FirstPerson ThirdCat

Grumpy no more

2006-09-09T14:35:00.000+09:30

ThirdCat tried to beta herself and it really didn't work.

You will find her in a slight pickle, but much less of a grump over here.

This blog will stay for a while, but wordpress can't import beta blogger yet.

A piece of advice which you can take or leave as you will: don't jump to beta just yet, however seductive the labels might be.

Bad luck saints

2006-09-08T21:52:00.000+09:30

The good thing about not being in the finals is that you can't lose.

If the Power lose, I don't go for the Crows.

Wednesday night

2006-09-06T20:59:00.000+09:30

I'm not an overly-competitive type (you can't afford to be, when you're average as me), and this is the kind of house where it's not about who wins and calling people losers isn't very nice (your house would be too if you were trying to bring up two genetically-competitive boys).

And I love Myf and her laugh and she gets me through a couple of my day's ugliest hours. But if they invited me on, I'd want to be on Alan's team. He hasn't lost for weeks.

Also: Hamish Blake. Gorgeous as. And I know I'm kind of Robinson Crusoe here, but I really liked their Hamish and Andy show.

rising panic

2006-09-06T13:38:00.000+09:30

Shit. The bowl full of eggs just fell off the bench, and the floor hasn't been washed for weeks.

don't panic

2006-09-06T10:22:00.000+09:30

If you want to make an omelette, you have to break the eggs.

If ThirdCat could have any pet it would be:

2006-09-05T16:17:00.000+09:30

ThirdCat with the alpacas, Royal Adelaide Show 2006

Credit: FirstCat (ThirdPerson)
Time: About thirty photos before ThirdCat taught FirstCat about the zoom

Born in a tent?

2006-08-31T14:41:00.000+09:30

Because of leaving the back door open, there are three flies in the study and a pigeon in the kitchen. That is the second pigeon this week, and it is only the beginning of the flies.

Once inside, both flies and pigeons are difficult to remove.

Also - and really, you'd think I'd know better - never miss the meeting when the tasks are being handed out.

Oh! to spring

2006-08-31T12:12:00.000+09:30

August thirty first.

Forecast twenty six degrees.

Warm breeze, edging close to being wind.

Bring on the anthistamines.

I hate spring.

A patriotic family

2006-08-28T09:39:00.000+09:30

The most mature of the fruits of my loins knows the second (and the first) verse of Our National Anthem. I've just watched him singing it this morning at school.

AND HE HAD HIS HAND ON THE GENERAL AREA OF HIS FRIGGING HEART.

Also, his jeans were falling down just a tiny bit, because I forgot to get him to do the bounce test (do these stay up my love? bounce, bounce yeah, these will be fine) after he put them on and before we left home. Anyhoo, details.

He seems to have learnt it (the national anthem) the traditional way - by his teachers at school - whereas I learnt it because my mother liked a bit of a sing after she had a brandy or two. Or three. That's when I learnt all my best stuff.

Pluto isn't a planet, but here's a star

2006-08-27T19:21:00.000+09:30

This is a picture of me standing on a shooting star.

book week dress-ups

2006-08-25T16:04:00.000+09:30

‘It could be as simple as a sarong over their clothes’. The notice about the book week parade (suggested focus: our Asian neighbours) is probably intended to reassure. And if ‘Asian dress-ups’ stretch you too far, then any fairy tale or book character will be welcome.

So, you could take this opportunity to help your child think of something interesting and imaginative to wear. Perhaps you could use some of the many hundreds of bits of paper now strewn across the floor of the car. They had lots of things about our Asian neighbours written and drawn on them.

Or, when you are in the market buying the ingredients for your father’s Birthday Feast, you could just pop into Chinatown and spend five bucks on a stereotype.

Then, the next morning, when your little boy decides he doesn’t want to go as Chinese, but would prefer to go as the long-time favourite super-rabbit

you cajole him into wearing the stereotype hat you spent five bucks on (there's no rabbits in Asia you lie), because while you trust that you have raised a resilient, independent-thinking child who won’t be crushed by big boys dressed as Jack Sparrow chanting some rhyming equivalent of ‘you’re wearing pink, fluffy bunny ears there’s nothing super about that’, you aren’t ready to have that trust tested in the battleground that is the school yard. And there’s nothing wrong with that really, is there, because it is a mother’s job to protect her child. You can use that mother-love idea to justify just about anything.

So, in the great race to raise children free of stereotyped and laden thought patterns - thus taking advantage of her real chance to make a true and a great contribution to lasting change, because let’s face it sitting on stalls and stuffing envelopes hasn’t been especially effective, has it - she has stumbled at the first, second and third hurdles. And fallen flat on her arse at the fourth.

She closes her eyes for a moment, wallowing in the liberation that failure brings. Then she picks herself up, dusts herself off, sighs and stuffs another 500 envelopes.

beta blogger

2006-08-23T14:59:00.000+09:30

Now with more ways to procrastinate...should my titles be this shade of pink, or should I go for something a little more mauve. Apparently, green would match this colour scheme, but I'm not so sure.

And this is why I will never, ever, not never do a renovation, because you have to start to care about such things (exactly which shade for the bathroom tiles), and in renovations it all costs money too.

Of course

2006-08-23T10:33:00.000+09:30

I'm doing that beta blogger thing and I've lost my sidebar. It wasn't much really, and it had lost its witty edge, but I did kind of like it. Plus, it took hours to do all those links to my favorite blogs.

Did I back up my old template? No, of course I didn't.

Cool to have labels but.

Memories

2006-08-21T22:00:00.000+09:30

Today, my littlest boy had his first day at pre-entry which is the thing you do in the term before you start pre-school (kindergarten). And so, I spent the day reflecting on how different my life will soon be, and how very sad I am that I won't be having any more children, and particularly won't be having any more babies, and I was thinking how much I love babies and what an excellent baby-mother I am (not too good on the three-year-olds, but ace with babies), and how wonderful the days alone in hospital with my littlest baby were...

And then I remembered the strangest thing.

The extra sheet that they put on top of your normal sheet in your hospital bed (to collect seeping blood and other associated muck) is called a kylie. The nurses say such things to each other as 'did you bring the kylie' or 'oh, do you think you can sit up while I just change your kylie'.

And being of the era when kylie could very easily have been my name, and also having a Best Friend at school with that name, I do think someone should have put more effort into that name.

Controller

2006-08-20T18:21:00.000+09:30

School Governing Council minutes: done.

Washing status: incomplete but in control.

