Death, diet coke and Jennifer Aniston

"Mum, it says 14-plus and we're twelve and you let me watch Frasier and Friends and Seinfeld and even Michael McIntyre so if you come with us too it'll be OK."

I was cornered. Sapphire has a way of chatting with her best mate Nafeesa via skype and they make plans that are foolproof. The venue's decided, the activity, the time, the pick-up and drop-off points are very well thought out and neither Nafeesa 's mum or I can claim that it doesn't fit in with our plans because the sneaky little gumnuts have already factored that into their equation.

“Alright then. Where am I supposed to be and at what time for the two of you?”

They wanted to see ‘Horrible Bosses’ featuring Jennifer Aniston in the ensemble cast. “It looks like a rom-com,” Sapphire assured me.

Considering that rom-com is usually her stock-in-trade and that I haven’t paid attention to what’s been playing in Swiss cinemas here for the past four months, it seemed like a reasonable assumption.

Nafeesa looked slightly puzzled when I crammed in three cans of Coke Zero and a trio of home-brand Snickers bars into my handbag. “We Locketts don’t pay quadruple price for our movie munchies.” (Sapphire’s already twigged that she’s one of the poor kids at her school, especially when a classmate apologised for not submitting their homework because he was busy helping his parents look at and buy a chalet. Their third).

Thirty minutes in and it was clear that ‘Horrible Bosses’ was a hybrid of The Hangover and American Pie and both girls were squirming in their seats. It was sadly becoming my understanding that ‘Fourteen plus’ in Geneva was upper level 18+ R in Australia.

I can handle the odd swear word but peppering each sentence with a sour sprinkling of MoFos and Constables was making things unnecessary ugly and sucking any semblance of wit or humour out of the experience. Seeing Ms Aniston proudly brandish some rather pornographic photos of her raping a knocked-out dental hygienist had me covering my eyes with my fingers and sliding down into the three day old pile of popcorn at my feet until I realised that I was the parent.

Me. Was it time to form a cat’s bum mouth of disapproval and pull the plug? Were the girls old enough for this nasty smut? Was I a thousand years old and the sole source of cultural ignorance and embarrassment? Was I selfish in wanting my baby girl to stay innocent a bit longer and not be bludgeoned with obscenities, even though most of the words would have been in common usage at her school? Diet coke spilled out of the can and dribbled down my leg in despair.

I felt a tiny tap on my knee. “Mum, if you want us to leave now, we can, you know,” Sapphire mouthed at me in the dark, her face illuminated by the so-called hilarious Serial Killer outside the bar scene.

“Yep. Let’s go. Nafeesa? Nafeesa sweetie, this just isn’t appropriate for you guys, so we have to leave.”

Sapphire put up a mildly believable act of being disappointed to save face in front of her friend who said, “If I was at home, at least my Mum could fast forward some of it.”

They walked back to our house together as I hung back to phone Nafeesa’s mother to explain. “That’s fine, I’ll come by and pick her up now if you like because my meeting has just finished.”

Yasmin’s car had pulled up in front of our building as we were nearing the side gate.

Ka-thonk! A cat had run out of our garden and was hit by a car. My eyes were on the writhing animal and not the license plate of the driver who clearly felt the impact but not the need to stop and care just a little.

The girls stopped in their tracks, horrified. The cat’s front legs were still moving in a slow pedalling motion as it lay dying on its side. “Is it still alive?”

Nope.

Nafeesa covered her face and walked, crablike to her mother’s car. “She’s got her pet cat at home, Mum,” Sapphire reminded me. Ah yes, Valencia, which ironically means strong and healthy. Lost nearly all feeling in her back legs due to being squashed in the driveway and wore tiny nappies for three months during her recovery. A little sweetie though.

Snapping out of my reverie I realised that it was the first time that I’d ever seen anything larger than a fish die before. The cat was a fetching mixture of ginger, grey and white and I’d seen it many times in our gardens sunning itself by the lavender or cooling off in the undergrowth. Blood was seeping from the ears and its mouth was mangled. Poor little thing.

Yasmin called over to me and I leaned into the window of her car to explain my decision to leave the movie. “Seeing Colin Farrell’s face mashed up against a window in a drug-fuelled orgy might have been a bit over the top, let alone Jennifer Aniston insisting that she needed a good hard Eff from her blackmailed assistant...”

A young man pulled into the kerb on his scooter, fished a newspaper out of his backpack and very gently scooped the cat off the road.

Turning my back on Yasmin, I rushed over. “Oh I’m so sorry – is this your cat?”

“No. I work at the embassy over there,” he waved in the general direction, “but I saw what happened and I can’t leave it there on the road to be hit again and again.”

Nafeesa overheard this and buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

I walked back in what I hoped was a confident swagger and patted the car door, trying to be cheerful. “Ah well, we’ll try for a better night out next time.”

Much later Sapphire sighed as we stood together in the lift, tired from asking people entering and leaving our building if they were missing a cat. “So that I didn’t have to keep blaming you all the time for being such an old fuddy duddy and making us leave the cinema, as we were walking home I tried to change the subject.”

“That seems like a good idea----“

“Yeah well I stuffed it up because I asked her what I should get Dad for his birthday and then she got all quiet and sad before my brain worked out that her father died of cancer three years ago.”

“Ah. It happens sometimes. Remember when I said to Jacqui that only Sad old Slappers wear anklets and then looked down to see that she had one on?”

She smiled and bent slightly downwards to lean into my chest. My arm automatically wrapped around her. Only three inches to go and we’ll be shoulder-to-shoulder.

The doors creaked open at the eighth floor. “I blame Jennifer Aniston for ALL of this. Let’s watch some Wallace and Gromit to cleanse our eyes and give Milly a cuddle. Maybe your father too, if he plays his cards right.”

Geneva is the world's centre for uber-quality watch making, clock design and fine-tuned precision. I wonder if I can ask them to slow down time just a little bit.

Side. Bright. Looking for it.

The tea cup-sized Maltese terrier on the counter next to us was a cute - albeit brief - distraction from looking at the crowd of people waiting impatiently for their turn to be buzzed in through the glass doors.

The dog's owner was busy with an issue of her own, her orange leather jacket matching both her skin and the long, diamante-studded cowboy boots she wore.

