tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149944182024-03-18T08:54:53.093+01:00Blurb from the BurbsGoofing off in Geneva.....MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.comBlogger976125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-83530479824016898072014-06-12T08:04:00.000+02:002014-06-12T08:04:40.572+02:00Jumping joyfully into JESC<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apart from working online as a freelancer at a laughable hourly pittance for (mostly) small business-owners for the first two years of living in Geneva, my luck finally changed.</span><br />
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My CV had languished on a desk at EBU for a week or two but was still fresh enough in their minds to be called in when they found themselves reeling from redundancies and a couple of unplanned 'don't let the door hit you on your way out' firings as well.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A frantic month of making up for the past eleven on a project criminally left idle from a freshly-departed staffer found me doing crazy hours, making up strategies as I went along and somehow pulling it together right at the very end. It was a 'big' job for a recognisable organisational name that breathed new life into my ratty old resume. After enjoying every moment and seeing some locally-earned money in my bank account, I went back to life as a humble word wallah and tutor for a few more months.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.......until I was called in again to "have a chat with Vlad. He's Russian and he might need your help." Not because he was Russian, but because there was a nearly-dead and much neglected event called The Junior Eurovision Song Contest that he'd been asked to revive. Was I interested in being Head of Press to his Executive Supervisor? Is chocolate my favouritest food in the entire world and I even dream about it...? OF COURSE I'd love to help him!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From July to December we battled bruised egos, passive aggressive angst from the old owners and a lot of 'No' answers to reasonable requests.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In spite of this we had an incredible team of volunteers - Luke, Ervin, Alexandro and Luis, with Jan and Stijn generously offering their help too. Twelve countries participated (up from the seven we started with), and a couple more came along to check out the event and went back home with surprised smiles on their faces.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Being a mother of a (then) fourteen year old stood me in good stead when asked to adjudicate on the Code of Conduct, safety of the kids and the costumes. "If I don't want Sapphire to do it or wear it, then I won't want any of these kids to either."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arriving in the host city of Kyiv<b><span style="color: red;">*</span></b>, Ukraine in late November it was freezing cold, dark by 3pm and the Euromaidan takeover of Independence Square was starting. Our tour bus - available for the children, their carers and the journalists covering JESC - drove past it several times. Students had lit fires in old petrol drums and were roasting chestnuts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was an air of confidence and celebration about it. Then. "Ukraine has had sixty seven revolutions in its lifetime," the guide proudly informed us via her microphone. "You are now looking at number sixty eight." The bright blue and sunny yellow of the Ukrainian flag were hung over scores of apartment balconies and shop fronts, and many of the local crew checked out the happenings at Independent Square at night on their way home. One even found love there whilst on a romantic stroll with a girl who was helping out a visiting delegation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The serious violence had not yet occurred, but a couple of changes had to be made. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10XR67NQcAc">Ruslana</a>, the revered Ukrainian firebrand singer who won the Eurovision Song Contest in 2003, was supposed to appear as a special guest. The one rehearsal that she did attend showed how exhausted she was. Night after night she had been singing, demonstrating, dancing and supporting all the protesters; and decided that the political cause quite naturally outweighed the JESC one. No-one disputed her decision.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After all, what kid aged between 10-15 would remember who won Eurovision a decade earlier? They were much more excited to meet that year's winner - Emmelie de Forest - who did attend and very graciously and kindly chatted to the kids together and individually for as long as they all wanted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second change involved the then-president of Ukraine, Viktor Yanukovich. He was going to appear at the concert and maybe hand the winners their trophies. With the Palace of Arts Ukraina facing huge housing blocks festooned with flags and slogans, we weren't surprised that he was a no-show. Relieved, yes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was ten days of long hours, incredible kids, awe-inspiring parents and teachers, generous local television hosts and friends that I'll remember forever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps I'll let the photos do the talking.... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Press Centre 'office', or corner of the arts centre that was used for all kinds of USSR big-wig shenanigans back in the day. Full of underground tunnels and dodgy corridors, with six flights of stairs to run from Vlad's office to mine. Hence the walkie-talkie I'm speaking into. The Australian flag was loaned to me by SBS's Alistair Birch who offered kindness, friendship and the best advice ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of the amazing team. By this stage we were all sleep-deprived, sweaty and had cracked lips from eating crap food on the run. Operating mostly on joy and adrenalin. One journo here was so overawed during the tour of backstage that she wasn't aware of the chaos around her and was inadvertently knocked down by a Cossack dancer riding a Segway. Surrealism and hilarity at its best. She was uninjured which saved a lot of awkward paperwork.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Any of these people can ask for a blood transfusion, bone marrow or a kidney. That's how close we became. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The winner for Junior Eurovision 2013, the wonderful Gaia from Malta. She was a guest at the 'big' Eurovision song contest in Copenhagen last month and it was brilliant to have her call out "KATH!" and share a big hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Second place went to sweet Sofia from Ukraine and third to the irrepressible Ilya Volkov from Belarus. His delegation had their rooms next to mine in the hotel and the boy did. not. sleep. He and his female back up dancers used the luggage carts to race up and down the hallways. His Head of Delegation, Olga, was worried that I was sticking my head out to complain, but I just laughed. "Who WOULDN'T want to do that at age eleven? Or 45 for that matter?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Olga asked him, on the last day, what treat he would like to have. "Would you like a scooter or some football gear or a computer game? It's my shout: you deserve it."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He thought for a moment and said, "A tube of sour cream and onion pringles would be nice."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A selfie taken that was emailed to Sapphire and LC. The first time I've ever been classified as A1. It was hard to stop looking behind me: would an enormous shepherd's crook appear from Stage Left, with a booming voice saying "We've found you out. Off you get," and haul me off?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">....I did do a bit of work, though, and it was a slight challenge to have the production crew start to pull down the Press Centre - while we were in it - to protest their lack of payment for six months from Yankovich's government..... Vlad's Russian and natural charm shone through - a hug, some intense discussions over coffee and vodka and a stern letter drafted by me and signed by our Grand Poobah did the trick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Surreal moments abounded. Timur (on the left in the photo above) is a huge star in Ukraine and was very confident, funny and polite. The same goes for Zlata who is also revered for coming third with her song 'Gravity' at last year's Eurovision Song Contest. Going over the script meant that I was asked to help out with some of the pronunciation of unfamiliar English words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"So, er, how do you say this - er word - 'hobbit'?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzQDXAB6MFkCeq2jw9CGpr-D-9rfRjvJzZJmidZIcFkquNNPgnF1E2Bf1X1O-hfPzPyn2vBtNzREug2JhB6qDwAxMazGq35Z8ZZMHdsl91Khgm2Clj_1LMIWkN2YrqwJgM-lO/s1600/Kyiv+099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzQDXAB6MFkCeq2jw9CGpr-D-9rfRjvJzZJmidZIcFkquNNPgnF1E2Bf1X1O-hfPzPyn2vBtNzREug2JhB6qDwAxMazGq35Z8ZZMHdsl91Khgm2Clj_1LMIWkN2YrqwJgM-lO/s1600/Kyiv+099.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoGIfRv1nGtY2jsPpyQ_BOXKXCSVTOEI3dGUWoDfXOWF4kXlJGpWdsFqUzV7kWQL3zOTkW7I_C2HQNhCDdoUewRGJfRfByISsq9unTQnpeBSlUABFd-p6g72_XyIx6dpADTt8/s1600/Kyiv+106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoGIfRv1nGtY2jsPpyQ_BOXKXCSVTOEI3dGUWoDfXOWF4kXlJGpWdsFqUzV7kWQL3zOTkW7I_C2HQNhCDdoUewRGJfRfByISsq9unTQnpeBSlUABFd-p6g72_XyIx6dpADTt8/s1600/Kyiv+106.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a real thrill to prove the nay-sayers wrong. The kids were allowed to be kids: why would we want it any other way?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1Ecek_VUDxbVUZz7-3eJcjiJfOys3r7B0FUJ1iZjJrWWneB29IAavjQLCbFbtBa-wb3eN9HumG4OwVOiGQ7QDmd97iqdX6QbIevYR-7Q9d-rmkWuGzwlHxSCZTYwHAgkAykP/s1600/Kyiv+116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1Ecek_VUDxbVUZz7-3eJcjiJfOys3r7B0FUJ1iZjJrWWneB29IAavjQLCbFbtBa-wb3eN9HumG4OwVOiGQ7QDmd97iqdX6QbIevYR-7Q9d-rmkWuGzwlHxSCZTYwHAgkAykP/s1600/Kyiv+116.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rustam just HAD to touch the background wall - and why not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lost my voice due to cheering during and after each-and-every song and rehearsal. The talent, the enthusiasm and the genuine happiness that all of the kids had in participating was quite inspiring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.escinsight.com/">Ewan Spence </a>sometimes had a bit of trouble managing his star interviewer, <a href="http://www.escinsight.com/author/terryeurovision/">Terry Vision</a>. No alcohol or illicit substances were permitted at JESC but sometimes too much chocolate and sugar + not enough sleep was too much for a stuffed puppet....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The talent of the adults working hard behind the scenes was humbling.....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBFPE_d_voCrFsy1-fzaAIdS8yO4ye-CitqY_lPerN2cce9CUzKcaWN2HrphWmg729Z0F7h9VsjoXD5Y4ksGtsiCBaORppk2uKXmTNfffh6lJIds_tsfWoNudTLWAjRLYlVEs/s1600/Kyiv+287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBFPE_d_voCrFsy1-fzaAIdS8yO4ye-CitqY_lPerN2cce9CUzKcaWN2HrphWmg729Z0F7h9VsjoXD5Y4ksGtsiCBaORppk2uKXmTNfffh6lJIds_tsfWoNudTLWAjRLYlVEs/s1600/Kyiv+287.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.......Not to mention the ability of Russian men to drag out a tired old Aussie lady to drink TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW until the sun came up....! On the night of the final, my sins caught up with me. I was talking to someone, felt suddenly very queasy and dashed off to have a long loud chat on the white porcelain phone. Making my way back to the Press Centre, I purchased a bottle of coke (the real stuff, not the diet stuff I'd been used to for the past twenty years), chugged it down and jumped joyously back into the fray again....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Magical things happened. Here we see a ten year old boy from Azerbaijan spontaneously dancing at the after-party with an eleven year old Armenian girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both countries' legendary emnity has resulted in dropping the alphabetical order method at all international events so that both 'A' nations needn't catch a sniff of the other. Not at JESC. They danced and everyone clapped along and cheered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sure, there was a lot of careful editing of the thousands of comments that appeared on Facebook the next day, but 99% of them were genuinely moved and very very positive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The worst thing about JESC was being the last person to leave. Vlad, the terrific team, the local crew and all of the performers had left by lunchtime, and I sat in the empty breakfast room with stinging eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until the two darling girls from Georgia - Tamta and Mari - spotted me and gave me one last hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not every kid got to win and some were in tears afterwards but I hugged and promised them <i>all </i>that they would never ever be forgotten. It wasn't just for one night on a single TV show. We would support them by following them as they grew, did more performances or whatever other news they (with carers' permission) wanted to share. JESC mothering for ten wonderful days had been an absolute honour and not one that was going to be dropped the second the plane landed in Geneva. The kids - and everyone working to support them - deserved better than that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After they left, I cried a little bit more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a footnote, we have indeed adhered to our promise. Each kid who participated has been in regular touch with us (and via their carers/parents) and have featured on our <a href="https://www.facebook.com/junioreurovision">Facebook</a> site. This page was set up and run by the previous administrators of JESC for five years with 23,000 followers. Ten months on and the numbers are now edging 75,000. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">* </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">NOT 'Kiev' - that is Russian spelling from the bad old USSR era.</span></i></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With carbo loading, catching up with friends and a sleepless Saturday night in the Royal Borough undertaken, the 6am alarm on Sunday morning felt pretty hard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite the recommendations of many experts, my breakfast was like Rihanna's wardrobe: only half done. I <i>had</i> in fact remembered to bring along a plastic bag filled with a few handfuls of my familiar 'long run' usual of Swiss supermarket-brand chocolate muesli, but forgot to get any milk. Instead, I crouched down on the bathroom floor (so that Love Chunks and Sapphire would not be woken up); hastily gulped down three 'protein balls' I'd sampled at the runner's expo the day before and washed the sticky scraps of lingering seeds down with a godawful sample of coconut 'water' flavoured with 'coffee.' All was expunged with a half bottle of water and a nervous wee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A shaky couple of selfies were taken - one by Sapph who did get up and insist on a 'full body shot.' No slim greyhound, me, but my chunky trunks and Achilles bandages were about as ready as they'd ever be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A short tube ride to Simon's hotel - his lovely wife (and my friend) Gianna was in good spirits for us; I hid my nerves by goofing around and having ANOTHER wee. In their bathroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm the sort of person who immediately wants to know where the nearest toilets are: in cafes, on trains, at tourist spots, in friends' houses...... My friend Jill can attest to how many times she found herself waiting as I 'ducked in' for a wee during our travels. The marathon map had been reviewed at length and it was quite literally a comfort to know that toilets were being provided at regular intervals throughout the route.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Simon's sister, Pauline (far left in the picture below), lives in Bermuda and was running in her TENTH marathon, this one as a 'training event' for the ultra triathlon she was doing later in the year. Her daughters Tor and Jessie (both doing their second marathon), were running for the same charity as me: Action Against Pre-Eclampsia. Less than a year ago, Tor had suffered the condition when pregnant with her baby girl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A tram ride to Kings Cross station on still-silent streets took us to the train that had been exclusively arranged for the 40,000+ marathoners. The carriage we were in was lively with chat, jokes and the smell of liniment. We sipped from water bottles, munched on energy bars and tried not to slide off the carpeted seats in our skin-tight lycra leggings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arriving at nine am, an hour before the start, was in no way being anal as the site itself was enormous. Dozens upon dozens of trucks were lined up, all neatly numbered for us to stow away our belongings until we saw them again past the finish line. My belongings were mostly in my bum bag (hotel key, ipod, headphones, iphone, energy gels and a hanky), and my thoughts were also bum-related: The queue for the portaloos - at our four stations - were each a half a kilometre long. I needed to stake my spot. Immediately.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Best decision I ever made. Simon played his boy card and found a tree, but we gals nervously stretched our calves in the line, jiggled our thighs and noted how quickly the time was flying by. Rolls of toilet paper were passed down the queue to avoid any dripping disappointment when in the portoloo pod itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The relief of making it into a surprisingly clean toilet and out just as the overhead PA instructed us all to get ready at the starting line - in the finishing time we estimated - was immense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An enormous cheer erupted at 10am, but there was no discernible movement forward for us, standing next to the 'Five hour finish' flag. I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been for runners twenty or more years ago knowing that time was ticking even though they had yet to cross the starting line. All I could do was hope that I'd laced up my own magic individual timer chip to my shoelaces tight enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At 10:23am, we shuffled over the starting line. Simon and Pauline were running alongside me; Pauline leading the way in dodging around the other runners. There was no clear space to spread out so a lot of ducking and diving was required.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Go Simon!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Well done, Pauline, you're looking good!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, so <i>that's</i> why everyone had their names written on their t-shirts: the crowds that packed every single centimetre of the route were reading them and yelling out encouragement. Ah well, in my navy and black I'd just have to stay anonymous... "Go for it, blue cap!" "You can do it, Cappy!" Bless them: they had made up something to call me, and it was far better than Big Nose or Bubbling Buttocks....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Bloody poms and their imperial measures," I panted to Pauline. "Running miles takes FOREVER compared to kilometres!" Each mile was marked by an arch of red balloons and my squinting eyes were always searching for the next one. It was with an immense feeling of disappointment to see the beloved balloon display in the distance only to reach it and realise that it was for a charity cheering spot and not because another mile had been covered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the six mile mark (around 10km) it was time for me to take my first energy gel. The plan was to not stop running at all during the event, but of course that was the moment for the zip to bust on my bum bag and my uncoordinatedly sweaty finger tips just could not rip open the top of the gel pack. So, I stopped, calling out, "See you Simon and Pauline - run like the wind!" before using my teeth to rip the top off, suck down the cola-flavoured ooze, slug down a bit of water and push on again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not too much water slugging though. My biggest fear was having to do a wee (or worse) during the event. "Sip little and sip often," was my mantra, especially when I discovered that the loos on the route now had lines of at least a hundred dejected-looking runners (or, in their case, non-runners) sadly but urgently waiting for their turn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love Chunks and Sapphire were part of the charity cheer squad on Tower Bridge at roughly the half-way mark. However, with the road festooned with abandoned water bottles and surprisingly-deep and frequent pock marks in the bitumen, my efforts to spot them in the crowd were less than the ones to keep remaining upright and uninjured. They were there <i>somewhere </i>though and I knew it. Sickly sweet to say, but utterly true. My heart beat loud and strong for them both on that famous landmark. