Putta putta putta PARP!

Regular readers will know that I fart (often) and ain't afraid to admit it.

The relief of being open about this might be a reaction to the first twenty years of my life when my brothers remained quite convinced that girls (or, at the very least, their sister), never ever needed to pass wind.  To counteract this belief, they would regularly take gleeful pleasure in 'performing' a few right in my face in order to remind me that such a bodily function existed.  Both brothers would be out of the door and way out of dead-leg range before I could struggle to my feet from my half-lying stance in the beanbag.

By age twenty five I had found Love Chunks, we were newly engaged and thrilled to rent our first place together; a shocker of a 1960's flat with cement brick walls, pond scum carpet and a head-sized hole in the bathroom.  His illusions as to my fart-free status were shattered in minutes after mock chasing me into the living room in an attempt to 'dack' me.

To non-Aussies, a 'dacking' usually involves:
a) cleverly spotting that your victim (the 'dackee') is wearing a skirt, pair of trousers or shorts with an elastic waistband;
b) noting that the dackee is in a relaxed state and easy to tackle; and
c) seizing the chance to run up, dive into a rugby pose and PULL DOWN THEIR PANTS in a nanosecond, all the while hoping that their undies stay up.

Love Chunks was in the midst of this manoeuvre when my defence mechanism - for so many years kept hidden - went into full defence mode.  Putta putta putta PARP PARP PARP!  For a moment afterwards, we both froze. I was half bent over, in shock and embarrassment at the enormous fart that had emerged; LC was just in shock.  "Bah hah hah hah hah...!" he went, doubling over himself, before wisely deciding to stand upright again and wildly open the door to and fro in an effort to get some fresh air into the room.

That occasion, with its total lack of dignity, freed me up to let it out and be proud. In the ladies' toilets at several work places, I'd be aware of women in the other stalls doing their best to whizz silently against the bowl, or cough when a Tony Abbott or two was about to drop.  "Hey there!  We're all in here for the same reason - drops and plops - so why bother hiding it?"

And thus, with the nineties and noughties long behind me and the teens continuing, my rowdy rear end continues to seek the limelight, whether it's wanted or not.

With Sapphire away in the UK for the weekend with her friends, LC and I took the opportunity to go skiing with two other couples in nearby La Clusaz, France.  Now, LC is utterly hooked on this hurtling down icy sixty-degree-angle mountain sides on skinny planks malarkey whereas for me it is rewarding and occasionally exhilarating but always terrifying.  As such, he's lining up for the lifts as soon as they open and has to be pushed off by the snow plow drivers at dusk but I'm ready to quit at lunchtime and have a nanna nap/spa/shower/inhale chocolate/read magazines in our room.

Luckily for me, Slimey's wife Gianna is of a similar disposition.  We'd done a full morning and my legs were no longer listening to my commands, preferring instead to point in the direction of the chairlift back into town.  At one stage they'd buckled underneath me and I found myself on my stomach and legs spread rather unflatteringly in both directions. All I need was someone to draw a circle around my fallen figure in the snow and a human Peace Sign would be evident.

Time to call it a day.  LC and I had already checked out of our room after breakfast, but Gianna and Slimey were there for another night. "No problem, Kath. Get changed in our room and use Slimey's towel - he won't mind."

Now, I've only known Gianna for two years but already love, trust, admire and enjoy her company immensely. We'd shared many stories and adventures together and I always looked forward to seeing her when she was in Geneva. Getting changed in front of her was a new level of intimacy for sure, but not one that phased me. 

It was what occurred in her bathroom a minute later that had me in an anxious sweat.  

Putta putta putta PARP PARP PARP!  Yep, my ginormous glutes decided to emit their version of a loud gaseous staccato roar that swept out of the bowl, across the tiles, out the door and through the alpine valley causing trees to quiver and drop their icicles onto the slopes, creating avalanches that swept down into the township below.  

As with Love Chunks' first experience of my articulate arse, there was a silence from the other side of the bathroom door.  It was me who broke it. "Er, I'm guessing that staying in a wooden chalet hotel means that you heard everything my 'tocks just tooted...?"

Sniggering was all the answer I needed. "I'm married to Slimey," she managed between gasps, "but I'm not entirely sure that he didn't also hear it up there on the red run."  

"Don't worry, I'd already taken his bathrobe off...."

There really is no going back after farting in front of a friend.

When we arrived home last night and downloaded our photos, this one seemed eerily appropriate.  Camera angle or honest truth, it was a blessing that no-one sat on my right hand side.

Pees Orff

Geneva is like a pimple on the face of Europe in that it is almost entirely surrounded by France.

Swiss flags might be everywhere but the lifestyle and attitudes are mostly French. Croissants instead of Bircher muesli; 'La Poste' on the sides of yellow delivery trucks instead of the rather forbidding 'Die Post' further north; and Fashion over Sensible Footwear.

The official branch of the bank that is used by Love Chunks' UN agency closes down over lunch, so any workers who want to pay bills or open an account have to sneak over before midday or after 2:00pm.  Everything is closed on Sunday, so if you haven't done your weekly shop or wish to visit a restaurant that:

* has decor later than 1978
* is vaguely affordable; and/or
* serves food that isn't Kath's One Pot At Home-standard of pasta or pizza

..... you'll starve.  It is the official Day of Rest and judging from the silence of our enormous apartment complex, residents are either attending church or lying mutely in the dark for the entire day.

