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.

Day Nine - Appreciative August

Amazing Adelaide

South Australia's capital is like the Jan Brady of Aussie cities. She gets unfairly compared and overlooked for Sydney (Marcia) or Melbourne (Cindy). She competes with neither but is the butt of both their jokes. She hasn't the traffic, crime or house prices of either, but has the weather, food, wine, festivals, quality of life and attitude that both would give their Harbor Bridge or dopey Docklands for.

My love for Adelaide - or Adders for short - is not just one-eyed favouritism from someone who's never lived anywhere else. I was born in Murray Bridge before arriving at the scary, big city of Adelaide to study and work before spending two years in London, six years in Melbourne and a couple in Darwin. We'd seen pollution, crime, over-crowding, poor house design, rough neighbourhoods, drug-dealings, vandalism and racism.

We returned back 'home' to South Australia and Adders in 2000 after Sapphire arrived - we needed family, familiarity, security, better jobs than the very few on offer after graduating and an affordable house in a decent suburb. We got all those things and more.

Adelaide is the kind of place that you find yourself stripping off to a t-shirt during a winter lunchtime, with crisp mornings and clear, clean blue skies. Gorgeous 19th Century wedding cake and bluestone architecture is on display right next to a so-called traffic jam on North Terrace which is directly in front of the beautiful Botanic Gardens which is in turn overlooked by patients at the Royal hospital. Not a bad spot to wait for my bus.

We have dog-friendly parks wrapped around the city mile and boats called 'Popeye' that punt up and down the river in an experience as endearing as it is daggy. We drink more flavoured milk per person than anywhere in Australia or the planet due to our magnificent Farmers Union Iced Coffee and go to great lengths to enjoy a good frog cake, fruchoc, pepper pasty or bee-sting buns*. Our beer is revered, as are the footy teams and our wines are quite honestly the best in the world. Let's not forget the chocolates made by Haigh's (adopted by intelligent cacao lovers in Sydney and Melbourne as well) or the Central Market for food as fresh and as varied as anywhere else in the world.

Adders can confidently host an arts festival the same weekend as the bogan-friendly Clipsal 500 car race with both parties meeting up for drinks and genial piss-taking banter in Rundle Street.

Our city only has a million people which means that you always bump into a friend of your parents', an old school mate, a work colleague or an ex-boyfriend every time you're out shopping in the Mall. It's the kind of place that has websites and facebook pages dedicated to Johnny, the speedo-and-gumboot wearing Aboriginal Mall Man, or to the 'Men in Black' cardboard cut-outs that have lived in the window of a house on Cross Road for a dozen years. We all go to see the Christmas display on every year at the West End Brewery and it was front page news when an unseasonal flood caused their wooden whale to take an impromptu swim further downstream.

Adelaide has suburbs where neighbours will take in your bins for you when you're still at work, drop a bag of lemons by the back door or offer to keep their car in your driveway when you're away. My 'burb is still a place where people nod or say "'Morning" when they pass by or tut-tut very loudly if any Maccas rubbish blows into their gardens. Any suburb worth its salt has a bakery and a coffee shop that only the locals know about, like a well-kept secret.

It's the city that extends from the hobby farms of the hills to the golden sands and seafronts and koalas can actually be found in the outer areas.

A mate of mine found one in the middle of Kensington Road during a downpour, all dazed and confused. Traffic duly stopped and a few car blankets were thrown over the muddled marsupial to load him into her car and to take him to Morialta. Another friend in Rostrevor has them snorting and barking in her garden, keeping her awake during their mating rituals. Still another has one setting up home under the decking.

We Locketts aren't quite in Steve Irwin territory, but have our share of Cockatoos, Rosellas, Galahs, New Holland Honey Eaters and Rainbow Lorikeets who love to rest and nest in the gum trees. Milly and I are regularly swooped by Magpies, but all is forgiven when we hear their strangely melodic "Bawdle Oodle Argle" song straight afterwards.

If we choose to, we can also visit the snobbier shopping and coffee strips to remind ourselves that there's some urban culture to be had, or head further east towards parklands, bushwalks and historic little towns. Or drive further out to Murray Bridge and beyond, where the rainshadow disappears and the grass turns to dust and Mallee and still be back home before tea time.

Adelaide - the only place where one city street can host a tattoo parlour, writing centre, mountaineering equipment, top restaurants and performing arts venues within the space of 100 metres. In fact, I feel like a Cibo gelati right now.......

* A traditional, German-inspired bun filled with honey cream and topped with streusel, NOT someone's butt after an attack by an angry hive.

Day Eight - Appreciative August

Milly

Love Chunks and Sapphire got heartily sick and tired of my rushing up to complete strangers (often quite scary-looking blokes) to pat their dogs and, four years after our blue-heeler Tess died, we decided to adopt another one. When I was chatting to a toothless homeless man and eagerly stroking his muttley dog's rather pongy coat, LC said to Sapph, "I think your Mum needs a dog of her own."

