Accidentally trading up

On our last skiing outing for the season, we headed to La Clusaz.  We might have been on the French side of the border, but like the Swiss, they too revere their dairy cows and idyllic alpine scenery.  Picture a hotel room completely done in carved in knotty pine with floral curtains and you'll see why the lift door here was one of the more understated bits of decor.

Out on the slopes, I managed to get on and off the ski lifts without incident and stay upright for the entire morning session.  After three hours, my body was screaming for a break and my gut was groaning for some grub. The highlight was the break for lunch at a restaurant on the slope itself.  Diners are greeted by the dog, 1664 (yes, named after the beer) who is seen here trying to grab one of Simon's poles.

To gain entry, you literally ski up to the entrance, unclick your skis, jam 'em into the snow and drape your poles by their straps over the pointy ends.  Then there's a few metres of stiff walking like robots in unwieldy boots with a grunt after each step due to protesting muscles starting to untwist themselves and throb angrily at the treatment they've just been subjected to.

With helmet-hair and red marks from the goggles still on my face, I peeled off my gloves and gratefully slurped my bowl of hot chocolate.  Bowls make sense here as they warm up the fingers.

We all enjoyed lunches of BBQed steaks, tuna, quiche gruyere, chunky chips, smoked pork and a bit of red wine to wash it down with.  Conversation was bright, the sun even brighter and I shared my finding that farting in your ski pants (salopettes) isn't a good idea because the gas travels up your body and poofs out at the top of your jacket, resultant stench sailing straight up the snout.

Love Chunks, now a confirmed addict for alpine activities, inevitably looked at his watch. "We'd better make the most of it before the lift closes," he said, clicking the strap of his helmet under his chin, his eyes looking not unlike Milly's when the word 'walk' is uttered out loud.

Clunking our awkward disjointed way back to 1664 (who was busy chasing a slow learner around the other side of the building and not interested in patrons who were leaving), we reached for our skis.

"These aren't mine," I said, noting that the stocks were white and not brown.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

It was then that Simon recalled seeing a woman fumble about in the general vicinity of our skis as he ate.  "As we were diving into the creme brulee, I remember noticing that the clumsy way she tried to put on her skis made it pretty clear that she wasn't a natural and was still most definitely in the Beginner category."

"Like me, you mean...?"

"Well, now that you mention it......"

We stood around the alien skis, wondering what to do.  Gianna, the fluent French-speaker among us, went back into the restaurant and left our contact details should the woman realise her mistake and return.  There were no 'hire' barcodes on them, so they were privately owned.  Stealing didn't seem likely. "And of course the stocks would be my size or she wouldn't have been able to slip into mine if they didn't fit," I concluded. "She'll probably get home and one of her teenage kids will say, 'Er derr Mum, they're not your skis!" 

There was really nothing for it but to put them on, keep an eye out for a woman with largish hooves on white skis with brown stocks (and bent ski poles) and see if things couldn't be set to rights.  Not so easy in practice when on a steeply sloping field hosting a couple of thousand skiers, none of whom stayed still long enough to let my eyes focus.

Over dinner, I again pondered the fate of my still very brand new skis.  "She's left me a pair that have a few scratches on them, but at least her poles are straight." 

Simon got his iPad out and did a bit of research.  "You're in luck, Kath. Her skis might be slightly broken in, but they're a current brand and model that's still available.  How much were your Rossignols again...?" Tappita tappita tappita he went, beer temporarily forgotten as he delved deeper into the details.

It was time for a glass of champers: the value and quality of my skis had doubled in a day.

Seconds

Apart from a brand new kitchen tap that was installed last week to prevent the cupboard underneath from rotting away and contributing to the outdoor pool that is our balcony, our rented accommodation has been largely untouched and unrenovated since it was built in 1970.

Despite this, I've discovered from the occasional chat with other building dwellers that our place is the largest size they have.  Every third floor (second, fifth, eighth and eleventh levels) has one our size that stretches across the entire length and allows pretty decent views of the Saleve and Jura mountains from both sides. "Plus, you have a maids' door," Anne said to me.

