Corporeal Contraptions

At the risk of the blog turning into a Medic Alert memoir, when I was lying down in a stranger's room with only my knickers on, my mind invariably started to do an anatomical audit.

"Are you OK," the doctor asked in a kindly voice.

"Yep, it's nice and warm here and I can't feel a thing."

"That's good. If you're comfortable, I'll leave you here for ten minutes; come in and check on you and leave you for another ten if that's-----"

WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

My blanket slid to the floor and the acupuncture needles in my ears and head waved in the breeze as I  sat up in shock. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, not to worry," he said, waving it away. "It's the annual testing of the bomb shelter alarms all over Switzerland."

"Ah," I said, lowering myself back down, trying to ignore the wedgie I'd just given myself.

He popped a couple more needles into each wrist. "Actually, right now would be the perfect time to attack us as we'd all shrug our shoulders and think it was just part of the process."

I decided it was appropriate to pick out my wedgie right there and then even though he was still in the room: no-one wants to be caught in dodgy underwear during a surprise missile crisis.

Back to the body catalogue.  Today it was tiny pins all over my body, but what else do I rely on to survive?

Anti-depressants. It might seem an oxymoron to have to take a tablet to make me feel like me, but they work. So I will.

Weird Achilles heel protector sock bandage thingies. It's only my right Achilles that keeps playing up, but the doc says I should wear them on both feet. With a sewn in heel pad and tight sausage-shaped compression doo-whats-its that push against the muscle, I'm struggling to stay in my shoes. So far though, they're working.

US, English and Australian-sourced packets of painkillers for Mr Migraine's increasing number of unwanted visits. Note that there's nothing from Switzerland. The strongest stuff you can get from the chemist here is Panadol with caffeine: not a good option at night time.

The long-serving mouth guard, cleaned regularly with thrush, sorry, Swiss 'Candida' brand toothpaste.  This passion killer and lisp-inducer stops me from cracking my crowns due to grinding and/or clenching in my sleep and more than once I've walked out the front door ready to take Milly for her morning constitutional before eventually realising that the damn thing is still in.  "Bonjour Kath! Did you win your boxing match?"

Hot water bottle, Arnica gel and a not-so-good imitation of Deep Heat creme. Neck aches and shoulder pain see these used more often than preferred. Love Chunks is often called upon to apply these various gels and unguents and they all seem to smell bad enough for Milly to snort and move to the other side of the room.

Nearly forgot the decade-old orthotics...  Transferred from running shoe to running shoe.  Had a second pair in bright purple but lost them along the way somewhere.  I assume they still work at, um, whatever it was that they were supposed to do back in 2003.

All of these help me stay upright, keep moving and complain (slightly) less, but here are the three essentials.

Love Chunks: eighteen years of marriage and still my favourite boy to hug, sleep alongside, talk to, make plans with and smell.  Tickly moustache, glinting blue eyes and kindness by the bucketload.

Sapphire; thirteen-and-a-half and growing almost visibly in front of my eyes, astounding me with life lessons learned, observations made and potential yet to be realised.

Sweet little Milly.  Nine years young and still the best working buddy ever; albeit with the worst breath. A privilege to have her in our family.

Chocolate, coffee and wine help too.

Open windows

We've never lived in an apartment before we came here and now we're up amongst the tree tops on the eighth floor of an eleven storey building.

Apartment living can be cramped, but this place is significantly larger in size than our snug little one-and-a-half fronted cottage in Flemington. Milly has adapted to the lack of garden and back door facilities extremely well, being content to snooze and snuffle around from room to room until it's time to head downstairs via the lift into the Dog Forest. Where she once trembled in fear when the elevator doors clanged shut and it descended to the ground she now wags her tail, because a ride in the lift means a walk.

Upstairs there's no garden to tend (fine by me and LC) and two hallways that would easily be converted into bedrooms if we were back in Melbourne with a budget for renovations.

Despite this - and having three toilets - we only have the one living space for eating, piano practising, telly watching and view gazing. Furnishings are kept to the minimum for ease of access and my beloved luxury item number two* is stored in LC's and my bedroom.

The treadmill. An expensive towel rail for some but a vital part of life for me. With an ageing body that now hosts a dodgy achilles, a bung calf muscle and plantar fasciitis, my runs are now down to three days a week for 6 km a time. I'm slower now too - no longer galloping at 12.6km per hour, but a relatively sedate 11.2 for the first five kilometres and last gasp 12km/hr for the final km.

Still, with that trio of trots and a long morning walk with Milly, my heart rate is a mighty fine 56 beats per minute while resting and I seem to be able to continue to inhale all matter of chocolate, wine and cheese-related Swiss specialties without looking too obviously rotund.

I've written before about the benefits for me beyond the cardiovascular. It helps keep my Black Dog at bay and gives me time to reflect, think up new writing ideas and reminisce about all kinds of weird and wonderful events. And, to be utterly honest, there's little that makes me feel more proud of myself than knowing I've slogged and sweat my butt off before breakfast, even if it doesn't look like I have.

So, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after Milly and I get back from our walk, I change into my runners and plug in the treadie, strap on my bum bag and headphones and switch on the iPod.

"Annie waits for the last time....."

Three and a half kms in this morning and I was in The Zone, endorphins a-coursing, positive vibes a-pumping and singing along loudly and proudly to every fourth word of each song "Annie waits ----- for a call ....was it always the same?"

Sweat flicked onto the dashboard and Milly turned around to rearrange the pillow she snoozed on at the end of the bed. The view, from the right side, was of the bare winter trees and grey clouds sprinkling a few half-hearted snowflakes.

Things were really firing up today. I audaciously flicked the speedo up to twelve km per hour right from the start and sang along to every word.  My eyes were closed as I imagined that my legs were going to hurl me down the track......

