Choc bottom

It's been nearly three months since I first discovered the news, but it is only now that I finally possess the strength to publicly acknowledge and discuss it.

My darling mother, always concerned for my welfare and self esteem, found this article and rang me, her voice heavy with tact and love: "Kath, I think you're going to want to read this...."

Her voice cracked with emotion: she was nearly as devastasted as I was at the news.

No, no 'Bashing Barry's Big Day' but that Cadbury's chocolate factory tours are no more.

Y'see, I've long dreamed of visiting their factory tour and outlet in Tasmania and have been tantatalised by the tales of other such lucky souls - and by the heaving ten kilogram bag-loads of booty they've shared with me.

My mother visited there with her parents in 1960, and recalls being free to walk the factory floor, literally dipping her finger into whatever mixture took her fancy, tasting it and grabbing whatever she saw. No pesky little hygiene worries in those days. Her big green eyes glistened, and her hands automatically formed into grasping, bear-like paws when she told me this story, and believe me, she told it to me often when I was a child. As an adult, I can calculate the regularity of the tale being retold every four weeks, so clearly it was a PMS panacea for dear old Pauline. And who could blame her? This was the very woman who bought family-sized blocks by the tens when they were on special at Woolies; squirrelled away packets of Fantails in her bedside drawer and Fruit-n-Nut under her sewing machine.

In the freezing Tasmanian summer of 1983, we made the trek back to Tassie. I was glued to my Sony Walkman and busy sulking about enduring snow on the top of Mount Wellington and not being able to enjoy the sunshine in our neighbour's swimming pool. "Don't worry Kath, we'll be visiting the Cadbury factory as well you know." This promise was dangled in front of my terse teenaged face like a lifeline.

Imagine my disappointment when we pulled up to the nearby town's Information booth, only to be told that Cadbury crassly closed their factory to 'tourists' every summer. It was the way the lady said 'tourists' that really annoyed me. I wasn't a tatty tourist, I was a Devoted Pilgrim, seeking salvation and succulence at my spiritual home. OK yes, so I wasn't traveling on foot wearing sackcloth and ashes and was instead clad in a parka, levis cords and desert boots sitting in the relative comfort of our toyota landcruiser and 23 foot long caravan, but still, my young heart was yearning for the secret workings and tastings of the largest chocolate maker in the nation.

Twenty five years later, Love Chunks and I were recently talking about taking Sapphire on a drive-around-stay-in-bed-and-breakfasts-and-pretend-we're-in-England holiday to Tasmania in the next school break. Naturally, we'd slot in a visit to the Cadbury Factory of course. Bugger.

Sure my tastes have grown to encompass Lindt, Haighs, Nestle, Dove, Whittakers, Mars, Cocoa Farm, Fruchocs, Swiss Glory, Ferrero, Mahony, Red Tulip and Chocolatier, but we always remember our first love, don't we Precioussssss?

Still, I've managed to soldier on since discovering this sad news, and continue to be a legally-acceptable parent to Sapphire, mediocre wifey unit to Love Chunks, wear vaguely OK clothing out in public and pretty well function as a relatively normal member of society. However, whilst running on the treadmill this morning, I noticed the usual data on the screen:

Total distance: 7.00 kilometres

Time: 37 Min 03 seconds

Calories: 640.

After breakfast and a shower, I looked at the nutrition panel of the heavenly Haigh's milk chocolate coffee block pictured above, and my heart sank. This wee slice of bliss, in a mere 100g - or standard Kath-sized sample - contained a whopping 523 calories. All that exhausting, sweat-stinging-my-eyes, achilles-heel-hurting, lung-bustingly painful running only burned off an additional 117 crappy little calories.

So if I continue my chocaholism, all I can eat for the remainder of each day is an apple and a glass of milk.

Oh well, if that's the sacrifice I have to make, then so be it.

My Mosaic thingy

The eloquent Western Australian Lady Eleanor Bloom tagged me for my mosaic. Each picture is supposed to the visual answer to the following questions. I've loved looking at everyone else's but sometimes feel as though I also need a written word next to it. Therefore, I'm going to go all party-pooper on your arses and put the answer next to the question before you see the actual photo I've selected. All clear? Good:

1. My first name - Katherine
2. Favourite food - Chocolate
3. High school - Murray Bridge High School, South Australia
4. Favourite colour - blue
5. Celebrity crush - John Cusack
6. Favourite drink - Farmers Union Iced Coffee
7. Favourite place for a holiday - London
8. Favourite dessert - anything chocolately, moussey, lemony, caramely, cakey, sticky, honeyish, fortified, nut-studded or cheesecakey
9. What I want to be when I grow up - a writer
10. What I love most in life - Love Chunks, Sapphire and Milly
11. What could describe me - goofily anxious
12. My flickr name - used to be Millymoo

I've kind of done this before but in a much less sophisticated way by just adding each picture as a direct response. The trouble is, my mosaic won't let me post the proper answer to question ten:

What do you love most in life?
So here is my answer:























... and here.

Copping one up the Yin-Yang

For want of some decent medical knowledge, let me ask you something: have you ever had a tiny heartbeat or fluttery tic visit your eyelid for a few seconds every now and then? Kind of like an angry ant throwing a full on-the-floor tantrum with every fibre of his little bolshy bug body?

Well, for the past two weeks my lower right eyelid has been pinging away with this irritating insect's ire every two minutes or so. Either that or my body had held a conference when I wasn't paying attention and decided to turn itself inside out just for a laugh, hoping that the sight of my bladder hanging below my tracksuit waistband cord would add that certain joi-de-vivre to my everyday look.

Whatever the reason, it is now getting to the stage when it is visibly noticeable and extremely distracting. Holding a conversation when the upper right section of my face is doing a decent version of the gaoler from 'The Life of Brian' is not only off-putting for the person I'm with, but also for me as well. Therefore, on Saturday morning I went to see the doctor about it.

