Accidentalis Pulchritudo

Brilliant writer Elisabeth from Sixth in line has been discussing a professional family portrait that she's been given as part of a recent birthday present.

Despite being apprehensive about it, she explains the concepts of 'punctum' as it relates to photography. I won't pretend to be familiar with Roland Barthe or his 1980 work 'Camera Lucida' but, as my grey matter understands it, 'punctum' describes the unplanned associations one makes with a photograph.

Usually, in my own experience, 'punctum' pops up in photographs that aren't formally posed. Either the subjects depicted are unaware of being snapped or there's been timing flukey or lucky enough to catch a unique situation.

Seeing as it's still Sunday, I'm going to give a nod to River's Sunday Selections tradition and plunk down some photos whose 'punctum' productions particularly grab me.

Firstly, our ex-rabbit, Skipper.  We caught up with him during our recent visit home to Oz and found that he's just gained a new friend, Gus the kitten. Gus likes to regularly leap on top of Skipper's back. Bunny boy is rather tolerant, but, after the sixth ambush, he kicked out his back leg and Gus found himself off the couch and sprawled on the floor.

Eventually, even 13 week-olds get tired, and this is what Sapphire found when she lifted up the blanket.

In Adelaide, a 43C day was made a lot more fun by using Kent's underwater camera.  Regular readers will know that my husband, Love Chunks, is a softly-spoken, quiet achiever kind of bloke, but during the photo session in the pool he did all manner of duck dives, bombs, swim pasts and chop sueys for attention. I'm thinking of having this one enlarged and framed.

Could this be any more Australian? Our mate Kent, mid-jump, on a plastic thong coloured in the national flag directly into the pool.

Earlier times, circa 2007.  Our underwater rain water tanks had been buried, the under-grass drip watering system was about to be laid and then some turf finally rolled over the top.  The chickens - Hermoine, Luna and Ginny - were happily settling in and Sapphire was busy bustin' her moves on the trampoline, unaware that I was nearby.

Even earlier, around 2003.  Our intense young artist was busily painting in her pen drawing of Ursula from 'The Little Mermaid', wearing one of LC's old shirts.  She spent many many hours at the bright yellow table that my father had made for her; specifically on projects involving empty boxes, sticky tape, play dough, paints, chalk and pipe cleaners.

Artists do get tired though. This one had recently been diagnosed with Asthma, and was told that Elmo was too furry to sleep with. To deal with this upsetting news, she was allowed to pick something/someone less hirsute.  Jesse the Cowgirl was a regular night time companion for several years.

A portrait of my god son (Will, in yellow on matching space-hopper), his two older siblings and my child.  Sapphire clearly had a few unrealised romantic feelings for young Mr P and took the opportunity to steal a quick embrace before the word 'cheese' had ended.

Despite being on the far end of Daggy slash Tomboy slash Unkempt, for a couple of years I made a lot of jewellery to help the school fundraising efforts. Sapphire was very keen to show off the bracelet she'd made (which was subsequently sold, a few weeks later, to a rather sophisticated older adult). What turned out was a slightly out of focus piece of jewellery but a lovely portrait of her happy little face.

Not so happy here at the start of 2009 though, despite my urgings to smile.  Leaving the only home she'd ever remembered to go and move to Melbourne was a time of uncertainty for Sapphire. Seeing some of those friends a month ago put a huge smile back on her face.

My mother has a beautiful singing voice, and I've reminisced in the past about her sterling efforts in many a musical production. Why not duet with your granddaughter to ABBA?

Holding a book in a damp bathroom whilst cleaning your teeth might not be the best idea, but who was I to tell her off for reading?  Multi-tasking at its finest.

Tasmania, January 2010. The first stirrings of tweenage angst from Sapphire.  And yet, then as now, my heart surges when I see her and LC together. They're more alike than they realise.

Geneva, 2012. An impromptu greeting from Milly that is received with thanks.


















Martigny, Switzerland, is home to the St Bernard Museum.  Worth a visit because the town also contains some impressive Roman ruins and a museum that regularly snaffles art masterpieces such as Van Gogh, Monet and Picasso to have a look at.  

Back to the dogs. This fella was in the very first steps of slurping me entirely across the face, leaving me covered in a clear-but-thick saliva jelly substance that smelled of St Bernard's bum hole. Still worth it.

