The Mad Woman in the Attic

While I was working in Newry, Northern Ireland, I spent a lot of time in the Republic. I loved the feel of Dublin itself. Grafton Street is interesting. I assume that some time in the past, a whole street of houses was removed as Grafton Street is wide - shops then 2 lanes of traffic, then a wide central area, two more lanes and more shops. In the central area, people sit around, drink coffee, buy flowers and admire the sculpture called Spirit of the Liffey, more commonly known as the Floozie in the Jacuzzi.

I was lounging around the area one day, revelling in the conversations drifting around me and loving the accents. Just up from me an elderly lady began to dance. She wore a floaty frock with a bit of lace petticoat dipping below the hem, high heeled sandals, white gloves and a flower in her fading hair. She had her arms up in classic dancing pose and, without a partner, waltzed to music only she could hear. Occasionally she bowed towards the street when someone tooted her. She acknowledged any applause and sometimes drew an unsuspecting child into her dance.  I was fascinated. She was totally engrossed in her activity, almost unconscious of her audience, and danced with a smile on her face as though she had been transported back to some magical occasion.

Ireland, I know, and England and Scotland too, really know how to 'do' eccentricity. There is no stigma to being different and no hesitation to flaunt that individuality. I sat there watching the dancer and thought how different it would be if I got up to dance in the Queen Street Mall in Brisbane. People would avoid my eye, I would be hustled away by some authoritarian figure explaining that I could fall and injure myself. I would probably feature in a quirky little bit on the evening news and my kids and grandkids would squirm with embarrassment.

About the time that I returned from working overseas, my daughter Krista and her husband Umar began discussing some sort of living arrangement for their poor decrepit mother. (I had foolishly sold my house before I left and now, five years later was out of a booming market.)They looked at houses that had granny flats and even talked about modifying the house. They could raise the roof and make an attic apartment for me. I think they considered that idea for a while and then stories of the mad woman in the attic began to lodge in their minds.

The mad woman in the attic features in literature, notably for me, in Jane Eyre.  There is something sinister, unnerving, terrifying but somehow hypnotic in the situation. It is a bit like going to a horror movie. You know what is going to happen, you partially cover your eyes, but know that you must watch every moment unfold. Similarly, the mad woman in the attic may suddenly escape or her cackling laughter may drift down the stairway. With one part of your mind, you want it to happen, while the other part is paralysed by the thought.

Some of that no doubt went through Krista's mind and she thought about her planned children and wondered what damage would ensue if she added a deranged mother into the family mix. Not that I was actually deranged then but anyone who contemplates dancing solo in the Queen Street Mall needs to be carefully watched.

To avoid the possibilities of the attic, eventually they built a lovely little self-contained cottage in the back yard - close enough to keep an eye on me, but far enough away to shelter innocent children. I guess they decided than a nutty nana or a crazy lady next door was a better proposition than a mad woman in the attic.

My cottage is tiny but has everything I need, mostly neatly stored in cupboards. It may not have the glamour of some homes and mansions and doesn't have the Gothic horror of Victorian era literature but it is just fine for this mad woman.

Following in the Fingerprints of Matilda Mitten

I come from a long line of women who wear mittens, rather than gloves (though the genealogy has not been positively confirmed). Surprisingly this is not a congenital issue but something that develops over time. The underlying cause may be inherited but the catalyst varies for each of us. We were all born completely normal. Something happened as we reached adulthood and became involved in work or hobbies that needed care and attention.

My great-great-aunt, Matilda Mitten was the first recorded with this syndrome.  From a modern perspective, we would say she was probably autistic. She was obsessively neat but seemed almost immune to pain.  One day she was working with her embroidery frame, sewing the tiniest, finest petit point. Somehow she managed to sew her fingers to the underside of her fabric. She admired the top side and realised that it would take many hours to unpick the stitches and do it again.  Because she really didn't feel much pain, she decided to just snip the threads between the fabric and her fingers.  The frame came free but her fingers remained stitched to each other. That didn't seem to be a real problem and she decided to leave it. However, her gloves no longer fitted so she designed and knitted what we now call mittens, named in her honour.

