No wees, please! Running *in* London

With carbo loading, catching up with friends and a sleepless Saturday night in the Royal Borough undertaken, the 6am alarm on Sunday morning felt pretty hard.

Despite the recommendations of many experts, my breakfast was like Rihanna's wardrobe: only half done.  I had in fact remembered to bring along a plastic bag filled with a few handfuls of my familiar 'long run' usual of Swiss supermarket-brand chocolate muesli, but forgot to get any milk.  Instead, I crouched down on the bathroom floor (so that Love Chunks and Sapphire would not be woken up); hastily gulped down three 'protein balls' I'd sampled at the runner's expo the day before and washed the sticky scraps of lingering seeds down with a godawful sample of coconut 'water' flavoured with 'coffee.'  All was expunged with a half bottle of water and a nervous wee.

A shaky couple of selfies were taken - one by Sapph who did get up and insist on a 'full body shot.'  No slim greyhound, me, but my chunky trunks and Achilles bandages were about as ready as they'd ever be.  

A short tube ride to Simon's hotel - his lovely wife (and my friend) Gianna was in good spirits for us; I hid my nerves by goofing around and having ANOTHER wee. In their bathroom.

I'm the sort of person who immediately wants to know where the nearest toilets are: in cafes, on trains, at tourist spots, in friends' houses......  My friend Jill can attest to how many times she found herself waiting as I 'ducked in' for a wee during our travels.  The marathon map had been reviewed at length and it was quite literally a comfort to know that toilets were being provided at regular intervals throughout the route.

 

Simon's sister, Pauline (far left in the picture below), lives in Bermuda and was running in her TENTH marathon, this one as a 'training event' for the ultra triathlon she was doing later in the year. Her daughters Tor and Jessie (both doing their second marathon), were running for the same charity as me: Action Against Pre-Eclampsia.  Less than a year ago, Tor had suffered the condition when pregnant with her baby girl.

A tram ride to Kings Cross station on still-silent streets took us to the train that had been exclusively arranged for the 40,000+ marathoners.  The carriage we were in was lively with chat, jokes and the smell of liniment.  We sipped from water bottles, munched on energy bars and tried not to slide off the carpeted seats in our skin-tight lycra leggings.

Arriving at nine am, an hour before the start, was in no way being anal as the site itself was enormous. Dozens upon dozens of trucks were lined up, all neatly numbered for us to stow away our belongings until we saw them again past the finish line.  My belongings were mostly in my bum bag (hotel key, ipod, headphones, iphone, energy gels and a hanky), and my thoughts were also bum-related: The queue for the portaloos - at our four stations - were each a half a kilometre long.  I needed to stake my spot.  Immediately.

Best decision I ever made. Simon played his boy card and found a tree, but we gals nervously stretched our calves in the line, jiggled our thighs and noted how quickly the time was flying by.  Rolls of toilet paper were passed down the queue to avoid any dripping disappointment when in the portoloo pod itself.

The relief of making it into a surprisingly clean toilet and out just as the overhead PA instructed us all to get ready at the starting line - in the finishing time we estimated - was immense.

An enormous cheer erupted at 10am, but there was no discernible movement forward for us, standing next to the 'Five hour finish' flag.  I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been for runners twenty or more years ago knowing that time was ticking even though they had yet to cross the starting line.  All I could do was hope that I'd laced up my own magic individual timer chip to my shoelaces tight enough.

At 10:23am, we shuffled over the starting line.  Simon and Pauline were running alongside me; Pauline leading the way in dodging around the other runners.  There was no clear space to spread out so a lot of ducking and diving was required.

"Go Simon!"  

"Well done, Pauline, you're looking good!"  

Oh, so that's why everyone had their names written on their t-shirts: the crowds that packed every single centimetre of the route were reading them and yelling out encouragement.  Ah well, in my navy and black I'd just have to stay anonymous... "Go for it, blue cap!"  "You can do it, Cappy!"  Bless them: they had made up something to call me, and it was far better than Big Nose or Bubbling Buttocks....

"Bloody poms and their imperial measures," I panted to Pauline.  "Running miles takes FOREVER compared to kilometres!"  Each mile was marked by an arch of red balloons and my squinting eyes were always searching for the next one.  It was with an immense feeling of disappointment to see the beloved balloon display in the distance only to reach it and realise that it was for a charity cheering spot and not because another mile had been covered.

