MRI musings

It's a funny feeling, having your head shoved into a waste paper basket with a miniature rear vision mirror and long sponges wedged up against the sides to ensure a complete lack of motion.

A decade ago, I was allowed to bring in a CD that was magically piped into the tube, but today I'm grateful that the radiographer speaks English and has offered me some ancient cheeseburger-shaped headphones to muffle the noise. "Cuckoo!" he says cheerfully, more than once, tapping my arm. "You can keep your eyes open but will see only a white wall.  Better to keep them closed and think of nicer things," he trills, eyes glinting merrily. "Cuckoo!"

My response was the usual 'thumbs up' and a wink before the bed glided slowly into the MRI cavity.  "Keep your arms still now," he called as he walked towards the office. "Cuckoo!"

The knocking, buzzing, whirring and pulsing sounds seemed a lot louder than ten years ago. Perhaps having Tom Petty singing of how he learned to fly without any wings made it less noticeable back then.  Whilst loud, being a recent survivor of a migraine on a long haul flight meant that today's closed-in cacophony didn't seem any worse than the endless gullet humming of aeroplane engines.  This was a mere forty five minutes with a pause at some indeterminate time for Mr Cuckoo to inject my arm with some contrast solution and return to making more percussive x-ray racket.

Despite having my eyes squeezed shut, an enclosed cranium and rapidly-numbing hands that I'd foolishly interlaced together, my mind did start wandering.

Reminders to not forget to make a dental appointment for Sapphire; buy some minced garlic and ginger from the Asian Spices shop in Servette; borrow a Frank Zappa DVD for research purposes; ask ex-travel agent friend G for her Spanish recommendations, finish up two overdue articles; and check with Vic Roads: did they ever send me my drivers' licence after my wallet was stolen a year ago? 

The recent, lingering bout of flu meant that my nose started to twitch. Normally a loud and proud honker, I realised that the second option - sniffing it juicily back from whence it came - was not available as it would cause some head movement.  The third option was not so much chosen as inevitable: lie there uselessly as snot dribbled ever-so-slowly out of my right nostril and down towards my ear.....

My thoughts turned from minor errands to bigger issues. Recent disappointments.  Lies told by someone willing to let an innocent person take the blame, and my lack of influence to make the situation a fair one.  Decisions to carry on regardless, consciences utterly clear.  How, at forty four, people's behaviour still managed to shock and confuse me.

Then, of course, the here and now butted in as a cough started to tickle my chest.  Instead of actively ignoring the wet creeping sensation of phlegm edging towards my ear hole, I actively meditated on it. Could this snail trail be a metaphor representing the build up of migraines over the past year or so?  A sluggish sojourn back to boringly detailed food diaries, lost days and blurred vision? A glacial yet inevitable journey towards this day, an MRI scan, to see if the tumour had returned?

Sapphire's face immediately popped into view, as did Love Chunks' and Milly's. Three warm beings equalling my home.  A wheeze emanating from my throat was discernible between magneto-zappings. The cough was impatient: it wanted air time and to get out of my prone body NOW.  I swallowed a few times, taking care not to wiggle anything above my lower lip. Somehow this caused the moving mucus to pause at my temple.

Excellent timing, as the piercing clamour orchestrated by Mr Cuckoo had also ended. 

"You are very good at keeping still, very good. Cuckoo!" he laughed, removing the pillow from under my knees, as I stretched and surreptitiously wiped the snot away with my arm. 

"Did you see anything on the scans," I asked, sitting up and shaking some feeling back into my fingers.

"Oh no no, don't go there," he said, waggling his finger at me in mock dismay. "I am only the technician today.  You will find out in two days."

A few minutes later with my scarf, boot, coats, watch, rings and bangles back on, I strolled towards the Number 14 tram in the fog. What did I want the result to be? A returned tumour to blame the recent symptoms on, or the relief of no tumour but also no reason?

A car horn beeped at me, disturbing my reverie.  I had every right to cross here on the yellow lines..... oh, it was my favourite Parc de Trembley gardener, lover of tennis and all things Federer. "Federer lost but the Australian open was good as ever," he called out to me.

"Oui!" I yelled in return.  "Federer est nombre un pour moi!"  Morning shift long over, he roared off into the mist. It felt good that he recognised me in a different suburb wearing my 'nice' clothes as opposed to my XXXL Man-sized coat and without Milly by my side. 

An hour later, I walked into the apartment with two bags of fragrant spices, some interesting chocolate biscuits to share with friends and a dog eager to go to the park and sniff for squirrels.  The result didn't matter.

