I'm baaaaack

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

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

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

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

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

A blow up Crows doll? Out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why indeed.

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

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

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

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

Barmy Army

Yay, my book is now available in the UK - woo hoo!

It'd be nice if I currently possessed the mental capacity to express my delight in slightly better English but my brain is currently firing about as fast as a cockroach in cold porridge.

There's been a few too many items on my 'To Do List' (which I've enjoyed ticking off as they're completed, being the Conscious Dag that I am) such as selling the trailer, drinking excessively at farewell dinners, finding a temporary home for the dog and the rabbit, dropping off donations to a garage sale fund-raiser, keeping some other items to haggle and eventually sell to a local furniture dealer and sneaking around the neighbours' wheelie bins to slyly insert our own excessive amounts of rubbish and recycling.

Dagginess has been multiplied by one hundred as we wear undies that will be thrown into the bin rather than the laundry hamper, tracksuits barely held together with ancient elastic, stinkingly sweaty Crocs, dodgy old 1990s concert t-shirts and towels that even the dog sniffs at in interest.

I'll log on again when we arrive in dear old Melbourne. Yep, there will still be blurbing from the burbs, just a slight change in state (geographical and perhaps emotional), post code and house size. So give us a friendly wave if you see an old station wagon swimming in sausage roll crumbs and iced coffee cartons and two tired adults, a blonde-haired angelic child (who will hopefully not throw up on the back seat or splatter it towards the front console), a smiley orange dog and a nervous white rabbit.

River Rocks

River has been a regular and most welcome blog commenter and I've had the privilege of meeting her in person a few times. She is warm, gorgeous, kind and the kind of mother and grandmother we'd all be thrilled to have in our lives.

I saw her the other morning power walking to the supermarket as I was running down Magill Road, trying to convince myself that street running - with car fumes, the occasional rude 'call out' from fat mini-van drivers and dangerously trippy tree roots - was better than my treadmill.

"RIVER! Hey, River!" We had a chat, me wiping sweat from my brow onto the bottom of my t-shirt and she asking me about how Sapphire was coping with the move. "I'd like to send her an email, just for her," she said.

And she did just that, except now I want to share it with you all. You truly rock, River!

Dear Sapphire, you're moving soon.

Moving is hard, saying goodbye to home, school, friends, more so when you've been there for so long.

You watch all your things being packed away into boxes, the furniture gets loaded into a huge truck, you wonder if you'll ever see your stuff again. You will.

You'll have tearful hugs with your friends, and promise to remember them forever. You will. Do you have photos of your friends? Have each friend write a message on the back of their picture, something that you won't read until you are in your new home.

You'll walk around inside your empty house and hear the echoing footsteps you make. Take a little time to remember the happiest moments you spent in each room. Take photos if you can, of the boxes piled up ready for the truck, of the empty rooms and how the sunlight looks different now that there is no furniture. Stand a while in your most favourite spot and say goodbye, crying a little is okay too. It's a big moment.

The new house at first will be strange, walk through the empty rooms if you can, and notice that all empty houses don't sound alike. Find out the quickest way to get to the toilet, very important.

Find your new room and stand there, just feeling it. Picture where you'd like your bed to be. Which wall will hold your favourite posters. Look out of the window and wonder if there are any kids of your age in the near neighbourhood.

The fun starts when the truck arrives, (maybe it's there before you, waiting) you watch furniture being unloaded, you spot things that are yours and know that your treasures have arrived safely. Do you rush to open the boxes? Do you wait until your bed is in place? Waiting to unpack is always hard for me, I don't know about you. (One of my daughters always wanted everything back the way it was as soon as possible. The books in the shelf and on the lefthand side of the bed. The toy box under the window so that she could sit on it to look outside on rainy days.)

At first it may be hard to decide where things will go, the room may be shaped differently, you might wander outside to think a bit, cry a bit, wish you were back home again. But the new house will soon feel like home, every time you come and go, from shopping, school, playground, it will be easier to think of this new house as home. Tables and couches will get settled into their new positions, all of your books and toys, your guitar and beanie babies will be there to welcome you home just like they always have.

Having breakfast with mum and dad will be the same, Weetbix tastes the same in Melbourne as it does in Adelaide. You're sure to find friends quickly, one of the best ways is to find the nearest McDonalds and go there for lunch in the first day or two when you are all fed up with unpacking stuff.

