Douche Bonnet

Regular readers will already know this, but habitual lurkers (you know who you are; my counter's been collecting stats about you) or newbies looking for 'my left boob' (still the most-searched for item on this site) may not yet know that my sense of humour really is rather juvenile.

Whilst my French is limited to hello, goodbye, thank you and an ever-increasing range of charades that I'm prepared to act out in front of perplexed strangers, it is still the word 'douche' that never fails to amuse.

It was 'Jovial Douche' shower gel last year that saw me giving it to all of our house guests and, of late, it's been the Bonnet de Douches that's been snaffled from every hotel we've stayed in.

Shower caps, yes; but Douche Bonnets....?!  How can I not snigger at that and then, pondering my recent whinge about feeling grumpy and stumped, not take up PlasMan's idea to "Tell me - and the world - what YOU think is rubbish - and why."

Sapphire regularly accuses me of being overly judgmental of teenagers and of laughing too loudly at drunk uncles falling over in 'You've Been Framed' wedding clips, so it seems right to have myself feature as the first Douche Bonnet in the hopes that on a semi-regular basis my knickers will get twisted up enough to write about other people/trends/issues/behaviours that also require a public session under the scornful shower cap.

As such, I'm telling the world that I'm rubbish (or slightly, as even my bruised ego is aware that some good points are to be found) at being ........ not jealous.

This is a tough one to admit to, but jealousy is only ever evident to me after I've had a rant, been a bit bitchy, made a snarky comment (usually to Love Chunks or Sapphire) and then, seeing their slightly disapproving reaction(s), realise that it's all down to being more than just a tad envious.

Blogging is the issue that highlights my worthiness to be the first to don the Douche Bonnet.  A bugbear of mine concerns comments.  I'll admit that my knowledge of blog etiquette is minimal, but if someone is generous enough to take the time to read and then add a comment to my blog, I'll click on their link to see if they also have a blog and comment on one of their recent articles as an acknowledgement.  Then, if their blog is one that appeals to me, I'll add them to my regular reading list and keep on visiting and commenting.  After all, what blogger/writer, doesn't enjoy feedback?  Comments are, in my minuscule, jealous mind, the way of spreading the love back and forth and is the reason why I feel mightily pissed off when my comments are either never returned or even responded to, especially if the blogger is directly answering other commenters. My inner Douche Bonnet begins to inflate with annoyance.  Bloggers want comments, so surely they should do the same for others...?

So, when a blogger (and friend) recently announced via another form of media that they've revamped their long-forgotten blog and now want everyone to 'like' them and recommend their site to all their friends so that they can attach some advertising and make some money, my Douche Bonnet fogged up even further with an unattractive combination of 'who the hell do they think they are' and 'what do you think I've been trying to do for seven years' with a side order of 'so you think you can achieve what three billion of us already out there can't?'

The bonnet blew up bigger still when my elephant memory reminded me that the revamped blogger hadn't left a comment on mine in years....!

"You read far too much into things," says Love Chunks, not looking up from his iPad.

"It's hardly a life or death situation, is it, Mum," snorts Sapphire, packing her school things.

They're both right.  I deserve to be publicly exposed as the inaugural designated Douche Bonnet and learn to get over it and not blame my irrational envy on being in week three of a six week self-imposed no-sugar detox un-fun abstinence experience.  Either that or find out the hard way how difficult it is to remove both my head - and the now-desecrated Douche Bonnet - from out of my arse.

Listen

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

I’m a shocking listener.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corporeal Contraptions

At the risk of the blog turning into a Medic Alert memoir, when I was lying down in a stranger's room with only my knickers on, my mind invariably started to do an anatomical audit.

"Are you OK," the doctor asked in a kindly voice.

"Yep, it's nice and warm here and I can't feel a thing."

"That's good. If you're comfortable, I'll leave you here for ten minutes; come in and check on you and leave you for another ten if that's-----"

WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

My blanket slid to the floor and the acupuncture needles in my ears and head waved in the breeze as I  sat up in shock. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, not to worry," he said, waving it away. "It's the annual testing of the bomb shelter alarms all over Switzerland."

"Ah," I said, lowering myself back down, trying to ignore the wedgie I'd just given myself.

He popped a couple more needles into each wrist. "Actually, right now would be the perfect time to attack us as we'd all shrug our shoulders and think it was just part of the process."

I decided it was appropriate to pick out my wedgie right there and then even though he was still in the room: no-one wants to be caught in dodgy underwear during a surprise missile crisis.

Back to the body catalogue.  Today it was tiny pins all over my body, but what else do I rely on to survive?

Anti-depressants. It might seem an oxymoron to have to take a tablet to make me feel like me, but they work. So I will.