Once let inside, the room everyone wanted to get into was dim and plain; a river of tangled electrical cords and double adaptors on the scarred vinyl floor between the high counter and the computers.

LC and I stood there uncertainly. "Parles vous Anglais?"

"A leetle beet," he smiled.

My eyes filled up with tears - not for the first time that day. This time however it was with gratitude, so I guess it was a first.

My husband started again. "My wife had her wallet stolen about an hour ago....."

It's been a hell of a week. Culture shock, exhaustion and uncaring bureaucratic restrictions have all kicked in, reminding me very clearly what an ungainly and quite literally foreign person I am in such a place, just as I thought it would. What I didn't take into account was my real - not theoretically imagined - reaction to it.

Or Sapphire's. The past few days have seen a stranger inhabit the body of the child that I thought I knew. This person is furiously angry and uncooperative and has said hateful things. On paper we all know that this is classic lashing out due to a lack of power and an understandable build-up of resentment and fear. And yet to be part of it shreds me inside and LC is just as stricken.

Saying 'sorry' a few hours later seems to be her modus operandi and it is hard for me to accept this when I'm still hurting and raw. "I feel frightened," I whispered to LC, "because I feel that my daughter is gone." What is happening to us?

At lunch when I'm too fatigued to be the grown up and let things slide and she is sulking angrily, I announce that I'm going for a walk and will meet them at the hotel later. My handbag is slung over my chest with the zips close to my body and under my hands. I can't help the way I look but I can try to not make things too easy.

The walk soothes me a bit. The sun is shining on my burnt neck and both locals and tourists are in abundance. Eating, shopping, strolling and posing for photos. The tourist centre is in the enormous post office but contains about three brochures. I give in to the thoughts that I'm ashamed of: For the so-called Home of the UN, why is nothing in English?!

With a brochure in hand but not likely to be deciphered I cross the lake and admire a medieval clock tower. Several people are also taking photos of it and I join them. The cobbled alley is bursting with people and outdoor restaurants - how do they afford the prices? what sort of jobs do these people have? where the hell do they all live? - and note with amusement that one of the busiest shops is Uggs Australia.

I take a deep breath and slow down. I know we'll get through this. I know that Sapphire is struggling with many more worries than me. How could she not be afraid of starting high school, let alone one in a new country? How can she not feel anxious as she joins us in our search for accommodation when we get frequently disoriented in the streets? How can she not feel lonely, stuck with just her parents when her friends are on facebook eight hours and half a world away?

Things'll get better with every day that passes. First a home; then a school place. Then French lessons.

Now though, a hat or my nose will burst open like an overripe tomato and make me the first skin cancer candidate of Switzerland.

H&M is across the road so I'll pop in there for a look around and....

Oh no. My bag is wide open. My wallet is gone.

TV war!

Cramming a family, memories, treasures and an entire house into three cruelly inadequate 22kg suitcases about to wing their way to Switzerland for 2-6 years has been a massive effort. So much so that my back and brain have somehow melded together to transform me into an S-bended humanoid honey bee who flits from box to shed to table to cupboard to plastic bag to wheelie bin to checklist and back again; never stopping, always doing, constantly fretting.

Apart from the Trading Post, friends, family and a garage sale, a few key items have been placed on eBay: one of which is our beloved TV.

This baby was a rare extravagance for us, purchased in December 2007. Top of the range Sony Bravia. Picture so clear you can tell what each Crows player ate for breakfast before the game and what time the remnants were due to be expelled from the body afterwards. Realistically we won't be purchasing a TV of similar quality in Switzerland and decided to offer it for sale for a smidge less than half price.

Ebay allows potential buyers to ask questions about the item on sale and I've been busy replying to questions on the length and width of our kayak, the size of the viola, brand of our washing machine and the precise colour of our brown leather sofa. The TV discussion, however, has developed into an entirely different beast. This is what transpired. Yes, I am 'Lots-o-Choc':

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hello there i'm only interested in the tv. i'd like to offer you $500 for it. the reason is there was 52" of the same tv that went for $1025. here are the details about the other tv:
Sony BRAVIA KDL XBR 52 1080p LCD Television
Item condition: Used
Bid history: 56 bids
Winning bid: AU $1,025.00
if you consider my offer i will pay "CASH" on pick up because i live local as well.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Sorry but that's an entirely different model - ours is the very top of the range and is still retailing for $3300. The asking price still stands.
Regards
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hello again thanx for your reply. i just like to address to you that i am a " professional home entertainment consaltant " i deal with these things 24/7 so i know the difference between "EVERY" model tv thats available in australia. My offer is still valid and if consider it, let me know thax.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Sorry, as stated the model still retails for $3300. See: http://www.comparison.com.au/televisions/Sony/Bravia-KDL40X3100
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
hi, i don't know where you are getting your info from, but you are wrong because if you want it to buy your tv direct from "SONY" they will say to you "SORRY" we don't make this tv anymore because we made that tv back in 2008 no longer available it is discontiniued model. the only way you will find it is if some one tries to sell it for $1600 and no one will bid for it at that prize. good luck to you.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
Yet again I ask that you refer to this link - http://www.comparison.com.au/televisions/Sony/Bravia-KDL40X3100
The TVs are for sale everywhere.
Lots-o-Choc

Then LC came in and read over my shoulder. “Actually, they are discontinued. Better change the ad.” Oh hammer-gun my calf muscles to the side of a chariot and set it to Ben Hur speed....! I did change the ad. Immediately. Despite the amendment, Mini-mind still had time on his*** hands and a bone to pick.

Dear Lots-o-Choc
I guess I forgot that it is very hard to explain to a person that has no idea of what they are talking about. all I have to say to you is I wish you good luck.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind
And I'm surprised that for a supposed 'home entertainment consultant' you can barely spell, are very rude and seem to be extremely persistent for someone who claims that they can find this same model for $500. If that *is* the case, then why do you keep emailing me about this TV?
Please don't contact me again.
Lots-o-Choc

Dear Lots-o-Choc
first of all if you like correcting peoples spellings, why don't you become a teacher. and second of all I'm not insisting on your tv its just I'm just trying let a dumb and stupid person like you to realize that your tv is out dated and its not worth it what you are asking for it but I am pretty sure you will find another person like yourself to buy your tv . I wish you the best of luck "LOOSER"
oh by the way its been how many days and nobody made a bid for your tv because nobody is dumb like you. thats it end of discussion.
Mini-mind

Dear Mini-mind (what an appropriate name - clearly 'mini' reflects your IQ)
I *am* a qualified teacher as it happens, and I wish you the best of luck in trying to find a TV like ours for the $500 that you seem to think you can get it for. Fantasyland, I presume; otherwise why are you still here being annoying and not already enjoying such a TV?

