Jumping joyfully into JESC

Apart from working online as a freelancer at a laughable hourly pittance for (mostly) small business-owners for the first two years of living in Geneva, my luck finally changed.




















My CV had languished on a desk at EBU for a week or two but was still fresh enough in their minds to be called in when they found themselves reeling from redundancies and a couple of unplanned 'don't let the door hit you on your way out' firings as well.

A frantic month of making up for the past eleven on a project criminally left idle from a freshly-departed staffer found me doing crazy hours, making up strategies as I went along and somehow pulling it together right at the very end.  It was a 'big' job for a recognisable organisational name that breathed new life into my ratty old resume.  After enjoying every moment and seeing some locally-earned money in my bank account, I went back to life as a humble word wallah and tutor for a few more months.....

.......until I was called in again to "have a chat with Vlad. He's Russian and he might need your help."  Not because he was Russian, but because there was a nearly-dead and much neglected event called The Junior Eurovision Song Contest that he'd been asked to revive. Was I interested in being Head of Press to his Executive Supervisor?  Is chocolate my favouritest food in the entire world and I even dream about it...?  OF COURSE I'd love to help him!
















From July to December we battled bruised egos, passive aggressive angst from the old owners and a lot of 'No' answers to reasonable requests.

In spite of this we had an incredible team of volunteers - Luke, Ervin, Alexandro and Luis, with Jan and Stijn generously offering their help too. Twelve countries participated (up from the seven we started with), and a couple more came along to check out the event and went back home with surprised smiles on their faces.

Being a mother of a (then) fourteen year old stood me in good stead when asked to adjudicate on the Code of Conduct, safety of the kids and the costumes.  "If I don't want Sapphire to do it or wear it, then I won't want any of these kids to either."




















Arriving in the host city of Kyiv*, Ukraine in late November it was freezing cold, dark by 3pm and the Euromaidan takeover of Independence Square was starting.  Our tour bus - available for the children, their carers and the journalists covering JESC - drove past it several times.  Students had lit fires in old petrol drums and were roasting chestnuts.

There was an air of confidence and celebration about it.  Then.  "Ukraine has had sixty seven revolutions in its lifetime," the guide proudly informed us via her microphone. "You are now looking at number sixty eight."  The bright blue and sunny yellow of the Ukrainian flag were hung over scores of apartment balconies and shop fronts, and many of the local crew checked out the happenings at Independent Square at night on their way home.  One even found love there whilst on a romantic stroll with a girl who was helping out a visiting delegation.  

The serious violence had not yet occurred, but a couple of changes had to be made. Ruslana, the revered Ukrainian firebrand singer who won the Eurovision Song Contest in 2003, was supposed to appear as a special guest.  The one rehearsal that she did attend showed how exhausted she was. Night after night she had been singing, demonstrating, dancing and supporting all the protesters; and decided that the political cause quite naturally outweighed the JESC one.  No-one disputed her decision.

After all, what kid aged between 10-15 would remember who won Eurovision a decade earlier? They were much more excited to meet that year's winner - Emmelie de Forest - who did attend and very graciously and kindly chatted to the kids together and individually for as long as they all wanted.  

The second change involved the then-president of Ukraine, Viktor Yanukovich.  He was going to appear at the concert and maybe hand the winners their trophies.  With the Palace of Arts Ukraina facing huge housing blocks festooned with flags and slogans, we weren't surprised that he was a no-show.  Relieved, yes.

It was ten days of long hours, incredible kids, awe-inspiring parents and teachers, generous local television hosts and friends that I'll remember forever.

Perhaps I'll let the photos do the talking.... 

The Press Centre 'office', or corner of the arts centre that was used for all kinds of USSR big-wig shenanigans back in the day.  Full of underground tunnels and dodgy corridors, with six flights of stairs to run from Vlad's office to mine.  Hence the walkie-talkie I'm speaking into.  The Australian flag was loaned to me by SBS's Alistair Birch who offered kindness, friendship and the best advice ever.

Some of the amazing team. By this stage we were all sleep-deprived, sweaty and had cracked lips from eating crap food on the run.  Operating mostly on joy and adrenalin.  One journo here was so overawed during the tour of backstage that she wasn't aware of the chaos around her and was inadvertently knocked down by a Cossack dancer riding a Segway.  Surrealism and hilarity at its best.  She was uninjured which saved a lot of awkward paperwork.

Any of these people can ask for a blood transfusion, bone marrow or a kidney. That's how close we became.  

The winner for Junior Eurovision 2013, the wonderful Gaia from Malta.  She was a guest at the 'big' Eurovision song contest in Copenhagen last month and it was brilliant to have her call out "KATH!" and share a big hug.

Second place went to sweet Sofia from Ukraine and third to the irrepressible Ilya Volkov from Belarus.  His delegation had their rooms next to mine in the hotel and the boy did. not. sleep. He and his female back up dancers used the luggage carts to race up and down the hallways. His Head of Delegation, Olga, was worried that I was sticking my head out to complain, but I just laughed. "Who WOULDN'T want to do that at age eleven?  Or 45 for that matter?"