By the time school starts again you'll have friends who are going to the same school and who were there the year before so they can show you around. Then you'll bring friends home, bring them to your kitchen for snacks, sit on your bed and giggle about stuff that happened that day, you'll be making wonderful new memories here, and you'll realise that you're just as happy as you were here in Adelaide.

You'll smile at your mum, she'll smile back, and you'll realise that as long as you three are together any house you live in will be home. Think of the fun you'll have telling your new friends all about your old friends, think about phoning or emailing grandpa and telling him how funny skipper was hopping all over the new house, how funny Milly was trying to sniff everything at once in her excitement.

A move is not such a bad thing after all. And Melbourne is a nice place to be. I've lived there twice.

From River.

Thanks mate.

2009 - Year of the Conscious Dag

You know, even though I tend to lean towards self-deprecation and can see the zits, wrinkles and baggage under the eyes that remind me clearly enough that I'm now stepping gingerly (and hopefully wisely) into my fifth decade, a tiny part of me still hopes that I'm not classified as 'daggy'.

By 'daggy' I mean in the unconscious sense. Unconscious dagginess can result in people in the street (or your own household) seeing you and sniggering behind their hands at your peculiar dress sense, tastes in enterainment, childish food fetishes or unfashionable footwear. The type of unaware dagginess that produces snorts of derision from folk who'd rather laugh at your innate uncoolness than tell you about it.

That said, I don't consider anyone (including myself) to be daggy if they are fully aware and proud that what they do, eat, enjoy or participate in is unmistakeably daggy but they love it anyway. Being conscious of your dagginess instead confers a small shade of 'cool' on you, because being passionate about something - no matter how fuddy duddyish it may seem - is always cool.

So, I'll be brave and admit that the things that make me a Conscious Dag include:

Chatting to strangers on public transport. Yes, I'm the weirdo that everyone hopes won't sit next to them.

Abba (got all their albums). Even the shocker solo ones by Anna and Frida.

Wearing Crocs. Yes, the bright turquoise ones. Sometimes out beyond my own house.

Still buying, eating enjoying that plastic wrapped cheese that is more plastic and preservatives than lactose and cows' milk. Especially tasty with saladas and Vegemite.

High waisted undies. Only so that my stomach doesn't roll over and give my profile an extra boob-shelf or nose.

Continuing to use handkerchiefs. Dunno why really, except that they at least prevent the 'tissue snow' debris from appearing when doing a dark load of washing. Plus I have a very loud, honking noseblow that I've inherited from my parents. Come Christmas time when we're all in the same house together we resemble a herd of lost and distressed elephants.

Eating Wagon Wheels, handfuls of marshmallows (pink ones), tinned spaghetti on toast and spoonfuls of Milo straight from the tin.

Watching Ferris Buellers Day Off, Sixteen Candles, Planes Trains and Automobiles, The Sure Thing, This is Spinal Tap and The Breakfast Club two decades later. Still wanting Jeannie's reebok ankle boots, Molly's boyfriend, every soundtrack, John Cusack and still crack up at seeing Ruprecht in 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels'.

Making lists and actually using a red pen to 'tick off' the items completed.

Adding the dog's name to any song that springs to mind and serenading her with it several times a day. Recent classics have had Milly's name inserted in Copacobana (Her name was Millsy, she was a showgirl); Mamma Mia (Milly Mooster! Here I go again, Mi-lly, how can I resist ya?); Strangers in the Night (Milly Molly Moo, Milly-mol-moo-yooo); White Wedding (Hey little Millstone what have you done?).

Eating an orange every single day for breakfast.

Sweeping every single bark chip (kicked out by busy blackbirds) back into the flowerbeds; placing the pile of magazines on the coffee table at right angles that directly relate to the orientation of the rug underneath and the lounge nearby; wiping the toothpaste spots off the mirror the same day they were made; and de-fluffing polarfleece. Hanging my washing so that the underwear is furthest away from the view of our living room and in order of family member for folding and putting away-later purposes. OCD, moi?

