To use the already-tired vocabulary favoured by football commentators

......what a year it has been!

Mistakes were made, arguments were held, travel was undertaken and spare cash spent, but as I sit back in the dusty spare room (currently holding a weeks’ worth of washing, two un-renovated 1950s armchairs and paperwork covered in Milly’s fur), some lessons have been learned.  Allow me to share my collected twelve months' worth of wisdom with you, dear reader.

Geographic location is everything. So is desperation.

I scored a terrific gig at – not sure if they should be mentioned or if rhyming words should be used, so we’ll play it safe – 'Bureauvision.'  I had dropped in my CV a month earlier and the lady who received it looked about as interested as a Kardashian not in front of a camera, but I only live one kilometre away.  Four weeks later, when the dust had settled on some redundancies and an additional staffer was forcibly ejected for completely misunderstanding what ‘work’ meant, I was called in.  Yes, I could be there by lunchtime; I could be there right now if they liked

Cheapness is seized.

With the car not even warm after the 1km drive, they asked for my hourly rate.  Not one for thinking quickly on my feet, I blurted out the one I use as an English tutor. This was accepted before I’d fully closed my mouth, so it was easy to figure out that a Swiss street sweeper with special needs rakes in more (and most of that from the gutters in the nightclub district).  Even so, I bet they didn't have as much fun as I did trying to publicise, coordinate and report on an awards ceremony that featured drunk Belgian comedians (yes, they do exist. Belgian comedians I mean, not drunks), a stage hogging Dutch host, a scene-stealing Aussie producer, Freddy Mercury fans, a modern interpretative dance routine during dessert and a huffy royal wrangler.  The gig is mine for this year too!

First impressions are usually right.  Second ones just confirm the first.

Lyon in France was visited again and still failed to give me the ‘oh wow’ reaction that everyone else seems to get.  Lingering smell of stale piss that seeps into your own clothes and lingers for a week? Check.  A run-down riverfront that is praised to the skies online but was a dusty obstacle course of bottles and beggars?  Check.   Overrated ‘gusto’ restaurants with 2074 price lists and 1974 decor? Check.  

Swiss cows aren’t happy; they’re deaf!

Those enormous bells that your least favourite Aunt brings you back from her big bus tour around Europe? Usually festooned with vomit-swirls of hand-painted edelweiss and alps?  Switzerland’s beloved bovines really do wear those brass bongers around their necks.  Even when casually standing in a field and doing nothing other than flicking away summer flies and considering which charming native flower to chew on next, the sound is a cacophonous chorus that renders ramblers strolling by temporarily deaf, let alone the poor creatures themselves.

Here’s proof:

Life is full of pricks.

In my case, it was time to try another method to persuade Mr Migraine to favour me less: acupuncture.  My GP referred me to his own acupuncturist; a German guy on the wrong side of town: next door to the soup kitchen and the car park entrance favoured by pick pockets counting their loot from the Plain Palais flea market.  My nerves were hidden by my immaturity: the doctor’s initials were PP.  Doctor PeePee... tee hee.  After sitting down and asking about my symptoms, how often, how long and where, I was asked to strip down to my knickers so that he could place his pins in parts of my body that included....  To be honest, I forgot where he stuck them; the tiny sensation of them being inserted was immediately forgotten and it was only when I sneezed and felt some wobble on my forehead and shoulders that I remembered.

Don't save your nice undies for date night.

My weekly sessions with Dr PeePee (see above) were making a significant difference.  Three weeks into a six-week schedule had shown only one sign of Mr Migraine and he was surprisingly easy to send packing.  In a now-familiar routine, I stripped off, lay on the bed and received my various pricks before being placed under a foil space blanket to keep warm.  Dr PeePee left the room and I decided to use the time to remember how to meditate..... WOO WOO WOO!

I sat up in shock; pins catching on the blanket and the ones on my ears pinching my hair. WOO WOO WOO!  The alarms were sounding all over the city.  Had it finally happened?  Was today the day that the rest of the warring world decided that Switzerland had been neutral for far too long and it was high time that they were forced to use their bomb shelters? 

