Scenes from a Genevan restaurant

"No wonder Simon and Gianna wanted to meet us here. It's actually modern," exclaimed Sapphire as we asked for a table to seat 'cinq' people and waited for the other two to arrive.

"I'll order a bottle of Rose. Everyone likes Rose and it'll go with pretty well any sort of Italian food."

Love Chunks surveyed the scene and then the menu, wincing as he did so. "Well, each dish is helping them pay for the renovations."

Sapphire, looking beautiful in her own chosen ensemble of skirt, boots and cute top, rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's Geneva for you."

He smiled. "You're right.  I'll try a glass of Cotes du Rhone red----"

"-----And I'll have a glass of that orange Aperol stuff, see?" Pointing wildly at a couple in the corner, "Remember me drinking it all the time last year in Germany...?  They've just ordered the same drink, which is the first time I've seen it here. I love that stuff!"

"Yes Kath/Mum," my two favourite humans chorused.

Gianna and Simon arrived, glad to see that we'd snaffled a table. "There's already a queue outside and it's only a quarter to seven," she said, sipping on the Rose. "What the....?" she swallowed only because it would be impolite to spit inside. "I'm sorry but this is awful!"

Simon and LC agreed.  "Never fear, I'll drink it," I said, worrying more about the cost of the wine and inwardly cringing at it going to waste.

"Peach iced tea for me, please," said Sapphire.  "Hey Mum," she whispered, tapping my arm. "Don't look now - I said DON'T LOOK - but one of the chefs over there has the Colosseum tattooed on his arm."

"So he has. No prizes for guessing where he's from." The completed half litre orange Aperol and first glass of Rose were working their magic. "So. Pretend that your life depended on getting a tattoo - on your upper arm, so it's mostly visible - of a landmark or living thing to represent yourself, what would it be?"

"Certainly not the Opera House," Sapphire said before turning to place her order.

"A flower of some kind," said Gianna. "Seeing as this year my birthday has a zero in it, I have been giving it some thought but haven't got as far as decided what flower."

"My girls," Love Chunks said, "but how awful would that look?"

"The Southern Cross for me," was my contribution. "It's time we took it back from the brain-dead bogans."  Sapphire shook her head in disapproval. "Mum, they'd just think you were their big white nanna."

"A British Bulldog," Simon said decisively. "But to overturn the racist element of it, I'd have him smiling, sitting on top of the Tower of London and wearing a Shamrock around his collar. My mum would like the shamrock."

It was then that we noticed the two real dogs in the restaurant.  The one closest to me was still a puppy and resembled our Milly crossed with a kelpie and a whippet and a whimsical dash of shrunken golden retriever.  Glass number three had me lean back and slur slightly, "Love your dog. What is she?"

"We're not really sure as she was a rescue dog from Austria," the man replied in a strong German accent.

At the table on the other side of us was a full-sized Boxer, his back almost the same level as the table.  Arse facing us, we were treated to an eyeful of his baked potato-sized bollocks.  Turning to face us (which we were all relieved about), he presented a very handsome but slightly huffy face.  His nose inevitably found her:  the cute Blonde Bitzer I was currently enchanted with.  His paws scrabbled on the shiny floor to reach her, knocking against the legs of his owners' table. A sixty-something man, clearly the owner, grabbed the dog and roughly shoved his head under the table, cursing loudly.

"That seems a bit harsh," observed Simon. "The dog's only doing what is natural..."

I leaned back to my Austrian friend and pointed to a spot just behind Simon's left elbow.  "There's a boxer over there who is very keen to meet your dog."

"But he mustn't," he whispered, "As she is on heat."

A fourth glass was swirling inside me yet even I queried the wisdom of bringing a dog on heat to the most popular restaurant in our postcode, with tables almost touching and overloaded with stemmed glasses and bread baskets.  "Oh," I said, turning back to my friends.

By the fifth glass, Gianna had had enough.  The Italian fire in her soul - and inborn knowledge of the language - saw her plonk down her calamari and square up to the Boxer's bully.  Never a shy petal, Gianna was obviously giving the bloke a goodly piece of her mind in her mother's native tongue, gesticulating at the dog and pointing towards the Blonde Bitzer behind me.  The waiters quickly intervened and magically found the Boxer family a table against the counter, presumably so that the dog could be hidden underneath and only have one side to escape from.

