Third impressions count

It's a funny thing, to return back to your home country after a long-ish period away.

This is the third time I've done so.

The first, after twelve months in Scotland, saw us turn up to our house and see a neighbour's kid, Amanda, riding past on her bike. Her, "Hello there! So you're finally baaack!" took us all by surprise at how broad and exaggerated her Strine accent seemed. This was even more baffling when we then realised that she came from a wealthy, private-schooled family who all spoke in far posher and plummier tones than we did.

At thirteen, the first impressions when driving from Adelaide airport to Murray Bridge was not only that the sky resembled the faded blue of the ancient 1950s coloured films we sometimes had to watch in the Activity Room at primary school, but that it was was enormous.  Same too for the width of the roads - plenty of space for trucks, cars, buses, pedestrians, tractors dragging harvesters to the next paddock and footpaths. The endless yellowy-brown of the landscape with the rising dust seemingly making a big contribution to the dimming down of the blue sky. Kids who hadn't become Punks, Mods, Poseurs, Rockers or Skinheads.























In my early twenties, I returned home a second time after two years (and two stone fatter) away. Working, travelling and socialising: the ultimate goals of the two year UK Working Visa-holder.  At the airport, my family and friends were there to greet me, all politely ignoring the inescapable sight of my bulk that I'd tragically tried to disguise in a black leather bikie jacket, long permed hair and (I blush to recall this), smeared in fake tan.  It is with no small amount of relief that I neglected not to scan the photos of that unfortunate era to show you.

At twenty four, the impressions that hit me were that people celebrated and socialised in their homes and not at the closest pub. Houses were large and clean enough to have other human beings over to share in food, conversation and wine.  No longer seeing black slime in my tissue after a day spent travelling on the tube. Wine, not a pint (or four) of cider; washed down with groovy salads, affordable meats and funky bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil.

I have Love Chunks to thank for luring me out of the fish-n-chips-straight-after-the-pub lifestyle and back onto the tennis court and reaching for a bottle instead of the marked down cask of Fruity Lexia.  I have my parents to thank for helping me settle back into life as a student and for providing a home base when the city got too much and a Murray Bridge moment was required; and I have friends to thank for still wanting to see me after boring them with my stories on how London was (and is) the most exciting place in the world.















Thirdly, today. Or last month to be precise.  Eighteen months since leaving Australia for Switzerland, forty four years old with the three visible age spots on my face to prove it.  Endured a hellish journey home but the following morning woke up to a lovely sunny Melbourne day and found that the smells were the first things to notice.

Shops, for instance.  The empty coke-can coolness of air conditioning as opposed to ancient fans and sweaty, non-deodorised armpits ala Genevoise.  Aromas of meat pies wafting from doorways instead of slightly burned croissants.  Blokes sitting at park benches drinking iced coffees when they downed tools instead of a cigarette and espresso on tiny chairs at cafes.  Gum trees and warm bitumen. Spicy stir fries, fresh strawberries and cake!

Being able to converse with everyone and be instantly understood without the requirement of bad charades or the 'thumbs up' sign. Seeing my daughter occasionally mistaken for someone English and my husband confirm that Australia does indeed have the best coffee in the world. Said whilst eating his fourth pasty of the trip.

Hearing the screeching cacophony of the rainbow lorikeets, galahs and cockatoos as they made their way back to the reserve next to my parents' place, all eager to share their news of the day.  The proud 'bardle oodle argle' of the magpies who decided which of the New Holland Honey Eaters could share their bird bath and when. The childlike screech of the neighbour's cat when defending their self-appointed boundary.  The 'thonk' of cricket ball against bat during the many games played over picnic lunches in the park.  Fireworks overtaking even the hoons on New Years' Eve.

Seeing dogs run past with their owners whilst aching to see and pat my own.  Playing endless games of Rummy-O with Mum and Dad, and being thrashed every single time.  Watching Sapphire laugh unselfconsciously as she spent an entire afternoon in our friends' pool filling up water balloons.

