Scenes from a Genevan restaurant

"No wonder Simon and Gianna wanted to meet us here. It's actually modern," exclaimed Sapphire as we asked for a table to seat 'cinq' people and waited for the other two to arrive.

"I'll order a bottle of Rose. Everyone likes Rose and it'll go with pretty well any sort of Italian food."

Love Chunks surveyed the scene and then the menu, wincing as he did so. "Well, each dish is helping them pay for the renovations."

Sapphire, looking beautiful in her own chosen ensemble of skirt, boots and cute top, rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's Geneva for you."

He smiled. "You're right.  I'll try a glass of Cotes du Rhone red----"

"-----And I'll have a glass of that orange Aperol stuff, see?" Pointing wildly at a couple in the corner, "Remember me drinking it all the time last year in Germany...?  They've just ordered the same drink, which is the first time I've seen it here. I love that stuff!"

"Yes Kath/Mum," my two favourite humans chorused.

Gianna and Simon arrived, glad to see that we'd snaffled a table. "There's already a queue outside and it's only a quarter to seven," she said, sipping on the Rose. "What the....?" she swallowed only because it would be impolite to spit inside. "I'm sorry but this is awful!"

Simon and LC agreed.  "Never fear, I'll drink it," I said, worrying more about the cost of the wine and inwardly cringing at it going to waste.

"Peach iced tea for me, please," said Sapphire.  "Hey Mum," she whispered, tapping my arm. "Don't look now - I said DON'T LOOK - but one of the chefs over there has the Colosseum tattooed on his arm."

"So he has. No prizes for guessing where he's from." The completed half litre orange Aperol and first glass of Rose were working their magic. "So. Pretend that your life depended on getting a tattoo - on your upper arm, so it's mostly visible - of a landmark or living thing to represent yourself, what would it be?"

"Certainly not the Opera House," Sapphire said before turning to place her order.

"A flower of some kind," said Gianna. "Seeing as this year my birthday has a zero in it, I have been giving it some thought but haven't got as far as decided what flower."

"My girls," Love Chunks said, "but how awful would that look?"

"The Southern Cross for me," was my contribution. "It's time we took it back from the brain-dead bogans."  Sapphire shook her head in disapproval. "Mum, they'd just think you were their big white nanna."

"A British Bulldog," Simon said decisively. "But to overturn the racist element of it, I'd have him smiling, sitting on top of the Tower of London and wearing a Shamrock around his collar. My mum would like the shamrock."

It was then that we noticed the two real dogs in the restaurant.  The one closest to me was still a puppy and resembled our Milly crossed with a kelpie and a whippet and a whimsical dash of shrunken golden retriever.  Glass number three had me lean back and slur slightly, "Love your dog. What is she?"

"We're not really sure as she was a rescue dog from Austria," the man replied in a strong German accent.

At the table on the other side of us was a full-sized Boxer, his back almost the same level as the table.  Arse facing us, we were treated to an eyeful of his baked potato-sized bollocks.  Turning to face us (which we were all relieved about), he presented a very handsome but slightly huffy face.  His nose inevitably found her:  the cute Blonde Bitzer I was currently enchanted with.  His paws scrabbled on the shiny floor to reach her, knocking against the legs of his owners' table. A sixty-something man, clearly the owner, grabbed the dog and roughly shoved his head under the table, cursing loudly.

"That seems a bit harsh," observed Simon. "The dog's only doing what is natural..."

I leaned back to my Austrian friend and pointed to a spot just behind Simon's left elbow.  "There's a boxer over there who is very keen to meet your dog."

"But he mustn't," he whispered, "As she is on heat."

A fourth glass was swirling inside me yet even I queried the wisdom of bringing a dog on heat to the most popular restaurant in our postcode, with tables almost touching and overloaded with stemmed glasses and bread baskets.  "Oh," I said, turning back to my friends.

By the fifth glass, Gianna had had enough.  The Italian fire in her soul - and inborn knowledge of the language - saw her plonk down her calamari and square up to the Boxer's bully.  Never a shy petal, Gianna was obviously giving the bloke a goodly piece of her mind in her mother's native tongue, gesticulating at the dog and pointing towards the Blonde Bitzer behind me.  The waiters quickly intervened and magically found the Boxer family a table against the counter, presumably so that the dog could be hidden underneath and only have one side to escape from.