Things now settled, we enjoyed the meal. The food was indeed superb and the increasingly loud conversation, yelled orders to the pizza chefs and clacking heels on parquetry were adding to the chaos.  A downed sixth glass made me brave enough to lean back on my chair - now being steadied ever-so-subtlely by LC - and ask the question. "Why is your dog on heat?"

"She was supposed to be neutered on Tuesday but started bleeding, so the vet says he can't do it until next week-----"

The Boxer was there!  He'd broken out of his pizza and pasta-prescribed prison and was about to........."NO!"  Despite the imminence of a violent sexual scene and three separate groups of diners in distress, the packed restaurant remained oblivious, carrying on their own chats over carpaccio platters and wood fired focaccias.  Admittedly, things were fairly hazy in my Rose-saturated state, but pizza crusts and prosciutto may have been proffered to encourage the besotted Boxer to forgo his attempts at rooting in a restaurant and crouch back under his table.

"I'm not sure that food would normally dissuade a determined guy that easily," Simon muttered.

Our meal was all over by a tame 9:30 pm and Sapphire kindly held my elbow to add an element of safety to my sterling impression of a toddler walking down a flight of stairs for the first time.  "I'm sorry love, but I haven't set a very good example for you tonight, have I?"

She paused for a moment before smiling. "A drunk Mum, Gianna gettin' game and dirty dogs - remind me not to get so dressed up next time."

Cemeteries, castles and cows' stomachs

Munching in front of a Monument again: this time it's Edinburgh Castle.  Yes, I've used shortbread but, true-to-my-nature, it has a thick layer of chocolate on the top.

After all, why not pop over there on a cheap flight for a few days during Sapphire's half-term break. And don't get me started on why kids need a week off after only six weeks of school and then a pupil-free day the following Monday...  Love Chunks was left at work (with a couple of days to go skiing too, so don't feel too sorry for him).

The above photo was taken by a rather hungover young gentleman who was heading home to bed after a big Saturday night out just as we were heading up to the castle for an early Sunday morning start.

Sapphire beside a tiny window inside the St Margaret's chapel in the rocky grounds of Edinburgh castle. It's the oldest still-standing building there dating back to the 11th century.  It was surprising to discover that the castle is still used for army training and large areas were blocked off. A few Chinese tourists didn't read the 'Private Residence - No Entry' signs and opened the front door and wandered inside a rather lovely looking terraced house, no doubt surprising (or annoying) the occupants.

My observation to Sapph: "It must be terrific to live in such historical buildings and locations, but - whatever you do - always remember to have clothes on when you fling open your window or need to dash outside to whip a dry towel off the clothesline."

It was hurtful to receive only a eye roll for my sharing of wisdom.

Greyfriars church, in the heart of the Old Town at the base of the castle, was a spot that was regularly dug up by body snatchers keen to earn eight quid (half a years' wage) for each fresh(ish) one found.  Therefore, grim-looking headstones such as this one (see the two coffin and shovel icons left and right between the skull and crossbones?) were designed to warn potential carcass criminals to bog off and try somewhere else. Richer graves even had locked gates to prevent being disturbed whilst poorer-but-determined families sometimes forced a relative to sit on a new grave for at least a fortnight. After that, the bone burglars knew that the contents inside would be too decayed to interest the nearby medical school.

With an atmospherically gloomy day to help us, we tried (in vain) to find the Thomas Riddle gravestone that JK Rowling borrowed for her books.  We did, however, see a few other key character names amongst the tombs - McGonagal etc, and had lunch at the cafe she still credits for being kind enough to let her nurse a cup of coffee all day to stay warm and write the first Harry Potter.

The waiting staff there were keeping sharp eyes on any lingerers though, having suffered through a few other billionaire-wannabes trying to get a sniff of the inspiration JK found in their cafe.  The cappuccino cake was nice though, and Sapph thought her lamb and mint pie was pretty decent too.

 
Great achievement - Encyclopaedia Brittanica - but a very, very unfortunate name.  William Smellie......  In Australia, the cheaper and local version was 'Funk and Wagnalls.'  Adverts at the time would feature a kid asking something improbable like, 'Where do sesame seeds come from?' and a voice-over would gleefully say, "Look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls!"  Best not to say that phrase too fast or with a mouth full of toffee.

A unicorn, resting a hoof on the Scottish coat of arms whilst also holding up the St Andrews flag along the Royal Mile.  It's tempting to now write, 'your argument is invalid' ala the popular meme or 'enough said' but he sits proudly at the top of a small stone tower used to make (yell, presumably) announcements to the local populace.  

