Crack the Horn

As a well known and usually-proud dag, I have another guilty pleasure. By sharing this secret with you, I'm trying to do my bloggy bit to shift our minds (however briefly) from the bushfires of hell to something that might make you smile, if only in smug superiority. Besides, I've yet to pluck the courage to find out exactly what that Mysterious Monolith is yet.

Yes, in addition to wearing Crocs, kissing my rabbit on the lips and high-waisted undies, I also have an unhealthy fondness for horn. Well, saxophones to be precise. Their silken, sensual sound works for rock, pop, soul, folk and ska in my stuck-mostly-in-the-eighties music book. Brace yourselves, readers, because here are the saxiest beats on my iPod:

Baker Street - Gerry Rafferty. I'm sick to death of the song and groan if I hear it, but then that sax starts and I'm off. Off to Baker Street where I can forget about everything. She's got a dream about buying some land; givin' up the booze and the one-night stands.....

Careless Whisper - George Michael. Back in the days when Georgie boy was straighter than the lines on a dunny door he told us that he was never gonna dance again because guilty feet aint got no rhythm.... The Lady Diana lookalike with the pointy chin in the film clip never forgave him and flew off to be with someone who'd stay hetero forever.

I don't believe any more - Icehouse. Sad, heartbreaking, lingering, bitter. Just like a good gin and tonic after a long day's whining.

It's Raining Again - Supertramp. Cheerful, bouncy, sweet. Yes, it's Supertramp, but this is too infectious not to include. And don't forget the poetic lyrics: 'It's raining again, Oh no my love's at an end.....'

On the dark side - Eddie and the Cruisers. I was sixteen when this movie came out and it rocked. Well, in 1984 it did. Not that it's star Michael Pare went on to any dizzy acting heights - the last I saw of him he was the bad husband in a two minute scene with Sandra Bullock in the excrementally boring movie 'Hope Floats'. Yeah and so do fibre-filled turds.....

Heart of Rock-n-Roll - Huey Lewis and the News. Still good to run to. And pant out the words to, if fitness, speed and privacy permits.

Who can it be now? - Men at Work. The sax is the song.

Just Got Lucky - JoBoxers. I'm pretty sure that it's a sax in this song, but again, it was 1983 and such an arse-kickingly happy song. The lead singer (Sir Joseph Boxer) was one of the leads in the West End musical 'Five Guys Named Moe' that I went to see in the nose-bleedingly cheap seats in 1992.

Chanson D'Amour - Manhattan Transfer. I was a kid when I heard Mrs Cowham next door play this record. It was simply the most sophisticated and lush song I'd ever heard. Then again, my favourite song before that was a close tie between the Hustle and the Popcorn instrumental, but you have to start somewhere. "La da da da da...."

You talk too much - George Thorogood. This is fantastic to run to as the sax and drums even pound like fast feet do. For someone whose telling his lady to shoosh though he sure has a set of goat teeth and a mouth on him.

Smooth Operator - Sade. Beloved of coffee bars, cafes and dinner parties worldwide.

Will it ever stop raining? - The Saw Doctors. Sax used as a background step-one, step-two rhythm as Davey Carton bemoans dropping his icecream on the sand and backing an old greyhound who stopped right in front of the sands.

Sherry Darling - Bruce Springsteen and the E. Street Band. Just one of many featuring the mighty Clarence Clemons. Legend has it that he turned up to an audition with Bruce and the E Street Band on a windy day. He made a rather dramatic entrance when he flung the door open and it and fell off its hinges and blew down the street. Bruce apparently said, "Phark, who is this guy?" and no doubt was too frightened not to offer him the job.

But that doesn't mean that even a middle-of-the-roader like me likes anything and everything from the eighties. No Stevie Winwood, Johnny Farnham, Jimmy Barnes or soft-metal of any kind, let alone the hideous horn work on:

The Heat is on - Glen Frey. Annoyingly overplayed like a blowfly in a sauce bottle.

I do I do I do I do I do - by Abba. I may be a big fan, but this is by far my least favourite song next to 'Rock Me' and 'Me and Bobby and Bobby's Brother'

Anything by Spandau Ballet. One of the band members who later got into acting and played a Kray twin admitted to Michael Parkinson that, when nearly gored to death by a bull in a Spanish video shoot gone horribly wrong, he was more concerned about the impact it would have on his just-styled hair than any of his bones or blood supply.

