Vadge of honour

We were sitting in the car just outside the high school gate, having one of those conversations that both of us are not only enjoying, but also not wanting to end.

Sex.  To be more precise, recent concerns about the easy access of pornography and how it might affect the expectations of some teenagers. 

"Is a guy going to expect someone with inflatable duck lips who is automatically able to writhe around like a pole-dancer whilst wearing more on her feet than her entire body?  Will he also expect her to provide some oral pleasure and be instantly amenable to letting him enter her, erm, 'back door' the second he walks - usually naked and in a highly visible state of excitement - into the room?"  That was my question by the way, not my daughter's.  It seems so long ago when a 'Do you like me - tick yes or no' note was handed around in year eight geography.

Sapph spoke of recent discussions they've held in Humanities on the issue.  Will the never-ending availability of sex and sexual acts online give some kids and teenagers a completely unrealistic idea of what 'real' life relationships are going to be like?  Will the saturation of 'take it, bitch' clips readily on hand (often when you don't want them - don't try a google search when your spelling isn't up to scratch) completely dissolve the idea of having sex between two genuine human beings with a back story and shared respect and real passion?

Our conversation then took a slightly different direction.  "And what's so attractive about male genitalia anyway?  They just dangle there to make 'ooh that would have hurt' or nutcracker jokes for at least half the videos submitted to 'You've Been Framed.' And with something always 'there' it must surely always be demanding some attention. How could you keep your mind of something that moves of its own accord?"

Nodding, I replied, "Yep. No wonder boys play with them so often: they're easily accessible and very easy to please."

Laughing, Sapphire commented that the girlie bits weren't so flash to peek at either. "But they're on the inside, at least, so unless you grab a small mirror, they don't bother us as much."  She paused for a moment. "That is, unless you're really flexible gymnast like Juliet, but if that was me, I'd think of better things to take a closer look at."

This all reminded me of a stand up routine by Ben Elton way, waaaaay back in the 1980s when he too commented on the ugliness of mankind's rude bits. "He said that no architect had ever been so inspired by the male appendage that he had to design a building with bulbous veins and a purple domed roof on the top."

"Then again Mum, has anyone ever described the inner vadge as resembling a stack of sliced roasted meats, as you did to me once?"

"Yep, sweet pea, I did.  Yet again, there's no Opera House or scenic bridge that is based on our mounds of Venus, dear heart."

Despite this grotty talk, my spirits were flying high. I loved that she and I could have these kinds of brutally honest chats, using humour to soften the horrors of growing up and swimming safely past the bobbing icebergs of peer pressure, internet unreality and heightening hormones.  I loved being witness to her insight and ways of viewing the world around her.  I loved seeing her throw back her head and laugh in delight; a combination of relief and joy at being able to goof off with her mother before tackling Design & Technology class.  

I was warming to the theme. "And don't get me started on those over-inflated party balloons that are supposed to represent the average woman's breasts," I exclaimed, pushing both hands out in front of my own chest, as if they were struggling to keep hold of two heavy bowling balls.

"MUM," Sapphire hissed. "You have just impersonated a woman with enormous boobs right outside the entrance to my SCHOOL.  Could you BE any more embarrassing?"

Sadly, yes.

But then again, so can she.  Sapphire leaned in through the car window. "Oh geez, I've just given myself a major wedgie sliding out of the car and now have a long walk across the quadrangle where all the windows are facing!"

She'll be fine.

Post influenza huskiness put to profitable use

“Hello and welcome to Call 1800-UGH for your dose of sensual reality....Kath speaking.”

“Er, hi. What do you, um do?”

“I’m glad you asked, er – what’s your name....?”

(Pause). “Trevor. Yes, it’s Trevor.”

“Okay, ‘Trevor’, this is the deal. I describe to you a typical Wednesday night for long-time-married couples. No soft rock soundtrack or flattering lighting but all the squelches, stumbles and housekeeping requirements of the real thing. You are my star in this particular scenario, my darling. All you need to do is sit back and listen. Does that float your boat?”

(Quietly) “Yes.”

“I can see (taps away at the keyboard) that your credit card number has been approved, thanks for that Trevor. Shall I start?”

(Louder this time) “Yes!”

