken my own Black Dog of depression back to the distant kennel where it belongs. Two people kissed me this morning and meant it: lover and child, and I'm finally starting to realise that maybe, just maybe, I do deserve them.

2008-04-25T13:37:00.005+09:30

No

I crossed my fingers and toes hoping that my eight year old daughter Sapphire would have a severe allergic reaction. I wanted it to be like the one she has to cats: wheeziness of breath, red itchy welts on her face and hands and eyes rapidly puffing and swelling shut. So bad that she has to go to school for the next week with a note from her doctor stating that it was a severe allergic response and not the result of problems at home.

Alas, none of these events happened at her friend Maya's place and she skipped home with me, excitedly chattering about her victory against allergies. "I'm not allergic to them Mum! That's such good news - I'm not allergic to rabbits! So, can I have one now, Mum? Please?"

Poo. Bum. Bugger. Shit. Fart. I don't dislike rabbits per se; there's always some nice pictures of them on Cute Overload and they're sweet to touch when some other kid brings them into Sapph's class for Show And Tell, but it's just that I've never owned one and am perfectly happy to keep it that way.

We live in the burbs. A standard(ish), quarter-acre(ish) block, surrounded by dozens of other similar spaces, and we already have Milly the retired-runner dog and three contented chickens. When we go away for the weekend the chooks have a seed-feeder and a water dripper and can pretty much fend for themselves. Milly can either come with us, visit her Kelp-ador mongrel mate Coco or stay with our nice neighbours Jack and Una. A rabbit (or two, so that they have 'company'), is another task altogether. Fresh hay, shifting the hutch, keeping up a variety of fresh veges, making sure their front teeth don't grow too long and keeping wire underneath to prevent them from digging an escape route.....

All this information didn't deter my child. She had that standard expression that all kids have when asking for:
* showbags
* fairy floss for breakfast
* a sleepover on a school night
* a new game for their Nintendo
* more time at their friend's place
* to stay up later

.... that really just means that they are patiently waiting for your lips to stop moving so that they continue with their line of questioning: "So Mum, when are you going to tell Dad that I'm not allergic to rabbits?"

I tried another angle, this time suggested by Maya's mother, Sarah, and now full-time feeder, handler and keeper of their two pet rabbits. She suggested that I remind Sapphire that her one hour visit and petting session with their two - Dolly and Hutch - was the longest amount of time her kids had spent with them for months. "You see, being outside in their hutch all the time means that they're not directly involved with the life of the family, and the kids have lost interest in them."

"But Mum," Sapphire interjected, her blue eyes still beaming with hope. "I read in that pamphlet from the pet shop that you can train them to come inside and use a kitty litter tray---"

I seized my chance: "But what about Milly? She'd hunt them down and have them for dinner."

"Not if I build some little fences from my Ello Shopapolis set and train her how to be their friend and ....."

I let her burble on (as Love Chunks tends to do with me on many occasions) and again cursed the Creator for his/her negligence in the 'Total allergy to pets except chickens and dogs' department. Why let rabbits burrow under the radar?

We've had two weeks of school holidays and as the primary carer/social secretary/chef/entertainment coordinator and playdate wrangler, I could foresee a fortnight of 24/7 rabbit requests. It was time to ensure that Sapph's holiday was full of diversions.

Unfortunately, not all of these proved to be pleasant ones. On the first Monday we went to Dunstan Park with Lucinda and spent the first couple of hours videoing them on the whizzy sticks with the aim of scoring a few seconds of good footage to send in to 'Australia's Funniest Home Videos.'

What we ended up with was several clips of the worst fall-down acting ever, and Sapphire throwing up in the car on the way home.

Tuesday saw Maya and Sapph at Kensington Adventure playground, wedging themselves into the spinning teacups and taking it in turns to video the results. This time, no vomiting resulted, but no potential $200,000 prize winning clips either.

On Wednesday we found ourselves back at Dunstan park, with Holly. Eschewing the whizzy sticks for the spinning tractor tyre and the massive slippery dip, Sapphire's mind had temporarily forgotten the rabbit debate and was firmly into monetary matters. Not, alas for Holly, who turned a pale green and had to lie down on a park bench before it was safe to drive home.

And thus, the remainder of the holidays have involved a few days at Victor Harbor at her Grandparents' place telling them all about the joys of rabbit ownership; scooter trips; a school working bee; a couple of movies; some home cooking sessions with me (the hopeless teaching the messy); and several fruitful shopping expeditions.