WOO WOO WOO!  And here I was, alone, in nothing but knickers, studded with pins....!  

“Dr PeePee...?  DR PEEPEE????”   Sliding off the table with a partly-stuck on silver blanket and pins that waggled as I walked uncertainly towards the door to call out ‘Dr PeePee’ for the third time was not particularly comfortable, especially when some were at the top of my ankle that folded in a bit with each tentative step. “Dr PeePee...?!”

“It’s okay Madam Lockett,” he said, eventually squeaking up the passage in blue Crocs.  “Today is the day when all of the alarms have to be tested in Geneva.  It’s the law.”

My sigh of relief caused a pin in my neck to fall out.  “In that case, wouldn’t today would be the ideal time to bomb Geneva, as nobody would think it was anything except a drill, would they?”

Dr PeePee smiled.  “Well it’s a good thing that your clothes are within arm’s reach then, isn’t it?”

You can teach an old dog new tricks.

Steph’s friend Anne is a pharmacist by trade, but a dog trainer by passion.  As with alarm testing and cow bells, they take it very seriously here in Switzerland.  She was required to video lessons she’d undertaken with various dogs and needed to run a class with a young dog and an old dog.  Harley, at two, fulfilled the first criterion and Milly, at ten, amply provided the old. 

The aim was to get both dogs to walk left and round around four orange traffic cones, sticking closely to the sides of their owners and then sitting down at each end.  Harley was eager and up for it and walked alongside Steph willingly, but decided that manoeuvring through the cones was a waste of his time. 

Milly, on the other hand, followed my every move, left and right, onwards and upwards, sitting proudly on her backside (always careful to protect her arthritic back legs) at the end.  The same result was achieved over and over again, encouraging idle fantasies of Milly-n-me putting Pudsey and her human chick Ashleigh firmly into second place and snatching the half-million UK pound prize from under their noses.....  “Milly, you’re a natural at this,” Anne said, walking towards us, hands in her bum bag.  “Although if she eats any more of my treats her stomach’s in danger of dragging along the ground.

Hmmm, an old dog learning new tricks.  Could this old dog, in her forty sixth year, train for a marathon; her own stomach trailing dangerously close to the ground after years of Lindt inhalation?

Third impressions count

It's a funny thing, to return back to your home country after a long-ish period away.

This is the third time I've done so.

The first, after twelve months in Scotland, saw us turn up to our house and see a neighbour's kid, Amanda, riding past on her bike. Her, "Hello there! So you're finally baaack!" took us all by surprise at how broad and exaggerated her Strine accent seemed. This was even more baffling when we then realised that she came from a wealthy, private-schooled family who all spoke in far posher and plummier tones than we did.

At thirteen, the first impressions when driving from Adelaide airport to Murray Bridge was not only that the sky resembled the faded blue of the ancient 1950s coloured films we sometimes had to watch in the Activity Room at primary school, but that it was was enormous.  Same too for the width of the roads - plenty of space for trucks, cars, buses, pedestrians, tractors dragging harvesters to the next paddock and footpaths. The endless yellowy-brown of the landscape with the rising dust seemingly making a big contribution to the dimming down of the blue sky. Kids who hadn't become Punks, Mods, Poseurs, Rockers or Skinheads.























In my early twenties, I returned home a second time after two years (and two stone fatter) away. Working, travelling and socialising: the ultimate goals of the two year UK Working Visa-holder.  At the airport, my family and friends were there to greet me, all politely ignoring the inescapable sight of my bulk that I'd tragically tried to disguise in a black leather bikie jacket, long permed hair and (I blush to recall this), smeared in fake tan.  It is with no small amount of relief that I neglected not to scan the photos of that unfortunate era to show you.

At twenty four, the impressions that hit me were that people celebrated and socialised in their homes and not at the closest pub. Houses were large and clean enough to have other human beings over to share in food, conversation and wine.  No longer seeing black slime in my tissue after a day spent travelling on the tube. Wine, not a pint (or four) of cider; washed down with groovy salads, affordable meats and funky bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil.

