Boxing Day in the Swill

On Boxing Day, veteran yachtie Caroline Wheeler said “It’s fair to say there’ll be plenty of people spewing tonight.” I love boats, but I came to know what she meant. Following a rare invitation (I only know two people who own a boat), I was up early the day after Christmas. I slapped a few slices of leftover turkey onto stale bread and grabbed my hat, wet weather coat, a towel and sunscreen. Boxing Day marks the start of one of the most difficult races in the world, the 65 year old Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race and I was going to be at the starting line when the cannon exploded.

Christmas Mall Crawl

It's that time of the year-Christmas-and off we trot to the mall. We enter an outlet which specializes in cheap t-shirts. The racket is fit to pop my eardrums. A wake up coffee hasn’t helped. It is too early and I am bleary eyed and desperate.

“Would it be possible to turn the music down, please?” I ask a chirpy shop assistant who immediately turns nasty. I have crept over to the sales counter while the teenager is trying on the merchandise. I want to spare her the pain of knowing I have approached a salesperson for any other reason than to pay.

Christmas in the City

Published: www.everywritersresource.com

A medley of cathedral bells punctures late afternoon apathy and heads look up to find the source of the din. They’ll see nothing, no lonely hunchback hanging off a rope. Just a tall thin spire recently unveiled with predictable pomp and ceremony. A perfect match to its magnificent twin.

A crowd gathers in the square below; friends and relatives mostly, and a few stragglers waiting for something which feels a bit special. Blokes with shirt sleeves rolled up impatient for the holidays; groups of mums pushing bag-laden strollers and toddlers dancing in their very own fairy orbits, decked out in pink and expecting a party.

Tweet! Tweet!

Who would have thought it?

Last week, I won a twitter short story competition about Thanksgiving, along with five other people. What do I know about Thanksgiving? I know it is the busiest time in America for the airlines, along with Christmas. I know lots of pumpkins are cut up and eaten in sweet pies. But that's about it.

Let's Party!

Several women sit at a table, celebrating a birthday. It is a convivial scene. The drinkers sip cool white wine and there are bottles of water on the table for the drivers. It is nearly school pick up time and the women keep keen eyes on the time.

Mention “parties” in the same breath as “teenagers” at this table and you will hear groans. You will hear about feral teenagers on Saturday night rampages. You will see eyes roll and heads fall into hands.

Narcissism: Love it!

Youth narcissism is on the rise. A study of 16,000 American university students has revealed a growing epidemic of self-obsession. These students exhibit alarmingly overblown senses of self-importance. Most worrying is the evidence that narcissistic personality traits have increased from 15% of the student population to 30% in just 30 years.

“Shocking numbers,” said the principle researcher, professor of psychology Jean Twenge from San Diego State University.

I shared a public transport experience with a smallish sample size of local adolescents recently. Forget about twenty year olds in US universities. Narcissism amongst the locals is flourishing. By the time they hit uni, our know-it-all kids will be cosy in their teenage bubbles, their sense of entitlement blossoming, their attention-seeking behaviour rampant.

Booker Bickering

Bookish feathers are flying as learned souls recover from a perceived downgrading of the Booker as an accolade for high brow, if impenetrable literature. Indeed the chair of judges is a mere writer of spy thrillers. Dumbing down must come naturally to her. Never mind that Stella Rimington is also the former director general of MI5. She has been subject to vilification for prioritising readability as a vital determinant of a book's worth. Rimington wants people to read and enjoy Julian Barnes's novella The Sense of an Ending, rather than simply admire it. Committee member MP Chris Mullin was also pilloried for commenting that books had to "zip along" to be worthy of consideration.

A Festival in Paradise

The Ubud Writers and Readers Festival is over and my head is pounding. It has been a bumpy ride at times, dodging motor bikes and getting soaked in spontaneous tropical downpours. Not to mention workshops, book launches and story readings; it can do your head in, gab fests like these, and to be honest, ambivalence threatened.

"Come on, Jules, it'll be great. Let's go."

And so we did.

Script's Ready. Would You Like Fish Oil With That?

Imagine visiting cinema land from October 1. Over at the refreshments counter, you decide to order a bucket of popcorn. How would you react if the friendly young woman behind the counter suggested you needed to buy a Coke, because the popcorn is salty and you will feel thirsty during the film? This takes the 'super size me' culture to a whole new level.

Loudest Voice Gets Attention

It is a regrettable life lesson that the obnoxious one who complains loudest is processed first.

We arrived bleary eyed at terminal two on a cold, rainy morning. It was the first weekend of the school holidays. A procession of cars waited to pull in at the drop-off zone.

Two excited young women were heading to Queensland. Their anticipation was reminiscent of schoolies, but this time it was university games. I expect the shenanigans will be similar.

Void Living

August 18, 2011
Sydney Morning Herald Opinion
HECKLER

At what point in an architect's career do they decide that void ceilings work? Who or what inspires architects to create one of the most annoying building features which do nothing more than wreak havoc on the lives of the poor souls who live in them?

My latest experience was a funky hotel in the nation's capital which boasted one-bedroom apartments with a separate lounge. It sounded perfect for a tired couple requiring refuge from life's challenges.

We arrived kiddie-free and in blissful contemplation of quiet time to eat, read, hang out together and relax.

The "one-bedroom apartment" consisted of a downstairs area and an open loft. Both areas shared the same massive floor-to-ceiling windows which required automated blinds to be lowered for privacy. Trouble came when we realised the blinds were the black-out variety, which meant lights on, even in the middle of the day. We had been assigned to a cave for the weekend.

When time came to sleep and our nocturnal paths separated, I was left with television noise which kept me awake even with the volume turned down low. In the chilly dawn of the next morning I was rudely awakened to the sound of a grumpy man tripping over the golfing paraphernalia as he tried to find car keys in the dark.

A friend visited Paris lately and booked a one-bedroom apartment for the same reasons as me: different nocturnal habits and the need for space. When they arrived, the loft bedroom was completely open, allowing for light, sounds and cooking smells to invade the boudoir.

When relatives with many children built a home which featured a void ceiling, I wondered why they would opt for heat, cold, noise and privacy problems when a normal two-storey home with separate sleeping chambers seemed more logical. I hesitated to voice my view as their super-fabulous groovy architect insisted she had it all covered.

At dinner last weekend we discussed this matter with friends. Everyone around the table had similar tales to tell. Who seriously wants to share the din of the downstairs with the tranquillity of the bedroom? What about privacy? What about relief from the snoring man on the couch?

Calling all architects! We need doors and walls! Open-plan living is a nightmare and when it extends to multiple levels, it threatens our sanity. It takes five long years to train architects. Make ''no void ceilings'' lesson one, semester one, to be revised constantly throughout their long journey.

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/living-the-openplan-nightmare-20110817-1iy52.html#ixzz1VKVZKhoy

The Lot of a Woman

Sometimes it is hard to be a woman.

First an ominous letter arrives warning me I am overdue for a pap smear. Of course I am. One of life’s most unpleasant medical procedures comes around way too often. Had you asked me, I would have guessed I last endured this procedure two years ago. Nasty memories remain even though five years have slipped by.

I grab the diary.

When the Shoe Thief Calls

Did I tell you about our shoe thief?

I’d always wanted a verandah, shielded from the street behind a hedge. So we built one.

Most days we'd leave our shoes there, preferring quiet entries and hoping to postpone wear and tear on timber floors. A family lives here and until recently, a very cute but yappy dog. That's another story, tinged with sadness.

When visitors come and go, a sensor light helps them up the stairs in the dark.

It takes a brave person to open the rickety gate, walk down a floodlit path, up the stairs and steal every pair of size eight women’s shoes om that verandah. Given three people share a shoe size, there was always plenty to choice during a spree which lasted over fourteen months.