And Joe Cocker can Leave his bloody hat on, grab his car keys and nunchucks and tell every easy listenin' DJ or bored soundcheck guy at Ladies' nights the world over to burn every single copy of the song for all eternity. I've seen far too many drunk mothers-of-the-bride-to-be trying to squeeze their sausage stomachs and buttery boobs out of trashy tank tops and denim minis after Dazzling Darryl's done his dancing on stage.....

But even horns that aren't saxophones can still 'do it' for me:

Pretty well every song done by Madness

Soul Kind of Feeling & Gotta be the wrong way to love - Dynaptic Hepnotics

Most of the Hunters and Collectors' back catalogue

Consider me gone & If you love somebody - Sting

Rat in me kitchen - UB40

Reward - Teardrop Explodes

Cut the talking - The Dugites

Soul Man - Lou Reed and Sam Moore version

Dumb Things - Paul Kelly

Would I lie to you - Eurythmics

Everything ever done by Oingo Boingo, especially live on stage

.....have I gone too far? Do I need help to get over my shameful, FM-radio-style music tastes? And yet, believe it or not, I hate 'oldies' FM music and have The Specials, Radiohead, The Damned, Green Day, Nirvana, Live and a few others lurking in my CD collection.

But the saxophone, ooooh..... Seeing as Ray Bans and high-waisted jeans are back, can't the sax come back too?

Tell me, dear reader, you know and I know that help here is desperately needed: what other saxolicious songs should I be listening to?

Quandary of Curiosity

Flemington is a funny little suburb full of clear contrasts. Overlooking all of the cutely renovated 1890s cottages, weatherboard Edwardians and townhouses are the Housing Commission Flats; sombre, imposing and a daily reminder of the struggles still being fought.
















Way back in 1994 when Love Chunks and I were renting in Farnham Street, driving the 1971 Sucked Crunchie, gas-converted Volvo and listening to domestic arguments in the flat below, we witnessed a very lengthy construction being built on top of one of the commission towers. For the best part of the year, something shaped like a McDonalds-sponsored Detox funhouse was appearing. Painting it bright yellow only enhanced that idea, because no-one I asked had any idea what the actual construction was supposed to be.


Fifteen years later finds it painted a greyish blue but still no answers given. Why is it just on the one building and not the others?

I asked my hairdresser that very question last week, as we chatted amiably in her sleek salon and watched four drunk blokes sucking down scotch from paper bags outside in the street.

"I have no idea," she trilled cheerfully. "I've lived here for four years but couldn't tell you - what I will tell you though, is DON'T GO THERE. It's very dangerous."

What was more dangerous was the price she charged me for a hair cut - seventy five dollars! Considering that it didn't need washing or blow-drying and is about two-and-a-half inches long all over, I felt well and truly ripped off. On the inside, anyway. On the outside I meekly handed over my credit card, said "G'day" to the drinkers outside ("An' Hello to you too, Darlin") and walked home, past the shadow of the Mysterious Monolith.

A parent of one of Sapphire's new school buddies is an ex-Victorian police detective who had visited the commission flats more than once in his career. Did he know what the Mysterious Monolith was? "Nah, haven't the foggiest. What I do remember was the smell. Cramming so many people together without decent facilities or ventilation meant that all I wanted to do was get out of there as fast as I could."

Oh, I bet you have some stories to tell about the folk living there. "Yes, there are some real shockers in there, but there's also a lot more nice people who just need some help to get back on their feet or are starting out their new lives with plans to move out as soon as they're able to."

So, should I enter the building? "Look, go to the building, hang around the foyer and ask what it is by all means, but dress down, don't take your wallet and take someone with you."

Seeing as my entire wardrobe could only charitably be described as 'dressed down' and my wallet has never troubled me for size or weight my curiosity about the Mysterious Monolith remains. But here's the hypocritical quandary: I'm too frightened to go down there. The local papers are full of the story of some poor sod getting his teeth and nose bashed by some 'nearby residents' when leaving the KFC outlet at 9pm and there's just a bit too much "Thug Life" graffiti and litter around as menacingly visual 'We Own This Place' calling cards to make me doubt the wisdom of a walk there.

And yet, as this piece below shows, the Flem. Boys are pretty hot with spelling and grammar, adding a dot at the end of their 'Flem' abbreviation. Unless they were just trying to ensure that we could tell the difference between their beloved suburb and the stuff that dribbles out of nostrils when a cold hits?

