Blurb from the Burbs

Follow the Yellow Whizz Road

2012-02-13T15:41:00.000+01:00

Much has been made in the news recently of the Big Freeze affecting Europe, and Geneva is most certainly caught up in it.

We had a pretty thorough snow fall over two-and-a-half weeks ago that is still lingering on the ground, despite no extra falls since then. However with the arctic winds and the temperatures staying in the minus double-digits, the fluffy white stuff has either iced up or been blown to smithereens.

Dad confirmed that no, not even in Aberdeen, when we regularly faced the North Sea squalls and wind fresh from the Russian steppes, did we have temperatures like those we're currently experiencing here in Switzerland. I remember my mother hanging up some bedsheets to dry in the glass-house overlooking the railway line and snapping a corner off the following morning as though it was a toffee shard.

Here in Geneva, the edges of driveways and footpaths are all lined with stubborn snow. Carved by temperature, squalls and time, they each resemble jagged white rocks proudly personifying the hardy survivors of a freeze that has seen cars so iced up by the edge of Lac Leman that their owners have been instructed by the council to forget about them until March. The narrow letterbox view afforded me between the beanie pulled down over my eyebrows, scarf pulled up to my nostrils and neck puffed up with two hoodies showed that the 'rocks' look rather formal and as though they'd been deliberately arranged and painted.

Up close is a different matter and, as the days roll wind-chillingly by, the 'rocks' are now yellow from the frequent and regular whizzings of the neighbourhood dogs. Milly has given up investigating these canine stories and just adds her own on top, trotting away as her contribution steams its presence before freezing into the rest. Heaven help the hygiene of the place should there be a sudden drop in temperature.

The ground now revealed underneath the ice is bone dry, as is the air we walk through, breathe and live in. As a born-and-raised South Aussie gal used to 'dry' heat of 43C in summer that sucks the moisture from your eyeballs the moment you step out of the back door, this wintry, cold-snap dryness is a new one.

There's a tickling on my lips when I'm out in the mornings with Milly. It feels as though some tiny bugs want to settle there. I brush them away ineffectually with my gloves and it's only afterwards when treated to a view of myself in the lift's mirrors that I see that the 'bugs' are in actual fact just thin strips of dangling skin. Having never been endowed with Angelina Jolie-like lips, it now appears that my two Kenneth Branagh pencil lines have enough material to transform themselves from a slashed cakehole entrance to a peeling fringe.

Further examination shows the salty trails of tears that have since dried up in the wind. I'm not the only sad bugger out on the streets. Everyone else is crying too, dabbing at their eyes before the howling breeze whips the tissue out of their hands and sends it on to Paris. I've had more conversations with passersby during this cold snap than in any other time during my seven months here. It's not particularly eloquent though - usually we wipe the moisture from our eyes and an involuntary "Oooofff!" escapes us as we react to yet another breeze that punches the kidneys and shreds the mouth.

The worst effect, however, is not my small-shaped head looking like a grey polar-fleece penis in its beanie, nor my torso as a parka-covered homage to the Michelen Man. It's my nose.

Little did I know it, but the animated conversation I had with Francine in the park as her beloved black lab again attempted to hump Milly was conducted with frozen snot smeared across my cheek in a wind-blown zig-zag a drunken snail would have been proud to call its own.

Ah winter. The perfect opportunity to hide one's flab but not one's fluids.

Dough dodgers

2012-02-10T10:44:00.000+01:00

We might be living in Switzerland, but as Geneva is a tiny pimple that is pretty-well poked into by France, most of the foods, customs and lifestyle here is indisputably French.

Nothing more so than the bread. Long, thin baguettes comprise 99% of all bread sold and consumed in this part of the world. Crusty, fresh and flavoursome, it is designed to be bought and devoured on the same day. No preservatives are added, so twenty fours later your forgotten Pain Genovese would function better as a sturdy fence post than a breakfast option.

For those who prefer their bread in sandwiches, sliced white is usually in miserable, over-priced, over-packed and over-looked bottom floor shelves of the supermarket. It is often labelled 'American Toast,' and apparently lasts longer than a starlet's post-Disney career. We've learned the hard way that this stuff is to be avoided - anything made by the Swiss to cater for a populace they're unfamiliar with tastes like, well, it's been made by a country that hasn't a clue. See peanut butter and anything labelled 'Asiatique' for other sad examples.

Back to bread. If you're not prepared to spend fifteen francs on a filled baguette for lunch, then do what most of the locals do - buy it fresh from the boulangerie and eat it plain and straight out of the bag. Simple but delicious and all the crumbs are left on the pavement behind you.

So what do people do with the bread that's as rigid as Robin Hood's arrow stash the next day? They dispose of it, of course, but not usually in the rubbish.

Because it's winter here, they're more likely to festoon the gardens of their apartment complexes, public parks and green footpaths with their doughy remnants, roughly torn into chunks and scattered at the base of bushes and tree trunks. Birds and squirrels no doubt owe their survival to the bakers' collective aversion to preservatives.

So do domestic dogs. Milly's and my morning walks are often interrupted with many stops. Not just to wee over the signatures of other canines or to sniff for squirrels and the leavings of Crapauds, but to scoff the bread that's spread out like a stale smorgasbord seemingly every step of our journey.

And if it's not baguettes, we've also discovered vol-au-vent cases, Jewish matzo bread, paninis, pain de beurres and croissants. Milly returns home looking like a furry orange barrel with flecks of flour adoring her satisfied whiskery chin.

In our own garden, what we lovingly and gratefully refer to as The Dog Forest has an abundance of trees and very little usage by the other apartment dwellers. It is mostly Milly's private playland to run, parade, sniff and dump in as she desires.

Recently however, someone has been sneaking into our pet paradise and leaving not just bread, but also apples and nuts for the Dog Forest fauna. Seeing Milly munch on almonds that were intended for the squirrels had me wondering not who the person was who was kind enough to leave them, but how on earth they a) could afford almonds and b) use them merely for fauna food. The apple quarters are usually only left by Milly because they're frozen solid, but on our next visit they've already been nibbled clean, leaving just the translucent peel behind.

The resident fox has also been in action, managing to snaffle a slow moving pigeon every other day. She leaves just the wings behind with feathers still on and a smear of blood in the snow. Yet again, this is frozen solid by the time we get to the scene and I'm relieved again that my furry companion is far too cold to contemplate rolling in these leftovers.

Back upstairs, Milly's coat is unzipped, her lead put away and my various layers are removed. She stares up at me, eyes asking for breakfast. "You've GOT to be kidding me, dog - you've just eaten a bakery display case followed by several nut clusters!"

Six thousand, two hundred and five days

2012-02-07T14:42:00.003+01:00

On Sunday, Love and Chunks and I celebrated being married for seventeen years.

Come to think of it, 'celebrate' isn't the right word. We noted its passing, smiled at each other, murmured 'Happy Anniversary' and got on with the day. It's not one of the officially-recognised Big Ones, so there was no paper or copper or tupperware or ruby-themed gifts.

Like the wedding itself, the day was not one full of whizz bang sparkles, string quartets, satin-clad attendants or long speeches. The dress cost a total of twelve dollars for the material and Dad walked me out of the front door, down the driveway and into their magnificent back garden. Ironically the hat cost ten times more than the outfit but stayed on my head for the grand total of two minutes before being blown off by the blasted Murray Bridge wind.

For someone known as being a bit of a clown and a show-off, no-one was more surprised than me at how nervous I felt.

I wasn't frightened about being married to Love Chunks at all but was terrified at having everyone's eyes on me. I wasn't a cute little size zero in sequinned lace who had always dreamed of wafting down the aisle to gasps of envy and amazement but was instead a puffy and becoming-sick* 26 year old who felt unglamorous, unable to smile and with all her intestinal workings frozen. That's why the only photo we've got framed is the one above; a rare shot of me looking happy instead of grim. It's probably because I was staring at my brand new husband.

Three and a half years later, I had beaten the brain tumour, confounded the medicos and was pregnant with Sapphire.

From the very first moment we 'met', I've been dazzled at my first sight of her every day. Twelve years later finds that this hasn't changed in the slightest and I have to remind myself to actively listen to what she's saying instead of just thinking, "She's truly dazzling. How on earth did we make her?"

She says, "Thank god you've got Milly the dog, Mum, or you'd be hugging and kissing and pestering me even more than you already do."

We've had some terrific holidays together and there are no two finer people I'd want by my side when things get tough, hilarious, puzzling, adventurous, relaxing, sad, intense, chaotic and contented.

One of the many things I appreciated about LC was that we fell in love when I was the least attractive 'catch' in all senses of the word.

I was two stone overweight after living in London; owed a small fortune on my credit card with little chance of paying it off in a reasonable time frame; had no idea what sort of career path to pursue and drove a burnt orange 1971 volvo and regularly wore a dark green paisley-patterned corduroy shirt that he hated. "Bend over and touch your toes, Kath. Yep, like that. Now I've got a table and a table cloth."

The shirt didn't come when we moved in together, but neither did his speedos or black shellsuit pants. From having a bathroom with a hole in the wall, snot-coloured carpet and a windsurfer stored where the spare bed should have been we've since moved to three different states, lived in seven different houses and, currently, our second country.

Like Sapphire he too constantly dazzles me. From small-but-considerate things like making me a cup of coffee every morning to picking up the shattered remains of a breakdown, he's been strong, understanding, tolerant and, most importantly of all, exceedingly kind. Those blue eyes are as variable in colour as the sky and it's impossible for me to get tired of looking into them.

Most people don't list 'kind' as a key quality they seek in a partner. You normally see 'a good sense of humour, reasonable looks, steady job and reliable' on the list, but kindness is essential for a life well-lived and loved. LC personifies kindness to me.

He has always been able to see beyond my Potato Face and inability to wear make up without looking like a bruised clown and I'm fully aware that when we watch terribly tacky video shows of old ladies falling over in creek beds and kids doing major stacks on their bikes, he gets more entertainment from laughing at me because I am genuinely unable to control the hoots and shrieks that burst out of my mouth.

He hasn't landed himself a style icon or a wealthy careerist either, but he's appreciative of my efforts to create a clean(ish) house, a full pantry and a social life and is always supportive of my various writing projects and enjoys watching how Sapphire and I muck around together as equals.

THIS is what he comes home to most nights...

...... and I'll be forever grateful that he does. I love you, LC.

* Brain tumour was diagnosed three months after we were married.

Tapping out a tantrum

2012-02-01T11:18:00.003+01:00

I've met a few inspirational people in the past couple of weeks and despite their differences in age, humour, interests and circumstance, a theme has emerged: give yourself permission to say 'no'.

So I've decided to say 'no' to formally learning French. There. It's out, finally: like a satisfying session on the toilet, it's a big load off.

Before arriving in French-speaking Switzerland, I bought a couple of DVDs, two textbooks and researched online. There was no way that I was going to be a 'Garcon? Garcon? Geez you can't get good local help here' kind of harridan. Au contraire; I was going to immerse myself, blend in, be at one with the language, culture and people. Learn and absorb, gather and grow; suck it and see.

But plans and assumptions are like market-stall underpants - they disappear up your butt when you least expect it. Once Sapphire started school and our holiday tutor selfishly returned to her law studies in English, my French learning ended.

Then Sapphire got sick and I missed the two-second window to enrol in the UN French courses for 'epouses' for the 'bargain' cost of 800 francs. When the new year arrived my attentions were on snow skiing, holidaying, eating, drinking, socialising and dallying with The Fratman, all thoughts of learning online for an hour every day crumpled up into a smaller ball than the screwed up foil on a family-sized block of Cailler chocolate.

Getting some new freelance writing gigs has also filled up the tiny space left in my brain for active thought or expansion. When I'm out walking Milly and thinking up different ways to describe farts, French people and bread rolls, how can there possibly be enough remaining mental energy to remember the seven different ways to say 'I am, you are, we are, they are', let alone describe what the people depicted in the 'I am, you are, we are, they are' scenarios are actually doing?

Which brings me to yesterday. The plumbing firm finally arrived to check out the pong in Sapphire's bathroom and the leaky kitchen sink. "We 'ave found one who speaks Anglaise," Monsieur Steiner told me over the phone. I thanked him effusively which always tends to help. Exceeding gratefulness makes even the most stern-looking Swiss person thaw themselves out to crank out a vague, smug smile.

I was ready. On Love Chunks' iPad I had written a thoroughly absorbing and accurate account of what we'd done to clean the pipes/combat the bathroom smells and where the leak was occurring in the sink.

"Bonjour Monsieur! Parlez vous Anglais?"
"Non."

Oh. Bugger.

I showed him the iPad, noting that stale BO, cigarettes and cheese seemed to be at war under his coat. He grunted to indicate that he'd finished reading and I pointed to the kitchen.

This is when I knew that he must be The Fratman's cousin. He rabbited on and on in French, despite me saying, "Je suis desolee, je suis Australien," over again, smiling, hoping he'd see that I wasn't trying to be rude or obstructive. All my previous gestures and charades were studiously being ignored.

In frustration he shook the tap, speaking louder. I decided to speak even louder - in English - back to him. "NO, THERE'S A LEAK UNDER THE SINK........ Oh wait, let me get the iPad and we'll talk that way............"

When I entered the kitchen with LC's black magical tablet in my hands a few moments later, Ponce Pants the Plumber rolled his eyes and sighed, muttering something quite lengthy that I knew was something about wasting his time, me being an ignorant idiot and him with his fish-finger sized-digits meant that there'd be no way he'd be able to type anything other an 'asd' when he only wanted the 's'.

At his rather obvious impertinence, I decided to keep talking in English, knowing that he didn't understand, "Yeah well I'm sorry this is an inconvenience for you, but you read my explanation; I pointed out where the pipe is loose and yes, it's annoying that you have to wipe your hands on your pants before trying to type something for me, but that seems to be life for us both at the moment, doesn't it....."

Tappita tappita tappita I went, my anger increasing my typing speed.

He read it and sighed, placing the iPad on top of the stove hot plates and slowly s-l-o-w-l-y picked out the letters. 'The tap is loose is not your pipe.'

Tappita tappita tappita 'The tap might be loose also but the pipe is leaky too - take a look at how it can pop open - it has done this already and water has leaked all over the floor'

Still he made no move to bend down and peer under the sink. Trying to calm down, I ruffled Milly's ears as she stood by and sniffed at the Ponce Pants' pungent work boots. 'I will order new tap. We call you.'

"But what about the leak?" I said this out loud, before Tappita tappita tappita, this time adding several exclamation marks after the question.

'We call you.' He put the iPad down, indicating that he no longer wanted to use it. "La bains?"

Ah yes, Sapphire's bathroom. Tappita tappita tappita - long story about the terrible odour, the steps we'd taken to use drain cleaner, water flushing, keep things clean.

"Le bidet?"

"Oui. Nous laver le bidet." Tappita tappita tappita - Yes, we flush the bidet regularly because we know that when we don't use it the water can sit there and start to smell very bad.

He shook his head. "Vous devez toujours l'eau de rinçage dans le bidet."

What? I handed him the iPad. He shook his head.

It was my turn to sigh. "Look buddy, I don't understand what you're saying; I've waited three weeks for an appointment to be made and most mornings Sapphire is afraid to open her mouth to clean her teeth in case the aroma jumps in and makes her vomit, so please use the iPad." I thrust it at him again. I swear he was typing even slower this time, just to make me sweat. 'You need to clean the bidet.'

Tappita tappita tappita - 'But I told you that we DO clean the bidet - regularly! I flush it with water all the time!' My furious fingers were flying and Ponce Pants noted my speed with a tiny skerrick of admiration.

Raising both hands up in the world-recognised, 'Ok, whatever you say, lady' gesture, he set to work in the bathroom. I huffed off into the study and Tappita tappita tappita-ed on some freelance stuff. Sounds of monkey wrenches on tiles, running water and Milly's paws on the floor rang out as she oscillated between her Angry Alpha Female and Ponce Pants.

An hour later he stood at my doorway, grunting. 'Termini.'

I brushed past him and swept into her bathroom. The pong had gone!

"Merci! Tres bien! Merci monsieur!" My smile and gratitude were genuine.

He pointed to the base of the toilet and then to the iPad. Yes, he wanted to use it. 'Toilet base is loose. See if this is OK and if not, I come back.'

I nodded. "OK, thank you."

He nodded in response and typed again. 'And back with new kitchen tap.'

"Oui."

The leaky pipe can wait. Sapphire can use her bathroom again; the basin under the sink pipe manages to catch most of the drips and Ponce Pants smiled at me before he left.

They're dreamin'

2012-01-29T15:02:00.003+01:00

Darryl Kerrigan, the classic working class Aussie father from The Castle used to like reading the 'For Sale' adverts in the Trading Post.

"Hey Dad - guess how much they want for these jousting sticks?"

Darryl would hear the outlandish price and scoff, "They're dreamin'!"

It's amazing how often I think of him - a fictional character - when I'm out with Robyn on a brocanting (flea market) jaunt. We tend to meet each other at the Genevan equivalent of Rundle Mall's Balls - The Broken Chair.

This little group regularly demonstrates on the quadrangle out the front and is noticed by, well, no-one much. They're dreamin....

Over at the actual flea market in Plain Palais, I had a five franc budget for the day (that's what having a now-healthy twelve year old does to you) and a determination to photograph anything that elicited a 'They're dreamin'!" response.

Like this. A box of skipping rope handles.

Still, our friend Jenny later remarked that they could in fact be good for those of us who tend to fall over the rope. "Just twirl the handles and jump," she suggested, "without then being in danger of having your ankles whipped out from under you." A nice idea, but a week later when she went brocanting with Bruce, they were still for sale.

So if a workout partly coordinated by The Invisible Man wasn't a bargain hunters' dream, perhaps a second-hand trophy was. Hold me back - it was the Inter Banques Petanque Victory Cup from..... *rushed past the 1870s Singer sewing machine* ...... 1988!

Better still, he only wanted a teeny five francs for it!

But we'd only just begun and on the very next stall was a bewildering combination of retro racism, nineties ugliness and mismatched ornamentation:

I'd venture that the blues bass player would not have even heard of a compact disc, let alone be allowed to sit down next to the white men who were developing them several decades after his night club gigs ended. Sixty francs - they're dreamin'!

But wait ...... what was this I saw before me....? Something the Abominable Snowman used as his school satchel?

A hairy backpack. Not a euphemism, but slightly mange-affected and with a distinct aroma of armpit. I tentatively stroked it and decided not to ask the price. Coarse hairs had stubbornly stuck to my fingertips and it took several wipes on my jeans to get rid of them.

Gone with the wind in German? We all know that der Deutschland is the poetic language of lust, love and longing, much as we all tend to say, 'Jeez I'm starving. I'm really hanging out for some German tonight. Cancel the Thai Palace, let's find us some stuffed sausage!'