At first we spent lots of time with our heads in each other’s wardrobes looking for the runners or the flats. We blamed each other. We argued amongst ourselves. One night the uni student returned late and left the birthday boots at the door. She was due at work very early the next morning. She didn't think she could be that unlucky. When she opened the front door, the boots were gone.

Then there was the time I demanded the return of my turquoise loafers.

Raised eyebrows from the teenagers. Perhaps the shoe thief did the household a favour that time. Our thief traversed the seasons, visiting often, stealing everything from rubber flip flops to stilettos.

When the cold snap arrived, I decorated the verandah with pots of cyclamens and winter bulbs. The verandah faces south and in the winter gloom, the pretty colours cheered our days and made us smile. Those flowers disappeared but the heavy planters remained. I replaced the flowers and moved the pots out the back. The plants vanished again.

There were nights when the outside light flicked on unexpectedly or the dog barked and scratched the door. We raced out, tore down the path and searched the street. We were jumpy and irritable, living on constant alert.

One morning, the hubby went out for the paper and there she was, escaping down our path: a tiny, wrinkled old woman, dressed in black and wearing a pair of our shoes. She carried a pile of empty shopping bags in anticipation of a haul. But she was unlucky that day. The verandah had been stripped bare as we became depressingly accustomed to our life under siege.

When she heard his roar, she took off and was chased by a man twice her size, his confused wife, a barking dog and the half dressed teenager who wasn't going to miss the drama.

On the footpath outside, she panted and wailed but denied everything.

We demanded proof of identity and dared to grab a wallet from her gaping handbag.

She went unpunished because her Medicare card was a fake and the police are too busy fighting serious crime to bother with trivial misdemeanours.

She may have come out of retirement during the past few weeks, because a friend in a nearby suburb has just lost two pairs of size eight runners from beside her front door.

Easter Gluttony

Easter is looming and it might be cool and damp outside. Chances are I will be taking in a film or two with the family - and I am dreading it already.

First of all, join the queue and chances are there will be only one person behind the counter, some poor soul whose job it is to sell tickets, flog junk food and experience our impatience.
I suspect many families will be converging on the nation's cinemas over the break.

If we are unlucky enough to find ourselves behind a large group, we will probably miss the start of the movie. How many ice-creams? What flavour? Who wants popcorn? Maybe we should take the large size because it is better value, but passing it around is tricky. OK, why don't we skip the popcorn and just get drinks. How many Cokes? Oh, you want Diet Coke? Excuse me, do you make coffee? I don't like that dripolator stuff.

I will try to curb my impatience, but my death stare will make the kiddies squirm.

Our turn will come eventually and I will ask for tickets. Then will come the interrogation. Do we want ice-creams? Many flavours; many options. Then it's the popcorn. Do we know the unbeatable value of the large box compared with the small? Don't forget the drinks, the smallest size served in a bucket large enough to quench the thirst of an entire cinema.

We will have only just had breakfast. I will decline.

Several issues will contribute to unfortunate blood-curdling holiday rage.

Where is the additional staff to cope with the crowds? In the US, some cinemas are entirely workforce free. No staff at all, with all tickets and junk food dispensed from a vending machine. At least we haven't reached that abysmal stage yet, although with the current system it may be a more efficient way to run things.

And what's with the junk food promotion? Look around and notice the national obesity scourge. Super-sizing and promoting rubbish food is so passe as to be ridiculous.
I suppose an express queue for those who want to watch the film without stuffing their faces is out of the question?

If I want to eat or drink, I am quite capable of doing so without the due consideration of others who wish to make a buck at the expense of my spreading girth.

Ditto the eager, smiling faces at the local service station. If I wanted three lots of sweets, or a crate of gum for the price of a single packet, I'd go for it. I don't need to be invited to be a pig.

Fleeing the Nest

Times are tough when you can’t leave the house for a few days without worrying about the ferals at home. But that’s what happens when the beloveds grow up a bit and you hit the tricky period when kids deem themselves too old to be left with a babysitter, but are not necessarily wise enough to understand the ramifications of parent free gatherings. Teenagers don’t give a toss when it comes to parental sanity or a peaceful relationship with elderly neighbours.

Why F.A.T is a Four Letter Word: http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/45826.html

There’s a fat war raging and it relates to comments about body size from Mia Freedman, chair of the National Body Image Advisory Group and a subsequent response from ethicist Leslie Cannold.

Online fat activists are yelping about negative community attitudes towards obese people. Some have even called for Ms Freedman's dismissal.

Why can't we talk about obesity? Raise the issue and the speaker becomes a bigot or a hypocrite. Online sites allow freedom of expression to shoot the messenger. Better that than listen to a confronting message. Or should we continue to behave like the fashion industry and ignore the presence of widespread obesity?

A visiting alien might glance at a fashion magazine and wonder why skinny women feature in all the photos while fat women walk the streets. Most of the clothing shops near my house cater for pint-sized teenage girls. These businesses have come under fire in the past because they do not stock higher sizes. Walk inside and feel fat if you wear a size 12. Skin tight boob tubes and skirts which sit just under skinny little bottoms: anyone with normal curves can’t wear this fashion, let alone the obese.

If your daughter aspires to be fashionable and shop in these places, be afraid as she leaves the house resembling an underfed prostitute.

One particularly seedy clothing chain has located its Sydney stores almost exclusively in the city, the eastern suburbs and the north shore. Perhaps the bosses don’t think fat woman live in these neighbourhoods. They would be correct.

Interestingly, the fat lobby has made noises about this issue. They seek attention on matters relating to obesity, but only when it suits them.

There is an elephant in the corner and it is trumpeting a message. Obesity is a class issue.

Thankfully a recent study has shown small improvements in obesity levels among preschoolers. Boyd Swinburn, the director of the World Health Organisation Collaborating Centre for Obesity Prevention at Deakin University, said the fall began after childhood obesity started to receive attention in the early 2000s.

Children from poorer families have benefited most from the turnaround. Among the most disadvantaged two-year-olds, the prevalence of obesity fell slightly between 1999 and 2007.This is welcome news, but what happens when preschoolers grow up?

A Victorian Government website is careful to note that “people with lower levels of education and lower incomes are more likely to be overweight or obese. This may be because they have less opportunity to eat healthy foods and take part in physical activities”.

No judgement here, but the facts speak for themselves. Next time anyone comments about all those fat people in America, be sure to laugh. That country is full of them, but just as there are very few fat people in affluent San Francisco or Manhattan, there aren’t too many in Sydney’s wealthier suburbs either.

If you want to find fat people, stroll through the foyer of your local public hospital. Hop in the lift, find a ward and check out the bloated bodies lying in the beds. It is truly frightening. It is as if you have entered the sick bay on Land of the Giants. The health system is clogged full of seriously overweight people, but when their doctors advise weight loss, some will go shopping and find another GP with a more forgiving bedside manner.

The latest medical drama in NSW is the $1.5 million which the Health Department has just dished out for five new “mega-lift” ambulances to transport people who weigh more than 180 kilograms and who cannot fit on a normal ambulance stretcher. There were 45 patients this size in 2002. By 2008 this number had risen to 576.

I am not suggesting a public flogging, but this nation needs to face up to its rapidly growing obesity problem. There is no point heckling the brave who dare to speak.

Perhaps we should cancel cooking shows and replace them with weekly episodes featuring Stephanie Alexander’s Kitchen Garden Programme which began in 2001 and has since been rolled out in 180 primary schools across all states and territories of Australia. This wise chef is putting her energy into educating children about the goodness, satisfaction and joy around home cooking with healthy produce. One campaigner’s antidote to Maccas. God bless her.

Some might recall Norm from the 'Life Be in It' campaign launched 35 years ago. That little guy was supposed to reflect the inactivity, obesity and lethargy problems endemic in our community. We were supposed to recognise the Norm in all of us. He was popular because he had a sense of humour. We could relate to him. He was credible and like a lot of Australians back then, he made his point in a light-hearted fashion.

