Running to London....

It's amazing what an extra glass of wine will do to your ability to think sensibly at a dinner party.

We were at Simon and Gianna's place and had enjoyed lots of laughs, fantastic food, hilarious conversation and a few bottles of wine.  With our dogs snoozing under our feet and placing a deliciously-stinking cheese platter on the table, Simon said, "I've just got confirmation that I'm in for the London Marathon next year."

We - of course - drank to his health and willingness to run his FIFTH marathon in a decade. We drank again to his bravery and a third time to agreeing to meet him at the finish line in front of Liz and Phil's house at the end of the race. Following those three quick glassfuls, my brain had lost the ability to censor my mouth and I heard myself saying, "I'd like to run it too."

So, on the 5th of October last year, I decided that the best way to make a vague idea firm up into a public commitment was to post it on Facebook:

Kath Lockett

October 5, 2013 · 

This could rank up there with one of the dumbest things I've ever done (and it's a long list) but I've signed up to try to complete the London Marathon in April 2014. I'm aligned to a charity so that it not only benefits them but adds a big element of responsibility and risking public shame if I don't do my best - http://tinyurl.com/pcyttyn

Most of you know will know that I'm a plodding old treadmill runner who not only prefers the privacy of staying at home but also the vague attempts at keeping some of the cocoa-butter away from my thighs.  Sometimes, however, yearnings are harder to shove aside than a Lindor box, and this particular yearning to do a marathon was starting to become louder and more urgent. Youth had slid away long ago; family issues in Australia had been hurtful and disappointing; and working (mostly) from home meant that there was no excuse about not having the time to train.





















My little brother David - a marathon survivor and triathlon regular - gave me his timetable of runs, as did my best buddy Jill.  I also searched online to find other 'beginner marathon' lists, averaged them out and developed my own.  Maths, people. Not my favourite subject but useful when it comes to spreadsheets, diary planning and run scheduling.

Each run - the date and distance - was recorded in my little paper diary.  In green pen, so that it stood out among the blue and black appointments.  The aim was to have four entries in per week with the end total slowly increasing.  Every Sunday as I'd turn the page over, I'd (mostly) smile at the achievement.  




















Pointless? Possibly.  Vain? Definitely.  Lonely? Too bloody right!

As the treadmill moved from its locked-state of 6km slowly upwards, maths became even more important.  10.5 kilometres is one quarter of a marathon..... Fifteen kilometres is 5/14th of a marathon... How the hell would I be able to generate the stamina and willpower to run the remaining 9/14ths?  

Trust was key. My trust was placed entirely in the gathered wisdom of the all-holy running timetable, now reverently covered in a plastic slip to protect it from sweat stains.  Some easy runs, some scary long ones; some slightly shorter runs: all helped take the decision-making and potential for procrastination out of my hands. If the timetable had a particular number under a particular date, then that was all there was to it.

 

Music was vital.  Out on the roads, I'd never have anything clamped to my ears as it would be far too dangerous to not be able to hear oncoming traffic or the world around me.  But when I was staring at my bedroom wall from anywhere between 36 minutes and three-and-a-half hours, it was the songs that prevented my mind from convincing my body to stop and to instead stagger (and fart) along to the beat.

At any given time, there were three layers of blisters on various parts of my feet, but my toenails stayed on. This was NOT the case ten years earlier when I lost two of them during my one and only half-marathon attempt.  That was the same race that had me throwing up at the 15 kilometre mark and swearing never, ever to attempt anything further than a fun run every again......

By the time that half-marathon and twenty-something distances were reached before Christmas, the treadmill died.  It was still under a service agreement and was surprisingly (it's Switzerland, remember) affordable to get a new running belt and motor.  The mechanic was impressed: "It's not often we get a treadmill that's worn out before its warranty has ended."  My vanity level soared sky high until I realised that my stomach rolls were still very evident and still prone to unravelling each time I bent over to untie my shoes....

Despite my distaste and avoidance, it was time to do some 'street' runs.  These were more nerve-wracking than increasing the distances as I worried about looking and feeling vulnerable, uneven footpaths, crossing busy roads, dodging walkers, prams, snogging picnickers and the biggest dread of all - running uphill.

Love Chunks had a route that involved a nice run downhill towards the lake, then along the foreshore, through the park and up towards the Botanic Gardens.  