Things now settled, we enjoyed the meal. The food was indeed superb and the increasingly loud conversation, yelled orders to the pizza chefs and clacking heels on parquetry were adding to the chaos.  A downed sixth glass made me brave enough to lean back on my chair - now being steadied ever-so-subtlely by LC - and ask the question. "Why is your dog on heat?"

"She was supposed to be neutered on Tuesday but started bleeding, so the vet says he can't do it until next week-----"

The Boxer was there!  He'd broken out of his pizza and pasta-prescribed prison and was about to........."NO!"  Despite the imminence of a violent sexual scene and three separate groups of diners in distress, the packed restaurant remained oblivious, carrying on their own chats over carpaccio platters and wood fired focaccias.  Admittedly, things were fairly hazy in my Rose-saturated state, but pizza crusts and prosciutto may have been proffered to encourage the besotted Boxer to forgo his attempts at rooting in a restaurant and crouch back under his table.

"I'm not sure that food would normally dissuade a determined guy that easily," Simon muttered.

Our meal was all over by a tame 9:30 pm and Sapphire kindly held my elbow to add an element of safety to my sterling impression of a toddler walking down a flight of stairs for the first time.  "I'm sorry love, but I haven't set a very good example for you tonight, have I?"

She paused for a moment before smiling. "A drunk Mum, Gianna gettin' game and dirty dogs - remind me not to get so dressed up next time."

Vadge of honour

We were sitting in the car just outside the high school gate, having one of those conversations that both of us are not only enjoying, but also not wanting to end.

Sex.  To be more precise, recent concerns about the easy access of pornography and how it might affect the expectations of some teenagers. 

"Is a guy going to expect someone with inflatable duck lips who is automatically able to writhe around like a pole-dancer whilst wearing more on her feet than her entire body?  Will he also expect her to provide some oral pleasure and be instantly amenable to letting him enter her, erm, 'back door' the second he walks - usually naked and in a highly visible state of excitement - into the room?"  That was my question by the way, not my daughter's.  It seems so long ago when a 'Do you like me - tick yes or no' note was handed around in year eight geography.

Sapph spoke of recent discussions they've held in Humanities on the issue.  Will the never-ending availability of sex and sexual acts online give some kids and teenagers a completely unrealistic idea of what 'real' life relationships are going to be like?  Will the saturation of 'take it, bitch' clips readily on hand (often when you don't want them - don't try a google search when your spelling isn't up to scratch) completely dissolve the idea of having sex between two genuine human beings with a back story and shared respect and real passion?

Our conversation then took a slightly different direction.  "And what's so attractive about male genitalia anyway?  They just dangle there to make 'ooh that would have hurt' or nutcracker jokes for at least half the videos submitted to 'You've Been Framed.' And with something always 'there' it must surely always be demanding some attention. How could you keep your mind of something that moves of its own accord?"

Nodding, I replied, "Yep. No wonder boys play with them so often: they're easily accessible and very easy to please."

Laughing, Sapphire commented that the girlie bits weren't so flash to peek at either. "But they're on the inside, at least, so unless you grab a small mirror, they don't bother us as much."  She paused for a moment. "That is, unless you're really flexible gymnast like Juliet, but if that was me, I'd think of better things to take a closer look at."

This all reminded me of a stand up routine by Ben Elton way, waaaaay back in the 1980s when he too commented on the ugliness of mankind's rude bits. "He said that no architect had ever been so inspired by the male appendage that he had to design a building with bulbous veins and a purple domed roof on the top."

"Then again Mum, has anyone ever described the inner vadge as resembling a stack of sliced roasted meats, as you did to me once?"

"Yep, sweet pea, I did.  Yet again, there's no Opera House or scenic bridge that is based on our mounds of Venus, dear heart."

Despite this grotty talk, my spirits were flying high. I loved that she and I could have these kinds of brutally honest chats, using humour to soften the horrors of growing up and swimming safely past the bobbing icebergs of peer pressure, internet unreality and heightening hormones.  I loved being witness to her insight and ways of viewing the world around her.  I loved seeing her throw back her head and laugh in delight; a combination of relief and joy at being able to goof off with her mother before tackling Design & Technology class.  

