It's all YOUR fault

Today was Sapphire's first day at her new school.

She was excited and chattering happily as we walked the two streets to the school, holding my hand and skipping. She was soon lost in the gaggle of kids at assembly and my last glimpse of her was as a blonde head amongst a bobbing sea of dark-blue-and-turquoise uniforms heading to their classrooms.

I felt fearful and tearful and disconsolately walked along Pin Oak and sat on my own at a cafe surrounded by Yummy Mummies sipping cappuccinos with their Fred Bare toddlers and designer-clad girlfriends.

At home, some work was done, but mostly my heart was pounding too hard and fast as though I was about to stand up at a podium and deliver a speech on Quantum Physics with no pants on. I kept glancing up at the clock, yet still jumped up in surprise when my watch alarm beeped at 3:15. Milly ran to the laundry where her lead is kept because school pick-ups mean 'walkies' in her world.

Standing uncertainly under a willow, I eventually spotted Sapphire. She dashed over to me and said, "I didn't have anyone to play with at recess or lunch."

Ooooooooffffff, my heart deflated slowly, painfully. That would be the worst thing for a kid to experience on their very first day at a brand new school where they know no-one. And we were now talking about my kid, my life, my bundle to protect.

"That's not good enough," I said, grabbing her hand. "Let's go to the front office and see if we can catch your teacher and ask him to make sure you have a buddy to link up with at recess and lunch tomorrow."

Sapphire hung back. "But Mum----"

Too late. I was in there, powered by perspiration and anxiousness and the teacher just happened to be standing by the front door. "Er, I'm Sapphire's Mum, nice to meet you. She just told me that she didn't have anyone to play with today. I know you're busy and it's only the first day and there's settling in do and everything but do you think you could kind of make sure that someone looks after her tomorrow?"

He started to say that it was his first day too and he thought that Sapph----

"Please." Over Sapphire's head I gave him my most pleading, tears-not-quite-there-yet stare. "Please, I'm just asking that she's taken care of tomorrow." He agreed distractedly, clearly wishing to escape into the staff car park and away from this particular Helicopter-parent's annoying clutches.

Walking down Wellington Street, I asked Sapphire if she wanted to go down to Racecourse Road and get an iceblock. "No Mum, I just want to go straight home," she hissed between clenched teeth.

As soon as the front door was unlocked, it was clear why. She threw herself on the bed, sobbing. "I HATE this school Mum! I want to go back home, where I belong!"

"I know Sweetie. I know it's been a hard day for you, but----"

"It's all your fault!"

Ooooooooffffff; this time my heart felt as though it was being cruelly stretched and shredded. Oh my god; was I making it worse for her than it really was? Was I projecting my own miserable experiences of starting year eight in a tough Scottish high school thirty eight years ago onto my sunny nine year old? Wasn't this the time for a parent to rise up; to say and do the right thing in order to make such a stressful transition more tolerable and easier for their child? Why was she stuck with such a frigging useless role model?

What on earth was I supposed to say? Besides, my heart was still going Ooooooooffffff. It hurt; physically ached. I felt so helpless; imagine how she must have felt, counting down every single minute of the interminable lunch time so that it would end quicker and she'd no longer have to be sitting on the bench by the water taps alone.

Time to try again. "Look, maybe you need some time to have a good cry, let all your tension and worries out and then come outside with me and give Skipper a pat, hmmm?" She shoved her head under the pillows as her reply. I carefully backed away, closed the door as gently and sat outside with a small white rabbit in my arms, his floating fluff gradually turning my black-t-shirt into white.

Maybe a good cry was going to benefit me as well. So I let myself have one, all sniffly and loud, regardless of whether any of the twelve flat-dwellers on their balconies overlooking our little garden could see me.

There was a tap on my shoulder. "Mum?"

Wiping my nose inelegantly on the back of my hand - like I've told Sapphire not to do so many times - I turned to look at her. "Mum, did you see the note I left you this morning?"

No, I hadn't. "Where did you put it?"

She held it out to me. "It was on the kitchen bench, next to your iPod player thingy."

We sucked a butterscotch each, holding each other's hands.

"Mum?"

"Yes, love?"

"I'll be braver tomorrow. I'll do what you say and I will ask someone if I can join them and their friends."

"Oh sweetie, it will be better at school tomorrow and you'll----" She stuck up her hand to shoosh me.

