I wasn't born here but

Yesterday morning it was drizzling slightly, and after calling out, 'See ya later' to Love Chunks and Sapphire I heard the tell-tale thunder-rumble of the tram further up Mt Alexander Road and knew that a quick sprint would mean that I'd make it in time to climb on.

I did just that thanks to my beautiful, fully-healed, perfectly functioning Achilles and held a rather dramatic half-lunge pose to keep the doors open because out of the corner of my eye I could see a couple running - less athletically than moi, to be sure - to make the same tram.

"Thanks," they puffed in gratitude, before fumbling for their tickets.

Both were dressed like they'd just been to Woodstock - cheese cloth, ethnic scarves, copper bangles and long ratty hair. He held a small ukelele.

A few moments later the bloke seated across from me grimaced. The hippies were singing. In rush-hour. In Melbourne. On a tram crammed with expressionless commuters determinedly hiding away from any opportunity for unwanted public contact with ear buds or iphones.

Uni dude slowly peeled off his enormous Sennheiser mega muffs and raised a pierced eyebrow. I saw this as an invitation to speak.
"No, you're not wrong; it's Hey Mr Tambourine Man."

Plunka Plunka Plunka Spoong. One of the strings was clearly on the loose side.
Plunka Plunka Plunka Spoong.
"In the jingle jangle morning I'll come following you....."

Novel-reading nurse next to me joined in. "Well good on yer for letting them on," her voice laden with sarcasm but her face with a smile. Asian Student next to Sennheiser Scone snorted and made brief eye contact before returning back to his tiny black screen.

Don't cry, Kath. Not here.

A fair number of passengers got off at the Queen Victoria market. The advertisement on the shelter was promoting ANZAC day. A snippet from Fallen, by Laurence Binyon was in large, flowery letters; lines I'd read many times before:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

The tram sooned filled up again with more office workers and market shoppers with bulging jeeps and trolleys. A young guy with enormous holes in each ear and a dripping gun tattooed on his neck helped an elderly Greek lady with her cart. "Sank you," she said, patting his arm. "You kind."

Don't cry, Kath. Not here.

Little Lonsdale Street. My turn to get off and try to run across the road before the traffic changed. Also time to buy a coffee to see me through what was going to be a long day. Moving countries means a dauntingly long To Do list and Insomnia is now the reality. Like being able to read music or dance, sleep is something that other people do; an instinct I don't seem to have and a skill I'll never possess.

"Large flat white please. Skinny, thanks mate." He nods at me. I'm familiar enough for him to recognise, but not full-time enough to be on first name terms. He returns to the hawking and spitting sounds of the shiny metal machine and I share a small table with another woman waiting for her latte.

She's reading. The Age. From Saturday so she's clearly catching up on all the weekend supplements. It's the section I write for. Sorry, wrote for. Jumpin' Jatz crackers, it's my article.

For gods' sake keep your enormously insecure ego under control and don't tell her that you wrote it.

Don't cry Kath, not here.

Sights for sore eyes

So we were having breakfast at Pepper Cafe with Dan this morning, watching half the neighbourhood pass by on their way to the shops or up the steps at the train station heading into town for the Essendon and Carlton game when an Easter Bunny who was eight foot tall appeared.

"Helloooooo! I'm Jive Bunny and I'm here to thank you for shopping locally! Have an Easter Egg!" She was clearly on stilts and had thighs that - no, not me this time, but Sapphire - said reminded her of Hannah Gadsby. In other words, they were 'womanly' and assisted in this case by a sumo-suit fan.

For some reason this caused my eyes to tear up. I realised that I knew her; knew half the people who were taking photos including the old dude with the oxygen tank on wheels and the druggie couple who said, "Any fags in that basket of yours, Easter Bunny?" and the family across the road who were doing their damnedest to stop their youngest from becoming a blonde pancake on the road in his quest to run up for his share of the chocolate spoils.

It was the second time that morning I'd cried in public. The first was during my run around Debney Oval.

The Achilles has healed up a treat and it's been wonderful to actually run alongside Sapphire this past fortnight instead of walk, but today she met her friend Tao and they strolled around chatting as Milly and I surged ahead and even lapped them a few times.

