Still shining

For five exhausting years I was a (minor) manager of a busy but happy team at WorkCover.

Ray was in that team. Late forties but with an open-minded younger attitude, deeply in love with his wife Pat and seemingly in a permanent pose of rocking back at his desk, laughing.

And yet he was intelligent, kind and a hard worker who was always prepared to drop what he was doing and pitch in to do whatever last minute 'this is what the Minister wants' request I'd fling at him. He wasn't interested in corporate jargon, wearing a tie or sucking up to management, but just got on with things. Perfectly.

He once turned up to a dress-up party wearing what seemed like his normal outfit of jeans, sneakers and t-shirt. "Didn't make much of an effort there, Ray."

In mock indignation he said, "Yes I did. What's the colour of my t-shirt?"
"Um, yellow."

He brushed it down. "Exactly. I'm Ray; a Drop of Golden Sun."

I'd tease him about his coffee mug. Ironically this never held coffee as he loathed the stuff, but would have milky tea sloshed in several times a day. The vessel had more rings than Saturn and survived with the Internationally-accepted Office Hygiene Approach of a quick swish under the tap before the next brew. "That mug could have the cure for cancer in it, Ray. If you don't wash it soon the inside'll get too layered and crusty to hold any fluids at all."

He then took to giving it a real clean every fortnightly pay day and would proudly stand at my desk brandishing his sparkling cup. "Kath, because of your nagging, science has been set back a few years."

Overseas holidays were his passion, a relatively recent occurrence due to giving up smoking and saving every single dollar that he would have spent on the cigs. Sapphire still remembers the beautiful fan he gave her from Japan, the sarong from Bali and the delicate hibiscus flower made out of soap from Hawaii.

He died last night from lung cancer. Being the poster boy for the Quit campaign and cleaning his cup didn't succeed in the end and for that I'm truly sorry. Ray was a truly decent, lovely man and my memories of working with him (in a job that backfired for me quite disastrously) are all fond ones.

Walking Milly this morning in between rain showers, I saw this sunflower still blooming in the first days of winter. Rest in peace, dear Ray. I feel so honoured to have known you. You genuinely personified the term 'top bloke.'

Why do I have a heartbeat in both armpits?

Because Love Chunks has won a transfer to Geneva.

Sure, the selection process took five months so I spent the best part of that realising that there were two paths ahead of us and the local high school issue for Sapphire wasn't going to go away just because Switzerland were not living up to their reputation as being expert time keepers....

But now we have one path.

And of course Geneva were cheeky enough to try it on and ask LC to turn up in four weeks' time.

NO WAY we both said; me leaning weakly on the door frame with my bowels about to throw a noxious tantrum for the seventh time that morning and he fretting about the World Meteorological Organisation bureaucracy and only having a one page emailed letter of offer and a one-liner twelve hours later to go on.

STICK TO YOUR GUNS I said, my air of authority quite literally reduced with the now-permanent fug of Lavender Loo spray clouded around my head.

I SURE AS HELL WILL he said, climbing onto his bike and pedaling off to the Docklands. Nothing says A Man With A Mission more than bike shorts, a fluoro-yellow safety vest and a helmet shaped like a melted choc drop.

So, we've negotiated for six weeks time. In the past four days, we've decided that it's a good thing that apart from my great grandmother's piano, the oldest thing we own is LC's CD collection and my photo albums. They'll hide somewhere at my folks' place in South Australia but everything else must go.

The house will be rented out, we're looking for a loving home for Skipper and Milly will be flown over by the too-cute-to-be-true 'JetPets' the second we've found our new address. Thank God that Geneva is 95% surrounded by France and doggies are a way of life. "Madame, domestic pets are tolerated by all," said the google-translated email.

School for Sapphire is likely to be an English-speaking campus that has the UN in view that specialises in expat kids who also need to learn French and have skiing as one of their official sports ....

and ....

and ....

and ....

.... my role will be to make several dozen lists, check them all thrice, go for another urgent crap and do whatever it takes to leave here in one piece and then see that the man, child and animal I love most in the world are settled, happy and ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

That's why I'm typing this still in my dressing gown, sweat stains appearing even though my hair is still wet from the shower and I'm crying with a big goofy smile on my face. Ready, Steady, Go!