Ensuring that I have at least two tins of peeled tomatoes immediately in waiting behind the tin about to be used (same goes for tubes of toothpaste, iced coffee cartons, sweetcorn and bags of fresh carrots). I blame it on my ancient Scottish ancestors who were clearly seige survivors.

Laughing at poo, bum and wee jokes. Reducing intelligent dinner party conversation to poo, bum and wee jokes.

Kissing Skipper the rabbit on the lips.

Oh I could go on and on and on....and might do, at least once a month!

What are your consciously-daggy pleasures?

Sweet Relief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now sit right back and you’ll hear a tale; a tale of a fateful trip….

My best mate Jill is a power-walker extraordinaire. Put it this way – she’s already worn out her hips and she’s only forty; lesser walkers who are only doing it to catch up on their way to a coffee shop are left floundering in her wake; no-one in living memory has been known to overtake her; and every kelpie or blue heeler she's ever owned has slept for days afterwards.

So, when she asked if I’d like to do the climb from Waterfall Gully to Mt Lofty I was honoured, somewhat nervous, ready to gracefully accept an arse-kicking and said, “Yeah, I’ll meet you at your house on Monday.”

We drove in Jill’s car to the Waterfall Gully car parking area and set off. Jill had those ski pole walking stick thingies in anticipation of the climb – and descent – ahead of us. I completed our rather dorky look by wearing a bum-bag* so that we had somewhere to put the keys and a bottle of water.

My running and power-walking on the treadmill helped me keep up and we passed many a struggling walker. We were Women On A Mission: to get to the café, enjoy the view, congratulate ourselves for possessing such strength and fitness, have a coffee and get down again. It was about five kilometres each way and equaled a solid, hour-and-a-half workout that would have our thighs and buns burning for days afterwards.

And it did……

We powered on and up, passing amateurs such as the Burnside Bendy Wendies who were all about the make up and jangling charm bracelets heavier-than-their-heads than doing any real exercise. Or the North Adelaide Nigels who were convinced they still ‘had it’ at sixty and a slow walk up a big hill wearing shorts with waistbands under their moobs plus a black Cayenne would convince the rest of us; and the Cuddly Couples who started the journey holding hands but flung them away as soon as the sweat started pouring and He realised that She lied when she wittered on about ladies only glowing when they in fact sweat like virginal ruck rovers during a SAPSASA under-seventeen footy match.

Jill sighted the white observatory first and planted her foot proudly on the benches overlooking the city of Adelaide. “Drink it in, Plugger. Soon you’ll be in---“ she could barely bring herself to say the word out loud “----Melbourne and will dreamin’ of seeing something as beautiful as this.”

I drained my much-re-filled Mt Franklin bottle** and said, “Yeah yeah, let’s get a coffee and have a wee before the downhill run, eh?”

You know when you’re served by one of those sullen-faced, will-not-smile-even-if-you-smile-at-them-first-AND-say-a-heartfelt-thank-you types who sometimes work at cafes? Well, we struck one: a clear case of the ‘My job as a barista would be sooooo much better if there weren’t any annoying customers to deal with’ young gal with a monobrow to rival a Gallagher and an expression darker than the brown shirt she was wearing to partially disguised the chocolate powder spills on her front.

“Here’s your bigo cappo Jill, no thanks to Chuckle Trousers over there,” I nodded back over my shoulder in the direction of, yes, Chuckle Trousers. We then passed a few companionable minutes talking about the worst customer service jobs we’d ever had and how we’d vow right on that very spot that we’d never, ever volunteer to man any kind of front counter, enquiry line or FAQ update ever again: “We’re forty, we’ve done that and now it’s our time to hide in an office somewhere avoiding anyone we don’t like.”

All too soon it was time to trek the five kilometres downhill. Jill’s poncy ski-pole walking sticks came in handy. As she discovered rather painfully a few walks ago, there’s nothing fun in sliding down gravel and sticks a hundred metres on your arse clad in nothing but lycra to make you realise that those plodding pensioners with poles were onto something good.

By the time we returned to the Waterfall Gully car park we were both drenched in sweat and dying for a drink. So keen were we for a drop that we actually dashed into the dreadfully decrepit public toilets, had a slurp from the taps and got ready to leave. With unconscious confidence and faith, I unzipped the top flap of my bum-bag.

No keys. I unzipped the lower segment.

No keys.