On the designated day, I was told - by my then five year-old daughter and my thirty-six year old husband that I was not to get too excited and pick the first canine my beady greens focussed onto. It was to be a dog that was child-friendly, not too large or energetic for a suburban life, not too crazy nor too timid was not to require any excessive grooming.

Plus - LC waggled his finger in front of my face to stop me interrupting - if the ideal dog was not found that day, then we would go back another time. And another time, if need be. The dog had to be just right for we three Locketts.

I nearly garotted myself on the seatbelt in my eagerness to get out of the car and inside the Sandy Creek Dog Sanctuary. It was smelly, noisy, chaotic and busy, and run by a passionate local family without any government funding.

One hand-painted sign said 'Grown Dogs' and the other said 'Puppies'. "Ooooh, let's look at the puppies first," and before LC could say, "But I thought we were going to see if an older dog needed a better home," he followed - Sapphire was being dragged along beside me.

And there she was. Our Milly. Shaking a little from the deafening barking all around her, but wildly wagging her tail and licking at our fingers through the bars. "This one, LC, this one!" I peered at the card. "Look, it's a female, she loves us and she's about the size of a coffee table! This one!"

With that, all-too-familiar, 'But Kath I Thought We Had Maturely Discussed This Earlier' look, Love Chunks took me aside, reminding me in a furious whisper that we didn't know anything about her background, how she'd behave outside of her enclosure or seen any of the other dogs needing homes yet.

My own invisible tail drooped and hid between my legs. "Oh. Yeah, you're right. Let's do the rounds then." But, like a good pair of shoes or a spouse's Christmas gift, it's always the first one you see, isn't it, but you still tramp up and down the shopping mall 'just in case' and end up right back where you started.

There were fully grown dogs that were all beautiful, but were too large for a suburban home and would be infinitely happier being told to jump up into the ute to get ready for a round of farm work. Others were cowed or nervous and needed a full-time carer to show them that not all people were evil. Still more were anxious, barking endlessly and too eager to jump and dominate. The puppies were all gorgeous. All energetic worker dogs though - kelpies, heelers, shepherds and dodgy mixtures of rottweiler and staffies.

Back to Milly. Again she made a beeline for our fingers, and we called a helper over so that we could meet her outside of the cage. Milly's exuberant tail wagging extended up to her bottom, hips, back and ears and she didn't jump up and scare our five year old child. She willingly sat and let a lead be put on, and we walked her around their garden, dodging the clothes dangling from the Hills Hoist. LC and I said it together, "Yep, she's the one."

Driving home to Trinity Gardens, the new addition didn't make a sound in the back of the station wagon, just looked out at the traffic and back over the seat to us, the three new humans allotted to her guardianship. "Dog, you don't know this yet, but you've just won the lotto", Love Chunks said, winking at me.

It's been the other way around really. She's been my faithful companion during runs, walks, book writing, computer work, reading, gardening, holidays, walks to and from school and at picnics. She's been sang to, danced with, kissed ("But Kath she eats cat shit, licks herself and then you kiss her"), videoed and cuddled. Even LC has held her lovingly in his arms like a newborn baby when he thinks I'm not around.

Milly very patiently endures the costume designs that Sapphire and her playdates inflict upon her but will not tolerate being laughed at or being made to wear her tiny Santa Hat on Christmas Day. She hides on bath day, yet has learned to include Skipper the bunny in her heart and daily rounds of licks and sniffs.

The vet assures me that our dog is a 'smiler' who easily reveals her emotions. She is utterly put out when we drive off somewhere without her and laps up the adoring pats and chats she gets from our neighbours, school children and friends.

She's featured on a few overseas doggy websites and garnered her fair share of online fanmail. She greets the postman, tradies and the Banana Blue man with a wagging tail and a lick of their shoes (and ankles, if there's skin on show) and sometimes - if I'm not paying attention - she'll zoom across the road to chase Andrew and Jill's cat through their garage and up the apricot tree. Andrew never gets angry; he's too busy falling about laughing, "That'll teach Tigga to sit in the driveway looking like a smug little bugger."

Even my parents - who have never been 'dog people' - have fallen for our furry little friend, a Jack Russell Corgi mix we jokingly call a 'Jorgi'. When we stay at their house in Victor Harbor, Milly has her own kennel (made by Dad, painted by Sapphire), lined with two leopard-spot blankets and a selection of chew toys, wooden sticks and tennis balls (some with sound effects when they're bitten into) to play with. She accompanies Mum during her pruning, watering and planting sessions, sitting or sniffing quietly next to her as a silent friend - there, but not demanding. When Dad's returned from fishing, Milly sniffs his sneakers, rods and the detritus left by the back shed after the haul's been gutted and scaled. A visit to Grandma and Grandpa is, indeed, as much fun for Milly as it is for Sapphire.

During my migraines or times of stress and sadness, she is a determined shadow. Sitting on my feet and leaning against my legs so that she's sure to know my next move and I'm assured that she's there and she cares. If migraines send me to bed seeking the darkness and silence, she sleeps for hours at my feet, stirring when I stir, licking my hand just once to remind me I'm not alone.

She's the find of our lives for only eighty dollars.




'Let me inside you meanies!'