By the way - it's 'loser', not 'looser', so I hope that in your career as 'home entertainment consultant' you're not required to write anything of consequence down for your 'customers', whomever they may be. Now run along you mental pgymy and stop writing back to me.

Or am I using words too big for you to understand?
Lots-o-Choc

And damn the annoying little bugger, we haven't had a single bid!


*** Yes, I've made the assumption that it's a 'he' and picturing a smallish man who hopes to browbeat people on ebay into selling him things for a bargain price so that he can sell them for vast profits later. I'm also assuming that he's extremely unattractive and smells bad.

Bra-less in ugg boots

He's leering at me again so I'm resting my head in my hands and staring down at my knees, willing not only for his attention to turn back to his drunken mates but also for the damn automatic door to stop opening and blasting me with freezing night air for just one minute.

Heart palpitations is what brought me here. No sooner had I gone to bed feeling relieved that my Rude Finger had reduced in size and swelling than the chest pains started.

I was strangely calm, even when doubled-over in shock and saying "Ooof" every time a spasm that felt not unlike a stick was twisting in my heart. "It can't be a cardiac arrest because my pulse is steady: a decade of running does that to you."

When an hour had passed and the spasms were becoming more insistent I started pacing the living room floor but couldn't find a position that eased things. "Ooof!"

LC woke Sapphire, got her dressed and drove me to Royal Melbourne hospital. I had time to find some tracksuit pants and my ugg boots. Arriving in just a t-shirt and knickers didn't seem the right thing to do, even in a so-called emergency situation.

A panic attack? Pretty bloody likely. But I was calm. Quiet, even. And the spasms of pain were too difficult to ignore - let alone stand up straight - and it didn't feel right to write them off as stress-related.

The night nurse covered me in sticky suction thingies and measured my ECG. All normal. Blood tests were taken (from both arms - I didn't have quite the werewithal that I'd had earlier in the day regarding the Rude Finger to remember to tell them that my right arm is categorically useless for finding a vein willing to give blood) and I was told to sit out in the waiting room and do just that. Wait. "Go home," I whispered to LC and Sapphire. "It's clear that I'm not having a heart attack, so whatever it is will be taken care of."

Four and a half hours later found me missing them both a thousand times eleventy billion triple lutz to the power of three. My warm bed the same amount.

Shivering and acutely conscious of my bralessness, I tried hard to not smell the two homeless blokes who'd arrived separately for a free night on the lino in front of Dem-tel adverts; the woman who moaned every ten seconds as some form of positive self talk as she slumped up against her husband; the father with a severely bee stung face barely keeping the balloon effect down with a now-thawed out ice pack; the loud but mysterious vomiter and the Lebanese boofheads.

I knew that they were Lebanese because they said it. Loud and proud, many times. One of their brothers had injured himself and the six of them were all there to offer moral support.

Said support seemed to involve play wrestling, swearing and frequent visits outside for a smoke or three. When that failed to amuse them, they'd turn their attention to me.

Not a 'what are you here for/we're all in this together' sort of focus, but a "I'm bringing sexy back" sung to me over and over and over again. Apparently it was hilarious. Seeing me clutch my chest and rock back and forth in a hard plastic chair until the attack passed didn't seem to concern or phase them. Or the two hard-faced nurses on the front counter.

Three major car accidents took the resources, interest and energies away from those in the waiting room. The decent, moral and mature side of me entirely understood this, but the frightened, occasionally-convulsed and exhausted little git wanted it to be my turn. Sod the rest of them, when was it going to be MY turn?

At 4.30am, it turned out. Five hours after being told to sit back and wait.

The doctor was lovely. Jeff. Kind, understanding and proficient. "It seems to be a Saturday night on a full moon out there tonight," he said, and after my chest x-ray he said I could wait for the results in the technician's office. Tears filled my eyes with gratitude.

Nothing majorly wrong. Heart, bloods and chest all okay. But the pain?

"Have you been throwing up lately?"

Why yes, now that you mention it. Mr Migraine paid me a three day visit that saw most of Saturday/Sunday taken up with trying to prevent my head from shattering whilst balancing a chuck bucket on my knees and simultanously exploding with diarrhoea. Why do you ask?

Turns out my oesophagus is a bit strained from the violence of heaving for hours with no discernible results. Today my chest feels like it has been stretched out like a strong man's hot water bottle and snapped back into shape with a decided lack of respect or finesse. That I can live with very very gladly.

As I wandered out at 6am waiting for LC to pick me up, the Leb Bros were still in the main foyer, their energies sapped and boredom sending them into snooze mode. I wished them all a hearty, lingering hangover and a chafing rash to the nether regions that no scientific or medical endeavour would never be able to fix.

Gobble Gobble

Sapphire's starting to come home from school and cry.

Like all puberty-afflicted kids, her bedroom door is shut more often than it is open these days.

Last night, soon after I got home, patted the dog, called out 'Hi' to Love Chunks, knocked on her door and opened it straight away. Yes, this is an invasion. No, she wasn't doing drugs, cutting herself or murdering anyone.

She wheeled around, pretending to fold up her school jumper. I knew something was wrong; she's never been one for folding her clothes.

"Are you OK?"

A nod of the head.

"Sweetie are you sure?"

The sobs erupted and she ran to me. "I'm still thinking about 'Titanic' Mum, it's soooo sad," she wailed.

Yep. Roll your eyes if you must, but LC and I let her watch 'Titanic' at home on Saturday night. Picture the three of us on the couch, some chocolates, Milly in her beanbag and the comfort of tracksuit pants. It was old hat for us, but the most engrossing, heart-wrenching, involving, daring and saddest movie that Sapphire had ever seen. She sobbed so hard that Milly wobbled over on her creaky legs, tail wagging uncertainly as she pressed her nose against Sapph's leg, trying to figure out why one of her beloved pack members was crying.

The soundtrack to the movie was playing in the background as I stood in her room.

