Second

My hand always rests – no, tightly grips - onto the top left-hand-side of my bag now when I’m out in the street. This only serves to make it look more obvious that I’m a tourist and not a particularly confident one.

Despite this, we achieved two huge wins this week – a place at the English-speaking International School for Sapphire and a home. A home!

The relief is huge but the disappointment that both were our second choices is also there buzzing in my head lurking, threatening to sour things. The waiting list for the city campus was so long that the coordinator told us that it was ‘nearly impossible’ for Sapphire to get in when school resumes on 1st September, but there was a space at the Founex campus, at La Chataigneraie. It’s a fair old commute unless we secure her a place on the school bus at an additional cost of three and a half thousand francs (and that's only if I can contact the bus coordinator to explain my location and situation. The power here seems to rest with the providers of the services, not the customer. We are to grovel and hope that they will decide to help us it seems).

“I don’t want to go there, we went last week and I hated it. It’s stupid.” My relieved smile faded when I put down the mobile phone. Ticking one huge thing off our ‘this is our life now, not a holiday’ list wasn’t going swimmingly. Her head was buried in the two enormous, uselessly-squared European pillows that have cricked all our necks. I decided it was best to leave her for a while, have a shower with the ridiculously short hand-held hose and rinse out some knickers in the bath at the same time……

“Mum, you were right. I’m just…… scared. I don’t want to go to high school….” We hug and talk and cry a little. What kid does look forward to joining the big, grown up kids who look like adults?

Our home isn’t the one we ached for; Karen’s place a block away from Love Chunks’ work and fully-furnished. Modern, inviting, fully set up. She recommended us and only us to the land agent as lease-breakers need to find their replacement or pay extra rent. We had the right paper work – the official Letter of Attestation for LC’s employment, specified monthly salary declaration and copies of our passports.

“Sorry Monsieur, but the regis has concerns that your salary is marginal for this rent,” she sniffed when he rang to inform them that we’d been offered another apartment (three bedrooms instead of two) at the same monthly rate. “I suggest you take it.”

So we have. Orange seventies tiles, two bidets that are likely to have boxes placed over them in order for some surface storage area, a balcony, dog-friendly, large shared garden and heating included.

What surprises me is how people yank out the light fittings when they move, leaving bare wires hanging from the ceiling. Same goes for curtains too. What’s the likelihood of their new home having the same sized windows?

Setting up this bare space should be exciting. That’s what I keep telling myself, but the sheer enormity of the expense involved has taken most of the joy away. Everything – EVERYTHING is twice the price and I feel the skin on my face dry up and tighten with anxiety at the price tags in front of me. I’ve never paid AUD 1799 for a much-smaller washing machine but the thought of rinsing and wringing more loads by hand in the bath isn’t an enticing one.

The expat sites are full of ‘Leaving Geneva – everything in our flat must go!’ adverts but the curse of a little city with big rents is that no-one has transport or the ability to move things, so the triple-seater sofa or big Pax wardrobe that ‘must be dismantled to get through the door’ is a liability not an asset.

Food is doubly terrifying and may even work in my favour because my appetite has dwindled. Paying CHF 9.90 for a ham and cheese sandwich ($11.14 AUD) and upwards of CHF 50 per kg for meat is …….. How do people live here? What on earth do they do? Tinned tomatoes and pasta have become regular dinners for us via the double hot plate in the hotel room. The most affordable meal we've had so far has been lunch at IKEA.

My guts are in continual churn mode as I see our travel allowance and personal savings rapidly dwindle to nothing. Never did I think that we’d be sitting on our pushed-together single beds, LC and I, hugging each other and wondering very seriously just how we’ll be able to afford to not only live but have some form of fulfilling life here. An enormous challenge awaits.

Nude Wombats

nuts not like balls nuts but like almonds and stuff

sheedy kevin choc

when you win a free boost bar where do you get it from?

is warwick capper circumcised?

bum lamb pics

i like when burbs kiss low

My bra cuts

Fudgebuckets

Thock

Deformed Malteser

......I guess all of the above search terms leading to Blurb from the Burbs are largely deserved, if puzzling, and I'm now about to unplug the computer and do the last lot of vaccuuming.

Love Chunks' jumper is covered in dust as he's been the Number One Lifter and Mover in every large item that has left the house. Allen keys, screw drivers and the sack-truck are the items he reaches for most now that Mrs Krups and his beloveds* are gone.

Milly no longer barks when the doorbell rings but stays in her beanbag: slightly anxious and puzzled. How do I explain to her that she's about to go to a boarding kennel for six weeks before being packed into an airconditioned crate for 27 hours but that we haven't abandoned her? I've decided that lots of belly rubs and head kisses will have to do. That and sleeping in the same t-shirt for ten days so that she has memories to sniff for a while.

The house now echoes due to its emptiness and sleeping on a blow up mattress last night alongside a restless almost-twelve-year-old child was informative rather than relaxing. She's everything you'd expect to be right now - sad, worried, trying to be confident, tired and a funny combination of occasional exuberance closely followed by a shutdown; blonde hair swinging down over her face as she withdraws to the safe and controllable world of the iPad as her parents scurry and bustle around her.

A pongy t-shirt and frequent belly rubs aren't going to help, but maybe frequent kisses, some hand holding and regular 'Mmm hmms' when she wants to open up and talk at 1am just might.

See youse in cyberspace soon!

* Arcosteel copper-bottom saucepan set, bought during his first year of post-university work in 1989. No metal scourer was allowed within sight of his 'beloveds' and I used to joke that if we ever got divorced, they'd be cited as an item of interest for him. Despite this, they were sold (and waved off with relief) two days ago.