"Mum, enough. Let's talk about something else now, OK? Didn't you say that you wanted to try that green curry paste we got from the Chinese market yesterday?"

I chopped up two cloves of garlic and a huge brown onion, feeling so grateful that they made my eyes all red and watery.

The Gate(s) of Hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lost. It is coming on Wednesday.

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

Bloody gate.

Hotter than a Pommy's armpit at the one-day cricket

My ex-home, the city Adelaide is struggling through several days of 45C (113F) summer heat, and we in Melbourne are dealing with a mere week of paltry 43C (109.4F) temperatures in what is currently the hottest week in over one hundred years for both Aussie states.

We're also in a seven-year long drought and are already under severe water restrictions and being urged on TV, radio and in the papers to restrict our water consumption to 135 litres per day, making it now essential to plug up the shower drain and bucket the soapy remains of human filth and shampoo fluff onto what remains of our dead gardens. Yep, life in the big city is getting rather hard and our tiny square of back yard lawn looks like straw matting and is now crunchy to walk on.

As I'm typing this, I see two stressed pigeons (yes, they do exist) drinking out of Milly the pooch's water bowl. That's a pretty brave move for creatures more used to pooping from power poles than dodging dangerous dogs. This set my heat-addled brain to thinking further along these lines whilst my FUIC coffee was chilling in the freezer and while I debated whether chocolate in this weather was worth the sticky-fingered, dropped melted dollops-on-the-crotch effort.* My thoughts veered from my own self-interested snack selections to animals and how much they really suffer in scorching temperatures. We at least, can wear less and laze about inside; they wear a fur coat that is not removable.

Pictured below is our bunny Skipper, taking it easy on our brand new red rug in the middle of winter last year. As you can see, he's rather cute, yet he severely tested the new friendship by proceeding to dig into and eat chunks out of the new rug and peed so frequently on the floorboards that they were stained white in scattered patches all over the house. And it was only when I was sorting through books to donate or keep that I noticed that he'd clearly gotten more than one thrill by scattering the tops of them with his butt-beans as well.

Skipper's salad days indoors soon ended when Love Chunks discovered that it wasn't his bronchitis preventing him from breathing or being able to speak without every second word being punctuated by trumpetingly loud sneezes, it was young Skipper.

LC was highly allergic to our adopted fluffy-puff and so he was banished to his hutch outside forever. In order to evade Sapphire's and my tearful and accusing stares, Love Chunks made a rather nifty little triangular, foldable playpen for bunnyboy to scamper about in so that he had ample opportunities for exercise, grass nibbling and stretching.

Today though finds him distressed and panting way too fast. His hutch is in the shade with a huge golfing umbrella over the top to combat the slanting afternoon rays and I venture out about once every half an hour to give him a few gentle squirts of water from the bottle in order for the evil north winds to blow through and cool him down. This does help him a bit, but it's not too gratifying to see him spy me opening the door, open his tiny little mouth in horror and scuttle into his bedroom to hide himself under the straw and newspaper. He may not have the intelligence to work out that being rudely squirted seems to result in feeling instantly cooler straight afterwards, but I still feel bad about doing it to him, and go to great lengths to explain.

"Look buddy, I know it's annoying for you, but it's helping you stay cool, trust me." God knows what our neighbours** either side of us think. "You're a spunky little fella and I'm just trying to help you stay that way, honest."

When the evening shade covers the lawn, his play triangle comes out again and the grass is sprinkled with the watering can so that he can have a little work-out in relative comfort.

As you can see, unfortunately, he doesn't quite make that connection and isn't overly impressed. Perhaps it doesn't help that Love Chunks isn't allergic to Milly the dog, whom Skipper can see lolling inside the house on her beanbag directly in front of the air-conditioner.

Should I remain being a horrible rabbit owner or sneak him inside and risk killing LC by asphyxiation?

* Of course it is.

** Two cottages on one side with cats that suggestively strut their stuff along the fence and annoy the poop out of our dog and a three-storey block of flats on the other that feature balconies full of heavy smokers, burnt BBQ cookery events and arguing couples.

Delamere is a darling














I've been reading Delamere's blog for a while now. Reasons for my continued readership are varied but include being impressed that she's managing to raise three kids ranging in ages from 6 to 13, has a rewarding career, a nice husband, a brilliant sense of perspective and an enviable way of looking at life and writing about things orbiting her sphere (not that she's spherical in size, of course) in a manner that is observant but not nasty. Oh and she quite likes that little known authoress Ms Jane Austen.