Guess what happened to Norm? People started to copy his "couch potato" approach.

A Good Bargain and a Glass of Milk

Finding a bargain out there in consumer land has never been trickier. Every dollar saved brings on a crisis of conscience.

Lately I reflect on some items I buy and I am infused with guilt. Never before has shopping involved so much introspection and deliberation. Bargain hunting is selfish these days. We must consider the plight of others.

First of all: online book shopping. Many book lovers I know use a UK-based bookstore which sends cheap books, postage free. I have bought books from there once or twice, but guilt, impatience and a preference for shopping at a local haven has stymied massive bargain hunting online. I don’t want to wait the usual three weeks to receive a book and nothing beats a coffee and a wander around the local bookshop. My personal preference means I pay up to $20 more for each book purchased in the sweet old-fashioned way.

My gesture is too little, too late. Several weeks ago I received a plaintive email from the local bookshop proprietor who cited a convergence of crises plaguing the industry, including the online shopping boom, the strength of the Australian dollar and the proliferation of e-readers as her reasons for closing.

She hopes the industry survives this state of flux and signs off with the heart-rending “I love my bookshop and I’m sorry we don’t have a home now; I’ve loved every second of it”.

I feel sad about the loss of her business. Not to mention that every shopping precinct large or small is enhanced by a bookshop and the landscape around here doesn’t need another convenience store or homewares outlet.

Now it’s milk. Personally I can’t stand the stuff. I drink it because it’s good for my bones and because calcium tablets make me feel ill. I pour it into my tea and order it skim in the daily flat white, but don’t wait for me to guzzle a glass. One whiff and I feel queasy. My friend who feeds soy milk to her chubby baby says we shouldn’t drink milk because we are not cows. It’s evil stuff really. I only ever drink small amounts, but I still have a cholesterol problem. And no, it’s not the butter cheese, cakes or biscuits that sends my “big C” rising. I’m a dietary saint. I don’t eat that rubbish (very often).

It’s not enough that I drink milk because apparently I need it. Now I feel guilty about it. Last time I filled up the car, the very pleasant chap behind the counter interrogated me.

“Gum, lollies, chips? What about a drink?” Just as I almost barked “if I wanted to buy junk food, I would, with or without your kind invitation” I spied the chilled section, and contained within it, the bargain of the moment: Milk: two for the price of one.

This is a saving of $4, and it’s rare these days to save that amount on a single food item. I grabbed two. I should have grabbed four, given the number of banana smoothies the beefed up 19-year-old consumes.

I drove home wondering where the golden infused moment went. You know, when you snare a bargain and feel pure joy; a light, floating sensation, as if you’ve won Lotto, not that I ever have. I felt it this morning, birthday shopping with the baby. Whilst she threw chunky scarves around her pretty neck, I grabbed a “three for $10” offer on exotic bubble bath, usually retailing at $24.95 a bottle. Pretty, sweet smelling and always good for presents. Eureka! But whose livelihood have I compromised, pouncing greedily on this fabulous little bargain?

Back to the milk. With the senate inquiry into milk price wars starting this week, I wonder about the rhetoric flying around at the moment. Coles would blame the multinational milk processing companies but isn’t sure that lower milk prices will hurt the dairy industry anyway. For them $1 a litre is a magnanimous gesture, giving best-value milk to customers.

Coles and Woolworths may practice blinkered vision but I cannot imagine how those bargain bottles of milk in my fridge can help our farmers, battling to stay upright in this vicious market economy.

Fortunately Independent senator Nick Xenophon agrees. He initiated the upper house inquiry.

"The risk is that the Australian industry is at the tipping point of having mass walkouts from farms around the country, particularly in North Queensland," he said.

"Coles needs to explain themselves to the Australian people in terms of their conduct and behaviour."

If a bargain is all you care about and bugger the farmers, don’t expect your daily caffeine dose to drop in price any time soon. Baristas aren’t happy about cheap milk which they believe is watered down and decidedly dodgy. Nothing froths better than the expensive stuff.

I have always needed an excuse to support the local grocer. Wasting my valuable time driving to the supermarket mall, guzzling petrol and polluting the air has never felt enough. Now I can happily say I’m supporting the farmers. I am also supporting a local treasure: Sam, father of four, sports lover extraordinaire and keeper of all good things, including his mother’s home made baklava and all the local gossip.

Guilt free shopping. Expensive, but worth it.

On Disaster's Sidelines

As I nursed our dying dog and last Wednesday evening handed over our precious little bundle to the vet, I was aghast at the grief which washed over the family.

A strange other feeling bubbled over me this past week. I found myself avoiding the television and turning off news radio after days of non-stop reporting of a tragedy far more profound. It wasn’t survivor guilt, because I wasn’t there, but the voice in my head nagged: “How can this little family drama surpass Christchurch?” This was just a dog.

I found myself apologising for my blubbering and avoiding people, especially the pet intolerant who I couldn’t expect to understand.

The day after the dog died, I sat on a grubby plastic chair in an inner-city emergency department as a young doctor injected a needle deep into a gaping wound on my daughter’s face. I thought about the doctors over there in the ruins of Christchurch. How trivial this small but sickeningly deep wound seemed.

But hang on, I say to myself, this is my world, and though far away from the earthquake zone, my little dramas remain just that. Relativity isn't the issue here. It's pain, pure and simple and it comes in all shapes and sizes. I gave thanks for small mercies: we loved our little dog and he loved us. He had a happy, peaceful life.

The daughter is sleeping it off and will recover in time to frock up for the next 18th birthday party. She will be mildly annoyed by a fat wad of steristrips hanging off her pretty chin, but she will get over it.

I think about earthquake stricken families with issues far greater than mine and I hope they find peace soon. And I'm recalling an earlier time as a member of a disenchanted posse of social work students who were reminded to “think global but act local”.

In recognition of life’s painful interludes, I’m concentrating on being kind and patient. Yesterday I even smiled at the idiot who almost backed his car into mine. The good news is that he didn't. We waved to each other and drove off. Warm glows all around.

I pick up the weekend paper to reconnect with the world and my warm glow fades. I wonder how the media can justify the exploitation of people in pain, to make sales and reap profits. Do we really need a front page photo of a devastated family just realising the death of a wife and mother?

Isn’t it enough to know some unlucky soul in a crushed building in downtown Christchurch had his legs amputated on site? Apparently not. We need to know specifics: that a pen knife and a local carpenter’s hacksaw were used by a couple of doctors, one of whom was so sickened by the procedure that she remains too traumatised to be hounded by reporters for a comment. We need to know a local cop relentlessly hacked away until the leg came off before the man was whisked away to hospital.

Ugh…but wait a minute. I think I like reading about it! I sip my coffee and go a-hunting for more tales of blood and gore. I thought it was only morons who relished continuous disaster porn on crass commercial TV. At least my head’s stuck in a respectable broadsheet.

What is wrong with me? After all it was me who dragged the hubby to the cinema to watch a film about a self-absorbed loner who hacked off his arm with a cheap and nasty pocket knife after it became lodged under a falling boulder. That’ll teach him to leave the fancy Swiss army version at home. Off the high horse I must jump. I am as pathetic as that loser next to me, munching on a toastie as he swats over the daily rag, absorbed by New Zealand’s gore fest.

It is human nature, that’s what it is. Other people’s misery comforts and relieves us. It puts our little moments of agony into perspective. Perhaps the desperation of strangers may inspire us here on disaster’s sidelines to act benignly and to disperse goodwill towards our fellow human beings. Just for a little while, at least until those haunting images disappear from view.

I’m not sure how looting the debris or impersonating rescue workers fit with this heart-warming testament to humanity’s goodness.