"Trevor? Are you ready for bed? Thanks for putting the bins out, love.

Why dontcha log off the computer and make yourself nice? The dishwasher’s on, Cody’s staying over at Jackson’s and Zoe is already dead-to-the-world with her Skype headphones twisted around to cover her eyes instead of her ears. It's only 9:30pm and there's nothing good on TV. (in a sing-song voice) It’s Wed-nes-daaaaaaaay.....

Oh sweet heart..... you flossed!

But could you – before you jump in – fold up your trousers and put them on the chair? Unless they’re dirty and then could you put them in the hamper? Loveypuss, I know you'd rather whip them over your head like a lasso before flinging them out into the hallway and it was hilarious and erotic the first time you did it but not now. And can you close the door - you know how curious the dog gets.

.........No, I’m not trying to spoil the moment but it is hard to feel raunchy when you’ve got to shake the dust bunnies off a heap of clothes in the morning and squeeze them into the second load.......

Let’s try again, shall we? You wait here – no, don’t start without me – while I go for a twinkle and clean my teeth....."

(clearing his throat) "What are you doing now?"

"Bear with me, Trevor dearest. I'm going through my nightly ablutions. You don't want almond meal between my two remaining teeth or have to dodge my dragon breath, do you?"

(Hurriedly) "Definitely not. Continue. Please."



"Alrighty, Trevor. Don’t you DARE turn on the reading light or I will not leave this ensuite!

There. I’m in. Oh yeah, the tap water is cold, isn’t it. Guess I should have rubbed my hands together for a minute or two before touching you.

Feel your way baby. That’s not a spare tyre, they’re speed bumps on the ride of your life.

What the....? Never mind, a bandaid just slipped off your elbow. Are we shagging or swimming, heh heh.....

Ooops, pardon me. All this thrusting ends up pushing a bit of gas out.

Sorry about my legs, too. Forgot to shave them this week, so it seems like we’ve sort of created a weird hairy Velcro effect, haven’t we....?"

"Oh Kath, you've nailed it; you really have. I'll be back again next Wednesday."

Wildlife

For several weeks I've been wondering if some Aussie litter bugs had taken residence in Geneva because the local park has been festooned with McDonald's bags, coke cups and burger wrappers.

To make matters worse, the rubbish has all been dumped right next to the bins in a rude 'up yours' to the SCRASA* employees who dutifully sweep the streets and tidy the parks first thing every morning.

However, today I found out who the filthy fools were - black crows. Milly was off sniffing the side of the road that is dotted with tiny rabbit burrows and as I enjoyed the view of the city, several of the blighters landed on the edge of the bin and proceeded to remove every item they could carry, drop it on the ground and have a good old peck and feed. Who knew that our feathered friends had a thing for stone cold fries and abandoned pickles?

Returning from my run this morning, I stood out on our eighth floor balcony to cool off. It's been a rare day because the fog had lifted and, despite predictions, there was still no snow on top of the Jura mountain range.

My attention therefore turned to the garden below where, if I'm patient, the quivering leaves reveal squirrels leaping athletically from tree to tree. Apparently they're scientifically known as 'Sciurus Vulgaris' which seems a little bit uncharitable. Any creature who can tell off my dog in a sharp little wittering tone and still hold a couple of acorns in its cheeks whilst jumping to safety deserves a nomenclature considerably more flattering in my opinion.

On the grass; that acreage of pristine green growing velvet that no dog or human is allowed to sit or walk on, a shadowy shape emerged, stretching itself with a lazy confidence that only a frequent visitor can pull off.

At first glance, I thought it was a ginger tabby cat, but as it scratched its ears with a hind leg and faced the rising sun, the fluffy tail revealed that it was a fox.

I'd never seen one during the day, let alone here, of all places. A huge apartment building housing several hundred people on one side of the narrow garden and a senior high school on the other, and it seemingly in no hurry or overtly alert to any dangers.

What did it eat? Lazy, ground-bound squirrels? The ginger cat normally seen but not today? Leftovers thrown over the fence by fussy teens? Kidnapped sparrows offered as food alternatives by nervous Sciurus Vulgarii keen to avoid becoming the meal of choice themselves?