She found me via chocablog and we became fellow lurkers and then regular commenters. Now that we've moved to and ensconced ourselves in Melbourne, it was time to meet the lady in person. We figured that her daughter C could meet my Sapphire and discuss all matters relating to rabbit ownership, the wonders of both Abba and all Mamma Mia performers (except Pierce Brosnan) and whether the Beanie Kids craze was still relevant in the post-Hannah Montana world.

And bless Dela's (yes, I'm abbreviating even her blog name now) sweet heart; the second I opened the door she stood there offering up a fresh carton of Farmers Union Iced Coffee as a greeting. If it had been accompanied with a Lindt Ball necklace, our meeting would have been pretty well perfect.**


I must have uttered these idle thoughts out loud instead of just keeping it to myself because C shyly smiled and said, "I like chocolate too."

"Oh you do, do you?" was my response before I led her into the kitchen to show her what was in my stash for the week. "Would you like to help me taste some for my next review?"
















Would she ever. Delamere then decided it was time to drop me a bombshell. She used to work for Cadbury. Yes, the Cadbury. Home of the Dairy Milk; the original (and most generously-sized) 250g family block; the excellently revamped Old Gold; the solid gold Crunchie; the evil-but-essential Creme Egg.

Plus, she used to bring her 'work' home with her. Regularly. Plentifully. Necessarily. I was so overcome by this unexpected news I slurped down my iced coffee in uncharacteristic silence, trying to digest just how she remained slim, healthy and willing to leave such a place. That is, until she explained how difficult it was to go shopping without bumping into work colleagues and having to disrespectfully shove the Lindt balls, Twix bars and non-Cadbury Schweppes-related general grocery items under the slabs of Rum-n-Raisin, Top Deck, Cottees cordials and jam jars. Yep, that's likely to force any true chocophile to start searching the Work Wanted advertisements - no-one should be made to stick to just the one brand of chocolate in this democratic, 'fair go' brown land of ours. Yes, I do note the appropriateness of living in a 'brown' land.

I was stoked that Delamere 'got' my 'WWJJD' (What Would Joan Jett Do?) t-shirt and noted that yes, she too had Edward DeBono's 'Mind Pack' still in its plastic wrapper on her bookshelf as well. In fact it will now become my 2009 resolution to open it, work through the puzzles and hopefully gain some kind of remedial entry into the until-now completely mystifying world of lateral thinking.




















As for Sapphire and C, they hit it off immediately and spent the afternoon avoiding the heat through systematically going through every item located in her bedroom, engaging in copious chatter, intermittent giggles and joyously scraping their front teeth on frozen Sunny Boy Glugs.

Delamere waited for my reaction when she asked if we'd be interested in going to the Harold Holt Memorial Pool for a swim. Only Australia (or perhaps Melbourne itself?) could name a pool after the one and only Prime Minister known for going missing whilst swimming in the sea.....

Unfortunately, we have to stay near home to await news on a viola, collect some ordered school uniforms and hang around for the delivery of our new BBQ. As we're discovering, 'delivery times' are about as elastic as Pamela Anderson's g-strings and 'morning' has been known to mean any time from 7:00am to, say, 9:30pm.

Said BBQ is a stainless steel behemoth, a veritable kitchen-cabinet-on-wheels that Love Chunks assures me will be:
a) worth every penny;
b) able to be easily lifted into our back verandah by one scrawny delivery man;
c) called into action least five nights per week to cook dinner; and
d) used by him every time.

Well that's all right then.


** On second thought, seeing as it was a sweat-slicked 41C today, perhaps the Lindt ball necklace would have ended up as a oily waistcoat and not have been such an attractive prospect after all.

I'll Kiss You in the Burbs, baby!

It's been a while since I went to StatCounter to check on the words googlers have tapped in that then led to them my little blog. Discovering that Bum Faced Nit led someone (more than once)my blog the last time took a while to recover from. Today's header is from the latest batch of search phrases - except for the 'baby!' bit; that's just my own natural brilliance at work there.

