French Fogey Finds

Regular readers of this blog (and I'm also including you, yes you, dear lurkers) will know that - call it what you will - flea marketing, second hand scrummaging or jolly brocanting - has been a new-found joy of mine since arriving in Switzerland.

A friend living in Choulex (pronounced 'Shoelace' but without the 'sss' at the end) let me know that a disused aged care home was selling off everything inside and outside the place. Would I like to go?  Look, who doesn't need gold plastic barbeque plates that include scallop servers?  That's right, no-one.

Sapphire and I were immediately struck by the age of the building which, (sorry, I forgot to photograph), was most likely over two or three hundred years old.  It was a classic several-storeyed Suisse-French farmhouse with thick stone-filled walls, solid, rough-hewn wooden beams and not one floor that was level or at right angles. Maybe that's why the place looked as though no-one had lived there for at least a decade.

It touched something in me to see boxes and boxes of seasonal decorations.  Baubles, baby trees, tinsel, Easter rabbits, 'golden anniversaire' trinkets, halloween pumpkins, candles and ..... mini carrots. I just had to have them. For what, I'm not sure yet, but Love Chunks fervently hopes that they and my golden croissant will soon end up somewhere he no longer has to clap his beady blues on them.

Boxes and boxes were filled with coat hangers, felt hats, cardigans and, saddest of all, dozens and dozens of empty photo frames. Did the staff empty them out when a guest departed in order to save space when handing over clothes and belongings to grieving relatives?

We were invited to look in every room of the house and noted that the walls, banisters and lift doors were all painted pink: was it a bold generalisation to assume that this particular aged care home catered for women only?  Names were still pasted on the doors with photos of each lady; clearly all long gone but hopefully peacefully so.  There was a lingering sense that it had been a decent place to live and work in.

Up on the top floor was a still-fairly-well equipped medical office and several rooms with hospital beds.  Further up the hall - and being careful to tread lightly as the floorboards were spongy and the beams were now forbiddingly low - we found ourselves in a beauty salon. "Oooh, I'd love this," Sapph exclaimed at seeing a double-seated, hair drying helmet on a stand in the best pale brown and cream plastic that the nineteen sixties had to offer.  Nearby were lockers with names neatly written on each and benches lined with  folded aprons, smocks, bottles of congealed nail polish and hairspray cans.

Board games, videos, books, paints and boules suggested that the ladies here were pretty happy.  Stacks of Villeroy and Boch dinner settings in a floral pattern, wine glasses, vases and much-used ovenproof creme brulee dishes indicated that the meals weren't too shabby either.

A vinyl suitcase from the 1970s revealed a barrel load of wool; worth hundreds of francs if purchased today.  It seemed an insult to take the pale violet, salmon and soft white mohair and cashmere balls, so the sturdier, plainer ones were selected to knit more blankets-for-the-homeless in front of the telly in order to prevent me from picking at the skin around my nails.  Another suitcase held the needles - how many hands had used them, and what had they created?

Kidney-shaped vomit bowls (I toyed, very briefly, with the idea of buying one and using it to serve up cashews to shocked dinner party guests but Sapphire talked me out of it), bed pans, shower gels for sensitive skin, walking sticks, wheel chairs, crutches, bandages and ointments a plenty with beige and rose-patterned chairs stacked up to the roof.  Streets ice-cream outdoor umbrellas jostled for space next to large framed photographs of seagulls and industrial-sized fridges that were being measured up and lugged away by fellas blocking the driveway with their truck.

We both loved this scarf that featured all the capital cities of all the Swiss cantons and bought another one that did a very good imitation of a green-themed Hermes classic.  The third was an Australian tea towel featuring the 2005 calendar. "I'll fold it in half and make it into a cushion," Sapphire said, her attention now distracted by something really unique. "Oh will you look at that......"

A duck lamp.  A duck lamp!   There were at least twenty of them stacked on a bookcase and my only regret is that I didn't buy them all and decide to set up a funky coffee house/second book shop with duck lamps on each table...... This one is now sitting (and works) next to Sapphire's bed.

I often remark that Sapph should have been growing up anywhere between the 1920s and 1960s because she adores finding retro treasures such as the travel clock pictured above, now proudly displayed in her room.  Therefore, when we found some pearls and the finest, softest navy blue leather gloves that fit her hands perfectly, she had to have them.

Milly had spent the afternoon at home with Love Chunks enjoying the sunshine streaming through the large living room window as he tried to watch the NAB cup on the laptop.

When we bustled in with a bulging Nanna cart and several bags, he patiently sat through our excited presentation of 'finds', nodding and saying 'aah' at (mostly) the right time before noting that we hadn't found anything for him.  "There was a zimmer frame that caught our eye, POG*** dearest, but don't worry, your next glass of wine will come with a clown-faced toothpick perching on the edge."

And, as per the Dog Code of Living With Humans Who Are Easily Amused, Milly too was forced to model the scarf:

...which she did keep on marginally longer than the bra 'ears' we forced her to wear a week or so ago.  All this loot for the grand total of fifteen francs!

*** POG - Pompous Old Git.  Applied only to Love Chunks and not the previous occupants of the aged care facility.

Buttons, Beaches and Ham

I've been off-line for a fortnight which is the Hundred Year War-duration in blogging terms yet strangely enough I didn't miss it.

Sometimes my fingers absent-mindedly typed out something on Mum's Christmas tablecloth but Dad's computer - newly available in broadband - wasn't tempting me.

It must Location blended with varying amounts of Hard Work and Self-Designated Break Times that lure me back. We'd arrived home in Flemington last night and it was only after hanging out two loads of washing, doing a workout and weeding the front and back gardens that I found myself back in the study. Officially it was to find the Christmas decorations box to start de-bauble-ing the house but somehow the monitor switched itself on and I was instantly hooked.

It got me thinking, however. Not about the things that most people enjoy (such as blogging or reading blogs, or you wouldn't be here; or chocolate, sleep-ins and hugs) but things that everyone else seems to like except me.

Such as buttons. Like circus clowns and Nicolas Cage, they've always given me the creeps.

I honestly don't know why, but my earliest memories are of intensely disliking any knitted jumper (or cardigan) that featured buttons and avoiding them where possible ever since. Yes I have button jeans and shirts and jackets but they're always very discreet and never ever the feature of the garment.

