Nark Zoide Nark Zoide Nark Zoide

Sitting on the bench killing eleven minutes before the next train arrived to take me to Flinders Street was engrossing and showed that human beings are fascinating creatures. Such a variety of shapes, colours, ages, size, plumage, outfits, poses, attitudes, odours and the ever-present 'ki-tich, ki-tich, ki-tich' of techno muffled by earbuds.

An old man walked past me pulling a portable oxygen tank behind him with the tube connected and hooked up to his nose. He was smartly dressed, slim and in a hurry. "No Way!" he laughed as I shifted over to give him space on the bench. I chose to interpret that as his being grateful to be up and about rather than an aversion to 40-somethings in jeans and sensible shoes.

Two adults limped up the ramp. Even from a distance it was easy to tell that they were both mentally challenged. Retarded. Is it okay to say retarded these days? Or maybe it should be only partially successfully integrated into mainstream society. Noticeable.

He was six foot six at least, and she was barely five foot. Both were holding some well-worn plastic shopping bags full of plastic bottles and when they found an empty bench they carefully placed these at their feet (both in tyre-thick black sandals) and held hands. Every thirty seconds or so the woman emitted a loud, girlish giggle which lit up her fifty-something face. He noticed that I was watching and smiled, as if to say, "Yep, and she's all mine." Their bliss was sweet....

....and a fair bit more innocent than the snogging couple behind me; her back rammed up against the pole holding up the 'Newmarket' station sign and his hands in her pockets. I didn't risk a longer look in case they mistook me for a nosey people watcher with nothing better to do than -- oh.

The unmistakable smell of burnt toast was coming from Pepper cafe below the platform. Aloof Rocker Dude on my right finally lifted his gaze from his iPhone, flicked his carefully cut and dyed long hair back and ostentatiously sniffed the air. Yeah you're a regular bloodhound, buddy. It's blackened bread alright. His shirt was cool though - a mishmash of seedy newspaper escort advertisements arranged in a mosaic pattern. He wore even more gold bangles than I did.

Three girls with the compulsory alternative Arts Student uniforms stood uncertainly by the main gate, pretending to be confident and laughing in volume but not truth. All had number three shaved heads - yellow and white blonde of course - and long floppy fringes. Tiny singlets, hemp trousers and ankle boots. Was it O-week already?

No matter, the train had pulled in. Ah yes, it must be. Two gooberish guys in surf shorts, graffiti-styled t-shirts and thongs were sprawled over the six seats. I squeezed past, hoping my shoulder bag (and arse) brushing up against their faces would inconvenience them and perhaps make them choose to sit by the window instead of the aisle next time. Goober Two was reading a university map resting on his jiggling knee as Goober One yawned a dorito-and mentos-scented response to the stress of catching the crack-of-dawn 11.28am train into Flinders Street.

It was time to get off and head to platform three to Glen Waverley. I found myself ambling along behind an elderly Vietnamese man, unintentionally slowing my pace so as not to overtake him or accidentally knock his walking stick. He wore a navy blue beret, Ronnie Barker thick-framed glasses with a long Mambo t-shirt and rather funky three-quarter cargo shorts. In fact, he was hipper than either Goober One or Two; even with his Crocs and socks. He looked both dignified (pretty hard in Crocs and socks) and comfortable. Coolness personified in my opinion.

I was soon lost in my novel and only looked up when it was the end of the line. Walking towards the exit and hoping that my zone one ticket would zap through without dramas, I saw several people helping an old man step down onto the platform. Other people behind them were lifting something with a bar - a shopping trolley or a pram holding his grandchild....?

Nope. It was a lawnmower. He thanked his helpers profusely and then wheeled it down the ramp and along the street. Sure, he had no car to speak of but the siren song of keeping a lawn or two under control was still too strong.

I slipped the camera out of my bag in order to photograph Mr Mower Man walking away, but thought better of it. I had an appointment to keep, one that I was already quarter of an hour late for and a fellow passenger in a bigger hurry than me jostled past.

It wasn't the fact that she looked like the love child of Kerry Packer and Billy Connolly, it was the back of her t-shirt. 'My Sexual Preference is Often'. Maybe she'd overtake Mr Mower Man, he'd read it; they start talking.....