Despite this, there's enough Swiss influence to ensure that public transport runs precisely on time; recycling depots are on every street corner and just moving to a different suburb requires you to notify and register with the local commune (council).  Cafes stay open "non stop" which is not 24/7 but means that they don't close for their own lunch break.

This is not the case a mere five kilometres away.  Where the edge of CERN's enormous underground Hadron Collider borders France, things change.  Prices of food, shoes, clothing, pharmaceuticals, gifts and furniture are markedly cheaper.  Same goes for meals at restaurants and bistros.

Kate and her daughter Imogen took Sapphire and myself out for a little excursion to Val Thoiry; a well known shopping destination for frustrated Genevan Meat Tourists* and for those tiring of only being able to buy their clothes from H&M and therefore match the 99% of the population who are not Rolex-wearing multi-millionaires.  I can spot a striped H&M t-shirt, one-pocket stud jeans and funky trousers a mile away these days.

Trudging through the snowy car park, we found ourselves in a northern hemisphere version of a Melbourne 'Home Maker' centre: enormous shop fronts, oodles of free (outdoor) parking and all manner of things for sale.  We'd been living in Geneva too long and had forgotten just how much choice is on offer if you're permitted to purchase items that aren't necessarily grown, invented or manufactured by the Swiss. 

Prices had me gobsmacked. "Kate, look at THIS! It's only ONE EURO! How on earth.....?"  A fellow shopper looked over at me in a kindly manner. She recognised a new recruit; a Meat Tourist now given the keys to purchases and choices beyond beef mince and deodorant.  "WHY is this two Euros here but eleven in Geneva, Kate? WHY?"

With shoes, birthday presents, Vag Fresh mints, kitchenware and chocolate purchased, our rumbling stomachs informed us that it was high time for lunch.

A cafe beckoned; its winking lights, front bar filled with warm-looking patrons and an extensive blackboard menu bragging about daily specials, two course deals and burgers cementing our decision. "Let's go here. Look how cheap the food is!"

Not so fast, the waiter seemed to say as I pointed to a large, empty booth inside the restaurant and he instead grabbed my elbow to steer me away. "Your table eeez outside."

Er, what?  

Admittedly, it was undercover and warm, but the cafe itself was empty except for the front bar.  Perhaps they were cleaning all the table tops?

The waiter returned. Sapphire asked in tentative French for the advertised burger, salad and fries.  My language skills were limited to understanding only his "Non."  She then tried wood oven pizza. "Non," he said again, pointing (with some force) at the laminated menus that also served as place mats on the outdoor table. "Just zeeeze," he said in English.

Kate nodded, finally understanding the waiter's lack of enthusiasm. "It's 1:45," she said, pointing to her watch. "We're too late for lunch and they wanted to close the kitchen."

Ohhhhh. The front section was full, but not of eaters. They were all busy chatting and slurping coffees, beers and wines, pausing only to flick their cigarette ash out behind them into our section.

All four of us dutifully pointed to the least offensive items on the menu. He nodded, relieved that these tardy clowns had got the message.  "Four lasagnes, eh?"

"Er, Oui. Please."

When our meals arrived - and they were good - the waiter sidled past every couple of minutes or so, meaningfully staring at our table in a very clear Hurry the Hell Up manner.

This, of course, had the opposite effect. We took our time and, somewhat ironically, had an interesting conversation about how often we must offend other cultures/countries/people unthinkingly.  

* Meat Tourists:  Frustrated expats who drive to France to buy cheaper meat and groceries.  Border control can stop your car and ask you how much meat you have. Maximum permitted is 500 grams of red meat per passenger in the car. I've been stopped twice in two years and have only ever had two kilograms of chicken breasts which they weren't even remotely interested in.

Five franc special

Feeling more fragile since the death of my friends' eighteen year old son on Monday from meningococcal disease, I confess to feeling more annoyed than concerned when Sapphire came home from school with her lingering stomach pains in full flight. Again.

She'd had four days off school last week with our doctor confident that it was just a minor bout of gastro. What for me might have been an uneasy, queasy night would be a week of recovery for Sapphire in light of her almost-indestructible stomach infection she was forced to endure for months late last year.

But she woke up on Tuesday in tears. "Mum, it still hurts."

A dilemma was duking it out within me - was she not able to buck up and tough it out, or was there really something wrong, a week after a meal of slightly-dodgy prawns? Her temperature - taken thrice daily on doctors' orders - in parts of the body that caused my child to smile bravely and say, "Hey, now I know how Milly feels when she goes to the vet," - was normal. Her glands were no longer swollen. Bowel functions were fine.

Her stomach, however, was painful to touch. Again. Blood was taken for testing and we were sent home with two specimen jars that signified their preferred contents via their brown-coloured lids.

These were dropped off this morning before Milly and I set off for a walk. Brown stuff doesn't get analysed locally but gets transported to Zurich. World centre of banking and body waste.