This is a dislike I've kept a secret and barely acknowledged myself but it rose up again like a burp with bile in it when my mother dragged out a plastic crate full of the infernal items. She was sorting through them to sell for her local gigantic garage sale fundraiser, putting pairs, fours and sixes onto white cards as sets. A worthy intention yet I could barely make eye contact with her or finish a conversation when the card table in the good room was covered in buttons. The maddeningly torturous click-click-click of them as they touched each other meant that it was time to head out for a walk so that the sight, sound and idea of them were far away.



















Even including this photograph makes me feel a bit squeamish. Buttons scream 'Cardigan' as well as 'Old Fashioned', 'Cranky Nanna', 'Nerdy' and 'U-u-u-u-u-ugly'. There's no fairness in these reactions, but they're how I do respond when buttons enter my psyche (which isn't very often).

Driving, on the other hand, is a necessary evil. Life in Flemington usually means that I can walk or tram my way to the city and back and the 'ol magna only gets a trot when it's time for the weekly grocery shop or to see friends who selfishly live outside our postcode. Then I can grit my teeth, stay extra alert and keep my hands at ten-to-two on the wheel.

Having family in South Australia means that the Big Drive occurs at Christmas and usually one other time throughout the year. 650 km of boredom, ceaseless engine noise and arse-sweating onto greasy old pie and pasty crumbs does not a relaxing day out make. Admittedly Love Chunks drives most of it only requiring me to drive the middle third when he needs a wee, a read of the paper and to fiddle about trying to find the best local ABC to hear the cricket.

As he relaxes I feel my neck and jaw tighten as I nervously flick my eyes from side to rear-vision mirrors, wondering if the tailgating Toyota Landcruiser behind me will just get it over with already and pass or if the meandering Mazda in front will eventually decide if they want to stick to 70 or 110km for the next hour.

It probably doesn't help that our car - now looking like a toothless old lady with a back hubcap missing - contains a dog, a rabbit, heaps of presents, several suitcases, three human beings and is decorated on the outside by ten thousand fluttering dead and dying locusts.

If truth be told, I'd be happy to live a well-off Manhattan lifestyle of 'Taxi....!' if money and location permitted.

Driving often involves arriving at a beachy destination. Beaches and me rarely gel unless near-drowning, blistery sunburn and a sand-filled crotch are considered positives. Swimming isn't any better: once I've waded in and got over the shock of the water hitting my girly parts first and then my boobs second I somehow scrape my pathetically-soft feet on the rocks, have sea weed wrap itself suggestively and determinedly around my waist and blink away salty tears of agony when I dip my head in and get my eyes wet. And that's all before I scream, "Something just touched my leg!" and thrash the water to white foam in my haste to get the hell out.

Sitting out is worse. Unless I bring a tent thingy, there's no shade anywhere and a rashie, wide-brimmed hat and Factor 30 merely slows the inevitable roasting of my fluorescent skin to a barely discernible sizzle. When the afternoon breeze springs up it enables the sand to coat my Anti-Cancer Council-coated extremities but not before scouring them raw. Woe betide if I forget to shake out my towel before wiping my face on it......




















Here's my older brother Rob being a ham whilst carving the ham on Christmas Day. Like fully-intact prawns, boiled pumpkin and pate, I can not stand ham. Flaccid, pink, salty - not unlike myself after a 'fun' day at the beach.

Everyone else at the Christmas Day table - and for the rest of the week - goes nuts for the stuff, somehow finding room to cram it onto their plates next to Dad's weber-roasted chicken (that's worth a plate load all on its own), turkey roll, fresh prawns (de-headed and no poo pipes), gravy and vegetables. Why? Who wants a clammy slab of raw-looking jelly rubber on the nicest day of the year...? I know I know - you all do.

Staying at my parents meant that I didn't have access to the Age newspaper and couldn't fathom why the Adelaide Advertiser has to feature a colour photograph of every single reporter for every single story (here's Eliza Northington, Lifestyle Reporter. Lifestyle reporter? Do we really need to know what she looks like?) and would therefore watch the ABC news if I remembered.

It's summer time now, so politicians and spokespeople are outside more and when the great outdoors are involved, so are the blowflies. One's buzzing around the room as I tap this out and will be allowed to live in peace but if it dares lands on my face then my hands are a blurred frenzy of distracted dance moves and waving until it buggers off again.

To see someone speak to the camera with a fly crawling on their face makes me feel ever so slightly nauseus. When it is idly walking around the tear duct and then wanders, buzz buzz buzzing down towards the edge of the mouth and then up to the nostril I'm sickenly hypnotised..........

Someone told me that it is a big 'no no' to brush away a fly during an interview because it distracts the viewer from the message but I instead sit there in disgust and a tiny bit of agony thinking 'Get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off----- oh thank god we're onto sport now. Wonder what the fly guy was talking about?'

Don't they know me at ALL?

As a distinctly unenthusiastic clothes shopper, I often tend to get my gear via online or mail order. The thought of enduring unendurable techno music, sullenly skinny fifteen year old bottle blonde bimbos re-folding t-shirts whilst ignoring me or having to sift through racks of overpriced and underflattering garments does not appeal to me in the slightest. If it's black, not too ridiculous looking and enables me to blend into a crowd without any visible form of mockery, it'll do. And has done, now, for many years.

However, as a fairly loyal shopper with this particular crowd, you'd assume that they'd have some sort of profile on their internetta-computermachiney-whatchamacallit program that they could run before thinking that it would be a good idea to tempt me with this abomination:

I am invited to a Cardi Party. Well ram my face between a aardvaark's arse crack, a Cardi Party! When, in all my years of being able to make my own decisions on what garment to wear, (roughly thirty and counting) have I ever, ever worn a cardigan, let alone been willing to celebrate the concept of such a godawful gift to garments at a party? And who on earth - even those of you who may ~shudder~ actually wear cardigans from time-to-time, would ever swallow the big fat lie that the atrocities above are 'fashionably smart' ?

What mental pigmy marketer thought that this would entice me to whip out the credit card:

Cardi On...? You have got to be kidding me, surely. Is this April Fools' Day several weeks early? Am I supposed to wear that white knitted chemist's coat to pick Sapphire up from school?

