Ends. Candle. Burning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, it is.

Five Day Grind

Recent blogging buddy* Elisabeth commented - kindly I hope - that this blog makes the mundane sound interesting. I then read Radge's blog about taking the week off and finding himself not kicking up his still-young-and-single-and-carefree heels up in his local Irish pub but idly browsing kitchenware shops, feeling utterly unstressed and strangely content, and thought, 'Yep, I'm going to steal that idea and write about my own mundane week.'

Firstly, my diary. It's an RSPCA charity one, tiny in size to carry in a bag and covered in almost illegible kilometrico blue pen scrawls. This means that whenever something is changed, or cancelled or rescheduled, I have to get the liquid paper out and remove the original entry. 'No biggie', you're probably thinking, (along with 'mundane'? How about eye-droopingly snooze inducing?) but amendments inevitably happen more than once and the diary starts to resemble Queen Elizabeth the First's face after 50 years of rule, perhaps a bath a year and a daily application of lead-based foundantion.

Like George Costanza's wallet, I can barely shut the bloody thing without re-straining my neck and causing flecks of displaced paint to fly out the sides. So, let's start with Monday, shall we?

After going for my 8 km run, seeing Sapphire off to school and packing the dishwasher I meet up with Ros to accompany her on the final part of Flemington not yet scoped for our council-funded Heritage walk. We're both a bit cautious with each other as I'm desperate to seek forgiveness for my stupid remark several meetings ago which basically disparaged her part of our lovely suburb when I was unable to find anything of interest that would persuade a person of sound mind and body to venture along the traffic-choked Racecourse Road, past Centrelink and the graffitied shopfronts just to stare at a stable.

She quite rightly took offence and told me - rather politely, admittedly - that I was ignorant, insulting and decidedly lacking in the special brain fluid stuff that connects the synapses. Straight after the meeting, I rushed over to apologise profusely and we made a date to go for a walk around her neck of the woods together.

And I'm so glad we did so. We saw this fig tree, growing on the stone front of the three cottages named after Melbourne Cup winners and marvelled at its tenacity:

I met her lovely husband, her talented architecture-student daughter and their two adopted Jack Russell terriers. The final two were the hardest to win over and followed behind me suspiciously as their Alpha Female chose to be with me, the weird stranger, in an area that was normally theirs to sniff and examine. Eventually they decided that my company was no longer repellent and rewarded me with no barking, happily wagging tails and a tentative lick on the hand.

Four hours later I limped home with nearly 200 photos, hopefully a new friend and a big smile on my fat face.

Tuesday found me chatting with a businesswoman in another part of the country, laughing as we realised how much we had in common and wondering just how we could work together without ever meeting. Time will tell, but my fingers are crossed.

This is also the day I finish a profile article on a Drama and English teacher for The Age and congratulate myself on squeezing a high-achieving and busy life story into 730 words;

Nervously submit an invoice to a largish chocolate company, hoping they don't scoff at my hourly rate and wishing that, at 41-and-a-half and three years into freelance writing, I'd stop feeling like a prostitute;

Edit ten out of the eighteen young writers' stories that they are now emailing me during the week as time runs out and their novels are in progress. I read about death, snakes, medieval weaponry, aliens, dancing, bullies, tigers, ticking clocks, loneliness and blue blobs;

Arrange, photograph and sample three different blocks of Swiss chocolate that, quite frankly, is so delicious I struggle to write about it in any knowledgeable or informative way; and

...write my blog about Tim Roth, our new tree, telling lies and procrastinating.

Wednesday morning commences with what sounds like Darth Vader's breathing apparatus being amplified throughout the neighbourhood until Sapphire runs outside and notices two hot air balloons floating nearby, blowing gas.**

Half an hour later, I end up impersonating that sound as I puff, wheeze - and occasionally clamber off to cough up a phlegm oyster into a tissue - my way on the treadmill. The cold/lurgy/chest infestation thingie that Sapphire brought home from school has all three Locketts honking, sneezing, hacking and ahem-ing like a band of heavy smoking percussionists.