Bella the Book Binder was my great-grandmother's mother-in-law's foster child. That seems a fairly tenuous hereditary link but, like the others, she became a fully fledged mitten wearing ancestor. In those days the book binder was responsible for the finished product. She was given a thick text, an expensive cover and a very strong adhesive that was designed to hold the cover in place for many years. Unlike Matilda, Bella was not neat or particularly pernickety. With a particularly large and cumbersome book one day, she slopped glue onto the outside of the cover.  Committed to finishing the task, she steadfastly held the cover tight as the glue set. When she finally removed her hand, most of the leather came with it.  The palm of her hand was one big square of maroon leather.  No matter what she did, the leather stuck with her. She sliced between the fingers to allow for some movement but the bulk of the fabric meant she could no longer fit into her gloves, For the many months that it took for that layer of skin and expensive material to grow out, she became and remained a wearer of mittens.

A sadder case was that of Maudie the Machinist, known more for her stoicism than her co-ordination. Maudie was employed in a factory making parachutes during the war. One fateful day as Maud fed the voluminous silk fabric through the automated machines, two of her fingers were run over by her machine. As she struggled to free herself, she was being pulled inexorably towards the next machine. There was nothing she could do but call for the supervisor. A quick snip from a bolt cutter, her hand was free, her severed fingers moving on through the process - with perhaps an unwelcome shock for some poor airman in the near future. Meanwhile, to staunch the bleed, she pressed the two remaining fingers into the bleeding sockets and bound them tightly. When she finally had the courage to remove the bandages and check her handiwork, she found that the two fingers had fused into the ravages of the lost fingers. Instead of the two digits she expected to see, she had a thumb accompanied by two arcs of finger. Mittens were the easiest solution!

Enter the next generation, me. I have managed to survive more than seven decades of ineptitude.  My fingers have been cut, stitched and stapled innumerable times. Unlike some of my esteemed ancestors, I was born clumsy - but obviously fairly inventive, to have survived so long. Let me tell you about my recent confrontation with a tube of Super Glue.  I was busily decorating a hat for the upcoming rally where the welcome dinner will have a Crazy Hat theme. While I was in Queanbean, my creative and practical host, Michelle, did the hand sewing on my creation.  Without spoiling the surprise and tipping off the judges, all I had to do was add the eyes. A good dob of glue, set the google eyes in place, then hold them somehow till the glue dried.  I couldn't quite reach them with pegs, the hat was too bulky to have a weight put on it so, you guessed it, I held them in place. Without going into all the gory details, I have to admit that I have followed in the family fingerprints and become a card -carrying member of the family Mitten Society.

A Marie Celeste Library

                                 
It is eerie to walk into a library that seems devoid of life. It’s like finding the Marie Celeste whole and entire and completely deserted. The sign on the door said, ‘Open’, some lights were on, the computers were plugged in – and there was not a soul in sight.

I settled myself with my computer and began work on some emails.  A couple of people wandered in, returned books, used the self-checkout desk and disappeared.  After a while, I felt like an intruder and decided that I had to find someone official.  The library shared the same entrance with the Town Council office so I went in there.  A receptionist assured me that I was free to use the library which was apparently open each day but not always staffed.  I did a couple more hours work, quite uninterrupted, reflecting on the comfort of small-town trust.

This week I have spent quite some time in local libraries, working on the Solos website updates which is a long process, reliant on a webmaster who seems to have a real life somewhere and signs on at about 5am for a while. As I have often just fallen into a deep sleep at that time of the night/morning, I don’t see his work until after about 10am, work on it during the day and know he will see it next morning. Our contact is, at best, peripheral, not the optimum working conditions. I do feel any occasional moment of sympathy for the poor webmaster who probably goes through this same process every two years with a new committee.