No matter; I had to get ready for a brocante with three friends. 'Brocante' sounds better than a flea market and the one in Plainpalais often features more trash than treasure but it is exerting a strange power over me. My visits have become weekly and what initially seemed like a heap of junk that turned me into a female Darryl Kernigan muttering 'They're dreamin' when the price tags were shown has now become an opportunity to leisurely rummage and spot a bargain.

A tiny tin caught my eye. "Combien, monsieur?"

Twenty francs. No way Jose. I shook my head and was about to move onto the next stall.

He called out something to me, but I didn't understand and didn't particularly care as my attention was now on a box of dusty old art books.

He tried again, this time commenting to his friend and they both laughed. Now I may spend a goodly part of my life here in a bubble of ignorant bliss when it comes to the language spoken around me, but I know a ribald snigger when I hear it.

I tapped Monique's shoulder. She's French Canadian and despite being in the company of three Aussie women would have understood every single word. "What did he---" I thumbed back to the man now holding up a fox fur stole for a customer "----say about me just then?"

She took her time answering, which can't have been a good thing. "Um he said he'd shave for you."

My eyebrows are blonde and therefore invisible, but even she could see that I had one raised in that 'oh come off it' expression. "Monique, I can handle it."

Her cheeks flushed red. "Um he said he'd um, have a shave and then um, be ready to, ahh, do a few rude things to you if you'd buy the tin for twenty francs."

Not sure if I was supposed to be insulted or complimented, I called out, "Dix."

He nodded. My offer of ten francs was accepted and I gently placed the tin in my pocket. Maybe he'd eaten the goodies inside which was why he'd so cheaply offered his sexual services?

* No, I have no idea what SCRASA stands for either. They are efficient and friendly blokes but the acronym reminds me of something you'd want the doctor to remove.

Death, diet coke and Jennifer Aniston

"Mum, it says 14-plus and we're twelve and you let me watch Frasier and Friends and Seinfeld and even Michael McIntyre so if you come with us too it'll be OK."

I was cornered. Sapphire has a way of chatting with her best mate Nafeesa via skype and they make plans that are foolproof. The venue's decided, the activity, the time, the pick-up and drop-off points are very well thought out and neither Nafeesa 's mum or I can claim that it doesn't fit in with our plans because the sneaky little gumnuts have already factored that into their equation.

“Alright then. Where am I supposed to be and at what time for the two of you?”

They wanted to see ‘Horrible Bosses’ featuring Jennifer Aniston in the ensemble cast. “It looks like a rom-com,” Sapphire assured me.

Considering that rom-com is usually her stock-in-trade and that I haven’t paid attention to what’s been playing in Swiss cinemas here for the past four months, it seemed like a reasonable assumption.

Nafeesa looked slightly puzzled when I crammed in three cans of Coke Zero and a trio of home-brand Snickers bars into my handbag. “We Locketts don’t pay quadruple price for our movie munchies.” (Sapphire’s already twigged that she’s one of the poor kids at her school, especially when a classmate apologised for not submitting their homework because he was busy helping his parents look at and buy a chalet. Their third).

Thirty minutes in and it was clear that ‘Horrible Bosses’ was a hybrid of The Hangover and American Pie and both girls were squirming in their seats. It was sadly becoming my understanding that ‘Fourteen plus’ in Geneva was upper level 18+ R in Australia.

I can handle the odd swear word but peppering each sentence with a sour sprinkling of MoFos and Constables was making things unnecessary ugly and sucking any semblance of wit or humour out of the experience. Seeing Ms Aniston proudly brandish some rather pornographic photos of her raping a knocked-out dental hygienist had me covering my eyes with my fingers and sliding down into the three day old pile of popcorn at my feet until I realised that I was the parent.

Me. Was it time to form a cat’s bum mouth of disapproval and pull the plug? Were the girls old enough for this nasty smut? Was I a thousand years old and the sole source of cultural ignorance and embarrassment? Was I selfish in wanting my baby girl to stay innocent a bit longer and not be bludgeoned with obscenities, even though most of the words would have been in common usage at her school? Diet coke spilled out of the can and dribbled down my leg in despair.

I felt a tiny tap on my knee. “Mum, if you want us to leave now, we can, you know,” Sapphire mouthed at me in the dark, her face illuminated by the so-called hilarious Serial Killer outside the bar scene.