TV war!

Cramming a family, memories, treasures and an entire house into three cruelly inadequate 22kg suitcases about to wing their way to Switzerland for 2-6 years has been a massive effort. So much so that my back and brain have somehow melded together to transform me into an S-bended humanoid honey bee who flits from box to shed to table to cupboard to plastic bag to wheelie bin to checklist and back again; never stopping, always doing, constantly fretting.

Apart from the Trading Post, friends, family and a garage sale, a few key items have been placed on eBay: one of which is our beloved TV.

This baby was a rare extravagance for us, purchased in December 2007. Top of the range Sony Bravia. Picture so clear you can tell what each Crows player ate for breakfast before the game and what time the remnants were due to be expelled from the body afterwards. Realistically we won't be purchasing a TV of similar quality in Switzerland and decided to offer it for sale for a smidge less than half price.

Ebay allows potential buyers to ask questions about the item on sale and I've been busy replying to questions on the length and width of our kayak, the size of the viola, brand of our washing machine and the precise colour of our brown leather sofa. The TV discussion, however, has developed into an entirely different beast. This is what transpired. Yes, I am 'Lots-o-Choc':

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hello there i'm only interested in the tv. i'd like to offer you $500 for it. the reason is there was 52" of the same tv that went for $1025. here are the details about the other tv:
Sony BRAVIA KDL XBR 52 1080p LCD Television
Item condition: Used
Bid history: 56 bids
Winning bid: AU $1,025.00
if you consider my offer i will pay "CASH" on pick up because i live local as well.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Sorry but that's an entirely different model - ours is the very top of the range and is still retailing for $3300. The asking price still stands.
Regards
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hello again thanx for your reply. i just like to address to you that i am a " professional home entertainment consaltant " i deal with these things 24/7 so i know the difference between "EVERY" model tv thats available in australia. My offer is still valid and if consider it, let me know thax.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Sorry, as stated the model still retails for $3300. See: http://www.comparison.com.au/televisions/Sony/Bravia-KDL40X3100
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hi, i don't know where you are getting your info from, but you are wrong because if you want it to buy your tv direct from "SONY" they will say to you "SORRY" we don't make this tv anymore because we made that tv back in 2008 no longer available it is discontiniued model. the only way you will find it is if some one tries to sell it for $1600 and no one will bid for it at that prize. good luck to you.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Yet again I ask that you refer to this link - http://www.comparison.com.au/televisions/Sony/Bravia-KDL40X3100
The TVs are for sale everywhere.
Lots-o-Choc

Then LC came in and read over my shoulder. “Actually, they are discontinued. Better change the ad.” Oh hammer-gun my calf muscles to the side of a chariot and set it to Ben Hur speed....! I did change the ad. Immediately. Despite the amendment, Mini-mind still had time on his*** hands and a bone to pick.

Dear Lots-o-Choc
I guess I forgot that it is very hard to explain to a person that has no idea of what they are talking about. all I have to say to you is I wish you good luck.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
And I'm surprised that for a supposed 'home entertainment consultant' you can barely spell, are very rude and seem to be extremely persistent for someone who claims that they can find this same model for $500. If that *is* the case, then why do you keep emailing me about this TV?
Please don't contact me again.
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
first of all if you like correcting peoples spellings, why don't you become a teacher. and second of all I'm not insisting on your tv its just I'm just trying let a dumb and stupid person like you to realize that your tv is out dated and its not worth it what you are asking for it but I am pretty sure you will find another person like yourself to buy your tv . I wish you the best of luck "LOOSER"
oh by the way its been how many days and nobody made a bid for your tv because nobody is dumb like you. thats it end of discussion.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind (what an appropriate name - clearly 'mini' reflects your IQ)
I *am* a qualified teacher as it happens, and I wish you the best of luck in trying to find a TV like ours for the $500 that you seem to think you can get it for. Fantasyland, I presume; otherwise why are you still here being annoying and not already enjoying such a TV?

By the way - it's 'loser', not 'looser', so I hope that in your career as 'home entertainment consultant' you're not required to write anything of consequence down for your 'customers', whomever they may be. Now run along you mental pgymy and stop writing back to me.

Or am I using words too big for you to understand?
Lots-o-Choc

And damn the annoying little bugger, we haven't had a single bid!


*** Yes, I've made the assumption that it's a 'he' and picturing a smallish man who hopes to browbeat people on ebay into selling him things for a bargain price so that he can sell them for vast profits later. I'm also assuming that he's extremely unattractive and smells bad.

The Finger

I'd better do that response to the ebay guy before I walk into another room and get distracted by what's hidden in the cupboards I've not yet dared to open.

"Come on Milly, let's pop outside." Yep, that's right. Hook that metal thingy on the end - it'll hold, I'm sure it will and grab that pen out of your mouth to take notes and run it along the back of the kayak to the other end and then we'll find out how long it meas--------

Thwackatta Thwackatta zzzzzziip SLAP!

Flying fried fudge flickin' farnacles, I'm literally seeing white sparklers in front of my eyes and feeling as though another two are being rather roughly shoved up each nostril in a crude attempt to give the frontal lobe a bit of a nudge and make doubly sure that all my nerve endings are feeling the effects..... having a metal measuring tape whip back and cruelly crack my infected middle finger hurt. Really really hurt.

The smoking guy on the level two balcony next door heard my agonised sob and saw me doubled over and shuffle crab-like back inside like a shrivelled blonde Shelob before turning his head back to look at the Dodgy Brothers Car Renovators continue their argument in the side street. I guess the issue of whether you'd root Megan Fox or Beyonce is pretty vital viewing.