Today she is still in pain, especially when she eats. It is cruel to watch. She's a beautiful thirteen year old girl who is starving but immediately after eating has to fold herself up for a while in a futile attempt to squash the gut stabbings away.

She is bored, too. The sun is blazing outside but she is inside feeling achey, tired and getting paler by the day. Music, reading, DVDs and a few cuddles from Milly before her friends get on the phone and ring her for an update after school.

With a diet so bland that even the lusted-after food before the flaming pain isn't exciting enough, I headed off to Migros to seek some alternatives to plain pasta and potato products. Sapphire was sleeping, so a hand-written note and smiley face was left on the table.

Climbing into the car - left side you idiot, not the right; how long have you lived here for now? - I somehow managed to scrape the key across the bulbous flesh at the end of my nose. Boy that hurt. A glance through teary eyes in the rear vision mirror showed no blood, just an angry glow.

My grocery unloading and packing skills have improved a great deal over the past twelve months. Hands a-blur as each item is laid onto the moving belt and I'm already out the other end flinging the heavy stuff into eco bags faster than the cheerless checkout chick can fling them. Before this improvement consciously moved from being noticed to smug satisfaction, she stopped catapulting cans and asked me a question. In French.

I shrugged and mentioned (in French) that I couldn't speak French. She lifted up my Bargain Brand bag holding four kilograms of small, second-grade oranges. "Sorry, I don't know the price." She phoned up some poor sap in the fruit section and, as she manually keyed in the correct amount, the bag split open and thirty citrus balls malevolently made a roll for it along the counter, under the floor by the baskets and over towards the oldies bench.

Check out chick's face remained utterly unmoved by my plight, her arms clamped to their sides in loyal adherence to the unwritten code of Care-Less Customer Service. 

One orange was left where it landed because even my ET-length fingers couldn't reach it beneath the 'Action' shelf fronting Aisle Five, 'Les produits de nettoyage.'

Dust bunnies were now on both knees, my face was red - geez my nose was stinging, probably got some dirt rubbed in it - and she held out her hand, wordlessly. Ah yes - the dumb English speaker was now required to hand over her store card. This dumb English speaker did so and even though I dearly wished to swish off with a smidge of self righteousness the lino floor nearly came up to meet me - my stupid shoelace had become caught in the back wheel of the trolley.

Hoppity hoppity hopping over to the oldies bench, the trolley had to be rolled back and forth like a tired parent with a new-born in a pram until the filthy circle was rotated enough to release my now-black shoe lace. 

Back in the underground car park of our building pushing two fully-laden nanna carts towards the lift, I saw an elderly neighbour from the sixth floor slowly and creakily emerge from his old beamer. I lingered so that the door could be held open for him and wondered how he'd usually manage on his own with a bag of shopping and a cane.

"Merci Madame!"

He's a nice old bloke. Whenever he sees Milly in the foyer, he always makes a big deal of her; ruffling her ears and showering her with lovely-sounding French sweet nothings as her tail thonks adoringly against the fake wood-lined walls.  A rebel too, as he’s the only person in our building with a novelty door mat. A basset hound wearing sneakers.

I pressed Number Six for him and Number Eight for me. He doesn't speak English so we both smiled politely and pointed at our respective purchases. "Supermarche?" "Oui."

When we reached six, he hobbled towards the three-segment silver door that slid open to reveal another saloon-style door. This is very heavy and cumbersome to open at the best of times and must feel like a fortified drawbridge during a siege for this old man. I instinctively leaned out from behind Nanna Cart One to push it open with my leg, but what emerged with the movement of the door was a short sharp and loud duck-quack fart.

“AU REVOIR!” Here’s hoping that my enthusiastic farewell disguised the flatulence faux pas.

After unpacking the groceries, taking Milly downstairs for a wee and checking emails, I showed Sapphire what I hoped would tempt her for lunch.

A measly packet of spring rolls. Stingy sized, vegetarian and on sale. Five francs. Asian-style food is not particularly well done here, but they’re savoury: not bread or poxy potato.

“Thanks Mum,” she said, hugging me. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Guilt, love, concern, frustration, tears, annoyance, worry, affection, amazement, tiredness, irritation, anxiety, warmth and utterly sick of waiting for results. I hugged her right back.

Signs of life in Luxembourg

"Mum, you have such a childish sense of humour," Sapphire said, as we sat on the bus on our way to Vianden castle in Luxembourg.

"Yeah, well," I sniffed, "Who was it I heard playing IN MY PANTS*** the other night with her buddies on Skype, mmmmmm?"

She's right though. When sitting here with a coffee, some chocolate and waiting for the holiday snaps to finish downloading, I realise that when the camera was in my hands, the photos seem less scenic and more, well, silly.

Admittedly, even Sapphire laughed at these chocolate bars:



And it was she who spotted the name of this cafe:



....not that we noticed anyone having a hilarious episode in there; just two old ladies having a coffee with their pomerians squabbling at their feet.

We found out later that this guy is a writer of some note. "Poor bloke, to have that as your name," said Sapphire in sympathy.



"I am NOT going to these places to eat. Ever." Like her grandfather, my daughter is a stickler for good grammar, punctuation and spelling.





