Bright, Shiny, New Bike

Well it WAS, back in 1988. When I got a new, light 10 speed bike to replace Mum's truly ancient one that I'd been riding.

It was shiny and blue and 10 speed and had a bag carrier on the back, and was exactly what I dreamed of.

I got it back from the bike shop today with two new tyres and tubes, new hand grips, a new back brake cable (sort of necessary, given the old one had snapped) and all greased and working well. Including a guarantee that the chain will not come off when I change between 5 & 6 gears as it used to when I was on my way to school.

It may not be as shiny. The chrome bits might have a tad of surface rust, and the seat might have a few tiny tears in the upholstery (and be much less comfortable than I remember), but hey, I can now proceed to get fit.

So I walked down to town, picked it up and rode it home.

And I did not die.

And the chance I expected to survive the trip home?

Indeed.

10 years

Today we are ten.

And so my Beloved has taken two days off work, and we are going to an idyllic cabin beside a creek in the lovely country just to the south of us, where we shall have a real fire, and nothing we need to go and do...

... except for keeping each other from freezing, because it's supposed to get really, really cold on the weekend, and we will be in the surrounding countryside to Stanthorpe, the place in Queensland where it is most likely to snow.

And how much of a problem do I have with keeping each other warm on what is, after all, our wedding anniversary?

Precisely.

Remembering Chair Grandma

I have been incredibly blessed in my life that I not only had a full set of 4 grandparents for most of my primary school years, but that I can remember three of my great-grandparents as well. Family is important to me, and I find the cross-generational stuff wonderful.

And given the fact that I had four Grandmas for my earliest years, it was not unexpected that I would have special names for each of them:

I had Horsey Grandma (my Dad's Mum) who used to bounce me on her leg and sing the "Horsey, Horsey clippety clop" rhyme for me. (Someone had to give the Hippomanic gene a start in life!) She used to object to being called that, until she heard that I used to call my other grandmother...

Cuckoo Grandma (my Mum's Mum) because she had a cuckoo clock. She was the one who sent me letters. She was not in anyway mentally unbalanced.

Then there was Little Grandma (my Mum's Mum's Mum) who was not precisely tall.
And there was Chair Grandma (my Dad's Mum's Mum) because she was pretty much chair bound when I knew her.

It is amazing that I remember Chair Grandma. Firstly, it's amazing that she lived long enough to marry and procreate (particularly as my Grandma was her youngest). Then it's amazing that she lived long enough to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Then it is amazing that I have any memory of her, given the fact that she died a few months before my second birthday.

You see, she was from a reasonably well-to-do family on the Northern side of Sydney. As a single young lady she once went for a job, and stipulated that she would not be available on Thursday nights, because she wouldn't miss prayer meeting. The lady doing the interview laughed, because girls who went to prayer meetings didn't usually do the sort of evening work that was on offer. Innocence is not always bliss.

She (and her sisters) were devout in their expression of their Christian faith. They used to visit the slums as part of their charity work, and Chair Grandma contracted TB from exposure to this environment.

The good thing from my perspective was that she was sent to family in the country to get all the clean air, fresh food and all that (which was about all you could do for TB back then). This was where she met my great-grandfather. She was a good horse woman and they used to get lost together to enjoy more time with each other as they courted.

She had three children out of about (I think) 13 pregnancies. This must have been heart-breaking. My Grandmother was the post World War One bub (yet another chance for me not to exist if my great-grandad hadn't got through the war) and the end of the family.

Chair Grandma had really bad anaemia, and all that could be done for it at that time was for her to eat mushed up raw liver. Blerrchh!

But she was a survivor.

Mum and I used to visit her at the home very frequently when I was little. I remember her shadowy figure sitting in her armchair beside a window. I couldn't describe her features, but I remember her. Apparently, when we visited the staff had a game to see if they could distract me as I single-mindedly waddled towards her room, shrugging them off with "I'se busy".