Weird Achilles heel protector sock bandage thingies. It's only my right Achilles that keeps playing up, but the doc says I should wear them on both feet. With a sewn in heel pad and tight sausage-shaped compression doo-whats-its that push against the muscle, I'm struggling to stay in my shoes. So far though, they're working.

US, English and Australian-sourced packets of painkillers for Mr Migraine's increasing number of unwanted visits. Note that there's nothing from Switzerland. The strongest stuff you can get from the chemist here is Panadol with caffeine: not a good option at night time.

The long-serving mouth guard, cleaned regularly with thrush, sorry, Swiss 'Candida' brand toothpaste.  This passion killer and lisp-inducer stops me from cracking my crowns due to grinding and/or clenching in my sleep and more than once I've walked out the front door ready to take Milly for her morning constitutional before eventually realising that the damn thing is still in.  "Bonjour Kath! Did you win your boxing match?"

Hot water bottle, Arnica gel and a not-so-good imitation of Deep Heat creme. Neck aches and shoulder pain see these used more often than preferred. Love Chunks is often called upon to apply these various gels and unguents and they all seem to smell bad enough for Milly to snort and move to the other side of the room.

Nearly forgot the decade-old orthotics...  Transferred from running shoe to running shoe.  Had a second pair in bright purple but lost them along the way somewhere.  I assume they still work at, um, whatever it was that they were supposed to do back in 2003.

All of these help me stay upright, keep moving and complain (slightly) less, but here are the three essentials.

Love Chunks: eighteen years of marriage and still my favourite boy to hug, sleep alongside, talk to, make plans with and smell.  Tickly moustache, glinting blue eyes and kindness by the bucketload.

Sapphire; thirteen-and-a-half and growing almost visibly in front of my eyes, astounding me with life lessons learned, observations made and potential yet to be realised.

Sweet little Milly.  Nine years young and still the best working buddy ever; albeit with the worst breath. A privilege to have her in our family.

Chocolate, coffee and wine help too.

60,411

So November Knob-head activities have come to a close.  It was satisfying to vomit out the required number of words for NaNoWriMo before realising that at least another 30K will be needed to finish the first draft and have the story make some form of sense. Of course, this was the whole intention - get us procrastinators committed for a month and then, if/when we hit fifty thou', we'll be in for the long haul. Clever thinking.

Milly sat at my feet the entire time acting as mute inspiration, delivery man sniffer and wet-nosed break time alarm clock. She's been recited to, sung at and even had her opinion sought on alternative paragraph endings and descriptions.  I'm pleased to report that her work has been outstanding and she's quite simply the best Personal Assistant a writer could wish for (excepting the fragrant farts, of course. Then again, she could rightfully direct the same complaint back at me).

The 60,000 words were completed at a time when Sapphire's stomach issues had not only re-emerged but also joined forces with her 'plumbing at the front'.  No-one likes placing their feet into stirrups and having a man approach with a cotton bud and what looks like an oversized creme brulee gas torch but when you're thirteen years old, tired, sick and scared it gets beyond funny. "So Mum, how's your day going so far," she said quietly, trying her best to get her mind off things. "Can you hold my hand please?"  At least two days off school per week has become the norm but we thank modern technology, school website log ins and mates with mobiles for keeping her up to date with assignments and still in sight of good grades.

However with lingering illness, puberty, fluctuating friendships and a truck-load of pre-report card homework to do, she's been forced into the first row seat riding the rollercoaster of grumpiness, apologies, resentment, frustration, amusement, challenges, stomach aches, affection, anger, sulkiness and gratitude.  Love Chunks and I sometimes want to hand our own tickets back to the booth at different times but, together, we're a pretty formidable - and empathetic - force.

My endlessly busted Achilles is minor in comparison but still makes my invisible tail droop at not being able to do my favourite form of exercise combined with sweaty singing and idea generating.  As my stupid old woman muscle heals at snail-on-a-glacier pace, the treadmill has done a sterling job of getting bed sheets and towels dry, being so close to the window and radiator. Shame about the dog hairs and dust bunnies forming on the belt though.

Seeing some butt-numbing numbers flash up on the scales at a friend's place was an unpleasant reminder that an alternative form of exercise needed to be sought.  At forty four and with new (and desperately unwanted) age spots arriving on my face every week, swimming was the most obvious choice despite snow approaching and me already with several old winter layers to be removed.  Three times a week has since seen me reluctantly trudge in the freezing wind half a kilometre downhill to the pool, get undressed in a semi-open change room where male workers wander through at will and plonk myself into water that is far colder than you'd expect a heated pool to be.

It is here, whilst splashing up and down the lanes - right side here in Switzerland, by the way, not the left - that chapter ideas emerge, chlorinated and vibrant, ready for use. Hindsight flowers behind foggy goggles and offers decent alternatives in my reactions to Sapphire's tribulations; and Love Chunks' face appears on the bottom of the pool, smiling kindly at me.