“Did I give them to you, Jill?” I asked calmly, patting myself down in the vain hope that my leggings might reveal a secret pocket containing a set of commodore keys.

“No, you pompously said, ‘Give those to me to hold, young girlie, I’ll keep them safe and you’ll have your hands free’ and then you put them in your bum-bag.”

Oh. Poo.

“Oh Poo! They must have slipped out when I got the water bottle out.”

“And where was that?”

Oh Poo Bum Bugger Shit Fart. “I errmm,” I used my sneakered toe to bashfully scuff the ground between us. “I um, saved my drink until we got to the very top.”

Jill started to laugh. “Well, let’s contact 'ol Chuckle Trousers at the café and see if she’s found the keys there.”

It took several minutes of discussions and giggling to work out how we were going to find the number of the café that we didn’t actually know the name of. It was with a great sense of relief that I realised that I’d actually remembered to bring my phone (bottom flap of bum-bag) and rang Love Chunks at work, asking him to google the café and tell me the number. “Call it out to me and I’ll write it down,” said Jill eagerly, grabbing some old cigarette butts and preparing to scrawl out some numbers in ash on the cement.

“Jill, sweetie? Love Chunks reckons he can just SMS me the number, so you can put the fag ends down.” She looked a tiny bit disappointed to me.

Chuckle Trousers soon confirmed that yes, the café had found the keys. Jill frantically tapped me on the shoulder, miming out the following: “Jill walks up here every Monday and says there are loads of regulars whom she sees who doing the same trek who also stop and have a coffee there and they all look kind, trustworthy and helpful. Could you possibly find one and give them our keys and we’ll meet them halfway up?”

Sounded like a PLAN!

“No.”

Oh. We shrugged and started the hard climb up to Mt Lofty for the second time. Two kilometres into it, we were sweating on top of our old sweat and encountered a Cuddly Couple we’d greeted coming up on our way down. They were impressed.

“Crikey, you girls are fit!” the guy said.
“Yeah, we’re gearing up for Kokoda,” Jill shot back.

Just as it appeared that he believed us, my inability to lie took over. “No, not really. I left the car keys up there and we have to go up there to get them.” Their mocking, self-righteous and - quite frankly - cruel and insensitive laughter echoed across the waterfall.

Halfway and my nose was nearly touching the dirt in my efforts to keep pushing upwards. Jill was wheezing (when she wasn’t laughing) and we stopped. “Why don’t we climb back down, hang around the car park and ask someone for a lift back to Glynburn Road, then we can walk back to Erindale, grab my car, drive up to Mt Lofty, get the car keys, drive down to the car park so that you can get your car and I’ll meet you back at your place?”

Sounded like an ever BETTER plan!

We poled it on down, and hung around. Not a friggin’ human soul within Coooee and I fancied several tumbleweeds rolled by. “Well, let’s keep walking and maybe stick our thumbs out.”

"Or our bums, if it helps."

Eight more kilometres later and no cars willing to pick up two extremely BO-ey, irrationally laughing and singing women, we staggered into Jill’s front garden. “Thank God,” she sighed, “My hips are killing me.”

“Yeah and I’ve got blisters on top of my blisters that have already filled up with blood and popped and the skin’s gone all white and wrinkled and then folded over to tear into some undamaged skin to let it sting like salt and razor blades have slashed it only to allow another new blister to appear underneath it and----“

Jill held up her hand to stop me going further. The other was reaching high up above her head to where the house key was supposed to be hidden. “You’re not going to believe this, but it’s not there. Bloody kids know they have to put the key back when they use it. That’s IT. I’m going round the back to kick the door in.”

I scurried along beside her until we passed by the open bathroom window. “Jill, stop! JILL! Your bathroom window is open, look! We’ll be able to climb inside.”

Stopped in her tracks, she was silent, but scarily determined. “Stand back Kath, this won’t be pretty.”

But strangely, it was. She’d managed to wedge her left leg over the windowsill so that it rested on top of the cistern inside, and her right leg was splayed behind her; looking for all the world like a hurdler caught in ultra-slow motion. “Shit, I can’t get my head in!”

It was my turn. This time I shoved my sweaty scone in first along with my right leg.

