From a creature of habit

 One thing that I have discovered about myself (whenever I find it an interesting enough subject to contemplate) is that I do have a bit of a tendency to form patterns.

Some I have no control over - like the full time rhythms of the work that I do, and the cyclical nature of its demands. The moon and planet alignments *. Or the ordained dates of children's schooling.

Some I am growing into. ** 

And some just happen because.

For example, the Mexican Tuesday that is a ritual in our household was the solution to the need to be fed quickly and easily in order to get to Guides when 'Salina was quite young and we were newly moved to Paradise.

Guides was a short-lived experiment thet neither she nor I derived any joy from, unfortunately - but it did give us reward in food form.

Here we are about 17 years later and still Tuesday night is reserved for our version of Mexican.

It's Sunday tonight.

And it is all out of whack - because

I accidentally thawed mince yesterday thinking it was cubed something for my Saturday curry 

So instead we had Friday Fish and Chips 

as the night before I had poetry ***

As a result I had thawed mince to cook and Tuesday is too far away. I certainly don't want it to age in the fridge (Paris is studying Food and Technology as an elective this year. She keeps threatening my fridge) (which I would be a hypocrite to resist!)

So today I 

• Made sourdough focaccia,
• Went to Qi Flow * (who knows, every new ritual has to have a first time)
• Had my monthly book club meeting,
• And came home to make 3 curries, a taco brew and rice.

Interspersed with that was several loads of washing, building another branch in the family tree, read blogs, edited swathes of waffle ** and blogged.

* I learned this morning that today is a very auspicious day because some planet moving into another astrological zone - I remember the star sign but I don't remember the planet. Which is weird as there are more astrological signs than there are planets in the solar system. Aries.

** Yea it's true. This is the pared down version.

*** The teacher from - * - who was NOT the one who gave the astrological news - was at poetry on Friday and she did an absolutely amazing poem. I did an edited version of the post I did here a few nights ago. I also did a very old poem from my Melbourne days  called "Out of the Woodwork".

As I said in my intro Friday night, from a life before I had children.

Tonight I remembered that Tuesday night was an awesome open mike in Carleton back then!

And a bit about him- part 2

(part 1 yesterday)

When we were kids, we knew that we were a family unlike any other we knew.

Our Mum had a super power and our Dad was the smartest bloke in the world to have pursued her.

The three of us were indeed blessed. There were many mantras we lived by.

• Always hop back on your horse.
• A cold wash cures nearly everything, and is a requirement every morning.
• Shoulders back, chin up, look your own height in front of you.
• Get your hair out of your eyes.
• Don't let them know that you're scared.
• Take a deep breath.
• Nil desperandum carborundum illegitimos.
• If you don't throw the first, make the second count. (Actually, that one might have been from a movie)
• Don't rely on others unless you're in a team.
• To be deemed "good in a team" was highest praise indeed.
• Make sure you have something to fall back on.

We knew how lucky we were to have the parents and life we had.

Dad was enthusiastic about everything, a driven polocrosse number 3 and then a campdrafter of note. Nothing was done at half-pace and 98% of the world's problems can be fixed with a bulldozer. 

The other 2% sometimes kick back. 

We always used to say Dad wasn't accident prone, he just launched himself into accident zones more regularly and with more gusto than most.

Having such a gung ho Dad had its moments of exhilaration, the occasional terror (learning to drive on paddock tracks with him telling you to "use reduction" as you imagine plummeting sideways into a gully sometimes recurs in dreams) and large dose of the sheer frustration of knowing that he wouldn't give up until he got you to do what he wanted. And then get you to agree it was the right thing to do and and to thank him.

Mum was his perfect foil. She was one of the few rare people that had a handle on Bruiser. It was a constant challenge, but while she was generally acquiescent, she shaped his force to her plans and when required, showed an obstinance that he was forced to respect.

This was the forge that we were raised in.

And people wonder why I don't actually know what to do on holidays!

(You never know, it might get continued)

The Mum Files - Part 1

I recall watching the early tides of our mother.

She was not a natural housewife when she married Dad. It was frankly like she had entered a different culture...

His line was of strong widows and strong wives and strong mothers holding together tradition and agricultural labourer bloodlines of deep maroon.

Whereas hers was of half-trained mothers trying to grasp the wind and harness music and woodwork, and of aunts who sang hymns and spun nieces and grand-nieces and great-great-nieces as legacy lace.