The horrific hill climb commenced as the track wound past the reindeer enclosure, making its presence more painfully felt when passing by the flamingos and spotting the rebel peacock strutting his stuff by the woodpile.

The hell increased many more times as I staggered my way past the World Meteorological Office to the UN headquarters, wheezing so loudly that tourists taking photos of the flags were given plenty of time to step aside and let the dying lady through.  

It was only eight kilometres back to home, but the height increased as it evilly turned left past the Korean embassy, along the side of the Hotel Intercontinental and a final nasty hill through Petit Saconnex before my stinging, sweat-filled eyes spotted our building in the distance.

We spent Christmas in New York and when booking I made sure that it had a treadmill that I could use....  The Caribbean cruise we went on after New Year's had an enormous gym and using a treadmill on lolling seas added an extra dimension of difficulty.

Love Chunks accompanied me on my first long street run.  He made an absolute mockery of my months of training when he not only ran his usual 8km, but then accompanied me on his bike for the second 8km and then ran the third 8km again on foot.  I was incredibly envious and more than a little insulted.  He was - and is - naturally fit and does ride his bike to work, jogs as often as he can and works out at the gym, but surely he should not have been able to bounce through a 24km session and still be able to cheerily chat to me with barely a wheeze throughout it all?  Cocky little git!

The week after, he was keen to do it again.  This time, he wasn't so lucky, pulling up with a very sore ankle after the second round.  I gulped my water and Gatorade and left for the third round.

"You could have waited for me," he sulked. "I was out there HELPING you."

It was my turn to flare up. "Nope, no way. I have worked my not-inconsiderable arse off for ages on my OWN doing this, and the training schedule is MY schedule. You either keep up or you don't."  I'd never be as fit or as thin or as fast as he was, but the plodding regularity meant that my joints and muscles were used to the distances and could handle it.  It was on that day - although not fun for either of us due to having that argument - that I knew I'd be able to do this.

My beloved running timetable worked and I managed four rounds of his 8km route on three separate occasions.  'Andrew' the peacock was less scared each time I passed by his hangout by the woodpile, progressing to standing in my way during the last lap.

Running 'in the thirties' is only recommended two or three times in marathon training, and even then, no more than 32km.  "Any longer than that and you're just trashing your body," Jill told me. 'Trashing' is a polite way of describing the bone-jarring, shattered feeling of knawing, clawing exhaustion that pounded in every cell of my body after those efforts. The entire day was given to running - and then recovering - from 'the thirties' that resulted in the sweat drying on my face and turning into finely powdered salt to moaning in the bath and wondering just how I was going to lift myself out of it.

Carbo loading used to be a week-long phenomenon back in the 1980s, but these days it is only recommended as a mere three day fest.  Despite this, it was particularly enjoyable to inhale spag bol for dinner on Thursday, leftovers for Friday lunch and bread/fondue entree followed by steak and chips for dinner.  

Apart from the off-putting sounds of my greedy eating, the week leading up to the marathon was a quiet one - only two x 3km runs.  On the other hand, the sweat levels were as high as any of the longer, harder runs.

My heart rate had reached 172-180 BPM and didn't go much lower in the week leading up to my flight to London when I wasn't running.  This was making me more nervous than my wedding day.....

Corporeal Contraptions

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

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

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

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

WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chocolate, coffee and wine help too.

November Knob head?

I'm an idiot.

Most likely very arrogant.

Undoubtedly vain.

And incredibly optimistic.

I've decided to have a go at National Writing Novel Month or NaNoWriMo for short.  November has been allotted for all aspiring novelists to vomit up at least 50,000 words by the end of the month.  Really it should now be called International NoWriMo because it has spread way beyond the US and has done so for a number of years now.  Never mind; I'm wasting precious time....

Word count is key: not editing or quality or re-writes or second - let alone final - drafts.  

As the (old and ageing) Princess of Procrastination, InNoWriMo (as I'm now going to refer to it) might be the only way that one of my three ideas for a novel gets done.  The one I've selected is not likely to bowl anyone over with surprise or knock 'em out with creativity or insight, but somehow seems to be the one that's been calling me over the past few weeks; begging me to give it some time and effort.  