It is an interesting process working on documents that have been written by someone else, in this case several someones. There is such a variety of styles. I don’t know much about the site but I am trying to rework the pages bit by bit to reflect both the changing approach of the new committee and my own style of expression. I have learnt over time how to write for different audiences. The website is, I hope, clear and crisp and simple.

Today I am miles from a library, free camping at Wallace Lake. It is a lovely spot with quite a lot of campervans, tents and caravans right around the lake. Last night it pelted down most of the night and quite a few packed up and left. Today, there was no rain but a 30kmh wind across the lake dropped the temperature dramatically. An overnight low of 12 degrees is forecast. And the wind hasn’t stopped.  It is blowing a gale.  I’m glad I don’t have to step outside.

State of Origin

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At this time of the year, there is an epic battle that stops most of Australia in its tracks. It’s called the State of Origin. Don’t quote me on this but I think it started when NSW clubs had endless funds and enticed the best Queenslander to New South Wales teams – then skited that they could beat Queensland. Someone (no doubt a Queenslander) suggested that results would be different if each player played for the state where they started - their state of origin.

 Even I watch State of Origin. I think It is amazing what people will do for fun. Not just the players but hundreds, maybe thousands of people huddling under huge coats and rugs, in wind and rain and freezing weather, watching 26 grown men chase a little ball around a field.  For fun! Initially, I found it hard to work out what was happening so I went home and did some study. Correct me if I’m wrong but I think I’ve got this game of Rugby League worked out.

You’ve probably at some time in your life used the expression, as round as a ball. Well, in Rugby League, the ball isn’t round. The ball is carried and thrown more than it’s kicked or bounced. So, it’s been made oval to make it easier for the players to catch and carry the ball. (Is this too technical for you?)

The main aim of the game is to get the ball over the goal line or kick it between the posts more often that the other team does. The secondary aim is to prevent the opposing team from doing just that.

This requires two teams of players who wear co-coordinating or contrasting coloured jerseys and often white shorts. Believe me no woman, with or without a washing machine, decided on the white shorts! It seems that it nearly always rains on games. Most of the players spend as much time rolling around on the ground as running around. Before long, they might as well be wearing black anyhow. (Just a suggestion to the fashion co-coordinator!)

It has been said that this is a rough and brutal game. Not so, there is plenty of hugging and rolling around together on the ground. It may not be immediately obvious but players, when they are on their feet, do have specific positions on the field. There are the forwards for example. They are the biggest and hairiest. Sometimes when they are rolling around and hugging each other, the hairs on their legs get tangled and they have to have a tug-of-war called a scrum to pull themselves apart.  In a scrum, all heads go down into unmentionable places and everybody breathes deeply. The team that can survive the stench longest is the winner.

Each team has a little guy called a hooker (no, not that kind of hooker – they aren’t that sort of guys).  He hangs around in the middle of the scrum struggling for breath. Somehow in the frantic struggle, the ball eventually comes out of the scrum and gets passed to the backs! Pass is another of those technical terms. It means Throw.

The backs are supposedly faster and lighter.  They have to have ‘good hands’ which makes them useful on the field and appealing to women off the field.  The player with the ball surges forward and either passes the ball to a team mate or is tackled and falls to the ground. After years of being knocked down, they usually suffer brain damage and are then moved into the front row. When the damage is irreversible, they retire from the game and become sports commentators or even politicians,

Eventually someone dives or falls over the line with the ball under control. Because he has tried so hard, this is called a Try. It is obviously something of a miracle so one of the more religious players is called on to convert it. If that fails, he just kicks it through the goal posts and they call it a Conversion anyhow.

Some people think that players are in the sport for the exercise or the prestige or even the money. Wrong! Footballers are agents of social change. For example, the Rugby League game is used as a training for the blind. Every week some lucky blind person is selected to train with the team. Instead of carrying a white cane, he dresses differently from the teams. He is expected to keep up with the players by listening to the grunts and thuds and snapping bones. If he gets left behind, he blows his whistle and everyone politely stops and waits for him. Sometimes he gets so good that people forget that he’s blind and call out such things as One Eyed Ref. It’s funny, they all get called Ref – stands for Restricted Eye Fixations, or something.

