You shook me all afternoon long

Since moving here, we've gone from a largish house and garden in sprawling Adelaide to a compact-but-renovated house in Flemington.

The front yard, as you can see here, is miniscule, so apart from Milly deciding it makes the perfect place to drop her butt nuggets, we tend to wrinkle our noses in disgust, slip the key in the front door and forget what we just saw and smelled.

The back garden is the size of a party-pizza box and has a block of flats looming over it from the eastern side with at least one tenant favouring ACDC at level eleven during the early afternoons.
On Auction Day, straight after we'd been the final bidders and had sat in the kitchen negotiating the sale price (the owners were in the bedroom) and signed the documents thrust in front of us with gleeful-but-shaking hands, Love Chunks and I stood outside in the unseasonally freezing November hail for a few minutes, grinning at each other.

"We've just BOUGHT A HOUSE!" He hugged me and I kissed him heartily, only to open my eyes and see an unshaven bloke in trakkie pants in the distance over LC's left shoulder enjoying a smoke on his balcony and the impromptu affection-fest we were putting on for his apparent benefit.

"Er, hello there," I called out, hoping that he'd shift his gaze before me. He did.

It was then that I decided that even though we'd potentially have twelve separate households looking down on our pocket-sized garden, gym shed and BBQ-area, I wasn't going to restrict the way I lived my life.

It isn't as though I'm a habitual streaker who's fond of doing nude cartwheels, or operate a thriving meth-lab in the bike shed. Nor am I a volatile junkie, a Tourette's sufferer with a foghorn voice, a born-again bible reader or into homespun Satanic rituals, but if I want to serenade Milly ("There was a showgirl, her name was Milly, she had blue ribbons in her hair and a dress cut down to there...."), call out to the rabbit ("Hey Spunky Buns, want a bunch of parsley?") or try double-dutch skipping with Sapphire then I'm damn well going to.

Our neighbours on the west side are two quiet Scottish doctors who work nights, so they tend to stir late morning/lunchtimes and the occasional whiff of coffee and the mewing of their cat is a hint they're outside in their courtyard sunning themselves.

Apart from saying "Hi" as we wheel our bins out on on the kerb Wednesday nights or offer to collect each other's junk mail during holidays, they mostly hear our lives rather than see them. Their cat, Hendrix, likes to parade along the wooden fence dividing our back gardens, luxuriating in the thrill of sending Milly berserk and enjoying the fact that he's the only creature that can actually get her to bark.

Kerry says all she can hear is me saying, "Oh shoosh Milly, he's just teasing you. Go find something better to do, like lick your date or eat Skipper's vegan poo poos." Stuart joined us and said, "I tend to hear a lot of heavy breathing and sometimes a bit of really weird, toneless singing, but usually it's only every seventh word."

Ah yes, that'd be me on the treadmill. Headphones and iPods are marvellous motivators (trust me: Neil Diamond's 'Crunchy Granola Suite' is a top song to run to on a drizzly Monday morning) but can fool the listener/runner into believing that their/her occasional heartfelt but heaving sing-alongs are being effectively drowned out by the sounds being pumped into their eardrums.

Afterwards, I tend to flop on this rather lacy park bench (proudly chosen by Sapphire, pictured here with Milly), huffing and puffing, flicking drops of sweat on the ground and scratching Milly's ears, saying out loud, "That was a tough one, Milly-gram. I farted in time to the start of 'Echo Beach', thanks to Love Chunks' home made sweet potato soup last night."

It's only then I look up and see at least one of the twelve balconies has someone standing there, trying to look over the mechanic's shed onto Mt Alexander Road or towards the big yellow cheesestick and red toast-rack on the Tullamarine. If they make eye contact, I'll smile and wave and know that every single time they'll be the first to avert their gaze.

And that's fine by me. When Sapphire sits on the bench and occasionally sheds a tear about the friends she still misses or we're sipping our microwaved hot chocolates and cuddling, I don't want to feel self conscious or as though we should be editing our lives.

Besides, our clothesline is wedged up against the fence of the flats and our jocks, knickers, bras and socks always get hung closest to their side. Why should we have to look at underwear when we're playing in the garden?

Victoria Hotel Lobby, 6:30pm on a Thursday night
















I’m waiting for Georgia to get in from the airport. Thanks to NoStar airlines she’s late and SMSed me to advise that there’s been a further 45 minute delay with the luggage carousel and the queue for the taxis were starting to approach Essendon.

I sit in the worn vinyl bench seat and decide to enjoy one of my most favourite free activities: People Watching. Traveling back to my year nine English class assignment, this is what I saw…..