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My caution at not trying too hard to spot them in the crowd wasn't unfounded. A young girl saw her mates in the crowd, whooped a greeting and made her way over to their side of the road to give them a high five when she trod on a water bottle and instantly pitched forward, smacking her face onto the gravel and burning her hands. My gasp of sympathy was all I could do to help before first-aiders picked her up and carried her, now sobbing, to a chair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next ten miles were the cruellest of all. No cheer squad for me ahead, still completing Mile Thirteen and yet could see the runners on the opposite side of the road returning from Canary Wharf and having the joy of seeing Mile Twenty Three and a glimpse of St Paul's in their (much swifter) sights. Ah well, there was more plodding to do, each step stickier than the last due to thousands of empty gel packs covering every surface that the water bottles didn't.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After doing all of my training with music, the iPod and earphones stayed in the bum bag during the race. It seems foolish to write the word 'race' because it wasn't. It was a Challenge, a Day, an Event, but never a 'race.' The only victory would be in finishing it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The calls from the crowd; the music played by fans and bands in pubs, gardens, balconies and roundabouts; the hilarious signs made for friends and everyone ('26.2 miles. Because 26.3 would be stupid'), and the runners around me were all the entertainment and inspiration that I imagined. And more. "You are all sexy. You are all people I want to have sex with. You are sexy runners and you will finish. Sexy sexy sex!" called out one bloke who ended up with a sore hand after receiving more than his share of high fives from laughing marathoners as they passed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I overtook ten rhinos, one eight foot tall light house, several fairies, a twenty-strong team of ghurkas wearing 25kg packs and boots; a strawberry, the Gherkin building, a karoake singer who carried a cordless microphone and speaker stack as he ran; the armless Black Knight from The Holy Grail and the world record contender doubled over as he carried a Smeg fridge on his back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was overtaken by three other rhinos, a bagpipe player, half a dozen bananas and a gorilla. Sapphire reported later that the poor Gherkin building smacked the top of his head several times on the red final timer screen at the finishing line before figuring out that he'd have to lean to the west and edge in that way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thankfully, the imperial measurement sticklers eased off at Twenty One Miles when markers for kilometres also appeared. <b>Thirty Five Kilometres</b>. This was the longest I had ever run in my life and the calls for "Cappy! Go on Cappy!" and seeing the Millennium wheel on my left and Big Ben up in the distance changed my grimace to a smile. It was still difficult to believe that I was there, doing it, in my favourite city in the world. Chubby, daggy, chocolate-addicted old me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My pace was distinctly slower in the second half than it had been in the first half. It had been this way in all of my training runs too and was not something that was going to upset me or make me stop. My heart rate felt steady - no uncomfortable puffing, but my legs....! Numb feet, shins with a pulse of their own and every bone below my waist seemingly on fire. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Big Ben looked magnificent up close and to run up to him, along the back of the houses of Parliament on a road<i> specially closed for me</i> (okay, and 40,000+ others) was an incredible feeling. Exhaustion and exhilaration blended into an emotion that is not possible to describe and may not be one that I'll ever experience again. The faces of LC and Sapphire swirled in front of my burning eyes before my legs dragged me on to Birdcage walk, turning the corner and seeing Buckingham Palace looming up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And kept looming.... Was I on a treadmill? Had the movie stopped running and I was at a standstill? Had I fainted.....? It was here that they thankfully started counting down in two hundred metre stages.... 1,000...... 800 ...... 600 ....... 400..... 200.....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmBarpMnX3s7NiLfqb2eMbzcOL7Ly8LrAp4l6pufY-yEEzXRlo87FACiPvtqGqPTH-Ozo3PgPnYVs7065oYQlXaRVv4FrjT__7Lix-sz9W5sfMVRIilrJzN2qvxW1Zq40baVM/s1600/Kath+crossing+finishing+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmBarpMnX3s7NiLfqb2eMbzcOL7Ly8LrAp4l6pufY-yEEzXRlo87FACiPvtqGqPTH-Ozo3PgPnYVs7065oYQlXaRVv4FrjT__7Lix-sz9W5sfMVRIilrJzN2qvxW1Zq40baVM/s1600/Kath+crossing+finishing+line.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_ee_6eGIsbaaILOHFZ0xrWTJ4gsiEpPUV31_JnPhCZD3Rcv_uYJsaKDF7SmZ5QYvfIzHMvGh6KIKmdHOXdrsVPKApwWOxB9Pkk9u1c7-7xm95aygHPAdhYprQJboxgbHO4OA/s1600/Kath+still+dodging+after+crossing+finishing+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_ee_6eGIsbaaILOHFZ0xrWTJ4gsiEpPUV31_JnPhCZD3Rcv_uYJsaKDF7SmZ5QYvfIzHMvGh6KIKmdHOXdrsVPKApwWOxB9Pkk9u1c7-7xm95aygHPAdhYprQJboxgbHO4OA/s1600/Kath+still+dodging+after+crossing+finishing+line.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ducking and diving even as I passed over the line, I burst into tears. Dry ones, as my face was encrusted in salt powder, but sobs engulfed me for a few moments as a volunteer deftly removed my timer chip and another one handed me a Finisher medal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a warm day, and this "Cappy" was finally grateful for having man-hands large enough to grip water and glucozade bottles the entire way; be able to smile at the kind comments from the crowds and - even more importantly - not faint like four other people did around her as they shuffled through St James' Yard to meet up with their loved ones. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_jvXLhtKE18m3ZmDTa7Onq_UAa_0Qk-IYv29X84QYXiVHdDgwwwXVPuM6AVBbBmSLYl_TyNa30sVdF1AeMrbeEfXnWXgPEYPEnPfBfCcTJhUWt2-orfUPG9t-wBhBGeg98jm/s1600/FINISHED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_jvXLhtKE18m3ZmDTa7Onq_UAa_0Qk-IYv29X84QYXiVHdDgwwwXVPuM6AVBbBmSLYl_TyNa30sVdF1AeMrbeEfXnWXgPEYPEnPfBfCcTJhUWt2-orfUPG9t-wBhBGeg98jm/s1600/FINISHED.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCPZgutKeiCo2t50hcFDtO2Nvu2d45bVkAikTWFxWuHM6l9RkFvYnUJc4sHiaSkB_FAb-Z7M1Ep0qNo-0ANLuRZAF-MXx8iZAKVz8sgT4HD-kNAtGu9A2aPctdkPdgCkkyga3/s1600/K+and+C+after+finishing+marathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCPZgutKeiCo2t50hcFDtO2Nvu2d45bVkAikTWFxWuHM6l9RkFvYnUJc4sHiaSkB_FAb-Z7M1Ep0qNo-0ANLuRZAF-MXx8iZAKVz8sgT4HD-kNAtGu9A2aPctdkPdgCkkyga3/s1600/K+and+C+after+finishing+marathon.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Four hours and fifty two minutes from start to finish. Elite runners would have enjoyed their victory, had a long hot shower, completed a lengthy press conference, inhaled a banquet and had an hour long massage in that time but it was 'under five,' and good enough for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was also the longest I'd ever gone - in waking hours - without a wee! I cried again when LC and Sapphire were spotted. Maybe it was a pointless and vain challenge, but they had been with me for every sweaty, sticky and slogging step of the way.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-fas5g8Zvo-WrGGLmMipvRGIyAOhyWksHqTmMo-nscldHmQIgP9TxvpQtw6wr4cJn7C4Wbef2rhhyssAAK3gxbgIXXSI8j3d7aKS7ol495PwOB28ocgsA10YzA2Gp3dG6r0x/s1600/Locketts+April+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-fas5g8Zvo-WrGGLmMipvRGIyAOhyWksHqTmMo-nscldHmQIgP9TxvpQtw6wr4cJn7C4Wbef2rhhyssAAK3gxbgIXXSI8j3d7aKS7ol495PwOB28ocgsA10YzA2Gp3dG6r0x/s1600/Locketts+April+2014.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am so thankful to them both.</span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMivS1P0WF9CuGY_IrxZ_x98eZ3DSv2HwstqfEtlipXrPHQXSeA8-5_Cw_quJVzJVNOPiI7bTeMgcJcfdx9FA8nzuT5ww2s03GcmWqOUUlPIOKHFve-sP_L_sHLtOrAkS-Q1d/s1600/Marathon+news+youre+in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMivS1P0WF9CuGY_IrxZ_x98eZ3DSv2HwstqfEtlipXrPHQXSeA8-5_Cw_quJVzJVNOPiI7bTeMgcJcfdx9FA8nzuT5ww2s03GcmWqOUUlPIOKHFve-sP_L_sHLtOrAkS-Q1d/s1600/Marathon+news+youre+in.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's amazing what an extra glass of wine will do to your ability to think sensibly at a dinner party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were at Simon and Gianna's place and had enjoyed lots of laughs, fantastic food, hilarious conversation and a few bottles of wine. With our dogs snoozing under our feet and placing a deliciously-stinking cheese platter on the table, Simon said, "I've just got confirmation that I'm in for the London Marathon next year."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We - of course - drank to his health and willingness to run his FIFTH marathon in a decade. We drank again to his bravery and a third time to agreeing to meet him at the finish line in front of Liz and Phil's house at the end of the race. Following those three quick glassfuls, my brain had lost the ability to censor my mouth and I heard myself saying, "I'd like to run it too."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, on the 5th of October last year, I decided that the best way to make a vague idea firm up into a public commitment was to post it on Facebook:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This could rank up there with one of the dumbest things I've ever done (and it's a long list) but I've signed up to try to complete the London Marathon in April 2014. I'm aligned to a charity so that it not only benefits them but adds a big element of responsibility and risking public shame if I don't do my best - <a href="http://tinyurl.com/pcyttyn" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://tinyurl.com/pcyttyn</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of you know will know that I'm a plodding old treadmill runner who not only prefers the privacy of staying at home but also the vague attempts at keeping some of the cocoa-butter away from my thighs. Sometimes, however, yearnings are harder to shove aside than a Lindor box, and this particular yearning to do a marathon was starting to become louder and more urgent. Youth had slid away long ago; family issues in Australia had been hurtful and disappointing; and working (mostly) from home meant that there was no excuse about not having the time to train.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My little brother David - a marathon survivor and triathlon regular - gave me his timetable of runs, as did my best buddy Jill. I also searched online to find other 'beginner marathon' lists, averaged them out and developed my own. Maths, people. Not my favourite subject but useful when it comes to spreadsheets, diary planning and run scheduling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Each run - the date and distance - was recorded in my little paper diary. In green pen, so that it stood out among the blue and black appointments. The aim was to have four entries in per week with the end total slowly increasing. Every Sunday as I'd turn the page over, I'd (mostly) smile at the achievement. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHp9bOwP92LbmSDFP5WlB55rcbkSfxEA96cwPvhTgxWi_U2TTzRLGXO-jjSU1d__MumLTiJijGIKdPT28vaQEB5Au-a008Gs22rBZSGKxU4BlKUI_pWqyyropnbK-p9nLmy8xB/s1600/Treadmill+training+Oct2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHp9bOwP92LbmSDFP5WlB55rcbkSfxEA96cwPvhTgxWi_U2TTzRLGXO-jjSU1d__MumLTiJijGIKdPT28vaQEB5Au-a008Gs22rBZSGKxU4BlKUI_pWqyyropnbK-p9nLmy8xB/s1600/Treadmill+training+Oct2013.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pointless? Possibly. Vain? Definitely. Lonely? Too bloody right!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the treadmill moved from its locked-state of 6km slowly upwards, maths became even more important. 10.5 kilometres is one quarter of a marathon..... Fifteen kilometres is 5/14th of a marathon... How the <i>hell</i> would I be able to generate the stamina and willpower to run the remaining 9/14ths? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Trust was key. My trust was placed entirely in the gathered wisdom of the all-holy running timetable, now reverently covered in a plastic slip to protect it from sweat stains. Some easy runs, some scary long ones; some slightly shorter runs: all helped take the decision-making and potential for procrastination out of my hands. If the timetable had a particular number under a particular date, then that was all there was to it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Music was vital. Out on the roads, I'd never have anything clamped to my ears as it would be far too dangerous to not be able to hear oncoming traffic or the world around me. But when I was staring at my bedroom wall from anywhere between 36 minutes and three-and-a-half hours, it was the songs that prevented my mind from convincing my body to stop and to instead stagger (and fart) along to the beat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At any given time, there were three layers of blisters on various parts of my feet, but my toenails stayed on. This was NOT the case ten years earlier when I lost two of them during my one and only half-marathon attempt. That was the same race that had me throwing up at the 15 kilometre mark and swearing never, ever to attempt anything further than a fun run every again......</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the time that half-marathon and twenty-something distances were reached before Christmas, the treadmill died. It was still under a service agreement and was surprisingly (it's Switzerland, remember) affordable to get a new running belt and motor. The mechanic was impressed: "It's not often we get a treadmill that's worn out before its warranty has ended." My vanity level soared sky high until I realised that my stomach rolls were still very evident and still prone to unravelling each time I bent over to untie my shoes....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite my distaste and avoidance, it was time to do some 'street' runs. These were more nerve-wracking than increasing the distances as I worried about looking and feeling vulnerable, uneven footpaths, crossing busy roads, dodging walkers, prams, snogging picnickers and the biggest dread of all - running uphill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love Chunks had a route that involved a nice run downhill towards the lake, then along the foreshore, through the park and up towards the Botanic Gardens. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The horrific hill climb commenced as the track wound past the reindeer enclosure, making its presence more painfully felt when passing by the flamingos and spotting the rebel peacock strutting his stuff by the woodpile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The hell increased many more times as I staggered my way past the World Meteorological Office to the UN headquarters, wheezing so loudly that tourists taking photos of the flags were given plenty of time to step aside and let the dying lady through. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was only eight kilometres back to home, but the height increased as it evilly turned left past the Korean embassy, along the side of the Hotel Intercontinental and a final nasty hill through Petit Saconnex before my stinging, sweat-filled eyes spotted our building in the distance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We spent Christmas in New York and when booking I made sure that it had a treadmill that I could use.... The Caribbean cruise we went on after New Year's had an enormous gym and using a treadmill on lolling seas added an extra dimension of difficulty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love Chunks accompanied me on my first long street run. He made an absolute mockery of my months of training when he not only ran his usual 8km, but then accompanied me on his bike for the second 8km and then ran the <i>third</i> 8km again on foot. I was incredibly envious and more than a little insulted. He was - and is - naturally fit and does ride his bike to work, jogs as often as he can and works out at the gym, but surely he should not have been able to bounce through a 24km session and still be able to cheerily chat to me with barely a wheeze throughout it all? Cocky little git!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The week after, he was keen to do it again. This time, he wasn't so lucky, pulling up with a very sore ankle after the second round. I gulped my water and Gatorade and left for the third round.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You could have waited for me," he sulked. "I was out there HELPING you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was my turn to flare up. "Nope, no way. I have worked my not-inconsiderable arse off for ages on my OWN doing this, and the training schedule is MY schedule. You either keep up or you don't." I'd never be as fit or as thin or as fast as he was, but the plodding regularity meant that my joints and muscles were used to the distances and could handle it. It was on that day - although not fun for either of us due to having that argument - that I knew I'd be able to do this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My beloved running timetable worked and I managed four rounds of his 8km route on three separate occasions. 'Andrew' the peacock was less scared each time I passed by his hangout by the woodpile, progressing to standing in my way during the last lap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Running 'in the thirties' is only recommended two or three times in marathon training, and even then, no more than 32km. "Any longer than that and you're just trashing your body," Jill told me. 'Trashing' is a polite way of describing the bone-jarring, shattered feeling of knawing, clawing exhaustion that pounded in every cell of my body after those efforts. The entire day was given to running - and then recovering - from 'the thirties' that resulted in the sweat drying on my face and turning into finely powdered salt to moaning in the bath and wondering just how I was going to lift myself out of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Carbo loading used to be a week-long phenomenon back in the 1980s, but these days it is only recommended as a mere three day fest. Despite this, it was particularly enjoyable to inhale spag bol for dinner on Thursday, leftovers for Friday lunch and bread/fondue entree followed by steak and chips for dinner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apart from the off-putting sounds of my greedy eating, the week leading up to the marathon was a quiet one - only two x 3km runs. On the other hand, the sweat levels were as high as any of the longer, harder runs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My heart rate had reached 172-180 BPM and didn't go much lower in the week leading up to my flight to London when I wasn't running. This was making me more nervous than my wedding day.....</span><br />
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"Je suis desolee," I apologise, gesturing at my pyjamas and sticky hair.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOa3KWIucqRaUZV3f9e5yliK0UKum9bgC00bDpAvH4ixzVZsSkYtIBThzn3q3ApLyitjqOTSmVhyphenhyphen0f7YQRlHo732vQf1hyU-vgs3diJQ_xe560mKK7k1iwoale6aWvzkizNZ6/s1600/Migraine+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOa3KWIucqRaUZV3f9e5yliK0UKum9bgC00bDpAvH4ixzVZsSkYtIBThzn3q3ApLyitjqOTSmVhyphenhyphen0f7YQRlHo732vQf1hyU-vgs3diJQ_xe560mKK7k1iwoale6aWvzkizNZ6/s1600/Migraine+face.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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"Balcon?" he points and I walk him through the kitchen to the outdoor area, often called 'the pool' due to its tendency to fill with water when it rains. Two years of the neighbours below complaining and our landlord has finally decided to get our balcony repaired. Asking them to make an appointment for another day is too risky: relations with our under-floor friends would not withstand waiting until Qatar hosts the World Cup.<br />
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<i>Bzzzzt</i> goes the door again, followed by Milly's barking. Two more guys for the balcony; two less that speak English. Our apartment is small enough for them to figure out where their workspace for today is, and I resume my position at the dining table: head propped up in one hand while reaching down to ruffle my puzzled dog's ears with the other. <br />
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A helluva time for Mr Migraine to come visiting. Just when it seemed that twelve months' of acupuncture sessions had done the trick he decides to make up for lost time by staying for three days in a row. Lying down in my room while strange men whose language I don't speak come in and out of my apartment doesn't seem like a particularly smart idea despite the painful messages my skull, bowel and gut are sending me.<br />
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Might as well put the laptop on and blog. Either that or vomit again.<br />
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<i>Bzzzzzzt!</i> "No Milly, it's OK." A couple more fellas, this time for the heating cupboard removal. This is an expected bonus; another two year-old request that has been granted. An original installation from 1970, we only once turned it on out of curiosity before it left the apartment choking in dust bunnies and what sounded like The Mother Ship about to land in our living room.<br />
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"Er, sorry, monsieur?" Thank Choc for Google translate: one wants to disconnect the electrics and the other needs a smoke outside before needing to go back downstairs to fetch a trolley...<br />
