Saturday, July 26, 2014

A Little Thursday Adventure

Yesterday, at 1/2 past way before the Sparrow stirs (1) I arose, grabbed my exceedingly well packed backpack, boots and overcoat, and tip-toed out the door for an adventure.

After an event-free drive to the train station (and I swear, that is because there were no events to behold and NOT to do with the fact I was on all levels bar the valuable car-driving level possibly technically unconscious.  Well, I am pretty sure), I boarded a train and sat down in D17.

See how organised I was?  BIG green water bottle!

So, for those of you playing at home and thinking "hang on, Jeanie, you have escaped our shared reality zone and I am not sure what before the Sparrow stirs looks like, let alone the view of a train station platform from D17" -

and you are welcome.  Its a Public Service I am happy to provide.

Of course, we live in a modern world, and its not all about what goes on beyond our immediate environment these days, you know...

I could have actually even put in my earplugs and listened to the accompanying silence to that graphic of where we were in relation to where we were intending to go over the next 5 hours - but I chose to remain unplugged for the initial leg of the journey...

and for all that before the Sparrow stirs offers in way of entertainment out there in the world beyond the train, you will not actually be given the opportunity to view it, as there is a strict policy of keeping all the lights on at all times and therefore only offering a never ending view of ourselves reflected rather starkly back to us - not a pleasant vision for some of us who chose to eschew the beautifucation process prior.

Eventually, that magical moment of the passer pepedi (2) comes, and in terms of all the moments of such that I have witnessed, it wasn't too shabby.

Sure, a little mute of colour, but then dawn is not as flamboyant as dusk.  The promises of the day ahead are certainly subtly made.

and as the landscape changed around me as we chugged our way South, glimpses of brilliance were mentioned.

The reality also dawned on me that the cheap seats that I had scored were perhaps deemed extra cheap because the show on offer on the sunny side also had to contend with the sunny side

and there is only so many laws of physics that you can bend with a mobile phone - and overcoming such an obstacle is indeed beyond the mobile phone.

On top of that, there just aren't the money shots on the cheap side of the train.

I mean, sure, there are hints at possible beauty, but when you look over

and look at what the guy opposite is sleeping through,

well, its a $28 saving each way, and its only a theory anyway.  Right?

Still, 4.5 hours do pass, and eventually my way wended towards the ultimate destination.

There are increasing glimpses of civilisation,

indeed, it seems as if civilisation is trying to creep up towards me!

And in such a hurry, it seems!.

Sure, it doesn't always show its prettiest side towards the tracks,

although you do get surprised when beauty thrusts out at you,

sometimes it seems like we are travelling through wormholes in time as well as civilisation on the morning train...

a lot of these people perhaps think so, as they are sucked up daily from the farflung corners of this urban empire for whatever purposes or service lubrication needs of the intricate cogs and wheels.

Maybe.  I think I need coffee.  More coffee.

People live here.  I used to live here.  Well, not here right THERE here - but here in this metropolis.

Doesn't really feel like home, any more...

although there are bits where I get a tug of nostalgia - I don't think I really remember being at this platform, but there was a New Years in the late 1980s when I caught the first train from this station home after a night out.

Ah, to be young again.

Yeah, see, and then this one just reminds me of temp office roles and petty office politics and doing the time and mannequinning the moves and dreaming of not being there.  Youth, eh.  Not always what it appears on the surface.

Breathe.  My city is the city of coffee shops and cool bookshops and hip friends and share houses and good food and weekends, but that isn't the city that I am visiting today.

Exactly, mobile phone technology.   Sometimes you just need to turn away and refocus.

try and sneak up on it at an angle.

try not to gawk (3) , and just enjoy the fact that I don't need to contemplate driving and highway road tolls and petrol prices and other drivers and city navigation and traffic and parking.  I can just hop off at one platform, go across and hop on another, run into a friend from Paradise on the same train (because it is indeed a very small world), get on the next train, travel for 4 minutes, get off at the second station, ask a worker for directions, walk up a hill, enter a large building, enter a lift, press a button, walk down the halway and get to see


What an awesome blessing - and indeed a grand adventure.

The return trip?  Well, that is another story for another time.

1. and 1/2 hourly intervals before then for several hours - what is it about alarm clocks that I do not trust?

Unfortunately, my good friend Google was unable to offer me the true Latin translation of the beautiful Australian phrase, Sparrow's Fart.  I did the best I could.  All pedants will be held down and we shall offer them to the Passers to pepedi them all they want.  'kay?

3  or if you are going to gawk, do it from a different perspective

Saturday, June 28, 2014

a very pertinent Friday night question...

tonight, V and I did what some parents do when their children have gone to bed.

Tonight, we discussed meteorology; appreciated the merits of bathing between the kitchen timer beeps, we kneaded and rocked; we heard thumps in the night; we contemplated finances and pondered the necessity of inviting an after-hours plumber around.