A young girl, dressed in leggings, tartan skirt and short jacket in the ‘I have some money’ student-style walks past the reception desk trying to hide her steaming paper bag emblazoned with ‘Lord of the Fries’. She cleverly positions it alongside her right thigh so that the left-hand-side desk staff are none the wiser. They smell delicious and my stomach growls.

A fifty-something couple wearing Sumo-sized skiing jackets then enter but obviously couldn’t care less if the three blokes at the desk see their family-sized pizza box and stuffed Subway bags as they head towards the lifts. Seems like a lot of food for just the two of them.

On the seats near me, a tired Asian mother is doing her best to entertain her two year old child who grins at me, runs away to ‘hide’ and then runs at me from the other side. Acting out the required ‘Oh dear, you surprised me!’ facial expression comes naturally to me. Mum smiles faintly in thanks and resumes her conversation with her husband’s business colleague.

A man wheels in a pram as the automatic glass doors wheeze open. The blonde cherub being transported whips off his right sock, waves it in the air at me proudly, giving me his dribbliest smile. I seem to be the toddler magnet this evening. “Er, he’s just thrown his sock in the pot plant”, I say to the father, “…and his feet might get a bit cold.” Dad sits alongside me as he finds the sock, uses it to wipe of junior’s drool and then places it back on his foot. “That’ll be OK until we get him upstairs to bed.” He pushes off, cooing, “That’s right little man, it’s beddie bye byes for you…..”

“How do I get to the casino from here?” Momentarily feeling offended that I’d look like someone who frequents such a place and repressing the urge to tell the lovechild of Ernie Singley and Myra Hindley standing in front of me to shout himself a cheap meal in Chinatown instead, I tell him where to go. With a slightly different frame of reference inside my own head.

The rush of cold air means the door has opened again, this time admitting two teenage boys dressed in Richmond footy gear. Why? It’s Thursday night; surely that’s a huge effort if they just saw the team do training? The red spots on their white, pinched faces make me wonder if their physical bodies would prefer to barrack for the Swannies.

My stomach grumbles more insistently and I call up Love Chunks and Sapphire. Like a foodie pervert, I ask, “So, what are you eating?” Piping hot tortillas with garlic butter, capsicums and parmesan with a chili prawn pizza to follow. “Hey Mum?” “Yeah love?” “I’m giving a speech at the school assembly on Monday.” “Oh, that’s wonderful! What’s it about?” ----- Pause ----- “Um, compost bins.”

I ring off and look up to see the people sitting in the hotel bar that overlooks the Art Deco stairwell and lobby. Invariably, each time I look up, I find the same old fat bloke meeting my eye. I look away immediately and make a show of checking my SMS messages. As if I, dressed in target jeans, 13 year old boots and a sensible black jacket look like a certainty for his affections…! Or do I just remind him of someone back home, like I often do?

Oh here’s a nice view. Some chick has wandered in wearing grey leggings, white thongs and a black t-shirt. All the trend boxes are ticked but it’s 11C at the most outside, so she must be freezing and, I don’t believe this, is giving her arse a good scratch as she stands at the reception desk. Did she not check behind her before working on her own behind or am I beneath her notice? Humph. Lack of social graces notwithstanding, it’s apparent that her youthful disregard for exercise, sleep and good food is no longer a sure thing for slimness. Skin-tight grey marle is very unforgiving.

Inexplicably, ‘Rock Lobster’ by the B52s is playing over the tinny speakers in the lobby. “Going down, down, down….”

There’s a sigh and a rustling of plastic clothes shopping bags as Mrs Just Retired flops down behind me. She struggles to get her husband’s mobile phone to work. When he wanders over after perusing through the tourism brochure rack, she throws it to him, hissing, “YOU call them.”

Leaving Grey Arse Groper for dead, young Miss Fashion Victim minces down the stairwell, legs as far forward as a gangly spider as she vainly struggles to remain on her feet after a session in the bar and due to the ridiculously stacked heels she’s got on. Added to the mix are the essential skinny jeans, tiny leather jacket with a huge fur-lined collar, chandelier earrings, sticky lipgloss and a lounge-sized handbag and she’s Ready. For. A. Big. Night. Out.

Not so her boyfriend, who, despite the frosticular weather, is by her side in a t-shirt, rubber thongs and cargo shorts. Perhaps the beer has already given him his own numb protection from the cold.

Suddenly, there’s a gaggle of black, over-the-shoulder laptop bags whose owners are all sporting long lanyards with laminated tags the size of phone books. Presumably they’ve been at a conference nearby and their stingy bosses only approved the three-and-a-half star accommodation package for their minions.