Girls can be bitches when puberty kicks in; the passive-aggressive games start and they start to self-select those who match their needs based on ever-changing perceptions of usefulness and coolness. To see my daughter buckle under the weight of trying not to let it affect her was finally becoming too much.

"Mum I'm not cool. I know I'm not cool because, in the maths class where I'm the only year five girl, all the other kids walk in and sit at every table except mine. Someone only sits next to me when there's no other place left."

Yup. It's been a grrrrreat idea to have streamed Maths, Science and English classes that blend year sixes and year fives together. Sapphire's friends are in the other classes, so she's cursed with being younger, brainier and therefore way uncooler.

We've had cuddles and conversations before about why being 'cool' is restrictive and shallow and I know - geez do I know - that all the comforting words of a parent who experienced the same shit decades either doesn't help the hurt when it is occurring to you and only you.

She said exactly the same thing that I remember saying to my Mum. "Why is it all so hard, Mum? Why can't I go back to being a kid again?"

Trouble is, I said (sobbed) it at fourteen; Sapphire's doing it at eleven. My beautiful, funny, smart, kind incredible little girl is wondering where and why and how she fits into the scheme of things in her tiny but hard primary school world.

"I feel trapped at school sometimes." Her NAPLAN results are off the charts but when her once-dear friend says - all too regularly - "I have a great secret but I can't tell you" and only shows interest when they're in home class and are doing an assignment together, I'd gladly throw that result in the bin if it meant I had a happier child who wasn't wondering what it was that she did wrong.

"I can't tell the teacher about her, Mum, because all she says back is 'I didn't mean it like that' or 'I don't know what you mean' so it's me that looks like I'm being nasty and making trouble, not her."

At the dinner table - we three like to discuss Good Day, Bad Day and Funny Day over our meals - LC could see that my anger at the world was growing and my rationality and sense was not. "No, Kath. Don't contact her parents or the teacher. Sapphire knows that she's got a few jerks in her class and she's stuck with J as her home-class partner until the end of the year.

Sapphire nodded, this time patting my hand to comfort and calm me instead of the other way around. "I can't get a new partner for anything in home class now. She and me are known as partners and nobody else hears what she says to me or what she's really like. I've only got a few more weeks to go."

We watched a recorded episode of Glee, did the dishes and talked again when it was time to say good night. "Mum I found that old key ring of yours that has the elephant on it with birds all over him, saying 'Don't let the turkeys get you down.' I like that saying."

"Me too," I smiled, smoothing the sheet over the blanket. "But I also know that turkeys are everywhere and somehow you have to learn to ignore their noise but not annoy them. That's the challenging bit."

She nodded again, eyes filling up. "It's so hard, Mum."

"I know mate, and I also know that it's hard to soar like an eagle when your classroom is only eight foot high and has ceiling fans."

That made her laugh and as I flicked off the light and closed her door I waggled my finger accusingly as the hall light cast a silhouette, scolding, "No more 'Titanic' for you," and walked jauntily up the passage.

The light steps were for her. The anger, frustration and inability to make things better for her is hidden until the passage door is closed and LC is waiting.

They Will Come














Being a tourist in your own country can be both an enlightening and frustrating experience.

I haven't been a tourist for quite a few months now - because I don't think spending one Saturday night in Bendigo last month counts - but having pined for Sapphire when she visited her grandparents in SA; then waving Love Chunks off to Switzerland and, a day after his return, Sapphire on the school bus to Canberra for the week, I started reminiscing.....

On our first night in Tasmania earlier this year, fresh off the ferry (or as fresh as you can be sitting on a freezing boat for nine hours with pie crumbs withering in your crotch and a pen stripe across your cheek that your family couldn't be arsed telling you about) and bleary-eyed in Devonport, we were keen to eat something decent. Preferably something not made four days earlier and sealed in a plastic triangle. Thus we found ourselves at our first touristy experience, Dannenbrog.

It's a steakhouse. And yet their menu informed me that it is named after the Danish flag because 'our Mary' married 'their Frederik' and it was considered the right name for a restaurant that challenges you to eat two 800 gram steaks plus chips, veges and gravy and win a bumper sticker for your efforts. We three declined, choosing much smaller cuts of meat but we were still amazed at the number of bumper stickers emblazoned with proud meat-eaters' names in black texta that lined the caravan-panelled take away section. The place was packed with locals and visitors and it was even going well enough to feature quite regularly in the ad-breaks between WIN-TV programs.

Maybe it was these drivers who owned the beach shacks at Dootown, quite near the blowhole (a natural attraction that both Love Chunks and Sapphire suggested - rather unkindly, in my view - should be essential viewing for me). The Bruces and Moiras had got into the spirit by naming their wonky little wooden boxes. We saw Love Me Doo, Didgeri-Doo, Doo Nix, We Doo, Wanna Doo, Doo Licious Fish and Chips, Doo Come Again, Can Doo, Sheil Doo, Thisll Doo, Dr DooLittle, XanaDoo and of course, Doo Me.














At a chocolate factory on the Bass Highway, Mr and Mrs Morbidly Obese pushed their way ahead of Love Chunks and Sapphire to get at the free samples. Toothpicks were provided to take one small sample, taste it and discard it before picking up another toothpick for another different sample. Mr MO speared as many chocolate ganache truffles that he could physically squeeze onto the tiny sliver of wood so that it resembled a fat satay, slid them into his mouth and then used the same toothpick to do it all over again. And again. Then he moved onto the next little box and underwent the same process for that particular flavour.

We decided that it might be best to just take a chance on the chocolate and buy some untested. Mr and Mrs MO, on the other hand, wiped their mouths against the back of their hands and bought nothing.

As I was handing over a twenty, a tour bus pulled up and the tiny shop was packed with bodies trying to pass by each other without being accidentally shoved into the precariously stacked shelves of fudge via their camera bags. These guys had five minutes for a 'look inside' as Dennis, their driver, headed straight for the bog beside the cafe. There was no time for tasting. "I take ten of those..... those....... ten more of those..... and those...... plus those," one Japanese man said, pointing at the truffles that appealed to him. Over a hundred dollars of chocolate based purely on time restriction, not taste.

The wildlife park at unfortunately named (not just for insult reasons but also because, well, how many moles are native to this country?) Mole Creek promised oodles of Tassie devils and had the Discovery Channel and Harry's Practice logos on their entry sign. The fibreglass devil at the gate wasn't quite so welcoming as his back legs had disappeared into the dirt and a large open hole was gaping in his lower back.