Beauty tips Smeauty Tips

Thanks to Copperwitch from many moons ago, here's a few of my practical and achievable grooming ideas that so many of you have been begging me for for so long. And so often.

Foundation:
I've never bothered with it because it just makes me look as though I've done a runner from Madame Tussaud's or people look concerned and offer to get me a sugary cup of tea and make me lie down. It seems pretty handy stuff to have under the house though.

Mascara:
I probably should use it, if only to prevent myself from looking like a wet chicken but to be honest I can't seem to apply it without ending up with a jokey extra pair of lashes being smeared onto my upper eyelids and big snotty black chunks on the few tiny hairs I have on my lower lids. And nothing says 'Erk' like staring at someone with black boogers of mascara stuck in their tearducts or having the wrinkles under their eyes emphasised with cartoonish fillers of black.

Day Cream:
Mum was and still is a Nivea Creme afficionado, and due to my fairly English-rose-like complexion as a child I soon had the entire year 5 class rushing out to buy their own blue and white pots. These days, I'll slather some on my face and neck straight after the shower. It's getting to be like a challenging cross country skiing race these days though, because I have to dab it near but not on my pimples. I blame writing (not chocolate) for these, as I tend to sit at the desk with my chin and jaw in my hands, fiddling, picking and encouraging more zit bulbs rather than bonafide literary ideas to bloom. Sadly, Clearasil still stinks as badly as it did in 1982 and the check-out chick was cheeky enough to snigger when I said it was for me.

Essential Beauty Product:
Apart from being an expert in Photoshop, I'd say sleep. It's sad that my face still bears the crease marks of my pillow even an hour after a strong coffee, shower and breakfast and is even more unwilling to fully unfold if the little sleep I did get wasn't refreshing. As it is, my eyes already look as though they're two tiny currants pushed too far into some bun dough, but one day I'm sure my sagging eyebrows will outdo even Clive James's and permanently overshadow my pupils like an awning of ageing flesh, joining up with the bags underneath.

Favourite Makeup Product:
Money in my wallet, not spent at any stupid cosmetics counter. Whatever cream is on special at Coles, especially if it smells nice and isn't instantly licked off by Milly the dog. A good BO-repellent, especially in this era of clingy tops, crowded public transport and being crammed into synthetic sleeping bags.

Perfume:
Lagerfeld's Chloe. I've been wearing it for twenty years and still love it. I go through two bottles a year and it is my only real girlie indulgence. I'm sure it must look/smell a trifle unorthodox to see a woman wearing grey marle trakkies, a bloke's oversized t-shirt and unbrushed hair holding a full dog poo bag yet smelling like a Parisienne model.

Nails:
I cut them as soon as they're long enough to gather any gunk underneath or when Sapphire says, "Ouch Mum, you just scratched me," when I was in fact trying to tickle her instead. Those outlandishly long, rectangular stick ons with painted white stripes on them give me the absolute heebie jeebies and send out a clear message that their owners don't do any work that extends beyond applying polish or opening up a can of Pringles. Invariably too, the more stupid the nails, the fatter the owner: in a desperate effort to detract the viewer from their bulky bodies I presume.

Hands:
A blob of whatever's cheapest rapidly rubbed in as I climb into bed. Love Chunks quite often has the lights turned out, only to hear me:
1) click in my mouthguard (I'm a grinder)
2) kick off my ugg boots
3) have a nice long honking blow into a tissue
4) slip slop slap my hand cream on
5) fumble around trying to set my alarm
6) knock the pile of books on my side table over and
7) invariably fart as soon as I bend over to retrieve them.
......and who said romance is dead?

Feet:
My nails are kept extremely short so that they don't carve up the other toes in my running shoes or bash up against the edge which turns them black before they die completely and fall off, which is not a good look in summer sandals I find. My actual feet are rather large (Dad used to say, "Hey, you'll always have good balance", whereas my brother would crow that I was Ronald McDonald's love child) and are permanently covered in blisters and loose, peeling flaps of skin that, if dried, I can rub up Love Chunks' legs in bed and give him a tiny sanding down of sorts. Overall, they are best hidden in running shoes, uggs or Crocs, which isn't saying much.




