My medley is clearly so distressing that our neighbour, Stuart, calls out over the fence when I lean up against the shed door, sweating and exhausted, grateful to be finished. "Are you OK over there, Kath? I don't start work until lunch time if you need help." He's an emergency doctor, so I take this as my cue to gasp out that I'm fine but will take it easy for the rest of the day.

Therefore, I spend the rest of day before school pick-up editing the 200 heritage walk photos, writing up some previous chocolate reviews, phoning a friend in Adelaide before she had to hastily hang up and wipe the Deep Heat creme her three year old had found and smeared on his eyebrows, email in an ASRC article, hang up a few loads of washing and do the fortnight's ironing.

Amy comes over for a cup of tea in the afternoon and reminds me again that some of us work-from-home folk can still look utterly gorgeous whilst doing so. She's a really genuine, intelligent and kind person, yet I feel like Quasimodo alongside her.

Thursday is power walking morning. Milly hates this because it means that I'm out in the shed

for much longer on the stupid, noisy, nose-dragging contraption and not inside in the warmth, which is where she'd like to be. Every few minutes she'll wander in, give me a look of boredom and disappointment (yes, dogs can conjure up that in a glance), sit down for a few seconds and then wander out, hoping to find some stray bunny butt beans near Skipper's hutch.

Later I do the weekly shop, get Love Chunks' watch fixed, bank Sapphire's pocket money (ie when her money box is full) and slightly impress the teller by handing it over properly bagged and counted, fill up the car with petrol at the place that gave us contaminated stuff at Christmas time and hope that everything's all fine now because I just can't be shagged finding a spot anywhere else and post some letters.

Lunch is a rushed plate of saladas and an apple because the Writing Workshop kids want to come in an hour earlier - ie during their lunch time - to start their writing. I arrive, expecting maybe only a couple to remember, but a dozen are waiting at the door. It's the serious end of term now, and I know all their names, the exact spots they're at in their stories and how far I can push the 'tell me MORE about how you killed him' encouragements.

They, in turn, are even referring to me as their 'editor' and love the lolly snakes and fantales I bring in to keep their energy levels and enthusiasm up for such a long session. I win even more respect by being able to answer every single 'Who am I?' question they read off their fantale wrappers because they're too young yet to realise that a brain filled with pop culture has less space for more useful information. Two hours later, Sapphire and I walk home and she chatters away enthusiastically about her planned plot twists. I realise, as I listen, that I'm starting to enjoy this workshop and, hey, even be looking forward to it.

Finally, Friday. My third running session is still peppered with enough coughs and snorts to prevent Milly from bothering to visit me, but I'm glad I did. I'm sad enough to write in my diary - and highlight in fluoro orange pen - what runs and walks I do for the week and if there's five entered, life is grand. Plus, this run occurs at 6.30 and not 8.30 am because I'm being interviewed then for a magazine.

It's not the most prestigious magazine in history but it ain't Zoo weekly either. The journo chats to me about the Flemington Litter Ninja project and says that her publication is going to buy one of the photos taken by my local paper but would I be so kind as to email her another, say, one of me actually picking up some rubbish? Oh and she'll send me a contract that I'll need to sign, stipulating that I will not sell my story to any of their competitor magazines. Whew, the things you need to go through for three hundred dollars.....

Change the sheets on the bed, scrub out the shower (whilst in it and hope that there's never a day when the local perve decides to put a hidden camera in the house), clean the toilet, hang out some washing and sort out the wheelie bins.

Spend the afternoon deciding whether to submit the rough-as-guts first two chapters of anti-Angela's Ashes (ie happy) memoir, current working title, 'Stink Pot,' to a publisher holding a mentoring competition. Get lost in sorting out old-but-relevant blog posts, hand-written notes, family photos and verbal embroidery (ie writing more) and forget to do so.

My watch has an alarm that pings at 3:18pm. Milly leaps out of her beanbag (not a bad effort for a dog who was in deep REM sleep only a second ago and negotiating a moveable soft bed with two arthritic back legs), nudges my chair and readies herself for a walk. I smile and log off. This is the highlight of both of our days - seeing Sapphire at the school gate.