And my bedside book pile, has recently been augmented by a nice big stack of mags courtesy of the recent house guests. I can, therefore, report on the:

Acquisition of new knowledge:
'If you put on weight all over, like Kelly Osbourne does, you could be a classic C-type. "These types are either very short or very tall," Dr Walker says. "They don't tend to be of average height, and they tend to have round heads and young faces. When they put on weight, they tend to put it on everywhere."

Major craving: Dairy products. "A C-type is much better off on a higher-protein, high-fat, low-carb and lower-dairy diet," he says.'

Best workout: Cardiovascular/aerobics with muscle conditioning.
Source: Woman's Day: June 26, 2006, p. 73
(it's the one with Katie's wedding diet battle, pregnant Nicole's wedding drama, Shannon's new baby joy Heather Mills' skinny crisis plus her new divorce scandal, and the exclusive Kerry Whelan's hubby begs 'tell me where my wife is' on the front cover)

At the movies

2006-08-18T11:36:00.000+09:30

'You know, if there were a situation when we might bump into each other, I reckon I'm the kind of person James Spader might possibly be able to love and marry and live with happily ever after,' she said.

She looked into the lolly bag. He had chosen all of his favourites - bananas, bullets, milkshakes - and none of hers - chicos, freckles, sherbs. It was true that when he had asked do you want any lollies she had said no. But still.

'Yes, you are,' he said, holding tightly to the bottom of the bag.

'So do you reckon, if James Spader did happen to be in Adelaide right now, and he did happen to come to this movie, and he did happen to fall in love with me, do you reckon I'd go home with him?'

'No,' he said, reaching past her indecision and grabbing a banana for himself. She thought of making a joke about the price of bananas. Are lolly bananas expensive? she thought of asking. But the bananas weren't worth the joke anymore. And anyway, this was the movies. Of course the bananas were expensive. Six bucks for a drink and a couple of lollies, and that's on top of the fifteen dollars each to get in, because their membership had expired not long after their first child was born.

'Really? You really think no?' she asked. She looked at him, and when he looked at her, she did not have to look away.

He bit the banana in half before he spoke. 'No, you'd still be going home in a metallic-coloured station-wagon.' He put the other half of the banana in his gob.

She looked back into the bag, decided on a milkshake and pulled it out.

'They never used to be square,' she said. 'They're supposed to be cylindrical.'

'They're the imitations,' he said. He scratched his cheek. 'The pretenders to the throne.'

She unwrapped it. There was less wax on the paper these days. She put it in her mouth, chewed.

'Tastes the same,' she said.

'Yeah, and they still get stuck in your teeth,' he said.

And then the usher opened the door, and they said thank you to him as they walked in.

Thursday afternoon

2006-08-17T13:39:00.000+09:30

Here's what I wanted to do today:
Write first draft of synopsis of first (unfinished) draft of new big writing project for submission to the September round of project assistance grants which would probably not be successful this round, but would at least help me to focus myself and clarify thoughts and provide pivot for further developing my ideas.

Here's what I could be doing which wouldn't be achieving the Most Important Thing, but would at least be productive:
Typing up minutes of school council meeting for distribution as promised.
Hanging out washing that has just finished.
Folding clean, dry washing.
Bringing in dry washing from the line.
Tidying, then cleaning, desk which is such a mess it is getting me down.
Thinking about tea, because there are house guests who will want feeding at some point.
Writing interesting blog post about family holidays or about rotten things in my fridge.
Cleaning fridge.
Defrosting freezer.
Sending proposal of Very Good Idea for an article to an editor who will ignore my email.
Ringing The Mister to apologise for being a bit grumpy on the phone earlier on, then explain why I am feeling a bit grumpy, thus making him feel slightly bad for forgetting once again, thus regaining the upper hand and the power to choose where we will dine tomorrow evening and which movie we will see this evening while house guests care for children.
Unpicking the toes of the socks, find out how to do proper socks, then finish socks, then deliver to friend.
Ringing Grandfather to ask how he is getting on.
Reading a book.
Gathering information about internet censorship and China and contacting people who might be interested in campaigning on said issue.
Similarly, gathering information about child soldiers and contacting people who might be interested in campaigning on said issue.
Going for a walk, thus gathering ideas and momentum, improving health, the chances of losing a bit of the red wine pudge and well-being.
Organising father's birthday present.
Playing the piano.
Finishing essay which someone is interested in.
Studying more about organisational diversity.
Phoning a friend to moan about pathetic life.
and so on...

Here's what I am doing:
Hitting refresh on bloglines every five minutes, listening to Days of our Lives and getting pissed off with myself whenever I look at the time

Book meme

2006-08-17T10:32:00.000+09:30

A meme. From Kate. My first ever.

1. One book you have read more than once

I have two children, ages five and about to turn four, so many books are on current high rotation. More than once. More than twice. More than a thousand times. Some of the ones that I am happy to read over and over:
Mr McGee (but a lot of the other Pamela Allen is extremely difficult to read aloud - I know this is slightly controversial, but it's true);
Diary of a Wombat, Jackie French;
Gordon's got a Snookie, Wayne Harris:
Let's Get a Pup, The Gruffalo's Child, pretty much anything by Martin Waddell, Maurice Sendak, Pierre, a Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue. And for the nights when the day is just over: Rosie's Walk. 27 words (update: this is wrong, it is 32 words).
And the current favourite: Tashi. Tashi and the anything. Genie. Demon. Giant. Anything.

2. One book you would want on a desert island
Something about survival skills and how to light a fire and so on. Or else a phone book from a really big city - preferably the yellow pages. It would give you lots of ideas and new things to think about.

3. One book that made you laugh
I read The Commitments in a Las Vegas laundromat. It was very, very funny. And so was Las Vegas. One of the best nights of my life. Shane Maloney's books make me laugh, and I laughed a lot at the first couple of Janet Evanovich books I read. The first part of A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson was hilarious.

4. One book that made you cry
The Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. And if I need a cathartic release, I go to bed with it, and read until one o'clock then cry myself to sleep.

5. One book you wish you had written
I'm not letting myself lust after other people's writing at the moment.

6. One book you wish had never been written
Every book has it's purpose? You have to write one crap book before you can write another, better book? This is copping out, isn't it? I get really annoyed by stuff like The Rainbow Fish, which was a full-on marketing exercise, not a book.

7. This week, the two books I am reading before I go to bed are:
Black Swan Green.
The Comedy Bible: from stand-up to sitcom - the comedy writer's ultimate how-to guide. Which I think says something about the true potential of my latest idea.

8. One book you have been meaning to read
Dark Victory. It's on my shelf, but I just can't bring myself to read it yet.

9. One book that changed your life
Vector Mechanics for Engineers.
You'd have to fall in love with someone who's got that on their bookshelf.