It was all going well, with rabbits receding further and further into the murky distance of Sapphire's bunny brain.

That was, until yesterday's playdate at Maya-the-Rabbit-Owner's house. "Pleee-a-a-a-se Mum, can I have a rabbit?"

I said that sentence that all parents find themselves saying when they know that the answer is a definite 'NO' but they don't have the heart to tell their child yet:
"We'll see."

It didn't wash. "But you said that last week and the week before!"

Hmm. Time for the second-most dependable-but-non-committal response: "I'll need to talk about it with your Dad, OK?
"When? When he gets home from work tonight? Or why don't you call him on his mobile right now?"

*Sigh*. Love Chunks and I have not yet had the bunny discussion. He is, at this very moment, out in the back shed with our beloved daughter, trying his damndest to get the bright plastic, battery-powered potters' wheel he bought her to work. Maybe procrastination by pottery is the answer.

2008-04-22T16:00:00.002+09:30

Sticking my nose in

I used to be such a shy, retiring type. After enduring my first year of high school in Aberdeen, Scotland with kids sniggering every time I said a number like 'Eighty eighty' in class with my 'strine accent, I spent the best part of school keeping my head down. Even as a voted-in school rep I was never willing to endure the public humiliation of standing up in front of the assembly, and in my uni student years I dreaded having someone who was Not-A-Full-Can-Of-Fanta profess their undying love for me in Rundle Mall.

Blogging goddess Redcap has politely spoken to some escalator hoggers, who, unfortunately, snapped back rather nastily.

Fellow blogger, Rosanna has recently put up a post about how a bloke quite literally PUNCHED a woman on a packed train, for accidentally slipping and knocking against him. Even more shockingly (or perhaps not?), no-one on the train did anything to censure him or see if the woman herself was OK.

Somehow though, as I've got older and less concerned about how others perceive the cut of my jib/jeans/hair/cake/career/car, I've also become either far less tolerant or more willing to speak up. Perhaps some people would consider it as 'sticking your nose in' and, if any of you have been lucky enough to clamp your beadies on my schnozz, you'll realise that it is fairly large. Put it this way: if mortgage payments ever become a struggle, I could earn some cash by renting it out as a portable warehouse.

That said, I have gradually become less willing to sit back and ignore things that I think are unfair or uncomfortable. So far I haven't yet got a punch in the proboscis because there are certainly ways to quickly decide how safe the situation is and how far you can take things. For example.....

The 35-weeks-into-pregnancy stage. I was experiencing 24/7 morning sickness and was still getting over the day before's embarrassment of having my dress blow up over my head down the windswept middle of Melbourne's Collins Street. That evil gust unbecomingly revealed my bulging belly button, x-large nanna pants and pantyhose that ended mid-thigh, making my legs look like mushroom clouds. As such my tolerance level was operating at minus the power of ten.

As with Redcap, I was walking up the escalator out of Spencer Street station, counting down the seconds I needed to get to the office and throw up before the day's work could begin. In front of me, entirely blocking the way, were two suited businessmen, in earnest conversation.

"Er excuse me please."
They didn't even turn around. My bile was rising, in both senses of the word. I tried again.
"Excuse me please, I need to get past."
One deigned to turn around and saw only a billowing maternity dress worn by a minion.
"Oh, like you've got somewhere urgent to go," he said sarcastically.
I saw a colour of red that not only burned with rage but also the back of retinas and yelled back, "Unless you want me to throw up on you, get the hell out of my way!"

They did. And I didn't, unfortunately, manage to send any peas and carrots their way.

A year ago, Love Chunks, Sapphire and I were on our way to a week of sun'n'sand'n'skin cancer in Queensland. The bag nazis were out with a vengeance and all three of us felt well and truly violated by the time we got to hand in our boarding passes for a flight several hours late. Sapphire was starting to whine, I was regretting the inhalation of entire packet of apple mentos and Love Chunks needed the toilet. We two oldies had the regulation-sized bags, crammed full of Sapphire's jumpers, books, biscuits, games and stuffed toys. My zipper was squealing in protest.

There, in front of us stood a bearded bloke with no partner or child, holding a suitcase. Yes, a friggin' Samsonite that could have housed us three Locketts comfortably. The bored Cabin Boy waved him through, but I wasn't going to let it pass. No, the inner-Gandalf broke through the sensible polar fleece outer layer and piped up with, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" Well, actually I said, "Hey! Hang on a minute! Why is HE allowed to bring a bloody wardrobe on board the flight?"

