thief of time

Getting Ready

2005-03-16T19:16:00.000+11:00

I’m going home for a visit after a break of quite a few years and I’m sure there weren’t half the things to do when I went the last time.

Of course, the last time I went by myself for a family wedding, so my husband was able to stay and man the fort (are we allowed to say that any more?). This time the kids are going to have to look out for themselves and trying to anticipate everything that’s needed, or may be needed, is driving me crazy.

I had my husband check out our sewer “hot spots” last week, to make sure there were no encroaching roots invading the clay tiles. One of these days, in the far distant future, we’ll have a plumber come in and do something more permanent, but until then my husband has installed easy access areas where the roots of our horrible camphor laurel can be pulled out when they go searching for more tasty food than that available in the honest ground. It’s no wonder the tree is so massive, with the extra vitamins it gets.

So far, all looks clear, which my son will be very pleased about.

Then, there’s the buying everything under the sun, so that basic necessities won’t run out. Our house is starting to look like a shop in some spots and we’re only going to be away for a bit over a month.

I offered to run classes on replacing the toilet paper on the toilet spindle, which is a constant concern and all I got was rolled eyes and “Mu-um!” They may feel that it’s a task they don’t need to brush up on, but I haven’t noticed it being practised yet.

One good thing is that neither of them needs lessons on ironing, so I at least can be sure they’ll make a stab at going out of the house looking semi-presentable. Their only peculiarity is that they only iron what they need, when they need it. My daughter used to have to be at work first thing in the morning, literally. Far be it from her to iron her uniform the night before, when she was doing little but watching television, or playing on the computer. Instead, she’d drag herself out of bed and around the house, looking like the walking dead, and then have to get the iron and ironing board out to get herself ready for the day. I’d love to know where the common sense comes to play.

We won’t even talk about cleaning their rooms! I’m just afraid it’s all going to spill out into the rest of the house. Most of the time I feel my daughter’s room should be condemned as an OHS hazard, as it’s often impossible to get in the door. A shovel wouldn’t come amiss. The thoughts of all this encroaching into the living areas of the rest of the house fill me with horror.

Their grandma has offered to keep her eye on things. I don’t know what makes me more worried—the thoughts of her fretting about things or the thoughts of the children not fretting about anything at all!

Stormy Weather Driving

2005-02-04T22:51:00.000+11:00

I had a “near-accident” experience this week and I was not impressed. My life didn’t pass before my eyes, either because my life isn’t a movie (I wonder if it’s artistic licence, or if it really does happen in some exceptional individuals), or because things went by so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to think much of anything at all. My thoughts certainly weren't terribly coherent, whatever they were.

It was the day of the big storm. I’d heard some nasty weather was on its way, but wasn’t able to get away from the office early and I was certainly glad I wasn’t out on the roads when it did hit, because the weather was incredible in its ferocity. Thank goodness it was brief, or there would have been even more damage than there was, though I know some places around here were extremely badly hit.

At any rate, I left home when the worst had well and truly finished and it was just raining lightly.

I go home via a back road which only has a few lights along it, before I turn off and join a side street that leads me into my suburb proper. Three of the four lights were out due to the storm and I was sure there’d be all kinds of problems, but everyone was sensible and approached the intersections slowly and with respect. It’s quite surprising when people behave sensibly. I guess we naturally expect the worst. I know I do.

When I got off to the last stage of my trip, only minutes from home, someone came zooming out of a side street, straight through a Give Way sign, right in front of me. I had just enough time to put the brakes on (which thankfully did the trick, but not by a whole lot) and say a quick “thank you, God”, before going into adrenaline overload.

The other driver slowed down slightly and then just sped off. I’m glad they at least noticed what almost happened, as I’d hate to think I didn’t register on them at all.

Why in heaven’s name would someone be travelling at speed along wet streets and go through a give way sign without even looking?

On the other hand, why am I just as surprised when people behave like idiots, as I am when people behave sensibly?

It must be experience at war with expectations.

Getting Lost

2005-01-22T18:28:00.000+11:00

One thing I don’t mind is a nice walk in the bush—early in the day, of course, well-covered from the sun and on a well-marked path.

I’m not exactly saying I want a paved footpath through the trees, but I’d really rather not get to some point in the walk where it’s not obvious which way to go and you try one way and it’s a sheer rock face and you try another one and it ends up the same. Then you’re unsure whether to push on or, discretion taking the better part of valour, retreat.