I was warming to the theme. "And don't get me started on those over-inflated party balloons that are supposed to represent the average woman's breasts," I exclaimed, pushing both hands out in front of my own chest, as if they were struggling to keep hold of two heavy bowling balls.

"MUM," Sapphire hissed. "You have just impersonated a woman with enormous boobs right outside the entrance to my SCHOOL.  Could you BE any more embarrassing?"

Sadly, yes.

But then again, so can she.  Sapphire leaned in through the car window. "Oh geez, I've just given myself a major wedgie sliding out of the car and now have a long walk across the quadrangle where all the windows are facing!"

She'll be fine.

Listen

The biggest thing I hate about myself at first doesn’t seem like a particularly large negative, but it’s sure as hell hard to change it.

I’m a shocking listener.  

My coffee making skills are improving; gift-giving isn’t too shabby and making people laugh is reasonably easy when shared experiences and silly jokes are flung about, but being able to shut up for long(ish) periods and let someone else have their fair shake of the sauce bottle is something that continually eludes me.

Actually, elude is copping out lightly, making my problem seem more cuddly-wuddly than it deserves to be.  More honest ways to describe it could include ‘overbearing,’ ‘trying far too hard,’ or ‘obviously allergic to companionable silence.’ Yes to them all, sadly, and let’s add the one that seems funny but really truly isn’t: being a bloody annoying show off.

It only takes a few easily-digestible advice columns or first year, week one Psychology to understand that it stems from my desperate need for approval, attention and the spotlight.  It takes slightly more than a Cliff notes’ read of Freud or flick through ‘I’m OK, You’re OK’ to note that despite already appreciating that my childhood gave me all of those things – as well as love, support, encouragement, freedom and creativity – my selfish behaviour continues.

People often remark about vacuous types who are clearly just waiting for you to stop moving your mouth so that they can jump in and start again.  I’ve nodded in recognition, but know via my crawling insides that I’m one of those people. Geez it hurts to write that as I’d much rather be depicted as friendly, caring, sociable and a cheerful ‘front of house’ hostess with the most-ess.

There have been more times than I wish to count that have seen me step outside of myself and witness my almost-hysterical, strident desire to hold sway over a gathering and feel a combined sense of deep shame and an inability to stop it. Usually, taking the dirty dishes out to the kitchen or a change to the dessert course can help break my dinner party domination but only if LC is there to dash in behind me and softly whisper something like, “Kath, this isn’t meant to be nasty but you never give anyone a chance to speak!”

He is always correct.  “If there are eight people at the table, it’s best to assume that you should only get one eighth of the conversation space.”  My stupid, nasally, look-at-moiye voice.... it's not like I enjoy hearing it, or that anyone has remarked on its melodiousness, but why can't I shut the hell up?

My crest-fallen face always upsets him and he apologises profusely.  After twenty years of togetherness shouldn’t still have to do this but he’s been forced to do it time after time and after time and still sees his wife embarrass him, herself and their child with her ‘Look at me! Hear me! LIKE ME! Antics.  I’m forty four years old for pharksakes.

Another thing it's long past time to be brutally truthful about is how the sound of laughter is like melted Lindt chocolate being lovingly poured all over my ego, dripping through to every crack and crevice of my painfully shallow and personality-parched body.  My soul thrives on it and craves more of it the more it is given.  Friends sometimes manage to get a word in and tell entertaining stories of their past or recent adventures or observations, and I barge in, with an Annie Oakley-style, ‘Anything you can do I can do (say, tell, enact, sing, recall, embellish, mimic) better,’ undoubtedly causing guests – and LC – to sit back and eventually give up.  It’s impossible to bust through when I'm locked and loaded in full show-off mode.

“For gods’ sake Mum, stop talking and listen to me!”  This one hurts the most because it's true.  

It's been a struggle writing this blog lately because a lot of what affects or interests me is of a deeply personal nature.  It would be a betrayal of the other people involved if I discussed issues that not only concern me but them also.  Having a rueful laugh is one thing, but it should only be my flaws that I dissect here at the keyboard.