Sper-loonk! The lid of the cistern was disturbed, flipped sideways and my foot landed in the toilet water. I ignored the urge to go “Eww eww eww” and surveyed the scene inside. Lifting my foot out of the top of the toilet I aimed for the basin and edged forward, bringing my back leg inside. All that was left outside was my oversized arse, like a dark double moon, in navy blue lycra. “Hey,” Jill commented, “They’re Nike leggings. They’re nice. Where did you get them?”

“Um, it’s escaped me right now, mate, maybe it'll come back to me in a minute.” I had visions of smacking my face on the basin or headbutting the bathtaps. In the end it all happened rather quickly: my newly-inserted left leg slipped alarmingly quickly down the edge of the bath and my right touched the floor giving me a reverse wedgie that reminded me all too much of the rigours of childbirth. “Fark!” Then, in a more surprised tone, “Hey Jill, I’m IN!”

Once again, she almost seemed a tad disappointed. Writing with cigarette butts and kicking in doors were clearly on her ‘Must do before I die list’ and would now have to wait until later. She looked happier about things after we’d both had three heavily buttered slices of fruit toast and two cups of tea each.

My arm pits were starting to honk. “Geez Jill, I stink. And – god love you – so do YOU.” I glanced at my watch: 2pm. What was going to take us an hour-and-a-half straight after school drop off took five hours.

And it was the most fun I’d had in ages.

* Bum-bag - Yeah, I know, it's not 1990 any more and Collette isn't ringing her bell these days either. But they're really handy to put your iPod, car keys, phone and water bottle in. So there.

** Every six months or so, I'll buy some bottled water. Grudgingly, and only because the one I'm currently using has become so manky that even I'm embarrassed by it. Then I'll rinse and refill the new one over and over again until it's time to replace it. So there again.

Blunk Drogging

Sapphire's at her friend's 10th birthday sleepover party and Love Chunks left a few hours ago for Melbourne leaving me as the only human being at home for the second time since Sapphire entered this world purply-blue, too exhausted to cry and with a slight red mark across her face due to the doctor's rather rough and ready use of the forceps.

It's a lovely summer night here in South Australia. Calm, quiet, warm and the ants - bless their busy little bodies - have finally stopped working and gone to bed.

I figured this out because, as the lone human in the house tonight, I sat outside on our lush green lawn* drinking our leftover Rose and trying to soak in the peaceful atmosphere despite being bitten on the earlobe by a mischievious mosquito. No ants came to attack my glass or my person which is unusual here - normally they're all over the dog's crunchies before I've finished placing her dish on the pavers.

Milly is gnawing away on a lamb bone; the one with the weird circular knob at the end which presumably means it's a thigh that fits into a hip bone. Skipper the rabbit is nibbling at the grass and occasionally standing on his back legs to dramatically sniff the air and the chooks (Hermoine, Luna and Ginny) are gleefully pecking at the fresh handfuls of grapevine leaves I've thrown into their coop.

The Rose tastes especially fruity and sweet this evening and I have another. I lie back, spilling a bit down my front but who cares I'm not out to impress anyone with my table manners, smoking hot body or witty banter this evening, and I look up at the sky. No stars out yet, just a few streaks left from some stray Qantas carriers and some tardy rosellas heading back to the hills, squawking their version of the days' events to each other.

I sit up awkwardly to keep sipping the wine. No house sale yet, just three interested buyers who are either:

a) trying to figure out if they can lose our clothesline, vege beds and chook house and put an in-ground pool in there instead;

b) still grappling with the bank to work out how they can arrange finance between themselves and their grown son who will live here; and

c) nervously awaiting a contract of offer on their own house and for the two days 'cooling off' period to have been and gone before doing anything about ours.

Did I say already how truly excellent, really excellent this stuff is to drink? No? Well it is, believe me, I'll find out the brand and maker and get back to you. Anyhow, as for the house sale, I'll believe it all when I see some names on a goodamn contract and the completion of the stupid cooling off days...... Bugger, my ear is really starting to itch and it's hard to do so with these pesky gold hoops in.

I might jusht go inshide and get another glassh of thish wonderful roshe.....

Oops, dropped the glassh. It'ss out here shomewhere...... Maybe I'll jusht go back inshide and shtart doing that inventory thingy that the removalishts want ush to do. It'sh the perfect time and I feel jusht ssssho alert and organished for shuch a reshponshible tashk......