Day Seven - Appreciative August

Gone Chocko

How can I NOT be grateful for chocolate, the most delicious and satisfying food developed by human kind?

How can I NOT be utterly thrilled to be able to legitimately buy it and eat it for 'research purposes' and even be able to claim it back on my tax?

How can I NOT be puffed up with pride at seeing my reviews on an international website and chat to the delightful Amanda Blair on radio about a topic so close to my heart?

I have my dear old Mum to thank for this life-long obsession with chocolate. In the 1970s there wasn't a huge variety about - Cadburys, Nestle and Smalls (whatever happened to them?) but every week at least one out of the three were on special. Mum would buy ten blocks at a time and hide them throughout the house - under her sewing machine, in the vege crisper, her bedside table and handbag, but wisely made sure to leave a few in the pantry cupboard to stop us from being suspicious.

On Saturday nights after we three kids had bathed (yes, in the same, Milo-brown River Murray water which youngest brother Dave would tend to wee in, so he was always the last one in), we'd settle in front of the TV after dinner. If it wasn't 'The Sonny and Cher Show' it was Davey Crockett repeats, Walt Disney Presents or some old Danny Kaye film. Mum would delicately peel oranges and apples and feed them to us in segments, which we loved. After all, fruit does taste better if someone else has done all the hard work for you. Then, and only then, would come the chocolate...

Mum -bless her sweet, sensible, intelligent, strong, decent and loving heart - was of the view that denying us chocolate was only going to make things worse, so we were always allowed to have a good share. I'm sure that it was a couple of rows each then, but for me, these days, it can range from 50g to 200g. Each day. Twice, sometimes.

I've had chunky Kit-Kats from vending machines for breakfast, Wagon Wheels and TimTams for morning tea, a king-sized Snickers for lunch, Lindt balls for that mid-arvo slump and whatever dark block is offered by Love Chunks after dinner. He's long stopped saying, "Oh, let's be crazy and have some chocolate, hey?" because it's likely to be my second or third helping for the day.

I could wah on about the endorphins and the good nutrients within chocolate and how the dark stuff supposedly lowers cholesterol levels and has loads of fabulous antioxidants, but who cares. I could also pontificate on about the quality of cocoa beans from Ecuador, Ghana and Indonesia, especially when hand-picked by Andeluvian village virgins dwelling on the south side of the rainforest mountains in an area revered for its lawlessness and purity of flavour, but sometimes a Cadbury Creme Egg will hit the spot as effectively as a chunk of Vahlrona.

What's important is that chocolate tastes great, is relatively cheap, very plentiful and won't hurt anybody but yourself if you develop an addiction for it.

Ooooh, time to wind this up - Whittakers' is on sale for $1.99 this week, and Coles has those dutch Pastilles for only 99c a box and dark M&Ms 400g bags are only two bucks.... Long Live Chocolate!

Day Six - Appreciative August

Sapphire

As Franzy has so insolently predicted with 'chocolate' (coming very soon, folks), my month would have a gaping hole with an bitter arctic breeze whistling through it if I didn't include my daughter Sapphire as one of the things I'm incredibly grateful for.

A few of you already know that she was a surprise packet. Having a brain tumour right behind my eyes that decided to create a new planet of prolactin and take on the entire endocrine system meant that I was less fertile than the Murray Darling salt pans and unable to bear children.

As Shakespeare would be inclined to say if he was living in our millennium, 'Yeah, right.' What felt like Langkawi Lurgy after our Malaysian trip in 1998 was actually the first stirrings of morning sickness. I'll never forget looking at the first of three preggo-testing sticks in bemusement, wonder, terror and utter excitement.

.......which was not unlike the Endocrinology unit of the Royal Melbourne Hospital, who then held a staff meeting to discuss how in the hell they were going to treat and monitor a medical freak like me. And get a paper published in the relevant journal.

After forty weeks, three days and twenty nine hours, eight pound Sapphire arrived at the Women's and Children's Hospital in Carlton. In the three days we remained in their care, I used to risk tearing out the drips and catheters when twisting to get a closer look at the tiny little being sleeping peacefully in her clear plastic tray on a trolley that masqueraded as a cot. How on earth had Love Chunks and I made something as amazing as this?

Perhaps being a medical marvel added extra lustre to her existence, because as soon as she was able to focus her big blue eyes, she'd look at anyone passing by and wait until they made eye contact. When they did so, she'd break into an enormous smile which made even the toughest bogan down at the Heidelberg West Mall go all gooey. Shop-keepers would serve us first and the chemist gave me all sorts of free samples after Sapphire seemed to be clapping at his skill in dispensing pills from his three-foot high counter.

We'd walk around the corner to childcare and the older kids (well, they seemed old, at ages 1 through to 4 compared to our then-nine month old) would rush to hold her, prop her up with pillows and see who could encourage the first of her many infectious giggles to emerge.

As a twenty-one year old smart arse, superior being, graduate trainee and general know-it-all, I swore that I'd never become a cliche or view married life in the suburbs as anything less than second best. The 1980s perming lotion must have curdled my grey matter, because every day since then - and especially since becoming a mother - I've realised just why cliches are cliches: they do happen; and when they happen to you, you notice it, appreciate it and learn something.