By lap eight (or 4.8km by my reckoning), I flopped on the park bench by the wheelie bins, tried to ignore the condoms and KFC wrappers nearby and waited for the girls. An elderly Asian couple power-walked by. I said, "Good morning," like I do to anyone that I pass by on that oval (the shared camaraderie of anyone 'getting out there' and walking or jogging when they could be sleeping in is always worth a greeting in my book) and the man started singing.

Loudly.

"I am from Hong Kong," he yelled. "British Hong Kong. Army song, see?" He did a march on the spot to show me.

"Nice one," I said.

"My wife...." he gestured, as she'd continued on ahead, "Is my new wife. .She Chinese. Communist!"

"Ah," I replied, "But it looks like you're happy?"

"VERY! Ho is my name. Like Ho Ho Santa! My wife is beautiful and I happy!" And off he walked, still singing, to catch up with her. To her credit she neither looked surprised or embarrassed and waved cheerily to me from the shade of the plane trees.

The young couple playing a rather relaxed game of touch rugby on the grass smiled. "Interesting bloke," the girl said.

"I want whatever it is he's having," I said, clicking on Milly's lead and hoping that they wouldn't see my eyes welling.

After lunch, it was all systems go at our place. Love Chunks was No More Gapping in the bathroom, drilling in the shed and planning the meal for tonight. Sapphire was in her room, bravely going through what needed to go into the Garage Sale pile, the Keep At Grandparents pile and Suitcase Headed for Geneva pile. My job was clean Skipper's hutch, tidy up the back yard and weed the front garden.

Our fence is pretty tall and through the chinks I saw a BMW four wheel drive pull up. No-one we know has such a car. The window was down and he was speaking as loudly as my new friend Ho.

"Look, I don't want to come home right now. I've had it; this is the end for us. I'm tired, you're tired and we both need to face the facts. We're over."

I was in a bind. I desperately wanted to stand up and straighten my protesting back but didn't want him to see that I'd witnessed one of the sadder turning points of his life. I made do with an awkward squat-walk to the garbag each time I needed to throw in a handful of weeds. With an internal plumbing system currently under extreme duress every step forward was accompanied with a little 'parp' of exhaust.

After half an hour of recriminations, sighing, accusations and agreement he eventually drove away. To the pub or the divorce court I'm not sure, but I stood up gratefully, hands on my hips and stretching, head bent back looking up at the tree fern.

"I can hear your back crack from here mate," said Mr Divvy Van as he wandered past with a plastic bag of Red Rooster and a six-pack.

I cried again. I love Flemington and as I sob over everything from a forgotten baby photograph lodged behind the printer to a pair of shoes never ever worn, I'm grateful to feel like this. So much better than 'good riddance' or 'thank god we're going.'

Oh bugger it, me eyes are at it again......

Why do I have a heartbeat in both armpits?

Because Love Chunks has won a transfer to Geneva.

Sure, the selection process took five months so I spent the best part of that realising that there were two paths ahead of us and the local high school issue for Sapphire wasn't going to go away just because Switzerland were not living up to their reputation as being expert time keepers....

But now we have one path.

And of course Geneva were cheeky enough to try it on and ask LC to turn up in four weeks' time.

NO WAY we both said; me leaning weakly on the door frame with my bowels about to throw a noxious tantrum for the seventh time that morning and he fretting about the World Meteorological Organisation bureaucracy and only having a one page emailed letter of offer and a one-liner twelve hours later to go on.

STICK TO YOUR GUNS I said, my air of authority quite literally reduced with the now-permanent fug of Lavender Loo spray clouded around my head.

I SURE AS HELL WILL he said, climbing onto his bike and pedaling off to the Docklands. Nothing says A Man With A Mission more than bike shorts, a fluoro-yellow safety vest and a helmet shaped like a melted choc drop.

So, we've negotiated for six weeks time. In the past four days, we've decided that it's a good thing that apart from my great grandmother's piano, the oldest thing we own is LC's CD collection and my photo albums. They'll hide somewhere at my folks' place in South Australia but everything else must go.

The house will be rented out, we're looking for a loving home for Skipper and Milly will be flown over by the too-cute-to-be-true 'JetPets' the second we've found our new address. Thank God that Geneva is 95% surrounded by France and doggies are a way of life. "Madame, domestic pets are tolerated by all," said the google-translated email.

School for Sapphire is likely to be an English-speaking campus that has the UN in view that specialises in expat kids who also need to learn French and have skiing as one of their official sports ....

and ....

and ....

and ....