"Hmmmm," he said thoughtfully, as only doctors who have no idea but want to seem introspective do. "Well, you can rest assured that you're not having a mini-epileptic fit or suffering from a stroke. Quite the opposite really."

"Oh? So why is my eye...." - I had to stop what I was saying and slap the side of my face for the infernal flickering to cease - "......driving me crazy like this if I'm in top health?"

Doc didn't reply straight away, but sat there, grinning at me.

I think it's high time I share a bit of my past with you. Doc has seen me in my previous lifetimes as the Medical Manager at WorkCover where, amongst treating my scratched eyeball, swollen runner's foot, flu and various stress-related symptoms (insomnia, irritable bowel, increased occurrence of migraine, teeth grinding and depression), we've also had some lively discussions about how doctors need to cooperate with WorkCover to get injured workers out of the system quicker.

He's seen me through a gruelling physical breakdown thanks to the pressure of WorkCover and my own silly need to perform harder, better, stronger and gooder than anyone else, and accepted my total shame and puzzlement that someone as 'sensible' as me couldn't cope. He helped ease me through a recovery process that saw a cgradual hange from utter exhaustion and despair towards acceptance and confidence.

He applauded my step down the career ladder to a lowly admin-lackey, placing a much larger focus on my family, friends and interests, genuinely happy to see that my decisions were being made for the right reasons. He saw me again later as he sat behind his desk and raised his eyebrows when I crawled back in, bruised, stressed and genuinely hurt by the egomaniacal actions of my boss. He helped me learn that reducing responsibility does not necessarily make me less of a target for overwork, jealousy or bullying. With his help, I fought Bulldog back and won.

The 'winnings' (half a year's salary) have allowed me to take 2008 as my personal 'Year of Yes' - seeking, accepting and enjoying any opportunities that drift in my direction, without being cooped up in a cubicle or trying to convince a Ministerial advisor as to why my staff still need to keep their jobs. I can wear ugg boots and 15 year old concert t-shirts as a legitimate working uniform and give myself permission to hang out a load of washing, walk with Milly to the park or help Sapphire make a batch of peanut butter biscuits after school without looking nervously over my shoulder.

"Er herrmmm," Doc cleared this throat, hinting that I should climb back out of my own arse and pay attention to what he was about to say. "You're under stress and you're actually too stimulated and too happy right now."

Well lather my face in chocolate paste and shove me down an ant hole - I'm too happy?!

Apparently so. There's such a thing as eustress, which is ironic, because I wrote about it in my book. 'Eu' means 'good' in ancient Greek and it is the type of energy that helps you work to a deadline and achieve things due to the adrenaline rush, urgency and thrill of it all. This can include stuff like winning a competition, ad-libbing, being on stage, playing sport, getting married*, buying a house or just losing your loose change/lunch during a roller coaster ride.

"Too right you are," he grinned. "For starters, repeat again what's currently in your diary and on your agenda."

So I did - earning the orange belt at karate with Sapphire the night before; writing book, CD, theatre and movie reviews; researching potential ideas for books two and three; developing two children's book ideas; studying editing & proofreading for publishing; off-the-cuff radio work; creative writing; interviewing local people for a column idea; chocolate eating and reviewing; running; knitting blankets for the homeless shelter; entering a 'serious' writing competition; making homemade cards for this week's school fundraiser; being the 'helper' Mum at school excursions, adopting and settling in a rabbit called Skipper; having friends over......

I finished, laughing at myself and with the doctor. "But it's all stuff I love - I'm having the best time of my adult life right now and finally feel as though I'm nearly there. As though being my true self might actually work out for me and----"

He held up his hand to interrupt my excited and inane chatter. "Do your cheeks sometimes ache?"

"Well yeah, but remember I'm still wearing my mouthguard at night to protect my crowns from cracking due to the clenching and grinding and---"

His hand was up again. "Yes, yes, that's good but have you also realised how much you smile and laugh?"

Er, no. Not really.

"You have such a broad grin on your face that your cheeks are worn out. Your eye is probably flicking because you're extremely tired and 'on' all the time. What you need is some really good nights sleep and...."

And so it goes. No Yin without Yang. No free joy without a loopy eyelid. No orange karate belt without farting in front of the visiting Sensei. No chocolate without pimples. No cuddly Love Chunks, Sapphire, Milly and Skipper without housework, vacuuming and weeding. No hearing your two most favourite people in the world playing 'My little baby loves shortnin' bread' together on the piano and guitar without tearing up by the sink.

All bloody worth it though. *flick flick flick*

* Yes, marriage is also a form of negative stress. But if you're still happy to have that warm lump you call your loved one lying in bed next to you at night and always make sure that you kiss them goodbye every morning 'just in case something happens', then 'eu' is still your kind of stress.

Some facts about me

This meme is courtesy of Ariel, author of the excellent blog Jabberwocky. These always give me ideas for longer blogs, articles or other such piffery.

Apparently, there are rules to adhere to:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their name, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

What was I doing 10 years ago?

Married to Love Chunks for three years and found out I was pregnant. This was a real shock to us, as I'd been diagnosed with a non-cancerous brain tumour a couple of years earlier (thanks to weird vision and increasingly painful and recurring migraines). The tumour was located at the base of the brain, right behind the eyes, rapidly growing a prolactinoma that convinced my body that I was:
a) already pregnant;
b) needed to breastfeed; and
c) didn't need to have any periods.

Tumour got under control, but reproductive system too fried to work. No babies for us, so we decided that we were happy anyway and could have decent holidays instead. And we did - a fab time in Malaysia where I found out that it wasn't the trots that was making me feel so ill, it was a baby. Even my endocrinologist was stunned and I formed the basis of a discussion paper from the Royal Melbourne Hospital Endocrinology Department!

Living in Heidelberg Heights, trying my damnedest to stop from throwing up on the train, at the train station toilets, on the escalator, in a taxi, at Love Chunks, in church on Christmas Day, whenever I smelt laksa....