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The radio is now on, French Fogey FM featuring mid-nineties 'classics' and the skull-thumping sounds of tiles and cement being split apart. The phone is ringing, but it'll just have to be ignored as there's a press need to run into the bathroom and -------<br />
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<i>Bzzzzzzt!</i> I prop open the door, looking even paler but now with minty-fresh breath. <br />
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Who'd like a coffee? They all would, of course. The <i>Burp Burp Burp</i> sound of the DeLonghi machine just adds another percussive layer to the chisels, chat and chart-toppers. Edging my way around the six outdoor chairs, wooden table, pot plants and watering cans haphazardly stacked in the kitchen, I feel a sense of gratitude that all of them only wanted espresso and there's no need for any physical feats in reaching for the milk frothing nozzle.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOF1vHIz4L7m9tgX67UdJRPGFUeLIx1wuAuY-KHY8B6d6oRxS0wxCSatRUgCmvS8ZybIPjj6MS6yLB7MPVD0GhIzj17wCwjga9j3FetKrXmHXaVCEYtKvg0YtQEnkR7_IA2UL/s1600/Mr+2+of+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOF1vHIz4L7m9tgX67UdJRPGFUeLIx1wuAuY-KHY8B6d6oRxS0wxCSatRUgCmvS8ZybIPjj6MS6yLB7MPVD0GhIzj17wCwjga9j3FetKrXmHXaVCEYtKvg0YtQEnkR7_IA2UL/s1600/Mr+2+of+5.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<i>Bzzzzzzt! </i>"You're a good dog, Milly. You can trot over and sniff them as they're sticking down floor protector tape, taking out boxes of smashed tiles and bringing up new ones but make sure that they know that you're there and that they don't step on your tail. But oh geez, the smell of that adhesive is not doing nice things to my system-----<br />
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Sod the toothpaste. They've seen what I look like, who cares about my breath?<br />
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<i>Bzzzzzzt! </i>"The door's open - if you have tiles or cement or a trolley or a spirit level or forms to sign or a beverage request, just come on in already!" The gut is behaving itself, but Mr Migraine has painted a broad-brush of pain across my eyes, cheekbones and back of my head. Of course, why not get the upstairs guy to start drilling as well?<br />
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Sitting at the dining table, I finally start to see the funny side. London, Copenhagen,Vienna one day; bra-less and barfing the next.<br />
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Milly's already lost interest in the Tradie Traffic occurring inside her home and is instead making the most of my left arm. Why not lie back and enjoy a belly scratch?<br />
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Why not indeed. There's a lot to learn from a ten year old dog who willingly lets herself get bitten by bumble bees in order for a good, long and satisfying sniff in the garden bed...<br />
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There is so much that I am grateful for.<br />
<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-47685242543790448142014-05-25T17:44:00.000+02:002014-06-05T13:22:22.707+02:00Slackarse Sunday Selection<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">....It's nearly 5pm here in Switzerland, so it's already Monday in Oz, but with a year of ideas and photos and learnings, my brain has instead decided to stay in Sleeping in on Sunday-mode and not do much in the area of work, words or creativity.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21px;"><span style="background-color: white;">It's been a while, but I remember loving the </span>Sunday Selections weekly meme that is hosted by the living legend that is '</span><span style="line-height: 21px;">River' over at </span><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://river-driftingthroughlife.blogspot.com.au/">Drifting Through Life</a><span style="line-height: 21px;">.</span></span><span style="line-height: 21px;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Her rules are very simple:-</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white;">1. Post photos of your choice, old or new, under the <i>Sunday Selections</i> title</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white;">2. Link back to <a href="http://river-driftingthroughlife.blogspot.com.au/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">River</a> somewhere in your post</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white;">3. Leave a comment on River's post and visit some of the others who have posted and commented: for example:</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white;"> <a href="http://myjustsostory.blogspot.ch/">Elephant's Child</a></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white;"> <a href="http://keepworkingthroughit.blogspot.ch/">Keep working through it</a></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white;"> <a href="http://kitconn.blogspot.ch/"> Kit Conn</a></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttioAyFOZA5cVwV_o-43O68BnZefCwBfNMyZll7dKFif_QPrmWtFmfXWmfV6n6nTJiGS2RQIhD4QEnGRCXwElcN49SfpqKvSaMvx4IKDYnvbKcTwby1nz7Fhd1JcUNdAYdJiL/s1600/No+longer+shopping+hours.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">Here are my iPhone orphans:</span></span><div style="line-height: 18.90625px;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">A bathroom mirror from IKEA. Purchased to let me keep my elderly eyes on any stray facial hair. I only noticed that it was called 'frack' when I got home and thought it rather neatly summed up what my reaction is at seeing my face first thing every morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">At Milly's Meadow (officially known as Parc de Trembley), we found this rather clean sofa plonked right in the middle of the beautifully manicured lawns one Sunday morning. It may not have been my preferred style but it was eagerly leapt upon by Milly. Having a sofa of her own plus a long walk meant that all she needed to complete the ecstasy trifecta was a few slices of bacon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I've revealed the Jovial Douche shower gel, Douche Parking, the Chateau d'Ouchy and Vadge Fresh to you before, but why not have some extra brain cells for those clever comebacks in addition to minty fresh breath?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Other brand favourites include our current shower gel - <i>Douche Sensations</i> (although I get enough of those 'sensations' just driving Sapphire to school amongst the never-ending road works, impatient horn honkers and the French Suisse's allergy to using indicators); Grande Cracks (biscuits for cheese) and 'extra dick' pizza bases.....</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVy3L2gUxzAgcdLblRcfq3Wc4WyDhDIaa4TYZJhKcm36cFDHOjx7zQYRkYjfLPtbaT8piXo1dm-pzZ6p2jQWMi-1hIa7jw3Mu2dfU6EOAyhEzos3qbBcDsa2e1vSnkr0p6ARRo/s1600/iphone+italy+167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVy3L2gUxzAgcdLblRcfq3Wc4WyDhDIaa4TYZJhKcm36cFDHOjx7zQYRkYjfLPtbaT8piXo1dm-pzZ6p2jQWMi-1hIa7jw3Mu2dfU6EOAyhEzos3qbBcDsa2e1vSnkr0p6ARRo/s1600/iphone+italy+167.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Parking perpendicularly is a selfish annoyance in the communal garage under our apartment building as it prevents not only the car directly being blocked from getting out but also the car opposite, as the space is too narrow to back out from. If this car wasn't so adorable, it might - just might - have had a bag of Milly's butt nuggets placed under the windscreen wipers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislEx2zxc5IKNnB5YYLZKuHIj8IyyWqiJrCdP4eyJXWNIEkl6P5CIZmTstX9HfDWgOvJpIMp6QU3Lor9RmNuKeIsAw51iouJUvinB40pBgmVU1DS2t-OBKWYh5dnWj4908l7Zo/s1600/iphone+italy+183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislEx2zxc5IKNnB5YYLZKuHIj8IyyWqiJrCdP4eyJXWNIEkl6P5CIZmTstX9HfDWgOvJpIMp6QU3Lor9RmNuKeIsAw51iouJUvinB40pBgmVU1DS2t-OBKWYh5dnWj4908l7Zo/s1600/iphone+italy+183.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Last summer, the building's residential owners committee decided to invest in a robot mower. Shallow channels were dug, wires inserted and carefully defined paths laid out for the green machine. All went swimmingly until autumn, when the beast simply could not recognise or cope with wet leaves. To the mower's mind, they were flat stickers on the floor, but to the aggrieved concierge, they were nature's litter and an unbearable offence to all who lived there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">However, just before they retired the mower for the winter season, Milly entertained the neighbours at the eastern end of the building with her never-fail, highly outraged lunch time reaction:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Yes, I guess that this is cheating a little as it's a video and not a photo, but imagine this performance occurring Every. Single. Day.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">.....within a fortnight she had several retired couples deliberately timing their balcony sandwiches and cuppas so that they could be entertained by our insane little orange dog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The mower is back in business again, and so is Milly's pursuit of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMR14ACLdsgkjOAcWEbRTAhwstQJYSNlJjWOZnWRLVWRcYb7Zas9IV2Q09Q5CE4rp0H9TYkSvue8GrJa8g66t_5dzjDTZ01iOK4S4LkCzt8tFKNpmZG5HuO0A1R_2aqt6K2pf/s1600/iphone+italy+246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMR14ACLdsgkjOAcWEbRTAhwstQJYSNlJjWOZnWRLVWRcYb7Zas9IV2Q09Q5CE4rp0H9TYkSvue8GrJa8g66t_5dzjDTZ01iOK4S4LkCzt8tFKNpmZG5HuO0A1R_2aqt6K2pf/s1600/iphone+italy+246.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sapphire and I went zip lining with our gregariously gorgeous friend Gianna and her nephew Malachy in a forest just near Nyon. It was then that my suspicion that French Suisse concerns for Health and Safety were nowhere near as stringent as that in Australia or the UK were indeed confirmed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Call it the Gallic shrug, or perhaps the fact that Gianna and I were the only people older than fifteen years old participating, but clearly the wooden platforms at each end of the lines were merely serving suggestions and not rigorously tested or secured.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Then factor in my 72 kilogram frame (easily being the largest of the four of us), a downward wire and momentum building to a level that saw my cheeks flapping back like a beagle's ears and my bulky bod was smacked directly into the trunk of an ancient oak tree and swiftly flung halfway back up the wire and smacked back into the tree again. And again. Despite this - and the inability to walk home later or lift my arms up higher than my shoulders - we had a hoot.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Swiss love a referendum. Some of the topics can be incredibly controversial and have serious ramifications, such as the recent 'aye' to restrict international immigration; but others can be rather flighty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This poster is advocating a 'yes' vote for extending the hours of road houses. Yes, they want petrol stations to be able to sell sausages and other hot foods for longer hours. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Not to be outdone, an opposition party went straight for the lowest common denominator - sex. As in make love; not a trip to the servo for a sarnie!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttioAyFOZA5cVwV_o-43O68BnZefCwBfNMyZll7dKFif_QPrmWtFmfXWmfV6n6nTJiGS2RQIhD4QEnGRCXwElcN49SfpqKvSaMvx4IKDYnvbKcTwby1nz7Fhd1JcUNdAYdJiL/s1600/No+longer+shopping+hours.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttioAyFOZA5cVwV_o-43O68BnZefCwBfNMyZll7dKFif_QPrmWtFmfXWmfV6n6nTJiGS2RQIhD4QEnGRCXwElcN49SfpqKvSaMvx4IKDYnvbKcTwby1nz7Fhd1JcUNdAYdJiL/s1600/No+longer+shopping+hours.JPG" height="320" width="299" /></span></a><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sapphire and I visited the <a href="http://www.ville-ge.ch/ariana/">Musee Ariana</a> which features a huge collection of porcelain in a beautiful 18th C mansion by the edge of Lac Leman. Part of the attraction was that it was a nice walk from our apartment and it was free: two winners for Geneva. Luckily, it was easy to while away a pleasant couple of hours there, but this little triple gold lion-legged sugar pot with what appeared to be a rogue bagpipe painted on it left us pretty confused.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkrOA9Inji9pkSWQMKsU7w-tvBlQJK3kYKTAdOs5uCDT2w-Jj5bfwccKEfDSS6I8otzAVryly05WqJDGDo0SAicpi4dSPZ40vsU6_RyML7kbYg_q-CwVScb-IkDPUm9NQ1HhI/s1600/iphone+italy+332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkrOA9Inji9pkSWQMKsU7w-tvBlQJK3kYKTAdOs5uCDT2w-Jj5bfwccKEfDSS6I8otzAVryly05WqJDGDo0SAicpi4dSPZ40vsU6_RyML7kbYg_q-CwVScb-IkDPUm9NQ1HhI/s1600/iphone+italy+332.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'll leave you with these final two photos. The first is of Love Chunks' Big silver Bad Boy barbecue that he had in Australia compared to the tray of charcoal he has now. Both do meat brilliantly well. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujg8qXxBRUTofUniiLFbncu1FZsBVxYr9bwxDKArhEA12TsBymtrFV7wGHsZA4WDdWCdfVWODdlM10Hbkl8iyHqFQg5D7DHpP7AeEApddGwlf6VxD_mP5fzFat9bAsHe_rVcB/s1600/Deans+BBQ+in+Australia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujg8qXxBRUTofUniiLFbncu1FZsBVxYr9bwxDKArhEA12TsBymtrFV7wGHsZA4WDdWCdfVWODdlM10Hbkl8iyHqFQg5D7DHpP7AeEApddGwlf6VxD_mP5fzFat9bAsHe_rVcB/s1600/Deans+BBQ+in+Australia.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTuSDLEEK9qJWcLI7vo5iwvuvR34PG4Id5gh-FxxBn4b7m9Ikk-JkAs6XLijfOfG37fxMiDhF7Uaj1O7ucbbE-GJHzd-AAiQjUAEFjRCu1F_idhgdebYkYSB39a56tAywRC1ak/s1600/Deans+BBQ+Swiss+style.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTuSDLEEK9qJWcLI7vo5iwvuvR34PG4Id5gh-FxxBn4b7m9Ikk-JkAs6XLijfOfG37fxMiDhF7Uaj1O7ucbbE-GJHzd-AAiQjUAEFjRCu1F_idhgdebYkYSB39a56tAywRC1ak/s1600/Deans+BBQ+Swiss+style.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18.90625px;">.....although the chef has a fair bit to do with it!</span></div>
</h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">......what
a year it has been!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mistakes
were made, arguments were held, travel was undertaken and spare cash spent, but as
I sit back in the dusty spare room (currently holding a weeks’ worth of
washing, two un-renovated 1950s armchairs and paperwork covered in Milly’s fur),
some lessons have been learned. Allow me to share my collected twelve months' worth of wisdom with you, dear reader.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;">Geographic
location is everything. So is desperation.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
scored a terrific gig at – not sure if they should be mentioned or if rhyming
words should be used, so we’ll play it safe – '<i>Bureauvision</i>.' I had dropped in my CV a month earlier and
the lady who received it looked about as interested as a Kardashian not in front of a camera, but I only live one kilometre away. Four weeks later, when the dust had settled on some redundancies and an additional staffer was forcibly ejected for completely
misunderstanding what ‘work’ meant, I was called in. Yes, I could be there by lunchtime; I could be there right now if they liked</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cheapness is seized.</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With the car not even warm after the 1km
drive, they asked for my hourly rate.
Not one for thinking quickly on my feet, I blurted out the one I use as
an English tutor. This was accepted before I’d fully closed my mouth, so it was
easy to figure out that a Swiss street sweeper with special needs rakes in more (and most of that from the gutters in the nightclub district). Even so, I bet they didn't have as much fun as
I did trying to publicise, coordinate and report on an <a href="http://www.rosedor.com/home.html">awards ceremony</a> that
featured drunk Belgian comedians (yes, they do exist. Belgian comedians I mean, not drunks), a stage hogging Dutch host, a scene-stealing
Aussie producer, Freddy Mercury fans, a modern interpretative dance routine during dessert and a huffy royal
wrangler. The gig is mine for this year too!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>First
impressions are usually right. Second
ones just confirm the first.</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lyon
in France was visited again and still failed to give me the ‘oh wow’ reaction
that everyone else seems to get. Lingering smell of stale piss that seeps into
your own clothes and lingers for a week? Check.
A run-down riverfront that is praised to the skies online but was a
dusty obstacle course of bottles and beggars?
Check. Overrated ‘gusto’ restaurants
with 2074 price lists and 1974 decor? Check.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Swiss cows aren’t
happy; they’re deaf!</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those
enormous bells that your least favourite Aunt brings you back from her big bus tour around Europe? Usually festooned with vomit-swirls of hand-painted edelweiss and alps? Switzerland’s beloved
bovines really do wear those brass bongers around their necks. Even when casually standing in a field and
doing nothing other than flicking away summer flies and considering which
charming native flower to chew on next, the sound is a cacophonous chorus that renders
ramblers strolling by temporarily deaf, let alone the poor creatures
themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s
proof:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Life is full of
pricks.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In
my case, it was time to try another method to persuade Mr Migraine to favour me
less: acupuncture. My GP referred me
to his own acupuncturist; a German guy on the wrong side of town: next door to
the soup kitchen and the car park entrance favoured by pick pockets counting
their loot from the Plain Palais flea market.
My nerves were hidden by my immaturity: the doctor’s initials were
PP. Doctor PeePee... tee hee. After sitting down and asking about my
symptoms, how often, how long and where, I was asked to strip down to my
knickers so that he could place his pins in parts of my body that
included.... To be honest, I forgot
where he stuck them; the tiny sensation of them being inserted was immediately
forgotten and it was only when I sneezed and felt some wobble on my forehead
and shoulders that I remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Don't save your nice undies for date night.</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
weekly sessions with Dr PeePee (see above) were making a significant difference. Three weeks into a six-week schedule had
shown only one sign of Mr Migraine and he was surprisingly easy to send
packing. In a now-familiar routine, I
stripped off, lay on the bed and received my various pricks before being placed
under a foil space blanket to keep warm. Dr
PeePee left the room and I decided to use the time to remember how to
meditate..... <b><span style="color: red;">WOO WOO WOO!</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
sat up in shock; pins catching on the blanket and the ones on my ears pinching
my hair. <b><span style="color: red;">WOO WOO WOO! </span></b> The alarms were
sounding all over the city. Had it
finally happened? Was today the day that
the rest of the warring world decided that Switzerland had been neutral for far
too long and it was high time that they were forced to use their bomb
shelters? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: red;">WOO
WOO WOO! </span></b> And here I was, alone, in
nothing but knickers, studded with pins....! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Dr PeePee...? DR PEEPEE????” Sliding off the table with a partly-stuck on
silver blanket and pins that waggled as I walked uncertainly towards the door
to call out ‘Dr PeePee’ for the third time was not particularly comfortable,
especially when some were at the top of my ankle that folded in a bit with each
tentative step. “Dr PeePee...?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s
okay Madam Lockett,” he said, eventually squeaking up the passage in blue
Crocs. “Today is the day when all of the
alarms have to be tested in Geneva. It’s
the law.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
sigh of relief caused a pin in my neck to fall out. “In that case, wouldn’t today would be the
ideal time to bomb Geneva, as nobody would think it was anything except a
drill, would they?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dr
PeePee smiled. “Well it’s a good thing
that your clothes are within arm’s reach then, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>You can teach an
old dog new tricks.</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Steph’s
friend Anne is a pharmacist by trade, but a dog trainer by passion. As with alarm testing and cow bells, they
take it very seriously here in Switzerland.
She was required to video lessons she’d undertaken with various dogs and
needed to run a class with a young dog and an old dog. Harley, at two, fulfilled the first criterion
and Milly, at ten, amply provided the old.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
aim was to get both dogs to walk left and round around four orange traffic
cones, sticking closely to the sides of their owners and then sitting down at each end. Harley was eager and up for it and walked alongside Steph
willingly, but decided that manoeuvring through the cones was a waste of his
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Milly,
on the other hand, followed my every move, left and right, onwards and upwards,
sitting proudly on her backside (always careful to protect her arthritic back
legs) at the end. The same result was
achieved over and over again, encouraging idle fantasies of Milly-n-me putting Pudsey and
her human chick Ashleigh firmly into second place and snatching the half-million
UK pound prize from under their noses.....
