Stirling Highway Icon

In the olden days when I was a young reporter based in Bunbury (two hours south of Perth) and in love with a young salesman living in a flat in Cottesloe… bless him, he taped my rural report on rye grass and apple scab over his ex-girlfriend’s tape of favourite songs… I used to make the the trip to Perth nearly every weekend.

I knew I was almost at his place when I saw this sign – painted on the Allied Mills in North Fremantle:

Dingo Flour mill

The Dingo Flour sign – associated with the notorious entrepreneur Alan Bond – in his younger, sign-painting days – even though apparently he never actually painted it – is an icon on Stirling Highway.

To me it always signals the end of a long journey.

When I stopped there the other day to take this photo I got a bit carried away…
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Dingo Flour mill

Dingo Flour mill

Dingo Flour mill

Dingo Flour mill

And that young salesman was of course, my Groover.

The Top 100 Australian Blogs Index

I haven’t done a geekie post for a while but I thought I’d give a thumbs up to Meg who runs the Top 100 index for Australian Bloggers.

Today Meg talked about how she does the calculations. It’s a bit beyond my ken but she seems to understand what she’s talking about and as she is compiling the list – that’s the main thing.

Anyway the reason for this rave – apart from thanking her – is to encourage you – if you’re an Aussie blogger – to head over there and tell her about your blog so she can add you to her register. You qualify if it’s:
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…authored, or founded, by someone who identifies themselves as being an Aussie – either because they were born here, or they live here.

And here’s your reward… your new weapon against those annoying telemarketers!

The trouble with keys

Is they accumulate in odd places, in those drawers you keep meaning to clean out, like sand in a beach carpark or dust bunnies under the bed they drift together until you have no idea what they were for or even if they were yours in the first place.

My brother

I was at my brother’s house today. He has a studio built out the back and while he has been living in Melbourne has rented out the house in the front. The tenants have moved out and before the new ones move in, he wants to do a bit of repair work. Problem is – he can’t find his keys.

The conversation went something like this:
I know they are here somewhere. he said.
Where did you last see them? I said.
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What were they in? I said
A clear plastic bag. he said.
You mean these ones. I said.

My brother's keys

In this huge collection of keys the ones with the red tag are his house keys and the tiny silver ones down the bottom fit into a lock (but don’t turn it). The rest? Who knows. They just accumulated in a little plastic bag in the toolbox.

Not a perfect mother

Generally I think I’m a pretty good mother. My kids are pretty polite. They have good senses of humour. They do their jobs around the house, mostly without complaint or too much nagging. They are lovely with younger kids. They know they are loved.

But held up to the light of my sister-in-law’s mothering I’m afraid my mothering looks a little slapdash to say the least. Now I will say that she is a former nanny so well qualified to be a mother… having your own kids is different though wouldn’t you say?

Last night we had her two kids, aged 4 and 2 and a half, to stay the night. Our first sleepover. The youngest, a little girl, has really come on with her language and was able to tell me she was hungry and what she was hungry for. After dinner (which she had at home) she ate two tomatoes, a yoghurt and two plums. She’s such a good eater. They both got ready for bed when asked with no fuss and brushed their teeth, asking me for help to get to the back teeth.

In the cubby house
The 2-year old cousin enters the lounge room cubby house

At about 7.30 – half an hour after their regular bed time – and while watching Cars (a surprisingly good film), they asked to go to bed. They are both dry, the little one calling out to me to take her to the loo at about 11pm.

We then ate our Thai takeaway with the big kids.

In the morning they played with our two for a while before asking me if I could help get them dressed… and therefore get out of bed. For breakfast the little one had two bowls of Just Right, a plum, a pear and about a third of a bowl of porridge. Her brother had one big bowl of porridge. I’m documenting this because I’m frankly astounded by how much she eats and the fact they do so without whinging or fussing.

Then they made a cubby before heading outside to get wet and dirty in “Mudworld”.

The boys make the dam

The boys make the dam in Mudworld

Quick quick help me fix the walls

The dam walls start to break – but the little ones just look on delightedly as Hugamuga desperately tries to shore up the walls.

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The dam finally breaks

The dam breaks – success?!

Baths and lunch – what child eats Branston Pickle sandwiches?! And then Mum came and picked them up.

Drink up!

I'm just going to take a break...

They are Stepford Children – perfectly behaved. Cute. And they eat!

So what lesson could be learned?

Maybe all new mothers should spend a year nannying before giving birth?

Hmmm how low do we want the population rate to fall?

Ahh forget it. My two are gorgeous. I love them anyway just the way they are. Anyone for porridge?

No? Just me again.