Five snacks I enjoy in a perfect, non weight-gaining world (also known as 'Kath Land'):
1. Lindt Lindor Balls (especially the black, 60% ones)
2. Haigh's dark chocolate frogs, almonds, sultanas, violet cremes, cappuccino bars, lemon myrtle centres, speckles, bilbies, shiraz truffles....
3. Cadbury 70% Old Gold
4. Whittakers dark chocolate orange
5. Gelati from Cibo, Norwood. Their baci, lemon cheesecake, orange-n-pinenut, coconut, lemon, orange zest, pistacchio, rich chocolate, white chocolate, strawberry, apple, mint are the best I've ever tasted. We'll often walk in there after karate class and endure the curious stares (three weirdos in white religious pyjamas) to get ourselves three medium coppas.

Five snacks I enjoy in the real world: (or really my favorite snacks 6-10)

6. Um ... all of the above when I'm being bad.
7. Oranges. I have one every morning and feel terrible when I don't.
8. Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee
9. Wasabi peas mixed in a container with Salted Broad Beans
10. Raw carrots.

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire:

1. Let Love Chunks do the study he'd really like to do and buy the business he'd really like to buy if money had never been an issue for him
2. Pay off all the mortgages of my family and my best friends. When shelter (either rent or mortgage) is removed, it gives people a lot more spare cash to do things with.
3. Go on a world trip. Then select one country at a time and travel it really well.
4. Donate to all of my worthy causes
5. Work with dogs, even if it was just to help them out with admin work, because I don't think I'd have the strength to deal with the evil results of cruelty first hand.

Five jobs that I have had:

1. Cucumber polisher (see http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2008/05/joyless-jobs-growing-up-if-we-ever.html)
2. Apricot cutter (see http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/09/she-works-hard-for-money.html)
3. Debt collector. Not fun, but funded my travels.
4. Public Servant (Dept Employment, Education and Training; Environment Protection Authority, WorkCover). Ministerials, reports, speech writing.
5. Assistant Bank Manager, ANZ. This suited me about as much as a mortar board and lab coat does Paris Hilton.
Now: a writer. Poor, but happy.

Three of my habits:
1. Worrying about things before they happen, thus wasting energy and sleep.
2. Picking at the skin around my fingernails until they bleed (I know I know, it's terrible and somehow I. Must. Make. Myself. Stop.)
3. Judging other people and then feeling guilty about it.

Five places I have lived:

1. Murray Bridge, South Australia. Yes, it was a highly imaginative name, wasn't it? We were by the Murray River and there was a ....... bridge. Here's me in my gorgeous costume in 1979 that I wore to celebrate the bridge's 100th birthday. Heady stuff. I won the prize which was the most un-fun thing ever - a massive box of toothpicks and a bottle of glue. Called something like 'Imaginopicks' or some such.














2. Aberdeen, Scotland. Dad was an exchange teacher for a year, and we swapped houses and jobs. The first six months were hell for me - starting highschool where I could barely understand their accents, let alone what Mods or Skinheads were and why they disinfected the asphalt every afternoon.... All our free time was spent travelling and I'm sure Dad wanted to throttle me when we were standing in York Minster and my 12-and-a-half year old self said, "Seen one cathedral, seen 'em all...."

3. Hackney, Adelaide. First place where I was required to (learn how to) cook, clean and budget after enduring two years of Lincoln College. Finished uni there and got my first job as a Graduate Trainee Bank Manager for the ANZ bank. Used to smell the Weetbix made by Sanitarium on the next block or the poo from the zoo when the wind changed. We three gals had our 21sts there as this photo will prove.














4. London - in 1991 and 1992 during my two year visa. Got jobs as a live-in nanny in Hampstead (only lasted three weeks), a live-in housekeeper in Finchley (6 months), bartender and kitchen hand at the Savoy Hotel (moved to a bedsit off Baker Street), kitchen hand at a mental hospital (2 months in Surrey), debt and home repossession officer for a large bank (rest of the time). Made some great friends, had many great holidays, enjoyed much great cider and rolled off the plane two stone heavier two years later.

5. Beulah Park - Adelaide. A share house with other uni students and my two brothers. This is where I met Love Chunks and getting ready for our first date (after circling each other for six weeks) was an interesting experience as I had to wait for him to get out of the bathroom. And he knew that his date was most certainly going to invite him in to her home afterwards!

Since finding Love Chunks, we've lived in:

Flemington, Melbourne - in a tiny 2 bedroom flat in a concrete 1960s block. Close to everything and allowed me to walk to Wormworld in North Melbourne to do more thrilling debt collecting. The highlight of the day was to look out the window and see who was 'shopping' at the brothel next door or the sex toy distribution factory across the road.

Fannie Bay, Darwin - in a townhouse partly paid for by Love Chunks' employer the Weather Bureau. Got eaten alive by mozzies in the outdoor spa and had some green tree frogs take residence in LC's gym equipment.

Wulagi, Darwin - Got ourselves a weather bureau house and bought an above ground pool. Spent every spare minute in the pool because even going to the letter box during the build-up and summer was the height of endurance.

Heidelberg Heights, Melbourne - No darling, not Heidelberg WEST, but HEIGHTS. An old fifties clinker brick and our first mortage of, *gasp* $105,000. Not close to anything decent to walk to unless seeing drug deals down at the Bogan Mall or buying Sara Lee seconds is considered high level entertainment. Wished we could afford Heidelberg proper or Ivanhoe but..... as compensation we had a lovely family next to us where, if I was sitting in our laundry toilet, I could hear the mother call out to her sons (Damien appropriately enough, and Dion) - "Come inside for dinner ya f**ken little arseholes."

Dad (of one of the sons) got well and truly shickered one night and wifey locked him out. He smashed a window, fell inside and kicked the living daylights out of his own furniture. We and several other neighbours called the police, who rocked up with a divvy van and loads of capsicum spray. Meanwhile Father-of-the-year had thrown up on himself and taken all of his clothes off and chucked up again. The police kicked the door in and threw around enough capsicum spray to deforest the Botanic gardens.

