Princess Pandora - Queen of Denial

Photo February Day Sixteen

2012-02-16T06:53:00.000+11:00

Seville Cathedral, November 2010.

By the time I got to Seville I was Cathedralled out. But that's when the magic happens.

Seville Cathedral is the third largest Cathedral in the world, dwarfed only by the Vatican and a one built in Brazil. It's HUGE as the following photo demonstrates.

Thing is, I wasn't overly taken with Seville Cathedral. it's almost too big. They allegedly have the bones of Christopher Columbus sitting in this strange supported coffin. The place is swamped with unruly tourists with their flashes going at the speed and intensity of a tropical rainstorm. Also on the day I was there, they were doing a heap of renovations and the man with the sledgehammer was pounding away in a chapel. Didn't make for a quiet day of contemplation.

Also, after the pure joy of Toledo Cathedral, a place I know I've been many time over the centuries, a church that vehemently forbade the taking of photos, but so rich in beauty - you couldn't blame them for not allowing photography lest the cameras stole the soul of the place away. It's a stunning place.

The shere enormity of Seville Cathedral was enough to make it a overwhelming.

Then god plays a hand in things.

Feathers and I have a strange relationship. One of my strange regular occurences is that find myself walking down the street and a feather will fall into my hand. It happens more often than I say. I like to think of it as a sign that there are angels out there. (I have a funny thing with butterflies too - they'll often land on my lips - no idea why this happens either, but it does, fairly frequently. Dogs and cats also come bounding up to me in the street to say hellp. A bit strange but it just happens - I've learned to accept these funny little things.)

In the midst of my urge to run from the Cathedral and take refuge in the Jewish Quarter, a place where I was comfortable amidst the winding , narrow streets - I made the decision to look down.

And this is what I saw.

Proof of angels. : )

Photo February Day Fifteen

2012-02-15T00:20:00.003+11:00

Photos from Home, 2003-2005

I've not shown you much of where I'm from, so here are a couple of shots from home.

The concrete dragon looks after me. His name is Alastair and he sits at my front door. I think every home needs a dopey looking concrete dragon. My mum has one in the loo who's equally as dopey as Alastair.

Alastair is named after an old boss of mine who had very little hair and a permanent dopey look on his face.

Alastair has been through a number of house moves, he gets bumped by the hoover twice a week, tripped over regularly. Though he can be a nuisance, he's very good at holding the door open.

This is my mother's kangaroo, Mabel and her joey. Mabel is not a pet kangaroo, more she's one of the Eastern Greys that frequent my mother's garden. She's quite used to people. I took this one morning when I was staying down at the bed and breakfast. I got within about three metres of her when I took this. She was unperterbed and continued to munch on the lawn. We hung out together for about half an hour on this day, just sizing each other up.

Going to my Mum's place is cool in that you often find roos under the clothes line in the morning when you get up - or they're in the driveway when you get home at night. Going for a walk up the hill into the scrub behind the house you often find a group of them sleeping in the sun.

Eastern Greys have really pretty faces.

This is possibly the last photo taken of my grandmother.

Taken on Boxing Day in 2003, I dropped in to see her in the nursing home before going back to Melbourne.

I was only with her for 20 minutes, her dinner was about to arrive and I was shooed away. This was normal behaviour. NOTHING interrupted dinner time.

She had a massive stroke a few days later, clung to life just to see the New Year in and passed away in the first few days of January, 2004.

Some facts about Gran.

She was born in a gold mining town in 1899, the youngest of six. Her father used to drive the Nhill Express train. He was with the railroads all his life.

She saw two world wars, Federation, the abolition of capital punishment, the invention of the telephone, computer, car, bus, washing machines, television. She could only use some of these. She never learned to drive.

One of my grandmother's brothers was at Gallipoli.

Another was stationed on the Western Front in France.

She married my grandfather in 1923.

When she died, she had three children, twelve grandchildren, about fifteen great grandchildren and a smattering of great, great grandchildren.

Of the family, many have gone into service industries - nurses, doctors, police, clergy. There are two Order of Australias, a number of doctorates and many university degrees floating around the family. She never made it past the second year of high school, instead, she was farmed out to her brothers to look after their children and to do some factory work.

She taught me how to knit and crochet and bake. Things I love to do now.

She also loved to give me merry hell when she could.

When I was overseas, I wrote to her every month religiously. When abroad on shorter trips, hers was alway the first postcard I wrote.

She loved to read - and read until she lost most of her sight to macular degeneration when she was 100.

She was as deaf as a doorpost most of my life - though we reckon much of this was selective.

She appeared to like me for my irreverence. The card I gave her for her 90th sat on the fridge for nearly ten years. It had a badge on it which read "Living Fossil." The card read, there must be somebody older than you. Inside was a picture of a dinosaur.

I still miss her terribly.

This is an old picture of my niece, Elle. Elle started high school last week. This was taken when she was about four-years-old, doing the pink goodness thing like only a four year old girl can.

Elle is the family princess, all wrapped up in pink, dainty and she has these big brown cow eyes that can beat down most people in seconds. She can bambi with the best of them.

She's cool. She still gives hugs and will sit on your knee and give you a cuddle. I know it won't last, but it's nice to have while it's there.

She's a lovely girl, but this shot captures how I still see her in my mind.

Photo February Day Fourteen

2012-02-14T07:50:00.001+11:00

Hairy Cows, The Isle of Skye, 2006

I have a list of near mythical places I've always wanted to visit.

On the list we have (in no real order) Buenos Aires, Rio de Janiero, Cancun, the Canadian Rockies, the Sahara, Cape Town, Mount Kilimanjaro, Angkor Wat, walking the Milford Sound, going on the complete Camino de Compostella de Santiago, more of Wales (I've been to Tintern Abbey, that's it) Koh Phi Phi, The Whitsundays, the Bungle Bungles... too many places, too little time and money (and I must renew my passport!).

One place I have knocked off the list a few years ago is the Isle of Skye, the largest of the Scottish Islands found on the west coast. Home to the Talisker distillery (yum - love peaty single malts) and some of the most stunning scenery I've ever witnessed. A place where the wind can carry the bleat of a bagpipe for miles.

Criss-crossing the country, starting at Inverness in the north east, I made my way down Loch Ness and across the country to the original Glenelg - which is nothing like the beachside suburb in Adelaide - actually, I think Glenelg is Scottish for Woop Woop.

Anyway, taking the bridge across the spit, I finally made it to this mythical place that they write songs about, the place where the MacLeods and MacDonalds come from, this place which has the feel of a place that has been ravaged by war and left to its own devices for centuries - and in many ways it has.

Skye is like no place I have ever been before or am likely to go to again.

The Isle of Skye is one of the most ruggedly beautiful places I have had the honour to visit. Amazing scenery - but that is the case for the whole of Scotland - okay, maybe not the outskirts of Glasgow...

Staying at a bed and breakfast outside of the town of Broadford, I found that being there out of season ( I was there in May), I needed to drive forty kilometres or so to find myself some dinner. So, a half hour drive was made, up to the town of Portree, the largest town on the island.

After a pleasant dinner at the pub I drove my trusty rented Skoda back. It was well past nine p.m.when I stumbled across these wee beasties grazing in the long paddock.

I love Highland cattle, or hairy cows as they are known, which is pronounced "herry coo", (it might take you a while to work out what the locals are going on about). They're as docile as regular cows despite the horns, complete with the big eyes which are hard to see because nobody appears to cut their fringes and lolloping gaits and an unwillingness to move out of the way of cars. The road was not much more than a sealed track so going fast wasn't an option - but they weren't going to get hit. The hairy cows had right of way.

The little hairy cow had a bit of personality too.

When I got back to the B&B around ten that evening, it was still dusk. I was happy. Seeing hairy cows was as good as witnessing the Loch Ness Monster. Little things make me happy, as you are well aware.

The other thing I love about this photo is what is in the background. Surrounded by a rugged, windswept coastline, the greys of the sky take on hues I've never seen before. Pinks, peaches, vanillas, blues and meld in together. Breathtaking.

As with all of my travels, I wish that somebody was there to share it with me. Radio National doesn't quite cut it for company on a road trip that takes you places such as this. At least I got to see hairy cows on the Isle of Skye.

And next time I'm going to the Talisker distillery with a designated driver...

Photo February Day Thirteen

2012-02-13T07:16:00.000+11:00

Door Knocker, Durham Cathedral, 2006

I'm a cathedral junkie.

Not many people get this obsession, but there is something about cathedrals that I can't get enough of. The older the better. They're like cats, or children. They all have their own personalities and foibles and indiosyncracies and a very vibrant life of their own.

I really like English Cathedrals and the rich history they provide, what with the reformation and the disolution of the monasteries, the pure destruction and tentative rebuilding of these megatliths which were built out of love with what are now primitive tools and have somehow stood the tests of rampaging time. Could you imagine them building a cathedral in modern times (okay, scratch that, the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona is still not finished 100 years on - with modern tools... and modern unions... and modern standards...)

I spend hours wandering through these structures when I get the chance. My record would be spending seven hours going through York Minster on my first visit there - time well spent pouring over chapter houses, vaulting, masonry, right down to the little mice carved into the pews near the Lady Chapel.

Ely Cathedral is breathtaking, this 'Ship of the Fens' visible on the horizon for miles, the pure white light of the Lady Chapel, exquisite. Love the place. Lincoln's dog legging nave is a testement to time and engineering (and goes to prove that modern engineering would have put the structure out of the town on firmer ground. St Paul's whispering gallery still gets my imagination, even if it does mean scaling these large, circular staircases. Westminter Abbey, a Royal Peculiar rather than a cathedral can be dwelled on for days - there's so much to take in.

Yeah, you got it, Cathedral Nerd. (She shrugs and sighs)

Another favorite place that I go back to if I'm in the area, is Durham Cathedral, with its unusual fluted vaults (as seen in the flms Elizabeth and the Harry Potter films) a structure has been on the site for over a thousand years. It's one of the oldest standing Cathedrals in the country and a fine example of Norman architecture.

This photo is of the door knocker on the North Door of the cathedral. Known as the Sanctuary Knocker because of its former use.

"The knocker on the Cathedral’s northern door, known as the Sanctuary Knocker, played an important part in the Cathedral’s history. Those who ‘had committed a great offence,’ such as murder in self-defence or breaking out of prison, could rap the knocker, and would be given 37 days of sanctuary within which they could try to reconcile with their enemies or plan their escape." The right to sanctuary was recinded in 1624.

The original one is sitting in the cathedral museum, but this is a great replica.

I love stuff like this. Finding out information such as this on an item as trivial as a door knocker... like, cool!

It makes travelling all the more enriching.

Photo February Day Twelve

2012-02-12T09:08:00.000+11:00

Great Ocean Road, past Apollo Bay, 2009

This majestic coastline is a place I need to explore more. It's truly wonderful - an exceptional part of the country, and I've only been there once.

Glen Waverley took me for a drive one day on a cool and blowy early Winter's day. A favour to me - and in part because Merijn gets car sick and Glen Waverley drives like a hooligan and I'd never been there I got to sit in Merijn's spot while she was home with the cat.

It was a great day.

Picking me up at the crack of dawn, we made our way down to Geelong, where he put the roof of his car down and we drove for most of the Great Ocean Road in the open air. Thank goodness for scarves - convertibles and long hair really don't go.

It was a really wonderful day for me - I got to knock off another thing on the bucket list. Other than cranking the Discovery Channel Song up to eleven on the way through Apollo Bay (and I wanted to brain him) and not being allowed to drive - even though he borrows my car when he needs a sensible car - one capable of hauling hime a few bags of groceries - because he really does drive like a hooligan - still we didn't come to blows. It's hard to bicker when the scenery is so wonderful.

There are so many places around the state I haven't seen, so many places to go. I've never been to Wilson's Promontory, Philip Island, Sorrento, Marysville.... I have been to Daylesford, but just for the day - never stayed over. I haven't been away on long weekends anywhere. The last time I was in the Grampians I was a child.

Most of my travelling in Australia is done driving to and from Adelaide once a year - with the odd trip to the Dandenongs or down to the Mornington Peninsula.

It's one of the things I want to change about my life. I want somebody I can go places with and enjoy them.

Is that too much to ask when there's scenery like this about. Going alone on road trips should only be done when the travel is necessary - not for fun.

Photo February - Day Eleven

2012-02-11T08:49:00.001+11:00

Monk and Doorway, Bangkok, 2008

I take lot of photos of windows and doorways on my travels. You never know what you're going to find down a passageway.

I've been with travellers who knock on large doors in castles and cathedrals wherever they go - just to see who will open them, so it seems we nutty people with a fascination for buildings are around the place. It comforts me.

Me - I'm forever looking for what is around the corner or down the lane. I look down passageways, out windows and through doors - just to see what is there. It has to be done.

I found this monk in a courtyard in Bangkok, quiet in contemplation.He stood there for ages, just watching whatever he was watching. He was so peaceful.

One of my dream holidays is to travel to Chiang Mai and spend a week at Wot Doi Suthep learning about Buddhist meditation - what a great way to do very, very little in an incredibly beautiful place.

Until I get that dream holiday, I'm just going to have to ponder this monk, pondering whatever he may be pondering.

This is one of my favorite photos I've taken in my life.

Photo February Day Ten

2012-02-10T07:22:00.000+11:00

JFK Library Flag, Boston, 2010

Americans do flags really well.

As a rule, Australians don't.

I find it quite distubing seeing these yoofs at the cricket draping the Australian flag across their shouldres like a cape, wearing Australian flag tattoos on their cheekbones, or the new seemingly eponymous Southern Cross tattoo plastered about the place. See, what happens when move country, or get another passport? Then there are the people who fly the flag in their front yards - again, don't know if I agree with this - though it comes down to personal choice. Personally, I don't think the Australian flag is that inspiring - nor does the website "Bad Flags of the World" which give our flag a C -something about being colonial rubbish - worth a look the site - though I do think it strange that the nearly identical Australian and New Zealandish flags are rated very differently. (The website is really worth a look for a giggle - some people have too much time on their hands)

As a kid, nobody had the flag flying in their front yards - now, it's becoming more common. Then you have the Aboriginal Flag, the rather menacing Eureka Flag (you know when that's being flown men in the building trade are about) and the completely uninspiring state flags. Think about it - what is a flag other than a bit of material with a uniform pattern on it?

In the US, the flag is EVERYWHERE. You can't look right and not the see the good ole red, white and blue flying in your face. When you're not used to such rampant patriotism, it's all a bit confronting.

Regardless, I look at this photo and see a poignancy to the American flag that I don't reckon I've witnessed before.

This shot was taken in the atrium of the John F Kennedy Library in Boston.

It's a remarkable place for a number of reasons. Firstly, it's a bugger to get to if you don't have a car. You take the 'T' the Boston Metro out to what feels like Woop Woop, then you hop on a free bus which takes you the rest of the way. The building is stark, standing on a bit of land near the seafront of Columbia Bay. There is nothing else around. It would have been peaceful there if it wasn't for the biting wind.

JFK is an American icon. He lead America though an era of change, an incredible era era where America started to live out out some of it's dreams. And battle some of its demons.

The museum is fascinating. Unlike Australia and much of Europe, the Americans charge through the nose for you to go to museums and galleries, so you hope that the visit is going to be worth you dishing out your hard earned coin. I arrived late afternoon, only just making the final cut off for visitors. I wish I had a lot longer. This is an amazing place. Fascinating. Reverent. And very, very well done.

I stayed in the atrium and pondered this flag for a long time before I was ushered out the door to the bus stop. It was a cool, blowy Boston day, the sky overcast, the night drawing in quickly as it tends to do in Massachussetts in October. Looking up amongst the railings and struts of the ceiling, the flag hangs as a symbol for everything America stands for.

In this majestic setting, you get an inkling into the greatness that America can be.

I don't make statements like this often.

Photo February Day Nine

2012-02-09T07:28:00.001+11:00

Daggers, Canterbury Cathedral, 2006

I'm one for pilgrimages. I have this desire to do the Camino Compostella de Santiago one day, traipsing across the North of Spain checking out cathedrals and pondering the steps that millions have taken over centuries.

This photo is of one of my pilgrimage places.

Every time I'm in England I like to come here and sit for a while and ponder. I've been drawn to this place since I read the Canterbury Tales at uni. These daggers mark the spot where St Thomas a Becket was murdered. The place - Canterbury Cathedral.

So why does a murdered twelfth century saint have such meaning for a woman in the 21st Century? Thomas a Becket, a common man, a merchant's son, a soldier and a lawyer, who rose his way up through the ranks to finally make Archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful role in the country beside the king at the time, tha king being Henry II. Henry and the turbulent priest were the best of friends in the early days. Once a Becket rose to the bishopric, he wouldn't let Henry walk all over him, stopping his old friends desires for the throne to take on more power and to weaken ties with Rome. Thomas, agreeing with what the king was saying, but had massive reservations wouldn't sign Constitutions of Clarendon - stormed out of the talks and fled to France, effectively exiling himself. During his time as Archbishop of Canterbury, Becket was exiled many times. Becket was seen as a bit of a ratbag.

Thomas returned to Canterbury some time later and took up his place back at the Cathedral, but the King was pissed, and whether by royal decree or misunderstanding, sent four knights after him after asking who would rid him of the turbulent priest.

These daggers mark the spot where he died on 29 December 1170.

Thomas a Becket was a man of principle. A man who believed that he was accountable to his faith first and his government second. A man who was taunted and tainted and stood up for what he believed. A man who overcame many odds. A self-made man.

It may also have something to do with the fact I saw Derek Jacobi and Robert Lindsay in Anouilh's plau, Becket on the London stage in the early nineties- still one of the best performances I've ever witnessed.

I'll go back to Canterbury and commune with Becket once again. I can sit at the place where he died and feel him, stomping around in his sandals and hair shirt, uncomfortable in body, but still in mind. He stood his ground in times of struggle.

Thomas a Becket will continue to fascinate me, no matter my faith, beliefs or reasoning. He's somebody I mention in my fantasy dinner party guest list.

He's somebody who holds a great deal of meaning for me. There is something very inspiring and very special about this man and this place.

Photo February Day Eight

2012-02-08T07:32:00.000+11:00

Myponga Moon, 2007

I know this isn't the greatest of photos, but I remember taking it and I'm fond of the place where it was taken.

My mum used to have a Bed and Breakfast in Myponga. A straw bale cottage, decked out in a lovely, country style, a little patch of paradise just south of Adelaide.

When my uncle passed away a few years ago, Mum had a bit of an epiphany and decided to sell the cottage.

But before she did, I got to stay down there just one last time.

One of the great things about Myponga is that it's just far enough away from Adelaide that the city lights don't impact on the night sky as much. The stars are amazing down there. When I was there the other weekend it was a moonless night - for the first time in ages I got to see the Milky Way in its glory.

The other thing about the cottage was that it was tucked behind a big hill, with cypress and poplar trees lining the summit.

This photo was taken at ten at night. It was a glorious evening.

I miss seeing stars. Real stars and lots of them.

Photo February Day Seven

2012-02-07T07:28:00.001+11:00

Pony, Hertfortshire, 2006

Finding myself watching my friend's Gareth and Georgina's daughter at her pony riding lessons when I was staying with them a few years back, I got to see another side of life. The life of the young and overcommited. The life where kids get riding lessons and piano lessons and swimming lessons and violin lessons. Staying with Gareth and Georgina in 2009, I went and watched the kids swimming lessons - which was fun as I got to go for a swim - love swimming, even if it is November in England and it's threatening sleet. They kid's extra-curricular calendar was as busy as ever.

I didn't get this stuff when I was a kid (okay, I got flute lessons - but I still wish I had had learned to play the piano)

As a kid, however, I had a pony. Well, my sister and I shared a pony, a rotund grey mare named Pebbles. She was a sweety, though my sister was the one who did the riding - I just went out to the paddock to talk to her regularly. Pebbles was a good listener who liked carrots. I don't know if I could ride a horse to save my life now - then again, I said that about bicycles...

I remember that when we were out with the horse, immediately afterward, before going into the house, we had to strip off and wash our clothes immediately because Mum was allergic to her. Mum's allergic to all sorts of animals. Dogs. Unspayed male cats. Anything at the zoo. And Pebbles. So we'd run in and shove our play clothes in the washing machine and change into our dressing gowns ready for dinner.

Growing up on a farm was a great thing, even if it means that your mother will tell any new friends that you greatest talent in life is getting calves to drink from the bucket. Okay, it's a talent, but I'm not sure I'd shove it on my CV.

Looking around the stables while G and G's daughter and the pony did her stuff I went for a wander and found this fellow. Hate to say it, but watching a six-year-old go round and round on a horse is not that interesting, so I went to visit the neddies.

I'm as much a sucker for horses as I am for cats. I stop and pat the police horses in the street any time I pass them. I think horses are lovely.

This one was no exception.

p.s. Started a new role today. Much better. No Phil Collins. No Beyonce. No Adele. No Rhianna. No Billy Joel. And the team appear to be lovely. And I'm back in the city. Rather pleased indeed.

Photo February - Day Six

2012-02-06T07:22:00.000+11:00

Temple Time, The Royal Palace, Bangkok, 2008

Travelling alone, I tend to spend a lot of time wandering in and out of museums, art galleries and religious sites - which suits me down to the ground. Art Galleries and Musuems are normally air conditioned and seeing I go to the odd hot country, they're good respite from the unrelenting heat and humidity.

Temples and churches are another passion of mine. I love wandering around these sites of devotion, feeling the force of millions of prayers. The art work, the masonry, the thought behind some of these structures blows me away.

I loved Bangkok for it's temples. Being a Buddhist nation they take theire Buddhas very seriously. The Thai people dress them up, visit them, bring them offerings. There are seated Buddhas, standing Buddha's, Buddhas that lie down...

And people come to these temples to pay reverence to their Gods regularly.

This shot was taken at a temple at the Royal Palaces in Bangkok. I love the sense of movement as the kids file in. I watched as these kids filed in silently, identically uniformed and visibly happy. I wonder if Australian school kids could manage such decorum.

I want to go back to Thailand partly because I love Bhudda watching - and the people, and the food, and the massages, and the shopping. Great place.

Photo February - Day Five

2012-02-05T00:15:00.004+11:00

Rainbow and Observatory, Parkes, NSW, 2009.

Reindert and I bonded on this road trip. I look at these photos and they bring back memories and reminders of just how wonderful a friendship it helped to forge.

Reindert and I had flown up to Newcastle to retrieve a landcruiser and bring it back to Melbourne after our colleague had been in a dreadful accident. Our colleague, Wubbe, another crazy Dutchman, was going back to the Netherlands to recouperate and something had to be done with the van because it couldn't sit in a hospital car park for the year or so it would take him to come good.

For those not in Australia, Newcastle is 1100 kilometres (700 miles) north of Melbourne.

So Reindert and I went up on a wet winter Friday, spent and evening with Wubbe, who was finally released from hospital and able to fly back to Holland. The next morning we started the long drive home, taking the long way through Parkes - because Reindert wanted to see the big dish. It was only 500 kilometres out of the way. It was nothing to travel in a weekend.

Reindert and I have the same disregard for distance.

Now, there were some issues with the trip. First up, somebody had been tinkering with Wubbe's van - and the radio wasn't working. A road trip without a radio! Never fear, Reindert is and electrical engineer by training. He had jerried the radio by the time we got to Dunedoo. We stopped for lunch at Dubbo. And finally, mid-afternon, we got to the Dish.

For those who haven't seen the movie, which is a bit of an iconic Australian flick, we are introduced to the radio telescope as "this big dish in the middle of a sheep paddock'. Which is pretty much what it is. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a paddock, is this stonking great radio telescope which sticks out like a pimple on a pumpkin.

We were there a week before the fortieth anniversary of the first lunar landing and preparations were being made for the anniversary. We had a good look around the Dish's Museum and the site. You can only get up into the dish on a couple of day's a year, so my dream of playing cricket on the dish was not going to materialise. See the movie, The Dish - it's wonderful.

After an hour or so, we left to start the rest of the drive home. Driving away, it started to rain. And this is what we saw as we looked back. We sat and watched the rainbow for twenty minutes or so, never expecting to see such sight.

It proved to be a good omen for a great road trip and a wonderful friendship - if you disregard the speeding ticket Reindert copped coming out of Rutherglen the following day.

You have to love nature.

And this is the Dish. It was a good day for photos.

Photo February - Day Four

2012-02-04T10:36:00.000+11:00

Melbourne from a Balloon. December, 2008

Probably the best birthday present ever.

I turned 40 in 2008. As with many people, turning 40 was a big thing. At 39 all these cathartic things happened. I got a job I liked. I'd fallen in love. I'd lost a bit of weight. I'd made new friends. For the first time in my life I remember being pretty happy.

For my 40th, I had a party, which was great. I wasn't expecting presents, but said that if people wanted to get me something, a bead for my Pandora bracelet would be appreciated. This was before Pandora bracelets were de rigeur. I cherish that bracelet, now one of three, the beads received filled a full bracelet.

The other surprise on the day was the guys I worked with sent a hat around and I was presented with a voucher to go on a balloon ride. I'd made a joking reference to Glen Waverley that I'd love a balloon ride for my birthday. It's like going in and saying you'd love a Tiffany bracelet or trip to Paris or a pony. I'd never expect or demand such a gift. But as I'm learning , but it out there, you never know what might come back.

Serious wow factor. It was on my bucket list of things to do and the guys from the Integration Engineering Team at Tin Can, String and Whistle made it happen. Like the Pandora bracelet, it was a wonderful gift which I will cherish always. (Thinking about it, those boys really spoiled me over the three years I was there)

It took a few months to arrange, but on a crisp December morning, six weeks after the first attempt at taking the flight was aborted due to bad weather, three months after my birthday, I made my way to a local hotel in the week hour of the morning where a van took us out to the launch zone. As the sun came up, we unpacked the balloons, inflated them, climbed in the basket and went for the ride of my life.

It was one of those unforgetable experiences, silently floating over the city. After my initial nerves were quelled (as I said to the pilot, I have no problems going up - it was the thought of landing that scared the bejesus out of me) I really got into the whole experience. It was magic.

This photo was taken as we floated over the Melbourne CBD overlooking the strip between Lonsdale and Bourke Streets, overlooking the Fitzroy Gardens (that I walk through on the way to work). I can also see the tower blocks which I live behind, the brewery nearby, and tucked away, the building in which Tin Can, String and Whistle resides.

Seriously, the best birthday present I've ever received.

The only thing I would change about the whole experience is that I would have loved to have somebody to share the whole thing with.

Next time.

Photo February - Day Three

2012-02-03T08:32:00.001+11:00

Sangeet, Christchurch, 2008

One of the things that I love about my life is some of the interesting places I find myself with no warning.

This day was not so much a strange day or event, but it was unexpected in many ways.

This shot was taken in Christchurch, New Zealand, about four years ago. I was over the ditch visiting my friend Geetangeli and her husband and she took me along to a friend's Sangeet - a pre-wedding party for an Indian bride. Not one to say no to a party, complete with Indian sweets, I jumped at the chance, knowing only my friend and nobody else and knowing that there would be a feed of gulab jamuns at the end of it. Can't say no to gulab jamuns.

The party was held at this architectural wonder of a house high on the nearly cliff like hills outside of Christchurch. I wonder if the house was damaged in the recent earthquakes. I was standing at the house's entrance looking down a light trap - and this is what I saw. Cool, eh!

However, here I was, one of the few people at the party not in a sari or a salawar kameez, but I was made to feel very welcome.

The colours of India take my breath away. Even if we're in downtown Christchurch.

I remember a friend telling me how on coming to Melbourne that should couldn't believe how everybody wore black - there were so many wonderful colours out there to wear - why would they choose to wear dull old black all the time?

That comment has stuck with me and I do make and effort to wear colour now - even if it feels a bit strange to be out of the "Melbourne Uniform".

Photo February - Day Two

2012-02-02T08:58:00.001+11:00

Slippers. Philadelphia, 2010

In 2010, I won two airline tickets to anywhere in the world through a competition at work. 100 words or fewer. What will the National Broadband Network do for our fair nation? Be creative. That was the instruction.

At the time I was working in a telecommunications company with a heap of engineers. I had to be in with a chance being the token airy-fairy-arty-fart and the engineers were well - engineers - the extroverts are the ones who look at your shoes when they talk to you.

My response to the competition can be found here. (I won another competition last night, but nothing as astounding as airline tickets - two movie passes for knowing that Bryce Courtney penned the tune of Louie the Fly (might be something about the comment that it was the only classic that he ever wrote that got me the tickets...)

Anyhoo...

One of the places that I found myself on this trip was Philadelphia in the United States. After a day in New York, swearing to come back so that I could enjoy the place without food poisoning,and after five great days with Reindert and Corazon in the relative gentility of Boston, I rocked up in Philly where my Aunt, Uncle and associated cousins live.

My uncle is my father's brother. He moved to the States over twenty-five years ago with his family. My uncle is a pilot and has a week on, week off schedule, so I was lucky to catch him when I was there. We spent my second day in Philly together having a look around the place and getting to know each other again. I remember my uncle taking me to the zoo when I was five years old, an my grandmother taking me out to the airport to see him fly around in his light planes. As he's lived most of my life in the states, we never got to spend much time together.

Regardless, on this day, we hung out - which was fabulous. We went to the Mutter Museum taking in the weird and wonderful exhibits, following which we went for a stroll around central Philadelphia. It seems my uncle and I have a similar fascination with the macabre.