The Cabin Boy broke from his glazed, screen-saver mode and called the guy back and stood him aside. "Thank you," I said primly and walked through. Love Chunks' was gasping back tears of mirth: "You cheekly little beast - he'll kill you." Thankfully, Beardy Boy didn't have time. Precisely ten seconds before we were due to take off, he staggered aboard, red faced, shirt out and flustered and clearly the recipient of a thorough cavity search. But dammit, he still had the suitcase with him and shoved it in the overhead lockers to the sound of slow hand clapping.

Perhaps though, the best effort was on the 106 bus, trundling home from work on a cold winter's night when it was dark and raining. Said bus picks up a sometimes motley bunch of characters from the stop near the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Apart from the usual medical staff, office workers and students, we often tended to see a few newly-stitched or newly-dried out members of society blearily climbing aboard, muttering to themselves.

This never fazed me because I never managed to get a seat and normally had to grab at the edge of a seat nearest the exit door in an effort to not topple over or get punched in the face ala Rosanna's poor heroine. On this particularly dark and busy night, a fifty-something bloke with a face like a bruised sandshoe stumbled aboard. Reeking of a barmaid's armpit and standing about as steadily as a roller coaster rider during a hurricane, he found the only spare seat: one of those sideways ones that are generally only favoured by the elderly or the pram-weilding.

Across from him was a woman in her forties, unremarkable in her attempts to wear a blank face and not look in the drunk's direction. She immediately took his fancy, and he gave her a cartoonish wink from the remaining eye that wasn't black or swollen.

"Hello Darlin'."

The Lucky Lady put her head down, hoping he'd shut up and go away.

He didn't. "I said, Hello Darlin'. I think you're beautiful."

She then decided to try the option of turning away to stare out of the foggy, reflective window. "Whassa matta, darlin? Dontcha like your fellas on the rough side?"

By this stage, all eyes on the bus (except for the driver's, I hoped) were on the courting couple. "Aw come on darlin, I'm givin' yer a comp.... a comple... a sign that I like ya. Whass your problem? Are you a lezzo?"

An elderly gentleman sitting next to Lucky Lady spoke up, disapproval oozing out of him like the rain from the umbrella at his feet. "Look mate, she doesn't like it. Leave her alone."

Busted Sandshoe wasn't prepared to be told off by someone his father's age. He got to his feet and, as he did so, the bus stopped suddenly at the traffic lights causing him to fall into the back of another lady hanging on to an overhead strap. Now the bus driver decided to step in, calling out, "Settle down back there or I'll kick you off."

"Gesssstuffed..." Sandshoe muttered, slowly getting to his feet and again heading towards Lucky Lady.

I felt so sorry for her, and for the drunk. What had life dealt him to end up this way and why did the lady have to put up with being humiliated in public without any escape?

It was then I noticed that Busted Sandshoe had two tatty plastic bags on the floor. I can't believe I did this - but I truly did - I dashed forward, grabbed them both, kicked open the side exit doors and flung them out into the street.

Sandshoe was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted in that slow-motion, drooling way that only the thoroughly-pissed can be. "Whatha' hell didya do 'at for?"

He lurched towards me, but I knew that I'd be more than his physical and sober match, if only by stepping aside and revealing the exit. His own momentum carried him down the steps, through the fling-back doors and into the gutter. I turned to the front. "DRIVE!"

Mr Bus Driver did. The passengers applauded and whistled and I basked in their impromptu gestures of appreciation.

Lucky Lady glared at me and dinged the 'stop' dinger. "That was MY stop", she hissed. "Now I'll have to get off at the next one and walk in the rain."

Oh. You're welcome.

2008-04-17T07:12:00.005+09:30

WWMD? What Would Milly Do?

Regular readers will know that the above mutt is my beloved dog Milly, slumped on her beanbag under my writing desk. She's my silent secretary, door greeter, loud yawner, soft-snorer, best buddy and ex-running companion.

A couple of months ago, at the tender age of four, she was diagnosed with arthritis so severe that running of any kind was expressly verboten. Forever. In addition, she had to lose 2kg in order to give her two back legs an easier task getting her from A (beanbag) to B (the lawn outside for a whizz). This seemed doubly cruel - no runs with Mum (me), her favourite activity; and why the hell was she suddenly getting about a quarter of the food she used to get? And how come nobody would throw the tennis ball anymore?