Should I send them this link to explain my abhorrence to cardigans? Surely someone needs to eduhmuhcate them on what is considered acceptable outer wear. And yes, all this farting fury from someone who wears CROCS.

No Franzy, Noooooo!

One of my favourite bloggers-with-brawn-and-brains, the inimitable Franzy, said the words that no ex-banker ever wants to hear from anyone they admire. ~Shudder~ Franzy said.... he said....he..... OK. I can do this! I'll be brave and just do a copy and paste. He said: I wish I had bank job.

Sure, we've all been discussing the profanity of an article describing how some South Yarra wankers only getting a million for their five bedroom houses are doing it tough in this current economic downturn and maybe even have to sell their Mornington Peninsula hobby farms or the iconic post-modern beach house at Portsea, and how insultingly offensive it is to a Gen Y professional student who has both a HECS debt and rent that's too high to save for a deposit, let alone a reasonably-manageable mortgage.

I feel Franzy's pain. And fear. And envy. I've felt all of them too. Still do in fact. But now, I want to address the most horrific sentence I've had the misfortune to see him write: I wish I had bank job and share my own experience of having such arse-puckeringly awful employment with you all. It is a tale of heartache, terror, rubber bands, endless signatures and hopefully one of caution for you all.

Way, waaaay back into the deep mists of time at the end of 1988 when 1927 were going to dominate the airwaves forever, spiral perms ruled and raging was a social past-time and not a personality affliction I was in my third and final year of uni, fully aware that I belonged to a group of students who were the last to receive a HECS-free tertiary education.*** From term two onwards I dutifully borrowed my Mum's sensible black power suit and scrunched my perm into a sleek French braid and sat through lots of group interviews held on campus, to be informed just before Christmas that the ANZ Bank wanted to employ me in 1989 as a Graduate Trainee.

I was thrilled - as a lowly Arts Graduate who endured seeing 'Arts Degrees - please take one' scrawled oh-so-wittily underneath the loo sheet dispenser in the Uni Bar loos, the thought of either doing honours or teaching were not happy ones and thus to land a real job outside of those areas was a big feat. Twenty two thousand dollars per year seemed like a fortune to someone who received $9 Austudy a fortnight, $20 per week from Mum and Dad and worked all holidays doing truly craptastic stuff like apricot cutting, garlic picking, waitressing, babysitting, cucumber polishing, capsicum weeding and leaflet folding to pay my rent, food and cider bills.

Despite being told by the recruiting bloke that they wanted to place me in Human Resources, when the January starting day arrived, I was lumped with a dozen other newbies - aloofish maths graduates and nervous school leavers, all ready to do a week's induction training and, in my case, become a Lending Officer, not an HR henchwoman. Oh, was my first little twinge; so somehow my Roman Art & Archaelogy and Major English Texts studies were deemed to be more suited to mortgages than staff issues.

Sadly, my twinge became a fully-fledged thorn in my side about a month later when I was stationed to their North Adelaide branch, helping out their Commercial Lending side hand out money to the already wealthy and already snobby customers. My day entailed smiling at the sleazy male lending managers pretending I was interested in what they had to say instead of loathing them and finding little else to occupy me amongst the reams of paper work, numbered dockets and certificates of title that were still typed via a manual typewriter. Freezing cold air conditioning, paper cuts and viewing too many yellow sweat stains under the Gordon Gecko-style striped shirt worn by the young yuppie jerk alongside of me. Yep, five o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

Later that year, I was posted to my permanent position as Assistant Bank Manager, Gawler Place (corner North Terrace, when Henry Buck's now is). Most of my day was spent running credit checks, processing card applications, approving mortgages, personal loans and high yielding term deposits. I was very firmly 'encouraged' to sign up to study Accounting in the evenings but lasted only three lectures: I had barely scraped through year eleven maths, so surely they could have seen that I would have studied economics and spreadsheets at uni if I was remotely inclined? My boss shook his head in disappointment and told me he'd ordered the Financial Review for us every day, and it was my job to read, note anything relevant and report it to him. My first thoughts were, 'Oh bugger, there aren't any pictures in here.'

This first foray into real paid professional work was boring, dispiriting and energy sapping. My Manager disliked me because I was a jumped-up young lady who went to uni and didn't join the bank at fifteen years of age in 1950 and move up, step by step whenever somebody older than him died or was found slumped over some carbon paper. Plus, I towered over him by seven inches (he was five feet tall with conspicious lifts inserted in the back heels of his brogues) and he insisted I call him "Mr" every time we spoke.

The general staff - the tellers - also resented me because I didn't have to serve customers all day every day except at lunchtimes and was on at least eight grand a year more than they were. This was in spite of the fact that I had to arrive before they did to unlock the strong room and office, go to evening classes (paid only by the bank if I passed them), take my four weeks' annual leave all in one go ('What do you mean you don't know anyone else who has the entire month of June off?') and not be permitted to have a cup of tea on my desk 'because the customers can see over the counter and your desk is visible.'

However it was the two hour lunch rush I dreaded even more than the boring old 'War with Westpac' stories from Mr C or the 'she-thinks-her-shit-doesn't-stink-just-because-she-went-to-uni-but-look-at-her-she-still-has-to-wear-navy-blue-and-grey-uniforms-like-we-do' glares of the tellers because I had to open up a booth, get the cash out and serve customers for two hours so that the tellers could take their lunch breaks.

I had to take my 45 minute break at either 11:15am or 2pm - no less and no more. The other tellers used to make sure they'd take their time serving someone, drop their pens or have a phone call to answer every single bloody time a drunken, piss-soaked wino would stagger in with his coffee jar full of coins, the doddery pensioners would rush in on every second Thursday with their outdated bank books and endless questions or the insane, 1000 year-old biddy who had several millions dollars with us but thought she could fling off her fox fur and flick spittle in my eyes for half an hour during her passionate rant about how much she hated us each time she came in to collect her statements.