When my parents arrived, I insisted that they pose in front of the UN, which has become a tradition for all of our house guests. We discovered that none of the flags were up - something I'd never seen before. Just after taking this photo, a gaggle of kids walked by.

Is your dog friendly? Can we pat him?

"Of course, but 'he' is a 'she.'" Milly was surrounded by admirers....

......who insisted that I take their photo, too.

Eventually, their mother and Auntie persuaded them to keep on walking and I decided to take another photo of my parents, Sapphire and Milly, "just in case the first one doesn't work out."

Before we knew it ....

.....this cheeky little guy dashed in, posed as the extra family member, and dashed out again!

This is the photograph I was referring to when commenting on Elisabeth's blog post: 'When LC and I married a millennia ago, we did the usual thing and hired a professional photographer. I hated the awkward poses, wearing too much make up and having all eyes on me (plus a brain tumour that, undiagnosed at the time, made me feel rather ill) and the photos all reflected that. A wedding guest friend, however, gave me some snaps he took on his old kodak and one immediately grabbed me. We're slightly out of focus, but LC and I are both not looking at the camera, but at something else that has made us laugh. It's the only one I had framed and is still on our bookshelf.' 

And, finally this one.  This is the one that I will get enlarged:

I love you, darling Sapphire.

Pee on Lyon*

* Lyon is pronounced 'Lee-On' which is why I thought 'Pee on Lee-On' would be a witty title until the realisation that it would require an explanation and thus remove all forms of cleverness from it entirely. Oh well, it's done now.

Anyone who has travelled with me - and that means any journey from a half hour dog walk to weeks and weeks and weeks - knows that my biggest concern is always toilets. Where they are, what condition they're in and if they'll be in ready supply when my bladder all-too-readily bellows. You'll be climbing the light house; my head will be impersonating one by swivelling in all directions looking for the ablutions block.

With Love Chunks back at work and Sapphire starting her new school year, my folks and I decided that a further foray into France was not to be missed. Lyon, an hour and a bit's train trip away, was our starting place.

Situated between Marseille and Paris, Lyon is second only to the latter in terms of size and population and seemed like the obvious place to start.

At the impressive and beautiful Place Bellecour, the brand new tourist office beckoned; a bright and beacon representing the famous city. Inside it was even better with funky seats, loads of brochures in an array of different languages and touch screens galore.

It was 10am, so my two morning coffees and glass of orange juice courtesy of the all-inclusive continental breakfast buffet were signalling their intention to depart my being.

"Where are the nearest toilets?" I asked politely, assuming that they were somewhere inside or close by the almost-packed tourist office.

"Across the square, in the underground car park diagonally opposite," the lady said, waving her hand dismissively in front of her.

We walked confidently across the square, dodging the builders pulling down scaffolding and their ubiquitous ciggie smoke and entered the rather acrid bowels of the car park. No matter where you find yourself in the world, the cement cavern of an underground car park is never a spot of beauty or for lingering, and this one was no different.

Twenty Euro cents was nervously inserted into a door that looked as though it had been kicked in on a weekly basis. Alas - or maybe not - it refused to open.

Back at the parking toll booth, the attendant shrugged. "Use zee male."

Unlike the women's, it required no coin as a gap large enough to insert my hand was where the lock mechanism should have been. Using the toe of my boot, I gingerly eased the door open.

It was an ancient porcelain squat job, not seen by me since the privations of a no-star outer-Parisian caravan park stay thirty one years ago. Unlike then, this one was not clean and had been splashed all over in sour-smelling urine. How even the high up flush chain was dripping in the yellow stuff was beyond me and any further thought on the matter was forgotten in the age-old tourist trial of trying to lower myself down to decrease the chances of splashing my ankles; my jeans pushed down but not so far as to touch any part of the floor, walls or door as well as keeping tabs on my jacket, backpack and sun hat slung over various parts of my body.

The door was almost wide open but I didn't dare butt it shut with my head, hoping that my dear parents would shoo any pee freaks away.

Mum and Dad waited for me outside, noting that my face was even paler than usual. It seemed prudent to leave the description for another time but to thank my mother for her sterling advice of always taking a spare breakfast serviette and keeping it in my pocket for paperless cubicles.