And so it has gone with Sapphire. Seeing her lift her feet right up under her nose when noticing them for the first time; her first real laugh, word ("Ess" for our dog, Tess), solid food (mooshed up carrot), steps and flower (she ate some of the petals before I could get to her). Her first day at school, tennis, karate, guitar, recorder, on rollerblades ("Be careful!") and on stage.

Even now, at age nine, she still likes to hold my hand as we walk to school together, looking at Glenys' lovely rose garden, the moggie who likes to sun himself on top of the wheelie bin and classmates who wave from cars passing by. We sing little ditties until she whispers at me to "Stop Mum, we're getting too close to the school now," or pretend we're speaking another language or accent. I nearly wet my pants last week when she did the best Mr T impersonation ever: "Get some nuts....fool!"

After school and after her chores are done - collecting the eggs from our three chooks (whom Sapphire has named Hermoine, Luna and Ginny), unpacking her bag, feeding the rabbit and setting the table, we both like to spend time in her bedroom. Bedrooms are, for most kids, their castles. All their very own in terms of decor, objects d'art, prized possessions and forms of entertainment. Sapphire is no different. Beanie kids, books, art works, tiny dolls' house furniture for her miniature stuffed toys, guitar, recorder and a teacup and saucer given by her Great Nana.

She has the 'Mamma Mia' soundtrack on the CD player, and her head is bowed over some notes she's taking on Eastern Grey Kangaroos for her class project. Skipper the bunny is in his box at her feet, nose continually twitching, Milly the dog is on the bed with me as I read a novel and automatically rub her ears.

"Hey Mum?"

"Mmmmm?"

"I love hanging around with you."

"Same here, sweetheart."

It's gonna kill me when she no longer wants to hold my hand, be seen with me or do anything other than grunt, "Nothin" when she gets home after school, so I'll make the most of the time I get with her.

As she's said to me on more than one occasion, "Mum, sometimes I feel as though I'm the grown up and you're the kid, especially when you say naughty silly things and eat Dad's chocolate."

Too right.

Day Five - Appreciative August

Saying "No"

On face value, it may seem as though I've wasted a large portion of the last two months for nothing, but for me it's been a good experience. On Friday, after trying to write two lengthy and detailed draft chapters and a proposal for a new book idea, I decided to say "No."

Too many print outs, half-hearted self-editings, re-writes, enhancing the premise, finding more case studies and dry statistics, re-examining my examples and modifying the messages was leaving me drained and distinctly unexcited about the time and energy it was taking.

So I said no. "No" as in, "I'm not enjoying this. It doesn't really enthuse or interest me and my heart's not in it." I was writing it for the wrong reasons - because the topic was a lofty one not discussed at length before; the subject matter would hopefully touch upon a few raw nerves of readers I particularly wanted to annoy; the siren song of the dollar signs (potentially) on offer by the publisher was particularly alluring and - being brutally honest here - I thought it would give me a bit more attention.

The relief I now feel at saying, "No thanks" is bigger than my arse was after twelve weeks of sitting down, eating a family block of chocolate each day at the keyboard with little exposure to sunlight or exercise whilst writing the first book. As for the attention issue, I'm getting enough of it by finally just being myself and not by the exhausting and pointless process of trying to convince people I don't care about that there is indeed a brain of sorts lurking beneath my chubbo-cheeky exterior.

Saying 'No' is part of the advice given to readers in 'Work/Life Balance for Dummies' as a way of freeing up time for better and more important issues, having more control in what happens in work and home time and even enjoying the thrill in surprising people who automatically assume that the answer will always be "Yes, of course I'll do that for you." How nice it is to be finally taking my own advice.

"Yeah, the school fete day is going to be great, but no, I won't be able to be part of the fundraising committee this year." Why - because I've done it for four years in a row and my time from 9am to 3pm this year is to be spent trying to cram in all the research, writing, photography, ideas development, reviews and radio opportunities I can.

"No, I'm not going to accept being unfairly insulted and instead keep reminding myself to 'not take it personally' - instead I'll cease contact with you and wait for an apology which is what I deserve." Geez it felt so good to be able to say that after being such a good, understanding and tolerant girl all my sensible life.

"No, I don't want to go to that function next week..... Why?.....Because I don't feel like it and would rather stay home." After uttering this one, I honestly thought a friendship was over, but it wasn't. They liked hearing the truth and in the end they too decided that life was too short to go out to an event on a freezing cold weeknight out of duty (how much handmade jewellery at born yesterday prices does a girl need anyway?).

And my current favourite: "No, I'm not working on that one anymore. I'm going to start the book that's closer to my heart and is one that I'm genuinely itching to write." The book that makes me sit up in bed at 3am to jot down an unforgettable line or makes me laugh when I'm on the treadmill, the toilet or poring over the newspaper.

Oh don't ever forsake the classic "No, I think the floors can cope without being vacuumed for another week. Let's go out for lunch instead. " This is an essential for us all.

Try saying it; you'll like it.

