Where’s Eric?

Saturday morning, 8am.

Milly is straining on the lead, dying for a leash-less run around in the park after two days of non-stop rain and only quick visits downstairs for relieving herself.

Sapphire has been left at home, fitfully sleeping, with her mobile resting on her pillow. Mine is in the pocket of my polar fleece and I finger it nervously, hoping that I’m not a terrible mother for leaving her to give a dog forty five minutes of my undivided attention.

Nafeesa’s grandmother arrives from Lebanon today, the lucky recipient of the laughingly-titled ‘fast track’ visa application on compassionate grounds. Yep, only three weeks: how very thoughtful of them to rush it through for a child without an able parent or family..... Nanna will need help though as she’s eighty one, doesn’t drive, is in a strange country and speaks mostly Arabic.

We’ll all pitch in of course and I know that Nafeesa is greatly looking forward to living in her own home again, where things are familiar and the comforting routines can recommence. This past week, she’s been at her friend Paige’s place. Sapphire’s been too ill for us to have her at ours and, well, she’s made it clear that we’re, um, not who she wants to stay with, despite the wishes of her mother and mother’s best friend. Still, if she wants a week of late nights, junk food and sporadic visits to hospital but is having some fun, who can deny her that when she’s endured several weeks of stress?

Love Chunks is in Canada running a conference and workshop; stopping only to head to the airport, bypass the US and do the same thing for another week in Mexico.

I think back to my birthday, two days ago. Sapphire’s blood test showed that her body was definitely struggling with a major illness, but that her major organs (liver, etc) were functioning normally. Her temperature had finally lowered, but the headaches, diarrhoea, nausea, exhaustion and wrenching stomach pains had not.

“Sorry about ruining it, Mum,” she whimpered, head in my lap as I stroked her forehead. “I got up when you were in the shower and your cards and presents are on the lounge.”

She had sewed me a bag for my latest knitting project and alongside it was a golden chocolate Lindt bear. “Look inside the bag, Mum,” she urged, sitting up slowly, the morning light showing too pale a complexion and dark circles under her eyes.

A beautiful hand-made card with sentiments inside that brought me to tears. “No Mum, look in the bag.” Inside was a framed magazine advertisement pulled from a magazine of the month and year of my birth – November 1968. Nestle’s chocolate – Born in Switzerland, their secret is now being shared with you. “I found it on ebay and when we were at Jumbo’s I put the frame in with the ones you had bought and hoped that you wouldn’t notice. Dad did framed it when you were on your treadmill.” Yes, my other present, which arrived a week ago.

More tears from me as I rushed back to the other lounge and cuddled her. She’s twelve now and yet I still automatically breathe in her hair and am instantly reminded of her as a newly-bathed baby. “Mum, you’re not supposed to cry on your birthday,” Sapphire laughs.

Love Chunks writes me an email with a message so simple and beautiful that I’ve read it every time I’ve logged on since. The rest of the day is spent knitting as Sapphire watches the motley collection of Antiques Road Trip shows we’ve recorded, running an ongoing guessing game on how much each item will fetch at auction. The TV is regularly paused for her to recover from a painful stomach spasm or to dash to the toilet and my worry is masked by the rude jokes I make to try and get her to smile. “Everything is about farts and poos with you, Mum,” she says in a not-very disapproving tone.

Two days later and Milly and I are about to walk into the park. A quick glance shows that there are no other dogs nearby for her to scare off, so I bend down to unsnap her lead.

Putta putta putta putta – one of the ubiquitous mini-bikes has screeched to a halt on the opposite side of the street, the driver calling out to me in French.

“Parlez vous Anglais?”

“Yes,” he says with relief. “There was a bakery here...” he gestures to the shop behind him whose windows are papered white, “........do you know where it is now?”

Being an inexplicable magnet for direction seekers, I actually do know. “Here, it’s around the corner, where we’re heading. It’s only been open for two days, very fancy now. Follow me.”

He nods in agreement, driving on the left hand side of the road as he does so, breaking the law. It’s 8am on a foggy Saturday morning, who’s going to notice?

The police, that’s who. Out of nowhere a heavily armoured van pulls up alongside us, six serious faces peering through the dark windows that are now slowly rolling down.

Gulp.

No French this time; I think my ‘Oh My God’ has given them a clue.

“Do you know where Eric’s bakery has moved to?”

Half an hour later, with a muddy but happy dog I’m still laughing as I walk back home, knowing that Sapphire will get a kick of out this story when I see her.

Heavy Balls















It's Saturday morning at the cheer-challenging time of 8.25am and Annoying Dad from the tennis team that Sapphire is playing against comes up to me for the fourth time in two minutes, asking, "Is your team all here yet? Are you ready to play?"

Instead of doing what I did the first three times, which is smile politely and say "Sorry no, we're not all here yet and no, I'm not the team captain and don't have the book and do we need to think about whether it's okay to play seeing as it's raining?"

.... I snap and hiss, "We're still five minutes early. I told you I don't have the team book and it's now sleeting down ice shards outside so surely you need to call the match off?" Chastened, he backs off and I seethe, trying not to hear the common sense in my eleven year old's advice to 'calm down and be quiet, Mum,' as she tugs at my handbag strap.

At precisely 8.30am - the official start time - we have our full team complement battling various stages of early morning-itis (and hair), staring out of the foggy windows of the warm clubhouse with very obvious expressions of dread. I decide not to re-establish my friendship with Annoying Dad and find Nervous Mum in the corner and try again. "Um, do you think it should be cancelled?"