The strange thing is that although I couldn't describe her features I remember taking my Grandma (Horsey Grandma, if you needed reminding) to visit her older sister in her nursing home. When I walked into the room, my aunt was sitting in an arm chair beside a window. I got goosebumps. When we left, I had to ask Grandma whether her sister looked like Chair Grandma, or was my memory faulty? Yep. Spitting image. No wonder I was freaked out.

I also remember her lying in her bed (on the other side of the window). This image is vaguely troubling to me. Mum says the only time that Chair Grandma was in her bed was the week she died. I was so troubled that Mum decided not to take me back, but how was she going to explain that to me? Chair Grandma died before it was time for our next visit.

When Chair Grandma died, my great-aunt suggested to my Grandmother that she should keep Chair Grandma's good watch for Jennifer. So the once I was all grown up Grandma had the watch cleaned and gave it to me. It is a lovely cheery ticking watch (you know, has to be wound up each morning) that I've worn for good ever since. And occasionally, when my other watch ran out of batteries or the strap broke, I'd wear all the time.






I like that it's delicate and elegant. Dainty. Classic. Timeless. I like it because it has a bright, cheery tick, even when life wasn't going well in one part of my life or another. And I like it because it reminds me of Chair Grandma.



The sad part of the story happened yesterday. A couple of weeks ago it stopped. I could coax it to start again temporarily by some gentle tapping, but the tick was loose, not the crisp, cheery tick it should have been. I took it down to the local watchmaker to get a quote to make it tick merrily once more.



Yesterday the girl at the shop told me that the balance is broken, and it is so old that they don't make them anymore. It can't be replaced.



I asked her if it was possible to get whatever it needed machined especially. She checked with the watchmaker, and yes, it could be done, but it would cost in excess of $400 because it would be a once off. It could cost even more.



So today I went down to the shop to pick it up. I felt a little like I was going to the Vet to pick up my dead pet for decent burial. It' s only a thing, and it doesn't mean my memories are gone. I couldn't put it in my handbag, I had to hold it as I walked back to the car.



And the chance I wasn't repeating, "it's only a thing, it's only a thing" to myself?



... mmm.

A Flautist's Portion

In a previous church I used to regularly play the flute for the hymns during the service.

There was only one small problem.

You see, for our communion service we use cut up pieces of bread and some of the elders were very... hmmm... generous... with the portions.

This is no problem for the general congregation, or the organists, but for someone who is hurriedly masticating in order to play background music on a wind instrument as the elders then take the trays of little glasses around there are a few issues.

A brass player who has accidentally ends up with a tiny unswallowed portion floating around their mouth simply ends up with half-chewed bits of bread clogging up the the valves and other mysterious intestinal parts of their instrument.

For the flautist it is worse.

Because the flute is played by passing air across a hole in the mouth-piece (much like sounding a note across the top of a bottle) a good flute player can end up accidentally jet-propel that tiny crumb of sloppy bread halfway across the breadth of the church. In front of everybody.

Or even worse - (depending on which way one happened to be facing) into the congregation. I'm certain that the most devout and reflective individual would be roused from prayer by the sudden application of fast moving soggy bread to their face.

And the generosity of the elders was such that when they served the flautist they inevitably selected the largest piece of bread available. Fully an inch cube of dry bread (some exaggeration is inevitable on this blog) to be dealt with in a very short time-span. So kind of them. As a result I still refer to Communion Bread Larger Than Required as a "Flautist's Portion", and was seriously reminded of this yesterday in the service here, despite the fact that I was not playing.

I was at one point going to write a tongue-in-cheek letter to the church council regarding this issue, but the chance that they would have found it amusing?

... Approximately None.

And Now for a Fun Game...

When I was a girl (all those years ago), my family used to play a regular Sunday morning game. We kids would get to run all around the house looking for hidden treasure.

The game was called "Let's find Mum's glasses before we can leave for Church". It never occured to us that if we couldn't find them we wouldn't have to leave for church - although I have a sneaking presentiment that we would have had to go glasses-less anyway (my parents were like that).

It was a regular feature of our week because Mum didn't need her glasses all the time, so they would be whereever she last needed them.

This morning I had a little walk down memory lane. I played "Let's find My glasses before I can sit down at the computer".