Posing for underwater photographs with my very best friend, still in awe of her resilience, intelligence and humour.  Catching up with friends I'd gladly offer a spare room to any and every time they needed one.  Hearing Dad say that Mum's garden was by far the most beautiful in the street.  Feeling a pang of sadness when Milly's doghouse, made by Dad, was no longer in their back yard.

Dad's raspy whiskers, enjoyed during a hug. The milky sweet smell of Nivea on my Mum's soft face.  Seeing my nephew throw back his head and laugh like an unoiled door; the other grinning wider than the Joker.  My brother, still refusing to accept that yes, he too was as unstoppable and noisy as his sons; and his wife for her calm kindness amongst the chaotic creations of home made gingerbread houses.

Sapphire cried when she farewelled her grandparents, friends and cousins as we hugged on my parents' front lawn.  Surprisingly, my eyes remained dry, caught in a bind of confusion: sentimentality and hope, recharged and ready to go back. Connections renewed and deeply appreciated.  A wish to thank my family for an upbringing that was safe and encouraging and magical for being so and to thank them again for their continued interest and support and love.

When we finally walked through the door to our un-renovated 1970 apartment after collecting Milly, tears started to form. "It feels like home because you're back with us," I whispered into her neck, "But there'll be many more opportunities to return to our other home too."

Not so for her, which is why I cried.

I wasn't born here but

Yesterday morning it was drizzling slightly, and after calling out, 'See ya later' to Love Chunks and Sapphire I heard the tell-tale thunder-rumble of the tram further up Mt Alexander Road and knew that a quick sprint would mean that I'd make it in time to climb on.

I did just that thanks to my beautiful, fully-healed, perfectly functioning Achilles and held a rather dramatic half-lunge pose to keep the doors open because out of the corner of my eye I could see a couple running - less athletically than moi, to be sure - to make the same tram.

"Thanks," they puffed in gratitude, before fumbling for their tickets.

Both were dressed like they'd just been to Woodstock - cheese cloth, ethnic scarves, copper bangles and long ratty hair. He held a small ukelele.

A few moments later the bloke seated across from me grimaced. The hippies were singing. In rush-hour. In Melbourne. On a tram crammed with expressionless commuters determinedly hiding away from any opportunity for unwanted public contact with ear buds or iphones.

Uni dude slowly peeled off his enormous Sennheiser mega muffs and raised a pierced eyebrow. I saw this as an invitation to speak.
"No, you're not wrong; it's Hey Mr Tambourine Man."

Plunka Plunka Plunka Spoong. One of the strings was clearly on the loose side.
Plunka Plunka Plunka Spoong.
"In the jingle jangle morning I'll come following you....."

Novel-reading nurse next to me joined in. "Well good on yer for letting them on," her voice laden with sarcasm but her face with a smile. Asian Student next to Sennheiser Scone snorted and made brief eye contact before returning back to his tiny black screen.

Don't cry, Kath. Not here.

A fair number of passengers got off at the Queen Victoria market. The advertisement on the shelter was promoting ANZAC day. A snippet from Fallen, by Laurence Binyon was in large, flowery letters; lines I'd read many times before:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

The tram sooned filled up again with more office workers and market shoppers with bulging jeeps and trolleys. A young guy with enormous holes in each ear and a dripping gun tattooed on his neck helped an elderly Greek lady with her cart. "Sank you," she said, patting his arm. "You kind."

Don't cry, Kath. Not here.

Little Lonsdale Street. My turn to get off and try to run across the road before the traffic changed. Also time to buy a coffee to see me through what was going to be a long day. Moving countries means a dauntingly long To Do list and Insomnia is now the reality. Like being able to read music or dance, sleep is something that other people do; an instinct I don't seem to have and a skill I'll never possess.

"Large flat white please. Skinny, thanks mate." He nods at me. I'm familiar enough for him to recognise, but not full-time enough to be on first name terms. He returns to the hawking and spitting sounds of the shiny metal machine and I share a small table with another woman waiting for her latte.