Day Four - Appreciative August

Renovations Wrapped

For anyone who has lived in a house whilst it is being renovated, the final act of completing the renovation is something to be forever grateful for. And to be proud of, for it is a brave act and one that tests the very core of any stable and loving relationship, including that of your bank account and ability to select tiles together in relative harmony.

We did all of that just last year. In the middle of writing my book at home, I had plumbers jack-hammering the cement floor out of our 84 year old bathroom (ironically during my section on finding time for yourself and learning how to meditate), a doorway being cut through a solid brick wall, internal glass and doors fitted, external french doors installed, wooden floorboards laid, underground rainwater tanks dug and buried, painters everywhere and the never-ending responsibility of making sugary and milky coffees for literally every tradie that stepped over the threshold.

We're happy with the results though:

In fact I almost feel as though I'm too daggy to live in my own home. My trakkie daks and ugg boots make the place look untidy, let alone my unravelling knitting bag, dog-eared novels, coffee cups, finger prints and pet hairs.

We no longer have dinner to the sounds of "KER-THUNK" as random chunks of ceiling plaster crash to the floor or trip over the cracked laundry tiles that used to fetchingly lead right up to the kitchen in a wet version of the Yellow brick road. Nor do we have the laundry loo door doing a great impersonation of a public toilet with a one foot gap at the top and the bottom to allow sound amplication and viewing to occur.

Our bathroom is tiny (being the original one from 1924) but is now modern and functional. No more 1980s pink-and-brass fittings with a bath that was wider the doorframe and included a shower so awkwardly fitted that you had to stand on the edge of the bath to get a decent soaking.

After a couple of months of streaking outside in the dead of winter to use the Bianco cubicle, we now have a seriously large-n-luxurious shower, a toilet (not there before, which meant my 3am twinkle used to involve a tediously long trek to the back of the house into the freezing cold laundry), a heated chrome towel rail (luxury!), massive vanity unit and mirrored cupboard and some towels that are so fluffy our floors still look as though a Yeti's chucked a tantrum in there.

Home, sweet renovated home. The memories of noise, expense, mistakes, cement dust, mud, plumber's bum cracks, missed appointments, swearing, SAFM at volume knob number eleven and warped boards are a thing of the past. Pretty much.

Day Three - Appreciative August

Flabby Fitness

If you ever clap eyes on my voluptuous, 70kg body it is understandably hard to believe that I can and do run three to four times a week at distances of 8 to 12 kilometres.

I've been running since a New Year's Resolution made at the end of 2000 and am proud to say that I've stuck to it since then. It started with an arthritic stagger around the local school oval. I barely made three laps (400m each) before limping home red faced and exhausted. A couple of days later, I was there again - earlier in the morning this time, to avoid the amused glances of teenage boys practising their goal kicking and curious dog walkers.

Eventually, three laps became four laps (2km), which became eight laps, then sixteen laps. Then I hopped into the magna and measured out a road course of 6km - up to Kmart, along Glynburn Road, down Magill Road, up Portrush and through Coorara to home. 6AM starts, four mornings a week, the colder the better. Decent running shoes, proper sports bras and an old polarfleece to wrap around my waist.

Six kms then became seven, eight, ten, twelve. This allowed me to see more of my neighbourhood and smell whether Robern Menz were making Crown Mints or Fruchocs on the days I swept past.

My mate Jill encouraged me to sign up with her for our first City-to-Bay 12km fun run. Shuffling along in the bright sunshine with thousands of other sweating, heaving bodies beside me was bizarre but fun, with the slappin' and thuddin' sound of many pairs of sneakers on the bitumen reminding me of a portable percussion section. My race time was one hour 4 minutes and left me bitterly disappointed and keen to get it under an hour. The following year I did it in 58 minutes and loved every moment of passing the manly men who rushed past me in their excitement in the early segments of the event. The fatchick was full of surprises.....

The farthest event I completed was a half marathon, or 22 kilometres. I'd run as far as 24km in my own training sessions which now required me to get out of bed at 5am in order to do a run, get ready for work, take Sapphire to childcare and be at my desk in fully stressed-out ambitious-arsewipe mode at 7:30am. Two of my toenails went black and fell off due to the constant banging up against the top of shoes and the blisters on my soles and heels turned into living Sara Lee advertisements: layer-upon-layer-upon-layer until they were leathery callouses. Such a lovely time to possess feet like Gordon Ramsay's face in an era of strappy sandals and painted nails.

The half marathon event was held as part of the Adelaide marathon but we halvers were definitely the poor cousins. Even our bibs were a different colour and we started from a lowly Bowls Club in Lockleys and not on the gracious green lawns of the Torrens River. I'd had an argument with Love Chunks the night before (over my workaholic habits, but more on that another time), and hadn't eaten dinner or slept at all well. He said he wasn't going to bother coming to see me finish; he'd had enough of my crankiness, stubborness and illnesses from overwork.