It occurs to me that I would now be approximately the same age as my Mum was when we used to play the game. Unfortunately, I didn't procreate early enough to have any help in my search. I always knew that kids would come in handy for something.

The chance that my Mum will read this?

... Approximately None! (she's away for a week - he, he, he)

Some things never change

A couple of times in the last little while strangers on Facebook have emailed me asking to be my friend and whether I was at a science camp or other school related event back in the dim, dark ages of, say... 2003.

I am very flattered to be asked because, well, let's just say I finished my high schooling more than 10 years before that.

Then I briefly contemplate updating my photo.

Current profile photo: about 2005 (no flash. I like photos taken with no flash and nice, soft light)

This image was taken only 10 days ago. It may be a contender, although it does use a flash.

In remarkable synchronicity I was seeking out some old college photos (by the way, fellow collegiates, our alma mater turns 40 next year and they are looking for copies of the formal college photos for 1987, 1988, 1992 and 1993 - so give them a call if you have one of these) and I noticed that I probably don't have to update my image because there are some things in life that never change.

Exhibit A - 1997

Exhibit B - 1988

Exhibit C - about 1985

Exhibit D - about 1976

Chance that there will be a significant difference in what I look like in the near forseeable future?

... Approximately None.

Well, I missed it...

I had quite been looking forward to reaching my 100th post. Excited even.

Then I hit a busy week, and there were bushfires down south, and floods up north, and the novelty of hitting my first century was entirely forgotten.

So welcome to my 102nd post. Triple figures. Fancy this blogging phase lasting this long!

To celebrate I'm going to describe one of my more embarrassing moments. Now, technically this would be much more fun if all of you described one of your embarrassing moments - that would seem like more of a celebration from where I'm standing. But I can't make you do that, and it would be quite unfair of me to describe my friends' embarrassing moments without their consent (yes, Benita, the massage table story is safe for a little while longer).

So here it is:-

My Beloved and I used to be part of the local Choral Society when we lived up north. Each year there would be a musical in the middle of the year followed by a concert in November that raised money for a local charity.

A few years back it was a big anniversary for Mr Rogers (of Rogers and Hammerstein/ Rogers and Hart fame) so the concert was excerpts from various things he had written. So far, so good. There's plenty to choose from: Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific and many, many others that I can't remember off the top of my head.

I was selected to play a role in an excerpt from Carousel. For anyone who knows Carousel, it was the only amusing scene in it, where the young girl is skilfully manipulated to allow the villain of the piece to embrace her as he apparently teaches her the art of self-defence. The bloke playing the villain had to lift me up in a fireman's lift, in which compromising situation my 'fiancee' was to find me and then repudiate me as I bawled loudly (but in tune) for the whole of the duet by the two men.

There were a few issues with the selection. For example, my broad American accent was enthusiastic, but possibly not quite authentic.

Then there was the fireman's lift.

Firstly, the villain was played by a man who was having trouble with one shoulder at the time. We had to be a bit careful.

Secondly, I'd been married for about 18 months and had started to gain a little weight.

Thirdly, one night at rehearsal I was wearing my work uniform which had a long, lined skirt. Unfortunately the skirt fabric stuck to the villain's shirt and the lining stuck to me and then the fabric and the lining decided to slide all over the place. No one was seriously injured, but it did give some idea of the precarious nature of what we were attempting.

But we eventually had it down pat. For the dress rehearsal I donned a very attractive gingham number, long skirt and button up top that I believe had been made for a production of Oklahoma some years previously. I had gloves, ankle boots, pretty ribbons in my hair and the whole bit.

But because costumes are often made for people to be able to change quickly, the buttons were actually fake and it was fastened down the front with press studs. Which were entirely adequate for the task, unless you were to subject them to extraordinary shear pressure. Like the weight of my body as I was lifted up onto a man's shoulders.

I heard/felt them go as I went up, but there was not much I could do about it (dress rehearsal stops for no-one). As we continued to play on I tried surreptitiously to do up the clips, but I couldn't do it while wearing gloves, so had no option but to cross my arms over my blouse, pretend to be crying into my hankie, and hope that I nothing that should be covered was too obvious.