After a night of tossing and turning in such a way that my middle finger stayed outside the covers like a flesh-coloured fishing pole, today it was time to see the doctor. Large and ET-like at the best of times, today my rude finger (as Sapphire calls it) resembled the celluloid alien's actual head on the end of my finger with its own painful pulse.

Trouble is. the half-hearted health hub we've used for the past two and a bit years is closing down next week and it seems that they can no longer be shagged to answer their phones or - as I discovered this morning - open their doors. I managed to catch Love Chunks at the next set of traffic lights and clamber back in the car.

There was no way I was going to risk my delicate digit to the ministrations of Dr Dodgy in Welly Street. He's infamous around Flemington and LC has never gotten over how I booked him in there for an urgent grease and oil change two days after we arrived: the broken window, slightly rude receptionist wife and slapdash approach to knowledge and professionalism is still the order of the day. LC remains convinced that shivering anatomy served as the street's entertainment that afternoon and still shudders every time he passes by.

No, I was going across the road to Travancore to beg the fancy doctor to see me. He's the guy that everyone says, "Oh yes, I see Dr Divine but he's closed his books now, so I don't know what I'd do without him." Me either, and I'd never got past the clipped, "Sorry, we're not taking new patients" of January 2009.

Feeling ever so slightly tearful as I toddled past the mechanic where Maggie the magna was getting her roadworthy overhaul done, I pushed open the medic's door; brass bell a dinga linga linging.

I decided that a visual was the best way to get the attention of the woman behind the counter and walked in brandishing what looked like a swollen and very angry red version of The Bird.

"Hello my name is Kath and I usually got to Half-Hearted Health Hub on Racecourse but they're shutting down and we're moving to Switzerland in exactly three weeks to the day and somehow I've infected my finger, no that's a lie, I know how I did it because I shred the cuticles around my nails and finally I've got the result I probably deserve but it is making things like taking DVDs out of their covers and into plastic sleeves and packing boxes pretty hard and I'm hoping - no, actually I'm begging you; you seem like a very kind hearted and reasonable person - to get me looked at today---------"

She held up a hand to stop me. Lord knows I couldn't. "How does lunchtime sound?"

It sounded utterly brilliant. I skipped out of there - well I tried, but the pulsating weight of my Rude Finger meant that I instead lurched slightly to the left and found myself falling inside the laundromat next door before altering my stride to make it back home across the road.

A couple of hours later Dr Divine said, "You're not a fainter, are you?"

Nope. Never have been. Had enough blood tests due to the 'ol tumour that I can tell you exactly what vein to shove the needle in and gleefully watch as you do it.

Well ram my sorry soggy arse up against a poo encrusted mini skip and call it Tony Abbott what the hell are you-----

"Sorry about that, I have to lift up the nail and puncture the skin around it a few times to let some pus out, so it'll sting a bit."

No sparklers today; this time the cartoon tweety birds made an appearance.

Back home with an arm no longer dragging on the ground and the simple bliss of soaking the finger in a cup of warm salty water whilst trying to type out 'self contained accommodation, pet-friendly, Geneva' is a simple pleasure.

Why do I have a heartbeat in both armpits?

Because Love Chunks has won a transfer to Geneva.

Sure, the selection process took five months so I spent the best part of that realising that there were two paths ahead of us and the local high school issue for Sapphire wasn't going to go away just because Switzerland were not living up to their reputation as being expert time keepers....

But now we have one path.

And of course Geneva were cheeky enough to try it on and ask LC to turn up in four weeks' time.

NO WAY we both said; me leaning weakly on the door frame with my bowels about to throw a noxious tantrum for the seventh time that morning and he fretting about the World Meteorological Organisation bureaucracy and only having a one page emailed letter of offer and a one-liner twelve hours later to go on.

STICK TO YOUR GUNS I said, my air of authority quite literally reduced with the now-permanent fug of Lavender Loo spray clouded around my head.

I SURE AS HELL WILL he said, climbing onto his bike and pedaling off to the Docklands. Nothing says A Man With A Mission more than bike shorts, a fluoro-yellow safety vest and a helmet shaped like a melted choc drop.

So, we've negotiated for six weeks time. In the past four days, we've decided that it's a good thing that apart from my great grandmother's piano, the oldest thing we own is LC's CD collection and my photo albums. They'll hide somewhere at my folks' place in South Australia but everything else must go.

The house will be rented out, we're looking for a loving home for Skipper and Milly will be flown over by the too-cute-to-be-true 'JetPets' the second we've found our new address. Thank God that Geneva is 95% surrounded by France and doggies are a way of life. "Madame, domestic pets are tolerated by all," said the google-translated email.

School for Sapphire is likely to be an English-speaking campus that has the UN in view that specialises in expat kids who also need to learn French and have skiing as one of their official sports ....

and ....

and ....

and ....

.... my role will be to make several dozen lists, check them all thrice, go for another urgent crap and do whatever it takes to leave here in one piece and then see that the man, child and animal I love most in the world are settled, happy and ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

That's why I'm typing this still in my dressing gown, sweat stains appearing even though my hair is still wet from the shower and I'm crying with a big goofy smile on my face. Ready, Steady, Go!

Wheelie bin Dealings

There are many times in your life when you realise that a) you're no longer young and b) you no longer care, but there are also other times when you realise that the things that genuinely get you excited these days are a) are mundane, and b) embarrassingly tragic.

It is time to share one of them with you: Wednesday Wheelie Bin Night. This weekly evening experience is as eagerly anticipated as sitting down to watch Spicks and Specks on the telly with a lapful of Lindt balls or when we buy a fresh clutch of Farmers Union Iced Coffee Cartons from Safeway. Yep, it's that good.




