I need to take my cue from Milly the dog. She sits, she listens and somehow understands what is required of her.  A swish of her tail, a raised eyebrow muscle or zany smile as she dashes past in the park says it all.

Chewing gum has always given me a stomach ache (juices flowing, no food arriving = tummy in turmoil) but maybe it would help keep my jabber jaws occupied and other guests able to complete a full sentence or three without a Kath-style conversation crash in.  Drinking more might help keep my cake hole under control but only if it's non-alcoholic.  Too many fermented fruits or yeasty bubbles just make me worse.  Diet coke and water is a viable option as it would also see me visit the bathroom more often, thus creating even more breaks for my buddies.

Seriously though, I owe several hundred people over the past two decades an apology or two.

And more recently, Sapphire.  The thing she needs most right now is my ear. And my two arms for a hug.  Hugs I can do and will try very hard to offer them more often.  And in silence.

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)

Colin, crumbed

Revered South Aussie blogger River has recently shared photos of the cheeses she found (and is contemplating tasting) at Adelaide's Central Market.

Now, without wanting to come all Annie Get Your Gun over you and sing the entire song of 'Anything you can do I can do better,' she got me thinking about cheese available here, as well as other foods.

Cheesus.....! The variety here is mind boggling. Even modest old Migros, home to everything made in Switzerland with Swiss ingredients by only certified Swiss-nation-loving, national interest folk, has a fridge section that's a hundred metres long and full of cheese. If that's not good enough you can also visit their deli and have someone cut off a specific chunk of something different for you or get the unrefrigerated long-life soapy stuff next to the eggs.

In France, a mere 5 kilometres away, LeClerc has three aisles dedicated to cheese + the separate deli section but our newest discovery, Carrefour, outranks them both.

People with lactose intolerances start to double over in abdominal pain the moment they pull into the car park because this place sells not only televisions, champagne and bullock tongues but cheese. It's easily the largest supermarket I've ever been inside and roughly 40% of it is devoted to all things cheesey. Think goat, sheep, cow, buffalo and also ash, fig, garlic, vine leaf, straw, cloth and a ten thousand moulds and you might be partway there.

But cheese is the tip of the culinary iceberg (lettuce). Australia, Switzerland and France may all be commonly considered as well-off western nations with similar cultural concerns but foods found here still surprise me.



Take the humble yoghurt, for example. Plain, Greek or fruit is about all you get at Coles, but here we can freely grab pots of hazelnut, maple leaf, coconut and chocolate (nowhere near as nice as you'd think), mocha (ditto), prune and pineapple, rhubarb, cranberry, orange and ginger, caramel, winter chestnut.

The Christmas selection not only included Apple Strudel and Marzipan flavours but also caramelised pear and coffee bean. There might be a couple of reasons why these are only placed on the shelves for a couple of weeks per year: you only want to try them once and you either have locals with bad memories or trustful new UN arrivals who like the sound of them.

My utter favourite (apart from all and every permutation of berry) was fig and honey in Greek-style yoghurt. Sweet, creamy and delectable, so why-oh-why did I go and ruin it all by turning around to the back to read the nutritional (read: depressional) panel? Thirty grams of fat. Oh. Might as well be scoffing mascarpone...



The French-Suisse don't shy away from fats (see cheese above) or the origins of their foods. Some birds still have their heads, beaks and feet on not just in rustic market stalls but also in the supermarket meat section and nine times out of ten LC and I look at a tray of meat and, once the usual suspects of chicken, beef, pork, veal, duck, horse and rabbit are eliminated, are still none the wiser. Lambs' brains are vacuum packed in groups of three and were right alongside sheep hearts; inexplicably glad-wrapped in fours. (Did the butcher feel peckish and have the fourth brain on a baguette during his lunch break?)

Frogs (grenoille) started appearing just before the Silly Season all stacked up on kebab sticks like pink scallops, and snail cooking kits were lining the shelves next to the fondue kits. Yes, fondue is truly honestly eaten here by the locals, with Gruyere and Emmental (prepared ready for the pot) outselling the other million varieties of cheeses by ten to one.

Frozen fish comes from Alaska and Iceland and one particular brand caught my eye: Colin. Colin comes crumbed, but I've yet to find out what they did to Trevor or Dennis.