It is also here that I discover rage.  Rage is new to me, as I'm the, 'Oh let the guy in, it's just another three seconds of our lives' forgiving old soul when it comes to cars.  Beeping horns are also alien to me and as long as I get that obligatory 'thank you' wave, life behind the wheel is calm and uneventful.  The swimming lane provides a direct contradiction.

Unlike pools in Australia that are usually marked, 'Slow,' 'Medium' and 'Fast' with about two lanes for each speed, Geneva has just two lanes. One is marked with a green tortoise and the other with a red hare; a rather cute solution for swimmers with potentially little or no understanding of French.  I'm egotistical enough to select the Hare lane as years of running have given me an endurance level that allows me to swim laps without stopping. Fat old girls can float, y'see. I was never particularly fast in Oz but always consistent, yet here in Switzerland, I'm a female Ian Thorpe without the fashion or the flipper feet.  I leave middle aged Canadian blokes and skinny French ladies in my wake, lapping them over and over again.  No rage yet, just overheated pride and vanity.

Lapping is fine, as long as there are six or less people in the Hare lane.  When there is more, and some clod decides to wind down by doing the backstroke or the breast stroke, my irritation awakes.  No-one, apart from Olympic athletes, can swim the back or breast stroke faster than freestyle which means that they no longer belong in the Hare Lane and should duck under the barrier and do their barely-floating version of a hungover frog in the Tortoise Lane.  Irritation rises to anger when I have to overtake the hairy-backed old guy lazily attempting back stroke and have his overly long fingernails scrape my sides whilst doing so.

Rage finally appears when I've overtaken the third bloody breast stroking bozo and we touch the end of the lane at the same time and he doesn't take one single second to notice that I've thrashed the water to foam whilst making up three quarters of a lap and want to take off in front of him.  No, this non-submersible turd ends up kicking me in the face as I try to get around him and not smack into the blind backstroker coming from the opposite direction.

The only thing stopping me from strangling these inconsiderate imbeciles with the cords of their speedos or pulling back goggle straps a metre before letting it sting their faces is the counting.

Numbers. Order. Routine.

I dare not waste too much mental energy on these public pool pinheads or I'll risk forgetting how many laps I've swum.  Fourteen, Fourteen, Fourteen, is the chant until I reach the end. Fifteen, fifteen, fifte ----- oh for pharksake why does he think that swimming with a foam peanut between his knees means he'll be quick enough for the fast lane ---- bugger. Was it fifteen or thirteen...?  If in doubt, don't cheat. Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thir----- maybe I'll swim over the TOP of that stupid back stroking bonehead instead of around her....

When forty is finally counted, I hoik my dripping bulk out via the pool steps and do my best to saunter back to the change rooms, walking in slo-mo for coolness but really to avoid slipping on the tiles.  When I'm safely in the unlockable, saloon door individual cubicle, I slump down on the wet bench seat in exhaustion.

Three loads of washing to drape around the house, two specialist appointments to arrange for Sapphire, winter tyres to put on the car, a thrice-postponed lunch date and then, the writing.  Love Chunks' face appears in front of me again as I find the hill back home rather hard going.

Milly greets me at the door, full of joy as usual and as we go downstairs for a walk, my smile returns.

I'm so lucky to be here and will do my damnedest to make the most of it.

Just bite

It was 27C today and the warm haze that hung over the Jura mountains reminded me of a hot January in Adelaide until turning the other direction showed the jagged, snow-covered pyramid of Mont Blanc looming over the lake.

Milly scampered like a puppy through the overgrown grass and weeds at the top of Parc de Trembley and deigned to acknowledge her ardent suitor, Marlowe, as he ran ahead of her, conveniently flattening the greenery so that it would not flick in his girlfriend’s face.

Sapphire decided to have one more day of rest at home after spending the week recovering from what the doctor thinks was gastro. Echoes of the run-around, worry, expense and time away from school and friends that she endured last year hung unspoken in the air but for it to occur without warning the morning after I made a slap dash stir fry from frozen prawns was surely no coincidence.

With instructions to check her temperature three times a day – via the armpit and the arse – the first few attempts ended up with us both doubled up with laughter in her retro bathroom.

The next few found that the electronic thermometer mysteriously switched itself off whilst ensconced in that oh so soft and special place and we laughed again at how we’d wasted five minutes of stilted conversation in an effort to forget about what was placed where and how it’d have to be done again.

Despite these indignities, all signs have been pointing to normal and plans are afoot to resume intake of sweet foods and rice as well as a triumphant return to school tomorrow.

This was part of the news I shared with my best friend who was talking to me from Australia. In different hemispheres, seasons and time zones, we sat in our respective living rooms and talked of our children, her husband’s brand new PhD, Christmas 2012 and the latest series of Survivor. The warmth and humour of her voice flowed through the ear piece as I slurped my coffee; for the thousandth time thankful for the free calls to Oz that Love Chunks had negotiated.

