The chaos of chairs

Much like marriage, apartment living is a continual exercise in consideration and compromise.

We apparently have multi-storey living arrangements a far lot easier than the average Swiss person in that we have our own washing machine and therefore escape the dreaded laundry room timetable.  Friends on much higher salaries than ours are unable to go out on Monday nights because it is when their allotted two hours are given to use the washer and dryers.  The judges' decision is final and no further correspondence will be entered into, such is the difficulty in trying to nab a Saturday afternoon slot.  Someone has to die and have their next-of-kin tracked down, bribed and shagged to have any chance of being able to change the time you have been given.  (While we were in Spain, our house and dog-sitter said the highlight for her was being able to wash her clothes when she felt like it - such small pleasures)

For those of us with washing machines, life is relatively carefree as long as we don't use them before 8 am or after 9 pm and never on Sundays.  The Sunday restriction is regularly flouted by me - surely it's OK to do something other than stay utterly still and silent from, say, 10 am to 4 pm?  Doesn't that allow sufficient time for a sleep in or pre-work wind down? So far, no neighbour to the left, right, up or below has taken offence at my rest day rejection.

With our dog now fully embraced by our concierge, The Fratman, and able to leap into the lift doors and accompany elderly couples to their floor (and back down to me) with joy and safety, we figure that the block is pretty used to the noisy Australians who like to yell 'Tea is READY' instead of walk the fifteen metre dog leg to the bedroom area.

However, there is a big booger still dangling from the symbolic nostril that is upper-level etiquette: our balcony.

When it rains, the water simply gathers into small pools, eventually turning into one rather shallow swimming area when they join up.  The drain may be set in the far corner but the undulating slope of the tiles means that it rarely gets wet.  Instead, the water is eventually dried up by the sun or soaked up by my ugg boots; whatever happens first.

Unfortunately, it is not just worn woollen footwear and solar power that is removing the water - it is also seeping through the balcony and starting to stain the ceiling and upper walls of the apartment directly below us.  The neighbours (to be referred to as the Seventh Floor Fusspots from hereon) are understandably annoyed by this and have asked the land agent to contact the owner of our apartment to fix the problem.

With Swiss efficiency meaning that the plumber rings to apologise if he's going to be ten minutes late, I assumed that the balcony repair work would be relatively easy.

But no. In the past eight weeks, I've had no less than ten separate visits of men arriving with clipboards to
a) have a smoke and fling the butt over the edge of the flower boxes down into the garden that no human is allowed to enter;
b) point to the drainage hole and hold some intense discussions about it;
c) jump up and down on the tiles; and
d) tell me 'We fix. Later. Fratman will call you.'

TEN TIMES.  Unless they somehow scrape off a thick layer of cement and slope the entire balcony surface towards the drain or knock the entire edifice off and build a new one from scratch, it is not clear what quick job they can do to prevent the Seventh Floor Fusspots from continuing to complain.  Put in a blue pool liner perhaps?

Mrs Fusspot has usually been friendly to me whenever we've crossed paths by the mailboxes or in the lift, but the frustration of no action and her presumably still-ugly brown-stained walls are starting to fester beyond  annoyance at the owner and towards the renter.  Me, in other words.

Witnessing her pretending not to see me as she struggled into the four person lift with myself as the only other person present was a little too much, so I applied my cheery 'Hello' that often gets unfriendly dog walkers to respond when we pass by every single day.

She grunted.  I tried again. "Look, I'm sorry that there seems to be no improvement on the balcony for you.  I've had ten lots of men come up to look at it, but not one of them has returned to do anything.  Is there anything I can do to help it happen quicker for you?"

"Yes," she hissed, causing me to step back a little in surprise.  Even her drop pearl earrings were swinging erratically. "You can stop scraping your chairs on the floor."

"Oh, sorry.  We have those felt dot things on the bottom of the legs---"

"It's NOT ENOUGH. You scrape them all the time and we need you to stop."

We had arrived at her floor and she swept out to my, "Sure, I'll speak to my family about it...."

Arriving back upstairs, I realised that our six dining chairs are all on carpet.  An IKEA job that has soaked up a few of Milly's left-inside-too-long butt nuggets, an infinity of dropped bread crumbs and more spilled wine than what had remained in the glasses they were originally poured into.  The rug now had several extra layers that not only prevented the chairs from scraping, but also provided recording studio-quality sound-proofing and a large, aromatic area for the dog to ram her nose into for a lick and a sniff if the kitchen floor is too clean.