Of course, this ridiculous challenge falls within a month of appointments, commitments already made, floors so filthy they crunch when you walk on them, Love Chunks being overseas for two weeks and thus conferring temporary Single Mother status on me and ..... Sapphire's stomach issue rearing its ugly, unwanted and undeserved head again.

The pain, exhaustion and white-faced fatigue has returned for her.  Three days off school so far and a few minutes ago she went dejectedly back to bed, knowing that unless a miraculous turnaround occurs tomorrow she won't be cooking my birthday cake or having her best buddy over to stay.

In fact, when Elmo is invited into her bed, it's clear that she's sick. Not that she'll let me show you the photo I took which would have left you with a much nicer visual image to continue your day with than the mental nightmare of me being handed a pair of sterilised rubber gloves and a syringe by the doctor in order to obtain a special 'sample' for the Zurich clinic that left both Sapphire and myself horrifed and doubled over laughing at the same time. "Good!" I gasped, "Stay that way and make it easier for me!"

Results come back next week and, until then, I have a poorly teenager and a dog who is already bearing the brunt of said teen's handiwork:

Wish us all luck....

Carrefour, chicken breasts and cat crap

Mr Migraine is having his monthly visit but this time he hasn’t left after his bog-standard three days.

It is Day Four now and, unlike human house guests, I can’t blow my nose in the shower because the noise and reverberation – enhanced tenfold by the high ceilings and tiles stuck to the roof level – makes my brain cry, then swell and finally pump out a rhythmic heart beat of pain that sees me doubled over and able to touch my nose to the Jovial Douche label on the shower gel bottle.

Still, it’s a Wednesday and it’s been a while since I’ve tried to depict what an average day for a work-from-home freelance writer involves.

Of course, there isn’t really an ‘average’ day. Factors such as how many jobs I’ve bid for versus how many additional queries from potential clients need to be responded to compared to how many jobs I’m currently working on + scheduled Skype calls + new jobs won + repeat clients x those who email me rather than apply via the online agencies – freebies for friends divided by a truckload of procrastination.

So here goes.

6:45am - The alarm on my digital watch goes off. Peep-peep twenty times until it gives up. No snooze or repeat on this little thing. I can hear LC in the shower and Sapphire’s toilet flushing. My head hurts and I don’t move.

7:00am - Trouble is, my watch has two alarm settings, so 7am goes off also, peep-peep, twenty times. I get up, slide on the wedding ring and watch, take my Effexor and put on my Dog Clothes. At the first clink of the house keys, Milly scoots in; tail thumping against the bedside table. We take the elevator downstairs to give her ten minutes to wee, sniff, poo and scamper in the Dog Forest before a bowl of Migros-brand Matzingers and fresh water.

7:10am -  Love Chunks hands me a coffee which helps wash down two Exedrin migraine pills that a friend smuggled to me from the US. My face slowly feels as though it is starting to unfold itself.

7:40am -  We take the elevator downstairs again, but this time we’re two floors underground and walk past the eerie cement-lined bomb shelter, strangely singing overhead shower pipes and wind tunnel whistles. Milly’s ears flatten until we reach the car.

7:53am -  Arrive too early for Sapphire to walk into school and goof off. I love these seven minutes. She’ll point out kids in her class, kids in her creative writing club and teachers as they pass. If I can make her laugh just as she’s closing the door and saying goodbye, I superstitiously feel it’s an omen for a good day.

8:00am -  Find a parking spot right in front of the Japanese embassy. No doubt my ensemble of bed hair, cornflake eyes, dragon breath, ancient running t-shirt, trakkies and thongs aren’t seen too often in these parts.

8:30am -  Milly’s now securely behind the bathroom door, whining. “Misty.... Misty......Misty...... where are you sweetie?” I’m feeding a four year old rag doll cat who lives in the apartment block next to the embassy but she’s not showing her face. Her poo, on the other hand, is on proud display in the foyer, on the bottom step of the spiral staircase, in the laundry and, finally, the kitty litter tray.....

9:00am -  Back home, I bathe my arm. She managed to swipe me one after letting me think that she wanted her back stroked.  Drew blood, the little bugger.  Her farewell was a glimpse of her arse before it disappeared under the double bed.

