To use the already-tired vocabulary favoured by football commentators

......what a year it has been!

Mistakes were made, arguments were held, travel was undertaken and spare cash spent, but as I sit back in the dusty spare room (currently holding a weeks’ worth of washing, two un-renovated 1950s armchairs and paperwork covered in Milly’s fur), some lessons have been learned.  Allow me to share my collected twelve months' worth of wisdom with you, dear reader.

Geographic location is everything. So is desperation.

I scored a terrific gig at – not sure if they should be mentioned or if rhyming words should be used, so we’ll play it safe – 'Bureauvision.'  I had dropped in my CV a month earlier and the lady who received it looked about as interested as a Kardashian not in front of a camera, but I only live one kilometre away.  Four weeks later, when the dust had settled on some redundancies and an additional staffer was forcibly ejected for completely misunderstanding what ‘work’ meant, I was called in.  Yes, I could be there by lunchtime; I could be there right now if they liked

Cheapness is seized.

With the car not even warm after the 1km drive, they asked for my hourly rate.  Not one for thinking quickly on my feet, I blurted out the one I use as an English tutor. This was accepted before I’d fully closed my mouth, so it was easy to figure out that a Swiss street sweeper with special needs rakes in more (and most of that from the gutters in the nightclub district).  Even so, I bet they didn't have as much fun as I did trying to publicise, coordinate and report on an awards ceremony that featured drunk Belgian comedians (yes, they do exist. Belgian comedians I mean, not drunks), a stage hogging Dutch host, a scene-stealing Aussie producer, Freddy Mercury fans, a modern interpretative dance routine during dessert and a huffy royal wrangler.  The gig is mine for this year too!

First impressions are usually right.  Second ones just confirm the first.

Lyon in France was visited again and still failed to give me the ‘oh wow’ reaction that everyone else seems to get.  Lingering smell of stale piss that seeps into your own clothes and lingers for a week? Check.  A run-down riverfront that is praised to the skies online but was a dusty obstacle course of bottles and beggars?  Check.   Overrated ‘gusto’ restaurants with 2074 price lists and 1974 decor? Check.  

Swiss cows aren’t happy; they’re deaf!

Those enormous bells that your least favourite Aunt brings you back from her big bus tour around Europe? Usually festooned with vomit-swirls of hand-painted edelweiss and alps?  Switzerland’s beloved bovines really do wear those brass bongers around their necks.  Even when casually standing in a field and doing nothing other than flicking away summer flies and considering which charming native flower to chew on next, the sound is a cacophonous chorus that renders ramblers strolling by temporarily deaf, let alone the poor creatures themselves.

Here’s proof:

Life is full of pricks.

In my case, it was time to try another method to persuade Mr Migraine to favour me less: acupuncture.  My GP referred me to his own acupuncturist; a German guy on the wrong side of town: next door to the soup kitchen and the car park entrance favoured by pick pockets counting their loot from the Plain Palais flea market.  My nerves were hidden by my immaturity: the doctor’s initials were PP.  Doctor PeePee... tee hee.  After sitting down and asking about my symptoms, how often, how long and where, I was asked to strip down to my knickers so that he could place his pins in parts of my body that included....  To be honest, I forgot where he stuck them; the tiny sensation of them being inserted was immediately forgotten and it was only when I sneezed and felt some wobble on my forehead and shoulders that I remembered.

Don't save your nice undies for date night.

My weekly sessions with Dr PeePee (see above) were making a significant difference.  Three weeks into a six-week schedule had shown only one sign of Mr Migraine and he was surprisingly easy to send packing.  In a now-familiar routine, I stripped off, lay on the bed and received my various pricks before being placed under a foil space blanket to keep warm.  Dr PeePee left the room and I decided to use the time to remember how to meditate..... WOO WOO WOO!

I sat up in shock; pins catching on the blanket and the ones on my ears pinching my hair. WOO WOO WOO!  The alarms were sounding all over the city.  Had it finally happened?  Was today the day that the rest of the warring world decided that Switzerland had been neutral for far too long and it was high time that they were forced to use their bomb shelters? 

WOO WOO WOO!  And here I was, alone, in nothing but knickers, studded with pins....!  

“Dr PeePee...?  DR PEEPEE????”   Sliding off the table with a partly-stuck on silver blanket and pins that waggled as I walked uncertainly towards the door to call out ‘Dr PeePee’ for the third time was not particularly comfortable, especially when some were at the top of my ankle that folded in a bit with each tentative step. “Dr PeePee...?!”

“It’s okay Madam Lockett,” he said, eventually squeaking up the passage in blue Crocs.  “Today is the day when all of the alarms have to be tested in Geneva.  It’s the law.”

