And yet he seemed nice enough

We have a friend here who adores penguins. Jeff's been collecting them ever since he got to see them up close and personal during a couple of stints in Antarctica.

The shelves of his apartment has penguins hiding amongst the books, wine glasses, photographs and CDs, so when I saw this little guy at the supermarket, he sort of jumped into my nanna cart.

As expected with most childrens' toys, he has a label that states that anyone under the age of three years old should best stick with teddies and teething rings.

It was the other side of the label that amused me.

Bullyland? That's not exactly the first name a company with English as their first language would think of when specialising in manufacturing playthings for kids....

It's a good thing, then, that Jeff's considerably older than three and realises that he's not in Australia any more.

Places to go, people to see....

When not checking out Falcon handlers or confident foxes, I like to pop on my dog walking jacket - which makes me resemble a stocky rainwater tank in a sleeping bag - sip my second coffee out on our balcony and enjoy the view of the distant Jura, the sky and the city.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was already starting to set when these pictures were taken, but the new winter snow was still visible on top of the mountains.

However I realised that the sky has a lot of vapor trails in it.

Facing towards Saleve, I counted over ten separate trails created by planes flying over us, coming in to land or departing.

These white lines in the sky made me realise just how much air traffic Europe has and how Switzerland, being a fairly small splodge in the middle of the continent, sees a lot of planes passing overhead.

The following morning it dawned blue, cold and crisp and, when out walking with Milly, I counted fifteen different trails leaving lines on the sky. I once read that at any given time there is around 260,000 people up there; or the entire population of Orlando, Florida.

That's a lot of rock-hard bread rolls, miniscule bottles of water and sugar sachets.....

And the winner is.........

I haven't bought a Bonne Chance ticket for the Swiss lottery yet. This is mostly due to shyness and lack of French than any realistic understanding of how bleak the likelihood is of my numbers coming up, but heaps of locals surround the booth at the local shopping centre in their eagerness to find that 500,000 franc Scratchie that might pay off a fifth of their mortgage.

Giving gambling a Swiss miss might possibly explain the amusement I derive from our weirdly shaped FUST washing machine.

It was purchased second-hand via an expat website and is an upright device which is far cheaper than a front-loader. However it's also much narrower than the usual 5 - 7kg ones from Australia.

When you open the inside, you can see a round 'tyre' made of stainless steel. This is almost exactly the same as that found in a front loader but positioned 90% around. And, when closed, you can't sit there and watch it through the round window. It's a sacrifice I'm prepared to make to save over a thousand francs.

Back to Herr Fust. The little catch is flipped open and - Ta Da! - the washing is crammed in. A surprisingly decent amount of dirty clothes can be done and apart from it sounding like the first spaceship to cross the screen in Star Wars when it's on the spin cycle, I'm pretty happy with our three hundred franc find.

But there's more. When closed, the little internal tyre thingy reminds me of the prize barrels that used to feature on television shows so often when I was growing up.

"So kids, all of your entries into our big Win a Week with Winky Dink competition have been placed in this barrel here, and we'll ask Humphrey B Bear to do the honours and reach in to pick out a winner......."

Nope. Not me.

Still, it's been six whole months and not one single sock has gone AWOL yet, so I'll class that as a small win.

Hundred Years War

Love Chunks reckons that I'd have been brilliant living in the dark ages or mediaeval times, particularly in a heavily-fortified castle subject to a seige or two from invaders.

See, I like to keep spares of things, because nothing's more annoying than running out of an essential ingredient when the shops have shut.***

Put another way, it's always nice and shows a strong sense of care and consideration to have that second tin of chopped tomatoes behind the one you're currently using. For next time.

Right?

And, let's face it, in challenging circumstances such as Tuesday night's tuna mornay lacking sweetcorn or when the English are pushing their wooden slingshots towards the ramparts of Dunnottar's drawbridge, we could all use a bit of joy in our lives.

Riiiiight?

Right. Nobody backs Kath into a corner without her having access to the essential source of strength!

*** Which is far more common here in Switzerland than in Australia. NOTHING is open on a Sunday; there seem to be many mysterious public holidays and religious observances that are respected more by business owners than residents which explains why this country - famous for its Alpine dairy industry - sells at least 95% of its milk in UHT long life packs.

Two chairs

When we first arrived in Switzerland, we all suffered terrible colds that lingered and made life in a new country an extra challenge.

The hotel 'residence' didn't help much either, but somehow Love Chunks would magic up a meal using just one saucepan, two dessert spoons and a jar and we'd either squeeze out onto the 50cm deep balcony or around the coffee table.