"You've got to be the prettiest girl

I've ever witnessed in the whole world
Hear me can you hear me? Hear me can you hear me?
Hear me can you hear me now......"

Ratta tatta tat!

I nearly got flung into the bedside table in my shock. There, on a crane platform slowly moving upwards were two removal men, grinning at me.  'Bonjour madame!'  

I wasn't sure what to do. Stop and what, stand still and wave until they putted upwards beyond my floor or nod and keep running as all serious athletes would do? The first option seemed faintly ridiculous, but the second option would hardly work seeing as they'd already had a chuckle at seeing me sing to myself with my eyes closed like a sheltered workshop employee on a fitness kick.

So I did what I always do when faced with French I cannot speak and people I cannot converse with. I gave them the 'thumbs up' and a smile, got back onto the treaddie and kept on going, thanking the powers-that-be that they weren't putting by an hour later when I'd invariably be starkers and freshly showered.

I'm starting to love this place.

* Milly is luxury item number one

Me too, me too, ME TOO!

Now, my mate Pandora has run four half-marathons in two years and my awesome buddy Jill completed an entire marathon last year before suffering a serious brain injury after falling off her bike during the Jacob’s Creek Down-under 120km bike race, so they’re both fully fit, full-on, determinedly powerful women.

...and I feel a bit left out.

See, I’ve been running since making it my new year’s resolution back in 2001. It’s the only resolution I’ve stuck with as stopping being too noisy; picking at my finger nail skin until it bleeds; giving up sugar/chocolate/cake; and trying not to be jealous or too much of a ‘Me too Me too ME TOOOOOO!’ person have all failed before the day was out.

So, here’s my Me Too contribution.

My first run, on 1^st January 2001, was three laps around the second cricket oval at Trinity Gardens Primary School. Four hundred metres times three. I didn’t have the energy to jog the two blocks home afterwards. Walking and gasping my way back, an elderly Italian gent hosing his roses offered to spray me down too. I accepted.

September 2002 saw me run my first City to Bay fun-run in Adelaide – twelve kilometres. My training consisted of asking Love Chunks to drive around my self-designed running courses and measuring them on the car's odometer. 4km, 6km 8km and 12km which I ran regularly. I carried a water bottle in a bum bag for the 12km runs and could always tell what the Robern Menz factory were making that morning from the smell that wafted along Glynburn Road – mint for Crowns or sweet peaches for Fruchocs.

Time achieved – One hour, three minutes for 12 kilometres.

September 2003 – running was now ‘my’ thing and my four year old baby weight had finally gone. It was also the valuable alone time that didn't involve sitting on the toilet or sleeping with the aid of a sedative to figure out a few solutions and ideas. City to bay time – 58 minutes.

August 2004 – My twice-weekly six km runs and a weekly 12km run had swelled to a 6km, 12km and a 17km run by June. I was in my ridiculous workaholic career phase then and used to get up for a run at 5am in the dark. I figured that potential robbers and rapists were more likely to have headed home by then and, besides, they’d have to catch me..... All that and I had showered, dropped Sapphire off at daycare and be at my desk by 7:30am. But I was happy. Wasn't I?

Love Chunks and I had an argument the night before the race. He was (justifiably) concerned about the long hours I was putting in at work, my increased physical symptoms of stress and noticeable decline in energy, happiness and interest in life at home. I disagreed and we went to bed with it unresolved; both of us furious. The last thing he said was, “Oh and I’m NOT going to see you do your half-marathon tomorrow.”

Sunday morning arrived and I was at Pinky Flat by the Torrens River at 6.30am. We were bussed to Lockleys and froze in the darkness until the starter pistol fired at 7.30am.

I was sleep-deprived, lacked the appetite to eat anything before the race and felt utterly depressed. Instead of this being a physical achievement that would set me apart as not only an amazing career woman (already failing) and wife/mother (whump whow!), there’d be no-one to see me or even care if I was there.

By 14km I hadn’t stopped but also hadn’t bothered to check my time or distance. At 15km, I threw up on the bank of the river near the Convention Centre. I wanted to stay doubled over and lie on the cool, soft, unjudgmental grass but..... No. I’d trained too hard and on my bloody lonesome for this and wasn’t going to give up now. Wiping my mouth and sipping some water I started up again.

Soon after I heard Sapphire and LC call out from the other side of the bank. “Go Mum!” “Go Kath!”

They’d come! Just six more painful kilometres via tiring little hills up to the zoo and back with the whiff of gorilla poo in the air before staggering across the finish line in one hour, 52 minutes.

I cried with disappointment: I had estimated one hour, forty five but clearly hadn’t foreseen the technicolour yawn that had left smears of fragrant reminders on my leggings. As LC and Sapphire hugged my saturated, stinky self, my tears changed to those of pride. I’d done it!

That was as far as I had ever run and after having a complete and utter breakdown roughly seven months later I found myself on medication, seeing a psychiatrist, unemployed and exhausted. Clearly it was only going to be little runs for me from now on, in all senses of the word.

However, chocolate reviewing started and became rather serious and time-consuming. Unless I yearned to be the human embodiment of a Lindt ball I needed to do more than 6km trots three days a week.

From 2006 to 2010, give or take a busted Achilles, I’d do three 10km runs and two 8km power walks to counteract the effects of inhaling around 2-3 kilos of chocolate per week. Eventually however, my shins, Achilles (both legs), several toenails, two incredibly painful infected blisters, blood-soaked bras and a couple of severe colds saw me grudgingly accept the fact that my ageing body needed to be treated just a tad more delicately.