Three products to bring on a deserted island:
30+ sunscreen (I burn just thinking about it, and my legs have been known to glow in the dark); dental floss (for all those sand grains and coconut shreds) and soap.

Women I admire for their beauty:
Kate Winslet. Yes she's gorgeous, but she admits that she has to diet like a mad monk and exercise like a Tassie Devil on acid to look the way she does. My Mum - great cheekbones, beautiful eyes, kind smile and a natural dignity and grace that only increases with the years. Sapphire - when she giggles all I see is light and stars.

Woman with the best sense of style:
Any woman who is confident enough to not be sucked in by uncomfortable stacked heels, tight belts wrapped over bulky cardigans, too-skinny jeans, fake-straightened hair, butt-ugly ankle boots, orange tans, stupid scarves that threaten to overtake the entire body, freezing mini skirts, exposed bra straps or hoop earrings wider than their necks.














My ultimate dream:
To win lotto. Oh, you mean beauty wise? To never look older than my age or ever be described as having a 'lived-in face' - ouch. Looking my age is OK, but I don't want to be handed out retirement village brochures or be offered the handicapped parking spaces just yet. I'm also not interested in having Elle's body, Paris's fortune or Madonna's fame, but a mortgage-free life with opportunities to buy a new car and travel extensively wouldn't go astray. Neither would regular weekly deliveries of fresh Haigh's chocolate.

How do I define Womanhood:
Being a grown up who knows the value of a good bra, a good laugh and the confidence to enjoy her own company. Ask me tomorrow and the answer might be - writing all bad behaviour off as PMS-related, laughing at fashion-fraught teenagers and only looking at my reflection in the sliding door that makes me look skinnier. The day after will be a different story again: a happy child, a one-pot meal that's edible and enjoying easy access to wine.

Favourite fashion publication:
Marieclaire, but just for the laughs. At least once in every page I'll look at a $13,000 handbag and say, "Yeah, right," or the eleven year old anorexic model wearing a bespoke designer kaftan made from cobwebs and coffee dust and think, "Yep, she represents their 30-something readership spot on." Or their hilarious green fashion page which exhorts the reader to plonk down $400 for a bamboo-derived organic t-shirt: that's about my yearly clothing budget!

Any hints you wish to share?

Don't they know me at ALL?

As a distinctly unenthusiastic clothes shopper, I often tend to get my gear via online or mail order. The thought of enduring unendurable techno music, sullenly skinny fifteen year old bottle blonde bimbos re-folding t-shirts whilst ignoring me or having to sift through racks of overpriced and underflattering garments does not appeal to me in the slightest. If it's black, not too ridiculous looking and enables me to blend into a crowd without any visible form of mockery, it'll do. And has done, now, for many years.

However, as a fairly loyal shopper with this particular crowd, you'd assume that they'd have some sort of profile on their internetta-computermachiney-whatchamacallit program that they could run before thinking that it would be a good idea to tempt me with this abomination:

I am invited to a Cardi Party. Well ram my face between a aardvaark's arse crack, a Cardi Party! When, in all my years of being able to make my own decisions on what garment to wear, (roughly thirty and counting) have I ever, ever worn a cardigan, let alone been willing to celebrate the concept of such a godawful gift to garments at a party? And who on earth - even those of you who may ~shudder~ actually wear cardigans from time-to-time, would ever swallow the big fat lie that the atrocities above are 'fashionably smart' ?

What mental pigmy marketer thought that this would entice me to whip out the credit card:

Cardi On...? You have got to be kidding me, surely. Is this April Fools' Day several weeks early? Am I supposed to wear that white knitted chemist's coat to pick Sapphire up from school?

Should I send them this link to explain my abhorrence to cardigans? Surely someone needs to eduhmuhcate them on what is considered acceptable outer wear. And yes, all this farting fury from someone who wears CROCS.

2009 - Year of the Conscious Dag

You know, even though I tend to lean towards self-deprecation and can see the zits, wrinkles and baggage under the eyes that remind me clearly enough that I'm now stepping gingerly (and hopefully wisely) into my fifth decade, a tiny part of me still hopes that I'm not classified as 'daggy'.

