It's a funny feeling, having your head shoved into a waste paper basket with a miniature rear vision mirror and long sponges wedged up against the sides to ensure a complete lack of motion.
A decade ago, I was allowed to bring in a CD that was magically piped into the tube, but today I'm grateful that the radiographer speaks English and has offered me some ancient cheeseburger-shaped headphones to muffle the noise. "Cuckoo!" he says cheerfully, more than once, tapping my arm. "You can keep your eyes open but will see only a white wall. Better to keep them closed and think of nicer things," he trills, eyes glinting merrily. "Cuckoo!"
My response was the usual 'thumbs up' and a wink before the bed glided slowly into the MRI cavity. "Keep your arms still now," he called as he walked towards the office. "Cuckoo!"
The knocking, buzzing, whirring and pulsing sounds seemed a lot louder than ten years ago. Perhaps having Tom Petty singing of how he learned to fly without any wings made it less noticeable back then. Whilst loud, being a recent survivor of a migraine on a long haul flight meant that today's closed-in cacophony didn't seem any worse than the endless gullet humming of aeroplane engines. This was a mere forty five minutes with a pause at some indeterminate time for Mr Cuckoo to inject my arm with some contrast solution and return to making more percussive x-ray racket.
Despite having my eyes squeezed shut, an enclosed cranium and rapidly-numbing hands that I'd foolishly interlaced together, my mind did start wandering.
Reminders to not forget to make a dental appointment for Sapphire; buy some minced garlic and ginger from the Asian Spices shop in Servette; borrow a Frank Zappa DVD for research purposes; ask ex-travel agent friend G for her Spanish recommendations, finish up two overdue articles; and check with Vic Roads: did they ever send me my drivers' licence after my wallet was stolen a year ago?
The recent, lingering bout of flu meant that my nose started to twitch. Normally a loud and proud honker, I realised that the second option - sniffing it juicily back from whence it came - was not available as it would cause some head movement. The third option was not so much chosen as inevitable: lie there uselessly as snot dribbled ever-so-slowly out of my right nostril and down towards my ear.....
My thoughts turned from minor errands to bigger issues. Recent disappointments. Lies told by someone willing to let an innocent person take the blame, and my lack of influence to make the situation a fair one. Decisions to carry on regardless, consciences utterly clear. How, at forty four, people's behaviour still managed to shock and confuse me.
Then, of course, the here and now butted in as a cough started to tickle my chest. Instead of actively ignoring the wet creeping sensation of phlegm edging towards my ear hole, I actively meditated on it. Could this snail trail be a metaphor representing the build up of migraines over the past year or so? A sluggish sojourn back to boringly detailed food diaries, lost days and blurred vision? A glacial yet inevitable journey towards this day, an MRI scan, to see if the tumour had returned?
Sapphire's face immediately popped into view, as did Love Chunks' and Milly's. Three warm beings equalling my home. A wheeze emanating from my throat was discernible between magneto-zappings. The cough was impatient: it wanted air time and to get out of my prone body NOW. I swallowed a few times, taking care not to wiggle anything above my lower lip. Somehow this caused the moving mucus to pause at my temple.
Excellent timing, as the piercing clamour orchestrated by Mr Cuckoo had also ended.
"You are very good at keeping still, very good. Cuckoo!" he laughed, removing the pillow from under my knees, as I stretched and surreptitiously wiped the snot away with my arm.
"Did you see anything on the scans," I asked, sitting up and shaking some feeling back into my fingers.
"Oh no no, don't go there," he said, waggling his finger at me in mock dismay. "I am only the technician today. You will find out in two days."
A few minutes later with my scarf, boot, coats, watch, rings and bangles back on, I strolled towards the Number 14 tram in the fog. What did I want the result to be? A returned tumour to blame the recent symptoms on, or the relief of no tumour but also no reason?
A car horn beeped at me, disturbing my reverie. I had every right to cross here on the yellow lines..... oh, it was my favourite Parc de Trembley gardener, lover of tennis and all things Federer. "Federer lost but the Australian open was good as ever," he called out to me.
"Oui!" I yelled in return. "Federer est nombre un pour moi!" Morning shift long over, he roared off into the mist. It felt good that he recognised me in a different suburb wearing my 'nice' clothes as opposed to my XXXL Man-sized coat and without Milly by my side.
An hour later, I walked into the apartment with two bags of fragrant spices, some interesting chocolate biscuits to share with friends and a dog eager to go to the park and sniff for squirrels. The result didn't matter.
Showing posts with label reminiscences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reminiscences. Show all posts
Monday, January 28, 2013
Monday, March 12, 2012
Judged by John Martins
It's funny how being a mother to a twelve year old child leads to a lot of reminiscing and 'that reminds me of the time' conversations. These then lead, later on, to deeper ponderings and analyses of events long since past and dealt with.
As we were about to get into the car for the school run this morning, Sapphire said, "You're the same age as Madonna, aren't you Mum?"
Despite being unshowered, wearing polar fleece, tracksuit pants, ugg boots and holding Milly's lead and my Wellington boots, I stopped short in horror.
"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO Sapphire! She is TEN YEARS older than me."
Sapphire ignored my offended stance and waited patiently for me to open the doors. "Oh yeah, that's right. It's Kylie Minogue who's your age."
It was difficult to stay huffy at her when the rear vision mirror showed a new age spot on my left temple and two cornflake boogers in my eyes.
"Mum?"
"Mmmmmmm?" Reversing out is difficult, not just because I automatically crane my neck to look the wrong way. Space is challengingly tight, and other residents like to roar around the corner in their posher and much larger vehicles.
"Do you like Madonna?"
When we'd made it out onto the street where I now feel confident enough to drive on the wrong side of the road and hold an animated conversation, I had a think about this. "Well, she's had a very long career and her facelift treatments are one of the better ones out there but I do wish she'd perhaps try singing about something a little less twenty-something oriented. She's had two marriage breakdowns, got four children and lived a full life, so surely she could try wearing pants, singing about adult issues and pose with her legs crossed for a change."
"But looks matter, don't they Mum?"
Don't they indeed.
My daughter is beautiful. Truly beautiful, but she doesn't believe me and walks hunched up in anxiety and self consciousness across the tarmac to the school yard. She fails to see the appreciative glances that get thrown her way when we're out and about, and worries that she's not 'flat and thin' like the not-yet-developed, a full-year-younger, gymnastic queens of her class.
When she got home from school, we shared a diet coke on the balcony and I took her back to the summer of 1987. It had been buried and forgotten in my mind until reawakening, unwanted but timely, today.
Second year uni had finished and I was not looking forward to going back home to my fifth summer of cutting apricots whilst standing on a cement floor under a boiling hot corrugated iron fruit packing shed to earn money for the year ahead.
John Martin's - South Australia's most beloved department store - were advertising. They were looking for university students to work right up until the post-Christmas sales. No experience necessary. They wanted intelligence, hard work and the willingness to provide unceasingly friendly customer service. My best uni buddy Joanne and I decided to apply together. Neither of us had ever worked anywhere not involving fresh produce or small children. She grew up on a riverland orchard where picking grapes and oranges helped earn her pocket money and, apart from apricot cutting, I could only add babysitting to my slim resume.
We filled out the form and sat outside a dingy, fake wood-panelled room with plastic chairs for our turn to be briefly interviewed. Both of us got five minutes to answer a couple of short questions. Four hours later we walked back to college and went in search of a late dinner in the kitchen.
Jo was offered a job in the Manchester department the following day. I was rejected.
A week later, the local newspaper featured a small article revealing that the HR manager of John Martin's had been recorded admitting that there was an unwritten policy of selecting only good looking uni students for holiday work. I spent the night in bed curled up, sobbing.
I never told Jo about the article and she held that job beyond the post-Christmas sales, working Thursday nights and Saturday mornings for the next six years as she successfully completed her honours and PhD. She worked hard and deserved every dollar she got.
But yes, looks matter.
"But I think you're beautiful, Mum."
This, from a fresh faced, blue eyed angel, who can't see even a glimpse of it in herself. Instead of denying it as I'd normally do, I just hugged her and said, "Thanks love. So are you."
"And guess what - John Martin's is no longer in business."
Friday, March 02, 2012
Pant-less at the podium
Most of us have recurring nightmares, don't we?
Love Chunks has one where he's on the toilet, pants around his ankles, busy daydreaming as he waits to drop a couple of Andrew Bolts off at a the pool.
Then, he looks up and notices that he's in the middle of a street. Adelaide's Rundle Mall, to be precise. Right by the silver balls. Shoppers are walking past; fully clothed, and he's there with the sides of his arse on display.
Sapphire has one where she's floating peacefully down a river, until it eventually becomes less peaceful and out of control. She normally then wakes up and throws up - it's her 'Yep, you're sick; you're really sick' nightmare.
Mum has one too. She's on a bushwalk with Dad, and steps off the national park path to pull down the knickers and have a quick splash on the stones.
Lo and behold, a bus load of Japanese tourists come trooping around the bend on the lower path, getting a white mooned greeting from a seventy year old. When she woke up ---- hang on, that actually happened to her, it wasn't a dream, true story.
As for me, there are two that crop up time and time again and have been doing so since my early twenties. The first is based on a real life event - being late for an exam.
Exam stress is a common dream to have and is quite literally every student's nightmare. They usually concern sleeping in and missing the exam, not being early for the exam but unable to get to the final destination due to being stuck in traffic.
In 1987, Adelaide still had the Grand Prix. The very first one in 1985 was held on my birthday and as I heard the whining sounds of fast cars being televised in the pool room at the other end of the house, I sat in my bedroom studying for my matriculation English exam the following day.
For the next few years, I realised that having a birthday in early November invariably meant being locked in my room, re-reading illegible lecture notes and goofing off by painting my toe nails.