“Milly, you’re a natural at this,” Anne said, walking towards us, hands
in her bum bag. “Although if she eats
any more of my treats her stomach’s in danger of dragging along the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hmmm,
an old dog learning new tricks. Could
<i>this</i> old dog, in her forty sixth year, train for a marathon; her own stomach trailing dangerously close to the ground after years of Lindt inhalation?</span>MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-24731713315074472942014-05-21T21:30:00.003+02:002014-05-21T21:31:36.343+02:00All is still well. VERY well....... but I'm just wondering if I dare return to blogland after leaving it so suddenly?<br />
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Do I give you the reason(s) why I left, what occurred during that year and why I'm thinking about returning?<br />
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That in spite of the unforeseen hurts and bitter disappointment, saw my small family of Love Chunks, Sapphire, Milly the dog and myself have the happiest year ever?<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;">An unknown and certainly un-chart-busting pop song that I ran to had a very telling lyric: "May my enemies live long, so they can see me progress."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>Like a sequin on a stripper's g-string, I've got nothing to hide.......MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-41054257207890501722013-05-10T22:15:00.002+02:002013-05-10T22:15:21.813+02:00It's all good....but busy. A fantastic work contract for one hectic month, two very long weekends and a bucketload of stuff shoved in between.<br />
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Blog visiting and commenting will resume soon.<br />
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In the meantime, go and visit <a href="http://rednomadoz.blogspot.com.au/2013/05/red-alert-9-red-turns-to-blue-in-geneva.html">RedNomadOz's blog</a> and you'll see something familiar:<br />
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<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-58777086346024997172013-04-25T09:42:00.000+02:002013-04-25T09:42:02.163+02:00Douche Bonnet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mnIU-mwMGG8uKLuVcreshyphenhyphenOlisxOuh09smiOhrRAsufBJwE3UXb_1G0l7mFANn0Px0nKOJXNY3oBvtDRPl08elPpqElKG1rLgEyZfN6YeUacCbEkvYUAZ-Bg5d810gy9mIgT/s1600/Bonnet+de+douche+packet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mnIU-mwMGG8uKLuVcreshyphenhyphenOlisxOuh09smiOhrRAsufBJwE3UXb_1G0l7mFANn0Px0nKOJXNY3oBvtDRPl08elPpqElKG1rLgEyZfN6YeUacCbEkvYUAZ-Bg5d810gy9mIgT/s320/Bonnet+de+douche+packet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Regular readers will already know this, but habitual lurkers (<i>you</i> know who you are; my counter's been collecting stats about you) or newbies looking for 'my left boob' (still the most-searched for item on this site) may not yet know that my sense of humour really is rather juvenile.<br />
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Whilst my French is limited to hello, goodbye, thank you and an ever-increasing range of charades that I'm prepared to act out in front of perplexed strangers, it is still the word 'douche' that never fails to amuse.<br />
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It was 'Jovial Douche' shower gel last year that saw me giving it to all of our house guests and, of late, it's been the Bonnet de Douches that's been snaffled from every hotel we've stayed in.<br />
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Shower caps, yes; but Douche Bonnets....?! How can I <i>not</i> snigger at that and then, pondering my<span style="color: blue;"> </span><a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2013/04/nine-hundred-and-seventy-five.html"><span style="color: blue;">recent whinge</span> </a>about feeling grumpy and stumped, not take up <a href="http://plasmanc.blogspot.ch/"><span style="color: #cc0000;">PlasMan's</span></a> idea to <b><span style="color: magenta;">"Tell me - and the world - what YOU think is rubbish - and why."</span></b><br />
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Sapphire regularly accuses me of being overly judgmental of teenagers and of laughing too loudly at drunk uncles falling over in 'You've Been Framed' wedding clips, so it seems right to have myself feature as the first Douche Bonnet in the hopes that on a semi-regular basis my knickers will get twisted up enough to write about <i>other</i> people/trends/issues/behaviours that also require a public session under the scornful shower cap.<br />
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As such, I'm telling the world that I'm rubbish (or slightly, as even my bruised ego is aware that some good points are to be found) at being ........ not jealous.<br />
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This is a tough one to admit to, but jealousy is only ever evident to me after I've had a rant, been a bit bitchy, made a snarky comment (usually to Love Chunks or Sapphire) and then, seeing their slightly disapproving reaction(s), realise that it's all down to being more than just a tad envious.<br />
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Blogging is the issue that highlights my worthiness to be the first to don the Douche Bonnet. A bugbear of mine concerns comments. I'll admit that my knowledge of blog etiquette is minimal, but if someone is generous enough to take the time to read and then add a comment to my blog, I'll click on their link to see if they also have a blog and comment on one of their recent articles as an acknowledgement. Then, if their blog is one that appeals to me, I'll add them to my regular reading list and keep on visiting and commenting. After all, what blogger/writer, <i>doesn't</i> enjoy feedback? Comments are, in my minuscule, jealous mind, the way of spreading the love back and forth and is the reason why I feel mightily pissed off when my comments are either never returned or even responded to, especially if the blogger is directly answering other commenters. My inner Douche Bonnet begins to inflate with annoyance. Bloggers want comments, so surely they should do the same for others...?<br />
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So, when a blogger (and friend) recently announced via another form of media that they've revamped their long-forgotten blog and now want everyone to 'like' them and recommend their site to all their friends so that they can attach some advertising and make some money, my Douche Bonnet fogged up even further with an unattractive combination of 'who the hell do they think they are' and 'what do you think <i>I've</i> been trying to do for seven years' with a side order of 'so you think you can achieve what three billion of us already out there<i> can't</i>?'<br />
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The bonnet blew up bigger still when my elephant memory reminded me that the revamped blogger hadn't left a comment on mine in years....!<br />
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"You read far too much into things," says Love Chunks, not looking up from his iPad.<br />
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"It's hardly a life or death situation, is it, Mum," snorts Sapphire, packing her school things.<br />
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They're both right. I deserve to be publicly exposed as the inaugural designated Douche Bonnet and learn to get over it and not blame my irrational envy on being in week three of a six week self-imposed no-sugar detox un-fun abstinence experience. Either that or find out the hard way how difficult it is to remove both my head - and the now-desecrated Douche Bonnet - from out of my arse.<br />
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<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-48097771650444893302013-04-22T16:54:00.001+02:002013-04-22T16:54:51.390+02:00Home made oysters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The angry red bloodshot splodge changes from one eye to the other in the matter of hours, reminding me that whilst Spring has sprung in Switzerland, I am allergic to<i> all </i>of it.<br />
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Hayfever never troubled me in Australia, except for the three years that nasal polyps blocked each and every sinus drainage point. This occurred during the bad old workaholic days, and my team reckoned that they knew when I was in my office (not directly visible to them) because of the window-rattling, endlessly honking nose blows. Managerial mucus, if you will. Thankfully, surgery occurred, scraping the inside of my face clean and then feeling the sheer relief of being able to speak without the other person looking at me with pity and inevitably asking, "Do you have a cold?"<br />
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Here, however, I'm chalking it down to a different hemisphere, different time zone, different season and different flora (and possibly fauna. Who knows what those pesky woodpeckers and squirrels do up in the trees when we're not looking). It still seems incredible to me that bulbs can emerge when covered in thick snow and ice only six weeks earlier and trees switch from bare to bursting with blossom when my back is turned for a mere moment.<br />
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Nasal spray and tablets do help slightly and are well-earned after my attempts to act out 'hayfever' to the non-English speaking girl at the chemist. However my walk with Milly in the mornings still results in sneezing a dozen times in a row with the air suction generated then causing every third one to be punctuated by a robust fart, pushing and shoving my body around like a disoriented set of blonde bagpipes. Three steps back and a big one forward, thanks to the butt trumpet fighting the good fight on behalf of my itchy throat, streaming eyes and torturously tickly nose.<br />
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Milly also sneezes more than usual, but hers occur out in front of our apartment door in the marble-lined foyer by the lift doors. "<b>Ah-yeeeee! Ah-yeeeeee! Ah-yeeeeee!</b>" reverberates down the hallway, in direct contravention of the Swiss-enforced 'no unnecessary noise before 8am on weekdays' rule. If either of our neighbours opened their door to complain, they'd be presented with Milly's first real stretch of the day - head resting on her front paws as the rump is lifted towards them to expose a pencil sharpener arse already dilated and ready to discharge a poo in the park.<br />
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Outside and soon unencumbered by excrement exertion, she's as happy as the unknown-but-obviously-always-joyous-and-oft-referred-to Larry, scooting madly between the rows of daffodils, her paws flicking dew drops up against her belly. <br />
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This time last year she scooted<i> in</i> the rows of daffs, mouth open like a mobile hungry hippo as she avidly devoured the yellow petals. This year she's either forgotten the joys of wanton destruction or has outgrown the taste. I dawdle along behind, pausing every now and then to honk into my hanky, rub the reddest eye and do an exaggerated swallow in order to ease my throat.<br />
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It's all worth it.MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-81404252492091800762013-04-19T18:26:00.000+02:002013-04-19T18:26:02.196+02:00Accidentally trading up<br />
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On our last skiing outing for the season, we headed to La Clusaz. We might have been on the French side of the border, but like the Swiss, they too revere their dairy cows and idyllic alpine scenery. Picture a hotel room completely done in carved in knotty pine with floral curtains and you'll see why the lift door here was one of the more understated bits of decor.</div>
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Out on the slopes, I managed to get on and off the ski lifts without incident and stay upright for the entire morning session. After three hours, my body was screaming for a break and my gut was groaning for some grub. The highlight was the break for lunch at a restaurant on the slope itself. Diners are greeted by the dog, 1664 (yes, named after the beer) who is seen here trying to grab one of Simon's poles.</div>
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To gain entry, you literally ski up to the entrance, unclick your skis, jam 'em into the snow and drape your poles by their straps over the pointy ends. Then there's a few metres of stiff walking like robots in unwieldy boots with a grunt after each step due to protesting muscles starting to untwist themselves and throb angrily at the treatment they've just been subjected to.</div>
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With helmet-hair and red marks from the goggles still on my face, I peeled off my gloves and gratefully slurped my bowl of hot chocolate. Bowls make sense here as they warm up the fingers.</div>
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We all enjoyed lunches of BBQed steaks, tuna, quiche gruyere, chunky chips, smoked pork and a bit of red wine to wash it down with. Conversation was bright, the sun even brighter and I shared my finding that farting in your ski pants (salopettes) isn't a good idea because the gas travels up your body and poofs out at the top of your jacket, resultant stench sailing straight up the snout.</div>
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Love Chunks, now a confirmed addict for alpine activities, inevitably looked at his watch. "We'd better make the most of it before the lift closes," he said, clicking the strap of his helmet under his chin, his eyes looking not unlike Milly's when the word 'walk' is uttered out loud.</div>
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Clunking our awkward disjointed way back to 1664 (who was busy chasing a slow learner around the other side of the building and not interested in patrons who were leaving), we reached for our skis.</div>
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"These aren't mine," I said, noting that the stocks were white and not brown.</div>
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"Are you sure?"</div>
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It was then that Simon recalled seeing a woman fumble about in the general vicinity of our skis as he ate. "As we were diving into the creme brulee, I remember noticing that the clumsy way she tried to put on her skis made it pretty clear that she wasn't a natural and was still most definitely in the Beginner category."</div>
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"Like <i>me</i>, you mean...?"</div>
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We stood around the alien skis, wondering what to do. Gianna, the fluent French-speaker among us, went back into the restaurant and left our contact details should the woman realise her mistake and return. There were no 'hire' barcodes on them, so they were privately owned. Stealing didn't seem likely. "And of course the stocks would be my size or she wouldn't have been able to slip into mine if they didn't fit," I concluded. "She'll probably get home and one of her teenage kids will say, 'Er derr Mum, they're not your skis!" </div>
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There was really nothing for it but to put them on, keep an eye out for a woman with largish hooves on white skis with brown stocks (and bent ski poles) and see if things couldn't be set to rights. Not so easy in practice when on a steeply sloping field hosting a couple of thousand skiers, none of whom stayed still long enough to let my eyes focus.</div>
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Over dinner, I again pondered the fate of my still very brand new skis. "She's left me a pair that have a few scratches on them, but at least her poles are straight." </div>
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Simon got his iPad out and did a bit of research. "You're in luck, Kath. Her skis might be slightly broken in, but they're a current brand and model that's still available. How much were your Rossignols again...?" Tappita tappita tappita he went, beer temporarily forgotten as he delved deeper into the details.</div>
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It was time for a glass of champers: the value and quality of my skis had doubled in a day.</div>
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MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-35801573167754494612013-04-17T15:50:00.001+02:002013-04-17T16:00:35.233+02:00SecondsApart from a brand new kitchen tap that was installed last week to prevent the cupboard underneath from rotting away and contributing to the outdoor pool that is our <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2013/04/the-chaos-of-chairs.html"><span style="color: blue;">balcony</span></a>, our rented accommodation has been largely untouched and unrenovated since it was built in 1970.<br />
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Despite this, I've discovered from the occasional chat with other building dwellers that our place is the largest size they have. Every third floor (second, fifth, eighth and eleventh levels) has one our size that stretches across the entire length and allows pretty decent views of the Saleve and Jura mountains from both sides. "Plus, you have a maids' door," Anne said to me.<br />
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She's right. Taking care to snap this photo with keys safely in my hand, I'd almost forgotten about our second door. It's the one on the right - closest to the gorgeous matchy-matchy lift door. Nothing but the best of burnt seventies' brown sugar for our external furnishings.<br />
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"And don't forget what was constructed for the housekeeper inside," she said, pointing to the tiny room next to the guest toilet. This windowless, power point-less room measures 1.5 by 2.5 metres. </div>
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We use it as our indoor storage space. My two <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2011/12/nanna-cart.html"><span style="color: purple;">nanna carts</span></a>, LC's and Sapphire's scooters, unused winter quilts, art supplies and a dodgy IKEA desk chair have been shoved there out of the way. "Well, if you had a live-in housekeeper, that's where <i>she</i> would have to sleep."</div>
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No wonder Milly and I see so many nervous and tired-looking Philippino and Malaysian women entering the foyer as we're exiting for Milly's first whizzer of the day at 7:00am. They all stop and greet Milly, who rushes up to greet them with a wildly wagging tail. "I miss dogs," one said wistfully the other day. "My kids look after mine in Manila for me."</div>
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It seems that these days no-one has live-in domestics; or not that I'd noticed anyway. Then again, <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2012/11/17022.html"><span style="color: magenta;">Guillaime</span></a> upstairs has a cleaner visit <i>every single week day</i>. Considering that it's just him and his wife in their two bedroom/one bathroom apartment (ours is 3br/2 br), it's a genuine struggle to imagine just what kind of detailed tidying up is required so regularly. From the hoovering, scraping and clanging sounds overhead, Guillaime's debris keeps her occupied for least three hours. Is he a messy eater who then defecates on the floor? Does the always-stunning Mrs G let everything hang out once the front door's closed behind her, grinding dropped blobs of her Chanel Double Perfection Lumiere foundation into the gaps in the parquetry...? Are they against wardrobes and discard clothes like dead skin cells? Are dishes frisbees? If so, they keep pretty quiet when it's not anyone's birthday.....</div>
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Our 'Maids' Entry' door has been permanently locked ever since we moved in, and is usually hidden by a rack full of damp washing, a handful of doggy doo bags dangling from the handle and the three designated recycling containers lined up in a row. Lotto win fantasies see this door get removed forever and a decent pantry installed instead.</div>
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If we were the type of people who had a maid, then she'd apparently only be given a key to the side door and this is what she'd be greeted with: laundry and kitchen. After all, why look at the comfortable bedrooms or living areas (with spectacular views) unless you're in there to spruce, dust and polish?</div>
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"Our cleaner is very good," Guilliame once remarked to me as we shared the lift. "Only twenty five francs an hour." Waiting for the internet to rev up to normal speed and upload these photos, my mathematics-averse brain struggled with a calculation. That'd be three hours, at 75 francs a day, totalling 375 for the week. The Aussie dollar and the Swiss franc are pretty close these days, so it was no small biccies he was shelling out for managing a tiny living space. It's also, it has to be said, a lot more than I charge per hour for my writing gigs.<br />
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If you've made it this far, you're probably wondering what the point of this entry is, apart from showing you how hideous our doors, floors and tiled walls are and that it might prove best not to visit Guillaime's place until after the cleaner's worked her magic.<br />
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Well, I was walking Milly in the Parc de Trembley this morning when I spied what initially looked like a rather cute scene. Mum, dressed in a power suit with a sleek leather briefcase slung across her chest, was sharing a ride on a scooter with her toddler. Bent nearly double, she was gripping the handlebars tight, calling out, "Wheee! Wheeeeee!", using one leg to propel them faster and faster forward. The child was giggling with glee. Sweet, right?<br />
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For the first few seconds, yes, until their companion was revealed, coming up behind, huffing and puffing to keep up the pace. Dressed not in workout gear but a rather formal uniform was (presumably) the nanny, forced to run alongside until Mum had reached the enormous UIT building and handed her both the scooter and the child. <br />
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The nanny was not giggling with glee, and I sincerely hoped that she was at least paid enough to afford to live in a place of her own.<br />
<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-58503735359289910742013-04-15T15:45:00.003+02:002013-04-16T07:31:59.591+02:00Scenes from a Genevan restaurant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"No wonder Simon and Gianna wanted to meet us here. It's actually <i>modern</i>," exclaimed Sapphire as we asked for a table to seat 'cinq' people and waited for the other two to arrive.<br />
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"I'll order a bottle of Rose. Everyone likes Rose and it'll go with pretty well any sort of Italian food."<br />
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Love Chunks surveyed the scene and then the menu, wincing as he did so. "Well, each dish is helping them pay for the renovations."<br />
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Sapphire, looking beautiful in her own chosen ensemble of skirt, boots and cute top, rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's Geneva for you."<br />
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He smiled. "You're right. I'll try a glass of Cotes du Rhone red----"<br />
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"-----And I'll have a glass of that orange Aperol stuff, see?" Pointing wildly at a couple in the corner, "Remember me drinking it all the time last year in Germany...? They've just ordered the same drink, which is the first time I've seen it here. I love that stuff!"<br />
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"Yes Kath/Mum," my two favourite humans chorused.<br />
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Gianna and Simon arrived, glad to see that we'd snaffled a table. "There's already a queue outside and it's only a quarter to seven," she said, sipping on the Rose. "What the....?" she swallowed only because it would be impolite to spit inside. "I'm sorry but this is awful!"<br />
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Simon and LC agreed. "Never fear, I'll drink it," I said, worrying more about the cost of the wine and inwardly cringing at it going to waste.<br />
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"Peach iced tea for me, please," said Sapphire. "Hey Mum," she whispered, tapping my arm. "Don't look now - I said DON'T LOOK - but one of the chefs over there has the Colosseum tattooed on his arm."<br />
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"So he has. No prizes for guessing where he's from." The completed half litre orange Aperol and first glass of Rose were working their magic. "So. Pretend that your life depended on getting a tattoo - on your upper arm, so it's mostly visible - of a landmark or living thing to represent yourself, what would it be?"<br />
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"Certainly not the Opera House," Sapphire said before turning to place her order.<br />
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"A flower of some kind," said Gianna. "Seeing as this year my birthday has a zero in it, I have been giving it some thought but haven't got as far as decided <i>what</i> flower."<br />