Dog fed and humans freshly showered, it was time for the Day of Rest to start. However it was no surprise that Sapphire wasn’t overly keen on joining her father and myself as we ventured across the border into Divonne les Bains, France for a fresh oyster and crab platter shared with some lovely English friends. Standing under a hot tent ripe with fish-pong was not her first choice of ways to spend the afternoon.

“I’ve got homework to do,” she said, hugging me even tighter than usual. “And because you and Dad found me that wireless speaker yesterday I might even dance while no-one’s at home.”

“Go for it kiddo,” I said, reaching for the keys. Pointing my finger at Milly, who sat with her tail wagging slowly, having figured out that she was not accompanying us, I said, “And you need to be a good dog and look after Sapphire for us, okay?”

“Geez Mum do you have to say that every time.... It wasn’t that funny the first time....”


At Divonne we found a car park in surprisingly quick time as the locals seemed keener on getting in the lake for a swim than scouring the markets for late specials on prosciutto and goat cheese.

Gianna knew what to ask for. The rest of us stood back as the Italian-raised, French-speaking Londoner spoke fluently enough that the stall holder came over later for more conversation. Two huge steel platters of Brittany oysters, Spanish crab legs and prawns on shaved ice arrived, all to be washed down with humble bottles of icy cold white wine.

We stood at a water and prawn-juice-sticky table right next to the gushing stream, brushed occasionally by other punters strolling past with their own platters, enjoying the sunshine. Today was the day I was finally converted to peeling a King Prawn and savouring the fruits of my labours. Friends, food, weather and location all equated to perfection.

Walking back to our cars, the greengrocer was packing up for the day and keen to offload her crate of plum-sized cherries. She filled our brown paper bags to bursting and then shoved more into our hands. “Take them,” she urged.

Hearing my Aussie drawl she said, “We sell Australian cherries at Christmas time but they are not ..... erm they are not so big and are not so sweet.”

How could they be, as recently-introduced interlopers in a country not designed to grow them? We shook her hand and thanked her for our generous load. Nearby, the patissier was also preparing to clean out his display case and both a lemon meringue and a caramel chocolate tarte found their way into another brown paper bag.

We farewelled our friends and, climbing into our hot car, LC and I remarked on our luck in meeting them; a chance thing when we were both out walking our dogs one morning last August.


When we got home, Milly was at the door with her tail wagging madly and Sapphire was in the middle of making her own lateish lunch. We hugged again and talked of a few new holiday ideas for the upcoming Summer break that LC and I had been discussing during the drive home. “Oooh yes, that sounds great,” was the response as she bounced on tippy toes. Thirteen year olds don’t allow themselves to consciously bounce on tippy toes unless it’s something really, really uncontrollably good.

I grabbed her again for another hug. She lingered too, understanding why I was extra clingy today.

My best friend had rung me this morning to share news other than reality TV updates and Christmas plans. An eighteen year old son is in hospital, fighting for his life. 

How do I show my sorrow and horror and sympathy for a family so far away? My clumsy but immediate response was to simply enjoy every single moment of today which might seem rather ironic or even disrespectful coming from someone who wasn’t so sure she wanted to continue herself a few years back. She sure as hell does now though, and is happy to admit that she often busts a gut trying.

There’s no sense to be made or answer to be gained from why this is happening to an eighteen year old, none at all.  Just bite every cherry and breathe in every hug.

Thirty Five on Ninth

The door bell rang at 5:30pm.

"Who could that be?" asked Sapphire, as all her friends 'visited' by email, SMS, facebook and Skype during week nights.

It couldn't be Love Chunks as he never loses his keys and was never home at such an early hour.

Maybe it was Anne, the Kiwi maternity nurse from the 1st floor who very kindly passed on the trashy English gossip mags that her friend passed on to her that I then pass on to someone else.

Nope.  It was a tall elderly gentleman, holding a newspaper, some letters and a small bag of shopping.

"Excuse me madame," he said in perfect but heavily-accented English, "Is this the ninth floor?"

"Sorry no, monsieur," I replied.  You're one floor out. It's upstairs."

"Where are the stairs?"  He looked unsteady on his feet and confused.

"I'll be back in a tic," I called out to Sapphire as I grabbed my keys and shut the door. "Let me take you."

I followed him up the stairs, deciding that if he slipped on the fancy marble I might be some kind of pudgy cushion that would soften the impact.  Gripping the handrail tightly with the plastic bag swinging against the wall, progress was slow.  Once on the ninth he said, "I live up here and have done so for over thirty five years."

My polite smile faded: now it was my turn to look confused.  I know all the neighbours directly above us, and had never seen or heard of my this tall old bloke before.