Whiskered Wonder

Maison Tavel is Geneva's oldest still-standing house, dating back to the eleventh century. Due to the small size of Geneva's historic Vieux Ville and the fact that it costs nothing to get in, the house has been a regular spot on my Chateau Lockett Visitor tour.

Despite assuming a familiarity with the permanent exhibits, two pictures leapt out at me during the last visit.

The first lady was found in the kitchen, near the enormous wood fireplace. Portrait de la mere Lacroix, painted by Jean-Baptiste Bonjour around 1840.



She's no oil painting (tish boom) but her self satisfaction is as evident as her enjoyment of the restaurant meals she supposedly made with her husband.

There's no readily-available information on Mrs Lacroix or the painter in English, but the museum curator said that she was well known in Geneva for her homely and generous cooking. No argument there - the portrait depicts a woman who loves her work. And licking a ladle or two.

In the same room, but almost missed due to being placed in the doorway, was this one:



No, it's not Paul Simon in disguise, but La mere Robineau, poissonniere a Geneve a l'age 72 ans, painted in 1847.  Hang about - la mere - Missus. With a mo and a goatee any hipster would be proud of.

Why did Monsieur Bonjour (hello...? Why is his surname 'Hello'?) paint her with such, um, honesty?

If she'd been Queen Anne - who had been described by her lady-in-waiting and supposed best friend Sarah Churchill as 'exceeding gross and corpulent' and was later buried in a square coffin - the artist would have merely made her slightly on the husky side and kept any uncomely features out of his mind and off the canvas.

But if you're a seventy two year old fishwife with good scaling skills and facial hair to make any 1970s action star envious, then every single imperfection is ripe for the painting. I felt sorry for her; this woman I'd never met who'd been born a couple of years before Captain Cook proudly plonked a flag of arrogant ownership in the sand of Sydney. On second thought, there seemed to be very few greys for someone entering their eighth decade on earth.

A few floors away was an enormous panoramic picture of La place du Molard en 1843. My first reaction was to scowl: this was the spot where my wallet had been stolen, so it harbored no nice memories for me. But, seeing as the picture was so large - at least three metres wide - it became apparent that the people in the street weren't just scenic fodder, but had been depicted extremely well, ensuring that famous Genevan personalities were deliberately featured.

And there, on the left, I saw her: la mere Robineau, at work. Black dress, white cap and that unmistakable goatee.  This is merely the postcard I purchased before leaving, so you'll have to take my word for it that, in full size, Goatee Gal was instantly spotted.

Despite her pungent-smelling poisson pursuits and lowly origin, she was clearly a person of note in Geneva during the 19th Century. Apart from the old guy in the white Santa Claus beard on the far right, she had more facial hair than any other person in the painting, male or female.



Frustratingly, I was unable to find a single morsel of information on La mere Robineau or the artist. Was her portrait commissioned by a proud Monsieur Robineau or was she a figure of fun in the town, or famed for pursuits and deeds beyond gutting a guppy in record time ....?

I don't know. But I like her and reckon she'd have had some stories to tell.

..... she might also have brandished her knife ala Crocodile Dundee and scared away the pick pocket who fancied the contents of my handbag.....

The Fratman

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?

Red Letter Day

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!

Up

For weeks her gaze has been pointed directly towards the earth. Endlessly sniffing, running crazy zig zags and doubling-back across the garden; always making sure that her nose is never more than a centimetre away from the ground.

Her tail is naturally kinked in a permanent question mark and this now seems appropriate. Milly’s been here for three weeks now and is trying to solve a mystery: what is that strange smell?

Wild strawberries grow in carpet-like abundance in the part of the building’s grounds reserved for exercising dogs, punctuated by mouldering chestnuts and green baby acorns. Black crows strut around with insolent confidence, only sometimes bothering to make the pigeons whip-whirr up in flight.

A grey tabby sits in the planter box by the sliding doors, cooling itself from the surprisingly hot Swiss sunshine, presumably waiting to be let back inside when her owner returns. Monsieur Frattiani putters by on a mini-tractor carting several linked garbage skips behind him, odour and noise combining to produce an inviting distraction.

Milly ignores all of these potential diversions in her pursuit of the great unknown. Every time she’s outside in the garden or for a big walk in the local park she’s possessed by it, literally having her route planned by where her nose leads her.

Finally, today, she receives her answer. It’s 7.30am and during the first bladder-emptying visit of the day four Siberian chipmunks are caught by surprise at the base of two enormous oak trees.

