Woss Siss?

I know better, now, with fifteen seconds of new-found experience, than to try and reach for her hand or to smile too widely as she has a tendency to scream and run away which causes all eyes to fall upon me and kill conversation. 

Leaving a one year old howling and hiding isn’t the best way to instil confidence in a group of newish mothers who are gathering shyly in the underground playroom of a 19th C Anglican church, so I leave Helena clinging to her nanna’s slacks and see what the other toddlers are up to. The room is still stuffy from the recent heat, with distant sounds of traffic from Geneva’s city centre and bus station joining the fresh air coming through the window that took me several heaves to force open.

Sapphire and I are here to help our friend KG, a maternity health expert, as she runs her parent group. We arrived early to drag some well-used toys out of the metal lock-up cupboard and pull down a tricycle, a plastic train, a toy car and a wooden rocking snail. Yes, snail, not horse.

The first official day of School Holidays has begun and I’m grateful that my child willingly got up at a teenager-unfriendly time to help and laugh as she manages to do a circuit around the adult meeting table on the tiny trike. At a mature thirteen, she’s as tall as KG and several of the mothers, but two toddlers somehow have instinctively divined that she’s still a Big Girl and Big Girls are much fun-ner than older ladies or Big Girls’ Mummies.

Indira ignores my offering of a bright bumble bee pulled along by string and makes her way over to where Sapphire is busy building a castle with the seriously focused Miranda. Feeling unreasonably hurt, my disappointment is erased by the sight of Spencer hoiking one chubby leg over the tricycle and then laughing uproariously at the ‘squeak’ sound of the seat.

He bounces up and down as he circles the room, bum a squeakin’ and him a cacklin’ like a mad-man all the way. KG is used to this kind of background noise, but the mothers aren’t so much. Perhaps my applause is only encouraging him to do it longer and louder? Spencer notes my appreciation and does an extra lap around me, clearly delighted in the abilities of his arse and the hilarity of the situation. I want to cuddle him up immediately but remember that there are seven other little folk in the room who need me to distract them long enough for their mothers to participate in at least thirty percent of the group discussion.

“What’s this? What’s this?” Indira has decided that I’m safe enough to explain that she’s in fact pushing a red plastic train with a spinning blue nose and squeaky yellow bumper pads on the front. Of course, her query actually sounds like “Woss Siss” but is still easily understandable. When the answer is delivered, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, says "Choo Choo" and continues towards the steps, eyeing Jeremy who is busy hiding underneath the hanging quilt that depicts the all-animals-aboard scene from Noah’s ark.

Rachel finds the only baby in the box otherwise filled with oversized lego, trucks and books and cuddles her gently. “Me mummy,” she says, before placing the doll into the seat of the rocking snail and pushing the back up and down so that the poor doll headbutts the wooden handle with a loud smack over and over again. Rachel's giggles are matched at the other end of the room by Spencer, who is now rolling matchbox cars under the stacked chairs and into the kitchenette, his squeals enticing Jeremy out from behind the quilt and over to try and ‘catch’ the car before it bumps against the piano leg.

Anna has yet to climb down from her mother’s lap but is keeping close watch on all the under-two action swirling around her. Sapphire is reading to Miranda, her voice also encouraging Indira and Jeremy to wander over. Each step they take reminds me of those attempted by drunks – one entire leg kicked to the forefront without bending the knee, tested for balance and then the same move done to the other limb. Provide a sloping ground to either group and they’d build up far too much momentum and go for a gargantuan gutzer.

Spencer’s not laughing anymore, having fallen forward on the toy car he was riding, leaving his pampers-padded arse in the air and head on the bonnet, scattering his handful of soggy popcorn across the floor. Anna is motivated to clamber out of her mother’s lap and pick up each kernel one by one, popping each into her mouth with increasing glee.

Now upright – with assistance from me – Spencer generously forgives the loss of his hand-held snacks and stands directly in front of Rachel who has thrown her baby out of the rocking snail and is in it herself, blonde hair swishing like a heavy metal headbanger. My hand is on the back rail to prevent her from being squished by the snail. A few minutes later she’s persuaded to climb off when she spies Anna picking up her baby, but is let down by the dizziness of her own body refusing to put her in a position for a dolly snatch. “How about a story?” She likes my suggestion, but wanders over to Sapphire with a Maisy book translated to French.

“Good morning, ladies! Excuse me please!”

Humans old and young fall silent when the door creaks open and a sixty something bloke with a murky Scottish accent claps his hands.

“Now don’t be alarmed, but there’s a man who is MENTALLY DISTURBED who is just out here---“ he gestured to the unisex toilet out in the hall “-----using the toilet, as it’s the only one we’ve got open today. He is DANGEROUS around women and children, so I’m accompanying him while he is, erm, urinating, and will take him back upstairs in a minute.”

He spotted me and crooked his finger to get me to come closer to him for further instructions. “I suggest you LOCK THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW so that he can’t come in,” he said, in what he imagined was a whisper but sounded more like an Orkney Island fog horn. “Last week he peed all over the floor and pushed a lady from our congregation into a pew.”

KG and I swapped a glance. There was nothing for it. “Who’s ready for some morning tea?”

The enticing whiff of plunger coffee soon brought my new-found foghorn friend back inside. “The man has gone now. Would you be a love and make me and the Minister a cup of tea – black and sugar for us both?”

The Minister was Jamaican and eyed the toddlers’ morning tea platter with envy. “We’ve got some lemon cake if you’d like a slice...?”

He smiled. “No thank you, miss, I’m from Jamaica and grew up growing bananas. May I....?

He left the cheese for the kids and swiped the bananas, swishing hot tea in his mouth with each bite. 

 “You have a rather strong English accent for a Jamaican.”

“Oh yes, we moved there when I was a child so I still hope that an Englishman wins Wimbledon, and right now I’m prepared to count Andy Murray as English.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sapphire collecting empty cups and the mothers wiping dribbly hands and faces before plonking the owners of those faces back onto the floor. “I’d better get back to it,” I whispered, reaching for his cup.

Like the Scottish foghorn before him, he seemed oblivious to the users of the room and the volume he made. “But tell me – are the Williams’ sisters still in?”

I lowered my voice so that he was forced to read my lips.