She's reading. The Age. From Saturday so she's clearly catching up on all the weekend supplements. It's the section I write for. Sorry, wrote for. Jumpin' Jatz crackers, it's my article.

For gods' sake keep your enormously insecure ego under control and don't tell her that you wrote it.

Don't cry Kath, not here.

I love the smell of wheelie bins in the morning

Summer has been pretty mild in Melbourne this year. Days that would disappoint a kid are appreciated by me in my dotage – 24C to wear t-shirts and thongs but not be restricted by the heat or risk a wet back and knickers driving around in a car whose air conditioner has recently bit the dust.















This weekend is different – 35C today and 40C tomorrow and Love Chunks reckons that February might be the month of fried lawns and frazzled school children. On days like that the only acceptable thing to do for those of us without swimming pools is to stay inside with the blinds down and do nothing more energetic than twist an ice-cube tray and catch up on the unread weekend supplements.

Milly and I have been doing our walks early in the morning before the sun bursts out malevolently from behind the Mt Alexander Road mechanics' and starts burning our already-struggling grass.

At 7am, the streets are quiet save for the big-night-outers still struggling home in broken stilettos and ripped jeans or other committed power-walkers and fat fifty-something delivery drivers in white vans. There's no fresh scent of honeysuckle or ripe plums in the air. In Flemington it’s the yeasty smell of beer vomit, chicken bones and half-eaten Krazy Kebabs.

We’re used to stepping around those kinds of splats on the footpath: what assails us mostly as we walk is the malodorous stench of wheelie bins. In a tightly-packed suburb studded with blocks of flats, the hulking Brunswick green odour-emitters take up half the footpath with barely a gap in between.

These have been particularly unpleasant when summer socialising, seafood on special and lingering warm weather are combined. The offensive cocktail of week-old prawn heads, rancid ham hocks, cherry pips, sticky meat trays, use-by dips and cockroach crap seep up and out of their innocent flip top lids and seem hellishly devised to coincide with each intake of my breath.

Perhaps it is wrong to write 'us' because to Milly the pong is on a par with Chanel No. 5. In her tiny furry brain she is perhaps rueing the fact that, at 40cm high, she's physically unable to flip herself in and have a good roll around the peelings, oil drips and the unfortunate bodies of flung-out pet guinea pigs who did not cope so well with the Australia Day fireworks.

Inevitably she stops in her tracks, does a self-conscious squat that ends in three back-leg kicks at least two metres away from her ‘product’ in a half-hearted attempt to bury it. I'm prepared for this and hold my breath at the same time as swooping down with the black plastic 'doo doo' bag. Pulled inside out and tightly knotted, the nugget doesn't touch my skin but feels warm in my hand. I keep walking, looking for the next bin on the footpath.

Well coat a turd in coconut and force feed it to Andrew Bolt - what a stink! Lifting up a wheelie bin lid is like staring into the olfactory gates of hell complete with wriggling maggots on a mission. Staggering back, I bend down to ruffle Milly’s velvety orange ears. She chooses that moment to yawn and I'm again assailed by a slightly less repulsive smell: canine morning breath. How fresh meat and a bone can translate to a gaseous puff of Pal, puke and parmesan remains a mystery.

Half way through our walk, we stop to cut through Debney park oval. Milly's let off her leash and chases the seagulls gathered on the cricket pitch in her joy at being temporarily free in public. Bugger it - she backs out another nugget and the doo-doo dispenser is empty. A few fun minutes are spent finding a strip of bark big enough to scoop and carry off the evidence and hide it somewhere that feet are less likely to tread.

Whilst I'm busy living the dream of dog ownership, she has found something worth stopping for - a galah. Dead at least a fortnight, it smells like, even from my nasal perspective a hundred metres away. "No Milly - don't roll in---"














Too late. She's rubbing her backbone into those fetid feathery remains like Marilyn Monroe on a mink. "MILLY - COME HERE!" She eventually does, with a tongue-lolling, wide-faced grin of bliss. A cloud of sticky summer flies come along for the ride, mesmerised by the black streaks on her coat.