10:00am - At Carrefour supermarket, five kilometres over the border in much cheaper France. Freshly showered, hair still wet and grasping a badly written shopping list. For some reason, the tune of the 1970s US sitcom Happy Days gets played at thirty second intervals which doesn’t help make the fading effects of the Exedrin any easier to take.

11:00am - Two trips from the car, through the two specially-locked garage entry doors, the swinging saloon-style elevator doors to finally arrive at our double locked front door – and back – with the groceries. It’s my own fault really. The Siege Mentality is strong within me – why buy two tins of tomatoes when you can grab four packs of three? Two measly bottles of diet coke when 24 cans are within easy reach or a litre of long life when eight are already plastic-wrapped with a convenient carry handle?

12:00 midday - The chicken breasts are marinating, cous cous is completed, the rice salad is cooling and the groceries are unpacked. Milly and I go down to the recycling bins across from our building – directly in front of the Qatar Embassy – and get rid of the cans, bottles and plastics from a week of 13th birthday celebrations. Back via the Dog Forest, where Milly gets to leave another large piece of herself and greet the Schindler’s Lifts blokes as they sit on the edge of the flower beds smoking.

1:00pm - Right. Today’s work. But not before I read my emails and see what some of my favourite bloggers are up to. Might as well eat lunch too. And a second coffee wouldn’t go astray.  And the dark load is ready to be hung out. Or draped, really, on the chairs in the spare room and the IKEA clothes rack by the pantry.

2:00pm -  Writing time. Honestly. I’m in the ‘final eight out of 50 applicants’ for a local copy writing job. They’ve sent me an assignment to complete by the end of the day in order to see what my brain and typing fingers can create from a make-believe micro-needling procedure that needs to be pretend-advertised. Boooooring. Somehow I find myself crouched on the floor, my eyes staring into Milly’s as I sniff her lovely soft ears and kiss the top of her head....

2:20pm -  DO IT. It’ll take TEN MINUTES and then press ‘send’ and forget about it!

3:00pm -  Okay, so it took fifty minutes and most of that was spent trying not to retch at the words selected and the sales techniques employed. Prostitution by keystroke; not helped by Mr Migraine bursting through again.

3:15pm -  Look at yesterday’s Skype interview notes with hot Melbourne chef and his new company. Realise that, at forty three years of age I should be able to understand my own handwriting and home made abbreviations by now.

3:30pm - Click the ‘x’ in the top right hand corner of Google Chrome, Explorer, Email and Spotify. Take two more Exedrin.

4:00pm -  Finish chef write up and email to him for comment.  

4:05pm - Sapphire arrives home from school.  Needs to use the computer for homework.  From the fart at my feet, Milly's ready for a walk and I'll quickly reply to some emails.  The father of the student I started tutoring yesterday is happy with his son's feedback when he got home last night.  I write back in sensible language about the teaching strategies I'll be using whilst mentally hoping that he doesn't find out that the good report is probably because I gave his son diet coke, made him laugh and said 'shit' a couple of times .....

4:30pm - "Mum pleeeeease can you get off the computer now. You've had it ALL DAY."  Yes but now the muse is kicking in - the website update for the Arizona blokes' restoration business is almost writing itself and the HR article for Canada is flowing, baby, flowing!

5:00pm - "OK Sapphire, it's all yours."  Love Chunks is bringing two work mates home for dinner and the living room is orange with Milly's dust bunnies and Sapphire's breakfast croissant crumbs.  Time for a quick vacuum, rearrangement of the wet washing and assembling of salad and more fresh raspberries to artfully scatter over the supermarket bought tart.

......11:30pm - With guests departed, table wiped down and dishwasher on, I realise that Sapphire's left the computer on. Check emails and freelance accounts one last time. Ghost writing book job is mine.  Press release position is mine.  CV editor, website copywriter, proof reader, online researcher, expat tutor and corporate report writer jobs aren't.  Probably a good thing really; where would I find the time?

FA

I’ve mentioned a long time ago that my very conservative Grandmother used to say ‘fiddle arsing’ in ignorant bliss when she meant to describe someone who was not concentrating on the task. Procrastinating, if you will.

I’m terrific at both. Fiddle arseing (is ‘arseing’ spelled with an ‘e’ or without? ....... see what I’m already doing here – I’m putting off writing this blog entry...) about the house and procrastinating are my usual modes of operation, especially when there’s actually some paid work to do.