Fiddly bits

It's been an interesting few months - quitting a well-paid job, feeling like a failure, surviving Christmas, starting the novel in the holidays, twanging the Achilles, seeing Sapphire smile again as school resumes with the bully in another class, finding myself the captain of the tennis team....
















During all of this, I've pretty well decided that the formal job structure is no longer for me. No more black polyester slacks, ironed shirts or pinchy shoes. No more nine-to-five and a boring commute home and have you filled out your timesheet and paid your two bucks into the tea club kitty yet. No more feeling trapped or struggling to be nice to someone who needs a short shap slap rather than strained respect.

Instead, little things have cropped up. Good things. Back writing for The Age. A few hours of casual work at an independent book company several tram stops away; some tutoring leads and child minding. Yep, child minding - one, as it happens. To hear this spunky little seven year old spontaneously exclaim, "This is so much fun," as we sat outside taping together some shoe boxes for Skipper the rabbit's new playground made me grin wider than the Nile.

And so, on a morning off I had a long list of errands to run. It was a beautiful sunny day. Sapphire and I had been for our now-regular 3km run (her) and hobble (me); the vet had just rung on the mobile to share the good news that Milly's second lump wasn't cancer and a box-load of new chocolate samples were on their way. Plenty of time to do the bank, post office, hardware store and Coles before then.

I saw my body reflected in the Witchery window whilst crossing Puckle Street and instead of cringeing, thought, "I'm OK. No-one's running away from me screaming and I look happy and content in myself. What more could I ask for?"

The check out lady at K-Mart told me all about being blindfolded and taken to the airport and whisked off to Sydney for her surprise 50th birthday present. "Thank god it wasn't a blindfolded Brazilian," I said, waving goodbye to her laughter. Life was good. An article had been submitted three days before due date and a radio station had requested an interview.

"Here." A pretty sixteen year old girl, presumably an apprentice beautician, thrust a brochure into my hand. She was fully painted and precariously perched on her stacked heels outside the salon, selecting passersby to hand her leaflets to.

"Ta." Such places are alien to me, so it stayed scrunched in my hand until I reached the car park. As the key was inserted into the door, it was time to open up the paper and see if it needed to be read or flung into the recycling bin on the other side of the trolley bay.

'Menopausal Skin Treatment. This voucher entitles you to three sessions of half-price facials designed to rejuvenate ageing, tired skin. Call today to change the way you look and feel!'

Beastly brochure.

Welcome home

After five weeks of realising that the job was a slippery slope to doom and coming home to cry about it, it was our dog, Milly, who missed out the most.

She'd be the one waiting at the door, tail wagging madly as I'd stagger past, straight into LC's arms to wail. I'd then dust myself off, wipe my face and seek out Sapphire - out with the rabbit or in her room reading - to find out the latest in her bullying saga.

Then I'd cry again; worrying and fretting for my daughter instead of myself.

Milly would hover next to my legs uncertainly, tail still wagging but slower this time; nose nudging me every now and then to reassure me of her presence. "Yes Milly, I'll feed you," I'd sigh tiredly.

That was unfair because food has always been secondary to attention, affection and love. Milly had never been a chore to me and it was wrong of me to treat her that way.

The week before the job started, Sapphire drew this cartoon of Milly which I had framed, planning to take it in to put on my desk.

I never felt comfortable enough to do that, so now it's at home by the front door for every visitor to see.

The real dog is at my feet, eyes glistening and smiling in that unique way that only she has. She's back where she belongs. As am I.

Upping Stumps




















I quit my job after only five weeks and realise that the past five years haven't been exactly stellar regarding the formal work front.

Five years ago I worked myself into a nervous breakdown;
Three years ago my boss pushed me out;
Last week I resigned.

A breakdown after five years; a firing after two years and a giving-up after five weeks.

What's the next one going to be - going postal after ten minutes?

I don't think so.

After a weekend of crying, I'm trying hard not to see it as a failure but as something I tried that wasn't the right fit; wondering why just getting basic and necessary tasks done needed to be so difficult; why people were tardy, grumpy, hidden from view. Skewing things out of proportion and making me feel miserable, useless and trapped.