*Calm down: it's watered by an underground dripper system via the rainwater tanks.

UPDATE - there's an upside to being old, at home alone and a ridiculously cheap drunk - the 'hangover' was over and done with way before my 10:30pm bedtime!

If you're not doing anything of value today at 2pm, South Australian time.......

....and you're suffering from that mid-afternoon, slightly sulky, 'We didn't have a Christmas lunch to go to today' slump and are feeling like a bit of something sweet to go with your staff kitchen International roast or lipton tea, then feel free to turn on your radio or visit 5AA to hear me chat with Amanda Blair and Monique Bowley about my most favourite food group - chocolate.

Or the narrower topic Christmas chocolate, if the planned discussions go according to plan, which they almost never do.

If you're feeling even more slumpish but still possess enough energy for evil-doing, give me a call during the show to start up a debate about the relaunched Cadbury Old Gold Range, or why in gods' name we don't get Whittaker's 62% dark with Cocoa Nibs here in Australia and surely Wagon Wheels are smaller than they used to be? And other such thought-provoking and socially-essential questions that will only make the challenges of mankind much easier and lighter.

"Wordfire With Franzy And Mele Was The Greatest Night Of My Life......"

....is the title hinted at by Franzy as one I should use in today's blog article. I thought to myself, "Self, it's as good as any, so why not?"

In fact, this year has given me more than my fair share of ups and downs and I'd like to hope that next year is a tad more Even-Steven because even an overly-caffeinated crackhead with a middle ear infection can tire of an endless rollercoaster ride loosely termed as normal life, but, and yes, this sentence will end pretty soon, through this humble blog I have had the honour of meeting some truly amazing people that it is very likely I would never ever have had the good fortune to meet otherwise.

And thus, Monday night found us packing young Sapphire off to her mate Maya's for a Monday Night Sleepover. This was not difficult; in fact it was about as difficult as asking Pamela Anderson to not wear pants because a school night sleepover is waaaaay cool. Love Chunks and I then made the momentous decision to take the bus into the city so that we both could drink. I know, could us young kids be any wilder and crazier?

That's right dear reader; we were Out There in the heavingly busy Adelaide social stratosphere, on a weeknight. Together. Not at a school meeting, karate class or sitting in the park while a stranger was having a second look inside our house but going to a real social event. And that event was Franzy's Wordfire at the Crown and Sceptre.

We almost ended up at the Club X peep show for a moment there. La Trattoria has a take-away pizza and gelati shop on one side and a sit-down restaurant at the other and let's just say that the staircase in the middle leading skywards was not where the wood-fire oven was located. LC did a passable impression of being puzzled that this was not the case and seemed contented enough to move back to the left and order a marinara and cold chardonnay.

A little later, we walked through the front bar of the Crown and Sceptre, feeling a bit stalkerish, nervous and well, kinda old and daggy. What were sensible, forty-something suburbanites like us doing in a pub on a Monday night? What on earth were we doing going to a literary event when, at times, The Sunday Fail was difficult to interpret? Why had I bothered to put on mascara?

All silly worrying for naught. I recognised Franzy straight away, even though he was sporting an approximation of a beard and not wearing his yellow clogs - perhaps they weren't the most appropriate footwear when reading an excerpt from an almost-finished book and then having to step down from the podium with confidence and grace. His wife, Mele, was also recognisable from Franzy's blog about their wedding photos but looked even more beautiful. To top it all off, I saw Myninjacockle rock up - broad grin, coke in hand and clearly just as excited as we were to be out on the town long after the demise of the 4pm express bus time. We sat next to Franzy's folks (just as cool as I'd imagined) and heard their progeny and progeny-in-law read. Both were brilliant and made me realise yet again just how much talent there is 'out there' and how lucky I was to have just witnessed some of it.

All too soon the readings were over, and a nervous musical threesome called 'Blind Mary' were about to make their inaugural debut. I really should hunt them down (in a nice way) and sincerely apologise to them for chattering on throughout their rather lovely traditional Irish set - Love Chunks tells me that I earned some - wait for it - stern looks - from fans of Blind Mary sitting up the front who wanted me to either shut up or jump through the window. I chose the latter option so that we bloggers could shoot the breeze outside. Besides, the window didn't have any glass and it was relatively easy to climb through and not spill a drop of wine doing it.