Before you all groan and say things like ‘but you were only whingeing a short time ago about how hard it is to find work and now you’re blowing your opportunities by wasting precious mental energy on whether there’s a bloody letter E in ‘arseing’ and if cyberspace was truly elastic I’d reach in and angrily flick that bulb on the end of your nose until your eyes water......’ - let me reassure you of something.

Somehow – despite the rare skill of expertly hanging out THREE ENTIRE LOADS of washing inside a small apartment, cleaning the coffee machine, walking the dog, eating Sunday’s leftovers, going for a run to nowhere, chatting in broken French to the Fratman, taking the wine bottles to the public recycling bins and trying to ignore the disapproving stare of the old lady with just three tins to contribute; sneaking in an old episode of Antiques Roadshow, chasing up an old medical account with an insurer who only answers phones between 9-12 on weekdays and even then has an answering machine that says, ‘Our lines are busy. Please try again later,’ and fishing out 52 retro French magazines from the papier skip before photographing and putting them up for sale on ebay – I do manage to do all of my freelance writing gigs on time.

To be honest, it’s difficult to explain or pinpoint exactly how this is done.

Milly is the self-appointed rest-and-recreation director. Her wet nose is subtlely jabbed into the part of my back where my top has ridden up against the chair revealing 'the computer worker's jean cleavage' of bare skin. The end result is that I jump up in shock and we head downstairs for a quick sniff and wee (her), and a stretch and deep breath (me, but not near where Milly did a wee).

Back upstairs, emails are read, saved to draft, responded to, received. Job boards are scanned, applied to, Skyped and accepted. Online research is done, albeit liberally peppered with side clicks to cute animals, videos of people falling over and shameful Hollywood gossip. The printer jerks into action, whining and blinking; loose leaves floating haphazardly to the floor if my attention is on numbskulls in front of paparazzi instead of the numerical order of pages.

Phone calls are received and made - usually whilst walking through the house sipping coffee, enjoying the view of snow on the Jura mountains and pushing in the dining chairs as I pass.

The screen saver slides into action when the mouse is left idle and my head is drooped down reading something on paper. I look up and instantly get lost in a fog of nostalgia at old holiday snaps, images of a baby Sapphire surrounded by ancient Tupperware lids floating in the bath, Love Chunks holding up a freshly caught fish at Victor Harbor and dinner parties long past. Who stole the rose out of my bridesmaid's bouquet and stuck it in their.... and then photographed it.....??

Hang on, my ears feel blocked. A quick visit to the bathroom for a cotton bud excavation turns into a long one as I then clean my fingernails and examine my face for new wrinkles and – these are new and now obsessively sought – sun spots. Age spots. Liver spots. Two of the evil splodges have recently appeared and my hooded, sagging eyes are on the alert for more. It used to be that adopting a facial expression of suspicion would eradicate any crows’ feet but now all that happens is that they shift to my forehead and turn my mouth into a child’s drawing of the rays of the sun emerging from a puckered up pencil sharpener. The room echoes with a final duck quack fart as I remind myself to get on with the article due by close of business their time which is, well, an hour in our time and one that I oh-so-confidently assured them I had oodles of experience and knowledge on.

Sapphire arrives home from school, unfortunately in one of her eager-to-talk moods. The days when my fiddle arseing has been at prime level are never the days she wants to flop in her room on her own and decompress. We chat and I make her realise that it’s our pets who get the best greetings in life. “Think about it, Sapph. Every time Milly walks into the room, we all go gooey and coo, ‘Helloooooo there, sweetie’ but who does it for us?”

Diet cokes now consumed, she heads towards the study.

“Hey hey HEY, you can’t go on Skype or Minecraft, I have WORK to do!”

“Well, tell me when you’ve finished then, as I have a English essay due,” she huffs half-heartedly. With Milly at her heels and an episode of ‘Take Me Out’ waiting on the telly, she’s not exactly devastated.

And that is when I work. Forty minutes before Milly’s pre-dinner Dog Forest poop-and-patrol and Sapphire’s daily cyber appointment with her Minecraft Mates. I attach, click ‘send’ and lean back in the chair, sighing in fatigue and satisfaction.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll get it over and done with early. No housework; searching for sun spots, general goofing off or time wasting. Tomorrow it'll be different.