Boooong! Some poor old sod walked into the glass door. “He’s not the first, lemme tell you,” said the reception guy across the floor to me. Clearly my people-watching (and note scrawling) hadn’t gone unnoticed. Bruised but not deterred, the old guy hobbled inside looking for all the world like Martin Crane from Frasier: silver hair, checked shirt and walking cane. Where was Eddie hiding?

The mobile-phone challenged couple have been met by their daughter and son-in-law. “Let’s go out for some Chinese and then I’ll work out where I left the car,” Dad says.

Fat bloke upstairs eyes me off again, as if to say, “But you’re still here; I know you want me.”

Oh Yeah, but you’d never afford me.

......Now here's a nice looking person walking through the door.......

Georgia's here! “Hello Gorgeous! Let’s get a DRINK!”

The Fairy Tree Folk finally front up


As regular readers know, I'm enjoying wandering about my local 'hood and trying to find out the answers to mysteries that even most of the locals who've lived there for yonks* don't know. We've found out that the wonky M on the housing commission flats is a groovy lift shaft; and that Mr P was a lovable German Shepherd with squinty eyes now busy fertilising a geranium bush.

This gorgeous little gem-encrusted tree house was mystery number three - who created it and who lives there?

Several weeks went by without any reply to my politely-worded card and I started to despair until one day, as I sat sniffling at my computer screen wondering if I could get away with shoving two test tubes up my nostrils to save on tissues and snout rash, I received an email from the wary-but-informative Keeper of the Fairy Tree.

They wrote:

"It is actually known as 'Tree Man's House. There is a bit of a story to it, but mostly it is whatever visitors want to think it is. The little kids that stop for a play with it are generally not the least bit interested in why we decorated the tree, they just come up with their own idea about who lives there and go from there. Most take it to be a fairy tree.

A while back the council decided to remove all of the fully grown trees in our street and I took up a petition to try to keep them. It failed, but a few of us did manage to keep trees in front of our houses. My partner, our son and I are familiar with an elves tree on the Mt Buller Rd where we have stopped for visits. My son always took this to be the home of a tree man and he and his dad made a home in our 'saved' tree for tree man's brother.

Tree man has a large family and they like to visit. It started off with a door, chimney, window and a bit of garden and has been added to by visitors since. One of our neighbours who had worked in costume design, left on tree man's doorstep, some lovely hand made little felt booties that were filled with the little gems that are now studded all over the tree. I think that she also delivered a small ceramic dog that had its own cloth kennel. Someone else made the little wooden table and log seats that are on the side. Little things turn up every so often as passers by take a fancy to the tree and want to add to it.


















Not everyone cares for the decorations. A while ago the Flem-Ken News had a photo of it with the author captioning it as a bit over the top (pompous bastards - Kath). Mostly, it is a favourite stop for little kids en route to home or the shops."

And nosy grown-ups with orange dogs.

* A 'yonk' an elastic measure of time, usually indicating a large amount, as in "Madonna hasn't released a decent song - or bowel moment - for yonks." My mother is rather fond of saying "But that was YONKS ago" if we ask her why she's appearing in another bloody musical when last year's one seemed to be full of backstage sniping, griping about the quality of costumes and abilities of actors in the lead roles and constant jostling for front row chorus positions.

Odds and Sods

I've had angoing migraine these past few days that keeps returning more often than a blowfly to a barbecue plate.

So much so that Sapphire and her sleepover friend Juliet made me breakfast in bed. Or was that breakfast ON the bed, because Juliet stumbled and the orange juice glass toppled over and gave me a rather wakeful splashing.

Never mind. What brought the second round of tears to my eyes (OJ's acidity is particularly harsh), was the card they made for me:

Creative spelling aside, I'm going to assume that 'excentric' is meant in the positive, full-of-character sense; not the Weirdo Weirdo WEIRDO sense.

It got me thinking about Mothers' Day which is next Sunday here in Australia (and presumably most places overseas wherever junk mail and TV are prevalent).

Sapphire keeps asking me what I want for the big MD.

"Nothing, honestly," is my answer, before I stroke her hair, scrunch her to my side in a quick hug and then hope she'll drop the subject.

"But Mum, I can't get you NOTHING. I'll feel really bad and ungrateful for the rest of the day. There must be something you'd like me to get for you."

The brochures she'd carefully spread out on the table were about as enticing as the 'home made' muesli she and Juliet had prepared the morning earlier - indescribably messy with lots of gawdy ingredients that weren't worth touching.