I liked the streets of Philly with their rougher edge - a slight hint of danger, not knowing what was going to be found around the corner. It doesn't have the feel of apparent affluence found in New York and Boston. My family live in the Northern Suburbs near the New Jersey border which plays with the mind in oh so many ways. For this happy little vegemite it was a little confronting. I had landed in middle America, complete with shopping malls, pee wee football, mega-Churches, strip malls and Pro-Bush sensibilities.

Then you see things like this in the city. Downtown Philadelphia reminds me of the streets they showed on Sesame Street. Unexpected things coming out of basement windows. Red fire hydrants. People hanging about doing not very much. The recession has hit Philadelphia hard.

Of the photo. The juxtaposition of the slippers sitting outside a window appealed to me. Who put them there? Why were they there? How did they get out there? It wasn't like they were sitting outside an open window. Yet they appeared to belong there.

Stuff like this is why I love travelling so much.

Photo February - Day One

2012-02-01T10:33:00.002+11:00

One of my favorite bloggers, the Plastic Mancunian did something like this with music last month. A blog post a day with one of his favorite songs.

Most bloggers will tell you that blogging daily is a really hard thing to do unless you have a theme, or something to talk about, or a soapbox to batter. Or as with this case, something to talk to.

So for the 29 days of February, I'm going to be posting a photo and writing a bit about what the photo means to me.

I'm not a photograher by any stretch of the imagination, but I have a reasonably good camera (a Canon ProShot) and an eye for the quietly absurd. I tend to take photos of things, rather than people. When I do take shots of people, I prefer them to be unstaged. Like the one below.

Today's photo is of my niece, Gee, taken a few years ago when she was four. It's my favorite photo of her. (And for the record, her mother has given her permission for me to post this)

I took a heap of photos for my sister when I was over one weekend - my brother in law was turning forty and she wanted to give him some family photos - so I took a series of shots of my sister, Gee and her sister Elle.

They were happy with the results.

Gee was a very sombre baby - exeptionally quiet and very cuddly. She was the child that stood back, in a corner, and watched everything. She didn't smile that much. She never said that much, leaving her big sister to do the talking. Gee used to follow her sister around like a shadow.

Then she turned four and things changed - and this vibrant, giggly, bouncy, fearless child came out of this sturdy four-year-old body. This incredible life force. We always knew that Gee was going to be fiercely intelligent - which she's proving now at school, but she's a good person too - like her sister.

This photo, captured mid-giggle, seems to capture all of this.

Five Days of Unemployment

2012-01-31T23:32:00.003+11:00

I skipped out of the Bastard Bank data centre at ten past five this afternoon, a spring in my step, the weight of the world off my shoulders, looking down the tree lined tram line into the future. Though I am going to miss the people - I met some great ones there. I'm not going to miss fogey radio over the loudspeaker, the previously monotonous work (which did get better after a bit) and the isolation of being just that little too far out of town.

It felt like bliss.

The other good thing to happen today - it appears I've got myself a contract, starting on Monday with a new consultancy. The paperwork is on it's way, but the job is there.

So what am I going to do with my time off? Slep in? Relax? Go away?

No such luck.For the next five days I want to achieve the following:

Finish editing that book.
Get on top of the Greek Travel page I've got on
Clean the flat
Put some crap on Ebay
Train for at least an hour a day
Have a massage on Saturday
Go go to Blarney's tenth birthday party (Blarney was born on 29 February - hence she's ten)
Have lunch with my old Tin Can, String and Whistle team
Have dinner with some mates
Dream group
Go to the consultancy Professional Development session.
Finish my current novel.
Read the book for book group next week.

That will do for a start.

So tomorrow morning, sleep in? No such luck. I'm off to Blarney's at the crack of dawn. One of the boys is in hospital with a virus (he will be fine, just has to stay in overnight, poor lamb). As luck has it, Blarney has a business commitment she has to make, Barney is staying at the hospital with Chance - so I'm off to take care of Lance and wait for the arrival of their grandfather, who's making a mercy dash from Tasmania to help out for a few days.

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to be looking after Lance for the morning, providing tubs of yogurt at regular intervals, pushing round trucks and reading books.

And being really honest, as much as I'd love a lie in, knowing I can help a friend feels good. If the shoe was on the other foot, I'm sure Blarney would do the same for me.

Well, at least it's something different - a change is as good as a holiday.

And this is a change with cat time attached - can't moan about that.

Px

Happy Birthday, Sis

2012-01-27T22:34:00.001+11:00

My kid sister is turning 40 tomorrow.

So it's with a few reservations that I'm heading back to Adelaide tomorrow morning.

Regular readers will know that my sister, affectionately referred to as Manhands, and I don't have the closest of relationships. It's not that we don't get or or like each other, it's just that we're completely at opposite ends of every spectrum know to man.

Politically we're opposite (she votes Liberal because they're the family party - I wouldn't piss on Tony Abbott if he was on fire, my politics being in a more socialist vein)

She did all the things you're supposed to do - get married, buy a house, live in the suburbs, have kids and a Golden Retriever and a mortgage - I've done none of that.

My sister's only been to New Zealand (family holiday when we were teenagers) Tahiti for her honeymoon and Bali for their tenth wedding anniversary. I've travelled the globe.

She didn't go to university or tertiary education - I did.

She had a boyfriend from when she was in first year high school and has always had a boyfriend/fiance/ husband - I never went that route never having a boyfriend for more than a few months at a time.

She's a blonde. I'm a brunette.

She doesn't read books. I do.
She doesn't go to movies or plays much at all. I do.
She's into things. I'm into experiences.
She got on with my parents as a teenager. I didn't.

The list goes on and on. Other than we talk with similar inflections in our speech and if you look at us, you can see similarities, we'd never be seen as sisters.

She's never been in my flat. She's never visited me - then again, I don't have kids and I've got disposable income so I can get away cheaply and easily. I tend to call her. I can't remember the last time she phoned for a chat.

To be honest, if we weren't sisters, we wouldn't know each other. Other than sharing parents we really don't have much in common.

I don't have any photos of us together - then again, very few people have photos of me. My sister is the one who's happy to be in front of the camera - I take the pictures.

There were a lot of disparities between the way my sister and I were treated by my parents, but that's water under the bridge - and I don't really feel like rehashing it. I've spent years in counselling over it. It's done with.

I've no idea what her favorite bands or music is. I'm pretty sure that she would say the same of me.

So it feels a bit strange that I'm travelling back to Adelaide to go to her fortieth birthday party. Mum's told me that we're going to be serving food and drink for the night.

Fun.

JD, my step-sister, will be coming for a bit, which is good - I'll have somebody to talk, even if it is only for a short time - JD and I know very few of my sister's friends, just as she knows very few of mine. When she came to my fortieth a few years ago she was very much a fish out of water. At least I have a job to do tomorrow night to keep me occupied.

Then later in the evening, my Mum and step-dad and my nieces will go back to Myponga for the night, then early-ish the next morning we'll return to Adelaide and then I'll board a plane back to home to Melbourne.

I know this is stiring stuff up in me - I just can't quite put my finger in what it is. I'm here with a very unusual glass of wine.

I think I will have another.

I just hope she has a lovely birthday.

Happy birthday, Manhands. xx

p.s. Why refer to my sister as Manhands? Well, she's my height, about the same size as me, but her hands are what appears to be double the size of mine. They're certainly not ugly, but she has big hands. And feet - which is a bonus as she can always find shoes on sale - being a standard size 8.5 (39 in European sizes) this never happens for me.

Random Lyric Public Holiday

2012-01-26T22:45:00.001+11:00

As is the tradition with me, it's a public holiday and on my facebook page I post random song lyrics. I could do random movie lines, but that would be just silly. Well, sillier than posting random song lyrics, but as I like this ritual, and I'm stuck in front of a computer for most of the day writing and editing, so it's a nice diversion. Some songs are a bit ear wormy. Some songs mean a lot to me. Some songs just come off my iPod and that's it. The only guarantee is that somewhere in the 24 hours there will be Pixies song mentioned.

So let's see what comes up this time round.

Wednesday 25/1/12, 22.43 p.m.

"Quesadillas made with cheese and a rock band who went Japanese."

"Ripe", Ben Lee

This some was discovered in the car when driving one day. A friend loaned me a Ben Lee CD and this was the last track on the album. I wanted to pull over and just listen. Still reckong Ben Lee is one of the most underated songwriters and performers to leave Australia.

January 26/1/12 ; 08.00 am

"You're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me."

"Bone Machine" The Pixies.

Ah, told you there would be a Pixies song in the mix. Bone Machine is one of there better mosh pit songs. I have memories of being among the mix up near the front of the stage with a group of other like minded late 30/early 40 somethings, howling the chorus, then going nuts in the coda.

I love the Pixies for their what I refer to as 'groin factor'. Their music gets to your kundalini and winds its way through you. It spurns you on to get into mischief. And getting into mischief is one of my favorite things.

The Pixies have always, and will always appeal to my very latent, unexercised wild creature. Love em.

9.35 am.

"There's a ghost in my lungs that sighs in my sleep."

"I'm Not Calling You a Liar" Florence + The Machine

Introduced to this band in the gym, there was something about the unusual lyrics and blended sound that got to me, so I bought the album on spec. One of my best purchases of last year.

This song is one of my favorites - Florence in a bit of downtime.

11.36 a.m.

"We'd like to know a bit about you for our files. We'd like to help you learn to help yourself."

"Mrs Robinson" Simon and Garfunkel

Always a standby for the car. Guaranteed to get you humming along, you can't go wrong with these guys.

I came to Simon and Garfunkel late - as my parent's music tastes ran to Bing Crosby and Hooked on Classics (remember those awful albums with Classical Music and an electronic drum beat - dire!) I bought their "Bookends" album on cassette on the back of the greatness that is Paul Simon's "Graceland" album - the latter which was played to death. Found out that they were the ones who penned 'Hazy Shade of Winter" - which I knew from The Bangles. Doh.

A song that you want to sing along to, but you probably only know a quarter of the lyrics. And then if you don't know the words you can just go, "do dee doo doo doo doo doo doh."

1.49 p.m.

"The Captain's name was Morgan, by heck he was a gorgon."

"The Good Ship Venus" aka "Frigging in the Rigging". Traditional but covered by the Sex Pistols and many, many rugby clubs.

I've got a reasonable repertoire of rugby songs tucked away in the back of my brain, joys of a mis-spent youth and a not particularly politically correct father. There was a tape of me aged about five singing "I'm glad that I'm an Australian, I'm glad that I am free, but I wish I was a little doggie, and Whitlam was a tree." Cheers, Dad. (If my father ever got wind that you more likely to get me using heroin than voting Liberal his ashes would be stirring in that ugly columbarium in which he rests.)

Still, I get a giggle out of this song, which I've been known to hum along on car trips, shock the pants off the lady freemasons and generally show that I'm not as nice a girl as people think I am.

Found this version of the song, which you CAN play with children in the room. It's the PC version of this very traditional song.

2.58

"I'm a lot like you so please, hello, I'm here, I'm waiting."

"El Scorcho" Weezer.

Another car song. I do a lot of singing in the car. I get caught a lot at the lights singing along to something or other that's pretty daggy. The best car songs are the ones which allow you to moan, yowl, scream and sing at the top of your lungs - and this song fits the bill pretty well. It never gets flicked to the next song on the iPods random shuffle - unlike the Arctic Monkeys...

17.15

"I could have been a common thief sitting in the dirt quite happily"

"Coin Laundry" - Lisa Mitchell

Possibly the only decent talent to come out of Australian Idol in eight years. I'm ready to strangle Guy Sebastian and Stan Walker as they're all that dag radio at work plays (along with a lot of Adele, who I used to like, but I can't stomach any more through over playing, and I want to garotte Beyonce and Rhianna...)

Lisa Mitchell probably never should have made it onto that stupid show. She's alternative, smart, savvy and she's got a wicked view on the world at a very young age. Her "Wonderland" album is fantastic - and this song is very ear wormy. Once this gets in my head I sing it for days.

5.27 p.m.

"Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah."

"Sexy and I Know It." LMFAO

This song is soooooo wrong on soooooo many levels. It's always on in the gym. Pinochet always sings along to it, normally when you're lugging round some heavy weight, which makes you want to clobber him more. Sometimes Pinochet even does the movements - which is just wrong. To me, it's just proof that boy bits should stay tucked away in underpants and only brought out when absolutely necessary and preferably in the dark.

I'm posting the Elmo version instead. Much better. Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle....

8.31 p.m

"I was guessing at numbers and figures pulling the puzzles apart."

"The Scientist" Coldplay

I have a theory about Coldplay. Just like Aha, Spandau Ballet, Pat Benetar, Cold Chisel etc etc, in twenty years time their songs are going to be played over the tannoy on dag radio in the data centre of Bastard Bank.

Until that happens, I'm going to continue to enjoy Coldplay, because as soon as anything gets played over the loudspeaker at the Bastard Bank data centre, I automatically hate it. (Thankfully I only have three days left there... yay!)

I've always loved this song - just as I've always loved "Yellow" and quite a few more of their songs. Still not sure about their latest album, but it's growing on me.

9.41 p.m.

"Nothing can interfere with a dream of dreams so near"

"Man with a Gun" Jerry Harrison

This song brings memories of the late eighties, of a person that had to be left behind, of new love, of drunken nights on summer streets and the promise of more.

Jerry Harrison is ex-Talking Heads (another favorite band) Another song I find myself singing when I'm out running. It reminds me of good things. Of nice things. Of a person on a promise. Ah to be twenty again.

10.28 p.m.

"Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society"

"An Englishman in New York" - Sting

This was my theme song for many years.

From 1993-1999 I lived in London, working for an now defunct international banking house, without a valid visa to my name. I was an illegal alien. However, as I have an "English" name, a varying English accent and I paid my taxes and national insurance, I got away with it. This was over ten years ago. I wouldn't do it again, but I have no regrets.

This song came on the radio regularly - it still comes on the radio quite often - and it reminds me of Liverpool Street Station and my time in London.

And I've always loved Sting and the Police - unlike Spandau Ballet, they haven't got banal and daggy over time.

Well there you go. Another public holiday, another round of random song lyrics to amuse, infuriate, stump and annoy.

Happy Stralya Day!

Pandx

I can do this...

2012-01-26T12:35:00.000+11:00

Okay, it appears I'm not as big a wuss as I thought.

I dragged the bike down the two flights of stairs this morning with a huge sense of trepidation.

Jonella came over for a bit of moral support - and brought her new fandangled pump so that the tyres could be inflated to something more than the flat balloons that they were.

Being somebody with a bit of pride, I decided to try a few laps of the driveway first. Which went fine. Then I did a lap of the block and got home just as Jonella was pulling up.

"Didn't need to come and give you moral support, did I?"
"Nope, but I needed you to come and pump up the tyres for me."

Dag points for this photo being taken in the driveway - I sort of feel like you did when you were a little kid and your dad had finally taken off your training wheels.

Double dag points for my lilac bike hat (but it goes with my lilac swim cap - bought because nobody will steal it.)

After Jonella left I took the bike out of the Yarra bike path for about half an hour and covered seven or eight kilometers and it appears that riding a bike is just like riding a bike. Still scares the hell out of me. The Yarra trails are filled with people with little dogs that are just begging to be run over (not that I would ever run over a little dog, but with my bike handling skills...)

You don't forget how to ride a bike.

Now I just need a bit more confidence and all will be well.

On Fear and Confidence

2012-01-24T20:49:00.001+11:00

I look at myself now and I wonder how is it I got where I am.

Yesterday I had an interview. This is what happens when you're looking for work. Not that I want to leave the consultancy I'm with, but if this job came my way I would be a fool not to put my hand up for it. Eight months of work in my area - training and doco.

Sitting in the waiting room of an anonymous office in Southbank, suited and booted, face paint applied in an understated matter, lipstick blotted, I waited for the interviewer.The only consolation I could have made with my dress was a pair of stockings, but as it was 35 degrees celcius in the shade, sod stockings. I don't wear stockings at the best of times unless I REALLY have to - and it's only when it's under 25 degrees.

I wasn't delayed badly, but I did have to wait for a few minutes. It happens. People run late around lunchtime.

The door opened and in walks my manager from seven years ago - a person instrumental in getting me where I am today. She was the first manager who I worked under in a technology role. We've been bumping into each other in the street every so often for years.

"I heard you were coming in. Your names been bandied around here for the last few days." she said.

Glumph. I'd only passed over my CV on Friday around two. I had the interview lined up by four.

We has a brief catch up - her son, the one we used to watch through binoculars from the 35th floor as he played at his day care centre on Collins Street is about to start high school. She asked about my writing and if I kept in contact with a few old colleagues. She wished me luck and bid me farewell.

The interviews went really well. All three panelists (who I saw one at a time) made positive comments and made reference to the fact my name came up via a couple of people. Never a bad thing at all. I had to wing a few questions on some technical stuff - to which I gave my best standby answer - I pick things up quickly, and that's what google is for - which is true. If you don't know, ask google. If google doesn't know, ask the network, which is expanding and filled with all sorts of good advice.

Sitting, answering the questions that were fired with me, it finally struck me - I know what the hell I'm doing. even if I don't know what I'm doing, I have the confidence to muddle through and get on with things.

We'll see about the job - I'd like it if I can get it.

For somebody who used to have no self-worth or self-esteem, this is huge.

I like it.

I like it a lot.

Had a similar feeling coming out of a meeting with a resource manager here at Bastard Bank. Only good things to say, would happily keep me on if and when the roles comes up - send my CV across and watch him work some magic. All good.

Last evening, sitting in my lounge room, the opposite occured.

Jonella's mountain bike was finally assembled. I had to get a bit from the bike shop to get it to work properly. Discovered that hot blokes hang out at the bike shop. Also discovered that the ditzy female routine works well on the guys at the bike shop.

"Hello, I need a bit. Well, I need a part. Look, I need one of these things." I said as I pulled a zip lock bag out of my handbag this levery, metal bit thing (allegedly called a skewer, but I think a whatchamacallit suits it better).
"I can help with that."
"Cool - but is it a bit or a part?" I asked using my best cow eyes.
"Its a bit that goes with a part," cute bike dude replied.

Two minutes later, $20 poorer I had a new thingy for the bike in my handbag and I trotted home.

An hour later, the bike was in the middle of the lounge room, dohickey in place and the bike in one piece.

And all I have to do now summon up the courage to take the wretched thing downstairs and go for a ride.

I'm petrified.

I can tackle corporate Australia. I can run half marathons. I can dispose of hunstman spiders with the aid of a can of bug spray and a hoover.

But I'd dead shit scared to hop on a bike. What a wuss I am.

Wish me luck.
Pand

Find Me Another Day to the Weekend

2012-01-22T23:22:00.000+11:00

Okay, the last week has looked like this:

Monday: Gave myself a night off after tripping and falling heavily in the street. My right knee is still blue and purple and I can't kneel on it. The grazed elbow is nearly healed. My pride remains dented.

Tuesday: Book Group, followed by a trip out to Gloria's to donate some flowers for her 60th. Worth it, but tiring.

Wednesday: Went back to dream group. A few buttons were pushed.

Thursday: Saw Pinochet. Full sit ups while carting an 8kg kettle bell in one hand have left my abs shredded.

Friday: Jonella, Mary-Rose and I went and saw something called "Spontaneous Cabaret". A mix of theatre sports and musical theatre. Very fun. Very funny. We were asked to put a song title into "The Bucket of Dreams" at the start of the night - and the cast members improvised songs and styles, asking the audience to vote on the four or five songs started. Mary-Rose's selection waas chosen for votiing - but her song, improvised into the new musical "Believe" didn't make it. Personally, I think a song entitled,"A Unicorn is a Pony with a Strap-on" has a lot of potential.

The three of us had a great night and a good laugh.

Saturday: Got up, met Kitt at Richmond pool for my first swim training session. Went about 800 metres in under half an hour. Kitt's attempting to correct my stroke. I'm a confident swimmer, but my stroke is crap. I had my last swimming lesson when I was six-years-old - but I've picked up a lot after spending years in swimming pools. If I had more time I'd go and get some lessons to correct my stroke - but for now, Kitt is doing a great job.

An hour later I was scaling the 1000 Steps at Ferntree Gully. Met up with a group from the 12WBT. It was also great to make contact with Bertie, a woman I met on the 2009 Melbourne Half-Marathon. Bertie and I just started running together, our strides about the same. We ran for over 10 kilometres, finding out we're in similar types of work, both from Adelaide and all sorts of other things in common. Last year I ran with her for a bit, but ran ahead after fifteen minutes. Still great to meet up with her again.

The afternoon was spent trying to tame my feral flat, with a little success. The bathroom is clean, the washing and ironing done - what more do you want?

Late afternoon, Trin and Rhee turned up and we made our way to the Botanical Gardens to see a performance of Shakespeare in the Park. We took a picnic, a tarp to sit on and a decent quota of pear cider.

I forgot to warn Trin and Rhee about me and cider. I really like cider. Unfortunately, cider doesn't like me. Well it does like me, but it sends me stupid. Beer keeps me honest, spirits render me voiceless, wine makes me emotional - and cider puts a gleam in my eye, a dopey smile on my face, a raucousness to my laugh and the devil up me. Watch out any man in a ten foot radius. Cider takes my gentle, quiet, unassuming nature and turns me into Fifi La Rue, potty mouthed, vampy sex kitten, with the propensity for singing "Roll Me Over in the Clover" with my legs wagging about in the air. Well that is after three pints of Scrumpy. Two bottles of pear cider and I have the gleam in my eye, the raucous laugh and my poor friends wondering where sedate, plain spoken Pand had gone.

The performance of "Behind the Scenes of A Midsummer Night's Dream" was FANTASTIC. Have not laughed that much in ages. Incredibly silly, very smart and great fun, I'm hoping to go again. It was a great night. The line of the night came after an on-stage discussion of Andrew Lloyd Webber's new musical "Paint Never Dries."

Sunday: Read my book for a bit before going to pump. Came home. Was going to drop out and see Blarney and Maow Maow, but Blarney's ill. Did some writing and got ready for Gloria's afternoon birthday party.

After getting back from the shindig held in the Docklands, I made my way out to Mary-Rose's place. Jonella had dropped her spare bike off and it needed collecting. It appears this triathon is happening. Thankful that Mary-Rose's bike mad brother was about, I got a lesson in how to put the bike together as it was in three pieces when I go there and being a cycling nuffer, needed some help. I'm pleased to say I can put the thing together and take it apart with ease now. It's no harder than putting an AK-47 together (another story for another time, but yes, I can strip down and rebuild a standard issue machine gun..)

Mary-Rose also asked if I'd like to come and do cat duty with her. See, Mary-Rose works at her local vet, and on weekends, she checks in on the moggies boarding at the practice. I jumped at the chance. After spending 15 minutes cuddling this gorgeous black kitten (who climbed all over me, purring incessantly) and spending time with this black and white skunk like arrangement called Sylvester, who looks like his cartoon namesake, and Oscar, the fat ginger long haired fellow, I went home very happy - still wondering if I could steal the kitten...

Came home early this evening, tired but happy.

And now I need another day for the weekend.

I'm interviewing tomorrow and Tuesday. I've got writing and editing work to do. There's some stuff I have to complete for the consultancy. There's dream group. There's training with Pinochet. I have to get a 'skewer' for Jonella's bike as I've been told there's a chance I'll do a face plant if I use the one that's on the bike at the moment. There's a 90 minute spin class and a BBQ to go to on Australia Day. Then's it's off to Adelaide for Manhand's 40th next weekend.

Please can I have another day for the weekend?

Please.

Life is good - but it's bloody busy.

Pand

Trying the Tri

2012-01-19T23:04:00.002+11:00

I wish I wasn't a people-pleaser.

I wish I had the guts to say no more.

I wish I hadn't opened my consultancy email the other day, where there was an email from the Executive Assistant which went along the lines of,"Hey Pand, you're up for a bit of fun. Do you want to go in the BRW Corporate Triathalon? Let me know."

The EA is not somebody you say no to. She's lovely, but she's got this way of looking at you which beats you down in ten seconds.Most of the people at the consultancy have this feature. You just don't appear to mind doing things for them. You know what it's like. " Jump off a cliff. Yeah. Sure. Drink battery acid. No problem."

I was due to check in at the consultancy later that morning, so I said I'd have a think and give her an answer when I go there. Arriving at the office, I had a chat to the EA. She said I could try on the uniforms for size. Hmmm. Go on, she said, looking at me with a look that would give Bambi a run for his money.

Bugger.

I put up objections about maybe not working at the consultancy in March as my contract was days off finishing. Didn't matter she said - I was part of the consultancy family (something I love about the consultancy) Besides, I participated in the other BRW race.

After a few more minutes I ran out of excuses. She gave me her best full on Bambi look and I was unable to say no.

So effectively, I've been press ganged into my first triathlon. 400 metre swim. Ten kilometre cycle. Four kilometre run. To be held down in Elwood Beach on 4 March.

I have never had the desire to participate in a triathlon. Never. Zip. Nada. Never appealed to me at all. Triathlons are for grunty boys with much to prove. And Tony Abbott. (Bleargh)

Looking at this, it is a doable challenge.

Okay, the running component isn't a problem. No worries at all. My normal training runs are between five and seven kilometres at the moment which are about to be built up to regular tens again. No issue at all.

If I get myself into a pool now twice a week, the swim wont be a problem - I'm a competent, confident swimmer - I've got no style, I'm not very fast, but I can beat out a kilometre in a pool without too much hassle. This is open water, but it's only 400 metres and there are plenty of other people for the sharks to bite in the water at the same time. Open water isn't my favorite water to swim in, but ah, plenty of people to save me if I start to drown.

The cycle section.

Well...

The last time I rode a bike was in 1991.

I used to be able to ride a bike. I'm not bad at spin class. But spin class doesn't entail wearing a silly hat and having your butt bruised by pot holes and it's hard to go over the handlebars in spin class.

Jonella has offered to loan me a bike. I'm not sure where I will get one of those silly bike hats from (I'm told they're called helmets). I'm also thankful that I live near a heap of bike trails and I won't have to practice on the road - I can't put me on a road with a bike. Traffic scares the hell out of me - but I should be okay on the bike path, away from the traffic. The bike can live in my spare room while I have it in my custody. And after the race, I won't have to ride one again.

But the swim, the cycle and the run aren't the things that scare me the most.

These are far more banal than that.

First issue. I have to wear lycra in public. This is not something I consider doing lightly as it is not a pretty sight. Nobody is a pretty sight in lycra.

Second issue. How am I supposed to run in aforesaid lycra uniform? I have to double bra to run normally - one industrial strength scaffold arrangement on the bottom and a crop top over it to give a bit of stability. If I run without two bras I end up with black eyes. Like being in lycra, not running with proper support is really not a pretty sight. A stray boob could knock somebody out.

Third issue. After swimming in the sea, in a lycra uniform and two bras, wont like the grains of sand stick and basically chafe you to kingdom come? I hate chub rub at the best of times, but this is just asking for it.

Fourth issue. What if Greenpeace is about? Will they throw me back in the sea after the swim.

And before you rag me about self-deprecating humour, Greenpeace are nice to dolphins too. I'm no longer a small whale. I like to think of myself as a dolphin. Nicely rounded with just enough blubber to keep me warm.

Goddess, give me strength... Training starts Saturday with two laps of the 1000 steps and either a boxing class or a swim.

Ah well, at least it will get my exercise fully back on track.

Pandx

The Joys of Giving and Receiving

2012-01-18T12:56:00.001+11:00

Yesterday was what should have been a 'meh' day.

But it wasn't

It was 35 degrees in the shade outside. Meh. The heat was the nice kind of heat - dry with a breeze, although the Hare Krishna's appeared to be wilting outside of Flinders Street Station later in the day, sounding like a 45 rpm record played at 33 speed, their esctatic jumps more like a half-hearted demi-plie. I passed them as I made my way to book group with an ice cream in my hand.

Simple pleasures.

Other good things happened yesterday.

I'd received my marching orders from my current job in the morning. My last day, 31 January. No more miserable people, boredom and not particularly effective management. I'm happy to be moving on. I know I have to go find another job - and it will happen. I'm just pleased that this three month period of work misery is nearly at its end.

The day had lots of other lovely little surprises.

Glen Waverley and I met for lunch. Hadn't seen him for a few weeks and this was overdue since he and Merijn only got back from New Zealand last weekend. Our lunches are a regular occurence. On meeting he handed over a bag, inside which was a decorative gift box.

"Present for you. A thanks for looking after the cat."
"There's no need. But thank you." I responded.

Inside the box, a bottle of my favorite perfume. I'd asked them to collect me a bottle if they saw a bottle in duty free if they thought about it and I'd pay for it when they got back.

"We were going through customs we weren't exactly sure what perfume you were after. But then we smelled it and we knew it was you," he told me.

I find it a little strange that I have friends who know what I smell like. This small fact got to me. I didn't realise that people got close enough to me to get a whiff of the Stella MacCartney scent I've been wearing for years.

"This is too much." I told him.
"No it's not.You deserve spoiling."

I smiled, nodded and thanked him again. It's lovely having friends who appreciate you. Merijn was thanked for the offering when I saw her at book group later that night - still feeling very blessed.

Book group was fantastic. The book, Zoe Heller's "Notes on a Scandal" very well received - the conversation flowed, and dinner, a pot of garlic bombed mussels hit the spot on the warm night.