It always makes me speculate about my chances of ending up one of those short news items about the poor lost traveller that goes out ill-equipped into the bush and spends days lost, suffering from hypothermia, dehydration and the whole host of things that can happen to you out in the bush—if you survive. The only good thing about the Australian bush is that you’re unlikely to run up against large, unfriendly carnivores, though the spiders and snakes add their own special touch to the possible experience.

Something happened the other day in one of our larger department stores that reminded me of my hiking days—not the possible danger, just the frustration.

My daughter was busy trying on various things and I decided to use the time to find the department store’s facilities.

Now, I could have gone out into the shopping centre, but it seemed a straight-forward activity, so I started out with great confidence, following the well-marked signs that indicated the toilets were in such and such a direction. I got to an intersection and, again, the signs showed me which way to turn. I followed on, when the trail petered out and didn’t seem to be heading anywhere in particular. Puzzled, I retraced my steps to the last sign to make sure that I was going in the correct direction, which I was. Back again I went, but more slowly and uncertainly, busily scanning all the side aisles where the toilets might have been hidden.

It was still no good, but I became determined. I retraced my steps one last time and took a side shoot that I hadn’t noticed before and there they were. The toilets certainly weren’t obvious.

Was it all a plot to encourage people to use the facilities out in the shopping centre, or was I just someone with no sense of direction?

Judging from my outdoors hiking, I suppose I’d better drop the paranoia and just memorize where they are for the next time.

Language and Dictionaries

2005-01-12T22:21:00.000+11:00

I wonder if it’s just the difference between my son and me, or if it’s a generational difference?

The other day, my son lent me a magazine which I quite enjoyed. In one article, à propos of nothing, there was a little box with a dictionary’s favourite words for 2004. I had a quick look at the list and recognised every word but two.

Now, I’m as lazy as the next person and rarely use a dictionary—I quite understand my son’s aversion to having to look words up, but usually there’s no need because you can figure out a word’s meaning from its context.

You can do the same thing in a foreign language to a large extent. I occasionally see my first year French or Spanish novels and every second word has a neatly pencilled English translation above it. You soon get over that, except in dire circumstances, and just go for the context. (Unfortunately, my Spanish has largely disappeared from lack of use, so now I’d have to go back to the dictionary to get myself back into gear with the language.)

These words in the magazine, however, were merely listed and had no context whatsoever, so I decided to look them up out of interest’s sake. My son couldn’t be bothered.

Obviously I was having the reaction the writers of the article were hoping to get, whereas my son wasn’t playing the game, so I don’t know whether this makes me easily manipulated, but it certainly made me annoyed with him. Of course, I’m the person who would often be his personal dictionary when he was growing up, so I guess I only have myself to blame.

I’ll have to take a stand for intellectual integrity and curiosity and force him to look things up from now on, not just hand him a word on a plate—though of course, it does take away the moral superiority you exhibit when you’re able to exclaim—“What? Fancy not knowing that word!”

* * *

[By the way, the words were defenestration and callipygian, which I probably won’t be using in conversation any time soon, though obviously, as an old French student, I should have been ashamed of myself for missing one of them.]

Keeping in Touch

2004-12-31T17:44:00.000+11:00

This is definitely the time of year to get caught up on things. I write to people I haven’t heard from since the year before and there are occasionally a few moments to myself to straighten up my mess around the edges.

This year my corresponding was a bit worse than normal. It’s been getting quite bad for the past while, but this year I surpassed myself in the fine art of procrastination.

I arrived at the last week before Christmas and just sent off all my Australian cards en masse, while my overseas mail was written almost assembly line fashion. It wasn’t quite the dreaded form letter, but it certainly started to approach it in certain aspects, which happens when you write letters so closely together—you tend to repeat yourself with the details that you think might be generally interesting, adapting bits and pieces to suit the recipient.

About five people I didn’t even try to write to—I always reckon that if Christmas mail arrives between Christmas and New Year, you’ve at least made a stab in the right direction, but there wasn’t any hope of that at all, as these were all people to whom I try to write a decent length of a letter. Luckily, these are all people that can get email, and luckily I don’t get massive writer’s cramp doing a bit of typing. Some nights, after a heavy longhand writing session, I can hardly undo my fingers.

So, I did it again for another year—except for that pesky letter writer I forgot to send to, whose letter arrived a couple of days ago. Darn people. Can’t they get themselves organised and get their letters away in time to show that they at least made the effort? Now it looks as though I’ve forgotten her.