Where is Wally? Or Walter, as he's known here.



This landlord might need to work on his marketing skills. After his renovations are done of course.



This one puzzled us all. Apart from a nest full of baby birds, who on earth wants second hand food?



The bus was rounding the corner as I snapped this. "Hurry up Mum! Oh for goodness' sake, it's not that funny."
Me: "Tee Hee Ruder Wee!"

She issued a loud, overly-dramatic sigh of exhausted patience. "And you wonder why I want you to stay in the car with the windows up when you drop me off at school."



**** How to play 'In my pants'. Just add those magical three words at the end of pretty well every sentence for cheap laughs.

For example: ""It's been an amazing year," said Adele as she received the female artist statuette from Kylie Minogue.

...can be changed to "It's been an amazing year - in my pants"

I never said it was a mature or insightful or intellectual game!

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

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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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

First day - for the third time

Yesterday was supposed to be Sapphire’s first day at school, albeit an ‘info session’ in the afternoon before starting for real today.

We couldn't get her into the city campus - the one close by, near all the UN buildings like Love Chunks' workplace - because it was full and they sniffily informed me that they needed a years' notice instead of the paltry five weeks we gave them.

Therefore, we resigned ourselves to having Sapphire placed on the waiting list. "There are six kids ahead of her," I was told, when, against my better judgment, I rang again just so they'd know that we were still 'out there' and still keen.

In the meantime, we accepted a place at the very-difficult-to-spell (and even harder to pronounce) La Chataigneraie, a fair way out of town that would involve an hour long bus trip both ways for Sapphire at an additional cost to us of CHF 4000 per year.

Anyhoo, yesterday was the ‘info afternoon’ for new kids and their families and so she and I had already taken the tram into the central train station (whose reeking urine smell is a shocking contrast to the pristine streets everywhere else in Geneva) and were then waiting to take the train out to Coppet.

This journey was to be followed by a bus ride to the school and therefore cover all facets of public transport - tram, train and bus - and give me a much clearer idea of how much fun it was going to be for car-less me to get there should Sapphire ever be sick or miss her scheduled school bus or be called in for an evening parent teacher night.

Dreary thoughts of this were bogging about in my brain when LC rang. We’d been offered a place at the Nations campus *the very second* the train arrived – whoo hooooooo! My excited cry even scared off the sparrows who have been brave enough to land on my knee on occasion.

Several hours later, we arrived home. Sapphire’s head was swimming - seeing a high school timetable in her hot little hands for the first time probably frightened her more than the idea of being a 'new kid' but I was stoked. We can actually walk to this school and it's a more laid back campus that is only six years old, full of UN kids and nowhere near as posh. Put it this way: when I put in a rental limit of an already-scary CHF 5,000 per month for the La Chataigneraie school zone, nothing came up.

On the way to school this morning, I was sternly lectured the entire way and made to swear that I would NOT be funny or embarrassing, too friendly, weird, too loud or - heaven forbid - *be witnessed trying to kiss her goodbye*. And on NO ACCOUNT was I to walk inside the building with her.

So, just as I did as I was told and casually said 'see ya' and turned to leave, she grabbed my sleeve and whispered, "But you WILL be here waiting for me when school finishes, won't you?"

Yep and it'll be with Milly the dog. Just like in primary school.

She turned again. "Mum I have no idea of how we walked here, there are so many roads to cross, I'm going to forget, it's all so confusing and what if I get lost and my phone has a flat battery and-----"

Being mindful of the not-being-embarrassing-or-too-loud promise, I whispered, "I'll walk with you every day for as long as you want." Without a word, she turned and was lost in the throng of kids, parents, teachers and support staff.

I couldn't help but smile at this unexpected parental bonus of a smidgen more time to spend with my nervous, irascible, moody, smart, funny, hormonal, perceptive, beautiful daughter.

Sloppy Coffee and Clumsy Fumblings

Mrs Krups has let us down again.




















The first time it was my birthday and I naively thought that it'd be as easy as Maggie the magna's half-yearly service - a quick fiddle and back home again.

Alas no. Three weeks of to-ing and fro-ing from the Extended Warranty Wallahs and another couple to order the part in.

She returned home in good condition and was prepared to go back to work. Well, for a month. Our trip back from South Australia to Melbourne (yep, along with the three humans, the Christmas presents, a small rabbit and a dog, she also merited inclusion) must have literally rattled her, because when we plugged her back into the kitchen at Chateau Lockett, she defiantly whizzed all over the counter.

The second visit back to the Coffee Machine Centre took another four weeks; most of those spent liaising (or making many phone calls only to have none of them returned) with the Warranty Wimps.

The third visit was today, a mere two weeks after she returned. She initially seemed slightly quieter and a bit more defeated but had started dropping wet, sloppy pats of used coffee grounds in socially-unacceptable places which made the coffee weaker than a cup of hot water that was merely looking at an unopened jar of Nescafe.

The Warranty Wankers were unmoved. "Sorry Mrs Lockett," she said in that rushed and mumbled 'I couldn't care less' voice, "Your policy states that the product covered under our insurance needs to break down more than three times due to the same issue before you get a replacement model or your money back."