And why is WWBN so important? Well, moving house means a lot of boxes. Boxes mean cardboard, which in turn equates to recycling. All good so far, except that the wheelie bins we've been allocated by the Moonee Valley Council are about a third the size of the ones we owned in Adelaide. Ooompah Loompahs could perhaps be satisfied with their dimensions but only if flotsam and jetsam such as dog food cans, deadly wrinkled glad wrap, junk mail and coffee grounds form part of their staple diets.

We've squashed down most of the boxes and taken them to the $20-per-car tip at Heidelberg along with dozens of empty paint tins (thoughtfully left behind by the previous owners so that we'd 'know what colours we used on and inside the house'), floor rugs, suitcases and white foam packaging that I'm convinced mates and breeds even bigger and more plentiful versions of itself.




















With the delivery of the treadmill, the Super-Size-Me BBQ, Love Chunks' funky new fandangled bike and a few other annoyingly over-packaged new house incidentals, the cardboard still lingers like an unwanted cousin houseguest three days after nanna's funeral. The trouble is, it's been over three weeks for some of our stuff and the last thing we want to do on our Saturdays is cut and flatten boxes, cram them into the back of the wagon and drive to a faraway dump and then pay cash for the experience. Trust me: having our car idling behind a bloke in a ute trying to haggle with the dump manager about only having to pay $18 to dump one mattress instead of the two he had - "But they're for SINGLE beds mate, come on!" - on a 39C day inhaling the aroma of mulch, manure and prawn heads was most un-fun.

Next door to us on one side is a three-storey block of twelve units. I've decided to use the term 'units' because they're from the 1960s-era and look like 'flats' to me but apparently this is NOT the word to use and betrays my country-bumpkin origins, era and uncoolness. Fine, but I refuse to call them 'apartments' when they're older than I am and are all squished in together.

The body corporate of these units has given them four massive recycling bins that are put out fortnightly and six bloody huge red normal-garbage bins that are out every week. Sapphire's bedroom could fit inside one of them and still have space for my treadmill and it was when I noted this fact that my excitement started to sprout. WWBN was going to be the answer to my prayers!















Whatever rubbish overload we have is now surreptitiously squeezed into any vacant space left in their bins. Naturally this complex and rather ingenious maneouvre is done under the cover of darkness so as not to create any ugly scenes or accusations. Instead, I wait until the final 'bonk bonk' sound of all of their bins have been dragged to the kerb and the last 'thwack' of the lids indicate that each and every tenant has shoved their weekly garbage inside.

Then, tiptoeing outside - a pretty delicate feat when wearing oversized thongs or sweaty Crocs - I oh-so-quietly ease open the gate, sneak a furtive glance to the left, the right and the left again - taking particular care to ensure that no-one is enjoying an evening drink, smoke or domestic on their overhanging balconies - and then make my ninja-like moves towards the red and yellow-topped answers to my cardboard conundrum. If it's not too hot I sometimes add a few commando rolls to add to the tension and to draw out the excitement factor.

At this rate, we'll have all of our cardboard packaging disposed of by, oh I don't know, Melbourne Cup Day. I know; it's pretty heady stuff..

The Gate(s) of Hell

We know that we are very fortunate, in inner-city Melbourne, to live in a completely detached house so that our 40cm high, 14 kilogram dog can run excited happy-laps around the entire boundary when the sound carries over from the Melbourne Zoo's evening concerts, when Hendrix the next-door cat is out having his constitutional or during 3am walk-pasts by clearly inebriated (and deaf) chattering teenagers.

We are also grateful that our nine year old daughter Sapphire can use her scooter on the back verandah pavers and down one side of the house if we plan ahead and wind the bathroom window closed and make sure the wheelie bins are securely wedged up against the back gate; but our new home has presented a bit of a challenge to accommodate anything wider than a Aeroflot economy airline seat.

We of course understood and accepted that in our decision to move to the bigger smoke of Melbourne, down-sizing was an essential part of the process. To counter the loss of a double garage, two-car driveway and a minimum of three metres space between any part of the house and a boundary fence we decided to gift ourselves a few special things to ease into our new, slightly-more-compact life - a new bike to ride to work for Love Chunks, a viola for Sapphire, a brand new York treadmill for me and a Stainless Steel Mega-massive BBQ bad-boy for the back of the house, aka 'The Entertainer's Paradise.'

However, what has become apparent is that we own the home-owner and delivery man's worst nightmare: The Inner-City Skinny Gate.

Yes, this sometimes-grey, sometimes-eggplant, occasionally-brown but inexplicably labelled 'Namibia' painted gate has proved to be more effective at repelling large objects than a roided-up King Street bouncer.

Firstly, the treadmill. Buy online and get free delivery, they promised.

That sounds fantastic, LC and I thought, and promptly bought.

Delivery day loomed, in hindsight a balmy and hospitable 37C and a chap that looked like the skinny version of this guy......

......turned up; his bobbling Adam's apple clearly the largest part of his body, eclipsing even his head. The poor pubescent was given a trolley that was more used to carrying pallets of bricks or flat packed billiard tables and was therefore at least three times wider than our unfriendly entrance.

I stood there, speechless as he stood there, also speechless, clearly hoping that I'd politely offer to lift the 115kg box onto my shoulder and then javelin it over the roof of the house so that it flew like a monolithic leaden paper plane neatly into my back shed. I remained speechless.

After several more minutes of dumb silence, I eventually recognised that our two great minds and bodies were not going to shift the enormous box without some form of trolley that would actually fit through the gate.