What say you, reader? Should I be brave and find out the hard way what the Mysterious Monolith of the Flemington Housing Commission flats is?

VD

As you can see, when abbreviated, Valentine's Day doesn't sound quite as romantic when associated with Venereal Disease and a visit to the clinic. Perhaps this is why Love Chunks and I rarely celebrate it.

No, not because we both regularly catch VD dear reader, but because we loathe the idea of being forced and harangued by screaming advertisers, all media and huge conglomerates as to when we have to be officially and extrovertingly romantic.

The bushfire tragedies and the fact that VD fell on a Saturday would have been extremely annoying for purveyers of over-priced, non-smelling, miniscule rose buds, dodgy greeting cards and foil balloons. Not only were most people electing to donate whatever money they would have wasted on impressing their Main Squeezes to the Red Cross Bushfire Appeal but also because there'd be no point paying for bouquets and teddy bears to be hand-delivered as a means of showing off when it was a weekend and there'd be no co-workers to feel jealous or inadequate when said loved one got a call to come on down to the Reception Desk to pick up their poncy petals and appear more cherished as a result.

I honestly feel a bit sorry for blokes at VD time. No, stay with me, dear reader, not those who stray and end up with a raging case of the old fella itches, but those who are in happy and stable relationships and yet are continually peppered from all directions with advice on how to be more romantic, surprise her with gifts, be more thoughtful, change the bog roll when there's only a quarter of a square and that line of glue left; blah blah yawn. How come it is the men who are under pressure to surprise their partners and 'rediscover romance' but us girls get away scot-free? (By the way, who was this Scot and why did he always escape responsibility?)

Why aren't we women also being urged to surprise our loved one with flowers (or, let's face it, a year of lawn mowing and whipper snippering), choccies (replace with boutique beer and corn chips) or fancy meals out (think wide-screen tv, blissful silence and begging to provide them with sexual favours at every waking moment or quarter time break: whichever is most appropriate).

I'll stand up and admit that I too am guilty of forgetting that LC might also want a bit of romance in his life. We had our 14th wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago and I completely forgot about it until my nine year old daughter reminded me and my husband walked in with a funny card that was filled with his most heart-warming and beautiful sentiments inside.

On Saturday, I disappointed him yet again. No cards, no red-heart-shaped underwear, pancakes or cute cocoa coffee froth but a whining, "Love Chunks, would you mind taking a look at my head? It feels really itchy."

And sure enough he found them. Head lice. Heaps of the critters; crawling, eating, flinging out their infernally evil eggs faster than a detoxing card sharp at the craps table. Yes, at forty years of age, I was suffering my first case of the creepy crawlies despite picking out at least twenty infestations from Sapphire's head over the past five years.

Without even a tiny sigh of self-pity, Love Chunks grabbed the lice comb, flicked on every light in the living room and sat me between his knees ready for a nit-pick. For the next hour he painstakingly searched, found, caught and squashed every louse on my scone and picked off each single, super-glue- sticky egg from every strand of hair.

It was boring, painful and gave both of us sore eyes and cricked necks. Nits are itchy, invasive and disgusting, yet being the Picker (as I often am with Sapphire) or the Pickee (the role Love Chunks was 'enjoying') makes the process a rather intimate one. Frequent but gentle combing, his breath lightly on my neck and me placing my trust in him entirely. "Don't worry, I'll get all the little buggers out." That's romance.

He checked everywhere and ensured that not a single egg or nit was left. True perfectionist behaviour that I was lucky to be the recipient of.

....as I am every morning when he wakes up first, grinds the beans and makes us both the nicest cup of coffee ever.

....as I am when he tirelessly gets up to soothe Sapphire when she wakes up from a nightmare, or is thirsty, wondering what that weird buzzing noise is in the street or loses her pillow.

.....as I am when he cooks nine out of ten meals for us, works tirelessly to set up the complicated things like the shed, the gym, the bbq, the watering system, the storage solutions.

.....as I am when he reaches for my hand just before he falls asleep and I still feel so honoured that it's mine he wants to hold after all this time.

What a Palaver

Esteemed blogging buddy Baino has recently done a Letter Meme (hers was ten things starting with M) and, I couldn't help it, but asked - yes asked, instead of politely waiting to be 'tagged' - for a letter. My only excuse is that well, I needed an excuse to write about something other than the bushfires: far better people are doing that and doing it much better than me. Donate, shop at the right stores (like Coles) and give blood when they ask you to.