We were three storeys up and one street back from 'Rue de Tram' - the main shopping strip of Geneva. The soundtrack to our new lives was the mosquito buzz of scooters, the screech and clang of daily 3am rubbish trucks and the sonorous St Pierre church bells.

Hard rubbish days seemed to be weekly as opposed to twice yearly in Australia. From our lofty position we spotted a zebra-patterned dining chair and wondered if it might be worth snaffling and storing in the hotel bathroom for when we found a place to rent. Sapphire offered to go downstairs and check it out. "Eeee-oooh, no way, Mum. The reason the CD player's sitting on the top is because there's a huge stain on it."

Dinner that night was Uncle Ben's rice, supermarket salad and chicken something-or-other on plastic picnic plates.

A bag lady who seemed to be a regular around our neighbourhood appeared, dragging a chair up our side street. She spied the zebra chair and had a think for a while before apparently deciding that she needed both.

Scr-iiiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiii-tch. She'd drag one chair about a metre, then pull the other one alongside. It was pretty hard going because it was a warm summer evening and she was wearing what might have been her entire wardrobe including a fake fur coat and a kid's backpack.

I went inside, feeling conflicted. I wanted to take her photo but also felt tears coming on. It's always the same question when I see someone sleeping in newspapers or reeking of urine whilst pissed: How did they end up like that? What becomes of them?

Scr-iiiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiiii-tch, Scr-iiiiii-tch. Through the curtains of our hotel doors, I could see that she had reached the corner of the side street and the main street and decided to rest. Both chairs were placed opposite each other, forming a rough bed for her to relax on.

"Stop looking at her, Mum. Come and watch a Raising Hope episode with me."

An hour later, she was still there. Surely not sleeping because the night-clubbers were starting to appear and girls walking with linked arms and silly heels had to brush past the chairs to make their way to the taverns in Rive and Old Town.

At my bedtime it was almost completely dark and the white lines of the zebra chair were still visible. Her gray hair hung over the back of the chair and this time she did look to be dreaming, clutching the backpack in her arms.

I did take the photos and finally closed the door.

Sapphire was still awake which wasn't surprising seeing as the kitchen and sleeping were one and the same room and I had to climb over her sofa bed to shut the doors.

"Why are you crying, Mum?"

I knew that it was a combination of shock at how badly I was coping with our move overseas, a lingering cold, worry about Sapphire and being able to afford to rent anywhere within a 100km radius of Love Chunks' workplace but the lady moved me. "Mum?"

"I guess I'm sad because nobody, at eight years old, says, 'I hope to end up as a crazed, homeless and stinking bag lady' when asked what they'd like to be when they grow up."

The next morning, both she and the chairs were gone.

A close up of Madam Butterfly before jumping into a warm bed

Love Chunks has been my main squeeze since 1993 so buying gifts is getting more and more difficult each year.

He usually ends up with a DVD or a book that is more my taste than his because anything else he wants or likes is sorted/found/purchased at the time of need. His electronic piano is a good example - he knew what type he needed in order to still keep playing without antagonising the neighbours; did his research on features, costs and availability and made the necessary arrangements. The end result sees him happy, our bank balance lighter and a reasonable excuse to 'only get me a card' for his birthday and Christmas this year.

However, when it was his birthday, I didn't want to just write a card (that in itself gets more difficult after eighteen years of togetherness. It isn't acceptable to take the Hollywood executive approach and remake old classics or borrow lines from my twenty four year old self 'I look forward to seeing you come back from prac teaching in Port Pirie in your brown cortina'). Love Chunks deserved something quirky and unique: something that would remind him of our time here in Geneva.

Considering that he's a meteorologist, talented home chef, pianist, runner, AFL-watcher and IKEA Allen key conquerer, he clearly needed:

Opera glasses from 1806. Made in Geneva at a spot by the river that now seems to be frequented by alcoholics and drug dealers. Yeah, I'm nothing if not considerate of his interests and concerned with practicalities.

Of course he has no interest in attending an opera and I've only been to one (suffered through Pagliacci with my mother in 1994) but the weathered style of these little guys and the date and the fact that there are antiques and old bits and bobs at flea markets for cheapish prices if you're prepared to rummage and haggle and take your time is addictive. And very enjoyable.

But was that enough - ocular devices long past their relevance? Of course not, so he also got this:

A nineteenth century copper bed warmer. More than one person commented that it could be used to quell any arguments if the gift wasn't appreciated - CLANG!

Thankfully, he loved them both.