This stall owner wasn't even trying to convince us that these wooden shoe molds were worth considering, as they were carelessly tipped out on the ground next to some curtains and motorbike helmets. The effect was slightly creepy and at ten francs per foot, it was beyond 'dreamin'.

Moving right along to get that sad little scene out of my mind, I noticed a masterpiece:

Nude musicians, Picasso-style, for thirty francs. With a bonus empty banana box to carry it home in. Very, very tempting, as was Shazza Stone, featuring in a 1993 magazine shortly after flashing her map of Tassie to fame:

Still my five franc coin stayed in my pocket, now with a few hairy backpack fibres clinging to it. Would it ever be spent on something unique, something special, something that would find a fond spot in our home?

These were five francs each but looked too disgusting to touch, let alone read the labels or sniff the corks. A shrug was all we got in response to "What kind of wine is it? Quelle age?"

We suspected that the real answer was Le Ancient Garage.

Still, a glug or eleven of Dodgy plonk might have helped convince me that a blowfish lamp could soften the blunt impact of our IKEA-laden apartment:

....or that a set of photographs depicting eye surgery might look a treat when framed and hung up on the eastern wall of the living room.

Maybe the poor patient was given these menthols to help in their recovery afterwards.

Onto Spanish comedy magazines from the nineteen seventies, with Super Senorita's head concealing part of the title so that I originally read it as 'El Pus' magazine and was reluctant to open the pages.

It must be said that a big part of brocanting is the rummaging, especially in neglected boxes of assorted junk. It is there that silver jugs, rare saucers and vintage medical equipment can sometimes be found.

This box of old mice and cords didn't scream out that usual siren song, however. Dust, desperation and despair was more like it.

Jenny had already wandered off and found some terrific pewter plates with very intricate inlays on them, hand engraved and dating from the 1920s. With her halting French, she managed to convince this top-hatted fella to drop the price.

He had some pretty unique and genuinely antique pieces for sale, but the ambience was made slightly challenging by the death metal blasting out of the speakers in the open doors of his van. Jenny's sign language possibly proved more effective than her spoken French.

Stop the search...... could this be something I put away for Love Chunks, I wondered. A turn right sign and a yellow bike frame?

Er no.

And this world weary chick agreed with me.

Here it was, finally! THE piece that would make our Allen-Key Apartment a home. A quirky one perhaps, but an individual one.... Tacky, funny, furry and grotesque - flea market perfection.

Yes. This was where my five francs was going to be spent! A triple-legged lamp stand!

One hundred and fifty? Was monsieur quite sure? No, I didn't want to take a look at single cow horn night light as a forty franc alternative, so I was on my way....

....to finding some real art. Art done by the people, for the people.

Well, blind people perhaps.

If the box of Commodore 64-era computer equipment for sale wasn't optimistic enough, we came to these - unloved remotes for five francs each.

Nope, couldn't do it. My coin stayed with me for another hour until I found the complete works of Jane Austen crammed into one bulging paperback - in English - for two francs and a cup of coffee for three.

Four hours of fun for five francs. I'm starting to love living in this bewildering, slightly odd, tiny little city.

Walking against the wind

2012-01-24T07:20:00.003+01:00

Love Chunks and Sapphire often like to laugh at my tendency to use charades and sound effects in my conversations.

"For a writer, you rely a hell of a lot on acting out particular fart noises."

"Mum, did you really have to make that face to the post man?"

They claim that my whole family has this tendency and when we get together for big celebrations, there's a lot of 'Brrrrrrring' and 'Ppppphphtttttt' and 'Wockita whockita whockitas' being thrown into the mix. We understand each other completely and, if anything, this Read Family proclivity has served me pretty well as a non-French speaker (or comprehender) in la Suisse.

A few weeks back I was in the amusingly named XXX Sports Shop purchasing no, not porn, but three sets of cycling socks for LC. At the checkout, I'm always relieved when a 'Bonjour' whilst handing over my credit card is all the language skills I need.

The lady smiled at me and did her swiping thing when a huge wave of putrescent PONG swept us over both, the heat and strength making us both sway on our feet a little.

Her nostrils twitched slightly and all of a sudden she broke off eye contact with me, our shared smile now gone.

She thought that I had popped out a burst of flatulence so turgid that the sale posters were flapping up and down in the breeze. Now, it's a fair assumption that I do emit my share, but I'm always prepared to own up to them. But when it's not mine I'm far less willing to have it assigned to me. Besides, if I'd pushed out something this gaseous I'd be straight off to buy a new pair of pants before my appointment with the proctologist....

I was in a bind. The words for 'fart' and 'that old man who walked in behind me who is now browsing in the fishing gear section is the culprit' were way beyond me.

So I did what any member of the Read family would do and used my body and my voice to get my message across. Reaching to tap her arm, I said in French, "Non moi--------" and waved the air near my arse before pointing dramatically north, "------Il!"

Translation: No me...... HE!

I hopped on one leg, pinched my nose shut and violently shook my head. "Non Moi!"

"NO ME!"

She laughed, rolled her eyes at the Flatulent old Fart now holding up some hiking boots and bid me farewell. My reputation was safe.

But other occasions have also seen me rely on anything other than acceptable, clearly spoken words. Love Chunks works in a UN organisation where the official language is English, so most things are professionally-run, understood by everyone participating and no crossed wires occur.

Out in the real world, with drivers of mini-tractors full of compost who want you off the footpath, plumbers who apologise for being five minutes late and coffee shop ladies who detest all of their customers, it's more of a challenge to communicate.

Once again I found myself pointing to my own bottom, frantically fanning my hands around it in pantomimed disgust and shaking my head "NO" in order to get the concierge to understand that the lingering, dead-squirrel odour in Sapphire's unused bidet was not of our making.

I later discovered that grotesquely rubbing my stomach and screwing up my face before pointing to Milly and wrinkling up my nose was a good way to explain to the old lady who wanted to pat her that my dog had just run through the park and was covered in mud. "Orange, Madame, Orange," I said, pointing to a stripe on my top. "Milly is usually orange in colour and not the chocolate brown you see before you. Pat at your peril," my actions said.

Guillaime, our upstairs neighbour, joined me in the lift. With my hands forming a rectangular shape and my mouth emitting 'brrm brrrm' noises, he was made aware that we have a spare car parking space to rent. He nodded politely in that 'I don't know what the hell she's doing, but I'll let her talk so that I don't have to admit anything' kind of way before almost pushing me out when the doors opened to my floor.

At the chemist, I pointed to my shoulder and put on what I thought was a Meryl Streep-worthy sad face. "Ow," I groaned, my bottom lip folded over almost to the ground. "Chaud?"

"Hot?" Rubbing my shoulder, I continued to say, "Chaud?" and put on a smile to show that it would help me recover. Ten minutes later, I had a tube of Deutschland Deep Heat in my hands; exhausted after ten minutes of acting and not helped by the mother and toddler who wanted to 'help' the pharmacist guess my ailment.

Game show hostesses' gracious arm movements are another big help for this non-French speaker. "Yes, you can take the last tub of Quark," I say in English, sweeping my arm across the refrigerated cabinet in a 'Look at all these wonderful prizes' gesture of awe and generosity. The woman does, snatching it up and wheeling off before she has to thank the lunatic who let her.

Still, at the end of the day, I mostly end up completing my list of chores, buying the food we need and arriving home in one piece. Not, however, without a least one snigger.

Today's was at LaCoste; the over-priced polo tops with crocodiles on the pockets. A huge sign was in the window:
ACTION MAN SACS!*

Boy oh boy, who knew that they'd expanded their range that far?

* SALE MENS BAGS. Nowhere near as amusing to the locals who saw me bent over laughing.

Sunday Selections

2012-01-22T09:28:00.001+01:00

Every Sunday, River, one of my favourite bloggers, posts up some photos she's not used or blogged about before, and links back to the originator of this meme, Kim from Frog Ponds Rock.

It was 8am yesterday morning, and time to take Milly for her long walk. We were about to exit the pristine Marble, Wood Grain and Terracotta Tile Shrine to the 1970s, otherwise known as the foyer. This is kept spotlessly clean by the Fratman and is the reason why I had my Wellington boots and a towel in a plastic bag to put on the second we landed on the mat outside. It is to remain clean enough to eat off at all times (not that such a thing is permitted, of course)

But hey ..... wait a second ...... peering through the doors leading to the neighbouring building was a sad little figure.

I'd seen her before, usually sunning herself outside in the planter boxes and always ignored by Milly because of the siren scent of squirrels in the air. This may surprise you, but I've always had a soft spot for cats as well as dogs; it's just that I've been worn down over the years by living and loving people who are allergic to the critters and have (rightful) concerns about their bird-killing abilities.

Our little resident cutie, however, was doing neither of those things. She was starting straight at me and miaowing pitifully.

"Oh you poor little thing; did you follow your owner downstairs and get locked in the foyer?"

Conveying this sort of empty sympathy was more difficult than it reads because both of my hands were full. One with the mud-repellent equipment I was officially required to put on, and the other with a now very, very stimulated and determined orange dog.

She yanked herself free and smacked into the opposite door, paws slipping and sliding like a blind beginner out ice skating.

"MILLY! NOOOOOO!"

So much for respecting the 'No discernible noise to be made my residents before 8am' rule. The echo of my admonishment thundered against all the shiny surfaces and back again, making my ears ring.

Milly surprised me by being bright enough to nudge the door that she knew was the one that opened. She was going to get that cat somehow.

She then didn't surprise me by ending up with slightly squashed face and leaving a damp and smeared impression of Disappointed Dog on the glass.

It was a good thing I had my towel with me and gave it a quick wipe down before dragging Milly outside.

She's been sniffing for the cat at those doors ever since.

Morning tea with Madonna

2012-01-19T10:35:00.003+01:00

'Tis a funny thing, having dreams. Despite preferring to think of myself as a relatively creative person, it is a very rare occurrence to have any that stay in my memory after I've turned off the alarm, groaned and stretched.

Last night, however, I was in a thick, dark jungle. Vines were all around me with remnants of ropes and wooden step ladders hanging haphazardly overhead. This jungle must have been a contender for bio-versatility because it also housed nordic pine trees, pre-historic cycad ferns and, of all things, heavily-laden but unsupervised donkeys calmly wandering the leaf-strewn floor.

It was imperative that I get to the Front of the Line and swing nimbly like Tarzan on a Triple Espresso past the other contenders. I wasn't smug as I passed them, just relieved, and immediately focussed my efforts on overtaking the next person working their way through the jungle and so on and so forth.

"Crikey, getting myself that treadmill's certainly helped in the fitness stakes," I thought to myself, in that bizarre window of realisation that:
a) you're dreaming; and
b) you're providing some kind of commentary on the dream you're currently having.

The Front of the Line was eventually reached and was a collection of Spanish-looking white-daubed haciendas in a muddy clearing. The hide-out of Columbian drug lords? A dodgy two-star resort? Murray Bridge's new housing estate circa 1976? I wasn't sure, except it was nowhere I'd ever been before.

The other side of the buildings revealed a crowd of dishevelled and distressed refugees. I knew that they were refugees even though they didn't identify themselves as such; it was just one of those things you accept in dream states. These refugees were all white, hippie-looking folk and talked of how long they'd been waiting to get accepted into a better country. Years, for most of them.

My heart sank a little, but I took a number from a machine that looked rather like the one at La Poste and leaned against a stone wall, content to wait. The donkeys had by this time made it to the Haciendas with their packs on, let me pat them and, without having their loads checked or unpacked, seemed to head back in the direction they'd already come from. I didn't mind, because I'd found a pineapple that had just been spat out of the number machine. It was deliciously ripe and the skin was able to be peeled off like a mandarin.

A wooden customer service counter appeared out of the ground and my name was called.

"Here you go," said a beaming, chubby-cheeked man. "We knew that you were coming and your allotted new country is.... Switzerland!"

He leaned over to shake my hand and in the other he gave me a swizzle stick used in cocktails. This one had the Australian flag on it. I jabbed it into the remains of my pineapple and walked proudly on towards the exit sign.

None of the other refugees were outraged but wished me well. "Onyer, love," called out the tallest one with a dreadlocked beard covering his chest.

"Ta," I called back and waved.

As I turned around, I found myself back in our Geneva apartment, nervously peering through the fish eye in the door.

"Oh bugger it, it's bloody Madonna again."

Her Madge was imperiously pushing open the lift doors, clad in shiny black designer S&M threads with lacquered yellow hair that accentuated her newly pointy, stretched face. What the hell was I going to feed her, I fretted. She's a macro-biotic fuss-budget and all I've got is chocolate and coffee.

She buzzed the door and I ignored it.

"I know you're in there, Kath. I need to talk to you. Urgently."

Sighing so that she'd hear what an unwanted inconvenience she was, I slowly opened the door, making sure to roll my eyes the very moment she saw my face.

Unsurprisingly, Madonna was undeterred, and confidently swept past me with a squeak of leather and latex before plonking herself on our IKEA sofa.

Seated opposite her, I pushed my tracksuit pants into my ugg boots and zipped up my polar fleece top in a self-protective gesture. These few seconds of preparation gave me the edge: she was going to have to wait until I was ready to speak. And I was.

"Look, I think you're great at what you do. Honestly. But I've never been a huge fan and don't have time - no, hear me out, please don't interrupt - or the inclination to give you tips on your love life, OK?"

Her bottom lip started to quiver and she whispered, 'Can I please have a tissue,' just as my alarm went off.

........ I must have pulled a muscle in my neck because it's killing me this morning. I guess that swinging on vines, emigrating and rejecting superstars does that to you.

Confusing Crapauds

2012-01-14T18:25:00.001+01:00

Bogans in Australian parks like to muck around there late at night.

Presumably this is because none of them have homes decent or large enough to host parties in or, most likely, they'd rather do their depraved activities and leave their filth where someone else has to clean it up.

American author John Zeaman describes them as Shadow People; never seen by regular folk but identified only by what they leave behind.

Classic examples of Shadow People (aka Bogan)'s rubbish includes beer bottles (invariably smashed), crushed cans, syringes, Maccas wrappers and urine.

Milly regularly snuffled up free bonus feeds from left-over Red Rooster chicken bones, discarded Krazy Kebab wrappers and the occasional spilt thick shake that had solidified during its downward slide into the gutter.

Here in Geneva, the parks too are the favoured haunts of the Swiss-French Shadow People/Bogans, who we'll call Crapauds to distinguish them from their US and Antipodean counterparts.

Crapauds in our park leave behind iced tea boxes, mandarin peels, boulangerie bags and exploded fireworks.

Free food for Milly this morning was half an apple, several stale baguettes and a sly lick of an upended bottle of Guinness.

I'm yet to decide what conclusions to draw.

Pulling up my socks as high as they'll go

2012-01-12T13:47:00.000+01:00

I know I'm getting old when I realise that:

Walking slowly - with Milly sniffing, scampering and leaping around in the leaves and bushes nearby - is much nicer with my hands clasped behind my back, old-professor style.

Going out during week nights is a chore, not fun. Home is my favourite night spot - no make up, no shoes - no effort.

Saying, "I'm going to tape this show because it's on after 10pm so I'll watch it tomorrow before dinner" is doubling the old-bag-o-meter. 'Taping' betrays my origins way back to video cassettes and staying up later than 10pm is just, well, too tiring these days.

Drinking an ice cold, strongbow cider in front of the telly is best when accompanied by .... knitting. One gulp, two rows, one gulp, two rows.

Junk mail for weekly supermarket specials are now read from cover to cover. "Oh, so is that why we have two 100 jumbo packs of bog rolls jammed in where my suitcase should be," says Love Chunks.

There's no point trying to find the end of the roll of sticky tape when you're tired or in a hurry.

Once you've rubbed in all the cream on your face, mirrors are best avoided.

There really is no nicer feeling than having all the dishes done and kitchen lights off by 8pm.

And my mother was right. Tucking my t-shirt into my undies and jeans *does* make me feel warmer under my jacket.

Colin, crumbed

2012-01-08T18:14:00.000+01:00

Revered South Aussie blogger River has recently shared photos of the cheeses she found (and is contemplating tasting) at Adelaide's Central Market.

Now, without wanting to come all Annie Get Your Gun over you and sing the entire song of 'Anything you can do I can do better,' she got me thinking about cheese available here, as well as other foods.

Cheesus.....! The variety here is mind boggling. Even modest old Migros, home to everything made in Switzerland with Swiss ingredients by only certified Swiss-nation-loving, national interest folk, has a fridge section that's a hundred metres long and full of cheese. If that's not good enough you can also visit their deli and have someone cut off a specific chunk of something different for you or get the unrefrigerated long-life soapy stuff next to the eggs.

In France, a mere 5 kilometres away, LeClerc has three aisles dedicated to cheese + the separate deli section but our newest discovery, Carrefour, outranks them both.

People with lactose intolerances start to double over in abdominal pain the moment they pull into the car park because this place sells not only televisions, champagne and bullock tongues but cheese. It's easily the largest supermarket I've ever been inside and roughly 40% of it is devoted to all things cheesey. Think goat, sheep, cow, buffalo and also ash, fig, garlic, vine leaf, straw, cloth and a ten thousand moulds and you might be partway there.

But cheese is the tip of the culinary iceberg (lettuce). Australia, Switzerland and France may all be commonly considered as well-off western nations with similar cultural concerns but foods found here still surprise me.

Take the humble yoghurt, for example. Plain, Greek or fruit is about all you get at Coles, but here we can freely grab pots of hazelnut, maple leaf, coconut and chocolate (nowhere near as nice as you'd think), mocha (ditto), prune and pineapple, rhubarb, cranberry, orange and ginger, caramel, winter chestnut.

The Christmas selection not only included Apple Strudel and Marzipan flavours but also caramelised pear and coffee bean. There might be a couple of reasons why these are only placed on the shelves for a couple of weeks per year: you only want to try them once and you either have locals with bad memories or trustful new UN arrivals who like the sound of them.

My utter favourite (apart from all and every permutation of berry) was fig and honey in Greek-style yoghurt. Sweet, creamy and delectable, so why-oh-why did I go and ruin it all by turning around to the back to read the nutritional (read: depressional) panel? Thirty grams of fat. Oh. Might as well be scoffing mascarpone...

The French-Suisse don't shy away from fats (see cheese above) or the origins of their foods. Some birds still have their heads, beaks and feet on not just in rustic market stalls but also in the supermarket meat section and nine times out of ten LC and I look at a tray of meat and, once the usual suspects of chicken, beef, pork, veal, duck, horse and rabbit are eliminated, are still none the wiser. Lambs' brains are vacuum packed in groups of three and were right alongside sheep hearts; inexplicably glad-wrapped in fours. (Did the butcher feel peckish and have the fourth brain on a baguette during his lunch break?)