I'm not a jewellery gal. I've got my wedding and engagement rings, plus a 'ten year' anniversary one that all fit together on one finger. My Grandma's wedding ring is on my right middle finger which adds a rather glamourous flash of gold when my 'Eff You' gesture is occasionally called up and I have three gold bangles that I never take off; not for running, sleeping or showering. Anything else is likely to get snagged on my ever-present polar fleece jackets, attract blobs of stray hand moisturiser or just be mislaid.

"Just make me one of your fantastic cards, I really love them and I've kept every single one you've made."

She rolled her eyes and muttered, "But they don't count," as she walked outside to pat Skipper.

I tried to think. A new pair of running shoes would be nice, but handing over my rather worn-out and certainly odorific purple orthotics to Sapphire with a written list of shoe brands that accommodate my narrow feet and low in-step would take the mystery out of things a bit.

Even books are a bit superfluous, sadly. I review them, so always have a couple there on my bedside table waiting to be read, which is actually a rather lovely situation to be in. Having ones there that have been paid for will only ruin the experience and besides, just having the Saturday and Sunday editions of The Age provides enough 'down time' reading with all of its assorted magazines, inserts, segments and insight sections for the rest of the week.

A meal out at a fancy restaurant? Meal, yes; restaurant, maybe; but fancy, No. Instead, I'd go for a friendly cafe that serves all-day breakfasts or chaotic Yum Cha, decent souvlaki, crispy pizza or one that makes pungently, spicy and slurpy laksa for throngs of homesick Chinese students. Someplace where jeans and sneakers are the norm and not heels, mascara or low-cut tops, and we can turn up at 6:00pm and be well-fed and walking back home by 8pm, ready for a night in so that I can pat Milly and be within easy reach of Love Chunks, chocolate and red wine. Whilst wearing ugg boots.

And then, I spotted it. I beckoned Sapphire back over. "You know what, love? You can get me anything you like. ANYTHING."

She beamed. "Really?"

"Yep. Except for this."


She busied herself reading through all of the dot points that the marvellous 'Mrs Peggs Handy Line' claimed to have. "Why have they said that this is the 'Ideal Gift for Mum'? There's no fun in this."

That's right my beautiful, wondrous, clever young treasure. So, if I get juice in my eye again, or a pair of Peacock feather dangly earrings (trust me; it's been suggested more than once) or even the fake Aboriginal dot-painted boomerang that she admired yesterday during our foray at the Queen Vic markets, I'll be grateful.

Phlegm Head

I was twenty five years old when I had my first migraine.

At first, I didn’t know what was going on; I thought a rampant flu and gastro bug had attacked me from behind as I stood swaying uncertainly on the Elizabeth Street tramline, hoping like hell my forehead wouldn’t smack against the concertina doors before they slapped open.

A year later, my wedding day was marred by fears that a mongrel migraine would emerge to ruin it. The resulting photos show a woman who is puffy, clearly unwell and not yet aware that a pesky and explainable brain tumour was rapidly expanding at the base of her brain behind her eyes.

The tumour is tiny now and despite it messing with my reproductive system, baby Sapphire emerged - along with a scientific paper about its unprobability from the Endocrinology unit at the Royal Melbourne hospital. Yes, Sapphire the zygote is a celebrity in the Australian Journal of Medicine, but the diagrams they chose to accompany their article aren’t very exciting unless you particularly love graphs and hormonal charts.

Despite this medical improvement, Mr Migraine decided that he likes me, finds me endlessly entertaining and easy to stir up. He visits me whenever he chooses and there’s nothing I can do about it. Well, there are a few things like don't dillydally but take the medication as soon Mr knocks on the door, lie down in the dark, grab a sick bucket for easy hurling and assume that the next eight hours will be dead and dusted as far as productivity, fun and standing up goes.

Today however, Mr Migraine has timed his visit with the cold I’ve caught from Love Chunks and Sapphire. That is the reality of living with people you like – if they get a disease, then you’re going to get it. Unless you live in a separate wing and look like a masked-Michael Jackson on a publicised shopping expedition. Even when I’m de-lousing Sapphire I love the warmth of her hair and being so close to her so that I can even see the tiny blonde down on her nose and those unbelievably soft cheeks and end up kissing the top of her head: so what chance do I have against germ sharing?

Electing not to kiss Sapphire goodnight just so my chances of catching her cold might be reduced would leave me utterly sleepless as I’m a big believer in farewelling people I love with love (What if Love Chunks gets run over by a tram on the very morning I didn’t give him an adoring peck and a pat on the bum? What if Sapphire never wakes up and the last interaction I had with her was, “Nope, not good enough. Go back and clean your room again – this time with your eyes open young lady." What if Milly's last time with me involves me shoving her head between my knees, forcing her jaws open and buttering her gums with fresh breath gel?).