I have Love Chunks to thank for luring me out of the fish-n-chips-straight-after-the-pub lifestyle and back onto the tennis court and reaching for a bottle instead of the marked down cask of Fruity Lexia.  I have my parents to thank for helping me settle back into life as a student and for providing a home base when the city got too much and a Murray Bridge moment was required; and I have friends to thank for still wanting to see me after boring them with my stories on how London was (and is) the most exciting place in the world.















Thirdly, today. Or last month to be precise.  Eighteen months since leaving Australia for Switzerland, forty four years old with the three visible age spots on my face to prove it.  Endured a hellish journey home but the following morning woke up to a lovely sunny Melbourne day and found that the smells were the first things to notice.

Shops, for instance.  The empty coke-can coolness of air conditioning as opposed to ancient fans and sweaty, non-deodorised armpits ala Genevoise.  Aromas of meat pies wafting from doorways instead of slightly burned croissants.  Blokes sitting at park benches drinking iced coffees when they downed tools instead of a cigarette and espresso on tiny chairs at cafes.  Gum trees and warm bitumen. Spicy stir fries, fresh strawberries and cake!

Being able to converse with everyone and be instantly understood without the requirement of bad charades or the 'thumbs up' sign. Seeing my daughter occasionally mistaken for someone English and my husband confirm that Australia does indeed have the best coffee in the world. Said whilst eating his fourth pasty of the trip.

Hearing the screeching cacophony of the rainbow lorikeets, galahs and cockatoos as they made their way back to the reserve next to my parents' place, all eager to share their news of the day.  The proud 'bardle oodle argle' of the magpies who decided which of the New Holland Honey Eaters could share their bird bath and when. The childlike screech of the neighbour's cat when defending their self-appointed boundary.  The 'thonk' of cricket ball against bat during the many games played over picnic lunches in the park.  Fireworks overtaking even the hoons on New Years' Eve.

Seeing dogs run past with their owners whilst aching to see and pat my own.  Playing endless games of Rummy-O with Mum and Dad, and being thrashed every single time.  Watching Sapphire laugh unselfconsciously as she spent an entire afternoon in our friends' pool filling up water balloons.

Posing for underwater photographs with my very best friend, still in awe of her resilience, intelligence and humour.  Catching up with friends I'd gladly offer a spare room to any and every time they needed one.  Hearing Dad say that Mum's garden was by far the most beautiful in the street.  Feeling a pang of sadness when Milly's doghouse, made by Dad, was no longer in their back yard.

Dad's raspy whiskers, enjoyed during a hug. The milky sweet smell of Nivea on my Mum's soft face.  Seeing my nephew throw back his head and laugh like an unoiled door; the other grinning wider than the Joker.  My brother, still refusing to accept that yes, he too was as unstoppable and noisy as his sons; and his wife for her calm kindness amongst the chaotic creations of home made gingerbread houses.

Sapphire cried when she farewelled her grandparents, friends and cousins as we hugged on my parents' front lawn.  Surprisingly, my eyes remained dry, caught in a bind of confusion: sentimentality and hope, recharged and ready to go back. Connections renewed and deeply appreciated.  A wish to thank my family for an upbringing that was safe and encouraging and magical for being so and to thank them again for their continued interest and support and love.

When we finally walked through the door to our un-renovated 1970 apartment after collecting Milly, tears started to form. "It feels like home because you're back with us," I whispered into her neck, "But there'll be many more opportunities to return to our other home too."

Not so for her, which is why I cried.

Accidentalis Pulchritudo

Brilliant writer Elisabeth from Sixth in line has been discussing a professional family portrait that she's been given as part of a recent birthday present.

Despite being apprehensive about it, she explains the concepts of 'punctum' as it relates to photography. I won't pretend to be familiar with Roland Barthe or his 1980 work 'Camera Lucida' but, as my grey matter understands it, 'punctum' describes the unplanned associations one makes with a photograph.

Usually, in my own experience, 'punctum' pops up in photographs that aren't formally posed. Either the subjects depicted are unaware of being snapped or there's been timing flukey or lucky enough to catch a unique situation.

Seeing as it's still Sunday, I'm going to give a nod to River's Sunday Selections tradition and plunk down some photos whose 'punctum' productions particularly grab me.