Racing home after this, I dumped my stuff, hopped in the car, went around to the local 24-hour florist on Bridge Road and debated flowers in my head while the florist made up arrangements for other customers. Roses, lilies and carnations. Nice and bright, but not too bright. Irises wilt too easily. Sunflowers, under the circumstances, not really appropriate. Australian natives - not today. Besides, the roses smelled amazing. I settled on a large mixed bunch in bright apricot tones. Gorgeous. I jumped back in the car with the flowers and made my way west. It was 9 p.m.

My friend Gloria turned 60 yesterday. The flowers had to be delivered in person on the day - that was important - no florist vans and recalcitrant delivery people to deliver these blooms - they had to be selected and delivered by me. On the day.

Not only is Gloria having to come to terms with the fact that she's now eligible for a Seniors Card, she's also dealing with the sudden passing of her beloved sister ten days ago. She's rightly distraught, but also working out where all of this fits in her life. It's hard stuff. Not having seen Gloria since Christmas Day as she's been away it would be good to see her.

Twenty minutes later I arrived at Gloria and Gaynor's place and made my way out to the back yard, where she and some friends were finishing dinner.

The flowers went down a treat.

"It's just lovely that I have friends who love and appreciate me. I'm thankful for the lovely weather that lets me have dinner in the back yard. I'm thankful for my good health. And I'm thankful for the vanilla ice cream I'm about to have for dessert. You're having some, aren't you, Pand."
I nodded with glee. Ice cream twice in one day. Cool!

I added, "Are you thankful that you can get into the cinema for five bucks less after you make that trip to Centrelink."
"What?"
"So you can get your bus pass. You get your bus pass at Centrelink, I think." piped out one of her other friends.
"Oh, I spose I should think about that. Not that I ever take the bus."
"True. But it makes you think."
"Yeah, it makes you think how lucky you are to have friends who come and stand by you, and who bring you flowers and presents on your birthday or for what ever reason , and cook you meals and talk to you through things good and bad."

I couldn't agree with her more.

Little Rituals

2012-01-15T14:35:00.001+11:00

5.02 p.m. Friday - the brunette in the stripey top streaks for the door, flashing a pass to get her through the umpteen air locks to let her finally out to the street and apparent freedom.

It's Friday night, nothing's planned. That's a ritual in itself. After years of going out and going hard in the week, the most exciting thing that gets done on a Friday night is turning up at beer club at my old company for a Brok or two. Not that this will be done on this night. The beer club mates are still out of town or busy - no beer club tonight.

Friday night is about feeding the soul. Which means doing things I love doing - not things I have to do. A walk to the post box, a banal act in itself, but the perfect foil after a tedious week in an unwanted office. A feed of hot chips, a weekly serve to stop the cravings from setting in. A trip to the macaron shop - not that it's open at the moment. A visit to Chokolait for a chilli hot chocolate dialed up to nine (I don't normally do hot chocolates, but I make an exception for these - Reindert put me on to these a few years ago and they are sublime). This is the ritual if I don't turn up to beer club, where I will dribble crap with old friends for an hour or so.

I've been thinking at the little rituals of my life - exclusive of the ones that go on at my Freemason's - which I'm forbidden to talk about.

My wandering along among the arcades and narrow lanes of the city bring me peace - as all good rituals should do.

The final stop on the walk back to the tram is to Spellbox, my witch shit shop in the Royal Arcade, where the wheel at the back of the shop is spun to obtain advice for the weekend. Wandering through the scent of frankincense amongst the talismen, tarot cards and idols gives me a sense of belonging. This side of me is hidden for the most part of the day.

This weeks message read, "The Wheel speaks of: Happiness and Freedom - Great happiness will be entwined with your fate; dancing, romancing, and joy for joy's sake. Knowledge and health, an abundance of wealth; a future to connect with your magical self."

It gave me a little hope - dactylic trimeter will do that for you.

Friday evening, once home, is quiet. A little television. A load of washing. Maybe hoover the floors. Maybe do the kitchen and bathroom floors - jobs so hated but so necessary. Maybe a little writing or editing. My book editing job is almost over, thank heavens. I have another Greek Tour description to do by the end of the weekend - nearly there. The ritual of typing and considering - not that writing about tours around the Northern Peloponnese takes much talent or skill - it's just the ritual of sitting, considering, writing and refining.

The writer's life. Look. Consider. Write. Refine. Write. Slash. Refine. Hope.

It's really what ritual is all about.

I've other rituals. My visits to Blarney's on the weekend. I drop over for a cup of coffee most weekends to see Blarney, Barney, her 18-month-old twin boys and most importantly, the Maow Maow. On entering, giving everybody in the room a peck on the cheek (has to be done - including if Grandpa is over from Launceston) I find the cat, pick him up, place him on my shoulder, and there he stays for around 20 minutes, or for what ever time is required - it depends on who moves first - do I need to sit and have a cup of coffee? Is he over being carted around like a fox cape. It's our ritual.

Other rituals are now coming into play as the boys are getting older. Bouncing the twins in my knee to the tune of "Row Row Row your Boat" , or "The Wheels on the Bus" are now in order. They're at the stage where they can sort of sing along in their joyous, discordant 18-month-old voices. I'm hoping I'll get a name soon. But there is nothing more joyous than the toothy grin of a toddler as he descends into your lap from a reasonable height. Chance has discovered that I hate being tickled - so five minutes of tickling has to take place before he goes toddling off to play with his truck. Lance, the more serene of the two likes his bouncing too - but he hasn't worked out about the tickling yet - thank goodness. Chance is a little bloody minded. Lance is the more laid back of the two.

Pump on Sunday morning, another ritual. Up the back of the gym with Jay on one side and Emm on the other, we have our version of brinkmanship - Emm blitzes the squat track - I'm doing heavier weights for the shoulders, biceps and back track. It feels good. We all roll our eyes at similar places - normally at the end of the back and lunge tracks. After class we go for a coffee where we discuss the rituals of Sunday afternoon. For Jay, a trip to see her mother or a game of football. For Emm, some studying, for me, normally a trip out to Blarneys or an attempt and taming my feral flat. Today it was just Jay and me in the back row - Emm's sprained her ankle.

My other ritual - a free Sunday night with nothing to do. I don't go out on Sunday nights. I refuse invitations on Sunday night if it is more than having my dinner cooked and nothing more strenuous than a bit of telly. Sunday sets me up for the rest of the week. Even if it's just a bit of ironing or reading. It's my night for me. It's comforting. It's enriching - it may not be very interesting, but it's what makes me tick.

I won't go into my other little OCD like rituals around running or the start of work (fire up computer, go fill water bottle, get a cup of coffee, email Jonella good morning....)...

A friend once told me that it was the little things that give us such joy. I never thought a walk through the streets, a cup of hot chocolate and a night in front of the telly could give me such comfort.

The Blue Day Meme

2012-01-08T17:54:00.002+11:00

It's Sunday and I'm editing. As I've got much to write about at the moment that I wish to share but finding it hard to articulate anything - there is some big stuff going in the background, but it's not really my stuff to talk about.

I'm a bit over writing about cats. I've been doing well in the gym - I leg pressed 120 kg in the gym yesterday (and did squats with 45 kgs on my back and generally kicked some butt). And contrary to popular belief, hoiking weights around is lady-like - and it doesn't mess with your manicure - see.

But as I'm dithering with all sorts of other subjects, and I don't feel like writing about job hunting, illness, boredom or editing, I though a quick meme might help break the monotony. So I'm parsing two pages and answering a question. I need to get this editing job out of the way - and I feel the need to write.

Thanks to the Sunday Stealling Blogger for the questions.

1) If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?

Oh my, what would I say to the world - hell! That's a huge question. Probably something along the lines of stuff capitalism, stuff everything, find a way of fixing the environmental problems in the world and fix them now. We're running out of time - stop bickering and get on with it. Oh, and while you're at it - be nice to one another.

The joys of being a mix of INFJ and INFP - stupidly idealistic.

2) If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

There's plenty of people I'd love to meet - Kenneth Branagh, Bill Clinton, Nelson Mandela, all the normal people who make these sorts of lists.

But the one person I'd love to meet is my grandfather's brother, Roy. He died a year before I was born, but I think he'd be fascinating.

You see, Uncle Roy was a soldier and a postmaster. In WW1 he was responsible for keeping the lines of communication open at Villers Bretonneux and Bellicourt. He received the Military Medal twice for repairing lines under heavy enemy shell fire with a total disregard for danger. He was the postmaster in Darwin when the Japanese attacked during WWII. My aunt remembers him as one of the funniest and loveliest blokes she's ever met - and if you asked him what he did in the war, he responded., "Ah, I just milked a cow in no-man's land."

I've always wanted to meet a real hero. Uncle Roy fits the bill.

Saying this, of my maternal grandparent's siblings two ended up in Gallipoli, another two on the Western Front and one lies in a graveyard in Egypt.

For more on Uncle Roy, see here.

It's something of which I'm very proud.

3) You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?

If I had the chance, I'd go back to Spain in a heartbeat. LOVE the place - in particular, Toledo. But on my last trip, I didn't get to go to a heap of places - I'd love to go back to Barcelona, go see Zaragoza, Bilbao, San Sebastian, Cordoba, Salamanca, Segovia... - and of course, I want to spend more time in Toledo, Seville and Granada. There's also a dream I have of returning to Spain for a few months and maybe do the Camino do Santiago de Compostella - a pilgrimage along the north coast of Spain.

Yeah, I'd go to Spain. Though I'd love to go visit Reindert in Boston too. Or go back to London for a pint with friends. Or pop over to New Zealand to see some old mates. Or head back to Thailand and go Buddha watching in between getting the bejeezus pummelled out of me by some Thai masseuse (love Thai massage).

So many places, so little time and money... and must renew my passport.

4) What do you think about most?

Sex. Next.

5) You have the opportunity to spend a romantic night with the music celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?

Bryn Terfel.

Who you ask? Bryn Terfel is a Welsh Baritone/Bass. His voice sends shivers down my spine. The fact that he's the spitting image of an ex-boyfriend of mine has nothing to do with it. I'm a sucker for an accent, he's a funny bloke and his voice is to die for.

If he's not available, I reckon hanging out with the Pixies might be fun too. Might not be romantic but it would be fun.

6) You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

There are a couple of things I don't discuss in this blog - and the few things I'd like to erase come under this gag order. Then again, these crappy experiences make who you are. They aren't regrets, their just things I could do without happening to me.

Of the plentiful things I'm willing to talk about:

The last three months of my working life would be great to get rid of, though I've learned a lot so I can't moan too much.

Glandular fever when I was in my early twenties - could have done without that.

And the dry socket I got after having an impacted wisdom tooth removed - wouldn't want to go through that again.

7) What's your strangest talent?

I have lots of strange talents and abilities - ask my friends. I can diminish pain with a phone call. I know where people are hurting. I'm a dab hand with a pack of tarot cards.

But my strangest talent is my party trick. I can recite the whole of "Jabberwocky", normally using a bedspread for a cloak and a breadknife for the vorpal blade.

Yes, I'm a geek!

8) What would be a question you'd be afraid to tell the truth on?

I think this question might be under the gag order too.

The one that springs to mind would be somebody asking me if I love/loved them. Scares me witless.

9) Ever had a poem or song written about you?

Don't be daft. No. Not that I'm aware of.

10) When is the last time you played the air guitar?

I don't play air guitar, but I do play air drums a lot. And the last time I did that was in the car a few days ago, doing my best Phil Collins impression at a set of traffic lights drumming along to Vamos by The Pixies.

11) Do you have any strange phobias?

Other that being scared of success and intimacy, and I'm working on those - I'm not fond of huntsman spiders, but as I've slain a couple now I'm less scared of them. I get a bit of claustrophobia, but it's not debilitating and I can manage that. I think all of my minor phobias and foibles are pretty normal - and I'm thankful they don't stop me from doing anything.

On second thought, anybody who's been with me when I've been walking down stairs will know that I have to take a breath before going down stairs or escalators. It's not that I'm scared of them, I just had a seriously bad fall going down a set of stairs as a kid when I was in callipers. Strangely, my Mum and Grandma do/did exactly the same thing.

12) What's your religion?

Gawd, another loaded question. I'm best described as an agnostic wiccan. I believe there's something out there that's bigger than us. I believe in the power of nature. I love the structure that the Kabbalah gives me. I respect the teachings of Christ and the Buddha, but I don't believe in either of them being my personal saviour or prophet. I'm certainly not affiliated with any organised religion - and I'm not an athiest.

Happy to let anybody believe in what they want as long as they don't try to throw it down my throat.

13) What is your current desktop picture?

It alternates between this one:

And this one:

The top one was taken at Castle Urquart on Loch Ness a few years ago, the bottom one is of the front door of the Toledo Cathedral from the lane leading to it. This was taken on my travels last year. I love both photos.

14) When you are outside, what are you most likely doing?

Walking or running. I love doing both.

15) What's the last song you listened to?

This was posted on a friend's facebook page today - and I have to repost this clip. I think I prefer this to the original - great song anyway, but this just rocks. And it's really worth watching the clip. It's cool.

Sure beats the Cat Stevens song I was going to have to mention which is playing in the car at the moment.

16) Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?

Easy. The Pixies. Utterly, utterly brilliant.

Favorite Australian Band - toss up between The Hoodoo Gurus and Hunters and Collectors.

17) What was the last lie you told?

My naturopath asked me how my blood pressure was yesterday. I said fine when in reality I wasn't too sure. I took it a minute ago and it was 130/78 - which is fine - but when she asked me I felt a little guilty about no knowing. A lie by apathy really.

18) Do you believe in karma?

Yes, but not big picture, do something bad and come back as a poor person in Africa type karma. I do believe what goes around comes around.

19) What is a saying you say a lot?

"At the end of the day..." Terrible turn of phrase, at the end of the day.

I like to use Blarney's standard "And thank your mother for the rabbits." It floors people.

"I am the suppository of all useless knowledge" gets a regular bashing too, at the end of the day.

20) What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?

My greatest weakness is ice cream. Followed by getting destructive when bored.

My greatest strength is my ability to persevere and stick with things.

21) Who is your celebrity crush?

Clive Owen. Phwoar! He's been on my Christmas list for years.

22) Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word: heart.

Mitral valve. My father was one of the first people in Australia to have his surgically replaced back in the seventies. He used to tick like a clock.

23) How do you vent your anger?

Ranting and stomping.

Not many people have witnessed me in full flight anger - it's freaking scary when I do get like this, really truly awful murderous rages can happen - but I've only been in that state a few times in the last couple of decades. When I get like this I could seriously murder.

Normally, when I'm in a strop I go into a rant, shout at things and stomp about - if it's really bad, I'll hit a pillow or throw an inanimate object against a wall.

Thankfully, I normally just get mildly stroppy every now and then.

24) Do you have a collection of anything?

Other than the 30 or so packs of tarot cards I have in my cupboard, I have a small collection of carved elephants that people have brought back for me. When people go to Africa, India or Asia I always ask for a little elephant. I have four in my collection and hope to have a few more by the end of the year.

25) What is your favorite word?

Serendipity.

If I ever had/have a daughter I'd love to give her Serendipity as a middle name (or hidden second middle name after more sensible Christian names). It rolls of the tongue well. It means happy accident - which if I had a child, other than being a miracle, it would be a happy accident.

Right, I've done 50 pages of editing - better get back to it.

Hopefully I get some inspiration to write a real blog post soon.

Pandxx

Three Days, Five Films

2012-01-03T16:03:00.003+11:00

Melbourne is going through one of it's regular summer heat waves - which sucks. For those who don't live in Australia, we have proper heat waves over here. We're talking over 35 degrees centigrade in the shade. (95 fahrenheit). Yesterday, Melbourne made 40 degrees. Bleargh.

At least Melbourne's heat waves don't last for more than a few days normally - unlike Adelaide which can have weeks of temperatures over thirty in summer. This is one of the main reasons I chose Melbourne as a home - the weather. yes, it's changeable, but at least it's normally not too hot or too humid.

Regardless, as my flat is like a sauna by day three of a heatwave, and despite overworking the airconditioning and running a fan, all I can do is get out to escape the heat. I feel sorry for the Maow Maow. He's found the coolest place in the flat in the middle of my bedroom floor. He's not doing much. I tried damping him down with a wet bandana, but he didn't like it much. Add to this indignity with the antibiotics I'm shoving down his neck twice a day, I know that the friendship is being stretched. He's just going to have to wait a few days for the heat to break and for the temperature in the flat to go down. The tablets are thankfully clearing up his pelt and he doesn't appear to be too itchy.

Despite the air conditioner, which is fairly effective, when the mercury rises, I tend to take myself off to the cinema. The hotter it gets, the more films I see.

Five films in three days is a bit of a record for me, but being on holidays and as there's been a heap of movies on that I've wanted to see and I thought I'd miss, it's been a great opportunity to catch up on my movies.

I've been stunned, impressed and overjoyed with some of my choices - not a dud one in the group.

So here are my thoughts on these five films:

1) The Iron Lady

Director: Phyllida Lloyd Starring: Meryl Streep and Jim Broadbent

The reception to this film has been a bit hit and miss in the reviews, but I was pleasantly surprised. Streep will get an Oscar nod for this one, where she plays Maggie Thatcher from her middle to old age. And it's a tour de force. She is Maggie - just as Helen Mirren completely captured the Queen with pathos, Meryl Streep takes on this tsunami of a woman completely. Jim Broadbent is divine as the long-suffering Denis.

Phyllida Lloyd is a reasonably inexperienced movie director, with her only big screen credit to date being the fabulously fun Mama Mia. However, she's very, very well known in British theatre as a peerless director of stage and opera.

It's not a perfect film by any stretch of the imagination, but I loved how they have taken the ailing, dementia-addled Maggie and told her story with a lot of compassion. That her relationship with Denis was highlighted as the rock of her life - Denis portrayed as a strong man in the background, taking on this flighty middle-class girl with ambition and spunk. The film is interspersed with historical footage of the miner's strike, the Brighton Hotel Bombings and other facets of her political career. The supporting cast has a plethora of England's finest are great and they capture the times perfectly. John Session's Edward Heath is brilliant just for the dreadful haircut alone (and it was strange to see Anthony Head (Giles from Buffy) as Geoffrey Howe). You get an appreciation for how much hair product has done for the human race in the last few years.

I walked away with a new appreciation for the woman. I've many, many English friends of my age who blame Thatcher for destroying England. This film gives her a bit of a new perspective - as a woman first, a woman of principle second. I'm also glad they treated Denis Thatcher with love and respect - something I don't think the press did for most of his life.

I left a little more tolerant of a woman once described as being "Right of Hitler."

Panda Bamboo sticks - 3.5 out of 5

2) Albert Nobbs

Director: Roderigo Garcia Starring Glenn Close, Mia Wasikowska

This is a quietly devastating film. Thoroughly engaging, completely believable, terminally sad, it also opens up the questions of what we do for life, and love. I saw the trailer for this film and vowed to see it.

Albert Nobbs is a waiter at a Dublin Hotel, where the aristocracy of the turn of the 20th Century come to visit and play. Pauline Collins is the indomitable hotel owner, Mrs Baker. She and her staff run a reputable house. There is a bit of an Upstairs, Downstairs feel to the place as we see Albert go through a quiet life of silent desperation.

Albert is woman living the life of a man. She is also looking to start living a fuller life, saving furtively so that she can acquire a business of her own. Thing go a little pear-shaped when she if forced to share her room with a painter who comes to work on the hotel.

I'm not going to give anything away, but the way that Roderigo Garcia looks at gender, the period, and how we strive for more is poignant. The supporting cast are wonderful as well, though little stock in trade - the pretty servant who gets knocked up, the layabout, pretty boy drunk, the doctor character (a wonderfully, empathetically gruff Brendan Gleeson) do a great job. The standout for me was Janet McTeer as Hubert, who opens Albert's eyes to the bigger world.

Visually stunning, this film has a steady pace which gathers speed as Albert begins to realise that he/she will be able be released from his self-imposed prison of his own making.

Talking to my mother after seeing it, she piped up that she wanted to see it - and it's a film you can take your Mum to and both of you will enjoy it. In my case, my Mum loves anything like this - she watches anything set in a manor house over and over. I realise that the themes in this movie could have been taken far further than they were, however, the film is what it is. Rather than towing a full feminist agenda, it concentrates on the quiet, rather desperate life of the central figure.

I certainly recommend this - just for Glenn Close and Janet McTeer's performance alone. I see a few Oscar nods coming from this one too.

Panda Bamboo Sticks: 4 out of 5

3) The Ides of March

Director: George Clooney Starring: George Clooney, Ryan Gosling, Evan Rachel Wood, Paul Giamatti

Wow! Okay, I love political thrillers - and George Clooney does them well - just look at the superb "Good Night and Good Luck." This is a superb film. Keeps you on the edge of your seat wondering how things are going to play out right to the very end.

Some of my favorite actors take on this tale of an idealistic staffer who gets involved in dirty politics. Ryan Gosling and his thousand mile stare are perfect as the flawed, well-played player. Paul Giamatti and Philip Seymour Hoffman (with an only slightly better haircut than the one he had in Moneyball) go head to head as campaign managers. Evan Rachel Wood is the intern in the middle of everything. Marisa Tomei is great, as a always, as a journalist who's getting to the bottom of the spin. Clooney not only directs put plays the Democratic Candidate, complete with Stalinist propaganda posters and a willingness to play the players.

I was suckered into this one until the fabulous conclusion - and I say fabulous because the film leaves you thinking. Oh, and the Julius Caesar quote title - perfect.

Okay, I'm a West Wing freak and I owe everything I know about American politics to the show. At times I felt like I was watching Sam, Josh, Toby, CJ and Donna going through their throws. But this film is more than that. Far, far more than extended West Wing episode. It's smart, it's perceptive. The best things in the film are very much left unsaid - Clooney uses the 'show, not tell' rule to perfection.

I'm really, really glad I made it to this film before it left the cinemas. Ryan Gosling Oscar nod - probably.

Panda Bamboo Sticks: 4.5 out of 5

4) Melancholia

Say the name Lars von Trier to me and I tend to block my ears and go "LALALALALALALA.' He makes movies to slit your wrist by. Okay, maybe that's a bit rich, but he makes pretty movies which can lead you in to deep, dark depression - but he's always interesting. I refuse to see "Dancer in the Dark", point blank, just because I know the ending and execution scenes leave me dry retching. Same goes for "Dogville" - I just can't do that to myself. No point. This Dane makes films that make Hamlet look a nice light country romp.

So it was some trepidation that I took myself off to see Melancholia - knowing enough about the plot etc. and being in a good place, I thought I'd chance it. I'd heard that a lot of people walked out on it. I knew that I might find myself wanting to go home and have a good discussion with a vodka bottle. Thankfully these two possibilities didn't eventuate.

OH MY GOODNESS. This is an INCREDIBLE piece of cinema. Visually stunning in every way, great performances by the whole cast - this movie had me in it's thrall from the opening titles and the super-slow motion start.

If I was to compare it to any film I've seen recently, I'd put it in the group with Tree of Life - deep, arty and thought provoking. The jury is still out on "Tree of Life." that one as ask me one day and I shove it in the "File under Pretentious Wank", then it will be seen as a worthy film the next.

I can see why a lot of people will put Melancholia in the former category - but to me, this film is oh, so, so, so much more than von Trier, penis in hand, trying to make art.

The film, in my opinion, is a near perfect allegory of depression. A dystopic view of Armageddon. A very, very beautiful look at dysfunctional families. A day on, I'm still processing what went on on screen for the 136 minutes.

Kirsten Dunst is incandescent as Justine, the bride. Charlotte Gainsbourg a wonder as her pragmatic, long-suffering sister. Alexander Skarsgard divine as Michael, Justine's bewildered and cuckolded groom. Charlotte Rampling gets a guernsey as the wonderfully unhinged mother (though she appears to be getting typecast after her turn in "The Eye of the Storm"). John Hurt, Kiefer Sutherland, Stellan Skarsgard (Alex's Dad), Udo Kier and Brady Corbet all have an integral part to play in this film about depression, the end of the world, forgiveness and redemption.The location, a castle in Sweden, is enough get me to see the film again. Glorious.

This isn't everybody's cup of aqua vite. Looking at the reviews, it's divided the film going population - just like Tree of Life. Is it a flawed film? Yes. Are you going to like any of the characters? Probably not. Are you going to file it under the "Pretentious Wank" category. Maybe. Are some of the goings on in the plot completely unrealistic? Of course. But this, in some ways, is a gentle Lars von Trier film. Nobody, gets executed. So the world ends - what the hey!

I found this film utterly and completely spellbinding, from the Wagnerian music, to the location, to the performances to the whole concept. Bravo.

Panda Bamboo Sticks: 5 out of 5

5) The Skin I Live In

Director: Pedro Almodovar Starring: Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya

Pedro Almodovar - bless him, is the enfant terrible of Spanish cinema. I adore his later stuff - and this is no exception. His early stuff I'm more likely to leave, but films like Volver, Talk to Her and Bad Education are up there as some of my favorite foreign language films. He also has the ability to make Penelope Cruz look good. She acts well in his films, even if she still looks like an ostrich.

No Penelope Cruz in this one, but a hot, rather broody Antonio Banderas instead, which is enough to keep me in a cinema seat for two hours. You can smell his pungent aftershave permeating the screen. It's also set in Toledo - probably one of my favorite cities on the planet, so there is a slight bias.

Almodovar's been looking at the role of medicine in life for a while - 'Talk to Her' looked at life, care and ethics in hospitals with fresh eyes.

'The Skin I Live' in is a bit of a cautionary tale. The plot, in a nutshell - ever since his wife was burned in a car crash, Dr. Robert Ledgard, an eminent plastic surgeon, has been interested in creating a new skin with which he could have saved her. After twelve years, he manages to cultivate a skin that is a real shield against every assault. In addition to years of study and experimentation, Robert needed a further three things: no scruples, an accomplice and a human guinea pig. Scruples were never a problem. Marilia, the woman who looked after him from the day he was born, is his most faithful accomplice. And as for the human guinea pig...

This is a chilling film in many ways. Banderas is fabulous as the flawed surgeon. Elena Anaya perfect as his 'creation'. The house keeper and her son are fabulous. And the great thing about Spanish films - after half an hour you don't notice the subtitles and rely on the language for everything you need.

Certainly not Almodovar's best film - still think that honour goes to "Talk to Her", however this was a wonderful diversion - and it leaves a lot of questions in your mind.

Panda Bamboo Sticks: 4 out of 5

Okay, I'm never going to replace Margaret Pomerantz and David Stratton, and I know I love what a lot of people will call "Wanky Arthouse" films, but if there is one thing I love about heatwaves - it's justification to send myself off to the Rivoli Cinema complex to indulge in a favorite pastime.

Goodbye 2011

2011-12-31T12:19:00.001+11:00

I did this meme at the end of last year at the urging of one of my favorite bloggers, The Plastic Mancunian - and I am doing it again - just to see how things have changed - and to see just what 2011 has brought. It's a good thing to sum up the year.

Like last year, I have things I should be doing, such as doing more editing, cleaning my flat, organising the kitchen cupboards, looking for work - but I think I'll do this instead.

It's been a funny year. It's been a hard year for many, many people - and I'm interested to see what comes up in these questions again.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?

There's been a few things that stand out about this year. I've never had nearly four months off work in my adult life. That was cool and scary in order. I also climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge in August, ran in the City to Surf in Sydney and the City to Bay in Adelaide - both races in which I'd never participated. I also started to wear size 14 jeans - which has been unheard of for nearly three decades. The 1000 Steps were scaled on numerous occasions - the first time in January this year.

Oh, and I have gone a full year without fast food from any of the major chains this year I'll put my hand up to the occasional visit to my local Chinese, but other than a coffee at McDonalds at Easter, I haven't had any KFC, McDonalds or Hungry Jacks this calendar year - and long may it continue. (That coffee went down as the worst I had this year as well - but any port in a storm on Good Friday when you're stuck out in the burbs.)

2. Did you keep your New Years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

This year I did quite well. I lost around 16 kilograms this year and managed to get myself very fit. Unfortunately, I've put five kilograms back on, but they will go. The fitness thing is great too. I've got running again - with great success. The promised Mazda 2 is sitting in the carport.

Okay, I didn't get two articles into newspapers and my house deposit is nowhere near where I want it to be, but I've kept my resolutions for the most part.

And my resolutions for next year. I have a few. It was pointed out to me that you can make resolutions at any stage. But here goes:

1) To finish the job I started last year in losing weight and get fitter - I'm over half way there now. It's going to happen. The base is good.
2) To wear sunscreen any times I'm venturing out for more than 20 minutes.
3) To keep on with the savings
4) To go overseas somehwere (Bali or Thailand will be fine - just need to replace my passport first)
5) To run a full marathon
6) To participate in the following runs - injury permitting - The Great Ocean Road Half Marathon, The Puffing Billy Run, The Melbourne Run for the Kids, The Sydney City to Surf. I would love to do the New York Marathon. Again, just shoving it out there.

That will do for the moment.

3. How will you be spending New Year's Eve?

With a couple of new friends in Hawthorn. It will be a quiet night. The only similarity with last year's New Year's Eve is that Maow Maow is arround for cuddles.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Unfortunately, yes. My mother's best friend died in tragic circumstances in May. She was a huge part in my childhood and teenage years and was somebody who taught me the value of unconditional love. A complicated woman with the world on her shoulders - I know she's up there in heaven doing decoupage, drinking cappucino with a string of beads round her neck and a slash of fuschia pink lipstick adorning her mouth. She's sadly missed.

5. What countries did you visit?

Bad news on this front - I didn't leave Australia this year. Will have to fix that in 2012 as soon as my passport is renewed - it only has 30 days to run on it.