Yesterday, as we dawdled up and down the immense aisles of Carrefour in the afternoon***, at the end of each one, like Australia, there featured a small display of a special (or 'action') for the week. Packets of chips on one, bottles of pear cider on another and the obligatory stale Christmas cakes further along. However, seeing rabbit set up at aisle five was a bit confronting. They may have been mercifully stripped of their fur, but the butcher had displayed them agonisingly stretched out and left their eyes in, so we had an meaty mix of painfully nude and melted-wax-like pink bugs bunny displayed to win over our stomachs (nope) and our wallets (double nope).

I vowed to Sapphire that I would never eat rabbit. We owned and loved the adorable mini-lop bunny Skipper for three years before tearfully seeing him head off in Taka's car to the fertile, green organic garden of their home in Murrumbeena. The little bugger's apparently having a better time there than he ever had with us, with free reign to eat all the spinach he can handle, dig wherever he likes and stroll inside to take his place in front of the flatscreen in the evenings.

So when Love Chunks was peering at some pots of terrine to try, I hissed, "NO! Not that one! Try this one instead!" Not having Google Translate with us meant that we didn't know that the other flavours were, so he said, "Oh, she won't know," and popped it into our trolley. 

My heart sank with shame: I had promised our child that no relative of Skipper's would end up in my stomach and I'd stick with that to the very end.



..... My heart sank again later in the same day when I took the time to read the peel-back foil lid from Milly's dinner. Lapin !

They say things happen in threes, so I'm reading every single label before inserting whatever's inside into my mouth. Perhaps I'll stick to chocolate; it's a much safer option.

Ah Skipper - I miss the little guy.



*** The best time to go shopping is after 3pm when the rush is over. Peaceful and quick to the checkouts even if the crazy day's specials have all been snapped up and you're left with buying the 'Razzle Dazzle' scented laundry detergent based only on price and not knowledge of what the hell 'razzle dazzle' smells like.....

Pretend that You....

Lea from Health With Happiness has young children who love to play. Bung in some dress-up opportunities and they're like pigs in mud with the sessions invariably kicking off with the timeless phrase 'Pretend that you...'

It got me wondering what it would be like for adults to play that game. Steady on - in a non-sexual context. What would you answer to 'Pretend that you...?'

Here's a few of mine:

Slapped Tony Abbott in the face. Repeatedly, using Andrew Bolt as the weapon.

Ran in high heels without pain.

Could wear high heels without pain.

Had pets that never shed hair or, at the very least, could operate and regularly use the vacuum cleaner.

Fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow instead of three long and sweaty, fretful and restless hours later with two sessions groping around in the dark for wee trips at 3am and 5am.

Owned taps that weren't flick mixers and therefore didn't burst open and splash in and out of the cup at supersonic speed, leaving my face and shirtfront completely soaked.

Didn't need to fart the second I sit down with someone trying to interview them for an article and seem professional and in control (of persona and gas emittance).

Ate my entire body weight in chocolate and saw it reduce my fat ratio, increase my stamina and improve my intelligence levels.

Could instantly (and without ruining the environment) 'zap' and make disappear every single item of litter I laid my eyes on. Same goes for so-called 'celebrity' columnists and radio hosts.

Had visible eyebrows and lashes longer than a chicken's.

Spent the day in Parliament as the ultimate dictator removing HECS, restrictions on who can marry; bank fees other than interest, payments to private schools, stamp duty and ridiculously high retirement pensions for politicians.

Found jeans that fit me around the thighs and the waist.

Owned dishes that put themselves in and out of the dishwasher and clothes that knew how to wash, dry, iron, fold and return to the drawers and wardrobes. Had a best-selling and also critically-acclaimed novel published.

Actually wrote a novel.

Waved a wand (the fantasy equivalent of a legally-bound restraining order) and removed Sapphire's bully. And the bully's mother.

Figured out how to resolve an argument with Sapphire without first fighting the competing demons of rage, shame, humiliation and sorrow - all tightly woven in love, pride and concern.

Worked out how to let things roll off my back and not coil right through to the marrow.

Pure Terror

Some things in life may seem innocuous - useful even - but they can also scare the crap out of usually sane and serene beings.



















This is such a thing.




