My sigh of relief caused a pin in my neck to fall out.  “In that case, wouldn’t today would be the ideal time to bomb Geneva, as nobody would think it was anything except a drill, would they?”

Dr PeePee smiled.  “Well it’s a good thing that your clothes are within arm’s reach then, isn’t it?”

You can teach an old dog new tricks.

Steph’s friend Anne is a pharmacist by trade, but a dog trainer by passion.  As with alarm testing and cow bells, they take it very seriously here in Switzerland.  She was required to video lessons she’d undertaken with various dogs and needed to run a class with a young dog and an old dog.  Harley, at two, fulfilled the first criterion and Milly, at ten, amply provided the old. 

The aim was to get both dogs to walk left and round around four orange traffic cones, sticking closely to the sides of their owners and then sitting down at each end.  Harley was eager and up for it and walked alongside Steph willingly, but decided that manoeuvring through the cones was a waste of his time. 

Milly, on the other hand, followed my every move, left and right, onwards and upwards, sitting proudly on her backside (always careful to protect her arthritic back legs) at the end.  The same result was achieved over and over again, encouraging idle fantasies of Milly-n-me putting Pudsey and her human chick Ashleigh firmly into second place and snatching the half-million UK pound prize from under their noses.....  “Milly, you’re a natural at this,” Anne said, walking towards us, hands in her bum bag.  “Although if she eats any more of my treats her stomach’s in danger of dragging along the ground.

Hmmm, an old dog learning new tricks.  Could this old dog, in her forty sixth year, train for a marathon; her own stomach trailing dangerously close to the ground after years of Lindt inhalation?

Procrasto-exhaustion

Yep, this 'break' from blogging has been the longest I've taken in seven years and 945 posts.


It was due to a combination of house guests, international travel without crossing any oceans, hostessing, tour guiding, thirteen year old-wrangling, achilles heel hurting, paid writing, travel planning, crap food eating, dishwasher unpacking and a hell of a lot of time waiting on train station platforms.


And what have I learnt during this time away from the blogosphere?

1) Owning a dog gives me instant knowledge of all geographical locations within a 20km radius and earns me new friends and impromptu conversation wherever we go.

To prove this finding, I'll give you just one example. As I walked with Sapphire and my parents to the UN - and discovered that it was on the day where not a single flag was up (annual washing day perhaps?) - I'd no sooner given a stricken intern some directions to the Number 15 tram stop than it was time for the obligatory pose. Everyone who stays at Chateau Lockett must stand in front of the UN flags. Or bare poles, in my parents' case.



"Is she friendly," they asked.

"Of course Sapphire is," I responded, slightly offended. "We've had our moments of course, but she's a good old stick mostly."

"No the DOG. Can we pat her?"




"Absolutely."



2) The only people you'll see in Europe wearing broad-brimmed hats and sunscreen are Aussies.

'Stretched Leather side saddle' seems to be the look that most Europeans prefer, whether it be sprayed on and pongy or grilled in over hours, days and years of rotisserating on a beach towel.  I'd be interested in finding out their skin cancer statistics when there's a spare moment.

3) Fondue is a legitimate meal.

Each and every visitor and house guest has been treated to fondue ala Lockett. Scorchingly hot bubbly cheese and stale bread is speared on long prongs and is best eaten outside on the balcony for Milly to hoover up the debris. Simple, perfect and delicious. Sort of like Love Chunks. Even in this beanie, worn on the day his beloved Crows narrowly lost to Hawthorn in the preliminary final. Results were texted to him on top of the Matterhorn, with Kate writing, 'Get to a TV now!'

4) Restricting your daily fluid intake inversely increases the need to locate and use a public toilet.

The state of such necessary facilities have left a lot to be desired during our recent travels. Despite now perfecting my squatting and impromptu cleaning skills with a stolen breakfast serviette, if a loo block is spotted, I invariably end up saying, "Don't look a gift toilet in the mouth," and use it immediately, even if my bladder is not yet calling for it. 

Alas, I've also discovered the hard way that the 'anticipatory whizz' doesn't factor into the bladder's future storage capacity or prevent an uncomfortable walk less than half an hour later when your mother says, "I don't care how lovely this market square is, if we don't find a toilet soon, I'm going to change the colour of the water in that fountain." 

5) If you smoke in France, you can make a cup of coffee last for two hours.

Unfortunately - no, not really, it's very fortunate - none of us suck on ciggies, so we can't make an overpriced and small hit of caffeine last for as long as it takes to nonchalantly smoke twenty cigarettes over a stone cold espresso cup. It'd be interesting to see the stats on lung cancer as well....... Instead, my father lacks any sort of capacity to sip a beverage no matter how hot it is and chugs it down and usually eats his croissant in a single mouthful, so our butts barely touch the seats before the waiter whips our cups away and we're back out on the streets again. 