Some of the staff I worked with were great, but some were questionable and borderline retarded, not to be too delicate about things. One woman - let's just call her Deb for reasons of me not wanting to be sued - could barely put the letters A, N and Z together in the same order, but had a relative higher up in personnel who ensured that she was a 'relief' staff (the irony of that word doesn't escape me) member who could stuff up and leave before any ramifications were felt. Anyhoo, she was one of many such blocks of dead wood who were hanging around because they had mortgages at a reduced rate that would automatically increase to 17.5% if they left. Not me, unfortunately. The days of cheap staff rates ended about a month before I got there, as did the Christmas cash bonus - I got a mini-Christmas pudding and a cinema ticket instead.

At the end of the day, we'd all have to balance our cash and it was very rare that I ever did on the first try. I ain't a fine details gal; never was, never will be. Counting and recounting fives, tens, twenties, fifties and wrapping them in groups of ten in rubber bands, bagging the gold, silver and bronze coins and entering and re-entering the figures was humiliating and mindless. I'd eventually manage it and have to hang around for Mr C to climb back into his stacked heels, find his key and lock up with him - he and I had the only sets that would lock up the pitiful little branch 100% securely every night. I'd walk dejectedly home through the beautiful old grounds of Adelaide uni, through the Botanic gardens to my Hackney sharehouse, feeling like a right twit in my daggy bank uniform when Jo was having a wonderful time searching for rocks and jocks via her geology PhD, and Charlotte was still studying piano at the Elder conservatorium and moonlighting in a techno jazz band.

Worse still was the recession that Paul Keating said "we had to have." Interest rates for mortgages climbed to 17.5% and in my second year at the bank ('Don't leave before two years or it will look really bad on your CV, I was told over and over again by my concerned parents, my friends and myself), I was doing more collecting work than loan approvals. It is hard to describe just how horrible it was to be given an armful of files and be told, at the ripe old age of 22 with a personal credit card with a $500 limit and a 1971 Renault bought for $1600, that I had to ring up working couples and parents and hassle them about missed payments, bounced cheques or negative bank balances. I did it coolly, professionally and efficiently and got results. Mr C and head office loved me for it, but I'd go home and wonder just why I felt like hiding and crying. Meeting anyone at a party at that time wasn't fun either - I'd invariably end up in a corner, cowering, listening to someone rant about the Bastard Banks and pointing angrily at me. "Nice talking with you, er, Dennis, isn't it, but I'd like to go and get drunk now....."

On the other hand, those who had already paid off their mortgages (Baby Boomers, I'm looking at you), could invest their considerable savings in term deposits with interest rates that hit 15.5%. "Yeehah" one particularly obnoxious customer yelled when I opened up such an account for him. "This'll pay for our Europe trip and hopefully allow me to lease a newer Beamer at the end of the year." How nice for you, I remember thinking, and noticed that the person behind him in the queue was coming in every week - with cash earned from a second labouring job - to pay off some arrears that had accrued when he'd got sick and had his overtime cut.

You'll be relieved to read, if you're still here, that I did a nannying course in the evenings and on the 730th day, handed in my notice, bought a plane ticket to London and left the country the week after. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and still, to this day, haven't been able to wear anything navy or grey ever again.

So Franzy? Dear, sweet Franzy. Make coffee, make books, make blogs, make wild monkey love to M, but don't DON'T ever make a bank job your wish. I beg you!

*** I paid HECS later when I returned to Adelaide Uni to do my Grad Dip Ed. I lasted a year, but the repayments took me four!

Day Twenty Nine - Appreciative August

Magazines














Ever since I clapped eyes on my mother's 'Australian Women's Weekly' when it was still a weekly and not a monthly and the exploits of Delvene Delaney, Belinda Green and Ita 'At My Deskth' Buttrose ruled the ink, I have loved magazines.

The glossy paper; even glossier advertising; stories and photographs to pour over only to recall years later during trivia competitions and the feeling that you're intimately involved with whatever is designated as "in" at that precise moment. All that enjoyment at the flick of a wrist and yet it's forgotten and discarded the second it is read and consumed.

I first subscribed to the Offical Abba magazine back in 1977, begging my mum to fill in the form, pay by postal order (I handed over my savings in twenty cent pieces) and eagerly wait each month for thirty two pages of joy that were read over and over and over.....

On our 1979 Queensland holiday, we discovered the joys of the small town Book Exchanges, and in between some 10c Gnid Blytons, Trixie Beldons and Peanuts paperbacks, I found MAD magazines. Again, these were read and re-read until the fold in section at the back fell apart into three pieces.

A few months ago, out of a combined need to buy something at the school fundraiser and from sheer nostalgia I bought a pile of MADs from a year seven kid, who was happy with my offer of two bucks for the lot. To my utter disillusionment, I found that the the very same cartoons I'd enjoyed nearly thirty years earlier were still being recycled; even those tiny little ones hidden in the margins. Lazy, unoriginal bastards.

As puberty hit (during our year in Scotland, unfortunately), it was 'Blue Jeans' - a trashy, 'true confession' mag that every girl in my class read, complete with real life photos masquerading as boyfriend and girlfriend comics (Hugh Grant even earned his keep doing some of these at the time). Back at Murray Bridge High School it was Dolly magazine, with all photos of hunks - real, potential or imagined - carefully cut out and posted into my homework diary to assure others of my firm standing in the 'trendy' pecking order. Yeah, like C. Thomas Howell really stood the test of time.

At Uni it was Cleo and Cosmopolitan as well as the 'Buttocks People' strip on the back of OnDit. I'd like to say that I devoured each and every article on 'Ten Ways to Giving Him the Orgasm of his Life' in order to seek a brief respite from my fastidious studies on Major English Texts, Roman Art and Archaeology and The Pre-Scientific World View of History, but really it was to discover, 'Is He the Right Man for You?' and to make sure that any sealed section discoveries were learned by heart in case I happened to stumble across some bloke who insisted on my performing every single one of them.

Luckily, I discovered that blokes, by and large, don't require such attention to detail; they're merely grateful that you're there and seem to like them back. By the time Love Chunks arrived, such mags had no appeal. It was settled: he loved me, I loved him and there was no need to learn the techniques for 'How to Have Him Begging For More' because there were other articles, still not yet published that we needed instead. Ones such as 'How to Make Sure That Laughter During Sex Is Seen As A True Sign Of Desire And Affection And Is Not Intended To Hurt'; or 'Don't Expect Movie Star Sex When You Have a Crepe-paper, Post-Childbirth-Stomach And Just Ate Cabbage For Dinner' or the essential: Give Him The Sign By Shaving Your Legs Every Quarter'. These may finally be published one day, perhaps when Jackie Frank is tired of trying to convince her readers to pay $12,000 for a Chanel handbag on one page and then exhorting us to fight for Venezuelan victims of rape and poverty immediately overleaf.....