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"My girls," Love Chunks said, "but how awful would that look?"<br />
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"The Southern Cross for me," was my contribution. "It's time we took it back from the brain-dead bogans." Sapphire shook her head in disapproval. "Mum, they'd just think you were their big white nanna."<br />
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"A British Bulldog," Simon said decisively. "But to overturn the racist element of it, I'd have him smiling, sitting on top of the Tower of London and wearing a Shamrock around his collar. My mum would like the shamrock."<br />
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It was then that we noticed the two real dogs in the restaurant. The one closest to me was still a puppy and resembled our Milly crossed with a kelpie and a whippet and a whimsical dash of shrunken golden retriever. Glass number three had me lean back and slur slightly, "Love your dog. What is she?"<br />
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"We're not really sure as she was a rescue dog from Austria," the man replied in a strong German accent.<br />
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At the table on the other side of us was a full-sized Boxer, his back almost the same level as the table. Arse facing us, we were treated to an eyeful of his baked potato-sized bollocks. Turning to face us (which we were all relieved about), he presented a very handsome but slightly huffy face. His nose inevitably found her: the cute Blonde Bitzer I was currently enchanted with. His paws scrabbled on the shiny floor to reach her, knocking against the legs of his owners' table. A sixty-something man, clearly the owner, grabbed the dog and roughly shoved his head under the table, cursing loudly.<br />
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"That seems a bit harsh," observed Simon. "The dog's only doing what is natural..."<br />
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I leaned back to my Austrian friend and pointed to a spot just behind Simon's left elbow. "There's a boxer over there who is very keen to meet your dog."<br />
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"But he mustn't," he whispered, "As she is on heat."<br />
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A fourth glass was swirling inside me yet even <i>I</i> queried the wisdom of bringing a<span style="color: red;"> <i>dog on heat</i></span> to the most popular restaurant in our postcode, with tables almost touching and overloaded with stemmed glasses and bread baskets. "Oh," I said, turning back to my friends.<br />
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By the fifth glass, Gianna had had enough. The Italian fire in her soul - and inborn knowledge of the language - saw her plonk down her calamari and square up to the Boxer's bully. Never a shy petal, Gianna was obviously giving the bloke a goodly piece of her mind in her mother's native tongue, gesticulating at the dog and pointing towards the Blonde Bitzer behind me. The waiters quickly intervened and magically found the Boxer family a table against the counter, presumably so that the dog could be hidden underneath and only have one side to escape from.<br />
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Things now settled, we enjoyed the meal. The food was indeed superb and the increasingly loud conversation, yelled orders to the pizza chefs and clacking heels on parquetry were adding to the chaos. A downed sixth glass made me brave enough to lean back on my chair - now being steadied ever-so-subtlely by LC - and ask the question. "Why is your dog on heat?"<br />
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"She was supposed to be neutered on Tuesday but started bleeding, so the vet says he can't do it until next week-----"<br />
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The Boxer was there! He'd broken out of his pizza and pasta-prescribed prison and was about to........."<b>NO</b>!" Despite the imminence of a violent sexual scene and three separate groups of diners in distress, the packed restaurant remained oblivious, carrying on their own chats over carpaccio platters and wood fired focaccias. Admittedly, things were fairly hazy in my Rose-saturated state, but pizza crusts and prosciutto may have been proffered to encourage the besotted Boxer to forgo his attempts at rooting in a restaurant and crouch back under his table.<br />
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"I'm not sure that food would normally dissuade a determined guy that easily," Simon muttered.<br />
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Our meal was all over by a tame 9:30 pm and Sapphire kindly held my elbow to add an element of safety to my sterling impression of a toddler walking down a flight of stairs for the first time. "I'm sorry love, but I haven't set a very good example for you tonight, have I?"<br />
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She paused for a moment before smiling. "A drunk Mum, Gianna gettin' game and dirty dogs - remind me not to get so dressed up next time."<br />
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<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-46663629242621754682013-04-11T16:00:00.000+02:002013-04-12T09:23:45.963+02:00The chaos of chairsMuch like marriage, apartment living is a continual exercise in consideration and compromise.<br />
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We apparently have multi-storey living arrangements a far lot easier than the average Swiss person in that we have our own washing machine and therefore escape the dreaded laundry room timetable. Friends on much higher salaries than ours are unable to go out on Monday nights because it is when their allotted two hours are given to use the washer and dryers. The judges' decision is final and no further correspondence will be entered into, such is the difficulty in trying to nab a Saturday afternoon slot. Someone has to die and have their next-of-kin tracked down, bribed and shagged to have any chance of being able to change the time you have been given. (While we were in Spain, our house and dog-sitter said the highlight for her was being able to wash her clothes when she felt like it - such small pleasures)<br />
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For those of us with washing machines, life is relatively carefree as long as we don't use them before 8 am or after 9 pm and never on Sundays. The Sunday restriction is regularly flouted by me - surely it's OK to do something other than stay utterly still and silent from, say, 10 am to 4 pm? Doesn't that allow sufficient time for a sleep in or pre-work wind down? So far, no neighbour to the left, right, up or below has taken offence at my rest day rejection.<br />
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With our dog now fully embraced by our concierge, The Fratman, and able to leap into the lift doors and accompany elderly couples to their floor (and back down to me) with joy and safety, we figure that the block is pretty used to the noisy Australians who like to yell 'Tea is READY' instead of walk the fifteen metre dog leg to the bedroom area.<br />
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However, there is a big booger still dangling from the symbolic nostril that is upper-level etiquette: our balcony.<br />
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When it rains, the water simply gathers into small pools, eventually turning into one rather shallow swimming area when they join up. The drain may be set in the far corner but the undulating slope of the tiles means that it rarely gets wet. Instead, the water is eventually dried up by the sun or soaked up by my ugg boots; whatever happens first.<br />
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Unfortunately, it is not just worn woollen footwear and solar power that is removing the water - it is also seeping through the balcony and starting to stain the ceiling and upper walls of the apartment directly below us. The neighbours (to be referred to as the Seventh Floor Fusspots from hereon) are understandably annoyed by this and have asked the land agent to contact the owner of our apartment to fix the problem.<br />
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With Swiss efficiency meaning that the plumber rings to apologise if he's going to be <i>ten minutes</i> late, I assumed that the balcony repair work would be relatively easy.<br />
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But no. In the past eight weeks, I've had no less than ten separate visits of men arriving with clipboards to<br />
a) have a smoke and fling the butt over the edge of the flower boxes down into the garden that no human is allowed to enter;<br />
b) point to the drainage hole and hold some intense discussions about it;<br />
c) jump up and down on the tiles; and<br />
d) tell me 'We fix. Later. <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2012/01/fratman.html">Fratman</a> will call you.'<br />
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TEN TIMES. Unless they somehow scrape off a thick layer of cement and slope the entire balcony surface towards the drain or knock the entire edifice off and build a new one from scratch, it is not clear what quick job they can do to prevent the Seventh Floor Fusspots from continuing to complain. Put in a blue pool liner perhaps?<br />
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Mrs Fusspot has usually been friendly to me whenever we've crossed paths by the mailboxes or in the lift, but the frustration of no action and her presumably still-ugly brown-stained walls are starting to fester beyond annoyance at the owner and towards the renter. Me, in other words.<br />
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Witnessing her pretending not to see me as she struggled into the four person lift with myself as the only other person present was a little too much, so I applied my cheery 'Hello' that often gets unfriendly dog walkers to respond when we pass by every single day.<br />
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She grunted. I tried again. "Look, I'm sorry that there seems to be no improvement on the balcony for you. I've had ten lots of men come up to look at it, but not one of them has returned to do anything. Is there anything I can do to help it happen quicker for you?"<br />
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"Yes," she hissed, causing me to step back a little in surprise. Even her drop pearl earrings were swinging erratically. "You can stop scraping your chairs on the floor."<br />
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"Oh, sorry. We have those felt dot things on the bottom of the legs---"<br />
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"It's NOT ENOUGH. You scrape them all the time and we need you to stop."<br />
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We had arrived at her floor and she swept out to my, "Sure, I'll speak to my family about it...."<br />
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Arriving back upstairs, I realised that our six dining chairs are all on carpet. An IKEA job that has soaked up a few of Milly's left-inside-too-long butt nuggets, an infinity of dropped bread crumbs and more spilled wine than what had remained in the glasses they were originally poured into. The rug now had several extra layers that not only prevented the chairs from scraping, but also provided recording studio-quality sound-proofing and a large, aromatic area for the dog to ram her nose into for a lick and a sniff if the kitchen floor is too clean.<br />
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It was hard not to laugh. If this complex was in Australia (say, Flemington), housing this many people it would be a madhouse of noise. Two hundred residents would mean that simple Aussie-related maths would see at least two out-of-control parties, several domestic incidents, a visit from the ambos, stolen wheelie bins, hard rubbish put out seven months too early, hills hoists pulled over, cars being keyed and Eminem on level eleven during work hours. And we'd be pretty accepting of all that....<br />
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I saw The Chair Scraping Shrew again the following day. "Good morning Mrs Fusspot. We've had a think about what you told us and realise that it's not <i>us</i> who are scraping the floors. It must be people on either side or on the ninth floor, as we have carpet under our chairs."<br />
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She stopped unlocking her mailbox and gave me a skeptical look. "No, you are wrong, it <i>is</i> you. You have chairs in your kitchen."<br />
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"No, we don't, actually. Our kitchen has a fixed bench in it and no chairs."<br />
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The fact that I dared to question her statement and profess knowledge of <i>my own kitchen</i> still did not convince her. She shook her head. "I think you are mistaken. Your kitchen chairs scrape all day."<br />
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All day....? When I'm home, I'm usually in the study - with a different apartment underneath me - blobbed out in a rollerball office chair and never on the dining setting. I felt my mouth form into the universal sign of increased annoyance - the cat's arse pucker. "Look, Mrs Fusspot, you're more than welcome to come on up and see for yourself."<br />
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"That won't be necessary. All you need to do is stop the scraping."<br />
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It was then that I decided forget about visiting the bootmaker's in Petit Saconnex. Not because he doesn't do a good job in re-heeling my beloved black boots, but because I was going to ask him to apply a layer of special rubbery stuff that would stop the 'clop clop clop' sound of my brand new boots (black again, of course) when I walked across the parquetry floor boards not covered by rugs.<br />
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Sod her. Milly's nails can get longer AND the double spin cycle will be selected on Sunday.MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-61111005489897052622013-04-10T11:28:00.000+02:002013-04-10T11:28:00.848+02:00Nine hundred and seventy fiveWell, it's been eight years and 975 posts and I seem to have hit a brick wall, ideas-wise.<br />
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Therefore, I'm opening it up to you.<br />
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What do YOU want me to write about?<br />
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<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-24659485764517021172013-04-07T16:12:00.006+02:002013-04-07T16:12:58.363+02:00Sunday Selections - Alhambra AquaticaAlhambra (in Granada) is Spain's most-visited site and we were determined to get our egg-beater-for-an-engine hire car over there to see it. The contraption was so small the back seat had to be flattened to get our suitcase inside and we did our best to heed the traffic warnings:<br />
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In a place known for temperatures of 45-48C in the 'high' season, we felt a bit like tourists who visit Ayers Rock/Uluru during a thunderstorm: slightly damp due to rain rather than sweat, and well aware that not many get to experience it in this way.<br />
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Kicking off as a fortress in the 8th century, becoming a Moorish palace by the 11th and reclaimed by the Spanish Catholics in 1492, the place has seen a few changes, additions, dodgy renovations, vandalism, refurbs and a tourist or two. Granada was barely visible during the drizzle and the ticketing system was run on an almost Swiss-like, humourlessly strict 30-minute basis. Miss your slot and you don't get sent to the back of the line: you get told to bugger off and try and book for another day.</div>
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Rain I can handle; bone chilling breezes are what make being a traveller with nowhere to hide until late afternoon check-in a nightmare. Luckily was wet but mild and the grey skies helped make the intricate stone carvings stand out even more.<br />
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It was a genuine joy to see how Sapphire responded to the place. "I will come back here again," she gasped, "I <i>have</i> to."<br />
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Whilst admiring the endless rooms of painted tiles (not allowed to be photographed due to the need for the use of flash), 'glory to god' carvings, blue and green alabaster ceilings and courtyards that would have been the coolest places to recover during a blistering summer day, it was hard not to wonder how the poor peasants of Granada felt seeing an enormous mini-city of opulence literally looking down over their town.<br />
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The Four Minute Showerer may have left her birth country, but couldn't help seeing the water tumbling down and thinking, 'What this joint needs are a few humungous corrugated iron tanks dotted about and some guttering."</div>
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The flowers were in a mild state of shock.<br />
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"This is crazy, yes," said a museum guide, watching as an inner courtyard turned into a plunge pool. We all had to jump in as the circuit only went one way and Alhambra doesn't tolerate tourists who don't toe the line or move in an orderly clockwise direction towards the overpriced gift shop.</div>
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Perhaps I've left it a bit late in this piece to let you know just how dazzled and impressed and inspired we were by the place? </div>
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And how my photographs don't do it justice? Especially the ones where I'd left a fingerprint on the lens so that the famous lion fountain could only be glimpsed behind what looked like a lonely cloud?</div>
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Wet through yes; in awe and thrilled to be there, yes times a hundred.</div>
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Sapphire's currently working on a painting for her bedroom based on some of the recurring patterns she saw here and immediately answers 'Alhambra' when polite adults ask her what the highlight of her holiday was.</div>
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A slight whinge about to occur now, but nothing to do with the all-encompassing amazingness of Alhambra. I <i>try</i> to be a nice person and hopefully succeed in this endeavour at least fifty one percent of the time. If a couple are taking photos and one poses in front of the monument/silly sign/tower/river/ski field/castle, I'll wander over and ask if they'd like to me take their portrait together, as otherwise it's likely they'll end up with an album full of selfies (see above) or of each photo featuring just one of them.</div>
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"Yes please," they'll eagerly reply, but here's my beef: why don't they ever offer to take OURS for us? I can count on one bloody hand how many photos of The Lockett Three there are in existence.</div>
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Fingerprint smear, flash bouncing off the glass and someone scraping the side of my eyebrow with their passing umbrella be damned: <i>this</i> is the kind of garden I'll have when the lotto gods smile upon me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHiW4WYFl00xEvD9hRcYSYsa1ThYGUxBQ08np8-2sqL9AH1jHjl7n_9Mqq0XXhFUyIqfEgaJbUR9dLqMoyFPp3mnAIEnoPSTHocnwSAV1ss1Mv9diCOb8L57Ui300Yyeb6PEr/s1600/Rain+Alhambra+oranges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHiW4WYFl00xEvD9hRcYSYsa1ThYGUxBQ08np8-2sqL9AH1jHjl7n_9Mqq0XXhFUyIqfEgaJbUR9dLqMoyFPp3mnAIEnoPSTHocnwSAV1ss1Mv9diCOb8L57Ui300Yyeb6PEr/s320/Rain+Alhambra+oranges.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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And orange trees. I eat an orange every single morning before breakfast (it's true: ask Love Chunks or Sapphire) and smelling their spring blossoms even in the down pour made the relative lack of chocolate an afterthought.<br />
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You haven't seen the last of us Locketts, Spain.</div>
MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-78793619860253563162013-04-04T19:41:00.001+02:002013-04-04T19:41:31.573+02:00OHS, Schmo-OHSThe above title sounds better when said out loud and, when applied to holidays, is usually said by me when it comes to food:<br />
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"Holiday weight, Schmoliday weight."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRgWTyKs5pqetc9T0WQw6XKBn9TYrZsuJ1VhP1NKTMFlE2PUpapJyyySLB7b5m48SFC64YEFljU8eAN_Uw8kyYyglSsE9mLKcBWA315MjG5XdKBIFf5Qo5YITmOaRywWAE2gk/s1600/Easter+honey+toasts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRgWTyKs5pqetc9T0WQw6XKBn9TYrZsuJ1VhP1NKTMFlE2PUpapJyyySLB7b5m48SFC64YEFljU8eAN_Uw8kyYyglSsE9mLKcBWA315MjG5XdKBIFf5Qo5YITmOaRywWAE2gk/s320/Easter+honey+toasts.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Love Chunks managed to wangle the Thursday before and Tuesday after the Easter long weekend to give us six days in Spain.<br />
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Spain's a rather large patch of ground, so we decided to hit a smallish area and keep reminding ourselves that living in Europe for the next (at least) couple of years means that we can calm down and revisit or see more of the place later on. Madrid and Barcelona were idly bandied about over a dinner party table a couple of months ago, but friends urged us to consider Seville.<br />
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Gianna and Simon, let this be a public declaration of sincere thanks for your advice.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsjrdGe1WZKU2Q_DPrt0tl3aEN6n__scXmjZK0NzDBnzum2elc-S8qhIBu4nd9TU-CgL56czETIbCQVh0V8wP8V_OPHd-kpAEohpZUBvQgztlfUu41y4o3rxo1clmTIxRYqnb/s1600/Aubergines+and+honey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsjrdGe1WZKU2Q_DPrt0tl3aEN6n__scXmjZK0NzDBnzum2elc-S8qhIBu4nd9TU-CgL56czETIbCQVh0V8wP8V_OPHd-kpAEohpZUBvQgztlfUu41y4o3rxo1clmTIxRYqnb/s320/Aubergines+and+honey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Easter is the Holiest of Holy weeks in an extremely Catholic country and we were surrounded by hours and hours and days and days of parades that seemed to feature gorgeous young women wearing black lace mantillas as a sign of mourning for Christ's death and a heap of differently-coloured Ku Klux Klan members who were supposedly covering their faces to hide their sorrow. No photos to show you as it didn't seem right to jump out and snap away at them during a time they took particularly seriously.<br />
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Honey toasts, deep fried and anointed in delicious syrups were an Easter treat that I inhaled eagerly, telling myself that having a freshly-squeezed Seville orange juice would sort of counteract the fat. (In Kath Land, an apple following a Kit Kat chunky means nothing was imbibed at all). Not so easy to do the same for the aubergine 'fries' that were coated in a fine crumb and then drizzled - again - in honey. We were skeptical at first, but all raving and rolling our eyes in ecstasy several seconds later.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHGyJCOge2vaFjD92_t3HDT4CQ7pcl5lntVydoLypyI4iihSGvC5e-4ac0EicwKCvPD4aXsZPty1zLnPiBJ_YGKGWXstPhzbX57lWW4C_hS6CAdV1x204qg0hDKg8EBU78ZXv/s1600/Seville+oranges+and+red+balcony+drape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHGyJCOge2vaFjD92_t3HDT4CQ7pcl5lntVydoLypyI4iihSGvC5e-4ac0EicwKCvPD4aXsZPty1zLnPiBJ_YGKGWXstPhzbX57lWW4C_hS6CAdV1x204qg0hDKg8EBU78ZXv/s320/Seville+oranges+and+red+balcony+drape.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
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Balconies were draped in red brocade, velvet and gold trimmings and the city was packed with people of all ages. No dinner to be had at 6:30, 7:30, 8:30 or even 9:30pm..... try 10:30pm with a few tapas to tide us over before then. Toddlers were at outdoor tables eating with gusto near midnight as we walked home, bellies full and wondering just how we'd be able to lie down and sleep comfortably.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfdA95sSBHecPQppLdhh4rpgOlyyBojAloqhiqg6Gul1gBO-cM1dzbSFNPtL8p2WiTrLfcTrhl5rOliX48qY2bxxE1dB0SO_Va5-234wd7lV-7MuT31_1k5YjFanHNSADFnoZ/s1600/Pope+TV+aerial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfdA95sSBHecPQppLdhh4rpgOlyyBojAloqhiqg6Gul1gBO-cM1dzbSFNPtL8p2WiTrLfcTrhl5rOliX48qY2bxxE1dB0SO_Va5-234wd7lV-7MuT31_1k5YjFanHNSADFnoZ/s320/Pope+TV+aerial.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
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Respecting their Christian celebrations aside, I'll admit to deliberately lining up my shot of this guy so that it looked as though he was praying for good BBC World News reception....<br />