With no little doggie to walk anymore, I’m toddling home to write a cheque for the Red Cross. Nothing more to do.

Published 1st March 2011: http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/44532.html

Buckle Up for the Frock Fest

It’s the best news I’ve had all week: the Academy Awards fast approaching and fashion tragics can tune in two hours early to watch A-listers show off the gowns and jewels they've had thrown at them for Hollywood's biggest night. Frock porn! Yippee!

I have a date with the daughters. They have been instructed to ditch all other offers and get home as quickly as possible. Dinner will be served in front of the telly, and be careful any bloke who dares interrupt. Fox Sports News will have to wait.

Reg

He is small, black and white and most of the time very sweet. When you talk to him from afar, he cocks his head as if to say “Oy, what are you sayin’?”

“If you leave me, can I come too?” is his motto. And if you do leave, he sits in the hall, cocks his head: “Oy! Where you goin’?”

When visitors arrive he barks fiercely just for a moment, then caves in and begs for a cuddle. He barks at birds too, when they dive into the garden, teasing him, egging him on. They are bullies, those magpies. They sit in trees, laughing at him. They set his crooked little teeth on edge.

He cries with joy when the lead comes out of its hiding place. Yes! A walk! He trots along, sniffing and peeing. Doggy heaven is a nature strip with a bush or two.

He growls at the vet who faces him head on with a poke and a giggle. He also growls when it’s bath time. When I take off his collar he has been known to chase me around the house, teeth bared. This little guy thinks he’s a Rottweiler. But he’s just a mutt, eight years old and topping the scales at seven kilos. As vicious as a marshmallow.

Lately he has thinned down and when we walk him, he retches. He cocks a leg but only gets lucky sometimes. He used to sit and stare at the fridge, dreaming about scoffing the contents. Now he wanders away at dinner time. I have been worried for a while. So has his other mother. Every living thing should be shared, I believe. My friend knows this dog very well.

Time stopped for a moment when the call came. Grief hit hard like a balled fist straight to the chest, leaving me gasping, speechless. The catastrophic details went in one ear and straight out the other. But I got the vital bit. Cancer. What now?

“We could investigate further. Do tests But nothing can save him.”

Stunned silence.

“If he was your dog, what would you do?”

I don’t want expert opinion. I need help from an empathic human being.

“I’d take him home and care for him there. We will keep an eye on him and help you decide when he has had enough.”

No treatment. Oh that dealing with sick people could be as straight forward. Heaven knows this family has had its fair share of the cancer epidemic. Three close relatives lost in the past few years and one in active treatment right now. A toddler aged just three with a brain tumour. What’s goin’ on with that? Please explain! I am completely bamboozled.

“There are Nobel prizes there, but it won’t happen in our life time” says my wise Dad.

Puts the sick dog in perspective I suppose, all those sick people. But nothing will assuage our sadness. No logic or rational thought will ease our pain.

In between bouts of blubbering, I call and email members of a special club where membership is open to those who have dogs, or simply know ours. I know they will respond the way I want them to.

And here are some of their outpourings:

“I understand how sad and heartbreaking it is when our dogs are so ill and leave us. They are such a major part of our families. They never answer back! We adored our Jack and were all heartbroken when he was so sick and died.

But we were all with him in the room and hugged him the whole time. That was comforting afterwards. He went around to each one of us saying goodbye and then lay on the floor. He knew what had to happen and was ready. They have an amazing sense of themselves.

What a lucky dog to have been part of your family and loved so much. He will feel that and know it.”

“Reggie is NEVER 'just a dog'! He is your faithful protector who aggressively and unconditionally terrorizes anyone who feels bold enough to venture through your front door... Scary dog then lovingly melts, once he is reassured you are happy that the person is there to be with you! Such loyalty and devotion doesn't come so lovingly in a constant package in a human being. I understand the gaping hole that he will leave.”

“We lost our cherished 15-year old Lab two years ago. She had cancerous tumors and dementia and the vet recommended putting her down six months before she eventually went. When the inevitable happened, just as the vet predicted, I felt emotional overload as my children’s childhood came to an abrupt end. We gave her one last slow walk up the road, this time to the vet where we sat around her on the floor as she was put to sleep. It was very peaceful. We loved that dog and we know she loved us. Be gentle with yourself, it’s a big and painful loss.”

Friends related their stories with lumps in throats, remembering long ago details about the day their beloved pet died. For some, Reggie’s predicament triggered memories they had thought lost.

It has been a surreal weekend. We spent it all together which is a rare blessing these days. The grown up kiddies cancelled their engagements. Social life was put on hold as they sat with him around the kitchen table or on the couch watching garbage TV, patting him gently and rubbing ice blocks around his parched mouth. His peeing is a barometer and we have stalked him mercilessly as he heads out to the garden, tail down, trudging across the long grass like a little old man.

“Did he do anything” I ask nervously, constantly.

“Nuh.”

We talk about what we want for him and mercifully there is agreement. No treatment but no suffering. But how to get it right? We have a delicate situation here which must be managed. There is tension. It’s bloody hot which doesn’t help. We have a eureka moment when we discover that a cool cloth over his skinny little body and a cosy spot on the bed under a fan works wonders. He snores and we all smile.

Late on Sunday evening: a tiny break through! Chief dog sitter, 19 year old man-child deduces dog that hasn’t eaten for five days is hungry but has a sore throat. Man-child chops up half a sausage into micro bits and…dog eats! Then trots to dish and laps ferociously. Trots outdoors and pees! Small mercies, small miracles. We remind ourselves we can’t save him but we feel sweet joy nonetheless.

It will be a grim week. I have butterflies in my stomach and I will wake up at 3 am feeling wretched, just like last night and the night before.

But for now he sleeps. And that's a blessing.

Life Without Plonk

Yesterday I heard a journalist speaking on daytime radio about her non-relationship with alcohol. She drank moderately as a youngster growing up in the country, but never enjoyed it and hated the way it made her feel. She gave up alcohol because she was a “one pot screamer” and didn’t much like the headaches, nausea and general malaise which she experienced whenever she imbibed.

She spoke with good humour about participating as a non drinker in a social world where abstinence is akin to leprosy, where socializing without alcohol is rare, except maybe for the latte crowd enjoying wake up time in cafes before lunch. If alcohol is not your drug of choice, life can get tricky. It’s like paddling upstream in a river of booze and never stopping to slurp. Exhausting!

Drug taking – illicit or otherwise – is a hot topic right now. Matthew Chesher, Chief of Staff to the Minister for Roads has resigned following his arrest for ecstasy possession. Whilst his wife, Education Minister Verity Firth relaxed at home with the kiddies on a warm Friday evening last week, husband Matthew strolled down to the local park and bought a single pill with a street value of $20.

All hell broke loose. The Premier Kristina Keneally was outraged and spouse Verity was disappointed and mortified. The fallout will continue as the legal treadmill grinds on.

The reaction of the general public was illuminating. Letters to editors and countless bloggers reveal overwhelming support for the aggrieved gentleman and derision for the action of the police and the hypocrisy of the circumstances. How can this happen when every day, pubs and bars are full of drunks who never cop the full brunt of the law - unless of course they pee in public or clobber someone. Why don’t police spend our taxes fighting real crime? What kind of oppressive regime converts this hard working dad into a criminal?

It’s clearly acceptable to be “doing” drugs and almost fashionable to defend the doing of them, so long as the drugs are “soft” and no one else gets hurt. There is a civil libertarian undertone to the bleating. The real crime is that Mr Chesher was arrested in the first place. Taking soft drugs is normal. Leave those who wish to partake in peace. Heroin or ice of course is entirely different. Once our pretty houses are ransacked by desperates or our kids are threatened it’s gloves off in the war against drugs.