So, as my head rapidly fills with phlegm, my brain has in turn swollen to accommodate a migraine. This produces a sensation not unlike a dinghy attempting to inflate itself inside a bowling ball that’s already half full of maple syrup. Add dilated blood vessels, highly-strung nerve endings, two blocked ear drums, a couple of leaky nostrils and a shivering body ache and you can see that my morning has been a real barrel of laughs.

Luckily though, Mr Migraine seems to be on half-strength and has turned down his anger to mid-range, which means I can get out of bed, have that second cup of instant coffee (erk, but it's easier to make than spending ten minutes dancing in front of the Gaggia and a helluva lot quieter) to open up my eyes and contemplate having a shower…….

.......but trust me to enjoy the steaming hot water and use the (mostly) decorative back-scrubbing brush too much to forget that automatically shaking my wet hair free of drops like a freshly-bathed dog is NOT going to help the migraine much.

Such mindless stupidity causes me to slump over the edge of the bathtub, legs shaky now, as I stagger around with my eyes closed in agony trying to grope for my towel. PHARK that hurts and my brain is still sliding inside its tenuous container from side-to-side like an oversized oil clump in a lava lamp. The bathmat slips from underneath me, so I end up doing a rather graphic semi-split in the nude before grabbing at the door knob and half-swinging myself outside into the freezing hallway.

I hurl myself onto the bed, still wet, and cram my aching head amongst the pillows. Yes, my arse is up in the air like an x-rated bike rack, but I don’t care: the pressure on my skull sort of squashes away the pain temporarily and with the blood rushing downwards it is better to remain in this position until the cold air around my exposed extremities gets too much to bear.

It is only when I’m in this position and feel how much I’ve wet the pillows that I then start to think: ‘Are the bedroom blinds open?’

There's (at least) one in all of us

In every workplace - or so it seems to me - there is at least one person who gets their vicarious thrills by letting a few ripe clouds loose from their trouser trumpet. Or, in layman's terms, a sneakily smelly little person who likes to drop a fart, leave and let someone else suffer from the stench and get silently blamed for it.

At the Environment Protection Authority (EPA) there was obviously a tribe of them because I was 'caught' many times. I mostly suspected the youngish, recent uni grads who hadn't yet morphed into the sensible slacks, grey velcro slip-ons or taken to carrying vinyl briefcases that were empty except for their newspaper and a banana. These guys were also the kind who still met up at the local grungy pub by the river for a bevvie or seven and could still physically handle staying out all night and turning up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work the next day.

They were also the kind of blokes that my brothers would admire for their:

a) ability to generate such gut-busting blasts;

b) their ingenuity in dropping them in a small enclosed area and escaping; and

c) making their sister suffer.

Beanbags have a lot to answer for. Having a brown velvet monstrosity in our living room growing up meant that it made for a comfortable after-school TV session but if Dave or Rob came in, they'd invariably fart in my face and run off gleefully guffawing, knowing that my anguished struggle to get up and out of the shifting sands of beans would enable them to escape to at least the next-door neighbours' house before I was on my feet.

And thus, many years later, when I was smack-bang in the middle of a serious career, the fart issue arose again. The EPA building was seven stories high and our department used nearly every floor. As a Project Officer for the largest unit, I was a regular rider in these and was often caught in the following scenario:

***The green light on the wall goes 'Ping' and the doors slide open. I've got an armful of bulging manilla folders and am running several minutes late for a meeting four floors below. My mind is already focussed on my apology, what project updates I'll need to talk about and whether I've got time to SMS Love Chunks about booking the local Greek restaurant for dinner than night....

The doors close, and I realise I've got the lift all to myself and.... what the hell is that?

Aww man, this stench is awful - did a horse die in here somewhere? I can't breathe....

Ping! The lift then stops at the next floor and of course, it's our esteemed Chairman who steps in. Brian smiles at me warmly and settles in to do the usual lift-riding routine of looking straight ahead and staring at the glowing floor numbers.

My face is aflame with embarrassment and sheer mortification. What if he thinks it's me who produced this noxious odour? I can see that his normally composed face is twitching and he's now sneaking a few little glances at me, clearly wondering just what sort of depraved creature I must be to have produced such a repulsive rectal reaction.***

The above scenario happened to me on two other occasions, both with senior managers. It was awful to think that they thought that I had created - and proudly let go of it in a publicly-shared space - such an eye-wateringly phenomenal fart.