Still, we persisted with the no running/potential starvation/anti-tennis ball stance, and the vet was thrilled to announce that she was slim, trim and had regained the twinkle in her caramel-brown eyes.

Like my father, she is now on a permanent treatment regime of glucosamine and fish oil. Shoving a thumb-sized white glucosamine tablet down her throat is a bit of a hairy, drool-slicked wrestle first thing in the morning but luckily she likes the taste of the oil sprinkled over her meagre meal, and her exercise is now a five minute walk to Sapphire's school gate for morning drop off and afternoon pick up. Quite the change from 6km runs, frantic Koster park dashes and backyard happy laps.

This change in her lifestyle got me thinking about how accepting our furry friends are. She is still thrilled to see Sapphire, Love Chunks and myself when we return from being out for the entire day or back from a two minute trot to the corner shop and, once back inside, makes sure that she's within touching proximity of at least one of us and within viewing range of the other two. She loves being tethered to the school fence at 3pm, to be surrounded by a gaggle of kids wanting to pat her straight after the bell rings. She patiently endures some of the more excitable kids' demonstrations of affection and will flip over onto her back to increase the likelihood of a tummy scratch.

Despite her relative silence (she's not much of a barker), it is her tail that speaks volumes.

Swish Swish Swish - on the beanbag, she sees me wake up and is both happy about this and asking me to let her out to sniff the chooks and drop a doodoo under the tree.
Bling bling bling- she's staring up at us sitting at the breakfast bar on stools, her tail hitting the chrome legs, willing us to hurry the hell up with our coffees and give her something to eat already.
Thocka Thocka Thocka - her darling daddy Love Chunks is looking directly at her! He's Milly's ultlimate ALPHA MALE! Even her back half starts to wag as she drums out her dance of devotion: 'Love Chunks! I looooooooooooooove you! Please lift me up off the floorboards and sweep me up into your muscly arms and let me kisssss you! Please?'
Doing Doing Doing - she likes to sit directly under theglass coffee table, watching ABC kids with Sapphire on school mornings and hoping to get a scratch behind the ear.
Slap Slap Slap - waiting eagerly by the laundry door for me to get her lead and take her walking to school. She does this with such eagerness I'm surprised that her tail doesn't hurt at the effort.
Whiff Whiff Whiff - The ultimate, these days. She's finally allowed off her lead, at the park. All the grass to sniff, wee on and eat. At least one dead bird to roll in, one half-eaten Maccas burger to find and perhaps a passing pram with some bare baby feet hanging out waiting for a quick lick. Oh, the possibilities.....

I reckon if we humans had tails, life would be a lot easier and much more pleasant. We'd know who was genuinely happy, who was ecstatic, who was worried, who was brow-beaten, who was wary and who was angry. It would rid us all of dishonest politicians, sales people, reality show failures and failed marriages.

If only. Let's hope that evolution decides that this is a good idea and speeds up the process faster than global warming.

2008-04-15T16:51:00.005+09:30

Smunday, Smunday, so good to me

Kevin's doing a Ruddy good job - what with saying 'Sorry', focussing on water, signing the Kyoto treaty, shooting Milky Bar shares through the roof and all that, but I want him to grant us an eight day week.

It'd be easy. You know, an eighth day, called ‘Smunday’ that could be squeezed in between Sunday and Monday. A day all to ourselves without any work, chores or commitments.

Our Lord may have rested on Sundays, but by Sunday night, I know that I feel completely exhausted from the weekend’s exertions, resentful that the only time I had to myself was in the toilet and dreading the start of a full-time working week the following day.

What happened to finding time to relax on weekends? Instead, mine is filled with washing (six loads a week, yet there’s only three of us), ironing (despite trying my damnedest to buy non-iron clothing), play dates for my daughter (who, at eight, can’t drive herself there or be left alone and has a better social life than Love Chunks or I do), dinner parties, coffee catch ups, tennis lessons, karate classes, guitar lessons, grocery shopping, cooking double-up meals to freeze one for later, weeding, returning friendly phone calls, clearing up the clutter that appeared in the house during the week and maybe, just maybe, being able to hog the TV long enough to watch a movie instead of a Crows' game or Shrek on one occasion.

Then on Monday, the working week has started in earnest. Half of the office has called in sick and the other half is in slow, ‘I’m depressed, tired and don’t want to be here’ mode which makes the workload a lot greater. The in-tray is full of the awkward stuff you didn’t want to do in your ‘I’m so glad it’s the weekend’ mode on Friday afternoon and you have a diary full of meetings, projects, staff issues and to-do lists. The phones start to ring and it’s rare to get a call from someone in your working hours who wants to tell you something nice, isn’t it?