Olga asked him, on the last day, what treat he would like to have. "Would you like a scooter or some football gear or a computer game?  It's my shout: you deserve it."

He thought for a moment and said, "A tube of sour cream and onion pringles would be nice."

A selfie taken that was emailed to Sapphire and LC.  The first time I've ever been classified as A1.  It was hard to stop looking behind me: would an enormous shepherd's crook appear from Stage Left, with a booming voice saying "We've found you out. Off you get," and haul me off?

....I did do a bit of work, though, and it was a slight challenge to have the production crew start to pull down the Press Centre - while we were in it - to protest their lack of payment for six months from Yankovich's government.....  Vlad's Russian and natural charm shone through - a hug, some intense discussions over coffee and vodka and a stern letter drafted by me and signed by our Grand Poobah did the trick.

Surreal moments abounded.  Timur (on the left in the photo above) is a huge star in Ukraine and was very confident, funny and polite.  The same goes for Zlata who is also revered for coming third with her song 'Gravity' at last year's Eurovision Song Contest.  Going over the script meant that I was asked to help out with some of the pronunciation of unfamiliar English words.

"So, er, how do you say this - er word - 'hobbit'?"

It was a real thrill to prove the nay-sayers wrong.  The kids were allowed to be kids: why would we want it any other way?

Rustam just HAD to touch the background wall - and why not.

I lost my voice due to cheering during and after each-and-every song and rehearsal.  The talent, the enthusiasm and the genuine happiness that all of the kids had in participating was quite inspiring.

Ewan Spence sometimes had a bit of trouble managing his star interviewer, Terry Vision. No alcohol or illicit substances were permitted at JESC but sometimes too much chocolate and sugar + not enough sleep was too much for a stuffed puppet....

The talent of the adults working hard behind the scenes was humbling.....

.......Not to mention the ability of Russian men to drag out a tired old Aussie lady to drink TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW until the sun came up....!  On the night of the final, my sins caught up with me. I was talking to someone, felt suddenly very queasy and dashed off to have a long loud chat on the white porcelain phone.  Making my way back to the Press Centre, I purchased a bottle of coke (the real stuff, not the diet stuff I'd been used to for the past twenty years), chugged it down and jumped joyously back into the fray again....

Magical things happened.  Here we see a ten year old boy from Azerbaijan spontaneously dancing at the after-party with an eleven year old Armenian girl.

Both countries' legendary emnity has resulted in dropping the alphabetical order method at all international events so that both 'A' nations needn't catch a sniff of the other.  Not at JESC. They danced and everyone clapped along and cheered.  

Sure, there was a lot of careful editing of the thousands of comments that appeared on Facebook the next day, but 99% of them were genuinely moved and very very positive.

The worst thing about JESC was being the last person to leave.  Vlad, the terrific team, the local crew and all of the performers had left by lunchtime, and I sat in the empty breakfast room with stinging eyes.

Until the two darling girls from Georgia - Tamta and Mari - spotted me and gave me one last hug.

Not every kid got to win and some were in tears afterwards but I hugged and promised them all that they would never ever be forgotten. It wasn't just for one night on a single TV show.  We would support them by following them as they grew, did more performances or whatever other news they (with carers' permission) wanted to share.  JESC mothering for ten wonderful days had been an absolute honour and not one that was going to be dropped the second the plane landed in Geneva.  The kids - and everyone working to support them - deserved better than that.  

After they left, I cried a little bit more.

As a footnote, we have indeed adhered to our promise.  Each kid who participated has been in regular touch with us (and via their carers/parents) and have featured on our Facebook site. This page was set up and run by the previous administrators of JESC for five years with 23,000 followers.  Ten months on and the numbers are now edging 75,000.  

* NOT 'Kiev' - that is Russian spelling from the bad old USSR era.

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."

Blunk Drogging

Sapphire's at her friend's 10th birthday sleepover party and Love Chunks left a few hours ago for Melbourne leaving me as the only human being at home for the second time since Sapphire entered this world purply-blue, too exhausted to cry and with a slight red mark across her face due to the doctor's rather rough and ready use of the forceps.

It's a lovely summer night here in South Australia. Calm, quiet, warm and the ants - bless their busy little bodies - have finally stopped working and gone to bed.

I figured this out because, as the lone human in the house tonight, I sat outside on our lush green lawn* drinking our leftover Rose and trying to soak in the peaceful atmosphere despite being bitten on the earlobe by a mischievious mosquito. No ants came to attack my glass or my person which is unusual here - normally they're all over the dog's crunchies before I've finished placing her dish on the pavers.

Milly is gnawing away on a lamb bone; the one with the weird circular knob at the end which presumably means it's a thigh that fits into a hip bone. Skipper the rabbit is nibbling at the grass and occasionally standing on his back legs to dramatically sniff the air and the chooks (Hermoine, Luna and Ginny) are gleefully pecking at the fresh handfuls of grapevine leaves I've thrown into their coop.

The Rose tastes especially fruity and sweet this evening and I have another. I lie back, spilling a bit down my front but who cares I'm not out to impress anyone with my table manners, smoking hot body or witty banter this evening, and I look up at the sky. No stars out yet, just a few streaks left from some stray Qantas carriers and some tardy rosellas heading back to the hills, squawking their version of the days' events to each other.