Frogs (grenoille) started appearing just before the Silly Season all stacked up on kebab sticks like pink scallops, and snail cooking kits were lining the shelves next to the fondue kits. Yes, fondue is truly honestly eaten here by the locals, with Gruyere and Emmental (prepared ready for the pot) outselling the other million varieties of cheeses by ten to one.

Frozen fish comes from Alaska and Iceland and one particular brand caught my eye: Colin. Colin comes crumbed, but I've yet to find out what they did to Trevor or Dennis.

Yesterday, as we dawdled up and down the immense aisles of Carrefour in the afternoon***, at the end of each one, like Australia, there featured a small display of a special (or 'action') for the week. Packets of chips on one, bottles of pear cider on another and the obligatory stale Christmas cakes further along. However, seeing rabbit set up at aisle five was a bit confronting. They may have been mercifully stripped of their fur, but the butcher had displayed them agonisingly stretched out and left their eyes in, so we had an meaty mix of painfully nude and melted-wax-like pink bugs bunny displayed to win over our stomachs (nope) and our wallets (double nope).

I vowed to Sapphire that I would never eat rabbit. We owned and loved the adorable mini-lop bunny Skipper for three years before tearfully seeing him head off in Taka's car to the fertile, green organic garden of their home in Murrumbeena. The little bugger's apparently having a better time there than he ever had with us, with free reign to eat all the spinach he can handle, dig wherever he likes and stroll inside to take his place in front of the flatscreen in the evenings.

So when Love Chunks was peering at some pots of terrine to try, I hissed, "NO! Not that one! Try this one instead!" Not having Google Translate with us meant that we didn't know that the other flavours were, so he said, "Oh, she won't know," and popped it into our trolley.

My heart sank with shame: I had promised our child that no relative of Skipper's would end up in my stomach and I'd stick with that to the very end.

..... My heart sank again later in the same day when I took the time to read the peel-back foil lid from Milly's dinner. Lapin !

They say things happen in threes, so I'm reading every single label before inserting whatever's inside into my mouth. Perhaps I'll stick to chocolate; it's a much safer option.

Ah Skipper - I miss the little guy.

*** The best time to go shopping is after 3pm when the rush is over. Peaceful and quick to the checkouts even if the crazy day's specials have all been snapped up and you're left with buying the 'Razzle Dazzle' scented laundry detergent based only on price and not knowledge of what the hell 'razzle dazzle' smells like.....

The Fratman

2012-01-04T18:23:00.001+01:00

Like all apartment buildings in Geneva - and there are lots - ours has a Concierge.

Now that sounds a lot posher than it really is because he's not a 'I'll do anything for you' smarmy chap at the luxury hotel counter or a French-speaker who offers to walk your poodles. Nope, he (normally a 'he' as one of the unofficial job requisites is unruly facial hair) just lives in the building and keeps the gardens, hallways, lifts and garages clean.

It's very hard work. Our guy, let's call him Fratman in a slight nod to his real name and because I've been using it in real life and it's stuck, is a busy little bee.

If he's not up before 6am putting out the green bins for collection on Monday, he's doing something similar for the rubbish on Tuesday and Friday or the 'Papier Receptacles' on Wednesdays. He brings them in no later than fifteen minutes after the garbage truck has been and cleans up any spills or blow outs. Considering he has six eleven-storey buildings with several hundred residents who share his street address, he has a huge amount of rubbish, cigarette butts, garden spaces and parking spots to keep tidy. He polishes windows, shared door knobs and letter boxes and - if bored and seeking a do-able dare - you could eat dinner off the parking bays.

He and I have a complicated relationship.

He can't help looking like an Orc with reading glasses (as I can't help looking like a baked potato) but he doesn't speak a word of English and I only speak about four in French. Like a Middle Earth baddie he seems to believe that if he YELLS AT ME the language will magically ooze its way into my blonde brain and we'll be able to converse eloquently ala Francais. Invariably he ends up waiting expectantly for my answer and is visibly disappointed when he only ever gets my inane grin and a 'thumbs up' sign.

Sapphire and I were shooed off the lawn when eating our lunch on a sunny summers' day because it is only for looking at not using; and the day I unthinkingly strolled across the just-mopped marble foyer saw his one eye steam up with rage before gesturing at me to "Sortez! Utilisez l'autre porte!" Merde and tete might have been muttered a few times as well.....

Then again, he apparently really loves me because I commented to Anne - a friend who lives on the first floor and is fluent in French - that Sapphire and I have noticed how hard he works. "Fratman never stops; he's like the Duracell bunny but with a big set of keys instead of drum sticks." She told him and he now beams at me with his one good eye.

Anne is now unwittingly involved in our relationship. The Fratman knows that we are friends. She is, after all, a nurse from New Zealand and I, the clueless cretin from Australia. Geographic proximity is enough.

"He's going to write a letter to the Regie," Anne exclaimed one morning, slightly out of breath from indignation and eight flights of stairs. "He knows that it's you who traipses mud into the foyer."

We'd had this sort-of-discussion via Anne before. Oh no, I reassured her. I mean him. Tell The Fratman that I wipe my feet very carefully and that mud gets stuck in the tread of everybody's shoes now that it's raining and snowing.

This appeased him for a while until he was out chatting to the gardeners (they literally hoover up the autumn leaves every week. Milly runs out to her dog forest afterwards and is absolutely puzzled at where her crunchy ground cover has gone) and he saw them. My rubber boots.

The Orc inside him knew - these weren't your everyday shoes; they were made for mud. And that Aussie Idiot was prancing around in them, dropping off clods at every step. He putt-putted past me in his mini-tractor with six steel wheelie bins trailing on chains behind him towards the bike cave. There was anger in the clouds of exhaust farting out behind him.

I wasn't surprised that he'd put the blame onto my shoulders and mine alone. "He's been watching you," Anne gasped. "He told me to tell you to leave your boots outside or...." she paused, in a bind between upsetting me and the shock of the information she was about to impart, "......you could be outside."

Since that indirect ultimatum, I now clip on Milly's lead, put on my Dog Walking Parka and head downstairs. In my other hand is a huge plastic bag containing my rubber boots and a large towel. When the foyer doors shut behind us, I take off my slippers and step into the boots, making sure they're resting on top of the grate should any chunks of dried mud fall off, and then reach over to fold up the bag, place the towel on top and my slippers on top of that.

After our walk, I again stand on the grate and deftly lift one foot at a time out of the boots and into the slippers and then put the boots in the bag. The towel is then used to wipe off any mud and water from Milly's legs, stomach and feet so that, several long minutes later, we can enter the foyer without leaving any significant signs on the floor that we were ever there.

The Fratman saw me a couple of days after this technique was initiated. "Tres Bien!" "Merci Beaucoup" and "Bravo" were gleefully yelled on his side and my go-to 'Thumbs Up' sign was acted out on mine: we'd found a solution that suited us all - Orcs, Concierges, Renters, Dumb Aussies, Dogs and Mud Magnets.

So can you imagine how annoyed I was when Milly and I returned from a lovely long walk around Parc de Trembly this morning and there was the plastic boot bag, her tummy towel but NOT my slippers?

WHO would want to flog a manky pair of second-hand slippers? They're worn down at the heel, have brownish stains where there was once fluffy blue lining and the outer velvet is festooned with orange dog fur.

..... I'm not risking any other pairs of shoes, so now it's a rapid tip-toe across a very slippery marble floor and a kind of half somersault from the door mat straight into my rubber boots that are still sitting in the bag with the straps wide apart for my landing. It reminds me of the awful first stages of puberty when our mothers would say, "Don't be impatient, you'll grow like the others soon."

Substitute 'grow' for 'become a glamorous international resident' and you'll see my predicament: will he now complain that I'm making the place look untidy with my amateur gymnastics?

Let it snow let it snow let it snow .... again

2011-12-31T12:46:00.000+01:00

What the.....?

I don't like this stuff at all.

And yet my family saw fit to DUMP ME AT A DOG SITTER'S so that they could go away and spend their time in this stuff. Willingly! Poo Bum Farty heads....

Apparently Sapphire could barely keep her eyes open. Boredom and the utterly freezing cold wearing down her nervous system I guess.

Dad looks happier, but then again he is Alpha Male.

They all seemed thrilled to see me when they got back home but the white stuff was still around. I didn't feel like running or sniffing at anything for very long and one morning Sapphire and Mum took me a long walk along bushes, roads and trees I'd never smelt before.

Only to buy me this:

They know that I hate wearing anything on my body except a collar. One day I was visiting Great Grandpa with Mum and an old lady ruffled my ears a lot and gave me a dog coat, brand new, still in the packet. Mum said 'thanks' and put it on me and I ran away from it - even while still wearing it - flapping my ears furiously so that it twisted around slightly and I could chew the straps off.

You'd think they'd have learned from that reaction, but no, it didn't stop them from putting a Santa hat on me. It has an elastic strap that my paws can't flick off. Worse though, is that they took photos and laughed.

Back to now. This thing feels a bit weird and Sapph and Mum are praising me like crazy. "Oooh you're a pretty girl, what a good dog" over and over. I know that already!

But ...... *sniff sniff sniff* ......

..... I don't feel like rushing any more to get inside...... is that a .....

SQUIRREL??

The coat isn't so bad I guess, but taking it off afterwards is the best thing.

Thus endeth December Details 2011, leaving you with a picture of Milly forsaking the padded, blanketed comfort of her bed for the hard floor in prime sunbeam-soaking location.

I hope you all have a Happy New Year, even if that means going to bed at 9:30pm safe in the knowledge that it'll still be 2012 whether you stay up until midnight or wake up at breakfast time.

Meeting the Plastic Mancunian

2011-12-30T09:10:00.002+01:00

I've been reading the Plastic Mancunian for a while now. He likes to claim that he's a miserable old git who, if not trying to convince us all that heavy metal has musical qualities we should all investigate, is prone to ranting about the dire quality of British television but there's a big beating heart under all that.

He's fond of a meme and even fonder of Mrs PM, his sons and their three crazy cats and has made me inhale my meusli in amusement more than once.

And the other day he was being sent on an urgent work mission to Geneva. 'Well, we've GOT to meet up,' I insisted, not respecting his schedule or personal wishes.

So we did:

He's as funny and clever and engaging as his blog and if he's in town next time we'll have him over for dinner (cooked by Love Chunks, of course. Mine would just scare him away).

This brought to mind some recent comments by Andrew, of High Riser fame, who was worried about meeting up with another blogger. "He is edjacated, artistic, a high achiever, a professional and young," he fretted. I hoiked my considerably chunky thighs over my lofty and smug high horse and wrote, "GO FOR IT and MEET HIM. I met the Plastic Mancunian a couple of days before Christmas and am very glad I did. I ain't single or young or gorgeous, but it's amazing what friendships and connections are made via our blogs. If he reads your blog, he already knows a lot about you and how you think, so please don't be worried."

Over hot chocolate (moi) and beer (PM), we revealed the true names of the people we love and write about but there was one question I didn't ask. I briefly agonised over it, but decided to leave it.

That night, lying in bed with Love Chunks, I broached the issue. "LC you know that you're my Main Squeeze and I'll adore you forever and ever and all that, but would it have been wrong to ask Plastic Mancunian what after-shave he had on because he smelt gorgeous!"

LC's answer was kind of muffled, but the odd word emerged. Odd ball, Inappropriate and Stalker were the ones that were audible.

I've also met the terrific and prolific Baino and would gladly offer her a spot in our spare room should she ever find her way to Geneva. She's gutsy, honest, hilarious and would have to be a contender for the hottest and best mother in the world.

River was someone I'd seen many times at my local shopping centre before finally 'clicking' and working out who she was. Her bravery and ability to see the best in life is an inspiration to me and recent tough circumstances have seen her blossom. Franzy is another. I found his blog after laughing at a witty remark he'd made in a 'reply all' email sent from a mutual friend. He's sharper than a razor blade and a justifiably proud new Dad whose not afraid to give me honest feedback if my writing seems too slack for his standards.

Pandora was another find - a blast from the past who hid herself for a while, patiently waiting for my plodding grey matter to fire up, put the pieces together and make the identification. I'm bloody glad I did - we had a lot of ground to cover, including explanations and lessons learned. She's run half-marathons, travelled the world and somehow combines Beer Club on one hand and the slightly more intellectual Book Club on the other.

Other bloggers have become friends online or via facebook too and for those I haven't yet met, I also consider them friends, comrades and (very often) wise and comforting sages.

Never underestimate the positive power of contributing a comment. Or advice.

Real tweeters

2011-12-29T09:56:00.001+01:00

There are hundreds - no, probably thousands - of walkers (using the adorably-termed 'racquettes'), skiers and snowboarders currently enjoying themselves in the alpine region right now.

The tracks left by snow boarders looked like a string of Maggi Two Minute Noodles. The bars and restaurants at 'The Top of Europe' - by the Jungfrau railway - are chockers with human beings drinking beer, sipping coffees and eating all manners of wurst sausages and sloppily-fried rostis. Sunglasses are huge sellers when folk like Sapphire realise that the dazzle from the sun reflected in the ice will render them blind, so the racks of shades outnumber even the St Bernard key rings, carved wooden cows and miniature pocket knives.

Amongst all this bustle there are just as many birds around; all happily flying, tweeting and strolling along with little fear of wayward skiers, kids on sleds or three wheeler vans carrying luggage up the hillsides. They gather in their hundreds on the roof of the chalets, in the pine trees, on top of power lines, church steeples, train carriages and cable cars.

They clearly thrive in the bitter cold and snow and the icicles hanging precariously off gutters, river banks and shop fronts are no deterrent. If you've been to a spot, they've been there before you.

So it was no surprise to see that even they get some facilities built for them at the top of Europe:

This is a wonderfully eccentric place to be living in.

Red Letter Day

2011-12-28T10:40:00.001+01:00

Our apartment is a shrine to all things IKEA and cheap poster-related, but it's warm, comfy and homely.

The computer is in the third bedroom which is a rather cheeky term to describe a cavity that is no wider than a blow up mattress. When emails, facebook updates or phone calls aren't sufficient, I'll come back out into the living room to sit at the dining table to write the birthday card or complete the paperwork that needs to be posted.

Just before leaving for Wengen, Geneva got some snow. It looked rather beautiful when viewed from the eighth floor in a cosy room, but Milly was in need of an outdoor 'visit' if her fragrant farts were anything to go by and I had a couple of letters to post. Time to put on the Dog Walking Coat, rubber boots and grab the plastic poo bags. Oh and the letters - best to keep them in my other pocket so I don't post them as well like I did last time.....

Venturing outside it was clear that the snow was only a light covering. A sunny day and some rain would soon see it disappear. Despite this, the uncovered bits were white with frost and crunchy to walk on.

As I scanned the area for a red post box, I took time to admire the holly nearby. All of our Aussie Christmas cards and decorations feature it, but the red berries are never in season when we're celebrating, so this looked particularly lovely to me. Now, to keep my eyes peeled for a red letter box....

Like continuing to automatically first look to the right hand side of the road before crossing and annoying people by standing still on the left hand side of the escalators at the shopping centre, finding a letter box still remains a challenge.

Why? Because they're yellow.

Why again? Because they're found in weird spots like behind bus shelters, in the walls of boulangeries situated under dimly-lit stairwells and here, in the front fence of a private house.

Of course. Why didn't I think to walk three streets behind the main road and around the corner of the World Quaker Organisation into the private residential area to find La Post on this fence?

....and I still smile when I see their enormous buttercup coloured trucks (camions) drive by with the enormous slogan 'Jour Apres Jour' and the German DIE POST underneath.

Maybe that's what happened to Jill's birthday card? Two first class stamps, well within standard weight and size and yet it arrived three weeks after posting. DIE post, DIE!

Better late than....... BONK!

2011-12-27T17:36:00.003+01:00

After changing trains five times in a four hour journey before taking our local tram and then lugging our wheelie cases up avenue du Bouchet for home, we had enjoyed three days of skiing and a white Christmas in Wengen.

Love Chunks found an instructor for Sapphire and myself because we were absolute novices and not the types who'd just take to it like ducks to water (more like meat loaf in mud). Just putting on the boots and fandangled metal clicker thingies and walking like Frankenstein over to the nursery slope was a demanding physical strain, let alone having the teacher admit that, yes, at forty three I was her oldest complete beginner student. These were merely two indications that I was not going to fly down the powdery blanc hillsides with ease or grace.

However, I did in fact master the baby slope and on day two, in response to his urgings and encouragement, decided to join Love Chunks on the easy blue run from the Wengenalp train station.

Less than two hundred metres and several falls later, it was clear that 'blue' was beyond me. Falling down is easy but getting up when your feet are securely fastened in rigid high-strength plastic boots affixed to long planks that are usually sunk into 60cm of snow is the human equivalent of a beetle flailing uselessly on its back. In a sack of flour. Wearing toothpicks.

Tears and fears meant that I had to walk the rest of the 3km run home and the pressure of the high-cut boots smacking into my shins at every step, the cumbersome nature of the skis and poles and my sad, sulky face saw the bloke clearing the side gates take pity on me and give me a lift back on his ski-doo. My left hand wrapped around his waist whilst the right held onto the bloody slippery ski equipment so there was no luxury to be had freaking out about the speed in which he sped down the hill or the angles of the corners.....

On the third and final day, Sapphire was conquering her turns and manoeuvres at the nursery, LC was up at Mannlichen - no, not to seek a total lifestyle change but to have a go at a longer and more challenging blue run - and I was going to conquer The Hill. This monolith glistened and gleamed alongside the teaching field and had its own separate climate and misty clouds at the top - just looking at it had me trembling in terror.

When The Hill is negotiated with confident turns, expert snow ploughing and a fast but controlled whoosh to the bottom, coaches and teachers confirm that you are ready for a blue run. I knew this because I saw other instructors take their charges (yes, aged between 3 and 10) down The Hill a few times before clapping their hands and loudly announcing that they were ready to do 'real' skiing.

Love Chunks promised to meet me at a snick before the ski lifts closed at 4pm to take my photo. I yearned for visual proof that I had mastered The Hill to send to folks back home and to show you, my brilliant blog readers.

Three hours of doggedly lining up to grab at a rubber stick to unceremoniously shove between my quivering legs and pull me up The Hill was still resulting in several mouthfuls of snow, snapped slalom flags and an arseful of shaved ice.

I was going to do this. I wanted to make Love Chunks proud of me. I wanted to show Sapphire that persistence would overcome fear and (a very surprising) amount of soaking nervous sweat. I wanted to feel that there was still life in the old girl yet.

"This is YOUR turn chook," said the lift operator from Yorkshire, with a soggy roll-up in the corner of her mouth. "You're getting there now."

I took the obligatory deep breath, then a slow and careful push..... Four slalom flags were happily untouched and turned around almost on purpose before I struck a long streak of ice that cruelly shoved me down the left side of The Hill and careening far beyond anything so tepidly described as 'being out of control'.