"REALLY? Venus has been knocked out already!"  He doubled over laughing in shock. "Crazy!"

"And NADAL TOO?"

Something wet and sticky was pressed into the back of my knee. Luckily it wasn’t the floor peeing madman, but Indira, deciding that her banana wasn’t so appetising after all. The Minister saw that my attention was needed elsewhere and left, but not before dramatically announcing to all, "We are PRAYING FOR YOU. We pray for EVERYONE who uses our room!" 

Scottish fog horn stuffed his head around the door. "Don't forget to lock this as YOU NEVER KNOW WHERE THE MENTALLY DISTURBED MAN IS RIGHT NOW."

Er, thanks for that. Will do.

Sapphire sidled over.  “So this is the sort of stuff you get up to when I’m at school.”

Miranda taps her hand and points to the low table. "Book."  My daughter's nose crinkles up slightly and we share a look - that's not mashed banana we're smelling right now......

Blubbering in my birthday suit

The phone rings just as I am about to turn on the shower tap.

Naked, I dash out of the bathroom to answer it. We don't have an answering machine and it could be one of eighteen agencies/employers/UN departments/email contacts/referrals/freelance company/tutoring firms I've recently applied at with a job offer.

Nope, it's Carol. "How's Milly going, Kath?"

Carol and John very kindly looked after 'ol furry face while we were in Luxembourg. Having left their beloved fifteen year old pound pooch back in Australia with their grown up daughters, they were keen to have access to a dog for a while again.

Milly was given full run of their house, taken on the bus, on outings to Chillon Castle and Nyon and enjoyed lots of walks and attention. You couldn’t find two nicer people to leave your dog with – she had just as good a holiday as we did.

Therefore it was merely bad luck and unfair timing that Milly developed a bladder infection and no matter how many times I tried to reassure Carol, she was acutely apologetic. “It’s OK, Carol. Milly is likely to have had it before you looked after her. She’s happy and she’s eating, so it can’t be too hard on her.”

And it isn’t, really. Her basket, mattress, covers and blankets seem to rather effectively impersonate a Carefree advertisement because of their ability to ‘draw away moisture’ so she can ease her creaking body out of the bed and not be aware of the gallon of wee soaking through to the floor.

Or the carpet.

Or the puddle on the kitchen tiles that Sapphire slips in barefoot.

The apartment is festooned in just-washed dog clothes, making me marvel at how much gear a twelve kilogram animal requires. There’s a frequent lapping sound in the background as she drains her two water bowls before sitting on some enormous white dog toilet-training mats, her nose clearly dry.

Milly’s eyes widened in alarm when the vet took her temperature yesterday. The reading showed that she had a slight fever and a yellow puddle was left on the stainless steel examination table for emphasis.

The vet retaliated by injecting her twice in the back of the neck: firstly with an anti-inflammatory and then an antibiotic. With Milly’s paws back on the floor and a bill for 400 CHF in my shaking hand, he also gave me some liquid medicine that I was to syringe down her throat twice a day. “And please phone me tomorrow and tell me what her temperature is.”

My shock at the bill was temporarily forgotten. “Er, how am I supposed to do that?”

He grinned, enjoying my discomfort. “You have a thermometer, don’t you?”

“Well yes, but it’s for Sapphire and----“

“You can clean it afterwards,” he interrupted, laughing. “And yes, you slip it into her anus and not her mouth.”

“Uh huh,” I smiled in apparent agreement and said goodbye with absolutely no intention of doing that to Milly. I’m already in awe of how well she stands being probed, bled and injected without complaint, staring at me as if to say, ‘well you seem to be OK with this, so I trust you,’ so there was no way that I was going to be the one to do those kinds of things to her.

Four hundred francs. Straight onto the credit card and three weeks of hard-won freelance writing income gone quicker than free beer on a Friday.

The days’ mail wasn’t much better: a further 5750 CHF (on top of the several thousand we’d already paid) from the hospital for Sapphire’s stomach treatments late last year, 250 for a blood test done by the GP and a bill for 1000 CHF from the school to ‘reserve’ her place for next year. A thousand francs to type a kids’ name into an Excel spreadsheet.....?

I added them to the ‘Bills Due’ pile that was starting to buckle the solitary little paper clip holding them together and put them on the top of the printer. They’d just have to wait.

Emails were due to be read – what was going on in the Gillard V Rudd stoush? Did my folks have any preferences for holiday bookings when they arrived here? What were those LOLdogs up to?

Oh. Despite fulfilling all of the selection criteria and the manager agreeing several months ago that I’d be ideal for the job, they’d ‘omitted’ to inform me that, due my husband already working in their organisation, they were not permitted to offer me work. Not even from-home, two hours a week.

Same goes for a role in a different section to LC’s, editing a newsletter for roughly four hours a week. An enormous conflict of interest apparently.

UN vacancies now. Part time jobs are rarer than a supermodel with a sandwich and most require overseas travel for a third of that time. How does Burkina Faso, Mogadishu or Basra sound?   But today there was a part time job – an admin assistant on the lowest of the lowest classification level, two days a week – perfect! 

Maybe.  I would have to demonstrate a ‘thorough understanding of UN administrative procedures (via an examination) and have at least five years experience working in the UN. English and French are the two working languages, with priority given to applicants who also have German and Spanish/Arabic/Russian as a fourth language.’ Oh, right. 

Wait – wait – someone saw my freelance advert and wants me to edit their research report!

I then spent an hour reading through the ‘how to’ documentation and the attached Literature Review chapter before deciding that yes, I can do this and do it well. It’s obviously a PhD thesis and a very, very poorly-written one. He says on Skype, “I’ll pay you for an hour to see how you do, and then, if I’m happy, we’ll set up a contract for another ten hours.”

Fine by me. The hour is measured by the freelance website time-tracking device so he can see that I’m working solidly; mostly with ‘track changes’ on.

I waited for Skype to burp itself on again. ‘Oh,’ he wrote in an email ten minutes later. ‘I really like your editing, but I actually wanted you to write some stuff for me, you know, fill in the gaps so that it’s not so patchy.’