These days, my magazine subscriptions are pretty indicative of my current phase in life - suburban, nearly forty and unable to focus on anything beyond 500 words. My subscriptions to the funny movie mag Empire has petered out as it was a bit hard to read about a movie when it was unlikely that Love Chunks and I would ever be able to see one together; as did 'Who' when their celebrity factor began to out-dumb even No Idea and I was regularly mocked by Sapphire (who was then only six and a half) for reading it. "Mum, why do they always have to show famous people in their bathers?"

No, it's delicious for food (mostly for visual porn because I just can't be shagged trying to find Southern Highlands grain fed low-lactose wild camel carcasses, saffron threads or marinated goat lips); marieclaire (for fashion I love to laugh at and can't afford); Choice (so that I could read about what treadmill I should have bought instead of the one I did buy); and Home Beautiful and House & Garden so that I can assure myself that our renovations aren't too cringeworthy and can work myself up into a lather about how the word 'bespoke' is now trendier to home decorators 'minimalist' and 'global fusion' used to be.

And Men's Health; an occasional freebie that I like to read to see how blokes view women. It's quite honestly the funniest thing since MAD magazine circa 1979.

No, Men's Health, women hate it when you leave the loo seat up because it means that we have to put it down again, that's it. It's not because we ".....have a natural instinct to keep clean and protect their (our) womb and any unborn child they (we) might be carrying." We just don't want to have to touch the seat that might have had a few stray sprinkles on it, okay?

And no, MH - these here are NOT the top toys we want you to buy for us. Forget focussing on 'Sex Shop Etiquette', walk away from the red-light district and instead get us:
1) A cleaner
2) A good night's sleep
3) A minimum of an hour's gentle back-scratching or neck massages in front of the telly every night
4) A carton of milk that stays fresh in the fridge door and never runs out; and
5) Chocolate.

Not hard, is it, but if MH thought you knew that, you wouldn't buy their magazine, would you?












Oh and No. No cardigans. No. NO CARDIGANS. Not now, not ever. George Clooney, Jude Law and John Cusack could all be starkers, buffed, oiled and bronzed and waiting at my front door, wanting me, but if they dared wear one of these hideous items they'd be flung away from me further than a drug cheat's winning discuss throw.

And if Love Chunks came home wearing any of these three get ups, I'd laugh so hard that the afore-mentioned much-needed chocolate and milk would snort out of my nose as an instant thickshake smoothie requiring our newly-acquired cleaner to have to get the mop out again as my neck goes out with the strain of regurgitation via sinus so that I need an intense soft tissue massage and then a nice big sleep under the doona.....



















And I had to laugh (and secretly feel very, very proud) when Sapphire noted Scarlett Johanssen's quote on the front of marieclaire and said in her best, breathy game-show informercial hostess' voice, "Oh Mum look - Scarlett's Proud Of Her Sexual Energy...."

Shut the bloody door!

All youse non-Austrayan readers of this 'ere blog probably assume that our big bugger of an island is always hot, sunny and dry. To be fair, that assumption is mostly right, but we do have our four seasons like you guys do, just in the opposite order.

So while I'm reading your blogs about summer vacations, sunburn and strappy sandals, I've almost wrapped my legs around my tiny little oil heater as though I'm Julia Roberts doing the same to Richard Gere in the spa bath in 'Pretty Woman'. It's frickin' freezing here.















And don't just take my word for it. Even the foreigners from the northern hemisphere - hailing from much cooler climes than here - shiveringly agree with me.

Sarah, a Milwaukee native who learned from an early age never to go outside with wet hair or volunteer to shovel snowy sidewalks, was standing at the school gate the other day, clad in about three jackets, shivering in her shoes. London-born-and-bred Mick was next to her, waiting for his daughters to emerge; with Swedish Goddess Thorun shuffling rapidly from side-to-side and huffing warm air into her clenched fingers.

I ambled over and asked the most obvious, conversation-starter question that we say when we can't think of any other thing to start off with (and hate ourselves for our predictable lack of witty originality): "Pretty cold today, isn't it?" What an understatement: I had goosebumps on my flippin' head.

Thankfully Sarah is a kind person, and didn't roll her eyes. "Yeah."

Still mired in minus mental facilities, I stumbled on. "But hey, you guys are all from cold countries, so shouldn't you be used to this?"

They all politely swallowed their sighs and took the time out to explain it to me. Firstly, their countries have central heating as standard, throughout all of the rooms of their home.

Secondly they don't have vents installed near the ceilings that go directly to the air outside like we do.

Why do we? I may not have set the world alight with my scientific talents in high school, but I do remember that heat rises. If the heat then has to compete with an almost-ceiling-high vent that is directly bringing in freezing air from outside, we can safely assume that the vent isn't being particularly useful or helpful in this instance.

In summer time, yes. Or perhaps no. If heat rises then sure, we want to fling it outside, but if the vent brings in even hotter air from outside it's still being about as useful as a dry sponge in the desert isn't it, or am I not getting some vitally basic point?

Secondly, even their bathrooms have heating and warm towel rails. And by 'heating' they don't mean tepid old tastic lights beaming weakly down from the mould-speckled ceiling or a miserable bar heater up above the mirror (again with the heat rising issue - clearly not helping the poor nude sod standing on icy porcelain tiles several feet lower) either; they mean underfloor heating, a radiator, water proof carpets, cosy copper lined towel rails set to 'toasty'......

Here in Oz, most of us do a nudey-rudey Hop-Squeal-Scamper streak through our houses from the bathroom to the bedroom. For some reason, we all think that running through on our tippy toes will somehow make things easier and/or warmer for us and the added sound effects: "Oherr eek!" will help speed up our journey. With central heating, decent carpeting and a pre-warmed towel we'd be reduced to a languid stroll and a temptation to flash our partners and call out "Whoo Hoo, take a gander at these party pieces" before being told to leave the room and put something flattering on. I'm not sure that the overseas folk win this argument actually.