BONK! The skis shot for the sky and my back hit the ice first with my head a close second. The nearby clumps of proud parents stopped teaching their three year olds and the cafe patrons momentarily forgot their beer orders when my still-sliding, starfish profile finally stopped in the middle of the unofficial causeway. I was the human personification of a snowflake pattern: modern interpretative art occurring right there in front of them.

When I opened my eyes I saw a circle of concerned faces, all speaking different languages. I smiled at an elderly lady who said, "Are you OK love? I'm a nurse from Newcastle. How many fingers am I showing?"

I never thought I'd ever hear that line in anything other than a movie. A few more questions and a pat-down reassured her that I was suffering from nothing more serious than humiliation. "Let me walk you back home and make sure you take a pill for that headache you're already starting to get," she said.

The double-folded polar fleece***cap, thick scarf, goggle elastic band and fur-lined hood had saved my head from any serious damage. Inside, my brain now realised that it knew what that last, stubborn globule of ageing ketchup feels like when it is finally pounded and shaken out of the bottle.

I peeled back my glove and glanced at my watch. 3:30pm. "There might be half an hour of ski lift time left and I've already paid for it, but I think I might call it a day now." No photographic meet up with Love Chunks to provide some pictorial evidence to share with you but if you could see how I'm walking today - a lady on a zimmer frame overtook me in the meat aisle at Migros this morning - you would believe.

*** Ah, dear, sweet, dependable polar fleece.... is there anything it can't do?

Apres ski

2011-12-26T07:30:00.000+01:00

By the time that this particular blog article is published, we'll be on our way home from spending Christmas in a ski resort at Wengen. Three hours on the train in a two-sides-of-a-triangle journey enjoying some splendid scenery and (hopefully) scanning through some terrific photos to post here soon.

Due to writing this in advance, I can only hope that the snow equipment we're given to learn on and use is slightly more up to date and comfortable than this:

That I won't feature as a 'Another Successful Rescue' on the list in this museum:

Or be accidentally clunked in the head by ski poles or clipped on the heel by crampons or any other alpinistic gear:

....and that the only lying down I do is entirely voluntary and for reasons of rest, like Milly here, and NOT thanks to broken limbs and traction!

Favourite Boy and Favourite Girl

2011-12-25T07:30:00.000+01:00

To Love Chunks and Sapphire

You've seen me kiss the dog, dance to the rhythmic pulsations of the coffee machine and embarrass myself in many a public place.

You've heard me sing, cry, moan and laugh uproariously at people falling over.

I've known one of you for over eighteen years and one for over twelve yet the twenty five years before that seems so hazy and undefined.

You two are everything to me and ...

.... I can't thank you enough.

Just call me CRUSHER

2011-12-24T07:18:00.000+01:00

I've already featured my 'winning barrel' washing machine in Details December, and now it's the rubbish chute's turn.

According to long-time Geneva dwellers, these hole-in-the-wall chutes are no longer common in apartment buildings; you lug your own muck downstairs to the communal bins in the basement.

Apart from telling us that every item must be placed in a sealed bag with no liquids or cardboard or recyclables permitted, our ancient rubbish chute isn't very generous in how much refuse it'll accept at any one time.

My hand is there for a vague comparison but you get the idea: a 100-box of tissues or a house brick is about all you can fit in the slot.

Or is it? With the use of bin liners and a previously undiscovered strength in 'squishing', I can now wedge in around 12 litres of kitchen rubbish that includes tuna tins, dog food sachets, all manner of vege peelings, cellophane wrap, meat trays, yoghurt tubs, Quark containers, vaccuum cleaner dust and plastic milk cartons.

We're not allowed to use the disposal before 7am or after 10pm because it makes a hell of a clanking noise as it (reluctantly) creaks open and then (noisily) swallows the rubbish, letting it bounce against the metal pipes all the way down, down, down to the basement.

There it plops onto a mini skip which is also the spot for we residents to take our larger gar-bags full of rubbish in person. I'm undeservedly proud to say that I've only had to do that three times so far. I'm STRONG baby!

Torn

2011-12-23T07:30:00.000+01:00

We were at Gruyeres recently (home of the famous cheese, even though the foodstuff loses the 's' and is just called Gruyere) and a trip to the gorgeous castle on top of the hill overlooking the town was a must.

I'm a sucker for beyond views and busied myself happily taking what I imagined were artistic photos... only to find a queue of a dozen Japanese tourists behind me patiently waiting their turn.

Inside, my attention turned to the stained glass windows ...

.... before Sapphire started sniggering. "What's so funny?"

She paused, thinking how to phrase her answer. "It's just that.....ummm, either the artist is being a show off in his self portrait or it's the king of the castle he's painting here and ummmm, he has to make him look, er, 'good'."

Quite.

I was torn between trying not to laugh and agree and telling her to focus her eyes on something more educational. As usual, the giggling won out.

Anyone for tennis?

2011-12-22T07:29:00.000+01:00

OK, table tennis, to be precise?

Want a walk?

2011-12-21T07:15:00.002+01:00

Hey Milly..... Milly are you awake? Want to go for a walk?

No, a WALK. Not a tummy rub.

How much grass can you possibly eat, especially when you don't throw it up afterwards?

SQUIRREL!

Maybe not. Just some crows flying off.

But hey, what the.......

Back home, we have the obligatory look around in The Dog Forest, or the only bit of the complex's garden that Milly is allowed in. The photo doesn't show it clearly, but the old stone wall is on a rise and makes Milly around eight foot tall as she gets a squizz at what the neighbours are up to. It must look funny to see her haughty orange face from their side.

Back home it's a cup of coffee for me and instant, snoozy contentment for her.

Best dog ever.

Some advice

2011-12-20T07:30:00.000+01:00

... Never let it be said I'm not always thinking of my readers.

I share my stupidity and pain so that you aren't at the risk of suffering from either.

ALWAYS open your eyes and read the labels of everything on your bedside table. That way you won't burn the skin of your mouth off with muscle-softening Tiger Balm instead of soothing mint lip balm.

Having never owned lips that look fleshy or collagen-enhanced or costing me a fortune in cosmetics, it's surprising how much a knife-slash-in-butter-smile can STING when ancient Chinese medicinals are applied.

Nanna cart

2011-12-19T07:30:00.000+01:00

I call my shopping trolley on wheels a 'nanna cart' because I don't know what the technical term for it is.

Personal shopper? Land-based lard lugger? Mobile munchie mover?

No matter. I have two actually, and if hassled, Sapphire will bring the other one along. She loathes my brown with pink flower cart pictured here, preferring the other with its much more traditional (and nanna-ish, to be blunt) royal blue canvas body and tartan cover flap.

Not having a car for four months but a family and dog to feed meant that the nanna cart was a necessity. Trendier (and wealthier) types get spotty ones from IKEA or retro funky jobs from over-priced gift shops but these Migro models have tyres that an upmarket pram would yearn for and a turning circle tighter than a school kids' compass. I was keen to not embrace the Genevan standard of doing a small shop every single day and instead reduce my need to visit the cheerfully chuckling check-out chicks of Migros as few times a week as nanna-cart-owningly possible.

Mine has been able to hold a dozen bottles of wine and two dozen cans of diet coke as well as a big baguette and a triple pack of Snickers bars in one sitting with a cos lettuce, a sack of dry dog crunchies, a kilo of budget macaroni and six pack of chopped tomato tins to seal the deal. The clinking sound of the wine bottles protesting at being at the very bottom of the load as the cart rolls back home behind me isn't the most elegant way of indicating the priorities in my life but at least my arms aren't dragging on the ground from the strain of having to carry it all.

Even now that we have a car, the nanna carts are still essential. I wheel them down to the underground car park and leave them there until I return with a boot full of food. And booze. Okay and chocolate. Then load 'em up so that I only have to make one trip through the three secure doors, lift and our front door with a double lock on it.

If utterly bored and certain that dinner is more than a mere nudge of my butt and five minutes away, Milly will sniff them to ascertain what tasty delights might have been contained in them earlier. The day I bought Gruyere, blue cheese, salmon and hackfleish mince was her favourite. Laundry liquid, loo cleaner and scented bog rolls results in a look of How Could You disappointment and a slow waddle back to the sunny spot on the carpet.

2011-12-18T07:30:00.001+01:00

Get on.

NOW!

2011-12-17T07:30:00.000+01:00

I can hold it in until I get home

Parc de Trembley - where Milly and I go for our morning walk - has a public toilet block in it.

OK, so that might not be the most fascinating opener used on this blog but public toilets seem to be pretty rare over here and this one sits right next to a primary school. In Australia there'd be uproar. Concerns would be raised about the appropriateness of 'undesirables' that 'lurk' around urine-soaked cement buildings with direct access to kiddies and Today Tonight would be arm-wrestling with A Current Affair for the best vantage point to host a live cross from the studio. All fine here though.

Perhaps to head off any worries before they start, the toilet block has art work on it. Yes, 'real' art work; not some graffiti that is half decent and been left untouched by less-talented vandals, but real, publicly-funded art.

The sad thing is that it's creepy.

Fancy hanging around with any of these wholesome and fun types to swap thoughts on society, how we can effectively contribute to environmental action and what charity to do volunteer work for?

......or just share a joke and laugh and bask in their evident happiness and success?

When the bladder beckons, how about confidently swaggering into the 'Dames' with THIS GUY leering at you?

No wonder the cat's about to chuck.

2011-12-16T22:00:00.001+01:00

They're sure to get Piles

Several months ago I described the rather bizarre facades high up on Geneva's main train station that feature an unfeasibly well hung bloke and two topless girlie groupies that accompany him but the building is currently under heavy scaffolding making a photograph impossible so a repeat of the nude kite flyers will have to do.

I'm not sure how successful these two numb nuts'd be in launching their whimsical plaything without any covering on the frame and this view seems to be shared by someone else who had written 'FAIL' on the buttocks of the standing man. Again, I didn't photograph this when originally spotted as I was on my way to the supermarket with an umbrella in one hand and a nanna cart in the other and the word has since been dutifully erased by SCRASA*** who have to check his derriere at least weekly to scrub off spray paint, chewing gum, stickers and shaving cream.

However I did have my camera when I 'popped in' to the UN recently to have a snuffle through the English-language books a day before the official UN Women's Society Jumble Sale. Short of having my retinas removed and my eggs harvested it took nearly an hour to get inside.

It was worth the bureaucracy though, because I staggered out with around 40 paperbacks costing a hugely cheap 50 francs before spotting two naked girlies standing outside the hospitality school and functioning restaurant next door:

Mum would say that they need another layer of fat on them to get through the winter and a decent coat ending just above the knee to keep the threat of piles at bay.

At the primary school located in the park favoured by Milly, we have a single lady (on her own; her marital status is not known to me) gazing into a pond overlooking their assembly area.

There's a few naughty squiggles scattered about her person - not unlike the tattoos she got as a twenty-something in the nineties and perhaps regrets today - but the pockmark on her left arse cheek is apparently due to age and frost. It gets us all in the end.

Front on shows that there are some truly savage goldfish living in the school pond....

.... because one's chomped her hand clean off!

Ghandi, sitting serenely below in Pregny Parc adjoining the UN will also be feeling the chill this winter but....

.....at least he's not utterly starkers. Pornographic penis sizes at the train station, kite flyers in the raw and naked chicks I can handle but Ghandi with his gear off would be intolerable.

***SCRASA - I know they're council workers but not what the acronym stands for. I'd love to use it as a word verification definition. Then again, Swiss Rail's full acronym is SBB-CFF-FFS and that's never been used in full anywhere.

2011-12-15T07:30:00.001+01:00

Note to self....

... get your CAMERA OUT MORE OFTEN.

Despite running Details December, I'm a shocker for remembering to take my camera and, if I do, actually having the grey matter warmed up enough to get me to use the damn thing.

Due to this affliction, I can't show you any pictorial evidence of:

Sapphire and I taking the number 14 tram to get her catheter changed at hospital last Friday during the Escalade Festivale. In 1602, Geneva successfully defended itself from an attack by the Duke of Savoy's army. One housewife apparently poured a cauldron of boiling hot vege soup onto a soldier, not only killing him but helping to raise the alarm. Supermarkets now sell chocolate marmites (cauldrons, not jars of the putrid pommy paste) filled with marzipan fruits and vegetables.

Anyhooo, Sapphire was too crook for us to consider venturing into the Old Town to see the races or pageantry and we had no idea that most children, high school kids and uni students wear any sort of fancy dress and have a muck up in the streets. I guess we should have twigged when we walked down our street and saw endless patches of white flour and hundreds of smashed eggs.

On the tram, as it paused to wait for the lights to change at Servette, we were accosted by several hundred people all dressed in deranged medical outfits. Dafalgin packs (think Panadol), drops of blood, creepy surgeons and even, as Sapph noticed, some walking along holding IV drips. Apart from banging on our windows and generally whooping with vodka-assisted joy, they covered the tram in shaving cream.

We enjoyed a rather heady scent of Palmolive shower-freshness before getting off at the hospital and looked back to see the tram head up to Carouge, festooned with white horizontal stripes and love hearts that were starting to drip down the sides. Accompanying us was a girl dressed up as a Rubik's cube, several cow boys, a Minecraft character, two smurfettes and a bloke who'd put so much effort into his spaceman costume that he'd forgotten to make eye holes and had to grope his way down the street. No camera, sorry.

I also can't show you the two Fat French Ladies we saw getting on a single scooter at Balexert shopping centre. It was a hot September day, and we were on the number 53 bus to Roopa's house for French lessons.

Fat Lady One had a navy blue tent dress with with hibiscus flowers on the front which she'd accessorised with hot pink Ray bans. Fat Lady Two had a similar tent dress featuring a modern art motif of oranges and lemons and was struggling to hoik her ham-hock leg over the back seat, dropping her bag of shopping in the process. Ray bans bent over to help her pick them up, making the poor little bike topple over precariously. It was quite a sight and one that had the other passengers on the bus transfixed as well.

Sadly, the Cow Queen of Gruyere also was witnessed but not photographed by yours dumbly truly. When they leave their hilly pastures and come down to the lower slopes and the barns for winter, it is a cause for celebration in many farms and small villages.

We were at the nearby Gruyeres Chateau and heard many clanking of cow bells. That was all well and good; but it was the Queen Cow; the one selected for her outstanding beauty and magnificence who stood out as she munched the sweet green grass a few hundred metres away.

Unlike her bovine budettes she didn't just have a largish bell around her neck, oh no. She wore a crown. This elaborate device held several rows of brass bells tied with many coloured ribbons with a very large and luxuriant bouquet of flowers on the top. The entire contraption was fastened around her collar and head and each time she dipped down to eat some grass she set off a jinga-jinga-jingling that was heard all over the valley.

The poor thing was probably deaf and crazed by dinner time but yes, she did look pretty.

So, sorry about that. But I do have -

Some cows that were in the Miss Congeniality and Most Punctual categories:

St Bernard souvenir kitchen towels that would be easy to pop into the post for Christmas presents:

A groovy tree trunk that still thinks that cargo camouflage trousers are fashionable:

A Meditation Service that perhaps isn't as optimistic as it should be:

And, finally, Sapphire and myself at the top of Mont Blanc in July: the height of Switzerland's summer. A blizzard had set in so we ended up seeing a lot of 'blanc' and absolutely no 'mont'.

Still, it's amazing what a good mug of hot chocolate will do.

2011-12-14T07:30:00.008+01:00

Sapphire's supplies

I may be the one with the seige mentality in this particular household but Sapphire's medical and pharmaceutical collection has become rather large in the past couple of months.

In the early days when we thought it was just gastro and a cold, we had a few boxes. Then, at her doctor's insistence, a thermometer to keep a check on her fever. Beyond two weeks, it was antibiotics. First try, second try, third try.

Then hospital (twice) and a fortnight at home with nurses coming three times a day to deliver a stronger antibiotic via IV.

Getting up forty five minutes before the arrival of the 6am nurse to take the IV fluid out of the fridge is getting old, especially when BBC, CNN and Sky news seem to only have the resources to cover three stories on the entire planet and do so over and over, repeating all three at ten minute intervals. The other alternative is the shopping channel, with the same 'AhhBra' advertisement featuring a woman with enough plastic surgery to resemble Miss Piggy spending over thirty minutes wittering on about what looks like a flimsy crop top.

Sapphire's literally 'on tap' and reckons that she's feeling better. Sort of.

Thanks to prompt 'production' and 'delivery', her stool samples have revealed that the stubborn bacteria has apparently disappeared but the stomach pains remain. She's ventured out twice this week for two hours at a time: once to have dinner with friends and the other to buy a Christmas tree; but the recovery period needed afterwards is twice that amount.

Soon after the above picture was taken she gingerly had a shower (I am required to duck in at the exact moment specified to put a plastic bag on her IV bandage) and was back in her jammies, lying down on the sofa in a tight ball.

The official cause might be gone, but we're told that the swollen intestinal wall and stomach lining is going to give her grief for a while longer yet. Here's hoping that she doesn't need to flex her gut muscles much over the Christmas break when she and I learn how to snow ski for the very first time. Or, at the very least, she has one full day without having to bend over double for any reason other than to fasten her snow shoes.

2011-12-13T07:30:00.001+01:00

And yet he seemed nice enough

We have a friend here who adores penguins. Jeff's been collecting them ever since he got to see them up close and personal during a couple of stints in Antarctica.

The shelves of his apartment has penguins hiding amongst the books, wine glasses, photographs and CDs, so when I saw this little guy at the supermarket, he sort of jumped into my nanna cart.

As expected with most childrens' toys, he has a label that states that anyone under the age of three years old should best stick with teddies and teething rings.

It was the other side of the label that amused me.

Bullyland? That's not exactly the first name a company with English as their first language would think of when specialising in manufacturing playthings for kids....

It's a good thing, then, that Jeff's considerably older than three and realises that he's not in Australia any more.

2011-12-12T07:30:00.001+01:00

Places to go, people to see....

When not checking out Falcon handlers or confident foxes, I like to pop on my dog walking jacket - which makes me resemble a stocky rainwater tank in a sleeping bag - sip my second coffee out on our balcony and enjoy the view of the distant Jura, the sky and the city.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was already starting to set when these pictures were taken, but the new winter snow was still visible on top of the mountains.

However I realised that the sky has a lot of vapor trails in it.

Facing towards Saleve, I counted over ten separate trails created by planes flying over us, coming in to land or departing.

These white lines in the sky made me realise just how much air traffic Europe has and how Switzerland, being a fairly small splodge in the middle of the continent, sees a lot of planes passing overhead.

The following morning it dawned blue, cold and crisp and, when out walking with Milly, I counted fifteen different trails leaving lines on the sky. I once read that at any given time there is around 260,000 people up there; or the entire population of Orlando, Florida.

That's a lot of rock-hard bread rolls, miniscule bottles of water and sugar sachets.....

2011-12-11T07:30:00.000+01:00

And the winner is.........