In the meantime instead of telling me to Piss off she gave me the letter P.

Punch - A well-timed punch saved my life. At least I think it did. It was way back in 1991 and I was quitting my nanny job with relief and taking a mini-cab to a job interview in Finchley during the January snowstorms. Like the naive nincompoop Aussie backpacker I was, I sat in the front alongside the driver, chatting inanely about only having been in London for two weeks; how I wasn't sure where Kingsgate Avenue was and what sort of adventures I hoped to have. It was nearly 4pm and already pitch black. The driver muttered something about being lost and pulled into a side street. For once, my internal-alert-system switched on, stopped my chatter and, when he reached over to grab at my chest, I punched him one right in the face. BAM! He was clutching his nose in pain, screaming as I leapt out of the car into the snow. ...... Wouldn't you know it, but Kingsgate Avenue was right around the corner, so I took a deep breath, walked up to their front door for my interview and got the job. Nervous shaking and crying occurred a day or two after that when the enormity of my stupidity and lucky escape sank in.

Parachute - I did a solo parachute jump as my 21st birthday present to myself. I was newly single, still trying to come to grips with the utter let down and disappointing misery of working as a graduate trainee loans officer during the 1989 interest rates of 17.5% and needed to do something fun and pointless. None of my friends were game enough to join me, but Dad turned up to the Goolwa airport to see me nervously climb aboard a very small plane. At 2500 metres, when indicated by the instructor, I climbed out of the open door, put my right foot on the tiny rubber landing wheel as I reached for the wing strut, hang limply for a few moments before throwing my arms back wide as if in joy instead of terror as I dropped towards the earth. The beautifully-reassuring flappity-flap sound of the chute opening above me was something that returns to me still and the view below was amazing. I steered myself using the left and right toggles that hung from strings and landed on my feet. Dad, by this stage, had taken a range of photos to document the jump but still needed to lean up against the hangar until he felt the queasiness disappear.

Paint. In my last year of high school, I wanted to be an artist. A painter in particular. Of the five subjects that needed to be completed for matriculation, art was where I put at least 95% of my time and energies. I was probably the best drawer of my year, but realised during the interviews for Fine Arts that I'd be one of dozens who'd study for three years, turn into weirdly-dressed alterna-zombies with less chance of finding paid work than a paedophile at a petting zoo. I ended up choosing to study English, history and psychology instead with almost (but not quite) the same outcome I'd predicted for painting.

Parent. My hardest job ever. It is scary, puzzling, worrying and often prevents a decent night's sleep from occurring and yet still makes me smile when I realise that 'Mum' is another title that sounds a helluva lot better than Mrs Lockett or 'Hey Lady'. It came as a complete surprise that it was possible for me to be one (ask the Endocrinology Department at the Royal Melbourne Hospital), and not a day goes past where I don't look at Sapphire and wonder, "How in the hell did something as beautiful as she come about?" It even makes listening to her play her full, screechy repertoire on her brand new viola - when a migraine was fearfully looming last night - worth it.

Plump - I run and am pretty fit for an old gal (my resting heart beat is 60 and I can do 8 kilometres in forty minutes) but my body certainly doesn't resemble that of a runner. No, mine has the padding earned from daily chocolate inhalation, sitting on my arse at the computer for most of the day and (usually) eating more chocolate in the evenings in front of the telly with Love Chunks. If it wasn't for running and power walking I'd resemble a Lindt Ball wearing Crocs. This has an unintended bonus for any person I happen to stand next to at barbeques or outdoor parties. Mosquitoes are immediately attracted to my sweet, soft flesh and leave all of the other guests alone.

Potential - We all have it, regardless of our age. In my own case, I reckon I still haven't quite worked out what I want to be when I grow up and am now - after a few years of struggle, self-doubt, false starts and stress - am at least learning enjoying the discoveries made along the way.

Photography - My camera isn't fancy or new and I've never done a class or a course, but my trusty Canon is always with me. Yesterday for instance, I earned a few curious glances as I snapped at intriguing graffiti in the Bourke Street Mall, Wellington Street and when staring up at the Housing Commission block nearest our house wondering just what that pale blue squiggly thing was that sits on up on the very top of it. Despite this, I always end up kicking myself for neglecting to take photos of friends and family during social and fun occasions- either competely forgetting to or not wanting to 'ruin the moment' by asking everyone to stop what they're doing and smile.