Whew. When we get home, I remove Milly's collar and fill up the watering can by the back of the water tank. The newly-nude dog immediately senses danger and scoots for cover by Love Chunks’ canoe at the side of the house.

After a weak tussle in the scorching sun she accepts defeat and allows me to wet her, shampoo all the stench away and give a thorough rinse before releasing her again. The worst damage she can do is roll on the ground and cover herself in dead grass clippings and endure my laughter as I call her a soggy lamington with a tongue.

All this effort hasn't eradicated the sweet smell of Exelpet but it's all she's got. She gives me a resentful look and settles down on her trampoline bed by the back door. She knows: tomorrow there'll be another walk and she'll find another dead bird; wheelie bins providing a hint as to the scent she’ll again anoint herself with……

In the dumps

It’s been raining every night after school this week or we’ve been out and about and it’s been too dark to do any Litter Ninja-ing of any sort, save for the odd can or Red Rooster bag I pick up as I’m passing by.

That said, there was one bit of litter that I did see – and smell – and passed by several times, stewing inside.

The street we live on backs onto the local high school and there’s tiny little grassy strip that cuts it in half to stop people from speeding and to confuse furniture and pizza delivery men. Two very unenthusiastic bottle brush trees live there, suffering from the regular clouds of cigarette smoke or from being leaned against during marathon snogging sessions from teenagers.













That’s just during the week. On the weekends, the trees are subject to having beer bottles smashed against their apathetic stabilising poles and a bit of illiterate scratching on their trunks and my tongs are used to gingerly pick up the scarier pieces of glass so that the kids can continue their Monday-to-Friday smoke-and-grope sessions in relative safety.

This time, the Loser Boozers had left an offering of a different kind; one that was much harder to pick up despite its size.

In fact it was so grand in stature that locals had begun to talk about it amongst themselves. Amy hurried young Patrick along, saying, “I don’t want him to get too close a look at it, but how can you not? Who on earth is capable of making such a thing?”

The thing was a human turd. Or big, brown, moist pyramid of excrement, oh-so-discreetly ‘covered’ with two men’s handkerchiefs, presumably used as wipes beforehand. This thing was so large it even threatened to overtake the community’s collective disgust and replace it with concern for the health of the person who laid such an awful egg. Had they survived? Were they able to walk again? Had the A&E Department been notified?

It was located in my designated Litter Ninja zone.

For three days I stewed, knowing that I could not ignore it and hope that it would go away. It was so immense that a village on its southern slopes had all but perished during a mud slide and Bert Newton was hosting a telethon on the northern side.
















Our suburb is a peculiar mix of bogans, barristers and everything in between and frequently comes alive to the sound of renovations. Skip bins in Melbourne are everywhere and it appears to be an unspoken inevitability that the darkness brings out people from neighbouring weatherboard cottages, holding enormous IKEA boxes, busted microwaves, three-legged outdoor chairs and the traditional stained mattress.

Maybe I should contact some waste management expert to help me – their skips were already starting to mate and increase in number around my ‘hood like the urban equivalent of rabbits.....
......A couple of days later there other things on my mind besides the Chocolate Cheops four houses up. My editor hated the last article I submitted and actually said the words ‘big stick’ and ‘waste of my time’. My cholesterol level is now 7.4 (up from 6.5 the same time last year) and despite my regular runs I can no longer fit comfortably into the size 12 dress I was planning on wearing to a posh event later in the week and my little brother ended up in hospital.

Grabbing five shopping bags I strode up the street, whipping out some junk mail from Mr Divvy Van’s letterbox as I went. The papers sorta kinda covered the man mountain and the bags were used like big doggy doo gloves. Several layers later, the fifth bag was tied up and thrown into a nearby skip, with a nervous hope that the old sheet of corrugated iron that it landed on wasn’t going to pierce it....