For many people, football players achieve hero status. I talked to a young woman recently who has called her baby son Thurston, in honour of some player. While they are players, they have a devoted following which continues into retirement. Some remain famous to the end and some are revered so much that when they die, they are buried in special graves ten feet deep because Rugby League players are great guys – deep down!!

Moving along

Yes, I know I said I'd be in Canberra this week. But things change! Life happens!  I spent a couple of days at Queanbean with Michelle and her family - well, part of her family. Her husband Peter had gone to Mackay for the funeral of his grandmother. It is quite mind-boggling as Peter is a grandfather himself.  His mother would have been 107 next month. I have followed her Facebook for a few years and couldn't believe how active and astute she was right to the end. Then a fortnight ago, she fell asleep and drifted off over a few days. Way to go, Eileen!

As Dianne is still in my cottage in Brisbane, I decided not to foist myself on her family before she got home. I'd always wanted to see Ulladulla, for some reason. I spent a day roaming around there and looking at the beaches through a curtain of rain. Someone I talked to suggested having a look at Milton, only a few kilometers away. Despite the weather, I checked out several interesting little shops, had a coffee and went back to overnight, stealthily, in Ulladulla.

I had driven through Bateman's Bay in the way through and spent another day enjoying the waterfront. I took a three hour luncheon river cruise while the sun played hide and seek. Our pilot and commentator was very entertaining on the outward trip.  We stopped at Nelligen and had the recommended ice-cream before heading back, a bit faster than the outward journey.

One of my fellow travellers recommended a visit to Mogo, only about ten minutes away.  The village looked as though it had dropped off a tourist poster from 50 years ago. Everything was olde-worlde with the usual designer dress shops and lolly shops and leather works and art galleries and cafes.  After being at Milton the previous day, I was already overloaded on atmosphere and spent only a short time there.

Braidwood Servicemen's Club has free camping and hot showers - the ideal combination - and in the direction I was travelling. Support of the club is always expected - and I supported them. After a drink and an entree at the bistro and a coffee in the lounge, I felt I had paid my dues.  I almost gave them another $10 from the pokies but at the last minute, I had a little jackpot and pulled out $12. I had allowed myself the original $10 so put the extra $2 back into the machines. Exhausted after all that, I slept till almost 11am.

Never one to push myself, I moved on to Warri Reserve, a spacious shady area on  the banks of a river, The school holidays start tomorrow so I wasn't surprised to see about a dozen campers who had swelled to about 25 by the time I left in the morning. I had assumed these were families getting in a day ahead of the holidays. It turned out to be mainly grey nomads settling themselves in for the Easter break before the families and kids took over the reserve. Several seemed to know each other so this may be an annual event for some of them.

The Bungendore Showgrounds seemed a good place to stop but it was closed to campers for Pony Club events for the next ten days. Many of these small towns go out of their way to attract visitors to the coffee shops and cafes. Bundendore was no exception. A tasty roasted vegetable soup with garlic toast, a good hot coffee and I was on my way again. Once again I haven't gone far but I want to be in Canberra tomorrow afternoon so this seemed an appropriate overnighter.

It has been great poking about by myself for the last few weeks and I am now looking forward to catching up with others at the Stone the Crows Festival in Wagga Wagga next week. I will then join a tagalong to Blackall for the rally next month. I have to admit that I've been following with interest the current tagalongs on Facebook.  I am particularly envious of the group at Police Paddocks near Rutherglen in Victoria,  They are having a 'black tie' dinner tonight, in their best bib and tucker, by candlelight. We certainly know how to live well and with imagination, I must get some photos for the newsletter that I'm working on.

Tomorrow I will be in Canberra and will have a couple of days to deal with things like laundry before I head west on Monday or Tuesday.