On the ground were wooden doors that were used to punish shop lifters caught red-handed at the nearby market. If captured, the thief had their ear nailed to the door and had a terrible choice to make:

A) To remain there for twenty four hours without touching their ear and endure the encouraged likelihood of locals kicking, spitting or emptying their night jars on you as well as enduring hunger, cold and wet pants; or

B) Leave the post at any time within that twenty four hours by tearing your ear off the nail.

Unfortunately the first case would undoubtedly cause you to perish in the night or endure a terrible, deathly infection and the second resulted in a missing chunk of ear that instantly identified you as a thief and therefore likely to be refused jobs, food or even permission to live in the town.  I wonder if that's where the term 'ear marked' comes from?

Bobby the dog was owned by a local policeman, John Grey, and always accompanied him on his rounds in the very dodgy areas of Edinburgh.  Several years later, John contracted TB and died and Bobby stayed by his grave, living for at least a decade afterwards.  He became rather famous and was looked after by the Greyfriars rector and locals, who regularly left him food and treats.  It is now a tradition to leave sticks for him to chase at his grave.

What I forgot to take photographs of:

• Sapphire trying and enjoying Haggis.
• "Aye, but ye canna go roond that whey," said the taxi driver and Sapphire whispering, "Can you actually understand what he's saying, Mum?"
• Bag pipe players. EVERYWHERE. In fact, the above pictures are rare for NOT containing any of them, but their strangled beagle sounds were always heard.
• Our deliciously hearty English full cooked breakfast but with Scottish extras of haggis and oatcake. Sapphire was primed to tell the waitress that she wanted a 'full English breakfast' but came out with, "I want the FULL SAUSAGE."  I'm still wondering if I'm a suitable role model because we laughed and joked about it for the rest of the trip.
• Nits. Again.  "No, I don't want to do it monkey style," said my younger Foghorn Leghorn when I suggested a quick check.  More immature giggling ensued; mostly from me.
• Me and cider. Local brews and a gorgeous strawberry one from Sweden. Why hasn't it travelled across the channel to mainland Europe...?
• Cadbury Creme eggs all over the place and for half the price they'd be in Australia.
• A tray of beef lasagne abandoned in the crisp packet aisle in Sainsburys.  Obviously bought out of habit before the brain started to ask, "But is it really beef, or is Phar Lap's descendent in there too?"

...and heading back to our cosy room to flop on the bed, enjoy a cup of tea and read all the broadsheet weekend newspapers with my darling travel companion.  

Impossible dogs

In London last week we were honoured to stay with gorgeous G and her adorable chocolate labrador, Alfie, who has been immortalised on canvas.

Art can freeze and capture beauty, especially where animals are concerned.  Point-and-shoot cameras, on the other hand, are often found wanting.  Picasa needs to invent a 'blue eye' feature in their editing package to cover fido refraction.

Most mornings, I set the alarm to join G and Alfie on their walk alongside the Thames.  G is the sort of gregarious, go-getter gal who knows the entire suburb of Teddington* either through her dog, her work or social life, and within minutes we'd invariably meet up with several other people passionate for pooches and with a healthy penchant for puddles.

Yet again, the point-and-shoot camera's shortcomings were not heeded or appreciated by the furry friends I met.  "Turn around, Alfie, come on..."  "Smudge, you ugg boot lining with a tongue, what are you barking at?"

Baz the blood hound was a magnificent creature but more intent on plunging himself into the water than stopping to pose.

Colin the Schnauzer (yes, that's his real name) might be an easier portrait, I thought. Mistakenly. Instead he harrumphed at my efforts and scooted off the second he'd left - erm, a warm 'part of himself' - by the walking trail.

This little Jack Russell wasn't going anywhere near me - or any other dog owner for that matter.

We counted six dogs being walked by this woman.  The legal limit for professionals operating in the UK apparently.

Steelo sat down in front of me, smiling and panting after chasing Alfie and looking utterly beguiling. I surreptitiously opened my camera case, gingerly pressed the 'on' button and ------- "Dammit!"

The caretaker of Teddington Loch's dog was also taking the role quite seriously, keeping his eye on our ever-growing collection of canines.  Right after 'click' he gave his ears a thorough flapping, flinging the just visible dangle of drool onto my left arm. 

Bunty was beautiful but shy, never daring to meet my eye.

She endured a brief butt sniff from Bella but didn't return the greeting, preferring instead to join her elderly owner making her way through the cornflowers. 

Teddy was the best shot of the day, giving me a small grin before joining Baz for a splash in the river.