Which leads me to now. Geneva. Autumn with fog, rain and slippery footpaths due to the accumulation of wet and increasingly slimy leaves stuck to them.

Five kilometres from our apartment entry door and back.

First phase: Posing under the red light. I jog around 300 metres before being forced to wait until the little green man allows me to cross the road. Swiss lights are ultra careful – pedestrians get to cross without any cars from even the opposite direction allowed to drive as you walk. Nice in theory, but it can mean a five minute wait if you just miss your turn.

Wearing a baggy man’s t-shirt complemented by sticky bed hair and hairy white legs goose pimpled in the breeze means it’s a challenge to stand there pretending to be nonchalant when surrounded by several stylishly dressed women ready to totter across the road in stacked heels, designer leather and furs to work. They don’t bother to hide their stares - I’m a big alien – unkempt, unstylish and publicly prepared to be seen puffing. And not on a French cigarette.

Second phase: Gracious descent. Downhill for half a K, baby! What are my legs – springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run – as fast as a leopard! Oops, that’s unless it’s rubbish day when the mini street sweeper fights with the garbage truck for total ownership of the footpath and I’m forced to leap out into the bike lane and incur the wrath of surprised and then annoyed scooter owners....

....not to mention reaching bus stop Trembley and – without fail – involuntarily letting out a series of sharp and loud ‘Parp Parp Parp Parp’ farts as I run past a bunch of more well-dressed workers....

Third phase: Jogging up Jill Hill. This is in honour of my best friend, who is slowly recovering from a brain injury. This is the hardest spot in our local park – winding cruelly upwards with the cracked bitumen path peppered with chestnuts that could twist an ankle if stepped on. Not to mention skirting around little old ladies smoking like chimneys and ‘omitting’ to see the huge crap just done by their poodles.

Fourth phase: Suffering through Sapphire's Slope. I leave the park and jog back into the suburbs, winding further uphill past several large apartment blocks, a patisserie, Milly’s vet surgery, the most famous fondue house in the city and a primary school. I think of Sapphire and how she’s got through the worst of things with being bullied by an ex-friend in Melbourne and the uncertainties of starting high school at a new school in a new country. She’s happy, stimulated, busy, interested, funny and utterly lovely. My eyes sting as sweat mixes with moisturiser but I smile as well.

Mercedes and Beamer drivers with diplomatic licence plates stare at me blankly as I go by, usually wheezing in agony by this stage. Sophisticated couples and US-accented people having ‘work meetings’ are mildly entertained as I trot past their petite boulangerie, dripping sweat as I pass and trying not to slip on the pretty-but-dangerous cobblestones.

Fifth phase: (barely) Mastering Milly's mountain. Another bloody school up on top of the hill past the Red Cross and John 23 American church. I now think of my dog who would always choose to come running with me no matter how much her arthritis agonised her. Even now, four years after the diagnosis, there’s reproach in her eyes when I put on my sneakers and leave her behind.

Final phase: Kath's Cruise. Downhill for 400 metres all the way home. The apartment keys slide in my left hand, sticky from sweat. The second my feet touch the outdoor mat and the doors automatically slide open, I stop.

Hands on my knees, head down, gasping. A quick glance at my watch shows 26 minutes from start to finish. This is no great distance or time but when factors such as motivation, weather, laziness, time and dagginess are considered, I feel just as proud as I did in August 2004.

Answers

Thanks to you for playing my 'Let's Ask the Jovial Douche' game.

I've been to Avignon recently - and yes, had Bryan Ferry's 'Avalon' playing in my head the entire time - and returned to a series of questions that can only be described as .... varied. Here goes:

Andrew said...

Are you in Geneva for a set time and then you will return to Australia? If so, when?

LC was offered a two year contract with the World Meteorological Org (or OMM – Organisation Meteorolique Mondiale) which is the standard length. However, if he likes the work and Sapphire’s happy at her school, we’ll stay longer if they roll over his contract.

Lidian said...

Is it true that one picks up a language by just living somewhere, and if so, is it hard or not so hard to do? (I ask as someone who wishes she were good at foreign languages but is not at all)

Errrm, I don’t know yet. Sapphire and I did two one-hour lessons a week during the summer holidays and I seemed to be able to parrot-learn more basic words, but Sapphire could pronounce them with the right accents, understand all the little doo-flangers that appear above letters like ‘e’ and is now studying French in school and connecting the dots. I’m rapidly losing what French I learned but am relieved that I can get the gist of most large adverts on buses and menus. However, the UN has a language-swap program and I’m about to have lunch with a lovely lady who wants to speak English to me and then we’ll swap to French. I’m inclined to ask her to bring along the French equivalent of ‘Go Dog Go’ and ask me to read it to her!

Anji said...

Does it smell nice?

Mostly. Cool and fresh in the mornings now that fog, mist and dew has arrived. The bread smell is heightened here – absolutely fresh every single morning with no preservatives.

Bitumen – the Swiss love their roadwork, with fences, lights and workmen everywhere.

Outdoor markets can be challenging when all the hundreds of varieties of cheeses mingle together and create a vomity-aroma that makes it easier to breathe through my mouth.

Are you settling in okay now?

Yes. Seeing Sapphire happily settled in school was about, oh 99% responsible as it was not much fun to only have her mother as company for a long three months. I’m familiar with the key parts of the city; the public transport system and where I like to shop. I’ve made friends (hugely important), received some terrific advice that you can only find out from someone who did the hard yards before you and love that Milly needs a few outings a day. I feel like I belong here now.

The Plastic Mancunian said...

The first is about something close to your heart: You are a self-confessed chocaholic. How much chocolate have you eaten in Switzerland so far and what is your favourite?

