Dacked!














Have you ever been to a Kinder Gym themed party? They're mostly held in gymnasiums in the rainier colder months and contain all sorts of fun things like Tarzan ropes, huge Olympic-sized trampolines, rolling mats, rings and - best of all by far - the Pits of Foam.

Pits of Foam, are, well, pits in the ground filled up with foam I guess. One Kinder Gym near us has a 10 feet deep pit in the floor, roughly two adult trampolines long that is entirely filled with foam and sponge squares. It can entered in one of two ways - by running along like a lunatic until you go "Sprooiiiiinnnnngggg!" off the mini tramp into the pit; or by flinging yourself in free-style at the other end.
















Me, I prefer free-style so that I don't smother any little kid who inadvertently gets in my way. You see that's the joy of these Kinder Gym places: parents are allowed to play too. I defy any grown-up to say that they still feel stressed, angry, anxious or nervous after hurling their bodies about during their child's Kinder Gym party.

Admittedly, it does take a bit of bravery to do it. When the other Mums are clad in their Yummy Mummy designer duds and you turn up in your tracksuit pants and a sportsbra, you are already saying loud and clear that you're up for a bit of immature action......

I thought it was best to start slowly on something that's not attention grabbing, like a short go on the tarzan ropes. Feeling every single muscle under each of my arms snap away from the tendons like guy ropes on a tent is a subtle reminder that I'm no longer as supple as I was in those halcyon playground days of the 70s.

Still, I'm out there now, and there's no going back to the pursed lip crowd of the watching Yummy Mummies. It's over to the big trampoline. And what a flattering sporting device this is! Unlike my child's trampoline that has "NO-ONE OVER 90KG ALLOWED" stamped all over it - and my husband reminding you that my cuddly 68kg would translate to far more than 90kg when the physics of gravity and increased pressure caused by jumping are factored in - this trampoline is bloody HUGE. Three Laurie Oakes' could jump on this and only be in danger of snagging one of their toenails in the netting. It's like swimming through air and boy, don't the children look small from up here? The only negative is that the last time I jumped on a trampoline (circa 1979) I didn't have breasts. Now they're threating to burst out from their underwire and spandex and blacken both eyes. Of the kid on the trampoline next to me.

Sadly, it's time to get off and let someone under the age of 40 have a turn and allow my now-throbbing hooters a chance to stop bouncing. Also because the Yummy Mummies are yelling at me to "Get the hell off and the kids a go!" All righty then, it's time for the PIT OF FOAM! In a lengthy run-up second only in athletic grace to that of a high-jumper, I go for the freestyle end. A triple pike, double lutz, back crackin', side splittin' dive later, my face is wedged up against the side and my back is being used as a landing pad for three foolhardy six year olds. Why is it that kids don't think that adults feel pain? I'd like to be able to voice that question out aloud, but by now my face has slid down the wall and I'm breathing in the crumbly bits of foam that gather at the bottom.

As for my bottom, it's sticking out of the foamy flotsam like a resurfacing whale and through the foamy spongey crumble-haze I am vaguely aware of another little midget landing on it after their leap off the mini trampoline end. Channelling Dory from 'Finding Nemo', I find myself singing 'Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming swimming......' as I ineffectually flop around to flip myself upright. Five minutes later, my panicked red face bursts triumphantly through the surface of the foam cubes.

Each attempt to clamber out of the pit itself seems to result in sinking further to the bottom in an increasing cycle of exhaustion and foam crumb inhalation. Somehow I have success after hoiking my right leg up and out of the pit and dragging the rest of me behind. It would have looked rather dignified and deft if I hadn't have accidentally strained a hammie and popped off a stinker at the same time. Luckily, no-one heard or noticed my efforts except for a three year old sibling, who stared at me, stared at the booger on her finger and stared at me some more.

It is now that I curse wearing baggy trakkie daks with a generously elasticated waistband. A supervisory father kindly offers to grab my arms to haul me out. My arms and my torso are now being heaved safely out of the satanic pit, but my tracksuit pants have stuck to the god-awful cubes like obsessive velcro. As I slowly emerge, it is with increasing horror that I feel my daks slowly pulling themselves down.

Do I yell out "STOP! Let me drop! You go on ahead and leave me here" to the helpful father or be more grateful to escape than ashamed at showing off my arse to a packed gymnasium?

Like a footy player caught with his shorts pulled down during a running tackle, I have no choice. It's the arse and then freedom. It is with an increasingly mature attitude that I realise the truth - I've got to keep going, finish the task and then pull up my pants with confidence. Pity about the Yummy Mummy choking on her takeaway latte though.

Unravelling the mystery

It was a cool morning, and the huge building loomed up above me menacingly, blocking the early morning sun. Today was the day: the day I'd finally find out what that mysterious monolith on top of the Holland Street Housing Commission Block actually was.

Feeling every molecule of my white-arsed, fully-fed, blithering-busybody, nosey-parker persona, I decided to take along my trusty companion Milly as a buffer and bodyguard.

Just as we were about to cross the road, a swaying-but-smiling old gent approached. Time to be brave. "Er, good morning. Um, you wouldn't happen to know what that (I pointed dramatically behind him, hoping that his one good eye would have the muscle power to focus there) Big M thingy is on top of your building, would you?"

He paused for a few moments, allowing his not-so-good-eye time to drag itself away from my ample chest. "Yessssh, ishts the Polisht shstashtion." He nodded and repeated it again, to cement the idea in his mind as well as mine. "Yesssh, thatsh itsht alright," and swayed with a satisfied smile off in the direction of Cellarbrations.