Back to November 1987. I was in second year uni and Dad was driving me from Murray Bridge to Adelaide Uni for my 'Pre-Scientific World View of History' exam. Yeah, second year Arts was not exactly focussing on career-specific topics, but in terms of reading, research and essay writing, knowing the details of Paracelsus, the four humours of the body and lingering beliefs in witchcraft was all my brain was filled with at that point.
Until we hit Pulteney Street. "Grand Prix traffic, I reckon," Dad said, peering over the steering wheel at the long, l-o-n-g line of cars going nowhere.
Fifteen minutes of no moving, my left leg began to jiggle. "It's OK, kiddo, we'll get there," Dad said, looking straight into the 'If you see this, then I've lost the bloody caravan' bumper sticker of the car in front of him. Also not moving.
Half an hour later, I tapped at my watch. "Dad, they'll open the doors in fifteen minutes time and I don't think----"
"It'll move, Cackles.* It has to."
Forty minutes later and I had my first, grown up experience of cold sweat pooling in my arm pits.
"Calm yourself, Kath. Take a few deep breaths, you'll get there on time."
A further five minutes had me squirming on the seat. "Dad, I know you mean well, but I have to run for it. Now."
"But Pulteney Street's about two kilometres long - do you want to arrive all puffed out, stressed and sweaty?
"I already am, Dad."
He nodded, in what we all know is the universal sign for Fair Enough. I pushed open the passenger door, grabbed my back pack and legged it, blonde spiral perm flowing like windblown pot noodles behind me.
Love Chunks has one where he's on the toilet, pants around his ankles, busy daydreaming as he waits to drop a couple of Andrew Bolts off at a the pool.
Then, he looks up and notices that he's in the middle of a street. Adelaide's Rundle Mall, to be precise. Right by the silver balls. Shoppers are walking past; fully clothed, and he's there with the sides of his arse on display.
Sapphire has one where she's floating peacefully down a river, until it eventually becomes less peaceful and out of control. She normally then wakes up and throws up - it's her 'Yep, you're sick; you're really sick' nightmare.
Mum has one too. She's on a bushwalk with Dad, and steps off the national park path to pull down the knickers and have a quick splash on the stones.
Lo and behold, a bus load of Japanese tourists come trooping around the bend on the lower path, getting a white mooned greeting from a seventy year old. When she woke up ---- hang on, that actually happened to her, it wasn't a dream, true story.
As for me, there are two that crop up time and time again and have been doing so since my early twenties. The first is based on a real life event - being late for an exam.
Exam stress is a common dream to have and is quite literally every student's nightmare. They usually concern sleeping in and missing the exam, not being early for the exam but unable to get to the final destination due to being stuck in traffic.
In 1987, Adelaide still had the Grand Prix. The very first one in 1985 was held on my birthday and as I heard the whining sounds of fast cars being televised in the pool room at the other end of the house, I sat in my bedroom studying for my matriculation English exam the following day.
For the next few years, I realised that having a birthday in early November invariably meant being locked in my room, re-reading illegible lecture notes and goofing off by painting my toe nails.
Back to November 1987. I was in second year uni and Dad was driving me from Murray Bridge to Adelaide Uni for my 'Pre-Scientific World View of History' exam. Yeah, second year Arts was not exactly focussing on career-specific topics, but in terms of reading, research and essay writing, knowing the details of Paracelsus, the four humours of the body and lingering beliefs in witchcraft was all my brain was filled with at that point.
Until we hit Pulteney Street. "Grand Prix traffic, I reckon," Dad said, peering over the steering wheel at the long, l-o-n-g line of cars going nowhere.
Fifteen minutes of no moving, my left leg began to jiggle. "It's OK, kiddo, we'll get there," Dad said, looking straight into the 'If you see this, then I've lost the bloody caravan' bumper sticker of the car in front of him. Also not moving.
Half an hour later, I tapped at my watch. "Dad, they'll open the doors in fifteen minutes time and I don't think----"
"It'll move, Cackles.* It has to."
Forty minutes later and I had my first, grown up experience of cold sweat pooling in my arm pits.
"Calm yourself, Kath. Take a few deep breaths, you'll get there on time."
A further five minutes had me squirming on the seat. "Dad, I know you mean well, but I have to run for it. Now."
"But Pulteney Street's about two kilometres long - do you want to arrive all puffed out, stressed and sweaty?
"I already am, Dad."
He nodded, in what we all know is the universal sign for Fair Enough. I pushed open the passenger door, grabbed my back pack and legged it, blonde spiral perm flowing like windblown pot noodles behind me.
My dunlop volleys started to eat at my ankles. They were made for lounging in; being crossed under desks, not running wildly. I kept on.
My jeans rubbed around my middle and the crotch got hotter and damper. I kept on.
My backpack kept wheeling from shoulder to shoulder, banging the lower part of my bag and causing my t-shirt to ride up like a crop top. I kept on.
The hallowed spire of Bonython Hall was finally in sight. Yesssss! Daggy old Flentje theatre was in nuffy old Napier next door. I clattered precariously down the steps, trying hard not to think of the consequences of slipping and smashing my face, hooned like a nervous dog on floor tiles to the right and flung the doors open with a mighty CLANG as they bashed against the wall and back again, almost pushing me over.
Sweat was running into my ear cavities as I wheezed for air and tried to stop a bunch of weird little white spots obscuring my vision.
Seventy students, all seated and all reading the exam questions, turned in their seats to stare at me.
"Hough hough, the traffic ------ Hough hough Grand Prix ------ Hough hough left my dad ------ Hough hough ran like hell------" a drop of sweat flew off my hand towards the exam moderator who was, mercifully, also my tutor. I bent double to try and regain my breath, wet hair now slicked to my face.
Seats creaked in unison as the students went back to their papers.
"Sit down over here," she whispered kindly. "I can give you ten minutes extra if you like."
I thanked her and sat down, ignoring the wet-pants feeling of my bum on the vinyl chair. My Darth Vader Hough hough puffs eventually subsided. The white spots faded to nothing and there was still a dry spot on the top of my legs to wipe my palms down before picking up the pencil.
"Time," the examiner called. I had finished with the others after all.
My jeans rubbed around my middle and the crotch got hotter and damper. I kept on.
My backpack kept wheeling from shoulder to shoulder, banging the lower part of my bag and causing my t-shirt to ride up like a crop top. I kept on.
The hallowed spire of Bonython Hall was finally in sight. Yesssss! Daggy old Flentje theatre was in nuffy old Napier next door. I clattered precariously down the steps, trying hard not to think of the consequences of slipping and smashing my face, hooned like a nervous dog on floor tiles to the right and flung the doors open with a mighty CLANG as they bashed against the wall and back again, almost pushing me over.
Sweat was running into my ear cavities as I wheezed for air and tried to stop a bunch of weird little white spots obscuring my vision.
Seventy students, all seated and all reading the exam questions, turned in their seats to stare at me.
"Hough hough, the traffic ------ Hough hough Grand Prix ------ Hough hough left my dad ------ Hough hough ran like hell------" a drop of sweat flew off my hand towards the exam moderator who was, mercifully, also my tutor. I bent double to try and regain my breath, wet hair now slicked to my face.
Seats creaked in unison as the students went back to their papers.
"Sit down over here," she whispered kindly. "I can give you ten minutes extra if you like."
I thanked her and sat down, ignoring the wet-pants feeling of my bum on the vinyl chair. My Darth Vader Hough hough puffs eventually subsided. The white spots faded to nothing and there was still a dry spot on the top of my legs to wipe my palms down before picking up the pencil.
"Time," the examiner called. I had finished with the others after all.
Dad was waiting for me outside, looking very concerned. "How did you go?"
I hobbled over towards his outstretched arms; blisters now evident, body all BO-ey and generally exhausted. "Pretty well I think, Dad. At least I lived this one instead of dreamt about it."
This real life event still does replay in my dreams, but only occasionally. My more common recurring nightmare is not about the almost-missed exam; it's about getting up to make a speech in front of a large, expectant audience. The spotlight is in my eyes and, as I clear my throat and lean forward into the microphone to start, I feel a coolish breeze.
Yep, I'm naked from the waist down.
I hobbled over towards his outstretched arms; blisters now evident, body all BO-ey and generally exhausted. "Pretty well I think, Dad. At least I lived this one instead of dreamt about it."
This real life event still does replay in my dreams, but only occasionally. My more common recurring nightmare is not about the almost-missed exam; it's about getting up to make a speech in front of a large, expectant audience. The spotlight is in my eyes and, as I clear my throat and lean forward into the microphone to start, I feel a coolish breeze.
Yep, I'm naked from the waist down.
* Cackles, thought of by Dad because I laughed a lot as a teenager. "Still, it's better than being called plain old 'Cack'," he pointed out.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Still shining
For five exhausting years I was a (minor) manager of a busy but happy team at WorkCover.
Ray was in that team. Late forties but with an open-minded younger attitude, deeply in love with his wife Pat and seemingly in a permanent pose of rocking back at his desk, laughing.
And yet he was intelligent, kind and a hard worker who was always prepared to drop what he was doing and pitch in to do whatever last minute 'this is what the Minister wants' request I'd fling at him. He wasn't interested in corporate jargon, wearing a tie or sucking up to management, but just got on with things. Perfectly.
He once turned up to a dress-up party wearing what seemed like his normal outfit of jeans, sneakers and t-shirt. "Didn't make much of an effort there, Ray."
In mock indignation he said, "Yes I did. What's the colour of my t-shirt?"
"Um, yellow."
"Um, yellow."
He brushed it down. "Exactly. I'm Ray; a Drop of Golden Sun."
I'd tease him about his coffee mug. Ironically this never held coffee as he loathed the stuff, but would have milky tea sloshed in several times a day. The vessel had more rings than Saturn and survived with the Internationally-accepted Office Hygiene Approach of a quick swish under the tap before the next brew. "That mug could have the cure for cancer in it, Ray. If you don't wash it soon the inside'll get too layered and crusty to hold any fluids at all."