It was hard not to laugh.  If this complex was in Australia (say, Flemington), housing this many people it would be a madhouse of noise.  Two hundred residents would mean that simple Aussie-related maths would see at least two out-of-control parties, several domestic incidents, a visit from the ambos, stolen wheelie bins, hard rubbish put out seven months too early, hills hoists pulled over, cars being keyed and Eminem on level eleven during work hours.  And we'd be pretty accepting of all that....

I saw The Chair Scraping Shrew again the following day.  "Good morning Mrs Fusspot.  We've had a think about what you told us and realise that it's not us who are scraping the floors.  It must be people on either side or on the ninth floor, as we have carpet under our chairs."

She stopped unlocking her mailbox and gave me a skeptical look. "No, you are wrong, it is you.  You have chairs in your kitchen."

"No, we don't, actually.  Our kitchen has a fixed bench in it and no chairs."

The fact that I dared to question her statement and profess knowledge of my own kitchen still did not convince her.  She shook her head. "I think you are mistaken. Your kitchen chairs scrape all day."

All day....?  When I'm home, I'm usually in the study - with a different apartment underneath me - blobbed out in a rollerball office chair and never on the dining setting. I felt my mouth form into the universal sign of increased annoyance - the cat's arse pucker.  "Look, Mrs Fusspot, you're more than welcome to come on up and see for yourself."

"That won't be necessary. All you need to do is stop the scraping."

It was then that I decided forget about visiting the bootmaker's in Petit Saconnex.  Not because he doesn't do a good job in re-heeling my beloved black boots, but because I was going to ask him to apply a layer of special rubbery stuff that would stop the 'clop clop clop' sound of my brand new boots (black again, of course) when I walked across the parquetry floor boards not covered by rugs.

Sod her.  Milly's nails can get longer AND the double spin cycle will be selected on Sunday.

Open windows

We've never lived in an apartment before we came here and now we're up amongst the tree tops on the eighth floor of an eleven storey building.

Apartment living can be cramped, but this place is significantly larger in size than our snug little one-and-a-half fronted cottage in Flemington. Milly has adapted to the lack of garden and back door facilities extremely well, being content to snooze and snuffle around from room to room until it's time to head downstairs via the lift into the Dog Forest. Where she once trembled in fear when the elevator doors clanged shut and it descended to the ground she now wags her tail, because a ride in the lift means a walk.

Upstairs there's no garden to tend (fine by me and LC) and two hallways that would easily be converted into bedrooms if we were back in Melbourne with a budget for renovations.

Despite this - and having three toilets - we only have the one living space for eating, piano practising, telly watching and view gazing. Furnishings are kept to the minimum for ease of access and my beloved luxury item number two* is stored in LC's and my bedroom.

The treadmill. An expensive towel rail for some but a vital part of life for me. With an ageing body that now hosts a dodgy achilles, a bung calf muscle and plantar fasciitis, my runs are now down to three days a week for 6 km a time. I'm slower now too - no longer galloping at 12.6km per hour, but a relatively sedate 11.2 for the first five kilometres and last gasp 12km/hr for the final km.

Still, with that trio of trots and a long morning walk with Milly, my heart rate is a mighty fine 56 beats per minute while resting and I seem to be able to continue to inhale all matter of chocolate, wine and cheese-related Swiss specialties without looking too obviously rotund.

I've written before about the benefits for me beyond the cardiovascular. It helps keep my Black Dog at bay and gives me time to reflect, think up new writing ideas and reminisce about all kinds of weird and wonderful events. And, to be utterly honest, there's little that makes me feel more proud of myself than knowing I've slogged and sweat my butt off before breakfast, even if it doesn't look like I have.

So, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after Milly and I get back from our walk, I change into my runners and plug in the treadie, strap on my bum bag and headphones and switch on the iPod.

"Annie waits for the last time....."

Three and a half kms in this morning and I was in The Zone, endorphins a-coursing, positive vibes a-pumping and singing along loudly and proudly to every fourth word of each song "Annie waits ----- for a call ....was it always the same?"

Sweat flicked onto the dashboard and Milly turned around to rearrange the pillow she snoozed on at the end of the bed. The view, from the right side, was of the bare winter trees and grey clouds sprinkling a few half-hearted snowflakes.