I sit up awkwardly to keep sipping the wine. No house sale yet, just three interested buyers who are either:

a) trying to figure out if they can lose our clothesline, vege beds and chook house and put an in-ground pool in there instead;

b) still grappling with the bank to work out how they can arrange finance between themselves and their grown son who will live here; and

c) nervously awaiting a contract of offer on their own house and for the two days 'cooling off' period to have been and gone before doing anything about ours.

Did I say already how truly excellent, really excellent this stuff is to drink? No? Well it is, believe me, I'll find out the brand and maker and get back to you. Anyhow, as for the house sale, I'll believe it all when I see some names on a goodamn contract and the completion of the stupid cooling off days...... Bugger, my ear is really starting to itch and it's hard to do so with these pesky gold hoops in.

I might jusht go inshide and get another glassh of thish wonderful roshe.....

Oops, dropped the glassh. It'ss out here shomewhere...... Maybe I'll jusht go back inshide and shtart doing that inventory thingy that the removalishts want ush to do. It'sh the perfect time and I feel jusht ssssho alert and organished for shuch a reshponshible tashk......

*Calm down: it's watered by an underground dripper system via the rainwater tanks.

UPDATE - there's an upside to being old, at home alone and a ridiculously cheap drunk - the 'hangover' was over and done with way before my 10:30pm bedtime!

"Wordfire With Franzy And Mele Was The Greatest Night Of My Life......"

....is the title hinted at by Franzy as one I should use in today's blog article. I thought to myself, "Self, it's as good as any, so why not?"

In fact, this year has given me more than my fair share of ups and downs and I'd like to hope that next year is a tad more Even-Steven because even an overly-caffeinated crackhead with a middle ear infection can tire of an endless rollercoaster ride loosely termed as normal life, but, and yes, this sentence will end pretty soon, through this humble blog I have had the honour of meeting some truly amazing people that it is very likely I would never ever have had the good fortune to meet otherwise.

And thus, Monday night found us packing young Sapphire off to her mate Maya's for a Monday Night Sleepover. This was not difficult; in fact it was about as difficult as asking Pamela Anderson to not wear pants because a school night sleepover is waaaaay cool. Love Chunks and I then made the momentous decision to take the bus into the city so that we both could drink. I know, could us young kids be any wilder and crazier?

That's right dear reader; we were Out There in the heavingly busy Adelaide social stratosphere, on a weeknight. Together. Not at a school meeting, karate class or sitting in the park while a stranger was having a second look inside our house but going to a real social event. And that event was Franzy's Wordfire at the Crown and Sceptre.

We almost ended up at the Club X peep show for a moment there. La Trattoria has a take-away pizza and gelati shop on one side and a sit-down restaurant at the other and let's just say that the staircase in the middle leading skywards was not where the wood-fire oven was located. LC did a passable impression of being puzzled that this was not the case and seemed contented enough to move back to the left and order a marinara and cold chardonnay.

A little later, we walked through the front bar of the Crown and Sceptre, feeling a bit stalkerish, nervous and well, kinda old and daggy. What were sensible, forty-something suburbanites like us doing in a pub on a Monday night? What on earth were we doing going to a literary event when, at times, The Sunday Fail was difficult to interpret? Why had I bothered to put on mascara?

All silly worrying for naught. I recognised Franzy straight away, even though he was sporting an approximation of a beard and not wearing his yellow clogs - perhaps they weren't the most appropriate footwear when reading an excerpt from an almost-finished book and then having to step down from the podium with confidence and grace. His wife, Mele, was also recognisable from Franzy's blog about their wedding photos but looked even more beautiful. To top it all off, I saw Myninjacockle rock up - broad grin, coke in hand and clearly just as excited as we were to be out on the town long after the demise of the 4pm express bus time. We sat next to Franzy's folks (just as cool as I'd imagined) and heard their progeny and progeny-in-law read. Both were brilliant and made me realise yet again just how much talent there is 'out there' and how lucky I was to have just witnessed some of it.

All too soon the readings were over, and a nervous musical threesome called 'Blind Mary' were about to make their inaugural debut. I really should hunt them down (in a nice way) and sincerely apologise to them for chattering on throughout their rather lovely traditional Irish set - Love Chunks tells me that I earned some - wait for it - stern looks - from fans of Blind Mary sitting up the front who wanted me to either shut up or jump through the window. I chose the latter option so that we bloggers could shoot the breeze outside. Besides, the window didn't have any glass and it was relatively easy to climb through and not spill a drop of wine doing it.

Irish fiddle-de-deeing about suffering through the potato famine and a broken heart would just have to wait for another day - I was just too thrilled to meet two of my utterly favourite bloggers and discover that they are just the kind of blokes I'd want as friends in real life. Oh and the same goes for RedCap and Ashleigh too. At the insanely late hour of 10:30pm Love Chunks and I reluctantly headed for home - we had an early start in the morning - via the 106 bus.

What a bugger I'll be leaving South Oz for Phlemington next month but thank God (or the banana) for the blogosphere, email and the occasional crazy airfare sales.