I haven't bought a Bonne Chance ticket for the Swiss lottery yet. This is mostly due to shyness and lack of French than any realistic understanding of how bleak the likelihood is of my numbers coming up, but heaps of locals surround the booth at the local shopping centre in their eagerness to find that 500,000 franc Scratchie that might pay off a fifth of their mortgage.

Giving gambling a Swiss miss might possibly explain the amusement I derive from our weirdly shaped FUST washing machine.

It was purchased second-hand via an expat website and is an upright device which is far cheaper than a front-loader. However it's also much narrower than the usual 5 - 7kg ones from Australia.

When you open the inside, you can see a round 'tyre' made of stainless steel. This is almost exactly the same as that found in a front loader but positioned 90% around. And, when closed, you can't sit there and watch it through the round window. It's a sacrifice I'm prepared to make to save over a thousand francs.

Back to Herr Fust. The little catch is flipped open and - Ta Da! - the washing is crammed in. A surprisingly decent amount of dirty clothes can be done and apart from it sounding like the first spaceship to cross the screen in Star Wars when it's on the spin cycle, I'm pretty happy with our three hundred franc find.

But there's more. When closed, the little internal tyre thingy reminds me of the prize barrels that used to feature on television shows so often when I was growing up.

"So kids, all of your entries into our big Win a Week with Winky Dink competition have been placed in this barrel here, and we'll ask Humphrey B Bear to do the honours and reach in to pick out a winner......."

Nope. Not me.

Still, it's been six whole months and not one single sock has gone AWOL yet, so I'll class that as a small win.

2011-12-10T07:33:00.000+01:00

Hundred Years War

Love Chunks reckons that I'd have been brilliant living in the dark ages or mediaeval times, particularly in a heavily-fortified castle subject to a seige or two from invaders.

See, I like to keep spares of things, because nothing's more annoying than running out of an essential ingredient when the shops have shut.***

Put another way, it's always nice and shows a strong sense of care and consideration to have that second tin of chopped tomatoes behind the one you're currently using. For next time.

Right?

And, let's face it, in challenging circumstances such as Tuesday night's tuna mornay lacking sweetcorn or when the English are pushing their wooden slingshots towards the ramparts of Dunnottar's drawbridge, we could all use a bit of joy in our lives.

Riiiiight?

Right. Nobody backs Kath into a corner without her having access to the essential source of strength!

*** Which is far more common here in Switzerland than in Australia. NOTHING is open on a Sunday; there seem to be many mysterious public holidays and religious observances that are respected more by business owners than residents which explains why this country - famous for its Alpine dairy industry - sells at least 95% of its milk in UHT long life packs.

2011-12-09T06:30:00.000+01:00

Two chairs

When we first arrived in Switzerland, we all suffered terrible colds that lingered and made life in a new country an extra challenge.

The hotel 'residence' didn't help much either, but somehow Love Chunks would magic up a meal using just one saucepan, two dessert spoons and a jar and we'd either squeeze out onto the 50cm deep balcony or around the coffee table.

We were three storeys up and one street back from 'Rue de Tram' - the main shopping strip of Geneva. The soundtrack to our new lives was the mosquito buzz of scooters, the screech and clang of daily 3am rubbish trucks and the sonorous St Pierre church bells.

Hard rubbish days seemed to be weekly as opposed to twice yearly in Australia. From our lofty position we spotted a zebra-patterned dining chair and wondered if it might be worth snaffling and storing in the hotel bathroom for when we found a place to rent. Sapphire offered to go downstairs and check it out. "Eeee-oooh, no way, Mum. The reason the CD player's sitting on the top is because there's a huge stain on it."

Dinner that night was Uncle Ben's rice, supermarket salad and chicken something-or-other on plastic picnic plates.

A bag lady who seemed to be a regular around our neighbourhood appeared, dragging a chair up our side street. She spied the zebra chair and had a think for a while before apparently deciding that she needed both.

Scr-iiiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiii-tch. She'd drag one chair about a metre, then pull the other one alongside. It was pretty hard going because it was a warm summer evening and she was wearing what might have been her entire wardrobe including a fake fur coat and a kid's backpack.

I went inside, feeling conflicted. I wanted to take her photo but also felt tears coming on. It's always the same question when I see someone sleeping in newspapers or reeking of urine whilst pissed: How did they end up like that? What becomes of them?

Scr-iiiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiii-tch. Through the curtains of our hotel doors, I could see that she had reached the corner of the side street and the main street and decided to rest. Both chairs were placed opposite each other, forming a rough bed for her to relax on.

"Stop looking at her, Mum. Come and watch a Raising Hope episode with me."

An hour later, she was still there. Surely not sleeping because the night-clubbers were starting to appear and girls walking with linked arms and silly heels had to brush past the chairs to make their way to the taverns in Rive and Old Town.

At my bedtime it was almost completely dark and the white lines of the zebra chair were still visible. Her gray hair hung over the back of the chair and this time she did look to be dreaming, clutching the backpack in her arms.

I did take the photos and finally closed the door.

Sapphire was still awake which wasn't surprising seeing as the kitchen and sleeping were one and the same room and I had to climb over her sofa bed to shut the doors.

"Why are you crying, Mum?"

I knew that it was a combination of shock at how badly I was coping with our move overseas, a lingering cold, worry about Sapphire and being able to afford to rent anywhere within a 100km radius of Love Chunks' workplace but the lady moved me. "Mum?"

"I guess I'm sad because nobody, at eight years old, says, 'I hope to end up as a crazed, homeless and stinking bag lady' when asked what they'd like to be when they grow up."

The next morning, both she and the chairs were gone.

2011-12-08T07:30:00.000+01:00

A close up of Madam Butterfly before jumping into a warm bed

Love Chunks has been my main squeeze since 1993 so buying gifts is getting more and more difficult each year.

He usually ends up with a DVD or a book that is more my taste than his because anything else he wants or likes is sorted/found/purchased at the time of need. His electronic piano is a good example - he knew what type he needed in order to still keep playing without antagonising the neighbours; did his research on features, costs and availability and made the necessary arrangements. The end result sees him happy, our bank balance lighter and a reasonable excuse to 'only get me a card' for his birthday and Christmas this year.

However, when it was his birthday, I didn't want to just write a card (that in itself gets more difficult after eighteen years of togetherness. It isn't acceptable to take the Hollywood executive approach and remake old classics or borrow lines from my twenty four year old self 'I look forward to seeing you come back from prac teaching in Port Pirie in your brown cortina'). Love Chunks deserved something quirky and unique: something that would remind him of our time here in Geneva.

Considering that he's a meteorologist, talented home chef, pianist, runner, AFL-watcher and IKEA Allen key conquerer, he clearly needed:

Opera glasses from 1806. Made in Geneva at a spot by the river that now seems to be frequented by alcoholics and drug dealers. Yeah, I'm nothing if not considerate of his interests and concerned with practicalities.

Of course he has no interest in attending an opera and I've only been to one (suffered through Pagliacci with my mother in 1994) but the weathered style of these little guys and the date and the fact that there are antiques and old bits and bobs at flea markets for cheapish prices if you're prepared to rummage and haggle and take your time is addictive. And very enjoyable.

But was that enough - ocular devices long past their relevance? Of course not, so he also got this:

A nineteenth century copper bed warmer. More than one person commented that it could be used to quell any arguments if the gift wasn't appreciated - CLANG!

Thankfully, he loved them both.

2011-12-07T06:30:00.000+01:00

Still shining

For five exhausting years I was a (minor) manager of a busy but happy team at WorkCover.

Ray was in that team. Late forties but with an open-minded younger attitude, deeply in love with his wife Pat and seemingly in a permanent pose of rocking back at his desk, laughing.

And yet he was intelligent, kind and a hard worker who was always prepared to drop what he was doing and pitch in to do whatever last minute 'this is what the Minister wants' request I'd fling at him. He wasn't interested in corporate jargon, wearing a tie or sucking up to management, but just got on with things. Perfectly.

He once turned up to a dress-up party wearing what seemed like his normal outfit of jeans, sneakers and t-shirt. "Didn't make much of an effort there, Ray."

In mock indignation he said, "Yes I did. What's the colour of my t-shirt?"
"Um, yellow."

He brushed it down. "Exactly. I'm Ray; a Drop of Golden Sun."

I'd tease him about his coffee mug. Ironically this never held coffee as he loathed the stuff, but would have milky tea sloshed in several times a day. The vessel had more rings than Saturn and survived with the Internationally-accepted Office Hygiene Approach of a quick swish under the tap before the next brew. "That mug could have the cure for cancer in it, Ray. If you don't wash it soon the inside'll get too layered and crusty to hold any fluids at all."

He then took to giving it a real clean every fortnightly pay day and would proudly stand at my desk brandishing his sparkling cup. "Kath, because of your nagging, science has been set back a few years."

Overseas holidays were his passion, a relatively recent occurrence due to giving up smoking and saving every single dollar that he would have spent on the cigs. Sapphire still remembers the beautiful fan he gave her from Japan, the sarong from Bali and the delicate hibiscus flower made out of soap from Hawaii.

He died last night from lung cancer. Being the poster boy for the Quit campaign and cleaning his cup didn't succeed in the end and for that I'm truly sorry. Ray was a truly decent, lovely man and my memories of working with him (in a job that backfired for me quite disastrously) are all fond ones.

Walking Milly this morning in between rain showers, I saw this sunflower still blooming in the first days of winter. Rest in peace, dear Ray. I feel so honoured to have known you. You genuinely personified the term 'top bloke.'

2011-12-06T22:30:00.001+01:00

Meet your friendly hosts the Three Stooges

This isn't a place that seems particularly inviting to me.

2011-12-05T22:30:00.000+01:00

When residual cheques aren't enough

We were enjoying the sights in Basel when Sapphire looked up, pointed and said, "Oh look, there's Lord Farquaad from Shrek."

I guess that being turned into stone on the famous Munster wall is better than the fate of these two lesser-known actors, now reduced to posing nude as kite flyers in the gardens of a local high school:

Or Henry Winkler, who needed to find a Paul Newman-style regular income due to the patchy nature of his acting jobs post Happy Days:

2011-12-04T22:30:00.000+01:00

Puffed with pride

A long time ago, over a dinner party that was several bottles of red and several hours old, the question of who was a scruncher and who was a folder came up.

Toilet paper usage might be something you consider a private matter, but it so happened that the friends of ours who were asking had actually made a movie about it. No, I haven't seen it yet, but someday there'll be a Flemington reunion and I'll be asking to see more than just their holiday snaps.

Anyhow, memories of that conversation came back to me as I took a shower this morning.

We're shower (OK 'douche') gel users in this house ever since being told by a plumber that fats from soaps are really difficult to scrub off tiles and glass. Instead of being forced to blob it into our hands and randomly slap i

t around our bodies before it slides down the plughole, we use 'puffs' to make it go further.

Bear in mind that I don't normally adhere so strictly to stereotyped male and female colour schemes, but at 6:30am in the morning it does make it considerably easier to reach and remember which puff belongs to which scruff.

It also, as I just realised, indicates just who in this bathroom is the folder and who is the scruncher.

2011-12-04T20:00:00.001+01:00

'Thank you in advance for the attention paid to these lines .....'

..... is how the letter began.

And I should have remembered it when, whilst having my second cup of coffee for the morning, I was out on the balcony (as is my wont) and glanced down to see ----

A strange man. ON the lawn. NOBODY is allowed on the lawn of the shared gardens. Even the gardeners don't linger any longer than they have to.

Narrowing my eyes like a suspicious pensioner, all I lacked were the net curtains. I did, however, have a camera.

He was young, smartly dressed with a quirky flat cap, busily talking on his mobile phone.

Every now and then he'd duck down by the tree and whistle - ah - he was wearing gloves and waiting for ......

.... his friend the falcon. Yes, the letter: 'According to the decision made by the joint owners at the last standard general meeting, we inform you that a falconer will proceed to the startling of the pigeons. Mr Umberto the falconer has started the last four weeks and will be followed by additional specific interventions which will last six months to optimise his work.' Thanks google translate.

Not that I ever seen that many pigeons about, let alone been annoyed by any of them.

Yep, he saw me. I called down, "Bonjour Monsieur! Photo, si'vous plait?"

"Oui!"

So how many of us have a falconer come to help with the gardening?

2011-12-04T11:05:00.007+01:00

December Details - Delayed

A few weeks ago, before Sapphire's gastro turned into a six week challenge negotiating the twists, turns and bellyflops of the French-speaking health system, I was planning to write an entry every day for December, adding a photo of something intriguing about Geneva, my own observations whatever life was captured via the camera I'd mostly forget to carry.

However Sapphire's situation has eaten up most of my time and, after being hospitalised on Friday, she's now home with a catheter in her arm, on antibiotics that are only deliverable intravenously. Nurses come at 5.30-6.00am, midday and 9.30pm to put the drip in, clean the catheter and check that everything's OK. She's due back at hospital tomorrow (Monday) for a check up and new catheter so Cabin Fever Will Continue.

Then I thought, why not do December Details - delayed? This tradition started with Appreciative August in 2008, Knowledge November and Doggy December in 2009 and Snappy September in 2010. So here we go:

As you know, Switzerland is a small country in Europe bordered by many others. A five kilometre drive takes us into France: land of much cheaper meat, outdoor markets where smoking a cigar whilst slicing up cheese for customers is permitted and dogs sit in bakeries. Italy is down 'below' and Germany, Lichtenstein and Austria linger around the sides.

Living here we've discovered that our products are mostly from Switzerland in a huge effort to support local industry, farming and the franc and any items that you'd normally assume would have 'Made in China' stamped on their bases instead have Bulgaria, Romania or Germany.

Our budget is tight here so it was with no small amount of joy to discover that my much-needed and recently-purchased long, black and shiny boots were made in Italy. Italy!

Of course they're rubber and only cost me 26 Swiss francs and are for walking Milly in the park after it rains, but they made in Italy. Alla moda!

Even then, Love Chunks saw them and said, "Twenty six francs? Seems a bit much for rubber wellies..."

Not that the French-Swiss would call them Wellies surely?

2011-11-30T16:43:00.004+01:00

Not Nutella

It's 7.30am on Tuesday morning and I'm hanging onto the overhead bar on the number fourteen tram with a slightly hysterical and impossible-to-repress smile on my face.

Sapphire's been sick for so long now. Five weeks. Our GP rang the hospital and referred her the day before and yet, after hours of waiting and telling her story to four different doctors, she was sent back home at 10pm. It was -2C as we stood shivering outside on the kerb, waiting for LC to pick us up.

More drugs to take. The final 'experiment' before ..... well, nobody is willing to say what happens if they don't work.

Nine and a half hours later I'm heading back to the hospital with Sapphire's latest stool sample at their request. They disagreed with the two test results obtained from the GP; said that they 'couldn't possibly be right, they've made a mistake.' I was too tired to argue and Sapphire drooped against my shoulder, even more tired. Who cares about the kid when there are numbers of pieces of paper that can be waved about, photocopied and discussed endlessly? Who cares if she's been sick for five weeks - she's not screaming, or pushing her spilled out gizzards back in with her own hands, is she?

A bunch of dodgy-looking beggars get on board at Servette, invariably accompanied by a bad accordion player with a repertoire of only three songs. They all reek of beer, BO and cigarettes and talk loudly in an attempt to intimidate the rest of us into giving a donation when the cup is walked up and down the aisle. Wallets and bags are known to disappear too, so I always grip mine tighter, the zips close to my hands and the inside of my body.

Today however, my blank face is replaced by a smile that gets gets wider, stretching the dry skin around my eyes and no doubt looking both out of place and insane on a workaday foggy morning. Aside from the gypsies, everyone else is dressed in work clothes encased in puffy North face jackets and fur-lined hoods in blacks, greys and browns. I wonder how they'd react if I broke the ear bud-enforced silence with this conversation piece: Am I the only one carrying a fresh poo here today?

The man with the begging cup makes eye contact with me. He gives me a dismissive flick up and down with his eyes. I'd obviously be an easy target if he wanted to bother. Go ahead buddy, I think. Pick my bloody pocket. There's a jar for you in here and it sure as hell ain't Nutella.......

They want Sapphire back at the hospital on Friday to see if the drugs have worked and to study the results that their lab ("It must be done through our laboratory; why has your doctor ordered this from Zurich?) produce. Family, friends and the school teachers ring for updates and there's none yet to give. Sapphire is still in pain, still weak, still poorly. We can't do anything but wait until Friday.

And all I can do right now on the tram is involuntarily chuckle out loud at having arrived at a time in my life when I'm ferrying shit across town in my handbag.

2011-11-24T16:51:00.005+01:00

Indeterminee

It's 9am and the corridor outside of her bedroom is dark, so I bend down gingerly to slide a note under her door.

'Sapph, I'm taking Milly out for a walk and a play before she bursts. I have my mobile with me, so call if you need anything. Mum xo'

My knees crack whilst straightening up and BANG I crack the top of my head on her door knob. My anguished screech of 'SHIT' shoots out without thinking and I hear Sapphire stir and call out to me; all my previously silent and considerate creeping around for nothing.

She's still sick and it's no longer a joke or an intriguing 'bug that's going around' or a pleasant opportunity for us to watch every conceivable version of Antiques Road Show, Attic Treasure, Flog It, Road Trip, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Ask Our Antiques Experts, Bargain Hunters or Nanna Has A Cracked Pot: Is it Worth Anything via the English channels.

The doctor, once pompous, then apologetic is now a combination of stumped and concerned. "The new drugs haven't worked - the bacteria is still there. No wonder you feel so ill, Sapphire." He even shows me the lab reports and the list of antibiotics that have been proven to work against the evil germ lurking in her belly. "This is supposed to work, it's supposed to fix things. Why hasn't it?" That's the question he asks before I do.

He'll be phoning the laboratory tomorrow, as they've now separated the bug and are testing other drugs on it to see if they can destroy it. "If not, it's time for the Diseases Unit in the hospital to help us." For some inexplicable reason, I'm really glad when he says 'us' instead of 'you' - he's now involved and seems to care. This kid ain't faking and needs help.

As we farewell him - yep, come back tomorrow and I'll also call you as soon as I hear again from the lab - I look down at the Sick Certificate he's given me to send to Sapphire's teacher. Instead of the usual ones that say Retourner a l'ecole and a date, this one states: Retourner est indeterminee. Sapphire sees me frown, snatches it from my hand to read what it says and starts to cry.

The mobile had a message for me. I didn't get the admin job via the Australian embassy. It was almost an entry-level role that they interviewed eight of us for. "Was it my bad French?"

"No, yours was as good as everyone else's."

What the? Come on, rally yourself, girl. "Oh. Never mind, I appreciate you considering me----"

"You could easily have done the job - all the panel agreed - but the person we offered it to has more experience than you."