The pianist, prompter and musical director were howling with laughter at my predicament. The cast was entirely professional.

Until we got to the end of the scene and went onto the next song on the programme - "June is busting out all over".

Chances that I didn't wear another blouse under my costume top for the performance?

... Approximately None.

Oh, and was it coincidence that Choral Society started doing two full dress rehearsals not long after this?

The Legacy of Bushfire

When I was reasonably small I remember that each night I had a routine before going to bed.

I had to push my face up against the fly screen on the window, first one way, then the other, and check as much of the surrounding neighbourhood as I could see to make certain that there were no fires coming. (I would have loved to be able to take the fly screen out to be able to see better, but I don't think Mum and Dad would have appreciated that.)

If I couldn't see a fire, then my family would be safe to go to sleep. I don't know why I thought a fire couldn't come from the other side of the house, but I never felt the need to check beyond my own window. I'm not certain that Mum and Dad ever knew that I had to do this to protect our family (yes, typical oldest child - I was personally responsible for everything, including the safety of our family from fires).

Thinking about it, it was probably grade 4, because the Ash Wednesday fires in 1983 would have happened in the first term of my grade 4 year. And that event (whilst I don't remember it) was widely reported across Australia.

There is no way I could have had first-hand experience of fire. I've never lost any possessions to fire. I've never lost anyone I love to fire. I've never lost a pet or my livelihood to fire. The only way I could have known about it would be from images on the news and the hushed tones in which my parents would have discussed it. And yet, it impacted on me strongly enough that every evening I had to check to make certain we were safe from fires before I could go to sleep.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all who are currently involved in the fires down south, particularly as the death toll rises with each successive news report.

And it might not be a bad idea for those of us in the rest of the country to have a word with our kids (if we have any) about the fires. Even if you don't think they can know about these fires, they may have seen an image on the TV, or heard discussion at home, school, or between grown-ups somewhere.

Having said that, I have no idea what would have put my childhood fears to rest. Eventually we moved and for some reason I don't remember needing to check for fires at the new house. All I know is that fire impacted on my life in a very real way from the safety of a couple of thousand kilometres away.

The Penultimate Mango

At my residential College at university we had a very sweet principal who was very correct in speech and behaviour. She also had the mesmerising ability to ask my friends and I to do things in a way that we had absolutely no ability to frame a negative response to her request.

Each week we had a Formal Dinner to which we wore academic gowns over 'suitable' clothing (although an academic gown can cover over a multitude of sins as long as you were sure to don appropriate footwear and drag a comb through your hair - oh, and make certain to hold the open front of the gown together at all times).

Unlike other meals it had a specific starting time and we filed in and stood behind our chairs awaiting Grace, and the tutors (senior residents), principal, and any guests were served by the staff at the High Table (which actually was not in fact any more elevated than the other tables, but tradition dictates that a university college should have a special table called the High Table at which sit the more important personages).

Members of the High Table were also served after dinner mints with their coffee afterwards. The only time in my life that I have regularly drunk coffee was during my two years as a tutor, and only because I love after dinner mints.

Each week there would be some formal elements, such as a speech by a guest; Grace and Returning Thanks; and messages for the student body as a whole.

And at the second last Formal Dinner each term our beloved principal would start the proceedings by carefully intoning "This is The Penultimate Formal Dinner for this term..." before she said Grace.

That's the way I see it in my head - capital 'T', capital 'P', capital 'F', capital 'D'. That was the title of the second last Formal Dinner for the term - "The Penultimate Formal Dinner". For every one of the 20 terms I stayed at college. You could have taken bets on the fact the name would be used, except that you wouldn't get anyone to bet against you.

It's really the only context in which I've ever heard the word 'Penultimate' used. Ever.

We had a church meeting today, following a BBQ lunch to which we were asked to bring either a salad or a desert. I decided to sacrifice some of our last mangoes to treat our friends. Most of them were chopped up and frozen and now I was onto the last crisper-full of fresh ones.