A maid's door?

She's right.  Taking care to snap this photo with keys safely in my hand, I'd almost forgotten about our second door.  It's the one on the right - closest to the gorgeous matchy-matchy lift door. Nothing but the best of burnt seventies' brown sugar for our external furnishings.

"And don't forget what was constructed for the housekeeper inside," she said, pointing to the tiny room next to the guest toilet.  This windowless, power point-less room measures 1.5 by 2.5 metres.  

We use it as our indoor storage space. My two nanna carts, LC's and Sapphire's scooters, unused winter quilts, art supplies and a dodgy IKEA desk chair have been shoved there out of the way.  "Well, if you had a live-in housekeeper, that's where she would have to sleep."

No wonder Milly and I see so many nervous and tired-looking Philippino and Malaysian women entering the foyer as we're exiting for Milly's first whizzer of the day at 7:00am.  They all stop and greet Milly, who rushes up to greet them with a wildly wagging tail.  "I miss dogs," one said wistfully the other day. "My kids look after mine in Manila for me."

It seems that these days no-one has live-in domestics; or not that I'd noticed anyway.  Then again, Guillaime upstairs has a cleaner visit every single week day.  Considering that it's just him and his wife in their two bedroom/one bathroom apartment (ours is 3br/2 br), it's a genuine struggle to imagine just what kind of detailed tidying up is required so regularly.  From the hoovering, scraping and clanging sounds overhead, Guillaime's debris keeps her occupied for least three hours.  Is he a messy eater who then defecates on the floor?  Does the always-stunning Mrs G let everything hang out once the front door's closed behind her, grinding dropped blobs of her Chanel Double Perfection Lumiere foundation into the gaps in the parquetry...?   Are they against wardrobes and discard clothes like dead skin cells?  Are dishes frisbees?  If so, they keep pretty quiet when it's not anyone's birthday.....

Our 'Maids' Entry' door has been permanently locked ever since we moved in, and is usually hidden by a rack full of damp washing, a handful of doggy doo bags dangling from the handle and the three designated recycling containers lined up in a row.  Lotto win fantasies see this door get removed forever and a decent pantry installed instead.

If we were the type of people who had a maid, then she'd apparently only be given a key to the side door and this is what she'd be greeted with: laundry and kitchen.  After all, why look at the comfortable bedrooms or living areas (with spectacular views) unless you're in there to spruce, dust and polish?

"Our cleaner is very good," Guilliame once remarked to me as we shared the lift. "Only twenty five francs an hour."  Waiting for the internet to rev up to normal speed and upload these photos, my mathematics-averse brain struggled with a calculation.  That'd be three hours, at 75 francs a day, totalling 375 for the week.  The Aussie dollar and the Swiss franc are pretty close these days, so it was no small biccies he was shelling out for managing a tiny living space.  It's also, it has to be said, a lot more than I charge per hour for my writing gigs.

If you've made it this far, you're probably wondering what the point of this entry is, apart from showing you how hideous our doors, floors and tiled walls are and that it might prove best not to visit Guillaime's place until after the cleaner's worked her magic.

Well, I was walking Milly in the Parc de Trembley this morning when I spied what initially looked like a rather cute scene.  Mum, dressed in a power suit with a sleek leather briefcase slung across her chest, was sharing a ride on a scooter with her toddler.  Bent nearly double, she was gripping the handlebars tight, calling out, "Wheee! Wheeeeee!", using one leg to propel them faster and faster forward.  The child was giggling with glee.  Sweet, right?

For the first few seconds, yes, until their companion was revealed, coming up behind, huffing and puffing to keep up the pace.  Dressed not in workout gear but a rather formal uniform was (presumably) the nanny, forced to run alongside until Mum had reached the enormous UIT building and handed her both the scooter and the child.

The nanny was not giggling with glee, and I sincerely hoped that she was at least paid enough to afford to live in a place of her own.