Hoping to clear my nose of the pungent smell of piss, I found myself disappointed when we emerged back onto the streets again. The whiff of wee was everywhere. Pavements were streaked with it; corners were splashed in it and gutters were washing leaves further down the drains towards it ....... Didn't men have toilets at home? And what did women do..??

Our bus tour was informative on a number of counts, including the ceaseless stench of secretions about the city.  It was explained that some building owners placed half-sized pyramids of bricks and building debris in corners. "It's not for appearance but to prevent men from using it as a restroom.  It is designed to splash right back at them."  We also took note that the more style-conscious-but-still-anti-urine owners had metal shields permanently installed in previously piss-friendly places. Their shiny surfaces were at the perfect height to return the piss to the pisser, or shield cats from the rain.

After the tour and a walk through the intriguing silk makers' traboules, moody Mother Nature was moaning again.

"Look there," Dad said helpfully. "There's one of those Techno Toilet thingies."

Ah yes, those metallic rounded edge tiny buildings that give you ten minutes to do your business to piped classical music before the door automatically opens out to the world.

I pressed 'Ouvrir.'

Well smack me flat with the lizard gizzard entrails of Tony Abbott's brain.....  The tiny room revealed inside was a hell hole of excrement, the now-expected Lyon wee and a swarm of large and well-fed blowflies. "SHUT THE DOOR!" we screamed in unison, before hurriedly covering our mouths and reeling back from the shock.

"No wonder the homeless lady outside washed herself down in the fountain," Mum said.

Further along, we spotted Techno Toilet Number Two. Needless to say, Number Twos were sadly the main decorative feature as it was thickly and generously plastered all over the walls, ceiling, floor and hand basin with a handful of ancient loo paper sheets stuck to slightly wetter areas as profane embellishments.

"Why on earth would the council have a huge sign saying 'Public Conveniences' and a large arrow pointing here? Surely they're not proud of it," I moaned, struggling to walk with the need to pee and the lingering shock to my visual and nasal sensitivities.

Three was my all-time favourite number, so surely Techno Toilet Number three would not let me down? After all, a normal-looking bloke had just vacated it and didn't appear to be visibly flinching or running away.....

Nope. Shit city with the tang to match.

We found ourselves back at Place Bellecour, seriously contemplating a second visit to the underground car park when Mum spotted a McDonald's: the patron saint of desperate lavatory lovers the world over. "Yessssssss!"

Dashing up the stairs, I saw the sign, pushed through the door, had my jeans halfway down and then stopped in shock. The toilet was filthy, paper was strewn everywhere but on the roll and the seat was liberally dripping wet with waste. But this was McDonald's, a place that had never let me down in Bali, Egypt, Amsterdam, Perth.... Obviously in Lyon it was Pee On.

This time, my squatting skills were not only extended to increasing my chances of aiming correctly and staying dry but also to keeping my large arse aloft over a wider bowl area.  Quite the challenge when my undies were clamping my knees together.  As I exited in dismay, a gorgeous young lady sashayed in: all long straight hair, skinny jeans and the ubiquitous Chanel ballet flats. She was busy talking on her mobile phone and paid no heed to my rather well-acted  - and kindly - 'don't go in there' charade.

She CONTINUED to speak on her mobile phone when she closed the toilet door behind her! Did she have eight hands to maintain a conversation, keep her suede jacket from touching any part of the wall, her leather shoes dry, the oversized designer bag urine free, the hair exclusive of moisture, some toilet paper or alternative wiping material and a method of keeping the hem of her jeans from trailing in the puddles?

We didn't buy a coffee on the way out.
After lunch (not at McDonalds) we trekked up the hill to the cathedral.  Every old city has one.  Toilets too, if the French are feeling generous.

They were, but not for toilet seats or toilet paper.  Just the bare metal, hospital-like commode was installed, in faint deference to the monk-like, no frills lifestyle of the dark ages perhaps. No absolution, just ablution. 

It isn't exactly fair to claim that Lyon's bouquet is wholly whizz-scented; cigarettes vied for top billing as well.  We were staggered at the volume of people with lung darts hanging from their lips and despaired of finding a spot not clouded in second-hand snorted smog.

Toulouse might be famous for violets and Nice for the refreshing scent of the sea, but for my money, Lyon's signature fragrance would be this one: Cigs et Piss.  One squirt (or stray dribble down your trousers) and you'll be instantly transported back to the second largest city in France....