Dad was led out, completely starkers, handcuffed and thrown onto his front lawn in sub-zero, mid-winter, 3am Melbourne temperatures. Wifey called out, "Just wash 'im down with the fricken' hose!". His eyes were obviously killing him and he was coated in enough vomit and damp grass to resemble a homosapien Chiko roll and whined to the cops, "Lay off guys, you're embarrassin' me." Love Chunks and I witnessed the scene by kneeling on top of our kitchen sink, peering through the blinds with the lights off. Baby Sapphire slept through the entire performance. Wifey took him back two days later.

Murray Bridge, South Oz - for three months whilst we both worked full-time jobs in Adelaide and house hunted every weekend. We were grateful to my parents for letting us stay, but there's a photo of me at the time (that I prefer to keep hidden) that shows how truly exhausted I was. Quit EPA Melbourne on Friday; drove to Murray Bridge on Saturday and started work in Adelaide on Monday. I resembled Rumplestiltskin's secret half-sister.

Trinity Gardens, Adelaide - Since Christmas 2000. A 1924 bungalow, solid, full of character and pretty well perfect for us. We've found our home.

Groovy folk I want to get to know better: (A nice way of saying TAG and because I'm interested in their answers)

Tom - http://tomshideaway.blogspot.com/
Baino - http://bainosbanter.blogspot.com/
Davey - http://stumblor.blogspot.com/
Myninjacockle - http://theloadedblog.blogspot.com/
Ashleigh - http://ashleigh.id.au/
Deep Kick Girl - http://deepkickgirldownunder.blogspot.com/

No

I crossed my fingers and toes hoping that my eight year old daughter Sapphire would have a severe allergic reaction. I wanted it to be like the one she has to cats: wheeziness of breath, red itchy welts on her face and hands and eyes rapidly puffing and swelling shut. So bad that she has to go to school for the next week with a note from her doctor stating that it was a severe allergic response and not the result of problems at home.

Alas, none of these events happened at her friend Maya's place and she skipped home with me, excitedly chattering about her victory against allergies. "I'm not allergic to them Mum! That's such good news - I'm not allergic to rabbits! So, can I have one now, Mum? Please?"



















Poo. Bum. Bugger. Shit. Fart. I don't dislike rabbits per se; there's always some nice pictures of them on Cute Overload and they're sweet to touch when some other kid brings them into Sapph's class for Show And Tell, but it's just that I've never owned one and am perfectly happy to keep it that way.

We live in the burbs. A standard(ish), quarter-acre(ish) block, surrounded by dozens of other similar spaces, and we already have Milly the retired-runner dog and three contented chickens. When we go away for the weekend the chooks have a seed-feeder and a water dripper and can pretty much fend for themselves. Milly can either come with us, visit her Kelp-ador mongrel mate Coco or stay with our nice neighbours Jack and Una. A rabbit (or two, so that they have 'company'), is another task altogether. Fresh hay, shifting the hutch, keeping up a variety of fresh veges, making sure their front teeth don't grow too long and keeping wire underneath to prevent them from digging an escape route.....

All this information didn't deter my child. She had that standard expression that all kids have when asking for:
* showbags
* fairy floss for breakfast
* a sleepover on a school night
* a new game for their Nintendo
* more time at their friend's place
* to stay up later

.... that really just means that they are patiently waiting for your lips to stop moving so that they continue with their line of questioning: "So Mum, when are you going to tell Dad that I'm not allergic to rabbits?"

I tried another angle, this time suggested by Maya's mother, Sarah, and now full-time feeder, handler and keeper of their two pet rabbits. She suggested that I remind Sapphire that her one hour visit and petting session with their two - Dolly and Hutch - was the longest amount of time her kids had spent with them for months. "You see, being outside in their hutch all the time means that they're not directly involved with the life of the family, and the kids have lost interest in them."

"But Mum," Sapphire interjected, her blue eyes still beaming with hope. "I read in that pamphlet from the pet shop that you can train them to come inside and use a kitty litter tray---"

I seized my chance: "But what about Milly? She'd hunt them down and have them for dinner."

"Not if I build some little fences from my Ello Shopapolis set and train her how to be their friend and ....."

I let her burble on (as Love Chunks tends to do with me on many occasions) and again cursed the Creator for his/her negligence in the 'Total allergy to pets except chickens and dogs' department. Why let rabbits burrow under the radar?

We've had two weeks of school holidays and as the primary carer/social secretary/chef/entertainment coordinator and playdate wrangler, I could foresee a fortnight of 24/7 rabbit requests. It was time to ensure that Sapph's holiday was full of diversions.


Unfortunately, not all of these proved to be pleasant ones. On the first Monday we went to Dunstan Park with Lucinda and spent the first couple of hours videoing them on the whizzy sticks with the aim of scoring a few seconds of good footage to send in to 'Australia's Funniest Home Videos.'

What we ended up with was several clips of the worst fall-down acting ever, and Sapphire throwing up in the car on the way home.

Tuesday saw Maya and Sapph at Kensington Adventure playground, wedging themselves into the spinning teacups and taking it in turns to video the results. This time, no vomiting resulted, but no potential $200,000 prize winning clips either.

On Wednesday we found ourselves back at Dunstan park, with Holly. Eschewing the whizzy sticks for the spinning tractor tyre and the massive slippery dip, Sapphire's mind had temporarily forgotten the rabbit debate and was firmly into monetary matters. Not, alas for Holly, who turned a pale green and had to lie down on a park bench before it was safe to drive home.

And thus, the remainder of the holidays have involved a few days at Victor Harbor at her Grandparents' place telling them all about the joys of rabbit ownership; scooter trips; a school working bee; a couple of movies; some home cooking sessions with me (the hopeless teaching the messy); and several fruitful shopping expeditions.

It was all going well, with rabbits receding further and further into the murky distance of Sapphire's bunny brain.