I Believe in Magic

When I was a kid I half-believed in magic. I remember hoping that my homework would be finished when I woke up - but only the hard homework.  I recall clearly that it was my sewing. In Grade 3, I had to hem a hanky. It took me all year as I did a hundred stitches to the inch. At the end of the year, Mum cut off the mangled edges and I did it all again in Grade 4. This was the only homework I left out at night for the fairies or some magician. Apparently it was too hard for all of them.

Years later, when I dropped a pile of books trying to balance them and open the door, I wished for some magic that would just open the door in front of me when I approached.  That magic happened, reinforcing my belief. I also remember being at an airport, doing the long slog to the furtherest departure gate. I was thinking that a little bit of magic could provide a moving walkway. Hey presto! Magic.

During the past few weeks I have been trying to get the Solos website updated as part of my PR/Media role. There is masses of information on the site but it seems to have been done by different people at different times. I'd like to have a revamped site with the same style of writing and a layout that flows from page to page. If I can get it done fairly quickly, I can relax and just keep it up to date for the rest of my time on the committee.

You are probably thinking that I don't know enough to do this. You are so right. Fortunately we have a webmaster, Mark.  I send stuff to him and he uploads it to the web page. Well, that is the idea. What actually happens is that I write an article or gather material from members, run it past the committee for approval, and send it to Mark. Mark then tells me why it won't fit onto the page or why he can't remove what is already there or why I am trying to put it in the wrong place. I have about 4 entire pages all ready to go and waiting for Mark. Unfortunately, Mark is a farmer, has been through the fires recently, and gets to the website when he can.

I display my ignorance at every turn. My home page has been done and I thanked Mark for adding something to the page. He informed me that he only added a link to another page. Isn't that magic? I thought so too, until I realised that now I have another page to work on. It is interesting, isn't it, that you can underline a word or phrase or address and then, like Aladdin's 'open sesame', you are somewhere entirely different. As you can see, I am working far out of my comfort zone. I thought that because I could write the text, this job would be a breeze. Well, no, not really! I know that any task will take more time and effort than I planned.

I have had years of relying on my lovely daughter who works in IT. Even from a distance, I have been able to send stuff or let her connect to my computer, and things get sorted quickly. Now, being reliant on someone else, has been a bit of a problem. I am on a roll and just want to get everything done while my webmaster is not travelling and is tied up with problems at home. I don't think I am a control freak. I just like to be in control!

However, at the end of the process, we will have a revamped website, I will probably have learned something and I will be able to put it down to Mark, Monica and the Magic of the Underline..

Strangers on the Road

Some of the strangest people I meet on the road are our own Solo members. I can’t comment about any of them, partly because I am probably as strange as any, but also because I have to see them again. It’s best not to alienate fellow travellers, though I am sure that many revel in their strangeness.

The strangers I want to talk about as people I meet on the way. I have found over the past few years that frustrated travellers, stuck at home and still working for a living, are keen to talk to me. Often, they ask to have a look at the layout of the van with a dream of doing something similar.  In Glen Innes recently, Ian was interested in the van and had a good look around. When I commented that my insect screen at the back had been put up and had fallen down several times, he invited me around to his place to look at his etchings – I mean to his work shed so that he could fix it for me. I spent a pleasant two hours talking to his wife and drinking coffee while he laboured in the heat to secure the screens. And they have stayed up, thank you Ian.

Last night in Cessnock where I was overnighting in the motel parking, I went to the Leagues club next door for a drink and company.  A couple of fellows, Michael and Terry, directed me to the café and invited me to join their Trivia team after my coffee.  I didn’t contribute much but I enjoyed their company for a couple of hours and together we sneaked up from third from the bottom to third from the top on the Trivia League. Unfortunately, we didn’t crack the $1200 jackpot for the last three very difficult question. I should go back next week when it jackpots to $1250.

