Saturday, March 02, 2019

I missed February - did you?

I just deleted a whole post of woe is me and just want to say so long, sucker.  You shan't be missed.

Tuesday, January 01, 2019

Its a brand new year - or a twisted tale of ringing it in, bringing it on - and o-rings...

Welcome to 2019.  I have plans for 2019.

Well, the short-term plans are for the first week of 2019 - sort of an extension of the plans I had for the last week of 2018 with added urgency because I go back to work on the 7th.

To misquote The Princess Bride (because who doesn't), I have got my 50th to plan, my house to re-arrange, my life to renovate, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped!

Life, however, has a way of inserting itself into great plans, doesn't it?

The front room looks reasonable - a few large bags of op shop donations and far clearer than it has been for years - well, except for the large family heirloom sideboard that needs to find another family member to look after it.

Paris' room looks emptier - it had an enforced clean-out a few weeks ago due to misalignment of priorities and a standoff over a 10 minute clean.

We shan't look into most of the other rooms just yet - still on the list.

But the big ticket item for today - the living room - looks amazing - all walls are now primed and ready for some colour.

That was where we had aimed to be today, but as I said, life and insertion...

You see, we have amazing water pressure in our kitchen.  We have already replaced all washers at least 3 times in recent memory, and the hardware has been replaced also.

One of our long-term plans is to move the kitchen into the living room area so that it is more open plan and the room it is in can become a sitting room come office space - so the whole "we have to overhaul the plumbing" courtesy of the blessing of high water pressure has been one of those jobs that are in the "can we please put it off until the planets align" basket.

Unfortunately, it seems Aquarius was rising and had a hangover today, because the current fix for the  musical "ping ping ping" of dripping taps (holding your mouth right, turning the right tap off hard while adjusting the left tap and giving the spout a bit of a tweak) decided it was no longer going to work at lunchtime.

Lunchtime, when we were about to celebrate a morning well spent with paintbrush and roller, lunchtime, when we had an afternoon of bathing in the ocean and resting on our laurels to contemplate - lunch time, when all hell broke loose.

It is possible I exaggerate when I say "all hell" - although V can colour the air with epistles when dealing with plumbing issues that do touch upon such themes.

One minute, he was rinsing the brush for storage overnight and the next, opera to the tune of gushing water was ringing forth.

It is New Year's Day - I only have two children to ransom, and neither would possibly raise me enough for an emergency plumber on a public holiday.

V is handy enough to try things once, so the water was turned off and 3/4 of the fixtures removed from the existing kitchen wall to determine the depth of the damage.

V is smart enough (ish) to know that when you try to remove the last fixture and all of the tubing behind moves with it, it is possibly best to stop and just swear at it a bit more.

We are blessed - it is Summer, we have an ocean and sea-side showering facilities.  We are also blessed with neighbours and friends whom we can cadge showers and laundry options from when we get to that point.

But we did have to suffer this evening with doing a camping wash up in a pan, and Paris learned how to brush her teeth with a cup of water as her rinsing and spitting option.

And we now have to look down the barrel of getting a plumber at a reasonable rate asap.

2019 - you have been an adventure so far.

So - Happy New Year!!  How has the New Year been treating you?

Thursday, December 06, 2018

Did you Dux? Or, the Tale of the Red Chair...

Based on my own personal anecdata, (early 80s Year 7) Dux was definitely based on teacher preference.

I went to a TINY school that received most teachers based on demerit .

On the rare occasion that we lured a good one, they were looking for us, and we them.  When you live in a small community, the worth of a good schoolteacher is valued.

However, we had form.  Apparently the town was mentioned in State Parliament in the 1950s for the local walkout by families in reaction to such indifferent teachers.

Thommo came to the school when I was in Year 6.  In my year, there were 5 students.  There was (using our Charlie's Angels names) Sabrina, Kelly, Bosley, Kris and Jill .  In the year above us, there was one girl, in the year below, one girl.  There were 20 students in the whole school - counting the pre-schooler.
The first year Thommo was there (and every year prior to that for at least 30 years) there was no dux.

The second year - mine and Thommo's final year - Thommo decided he would create a Dux award.