.... my role will be to make several dozen lists, check them all thrice, go for another urgent crap and do whatever it takes to leave here in one piece and then see that the man, child and animal I love most in the world are settled, happy and ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

That's why I'm typing this still in my dressing gown, sweat stains appearing even though my hair is still wet from the shower and I'm crying with a big goofy smile on my face. Ready, Steady, Go!

Edition Eighteen - Word Verification Explanations

Trust me - these are all real words I've had to key in over the past week or so in order to comment on blogs I've visited. Their meanings are now defined for you but without pictures because Blogger is misbehaving so badly that after 21 edit attempts (three by Love Chunks) it's obvious that a cyber-spanner has been thrown into the works somewhere.

Ahem. The words, for your improved vocab, include:

Anistr - manufacturing 'Finally: a baby for Jen!' or 'Heartbreak again' headlines about a certain ex-Friends actress every time she is photographed looking pensive (usually as she's trying to remember where she parked her car)

Repie - footy food that is served lukewarm despite being in a bain-marie for three days straight. Expect to pay double the price of what your corner deli sells them for as well.

Hoosiver - The devil lurking in the vacuum cleaner that makes it impossible to suck up lint from the rug even after you've tried seven times. On the eighth attempt, the wielder of the vacuum sighs and bends down to pick up the item, only to drop it and have it cling to the surprisingly grippy wool fibres of the rug again. Hoosiver is at play.

Drapully - the gradual stretch and sag of ancient and exhausted bra straps that are still worn by someone too stubborn and miserly to buy a new pair (or too busy to do a load of washing). The effects of drapully can be felt when walking hastily along the street only to feel slightly bouncier as 'the girls' start to win the battle of the bra and jiggle more noticeably. Tightening these straps in the nearest loo only lasts until the next time you're required to walk further than a hundred metres.

Phoocans - people who never use toilet spray after their efforts; even when it's right by the flush button and the air is only semi-transparent.

Yallog - what cornflakes look like after sitting in a bowl of milk, unconsumed, for more than a minute. No longer an appetising breakfast option but a viable - and generally sturdier - alternative to cement render.

Eff Bee Eff Me

It's funny all this being 'mature' and supposedly full of more life experience and learnings stuff.

I've had friendships go sour; I've lost my temper and told some hard truths and been given some even harder ones back and realise how easy it is to say, "Don't worry about what anyone else thinks," to people when continually struggling with it myself.

Which brings me to Facebook. Unlike most popular commentators, I don't think it's the evil of our time or forcing modern society to take unwanted steps towards total isolation and alienation.

I've found people that I went to school with, always kinda-liked but didn't know that well and have been genuinely interested in seeing what they've become, what they're up to, how they think. People have found me via comments on a shared friend's update or through a work-related meeting or other means. I always feel pretty flattered to have a 'friend request' and, if I'm really honest, it's as gratifying as receiving a blog comment.

There, I said it: I love getting feedback. Want it. Dream of it. Long for it. I need feedback. Inside this largish shell of flesh and cocoa butter is a chronically insecure person who still feels like the thirteen year old whose mother persuaded her to buy rust-coloured corduroy jeans a size too large and turns up to Term Two Casual Day surrounded by stretch blue denims and confidence.

Sometimes the feedback needs to come from me - yes, I've done enough today. Sure, you've tried hard. No doubt at all you put in a worthy effort for this job. Absolutely, they really do like you. No, you were right. And Facebook provides a bit of feedback too. Oh goody, three people 'like' my update. Awesome, there are seven comments and another friend request - my life is interesting after all - I am a worthy human being. In cyberspace at least.

It came as a bit of shock to send a friend request to a woman in Adelaide that I'd known in the four years that Sapphire and her son were at school together. We'd had coffee together, worked alongside in classroom activities, excursion and fundraisers. S was brand new to the FB scene and many of her friends were also mine. A quick bright and breezy sentence, click 'send' and my greeting was on its way.

Several weeks later, FB has decided that this woman's status updates are fine to share with me, even though she hasn't accepted my request. Like being picked last for softball or realising that no-one has a crush on you at aquatic camp, she's regularly featured as 'S is now friends with X, Y and Z' day after day after day. Sure, I may never see her again and perhaps was mostly guided by adding another number to my list, but am I really not worth the effort to her? A move of the mouse to 'accept'?