“Yep. Let’s go. Nafeesa? Nafeesa sweetie, this just isn’t appropriate for you guys, so we have to leave.”

Sapphire put up a mildly believable act of being disappointed to save face in front of her friend who said, “If I was at home, at least my Mum could fast forward some of it.”

They walked back to our house together as I hung back to phone Nafeesa’s mother to explain. “That’s fine, I’ll come by and pick her up now if you like because my meeting has just finished.”

Yasmin’s car had pulled up in front of our building as we were nearing the side gate.

Ka-thonk! A cat had run out of our garden and was hit by a car. My eyes were on the writhing animal and not the license plate of the driver who clearly felt the impact but not the need to stop and care just a little.

The girls stopped in their tracks, horrified. The cat’s front legs were still moving in a slow pedalling motion as it lay dying on its side. “Is it still alive?”

Nope.

Nafeesa covered her face and walked, crablike to her mother’s car. “She’s got her pet cat at home, Mum,” Sapphire reminded me. Ah yes, Valencia, which ironically means strong and healthy. Lost nearly all feeling in her back legs due to being squashed in the driveway and wore tiny nappies for three months during her recovery. A little sweetie though.

Snapping out of my reverie I realised that it was the first time that I’d ever seen anything larger than a fish die before. The cat was a fetching mixture of ginger, grey and white and I’d seen it many times in our gardens sunning itself by the lavender or cooling off in the undergrowth. Blood was seeping from the ears and its mouth was mangled. Poor little thing.

Yasmin called over to me and I leaned into the window of her car to explain my decision to leave the movie. “Seeing Colin Farrell’s face mashed up against a window in a drug-fuelled orgy might have been a bit over the top, let alone Jennifer Aniston insisting that she needed a good hard Eff from her blackmailed assistant...”

A young man pulled into the kerb on his scooter, fished a newspaper out of his backpack and very gently scooped the cat off the road.

Turning my back on Yasmin, I rushed over. “Oh I’m so sorry – is this your cat?”

“No. I work at the embassy over there,” he waved in the general direction, “but I saw what happened and I can’t leave it there on the road to be hit again and again.”

Nafeesa overheard this and buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

I walked back in what I hoped was a confident swagger and patted the car door, trying to be cheerful. “Ah well, we’ll try for a better night out next time.”

Much later Sapphire sighed as we stood together in the lift, tired from asking people entering and leaving our building if they were missing a cat. “So that I didn’t have to keep blaming you all the time for being such an old fuddy duddy and making us leave the cinema, as we were walking home I tried to change the subject.”

“That seems like a good idea----“

“Yeah well I stuffed it up because I asked her what I should get Dad for his birthday and then she got all quiet and sad before my brain worked out that her father died of cancer three years ago.”

“Ah. It happens sometimes. Remember when I said to Jacqui that only Sad old Slappers wear anklets and then looked down to see that she had one on?”

She smiled and bent slightly downwards to lean into my chest. My arm automatically wrapped around her. Only three inches to go and we’ll be shoulder-to-shoulder.

The doors creaked open at the eighth floor. “I blame Jennifer Aniston for ALL of this. Let’s watch some Wallace and Gromit to cleanse our eyes and give Milly a cuddle. Maybe your father too, if he plays his cards right.”

Geneva is the world's centre for uber-quality watch making, clock design and fine-tuned precision. I wonder if I can ask them to slow down time just a little bit.

Get yourself a cup of tea....

...because this is a long one that honestly truly does NOT contain the words 'budgie smugglers' or 'ranga' and I need you to stay with me, stay refreshed and most importantly, stay awake to give me some sympathy at the very end. Okay? Okay.

In 2005 my workload - and the way I was reacting to it - resulted in quite a few health problems, one of which was that four bottom teeth and my two front teeth had been worn away to the dentine (the painful, soft bit underneath the enamel) thanks to my unconscious new habit of jaw clenching and grinding during my sleep. It meant that I could barely drink a tepid glass of water or suck air in through my teeth without clutching my head in pain from a permanent brainfreeze but without the fun of eating the icecream beforehand.