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.

Oink oink

So I applied for a two day a week job in state government. Report writing, research, ministerial liaison. All the stuff I've done for years, in every job bar my current one of freelancer.

Wasn't even worth an interview.

MyCareer, Seek, Careerone, Vic Gov and Public Service job websites are all scanned intently every day: nothing going unless I'm prepared to do telephone sales or 'be bubbly, hands-on and willing to go that extra mile in our fast-paced environment.' That and adult photography for large women with broader minds or office cleaners (but only applicants with experience please).

I sent in a story for the Queensland short story compilation hoping to be one of the hundred they selected.

A long list of three hundred were released, mine not among them.

Got into power walking while my achilles tendon takes over three months (this time) to heal. Boring, much-more time-consuming but important to stay active.

Lasted no longer than a week before it too started to adversely affect the injury.

Noticed this morning that Milly has a lump on her back leg. She doesn't want me to touch it and it wasn't there three days ago. A quick growing tumour isn't a good thing, the vet told me this afternoon. We need to have her in tomorrow at 7:30am, get whatever it is cut out immediately and sent off for testing.

"We'll let you know how much it'll all cost when our head vet returns tomorrow." I soon found out - two weeks of my work.

Today is the last day of Year of the Tiger. Year of Kath the Monkey disguised as a Pig so that my fortunes weren't soured or ruined. An annoying gold pig charm on a necklace that jingled and drove me nuts for twelve months. Fat lot of good it did me.

"Oh I don't know about that," Mum said on the phone. "You weren't flooded out and you didn't get cancer."

Fair point.

Early this morning I hobbled around the oval picking up beer bottles and brown burger bags as Sapphire went running - long legs carrying her further and faster than she's ever been before. She was enjoying it and was discovering just what her own body and determination could do. My own body and patience is being sorely tested but I'll make damned sure that my achilles is right enough so that I can run alongside her.

We walked back home - she, red-faced and puffing from the effort and me, unruffled. On the outside. She grabbed my hand. "Sorry I'm so sweaty Mum, but I've had a great time with you."

I smiled and hugged her; sweat and all, breathing it in as we embraced, loving every moment. Let's see what Year of the Rabbit brings for this old monkey.

Snappy September - Day Twenty Six - Learning for myself

We know that billionaires and millionaires and playboys and heiresses and internet marketing genuises and falled movie stars always tell us that money can't buy happiness but I'd really like to find that out for myself.

I'd also like - during those heady times when the price of passionfruit goes down from the ridiculous $1.69 each to a crazy and Kath-affordable-every-now-and-then-as-a-treat-and-departure-from-chocolate-price-of-$5.99-for-a-bag-of-ten - to cut them open and find that all of them have actual, well, fruit in them!

Sour puss

Sapphire and I had the best fortnight ever.

Ever. As she kissed me on the cheek and left for school this morning, I thought I'd cry. No, not the usual tears of joy a parent has when school holiday ends, but in sadness. She's my best friend and I miss her already.

Her leaving for her 'real world' was the final pip squirted from the lemon of self-indulgent pity and doubt: a state that's been building up, sleepless night after sleepless night, for the past few weeks.

Firstly, Bulldog. My evil, egotistical and hypocritical ex-boss. Yeah the one whose actions drove me to spend several days in a psychiatric ward at the end of 2008 and caused my usually-unflappable union rep to shake her head in bewilderment and say, "For someone who publicly supports the rights of others she's just a bitch, Kath, that's all." ....... won an OAM in the recent Queen's Birthday honours.

Some of my friends didn't want to tell me because Bulldog's prize didn't interest the media outside of Adelaide, but some did tell me. The former group didn't want to see me spiral down a useless path of anger and powerlessness again; and the latter all tended to add a comment like, 'They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel, eh? Who'll be next - Ivan Milat?' to show that they were still thinking of me and hadn't forgotten her.

I shrugged my shoulders and scoffed. Publicly. See, I'd moved on, I was bigger than her, more mature and she no longer had the power to--

In private, I stewed.