By 'daggy' I mean in the unconscious sense. Unconscious dagginess can result in people in the street (or your own household) seeing you and sniggering behind their hands at your peculiar dress sense, tastes in enterainment, childish food fetishes or unfashionable footwear. The type of unaware dagginess that produces snorts of derision from folk who'd rather laugh at your innate uncoolness than tell you about it.

That said, I don't consider anyone (including myself) to be daggy if they are fully aware and proud that what they do, eat, enjoy or participate in is unmistakeably daggy but they love it anyway. Being conscious of your dagginess instead confers a small shade of 'cool' on you, because being passionate about something - no matter how fuddy duddyish it may seem - is always cool.

So, I'll be brave and admit that the things that make me a Conscious Dag include:

Chatting to strangers on public transport. Yes, I'm the weirdo that everyone hopes won't sit next to them.

Abba (got all their albums). Even the shocker solo ones by Anna and Frida.

Wearing Crocs. Yes, the bright turquoise ones. Sometimes out beyond my own house.

Still buying, eating enjoying that plastic wrapped cheese that is more plastic and preservatives than lactose and cows' milk. Especially tasty with saladas and Vegemite.

High waisted undies. Only so that my stomach doesn't roll over and give my profile an extra boob-shelf or nose.

Continuing to use handkerchiefs. Dunno why really, except that they at least prevent the 'tissue snow' debris from appearing when doing a dark load of washing. Plus I have a very loud, honking noseblow that I've inherited from my parents. Come Christmas time when we're all in the same house together we resemble a herd of lost and distressed elephants.

Eating Wagon Wheels, handfuls of marshmallows (pink ones), tinned spaghetti on toast and spoonfuls of Milo straight from the tin.

Watching Ferris Buellers Day Off, Sixteen Candles, Planes Trains and Automobiles, The Sure Thing, This is Spinal Tap and The Breakfast Club two decades later. Still wanting Jeannie's reebok ankle boots, Molly's boyfriend, every soundtrack, John Cusack and still crack up at seeing Ruprecht in 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels'.

Making lists and actually using a red pen to 'tick off' the items completed.

Adding the dog's name to any song that springs to mind and serenading her with it several times a day. Recent classics have had Milly's name inserted in Copacobana (Her name was Millsy, she was a showgirl); Mamma Mia (Milly Mooster! Here I go again, Mi-lly, how can I resist ya?); Strangers in the Night (Milly Molly Moo, Milly-mol-moo-yooo); White Wedding (Hey little Millstone what have you done?).

Eating an orange every single day for breakfast.

Sweeping every single bark chip (kicked out by busy blackbirds) back into the flowerbeds; placing the pile of magazines on the coffee table at right angles that directly relate to the orientation of the rug underneath and the lounge nearby; wiping the toothpaste spots off the mirror the same day they were made; and de-fluffing polarfleece. Hanging my washing so that the underwear is furthest away from the view of our living room and in order of family member for folding and putting away-later purposes. OCD, moi?

Ensuring that I have at least two tins of peeled tomatoes immediately in waiting behind the tin about to be used (same goes for tubes of toothpaste, iced coffee cartons, sweetcorn and bags of fresh carrots). I blame it on my ancient Scottish ancestors who were clearly seige survivors.

Laughing at poo, bum and wee jokes. Reducing intelligent dinner party conversation to poo, bum and wee jokes.

Kissing Skipper the rabbit on the lips.

Oh I could go on and on and on....and might do, at least once a month!

What are your consciously-daggy pleasures?

Day Twenty One - Appreciative August

Homegrown Humour



















One of the things I love about living in South Australia and being a Wide-Eyed-Work-From-Homer is that I'm out and about these days when I used to be locked up inside an air-tight cube farm with a timesheet. I can stroll the 'hood, chat to oldies on the bus, browse in shops without a whining child on my leg and actually find a decent car park between the hours of 9:30am and 3:00pm.

What I mostly appreciate though, is the amount of humour and camaraderie that's revealed during these times.