At the six mile mark (around 10km) it was time for me to take my first energy gel.  The plan was to not stop running at all during the event, but of course that was the moment for the zip to bust on my bum bag and my uncoordinatedly sweaty finger tips just could not rip open the top of the gel pack.  So, I stopped, calling out, "See you Simon and Pauline - run like the wind!" before using my teeth to rip the top off, suck down the cola-flavoured ooze, slug down a bit of water and push on again.

Not too much water slugging though.  My biggest fear was having to do a wee (or worse) during the event. "Sip little and sip often," was my mantra, especially when I discovered that the loos on the route now had lines of at least a hundred dejected-looking runners (or, in their case, non-runners) sadly but urgently waiting for their turn.

Love Chunks and Sapphire were part of the charity cheer squad on Tower Bridge at roughly the half-way mark.  However, with the road festooned with abandoned water bottles and surprisingly-deep and frequent pock marks in the bitumen, my efforts to spot them in the crowd were less than the ones to keep remaining upright and uninjured.  They were there somewhere though and I knew it.  Sickly sweet to say, but utterly true.  My heart beat loud and strong for them both on that famous landmark. 

My caution at not trying too hard to spot them in the crowd wasn't unfounded.  A young girl saw her mates in the crowd, whooped a greeting and made her way over to their side of the road to give them a high five when she trod on a water bottle and instantly pitched forward, smacking her face onto the gravel and burning her hands.  My gasp of sympathy was all I could do to help before first-aiders picked her up and carried her, now sobbing, to a chair.

The next ten miles were the cruellest of all.  No cheer squad for me ahead, still completing Mile Thirteen and yet could see the runners on the opposite side of the road returning from Canary Wharf and having the joy of seeing Mile Twenty Three and a glimpse of St Paul's in their (much swifter) sights.  Ah well, there was more plodding to do, each step stickier than the last due to thousands of empty gel packs covering every surface that the water bottles didn't.

After doing all of my training with music, the iPod and earphones stayed in the bum bag during the race.  It seems foolish to write the word 'race' because it wasn't.  It was a Challenge, a Day, an Event, but never a 'race.'  The only victory would be in finishing it.

The calls from the crowd; the music played by fans and bands in pubs, gardens, balconies and roundabouts; the hilarious signs made for friends and everyone ('26.2 miles. Because 26.3 would be stupid'), and the runners around me were all the entertainment and inspiration that I imagined.  And more.  "You are all sexy. You are all people I want to have sex with.  You are sexy runners and you will finish. Sexy sexy sex!" called out one bloke who ended up with a sore hand after receiving more than his share of high fives from laughing marathoners as they passed.

I overtook ten rhinos, one eight foot tall light house, several fairies, a twenty-strong team of ghurkas wearing 25kg packs and boots; a strawberry, the Gherkin building, a karoake singer who carried a cordless microphone and speaker stack as he ran; the armless Black Knight from The Holy Grail and the world record contender doubled over as he carried a Smeg fridge on his back.

I was overtaken by three other rhinos, a bagpipe player, half a dozen bananas and a gorilla.  Sapphire reported later that the poor Gherkin building smacked the top of his head several times on the red final timer screen at the finishing line before figuring out that he'd have to lean to the west and edge in that way.

Thankfully, the imperial measurement sticklers eased off at Twenty One Miles when markers for kilometres also appeared. Thirty Five Kilometres.  This was the longest I had ever run in my life and the calls for "Cappy! Go on Cappy!" and seeing the Millennium wheel on my left and Big Ben up in the distance changed my grimace to a smile.  It was still difficult to believe that I was there, doing it, in my favourite city in the world.  Chubby, daggy, chocolate-addicted old me.

My pace was distinctly slower in the second half than it had been in the first half.  It had been this way in all of my training runs too and was not something that was going to upset me or make me stop. My heart rate felt steady - no uncomfortable puffing, but my legs....!  Numb feet, shins with a pulse of their own and every bone below my waist seemingly on fire. 

Big Ben looked magnificent up close and to run up to him, along the back of the houses of Parliament on a road specially closed for me (okay, and 40,000+ others) was an incredible feeling.  Exhaustion and exhilaration blended into an emotion that is not possible to describe and may not be one that I'll ever experience again.  The faces of LC and Sapphire swirled in front of my burning eyes before my legs dragged me on to Birdcage walk, turning the corner and seeing Buckingham Palace looming up.  

And kept looming....  Was I on a treadmill?  Had the movie stopped running and I was at a standstill? Had I fainted.....?   It was here that they thankfully started counting down in two hundred metre stages....  1,000......  800 ......  600 ....... 400..... 200.....