On the fourth event, I had to speak up. "Look Brian, I gotta say this. This --" I gestured all around me - "--was most definitely NOT of my making. It was in here before I stepped in!"

He laughed nervously, "Oh, OK then, whatever you say," and immediately pressed the button for the next floor, deciding that his original five floor journey with me was intolerable.

And to think that this was occurring in the agency who held responsibility for Melbourne's air quality....

Several jobs and a couple of career changes later found myself still suffering from the results - and unspoken blame for those results – this time produced by a university-based Phantom Pharter.

This one was female because she limited herself to the tiny little ladies' room under the base of the stairs which was the only available facility in the heritage-listed hellhole we worked in. There were just two men in our building, and I had the good fortune to have my office right next door to their toilet complete with rather revealing acoustics and the odd odour that accompanied their activities. Let's just say that Steven was a bloke to avoid the morning after the Tower Hotel's Tuesday Schnitzel-and-Sauerkraut Special.....

But I digress - our gassy girl was possibly a keen dhal curry eater, obviously favoured over-cooked veges and was very, very regular. Yay for her, but not so for me, or indeed any of my girlie colleagues. Phantom Pharteress managed to drop a killer stink bomb no less than three times during the average work day and seemingly about thirty seconds before I needed to go.

Her efforts had the staying power of cockroach surface spray and literally contaminated the ladies' room, stairwell, lobby and the photocopy room and each time I departed, red-faced and gasping, Debra at reception would see me and frown disapprovingly.

Finally, I decided that I was no longer going to shoulder the undeserved blame and I broke the Toilet Room code: I made a conversation with a fellow abluter when both of our cubicle doors were locked.

"Elizabeth?

(surprised tone): "Yeah?"

"You, like me, have just walked into a wall of world-beating bum fluffs - it was here doing its evil work before I came in, I'll have you know. I did NOT, I repeat NOT, do it."

She paused for a moment to consider what I'd said and replied with, "Oh dear, I can't believe you just said that," but then whispered, "It's OK, I know it's not you, because it's been like this before you had even started here.”

There was a bit of over-acted paper rustling on both sides of the shared wall as we tried in vain to muffle the noise of our respective drops and plops.

"Elizabeth?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Have you got any idea who it is?"

"None whatsoever. She must sneak in when the coast is clear, unleash her weapon of mass destruction and then bugger off as quickly as she can."

The only upside was that Phantom Pharteress didn’t drop ‘em in the kitchen or office doorways as a malodorous joke. Luckily I was eventually transferred to a research unit far, far away. And down wind.

Three years on, my most consistent co-worker is Milly the dog, so we both know who does what and when and to whom. The agonies and ecstasies, therefore, are shared pretty equally. Equality and fairly-apportioned blame at last.

The Fairy Tree folk are fleeing.......

.....well, from me at least. No response to my politely worded card seeking to resolve the mystery of who lives in the fairy tree but I'll keep trying.

However, I was in the vet the other day (seeking an answer for Milly's bottom breath. Answer: nothing wrong, just brush her teeth occasionally) and I saw a wonderful photograph of Mr P on their wall.

Isn't he sensational? His owner, Tam, had left a beautiful thank you note to the doctors who cared for Mr P and it got me reading all of the other genuinely heartfelt cards, letters and photographs of beloved pets departed and still around. It then reminded me of our first dog, Tess.

She was a stumpy-tailed blue heeler that Love Chunks bought, sight-unseen, over the telephone when we were living in Darwin. Blue heelers were rather exotic breeds for that part of the world: Pigdogs and bull terriers were the standard fare up there, to go with the dusty twin-cab utes, bogan Ned Kelly-length beards, wrap-around black sunnies and blue singlets (and yes, they were just the women).

Tess arrived from Hayes Creek with owners who admitted that she had been the only surviving female - the other two had been killed by a snake. At first, I couldn't see anything inside the box as she was perfectly camouflaged amongst the newspaper.

It was love at first lick - she slumped into my t-shirt and slept, and when LC came home from work, he too was smitten. A glance at the photo album of the time shows that 80% of the pictures are of Tess - playing with her beloved tennis balls; eating her first solid food from a tiny soy-sauce dish; sleeping under a deckchair; cooling herself by shoving her butt up against the gap under our air-conditioned bedroom door; eating her dog-choccy christmas present.

Entertainment usually involved the blue thongs. She'd slip her snout under the straps so that one part of her face had the sole pressed up against it. A few vigorous shakes of her ears meant that the thong then cheekily slapped her face, thus starting a chewing, growling, ear-flapping Fight Club event that saw her dash around the garden, slapping herself into a frenzy of fun and frolics.