Things were really firing up today. I audaciously flicked the speedo up to twelve km per hour right from the start and sang along to every word.  My eyes were closed as I imagined that my legs were going to hurl me down the track......

"You've got to be the prettiest girl

I've ever witnessed in the whole world
Hear me can you hear me? Hear me can you hear me?
Hear me can you hear me now......"

Ratta tatta tat!

I nearly got flung into the bedside table in my shock. There, on a crane platform slowly moving upwards were two removal men, grinning at me.  'Bonjour madame!'  

I wasn't sure what to do. Stop and what, stand still and wave until they putted upwards beyond my floor or nod and keep running as all serious athletes would do? The first option seemed faintly ridiculous, but the second option would hardly work seeing as they'd already had a chuckle at seeing me sing to myself with my eyes closed like a sheltered workshop employee on a fitness kick.

So I did what I always do when faced with French I cannot speak and people I cannot converse with. I gave them the 'thumbs up' and a smile, got back onto the treaddie and kept on going, thanking the powers-that-be that they weren't putting by an hour later when I'd invariably be starkers and freshly showered.

I'm starting to love this place.

* Milly is luxury item number one

Fleeting

Steam is rising from the poo that Milly has just laid in the Parc de Trembly. Autumn is now well and truly here with the tiniest hint of snow on the distant Jura mountains and dew drops like diamonds on my dog’s nose. She’s already scurried off to sniff for squirrels as I bend down with the obligatory black bag and pick up her produce. I can feel the warmth in my hand before it gets flung into the bin.

I’ve just sent off two girls to school this morning. My own: dear Sapphire, still suffering from a cold and asking if I’d drive them there ‘because it’s windy.’ She knew the answer before I needed to say it and grinned. “It’s always worth a try, Mum.”

And Nafeesa: on her first sleepover ever if you don’t count school camps.

She rang Sapphire two days ago. “My Mum has had a stroke. Can I stay with you?”

Sapph was home with me, sick with a cold, still in her dressing gown when she rushed out onto the balcony where I was sipping coffee. “Can she stay?” I nodded, getting up to find out more. Sapphire was already striding towards her bedroom, the annoyances of a sore throat and raw nose forgotten. “We must help and I know where you keep the guest sheets and towels....”

Nafeesa’s mother, Yasmin, rang her friend at midnight. The words were all clear but jumbled into nonsensical sentences. John thought it was a joke until there was silence for a while and she moaned, “Help me.”

He rushed over to her house, arranged an ambulance, woke up a frightened Nafeesa and spent the day at her hospital bed, telephoning everyone whose name he recognised on Yasmin’s blackberry.

Nafeesa’s father died of cancer six years earlier and their family are scattered outwards from Lebanon, Netherlands, UK and Brazil. As an only child, poor Nafeesa must have felt so alone, so tiny and helpless as doctors bustled around her mother, now paralysed down one side and unable to speak.

A friend was contacted and arranged to move into Yasmin’s house and take Nafeesa to school every day. “That’s when I rang you,” she told Sapphire later. “I knew that I wanted to stay with you.”

And so she is. She and I travelled in the rain to the hospital yesterday, passing through a dozen smoking nurses up towards the intensive care unit. The ward also held five men, all several decades older than Yasmin.

This proud and beautiful woman who I’ve always envied for her style and youthful looks banged her left hand – encumbered by several wires and catheters - against the metal bed rail when she saw her daughter. Nafeesa buried her head into her mother’s chest, whispering I love you I love you I love you over and over. Yasmin’s eyes filled with tears and she cried. It wasn’t a sniffle or a sob but a loud wail that made all of us – the nurse, the best friend, the work colleague visiting during lunch hour, Nafeesa and me, look down, unsure of what we could do to help.

I dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, awkwardly. As nominated guardian I was required to be there - if only to transport her child to the bedside - but my relationship was with Nafeesa who I saw often, whereas Yasmin and I mostly traded pleasantries during drop offs and pick-ups. With one side of her face dragging downwards and puffy eyes without their customary eyeliner I felt as though I was intruding, seeing her at her most vulnerable.