That was, until yesterday's playdate at Maya-the-Rabbit-Owner's house. "Pleee-a-a-a-se Mum, can I have a rabbit?"

I said that sentence that all parents find themselves saying when they know that the answer is a definite 'NO' but they don't have the heart to tell their child yet:
"We'll see."

It didn't wash. "But you said that last week and the week before!"

Hmm. Time for the second-most dependable-but-non-committal response: "I'll need to talk about it with your Dad, OK?
"When? When he gets home from work tonight? Or why don't you call him on his mobile right now?"

*Sigh*. Love Chunks and I have not yet had the bunny discussion. He is, at this very moment, out in the back shed with our beloved daughter, trying his damndest to get the bright plastic, battery-powered potters' wheel he bought her to work. Maybe procrastination by pottery is the answer.

We are Bloody HUGE

Good old Eleanor Bloom's post about a rich-but-clearly-thick Western Australian brewer planning on building the 'complete' replica of Stonehenge in his back garden got me thinking. Not only that in order to make it a true copy he'd also need to install a wire fence, a tollbooth, a busy underpass and a block of dodgy toilets filled with Druid-influenced graffiti; but also that we Aussies have always been into BIG things. We're the biggest island, we have the biggest rock, the biggest reef, the biggest sufferers of skin cancer on the planet.

Holiday destinations are no different. Even here in South Australia - the state that seems to receive more than it's fair share of brickbats, we've done our best to construct a few 'biggies' ala Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams: "Build it and they (clueless tourists in our case) will come."
As pictured proudly above, we have the Big Lobster at Kingston which, sadly, is pretty much one of the highlights on the long trip back from Melbourne, because, let's face it, the Big Wool Bales aren't exactly the most breath-taking sight:

Lord knows what people actually are curious and sufficiently moved enough to want to enter the gift store and buy a souvenir from these three white boxes. The tiny bloke in the photo is not actually posing happily; he needs help in locating the toilets.

The same could be said for the Biggest Wine Cask:

Admittedly we spent more than a quick drive-by at this monolith because we tried to get our mate Ian to stand close up to the camera to make it appear as though he was drinking directly from it. We weren't successful and the only way you can get an idea of its size is to note the tree on the right and the red miniskips on the left.

The fact that drinking Stanley wine in a four litre receptable is about as pleasurable as chugging down your own urine doesn't seem to have dampened the winery's hopes that tourists would flock in wonder at their BIG one.

We also have the Biggest Rockinghorse (no I don't know why either), a sort-of-big strawberry (if only to publicise the farmer's pick-your-own concern) and I know of several Big Cows or Cattle and in one town the artist keeps a batch of ~ahem~ danglers because bored locals like to steal them for hens' nights and mantelpiece ornaments.

The rust-mottled orb pictured here used to be called the Big Orange, but it's no longer open to tourists. That's probably because when I saw it as a bored teenager in the 1980s, the hot riverland sunshine had already leached the colour out of it and 'The Big Pink' didn't sound quite so attractive when related to fresh produce and not in curing STDs.

Perhaps too, they could no longer lay claim to being the world's biggest orange - maybe those pesky Californians had constructed something far more ambitious.

When I was a kid, however, anything big was truly BIG. BIG in the sense of being the ultimate holiday destination, the best photo opportunity and the most amazing places to buy top quality souvenirs. When we arrived at the Big Banana on day four of our 4 month caravanning holiday, my brother David believed that he'd seen the ultimate and was ready to go home. Little did he realise that there was still the Big Shell (which resembled a white-cemented public toilet cubicle), the Big Bottle (where I believed that buying an empty Bundy rum miniature for 10c was a smart buy) and the Big Pineapple.

Our older brother chose to have his 13th birthday there and David and I were so envious and yet so pleased at his choice of location. To celebrate the event, all of us were allowed to buy something from the gift shop. I bought the obligatory ruler with stickers on the front of it and an eraser shaped like a pineapple. Dave bought a collapsible cup that held about a quarter of a nip of whisky (very handy for a nine year old) and Robert selected a cap.

Our parents must have groaned at what we were throwing our spending money on and despaired when David loudly announced: "When I grow up, I'm going to own a Rip Off Kiosk."
Even after snorkelling the Great Barrier Reef, I insisted on buying a basket of hand-painted coral and a pink felt pennant (for sticking under the top bunk in the van) and admired the Big Cassowary statue at Mission Beach enough to fork out for a rubber replica. Dave thought a snow dome was more appropriate as well as a pocket knife.

These days, my all time favourite Biggie is the Big Koala. Situated at picturesque roadstop Dadswell's Bridge, it breaks up the boring car drive between Adelaide and Melbourne only for its sheer butt-ugliness. As Love Chunks once said, it looks more like a pile of koala crap than an actual koala, and situating a gift shop right where its genitalia should be is just disturbing.

Up until only a few years ago, Dadswell's other claim to fame was a weather-beaten sandwich board that stridently warned: 'This is the last place to buy your Farmers' Union Iced Coffee'. Beyond that, we South Aussies were forced to endure the watered-down treacle called Big M that dominated the market in Victoria. I actually considered it a fate worth enduring because I just wasn't prepared to walk inside the poor mammal's front bum for 600ml of flavoured milk and a gift set of opal-studded teaspoons.

I've been undressed by kings.....

....and I've seen some things that a woman aint s'posed to see
Hey lady, I've been to paradise but I've never been to me....

(Legs by Love Chunks)

Love Chunks, Sapphire and I spent an elongated Easter (i.e. we had our self-imposed 'Easter Thursday' and 'Recovery Tuesday' days off) on a rented houseboat with Sapph's friend Selene and Melbourne blokes Bill and Ian.

We must have made a funny-looking bunch - was I in some kind of River Murray Mormon marriage arrangement with three blokes and two girls of Ayran extraction, or were we merely six very excited holiday makers who were busy unloading three times more boxes of food and drink than suitcases? Laid-back owner Shane wasn't too fazed, looking us up and down a couple of times and dryly noting: "I reckon I'd get a few more beers in if I was you guys."

