And sometimes you do end up studying tired...

I am laughing at myself. (again)

I've just been going over my latest chapters of the textbook that deal with the future tense to get the information firmly into my head before attacking the workbook. My head is full of contractions and ablauts; tense formative sigmas or epsilon sigmas; words that have two different roots but act as one; and all the other information that is not entirely settled into its logical place in my brain.

So I start to do the first exercise, carefully working out the person, number, tense, voice, mood (hard one, that, as we have only done indicative as yet!), and the lexical form. All going well, so far.

Then the actual whole point of the exercise - the inflected meaning. And I find myself staring at it blindly, trying to comprehend what to put in this box... So how do you render future in English?

"I will do" better next time, but I just thought I'd share.

The chance that studying joins driving as one of those things I don't do if I'm tired?

Not Dead Yet.

Warning - This post is vintage Jen. The Exuberantly Verbose Version. If you are not a fan of the odd long post stop reading now. By the way, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING READING THIS BLOG??!!??

I have a client. He is an elderly man who doesn’t appear to enjoy the best health and often wheezes his way through our meetings. When I ring to talk to him and ask how he’s doing, he invariably answers, “I’m not dead yet, young lady,” in the beautifully lyrical remnants of the Italian accent of his youth.

It’s a bit disconcerting until you realise he’s joking and has probably used that same response for the last 50 years. I mean, it sounds as though his laboured breathing might stop in the near foreseeable, but obviously he’s not expecting it any time soon.

Today it so happens that I’m a bit closer to the end of my life than I am to the beginning.

Yes, I know that’s true for everyday, but it so happens that the odometer clicks over another year as of about 6pm this evening. And according to my Dad, I’m now middle aged. Yep. If I’m headed for three-score years and ten, I’m half-way. Thanks, Dad.

So I was very heartened to find out that I still have youth and vitality.

How did I find out that I still have youth and vitality, you ask?

Well… (and this is where it gets long)

Sometimes I have to go down to my Beloved’s business to mind the phones and the counter because both of the boys have to be out doing installations or quotes and someone needs to “shed-sit”. I take my work down and mind the phone for a few hours.

Today the phone rang and it was someone who is getting work done by the business in the shed next door. They are closed for a few days, but I know that the two businesses help each other out often (sometimes they mind the phone when our boys are out, for example), so I was happy to do what I could to help.

It was quite simple. It involved going and getting the VIN off a trailer for some paperwork the new owners are filling out and needs to be finalised as soon as possible.

Sounds easy?

Not so much.

You see, between the trailer and where I was standing is a six foot high chain mesh fence. The gate was padlocked.

Now, neither of the boys would have had any difficulty in scaling the fence, reading the VIN, and letting the lady know.

I, on the other hand, am a klutz. A ten-tonne weakling who has no gross motor coordination. At all. Whatsoever.

And I’ve never made a habit of scaling fences. I’ve always been a law abiding citizen who avoids breaking into industrial premises. Or any premises at all, really.

But, I am also a bit of a people pleaser, so of course I will give it a go.

I put the phone down between the gates and used the hinges as a toe hold to get started. Only one toe slip on the way up. Fortunately the panel beside the gate had a top-rail, and I swung my leg over just like riding a horse (except backwards – wrong leg) onto the cross brace that was cleverly placed on the far side for just such a situation.

I was very proud of myself for getting there, and it was easy getting down because I simply shuffled down the cross-brace until it was low enough to jump.

I picked up the phone and read off the necessary number (thankfully the trailer was not locked), then farewelled the lady and headed back to the fence. One issue remained - now that I was in the back yard I had to get out.

Actually, it was a bit easier to get up from this side. My friendly cross-brace allowed me to get up on the top of the fence with ease. The only problem was that the top hinge had a padlock chain around it, and securing a toe hold on the other side was not easy. It was also an awfully long way from the ground and the bottom hinge was not going to be easy to seek by feel.

So I drew on my horse riding past to remember that I’ve jumped off heights two footed many times in the past when I was much shorter than I am now, therefore possibly the equivalent of the fence to the ground compared to my size now.

Or so I hoped.

I got my toe hold, swung my leg back across, rested a little on my tum and then swung both legs out together and jumped.

Perfect two-footed landing. Unfortunately it is now about 10 years since I last rode a horse and I was a little unprepared for the momentum a woman’s body can accumulate during the process of dropping.