Now tag five people:
I think I've left it too late. Go and do it if you haven't already.
Thanks Kate. That was ace.

Sweet and sour sobs

2006-08-12T22:28:00.000+09:30

'Hey Mum, don't forget to look in your drink before you go to sleep. I gave you a surprise.'

More on airports

2006-08-10T23:03:00.000+09:30

And then, not long after I finished posting about my visit to the airport, I was back in the car and I heard that there has been an alleged threat to explode bombs which have been carried onto planes in hand luggage. It is serious, and people in airports are not worried about which magazines they will buy.

Of course, the post is rendered pathetic. And I am thinking I'm glad I live in Adelaide in the most feeble and self-congratulatory way, and I almost let myself think I should stop listening to the news, and it is taking all my effort to remember that we must condemn terror, not our human rights.

At the Adelaide International (and domestic) Airport

2006-08-10T14:42:00.000+09:30

This morning, I dropped my father off at the airport, because he is going on a short trip. This is a job I performed with the good grace and maturity you would expect from someone my age. I do not have a photograph of myself being graceful. Such moments are hard to capture on film.

At this time of the day, there are very few Men in Suits at the Adelaide Airport, because by now they have been in their Very Important Meetings for well over two hours. There are, however, very many people using their out-in-public tone of voice to say: ‘I told you to stay away from there.' Also because they are in public, they add such reasonable codas as: 'it’s dangerous, and I don't want you to hurt yourself’.

Here is my father’s plane. As he was boarding, I squinted for a bit, and it made him look like a rock star boarding his private jet after last night’s sold-out performance at the Entertainment Centre.

These are some of the places from which people will be arriving today. They will also depart for these places. However, I happen to know that you cannot go buy a ticket to Moomba without getting permission from someone or other. When you get to Moomba, you get a drink bottle and training on how to recognise the signs of thirst. This is second-hand knowledge. Live vicariously or not at all.

Here are some faux-retro bottom-holders:

Which are, I imagine, the kinds of things you can whip next door and get from here:
I can't say for sure, because it is a place where I have never been.

The newspaper stands in airports make me feel connected to the rest of the world and today I bought two newspapers, but one of them was The Advertiser. The woman behind the counter made me hand the newspapers to her so that she could scan them, and I was a bit scared of her fingernails. They were long, and the nailpolish was more than a little chipped. They are the kind of nails which are too thick to bite. For some reason instead of taking a photo of the newspapers, I took a photo of the books and magazines.

For a long time after my father’s plane has taken off, I watch the planes coming and going, even though I know that it will cost me a fortune in car park fees.

In a few minutes, this plane will turn to the left and fly directly over my grandfather's house. When I was young and slept on a fold up bed in the smallest room of his house, the planes woke me up in the morning because I wasn't used to them. I think of the times I was living in places away from Adelaide, and my grandfather came to meet me. My father would have done it, but he lived two and half hours away. More by bus. I remember how flat and how purple Adelaide used to look to me then. I think of the meetings in Sydney I don't go to anymore. I think of the trip to London I made last year, and how it was, being two flights away from my boys. I think of the trip to Portugal my heart wouldn’t let me make.

I think of saying goodbye and of saying hello.

It is just a trip to the airport, but nothing is straightforward.

Always on time

2006-08-10T09:19:00.000+09:30

By storing a replacement toner cartridge in my cupboard, and remembering that I have done so, I have foiled the universe's attempts to foil my attempts to never miss a deadline.

Be upstanding with me in my moment of victory.

Please be seated.

As you were.

Not so relaxed or comfortable

2006-08-09T12:51:00.000+09:30

On Sunday, when the late-winter sun was at its most perfect - warm, not too low, clear of clouds - and when my children were at their most playful, and when my partner was at his most relaxed, I went into town to listen to some "Comfort Women" tell their stories.

And one of them told us that every night when the sun starts to go down, she starts to feel the fear. Because that is when the soldiers would start lining up outside her door.

Today is the International Day of Action for the Justice of "Comfort Women". Go here to see what you can do.

Ridiculous things I have said to my children, part #2zillion

2006-08-08T18:08:00.000+09:30

All right, keep using the bookcase as a climbing frame and launch pad, but don't come complaining to me when you break your neck.

Music to suit your mood

2006-08-07T22:08:00.000+09:30

Pour one more glass of red. Let it slosh around the sides when it pours, let there be a clunk when the bottle goes back to the bench.

Turn down the lights, lean back in your chair. Sip on your wine, sip again, close your eyes.

Augie March. Moo, you bloody choir.

Go back to the best, the best, the very best night of your life. And then further back to the one that was better than that. The one you can only bear to think about every now and then.

What a night. What a song. What a night.

When the sun comes out

2006-08-07T15:16:00.000+09:30

None of this:

A bit of this:

And a shit-load of this:

TGIF (but without the drinks, because I'm still sick)

2006-08-04T17:59:00.000+09:30

Sometimes at the end of the day, at the end of the week when nothing's been done and nothing's been achieved, I look at the bench and the Rice Bubbles haven't even been put away and I really do think what's the bloody point.

And then at just the right time, a little boy says mum, would you like to come and see how good I've got at my skipping.

And I don't say can't you see I'm cooking the tea or I'll just finish hanging out this load.

I say yes.

And at the end of the day at the end of the week, thank goodness, there's always a point.

The trouble with Tuesdays...

2006-08-01T14:51:00.000+09:30

...is that on Monday nights, Boston Legal doesn't finish until 11.30 pm, and then there's Scrubs.

Shock! Prime Minister to contest next election.

2006-07-31T09:55:00.000+09:30

My mother did not teach me that 'if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything'. She taught me to just let fly.

But I haven't got anything to say about the report I have heard on the radio regarding the Prime Minister's decision to stay on to contest the next election.

Excuse me. I am off to sit in a dark room with my hands over my ears and my eyelids down.

Yes, I paid slightly too much, but...

2006-07-28T22:59:00.000+09:30

Did your mother sing you what shall we do with the drunken sailor while you were in the bath?

Apparently, not all mothers did.

37 years old, and still learning.

Well, that was unexpected. By 'sometime' I just meant, you know, it would take a while

2006-07-27T19:26:00.000+09:30

'I don't think it's any coincidence that cleaning the bathroom was followed by four days in bed with the worsest virus I've had for years. It's your turn next time.'

'Yes, I'll mark it on the calendar now,' he said, flicking through to December the twenty third.