I’m eating bucketloads of the brown stuff. However, despite Geneva’s apparently famous chocolate boutiques, I’ve never stepped in one long enough to buy anything. Instead, I’m still discovering that the blocks available in supermarkets are pretty damn delicious. There’s very little dark chocolate available here, so it’s all the ultra creamy milky stuff made with Swiss milk (something they are very, very proud of). So, whilst my tastes do range from rock-bottom to uber-posh, I’ve been more than content with supermarket level for now. Favourites are too numerous to mention but I have loved the new Lindt dark caramel with almonds; a Frey’s version of a Toblerone but with some Aero-style bubbles included and a Migros home brand blatant copy of Snickers bars that all three of us hoover down with ruthless efficiency. Five packs don’t last very long after they’re inserted in the spot in the fridge door that’s normally used for butter!

The other is: What is the secret to being a good writer?

I have no idea. Practice plus envy plus loads of reading of other writers that interest and inspire, an inquisitive nature and perhaps an ability to notice the small things? That said, most days I read online articles, blogs and second-hand novels and wonder how I dare call myself a writer compared to the brilliant stuff that’s available. Then again, as long as Jeffrey Archer and Bryce Courteney are allowed to publish what they previously wiped their bottoms with, there’s hope for everyone....

Have Myelin? said...

Are there any deaf people there? Do they go off to a "deaf school" or what?
If so, what kind of sign language do they use?
Do most deaf people sign or get cochlear implants?

I’ll admit to not doing much homework on this one, HM and hope you accept my apologies. Instead if we move to the eyes instead of the ears, Sapphire and I have noticed a lot of sight impaired people around the city with the long white canes. However, the traffic lights here don’t go ‘Pippity pippity pip pip pip’ when they turn green which seems rather mean-spirited.

The Elephant's Child asked:

What is the biggest risk you have taken? And was it worth it?

Punching a potential rapist right on the nose in London, January 1991. It came out fast and hard and the shock to him (and me) gave me enough time to leap out of his taxi, dash around the corner in the early afternoon darkness and icy streets and escape. I was surprised to discover that I was in the ‘fight’ instead of ‘flight’ category. Boy, was that punch worth it!

Imogen said...

Do you miss Flemington?

YES. For a start, most residents speak the same language as me and I felt like I knew most of the streets, the little character spots and a lot of fantastic people. I liked being in the triangle of trams, train lines and the Frog’s Mouth city link entrance: it felt like a separate village but was so close to the city that I always felt privileged to live there. And let’s not forget The Social Roasting Company, Vy Vy, Chef Lagenda, Crisp pizza, Laksa King, Pepper, Verb, The Quiet Man and all the top folk in the Flemington Association. *sniffle*

Jilly said...

Kath, dear Kath.... my question is, doesn't douche in Europe mean something else????? (ie something to do with a woman cleaning one's nether regions??) xx

Yes indeedy. That’s why I still chuckle in an immature fashion when it’s everywhere here as ‘shower’.

nuttynoton said...

What is your favourite cheese?

Gruyere. Rarely found and always expensive in Australia but the most commonly available cheese in Geneva. Stinks like an AFL player’s butt crack even when stored in airtight tupperware in the fridge but is delicious on fresh bread and doubly delicious melted over stale bread the next day. The key ingredient in a fondue too which has to be tried to be believed. I’m a convert. Roquefort is a close second - moist, so old it zings on your tongue and incredibly smelly.

Why do men find sport interesting but women do not (mostly)?

We can’t really see the point of it. Lots of running around by fairly unattractive men sweating and swearing a lot and a heap of annoying rules overrun by commentators who seem to assume that we, the viewer, are not able to see what is happening in front of our faces and must describe every single move loudly and in patronisingly excruciating detail. Then, just to add an extra layer of boredom, we have the endless discussions of statistics for each player, each game, each move, each season and, finally, the fruitless exercise of interviewing a meat-head who is only famous because he can kick a ball for his opinion on the game just played. “The boys played good but we’re already looking ahead to next week to conflagrate ourselves. We can’t afford to rest on our florals.”

Pandora Behr said...

1) Same as I gave to PM - what bit of advice would you pass on to your daughter?

That she’s beautiful. That any boingy bit of hair, spot on her chin or wobbly bit will NOT be noticed or nastily remarked upon by anybody who truly loves, likes or notices her. Oh and that blokes do not pick up on tiny little signals you send via osmosis their way or over-analyse everything to death afterwards. Turn up, smile, say what whatever it is you really mean directly and hope for the best.

2) If there was one moment in your life you could change - one event/ one period in your life/ one moment - what would that be?

March 2005, when a combination of exhaustion, depression, failure, humiliation and utter confusion found me believing that my family, friends and the world would be better off with me gone. Not a day goes by without me thinking of it and realising that not only was I seriously ill and tragically wrong but also of the huge amount of damage such an action would have caused, let alone the beauty, fun and challenges I would have missed out on. Thank god for professional help and the utmost kindness, patience and understanding from LC and my family.

Vanessa said...

If failure was not an option, what is the most daring thing you want to do?

Act or sing. Sometimes when I’m happy or have the ‘please like me, please please pleeease’ anxiety, I’ll show off a little and occasionally I wonder what it’d be like to be a character actor in a comedy......

Red Nomad OZ said...

Does living overseas make you feel more, or less Australian??!!

More, I think. Not because I yearn for more news on Julia and Tony or the drunken antics of AFL players, but it highlights the differences between the countries. I look different, dress differently (although you could say that was true back home too) and can sometimes be seen examining or photographing an object or situation that they’d consider an everyday one; ie a fat bloke riding a vespa this morning with a cigar in his mouth. Helmetless. Or picking up fresh conkers because I love the look of them shiny new.

Jackie K said...