"YE-E-E-E-E-S" say my team in an unenthusiastic but determined chorus, but she hesitates and rapidly whispers that we have to sit and wait for two hours -two hours - before anyone can officially call the morning's play 'off'. "It's not that heavy," she concludes, zipping up her Goretex Everest Puffer Jacket right up to her chin.

Sighing, I spot Denis and Alice and say, "You two - Boy Two and Girl Two - you're ON. Oh and Denis, meet Alice. Alice, this is Denis."

After several minutes of uncertain milling about, it seems that I am team coordinator today. Denis politely smiles at Alice who is playing her first ever match and then flips up his hoodie as a thin layer of protection against the downpour. Alice trudges behind him, already shivering and regretting her optimistic outfit of shortie shorts.

Nervous Mum sidles up to me again but the rustling sound of parachute material and Goretex betrays her.

I know what she's going to ask and I'm dreading it.

I've got a bloody inner ear thingy that makes it hard to hear, hard to stand up straight and quite frankly, hard to give a crazy cow's crap-splat about Saturday morning tennis 'Special Grade 2' comp.

"Do you have someone who can umpire this game?"














Poo. Love Chunks senses my distress and offers to take on the first match. There he stands, trying to keep the umbrella open, his fingers and scoresheet dry and keep an eye out for faults and outs. I couldn't love him harder than at this particular moment. Goretex rustles off to umpire the number three mixed doubles. Any negative thoughts I have about her instantly vanish as she stands there without an umbrella and thongs on her sodden bare feet.

Sure enough another match is ready to commence. Umpiring tennis games is clearly a task that for most parents (our team and the opposition) enjoy doing about as much as a home-made genital wax but we're in a grade that requires an umpire for each match. I've already explained my Labyrinthitis to nearby parents, but suddenly two have to run an errand, one claims not to fully understand the rules and there's an unseemly rush to the warmth of the clubhouse toilet block.

Poo Bum. My turn but - thank god - Love Chunks has offered me his umbrella. The temperature mottles my handles into rather lurid red and blue splotches and I drop the pen in a puddle of water. "Hey boys...." ---I gesture them over to the net--- "......How about we forget the warm up shots and get straight into it?" They're as relieved as I am.

Poo Bum Bugger. It's wrong and unfair and bad sportsmanship to wish for a quick thrashing, isn't it, but I do wish that, very much. The score sheet is now an ideal paper mache slab and the boys are bravely fighting against the elements to hit hard, try harder and get it to four-all. Each thwack of the ball produces a spray of water that, if near the south side of the net, splatters into my face and make it even harder for my frozen paws to grip the umbrella, pen and notepad. I wallow in self pity and forget what I'm supposed to be out there doing. "Sorry guys, was that a fault or in - do you want to play two again?"

Our boys lose the match 6-4. I offer my congratulations but they're both keen to buy a foul-smelling lukewarm hotdog from the club canteen and huddle in the shelter by the court.

No sooner do I write down the store in both team books than another two matches have started and Goretex is out there again on one court and asks me to do the other. Poo Bum Bugger Shit!

Love Chunks grabs the notepad before I can plead, "Please, please dear, sweet and honourable Goretex lady, let me sit down. Force someone else to do it and I'll promise to give you enough chocolate to give you a much-needed winter coat for the duration of this season." He shakes out his umbrella in preparation for the rain and my love for him beats stronger.

Somehow, the rain clears a little. It's now an acceptable drizzle and the competition is close; closest we've ever come to winning. One more set out of the final three and we'll finally know what victory tastes like. Kids from sides are now willingly running out onto the courts to hit up ready for playing. Every single one of them has played brilliantly and, to my utter amazement, actually enjoyed themselves in arctic conditions. For reasons undeserved, I feel hugely proud of them all.

It is then, with three courts free and every kid out there warming up and trying to hit the balls as hard as they can to thrash the water out of them before their final doubles matches that Annoying Dad makes his re-appearance.

"I'm officially calling this match a wash-out. It's 10.35am and it's a draw."

Poo Bum Bugger Shit Faaaaart!

Snappy September - Day Twenty One - Marauding Magpies

After yesterday's rather confronting photos, you deserve something nicer today.

Despite that, you're not going to get what you deserve; not today. Sorry.




















Melbourne is the home of the Australian Football league and is the nation's footy town. Geelong and the Bulldogs have fallen by the wayside of third and fourth place and this coming Saturday we'll be seeing St Kilda fight for their lives against Collingwood.

Collingwood. The team that everyone loves to hate.

My father got a letter in the paper soon after the Adelaide Crows joined the AFL in 1991, saying, "We Crows fans have two teams we can barrack for. The Crows and whoever plays Collingwood."

But I'm in a dilemma, esteemed reader. One of my dear friends is a Collingwood supporter.

















A rabid Collingwood supporter. So rabid she's sought - and received - approval from her boss in an academic publishing firm to dye her hair black and white.

Trouble is, I didn't know that when we first met. No, I was keen to find out who Mr P was. We bonded over our love of dogs, chocolate, Flemington and a laugh. She's cared for Milly when we've been on holiday, become a Litter Ninja and been a source of inspiration and insight to Sapphire. It wasn't until Tam felt like she could fully trust me that she told me she was a Collingwood supporter.



