After several OCD hand washes, I decided to phone Monash Uni’s neurological research unit as my sister-in-law had suggested. They were looking for people who suffered from regular migraines and depression to see if they could find a chemical as well as psychological link.

Would I be prepared to undertake a phone survey first, to determine if I’m a suitable candidate? Absolutely. Migraine symptoms, duration and frequency = definitely suitable.
Depression? Let me get back to you. Can I call you back, say later this afternoon after I’ve properly analysed the results and had a chat to my supervisor? Of course, knock yourself out. What do I care – I just hammer threw a two kilogram bag of poo into a skip!

Ring ring, ring ring, 3pm.
“Hi Kath, it’s Rebecca. We’ve had a look at your results and..... I’m really sorry, but you’re not suitable to participate our study.”
“How come?”
“Well.....,” she trailed off... “.....you’re too happy.”

And you know what? She’s right.

Small Talk




















He puts his coffee cup down and takes a few moments to answer.

"It's an interesting question you ask, Kath, because up until two years ago I had been working at the university student union for twenty two years before John Howard came and ripped it all to shreds."

I push the box of Lindor balls closer towards him. "It still really gets to me, you know? Having something so good destroyed on a ideological whim and plain mean spiritedness." His chin quivers a bit and it's clear that he's aware of it and tries to smile.

"I might pop out and have a smoke if that's okay with you."

He stands outside, his back to the door, wiping his palms down the side of his trousers.

***

She sits at her desk, surrounded by neat-but-tall piles of reports, administrative forms, booklets, papers and letters.

"This stuff----" she waves her hands at the wall of paper dismissively "----isn't important. I have to do it but it's not what keeps me here till 7pm."

The door opens and a child rushes in, crying. She takes him to her bosom and strokes his hair. His gulping sobs and explanations soon die down to silent tears as she listens intently, my presence forgotten.

She then asks, "Did he mean to punch you?"

"No," he said quietly. "He didn't mean it."

"Did he say sorry to you?"

"Y-e-s."

"Well that's good, then. It was an accident and I'm sad that you got hurt, but Mrs L will put an ice pack on your back until you feel better, okay?"

He nods and smiles, leaning in for another hug before leaving with the nurse.

She looks at me. "My husband is retired and wonders why I haven't joined him yet but I just can't. He wants us to take a big trip, you know, around Australia or overseas but it's not time yet. Not for me. I can't leave this; I love the kids too much."

***

I put my note pad down. This is no longer a story being told; this is the suffering of a woman who was orphaned at eight years old, raped repeatedly by the age of ten and a confused and frightened fifteen year old who arrived in Australia alone at fifteen.

We've only known each other for two hours, but we embrace as I awkwardly reach around behind me for the tissue box.

"I need to tell you," she says, over and over. "I need to tell this. I need to get it out."

I nod, feeling small and swamped and worried and useless.

"I didn't ever cry, not once when I was in Somalia or Sudan. But when I got here, I sat in the community centre on my day off and stared into nothing and cried and cried. Now I'm thirty and still the tears are flowing."

I cuddle her eight week old baby boy and we talk of her other three children. No father any more, which is a good thing. "He kept telling me I was stupid and an embarrassment. After ten years, I finally told him to leave. Last week I walked past the cafe and there he was, sitting with a white woman. He never once took me there."

We drink more juice and the baby falls asleep. "I only did six months of school here before it was time for me to work in a factory," she explains. "My English is good, isn't it, because I learned on the job. But I can't read very well, or write."

The baby sleeps on as she haltingly reads Dr Seuss to me. "You're better than you think," I say, meaning it. She smiles, eyes dry and shining. "I'll see you again next week," I say.

***

He ruffles Milly's ears as we walk past.

Seeing an unabashed dog-lover I stop as I always do, feeling a mixture of pride and fellowship, allowing him to pat her back and stroke her chest, Milly's tail wagging joyously.