A week ago, Love Chunks said, "I don't know if you've noticed this, but we've both been defriended by GS."
Surely not, I said. She's opted out of FB before you know.
"No Kath, she's a regular commenter on her husband's page and he's still friends with me."
Ah. "Oh well, that's her loss," I said with a casualness I didn't feel.

I was sadly insecure enough to see a comment she'd made - again on a friend-in-common's post - and mouse move further on to check on her list of friends. Oh. She still had 288, but clearly two of us had to go. Why?

Who knows? It hurts. We don't have a lot in common, but we did host them for lunch when they were in Melbourne a few months ago and I've always made a point of 'liking' any updates that tickled me. Perhaps I 'liked' too much; personifying the daggy and eager-to-please friend that became an embarrassment? My own updates were about as interesting as day-old bread and taking up too much of her space? Opinions too strident or different perhaps.

Whatever the reason, it reminds me that it is my eleven year old daughter who is more self assured and evolved. Yesterday she talked of the girl who had made her life a misery last year and said, "Actually I feel sorry for her now. She's very unhappy and is so consumed with being popular and fake that she's no longer able to be her real self."

She has a lot to teach me.

Dodgy Directions



















Love Chunks will be the first to tell you that a drunken earth worm on a windscreen wiper has a a greater sense of direction than me.

Our car is ancient enough that it has a tape player, no air bags to speak of and we still use The Club on the steering wheel as a laughably retro security measure. As such, there's no Sat Nav or Tom Tom malarkey but a dog-eared copy of the Melways shoved up against the edge of the passenger seat and the divider thingy that used to hold cassettes but now stores some yellowing, dried out 'wet ones' and more take-away straws and Maccas serviettes than we should probably admit to.

So, when we're out the door at 7.45am on Saturday morning trying to find the opposition's tennis courts in a suburb we've never heard of, Love Chunks knows that he needs to work out the route in his head and maybe - just maybe - rely on me to guide us safely through the last couple of streets.

That's a big maybe because I have to hold the map in the exact direction we're going and even then can stuff up left or right turns. "Oh, sorry, it was right back there, not the left we've just taken." His initial anger and shock that was evident many years ago is now a tired resignation. He's married to a moron and has decided that it's his cross (or illegal U-turn) to bear.

Despite this affliction, I've led a reasonably productive life, mostly unassisted. In fact I possess enough perception to appreciate the supreme irony of being the person that most strangers will approach for directions. This isn't an exaggeration.

At least three times a week I have a car pull up whilst litter ninjaing; a person tap me on the shoulder; a mouthed 'Can you help me' from the opposite tram seat or a yelled 'HEY! Is this Carlton?' Sapphire has been with me enough times to see the living proof.

Jill in Adelaide was power walking with me when a befuddled Pom pulled up alongside me to ask, "Hey luv, where's Seaford?" He had a drunken, dishevelled young male in the passenger seat still holding a bundy can but without shoes or wallet. I was relieved that I could at least say, "Um, you're about twenty five kilometres in the wrong direction. Head down that really big hill and drive that way for about half an hour."

That's the weird thing - I can always give them the right answer.

Irish backpackers: Yeah the 57 stops off at Errol Street.
A tall, black American dude: Oh the tram you want to catch is on the other side of the road. Think 'left' here and you'll be fine.
An elderly German couple in a campervan: You've gone about three sets of traffic lights too far. Head up to that corner where the servo - sorry, petrol station is, turn around and drive back up Flemington Road.
Hot chick: No, you need to walk over to Flinders street and get the number eighty. DFO isn't on Spencer Street anymore. Good luck with your Just Jeans job interview!
Get off at my stop and I'll show you what street to walk up to get to the State Hockey Centre. No Love Chunks, I was not drooling all over that hunky Canadian guy!

I like to think that I have an air of calmness and tranquility about me; that I clearly know where I'm going and am familiar with my surroundings.
Love Chunks reckons I look daft enough to be harmless. Sapphire says, "You don't look like you'd swear at anybody or try to rob them."

They're probably both right.

I wanna play too















River has been participating in Sunday Selections. What you're supposed to do is sift through your photos and post up ones that haven't yet been published. So if you want to play too, link back to Kim at Frogpondsrock, add a comment on her blog and join in.