I have tried to get to Toastmasters meetings along the way.  It is very rare not to be invited to park in someone’s driveway. Several times I have followed someone home and got very comfortable for the night. With these meetings, though, because they are usually in larger towns or cities, there is usually plenty of parking in suburban streets close to the meeting venue. With meetings finishing at 9pm or later, most of the residents are at home and it is easy to find a spot among cars in the street. Although we call it Stealth Camping, it is perfectly legal and, with my small motorhome, I fit easily into a parking bay and am not conspicuous. It is certainly safer than finding a camp spot out of town at that time of night.

Sometimes I meet the same people several times on the road but even fleeting contact in a camp can be interesting. Where I am at the moment (Kurri Kurri – I have circled back) there are a variety of people. A couple in a big bus with eight kids have been here for a few days. The kids are home schooled, apart from three who would be under school age. They are very good – really energetic on bikes and skateboards, racing around constantly – but they seem to look after each other and I haven’t heard a fight or argument. Unbelievable! Mum is a real earth mother with flowing skirts, dreadlocks with coloured beads, and unruffled demeanour. Dad plays the guitar at night and the kids have stories read to them.

After writing about my kids worrying (or not) about me, it was funny to see it in reverse. A bloke about my kids’ age, broke down and set up here in an A-van. His car was evidently not worth repairing so he was waiting for his mother to arrive. She is a motorhomer from WA, on the road full time. She is driving over the Nullarbor, coming to help him buy a replacement car and help with his belongings if necessary.  It seems a long way to come to do the Mother Hen act but most of us don’t need much of an excuse to change direction.

This is a wonderful life for people who watch people. It’s fun to wonder about strangers but, because I like to talk, I usually don’t have to wonder too long. It doesn’t matter much who people are, what they do or did in a former life, or how fleeting our contact may be. We can relax with each other, share as much or as little as we like and feel secure in the knowledge that we share a common life style. We’re all living the dream

Demented Dogs and Midnight Marauders

Let me tell you about Luca. I think  a few years ago, we might have called him a bitzer but now he is a designer dog, part shih tzu, part maltese terrier and part miniature poodle. I have to admit that he is a pretty dog with ears that fly in the wind when he runs - like The Never Ending Story dog. He is about 6 months old and, although he has been to puppy pre-school, I think he should have gone on to kindy.

And he barks - or rather he yaps and can keep it up indefinitely. He barks at people going by. This can be a problem as Carmel lives opposite a railway station. Fortunately there are only two passenger trains an hour. He barks at dogs he can hear but not see. He barks at brooms and rakes and attacks them furiously. Once he has dragged a broom out of my hand, he drags it around, only stopping barking to bite the working end of the broom. And it doesn't even have to be in use. Carmel has to have brooms and mops behind closed doors. When he remembers where they are, he starts his routine again.

Last week, he discovered a container out the back with mops and brooms and rakes and stakes. After half an hour of listening to him, I covered them all with a beach towel thinking, 'out of sight. out of mind.' What I didn't realise that a possum would jump onto the towel, squeeze through a barely open window, push the insect screen and climb into the kitchen.  At 1.30 in the morning, this really gave Luca something to bark at.

Now, possums do look cute, except when they are on the kitchen bench, amongst everything that should have been upright, Then I realised he had almost eaten the ripe red apple I had bought for my breakfast and most of the lovely fresh bread I had deliberately left on the bench. (Once it has been put in the fridge, it no longer tastes fresh, so I like to leave it till the second day to put it away,)

My house sitting had now expanded to protecting the kitchen and all the bits and pieces from a midnight marauder. By now I had decided that possums are really not cute. They are filthy little predators with sharp teeth and lethal claws who like nothing better than attacking humans and their brave barking dogs. So filled with courage and determination, I took the dog and the cat and locked them into the bedroom with me - and I sat and listened. When I thought my unwelcome visitor had left, I returned to the kitchen, tidied up the bench, tossed my breakfast into the bin, and righted stuff that had been knocked over. As I went to replace a vase onto the top of the microwave, suddenly a little nose appeared from the cupboard above, followed by little claws, a grey body and a long curly tail. It settled itself on the microwave and stared at me.  Again feeling courageous, I opened the window closest to the creature and waited - and waited - and watched from a distance until eventually it flicked its tail at me and disappeared through the window.