"Are you sure it's the right building?  There are five here and every third floor allows us to move between them and what with the lifts being repaired one after the other, it always means that one of them is out of action and...."  my voice trailed off when it seemed pretty obvious that my inane Aussie-accented chatter was too much to comprehend at such a puzzling time.

I reached for his bag of shopping and mail.  "Let me take those."  He handed them over, appreciating the time to stop and think for a bit.

"Madame, I'm in 18A."

"Ah, we'll you've found yourself in 20A.  Your lift is out of action this week, so you had to take ours and walk through, you see and our floor - the eighth - is one of those connecting floors."

He clearly didn't see.  "Let me take you," I said, for the second time that day.

The connecting doors were locked.  "Sorry monsieur, but we'll actually have to walk outside to the very front entrance, use the lift in Building 18 and walk through from the other side."

His dark winter coat covering a rather posh-looking fine wool jumper and tailored business shirt seemed far too much for a 25C day, yet it was me that felt under-dressed in my grubby jeans, black rubber thongs and mens' t-shirt.

"Do you mind if I read the letter boxes in the foyer first?"  Of course I didn't mind.  His walk was getting progressively slower now and he tottered uncertainly over to the wall lined with shiny stainless steel boxes.  "Ah yes, there I am.  Ninth floor."

In the lift we formally introduced ourselves.  He was a long-retired Director from the UN's International Labor Organisation and a native of Cyprus. "We helped a lot of our people get work and homes in your country," he said, "More than anywhere else, in fact."

On the ninth floor, we both peered at the tiny label under the door bell.  Yes, this was the right place.  Still holding his gear, I waited, wanting to make sure that he could open his door and that nothing - I wasn't entirely sure what - awful was lurking inside.

He didn't invite me in, but for some reason I followed.  His apartment was decorated in the cloying baroque style beloved of far wealthier - and much older - people. It was impeccably clean with flocked wall paper, brocade arm chairs and every French-polished surface was covered in silver framed photographs of family members.  He saw where my gaze had travelled to.  "My daughter now lives in Paris and my son is in Istanbul.  My grand kids are scattered all over the world; at colleges in the US, working in Britain, travelling through Asia and my four great grandchild was born last month in Malta...."

There was a note pad and pen by the living room door and I hastily scrawled my name, address and phone number on it.  "Monsieur, this is just in case you ever get lost, or need anything from the shops or, just, er need some help."

He peered at it before slipping it into his coat pocket.  "I have a housekeeper who does all that for me since my wife passed a year ago, but thank you all the same."

"No worries," I said, before realising how strongly Aussie and incomprehensible that must have sounded. Looking towards the living room window to the Jura mountains on the right and France straight ahead I realised that the size and room structure of our apartments were identical, as was the view outside.

"I like watching the planes come in," he said, gesturing to the sofa. "I often sit there and see if I can tell who they are."

"Me too," I nodded.

He took my little note out of his pocket and looked at it again. "I've lived here for over thirty five years."  His voice was now whisper quiet.

Muttering more inanities that basically encouraged him to call me any time, I closed the door behind me, my last glimpse of him sitting on the sofa looking up at the sky, criss-crossed with aeroplane vapor trails.

He's been disoriented a couple more times since then, both on my floor and the one above.  His family are going to have to travel over, get together and make a few inevitable decisions soon.  Ageing is cruel and often lonely and, sadly, out of our control.  No-one deserves to be lost after a lifetime.

Sometimes a Fuddy but always a Duddy

I hate auto-tuned, data-stick determined techno music. Not the radio-friendly boy-band pop stuff with a catchy melody (how OLD do I sound) that is perfect to run to, but the mindless, far-too-loud Doof Doof electronic excrement that some backwards cap-wearing* Meat Head is playing at eyeball-aching volume from his car.

This vehicle is invariably over-accessorised indicating that it's the most expensive purchase of the Meat Head's life.

If he owned a business or a home, they'd be where his extra cash would go, not on mud flaps with nude ladies silhouetted in white; an extra brake light where his actual back window should be or a 'spoiler' to convince us that his second hand sedan is actually race track-worthy.

And yet, when the Meat Head is idling at the traffic lights jerking his neck forward-and-back, forward-and-back pigeon-style to his over-sized sound system and Milly and I are walking past on the footpath, my steps automatically alter so that they become perfectly in sync with the Doof Doof beat.



For that tiny split second before shame sets in, I'm briefly impressed that yes, for a white honky I do have some sense of natural rhythm. If only it would reveal itself at weddings and parties - witnessed by people that I like and respect, if not love - and not out in the street holding a still-warm poo bag looking for a rubbish bin.

Even if I actively try to step out of rhythm, the end result is an overly self-consciously wonky walk that appears as though I've forgotten all the skills needed to move forwards without what appears to be a series of small electric shocks and an arse wrestling my hips for solo status. And if the achievement means that I am no longer at one with the Meat Head's music it's at the expense of my personal dignity. Looking like I've just peed my pants and had my knee caps screwed on backwards whilst still grappling a plastic poop sack is indeed the slimmest of moral victories.