Persecute - This is one form of human behaviour that I particularly despise. Persecution, domineering, bullying, oppression, torment: whatever you want to call it, it is the lowest form of behaviour for someone in power or a higher position to stoop to doing to someone who relies on them for work, assurance, security or a future. I will do my damnedest to stop it from happening from now on - no longer will I be that nervous teenager feeling afraid that the bullies will move to her, or the anxious co-worker too afraid of the boss's wrath so that it prevents me from sticking up for others. No-one deserves to feel worthless, frightened or as though they deserve it. No-one. And for those who have persecuted others - Karma will come, be sure of it.

Pilgrimage - Really this is just another word for travel in my book. After being thisclose to living in Geneva, the idea of travelling around Europe with Love Chunks and Sapphire for company would be a wish come true. As would a lenghty sojourn in various Asian countries, a fun-packed, kid-friendly trip to California and Hawaii or spending Christmas in New York with a nice juicy credit card. Not to mention Canada, Japan, the South Island of New Zealand and to finally get off my butt and find out what's in Canberra to see....

Pepper - On everything. Even in dark chocolate (especially good with lemon and/or salt to enhance the flavours). All I ask is that restaurants give up trying to stinge on the black stuff and leave the friggin' grinder on the table for us customers to use when and as often as we want. I mean come on - how many of us are going to try and walk out of a cafe with a wooden grinder the size of a pine tree shoved in our pockets?

So many other Ps to mention - my Partner Love Chunks, Patting Milly the dog and Skipper the rabbit; occasionally acting Pompous; avidly reading Paperbacks; receiving Praise when least expected; finding Presents for people that I know (or at least hope) they'll love; eating Portions of foods (especially evening meals) that are far too large; having mostly Peasant tastes; being too Pale for the Australian sun and yet feeling so Privileged to live here.

Tram Talk

Because The Age is focussing quite rightly on the status of the Victorian bushfires, the aftermath, the survival stories, statistics and what recovery plans are being discussed, I thought I'd focus my (occasional) attention on conversations in trams instead of a piece from the paper today.

We're lucky enough to have two routes to choose from: the 57 which wends its merry way through North Melbourne and drops us off anywhere along Racecourse Road, and the 59 Airport West which rumbles up Mount Alexander Road just past the big yellow cheesestick and red toast-rack sculptural installations that are mostly admired by bored and homeless seagulls.

Sometimes, listening to my brother Rob isn't all that comforting. If he's not telling me that it is a given that our car will be broken into, it's this: "I read that the Number 57 Tram Route has been proven to be the most violent in all of Melbourne and leads the way for numbers of assaults, robberies, vandalism and crime." Oh, thanks.

Having that in my now-fearful mind, I climbed aboard one yesterday from Elizabeth Street. Would I be assaulted for wearing no-name sneakers and a Target jacket? Would a drugged-out bogan try to yank off my shoulder bag only to find that inside it held yesterday's MX newspaper and some viola strings? Would he then want to rape and pillage me in revenge?

Luck was on my side, even if my nasal passages weren't, because the carriage stank. It reeked of week-old acrid armpits, ancient yiros wrappers and slippery-thonged sweaty feet. No crime was evident, except for my own. My ticket - used an hour earlier - couldn't be found, so I ignored the validating box and sat down, blushing awkwardly.

Behind me, a young couple sat down, she cursing like a fish wife. "Phark me, that guy was a pharkin' stunt of a tool, wasn't he? As if I dunnt have anuff stuff to worry about without his pharkin attitude...." Boyfriend nodded quietly, clearly used to her tirades and offered her some of his chips. This placated her somewhat as she then changed the subject, "Ya know how I told you that I can't handle fizzy drink, well last night, I'd had too many cruisers and pharkin' forgot and then drank some coke and didn't THAT set me guts right off!"

Right. Impressed, Boyfriend leaned over to give her a particularly greasy chip kiss. Either to shut her up or console her.

On the 59 another day, Sapphire and I stepped aboard to find it pretty full. Summer bargain shoppers, Aussie Open attendees, SMSing teenagers and late-morning workers, so we had to cram next to a rather large old couple.

"It's a bit of tight squeeze, sitting next to a fat bloke like me, isn't it love?" the man said, grinning down at Sapphire.