He then took to giving it a real clean every fortnightly pay day and would proudly stand at my desk brandishing his sparkling cup. "Kath, because of your nagging, science has been set back a few years."
Overseas holidays were his passion, a relatively recent occurrence due to giving up smoking and saving every single dollar that he would have spent on the cigs. Sapphire still remembers the beautiful fan he gave her from Japan, the sarong from Bali and the delicate hibiscus flower made out of soap from Hawaii.
He died last night from lung cancer. Being the poster boy for the Quit campaign and cleaning his cup didn't succeed in the end and for that I'm truly sorry. Ray was a truly decent, lovely man and my memories of working with him (in a job that backfired for me quite disastrously) are all fond ones.
Walking Milly this morning in between rain showers, I saw this sunflower still blooming in the first days of winter. Rest in peace, dear Ray. I feel so honoured to have known you. You genuinely personified the term 'top bloke.'
Monday, October 10, 2011
Me too, me too, ME TOO!
Now, my mate Pandora has run four half-marathons in two years and my awesome buddy Jill completed an entire marathon last year before suffering a serious brain injury after falling off her bike during the Jacob’s Creek Down-under 120km bike race, so they’re both fully fit, full-on, determinedly powerful women.
...and I feel a bit left out.
See, I’ve been running since making it my new year’s resolution back in 2001. It’s the only resolution I’ve stuck with as stopping being too noisy; picking at my finger nail skin until it bleeds; giving up sugar/chocolate/cake; and trying not to be jealous or too much of a ‘Me too Me too ME TOOOOOO!’ person have all failed before the day was out.
So, here’s my Me Too contribution.
My first run, on 1st January 2001, was three laps around the second cricket oval at Trinity Gardens Primary School. Four hundred metres times three. I didn’t have the energy to jog the two blocks home afterwards. Walking and gasping my way back, an elderly Italian gent hosing his roses offered to spray me down too. I accepted.
September 2002 saw me run my first City to Bay fun-run in Adelaide – twelve kilometres. My training consisted of asking Love Chunks to drive around my self-designed running courses and measuring them on the car's odometer. 4km, 6km 8km and 12km which I ran regularly. I carried a water bottle in a bum bag for the 12km runs and could always tell what the Robern Menz factory were making that morning from the smell that wafted along Glynburn Road – mint for Crowns or sweet peaches for Fruchocs.
Time achieved – One hour, three minutes for 12 kilometres.
September 2003 – running was now ‘my’ thing and my four year old baby weight had finally gone. It was also the valuable alone time that didn't involve sitting on the toilet or sleeping with the aid of a sedative to figure out a few solutions and ideas. City to bay time – 58 minutes.
August 2004 – My twice-weekly six km runs and a weekly 12km run had swelled to a 6km, 12km and a 17km run by June. I was in my ridiculous workaholic career phase then and used to get up for a run at 5am in the dark. I figured that potential robbers and rapists were more likely to have headed home by then and, besides, they’d have to catch me..... All that and I had showered, dropped Sapphire off at daycare and be at my desk by 7:30am. But I was happy. Wasn't I?
Love Chunks and I had an argument the night before the race. He was (justifiably) concerned about the long hours I was putting in at work, my increased physical symptoms of stress and noticeable decline in energy, happiness and interest in life at home. I disagreed and we went to bed with it unresolved; both of us furious. The last thing he said was, “Oh and I’m NOT going to see you do your half-marathon tomorrow.”
Sunday morning arrived and I was at Pinky Flat by the Torrens River at 6.30am. We were bussed to Lockleys and froze in the darkness until the starter pistol fired at 7.30am.
I was sleep-deprived, lacked the appetite to eat anything before the race and felt utterly depressed. Instead of this being a physical achievement that would set me apart as not only an amazing career woman (already failing) and wife/mother (whump whow!), there’d be no-one to see me or even care if I was there.
By 14km I hadn’t stopped but also hadn’t bothered to check my time or distance. At 15km, I threw up on the bank of the river near the Convention Centre. I wanted to stay doubled over and lie on the cool, soft, unjudgmental grass but..... No. I’d trained too hard and on my bloody lonesome for this and wasn’t going to give up now. Wiping my mouth and sipping some water I started up again.
Soon after I heard Sapphire and LC call out from the other side of the bank. “Go Mum!” “Go Kath!”
They’d come! Just six more painful kilometres via tiring little hills up to the zoo and back with the whiff of gorilla poo in the air before staggering across the finish line in one hour, 52 minutes.
I cried with disappointment: I had estimated one hour, forty five but clearly hadn’t foreseen the technicolour yawn that had left smears of fragrant reminders on my leggings. As LC and Sapphire hugged my saturated, stinky self, my tears changed to those of pride. I’d done it!
That was as far as I had ever run and after having a complete and utter breakdown roughly seven months later I found myself on medication, seeing a psychiatrist, unemployed and exhausted. Clearly it was only going to be little runs for me from now on, in all senses of the word.
However, chocolate reviewing started and became rather serious and time-consuming. Unless I yearned to be the human embodiment of a Lindt ball I needed to do more than 6km trots three days a week.
From 2006 to 2010, give or take a busted Achilles, I’d do three 10km runs and two 8km power walks to counteract the effects of inhaling around 2-3 kilos of chocolate per week. Eventually however, my shins, Achilles (both legs), several toenails, two incredibly painful infected blisters, blood-soaked bras and a couple of severe colds saw me grudgingly accept the fact that my ageing body needed to be treated just a tad more delicately.
Which leads me to now. Geneva. Autumn with fog, rain and slippery footpaths due to the accumulation of wet and increasingly slimy leaves stuck to them.
Five kilometres from our apartment entry door and back.
First phase: Posing under the red light. I jog around 300 metres before being forced to wait until the little green man allows me to cross the road. Swiss lights are ultra careful – pedestrians get to cross without any cars from even the opposite direction allowed to drive as you walk. Nice in theory, but it can mean a five minute wait if you just miss your turn.
Wearing a baggy man’s t-shirt complemented by sticky bed hair and hairy white legs goose pimpled in the breeze means it’s a challenge to stand there pretending to be nonchalant when surrounded by several stylishly dressed women ready to totter across the road in stacked heels, designer leather and furs to work. They don’t bother to hide their stares - I’m a big alien – unkempt, unstylish and publicly prepared to be seen puffing. And not on a French cigarette.
Second phase: Gracious descent. Downhill for half a K, baby! What are my legs – springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run – as fast as a leopard! Oops, that’s unless it’s rubbish day when the mini street sweeper fights with the garbage truck for total ownership of the footpath and I’m forced to leap out into the bike lane and incur the wrath of surprised and then annoyed scooter owners....
....not to mention reaching bus stop Trembley and – without fail – involuntarily letting out a series of sharp and loud ‘Parp Parp Parp Parp’ farts as I run past a bunch of more well-dressed workers....
Third phase: Jogging up Jill Hill. This is in honour of my best friend, who is slowly recovering from a brain injury. This is the hardest spot in our local park – winding cruelly upwards with the cracked bitumen path peppered with chestnuts that could twist an ankle if stepped on. Not to mention skirting around little old ladies smoking like chimneys and ‘omitting’ to see the huge crap just done by their poodles.
Fourth phase: Suffering through Sapphire's Slope. I leave the park and jog back into the suburbs, winding further uphill past several large apartment blocks, a patisserie, Milly’s vet surgery, the most famous fondue house in the city and a primary school. I think of Sapphire and how she’s got through the worst of things with being bullied by an ex-friend in Melbourne and the uncertainties of starting high school at a new school in a new country. She’s happy, stimulated, busy, interested, funny and utterly lovely. My eyes sting as sweat mixes with moisturiser but I smile as well.
Mercedes and Beamer drivers with diplomatic licence plates stare at me blankly as I go by, usually wheezing in agony by this stage. Sophisticated couples and US-accented people having ‘work meetings’ are mildly entertained as I trot past their petite boulangerie, dripping sweat as I pass and trying not to slip on the pretty-but-dangerous cobblestones.
Fifth phase: (barely) Mastering Milly's mountain. Another bloody school up on top of the hill past the Red Cross and John 23 American church. I now think of my dog who would always choose to come running with me no matter how much her arthritis agonised her. Even now, four years after the diagnosis, there’s reproach in her eyes when I put on my sneakers and leave her behind.
Final phase: Kath's Cruise. Downhill for 400 metres all the way home. The apartment keys slide in my left hand, sticky from sweat. The second my feet touch the outdoor mat and the doors automatically slide open, I stop.
Hands on my knees, head down, gasping. A quick glance at my watch shows 26 minutes from start to finish. This is no great distance or time but when factors such as motivation, weather, laziness, time and dagginess are considered, I feel just as proud as I did in August 2004.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Pain you can sing to
John Cusack plays Rob Gordon in one of my favourite movies, High Fidelity, and as his girlfriend is packing up her things and leaving him, he says:
"What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"
Blogger goddess Pandora has recently written about how she reckons she's had her heart broken four times in her life. Romantically, not myocardially that is. Each time there's been a song swirling through that still reminds her of the pain and resultant growth and knowledge. Reckless by Aussie Crawl; Nirvana's 'Smells like teen spirit.'
It got me thinking about my own experiences - then again, don't most good blog entries do that?
In terms of real, you're-dumped heartbreak, it was just the one time for me, but in terms of silent crushes that were conducted in total secret and from afar, there were more than I care to remember.
My father was a high school teacher and he once told me that he could tell the girls who were going to have boyfriends or fall pregnant before the year was out. "They're jiggling in their seats, heads swiveling to see what the boys sitting behind them are doing. They're prancing along the edge of the fence at lunchtimes, hoping that the nineteen year old bozos from the meatworks will drive by in their 25 year old bombs and try to pick up a fifteen year old whose ovaries are spinning."