His arms are full of faded green and blue tattoos, all badly drawn. "She's a beauty, isn't she? What is she, part-staffy part heeler?"

"Nah, the vet says she's half Jack Russell, half Corgi," I reply, trying to match his battler voice.

"We had a dog that was a dead-ringer to your one here when I was working in the market garden program. Pretty bloody fat though."

He is now squatting down to keep patting Milly, but looks at up at me. "When I was in prison."

I hope I'm not overdoing things when I squat down too, and pat Milly's side. "They're worth everything to us, aren't they?"

***

She taps me on the shoulder.

"I finally got around to reading your blog the other day. That’s a very cathartic little site you’ve got there. Very open and brave the way you bare your soul."

My ego instantly inflates (I'm a writer!) as she sits next to me in the cafe, effortlessly stylish and always the woman I've envied for sophisticated style and wit. "I can't even count the sessions I’ve had with several different psychiatrists over the years and I’m still on anti-depressants now."

It was then I notice her red-rimmed eyes, and nod. "Me too. It's just like having any other medical condition. Diabetes, high blood pressure, glaucoma or Love Chunks taking fish oil capsules. They work and I'll keep taking them for as long as they continue to work and make me feel normal again."

She pats my hand. "And yet it's hardly something we're going to brag about at a dinner party is it?"

Small talk can be anything but.

I'm the type of gal....















After you've banked your dog-eared Christmas gift cheque, been to Medicare, dropped off a faulty watch at the jeweller's and popped into Bunnings for a gas refill, have you ever taken the time to have a roam around and check out your surroundings?

When I'm not compelled by an appointment or an alarm to be anywhere or do anything I love to observe. Usually the subject matter is people but they are very tricky to photograph on the sly. Stuff around my own local area is pretty fascinating as well.


















I passed by a haphazardly-combined Indian and Lebanese mixed-grocery store and, lured in by the hookahs and water pipes on display - as well as the smell of spices and coffee - I spotted this pigeon, trying its hardest to get at the boxes of rice under the counter.

He reminded me of how often I notice - and smile at - the tiny sparrows who fly into food courts, cafes and our local supermarket. One was cheeping away at me earlier that morning from its position on a fluoro light suspended from the ceiling by a chain as I debated what brand of dry dog food to buy. Their existence in our world is often almost invisible, and yet they continue to thrive amongst some of the uglier man-made buildings and facilities.















Further along the same side street was this sign at an Optometrists' clinic. An identical notice was stuck on the left-hand side as well, so that those with poor vision wouldn't keep smacking their short-sighted faces into the glass display windows. I know it was supposed to be helpful, but that didn't stop me snorting out loud to myself.











This sign is much closer to our home, advertising a block of apartments currently under construction. They are situated less than 200 metres away from the grim-looking housing commission tower blocks and are likely to have less space per dwelling but the irony seems to be lost on the people who were eagerly visiting on an open day. As is their acknowledgement that the black glass and silver-balconied boxes' view from the other side directly overlooks the Salvation Army's homeless men's shelter and detox centre. 'Tarting from' is rather apt.




















One Star....? Even as a self-rated coffee shop, they couldn't stretch the truth a little...!?





















....and it's not far from the Sensible Sandwich. What is considered sensible in a sandwich, anyway? Multigrain bread for sure, maybe some low fat cheese and some fresh salad? It still makes me wonder if some wag might set up a competing shop next door selling Ludicrous Lunches or Un-Fun Falafels. Farty Pasties, Dodgy Donuts or Drunken Doner kebabs..... Oh wait, the last one is already operating around the corner from our house.













A strong statement; shame about the spelling. Although, given my utter lack of street smarts and innercity cred, 'herion' could very well be the new Smack. Or crack. Whack? Or is it 'Dack' in Australian parlance?
















There's some real effort made on security at this house. Two mops crossed to ensure that the freshly-cleaned marble entrance remains pristine and no-one slips over and cracks their heads on the white balustrades or cement 'front lawn'.