The weather was perfect - balmy 28C every day, so the shower was rejected for many dives into the river. After all, it was the same water with just a bit more slime, carp nibbles and suspiciously warm wee patches to add a bit more excitement to both swimming and ablutions.

As with most mates on hols, there always seem to be a few running jokes (apart from Ian's hair and my arse) that are inexplicable to outsiders but seem hilariously funny to those of us in the know. We listened to the boys' Pastel Vespa CD which was not only a gorgeous accompaniment to the scenery before us as we pootled along at a breath-taking 7km per hour, but also great to sing along to. Even the girls loved it - quite cheerily singing along to the chanteuse's cocktail-lounge-Brazilian-sixties-inspired versions of the Angels' 'Am I ever gonna see your face again' (crooned in French), Metallica's 'Enter Sandman', Prince's 'When Doves Cry' and the Cure's 'Let's go to bed'.

In between the boating, swimming, eating, drinking, snacking, eating, drinking, unpeeling Easter eggs, drinking, laughing, swimming, drinking, Trivial Pursuit, singing and eating activities that mostly consumed our waking hours, we got talking about what other songs Pastel could cover. Classics such as Ike and Tina Turners' 'Nutbush City Limits', Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid', Frankie Goes to Hollywood's 'Relax,' the Romantics' 'What I like about you' and perhaps adding a tango beat to Charlene's 'I've been to Paradise (but I've never been to me)' were considered, and then recited as serious-sounding poems.

Put it this way - hearing Bill recite, as a dramatic poem, the never-to-be-forgotten lyrical and musical work of Paul Lekakis (circa 1987):

Boom boom boom
Let's go back to my room
Where we can do it
All night ...... (dramatic pause)
And you can make me ..... (dramatic pause)
Feel right

..... really did add that extra something (joie de vivre? elegance? culture?) to the journey. In addition, we managed to pep things up by including farts, bottom-burps, trouser trumpeters, gas geysers and butt burps in practically every aspect of life on board a tiny vessel. How was I, as a responsible and caring parent, interested in doing the best for my child and ensuring her a happy and productive life, to stop her from audibly letting one rip at the breakfast table when 'Uncle Ian', 'Uncle Bill' and ~blush~ I, had already done so, to a great deal of giggling and self congratulation? I decided to stick with the old chestnut, 'What happens on board, stays on board', and hoped that the others would do the same.

Not so, unfortunately. When Sapphire and I saw Selene back at school the following day, she stood in front of the rest of the class, pointed to me and said, "There she is. Sapphire's Mum farts really loudly and all the time." I should have blushed and denied it, using my natural powers of authority according to age, but I just smiled shyly and basked in their admiring glances instead.

Legs Like Fluoro Tubes

A few weeks ago, we three had ten very glorious, sun-drenched days in tropical Queensland. All three of us enjoyed the steamy heat, the warm and inviting swimming pools, the gorgeous white sandy beaches, rainforest-like gardens and - perhaps most of all - no housework or cleaning to do.

There were some great restaurants and cafes on Hamilton island and if we weren't eating out we were enjoying some rather delicious meals cooked by Love Chunks. And yet, despite being on a hard-earned holiday, we didn't gorge ourselves as much as we'd normally do.

The reason for this uncharacteristic culinary control was mostly due to seeing some of the other guests who shared the resort and pools with us – mostly parents our age or younger. It was with mild horror we witnessed a rather huge percentage of beginner beer guts, fat backs and love handles of the men and the multiple chins, life-preserver waists and ice cream cone thighs of the women. We were also shocked though by some of the garb worn by these brave folk – tiny bikinis and miniscule speedos – all with confidence and ease in such a public area. We then realised that we looked rather fit and slim in comparison to most of them.

Don’t get me wrong; everyone deserves to be relaxed and have fun on holiday regardless of their size and I admit to being pretty harsh when making comment on the appearances of others (mostly to deflect attention from my own). And, even though I’m a tallish size 12/14 gal who’s fairly fit, I’m white. Whiter than white. Legs like fluoro tubes. Arms like chunks of new chalk. Face so pale that people always think I’m recovering from a viral infection.

This unwanted whiteness is never more apparent than around the pool wearing bathers. Although we have all known for years that a tan is risking sun damage and skin cancer, I defy anyone to line up two women of the same body size and appearance - with the only difference being that one is tanned and one is not - and not admit that the tanned one looks thinner, fitter and healthier.

Carrying a little extra weight is easier to hide if you’re a golden brown – cellulite is no friend of the pallid colourless sufferers amongst us. So, I was naughty. I decided to do my utmost to get a tan. For the entire ten days I slathered every visible part of my body with factor 30+ sunscreen, rotisserating myself half-hourly like a take-away chicken. I swam 40 laps every late afternoon with the sun beating down on my arms, back, shoulder and legs and moisturized every evening with a fevour that Mrs Nivea would be proud of. Sunburn did not dare venture my way once – surely I was attaining a tiny, tiny bit of pigment? Surely I was no longer the whitest one in the pool?

All too soon, our lovely holiday was at its end. Strolling back to reception to hand over the key, the porter remarked to me, “Welcome to our resort Mrs Moo, we hope you enjoy your holiday with us. Have you just arrived from Antarctica?” Well, Antarctica might be exaggerating the exchange a tad, but you get my drift.

It was therefore time for some chemical assistance. The promise of a Sunless, Golden Glow For An Ultra Natural Tanning Result was impossible to turn down. The morning after we arrived back in cloudy South Australia, the fake tanner came out. Or, as cosmetics companies prefer, ‘Moisturising Bronzer.’ The instructions, well, instructed me to get in the shower, shave everything worth shaving, exfoliate everything worth exfoliating, get out, dry off and moisturise everything worth moisturising.

All OK so far------KNOCK KNOCK – “Mum! Can I come in to the bathroom to wash my hands?”
“Um, can you drag a chair into the laundry and use the tap in the trough?”