The paths were overgrown, having not seen a mower in a year or two but probably quite a few happy sun-loving snakes. Signs were faded or non-existent and no information was in front of any of the dilapidated enclosures.














A wedge-tailed eagle was busy eating a wallaby leg inside a hut no bigger than a lawn mowing shed whose roof had already caved in. The 'devils' were two in number; both fast asleep inside a dark log. One part of their fence had a sheet of cracked plastic perspex sheeting as a viewing area no doubt installed by someone even less handy than I am. Two baby wombats were also sleeping in a child's playpen with an old woollen blanket slung over half of the top to protect them from the sun.

We heard several different languages being spoken around us and I ached with shame at them visiting such a forsaken place. Fifteen minutes of aimlessly wandering around in shock saw me grit my teeth, purse my already thin lips and say (quite difficult with thin, pursed lips) to Love Chunks, "This is crap. I'm asking for our money back."

Sapphire cringed and LC busied himself trying to get the sleeping adult wombat to move (was it dead?) but I stood at the front counter and dinged the 'please ring if the desk is unaccompanied bell.' I usually don't do that but clear my throat politely in hope. Not today.

"Excuse me....!"

Reluctant worker girl dusted down her jeans and popped her head in the door. "Yeah?"

"I'd like my entry fee refunded please. Here's the receipt. This place is shabby, unsafe, rundown and provides absolutely no information whatsoever."

Sighing, she walked towards me. "Got your credit card receipt?" and snatched it out of my hand before I could answer. My request clearly wasn't the first.

Back in the carpark, we decided to head towards our next overnight stop and look for an ice-cream on the way. It was highly likely that most of it would fall prey to the gravitational pull of my crotch but at least it wasn't scalding hot coffee.

Snappy September - Day One - Clerk is a JERK

It's that time of year again, when I try to blog every single day for a month. I did it in 2008 during Appreciative August and twice in 2009 with Knowledge November and the daggy Doggy December.

In 2010 it's Snappy September. Silly LOLcat captions, cartoons and artworks are the backbone of this blog, but this month it's all about my photos. Ones I've taken with my old Canon 'sure shot' won on 'Wheel of Fortune' in 1988, or the digital brick we bought in 2003; or the brilliant SLR that was a birthday gift from Love Chunks and Sapphire in 2009.

So, are you ready?




















I've never really paid much attention to graffiti unless it's really unavoidable and ugly in both senses of the word.

















You know the stuff I mean: the classically horrendous, hand-written 'Sharon is a mole and we're going to punch her face in' local trivia that's mostly found scrawled on the back of roadhouse toilets or thick spray-painted hate like 'Go Home Afghanis/Greenies/People Who Think for Themselves.'




















Therefore whenever I see the little white panel van with 'Graffiti Removal Squad' driven around the neighbourhood by the nice retired blokes, I usually give them a wave and say 'Good on yer' as they pass. They've got their hands full and therefore don't have time or the energy to climb on top of shot towers, railway bridges and apartment buildings to remove the tags that plague our area.




















In Flemington, graffiti tags are on everything. If the Thursday winos who like to sun themselves on the tram stop seats by Racecourse Road stay motionless too long they're likely to have 'Mine' or 'Herpys' or 'Klerks' written on them in fat texta.

And its Clerk (with a 'C' and no 's' at the end) and Klerks (with a 'K' and an 's' at the end) who completely and utterly dominates our little part of the city.

















Clerk/Klerks have tagged the railway bridge, the actual track, the station's doors, roof guttering, heritage-listed pedestrian bridge, cement underpass, platform benches and brickwork.

According to a policeman I chatted to, keen graffiti taggers hate it when haters or lovers of their 'work' mis-spell their tag. He then said, "So go on and write about him. If he - and yes, they're mostly male - is like our other frequent taggers, then he'll be eager to google himself online to see how infamous he's become and if you mistake his work - Clerk or Klerks - it'll be a huge insult."















Well, KClerks - YOU are the insult. Clearly you have a lot of time on your hands, money to spend on art supplies and perhaps suffer from insomnia or restless legs syndrome, because your 'art' is mostly done in the middle of the night.














I've found you on the back of the truck owned by Mr Divvy Van's house mate














.....and on this poor backpacker's van by the railway station. Sapphire and I have also seen your handiwork on the tennis courts, shopfronts, builder's port-a-loos, Laksa King renovations, garage doors, school signs, road work barriers, roundabouts, chimney tops and billboards.

It's hard not to ask why someone who clearly has a lot of time, daring and energy doesn't put it to good use. You know, stuff like rescuing kittens, catching drug dealers, fixing up cracked walls, fighting crime etc.

Whilst I'm currently a Litter Ninja, I'm still avoiding the suggestions that people 'helpfully' throw my way about tackling graffiti. Picking up a squashed Maccas box is over in seconds and makes a difference for - oh ok, maybe only a day - but graffiti can take hours to remove and cost a lot of solvent, paint or water to do so and reappear again that night. Pretty dispiriting stuff.

Apart from being a Night Time Ninja with Harry Potter's borrowed invisibility cloak, how would I catch you, Mr CKlerks? And if I did so, armed with just a bit of middle-aged, middle-class anger and some $5.95 barbecue tongs, what could I do to change things?

How come ....

Every time I have a busy day I wake up with a cricked neck, aching teeth and a brewing migraine?

The first task of today is to scout around for rubbish (no hard feat, let's be honest) for the local newspaper photographer to arrange artfully around my feet as I pose incognito as the 'Typical Flemington Litter Bug.'

I feel like doing this (all that bending with tongs over reeking Red Rooster boxes, cigarette butts and half-filled beer bottles with the yeasty smell turning into parmesan vomit-pong in the festering humidity) about as much as I'd enjoy having my head flipped open and brains blended with a Bamix.

Still, as I sit here gingerly (the keyboard is so loud) typing this in my pyjamas; having just scared the courier answering the door in my aqua Crocs and stained long white-tshirt, I realise that I'm in a whingey frame of mind and have a few other 'How come....?' ponderings I'd like answered.

Well, maybe not answered today but sometime soon. Today I'd be happy with a partly-functioning head and an ability to bend over without clutching around madly for a handhold as I try to repress the stars dancing in front of my eyes and swallow the dry heaves back down.