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....and, yet again, an art work has to feature the single crusading female with a boob hanging out. As they inevitably do.....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOWQSKISm1tGbo5JMoajnPuOu6PbWVb9lOpL-THRNivvdvQD_cGin0s4BysMS2n2vun0GkbGQbylGmKxEfT03HxeIG5C7jNhnbZDhs_n09o_YnJoISBrTTjRBjsu8I68CB0Vb/s1600/One+boob+out+at+Seville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOWQSKISm1tGbo5JMoajnPuOu6PbWVb9lOpL-THRNivvdvQD_cGin0s4BysMS2n2vun0GkbGQbylGmKxEfT03HxeIG5C7jNhnbZDhs_n09o_YnJoISBrTTjRBjsu8I68CB0Vb/s320/One+boob+out+at+Seville.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Reluctantly driving out of Seville (thanks to Love Chunks and Ken, the tom-tom we brought over with us), we stopped at an intriguing lookout named Saucejo so that I could grab a photo of my best boy and best girl.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBbyzepjoBiRqP4uI8w67dxLvo-ckzxEY-7NSMydamX4Yi2fhNpPxpceNs6IzKOJ9O-sYf-G1EtJ28dsgFsBvcjcLWBvl_1KDlkD1vJ6iVY_doTkOg6ZvSuwzSKmUhRKrzzI7/s1600/Dean+and+Carly+Saucejo+lookout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBbyzepjoBiRqP4uI8w67dxLvo-ckzxEY-7NSMydamX4Yi2fhNpPxpceNs6IzKOJ9O-sYf-G1EtJ28dsgFsBvcjcLWBvl_1KDlkD1vJ6iVY_doTkOg6ZvSuwzSKmUhRKrzzI7/s320/Dean+and+Carly+Saucejo+lookout.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ronda (the town, not the girl that the Beach Boys were keen to use as a rebound for heartbreak) took our breath away. LC is a bit of a mountain goat and loves to clamber on things, so while he busied himself being King of the Valley, Sapphire and I took a selfie that you can clearly see reflected in my sunnies:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5niiwH35vzjDE6sDmYhGlQoBSTEe5GT1jJlnK0yvMoTe4JR3EnoBL7aI_TvBbX_Db2acaWLpkysCCvjfvuWMCRQ2PPeEoTha-n4xRjNW8N43Vk_rJwVvR7T0AHiiS_wYAcHvX/s1600/King+Dean+at+Ronda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5niiwH35vzjDE6sDmYhGlQoBSTEe5GT1jJlnK0yvMoTe4JR3EnoBL7aI_TvBbX_Db2acaWLpkysCCvjfvuWMCRQ2PPeEoTha-n4xRjNW8N43Vk_rJwVvR7T0AHiiS_wYAcHvX/s320/King+Dean+at+Ronda.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6NJ28Z31OTlDD24QXLA9A4jv9zrOZ0iehbzKIEZzZybiNPiTagUGJ_DRq9vihQgFbJXRo0k6zTeftHHDznb1HvLVpiREMeJYov4_tc90-adsTkjNbFD24Ui8nN73PanUblpz/s1600/photo+(12).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6NJ28Z31OTlDD24QXLA9A4jv9zrOZ0iehbzKIEZzZybiNPiTagUGJ_DRq9vihQgFbJXRo0k6zTeftHHDznb1HvLVpiREMeJYov4_tc90-adsTkjNbFD24Ui8nN73PanUblpz/s320/photo+(12).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The bridge spans the deep rocky valley from the old town to a still very-old part of town that also has the largest bullfighting ring in Spain. We all preferred not to see any bull being stabbed by a bejewelled ponce wearing ballet slippers for sport and instead decided to take the walk down to the base of the bridge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwTKuff6JjLkC2tzb73katxJ5X_XdN2s_yE-4ebGIlSdCFmkK9eEEqZv36YtKaCc8Es9uzIbQAfa_J4G8PgnljhNTA0JYh7m8KPohlNBnRk7ae3Y0VGnKNtcnitapwX3zte7t/s1600/Ronda+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwTKuff6JjLkC2tzb73katxJ5X_XdN2s_yE-4ebGIlSdCFmkK9eEEqZv36YtKaCc8Es9uzIbQAfa_J4G8PgnljhNTA0JYh7m8KPohlNBnRk7ae3Y0VGnKNtcnitapwX3zte7t/s320/Ronda+bridge.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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This was where the difference between Occupational Health and Safety Australian-style compared to OHS Who Cares Spanish-style was glaringly obvious.</div>
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"Oh look, LC," I said, voice quavering along with my knees, "Under this temporary IKEA step ladder stapled to the moss on the rocks is the original cement staircase, cracked in half and collapsed. How comforting..."</div>
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"Hey Dad," a much-braver Sapphire called out. "The railings have rusted and you have to wedge yourself up against the side of the cliff so that you don't smash yourself on the rocks below. This is incredible!"</div>
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She was right. The cement had long since crumbled down into the river, leaving a single iron bar jutting out like a hangman's frame, a visual reminder that the path was once a metre wide instead of several centimetres. Around the corner, a stone hut was teetering dangerously into the drink and as my two beloveds dashed eagerly ahead, my feet refused to move and I found myself staring straight ahead in a self-imposed trance. I was convinced that if I stayed motionless, the return trip around the cliff and back up the rocks would be achievable if only my ragged breathing-with-a-squeak-at-the-end would cease...</div>
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"Ma'am? Hey, Ma'am? Can you take a photo of us please?" Four young US college students were on top of the death trap cottage and one was dangling his canon down to me via the strap. "Er sure," I rasped, my shaking hands making several misses before finally catching the strap. Later, there was a tiny sense of satisfaction in passing them all on the climb back up to town, but fitness wasn't really the factor; fear was.</div>
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In Granada, Sapphire's tiny balcony provided a rather lovely view.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-PIDYM31lquu2VpGwudd8lmvrLJEeTWydsZB4Dai67k2BVe7y8T5D2uv7k_9W1syIaY4-QK4coyq3g6Oi8Nsnyn2SJgKg3BAACzlTHRuhpAqRQ_tsMlE2lRzL1KQqF2ZfDFP/s1600/Cs+balcony+Granada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-PIDYM31lquu2VpGwudd8lmvrLJEeTWydsZB4Dai67k2BVe7y8T5D2uv7k_9W1syIaY4-QK4coyq3g6Oi8Nsnyn2SJgKg3BAACzlTHRuhpAqRQ_tsMlE2lRzL1KQqF2ZfDFP/s320/Cs+balcony+Granada.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
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Beauty aside, it wouldn't be a Kath-splattered holiday if some signs and mistranslations didn't tickle my giblets. Colon Street, Tourism Colon and even a sign pointing to the turn off to Morón de la Frontera. There were times when I thought that <i>I</i> should have headed in that direction and many more when I'd gladly have shown other people the way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcX-ltRTEEKaksnMfs8cAgTZZUgCp6p9mbNSf-63Z-wSJ3xgO9osDg73MyBqVYYsyYEZH9R-7UgX4pijXlhDn0-3kTizxcUhAOTTPXj4Uy1g7brPnKq6RdLf-iwojRzxoxbcWl/s1600/Turismo+Colon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcX-ltRTEEKaksnMfs8cAgTZZUgCp6p9mbNSf-63Z-wSJ3xgO9osDg73MyBqVYYsyYEZH9R-7UgX4pijXlhDn0-3kTizxcUhAOTTPXj4Uy1g7brPnKq6RdLf-iwojRzxoxbcWl/s320/Turismo+Colon.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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In France, the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung on hotel doors usually translates to 'Do not DERANGE me,' but in Spain it's 'Do not MOLEST me.'</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBOmYfcqwvLuXSijb3HO1bQbxjNDm2gbP7skvdQct6b3JT-yBPdElgHomjVcia5MxhfgrujCipDhAjzYEga36JFcEuEhkEE2x7YKiVjdtKJaQi2tsgBnY-JAN0DALMylVGJMV/s1600/No+molestar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBOmYfcqwvLuXSijb3HO1bQbxjNDm2gbP7skvdQct6b3JT-yBPdElgHomjVcia5MxhfgrujCipDhAjzYEga36JFcEuEhkEE2x7YKiVjdtKJaQi2tsgBnY-JAN0DALMylVGJMV/s320/No+molestar.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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Then again, as an Aussie sheila used to the Sharons and Narelles of the world and their 1970s/1980s-style insults, it could also be interpreted as being a Mole Star. Personally, the first interpretation is my preferred one.</div>
MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-73275430265292187622013-03-24T19:16:00.001+01:002013-03-24T19:18:43.514+01:00Area avoided oftenI'm participating again in River's <a href="http://river-driftingthroughlife.blogspot.ch/2013/03/sunday-selections-113.html">Sunday Selections</a> event that invites bloggers everywhere to post up photos they haven't yet published, consider linking them with a theme and write something about them.<br />
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...this will help me get over the fact that Love Chunks, Sapphire and myself had a bog-ordinary Burger King meal at a roadside stop near Rolle, Switzerland that cost us Seventy Seven Francs. That's fancy eatin' money!<br />
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On with the meme.<br />
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A bit after 8:00am on weekdays and weekends, Milly and I trot happily over to Parc de Trembley to stretch our collective total of six legs. All furry, if I'm to be brutally honest. It's a slab of land with a busy street that carves it into two segments, one considerably larger than the other.<br />
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We owe a lot to this humble park as it allows Milly to run free and keep her post-arthritic body in better shape than when she was first diagnosed with two irreparably wonky back legs over six years ago. A sniff of a squirrel or the opportunity to snuffle around bench seats has resulted in a sleekly fit dog who can jump up into the back of the car with ease when she was completely unable do so in Melbourne.<br />
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With a paddling pool, ornate flower beds, ponds, ancient trees and friendly gardeners who know us and greet us, we both feel as though we know this little part of Geneva like the back of our hands/paws.<br />
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And yet there is one section that neither of us want to enter. That's probably a good thing, because the sign outside this section already forbids entry to dogs:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_FLW7u99KE31XKP4bVGE0DS0NV4FRJrRp3J4mcL6OAWECZU-PIZiwOdDCfIPgaKxISKwLsdGiqS3Fay6rly8jUhVesTQSZkW1DkuqNZ7td5lzM16RZJJwVJRZIODvaG27r9S/s1600/Non+times+five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_FLW7u99KE31XKP4bVGE0DS0NV4FRJrRp3J4mcL6OAWECZU-PIZiwOdDCfIPgaKxISKwLsdGiqS3Fay6rly8jUhVesTQSZkW1DkuqNZ7td5lzM16RZJJwVJRZIODvaG27r9S/s400/Non+times+five.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The sign always leaves me feeling slightly offended on Milly's behalf as she should NOT be compared to disgusting urinators, vandals, noise polluters or litterers.<br />
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Then again, she's a beautiful and intelligent beast who hasn't shown the slightest interest in venturing into what I can only call - wait for it - brace yourselves - <i><span style="color: red;">Pedo Playground</span></i>.....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0ZFdSuZs_6GV56bM2FaprSKXosLq7s4_mdvEZlwfs7c614Q1WpVDy4rgidSJX176FTqubs9IFgJvYeshqISy2mgq5uqdjABFAKsckzOB-swW_ofD4IXGA5CgDVfvIHN4npcI/s1600/Creepy+playground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0ZFdSuZs_6GV56bM2FaprSKXosLq7s4_mdvEZlwfs7c614Q1WpVDy4rgidSJX176FTqubs9IFgJvYeshqISy2mgq5uqdjABFAKsckzOB-swW_ofD4IXGA5CgDVfvIHN4npcI/s320/Creepy+playground.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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These creepy 'animals' are presumably meant to be cheery creatures intended to invite children to climb on them, play on them and generally enjoy themselves, but I have never ever seen a child - or adult - in there. It seemed long past time to break the rules stipulated by the sign and <strike>have a whizz</strike>, sorry, take Milly in for a closer look. She'd protect me if she had to, I'm sure.....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgertorU5lzTCXYLAT8GlVAXq2fKhhnpsZBdQhiGTAnXSYck6IBnXl0zpyDLo-hhjOuc1IPNmMDZpysPb0b1cWBzg4UU4qaelVn0ORU7WV0wjwQrKDw0WMU8PPK3iN13V8pHlSy/s1600/Pedo+yellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgertorU5lzTCXYLAT8GlVAXq2fKhhnpsZBdQhiGTAnXSYck6IBnXl0zpyDLo-hhjOuc1IPNmMDZpysPb0b1cWBzg4UU4qaelVn0ORU7WV0wjwQrKDw0WMU8PPK3iN13V8pHlSy/s320/Pedo+yellow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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With a shaking dog so close to my legs that we tripped up several times, we tentatively approached this yellow abomination; a filthy chunk of butter with a tangible sense of unwholesomeness about it. Made by a angry person with an old box and no artistic skills or is there a more sordid meaning behind the nubbin for a tail and the demonic blue ears?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRy-XxP0m4w9QPfsDtKwG4NbYI3vt2OKl6rAaT4ZGNFcVfVaCy_jWgqRdURhxRAAoFOH4-D3w_BXTD2Z9cnCeBIox39sPcWclVS0G_AahNZacxKltxdydlmAsTZV-dOLQVH6qy/s1600/Pedo+purple+smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRy-XxP0m4w9QPfsDtKwG4NbYI3vt2OKl6rAaT4ZGNFcVfVaCy_jWgqRdURhxRAAoFOH4-D3w_BXTD2Z9cnCeBIox39sPcWclVS0G_AahNZacxKltxdydlmAsTZV-dOLQVH6qy/s320/Pedo+purple+smile.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
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Smile or not, the purple 'up yours' horns did not conjure up any innocent joys of childhood.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsvrQZXMSDr0k7n8VMqUCSmnXv65jkSEHS0AyJT1u8QbPQWAC1LOJ5sOekvaAQLv71OqYFjmgHO2F56u2IMLU_cc64F1gAq1KpMENK4jJtIPGrEsV0UEtjegSKPWRaV6n0OkR/s1600/Pedo+camel+and+crab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsvrQZXMSDr0k7n8VMqUCSmnXv65jkSEHS0AyJT1u8QbPQWAC1LOJ5sOekvaAQLv71OqYFjmgHO2F56u2IMLU_cc64F1gAq1KpMENK4jJtIPGrEsV0UEtjegSKPWRaV6n0OkR/s320/Pedo+camel+and+crab.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And these....? A creepy looking camel and a half submerged pervy pincered crab? No way!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenhDAybo5Y-qa5TZ1sRAdVK_yzVq5XF0Wb8UkeQknhDz9ydkeHD6cy-95n9ih2N0VrnhDO7HtKun6tdwZc4y2hxlPaDk9fSRc_RWtQy6cRS5wkn_NDrBGDhydEzCKFEU8CGsA/s1600/pedo+pink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenhDAybo5Y-qa5TZ1sRAdVK_yzVq5XF0Wb8UkeQknhDz9ydkeHD6cy-95n9ih2N0VrnhDO7HtKun6tdwZc4y2hxlPaDk9fSRc_RWtQy6cRS5wkn_NDrBGDhydEzCKFEU8CGsA/s320/pedo+pink.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
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F-words aren't usually my go-to words, but what the phark is this pink thing?? A par-boiled testicle??<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5mSD64_dVVKfaQXqjhHQfiu1MIOio__2Dd4D-hs4J-0ipgBd2dpaLazvrRBmDzEblz3JQ_WhcAH7064qN0py_xACsMDttmeAM83rzs6GIV4vP3WIv9y0cmaFPzjdFPyMUB1a/s1600/tongue+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5mSD64_dVVKfaQXqjhHQfiu1MIOio__2Dd4D-hs4J-0ipgBd2dpaLazvrRBmDzEblz3JQ_WhcAH7064qN0py_xACsMDttmeAM83rzs6GIV4vP3WIv9y0cmaFPzjdFPyMUB1a/s320/tongue+out.jpg" width="221" /></a><br />
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Milly whined several times as I nervously snapped away. If this was supposed to be a dog with antennae for ears, porn star breasts for eyes and nose and a distinctly un-PG tongue lolling out lustily, it was a challenge getting her to pose next to 'it'.....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLh3lsq0ixImMrf3ObjaEbFhfqhoCtsSfYgR_c7wjaYj2-vgzkU93m-EqgwXKv7Q5NFX_xl0HIY6M-BEerzRvXqg6T1_xB2J-GNGxbdh1EbPAuCg-_EbxVipzKkCyEZn7bpu_/s1600/Milly+not+happy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLh3lsq0ixImMrf3ObjaEbFhfqhoCtsSfYgR_c7wjaYj2-vgzkU93m-EqgwXKv7Q5NFX_xl0HIY6M-BEerzRvXqg6T1_xB2J-GNGxbdh1EbPAuCg-_EbxVipzKkCyEZn7bpu_/s320/Milly+not+happy+2.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
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It was a relief for both of us to get the hell out of there. A-poo-behind-a-bush-relief for Milly, and a thank-god-we-have-wine comfort for me.</div>
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That is, until the label revealed that it too wasn't offering real comfort....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCsrKQ-rwulh79v5Vi1LMOSUyJ9K1igIW3vj1L3sVcYYDYE_4_Hf3W5KVddx2jl8Db_x7Unsh33RAywz8u3iuUUOUKNfV6dpmQd5DCo8RefFtgD3fqmKkz4OconAcxMdgazwsZ/s1600/scary+wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCsrKQ-rwulh79v5Vi1LMOSUyJ9K1igIW3vj1L3sVcYYDYE_4_Hf3W5KVddx2jl8Db_x7Unsh33RAywz8u3iuUUOUKNfV6dpmQd5DCo8RefFtgD3fqmKkz4OconAcxMdgazwsZ/s320/scary+wine.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
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But dear old LC did.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmIOuaXS_WHFIJzo31-F8LOAwJfQM9xTzJ3Rg9TmkcO-8ZM1l5owbY26hyphenhyphen8Kpz1KqRkHtWA-YqbiApqQCHEMlxMrpFfC6epkZDYf4fVQFiv2giuK09hrBlgfqWpEH8csUmDp7/s1600/Milly+and+Dean_2+030313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmIOuaXS_WHFIJzo31-F8LOAwJfQM9xTzJ3Rg9TmkcO-8ZM1l5owbY26hyphenhyphen8Kpz1KqRkHtWA-YqbiApqQCHEMlxMrpFfC6epkZDYf4fVQFiv2giuK09hrBlgfqWpEH8csUmDp7/s320/Milly+and+Dean_2+030313.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-37213511543766721482013-03-21T15:52:00.000+01:002013-03-21T18:31:45.840+01:00Vadge of honour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1zsBKN2dS0q5oo7DmMebLRvU_ypgLh6dSJa_ny5FJYtZIdMV5YCSQaHQHP4JjqlxsmfGYCC1VdxkYsvJCBqfNq2oi-ESSbiDNOeDASjoI0EXTlgEOGAW6uH7ZPiXzS47CjHl/s1600/fake+wonka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1zsBKN2dS0q5oo7DmMebLRvU_ypgLh6dSJa_ny5FJYtZIdMV5YCSQaHQHP4JjqlxsmfGYCC1VdxkYsvJCBqfNq2oi-ESSbiDNOeDASjoI0EXTlgEOGAW6uH7ZPiXzS47CjHl/s320/fake+wonka.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were sitting in the car just outside the high school gate, having one of those conversations that both of us are not only enjoying, but also not wanting to end.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sex. To be more precise, recent concerns about the easy access of pornography and how it might affect the expectations of some teenagers. </span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Is a guy going to expect someone with inflatable duck lips who is automatically able to writhe around like a pole-dancer whilst wearing more on her feet than her entire body? Will he also expect her to provide some oral pleasure and be instantly amenable to letting him enter her, erm, 'back door' the second he walks - usually naked and in a highly visible state of excitement - into the room?" That was <i>my</i> question by the way, not my daughter's. It seems so long ago when a 'Do you like me - tick yes or no' note was handed around in year eight geography.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sapph spoke of recent discussions they've held in Humanities on the issue. Will the never-ending availability of sex and sexual acts online give some kids and teenagers a completely unrealistic idea of what 'real' life relationships are going to be like? Will the saturation of 'take it, bitch' clips readily on hand (often when you <i>don't</i> want them - don't try a google search when your spelling isn't up to scratch) completely dissolve the idea of having sex between two genuine human beings with a back story and shared respect and real passion?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our conversation then took a slightly different direction. "And what's so attractive about male genitalia anyway? They just dangle there to make 'ooh that would have hurt' or nutcracker jokes for at least half the videos submitted to '<i>You've Been Framed</i>.' And with something always 'there' it must surely always be demanding some attention. How could you keep your mind of something that moves of its own accord?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nodding, I replied, "Yep. No wonder boys play with them so often: they're easily accessible and very easy to please."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Laughing, Sapphire commented that the girlie bits weren't so flash to peek at either. "But they're on the inside, at least, so unless you grab a small mirror, they don't bother us as much." She paused for a moment. "That is, unless you're really flexible gymnast like Juliet, but if that was me, I'd think of better things to take a closer look at."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This all reminded me of a stand up routine by Ben Elton way, waaaaay back in the 1980s when he too commented on the ugliness of mankind's rude bits. "He said that no architect had ever been so inspired by the male appendage that he had to design a building with bulbous veins and a purple domed roof on the top."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Then again Mum, has anyone ever described the inner vadge as resembling a stack of sliced roasted meats, as you did to me once?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yep, sweet pea, I did. Yet again, there's no Opera House or scenic bridge that is based on our mounds of Venus, dear heart."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite this grotty talk, my spirits were flying high. I loved that she and I could have these kinds of brutally honest chats, using humour to soften the horrors of growing up and swimming safely past the bobbing icebergs of peer pressure, internet unreality and heightening hormones. I loved being witness to her insight and ways of viewing the world around her. I loved seeing her throw back her head and laugh in delight; a combination of relief and joy at being able to goof off with her mother before tackling Design & Technology class. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was warming to the theme. "And don't get me started on those over-inflated party balloons that are supposed to represent the average woman's breasts," I exclaimed, pushing both hands out in front of my own chest, as if they were struggling to keep hold of two heavy bowling balls.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"MUM," Sapphire hissed. "You have just impersonated a woman with enormous boobs right outside the entrance to my SCHOOL. Could you BE any more embarrassing?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sadly, yes.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then again, so can she. Sapphire leaned in through the car window. "Oh geez, I've just given myself a major wedgie sliding out of the car and now have a long walk across the quadrangle where all the windows are facing!"</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She'll be fine.</span>MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-67561386655148160522013-03-18T16:06:00.000+01:002013-03-18T16:08:45.960+01:00When broccoli goes bad<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkE150wj_BE2bKvCzWfTr3HiSBAk-7NxkdI18rL0cNi4EOn6ryTcW8ROIe0w__dyeLSZCBrke_LKQ7-XnfcLlCiP-Sl72H_Gu05xJE7iaaiiaksD18fUrLLaYeo2ifShDbgfo/s1600/Le+Sexe+pour+Les+Nuls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkE150wj_BE2bKvCzWfTr3HiSBAk-7NxkdI18rL0cNi4EOn6ryTcW8ROIe0w__dyeLSZCBrke_LKQ7-XnfcLlCiP-Sl72H_Gu05xJE7iaaiiaksD18fUrLLaYeo2ifShDbgfo/s320/Le+Sexe+pour+Les+Nuls.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Monday.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love
Chunks is driving Sapphire to school as he's not able to ride his bike to work. I farewell them both at the lift and always like to see them enter and the door close on them before I go back inside our apartment. Milly and I have the place to ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We
only have a brief walk as it snowed unexpectedly overnight and she rushes out to
the Dog Forest, does an urgent whizz under a dry bush and is back in the foyer
before the sleep boogers have been removed from my eyes. She sure ain’t a water loving creature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back
upstairs, there’s a load of washing to be draped on and over large pieces of furniture, a run on the treadmill,
another load to be draped during my ‘cool down’ session and floors to be
vacuumed. This is done barefoot and the
urgency of the dreaded task is revealed by ending up with soles that have tiny mud pellets, dust
bunnies and crumbs stuck to them like pebble dash. Milly hides under the desk as there is
nothing more frightening than the Dyson loudly removing all the fun/smelly things from
the carpet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After showering and dressing, the computer is switched on and two old bills studied. It’s time to cancel our internet and home
phone provider as we switched to a different company over the weekend. This is one of the Kath Tasks I loathe:
ringing up a service company when English might be offered fourth on the menu
or not at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
it is here that my day slows r-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-g-h-t down. With barely any French and absolutely no
German or Italian language skills in my repertoire, I hear the automated voice say ‘un’
and I quickly press number one on the keypad. It
could be the line to request delivery of a swimming pool-sized satellite dish for all I care but should
hopefully get me through to a human being so that I can ask if they speak
English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Forty
two minutes later, I’m long past the irony of hearing ‘Call me Maybe’ and getting
rather tired of the song that most of us had tired of after the second listen a year ago. Shoving the phone under
my right ear and on top of my shoulder, I reach over to try and tap out a
response to an email when.... poo bum bugger shit fart – my fat chipmunk cheek
must have spread over to the buttons and hung up the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My second
try sitting on hold to, let’s just call them WaxWho, takes a mere twenty nine minutes before
someone answers. Thankfully she does
speak English and I explain our situation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You
must put it to us in writing,” she says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But
I’ve been on the phone for the best part of an hour and have confirmed all the
identity questions you asked me so why can’t you---“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Always
a letter. Always in writing. Then we cancel thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh. The second company, somehow connected to the
first but not able to be transferred by my ‘Always in writing’ lady, takes a relatively
rapid eighteen minutes. In writing, yep,
of course. Oh and can only be cancelled
on the anniversary of our contract date; how flexible of you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both
letters are duly written, printed out and ready to post but wouldn’t you know
it, no stamps are left in the kitchen drawer.