It's probably the ideal thing for me right now because I'm struggling to find time and energy to write anything for 'fun' that isn't related to my paid work. Three part-time jobs is clearly adding up to a bit more than one full-time role and whilst I love all three, the desire to sit down at night in front of the computer in the study and think of something to post is becoming as hard as my desire to ....

well ......

.... eat chocolate and write about it. Or, to be more specific - carefully arrange and photograph chocolate from various angles, take note of the ingredients, website and company history, taste and make notes, download photos, write up an article and post it. It was great to get 56,000 visits last month but the hoped-for advertising revenue stream hasn't eventuated.

Yep, I said it. The GoneChocco blog is starting to feel like a chore instead of the fun it was meant to be. My thighs are starting to feel like flabby flotation devices instead of the firm flanks they were meant to be and my cholesterol level is too frightening for me to face up to Dr Checks again for a follow up test.

As I think about the life of GoneChocco post-Easter, here are some photos that I've taken this year and not used.















Mum and Dad went up to Darwin a couple of months ago to experience tropical storms, hideous humidity and generally reacquaint themselves with the literary genius that is the NT News. Mum made sure that she read her copy word-for-word every day.














Dad was at my brother Rob's house and was goofing off with his neck massage thingy. I think he looks like a cross between a sensibly-dressed ET and Wall-E.















A couple of weeks ago LC won the Individual Staff Excellence Award at the Bureau of Meteorology for his work on a project that has been adopted internationally. It was brilliant to see him being made a (deserved) fuss of, even if he hated it and got more attention from his workmates for wearing a suit and tie than for his brilliant speech. I rather enjoyed being the proud spouse.
















This was taken via zoom off the Lorne Pier as we watched several massive sting rays swim underneath us. This optimistic pet owner was trying to convince his boxer to join him in the water. No amount of 'come on boy, come on' was working; not even having a tennis ball rolled about ten centimetres from his nose.
















The John Wesley statue in Lonsdale Street, Melbourne CBD. Sapphire and I scurry past him every fortnight on our way back from the cruelly-early 7.45am fortnightly appointment for her allergy injection. His prematurely greying hair is mostly attributed to pigeon poop than age.
















Ah Milly. Beautiful smile, but ears set to 'coming in to land' pose as she hears Sapphire singing in the background.

















Seven year old A was not happy with me one day and ran off to her room in protest. I tried to push the door open to talk to her and apparently 'slamed' her leg - on purpose, it was accused. I then decided to leave her in there on her own to cool off, and the solitude clearly wasn't what she was after. A few minutes of slamming the door eventuated in the above note. Thankfully our altercation was cleared up soon afterwards.
















Royal Exhibition building, yesterday. Sapphire was dying to attend the Royal Melbourne Flower and Garden show. It was her week 'off' from tennis and LC gladly stayed home as we enjoyed a few girlie hours together - mostly dodging the zimmer frames and prams.














Hand-sewn felt vegetables! "There'd be a lot of kids that would only like vegetables in this form - inedible and stuffed," observed Sapphire.
















Several pretty dazzling outdoor displays with crowds mostly around the ones featured on the 'Better Homes and Gardens' TV show the night before. "Come here love, this is the one you liked on the telly last night," said one old duck, her 40-a-day-for-forty-years voice cutting through the crowd like catapulted gravel.

'Ned' appealed to me. Maybe one day a craft project of my own..... Hopefully a great deal more successful than my attempt to make three flying fish for the back of the toilet door in paper mache.

















Loads of reds and oranges and I jostled with many other eager SLR squatters to snap this one.



Same goes for the obligatory tulip shot.

















Surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of slow-moving seventy-somethings, wheelchairs and young couples with papooses, Sapphire said, "I'm guessing we won't be seeing the divvy van arrive any time soon." She makes me laugh so hard and it's such an honour when her hand reaches over for mine.

Pretend that You....

Lea from Health With Happiness has young children who love to play. Bung in some dress-up opportunities and they're like pigs in mud with the sessions invariably kicking off with the timeless phrase 'Pretend that you...'

It got me wondering what it would be like for adults to play that game. Steady on - in a non-sexual context. What would you answer to 'Pretend that you...?'

Here's a few of mine:

Slapped Tony Abbott in the face. Repeatedly, using Andrew Bolt as the weapon.

Ran in high heels without pain.