Then again, that’s when the flea market is open; Anita wants to meet up for lunch; an interview request has just been emailed and I might have a re-think about the novel that was started a couple of months ago and set aside......

Ends. Candle. Burning.

After resigning from a misery-making job before Christmas, I was left wondering just what in the hell kind of work would suit me and if we'd be able to do much more than pay for food and shelter and keep the old car running.

Three months later I find that The Fledgling Novel has not been touched since January. This might not be a bad thing. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. I managed to crap out 27,000 words in January and got some valuable feedback from two trusted sources that both offered very similar and very useful advice.

The amendments and refocus are still simmering away in the back of my mind but I'm working part-time now.

It may seem as though I have the luxury to pay a few bills and write The Foolhardy Novel but it's actually three part-time jobs. Two involve writing (and payment) and one involves childcare. I'm discovering that I enjoy all three equally, with skills and observations gained in one easily transferable to another. Tantrums and tiredness are constants in all three.

Job Number One is on a sorta trial basis until 30th June. Extension beyond that is reliant on a new round of government budget planning and whether they like my work. I've signed a contract of confidentiality so like the dentist who brushes his teeth on the old Oral B adverts, I can't show my face (or reveal my employer) on television (this blog).

Some of the writing involved is mundane but most of it is uber-current, frequently thrilling and needs a bit of investigation and consideration. My alarm starts pinging and it leaves me wondering where the past seven hours have gone. Not for long though as the second job starts - after school care for a seven year old, A; who has added a surprisingly happy spring into Sapphire's steps.

And mine. We no longer fling our bog rolls and cereal boxes straight into the recycling; they're saved for the days we have A and are usually cut up, drawn on, painted and liberally covered with sticky tape. Scrap paper is always sitting in a ready pile, along with permanent markers, pencils, magazines, string and wool. When snacks are consumed and they need a break from sedentary activities, both the eleven year old and the seven year old grab their scooters. I click Milly the dog's lead onto her collar and we all head out to the nearest school: a heavenly slab of scooter-friendly asphalt and concrete.

The third job is home-based and childless but the subjects that have been mine to write about have increased in scope and interest this year. Who wouldn't want to find out why an engineer has become a children's clown who spends more on make up than his wife? Or an Iceland-based sheep farmer who is doing ground breaking chemical research in Australia?

Around this we coordinate Sapphire's home work, music lessons, running, general housework, GoneChocco reviews, socialising, litter ninja duties and running the tennis practice session and game days. The 'effin Novel is transferred to a data stick and taken from job to job in the unrealistic hope that there might be a snatch of time to have a review. When I last looked, the USB had a stray tic-tac stuck to it as it lay nestled and forgotten at the bottom of my backpack amongst the pens, plastic bags and umbrella cover.

I'm spending more time on the 59 tram, the phone and with a notebook in my hand. Sapphire woke up the other morning and said, "Oh today is when A comes over, isn't it? They're my favourite days. I can have fun and be myself and not worry about anything."

Eight hours and two jobs later, Sapphire and A are at the outdoor table, papers, paints and pens covering most of the surface. Skipper the rabbit sniffs and hops around them, seemingly interested at the cardboard 'cubby house' they've made for his enjoyment. He cheekily hops over and takes a sip out of my glass of water as Milly nudges my thigh to remind me that she's still my number one animal and needs her ears scratched.

A's head is bowed over her paper in concentration. "This is soooo awesome!" she exclaims to herself.

Yes, it is.

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.

Never Never Never













Blogger Tensile Times has snaffled a topic that I'm going to snaffle in turn. I might be getting more lines on my face than Bart writes on the blackboard and wisdom surely follows but there's a heap of things I have never, ever done.

These include:

1. Never seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show all the way through from start to end. We could only see snippets of it through the curtains at Philippa's house when it was on at the Murray Bridge drive in and were often trying to teach ourselves how to smoke her father's stolen rollies at the same time.

2. Never shoplifting anything. I once walked out of the newsagency with a packet of post-it-notes in my hand after paying for a paper and a magazine and, after realising dashed straight back inside to pay for it, face a flamin' with shame.

3. Not one bone in my body has ever been broken. In my forties I am of course very grateful for this but as a kid I was very envious of the ones who'd enter proudly on crutches and get us all to sign their casts. Pain yes, but Fame - oh yeah.