How come .... people who believe in reincarnation have always been somebody really important in a past life? They always seem to be historic figures like Cleopatra, Genghis Khan, Beethoven or Galileo. Why weren't they ever the village idiot from Scunthorpe, 1187? A slave crushed under a stone during the construction of the Cheops pyramid or the first poor bugger to try curdled milk in a cave and die a long and painful death from food poisoning?

How come .... people who attend community meetings and whinge long and loud never offer to do anything to help? They say their bit and then sit back and cross their arms, waiting for the rest of us to solve it.

How come .... people who buy sixties-era flats made from besser-blocks and concrete slabs insist on calling them a-parht-ments?

How come .... every time I'm in a rush and in my nice clothes, I immediately find the one and only freshest and largest and most disgusting dog turd to tread into?

How come .... Steve Price, a slightly grumpier-looking Michael Keaton lookalike and Program Director of the new Melbourne Talk Radio keeps saying that he'll "Answer any call from a woman who'd like to work with us" but has never bothered to return any of mine?

On second thoughts, don't answer that. Even in this sorry state I know that women still have to be 'hot' looking for commercial radio and 'famous' for something like being Princess Mary's bridesmaid, posing topless after a Big Brother stint or currently shagging an AFL footy player not yet embroiled in a sexual/gambling/drinking/punching/drug addiction/nightclub incident.

How come ..... it's me that reaches into the fruit bowl and sinks my finger into the acrid ooze of the hidden fuzzy green orange?

The second task of today is to finish up a paid article for the paper (due yesterday)

Third an appointment to interview someone for the next article (due next week)

Fourth is to finish editing a commercial publication by close of business today

Fifth is to help two kids with their homework after school

Sixth is to prepare for the next Writers' Workshop at Sapphire's primary school tomorrow; and

The seventh is to attend the information session at our local high school that gets overlooked by ridiculously snobby parents who don't want to send their kids to an educational facility literally metres from their door because it happens to host some Somalian refugees and housing commission kids but instead pack their kids onto two trains and trams in order to attend a school on the other side of the city whose uniform costs alone could fund the annual expenditure of the local school's library book budget......

No matter. It's time to chew another couple of panadeine and set to scraping the dog shit out of my shoe.

Milly's at my feet, trying her best to look apologetic and I'm smiling. I'm gradually realising that happiness can be found in the weirdest of situations.

Don't turn around!

"Don't turn around, Mum, she's right behind us!"

Sapphire's blue eyes are stricken and stressed. I reach out for her hand as we walk to the post office with the letters we need to send off.

"She's talking about me; that's why she's walking slowly so that she doesn't catch up with us."

Sapphire's head now droops from her neck so that her gaze is firmly on the ground.

I stop. "Mum," she hisses, terrified. "What are you doing?"

I smile. "I'm turning around and I'm looking at her."

Sapphire tugs at my hand desperately. "But Mum, now she knows that I know she's talking about me and----"

"That's right, love, she does know. And if you keep walking along like someone's just punched you in the back and you're ashamed of it, she's won. She'll then see that you're upset and what she's doing is working, so the key is to show that you don't care and you're not upset, okay?"

Her face is blank and she tugs at me again. We continue walking. "Mum I don't get it."

Fair enough. "Well, what we need to do is have a really animated conversation, like this----" I stand there, making elaborate hand gestures and laugh in what I hope is a hilarious and not creepy way. My hand touches Sapphire's shoulder and I lean in, pretending to listen intently and let out another guffaw.

A small smile appears. She gets it. "But Mum, what are we supposed to say?"

"Rhubarb."

"What?"

"Rhubarb. Whenever you're on stage in a background crowd scene, or when you watch 'Friends' and see people in the coffee house pretending to talk, they're usually saying 'Rhubarb Rhubarb' over and over to look like they're having a wonderful conversation."

"Rhubarb?"

I nod exaggeratedly. "Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubarb!"

She laughs and it is a joy to see the flash of her white teeth and the hair fall back from her face. "Oh yes Mum, Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubarb. And don't forget that we need to Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubarb..."

The girl behind us is forgotten as we both get into our vegetable-based conversation. Our laughs are genuine, the fun we have is true as we add expressions, physical responses to each other's sentences and react outrageously.

Soon enough the letters are posted and the girl has turned off at another street.

"I forgot about her Mum. Do you mind if I tell my other friends about this?"

"Go for your life."

We walk back up the hill towards home. She's gone through a recent growth spurt and there are signs of womanly curves and new length in her legs but to see her skipping unconcernedly a few metres ahead of me makes my chest actually hurt.

I'll never tell her that rhubarb is my least favourite food.

Fanta Feet




















So now I'm officially a fully-fledged Litter Ninja: council-funded and newspaper-supported. Even the local police station have put up my recruitment posters. Sure, the two officers were actually just walking back up Wellington Street after having bought their lunch at Subway, but hey, you take your opportunities as you find them.

Trouble is, I now feel the need to go looking for rubbish to pick up every day instead of the once or twice a week amble up my street that was happening before. These days it just isn't acceptable to have my beat fluttering with Maccas wrappers and beer cans when I'm poncing about trying to get other locals to do the right thing.
















But carrying around a long-handled pair of BBQ tongs is fraught with difficulty.

For starters, if I shove it into my shoulder bag, at least a third of it sticks out and I'm naturally ear-marked as one of those weird old ladies who carries around her most precious possessions. All I need to do is let my one (as at last frantic 'count the wrinkles check') chin hair grow and wear my crocs out in public with knee-high pantihose unravelling at the ankles and it's a done deal.

If I just carry them in my hand during my walks with Milly or off to the corner shop to buy two litres of milk it frightens off pensioners, who automatically assume:

* It's a dangerous weapon
* It can pick pockets and wallets out of old peoples' shopping trolleys and it is therefore vital to shake one's head in disgust and immediately cross to the other side of the street
* The anti-psychotic medication isn't working and neither is the secure lock-down facilities at the accommodation centre that Mr Divvy Van favours; and
* If I'm not terrorising humans, I'll start randomly decapitating the roses and azaleas of the cottage gardens I pass.

Teenagers think I'm collecting cans for money, and I guess my unfashionable state lends itself to their assumption of poverty, both financial and sartorially. "Hey lady," one said to me a while ago, "You know that you only get a deposit if you live in South Australia, don't yer?"