Could wear high heels without pain.

Had pets that never shed hair or, at the very least, could operate and regularly use the vacuum cleaner.

Fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow instead of three long and sweaty, fretful and restless hours later with two sessions groping around in the dark for wee trips at 3am and 5am.

Owned taps that weren't flick mixers and therefore didn't burst open and splash in and out of the cup at supersonic speed, leaving my face and shirtfront completely soaked.

Didn't need to fart the second I sit down with someone trying to interview them for an article and seem professional and in control (of persona and gas emittance).

Ate my entire body weight in chocolate and saw it reduce my fat ratio, increase my stamina and improve my intelligence levels.

Could instantly (and without ruining the environment) 'zap' and make disappear every single item of litter I laid my eyes on. Same goes for so-called 'celebrity' columnists and radio hosts.

Had visible eyebrows and lashes longer than a chicken's.

Spent the day in Parliament as the ultimate dictator removing HECS, restrictions on who can marry; bank fees other than interest, payments to private schools, stamp duty and ridiculously high retirement pensions for politicians.

Found jeans that fit me around the thighs and the waist.

Owned dishes that put themselves in and out of the dishwasher and clothes that knew how to wash, dry, iron, fold and return to the drawers and wardrobes. Had a best-selling and also critically-acclaimed novel published.

Actually wrote a novel.

Waved a wand (the fantasy equivalent of a legally-bound restraining order) and removed Sapphire's bully. And the bully's mother.

Figured out how to resolve an argument with Sapphire without first fighting the competing demons of rage, shame, humiliation and sorrow - all tightly woven in love, pride and concern.

Worked out how to let things roll off my back and not coil right through to the marrow.

Ends. Candle. Burning.

After resigning from a misery-making job before Christmas, I was left wondering just what in the hell kind of work would suit me and if we'd be able to do much more than pay for food and shelter and keep the old car running.

Three months later I find that The Fledgling Novel has not been touched since January. This might not be a bad thing. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. I managed to crap out 27,000 words in January and got some valuable feedback from two trusted sources that both offered very similar and very useful advice.

The amendments and refocus are still simmering away in the back of my mind but I'm working part-time now.

It may seem as though I have the luxury to pay a few bills and write The Foolhardy Novel but it's actually three part-time jobs. Two involve writing (and payment) and one involves childcare. I'm discovering that I enjoy all three equally, with skills and observations gained in one easily transferable to another. Tantrums and tiredness are constants in all three.

Job Number One is on a sorta trial basis until 30th June. Extension beyond that is reliant on a new round of government budget planning and whether they like my work. I've signed a contract of confidentiality so like the dentist who brushes his teeth on the old Oral B adverts, I can't show my face (or reveal my employer) on television (this blog).

Some of the writing involved is mundane but most of it is uber-current, frequently thrilling and needs a bit of investigation and consideration. My alarm starts pinging and it leaves me wondering where the past seven hours have gone. Not for long though as the second job starts - after school care for a seven year old, A; who has added a surprisingly happy spring into Sapphire's steps.

And mine. We no longer fling our bog rolls and cereal boxes straight into the recycling; they're saved for the days we have A and are usually cut up, drawn on, painted and liberally covered with sticky tape. Scrap paper is always sitting in a ready pile, along with permanent markers, pencils, magazines, string and wool. When snacks are consumed and they need a break from sedentary activities, both the eleven year old and the seven year old grab their scooters. I click Milly the dog's lead onto her collar and we all head out to the nearest school: a heavenly slab of scooter-friendly asphalt and concrete.

The third job is home-based and childless but the subjects that have been mine to write about have increased in scope and interest this year. Who wouldn't want to find out why an engineer has become a children's clown who spends more on make up than his wife? Or an Iceland-based sheep farmer who is doing ground breaking chemical research in Australia?

Around this we coordinate Sapphire's home work, music lessons, running, general housework, GoneChocco reviews, socialising, litter ninja duties and running the tennis practice session and game days. The 'effin Novel is transferred to a data stick and taken from job to job in the unrealistic hope that there might be a snatch of time to have a review. When I last looked, the USB had a stray tic-tac stuck to it as it lay nestled and forgotten at the bottom of my backpack amongst the pens, plastic bags and umbrella cover.