A 6am breakfast wasn't an option before such a long run either, so I was depressed, light-headed and leaden tired as I waited, shivering and nervous, with the other runners for the race to start. When the chubby guy with the clipboard finally said 'On your marks, get set, go!' somehow, my brain, lungs and legs slipped into their familiar rhythm and calmed me down. My wristwatch timed each kilometre, so I was in no danger of rushing early and crashing out.

At the 10km point just past the Brewery, I heard Sapphire's voice calling out, "Go Mum, Go!" Love Chunks ran alongside me, patted me on the back and whispered, "I'm so proud of you, we wouldn't have missed this for anything," and quickly clicked the digital camera before he nearly smacked into a footbridge. Tears of gratitude filled my eyes and the oldest cliche in moviedom came true for me - I ran faster.

Too fast, in fact. I had to stop across the way from the Red Ochre restaurant and throw up. My legs were quivering and my empty gut was aching from the strain. My vision was blurry and I wondered if it was safest to just give up and go home. An old bloke jogged by, saying, "Come on love, you're nearly there, run with me," and I did for a while. At the Convention Centre, Love Chunks and Sapphire were at the finishing line across the river. "GO KATH!" my bestest mate Jill called out across the water. "You've nearly finished."

"No.....I......haven't....." I gasped back. "I've got ............six more kilometres to get to the....... zoo, Hackney Bridge and back yet....." They were the worst. My body hurt so much I cried out loud and the tiny rises were like the sides of a never-ending mountain. The grounds and ovals of Adelaide university seemed pitilessly huge and the stench of dung from the zoo stung my nostrils, throat and lungs.

I did it though. One hour, fifty eight minutes. A piss-poor time - twelve minutes more than I'd done in training - but pretty bloody good for my first half marathon on no food and no sleep.

Since that event and our adoption of Milly four years ago, I've stuck to sedate, softer laps on the school oval. That was until earlier this year, when Milly was diagnosed with chronic arthritis and was forbidden to run again.

Now it's the treadmill, and Milly's puzzlement and disappointment has been replaced with utter joy twice a day when we walk to and from school to drop off or pick up Sapphire. She receives her lion's share of pats and attention from parents and kids along the way and there is sometimes a queue of adoring fans waiting to ruffle her ears before they leave the grounds.

In the glamour of our shed, I strap on my iPod-bumbag and run to nowhere. Love Chunks reckons that occasionally he hears me try to sing a few notes out loud, and these only serve to prove to him that I'm really truly running my guts out and not just sitting there reading a magazine. (He also reckons I should stop singing because it traumatises Skipper, our pet rabbit).

Most importantly though, running makes me feel good. I feel strong and fit and have occasionally shocked people who initially see my tubby self and then witness my physical stamina. It allows me to run after Sapphire when she rides her scooter to the park and sometimes even overtake her. I can kick arse at karate and even do as many situps as Damien 'Duracell Bunny' Sensei. It gives me some valuable thinking time and my best ideas have come during a sweat soaked session on my own. Just being witness to the pounding of my heart, the strength of my lungs and the willingness of my legs gives me a feeling that's as close to spiritual as a dag like me is ever going to get.

Now if only I could do something about the spitfire farting...!

Day two - Appreciative August

Top Reads

By 'Top Reads' I don't mean my family (although they're likely to become another topic during my self-imposed 'Appreciative August' blogging challenge), but books.

I've loved reading ever since I clapped eyes on J Eastman's 'Go Dog Go' and gazed in awe at the wonderful dog party illustration on the last page. I also wanted the little birdy to find out 'Who is My Mother?' and felt very sad when 'The Diggingest Dog' looked likely to be returned to the brutally cold cement floor of the pet shop.

Later, Mum found boxes of her childhood books from the 1940s, which I devoured. Enid Blyton (who I thought was 'Gnid' Blyton due to the weird signature logo she had on each tome) was very dated and English but anything the Famous Five, Secret Seven, folk from the Faraway Tree or Naughty Amelia Jane did, I read. Over and over again, blowing away the squashed, dried dead moths and dust from each page. I did wonder why the kids in her books were always really excited to be eating "Bread and jam, and lashings of ginger beer" for picnics or when they got an orange in their Christmas stocking, but the evil smugglers and nasty men who hung around in the darkness with torch lights and bad manners deserved everything they got. "Oh do buck up Timmy!"

University disappointed me greatly in terms of the 'literature' I was required to read (at breakneck pace, thus with no chance to truly enjoy or feel the beauty in any of it) and pontificate on uncertainly about each one in painfully hand-written essays for three years, so afterwards I sought out the novels that I had really wanted to read and learn about. Old classics were discovered such as Catch 22, Exodus, Shogun, everything by John Steinbeck, James Michener, PG Wodehouse, Thomas Hardy and the delicious intelligence of Jane Austen. Dad and I made a further connection through our love of the same books and I ventured further. Nabokov's Lolita, Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, Dickens, Anne Tyler.

As an adult, I frequented second hand book shops, book exchanges, libraries and stores. Still do. Norwood's Angus and Robertson has seen a lot of valued custom from my wallet. These days I'm even luckier. The kindly Redcap noticed my blurbings here and asked if I'd be interested in writing some book reviews for her paper. Would I.