       

Ducking and diving even as I passed over the line, I burst into tears.  Dry ones, as my face was encrusted in salt powder, but sobs engulfed me for a few moments as a volunteer deftly removed my timer chip and another one handed me a Finisher medal. 

It was a warm day, and this "Cappy" was finally grateful for having man-hands large enough to grip water and glucozade bottles the entire way; be able to smile at the kind comments from the crowds and - even more importantly - not faint like four other people did around her as they shuffled through St James' Yard to meet up with their loved ones. 

  

Four hours and fifty two minutes from start to finish.  Elite runners would have enjoyed their victory, had a long hot shower, completed a lengthy press conference, inhaled a banquet and had an hour long massage in that time but it was 'under five,' and good enough for me.

It was also the longest I'd ever gone - in waking hours - without a wee!   I cried again when LC and Sapphire were spotted.  Maybe it was a pointless and vain challenge, but they had been with me for every sweaty, sticky and slogging step of the way.

I am so thankful to them both.

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.

I love the smell of wheelie bins in the morning

Summer has been pretty mild in Melbourne this year. Days that would disappoint a kid are appreciated by me in my dotage – 24C to wear t-shirts and thongs but not be restricted by the heat or risk a wet back and knickers driving around in a car whose air conditioner has recently bit the dust.















This weekend is different – 35C today and 40C tomorrow and Love Chunks reckons that February might be the month of fried lawns and frazzled school children. On days like that the only acceptable thing to do for those of us without swimming pools is to stay inside with the blinds down and do nothing more energetic than twist an ice-cube tray and catch up on the unread weekend supplements.

Milly and I have been doing our walks early in the morning before the sun bursts out malevolently from behind the Mt Alexander Road mechanics' and starts burning our already-struggling grass.

At 7am, the streets are quiet save for the big-night-outers still struggling home in broken stilettos and ripped jeans or other committed power-walkers and fat fifty-something delivery drivers in white vans. There's no fresh scent of honeysuckle or ripe plums in the air. In Flemington it’s the yeasty smell of beer vomit, chicken bones and half-eaten Krazy Kebabs.

We’re used to stepping around those kinds of splats on the footpath: what assails us mostly as we walk is the malodorous stench of wheelie bins. In a tightly-packed suburb studded with blocks of flats, the hulking Brunswick green odour-emitters take up half the footpath with barely a gap in between.

These have been particularly unpleasant when summer socialising, seafood on special and lingering warm weather are combined. The offensive cocktail of week-old prawn heads, rancid ham hocks, cherry pips, sticky meat trays, use-by dips and cockroach crap seep up and out of their innocent flip top lids and seem hellishly devised to coincide with each intake of my breath.

Perhaps it is wrong to write 'us' because to Milly the pong is on a par with Chanel No. 5. In her tiny furry brain she is perhaps rueing the fact that, at 40cm high, she's physically unable to flip herself in and have a good roll around the peelings, oil drips and the unfortunate bodies of flung-out pet guinea pigs who did not cope so well with the Australia Day fireworks.

Inevitably she stops in her tracks, does a self-conscious squat that ends in three back-leg kicks at least two metres away from her ‘product’ in a half-hearted attempt to bury it. I'm prepared for this and hold my breath at the same time as swooping down with the black plastic 'doo doo' bag. Pulled inside out and tightly knotted, the nugget doesn't touch my skin but feels warm in my hand. I keep walking, looking for the next bin on the footpath.

Well coat a turd in coconut and force feed it to Andrew Bolt - what a stink! Lifting up a wheelie bin lid is like staring into the olfactory gates of hell complete with wriggling maggots on a mission. Staggering back, I bend down to ruffle Milly’s velvety orange ears. She chooses that moment to yawn and I'm again assailed by a slightly less repulsive smell: canine morning breath. How fresh meat and a bone can translate to a gaseous puff of Pal, puke and parmesan remains a mystery.

Half way through our walk, we stop to cut through Debney park oval. Milly's let off her leash and chases the seagulls gathered on the cricket pitch in her joy at being temporarily free in public. Bugger it - she backs out another nugget and the doo-doo dispenser is empty. A few fun minutes are spent finding a strip of bark big enough to scoop and carry off the evidence and hide it somewhere that feet are less likely to tread.

Whilst I'm busy living the dream of dog ownership, she has found something worth stopping for - a galah. Dead at least a fortnight, it smells like, even from my nasal perspective a hundred metres away. "No Milly - don't roll in---"














Too late. She's rubbing her backbone into those fetid feathery remains like Marilyn Monroe on a mink. "MILLY - COME HERE!" She eventually does, with a tongue-lolling, wide-faced grin of bliss. A cloud of sticky summer flies come along for the ride, mesmerised by the black streaks on her coat.