It is therefore easiest, at forty three - even if the sound of the hell song that's emanating from the car and rattling the gutter grate causes bile to flood the back of my throat and agonising shudders across my shoulders - to walk to his beat.

Doesn't help that Milly wags her tail in time, too.

* or, of late, sideways-wearing, over-sized American trucker-style of cap. Hilariously out of place on a chinless Aussie bogan or snake hipped Genevoise goober.

Judged by John Martins

It's funny how being a mother to a twelve year old child leads to a lot of reminiscing and 'that reminds me of the time' conversations. These then lead, later on, to deeper ponderings and analyses of events long since past and dealt with.

As we were about to get into the car for the school run this morning, Sapphire said, "You're the same age as Madonna, aren't you Mum?"

Despite being unshowered, wearing polar fleece, tracksuit pants, ugg boots and holding Milly's lead and my Wellington boots, I stopped short in horror.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO Sapphire! She is TEN YEARS older than me."

Sapphire ignored my offended stance and waited patiently for me to open the doors. "Oh yeah, that's right. It's Kylie Minogue who's your age."

It was difficult to stay huffy at her when the rear vision mirror showed a new age spot on my left temple and two cornflake boogers in my eyes.

"Mum?"

"Mmmmmmm?" Reversing out is difficult, not just because I automatically crane my neck to look the wrong way. Space is challengingly tight, and other residents like to roar around the corner in their posher and much larger vehicles.

"Do you like Madonna?"

When we'd made it out onto the street where I now feel confident enough to drive on the wrong side of the road and hold an animated conversation, I had a think about this. "Well, she's had a very long career and her facelift treatments are one of the better ones out there but I do wish she'd perhaps try singing about something a little less twenty-something oriented. She's had two marriage breakdowns, got four children and lived a full life, so surely she could try wearing pants, singing about adult issues and pose with her legs crossed for a change."

"But looks matter, don't they Mum?"

Don't they indeed.

My daughter is beautiful. Truly beautiful, but she doesn't believe me and walks hunched up in anxiety and self consciousness across the tarmac to the school yard. She fails to see the appreciative glances that get thrown her way when we're out and about, and worries that she's not 'flat and thin' like the not-yet-developed, a full-year-younger, gymnastic queens of her class.

When she got home from school, we shared a diet coke on the balcony and I took her back to the summer of 1987. It had been buried and forgotten in my mind until reawakening, unwanted but timely, today.



Second year uni had finished and I was not looking forward to going back home to my fifth summer of cutting apricots whilst standing on a cement floor under a boiling hot corrugated iron fruit packing shed to earn money for the year ahead.

John Martin's - South Australia's most beloved department store - were advertising. They were looking for university students to work right up until the post-Christmas sales. No experience necessary. They wanted intelligence, hard work and the willingness to provide unceasingly friendly customer service. My best uni buddy Joanne and I decided to apply together. Neither of us had ever worked anywhere not involving fresh produce or small children. She grew up on a riverland orchard where picking grapes and oranges helped earn her pocket money and, apart from apricot cutting, I could only add babysitting to my slim resume.

We filled out the form and sat outside a dingy, fake wood-panelled room with plastic chairs for our turn to be briefly interviewed. Both of us got five minutes to answer a couple of short questions. Four hours later we walked back to college and went in search of a late dinner in the kitchen.

Jo was offered a job in the Manchester department the following day. I was rejected.

A week later, the local newspaper featured a small article revealing that the HR manager of John Martin's had been recorded admitting that there was an unwritten policy of selecting only good looking uni students for holiday work. I spent the night in bed curled up, sobbing.

I never told Jo about the article and she held that job beyond the post-Christmas sales, working Thursday nights and Saturday mornings for the next six years as she successfully completed her honours and PhD. She worked hard and deserved every dollar she got.

But yes, looks matter.

"But I think you're beautiful, Mum."

This, from a fresh faced, blue eyed angel, who can't see even a glimpse of it in herself. Instead of denying it as I'd normally do, I just hugged her and said, "Thanks love. So are you."

"And guess what - John Martin's is no longer in business."

Fleeting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That brand new vomit smell

On Saturday morning, usually a day for sleeping in, Sapphire woke up early and excitedly. "It's today, isn't it?"

Love Chunks was smiling, the glint in his baby blues reflecting the emotions of his daughter.

I felt nauseaus and my Rexona, at 8am, was already letting me down.

In the fog and drizzle we took the numbers 14 and 17 trams past Plain Palais to the Peugeot dealership, paperwork in hand.

"Voila!" Marco whipped off a satin blue sheet covering our car. Our brand new car.