It felt like every single frigging week after the news, Bulldog was quoted in at least one newspaper article a week on her chosen topic of influence. I'd be reading some Sunday morning article and her name would be there and my stomach would instantly start churning and I'd shut my eyes for a moment and think of the lost salary of the past two-and-a-half years, the lost super contributions, the anguish and stress I'd caused LC, my child and my parents; the mental and physical symptoms and the long leash of the Black Dog that still finds its way back into my hands.... Where were her just desserts, the karma that I'd hoped for? Instead of a Come-Uppance the woman was earning huge money, reaping rewards, gaining publicity and was clearly on the journo's Go To Hot List of experts!

Never mind, I've got my heal----- Bugger. My right elbow has been killing me. Now even lifting a one kilogram packet of carrots from a bag to the crisper has me involuntary squeaking in pain and being dry needled by the physio is no longer a funny anecdote when I'm lying in bed at 2am holding an arm with a steady, unrelenting heartbeat of throbbing pain.

This meant that my nervous nail picking increased. It's always been a particularly bad habit of mine to constantly trim the loose cuticle skin around each nail with my teeth before wondering just why I've ended up with messy bleeding instead. Knitting is often used to keep my hands busy but the elbow pain has meant that it is not an option right now so last week I tore off the entire cuticle on my left thumb and noted, a few days later, that like my right elbow, it too was keeping me awake with a heartbeat of its own.

Squeezing the pus out of it has helped, and after my tears have cleared, I've been washing it clean and bandaging it up again. But the slightest knock or even the mere act of unbuttoning my jeans can be agony. Self inflicted, stupid agony.

Perhaps, therefore this hasn't been the best time to wean myself off the sleeping medication I've been using post-Bulldog. Hindsight's a bittersweet thing, isn't it; kind of like insisting on a diet coke to go with the supersized, lard-arsed lunch special deepfried batter burgo and chips combo. Thus, my occasional visit to the nocturnal nightmare of insomnia has become a permanent transfer. No amount of meditation, relaxation, getting up, reading, stretching, thinking happy thoughts or staying up until Danoz Direct comes on has helped.

I'll keep plugging away though, because surely just sheer exhaustion will cause my red-speckled green eyes to finally close - and stay closed - for longer than two hours at a time one day?

Finally, money. Stupid, necessary, crappy, important, horrible, essential, evil, mesmerising, inescapably envious money. We three spent the weekend with our two friends at their beach house on Philip Island. We adore them dearly and know that they've worked hard to find such a beautiful place and greatly treasure it. I don't begrudge them their little slice of paradise and loved being their guest for three days.

On Saturday night, however, we five had another thirteen people over for dinner. ALL of them owned beach houses on the island. All of them drove cars no older than three and those I saw in the drive included a BMW, Audi, Peugot, Mercedes and VW. All of them had spent time holidaying in Europe, New York, Asia or the snow and were planning on doing it again before Christmas this year.

We'd 'spent a weekend in the snow' this year too - albeit in our camping parkas and shoes as rubberneckers, leaving only when Sapphire's jeans got too wet and we'd had enough rides on our $20 'non-skier' lift passes to make it worthwhile.

It was easier to avoid joining in the conversation and instead take away the empty plates and scrape the leftovers into the kitchen bin feeling more than a tad jealous and more than barely inadequate in my K-mart clothes, 2 bedroom house and 14 year old car. "You're doing a marvellous job there," a guest said, wandering over. I smiled, she introduced herself and we started talking as she loaded the dishwasher.

"You must get your future in order and not leave it until my poor friend Jan who turned sixty last week and has only just bought her first investment property," she said over the noisy chatter. "We've got seven now - have you and LC checked out the house for sale in Ventnor?"