The mere sight of it was enough to reduce the victim to a quivering, shaking mess.




















A drop of blood spattered the floor as the victim thrashed and ran haphazardly to get away from it.



















Pain was nothing: escape was all.

However, the battle was lost and the thing won.

Well, for five minutes at least.

With Milly's rump looking like a particularly painful leg of roast pork, we were given strict instructions to put an 'Elizabeth Snap Collar' on her. The Cone of Shame, in other words.

The post-operative instruction sheet read: "You must discourage jumping or activity of any kind that will cause excessive stretching of the wound, especially during the first few days."

In her wild-eyed terror, our poor dog tried to run away from the hazy plastic prison that was clipped around her neck. Furniture was overturned, walls smashed against and nails frantically scratched the floor and we watched in anguish as her leg buckled, twisted and stretched.

Love Chunks couldn't bear it. "Let's give the poor girl the benefit of the doubt," he said, unclipping Milly's spiteful spirit-crusher.

With no painkillers provided, we've caught her giving the wound a sly lick only a couple of times and she's much happier. I'd like to conclude by saying that the cruelty ended there, but it didn't. As she lay sleeping off the last of the anaesthesia that had changed her beautiful eyes from almonds to puckered diamonds, I placed the collar next to her beanbag and waited for her to wake.

This is the only photo I could bring myself to take before she fully regained consciousness, sprung up in fear and sprinted up the passage to the front door. "Milly, calm down - your stitches........!"

Maybe it'll come in handy as a mini greenhouse for baby herbs.

Twang

"You're biased, Mum, you're always biased. I'm crap at running, it's really hard and I bet there's no-one else in my class that's doing it."

Sapphire jumped off the treadmill and stormed inside. Her words hurt. I'd heard her worries about being called fat that were unreasonable and untrue and wanted to help her get physically fit, get strong and feel positive. I'd made up playlists of songs that would inspire her and would stand beside her, swinging my arms in time with hers, aching to be able to run too.

After loudly bellowing on this blog that it is my Achilles that is the regulator of my moods and events, it twanged again for the third time. Sleeping that night was an impossibility for my leg bones felt as though they were being boiled and grated in hot water with hammering nails in the heel. Luckily the night time agonies disappear during the day and it doesn't kick up during a brisk power walk or a long and boring session on the exercise bike, so I could pedal away as Sapphire ran.

But not today.

I followed her inside. "Look love, you're doing really well. Really well. You can run further than I ever could at your age or when I went with my Dad at fourteen or even when I started all over at thirty three. But if you want to do it on your own, that's fine."

"No, I want you there."

"Great, then let's get out there and start-----"

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms. The only low point of the school holidays so far has been the ongoing theme of No Eye Rolling or Rudeness Towards Your Parents. "What are you doing that for?"

Sapphire stared fixedly into the distance, lips pursed. "Well?"

"Look, I'm trying to help you as your Mum and your friend. However I'm a person first and do not deserve to be treated badly by you." The eyes rolled again and I started to see red. "DO I?"

I could see her struggling to put into words what she barely understood herself. The annoyance, the boredom, the familiarity-breeding-contempt, the powerlessness, the unwieldy growth and the swirling of hormones and self consciousness. I knew all that but didn't have the skill or self control to stop getting at her. "WELL?"

Still no answer. Arms still stubbornly folded. I walked towards her to hug her, even though I didn't feel like it. Parenting means swallowing frustration and making the first move. She remained rigid and I snapped. "Fine. Go sit in your room and feel miserable and fat."

She ran off, crying.

I could not believe that I'd said it. Fat. To my own daughter; a kid I'd do anything for; a child whose room I wander into during the day just to see what it is she's got on display, what she's working on, what interests her. I called her fat.

Sapphire screamed. "I'M NOT FAT!" and I rushed up the passageway, agreeing, apologising, trying to explain.

"You're right, you're not, you're really not. I am so sorry, Sapph. I was angry and hurt and wanted you to realise that if you don't start doing some form of exercise you could be in danger of getting fat. And I shouldn't even have said that."

"From my own mother," she wailed.

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry." She tried to close her door, but I pushed harder and walked in, standing directly in front of her, my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. "I love you so much and want to help you. Being fit isn't just a project, it's an important part of life. You are not fat but if you're anything like your father and me, you'll need to work at it or you could be."