Whew. When we get home, I remove Milly's collar and fill up the watering can by the back of the water tank. The newly-nude dog immediately senses danger and scoots for cover by Love Chunks’ canoe at the side of the house.

After a weak tussle in the scorching sun she accepts defeat and allows me to wet her, shampoo all the stench away and give a thorough rinse before releasing her again. The worst damage she can do is roll on the ground and cover herself in dead grass clippings and endure my laughter as I call her a soggy lamington with a tongue.

All this effort hasn't eradicated the sweet smell of Exelpet but it's all she's got. She gives me a resentful look and settles down on her trampoline bed by the back door. She knows: tomorrow there'll be another walk and she'll find another dead bird; wheelie bins providing a hint as to the scent she’ll again anoint herself with……

Wheat bags and whingeing

Yesterday morning I was on the 57 tram. Yes, the one that smells of BO and garlic sauce and has a higher-than-average number of fat men wearing tracksuit pants up to nipple-level and women with beards who mutter to themselves. I was contributing to the aroma with the sweaty fug of overheated wheat bag and sticky linament.

As the three-day crick in my neck ratcheted up to freakishly torturous levels of pain that made even blowing my nose a dance with death, I found myself joining the muttering women. However, instead of a beard I was fairly smooth-faced and yelped in agony instead of their low and quiet mumble as I realised to my cost that we use our neck and shoulder muscles to brace and steady ourselves every time the tram turns a corner or squeals to a halt.

Thankfully my involuntary outburst was not noticed by the nurse sitting next to me, lost in her "Tish-tinka, Tish-tinka, Tish-tinka' iPod world or the two bogans sipping from long necks and discussing why the Beastie Boys "still kick phargin' ARSE mate" in today's busy world.

I very carefully held open the reluctant tram doors and stepped down as carefully as a platform-stilettoed game-show hostess would a glittery ramp of stairs. Except that I blurted out "PHARK!" every second step. Each small movement was like being king-hit by a ninja bearing BBQ tongs but I continued to make my way, slowly, to West Melbourne. Turning right to check out the traffic meant that my reflection in the window of the shopfront opposite revealed a half-decent C3PO impression.

I was meeting my mate Sheelagh at the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre and did not want to ring her up and wimp out because of a bung neck. After all, they help people who have been permitted to enter our country as on a bridging visa, but are not permitted access to any government assistance. Therefore, no rent, no housing, no job, no food, no training, no help with literacy or negotiating paper trails, no transport no nothing. Flourish on your own or die in a ditch.

Sitting in the waiting room - furnished with old lounge chairs, wooden tables and local artwork, it reminded me of my old primary school. I didn't strain my neck to observe as much as I'd normally do, but could hear a new arrival being hugged 'hello' by a volunteer, and be heartily congratulated for winning a job as a cleaner.

I too was hugged hello by Sheelagh and winced. She and her boss Gavin showed me the kitchen, the food bank, language room, legal offices, job centre, work experience placement officers, fund raisers, asylum processing offices, boxes of nappies, wipes and blankets, medical centre, ESL classes and charity chocolate. Yes, I bought twelve blocks.

It was agony to walk around, dying to talk, observe and take notes but reminding myself to keep my head still and only smile and nod, smile and nod, smile and nod - NO, not nod - it hurt too bloody much! I should have been peeling potatoes, stacking tins, typing up CVs, listening to adults reading, updating a press release, tapping my chocolate buddies for freebies, selling raffle tickets, publicising their stories.....

The pain was making me nauseous. I held up a hand and said to Gavin. "Just tell me what you want me to do." I'd confessed earlier to the neck problem and he and Sheelagh had considerately found a table and sat opposite me. "We'd like you to write our newsletter for us if you wouldn't mind---"
"Done. Absolutely."

The look of relief on their faces merely illustrated how I'd have liked to have felt at that moment. We traded business cards, said our farewells and I again made my way - "PHARK!" - shuffling like an angry crab - "PHARK!" - to the tram stop.

My mobile rang and for the first time in recent memory, I managed to find it in time to answer it. Manny from the council wanted me to help him visit 27 schools in the valley to talk about litter.

Leaning against the timetable poll feeling myself starting to burn in the sun, I sighed.
"No, Manny, I can't do it."