Except I wasn't. Trapped, that is.

We all have to suffer rudeness and dishonesty and disinterest at times but I grew tired of hearing, "Yeah they've had a bad year, so aren't likely to be helpful" as something I had to accept. Hearing, "You don't belong to our unit, go somewhere else" when they were the sole owners of the information/room/activity/knowledge and therefore had the power.

So I decided not to put up with it.

Money will be tight - freelancing work starts with 'free' for a reason a lot of the time but I've learned something. I am still employable. I just don't need to say 'yes' to the first thing that's offered, especially when most of the requirements I was looking for in a job weren't there. I can be fussy even if it means that our financial situation will need a much more careful eye.

I need to value the work that I do with and for my family as much as they do and stop worrying about what other people think. I need to get off my arse - or firmly back on it, seeing as it's mostly computer based - and start writing the damn novel that's been percolating, bubbling, brewing in my brain all year.

2011 - Year of change; year of being brave.

Two pairs of nostrils to look up



















My hands are curved and linked together like a nervous monkey who has escaped the barrel yet my legs are crossed at the ankle, giving the entirely incorrect impression that I'm relaxed about being here.

These two ladies like their Laura Ashley patterns because both of them have smocks covered in intricate floral designs. I'm in drab denim with a old and baggy hoodie on top, feeling rather deflated as I lie there, counting the holes in each separate ceiling tile: twenty eight rows of twenty eight dots as it happens.

"So, no anaesthetic for you today?" Kelly asks, a smile in her eyes as her perfect teeth are hidden behind her surgical mask. "I'll be as gentle as possible."

Water sprays fine droplets in the air, caught like diamonds in the glare of the overhead light which inexplicably has two plastic bags wrapped around the handles. The neck has nine rings like a rubber concertinaed robot arm and the fine mist of my own saliva and blast hose dampens my face.

Avoid eye contact. Don't look at her or the dental nurse. Think happy th---

"Sorry about that."

PHARK - that felt like someone had electrocuted my jaw bone! Best to focus on Nova - what auto-tuned dance song is on now? Can't hear it over the drill. Close my eyes or I'll see the reflection of my absurdly stretched mouth in their goggles.

Five songs have been played - what's that, fifteen or twenty minutes? My hands are numb, seemingly cemented together and I can't feel my feet. The pain is there, but in dull waves, easily bearable. It is only when a jet of water - or a slip of the drill - touches the exposed root or sensitive gum that I flinch inwardly. No sudden moves here - she has a hook in the other hand and the nurse is a stickler for the suction hose....

Remnants of the original Art deco cornices are decades older than the 1970s ceiling tiles; three elegant scalloped edges rudely cut into in places by the insertion of fluoro lights.

I'm only gonna break break break break your heart Taio Cruz warns and I try to lose myself in his bragging whine, hoping that he hooks up with the Beautiful Monster that NeYo tells us about immediately following. Who makes up these singers names and why....?

Scraping. Pulling. Picking. Stretching. Suction. Cutting. "Can you turn your head towards me a bit more?"

Despite the amount of use and the volume it produces, my mouth is actually quite small and the dentist works hard to keep it open wide enough when every instinct in my conscious body wants to clamp it firmly shut.

Rolls of foam are placed in between my inside cheek and teeth for working space; the suction pipe is now jauntily resting on the right corner of my mouth; three more rolls are placed up under my top lip giving me what I imagine is a frightened sneer and what feels like a fish hook is yanking my left side further open.

Five more songs - what's that, fifteen or twenty minutes? Katy Perry's suffered one hell of a hangover and someone's saying 'Forget you' when the ruder version is selling way more copies...... was that 'Sweet Tranvestite' I just heard, albeit in Glee style.... Oops, water just splashed in my eye.

"Sorry about that. Try not to flinch, will you?"

Four fillings later my mouth is finally freed, the forced Joker grin now a deflated dead caterpillar.

















Kelly's teeth are film star perfect as she hands back my credit card. I mumble something approximating 'goodbye' before she calls out with, "Kath come back, we haven't taken your bib off."

Drool pooling at the corners of my mouth, I complete the hour-and-a-half torture transaction with a 'Thanks' and a 'See you Later' without pondering the irony of it.