Smunday is therefore a necessity to give us all back our day of rest – not only from our work life and our domestic life, but also from each other. The introduction of Smunday will undoubtedly break all laws of time, physics and common sense because the entire world will be on ‘pause’ mode. Everyone around me - and you - will be frozen in whatever mode they were in on a Sunday afternoon.

Smunday will be a day where we will be allowed to do whatever we feel like on our own. It gives a real meaning to old phrase ‘do it in your own time.’

Just imagine it – sleeping in without being woken up at 6am by your child who is ready to take on the world or reminding that you promised to make muffins (yes, but not at 6.07am!); being able to eat what you want (yes, there’s no fat content in Smunday foods); wandering into the shops for a leisurely browse minus the frustrations of entertaining a whiny hanger-on, finding a car park or having to rush in and rush out before the lunch guests arrive. Staying in the shops and being able to look through everything without having to say “It’s OK, I’m just looking thanks.” Being able to wash the dog, who, being motionless, is cooperative, willing to stay in the bath and not shake itself all over you.

Being able to read the paper. In one go. With a hot coffee. And no phone calls, interruptions or pleas to help put together the ello shopapopolis set. Having the TV and DVD player to yourself, so that you can watch Jude Law, John Cusack, Keanu Reeves, Brad Pitt, Colin Firth and Hugh Grant without sarcastic comments from your husband.

That would be enough for the first few Smundays, but then I suspect that I’d be yearning to take it a few mischievous steps further. Slipping into the designer boutiques that always intimidated me to try on ridiculously expensive outfits that I’d never have the reason to wear anywhere. Popping into Haighs to sample every flavour of chocolate truffle behind the glass cabinets. Hanging a yo-yo from Colonel Light’s finger. Removing all skinny jeans above a size 8 from clothing racks to spare us the agony of squeezing into unrealistic and unflattering clothing dictated by Kate Moss-arexic fashion nazis.

Smunday could be a day to finally carry out some petty revenges. Slipping a couple of prawns into your boss's curtain rails or simply being able to stand in front of your enemy and really let ‘em have it – verbally I mean. Having a good shout at that person for whom you can always think of witty retorts – three hours later. Or – and this would take a bit of psyching up because of the intimate touching involved – unzipping your boss’ fly whilst they're in freeze mode at their local café.... such catharsis on offer....

By Monday, we would all be rested and fulfilled and the world would truly be a better place. Think about it, Kevin. Seriously.

2008-04-11T10:30:00.003+09:30

Bringing home the bacon

Many moons ago, after slaving for nearly four months working in the kitchens and bars of London's Savoy hotel as a army recruit/hetero-hazed/bum wallah/pond scum/galley slave I was fed up, suffering the flu and desperate to do anything that would pay the rent on my one-roomed dog-box in York Street, W1H1FF. And it was a pretty whiffy place too, with a drunken Irish neighbour who I never ever saw using the Bath Room (as opposed to the 'Toilet Room' at the other end of the hall) in the entire eighteen months I lived there.

Anyhow, the recruiting agency said there was a temp job at a MenCap facility near Banstead, Surrey. Full time, for three months. I took it sight unseen, uninterviewed and was ready to work less than three hours later. The nearest town had a bus that dropped me off at the bottom of a huge, tree-lined driveway. The hospital looked huge and as I trudged nervously to the front office, with too many 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' images swirling about, a chap with his trousers up under his armpits and resembling Bill Oddie wearing far too much lip-gloss jumped in front of me.

"Wwoooooo Wwoooooo," he said - loudly and longly - over and over.

"Erm hi there, er buddy. You don't know where the kitchen manager's office is, do you?
"Wwoooooo Wwoooooo, Wwwooooo----"
"Rightio. Thanks for that."

It was a confronting way to start the job. After meeting the rotund Head Cook, June, (who looked more like one of the patients than the patients did), Derek, the second cook and Brian, the patient who helped scrub the pots, I was put onto the potatoes. Not literally, but as one of the most popular foodstuffs, it was imperative that they be peeled, pronto. I was to pour a huge bag of them into what looked like a large centrifuge, flick a switch, hear it whizz and whine, and let the skins get bashed off against the inside walls. Easy.

Well, yes, except I was also asked to make up some sandwiches and seal them in those clear plastic triangles for any patients who were hungry in between meals. It was fun sealing the front off with a hot iron and they looked rather professional. As I stood admiring the mound of cheese'n'pickled railway sarnies, I realised that the potatoes were still spinning.