As I selected the second last mango from the crisper to top up my plate I carefully intoned, "This is the Penultimate Mango for this season."

What are the chances that I'd give up my college memories?

... Approximately None.

I'd love to hear any comments from old college chums if you happen to read this post. Or anyone else, really. Comments are great. Just click on the "So-many Comments" below, then write away!

We have a Winner!

You should know by now that this is not the sort of blog where you can win things. So you shouldn't be so excited about coming to read today's post. Really.

When you were little did you go and harvest weeds from the garden, chop them up and mix in dirt or water and pretend to be cooking? Make a big mess of yuckiness and make your Mum pretend to eat it? Or try to trick your little brother into actually eating it?

No, I never did that last one, either.

Our Little Black Dog has been off his food for a bit. He's never been hugely fascinated by food - if there is anything else going on that is interesting his food will be left until later. And every now and again he just doesn't seem to want his food. He will leave it all day and only when he's starving will he come back and finish off what the magpies have left.

He's been going through this phase for a while now, and I've been a little concerned. I've tried different varieties of tinned food, but he's not interested. Yesterday I bought some ingredients to make up a doggy-themed goulash (obviously without the onion that is poison to pooches).

I got out my biggest pot and heated some oil, put on some rice to cook, 2 kilos of mince to brown and chopped up a couple of cups worth of vegetables to go in it with a little water. Then, the secret ingredient. I cut up some lamb's fry (liver) and added it to the mix. I added the cooked rice, mixed it all in and left it to stew for a bit. I looked at it and was reminded of those mud pies we used to make as kids.

There was no way I was going to sample this little concoction.

Unfortunately I came back to my desk to do some work and forgot I'd left it on the stove. Ran to rescue it when I suddenly remembered and there was a little burnt on the bottom, and the smell of burnt liver was pretty putrid.

There was no way I was going to sample this little concoction.

By the way, there is in fact no way to get rid of the smell of burnt liver from your kitchen.

You simply have to wait until your nose gets used to it.

Anyway, when it had cooled I spooned a single serve into separate bags and added a couple of raw chicken necks and bung them into the freezer. I had just enough room for them around the tubs and tubs of frozen mango.

The test was this morning at breakfast time. I dumped the cup of dry food into the bottom of the LBD's bowl. Then added one of my magic packets.

I carried the food down and gave it to the LBD. He sniffed for a moment, then dug into it. Usually he will lift out and eat the chicken necks first, but no, he was into the real food. I walked away and he didn't follow - too busy chewing loudly at his breakfast (I really must teach him to chew with his mouth closed, it's disgusting).

I went down half and hour later to hang out some washing and not only was the food all gone, but he went back and hopefully licked at the empty bowl.

We have a winner!

What's the chance that he will tire of home cooked meals before I tire of making them?

... Approximately None!

Back in the Saddle Again

Now I'm confusing all my friends who keep up with Operation Skinny Cow, because I posted under the same title over there this morning. So they're all thinking that I must have thought the post was interesting enough to be posted on this site as well - and it wasn't. They are possibly very confused.

Same title, different reason. Over there it was just that I'm back doing my exercise again and it is having a result in getting rid of the Christmas/New Year weight blow-out. Here it is that I've been doing better with my exercise and am feeling stronger and more fit so I decided to get my bike out.

In grade 9 I was given a new bike for a combined Christmas and Birthday present. No, my birthday isn't actually anywhere near Christmas, it's just that bikes aren't cheap and my parents are. (I really don't mean that, because it's not true - it just sounded funny to put it that way, and I never let the truth get in the way of a good story or turn of phrase)

Anyway it was a very big deal because it was a new and shiny 10 speed ladies' (i.e. grown up) road bike, and it was blue (my favourite colour at the time).

At the time I was riding my bike about 5km to school, then back again. It was great to have a 10 speed, not only because they were very fashionable, but because our house was over the ridgeline from town and I had to get up Kamikaze Hill every morning.