I'm spending more time on the 59 tram, the phone and with a notebook in my hand. Sapphire woke up the other morning and said, "Oh today is when A comes over, isn't it? They're my favourite days. I can have fun and be myself and not worry about anything."

Eight hours and two jobs later, Sapphire and A are at the outdoor table, papers, paints and pens covering most of the surface. Skipper the rabbit sniffs and hops around them, seemingly interested at the cardboard 'cubby house' they've made for his enjoyment. He cheekily hops over and takes a sip out of my glass of water as Milly nudges my thigh to remind me that she's still my number one animal and needs her ears scratched.

A's head is bowed over her paper in concentration. "This is soooo awesome!" she exclaims to herself.

Yes, it is.

Three Hundred Metres

Sapphire's won 'Pupil of the week' at school but I don't have time, technically on my day 'off' to go, with three articles due.

She's not fazed though, as every kid gets an award eventually. Some are for 'trying hard to listen in class' whilst hers happens to be for 'outstanding homework and attention to detail.'

I'm writing this as my body cools down from our early morning exercise - she running ahead of me, blonde hair bobbing, long legs striding - me trying hard not to look like Kel Knight as I powerwalk fruitlessly behind, reminding myself that there's only two weeks left before I'm able to start jogging alongside her.

On the kitchen table are about a dozen hand-woven orange bracelets that she made yesterday in readiness to wear and hand out to her friends for Harmony Day today. She had spied some bright crepe paper that a chocolatier had used to wrap their wares in to post to me; cut it carefully into strips, twisted it for strength and plaited them. Her self-taught skill and creativity frequently leaves me amazed.

So yesterday morning, LC and I sat with her at the breakfast table and tried to have the talk.

The talk.

Not about sex or periods or why kissing the dog is going to exacerbate her allergies and that answering back isn't always the best option when we're rushing off to school and she's left her viola at home; it was the talk about high school.

For the past couple of years I've spent hours at the school 300 metres up our street. Picking up litter, sweeping up broken beer bottles, walking Milly, seeing Sapphire scooter effortlessly around like a maniac on the cement and bitumen.

I've told her about how frustrated I am that the school is overlooked by so many families who live in the area, despite only being 29 metres from the primary school that everyone flocks to. How some kids have to leave home at 7.00am to catch two trains to the private schools their parents pay $25,000 a year for.

How we love our community, want her to make friends near her home, be part of things and not be hygienically sealed against other income levels, cultures or family situations.

Three hundred metres away, the school that she could walk to within 30 seconds of the bell ringing is ranked 515 out of 528 for VCE results. The numbers of students who did VCE in 2010 only numbered thirty with a median score of 22.

Two kilometres to the north east, PP high is ranked 97/528 and got a median VCE score of 32 with 161 students participating. The same distance away to our south east UH is ranked 59/528 with a medican score of 33 and 336 students. Quite a difference, you'd have to say.

Sapphire is a smart kid. Very smart. She's currently doing year eight level maths (which she hates) and last year her NAPLAN results showed that her reading, writing and English skills were at year nine level. She was in year five.

How can I not ask whether sending Sapphire three hundred metres away was going to offer her the same opportunities as the other two schools?

"You're a snob," she hissed through tears yesterday. "You keep saying that it's important to be local and that we should support things here, but you don't really. Isn't it good enough for you?"

"Actually, I wonder if a school with that performance and with so few kids is good enough for anyone, not just you." There. I finally said it.

The chat deteriorated in sulks (her), pleading (me) and sharp words (LC). Sapphire ended up in her bedroom with the door firmly shut against us and the thought of high school in any shape or form. "She's afraid," LC said. "She was used to the idea of 300 metres away, is familiar with the grounds and now we're changing things. The thought of starting high school is scary enough."

He's right of course.

And it is frightening for us, too. Both the 2km schools are out of our 'zone' and she'd have to sit an exam of sorts to be in consideration for some form of accelerated learning program to attend either one of them. I was stupid enough to ask, "Would you do your best if you sat such a test?" and she refused to answer. Coffee soured and churned in my gut.

Could we afford to move? Financially or morally?

Do I want her to walk 300 metres so that I can brag at dinner parties on what a wonderful leftie parent I am but have her end up with few subject choices or the risk of not being stimulated enough? Do I want her to see us 'cheat' the system as we rent in a different area and marinate in hypocrisy? Do I want her to feel undue pressure to sit tests so that she can escape the poorly performing school and ignore it as she walks past towards the tram stop?