And it was all capped off perfectly when we left Lyon on the train.  As I pulled my tray table down, there was a poem in French, written in beautiful, swirling hand writing. How appropriate then, to see the word 'l'anus' in amongst it.

Frisky Sandwiches

We've been on holiday to Zurich, Salzburg, Munich, Berlin, Strasbourg and Berne and yet I'm wary of boring you all with a '...and then we did...' or 'then we saw....' style of entry.

Therefore, I'll let some photos do the talking. Or writing.


In the classic Aussie movie, 'The Castle,' the father, Dale Kerrigan, sings "We're going down to Bonnie Doon," over and over during the long drive with his family to their holiday shack on the river. It amused us to see a shop with the same name in French/German Strasbourg. 

"How's the serenity?"

Er, in a tourist-crammed heritage-listed medieval town, not so much.


'Bum' was on signs everywhere. Or was it a 'z' instead? We're not entirely sure and google translate has no idea what a 'schneck' is. 'Rothen' is red, so something was surely sore - a bum, a snail or a family business?



You may already know of my mother's proclivity to steal breakfast provisions in order to not to have to buy lunch, but the opportunity to try some frisky sangers in Salzburg had won over instantly.


Korma Sutra curry, on the other hand, didn't seem quite as appealing in Zurich. We ate a pretty standard (and dull) pasta meal instead and noticed that the Ladies of the Night started business early here - 6:30pm in fact - and right in front of our hotel.  Five of them had congregated to offer their sexual services but regular peeks from the third floor window of our hotel revealed that trade on a Monday evening was slow.



In Basel's old town, we found a drunken elf, lit up at night time (in more ways than one) indicating the 'Pissoir.' It means 'urinal' in French and German but is still a strangely light-hearted bit of whimsical signage for the serious Swiss.


In Munich, right near the town hall (appropriately named the Rat haus) was Wormland. It instantly took me back to the grim days of collections work at Wormald Security (now Chubb) on Racecourse Road in Melbourne during most of 1994. One annoyed debtor posted me a (later bounced) cheque made out to 'Wormworld Security.'  Here, perhaps, was where we should have shopped.

...I'd have loved to have found a t-shirt with the WORMLAND brand proudly displayed.  Shake in your overpriced shoes, Abercrombie and Fitch!



Finally, Lake Zurich. A hot 30C day, a completed bus tour and a vague urge to go on a cruise. "Oh look," Dad said. "This is YOUR boat, Kath!"

On closer inspection, the old bugger was right:

I love you too, Dad.

Three Generations of Facebook

Sapphire Lockett
YOLO = You only live once. Add this at the end of a sentence to make everything ok.
 E.g. "I murdered three people. Oh well, YOLO."
...see? It works.

Yasmine Renard
Yeah Yay You are so smart. YOLO 

Grandpa 

I'll try it, Sapphire.

Grandpa 

I went to Adelaide yesterday - in my pants. YOLO. How's that?

Sapphire Lockett

Its great Grandpa. Off to eat junk food. YOLO.

Sapphire Lockett 

And yes, I am aware of my error when I said "its".

Yasmine Renard

Oooooh..... bad brownie points for that one, Sapph.

Sapphire Lockett

OOH BROWNIES 

Kath Lockett

In your pants!

Yasmine Renard

Now i'm hungry.

Sapphire Lockett

For pants?

..... Hey Mum here's a photo I of took of you

Kath Lockett

In your pants!

Sapphire Lockett

M-uuuuu-mmmmmm (eye roll)

Pant-less at the podium

Most of us have recurring nightmares, don't we?

Love Chunks has one where he's on the toilet, pants around his ankles, busy daydreaming as he waits to drop a couple of Andrew Bolts off at a the pool.

Then, he looks up and notices that he's in the middle of a street. Adelaide's Rundle Mall, to be precise. Right by the silver balls. Shoppers are walking past; fully clothed, and he's there with the sides of his arse on display.

Sapphire has one where she's floating peacefully down a river, until it eventually becomes less peaceful and out of control. She normally then wakes up and throws up - it's her 'Yep, you're sick; you're really sick' nightmare.

Mum has one too. She's on a bushwalk with Dad, and steps off the national park path to pull down the knickers and have a quick splash on the stones.

Lo and behold, a bus load of Japanese tourists come trooping around the bend on the lower path, getting a white mooned greeting from a seventy year old. When she woke up ---- hang on, that actually happened to her, it wasn't a dream, true story.