He was momentarily stunned. His silence demanded an explanation.

"My project is for Flemington only, not the entire council boundary. I've visited all three schools here and honestly don't have time for more."

More silence. I know your game, I thought. Staying quiet isn't going to shame me into changing my mind.

"Manny, I've cricked my neck so badly that I'm chewing three caplets of panadeine without water right now; I've been at a centre that helps asylum seekers and refugees, have two paid articles that are overdue and need to get back home to prepare for a volunteer workshop at my daughter's school. I can't do it.....

.......oh and where is that information pack on the waste statistics that you promised you'd send me back in March?"

I shouldn't have said that, and apologised. He accepted mine and offered one of his own.

Back at home, there was an hour left before I needed to head over to Sapphire's school and teach week two of the Writing Workshop. The damn doctors' surgery was fully booked out.

The trusty wheatbag was nuked again and I sank into the lounge, leaving the blinds down and sweating in the darkness. A block of charity chocolate would give me the energy I needed.....

Never shag a gift horse when it’s down

The only books I ever saw in my younger brother Dave’s hands were Asterix comics or novels he was forced to endure for year twelve English.

Twenty years on still sees him cautiously ask if there’s a movie available whenever any discussions about books arise. Despite this, he’s forged a successful career as a town planner and seminar speaker. He is required to attend and actively participate in more than his fair share of council meetings, committees, objection hearings and conferences and throughout his adult life he has discovered that his lack of reading means that he is living a parallel life when it comes to using common phrases and old sayings.














Unusually however, this has not made him an object of scorn but as someone who has breathed new life into these hackneyed cliches and nuggets of so-called advice. For instance he’s recently worked out that Faye Acrumbly is not a malevolent committee member always mentioned but never seen but is instead someone who is actually working under the official title of ‘Fait Accompli’ and already done what she set out to do. She’s organised, is Faye.

Dave often feels as though his good project proposals and ideas get ‘Nipped in the butt.’ One’s backside may not be quite as delicate a descriptor as ‘bud’ but is certainly a deviation that most of his colleagues can understand and empathise with, especially during annual performance review time. Admitting to being caught ‘butt naked’ during a quick change by his car after an early morning surf during a week-long seminar on the coast makes a fair bit more sense as well.

We have a lively discussion over his use of the phrase ‘Six of one, a dozen of the other’. When told by his know-it-all sister that it’s meant to be ‘Six of one, half a dozen of the other,’ he merely rolls his eyes, shrugs and shoots back with, “Not where I work or live. Since when have things proved to be even-handed or consistent?” Fair point.

Doing something ‘on the spare of the moment’ makes him seem well-planned and organised rather than impetuous: a boon, apparently, in the local council planning domain. ‘Spurs’ would be far too aggressive and less team-oriented when it comes to trying to educate and cajole greedy property developers or overly-ambitious architects about the importance of considering environmental sustainability, preservation of streetscapes and planning laws. He thinks quickly on his feet, does Dave.

Neither of us know the origin of ‘Never the twain shall meet’, and he prefers using ‘Never the train shall tweet.’ He doesn’t have time for Twitter or SMS and prefers to spend his time commuting doing other stuff like stare out of the window, chatting to his mates or working on his laptop if he gets a seat – anything other than get a good novel out and start reading it.

















Like a fool in a china shop, he rarely beats around the buses when getting to the point is concerned. "Why can’t I toot my own horn?” he asks, “For all intensive purposes, if you don’t toot your horn these days, you’ll never get let into the traffic flow, and as for not being able to have my cake and eat it too, that’s just pointless and cruel.” Being gracious in defeat is all very noble, he admits, but being gracious in the sheets ensures that he continues to have a happy and lasting marriage.

He starts warming up to his clashing cliches. ‘Don’t count your chickens by their cover,’ is a perfectly reasonable thing to say in his view. “Don’t remember my year eight agriculture class? I chose the white chooks for my project and they ended up pecking each other’s feathers off.”

Given his lack of love for literature, it makes sense that chickens are going to be selected and judged far more frequently than book covers in his unique world. Still, he refuses to ‘give up the goat,’ says he’s proud of being a ‘country bunkum’ and hopes he can remain analogous when it comes to being able to criticise his profession and the people he works with. “I’m all for following my dreams but only if they involve supermodels and beer and not the one where I turn up nude to my nanna’s house.”