My dentist, Doctor T, advised me that he'd need to install six new crowns to make up for the damage caused. At the time I wasn't too sure what crowns were - false teeth, or merely caps? They're sort of somewhere in between: like a false tooth that's permanently affixed to your original tooth which has been drilled away to a tiny peg by the dentist.

After the usual check up and x-rays, my first visit involved him grinding away my two back teeth on the left side. Three injections were needed to numb my face enough for Dr T to get his maxi-drill into my cake-cave and start planing the teeth away to tiny stubs. Whilst I could not feel any pain, I could hear the drill, feel the wet spray flying out of my mouth and smell the unforgettable odour of my own slightly burnt teeth shards. It's not a smell I'll forget in a hurry and not one that even those 'clean laundry', 'dirt' and 'coffee bean' perfumers will be rushing to put in their stores.

All this gave me ample time to count the numbers of holes in each ceiling tile - 29 x 29. A weird number it seemed to me, but then again it was preferable to counting Dr T's nostril hairs or getting glimpses of the broken tombstones in my mouth via the reflection in his safety glasses.

His sulky assistant prepared some sort of silly putty to put in my mouth in order to make a mould for the temporary teeth I'd need until my real crowns were ready in about a fortnight's time. He had to press the glue and the interim crowns in as though he was packing down his sleeping bag into one of those sausage sized covers: I was convinced that his hand was going to burst through the back of my head and beyond the back of the headrest.

I was finally allowed to see the teeth, but all they looked like was two half-melted minties. Good enough for a part of my body that'll only get seen if I'm screaming in terror or giggling myself stupid. This very same process happened again for my other two back teeth.

I was expecting the same process for my two front teeth. However, having two temporary crowns stuck on top of the two tiny pegs that were all that remained of my original front teeth made it look as though I'd stuck two chunks of teacher's chalk under my top lip for a dare. I was going to have to talk, smile and be seen in public with teeth that couldn't have been more fake than if they'd been chewed out of wet tissue and spat into my mouth with a pea shooter.

It was a long fortnight, and one that involved very little smiling or uncontrollable laughter (or terror, for that matter). It was with relief - and that's an unusual sentence to write in an article about multiple visits to a dentist - that I fronted up to get my 'real' crowns for my two front teeth; the 'king' teeth that are the main stars of the mouth and smile show. The fake ones were taken off with a few disconcerting "Oh dear, this is difficult" and "Goodness me, the glue's good, isn't it?" by Dr T as he resorted to kneeling on my shoulders and pulling my head so far out of the chair it smacked into the overhead light.

Somehow they were off, and my two new choppers were ceremoniously brought in on a surgical tray. Under the light of the dental chair they looked pretty OK to me. On went the cement and in the mouth. Done. I thanked him, and toddled off back home.

It was only then that I realised that I hadn't even seen what they actually looked like in my mouth. I wandered into bathroom and gawped at the mirror in ever-increasing horror. They were grey. My other teeth were white or at least off white. Perhaps it was just me being over-sensitive so I waited until I saw Sapphire and Love Chunks that afternoon. "Mum your teeth are funny," and, from my beloved, who is always so very tactful and kind, shaking his head: "They're shockers. You've got to go straight back and get them done right."

We've all had to take things back to get them replaced, fixed or a refund, haven't we? But teeth? That are permanently affixed in our mouths? That are made of stuff stronger than our own natural enamels and will last longer than our own lifetime? Hmmm, we weren't talking about an overcooked steak, wonky DVD rental or tight pair of shoes. Was the dentist no better than a tradesman who'll slap in the tiles in your laundry upside-down when you're at work and then bugger off and hope you won't notice? Especially if you've already paid his account?

There was nothing to it but to walk back in as soon as the surgery opened the following morning. Blushing profusely I asked Sulky Socks to see Dr T. "You don't have an appointment, can I tell him what it's about?" Whilst I was tempted to fire back with "It's about fixing my spare unicycle tyre.....what the hell else could it be about?" I didn't. Instead I gave a weak and embarrassed smile and whispered, "Er, I'm not happy about the colour of my front teeth."

Out came Dr T and with him, the dental technician, Bill. I again repeated my complaint and weak smile. They looked at my smile under the dental chair's light, then the office light, the technician office's light and then suggested I stand outside in the sunlight. I did, feeling like an right berk as I smiled at no-one in particular in the alleyway behind their surgery.