They’re tiny little creatures, like rats with luxuriant bushy tails. Four black stripes appear to be painted with great care down their backs. All of them immediately scoot up the trees to safety giving our dog no chance of seeing them up close, let alone touching one.

For the first time in four years, Milly sproings into the air with glee: arthritis, smarthritis. AHA! So THAT’S what you are! Sproing Sproing Sproing – are you going to come back down?

She cocks her head to one side, bouncing now over, tail wagging more slowly. So, what are they exactly?

That question is yet to be answered but now, on every walk or visit outside, her head is always pointed upwards, looking, sniffing, hoping.

Snappy September - Day Thirty - Alice




















Yes, the mysterious tennis goddess first revealed to you on the sixth day of Snappy September - The Mysterious Mrs A Gooch - has a name.

Alice.











Aged nineteen, 1955 at her friend Lorna's in Brunswick
Isn't she beautiful?





After ringing the secretary of the Parkville Tennis club and searching online, I reached Mrs Gooch's son first. He let me blather away first and promise to email him a link to this 'ere blog so that he could feel (partly) reassured that I wasn't an axe-wielding maniac looking for a new victim.

When Alice and I got to talk, I was struck at what a modest and lovely lady she was (is).

My guesstimate that she was twenty years old when she won her first club championship in 1957 was almost correct - she was twenty one (having got married to Keith two years earlier), which means that she was forty four when she won in 1980. That's an incredible achievement!

Alice grew up in Brunswick and from the age of eight she'd play tennis at a nearby asphalt court with her friend Lorna. She and Lorna grew up together and Lorna was one of her bridesmaids. They are still in touch today.




Check out Alice's groovy glasses!
And the legs on both ladies!









When she married Keith they moved to Glenroy, but Alice continued to play for the Parkville tennis club. She had four children between 1961 and 1966; and between her 1963 and 1970 club victories she played at a club closer to home where Keith also coached.

The Gary Ablett junior of her day, Alice was encouraged to venture back and play again for Parkville in 1970, winning again before then being invited to play for Hawthorn by now-club president Robert Payne. "He has a dark history, Kath. He worked at Cheeky Chaps in Brunswick as a stripper in his younger days." (whatever you do, don't Google 'cheeky chaps' when your daughter is in the next room).

Crikey - maybe Alice's association with such an unsavoury character was the reason she never made it to Parkville's Life Member board?

If fraternising with a male stripper wasn't enough, there was other dirt to dig up. During all her tennis glory days, Alice was....

... a smoker.....!

Sadly, Keith passed away due to a chronic obstructive airway caused by years of smoking and working in the munitions and ballistics industry in Maribyrnong. That was enough for Alice: "No smoking when Keith got ill. I've been pure ever since."

Now living by the sea, she still plays tennis at Rye. Alice and her friend Norma took out the gold medal for Doubles Tennis in the over-seventy division at the Masters Games. Seventy four and still a winner.

She's a dead-set Legend. I'll never be a champion in any sport, but if I can remain as active, friendly and happy as Alice in her eighth decade, I'll be very grateful.

One dollar

It's been a while since I've solved a mystery in our local area.

Forgive me for the simplicity because it was mysterious for only a couple of seconds but sometimes it's nice to have an easy answer, isn't it?

Every morning and early evening these pigeons arrive at a particular location and wait patiently.

When the roof guttering is full, the brave and the late wait on the footpath, not even bothering to scatter when high school kids, scooters and joggers pass by.

It is only when they see Milly walking with me that they look concerned but even then, no real escape plan is enacted unless we are on their side of the street. Then they head straight for the powerline, cluck-whirring amongst themselves in disapproval and relief.

We walked by for over a week, wondering just what or who they were waiting for, noticing that even the sullen kids in low-slung jeans and booming iPods usually quick with a 'Far Queue' to wedge in between every second word of their shouted conversations were careful to step around them.

On our way back from dropping Sapphire off at school the front door opened.

Out came a little old lady with bags of day-old bread ready to feed them.

Pulling Milly's lead made her sit down obediently as we watched from a safe distance across the street.

I called out, thankful that Sapphire wasn't there to roll her eyes in embarrassment and tell me to shoosh. "Hi, I'm from (I turned around to point) - Number 49; the house that looks like a big purpley-brown brick. I'd love to come and chat to you but I'm afraid that Milly (I bent down to pat her neck) might scare away your friends there."