That wasn't me. My role was partly automatically designated: teacher's daughter in the town's only secondary school with family friends who were also teachers meant that I was studious, well behaved and quiet. Boys (or 'guys') were loud, crude and sometimes a bit scary but were also attractive, cutely goofy and objects of longing. However, these yearnings were never acted upon until right at the very end of school.
Before then it was idly doodling their name on a scrap piece of paper at home - never on my pencil case, or diary or toilet door for peers to discover. Never shared or confessed to a friend and never, ever communicated even vaguely to the object of my affection by something as boldly direct as actual conversation, a noticeable glance their way or remotely discernible acknowledgement of their existence.
This paralysingly shy approach meant that I was not only safe from having to risk rejection but also suffered a bit of unintended heartache when I'd find out that the guy I'd sat behind in geography in term two hadn't shown what I'd hoped was a mix of intelligence and mystery but instead had:
Even now, pushing 25-30 years later, the unrequited love songs that still resonate include 'This ole house' by Shakin' Stevens (year eight); 'Dirty Creature' by Split Enz (year nine); 'She blinded me with science' by Thomas Dolby (year ten); and 'Relax' by Frankie Goes to Hollywood in year eleven. Hardly songs to make a slow compilation tape (sorry, playlist) to.
However, as an adult, I only had one real dose of heartache in 1988. Four months of dating (several nights a week) and BW was due overseas for work for three months. We'd been out to dinner, the casino, sailing at North Haven, on his motorbike and even painting his just-purchased house (he was an older man ...... by five years!) and he always seemed pretty keen to see me.
The week before he was due to leave, we had dinner at my place and he said that he'd enjoyed our time together but wasn't looking for anything serious and didn't want to see me on his return. It had been fun, but he didn't want to worry about 'anything happening' whilst he was out of the country but wished me a happy Christmas and was sure that my uni results would be good ones.
I'd been expecting a declaration of long term commitment and maybe even an early silly season present and was bereft. Sad yes, but also a bit humiliated, in hindsight. My flatmates Jo and Fiona decided to take me out to dinner the following day to cheer me up but it ended up with me sobbing over a toasted asparagus doorstop sandwich at the Left Bank Cafe in full view of frankly over-curious shoppers and grannies.
And in keeping with the sad soundtrack of my school years, the stupid song that was on high rotation at the time.....?
Bloody KOKOMO by the Beach boys!
John Cusack plays Rob Gordon in one of my favourite movies, High Fidelity, and as his girlfriend is packing up her things and leaving him, he says:
"What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"
Blogger goddess Pandora has recently written about how she reckons she's had her heart broken four times in her life. Romantically, not myocardially that is. Each time there's been a song swirling through that still reminds her of the pain and resultant growth and knowledge. Reckless by Aussie Crawl; Nirvana's 'Smells like teen spirit.'
It got me thinking about my own experiences - then again, don't most good blog entries do that?
In terms of real, you're-dumped heartbreak, it was just the one time for me, but in terms of silent crushes that were conducted in total secret and from afar, there were more than I care to remember.
My father was a high school teacher and he once told me that he could tell the girls who were going to have boyfriends or fall pregnant before the year was out. "They're jiggling in their seats, heads swiveling to see what the boys sitting behind them are doing. They're prancing along the edge of the fence at lunchtimes, hoping that the nineteen year old bozos from the meatworks will drive by in their 25 year old bombs and try to pick up a fifteen year old whose ovaries are spinning."
That wasn't me. My role was partly automatically designated: teacher's daughter in the town's only secondary school with family friends who were also teachers meant that I was studious, well behaved and quiet. Boys (or 'guys') were loud, crude and sometimes a bit scary but were also attractive, cutely goofy and objects of longing. However, these yearnings were never acted upon until right at the very end of school.
Before then it was idly doodling their name on a scrap piece of paper at home - never on my pencil case, or diary or toilet door for peers to discover. Never shared or confessed to a friend and never, ever communicated even vaguely to the object of my affection by something as boldly direct as actual conversation, a noticeable glance their way or remotely discernible acknowledgement of their existence.
This paralysingly shy approach meant that I was not only safe from having to risk rejection but also suffered a bit of unintended heartache when I'd find out that the guy I'd sat behind in geography in term two hadn't shown what I'd hoped was a mix of intelligence and mystery but instead had:
- pashed the year nine nympho at a beer-keg party that I was not invited to (and would have been too afraid to attend if I had);
- carved another girl's name on his arm using his protractor and a bic pen in maths;
- set his family's caravan alight when he forgot to switch the electric blanket off;
- earned my older brother's scorn by being 'the worst soccer player in modern history' and unceremoniously kicked off the team;
- been rude to a teacher I particularly liked; or
- asked one of my friends out instead.
Even now, pushing 25-30 years later, the unrequited love songs that still resonate include 'This ole house' by Shakin' Stevens (year eight); 'Dirty Creature' by Split Enz (year nine); 'She blinded me with science' by Thomas Dolby (year ten); and 'Relax' by Frankie Goes to Hollywood in year eleven. Hardly songs to make a slow compilation tape (sorry, playlist) to.
However, as an adult, I only had one real dose of heartache in 1988. Four months of dating (several nights a week) and BW was due overseas for work for three months. We'd been out to dinner, the casino, sailing at North Haven, on his motorbike and even painting his just-purchased house (he was an older man ...... by five years!) and he always seemed pretty keen to see me.
The week before he was due to leave, we had dinner at my place and he said that he'd enjoyed our time together but wasn't looking for anything serious and didn't want to see me on his return. It had been fun, but he didn't want to worry about 'anything happening' whilst he was out of the country but wished me a happy Christmas and was sure that my uni results would be good ones.
I'd been expecting a declaration of long term commitment and maybe even an early silly season present and was bereft. Sad yes, but also a bit humiliated, in hindsight. My flatmates Jo and Fiona decided to take me out to dinner the following day to cheer me up but it ended up with me sobbing over a toasted asparagus doorstop sandwich at the Left Bank Cafe in full view of frankly over-curious shoppers and grannies.
And in keeping with the sad soundtrack of my school years, the stupid song that was on high rotation at the time.....?
Bloody KOKOMO by the Beach boys!
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Heart strings
Sapphire has been playing viola since she was eight, an instrument she chose herself.
I'm not sure why: Love Chunks grew up learning the trumpet and the guitar and now plays the piano and I.... well, I struggled with piano for two years as a child and loathed it.
In year three, her class was the lucky one chosen by the SA Education Department to each receive a violin, viola or cello for the year along with lessons. Even their teacher was included and the couple of concerts they gave during year were pretty inspiring. After the project ended the kids wanted to continue, so every parent in the class chipped in to pay for a music teacher and rented or bought the instruments.
Sapphire was the only one who chose the viola and when we moved to Melbourne she remained the only kid in school with an overgrown violin. It's a tough one to learn because it is kinda sorta in harmony or backs up the main tune and can make for challenging listening when it is played on its own.
Signs have been emerging lately that the viola perhaps isn't the Be All and End All of eleven year old Sapphire's waking hours. There is a new 'to do' item on my list called 'Remind Sapphire to do her viola practice' and this request is inevitably answered with a sigh or an eye roll (or both, if it's been one of those days) and a tired, "Oh Mum, can I do it later?" refrain.
Do I blame her - no. She's already lasted a year longer than I did and could do in a couple of weeks what I was unable to do in twenty four months - read music. This she's inherited from Love Chunks. Both can somehow naturally summon the mysterious magic of being able to see black dots with sticks growing out of them on thin lines, work out in their heads what note they are; convert that into a command to send to their fingers and play that note on the string (Sapph) or key (LC).
Despite all the Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit, FACE and Good Boys Deserve Fruit Always learning techniques, I could not read music. My stubborn brain just did not get it. Being unable to convert the black marks on paper to the inside of my brain and back out to my fingers and onto the keys was about as achievable as not whispering during Silent Reading. Instead, I would practice the piece over and over until it sounded right and was learned off by heart. The actual sheets of music might as well have wrapped up the kitchen scraps for the good they did sitting on the little flipdown stand above the yellowing ivory.
By age ten, I finally plucked up the courage to say to my mum that I didn't want to play the piano any more.
She was disappointed and said a sentence that is as fresh and as true as the day it was uttered thirty three years ago: "When you're older, you'll regret not being able to play a musical instrument." How right she was, but in 1978, I had a much more immediate stressor: telling Mrs Matthews.
Mrs Matthews was an old widow who lived several blocks away from us and attended the same church. Her kids were all grown up and left home but married well, had been 'good students' taught by my father (he taught pretty well half the town) and visited their mother often. I'd have my lesson there every Wednesday morning before school using the old but neat music book that my own mother had learned from three decades earlier.
Wearing her preferred outfit of floral dress, homy peds and a warm cardigan, Mrs Matthews was unfailingly patient and kind, so there are no horrible stories of rapped knuckles, being scolded or having to perform at humiliating recitals. She selected a piece of music - always something achievable and, more importantly, something that sounded pretty decent to me - and taught me how to play it.
But if I was going to quit, Mum insisted that I had to be the one to tell her. Wednesday morning came around far too soon. I didn't dare drag my feet or I'd be late for school and being told off for anything by the teacher would have been a fate worse than telling Mrs Matthews that I was quitting piano. My cheeks would go all red and blotchy and stay that way for hours as my insides shrivelled with embarrassment and shame. Being late would not do.
She opened the door. "Good Morning Katherine! Are you ready for your lesson today? How did you find the Moonlit Sonata?"
I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was mumbled out clearly enough for her to understand, pat my arm, say that she'd enjoyed teaching me and that I was welcome to start again any time. I never did of course and as I continued walking to school she didn't suddenly rush and and try chasing me along the gravel path to beg me to stick at it: clearly the world was not going to become a darker and gloomier place for the lack of my musical contribution.