* if you comment, you're a blog buddy in my view.

** yes, Love Chunks made the expected jokes about the balloons being a hell of a lot quieter than anything I'm capable of doing under the doona.

Forty going on Four or Eighty Four?




















I can drive, drink, vote, read and breed and am occasionally able to cook something using more than one pot but there are still so many more things I do that are really, really immature.

Such as:

• Eating a banana and half a 250 gram packet of marshmallows for lunch. Starting with the whites first and leaving the pinks (my favourite) until lucky last.
• Flexing in front of the mirror after my shower. Did you know that bikini supermodels pose like Egyptians? If you don't believe me, try shoving your shoulders forward and twisting your waist and butt around to the side. Then push out your hip bones and throw your arms back behind you like a troubled ape (or Paris Hilton) and voila, you've lost ten kilos and should be auditioning for the 'after' picture in fat busting advertisements.
• Laughing till I cried at seeing the search phrase "Ashleigh's Peanut Butter Farts" and wondering if I should send it on to him.
• Substituting four-syllable words to replace the 'Mu-nu-mu-nah' that Animals sings in that classically catchy Muppet song. Recent winners have included the Kath & Kim's bat-wing arm fat descriptor 'Foo-doo-bah-dahs' and pornography (but only after explaining what it meant to a horrified Sapphire), simplicity, undoubtedly, unbearable, exaggerate and, most appropriately, 'inanity'.
• Still writing my name or 'Kath loves LC' inside a lop-sided love heart in the steam on the bathroom mirror.
• Knowing that my chances of winning the lottery is about a billion to one, yet feeling absurdly disappointed when the slimy piece of paper is handed back with 'Not a Winner' on it. Refusing to touch that slip, saying 'Oh you can put it in the bin,' as though it'll damage my fortune in other aspects of my life.
• Painting Milly the dog's toe nails (paw claws?) shimmery purple.
• Popping a Lindt Ball into each cheek and letting them dissolve slowly as I read in-depth, thought-provoking articles in The Age. And doing it again for the next article. And the next insert.

And yet there are other times when I'm swear I'm looking towards eighty four instead of four. These are all true:

• Avidly reading the freebie community newspaper from cover-to-cover and then joining the local ratepayers association. And attending the council's community consultation session. Willingly.
• Consider googling where I can find a spiked litter pole thingy to ease the agony of continual bending over to pick up rubbish in my street, the local school, the poo lane alley adjoining the corner shop and the dodgy old flats next door.
• Looking forward to eating soup as the weather gets colder.
• Laughing at the re-emergence of eighties fashions being touted as 'Defying the recession with bright colours and bold optimism'.
• Noticing that the flesh on my neck doesn't turn in time with my head, but instead wobbles and stretches like a hesitant raw pizza base.
• Wondering why antimacassars aren't in vogue anymore.
• Discovering that I have a permanent pink tattoeed belt around my middle - even first thing in the morning - from years of wearing high-waisted elasticated underpants and jeans.
• Following and actively participating in discussions concerning politics. And realising that I'm actually a bit interested.
• Acknowledging that my most frequent thought and deed is determining where and when I can sit down.
• Doing a passable impersonation of a duck's mating call just by farting when I cough.
• Spending a longer time on the toilet and appreciating the solitude.
• Appreciating the fact that there's not one pair of heels in my wardrobe and 10% or less of my clothes need be be touched by an iron.

So yes, I insert the dog's name into ABBA songs and serenade her during the day ("Milly-mooster tell me what's wrong..."), have tried to photograph Skipper's tiny disapproving bunny lips from a weird angle and licked the chocolate cake mix bowl with Sapphire but have also noticed that my face has the imprint of the pillow left on it until long after lunch time and my legs are the physical representation of the blue and red streets of the Melways directory.

But most importantly I am that age - whatever mental, emotional or psychological number is assigned by the relevant experts - where coolness and a posh car don't matter. Just clean clothes and my loved ones. Oh and finding chocolate on special.