Mick pointed out that their toilets have windows that can actually close instead of permanently-open louvres. Yes, so do we - if you own a house that's younger than 1960, that is. The houses I grew up in, rented and bought all had 1950s style glass panels that were permanently fixed into the half-open mode. Not so great for privacy if someone wanted to use the hose outside nearest the window (extra echoing too, with all those floor tiles) and even worse for those 3am wee-wees spent gingerly lowering oneself onto the slab of ice that was once a plastic caroma loo seat whilst trying to keep the eyes closed and pretend that you were still asleep.

Torun mentioned their superior insulation. In Sweden they have insulation. Everywhere. Not just a few poxy old pink batts in the roof that are handy for rats and possums to eat and crap on, but in their walls. Plus double-glazed windows and lined floors.

We, on the other hand, either live in double-brick houses (moi) which do keep the heat out in summer for a few days, and the heat in during winter (for a few minutes after the heater's off). Brick venereal owners have an outer layer of brick and then some inner masonite that resembles a fully-plastered wall, but without the insulation, sound-proofing or expense. Add a lack of eaves, verandahs and a boxy second story and you have a home that needs 24/7 cooling and heating and has an energy star rating of minus three-and-a-half (or wait, was that for the movie 'Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger'?)

Either way, if we're not blessed with energy-guzzling reverse cycle air conditioning, we have a gas or electric fire in the living room. This means that ever time anyone enters or leaves the room, the oldest person (usually the parent) automatically yells out, "Shut the bloody door! Were you raised in a tent?"

The room itself is usually furnished with at least two clothes horses crammed with damp socks, tracksuit pants (they shrink the dryer), school uniforms and jocks. Hopefully the jocks are placed on the wall side so that they're not the first thing that hits the visitors' eyes when they arrive. I've also been known to hang shirts over an exercise bike, door handles and the edges of bookshelves, and my mother has even spread out crockery in front of the 1975 Vulcan bar heater to warm up before serving dinner.

Thus, it is well and truly ironic that such a hot, dry and dusty country has winters that are even less pleasant than countries closer to the artic circle. And no, I don't know where we'd find the money to add in all the comfy extras that those countries have to make things easier unless beer, smokes, flex days, scratch tickets and pokies were completely removed from our culture.

In the meantime, there's only this idea.

After a lot of immature sniggering at Ray's Outdoors Centre - and a bit of explaining to Sapphire as to why I was taking a photo of a 'Dutch Oven Carry bag.' Hell, it looks as though it's even shaped to fit my two overly generous arse cheeks in.....

........ and I thought it was perhaps the cheapest way I could improve on home heating. Not sure that Love Chunks agrees with me.

Maybe we're all better off hiding under the doona and staying there until spring comes again.




















Please shut the door on your way out, 'Kthnxbye

Zimmers and Zingers

There's been recent chatter in these parts about old people having babies, such as when is an 'older father' considered to be too selfishly old? When he can't remember the name of his kid or be physically able to pick them up?

On the other side of the age divide, one of my lovely neighbours is still grieving for her nineteen year old daughter who died suddenly and explicably from pnuemonia in Alice Springs.

Another friend spends three hours a day looking after her elderly mother-in-law who is now in a supported care facility due to suffering from Alzheimers. Jane considers that in reality it is the carers and family members of the Alzheimers sufferers who are the real victims because some things that are said can still be unspeakably cruel. She was told by the mother-in-law just yesterday that, "You know, I really thought my son would have done far better than you," whilst Jane was actually helping her get dressed before feeding her breakfast.

The only way I could cheer her up was to tell her a story that my Mum told me a few years back. Mum is a beautiful singer, and has participated in many a musical, church choir and singing group in her time. These days, in her Probus-Pub Lunching-Power Walking-CWA Victor Harbor Groovy Grannie days she's in a local singing group that regularly visits the retirement villages in the area.

At Christmas time, they were in the middle of a particularly tuneful version of 'O Come All Ye Faithful' when a white and whiskered female resident, sitting in the front row, grabbed her zimmer frame and loudly said, "F**k this S**t, I'm getting outta here before I bloody cark it from hearing any more f**ken' Christmas carols." What made her outburst even more dramatic was her exit - it took her a good five minutes to make her way across the stage and through the saloon doors to her room, cursing all the way.

Mum's eyes still crease with laughter when she recalls the event and we've both surmised that some of these dear little old grannies have had to spend their entire lives doing the right thing by their husbands, children, church groups, community and society that some spring must ping out of their brains and let loose the obscenities they'd never have dreamed of using in their younger days.

Not including the miseries of Alzheimers, I hope I get to be one of those crabby old ladies who lets rip with a few Eff words and gets automatically pardoned due to her advancing age. "Don't mind Kath, she's harmless."

Wouldn't it be nice to see a middle-class, white boy from the eastern suburbs with his jeans around his ankles and boxers on show and just say, "Pull yer f**king pants up, you useless drop-kick."

If you live to be one hundred and have to endure some bored cadet reporter shoving a camera in your face and patronisingly (and loudly) asking you how it feels, wouldn't you just love to be able to respond with something like, "How the f**k do you think I feel, foetus! Bloody ancient, so get the hell out of my way and stop wasting what precious time I have left!"

Why not end the wait in queues by simply croaking out, "You better bloody serve me now before my filled-up Depend undergarment soaks through to the floor." That'd clear the way forward to the front quick smart. Alternatively, try acting out the building site fantasies in reverse. "Whoo whee sonny boy, there'd be some lessons I could show you now that your eighteen year old girlie there won't find out for three more decades to come," or, "I'd give you a ride on my zimmer frame any day."

And no wearing homy ped shoes with painfully swelled up cankles, or skirts that cut into the waist or unflattering cardigans (~~shudder~~) either. I want to wear fleecy track suits, slip on joggers and anything made of stretch lycra or elastic. Comfort all the way, baby. In fact it's not much different to what I wear now, and I'd like to think that I'm only half - no, a third - of the way through my life line.

We visited an old cemetery on Hindmarsh Island a couple of weekends ago because some of my great grandmother's family were buried there. The stone pictured on the left was there (but not one of my rellos) and the final line amused me: "Died Trusting In Jesus."