I did make two trips to Adelaide and seemingly countless trips to Sydney last year - that was the extent of my travels in 2011.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

Sex. Intimacy. Dinner parties. International Travel. A day job that I love. A focus on my novel that I want to write.

7. What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

August 13 was a near to perfect day. I spent the day in Sydney, had a wander around with some great friends, climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the went out to one of the best meals I've had in a long time at a fantastic Japanese Restaurant in the Rocks. Great day.

October 1 was pretty good too.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Looking a lot of weight and keeping the bulk of it off. Still to finish the job completely, but I'm well on the way now. I like my body. I love being very fit. I enjoy what my body can do. Never had this before.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Other than saving more money, probably taking second best in my career. Not that I have a 'proper' career - I just made a few too many compromises on the work front - and though I love the consultancy I work for, I hate being back in banking. These compromises had to be made, but it's something that needs to be fixed.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Other than the odd muscle strain, one bad cold and a small, but annoying burst cyst, it's been a good year for health. Much better than last year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Neville, my 2009, silver grey Mazda 2. Very, very glad I bought him. The old car was going to start costing me lots of money.

12. Where did most of your money go?

Rent and car payments. No change there.

13. What song will always remind you of 2011?

Unfortunately it's LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It". It always seems to play when I'm in the gym in the grunty boy section and it is just WRONG!

"The Show" sung by the daughter character in "Moneyball" has haunted me too.

14. What do you wish you'd done more of?

In no order:

Kiss
Exercise
Reading
Gone out with friends
Watched movies
Worked at things I loved
Worked on my book
Drunk phenomenal wine
Cleaned my flat
Saved money

15. What do you wish you'd done less of?

In no real order:

Worked at a job I didn't love
Ate ice cream
Rode the tram
Got stroppy with a certain group of people
Caved into necessity

16. What was your favourite TV program?

A few standouts - The Hour that recently showed on the ABC was brilliant. The Slap was very, very good too.

True Blood is my go to for a quick buzz - it's really just soft core pornography, but it's fun.

And I'm still a sucker for RPA, Embarrasing Bodies and anything on geneology and good documentaries. I'm a nerd. It's okay.

17. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

No. I don't hate people other than Tony Abbott. Wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.

The blow up I'd had with a friend this time last year has resolved itself and we're mates again.
18. What was the best book you read?

Fiction - Emma Donaghue's "Room" - superb book.

Re-reading De Berniere's "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" reinstated my faith in humanity and reminded me why it's my favorite book.

Non-Fiction - Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run". Who'd a thunk a book about a tribe of ultramarathon running Mexicans would be so uplifting.

19. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Florence and the Machine. Angus and Julia Stone. Josh Pike. All good - and yes, I know I'm years behind in musical taste.

20. What was your favourite film of this year?

Ah, this is always hard. Of the runner's up, Moneyball, The Help, The Eye of the Storm, Midnight in Paris and Oranges and Sunshine are all up there.

The two films I'm calling out - Bridesmaids - PISS FUNNY - just my sense of humour, as base as it can be, with a touch of honesty and humility for good measure.

But my favorite film of this year would have to be Barney's Version. Just sublime. Love Paul Giamatti. Not many people saw it. A great, great, great film.

21. What did you do on your birthday?

I have birthday week rather than birthday day. So rather than go to Jacques Reymond, like I did earlier in the week, or got Yarra Valley, which I did in the days after, I went to my favorite cheap and cheerful Malaysian restaurant with my parents. Long live Sambal Kampung. I also went to work. Fun.

22. What kept you sane?

Writing. Friends. Maow Maow. True Blood. Ice Cream.

23. Who did you miss?

Reindert. I miss having Reindert in Australia still - but I talk to him on skype regularly. I don't see Kitt as often as I used to either, and I miss her as a running buddy.

24. Who was the most interesting new person you met?

I met lots of interesting new people this year - Traralgon, Kez, Kitt, for starters.

I've formed a lovely friendship with Jonella too - and I've very glad I have a like minded soul and reflexologist in my life. Some friendships are hard. This one is easy and I love her for that.

25. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011

I learned a few things this year.

Pereseverence is everything.

And never say never, as sometimes, never, ever, ever comes back into your life and makes you look at things in a different way.

Happy new year. Here's to a great 2012.

Pandxx

The Mad Cat Lady of Richmond

2011-12-29T23:21:00.002+11:00

Somebody get me a wheelie shopper, a housecoat, rollers and some fluffy slippers.

Somehow, I've become the Mad Cat Lady of Richmond. Well, maybe the maybe the mad cat sitter of Richmond. For the last week I've had three charges to look after. Blarney and Barney's cat has been staying with me while they're interstate. I pop in and feed Betty, Glen Waverley and Merijn's stroppy, vocal British Shorthair - they're away until the end of the week. I'm also making sure Leon, Em's cat gets fed while she's flitting about the countryside. Oh, and I'm feeding Archie, Gloria and Gaynor's old boy in a few days time.

I'm in my element.

Being on holidays, all of this cat minding gives a bit of structure to the day. Maow Maow wakes me up around 6 am. At a more civilised time a bit later I pop over to Em's to feed Leon, then I walk round to the other bit of Richmond to see Betty and open the cat flap so she has use of the garden. At dusk, I pop back to Glen Waverley's to get her back in again, which is easier than it sounds - opening the fridge door will normally do the trick - she's in the house in seconds. Sometimes I'll run a bath while I'm there and turn the telly on to give her some company for a bit - use of the large bathtub is one of the perks of cat sitting Betty.

Maow Maow's been pretty good except for a small medical issue. When Barney dropped him off last week he mentioned that his neck had been pecked at by birds - the dopey beast not bothering to move out the way when he was getting divebombed. Over the few days of Christmas his healing wounds seemed okay, but over the weekend the sites flared and turned angry. Yesterday I found my dovet cover had spats of blood across it. I wrapped a bandana around his neck to try stop him from attacking his wounds - which he didn't object to. Yesterday I contacted Blarney, who said to take him to the vet if things were getting worse. This morning I bit the bullet. His neck was looking awful.

After getting a recommendation from a couple of friends, I made the call, described the situation, explained that I was only cat sitting but my charge was in distress.
"What's your name?" asked the vet nurse.
"Pandora Behr."
"What sort of animal are you bringing in?"
"A grey and white moggy."
"How old is he?"
"About three."
"Has he been spayed?"
"Yes."
It's amazing that I know all this about this cat.
"And what's his name?"
Glumph. "Umm I didn't name him."
"But what's his name?"
"Maow Maow. Maow Maow O'Leary."
The nurse sniggered. I did feel a bit stupid - who names a cat Maow Maow?
"I didn't name him."
"Sure."

A few hours later, Maow Maow in his carrier, we arrived at the vet. I was made to fill out a form. Giving his home address the other side of the Westage, I tried my best to answer more detailed medical questions on the cat. Was he vaccinated? I believed so. Had he been wormed? Probably. What did he eat? Too much - normally supermarket crap.

The vet was lovely. Maow Maow, give him his dues, took all of this in his stride. My mother's old cat nearly disemboweled a number of vets. Maow Maow just lay in my arms and let himself be examined.

"You brought him in just in time - these are nasty wounds." The vet clicked her tongue and made soothing noises.
"They only really flared like this in the last day or so. They weren't so angry when I got him ten days ago."
"They're horrible. I like the bandana idea. Seems to have helped a bit. He doesn't mind it?"
"Not at all - though don't tell him he's about to go on a Pride March."

I'm changing his bandana daily. He has a black and red kamikaze print on at the moment. Much better for his street cred.

The vet gave him a once over. A thermometer was shoved up his bum. He didn't flinch. The vet scrubbed his wound sites down, which he didn't like as much, but tolerated. A shot of antibiotics and steroids were taken in his stride. The vet's recommended that I take him off the supermarket muck he's currently fed and put him on pure roo meat. She reckons he might have become allergic to his food and in his delicate state, pure is best.
"Are you sure he's not your cat? He's very comfortable with you." Maow Maow had assumed his normal snuggle cuddle position on my shoulder. He's stay there for hours if I'd let him.
"Long story - he's known me since he was a kitten."
"He's not stressed at all. Cats normally don't like being moved about/"
"He's pretty laid back. And I've been having him stay over very few months, he's used to it."
"Now, I'm putting him on antibiotics - two pills a day for ten days."
"No worries - I can give a cat a pill. I got my "Care of Animals" badge in Ambulance Cadets. Had plenty of practice too. A friend of mine has her boys here I think. Do you know Bernie and Fat Sam?"
"Oh my goodness, you know Mary-Lou? She's my number one client. I thought Bernie would be dead by now."
"Didn't we all."

Mary-Lou has spent a king's ransom keeping her cats alive over the last year - I've been shoving pills down these cat's necks for years - I've been cat sitting them for years. I can also give animals injections - a few years of muelsing sheep in my teenage years has got rid of any squeamishness. Another friend had me cat sitting and having to give her aging little bloke an insulin shot once a day - he was referred to as "Junkie Pussy."

A few minutes later,the cat was back in his carrier - and I was half a week of rent poorer.

This is why I don't have my own cat - vet bills!

A few hours later, the cat appears to be really traumatised - not! He has bolted his roo meat a bit too quickly and he's stretched out on the couch, fast asleep. He spent part of the evening asleep in my arms.

Yeah, I know it's a bit of a sad existance, but I'm loving every minute of having him about - despite not wanting a cat of my own, I love having something around the place to talk to and cuddle. I get the "Mad Cat Lady" thing - I just don't want one of my own at the moment.

Still, it's a pity he goes home at the end of next week.

Pussy Logic

2011-12-26T13:20:00.000+11:00

I've been spending a lot of time with my pussy over the last few days and I've come to the conclusion that the pussy knows everything and if it wasn't so small and allegedly insignificant, pussy would rule the world.

Pussy knows that demanding attention will get results in the short term, but will leave you in peace later, when you need it.

Pussy knows that the ultimate goal of demanding attention is personal satisfaction. Nothing more, nothing less.

Pussy realises that sticking your head in something where not really supposed to be is about the bestest thing in the world, after stroking and being stuffed to satisfaction.

Pussy has worked out that being stroked has more benefits for the stroker than the strokee.

Pussy knows that it's a god given right to be fed on demand - even if it never almost happens in reality.

Pussy believes that trying to be helpful is all that you need to be, even if it entails being a complete pain in the arse.

Pussy comprehends that unconditional love can be shown by being standoffish, antsy and by playing hard to get.

Pussy knows the value of a well-timed guilt trip.

Pussy has worked out that other than sleep, the best thing in the world is cuddles and being stuffed.

Pussy knows that the best way to get out excess energy is to jump around until your exhausted, and then play dead.

Pussy knows the value of a well-timed inappropriate present. The earlier, the better.

Pussy realised that putting yourself right where you're going to get stepped on will lead to unexpected joys.

Pussy knows that being annoying outweights the benefits of being silent or hidden.

Pussy knows the value of silent companionship.

See just how beautifully logical the pussy can be.

Thanks Maow Maow.

And here you were thinking I was talking about something else...

p.s. I'm under strict instructions to write about happy, outward-looking, sunshine, lollpops and daisies for a while. Does anybody know where I can get some prozac? It's against my nature.

The Type A Holiday

2011-12-24T23:20:00.001+11:00

It has been pointed out to me that I am of a Type A personality.

"I'm not a Type A!" I wailed back at Em after she suggested this.
"Yes you are."
"I'm not aggressive, highly strung, focussed.."
"Umm..."
"How about I concede to be a Type A Minus."
"Okay, I'll give you that."

A Type A personality I may not quite be, but I'll put my hand up to being an overachiever. And I know it. And I'm working on it.

So what does an overachiever do for the holidays?
Lots.

I'm off work for ten days - going back on 3 January. YIPPEE!

I left work at 3.30 p.m. yesterday - two hours too late. I popped in at the consultancy barbeque at lunchtime for a beer and sausage, skipping the team lunch with my co-workers. Given the chance to network with peers or sit talking with people I don't have that much in common with, this seemed like the better option. After going back to work, tidying up a bit of doco I left - and I don't have to go back for ten whole days - YEEEEEHAAAAA.

Okay, so what does a Pandora Behr get up to on her ten days off?

Well, I'm not going back to Adelaide.

Christmas can be one of those awful stressy times for me - and I've discovered that staying away from my family is a good thing. I love them dearly - I just love them more when they're 500 miles away.This year, my sister has her inlaws staying for a month, so there is no room at the inn there. My parents have only just got back from interstate and they're flitting all over the place, so I decided a few months ago to spend Christmas day with local friends and family here in Melbourne. Besides, I'm going over to Adelaide for my sister's 40th in a few weeks.

Tomorrow will see me having breakfast is at Gloria and Gaynor's. Lunch will be out at a cousin's place in Ballan, about 100 kilometres out of Melbourne. My favorite cousin is over from Tasmania to see her grandson, so it will be good to spend time with them. Then it's off to Bernie and Gaz's for a bit around dinner time if they'll have me, then a friend around the corner has asked me over for drinks -which will be appreciated as she's walking distance away - and as I'm covering about 250 kilometres in the car and will only get a glass of champagne over the day, this sounds good. The sparkling shiraz/durif is in the fridge in preparation for drinks around the corner.

For the rest of the ten days, well, there's the rub. My Virgoan list-making self has a heap of things to do.

I've set myself a 100 kilometre challenge - cover a hundred kilometres in the next ten days. To be fair, this means I get a kilometre for every ten minutes in the gym I spend - so today I've got my ten kms and more- an hour with Pinochet and a lap of the 1000 steps (burned 900 calories - well happy). No drama if I fail it, but I need to get my exercise back on track and this is a great way to do it. I've planned a 10 km run walk in the humidity on Christmas Day - seems a better option to sleeping in and talking to the cat first thing in the morning - he's going to wake me, demanding to be fed at 5.30 am anyway.

There's a deadline looming. I have to finish editing the book I've had on my plate for ages. I've only got about 30 pages of the first cut to do, then it a matter of doing a final pass to make sure all is well. Should be done by the time I go back to work. It has to be done - I'm a woman of my word.

Of course, there's the reading (currently getting through next month's book for book group - Zoe Heller's "Notes on a Scandal" - excellent yarn. I want to get through McEwan's "Atonement", Anna Funder's "All that I Am" and a couple of other books while I'm here.

I've started back on The West Wing as my viewing of choice. The West Wing? Yeah. Everything I know about American Politics I attribute to The West Wing - and the slight Josh Lyman crush doesn't help.

There is, of course, the small fact of the house guest I have staying. He's being a good lad. I've been asked by Blarney and Barney to stick him on a diet as he's looking rather portly at the moment - do date he's shed 200 grams off his 6 kg frame (far too much for a small cat). He's asleep on the bed at the moment. Fantastic company, he is.

And the rest of the time - when I'm not exercising or cursing commas or watching the glorious Josh Lyman or talking to the cat? Well then I can get planning and plotting and pondering. I wonder what the next year will bring. And maybe the odd movie.

And I must to bed now. The cat is about to starting going into feral hour, there's a thunderstorm brewing and there is a song to get out of my head.

I'm going to leave you with it - it's not a bad song like that stupid "Sexy and I know it" dross.

This song has been in my head all day - no idea why.

I've put a version up but Sarah McLachlan - not the traditional Kermit the Frog one.

The song's been an absolute favorite of mine for over thiry years. It always has made me cry and it still makes me cry. It appeals to my well hidden, never seen, inner romantic. (I have a sneaky suspicion that Kermit is a Virgoan, INFJ too.)
And to all a good night. Keep safe. Remember that goodwill to all men should extend to distant relatives and screaming children - and it will be all over by this time tomorrow.

The Dead Pool

2011-12-19T16:24:00.000+11:00

Trawling the newspapers at lunchtime today I saw two little bits of news. Both Vaclav Havel, ex-prime minister of Czechoslovakia, and Kim Jong Il - supreme ruler of North Korea, have shaken this mortal coil. They have kicked the bucket. They are no more. They have ascended to him on high. They have fallen off the perch. They are food for worms. They are no longer breathing or doing anything else for that matter because they are now dead.

My first comment on the news of Kim Jong Il passing was that the world has just got that little more interesting. The second was who on the world stage was going to provide the Elvis impersonations.

My third thought was to wonder who might have had them on their list.

Their list? Yeah, their Dead Pool list.

I used to work for this company a few years back that ran an annual "Dead Pool".

Look, this is all a bit macabre, but to be a member of the Dead Pool what you did at the start of the year was submit a list of people you thought were going to die during a calendar year to the Dead Pool Undertaker or Mortician.

Our Dead Pool at this particular company was run by Ralph, a recalcitrant journalist come doco dude. (Is there any other sort?). It wasn't a company wide initiative - in fact entry was pretty selective - basically this guy selected all the dark-humoured, unhinged, ragtag reprobates in the company to be a member of this club - no idea why I got chosen to join...

Anyway, I ended up running the Dead Pool after he left the company.

The rules were simple. Everybody paid $20 for the privilege of being in the Dead Pool - this was placed in trust. A list was submitted to the club Mortician, who ran a spread sheet with everybody's selections on who was going to "Pass through the Curtain" in that calendar year. If a person on your list croaked, it was your prerogative to supply to the club Mortician two obituaries from national newspapers to prove the death had occurred - if you didn't do that, you weren't assured of getting your points.

You were not allowed to nominate your nana who was in the midst of end-stage emphysema - the people on your list had to be public figures - celebrities, leaders of state, films stars. People who were and are worth an obituary or write up in a national newspaper.

By placing these people on your Dead Pool list didn't mean that you wanted to see them dead - though I know that there were a few who had Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden high on their lists being so wanted at the time - and there would be no love lost if they did depart the earth.

You got a point for each person who pops their clogs in that year, You got two points if that person was under forty - which is a bit of a bummer that I didn't get my list in this year as I've had Amy Winehouse on my list for years. I think Lindsay Lohan might have to replace her now that Britney Spears has cleaned up her act a bit.

At the end of the year, the person who had collected the most points got the cash kitty.

You get the drift - you find a list of people you think have a probability of dying over the year. It's not like you wish them dead - you just think that there number might be up in the fairly near future. Normally you'd pick people who were old and infirm. As I said, you don't want them dead - it's more you think they're going to cark it over the year.

There was always some hemming and hawing when names such as Nelson Mandela made the list - then again - he's in his nineties.. but you don't want to see him dead. Rove McManus's first wife was an unfortunate inclusion on somebody's list - tragic, but not unexpected. Patrick Swayze was another who you'd never want dead - but he had pancreatic cancer for years. I remember when Steve Irwin fell on that stingray - I could hear Ralph's booming voice from the other end of the office yelling, "Crap - I wanted to put him on my list! Andybody who shoves a finger up a crocodile's arse regularly is pushing their luck!" He had a similar reaction when Kerry Packer croaked late in the year - he was top of his list for the following year.

It's just another game of chance.

So who is on my list for 2012?

Well, my ten names are as follows - with reasons:

1. Margaret Thatcher

Ex-Prime Minister of the UK. pushing 90. Had a number of strokes. She's been wobbly for a long time.

2. Nelson Mandela

Another one in his nineties who can't be too much longer for the planet - though I certainly don't want to see him gone. Living in a prison for thirty years can't help the state of your health, though it appears he has kryptonite in his veins.

3. Jim Steynes

Melbourne football legend. In his forties. Undergoes regular surgery for brain tumours. Another one I certainly don't want to see go but you have to wonder how much dicking around in ones brain one can take.

4. Kirk Douglas

A few of you might be asking, "Is he still alive?" Well he is. A testement to the restorative powers of plastic surgury and what happens when you replace your blood with formaldyahyde. I give his son a few more years, but Spartacus must be due to fall off the chariot soon.

5. Lindsay Lohan

My token under 30's name, especially now that Amy Winehouse is no longer with us. She's been a train wreck waiting to happen. I just wonder how bit the splat will be when she goes - then again, we've watch Britney Spears reform. Kate Moss's Ex Pete Doherty was another possible inclusion, but he's been keeping his name out of the press for an age now - possibly means he's cleaned up his act.

6. Dame Elisabeth Murdoch

Mother of Rupert (possibly worth inclusion just for this fact) but as a philanthropist and patron of the arts she's done wonders. She's also over a hundred. Her time can't be that extensive.

7. Zsa Zsa Gabor

Another one being help alive with a foot pump, formaldehyde and a mad husband. Probably should have gone years ago. She's not too far off a hundred - if this would to happen it might be considered a small mercy.

8. Gough Whitlam

Last time I saw him in the public arena, Gough was looking pretty frail. He's my hero - I don't want to see the old bugger go.

9. Ariel Sharon

Ex-Prime Minister of Israel - this poor guy has been on life support in a Tel Aviv hospital for a number of years. If he was my parent I think I'd have asked to let him go years ago, poor love. (My parents have left strict instructions on this thing anyway - no heroic measures if there is no quality of life to be had)

10. Nancy Reagan

She's in her 90s - can't be too long now before she stops saying 'No".

11. Keith Richards

A bit of a surprise inclusion just for good measure, but anybody who's lived that sort of life for so long - well something's going to happen sometime. Besides, the lines on his face are about to go through the back of his head - there isn't enough spakfilla around to keep them plump.

Who would be on your list?

Just Boring

2011-12-18T11:50:00.001+11:00

Dante says that above the gates of Hell there is a sign that reads "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

I reckon the same sign should be placed outside of the emergency ward of St Vincents hospital - where I spent yet another thrilling day in the emergency ward Friday. It's the second time in just over a year that I've ended up in the bowels of this hospital, for pretty much the same thing - suspected appendicitis.

For the second time in just over a year, I was sent home after half a day with an inconclusive result, some painkillers and instructions to take it easy and come back if things get worse. Though at least this time I've been reassured that I wont have to follow up on treatment and the pain should go away in a few days.

These hospital trips get me thinking a lot - and counting my blessings.

To catch up on things, for the last few day I've been feeling a bit ropey. I was a bit uncomfortable when I went to the opera on Tuesday, but I put that down to nearly three hours in the nosebleed section of the Arts Centre where Em and I took in a wonderful Don Giovanni. I went home with an aching head, limited energy on Wednesday and I noticed a pain in my side a Thursday - also got told by a few people that I wasn't looking that well - I put that down to Christmas as you do. I think the pain is musclar due to the exercise I do and don't think much of it. It took a visit to Pinochet, hoiking a weights for ten minutes on Thursday night where I ended up in a heap on the floor in tears of pain to get me to the doctor the following morning- who sent me straight to the emergency ward to be checked out for what could be appendicitis.

Somebody at breakfast after meditation yesterday put it well - St Vincents is where you see the flotsam and jestam of society. "It's where all the ferals go when they get a cold." It's also where all the severe car accidents, the inner city drug overdoses, the broken bones, the spewing, the mewling and the puking go to seek assistance and all times of the day and night - but every emergency ward is like this no matter what country or city you're in.

When I suggested to my GP that I go to St Vinnies rather than the Freemasons or Epworth, she turned up her nose. My reasoning was twofold. I go to St Vinnies, I'm in their system already and it's a public hospital. I go to the Epworth or Freemasons - they charge me two days pay for the privilege of sitting for hours in their emergency ward. Where ever I was going to end up, I was going to have to wait anyway. The wait at the private hospitals would be an hour or two less, maybe. It was going to be purgatory - may as go with the cheaper option.

Getting home from the GP, I gathered my emergency bag, just in case. Toothbrush, knickers, t-shirt, a nightie,books, phone charger, hairbrush, spare house keys. I've ended up in foreign countries with less. If I have to stay over, I'd be set for a day or so. That's the thing about being on your own, you know what you need and where to get it quickly - the thought of friends going through my stuff finding things doesn't feel great. I ring my mum, tell her what's going on and put myself on a tram for the ten minute trip to the hospital - I figure it's quicker and easier than getting a cab. The tram drops me at the hospital door. It's after peak hour - I got a seat.

Emergency rooms are hellish in so many ways - the smells, the poople, the chairs, the lighting - all designed to keep you away and reconsider why you came in the first place. Thankfully, and being ten on a Friday morning, it's not too bad. It's only half full, there is nobody obviously too sick or suffering or smelly in the place. Everybody seems quite polite - which was a change from the last time I was there, when security got called on the odd occassion.

After an hour, they've asked me to piddle in a cup. After two hours they've drawn some blood and fed me some minor opiates for the pain which takes the edge off my nervousness more than anything.

Jonella came and sat with me during her lunchtime, which is appreciated more than she will ever know. The only time I teared up when when she came in. Up until this time I'd managed to remain strong. A bit of support and sympathy and I crumble.

Friends were marvellous as well - texting and calling over the day to make sure I was okay. I'm so very fortunate to have them.

After four hours they'd found me a trolley in a cubicle away from the rabble of the waiting room, got me into one of those fetching backless gowns and told me the good news - blood tests cleared me of appendicitis - the daft dangle of bowel gets to stay. Just needed an ultrasound for final clearance and to see what was going on. Another two hours of lying on my trolley doped up on Panadeine Forte, reading my book in my slinky backless cotton number, I was taken for the test.

There's something surreal about these ultrasounds. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to get used to these - there's ovarian cancer in my family - I've been told I have to get one of these anually from now on. They're not that pleasant - though they could be worse. At least they don't hurt and the technician was pretty sensitive to my privacy and dignity - every time I've had one of these, the radiographers have been excellent - gentle and sensitive. Still, it doesn't rate highly in the things I like having to go through. I think I prefer the dentist.

As crappy medical tests go, it's a matter of lying back, thinking of something pleasant and not focussing on what is going on down in your nether regions. The ceiling tiles don't inspire anything lyrical to ponder. Lying back and thinking of England isn't really appropriate - remembering cathedrals, pubs, bad food and soft- skinned, steady-handed, gently insistant Englishmen isn't really appropriate under the circumstances.

After a heap of literal poking and prodding, the technician made a few grumbles.

"You're rather boring." he said.
"Of course I'm boring. I work in IT and come from Adelaide."
"No, everything's as it should be. You're in great working order. Everything's normal. Your appendix in normal. All your bits are working. I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but there's nothing noxious here."
"Well that is something."
"Do you mind if the student has a drive of the camera?" he asked.

It's a teaching hospital - what are you supposed to say?

Five minutes later I'm back in my cubicle, wiped free from the ultrasound goop, waiting once again.

They let me go an hour later. The ache in my side is probably a small busted cyst going by the ultrasound - the pain should resolve in a few days - take it easy, no exercise until the pain goes - everything else is fine.

After a welcome cup of tea and a biscuit, I got dressed and waited for my release papers.

"How are you getting home?" the nurse asked.
"Tram."
"Nobody's picking you up?"
"Nobody to pick me up."
"Why don't you take a cab?"
"Because the 109 is outside the front door and it will drop me at my front door and it will be faster. Besides, there's nothing wrong with me - the doctor's just given me a letter to say so."
"Can't argue with that logic."

The day's second bout of tears came when I got home. With an ice cream in hand, I got in the door and started to cry.

Now is when I want somebody about, even if it's to make me a cup of tea and go fetch me some dinner. I can cope for a day in the Danteseque hell of St Vinnies Accident and Emergency ward, keeping my sense of pride and humour intact (though there is nothing dignified about a hospital gown - which is why I tied a sheet around me while walking to the xray department for the ultrasound. The orderly commented that I couldn't be too ill as I had the sense to do that) Get home to an empty flat after a day like this and I crumble.

I'm normally alright on my own - only when I'm poorly do things go pear-shaped. Just to have that support and comfort at home at times like this would be a blessing. Last year when this happened, Reindert made sure I got some dinner and saw me home - but he's on his way to Patagonia at the moment. It seem stupid to ask somebody to come over and give you company when there's nothing wrong with you. I'm stronger than that.

Rustling up some beans on toast, another cup of tea and another round of Panadeine Forte, I made my way to bed for a night of deep, dreamless sleep.

Two days on, I'm back to my normal self. The dull ache in my side is still there, lessened by the rest and the knowledge that it's nothing serious and I'm not going to get worse. I've had a nice quiet day yesterday - went to meditation, had breakfast and the rest of the day was spent reading, wrapping Christmas presents and watching television. I went over to Blarney's last night and sat the twins. Maow Maow gives the best healing hugs - but being a warm night, the cuddles were short lived. Never to mind, he's coming to stay for a few weeks on Tuesday.

I count myself lucky. There's nothing really wrong with me. It's a little bit of pain that will go away. I'm not dying, I don't need surgery, I don't have to be on drugs for a long time. It will resolve in time. I know how fortunate I am to be in rudely good health.

If all of this means spending a day in purgatory to find out that all will be well, then that is the price that needs to be paid. What is harder for me to face is all the other dramas that being out of sorts brings up as a consequence.

A Little Bittersweet

2011-12-13T15:47:00.002+11:00

I'm working in one of those offices at the moment - by one of those offices, I mean I'm in a place where they decorate the office at Christmas. It looks like santa has spewed tinsel from every orifice around here. There's a christmas tree next to a pillar, complete with lights blinking away. Somebody's looped some tinsel over my pod. I don't have the energy to argue. I haven't decorated the house at christmas since I left Myponga some 25 years ago.

I'm looking at one of the inmates from one of the other pods hang tinsel from paperclips suspended in the ceiling tiles - as you do. Hope he doesn't fall - I can see the OH&S lady eyeing him off.

There's also a woman doing something with something that sounds like bells.

Of my few fond Christmas memories, the sound of bells is one that always touches me - the gentle tinkling of bells, not the sod off and die cathedral bells that have the capacity to wake you from the best night sleep after the best night out to the worst hangover ever.