The recesses of my brain seem to be saying that the rate of acceleration is 9.8 seconds per second, but firstly I’m not certain that my brain would accurately remember Maths II from more than 15 years ago, and secondly I can’t remember what I should do with that fact once I’ve ascertained the accuracy of it.

Nevermind – whatever the mathematical reasons for it, my legs couldn’t hold my weight at that speed and so I fell back onto my bottom and rolled over onto my back in a surprisingly restrained, loose but controlled way. I used to do much the same thing when I achieved an ‘accidental dismount’ from a horse.

Unfortunately, another reminder of my horse riding days is that there is inevitably a prickle patch wherever you happen to end up coming off.

I was wearing a thin cotton top (which has no protection from prickles at all) and suede pants (which are not the easiest things to get prickles out of).

But dodgy landing aside, I was incredibly proud of myself. I still have it. I am strong. I am not ancient and incapable. I can do ANYTHING! (insert loud, triumphant music here)


This story could have finished here, except that there was one other thing.

One other thing that makes the whole rigmarole hilarious.

One other thing that makes it so that it could only happen to me.

My Beloved came back and I told him the story and how proud of myself I was. He looked at me oddly before telling me the truth.

You see, the land with his and the other businesses on it and the land belonging to the shop next door are part of the same property, despite the fence between them. The backyard area where the trailer is sitting is common to both.

And whilst the gate from this side to the back yard is locked because the neighbours are not open today, the gate from the shop next door is not.

The chance that it occurred to me to walk out to the street, then down the neighbour’s fence and into the back yard through their gate?

… Approximately None
(But would I have felt as ALIVE!?!)

A Variation on an Australian Classic...

I wasn't going to do a specific Australia Day post. For one thing, it almost seems unAustralian to make a big thing out of ourselves. Almost like skiting. Really, we should pack up a picnic, go somewhere remote, and enjoy being eaten alive by insects for the day because I forgot the Aeroguard.



However, it seemed more important to clean out everything in the pantry, see what Russel has eaten, and give him fewer hidey-holes. Maybe we could then catch and release him (which would almost be like going fishing, which is a way many people spend the Aussie Day long weekend). Or at least there would be fewer food alternatives and this may make the bait more attractive.



So we found an old corflute public notification sign to put across the door of the pantry to block Russel's escape, and my Beloved passed stuff out to me, and I in turn placed it on any flat space that I could find. It's amazing how much stuff fits into a 1200 millimetre (4 foot) square pantry. And how much mess it creates in the kitchen and dining room.


After most of the stuff was out, we could see Russel running around the floor, looking for a better hiding place. There wasn't one. He was quite cute - a little brown critter with big dark eyes and a tiny twitching nose.
Russel - Faster than a speeding... digital camera. (You can see his tail to the right of the photo)

My Beloved got an ice cream container and was trying to scoop Russel up and put the lid on. He wasn't quick enough with the lid.

Then the little mouse found an excellent hiding place.

It was nice, and dark, and enclosed.

My Beloved wasn't too certain about having a mouse running up the inside of his work trousers, and was madly trying to shake Russel out; but because Russel was running up the trousers, not his leg (and my Beloved has slender, elegant racehorse legs that don't fill up the aforementioned trousers) my Beloved wasn't exactly certain where Russel was at any given time.

My man is brave. He was heard to say at one point, "I hope he doesn't bite," as he tried to shake the pesky rodent down, but in the end Russel's climb was terminated by the fact that my Beloved always wears a belt. There was no where else to go. My Beloved then realised that he'd accidently managed to capture the little mouse (albeit in a slightly unorthodox fashion), clapped a hand over his right buttock, moved the blockade with his free hand and headed outside to work on the 'release' part of proceedings.

I probably would have released Russel a little further away from our house, but for some reason my Beloved wasn't keen on being out in public view during this stage of operations (perhaps some of Russel's furtive behaviour had rubbed off on him). From our back verandah I saw Russel streak away to find somewhere to hide.

Now I just have to go and clean out all the shelves in the pantry, check all the grocery items for signs of mouse, and put them back. At least I know that the pantry needed some rearranging anyway and so will take this opportunity to do so.

And I know someone is going to comment, "How is that story in anyway related to the title?"

Well, I couldn't help but think that many people chose to go to the beach for Australia Day. Some men wear Budgie Smugglers (i.e. Speedos). My Beloved just chose to wear Mouse Smugglers instead.

What's the chance that this new fashion will take on for Australia Day?

... Approximately None!

Although maybe next year Russel might like to go to the beach.