I doubt that very much. At only 42 years old, he might have uttered the word 'Jesus' in an agonised list of curse words but certainly not in blind trust. He would no sooner have willingly walked towards the bearded and robed one with trust in his heart and a spring in his step than I would have refused a handful of Haigh's during the Biggest Loser finale.

And why should we?

Taking the wind out of my sails

Life for me lately - workwise, home-renovations wise and health-wise has been rather hectic and frustrating to say the least.

After the hassles of a soul-suckingly shiteful working day, it would be nice to head to my home as a haven of love, support and rest. However due to the current renovations that have gone on longer than a heavy metal guitar solo my 'haven' is literally three bedrooms to cook, eat, sleep and watch TV and use the computer in. The only other option of having somewhere to sit apart from the bed is by venturing outside to the tarpaulin-covered (and bird-poo dotted) sofas being stored under the back verandah. All with a fetching view of a dust bowl garden artistically patterned with Dogadoo's arse offerings.

No grass is left thanks to the total removal of top soil after our two underground rainwater tanks were installed, so we are either treated to a mouthful of dust when the gully winds blow or track slimy wet chook droppings and clay through the house.

It has therefore been a huge consolation that the editing and proof-reading process on my book (due out in January 2008; fingers crossed) has been a very cooperative and smooth one. Well for me anyway: maybe I shouldn't assume the same on the part of the editor.

Anyhow, it was with a great sense of indignation, anger and entitlement that I wrote a butt-kickingly stern account of my view regarding a situation that has gone from bad to worse in my day job. The time for feeling nervous and tearful had long since passed and my written missive was a first step in showing the heavies that sometimes we, pond-scum level plebs:

a) know our rights;

b) have a fair point to make;

c) deserve a right of reply;

d) are 'innocent' and should be treated as such; and

e) aren't going to shrink and disappear into the distance without getting resolution to all of the above.

Before submitting my 'Why I deserve to live' statement to the Head Honcho Hangman, I read through it a few times. A few more examples were added, some searing pieces of factual evidence to support my assertions were included and I threw in some choice descriptors (that were in fact true) that I knew would force the reader(s) to sit up and take notice.

Now for those of you regulars who 'know' my Dad* - a retired high school teacher with a mischievous streak and a fetish for good spelling - will also know that he's always been a supporter of workers' rights and the entitlement of every person to state their case. I asked him to check through my electrified email to see if I'd properly, professionally and maturely got my points across.

Dad confirmed that I had. "Go for it, Kiddo. You've exposed their contradictions and unfairnesses. Geez, this could be the SA Education Department Cardigans from the early 1970s!"

Off it went - in person, to a meeting, where I asked not to be interrupted as I read from it. Also via email, so that the hard copies I presented could not be 'lost' in the long 11 metre journey from my hand to the Head Honcho's office.

I sat back, feeling anxious, annoyed, outraged, hopeful of a fair resolution, nervous, shaking. Even chocolate lacked it's normal appeal (I never thought I'd ever had to write that in a sentence!) All I could do was wait for their response (I'm still waiting, in fact).

The phone rang - Brrrrrr- I was on it quicker than Britney on a bucket of frappuccino - Finally, the issue will be resolved, my name will be cleared and my reputation restored......! Aw bugger, it was only Dad.

"Er Kiddo, I just have to tell you. It's about your ~~long, delicate pause~~ um, that email. You've made a typo."

"Oh geez, where? Where Dad, where?" My heart was pounding harder than John Holmes at his celluloid peak.

"Er you mis-spelled the word 'foreword'."

"But I added the 'e' after the 'fore' bit and before the 'ward'."

"Nah sorry mate, it's fore WORD, as in 'before the words of the book', not 'foreward' as in goin forward but with an 'e' thrown in. I just had to point that out to you."

"Ohhh god, I feel so very blonde now Dad," I said, stifling a laugh but blushing at the same time. "I've used that word throughout my statement - it's the central bloody theme for hecks' sake - boy oh boy, that sure takes a fair bit of the sting out of my tail."

Dad chuckled. "Ah well, at least you can laugh about it. We're still with you kiddo."

"Yeah I know. I'm still a good speller you know Dad - even Love Chunks can't spell diarrhoea and I hold the crown for best speller in the Grad. Dip. Ed. course at Adelaide Uni in 1993-----"

"True. But I'm better."

And he is too.

* I never seem to be able to get that hyperlink dooverlacky thingo to work, so you can read about my Dad here: http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2006/08/eat-your-veges-theyll-make-your-teeth.html

Cringeing, Craptacular Cardigans!

A short while ago, the ever-gorgeous and insightful reader, 'River', expressed curiosity about my professed aversion to cardigans.

There are in fact, two reasons for this pathological distaste: one, the actual clothing item itself which I've always hated; and two, the types of people who have worn them throughout my employment history. I explained this a year or two ago, but for those of you who find my revulsion inexplicable, read on.......

Despite the fact that I belong squarely within the 'Administration' sphere myself, most of the administratum anuses (anii? anoose??) I have to deal with are just that - arseholes clogging up efficiencies because their fat filing fingers are up their own ........my brain tells me that you have the ability to complete this sentence yourself.

Perhaps I'm lumping too many of my fellow university administrators (whom I tend to refer to as 'Cardigans') in the same wastepaper basket, but - give me strength - I have yet to see any evidence to the contrary that most of them do not merely exist to ensure that I still have to wear my double-strength mouthguard at night in order to prevent cracking my crowns in teeth-clenching frustration. In fact, if I dared refer this blog to a certain bonehead on a neighbouring campus, she'd be likely to point out that the first sentence of this paragraph is far too long and I'd do much better to have a good read through the uni's 'Style and Formatting Guidelines for External Correspondence.'

The worst thing though, is that I have to email/nod/say "Ooh, that's helpful" really politely because without a successful liaison with these soul-sucking simpletons the thing I must get done won't get done without them. As with most large government departments, companies and corporations, these little dropkicks have created many intricate levels of task requests, online job logging, permission forms, account codes, invoice duplication, 'help desk' contacts and, perhaps most ironic of all, 'customer service portals' that even a naked, chocolate-slicked and willing George Clooney wouldn't be able to break through.