Snack time! 

Smudge again, seemingly missing his front right leg as he mistakenly assumed that I too had some crunchies in my pocket.  His need to investigate was keen.  I would have patted his head in consolation but he'd rolled in horse manure a few minutes earlier so a "Sorry old fella," and a hasty step backwards was all that was offered.

The perfect side eye.  "Look Kath, I'm abluting here. Isn't there something else you could focus your attention on?"

Alfie again, near the home stretch.  Tired, muddy and distinctly smelly. But smiling.

You can learn a lot from dogs, but not photography tips.

* Teddington.  Cutest suburb name ever.

i-Less

Sapphire and I have just returned from a magnificent week in London which might explain my absence on this blog, as a reader/commenter on other sites as well as updates on Facebook.

Y'see I don't own an iPad, iPhone or any form of magically instant photograph-to-website device. Stubbornly and miserly old fashioned, I managed to get around the most exciting city in the world with my thirteen year old daughter using only a five year old mobile (still giving me Swiss phone messages in German) and a *gasp* separate camera. A cumbersome device that had to wait until we returned home before being able to download the photographs taken on holiday.

We 'did' Buckingham Palace, Victoria & Albert Museum, double decker bus tour, National Gallery, Trafalgar Square and Westminster last year, so this visit - tinged with a few dollops of guilt leaving Love Chunks hard at work back in Geneva - was about eating, shopping and different sights.

First meal? Sushi. Fresh and affordable.

Second meal? Indian, at our friend G's favourite restaurant. Spicy, authentic and gob smackingly cheap. Surely only a Swiss-dweller is thrilled by the size of the bill at London eating establishments.

Third meal? Porridge and fresh blueberries, before accompanying G and her dog Alfie for a walk along the Thames.



The place was understandably buzzing with pre-Olympic fever but it was rather noticeable that most tourists and locals were buying anything and everything with the Union Jack on it and not the puzzling pork-scratching 2012 logo or the stuffed (literally and figuratively) versions of the mangled one-eyed mutant mascots.

The Thames cruise from Big Ben to Greenwich was the best way to get a different view of the city but GMT itself was completely obscured by white catering tents and scaffolding ready for a music festival. That didn't stop us from eating our Marks and Sparks sangers in the drizzle by Cutty Sark and enduring Dad jokes from the coffee maker. "You want a flat white, luv? I'll give you a white coffee and squash it, how does that sound?"

We wondered what Nelson thought of his permanent view of the pin cushion Millennium dome, so Sapphire decided to take his mind off it for a while.



Shopping for clothes in Oxford Street and Notting Hill was eventually completed to Sapphire's satisfaction. It was then time for her old mother to force some 'must sees' on her.

I confess to getting tearful at St Paul's - a place that was regularly visited during my two year work visa residence during church services to hear the choir, feel the immense pipe organ so powerful that it rumbled in my chest and to gaze up at the dome in an acceptable imitation of spiritual enlightenment. This time around, we spent more time up on the top of the building taking photographs for other tourists. "Are you from London?" asked a young Italian bloke who'd left his elderly parents below. Clearly Sapphire's international school had softened her Aussie twang.

I confess also to getting tearful in the drizzle at Hampton Court Palace. "Do you see how wonderful this place is, Sapphire? Why I loved it so much and needed to take you here?"
"Yes Mum. Now shoosh."

There are many more confessions to make, including:

Being far too audible in my appreciation of bacon sandwiches;

Poking my nose in the 'Temporarily closed for new display' at Kensington Palace but then being invited in by the curator so that we could see Queen Victoria's Great Exhibition dress and Albert's toiletry box that included a tongue scraper. "We're thinking about having it tested for his DNA";

Chatting to many strangers on the tube: "Your tattoo of 'Carpe Diem' there on your chest, that's what we were talking about last night, weren't we Sapphire. .......Sapphire?"

Kissing G's dog too many times;

Causing more embarrassment by making my child pose in front of the Victoria Palace theatre after we'd seen and loved Billy Elliot;

Overhearing a job interview being conducted in a Teddington coffee shop and giving the candidate a hearty 'thumbs up' as we passed by;

Laughing inappropriately at this sign and puzzling the nearby drinkers at the King's Head:



.....and feeling mortified that I couldn't remember the actual street number of the building I lived in for nearly two years until I saw the boot scraper and the 'Diplomatic car parking only' sign for the posh place next door.  W1H 1FF - a helluva postcode; and if I had a spare 3.25 million pounds, a flat in the next street would be nice.