"Yes yes," the lady nodded. "I see you and your daughter every day. To school." Her English was hesitant, but her smile was lovely.

"Yes yes," I nodded back, unintentionally mirroring her. "Her name is Sapphire and mine is Kath. Dog here is Milly."

"I am Chin," she replied, pointing to her chest. "My pets," she said, sweeping one hand over the scene of happily eating birds on the ground and throwing them some more bread with the other.

"Where do you get so much bread?"

"One dollar. Safeway. Day old Bread. Very good, very cheap," she said.

That was little over a year ago. Since then, we pass by, note the two hundred or so pigeons waiting around for Chin and wave if she's already out there with her bread, tearing it into chunks for the birds. "It must take her ages doing that," Sapphire noted. "And she does it every single day."

We never got beyond a wave and a "Hello" to each other from across the street after meeting the first time, until last weekend.

Sapphire and Love Chunks were on a bike ride by the river, and Milly and I trotted to the school yard to do our weekly round of litter collecting. Long-handled BBQ tongs and plastic bags for me; free reign and plenty of discarded Red Rooster chicken bones and squashed chips for Milly to sniff out.

Picking up litter seems boring and pointless, but it is surprisingly rewarding. Milly gets to scamper around the peppercorn trees and and I get to think whilst doing something manual. Sometimes a walker or bike rider will say "Good on yer" as they pass but mostly we're on our own.

Less than half an hour later our job was done. We strolled past the front of Chin's house, the pigeons now lolling about looking rather satisfied, some cluck-whirring to each other like party guests overstaying their welcome.

The front door opened and the birds obediently moved aside to let Chin approach us. "Here. For you." It was a satin pillow with tiny beads and sequins sewn on intricately in a butterfly shape.

Tears made the details a bit fuzzy. "Oh no," I swallowed. "This is too lovely. You keep it."

She patted my shoulder. "Yes yes for you. You do good. Give to daughter."

I wiped my eyes and smiled back at her.
"I will. And thank you."

Her roof may now be white with pigeon poo, but her heart is huge.

Mystery Five is solved, now for Number Six

Those pink dots, dear reader, were sprayed only at selected houses, not every single house in my suburb.

That's because we pink dotters are special. And really, really good, because we didn't have any of these in our gardens:

The Queensland Fruit fly: about as unwanted as a Queenslander human in these parts. Presumably one of these little insects (and a few thousand eggs) decided to stow away in an illegal orange hidden in the depths of a cabin bag so that they could visit the colder place with the much better coffee, culture and Aussie Rools footy 24/7.

Apart from the rural fruit growing regions, it was our weeny suburb that also attracted a fair bit of attention from the Department of Primary Industries, who issued a media release.

Soon after we arrived and my attention was finally diverted from how to cram a households' worth of moving boxes into a fortnightly recycling bin roughly the size of *one* of the 2469 boxes I had to get rid of, I saw four utes pull up and a pack of green and silver suited DPI crew climb out, with backpacks and spray nozzles. They kind of reminded me of the Ghostbusters guys except that half of them were women and there were no special effects or dodgy synthesiser music accompanying them.

One came over to say 'G'day' and give Milly a pat. She explained that the pink dots, which had been sprayed a couple of weeks earlier, showed them which houses they didn't need to spray at because fruit fly hadn't been found there. "You'll find a tiny trap hanging in your tree though."

She was right - they came through to double check the trap which was essentially a clear plastic jar with a sticky bait in it to attract any stray fruit fly. It hadn't been disturbed, so they took it away and said, "See, that's why you've got the pink dots: we don't have to bother you again."

See, told you I was special.

I rang my 'Mystery Number Six' subject, who breathed a sigh of relief so loudly down the phone it ruffled my hair. "Well thank god for that," she said, now prepared to reveal herself as 'Mary'. "I'm seeing a few mates tonight so I'll set them all straight."

"So, Mary, your mystery has been solved. Will you meet with me to explain this sign in your window?"

There was a long pause. "Okay. But on neutral territory. You, Me and ~~there was an inaudible mutter~~ at Pepper. 10am. Don't be late."

"I won't be - I'll be the one wearing pink dots."

Mysteries Five and Six

As regular blurb lurkers know, my Jorgi dog Milly and I scour our neighbourhood for things that puzzle, amuse and bemuse us. This is even more convenient if they're on the way to the post office, corner shop or school and sighted during a Flemington Association letterbox drop.

For Milly our investigative process normally means using her wet nose to sniff and hopefully work out which dog left their liquid mark on a nearby tree trunk or tyre and for me it means using my much-larger protuberance and a business card with a message scrawled across it to produce the answer to our present problem.