6) Undies dry out really well when hung from cupboard handles.

We Reads (that is, me and my parents) love a good batch of hand washed clothes in an already-cluttered hotel room. Jocks on (door) knobs, t-shirts hung from the thief-proof coat hangers to drip on flattened plastic bags carefully set out on the carpet below as well as damp socks on window sills means that a small cabin bag is sufficient for a fortnight on the railway system instead of having to drag a 23 kilogram behemoth whose left wheel was popped off by a cobblestone in Nice.

7) Germans don't age very well.

Now I'm aware that this statement comes from someone so aged that even a coffee, followed by a hot shower and intense moisturising does not erase the pillow folds from her face, but the middle-aged Deutschlander is a sight to behold. Still, there must be a 'best before' switch that God flicks over at, say, age forty. The previously blonde, nubile and slim German male and female then get to see the shocking results of two or three decades of worth of stealing sunbeds at dawn, scoffing down various fat-filled offal products and cheeses and bingeing in beer gardens. When the switch is activated, the faces turn to dour scone dough, the butts widen to double-door entry only and hairs sprout where once only dewy beauty lingered. Trust me.

8) It's what's NOT said that's important. 

Is it lying if an important fact is omitted?  For example, Neuschwanstein Castle. We'd booked a hot, more-like-fifth-class second class train that saw Love Chunks hoon ahead to push aside a dozen old ladies and thrust his foot out of the carriage door in order to 'reserve' some seats that didn't have gum on them or be situated in the 'Bikes Only' section.  

Enduring a crowded and sweaty ride from Munich, we told ourselves that the discomfort would all be worth it to lay our beadies on the famed, Cinderella-like vision plonked amongst the stunning German hill tops.  From the information we'd gleaned from many sources, I anticipated seeing this:

...but instead was presented with this:

....which made us all firstly stop in shock; then laugh uproariously before being shocked again at the thousands of tourists swarming around us who were still happy to take photographs. Me included I s'pose. It would have perhaps changed our day trip plans if - oh, I don't know - the website, ticket seller, train station or tourist office had told us that the ENTIRE CASTLE would be covered by scaffolding and gauze....!??  AND that horse and carts took lazy farts up the hill and I'd invariably put my sandalled feet into a freshly-dropped frisbee of moist manure.

Same goes for the famed interior of Lyon basilica.  Not manure, but Lord knows what the poor tour guide was telling her group in Russian when the entire interior was hidden behind the world's largest Meccano set.

.......Or the cable car trip up the mountain to Saleve for the breathtaking view of Lac Leman, Geneva and the French hills beyond.  We'd booked the posh restaurant on top of the peak for 7pm and arrived at the bottom to discover that the cable car's last run for the day was 6pm.  If we'd been any earlier we'd have caught the last ride, enjoyed a terrific panoroma and meal and then been stuck up the top until the telepherique cranked up again on Sunday morning.

As it was, as we trooped back down to the bus stop we phoned the restaurant to cancel our booking and explained why.  "Didn't anybodeeee tell you zzat zee cable car was not running?" 

No they didn't, buddy.

9) Items presented over and over and over in souvenir shops are rarely seen in the real world.

Take Edelweiss.  Switzerland's national (and protected, which should have given me a hint) flower.  It is to be found on key rings, the fabric bands that hold cow bells, place mats, coffee cups, earrings, hand soap, snow domes, stickers, pencils, gingerbread, fondue pots and army bags but I've yet to see one in the wild.

Berne bears.  Three live ones are currently living a peaceful life by the river's edge and all were imported from Russia.

Lac Leman 'filets de perche,' found in every restaurant in the Geneva, Vaud, Valais and Haute-Savoie.  It has been revealed that over ninety percent are caught in Norway, and snap frozen before being sent to Geneva for deep frying and charging CHF 44 a plate.

10) Never underestimate the power of IKEA.

When extra guests arrive, there is nowhere else that sells pillows, sheets and serviettes cheaper.   On a rainy day with cobwebs in the wallet it's also the place to get the afore-mentioned 'filets de perche' and chips for CHF 4 francs and a bottomless glass of diet coke complete with the endless entertainment of watching other patrons eat, fight about furniture selections and accidentally spritz mayonnaise instead of topping onto their soft serves.  Mum and Dad loved the place.

And so, it is now time to drape more wet sheets over doors, towels over the outdoor chairs and muster up a skerrick of interest in collating the documents for our long overdue Australian tax returns.

Then again, I could just have a little rest before reading other blogs, making a coffee and patting my dog....