"That's OK," I said, patting her hand sympathetically. "We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is farting at inappropriate moments and laughing at people hurting themselves when they fall over....." We got through it and the awkwardness passed. It was a small aberration, one that was easily made up for by her other marvellous qualities.

This season, however, her Collingwood tendencies are showing. Stronger, blacker, whiter, brighter.




















Love Chunks shudders when we walk past her gate to the shops but I steady his arm and say, "Come on dear heart. She's our friend and friends stick together in times of need and weakness.'

It was only with this noble intention that I forwarded Tam an email, with two words - 'except Tam' specifically included by me - always thinking of her feelings I am - in every line.

Q. Two Collingwood supporters except Tam jump off a cliff. Who wins?
A. Society.

Q. What does a Collingwood supporter except Tam use as protection during sex?
A. Bus shelter.

Q. What do you call a 30 year old female Collingwood supporter except Tam?
A. Granny.

Q. What do you call a Collingwood supporter except Tam in a suit?
A. The defendant.

Q. Why did the Collingwood supporter except Tam cross the road?
A. To start a fight with a complete stranger, for no reason whatsoever.

Q. If you are driving and you see a Collingwood supporter except Tam on a bike, why should you try not to hit him?
A. It might be your bike.

Q. What's the first question during a Collingwood supporter quiz night that's not attended by Tam?
A. What you looking at?

Q. Two Collingwood supporters in a car without any music or Tam as passenger- who is driving?
A. The policeman!

Q. Why is three Collingwood supporters that aren't Tam going over a cliff in Lexus a shame?
A. Because a Lexus has four seats.

Q. What do you say to a Collingwood supporter except Tam with a job?
A. Big Mac please.

Not Helping

We live in a very little street that funnily enough happens to start with the letters BIG.

In this little street we have three blocks of flats and nine cottages. One of the blocks of flats houses men that can only be described as having been through the rehab and prison merry-go-round more times than they've passed Go and collected two hundred dollars.

They all look shrivelled and painfully thin and way older than their baseball cap and gangsta-inspired, Salvos-donated clothing suggests. Despite these setbacks, none of them seem short of female visitors. However these romantic or social forays mostly seem to end up in tears.

By 'tears' I mean full-on screaming matches that barrel the 30 metres down the street and pierce their way through our weatherboard walls straight into Sapphire's bedroom and my ear canals. Invariably, someone from the other block of flats that separates us from Hellrose Place calls the police and the divvy van turns up.

A fair bit more swearing occurs, this time at the cops instead of the girlfriend and the tenant is rather gently ushered into the back of the vehicle. The policeman nods at the anxious face peering through the window next door and tiredly fills out a form stuck to a clipboard whilst leaning on the side of the divvy van which is now rocking wildly from the unwilling passenger's curses and punches inside.

Sapphire and I have noticed that one particular bloke is just about ready for some frequent flyer points for his extensive divvy van patronage.

To ease any anxieties she has about living and feeling safe in our suburb - a rich tapestry of living, breathing and unique humanity in all its forms - we've taken to calling him Mr Divvy Van.

He has never hassled us, or been rude or dangerous; clearly saving up his aggro for his drinking buddies or his female companions. He'll shuffle by, cigarette permanently in his mouth and mutter, 'G'day', or 'Nice dog,' and head down to the main road for a six pack and some fish and chips. We see him at the shops with his mates - never right in the middle of the fracas but nearby and ready for a 'Don't worry about them arseholes mate, phark em!' sympathetic pat on the back and shared smoke on the park bench outside. We also see him chatting to the scared little Lebanese guy who shares the cement balcony next to his flat or eyeing off Tam's motorbike before Daria the rottweiler pops up behind the wooden fence pailings to growl a 'hello'.

One afternoon Sapphire and I were at the high school. The back of it borders our little street and it's a convenient spot for Sapphire to use her scooter on a patch of ground bigger than our pavers as Milly and I do our litter ninja duties.

Mr Divvy Van appeared, having just got off the tram, and was taking the short cut home across the asphalt.

"Nah," he said on his mobile, in a loud voice. "Nah babe, YOU broke up with ME six weeks ago. We're through. I'm moving ON with me life and you keep callin' me. I'm READY to start seein' other women....'"

Sapphire and I pretended not to hear the shouted conversation.

"BABE, I know you WANT me but ya can't have me no more. I'm FREE, see? Ya did me a favour by droppin' me. I want a chick whose less---" he struggled to find the right word "----of a pharkin' HASSLE for me, right?"

Sapphire pinched my arm.

"Ow? What did you do that for?"

She giggled. "It's Mr Divvy Van. He was yelling and looking over at you."

Before I had time to say so what, she continued, "You're IN, Mum, if you're up for it."

Wonderful. Just wonderful. A ten year old child able to best her mother's stunned silence with "Ooh there's your boyfriend."

Forty going on Four or Eighty Four?




















I can drive, drink, vote, read and breed and am occasionally able to cook something using more than one pot but there are still so many more things I do that are really, really immature.