A grand design

Today I thought I’d write about my favourite television program of the week. Yes even more than Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares or Desperate Housewives, the show I most look forward to is Grand Designs… on ABC1 at 6.05pm on a Thursday… and there’s an earlier series shown on Tuesdays at 11.00am.

What I love about this show is the dreams that fuel it.

Kevin McLeod is the host and he can speak several European languages, an impressive addition to his passionate love for the subject and obvious regard for his subjects – both human and material.

Every episode Kevin follows the journeys of people who want to build their dream house. From modest budgets to magnificent, every design has vision and a story behind it. And no build is without its challenges.

We watched Tuesday’s episode yesterday of an Irish couple who were building an LA inspired mansion on a steeply sloping block. Today’s was of an English couple in Tuscany, lovingly restoring a derelict castle having coped with 4 years of Italian bureaucracy. One of my favourites was an older couple building a Roman inspired guesthouse in Southern Italy for just 19,000 pounds. Extraordinary and inspiring, and another of a couple who’d lived in a shed for over 13 years, who built this fantastic house out of wood – a bespoke kit home from Norway. It was beautiful.
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Bespoke is one of Kev’s favourite words. 🙂

Now we may never build our own home – in many ways I can’t think of anything worse – but watching these people turn their dreams into brick and wood and mortar is inspiring. It’s a program of hope. Maybe that’s why I love it so much. Great to watch such positive energy, to absorb it through our telly.

Everytime I watch this show I think “You know what? We should do this show in Australia.” I’d have like to have seen it done on the house opposite us for example or my cousin’s house… both amazing houses… and they must be the tip of the iceberg.

After all – building your own home is the Australian Dream.

The question is who would be the host – could there be another Kevin McCloud somewhere down under?

Clothes maketh the school

Monday night and I’m at the Opus Concert, a concert put on by the Department of Education to celebrate musical excellence in our public schools. Hugamuga was in the Chorale and it was a fine concert.

Anyway I’m sitting there next to an older father who also has a daughter at Hugamuga’s school in his year. We do the polite how is your son/daughter finding the school and then it begins:

“Oh well I think they’re pretty slack on the uniform.”

St Trinians  ex the Sun

“Mmmm?”
“Have you seen the girls? The skirts so short they look like hookers. Girls wearing stripey socks, I saw a girl smoking in public. It’s terrible. The school should be more strict.”
“And have you communicated this to the school?”

No. He hadn’t.

And there’s my point. Don’t whinge at me if you’re not prepared to do anything about it!
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I felt quite disgruntled.

Partly because I hate the no action thing but also because frankly I think he’s right. They could smarten up the uniform just by insisting on “proper” school shoes and dropping the polo shirts which just look slack. They could smarten it up just by insisting the kids actually wear it.

With one child now at a private school and the other at a public school the gulf between the pride in the uniform (and by extension the school) is very obvious. It even affects how I feel about the schools. I’m second guessing my decision to send Hugamuga public despite the sound academic reasons for doing so… and partly it’s because of the uniform.

Which is crazy.

But it does reflect the universal truth that first impressions count. We judge others on the state of their dress. Are his shoes clean? Does the tie clash with the shirt? Could she wear a shorter skirt? Lower cut top? Dowdier cardigan? Why would a school be any different?

Clothes maketh the man, and in this case, the school… and yes, I’m going to contact the school. Because I’m bolshy like that. 🙂

Eighties flashback to Atlantis Marine Park

A recent post on The Worst From Perth made me laugh… and remember one of the first dates I went on with Groover.

We went up to Atlantis Marine Park to see the Dolphin show… It must have closed pretty soon after and the dolphins went to Underwater World – now AQWA. It was a pretty sad story actually because the dolphins had been caught in the wild. They had some babies. By the time the dolphin show thing stopped, they couldn’t reacclimatise so they went to Underwater World. And then, as we know just a few years ago the last three dolphins died mysteriously.

Anyway back to Atlantis Marine Park… there were all these limestone statues in a big circle and we had fun getting up close and personal with them…

Club Capricorn

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Club Capricorn

Okay, perhaps not the best look, but this was before we got really PC in the mid-nineties…

I always wondered what happened to them… and now I know thanks to TWOP!

Trip of a Lifetime by Liz Byrski

First of all a declaration – I know Liz personally having worked with her. Since that time she’s gone on to write 4 novels and one memoir and probably countless non-fiction works.

Trip of a Lifetime is Liz’s latest novel and is set in Newcastle in New South Wales (where according to the acknowledgements, her son lives). Heather Delaney is the local member and one night after work she is shot in the shoulder. This sets up the tension in the story which compares and contrasts the lives of several “older” women.