Nah, Christmas Bells remind me of my old dog, Sheba.

Like most children of the seventies in Australia, our family had a mixed breed mutt called Sheba. Sheba was a little kelpie/Border Collie cross. She was black with a white chest, white paws and a white. She had the look and personality of the Footrot Flats dog. Most people had a dog called Sheba - it was the name you called your dog back then.

She was the bestest dog ever. My best mate as a kid, she slept on the end of the bed - she even had half a litter of puppies on the end of my bed before dad went and made a nest for her in the laundry.

Sheba also had a penchant for smiling at people - baring her teeth when strangers turned up - though if you looked at the other end, the tail was going faster than a helicopter blade. She was a great guard dog. To send her into a frenzy all you had to do was say "Motorbike!" and she'd go barking out the door. She loved sleeping in front of the fire, chocolate donuts and herding in the chooks at night.

And at christmas time, we had a string of bells that she used to wear around her neck. Some gentle tinkling bells on a soft cord. When the christmas tree would go up, these bells would come out and they would be placed around the dog's neck. And there the bells stayed until the christmas tree went down. You'd hear her coming - the soft tinkling bells meant she was somewhere around the place - most likely scavenging a corner of toast crust or looking for half a bowl of milk.

Just hearing these bells makes me want to go look for the dog.

I also remember what they said in that film "It's a Wonderful Life" (still my favorite Christmas film) - when you hear the bells at christmas, an angel has just earned their wings.
She's been gone twenty years now. I still go home to my mother's place and have to stop myself calling for her.

I'll stop tearing up in a minute...

Surrealism 101

2011-12-11T23:54:00.002+11:00

sur·re·al·ism /səˈriəˌlɪzəm/ Show Spelled[suh-ree-uh-liz-uhm]

noun ( sometimes initial capital letter )

A style of art and literature developed principally in the 20th century, stressing the subconscious or non-rational significance of imagery arrived at by automatism or the exploitation of chance effects, unexpected juxtapositions, etc. (http://www.dictionary.com/)

Life's been somewhat surreal for the last 48 hours - actually, the last week has been something of a roller coaster. I'm blaming the huge full moon in Gemini, blitzed with and eclipse. It feels like I've been in the midst of a spin cycle of a wonky washing machine. I'm sitting here now, grounded, still pondering just what has gone on in the last few days.

Edna St Vincent Millay partly sums up the last few days:

Sonnet XLIII

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Somewhat mournful, but somewhat true. The last few days have been a blur of occurrences that have left me gasping, wondering, tearing up, contemplating, enjoying and generally going "What the Fuck! Has that just happened?"

Maybe it's the universe performing Ho'onponopono on me. Ho'onpononpono? It's a Hawaiian healing technique. By healing yourself, you heal the world. By looking at yourself, and others, you release the old pain. By saying, and meaning, the words, you begin the healing process. I love you. I'm sorry. I forgive you. Thank you. It's a simple, but incredibly effective healing tool, yet when I see it in action - or have it used on me - I'm left rather breathless. Like now.

A lot of the last year has been spent looking at myself, my relationships with others. Working on gratitude, forgiveness, apologies and love. It appears to be all coming back now.

First there was an expression of gratitude that I never saw coming. A friend said thank you for some stuff that I'd done for him. Not that I was expecting or wanting this to be said.

It meant a lot. It meant a hell of a lot to me - not that I didn't know that he was thankful, it's just not something I though I would ever hear verbalised. At the time I was doing the stuff for him, things that I thought pretty minor and things that anybody else would do for somebody in the same predicament, especially when you had feelings for the person involved. It felt good to be acknowledged. That is all.

So this started the week on a good note.

Work has got a little better. I'll be finishing up where I am at the end of January - and this is fine as long as the ear plugs keep working and my friends keep making sure I get out for lunch a few times a week - I can cope. I've forgiven myself for ending up back where I am, able to see that I'm truly no longer who I was, or where I was when I was working in these area - a huge call.

Book Group came and went. The books have been chosen for the year. A lovely meeting was held. I was a little disappointed that the books I put up didn't make the list - Ian McEwan's 'Atonement' and Anna Funder's 'All That I Am' - but the rest of the list is wonderful, so I am not complaining in the slightest.

Dream Group, as always brought up some stuff. It's good like that. Maybe not so strangely, themes of loss and atonement came up. I really have to read that book again.

Thursday, Pinochet got his birthday workout. I stupidly promised him birthday chin ups. He got twenty of the buggers. I hate chin ups (assisted of course) almost as much as I hate burpees. But I will do chin ups. I won't do burpees. He was also presented with 3x20 100kg leg presses, 3x20 40 kg dead lifts, 3x10 22 kg clean and presses and a whole heap of other heavy weight lifts. Pinochet was delighted. I was a little sore the day after.

Friday had me motoring down to the Mornington Peninsula for the consultancy's Christmas Party. As somebody who takes a minimal participation view of Christmas, I was rather looking forward to this one. The company hires out a resort for the night, we all stay the night, get fed, drink up, party on and get breakfast, on the company. It was fantastic. Sharing a suite with Jonella was great too, as being friends, there was none of the formalities you have when sharing accommodation with those you don't know that well. Wandering around in our dressing gowns, putting on make up, borrowing cosmetics and hair goop - it's was like sharing with my sister or a very old friend. Even nicer, Jonella took the fold up couch, leaving me with the bedroom for which I am grateful. (as I was hoping to leave early in the morning and Jonella was intending to have a late one, it was very much appreciated - and I'm very glad she got a good night's sleep on the fold up).

The only downer was having to drive through a major thunderstorm - the wipers going full bore and still couldn't see where I was going for about ten minutes. Never to mind, the car is clean now.
Also, being a corporate do - I decided to get the 'dead ant' out the way. Do it in the privacy of my own room rather than three sheets to the wind in the middle of the dance floor. (Note gleeful expression on face - and nice ankles...photo courtesy of an incredulous Jonella.)

See.

The whole evening was sensational. The company prides itself on its people and with good reason. A lovely crowd, great food, plentiful wine. A great night was had. Got to bed about one. I registered Jonella coming in sometime later before a great night's sleep.

Coming home the next morning, I had about an hour before I was due out again. This time, a large gathering of the Elks for a special ceremonial meeting. It was something I was looking forward to and dreading in equal proportions.

Problem one. Already ratty from a night away, a day of housework and gyming would have been wonderful - but I had to turn up to this event. I had a job to do. I planned to sneak away for a nanna nap before dinner after the ceremony - didn't happen.

Problem two. It was tropically hot in Melbourne last week. 32 degrees with 90% humidity. It felt like Bangkok. Being stuck in an airless room with 70 others with only the humming of ineffective fans for relief wasn't that great- okay - uncomfortable and exhausting are better words for it. The ceremony, however, was lovely. To top it off, there was one of the members who gave a small recital on her harp.

This is where the really surreal stuff happened. She played a couple of songs, the last being the "Skye Boat Song". During the song - some of the group started humming along. It was ethereal.

I lost my body!

I'm not kidding. For a few moments, my physical self disappeared. All I was aware of was my inner self, and the music.

Losing myself to music is something I'm prone to. I can't feel my body any more. It's a rare and rather special feeling. The last time I remember feeling it was at a Jeff Beck concert. "Brush with the Blues", a favourite song of mine came on, and I was gone.

My friend who was with me at the time has always commented on how easily I lose myself to music - allowing my body to disolve - well that's what it feels like.

It left me a little shaken. It's never happened in such a public arena before. Or so completely. It took a bit to get myself back again.

I spent the rest of the afternoon staving off panic attacks by standing outside with the smokers - trying to hide my panic. Little old lady induced claustrophobia isn't fun. Eight hours after arriving, I walked the short distance home -arriving to the really surreal stuff.

A few months ago I told of how I "found" an old boyfriend on facebook. That was a bit trippy.

To have three more significant people who I've heard nothing from in years contact me in 24 hours. It's just a bit too surreal for words.
All of these men have had a lot to do with shaping my life in one way or another.

First up, after a virtual absence of a year, Lachlan sends an email. Like the proverbial bad penny, he comes back for a chat every so often. This one is under control. The heart is clear - it's just funny that he chose yesterday to get back in contact.

The second person sent my life off in completely different direction - for which I am indebted to him, even though he has to be kept at arms length and little attention given to him.

Terry got me to Greece. Terry was the one who organised for me to go work on a Greek Island for a few months. Okay, so the visa situation was stuffed up. So I dismantled my life because of this 'opportunity' - one, which, in hindsight, was one of the formative of my life. It let me learn how to take risks. It got me out of my rut - and even though I was back in Australia in four months, it got my life moving again in a much better direction.

Terry will be kept at a distance. He can be more trouble than he's worth - but I do hope he knows that I'll always be grateful for the three months I spent in the Greek Islands in 2003.

The third person to contact me is another "Never, ever, ever going to have contact with this person again" people. Another very significant person who I pretty much never talk about, to nobody.

Of the men in my life, Lucas has a significant place. Like one other before him, he's somebody that I've occasionally thought about how things could have been if things were different. There's no point regretting what happened. There's no point even asking, "What if?" But I look back on my time with him, know he was put there for a reason and let it go.

Looking back, he's somebody I would fight for now if he was to come into my life at this stage of proceedings. I wasn't capable of fighting for myself back then. I was capable of existing and that was about it - nobody wants a serious relationship with a shell.

Lucas was around for a while, on and off. Geography wasn't going for us - as he lived in Cardiff for most of the time I knew him - I lived in London. Me pondering being chucked out of the country at any point never helped the formation of serious relationships. Not a great base for anything.

Lucas - whip smart, an engineer, played concert violin, with a silly, geeky laugh, lank hair and a gentle nature that was hidden by walls of shyness which came across as arrogance. Appeared to fall for my gormless "Fancy a shag?" line when I came back from the pub pissed one night - first and only time a chat up line worked.

Neither of us were up for anything serious. I treated him poorly at times, but then again, he wasn't that great to me at times either. He fascinated me. Soon after things went pear-shaped, I moved back to Australia. I'm in loose contact with a good mate of his - but I've never asked about him. Water under the bridge and all that.

We've had a brief chat online. He's still in Cardiff. One of his first questions to me was 'Are you still writing?"

Thing is - I thought he'd have forgotton me. Like the other one before him, I though they'd have just moved on, met somebody, got on with their lives, married, kids and the like - and I'd be forgotton. Just one of those fleeting people you meet. In my case, I was that pernickety woman who shared a flat with a mate of his.

It's just been a strange weekend for people getting in touch. I'm not sure what the universe wants me to look at. It's all just a bit surreal. Three getting back in contact in 24 hours! I'm blaming the full moon.

This afternoon I grounded myself with a lovely, brutal Thai massage, a cup of tea with Blarney, a cuddle with Maow Maow and the throwing around of Blarney's boys - it appears I give good airplane to toddlers.

For this week - hmm - tarot client tomorrow, Opera Tuesday (Don Giovanni - yay), dream group Wednesday, Pinochet Thursday and some friends are coming round for pizza and a viewing of Donnie Darko on Friday.

Yeah, it's a bit busy. It will help stop me pondering just what the hell the universe wants from me.

I'm sorry. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you. Repeat.

Maybe it's to find Summer singing in me once again. Unlike Millay's poem, I'm not sure that part of me is as dead as I like to think it is.

Compare and Contrast

2011-12-05T22:54:00.000+11:00

Amazing the difference a week makes.

As does the decision that you're going to be happy. It always gets me that once you make the decision to improve things, things really start to improve.

Well, things are on the improve.

First up, work. But I have to include dream group in on this one.

See, the day before I started out on this new venture at Bastard Bank I gave my dream at dream group. A strange dream where I was running a marathon in a velodrome on the banks of the Yarra around a maze. 42 times around a maze, up and down hills against one other. I knew I could do it, but I was running against one other, and I knew I was going to lose, but hey, I knew I could do it too. I had to get ready and get supplies so I visited a supermarket which was behind where the arts centre was, but it felt like the Carrefour in Chiang Mai, a place I'd ended up on holiday with a bi-polar Belgian in tow. Then I had to get back to the velodrome/stadium and I was going to take the tube. Coming in at what felt like London Bridge Station, I hopped on the Northern Line, and the train, carriages and all spiralled upwards - and nobody thought this strange. it seems I hopped on the wrong part of the Northern Line because I ended up at Waterloo. I had to get out of the station - the only way to do this was down a double helix ladder.

A strange dream.

What was more odd, Viv, our dream group leader went away for three weeks and I was left to stew on this dream for a full four weeks. Normally you get to close off your dream after a week - which is normally enough because the effects of dream group can either be subtle, or like in his case, have the whack of a bag of sledgehammers.

The day after doing the dream was when life took a turn for the worse, the job went southerly, I ended up miserable and having to fight back. Spiraling around the double helixes of life.

Dream group tends to force me to look at stuff that I rarely look - or that my psyche wants me to look at. This time round, it appears it was begging for me to take a good look at where I've come from. In this case, the back office of merchant banks, doing boring, repetative, tedious work day in day out, with people who appear to have little ambition, feeling utterly lost, hopeless and miserable.

Closed off the dream on Wednesday - and things suddenly look a whole heap better.

First up, after a few better days in the dungeons, they've let it be known that my contract is not being renewed. So as of the end of this or next week (depending on a few things) I will be out of there. For once, I'm thrilled. I've hated so much about this last month. Though the people are nice enough, the role has been filled with all sorts of not so fun challenges I was not been expecting - 60 decibel Phil Collins and Elton John over the loudspeaker included. Little support, tedious work and most of all, a crap environment.

I'll be fine when I get out of here - I always am okay. Never have I been so happy to be moving on. The consultancy will be happy to use me in the new year - and I get a few weeks off and I can start looking for work soon

All I know is that I had to go through this last month to get to the bottom of some stuff. Stuff I wish I knew ten years ago.

I deserve to be happy.
I especially deserve to be happy at work.
I deserve to be in a good environment.
I deserve to be around good people.
I deserve to be treated with respect - and I need all of these things in a job.

After a couple of full on meetings, the weekend was well received

Spent this last weekend working on an editing job and relaxing. Sunday was particularly lovely. Was joined on my 10 km constitutional walk by a friend, which was just great. Walking is best when you get to share it with somebody.

This was followed by lunch at the Abbotsford Convent. Collected a friend and we had lunch at Lentil as Anything.

Lentil as Anything is a cafe at the convent which serves up vegetarian Indian food. Rather than having a price list, you serve yourself and pay what you like on the honesty system. It employs a lot of recent refugees and migrants, giving them a start. It's an institution that MUST stay.

It's lovely to be able to wander around this little haven in the city.

My friend was amazed at the place - I'd been raving about the convent for years, but he never believed me - I just got my normal sense of peace that I always get from the place. Ran into Georgie and Tom there too. It's a fantastic way to spend the afternoon.

After dropping my friend off, it was off to see Blarney, the boys and the Maow Maow for coffee, then on arriving home, Emm popped round for a cup of tea, bringing round some banana cake - which was exceptional.

A really good day. Made me consider just how lovely life can be - for without friends, what do we have?

Then the real bonus for today. On collecting the mail, a non-descript envelope mailed from somewhere in Carton. My new driver's licence had arrived.

For once in my life I was speechless.

Compare and contrast.

The picture on the left is the old one. 20 kilos heavier, miserable, angry. This was taken nine years ago. I've had to hide away my driver's licence an obey the road rules - who would admit to a photo like that?

The pictire on the left is the current one. I can live with this one for the next ten years.

Okay, other than noticeably slimmer, the anger and misery has gone from my gaze. Okay maybe because I've taken to wearing liquid eyeliner and I took a bit of care to put on a bit of make up (but I'm wearing more make up in the other shot), but my eyes look bigger and clearer. You can't make out that they're pine tree green, but they look okay. You can see through the gaze and see who I am.

The biggest bonus of all - in the photo on the left, there I am with about five chins.

In the new one, I have one and a bit, obscured by the fact that they've embedded my date of birth over the photo. This is so that the blind, stupid policeman who pulls you over can read your licence.

Comments have been made that I look ten years younger in the latter. A compliment - but even through my ultra-self-critical eyes I can see it.

I don't give myself enough credit for changing over the past few years. You don't get much better chance to compare and contrast what you were and what you're becoming.

Now the hard bit. Blitzing the passport photo....

Better get on with tidying up my CV. If you know of anybody looking for a hard working word nerd to tidy up documents, write web content and training materials or just generally organise and improve on stuff, give me a bell.

All these changes are quite exciting.

On Holding Hands

2011-12-01T19:21:00.002+11:00

At our Elks rehearsal the other night we were walking through the ceremony that we will be doing in ten days time.

At one part of the rehearsal, the group are called to hold hands during a bit of the ceremony. I took the hands of the people next to me. To my right, a little old lady, her paws cool, the skin dry and papery, reminiscent of my grandmother's grip. To my left, a middle-aged gentleman with a crew cut. He picked up my hand in his roughened tradie's mit, studied my hand in his and commented, "My you have small paws."

My hands aren't anything out of the ordinary, though they're a favourite part of my body. I've got long fingers, elegant, yet squared palms, well-shaped fingernails, thanks to my mother's gene pool. I keep them plied with hand cream regularly so the skin is smooth and even. I have a silver ring on the middle finger of my left hand - a leaving gift from workmates many years ago - the mother-of-pearl feature fell out years ago, but I still love the ring. On my right hand, the ring finger is adorned with a silver and garnet ring I found in Ubud, Indonesia a few years ago. As I write, massage, sew, knit, cook, crochet, you name it - my hands get a lot of use. They also raise quite a few comments about the fact that they're "pretty", "lovely" and "nice".

I also know that I missed out on the genes my sister was blessed with, thank goodness. Affectionately-known-as-Manhands is known by this moniker for a reason. Bless. Thankfully her hands have the same attributes as mine - just quite a bit bigger.

For those who've received a massage from me, people have commented that I have "hot" hands, able to produce great healing heat in seconds If you feel them after I lose contact, they're just normal temperature.

For me, holding hands is a particularly foreign feeling. I know it happens, but when it does, outside of lodge ritual work and helping friends children cross the road, I never know what to think. I always find when somebody holds my hand it's rather surprising.

Maybe it's something cellular. I remember taking my mother's hand at my grandmother's funeral. Grandma passed on at 104 years of age. She'd given Mum the runaround for nearly two decades in some ways - up until the last three years she was pretty good. Mum's hands and mine are similar, square palms, long, shapely fingers, good nails, and they're about the same size. All I can remember is Mum's hand rather limp in mine. It was one of those days. Tactile isn't a word I'd use to describe my mother.

I think back to other times my hand has been held. Undergoing minor surgery to have some cysts removed from my scalp over twenty-five years ago - the first time it happened - a nice nurse held my hand as the doctor injected the numb from under the surgical drapes. I think back and look at how I get this done now every few years when the bloody things grow back , in the doctor's surgery, chatting to my doctor about all sorts of things, no theatre lights, no drapes, no nurse. It was good to have the nurse there that first time, keeping the gremlins at bay.

Holding hands often means drinking to me. Dim memories of trawling the sex shops of Soho with Lachlan in the early hours of a winter's morning, hand-in-hand so we didn't lose each other in the crowds, plastered on lager and crisps. The last time anybody held my hand outside of lodge, a friend and I were wandering around town trying to find some dinner - far, far too much beer had been imbibed. Again, holding hands was practical - we wouldn't lose each other on the busy, warm, February night, my hand quite nicely fit in his palm.

The funny thing about holding hands is once you start, stopping is hard. If you break for any reason, you normally search each other out to join hands again. I'd forgotton about that too.

Sitting next to an ailing friend as he lay in a hosptial bed a few years ago, I held his hand - he gripped onto my for dear life. "There's warmth going up my arm." He mumbled. As he was not in a state to do anything more than lay there, I gave him a thorough hand massage. What frightened me more was as he was feeling warmth up his arm, all I was aware of was the cold despair I was feeling coming from him. I returned the following day to sit by his bedside and hold his hand once again. Though he could barely string a sentence together or know what day of the week it was, it was demanded that I massage his other one to even him up. He was quite insistant.

Of course then there are those who hold your hand because they want to be with you. Fingers laced together walking down the street. That's been years since that happened.

It's quite sad and scary, really.

I get all angsty when my mum and step-dad hold hands in public. Thinking about it, I think it might be a bit of jealousy.

It's struck me a while ago that I have very little touch in my life - monthly massages and the odd hug off friend excepted - the last time anybody kissed me - hell, four years ago now. But I can almost count the times that somebody has held my hand in my adult life.

So surprising is the act to me that it burns in my memory like a brand.

Circular Support

2011-11-29T18:20:00.002+11:00

Talus, calcaneus, cuneiform, navicular, medial cuboid, intermediate cuboid, lateral cuboid, five metatarsals, fourteen phalanges.

It is quarter to seven in the morning, I am sitting on a stationary bike in a cool, darkened room, lit only by an exit light and a couple of UV bulbs and surrounded by sweating, panting, grunting people. I am covered in sweat too, heart racing, panting every so often when exertion insists - my cardio vascular fitness is up the near athlete range so I sweat more than pant now even though my heart rate sits around 150 beats a minute.

My maroon Harvard t-shirt is grey under the UV lights, the white Harvard University log has gone red - somebody thought this one out - it's the colours in reverse. Wow. Amazing how something as simple as a reflecting colours can amuse you before a shower, coffee and breakfast while you're pedalling for your life, but going nowhere.

I am also singing the bones of the foot in my head over the doof doof music they play in spin - of course it's not the original artists. Fitness First wont allow that inconvenience. A cover of Pink's "Raise your Glass" has me up and out of the saddle, quads aflame. The bones of the foot song goes well with the beat.

I check my watch for the umpteenth time. 300 calories burned, 6.45, 150 beats a minute. Fifteen minutes to go.

The Spin Muppet is a young girl who doesn't have the voice for a microphone. She's a good spin teacher and very chipper for the 6.15 start, but her voice doesn't modulate, so you often don't get what she's staying - she sounds like an enthusiastic cocky, her words coming out at a monotone screech. It's easier to zone out and take your queues from what she is doing not what she is saying.

I'm a spin veteran. You stand up. You sit down. You go fast. You go a bit slower. You stand up again. You drink a bit of water and wipe your head a few times. You have a bit of a stretch. You go home. All done in 50 minutes including wiping the bike down with disinfectant.

Spin is the perfect pre-breakfast workout - mainly because you don't have too think much. Don't ask me to do Body Attack in the morning. The class is enough of a sponsored epileptic fit as it is - I'd be tripping over my own feet!

Talus, calcaneus, cuneiform, navicular, medial cuboid, intermediate cuboid, lateral cuboid, five metatarsals, fourteen phalanges, two sesamoids.

Can't forget the sesamoids. For two bones, roughly the size of their namesakes, the sesame seed, a remnant from when we lived in trees and didn't know about the wheel. They're a bit like the appendix - used when we ate like rabbits - the appendix with its ability to process fibre. Like the appendix, sesamoids, they can cause all sorts of trouble. Reindert had all sorts of difficulties with them a few years back. Most people don't give two hoots about the bones of the foot. As a reflexologist, I find it interesting that under the reflex for the heart are two small bones giving it support, the way the tendons link the big toe to the rest of the foot, it's like bones look like the heart valves, aortic and mitral, on either side of the pump. So many funny things happen on feet. You can see the shape of a baby in the foot when a woman is pregnant, a swelling in the base of the ankle. You feel things. You know things. Feet are vaguely prophetic at times.

"Perfect circles, raise up, bring round, flop over. Resist the need to pump down, but pull up. The upward pull supports your foot." Spin Muppet doesn't do much technique before seven in the morning. You have to be slightly hard core or slightly nuts to be in a spin class before seven am. She knows it. We all know it. If you strapped to a stationary bike before seven in the morning there is something either insane or regimented about you.

I prefer to think of myself as the latter.

Strange that they talk of support through the cycle of the wheel. And perfect circles provide perfect support. We talk about this in Masons sometimes. I had a bit of a dwell on this too as we went into the last mountain track of the session.

You'd think riding a bike would be just that - riding a bike - but no - there is technique to all of this. First up, you have to adjust your bike, making sure the seat isn't too high or too far back, the handlebars are in the right position. You have to gear up - have your towel and your water bottle nearby. Douglas Adams was right, "Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

Or in this case, just make to a 6.15 Spin Class on a Tuesday morning. Does this make me a woman to be reckoned with - singing my bones of the foot song in my head as I pedal away the hour?

After the class, after the cool down and the bike wipe down I had a chat with Spin Muppet - who I've known for a few years now - she used to be on reception.

"Where have you gone?" she asked me.
"I'm still here. Still live around the corner."
"No, I mean every time I see you, there's less of you."

This is a nice way to start the morning. Even nicer, Spin Muppet did her last half marathon in 2.15 - I did mine in 2.21 - this makes me feel rather good, especially since Spin Muppet is probably nearly twenty years my junior and virtually lives on a spin bike. She's actually a love, even if she sounds like an aviary of budgies over the microphone.

Home, shower, coffee, protein shake (breakfast of busy champions) tram to work. Met up with Emm, who was running late for a meeting on the tram. We discussed Christmas. We've bought each other a ticket to Don Giovanni for Christmas this year - which I reckon is a pretty cool gift. We both expressed how we like being a part of experiences over being given a gift.

On coming into work, the obnoxious "Death by Phil Collins" music station had been changed to 'Death-by-bland-current- popular-crap" music station. Like, I rather like Robbie Williams and Pink. Play them over a tannoy and I want to rip their vocal cords out and feed them to the nearest rottweiler.

I'm learning not to fret as I walk in the door to this office environment. I just sit down at my computer and put my earplugs in immediately to dampen the horror.

They stay in for the best part of the day.

Desi was in her corner of the office dressing the place in tinsel.
"It's Christmas, Pand." she enthused.
"Hmph."
"Don't be a humbugger."
"Desi, it is my prerogative not to like Christmas. Some of the things I prefer to Christmas include pap smears, funnel web spiders, hemorrhoids, screaming babies, tax audits and the novels of Leon Tolstoy."

She smiled.

"At least I'm not ripping your tinsel down." I told her.
"You'll let me enjoy myself?"
"Of course, as long as you allow me to avoid Christmas as much as I can. If you want to celebrate the birth of a Jewish Carpenter, who said some good things, but was a bit of a rebel - then so be it."
"We can do that."

Desi and I will try go for a run sometime next week.

As for me, I just have to think of the perfect circle and the perfect support. What goes up must come down. Circles are perfect in design as at any point you're exactly as far away from the centre - whatever that represents - be it God, perfection, heaven, bliss, as you are at any other time.

This is what is keeping me level at this time. And giving me a bit of hope that this daily purgatory I'm finding myself in is only a lap of the cycle.

These are a few of my favorite things

2011-11-24T23:49:00.001+11:00

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bites
When the bees stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simple remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel.... so bad.

The pall of the black dog has lifted and life appears a lot less gloomy. A weekend of reflection and strategising has meant that I'm back on track. Which I knew it would be. Being back exercising is also helping a lot as this is my escape, my pride and my health taken care of all at once. I'm going to start back running (though probably only long intervals) on the weekend.

Thanks to some very pointed help I've been lucky enough to get some reliable strategies to get me though the dark days.

The end of last week, things seemed dire. That seven a.m. phone call started the spiral last week. For those wondering, I contacted the git online the next day, said he was out of order, made me uncomfortable and I don't want to pursue any more conversation. Subsequently taken myself off the website - it doesn't feel right at the moment and there has to be better ways of making contact with people. I know there are a lot of people out there saying you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince - if the price is your self-worth and self-esteem then I think not. The experience told me that my self-worth, once nothing, is strong and healthy. I deserve to be treated with a lot more respect than that.

A couple of attrocious days at work piled on top of the internet dating glitch . By the end of last Friday I was ready to walk out of the place forever, feeling like I was a bit of dog dirt found under your shoe.

And I got sick of whinging - always a sign that things are amiss. I have a moan about things like most people. When I find myself whining constantly I know it's time to do something contstructive.

So what have we done?

Well, Monday morning I went and saw the office manager and asked that the radio be turned down. She said that somebody would only come and turn it up again. I retorted that this was on OH&S issue, didn't appreciate going home with a headache most nights, nor was wearing earplugs all day a feasible solution. The radio was turned down for a bit and I try my hardest not to focus on it - but there area number of people who've blocked off their speakers - I'm not the only one at least. And the earplugs block out most of the noise. Never again do I want to work in an office that has the music of a 1980's blue light disco.

I'm making sure I get some exercise in at least every second day. This is keeping the grumblies away too. Exercise means endorphins. Endorphins mean happy Pandora. The butt cheek is nearly there, grunting out an hour of weights with Pinochet makes me feel good. So that is sorted.

And using Maria Von Trapp's analogy of thinking about your favorite things - well yeah. That one works too. Think about and do your favorite things.

Indeed.

So, what am I thinking about when I'm not up to my ears in process maps and wanting to fire a 22-guage rifle bullet into the speaker above me? What are a few of my favorite things?

Here's a few of them that keep me on the straight and narrow.

Maow Moaw

Maow Maow belongs to Blarney and Barney. But Maow Moaw is one of my best mates. We've always had a bond - not one that normal cats have with strange humans. I'm round at Blarney and Barney's most weekends. The cat will normally greet me at the door, be put up on my shoulder - and he stays there for at least 20 minutes. I sit down, he comes and sits on me. He's coming to stay at Christmas for a fortnight - really pleased about this. Not so pleased about how he likes to wake me at five in the morning with a paw to the nose and that he likes to put his head on the pillow.