(1)Does Sapphire read your blog and if so what does she think of it?

Sometimes. I have to run a few Sapphire-specific things past her to make sure that she is comfortable with how she’s being portrayed but she told me that she mostly reads the non-Sapph articles. She liked the recent one about our filing cabinet.

(2)What do you hope to bring back to Melbourne from your time in Geneva?

Hopefully not just a heap of travel photos – I’ve found in the past that no-one wants to see those unless they’re funny ones with people that they know in them, and that’s fair enough. There’s nobody you want to slap more than the bore who sits in a Melbourne cafe and sighs, “Oh but the macchiatos were magical in Firenze.”

So for me: an almost-grown, happy, fulfilled daughter with dreams to do more, see more, be more. A husband who set out to achieve what he hoped to do in the job and who still wants to come home to me at the end of every day. A feeling that I helped our little family make the most of our time here with friendships, travel, experiences, a new language and culture and an ability to judge less and learn more. Or something like that. Anything OTHER than an extra two stone!

drwife said...

I eagerly read your blog because we are moving with our children to Geneva in January. I feel a bit rude reading the personal blog of someone I've never met, but I appreciate every ounce of info about getting on in Geneva. My question is odd, but could I meet you when we move?

YES! My advice may not be exactly what they’d give you at the Geneva Welcome Centre, but it might be more helpful in terms of what you’ll really face instead of what they hope you’ll face. Come on over for a coffee, lots of chocolate, hopefully some laughs and several friendly licks from the dog.

Nicole said...

OK Kath - I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be using you as my personal psychic or psychiatrist here, but:
a) will I be able to cope with study while working and with small children under my feet?

Honestly? No. I’ve found that most of us can snatch thirty minutes of time on the computer when our kids are aged between zero and ten but when they’re otherwise occupied and you think you have time to read, digest, draft, write or study the phone will ring, the kid will throw up, the hot water system will die, the groceries need to be unpacked or you’ll feel so tired that it’d be more fun to visit a few blogs and see what those LOLdogs are up to.... Be kind to yourself and don’t set goals that several weeks of gastro, flu and a kitchen renovation aren’t going to ruin.

b) will my sister have a boy or a girl?

A boy. Now, I have about as much psychic ability as a left over lamington, so your guess is as good as mine.

ropcorn said...

I'm sure you have written about this somewhere in your blog but why did you guys move from Australia to Switzerland?

Love Chunks is a physicist/meteorologist/data analyst and was the Aussie rep for a certain project involving information gathered from aeroplanes and relayed back to each country. He was keen to see what coordinating the whole shebang from the World Met Org in Geneva would be like. So far it’s hectic, stressful, overwhelming and, from the little he’ll tell me, coming along quite nicely.

drb said...

Do you think it is easier to be a woman or a man?

We are weaker in physical strength yet have to give birth; yet men are expected to always be strong and can’t daydream in meetings without being betrayed by the bulge in their trousers. I’d call it a tie.

What is the secret of a happy marriage?

Still being in love with them. Being able to compromise and consider their needs along with your own. Liking their smell when you hug them. Glowing inside when they compliment you or you make them laugh out loud. Daydreaming about them when they’re away and reaching for their hand when they’re not. Knowing you can cry or moan and they'll listen. Then again, a shared interest in wine, flopping on the sofa and some free neck rubs helps too, doesn’t it?

Will you go to the moon?

Nah. If you want to wear an uncomfortable outfit, see only dirt and travel for ages, why not do it cheaper and become an outback fruit fly sprayer instead?

If you can name yourself, what name will you choose?

Lauren always sounded nice, but I’m pretty grateful that my mother chose Katherine. It’s not a name that dates me to a particular period in time like say a Narelle or Sharon or Darryl or Shane might have.

Which actress will you choose to be you in your biography film?

Cate Blanchett for now (hah!), Meryl for later (in my dreams) and a younger Dakota Fanning for the childhood scenes?

What is the meaning of life? ;-)

Feeling as though you’ve tried your hardest given your fair share of human failings and temptations. And had a few laughs along the way.

LJP said...

What do the Genevans and Australians do in the same way?

Talk incessantly on their mobile phones. Try to get their arses on the tram before the other passengers have stepped off. Enjoy their beer, love their doggies and have the same mysterious Bermuda Triangle effect that sees blue pens constantly disappearing from our house no matter how many I steal or buy.

Which are better - salt and vinegar chips or cheese and onion?

Cheese and onion. The last time I enjoyed salt and vinegar was during my pregnancy.

Whew! Time for a cuppa and a lie down.

Three times the price of beef

The vet tells me that Milly the dog is seriously under-weight after being away from us for six weeks. Sapphire is seeing a child psychiatrist to discuss her emerging anger about moving across the world and I’m on anti depressants, neglecting this blog terribly.

These are all good things.

Firstly, the pooch. She arrived on Wednesday morning after a twenty seven hour flight that was endured without sedation or food. The thocka-thocka-thocka of her tail against the hard plastic shell of her container was the first sign we had that our furry one was to join us again. “Voila,” the customs bloke said, wheeling her out on a trolley and abruptly departing.

Her container was impossible to open, having been doubly, triply, quadruply fastened with plastic ties commonly used on boxes of paper reams. Customs guy was already gone; another example of a service provider doing the least possible. We eventually flag down a forklift driver who offers us a Stanley knife; Milly’s nose pressing up against the bars eagerly.

The whiff of fear and wee emerges as the door flies open and we’re shocked to see such a bony animal emerge. It’s clearly our dog, but her ribs are painfully visible and the vertebrae on her back protrude like a line of gravel stones. She doesn’t even protest a few minutes later when the taxi driver insists that she be placed back in her container for the drive home.