Irish fiddle-de-deeing about suffering through the potato famine and a broken heart would just have to wait for another day - I was just too thrilled to meet two of my utterly favourite bloggers and discover that they are just the kind of blokes I'd want as friends in real life. Oh and the same goes for RedCap and Ashleigh too. At the insanely late hour of 10:30pm Love Chunks and I reluctantly headed for home - we had an early start in the morning - via the 106 bus.

What a bugger I'll be leaving South Oz for Phlemington next month but thank God (or the banana) for the blogosphere, email and the occasional crazy airfare sales.

Humphrey B Bear's rightful address

On Sunday Sapphire had her music teacher's student concert at a location which sounds as though it really should be the address of a non-threatening, cute (and mercifully mute) children's entertainer like Humphrey B Bear - Cudlee Creek.

This is not to be confused with another cute-sounding place located in Victoria - Dingley Village; which might in fact be better suited to providing employment and lodgings to failed reality TV show contestants or retired university administrators. However, at Cudlee Creek tavern yesterday, they were clearly happy to put up with Coopers Brewery mis-spelling their name as 'Cuddly Creek' in order to score a free blackboard.

It's the kind of pub that reminds me of the very few meals we ate out in a 'restaurant' as a family in the 1970s - maroon velvet and white lace curtains, some home-made Copper-beaten ships on the walls, plastic flower arrangements, wood panelling and ceiling beams and oval plates made for buffets and clumsy dishwashers. In my family's case, it was the Murray Bridge Golf Club when Dad scored a hole in one. "Chicken Maryland and fruit punch number FORTY TWO!" Doreen would yell across the stained axminster and pool tables towards the Countdown-style cane chairs and tables. It was where I saw my year three teacher Miss Ruys light up a cigarette, smoke it and kiss her boyfriend. Heady times indeed....

Back to Cuddlee Creek. Love Chunks and I decided to suspend our natural Spelling Police duties ala the blackboard and enjoy the concert. The first half was to commence before a buffet lunch and carvery with the second half after dessert. Poor Sapphire's nerves were frayed enough for her to reject her usually-loved fresh bread rolls, soup and salads for a few wilted peas and chopped carrots.

Her music teacher, Daniel, kicked off the concert, reminding me yet again of a wizard wearing a batik shirt instead of a rock band member and hobby farmer from the hills.

Being third-to-last on a musical programme that was featuring such performances as Hava Nagila played on keyboards by a six year old, a fetching Hungarian rhapsody on the accordian by an eleven year old, This is Teen Spirit on electric guitar by a nine year old and a thirteen year old's own composition on synthesiser immediately following his version of I yi-yi-y (Clelito Lindo), Sapphire was fidgety but quiet.

Soon enough though the buffet (featuring a limp carvery, ancient warmed-again potatoes and beetroot right out of the tin) was cleared for freshly-thawed out cheesecake and Christmas pudding and a pavlova straight outta the box slathered in cream.

Then, she was on, for her first of three items. 'Can You Feel The Love Tonight' on guitar:

...followed by Hark the Herald Angels Sing on recorder.....

..... and what should have been 'Jingle Bells' sung by Kirsten with Sapph's backing on the recorder but ended up being just Sapph and a red-faced and silent Kirsten hiding behind the music stand instead.

All were played so beautifully that it's almost impossible to write how much it made my heart actually hurt - yes hurt or ache - with pride, love, amazement, indigestion from the dodgy lamb carvery - however you want to describe it. As Daniel said after she left the stage (actually just the stickiest patch of carpet in front of the blackboard), "Half of my students are adults, but not one of them had the guts to get up here today and perform."

And yes he was staring straight at Love Chunks, who blushed, fumbled and somehow dropped and smashed his glass of sparkling shiraz and earned a disapproving look from the waitress for damaging elderly hotel property.

To be honest, he was just trying to set the tone for the adult entertainment about to start - Daniel's rock band, The Crush. They were bloody good too - he added that extra 'oomph' on keyboards and I found myself singing along lustily, jiggling Sapphire on my knee: "Don't change a thing for me...."