"I'll push it off ~~CRASH!~~ Oh, that was easy - and then try to drag it through your gate," Pubes offered in a nervous falsetto.

Neither he nor I could get it to move more than a couple of feet on the hot bituman footpath before it hit the one inch rise from the path onto our property. Pubes' Adam's apple started to ripple up and down his neck in an agitated manner. "But I'm only supposed to lift 25 kilos," he whined.

My sympathy leapt to the fore. "Yeah well I can hardly take on the extra ninety on my own, can I? How is this free delivery if you're now suggesting we 'leave it outside' until Love Chunks and a magic trolley gets home in five hours time?"

He -and my eagerly-anticipated treadmill - were put back on the truck and sent to come back when Love Chunks was home and Pubes had found a decent loading trolley.

Secondly, our modular lounge. The corner connector was outside, covered in a tarp held down by Sapphire's scooter as we awaited the upholsterer's delivery guy to come and take away the three seater to be sawn and stitched down into a two-seater so that the entire lounge could return inside where it belonged.

The delivery 'guy' was eighty if he was a day, limped with a distinct slant to the east and when considering the 43C temperature and our skinny gate, things were looking a bit fraught. This time however Love Chunks was home and was ready for the role of the second shifter and loader (He did ask "How come we have to pay for pick up and delivery if I'm doing half of it?" but The Ancient One cleverly feigned deafness). Thankfully both parts of the lounge were successfully squeezed through the gate after their stumpy little legs were unscrewed with an old Allen key.

And Thirdly, the BBQ. Or, perhaps more honestly, an outdoor, stainless steel kitchen alternative for outdoors that could quite possible be used as an extra-funky stable should the Flemington racecourse be squeezed for space. "Oh don't worry," said Mr Bald Barbecues Galore. "They all come in flat-packs, so it's easy for our TWO guys to deliver."

"Plus," he added over-brightly, "It will only take you about THREE HOURS to put together yourself." Sneaking a quick glance at my husband saw him go slightly pale under his tan as he muttered, "Or seven and a lot of swearing in my case."

A couple of days later and the delivery service rang to say that the meat-lover's machine was on its way. Another 43C day when the truck arrived and two burly blokes rang my doorbell. "Oh hi, you've got our BBQ haven't you? I'll just go and open the side gate and------"

Burly Bloke One held up his black-nailed paw. "Sorry darl, but we can already see that your gate isn't wide enough."

I blinked. Tears or dust, I was no longer sure. "What do you mean? Surely a flatpack can be edged in and----"

Burly Bloke Two stepped out from under the shade of the tree, flexing the naked lady tatt on his upper arm. "Nah, love, it's all set up. Come and have a look," and he flung the doors of the truck open. The box inside -if 'box' is not too humble a description - resembled something that could quite easily host SexPo much more cheaply than the Exhibition Centre: the truck was about to give birth to a slightly-smaller, weight-equivalent cardboard version of itself.

It wasn't dust in my eyes this time but tears. For Love Chunks, who was already dreaming of what kind of sizzling, oily and smoky concoctions he'd be creating and cooking outside when he got home from work. I choked them back, waving vaguely at the truck, saying "It'll have to go back until we work out how we can lift it in..."

"Ya could tell your hubby to knock off the gate and the posts; that'd get 'er in, no worries," said BB2, trying to cheer me up.

It didn't work. "Or you guys could lift it up over the fence?"

Their mocking laughter sent a chill through me even though I was drenched in sweat. And tears. "Yeah right darl, the bastard weighs 135 kilos."

Oh.

And so it came to pass that we rang Barbecues Galore who said they'd arrange for BB1 and BB2 to return on Saturday when Love Chunks would be home and therefore able to undo the box ("He has to do it or BB1 and BB2 can charge you an 'unpacking fee' of $250"), remove the acres of foam packaging and then wheel the monster inside the gate, up the side of the house and around the back. OK then.

Saturday came. No BB1, BB2 or BBQ. Love Chunks rang Mr Galore. A few minutes on hold, only to be advised, "Nah mate, you're not on the list for today. They're coming some time on Wednesday."

Love Chunks patiently explained that he'd arranged it to be Saturday because of the unpacking issue.

Mr Galore appeared not to comprehend. "Nah mate, it's Wednesday."

LC explained a third time, slightly more tersely. "I work. I can't hang around all day. The point of the Saturday delivery was so that I'd be home to unpack the friggin...."

He listened, fingers tapping on our table in a staccato dance of digit anger. "No, I'll tell you a fourth time. I am NOT prepared to, 'let it stay outside until I get home from work' on Wednesday....."

He lost. It is coming on Wednesday.

There was a tiny victory of sorts. If Love Chunks rings that morning, they might - just might - be able to give him a 'three hour window' to estimate the delivery time.

Bloody gate.

I'm baaaaack

Well, we’re finally here. In Melbourne. Flemington, to be precise.

The journey involved a very long and boring day of driving along the highway in a battered old magna with Love Chunks, nine year old Sapphire, Milly the dog and Skipper the rabbit. Too many games of 'Who Am I?' and 'Guess the Car Model', scattered pasty and sausage roll crumbs on the seats and sly farts emitted and only discovered by other occupants several minutes later ("Geez Milly, we need to get you off tinned Pal") were only eased by loo and playground stops, petrol refills and realising that yes, the Big Koala at Dadswell's Bridge really does look like a huge pile of marsupial doo doos.