However, this is an unusual one, because our next chosen subject firstly wanted - no, insisted and very firmly I might add - that we solve another mystery before they would cooperate with our request to reveal their secret in full. To be fair, she sounded worried and anxious.

"Kath, before I meet with you, I need you to do something for me."

"Excluding storage of anything illicit up my colon, just name it," I replied.

"W-e-l-l, a few of us in my street are really worried because these .....

.......... have popped up everywhere."

"Ah, yes," I said, smugly. "I do know what they are for, actually. And maybe you were thinking that you were being marked for a future robbery, a future rape-n-pillage party hosted by overly-medicated fairies or ~shudder~ a televised visit from David Koch?"

"Yes, something like that," she said, voice quivering over the phone. "Can you help me?"

Maybe. If I feel like it. If you bend to my (increasingly nosey) will.

Can you, dear readers?

Shifty Swifty

Our neighbourhood frequently sees a blonde old bag seemingly permanently ensconced in polarfleece accompanied by a smiling orange dog walking at a fairly slow pace as she (the dog, not the old bag) sniffs at every drive way they pass. However, that's merely a very clever disguise.

Some of you might remember the latest local mystery that Milly and myself are in the process of uncovering for your edification:

Just why is this car painted this way and who or what is 'Swifty' and 'The Operatives'?

As luck would have it, the other day Milly and I were walking past the cutest Post Office in the world, see:

....and Swifty the car was there, with a real human bloke inside!

Casting aside all fears of being considered insane, nosey or as potential rape-and-pillage opportunity, I rapped at the passenger's window and got Swifty's attention.

Swifty is indeed in reference to the car, a Suzuki Swift, which was painted last year by a visiting international graffiti artist rapper, beat-boxer, home dawg, free-stylin', rumble-in-da-jungle, keepin' it real chap. I think. The owner of the car, Jerry, runs a business called 'The Operatives' who - according to the postcard he gave me, combined themselves with Funktion to run an event called 'Recloose', featuring Dexter, Dizz, Curse the Machines, Kano, Dan Motive and JPS. Held down in Brown Alley, unless that's a euphemism.

All clear now?

Since then, young Jerry has been busy setting up other kinds of events, most notably once featuring Shamik the Human Beatbox from Vancouver. No, that's not a form of torture involving cardboard and moose horns, or I don't think so anyway. I'm sure your Nanna's heard of him.

Like Karen Carpenter, Shamik "hears music in his head" and uses beatboxing (well, Karen played the drums, didn't she) to bring it to life.

"He has performed in Canada, USA, Czech Republic, India, China, Thailand, Malaysia, Taiwan, Indonesia, Vietnam, and Philippines. With crushing basslines and crisp rhythms, Shamik has captivated audiences from nightclubs to outdoor festivals by creating a DJ set with his mouth. After performing alongside artists like Q-Bert, Bassnectar, Method Man & Redman, Skream, Thievery Corporation, Z-Trip, Freq Nasty, Killa Kela, Tanya Tagaq, Sub Swara, and The Glitch Mob, he continues to spread the artform of his vocal percussion."

Okaaaaay, I feel about a million years old now and am dying for a cup of tea and a fast opening Jason recliner. But look, there are local people featuring on the bill as well, so maybe I'll run into some of them at Safeway on my Friday morning grocery grab:

Simon Wrinkler - I wonder if he's works part time at the dry cleaner's on Pin Oak Crescent?

Inkswel - Tattoo artist, Dandy or Stationer?

Rambl - Allergic to 'e' or an ex-student of the studiously ignored Debney Park high school?

Dan Motive - Thank goodness his mother didn't call him 'Ulterior' or 'Obvious'

Ms Butt - celebrating her best asset presumably, unless she's the jollier-sized one of the two young girls who fry up the bacon and egg rolls at the cafe next to the tattslotto shop?

As it says, it's "Music for and from our generation!!! Upfront, Upclose and personal...."

But a tad too late for me. Bless them for trying, but Shamik isn't on until 2:30am when I'm already three hours into (hopefully) a good REM snooze session.

Nevertheless, for your sakes dear reader, Milly and I will keep on doggedly trying to catch Jerry again for more information even though he's clearly a Man of the Night and I'm a Moron of the Morning.

Mystery Number Four

Time for another deep and essential investigation, readers.