If it's not one thing

2006-07-22T14:19:00.000+09:30

I am off to scrub the bathroom. I may be gone sometime.

Is that the time?

2006-07-21T15:43:00.000+09:30

It is that time of the day at that time of the year.

It brings on dreams of assignments that followed you around and menthol cigarettes you hid under your bed; of afternoon feeds and your baby asleep on your chest; of the CD you played on the road trip you couldn't afford but will never regret; of the one unrequited love that haunts you still; or of the two hangovers that really were worth it for the night before.

And then you dream of all the things you could still get done. Before tea, before bed, before life ends. But because it is that time of the day and that time of the year, it won’t really matter if you don’t.

a week in the hall

2006-07-20T13:42:00.000+09:30

On its own, a vacuum cleaner can't do anything except trip you over and piss you off.

White sauce

2006-07-18T19:46:00.000+09:30

To make a really, really crap white sauce you should first spend the entire day shouting at your children. You should take care in particular to shout such things as ‘I said don’t shout at me’. This last should be done in the backyard so that you can be sure you sound like a complete idiot to people you have never met. Your hair should be at the exact length and at the exact time in the washing cycle where it hangs in your eyes but can not be brushed away. You should be wearing clothes which did not have one last wear in them, and should have been put in the washing last night.

Take your saucepan out of the sink and wash out the guck from two nights before. Use the dishcloth which is starting to get that certain feel and that certain smell. Don’t make the saucepan sparkling clean, just clean enough so that you can be fairly sure you won’t get botulism. Leave the cloth in a wet mess on the bottom of the sink to be dealt with later on.

Just before you are about to pour in the milk, answer the phone even though no one you know or love would be ringing at this time. Let the person on the other end make you feel badly for cutting them short. Have another glass of wine, even though you have told yourself that this is the week you will not drink, of course you do not need wine to get you through the night.

Return to the saucepan, add the milk, watch the lumps form, make a half-hearted effort to squeeze them out, pour a bit more milk in. Rinse the spinach while the sauce overheats. Give a half-hearted stir with a metal soup spoon. Let the sound grate on you, but do not stop straight away. Allow every black thought you have ever had about yourself to swirl between your ears. Invent a few new ones. If you have trouble with this, you aren’t trying, and your white sauce will not be truly crap.

This white sauce will destroy your lasagne. To end the evening, curse yourself for ruining a dish which takes a fair amount of time and a large portion of your week’s best vegetables.

On the other hand, to make a good – a very good – white sauce you should take the perfectly-sized saucepan which you will find washed and put away exactly where it should be. As is the lid, although you do not need it tonight. Turn the radio down. Further down. Just a little bit more.

Do not worry that the children are being exceptionally loud. They are enjoying each other’s company and spending the kind of time from which they will one day draw their motivations to succeed or otherwise, the strength they will need to mend their first broken heart, and the odd dinner-party laugh.

Heat the saucepan over a gentle flame, and scoop the butter in at exactly the right time. Watch its colour change as it melts. Take in the smell. Close your eyes if you wish, but only for an instant. That is all you need. Sprinkle in the flour, and although you have not measured either the butter or the flour, you will get it exactly right. The flour does not have the maggots of pantry moths. Pour in half a cup of milk and watch as no lumps appear. Feel it thicken. Add a little more milk, and then a little more. Listen to the gentle rub of the spoon against the bottom of the saucepan and watch the trail of the spoon through the sauce. Stir and watch and stir and watch and stir and watch some more. Listen to the sound of the flame and for no reason at all think of camping trips.

Remove from the heat at exactly the right time. Use to make a tuna mornay. Pay no attention to the parts of your brain which normally tell you that the oceans are over-fished and that tuna have dangerously high levels of certain heavy metals which you would prefer that your children didn’t ingest.

Enjoy your meal.

Back to the wall

2006-07-17T16:57:00.000+09:30

Oooh.

Chrissy Amphlett on Andrew Denton tonight.

Chrissy Amphlett beats Grey's Anatomy, but someone needs to bring this house into the technological age, because apparently there's this way you can watch two shows even if they're on at the same time.

Melancholy wallow

2006-07-17T11:42:00.000+09:30

Because the chocolate cake at her father's house is made by the same person who, thirteen years ago, brought the first lasagne around, she goes home, and she wallows in melancholy.

She sits in the corner of the couch, the sound of her knitting needles and the feel of the wool for company. And she thinks of the lasagne again. She knows that time and her mind have made the lasagne much bigger than it ever was. But still, she thinks of lasagnes, curries, stews. Biscuits, cheese and fruit. And two days later the birthday cake. Vanilla sponge, iced in blue, and her brother's name on top.

She thinks while she knits and she knits while she thinks. She is teaching herself to knit socks. She finishes the light blue stripe, the dark blue stripe, the green stripe, the red. Her mother left patterns for cardigans, jumpers, ponchos, mittens, hats. But not a single pattern for socks.

She thinks while she knits. She thinks of grief which rolls through life in waves. She thinks of all the years that have been and all of those to come. She thinks of the people she hasn't met and the people who won't meet her. She thinks and she knits.

She puts her knitting down, climbs into bed and wishes the sheets had been changed. And then she hopes for one of those nights. A night when spirits haunt, when dreams are real, and a mother gives strength to her child.

Florablogging

2006-07-16T13:07:00.000+09:30

'Hey, they look like the sunrise.'

And out of the mouth of a five year old boy, it's not such a naff description. Sunrise or not, they're glorious.

Rainy day fun and games

2006-07-14T12:16:00.000+09:30

Based on the morning's experience of trying to be a good mother of children home on holidays and playing firstly snakes and ladders and then trouble, it can be stated with absolute surety that monopoly will not ever, never, ever, never be a feature of this family's family activities.

Now that the lights are (nearly all) fixed

2006-07-12T21:32:00.000+09:30

'The floor's very grubby, isn't it?'

'Yes, but I do like being able to see the dust dance again.'

Not purple

2006-07-12T15:54:00.000+09:30

When I look at the small pile of things I have bought myself this week - a pencil, a pen, a notebook, a brooch and a cardigan - I'm surprised to see that they are all one colour.

Red.

It is not a colour which has ever been mine.

Lavender Lady

2006-07-11T13:35:00.000+09:30

The Lavender Lady at intensive care has silver hair done in large waves too big to be curls. Her badge is purple and gold and her tissue box is blue.

She says and you are his daughter with a question mark, but and you are his son with something more of a full stop.

It's doing the job

2006-07-06T10:23:00.000+09:30

The man down the street with the thin alsation dog has a sign on his door. It is an A4 sheet in a plastic sleeve and it is written in arial bold.