Squeezed under our feet and between the arm rests were our suitcases, beloved boxes of wine, two bamboo plants, pet paraphernalia, two laptops, assorted electronica and some tupperware containers full of slightly-perishable snacks such as cashews, Oreos, breadsticks and homemade melting moments. And blocks of Lindt, Nestle, Cadbury and Cote d'Or: essentials, you understand.

The Ibis put us up for three nights as we excitedly awaited settlement, receiving the keys from the land agent and the 'set down' of our furniture. It was in fact the smallest living occupant - Skipper - who took up residence first, being deposited in his hutch by the back door three days before we were official owners of the place.

On moving-in day we battled 39C heat, buzzing blowflies and the cheerful banter of blokes who'd endlessly ask, "So, where do you want this box?" whilst knowing that the only place for most of the stuff labelled 'Shed' was outside. Any thoughts I had of being ruthless and a devilish declutterer in Adelaide were long gone as I got even more heave-happy and hard-hearted in Victoria.

A blow up Crows doll? Out!

Five old pairs of running shoes that were designated for weeding? Flung!

Seven suitcases of which three are only ever used? To the kerb!

An icecream machine, battery-operated spice grinder, fruit-juicer and plastic BBQ crockery set for sixteen people - BE GONE.

Oh, OK, so Love Chunks brought the appliances back in, but I won the argument about 'losing' my ill-fated efforts at painting sub-realistic sealions and Aboriginal art and we're still debating whether the blue canoe will make an attractive garden feature or feature in a Trading Post 'for sale' advertisement.

With most of the main gear (ie beds, food and basic bathroom supplies) unpacked, Sapphire and I explored our surroundings whilst Love Chunks started work. We live in the triangular-shaped area of Flemington with two main roads carrying the trams, taxis and scooters and the third ending up at the oval connected to the enormous housing commission buildings that cast dark shadows over the entrance to City Link. As such, the ambient background noise is the ding-ding of public transport, the burrp-burrrp-burping zooms of motorbikes, low-flying helicopters and the smell of cigarette smoke wafting over from the flats next door. Quite a departure from the lawn-mowers, leaf-blowers and blow-in bogan hoons doing burn-outs in Trinity Gardens and only eighty-five year old neighbour Jack sneaking one solitary smoke during his morning walk around the block.

Here is our local deli, or 'shop' in the next street. It needs a paint job and inside it's about as big as our bathroom with the fridge only stocking three 600ml cartons of Big M iced coffee*, half a dozen coke zeros and some butter from the Golden era of Gough Whitlam. Still, it also sells The Age and a decent range of chocolate bars, so life could be worse.

Our local strip, Racecourse Road, is a small-but-busy hub of Vietnamese, North African, Italian, Greek, Lebanese, Japanese, Malaysian, Chinese, Irish and Aussie cuisines interspersed with the unavoidable KFC, Maccas, Subway and St Vincent dePauls. We lunched at a noodle bar and saw a chap park his black Porsche and sit at the table next to us, alongside a gaggle of African-speaking taxi drivers on their break. Afterwards, we took Milly to Debney Park where she delighted in sniffing out several dead birds, too many smashed beer bottles and take-away cartons - a pooch's paradise but one where Sapphire pursed her lips and commented on the amount of graffiti and litter. "Why do they do it, Mum?"

Why indeed.

As for Milly, she delights in any opportunities to go for a walk, but when she comes back 'home' she is puzzled beyond her usual furry-faced limits of comprehension. Her family is here, her bed is here, our belongings are here, but what is this place? What are the noises, sounds, smells, odours and sights? Should she issue a few tough "Ooofs" to let the neighbours know that there's a killer Jorgi behind the fence, or relax and sun herself on the tile-sized patch of lawn? Whatever the answer to her questions, she is always keeping a beady eye on the comings and goings of her human housemates, never daring to let one venture further than three metres out of her sight or smell.

Love Chunks has kept his swearing to a minimum as he's been figuring out how to cram in a double garage's worth of stuff into a potting shed, how to put up pictures on weatherboard-veneer walls and, most importantly, how to get the telly back on. He's put in a champion effort at lifting and shifting everything from double wardrobes, weights benches and dryers and also managed to get his beloved Gaggia coffee machine up and running on the first day.

I've learned that having a driveway or access to an old Poo Cart Lane is a sign of wealth and privilege; hunky young firemen do their fitness training at Sapphire's new school on weekends ("Hey Sweetie, shouldn't we go for a walk around your new school so that you get familiar with it?") and there's chocolate-makers and devoted cafes out here I'm only just becoming aware of. Oh, and that I feel happy and just a teensy bit excited, like, you know when it's your birthday and even though you're on the bus and no-one there would know or care about it and you haven't told anyone, you feel sort of special..... Yeah, kind of like that.

* Stay tuned for a future anti-Big M rant......

Barmy Army

Yay, my book is now available in the UK - woo hoo!

It'd be nice if I currently possessed the mental capacity to express my delight in slightly better English but my brain is currently firing about as fast as a cockroach in cold porridge.

There's been a few too many items on my 'To Do List' (which I've enjoyed ticking off as they're completed, being the Conscious Dag that I am) such as selling the trailer, drinking excessively at farewell dinners, finding a temporary home for the dog and the rabbit, dropping off donations to a garage sale fund-raiser, keeping some other items to haggle and eventually sell to a local furniture dealer and sneaking around the neighbours' wheelie bins to slyly insert our own excessive amounts of rubbish and recycling.

Dagginess has been multiplied by one hundred as we wear undies that will be thrown into the bin rather than the laundry hamper, tracksuits barely held together with ancient elastic, stinkingly sweaty Crocs, dodgy old 1990s concert t-shirts and towels that even the dog sniffs at in interest.