Mr Pill Popper’s habit was compared favourably to a few drinks down at the pub with mates after work. A cultural institution! Part of our national identity and linked to that sacred concept: mateship. I’m moving onto dangerous ground here and must tread warily…tippy toe, tippy toe. Warning! The great Aussie laid back, fun loving, easy going beer and skittles moral highground is armed and ready, like a Cambodian minefield plonked quietly there, ready to explode.

This is a topic close to my own heart. For it isn’t drinkers and drug takers who are the pariahs in our community. It’s people like me! Let the rant fest begin! I’ve been calm, controlled and mostly silent on this for a while now but thanks to that sweet abstemious soul who giggled away in radio land yesterday, I feel permitted to vent with unrestrained joy.

I am Julesdog and I am a teetotaller. It’s been nine years since my last drink. I terminated my relationship with alcohol after a night at home with friends. I cooked, ate, laughed, cleaned up, saw them to the door and said to by bemused husband: “I’ve just had my last drink. I’m never going to drink again.”

It was sudden, cold turkey and to many friends and relatives, inexplicable. I didn’t discuss it at the time but I had been thinking about it for a while. There were many reasons for the decision: some complex, some simple. The bottom line was there was much to love but paradoxically so much to hate about drinking alcohol, and it was easy to halt proceedings and avoid this dilemma completely. I’m a black and white, no nonsense kind of girl!

What’s to love about grog? It’s fun and social. It lubricates us and makes awkward times smoother. It is a crutch, a healer, something to fall back onto when times are tough. It is a unifier and contributes to positive feelings of security and worth. I could go on…

But I don't like the stuff that goes with drinking: the toll on health, especially for people like me with a pre-existing illness, the hypocrisy around parental drinking at the same time as warning adolescents off the stuff, the insidious prevalence of it in this grog soaked, pickled country of ours, blah blah blah. Mostly it was the headaches and sluggishness that befell me almost always after drinking, even when I'd had just a couple.

What about the way alcohol shapes our play time? For those who don’t fancy mixing with the legless, smelly pubs are places to be avoided. I’d rather sit in the gutter outside and stick pins into my eyes than venture into a late night pub. The volume rises as the bellies swell and the eyes glaze over. Pick your pub or leave early. Do you know how many glassing incidents occur late at night when tempers and blood alcohol levels are boiling? Pubs don’t report incidents because the next step is to be put on watch. Plastic cups come out and the patrons bolt.

You might wonder why I worry about places I’m unlikely to be seen dead in. It’s the three almost adult children who live the night owl existence, not me. Adolescent boys and grog are a well known toxic mix. What is not acknowledged is that adolescent boys almost always emulate or evolve into the father, regardless of the relationship. And this is where it gets tricky, as health experts will readily concur. Try asking this colony of middle aged best male mates to navel gaze for a minute or two and self assess personal drinking levels. Nuh…not going to do that…no problem here…it’s those drunken hooligans that are the trouble…I’m fine…piss off and leave me alone.

Young women hang out with those boys, so they are equally at risk. Sculling vodka is a popular past time these days. We know drunkenness is dangerous. It is also reasonably fashionable.

When it comes to grog, I give thanks for being of a certain age and female, where abstinence finds more soul mates, feels less like leprosy and more like good sense. I would find it excruciating if I were to metamorphose into a non drinking male aged anywhere between 18 and 40. I remember one guy, only one lonely single sock from uni days who didn’t drink. Orange juice was his preferred thirst quencher. Like many of his friends I was curious about living as a non drinker. What was it really like?

“Boring mostly” he said, “especially late at night when parties are warming up. That’s when I leave.”

I never really understood this until I stopped drinking. There is a capacity for liquid tolerance with alcohol which doesn’t equate to soft drink consumption. Try this quick test: count how many beers or wines your bestie can put away compared to your one or two glasses of mineral water or coke. Unbelievable! At least three to one and that’s a conservative estimate.

At least middle aged chicks don’t usually shout by the dozen. It’s more likely they share a bottle of wine. Or throw in equally regardless of who drinks most. Beware those big groups in restaurants. It is only the teetotalling curmudgeon who feels brave enough to query the bill. That spaghetti marinara and smallish side salad can break the bank once the grog is factored into the fun!

Dinner parties…ho hum. The conviviality of drinking is exclusive. Without it, parties lose their gloss and conversations don't sparkle much past main course. The funsters in the group warm up as their jokes fade. Or get repeated. And beware that dangerous phase which starts right after dessert, when the “one for the roadies” warm up, just as this tired and sober little wombat craves a pot of tea and a good lie down. I become the antisocial one right about now, not because I am, but because not wanting to finish off a dinner party "with a coupla ice coldies" makes me the party pooper. The begging begins: “let him stay…just one more..." It's tedious being the boring one sitting there jangling the car keys.

Along with my certain age, I am also glad I am uninvolved in the mating and dating scene which revolves totally and exclusively around drinking. A date in a park feeding the ducks is sweet but those little duckies don’t want to be harassed four times a week. Art galleries and museums are lovely, but rather quiet. Coffee shops have ambience, but did you know caffeine is very bad for you? Add a muffin and it's so fattening!

I prefer morning socialising in cafes where there is a level playing field re alcohol. It might come up in conversation; people are curious and that is understandable but I'm unlikely to be interrogated. Whereas when I'm with people imbibing... We non drinkers are a rare species! I try to explain without zealotry, but defensiveness often lurks. It is as if my choice speaks volumes about their habits, even if I’ve never met them before.

I am sometimes neglected at parties and often ignored at functions; after everyone else has been offered a drink, I need to ask for one because if it isn't grog I want, there is an assumption that I’m not thirsty. And if I am thirsty, surely Chateau Tap will do?

I’ve been hammered by those with strong ideas about bottled mineral water (especially if its imported) and badgered to partake by people who know I don’t drink, just because it is their way of demonstrating friendship and social inclusion.

“Are you sure you won’t have a drink? Just a drop?”

“It’s OK really.” I can belong here happily, and not drink….can’t I?

What about this, my latest weapon:

“Do you know I haven’t had a drink for nine years? I’m fine thanks. Really.”

There was a phone-in after the journo vented. Two guys and many more women. All living parallel existences, all with remarkably similar stories. It was the blokes I really felt for. Both chose to cite alcoholism as their reason for not drinking. Shock and embarrassment shuts down all discussions and though they suffer an ill deserved reputation, it allows them peace to get on with the business of living without the stuff. A female self confessed alcoholic concurred. It is noble to live in abstinence in defiance of addiction.

Back to the unlucky soul who strolled the park one lonely evening, seeking out a pill dealer down in the dark by the bushes. I’ll reserve my opinion on his behaviour and life choices. I think I’ve said enough already!

Bottoms up!

It's About the Clothes

What are you wearing? Somehow dwelling on clothes engenders intense feelings of guilt. Surely in life there are many more important things to think about than the garb one fishes out of the wardrobe to cover one’s naughty bits. But for women, clothes signify something more than an investment in modesty. Women who swear blind they don't give a toss about clothes make powerful statements wearing something (usually horrible) that they don't care about.

Temperature Rising

You won’t hear me complaining on this stifling 38 degree day. The western sun is pelting down on this here blogger and it couldn’t be more unpleasant. But I do not complain. You won’t hear a thing about the buzzing mozzies that kept me awake last night, dive bombing my face, nipping my nethers and leaving me red, worn and frazzled.

If it’s not the insects, it’s the offspring (i.e. almost adult children, aka AAC) coming and going at all hours in the middle of the night. Door opens, door slams, dog barks. With friends or alone, it’s all the same bloody annoying racket to me. For God’s sake what is it about universities? Three month holidays? I reflect about a time way back when I worked in such an esteemed place and moaned like everyone else there about the workload. What a joke! Face to face teaching never exceeding 24 weeks a year! Get real, public sector!