I call it Kamikaze Hill, but perhaps I should say that should have been named Heart Attack Hill on the way to school and Kamikaze Hill on the way home. And despite being young, slender and reasonably fit I would take a route that divided Kamikaze Hill in two sections with a flat bit in the middle. One way it was to have a well deserved break, and the other was to make certain I didn't do a spectacular stack at the intersection at the bottom if my breaks failed.

It's now 17 years since I finished high school and in one of those strange twists of fate I now live back in the same town and our street is located half-way up that same Kamikaze Hill. I still have the same bike, but it is now no longer shiny nor fashionable (I need to get me a mountain bike with 3,500 gears - not that I ever used all 10 of the ones I currently have).

Oh, and I've hardly ridden it for 17 years.

Last time I tried to ride my bike anywhere I ended up gasping for breath, every muscle in my legs and chest screaming, my tongue sore, feeling light-headed and on the verge of a little attack of tachycardia. I wasn't much use for the thing I'd ridden my bike to, because physically I was all done in, and my mind was preoccupied with the fact that I had to get home again.

But I've been rowing for between 30 and 45 minutes most days this week, so my physical fitness might be able to cope with the riding my bike into town thing.

My Beloved took my bike to pump up the tyres this morning, and I washed the cockroach droppings out of my bike helmet. So off I go re-tracing my juvenile route to town. I am not stupid. I rode to the end of my street, then walked up Kamikaze Hill. I don't need the coronary this week. It's all downhill to town from there, so the problem always was going to be the long, slow push back up to the top of Kamikaze Hill, then the hurtling down with a quick left turn into our street.

On the way down I noticed that my left brake didn't really seem to be able to move very much, so when I got there I did a quick check to see if it was working. It would possibly have been a good idea to do that before setting off.

The actual brake mechanism didn't seem to be working the 'grabbers', so I squeezed harder and the cable snapped. Useful. Particularly given that that is the back brake, that is the one you use most going down steep hills because braking hard on the front one is liable to send you over the handlebars. Seems like too many trips down Kamikaze Hill in my rash youth has worn it out.

So I did what I had to do and started for home, very aware of the fact that I had to get safely down Kamikaze Hill with no back brakes.

My muscles were coping with the first part, which is fairly flat, then I had to stop at the lights at the highway which was a problem from two perspectives.

Firstly, the hill starts to kick in on the other side of the highway. It is really good to have some momentum before getting to the place where the hill starts to kick in.

Secondly, when I was at school the lights were timed. So a cyclist (if I dare to call myself a cyclist) would get a turn. The Department of Main Roads in their wisdom have since changed them to stop the through traffic when activated by a car actually being at the side roads. I was by no means certain if a bike is heavy enough or metallic enough (or close enough to the middle of the lane) to trip the switch. It wasn't a hassle on the way down because there were cars waiting when I got there. Now there was not a car in sight.

Just as I was wondering if I should cross the left-turn only lane and mount the footpath to cross the road as a pedestrian, I realised that there was a car coming up my block, so I waited. The light went green before the car got to the intersection, so I presume that I was heavy enough or metallic enough and in the right part of the lane to trigger it. I need to ask my Dad if it is possible for a cyclist to trigger the lights, or if my cunning plan to lose weight might accidentally leave me stranded on the wrong side of the highway. Dads know things - particularly when they used to work for Main Roads!

Then I must thank the draughties at Main Roads for putting a camber on the highway that allowed me to get a bit of momentum before the hill. Thanks, Dad.

I made it to the ridge with only changing gears once! I was impressed, not that I could have changed down another gear if I'd wanted to because that would have meant that I would have had to pedal faster, and I'm not certain that I could have pedalled any faster. Also the changing gears was a very tentative operation because my chain used to come off during one particular change, and after 17 years I can't remember which one it was. The chain didn't come off, so I think 5th to 4th is fine, although very noisy.

Then I did a cautious, steadily-braking coast down Kamikaze Hill and a neat turn into our street. Then a very cautious trip down our even-steeper driveway.

I made it home alive on my first bike ride since striving for fitness! I neither had to stop for screaming muscles nor did I stack it turning off Kamikaze Hill. Yippee!!!