And tears again because I was privileged enough to be able to do it all with my beautiful, funny, insightful, clever and appreciative daughter.  A week sprinkled with laughter, hugs, witty insults (hers) requests to use the camera, wondering how our paper tickets survived the gates of multiple tube lines, becoming adoring fans of Alfie the dog and getting sore necks from constant head swiveling at the sights.  

Thank you, dear one.

Dafuq?

Milly and I were doing our usual morning walk in Parc de Trembley.

I nodded and said "Bonjour" to the old guy who is seemingly welded to a smokers' seat at Urban Sand, the tiny coffee shop next to our building that has recently revealed that it contains the city's best baked cheesecake.

We greeted our friends the two lovely gardeners, busy emptying the bins. Milly rushed over for a pat and they wanted to chat about the tennis. "Andy Murray he, er, yells at himself too much. Pfffth! Too much self love. One more for our Roger, eh."

We steered past the tiny 'Off lead' dog paddock so that Milly and her foe the Alsatian weren't close enough to act out their angry dance of snapping at each others' noses through the chicken wire and I idly wondered again just why the Swiss Crapaud Crew chose fireworks and iced tea as their night time activities.

But today, on top of the hill with the best view of the St Pierre cathedral, Mont Blanc and Jet D'Eau, was a man with his chin pointing to the sky. He was oblivious to the scenery spread out before him as he was busy shaving. 

Dry shaving. No water, no towel, no cream. I could hear the scritch-scritch-scritch of rasping skin and stiff bristles as we passed.

Not sure if he got lucky and was doing a few quick ablutions on the way home as he was too neatly dressed to be homeless. Then again, how many blokes would carry a disposable razor in their back pocket before hitting the dance floor....?

Further down the hill, next to the nude lady missing a hand as she busily fished in the primary school pond was a man lying next to her.



Nothing overtly untoward was happening. On his back, a sports bag was shoved under his head for a pillow and his eyes were closed in the morning sun that was already bright and warm. Like our brave shaver, he was also well clothed, but not in night time threads. Posh campers, neat chinos and checked shirt indicated that he was ready for a day of sightseeing, starting with getting on the Number Three bus whose stop was close by.

Milly didn't deem him worthy of a closer inspection; not when a Jack Russell was approaching from the opposite direction. She knew from past experience that I am a sucker for a cute dog and she therefore had to emit a few fierce growls to get the other dog's owner to pass by giving a wide berth and removing all opportunities for conversation or contact. On no account whatsoever am I to touch or utter any endearments to any other dog, especially if they're on a lead. To date, no explanation has been forthcoming as to why the lead is such a red rag to anger and jealousy.

Around the corner, Milly's fears immediately dissolved as she scampered over to investigate the swathe of soft green grass that was now weirdly pock-marked all over with perfect black squares.

On closer inspection, we saw that they had been caused by coals from portable grills.

My two gardening and tennis fan friends would not be pleased to see that the sunny weather meant that their gorgeously manicured lawns would now be impersonating a chess board, but Milly was thrilled. Discarded drum sticks and pork ribs were everywhere and she set to rolling in what appeared to be a puddle of BBQ sauce and olive oil. "NO!"

Luckily, whenever I make to move away, she immediately follows and we walked up the Petit Saconnex hill path towards home.

I didn't see her but Milly sure did.

An eager sun baker, already in her bikini was laid out on her towel was soaking up the rays, her gorgeously slender body coated in coconut oil that was a siren song to my dog's nose. And tongue.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, Milly had shot over like an orange flame, slurped the girl across her stomach and hooned back before I could scold her.

The girl sat up in shock but Milly was already by my side a hundred metres away, goofy grin on her face. I wheeled around 180 degrees so that we were too far and at the wrong angle to be given the blame.

"You funny little dog," I said, patting her before realising that my hand now touched yesterday's oily BBQ lunch leftovers rubbed deep into her coat. "Good thing she just got a lick and not a full back roll from you!" 

The Generous God-like Gorgeousness that are Guide Dogs

Sponsored by Nuffnang











You regulars (makes you sound like bran cereal, doesn’t it?) know that I love dogs in all shapes, sizes, colours, breeds, mixers and moods.

Love Chunks and Sapphire continue to sigh as I rush over to someone and ask ‘Can I please pat your beautiful doggie thanks’ before they’ve even registered that I’m kneeling before them, stroking their pet’s ears.