"Is that why Dad's out for a bike ride?"

Her tears were drying, mine were starting. "Yes love. He's found something that he likes doing but it's also so that he still has the energy he needs for you, for me, for work and for his health. Now if you want me to shut up and stop being silly while you're in the shed, I will."

A half-smile appeared. "No, I don't mind your talking."

Several hugs and tissues later we were out in the shed. Me on the bike, now dragged across the rubber matting so that it was directly next to her on the treadmill.

She ran and chatted. She sang along to some of the songs and had enough breath left to ask me what having an ultrasound on my leg felt like and when did I know that I wanted to marry her dad. She ran three kilometres in twenty minutes with ease. We hugged, both red and sweaty and proud.

"You're not biased Mum, just honest."

"And you're not fat. Just a good runner getting fit."

Yesterday I waved her and Love Chunks off as they drove to the coast for a five day camping trip, leaving me at home with the dog and the rabbit to get stuck into The Novel. Four thousand words in a day and a half so far yet the house still rings with their spirits. Milly sniffs at LC's shoes under our bed and noses around Sapphire's music stand. 'Where are they?' she asks me with her eyes. 'Where has my pack gone?'

When I went to bed last night there was a scrap of paper on my bedside table. Sapphire and I had taken Milly for a walk in the local park that morning. As we stuck our fingers in the slot to grab a doggy bag for the offerings that Milly backs out the second she's on grass that isn't her own, Sapph had made up a rather funny song about the Poo Bag Pole; catchy tune and lyrics. "A stand up comedian would kill to have that as part of their act," I giggled.

My beautiful, stubborn, moody, funny, fast-growing girl.

Don't be selfish

So, how are you feeling now Sapphire? How about just one more Glee episode - come on, you've watched two whilst I was out on the treaddie - and then turn off the telly?




















Sapphire, I know you're feeling poorly.

After all, you caught the lurgy from me, remember?

But the vomiting is a new thing - that's all you I'm afraid.

What's that? You just want me to turn off the TV and let you sleep?

But can you do one thing for me?

It'll only take a sec-----Oh shit here's the bucket Wait wait WAIT OH.....oh. Nah, it's okay. You go have a shower and I'll clean this up.

But hang on a mo - just click here - yeah that's right - because I want to blog about my ailment this morning not yours that's why.

I heard that young lady! This 'crabby old bag' as you so nicely call me has been puked on twice today and - as I'm trying to show you - became so engrossed in her 'This is piss weak compared to running, damn my poxy stuffed-up achilles' power-walking session today that she didn't even notice the friction of her thumb against her t-shirt that eventually drew blood!

See?
















Well SIT DOWN then if you feel dizzy. Here! Just take it and then you can have a shower.

And yes I'm sorry. Swearing is wrong and I'll try harder to stop doing it. We'll talk about what 'poxy' means another time; when you're feeling better, okay?

Oh sweetie, I know. How about I come in with you and just make sure that you can stand up in the shower?

No, it's true. I do mean it.

Yes, of course I say it every time you're sick and I mean it every time.

I'd give anything to be able to take your pain and illness away and have it myself, I truly honestly would. But there'd better be some bandaids left in the bathroom cupboard because my thumb really stings.....

Heavy Balls















It's Saturday morning at the cheer-challenging time of 8.25am and Annoying Dad from the tennis team that Sapphire is playing against comes up to me for the fourth time in two minutes, asking, "Is your team all here yet? Are you ready to play?"

Instead of doing what I did the first three times, which is smile politely and say "Sorry no, we're not all here yet and no, I'm not the team captain and don't have the book and do we need to think about whether it's okay to play seeing as it's raining?"

.... I snap and hiss, "We're still five minutes early. I told you I don't have the team book and it's now sleeting down ice shards outside so surely you need to call the match off?" Chastened, he backs off and I seethe, trying not to hear the common sense in my eleven year old's advice to 'calm down and be quiet, Mum,' as she tugs at my handbag strap.

At precisely 8.30am - the official start time - we have our full team complement battling various stages of early morning-itis (and hair), staring out of the foggy windows of the warm clubhouse with very obvious expressions of dread. I decide not to re-establish my friendship with Annoying Dad and find Nervous Mum in the corner and try again. "Um, do you think it should be cancelled?"