I really have to try and do better next year.

Shopping Misery

2004-12-20T20:21:00.000+11:00

One of the rules in a family should be that you never take your teenage son out shopping for clothes. I’m sure a lot of teenage sons would also subscribe to that rule.

It’s not that my son is totally uninterested in clothes, but it isn’t top of his list of priorities and he’s not into brands at all, thank goodness. He’d be just as happy to receive clothing as presents, chosen at random from within his limited parameters of acceptable clothing. There are, however, certain things that you actually have to have him there to try on to make sure that they fit--thus, the times of extreme unpleasantness for both him and me.

To say that my son is uninterested in shopping would be to vastly understate his dislike. As far as he’s concerned, if you have to do the dread deed, you go in, grab the first thing that looks suitable, try it on and if it fits that’s that—no need to try anything further and no need to browse around a bit to see if you can get something similar, but at a better price or not even to see if you might see something else that he might like better. For him, near enough is good enough.

Now, my daughter is at the opposite extreme. She’ll go into a changing room with twenty items of clothing in similar, but slightly different colours, styles and sizes and perhaps find one item, perhaps not, and then on to the next section of the store, or on to a different store. To shop with her is an exercise in endurance and you have to be prepared to keep going for most of the day.

With my son, if you can drag the exercise past thirty minutes, he’s not impressed and soon makes his displeasure felt. Then, if you happen to see something else that you’d like him to try on that wasn’t part of the original plan for getting him out on this wild goose chase, you have to do some mighty fine begging. My son is a pretty good exponent of erosion—he can keep going over something, until you give up in despair and he exercises this to a fine art so as to leave shopping as quickly as possible.

Motherhood is a very wearing role. Add this little job to the annual Christmas shopping frenzy and you have a real recipe for fun.

Stages

2004-12-14T21:24:00.000+11:00

We had an “end of an era” happening on the weekend. My son had his final concert at his high school and it felt very strange to know that was it after six years.

It was the first time, in I don’t know how many years, that we were able to sit out the entire concert without having to worry about starting to clean and clear up after the first half. In fact, it was the first time in a few years that I wasn’t involved in the phoning around to get parents to bring things for the fund-raising dinner they always hold for the music program. For some reason, people were usually fine about bringing drinks or a dessert, but many were not so interested in bringing things you had to make, so we ”phoners” often ended up with the “too hard” items.

Now that we’re waiting to discover my son’s results to see what the next stage will bring, I feel rather unsettled. It’s sort of like the time I took him to Kindergarten the first day and then burst into tears after leaving him there. It was the start of a new time in my life then too, but not as drastic as the one I’m probably about to face. I hope it doesn’t involve “empty nest syndrome” too soon. I don’t think I’m strong enough for that yet.

The Joys of Motherhood

2004-12-02T09:08:00.000+11:00

What good are children anyways? You raise them to follow certain standards, like responsibility and hard work, and they take off on music tours at every opportunity, leaving their poor, old grey-haired mothers to do their paper rounds.

This lack of seriousness about his work has happened before too. My son has even used the excuse that he was doing an HSC exam on a Wednesday and thought that getting up for a 4:30 am round of delivery might interfere with his alertness during the exam. What a slacker.

It probably wouldn’t have been quite so bad if it hadn’t been for the fact that Tuesday was a day from the nether regions and the evening not much better. It was impossible to sleep well that night so, as a consequence, I slept till 6. I sure paid for that sleep-in. By the time I finished just after 8 o’clock, I felt like I’d been through a sauna, not one where you go to enjoy yourself (though I’ve never cared for the experience myself), but one where you have to do an unreasonable amount of work at the same time as experience melt-down.

Gee, I love Sydney summers. It makes me fancy a quick trip “Up Over” for a few months—say till March. I wouldn’t mind a bit of snow and ice for awhile, if this is what the rest of our summer is going to be like.

Size and Weight and Body Image

2004-11-29T16:22:00.000+11:00

I think I’ve read somewhere that wealthy people tend, in general, to be more health-conscious than poorer people. This apparently means they are inclined to make better lifestyle choices, one of the consequences of which is that they tend to be thinner than the average person from the poorer side of society.

I think I’ve read that somewhere, but it may have come from a women’s magazine while I was waiting to go to the dentist, so I can’t absolutely vouch for its truth and I may just have totally made it up.