Mum built her own little family, holding together her facade whilst dusting off her career threads to become a wife and mother.

It was what every woman was meant to be trained to do, but she waa trained in the college of The Aunts,  where the motto was "Never Rely on a Man. Always Have a Career to fall back on."

Only now doing the family tree do I realise that those words were their mother's regards a father (known more for roaring at the family than for doting and delighting in them)'s abandonment of her and four teenage children; for her earlier abandonment through widowhood when pregnant with an older aunt; for war's abandonment of a great-granddaughter and the farewell gift from a soldier; for the parcels passed to another great-granddaughter; for the unforseen future; and for me.

Dad's Mum showed her the office system in use. There was the clip and - there was the spike.

Mum's career was as a locum Chemist. Throughout the state she would travel and relieve rural chemists and allow them not just the luxury of a holiday, but the delightful service of a job well done, a shop tidied and cleaned and organised with a completed stocktake and accounts all up to date. She was booked years in advance.

I don't really wonder at any diagnoses of new-fangled alphabets  in any related to me.  These people were my example.

Mum converted the clip and spike into triple-journals and general ledgers. She calculated interest rates and diversified investment and streamlined the payments process.

She couldn't cook a thing. Her mother-in-law was a third-generation CWA devotee steeped in full Queensland History of Hospitality. Grandma could cook a roast with the best gravy, her scones were singular and her lemon butter spoken about in show pavilions, 

Dad was one of the originating Brangus studs in Australia. He was very enthusiastic about the potential.

Mum became a studmaster, training herself on husbandry and genetics and the science of fertility and artificial fertility temp-testing techniques and traits and handling and developing systems to best keep these records.

She became adept at marketing and networking and held committee roles with industry and women's groups and early internet exchanges.

So sometimes her house wasn't perfectly tidy and the benches were never quite clear.

It was her humanity showing.

(To Be Continued...)

(Maybe)

Wednesdays Words on Friday (oops - Saturday)

 I am not sure of the rules really, so please put me to rights if I am doing this wrong.

This is for Wednesday's word - I did write it yesterday but held off on posting.

 Here is River's post

 Without further ado:

I junked my first stab - oh my, nobody needs that.  The second attempt is not much more joyous, I am afraid.  Must work on that - perhaps better at night than a morning after lack of sleep.

Let me instead poeticise this prompt:

I was invited to wonder, wander in

And delight myself with words.

I instead plodded, my pessimistic soul not encouraging the curious

The delights of gallivanting.

Instead, it enfolded me in greens dulled by forest shadow 

Phrases shrouded to disappoint.

My unburdened self lies beyond some old gate

I am sure it hides there with the reminders of bacon

Yes, bad for you in so many ways, 

But the delight and crisp wafting through my could have beens.

Alfred is so vain

He probably thinks this post is about him. He'd be right.

If he were a person you would say "Alfred, eff off" and even your mother would have to agree that Alfred deserves such language.

22-2 was the beginning of his time as a cyclone. The other reason that that date is stuck in my mind is that exactly one third of that day was spent in a local establishment akin to a freezer.

Early Alfred shook himself up to huffability, but every day they predicted something different he would test his developing skills and do the opposite.

"Stay a 1 for 24 hours and disappear beyond the horizon"  the boffins said. 

Frankly, Alfred was not the loudest concern in the room here, as we have had an avalanche of appointments and tests - the upshot of which has actually been mostly positive answers, just a winding path getting there. A bit like Alfred.

That has combined with an explosion of fresh requirements at work, part of which was a result of annoying Alfred making more rumble.

He did not do what he was told and had not gone away a week ago - when the winds blew stronger and waves arose - and so the boffins said "Alfred's coming in but he's only a little one, he'll sneak on through and you'll hardly notice him, hope he'll bring the farmers rain."

Well, he's not the sort of scallywag that gets told to do something mature. Something helpful. Something quiet and unnoticeable.

"Eff that" he thought, as he started kicking cans and wandered away further South.

The boffins said "very rarely do they spin back this way once they do that, but if that happens it will be the first time in fifty years. How special. But he's not going to" said the boffins.

On Monday I realised that i was due to have my annual check at HB.

After the unblogged palaver of last year, an organised former version of me had sorted accommodation, booked the cattery and even told my family they were to come with me and we were going to have a holiday in HB and enjoy ourselves, dang it!