This time I didn't give Mrs Krups a small pat before they took her behind closed doors. I was dismissive and cold, whirling on my heel towards the gourmet food part of their warehouse, seething at possibly another five weeks without a proper Six-AM eye-opener.

Still, I pride myself on trying to see the positive side of things and was soon immersed in attempting to read the back of Italian talc boxes, German toffee slabs and figuring out that the French jars weren't holding albino Twistie snacks but were a creative interpretation of dissolvable anti-acid tablets and was thirty bucks for a pretty box of nougat really worth it and if so, why....

CRASH! My humble shoulder bag had brought down a stacked display of jars. Broken glass and sludge was all over the floor as I turned around to take a closer look at the product I'd just destroyed. 'Choc Ezy Nut-free spread.'

Ah. Perhaps it could be something I could review for GoneChocco, but I really didn't want....

"Are you going to pay for zat?" The assistant was at my side, smiling grimly.

"Er, I wasn't because it wasn't something I was going to buy, and I'm so sorry about this mess, but I have got some tea bags here and I've just dropped off my machine over there..."

He stared steadily at me as my voice trailed away. My hand groped for one of the few jars still intact on the shelf. "I might get this one." The word 'one' ended on a high note; more of a question seeking his approval and my escape.

He nodded. Things looked right in the world again but I had to do it.

I had to.

It was a question that needed - in my view - to be asked. "Um, I have a discount card for here. Can you please swipe it?"

He didn't bother to look at me this time, instead choosing to sigh loudly. "Is my first day on ze job. How do I do eet?"

I had no idea. "Hey, don't worry about it. I shouldn't have asked and I'm sorry again for the mess."

"Is okay. Enjoy ze spread."

Back in the car, I read the label. First ingredient: cheese. In a nut-free, chocolate spread that I'd just seen globbing slowly across a polished cement floor like an ageing brown bathmat. Great.

At Woolworths, my attention was focused on finding and buying foods that were slightly more practical. "Here darl, have a go at this, um, Antee Pasto here." The name plate said Cheryl and the pink lipstick slashed unevenly across the mouth said I'd rather drink the pickle juice than eat what it's preserving.

ACK ACK AAAAACK! The green olive - roughly the size of my fist - wasn't stuffed with red capsicum but a birds' eye chilli and my sample ended up being unceremoniously catapulted out of my shocked, coughing mouth and splatting somewhere in the open cheese cabinet nearby. Eyes streaming, I weakly pushed my trolley onwards, with Cheryl saying, "You get ten percent off if you buy three deli products this week, darl!" Ten points for optimism.

At the check out counter, an elderly lady was struggling to load her groceries onto the conveyor belt and keep hold of her walking stick. "Let me help you," I said, flashing her my 'I'm a Nice Person and Not a Robber or Rapist' servant-of-the-people smile.

She hurriedly looked away, muttered "I'm okay thanks," and promptly dropped a 2 kilogram bag of baker's flour on her own foot. We narrowly avoided clanging heads as I beat her to the bag, miraculously intact. "Here."

"Ta." Her posture made it clear that she wasn't comfortable facing or making eye contact with me and my smile faded. Ah well, let her fend for own fussy self then.


















Fussy Flour Femme was forgotten a few minutes later when I was pushing my own trolley down the slope towards the car. It was spitting slightly and I'd forgotten my sunglasses. Damp and glare with a side order of unpredictable wind gusts made the trip dodging commuters just off the nearby train platform and impatient drivers looking for a carpark particularly challenging.

I cursed. Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart; the stupid damn key wasn't working in the lock.

I tried again. Still no luck. Dumb, hopeless, poxy crappy key. If this was a sitcom I'd be tempted to let the trolley wheel away and start kicking at the bloody ...

Oh. It wasn't my car.

Mine was three parks away.

As the engine was warming up, the rear vision mirror showed that several angry red chunks of chilli were smeared across my teeth like leftover entrails. Instead of smiling, servant-of-the-people it was more akin to dead-baby-brains-for-breakfast. No wonder Flour Femme got across the carpark with such unusual speed.

It was time to slink off home and see if I was brave enough to open the jar of unwanted Choc Ezy.

Split Second Decision

It's been an interesting week. My sister-in-law was rushed to hospital with a suspected stroke that turned out to be Bells Palsy leaving her wearing a pirate eye patch and smiling sardonically on one side regardless of how she really feels. A couple of days later my best mate Jill went for a huge stack on her bike during the Down Under event and found herself knocked unconscious only to wake up with two black eyes, stitches inside her mouth and above her eyebrow and a set of inflated lips that may make her look like Angelina Jolie but unable to eat (therefore, even more like Ms Jolie).

My own lingering tennis elbow and stubborn Achilles tendon are, in comparison, pitifully minor ailments.

And yet I could have ended up with something so painful and so humiliating that it would have made the newspapers (if only to divert attention away from the flood damage). What is even more unbelievable is that it was caused by Skipper, our 1.5 kilogram rabbit who, apart from one slightly-annoyed "Eh" when I squirted him with water when it was 43C last summer is silent and accepting.