4. I have never been to America and I want to. Badly. Same goes for Japan, China, all of Scandinavia, Canada, Vietnam, Thailand, Singapore, New Zealand's South Island and Poland.

5. I have never enjoyed watching Australian drama. Okay, maybe 'The Sullivans' but that's because it was Mum's favourite show. Everything else has always looked badly lit with corny lines and actors that I remember from 1970s soaps or dodgy home cleaning commercials. I have also never seen a single minute of any of the Underbelly shows.

6. I have never won first prize. In anything.













7. I have never been called slim. Instead I'm asked to help shift pallets of bricks, throw a mattress over the fence or consider being a surrogate so as not to waste those child-bearing hips of mine. No-one has ever said, "Oh sit down and eat, you look like you'll fade away." Maybe in a dream once and then it might have been John Cusack who said it.

8. The law and me have never been on opposing sides. There's been no unwanted ride in the divvy van, no official warning, no stern talking to. A red light camera caught me once, and that was when Love Chunks was rushed back to hospital after severe and unexpected bleeding and I was just a tad worried for him and keen to see where he'd ended up. Still had to pay the bloody thing though.

9. I have never enjoyed camping, as Love Chunks and Sapphire sadly know. It's rather ironic that one of the best sources of camping gear is from a shop called KATHmandu because I'd rather eat my own arse than willingly visit there.

10. I have never written a novel (but am trying to now).

And here's a bit I've added. What I'll never do again:

a. I'll never drink cheap brandy again. In fact I'll never drink brandy of any kind again. An eighteenth birthday party in 1986 is not a dim memory even 25 years later and the nausea is rising just typing this sentence.

b. I'll never wear high heels anywhere where actual walking and standing is required. This includes speech nights, weddings, Melbourne Cup shindigs, parties or even from my front door to the car.

c. I'll never litter. Rubbish can always be shoved in my backpack or a pocket.

d. I'll never eat three entire birds' eye chillies on a drunken Margarita dare ever again. Patrons at the Adelaide casino do not need to be treated to the sight of me licking a marble column in an effort to dull the throbbing burning heat.

e. I'll never get a fish tank. The little buggers die all the time and flushing them down the toilet or feeding them to the neighbours' cats doesn't seem like a respectful way to finish off their short-lived, decision-less existences.

f. I'll never get into the political arena. No, not for the usual reasons of the ridiculously long working hours, the stress of making decisions with taxpayers money and the constant sniping by critics but due to the cartoons they're likely to draw of me in the papers. As if my nose, chin and arse weren't big enough, but to have Tandberg and co exaggerate them...... ~shudder~

g. I'll never eat pate, liver, kidneys or pumpkin. There are so many other ways to make me miserable without getting my mouth and stomach involved.

h. I'll never stop sniffing Sapphire's hair.

i. I'll never cease wondering just how the hell I managed to snag a bloke as decent as Love Chunks.

j. I'll never stop trying to see the funny side of things. If I don't, the Black Dog comes to visit and he's rather too good at highlighting pessimism, despair and worthlessness.

Finally, what I want to do:

1. I want to speak another language. I just need to decide which one. Perhaps 'American' should I ever get there.

2. I want to have a novel published.

3. I want to be able to walk from the pool changing room to the edge of the water not like a self conscious scuttling crab but with nonchalance and confidence. Even if feigned.

4. I want to develop bionic-style achilles tendons so that my running days continue.












5. I want to inhale chocolate without earning a cholesterol level of (currently) 7.4.

6. I want to earn a reasonable income doing something that makes me happy. So far, I'm part of the way there.

7. I want the media to have a total ban on anything relating to Matthew Newton, Lindsay Lohan, Mick Molloy, Underbelly anything, Shane Warne and Liz Hurley. Oh and if Andrew Bolt's blog suddenly disappeared into the ether life would be a lot better too.

8. I want to win lotto without having to spend $14.40 every week.

9. I want to see Sapphire have a happy year at school with a growing confidence in herself and her perceptions.

10. I want Sapphire and Love Chunks to feel as proud of me as I am of them.

What about you?

Droopy

Love Chunks and Sapphire have gone camping. Because it was booked a while back when it was assumed that I'd be well into my full-time job and not have any leave, I wasn't part of the holiday package.