To all you European dwellers, I guess a Peugeot is what a Holden is to us Australians - no big deal. But to these particular Australians, it is an enormously huge deal.

Firstly, neither Love Chunks or myself - separately and together - have ever owned a brand new car. He and I both had cars from the early seventies during the 1980s and bought a nineties car that lasted all through the 2000s. We were both of the view that new was a waste of money, that you blew a couple of grand the second you drove it off the lot and, most of all, we simply couldn't afford one. Here though, with a UN-tax free deal and a good loan rate, we decided to live on the edge and go for it.

Secondly, the Peugeot is a manual, like most vehicles seem to be here. I learned how to drive on a manual (in 1985, or 'were TVs in just black and white then' according to my daughter's concept of ancient history) and my cars Rodney the 1971 Renault and Sucked Crunchie the 1973 burnt orange volvo were both manual drives. However during most of the nineties and all of the noughties I enjoyed the restful, no-use-for-the-left-hand carefree slackness of an automatic. Namely, Maggie the Magna, recently sold in May for the princely sum of $600.

Thirdly, it's a left hand drive designed to be driven on the utterly weirdly wrong - sorry, right - side of the road.

Fourthly, we don't have one of those fandangled Tom-Tom sat nav dooflanger thingies; merely LC's insistence that I direct us back home "but not through the city" using his iPad.

Five minutes later, we were stuck in the city; the wipers turning on every time LC turned a corner and my body slip-sliding around on the vinyl seats due to an unpalatable combination of sweat, anxiety and panic.

By the time we arrived home, Mr Migraine had set up residence behind my left eyeball and with an audible sigh of relief LC backed the car into our designated parking spot in the basement.

Sapphire had been uncharacteristically quiet during the unintendedly lengthy journey home but now decided it was the right moment to pipe up with, "Well, why don't we just leave it down here and just sit in it every now and then?"

I was all for it and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, clutching at my head.

However today we were up early again. Geneva is quite literally dead on a Sunday with the original concept of the Sabbath taken very, very seriously. No clinking of glass bottles in the public recycling depots; no washing machines to be turned on in apartment blocks and no active gardening to be undertaken. In fact, technically all of those activities are illegal on a Sunday.

Unless church dominates your plans it seems as though you're expected to stay inside wearing felt slippers communicating only via sign language and mime for the entire day.

"It's the perfect time to get used to driving," LC decided.

Quite wisely, as it turned out. Very little traffic, drizzly weather that might have put some casual drivers off and us in no hurry to be any specific place at any specific time.

We drove around the entire boundary of Lac Leman - Switzerland, France and back again, with stops for coffee at a boulangerie and lunch at a tiny Port near Evian. The only actual Evian water tasted by any of us was in the puddles that Milly drank from as we walked.

"It drives so smoothly," LC observed.

"It's like you've always driven on the right hand side of the road, Dad," Sapphire said with genuine admiration.

"Wanna have a go, Kath?"

"NO no no no no no I'm not ready yet the car is too new, too shiny, too pretty, too dangerous I'll get us lost or put a big dent in it besides it's getting dark out and my head is still sore and No no no no no no no...."

"It's only two thirty-----"

"NO!"

Maybe tomorrow, on my own, I'll take it for an Old Lady Spin around the car park. Maybe.

Three times the price of beef

The vet tells me that Milly the dog is seriously under-weight after being away from us for six weeks. Sapphire is seeing a child psychiatrist to discuss her emerging anger about moving across the world and I’m on anti depressants, neglecting this blog terribly.

These are all good things.

Firstly, the pooch. She arrived on Wednesday morning after a twenty seven hour flight that was endured without sedation or food. The thocka-thocka-thocka of her tail against the hard plastic shell of her container was the first sign we had that our furry one was to join us again. “Voila,” the customs bloke said, wheeling her out on a trolley and abruptly departing.

Her container was impossible to open, having been doubly, triply, quadruply fastened with plastic ties commonly used on boxes of paper reams. Customs guy was already gone; another example of a service provider doing the least possible. We eventually flag down a forklift driver who offers us a Stanley knife; Milly’s nose pressing up against the bars eagerly.

The whiff of fear and wee emerges as the door flies open and we’re shocked to see such a bony animal emerge. It’s clearly our dog, but her ribs are painfully visible and the vertebrae on her back protrude like a line of gravel stones. She doesn’t even protest a few minutes later when the taxi driver insists that she be placed back in her container for the drive home.

Secondly, my daughter. Mood swings that include insults, sulking, accusations, heightened versions of old events and heart rending tears. Loneliness, puberty, boredom and fear with behaviour and unpredictability to match. We empathise and sympathise but the lashings are harder and harder to bear.

Our Welfare Officer, assigned by LC’s work, finally shines. This is what she’s good at: people problems, not finding us a good land agent or a bus timetable. She hears LC’s concerns and recommends a child psych who is American and available.