Such as:

• Eating a banana and half a 250 gram packet of marshmallows for lunch. Starting with the whites first and leaving the pinks (my favourite) until lucky last.
• Flexing in front of the mirror after my shower. Did you know that bikini supermodels pose like Egyptians? If you don't believe me, try shoving your shoulders forward and twisting your waist and butt around to the side. Then push out your hip bones and throw your arms back behind you like a troubled ape (or Paris Hilton) and voila, you've lost ten kilos and should be auditioning for the 'after' picture in fat busting advertisements.
• Laughing till I cried at seeing the search phrase "Ashleigh's Peanut Butter Farts" and wondering if I should send it on to him.
• Substituting four-syllable words to replace the 'Mu-nu-mu-nah' that Animals sings in that classically catchy Muppet song. Recent winners have included the Kath & Kim's bat-wing arm fat descriptor 'Foo-doo-bah-dahs' and pornography (but only after explaining what it meant to a horrified Sapphire), simplicity, undoubtedly, unbearable, exaggerate and, most appropriately, 'inanity'.
• Still writing my name or 'Kath loves LC' inside a lop-sided love heart in the steam on the bathroom mirror.
• Knowing that my chances of winning the lottery is about a billion to one, yet feeling absurdly disappointed when the slimy piece of paper is handed back with 'Not a Winner' on it. Refusing to touch that slip, saying 'Oh you can put it in the bin,' as though it'll damage my fortune in other aspects of my life.
• Painting Milly the dog's toe nails (paw claws?) shimmery purple.
• Popping a Lindt Ball into each cheek and letting them dissolve slowly as I read in-depth, thought-provoking articles in The Age. And doing it again for the next article. And the next insert.

And yet there are other times when I'm swear I'm looking towards eighty four instead of four. These are all true:

• Avidly reading the freebie community newspaper from cover-to-cover and then joining the local ratepayers association. And attending the council's community consultation session. Willingly.
• Consider googling where I can find a spiked litter pole thingy to ease the agony of continual bending over to pick up rubbish in my street, the local school, the poo lane alley adjoining the corner shop and the dodgy old flats next door.
• Looking forward to eating soup as the weather gets colder.
• Laughing at the re-emergence of eighties fashions being touted as 'Defying the recession with bright colours and bold optimism'.
• Noticing that the flesh on my neck doesn't turn in time with my head, but instead wobbles and stretches like a hesitant raw pizza base.
• Wondering why antimacassars aren't in vogue anymore.
• Discovering that I have a permanent pink tattoeed belt around my middle - even first thing in the morning - from years of wearing high-waisted elasticated underpants and jeans.
• Following and actively participating in discussions concerning politics. And realising that I'm actually a bit interested.
• Acknowledging that my most frequent thought and deed is determining where and when I can sit down.
• Doing a passable impersonation of a duck's mating call just by farting when I cough.
• Spending a longer time on the toilet and appreciating the solitude.
• Appreciating the fact that there's not one pair of heels in my wardrobe and 10% or less of my clothes need be be touched by an iron.

So yes, I insert the dog's name into ABBA songs and serenade her during the day ("Milly-mooster tell me what's wrong..."), have tried to photograph Skipper's tiny disapproving bunny lips from a weird angle and licked the chocolate cake mix bowl with Sapphire but have also noticed that my face has the imprint of the pillow left on it until long after lunch time and my legs are the physical representation of the blue and red streets of the Melways directory.

But most importantly I am that age - whatever mental, emotional or psychological number is assigned by the relevant experts - where coolness and a posh car don't matter. Just clean clothes and my loved ones. Oh and finding chocolate on special.

The perils of packing

“Have you seen my head-strap torch?”

Er no, not recently.

“While I’m out getting the gas and the hot-cross buns, can you pack all of our clothes so they fit in one bag?”

I’ll try, but please remember that we have a nine year old child who, over three days, is likely to fall down a hill; slip and do the splits in puddles; dribble baked beans, melted marshmallow and curry down her top and sit on a plate of buttered hot cross buns. As for me, I need my ugg boots and tracksuit if I’m to find any kind of warmth in an ancient sleeping bag with nothing but a layer of parachute material between me and the night air and our parkas seem to be about as bulky as Kirstie Alley clad in a King-sized continental quilt. There are hot showers at the site, so I would like to be able to take a towel, wash my bound-to-be-filthy-from-living-in-the-outdoors-body and then have the luxury of stepping into clean underwear afterwards. But sure, I’ll try and dehydrate everything into a silver vaccum pack the size of a cuppa soup sachet and we’ll see how it goes.

“Bloody Bunnings, K-Mart and Rays’ Tent City don’t have any gas cylinders left, said they forgot to order in extras for Easter!”

Oh, you’re back already? Never mind, defrosted bolognese will be a new kind of holiday challenge, and it’ll free a bit of space in the back of the station wagon. Or couldn’t biscuits and cheese be considered a meal? Why are you frowning? Don’t walk away from me – I’m just trying to be helpful – this is meant to be FUN, isn’t it?

“The Sherrin just has to come.”

Fair enough, but we also have to fit in our tent, three sleeping bags, three folding chairs, two card tables, an esky, five shopping bags of food, four plastic tubs filled with our cooking and eating gear, tarpaulins, our clothes, water containers, pillows, blankets, blow-up mattresses, the blow-up mattress blower thingy that connects to the car cigarette lighter, stove-top coffee percolator, beanies, toasting forks, dishwashing bucket, cameras, bathroom bags, torches, gaslight, bottles of wine and this massive bag of choc bunnies that I somehow have to hide from the three other families of kids who are still believers…… oh but can we perhaps lose the bocce balls?

“But we’ve got heaps of space in the back seat.”

Yeah but Sapphire needs to sit somewhere and you know her tendency to projectile vomit if she doesn’t have a view out of both windows and the dashboard air vent blowing directly into her face. The car still pongs of reconstituted chup-a-chup, egg sandwich and apple slices from last time. And remember when the lid of the esky flew off and chipped her tooth?