And let's not forget the totally unoriginal and unrealistic thought I always think when it's late afternoon and my shadow stretches along the road: Ooh, I wish that was my real shape and proportion. *sigh*

Drugs, Dog vomit and Distinction

You know it's going to be a pearler of a long weekend when there's vomit in several places on the living room rug and none of it is human.

Instead there's some chunky parmesan-smelling piles that contain blades of grass, snaffled sausage, tinned dog food and the scary remnants of a raw chicken wing and the culprit has slunk outside to hide in her kennel. She knows that her offering isn't a nice one, but we've never ever punished her for it, and nor would we. As if a dog or a human can help it when Mr Technicolour Yawn tortures the intestines...!

All was forgotten when I donned the very first Litter Ninja t-shirt ever invented and attended the Clean Up Australia Day thingy at our local park. Luckily it wasn't an entire day, but 10am to noon: I guess 'Clean Up Australia In a Coupla Hours' ain't quite as catchy a slogan.

After pulling on the rubber gloves, my nervous attempt at conversation to the man standing behind me - "Hey, bend over and touch your toes" - didn't quite endear me to him or the organiser, so with two large bags (one for recyclables) I gratefully set off, eager to escape my chatting catastrophe.

On the far edge of the park - away from the bloke who now assumed I was insane - the tune 'Woolly Bully' was playing in constant repeat in my head as I set to work. It soon ceased when it became evident that syringes would form the majority of what I collected; as were disinfectant sachets, balls of alfoil, spoons and the hard thin plastic that is commonly used to tie up cardboard boxes. It seemed that drug deals alfresco were occurring only three streets from where I lived.

In theory, I already knew this. That's life in the gritty innercity, right folks? But seeing needle after needle in a spot only three metres away from the walking track was instantly sobering. I took a quick photo but could not bring myself to move the camera thirty centimetres to the right to snap a child's pink hair scrunchie and squashed Happy Meal Box.














A hundred and twenty minutes, two fifty-cent scones from the fund-raising stall and a few speeches later I was able to escape the damp and sordid proximity of the drug spot and head home.

Over lunch, I idly started reading the box of Love Chunks' antibiotics.

'Avoid excessive skin exposure to sunlight and sunlamps while being treated with this medicine', urged the green label.

'Do not take alcohol while undergoing treatment with this medicine unless otherwise advised by your doctor or pharmacist' urged the hot pink sticker.

'This medicine may affect mental alertness and/or coordination. If affected, do not drive a motor vehicle or operate machinery,' warned the red one.




















"Geez, all that concern for your toe fungus!" We both chortled into our second cup of Krups-machine coffee. I leaned over to squeeze his hand; we were both aware of just how lucky we are.

Only the day before, we three returned home from a bike ride and lunch at the paint-peelingly decrepit Fairfield boat house and saw the sky darken, the wind pick up and that forbidding ozone smell lurking in the air.

The ultimate weather nerds' clouds had arrived: the Mammatus. Yes, so-named because they look like boobies. Well, boobies if there were hundreds of them dangling from the ceiling like light globes.















No sooner had we wheeled our bikes through our narrow gate and up the even-narrower side path to our tiny shed than the hail hit. Hellishy hard.

So hard we might as well have been standing in front of the Marshall speakers at an ACDC concert. We rescued Skipper the rabbit from the outdoor playpen and as he coolly enjoyed Sapphire's cuddles and sweet nothings, Milly dashed inside and hid, shaking in fear, under my desk.

We screamed at each other but couldn't be heard as ice the size of twenty cent pieces pummelled our roof. Some of the larger specimens were put into the freezer at Sapphire's urging and the grass rapidly turned white before the trees went into shock and dropped all of their fresh green leaves.















We were all home and safe and dry and for us it was exciting. Exhilarating even, as I snapped away with the camera and whooped each time a larger hailstone was found. We were all wet from the splashes and our street was a raging river, piling up leaves behind the wheels of the parked cars. It was the first time I felt glad that our bingled magna was at the crash repairers' and not in danger of being made into a dodgy piece of hammered copperart outside.