Others have recently included:

Blew my skirt up. This I can actually understand. I once wittered on about my tendency to have the wind blow up me skirt when both hands are holding heavy objects (eg bags of oranges, suitcases etc). The fullsome peasant skirt craze of 2005 meant that it tended to occur fairly frequently, and always - yes always - in a public place. Like the Magill and Portrush Road traffic lights during rush hour. And it's not flattering to see fat old blokes in white delivery vans sniggering, either.

Woman humping lawn figurine.

This is an utter mystery to me and I can't remember what blog article led them here. I've mentioned that the dog likes to rub her back on the lawn, and sure, I've lowered the tone by posting a photo of her butt nuggets lying on the grass, but never have I mentioned humping, let alone to innocent garden ornaments.

In reality it should be the woman responsible for such depraved acts that is jailed, not the victim pictured here. And the perverted googler who wished to see or read about it - what on earth made 'Woman Humping Lawn Figurine' the ideal topic to look for on a quiet Saturday night?

Map of Tassie tattoo. Oh dear. This conjures up all sorts of naughty visual images, doesn't it? 'Map-o-Tassie' has been used by me to describe a lady's fun parts down south, but the idea of choosing to have either a cartoonish drawing of female genitalia or even the much-maligned southern Australian state tattooed anywhere on one's body seems very peculiar.

What's worse - a vagina or the in-bred state that time and taste forgot? And where on the body would such a tattoo be considered a smart idea? Tatts are permanent so having such piccies on a forehead, upper arm or above the butt crack might not lend itself to a career teaching young impressionable children or ruling the legal bench.

Korea consumer protection board shopping trolley 2006. Wah hey, somebody's a wild and crazy lurker, typing up search phrases such as this one! Boy oh boy when they finally were led to the correct site, I bet it made some fascinating reading and wouldn't you like to meet up with this person for a scintillating chat afterwards?

FUIC wedding cake. Now I'm going to assume that FUIC isn't the pommy clothing brand FCUK spelt incorrectly or the other four-letter variation that most people add the word 'Off' to immediately afterwards but is instead the deservedly world famous Farmers Union Iced Coffee.

FUIC is the lifeblood of South Australia, literally pumping through the veins of proud frog-cake, Haigh's and pepper pasty munching people. It is the cold milk coffee-flavoured beverage that has made South Aussies the largest consumers of milk per head of population on the entire planet. As such, it should also ensure that osteoporosis will be virtually unheard of in the driest state in the driest continent on earth. The humble brown nectar has even made its way up to the Northern Territory, thumbing its nose at the watery exrescence known there as 'Pauls', and here in Victoria, where it laughs in the face of the gluggy goo known as 'Big M'.

So, for a happy couple, sealing and celebrating their love match in a formal setting in front of their family and friends, a FUIC wedding cake is a grand idea. Classic, understated, top quality and full of flavour.

Boob shelf. This is a phrase I coined myself and it's rather nice to see that it is taking off. Boob shelves are owned by obese women who possess mammaries so large that they're pretty well sitting horizontally on their chests. Mammaries such as these give their owners the capability to rest cups of tea on top of them and sip without the use of their hands.

These poor women often try to disguise their breasty bulk by wearing large tops that tend to drape (or droop) downwards from the boobs - thus creating a sort of fabric verandah that sticks out way beyond where their hips or thighs should be. Such a top is often inexplicably paired with patterned leggings in an effort to distract others' attentions from their boob shelves but this has rarely been known to meet with success.

Rip out Vanilla Ice's blonde dreds (sic). This sounds like good advice, if rather violent.

Value of the Sale of the Century Stickpin. Having survived being a contestant on that game show back in 1997, I was invariably given a 'Diamond-set gold Sale Of The Century stick-pin from Bruce and Walsh jewellers' as a consolation prize. The diamond was too small for my naked eye to see and the gold wore off before I left the studio. My friend Ian (who won three shows and actually elected to leave and take his big stash of prizes with him) wore his as an earring exactly once before it broke.

So its value = Zero. Contestants were also given the Sale Of The Century boardgame to take home which was a poor man's Trivial Pursuit poorly glitzed up with flimsy hand buzzers and flashing lights. It was about as much fun to play as water skiing is for a kitten. Value = Again Zero.

Last, but certainly not least, we have the oh-so-mature search phrase, Backside Butt Bottom. I guess Dubya's got more time on his hands these days or there are some earnest medical students keen to venture into the specialist areas of proctology.