Firstly, our ex-rabbit, Skipper.  We caught up with him during our recent visit home to Oz and found that he's just gained a new friend, Gus the kitten. Gus likes to regularly leap on top of Skipper's back. Bunny boy is rather tolerant, but, after the sixth ambush, he kicked out his back leg and Gus found himself off the couch and sprawled on the floor.

Eventually, even 13 week-olds get tired, and this is what Sapphire found when she lifted up the blanket.

In Adelaide, a 43C day was made a lot more fun by using Kent's underwater camera.  Regular readers will know that my husband, Love Chunks, is a softly-spoken, quiet achiever kind of bloke, but during the photo session in the pool he did all manner of duck dives, bombs, swim pasts and chop sueys for attention. I'm thinking of having this one enlarged and framed.

Could this be any more Australian? Our mate Kent, mid-jump, on a plastic thong coloured in the national flag directly into the pool.

Earlier times, circa 2007.  Our underwater rain water tanks had been buried, the under-grass drip watering system was about to be laid and then some turf finally rolled over the top.  The chickens - Hermoine, Luna and Ginny - were happily settling in and Sapphire was busy bustin' her moves on the trampoline, unaware that I was nearby.

Even earlier, around 2003.  Our intense young artist was busily painting in her pen drawing of Ursula from 'The Little Mermaid', wearing one of LC's old shirts.  She spent many many hours at the bright yellow table that my father had made for her; specifically on projects involving empty boxes, sticky tape, play dough, paints, chalk and pipe cleaners.

Artists do get tired though. This one had recently been diagnosed with Asthma, and was told that Elmo was too furry to sleep with. To deal with this upsetting news, she was allowed to pick something/someone less hirsute.  Jesse the Cowgirl was a regular night time companion for several years.

A portrait of my god son (Will, in yellow on matching space-hopper), his two older siblings and my child.  Sapphire clearly had a few unrealised romantic feelings for young Mr P and took the opportunity to steal a quick embrace before the word 'cheese' had ended.

Despite being on the far end of Daggy slash Tomboy slash Unkempt, for a couple of years I made a lot of jewellery to help the school fundraising efforts. Sapphire was very keen to show off the bracelet she'd made (which was subsequently sold, a few weeks later, to a rather sophisticated older adult). What turned out was a slightly out of focus piece of jewellery but a lovely portrait of her happy little face.

Not so happy here at the start of 2009 though, despite my urgings to smile.  Leaving the only home she'd ever remembered to go and move to Melbourne was a time of uncertainty for Sapphire. Seeing some of those friends a month ago put a huge smile back on her face.

My mother has a beautiful singing voice, and I've reminisced in the past about her sterling efforts in many a musical production. Why not duet with your granddaughter to ABBA?

Holding a book in a damp bathroom whilst cleaning your teeth might not be the best idea, but who was I to tell her off for reading?  Multi-tasking at its finest.

Tasmania, January 2010. The first stirrings of tweenage angst from Sapphire.  And yet, then as now, my heart surges when I see her and LC together. They're more alike than they realise.

Geneva, 2012. An impromptu greeting from Milly that is received with thanks.


















Martigny, Switzerland, is home to the St Bernard Museum.  Worth a visit because the town also contains some impressive Roman ruins and a museum that regularly snaffles art masterpieces such as Van Gogh, Monet and Picasso to have a look at.  

Back to the dogs. This fella was in the very first steps of slurping me entirely across the face, leaving me covered in a clear-but-thick saliva jelly substance that smelled of St Bernard's bum hole. Still worth it.

When my parents arrived, I insisted that they pose in front of the UN, which has become a tradition for all of our house guests. We discovered that none of the flags were up - something I'd never seen before. Just after taking this photo, a gaggle of kids walked by.

Is your dog friendly? Can we pat him?

"Of course, but 'he' is a 'she.'" Milly was surrounded by admirers....

......who insisted that I take their photo, too.

Eventually, their mother and Auntie persuaded them to keep on walking and I decided to take another photo of my parents, Sapphire and Milly, "just in case the first one doesn't work out."

Before we knew it ....