No wonder he cowardly emailed me instead of speaking to me directly. My response: ‘Peter, dearest, it’s YOU who supposedly read all of those articles and are now summarising your learnings and findings, not ME. There is no possible way I can write linking sentences or expand on studies, theses or books I’ve never read.’ I wanted to end with, ‘Unless I can share your doctorate with you?’

No response back, except the one automatically generated by the freelance company exactly three minutes later. ‘Your contract with Cheater BoyXYZ is now terminated. Total payment earned: 18USD.’

So he even went so far, as my ‘employer’, to deduct two bucks from an already bargain price.


...............“Kath? Kath are you still there?” Carol sounded concerned.

I started to blubber. “Carol, I’m sorry for crying on the phone but apart from prostitution or nannying, I don’t know what else to try to earn a few bucks here and even when I did apply for a nanny job looking after two small boys for a ten hour day, she only wanted to pay me thirteen francs an hour so that she could do her diplomat-level job." 

Milly nudged my leg. With her bladder infection rampant, I didn’t dare risk fobbing her off any longer. Besides, I’d run out of dry towels. “Gotta go Carol, Milly needs a trip to the Dog Forest downstairs.”

I de-nuded myself, grabbed The Fratman-Approved apartment-friendly kit of Wellington boots and towel and took her downstairs to relieve herself. We entered the bike storage room afterwards for me to wipe her feet clean and to change out of my boots as well as dump some papers into the communal recycling bin.

Zzzzzzziiiiiiip –ooooh, the edge of the squashed cornflakes box scornfully slashed a cut across my palm. It wasn’t particularly deep but blood dripped freely. “Damn!”

And this has happened before and it’ll happen again but I bent down to unclip Milly’s lead and give her ears a scratch at the exact moment she leapt up to sneak a slurp across my nose so that CRA-A-A-CK, her rock hard head smacked into my nose.

“Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart!” I screamed, staggering blindly about the room in pain before getting my trousers caught on the mudguard of a bicycle.

When sight was restored, it was a gruesome scene that appeared before me. Blood spatters all over the floor, the edge of the skip, the plastic bag holding my boots and Milly’s lead. Had Dexter snuck in to visit?

It’s amazing what two wet wipes can do and, fifteen minutes later, we exited the bike storage room.

On our way to the lift I saw The Fratman pushing his wheelie bucket and mop across the foyer. “Bonjour Monsieur,” I called out cheerily, idly wondering why he didn’t respond with his usual “Tres Bien” at the sight of my boots-in-a-bag and Milly’s foot towel. He seemed in a real hurry.

Back upstairs, I put off having a shower before compulsively checking my emails again.

Good news at last. No, not kids to tutor, an article to research, paper to edit or administrative work to undertake but our spare car parking spot was now officially rented to a neighbour.

I had to laugh at the absurdity of a ‘win’ that required no work or skill of my own, yet roughly equated to two hours of freelance writing. Then I had to wipe the keyboard clean - my cut was still oozing slightly.

I laughed again in the bathroom when I saw my blood-smeared face in the mirror and realised why The Fratman scuttled off so quickly...... Perhaps he does deserve a bottle of plonk or a tip this coming Christmas after all – if we can afford it!

Indeterminee

It's 9am and the corridor outside of her bedroom is dark, so I bend down gingerly to slide a note under her door.

'Sapph, I'm taking Milly out for a walk and a play before she bursts. I have my mobile with me, so call if you need anything. Mum xo'

My knees crack whilst straightening up and BANG I crack the top of my head on her door knob. My anguished screech of 'SHIT' shoots out without thinking and I hear Sapphire stir and call out to me; all my previously silent and considerate creeping around for nothing.

She's still sick and it's no longer a joke or an intriguing 'bug that's going around' or a pleasant opportunity for us to watch every conceivable version of Antiques Road Show, Attic Treasure, Flog It, Road Trip, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Ask Our Antiques Experts, Bargain Hunters or Nanna Has A Cracked Pot: Is it Worth Anything via the English channels.

The doctor, once pompous, then apologetic is now a combination of stumped and concerned. "The new drugs haven't worked - the bacteria is still there. No wonder you feel so ill, Sapphire." He even shows me the lab reports and the list of antibiotics that have been proven to work against the evil germ lurking in her belly. "This is supposed to work, it's supposed to fix things. Why hasn't it?" That's the question he asks before I do.

He'll be phoning the laboratory tomorrow, as they've now separated the bug and are testing other drugs on it to see if they can destroy it. "If not, it's time for the Diseases Unit in the hospital to help us." For some inexplicable reason, I'm really glad when he says 'us' instead of 'you' - he's now involved and seems to care. This kid ain't faking and needs help.

As we farewell him - yep, come back tomorrow and I'll also call you as soon as I hear again from the lab - I look down at the Sick Certificate he's given me to send to Sapphire's teacher. Instead of the usual ones that say Retourner a l'ecole and a date, this one states: Retourner est indeterminee. Sapphire sees me frown, snatches it from my hand to read what it says and starts to cry.

The mobile had a message for me. I didn't get the admin job via the Australian embassy. It was almost an entry-level role that they interviewed eight of us for. "Was it my bad French?"

"No, yours was as good as everyone else's."

What the? Come on, rally yourself, girl. "Oh. Never mind, I appreciate you considering me----"

"You could easily have done the job - all the panel agreed - but the person we offered it to has more experience than you."

Ah. More experience in being your niece? More experience in ordering lunchtime tables in perfect Francais? More experience in being a mindless wallah? More experience in ...... time to get off this bitter, pointless track and get ready to take the dog for a walk. Milly does several joy jumps before skidding on the parquetry when she sees me reach for my Outdoor Walking Coat - a 75% markdown from the H&M Mens' Section sized Extra Large. I look like a sleeping bag wrapped around a water tank, but damn if it doesn't keep me cosy.

Hopefully another job will turn up that doesn't involve nannying three children under five years or toilet cleaning for 15 francs an hour. A part-time Librarian's Assistant role looked promising until Selection Criteria Number Nine specified 'Must be fluent in both English and French and possess the ability to read and understand Russian, Spanish and Arabic.' All that to type in 'new additions to the library category coding system' for 18 francs an hour?