“Fine, but why are you taking your iPod and laptop when we’re going to an unpowered camping ground?”

Because I spent several dog years downloading our entire CD collection onto my iPod only to earn a premanently painful crick in my neck and don’t want to have to do it all over again if someone sneaks in and nicks it and the same goes for the computer. I’ve saved far too many LOLcat pictures on there to feel exhausted at even contemplating trying to find them all again, plus there's all my book chapters and several important drafts I’m still working on that will just make me shrivel up and cry in a corner if I ever had to write them over again and I know it’s negative to assume that just because we’re living in a gritty inner-city suburb that we’re automatically going to get robbed but I just don’t want to risk---

“Alright, alright, bring 'em. Are we all ready to go?”

Yep. Oh hang on – have to just go and put Milly on my lap until we get to the dog boarding kennel….. please don’t lick, poochy – what the hell have you been EATING? Satan’s arse would smell better than you! (turning head to the back): Sorry Sapphire, I shouldn’t have sworn like that. Have you been to the loo – good. Let’s go then!

“Hey! How come we’re heading towards the West Gate Bridge and not Caroline Springs?”

Er, sorry, I was busy looking at the pretty sights – was I supposed to have the Melways open? Okay okay, keep your hair on – the 1996 version didn’t have the new road for the dog boarding kennel so how is it going to have the new overpass that only opened last week on it?

Four hours of driving and two hours of unpacking and setting up later:

“Kath, isn’t it great to get away from it all?”

Just slosh a bit more port into my cup and rip the wrapper off that Lindt block resting on the esky there. Ta.

I'm baaaaack

Well, we’re finally here. In Melbourne. Flemington, to be precise.

The journey involved a very long and boring day of driving along the highway in a battered old magna with Love Chunks, nine year old Sapphire, Milly the dog and Skipper the rabbit. Too many games of 'Who Am I?' and 'Guess the Car Model', scattered pasty and sausage roll crumbs on the seats and sly farts emitted and only discovered by other occupants several minutes later ("Geez Milly, we need to get you off tinned Pal") were only eased by loo and playground stops, petrol refills and realising that yes, the Big Koala at Dadswell's Bridge really does look like a huge pile of marsupial doo doos.

Squeezed under our feet and between the arm rests were our suitcases, beloved boxes of wine, two bamboo plants, pet paraphernalia, two laptops, assorted electronica and some tupperware containers full of slightly-perishable snacks such as cashews, Oreos, breadsticks and homemade melting moments. And blocks of Lindt, Nestle, Cadbury and Cote d'Or: essentials, you understand.

The Ibis put us up for three nights as we excitedly awaited settlement, receiving the keys from the land agent and the 'set down' of our furniture. It was in fact the smallest living occupant - Skipper - who took up residence first, being deposited in his hutch by the back door three days before we were official owners of the place.

On moving-in day we battled 39C heat, buzzing blowflies and the cheerful banter of blokes who'd endlessly ask, "So, where do you want this box?" whilst knowing that the only place for most of the stuff labelled 'Shed' was outside. Any thoughts I had of being ruthless and a devilish declutterer in Adelaide were long gone as I got even more heave-happy and hard-hearted in Victoria.

A blow up Crows doll? Out!

Five old pairs of running shoes that were designated for weeding? Flung!

Seven suitcases of which three are only ever used? To the kerb!

An icecream machine, battery-operated spice grinder, fruit-juicer and plastic BBQ crockery set for sixteen people - BE GONE.

Oh, OK, so Love Chunks brought the appliances back in, but I won the argument about 'losing' my ill-fated efforts at painting sub-realistic sealions and Aboriginal art and we're still debating whether the blue canoe will make an attractive garden feature or feature in a Trading Post 'for sale' advertisement.

With most of the main gear (ie beds, food and basic bathroom supplies) unpacked, Sapphire and I explored our surroundings whilst Love Chunks started work. We live in the triangular-shaped area of Flemington with two main roads carrying the trams, taxis and scooters and the third ending up at the oval connected to the enormous housing commission buildings that cast dark shadows over the entrance to City Link. As such, the ambient background noise is the ding-ding of public transport, the burrp-burrrp-burping zooms of motorbikes, low-flying helicopters and the smell of cigarette smoke wafting over from the flats next door. Quite a departure from the lawn-mowers, leaf-blowers and blow-in bogan hoons doing burn-outs in Trinity Gardens and only eighty-five year old neighbour Jack sneaking one solitary smoke during his morning walk around the block.

Here is our local deli, or 'shop' in the next street. It needs a paint job and inside it's about as big as our bathroom with the fridge only stocking three 600ml cartons of Big M iced coffee*, half a dozen coke zeros and some butter from the Golden era of Gough Whitlam. Still, it also sells The Age and a decent range of chocolate bars, so life could be worse.

Our local strip, Racecourse Road, is a small-but-busy hub of Vietnamese, North African, Italian, Greek, Lebanese, Japanese, Malaysian, Chinese, Irish and Aussie cuisines interspersed with the unavoidable KFC, Maccas, Subway and St Vincent dePauls. We lunched at a noodle bar and saw a chap park his black Porsche and sit at the table next to us, alongside a gaggle of African-speaking taxi drivers on their break. Afterwards, we took Milly to Debney Park where she delighted in sniffing out several dead birds, too many smashed beer bottles and take-away cartons - a pooch's paradise but one where Sapphire pursed her lips and commented on the amount of graffiti and litter. "Why do they do it, Mum?"