.....this cheeky little guy dashed in, posed as the extra family member, and dashed out again!

This is the photograph I was referring to when commenting on Elisabeth's blog post: 'When LC and I married a millennia ago, we did the usual thing and hired a professional photographer. I hated the awkward poses, wearing too much make up and having all eyes on me (plus a brain tumour that, undiagnosed at the time, made me feel rather ill) and the photos all reflected that. A wedding guest friend, however, gave me some snaps he took on his old kodak and one immediately grabbed me. We're slightly out of focus, but LC and I are both not looking at the camera, but at something else that has made us laugh. It's the only one I had framed and is still on our bookshelf.' 

And, finally this one.  This is the one that I will get enlarged:

I love you, darling Sapphire.

Long haul limbo

Thirty six hours of travel from door to door is a shocker of an experience in anyone's book, so I should not have been surprised when, after our first eight hour flight and three hour transit wait, Sapphire looked at fellow airport passengers standing like pallid zombies gripping their wheelie cases on the flat escalator belts and asked, "Mum, what does purgatory mean?"

That's when I realised that the biblical references we take for granted are not fully understood by kids who have never been to Sunday school or church. Running my hand through my oily hair and blinking out the dried eye boogers whilst trying to keep my morning-breath mouth away from Sapphire's face in order not to make her heave, I tried to give a reasoned reply.

"Well, it's sort of like a half-way holding pen that God supposedly puts you in after you die when he's not sure whether you should be flung down into Satan's evil hands for all eternity or sent upwards to the angels. While he figures it out, you stay in purgatory feeling bored, powerless and in limbo."

"Like airports."

Exactly.

There comes a time when all the movies, soundtracks, thin blankets and bad selfies can no longer overcome the numbness of confined spaces, stale air and overheated oompa loompa-sized trays of in-flight catering.

A time when the urge to reach out and slap a person who is already comfortably reclining in their Business Class seat as you pass them by, cruelly out of reach financially and on proud display as a representative What You Can Not Afford as you trudge through to Cramped Class at the arse-end of the plane.

Mr Migraine had also decided to pay me a visit - just to make sure that the trip back to Australia had an extra element of discomfort to it.  He knew that swallowing tablets on a queasy, travel sickness-prone stomach wasn't an option, nor were ear plugs as they always tend to expand and shoot out of the sides of my head like startled wine corks.

And thus, the plane version of Purgatory began.

Firstly, the dreaded family with a screaming toddler who sat in the row directly in front of us.  Yes, there was genuine pity to be had for the two exhausted parents trying their damnedest to calm down an eighteen month old who was not given their own seat and did not have the capacity to understand why their ears hurt.  Well, for the first two hours at least.

Then, when the parents used up all of the nappies they had, the sympathy vanished quicker than a stewardess when the lighting's turned down and immediately flicked over to the baleful burning hot heat of hatred.  And that was before the kid shat himself so badly that it spurted up and over the top of his nappy, surging towards his shoulders and onto his mother's lap. The stench of warm diarrhoea filled the cabin as his parents struggled to fashion the excrement-encrusted enfant terrible a new outfit from a plastic duty free bag and a handful of serviettes.

Love Chunks nudged me. "The old guy's BO is maturing faster than stilton on a windowsill."

He was right. Ponky Old Geezer had also got on board in Switzerland, already ripe with the aroma of his fortnightly bath day nearly due and wearing what appeared to be his entire wardrobe of winter coat, cardigan, flanelette shirt, wool scarf and flat cap.  He immediately fell asleep when he buckled his broiling bulk into his seat across the aisle from LC, leaving all of his thick, sweat-creating attire on.  Somehow, the baby shit and the fogey funk molecules joined, creating a suffocating arch of repulsive reeks that caused the passenger behind us to start vomiting.

Oh and did you know that 'cabin crew' no longer accept used sick bags from passengers?  Something to do with health and safety or rules or disposal requirements or other. Therefore, the poor vomiting sod had to either a) hang on to the bag that eventually started dripping through the ill-made seal at the bottom; or b) find the strength to be well enough to stagger over to the toilet, wait their turn and cram it into the pencil sharpener-sized disposal chute; leaving a fetching fountain of chunder for other toilet users to happen upon.   We could now add vomit to the circling stench of faeces and elderly essence....