Patting her hand gently, I explained that Nafeesa was staying with us for as long as was needed and that she wasn’t to worry. As I pulled back to leave and sit outside to wait for Nafeesa, Yasmin grabbed my hand. She tried several times to tell me something but the words were incoherent and each one took a lot of effort to produce. Her eyes blazed and it was clear that being trapped inside a currently-useless body was isolating and frustrating.

It was one of those key moments in life when you know that you need to – must do – say the right thing and yet, as a self-deluded writer, nothing emerged but a faint “It’s okay, it’s okay. You have such a lovely daughter and we feel honoured to have her. It’s okay.” Her fingers clanged the three gold bangles along my arm in response. The eyes glittered: the message was understood.

I left Nafeesa with her mother and stepped outside to speak with Yasmin’s best friend, an AIDS specialist from the World Health Org. “She’ll be here for weeks and then....” she put her hands to her lips, as if to stop them from saying the next few words, “......it could be months. And months.”

We’d only met each other fifteen minutes beforehand but found ourselves hugging each other. This was the woman who emailed all the key players involved in Nafeesa’s care – who was dropping off, who was picking up and who was hosting her where and when; even during the upcoming week of mid-term break when Sapph and I were heading off to Basel. She also provided a list of emails and contact numbers and the evenings since have been full of conversations between people I’ve not yet met as we discuss some very intimate and important subjects.

And Nafeesa......? She’s a painfully skinny kid who barely eats anything beyond chicken nuggets and spaghetti adorned only with grated cheese. We’ve cuddled a few times and Milly has done her utmost to trot over and lean up against her legs, offering her own furry version of comfort. LC has been away at a conference in Germany, kept updated with SMS messages from Sapphire and on his return last night did the manly thing of repairing the sagging blow up mattress. Nafeesa knows that her mother will recover and the relief is evident. She sleeps on the now acceptably air-filled bed on the floor in Sapphire’s room and they both whisper and giggle into the wee hours.

Sapphire has come into her own. Helpful, funny and good at finding things for them to do after dinner. She’s very tired and not happy that Nafeesa will take Friday off school so that I can take her to meet her uncle at the airport while she sits in beginner French class. However this is just a momentary huff as she's quickly accepting and showing a maturity mixed with a wicked sense of twelve-year-old humour that is just what her friend needs. I’m in awe.

I lay in bed with LC last night, telling him all this. He reached out his arm to provide what he thought was a comforting pat to my shoulder but in the darkness it ended up as a vague grope of my chest and then a slight whack to my nose as he withdrew. “Gee thanks for that love – I knew that there was something I needed – a fondle and a punch!” We laughed louder and longer than was really necessary.

And so I find myself earlier this morning holding a still-warm bag of dog poo while the beast who made it is in the wet grass, front paw lifted as she freezes for a moment, locks in a new scent and runs in a different direction.

It’s hard not to smile at these tiny observations and yet at the same time realise how fleeting they are. Life is so damn short and can alter in an instant. I run to catch up with her and kiss her nose, even though it’s wet with dew drops and has a stray blade of grass plastered on it.

Close ups

Apart from discussing the unfathomable mystery of why the Swiss only sell eggs in packs of ten and four instead of sixes and dozens or that their letter boxes are bright yellow instead of red and I seem to be the ONLY non-homeless person who ventures outside to walk their dog before brushing their hair or having a shower in the early morning I thought I'd add some pictures and see if you can guess what they are.

Besides, I'm waiting on a phone call from someone who had me recommended to them as a freelance 'tidier' up of ESL background report writings and seeing as nearly four months have rolled by without my bothering to find an answering machine it's best that I stay here for now.

Ready?

I'm pretty convinced that my Mum had a dress with these flowers on them in around 1974 and that when she got sick of it she cut it up and sewed some table napkins. However, here the flowers are the non-wearing, shy and forgotten variety.......

.... because they're wallflowers. Okay, I'll stop that now. Having a narrow workbench and a shelf means that we no longer have the hotplates as our sole space to cut veges and plate up and the cracks in the floor tiles means that if Milly's bored she can just flop out and lick them any time she likes. Canine chup-a-chup if you will.

Who knew that Switzerland's Lac Leman had such exotic sea anemone flourishing in the depths?

No-one, because our towels need to be taken out of our windowless, fan-less and vent-less bathroom and hung out by the bedroom window to dry long enough to stop the mouldy damp pong that leaves you filthier after drying yourself than before you had a shower. However we think it's October when the concierge flicks on the central heating and the towels can happily stay above their little radiator and the neighbours beyond the trees are treated to an unobscured glimpse of me getting dressed.