PLEASE
DO
NOT
DISTURB

In the two years we have lived here, I have never seen anyone open the gate or walk down the path or knock on the wire door.

The unasked questions

2006-07-04T09:33:00.000+09:30

Chanel Ten, Big Brother, Gretel and those two guys would have a lot more credibility, and the story would be fuller had there been some extra questions. Just a few for starters:

So, do you think you have a better understanding of why those dratted rules might have been developed in the first place?
Oh, and do you (Gretel, scriptwriters and those removed from the house) see no inconsistency between throwing yourself into Big Brother and then banging on about how poorly you've been treated by an evil media that takes a story and runs with it?

Youse would have done well to be watching Boston Legal last night.

And another point of interest: hold up a sign saying free the refugees and incur the wrath of Gretel and even Rove; carry on in a manner such as this and let the waves of sympathy wash over you.

and just as the takeaway guy appeared, another globe blew

2006-06-29T21:52:00.000+09:30

'These lights are really starting to give me the shits.'

'It's called mood lighting for a reason.'

We know who taught them that

2006-06-29T15:46:00.000+09:30

They went down to the back fence to practice the words they weren't supposed to say.

Mummy's poo-poo.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Shut the fu*k-ing door.

who teaches them these things?

2006-06-28T18:56:00.000+09:30

Neighbour to youngest child: where's your mum?

Youngest child to neighbour: she's inside, because she's a wife.

If you drop a stitch and don't see it drop, did it really drop?

2006-06-28T09:22:00.000+09:30

'Right, so we're agreed: now that only 4 out of 13 lights are working, something has to be done.'

'Oh, yes. We agreed on that when we had 5 out of 13 lights working.'

The knitting needles clicked.

'They're a bit of a pain, aren't they, those halogen things?'

'Yeah. I certainly wouldn't have put them in if it was me did this room up.'

'Mmmm.'

And they passed the evening in the almost silence of an ageing relationship. The knitting needles were clicked. The milk rock was scoffed. The cups of tea were slurped.

And tomorrow the glasses would need to be found. And possibly a torch.

my own personal challenge

2006-06-27T09:55:00.000+09:30

10 am and I still don't know the soccer result.

Out of sight

2006-06-22T16:29:00.000+09:30

Stupidly, she has eaten all but the yellow snakes.

He will know that she has been sneaking them, and has eaten significantly more than her share.

If she eats the lot, there is a chance that he will never remember they didn't finish the lot in one sitting last night.

Eating the yellow snakes is punishment enough.

3.30 pm (more or less) again

2006-06-22T12:06:00.000+09:30

The tram doors gas-whoosh close, the computerised bell dings. She is still surprised by trams that glide and don’t rumble as they pull away from the stop.

The pedestrian crossing is ticking out its quick metallic pitch, so she moves quickly to catch the green lights. The water in her bag glugs.

The small white car waits for her. It needs a new muffler and that squeak can’t be good.

Her cough is turning into a bark, but her sniff is still dry.

The native grass in the median strip whispers trendily.

She turns right. She imagines that when the architect presented his plans for the eco-village, there were children on the lawn, but she walks through here four times a month, and she has never seen a child.

There is the sound of a kettle boiling and a student on the phone. Four essays due in the next three days and I have to work tonight. Someone is eating, the metal repeating itself against the ceramic. Quickly. She imagines it is a silver spoon and the dish is white. Soup is a perfect meal for this time of the day, when the shadows are already long and if your back is not facing exactly the right way, the sun doesn’t give enough warmth. Someone is drying their hair and someone else is vacuuming. They do not need to hit the nozzle so hard against the wall.

The leaves on the Japanese maple rub together. The rustle makes her wonder why it is that this tree still has all its leaves, and the others have nearly none.

A garage door right at the end is whirring, but it never opens. She turns back to check, but it is still closed.

The next shoes she hears make a loud clunk on the footpath, but they are light pink and made of soft leather and carry a small woman. The woman almost smiles. Her lipstick suits the dark of her eyes and the colour of her skin.

Three of the cars at the front of the school have their radios on, all tuned to the same station and not the one you’d expect. None of the windows are down. One woman is reading a New Idea. One has her head back and her eyes closed. One is a man, talking on a mobile phone and with the radio on like that she wonders how he can hear himself think.

A teacher says now when we go up the stairs in a voice which shows she says the same thing day after day, and day after day at least one of the children – a different one to the day before – will push, and another will yell, and another will pull the hat from another who will in turn retaliate.

If school is nearly finished, then she is nearly late for her meeting. Her trousers rub together as she walks. The fabric is heavy and makes a small snap with every second or third step.

She can not tell whether that it is the sound of air or water coming from behind the wall of the Car Detailers Garage.

The phone in her bag beeps the arrival of an SMS. She hopes the news is good, but she won't look until 5 o'clock. Just in case. It is a big meeting, and she will need to concentrate.

The man on the bike is wearing a helmet which doesn’t fit. His shoes are canvas and worn. He has a cardboard box strapped on to the back of his bike. He says hello in a voice which grates in his throat as he speaks.

She says hello, but he has already gone.

It is an eight minute walk and she is not quite late.

Recipe for fritz

2006-06-22T10:23:00.000+09:30

From the Green and Gold Cookery Book, forty fourth edition, 378,000 copies sold

Fritz sausage

One and a half pounds of chuck steak, 1/4 lb. bacon, 1 1/2 cups (large) of bread crumbs, one teaspoonful of salt, one small teaspoonful of pepper, one dessertspoonful of Worcester sauce, pinch of thyme and one egg.

Mince the steak and bacon very finely, add bread crumbs and the well-beaten egg; mix well together; make into a roll and tie in a floured cloth. Put into boiling water and boil 1 1/4 hours. Turn out and roll in bread crumbs and serve cold.

- Edith F. Rutt

'So,' the mister asked, 'if fritz really doesn't have pig p*n*s, does that mean a snot block isn't made of snot?'

The Grand Old Duke of York

2006-06-21T18:00:00.000+09:30

'The good thing about getting so worked up about stuff and worrying so much about the finer points and trying so hard not to upset anybody even when you know you can't make any of them truly, properly happy, is the incredible up you get when it is off your plate,' she said. 'If I didn't get so down, then I couldn't be this up.'

'Yes, I suppose,' the mister said picking his right foot ever so slightly off the floor and shifting it two millimetres to the right thus maintaining his ever-even-keeled-ness.

I will survive

2006-06-20T21:42:00.000+09:30

If you got selected to go on Survivor, would you not, as soon as you had put down the phone to the producers who were telling you you had won, go straight to the WEA or the Scouts or whatever appropriate place you could find, and enrol in a quick course in firelighting?