Swish Swish Swish whispers my jacket as I stride along, fuming. The bloody UN seems deliberately set up to actively prevent trailing spouses from gaining any form of employment. G-level (yes, as in ground, gofer, gormless, grovelling) employment pays less than our weekly grocery (yes, another G word) bill but still requires a high distinction after sitting their official admin skills test, proving I can speak two languages and understand three in the written form, possess an advanced Masters Degree in International Diplomacy or related issues and over eight years working specifically for international organisations.....

Whoah - the leaves are now long dead and dangerously slippery with damp, and I grab at a railing to prevent from falling. The sudden movement shakes the lump in my pocket - Love Chunks' new camera. Further down the hill, Milly sees Malou and surprises him with some attention and play as I stand there staring at the wealth of photo opportunities. Ice-crusted grass. Malou's excited face. Orange leaves. Pink sun rising through grey foggy sky and the cryptic spray painted 'Avatar Rules'on the lowest hanging branch of a nearby oak tree.

Drops splatter my face as Milly returns, giving her ears an extra-thorough flapping to signify that she's sick of Malou and ready to return home.

Sapph's on the sofa, folded up tightly to squash the stomach pain and resting Elmo - her sleeping partner of choice during times of illness or sadness - on her knees. The Outdoor Walking Coat is dropped to the floor as I dash over to hug her. Her hand lightly brushes against the top of my head, still throbbing from the fight with the door knob.

"I'm glad you're with me, Mum," she whispers.

Perhaps this is the right job for me right now.

Job searching for violence, poisons and Julia Gillard

Actually, none of the above is true, but seeing as I write for the Careers section of a pretty decent and respected newspaper, sometimes when I'm sipping that second coffee on a Saturday morning and hoping today might finally be the day when Love Chunks sneaks an admiring glance at me, nods approvingly and says, "You know Kath, you rock that creased pillow face and brown dressing gown look perfectly. I insist you stay in that all day," I idly scan through the job ads.

Four leapt out at me as having titles that would make for some pretty fearful business cards and intriguing chats at conferences and coffee breaks. Yes, they are all real advertisements:








Oh hi, Terry, nice to meet you. Your presentation was very thorough, very thought-provoking. Here, take my card.
What's that?
Yes, it does takes a bit of thinking, this role. After all, we've got to go beyond the usual aggro and develop strategies that veer way, way outside the box. Like THIS!
No, don't back away, Terry, it was just a quick demo and you've got another eye! I was hoping to interest your unit in participating in our latest experiment: surely you've got a couple of cardigans you can do without, who live more for flex days than project work?
TERRY? Come back? Don't you want to see our solar-powered catapult? We won a local grant for it!
.......Stupid jerk is too up himself to handle other people's success....







Sarah! How ARE you? It's been too long, hasn't it? How's Rory going?
Ah well, he always had a bit of a wandering eye didn't he?
Oh. No, I didn't hear about the funeral, I'm so sorry....sure, I've got a tissue here somewhere. Sorry, it's got an old butter menthol stuck to it....
Anyhow, onto other things - did you hear about my new job?
Yeah, it's with Julia. That Julia. Our Julia - Girrrrrl Power!
It's part-time until the end of July and then ramps up to full time then on.
I'm not sure actually. I probably have to put my hand in the small of her back so she doesn't have to stand still and discuss any policy issues. Or go power-walking with her in the mornings around Altona. That reminds me, I better go and see if I've still got my 'Moscow 1980' tracksuit and hope that her hairspray and my striding thighs don't cause it to ignite......







I'm loving this job Alex, L-O-V-I-N-G it man!
Who knew, after being expelled from Pharmacy school, Chem-mart warehouse and the Hells' Angels compound that I'd land on my feet like this?
Sure, the last guy died but that's all part of the risk, right?
The weather has been amazing since I started here - double rainbows everyday and my lab assistant is a unicorn! He tried to shag me once, but I fended him off with a chocolate canoe and a sitar. Elvis crapped himself laughing.
That reminds me - I need to discuss with my manager the possibility of ordering a crate of Snakes Alive, BBQ Shapes and Tim Tams for afternoon tea every day because I've been working up one heck of an appetite.
Are you sure you're OK because you have breasts where your eyes should be and I swear I just saw a red monkey jump into your briefcase and the floor is suddenly rising up to meet me....

Miiiiiiiike, baby! How did you pull up after Friday night?
Me either - that Krazy Kebab van won't be inviting me back any time soon, heh heh. Nor will Delilah, come to that... Anyhow, did you see the vacancy?
No no no, it's not like at all - no, we're for the Aboriginal people. Giving them extra jobs and training and all that. Involving the kids as well.... That's an interesting question, Mike, and to be frank I have noticed that they prefer to test their theories out on me rather than their own families but the salary and the perks are worth it. Yep, my own office, Exec Assistant and car.

Of course I'll have to wait until the cast is off before I'm able to drive it.

Five Day Grind

Recent blogging buddy* Elisabeth commented - kindly I hope - that this blog makes the mundane sound interesting. I then read Radge's blog about taking the week off and finding himself not kicking up his still-young-and-single-and-carefree heels up in his local Irish pub but idly browsing kitchenware shops, feeling utterly unstressed and strangely content, and thought, 'Yep, I'm going to steal that idea and write about my own mundane week.'

Firstly, my diary. It's an RSPCA charity one, tiny in size to carry in a bag and covered in almost illegible kilometrico blue pen scrawls. This means that whenever something is changed, or cancelled or rescheduled, I have to get the liquid paper out and remove the original entry. 'No biggie', you're probably thinking, (along with 'mundane'? How about eye-droopingly snooze inducing?) but amendments inevitably happen more than once and the diary starts to resemble Queen Elizabeth the First's face after 50 years of rule, perhaps a bath a year and a daily application of lead-based foundantion.

Like George Costanza's wallet, I can barely shut the bloody thing without re-straining my neck and causing flecks of displaced paint to fly out the sides. So, let's start with Monday, shall we?

After going for my 8 km run, seeing Sapphire off to school and packing the dishwasher I meet up with Ros to accompany her on the final part of Flemington not yet scoped for our council-funded Heritage walk. We're both a bit cautious with each other as I'm desperate to seek forgiveness for my stupid remark several meetings ago which basically disparaged her part of our lovely suburb when I was unable to find anything of interest that would persuade a person of sound mind and body to venture along the traffic-choked Racecourse Road, past Centrelink and the graffitied shopfronts just to stare at a stable.