"Yes," she agreed, before I could shoosh her.

"Nothing like the honesty of kids," he laughed.

We got talking. They were from Essendon (why do locals not use the 'n' to pronounce it? Instead they say 'Esserden'), off to see some tennis as a break from attending dog shows as judges.

"We breed pugs, love."

"Oh? How many do you have?"

"Twelve right now, all ribbon winners. Gotta tell you though----" he leaned over to get closer so that he could share a secret.

"Those dogs have a better life than you do, darl. Baby lambs' wool beds, soft mattresses, air-conditioned kennels. You'd be the one standing outside in the sun, fannin' yourself with an old paper, feelin' envious."

No doubt.

Fail. Words. Me.

Some Western Australian bible basher I'll simply call Danny Numbnuts is now attributing the Victorian bushfires as just retribution for our permissive, sinful society - especially those of us who endorse or have had an abortion.

'Ol Numbnuts - clearly gifted from above with the talents of tact, empathy and people skills - reputedly said, "In my dream I saw fire everywhere with flames burning very high and uncontrollably. With this I woke up from my dream with the interpretation as the following words came to me in a flash from the Spirit of God: that His conditional protection has been removed from the nation of Australia, in particular Victoria, for approving the slaughter of innocent children in the womb."

Bless him. It would be laughable if it wasn't so tragic.

But do you know the ironic name of the brain dead sect he fronts? The Catch the Fire Ministries. I kid you not.

Bloody brilliant!

As the death toll, horrific injuries, homelessness and environmental desecration increases every moment a news screenpage on the Victoria bushfires refreshes itself it is extremely difficult to think of anything else right now. I've cried so much this morning reading and seeing story after story, face after face reeling in shock, disbelief and bewilderment at their fate. I cried because I felt so ashamed at wallowing in my own petty whingeings yesterday when my now-home-state is suffering so terribly.

However, amongst all the hell, the good, the strong and the miraculous stories of survival, bravery and determination to start again are emerging. Even here, many kilometres away in the safety of Melbourne there are still some things to be proud of.

The Red Cross Bushfire Appeal is going strong. So strong, in fact, that their website is frequently jammed with donators and they're asking us to try again and be patient. I'm sure that no-one is 'Chucking a Connex' and complaining about their lousy internet provider or delays in service but will be prepared to log on later with their credit card details and blood type.

In addition, it seems that thousands of Victorians have heeded our girl River's advice to give blood, with the Red Cross' Chief Executive saying that "It's been overwhelming..... our resources are stretched.... it has been the single greatest interest we have to do a single event in the history of the blood service."

With blood having a rather limited shelf life and those shelves now full of the fresh stuff, Red Cross are asking that people stagger their donations by registering online. This will enable bloodbank staff to contact the donator when their blood is needed. "Giving a blood donation can save up to three lives," their CEO said.

One look at the poor man in the Burns Unit in the article alongside The Age's blood donor story is enough to realise that blood (among other things) will be needed for a very long time. His physical, emotional and mental agonies are only just beginning; let alone what might have become of other people found with him, alive or dead.

To think that these fires - still burning and likely to do so for a few more weeks - were deliberately lit by arsonists lies beyond my area of coherent reasoning. I don't believe in the death penalty, but if found, these morally stagnant shitbags should be forced to not only clear up the burned debris from all the homes, farms, community buildings and business that burned down, but also clean, disinfect and lovingly prepare every single bandage needed for those poor souls suffering in burns units.

They could do all of the above whilst donating their own blood, having their fresh skin scrubbed and scraped off and their other vital organs such as kidneys given to those who need it and deserve it more than they do.

Then, when those 'services' are no longer required, they can be set to digging out trenches for the installation of rainwater tanks and pipes that will enable every home and business to protect themselves from future firebugs. With their bare hands.

Then, and only then, the arsonists can atone by visiting each and every person affected by the disaster to apologise before replanting the ash-strewn land with regenerative and native species of plants that are used to fire and tough Australian summers.

......Or am I being too harsh?

Not the time for a pithy title

As most of the world knows, Victoria has been suffering from bushfires that are the worst in Australian history.

I'm ashamed to say that I didn't find out about any of it until the next day as I was too busy trying to escape the 46.4C heatwave in the safe city of Melbourne by doing my shopping extra-early and then staying inside in air-conditioned comfort with Love Chunks, Sapphire and our pets, busying ourselves with weekend newspapers, DVDs and the computer.