To be fair to my lovely young brother, he’s invented a pretty effective one of his own. No holes barred, it perfectly summarises the ridiculous amount of stress we place on ourselves and sanctimoniously say to others: ‘Put your best foot forward, nose to the grindstone, head down-bum up, back to the wall, shoulder to the wheel and keep your eyes on the prize.’ If you can manage that, every stitch in time won’t gather any pesky moss or spoil your broth.

Fifteen seconds of Fame

Andy Warhol might have said that everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame, but that was back in the sixties when they thought that Nehru jackets, Guru Swamis and The Flying Nun were going to last forever.

These days, it’s fifteen seconds. In a normal situation, fifteen seconds is about what it takes to say to a stranger, “Hi, I’m---“ and they to you as you both have a quick glance at each other and decide if you’re going to enjoy having a conversation with them or not.

For an as-yet un-filmed, unknown pilot game show on Channel Nine, they advertised for people to audition as contestants. Up for any new life experiences and writing material, I sent in an email and was invited to attend a session.

We had our photos taken, queue-style, before filing into the studio. As I squeezed in the last available chair in the very back row of a 400-strong backlot in Richmond (and I was at least ten minutes early) I found out that this was the last of four audition sessions they were holding. Somehow they intended to select half a dozen contestants from roughly 1600 people (or is that 1600 rough people, the jury's still out).

It was hot, we were all sweating and whispering to each other, wondering what we’d have to do to get on. I was the oldest in my row by at least fifteen years and the only one with the hair colour god gave me.

The producer then told us that they were seeking contestants to film the pilot show. “That means you won’t be on TV and you won’t win the prizes that they talk about. You just have to pretend to win them and look excited about it.” At least fifty people then chose that moment to get up and leave and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief that some competition had gone and thoughtfully stirred up a breeze to cool the overheated space as they departed.

Smiling knowingly at the small interruption, the producer continued to say that if the show did get picked up by the network, the contestants on the pilot would be automatically on the real tv show. Tough luck for the impatient ones who’d skedaddled. We all had clipboards with a number and our names written on in thick black texta and were given about two minutes to fill in a three page questionnaire about ourselves.

My handwriting speed is reasonably fast yet I didn’t manage to complete the form. The blonde 22 year old self-proclaimed ‘surfie chick and nudie-rudie streaker’ next to me merely added smiley faces and exclamation marks on hers, perhaps mistaking it for an SMS screen.

The producer spoke up again. "You have fifteen seconds each to say your name, show us your clipboard so that – --- she turned and said something unintelligible --- can video you. We’ll call out your name and number.”

She held out her hand in front of her, forestalling the next question. “NO. You do not come up to us at the front, you just stand up where you are sitting, use your fifteen seconds when we ask you to and then sit down.” Great. That would work wonders being in the back row of a four hundred strong crowd with black curtains surrounding us and some surly sub-sub-lower-pond-scum intern inexpertly wielding an ageing hand-held video camera….

My number? 659. Producer lady was up again. “While you’re waiting your turn, we want the rest of you to clap and cheer each other on because we’ll be assessing you as enthusiastic audience members as well.” Yeah right, and Santa’s tapping out his Naughty and Nice list right now. That said, most of us decided to play, if only to enjoy whatever nonsense several hundred other strangers were going to come out with.

Stuff like:

"I work in Public Relations so I can talk confidently and knowledgably. Plus (she wrapped a long, lovely leg effortlessly around her neck) – I can run in pink stilettos." Nobody doubted her.

A couple stood up and proudly stated that they’d been married for four years. In the nude, as part of a radio show. Well sure, anyone can be nude on radio; matter of fact I’m wearing my birthday suit whilst typing this out!

A red-haired woman in her late forties stood up and immediately announced, “I’ve won $130,000 on 20-1 and now I want to win more.” Oh bugger off, you greedy sow. The mossies could be heard buzzing overhead as she sat down to annoyed silence.

A plump and spotty young guy two seats alongside me stood up. “I’m Derek Sacco. Yep, that’s my real surname, so my DJing stage name is DJ Sac. Yeah, as in nut sack.” Clearly that was what he considered the most important aspect of his presentation.

A mother of nine stood up and instantly got an awed round of applause. Perhaps it was her children that increased the volume of the crowd.

"Paul? Number 113?" the producer called out.

No response.
"I think he just popped out for a bit," said someone helpfully.
"Ok, we’ll try him again a bit later."

The curly-haired bloke sitting in front of me got his turn. “I work in logistics which is a fancy way of saying I’m a truckie. And yeah, I’m skinny, which makes me unusual in my line of work.”