I was on the 106 bus tootling down Magill road, observing the passengers that get on and off during non-peak hours. Chattering retirees, iPodded uni students, hung-over Centrelink customers and, well, me. Across the aisle was a sixty something bloke with an adorable little dog on his lap who reminded me of Eddie from the show 'Frasier'.

I couldn't help myself - it's an affliction that embarasses my family all the bloody time - but leaned over and patted the cute dog on its back. It was only then that I noticed the 'Lions Club Hearing Dog' lettering on the lead.

"Sorry love, but you shouldn't really be doing that, you know," the dog's owner told me, smiling. "He's technically at work and can't get distracted or he'll want that kind of attention all the time."
And before I could answer, he added, "I can lip read but I need him to tell me if the green light flicker is on to cross the road, or if someone's already dinged the stop bell for me to get off."
"Oh," I said, smiling back, feeling pleased to deliver my next remark, "Then maybe you should get a dog that's ugly so that people like me won't be tempted to pat it."
"Yeah, like my wife," he said loudly, before waving and getting off at the next stop.

The Sunday just gone we had my 'little' (thirty seven year old) brother Dave, his wife Sonia and their boys Matthew and Jack over for lunch. Several hours of discussons, laughter, good food, great coffee and excellent wine later and they needed to leave in order to make it in time for dinner at a friend's place in the hills. "Alrighty boys, go to the toilet and wash your hands before you go," Dave said, sounding eerily like our own father.

They did so, and were outside playing with Sapphire in the front garden, waiting for me to do what Love Chunks calls 'The Read Farewell' - at least another half hour of talking, 'yep, well have a good trip', more jokes, more talking and a dash back inside the house to retrieve something nearly forgotten before the leaving process actually comes into effect.

"Er, Kath, Love Chunks, are you there?" Dave called out from the bathroom. "I'm stuck - the door won't open." Ah yes, the curse of having an 84 year old house full of original fittings and chock full of character. Love Chunks tried the door from our side.

"Yeah the thingy that slides through to the lock doover-whatsit has gone in and then fallen right down," he said, authoritatively. "I'll go and get a screw driver."

There was giggling as Sapphire and seven year old Matthew became aware of the situation. "Hey Uncle Dave - smile!", laughed Sapph, as she took a photo of the door. "At least you won't wet your pants. Plus you can have a shower and we can slide some blocks of Lindt under the door when you get hungry." The silence on the other side of the door was likely Uncle Dave flipping the middle finger.

The half hour 'Standard Read Farewell' had long since expired and whilst the older kids were laughing, five year old Jack was not. "Daaaaaaaad", he wailed into Sonia's arms, "Will I ever see you again?"
"Dad will come out soon," she said, stroking his hair. "Hey, this is your time to get on the trampoline while the other two kids are busy taking photos." He ran outside eagerly.
"Er Sonia," I ventured, "Do you think you should ring your mate and tell him you'll be late? After all, Dave is trapped inside the toilet."

Or take two days earlier, when I was with Amanda Blair on 5AA as one of the panel of adults invited to road test some showbags that were going to be on sale at the upcoming Royal Adelaide Show. Amanda reckons that seeing as it's we adults that are going to be shelling out the money for them, then we should be the ones who get to check them out.


There I was with Amanda eagerly pilfering the Hi5 gear for her eldest, me wearing the 'Don't Hassle the Hoff' t-shirt and sitting alongside three senior male journos. One wearing a wig (the Advertiser bloke, wearing David Hasselhoff's piece and drinking Gatorade from the Men's Health gym bag); another trying to pick up stray Bertie Beetles with a grey plastic robot arm (the children's book writer); and the third leaning into the microphone to see if we could hear the poprocks exploding on his tongue (national news director).

As it was a pupil-free day at Sapphire's school, she and her mate Selene came into the studio with me, but were outside in the producers box as they watched five adults turn into giggling children ripping open packets of chips, lollipops, warheads and headbands. Lord knows what they made of the scene.....

Before the radio show, poor Sapphire needed three days off school last week thanks to a bad cold that turned into tonsilitus as well a throat infection and a bout of rather un-fun asthma. She stayed home with me and watched the Olympics. By the end of day one she could spot the mistakes made by the men in the gymnastics combined apparatus event quicker than the commentators could and provided me with a great deal of laughter and good company.