Ah. More experience in being your niece? More experience in ordering lunchtime tables in perfect Francais? More experience in being a mindless wallah? More experience in ...... time to get off this bitter, pointless track and get ready to take the dog for a walk. Milly does several joy jumps before skidding on the parquetry when she sees me reach for my Outdoor Walking Coat - a 75% markdown from the H&M Mens' Section sized Extra Large. I look like a sleeping bag wrapped around a water tank, but damn if it doesn't keep me cosy.

Hopefully another job will turn up that doesn't involve nannying three children under five years or toilet cleaning for 15 francs an hour. A part-time Librarian's Assistant role looked promising until Selection Criteria Number Nine specified 'Must be fluent in both English and French and possess the ability to read and understand Russian, Spanish and Arabic.' All that to type in 'new additions to the library category coding system' for 18 francs an hour?

Swish Swish Swish whispers my jacket as I stride along, fuming. The bloody UN seems deliberately set up to actively prevent trailing spouses from gaining any form of employment. G-level (yes, as in ground, gofer, gormless, grovelling) employment pays less than our weekly grocery (yes, another G word) bill but still requires a high distinction after sitting their official admin skills test, proving I can speak two languages and understand three in the written form, possess an advanced Masters Degree in International Diplomacy or related issues and over eight years working specifically for international organisations.....

Whoah - the leaves are now long dead and dangerously slippery with damp, and I grab at a railing to prevent from falling. The sudden movement shakes the lump in my pocket - Love Chunks' new camera. Further down the hill, Milly sees Malou and surprises him with some attention and play as I stand there staring at the wealth of photo opportunities. Ice-crusted grass. Malou's excited face. Orange leaves. Pink sun rising through grey foggy sky and the cryptic spray painted 'Avatar Rules'on the lowest hanging branch of a nearby oak tree.

Drops splatter my face as Milly returns, giving her ears an extra-thorough flapping to signify that she's sick of Malou and ready to return home.

Sapph's on the sofa, folded up tightly to squash the stomach pain and resting Elmo - her sleeping partner of choice during times of illness or sadness - on her knees. The Outdoor Walking Coat is dropped to the floor as I dash over to hug her. Her hand lightly brushes against the top of my head, still throbbing from the fight with the door knob.

"I'm glad you're with me, Mum," she whispers.

Perhaps this is the right job for me right now.

2011-11-19T17:47:00.008+01:00

Three black dogs

My dog is not part of the cool club. Instead we have to walk past them every single morning, me tugging at her lead to calm her down and she trying to rush at the fence and give them all a good telling off.

It's a good thing actually, because the 'off leash' section in the park is a mere 15 metres by 30 metres and is devoid of grass or anything more interesting to sniff at than dusty turds ignored by lazy owners. Instead, we veer off the path well trodden and into the 'forest'.

The 'forest' in reality is a small strip of neglected land between the park and several large apartment blocks but it's dark, dank and full of canine-friendly nooks and crannies to investigate, not to mention a few cats and squirrels to chase amongst the moss, mushrooms and wet leaves. Then, on the other side of the park, there's a huge expanse of grass that I also let Milly run freely on if there are no other dogs about.

Trouble is, there often are other dogs about but I don't spot them until there's a furry clash of meeting bodies and a mutual butt sniff which is then followed by me dashing over to clip Milly back on and apologise for any nip that the other animal received or was about to receive. "Je suis desolee. Mon chien n'aime pas outre chiens."

Luckily for me, this clumsy attempt has resulted in three Swiss humans reverting instantly to English.

It has also buried the popular myth held by most expats in Geneva that Swiss people are stand-offish and unfriendly. Not in my neck of the woods.

The first to revert to English when faced with a pudgy-but-apologetic Australian woman who was still unshowered, morning-breathed and messy-haired was an elderly lady in a burgundy puffer jacket as wide as she was tall, the colour of which set off her purple-hued perm rather nicely. Her big, black, maybe-cross between a Labrador and St Bernard took Milly's less-than-welcoming demeanour in his stride, contenting himself to stand there panting and wait for her approach him when she felt like it.

"His name is Cassius," Madame Burgundy informed me. She jumped in before I could reply. "I'm not a racist, I didn't call him that - it was his name for years before I found him at the ---- " several words of French escaped before the Anglais term arrived "----refuge. Yes, refuge."

It was then I noticed the criss cross scars on his front paws, standing out amongst the high gloss of his fur and shining, friendly eyes. "He was a guard dog for a man who owned a metal yard and had to run and sleep out on the sheets," she said. Through a series of questions, hand movements and guess work, Cassius's seven year life story before the arrival of Madame Burgundy emerged. No love or attention until somebody noticed his bleeding, infected feet and stole him away, hoping he'd find a better owner at the refuge.

"My husband died and I needed something to love. Cassius is everything to me," she said, leaning down to pat his head. Milly allowed me to do it too, taking the opportunity to flip over in the dewy grass and rub her back in the remains of kebab wrapper instead of rush over and attempt a quick nip.

Further on in the park we encountered Malou, the Mr Crazy Caffeine of our neighbourhood, careening around the corner of the copse in a blur. A regular buddy of ours, he too is a mutt; presumably the love child of a greyhound and Jack Russell with a sturdy torso and impossibly skinny legs. He looks like a coke can with four toothpicks stuck underneath it. He'd been found wandering up in the Jura mountains, abandoned. His coat is very flat but black and shiny like a brand new top hat.

"Hello sweetie," I cooed as he jumped up for a greeting. He lost interest the second he clapped his beadies on Milly who was still unaware of his presence as she stared longingly up into the tree that held two cavorting squirrels many metres up.

Malou danced. He pranced and woofed. He ducked and dodged. He cavorted, rushed up and back, sniffed alongside Milly and even nudged her arse in some truly commendable and exhaustive efforts to get her attention. As with Cassius, she was off lead and not inclined to make an attack but was unfortunately intent on studiously ignoring him. At least until he gave up and trotted back over to where his owner was standing, chatting to me.

"I'm so sorry," I said to Malou and then glanced up at his owner in case he felt offended on his beast's behalf. "You'd have won me over with your smooth moves and agility."

Love Chunks was once in the park jogging when I was busy talking to Malou's master. We don't know each other's names, just our dogs' (which tends to be standard social etiquette for four legged walkers the world over), but I did know that Malou enjoyed cross country cavorting when his owner was training for triathlons.

When I got home, LC said, "You know, you shouldn't just talk to any old bloke in the park you know. You've got to be safe, have your wits about you." The fact that Malou's master was good looking, fit and young wouldn't have had anything to do with his concern...?

This thought warmed me as we walked through the grass this morning, me grateful for my wellington boots as they crunched the ice now coating the fallen leaves.

Milly stopped, one of her front paws raised: a sign that she'd spotted something surprising. Strangely enough, it was another dog, not something she'd normally consider lifting a paw up for. I'd seen them in the distance on many other occasions and mentally considered the lady as Classic Genevois: designer coat, expensive fringed ugg boots, perfectly lightened hair and impeccable make up - not a bad effort for 7:30am.

I felt like lifting up one of my own legs in surprise because Milly's tail was wagging and she trotted forwards towards Black Dog Number Three. This one was as large as Cassius but slimmer in frame and shaggier in coat - a twist of liquorice wearing a flokati floor rug perhaps.

"Bonjour madame." Genevois Gentlelady smiled at my greeting and answered in English. Even those two words - spoken in what I assumed was a pretty decent French accent - betrayed not only my foreignness but also my ignorance.

"This is Bernard," she said, as he flopped on the grass beside her. As she walked, he walked; when she stopped, he flopped. Milly sniffed his seated butt cautiously but appreciatively. That was something new for her.

"What sort of breed is he?" Eyes like burnt caramel, fur softer than a kitten's and a mouth that truly widened into a smile the second he was touched. Something pretty special no doubt.

"Nobody knows....." I stroked his ears with my left hand and Milly's with my right to allow the conversation to continue without generating any jealousy or impromptu fighting.

"He is now two years old and I adopted him when he was only twelve moins - no - months - old. He had been through a terrible time."

It was nearly eight o'clock when she had finished, kissing the top of Bernard's head in a loving form of punctuation. Her change of movement had him up on his feet instantly, ready to move when she did.

She gently lifted up his tail. "You see here - it's a bit personal, yes? - under his tail, by his anus? They had burned him with cigarettes there."

And that's when I found myself holding hands with a woman I'd only met twenty minutes earlier and whose name I didn't know.

Three black dogs. Giving joy and deserving joy.

2011-11-14T14:51:00.009+01:00

Wooden Spoon

He’s an intelligent man because he’s not only a doctor running a busy clinic but easily switches from speaking French to German to English depending on what patient he is talking to.

Consider though, that English is the most common first or second language here in Switzerland and you may understand how the hot flush of anger and shame slapped me on Friday when he spoke to me in a packed waiting room. “Now you do realise that if we don’t find anything in Sapphire’s stool sample then it’s all in her mind, don’t you?”

My legs wobbled and my eyes stung, rendering me witless and mute. He continued, slightly louder this time, assuming that I was a bit stupid.

“You need to TALK to her. Is she happy at school? Does she have friends? REALLY TALK TO HER.”

I nodded and got out of there as fast as I could, almost forgetting to hand over the bag of freshly-made excrement for the nurse to send off to the lab for testing.

He means well, the pompous git. He’s obviously seen more of life and the extremes of human nature – let alone anatomy – than I have, but the words stung. For two weeks Sapphire has endured vomiting, nausea, blinding headaches, dizziness, lack of appetite and crippling stomach pains. She’s missed school for most of that time due to being unable to stand up for very long or concentrate.

Her blood test results showed that her body was fighting a major infection and she was given four different kinds of medication to take. All the packets and instructions were in French, German and Italian. The pharmacist saw my confusion, took pity on me and printed the dosage instructions in English. I felt like pulling his head over the counter towards me and planting a big wet one.

The vomiting and diarrhoea stopped by the end of week one, but not the pain, disorientation, weakness and exhaustion. The second blood test showed that she’d gotten over the infection.

She was sent to have her face x-rayed, as her sinuses were swollen. The scans showed no polyps or problems but a prescribed nasal spray has made the passages clearer. Her eyes were checked and the optician advised that her glasses – made in 2009 – were too strong for her. New lenses are ready for collection tomorrow.

Walking to radiation clinic across from the train station, we stopped every five metres or so to let Sapphire take a breath and fold herself over to somehow squash away her stomach pain. Inside, the clinic was festooned with prints, paintings and sculptures of nudes. "How is a three foot sketch of a man's willy supposed to make me relax, Mum?" Cheeky monkey.

“You ‘ave made pee pee already,” Scan Man huffed.

“Er yes. We weren’t aware that she needed to have a full----“

“Come back in ‘alf an ‘our. Drink much, so that you have much pee pee but don’t go pee pee.”

Sapphire’s lip drooped in self pity ten minutes later when a bucket-sized mug of gingerbread-spiced latte was placed in front of her. “Come on love, you’ll enjoy this. Coffee’s a diuretic, so you’ll be back with---“ my fingers formed the international quotation sign “-----loads of pee pee for Scan Man.”

She giggled. “Shoosh mum, do we need all of Starbucks to know?” I stood up, put my hands on my hips and played the ham. “Why yes, we do, actually. Everyone should know that---““SIDDOWN MUM,” she laughed. “Oh damn, I’ve spilled it down my front....”

Back home, the phone call came. No discernible stomach issues and the appendix is fine.

I do know Sapphire. I do.

I know that she’s very ill and that her headaches and stomach pains are real, not faked or psychologically manifested. I do. It worries and scares me a little to see how listless and unwell she is. I believe her. I trust her. I know her.

.... don’t I?

Do I have to go back inside, sit alongside her snoozing figure in our bed and ask, “Is there anything that you’re worried about? Is there anything you’re not telling us? Is there anything making you unhappy?”

She sat up, reaching for my hand to comfort me instead of the other way around. “I’d rather be at school than here with you. No offence.”

None taken. I kiss her soft forehead and leave her to snooze.

Love Chunks gets back home from his two week odyssey in Canada and Mexico and finds a 43 year old, a twelve year old and a furry seven year old waiting for him at the door, all smiles.Sapphire’s still in her dressing gown but happy to see him. Milly is pensive – will the return of Alpha Male mean that Alpha Female won’t devote as much attention to her? Besides, she’d just endured having her teeth cleaned, with now-crusty bits of white toothpaste clinging to the hairs on her chin. I just want to breathe in his warmth, scent and strength.

The weekend sees Sapphire improve slowly but still always doubled over in agony immediately after eating anything.

I send her to school today. She’s eager to go despite having a throbbing headache and wondering if she’ll cope with the smell, noise and food on offer at the school cafeteria at lunchtime.

When Milly and I get back from our walk, the phone rings. It’s the doctor’s nurse. “We have found some bacteria in Sapphire’s sample. The doctor wants to see her today after school and he will have some medicine ready for you.”

Her English is halting, so my questions about what is it, will it get better, what sort of medicine and how long will have to wait until this afternoon. I put on my favourite playlist and run like the wind on my treadmill, singing out loud to every song. I don’t wish any misfortune for my daughter, but I am relieved that they found something. I do know her.

Roger emails me. He’s flying back to Australia for a conference tomorrow. Is there anything I’d like him to bring back from home?

The smell of burnt rubber fills the room as I think hard. For months I’ve moaned about things I miss but this morning all I can think of is a wooden spoon. No shop in Geneva sells them, so it’s little wonder they don’t make cake here.

“I’ll bring you three,” he says, noting how the traditional last prize item in Oz is my number one choice here. “Perhaps you can give one to Sapphire’s doctor.”

2011-11-08T02:41:00.003+01:00

Edition Nineteen - Word Verification Explanations

It's been ages since I've compiled a list of word verifications or 'captchas' that I've had to type in to comment on other blogs and a few have popped up that are just asking - nay, begging - for an official definition. Besides, my brain needs to think about something other than translating the German instructions on Sapphire's nausea reduction tablets, coordinating Nafeesa's school and hospital transit routes and explaining to Milly that I'm not responsible for the driving rain that is preventing us from having a long walk.

Are you ready?

Redinneo - the meal produced from desperation - usually late on a Thursday evening - that combines two incompatible leftovers such as spaghetti bolognese and pumpkin curry. These optimistic blendings rarely convince the family that it's nouveau cuisine or even a successful pairing; more like a bad interpretation of shepherd's pie.

"I'm hungry, Mum. What's for tea?"

"Uuuhmmm...... how about some redinneo?"

(silence). "I'm not really that hungry, actually...."

Prent - The person who chooses the '8 items or less' checkout when they clearly have more than fifteen. They are invariably inconsiderate, selfish and extremely ugly. In short, a Prent.

Flads - Overly-confident marketing campaigns that utterly fail to catch on. Examples of flads in recent times include any non-animated movie starring Angelina Jolie, citrus-coloured clothing, The Prince of Persia action figures, carbonated milkshakes and Gordon Ramsey's restaurants in Australia.

Zoole - a pet in a backyard swimming pool. Large dogs such as labradors are often zooles in summer time thanks to being hurled in by adults sloshing with too much sparkling shiraz or kids wanting to see their much-loved Rufus or Honey frenziedly paddling. Humans who are also having a dip risk having the flesh scraped off their ribs by canine claws if a zoole desperately keen to reach the steps and get the hell out of the water happens to be thrashing alongside.

Gathy - the annoying draught that only you notice. Most common in old cars, doctors' waiting rooms, so-called bus 'shelters' and the homes of those annoying people who never put their heating on even when your snot has frozen. "Cold? It's not cold - let's open another window; we need some fresh air in here!"

Fornicka - sexual intercourse performed on kitchen counter tops. Presumably for ease of cleaning afterwards.

Poveva - the first world struggle of the well-paid living in a country with a stratospheric cost of living. Examples include Geneva, Oslo, Zurich, New York, Tokyo and London. Budget blow-outs mean that households used to eating meat suddenly find tinned lentils, quark and macaroni make filling-but-failing replacements and rent day sees the bank account looking more scoured than Lindsay Lohan's nostrils after a court hearing.

2011-11-05T12:00:00.005+01:00

Where’s Eric?

Saturday morning, 8am.

Milly is straining on the lead, dying for a leash-less run around in the park after two days of non-stop rain and only quick visits downstairs for relieving herself.

Sapphire has been left at home, fitfully sleeping, with her mobile resting on her pillow. Mine is in the pocket of my polar fleece and I finger it nervously, hoping that I’m not a terrible mother for leaving her to give a dog forty five minutes of my undivided attention.

Nafeesa’s grandmother arrives from Lebanon today, the lucky recipient of the laughingly-titled ‘fast track’ visa application on compassionate grounds. Yep, only three weeks: how very thoughtful of them to rush it through for a child without an able parent or family..... Nanna will need help though as she’s eighty one, doesn’t drive, is in a strange country and speaks mostly Arabic.

We’ll all pitch in of course and I know that Nafeesa is greatly looking forward to living in her own home again, where things are familiar and the comforting routines can recommence. This past week, she’s been at her friend Paige’s place. Sapphire’s been too ill for us to have her at ours and, well, she’s made it clear that we’re, um, not who she wants to stay with, despite the wishes of her mother and mother’s best friend. Still, if she wants a week of late nights, junk food and sporadic visits to hospital but is having some fun, who can deny her that when she’s endured several weeks of stress?

Love Chunks is in Canada running a conference and workshop; stopping only to head to the airport, bypass the US and do the same thing for another week in Mexico.

I think back to my birthday, two days ago. Sapphire’s blood test showed that her body was definitely struggling with a major illness, but that her major organs (liver, etc) were functioning normally. Her temperature had finally lowered, but the headaches, diarrhoea, nausea, exhaustion and wrenching stomach pains had not.

“Sorry about ruining it, Mum,” she whimpered, head in my lap as I stroked her forehead. “I got up when you were in the shower and your cards and presents are on the lounge.”

She had sewed me a bag for my latest knitting project and alongside it was a golden chocolate Lindt bear. “Look inside the bag, Mum,” she urged, sitting up slowly, the morning light showing too pale a complexion and dark circles under her eyes.

A beautiful hand-made card with sentiments inside that brought me to tears. “No Mum, look in the bag.” Inside was a framed magazine advertisement pulled from a magazine of the month and year of my birth – November 1968. Nestle’s chocolate – Born in Switzerland, their secret is now being shared with you. “I found it on ebay and when we were at Jumbo’s I put the frame in with the ones you had bought and hoped that you wouldn’t notice. Dad did framed it when you were on your treadmill.” Yes, my other present, which arrived a week ago.

More tears from me as I rushed back to the other lounge and cuddled her. She’s twelve now and yet I still automatically breathe in her hair and am instantly reminded of her as a newly-bathed baby. “Mum, you’re not supposed to cry on your birthday,” Sapphire laughs.