I’ve recently been shopping for some new clothing and think I may have come up with an alternative explanation for the relative slimness of more wealthy people. My reasoning is totally ridiculous, but it does square with some observations I made on the weekend.

Because one of our leading department stores was having a final “let’s get rid of this end-of-season stuff” sale and also included an additional 25% off to the bargain, I was shopping for a couple of pairs of trousers far above my usual budget because they were within shooting distance of reasonable, though still more expensive than I usually get (I did have some birthday money to play with).

To my amazement, after swimming in my usual sizes, one of the pairs I finally did buy was actually a size six. Now, there is no way in the world that I’m a size six and I confirmed it today when I went to a blue jeans shop and was quite comfortable in sizes 10 to 12, depending on the cut.

It must be a marketing ploy exercised on the well-to-do to encourage them to buy clothing by flattering them on their extremely petite size.

It’s certainly noticeable in ordinary clothing, where the sizing is much smaller than it was when I was growing up, but they obviously carry it above and beyond the call of duty when dealing with wealthier people, because they have far more disposable income to indulge themselves with.

That’s my theory, anyways. I think it only makes sense in a strange alternative universe, but why the difference?

Weddings

2004-11-22T22:50:00.000+11:00

My daughter has a friend who is getting married shortly. When did children start getting married so young?

Nevermind. It’s happening and my daughter, as usual, is getting things done at the last minute.

I knew the wedding was coming up in awhile, but in my mind it was a good while away and I nearly had a fit when I discovered there were only two weeks to go and she hadn’t even bought a wedding present, though she’d been to Myers twice and picked up the list at two widely differing times.

Well, one advantage of waiting till all the good things are picked over is that there’s very little to choose from and since this was one of the reasons she hadn’t made a decision before, it totally did away with any excuse for not making the choice this time. Not only did we get the wedding present, but we got something for the kitchen tea she’d been to and for which she hadn’t bought a present. (The whole group of friends are mostly all the same, thank goodness. It’s nothing for them to give birthday presents months after the event, so the late kitchen tea present would have been quite natural—I hope.)

The weekend before the big day, we spent looking for something to wear. Naturally, it turned out that the only dress she liked was missing part of it, but that there was another dress just like it in Canberra—which should get back to Sydney by the middle of the week, or Thursday at the latest.

Then we had to get shoes to match the non-existent dress, which when she got home were too slippery when she actually wore them with hose, so it was out again today to find shoes that were actually strapped to her feet properly. I’m glad I’ve just started a week of holidays!

I’ve told her that when her time comes I’d actually prefer it if she elopes, because if it takes this much effort to get her organised to simply attend a friend’s wedding, it will drive me crazy to try and get things done on time when she’s the main protagonist.

Getting Rid of a Nuisance?

2004-11-12T22:18:00.000+11:00

It’s not always nice living in a big city. I left home very early this morning and as I backed up, I noticed there was a dead magpie in our yard near the garden.

As I backed further down the drive, I noticed that our neighbour had five or six apparently dead magpies in her front yard. My husband told me that one of them, or possibly two, got up and flew away a little later. I’ll have to ask our neighbour, when I spot her on the weekend, how many had actually died. There was one dead, at least, because my husband buried the poor thing.

I suppose it’s possible that they all got zapped last night in the big storm, but the lightening sounded rather far away to me, so the only thing I can think is that either deliberately or accidentally these birds were poisoned.

Now, even though I was chased down the street by a belligerent magpie with malignant intent once, the thoughts of poisoning one of these beautiful birds is really disgusting, though I do have to confess that I did feel like belting that specific magpie. To me they’re every bit as Australian as a kookaburra—perhaps more so, because I tend to hear their song far more often than I do a kookaburra.

I wonder if we have an ill person in the neighbourhood? It’s awfully easy to hide in the big city.

Surviving the HSC

2004-11-09T21:44:00.000+11:00

Having a child who is doing his HSC (Higher School Certificate) is very exhausting. I don’t know what I would do if my son was one of these super students that disappeared into his room for hours on end, studying himself into a mere shadow of his former self. Needless to say, my son isn’t at all like that—he never has been like that.

Firstly, there’s the constant “drip, drip” of the water torture of his railing against the injustice of having to study at all. He rants very well. My son’s attitude is that this is all stuff that is keeping him away from real life and since it doesn’t matter a whole lot in the scheme of things, he’ll do what he has to do, but no more.