When most of the din and destruction was over, we towelled ourselves off, put the rabbit into his weatherproof hutch and went inside for a cup of herbal tea.

The lights flickered on and off intermittently as the thunder boomed but we risked it all to watch 'Up' together on DVD. Milly had now come out of the study and was sitting at our feet; I was busy knitting and Love Chunks and Sapphire were snuggled up together on the sofa.

I knew how lucky I was.

And it is only now, as I hurriedly finish this, that I realise that the syringes I picked up the day after the hailstorm were not covered by mud, leaves and wet debris. They were fresh and more recent, presumably used and discarded by people desperate enough to risk being hit by lightning and be soaked to the skin in order to score a fix and feel better.

I know how lucky I am.

Fan Boy

"Here, this is for you," he said, beaming at me on Monday, offering me a freshly-picked flower.

He is tall, handsome, confident ....

... four years old

.... won my heart with his very first smile and impish 'Hello'

.... and I've looked forward to 'bumping into' him on the daily walk to and from school every day since that first meeting.

Carefully holding the flower, I walked alongside him, chatting casually, answering his questions with a breezy nonchalance I did not feel inside as his scooter clattered along the kerb.

The flower deserved to be saved for a while longer to preserve the wonderful fizz of happiness bubbling away inside, so an ancient shot glass was found for Patrick's impulsive gift.

On Friday, at the end of a busy week, I was at my usual place by the side gate at the school; not welcome in the grounds due to having Milly with me, waiting for Sapphire to emerge - sticky hair, tired grin and usually staggering under the weight of her tortoiseshell-of-a-backpack.

Fifteen minutes ticked by which is about five months in a 'The bell has gone and school's finished for the week' time-frame and Milly had been greeted and patted by her regular dozen or so stage door Johnnies. Sapphire's friends and class mates had all hustled past, said 'Hi' and headed home. The cleaner arrived and the yard-duty teacher was ready to unzip her fluoro vest and find her hatchback in the staff car park. Still no Sapphire to be seen.

My stomach started pounding in anxiety. Where was she?

Oh yes, then I remembered - Sapphire was at her extra music lesson straight after school to cover the one she missed when at camp last week. I was therefore content to linger at the gate with Milly, ruffling her ears as we checked the progress of the apartment block being built by burly Kiwi blokes across the road and the angry pair of Pomerians complaining about the intrusion in the tiny brick house next door.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Patrick. He was playing in the sandpit inside the school fence while his older brother Lachlan was kicking the footy with his father, Chris.

Patrick finished poking his stick collection into the squashed lunch time sand castle made by older kids and spotted me.

"Kath! Hello Kath," he yelled happily and ran over.

I turned and smiled, walking towards my young male admirer.

His father was about 100 metres away and had met me only once before and on that singular occasion I was wearing a dress, heels and make-up and was about to go out with his wife Amy to see a fashion show and movie about Valentino.

He was not, therefore, able to instantly compute that the figure in denim jeans and a black hoodie that was - at that unfortunate moment - covering her head due to the cold breeze, was, in fact, his wife's friend.

Like a taller and thinner Tom Cruise from 'Minority Report' at the swimming pool he instead noted that his youngest son was approaching a shabbily-dressed stranger at the school gate.

"Patrick!" His face was a mask of instant anguish and there was no way his six foot-seven frame was going to allow me even a moment to consider reaching out to ruffle his son's hair. He ran like a streak of petrified parental lightning across the oval.

"PATRICK!"

I flipped my hoodie back and smiled nervously. "Er, Hi Chris. It's Kath."

Chris's face was still reverting from panic to blankness.

"Chris? I'm Kath; your wife Amy's friend. We went to see that movie together...? We're coming to your place for morning tea this Sunday...?"

He nodded, the colour returning to his cheeks. "Oh, yes. Kath...."

I couldn't help but say it out loud.

"You thought I was a paedophile, didn't you?"

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.