Love Chunks writes me an email with a message so simple and beautiful that I’ve read it every time I’ve logged on since. The rest of the day is spent knitting as Sapphire watches the motley collection of Antiques Road Trip shows we’ve recorded, running an ongoing guessing game on how much each item will fetch at auction. The TV is regularly paused for her to recover from a painful stomach spasm or to dash to the toilet and my worry is masked by the rude jokes I make to try and get her to smile. “Everything is about farts and poos with you, Mum,” she says in a not-very disapproving tone.

Two days later and Milly and I are about to walk into the park. A quick glance shows that there are no other dogs nearby for her to scare off, so I bend down to unsnap her lead.

Putta putta putta putta – one of the ubiquitous mini-bikes has screeched to a halt on the opposite side of the street, the driver calling out to me in French.

“Parlez vous Anglais?”

“Yes,” he says with relief. “There was a bakery here...” he gestures to the shop behind him whose windows are papered white, “........do you know where it is now?”

Being an inexplicable magnet for direction seekers, I actually do know. “Here, it’s around the corner, where we’re heading. It’s only been open for two days, very fancy now. Follow me.”

He nods in agreement, driving on the left hand side of the road as he does so, breaking the law. It’s 8am on a foggy Saturday morning, who’s going to notice?

The police, that’s who. Out of nowhere a heavily armoured van pulls up alongside us, six serious faces peering through the dark windows that are now slowly rolling down.

Gulp.

No French this time; I think my ‘Oh My God’ has given them a clue.

“Do you know where Eric’s bakery has moved to?”

Half an hour later, with a muddy but happy dog I’m still laughing as I walk back home, knowing that Sapphire will get a kick of out this story when I see her.

2011-11-01T10:28:00.006+01:00

Together, let’s control your waste

It’s a funny thing, being the ‘Trailing Spouse’ with supposedly nothing to do but luxuriate in the cultural splendour and luxuries of a foreign country. I assumed I’d be writing steadily, giving you all updates (whether you wanted them or not) on life for the Locketts in Geneva with the clockwork regularity and frequency that the Swiss are famed for.

Trouble is, pesky things get in the way such as poor Yasmin’s stroke, Nafeesa needing a guardian/hospital transfer/temporary mother/dietician/entertainment consultant/laundress, a long-scheduled trip to Basel, Love Chunks’ seven-day-a-week workload before his departure to Mexico, a job application and astonishingly violent case of diarrhoea, headache, vomiting and fever suffered by Sapphire.

Nafeesa has decided not to come back and stay with us since our return from Basel. She’s instead selected a friend who exhibits Queen Bee-like tendencies and is, at this moment, favouring young Nafeesa instead of snubbing her. Yasmin is making slow progress in hospital, but her hand gripped mine and she said – no yelled – “NO!” – when I explained that Nafeesa wanted to stay at Queen Bee’s until her grandmother (Yasmin’s mother) arrived from Lebanon.

But how do I force a child – not mine – to stay in my home? Especially when that child has already lost one parent and now spends hours every day with her remaining, seriously-ill one? When she can elect if and when she answers her telephone and obviously wants to have some fun down-time with a flaky friend?

Trouble is, Queen Bee’s mother is just as flaky. She’s assured all of us on the official Guardian List*** that she’s fine not only with Nafeesa staying but also tackling the daily transfers to hospital, staying with her during the visit and bringing her back home. In reality, she’s ‘too tired’ or ‘too busy’ or ‘thinks it’s too late’ or ‘too far’ and I’ve been getting the calls – ‘Can you pick me up?’

Is it wrong for me to gently explain to Nafeesa that if she chooses Queen Bee, then she has to accept the full ramifications of that choice? That I have a sick child, a job application, a husband who is working seven days a week in the lead up to two international meetings that he’s solely responsible for and even though we have a car, I’m still too scared to drive it across town in peak hour traffic only to pay around CHF45 to park it in a dark alleyway a kilometre away from the hospital where beggars and druggies like to congregate?

Beautiful, historic, friendly Basel was bliss for three days. LC stayed back to work work work; Nafeesa was granted her request to stay at Queen Bee’s and Sapphire got me to herself again. She’d been overlooked and neglected for the past couple of weeks and her acceptance and understanding of this made me both proud and relieved.

In Basel, we laughed. We imagined that the ‘Together, let’s control your waste’ sticker placed above the bog roll holder in the hotel bathroom would generate a pair of hands eager to pat down or squash our ‘waste’ instead of the well-intentioned but incorrectly-written homily about saving water, reusing bath towels and recycling paper.

We allowed ourselves a naughty giggle at the entrance to the Kunstmusuem and after an hour of room after room of 15^th C religious art, Sapphire said, “Not ANOTHER gruesome picture of Jesus on the cross and a nude woman. It’s just an old fashioned excuse for porn and violence!”

Instead we ventured into the early 20^th C and I saw the very Paul Klee painting I’d studied way, waaay back in year twelve. Sapphire loved it too and as I leaned forward to point out a detail – WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP – we were momentarily deafened and my shoulder was tapped by the security guard who had bravely left the Mondrians alone and dashed into our room. “Madam you’re too close. No more than 30 centimetres please.”

Discoveries included the best Asian food in Switzerland at a restaurant recommended by a hotel staffer who admitted that she hated the place ‘because it’s too spicy and the vegetables are raw,’ the best macarons in the world at Sprungli in the Marktplazt and that bags of hot roasted chestnuts, despite being avidly eaten by the locals, “Taste like big chickpeas, only much less interesting,” according to Sapphire. And me. All in a glorious location that involved a lot of walking arm in arm and saying, “Oh will you look at that? It’s so lovely!”

The phone started ringing five minutes after we got back home. “Queen Bee’s Mum was wondering if you’d mind picking me up as she’s feeling a bit tired today and she knows that you don’t have a job and have free time?” *Sigh* On paper, yes. In reality: LC’s got the car because he’s currently living at work; Sapphire is starting to feel sick; the house is covered in orange dog fur and the bathroom stinks like a pipe has been blocked with sewage from 1980 and there’s a single tub of yoghurt in the fridge and only a nanna cart and my legs to do anything to change that.....

Love Chunks flew out to Mexico City yesterday, exhausted before it even commenced. Dinners, museum visits, workshops, presentations and a press conference. “Geez I hope they make you all pose wearing sombreros and ponchos like the APEC summits.” The last thing I saw was him rolling his eyes before the lift doors closed.

By bedtime, Sapphire was curled up into a tight ball of agony. By midnight she was boiling hot, throwing up and crying. At 1am she was stuck on the toilet with diarrhoea but also grabbing at her aching head. She was delirious at 3am. “Take these off of me – they’re crawling up my legs and the texture is killing me!” By 5am it was all of it combined, my reassuring patter hopefully not betraying my shaky hands as I stroked her forehead.

Nafeesa’s returning to our place tonight; I’m taking Sapphire to the doctor later this morning and not for the first time I’m glad that I don’t have an official ‘job’ here yet.

*** Compiled by Yasmin’s best friend H and Netherlands-based brother N, it lists all of our names, addresses, emails, contact numbers and who is doing what on what days. Not only for our collective benefits, but also to satisfy the hospital social worker that Nafeesa is being cared for appropriately, to assure Yasmin not to worry but concentrate on getting better and the rather tardy visa-bureaucrats in Lebanon.

2011-10-20T15:28:00.006+02:00

Fleeting

Steam is rising from the poo that Milly has just laid in the Parc de Trembly. Autumn is now well and truly here with the tiniest hint of snow on the distant Jura mountains and dew drops like diamonds on my dog’s nose. She’s already scurried off to sniff for squirrels as I bend down with the obligatory black bag and pick up her produce. I can feel the warmth in my hand before it gets flung into the bin.

I’ve just sent off two girls to school this morning. My own: dear Sapphire, still suffering from a cold and asking if I’d drive them there ‘because it’s windy.’ She knew the answer before I needed to say it and grinned. “It’s always worth a try, Mum.”

And Nafeesa: on her first sleepover ever if you don’t count school camps.

She rang Sapphire two days ago. “My Mum has had a stroke. Can I stay with you?”

Sapph was home with me, sick with a cold, still in her dressing gown when she rushed out onto the balcony where I was sipping coffee. “Can she stay?” I nodded, getting up to find out more. Sapphire was already striding towards her bedroom, the annoyances of a sore throat and raw nose forgotten. “We must help and I know where you keep the guest sheets and towels....”

Nafeesa’s mother, Yasmin, rang her friend at midnight. The words were all clear but jumbled into nonsensical sentences. John thought it was a joke until there was silence for a while and she moaned, “Help me.”

He rushed over to her house, arranged an ambulance, woke up a frightened Nafeesa and spent the day at her hospital bed, telephoning everyone whose name he recognised on Yasmin’s blackberry.

Nafeesa’s father died of cancer six years earlier and their family are scattered outwards from Lebanon, Netherlands, UK and Brazil. As an only child, poor Nafeesa must have felt so alone, so tiny and helpless as doctors bustled around her mother, now paralysed down one side and unable to speak.

A friend was contacted and arranged to move into Yasmin’s house and take Nafeesa to school every day. “That’s when I rang you,” she told Sapphire later. “I knew that I wanted to stay with you.”

And so she is. She and I travelled in the rain to the hospital yesterday, passing through a dozen smoking nurses up towards the intensive care unit. The ward also held five men, all several decades older than Yasmin.

This proud and beautiful woman who I’ve always envied for her style and youthful looks banged her left hand – encumbered by several wires and catheters - against the metal bed rail when she saw her daughter. Nafeesa buried her head into her mother’s chest, whispering I love you I love you I love you over and over. Yasmin’s eyes filled with tears and she cried. It wasn’t a sniffle or a sob but a loud wail that made all of us – the nurse, the best friend, the work colleague visiting during lunch hour, Nafeesa and me, look down, unsure of what we could do to help.

I dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, awkwardly. As nominated guardian I was required to be there - if only to transport her child to the bedside - but my relationship was with Nafeesa who I saw often, whereas Yasmin and I mostly traded pleasantries during drop offs and pick-ups. With one side of her face dragging downwards and puffy eyes without their customary eyeliner I felt as though I was intruding, seeing her at her most vulnerable.

Patting her hand gently, I explained that Nafeesa was staying with us for as long as was needed and that she wasn’t to worry. As I pulled back to leave and sit outside to wait for Nafeesa, Yasmin grabbed my hand. She tried several times to tell me something but the words were incoherent and each one took a lot of effort to produce. Her eyes blazed and it was clear that being trapped inside a currently-useless body was isolating and frustrating.

It was one of those key moments in life when you know that you need to – must do – say the right thing and yet, as a self-deluded writer, nothing emerged but a faint “It’s okay, it’s okay. You have such a lovely daughter and we feel honoured to have her. It’s okay.” Her fingers clanged the three gold bangles along my arm in response. The eyes glittered: the message was understood.

I left Nafeesa with her mother and stepped outside to speak with Yasmin’s best friend, an AIDS specialist from the World Health Org. “She’ll be here for weeks and then....” she put her hands to her lips, as if to stop them from saying the next few words, “......it could be months. And months.”

We’d only met each other fifteen minutes beforehand but found ourselves hugging each other. This was the woman who emailed all the key players involved in Nafeesa’s care – who was dropping off, who was picking up and who was hosting her where and when; even during the upcoming week of mid-term break when Sapph and I were heading off to Basel. She also provided a list of emails and contact numbers and the evenings since have been full of conversations between people I’ve not yet met as we discuss some very intimate and important subjects.

And Nafeesa......? She’s a painfully skinny kid who barely eats anything beyond chicken nuggets and spaghetti adorned only with grated cheese. We’ve cuddled a few times and Milly has done her utmost to trot over and lean up against her legs, offering her own furry version of comfort. LC has been away at a conference in Germany, kept updated with SMS messages from Sapphire and on his return last night did the manly thing of repairing the sagging blow up mattress. Nafeesa knows that her mother will recover and the relief is evident. She sleeps on the now acceptably air-filled bed on the floor in Sapphire’s room and they both whisper and giggle into the wee hours.

Sapphire has come into her own. Helpful, funny and good at finding things for them to do after dinner. She’s very tired and not happy that Nafeesa will take Friday off school so that I can take her to meet her uncle at the airport while she sits in beginner French class. However this is just a momentary huff as she's quickly accepting and showing a maturity mixed with a wicked sense of twelve-year-old humour that is just what her friend needs. I’m in awe.

I lay in bed with LC last night, telling him all this. He reached out his arm to provide what he thought was a comforting pat to my shoulder but in the darkness it ended up as a vague grope of my chest and then a slight whack to my nose as he withdrew. “Gee thanks for that love – I knew that there was something I needed – a fondle and a punch!” We laughed louder and longer than was really necessary.

And so I find myself earlier this morning holding a still-warm bag of dog poo while the beast who made it is in the wet grass, front paw lifted as she freezes for a moment, locks in a new scent and runs in a different direction.

It’s hard not to smile at these tiny observations and yet at the same time realise how fleeting they are. Life is so damn short and can alter in an instant. I run to catch up with her and kiss her nose, even though it’s wet with dew drops and has a stray blade of grass plastered on it.

2011-10-13T09:45:00.009+02:00

Wildlife

For several weeks I've been wondering if some Aussie litter bugs had taken residence in Geneva because the local park has been festooned with McDonald's bags, coke cups and burger wrappers.

To make matters worse, the rubbish has all been dumped right next to the bins in a rude 'up yours' to the SCRASA* employees who dutifully sweep the streets and tidy the parks first thing every morning.

However, today I found out who the filthy fools were - black crows. Milly was off sniffing the side of the road that is dotted with tiny rabbit burrows and as I enjoyed the view of the city, several of the blighters landed on the edge of the bin and proceeded to remove every item they could carry, drop it on the ground and have a good old peck and feed. Who knew that our feathered friends had a thing for stone cold fries and abandoned pickles?

Returning from my run this morning, I stood out on our eighth floor balcony to cool off. It's been a rare day because the fog had lifted and, despite predictions, there was still no snow on top of the Jura mountain range.

My attention therefore turned to the garden below where, if I'm patient, the quivering leaves reveal squirrels leaping athletically from tree to tree. Apparently they're scientifically known as 'Sciurus Vulgaris' which seems a little bit uncharitable. Any creature who can tell off my dog in a sharp little wittering tone and still hold a couple of acorns in its cheeks whilst jumping to safety deserves a nomenclature considerably more flattering in my opinion.

On the grass; that acreage of pristine green growing velvet that no dog or human is allowed to sit or walk on, a shadowy shape emerged, stretching itself with a lazy confidence that only a frequent visitor can pull off.

At first glance, I thought it was a ginger tabby cat, but as it scratched its ears with a hind leg and faced the rising sun, the fluffy tail revealed that it was a fox.

I'd never seen one during the day, let alone here, of all places. A huge apartment building housing several hundred people on one side of the narrow garden and a senior high school on the other, and it seemingly in no hurry or overtly alert to any dangers.

What did it eat? Lazy, ground-bound squirrels? The ginger cat normally seen but not today? Leftovers thrown over the fence by fussy teens? Kidnapped sparrows offered as food alternatives by nervous Sciurus Vulgarii keen to avoid becoming the meal of choice themselves?

No matter; I had to get ready for a brocante with three friends. 'Brocante' sounds better than a flea market and the one in Plainpalais often features more trash than treasure but it is exerting a strange power over me. My visits have become weekly and what initially seemed like a heap of junk that turned me into a female Darryl Kernigan muttering 'They're dreamin' when the price tags were shown has now become an opportunity to leisurely rummage and spot a bargain.

A tiny tin caught my eye. "Combien, monsieur?"

Twenty francs. No way Jose. I shook my head and was about to move onto the next stall.

He called out something to me, but I didn't understand and didn't particularly care as my attention was now on a box of dusty old art books.

He tried again, this time commenting to his friend and they both laughed. Now I may spend a goodly part of my life here in a bubble of ignorant bliss when it comes to the language spoken around me, but I know a ribald snigger when I hear it.

I tapped Monique's shoulder. She's French Canadian and despite being in the company of three Aussie women would have understood every single word. "What did he---" I thumbed back to the man now holding up a fox fur stole for a customer "----say about me just then?"

She took her time answering, which can't have been a good thing. "Um he said he'd shave for you."

My eyebrows are blonde and therefore invisible, but even she could see that I had one raised in that 'oh come off it' expression. "Monique, I can handle it."

Her cheeks flushed red. "Um he said he'd um, have a shave and then um, be ready to, ahh, do a few rude things to you if you'd buy the tin for twenty francs."

Not sure if I was supposed to be insulted or complimented, I called out, "Dix."

He nodded. My offer of ten francs was accepted and I gently placed the tin in my pocket. Maybe he'd eaten the goodies inside which was why he'd so cheaply offered his sexual services?

* No, I have no idea what SCRASA stands for either. They are efficient and friendly blokes but the acronym reminds me of something you'd want the doctor to remove.

2011-10-10T14:01:00.010+02:00

Me too, me too, ME TOO!

Now, my mate Pandora has run four half-marathons in two years and my awesome buddy Jill completed an entire marathon last year before suffering a serious brain injury after falling off her bike during the Jacob’s Creek Down-under 120km bike race, so they’re both fully fit, full-on, determinedly powerful women.

...and I feel a bit left out.

See, I’ve been running since making it my new year’s resolution back in 2001. It’s the only resolution I’ve stuck with as stopping being too noisy; picking at my finger nail skin until it bleeds; giving up sugar/chocolate/cake; and trying not to be jealous or too much of a ‘Me too Me too ME TOOOOOO!’ person have all failed before the day was out.

So, here’s my Me Too contribution.

My first run, on 1^st January 2001, was three laps around the second cricket oval at Trinity Gardens Primary School. Four hundred metres times three. I didn’t have the energy to jog the two blocks home afterwards. Walking and gasping my way back, an elderly Italian gent hosing his roses offered to spray me down too. I accepted.

September 2002 saw me run my first City to Bay fun-run in Adelaide – twelve kilometres. My training consisted of asking Love Chunks to drive around my self-designed running courses and measuring them on the car's odometer. 4km, 6km 8km and 12km which I ran regularly. I carried a water bottle in a bum bag for the 12km runs and could always tell what the Robern Menz factory were making that morning from the smell that wafted along Glynburn Road – mint for Crowns or sweet peaches for Fruchocs.

Time achieved – One hour, three minutes for 12 kilometres.

September 2003 – running was now ‘my’ thing and my four year old baby weight had finally gone. It was also the valuable alone time that didn't involve sitting on the toilet or sleeping with the aid of a sedative to figure out a few solutions and ideas. City to bay time – 58 minutes.

August 2004 – My twice-weekly six km runs and a weekly 12km run had swelled to a 6km, 12km and a 17km run by June. I was in my ridiculous workaholic career phase then and used to get up for a run at 5am in the dark. I figured that potential robbers and rapists were more likely to have headed home by then and, besides, they’d have to catch me..... All that and I had showered, dropped Sapphire off at daycare and be at my desk by 7:30am. But I was happy. Wasn't I?