(uncertainly) “Oh, OK.” I'm sure she won't fall over on the tiles, crack her head on the edge of the basin and be lying there slowly bleeding to death whilst I wait for the lotion to work it's magic.....

The bronzer was applied in smooth, even strokes with very little applied to the dry areas of heels and knees. As I sparingly rubbed it into my elbows, it reminded me of what Billy Connolly once said: ‘Elbows are where God put his left over testicle skin. He thought it was a sin to waste it.’

Next step read ‘Let set for 30 mins before wearing any clothing.’ Thirty minutes! That's a aeon when standing in a freezing bathroom. Then I realised that I'd forgotten to bring in my watch. One elephant, two elephants, three elephants, four….. My fingers were turning blue. I thought that perhaps a jog on the spot would make things a bit warmer. A few seconds later I decided that perhaps not. The lack of elasticated underwire support made things in the chest area rather painful. I didn’t dare fold my arms under my acheing rack in case it led to unsightly sweat lines. Bugger it, I eventually thought: it would be far easier just to streak into the bedroom where at least the heating was on-----"BRRRRRING!" went the front door bell.

This was not exactly well-timed: our anti-feng shui nightmare of a bathroom is directly in line with the front door, and I had no intention of providing any sort of visual comic relief to the hapless visitor. In the meantime all I could do to keep warm was a sort of crippled side-to-side shuffle like a teenage boy at his first disco, and hope that the visitor would leave soon---

“Mum, there’s a guy from the post office here for you. He’s got a package that he says you’ve gotta sign for.”

Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart.

“Where’s your Daddy? Can you get him to sign it?”

“Daddy’s in the toilet.”

And not likely to emerge until the first buds of Spring.

“TELL HIM I’LL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES,” I yelled to her through the keyhole.

My lovely little one relayed the message.

“Mum, he said he can’t wait around, he’s got other deliveries to do he says.”

My sigh echoed around the tiled walls – “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Sign here please.” He didn’t even look up. It felt nice and warm in my dressing gown and I no longer cared if the thirty minutes were up. ‘Your true golden tan will be achieved in three hours,’ it said on the tube. Whatever, it was nearly my bedtime anyway.

“Whew, what on earth is wrong with you?” said Love Chunks, sniffing at me curiouslyas we settled into bed.

“Bronzing lotion,” I muttered.

“FAKE TAN? Why? You’re a whitey and you can’t change that, it’ll look strange. It smells strange….”

“Yeah well, it’s OK for you, brown boy. You just have to think about wearing shorts and you’re nice and tanned. I hate being mistaken for the first full moon.”

The bed was shaking slightly in the darkness. We weren’t doing any horizontal folk dancing: LC was laughing. The next morning found me in the shower, frantically trying to exfoliate off the orange streaks. Clearly my application technique was not as smooth or even as I’d hoped. There were distinct finger print marks at the back of my neck and a generous amount of lotion run-off had decided to settle within my cleavage, forming a fetching fault-line of orange zig zags. My legs were golden but my feet looked as though they’d been varnished in a hailstorm. As for my arms, well, on their own they appeared sun-kissed, but I’d been too stringent in ensuring that my palms didn’t turn orange, so my hands were still pallid. It gave the impression of the gloves worn by Mickey Mouse.

It was the only time in my life that I was glad it was 20C, raining and cold. Thank the lord for black polo neck jumpers, jeans and gloves.

Entertainment with eggs


A couple of days ago, Love Chunks and Sapphire went on an early morning kayaking trip which allowed me to saunter down to the hotel lobby and enjoy a resort-style buffet breakfast on my own.

I must be one of those unusual types that is rarely bothered by eating alone. Attempts early on in my adult life to look busy with a paper or book have long since been discarded: watching people is far more entertaining. Besides it's a more viable pastime for me, Miss Nigella-No-Friends, than for couples or families who shouldn't be staring at me but should be staring at each other.

During my frequent observations of human beings at feeding time, it becomes increasingly apparent that cliches are worth more than they're credited for. A cliche immediately brings a character, situation or feeling to mind and is readily identified with and understood. Having breakfast on my own presented me with a passing parade of clichés - albeit over a coffee that was doing its best to strip off my pesky tooth enamel.

Mr Love-Me-Do Lawyer. This Adrian Brody look-a-like determinedly walked past the long line of holidaymakers waiting for a breakfast table and waved away the waitress with an imperious, "I'm fine, I see a table over there that's free----" We, the great unwashed, mindless sheep, patiently queueing, were clearly beneath his attention. God bless the Nazi waitress who loudly called him back: "EXCUSE ME SIR, but the line is back here. You have to present your key; state your room number and let Angela mark you off the guest list before we can get you a table." Love-Me-Do sighed in that St Peters' College Old Boy 'the-things-I-have-to-endure-to-survive-amongst-the-plebs' manner and strode to the end of the line. He passed the time by making several loud mobile phone calls to someone named Harry in Melbourne. "Harry - it's me. I'm on Hamilton. Yeh, it's breakfast time, but I'd like an update from you on the financials...."

Munching Mother and SMS-ing Son - Fifty-something Mum waddled back from the buffet, her plate full of hash browns, bacon and toast and her plate-free hand gripping and squishing two large texan muffins. Having long since given up trying to hold a conversation with her son, she contents herself with eating instead. Fifteen year old son slumps in his chair with huge Nike feet sticking out beyond the table like an unanticipated gangplank, threatening to trip up other breakfasters. He only lifts up his head from SMSing to inhale Mum's hash browns and to search for as many midget packets of Coco Pops as his text-crippled mitts will pick up. I want to walk over to him and let him know that his current stage of growth – bum fluff, zits, large nose and Adam’s apple – will eventually pass and the females will look his way again when he’s eighteen. I don’t, of course – he would immediately put his ‘screen saver’ face on and categorise me as something as uncool as his Mum (which is sadly true).