3.30 pm

2006-06-20T15:59:00.000+09:30

What is it that makes Justine such an ace PlaySchool presenter?

The warmth. It oozes from the television whenever she is on the screen. If you invited her around for the afternoon, you wouldn't feel like you had to do the dishes before she arrived.

The body. She is not at all angular and she looks like someone's mum (especially in those ones you still see every now and then where she is pregnant). She is someone you might come across in these particular years of pre-schoolness.

She can sing. Which means she does not have to make up for out-of-tune-ness and/or mono-tone-ness by droning above her co-presenter.

She is having a good time.

And Rhys is to PlaySchool what Tony Jones is to LateLine.

beyond adelaide

2006-06-18T17:47:00.000+09:30

create your own visited countries map

Very unrealistic map of places visited by Adelaide and the mister. For example, a visit to Shanghai, Beijing and a couple of places in between, splashes red across a huge swathe of unvisited territory. Likewise a week on a train and a few nights in Moscow translates itself into remarkably large splotch of red.

Particular points of note: no visits to India which completely destroys potential backpacker cred.

map not expected to change within the next twenty years

first spotted by dogpossum

Big Questions continued

2006-06-14T17:04:00.000+09:30

And at 5 o'clock:

a final cup of tea or the first glass of red?

still on the Big Questions

2006-06-14T14:17:00.000+09:30

And in the afternoon:

smarties or M&Ms?

Asking the Big Questions

2006-06-14T09:25:00.000+09:30

First hot drink of the morning:

coffee or tea?

Queen's Birthday Honours List spurns ThirdCat

2006-06-12T18:33:00.000+09:30

Of course she wouldn't have accepted a medal anyway.

Does it come with age?

2006-06-10T21:59:00.000+09:30

She thinks this time last year I was in Changi, waiting for my connection flight to London.

She remembers how humidity makes her feel. Almost like it is always holidays, but something even better than that.

There have been choices to make. Choices of no degrees. Choices of either-or.

She pokes into the corners of her mind, the layers of her soul, the curves of her heart. She pokes. Then she prods.

But there are still no lurking regrets.

blogopera update

2006-06-09T19:40:00.000+09:30

Despite the injustices heaped upon her by the universe and some mortals, she has found time to update the blogopera

We can't all be wrong. Can we?

2006-06-09T18:15:00.000+09:30

Even after spending the afternoon in a corner contemplating her actions, she was still filled with righteous indignation. No doubt about it, she had been wronged. And both her father and the mister agreed.

Injustice is a terrible thing.

Slow and steady wins the race. Doesn't it?

2006-06-08T09:07:00.000+09:30

Today was the first day of the rest of her life.

And she wasn't even dressed yet.

she scrubbed out one last thing on her list of things to do

2006-06-07T15:04:00.000+09:30

and before she knew it, it was time to write the cover letter

surprise

coffee and cream

2006-06-06T17:59:00.000+09:30

Even after two rounds of scones, there is enough King Island cream still in the bowl, that it is worth putting it on the top shelf of the fridge as soon as it is obvious that no one is eating any more. The popcorn, the figs and even a small piece of cheese are still out after the last person has said goodbye. The figs stay out all night.

During the week, she uses the old, larger teaspoon. She scoops the cream from the bowl, heaped teaspoons they would be called, always two and sometimes three. She does not stir, and before all of the cream can melt, she lifts the cup carefully to her lips. She sips.

The rest of the cream melts.

She has three cups of coffee instead of two and each is as good as the last.

The cream slides past her lips and through her body and folds itself onto the curve of her hips.

Unlike apples, which are fibrous, and travel through the small intestine, resting only briefly in the bowel.

TGIF

2006-06-02T17:21:00.000+09:30

'You look even more tired than you did this morning,' the teacher said in a voice and a tone which was not rude.

And thus could her week be described.

blogopera update

2006-05-30T13:41:00.000+09:30

the latest blogopera episode has been uploaded

Novels in my life: part one

2006-05-29T16:32:00.000+09:30

Remains of the day

Dedicated to the year ten English teacher who set an assignment 'design a book cover', and gave a B to the girl who designed the back cover because of course I meant the front cover, thus punishing the girl for her (complete) inability to draw, although the subject in question was English, and wasn't having compulsory art lessons suffering enough for a person like her? And also that B completely ignored the fact that in choosing to design the back cover, the girl demonstrated excellent creativity and insightful analysis of the book in question as well as a good understanding of all that there is in a book as object (isbn etc etc etc) and even her mother agreed that she was not being a smart arse and praised her creativity. And yes, that was the same teacher who taught Shakespeare by assigning a part from Romeo and Juliet to different students in the class and making them read it aloud day after day after week and stretching into a month, and NEVER NOT ONCE EVER giving the girl in question a part to read. Bitter? Yeah. And twisted too.

Birthday candles

2006-05-28T16:52:00.000+09:30

The candle burns not for us, but for those whom we failed to rescue from prison, who were shot on the way to prison, who were tortured, who were kidnapped, who 'disappeared'. That's who the candle is for.
Peter Benenson, founder of Amnesty International.

Amnesty International is 45 years old today

eye of the beholder

2006-05-27T12:59:00.000+09:30

WTF and OMG

2006-05-26T14:57:00.000+09:30

'Do I look funny in this?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said. 'And gorgeous too.'

'I hope so.'

Adelaide is off to stand up on a stage in front of people and try to make them laugh.

And what's the one thing you don't want to hear at your second-to-last rehearsal?

'Erm...what did you do with your funny stuff?'

WTF and OMG indeed.

torture and the hypotheticals

2006-05-24T11:45:00.000+09:30

The Hypotheticals replayed last night on Channel 9 ended in a most disturbing way. Too many people around the table - including the new people's hero Bill Shorten - were willing to consider transporting someone (who may or may not have information about Osama bin Laden) off to Egypt where there is some new torture method to do with teeth.

Amnesty International says this:
Torture and other ill-treatment that is cruel, inhuman or degrading is repugnant, immoral and illegal, and always wrong...Torture or other ill-treatment not only harms the victim, it brutalises the perpetrator and the societies that allow it to happen. It is cruel, inhuman and degrades us all.

To add your name to 11000 candles to stop torture, visit the website here.

And Bill Shorten: you've got some thinking to do (IMHO)

odd choice

2006-05-23T15:10:00.000+09:30

Say you were a bit shorter than most other people you knew. And say a couple of years of child-bearing plus too much red wine plus genetics had left you with not insubstantial hips and a bottom that makes sitting quite comfy really.