She quite rightly took offence and told me - rather politely, admittedly - that I was ignorant, insulting and decidedly lacking in the special brain fluid stuff that connects the synapses. Straight after the meeting, I rushed over to apologise profusely and we made a date to go for a walk around her neck of the woods together.

And I'm so glad we did so. We saw this fig tree, growing on the stone front of the three cottages named after Melbourne Cup winners and marvelled at its tenacity:

I met her lovely husband, her talented architecture-student daughter and their two adopted Jack Russell terriers. The final two were the hardest to win over and followed behind me suspiciously as their Alpha Female chose to be with me, the weird stranger, in an area that was normally theirs to sniff and examine. Eventually they decided that my company was no longer repellent and rewarded me with no barking, happily wagging tails and a tentative lick on the hand.

Four hours later I limped home with nearly 200 photos, hopefully a new friend and a big smile on my fat face.

Tuesday found me chatting with a businesswoman in another part of the country, laughing as we realised how much we had in common and wondering just how we could work together without ever meeting. Time will tell, but my fingers are crossed.

This is also the day I finish a profile article on a Drama and English teacher for The Age and congratulate myself on squeezing a high-achieving and busy life story into 730 words;

Nervously submit an invoice to a largish chocolate company, hoping they don't scoff at my hourly rate and wishing that, at 41-and-a-half and three years into freelance writing, I'd stop feeling like a prostitute;

Edit ten out of the eighteen young writers' stories that they are now emailing me during the week as time runs out and their novels are in progress. I read about death, snakes, medieval weaponry, aliens, dancing, bullies, tigers, ticking clocks, loneliness and blue blobs;

Arrange, photograph and sample three different blocks of Swiss chocolate that, quite frankly, is so delicious I struggle to write about it in any knowledgeable or informative way; and

...write my blog about Tim Roth, our new tree, telling lies and procrastinating.

Wednesday morning commences with what sounds like Darth Vader's breathing apparatus being amplified throughout the neighbourhood until Sapphire runs outside and notices two hot air balloons floating nearby, blowing gas.**

Half an hour later, I end up impersonating that sound as I puff, wheeze - and occasionally clamber off to cough up a phlegm oyster into a tissue - my way on the treadmill. The cold/lurgy/chest infestation thingie that Sapphire brought home from school has all three Locketts honking, sneezing, hacking and ahem-ing like a band of heavy smoking percussionists.

My medley is clearly so distressing that our neighbour, Stuart, calls out over the fence when I lean up against the shed door, sweating and exhausted, grateful to be finished. "Are you OK over there, Kath? I don't start work until lunch time if you need help." He's an emergency doctor, so I take this as my cue to gasp out that I'm fine but will take it easy for the rest of the day.

Therefore, I spend the rest of day before school pick-up editing the 200 heritage walk photos, writing up some previous chocolate reviews, phoning a friend in Adelaide before she had to hastily hang up and wipe the Deep Heat creme her three year old had found and smeared on his eyebrows, email in an ASRC article, hang up a few loads of washing and do the fortnight's ironing.

Amy comes over for a cup of tea in the afternoon and reminds me again that some of us work-from-home folk can still look utterly gorgeous whilst doing so. She's a really genuine, intelligent and kind person, yet I feel like Quasimodo alongside her.

Thursday is power walking morning. Milly hates this because it means that I'm out in the shed

for much longer on the stupid, noisy, nose-dragging contraption and not inside in the warmth, which is where she'd like to be. Every few minutes she'll wander in, give me a look of boredom and disappointment (yes, dogs can conjure up that in a glance), sit down for a few seconds and then wander out, hoping to find some stray bunny butt beans near Skipper's hutch.

Later I do the weekly shop, get Love Chunks' watch fixed, bank Sapphire's pocket money (ie when her money box is full) and slightly impress the teller by handing it over properly bagged and counted, fill up the car with petrol at the place that gave us contaminated stuff at Christmas time and hope that everything's all fine now because I just can't be shagged finding a spot anywhere else and post some letters.

Lunch is a rushed plate of saladas and an apple because the Writing Workshop kids want to come in an hour earlier - ie during their lunch time - to start their writing. I arrive, expecting maybe only a couple to remember, but a dozen are waiting at the door. It's the serious end of term now, and I know all their names, the exact spots they're at in their stories and how far I can push the 'tell me MORE about how you killed him' encouragements.

They, in turn, are even referring to me as their 'editor' and love the lolly snakes and fantales I bring in to keep their energy levels and enthusiasm up for such a long session. I win even more respect by being able to answer every single 'Who am I?' question they read off their fantale wrappers because they're too young yet to realise that a brain filled with pop culture has less space for more useful information. Two hours later, Sapphire and I walk home and she chatters away enthusiastically about her planned plot twists. I realise, as I listen, that I'm starting to enjoy this workshop and, hey, even be looking forward to it.

Finally, Friday. My third running session is still peppered with enough coughs and snorts to prevent Milly from bothering to visit me, but I'm glad I did. I'm sad enough to write in my diary - and highlight in fluoro orange pen - what runs and walks I do for the week and if there's five entered, life is grand. Plus, this run occurs at 6.30 and not 8.30 am because I'm being interviewed then for a magazine.

It's not the most prestigious magazine in history but it ain't Zoo weekly either. The journo chats to me about the Flemington Litter Ninja project and says that her publication is going to buy one of the photos taken by my local paper but would I be so kind as to email her another, say, one of me actually picking up some rubbish? Oh and she'll send me a contract that I'll need to sign, stipulating that I will not sell my story to any of their competitor magazines. Whew, the things you need to go through for three hundred dollars.....

Change the sheets on the bed, scrub out the shower (whilst in it and hope that there's never a day when the local perve decides to put a hidden camera in the house), clean the toilet, hang out some washing and sort out the wheelie bins.

Spend the afternoon deciding whether to submit the rough-as-guts first two chapters of anti-Angela's Ashes (ie happy) memoir, current working title, 'Stink Pot,' to a publisher holding a mentoring competition. Get lost in sorting out old-but-relevant blog posts, hand-written notes, family photos and verbal embroidery (ie writing more) and forget to do so.