I’m not whingeing about the burning smell which wafted into the house last night, causing one AAC to cough most violently and noisily and another to creep around in the small hours, worrying, not wanting to wake me up, but “Mum I think the house is on fire!”

I’m even rethinking my rant about the furious non-stop pings when new emails drop into the inbox. Wish I could gloat that I’m popular, but no. It’s that damn spam, boiling my blood and leaving me in an exhausted tizz. I'm muttering and cursing like a mad woman. Despite the family fortune blown on a wallet-fleecing computer clean up service, the geek who robbed me blind cannot stop them. He cannot explain the appallingly obscene run I’m having, right here on this bedeviled beast. Man enhancement pills (“You Can Enjoy Bigger, Harder, More Intense …”), Olga the Russian princess looking for a man, pharmaceutical bargains galore, Nigerians with schemes to burn, Matthew in Madrid with the stolen wallet, Viagra support subscription service, or the lotto I can’t seem to stop winning (15 million quid last email…”just click on this….”)

How is it I can wallow for months in cyberspace serenity whilst those darned emails hibernate like snoring bears in a polar forest (don’t mention cool climes: I’m sweating like a hog here) then Pow! The temperature gauge and inbox rage hit the heights together. Ping, ping, ping.

At least I am online here, unlike the poor loves in FNQ (Far North Queensland), many of whom are likely to lose more than an internet connection in the next few hours. I’m not going to wail, gnash my teeth or bleat about anything anymore because as I write, Miss Mich, blogger extraordinaire (follow the prompts on my blog straight to hers) is crouching in her best (and only) Max Mara trench in the hallway of a house in Cairns, clutching her grandmother’s yellow crystal rosary beads and cuddling her baby AAC. Luckily those pretty beads were blessed for her by the Archbishop of the Northern Rivers. Time to call in the big guns! Those poor souls are going to need all the help they can get.

As Queenslanders once again feel the terrifying force of nature, I’m starting the Miss Mich novena. Cyclone Yasi, home wrecker and category 5 disaster in waiting is right on course, poised to flatten. As the eye of the storm pops out into the treetops above Miss Mich and the AAC, say a little prayer they will rise up through the chaos to see another shiny new tropical morning.

That dark little tale of how to escape the AACs will have to wait a little longer…

Getting Over Myself

As I write I am listening to the cheery tones of MC Wendy Harmer spinning her magic at the Festival of Hope event at Angel Place, a most beautiful venue in downtown Sydney. As she recommends the Hope website I feel disappointed that my sulking prevents me from attending. I have spat the dummy like a spoilt child who is busy bawling at someone else’s birthday party. That brat is sitting over there on that website with my two stories, lonely and dejected. I am feeling for them right now. But actually they need to grow up and learn from life’s bitter pills.

Wendy quotes Emily Dickinson: “hope is that thing with feathers that sits there in our soul.” Our soul as a chook yard has a certain charm to it. Wendy likes it too. She has that small town local charm. She probably has chooks in her back yard at home. I can relate to her: her humanity, her goodness and her quaint old fashion-ness, even though we know she is not. She is the perfect person for the job tonight. The event is in good hands.

The first story from the website is from a Victorian woman who participated in dinners, storytelling and belly dancing in Kinglake, Flowerdale and other towns which were all devastated by the bushfires last year. She recounts ubiquitous tales of loss as well as those of generosity and hope. She especially mentions Odette in Flowerdale, a mum with a tattoo on her forearm, a permanent reminder of those horrific events. Odette needed a memory of those brutal fires etched into her skin. She wanted to be reminded forever of deceased friends and her lucky escape from the flames. Apparently 85 people from the area have the same image - a black tree - tattooed somewhere on their bodies. It is a measure of solidarity and love which sustains them as they continue rebuilding. The tattooist in Melbourne offers bargain basement rates to survivors for that image. She is with them in spirit. Go girl!

Betty follows next. She is 85 years old and has self published two books, the first one when she was 79 years of age. She questions whether hope is only for the young. Is old age an inferno of despair? She says not. She hopes for her family’s success, measured in terms of happiness and love, not in possessions and she hopes for a country to be careful and measured in its future endeavours. I like Betty. She is a feisty intelligent woman who is inspirational and funny. I hope I’m busy and contributing just like her when I’m old. There must always be a place at public events such as this for the wise, never redundant voice of our elders.

Betty gets a well deserved hooting ovation from an audience which obviously feels as I do. Go girl!

Invited speakers from all walks of life strut their stuff. These speakers are interspersed with music sweetly hopeful and uplifting. Wendy signs off, thanking them all and predictably ends with a quote. How do I feel? Well, to be honest it’s difficult not to compare my stories with those on offer tonight. After all it was a competition and competing brings out the green eyed monster and entices bitter thoughts which may ordinarily stay under the doona.

My stories reflect small matters: lunch with a friend and New Year’s resolutions. Compared to the grand matters of others’ lives and hopes, mine seem banal. I haven’t lost a house in fire or flood, and I haven’t competed at the Olympics. I haven’t started a world renowned theatre company or lived long enough as a writer to publish two books. My dreams are small and parochial. But they are authentic and they have meaning to me. I hope they are appreciated out there on that website where they are camping with their friends. May they not feel lonely. May they puff out their chests and feel proud to be included. Go all stories of hope! You’ve got to love ‘em!

So onward ho I travel, on to the next project. Stay tuned for the hilarious parents- only story about escaping the teenagers for the weekend. It’s better if they don’t even know you’ve gone!

The Festival of Hopeless

With excitement and anticipation I booked tickets to a Sydney Festival event The Giacomo Variations. As with last year's headliner event Rogues Gallery, it was virtuosos as the draw card which attracted me: in this case John Malkovich masquerading as the great lothario Giacomo Casanova. We the gullible audience found out only after the media outrage that this event, like Rogues last year, was booked by organizers sight unseen. It seems they were seduced by a big name too. There's nothing wrong with this. In festivals risks should be taken. That's when bright gems may emerge from the dust.

But not this time.

The production was stilted: enter, stand, sing, change coat, leave stage, come back, stand, sing, sit, talk, lie down, penis joke, leave stage, re-enter, change coat, more penis jokes.

Yawn.

The production was flabbily self indulgent. Dear John is a mere shower stall baritone. Let's stick to actors acting and singers singing. Crossing over is dangerous even in experimental opera. No journey, no redemption, no message other than "suffer this train wreck and cringe."

Yes the music was lovely, but I didn't fancy the idea of sitting in $125 seats for nearly three hours with my eyes shut. At least no one in the cast appeared drunk and could deliver their lines without prompting, unlike last year's Rogues debacle. The bar should never be set that low. Oh and did I mention the inaudible dialogue and the illiterate subtitles?

At least it made for an interesting debate: is it bad manners to flee the hall prior to or during the last bows? I opted for etiquette and thought it appropriate to stay and acknowledge the inspirational conductor. Thank you Mr Haselbock.

Home and the misery continued. The good news is that this week I learnt all about irony: a useful literary device for the wannabe writer, but not one that I’d employed often in this remote writing realm. I was on the receiving end of a massive dose of the stuff. It fairly knocked my socks off, but at least its ill timed perversity has inspired this next tale (of woe).

The email arrived last weekend. It was upbeat, urgent and promising, and I responded to the plea to contact the writer as soon as possible.

Reader, you will know from a past yarn that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to enter competitions. And so I uploaded two of my stories on to a Sydney Festival/ ABC website. The theme was hope: the stories were to inspire the readers with optimism and a sense of hope for the future. That amongst it all, through all the most intense vagaries of life, we can move forward (oops: might leave that to Julia G) and find peace. Maybe even joy.

The email was from the producer of the Festival of Hope. Low and behold, my stories had been noticed.