To be fair, I've used all three words rather liberally in this blog and will continue doing so. And yet, there's little doubt that the typist of those three words is likely to have felt a large measure of disappointment to find that it doesn't lead to an triple-xXx-rated Beautiful Buttered Buns subscription site, but here. Hah!

Inner-city Crime

Yep, it happened. Nine days of residence and our car got broken into last night.

Well, we're assuming it was last night, because the car hasn't been used for a few days, what with the convenience of walking, trams just around the corner and the local train station and such. It was only when Love Chunks went to open the door this afternoon that he discovered that it was already unlocked.....

As my brother Rob, a long-time resident of North Melbourne advised us, "Hey, if you have to park out in the street, just assume that your car will be burgled. More than once. Quite often, in fact." We took him at his word and made sure that our car - certainly not a magnet itself for stealing being a dented, thirteen year old magna station wagon festooned with particularly determined spiderwebs outside and ancient pasty crumbs inside - had nothing of value in it.

At least, not to the thief concerned.

All he or she took was our first aid kit ("DRUGS! They wanted DRUGS!" Love Chunks calmly surmised) and LC's pocket knife ("They're MURDERERS!" I thought, but kept it to myself. After all, Sapphire was in the car). Surprisingly, they hadn't bothered to check the coin thingy by the ignition which would have yielded ten bucks in gold coins, or swiped my now rather large and colourful collection of shopping bags (numbering fifteen in seven different colours at last stocktake) or, thank-the-higher-power-I-think-exists-but-in-what-form-or-capacity-I-have-no-idea, the brand new Melways. And who'd have thought that the tape deck would still be intact, whew!

Sapphire noted our sombre expressions as we drove to Highpoint shopping centre. My opening remark, "Hey Love Chunks, your mate Greg reckons Highpoint should be re-named Knifepoint" perhaps wasn't the cleverest way to start our on-road conversation and we three sat in silence for a while.

Then Sapphire chirped: "Hey, at least they didn't take Wizzy, the guy I made out of my lolly wrapper during the drive from Adelaide." She laughed uproariously; clearly very amused at her capacity to lighten the moment which she in fact did extremely well. We can't really stop car thieves, so why worry?

It was with some degree of smugness that I noted that she'd taken my frequent lectures about us now living in an inner city suburb with haves and have-nots living closely together and anyone with a driveway is automatically classified as a millionare, to heart. Plus, seeing the Verb Cafe owner on Racecourse Road the other day having to shoo away several rather drunk bogans pestering outdoor diners for smokes while we were having lunch was a rather interesting way for Sapph to commence a Q&A session on where Broadmeadows is located and why the proprietor believes that the inebriated smokers should bloody well return there......

As for the car, it does make me wonder whether updating our matronly mitsubishi is worth it right now. Firstly, we always get a park directly in front of our house (thus removing my need to learn how to parallel park) and secondly, we only ever use her for big shopping trips or (future) weekends away. Perhaps we're better off disappointing car thieves and saving up for a decent holiday instead. Love Chunks is seriously contemplating sticking up a placard by the driver's door that says, 'If you think this car is junk, then you know that we don't have anything valuable in it either.'

Hopefully though, this Feng Shui thingy we bought at the Queen Victoria Markets does the trick for our house. The chap there told us it is for Protection and Health, and for seven dollars, I was willing to repress my doubts and give it a burl. He then gave Sapphire a tiny white cat with a tiny jingling bell inside for good luck and happiness. "Put it in your school bag and you'll be fine." He must have picked up on her uncertainty somehow and refused to let me pay for it. At the very least, he's cannily ensured himself some repeat business.

Feng shui has a much fairer chance of ensuring our immunity to thieves than Milly, the not-so-ferocious dog:

Her idea of savagery is to snap at blowflies so that she can get to Skipper the rabbit's droppings before they do. And we wouldn't have her any other way.

Culture Schmulture

The Age online reported today that a ticket vending machine at Rushall train station (Melbourne's Fitzroy north area ) was bombed at around 3:30am this morning. It was apparently detonated remotely, could be heard "up to 200 metres away" (like, wow, that's so big and like, such an inconvenient and totally dangerous time to do such a random and destructive, like, thing) and was on fire when the police arrived.

Connex rail system, in their wisdom, decided not to let any trains stop at that station, thus further enraging commuters who staggered up to work only to find no ticket machine (yay) but also no trains (boo) and only the un-fun option of a shuttle bus system (erk).