My watch has an alarm that pings at 3:18pm. Milly leaps out of her beanbag (not a bad effort for a dog who was in deep REM sleep only a second ago and negotiating a moveable soft bed with two arthritic back legs), nudges my chair and readies herself for a walk. I smile and log off. This is the highlight of both of our days - seeing Sapphire at the school gate.

* if you comment, you're a blog buddy in my view.

** yes, Love Chunks made the expected jokes about the balloons being a hell of a lot quieter than anything I'm capable of doing under the doona.

The demonic Doctor Checks

Walking into my local medical centre isn't a welcoming experience. Several coffee cups have been squashed on the steep front steps with their sticky contents dribbling down the grey tiles and making a nauseating soup when mixed with cigarette ash and butts. The graffiti scratched onto the glass doors doesn't enhance the atmosphere either.















Inside the over-heated waiting room, I'm given the luxury of time to observe my fellow patients and to consider just how the very worst of cheaply slapped-together 1990s architecture has stood the test of time. Answer: it doesn't. The once-white ceiling tiles are blooming with latte-brown water stains, the huge green formica reception desk is so gouged that the chipboard underneath has become a crazy-paving feature and the once-proud 'Chemist next door' enamel sign has been covered with a torn piece of paper with handwriting informing me that the 'Neerest chemist is 300m walk further up the road.'

A three year old boy and his mother sit beside me. Well, she does: he's busy doing lap after lap around the low coffee tables, saying "When can I see Dr Checks? When can I see Dr Checks?" over and over.

Dr Checks? Dr Cheques? Is his mother running some kind of blackmailing scheme...? I put my boring novel down and am rude enough to raise one eyebrow at her quizzically. To her credit, she doesn't say, "It's none of your pharkin' business," but laughs and says, "Hugo likes ---" she looks around, sees her target and points "-----that doctor over there, the one in the houndstooth jacket."

I see a stooped old man in glasses slowly shuffle behind the reception desk to reach for his next file. He most certainly would have been around to see the celebrations at end of World War One.

Hugo rushed over to tug at his mother's skirt. "See Mum, Dr Checks is here! Dr Checks! Dr Checks!"

Hugo is shushed by Mum, and I go back to my book. Both of us still have to wait our turn and she tries to ease her son into the idea that it might be Doctor Blue Shirt he sees instead of Checks. "His grandfather has the same jacket," Mum whispers to me and says brightly and in a louder voice to Hugo, "But blue is your favourite colour, isn't it sweetie?"

"Ye-e-e-e-e-sss...." Hugo's voice had now moved up an octave to a high pitched whine that was starting to rattle the windows. "But I wanna see Dr Checks!"

It was time to plough back into the dull book on my knee and let the mother of Hugo try to cajole him with a trip to the water fountain, the tatty community brochure stand, the toilets and shooshing him again when he saw the enormous nose ring in a punky-emo hybrid guy who'd just sat on the other side of him: "Why is he wearing a bangle in his nose?"
"Um, it's a nose ring, Hugo. Some people wear them as jewellery, like you sometimes like to wear my bracelets and necklaces."
Nice response, I thought, but not Hugo. "Yuk, it'll get boogies on it."
Fair point too.

Dr Checks came back out into the foyer.
"Yay!" yelled Hugo, "It's my turn, Mummy!"

Dr Checks smiled - or was he merely airing his dentures - and said, "Mrs Lockett?" I grabbed my bag and left the room to Hugo's anguished sobbing.

Three months ago, at the urging of Love Chunks, I underwent a cholesterol test.
"We'll call you if something's serious, so no news is good news," said the doctor filling up the test tube with my red stuff at the time.

No phone call was received, so I was in the clear: my cholesterol test was obviously OK and I could continue to inhale chocolate, cheese, chips, meat, pastries, pies, eggs and donuts with greedy abandon. Especially chocolate.

















Today however, found me there to get my tumour checked up on - keep an eye on those pesky prolactin levels and have a wee whinge about the unwanted and increasing visits from Mr Migraine. He was becoming the medical equivalent of a stalker.

"You look very fit," Dr Checks said.
"Oh, I am", I sat up straighter, beaming with pride and huge spadeful of vanity. "I run at least three times a week, power walk twice and am a good girl and eat lots of fruit and veges and-----"
"But," Dr C looked down into the folder. "Your cholesterol level is much too high."
"Wha-a-a-a-t?" My smugness disappeared up the anus from whence it came. "But I was told by the other doctor that no news is good news!"

He affected that pose that's so infuriating because you just know you're in for a lecture and you know it's probably deserved but you just don't want to hear it: he lowered his glasses and looked down his nose at me. Pompous git - and look a him sitting there with his old man moobs sweating in crescent marks on his too tight business shirt, about to lecture me, an educated, intelligent, responsible adult about diet and exercise, the nerve..!

"Your cholesterol level is 6.5 and it should not be anything higher than 5.5. The doctor here has made a note saying, 'Discuss this with the patient when she arrives to collect her test results'."
He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose to deliver the final pompous, know-it-all, you-can't-handle-the-truth barb: "That was THREE months ago. Surely you must have wondered what your results were?"

As intended, it was now my turn to play the part of the sheepish, admittedly ashamed and naughty patient and the role fitted perfectly. "Well, um, I just assumed that if it was really bad, one of you would call..."

Dr C held up a tired, I've-heard-it-all-before-young-lady hand. "You're not about to be carted into an ambulance, but you need to do something about it now. Seriously."

And the next fifteen minutes involved talk of cutting out full fat milk, cream, butter, cheese, red fatty meats, chicken skin, animal fats, coconut milk, palm oil from my diet entirely. Yep, okay, fine, nod nod nod, can do all of that. Sure, absolutely.

And no cakes, eggs, bacon, biscuits, donuts, pastries, pies, tarts or quiches. Ye-e-s, okay, it'll be a struggle but yes, my health is important.

Of course I knew what was coming next.

I knew it, he knew it and you know it, don't you?