Why indeed.

As for Milly, she delights in any opportunities to go for a walk, but when she comes back 'home' she is puzzled beyond her usual furry-faced limits of comprehension. Her family is here, her bed is here, our belongings are here, but what is this place? What are the noises, sounds, smells, odours and sights? Should she issue a few tough "Ooofs" to let the neighbours know that there's a killer Jorgi behind the fence, or relax and sun herself on the tile-sized patch of lawn? Whatever the answer to her questions, she is always keeping a beady eye on the comings and goings of her human housemates, never daring to let one venture further than three metres out of her sight or smell.

Love Chunks has kept his swearing to a minimum as he's been figuring out how to cram in a double garage's worth of stuff into a potting shed, how to put up pictures on weatherboard-veneer walls and, most importantly, how to get the telly back on. He's put in a champion effort at lifting and shifting everything from double wardrobes, weights benches and dryers and also managed to get his beloved Gaggia coffee machine up and running on the first day.

I've learned that having a driveway or access to an old Poo Cart Lane is a sign of wealth and privilege; hunky young firemen do their fitness training at Sapphire's new school on weekends ("Hey Sweetie, shouldn't we go for a walk around your new school so that you get familiar with it?") and there's chocolate-makers and devoted cafes out here I'm only just becoming aware of. Oh, and that I feel happy and just a teensy bit excited, like, you know when it's your birthday and even though you're on the bus and no-one there would know or care about it and you haven't told anyone, you feel sort of special..... Yeah, kind of like that.

* Stay tuned for a future anti-Big M rant......

Sweet Relief

For the first time ever, 'sweet relief' does not relate to my daily intake - and inhalation - of chocolate.

Instead, two days before Christmas, someone made an offer for our house that we accepted with a swirling combination of relief, sadness, resentment and joy.

Bearing in mind that our previous buyers 'cooled off' on the day of LC's mother's funeral, it didn't feel as though we'd actually sold the place until the official ending of said cooling off period - midnight on Christmas Eve. I experienced the same tummy flutterings, hot-scratchy-pillow insomnia and pounding heart as I'd done earlier in the year before running a workshop. This time, however, a fair bit more was at stake - crippling interest rates, frightening levels of bridging finance and the sickening thought of having to resort to 'working' the Docklands in a strikingly less socially-acceptable manner than Love Chunks at the weather bureau.

Had the buyers ripped us off, were they laughing at us and our desperation, mocking our efforst to present our home as well as we were able?

Either genuinely or expertly, our agent eased our fears when she described the family who'd be moving in. Dad was helping his daughter and son-in-law land "the place of their dreams" and their two five-year-old boys have enrolled at Sapphire's school. The agent arrived at the father's house (only a street away from this one) with the contracts to find the entire extended family there along with strong syrupy coffee, baklava and Greek custard pastries. One lawyer son read the documents thoroughly, the other interrogated her regarding the intracies of conveyancing and settlement and the daughter asked if we'd be prepared to leave our three chickens there for them. Too right!

Interestingly, the new owners have a goat. Yes, a goat that they also want to bring over from Glynde to Trinity Gardens. Thankfully, being single, he (or she) won't be prone to acting out rather grotesque and rapid sex scenes when they're startled, but is still likely to churn through the lawn, ring-bark the fruit trees and get drunk on the wild plums. Not to mention their natural naughtiness, piercingly loud bleating and highly evolved capacity to escape and wreak havoc in the neighbourhood......

Oh well, it's no longer my problem. A day earlier, we put an advertisement in the Trading Post for our gym equipment, including my trusty treadmill. A perky young couple promptly bought the lot, resolving to each other that 2009 was to be their year of fitness and strength - especially apt considering that they were planning to hoik the treadie (which weighs roughly the equivalent of three 'Biggest Loser' contestants) up the stairs of their West Lakes townhouse.

As such, I'm back on the streets. Running, of course. Back to looking over my shoulder for passing cars, trucks hooning around corners and elderly Italian men out power walking with umbrellas as anti-mugging devices. Back to percussive farting that is embarrassingly audible to pensioners giving their lawns an early-morning spray and to tubby drivers of white delivery vans. Back to heaving up Magill Road as eager, whippet-thin cyclists rapidly churn on all the way up to Norton Summit. Back to believing I've got the form of a sprinting goddess until my lumpy physique is revealed in the reflective window of Anastasia's pink-themed beauty parlour next to Home Hardware.

Whatever: I'm still out there, still running, still keeping on, still looking forward. Happy New Year to youse all.

Day Twenty Seven - Appreciative August

People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Twenty One - Appreciative August

Homegrown Humour



















One of the things I love about living in South Australia and being a Wide-Eyed-Work-From-Homer is that I'm out and about these days when I used to be locked up inside an air-tight cube farm with a timesheet. I can stroll the 'hood, chat to oldies on the bus, browse in shops without a whining child on my leg and actually find a decent car park between the hours of 9:30am and 3:00pm.

What I mostly appreciate though, is the amount of humour and camaraderie that's revealed during these times.

I was on the 106 bus tootling down Magill road, observing the passengers that get on and off during non-peak hours. Chattering retirees, iPodded uni students, hung-over Centrelink customers and, well, me. Across the aisle was a sixty something bloke with an adorable little dog on his lap who reminded me of Eddie from the show 'Frasier'.