Yes we had, actually, in a casual drive-by coming back from the Cowes supermarket with olives, fish and bread marked down as 'Quick Sale - half price' in black texta. $400,000 seems to buy no more than a box of decaying planks sitting uncertainly atop four rusted poles with a sliver of distant sea views until four blocks in front are sold. I didn't tell her any of this, but just said, "Oh yes, we have."

I also didn't tell her that we didn't have four thousand to spend, let alone four hundred thousand; that my 'job' earned me roughly one-tenth of what I earned when working for Bulldog and the car - stained seats, floating dog hairs and permanent bird turd imprints - would be driven until it gasped its last.

Still, there was a tattslotto ticket in my purse.

As usual, the slip of paper from the newsagent came back with 'Not A Winner' on it, but I'm not so sure.

Sapph's Blue Cat
























Unlike my perfectly good self, poor Sapphire is allergic to a lot of things.

Several very common grasses, dust mites, dogs (but only if Milly licks her) and cats. Throw in the classic trio of asthma, excesma and hayfever and mix in a seven month episode of Whooping Cough, ear infections and permanently puffed sinuses and we decided that it was worth a referral to an allergy specialist.

Four months after having her arm pricked and spotted with liquid allergens, Sapphire had eight fortnightly injections with tiny doses of those same evil beasties to reduce her symptoms.

Last week, the raised, itchy red lumps on her nurse-scratched arms didn't look promising. "Nope, that's just not good enough young lady," Dr S said. "You need two weeks of twice daily nasal sprays and then another visit here for your third skin test before we start your second round of injections."

Considering that Sapphire's 'nasal spray' is actually a little-known asthma inhaler meant for the mouth with a baby's teat stuck on the mouth piece and a sliver of rubber nipple snipped off, she's been impressively sanguine about it all.

Therefore, as interested - and determinedly non-purchasing - onlookers at a recent art auction, it was a bright and breezy blue cat partially hidden behind some recognised (read: price-of-a-new-Corolla-pricey artists) that caught her eye.

"Ooooh if I was rich I'd buy that one, Mum," she pointed, disdainfully ignoring the Clifford Possums, Blackmans, Dickersons, Picasso (!!!! etching), Bromleys, Norman Lindsay sketches, Pro Hart's oily shite and a couple of Whiteleys. "After all, it's probably the closest I'm ever going to get to having a cat of my own," she smiled.

My big brother Rob and his wife WC had clearly done their homework on Aboriginal artists and were there to bid. Sapphire and I were there to be entertained and after three hours, we were still sitting there utterly mesmerised as the auctioneer ploughed his way through hundreds of different pieces.

After a particularly beautiful central-Australian Aboriginal painting went for $20,000, the blue cat came up. It was by no-one famous, wasn’t a signed print: just a picture that no-one wanted in their office anymore. I grabbed WC’s bidding card and bid.

"SOLD to number Forty Nine for thirty five!" Woo Hoo!! I had never been to an art auction before, let alone bid at one....

Sapphire couldn’t believe it and because she’d spent several hours hearing the auctioneer say ‘Ninety five’ when he meant 9500, she said, “Oh Mum, thank you thank you thank you! But did you just spend $3500 on this picture for me – what will Dad say?”

I rang Love Chunks immediately. He could hear the ludicrously high prices being called out by the auctioneer in the background as we spoke and I said, “LC, I didn’t mean to, but I’ve bought a painting.....” I swear I could feel his heart stop beating from a postcode away until thirty five was revealed to be just that - thirty five dollars. "You can't buy a frame for that."

When we got Sapphire’s huge picture home she propped it up in the hallway, admiring it.

But only for a small moment. The next thing we heard in her disapproving nanna voice was, “Oh man – there’s boobs in it!” Sure enough, in the far right hand side of the picture, there was an upside down topless woman.

A week later, the picture was still out in the hall and the focus had shifted from the bright blue moggy to the upside boobs with candy pink nipples.

"When are you putting your boobs in your room, Sapph?"
"Geez Mum it's not boobs I'm allergic to!"

The blue cat is now above her bed and is the first thing I see when I walk into my daughter's room. After the boobs of course.