Life for him is pretty damn comfy. In addition to his two-storey town house with in-built ramp and separate bedroom* facilities, we've also rigged up a rather roomy little grassy area for him to gad about in during the day. There's an old Balinese wrap to give him shade, a bottle of fresh water, heaps of long grass to nibble and lie on and a big box to hide in and/or chew.


















Most evenings, after a feed of carrot or cucumber, he's pretty willing to have me lean over the one metre-high fence, scoop him up and put him to bed.

Some nights though, he's clearly chewed a few too many lavender leaves and likes to dash to the far corner out of my grasp.












Nyah na na nyah na!







This means that I can either open the tiny entrance gate and wedge myself through the human equivalent of a cat flap giving the neighbours next door a rather good impression of a chubby human bike-rack or athletically hoik one leg over, gingerly manoevre it so that my girlie bits aren't punctured and then kick the other one over.

It is a tricky little dance and made about ten times more difficult on the return when I've got a squirming little vermin under my left arm pit.

And so it was three nights ago. He scuttled over to the corner, I did my dance and grabbed him, catching a few bonus poos as they shot out like machine gun fire. A normal event at 9pm for me in other words.

Not this time. A bit of sealing tape had fallen off the box and when combined with the dewy grass, made me slip a little. This was not a good time when my left leg was in the process of being wildly flung over the fence. My right leg wobbled, threatening to collapse and I had a nano-second to decide: puncture my left thigh on the fence or keep moving slightly and risk...... and risk ....... slicing myself exactly in half like a busted pair of scissors in full view of the guy on the third floor balcony who was having a smoke and a chat on his mobile.

I chose the former and it h-u-r-t like the time it took over an hour to get my tattoo but compressed into half a second of thudding agony with a sledgehammer replacing the vibrating needle pricks. Thankfully Skipper was still under my armpit and not squashed into a furry scarf. The fence briefly buckled under the weight of my right leg as it missed the height several times but snapped back just in time to whip the inside of my non-injured thigh.














The next morning I had a purple Cadbury Creme egg living in my leg which was a genuine surprise because I'd assumed that my old chunky trunks had enough padding to protect me from everything ranging from a slap to a slug gun. Apparently not.

It's the largest bruise I've ever had so when Sapphire and I went to visit our sister-in-law and my brother to check how she was recovering from Bells Palsy, I just had to join in. "Look at this - I'll take off my jeans but don't worry, you won't see anything rude."

Recent weight gain has meant that my jeans were tighter than normal, so pulling them down meant that they grabbed my knickers too, leaving me bare arsed in their living room. "Omigod, I'm so sorry," I gasped, pulling them back up. Enough polite sympathy for the bruise was received for me to recover from my impromptu plumbing display. Soon after we headed home for some afternoon tea.

Fruit for me after the jeans incident and Sapphire walked in to see me laughing and taking a picture of my plate.



















I swear I didn't deliberately arrange it that way.

"Only you could be entertained by a peach and a banana, Mum."
I ignored her, snapping away.
"Oh and we all saw everything, Mum. Thank god the neighbours weren't home."


* Newspaper lined poo room

Droopy

Love Chunks and Sapphire have gone camping. Because it was booked a while back when it was assumed that I'd be well into my full-time job and not have any leave, I wasn't part of the holiday package.

When I quit, I decided to remain a non-camper because the thought of spending six nights in a tent in a crowded caravan park at the height of summer and having to queue for a shower and make sure I didn't drop my knickers on a wet floor festooned with pubes and tissues wasn't going to convince me otherwise. Plus, it'd give me a few luxuriously-empty days to do a bit more work on The Novel.

And I have done some work, the emphasis on some rather than heaps. None of it is particularly literary or engrossing but the effort right now is just getting it down; sometimes an entire chapter and other times a mere idea or line destined for another section of the story entirely. I'll then sit outside with a coffee and Skipper the rabbit in my lap and wonder if it's interesting, realistic, funny, heartfelt, compelling, page-turning enough.... The trouble is I honestly haven't a clue. Like everyone else, I know a good book when I read one but am finding it impossible to distance myself from the words that are flying out of my fingertips. All previous knowledge of structure and character and plot have escaped me.

Vomit it out, get it down and only think about logging off when you're happy with the word count for the day has been the modus operandi.

But all this free time has made me a bit droopy for my two favourite humans when the computer is turned off and my mind has to focus on what to cook for dinner. No, I'm not pining for Love Chunks because of his cooking skills but am sadly aware that, on my own I degenerate straight back to the carelessly slapdash meal preparer that used to live in a one-roomed bedsit off Baker Street in London twenty years ago.

How does home made potato wedges and tomato sauce sound? Okay but a bit plain? Well I then followed it up with a 'salad' that consisted of half a cucumber and a small head of cos, both eaten separately and whole. Dessert was half a bowl of orange-flavoured jelly and a blackberry yoghurt with a use-by date of December 29th.

Dinner the previous night was a pasta disaster that consisted only of a tin of chopped tomatoes, four mushrooms, half a green capsicum and an ancient tin of mussels in barbecue sauce. It tasted as bad as it deserved to taste, the crunch of each poorly-cooked capsicum a direct contrast to the rubber of the oversized sultanas that were masquerading as seafood.