The love child of Axl Rose and Hulk Hogan said, “I fix up fancy cars but only travel using (he reached down to pick up his skateboard) – THIS.” He wasn’t lying; I saw him happily rolling out of the studio on his board a couple of hours later.

“I rescue koalas because I’m a fireman,” a particularly tall and hunky man said. Wolf whistles from the girls drowned out the clapping.

258 stood up. "I’m bald, I’m fat, I'm forty two years old and I just got engaged on the weekend! The crowd roared their approval. "I mean look at me – I got engaged! Oh and I work for World Vision so you’ll all be sponsoring a kid before you leave tonight."

Spiral-permed Paulini-wannabe sang something. It sounded all nice and warbly in that trilly Mariah-Carey-on-helium over-singing style that Idol judges love, but no-one knew what the hell she was saying about herself.

"Paul? Number 113?"

No response.
"I think he’s in the loo," an auditioner called out.
"Ok, we’ll try him again a bit later."

Bimbo stood up, clearly annoyed at having to wait and sit with the great unwashed. "I’m a promotions model, I’ve been on Neighbours, I’ve appeared in a few scenes from Underbelly and I’m really outgoing." She then got up and left to no applause, whilst the rest of us stayed for the entire evening.

At least a dozen poverty stricken uni students were there for a laugh, a dare, to be crazy, to win some HECS money, to mock each other’s taste in t-shirts. All have faded from memory except for the vague odour of weed and clearasil.

The saddest one was a plump, middle-aged lady who was clearly shaking with nerves and spoke in a monotone, “I’m a public servant but underneath it all, I’m spontaneous, really crazy and always the life of the party.” Oh sweetie…..

"Paul? Number 113?"

No response.
The fireman called out, "He’s obviously doing a really big poo."
Producer pursed her lips and crossed him off her list. "Ok, he’s out then."

I don’t want to tell you what I said…….

The Gate(s) of Hell

We know that we are very fortunate, in inner-city Melbourne, to live in a completely detached house so that our 40cm high, 14 kilogram dog can run excited happy-laps around the entire boundary when the sound carries over from the Melbourne Zoo's evening concerts, when Hendrix the next-door cat is out having his constitutional or during 3am walk-pasts by clearly inebriated (and deaf) chattering teenagers.

We are also grateful that our nine year old daughter Sapphire can use her scooter on the back verandah pavers and down one side of the house if we plan ahead and wind the bathroom window closed and make sure the wheelie bins are securely wedged up against the back gate; but our new home has presented a bit of a challenge to accommodate anything wider than a Aeroflot economy airline seat.

We of course understood and accepted that in our decision to move to the bigger smoke of Melbourne, down-sizing was an essential part of the process. To counter the loss of a double garage, two-car driveway and a minimum of three metres space between any part of the house and a boundary fence we decided to gift ourselves a few special things to ease into our new, slightly-more-compact life - a new bike to ride to work for Love Chunks, a viola for Sapphire, a brand new York treadmill for me and a Stainless Steel Mega-massive BBQ bad-boy for the back of the house, aka 'The Entertainer's Paradise.'

However, what has become apparent is that we own the home-owner and delivery man's worst nightmare: The Inner-City Skinny Gate.

Yes, this sometimes-grey, sometimes-eggplant, occasionally-brown but inexplicably labelled 'Namibia' painted gate has proved to be more effective at repelling large objects than a roided-up King Street bouncer.

Firstly, the treadmill. Buy online and get free delivery, they promised.

That sounds fantastic, LC and I thought, and promptly bought.

Delivery day loomed, in hindsight a balmy and hospitable 37C and a chap that looked like the skinny version of this guy......

......turned up; his bobbling Adam's apple clearly the largest part of his body, eclipsing even his head. The poor pubescent was given a trolley that was more used to carrying pallets of bricks or flat packed billiard tables and was therefore at least three times wider than our unfriendly entrance.

I stood there, speechless as he stood there, also speechless, clearly hoping that I'd politely offer to lift the 115kg box onto my shoulder and then javelin it over the roof of the house so that it flew like a monolithic leaden paper plane neatly into my back shed. I remained speechless.

After several more minutes of dumb silence, I eventually recognised that our two great minds and bodies were not going to shift the enormous box without some form of trolley that would actually fit through the gate.

"I'll push it off ~~CRASH!~~ Oh, that was easy - and then try to drag it through your gate," Pubes offered in a nervous falsetto.

Neither he nor I could get it to move more than a couple of feet on the hot bituman footpath before it hit the one inch rise from the path onto our property. Pubes' Adam's apple started to ripple up and down his neck in an agitated manner. "But I'm only supposed to lift 25 kilos," he whined.