Our taste in Friday nights runs to fish and chips and salad with boiled egg with the next-door neighbour, Queen Jeanie (no relation).


On some Friday nights, I thaw amazing fish from the bounty provided to me from a chance job with a keen fisherman, create the most excellent batter (and so freaking simple you wouldn't believe it) and dunk bits in and then to the oil-filled wok.  A whole array of anything else that can be batter covered and deep fried also get the dunk and fry treatment, due to the quantity of batter that is always remaining (and the darned Scot in me can't stand the waste of unused batter (while the vast Australian that surrounds me obviously can't stand the waste of used batter)), accompanied by chips from the sushi joint at the Shopping Centre and Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad.
Several months ago, Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad, had quartered boiled eggs as part of the salad-construct presented and it BLEW PARIS'S MIND!!!

We often eat salad, but now I have a very avid salad-assistant at the beginning of salad creation - the boiling of eggs - and the end of salad creation - the peeling of eggs (and sneaky attempt at palming some egg for a pre-dinner snack) - but surprisingly not the boring middle bit of salad creation - the actual salad.


On the rare Friday night, we go to a newly found and absolutely wonderful Kountdown Kafe.  For an exceptionally reasonable exchange of money, they will provide you with delicious, filling meals.

I will let you in on a secret.  They even know how to cook pretty awesome chips - and will serve them with every meal.

But not only is there food, there are the people who bring you Kountdown Kafe.  A most beautiful woman who seems to exude joy as she hostesses the room.  And a tall intense man in the kitchen, emerging to visit the pop-up sidewalk salon in the front of the shop, where philosophy, history and music is avidly discussed.

And as the ganache of the whole experience, there is live music with local musicians and always the chance you will be there when the newest material is being tested, the undiscovered will find their feet or the experienced will show you their true talents.

We do not visit often enough, for our enjoyment of life is tempered greatly by the potential grizzles (or tsunamis) of overtired Paris, the enforced disassociation of the teenage 'Salina (and her companion of choice - or ours at the next table (logistics)), V's knees and occasional budget-anxiety.


And most other Friday nights are Salad de Paradis avec l'œufs (that was thrown in to keep my Internationally Renowned Food Blogger status bobbing above the "alleged" line) with Fish and Chips bought at the Seafront Fisho by Queen Jeanie (no relation) over at hers.

Party animals, eh.  So after an exhausted Paris (and seven stuffed toys) is said good-night to, and an aloof adolescent 'Salina gives final orders - "turn off my fan, check the radio, don't disturb before necessary, don't talk about me or post my image on the internet", V and I look expectantly at each other, and collapse at opposite ends of the house to decompress.

My chosen mode of decompression on this Friday night was baking.  You can dovetail baking nicely with bathroom requirements, internet surfing, background football, cups of coffee and the occasional whispered innuendo.  Pretty wild, I know.

Do you know how tempting it is right now to throw in the term "Ironic"?  Just so I could get all the true defenders of the meaning of the word ironic to rattle their pitchforks in my direction.


Yeah.   But I used to go to nightclubs.  Clubbing.  By choice.  Every.  Friday.  Night.

True story.  It would start with drinks at friends or in town and sort of morph into all night dancing, drinking and being delirious with fun.

And youth.


Sigh - but no, bread baking.

In the beginning, it is quite simple.  You measure, you activate, you blood-warmth test and you wait.

Then you mix and you knead and you knead and you knead and you are on guard regarding the amount of flour covering the (sadly inadequate) counters in relation to the moisture in the dough and you can really start to meditate on the world and your place and your circles and the referees background calls and commentators reaction and then the urgency of the floured counter/dough moistness ratio kicks in.

Once the "oh-crap-I-forgot-to-oil-a" bowl is located and oiled, and the dough is covered by a fresh tea-towel and - poof - the troubles of your day disappear.

The timer is set and it is time to MAKE.  A.  DECISION.  Together, as a couple, the most important discussion a couple can have takes place.

Who is going to have first bath.

It is Winter.  There are factors to consider.


V got the long straw.

I got to surf and await the next step in the bread making.  And decompress.

It has been a week.  Aren't they all?

The timer goes off and this beastie goes on.

Isn't she beautiful?

Hello sweetie.

Anyway, ahem.  The downside of such an amazing massive oven is the fact that it takes longer to warm up all that space.

But I can cook five loaves (perhaps even six) at the same time.  Yeah, baby.   Because it is the Food Swap tomorrow and because I am the bread lady.  And we need bread.  And I am decompressing from the day, from the week, from the fish and chips...