I remember before my kids were born, I decided that looking after babies would be a snap. After all, I was at the top of a big family and helped with babies and kids most of my life. And as a teacher, what I hadn't learned at home, I soon learned in the classroom. I discovered that the reality of motherhood was designed to destroy all illusions of adequacy. When I offered to pet sit for Carmel, there were echoes of those feelings. I knew that friends were going to look after the dog at night, to be thoroughly spoiled by three energetic kids. When I got him back, I thought he'd be totally exhausted and easy to look after during the day - which he was as long as I took him outside to play for long periods (I had a book, so no worries!) and took him to the coffee shop where everyone knew him and made a fuss of him (and again I had a book.)

In fact I was so successful that, after a few days I decided I could keep him overnight. Baad move! (shades of Pretty Woman!)  Puppies are not like babies.  There are not long periods when they are asleep and you can get things done. They wake the minute you move and have to be within spitting distance - and they don't spit! So every time I moved, he was there at my feet, just behind, just in front, just beside me. I couldn't take a step without checking. How we both survived I don't know.  The other night he was so tired that he couldn't get to his feet. He had been sleeping in the bedroom doorway and just slithered along on his belly into the kitchen with me.

And his hours and mine were totally out of sync.  My prime sleeping time is 4 am to 9 am. Any other time I am either awake or trying to sleep. And I do not, NEVER do I, have an animal sleeping on my bed. He seemed to understand that and happily settled near the door or under the bed or on my shoes. But at 3.30 and 4.45 and 5.15  and 6.20 and 7 am, he put his paws up on the edge of the bed, pushed his chin as close to me as he could manage and whined mournfully until I was awake and then barked a demand to go outside. And yes, I hauled myself out of bed and with eyes still closed opened the back door (which has its own doggy door) and staggered drunkenly outside because he wouldn't go past the door until I did. A couple of times he had the cheek to pick up a toy and drop it at my feet. He had buckley's. I must tell Carmel that she doesn't have to keep throwing balls and toys. Luca now knows how to pick up a toy, run to the other end of the hall and drop it, Then he runs back to the original spot, checks for the toy and runs to retrieve it. When he drops it at my feet, he knows I will ignore it, so goes through the whole rigmarole again.

My kids when they were very little used to follow me to the toilet. If I was quick, I could shut the door before they got there and just listen to them whinging while I was occupied. If I was too slow, I got used to having an interested  audience. But my kids never squashed themselves between the toilet pedestal and the wall and stared at my big bare bum. It is very hard to relax, dreading what might happen. If he went in for a lick or, worse, a nip, he would have been a very dead dog, drowned in the closest water.

Today, when I dropped Luca at the friends who will care for him for the rest of Carmel's hospital stay, he barked when I left him. He was sad! He already missed me! What a lovely little puppy!

Oh, and there is also Pip. Pip is a cat. Pip comes into the house twice a day. Pip eats his food and leaves. Apart from a minor tussle when he and I wanted the same chair, Pip is quiet and obliging.
I was a good minder for Pip.

(I do love you Carmel, and I would do it all again if you really needed me, as I know you did this time. After all, what is family for!)

Love / Hate Relationships

I have never had a love/hate relationship with animals. I have had a hate/hate relationship and everything in between - tolerate/hate, dislike/hate, almost-like/hate.

I am one of a family of 13 kids and, believe me, there was no room in the house or the budget for animals. So I grew up without pets - for which I was always grateful.  I'd hate to think that anything four-footed would be more important to someone than I was.