There was a green BMW parked there that had 'BITE ME' on the licence plate. Just as my face was beginning to hurt from all that non-genuine smiling, they agreed: the colour was wrong. They got all technical about the base colour being too blue or something but I was happy enough to hear that they agreed about the colour and I didn't have to argue my case. Bill dashed back upstairs and returned with a colour chart of teeth and we three together selected a colour more appropriate.

Back on went the temporary spitball ones for another fortnight of smiling with tight lips. Two very long weeks later and I was again back in the chair, nervously awaiting my new teeth. Bill brought them in proudly, "Ah these ones are grand, my best work yet." Yeah right, well we'll believe that when we see 'em out in the sunshine, buddy boy.

l felt like a slow-mo headbanger as Dr T yanked off my temporary teeth. My tongue immediately ran over my front teeth and it was an awful feeling - two tiny sharp stumps instead of two square teeth and now Dr T wanted me to go outside and smile with these pegs so that they could check that the new teeth were the same colour.

"Please Dr T, don't show me a mirror of the remains of my original teeth - I don't need to see that underneath I look like an in-bred Hillbilly banjo player who only has enough in her mouth to suck tobacco with. I'll just have to trust that you and Bill can check that the colour is right."
"Fair enough. And don't worry, Bill's got the colour perfect this time."

They were glued in and I had a look - perfect, just like my old teeth, except stronger and hopefully immune to any stress-related nocturnal gnawing. "Great, I'm so relieved; they're so much better now," I beamed. "Well, that's the last you'll be seeing of me for a while."
"Sorry love, but we've got a few more things to sort out. It's clear that you'll need some root canal work on your upper jaw and we've got to make you a mouthguard to wear at night so that your other teeth don't get ground away...."

Since then it's been a real treat for Love Chunks at bedtime. He's always had to endure that final honk into my hanky to clear my nose before the two squirts of the tactfully named 'Rhinocort' are inhaled, followed by my slapping on some super-strength hand cream which I invariably use too much of and ask to rub the extra on his hands. But now my little routine ends with a 'click clack' as I pop in my rock-hard mouthguard. Any conversation we have after that results in my sounding like a lisper with a mouthful of fantails.

Last night he said, "Ooooh Kath, do all that again and leave your ugg boots on - you know how to keep things hot."

Pompous Old Git.

Twenty eager faces

....are waiting by the library door before the bell signifying the end of lunch has rung.

I'm equally flattered and afraid. My neck is hurting so much after the busy morning that even holding a lever arch file of notes in my left hand and draping my shoulder bag from my right is barely enough to keep me balanced and upright enough to smile at them all.

Must.... Not.... Swear.... even if the tiniest movement sends waves that of pain so severe I can taste the ominous sloshing of bile in the back of my throat. Sweat beads collect under my eyes as I very carefully place my gear on a spare chair, lowering myself by bending my knees and nothing else.

The room feels like a car that's been left out in the full sun except that there's no air-con dial or window winder to reach for to improve things. How the hell am I going to entertain and encourage these kids today?

Sapphire's at the table furthest away from me and she mouths silently, 'COMPUTERS, Mum, COMPUTERS!'

Bless her for reminding me. "Kids, the laptops are booked, so I want you to go to the IT room and sign out one each and return back to the library as soon as you can." A lonely piece of paper flutters gently to the floor in their wake.

Ah yes, this is the lesson where I said I wanted to see their Killer Opening Sentence, a Five-Point Plan (courtesy of my home-made handouts) and a start on their first chapter. For the two minutes of solitude I'm given I lean up against the wall with my eyes closed, pushing the bile back down with every deep gulp of stale air.

They're back, chattering happily as they log on. Thank god they're all computer savvy and have remembered their USB sticks in order to save their work.

I shuffle around, teetering forward from the hips so that my back and neck stays straight as I read over their shoulders. "Ben, you've called your book 'The Elemental Dragon'. That sounds pretty intriguing, but you do you know what 'elemental' means?"

He shakes his head.

"No? Well --- yes that's right, look it up on the online dictionary and then decide if it's how your dragon really is...." (Thank god he didn't ask me to define it)

"Yes, um Lucy, isn't it - I guess you can start and finish your novel using the exact same sentence as long as you can convince your readers and me, your editor, that there's real meaning in the ending."