"How much chocolate do you eat a week, Mrs Lockett?"
"Oh call me Kath, you already know so much about me, inside and out, heh heh, although I don't want to have a pap smear today. Did you know that I'm a chocolate reviewer and writer and manage to look only slightly chubby instead of Jabba the Hutt-like due to my dedication to exercise and the proper intake of vitamins and min--"

"How much chocolate do you eat a week----" he paused, to let his authority and moral detachment sink in more fully "-----Kath?"

Like a mathematically challenged eight year old, I went through an average week, listing each block, truffle and bar and counting them on my fingers. "Well, I had lunch at San Churro - so it was a meal really, not an additional snack, but then there was the two Nestle blocks which were a gift from Helen and M&Ms have released an orange flavour that is only currentlyavailable in the 200 gram bags and it's greedy I know, but it took me three blocks before the willpower to photograph it emerged in order to write the review for the daggy but delicious Cadbury Tiramisu dessert block and just this morning I finally got a hold of the new Lindt Classic flavours and...."

I just can't write the figure here. It hurts too much. Let's just say that if Dr Checks had any hair left, his eyebrows had risen high enough to have hidden amongst his fringe.

"You have to cut that by at least ninety percent or you'll be in serious trouble."

He might as well have yanked my heart out with barbed wire gloves and plonked it into a tupperware container and slung it in the staff fridge to rot amongst the ancient sweet chilli sauce sachets and yoghurt tubs.














A few minutes later, I slowly walked home. The morning sunshine was too bright and harsh, and my backpack was heavy. Love Chunks opened the door and the moment he saw my face, said, "Oh my god Kath, what's wrong, has your tumour grown back again?"
My eyes were blurred with tears. "But I love what I do...."

I hadn't dared show Dr Checks what I'd purchased from the supermarket before my appointment with him; just a few treats to see me through a week in central Australia on a 4WD camping trip that was not likely to fully cater for my specific needs:

Still, if I get to eat ten percent of it....?

I'm ON

After nearly four weeks of sitting through stories that involved an unemployed young bogan who impregnated eleven different women, some Adelaide chick who looks like Princess Diana with a bad blow dry, the new miracle bra, why some students are stripping to earn money and how to avoid paying parking tickets, Love Chunks saw a promo.

No, this time Tracy Grimshaw wasn't talking about the woman who lost a tonne of blubber by walking around town pushing her pram or how you can buy bargain baby gear.... Yes, I've sadly sat through either live or videod versions of the show, wondering if the delightful Thomas Schnetzler and I would ever make it on.

....and if we did, would we fit in amongst the rip-off merchants, dodgy priests, anti-airport development battlers and Nick Darcy victims?

We'll see. Friday night, 3rd April, 6:30pm, channel nine. They do say that the camera adds on ten kilograms, so please be kind....

Lit's go kuss some lups!

We three locketts are spending the South Aussie school holidays in New Zealand's North Island.

We've only got two weeks, and were advised (quite wisely, as we're discovering) that it would barely be enough time to see the North island, let alone the South. We'll come down and visit the bigger island in a couple years' time when it's seen as cool and not cruel to hang your child upside down from bridges on elastic or by flinging them down cliffsides.

About a day after booking the trip, we had a few big decisions to make. Firstly, Love Chunks just-missed-out-by-this-much on scoring a two year gig at the World Meteorological Organisation in Geneva. It had been on the boil for far too many months, which of course leads to dangerous thinking. And hoping. And assuming. Stuff like, "Well if the treadmill conks out, there's no point getting another one because we could be living in Geneva by then" or "Might as well get that card-carrying Mummy Mafioso Matriarch at the school gate in a headlock and mash her fat face into the playground bark chips because I won't be here for her poxy fete day fiasco," and such like.

To therefore find out that, after many months of nothing, the powers-that-be decided to leave the current lack-lustre spot-filler in the role without even interviewing LC was devastating. For too long I'd been entertaining the pleasant idea of being the person who 'kept the home/apartment fires burning', looked after Sapphire's school needs (a bilingual English/French establishment please), planning weekend and holiday jaunts around Europe in our funky new Fiat and keeping up the tappin' at the laptop in colder climes had its appeal.

About a day later, the Melbourne Meteorological office contacted Love Chunks and asked him to consider a return to the city of bad iced coffee, cretinous Collingwood fans and Bell Street bogans. We said yes, and put our beautiful, beloved Trinity Gardens house on the market. Any thoughts of sheep, hokey pokey icecream or the rotten egg gases of Rotorua were put aside for gardening, dusting and de-cluttering about an hour after I sweat soakingly completed running the three hour 'How to write a self help book' workshop at the SA Writer's Centre. My presentation that morning was about as sensible and orderly as a seed-sowing epileptic during a dust storm.

So, when the Geneva dream had flipped us the bird and scooted off into the far horizons, I'm ashamed to say that, like Bert Newton, cheese twisties and Homy Ped shoes, the thought of travelling around Kiwiland didn't seem quite as exciting and even on the actual plane flight over, I had barely opened up a brochure on the country let alone the in-flight magazine. I'm more relieved to say, however, that it's bloody nice to be wrong and to be pleasantly surprised instead of predictably disappointed.

You've got to love a country that:

• Sells Ponga Logs by the roadside and has subtlely called one of their most popular chocolate-coated icecreams BIG NUTS (or is that pronounced BUG NETS);
• Has two main communities called Rodney and Russell (still waiting to find out where Shirley and Maureen are located - maybe the South Island);
• Urges us to pull over past Auckland to visit 'Sheep World' and has the saying 'Tall Trees Catch the Most Wind' on the back of their removal trucks (any thoughts?);
• Celebrates public toilets - especially those created by artist Friedensrich Hundertwasser that are made of glass bottles, ceramic pots and mosaic tiles and have grass and a tree growing on the roof;
• Makes pronouncing some street and town names rather disrespectful and problematic. Whakepapa, for example. 'Wh' is pronounced as an 'f', so there's a helluva lot of 'Phuckers' to be said, to much evil giggling by Sapphire. Either that or, 'Ded hes the shuts, disn't he Mum?' is said often to much back seat amusement;
• Hate possums with a passion and have a shop proudly filled with stuffed ones posing as road-kill, foot slippers, violin players and art-deco aficionados;
• Sometimes get lazy and, when tired of naming their natural wonders with Maori words or dedications to distant English monarchs, will go for the obvious. 'Hole in the rock' at the Bay of Islands is one instance.