It also didn't occur to me that Mrs Matthews supplemented her pension by teaching and perhaps having to be up and dressed ready for a reluctant and not-exactly-talented ten year old on a wintry Wednesday morning might not have been the life she'd dreamed of either. I'm so sorry, Mrs Matthews, and hope that another pupil or three turned up to replace me and stayed the distance.
Still, as I hear Sapphire scraping her strings in her bedroom up the passage I hope that she does stick at it. She has an 'ear' for music and can tell you what note is being played - surely that should be nurtured? It might not be the viola that she ends up with but I hope music features in her life for a longer while to come.
Not the piano though - too bloody heavy to carry on the bus or around a campfire.
Sapphire has been playing viola since she was eight, an instrument she chose herself.
I'm not sure why: Love Chunks grew up learning the trumpet and the guitar and now plays the piano and I.... well, I struggled with piano for two years as a child and loathed it.
In year three, her class was the lucky one chosen by the SA Education Department to each receive a violin, viola or cello for the year along with lessons. Even their teacher was included and the couple of concerts they gave during year were pretty inspiring. After the project ended the kids wanted to continue, so every parent in the class chipped in to pay for a music teacher and rented or bought the instruments.
Sapphire was the only one who chose the viola and when we moved to Melbourne she remained the only kid in school with an overgrown violin. It's a tough one to learn because it is kinda sorta in harmony or backs up the main tune and can make for challenging listening when it is played on its own.
Signs have been emerging lately that the viola perhaps isn't the Be All and End All of eleven year old Sapphire's waking hours. There is a new 'to do' item on my list called 'Remind Sapphire to do her viola practice' and this request is inevitably answered with a sigh or an eye roll (or both, if it's been one of those days) and a tired, "Oh Mum, can I do it later?" refrain.
Do I blame her - no. She's already lasted a year longer than I did and could do in a couple of weeks what I was unable to do in twenty four months - read music. This she's inherited from Love Chunks. Both can somehow naturally summon the mysterious magic of being able to see black dots with sticks growing out of them on thin lines, work out in their heads what note they are; convert that into a command to send to their fingers and play that note on the string (Sapph) or key (LC).
Despite all the Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit, FACE and Good Boys Deserve Fruit Always learning techniques, I could not read music. My stubborn brain just did not get it. Being unable to convert the black marks on paper to the inside of my brain and back out to my fingers and onto the keys was about as achievable as not whispering during Silent Reading. Instead, I would practice the piece over and over until it sounded right and was learned off by heart. The actual sheets of music might as well have wrapped up the kitchen scraps for the good they did sitting on the little flipdown stand above the yellowing ivory.
By age ten, I finally plucked up the courage to say to my mum that I didn't want to play the piano any more.
She was disappointed and said a sentence that is as fresh and as true as the day it was uttered thirty three years ago: "When you're older, you'll regret not being able to play a musical instrument." How right she was, but in 1978, I had a much more immediate stressor: telling Mrs Matthews.
Mrs Matthews was an old widow who lived several blocks away from us and attended the same church. Her kids were all grown up and left home but married well, had been 'good students' taught by my father (he taught pretty well half the town) and visited their mother often. I'd have my lesson there every Wednesday morning before school using the old but neat music book that my own mother had learned from three decades earlier.
Wearing her preferred outfit of floral dress, homy peds and a warm cardigan, Mrs Matthews was unfailingly patient and kind, so there are no horrible stories of rapped knuckles, being scolded or having to perform at humiliating recitals. She selected a piece of music - always something achievable and, more importantly, something that sounded pretty decent to me - and taught me how to play it.
But if I was going to quit, Mum insisted that I had to be the one to tell her. Wednesday morning came around far too soon. I didn't dare drag my feet or I'd be late for school and being told off for anything by the teacher would have been a fate worse than telling Mrs Matthews that I was quitting piano. My cheeks would go all red and blotchy and stay that way for hours as my insides shrivelled with embarrassment and shame. Being late would not do.
She opened the door. "Good Morning Katherine! Are you ready for your lesson today? How did you find the Moonlit Sonata?"
I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was mumbled out clearly enough for her to understand, pat my arm, say that she'd enjoyed teaching me and that I was welcome to start again any time. I never did of course and as I continued walking to school she didn't suddenly rush and and try chasing me along the gravel path to beg me to stick at it: clearly the world was not going to become a darker and gloomier place for the lack of my musical contribution.
It also didn't occur to me that Mrs Matthews supplemented her pension by teaching and perhaps having to be up and dressed ready for a reluctant and not-exactly-talented ten year old on a wintry Wednesday morning might not have been the life she'd dreamed of either. I'm so sorry, Mrs Matthews, and hope that another pupil or three turned up to replace me and stayed the distance.
Still, as I hear Sapphire scraping her strings in her bedroom up the passage I hope that she does stick at it. She has an 'ear' for music and can tell you what note is being played - surely that should be nurtured? It might not be the viola that she ends up with but I hope music features in her life for a longer while to come.
Not the piano though - too bloody heavy to carry on the bus or around a campfire.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Rita the non-ETA Eater
Brought to you once again by the collection of magazines hidden in my study
In 1976, nothing said creativity and sophistication like a Sunbeam electric frypan. Mum used ours to, well, fry everything she could lay her hands on which was lamb chops about 80% of the time. Even the Sunday roast lamb was done in it with the lid on and the potatoes and onions swimming around the outside in a pool of hot fat, their bottoms getting stuck to the element for me to pick off and eat hours later.
Here though we have a Masterfoods Three Bean Mix Egg Combo which is eerily ahead of its time in that it is designed as a huge cross, indicating "NO! Just don't try this at home if you wish your corduroy slacks to stay in one piece and your net curtains to remain white. NO!"
Clearly too, such an artistic design is meant not just for the kitchen bench but to be brought directly to the table so that all eaters could see just what a treat - visual and oral - they were in for that night.
Later that same year, Streets icecream brought out the Toffee, er, Log. This brown barrell featuring swirls of cream and light brown pretty well echoed the decor of a million kitchens around the country and if served in burnt orange melamine bowls (as ours were) the look was complete.
The taste, on the other hand, was significant only in that it was insignificant. Still, it did help get the Stainless Steel Sunbeam Three Bean Egg Mix combo to slide down.
In keeping with the fashions of the time, you could also opt for Brown done three ways with a pot of pus - sorry, sauce - to dip your meats into. Mmmm hmmm who needs any other colours when you can do like you did in kindergarten art class and mix them all together and arrive at wonderful, delicious and complete brown.
In 1977, Coles had created a New World. No, not one involving the eradication of deadly diseases or the end to all war and conflicts, but the introduction of Farmland Meat. 'Farmland' presumably meant a factory location where animals were dragged in and killed, cut up and placed on styrofoam trays covered in gladwrap rather than a sunny shop filled with rolling paddocks, gently lowing cattle and milking sheds.
And look at how excited Trevor-the-neckless is to be featured in this advertisement. It was either this or be handpicked for the Yorkshire Ripper police line up and at least here he was able to wield a knife without being violently thrown to the floor and read his rights.
Thankfully there were other options to beans, Brown and Trevor's rather slapdash and very fat-laced meat trays - Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Colonel Sanders was still alive at the time and stuff such as raging obesity, sky-high cholesterol and heart disease were still faint enough to be ignored, as was trying to hide 'Fried' in an acronym. What could out-do beans for sophistication and refinement than a grease-spattered cardboard box of unrecognisable chicken pieces? Yep, that's "real goodness" for you!
We had to settle for that until 1982 brought about a revolution. No, not just the official end of Adam and the Ants as a viable form of music but - steady yourselves - the introduction of sliced cheese.
When Mum bought these - Dad would turn his nose up and announce they tasted like flat soap - we kids would hoover them up like after dinner mints (same shape). The old one kilo block of Coon was left languishing, getting blue spotted and sweaty in its plastic coat as we pushed it to the back of the fridge and instead ate slice after slice of Kraft. I can't remember adding bread or anything else to it too often but yes, this changed the way we ate, thought, sang, worshipped, loved, grew, progressed ..... Heady times.
A year later when wearing plastic maps of Australia for earrings was considered de-rigeur, McDonald's decided to tell us that meat potatoes and bread were healthy, especially when reconfigured as a Big Mac. "Have some wholesome McDonald's meals and you're well on your way to a balanced diet." Yeah, in HELL. Even reading this tripe the first time around as a fourteen-and-a-half year old in my mother's Womens' Weekly I knew that I'd rather eat another frypans' worth of three bean egg mix.
All was calm by 1988 when the humble Jatz Cracker was the Easy Entertainer.
I've studied the photo for a while now and can't for the life of me work out what's on those easy entertainers - turkey kidneys? Cat tumours? Tree fungi? Hippo snot? In our day it was French Onion dip or some good old Kraft cheese cunningly ripped into four with a thin slice of gherkin on the top, ready for a raging night of Porky's II on beta video or some games of Pong on the black and white TV in the pool room.....
Rita here perhaps sums up the effects that such foods had on the bowels of those who willingly ate it.
The poor love was out of routine. It was either her diet or her busy busy life. It sure as hell couldn't have been those 23 cheese slices and Kentucky Fried bucket, could it? Or three wholesome Big Macs and a bowl of three been mix?
Ford Pills would set her straight; help her back out a toffee log of her own one of these days. Then she'll be able to do a semi plie without frightening her students or shattering the mirrors.
Brought to you once again by the collection of magazines hidden in my study
In 1976, nothing said creativity and sophistication like a Sunbeam electric frypan. Mum used ours to, well, fry everything she could lay her hands on which was lamb chops about 80% of the time. Even the Sunday roast lamb was done in it with the lid on and the potatoes and onions swimming around the outside in a pool of hot fat, their bottoms getting stuck to the element for me to pick off and eat hours later.