Her orange ball proved to be the segue towards real oranges. When we moved to Melbourne, her beloved plaything was becoming a bit bedraggled and somehow her colour-blind vision managed to figure out that the round things hanging over the fence off the neighbour's tree were orange balls as well.

Tess's first attempts at playing with them always ended abruptly when her teeth inevitably punctured the fruit, shocking her with the tart taste. Eventually however, she grew to like the pungent juice that oozed through the teeth holes and I used to return home from work to see literally dozens of chewed semi-circles of citrus and the unfortunate results (after going through the furry digestive system) violently splattered over the lawn.

Like all dogs, she was extraordinary licky (that's 'Uncle Robert' wrapped protectively in a sheet above, having been 'good morning-ed' in Tess's own inimitable style; such was the danger of being our houseguest). She loved to skulk under the dining table when we had dinner parties and, just when our friends were utterly unaware, shove her wet nose in their crotch. We lost a lot of wine glasses that way.

One thing that is true about dogs is that they are always true to their natures. Her mother was a guard dog on the property at Haye's Creek, and Tess too saw her role as Fearless and Neverfailing Protector of the Lockett family. There was no jealousy when Sapphire arrived: she was another Lockett to love and guard ceaselessly.

By the time Sapphire was two, things weren't so simple. Tess loved us unconditionally, but increasingly saw anyone and everyone else as potential enemies. Cautious introductions, careful sniffing and re-training failed, only for us to have to put her in a muzzle whenever we had company. What kind of life was that for her, or for us?

Then it happened. Three year old Lana was sitting on a deckchair, completely still and quiet when Tess rushed at her. We heard a sickening 'smack' sound as Tess aimed directly at her face, knocking her over. Even now, I shudder just imagining what might have happened had the muzzle not been on. There were hurried apologies, Tess ushered into the shed, sobbing tears of fear to wipe away, awkward discussions to resume, all the while we were thinking Oh My God.

We briefly wondered if we needed to install a smaller, fenced in section of the garden to put her in when we had friends over, but that only raised more questions. What if a child, left alone for a second, opened the latch, or Tess could escape out under her own steam?

The following day, we made the dreaded phone call to the vet. We knew what had to be done and didn't want to pretend that it was an 'accident', or that 'she's never behaved like that before.' We also knew that it wasn't fair to hand her over to someone else or to the RSPCA as she wouldn't pass their adoption tests. The vet understood and an appointment was made.

I was crying uncontrollably at my desk until the boss came out of his office and quietly said, 'Why don't you go home and spend some time with her?' He was a hard-nosed capitalist who wasn't a popular leader, but as a dog-owner himself he showed me nothing but compassion and understanding that I'll always remember and appreciate.

I threw her the tennis ball until she started to limp. She still deposited it hopefully at my feet, stump wagging furiously, tongue hanging out, eyes glinting with joy. LC arrived home. It was time. The veterinary clinic was at the end of our street, and he put Tess's lead on. Oh My Oh My, More fun! A walk!

I kissed her beautiful black velvety ears one last time as she trotted trustingly with him out of the door.

An hour later, LC was back home with an empty lead in his hands and tears in his eyes.

Eight years on and I can still hear the crackling of her cane bed basket in the darkness of our room when she shifted around in her sleep. She was a feisty one, full of love and spirit. Doing the right thing doesn't mean I don't still miss her.

Mm-mmmm Men like them

Now for the fellas - they too weren't forgotten in 1968 Australian womens' magazine land. Sorry Franzy, I wasn't given a 1968 Playboy: my sister-in-law assumed (correctly) that Barbarella B-grade boobies weren't likely to interest me. Sorry about that.

Still, there was some pretty groovy gear to get into:

Whoah, hold me back..... English cricketer Colin Cowdrey is on the left; yes the one with the Rainman pants in a delightful maroon. He told Sally Baker's column that he'd travelled over 150,000 miles on his cricket trips and needed a lot of pairs of slim-silhoutte sporting trousers. He liked these so much that he ordered a dozen pairs. As soon as he slipped on his favoured 'bronzed buckskins' lucky Mrs Cowdrey would easily pick up the sexy signals he was sending......

The Sean Connery lookalike on the right was apparently sporting the ONLY men's outfit chosen by Fibremakers Australia to exhibit at the Frankfurt International fair. We can only hope that those massive white canoes on his feet were an indicator of his other talents....

For chillier occasions, sunshine yellow fisherman's rib jumpers from Emu (the brand, not the feathers, presumably) were the go, especially if they matched your girlfriend's. It was such a flattering tone for everyone and he looked particularly thrilled to be wearing it.