These little buggers look good but hurt like hell.....

.....when they drop the equivalent of seven storeys out of the oak trees that form Milly's part of the apartment gardens and land on my head! The pods have little spikes in them that grip my hair with a ferocity not before demonstrated to me by anything in the plant world. And dammit, these chestnuts are not the ones that you can eat.

Many's the time I've stared deep into these cracks....

....before hacking at it with a bread knife and stuffing it with gruyere and proscuitto. This Swiss/French version of a 'ham and cheese sanger' is about the cheapest food option there is, not to mention delicious. However, leave it longer than eight hours and the Pain Genevose is harder than the trunks of the trees that rain down those spiky chestnut pods.

Our house has the basics but desperate times call for a visit to the kiddie craft section of the supermarket.

Four tubes of acrylic paint, three canvases and a brush set later and my 'modern interpretation of gum leaves' was excreted out. Anything to adorn our enormous, empty white walls. They've been hidden behind the sofa for the last month because Love Chunks hasn't got around to hanging them up: presumably symbolising his subtle but understood opinion of my painting abilities.

Blue spots. If only the eye would stay on the blue spots....

....that feature on the pillowcases and NOT on the humungous brown-tinged smoked glass mirror that has been permanently stuck to the wall. We have set the bed up so that we don't scare ourselves with our own reflections and certainly don't want to spend even a tiny moment thinking about why the previous owner thought that installing such a big arse slab of glass was a tasteful idea.

Somehow, I have to convince these to stay as leaving is going to make things unpleasant over the coming months.

Milly's fur coat is convinced that an Australian summer is approaching and thus, every time she flaps her ears or I pat her, a cloud of loose orange hairs is puffed up into the air before adhering to something dark like our lounge or my trousers. Swiss winter will invariably result in a coat being bought which she will loathe. We live in hope of her intelligence that she'll soon understand the link between Walkies and Wee-wees and enduring a strap-on tartan back warmer.

These are everywhere in Geneva and despite their age, people still use them.

Fresh water drinking spouts are quite decorative and are perfectly safe for refilling bottles. Half of them are human or horse height and the others are directly on the ground, specifically for dogs. All except Milly who is inexplicably frightened of them.

Tiny little zig zag edges mean that it is safely sealed.....

.....until I next wander into the kitchen and wonder what chocolate I'm going to have with my coffee. I may not officially review chocolate any more, but I still buy it, eat it, love it.

Nude Wombats

nuts not like balls nuts but like almonds and stuff

sheedy kevin choc

when you win a free boost bar where do you get it from?

is warwick capper circumcised?

bum lamb pics

i like when burbs kiss low

My bra cuts

Fudgebuckets

Thock

Deformed Malteser

......I guess all of the above search terms leading to Blurb from the Burbs are largely deserved, if puzzling, and I'm now about to unplug the computer and do the last lot of vaccuuming.

Love Chunks' jumper is covered in dust as he's been the Number One Lifter and Mover in every large item that has left the house. Allen keys, screw drivers and the sack-truck are the items he reaches for most now that Mrs Krups and his beloveds* are gone.

Milly no longer barks when the doorbell rings but stays in her beanbag: slightly anxious and puzzled. How do I explain to her that she's about to go to a boarding kennel for six weeks before being packed into an airconditioned crate for 27 hours but that we haven't abandoned her? I've decided that lots of belly rubs and head kisses will have to do. That and sleeping in the same t-shirt for ten days so that she has memories to sniff for a while.

The house now echoes due to its emptiness and sleeping on a blow up mattress last night alongside a restless almost-twelve-year-old child was informative rather than relaxing. She's everything you'd expect to be right now - sad, worried, trying to be confident, tired and a funny combination of occasional exuberance closely followed by a shutdown; blonde hair swinging down over her face as she withdraws to the safe and controllable world of the iPad as her parents scurry and bustle around her.

A pongy t-shirt and frequent belly rubs aren't going to help, but maybe frequent kisses, some hand holding and regular 'Mmm hmms' when she wants to open up and talk at 1am just might.

See youse in cyberspace soon!

* Arcosteel copper-bottom saucepan set, bought during his first year of post-university work in 1989. No metal scourer was allowed within sight of his 'beloveds' and I used to joke that if we ever got divorced, they'd be cited as an item of interest for him. Despite this, they were sold (and waved off with relief) two days ago.