The article went on to state that "The attack is the latest in a string of problems for rail operator Connex, which has been under commuter fire for heat and maintenance-related train delays and cancellations. And there was no relief for commuters this morning, with at least eight services cancelled by 8am." I wonder how the explosion can explain the other seven cancellations?

Perhaps the bombers were feeling slightly cross after reading (I'm assuming that they can) in The Age a few days earlier where the Connex boss, British-born and educated Jim Betts, blamed the culture of Melbourne itself as the reason for its craptastic transport service.

He was quoted as saying: "A metronomic public transport system of the kind that operates in Hong Kong or Singapore — where they have a ruthless approach to the management of train stopping times at stations — that kind of culture which lends itself to great transport efficiency, is maybe not going to be appropriate in many cultures, including the Melburnian culture."

He went on to blather on about the uber-organised Swiss folk: "The people who plan public transport services in Zurich are planning in an environment where they have 500 years of democracy, where they have referenda on all key issues, and where there is a Swiss cultural setting which is about the scrupulous micromanagement of every last detail."

Aw bless his sweet little cotton socks. Isn't it nice, after being at the helm of Crap-Connex for ten years, gifted with the official task of bringing a 'ruthless efficiency' like those found in 'Hong Kong, Singapore and Zurich,' that he's concluded that it is instead the fault of the Melburnians themselves. Mighty big salary money well spent for sure, people!

So, this city's gentle meat-pie and Big-M lovin' folk are ultimately putting up with a transport system that has "fewer services (is) slow compared with private cars and ....spends far less per capita on running it. " Because their culture deserves it.

Methinks 'ol Jimbo Bettsy-boy better hope that the bombers don't find out his home address, or the licence plate of his car.......

That Question

Today was 34C with an unpleasant north wind that angrily rattled every single door in this little house of ours, forcing us inside and out of the dust and heat.

I'd woken up with a migraine at 5am and very v-e-r-y carefully climbed out of bed at 9am, knowing - and fully appreciating - that Sapphire would already be up, have made her breakfast and be busying herself at her desk creating greeting cards, singing to the rabbit or playing her Nintendo. After more pain relievers and a strong cup of coffee, my face slowly unfolded so that I could sort of peer outside through the sliding doors without flinching at the rays of sun shining through the trees.

Today was going to be a stay-at-home day. For financial, physical and meteorological reasons.

Milly sulked in her beanbag, occasionally deigning to throw me some reproachful glances every now and then to remind me that I hadn't taken her out for a walk. I instead walked into our tiny study and sat at the desk, already starting to sweat unbecomingly from the stale heat and unenthusiastically wondered just which pile of paperwork I should work on first when Sapphire entered with tears in her eyes.

She sighed, and asked me a question she's asked me many times before. "Mum, why am I an only child?"

I went into Auto-Mother-Mode and responded with, "Because with my brain tumour you were a miracle baby that even the specialists thought would never occur and I didn't think I could have another one or be healthy enough to look after two or more children without any medical problems that ------"

She looked impatient as I prattled on. "-----and I'd always wanted a girl, so when you arrived and you were so beautiful and good and perfect, I didn't want to chance having one that I wouldn't love as much as you." None of which is a lie.

Today, the standard responses weren't working. Sapphire has two more weeks of holidays to kill with just boring old me for company. No new friends yet, because school is likely to be the supply for such creatures. "Mum, if I had a brother or a sister, I'd have something to do right now, instead of feeling so bored."

Bored. That's the word that instantly turns me into my own mother. I hate that word. Almost as much as I hate sentences that start with 'I hate'. So of course I said the classic line: "Go and FIND yourself something to do."

She was about to huff away but turned at the last second and said plaintively, "But I'm lonely, Mum."

Lonely. That's the word that really gets me. My decision to have just the one child has affected her; she'll become a socially-inept failure in her relationships; I'm a dreadfully selfish person; I'm already ruining her life; she's emotionally stunted; every other kid in her class will have dozens of siblings; she'll have to choose my nursing home on her own because no doubt all statistical actuarials will prove correct and I'll outlive Love Chunks and then she'll be solely responsible for all the funeral arrangements.... !!

Shaking off these thoughts, I did my usual trick of regaling her with tales of my brothers - one younger by two years and one older by two years. I was usually itching to get some alone time without being hassled to wicket-keep ("Come on, we'll only bowl with tennis balls if you'll play"), get whipped at Monopoly ("Don't quit yet, just mortgage everything"), farted on when sitting in the king-sized beanbag ("Yeah, come and chase me, ya weakling!") or see them inhale the entire weeks' groceries in one after-school session.