But wait, we too had something to contribute, apart from Love Chunks' rather whipper snipper-like snore.

Sapphire tapped me on the shoulder. "Mum," she whispered. "My head feels really itchy."

I pushed her face gently back into her chair. "Yeah, we've all had dry skin. You know, with the cold air in Switzerland and the hot water..."

Travellers' breath near my face meant that she had more to say. "NO, Mum. I mean my hair is really REALLY itchy."

We shared a sideways look of surprise and recognition.  It had been years. Years!  "OK then, put your head in my lap."

Her noggin looked like a blonde ant farm cleaning up after a cake crumb fight: it was crawling with lice and eggs. There was nothing for it: they had to be individually picked out with my fingers; squashed into a now-dry refresher towelette and destroyed before the little buggers decided to branch out and colonise the rest of Cramped Class.

Three hours it took me, leaving my eyes and finger tips burning. Lice eggs are miniscule and stick to individual hair shafts. Try doing that kind of monkey grooming when the cabin lights have been switched off for nigh-nighs and all you've got is a poxy overhead reading light to go by.  Eventually, all visible signs of infestation had been removed, shoved into a Unicef donation envelope and disposed of (thoughtfully, of course) in the toilet hatch, smearing the spilled chunder remains over the sink.

Ahhhh.  If the toddler would stop screaming or if I could miraculously ignore the noise, things from now on would surely be OK.

Oh, of bloody course. "Love Chunks?"  He stirred awake.

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can you please check my head....?"

And so, for an hour it appeared to anyone still awake that I was publicly pleasuring my husband in Row 43 as he found eleven bugs and several dozen eggs.  The itching stopped, and he tiredly leaned back with his thin blankie to go to sleep, waving away my whispered dog breath-scented sweet nothings of gratitude.

I sat there in moral turmoil.  LC had finally entered the hallowed Land of Nod, his profile at peace, hands twitching occasionally in somnambulant memory of his recent nit picking. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb him, but Mother Nature was calling and I didn't fancy doing an adult recreation of the toddler's overflowing nappy.

"Love Chunks?"

"Whaaa...."

"Um, can I get out to go to the loo....?"

My husband is a generous and kind man to me, and, rightly or wrongly assumes that I'm slimmer than I am.  For that reason, he decided to scrunch up his legs and just lean them towards the right, hoping that I could sort of slide past him without him being required to stand up in the aisle.

It was a noble thought, and no doubt a practical one.

And, for that, I'm still so very sorry that I involuntarily farted at the very moment my tracksuit-covered arse brushed against his cheek.

This meme is pinched from Fernstar who had one hellish year health-wise but has pulled through with flying colours and two adorable cats to help her.

1.What did you do in 2012 that you’d never done before?
Learned how to ski. Yes, I tried (and failed) during Christmas 2011, but Magic Mike from Mageve spent a weekend with nine of us at wildly varied levels ranging from Black Run into other countries' borders (Adje) and Fearful and Clueless (Moi). I was pootling down blue runs and even parallel skiing by Sunday afternoon.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Sadly no, and sadly yes. It is always the same: Keep my mouth shut: food-wise and silly show off comments-wise, and I fail on both counts.


3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Nope, but I have a friend here who is a maternity health professional and I've helped her at a couple of her toddler and mothers-and-new-bubs sessions. Milly sniffs the room with fascination afterwards as humans under the age of two are a treasure trove of aromas.


4. Did anyone close to you die?
No. And I realise how incredibly lucky that makes me.


5. What countries did you visit?
France (only 5km away as a 'meat tourist' to buy food that costs less than half of what it does here in Switzerland) - but also a weekend in Paris; UK (Exeter and a week in London); Luxembourg, Austria, Germany and a tiny two day skiing stint in Italy right behind the Matterhorn.


6. What would you like to have in 2013 that you lacked in 2012?
Some regular freelance gigs that result in some sort of reliable financial contribution and engage the creative side of my brain. Failing that, I'd like to do some charity work that doesn't require any French language skills beyond 'Bonjour' and an exaggerated thumbs up sign.  Oh and a size twelve body wouldn't be unwelcome either.