Monday was the highlight - pea and prawn risotto with a fresh salad (in a bowl and everything) with balsamic and smoked garlic salt. But that was only because my friend Amanda was over for dinner; the following morning it was back to saladas for breakfast, Cadbury creme eggs and coffee for lunch. While she was there we each had a glass of good and earthy McLaren Vale cab sav and, three nights later, the bottle beckoned to me.

Hell, I needed it to wash away all lingering tastes of the mussel mess. Tennis was boring, the computer was off and my shoulders hurt from being hunched over it for too long and 'Are you being served?' was not an option. It was time to bring Skipper in to play on the rug.

Milly licked his ears and let him sniff her in turn, an impressive display of self restraint and generosity for a dog who chases birds and cats with automatic vengeance and no willingness to be called to heel. The wine was flowing a treat and, the merrier I got, the funnier I found it.

The evening was warm and it was time to get up and refill my glass. Skipper was stretched out on the floor, his legs behind him which meant that he was feeling comfy and not worried about predators. Milly's nails clicked as she trotted into the kitchen with me. Wine, boredom and loneliness meant that it was time for a song.

Grabbing her front paws so that she'd dance with me, I began:

Her name was Milly she was a showgirl
With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there
Milly merengues and does the cha-cha
And while she tried to be a star, Skipper always tended bar
At the Copa - Co! - Copacabana
The hottest spot north of Havana
At the Copa - Co! - Copacabana
Music and passion were always the fashion
At the Copa....they fell in lo-o-o-o-o-ve......

"Er, Barry Manilow? Um are you there, Kath?"

Oh staple my butt to an anthill and smear my cheeks with chocolate: I'd left the bloody front door wide open to allow the non-existent cool breeze to flow through the screen and Kerry from next door was on the front step having just been treated to my loud and rather enthusiastic performance. Sheepishly, I walked up the passage. "Er, hi. Yep, it's me. What can I do for you?"

A couple of minutes later I shut both doors and went into the bathroom. Spots of red wine were all over my white Che Guevara t-shirt and my teeth and gums were black from the tannins. Several fine rabbit hairs were wavering from the tip of my nose, catching the light just so.

It was the only time in my life that I hoped someone could tell that I was drunk.

Somebody's innards becoming somebody's outwards

I have one of my favourite bloggers Radgery to thank for that wonderful title.

After losing my voice last week on the day of my job interview (Love Chunks had to ring in and ask nicely for it to be rescheduled so that my answers didn't involve embarrasing attempts at charades and hand signals) I've now got Labyrinthitis.

So, let's just stop for a second. I've been a stay-at-home, freelance writer for three years now and, just two weeks before I leave the comforts of study, dog and ugg boots for full time work outside of the house, I suddenly contract all manner of illnesses.

Firstly the cold. No voice for two days which, though painful for me, was peaceful for Sapphire and Love Chunks.

Then, hayfever which, after avoiding me for ten years now decides to pay me a rather long and powerful visit. I sneeze so often and so loudly that tissues are useless against the power of a mach-three-speed snot oyster which shoots through the flimsy material and usually splats itself noisily somewhere much less desirable such as the kitchen door, the tram stop timetable or Love Chunks. My eyes are permanently itchy and I want to be able to ram my hand up inside my throat to scratch and wipe away the torturous tickliness that makes my head feel as though there's a Van Der Graaf Generator Appreciation Society meeting occurring inside without prior approval from me, owner of said head.

Thirdly, diarrhoea that comes and goes on a whim - sort of like the 7.20am Newmarket to Flinders Street train and, finally, Labyrinthitis.

According to the confusingly named Wise Geek, Labyrinthitis is 'a relatively common condition in which the labyrinths of one or both ears become inflamed. It is most often noticed by people feeling suddenly dizzy, or nauseous. Labyrinthitis is difficult to treat, since the cause is not always obvious, and it can persist for a few weeks to few months.

Some known causes of labyrinthitis include bacterial and viral infections, seasonal allergies, decompression sickness, or foreign matter blocking the ear. When foreign matter is the cause, or even a wax plug formed by the ear, this is usually easily treated and removed. When bacterial infection is the cause, it can be treated by antibiotics.

Recent medical literature suggests that the virus group most likely to cause labyrinthitis is the Herpes group (excuuuuuuse me?). This includes many viruses, not simply those transmitted sexually. Labyrinthitis may occur after a long respiratory infection. Disturbed balance can create in many a sense of nausea or “seasickness.” The most common medication recommended to reduce nausea is the over the counter product meclizine. This is also recommended for people who get car sick or seasick, and it does seem fairly effective. The downside of meclizine is that often makes people feel tired or sleepy, and driving or operating machinery while taking it may not be advisable.

This all makes me feel like I'm drunk (without the fun of becoming so beforehand) and therefore stagger around crashing my sides into doorframes or sit up and saying 'Whoah' like a ancient, white female Bill and Ted before groping around for something to support me.

So, picture this: every sneeze (several hundred each pharken day right now) has weakened all of my torso muscles so that they're now accompanied by a explosive fart which means my entire body is torn in twain from the expelling from both pipes. I then clutch at my head in agony, fall sideways due to dizziness and apologise (if I've the wit left to remember) to anyone who heard the fart or whom I fell on top of.