Chance that I'll set off again before getting someone to replace the brake cable?

... Approximately None. (Does that sound like a really good excuse?)

Biting off more than he can chew...

I walked down to the church this afternoon for a puppet practice for an ecumenical church thing later this week. It's about 25 minutes each way, and the Little Black Dog and I had to cross the Highway.

The LBD has a hatred of all trucks and any rattling trailers or utes. It was a bit of a concern as we waited for the pedestrian lights to let us cross. We were waiting within about a metre of the road, and trucks were flying past through the green light. Each one raised the LBD from a sit to a stand as he prepared to chase them off. It's lovely that he feels he must protect me. I'm not certain what he thinks he'd do with a semi-trailer if he caught one - and I'd prefer he didn't try.

It reminded me of a previous incident.

While we were living with my parents during the construction of our own home, the paddock over the fence was in the process of being transformed into a Retirement Village. There were great big scrapers and excavators and graders working just across the low wire fence.

The LBD wasn't going to have these intruders getting anywhere near his family. The same little sequence of events happened repeatedly every time heavy machinery made a pass along the back fence.

First, he'd hear it coming and scream around to the back yard, where he'd chase the monster the length of the fence, herding it away from his people. Look at the purpose and determination.

Then he would take great satisfaction in coming back, tail jauntily airborne, as if to say, "don't worry Mum, I fixed them!"

Of course, this was hard work for a Little Black Dog. He lay down to rest while the construction crew were having lunch, and afterwards I snuck this photo through the fly-screen. What you can't see or hear is the scraper coming down along the back fence. What you can't feel is the vibration it was causing to the ground. But that's OK, neither could he.

His morning's work had entirely tuckered him out. Awww.

The chance that he will ever give up this type of behaviour?

... Approximately None!

One for Femina

Femina's comment in response to my last post has inspired me to relate an incident from my college days.

You can 'thank' her later.

During my time on-campus at uni our college celebrated an anniversary milestone. Each year, we had someone design a college T-shirt, and they made a big thing of it that year (being a special year). A competition was run to find the best design.

I can't say much about it without giving up the anonymity of the college, but one group who were entering the design competition had the idea of going with a classic Ionic pillar with the year and anniversary on the front, then the back had the college mascot (which comes from mythology) and they wanted to have an inscription "Towards a Better Age" in Classical Greek.

That's fine, but there was only one individual in the whole place who had done any Classical Greek. That was me. I did one semester and just passed (due to my gramatical struggle after the powers that be in the Queensland Education system decided that English Grammar was a waste of time for high school students).

I offered to take it in to the lecturers and get them to do it, but of course this was at uni and the competition ended in about 30 mins. So I got out my textbooks and did the best I could do in the time available. I figured that no-one but me would know anyway. I couldn't work out how to render the comparative 'better'. I had trouble finding a word for 'age'.

What the shirts actually said? "Towards a Good Time" Probably more much more representative, but shhh, don't tell anyone.

How glad are you that I decided not to take this secret to my grave?

... Approximately None.

The Best Block in Town?

We moved to town back in the middle of 2004. It was really back to town for me, having done high school here, and having a sprinkling of parents and grandparents living here.

We lived with Mum & Dad for a while, as we looked at the housing market and worked out what was best to do. I was going to work from home, so we needed a room for an office either near the front door or with a separate entrance that would give us privacy. My Beloved is very handy and has a '64 (I think) Humber Super Snipe car that he wants to do up, so he wanted MEGA garage space. Nothing in the available housing stock met these requirements without going up a price bracket, and getting us lots of other stuff that we didn't need.

My Dad is a Building Designer, so the other option was pretty obvious. Find a block and get the perfect house for us built on it.

We looked at the land around town (whether it was for sale or not) and found the one we now live on. It was reasonably close to town (30 minute walk). Reasonably close to my parents and grandparents' houses (5 mins and 25 mins respectively) and had this view:

Not too shabby.

My Beloved was brought up mainly on farms, so we ideally wanted more than just a town block, but close enough to town for my clients to find me.