Culture Schmulture

The Age online reported today that a ticket vending machine at Rushall train station (Melbourne's Fitzroy north area ) was bombed at around 3:30am this morning. It was apparently detonated remotely, could be heard "up to 200 metres away" (like, wow, that's so big and like, such an inconvenient and totally dangerous time to do such a random and destructive, like, thing) and was on fire when the police arrived.

Connex rail system, in their wisdom, decided not to let any trains stop at that station, thus further enraging commuters who staggered up to work only to find no ticket machine (yay) but also no trains (boo) and only the un-fun option of a shuttle bus system (erk).

The article went on to state that "The attack is the latest in a string of problems for rail operator Connex, which has been under commuter fire for heat and maintenance-related train delays and cancellations. And there was no relief for commuters this morning, with at least eight services cancelled by 8am." I wonder how the explosion can explain the other seven cancellations?

Perhaps the bombers were feeling slightly cross after reading (I'm assuming that they can) in The Age a few days earlier where the Connex boss, British-born and educated Jim Betts, blamed the culture of Melbourne itself as the reason for its craptastic transport service.

He was quoted as saying: "A metronomic public transport system of the kind that operates in Hong Kong or Singapore — where they have a ruthless approach to the management of train stopping times at stations — that kind of culture which lends itself to great transport efficiency, is maybe not going to be appropriate in many cultures, including the Melburnian culture."

He went on to blather on about the uber-organised Swiss folk: "The people who plan public transport services in Zurich are planning in an environment where they have 500 years of democracy, where they have referenda on all key issues, and where there is a Swiss cultural setting which is about the scrupulous micromanagement of every last detail."

Aw bless his sweet little cotton socks. Isn't it nice, after being at the helm of Crap-Connex for ten years, gifted with the official task of bringing a 'ruthless efficiency' like those found in 'Hong Kong, Singapore and Zurich,' that he's concluded that it is instead the fault of the Melburnians themselves. Mighty big salary money well spent for sure, people!

So, this city's gentle meat-pie and Big-M lovin' folk are ultimately putting up with a transport system that has "fewer services (is) slow compared with private cars and ....spends far less per capita on running it. " Because their culture deserves it.

Methinks 'ol Jimbo Bettsy-boy better hope that the bombers don't find out his home address, or the licence plate of his car.......

Pie and a carton of Big M not good enough, then?

One of the best things about returning to Melbourne for my third stint* is The Age newspaper. Lots to read, think about, learn from and admire and about five hundred percent better than Adelaide's Traumatiser tabloid.

A semi-regular feature that will appear in this blog is any small(ish) article that appeals to me. No particular rhyme or reason, just whatever tickles my fancy. And no, there'll be no photographs of said fancy.

Numero Uno appeared on Saturday 17th January and 'tickled' my fancy indeed was:

Firstly, good on 'em. If criminal activity is limited to some dodgy seafood and plonk, then things aren't too bad, surely?

However, the judgmental tone of the snobby 'industry source' decreed that there was no way a normal thief would be able to shuck oysters. And why not? Don't bogan burglars possess knives or at times been given work on the docks or in processing plants? If they can crack a car's club lock, then surely a shellfish isn't going to present much of a puzzle?

Whether they be outlaw chefs or under-qualified heathens, at least the little shuckers didn't vandalise the place, steal any cash or defecate in the cool room.

* I first moved to Melbourne with Love Chunks in 1994, living in a tiny sixties', second-storey flat in Flemington and finding work at the execremental Wormald Security, often referred to by myself as 'WormWorld.' We left there a year later to head up to Darwin so that LC could flex his meteorology muscles and I could start my sensible working life as a 'graduate trainee' in government.

** We returned to Melbourne (via a week off in Bali paid via our 'remote allowance') from Darwin in 1996, buying an ex-housing commission-1950s house in Heidelberg Heights. Sapphire arrived in 1999 and the grim reality of my local Mothers' Group - where the first question asked of the nurse was 'How many beers can I drink when I'm breastfeeding' - as well as regularly Capsicum-Sprayed neighbours, the local retail strip having more drug dealers than open shops and economic inability to buy a house in a better area meant that we returned to Adelaide in 2000.