"YE-E-E-E-E-S" say my team in an unenthusiastic but determined chorus, but she hesitates and rapidly whispers that we have to sit and wait for two hours -two hours - before anyone can officially call the morning's play 'off'. "It's not that heavy," she concludes, zipping up her Goretex Everest Puffer Jacket right up to her chin.

Sighing, I spot Denis and Alice and say, "You two - Boy Two and Girl Two - you're ON. Oh and Denis, meet Alice. Alice, this is Denis."

After several minutes of uncertain milling about, it seems that I am team coordinator today. Denis politely smiles at Alice who is playing her first ever match and then flips up his hoodie as a thin layer of protection against the downpour. Alice trudges behind him, already shivering and regretting her optimistic outfit of shortie shorts.

Nervous Mum sidles up to me again but the rustling sound of parachute material and Goretex betrays her.

I know what she's going to ask and I'm dreading it.

I've got a bloody inner ear thingy that makes it hard to hear, hard to stand up straight and quite frankly, hard to give a crazy cow's crap-splat about Saturday morning tennis 'Special Grade 2' comp.

"Do you have someone who can umpire this game?"














Poo. Love Chunks senses my distress and offers to take on the first match. There he stands, trying to keep the umbrella open, his fingers and scoresheet dry and keep an eye out for faults and outs. I couldn't love him harder than at this particular moment. Goretex rustles off to umpire the number three mixed doubles. Any negative thoughts I have about her instantly vanish as she stands there without an umbrella and thongs on her sodden bare feet.

Sure enough another match is ready to commence. Umpiring tennis games is clearly a task that for most parents (our team and the opposition) enjoy doing about as much as a home-made genital wax but we're in a grade that requires an umpire for each match. I've already explained my Labyrinthitis to nearby parents, but suddenly two have to run an errand, one claims not to fully understand the rules and there's an unseemly rush to the warmth of the clubhouse toilet block.

Poo Bum. My turn but - thank god - Love Chunks has offered me his umbrella. The temperature mottles my handles into rather lurid red and blue splotches and I drop the pen in a puddle of water. "Hey boys...." ---I gesture them over to the net--- "......How about we forget the warm up shots and get straight into it?" They're as relieved as I am.

Poo Bum Bugger. It's wrong and unfair and bad sportsmanship to wish for a quick thrashing, isn't it, but I do wish that, very much. The score sheet is now an ideal paper mache slab and the boys are bravely fighting against the elements to hit hard, try harder and get it to four-all. Each thwack of the ball produces a spray of water that, if near the south side of the net, splatters into my face and make it even harder for my frozen paws to grip the umbrella, pen and notepad. I wallow in self pity and forget what I'm supposed to be out there doing. "Sorry guys, was that a fault or in - do you want to play two again?"

Our boys lose the match 6-4. I offer my congratulations but they're both keen to buy a foul-smelling lukewarm hotdog from the club canteen and huddle in the shelter by the court.

No sooner do I write down the store in both team books than another two matches have started and Goretex is out there again on one court and asks me to do the other. Poo Bum Bugger Shit!

Love Chunks grabs the notepad before I can plead, "Please, please dear, sweet and honourable Goretex lady, let me sit down. Force someone else to do it and I'll promise to give you enough chocolate to give you a much-needed winter coat for the duration of this season." He shakes out his umbrella in preparation for the rain and my love for him beats stronger.

Somehow, the rain clears a little. It's now an acceptable drizzle and the competition is close; closest we've ever come to winning. One more set out of the final three and we'll finally know what victory tastes like. Kids from sides are now willingly running out onto the courts to hit up ready for playing. Every single one of them has played brilliantly and, to my utter amazement, actually enjoyed themselves in arctic conditions. For reasons undeserved, I feel hugely proud of them all.

It is then, with three courts free and every kid out there warming up and trying to hit the balls as hard as they can to thrash the water out of them before their final doubles matches that Annoying Dad makes his re-appearance.

"I'm officially calling this match a wash-out. It's 10.35am and it's a draw."

Poo Bum Bugger Shit Faaaaart!