Secondly, my daughter. Mood swings that include insults, sulking, accusations, heightened versions of old events and heart rending tears. Loneliness, puberty, boredom and fear with behaviour and unpredictability to match. We empathise and sympathise but the lashings are harder and harder to bear.

Our Welfare Officer, assigned by LC’s work, finally shines. This is what she’s good at: people problems, not finding us a good land agent or a bus timetable. She hears LC’s concerns and recommends a child psych who is American and available.

Dr S listens to me, he listens to LC and then he speaks with Sapphire alone. A white noise machine is turned on by his office door so that we only hear murmurings in the waiting room outside. An hour later she emerges. “He understands me,” she says quietly, “and says that things are going to be all right because I’m a smart kid.”

We can see how hard she's trying and I get a small shock when I see her walking around the corner with her father and realise how tall she's becoming. There are bumps still ahead in her road, but mostly progress.

Same with me as issue number three. Frustration and isolation was rapidly turning to despair and self-loathing; feelings that were familiar and unwanted. This time I wasn’t going to suffer needlessly or any longer than was necessary. This move to Switzerland is our life, not a brief holiday and I want to take my full part in it.

I know exactly what medication to ask for and the doctor recognises it. No bumbling French is needed in the pharmacy as I hand over the script. Like beef, the 28 pills cost three times what they would in Australia but I don’t wince.

Two days later my old self returns. Shopping is an outing and not a nightmare. Milly takes to apartment living like a native New Yorker. Sapphire draws this

.......... freehand and sings as she does so. My Achilles behaves itself as it is gingerly tested around our local park and I realise how much we’ve all achieved in a short time when I’m taking a friend-of-a-friend around Geneva and know where I’m going.

That’s all any of us want isn’t it?

Not a joke, Joyce













Sapphire had caught my bug, plus had a really bad head cold, some diarrhoea, a vomiting session and merciless hay-fever thrown in. Therefore she had to spend three days at home with me.

After enjoying the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy (one DVD per day), a snooze and some reading, it was inevitable that we'd get chatting.

She told me about a girl in her class called Joyce, who'd moved over from the Philippines with her family a couple of years ago. "She speaks English pretty well now Mum, but struggles with the schoolwork so I offer to help her sometimes. She's really shy and even when I see her standing at the classroom door waiting for the bell to ring, she won't speak to me unless I talk first. I've tried really hard, Mum but I don't think she likes me."

A few minutes later after I'd given her the pep talk about how proud I am that she's being friendly and trying to include someone and that yes, she should keep doing that; Sapphire revealed that Joyce turned up last week with hearing aids. "Her Mum doesn't speak English and always looks so sad and when I asked Joyce if she'd like to come over to my house after school she said that her Mum won't let her."

We let that sink in for a while before I again said stuff like Can you imagine what it must be like to only speak English at school - a language you only learned two years ago at the age of nine - and then go home and lose a fair bit of what you learned because you then had to revert back to your mother's language? Can you also imagine how lonely and confusing it must have been - for way longer than two years - at wondering why you couldn't always catch what was being said?

Sapphire could imagine it and her eyes filled up with tears. "So what can I do, Mum? Sometimes she sees me and my friends and won't come over and just stands there, staring at the door. I don't even think she likes me."

"Love, she's so lonely inside and doesn't yet have the knowledge or skills on how to change things. She hates being shy and hates not having any confidence. Keep on talking to her, smiling to her, walking over to her. She might not respond the way you'd like her to, but believe me, a year or twenty years down the track, she'll be grateful that you bothered."

"Mum, why are you crying?"

"Because no kid stands alone by choice. Let me make you a cup of honey and lemon tea - I'll get a berry vanilla for myself - and I'll begin."

Same goes for you, dear reader. Get a drink and strap yourself in for a long read.

In South Australia, primary school goes until the end of year seven, so it is year eight that is dreaded and longed-for at the same time; the entry into high school.

My father was a high school teacher, so it held no real terrors for me - most of the secondary teachers were already long-standing family friends and I loved school. I had friends, oodles of confidence and knew I belonged. High school would just be another stepping stone for me.

Towards the end of the year, Dad was offered an Exchange Teacher place. Similar to Rotary Exchange student programs, teachers swapped jobs and homes for twelve months in order to experience life, work and travel in another country. We five Reads were going to Aberdeen, Scotland. We'd never even been on an aeroplane before!

Yes, there'd be snow there - we were leaving straight after our summery Christmas into their mid-winter. Yes we'd be living in a cottage that was over 250 years old and our rooms would be upstairs in the attic. And yes, we'd travel around the UK and Europe every single chance we got.

We had to pack up all of our personal possessions; make sure that Sox the cat would be cared for by the neighbours until the Scottish family arrived; pose for passport photos in front of a wrinkled bed-sheet that Dad had thrown over the line and cram our suitcases full of winter woolies whilst sweating in our bathers.

A week later, this confident, funny kid with sun-bleached hair and golden skin from swimming every spare moment in the neighbour's pool was stared at by her class, 8E, when she stood in front of them, being introduced by the frazzled French teacher. Her blazer was too big, skirt too long and the desert boots and white socks underneath looked ridiculous. For the first time ever, she felt out of place.

Not one of her classmates showed a flicker of interest. Already she could tell that no-one would be asking her what living in Australia was like.

Recess time saw her troop slowly out of maths class, face still blushing from having to answer "Eighty Eight" and hear them laugh and bray at her stupid accent. She followed the crowd to the cloak room and lunch hall and pretended to be waiting for the toilet to be vacant. Little did she know that this was to be her main activity during recess for the next six months.