As I nodded and kept bending down, his buddy sniggered and pointed to a trio of beer bottles under the park bench. "Ya missed some."

But if I don't include the tongs in my travels, I invariably see a heap of litter just waiting - begging - me to pick it up and put it where it belongs. Today, under a plane tree, was a nappy bag so full it resembled the rump of a palomino. And this pear-scented bag of human excrement was rudely dumped alongside a Cold Rock Ice-creamery carton (how come? There's not one within coo-ee of here), an empty tin of chopped tomatoes, a car ashtray's worth of cigarette butts, yellowed junk mail brochures and the ubiquitous bourbon and coke can.

After wrestling with my do-gooder instincts agaisnt my concerns of bacteria collection, I ignored the lot and walked away. And felt terrible for doing so. Ninjas are renowned for stealth and invisibility: what if one of my fellow rubbish renegades saw my callous disregard?

To make up for it, I waited until 5pm when Love Chunks had cycled in from work and Sapphire was still happily playing with her best buddy Juliet. As soon as Milly saw me heading towards the laundry cupboard to find her lead and the saggy long sock full of shopping bags, she knew: it was Litter Ninja time. Or, in her mind, walkies and finding bonus food (read: Red Rooster chicken bones and squashed chips) time.




















The high school is my territory. I clean it, therefore I feel a sense of proprietory ownership towards it long after the kids have walked home in their skinny jeans, hoodies and gladiator sandals. The cleaners wave hello and the vice principal has come out and said that I could use their skip to offload any hard rubbish as often as I need to.

Today however, the school was surprisingly clean. Could it be that the kids have noticed that it's clean, and that any crap thrown on the ground sticks out like a sore thumb....? That they spend at least a third of their waking hours at this place, so why not look after it.....? The fruit box cartons and yiros bags shoved into the railings under the verandah provided the real answer. It had been too wet to eat outside.

And bugger it, I was wearing thongs and, for the third time that session, tipped up a can of Fanta to put in my bag only to have it gurgle out the orange sticky contents straight onto my toes.

Down but not out, I decided to clean up the main road in front of the school as well. Milly had to be put back on her lead as the traffic roared dangerously close, loud and fast up Mt Alexander Road. She was told very firmly to SIT as I leaned out and plucked run-over aluminium cans and cigarette packs from the bicycle lane before the lights down at Travancore released another avalanche of cars.

Squidge-stick, Squidge-stick, Squidge-stick was the sound my feet made as they struggled to move in the increasingly glue-like residue of the Fanta. It'd be easy enough to rinse off under the tap when I got home and it would be nice to pick up the greasy brown paper bags that had blown up the street from the service station's all-night souvlaki van.....

Doof-Doof Doof-Doof Doof-Doof. "Yer Pharkkin LOSER" a man yelled out at me from his commodore before roaring off ahead of the stopped tram.

I recounted this later to my friend Helen, who said, "Maybe he thought you were a bag lady."

Oh. Am I that bad a dresser?

Inexplicably useful tool

The Australian Open is on and I sometimes watch it. I'll admit to being slightly partial to the class that is Roger Federer but normally I can sit and watch whoever's playing, with an eye to my knitting, patting Milly or skimming through a novel.

Andy Roddick, however, is a tool and commanded my entire attention.

After thinking hard and deciding to be honest about the return of my black dog I walked away from the computer and sat on the sofa next to Love Chunks, still in tears. He automatically put his arm around me and I leaned into him which I'm beginning to see is a good thing and nothing to waste time worrying about whether it's deserved or not.

As we chatted and waited for the start of the Andy Roddick and Marin Cilic match, channel seven showed us a few 'highlights', cleverly hidden under Optus' 'sounds of the open' badge.

Roddick-the-rectum was having a whinge to the chair umpire about someone in the crowd making a noise that distracted him. The umpire explained that apart from reminding the crowd to be quiet between points and whilst the players were serving, they were limited in what they could do if security were not able to pinpoint the actual person being a nuisance.

"There's not much else we can do," he said, to a curled-lip Rectum.

Roddick went on to complain a bit more and as LC and I sat there and wondered at the nastiness behind the complaint and the utter disdain he was showing towards the umpire, I realised that my black dog had obviously ducked out for a doo-doo for a moment, giving me a bit of time to breathe without the extra weight.

Roid-slick was showing me that a cosseted lifestyle in which you can fling towels at ball kids, curse an umpire, ask for somebody to rub your shoulder-woulder when you're losey-wosing and maybe twitter a vague apology later ("I wasn't 100 percent right") is wrong.

Of course we all know it's wrong, but I realised that a tool like Candy-Andy lives a life where his only concern is how well he hits a fuzzy bouncing ball and how much money he receives whilst doing it.

He doesn't need to behave like a decent person or worry about how his actions affect the feelings or self esteem of others. He's not measured for his morals or fairness and isn't expected to discuss anything beyond his sponsor and ranking. He is not required to do his share of household chores, cook a meal, be a genuine member of a local community or think of solutions that might help others around him.

What a sad, stupid git.

Perhaps it is a negative way for me to grasp at straws but as factors such as age, stronger players and injuries take their toll and his ranking decreases, my ranking can only go up.

And that's a good thing.

The demonic Doctor Checks

Walking into my local medical centre isn't a welcoming experience. Several coffee cups have been squashed on the steep front steps with their sticky contents dribbling down the grey tiles and making a nauseating soup when mixed with cigarette ash and butts. The graffiti scratched onto the glass doors doesn't enhance the atmosphere either.















Inside the over-heated waiting room, I'm given the luxury of time to observe my fellow patients and to consider just how the very worst of cheaply slapped-together 1990s architecture has stood the test of time. Answer: it doesn't. The once-white ceiling tiles are blooming with latte-brown water stains, the huge green formica reception desk is so gouged that the chipboard underneath has become a crazy-paving feature and the once-proud 'Chemist next door' enamel sign has been covered with a torn piece of paper with handwriting informing me that the 'Neerest chemist is 300m walk further up the road.'

A three year old boy and his mother sit beside me. Well, she does: he's busy doing lap after lap around the low coffee tables, saying "When can I see Dr Checks? When can I see Dr Checks?" over and over.