I'll log on again when we arrive in dear old Melbourne. Yep, there will still be blurbing from the burbs, just a slight change in state (geographical and perhaps emotional), post code and house size. So give us a friendly wave if you see an old station wagon swimming in sausage roll crumbs and iced coffee cartons and two tired adults, a blonde-haired angelic child (who will hopefully not throw up on the back seat or splatter it towards the front console), a smiley orange dog and a nervous white rabbit.

River Rocks

River has been a regular and most welcome blog commenter and I've had the privilege of meeting her in person a few times. She is warm, gorgeous, kind and the kind of mother and grandmother we'd all be thrilled to have in our lives.

I saw her the other morning power walking to the supermarket as I was running down Magill Road, trying to convince myself that street running - with car fumes, the occasional rude 'call out' from fat mini-van drivers and dangerously trippy tree roots - was better than my treadmill.

"RIVER! Hey, River!" We had a chat, me wiping sweat from my brow onto the bottom of my t-shirt and she asking me about how Sapphire was coping with the move. "I'd like to send her an email, just for her," she said.

And she did just that, except now I want to share it with you all. You truly rock, River!

Dear Sapphire, you're moving soon.

Moving is hard, saying goodbye to home, school, friends, more so when you've been there for so long.

You watch all your things being packed away into boxes, the furniture gets loaded into a huge truck, you wonder if you'll ever see your stuff again. You will.

You'll have tearful hugs with your friends, and promise to remember them forever. You will. Do you have photos of your friends? Have each friend write a message on the back of their picture, something that you won't read until you are in your new home.

You'll walk around inside your empty house and hear the echoing footsteps you make. Take a little time to remember the happiest moments you spent in each room. Take photos if you can, of the boxes piled up ready for the truck, of the empty rooms and how the sunlight looks different now that there is no furniture. Stand a while in your most favourite spot and say goodbye, crying a little is okay too. It's a big moment.

The new house at first will be strange, walk through the empty rooms if you can, and notice that all empty houses don't sound alike. Find out the quickest way to get to the toilet, very important.

Find your new room and stand there, just feeling it. Picture where you'd like your bed to be. Which wall will hold your favourite posters. Look out of the window and wonder if there are any kids of your age in the near neighbourhood.

The fun starts when the truck arrives, (maybe it's there before you, waiting) you watch furniture being unloaded, you spot things that are yours and know that your treasures have arrived safely. Do you rush to open the boxes? Do you wait until your bed is in place? Waiting to unpack is always hard for me, I don't know about you. (One of my daughters always wanted everything back the way it was as soon as possible. The books in the shelf and on the lefthand side of the bed. The toy box under the window so that she could sit on it to look outside on rainy days.)

At first it may be hard to decide where things will go, the room may be shaped differently, you might wander outside to think a bit, cry a bit, wish you were back home again. But the new house will soon feel like home, every time you come and go, from shopping, school, playground, it will be easier to think of this new house as home. Tables and couches will get settled into their new positions, all of your books and toys, your guitar and beanie babies will be there to welcome you home just like they always have.

Having breakfast with mum and dad will be the same, Weetbix tastes the same in Melbourne as it does in Adelaide. You're sure to find friends quickly, one of the best ways is to find the nearest McDonalds and go there for lunch in the first day or two when you are all fed up with unpacking stuff.

By the time school starts again you'll have friends who are going to the same school and who were there the year before so they can show you around. Then you'll bring friends home, bring them to your kitchen for snacks, sit on your bed and giggle about stuff that happened that day, you'll be making wonderful new memories here, and you'll realise that you're just as happy as you were here in Adelaide.

You'll smile at your mum, she'll smile back, and you'll realise that as long as you three are together any house you live in will be home. Think of the fun you'll have telling your new friends all about your old friends, think about phoning or emailing grandpa and telling him how funny skipper was hopping all over the new house, how funny Milly was trying to sniff everything at once in her excitement.

A move is not such a bad thing after all. And Melbourne is a nice place to be. I've lived there twice.

From River.

Thanks mate.

Come on then, I'm bent over and ready for whatever you want to deliver...!*

As for the house....well, the week ended on just as crappy a note as it began. The brilliant 'buyers' didn't come back with a new contract of sale by Thursday and we asked our agent to contact them to advise that if we hadn't heard from them by 4pm on Friday, the deal was off and our home was back on the open market.

In the meantime, we focussed our attention on the bank meeting - could we please have two sets of paperwork prepared in case we do sell our house before the Melbourne settlement date or in case we don't and therefore need another, oh, the entire treasury of a tiny African nation (no, not those pesky Nigerians) to cover another house, our existing Adelaide house mortgage, real estate agent fees, Victorian stamp duty and the obligatory paper shuffling and conveyancing fees. Sure, the interest alone is more than our actual income but I did note that Flemington has numerous tram shelters that I could perhaps perform some sexual favours in - between school hours only of course......

By 4pm our meeting at the bank was over - both scenarios were approved, and we glumly headed home assuming that the bonza 'buyers' had finally cooled off and were already looking at houses in other postcodes. Love Chunks felt OK enough to get his chest x-ray done and sent to his GP and we hope that his next appointment will kick off with a more positive question than, "So have you been working with asbestos?"

At 7pm I was out in the shed pounding merry hell out of the treadmill and Love Chunks took a call from our agent. She said that the 'buyers' were prepared to offer us another contract of sale, but this time for $15,000 less than agreed previously.

To say that we were disappointed at such a low act - and for stringing us along all week - is an understatement. We felt utterly betrayed and shocked - it seemed as though delaying signing the contract of sale until Saturday morning (instead of the day we accepted it, which was Thursday), gave them the weekend and two further days to work out a scheme that effectively made our week just that little bit harder to deal with.