7. What dates from 2012 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
May 23rd, when my daughter turned thirteen. So beautiful, yet completely unconvinced of it. So witty and hilarious, yet hides it at school. So insightful, yet challenged by all the teenage crap that NONE of us would ever wish to go through again.
Tenth of August, when my parents arrived to visit.


8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Is this a vain answer? Taking pride in being the matriarch of the household. Chores are boring but I'm minding them less when I'm able to do so many other things that I love. House hunting for a friend in France; taking visitors up the cable car to the top of Saleve; sitting in the train and watching several countries whizz by. Participating in NaNoWriMo and wanting to finish what I started.


9. What was your biggest failure?
Not taking an interest in growing anything in our window boxes. I did, however, buy a plastic tub of bright red geraniums that never failed to get visitors saying, "Oooh, they are so healthy and so lovely. What a green thumb you've got."
"Er, no. These are plastic jobbies purchased for ten euros from Carrefour supermarket."



10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Just my stupid, recalcitrant, malignant, hurtful Achilles. No running until January 2013. Swimming has been okay as the replacement exercise but trudging home with wet hair in the snow and goggle marks still marked in red lines around my eyes has been a big bucket load of un-fun.


11. What was the best thing you bought?
So many crazy brocante (flea-market) items but the stand out is the Golden Croissant that Love Chunks thought was a gilded dog turd!

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Love Chunks. Somehow he still wants to come home and see me and for that I'll forever be amazed and grateful.


13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
My own so many times. The travails of a thirteen year old daughter butting heads, hearts and minds with LC and me did not bring out my practical, understanding or mature side as often as it should have, unfortunately. I think I'm improving though.


14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent. Car. Credit card. Food. Travel. Sapphire's medical needs. No longer begrudged but acknowledged as truly essential.


15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Sapphire's laugh, Love Chunks' warmth, soft dog fur, friendships that amaze and nourish and surprise and gladden me, visitors who came to stay, travelling and seeing our concierge now willingly approach Milly to pat her.


16. What song will always remind you of 2011?
'Say you don't want it' by One Night Only. THE best running and mood lifting song.


17. Compared to this time last year, are you: (a) happier or sadder? (b) thinner or fatter? (c) richer or poorer?
a) Happier.
b) Fatter.
c) Richer (then again, that just means we're no longer at the 'How the hell will be able to afford to eat, let alone live here' stage).


18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Visitors would probably say 'housework', but my inclination is for Sunday drives to get to know the towns and attractions just outside of Geneva. Trouble is, I hate to drive.....


19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Worry. If there's any dark side - no matter how unrealistic - to an upcoming event/issue/chore/meeting/party/situation/confrontation, I'll find it, catastrophise it to an entirely new level of insanity and then lose sleep over it.


20. How will you spend Christmas?
At Mum and Dad's in Victor Harbor. Yes, we're due our UN-sanctioned 'Home Leave' and will be spending a brief, but hopefully blissful, time in Melbourne, Adelaide and the South Aussie coast!


21. Did you fall in love in 2012?
Stayed in love.

22. What was your favourite TV program?
Anything on British TV that features a panel of comedians. Have I got news for you; Mock the Week; Stand up for the week; Never mind the Buzzcocks; Russell Howard's good news; 8 out of 10 cats ..... 


23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
Not hate, but someone has disappointed me. Despite this, I hold no ill will and in fact feel a lot of sympathy for her.