I've read some fantastic books this year - two in particular stand out. Karen Maitland's 'The Company of Liars' (better than Geraldine Brooks' Year of Wonders) and Nick Harkaway's 'The Gone Away World' - like Douglas Adams and Frank Herbert had a love-child who was better than the both of them. What a pleasant way to call myself a 'writer', by reading some brilliant works by others.

Appreciative August

It's August now. Already. The eighth month of my 'Year of Yes'; my time to seize opportunities, stop being frightened and do 'em. Having my chocolate and eating it too.

In the spirit of the year for me so far, I'm going to do a post every single day this month - whether you like it or not - about the things I appreciate. It's so easy to knock the negatives and ridicule the obvious - they're my strengths after all - but to actually sit back and think about what makes me happy and grateful will be a challenge. Thirty days, thirty reasons.

Day One - Love Chunks

I fell 'in like' with him on the first day of uni in 1986 when he walked me there. We were both attached at the time so nothing eventuated, but I was pretty bloody relieved that he had his first O-week lecture at the same time I did, otherwise this clueless and frightened country girl would have ended up lost somewhere like Mile End, crying and wanting to take the bus back to Murray Bridge.

A couple of years later, single and on the hunt, I asked my brother - who was then LC's housemate - if LC would be interested in going out with someone like me. Rob instantly responded with "No way." Chastened, I left the party early. Little did I know at the time that big brother was being protective and hadn't even hinted to LC that his silly sister was interested.

In early 1993, I 're-met' Love Chunks when I was newly returned home after two years in London and he was in town for his sister's 21st. He was deciding whether to take a year off from the weather bureau to do the twelve month Graduate Dip Education (secondary), which, coincidentally, I had also enrolled in. He stayed in our share house (after all, he was Rob's mate and Rob was living with me at the time) and hugged me when he left for Melbourne a couple of days later. It was nice and I hoped that he would do the course.

He did and moved into the large house's empty spare room. A month later, he was knocked off his bike whilst riding down Magill Road. No broken bones but plenty of bruising. As he peeled off his shirt to show us, I was surprised at the thrill I felt seeing his chest rather than the sympathy or horror that would have been the more socially acceptable response. A week after that, with injuries and a groin strain from an old footy injury, he gallantly played tennis with me on the Salop Street courts and let me win. And gloat.

As I was about to go out with a girlfriend to see a movie that same night, he was to be found head-down/bum-up, scrubbing out the shower. When I got home a few hours later, we shared some cheap plonk and played a sodden game of Monopoly.

On the Monday, we shared the bus into town. Love Chunk's bike was still mangled and he was rather snazzily dressed for just a morning of lectures. He explained in great detail that he was catching up with his ex-girlfriend for drinks afterwards but that he was most definitely "Not interested in getting back with her, ever." Oh.....

On Tuesday, he asked me out for a coffee after our mind-numbingly useless 'History of truancy' lecture by a professor who looked unable to button his own cardigan, let alone teach teenagers. I went, heart beating through my stomach, palms sweating. Five cups of tea later, he asked me out. "Sure," I said, "How about this Friday?" We nervously touched hands and went our separate ways: he back to the Barr Smith for some study and me rushing to the nearest toilet before I exploded in the John Martins arcade.

Friday night date preparation was the weirdest I'd ever had in my life. No chance to fret about outfits or ask Jill - another housemate - for advice when the bloke I was dating slept about 10 metres away. In fact, I had to wait for him to get out of the bathroom! We drove in his poo brown Ford Cortina (known as Elvira) to the Norwood Hotel (now Finn MacCools) where we ate, drank, laughed, drank, drank some more and decided to walk home. As we sat in a booth I knew. I don't know how or why but I just knew. He was the one.

We were engaged six months later and married a year after that.

He's been my best friend, an endless source of kindness and strength. He makes me laugh and loves to become puffily pompous and chuckle at my childishness. His mind is a steel trap that loathes hypocrisy and dishonesty with a forcefulness that should be bottled, branded and sold to politicians, big business bastards and bullies everywhere. He can cook like a Michelen chef, yet loves eating his share of takaway pizza, crunchy potato chips and red wine. He can barely sit still as he curses the Adelaide Crows as they let the score ebb and flow, but his blue eyes twinkle like a seven year old's on Christmas Day for hours afterwards if there is a victory.

He has seen me at my very, very lowest ebb when I mistakenly believed that the world would be a better place without my presence and brought me back without judgement, guilt or anger. He empties my sick buckets during migraine times, rubs my back when insomnia wins and rolls over to let me borrow his warmth when I return, freezing, to bed after after a 3am twinkle. He was the first person to hold and feed our beautiful baby girl when she finally entered the world and proudly walks the streets nine years later holding her hand.

Grateful doesn't cover it - I'm well and truly blessed to have him.

Donger and Mudguts

My cyber-sister Baino was recently ruminating on the Aussie predilection to shorten everyone's birth-given name to a nickname.

If its not been given the big "O" treatment - Thommo, Deano, Baino, Robbo, Daddyo; it's the "Ee" ending - Ready, Barnsey, Millsy; or the US-influenced "Ster" finale - Rodster, Jillarooster or Kenster.