Right. The context is set and my own dog – the marvellous Milly – is at my feet, snoozing in her beanbag as I’m writing this, stirring only occasionally to release a yawn or tiny yelp as she finally catches the motley cat who teases her behind the fence in her dreams and I’m pretty stoked to be able to tell you about the Six Feet One Journey campaign that celebrates the Guide Dogs movement with the support of FRONTLINE PLUS®.

Brett would have to have one of the cutest job titles ever: Puppy Raising Officer! This clip shows how pups from around eight weeks old are hosted by Puppy Raisers and their families for twelve months to learn basic social skills and obedience (ah if only we could do that for litterers, bogans and Mr Divvy Van). Then, when they’re around fourteen months old, they’re assessed at the Guide Dogs Centre to see if they’re suitable for guiding work. If so, they undergo an intensive, five month training course before being matched to a potential handler.


Allan is vision impaired and pretty happy with Archie. Yes, my cynical, raisin-dry heart was won over when he said, “Archie’s my dog, my eyes, my mate.”



Most Guide Dogs work for around eight or ten years and know that when their harness is on, it’s time to focus on work with their handler. But when the harness is off, it’s time to relax (no, that doesn’t mean you can lick that) and play with the whole household – their just reward.












It might be dogs who undergo the training but there’s certainly a lot we can learn from them.

Snappy September - Day Twenty Eight - Free-ranging Flemington

My suburb is fairly densely populated and the roar of traffic, trams and train horns is a constant background soundtrack but I'm here to inform you that it does have its fair share of animal life.
(Apart from the wandering drunks who like to leave their kebab wrappers on top of our car early Sunday mornings that is).

The first animal is the one who works hardest on my heart strings.

Milly hasn't been able to go running with me for the past three years and the lurching stop-start, turn around on a five-cent-piece and stop-start again motions required to fetch tennis balls is also something that she'll enjoy for a few minutes and then painfully regret for many hours afterwards.

So, as I unlocked our tiny shed in readiness for my run and then dashed inside to answer the phone, this is the heart-rending scene she presented to me:

Tough luck Mills. However she always gets a nice ambling walk every day and later on I had a few errands to run, so she came along too.

We had to pass several lions:

And two uncertain Corgis who were staring at the automatic doors of the shops to make sure their owner would return.

I popped into Pepper Cafe to chat to the owner, Simon, about interviewing him for an article and left Milly outside. A couple of minutes later I noticed that she'd been given a white scarf to wear and looked pretty unsure about it.

When the owner of the scarf gave her a few pats, everything was okay in Milly's world again.

We walked past Alex's menagerie; all animals found and adopted from the streets of Flemington:

And a circa-1960s air hostess, because someone has to feed them I guess. Since this picture was taken, Sapphire was touched and impressed enough to ask Alex if she'd also consider adopting a Schleich Jack Russell and Rex from Toy Story. Alex agreed and now they too live on her window sill with their new friends.

This groover resides near the Communist flag and a cartoon thong riding a skateboard.....

.....but is considerably quieter than these three, who were keen to see me and let me lean over the fence for a pat and a photo but hadn't forgotten that Milly is evil.

She is evil, in all honesty, to other dogs.

What she does is wag her tail and look friendly and just as her canine cousin wanders up to touch her nose and sniff hello it's ARR ARR ARR GRRRRR as Milly lunges forward to try and rip the poor creature's face off.

Such encounters always involve me yanking her away, apologising profusely and yelling - as we move further down the street - that "Milly's a people dog, not a dog dog."

There are still a couple of working stables in Flemington, so Patto was giving his granddaughter and a mate a lift back home from the race course:

...... and Ros's dogs Charlie and Little tried to figure out if they remembered me or not. Charlie wasn't so sure, but Little was open to the idea of a greeting.

Sheep and cattle passed through these gates right up until 1987 and in its heyday, Newmarket was the largest stockyard in Australia. It now houses human stock only, with a few cats and fluffy dogs thrown in for good measure.

Out on Flemington Road, the din of the city-bound traffic and airport-bound traffic is deafening and Milly's ears flatten against the strain.

Despite this, we both hear the raucous screech of a Cockatoo perched on top of a light pole in the middle of one of the busiest roads in Melbourne, proudly calling out to his buddies pecking nearby on the lawn.

These fellas could barely be bothered to move when Milly and I stopped to look.

Back into the quieter side streets, we noted with relief that it was a good thing that they weren't hawks, or they'd never belong here.

Flemington. There's always something that tickles me.