And today's the day I venture into the shopping centre to look for some clothing that might be more acceptable (yes, even at uni) than my welded-on work-from-home uniform of polarfleece, trakkie daks and ugg boots. Heaven help the sales assistants and clothing racks.....

Snappy September - Day Twenty - My Left Boob (and other body parts).

Yep, I'm most likely encouraging the porn-reliant, lonely fetishistic crazies out there with today's title but even so, I should warn all of you that the following photos are progressively more and more confronting and I don't just mean the one immediately under this paragraph which was taken just after a run.




















Running is clearly very good for me physically and psychologically, but I've had to endure a few cuts and scrapes along the way. These mostly occur when I overstep and tread on the dead plastic at the front of the treadmill then lose my footing and get flung rather rudely backwards into the tool shed wall.

That's a weekly occurrence and my body is hardened to it and rarely complains but the bleeding boob injury rears up around every three months or so. Sometimes the underwire does more than provide 'form fitting support during intense sporting activities' and decides to cut an angry red semi-circle around my boob as well. By the time the cut has healed (which is a challenge seeing as I run three days a week and usually crack the freshly-formed scab and re-open the wound), it's time to rip open a new one. And it's always the left boob, no matter what brand, size, cut, colour or style the sports bra. Someone ought to fund a study into the phenomenon.....

Running may give me extra energy and a resting heart rate of 58 beats a minute but it sure as hell hasn't made my Ronald McDonald-sized feet any prettier. I have a yellow coloured, permanently pus-filled long blister on the back of both heels with so many lacquer-hard layers of skin that sometimes I take to hacking at them with a pair of scissors and end up with what looks like an open, slightly smiling mouth that 'talks' when I'm walking and Milly likes to lick when she gets a chance.

This photo also gives a glimpse of the big bunion thingy that's decided to start growing on the side of my big toe: not unlike a lost finger knuckle who has given up and decided to set up home on the West Bank (ie my foot).

Factor in also the blisters and callouses I have on the tips of the other toes, the chalky-looking, short cut nails and the occasional blackened, soon-to-drop off nail and they're not a sight that Wittners are keen to see when it is sandals buying season.

Now readers who aren't already squeamish should click away now. That's right; head over to LOLcats or CakeWrecks and laugh your revulsion away because just below this text, it gets even more graphic.

Okay. Anyone still here? Are the disgusted ones gone? Good. Are those who bravely remain ready for the next one? Really?

Sure? Absolutely, positively certain that you want to continue?

Alrighty then. My right armpit. The bleeding boob is never noticed whilst I'm running because I'm in THE ZONE MAN,the zoooooonnnne but the armpit starts to stick and grip against the flesh that it rubs against, becoming more pronounced as the minutes tick by. I've recently taken to keeping a pot of vaseline in the shed so that I can jump off, pull up my t-shirt and wodge a big chunk of oily stuff on the sore bits to prevent them from rubbing raw.

It doesn't seem to work.

I asked Love Chunks to take this photo, but he refused. "Kath, I've done a lot of things in my life with you, but taking a photo of your stubbly, BO-blasted, sweat-infested armpit just after you've wiped the blood off with your wet running t-shirt is an absolute NO."

Selfish git, isn't he, making me face the mirror and take this with my shaking left hand?

When the water of the shower hit it a few minutes later, I grunted in discomfort.

When some stray drops of shampoo found their way to the spot, I swore a little. Not the seriously offensive post-9:30pm swear words, just a Tony Abbott.*

When I had conditioner sitting in my hair, soap on my face and was absentmindedly starting to wash down the 'ol bod with the puff thingy full of shower gel, habit made me rub under there vigorously. That was until my scream of agony caused me to stop, open my eyes in shock and surprise and then scream again as Fresh Apple Blossom for Fine Hair ran into my pupils and fried them in acid but not before I noticed that the pit had started bleeding again and stained the foam on the puff a fetching fairy floss pink.

But boobs bounce back, blisters harden and armpits heal. Ingrown toe nails, however, never seem to ever be destroyed and mine first appeared when I was twelve and reappears in a most painful manner every decade or so.

The last time I had to have it cut out it was the injection - a thick, 4 centimetre long needle pushed directly between the big and second big toe - that was agony. Every single millimetre the needle pierced and jabbed its way further into my flesh and muscle KILLED and it didn't help that the doctor kept apologising continuously as he did so.

It has swollen again, but the needle memory hasn't dimmed and I've been trying to tell myself that it'll go away of its own accord like all the other times that it ..... hasn't. Alas my procrastination means that it's now infected and whilst I can still run because the toe is compacted in my shoe whilst doing so, once I finish and gingerly undo the laces and peel off my sock, it starts to swell, throb angrily and protest.

There's slightly more than a Tony Abbott expletive when I'm in the shower, bending over getting my upturned arse scalded as I squeeze the puss out of my toe: it's an Andrew Bolt** moment.

And why do I endure all of these hurty things? Because I love to run. Love it, live for it, need it.

* Tiny shit (Tony Abbott)

** Slime sucking Scumbag Puss Crust Fuck Knuckle!! (Andrew Bolt)