More creative nicknames have been introduced - 'Bluey' for red-haired blokes or the more modern 'Fanta pants'; 'Sticks' for a tall guy I used to pick apricots with; 'Mudguts' for another picker who was wider than he was tall and loved to sleep under his ute at lunchtimes; and 'Donger' for a young guy who..... well, I wasn't interested enough to find out.

Naturally, it sent my own mind a-musin' on some of the names I've been called over time. No, I don't mean those that have been yelled out at me from passing P-plated cars, fellow drivers or personal enemies; but those given to me in the normal course of life.

I was a chubby-faced baby, so my folks called me 'Bubbles' after an SANFL player who had the same feature. This 'endearment' still sometimes slips out of my mother's mouth at inopportune moments. One was when Love Chunks still just 'the boyfriend' and thus still on his bestest most polite behaviour with my parents and sleeping over in the boys' room when we visited their place. Mum slipped back in time over a decade and whispered to me, "Goodnight Bubblees."

Desecrating my rather nice full first name - Katherine to Kath-urine - thanks to little bro dave. There's not much I can do with 'David' in return, is there, so I just tended to call him a turkey. Dad's always fond of reminding me of the time when I was eighteen, and home from uni for the weekend. All he overheard was me saying to Dave, "Look, I've only been home for five minutes and I'm already sick of the sight of you, you turkey."

Bauble - this one I hated, really hated. This one was thanks to my bigger - and therefore stronger, cleverer and more evil - brother Robert, who likened the end of my nose to Rudolph's. He was right - it looked as though the creator had stuck a ping pong ball on the end of my schnozz and painted it a pale pink colour. At eight years old however, the moniker made me cry and I didn't yet have the mental capacity (or the physical speed to escape the inevitable dead leg punishment he would have dealt out) to call him 'Rob the Knob' in return or to make a joke of it before anyone else did.

Cackles - earned from my Dad, during my teenage years. Like most girls, I seemed to have spent all of 1982 through to 1986 laughing, snorting or giggling. Usually at someone else's expense. Sometimes 'Cackles' was shortened to the less-than-cute 'Cack' by Dad or any other member of the family whenever it suited. "Cack, where did you put the keys to the volvo?" or "Ca-a-a-a-a-ck, it's your turn to weed the gardens today."

With 'Read' as my surname, I got 'Katherine reads by the river' or 'Katherine is a reed by the river' for most of primary school. 'Read' was also a source of hilarity for my students in the brief time I was teaching high school English until Mark Chopper Read's infamy spread beyond those he, ahem, disposed of. Then it was 'Chopper' from then on. And no, he's no relation. That I know of.....

During one confusing week whilst employed as a 'Graduate Trainee' at the ANZ bank, I received three bunches of flowers delivered at work plus a visit from an interested suitor from the university across the road. This was the only time of my life that it seemed to pour men - normally they were few and far on the horizon. Despite this - and settling, eventually, for none of them - I was called 'Stud' for the remainder of my time at the bank. I still blush just writing about it.

Finally, when I got married to my super special squeeze Love Chunks, my surname changed to 'Lockett', so I went from being called 'Chopper' to 'Plugger'. Just as feminine and as flattering. *sigh*

Amusing eavesdropping

In a slight thematic continuation of the previous entry, I've overheard some choice snippets this morning as I was out and about in Norwood:

"Well only one of us here has had a vasectomy" - adult female to male in the Koster park playground whilst supervising two toddlers on the slippery dip

"I've picked you a banana and a pear from the gum tree!" - four year old to her nanny

"Is there any cappuccinos there too by any chance?" - nanny to four year old

"Her nose is stuck in your shopping bag, Nona" - grandchild to his grandmother after Milly ran out to greet them at our gate when I was looking through the letter box

"I ate three of these yesterday and want to eat three more today," - girl taking my loose change at Duffy's bakery, eyeing the mini caramel tartlets sitting between us on the counter (I bought a Farmers Union Feel Good iced coffee instead)

"Yeah but how low down is the love bite, Thommo?" - young builder bloke to another, on their way to the public toilets at the park

"I don't think she can claim for an entire block or box of chocolates - surely she only needs to taste a few squares?" - Ashleigh the senior accountant to Amy, my accountant, from behind the divider screen***

*** He later agreed that I could claim the cost of a full block or box of chocolates after I told him the process involved in writing a review for www.chocablog.com after the process was explained in more detail:

1) buy the chocolate

2) photograph it in it's entirety - ie still wrapped

3) unwrap it and photograph it from a variety of angles, ala food styling or edible porn

4) slice said chocolate and take more pictures to reveal the filling inside.

5) repeat step four with more chocolate if the attempt is crumbly, unattractive, sticky or the photo is blurred (as with all good porn)

6) taste the product

7) write down tasting notes, opinions on the ingredients, presentation, sheen, cocoa content, quality, marketing materials, packaging, information about the manufacturer and mouth feel

8) complete and edit final review article and send to website owner.

His summary: "You have a wonderful job!"