When I quit, I decided to remain a non-camper because the thought of spending six nights in a tent in a crowded caravan park at the height of summer and having to queue for a shower and make sure I didn't drop my knickers on a wet floor festooned with pubes and tissues wasn't going to convince me otherwise. Plus, it'd give me a few luxuriously-empty days to do a bit more work on The Novel.

And I have done some work, the emphasis on some rather than heaps. None of it is particularly literary or engrossing but the effort right now is just getting it down; sometimes an entire chapter and other times a mere idea or line destined for another section of the story entirely. I'll then sit outside with a coffee and Skipper the rabbit in my lap and wonder if it's interesting, realistic, funny, heartfelt, compelling, page-turning enough.... The trouble is I honestly haven't a clue. Like everyone else, I know a good book when I read one but am finding it impossible to distance myself from the words that are flying out of my fingertips. All previous knowledge of structure and character and plot have escaped me.

Vomit it out, get it down and only think about logging off when you're happy with the word count for the day has been the modus operandi.

But all this free time has made me a bit droopy for my two favourite humans when the computer is turned off and my mind has to focus on what to cook for dinner. No, I'm not pining for Love Chunks because of his cooking skills but am sadly aware that, on my own I degenerate straight back to the carelessly slapdash meal preparer that used to live in a one-roomed bedsit off Baker Street in London twenty years ago.

How does home made potato wedges and tomato sauce sound? Okay but a bit plain? Well I then followed it up with a 'salad' that consisted of half a cucumber and a small head of cos, both eaten separately and whole. Dessert was half a bowl of orange-flavoured jelly and a blackberry yoghurt with a use-by date of December 29th.

Dinner the previous night was a pasta disaster that consisted only of a tin of chopped tomatoes, four mushrooms, half a green capsicum and an ancient tin of mussels in barbecue sauce. It tasted as bad as it deserved to taste, the crunch of each poorly-cooked capsicum a direct contrast to the rubber of the oversized sultanas that were masquerading as seafood.

Monday was the highlight - pea and prawn risotto with a fresh salad (in a bowl and everything) with balsamic and smoked garlic salt. But that was only because my friend Amanda was over for dinner; the following morning it was back to saladas for breakfast, Cadbury creme eggs and coffee for lunch. While she was there we each had a glass of good and earthy McLaren Vale cab sav and, three nights later, the bottle beckoned to me.

Hell, I needed it to wash away all lingering tastes of the mussel mess. Tennis was boring, the computer was off and my shoulders hurt from being hunched over it for too long and 'Are you being served?' was not an option. It was time to bring Skipper in to play on the rug.

Milly licked his ears and let him sniff her in turn, an impressive display of self restraint and generosity for a dog who chases birds and cats with automatic vengeance and no willingness to be called to heel. The wine was flowing a treat and, the merrier I got, the funnier I found it.

The evening was warm and it was time to get up and refill my glass. Skipper was stretched out on the floor, his legs behind him which meant that he was feeling comfy and not worried about predators. Milly's nails clicked as she trotted into the kitchen with me. Wine, boredom and loneliness meant that it was time for a song.

Grabbing her front paws so that she'd dance with me, I began:

Her name was Milly she was a showgirl
With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there
Milly merengues and does the cha-cha
And while she tried to be a star, Skipper always tended bar
At the Copa - Co! - Copacabana
The hottest spot north of Havana
At the Copa - Co! - Copacabana
Music and passion were always the fashion
At the Copa....they fell in lo-o-o-o-o-ve......

"Er, Barry Manilow? Um are you there, Kath?"

Oh staple my butt to an anthill and smear my cheeks with chocolate: I'd left the bloody front door wide open to allow the non-existent cool breeze to flow through the screen and Kerry from next door was on the front step having just been treated to my loud and rather enthusiastic performance. Sheepishly, I walked up the passage. "Er, hi. Yep, it's me. What can I do for you?"

A couple of minutes later I shut both doors and went into the bathroom. Spots of red wine were all over my white Che Guevara t-shirt and my teeth and gums were black from the tannins. Several fine rabbit hairs were wavering from the tip of my nose, catching the light just so.

It was the only time in my life that I hoped someone could tell that I was drunk.