My own kids were a little more accepting. Greg constantly asked for a dog. Once he said, 'If we had a dog, what would we call it?' I suggested he call it 'Mum' because I wouldn't be around. When the circus was in town, Krista asked, 'When are we going to see the rotten animals?' She'd never heard the noun without the adjective. Andrew suggested I should keep my home made scones to throw at the dogs next door when they got into our bins. Even the satisfaction of seeing my husband walk away from us was compounded by my final yell, 'And take your bloody cat with you!'

And, in my other life, I was a teacher and had to cope with a subject called Nature Studies. I don't know how much the kids learned but I learned a lot. If a child presents me with a twig covered in tiny little black bumps, I will never tell them to put it on the science table until we could look at it on Monday. I now know that by Monday there will be 4,317 tiny spiders hanging on their own little silken ropes from the ceiling, the window sills and every child's desk.

Two fresh-water lobsters  should have been happy in their large fish tank surrounded by the love of the junior members of the class. Their disappearance overnight was suspicious. After all lobbies are quick to cook and tasty to eat.  The stench from behind a bookcase a few days later told us they had escaped of their own accord and obviously without planning their future. The fish that replaced them fared no better. When I filled the tank to the very top with lovely fresh water and dropped in some long-lasting blocks of fish food, I expected them to be content while we all went on holidays. However, perhaps learning from some of the students, they apparently jumped their way to a  short-lived  freedom and died a lonely death on the classroom floor.

A bird in another class had a longer and happier life. It was only a budgie but it seemed to be able to reach its beak out of the cage and peck holes in the kids' artwork and projects displayed on the wall. It was stuffed full of knowledge - other people's knowledge. And it gave great joy to the children who took it in turns to be weekend custodians, for a while! One poor girl arrived at school one Monday disconsolate because the bird had died on her watch. Her parents took it to the vet for an autopsy and was told it died of an inadequate diet. I would have thought with bird seed, cuttlefish shells, and plenty of love and roughage, it would last forever.

So tell me why do you think I offered to house- and pet-sit for a cousin who had to go to hospital for a few days? No, don't tell me. I know. I must admit I have been increasingly concerned by the realisation that my mind is not what it was and I am probably well on the way to dementia.

Watch this space

Getting fit and well

People talk about the 10 000 steps program for walking your way to fitness. Ten thousand steps!
 I thought that that number in a month or even possibly in a week at a pinch was achievable. I found out I am supposed to manage that in one day. One day! I bought a fitbit with my Christmas money and set my first goal as 1000 steps.  Today I had about 200 by dinner time but I got Krista to reset the watch tonight and somehow she has given me 2430 steps. Impressive, eh?

It's not that I don't want to be fit but with the combination of asthma and COPD,  my lungs are operating at about 52% and I seem to be able to walk only about 150 metres at a time. After a quick rest, I can do another 150m so over time I can get a reasonable distance. That's the main reason or excuse that I give.

By now I should be packed and ready to hit the road. Unfortunately my type 2 diabetes which has been fairly well controlled, recently spiralled out of control with daily readings ranging from 5 to 25+. I have just been put onto insulin and that is taking a while to regulate. At the moment I am taking my sugar levels four times a day and am starting to feel like a pin cushion. So instead of driving off into the sunset I am visiting my GP, an endocrinologist, a dietitian, a podiatrist and anyone else who is happy to take my money.

This is the last week of the school holidays and I've been busy with the kids - a couple of movies, off to the pool, a sewing lesson at The Studio with cousin Carmel and time at shopping centres and coffee shops. In fact, with the constant heat this month, air conditioning is the first determinant of the day's activities.  The boys have been very good at sitting in Zaraffas Coffee Shop several times a week.  They take a book or do the Sudoku in the paper. At home, of course, they are on their technological devices as long as they are allowed. Next week they'll be back at school - and I really should be travelling. I am going to be optimistic and start packing the van.

Four weeks later, I have the all clear to travel but have agreed to house/pet sit for a cousin who will be in hospital for a few days. (Continued in Demented Dogs and Midnight Marauders and in Love/Hate Relationships)