But the shopping list is:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Veges.
All green stuff<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Carrots<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Margarine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stuff
for smoothies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bras</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dishwasher
tablets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We three
Locketts love our veges; always have, always will. Sapphire has enjoyed them right from the time
she was given solids and nearly made a lady faint with shock when, at age
three, she spied a string bag of brussel sprouts at the supermarket and said,
"Mum, look! Can we get these, please?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thus, few things concern us more
than a vege crisper with nothing but a slimy end of cucumber wedged into the
back corner and a few stray capsicum seeds, and it is enough to cement the decision to wade
my way through the snow – on foot – to the shops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At La
Poste, the ticket machine informs me that ten customers are further ahead in the
queue, which gives me time to note that, for such an efficient, suitably ‘Swiss’
agency, they have the book 'Sex for Dummies' (Le Sexe pour Les Nuls) on proud display. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
amuses me enough to take a photo of it and as I'm crouching slightly and tapping the screen to get a better focus, a rather hefty gentleman snorts and says something to me in French. He
looks slightly alarmed when I turn around to get a better look at him but does
compose himself well enough to read what I’ve clumsily typed in google
translate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">J'ai
écrit un de ces livres, mais pas celui-ci<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I wrote
one of these books, but not this one)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
time, he laughs out loud and clasps my shoulder in some kind of sleaze bag
solidarity. My brain finally catches up:
he thinks <i>I’ve</i> written a sex book but not via the Dummies line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Non non non, soum différente...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Har har har he goes, all coffee and
cigarette breath puffing out his moustache.
It is then things turn into a movie slow-mo scene: surely he’s not
reaching out to pinch my ----- thank god, Counter G has pinged my number and
his thumb and forefinger only squeeze air. I’m yet to discover what the accepted
Suisse etiquette is for dealing with getting your arse pinched in the post
office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Safely
in Migros supermarket a few minutes later, I am surprised to note that broccoli
is not available. Intellectually and
environmentally this is a good thing in that they only sell produce in season,
but culturally and greedily, it’s one of our favourite faithful standbys and I’m
miffed. However, in the
never-ventured-to Bio section, there are a few miniscule wrapped bunches of
organic broccoli and for not an unreasonable price. Two are scooped up in relief before crossing
to the far end of the store and trying to translate bra sizes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes,
bra sizes. Australia seems to have 12A,
12B, 12C and so on but here they have 75A, 80A, 85A and in the United Kingdom
they go for 32A, 34A, 36A...... Google
does a good job of giving me some equivalent measurements and I receive a few
suspicious looks from the teenage bloke unpacking socks in the next shelf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At
the checkout, one lady signs off and a new lady replaces her, surprising me a
little by greeting me with a big smile. Migros matrons aren’t usually big on
smiling, using their arms or emanating any interest in being there
whatsoever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With
only a few veges and bras to slide through, they are all easily packed by me
without careening past on the conveyor belt and sliding off the end as per a loaded trolley. But wait – she is speaking to me. I heard the word ‘broccoli’ and ‘ordinateur’
which means computer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She
calls over to a colleague who suggests new buttons for her to press on the
computer screen. This does not seem to
do enough to make her slide the two bunches of broccoli over the scanner and
towards me which encourages the flat capped-fifty something in the line behind to heave a
huge sigh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Migros
Matron dials up what I can only guess is someone from fresh produce. Again there’s talk of broccoli and
computers. She listens intently, hangs
up and tries a few different buttons but there’s still no success. Her colleague is now concerned enough to
leave her own checkout spot and come over to help.
She presses the screen in what appears to be gay abandon, leaving my
original lady brandishing my two broccoli heads like maraccas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another
phone call, a few minutes of awkward waiting and trying not to meet the annoyed
eyes of the four people behind me and a third lady appears brandishing a
key. Intense conversation occurs but
not including me: just my broccoli.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
appears that they have caused the entire checkout to melt down and we’ll now have to
move to a different check up further up the line. The four folk behind me all gather up their
things (serve ‘em right for laying them out on the conveyor belt too early) and
huff off somewhere else. <i>No way</i> are any of them prepared to follow me to the
next check out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bleep
bleep – it worked! They passed through! “Ah, who knew that broccoli sometimes
uses its powers for evil,” I said, smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Que?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never
mind. “Bonne journee madam.”</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqdiclM2UE72Q3OrjpKN3ZflitsFRAT-1ezyocOrNBR5TeDCCGL0xRscFTcZokkYRV8KppM-GYKDHdH8yNsq-a8uPVoVWbPMUBA5X-pTYdHzzZ_U9Z8n78d0WzPqwCwA-2nKl/s1600/Bad+broccoli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqdiclM2UE72Q3OrjpKN3ZflitsFRAT-1ezyocOrNBR5TeDCCGL0xRscFTcZokkYRV8KppM-GYKDHdH8yNsq-a8uPVoVWbPMUBA5X-pTYdHzzZ_U9Z8n78d0WzPqwCwA-2nKl/s320/Bad+broccoli.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-71775869592188493102013-03-14T16:14:00.000+01:002013-03-14T16:14:01.714+01:00A place in this world<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKXOSyMGH2mwIl4bxv-ryKBfNOcdUAJT5cL-9NijoLzVKgv8Q0dbToFrDMXEkz25sE5yHM8u_giaY0sYQHZgzeYN7F6u72IqkcltDM3iRGp0ul2QpB1P4xI2frZnYlSfyCCuU/s1600/Taylor+Swift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKXOSyMGH2mwIl4bxv-ryKBfNOcdUAJT5cL-9NijoLzVKgv8Q0dbToFrDMXEkz25sE5yHM8u_giaY0sYQHZgzeYN7F6u72IqkcltDM3iRGp0ul2QpB1P4xI2frZnYlSfyCCuU/s320/Taylor+Swift.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sapphire and I have had a few very intriguing discussions lately about bullying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As she sees it, the school bullying program is about as useful as wearing a leather jumpsuit to a French squat toilet. "All it does it tell kids that they're nowhere near as bad as the examples shown," she says.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She tells me that the examples include kids writing 'Why don't you kill yourself' in SMS messages or 'Die, bitch' on Facebook pages or pushing and shoving kids against lockers. These produce a collective eye roll amongst the compulsory viewing audience as they're too dramatic and vastly unrepresentative of what really goes on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I mention the book '<i>Queen Bees and Wannabes</i>' by Rosalind Wiseman that we've both read, she again shakes her head. "Even when they discuss the way girls exclude or spread rumours, we're given some standard photo from the 1990s with a really exaggerated set up of three girls talking behind their hands and pointing at a fourth girl standing sadly in the foreground," she says. "It just doesn't happen like that."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"What happens is nasty sniggering instead of genuine laughing, leaving a girl terrified about walking into class with hostile eyes on her as she passes. How can they pinpoint that kind of almost invisible bullying?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sapphire just can't see the jealousy and refuses to let me explain it to her, instead now talking about a wider form of bullying which seems to be freely permitted by us all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She is a fan of Taylor Swift, admiring not only her songs (and the fact that either writes or co-writes them all), but also her looks (she is a teenage girl, after all) and the fact that she makes mistakes but isn't stupid. "She hasn't been beaten up and gone back to the bloke who did it; she hasn't got gun tatts all over her body; hasn't posed nude or been 'caught' on instagram, hasn't made a sex tape or put up photos of herself smoking dope."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's old news media-wise now, but I felt really disappointed to read that Tina Fey, who I really admire, and her buddy Amy Poehler (who I've yet to see in anything - that's how out of touch I am) took pot shots at Taylor during their recent hosting of the Golden Globes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"And yet, Mum," Sapphire says, jabbing her finger in the air to emphasise the matter, "Tina Fey wrote 'Mean Girls' the movie and said that she based it on Rosalind Wiseman's book but still thinks she can make jokes about someone's personal life when it isn't true." Fair point. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Taylor Swift herself confirmed that when she said in this month's Vanity Fair, "If you want some big revelation, since 2010 I have dated exactly two people (Conor Kennedy and Harry Styles)..... the fact that there are slide shows of a dozen guys that I either hugged on the red carpet or met for lunch or wrote a song with, it's just kind of ridiculous."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tell Sapphire that it reminds me of a quote attributed to Jennifer Aniston a few years ago when she described seeing her confused face splashed on the covers of some magazines with the typical headline, 'Distraught Jen's baby woes' or some-such. She commented that she remembered that particular day because of the t-shirt she had on and realised that the paparazzi had snapped her at the precise moment she'd left her agent's office and had forgotten just where the hell she'd left her car. Sapphire smiled at this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Naturally, the quote that has since been over-used as a Swift-bashing quickie came up. "Katie Couric is one of my favorite people because she said to me she heard a quote that she loved that said, 'there's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women'." This actually originated from former US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, but why would all the online and paper mags want to tell readers that when they can say that Ms Swift is a humourless whinger instead?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Later in the interview, Swift was asked if she was 'boy crazy' and I wondered how hard she had to fight to stifle the urge to punch the questioner because it is highly doubtful they would have asked the same question of same-aged blokes Nicholas Hoult or Daniel Radcliffe; or of her previous paramours Taylor Lautner, Jake Gyllenhal, John Mayer or Harry Styles. It's not a question but an insult, yet she said, "For a female to write about her feelings, and then be portrayed as some clingy, insane, desperate girlfriend in need of making you marry her and have kids with her, I think that's taking something that potentially should be celebrated - a woman writing about her feelings in a confessional way.... twisting it into something that is frankly a little sexist."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hope you really heard and understood that, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, but your answers suggest not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Poehler's first remark about the comment was flippant. "Aw, I feel bad if she was upset. I am a feminist, and she is a young and talented girl. That being said, I do agree I am going to hell. But for other reasons. Mostly boring tax stuff." Not good enough, Ms Poehler: you should have just apologised and tried to remember how you felt and acted between the ages of fifteen and twenty three and not brushed it off with an easy gag. The photos found in your yearbook above suggest not just that you lived in the time of bouffant fringes but that you were also a cheerleader, so perhaps being in the cool crowd means that you really don't understand what bullying is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And Tina Fey? "I did not see that one coming. It was a joke. It was a light hearted joke." Uh-huh and that's the kind of bullying that Sapphire is worried about. The 'can't you take a joke?', the 'it wasn't meant to be taken personally' and the 'stop being a drama queen' that is some of the most subtle and damaging form of female bullying and I'm glad that my thirteen year old can see it and name it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's Ms Fey on the far right of the photograph below. I'm sure that she may not have always found the hilarity in someone commenting about her personal life - or lack thereof - when this was taken.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These cheap digs at people who are damned by the media if they try to defend themselves carries on to girls who see it, laugh at it and consider it their right to do it as well. "My friends all make comments about what a slut Taylor Swift is, Mum, and how all she does is write songs about her ex-boyfriends, but none of them own any of her albums or have listened to anything other than her singles," Sapphire points out. "She writes about a lot of issues."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All I can do is hope that Sapph understands that insults and nastiness are often used to hide insecurity, envy and laziness. Yes, laziness. Why bother to work hard, or try something different or stick your neck out when it's simpler to knock other people down?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The fallout of such behaviour and results also severely obscures the respect that is felt by a much larger group of other people. If Neil Young is happy to describe Swift as a 'great writer' - "I like listening to her...and watching her respond to all the attacks. I like the way she's defining herself so I keep my eye on it," and Dolly Parton says she is "extremely impressed with her, especially in her song writing .... the depth of her. She's got the qualities that could last a long time," and Stevie Nicks says that Taylor writes "songs that make the whole world sing, like Neil Diamond or Elton John and .... reminds me of me in a lot of ways. Swift's 'Today was a fairytale' has "stayed in my heart forever," then there are a lot of really good people out there too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, Sapphire, take comfort too that Alicia Keys, Kelly Clarkson, Lady Gaga, Lena Dunham and Ryan Adams also think that she's worth praising instead of attacking. Having the highest selling first week album in a decade for '<i>Red</i>' aint too shabby either.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bullying is easy. It takes little thought, makes the person feel better about themselves and costs nothing. It's just a damn shame that negative comments seem to have more power than positive ones. Let your actions do the talking, my darling daughter, and I'll share with my readers the lyrics to one of your favourite Taylor Swift songs:</span><br />
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<b style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Best Day</span></b><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm five years old<br />It's getting cold<br />I've got my big coat on<br />I hear your laugh<br />And look up smiling at you<br />I run and run<br />Past the pumpkin patch<br />And the tractor rides<br />Look now -- the sky is gold<br />I hug your legs and fall asleep<br />On the way home<br />I don't know why all the trees change in the fall<br />I know you're not scared of anything at all<br />Don't know if Snow White's house is near or far away<br />But I know I had the best day<br />With you today<br />I'm thirteen now<br />And don't know how my friends<br />Could be so mean<br />I come home crying and you hold me tight and grab the keys<br />And we drive and drive<br />Until we've found a town<br />Far enough away<br />And we talk and window-shop<br />Until I've forgotten all their names<br />I don't know who I'm gonna talk to<br />Now at school<br />I know I'm laughing on the car ride home with you<br />Don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay<br />But I know I had the best day<br />With you today<br />I have an excellent father<br />His strength is making me stronger<br />God smiles on my little brother<br />Inside and out<br />He's better than I am<br />I grew up in a pretty house<br />And I had space to run<br />And I had the best days with you<br />There is a video<br />I found from back when I was three<br />You set up a paint set in the kitchen<br />And you're talking to me<br />It's the age of princesses and pirate ships<br />And the seven dwarfs<br />Daddy's smart<br />And you're the prettiest lady in the whole wide world<br />Now I know why all the trees change in the fall<br />I know you were on my side<br />Even when I was wrong<br />And I love you for giving me your eyes<br />Staying back and watching me shine<br />And I didn't know if you knew<br />So I'm taking this chance to say<br />That I had the best day<br />With you today</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can see why you like it, dear Sapph.</span><br />
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MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-23521410203548761092013-03-11T17:50:00.000+01:002013-03-11T17:53:12.785+01:00Two meanings of 'tear'<br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">"That's <i>not</i> what I meant and <i>you</i> know it!"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">"Oh <i>do</i> I? So I have to be a mind reader now too....?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Her only answer was to slam the car door shut and stride off. As I muttered, 'grumpy cow,' to the steering wheel there was little doubt that she was doing the same into her jacket.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Finishing off my coffee before going for a run, the computer is always a lure, asking me to check on it before sweating it out in the room next door. C's facebook status is brief. "Single again." Love Chunks and I sigh in sympathy and disappointment. C is a single mother who has literally been on her own for a decade working full time, paying off a mortgage and caring for a son with a unique set of challenges that the father refuses to see. If anyone needs some pampering and romance, it is her. We both write separate messages and sign them off with the usual ineffective wish to provide a hug or two via cyberspace and across the hemispheres.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Tara's status is much lengthier, a written message in response to my carelessly typed, "Are you okay?" Not really. Her partner is now refusing to take the medication needed to manage a significant mental health issue leaving Tara to deal with unpredictable rages, unaffordable spending sprees, unheard of debts suddenly coming to light, undeserved accusations and uncomfortable living arrangements. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">In the car, my phone vibrates. "I hope you are all well and enjoying the snow, but I have some really bad news that I need to tell you......" Darling Dale, IT guru, laid-back buddy, volleyball queen and world traveller has been given the unenviable task of contacting all of J's university friends and telling us that cancer claimed her. "But she wrote to me in January wondering if she should return to work full time or take it easy and pick up her painting again," is my tapped response, no time for refinement or spell check.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Back home, Love Chunks is now bent over his knees, clutching a blue esky ice block wrapped in a tea towel to his torn calf muscle. "Good thing I injured myself on the very last ski run of the day," he said, grimacing.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">"I'll try the doctor again. Hopefully the receptionist answers this time because their message service is all in French." Milly sighs loudly and smooshes her face against the side of her bed, signalling very clearly her disappointment at the rain that prevents us from going out for a walk.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Appointment made for 2:45pm, I make LC something to eat and tram it into the city to book our train tickets for Italy in the summer. "No, sorry. They won't accept bookings that are 120 days before the departure date. Best come back on 11th April to get all your travel details sorted out." I try not to peel the skin around my thumbnail but do it anyway, feeling the sting of exposed flesh and blood beginning to flow. Accommodation is already becoming scarce for one of the world's most popular tourism destinations, but to take the chance of finding somewhere to sleep and then have no way of getting there on time. The hem of my jacket is used to press against the nail and stem the bloodflow.... I smile and thank the ticket lady for her help.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Back at home, LC is on the phone to M, J's husband. He told LC that J went downhill very rapidly before having a stroke and being placed into palliative care. M was in turn both prepared for her death and completely unprepared. She was only forty five, with three kids aged eighteen, sixteen and fourteen. M once told me how they met. "I saw her across the room giving some other bloke a really good telling off. I thought to myself, 'that girl's got fire in her,' and went over to divert her attention." That was in 1986.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">LC's eyes fill with tears after he farewells his old friend. We hug and I tell him of my small moment with Sapphire earlier this morning. He shows me his calf which is twice the size of his other one.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">There's leftovers for lunch and the final episode of <i>Derek</i>. I've already seen it with Sapphire and we both ended up sobbing. The biggest message is the one that everyone - no matter what their faults - see and value in Derek, the assistant at a nursing home who has his own problems to deal with. Kindness. Just be kind, that's all.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">I send a text to Sapphire, apologising for my bad temper this morning. Love Chunks gets a Kath-made coffee that nowhere near reaches his own standard of DeLonghi delight, but he's grateful for it anyway. Milly skips when we take the lift downstairs and she sees the cleaning lady and rushes to greet her by giving her slippers a lick. The sun has some warmth in it now and Milly is happy to sniff the green stems of the crocus flowers emerging from the mud.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">After doing some laundry and mopping the floors, two hours is spent printing out a document for one of my students page by page, thanks to an ancient CD-rom format that is still the preferred study method at his school. Sapphire arrives home from school, dashing past the study to get into her room. "Thanks for the book, Mum!' she calls out cheerfully. I sit at the desk, wondering whether to leave her alone as she's in her her haven; her fortress of solitude, or whether to barge on in and give her a hug.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Barging in won out.</span>MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-26893358269897109722013-03-07T16:18:00.002+01:002013-03-07T16:19:08.136+01:00Plugger plugging a plug"Who took my pen.....?"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvObNvFuFaCLYwIwXlJnPBE8XlTbRNnEtwfX4TmoQkleT1QWYNyV5nVyMd186AYareUx0nOsIjPliNJrv5EBpWXFStVzcz9hcXj1R2zt7n3NFm3axYoq8ILpEsJ1Tuc-iVg4V/s1600/Ike+Willis+and+Tommy+Mars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvObNvFuFaCLYwIwXlJnPBE8XlTbRNnEtwfX4TmoQkleT1QWYNyV5nVyMd186AYareUx0nOsIjPliNJrv5EBpWXFStVzcz9hcXj1R2zt7n3NFm3axYoq8ILpEsJ1Tuc-iVg4V/s320/Ike+Willis+and+Tommy+Mars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I don't often publicise things on this blog in direct posts, but today is different.<br />