And suddenly it is ON.  Baking paper for the trays, oil the pan, knead the dough.  Get a knife - guess complex fractions and divide the mass into approximations.  Knead each loaf.  Cut the loaves for rising.  Attempt to reshape the loaves.  Realise I am not a food blogger.  I am so much such not a food blogger that I didn't photograph any of this!

The timer is set.



I am currently reading a book.  It isn't a bad book.  Its quite a good book.  But there is just one problem - and that is that it is an African book.  And I love African books.  I hate that I just emcompassed the whole continent's literary output with a blanket "African book" - but here is the thing.  The writing is beautiful - evocative.  It builds a world that I have no true understanding of except through the words, and they are words that makes me feel I do have an intimate knowledge of people, culutre, politics and food of a faraway place.  But it is one of those books that - and I warn you now Mum, I am going to use a word that you don't like so scroll down the the next picture.

Yes, it is one of those books that at the opening, everything is fucked.

And then lots of really fucked things happen, getting increasing bleak.

And the ending is generally pretty fucked too.

But all with really beautiful, evocative writing.

It always puts me into a bit of a moral bind.

I know that if I keep reading, I will get carried away by the words but, being open to the beauty of that makes you vulnerable to the sheer dispair of the situation of (insert African nation currently being screwed over by multinational trade and aid politics).

And you wonder if you avoid being vulnerable to such dispair...  yeah, I am in about the middle of the book.


It was a very decompressing bath.

Thankfully, the timer went off.

Towards the end of bread baking, the whole timing intensity amps up.  And when you are not just baking ONE loaf of bread but indeed FIVE of TWO DIFFERENT SIZES, we are talking algebra-requiring calculations for the insertion, turning, swapping and finally inhaling of loaves.  Great for decompression.
So, between kitchen timers and all those verby words above, V and I were finally decompressing together.  Contemplating our next move.  I thought I would check the last turn of the bread before we decided.

As I walked towards the kitchen, and almighty BANG captured my attention.

It was definitely not the melodic beeping of the kitchen timer.

And that hissing sound was not the oven fan.

My mind did an inventory of all the things that could possibly stuff up.

"V" I quivered, as I flung open the back door and peered down towards the laundry.  The laundry was dark.  Darn, I hate it when good organisation means that the bogeyman has a better chance.

"V" I quivered, because although I am a feminist, I am one of the equal rights feminists thinking the bogeyman should get a choice.

There was a funny smell, but it wasn't burning.  There was a haze, but it wasn't smoke.  The hissing noise seemed to intesify.  The stairs were descended and the laundry declared clear.

"Phew" said V (well, not in those words, but they convey the meaning) "its only raining".

It wasn't just raining, it was BUCKETING down.  The hissing sound was accompanied by the roar of a million drops hitting the roof - and the buckets and the washing on the line and the lawn furniture.

When we went back inside, I had a brainwave.

I went to the front door.  I went on the front steps.

It wasn't raining at the front steps.

Back we went to the back stairs, and further investigations were undertaken.

A pipe had burst.

We had a fountain in the back yard.  Well, not really, because the pipe was directly under the upstairs floor - so it was more a water feature.

The smell and haze in the kitchen was mist.


The water mains must be approached with caution.

It is basically a rectangular bucket at the bottom of the slope of the front yard with a lid.

The lid is not very effective at keeping out dirt.  Or water.  Or ants.  So to turn off the water mains, one must first dig through a mudpit of biting insects.  Very Indiana Jones.  With our bare hands because in our haste, we had failed to bring along gardening equipment.

 Once cleared, the tap turned out to be one of those horrible impossible to turn designs.  The only edge that offers purchase does so on such an angle that there is NO SINGLE TOOL in V's kit that will turn that last quarter-turn required.  Luckily I am married to a very smart man, because he knows the secret men's business that involves combining tools.  Colour me duly impressed.


So the question remains - will this be fixed by duct tape, or will the universe require after-hours plumbers to deal with this sudden turn of Friday night events.

How is your Friday night going?

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Who invited bagpipes and jazz to the same jam session?

Good evening and welcome to the late evening edition of Everything In Paradise, brought to you by the Bagpipes currently featured on ABC Jazz and the fact that V could not hear my desperate pleas for help from the bedroom and the remote control was too far away.

I am sore.  Sore due to the fact that the Personal Trainer who has made it possible for their to be every so slightly less of Jeanie in Paradise than there was several months ago is soon to be leaving, and the last opportunity to be tortured at her hands was this evening.

Now, when I say less of me, that is not to say that there is a darned sight more of me than is the vogue in her troupe of sweaty ladies, but I feel I serve a particular purpose in the group.  Sure, I may be the bar below which they do not dare fall - but I am also that member against whom they can all favourably compare.

I am also sore because there was a split nanosecond when a fragment caught within a bathroom mirror evoked a glimpse of hotness that has been unconscionably quashed by Facebooked photographic evidence of oozing rolls of hotness wrapped around the Jeanie-core.