Then, there’s the problem of trying to keep him on track and making a proper allotment of time for his studying. When I leave for work in the morning and tell him to “study now”, his reply is “I wasn’t going to at all, but now that you’ve reminded me, of course I will”. Idiot child! As if he spends every last minute in his studies. I have no idea how much time he wastes on the computer, but I’m afraid it would scare me.

Not that I doubt that he’s studying—it’s just that his ideas and my ideas of proper amounts of study times vary greatly, so the constant anxiety has been wearing me away bit by bit a bit like erosion.

I never used to worry about exams myself because I was one of those anxious people that super-prepared for everything and having a retentive memory (in those days at least) I never found exams to be very worrying at all.

Now I worry about my son’s exams constantly. In fact, during the first English exam I found myself thinking about it all the time he was writing it—which is ridiculous, because he had either adequately prepared or he hadn’t. Worrying wasn’t going to change anything.

This being a mother is very wearing. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up, but according to my mother it actually never stops. When I was a teen, it used to annoy me that my mother would worry about this and that, when I was clearly grown up and quite able to take care of myself. Now I know what she was carrying on about. The thoughts of having to carry on worrying till I’m eighty or ninety, or drop off first are rather depressing.

Birthday Celebrations

2004-11-07T20:40:00.000+11:00

We’ve just come back from an all too rare family outing--our daughter’s pre-birthday party. She’s supposed to be an adult now. Hmm.

We thought it might be too cruel to make her wait till next weekend, after the event, so allowed her to have her day today. This goes much against my grain. I always feel that waiting for things is better than pre-empting events, but my daughter is exactly the opposite and still rails against the fact that a few years ago I made her wait two extra days for her birthday because it fell just before a major exam. I am a very cruel mother.

We had a hard time deciding on a restaurant, as we found a restaurant rating site on the net and so many of the spots to which we were thinking of going had people writing about crook food, or extremely mediocre food, or horror of horrors—snobbish, superior waiting staff. It would be very daunting to go out for a pleasant Sunday afternoon and having the staff sneering at you. It would sort of take the edge off the day. (I wonder if the owners of restaurants around the city take note of sites like this. If enough people have the same perception, it might be worth their while to take a good hard look at the problem. I certainly don’t accept the “customer is always right” philosophy, since there can be some very disgruntled, easily upset people out there, but a number of people expressing similar ideas might definitely mean there’s something behind their complaints.)

At any rate, after being totally baffled by this restaurant reviewing site, we finally decided on Banjo Patterson Cottage, basing our decision on the fact that the view would be lovely, I actually knew someone that had had a very good meal there recently and I remembered hearing someone else mention it positively and, in addition, it was practically local—so you see, all good logical reasons.

It was a good decision. Everyone seemed to have a great time—the food was good, the staff friendly and accommodating and the stories only mildly embarrassing for our daughter, though I did hear a couple of eyebrow-raisers about a few things that went on in primary that I’d never heard before. It’s always best to keep the parents in the dark apparently and then let us in on things ten years later, when we’re older and weaker and more liable to heart attacks. I suppose we’ll hear the stories from high school in another ten years.

Unfortunately, my daughter received several CDs from her friends for her birthday, so we were treated to a cacophony of sound when we got back home, but at least the day had been pleasant up till then. Maybe what she really needed for her birthday was a sound-proofed bedroom, set up in the garage!

Working Full Time

2004-11-01T23:07:00.000+11:00

I’ve been very fortunate through my married life to only have had to work part time. I guess I come from another generation. I probably actually came from my parents’ generation, when I think about it, because it’s likely there aren’t many people of my age that have been able to do that. I worked full time before I was married, of course, but not having a family to run makes it an entirely different affair.

There was quite a good-sized group of us that had children going though the local primary school together fifteen odd years ago, none of us fabulously wealthy (especially me), but we all had taken time out from working to raise the children and even then, I think we all realised how lucky we were.

Then, as the children got older, working started to take over for some of us, but I still was very lucky to be at home a great deal of the time for the kids. We certainly could have used the money and still could use it, as our house is held together with sticky tape and blu-tack in spots—you probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not entirely. : (

Just recently, I was hit by a taste of full time work and now I don’t know how anybody manages to work full time and still have a life. I was filling in at the office for two weeks a while ago and have just spent another couple of days there this past week and I feel like a zombie.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were an eight hour day, but it has a tendency to be a nine hour day or more, minus lunch breaks (sandwich eaten absentmindedly at the computer, while straightening out programs). Work can certainly take over in a very insidious way and to heck with the family.