Would you buy something from a label called wombat?

Sunday shopping in the Mall

2006-05-21T20:37:00.000+09:30

The day is grey and they are knocking the tram barn down. She has never known a time that the tram barn was used and the tram she gets off now spends its nights down at Morphetville.

There is a road, a barricade, a man with a reflective jacket and a radio. She can’t get close enough to take a photo. But because of the way the wind blows, she gets a light spray from the hose they are using to keep down the dust.

She leaves Victoria Square, walks along King William Street, and it must be the day for it.

They are knocking The Criterion down.

She is not one to huff and puff about things that aren’t the same and she tries not to say too often we all used to and isn’t it a shame? And did she mention her family’s income depends on the fact that when one building goes down another goes up in its place.

But they are grace-filled buildings, and when they get knocked down, no one even bothers to watch.

She reaches the Beehive Corner. She would be cross if Haigh’s got knocked down. She starts her shopping with a packet of dark frogs. She has earlier promised herself that she will not, but she does not berate herself for the chocolate slip. Perhaps she should have chosen peppermint today.

On Sundays in the Mall, most of the good shops are closed. She never comes in, so she hadn’t known.

She is here now, and has to make do. She buys the present first.

There is a school band, playing under the canopy. They are lucky, because the forecast was for rain. Some of them wear uniforms and some of them do not quite. Their uniform doesn’t include a tie. They make her think of her boyfriend who played a trumpet and her brother who played the trombone.

The teacher is not young. She imagines that he thinks, in February every year, can I do another year of this?

And then he thinks: but if I didn’t, what would I do?

branching out

2006-05-20T13:37:00.000+09:30

The adelaide blogopera experiment is here

This school would be perfect if...

2006-05-19T10:43:00.000+09:30

It was her introduction to the phenomona known as pupil-free days.

Once upon a time

2006-05-18T22:38:00.000+09:30

It's true: if you eat enough chocolate frogs you will look like one.

She could only hope that the mister - a prince of the handsomest kind - would take the time to kiss her before he scoffed her down.

Moroccan Rose

2006-05-18T18:51:00.000+09:30

The cream is Moroccan Rose and new.

It is thick and rich and coloured gently pink.

She scoops it on after she has towelled her hair and before she brushes powder on her cheeks. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right.

The lid and the label are black and after only a week, they are showing her fingerprints.

It has the kind of smell which wafts in and out of her day and makes her reach for memories that haven't been made.

boxing rules

2006-05-18T18:05:00.000+09:30

She heard on the radio, that after the fight between Anthony Mundine and some dude called Green, a bunch of stoushes broke out in pubs where the fights had been showing on the televisions.
And isn't that the kind of world you want to be bringing two little boys up in? she thought to herself.

It was an imperfect sentence and technically flawed, but she knew what she meant.

today at a large and soul-less shop

2006-05-16T13:32:00.000+09:30

'No, sorry, it isn't worth fixing this camera you've only had for three years...anything to do with the batteries and it's a whole new motherboard...nah, it's not even worth sending it away...we don't sell these anymore...pity your warranty has expired...let me show you this new one it's got face recognition, it's really cool...'

Avert eyes from all ridiculously appealing consumer goods including televisions you don't need binoculars to see and dvd players which would mean you could start watching movies again.

Trudge, trudge, trudge, mutter, mutter, mutter...yes, we're going home now, please don't jump on the lounge...no daddy does not let you bounce on the lounges in shops...nor does your granny...please don't yell at me.

Standing in the doorway, checking everything is back in bag after accidental spill.

Overheard: 'yeah, look, mate, can't stop now, get your missus to give mine a ring...yeah, look, I'd better leave it with you, you know what my missus is like it'll never get done'.

Get in the car. Leave the car park without running anyone down.

Is it bed time yet?

2006-05-16T10:47:00.000+09:30

It doesn't matter what time you go to bed, the planes and the wattle birds all start again at dawn.

Final footy post for the week

2006-05-15T17:47:00.000+09:30

Dear Chocko

It's a poor workman blames his tools.

Love, Adelaide

Instead of listening to Phillip Adams, I listen to..

2006-05-15T16:53:00.000+09:30

Note to KG: it is rarely ironic, and never ironical.

Also, could you be a little less partisan, and a little less parochial.

elevenses

2006-05-15T11:33:00.000+09:30

No one ever achieved greatness sitting their kid in front of the CD player.

Silence from the child (or as close to it as you can expect from a three year old), but you try concentrating with they might be giants, bananas in pyjamas, or dinosaur tales in the background. Even quality stories and tunes burrow themselves into your brain and leave no room for original, or even lucid, thought.

'Come on, let's go for a walk,' she said. At least she could exercise her body if not her brain.

'I'm listening to my CDs,' he said with that particular tone in his voice.

May as well fold the clothes then, she thought.

morning person

2006-05-15T10:06:00.000+09:30

They needed to work on their morning routine.

'See you when I get home, I love you, don't forget to wake Mum up at eight o'clock' just wasn't cutting it.

whoops

2006-05-14T17:49:00.000+09:30

Oh. She did, in fact, have somewhere she should have been on Saturday night. And while she could offer all manner of excuses, they would sound undergraduate, and in the end it came down to this:

'I forgot.'

'Perhaps,' the mister said, 'a little less of the red?'

Port plays the Bulldogs

2006-05-14T13:46:00.000+09:30

She was no expert, but she had some advice nonetheless.

Kick it to Cornes.

Do it for your jumper.

And if you can't think of your jumper, remember your mum is watching.

Update: thrashed. Glad it was the mister's turn with the season ticket.

wasabi peas

2006-05-13T19:42:00.000+09:30

The wasabi peas were not what she had expected, but she would be buying more next week.

Another Saturday night in begins

2006-05-13T18:45:00.000+09:30

The desk was positioned so that the fire warmed the back of the chair and for no reason at all (that she could think of) she remembered the smell of perms.

The wine was not her favourite, but it was cheap if you bought it by the case.

The boy who looks nothing like her knows that four plus three equals seven and eats fresh asparagus stalks for tea while the other one plays they might be giants for the millionth time that week and even where do they make balloons has started to give her the shits.

The skeleton pyjamas have not dried in time to be worn tonight and neither have her favourite pillowcases.

But she does all her worrying during the day and thinks she will use the night to sleep. She swigs again at the red just to make sure, and she is sorry that at the very moment she was standing at the cheese counter today she had remembered that she does not want to put on any more weight, so there was no camembert or blue vein to be had for another week.

google again

2006-05-12T12:00:00.000+09:30

Apparently, if you google mister dishwasher adelaide, you will be led to this blog (yes, no 1 out of 3740 search results).