Lunch time involved a mandatory school dinner. Holding her ticket, she'd patiently line up to be given a plate of mealies, soggy chips and wrinkled peas because it was a relief from standing alone. Everyone had to do it, but she wasn't hungry and wasn't in a rush. With a plate full of half-hearted grey slop she'd sidle up to a spare chair and mumble, 'CanISitHerePleaseThanks' and plonk down, trying to eat and hide behind her fringe.

No one ever said, "No, piss off you loser," as she sat down. She was so beneath their interest and attention that even acknowledging her with an insult or a shove would have been too much effort. The girl felt invisible. No, worse than invisible because she didn't have the freedom to come and go when she wanted, she had to stay there and be overlooked and ignored.

Other kids would finish and run out to play football, table tennis, gossip and flirt, leaving her behind. It was only after three weeks of sitting alone in the cloak room pretending to write in her English journal that the sad girl discovered the Library.

This wondrously warm, quiet and anonymous place was open all lunch time. To anybody at school. The relief was tremendous as she dawdled her way up and down every bookshelf. She loved to read and it was an escape from idle stares and being considered too worthless to befriend.




















The Wombles books caught her eye. She'd always thought the TV show was cute and these'd be simple to read and easy to put back on the shelf where they'be be too uncool to be borrowed by anyone else and therefore be resumed the next lunch time.

Sapphire, I read them all at least four times each and, for the life of me, can't remember a single character or storyline and still, writing this twenty nine years later don't want to search them out on ebay and read them again for old times' sake.

The librarian knew. She'd always say 'hello' as the lonely girl wandered in, silent and pale, groping for the book still in its usual place and sitting herself down at the laminated table farthest from the entrance, shoulders hunched. The girl didn't dare get talking to the lady; she knew that she felt sorry for her, but to see or hear that pity close up would just be too much to bear and the girl knew that you must never, ever cry at high school .....

On the bus ride home, she sat by herself, supposedly entranced by the grim and grey view of the outskirts of Aberdeen, the Altens Housing Estate and Cove Bay, where she lived. Her older brother was at the back of the bus with his friends - guaranteed due to his sporting prowess. David was still at the local primary school and had more playdates to deal with than days of the week.

At her stop, she'd trail behind Robert, aware that he wasn't keen to be seen with his daggy younger sister - and who could blame him? She'd wander inside, calling out 'I'm home' to her mother in the most cheerful voice she could manage, hang up her coat and head upstairs.

On would go ABBA's Super Trouper album as she cried and cried and cried, hoping that the thud thud thud of the base would drown any sobbing out. Sometimes she'd stare out of my window to the train track winding further up north and dream that she was back home again. Her real home, in South Australia, where she had friends and certainty and comfort and not this awful, relentless feeling of shame and pain and worthlessness.....

Headaches and stomach aches started to arrive each morning, shaking her out of bed before the alarm clock did. She heard her mother worriedly whisper to her father something about 'psychosomatic' but couldn't lean farther out for a better sticky-beak because the stabbing ache in her side was too great.














The weekends were wonderful. Her family would cram into the Bedford van and explore villages, craggy castles, manor houses, old battle grounds, museums and wilderness. They'd laugh and joke around together and Sunday night saw her try too hard to keep the hilarity going, to wring a few more drops out of the weekend before school and pain and fear and doom set in again.

One day as she sat near the front seat of the bus with several spare seats around her, a beautiful young girl tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hiyeh."

"Er, Hi," she replied, voice croaking.

"Are ye an Aussie, is that right?"

"Aye," I muttered, having learned months ago to tone down my accent.

"Can ye swim?"

"Aye," I replied, lifting up my head and noticing her lovely brown eyes and hair that Kate Bush would have envied.

"I'm Pamela and I'm captain of the Kincorth Swimming Club and we need some more swimmers in year 8. Do ye want tae come?"

She saved me, Sapphire.

Pamela saved me. She took the time to wander over to a lonely, broken little soul and speak to her.

Sapphire, keep doing what you're doing for Joyce. She might not be able to demonstrate yet what it means, but it does mean a great deal, more than I hope you ever have to know for yourself. It means that she's worth something to someone else.

We hugged. And cried. Sapphire got off my knee and said, "It explains something to me, Mum."

"What?"

"It explains why you always try to talk to people all the time and when Dad and I say 'oh there she goes again' it's always because you're getting to know someone."

No kid stands or sits alone by choice.

Snappy September - Day Nine - Stepping Out

After a week of lost income and wallowing in the misery of accepting that being a freelancer means that a lot of stuff ends up being done for 'free', I emerged from it feeling tired but defiant, ready to fight on; to keep slogging away with the writing and do whatever I can to avoid having provide sexual favours in bus shelters for pocket money.

Besides, my new idol Mrs A Gooch wouldn't have just sat about moaning, would she? With that in mind, I stepped outside with a cup of coffee, noticing the first blooms of spring appearing on the Manchurian Pear Trees.














Dunno why they're called 'pear' trees seeing as they don't produce any - clearly the Manchurians were short sighted or disliked fruit - but after a long dreary winter and a bit of self-pitying navel gazing, the tiny flowers seemed like a sign.

A good sign, I decided, and dashed inside to grab the camera.

After spending a few minutes taking some well-considered arty farty shots from different angles, I looked down, sniffed suspiciously and realised I'd trodden in a freshly-laid, particularly fragrant and sloppy dog turd.
















Frack - in my artistic endeavours, I'd not only got shit wedged in one shoe but both of them - a hellish stinking orange paste now embedded into every crevice and groove of the intricately patterned rubber soles.

Blossoms now forgotten, I treated Smoker Man on Second Floor Balcony Next Door to my angry Mexican Hat Dance minus the sombrero - frantically wiping each foot on the grass, swearing loudly to myself whilst also hoppity hopping around the other tussocks hiding old dog jobbies in order to avoid polluting my shoes again.