Love Chunks and I had an argument the night before the race. He was (justifiably) concerned about the long hours I was putting in at work, my increased physical symptoms of stress and noticeable decline in energy, happiness and interest in life at home. I disagreed and we went to bed with it unresolved; both of us furious. The last thing he said was, “Oh and I’m NOT going to see you do your half-marathon tomorrow.”

Sunday morning arrived and I was at Pinky Flat by the Torrens River at 6.30am. We were bussed to Lockleys and froze in the darkness until the starter pistol fired at 7.30am.

I was sleep-deprived, lacked the appetite to eat anything before the race and felt utterly depressed. Instead of this being a physical achievement that would set me apart as not only an amazing career woman (already failing) and wife/mother (whump whow!), there’d be no-one to see me or even care if I was there.

By 14km I hadn’t stopped but also hadn’t bothered to check my time or distance. At 15km, I threw up on the bank of the river near the Convention Centre. I wanted to stay doubled over and lie on the cool, soft, unjudgmental grass but..... No. I’d trained too hard and on my bloody lonesome for this and wasn’t going to give up now. Wiping my mouth and sipping some water I started up again.

Soon after I heard Sapphire and LC call out from the other side of the bank. “Go Mum!” “Go Kath!”

They’d come! Just six more painful kilometres via tiring little hills up to the zoo and back with the whiff of gorilla poo in the air before staggering across the finish line in one hour, 52 minutes.

I cried with disappointment: I had estimated one hour, forty five but clearly hadn’t foreseen the technicolour yawn that had left smears of fragrant reminders on my leggings. As LC and Sapphire hugged my saturated, stinky self, my tears changed to those of pride. I’d done it!

That was as far as I had ever run and after having a complete and utter breakdown roughly seven months later I found myself on medication, seeing a psychiatrist, unemployed and exhausted. Clearly it was only going to be little runs for me from now on, in all senses of the word.

However, chocolate reviewing started and became rather serious and time-consuming. Unless I yearned to be the human embodiment of a Lindt ball I needed to do more than 6km trots three days a week.

From 2006 to 2010, give or take a busted Achilles, I’d do three 10km runs and two 8km power walks to counteract the effects of inhaling around 2-3 kilos of chocolate per week. Eventually however, my shins, Achilles (both legs), several toenails, two incredibly painful infected blisters, blood-soaked bras and a couple of severe colds saw me grudgingly accept the fact that my ageing body needed to be treated just a tad more delicately.

Which leads me to now. Geneva. Autumn with fog, rain and slippery footpaths due to the accumulation of wet and increasingly slimy leaves stuck to them.

Five kilometres from our apartment entry door and back.

First phase: Posing under the red light. I jog around 300 metres before being forced to wait until the little green man allows me to cross the road. Swiss lights are ultra careful – pedestrians get to cross without any cars from even the opposite direction allowed to drive as you walk. Nice in theory, but it can mean a five minute wait if you just miss your turn.

Wearing a baggy man’s t-shirt complemented by sticky bed hair and hairy white legs goose pimpled in the breeze means it’s a challenge to stand there pretending to be nonchalant when surrounded by several stylishly dressed women ready to totter across the road in stacked heels, designer leather and furs to work. They don’t bother to hide their stares - I’m a big alien – unkempt, unstylish and publicly prepared to be seen puffing. And not on a French cigarette.

Second phase: Gracious descent. Downhill for half a K, baby! What are my legs – springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run – as fast as a leopard! Oops, that’s unless it’s rubbish day when the mini street sweeper fights with the garbage truck for total ownership of the footpath and I’m forced to leap out into the bike lane and incur the wrath of surprised and then annoyed scooter owners....

....not to mention reaching bus stop Trembley and – without fail – involuntarily letting out a series of sharp and loud ‘Parp Parp Parp Parp’ farts as I run past a bunch of more well-dressed workers....

Third phase: Jogging up Jill Hill. This is in honour of my best friend, who is slowly recovering from a brain injury. This is the hardest spot in our local park – winding cruelly upwards with the cracked bitumen path peppered with chestnuts that could twist an ankle if stepped on. Not to mention skirting around little old ladies smoking like chimneys and ‘omitting’ to see the huge crap just done by their poodles.

Fourth phase: Suffering through Sapphire's Slope. I leave the park and jog back into the suburbs, winding further uphill past several large apartment blocks, a patisserie, Milly’s vet surgery, the most famous fondue house in the city and a primary school. I think of Sapphire and how she’s got through the worst of things with being bullied by an ex-friend in Melbourne and the uncertainties of starting high school at a new school in a new country. She’s happy, stimulated, busy, interested, funny and utterly lovely. My eyes sting as sweat mixes with moisturiser but I smile as well.

Mercedes and Beamer drivers with diplomatic licence plates stare at me blankly as I go by, usually wheezing in agony by this stage. Sophisticated couples and US-accented people having ‘work meetings’ are mildly entertained as I trot past their petite boulangerie, dripping sweat as I pass and trying not to slip on the pretty-but-dangerous cobblestones.

Fifth phase: (barely) Mastering Milly's mountain. Another bloody school up on top of the hill past the Red Cross and John 23 American church. I now think of my dog who would always choose to come running with me no matter how much her arthritis agonised her. Even now, four years after the diagnosis, there’s reproach in her eyes when I put on my sneakers and leave her behind.

Final phase: Kath's Cruise. Downhill for 400 metres all the way home. The apartment keys slide in my left hand, sticky from sweat. The second my feet touch the outdoor mat and the doors automatically slide open, I stop.

Hands on my knees, head down, gasping. A quick glance at my watch shows 26 minutes from start to finish. This is no great distance or time but when factors such as motivation, weather, laziness, time and dagginess are considered, I feel just as proud as I did in August 2004.

2011-10-05T18:39:00.009+02:00

Answers

Thanks to you for playing my 'Let's Ask the Jovial Douche' game.

I've been to Avignon recently - and yes, had Bryan Ferry's 'Avalon' playing in my head the entire time - and returned to a series of questions that can only be described as .... varied. Here goes:

Andrew said...

Are you in Geneva for a set time and then you will return to Australia? If so, when?

LC was offered a two year contract with the World Meteorological Org (or OMM – Organisation Meteorolique Mondiale) which is the standard length. However, if he likes the work and Sapphire’s happy at her school, we’ll stay longer if they roll over his contract.

Lidian said...

Is it true that one picks up a language by just living somewhere, and if so, is it hard or not so hard to do? (I ask as someone who wishes she were good at foreign languages but is not at all)

Errrm, I don’t know yet. Sapphire and I did two one-hour lessons a week during the summer holidays and I seemed to be able to parrot-learn more basic words, but Sapphire could pronounce them with the right accents, understand all the little doo-flangers that appear above letters like ‘e’ and is now studying French in school and connecting the dots. I’m rapidly losing what French I learned but am relieved that I can get the gist of most large adverts on buses and menus. However, the UN has a language-swap program and I’m about to have lunch with a lovely lady who wants to speak English to me and then we’ll swap to French. I’m inclined to ask her to bring along the French equivalent of ‘Go Dog Go’ and ask me to read it to her!

Anji said...

Does it smell nice?

Mostly. Cool and fresh in the mornings now that fog, mist and dew has arrived. The bread smell is heightened here – absolutely fresh every single morning with no preservatives.

Bitumen – the Swiss love their roadwork, with fences, lights and workmen everywhere.

Outdoor markets can be challenging when all the hundreds of varieties of cheeses mingle together and create a vomity-aroma that makes it easier to breathe through my mouth.

Are you settling in okay now?

Yes. Seeing Sapphire happily settled in school was about, oh 99% responsible as it was not much fun to only have her mother as company for a long three months. I’m familiar with the key parts of the city; the public transport system and where I like to shop. I’ve made friends (hugely important), received some terrific advice that you can only find out from someone who did the hard yards before you and love that Milly needs a few outings a day. I feel like I belong here now.

The Plastic Mancunian said...

The first is about something close to your heart: You are a self-confessed chocaholic. How much chocolate have you eaten in Switzerland so far and what is your favourite?

I’m eating bucketloads of the brown stuff. However, despite Geneva’s apparently famous chocolate boutiques, I’ve never stepped in one long enough to buy anything. Instead, I’m still discovering that the blocks available in supermarkets are pretty damn delicious. There’s very little dark chocolate available here, so it’s all the ultra creamy milky stuff made with Swiss milk (something they are very, very proud of). So, whilst my tastes do range from rock-bottom to uber-posh, I’ve been more than content with supermarket level for now. Favourites are too numerous to mention but I have loved the new Lindt dark caramel with almonds; a Frey’s version of a Toblerone but with some Aero-style bubbles included and a Migros home brand blatant copy of Snickers bars that all three of us hoover down with ruthless efficiency. Five packs don’t last very long after they’re inserted in the spot in the fridge door that’s normally used for butter!

The other is: What is the secret to being a good writer?

I have no idea. Practice plus envy plus loads of reading of other writers that interest and inspire, an inquisitive nature and perhaps an ability to notice the small things? That said, most days I read online articles, blogs and second-hand novels and wonder how I dare call myself a writer compared to the brilliant stuff that’s available. Then again, as long as Jeffrey Archer and Bryce Courteney are allowed to publish what they previously wiped their bottoms with, there’s hope for everyone....

Have Myelin? said...

Are there any deaf people there? Do they go off to a "deaf school" or what?
If so, what kind of sign language do they use?
Do most deaf people sign or get cochlear implants?

I’ll admit to not doing much homework on this one, HM and hope you accept my apologies. Instead if we move to the eyes instead of the ears, Sapphire and I have noticed a lot of sight impaired people around the city with the long white canes. However, the traffic lights here don’t go ‘Pippity pippity pip pip pip’ when they turn green which seems rather mean-spirited.

The Elephant's Child asked:

What is the biggest risk you have taken? And was it worth it?

Punching a potential rapist right on the nose in London, January 1991. It came out fast and hard and the shock to him (and me) gave me enough time to leap out of his taxi, dash around the corner in the early afternoon darkness and icy streets and escape. I was surprised to discover that I was in the ‘fight’ instead of ‘flight’ category. Boy, was that punch worth it!

Imogen said...

Do you miss Flemington?

YES. For a start, most residents speak the same language as me and I felt like I knew most of the streets, the little character spots and a lot of fantastic people. I liked being in the triangle of trams, train lines and the Frog’s Mouth city link entrance: it felt like a separate village but was so close to the city that I always felt privileged to live there. And let’s not forget The Social Roasting Company, Vy Vy, Chef Lagenda, Crisp pizza, Laksa King, Pepper, Verb, The Quiet Man and all the top folk in the Flemington Association. *sniffle*

Jilly said...

Kath, dear Kath.... my question is, doesn't douche in Europe mean something else????? (ie something to do with a woman cleaning one's nether regions??) xx

Yes indeedy. That’s why I still chuckle in an immature fashion when it’s everywhere here as ‘shower’.

nuttynoton said...

What is your favourite cheese?

Gruyere. Rarely found and always expensive in Australia but the most commonly available cheese in Geneva. Stinks like an AFL player’s butt crack even when stored in airtight tupperware in the fridge but is delicious on fresh bread and doubly delicious melted over stale bread the next day. The key ingredient in a fondue too which has to be tried to be believed. I’m a convert. Roquefort is a close second - moist, so old it zings on your tongue and incredibly smelly.

Why do men find sport interesting but women do not (mostly)?

We can’t really see the point of it. Lots of running around by fairly unattractive men sweating and swearing a lot and a heap of annoying rules overrun by commentators who seem to assume that we, the viewer, are not able to see what is happening in front of our faces and must describe every single move loudly and in patronisingly excruciating detail. Then, just to add an extra layer of boredom, we have the endless discussions of statistics for each player, each game, each move, each season and, finally, the fruitless exercise of interviewing a meat-head who is only famous because he can kick a ball for his opinion on the game just played. “The boys played good but we’re already looking ahead to next week to conflagrate ourselves. We can’t afford to rest on our florals.”

Pandora Behr said...

1) Same as I gave to PM - what bit of advice would you pass on to your daughter?

That she’s beautiful. That any boingy bit of hair, spot on her chin or wobbly bit will NOT be noticed or nastily remarked upon by anybody who truly loves, likes or notices her. Oh and that blokes do not pick up on tiny little signals you send via osmosis their way or over-analyse everything to death afterwards. Turn up, smile, say what whatever it is you really mean directly and hope for the best.

2) If there was one moment in your life you could change - one event/ one period in your life/ one moment - what would that be?

March 2005, when a combination of exhaustion, depression, failure, humiliation and utter confusion found me believing that my family, friends and the world would be better off with me gone. Not a day goes by without me thinking of it and realising that not only was I seriously ill and tragically wrong but also of the huge amount of damage such an action would have caused, let alone the beauty, fun and challenges I would have missed out on. Thank god for professional help and the utmost kindness, patience and understanding from LC and my family.

Vanessa said...

If failure was not an option, what is the most daring thing you want to do?

Act or sing. Sometimes when I’m happy or have the ‘please like me, please please pleeease’ anxiety, I’ll show off a little and occasionally I wonder what it’d be like to be a character actor in a comedy......

Red Nomad OZ said...

Does living overseas make you feel more, or less Australian??!!

More, I think. Not because I yearn for more news on Julia and Tony or the drunken antics of AFL players, but it highlights the differences between the countries. I look different, dress differently (although you could say that was true back home too) and can sometimes be seen examining or photographing an object or situation that they’d consider an everyday one; ie a fat bloke riding a vespa this morning with a cigar in his mouth. Helmetless. Or picking up fresh conkers because I love the look of them shiny new.

Jackie K said...

(1)Does Sapphire read your blog and if so what does she think of it?

Sometimes. I have to run a few Sapphire-specific things past her to make sure that she is comfortable with how she’s being portrayed but she told me that she mostly reads the non-Sapph articles. She liked the recent one about our filing cabinet.

(2)What do you hope to bring back to Melbourne from your time in Geneva?

Hopefully not just a heap of travel photos – I’ve found in the past that no-one wants to see those unless they’re funny ones with people that they know in them, and that’s fair enough. There’s nobody you want to slap more than the bore who sits in a Melbourne cafe and sighs, “Oh but the macchiatos were magical in Firenze.”

So for me: an almost-grown, happy, fulfilled daughter with dreams to do more, see more, be more. A husband who set out to achieve what he hoped to do in the job and who still wants to come home to me at the end of every day. A feeling that I helped our little family make the most of our time here with friendships, travel, experiences, a new language and culture and an ability to judge less and learn more. Or something like that. Anything OTHER than an extra two stone!

drwife said...

I eagerly read your blog because we are moving with our children to Geneva in January. I feel a bit rude reading the personal blog of someone I've never met, but I appreciate every ounce of info about getting on in Geneva. My question is odd, but could I meet you when we move?

YES! My advice may not be exactly what they’d give you at the Geneva Welcome Centre, but it might be more helpful in terms of what you’ll really face instead of what they hope you’ll face. Come on over for a coffee, lots of chocolate, hopefully some laughs and several friendly licks from the dog.

Nicole said...

OK Kath - I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be using you as my personal psychic or psychiatrist here, but:
a) will I be able to cope with study while working and with small children under my feet?

Honestly? No. I’ve found that most of us can snatch thirty minutes of time on the computer when our kids are aged between zero and ten but when they’re otherwise occupied and you think you have time to read, digest, draft, write or study the phone will ring, the kid will throw up, the hot water system will die, the groceries need to be unpacked or you’ll feel so tired that it’d be more fun to visit a few blogs and see what those LOLdogs are up to.... Be kind to yourself and don’t set goals that several weeks of gastro, flu and a kitchen renovation aren’t going to ruin.

b) will my sister have a boy or a girl?

A boy. Now, I have about as much psychic ability as a left over lamington, so your guess is as good as mine.

ropcorn said...

I'm sure you have written about this somewhere in your blog but why did you guys move from Australia to Switzerland?

Love Chunks is a physicist/meteorologist/data analyst and was the Aussie rep for a certain project involving information gathered from aeroplanes and relayed back to each country. He was keen to see what coordinating the whole shebang from the World Met Org in Geneva would be like. So far it’s hectic, stressful, overwhelming and, from the little he’ll tell me, coming along quite nicely.

drb said...

Do you think it is easier to be a woman or a man?

We are weaker in physical strength yet have to give birth; yet men are expected to always be strong and can’t daydream in meetings without being betrayed by the bulge in their trousers. I’d call it a tie.

What is the secret of a happy marriage?

Still being in love with them. Being able to compromise and consider their needs along with your own. Liking their smell when you hug them. Glowing inside when they compliment you or you make them laugh out loud. Daydreaming about them when they’re away and reaching for their hand when they’re not. Knowing you can cry or moan and they'll listen. Then again, a shared interest in wine, flopping on the sofa and some free neck rubs helps too, doesn’t it?

Will you go to the moon?

Nah. If you want to wear an uncomfortable outfit, see only dirt and travel for ages, why not do it cheaper and become an outback fruit fly sprayer instead?

If you can name yourself, what name will you choose?

Lauren always sounded nice, but I’m pretty grateful that my mother chose Katherine. It’s not a name that dates me to a particular period in time like say a Narelle or Sharon or Darryl or Shane might have.

Which actress will you choose to be you in your biography film?

Cate Blanchett for now (hah!), Meryl for later (in my dreams) and a younger Dakota Fanning for the childhood scenes?

What is the meaning of life? ;-)

Feeling as though you’ve tried your hardest given your fair share of human failings and temptations. And had a few laughs along the way.

LJP said...

What do the Genevans and Australians do in the same way?

Talk incessantly on their mobile phones. Try to get their arses on the tram before the other passengers have stepped off. Enjoy their beer, love their doggies and have the same mysterious Bermuda Triangle effect that sees blue pens constantly disappearing from our house no matter how many I steal or buy.

Which are better - salt and vinegar chips or cheese and onion?

Cheese and onion. The last time I enjoyed salt and vinegar was during my pregnancy.

Whew! Time for a cuppa and a lie down.

2011-09-28T02:00:00.000+02:00

Jovial Douche

Yep, this is our current brand of shower gel, purchased specifically because it might be a douche, but it's a jovial one.

And it got me thinking. 'Jovial Douche' might be the way to describe me now that I'm living in Switzerland and people here haven't a clue what 'daggy' or 'low maintenance bag lady chic' means.

The Plastic Mancunian recently hosted an 'Ask me a question' session on his blog and I've kindly been given permission to steal it. Mostly because I'm curious as to what kind of questions that folk like you, dear reader, would think I'd be able to answer.

This is considered a living meme in that the questions answered will be from you. I'll try to be honest, kind and relatively inoffensive.

So, what would you like to ask me, the Jovial Douche? Don't be shy.......