Now, all 5 of us had been together for 7 years of schooling.  We KNEW our order of academic progress -  Sabrina, Kelly, Bosley, Kris and Jill - every single time. 

Thommo had brought with him from the city a few quaint beliefs.

An abhorrence of Queensland, the bush and its people - which did make things a tad uncomfortable.

A desire to teach such savages Australian Rules Football (or aerial ping-pong as we locally referred to it) - he was deep in Polocrosse, Campdrafting and Rugby League territory.

Motorcycling for fun.  Yeah.  In a community that valued topsoil because where it wasn't that, it was granite and angular, and by the way it HURT a lot if your horse dropped you - but at least that bugger would walk home.  You had to PUSH a motorcycle.

And Thommo held a rigid belief in intellectual superiority of males.  How ridiculous!!!  We all knew THAT was BS.  We had all grown up with our mothers being the brains and our fathers being the instruments of each farming enterprise.  Some of our fathers didn't even know how to talk to kids, let alone crack a book or think about numbers.  That was what mothers were great at.  That and organising stuff.  Thommo didn't think so.

So Thommo's parting shot to a community that had not been warm to his presence for that and so many more transgressions was the installation of the Dux award.  I think perhaps to cement his posterity in the region.

Thommo awarded the Dux to Bosley.

We all cheered for Bosley, of course - he was a good bloke and we had all grown up together.

But we were (in order) Sabrina, Kelly, Bosley, Kris and Jill.

The eyeroll of parents and students alike caused seismic sensation at the school.

Our parting shot to Thommo was a gift-wrapped Red Chair.

The Red Chair had been the Little Room's birthday chair prior to Thommo's arrival.  On the day when you got to celebrate YOUR day, you got to be a special person for the day in The Red Chair.  You got to choose activities, Mrs Hockey baked you a cake and let you help wash up.  It was pretty special.

Thommo made it a pretty special chair too.  Thommo installed this chair on the upstairs verandah outside of his office.

"The Red Chair"

Anyone who was the first to rise Thommo's ire on any morning (and every morning) would get detention upon The Red Chair.

I must admit, whether consciously or subconsciously, it seems that I volunteered myself most days for this pleasure.

I did not take Thommo's views silently, not with a mother like mine.

So  our parting shot to Thommo was a gift-wrapped Red Chair.  We solemnly presented his special piece of furniture for him to take to the next poor school he had been demoted to.

We figured the kids of Coen may need it.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Boiled Lollies

Firstly, a trigger warning.  I know that just because I did not have a horrible experience does not in any way lesson the reality and impact that this could have.

When I was young, one of the best things in the world to do was to go for a drive with Dad.  Generally he would take one or two of us at least when he went to check the waters and turn on a motor and do those little weekend jobs that could take you to many wonderful places and do many wonderful things.

Fish dead parrots out of tanks at the middle yards.

Pull up a wire or two across a creek crossing.

Try and get a bull back through to his paddock on foot - or drafted by land rover.

And sometimes (if we were lucky) go over to the neighbours.

We had a few neighbours, but the best fun of all was when we would go to Oakey, and see Keiran and Lilian - and Wayne and Judy and Jeni and Willem and Fammo and the many and varied nefarious animals and people that lived there from time to time - they had a caravan and a relatively fluid work-force.  Looking back, they seemed to be a half-way house for all sorts of interesting background stories - and knowing more of their stories the older I get (or guess at), this is possibly true.

Anyway, one of the characters was Tom, an old (probably in hindsight around my age now) bachelor who was uncomfortable with polite society - but loved to see kids smile.

He had a way of making kids smile - he had this big bag of tropical fruit lollies that had the picture of the fruit on - in garish colours against the wrapper's waxen white - that were magical.  They were hard and sickly sweet but after you sucked on them long enough, sharp cracks in the shell would appear and an explosion of chemical flavour purported to be reflective of the fruit depicted. 

He would whisper you to one side of the gathering and say what a beautiful smile you had and he would give you a handful of these sweets and enjoy that moment.

And that was it.