That version of me didn't have an Alfred, did she?

On Tuesday the deposit left my bank.

Now, before I go on, let me reiterate that I am not saying that I am some deity that has some secret superpower that I can control natural disasters - but I think that Alfred may have heard this as a taunt and turned around to hear who had thrown this gauntlet. 

Was it Brisbane, egged on by the Broncos and Lions wavering on season opening spectaculars? Or perhaps the Sunny Coast with Surf club meets, or the Goldie just being fabulous? Was it the sight of poor Lismore trying to cower down away from Alfred's gaze? Or was it me?

Perhaps it a combination of all of the above and the disaffected dithering of an adolescent cyclone, dancing and darting and promising Thursday landings.

 "He'll be gone by tomorrow" the boffins said, "but it's a cyclone, you never can tell."

Wednesday.

Dear Jeanie, we regret to inform you that your amazing specialist (who holds clinics at weekends as she covers a whole heap of communities along the east coast of Queensland) cannot attend your appointment this weekend at HB as she is going up against Alfred first hand this weekend.

And I thought "watch out Alfred."

But the money was out of the bank and we were going to have a holiday in HB and enjoy ourselves, dang it!

The Dr will block him.

However the accommodation office closed at 6 and I wouldn't be able to travel down to HB in less than an hour so I messaged the property. No answer. 

I emailed the property. No answer.

Thursday, I rang the property.

When I told the gentleman of my issue, he asked what property as he had several. When I told him, he said "well, you won't be staying there as there is currently no bathroom and no kitchen." and told me his tale of a labyrinth of agencies and platforms and that I was the sixth he had had to give this spiel to and this is their number.

Well,I thought, 6 people have rung this number and nothing has changed. I didn't ring that number. I rang the platform that I had made the booking through. "English speakers" it promised.

Ex-cru-ci-ating hold music was my penance for the perseverance required to get to the English-speaking human. I told him my tale. He needed clarification and asked if they could try to find me an alternative.

"No." I said. "The holiday is ruined already. This is just the last straw. I want a refund." I said. 

I must admit, there was a tiny part of me doing a jig at the prospect of not packing bags, packing the car, logistics of school, work, cattery, travel, expense not to mention the have a holiday and enjoy ourselves concept - but I wasn't going to tell him that. And also, there was an Alfred.

Twelve more minutes of hold and I was free. I shall expect to see my refund in 7-12 days.

Hooray, I thought.

Alfred didn't land Thursday, he just mesmerised the audience with idly contemplating the pretty pictures he was making in memes.

Friday Alfred had stopped thinking and was just zoning out to some sort of wavelength of his own, being a real teenage boy and not doing what he was told.

Pushed out to the Saturday and still he seemed unable to either commit or follow instructions.

It's not that bad, we told ourselves. Bit of wind. Poor northern NSW have copped it yet again, but those poor beggars can't win a trick. We're good. Pity about the grocery situation. Still, it's better to be over prepared. Ready for next time.

We later found Alfred hunkered down near Bribie and we all wondered - what there was to do there for that long, especially with the bowlsie shut?

But who cares, he's an ex-TC.

Now, for those who haven't played here for long, the above was sarcasm. 

Because my history has very  much had some shaping from such beasts as ex-TCs

Alfred did indeed hear someone whisper "either $#!+ or get off the can" because he most certainly did get off the can and moon the spectators.

That was yesterday.

Today, Brisbane is flooded and houses are wrecked.

Parts of the Gold Coast are flooded. Parts of the Sunshine Coast are wrecked.

Northern NSW is flooding. Poor beggars.

This morning, Alfred reached around and smacked HB on the outside ears. Out of the blue, at 3am the heavens opened and delivered a deluge of the equivalent of a foot of water and tree-snapping winds.

To the North of us also there have been storms. To the West - rain.

A heatwave, hot winds whirling, 80% humidity and a skitchy cat here tonight.

My Mum used to have a plaque in the office that said "tact is the art of telling someone to go to hell in such a manner that they anticipate the trip."

Someone needs to apply a little tact and convince Alfred that it's his own idea to just eff off.

My second cousin once removed wouldn't mind seeing you when you are ready to do what you are told, Alfred.

In the meantime. - -

(update - here is the official news version of Alfred's life)