That's the kind of stuff you can't make up.

PS If you, or someone you know, have swallowed a metal marble, seek urgent medical advice. You will not find such advice here. If you are thinking of doing it: don't.

Don't look for lanky here

2006-05-11T11:42:00.000+09:30

The whole family had the kind of legs which meant they were always making, or paying for, cuffs.

You'd miss a night at home watching Tony Jones for this

2006-05-11T10:44:00.000+09:30

When Adelaide were a wee a bit younger than she now is, she had looked at the people sitting in the seats at Hoodoo Gurus concerts and thought to herself why even come if you're just gonna sit in the seats. What's the point if you're not gonna dance?

And now, having spent the night listening to the wondrous, the glorious Ben Harper from the seats, she understood.

There are times when you want the music to keep you still.

Can't concentrate

2006-05-10T12:32:00.000+09:30

There are days when there is nothing you can do but fold the towels, wash the floors and turn the music up.

On the stairs at school

2006-05-09T09:31:00.000+09:30

This morning, at the bottom of the stairs, they bumped into one of Adelaide's favourite little girls. An intriguing soul she is, with a beautiful coat and a mother who delivers babies or something like that, so quite often at the end of the day, the receptionist calls out you're going to out of school care, but your mum's gonna get here as soon as she can.

'You see this?' the little girl said. She was wearing her beautiful coat with the buttons all done up, and she was holding a small, shimmery purple ball. She shook it, and the ball made a dull tinkling sound. 'I found it on the road. It means I win the competition. We said the first one to find one of those on the road wins the competition.'

Her boys looked at Adelaide, because we don't have competitions and winners in our house

'One of Santa's reindeers dropped it,' the girl said.

Her oldest boy, a Santa Claus agnostic, looked again at Adelaide.

'Did they?' Adelaide said. She smiled and wished that she could put her arm around the girl's shoulders, rub her hands down her hair. 'We'd better start going up the stairs.'

'Do you know what I wished for?' They all walked on the left side and held the rail. There were no parents coming back down. 'I wished that a reindeer would drop this on the road. And they did.'

Her oldest boy looked around at Adelaide. Adelaide shook her head.

And then, when they got to the top of the stairs, everyone's favourite school support officer was there.

'Oh, hello,' the little girl said to the SSO. She did not look back at Adelaide and her boys. But even as Adelaide took the lunch box out of the bag, held the reader folder while the reader was painstakingly exchanged, Adelaide was watching the little girl.

'This is from my cat,' the little girl said showing the SSO the little purple ball. 'We got her put down, and this is all that's left.'

'That's very sad,' the SSO said.

'It was my dad's cat,' the little girl said.

'Oh,' the SSO said. 'Do you think you need a hug?' And that SSO was the kind of friend who could walk into your house at exactly the right time, and do the dishes for you, and you would like that she hadn't asked, and then you'd let her make you a pot of tomato and lentil soup. And when she left, you'd realise you hadn't cried for over an hour.

The little girl shook her head, turned and walked towards her classroom.

The SSO caught Adelaide's eye, smiled.

'How about those miners?' she said to Adelaide.

Retail therapy

2006-05-06T19:01:00.000+09:30

On Saturdays, she thinks of the days when her mother and her brother always slept in.

Dad did the dishes and if they had lived in the city, she would have watched cartoons. When the dishes were done, she followed Dad to the green moke he drove, and they did the shopping down the street.

Her mother and her brother were still asleep.

She wore her netball uniform and Dad knew everyone. She stood nearby while he talked at some, nodded at the words of others. She pushed small stones into small piles with her feet or jumped around cracks or wrote monologues of things she should have said. Later on, she would ask for a dollar and go into the newsagent to buy a new book.

When he is listening to someone, Dad still folds his arms like that.

At Morrell's, the girls behind the counter stuck pencils behind their ears and Dad said 'a kilo of unwashed'. They added rows of numbers by whispering under their breath. You could pay by cash or cheque, the new Coles hadn't opened yet and Tom's didn't sell much in the way of fruit and veg.

The butcher gave her fritz and talked to Dad about the pigeons he was racing that week. The butcher mumbled everything. She remembers the silver rail she would lean on and the mirror behind the meat.

By the time they got home, the washing machine was on. Was the laundry floor always flooded with clothes and suds?

They carried the shopping in and put it in the corner, just inside the kitchen door. Every now and then, when no one was looking, the cat got into the meat. Someone had to clean out the fridge every now and then. Their freezer was on the bottom, and it was something that everyone noticed. They said our freezer is on the top.

In the afternoons, she went to netball, her father went to hockey and her brother did whatever it is that younger brothers do. Her mother stayed home to sew houndstooth jackets and plant Chinese money trees.

In those days, they ate tea together every Saturday night and these days, when things go arse-up, it’s the Saturdays she thinks about.

The washing is urgent now

2006-05-06T17:25:00.000+09:30

The jumper fell on her hips in a most unflattering way, but at least it didn't smell.

before things get too serious

2006-05-05T21:41:00.000+09:30

Q: What did the 0 say to the 8?

A: Nice belt.

Christmas cards in May

2006-05-04T09:42:00.000+09:30

The Christmas cards from her best friends were still on the mantlepiece. One of the cards had come in November, and here we are in May. She saw the cards every day, but she looked at them only every now and then.

This morning she picked them up, one by one, but she did not put them down. She held them in a small pile in her hand. The dust from the cards brushed against, then settled in, her fingertips. It was a sensation she had never liked and when she was young she used to lick the tips of her fingers then rub them against her thumb. It was something that had annoyed her mother.

She used her other hand to rub her eyes then scratch her hair. She had showered as soon as she got out of bed, but there were nights which could not be washed away.

Now that she had them in her hand she did not know what to do with the cards. She could see the dust on the mantlepiece, and it felt wrong to put them back.

The window rattled in the way it had started to do. The top window pane was still cracked and had that small, inexplicable hole. It was old, thin glass. And rattling like that. It was the kind of thing you should fix.

It was a good place to put the cards though. Over there on the window sill. She could move the rocks and the broken cup. And the paint was light, so you couldn't really see the dust.

If the cards were there, then from her desk, she would only have to turn her head a little and she would be able to see them. All lined up.

And she could remind herself to be the person her friends thought she was.

good news

2006-05-03T10:41:00.000+09:30

Adelaide lifted the lid of the toilet seat only to find that it had already been cleaned.

And people say romance is dead.