Discussions ensued for five days over the phone and by email. This was an agreeable person who sought my view about which story I thought most appropriate. She asked me about the thoughts behind my writing and she did a voice check to assess, presumably, the suitability of the vocal chords and the potential stumble-ability of this reader. She took the liberty of collapsing the two stories into one and sending me the edit. Deadlines can be most presumptuous. I was bemused, but gave my blessing. She confirmed my availability to attend a sound check for next week’s event, which would be filmed in front of a live audience and streamed live on radio around the country.

The UK and US rellies were primed. My sister found the link and timetabled a few hours of inspirational listening into her busy Monday morning in far away chilly London.

Be careful what you wish for.

I was simultaneously terrified and ecstatic. The birth of a new era, a sign of new things to come, a launch pad. The imagination ran wild as the nerves jumped. My stomach did a cartwheel every time I gave it any thought. I giggled nervously with a friend or two as I updated them during the week, and they booked to attend.

I planned the outfit with cousin Rosie, who wisely suggested I cover my arms and stay away from prints. I waited impatiently for my birthday this weekend when the extended family would come together and help me celebrate. I would tell them about the forthcoming event and watch them turn out en masse.

You may remember another of the New Year’s resolutions. Off I trotted down to the beach on a gloriously still morning to throw myself into the sea. I tumbled around in the froth and cursed the seaweed, grateful for this natural wonder perched on my doorstep. Like a cool bath, the water revived and refreshed and left me sparkling. I romped home, hope and optimism oozing from every pore. Even the prospect of some serious housework before an evening of festival music did not impinge on my levity.

Nor did the blinking of a waiting message.

“Hi Julie. Just wanted you to know you are off the hook for Monday night. I‘ve managed to fill the breach, so thanks for your flexibility and for being so willingly on standby. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday night. I hope you enjoy yourself.”

I was speechless. My guts sank to my ankles. My forehead oozed sweat and my head was pounding. I replayed the message. Hope? Don’t talk to me about hope! Nothing awkward there. She was jaunty, relieved; a job well done, the loose ends tied up.

I sought counsel.

“Ring her up. What a bitch.”

“Email right away. What was she thinking?”

At this low point, I must take time to thank the universe for friendship.

I sent a one liner expressing disappointment and howled in the bath, my very private sadness sanctuary.

Afterwards, as I vacuumed, second stage Kubler-Ross slammed into my chest wall. Anger kicked disbelief out the door and barking mad, I hit the keypad and watched outrage spew forth.

Hi there (unnamed ABC producer)

I just listened to your message again, and I must say I didn't believe I was filling in a breach as a "stand by." I believed it was a competition, that I had been shortlisted, and after much time spent sorting out which story and your subsequent editing to combine the two - this seemed to me that I was one of the two people selected. Not to mention the voice test and my commitment to attending both the sound check and the event. Perhaps I misunderstood you. But I think there was a lot there to misunderstand. I hope the night goes well.

Furiosly calm? After all I didn’t want her giving thanks for having averted disaster by disallowing an unhinged vixen on stage at this most dignified event.

Moments later the phone rang. A confused "what went wrong" tone followed by fervent apologies, deep regret and thankfully, some transparency. Had I known I was third choice to present and that one of the speakers was perhaps unable to attend I might have realized the true nature of the exchange. I didn’t misunderstand. I was hoodwinked.

Expectation, communication. The stars need to be aligned for hope to be possible and in this sad and sorry tale the stars were catapulting at lightning speed away from each other into an abyss. They weren’t friends, those stars. They were pissed off exflatmates who vowed never ever to cross paths again.

An evening under a full moon in a park full of ghostly gums and soaring bats did nothing to cheer my weary soul. The music was haunting and the dance jawdroppingly beautiful. But my mind was far away and I swooned in my ordinariness. A tad self indulgent, yes, but it’s an artiste’s life….

As morning broke and I brewed the tea, I gave thanks for finding my voice yesterday. It was my civic duty if nothing else; my meagre attempt to protect future hopefuls from the scorched earth insensitivity of “the show must go on.”

When It's All Said and Done

This ol' blog resembles its first cousin: the one that always comes to Christmas wearing a frocks and colourful earrings, sometimes sober in temperament and occasionally earnest. A bit moody, a bit funny, never too outrageous, always authentic.

Speaking of Christmas cousins, I had one visit every year until the last. She was never dull, that one! Through all her travails, she remained true to herself. We farewelled her on a scorching day just a few days after Christmas, in a quaint inner city church where a sombre mob lined the walls looking in at the altar. When yours truly rose to deliver the eulogy, I was shaking, just a little bit.

"This is a silly back to front church," giggled the smallest cousin to her tear-stained mother. She was used to the traditional rectangular church in her London parish, not that funny shaped round one in inner city Sydney.

And so it was that for the second time in my life, I stood up in a holy place, clutched a sweaty wad of notes and took the microphone.

And this is what I said:

"Jen was our Christmas cousin. She was born to a woman named Olive who died many years ago, and to Maurie, our uncle. We spent every single Christmas in Sydney, with her, her dad and until about nine years ago, with our Nan. One Christmas she arrived and announced she was never again to be called Jen Lynne, her name since childhood. From then on it was just Jennifer. We knew to obey!

Christmas followed the same format every year: Maurie brought the nuts and the glace fruit, Nan stringed the beans and our mum, Jen’s aunt, slaved all day over the hot stove. We all wore silly hats and told lame jokes. The turkey and ham were always warm, as was the corn and the plum pudding which was full of shillings and sixpences and the odd bottle top which Uncle Maurie always managed quite miraculously to almost swallow but always survive. We all fell for that trick for years. I think Jen was the most sophisticated of the five cousins: she cottoned on to the scam first and when she rolled her eyes, so did I.

The day passed in a contented, languid fog. Jen always loved Christmas and there was an empty chair just a few days ago when we all came together. It felt strange without her with us.

Other than Christmas there were holidays up the coast in Woy Woy where her dad lived down the road from Great Aunty Win and Win’s brother Uncle Jo. Jen spent many holidays with Win. It was a mutual love affair. They doted on each other. There was fishing before breakfast in the little tinny with Uncle Jo and again in the afternoon when they chased the blue swimmer crabs through the mangrove swamps. Sometimes I joined them and I have vivid memories of those early mornings, and the buttery leather jackets Aunty Win skinned and fried up for breakfast. I shut my eyes tight as I dropped the still alive blue swimmers into the boiler. It was worth their pain and mine for the crab dinners which we boasted about even though Uncle Jo caught most of them. We cycled around the streets in the lull of the day, and walked for hours sucking ice blocks, bored to death but not about to change anything. Sometimes we came home to Sydney on the train and I felt so grown up.

After the School Certificate she announced she wanted to leave school. Jen was in a hurry to get out in the world, to be independent and fend for herself. She went on to secretarial college in the city where she completed a one year course in secretarial skills. Her graduation certificate states she completed all subjects, including English, current affairs and psychology as well as achieving 100 words per minute in shorthand and 47 words per minute in typewriting. In her first job at the Coal Board in North Sydney, she found an unused electrical typewriter with a memory (quite the new high tech machine) and she taught herself and the entire office how to use it. She was no nonsense, clever and entrepreneurial.

Until she bought her first home in Alexandria she rented for many years over the bridge in Neutral Bay. I remember being surprised when she moved to the inner city after so many years on the lower north shore, but Jen was canny and knew a bargain when she saw one. She sold a decade ago to move here to Erskineville, where she lived in bliss with her beloved husband Charles.

I might add she also lived with, in turn, her three four-legged best friends Spike, Basil and more lately Milly. Despite her adoration for Charles, her husband of fifteen years, despite Spike’s negative attitude towards Charles and despite Charles’s serious dog allergy, she stood firm and the dogs stayed. Basil had quite the public profile in Erskineville: in fact rumour has it that when the nominations were due for the parish council at St Mary’s, one Basil McCann was nominated.