I couldn't help myself - it's an affliction that embarasses my family all the bloody time - but leaned over and patted the cute dog on its back. It was only then that I noticed the 'Lions Club Hearing Dog' lettering on the lead.

"Sorry love, but you shouldn't really be doing that, you know," the dog's owner told me, smiling. "He's technically at work and can't get distracted or he'll want that kind of attention all the time."
And before I could answer, he added, "I can lip read but I need him to tell me if the green light flicker is on to cross the road, or if someone's already dinged the stop bell for me to get off."
"Oh," I said, smiling back, feeling pleased to deliver my next remark, "Then maybe you should get a dog that's ugly so that people like me won't be tempted to pat it."
"Yeah, like my wife," he said loudly, before waving and getting off at the next stop.

The Sunday just gone we had my 'little' (thirty seven year old) brother Dave, his wife Sonia and their boys Matthew and Jack over for lunch. Several hours of discussons, laughter, good food, great coffee and excellent wine later and they needed to leave in order to make it in time for dinner at a friend's place in the hills. "Alrighty boys, go to the toilet and wash your hands before you go," Dave said, sounding eerily like our own father.

They did so, and were outside playing with Sapphire in the front garden, waiting for me to do what Love Chunks calls 'The Read Farewell' - at least another half hour of talking, 'yep, well have a good trip', more jokes, more talking and a dash back inside the house to retrieve something nearly forgotten before the leaving process actually comes into effect.

"Er, Kath, Love Chunks, are you there?" Dave called out from the bathroom. "I'm stuck - the door won't open." Ah yes, the curse of having an 84 year old house full of original fittings and chock full of character. Love Chunks tried the door from our side.

"Yeah the thingy that slides through to the lock doover-whatsit has gone in and then fallen right down," he said, authoritatively. "I'll go and get a screw driver."

There was giggling as Sapphire and seven year old Matthew became aware of the situation. "Hey Uncle Dave - smile!", laughed Sapph, as she took a photo of the door. "At least you won't wet your pants. Plus you can have a shower and we can slide some blocks of Lindt under the door when you get hungry." The silence on the other side of the door was likely Uncle Dave flipping the middle finger.

The half hour 'Standard Read Farewell' had long since expired and whilst the older kids were laughing, five year old Jack was not. "Daaaaaaaad", he wailed into Sonia's arms, "Will I ever see you again?"
"Dad will come out soon," she said, stroking his hair. "Hey, this is your time to get on the trampoline while the other two kids are busy taking photos." He ran outside eagerly.
"Er Sonia," I ventured, "Do you think you should ring your mate and tell him you'll be late? After all, Dave is trapped inside the toilet."

Or take two days earlier, when I was with Amanda Blair on 5AA as one of the panel of adults invited to road test some showbags that were going to be on sale at the upcoming Royal Adelaide Show. Amanda reckons that seeing as it's we adults that are going to be shelling out the money for them, then we should be the ones who get to check them out.


There I was with Amanda eagerly pilfering the Hi5 gear for her eldest, me wearing the 'Don't Hassle the Hoff' t-shirt and sitting alongside three senior male journos. One wearing a wig (the Advertiser bloke, wearing David Hasselhoff's piece and drinking Gatorade from the Men's Health gym bag); another trying to pick up stray Bertie Beetles with a grey plastic robot arm (the children's book writer); and the third leaning into the microphone to see if we could hear the poprocks exploding on his tongue (national news director).

As it was a pupil-free day at Sapphire's school, she and her mate Selene came into the studio with me, but were outside in the producers box as they watched five adults turn into giggling children ripping open packets of chips, lollipops, warheads and headbands. Lord knows what they made of the scene.....

Before the radio show, poor Sapphire needed three days off school last week thanks to a bad cold that turned into tonsilitus as well a throat infection and a bout of rather un-fun asthma. She stayed home with me and watched the Olympics. By the end of day one she could spot the mistakes made by the men in the gymnastics combined apparatus event quicker than the commentators could and provided me with a great deal of laughter and good company.

In addition, Sapphire had also obviously used her convalescence to ponder a few issues that concerned her in life, and sought out the answers from me. She was quietly eating her stewed apples (it's the only way we can get her to eat fruit), Skipper the bunny was on her lap and I was next to her, reading a book I was supposed to be writing a review on later. These were the questions that were fired at me in between medal ceremonies, those frustratingly sexist Coles commercials and exciting water polo quarters:

"Hey Mum, I don't get it - why do bears love honey so much?"
"Where do sesame seeds come from?"
"How does the electricity actually go through the wires on the roads to our house and into the plugs?"
"If there's a God and Jesus like a lot of people at my school believe, then who made God?"
"How come chickens don't have lips - how do they kiss?"
"Why do people notice farts more than perfume?"
"Why is it only when a woman shows her nipples that it's rude but she can show all of the other bulgy bits of her boobs and nobody cares?"
"When I do a big poo in the toilet, it plops down and water splashes on my bottom. Is that water cleaning my bottom, or do I need go and wash it?"

I'll end with my final example which occurred, yesterday, when I was interviewing the genial Gary, owner of Bracegirdle's coffee and chocolate shop in Burnside.

Loads of customers, a milk delivery guy who had to walk in four times to deliver a week's worth of dairy, heaps of regular characters that a modern-day 'Cheers' writer would love; tons of the most artistic and beautiful chocolates on display and he, an ex-Phys Ed teacher telling me that even though making chocolates, coffee and establishing the business has been a 15 hour a day seven days a week enterprise for the past three years, he's never once woken up dreading going in to work.