"Sorry Nate, I'm not wincing at your work, it's just that something's wrong with my neck and I shouldn't have just automatically bent down to pick up the whiteboard marker before taking a deep breath and lowering myself down without moving my torso.... I like your sentence 'He was in the jungle and heard a hissing noise', I really do."

"Um, Emma? Writing your first sentence in size-72 font isn't going to convince me that you've been working all that hard today."

Flynn is the blow-fly of the class, buzzing around trying to distract others, to get them to laugh at his silly characters and dumb story ideas. Humouring him hasn't worked, nor has some special one-on-one time where he's been asked to explain to me what he'd really like to write about. He's out of his seat again, this time flicking the back of Otto's chair.

I want to lie down on a hard floor in the dark but know that if I set my limit now, it'll be worse next week. I tighten my already too-thin lips into a white line. "Flynn this is the third time I've asked you to sit down and stop bothering Otto. If you don't sit down and start working in -----" I look down - PHARK! Even that simple move hurts! - at my watch "------ in three seconds, I'll take you to the principal's office and you can explain to her exactly why you don't want to be one of the 20 children selected out of a school of 440 to write a novel."

It comes out a bit harsher and louder than I'd planned, but my damn neck, the stiflingly over-heated transportable hot box with the low ceiling and the afternoon sun bouncing straight off the reception windows into my watering eyes and the frankly-rather-enviable energy of the pest in question makes me do it.

Now cowed, he sits in his chair meekly and keeps his head down, busily writing for the rest of the session and keen to avoid any more of my attention. I can see that his cheeks are red and he's not used to being yelled at. I was that kid once, too. Being scolded in school was rare and it hurt. Stuff him, I was in too much agony just managing to keep my own throbbing melon head upright on my spinal column to care.

Pencils industriously scratch on paper, feet kick against table legs and keys are tapped. I continue to do the rounds, having worked out that a gentle walk relieves the pain by half a notch and that I can have a quiet chat with each child about their work. Their enthusiasm to get into it fills me with gratitude.

All too soon the lesson ends and the inevitable pass-the-parcel of forgotten notebooks, abandoned worksheets, tiny rubber roll piles of erased sentences, dropped pencils and chaotically shared data-sticks are played. The Kumon tutor waits patiently for us to clear out so that she can set up.

Sapphire runs to get her school bag from her home-room and I lean up against the outside gate, the weariness of the day still torturously travelling its evil way down my neck and back. She holds my hand and chatters about the class. "Lee thinks you're hilarious and I had to explain that when you told him to 'vomit it out' that you just meant to write down much as you can to get it out of your brain and worry about the corrections and spelling later."

I nod - PHARK! The Agony! - at her sensible translation as we walk slowly home.

She makes me a cup of herbal tea and nukes my wheat bag several times. Milly's nudging my leg, eager for our now-nightly walk around the block on litter ninja duties, but the panadeine's not working. I drop one hand down to ruffle her ears, hoping that it will suffice for tonight.

Love Chunks eventually rides in, and sees from my face that the day has been long and painful. With the distant strains of Sapphire's viola floating up the hall, he jokes, "So I guess some hot sex resulting in your head being rhythmically slammed against the headboard is out of the question then?"

His smile slides when I burst into self-pitying tears. I don't do pain (or ageing) well.

Paint the town beige, baby














Despite my tendency to chat to strangers in the street or hurl annoying drunk men's shopping bags out of bus doors in order to get 'em out of our faces I'm not really a very adventurous person.

There. I said it. I can admit it now, you see, because I'm in my forties and my idea of flying by the seat of my pants is if I consider drinking a cup of coffee after 2pm or decide to walk around the house without my dressing gown on.

Or when I suggested to Love Chunks that we ~ahem~ enjoy a bit of horizontal folk dancing at half-time during last night's telecast of St Kilda versus Collingwood because it was not quite 10pm and if we waited until the end of the game we'd both be too tired and we both knew what a busy Saturday we had ahead of us. Plus, he'd be snoring and I'd be silently farting with my arse indelicately hanging out of the side of the bed so that it wouldn't get trapped under the blankets and make its way over to LC's nasal cavity.... yeah, it's a pretty wild life I lead.