He was not the only purveyor of sweets - old Mrs Higgins gave apron warmed minties, the Murrays always came through with super-sweet home-made cordial - given our only chocolate and sugar consumption came in the form of Christmas and Easter, these all featured on the highlights reel.

I remember feeling uncomfortable when the "men offering children boiled sweets" became public knowledge when I was a bit older - and I was saddened that forevermore, that experience would be tarnished by the fact that, in other people's worlds, that wasn't it.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

The Parisian Boulevardes of my childhood... (part whatever)

I remember that I was about 8 years old.  Old enough to know what I wanted to do and what I wanted to wear.

Young enough that my mother still thought that she could tell me what to do.

She could.

I was eight.

It was the Seventies.

Whatever Women's Rights may be, Mothers Rights ruled supreme, with their wooden spoon sceptres and their castles their homes.

So when she told me what to do - which was to take this tablet, this bright red, shiny and very round tablet, and to ingest it after my breakfast, but before going to school - I took the tablet.

"It says that it is chewable," she offered, as she proffered the orb.

It lied.

It was neither chewable nor swallowable.  Forces external to my body rejected it, all moisture was sucked from my mouth and the red shell cracked and mixed with whatever chemistry was left.


That being said, she had allowed me to choose my clothing.  She was a fair and smart mother for making such a compromise.

I had just ONE item in my wardrobe that I really felt said it was authentically ME when I was that age.

It was so cool.

It was a white t-shirt with silhoettes of buildings with a few bright trees in the foreground, and a lamp-post and the words "Paris" across to one side.

So me.

Not so cool that I looked wannabe - it was a little bit too twee for the part of the Seventies I inhabited, with Countdown just getting going with more live music and stuff that Molly Meldrum told us was the "next big things" - but I digress.

She allowed me to choose my clothing, which was my Paris t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  I can't even remember which shorts.

But yes, in return, I took the tablet.

I put it into my mouth - and the subsequent projection was in the form of foam.

I could not stop blubbering the foam out as I looked in panic at my mother. The foam was red.
Really, really red.

And it was like there was a fountain within my mouth flowing down the front of my shirt.

My beautiful shirt.

My mother's eyes and mine met.

Me begging her to make this not happen - and her pity for me and regret at being the purveyor of such a curse.

It was not the last time she would ever make me throw up in the name of medicine.

It was the last time that I ever saw my Paris t-shirt.

Do you want to know the worst bit?

The worst bit was - the tablet was for worms.  The worms that she thought maybe I had, because I was always on the toilet.

The reason that I was always on the toilet was that I was addicted to reading.  It is possible that I had just discovered several years worth of National Geographic - or a good Betty and Veronica - and was slacking off from whatever tasks and chores my parents would allot me if they caught sight of me.

And so I would sit on the pot and read.
And now, I am the mother of a similarly afflicted child CALLED Paris.

And for two nights in a row earlier this week, she has "had to go to the toilet" for extended periods after bedtime, because she has got a book.

Not necessarily a good one.  Just any one.

Then yesterday, she got some new technology.  A cereal company was running a promotion over the school holidays, where if you pestered your grand/parent/s enough to get THREE of their SPECIALLY MARKED packs, you could apply online and get a FITNESS TRACKER.

And to put the cherry on top, her stodgy parents ACCEDED TO HER WISHES.

And, as promised, within three weeks she received a BRIGHT RED FITNESS TRACKER.

It is awesome - although I have a feeling it may have its limitations.

She thinks it is AWESOME and will accessorize her school uniform and be AUTHENTICALLY her.

Yes, she is eight, why do you ask?
This morning, she was up at half past dark, because she had a book to read.

And she had her new fitness tracker.

And by a quarter-to she-is-usually-being-dragged-out-of-bed-at-this-time, she has "already done 547 steps, Mum".

We then did a scientific experiment.  I got her to walk five steps away and five steps back.  "Now how much" I asked her.

"573" she replied, downcast.

"It'll be good for your maths, then," I joked with her.

She was not amused.

She then spent the next five minutes, on the bog, shaking her arm, occasionally yelling out numbers.
Perhaps she has worms?

 We will never truly know what the Paris t-shirt looked like, but one thing is for sure - it didn't look much like this at all...