In addition, Sapphire had also obviously used her convalescence to ponder a few issues that concerned her in life, and sought out the answers from me. She was quietly eating her stewed apples (it's the only way we can get her to eat fruit), Skipper the bunny was on her lap and I was next to her, reading a book I was supposed to be writing a review on later. These were the questions that were fired at me in between medal ceremonies, those frustratingly sexist Coles commercials and exciting water polo quarters:

"Hey Mum, I don't get it - why do bears love honey so much?"
"Where do sesame seeds come from?"
"How does the electricity actually go through the wires on the roads to our house and into the plugs?"
"If there's a God and Jesus like a lot of people at my school believe, then who made God?"
"How come chickens don't have lips - how do they kiss?"
"Why do people notice farts more than perfume?"
"Why is it only when a woman shows her nipples that it's rude but she can show all of the other bulgy bits of her boobs and nobody cares?"
"When I do a big poo in the toilet, it plops down and water splashes on my bottom. Is that water cleaning my bottom, or do I need go and wash it?"

I'll end with my final example which occurred, yesterday, when I was interviewing the genial Gary, owner of Bracegirdle's coffee and chocolate shop in Burnside.

Loads of customers, a milk delivery guy who had to walk in four times to deliver a week's worth of dairy, heaps of regular characters that a modern-day 'Cheers' writer would love; tons of the most artistic and beautiful chocolates on display and he, an ex-Phys Ed teacher telling me that even though making chocolates, coffee and establishing the business has been a 15 hour a day seven days a week enterprise for the past three years, he's never once woken up dreading going in to work.

Our gaze met over the 18-hand made chocolate selection, Royal Show 2008 gold prize winning shiraz truffles, novelty koala and penguin and bag of 99% Belgian buttons I'd just bought and we both burst out laughing. "Check us out, two ex-teachers, yakking for an hour about two of the finest foods known to man. Life's pretty bloody good, isn't it?"

Day Twenty - Appreciative August

Da Book

If Love Chunks, Sapphire, Mum, Dad, Bloggers and Chocolate have made the list, then I have to get out my horn to blow it about writing 'Work/Life Balance for Dummies.'

The book was originally offered to Bulldog but she turned it down when she realised that the advance wasn't going to allow her to retire in high style and would require a fair amount of research, paraphrasing, distilling down into bite-sized chunks and written in a way that was the opposite of academiwank.

Through having big ears, the ability to beg incessantly and win her over by explaining that if I wrote the book it could be a product of her research coven and something that she could promote as benefiting the wider community and thus gain much more exposure for her own good work and large brain, she was supportive.

Wiley, the publishers, weren't so supportive at first of having the book written by a pleb instead of a professor. I was required to develop a detailed proposal and set out each chapter with sub headings, sub-sub headings and insert boxes that would clearly reveal each and every idea and thought process in every section. In addition, they wanted two draft chapters in their entirety for them to mull over and decide if I had the chops for the job. Even then, the Aussie office weren't sure and sent it off to the Mother Ship - United States - for the final decision. After a month, the green flag was up. I was allowed to do it.

But not at work. No preparation, reading or writing was allowed to be done at during daylight hours because my job - working for Bulldog - was apparently so vital and consumed every moment of my time (when I was scanning istock for photographs to use in our publication materials, learning how to write up our webpages, deciphering financials, buying teabags and sourcing furniture for the office). No printing of documents - even if I was already going to be printing one out for her and needed only press '2' instead of '1' in the 'number of copies' button - was allowed, nor any budget to buy books, toner or paper. And yet fifty percent of the book's royalties were to go straight to Bulldog - sorry, the research coven.

Knowing that this was all unreasonable, I was so thrilled that Bulldog at least in principle supported the idea of my writing a book that gave work/life balance issues and solutions to the masses that I ignored it all, and bided my time until the advance arrived that enabled me to write the book at home for an agreed period of three months.

By writing, of course I meant reading: the latest academic findings, studies, general self-help books, websites, articles, newspaper articles. And interviewing - parents, singles, professionals, part timers, academics, writers, HR professionals, teachers, award-winning employers. Then came the actual writing - 153,000 words, distilled eventually down to a mere 100,000. I used to set my watch timer and book out chunks in my calendar to make sure that I wrote at least two chapters a week. Three months for the entire project was a timeframe set tighter than Madonna's eyelids, but I made it.