As for me, there are two that crop up time and time again and have been doing so since my early twenties. The first is based on a real life event - being late for an exam.

Exam stress is a common dream to have and is quite literally every student's nightmare. They usually concern sleeping in and missing the exam, not being early for the exam but unable to get to the final destination due to being stuck in traffic.

In 1987, Adelaide still had the Grand Prix. The very first one in 1985 was held on my birthday and as I heard the whining sounds of fast cars being televised in the pool room at the other end of the house, I sat in my bedroom studying for my matriculation English exam the following day.

For the next few years, I realised that having a birthday in early November invariably meant being locked in my room, re-reading illegible lecture notes and goofing off by painting my toe nails.

Back to November 1987. I was in second year uni and Dad was driving me from Murray Bridge to Adelaide Uni for my 'Pre-Scientific World View of History' exam. Yeah, second year Arts was not exactly focussing on career-specific topics, but in terms of reading, research and essay writing, knowing the details of Paracelsus, the four humours of the body and lingering beliefs in witchcraft was all my brain was filled with at that point.

Until we hit Pulteney Street. "Grand Prix traffic, I reckon," Dad said, peering over the steering wheel at the long, l-o-n-g line of cars going nowhere.

Fifteen minutes of no moving, my left leg began to jiggle. "It's OK, kiddo, we'll get there," Dad said, looking straight into the 'If you see this, then I've lost the bloody caravan' bumper sticker of the car in front of him. Also not moving.

Half an hour later, I tapped at my watch. "Dad, they'll open the doors in fifteen minutes time and I don't think----"

"It'll move, Cackles.* It has to."

Forty minutes later and I had my first, grown up experience of cold sweat pooling in my arm pits.

"Calm yourself, Kath. Take a few deep breaths, you'll get there on time."

A further five minutes had me squirming on the seat. "Dad, I know you mean well, but I have to run for it. Now."

"But Pulteney Street's about two kilometres long - do you want to arrive all puffed out, stressed and sweaty?

"I already am, Dad."

He nodded, in what we all know is the universal sign for Fair Enough. I pushed open the passenger door, grabbed my back pack and legged it, blonde spiral perm flowing like windblown pot noodles behind me.

My dunlop volleys started to eat at my ankles. They were made for lounging in; being crossed under desks, not running wildly. I kept on.

My jeans rubbed around my middle and the crotch got hotter and damper. I kept on.

My backpack kept wheeling from shoulder to shoulder, banging the lower part of my bag and causing my t-shirt to ride up like a crop top. I kept on.

The hallowed spire of Bonython Hall was finally in sight. Yesssss! Daggy old Flentje theatre was in nuffy old Napier next door. I clattered precariously down the steps, trying hard not to think of the consequences of slipping and smashing my face, hooned like a nervous dog on floor tiles to the right and flung the doors open with a mighty CLANG as they bashed against the wall and back again, almost pushing me over.

Sweat was running into my ear cavities as I wheezed for air and tried to stop a bunch of weird little white spots obscuring my vision.

Seventy students, all seated and all reading the exam questions, turned in their seats to stare at me.

"Hough hough, the traffic ------  Hough hough Grand Prix ------ Hough hough left my dad ------  Hough hough ran like hell------" a drop of sweat flew off my hand towards the exam moderator who was, mercifully, also my tutor. I bent double to try and regain my breath, wet hair now slicked to my face.

Seats creaked in unison as the students went back to their papers.

"Sit down over here," she whispered kindly. "I can give you ten minutes extra if you like."

I thanked her and sat down, ignoring the wet-pants feeling of my bum on the vinyl chair. My Darth Vader Hough hough  puffs eventually subsided. The white spots faded to nothing and there was still a dry spot on the top of my legs to wipe my palms down before picking up the pencil.

"Time," the examiner called. I had finished with the others after all.

Dad was waiting for me outside, looking very concerned. "How did you go?"

I hobbled over towards his outstretched arms; blisters now evident, body all BO-ey and generally exhausted.  "Pretty well I think, Dad. At least I lived this one instead of dreamt about it."

This real life event still does replay in my dreams, but only occasionally.  My more common recurring nightmare is not about the almost-missed exam; it's about getting up to make a speech in front of a large, expectant audience. The spotlight is in my eyes and, as I clear my throat and lean forward into the microphone to start, I feel a coolish breeze.