Christmas will be good for cat time. Looks like I'm on feeding duty for Leon, Archie and Betty - even better, Betty comes with a lovely large bathtub for my personal use.

Ice cream

Yes, ice cream is one of my favorite things, but I'm still doing this avoid ice cream for forty days thing. Actually, that's going really well. 35 days in, I've only slipped once and a bit in that time. Last Friday, beered up, in the doldrums and hungry, I stopped in at the local shop for a Magnum. Also, while out with Gloria, dessert came with a scoop of vanilla. I had a spoonful. Glorious it was. I'm not beating myself up about it - under the circumstances it's amazing I didn't buy a box of the buggers and wolf them down. Or find a tub of Maggie Beer's Burnt Fig, Honeycomb and Caramel ice cream.... and sit in front of vampire porn with the tub.

The worst of the cravings for the stuff has gone now - the experiment has worked. But I've made a decent, okay substitute. I'm freezing sugar-free cranberry juice in an ice block mould - like mum used to do when I was a kid. It's not ice cream, but it's good for the moment. I can pretend it's ice cream.

Films

Another escapist technique, but also a favorite genre of mine - love film. Saw Moneyball the other night with Emm. I love baseball films, and this was a better than average one - probably going to be up for some Oscars - even if they ruined Philip Seymour Hoffman for me - he should never, ever, ever have a crew cut ever again.

Does Moneyball beat Bull Durham? Nearly. Better story in some ways. Though a stalwart member of Team George (you're either into George Clooney or Brad Pitt - I find Brad Pitt about as sexy as a labrador puppy - unless you count the Thelma and Louise performance)

Moneyball also doesn't have have this...

Oh my. 20 years on and it still has the same effect. Oh my. It's like sitting on a washing machine in its spin cycle.

I still wonder how a woman would write that speech.

Theatre

Saturday is going to be a bit special. The Importance of Being Earnest - Geoffrey Rush as Lady Bracknell. Love Oscar Wilde.

Part of the reason I'd love to be back in London - the theatre is incredible.

I love the purity of theatre, the cut throat, pure adrenalin of an actor on stage - that you never know how something will be set, produced or interpreted (this goes double for Shakespeare), what the audience is going to be like... so many variables.

Heading off to Don Giovanni in a few weeks too - have only been to the Opera once before - it's my Christmas present to myself.

Planning an overseas holiday

Note to myself - renew my passport.

Some people play fantasy football. I do fantasy holidays. There's a few options, not that the cash is really available at this point in time. Gloria's planning a fortnight in India for her 60th - wish I could do that. There's always the Bali or Thailand option - maybe good for a getaway. I've got a real hankering to go to New York for a few weeks - and see Reindert and Corazon while I'm over there. And of course, the win the lottery trip - three months wandering around Spain - maybe do the Compostella de Santiago - learn Spanish the real way...

At the moment all that's on the books is a trip to Adelaide for my sister's 40th, Christmas in Ballan (if Malcolm's dad will have me in the house) and Glen Waverley said he'd take me down the Great Ocean Road again when his porsche gets here. Going to have to take my iPod and FM adapter plug - the porsche only has a tape deck. Not having him play the Discovery Channel song cranked up to eleven through Apollo Bay again.

I just need something to look forward to.

Time with friends

I do this anyway. Friends are my family. Friends are good.

Macarons

I miss working in the city. I felt it even more today on going in this afternoon to get the mail, seeing people and shops and life, of which there is little where I'm working at the moment - unless you like easy-listening radio.

On collecting the mail I popped in on Karen at La Belle Miette - my macaron shop. The macarons from here are the best in Melbourne (and for those who doubt it - this shit all over the ones in the Lindt Cafe) What's better, being a regular, and at the end of the day, Karen occasionally donates a broken one, which is great, as everybody knows that broken biscuits don't have calories due to leakage. Today the Champagne and Cassis and Salty Caramel one went down a treat.

Sleep

Love sleep. Which is where I'm going now.

Only one more day before the weekend. This week has gone very quickly. Even with a sucky job, at least I'm busy enough to make the time go quickly.

Nothing worse than being unhappy at work. It will turn around.

Isolation

2011-11-19T13:04:00.002+11:00

One of the first signs that I'm spiralling into depression is an overwhelming feeling of having no control. I want to run. I have no idea what to do with myself. I can't settle. I feel unloved, unwanted and alone. I become hypersensitive to noise and movement. I start having major sense of humour failures. Food and exercise regimes go out the window.

The sooner I catch it, the better.

I'm hoping that I've got this one in time. The longer it lasts, the longer it takes to get rid of.

Looking at the list above, this is what my week has looked like.

And I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm in one of my depressive cycles and now is the time to sort it.
Work is a contributing factor to all this. I've moved jobs, I'm learning a new role, one in which I feel somewhat unsupported - though I know I can do the work - I'm just without much guidance. The office is about two kilometres away from the last one just out of the city, where I'd made friends. My new team of three aren't particularly social, but this isn't saying they're not nice either - and there is nothing to do and nowhere to go at lunch, unless you take your sandwiches to the park. The local coffee shop makes coffee that tastes like mud - though thankfully the coffee machine in the kitchen provides perfectly drinkable espresso.

Most disturbing is the radio that plays constantly throughout the day. Our pod is directly under the tannoy. Set to MIX FM and GOLD FM, it reminds me constantly of the music they played at the Blue Light Discos of the early eighties. Here are some of the gems from yesterday:

Call Me - Blondie
Crazy Little Thing Called Love - Queen
The Wall - Pink Floyd
Who can it be now? - Men at Work
The Boys are Back on Town - Thin Lizzy
You Can't Hurry Love - Phil Collins
Dream Police - Cheap Trick
Maneater - Hall and Oates
American Pie - Don McLean
What You Need - INX
Your Song - Elton John
Young Turks - Rod Stewart
True - Spandau Ballet
Staying Alive - The Bee Gees
Set on you - George Harrison
Two Out of Three Aint Bad - Meatloaf
We Gotta Get Out of This Place - The Angels
Hot Stuff - Donna Summer
Simple the Best - Tina Turner
Crackling Rosie - Neil Diamond
Follow You Follow Me - Phil Collins
Can You Feel It - Michael Jackson
Hey Little Girl - Icehouse
Bow River - Cold Chisel
Heaven Must Be There - Eurogliders
I wanna hold your Hand - the Beatles
Tusk - Fleetwood Mac

I'm not sure what's more disturbing - the fact that I've listed these or that I know most of the words to these songs and the artists' names. Some of these artists I rather like - but I've heard all of these songs ten times over in the last fortnight. And yes, fine for a long drive in the country - but not all day, every day in a working environment.

This particular office environment has redefined purgatory for me.

Wearing earplugs is only an option for part of the day - you have to take them out when people talk to you. Shoving your iPod on with my music works for while, but having things shoved in your ears all day isn't a proper answer to all this. I really think that it's unfair to have to do this on a daily basis.

So my hackles have been rising for the last few days, my energy levels slumping, not helped by the injury (which is healing) meaning exercise has been scarce.

What gets me most is the feeling of isolation. I feel alone at work. I live alone. We have the 'C' thing coming up - which I am yet to have my Christmas freak out - maybe this is part of all this too. Though not a Christian, there is all the rigmarole around this time of year. It's overly busy, you eat and drink too much. In my case I try and focus on the fact that I'm alone and it's the time of year that I feel most alone. The "Oh, what are you and your partner doing?" questions don't sting as much as they did - but it's still not pleasant.

Stupid thing is, I think I have this year planned right. There's only one or two things on. Christmas day will be spent with friends and family (from the part of the family that I like) - it's not a drama. The Christmas parties I do have to go to can be either skipped out on early (the bank one - sod that for a game of soldiers) or really enjoyed (the consultancy one is an overnight affair - take thongs and sit by the pool). Half my shopping is already out the way.

Freaking depression makes me look at the not so good side of things, rather than the stuff I'm looking forward to at this time, like time with friends and a week off. I've got manicures, pedicures, a possible tree walk, a massage or two all planned and paid for - it's great. I'll have my favorite cat staying with me too - something I know I'll love. Christmas will be fine. Just in the state I'm in at the moment you'd think that I was about to join a leper colony.

The incident last Friday with the git from internet dating didn't help matters, if anything, it was a contributing factor to the spiral starting. Once again, dwelling on the twats I seem to attract online hasn't helped matters. Last night I took the decisive action of taking myself off the website. Anybody I attract in this frame of mind isn't going to be good for me. Pressing the delete button felt like a huge weight off my shoulders.

Okay, so now what. What am I going to do about all this? Seeing I'm not clinically depressed and not on medication - and refuse to take that stuff anyway, the plan is in place.

Exercise - now the bum is mending I'm back in the gym grunting out the grumblies. Just back from a session with Pinochet - sweaty hugs aside, bench pressing 30 kilos is good for the morale. He's onto my moods - and for a lunkhead, ketone freak - he gives sound advice. Five times a week - it's what keeps me in check. I've got it planned and it will be fine.

Watch my diet - out with the sugar, in with the fresh natural stuff. Done. At least I'm not out much this week, that will help.

Get out of the office for lunch - so far I've got three covered next week - Alice, Brenda and Jonella are meeting me. Done. Get's me out of that awful environment, if only for an hour.

No alcohol. Okay, this is a no brainer as it contributes to depression, though in saying this, rocking up to beer club last night for a couple of quiet ones was the best thing I could have done for myself. Just being around fun, intelligent, non-banking company who seem to like it when I turn up there did wonders for the mood. Greeted at the door by an old friend, I got a smile, a hug, a comment that my new glasses look good and was told to sit down while a bottle of Polish beer was arranged for me.

Maybe I should start looking for work back in Telecommunications - it appears to keep me saner than banking - the people, though just as mad, are a bit more down to earth.

And lastly, be good to myself. Accept what is, is. There nowhere I should be but here. There's no fairy godmother who can rustle up a loving husband, an interesting job sans GOLD 104.5 FM and the dullards who work there and a life free of stresses and anxiety.

It will be okay. It's going to be okay. I'm onto it. Some of my friends are aware of what's going on and they're being supportive.

Realising what is going on is the first step to fixing it.

Being good to myself and allowing myself to heal is the second.

The Short List

2011-11-15T22:20:00.002+11:00

It comes around every November / December. One of the hardest decisions of the year. Every year, the agony and the ecstasy if a decision that will play on me for the rest of the year.

What the hell am I going to put up for book group?

I'm a member of a book group. All good writers should be a readers - and as a part of my reading, I go to book group once a month - I have done for a few years now. Some of my best friends are a members of this group. Merijn, Blarney, Georgie, Alice and Jonella are all a part, or have been part of the group. The others in the group are lovely too - and for the most part, we all get on.

This is not to say that all of our reading tastes are the same. Some of us have very different reading habits. A lot of members joined the group to get away from reading what they were used to - most of whom read either crime or vampire novels. Then there are the more literary readers, those who like a challenge, books that make you feel and think, books that have joyful subtleties and fantastic turns of phrase. I like to count myself as one of this group. I stopped reading predominantly chick lit nearly ten years ago, preferring material with a bit more guts to it - then again, I still love Marian Keyes, 'Rachel's Holiday', and Jane Green's 'Straight Talking'. The latter was sort of my life in London down to the getting the Sunday Guardian and The News of The World to read in bed on Sunday...

So here we are at the start of November, and we've come back from our last booked up book group for the year. This month's tome, Paolo Coelho's "By the River Peidra I Sat and I Wept" had two things going for it as far was I'm concerned. It was short and it had big writing. It's not my cup of tea - if I want to read allegoric self-help stuff I'll do it on my own time. It only just made it into this year's list, along with that cat book as it is now referred to. The rest of the years books were fine and enjoyable.

I rather enjoyed tonight's book group. I've been on a bit of a high today since I managed to source a ticket to see Geoffrey Rush as Lady Bracknell in the "Importance of Being Earnest" next weekend. I made a quip that I'd probably have to sell, donate or suck something to get a ticket - but as I've just managed to sell my old iPhone on ebay for a song, the ticket seemed justified. I also quipped at the time that no fellatio was required to get the ticket.
"What's fellatio?" asked one of the book group members. There was a muffled spit take or two around the table.
"It's Italian for standing in a queue when you know you have better things to do." I told her.
"That's a bit of a wanky work. Why not just say stand in a queue?" she asked.
"Well, I spose it's a bit of a mouthful." was my retort. "Go home and ask your partner. He'll know what it is."

Well, I couldn't blow her off, could I?

Back to books.

You're not going to like everything that is put up - and as we have a democratic way of choosing books, you're going to get something you like at some stage. Still wishing Georgie could have voted last year - we tried, but circumstances meant she was waylaid in America stressed out of her brain. We would have had a few different outcomes I reckon. The cat book woudn't have made the top eleven for one...

Regardless, in a few weeks, our book group will be choosing books for next year. Everybody is to bring two books for consideration - and only two.

These books should be of the following criteria:

Fiction - no non-fiction, autobiography, biography or memoir will be considered - though I like a good non-fiction book, not for book group - they've proved hard to talk about. Also there is a very noisy faction in the group - the long-termers, who are completely anti it - and nobody turns up for non-fiction anyway.
Of no more than 500 pages - but can be negotiated - better if it isn't, but we're not going to scoff at something that's say 525 pages. People have other stuff to read in the month.
Of a literary or very good quality popular fiction standard of writing - so that cat book really shouldn't have made it in the list.
Should be readily available in bookstores (what's left of them), libraries or online. Nothing worse than a book you can't get hold of

Oh - if it is your book that is chosen, for the given month, you're in charge of the questions and run the conversation for the night.

At the book voting session, everybody is handed a bag of 25 lollies. You vote with lollies - you're not allowed to vote for your own books. You put lollies on the books you wish to read for the year - what ever your preferences are.

For a bit of guidance, group members have been recommended they check the Booker, Pulitzer, Age Book of the Year, Orange Prize long lists, the orange covered Penguins that are out, classics you might not have read at school (I must get around too Wuthering Heights one day in full - its on the pile with 'The Hobbit', 'The Great Gatsby' and 'Catch-22').

Okay, other than that cat book, some of the stinkers we've read have included 'Pride, Prejudice and Zombies', that cat book, Anna Karenina (nearly brained the person who put Tolstoy on the list, especially when they didn't read it - you could bottle Russian Literature as a euthanasing agent), The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte also got my ire. I remember being as sick as a dog the night of that meeting, but I wanted to slam that piece of Methodist Manifesto and burn it. And of course and that cat book which I wouldn't line a cocky cage with. The rest have pretty much met the standard.

So here I am thinking, what am I going to put up for next year. Only one of my books made it into the reading pile this year. I put up Murakami's "Kafka on the Shore", but it didn't make the list. I also dared to put a non-fiction book on "Reading Lolita in Tehran", which got championed and made the list. A fascinating read, but as it was non-fiction, half the group didn't show up.

We've got a few authors we like to avoid. I've been told that putting up Rushdie again won't be well received and will probably sit there with no lollies in the cup if it was put up. I love the novels of Salman Rushdie. We read "The Moor's Last Sigh" a few years ago and it was almost universally disliked. Ah well. Alice used to have a pathological hatred of Ian McEwan saying he understood England as well as she understood the workings of the bogan mind. Me - I'd have preferred not to have read Coehlo. It all comes down to taste. Alice was particularly fussy about what she read in book group - and that is fair enough - but she's not in the group any more to take on other pursuits. I've had a few members of the group say the books are a bit challenging - I point back that book group isn't about reading muck - when they joined they were told that the group has more of a literary bent - deal with it or leave. I'm being a bit more militant about this after that cat book got on the list.

So, what do I dare put up this year. What am I going to champion? I'm already seen as a bit of an egghead when it comes to books and reading. Merijn and I know that we will normally not like each other's choices - she loves Russian Literature - I was 50 pages into Anna Karenina hoping she's throw herself under the train there and then - I loathe it. I love the modern novel - she doesn't - though we sort of met in the middle with Rushdie.

So I'm thinking, and re-thinking - what am I going to champion at our meeting next month.

Here is my short list of considerations - I have to choose two:

Atonement - Ian McEwan

Stellar, stellar book - and not just because of the movie which I adore (even if Keira Knightly is too thin and she is impossibly gorgeous in that green dress). This is probably the best of McEwan - Saturday was okay, I really liked Amsterdam and Enduring Love - Solar was a load of bollox, but Atonement - ah - brilliant. So subtle. He gets the period just right - you want to clobber Briony from the second page, only to get a better picture of her after the events - wondering if she will ever atone for her actions as a child - and the ending is different to the movie too. Just stunning.

Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks

Another one of my favorite authors, Faulks is the master of minutiae. A meticulous researcher, Birdsong is possibly the most beautiful novel ever written about WW1 trench warfare. Gut wrenching, gorgeous, sumptuous, sexual - it looks at the hell of war, its consequences and its triumphs. I adore this book - I'm just not sure anybody else will like it.

American Psycho - Brett Easton Ellis

He, he, he. I so want to put this up, but I see a few members of the group walking out in utter disgust. This book is rated R and can't be sold to minors in Australia - it comes wrapped in plastic when sold retail. I read this for my smut course that I did a few years ago (Went back to university to do third year English - the course name was Art, Pornography, Blasphemy and Propaganda) This was on the list - and it was my favorite book of the course. Loved the parody. Love Ellis's easy charm mixed with hyper-violence. Not something to read late at night or when you're alone on the tram with somebody who's a bit loopy. There are parts of it that make you want to throw up. It's cool. Can't see the naysayers liking it, however.

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides

One of my top three books ever. Pulitzer Prize Winning - an epic book about a person called Cal with a slightly bizarre family arrangement. Looks at Cal's family from his grandparents down to Cal's own life. Rather confronting in parts, brilliantly set in Greece and America with some fantastic characters along the way - heaps to talk about, heaps to think about - and just a magic tale. Like Captain Corelli's Mandolin, you can read and re-read and only get more out of it. Though technically we did it for book group five years ago, I think it's only Georgie and I who are left from the group, so I might chance it as I'm pretty sure Georgie didn't get around to it at the time.

The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Spanish Author in translation - good popular fiction with a Gothic twist, set in Barcelona. And who says I only choose literature? A great yarn, well set with a great, Poe-ish storyline. Something a bit lighter for consideration. I love Spain, I love Barcelona - and this book takes me back there. And it's about books too - which is always good.

We Need To Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver

Other than having an ex called Kevin, I've heard only good things about this book - however after tonight's discussion about how people want to read things that aren't grim, I'm no so sure reading about murdering sociopathic teenager would go down.

Footsucker - Geoff Nicholson

There are two things that might put people off this one - I don't know how easy this champion novel would be to find - it may be out of print by now. It's also about a foot fetishist. As a reflexologist, I sorta get it. Not sure anybody else will appreciate the subtleties - maybe Jonella. It's a cool book. But you don't know whether to be turned on or outraged. Which is half the fun of it.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - Jean-Dominique Bauby

Unfortunately I can't put this up as autobiography is banned. But other than it's really short - as the author blinked the text to an assistant, it is a miraculous work of a person overcoming the most horrific of circumstances. A stunning book of great beauty and pathos. But autobiography. Bummer.

I have some decisions to make.

And probably a bit of explaining to do...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Days without ice cream - 23

Love’s Labours Lost

Old man, deathbed, cried.
Of fate’s cruel hand, joy denied.
Large hands, small dick. Died.

Bums and Boundaries

2011-11-11T22:29:00.001+11:00

11.11.11.

A very large, very imposing full moon in Taurus hangs in the sky.

If the ether was going to crack, today was the day. Of course, it did.

6.55 this morning all was well. Contemplating getting up and going for a run, even though my right side gluteus medius had woken me up in the night, throbbing. Your bum shouldn't throb. Bums are for sitting on and keeping you upright when you walk. They shouldn't wake you up aching in the middle of the night.

7.20 a.m. I was under my duvet (doona) a howling, hyperventilating, sobbing, naked mess.

7.30, I was dressed in my running gear, loaded back pack in hand ready to leave for work where I was meeting Desi for a run, tears dried, breathing regulated.

8.15 a.m I was limping around Fitzroy Gardens at a half jog/walk. Not good. My bum is now hurts when I walk. I'm also smelling like footballer and sitting on a bag of frozen peas looking at my options to all sorts of things.

Lunch with Glen Waverley helped get through the day. A lot of good came out of crying on the shoulder of an engineer. Engineers will normally pat your hand if you cry around them (if they haven't run a mile in the other direction) The say, "there, there, it's going to be fine" before they try and fix the problem. Sometimes that's what you need. I needed that today.

Glen Waverley's nice and gentle as engineers go. He knows he can't fix things but he can soothe over a few of the frazzled nerves. He's quite good at that. And he laughed at my glute injury. But this is what men do when you mention bums and farts and things below the belt - and this is okay too.

So what is going on?

The injury first. About two weeks ago I went running with Trin and Desi - I went out too hard and fast and my right glute ached. It was fine by the following day. Last weekend I went and did pump and the 1000 Steps. The glute was a little twangy but nothing too bad. Saw Pinochet Monday, did Spin on Wednesday. No dramas. Last night I went to run for the consultancy in the BRW Corporate Relay.

Something in me was saying I was setting myself up for failure. Having the word "confidence" branded on my arse, there is a bit of me that says I'm setting myself up for a fall.

My team was well matched team - we all run 5 kms in about 30 minutes - no biggie. I was the second runner. Getting the timing tag from my team mate I started on my way. A kilometre in and the twang had come back. 1500 metres in and things were getting worse. I dropped my pace down to minute walk, two minute run intervals. Half way round and the ache abated a little, only to come back at 3500 metres, then it dropped off again. I reckon I got round in about 32 minutes - no shame in that at all - especially on a gammy leg. After chatting with a few of the folk from the consultancy, I made my way home - rump aching slightly, otherwise fine.

This morning, my right butt cheek felt like concrete, nurofen isn't touching the ache and I'm limping. I'm here sitting on my frozen peas. Great.

I'm checking in with my massuese tomorrow, but I think I'm going to be banished to sitting on this bag of frozen peas for a few days. Joy. I can't run on this now - it hurts to walk. I'm supposed to be running in the inaugural 14 kilometre City to Sea on Sunday. I don't see it happening at the moment. I don't want things to get worse. I like running too much - I think this is going to have to be nurtured - Kilometres in the pool, not on the road for a bit. Stick to weights and the bike. I'll see what my massage therapist says.

There, that's the easy one covered.

So what caused me to end up a sobbing mess this morning? An unexpected phone call.

I've done something big and brave and possibly slightly stupid. I've put myself back on an internet dating website. This has been done partly against my better judgement and partly in an attempt to restore my faith in humanity and the world in general. And yes, I know that my last sentence is contradictory. In a nutshell, it's me saying to the universe, "Okay, I'm ready for a relationship." The fact that the last time I was in anything that remotely like a relationship was twenty years ago in London is beside the point. The fact that all of this freaks a part of me out, well that is beside the point too.

Also, I'm willing to discount my history with internet dating and start on a fresh page.

This is quite a big thing for me. Huge. It's like disregarding Africa in an altas.

After meeting now let me see... hmmm, here's some of my internet dating history. Mr "I keep my nail clippings in a jar", Mr "Oh, you know, can you put on another 20 kgs to keep me happy (I've since lost 20 just to make sure he never comes back),", Mr "I have sooooo many issues, mainly to do with my Mother", he who had one leg and sort of forgot to tell me before I met him - not that it was an issue, but it would have been nice to know about before I met him, Mr 'I don't do intercourse - it's not for me' (Like, WTF... after six dates... and yes, I'm that shallow) oh, and the bloke who met me at the museum and his second words to me were," Oh, you're one of those brainy chicks, aren't you." Like that was going to go somewhere. You can take the boy out of Coburg... Oh, and Draenog - Welsh for hedgehog - egg bald - again nothing wrong with that. My friend, Alice, who was vetting my respondants at the time had him pegged as a probably on the Aspergers spectrum instantly. I should have listened to her.

And this has left me second guessing everything. If this is what I attract, why the fuck bother.

I've also had some really pleasant evenings out over the years as well - met some interesting people who you cross paths with for dinner and that's it. Nothing more happens, and that is cool. Evenings of good conversation and that's where it ends. Fine.

So, with some trepidation, I put myself online not expecting anything and not going chasing either. So after ten days, this fellow gets in contact. We chat a bit online - a bit - my time is limited. I feel okay about giving him my mobile number. Numbers can be blocked. I was okay about this. Fine. Chat some time over the weekend.

He calls at 7 a.m.

A few small facts about me. I hate talking on the telphone. There are a few people I can talk to on the phone. Most of them are overseas or interstate. I'm particularly dreadful on the phone with people I don't know. I'm happier meeting somebody blind for a coffee in a public place. I prefer to look at somebody when I talk to them - I pick more up that way - as aurally, I take everything at face value and it's normally to my detriment. When I know people, I don't have to judge what they are really meaning. New people in the phone just don't work with me.

Secondly. Until I've had a shower and a cup of coffee in the morning, I'm really not nice to be around. I can't function without getting wet and a triple ristretto with some steamed milk. Constructing sentences is a chore. I need to ease into the morning.

Okay, and before you say it - yeah, probably a mistake picking up the phone at 7 a.m. This I realise. My family call around this time - but being family, they understand that I'm going to be grumpy. I call them before eight - but I know they're going to be up, and being family, we tend to grunt at each other anyway.

And then the killer - his first question, "Why is a gorgeous and intelligent woman like yourself single?"

And here is the rub. Caffeineless, night grot ridden, naked, groggy - how the hell do you answer this?

And I don't have the sense to say something like, 'Can you ring me back at a reasonable hour, you halfwit.'

But how do you answer a question like this?

I haven't met the right person? I've been out of a relationship for a year? I move around a lot with work? Up until three years ago I though all men were stupid, abusing, raping arseholes and I've been encased in an extra thirty kilos of blubber to try keep people away. I dunno - just hasn't happened for me.

The hackles rose.

Then a half accusatory tone - how dare I say I'm bad on the phone. My voice says that I'm articulate, intelligent and sexy.

What bullshit!

It's 7.05! I sound husky as Mrs Krups is making my coffee. I sound husky until after the coffee has been drunk and the shower steam takes the rasp out of my voice.

After about five minutes of trying to get out something that consisted of "Look, it's not a good time, I need to get out the door, I don't the fuck know what to think about anything, now go away and let me go for a run." I put the phone down, ran into my bedroom, jumped under the covers and started to howl.

Something inside felt violated - not that he said anything bad or nasty or the like. Something broke inside me.

More to the point, my boundaries had been violated, whether he meant to do this or not - these boundaries I've spent so much time cultivating got smashed in a five minute phone call.

I gathered myself quickly and got on with things, not dwelling too much on my reaction to all of this. Yes, I did ponder why is it I don't meet nice men to fall for who are like my lovely male friends. I thought about how it was the best times I've had have been with people I've connected with over time, making strong friendships through learning about each other slowly. Then there has been the occasional dalliance where chemistry takes over. But these have been rare. Lots of fun, but fleeting.

Trin gave me some bits of sound advice - and sent me something that made me think. It read, "You are too intelligent to be the thing that gets in the way of your dreams." Too true.

So this crack in the ether left a pall on the day. I got quite a bit done at work - the rest of my team being in Sydney I was left on my own to crank up the iPod and get on with things, drown out the best of Sherbet, Phil Collins, Billy Joel and every other dodgy 80's hit with The Pixies, Nick Cave, Florence and the Machine and PJ Harvey. This worked to keep me half sane. Lots got done. I skipped out half an hour early, needing to get away and get some air and sunshine.

The question that darted in and out of my mind all day - do I call the half wit back. Does he deserve a second chance? Do I take myself off the site or leave myself on it.

Ah, it's all too hard. I'm not even going to throw in the fact that I've lived alone for the best part of ten years, I can't remember I last woke up next to somebody, let alone anything else remotely intimate and comfortable.

A couple of macarons, collecting the mail and a trip to my favorite witch shop I felt somewhat restored. In Spellbox, I spun the wheel - just to see what was around me. The little note the wheel delivers read as such:

Adventure. Take a risk. Follow your bliss. From fear now depart, connect with the heart. Prepare for an amazing adventure to start.

Bloody universe.

____________________________________________

Days without ice cream - 19 - though the temptation to go get a litre of Maggie Beers Burnt Fig Jam and Butterscotch ice cream nearly did me in today.

The Committee Meeting

2011-11-09T18:08:00.000+11:00

All names, characteristics and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.

This is how I spent my Tuesday night.

The Main Players

Mrs Dulcie Ogmore-Pritchard - Dowager Pensioner from Dingly - dressed in a floral Dolina dress, (ill-fitting) and constantly adjusting her squealing hearing aid and sipping marsala from a coke bottle. Always to be addressed as Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard.

Bebe Polkinghorne - Jobbing radio actress, dressed in understated Melbourne black, pony-slim legs crossed at the upper thigh.

Anthony "Soaked-up Tony " Bartholemew - lugubrious Treasurer, known for eye rolling, long monotone speeches and his stash of Captain Morgan in the library stacks.

Frau Helene Gudmundsdottir - Well coiffed doyenne of the Williamstown business community.

Dorothy "Dotty" Fields - Grandmother, Collingwood cheer squad founding member - Secretary. Keeps a collection of other teams supporter's hubcaps in her garage.

Geoffrey Carruthers - Long suffering Chairman. Voice of Reason. Stoic in the face of adversity. Was born to be an ombudsman.