This was all done with coffees, massages, meals and support from Love Chunks. A family block of chocolate every day, inhaled a row at a time, gaining a kilo in my arse every week for the thirteen weeks spent welded to my swivel chair. Casual acceptance by Sapphire, "Yeah, Mum's writing a book about balancing life and work and says she gets to do it by not having to wear anything fancier than Crocs. Milly loves it because she gets to sleep inside on her beanbag all day." Any work/life balance of my own was less achievable than a Paris Hilton PhD but I was - and still am - so grateful to have the opportunity to write. a. book.

As some of you already know, returning back to work with Bulldog and her new sidekick Skeletor wasn't the fun-filled joyride shown previously in the tour brochures and I left the coven, never to return again. Changing from twenty years of tertiary study and sensible office jobs to a laptop at home and my own ABN number was at first a bit frightening but then gradually exciting and freeing. Opportunities have arisen and I've had time to seek some more out, but that's for another blog......

In January the book was released to about as much fanfare as any of the Dummies books are. Kind of like some gentle applause by a mime artist wearing felt gloves. Again it really didn't matter because I am so appreciative that I can now write 'author' or 'writer' in the 'occupation' box and can wander into my nearest bookshop, sidle past the 'Self Help/Psychology' shelf, wink at the lone copy of my book sitting there with its black and yellow spine and feel a little glow of satisfaction inside. Then, I leave the store empty handed and hang around in the nearest bus shelter ready to earn extra cash turning tricks for bored commuters.

The book's predicted to sell about 4,000 copies here in Australia and a few more than that when it comes out in the United Kingdom early next year. Not enough for me to buy that brand new Volvo or take Love Chunks and Sapphire to the Bahamas just yet, but more than enough to provide me with some amazing opportunites to do things other than order stationery, format documents and deal with a bloated ego masquerading as a champion of the worker.

I've still got some lingering betrayal, resentment and genuine shock at the unfairness of 'the big bad Bulldog system' to work through, but it seems like a nice little piece of karma when I consider that Bulldog has written three books and they haven't sold what my humble tome is predicted to, even if they're added altogether.

.... and I know that because I used to open her royalty statements and order the 100 copies that she'd buy of the book herself. Karma indeed.

Shut the bloody door!

All youse non-Austrayan readers of this 'ere blog probably assume that our big bugger of an island is always hot, sunny and dry. To be fair, that assumption is mostly right, but we do have our four seasons like you guys do, just in the opposite order.

So while I'm reading your blogs about summer vacations, sunburn and strappy sandals, I've almost wrapped my legs around my tiny little oil heater as though I'm Julia Roberts doing the same to Richard Gere in the spa bath in 'Pretty Woman'. It's frickin' freezing here.















And don't just take my word for it. Even the foreigners from the northern hemisphere - hailing from much cooler climes than here - shiveringly agree with me.

Sarah, a Milwaukee native who learned from an early age never to go outside with wet hair or volunteer to shovel snowy sidewalks, was standing at the school gate the other day, clad in about three jackets, shivering in her shoes. London-born-and-bred Mick was next to her, waiting for his daughters to emerge; with Swedish Goddess Thorun shuffling rapidly from side-to-side and huffing warm air into her clenched fingers.

I ambled over and asked the most obvious, conversation-starter question that we say when we can't think of any other thing to start off with (and hate ourselves for our predictable lack of witty originality): "Pretty cold today, isn't it?" What an understatement: I had goosebumps on my flippin' head.

Thankfully Sarah is a kind person, and didn't roll her eyes. "Yeah."

Still mired in minus mental facilities, I stumbled on. "But hey, you guys are all from cold countries, so shouldn't you be used to this?"

They all politely swallowed their sighs and took the time out to explain it to me. Firstly, their countries have central heating as standard, throughout all of the rooms of their home.

Secondly they don't have vents installed near the ceilings that go directly to the air outside like we do.