 Still - with the art of photoshop* I could just have it prove my theory

its just that I am too short!

* and too tight - it is really a Paint job.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Bringing the mountain to the proverbial

Paradisical Kitchen.

As you may or may not know, the litany of woes - sorry, the litany of potential positives in our lives is ever giving.

Two days before becoming the recipients of  the Civic, V's car departed the going concern dimension and we entered the market for his dream car.

The universe provided one for him.

Several months ago, components on the stove started to give out, highlighting the extended warranty was over, baby, and it was time to start making the tipping point ponderings on the large white box.

One of the hurdles in our way is the dream of an open, airy kitchen offering an interactive experience with the whole family - and our inability to address this given the bathroom hurdle, the office hurdle, the floor coverings hurdle, the paint hurdle, the staircase hurdle and the fly overseas and spend some awesome time with V's family hurdle.

But last time - last time, darn it, we bought to our conditions and limited ourselves to what fits in the bright yellow cocoon of isolation that is the current kitchen - and last time was only 7 years ago and we hope to goodness that those hurdles are surmounted by the time the replacement for the stove we need to get swings around.

So this time...

this time we are throwing the old "buy to your conditions" rulebook out the window...

We are allowing ourselves the supreme indulgence of the stove WE WANT...

to give us hope that all of our dreams may well come true...

and even though it is still couched in chrysalis confines...

we can almost see the future from here.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

The Galactical Women's Rant about lurgies and other societal ailments

It has been one of those weeks in Paradise.

One of those weeks that included ailments adjectived with a gender definitive (a.k.a. man flu.  I have been advised - on several occasions - that I have the habit of being a little obscure.  I apologise.)  Yes, I was struck down by a lurgy doing the rounds, 19 times more powerful than the generic offering, apparently.

A query has arisen due to a chance sighting of an advertisement on ABC2 for its Hockey World Cup 2014 coverage - I am quite thrilled for the little sport, don't get me wrong, and I think it is awesome that we can indeed look forward to "every goal" and "our best chance" - but shouldn't it be the Men's Hockey World Cup 2014?  Why is it that every female sport has to be defined by "Women's", and yet events for males are the norm, the accepted, the default?  Why is the major event that Brazil will be holding the "FIFA World Cup", where FIFA doesn't actually designate that its all about boys and balls, and the boob-laden need not contemplate?

Tonight, while aimlessly killing time on the vortex, a local business offered its advertisement for the upcoming State of Origin football game.  Its a pretty big thing, it would make such a business a lot of money if they put together the right options for punters to partake of their services during the duration.  Allow me to present to you their ad.

Now, the first thing that stands out to me is that this is obviously all about football, and offering the opportunity to infuse yourself of the testosterone of grown men in uniforms getting all sweaty and pumped by the sheer adrenalin of representing your state by throwing and kicking around leather-enclosed air between two theoretical lines and a few posts.  You read that too, don't you?

(Heads up.  That was slightly sarcastic.)

I actually really hope that this small local business has a good and profitable evening, but I am so very, very, very disappointed that this was the promotion that they ran with.

Pick ups from 5.30-7.30pm - Drop offs from 10.30-midnight!!
Origin packs to give away!! Bikini Girls!! Drink specials!! Free bar snacks!!



Just because we have politicians getting all scary with their fearmongering and assumption of public stupidity and ever so "what-the" close to fascist behaviour, why do little businesses - and indeed big businesses - feel the need to suddenly denigrate women like its 1974 and emancipation was just another word for getting the boobs out and all act like it is a great big joke?

Bikini Girls!!??  Its fucking May (apologies for swearing, Mum).  While we are in a fairly balmy part of the world doesn't mean that the month prior to Winter may have a tendency to be on the nip side of comfortable to be frolicking after dark in approximately lord knows how many how many square centimetres of fabric * covering your privates for no other reason than to be a star attraction at something that is meant to be about football.  Men's football, if you haven't yet worked out the modern world's apparent lack of need for defining what sort of athletic event you are in for.

Still, I hope they do well.  We ourselves shall be having our traditional junk food for Origin night festival of Men's football at home again this year.  With all respectfully attired attendees, thank you very much.

But this week did indeed get me thinking.  I shouldn't get sick so often.  It puts notions into my silly little head, and I forget what we all have learned to accept as the norm.

While wondering about the scope of such competitive thing, World Series when it only one nation competes, Miss and Mr World only for humans, Mr and Miss Universe only for earthlings...

* "how many square centimetres of fabric in a bikini" was indeed googled to see if this question had an easy answer.  The answer was this:

then I realised that if anyone ever googles "how many square centimetres of fabric in a bikini" to find the easy answer, this blog post will a possibility.  Who are these people who google such things?