So when we went to Lakes Entrance for the Easter weekend, there was a fairly clear expectation from Love Chunks that we'd actually, well, do something on the lakes. In a boat.

No, not nookie you rude reader, but hire a boat and drive around the lakes, disembark a few times and generally enjoy the scenery and perhaps drop a line in. That's fair enough, isn't it?

I wisely left my camera at the beach house on boat day because I was afraid of getting it wet and when I saw our boat - 'Gummy', I was very proud of that decision. Gummy had 'For Daylight Hours Only' stencilled on his* side and was merely a square tinny with two shoebox-sized window guards for the two front seats and a half-hearted tarp masquerading as a canopy on the top. Berthed at the swank Five Knots marina, it was the smallest and ugliest vessel in the entire postal district.

Still, Love Chunks was not deterred. He dutifully listened to the hirer's instructions on the throttle and dodgy steering and his blue eyes twinkled in amusement when ten year old Sapphire scoffed at my insistence on wearing a life jacket.

Off we puttered. Out of the marina the sea was choppier than we thought and on my side - the LEFT side, stop telling me it's PORT or STARBOARD, if left and right is good enough for land, as well as front and back why do we have to have another stupid language for the water - the sea spray blasted straight into my grimacing face.

Ian was sniggering at me, seated and sheltered comfortably behind LC who was driving with a huge, contented smile on his face. "ISN'T THIS GREAT?" Love Chunks mouthed over the deafening roar of the outboard. He seemed to be utterly dry and completely impervious to the stiff breeze.

I, on the other hand, felt like a malevolent crew member had planted themselves directly in my field of vision and were determined to hurl buckets of brine directly into my eyes and hasten the self-pitying shivering by switching on an industrial-strength fan before hurling the next bucket.

Ian tapped my shoulder. "WELL, AT LEAST THE SALT WATER WILL BE GOOD FOR THAT HUGE ZIT ON YOUR CHIN!"

Er, thanks for that, dear friend. Over the course of the weekend my chin - Roger Ramjet-sized at the best of times - decided to grow a K2 on the left hand - no, not friggin' PORT - side. All conversations I participated in were between the other person and my pimple as it commanded the attention of everyone it overshadowed.







(In fact, Sapph here is considerately shielding it from view in this family portrait).




After an hour of teeth-chattering, salt-blindness and shrinking further and further into my lifejacket and behind the brim of my hat in a meditative state in which my mantra was 'I'm at home, I'm warm, I'm dry', we finally pulled into shore. Just to have the motor switched off and be out of the breeze was heaven. I found LC's jacket and Bill's beach towel and lay in the sun, curled up like a cat until my fingertips were no longer blue and I'd regained enough feeling in them to unclip the lifejacket.

Sadly, our lunch was super-chilled by our too-bloody-effective esky, so I munched disconsolately on a frosty ham and salad roll with an icy apple slipping from my cold, clawlike and ineffective fingers. There was a tiny bit of revenge for Ian's cheekiness because he had to find a spot to drop off a couple of Andrew Bolts at the pool on a thin sliver of sandy island that was visible from very angle and hosted only one-foot high salt bush as modesty cover.

It was soon time get back onto Gummy but this time I was prepared. Funnily no-one else wanted to sit in my seat, so I found two spare life jackets that I put my legs through and another one that I wrapped around my left arm like a shield against the water and the wind. The roar of the outboard was slightly more bearable because at least my body wasn't miserably shaking to its rhythm this time.

Five long hours later and Love Chunks reluctantly puttered us back to the marina. "What did you think of that, Sapph?" he asked our daughter, his eyes shining in joy.

Her eyes mirrored his own. "I loved it Dad, I really loved it."

He turned to me, head buried in the backseat of the car struggling to find my polar fleece to put on top of his jacket. "What did you think, Kath?"




















I was stuck. Do I spoil his day and say that I'd rather be stripped naked and whipped with kelp by angry sailor or lie? Let him know that he had a wife with about as much interest in boats as he had in ABBA and knitting?

"You drove really well, love."


* I don't care that boats are usually named after women. This one looked like a busted sandshoe with an attitude problem.