We ended up with a town block, but with views across a flood plain that still has horses and cows and crops. It is perfect, we love it. We nearly couldn't afford it because it's on a slope and that makes for expensive construction, but most people in our age bracket don't have views of anything other than Hideous Coloured Tin Fences (that is their official title, and I won't shorten it).

It's in a quiet cul-de-sac, there are mature gum trees around with sulphur crested cockatoos, galahs, and heaps of other birds that give happy background music to the quiet day-times. We always get the breezes because our house is above the roof of any other neighbouring house.

There are two weekends a year which get a bit trying, though.

It's the Rodeo this weekend. Both the Rodeo and the District Show are held at the Showgrounds which are not far from us. Maybe 400 metres. They have loud speakers, and trucks delivering and taking away stock for the camp-drafting, and the nights can get a bit rowdy as the drinks go down.

We knew it was there when we bought, and I am fine with it normally, but just now I'm sitting here, trying to do my Business Activity Statement for last quarter (or now blogging as it turns out), enjoying the light, cooling breeze; the call of the birds; and breathing in the fresh scent of ... Eau D'Cow Manure and listening to someone on the loud speaker get very excited about what's going on (with an occasional groan or cheer from the crowd drifting across). At least they've wrested the microphone from the woman with the nasal tones reminiscent of Kath from Kath & Kim.

It's only two weekends a year. Chances of me wanting to sell the Best Block of Land in Town?

... Approximately None.

Hippomania and Other Dreadful Afflictions

From the Greek:
ἵππος = hippos = horse
μανίας = manias = madness

My hippomania manifested early. From about 2 I was mad-keen on horses. My parents blame my Grandmother who used to give me 'horsey rides' bouncing on her leg. I wanted to pat any horse that I came into contact with, including an illicit visit to the paddock up the street when I was quite tiny. Mum was very cranky that I didn't take her with me. She must have wanted to pat the horsey too.

The tragedy is that I wasn't able to learn to ride until I was 10 - we moved to Cloncurry from Brisbane. All the kids around me had been riding since they could walk, or before that. I was an old lady of 10. It was not fair.

I am not a good horsewoman. I lack the sense of balance, gross motor skills and lack of fear that are necessary for that. My brain spends too much time calculating how badly I will hurt myself if I come off. And I do come off. It's almost my speciality.

Apparently I have a pretty good seat, and a nice steady lower leg. But don't ask me to jump anything. I once did a one day event at Pony Club. Out west dressage is the boring bit you have to do before the fun jumping opportunities. I did the dressage (which I love), then skipped the worst of the jumps in the cross-country, thereby eliminating myself from the showjumping. Mum and Dad were furious that I'd wasted the entrance fee, but it was worth it from my perspective.

We moved when I was 13. We had to sell the horses. I got over it and settled down into unfulfilled hippomania. I would get a ride from time to time, and I would drink in stories of horses from others.

I did have a slight recurrence at about 25. I was working and had my own money. I sat down with my budget and worked out that I could afford to go to a riding school for an hour every week for six months, or once a fortnight for the whole year. I selected the 6 month option and had the strength to stop at the end of it.

Then I met a lady who had horses and her daughter had gone off to study. Another young woman and I kindly used to exercise the horses for her. I subscribed to an Equestrian magazine. That was fun until I moved again. Back into remission.

Most of the time I can cope. The outbreak of Equine Influenza last year meant that for the last 12 months or so I haven't been able to pat horses in paddocks for fear of spreading it.

Then, this weekend is the rodeo in town. Yes, anyone who shares my hippomania (if it manifests in the rodeo/campdrafting arena) could work out my top secret geographical location. We also have a World Cup Qualifying Eventing weekend each year, and the occasional Polocrosse World Cup.

I live not far from the showgrounds which means that at this time of the year there are horses everywhere. They are beautiful. I want one. We live on a town block. We can't have horses. I don't have time for horses - they would eat more time than blogging, and much more food than the LBD.

What is the chance I will own a horse again in the next few years?

... Approximately None