"And Sapphire don't get me started on the smell of their bedroom or the boogies Dave used to wipe on the wall...!"

She looked horrified, interested and, most importantly, relieved. I turned towards the paperwork. "Look love, it's too hot to go outside, so why don't you find something to read, or practice your guitar?

And then the other dreaded question came out; the one that even parents of more-than-one child dread hearing. "I'm bored with that. Will you play with me?"

Play.
I am so categorically crap at playing. I can make silly comments, I can dance, I can sing dumbs song with her and Milly's names in them, but I can not sit for more than two minutes and pretend I am interested in tea sets, miniature rabbits, pretend karaoke or dress ups without wanting to have my scalp removed with a blunt pair of secateurs.

However, the reminiscences about my brothers reminded me of the horror game of Monopoly. Before I could fully remember the hell of being thrashed bit by bit by Robert; throwing hotels at David and arguing until it was time to give and receive dead-legs with both of them, out came, "How about a game of Monopoly?"

And you know what? We laughed, sang, bartered, haggled, chatted and whiled away several hours very happily. Yes, I thrashed her. Hey, it's a game, with rules and ones she accepts gladly. But we did have fun together.

Then we chanced going for a walk to post a letter, get some milk, check out the 'hood and give Milly some exercise. Around the corner, the police had cordoned off the street due to powerlines being blown down in the hot and blustery conditions. "Yep, youse can go through and post your letter, it's just that the Fireys don't want cars driving on the live wires."

We discovered that the other milk bar closest to us is run by three Indian brothers who sell the 'G'day India' newspaper as their sole reading material, condensed milk as their single dairy product and don't have a scerrick of chocolate in their shop, telling me, "Oh no Mrs, we have Cadbury in India just like you Aussies."

We let Milly greet the groundsmen in the school yard as Sapphire scootered on the asphalt, chatted to an old gent at the tram stop nearby and rubbed the dust out of our eyes. The city could barely be seen in the distance due to the haze and every single wheelie bin in our street had been blown over.

We noticed, amongst the usual Phark Yoos, Darnae Luvs Donger and 'Flem Boys for Life' graffiti in our local poo alley, was this one:

Sapphire laughed and said, "It's cute. Not scary at all. A bit like you, really."

It was a good day after all.

Pie and a carton of Big M not good enough, then?

One of the best things about returning to Melbourne for my third stint* is The Age newspaper. Lots to read, think about, learn from and admire and about five hundred percent better than Adelaide's Traumatiser tabloid.

A semi-regular feature that will appear in this blog is any small(ish) article that appeals to me. No particular rhyme or reason, just whatever tickles my fancy. And no, there'll be no photographs of said fancy.

Numero Uno appeared on Saturday 17th January and 'tickled' my fancy indeed was:

Firstly, good on 'em. If criminal activity is limited to some dodgy seafood and plonk, then things aren't too bad, surely?

However, the judgmental tone of the snobby 'industry source' decreed that there was no way a normal thief would be able to shuck oysters. And why not? Don't bogan burglars possess knives or at times been given work on the docks or in processing plants? If they can crack a car's club lock, then surely a shellfish isn't going to present much of a puzzle?

Whether they be outlaw chefs or under-qualified heathens, at least the little shuckers didn't vandalise the place, steal any cash or defecate in the cool room.

* I first moved to Melbourne with Love Chunks in 1994, living in a tiny sixties', second-storey flat in Flemington and finding work at the execremental Wormald Security, often referred to by myself as 'WormWorld.' We left there a year later to head up to Darwin so that LC could flex his meteorology muscles and I could start my sensible working life as a 'graduate trainee' in government.

** We returned to Melbourne (via a week off in Bali paid via our 'remote allowance') from Darwin in 1996, buying an ex-housing commission-1950s house in Heidelberg Heights. Sapphire arrived in 1999 and the grim reality of my local Mothers' Group - where the first question asked of the nurse was 'How many beers can I drink when I'm breastfeeding' - as well as regularly Capsicum-Sprayed neighbours, the local retail strip having more drug dealers than open shops and economic inability to buy a house in a better area meant that we returned to Adelaide in 2000.