And the craft pages weren't just for baby shawls, cotton carry all or Hostess aprons, oh no. Men too, were 'treated' to some wonderful and useful gear. Who wouldn't have wanted a 'Sir' tie, crocheted by their loved one?

And if you happened to have had an unfortunate incident with a razor and didn't want unsightly bleeding to ruin the enviable entry you'd be making in your snazzy new neckpiece, then these new invisible Band Aids would have been the ideal solution:

So sheer that you'd have been able to write "YOU'RE BLIND' in band aids all over your face and no-one would even have noticed.

I'm off now to try and crochet Love Chunks a tie. After all, he is a "man who likes nothing but the best." I'll be sure to pop on my Hostess apron first though, to keep off any mess.

Guest post from RIVER

As some of you may have read, I was tagged to do a Mummy Meme, and I tagged River. This lovely lady doesn't have a blog, but is a regular commenter whose wise words and sense of humour we all enjoy.

Here is her response:

I am socially inept, emotionally awkward, not highly educated, excrutiatingly shy; yet somehow I have managed to raise four wonderful children who I love and who love me. Two boys and two girls. So here it is.

5 things I love about being a mum.

1. In the beginning, I loved the peace and quiet of the 2a.m. feeds. No-one awake except me and the baby. Even with babies 2, 3, and 4, the night feeds were a pleasure. The house was dim and warm, baby and me snuggled in a blanket in the rocking chair, gazing at each others faces while he or she drank their fill, tiny fingers and toes curling and stretching with the pleasure of it, the sleepy burps after, tucking the baby back into the bassinet then curling up in my own bed again until the dawn feed.

2. In later, toddler years, I loved teaching them. Colours, shapes, letters, numbers. left from right, right from wrong. The joy on their faces when they "got it". The happy laughter when they mastered a new skill, the sound of small running feet as they came to show off what they'd done. The joy each one took in sharing their accomplishment with siblings. Singing the alphabet song with them. Later still, they'd recite the alphabet backwards to anyone who'd listen.

3. I loved that I had easy-going, happy-go-lucky children who loved each other, (still do) and looked out for each other, (still do). They shared everything, from toys and snacks to chicken pox and german measles. They got on well together when playing as a group, yet respected each others need to sometimes be alone. Although this last one was sometimes a little harder to learn. They also knew from an early age that I needed time for reading and would leave me to it for at least half an hour before asking to bake brownies or play outside with them. I loved that each time we moved house, the new home and school was easily settled in to.

4. Fun. Laughter. Insane giggling at each others corny jokes. A full house more often than not after school or during holidays. I didn't mind as this way I knew where my kids were and what they were up to.
Giving each child a bucket of water and a house painting brush to "paint" the house and fence in hot weather. They painted each other too. Mixing poster paints and letting them paint paper grocery bags which were then cut out (eyes, nose, mouth) and worn as masks.
Watching as the four year old sat his two year old sister on the toy lawn mower and then ran as fast as he could over bumps and pot holes in the yard while she hung on for dear life laughing hysterically.
Enjoying the hilarity as my husband sat on the small two-wheeler bike with kids hanging off him on all sides as he rode around the yard.
Cooking lessons as they got older, making playdough, brownies, Anzac biscuits, lemon meringue and apple pies. Lamingtons, where I'd make the cake and they'd do the chocolate dipping and coconut rolling.
Dressing them in raincoats and boots on rainy days then walking around the block so they could splash in puddles and in the gutters all the way.
Older still, and I allowed them to dress in their oldest rattiest clothes and play down in the old creek after a rain. They'd come home covered in mud and get hosed off in the backyard, drying and dressing in the shed before coming in for hot chocolate.

5. Pride. The biggest of the five. I love the pride I feel when talking about my family.
Pride; when each milestone was succesfully passed. Sometimes earlier than expected.
Pride; when I took them all grocery shopping, out for milkshakes, anywhere really, and they were beautifully behaved, earning me many compliments.
Pride; as each one in turn took to school like a duck to water.
Pride; when #1 was dux of the school in her final primary year.
Pride; when all of them went further through high school than I had. Although two of them came close, none actually finished year 12.
Pride; when, as a teenager, my youngest told me he could never mistreat any woman or child, because I'd raised him with respect. (we'd had friends drop in and the topic had turned to the latest TV show we'd seen on abuse.)
Pride; that all of them have far out-stripped me in learning and achievements.
Pride; that all four are now well-adjusted adults with many friends.
So proud that I now have grandchildren to love as much as I love their parents.