There’s Heather – successful, single mid 50s politician. Jill, successful working mother of two tweens, mid 50s. Diane, bitter divorcee, also in her 50s with a grown up daughter on drugs and Barbara, in her 70s, single, successful now retired, with a “male friend of significance” shall we say.

All of Liz’s books feature women of a certain age and that certain age is the one that no one else is writing about! Perhaps that is why her books have found their niche. These women are still having sex (well… most of them), and still have many of the problems – insecurity, body-image, jealousy etc – that their younger peers have. We just don’t hear about them.

Once your hair turns grey remember – you turn invisible – or at least, that’s how it seems.

In the story Heather gets contacted by an old flame – an old flame who it must be said treated her rather shabbily in the past. Perhaps she is vulnerable after the shooting but she latches onto this new-old love and appears to be falling into the old relationship.

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I’m not saying that her Karl is anything like Ellis – that would probably be slander – but I wonder if the emotional roller-coaster that Heather goes on are like the ones she must have felt when Liz reunited with Karl? The whole weird transposition of bodies… you remember the young person you were in love with – your body remembers their body – but the reality is the older version. Very different from growing older together I think.

And then (and I don’t know whether this is Liz’s personal experience or not) mentally you’re in a different place. You’ve added decades of experience to your decision making processes… emotional as well as practical… but you expect your old lover to respond in the same way they would have back then. A very interesting dilemma.

I wonder if any relationship could survive that?

Anyway I digress, back to the book.

It’s a fast, holiday read. A bit Maeve Binchy. Interesting but not challenging – but it’s not claiming to be Booker Prize fiction. 🙂

Always read the fine print

Do you read the fine print of medication your doctor prescribes?

Always?

To be honest I take no more than a cursory glance usually but when I was recently prescribed Celebrex for this weird numb toe that I’ve got well I thought I’d read the fine print. This was mainly because my doctor said “You’re not allergic to sulphur are you?” I don’t know why but that made me think – “what’s in this thing?!”

So I looked it up on Dr Google and discovered all manner of nasty side effects – the types of things that you hear advertised on American television ads for all those drugs they push.
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“This drug is great but causes this this and this to happen and don’t take it if you’re that that or that.” The type of advertising that makes me instantly think: “There’s no way I’d take that!”

So I read further and discovered that you shouldn’t take Celebrex if you are on cold and flu medication, which of course I have been given this nasty cold that I have. But it doesn’t say how long you have to wait until you’re clear of the effects of the cold tablets. I figure it can’t be much more than 8 hours given that the effect is supposed to wear off after 4… so I ring a pharmacist and check and I’m good to go.

Now probably I wouldn’t have died or anything but given the list of possible nasty side effects when you take this drug on its own – I’m glad I checked the fine print.

OMG! I forgot it was Mother’s Day!

Well not that it was Mother’s Day. Of course I remembered it was Mother’s Day and was looking forward to breakfast in bed and a day when the kids slaved after me. And I was planning to pop over to Mum’s with a bunch of flowers and have a cup of tea.

Goshen
This is my extreme Mum, sledding at Goshen, USA, earlier this year.

I was still feeling rather sorry for myself in bed nursing my cold when the call came.

“So we’ll see you at 12 for lunch?” says Dad.
“What?”
“Lunch at the club – your whole family – remember? I booked it ages ago?”
“… um… yes… okay we’ll be there.”
“Oh and don’t forget Groover’s mum.”
“Sure…” I say weakly falling back against the pillow.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” asks Groover.

Dad had booked us in to his club for lunch weeks ago. I’d forgotten. Hugamuga and Groover were going to football at 11.30am and we hadn’t told his mother that she was invited along too.
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I swung into action. Rang the coach – turned out Hugamuga wasn’t on the list for this weekend anyway – warned him that Groover wouldn’t be there to be a runner (the coach was okay with that). Groover rang his mum and told her to get her glad rags on – he was taking her to lunch.

And we were ready. Drugged up to the eyeballs in cold and flu tablets but dressed, made up, in the car.

It was a very pleasant lunch and thank goodness it all came together.

In the afternoon I was a “proper” mother and ironed my kids’ shirts for school. (Usually I make them do it themselves)

And it’s FYO dinner night at the Redsultana house tonight!

Because frankly my dears, while I could give a damn, I need to put my feet up. After all, it is mother’s day, remember?

PS: Is it Mother’s Day or Mothers’ Day? Some apostrophe help would be greatly appreciated. I originally wrote Mothers’ Day as it is a day for all Mothers right? But then it looked wrong and I thought well really you only have one mother (or two maybe if you’re a surrogate or adopted) so maybe it should be Mother’s Day… What do you think?

PPS: FYO = Find Your Own