Here though we have a Masterfoods Three Bean Mix Egg Combo which is eerily ahead of its time in that it is designed as a huge cross, indicating "NO! Just don't try this at home if you wish your corduroy slacks to stay in one piece and your net curtains to remain white. NO!"
Clearly too, such an artistic design is meant not just for the kitchen bench but to be brought directly to the table so that all eaters could see just what a treat - visual and oral - they were in for that night.
Later that same year, Streets icecream brought out the Toffee, er, Log. This brown barrell featuring swirls of cream and light brown pretty well echoed the decor of a million kitchens around the country and if served in burnt orange melamine bowls (as ours were) the look was complete.
The taste, on the other hand, was significant only in that it was insignificant. Still, it did help get the Stainless Steel Sunbeam Three Bean Egg Mix combo to slide down.
In keeping with the fashions of the time, you could also opt for Brown done three ways with a pot of pus - sorry, sauce - to dip your meats into. Mmmm hmmm who needs any other colours when you can do like you did in kindergarten art class and mix them all together and arrive at wonderful, delicious and complete brown.
In 1977, Coles had created a New World. No, not one involving the eradication of deadly diseases or the end to all war and conflicts, but the introduction of Farmland Meat. 'Farmland' presumably meant a factory location where animals were dragged in and killed, cut up and placed on styrofoam trays covered in gladwrap rather than a sunny shop filled with rolling paddocks, gently lowing cattle and milking sheds.
And look at how excited Trevor-the-neckless is to be featured in this advertisement. It was either this or be handpicked for the Yorkshire Ripper police line up and at least here he was able to wield a knife without being violently thrown to the floor and read his rights.
Thankfully there were other options to beans, Brown and Trevor's rather slapdash and very fat-laced meat trays - Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Colonel Sanders was still alive at the time and stuff such as raging obesity, sky-high cholesterol and heart disease were still faint enough to be ignored, as was trying to hide 'Fried' in an acronym. What could out-do beans for sophistication and refinement than a grease-spattered cardboard box of unrecognisable chicken pieces? Yep, that's "real goodness" for you!
We had to settle for that until 1982 brought about a revolution. No, not just the official end of Adam and the Ants as a viable form of music but - steady yourselves - the introduction of sliced cheese.
When Mum bought these - Dad would turn his nose up and announce they tasted like flat soap - we kids would hoover them up like after dinner mints (same shape). The old one kilo block of Coon was left languishing, getting blue spotted and sweaty in its plastic coat as we pushed it to the back of the fridge and instead ate slice after slice of Kraft. I can't remember adding bread or anything else to it too often but yes, this changed the way we ate, thought, sang, worshipped, loved, grew, progressed ..... Heady times.
A year later when wearing plastic maps of Australia for earrings was considered de-rigeur, McDonald's decided to tell us that meat potatoes and bread were healthy, especially when reconfigured as a Big Mac. "Have some wholesome McDonald's meals and you're well on your way to a balanced diet." Yeah, in HELL. Even reading this tripe the first time around as a fourteen-and-a-half year old in my mother's Womens' Weekly I knew that I'd rather eat another frypans' worth of three bean egg mix.
All was calm by 1988 when the humble Jatz Cracker was the Easy Entertainer.
I've studied the photo for a while now and can't for the life of me work out what's on those easy entertainers - turkey kidneys? Cat tumours? Tree fungi? Hippo snot? In our day it was French Onion dip or some good old Kraft cheese cunningly ripped into four with a thin slice of gherkin on the top, ready for a raging night of Porky's II on beta video or some games of Pong on the black and white TV in the pool room.....
Rita here perhaps sums up the effects that such foods had on the bowels of those who willingly ate it.
The poor love was out of routine. It was either her diet or her busy busy life. It sure as hell couldn't have been those 23 cheese slices and Kentucky Fried bucket, could it? Or three wholesome Big Macs and a bowl of three been mix?
Ford Pills would set her straight; help her back out a toffee log of her own one of these days. Then she'll be able to do a semi plie without frightening her students or shattering the mirrors.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Bogger Bluddy
My new blogger buddy (oh dear, that's so close to 'bugger buddy' but let's move on) Conor of Hold the Beef has tagged me. It's been a while since I've been tagged so I feel a bit giddy and flattered and said of COURSE I'll do it.
What is your first memory?
Drawing on my one year old brother's face with fat, permanent-marking texta colours. I was three, he was still in a now-very-unpolitically-correct lunar module walker that I pushed into the corner, wedged in tight and got to work. I can even smell that heady aroma of chemical solvents; something I still love today.
Mum got off the phone and walked into the kitchen to see David's face now resembling a test pattern and told me to get outside. It was a hot January day and I sat by the back door in white puffy pants and little else, awaiting punishment.
....years later Mum said that she and Dad had a bit of a laugh, took a few photos and then put on their angry faces to deal with me. It was a fortnight before the texta fully faded from trusting David's face.
What is the dish that you most often eat?
You're all going to assume that it's chocolate and yes, that features in my diet (ha!) every day but in terms of regularity and volume it is probably oranges. Every morning I squeeze and drink three of them, including every single bit of pulp. Makes for a chunky slurp that I don't dwell on too much, but I feel better for it.
What were you doing this time yesterday?
Flopped on the lounge watching 'Glee' with Sapphire and Love Chunks whilst enduring their disapproving eyes and 'shoosh' motions via putting their fingers to their lips as I chatted on the phone to my buddy Jill.
Are you a runner?
For TEN YEARS yes! That is until two months ago when my achilles - getting dodgier and dodgier, finally hurt itself well and proper, forcing me to stop altogether. The first time I waited patiently for four weeks before getting back onto the treadmill only to have it give me the muscular 'big finger' and the second time I did the right stretching exercises and waited the appropriate musculo-skeletal healing time of six weeks.
On Sunday, I nervously switched on the treaddie. It had been six weeks and two days. What were my legs? Springs, steel springs. How fast was I going to run? As fast as a leopard.
And I did - for three glorious kilometres; for fifteen wonderful minutes. It felt great - strong, easy, painless and then ----
--- TWANG! Pain so intense I tried to jump off the moving belt straight away but sort of slipped and was thrown to into the fake 'mudguard' of the exercise bike behind it, a pedal lodging firmly - and, let's be honest, rather ironically - right in the centre of my arse.
So for the past two months I've been glumly pedalling away to nowhere on the exercise bike and power walking. For the past two and a bit weeks, that power walking only occurs on the way home from work where most of the journey involves inhaling traffic fumes or the cigarette smoke puffed out by obese patients and visitors at the various Accident and Emergency entrances I pass. The Royal Children's Hospital has the added fragrance of old McDonald's grease, poo (today it was a human example, strangely perched on top of a folded t-shirt left beside the Australia Post box!) and BO.
If nothing else, this unedifying route home just makes me walk faster in order to escape it quicker.
What are your thoughts on food at sporting events?
BRING YOUR OWN. Otherwise you'll be ripped off - taste wise and finance wise. Seven bucks for an ancient, half-cold pie and indifferent chips or a hotdog older than Moses when you can have a block of Lindt, a proscuitto and jarlsberg sandwich, a bunch of grapes and home-brewed coffee in a thermos? Make the effort.
Same goes for the cinema. Big handbags finally have a use when you're at the multiplex and don't want to spend a weeks' rent on candy bar fare. Pop in an iced coffee, several chocolate bars and whatever chips you like - purchased on the way to the cinema (at a tenth of the price) at your supermarket.
I did go see a movie with a girlfriend who snuck in a boiled egg sandwich but that did pong slightly. Plus a bit of it splodged out in the darkness and she walked out two hours later in the sunshine with what looked like fresh pelican shit on her crotch...
What was the first, or last, band that you saw live?
'Twas 2003 and we took Sapphire (then four) to see The Wiggles live at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre, 10am start. Dorothy the Dinosaur ran through our row of seats and shook Love Chunks' hand - a fair bit more than he got ten years earlier when he and I saw Midnight Oil at the same venue. At 10pm.
Did you ever, or do you still currently, wear bike pants?
Technically no, but I do go for the knee-length or three-quarter legging for running and power walking. Those flappity-flappity-flappity running shorts favoured by marathoners and Bendy Wendies are a wind-dragging distraction. Rest assured that the t-shirt that accompanies my tight 'bike pants-like' shorts are l-o-n-g ones so that no camel toes, exercise-induced wedgies or gut rolls are exposed to the public.
If you could have any drink at all right now (disregarding any possible calorie/money/hangover concerns) what would it be?
Iced coffee - but it'd keep me awake; so
Gin and tonic - off to get one right now; and
Water - always.
My new blogger buddy (oh dear, that's so close to 'bugger buddy' but let's move on) Conor of Hold the Beef has tagged me. It's been a while since I've been tagged so I feel a bit giddy and flattered and said of COURSE I'll do it.
What is your first memory?
Drawing on my one year old brother's face with fat, permanent-marking texta colours. I was three, he was still in a now-very-unpolitically-correct lunar module walker that I pushed into the corner, wedged in tight and got to work. I can even smell that heady aroma of chemical solvents; something I still love today.
Mum got off the phone and walked into the kitchen to see David's face now resembling a test pattern and told me to get outside. It was a hot January day and I sat by the back door in white puffy pants and little else, awaiting punishment.
....years later Mum said that she and Dad had a bit of a laugh, took a few photos and then put on their angry faces to deal with me. It was a fortnight before the texta fully faded from trusting David's face.
What is the dish that you most often eat?
You're all going to assume that it's chocolate and yes, that features in my diet (ha!) every day but in terms of regularity and volume it is probably oranges. Every morning I squeeze and drink three of them, including every single bit of pulp. Makes for a chunky slurp that I don't dwell on too much, but I feel better for it.
What were you doing this time yesterday?