Any reasonable effort made to speak to a living, breathing Cardigan without formally completing the Delegations Directory is rebuffed or referred to voicemail where it lingers longer than a Christmas ham at a Jewish Vegan convention. Even when you do try your best to complete the hellish paperwork, they are always designed by Satan. Yes, Satan. On every page, in the greyed-out 'For Office Use Only' sections there are secret little compartments that spew your application back to you via internal mail (or via sea urchin, whichever is slowest), stamped in red with 'Incomplete data. Please include your unit's cost codes.'

On no account are these carcinogenic Cardigans ever prepared to explain to you exactly what information you left out or what they need to be able to help you. No, that would be robbing them of their power, wouldn't it? Let's face it - if you're single, 43, living in a flat with seven cats/chins and some plastic trolls blue-tacked to your computer monitor, you're not exactly a raging success in life, are you? Therefore, what better way to boost your self esteem than to possess the only key to the stationery cupboard and take an unpublicised flex day during a 3,000 strong survey mail-out?

Furthermore, you must never, ever make the assumption that their ability to excrete all over your executive existence only falls within office administration. Sadly, these post-it ponces will always fly into an email rage if anyone dares to fling out their tub of yoghurt that was dated before the first Bush got into office, moves their indoor fern ten centimetres to make way for a filing cabinet or leaves a coffee cup ring on the boardroom table. If they don't choose to chuck a tantie in cyberspace, they'll instead spend all morning designing a badly-spelled, printed sign to stick all over the offending fridge door/dumb waiter/vacant desk; thus avoiding having to work on the pesky things like the urgent phone calls from world-renowned professors stranded by militia at the Botswana international airport or the toilet now leaking into the reception area.

Sadly, there is no known, long-term effective solution to rid the universe of this determined breed of sub-human. All I do to cope is try to imagine a worse alternative. You know, something like having a puffer fish swim up my left nostril and inflate itself; bending over for a rectal examination in the middle of Rundle Mall during the post-Christmas sales or being forced to have sex with Philip Ruddock. It actually does help to reduce the pain a few notches.

The Kitchen Nazi

My darling Love Chunks will probably choke on his FUIC, but I consider myself to be rather fussy when it comes to a clean and well-organised kitchen.

I'm almost the opposite of the average person (in so many ways, but they're blogs for many other occasions) in that I am more vulture-like and hyper-critical about kitchen hygiene and etiquette at the office than I am at home.

For instance at home I'll go for a run with Dogadoo, and, like yesterday it will be a muddy affair that result in my legs being spattered and me having to grab Dogadoo and wrap her up in a towel so that she resembles a rather disgruntled and hairy packet of fish and chips. She'll then get her slow-slung tummy, chest, legs and paws wiped clean before she's allowed to come inside for her breakfast.

Meanwhile Love Chunks will be firing up his beloved Gaggia for our delicious morning coffee and see me picking up Dogadoo's bowl and start tickling her on her belly; right where she loves it. As the hawk-and-gargle frothing sounds of the steaming milk start up, I'll make myself busy by unpacking the dishwasher. LC (clearly waiting for the right time) will then turn around and in his most pompous voice ask, "So, I'll assume that you've thoroughly washed your hands before touching our nice, clean dishes?" I used to mutter and slink off in embarrassment to the bathroom, but now I just look back at him with a smiling cheeky face and reply "Nup," or "Mayyyybe." Once I did a majestic nose pick and reached over to dramatically wipe it on his sleeve but he held me back with the olive oil spray and some hot tongs....

I also like using the Three Second Rule when it applies to food or cutlery falling on the floor at home. You know the one - it's most often used by parents who are way past the "Oh dear, our precious first born infant is at risk of catching a cold from the man with a runny nose we spotted from the safety of our car..." to the more lax, "Look, boys can wear pink," "Don't check on the kids unless you hear hysterical screaming or smell blood," and "Let's play hide and seek - you count to one thousand and Mummy will go hide (in her car)..."

The three second rule is this: You are allowed to reach down and pick up the dropped item within three seconds of contact with the floor/dog's back/toddler's mouth and do not have to worry about the ramifications of shoving it back into your mouth - the rule considers that the time taken to do this manouevre is considered far too quick for any opportunistic germs to have jumped on the item and rained on your parade (or pesky pineapple piece). Better still if you give the dropped fork or knife a quick wipe on your trouser leg in the same move from floor to gob.

In addition, any crumbs left on the counter are usually carelessly flicked by me directly onto the floor or anywhere within a 5m radius of the swipe, which is normally done with a Chux superwipe that has more holes than my knitting and which is older than our daughter.

What puzzles me is that I don't apply this slack-but-survival-minded attitude to our kitchen at work. Before any poor colleague's had a chance to even think about rinsing their teaspoon under the hot tap, I'm wiping the counter directly underneath their hands with the new sponge like an overly-caffeinated charwoman, before setting to the entire benchtop, stainless steel fridge door and microwave plate with the idea of "Hey, I'm already here, so why not give the whole area a wipe down?"

Any food that slips from my fingers is immediately scooped up and flung straight into the bin and cutlery is scrubbed until my fingers crack with detergent overload. Despite my inner-self saying, "Take a good hard look at yourself - you're like a blonde Paula Duncan advertising Spray and Wipe on Speed", I keep at it. Polishing the tea bag splat marks from the flip top bin lid, arranging the wicker tray at precise right angles to the edge of the wall and - yes - even keeping a tiny little shopping list next to our communal coffee supply tray.

I have just - but only just - managed to stop myself from writing or typing signs that say stuff like, "Please wash and clean up after yourself," or, "These are CWL property - all plates and cups must be returned to the kitchen by close of business" but I do recognise that I may not be able to repress the urge for much longer.

What's tough on my colleagues is that they're decent, kind, smart and thoughtful people: not ignorant slobs with the social skills of Sir Les Patterson. I have very little doubt that they would consider me an over-zealous Hygiene Hawk in kitchen matters and they have accepted my insanity as an endearing character trait and even kindly drawn up a kitchen roster.

The roster is working well and yet, even when I'm in there for a few seconds just chucking my lunch into the fridge, I can't help pick up the damn sponge and giving the counter a wipe ''just to make sure"...... I'm sure that my boss, Queen B, wishes I would give our proformas, mailing lists and files the same OCD attention.