Why do we? I may not have set the world alight with my scientific talents in high school, but I do remember that heat rises. If the heat then has to compete with an almost-ceiling-high vent that is directly bringing in freezing air from outside, we can safely assume that the vent isn't being particularly useful or helpful in this instance.

In summer time, yes. Or perhaps no. If heat rises then sure, we want to fling it outside, but if the vent brings in even hotter air from outside it's still being about as useful as a dry sponge in the desert isn't it, or am I not getting some vitally basic point?

Secondly, even their bathrooms have heating and warm towel rails. And by 'heating' they don't mean tepid old tastic lights beaming weakly down from the mould-speckled ceiling or a miserable bar heater up above the mirror (again with the heat rising issue - clearly not helping the poor nude sod standing on icy porcelain tiles several feet lower) either; they mean underfloor heating, a radiator, water proof carpets, cosy copper lined towel rails set to 'toasty'......

Here in Oz, most of us do a nudey-rudey Hop-Squeal-Scamper streak through our houses from the bathroom to the bedroom. For some reason, we all think that running through on our tippy toes will somehow make things easier and/or warmer for us and the added sound effects: "Oherr eek!" will help speed up our journey. With central heating, decent carpeting and a pre-warmed towel we'd be reduced to a languid stroll and a temptation to flash our partners and call out "Whoo Hoo, take a gander at these party pieces" before being told to leave the room and put something flattering on. I'm not sure that the overseas folk win this argument actually.

Mick pointed out that their toilets have windows that can actually close instead of permanently-open louvres. Yes, so do we - if you own a house that's younger than 1960, that is. The houses I grew up in, rented and bought all had 1950s style glass panels that were permanently fixed into the half-open mode. Not so great for privacy if someone wanted to use the hose outside nearest the window (extra echoing too, with all those floor tiles) and even worse for those 3am wee-wees spent gingerly lowering oneself onto the slab of ice that was once a plastic caroma loo seat whilst trying to keep the eyes closed and pretend that you were still asleep.

Torun mentioned their superior insulation. In Sweden they have insulation. Everywhere. Not just a few poxy old pink batts in the roof that are handy for rats and possums to eat and crap on, but in their walls. Plus double-glazed windows and lined floors.

We, on the other hand, either live in double-brick houses (moi) which do keep the heat out in summer for a few days, and the heat in during winter (for a few minutes after the heater's off). Brick venereal owners have an outer layer of brick and then some inner masonite that resembles a fully-plastered wall, but without the insulation, sound-proofing or expense. Add a lack of eaves, verandahs and a boxy second story and you have a home that needs 24/7 cooling and heating and has an energy star rating of minus three-and-a-half (or wait, was that for the movie 'Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger'?)

Either way, if we're not blessed with energy-guzzling reverse cycle air conditioning, we have a gas or electric fire in the living room. This means that ever time anyone enters or leaves the room, the oldest person (usually the parent) automatically yells out, "Shut the bloody door! Were you raised in a tent?"

The room itself is usually furnished with at least two clothes horses crammed with damp socks, tracksuit pants (they shrink the dryer), school uniforms and jocks. Hopefully the jocks are placed on the wall side so that they're not the first thing that hits the visitors' eyes when they arrive. I've also been known to hang shirts over an exercise bike, door handles and the edges of bookshelves, and my mother has even spread out crockery in front of the 1975 Vulcan bar heater to warm up before serving dinner.

Thus, it is well and truly ironic that such a hot, dry and dusty country has winters that are even less pleasant than countries closer to the artic circle. And no, I don't know where we'd find the money to add in all the comfy extras that those countries have to make things easier unless beer, smokes, flex days, scratch tickets and pokies were completely removed from our culture.

In the meantime, there's only this idea.

After a lot of immature sniggering at Ray's Outdoors Centre - and a bit of explaining to Sapphire as to why I was taking a photo of a 'Dutch Oven Carry bag.' Hell, it looks as though it's even shaped to fit my two overly generous arse cheeks in.....

........ and I thought it was perhaps the cheapest way I could improve on home heating. Not sure that Love Chunks agrees with me.

Maybe we're all better off hiding under the doona and staying there until spring comes again.




















Please shut the door on your way out, 'Kthnxbye