Jonquil Curruthers - Geoffrey's mother. Archetypal Good Grandmother persona. Also stoic in the face of adversity. Libran.

Hyacinth Montrose - Jonquil's sister - a slightly more wizened, slightly harder version of Jonquil with a rapier wit similar to her sisters

Myfanwy Jones - silent widow under a grey bob. Likes to knit - a lot. Doesn't say boo to a goose.

And there is me, Pandora Behr, 43-year-old, long distance running, word nerd. The youngest in the room by fifteen years easily. Wet behind the ears. Literally. The humidity of the last few days has been killing me. Not helping matters the night before, due to the heat and humidity, I'd had about three hours sleep. After a long day at work, getting home to down a protein shake and then take off to this meeting, I was exhausted.

The Location: A drafty church hall type arrangement complete with lino floor and formica tables in Richmond.

The Event: The Annual General Meeting of the Mixed Elks Property Committee

This rag tag bunch have decided attend the Annual General Meeting of the Mixed Elks Property Committee. Some have to be there - like me.

Some are there because they want to be there. Maybe their medication has run out.

I've spoken in this blog about my participation in freemasonry. I love my allegiance to the Masonic cause. I love the masonic values and everything that freemasonry provides me with. I love that most of what I gleaned about freemasonry from Happy Days and The Flintstones has turned out to be on the mark - truly it has - right down to the funny handshakes.

A part of being a freemason is accepting that part of life is service. Service to your lodge. Service to your family. Service to the community. Service to humanity.

And part of duty of service to the lodge is getting roped into the Mixed Elks Property Association Committee.

And part of me wonders if this service element of the Masons is a crock of shit. And a lot of me wonders how being roped into the Property Assocation aligns with the service to humanity aspect of freemasonry.

I freely admit to not liking committees. Like meetings and any other gathering where alleged democracy is required, all codes of ethics, morals and values tend to go out the window as soon as you step into the room where a meeting or committee is convened.

And the nutters come out. I think there is something about a committee that ensures that there is at least one barking mad eejit to rock the boat. Just as you need a junkie on the tram after ten p.m. or a male school teacher who wears long socks, sandals and a short sleeved shirt to teach Physics - there has to be at last one complete fuckwit. It wouldn't be a committee if it wasn't.

Bring back oligarchy I say! Plato was right some three thousand years ago when he said that this was the only way to go. Rule by the sane. Rule by the trusted - none of these Polder decisions and constant arguing and half measures that democracy provides where compromises are made and nobody is happy. Rule by the intelligent, informed and not-that-barking-mad elite, I say!

Heaven help me - last night. Oh my. It's four hours of my life I'm never going to get back. And a decision which I know I'm going to regret got made. As of 10.32 p.m. last night, I'm now the Mixed Elks Property Association Treasurer. Voted in uncontested.

I must have been pond scum in a former life.

For most of the meeting I was listening and putting myself in my happy place, which mostly consisted of fantasising about a lanky but wonderfully muscled Swedish actor in some compromising positions. I also started my weekly shopping list, thought about how I can take out the tannoy and the annoying easy listening music at work, pondered how I'm going to train for and get to the New York Marathon next year

I'm not sure what bugged me more. Whether it be Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard talking loudly into her mobile phone after the meeting had started - continuing to do this at the meeting table throughout the meeting. It might have been Frau Gudmansdottir and Bebe Polkinghorne questioning every line on the Treasurers report - not just once, but five times over. Maybe it was that when I was expecting to be home at 9.30 and in bed by ten they were still arguing about the semantics of the word "Subs" that was found in a footnote in the addendum to the President's Report, again, for the fifth time of the evening.

Please remember that this was the first Mixed Elks Property Association meeting I'd been to - my Mixed Elks Lodge voted (read guilted) me into a three year stint on the committee at the last meeting - see, I get a lot of flack for not staying for supper. Thankfully, these meetings are only held once every three months.

By ten to ten, the time had come to find a new Property Committee President. The current Executive Committee - Geoffrey, Dotty and Tony the Soak stepped away from the top formica table. I went and sat next to Jonquil - my allie, voice of reason and grandmother substitute - though at 80, she's only just ten years older than my own mum.

"Enjoying yourself, Pand?" she asked.
"Do you want me to be tactful or truthful?"
"Truthful."
"I think I'd rather have root canal surgery without anaesthetic than be here."
"I feel your pain."
"Is it always like this?" I asked her.
"Half the time. The other half of the time the agitators stay away. These people are passionate."
"Don't they have anything better to do?"
Jonquil sighed. "Probably not."

The election of the new president was run - I ran it. They gave me a gavel - ah, the power. Fifteen minutes later - after discussing semantics with Frau Gudmansdottir and Bebe Polkinghorne about how their Elks lodge couldn't put up members as they hadn't voted them in, I was installed as treasurer and Geoffrey and Dotty were back as President and Secretary.

Another hour of pointless discussion about the auditor's report, the meeting was closed.

So traumatised from this meeting I went home and downed a very large single malt.

How do I feel about being the treasurer of the Mixed Elks Property Committee Incorporated? A little ambivalent. Somebody has to do it. See to me, it's running a spreadsheet, banking a few cheques and sending the odd stroppy letter - how hard can it be? I'm also wondering which one of my CPA friends I might be able to bribe into auditing our books for a barter - I knew enough CPAs to coerce them into a few hours work - well I think I do. Throw in a massage - amazing what a good massage can be bartered for. I have a few other barterable skills, but I'm not sure that they're quite right for bartering the Mixed Elks Property Committee Books for - I have my standards,.

Still you have to wonder...

Just what is it about committees that make you want to club half of the members like baby seals!

Pand
_________________________________________________

Days without ice cream - 17

Accountants

Personality
Bred out way back in the years
When God was a boy

Pandora Lent XI

2011-11-09T12:42:00.000+11:00

Day's without ice cream - 16

Thank you, Eric

When I'm tired and grumpy,
And the meeting's agenda's gone,
I sit with eyes unfocussed,
And think of you with nothing on.

(I realise I'm paraphrasing Adrian Mitchell - but something has to get you through the most bizarre AGM I've ever attended)

Back and the Future

2011-11-06T22:42:00.002+11:00

Much of my adult working life has been spent in offices.

More to the point, much of my working life has been spent pushing paper in the operations departments of financial institutions. Working with the distribution of dividends, corporate actions, cash balancing and reconciliations, data entry jobs in the back offices of International Banking Houses to be precise.

For me, after ten years of this sort of work, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then in 2003, after a large epiphany, three months on a Greek Island and a bout of deep depression, I made a change, found IT and began to discover that work could be fun, interesting and I could play to my strengths. Leaving the operations departments of these banks has been one of the best moves I've ever made - from financial, professional and personal standings.

So now, in my capacity as a Consulting Business Analyst for a second tier Business Consulting group (all this means is that I work with great people who drink lots of beer, have personalities and don't expect you to do fourteen hour days) I'm in a bit of quandary.

In my current role, I'm finding myself back in the thick of an operations area of a financial institution. Even worse, I'm in the thick of the operations area of Bastard Bank's Retail Operations Area.

I DON'T WORK RETAIL!!! Especially not after my first job was spent in the sub-basement of the an Adelaide department store sticking on price tags - two year of that putting myself through my final year of university part time.

Okay, I'm not in this Gormenghast of a place to WORK in operations - I'm there do document the procedures and processes, that is once I get through the air locks, find my desk, pass the forests of paperwork and rows of fax machines and try to let to foreboding sense of deja vu pass.

I left these kinds of offices nearly a decade ago.

Working in IT and telcos, I've been surrounded by computers and people in jeans - people with quick wits, idiosyncrasies and tendencies towards the autism spectrums. Working on projects, I've been among a mix of megalomaniacs with their own agendas, decent, bright, fun hard working people who strive for the best (these are the people I seem to make friends with) and a heap of very bright people who have tendencies towards the autism spectrums. Throw into the mix guys like Traralgon, Ah-Sole, Danger Dood and the Hot Scouser and every stereotype is covered.

I like project spaces. I get them. They can be fast paced and interesting at times. It's normally varied work. You meet great people.

I don't like Operations Areas. Business as Usual can be as dull as it sounds.

Yet, I'm sort of glad, as this foray into the world of Business Analysis a bit of a soft landing as I 'get' what the teams are trying to do. I get what they do on a daily basis. I get how they do it. It's all second nature. It's ingrained.

And it hasn't changed much in the near decade since I left.

Nor have the people.

Similar people, different office.

Middle aged women in slacks and jumpers who go and find a cup of tea two hours by the clock. Younger women, seven months pregnant with photos of the kids framed on the desk. Young men in their thirties with Supercuts haircuts and short sleeved polyester shirts. Friendly management who try and make the best of the conditions. Same people, different office. Seen it all before.

And the killer for me - the radio is piped through the office.

ARGH.

I come from offices where everybody listens to music - it's what iPods are for! I've been known to bop along to the Pixies while fixing commas and parsing ("You are the son of an incestuous union..."). I do it regularly. ("Vamos, vamos, vamos") I used to have iPod swaps with my old project manager. ("I was swimming in the Caribbean').

In this new office, I've been subjected to GOLD FM and MIX FM. So far I've endured some really old favorites - Phil Collins, Bryan Adams, Mental as Anything - and a personal favorite - Meatloaf.

If I ever have to hear Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell" album again before I die, it will be too soon. Just as the CIA tortured Gitmo detainees with the Barney song, I have a similar feeling about Bat out of Hell. For two years, it was all I listened to as I stuck price tickets on department store items.

I know every word to that pharking album.

Hearing 'I Can See Paradise by the Dashboard Light' on Friday was enough to start my bottom lip quivering and the urge to run away to set in.

I'm back in an Operations Area. Joy!

It's only for a few months. I'm cutting my teeth on work things. I just have to remember this and remember this often. And go back to the mother ship of my old office when I can.

My earplugs will get a battering I reckon - that or I ramp up the iPod and play The Pixies, Florence and the Machine, The Rolling Stones and anything that is the antithesis of the easy listening crap they play over the tannoy.

On the good side of things, I'll go back to the project enclave after this stint, the people are friendly, its walking distance from home and the canteen is so bad I'll have to take my lunch in so I will get my diet back on track. And there may be a bit of travel attached to this job with the slight chance of being sent to Sydney for a few weeks.

On the not so good side of things, other than the persistent drone of easy-listening radio, I just have to remember that although this type of work started me on the route I'm on now, it's not what I do any more. It's not who I am. And I'm not stuck there, earning half of what I earn now, bored out of my wits with no way out.

Thank heavens it's not for too long.

I've had a weekend out from things. Went with Jay from the gym to see Rock of Ages yesterday - loved every minute of it.

As somebody who normally doesn't like musicals, this one got me to me. An old friend highly recommended it - and I'm so glad I went. The only musicals I tend to like are the edgy, slightly wrong ones - like Rocky Horror, Hairspray and Chicago. I think that Andrew Lloyd Webber should be publicly executed for crimes against humanity.

Rock of Ages has a Rocky Horror sense of fun, a completely wrong sense of humour and one of the best eighties sound tracks out there. And they give you a fake cigarette lighter to sway to the music with. I'm never going to hear Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" in the same way again. I don't believe that I ever wore the clothes they wore - I've never worn acid wash double denim or gym lycra unitards. My hair's too boofy to have a spiral perm... And the last time I wore suspenders and stocking was to a "Shock Your Mother" party at college. Thankfully all the photos of me in a school uniform, stockings and suspenders in a shopping trolley have been burned.

If you get a chance to see it on stage - do it - though the movie of the stage show is coming out next year. Tom Cruise as Stacee Jaxx should be a hoot.

Other good things to happen this weekend - Pump class with 25 kilogram squat track, meditation, a quiet night on Saturday with a lot of Vampire Porn (True Blood). All good things.

On the not quite as good side - a not that interesting Mason's rehearsal, which was infuriating and insightful in turn and completely wasted Friday night. And lots of vampire porn has made me decidedly horny. But we can't talk about the last thing.

I'm going into middle age - I didn't think you were supposed to get horny any more.

I suppose the latter is a bit of compensation for the fact that tomorrow morning it's back to Gormenghast to look at operations processes which haven't changed that much in twenty years.

_________________________________________________

Days without ice cream - 15 (and brownie points for donating to Trin the scoop of vanilla ice cream that turned up in my skinny iced chai latte up at the 1000 Steps - like who puts ice cream in skinny iced chai latte?)

Unexpected

Sometimes I think of your skin
The unexpected smoothness found
At the base of your neck
And your chest's scent
Where I used to lay
Your chest, my pillow
Your arm, loose around me
Protective and calm

I can never go back
But you are always there
In the recesses
Where light rarely goes
Soft, smooth, scented
Imperfectly perfect.
Protective and calm.

Pandora Lent X

2011-11-05T22:07:00.000+11:00

Days without Ice Cream 14

frustrating night life
computer crashes again
max irritation

Pandora Lent IX

2011-11-04T22:12:00.000+11:00

Days without ice cream- 13 (though the temptation to get a magnum on the way home from masons was nearly impossible to overcome)

Voiceless

I ponder what it must be like
To talk to the same person
For one whole week.
To have a real conversation
With the same person
Every day
For a whole week.
To discuss more than work
Or the weather
Or what's on the box
Or the football ladder
With the same person
For one whole week
And to not remember what this is like
Is a concept as alien
As world peace
Something to strive for
Yet so elusive.

(Dream group has set off some pretty black crap - normal programming will resume shortly)

Imperfect Pictures

2011-11-03T23:36:00.003+11:00

One of my greatest dislikes, along with bananas and lasagne, is having my photo taken. Loathe, loathe, loathe having my photo taken.

I'm the first to admit that most of this comes from having zero self-esteem or self-worth over the years. Thinking that you are the ugliest, smelliest, most useless person that ever walked the planet doesn't do great things for you when it comes to making your mark on the world. Knowing that you're not particularly photogenic doesn't help either - but I've had a pathalogical fear of having my photo taken for many years. I liken it to being from a long lost tribe who believes that the camera steals your soul - which has been a short story idea for a long time too.

Because of this irrational fear, with the exception of the odd school photo, and the odd sneaky shot, I have very, very few photos of myself for the last forty years. Unfortunately, the bulk of the photos of me taken before the age of seven were destroyed in a caravan fire - my grandparents had taken the photos on a grey nomad trip around Australia - they were all destroyed. Years of dodging the camera have meant that there are next to no shots of me though university, my twenties or my thirties. Never getting engaged or married or having children or going on holidays with anybody means I've escaped the camera for the most part - actively, vocally avoiding I them for what seems like ever.

I also don't have photos around my house. I have a couple of photos of my nieces on my book case taken a few years ago and there are some shots of friends on the fridge. From what I know, my mother has one shot of me on the side board. I've tried to steal it away on many occasions because I'm embarrassed about the monobrow...

I'll also admit to having a real hatred of seeing myself in photos - so much so that I've been known to rip them up, detroy the negatives and burn the evidence or throw tantrums until friends get rid of them - yes, it was that bad. There is a part of me that just didn't want to face the truth as to how big I'd got, just as there was a part of me who felt like my existence wasn't justified.

Thank goodness that has changed.

Another incedent in my twenties has made me reticent to go anywhere near a camera. Having your work head shot plastered onto hard core pornographic shots and distributed around the company didn't do anything for my liking of having my photo taken either. The incident nearly had somebody fired (if it wasn't London in the 90's and in today's politically correct world the consequences would have been far more severe) and left me scarred for life. I still refuse to have my photo taken or published in any sort of corporate capacity other than ID cards.

It's only in the last few years that I have got a little better about having photos taken. Not much, but a bit better. I've been known to untag photos on facebook, rather than demand that they be taken off entirely, and I've even posted the odd photo of myself - though I do vet them carefully. I'm still not really that taken with being photographed, but it's not something that sends me into a mad, tear-filled frenzy any more.

I know that it's an irrational fear. I know that it's stupid - but having my photo taken still fills me with dread.

So this week has left me feeling rather rattled. I know that my passport needs renewing - the sooner the better. I also got notification that my driver's licences is also up for renewal. And starting a new role in a secure building meant a new photo for a new ID tag - another photo.

Three of the buggers.

The familiar feeling of horror has been sitting with me for a while. Two of these photos will last ten years. Not that anybody really sees them or looks at them, but the thought that they will be around to haunt me fills me with dread.

Okay, my last passport photo was tolerable, even I can see that. I know how much I weighed when I had the photo taken - a strange fact since it was some ten years ago - and I'm happily six or seven kilos lighter now. My last licence shot was a complete dog. Almost at my heaviest, I look miserable. I'm really thankful that this licence shot is being retired. It's truly dreadful. I think I can count five chins.

Then today, on entering the new building, for the new role, after walking the three kilometres to work, somewhat red faced and sweaty, the security guy said I needed to have my photo taken for the new pass.

I was flummoxed. No getting out of it. Argh. Everybody working in this building needs this pass to get in and out of the building, which has two sets of air locks to get to the main lifts, to the loo, to the canteen - it's like working at the Royal Mint or the Pentagon. If you don't have this pass with you they wont let you in without and escort. Fun.

After a minor silent grumble, I did what I was told. I went and stood in front of the third chair and looked at the security camera dome. After looking the two wrong security domes, I was finally standing in the foyer looking like an idiot for what felt like an age - and then I was summoned.

And what would you know - on my new pass, a very acceptable likeness of me. It's okay. I'm not scowling. I'm not frowning. I'm not looking like I'm about to murder the photographer. It's okay.

Lets hope the passport short and the driver's licence go as smoothly.

It's only just dawned on me in the last few months that I don't have this photographic history of myself. I'm not sure how I feel about this at all. Part of me is very sad. Part of me is trying to rectify the situation to a point.

My friend Gloria, a very good photographer, has been at me for years to take my portrait once again. I let her do it a few years ago when I was ten kilograms heavier. Though I can see the merits of her photos - I look at them and still see a moose - the photos are in a drawer somewhere, never allowed to see the light of day. Maybe this is another thing to work on - try and get over this fear.

Or maybe I should leave it. I think I needed to write about this after dream group left me rattled last night. My dream. Not a great or positive dream. The conversation was pointed. I'm in constant competition with myself. It's almost cellular.

I'm still processing all this. I just know I'm in for a rocky few weeks.

Pand

________________________________________________________________

Days without ice cream - 12

I'm not a photograph
An image without soul
A test shot, paper thin
Without substance or depth.

I don't want to be taken
Or shaken or made
Left on show to collect
The dust that will only collect

For images change with the wind
And the tides and the seasons
Capturing a moment
Feels so futile.

Pandora Lent VIII

2011-11-02T18:08:00.000+11:00

Days without ice cream - 11

Passport Photo Blues

Blind panic remains
Queueing for unwanted shots
That last a decade

Everyone gets it
The passport photo tremors
That last a decade

The chance to forgive
The choice of crap coloured shirt
That lasts a decade.

And when it comes round
You promise not to error
In your passport shot.

Too Many Books

2011-10-31T22:31:00.005+11:00

I have too many books. There, I've said it.

This morning, I was home on my first day off in six months that wasn't a public holiday or taken off for a funeral, and I am surrounded by books. My lounge room floor was covered with the buggers. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with all of them, other than sort through them, tidy them and get rid of a few, but I was determined that by the time Iwent to see Pinochet at 7 pm, my lounge would be cleared, hoovered and tidied - and there would be a pile of books for the Salvation Army or whatever Op shop I find first.

This is what I started with:

Sod knows how many books I took off from the shelves, which were then washed down and left to dry, eliminating over a year's worth of dust. I think I washed the shelves down at the start of the year, but I did it shelf by shelf.

The next task - get rid of some stuff. There had to be over 1000 books sitting on my floor - some of them had to go - they just had to - along with all sorts of other stuff that's collected on my shelves, like a full medicine cabinet of over-the-counter drugs, my collection of elephants brought back from India by various friends and other trinkets, like my little iron statue of Sarasvati, found in a Thai antique shop. (If you're going to India or somewhere in Asia or Africa, please bring me back an elephant - just a little one - I like them)

There are just some things that wont and can't go. In particular, my collection of Shakespeares and one of my favorite possessions - my William Shakespeare action figure that a dear friend gave me. My friend, a bit of a Dr Who tragic - so much so that he has a real Dalek in his bedroom, knows where to go action figures. I've got a lot of stick for this little guy over the years. He stays.

Reference books stays. Books on quotes, English Grammar, Latin, Greek, French, getting published, Saints, books on Judaism, the Kabbalah... they stay. They get referred to a lot, just like the Shakespeares.

The plays and poetry stay. Again, used for reference and inspiration on a regular basis. They have to stay - along with my collection of short story anothologies - they're there for inspiration - for one day I'd love if one of my short stories made it into an anthology. I've had a number of short stories published in the past - it's something I'd love to get into again.

The Harry Potters, Lemony Snickets and Artemis Fowls stay - they all get read annually, being a kid's book officianado. And I also found my edition of "Miss Cottington's Book of Pressed Fairies" signed by Terry Jones. If I need a giggle, this is one place I turn. You see, Miss Cottington decided to trap fairies in a big book and press them for all eternity. It's only when Terry Jones of Monty Python found this wonderful book did it's full glory come to light.

I've got the old favorites, and the favorite authors, which can't go - and now the Sebastian Faulks, Margaret Atwoods, Louis de Bernieres, Richard Flanagans, Geraldine Brooks, Robertson Davies, David Mitchells and Annie Proulxs are together on the shelf, where they should be. There are a lot of other books that that I just love and can't part with. Volumes like American Psycho, The Princess Bride, my books by Helen McDonald, who writes on human disection and remains (fascinating woman).

There's also the big books that sit behind me. A lot of reference books on aromatherapy, anatomy and English Cathedrals. They stay too. A lot of my history is tied up in these books. Books on gargolyles and misericords, books on sexuality, sensuality, women's issues...

The most esoteric book I found - ther than my volume of Geoff Nicholson's "Footsucker" (Fabulous book - don't know whether to be titillated or turned right off). It would have to be my pictorial book on body piercing. This is one of the milder shots.

I've also got a lot of my books from university, a heap of Clive James books that I want to read and see if they're still funny. There's a shelf of stuff that I haven't read yet that I will have to get around to one day.

Sooooo many books - so little time. Though with the exception of book group books, I'm not allowed to buy any more until a few more have been read - and disposed of.

Thankfully, Mack came round about lunch time for a chat and a wander. He works just up the road. I donated a bag of witchy magazines, astrology cards and amethyst dragons that I've been pondering what to do with for ages. His daughters, aged 16, 12 and 8 will love them.

There's a supermarket shopper filled with things I no longer want. Strangely, there are mainly diet books - the Zone, Atkins etc. They can go to the Salvos.

I have another small pile of books to be put on ebay. Commercial success that might bring in a few dollars. Trinny and Susannah are ebay fodder - right. And those bloody Paulo Coelho's - it's taken me 20 years to get to page twenty of The Alchemist, I don't think I've got any chance of finishing it in the next twenty years.

The rest - are now neatly back on the shelves.

I rue the day whem I'm forced to get an e-reader. Books are so much a part of me.

I just wish that they didn't collect so much dust!

So my day off is nearly over. A ten kilometre run, a session with Pinochet out the way, a day of really good eating - as in back in the star calendar regime to get back into weight loss mode in a last ditch effort to make my goal for the year. I can do it.

It's been a good day.

Pand

___________________________________________

Days without ice cream: 10

A Little Touch of Harry

Sleep deeply, young Prince.
The days of awestruck wonder
Are numbered with your soldiers
Demands for commission and rest.
Days of roaming fields,
Green with innocence, with life,
With the hopes of a misled,
Misunderstood land, will leave you
Longing for a simpler time.
The table thumping rhythms
Of the tavern nights,
Imbedded with straw, vomit, ale
Replaced by the beat
Of marching armies footfalls,
Swordplay, falling maces,
Broken carotid arteries,
Pumping the souls out of home fed,
Inbred, naïve followers.
Rest in your sack lined hovel,
Warmed by women you’ll have to forget,
Enveloping the ambrosia
Laws will deny you,
Conscience will forbid you,
For one last, lonely, unregretted time.
Elysium has no place for the powerful
To roam in peaceful, fulfilling bliss.
Your imaginary Agincourts
Will too soon be all too real.

(I'll admit that this was written a few years ago and published in the Mozzie around 2003 - a bit too tired to write - but being surrounded by literature all day, a poem about a Shakespearean character seemed apt)

Pandora Lent VII

2011-10-30T22:58:00.000+11:00

Days without ice cream - 9 - even got tempted by sorbet at lunch today, but remained strong.

Spring Cleaning

One thing comes from Spring Cleaning
Is more dust
The realisation
That you own too many books
That you will probably never read
But can't stand to get rid of
Which will only accumulate more dust
As you place them back
On the freshly wiped down shelving.

The other thing that arises from Spring Cleaning
Other than the taking
Of a surreptitious antihistamine
Is the feeling that in a years time
The process will be repeated.
Except there will be more books.
And more dust.

Pandora Lent VI

2011-10-29T22:27:00.001+11:00

Days without ice cream - 8 (Even managed to go to the cinema and NOT have a choc top - major sacrifice)

True Blood

For lonely spinsters,
The perfect Saturday night.
Vampire porn should suck.

A Cautionary Tale

2011-10-28T21:32:00.002+11:00

Days without ice cream - 7

A Cautionary Tale

Don't go drinking beer with boys
They'll lead you all astray.
They'll pump you up and leave you cold
And send you on your way.

And take no heed of boys with beer
You'll never see no good
For they talk shite and waffle on
And speak of things they would....

You know that boys with beer are bad
For they are filled with grace,
And charm and wit and all those things
That hide their truest face.

But boys with beer are kind of fun
And soppy/sweet in turn.
Just don't take too much consequence
Of crap they like to churn.

The day will come when boys with beer
Will end up slowing down,
And wive's will call, and kids have sport,
They must get out of town.

Yet boys with beer will carry on
Until all time will end
For beer and boys are linked like chain
And hopeless to defend.

Pandora Lent V

2011-10-27T21:12:00.000+11:00

Days without ice cream - 6

I dream of the Underground
Of rope ladders twisting downwards
Into steep, helix-round tunnels
The only exits from these vast worms.
Of sunsets in red, of vast flowing rivers
And of London.
Grey, sunny, enclosed, enlivened.
And I know what I have left behind
And what I seek as I travel these tunnels
Or stand by the Thames
Or stay barefoot and naked on Hampstead Heath.

I had to leave you behind
Not because I didn't love you.
But I couldn't have you trapped
Bound in these unending, dark
Subterranean passageways.

The Hard Questions Meme

2011-10-26T23:04:00.001+11:00

As I'm finishing up one role and starting a new one next week, I have a bit of time on my hands.

So these hard questions come from the Sunday Stealing Meme guru - and gave me something more to think about and errant commas and fixing dodgy spelling over the course of the day.

1. What is a quote that you love?

I'm going to give you three - all have very special meanings for me:

"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive." Josephine Hart, Damage. I live my life by this quote. It is unfortunately and terribly true.

"The lunatic, the lover and the poet are of imagination all compact." Midsummer Night's Dream. Act 5 scene 1. This has always eaten away at my imagination.

"I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water." T.S.Eliot. The Wasteland. TS Eliot is indirectly responsible for getting me into tarot. I ponder this poem regularly - it's one of my absolute favorites, and the section with Madame Sosostris in the section "The Burial of the Dead" always says something different to me. Knowing the full meaning of the Hanged Man card some twenty years on I love the playfulness of the whole episode. I also love what Eliot has inadvertently done in making the tarot references.

2. Do you think of pure hate as something humanity created?

No. I think pure hate is the absolute opposite of pure love - and we need diachotomy. They're the flipside of the same thing. Hatred is never pretty. In its most intense form, it is very disturbing - but like everything in the universe it is there as some part of a grand design. I'm just glad that I don't have to witness it first hand very often.

3. When was the last time you wanted to scream?

Yesterday. I was in one of my rare work "zones" trying to get some stuff finished by the end of the day. There is a person around here who I refer to as 'Nails on the Blackboard" for a number of reasons. After four interruptions in ten minutes, this person was the unlucky fifth. I was screaming on the inside. I snapped at this person - something I rarely do I apologised for being such a cow about half an hour later. There was no reason to speak to this person like that - no matter how annoying they can be.

4. Do you ever at times see the world in black and white?

Only sometimes. I'm normally one big shade of grey and see the world in such a way. I see the world in black and white when it comes to injustice - and anything to do with animal cruelty - do what they do to the animal back to them. Simple. Hard line, but simple.

5. Have you ever thought that cell phones are too obtrusive?

Definitely - though I know that I let my mobile get in the way far too often. Leaving my mobile phone at home is akin to losing my right arm. However, I try to be considerate when using it to talk to people in public - especially on public transport. My pet hate is sitting in meetings where people are constantly checking their phones. However, they are great when you want to show photos, they give you games to play when you're waiting for planes and buses and thank goodness for mobile internet. Just turn them off or leave them be when you want REAL people time. End of story.

6. In your life, where do you thank the rainbow will end?

This is a bit of a funny question. See, as somebody who studies the Kabbalah, I think the rainbow ends at Tipharet - when you find your heart and soul. However, if you look at a rainbow, you know that the ends of a rainbow shift . I used to have a window seat on the 41st floor of one of the skyscrapers here in Melbourne. One day we saw a circular rainbow - it was incredible.

Then again, I think the rainbow will end when I win lotto...

7. What is something that you never want to do again?

Yes. I never, ever, ever want to fall in love with somebody who isn't emotionally available, ever, ever, ever again. Hurts far too much.