Sod this for a joke - I was going to get on that treadmill and go running and stop wasting my time----

------No I bloody well wasn't - imagine how the crap would get stuck on the conveyer belt, slowly covering it all with the dreaded e.Coli and the unbearable stench of Milly's matured mastications that would waft around the tiny toolshed, accentuated even further by the increasing heat of the machine and drops of sweat from my protesting body as I gasped for more air and sucked in her gaseous butt nugget soup instead.....

Well ram my face into a mobile home and call me Britney's drug dealer. Out came the gloves, detergent, boiling hot water, satay sticks and wet wipes as I cleaned both shoes. It took over half an hour and Milly sensed my frustration and busied herself elsewhere (not a mean feat considering our entire back yard is the size of a picnic blanket).

Much later, I'd completed the run and staggered inside for a big glass of water before seeing her sitting outside, pleading to be forgiven:
























She was let in and kissed before I'd even disposed of the rubber gloves.

Snappy September - Day Three - Baino's meme














Before the end of the Boer War (or twelve months ago in the blogosphere), Baino sent me four words to write about. Snappy September's now in full swing, so why not bung in a few of my photos and get my blog on?

TOFU (because I'm betting you hate it and can really get your teeth into that one)

Well, dear Baino, you might be surprised to discover that I don't hate tofu. Sure, I don't buy it as part of my regular grocery shop but do occasionally order it when I feel like an Asian-dish that's packed with more veges than meat. Fried tofu is best because it gives it a toast-and-egg flavour and coating but the steamed silken stuff is okay too.

The key word here is 'okay'. Not my favourite, but not disliked either; 'tofu' to me is the flat vinyl beanbag of the healthy(ish) food world -I could quite happily live without it, but might choose if it it's right under my nose.













THONGS (you can go either way on this one)

Thongs, for me, will always belong to my feet and never my arse crack. I only once gave the undies a go and lasted about ten minutes before the thought of having white cotton and spandex rubbing right up against the least hygienic part of my body - let alone the feeling of willingly paying $12 for a permanent wedgie - was about as much fun as undergoing a PAP smear on YouTube. Seeing the visual evidence of G-strings walking in front of me - the jiggling buttocks under work trousers wobbling like nervous blancmanges down Collins Street - was enough of a turn off as I didn't need an amused audience behind me as I passed by either.

Tess, our first dog, loved thongs so much that LC and I ended up buying the $1.79 rubber pairs as a regular Woolworth's item long before they were back in vogue for people to wear. She'd wedge her furry face under the straps towards the peg bit that secured the big toe. Then she'd frantically flap her ears so that the sole of the thong would go 'Whappity Whappity Whappity WHAP' on the side of her head, thus starting the fight. She'd then try to shake off the marauding footwear and bite it back, which only caused it to slap her a few more times which gave her another excuse to bite and wriggle back as it slapped her snout again and again...... Many pairs of thongs were ruined this way, but it was more fun and value than wearing any of them.

HEAVEN (because I don't know what you think about that)

Neither do I, if I'm honest. I come from a 'churchy' family, but elected to sleep-in as soon as I was permitted to make the decision myself. Since then, any church attendances have been out of sentimental reasons (it's Christmas time, we're at my parents' place and Mum is singing in the choir), weddings or funerals.

I know that 'God' is just a word, but I believe, somehow, that there is a God of some kind. Despite picking at my nails until they bleed and suffering all-too-regular bouts of insomnia, I've never spent much time pondering the meaning of life, the point to our existence or what is beyond the Milky Way. Something far bigger and cleverer and stronger than me has made all sorts of things that my brain doesn't have a hope of comprehending. All I can do is try to be a decent person. I think.

And if reincarnation is true - and my own philosophical and spiritual jury is still out on this issue - I'd love to return to this planet as a much-loved and well cared-for family dog.

Heaven, therefore, in my own small way, is experienced every day through the things I see, touch, hear and taste. The coffee made by Love Chunks; the feel of Milly's furry ears, my first dazzling view of Sapphire each morning, the taste of chocolate and knowing that every single person I interact with has a story that will fascinate me. A neckrub is pretty close to heaven too.














AMBITION (Because you're driven but still manage the work life balance - he-he free tips without buying the book)

Hmmm, this is a tough one to summarise. I was ambitious once, up until about five years ago when my body, mind and soul decided to simultaneously pull the blinds down so that it forced me to rest, reduce my ridiculous working hours and decide if having a fancy office, a meaningless-but-important-sounding job title and a big salary was worth losing six teeth, possessing a gnawing gut, painfully excreting rabbit droppings at 3am and then explosive diarrhoea five minutes before a presentation was my idea of a successful life.

It wasn't. Nor was having Sapphire in childcare - and later, before and after-school care full time; crying for no apparent reason on the weekends; feeling permanently resentful/grumpy/exhausted and jealous; hiding out in the work toilets or finding myself at the desk, having done an hour of work when my boss would ring - from the sanctity of his breakfast table in Glenelg with the opening line, "I knew you'd be there already."

Writing a book, surviving the aftermath of Bulldog's ego and cruelty to work from home as a writer and researcher and chocolate reviewer has been the best thing I've done for my so-called 'career path'. I earn a fifth of what I earned five years ago and am extremely lucky to have the luxury of knowing that Love Chunks earns enough to see us through. He supports my work (and the diversions) and has pointed out more than once that I'm a healthier and happier person.

So 'ambition' for me is about trying to contribute to my family on my terms, but acknowledging that it can't be done without the support and understanding of Love Chunks and Sapphire. And for that I'll be grateful to them for the rest of my life.