My sympathy leapt to the fore. "Yeah well I can hardly take on the extra ninety on my own, can I? How is this free delivery if you're now suggesting we 'leave it outside' until Love Chunks and a magic trolley gets home in five hours time?"

He -and my eagerly-anticipated treadmill - were put back on the truck and sent to come back when Love Chunks was home and Pubes had found a decent loading trolley.

Secondly, our modular lounge. The corner connector was outside, covered in a tarp held down by Sapphire's scooter as we awaited the upholsterer's delivery guy to come and take away the three seater to be sawn and stitched down into a two-seater so that the entire lounge could return inside where it belonged.

The delivery 'guy' was eighty if he was a day, limped with a distinct slant to the east and when considering the 43C temperature and our skinny gate, things were looking a bit fraught. This time however Love Chunks was home and was ready for the role of the second shifter and loader (He did ask "How come we have to pay for pick up and delivery if I'm doing half of it?" but The Ancient One cleverly feigned deafness). Thankfully both parts of the lounge were successfully squeezed through the gate after their stumpy little legs were unscrewed with an old Allen key.

And Thirdly, the BBQ. Or, perhaps more honestly, an outdoor, stainless steel kitchen alternative for outdoors that could quite possible be used as an extra-funky stable should the Flemington racecourse be squeezed for space. "Oh don't worry," said Mr Bald Barbecues Galore. "They all come in flat-packs, so it's easy for our TWO guys to deliver."

"Plus," he added over-brightly, "It will only take you about THREE HOURS to put together yourself." Sneaking a quick glance at my husband saw him go slightly pale under his tan as he muttered, "Or seven and a lot of swearing in my case."

A couple of days later and the delivery service rang to say that the meat-lover's machine was on its way. Another 43C day when the truck arrived and two burly blokes rang my doorbell. "Oh hi, you've got our BBQ haven't you? I'll just go and open the side gate and------"

Burly Bloke One held up his black-nailed paw. "Sorry darl, but we can already see that your gate isn't wide enough."

I blinked. Tears or dust, I was no longer sure. "What do you mean? Surely a flatpack can be edged in and----"

Burly Bloke Two stepped out from under the shade of the tree, flexing the naked lady tatt on his upper arm. "Nah, love, it's all set up. Come and have a look," and he flung the doors of the truck open. The box inside -if 'box' is not too humble a description - resembled something that could quite easily host SexPo much more cheaply than the Exhibition Centre: the truck was about to give birth to a slightly-smaller, weight-equivalent cardboard version of itself.

It wasn't dust in my eyes this time but tears. For Love Chunks, who was already dreaming of what kind of sizzling, oily and smoky concoctions he'd be creating and cooking outside when he got home from work. I choked them back, waving vaguely at the truck, saying "It'll have to go back until we work out how we can lift it in..."

"Ya could tell your hubby to knock off the gate and the posts; that'd get 'er in, no worries," said BB2, trying to cheer me up.

It didn't work. "Or you guys could lift it up over the fence?"

Their mocking laughter sent a chill through me even though I was drenched in sweat. And tears. "Yeah right darl, the bastard weighs 135 kilos."

Oh.

And so it came to pass that we rang Barbecues Galore who said they'd arrange for BB1 and BB2 to return on Saturday when Love Chunks would be home and therefore able to undo the box ("He has to do it or BB1 and BB2 can charge you an 'unpacking fee' of $250"), remove the acres of foam packaging and then wheel the monster inside the gate, up the side of the house and around the back. OK then.

Saturday came. No BB1, BB2 or BBQ. Love Chunks rang Mr Galore. A few minutes on hold, only to be advised, "Nah mate, you're not on the list for today. They're coming some time on Wednesday."

Love Chunks patiently explained that he'd arranged it to be Saturday because of the unpacking issue.

Mr Galore appeared not to comprehend. "Nah mate, it's Wednesday."

LC explained a third time, slightly more tersely. "I work. I can't hang around all day. The point of the Saturday delivery was so that I'd be home to unpack the friggin...."

He listened, fingers tapping on our table in a staccato dance of digit anger. "No, I'll tell you a fourth time. I am NOT prepared to, 'let it stay outside until I get home from work' on Wednesday....."

He lost. It is coming on Wednesday.

There was a tiny victory of sorts. If Love Chunks rings that morning, they might - just might - be able to give him a 'three hour window' to estimate the delivery time.

Bloody gate.