On this roller-coaster ride of riddles that I like to euphemistically refer to as 'Walking the dog to the shops', we've also discovered that:
1) Mr P is a beloved local legend with a generous owner who has just taught me how to make Brigadeiro truffles;
2) The Big M on the commission flats is an architecturally designed lift shaft based on the famous chapel in South America built by modernist Brazillian architect Oscar Niemeyer and;
3) The Liberace-inspired Fairy Tree was saved by the council's plans to cut the tree down by public outcry and violent demonstrations.

Fine. It was just a public outcry - am I never allowed to embellish for entertainment? No, wait - don't answer that.

Back to Mystery Number Four. This car has 'Intrigue' written all over it.

OK, so that's not entirely true: it actually has 'Swifty Color' (American spelling here in Australia, tsk tsk) on one side, 'The Operatives' on the other and just 'Swifty' on the far end.















The car's owner/s live a couple of streets away from me in what is loftily (and somewhat optimistically) referred to by overly-ambitious real estate agents as 'Flemington Hill.' Said 'hill' mostly features beautifully-restored 1890s weatherboards and, most commonly, late model VW golfs, Volvo S40 station wagons or Peugot hatchbacks parked out the front.

As such, this car stands out a mile which, considering the camouflage paintwork, might not be what the driver/s intended. Even colour-blind Milly gave the wheels a sniff and ignored the tabby sunning itself on top of the wheelie bin nearby. I guess having arthritic back knees and collapsible hips means that she's smart enough to choose which objects or animals to be interested in and checking out the hubcaps is easier than sproinging up to get her nose scratched by an irate moggie and have her legs fold up underneath her like an ancient card table on a camping trip.....

As Milly continued to sniff and then - ahem - drop a couple of Andrew Bolts' off in the gutter (yes, I cleaned them up), I pondered deeply.

Questions arose, such as Who is 'Swifty' and should I notify the police of his/her whereabouts? Is 'Swifty Color' a mobile hair styling service or provider of cheap photocopied flyers? Are 'The Operatives' a group of urban freedom fighters, a clutch of second-hand car dealers or a hard workin' garage band?

Any thoughts?

The Fairy Tree Folk finally front up


As regular readers know, I'm enjoying wandering about my local 'hood and trying to find out the answers to mysteries that even most of the locals who've lived there for yonks* don't know. We've found out that the wonky M on the housing commission flats is a groovy lift shaft; and that Mr P was a lovable German Shepherd with squinty eyes now busy fertilising a geranium bush.

This gorgeous little gem-encrusted tree house was mystery number three - who created it and who lives there?

Several weeks went by without any reply to my politely-worded card and I started to despair until one day, as I sat sniffling at my computer screen wondering if I could get away with shoving two test tubes up my nostrils to save on tissues and snout rash, I received an email from the wary-but-informative Keeper of the Fairy Tree.

They wrote:

"It is actually known as 'Tree Man's House. There is a bit of a story to it, but mostly it is whatever visitors want to think it is. The little kids that stop for a play with it are generally not the least bit interested in why we decorated the tree, they just come up with their own idea about who lives there and go from there. Most take it to be a fairy tree.

A while back the council decided to remove all of the fully grown trees in our street and I took up a petition to try to keep them. It failed, but a few of us did manage to keep trees in front of our houses. My partner, our son and I are familiar with an elves tree on the Mt Buller Rd where we have stopped for visits. My son always took this to be the home of a tree man and he and his dad made a home in our 'saved' tree for tree man's brother.

Tree man has a large family and they like to visit. It started off with a door, chimney, window and a bit of garden and has been added to by visitors since. One of our neighbours who had worked in costume design, left on tree man's doorstep, some lovely hand made little felt booties that were filled with the little gems that are now studded all over the tree. I think that she also delivered a small ceramic dog that had its own cloth kennel. Someone else made the little wooden table and log seats that are on the side. Little things turn up every so often as passers by take a fancy to the tree and want to add to it.


















Not everyone cares for the decorations. A while ago the Flem-Ken News had a photo of it with the author captioning it as a bit over the top (pompous bastards - Kath). Mostly, it is a favourite stop for little kids en route to home or the shops."

And nosy grown-ups with orange dogs.

* A 'yonk' an elastic measure of time, usually indicating a large amount, as in "Madonna hasn't released a decent song - or bowel moment - for yonks." My mother is rather fond of saying "But that was YONKS ago" if we ask her why she's appearing in another bloody musical when last year's one seemed to be full of backstage sniping, griping about the quality of costumes and abilities of actors in the lead roles and constant jostling for front row chorus positions.