All too soon it was apparent that these bushfires - where wasn't there one burning in Victoria? - were far worse than even the Ash Wednesday fires of 1983 (which I remember too well) or an earlier bushfire disaster in 1939. At least 108 people dead, with still more heartbreaking searches amongst the ashes and rubble to go.

Late last night on the news several women were waiting, clutching Red Cross cups of instant coffee, wearing borrowed clothes; their homes destroyed, souls shattered. Two interviewed by the news crew were shaking as they waited for news - any news - of their husbands, who'd they last seen the day before. I'm ashamed to say that I watched this whilst sitting on my comfortable lounge, eating some chocolate, so far removed from their hell, and readying myself for bed.

Baino says it much better than I can and ex-Melbournite Sophie is watching the tragedy unfold from far away in Dubai but is still reeling from the horror and futility of it all. I'm ashamed to say that I don't have the writing abilities to do this disaster any 'justice', if that's even an appropriate way to describe it.

Victorian Premier, John Brumby, broke down during a news conference and Prime Minister Kevin Rudd and Police Commissioner Dixon were also struggling. Entire towns have been destroyed and it is almost impossible to imagine the impact it will have on families, friends and communities. I'm ashamed to say that I just can't imagine it; I really can't.

What I can do - and I'm asking that you do, too - is donate. Tears choke me as I thank the entity called 'God' that all I have to worry about is that Sapphire settles into her nice new school, some writing gigs are flung my way and that our car doesn't get broken into too often. Small gripes indeed.

Don't they know me at ALL?

As a distinctly unenthusiastic clothes shopper, I often tend to get my gear via online or mail order. The thought of enduring unendurable techno music, sullenly skinny fifteen year old bottle blonde bimbos re-folding t-shirts whilst ignoring me or having to sift through racks of overpriced and underflattering garments does not appeal to me in the slightest. If it's black, not too ridiculous looking and enables me to blend into a crowd without any visible form of mockery, it'll do. And has done, now, for many years.

However, as a fairly loyal shopper with this particular crowd, you'd assume that they'd have some sort of profile on their internetta-computermachiney-whatchamacallit program that they could run before thinking that it would be a good idea to tempt me with this abomination:

I am invited to a Cardi Party. Well ram my face between a aardvaark's arse crack, a Cardi Party! When, in all my years of being able to make my own decisions on what garment to wear, (roughly thirty and counting) have I ever, ever worn a cardigan, let alone been willing to celebrate the concept of such a godawful gift to garments at a party? And who on earth - even those of you who may ~shudder~ actually wear cardigans from time-to-time, would ever swallow the big fat lie that the atrocities above are 'fashionably smart' ?

What mental pigmy marketer thought that this would entice me to whip out the credit card:

Cardi On...? You have got to be kidding me, surely. Is this April Fools' Day several weeks early? Am I supposed to wear that white knitted chemist's coat to pick Sapphire up from school?

Should I send them this link to explain my abhorrence to cardigans? Surely someone needs to eduhmuhcate them on what is considered acceptable outer wear. And yes, all this farting fury from someone who wears CROCS.

Wheelie bin Dealings

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

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




















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

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




















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

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

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















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

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

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

"I have five friends!"

.....Sapphire said the second she saw me waiting at the gate with Milly in tow.

Seven seconds after that, she introduced me to one of them - Audrey - and a playdate was hastily arranged with Audrey's father for this Thursday after school.

Perhaps the note Sapphire wrote this morning did the trick:

.....or maybe it was Love Chunks who, once at work by 8:00am, rang her say that he loved her, was very proud of her and that he knew that she would get through this tough first stage.

.......or maybe it was me desperately trying to advise her on the way through the school gate this morning, whispering, "Look, you're like a L'Oreal ad. You ARE worth making the effort for, even if YOU have to do the asking yourself, first."

Whatever the methods used, she walked through our front door a completely different girl from yesterday.

Skipper perhaps felt the full weight of her optimism, being christened a Triceratops when she plopped a few well-placed white flowers on his head:

He didn't seem to mind.

There may be more ups and downs ahead, but she's now in her bedroom on the cordless phone, exuberantly sharing the news with her grandparents and I'm sitting here grinning from ear to ear. Oh and still a bit tearful, too.