Horny Honeymooners - As an Old Married myself, observing young couples holding hands and nuzzling each other in the breakfast line is curiously entertaining instead of sickening. (They were indeed considered vulgar and sickening when I was single and bitter, but now they’re amusing and bemusing). This young hubby strokes her neck and she leans in to him, no doubt whispering sweet nothings like, "I want a breakfast like our lovemaking - hot, salty and slides down easily", or maybe, "I take my coffee like your love truncheon - long, hot and strong."

Persistent Poms - "Ere Reg, do us a favour and fling our towels over the sun loungers over there and bring us another cup of tea on your way back love," a Pensioner Pub Tart calls in a voice created by a 40 year, 2-pack-a-day habit. Her ample bosom is barely kept in check by a lobby shop sarong and her lobes drag with the weight of three large gold hoops in each. Reg dutifully returns, his old navy tattoos a green blur on his beefy arms and his belly straining against his soccer team away strip. They are soon joined by their daughter, her husband and two toddlers who are passed around like stale danishes in an effort to soften their whines to less ear-bleeding levels. The daughter is fatter than Pensioner Pub Tart, but more willing to reveal her Michelen-Man flesh, namely a bikini top and denim shorts. Blubber Hubby is of a similar size and his tit-hanger singlet reveals some tattoos stretched beyond all recognition. All chatter flies over his head - he's there to inhale as much egg and bacon possible before testing out the weight loading of the sun loungers.

Desperate Dads, Miserable Mums – Dad number one was trying to persuade the waitress (yes, she who rightfully snuffed Love-Me-Do lawyer) to allow them to move three tables so that four adults and six children, equaling two families, could breakfast together. Nadine Nazi wasn’t having it, repeating over and over, “Yes, I understand, but our floor plan is structured to talk to the computer which takes down guest details—“
“But please, we’ll shift the tables back afterwards and---“
“I understand sir, but the tables must stay the way they currently are.”
Considering that I'd seen these same two families have the same debate with the same waitress for the past week, I rather admired the fathers for trying. As per all of the other mornings, the parents stand in a quick huddle and verbally draw straws for who is going to supervise the children (currently walking around the edge of the pool trailing muffin crumbs behind them) at the two far tables, and which lucky three adults would breakfast together child-free further away. Father number two lost the draw, and is seen trying to get the youngest child to stop throwing toast on the floor, dry the tears of a sobbing seven year old and persuade them all to select something a bit worthier to eat than coco-pops and hash browns.

Mutton dressed as Slutton – Resorts invariably host a (regrettably) visible and populous group of women for whom Dyan Cannon, Courtney Love and Priscilla Presley are role models for natural and graceful ageing. These old girls clearly feel that a red raw, muddy tan – or freckles so numerous they join together to form a cohesive brown appearance – allow them to wear plunging strappy dresses best suited to teenagers or shorty shorts that reveal their roadmapped varicose veins and knees of papyrus. They also tend to go by the rule ‘Greasepaint is good’ when it comes to make-up, appearing at breakfast in clumpy mascara, undercoat foundation and red lippie. Add armfuls of gold charm bracelets, bangles, numerous stone-filled rings and wrist fat bulging above and below their tiny watches. To be fair, these Slutton varieties are usually accompanied by attentive partners who are often a head shorter than them and have legs whiter and spindlier than their gals’ bra straps.

As I sip my second cup of gut-grinding coffee, Sapphire bursts in, hair still wet and a smudge of sunscreen and sand around her nose. “Hey Mum! Mum! It was great! Dad and I had a canoe with two seats in it and we paddled to that island over there and back!” I notice out of the corner of my eye that an old couple at a nearby table is smiling at her enthusiasm.

Sapphire dramatically groans when I tell her to get a glass of orange juice “to keep your fluids up”, and does her best walk of reluctance to the serving table: slumped shoulders, shuffling feet and her bottom lip sticking comically out. She can only keep up this pose for a few seconds before meeting my eyes and laughing.

After nearly a week in the sun, her skin is lightly tanned, her hair almost white blonde and her eyes bluer, larger, brighter. I sit and listen to her happy chatter, smiling and nodding and asking questions at the right moments to keep her talking.

All the while I keep thinking to myself, “How did we make this beautiful creature? How come I’m lucky enough to be her mother? Will there ever be a day that I’m not utterly dazzled at my first sight of her?”

Probably not.

Camping About
















We three have just returned from a long-weekend at the 'Gateway to the Flinders Ranges', aka Mambray Creek.

It's a Claytons* kind of camping which is designed to ease in Four-Star-Stuck-in-the-Muds like myself who can pretty well put up with all sorts of outdoorsy grot and misadventure as long as there is a hot shower, flushing toilet and warm bed at the end of it.

Well Mambray Creek offers one out of the three. Unlike last year where we stayed at the long-drop toilet site, this year we opted for the flushing toilets and showers. We should have left our soap at home because the single shower available was cold water only - not particularly attractive in zero winter temperatures that could freeze the cuddle nuts off a koala. It also meant that any issues I had about BO or personal hygiene were also willingly thrown out of the tent window as I vowed not to remove the first two layers of clothing from my body for the next four days.

So, a flushing toilet, but no (hot) showers and no soft bed or warmly-lit five star BnB accommodation either. Instead, we had our rather grand 'Taj Mahal' tent which has separate wings for Sapphire, our gear, and Love Chunks'n'me. Any thoughts of nocturnal nookies with LC had long since vanished - who'd want to get hot and sweaty with someone who hadn't washed for four days and who smelled like burned wood and wino grease?

We spent our time 'out in the wild' with three other couples and their kids. Love Chunks and I sometimes took a second out from the group to smile smugly at each other and mutter, "Oh, isn't it great that we only have one child and she's eight years old," before walking back to the central camp area and being assailed with squeals, poo-filled nappy pongs and anxious parents herding their toddlers away from the flames like osteoporosis-inflicted goal keepers.

As the oldest child, S