However it had been a l-o-n-g while since I've been to a live gig, and certainly not at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon and not whilst drinking diet coke and cappuccino with a recorder nearby in case the melody grabbed me....

....and most certainly not with a nine year old who eventually succumbed to a post-performance stomach ache and wanted to go home, have a shower and play with her Beanie kids.

Lobbing one on Love Chunks

A day-dreaming driver, gazing into the distance beyond the green 'turn right' traffic light, was far far away from the yellow Honda Jazz that was currently housing her physical body.

"Come on, come ON lady!" Love Chunks cursed, and she eventually roused herself, turned onto Nelson Street and gave us a micro-nano-second to zoom in behind before the red light camera flashed.

"Now now dear," I said to my beloved, patting his knee patronisingly. "We're only driving to the bakery for a pasty and some iced coffee; there's no need to be so impatient." I warmed to my own theme, adding, "And let's face it: it's not like we have a beating human heart on ice here in the car with us."

"Not yet anyway," he bounced back, pinching me. Warming to his own theme, he added, "And besides, I can be mean to you today, because ---" he tapped me on the arm and smiled broadly, blue eyes twinkling cheekily -- "I got me some lovin' last night."

"Yeah well, remember when your birthday is, buddy."

"October the 2nd?"

"Yep."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'm destined to live out the married man's equivalent of foreplay."

"What's that?"

"On my knees.......begging."

The x-rays are IN

Love Chunks' chest is fine. No fibroids detected, just a 'thickening' due to the bronchitis he suffered from a couple of months ago and some left over scarring. This is a rather nice result to get considering that last week he was asked if he'd been working with asbestos and needed his bladder infection to clear up before the medicos could get another squizz at his two supposedly dodgy airbags.

He got the call from his doctor this morning and we stood there in our kitchen, hugging each other tightly and silently for a long time. Then Milly sauntered in; stomach and tail waggling and flexing on opposite sides to each other and she used her wet nose to nudge us both in the calf muscles, her typical, "I'll have what you're having" move. This always causes us to laugh and bend down to ruffle her ears and give her the attention she's asking for.

We then went back to the bank to sign the paperwork required for sending off a $59,000 cheque to our Flemington home-minders, an increase in our current mortgage and, most frighteningly, a 'bridging loan' that is roughly seven times what we owe right now. Our signatures looked rather wobbly and intelligible when signing our lives away for that last bit. Still, as Love Chunks said a few minutes later as we wandered up and down the greeting card aisle of the newsagent, "It's our first bit of good news in a while."

When I asked who the card was for, he waggled a Lonely Planet picture of two adult elephants standing either side of a baby elephant and said, "For your parents, actually. I want to let them know how much I appreciate how they've provided me with such great support and understanding. Not just because of my Mum's cancer battle but because, really, they are my parents too."

Later, back at home tapping away on his work laptop at the kitchen bench, he called out, "...and I really should add a comment to your blog, thanking everyone for their concern about my health, but access to your blog and other fun stuff is blocked on my work computer...." And this from the bloke who'd only said last week that I'd made him out to be a saint on this 'ere forum, when he was anything but. "Fine," I replied, "I'm more than happy to let them know that you get unreasonably stroppy when you're hungry; you burp at the dinner table in a far louder and more dramatic manner than you need to and you're overly fond of writing 'Angry from Trinity Gardens' letters to editors, local politicians and community groups. How's that for starters?"

He pretended to be mortally wounded, clutching at his (thankfully sturdy and in good nick) heart, chest and lung area.

"Hey," he called out to me from the kitchen again, disturbing my essential and riveting review I was drafting on the latest Taylor Swift CD from my 'office' in the third bedroom. "Hey, have you got any of those Lindt balls left from the 400g box you bought yesterday?"

"Er, yeah. What flavour do you want?"
"Oh any." I went out, blushing, and shyly handed him three dark blue ones.

"Is this all that's left or is this all you're prepared to give me?"

"Er, the former." My face grew redder and I tried not to meet his eye.

Somehow we found ourselves in a tight hug in the same spot in the kitchen as we had earlier, again silently celebrating what we have together. Then Milly came in, dropped a ginormous Chum fart and completely ruined the moment: "Bloody hell! go push the window up while I open the screen door at the front."