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One of the joys of being a freelance writer, editor, tutor, web page opinion-offerer and anything else I can get away with claiming to be is that I often get to work with and for some very talented and creative people. People who are braver than I am; setting up their own businesses, inspiring others, making a dream happen on their terms.<br />
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Wolfram and I met a year ago to discuss doing some serious work - his day job and mine. This all occurred without a hitch and he went on with life his life and I mine.<br />
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What I'm finding now is that clients come back, but not always for the same kind of work. This time, Wolf had a personal project he needed some of my freelance tomfoolery for an album he wrote himself and partly recorded with the help of Frank Zappa band members Ike Willis, Arthur Barrow, Tommy Mars and Ed Mann.<br />
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After all, why <i>not</i> track down these legendary dudes to help add some extra oomph to your first album? Wolf travelled from Geneva to California sparing no expense as he lived, drove and wrote in a rented camper van before, during and after their recording sessions.<br />
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He's made the first mix of the album which is a funky mixture of rock, jazz, spoken word, humour and very melodic riffs. I was lucky enough to hear it a few weeks ago and contribute to some of the lyrics and help set up the project page. Let's just say that the songs touch on issues such as overuse of corporate crapulence (buzzwords) and the story of a man and his family doing whatever they can to cope with today's world. Funny and touching and a damn good listen at the same time.<br />
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Wolf is now on <a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/my-new-cd-with-frank-zappa-s-band-members-be-part-of-it/x/2247128"><span style="color: red;">Indiegogo</span></a> seeking helping with final funding to return to the US for a second recording session that will complete the album and make it available via digital download and in CD form. From as little as $5 you can be part of a unique album that features brand new music and deservedly revered musicians.<br />
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Otherwise, if you know anyone who admires Frank Zappa's musicians or likes the idea of supporting a man with a dream that deserves to come true, please forward them this link - http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/my-new-cd-with-frank-zappa-s-band-members-be-part-of-it/x/2247128<br />
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I'm really thrilled to be involved!MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-34171999712789151232013-03-04T17:47:00.002+01:002013-03-04T17:47:37.193+01:00French Fogey Finds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PoJMhBnHW6UeTKnzQnyjmihg1CXC0w9mteJRLSjs2gD5jcV-GUFFKLrt7Gymhgn9psaCF2YjsQnVe5NXbAj2uoiuOy1IKhEFc_TrWazG7Y5ON49GIOBnILtgmN4TWyA3kE9J/s1600/Gold+BBQ+plates+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PoJMhBnHW6UeTKnzQnyjmihg1CXC0w9mteJRLSjs2gD5jcV-GUFFKLrt7Gymhgn9psaCF2YjsQnVe5NXbAj2uoiuOy1IKhEFc_TrWazG7Y5ON49GIOBnILtgmN4TWyA3kE9J/s320/Gold+BBQ+plates+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Regular readers of this blog (and I'm also including you, yes <i>you</i>, dear lurkers) will know that - call it what you will - flea marketing, second hand scrummaging or jolly brocanting - has been a new-found joy of mine since arriving in Switzerland.</div>
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A friend living in Choulex (pronounced 'Shoelace' but without the 'sss' at the end) let me know that a disused aged care home was selling off everything inside and outside the place. Would I like to go? Look, who <i>doesn't</i> need gold plastic barbeque plates that include scallop servers? That's right, no-one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqF07NsDmYce03Fsq3Od-lgYo6n2s_FScz-FckYZtu7b68SLv3YMOJI649ZxVuzLD5MzhigXtCPtg8i9TQUDi_AVPet-ZbK8hwwljrMsbpQKm0yycwhApFCI4f2Q8XaTo9SAt/s1600/Mini+carrots+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqF07NsDmYce03Fsq3Od-lgYo6n2s_FScz-FckYZtu7b68SLv3YMOJI649ZxVuzLD5MzhigXtCPtg8i9TQUDi_AVPet-ZbK8hwwljrMsbpQKm0yycwhApFCI4f2Q8XaTo9SAt/s320/Mini+carrots+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sapphire and I were immediately struck by the age of the building which, (sorry, I forgot to photograph), was most likely over two or three hundred years old. It was a classic several-storeyed Suisse-French farmhouse with thick stone-filled walls, solid, rough-hewn wooden beams and not one floor that was level or at right angles. Maybe that's why the place looked as though no-one had lived there for at least a decade.</div>
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It touched something in me to see boxes and boxes of seasonal decorations. Baubles, baby trees, tinsel, Easter rabbits, 'golden anniversaire' trinkets, halloween pumpkins, candles and ..... mini carrots. I just had to have them. For what, I'm not sure yet, but Love Chunks fervently hopes that they and my <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2012/10/love-chunks-wasnt-impressed-either-way.html">golden croissant </a>will soon end up somewhere he no longer has to clap his beady blues on them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnOOvLjT-CJlMZU5rc87St5Q5OtQtpKAz9IPmtetxVwwa0pHoaqExceRdjT2ePuiF74Ftluohkr74LCYoFRlcVSRWQgZww9ODeydhcRgHZ6ZhyphenhyphenmF_1vVch49qqvzLB1w9Zv5k/s1600/Peacocks+umbrellas+and+clowns+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnOOvLjT-CJlMZU5rc87St5Q5OtQtpKAz9IPmtetxVwwa0pHoaqExceRdjT2ePuiF74Ftluohkr74LCYoFRlcVSRWQgZww9ODeydhcRgHZ6ZhyphenhyphenmF_1vVch49qqvzLB1w9Zv5k/s320/Peacocks+umbrellas+and+clowns+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Boxes and boxes were filled with coat hangers, felt hats, cardigans and, saddest of all, dozens and dozens of empty photo frames. Did the staff empty them out when a guest departed in order to save space when handing over clothes and belongings to grieving relatives?</div>
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We were invited to look in every room of the house and noted that the walls, banisters and lift doors were all painted pink: was it a bold generalisation to assume that this particular aged care home catered for women only? Names were still pasted on the doors with photos of each lady; clearly all long gone but hopefully peacefully so. There was a lingering sense that it had been a decent place to live and work in.</div>
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Up on the top floor was a still-fairly-well equipped medical office and several rooms with hospital beds. Further up the hall - and being careful to tread lightly as the floorboards were spongy and the beams were now forbiddingly low - we found ourselves in a beauty salon. "Oooh, I'd love this," Sapph exclaimed at seeing a double-seated, hair drying helmet on a stand in the best pale brown and cream plastic that the nineteen sixties had to offer. Nearby were lockers with names neatly written on each and benches lined with folded aprons, smocks, bottles of congealed nail polish and hairspray cans.</div>
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Board games, videos, books, paints and boules suggested that the ladies here were pretty happy. Stacks of Villeroy and Boch dinner settings in a floral pattern, wine glasses, vases and much-used ovenproof creme brulee dishes indicated that the meals weren't too shabby either.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVFu3YvSt5inJKxQBHBa19GRPAebygcVNh5BVFH-dNRIp5Pr6DDOA68qE75rYnfdvkXDB42mCq1PtoQb3PT8MblB3fO6F2ktnJYWq7buRf3PpKqTDMxf6bKQWZvCIUMGfJn1e/s1600/Swiss+wool+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVFu3YvSt5inJKxQBHBa19GRPAebygcVNh5BVFH-dNRIp5Pr6DDOA68qE75rYnfdvkXDB42mCq1PtoQb3PT8MblB3fO6F2ktnJYWq7buRf3PpKqTDMxf6bKQWZvCIUMGfJn1e/s320/Swiss+wool+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A vinyl suitcase from the 1970s revealed a barrel load of wool; worth hundreds of francs if purchased today. It seemed an insult to take the pale violet, salmon and soft white mohair and cashmere balls, so the sturdier, plainer ones were selected to knit more blankets-for-the-homeless in front of the telly in order to prevent me from picking at the skin around my nails. Another suitcase held the needles - how many hands had used them, and what had they created?<br />
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Kidney-shaped vomit bowls (I toyed, very briefly, with the idea of buying one and using it to serve up cashews to shocked dinner party guests but Sapphire talked me out of it), bed pans, shower gels for sensitive skin, walking sticks, wheel chairs, crutches, bandages and ointments a plenty with beige and rose-patterned chairs stacked up to the roof. Streets ice-cream outdoor umbrellas jostled for space next to large framed photographs of seagulls and industrial-sized fridges that were being measured up and lugged away by fellas blocking the driveway with their truck.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7hp5Va9lzO9QWgGgRv8nnYayHcy-Oe2B-73vDMylDPHx-oAMJRnpvlJG-eXssulwcXgZNK-UeEeMKm9805-VWyucTFurH1gNU7kMBOxWrXNaAV4oZmyQT7Y2kSUg-aeta5KK/s1600/Retro+Swiss+scarf+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7hp5Va9lzO9QWgGgRv8nnYayHcy-Oe2B-73vDMylDPHx-oAMJRnpvlJG-eXssulwcXgZNK-UeEeMKm9805-VWyucTFurH1gNU7kMBOxWrXNaAV4oZmyQT7Y2kSUg-aeta5KK/s320/Retro+Swiss+scarf+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We both loved this scarf that featured all the capital cities of all the Swiss cantons and bought another one that did a very good imitation of a green-themed Hermes classic. The third was an Australian tea towel featuring the 2005 calendar. "I'll fold it in half and make it into a cushion," Sapphire said, her attention now distracted by something really unique. "Oh will you look at <i>that</i>......"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmkyXZ7SC669vFKd69ogT7zrzG95WWNjKcqK_YWGtqfc-ArRiwKSBi0xRusJJ41gqKKCP46aw2rxh1sXtb2QXfHtUDDtg29PV8jd7rEzBUHNY56KwPSpzqNmuCkpFE9EE32Y_/s1600/Sapphires+duck+lamp+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmkyXZ7SC669vFKd69ogT7zrzG95WWNjKcqK_YWGtqfc-ArRiwKSBi0xRusJJ41gqKKCP46aw2rxh1sXtb2QXfHtUDDtg29PV8jd7rEzBUHNY56KwPSpzqNmuCkpFE9EE32Y_/s320/Sapphires+duck+lamp+(2).jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
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A duck lamp. <i>A duck lamp!</i> There were at least twenty of them stacked on a bookcase and my only regret is that I didn't buy them all and decide to set up a funky coffee house/second book shop with duck lamps on each table...... This one is now sitting (and works) next to Sapphire's bed.<br />
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I often remark that Sapph should have been growing up anywhere between the 1920s and 1960s because she adores finding retro treasures such as the travel clock pictured above, now proudly displayed in her room. Therefore, when we found some pearls and the finest, softest navy blue leather gloves that fit her hands perfectly, she had to have them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuopVou539NXwEtlQPzhIocTWd0tWP0YwiDehVMnIUi-TIl0jLSBjg0Qq-Bp2FPZ2AnEKZ-LGXAje2fYsT7IFU34RFiBh2XdU4PeaX0hDn5BPukKDpLQ_wDOD_xJn3lQ6KxRU/s1600/Retro+Carly_3+030313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuopVou539NXwEtlQPzhIocTWd0tWP0YwiDehVMnIUi-TIl0jLSBjg0Qq-Bp2FPZ2AnEKZ-LGXAje2fYsT7IFU34RFiBh2XdU4PeaX0hDn5BPukKDpLQ_wDOD_xJn3lQ6KxRU/s320/Retro+Carly_3+030313.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuopVou539NXwEtlQPzhIocTWd0tWP0YwiDehVMnIUi-TIl0jLSBjg0Qq-Bp2FPZ2AnEKZ-LGXAje2fYsT7IFU34RFiBh2XdU4PeaX0hDn5BPukKDpLQ_wDOD_xJn3lQ6KxRU/s1600/Retro+Carly_3+030313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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Milly had spent the afternoon at home with Love Chunks enjoying the sunshine streaming through the large living room window as he tried to watch the NAB cup on the laptop. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qei3kEAwYk8fnY8J4qLh3OplyOqz9C6qNAXb2BquLAMeqYfLNQcoDnZ0lJin-I8GgL1zHQPtQh47xb9sYBNwNoSNkwxf-IGYUBYQuQ8NRS3P9jwBciM14FY6Fj4dcl2WhjQY/s1600/Sundog+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qei3kEAwYk8fnY8J4qLh3OplyOqz9C6qNAXb2BquLAMeqYfLNQcoDnZ0lJin-I8GgL1zHQPtQh47xb9sYBNwNoSNkwxf-IGYUBYQuQ8NRS3P9jwBciM14FY6Fj4dcl2WhjQY/s320/Sundog+(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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When we bustled in with a bulging Nanna cart and several bags, he patiently sat through our excited presentation of 'finds', nodding and saying 'aah' at (mostly) the right time before noting that we hadn't found anything for him. "There was a zimmer frame that caught our eye, POG<span style="color: red;">*** </span>dearest, but don't worry, your next glass of wine will come with a clown-faced toothpick perching on the edge."<br />
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And, as per the Dog Code of Living With Humans Who Are Easily Amused, Milly too was forced to model the scarf:<br />
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...which she did keep on marginally longer than the <a href="http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.ch/2013/02/bonza-blogger-river-from-drifting.html">bra 'ears'</a> we forced her to wear a week or so ago. All this loot for the grand total of fifteen francs!<br />
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<span style="color: red;">***</span> POG - Pompous Old Git. Applied only to Love Chunks and <i>not</i> the previous occupants of the aged care facility.MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994418.post-10144316636299436452013-03-01T17:01:00.001+01:002013-03-01T17:02:34.169+01:00Listen<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUEI-73Ygb7ST5NFoh1I86LdLOczKt3k3ShDAgLLA7HkCL15n5sqUihvHXB1Q_AlnyA6QEaj_kZ3y4jDY7kxQdxlKEruQCqjNvve8ZLuzzkRRjqX3WPphDwiH1LUeSMa2egSY/s1600/Good+listener.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUEI-73Ygb7ST5NFoh1I86LdLOczKt3k3ShDAgLLA7HkCL15n5sqUihvHXB1Q_AlnyA6QEaj_kZ3y4jDY7kxQdxlKEruQCqjNvve8ZLuzzkRRjqX3WPphDwiH1LUeSMa2egSY/s320/Good+listener.jpg" width="262" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
biggest thing I hate about myself at first doesn’t seem like a particularly large negative, but it’s
sure as hell hard to change it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m
a shocking listener. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
coffee making skills are improving; gift-giving isn’t too shabby and making people
laugh is reasonably easy when shared experiences and silly jokes are flung
about, but being able to shut up for long(ish) periods and let someone else have
their fair shake of the sauce bottle is something that continually eludes me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Actually, <i>elude</i> is copping out lightly, making my problem seem more cuddly-wuddly than
it deserves to be. More honest ways to
describe it could include ‘overbearing,’ ‘trying far too hard,’ or ‘obviously
allergic to companionable silence.’ Yes to them all, sadly, and let’s add the one that
seems funny but really truly isn’t: being a bloody annoying show off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It
only takes a few easily-digestible advice columns or first year, week one Psychology to
understand that it stems from my desperate need for approval, attention and the
spotlight. It takes slightly more than a
Cliff notes’ read of Freud or flick through ‘I’m OK, You’re OK’ to note that despite already appreciating that my childhood
gave me <i>all</i> of those things – as well
as love, support, encouragement, freedom and creativity – my selfish
behaviour continues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">People
often remark about vacuous types who are clearly just waiting for you to stop
moving your mouth so that they can jump in and start again. I’ve nodded in recognition, but know via my
crawling insides that I’m one of those people. Geez it hurts to write that as I’d much rather be depicted as friendly,
caring, sociable and a cheerful ‘front of house’ hostess with the most-ess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There
have been more times than I wish to count that have seen me step outside of
myself and witness my almost-hysterical, strident desire to hold sway over a
gathering and feel a combined sense of deep shame and an inability to stop it.
Usually, taking the dirty dishes out to the kitchen or a change to the dessert course can help break my
dinner party domination but only if LC is there to dash in behind me and softly whisper something
like, “Kath, this isn’t meant to be nasty but you never give anyone a chance to
speak!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
is always correct. “If there are eight
people at the table, it’s best to assume that you should only get one eighth of
the conversation space.” My stupid, nasally, look-at-moiye voice.... it's not like I <i>enjoy</i> hearing it, or that anyone has remarked on its melodiousness, but why can't I shut the hell up?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
crest-fallen face always upsets him and he apologises profusely. After twenty years of togetherness shouldn’t still have to do this but he’s been
forced to do it time after time and after time and still sees his wife
embarrass him, herself and their child with her ‘Look at me! Hear me! LIKE ME! Antics. I’m forty four years old for pharksakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJtiRRc2Pjwdi3xfg4TibWeXKA8oOSLVGWcFmVnbykXyYApxEMfA7DYFrV2gzt15ABad4bSZGC_Z-gfTKBAwUp3TOrdNZ3IVS8mj_looeKEH2ee8pbNmmrwE6G90GfXnKPP-h/s1600/Kath+as+show+off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJtiRRc2Pjwdi3xfg4TibWeXKA8oOSLVGWcFmVnbykXyYApxEMfA7DYFrV2gzt15ABad4bSZGC_Z-gfTKBAwUp3TOrdNZ3IVS8mj_looeKEH2ee8pbNmmrwE6G90GfXnKPP-h/s320/Kath+as+show+off.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another
thing it's long past time to be brutally truthful about is how the sound of laughter is like melted
Lindt chocolate being lovingly poured all over my ego, dripping through to every crack and crevice of my painfully shallow and personality-parched body. My soul thrives on it and craves more of it
the more it is given. Friends sometimes manage to get a
word in and tell entertaining stories of their past or recent adventures or
observations, and I barge in, with an Annie Oakley-style, <i>‘Anything you can do
I can do</i> (say, tell, enact, sing, recall, embellish, mimic) <i>better</i>,’ undoubtedly causing guests –
and LC – to sit back and eventually give up. It’s
impossible to bust through when I'm locked and loaded in full show-off mode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“For
gods’ sake Mum, stop talking and listen to me!” This one hurts the most because it's true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been a struggle writing this blog lately because a lot of what affects or interests me is of a deeply personal nature. It would be a betrayal of the other people involved if I discussed issues that not only concern me but them also. Having a rueful laugh is one thing, but it should only be <i>my</i> flaws that I dissect here at the keyboard.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0g_r-p_jkhZOnEvnVcNgrLxb0qgAR9TvRehKB6p60avecm5p4kJXSL4IyrIL7Vjt-BS87-zA-K91AhaFPSPkEFBEInEmXp1tWB2qjp6L0hDYnYMcI8G1XUQ-liO9f7ee4_z1/s1600/Kaths+furry+soulmate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0g_r-p_jkhZOnEvnVcNgrLxb0qgAR9TvRehKB6p60avecm5p4kJXSL4IyrIL7Vjt-BS87-zA-K91AhaFPSPkEFBEInEmXp1tWB2qjp6L0hDYnYMcI8G1XUQ-liO9f7ee4_z1/s320/Kaths+furry+soulmate.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I need to take my cue from Milly the dog. She sits, she listens and somehow understands what is required of her. A swish of her tail, a raised eyebrow muscle or zany smile as she dashes past in the park says it all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chewing gum has always given me a stomach ache (juices flowing, no food arriving = tummy in turmoil) but maybe it would help keep my jabber jaws occupied and other guests able to complete a full sentence or three without a Kath-style conversation crash in. Drinking more might help keep my cake hole under control but only if it's non-alcoholic. Too many fermented fruits or yeasty bubbles just make me worse. Diet coke and water is a viable option as it would also see me visit the bathroom more often, thus creating even more breaks for my buddies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously though, I owe several hundred people over the past two decades an apology or two.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And more recently, Sapphire. The thing she needs most right now is my ear. And my two arms for a hug. Hugs I can do and will try very hard to offer them more often. And in silence.</span></div>
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MedicatedMoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08609190990579743429noreply@blogger.com27