Sapphire?

You're not jumping on the bed, are you?

"No Mum. Juliet and I are connecting our DS-lites together."

What's that whumping sound I can hear all the way up here in the lounge room?

"Probably the neighbours up the street. I think Mr Divvy Van's been naughty again, and Mrs Divvy Van is slamming his car door and swearing. And before you say it, no, it's nothing I haven't heard already at school."

You two have got ten more minutes before you need to go to the toilet, clean your teeth, get some glasses of water and turn the lights out, OK?

(long pause) OK?

(muffled) "Yeah, OK Mum."

Did you bring Skipper in from outside on the lawn?

"Aw Mum, I'm in my nightie now, can you do it?"

Yes, I can, like I do every night. And his clean hutch doesn't just happen you know or the fact that he's still around and hasn't starved to death.... That whumping sound is happening again - what are you doing?

(long pause). "Erm, nothing Mum. Just getting ready for bed."

Several days later, Sapphire asked me to download her camera for her, because the memory card was full.

Luckily for her, my laughing session was too enjoyable to turn into anything resembling a parental scolding session. Best friends at ten years old: does it get any better than that?

Domestic Deaths


This month has seen a variety of deaths in the Lockett Lodge.

To be fair, after sixteen years of togetherness, it's to be expected that appliances wear out. We've been through three irons, several kettles, two vacuum cleaners, two 1970s cars and farewelled Love Chunks' 1969-model Kelvinator 'Foodarama' fridge for a Fischer and Paykel, but it seems right now as though everything my index finger even thinks about touching instantly dies.

A couple of weekends ago, LC decided that it was time to have a wood fire in our lounge-room fireplace. We'd had one a few times earlier this winter and it heated up our little weatherboard box so well we wore shorts and leavened some bread.

This time, unfortunately, the electrical paraphernalia that powers the pump device that pushes pesky smoke up the chimney and heat into the house conked out (two of my favourite words are in that sentence: paraphernalia and conked). The nose-hair singeing smell of burnt plastic rapidly combined with a churlish chimney to fill the house up with black smoke, swirling soot and four screaming alarms.

Several minutes later as we assured our frightened neighbours whilst staggering around with bleeding earholes and broomsticks that everything was OK, the house was silent but reminiscent of Pompeii as ash was strewn everywhere. With grey flakes fluttering from his lashes, LC gave a sigh and said, "Right, so we might be looking at a jetmaster gas heater next year then."


Then his beloved Gaggia coffee machine stopped frothing. That was okay, we could live without the froth on top, but when the element stopped heating it made sitting there with a tepid cup of brown a little bit more un-fun. Surprisingly, Love Chunks' farewell to Lady Gaggia was brief and unemotional. Little did I know that he'd already spied her replacement, Mrs Krups.
















Like all good Germans Mrs K was big, efficient and fairly quiet. She also ground up the beans which saved us having to do it and sprinkle the counter and floor in dirty brown crumbs. Unlike all quiet Germans, she fluffs up a treat which might - just might - justify what she cost us.

It was also time to get a new computer. I'd written earlier about my laptop no longer having the KNIHL keys visible but that was bearable. Now though, it was labouring so hard that the fan would go into overdrive before giving up, shutting down and vengefully freezing my documents and web pages more effectively than Walt Disney's cryogenic chamber.












Love Chunks researched, found and bought us a desktop computer while Sapphire and I were at my folks' place and we came home to a massive screen, thumping black modem, connected iPod docking station speaker thingumajiggies and wireless keyboard, mouse and remote controls. It is very impressive but still needs a folded up tablecloth under the keyboard so that it doesn't rock and roll over our $19 plastic camping table that we call a desk....

Sapphire's electric toothbrush decided that the 'electric' bit was too tiresome to continue with; my mobile phone needs a dozen strong indentations of my thumbnail (and a fair bit of swearing) before it deigns to turn itself back on (and even then presents me with a thick black line through the middle of the screen) and evilly rearranges my settings; the shower screams like it's having its toenails ripped out whenever the hot tap is turned on and the MP3 player no longer, well, plays. Alternatively, when the stupid device does play it's at 3am when it's sitting in the clock radio slot and suddenly turns on, making me glad I've just been for my nightime wee trip.