Our gaze met over the 18-hand made chocolate selection, Royal Show 2008 gold prize winning shiraz truffles, novelty koala and penguin and bag of 99% Belgian buttons I'd just bought and we both burst out laughing. "Check us out, two ex-teachers, yakking for an hour about two of the finest foods known to man. Life's pretty bloody good, isn't it?"

Day Ten - Appreciative August

Doggies

I was always a cat person growing up. When we bought our house in Murray Bridge, it came with a stray cat whom we fed and called only "Puss."

When he high-tailed it off to cat heaven we got a white kitten my mother called "Tom," but he had about as much personality as a slice of wonderwhite, spending most of his fortnight with us hiding behind the shed before escaping for good.

When "Socks" arrived, as one of my ninth birthday presents, he turned me into a bonafide cat lover. He literally hugged - his front paws would wrap around my neck and he'd nuzzle into my face, purring: it was always me that got sick of him and put him back down onto the ground and not the other way around. He'd sit on the kitchen window sill to watch us as we ate, laughed, squabbled and washed the dishes and he'd wait in the driveway until we returned home from our visits to Adelaide. When we'd start packing the caravan for longer trips, he'd scoot in and hide under Mum and Dad's bed in the hopes that he'd be included as well. We all cried when he died from injuries received after being hit by a car. Dad found him and took him to the vet to be put down, and told me afterwards when I'd got home from my holiday job. I couldn't bring myself to get another feline to replace him.

Little did I know that I'd marry a bloke who loathed cats and have a child who if she even looks mildly interested in one has her eyes swell and close up entirely. Also, I shared a house with Jill who had a gorgeous red heeler called Polly, and Tim, who had a bluey called Sam.

Love Chunks once noticed that if he stood out on the back porch in front of the dogs with a tennis ball in one hand and a sandwich in the other, Polly's eyes would be on the food and Sam's would be waiting for him to throw that ball. Those two furry friends started my continuing admiration and love for the dog.

My older brother Rob once said that if he ever started a band, he'd call it 'Dogs In Cars' because they represent the epitome of simple joy with their ears flapping back against the breeze, tongues hanging out and eyes glistening in delight.

Love Chunks found 'Tess', our blue heeler in the oh-so-literate NT news under 'give-aways'. Her human owners were moving to Queensland, and she was the only one of the litter still left - two of her siblings had already found new homes and another two had been bitten and killed by snakes. She arrived at our Darwin home day later almost entirely camouflaged by the newspapers she was soundly sleeping in. At barely six weeks of age, we found a tiny asian dipping saucer for her to lap milk and weetbix from and again, my heart opened up to loving another little animal.

It also opened my eyes to the personalities of other dogs around me. Walking, running, waiting on the backs of utes, digging, sniffing, camping, sleeping, stretching, bathing, swimming, barking and chasing. If you look closely as you pass by, each dog has a happy glint in their eye and they honestly seem to be smiling when they're out for a walk.

They have likes and dislikes, however amusing or irrational. Tess used to dig in the monsoonal puddles around the edges of our pool, but hated to swim in it. She'd wedge her boofy little head into an old rubber thong and shake her head, letting the thong slap her face repeatedly. This would then start a thong fight that would entertain her for hours; as did skittering empty PET bottles on the pergola pavers, defronding palms and yelling at the neighbours when they were trying to relax in their outdoor spa. Like the dog here in front of the fan, she also used to wedge her arse up against the bottom of our bedroom door to catch the cooling breezes from the only air conditioner the Darwin house had.

By six years old, she had shown us one time too many that her love and loyalty lay with us three Locketts and nobody else. Her little life would have been utterly complete if only strangers from 'outside' would stay well away. She snapped at a child who was sitting quietly in a chair - I can still hear the godawful 'smack' sound as her muzzled snout hit Lana's face - and we knew what we had to do. It was one of the saddest days of LC's life when he returned home from the vet with nothing but an empty lead and frayed dog collar, and I sat at my desk all week at work and sobbed until they sent me home.

Four years later, Milly found us, and instead of preventing me from bowling up to any strange Tom, Dick or Harriet with a dog, she's made me worse. Dogs give me such happiness and entertainment just by observing them; let alone patting them, seeing their delight at receiving attention and their honest, uncomplicated acceptance at whatever's happening in their lives right then. They may be different breeds, shapes, sizes, colours and temperaments, but they all want the same thing; to love and be loved.

I've made some wonderful friendships from other regular dog walkers that started from only knowing the names of the dogs and not their owners for the first few months. Even now as I'm strolling around the hood with Milly, I'll think to myself, "That's Douglas's the daschund's house over there, and Missy the lab is right around the corner, right next to Holly the Beagle. Poor old William the Whippet - he's getting so old he pissed on his parka the other day and had to be taken home for a tidy up. Albee the Alsation tried to play with Izzy the Maltese without taking the size differential into account and got nipped in the 'nads for his efforts..."

I'll leave you with three of my favourite dog quotes:

If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went - Will Rogers

Anybody who doesn't know what shampoo tastes like never washed a dog - Franklin P. Jones

You can say any foolish thing to a dog, and the dog will give you a look that says, 'Wow, you're right! I never would've thought of that!' - Dave Barry

Whatever the level of your wit, if you own a dog, you'll know that no-one loves you or is as ecstatic to see you at the end of a hard day like your dog is. Always and forever.