Sadly Basil passed away just before Jen: he was seventeen years old. One-eyed Milly remains, and she kept Jen company off and on at home and at the hospice during the last few weeks of her life.

So what did Jen love?

Firstly her cars: Maurie gave her the deposit for her first car: a Nissan two door sports, and she drove it for fourteen years, until the mudguards fell off and hubcaps rusted and it started falling apart. From there she started buying and selling, becoming a living breathing advertisement for the local car dealership. In her mind there was no better place to buy her various Mazdas, Mercedes and Holdens.

I headed straight there recently with pleasing results and Jen was quite chuffed, though she couldn’t believe I didn’t wait until the end of the month when the best deals were to be had.

Jen said that no matter how sick she became, she could always drive. She considered her car another room of her house. Her boot was full of loot which she sold in her capacity as a sales rep: candles, soaps, clocks and lamps. Her visits to us always came with samples of some product or another and it was always fun trying it all out with my girls.

What else did Jen love?

A bargain: Jen was a fountain of knowledge when it came to getting things done on the cheap. She pursued bargains all over the place, at home and abroad and woe betide anyone getting in her way. I remember when she sourced a side table for her TV. She searched the net, phoned around, found one at an unnamed Swedish homewares barn quite some distance from home. When she arrived the salesman couldn’t find the table. He copped it and I felt for him! When she finally sorted it, she proceeded to sell the old one despite its decrepit condition. This leads me to her next love:

Ebay. Not only did she buy bargains, she sold everything, garbage or not online. I was constantly astounded by her sales and she was constantly berating me for loading up the bins with my throwaways or even worse, putting stuff on the nature strip for anyone to take. She lived the saying: someone’s trash is another ones treasure.

Art and craft work: Jen couldn’t miss when it came arts and crafts. She came from a family of skilled dressmakers and her Nan and great Aunt Win were milliners and later on, fashion fitters and buyers. Firstly Jen mastered dress making and later moved on to folk art – painting floral designs on metal and timber, on just about anything really, and she taught classes in the subject. Her embroidery was legend and her quilting exquisite. Many of you here will be familiar with her work, and some of you luckier ones may have one of her quilts on a bed at home. She laboured for months, then invariably gave them away or donated them for charity. She created and produced prolifically: it was second nature to her. She seemed surprised at others reactions to her remarkable skills.

For the spectacular wedding between Charles and Jen in 1995, Jen sewed my daughter's bridesmaid dress. Two years later she made her first communion dress. That dress was so beautifully made it was passed around for years. At least six girls made their first communion in it and it survived many sessions of celebratory cordial and cake. Sewing came easily to Jen but she was bored by it. With her quilting came challenges and this is where she flourished. It was peaceful and satisfying sitting and watching her work: in the modern world her skills are almost old fashioned, though she never was. Her talents were extraordinary.

Her dogs: I’ve mentioned cranky Basil, moody Spike and sweet Milly: it is difficult to express how much pleasure the dogs gave Jen. She took at least one of them everywhere, including sneaking Basil into Mass here occasionally. When she became ill and finished work, it was the dogs which kept her company whilst Charles worked, between visits from friends, family and the women from her three beloved quilting groups and the coffee group. Membership of the latter was based on just one criteria: you had to be sick. It was a lively coven which overtook the local cafe every Thursday morning.

The Street: Jen loved living in her street. So does Charles, despite receiving two recent parking tickets for parking right outside his house. When our kids were little and Jen and Charles hosted Easter Sunday lunch, they couldn’t believe the play equipment was actually in the middle of the road! It was very special. Charles’s and Jen’s friends across the road and down a bit – you know who you are – have been a huge source of happiness to Jen for years. Like a big extended family really.

But most of all when it comes to what or whom Jen loved, most of all, it was Charles, unconditionally and passionately. He is quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to her in her too short life. Charles came along when Jen had lived alone for years, when she was steeped in her ways and despite old habits they meshed seamlessly into one another. Unbelievable really, considering that Charles stood her up on the first date! I believe she gave him one chance to redeem himself, and the rest is history.

Those who know Charles will be aware he has a finely tuned sense of the ridiculous, and he brought this out in Jen. She never laughed so much in her entire life as she did in the years she was with Charles. There have been difficult times during the past three years, but Charles has been her rock, and without him she could never have fought to stay alive for as long as she did.

Since the deathly diagnosis she and Charles managed four trips abroad, to Bali twice and twice to Europe. She was determined to visit Lourdes and return home with tiny bottles of the magic potion for all of us. She strolled Versailles with holy medals pinned onto her shirt and wandered Monet’s garden with Charles, the emerging artist. They spent time with cousin Lesley in London, where she say on the couch and finished off a gifted quilt. She dozed in the sun as they cruised the Mediterranean. Huge effort went in to organizing and participating in these trips and her determination knew no bounds.

Jen made the most of every opportunity and it would have been easy for her to sit back and feel sorry for herself. But she never did. She accepted her illness as a rather annoying disruption to her plans and kept busy convincing herself there was time ahead for her. We spent many quiet hours together over the past few years and it is was an enriching time, despite it all.

Rest in peace."

It's a little known truth that Christmas and holiday activities brings forth death. Since we ate turkey and pulled bonbons just a few short weeks ago, the grapevine has blurted forth about six other lives gone; at least six other eulogies made. Reminders to cast aside cynicism once in a while, live for right now and appreciate it all.

Happy Days

I went shopping yesterday. It was a special expedition with my friend, who for her own reasons has been unavailable lately. She was hosting a birthday lunch for a mutual friend, and invited me. Her usual response to "what can I bring" is "nothing." She is most generous and has a heart the size of Uluru. But her kindness is sporadic, because she is rarely around.

Here's Hoping for the New Year

It’s January. Wishing and hoping for a happy new year is futile without putting in some legwork. You know the saying: you get out of life what you put into it.

So, for me it’s all about the New Year’s resolutions. Sources of hope, but only momentary, says a true but sceptical friend. But in my mind you simply cannot have a happy new year without trying, and trying is a hopeful enterprise. December is the month to think about change and growth then bam! January has arrived and it’s all about The List.

In 2010 I made three New Year’s Resolutions:

*Drink more water
*Don’t rush, and
*Only use my bank’s ATMs

I drank so much water that I ended up in the urologist’s office and the less said about that day the better. But the good news is I have decreased the frequency of those early morning headaches. That expert on the radio was right: most headaches are caused by dehydration.

I managed to avoid rushing, except when compelled to do so by other people’s disorganization. It was important to learn that stuff happens sometimes and it’s better to be patient rather than flustered. But mostly I have tried to allow time to get places or complete tasks, and for this I generally feel satisfied. And I avoided calamity in that I didn’t fall over, crash the car or hurt anyone.

As for those $2 bank fees, I made it to October before I bailed. When it comes to banks, I concede defeat.

“So what’s your New Year’s resolution” I ask the beloveds.
“To be more awesome” replied the 17 year old.
“To cycle more” said the husband.
“To have my boyfriend sleep over” said the first born.

This year the list has grown. You won’t see clichéd rubbish such as “lose 20 kilos” or “get fit” on my list. Sadistic, unrealistic and designed to disappoint.

Resolutions are ways to reclaim control in a world full of chaos. Climate change, environmental catastrophes, personal grief, unlucky, chance events. My resolutions are practical, tangible demonstrations of hope, that when all else fails, small ways exist to improve health and happiness and maybe even make me a better person.

So what’s on for 2011? In no particular order:

*Maintain last year’s resolutions
*Always wear a sunhat
*Walk the dog more
*Compost
*Swim in the ocean more
*Enter competitions
*Where reasonable, don’t say no
*Put the seatbelt on straight away

In the end, it’s up to me. I won’t be burdened with guilt if I fail once or twice. For me it’s about trying and hoping for the best. That’s what makes me feel better. It’s all about hope, really.