Travelling around in a car 16 years younger than our own; eating food that is mainly crumbed, deep fried and sitting on top of a chip pyramid and yet to spot a live kiwi has, at the very least, given me respite from worrying about the sale our house, planning and packing for our soon-to-be 'new' life interstate, wondering where Sapphire will go to school and just what in the hell I want to be when I grow up (in Melbourne) and missing Milly the dog so much I rush over to pat and coo over any and every New Zealand mutt I see ......

....... all before arriving home, picking up Skipper the rabbit and Milly and hiding our dirty laundry, dust and dog hairs for a few more hours until the last open inspection is over.

"Mum, what's Dad doing over there in the Kauri forest?"

"He's er, um, he's just taking a little break."

Day Twenty Seven - Appreciative August

People

Alright, alright, before any of you start, I know. Opting to write about people as one of my Appreciative August topics is about as vague as 'earth' or 'air' or 'life' but it's so much more than that.

You know how someone will say, "Oh he's a real character" and you'll invariably think, "Hmm, so he's definitely not the full can of Fanta and I should avoid eye contact at all costs," right? Well I'm here to tell you, in today's modern equivalent of you sitting down and me waggling my pointer finger at you, that there are people out there who are genuine characters. Folk to enjoy; to get to know; to appreciate.

This year, as part of my personal quest in the 'Year of Yes', I've also been trying to create opportunities as well as say 'yes' to any that get thrown my way. One of those was to attempt to get the city paper to publish articles on non-celebrities. You know, people who haven't appeared on Big Brother, weren't invited to Bec and Lleyton's wedding and wouldn't know what an IT girl was unless she was good at killing off Trojan viruses. Folk that aren't dating AFL footballers, or own shoe stores at the age of 24 funded by their wealthy parents, or trucked over as 'interstate talent' based on other equally dubious claims to fame.

I wanted to develop a no-name regular column on local South Australians. By 'locals' I mean those who don't already feature in the news. Not the puzzled-but-later-found-to-be-drug-dealing victims of 'unprovoked' home invasions, meth-heads who lead police on 200km car chases along Port Road at 3am, or the owners of back yard amphetamine laboratories destined to shove a Today Tonight cameraman into the gutter. I mean the friendly bloke who runs the coffee shop; the old lady with the zimmer frame and wicked laugh or the taxi driver who only takes his beloved Bentley out for a spin in the middle of the day when the rush hour has ended.

So far, I've managed to persuade about twenty South Australians aged from 20 to 85 (with perhaps a seventeen year old and a ninety-five year old to extend the range when they finish considering my request for an interview), to answer the same set of questions. The questions are:

• Name / Age / Suburb or town / Job
• The best time I ever had that didn't cost a cent was ....
• The worst job I ever had was ...
• You know what irritates me?
• If my partner was the forgive-and-forget type, I'd love to spend the night with .... because .....
• The last time I laughed was ...
• If I could invent anything it would be ...
• ___ deserves a kick in the backside because ....
• ___ deserves a pat on the back because ....
• The one thing I've learned is ...
• My favourite spot in South Australia is ....

I'm a firm believer that everyone has a story and has something interesting to tell. They may not necessarily believe it, but the above questions, whilst seeming annoyingly cliched and generic, have allowed me to participate in some of the most touching, hilarious and fascinating discussions I've ever had.

There's too much to reveal here, but I'll share some of the answers to the 'If my partner was the forgive and forget type, I'd spend the night with....' question. These reveal only a tiny glimpse of the fun I've had in gaining them:

"Forget having sex with someone else, unless it's Diana Krall for her musical talent and visual appeal. I'd rather have an evening with Johanne Sebastian Bach to hear him play and find out how his brilliant mind worked." (Dan, 46, music teacher and sustainable farmer)

"My wife, no question. I'd hang out with her any time (pause). Although, if I must, I'd say Catriona Rowntree (pause) but only because she enunciates well." (Roc, 47, actor)

"I'm not the forgive and forget type but I'd bend the rules for Johnny Depp. He's a bit of everything, so imagine what he could do...." (Salome, 30, receptionist)

"On looks and strength alone, Andrew McLeod." (Melissa, 26, shop owner). I wonder if my own beloved partner, Love Chunks, would answer the same, but haven't yet asked him.

"Well, obviously Brad Pitt, but then I'd shove him out the door and invite Tim Flannery in for a chat." (Ian, 43, public servant)

"Delta Goodrem, she's hot. I can do without the singing though." (Shane, 30, houseboat operator)

"Daniel Day-Lewis. In any of his weird method acting phases. All the way from Last of the Mohicans to My Left Foot." (Bernadette, 41, Cappuccino Queen)

"My girlfriend I had just before World War II started. (Laughs) Not necessarily for anything naughty, but just to see how everything turned out for her." (Jack, 85, retired mariner)

"Jillian Michaels, the personal trainer from the US Biggest Loser, but I'd like to train with her for the day first. Then Angelina Jolie - I reckon even my wife would let me have that one." (Damien, 34, engineer)

"ALL of my ex-boyfriends - if only to apologise for treating them so badly." (Pauline, 67, retired)

Some of the stories that have been discussed around the questions have been inspirational and extended what I promised was only going to take ten minutes of their time into a fun couple of hours instead over more coffee and even more chocolate. Tidbits have been revealed such as having to fish out dead bodies from the ocean during the war; having a dog become addicted to picking passionfruit off the vine and eating it; noting that a shelf-stacker at Foodland had farted and quipping, "Clean up in Aisle Nine"; being the secretive 'neighborhood ninja' with a slug gun ready to knock off annoying pigeons who crap on washing lines; beating cancer twice before the age of 24; admiring Rove McManus for insisting that tomato sauce be provided at cafes for free......

Sadly, the paper doesn't seem to be interested. I am though, and always will be.

....one of my new best friends, Thomas Schnitzler, the Australian Maitre-Chocolatier for Lindt. He invited me to some Lindt cooking demos, gave me the only Aussie copy of the official Lindt chocolate cookbook and let me kiss him. And yes, he smells like a Lindt ball!