Still shining

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet your friendly hosts the Three Stooges

This isn't a place that seems particularly inviting to me.

When residual cheques aren't enough

We were enjoying the sights in Basel when Sapphire looked up, pointed and said, "Oh look, there's Lord Farquaad from Shrek."

I guess that being turned into stone on the famous Munster wall is better than the fate of these two lesser-known actors, now reduced to posing nude as kite flyers in the gardens of a local high school:

Or Henry Winkler, who needed to find a Paul Newman-style regular income due to the patchy nature of his acting jobs post Happy Days:

Puffed with pride

A long time ago, over a dinner party that was several bottles of red and several hours old, the question of who was a scruncher and who was a folder came up.

Toilet paper usage might be something you consider a private matter, but it so happened that the friends of ours who were asking had actually made a movie about it. No, I haven't seen it yet, but someday there'll be a Flemington reunion and I'll be asking to see more than just their holiday snaps.

Anyhow, memories of that conversation came back to me as I took a shower this morning.

We're shower (OK 'douche') gel users in this house ever since being told by a plumber that fats from soaps are really difficult to scrub off tiles and glass. Instead of being forced to blob it into our hands and randomly slap i

t around our bodies before it slides down the plughole, we use 'puffs' to make it go further.

Bear in mind that I don't normally adhere so strictly to stereotyped male and female colour schemes, but at 6:30am in the morning it does make it considerably easier to reach and remember which puff belongs to which scruff.

It also, as I just realised, indicates just who in this bathroom is the folder and who is the scruncher.

'Thank you in advance for the attention paid to these lines .....'

..... is how the letter began.

And I should have remembered it when, whilst having my second cup of coffee for the morning, I was out on the balcony (as is my wont) and glanced down to see ----

A strange man. ON the lawn. NOBODY is allowed on the lawn of the shared gardens. Even the gardeners don't linger any longer than they have to.

Narrowing my eyes like a suspicious pensioner, all I lacked were the net curtains. I did, however, have a camera.

He was young, smartly dressed with a quirky flat cap, busily talking on his mobile phone.

Every now and then he'd duck down by the tree and whistle - ah - he was wearing gloves and waiting for ......

.... his friend the falcon. Yes, the letter: 'According to the decision made by the joint owners at the last standard general meeting, we inform you that a falconer will proceed to the startling of the pigeons. Mr Umberto the falconer has started the last four weeks and will be followed by additional specific interventions which will last six months to optimise his work.' Thanks google translate.

Not that I ever seen that many pigeons about, let alone been annoyed by any of them.

Yep, he saw me. I called down, "Bonjour Monsieur! Photo, si'vous plait?"

"Oui!"

So how many of us have a falconer come to help with the gardening?

December Details - Delayed

A few weeks ago, before Sapphire's gastro turned into a six week challenge negotiating the twists, turns and bellyflops of the French-speaking health system, I was planning to write an entry every day for December, adding a photo of something intriguing about Geneva, my own observations whatever life was captured via the camera I'd mostly forget to carry.

However Sapphire's situation has eaten up most of my time and, after being hospitalised on Friday, she's now home with a catheter in her arm, on antibiotics that are only deliverable intravenously. Nurses come at 5.30-6.00am, midday and 9.30pm to put the drip in, clean the catheter and check that everything's OK. She's due back at hospital tomorrow (Monday) for a check up and new catheter so Cabin Fever Will Continue.

Then I thought, why not do December Details - delayed? This tradition started with Appreciative August in 2008, Knowledge November and Doggy December in 2009 and Snappy September in 2010. So here we go:

As you know, Switzerland is a small country in Europe bordered by many others. A five kilometre drive takes us into France: land of much cheaper meat, outdoor markets where smoking a cigar whilst slicing up cheese for customers is permitted and dogs sit in bakeries. Italy is down 'below' and Germany, Lichtenstein and Austria linger around the sides.

Living here we've discovered that our products are mostly from Switzerland in a huge effort to support local industry, farming and the franc and any items that you'd normally assume would have 'Made in China' stamped on their bases instead have Bulgaria, Romania or Germany.

Our budget is tight here so it was with no small amount of joy to discover that my much-needed and recently-purchased long, black and shiny boots were made in Italy. Italy!

Of course they're rubber and only cost me 26 Swiss francs and are for walking Milly in the park after it rains, but they made in Italy. Alla moda!

Even then, Love Chunks saw them and said, "Twenty six francs? Seems a bit much for rubber wellies..."

Not that the French-Swiss would call them Wellies surely?