Dr Checks? Dr Cheques? Is his mother running some kind of blackmailing scheme...? I put my boring novel down and am rude enough to raise one eyebrow at her quizzically. To her credit, she doesn't say, "It's none of your pharkin' business," but laughs and says, "Hugo likes ---" she looks around, sees her target and points "-----that doctor over there, the one in the houndstooth jacket."

I see a stooped old man in glasses slowly shuffle behind the reception desk to reach for his next file. He most certainly would have been around to see the celebrations at end of World War One.

Hugo rushed over to tug at his mother's skirt. "See Mum, Dr Checks is here! Dr Checks! Dr Checks!"

Hugo is shushed by Mum, and I go back to my book. Both of us still have to wait our turn and she tries to ease her son into the idea that it might be Doctor Blue Shirt he sees instead of Checks. "His grandfather has the same jacket," Mum whispers to me and says brightly and in a louder voice to Hugo, "But blue is your favourite colour, isn't it sweetie?"

"Ye-e-e-e-e-sss...." Hugo's voice had now moved up an octave to a high pitched whine that was starting to rattle the windows. "But I wanna see Dr Checks!"

It was time to plough back into the dull book on my knee and let the mother of Hugo try to cajole him with a trip to the water fountain, the tatty community brochure stand, the toilets and shooshing him again when he saw the enormous nose ring in a punky-emo hybrid guy who'd just sat on the other side of him: "Why is he wearing a bangle in his nose?"
"Um, it's a nose ring, Hugo. Some people wear them as jewellery, like you sometimes like to wear my bracelets and necklaces."
Nice response, I thought, but not Hugo. "Yuk, it'll get boogies on it."
Fair point too.

Dr Checks came back out into the foyer.
"Yay!" yelled Hugo, "It's my turn, Mummy!"

Dr Checks smiled - or was he merely airing his dentures - and said, "Mrs Lockett?" I grabbed my bag and left the room to Hugo's anguished sobbing.

Three months ago, at the urging of Love Chunks, I underwent a cholesterol test.
"We'll call you if something's serious, so no news is good news," said the doctor filling up the test tube with my red stuff at the time.

No phone call was received, so I was in the clear: my cholesterol test was obviously OK and I could continue to inhale chocolate, cheese, chips, meat, pastries, pies, eggs and donuts with greedy abandon. Especially chocolate.

















Today however, found me there to get my tumour checked up on - keep an eye on those pesky prolactin levels and have a wee whinge about the unwanted and increasing visits from Mr Migraine. He was becoming the medical equivalent of a stalker.

"You look very fit," Dr Checks said.
"Oh, I am", I sat up straighter, beaming with pride and huge spadeful of vanity. "I run at least three times a week, power walk twice and am a good girl and eat lots of fruit and veges and-----"
"But," Dr C looked down into the folder. "Your cholesterol level is much too high."
"Wha-a-a-a-t?" My smugness disappeared up the anus from whence it came. "But I was told by the other doctor that no news is good news!"

He affected that pose that's so infuriating because you just know you're in for a lecture and you know it's probably deserved but you just don't want to hear it: he lowered his glasses and looked down his nose at me. Pompous git - and look a him sitting there with his old man moobs sweating in crescent marks on his too tight business shirt, about to lecture me, an educated, intelligent, responsible adult about diet and exercise, the nerve..!

"Your cholesterol level is 6.5 and it should not be anything higher than 5.5. The doctor here has made a note saying, 'Discuss this with the patient when she arrives to collect her test results'."
He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose to deliver the final pompous, know-it-all, you-can't-handle-the-truth barb: "That was THREE months ago. Surely you must have wondered what your results were?"

As intended, it was now my turn to play the part of the sheepish, admittedly ashamed and naughty patient and the role fitted perfectly. "Well, um, I just assumed that if it was really bad, one of you would call..."

Dr C held up a tired, I've-heard-it-all-before-young-lady hand. "You're not about to be carted into an ambulance, but you need to do something about it now. Seriously."

And the next fifteen minutes involved talk of cutting out full fat milk, cream, butter, cheese, red fatty meats, chicken skin, animal fats, coconut milk, palm oil from my diet entirely. Yep, okay, fine, nod nod nod, can do all of that. Sure, absolutely.

And no cakes, eggs, bacon, biscuits, donuts, pastries, pies, tarts or quiches. Ye-e-s, okay, it'll be a struggle but yes, my health is important.

Of course I knew what was coming next.

I knew it, he knew it and you know it, don't you?

"How much chocolate do you eat a week, Mrs Lockett?"
"Oh call me Kath, you already know so much about me, inside and out, heh heh, although I don't want to have a pap smear today. Did you know that I'm a chocolate reviewer and writer and manage to look only slightly chubby instead of Jabba the Hutt-like due to my dedication to exercise and the proper intake of vitamins and min--"

"How much chocolate do you eat a week----" he paused, to let his authority and moral detachment sink in more fully "-----Kath?"

Like a mathematically challenged eight year old, I went through an average week, listing each block, truffle and bar and counting them on my fingers. "Well, I had lunch at San Churro - so it was a meal really, not an additional snack, but then there was the two Nestle blocks which were a gift from Helen and M&Ms have released an orange flavour that is only currentlyavailable in the 200 gram bags and it's greedy I know, but it took me three blocks before the willpower to photograph it emerged in order to write the review for the daggy but delicious Cadbury Tiramisu dessert block and just this morning I finally got a hold of the new Lindt Classic flavours and...."

I just can't write the figure here. It hurts too much. Let's just say that if Dr Checks had any hair left, his eyebrows had risen high enough to have hidden amongst his fringe.

"You have to cut that by at least ninety percent or you'll be in serious trouble."

He might as well have yanked my heart out with barbed wire gloves and plonked it into a tupperware container and slung it in the staff fridge to rot amongst the ancient sweet chilli sauce sachets and yoghurt tubs.














A few minutes later, I slowly walked home. The morning sunshine was too bright and harsh, and my backpack was heavy. Love Chunks opened the door and the moment he saw my face, said, "Oh my god Kath, what's wrong, has your tumour grown back again?"
My eyes were blurred with tears. "But I love what I do...."

I hadn't dared show Dr Checks what I'd purchased from the supermarket before my appointment with him; just a few treats to see me through a week in central Australia on a 4WD camping trip that was not likely to fully cater for my specific needs:

Still, if I get to eat ten percent of it....?