Flopped on the lounge watching 'Glee' with Sapphire and Love Chunks whilst enduring their disapproving eyes and 'shoosh' motions via putting their fingers to their lips as I chatted on the phone to my buddy Jill.
Are you a runner?
For TEN YEARS yes! That is until two months ago when my achilles - getting dodgier and dodgier, finally hurt itself well and proper, forcing me to stop altogether. The first time I waited patiently for four weeks before getting back onto the treadmill only to have it give me the muscular 'big finger' and the second time I did the right stretching exercises and waited the appropriate musculo-skeletal healing time of six weeks.
On Sunday, I nervously switched on the treaddie. It had been six weeks and two days. What were my legs? Springs, steel springs. How fast was I going to run? As fast as a leopard.
And I did - for three glorious kilometres; for fifteen wonderful minutes. It felt great - strong, easy, painless and then ----
--- TWANG! Pain so intense I tried to jump off the moving belt straight away but sort of slipped and was thrown to into the fake 'mudguard' of the exercise bike behind it, a pedal lodging firmly - and, let's be honest, rather ironically - right in the centre of my arse.
So for the past two months I've been glumly pedalling away to nowhere on the exercise bike and power walking. For the past two and a bit weeks, that power walking only occurs on the way home from work where most of the journey involves inhaling traffic fumes or the cigarette smoke puffed out by obese patients and visitors at the various Accident and Emergency entrances I pass. The Royal Children's Hospital has the added fragrance of old McDonald's grease, poo (today it was a human example, strangely perched on top of a folded t-shirt left beside the Australia Post box!) and BO.
If nothing else, this unedifying route home just makes me walk faster in order to escape it quicker.
What are your thoughts on food at sporting events?
BRING YOUR OWN. Otherwise you'll be ripped off - taste wise and finance wise. Seven bucks for an ancient, half-cold pie and indifferent chips or a hotdog older than Moses when you can have a block of Lindt, a proscuitto and jarlsberg sandwich, a bunch of grapes and home-brewed coffee in a thermos? Make the effort.
Same goes for the cinema. Big handbags finally have a use when you're at the multiplex and don't want to spend a weeks' rent on candy bar fare. Pop in an iced coffee, several chocolate bars and whatever chips you like - purchased on the way to the cinema (at a tenth of the price) at your supermarket.
I did go see a movie with a girlfriend who snuck in a boiled egg sandwich but that did pong slightly. Plus a bit of it splodged out in the darkness and she walked out two hours later in the sunshine with what looked like fresh pelican shit on her crotch...
What was the first, or last, band that you saw live?
'Twas 2003 and we took Sapphire (then four) to see The Wiggles live at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre, 10am start. Dorothy the Dinosaur ran through our row of seats and shook Love Chunks' hand - a fair bit more than he got ten years earlier when he and I saw Midnight Oil at the same venue. At 10pm.
Did you ever, or do you still currently, wear bike pants?
Technically no, but I do go for the knee-length or three-quarter legging for running and power walking. Those flappity-flappity-flappity running shorts favoured by marathoners and Bendy Wendies are a wind-dragging distraction. Rest assured that the t-shirt that accompanies my tight 'bike pants-like' shorts are l-o-n-g ones so that no camel toes, exercise-induced wedgies or gut rolls are exposed to the public.
If you could have any drink at all right now (disregarding any possible calorie/money/hangover concerns) what would it be?
Iced coffee - but it'd keep me awake; so
Gin and tonic - off to get one right now; and
Water - always.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Not a joke, Joyce
Sapphire had caught my bug, plus had a really bad head cold, some diarrhoea, a vomiting session and merciless hay-fever thrown in. Therefore she had to spend three days at home with me.
After enjoying the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy (one DVD per day), a snooze and some reading, it was inevitable that we'd get chatting.
She told me about a girl in her class called Joyce, who'd moved over from the Philippines with her family a couple of years ago. "She speaks English pretty well now Mum, but struggles with the schoolwork so I offer to help her sometimes. She's really shy and even when I see her standing at the classroom door waiting for the bell to ring, she won't speak to me unless I talk first. I've tried really hard, Mum but I don't think she likes me."
A few minutes later after I'd given her the pep talk about how proud I am that she's being friendly and trying to include someone and that yes, she should keep doing that; Sapphire revealed that Joyce turned up last week with hearing aids. "Her Mum doesn't speak English and always looks so sad and when I asked Joyce if she'd like to come over to my house after school she said that her Mum won't let her."
We let that sink in for a while before I again said stuff like Can you imagine what it must be like to only speak English at school - a language you only learned two years ago at the age of nine - and then go home and lose a fair bit of what you learned because you then had to revert back to your mother's language? Can you also imagine how lonely and confusing it must have been - for way longer than two years - at wondering why you couldn't always catch what was being said?
Sapphire could imagine it and her eyes filled up with tears. "So what can I do, Mum? Sometimes she sees me and my friends and won't come over and just stands there, staring at the door. I don't even think she likes me."
"Love, she's so lonely inside and doesn't yet have the knowledge or skills on how to change things. She hates being shy and hates not having any confidence. Keep on talking to her, smiling to her, walking over to her. She might not respond the way you'd like her to, but believe me, a year or twenty years down the track, she'll be grateful that you bothered."
"Mum, why are you crying?"
"Because no kid stands alone by choice. Let me make you a cup of honey and lemon tea - I'll get a berry vanilla for myself - and I'll begin."
Same goes for you, dear reader. Get a drink and strap yourself in for a long read.
In South Australia, primary school goes until the end of year seven, so it is year eight that is dreaded and longed-for at the same time; the entry into high school.
My father was a high school teacher, so it held no real terrors for me - most of the secondary teachers were already long-standing family friends and I loved school. I had friends, oodles of confidence and knew I belonged. High school would just be another stepping stone for me.
Towards the end of the year, Dad was offered an Exchange Teacher place. Similar to Rotary Exchange student programs, teachers swapped jobs and homes for twelve months in order to experience life, work and travel in another country. We five Reads were going to Aberdeen, Scotland. We'd never even been on an aeroplane before!
Yes, there'd be snow there - we were leaving straight after our summery Christmas into their mid-winter. Yes we'd be living in a cottage that was over 250 years old and our rooms would be upstairs in the attic. And yes, we'd travel around the UK and Europe every single chance we got.
We had to pack up all of our personal possessions; make sure that Sox the cat would be cared for by the neighbours until the Scottish family arrived; pose for passport photos in front of a wrinkled bed-sheet that Dad had thrown over the line and cram our suitcases full of winter woolies whilst sweating in our bathers.
A week later, this confident, funny kid with sun-bleached hair and golden skin from swimming every spare moment in the neighbour's pool was stared at by her class, 8E, when she stood in front of them, being introduced by the frazzled French teacher. Her blazer was too big, skirt too long and the desert boots and white socks underneath looked ridiculous. For the first time ever, she felt out of place.
Not one of her classmates showed a flicker of interest. Already she could tell that no-one would be asking her what living in Australia was like.
Recess time saw her troop slowly out of maths class, face still blushing from having to answer "Eighty Eight" and hear them laugh and bray at her stupid accent. She followed the crowd to the cloak room and lunch hall and pretended to be waiting for the toilet to be vacant. Little did she know that this was to be her main activity during recess for the next six months.
Lunch time involved a mandatory school dinner. Holding her ticket, she'd patiently line up to be given a plate of mealies, soggy chips and wrinkled peas because it was a relief from standing alone. Everyone had to do it, but she wasn't hungry and wasn't in a rush. With a plate full of half-hearted grey slop she'd sidle up to a spare chair and mumble, 'CanISitHerePleaseThanks' and plonk down, trying to eat and hide behind her fringe.
No one ever said, "No, piss off you loser," as she sat down. She was so beneath their interest and attention that even acknowledging her with an insult or a shove would have been too much effort. The girl felt invisible. No, worse than invisible because she didn't have the freedom to come and go when she wanted, she had to stay there and be overlooked and ignored.
Other kids would finish and run out to play football, table tennis, gossip and flirt, leaving her behind. It was only after three weeks of sitting alone in the cloak room pretending to write in her English journal that the sad girl discovered the Library.
This wondrously warm, quiet and anonymous place was open all lunch time. To anybody at school. The relief was tremendous as she dawdled her way up and down every bookshelf. She loved to read and it was an escape from idle stares and being considered too worthless to befriend.
The Wombles books caught her eye. She'd always thought the TV show was cute and these'd be simple to read and easy to put back on the shelf where they'be be too uncool to be borrowed by anyone else and therefore be resumed the next lunch time.
Sapphire, I read them all at least four times each and, for the life of me, can't remember a single character or storyline and still, writing this twenty nine years later don't want to search them out on ebay and read them again for old times' sake.
The librarian knew. She'd always say 'hello' as the lonely girl wandered in, silent and pale, groping for the book still in its usual place and sitting herself down at the laminated table farthest from the entrance, shoulders hunched. The girl didn't dare get talking to the lady; she knew that she felt sorry for her, but to see or hear that pity close up would just be too much to bear and the girl knew that you must never, ever cry at high school .....
On the bus ride home, she sat by herself, supposedly entranced by the grim and grey view of the outskirts of Aberdeen, the Altens Housing Estate and Cove Bay, where she lived. Her older brother was at the back of the bus with his friends - guaranteed due to his sporting prowess. David was still at the local primary school and had more playdates to deal with than days of the week.
At her stop, she'd trail behind Robert, aware that he wasn't keen to be seen with his daggy younger sister - and who could blame him? She'd wander inside, calling out 'I'm home' to her mother in the most cheerful voice she could manage, hang up her coat and head upstairs.
On would go ABBA's Super Trouper album as she cried and cried and cried, hoping that the thud thud thud of the base would drown any sobbing out. Sometimes she'd stare out of my window to the train track winding further up north and dream that she was back home again. Her real home, in South Australia, where she had friends and certainty and comfort and not this awful, relentless feeling of shame and pain and worthlessness.....