All I know is that I want the decision made by someone else.

Edition Seventeen: Word Verification Explanations

Here's my latest collection of words that various systems have required me to key in before commenting on my favourite blogs. Surely there's a meaning for them all in a parallel universe somewhere......




















Muntand - You know that venal person at the office is so venally crabby and irritable that everyone ends up avoiding them entirely and not giving them any work? Even work thay they're actually supposed to be doing for you and the company? Well she (and for some reason most of them seem to be female) is a Muntand. By making herself as sour and unapproachable as humanly possible, things are cleverly positioned so that she is never required to do anything that involves helping her colleagues, providing any form of customer service or any form of end product.

Ironically, Muntands often have overly-adorned desks festooned with soft toys, puppy calendars and LOL cat print outs. These are cruelly in opposition to their evil 9-5 personas.

Even more ironically, the boss of the company/department/area office with ultimatye powers to reprimand and fire staff is scared of the Muntand and actively avoids asking her to do anything. Hence the Muntand is always the victor.

Sproter - A person who can delegate work and/or avoid responsibility by uttering this loaded phrase: 'Can I ask you a favour?'

The Sproter has you trapped because you are going to say 'yes' and it will hard not to say it again after the unreasonable request is out in the open. "Um, yeah, I'll see what I can do about shifting your car to another meter every hour you're in that meeting.'

(There are no recorded sightings of Sproters within tea-bag-hammer-throw distance of Muntands).

Ingutb - The nocturnal pings, burbles and inner oozings of a loved one's digestive tract as they lie sleeping. (Love Chunks' is known to sigh rather dramatically and travel several downward spirals in a weeble-weeble-weeble-plonk! fashion most nights). These colonic choruses are often louder than the person when they're awake (LC is on the quiet-side; not surprising considering who he spends his life with).

Romars - Terribly lost amateur bush walkers, usually clad in expensive and brightly coloured outdoor clothing, inevitably found freezing and lost by the media the next morning closely followed by the search and rescue team. Multiply the cost of their outdoor gear by twenty-seven and you end up with roughly the cost of the helicopter and abseiling retrieval expenses.




















Padhorn - The act of tactfully explaining that it's OK, it happens to everyone and actually you really need the sleep because you've got a big day tomorrow anyway.

Wartion - Uncertainly eating a piece of chicken that's just-this-side of too pink for fear of offending the host. "Sweetie, these Moroccan pistacchio chicken delights are lovely..... Are you supposed to only cook them for two minutes on each side?" Exercising wartion is very polite but can run the risk of well, the runs.

Liquite - The moment of realisation that you spend more time writing things on the 'To Do' list than doing any of them.

Grato - The audible squeak-squeak sound of one shoe as you walk, making it impossible to sneak up behind anyone (see 'glethi' from a previous WWE in relation to corduroy trousers and shell suits). Grato is most common in homes with floorboards and linoleum, rendering their owners unable to go 'Boo!' to their beloveds when they're drinking hot tea (which is probably a good thing).

It's time.

I'm not a political person. Never have been, never will be.

And I wish that the issue of Climate Change had nothing to do with politics.

No Julia, no Tony, no Andrew Bolt, no drivetime idiots.

No more questions asking 'do you believe in Climate Change?'

This is no longer a quick vox pop or the occasional dinner party chat over anti pasto. We don't have the luxury of believing or not believing any more. It is happening.

So eight thousand of us decided to turn up to Treasury Place to ask that Tony shut up and that politics is forgotten as we all work out what to do. Together; no games. Not if or why but when. Now.

"We need to go, it's important," LC said. After twenty two years in meteorology, he's seen more than enough evidence. He's commented on climate change denier sites and shock jock blogs so often that they no longer post his arguments refuting their claims. Too embarrasing to have their facts and opinions proved wrong over and over again. His voice shut out, his reasoning, research and calm facts ignored.

The days of mines, oil drillers and power stations calling the shots are over. Their time has gone. Tax the big polluters and use that money to fund better sources of energy for everyone. Embrace this as the time for genuinely creative and forward-thinking job creation.

Yes, it'll involve change, cost and genuine challenges to our current way of thinking. Get over it and try to soften the blow by considering it 'Enforced Evolution.' But don't shut your eyes and your mind to the truth.