Dr S listens to me, he listens to LC and then he speaks with Sapphire alone. A white noise machine is turned on by his office door so that we only hear murmurings in the waiting room outside. An hour later she emerges. “He understands me,” she says quietly, “and says that things are going to be all right because I’m a smart kid.”

We can see how hard she's trying and I get a small shock when I see her walking around the corner with her father and realise how tall she's becoming. There are bumps still ahead in her road, but mostly progress.

Same with me as issue number three. Frustration and isolation was rapidly turning to despair and self-loathing; feelings that were familiar and unwanted. This time I wasn’t going to suffer needlessly or any longer than was necessary. This move to Switzerland is our life, not a brief holiday and I want to take my full part in it.

I know exactly what medication to ask for and the doctor recognises it. No bumbling French is needed in the pharmacy as I hand over the script. Like beef, the 28 pills cost three times what they would in Australia but I don’t wince.

Two days later my old self returns. Shopping is an outing and not a nightmare. Milly takes to apartment living like a native New Yorker. Sapphire draws this

.......... freehand and sings as she does so. My Achilles behaves itself as it is gingerly tested around our local park and I realise how much we’ve all achieved in a short time when I’m taking a friend-of-a-friend around Geneva and know where I’m going.

That’s all any of us want isn’t it?

Peu choses

Don't worry dear reader: future blogs will not have French words in them and today's should really be called 'little things.'

Forty two-and-a-half years out of the womb and five weeks with my favourite man and child in a new country and I'm finally starting to understand the importance of little things. It's a torturous process that needs constant updating and reminding especially during the dozen-or-so times a day when the urge to droop and feel sorry for myself by conjuring up the aching pangs of homesickness is waiting in the wings, telling me that it's the safest way, the easiest way.

Stuff that. My best buddy Jill wrote to me from her own personal Peu Choses Challenge in Adelaide telling me that she strove to find some joy every day. With a serious brain injury taking a year to heal and her world suddenly becoming as small as a short visit to the shop and an afternoon in bed to get over it, noticing and appreciating the tiny wins has been vital. It was ironic that I too felt as though my world had shrunk - tiny routes to LC's work, the shop and home as the language barrier, confusing directions and lack of confidence melded into a churning gut and a big case of The Sads.

Despite the Oprah-influenced idea, it stuck with me. Why was I feeling so afraid? Why was I so worried about Sapphire and her own ability to settle in and cope? Why was I thinking so negatively about everything?

"I like that idea," I typed back to her. "I'm going to find my joy every day too." And it's been surprisingly simple. Easy, even:

The coffee made by Love Chunks from our brand new, better-than-Mrs-Krups sixty six percent off-the-retail-price Geneva-sourced DeLonghi every morning.

Attending the second get-together of LC's older, wealthier and worldlier workmates and - admittedly with the aid of some good Gamay wine - not worrying about my innate dagginess and lack of sophistication and actually enjoying myself.

Buzzing in the postman and receiving a Care Package from Australia full of Asian spices, vegemite memorabilia, obscure French word cards and several books in English.

Completing three French lessons so far and discovering that Sapphire and I are testing each other and actually retaining it. "You're my best students," our teacher said, "Because you practice and you're taking this seriously." If I had a tail, it'd have been thumping loudly against the chair leg.

Finding our way to the local farmers' market this morning and asking an old lady for directions. With an 'Excuse moi' and a 'Bonjour' and a bit of pointing to our nanna carts and 'marche' she could indicate the beautiful old building nearby. "Voila," she smiled. The produce inside was worth the bumbling around and we had a bowl of fresh raspberries for breakfast.

Another joy - they actually do say 'voila'. All the time. Here's your meal: voila!

Our tea chests arrived. Almost unrecognisable, torn and filthy and scattered with broken glass from several picture frames that died in transit but full of our photos, ornaments, treasures and extra clothes. All we need now are a few hooks in the wall for our home to be filled with faces and memories.

Finding a doctor, a hairdresser and a vet without deferring to official UN lists or the expat websites. All within comfortable walking distance.

Knowing that Milly arrives next week. Her brand new bed, blankets, lead, dry food, frozen bones and 'toilet mats' are already waiting. Whizzing on the balcony will be an interesting training opportunity, not something to dread.

Most of all, hearing the shared laughter and chatter of Sapphire and her new-found friend N as they play Wii, drag their scooters outside for a spin and generally get to know each other.

I know that IKEA will eventually deliver the (lost/forgotten) furniture we paid for over three weeks ago. School will start for Sapph in September after an unforgettable summer with her fascinating mother. At school she'll not only lap up the mental stimulation and knowledge but also make friends and I'll be able to read more than just 'sortie' and 'interdit' on menus and street signs.

Voila - there it is. Finding my joy, one step at a time.....