So was it any surprise that our kitchen floor boards started lifting, presenting us with a lacquered representation of a Toblerone block, right at the join in front of the dishwasher? I only noticed it when my ugg boot snagged on it, causing me to trip forward and dong my noggin on the fridge door (I'm sure the biscuits I had in my hand are still hiding under it somewhere).

Love Chunks suspected that the dishwasher was leaking and promptly called out a dishwasher um, detective, to figure it out. "Don't you DARE talk to him or offer him a coffee," he hissed down the phone at me during his lunch hour. "This bloke costs $150 per hour, so get him in, get him working and get him out."

Detective Zorran looked like the dark-eyed love-child of Jon English and Stevie Nicks. Despite his bohemian parentage he arrived on time, and with my mental clock - and bank balance - ticking, I ushered him into our kitchen so fast he banged his tool box on the front door but didn't rub his elbow until he was by the back one. "Yep, your motor's gone. It'll cost you $500 to replace plus installation and seeing as they've put in a fourteen year old dishwasher into a new kitchen you're better off buying a new one. It'll be quieter and save you water and all that."

I couldn't help it; I had to talk. "Um, at your hourly rate I guess you could choose between prostitution or mechanics?"

"Umph," his head was underneath the sink. He'd clearly heard that line before.

But I couldn't help it; I had to keep on blathering. "But I guess in both roles you'd be spending a lot of time on your knees, heh heh."

That did cause him to pop his head up and his look of shock actually made me blush and apologise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Ah no worries love - I was just going to tell you that the tool who installed this before stuck it to the wrong pipe."

Oh.

And so, as the grand final loomed and the carparks were packed with frantic footy folk looking to buy dips, chips, sausages and sauce we found ourselves at the local Good-Harvey-Warehouse-Crazy-Norman-Guy-John-Homemaker Centre dully looking at expensive silver and white boxes, wishing we'd had the foresight to bring in a sample dinner plate and wineglass to check if they'd fit in or not.

At first bounce the dishwasher arrived because the delivery guy was a staunch soccer fan who was quite happy to miss the game. It fit through our Gates of Hell with ease and was wheeled around the back to reside by Skipper's townhouse until we found a plumber to instal it.

It was then that I noticed, whilst bending down to rub at the rabbit's nose, that the little bugger has nearly eaten through the bottom of both doors and his inner stairwell was hanging together mostly by a fortuitous mixture of compressed turds, wet hay and newspaper scraps. How come they don't make these things out of titanium alloy or kryptonite; he's only had the joint for five months for creditcardssakes.......

Blooms from the burbs

As some of you know, I enjoy having a weekly yarn with the honey-voiced Bernadette Young on ABC radio, and she has recently been on a Western Australian wild-flowers trip with some lucky listeners and her fantastic crew.

I felt a teensy weensy bit jealous, especially seeing as I saw the pictures and heard the show after spending a couple of hours picking up the first coke cans and condoms of spring in my own neighborhood. Surely we had some wildflowers growing here, in the suburbs? Some clear evidence that Mother Nature hadn't completely overlooked us; shadowed as we are on both sides by blocks of flats, backed-in by ACDC-loving mechanics and disregarded by litter buggy school kids?

Milly, of course, is always up for a walk, even though her cruelly-arthritic back knees make her hobble after only 500 metres which invariably ends up making me smile and get a bit teary at the same time: it hurts but she'd rather have a bath and a blow dry than not come with me. So, armed with a camera which gave her many opportunities to rest whilst sniffing driveways, manky bits of leftover takeaways dropped in the gutter and investigate other neglected dog turds, we set off.

Ah, look dear reader! First wildflower we encounter is Crappus Foodus, presumably discarded by either a teenager rushing back to the start of the fifth lesson after lunch or the Thursday night drunk who uses our street as his own personal ashtray and urinal as he staggers his way home at 2am.

What is interesting about this particular example of Crappus Foodus is that it's not from around here, oh no. We have a Rooster that is Red and a Hut that inexplicably produces pizza products at one end of our big road with an underground-transport system sandwich shop, some Golden Arches, and chicken that no-one wants to say out loud is still k-FRIED; but not a Hungry Fats establishment. We can only assume, therefore, that the consumer of this (let's be kind) 'foodstuff' either had to drive some distance to purchase it, arrived here and flung it out of their window ('thanks so much') or is a very fit walker who just undid all their efforts by choosing this meal to eat.