Despite his help, I rather suspected that I might need further proof. Somehow, the idea of Melbourne's finest providers of law and civic obedience being busy working in an office shaped like a baby blue McDonald's sign twenty floors above the earth didn't seem quite right.

Another gnarled but steady bloke was herding some stray shopping trolleys out of the foyer. Any idea about the mysterious monolith on the roof.... "No no no, I just-a work-a here, then-a go-a home-a."

His attitude wasn't too comforting, yet the foyer and lifts were magnificent and gleamingly clean. No pongs anywhere, except for the soles of my feet (damn that compressed dog turd by the rosemary bush) and Milly (breath).

A youngish woman carrying a shopping bag crammed with about a dozen loaves of white bread joined me. "Hope you don't mind the dog," I said.

"Ah, that's OK. He's a cute little fella."

I didn't have the heart to correct her gender confusion and ploughed on. "You wouldn't happen to know what the blue Big M thing is on top of this building, would you?"

"Nah, but if you find out, tell me. I've been here for eight years and have no idea," she chuckled as she stepped off at floor sixteen, presumably to create one hell of a feast of vegemite toast.

Not surprisingly, there was no access to the roof beyond the 20th floor, so I leaned out of the passage window and took a quick snap of the edge of the pale blue - more like dull grey in close view - thingy. Not a soul was in any of the hallways as I poked around, starting to feel like a voyeur: who was I to wander into their living space, just so I could satisfy my own idle curiosity? Would I like it if someone poked around my front yard just to find out what the dangly feng shui thing on the verandah post was all about?

Still, the view of the Docklands and city was rather good.

Milly nudged me, letting me know by emitting a few other powerfully pungent odours that it was high time we legged it to Debney Park and used one of the nappybags tied to her lead.

Back at home and a few mouse clicks later it seems as though my dodgy-eyed friend was off the mark. The mysterious monolith is indeed the third lift-well, built in 1994 to accommodate the largest of the blocks with a new side wing. Not exactly as thrilling as having the local law enforcement agency working inside it launching themselves from sky rockets hundreds of metres up in the air in response to emergency save-the-world calls, but an answer nevertheless.

Inner-city Crime

Yep, it happened. Nine days of residence and our car got broken into last night.

Well, we're assuming it was last night, because the car hasn't been used for a few days, what with the convenience of walking, trams just around the corner and the local train station and such. It was only when Love Chunks went to open the door this afternoon that he discovered that it was already unlocked.....

As my brother Rob, a long-time resident of North Melbourne advised us, "Hey, if you have to park out in the street, just assume that your car will be burgled. More than once. Quite often, in fact." We took him at his word and made sure that our car - certainly not a magnet itself for stealing being a dented, thirteen year old magna station wagon festooned with particularly determined spiderwebs outside and ancient pasty crumbs inside - had nothing of value in it.

At least, not to the thief concerned.

All he or she took was our first aid kit ("DRUGS! They wanted DRUGS!" Love Chunks calmly surmised) and LC's pocket knife ("They're MURDERERS!" I thought, but kept it to myself. After all, Sapphire was in the car). Surprisingly, they hadn't bothered to check the coin thingy by the ignition which would have yielded ten bucks in gold coins, or swiped my now rather large and colourful collection of shopping bags (numbering fifteen in seven different colours at last stocktake) or, thank-the-higher-power-I-think-exists-but-in-what-form-or-capacity-I-have-no-idea, the brand new Melways. And who'd have thought that the tape deck would still be intact, whew!

Sapphire noted our sombre expressions as we drove to Highpoint shopping centre. My opening remark, "Hey Love Chunks, your mate Greg reckons Highpoint should be re-named Knifepoint" perhaps wasn't the cleverest way to start our on-road conversation and we three sat in silence for a while.

Then Sapphire chirped: "Hey, at least they didn't take Wizzy, the guy I made out of my lolly wrapper during the drive from Adelaide." She laughed uproariously; clearly very amused at her capacity to lighten the moment which she in fact did extremely well. We can't really stop car thieves, so why worry?

It was with some degree of smugness that I noted that she'd taken my frequent lectures about us now living in an inner city suburb with haves and have-nots living closely together and anyone with a driveway is automatically classified as a millionare, to heart. Plus, seeing the Verb Cafe owner on Racecourse Road the other day having to shoo away several rather drunk bogans pestering outdoor diners for smokes while we were having lunch was a rather interesting way for Sapph to commence a Q&A session on where Broadmeadows is located and why the proprietor believes that the inebriated smokers should bloody well return there......

As for the car, it does make me wonder whether updating our matronly mitsubishi is worth it right now. Firstly, we always get a park directly in front of our house (thus removing my need to learn how to parallel park) and secondly, we only ever use her for big shopping trips or (future) weekends away. Perhaps we're better off disappointing car thieves and saving up for a decent holiday instead. Love Chunks is seriously contemplating sticking up a placard by the driver's door that says, 'If you think this car is junk, then you know that we don't have anything valuable in it either.'

Hopefully though, this Feng Shui thingy we bought at the Queen Victoria Markets does the trick for our house. The chap there told us it is for Protection and Health, and for seven dollars, I was willing to repress my doubts and give it a burl. He then gave Sapphire a tiny white cat with a tiny jingling bell inside for good luck and happiness. "Put it in your school bag and you'll be fine." He must have picked up on her uncertainty somehow and refused to let me pay for it. At the very least, he's cannily ensured himself some repeat business.

Feng shui has a much fairer chance of ensuring our immunity to thieves than Milly, the not-so-ferocious dog:

Her idea of savagery is to snap at blowflies so that she can get to Skipper the rabbit's droppings before they do. And we wouldn't have her any other way.