Yep, I'm naked from the waist down.

* Cackles, thought of by Dad because I laughed a lot as a teenager. "Still, it's better than being called plain old 'Cack'," he pointed out.

I wanna play too















River has been participating in Sunday Selections. What you're supposed to do is sift through your photos and post up ones that haven't yet been published. So if you want to play too, link back to Kim at Frogpondsrock, add a comment on her blog and join in.

It's probably the ideal thing for me right now because I'm struggling to find time and energy to write anything for 'fun' that isn't related to my paid work. Three part-time jobs is clearly adding up to a bit more than one full-time role and whilst I love all three, the desire to sit down at night in front of the computer in the study and think of something to post is becoming as hard as my desire to ....

well ......

.... eat chocolate and write about it. Or, to be more specific - carefully arrange and photograph chocolate from various angles, take note of the ingredients, website and company history, taste and make notes, download photos, write up an article and post it. It was great to get 56,000 visits last month but the hoped-for advertising revenue stream hasn't eventuated.

Yep, I said it. The GoneChocco blog is starting to feel like a chore instead of the fun it was meant to be. My thighs are starting to feel like flabby flotation devices instead of the firm flanks they were meant to be and my cholesterol level is too frightening for me to face up to Dr Checks again for a follow up test.

As I think about the life of GoneChocco post-Easter, here are some photos that I've taken this year and not used.















Mum and Dad went up to Darwin a couple of months ago to experience tropical storms, hideous humidity and generally reacquaint themselves with the literary genius that is the NT News. Mum made sure that she read her copy word-for-word every day.














Dad was at my brother Rob's house and was goofing off with his neck massage thingy. I think he looks like a cross between a sensibly-dressed ET and Wall-E.















A couple of weeks ago LC won the Individual Staff Excellence Award at the Bureau of Meteorology for his work on a project that has been adopted internationally. It was brilliant to see him being made a (deserved) fuss of, even if he hated it and got more attention from his workmates for wearing a suit and tie than for his brilliant speech. I rather enjoyed being the proud spouse.
















This was taken via zoom off the Lorne Pier as we watched several massive sting rays swim underneath us. This optimistic pet owner was trying to convince his boxer to join him in the water. No amount of 'come on boy, come on' was working; not even having a tennis ball rolled about ten centimetres from his nose.
















The John Wesley statue in Lonsdale Street, Melbourne CBD. Sapphire and I scurry past him every fortnight on our way back from the cruelly-early 7.45am fortnightly appointment for her allergy injection. His prematurely greying hair is mostly attributed to pigeon poop than age.
















Ah Milly. Beautiful smile, but ears set to 'coming in to land' pose as she hears Sapphire singing in the background.

















Seven year old A was not happy with me one day and ran off to her room in protest. I tried to push the door open to talk to her and apparently 'slamed' her leg - on purpose, it was accused. I then decided to leave her in there on her own to cool off, and the solitude clearly wasn't what she was after. A few minutes of slamming the door eventuated in the above note. Thankfully our altercation was cleared up soon afterwards.
















Royal Exhibition building, yesterday. Sapphire was dying to attend the Royal Melbourne Flower and Garden show. It was her week 'off' from tennis and LC gladly stayed home as we enjoyed a few girlie hours together - mostly dodging the zimmer frames and prams.














Hand-sewn felt vegetables! "There'd be a lot of kids that would only like vegetables in this form - inedible and stuffed," observed Sapphire.
















Several pretty dazzling outdoor displays with crowds mostly around the ones featured on the 'Better Homes and Gardens' TV show the night before. "Come here love, this is the one you liked on the telly last night," said one old duck, her 40-a-day-for-forty-years voice cutting through the crowd like catapulted gravel.

'Ned' appealed to me. Maybe one day a craft project of my own..... Hopefully a great deal more successful than my attempt to make three flying fish for the back of the toilet door in paper mache.

















Loads of reds and oranges and I jostled with many other eager SLR squatters to snap this one.



Same goes for the obligatory tulip shot.

















Surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of slow-moving seventy-somethings, wheelchairs and young couples with papooses, Sapphire said, "I'm guessing we won't be seeing the divvy van arrive any time soon." She makes me laugh so hard and it's such an honour when her hand reaches over for mine.