Not only were these bastard 'buyers' aware that LC's mother's funeral was on Tuesday - the day they formally cooled off - but they still insisted that the SA Water, Murray's Pest Control and a Building Inspector arrive that same afternoon to examine our house and provide them with three separate reports. The agent unwittingly added to strength of their scheme by informing the blatantly bad 'buyers' that we'd bought a house in Melbourne over the weekend and were a mite keen to get the contract situation sorted out quick smartish. Instead, the oh-so empathetic 'buyers' then decided to leave us dangling for another three days (now effectively extending their offer to buy, and then cool off period from the legal two to nine) and hope that by dragging things out to 7pm on Friday we'd be so desperate to sell that we'd accept a lower price.

Then, just to make us sweat even further they faxed - rather than phone and speak directly - our agent with the info that they'd give us until close of business Monday (today) to accept their offer and then had their mobile phones turned off so that she couldn't inform them that their actions were unconscionable or try to convince them to play fair. How they must have rubbed their hands in glee - not only had they screwed us out of $35,000 last week, but they were going to add another $15,000 because of a family death, dodgy delays and a cooling off period - what fun!

The agent phoned us this morning to say how mortified she was and how she'd said to them all last week, over and over again, that we were trustworthy people who loved the house and had not left anything undone or hidden that would be of concern to them - and none of the reports came back with anything negative either. We asked her to not call the blowfly 'buyers' back - we no longer want to deal with them.

In fact, LC still had the beezlebub 'buyers' email address after having to sort out their previous queries re the SA Water backflow device (they need one legally, we have TWO) and this is what he sent to them as our response:

Dear Dr _____ and Dr _______,

We received your adjusted offer. Just wanted to let you know: we won't be accepting it.

We've lived here 8 years, we know this property and we know real estate in this area. We have renovated this house extensively and have undertaken any major and minor form of repair it has needed as well as added other features that have made it into a beautiful home we're very proud of.

We know we had offered you a very good deal - better than we should have at the time.

We are honest and decent people - the type to honour a deal and a commitment. It may well be that we sell the house at a lower value than your offer, if that is what the market dictates - but it will not be to you.

LC Lockett

******

Or, in my own personal draft that was rejected:

Dear Drs __ and ____,

May every foul crap that you agonisingly squeeze out of your cracked and bleeding arseholes be born with personalities of their own that allow them to clamber out of the bowl, up your snakelike spines and attempt to strangle you with their slimy, disease-ridden, shit-stinking hands. Or wedge themselves into your left nostrils; whichever is most painful and inconvenient option.

Love, Kath Lockett

******

So it's back to open inspections, hiding the dirty dishes and de-dog-hairing the place.

*Alternative title - To Whom It May Concern - I don't want to be an adult anymore. Please return all this paperwork, cellulite and Crows Feet and give me back my Gnid Blytons, Mad Magazines and Abba records thank you. 1976 would be great, thanks.

Show us yer Tightly Held Pocket

Sigh. It's been eight long years since we've been through the stomach-clenching stress of selling a house and looking to buy another.

In 2000 we handed over the keys to our little red 1950s clinker in Heidelberg Heights (home of neighbour bogans fond of drunken and naked domestics at 3am) and moved back home to South Australia with a one year old baby and a crabby blue heeler in tow.

Now we're selling our beloved old dame of a home in Adelaide and moving back to Melbourne; this time with a nine year old young lady, a friendly Jorgi and nervous white rabbit as entourage. The car, however, is still the same - a now twelve year old Magna station wagon with its fair share of dings, dog hairs and cassette tape-only sound system.

Love Chunks' work opportunities are going to be more challenging and wider-ranging at Nerd Central (aka the Bureau of Meteorology) in the Docklands and I'm hoping to get Sapphire settled into her new school/sport/music/social life whilst also keeping my beady snot green eyes out for any writing opportunities that arise.

Yes, the competition will be much greater than in Adelaide, but hopefully too there'll be more avenues to investigate and maybe even more willingness to entertain submissions from a writer who is not related to Nicole Cornes, has never appeared on Big Brother and is not currently - nor ever in the past - been busy shagging an AFL player.

Anyhow, the process involved in tarting up our house has been exhausting and, hopefully, rewarding. Dramatically decluttering and rediscovering the forgotten arts of dusting, wiping down the glass shower screen and weeding has been but the tip of the sweeping, mopping, furniture shifting and perfect-bed making iceberg and it was therefore a relief to swan off to New Zealand for a couple of weeks and let the agents hold open inspections without us actually living in there thoughtlessly messing up our own work.

Two weeks and a delayed flight later found us arrive smack bang in the middle of an Open Inspection (sounds rude in any other context), and we asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the park instead. It was a rather sad little scene with Sapph and I standing uncertainly under a bottle brush bush surrounded by our wheelie bags and backpacks as LC dashed up the street, wandered into our home as though he was a 'looker', silently nodded to the agent and surreptitiously swiped the car keys out of the front bedroom and backed the magna out of the driveway. Hopefully none of the potential buyers thought that car thieves were spectacularly audacious types in Trinity Gardens.....

..........and my heart twinged when Sapphire said nervously to me this morning, "Don't worry Mum, I haven't messed up my room at all by being selfish and playing with my toys or getting out my papers to do any drawings." How frickin' cruel am I, denying my own child the right to play, relax and enjoy her own little corner of the world?

Well tough. Fingerprints, gluesticks and rabbit hair are buggers to remove.