Headaches and stomach aches started to arrive each morning, shaking her out of bed before the alarm clock did. She heard her mother worriedly whisper to her father something about 'psychosomatic' but couldn't lean farther out for a better sticky-beak because the stabbing ache in her side was too great.
The weekends were wonderful. Her family would cram into the Bedford van and explore villages, craggy castles, manor houses, old battle grounds, museums and wilderness. They'd laugh and joke around together and Sunday night saw her try too hard to keep the hilarity going, to wring a few more drops out of the weekend before school and pain and fear and doom set in again.
One day as she sat near the front seat of the bus with several spare seats around her, a beautiful young girl tapped her on the shoulder.
"Hiyeh."
"Er, Hi," she replied, voice croaking.
"Are ye an Aussie, is that right?"
"Aye," I muttered, having learned months ago to tone down my accent.
"Can ye swim?"
"Aye," I replied, lifting up my head and noticing her lovely brown eyes and hair that Kate Bush would have envied.
"I'm Pamela and I'm captain of the Kincorth Swimming Club and we need some more swimmers in year 8. Do ye want tae come?"
She saved me, Sapphire.
Pamela saved me. She took the time to wander over to a lonely, broken little soul and speak to her.
Sapphire, keep doing what you're doing for Joyce. She might not be able to demonstrate yet what it means, but it does mean a great deal, more than I hope you ever have to know for yourself. It means that she's worth something to someone else.
We hugged. And cried. Sapphire got off my knee and said, "It explains something to me, Mum."
"What?"
"It explains why you always try to talk to people all the time and when Dad and I say 'oh there she goes again' it's always because you're getting to know someone."
No kid stands or sits alone by choice.
Sapphire had caught my bug, plus had a really bad head cold, some diarrhoea, a vomiting session and merciless hay-fever thrown in. Therefore she had to spend three days at home with me.
After enjoying the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy (one DVD per day), a snooze and some reading, it was inevitable that we'd get chatting.
She told me about a girl in her class called Joyce, who'd moved over from the Philippines with her family a couple of years ago. "She speaks English pretty well now Mum, but struggles with the schoolwork so I offer to help her sometimes. She's really shy and even when I see her standing at the classroom door waiting for the bell to ring, she won't speak to me unless I talk first. I've tried really hard, Mum but I don't think she likes me."
A few minutes later after I'd given her the pep talk about how proud I am that she's being friendly and trying to include someone and that yes, she should keep doing that; Sapphire revealed that Joyce turned up last week with hearing aids. "Her Mum doesn't speak English and always looks so sad and when I asked Joyce if she'd like to come over to my house after school she said that her Mum won't let her."
We let that sink in for a while before I again said stuff like Can you imagine what it must be like to only speak English at school - a language you only learned two years ago at the age of nine - and then go home and lose a fair bit of what you learned because you then had to revert back to your mother's language? Can you also imagine how lonely and confusing it must have been - for way longer than two years - at wondering why you couldn't always catch what was being said?
Sapphire could imagine it and her eyes filled up with tears. "So what can I do, Mum? Sometimes she sees me and my friends and won't come over and just stands there, staring at the door. I don't even think she likes me."
"Love, she's so lonely inside and doesn't yet have the knowledge or skills on how to change things. She hates being shy and hates not having any confidence. Keep on talking to her, smiling to her, walking over to her. She might not respond the way you'd like her to, but believe me, a year or twenty years down the track, she'll be grateful that you bothered."
"Mum, why are you crying?"
"Because no kid stands alone by choice. Let me make you a cup of honey and lemon tea - I'll get a berry vanilla for myself - and I'll begin."
Same goes for you, dear reader. Get a drink and strap yourself in for a long read.
In South Australia, primary school goes until the end of year seven, so it is year eight that is dreaded and longed-for at the same time; the entry into high school.
My father was a high school teacher, so it held no real terrors for me - most of the secondary teachers were already long-standing family friends and I loved school. I had friends, oodles of confidence and knew I belonged. High school would just be another stepping stone for me.
Towards the end of the year, Dad was offered an Exchange Teacher place. Similar to Rotary Exchange student programs, teachers swapped jobs and homes for twelve months in order to experience life, work and travel in another country. We five Reads were going to Aberdeen, Scotland. We'd never even been on an aeroplane before!
Yes, there'd be snow there - we were leaving straight after our summery Christmas into their mid-winter. Yes we'd be living in a cottage that was over 250 years old and our rooms would be upstairs in the attic. And yes, we'd travel around the UK and Europe every single chance we got.
We had to pack up all of our personal possessions; make sure that Sox the cat would be cared for by the neighbours until the Scottish family arrived; pose for passport photos in front of a wrinkled bed-sheet that Dad had thrown over the line and cram our suitcases full of winter woolies whilst sweating in our bathers.
A week later, this confident, funny kid with sun-bleached hair and golden skin from swimming every spare moment in the neighbour's pool was stared at by her class, 8E, when she stood in front of them, being introduced by the frazzled French teacher. Her blazer was too big, skirt too long and the desert boots and white socks underneath looked ridiculous. For the first time ever, she felt out of place.
Not one of her classmates showed a flicker of interest. Already she could tell that no-one would be asking her what living in Australia was like.
Recess time saw her troop slowly out of maths class, face still blushing from having to answer "Eighty Eight" and hear them laugh and bray at her stupid accent. She followed the crowd to the cloak room and lunch hall and pretended to be waiting for the toilet to be vacant. Little did she know that this was to be her main activity during recess for the next six months.
Lunch time involved a mandatory school dinner. Holding her ticket, she'd patiently line up to be given a plate of mealies, soggy chips and wrinkled peas because it was a relief from standing alone. Everyone had to do it, but she wasn't hungry and wasn't in a rush. With a plate full of half-hearted grey slop she'd sidle up to a spare chair and mumble, 'CanISitHerePleaseThanks' and plonk down, trying to eat and hide behind her fringe.
No one ever said, "No, piss off you loser," as she sat down. She was so beneath their interest and attention that even acknowledging her with an insult or a shove would have been too much effort. The girl felt invisible. No, worse than invisible because she didn't have the freedom to come and go when she wanted, she had to stay there and be overlooked and ignored.
Other kids would finish and run out to play football, table tennis, gossip and flirt, leaving her behind. It was only after three weeks of sitting alone in the cloak room pretending to write in her English journal that the sad girl discovered the Library.
This wondrously warm, quiet and anonymous place was open all lunch time. To anybody at school. The relief was tremendous as she dawdled her way up and down every bookshelf. She loved to read and it was an escape from idle stares and being considered too worthless to befriend.
The Wombles books caught her eye. She'd always thought the TV show was cute and these'd be simple to read and easy to put back on the shelf where they'be be too uncool to be borrowed by anyone else and therefore be resumed the next lunch time.
Sapphire, I read them all at least four times each and, for the life of me, can't remember a single character or storyline and still, writing this twenty nine years later don't want to search them out on ebay and read them again for old times' sake.
The librarian knew. She'd always say 'hello' as the lonely girl wandered in, silent and pale, groping for the book still in its usual place and sitting herself down at the laminated table farthest from the entrance, shoulders hunched. The girl didn't dare get talking to the lady; she knew that she felt sorry for her, but to see or hear that pity close up would just be too much to bear and the girl knew that you must never, ever cry at high school .....
On the bus ride home, she sat by herself, supposedly entranced by the grim and grey view of the outskirts of Aberdeen, the Altens Housing Estate and Cove Bay, where she lived. Her older brother was at the back of the bus with his friends - guaranteed due to his sporting prowess. David was still at the local primary school and had more playdates to deal with than days of the week.
At her stop, she'd trail behind Robert, aware that he wasn't keen to be seen with his daggy younger sister - and who could blame him? She'd wander inside, calling out 'I'm home' to her mother in the most cheerful voice she could manage, hang up her coat and head upstairs.
On would go ABBA's Super Trouper album as she cried and cried and cried, hoping that the thud thud thud of the base would drown any sobbing out. Sometimes she'd stare out of my window to the train track winding further up north and dream that she was back home again. Her real home, in South Australia, where she had friends and certainty and comfort and not this awful, relentless feeling of shame and pain and worthlessness.....
Headaches and stomach aches started to arrive each morning, shaking her out of bed before the alarm clock did. She heard her mother worriedly whisper to her father something about 'psychosomatic' but couldn't lean farther out for a better sticky-beak because the stabbing ache in her side was too great.
The weekends were wonderful. Her family would cram into the Bedford van and explore villages, craggy castles, manor houses, old battle grounds, museums and wilderness. They'd laugh and joke around together and Sunday night saw her try too hard to keep the hilarity going, to wring a few more drops out of the weekend before school and pain and fear and doom set in again.
One day as she sat near the front seat of the bus with several spare seats around her, a beautiful young girl tapped her on the shoulder.
"Hiyeh."
"Er, Hi," she replied, voice croaking.
"Are ye an Aussie, is that right?"
"Aye," I muttered, having learned months ago to tone down my accent.
"Can ye swim?"
"Aye," I replied, lifting up my head and noticing her lovely brown eyes and hair that Kate Bush would have envied.
"I'm Pamela and I'm captain of the Kincorth Swimming Club and we need some more swimmers in year 8. Do ye want tae come?"
She saved me, Sapphire.
Pamela saved me. She took the time to wander over to a lonely, broken little soul and speak to her.
Sapphire, keep doing what you're doing for Joyce. She might not be able to demonstrate yet what it means, but it does mean a great deal, more than I hope you ever have to know for yourself. It means that she's worth something to someone else.
We hugged. And cried. Sapphire got off my knee and said, "It explains something to me, Mum."
"What?"
"It explains why you always try to talk to people all the time and when Dad and I say 'oh there she goes again' it's always because you're getting to know someone."
No kid stands or sits alone by choice.
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