24. What was the best book you read?
As a keen second-hand book stall trawler, there was a lot of interesting stuff to enjoy and if anything costs less than a Swiss franc (CHF), I'll eagerly snaffle it. Therefore some of the subject matter included:

• Alan Alda's autobiography (his father was a vaudevillian actor); 
• Bees (Sophie Monk-Kidd); 
• Jo Brand ('Look back in hunger');
• Tragedy ('Into the Wild' and even the poor children in 'The Nanny Diaries');
• Light hearted but informative history ('One thousand years of annoying the French,' written by a Pom of course);
• Fish ('Salmon fishing in the Yemen' and Richard Flanagan's entertainingly bizarre 'Gould's book of fish'), 
• The history of the Jews (over 1000 pages, lent by a literary friend and author's name now escapes me);
• Life after Pride and Predjudice had been overcome ('Death comes to Pemberley' by PD James);
• Berlin when the wall was still up (Douglas Kennedy);
• London (Rutherford, a great stonking doorstop of a book that made my arms ache when I tried to read it in bed);
• Home (Bill Bryson, 'Down Under' and 'Home'); 
• Middlesex as a gender issue and not a UK county (Jeffrey Eugenides)...

...but the best was a PG Wodehouse I picked up for eight euros (brand new!) in Berlin. Dad had been a fan of his for years and my incorrect assumption that the Jeeves and Wooster series would be out of date was laughingly wrong. It was hilarious, witty and very very modern. I'm now on a mission to buy anything and everything the chap wrote.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Let me just preface this answer with this fact: I am forty four years old and don't listen to the radio or watch music videos. Therefore, my discoveries are always ancient ones, accidentally happened upon in Spotify when I click on a song that appeals to me, then click to what the magical music genie recommends and on again to that particular group or singer's top five. This has enabled me to finally discover Keane, Marina and the Diamonds (Hypocrates is my favourite), One night only, Panic at the disco, Amy McDonald and Greyson Chance.  

However, Ed Sheeran's popularity leaves me:

a) struggling to stay awake; and
b) utterly baffled.

26. What did you want and get?
An iphone - yay!

My parents to visit and my best friend to stay!

Friendships old, established, cemented and new ones still blossoming.A sense of contentment mixed with dollops of adventure and immense gratitude.

27. What did you want and not get?
A month in Italy. During the warmer months. Pre-paid four star+ accommodation, a loaded credit card and a packed sightseeing itinerary. Health spa and massage options at the end of each day. A home that cleans itself.

28. What was your favourite film of this year?
Cinemas in Geneva are not only eye wateringly expensive, but you must be careful to pick the 'Version Anglaise' session or risk seeing The Hobbit in French. Even then, the Version Anglaise has a third of the screen taken up with not only French subtitles but also German ones. It's cheaper to buy a DVD later online.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Love Chunks was flying out to Colorado for the week, so we all got up and had a coffee (LC and myself), a stretch (all of us) a whizzer in the forest (Milly) and unwrapped a couple of presents and cards that Sapphire had snatched from the mailbox and hidden from me. Dinner was with Sapphire, Milly and our lovely friends the A Family, playing Balderdash until midnight.

30. What one thing made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Despite admitting that I'm a worry wart in an earlier question, I believe that I 'went with the flow' a bit more this year and said 'no' to some things that were 'expected', like learning French. It was a relief to say, "No, I haven't learned French. My brain is still struggling with English," and not care if the other person thought I was lazy, stupid or both.


31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2012?
Excuse me whilst I wipe away the tears of laughter ...... as long as I'm clean and vaguely colour coordinated, I'm happy. Black hides most sins but long baggy shorts are the saviours of summer.

32. What kept you sane?
Love Chunks. Milly. Coffee. Medication.


33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Stephen Fry's brain
Russell Howard's slightly wonky eye
...and a shameful(ish) couple - Jeff Probst from Survivor and chubby Michael McIntyre....


34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Gay marriage - how hard is it to just legalise it already?
Syria - why can't we remove Bashir?


35. Who did you miss?
Everyone in Australia. Gianna when she hops back to London. Flemington neighbourhood. Milly whenever we couldn't take her on holiday with us. 

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Gianna and SimonJenne
Kate, Lyndon and Immi
Di and Clay
Nathaniel
Christin G
Isabel H


.....it's terrific being in a new country because, like six year olds in a playground, you can meet someone and instantly approach them with 'do you want to be my friend' (although usually it's 'What's your email address? Want to come over for coffee and a cuddle of the dog?')


37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.
Stop talking and listen more. Especially to Sapphire.


38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
A corny little pop song with this line: 'I don't want to be anywhere else but here with you,' sung by Olly Murs.