I'm not sure that I want to fly Tiger Airways again either. They are appalling.

8.When was the first time you realised the world was small?

Walking down Baker Street in London in 1992. I ran into an old university friend. I didn't know she was in London. we were both on the other side of the world. She didn't know I was there either. And we literally bumped into each other. This scene has been repeated in various airports, cities and restaurants across the globe over the years. The introduction of social networking has made the world even smaller. I've made contact with people I never thought I would ever see again over the last few years. The world really isn't that big a place when it all comes down to it.

9. How you spend your time contemplating life’s mysteries?

I do this all the time - though the best way to do this is either sitting in a hot pool of water underneath the stars, or down the pub with a bottle of decent red. If navel gazing was a profession I would be a very rich woman.

10. Ever discuss your political beliefs with people?

Yes, but probably to my detriment. Though normally I will discuss politics at any time of the day or night it's not with fervour and normally with people who I know can cope with my slightly loopy lefty agenda. I love political discussion - but I also like having these types of chats with people who I know will respect my opinion while arguing the point. My friend Kitt and I talk about this stuff when running - we have similar, yet differing opinions - she's just to the right, I'm just to the left - and that is okay. I try to keep my political thoughts to myself until I know somebody - though I'm perceived as a raging lefty by proxy. Thing is, I'm not that extreme.

11. Do you care about the environment?

I do, though probably not enough. I make a point not to litter. I recycle household refuse. I drive a small car. I walk when I can and use public transport often. I try to keep it to three minute showers, I try not to get things with too much packaging and take my own bags to the supermarket. I have a keep cup for my morning work coffee. I turn off the lights and the power outlets when not using electrical items. I use organic hair and skin care. Little things. I know I could do so much more - eat and source local produce, not buy as many books.... and on a grander scale I know there is so much more than I do. Mining grates on me. The fact that our government has the audacity to push the environmentally friendly agenda (Like why don't they have a fleet of Priuses getting the pollies around?) There is so much more we all could do. End of story.

12. What’s your motto for life?

I don't really have one. The closest I have to a motto is " Be positive. Like attracts like."

13. Is progress destroying the beauty of the world?

Another hard and interesting one. In some ways, I think yes - you look at the raping of the planet from all of the "progress" - the deforestation, smog, open cut mines, what is happening in the Pacific with the plastic soup.... the list could be infinite. Then again, there is beauty all around - no matter where you look. I'm looking out my fifth floor window from what is possibly the ugliest building in Melbourne looking over a row of trees, the leaves rustling, I've been watching a small child play with a dog as her parents look on. I know that in a few hours I can watch the sun set - and there is nothing more beautiful than that. I ran around the Botanical Gardens this morning - absolutely glorious. So no matter how much 'progress' appears to destroy the world - beauty is always there - you just have to look for it and open up to its possibilities.

14. Do you believe there is life somewhere else in the universe?

Yes. Definitely. I think it's extremely arrogant and narrow minded to think that we are the only planet in the infinity called space that has life upon it. Even if we haven't found it, it's nice to think that there is 'life' out there somewhere - no matter what that 'life' is. Just because we haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

15. Would you like to rule a country?

Absolutely not. It's the responsibility thing. I couldn't think of anything worse - being responsible for subjects - sounds like too much like hard work. I won't even get a cat because I don't like the thought of being responsible for another life (though I would love a cat, really I would) Ruling a country would be too much like hard work.Being a part of a committee running a country I could do, but to have responsibility for that many people - no way!

16. Do you believe everything has a purpose?

Not really. Somebody might tell me one day what the purpose of zucchinis (courgettes) actually is - cos they aint food. I look at the Melbourne public transport ticketing debacle and I believe that there are some people out there who are exceptionally useless who spent a hell of a lot of money looking for a purpose. And what purposes do rabbits have? None (unless you count calling them vermin or food?) Hmm. Channel 31 - what purpose does that have? So no, not everything has a purpose.

17. Is war ever for the best?

No - but it does have the use of blowing the cobwebs away, destabilising a lot of people often allowing them to rebuild in the long run. See, wars can have a purpose - but they are never, ever for the best. That much heartache should not have to be endured. Or wasting that much money (i.e. Iraq/Afghanistan)

18. Could you kill anyone in defense of self or loved ones?

I think I could. Only in self-defense, but I'm pretty sure that I would have it in me - I think I have access to that sort of strength. I just never want to use it.

19. How do you react to people who don't believe global warming is really our fault?

I roll my eyes, get very, very, very annoyed and try to lead by example - like agreeing with our carbon tax, trying to set my behaviours around a more carbon friendly ways, disagreeing with big coal, writing to MPs about stuff, attending the odd rally - not that it gets you anywhere, but global warming sceptics do get to me. The only person I preach to is my sister - who is a global warming sceptic but chooses to moan. But that can be seen as sport.

20. Does love conquer all?

No - but it does have remarkable restorative powers allegedly.

21. Is euthanasia morally acceptable?

Yes. Quite simply yes - definitely. Not in all situations, of course, but if a person is ill, in pain, there is no chance of a recovery where they have a quality of life acceptable for their standards and they want to go - let them at it. I believe quite strongly in voluntary euthanasia under these circumstances. Saying this, I've also been around the medical profession a bit too long. The term they use is letting somebody go... pumping them full of opiates and not feeding or watering people who are about to die - it happens on a daily basis. This is a form of euthanasia. Wouldn't it be more merciful and compassionate to put these people out of their misery more quickly? After all, we wouldn't treat animals like this, letting them hang around, in pain, suffering for weeks, if not month. Witnessing a few people linger with cancer and old age is not pretty for anybody, least of all the person dying. I think it's time we looked a what is humane for humanity - and I think that is the moral argument.

22. Is world peace impossible?

No. Weren't there three days sometime in the 1920's where there wasn't a war on the planet. World peace may be impossible, but it is a lovely ideal to strive for. 100,000 Miss Universe contestants can't be wrong...

23. Is pride a good or a bad thing?

I think a little bit of pride is a good thing - but only a little bit. I'm a Leo - I have to say this. Pride doesn't have to be arrogance. It can be very self-preserving. Pride in oneself and one's work is also a good thing to have - even if it comes out in good basic personal hygiene. Too much pride is bad - but a little, in moderation, is definitely good. Knowing not to take it too far is the kicker.

24.What do you think is the purpose of your life?

Other than writing bad poetry and answering bizarre questions on blogs - I don't know. I know that one of my ultimate purposes is healing. I'm good at that. I think I'm still trying to find my life's purpose.

25. Do you believe in karma?

Yes. Little picture karma anyway. You're responsible for what you do in this life. If you're a bastard, it will come back to you. If you are good, that will come back to you too. Not sure where I stand on big picture karma - what have the starving of Africa done to the world?

Some food for thought.

Ice cream free days - 5

There goes the escape route

the trees are lopped back
dappled light floods in the drive
the possum is toast

Pandora Lent IV

2011-10-25T15:18:00.000+11:00

Ice cream free days - 4

Refuse

Somewhere among the seeping coffee grains
The tin can lids, dismembered envelopes
Vegetable peelings and useless information
Posted on unwanted flyers
Raindrenched and unread.
Somewhere beneath this mess
Lies your resentment
And my disappointment
At the knowledge that finally
We have found a routine
And setttled.

Pandora Lent III

2011-10-24T18:58:00.000+11:00

Ice cream free days - 3 (Just don't ask about beer and chips)

Sonnet

It's not wrong to say that I like you better naked
Still, dozing, gently breathing, clutching the top sheet,
Eyelids fluttering in a dreamstate unwanted
Mouthing unheard conversations, rotating feet.
It cannot be right to think that I love you more silent
Undreaming of a life I cannot understand
For this is the time that you become transparent
And no willing complications come to force my hand.
For I only know you fully when you fall asleep
And the pains of the day depart from your sad eyes
The hostilities of our time together steep
In a place where there are no cries, no hurt, no lies.
I wish I could know your joys, your sadness, your pains
Aside from the lovely beast that sleep contains.

Pandora Lent II

2011-10-23T21:53:00.000+11:00

Ice cream free days: 2

Consumption

We no longer expire from consumption.
The overtaking of heart
As the lungs, failing, full, wet,
No longer have the chance to breathe.
The heart drowning
Under the weight of water.
Don't we feel the same now?
The immersion in emotion
That overtakes our being?
The heart unsuppressed, untethered, unresponsive.
Or maybe unable to feel,
We constantly choke down the dramas of the day,
No longer taking in the cool air of freedom.

The Good Day

2011-10-22T23:42:00.001+11:00

For a day where I left home before nine and arrived home some twelve hours later, today goes down as one of the better ones in a long while.

After feeding Em's cat, going to meditation and having breakfast with the girls, I made my way down to Popeye's for a cup of coffee, where I got to meet my new canine godchild. Most people collect nephews and nieces, I appear to collect animals to feed and nurture when their owners are away. This weekend I'm feeding Leon (Em's cat). I'll visit the Maow Maow tomorrow, two of my standard charges - but today, I met Gypsy, who has me down as "If my owners can't be found, contact this mad woman" on her microchip.

Gypsy's a small, round antithesis of a Rhodesian Ridgeback. A fluffy Pomeranian arrangement with a flat ribbon bit on her back. Lovely mutt. I sat down and she plonked herself in my lap. I think I'm in!

Following the quick visit to Popeye, I made the hour's drive down to Rye to read at a hen's party. This is the third one of these I've done in a fortnight.

However, it's only the fourth time I've been down the Mornington Peninsula. Two beer club fishing trips and a day wine tasting with Reindert.

I really don't get out of the city enough.

Driving up to the base of a large hill an hour later(Shirley got me there without an issue) I used the crampons and ropes supplied to get up the driveway. Greeted by the maid of honour, I was shown around a magnificent holiday rental house, met the group, reassured them that they weren't going to be told they were going to die and I was lead off to a bedroom where I set up for reading.

Setting up for a reading mean throwing my cards down on the bed and taking off my shoes.

Spent a glorious two hours reading for a group of older women. It appears the Gods of Tarot were on my side today - it appears I was on the money. As always, I made one person cry, but that is the norm. Seriously fantastic, interesting, loving people. I like reading for groups like this. A real array of professionals, stay at home mums, older women - fun, intelligent people. I had a ball. Stayed half an hour longer free of charge just for the pure pleasure of reading for great people.

I love my tarot gigs, but days like this are the ones that feed my soul.

Once that was done, it was time for me. Real me time. Time for a treat. Time to knock another things off the bucket list of things to do.

I've lived in Melbourne for twelve years - but I rarely make it out of the city. There are so many places that I want to go in Victoria, but I use the excuse that I have nobody to go with to no go anywhere. I've been down the Great Ocean Road once - because Glen Waverley wanted to go for a drive. Rutherglen got done when Reindert and I drove a friend's campervan back from Newcastle. Sam and I went to a winery just out of Bairnsdale once, because the wine is exquisite. That was years ago. And other than the odd trip to Ballarat, Bendigo, the wine regions and the long drive down the Western Highway to Adelaide - I've been nowhere.

So, today's treat - to make the trip really worthwhile, not knowing that the crowd would be so good - I stopped in at the Peninsula Hot Springs just out of Rye.

Absolutely magic is an understatement.

Rocking up at around five 'o'clock I wondered if I'd made a good call - it was cool, overcast and drizzly sort of day. I paid my money, changed into my swimmers and looked around. Large steaming pools, paths leading out to the bush and best of all - an area which was signed "Adults Only". This doesn't mean it was for naked use - just no kids - which suited me just fine.

There are two complexes. A spa area which does private baths, massages and the like - a bit more exclusive and no children are permitted. Then there is the Bath House area, a bit cheaper to get into, kids are allowed under supervision, and it was the the place I went, which was just magic.

Wandering through the bush in my bathers, towel over my shoulder, thongs slapping, dunking myself in various pools of differing temperatures, letting the soothing mineral springs take away the cares of the day was a lovely way to spend the rest of the afternoon.

Of the two places I loved the most - the hot pool at the top of the hill that had a view over the better part of the Mornington Peninsula was up there - a scorching 43 degrees, it was at that nearly-too-hot-bath temperature - I managed five minutes before going off in search of a cooler pool.

Just sitting in the warm pools, looking at the dimming light, listening to the bird song, lazing the day away - what more can you ask for. Despite the parade of semi-naked people from every corner of the globe, the centre has an eerie peace to it. I reckon it would be fantastic to go there on a cold, rainy winter's night.

The other place that blew my mind was the recently constructed Hammam complex. Being a huge fan of Turkish baths, I went into the steamy, marble building and just sat. Memories of Granada and time in the Hammam there there came flooding back. I'd go back there tomorrow just for this. (But the way, the background shot of this blog is of the roof of the Hammam at the Alhambra in Granada - the one at the Rye Springs is nowhere near as fancy or old, but it still brought back memories.)

After a turn in the sauna, a quick dip in the cold plunge pool, I showered, changed and made my way home.

Now, I'm just relaxed, a bit tired and my skin feels incredible. Such is the joy of mineral springs. If you're down that way, make a point of dropping in. It's so worth it.

Days really don't get much better than this.

If I pull off the prediction that France will win the Rugby World Cup by two or three points tomorrow, well that will make for a stellar weekend. (I got the Australia result and the spread right - but I'm not sure I have this one on the money)

But we can't ask for too much more.

The only thing that would have made this day even better would be if somebody was here to share it with me.

Pand xx

_________________________________________________________________

Ice cream free days: 1

Waiting for the Moon

Peace arrives over a blackened beach
Where darkening waters undulate
A song so silent
Only the sand can understand
The rhythms of the timeless Godless sea.

The first star dares to shine show it's face
As it gently pierces the sheen
Of the velvet silk of the sky.
"I am Venus!" she cries,
Waiting for someone to notice her glory.

Other stars shyly follow her lead,
Sometimes hiding
Behind the deepening blue,
Before standing it's ground
And waiting to be counted by the world.

So you sit, and wait, for the moon,
On this black and silent beach,
Searching the horizon,
For the first signs of life, of light.
Wondering if your wait will be worth it.

My Version of Lent

2011-10-21T15:43:00.000+11:00

As regular readers will be aware, I'm not a Christian. Nor am I a Muslim, a Jew, a Buddhist, a Shinto, an atheist, a Wiccan (well, I'm sort of a wWccan...) or from any other traditional religious bent.

However, I'm feeling the real need to buckle down and have some contemplation time. A time of readjusting. A time where I can integrate some of the learnings of the year in a meaningful way and really find out what it is I've come to.

It's been a big year - I need this consolidation time.

So, this will be my version of Lent. Just at the other end of the year and without the penance attached to the Jesus worship. Or it could be seen as a Pandora's personal version of Ramadan - just without the fasting. Maybe this could be seen as a longer version of Yom Kippur - considering the actions of the last while and bringing things back into balance.

I have forty days to do this - forty days is the normal time to do a personal pilgrimage like this. Which will take me to the end of November.

So, for the next forty days.

I'm giving up ice cream. No ice cream. That is the sacrifice section. My crutch will not be available to me in any way for forty days. Phah, you say - what sort of sacrifice is that.?

Well, I see ice cream as the sixth food group. It's a family trait. If I don't have ice cream every few days things start to slide. I'll admit that more of the cold creamy stuff has been sneaking into my diet of late. It's time to address this properly and bring it back into balance.

After all, I'm ten months clean of fast food - what is 40 days without ice cream? I don't crave fast food any more - thank goodness) Maybe it will slake my need for the stuff.

Saying this, giving up ice cream is going to be harder than you will ever know.

But as with all good periods of Lent type activities, you need celebrations too.

And again, this needs to be a personal thing.

My celebration will be to write a poem a day. A short poem. Some days it may just be a haiku. Other days something a bit more substantial.

For without poetry, who are we? After all, a poem looks at the world the way a woman looks at a man (I'm misquoting Wallace Stevens here). I think it's time I rediscovered Pandora the Poet again. I miss her. She disappeared with my muse a few years ago. It's a part of me that's been lost for a long time. In many ways, she's my true essence - hidden from sight like the ghost of a red-headed step-child.

It's going to be an interesting experiment (Dodgy poetry aside)

So, here's today's offering.

Wish me luck

_______________________________________________

Twenty One Ten

Mirrored, marbled streets slip under heels
As riot police arch-backed stare at feral campers
Angry under a bronzed Burke and Wills.
Let's take over the city.
Let's not.
The 109 stalls behind a bank of snail paced snail cones.
Today we walk in the rain. Late. Damp. Calm.
Unconcerned by the MungBeanStandOff.
Florence and the Machine drums on relentlessly,
A silent scream between the ears,
Unheard by the ferals
Unheard by the riot police.
As the dog days are probably not over.

Naming Rites

2011-10-18T21:57:00.001+11:00

My phone emitted an electronic beep at some ungodly hour last night.

I ignored it. It wasn't a persistent ring - or in my case, the unrelenting drone of the first thirty seconds of Nirvana's "Feels Like Teen Spirit". It was just some notification. The news could be received in the morning over a bowl of porridge and a triple ristretto.

I went back to sleep.

On rising a few hours later I looked over at my phone. My second cousin's wife had a son. Lovely news. Both mum and baby doing well. A stonking, big nine pounder in the old language. Name. Malcolm Callum Grant.

They called their son Malcolm!

Malcolm!

I have an Uncle Malcolm. He calls himself by another moniker. I don't think anybody has called my uncle Malcolm since he came out of the womb. It's not going to be on his tombstone. It was a daggy name when he was given it some sixty-five years ago.

Oh for goodness sake. Malcolm. Enrol the kid in tap dancing lessons and buy him his first can of petrol and machete now - he's going to be a psychopath. End of story. Surely they're going to call him Callum - or Cal. Surely.....but you never know.

I texted my cousin - who happens to be my favorite cousin and grandmother to little Malcolm. Asked her about the name. "Malcolm?! Is he going to have brothers Trevor and Donald?"

"I know. Heaven help us!" was my cousin's response.

Taken into consideration is the fact that the baby's maternal grandfather is called Malcolm - sort of makes it okay (and mind you - the other grandfather is a Neville - the kid has no chance) - but still. Can't they find the kid his own name? And his initials. M.C.G. Named after the hallowed turf in Richmond where many a football and cricket match is played. Oh, bless.

As a childless woman, I've never had to name a child. I seriously don't know how I'd go.

I name my cars. I've had Edna the EJ Holden and Phoebe the Fiesta (inherited names), Colin the Daihatsu (Colins often have small man syndrome, would have called him Allan but he couldn't make the tea - Allans are often small and they always make the tea). Then there was Andrew the Echo - named after an ex-boyfriend's dangly bits (again associations - like the other Andrew, the Toyota was small but it got me where I needed to go) and now I have Neville the Mazda - suitably named after a middle-aged accountant somewhere - the only Neville I know has silver grey hair - the same colour as my car.

I also have Shirley the GPS - so named after a friend's indominable mother who is scarier than a herd of rampaging elephants - only with a fag in one hand and a pint of bitter in the other. My GPS scares me most of the time - especially when I ignore its instructions to go down Punt Road.

Naming can be hard.

My friend Max and her partner are still trying to find the right name for her daughter who is now a month old. They took their time naming their son too. His name really suits him now. He's going to be cool.

We've been having a few odd conversations on the subject. I was sitting at this hospital with this two day old bundle in my arms and Max went through the long list.

"I don't know why you're asking me this, Max. It's your child. I'll love her regardless of what you call her."
"She's known as Bam Bam at the moment."
"And that might stick. But it won't look good on a passport. You'd get pulled up every time you went through customs with a name like that."
She went through this list of names. Some lovely, classic, easy on the ear names. Others had my eyebrows raising.
"Max - it really is up to you and Ram. Don't ask for my opinion. It's none of my business."
"But you don't mind being used as a sounding board."
"As long as you don't mind getting the brunt of my sense of humour."

I've been getting the odd text since then.

'What do you think of Greta?"
"Smacks of Kingswood Country and kaftan wearing librarians."
"How about Eugenia?"
"Hmm. Bit posh. Not too bad if you're looking to put her through private school."
"Catriona?"
"Tries to hard to hide her cross eyes. Put money away for braces now."
"Laura?"
"Like that one. But it's your kid. You name it. Don't ask for my opinion. I will only end up offending."

It's fun watching people name their children.

Some say absolutely nothing about what the kid will be called. I rather like these people. Others, like my friend Max, will ask for opinions and suggestions.

And what ever I say will normally be wrong.

Then there are the names you dislike by association.

Kevin will always be the slob who collected his fingernail clippings in a jar.
Simon - oh don't get me started on Simons..... in love with their computers for the most part.
Trevor - Named after St Trevor, the patron saint of those who wear socks with sandals.
Julian - Pot smoking lawyer with numerous DUIs under his belt. So far back in the closet he's in Narnia.
Derek - named after a frog's mating call.

There are also the names that have become cliche by over use. Sharon, Tracey, Lisa, Michelle and Narelle are all now in their forties with kids in tow. Practical multi-taskers who really could have done with less common names.

You know that Darren, Mark, Steven and Paul are now hitting forty and wondering when they are going to trade their Commodore in for an E Type Jag or some other penile equivalent.

I used to hate my name - and as I went through school with five other Pandoras I though I was as common as muck. Since leaving Myponga, we Pandoras are a bit rarer. And I don't mind the name. I've grown into it. Just don't call me Pandy or Dora....

It's interesting watching some of the cultural naming that goes about. Having a chat with Dimitra in the office, she said that her daughter would be called after her mother, in line with Greek tradition. Fair enough. That appears to be the norm for some cultures - and good on them.

If I ever had children, I couldn't go the grandaparent route - the grandaughter of Reginald Lancelot, Eunice, Darcy Elliot and Ada Jean - nah, sorry couldn't do that to a child. They're almost Department of Child Welfare worthy names.

But I still wonder about poor little Malcolm.

Why not call him Callum Malcolm? Okay, you lose the cool initials - but still. It's a little more palatable.

Daggy middle names have a bit more kudos. My friend Alice's little boy's middle name is Mungo - named after the patron saint of Glasgow and recalcitrant journalists. Another friend was thinking about giving the middle name of Danger - then Danger would be his middle name... They didn't in the end. It would have set a precedent. What would the second one's middle name be? Trouble? Reckless? Rebel? Late-for-dinner?

And then there are the alternative spellings that appear to be cropping up. The Tiphphannees and Mikaylaahs and Jaaysonns and and Symins. That's just asking for trouble - and the wrath of teachers.

Or the cool but unpronounceable Irish names that were popular a while ago. I'm sure that Naimh, Aoife, Tadhg and Aoibheann will be used to spelling and pronouncing their names here in Australia once they turn five.

And of course the stripper names - the Ambers and Tawnies and Stormies and Misties - just can't be done. Just as Dirk and Roger are porn stars, these girls are fated to be walking around V8 tracks in bikinis. Just as Dawns, Veras and Irenes will always end up working at newsagencies and drycleaners.

I rather like the "supermarket test" that a couple of friend's swear by. Can you shout the name out to a misbehaving three-year-old and not make a mockery of yourself? Names like Robert, Michael, Laura and Ava pass with flying colours. Try whining out Barney, Oscar, Mabel or Bonnie in the aisle or in the park - and either watch a gaggle of three year olds or a pack of dogs turn their heads.

That also goes for what you call siblings. An old workmate related how he'd never been so embarrassed when his friends called out for Jenna and Talia to come in for dinner (think about it....)

And the sibling test. My mate Mack has children Mabel, Michael, Maisie, Mariah and Monroe. It's going to be diabolical when they get to be teenagers and start getting mail.

Ah, it's all too hard.

I wish little Malcolm well. He's going to have his challenges - he's a Libran after all. Being called Malcolm will only add to these challenges.

Oh, if I was to have a child - I've always fancied giving a daughter the middle name of Serendipity. Why? Because any child I have will be a happy accident.

Pand

p.s. Thanks to Patrick Cook's Ultimate Book of Baby Names for the inspiration for this - and if you can track down a copy, you won't be sorry.

Unlearning

2011-10-16T20:10:00.001+11:00

The Tarot Gods were having a bit of a laugh yesterday.

My services as a tarot reader are in demand. With two hen's parties to read at yesterday, plus a number of other one-on-one bookings in the diary, I'm back finding my inner witch/tarot reader/counsellor/shovel-wielding-blow-to-the-back-of-the-head-giver - or whatever skill it is I use when I go reading cards on a regular basis.

Explaining to people that you read tarot can, at times, be difficult. I tend not to tell people about this hobby job until I know them, once I work out where they lie on the mystical plane. I try not to make a fuss of it - it's something that I do. I'd be more ashamed to speak out if I played mixed netball or was into taxidermy or "The Farmer Wants a Wife". Something embarrassing like that. Tarot is a part of me - a small, eclectic part of me.

Friday night was interesting. I went out for dinner with Jonella and her Mum, Connie. A pious woman from Durban, she was asking me about my weekend. I explained that I was racing around, having my cards read and doing a couple of readingsm hoping she wouldn't ask too many questions.

Talking tarot with religious people can be difficult. I tend to avoid it - saves arguments and judgement. However, Connie asked me a direct question. Why was I having my cards read? How did I feel reading cards? This wasn't said with any malice or judgement - I was compelled to answer.
What does one say?

Jonella was looking on with interest. She's warned me about her mum and her religious beliefs - but after a lovely evening at one of the local Vietnamese restaurants, the boundaries were set, I was fine to talk.

I explained that in having my cards read, I was normally looking to get some clarity around what was going on in my life or in a situation in my life. It's more of a counselling session. I don't want to know the future - I want to have a look around about what is going on now. My reader is a trained counsellor, as well as the former head of the Australian tarot guild - I'm in safe hands.

As to me reading - I see myself as somebody who sheds light on the present. I rarely make predictions. I don't give advice - but offer suggestions. If things are good, they are good. It things are not so, what are they doing to make things a bit better?

I told Connie, "Readings are never forced on people. If they don't want them, I don't give them. If people are visibly unhinged or drunk, I won't read for them. I'm not there to make waves - just to have a look. But as one very devout Christian told me once, "Messages come from God in all sorts of ways - who am I to discount what you do? You have nice energy - I'll give it a go." I rather like that analogy - what I do is look at the messages at a point in time - that is all. We tarot readers have our own version of the Hypocratic Oath. "First, do no harm."

I have my cards read about once a year - normally when I want some clarity around a situation. I don't need to go any more than that. - it's like a counselling session, normally with a point.

Jonella said later that her mother was at ease with what I was saying. I'm glad. I don't go out to inflame other people. It's a gentle path you walk when you look into the lives of others.

I booked my reading with Viv a few weeks ago. Work is proving a little stressful at the moment, not knowing what is going on - I wanted a bit of reassurance.

The cards decided to have a laugh at me. For every question I asked, I got another answer, and another question. I asked about work. I'll be fine - now what am I doing about releationships? I asked about money, I have enough - now what am I doing about relationships? Travel. If I want to, I can - now what am I doing about relationships?

The cards decided to shove this in my face. What am I doing about this? Why don't I have relationships? Why do I push everybody away? It was like I got my answers about whatever else, then the cards started on me about my love life or lack of it. It was pretty unrelenting. It all ended in tears. It normally does when my cards get read. Not bad sobby tears, just tears. My natal moon is in Cancer. I'm a sook.

I left, and hour later, flummoxed.

The thing that came up most of all was that to progress, I have a lot of stuff to unlearn. I've done the work on me - now it's time for the unlearning all the stuff that I've taught myself over the last forty-three years. The stuff that appears to be so ingrained that it is a part of me - almost to a cellular level.

But how does one going about unlearning things? In my childhood I learned that to trust would mean getting your feelings trodden over - I don't trust. Never say the words I love you, people just run away. Don't get attached to people, they will just use you. Don't rely on people, they will just let you down. Don't expect anything, you will never be disappointed. Please people, but don't expect to be pleased in return. If you can't do it yourself, you won't be able to do it. Other people leave you weak and vulnerable. Don't go near them.

I have a lot of unlearning to do.

We talked about why I felt all of these things and I can look back and see where it all came from. From my mother being the breadwinner in the family, miserable in the situation - having all of her hard work torn way when my father walked away with the lion's share from their divorce. Young love left me truly scarred - and when love was offered a few years later, I was far too broken to go near it. During my twenties, I lived the life of an illegal alien for many years, reticent to get into relationships for fear of being thrown out of the country - and unwilling to marry for convenience to stay - that would mean relying on somebody. Love was something that was always unrequited - or so I thought. The men I chose were always unavailable. I make my own money because I only know how to support myself. I've been paying my own way since I was fourteen.

And all of this is what I have to unlearn.

Buggered if I know how I'm supposed to do it.

Being honest, these questions have been plaguing me for a while now. A series of events have set off a lot of thinking around these topics. The world has been shoving these questions in my face for a while now. It's time to take notice.

After a wondeful massage after the reading - much needed, I trotted off to my tarot jobs. Two very different events - one at a city bar with a group of professional women dressed to the nines. The other, in a hotel suite, a group of young suburban women, teachers and nurses, down to earth and fun.

Two different groups. The same questions. Will I have children? Will I get married? Is this one the one for me?

As always, with tarot cards, you stick to what you can see. As always, when doing short readings at hen's parties, keep it light, stick to the knowns - work, money, fun.

Somebody will always cry. Of course, somebody did. Hen's parties are about avoiding the buttons. You're going to press one every now and then.

Maybe this is biggest lesson of all. Maybe it's time I got my buttons pushed well and good.

What ever else, it's going to get interesting from here on in.

Pandx