Our landscape is vast and mysterious here in the burbs. It has been fenced off, presumably to keep marauding wildlife out, but shows tantalising promise of good pasture, nice neighbors and a pleasing north-westerly aspect. No wildflowers though.

We move on a few blocks and find that Mother Nature has tried her best in the gutter here. The next time the TV aerial guy comes to visit, we'll invite him to bring along his sheep for a feed as well. Unless of course the animal is now so attuned to city-life that it insists on a latte and friand instead, in which case we'll walk it to the shops around the corner.

YESSSSSS! Wildflowers! They're bravely escaping one of those tiny, perfectly-manicured cottage gardens that hosts brutally clipped box hedges, stylised lavender bushes, iceberg roses stretched up on cruel posts and the requisite silver birch tree plonked right in the middle surrounded by reclaimed paving bricks.

Therefore, these little soursobs were never welcome and are making a break for the other side; the side where they belong - the mean, the wise, the clamouring chaos of The Streets.

No babbling brooks here, although the stormwater drains gush and gurgle when the empty Big M cartons and beer cans block the grates. Instead, we have our own quaint water supply, cunningly painted the same, slightly-odd purply-brown colour as the house. It is with great relief that I notice that we visit it one of the very rare occasions that Milly hasn't left a little reeking pile of brown calling cards underneath it - always a treat for visitors when they arrive.

Turning around and looking over my gate, I see my nemesis: The Leering Lemon Tree. I've been dying to steal - no sorry, pick - those ripe fruits for ages, but when I wander over there, casually whistling and whipping my head over my shoulder every half-second like an epileptic drug dealer, I can't reach the bloody things.

I even took my Litter Ninja Long Tongs with me but they're so flimsy that they actually buckled under the strain of trying to hold on to one measly lemon. The sodding little citrus then slid from the tongs (what does $1.99 buy you these days, people?) and plopped on the ground. On the tree's side.

If I'm bored enough I might just consider using one of Love Chunks' fishing rods and try casting and reeling one in from the comfort of our verandah......

At our back verandah, you can see that the tulips aren't exactly bursting with life or blooms. It's a sad fact that whilst my mother can coax a mango tree out of a cutting placed in arid desert sands, I merely have to think about the colour green and whatever poor plant I've inflicted my lethal black thumbs on dies quicker than a politician's smile during a paternity test.

On the other hand, the wild mint lurking nearby (well, it's in a pot, but that is considered wild in these parts) that Love Chunks and Sapphire planted is doing OK. Actually it's thriving and we have two of those fetching half-wine barrels' worth but little idea what to do with the stuff apart from put it into yoghurt sauce for lamb or sprinkle some in a jug of iced tea. Any recipes you can suggest?

What of the fauna in our area?

Here we have Skipper, the dwarf lop rabbit, or 'Silentus Bun-nus' as the zoologists refer to his species. We have yet to hear him utter any sound except "Eh eh eh" and that was when I soaked him with water every half hour during the 46C February heatwave.

Skipper too, has seen the bounties of Sapphire's gardening skills, with three freshly-grown spring blooms being carefully placed on his head before she renames him the world's smallest living Triceratop. To my amazement, he is completely unaffected by the flowers, the flash of the camera or our laughter but leaves his revenge for later when he digs the new bridge underpass in our hanky-sized lawn. Silent but industrious.

Milly has two favourite outdoor activities and both are pictured here. On sunny days, she likes to be outside on the lawn and I can hear the gnawing sounds - Ka-da-Thonk! Ka-da-Thonk! Ka-da-Thonk! - as her teeth scrape and catch precious shards of her latest bone.

Otherwise, the terrible, screeching squeals of a small animal being tortured are evident - Ah-eee! Ah-eee! Ah-eee! Ah-eee! - when the orange basketball bone is given some love and attention. The poor neighbours probably think she's using Skipper as a chew toy.....

Inside, there are no blooms to be found, other than those in my early paintings and the deformed bamboo plant in Sapphire's bedroom, so Milly finds her beloved beanbag and falls asleep. Her paws occasionally twitch as I imagine, in her doggy dreams, she finally gets to catch the two moggies next door or give that naughty labradoodle around the corner at the traffic lights hound a real talking to.

There's life here. And fun and beauty.