What started out as fist-sized veges were now albino cherry tomatoes. It was clear that even in this job - with the dazzling perks of all-you-can-eat sandwiches and left over instant cheesecake filling mixture - I had to keep my wits about me.

Particularly regarding Brian. He more than vaguely resembled Dustin Hoffman's Rain Man character, but was several feet taller. He'd come in and say "Hello Kath, you have lovely yellow hair, yellow hair, yellow hair..." in a sing-song voice before getting stuck into the pots and pans. He'd then keep to himself for the rest of the day, even during smoko and lunch breaks.
"No thank you Kath, lovely yellow hair, yellow hair, yellow hair - I'll go to my room and come back when it is time to start again. Yellow hair, yellow hair, yellow hair..."

OK, my so hair was yellow (as in pale blonde) and, in 1991, rather long and still being treated to the occasional (and disastrous, in hindsight) spiral perm. It had been yanked and grabbed by local blokes in Egypt during a Christmas break and seemed to interest Brian to almost the same level except it was mostly covered in a fetching hair net and paper kitchen hat.

The other patients I saw very regularly - they'd walk in to find out what was on the menu, to ask for snacks and for general conversation. All of them wore their trousers up to their armpits, and walked with a pronounced limp. One of their carers explained to me that none of them were actually injured, but that the rocking gait was a soothing way of moving around and the high trousers made them feel comfortable. (Try it sometime in the privacy of your home, you'll be terrified to discover just how nice it feels).

Adding to these two peculiar mannerisms were the clothes they all wore. Limited hospital budgets and fairly brutal laundry facilities meant that most of the patients were dressed in Oxfam cast offs. Whilst they were clearly warm and sensible, they were also items that fashion had preferred to forget. Think orange ribbed and flared slacks, Nehru coats, Jenny Kee chunky knits, jump suits, felt skirts and Cold-War-Era track pants. When worn by folk who sometimes yelled out stuff like, "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away" or "Let me show you my willy," at unforeseen moments, it certainly made a humdrum job a fair bit more eventful.

Despite these physical and fashionable setbacks, the patients were always cheerful and it was a real education to see how kindly and respectfully they were treated by the hospital and kitchen staff. Most of the patients lived in wings that were set up like share houses with six single bedrooms, a common room and shared bathroom. Their common rooms tended to have a Jason recliner for each room mate and a selection of posters, rugs, ornaments and antimacassars that both Grandma and the writer from Boogie Nights would have heartily approved of.

"Hey Kath, why don't you stay here tonight and watch 'Antiques Roadshow' with us?" fifty something Gerald asked me one day.
"Sorry Gerald, I've got a two hour ride back home and promised a friend I'd be round for dinner tonight. Maybe some other time."
"OK but remember, I want to show you my willy and-----"
This was no longer a shock to me. "Yes I know Gerald, but remember that I don't want to see it and that Gloria your nurse has said that it's not the nicest thing to say to your friends."
He'd smile sheepishly and admit, "That's right, I keep forgetting. Can I have a sandwich please?"
On my very last day, I was on my haunches under the sink, looking for some oven trays that we were going to cook the lunch time pizzas on. I thought that something had landed on the back of my head, and as I turned around, I saw Brian, large pair of bacon scissors in his hand, clearly intent on cutting off a chunk of my hair.
"Brian! No, Brian! You mustn't cut people's hair!"
A nurse ran in and ushered Brian out. I honestly don't think he was going to hurt me, but my hair was obviously something he'd decided he'd like to souvenir before I left for my next exciting job as a mortgage collector.

I shook hands with pretty well all of the patients I'd served, chatted with and made sandwiches for, and was offered a lift into Banstead on their weekly mini-bus. Some of the them were allowed to go into town to do some shopping, banking and have a meal at the local cafe.

As we pulled away from the hospital, I felt some tears starting to emerge. It was a dull job made fascinating by the staff, the patients and the situations I found myself in. It was also a huge learning experience and one in which I felt as though I'd certainly got more from than I'd given. Brian had apologised and asked me to send him a photograph of me "With your hair not in a net or a hat like here, yellow hair, yellow hair, yellow hair," and then turned his back and promptly started his scrubbing duties.

Seven other passengers were with me: all silent, yet happily slapping their bank deposit books against their foreheads, rhythmically and blissfully. I felt proud to have known them.