Another major disadvantage to this office work is that I’m certainly conscious of the lack of physical activity. I guess it would be a good test of whether it’s metabolism or activity that maintains my weight, but I’d rather keep on the move, just in case. It’s better things stay off, than have to be removed.

Of course, it might be the mild panic of not knowing one hundred percent what I’m doing that’s making this so exhausting, but I’m looking forward to getting back in the field again tomorrow.

By the way, this doesn’t explain why I’m still sitting in front of a computer at this hour of the night. No brains, I guess.

Fun and Games

2004-10-23T22:11:00.000+10:00

Some time ago, we ordered a three-seater lounge. It arrived today, just as I was returning from work, and it was truly large. I didn’t like the looks of things as I pulled up behind the truck. For some reason I had the mental picture of the fellow who starts building a boat in his garage and then finds he can’t get it out the door.

The two deliverymen weren’t terribly impressed as they tried to manoeuvre it through the front door and it wouldn’t go at all. In fact they made a rather belittling remark about not having thought about the size when we ordered.

I actually had thought about the size, but more about the thought that it might be too big for our lounge room, not that a piece of furniture wouldn’t go through what I assume is a standard, average-size Australian doorway. Being a supportive wife, I’m afraid I did mention “I told you” to my husband once or twice.

The deliverymen then suggested that my husband take off the front door, but that they couldn’t wait while he did so, as they were only paid to drop the lounge off.

I then began to picture having to kick our daughter out of home and telling her she’d have to rent a place with a very large set of French doors and take the lounge with her. Of course she wouldn’t have much else by way of furniture, other than her TV, stereo and brand new lounge, but what else does a teenager need when she first sets out on her own. I come from a long line of Scots and the thoughts of wasting a beautiful new lounge were extremely galling. My daughter comes from an even longer line of Scots—being one generation further along, so I was sure I could persuade her to come to the aid of non-wastage.

Then, as the deliverymen made their scornful way off down the driveway, I decided they’d been wrong about one thing, unless I was sorely mistaken. One of them had mentioned that it was all in one piece, and unless things had changed since we’d ordered it, all the back cushions should have been removable, as they were in the shop. Ripping a hole in the plastic covering the lounge proved they were wrong and we proceeded to strip every bit off the lounge that we possibly could.

Then my husband and son spent the next little while exercising their ingenuity and impressing their admiring audience with their strength and manual dexterity by getting the still impressively-sized lounge through the de-doored entrance. Just as much fun was to be had in getting it through the living room door immediately after that.

The room had gone through considerable shifting to prepare for the lounge’s arrival and went through considerably more as we worked on the best arrangement of items of furniture to optimise the use of the space. My husband made frequent cutting remarks about having too much in the room, ie, too many books. I don’t think that having three bookcases is all that much, but having the fourth one that contains all his records is perhaps carrying things just a bit too far and I can see that we might be further ahead to get rid of all that outmoded technology.

It’s nice to collapse in a heap now and realise that we won’t be moving that couch again unless it’s to the other side of the room. There it is and there it will stay. It will have to go with the house, as my husband certainly won’t be up to the manoeuvres in another few years’ time. In fact, judging from the loud rumbling noise coming from him at the moment, he may not have been up to it today, poor thing.

Resumes, or Who in the World is That?

2004-10-14T18:29:00.000+10:00

I recently had occasion to dig out a couple of old resumes, dust them off and combine and update them to use for a job application.

I looked at them as I revised and nodded, remembering as though it were for another person—someone I knew long ago and had known quite well, but had rather fallen out of touch with. I was quite surprised at the number of things this person was involved with at one time and I wondered how she ever had the time to get so caught up in so many different directions.

Then I came to the application proper, with criteria to fullfil--“what you bring to the position”, “what attracts you to this position”, “what skills do you possess”, “proficiencies in this”, “abilities in that”, etc., etc., etc.

After typing furiously for quite some time and going to bed exhausted, I got up the next day and read what I put down in the fever of creation and I wondered who on earth this faker was. They’re obviously someone of extremely dubious character and must be grossly exaggerating everything they’ve written down.

I don’t think I’d give them a look in.

Stretching

2004-10-11T21:01:00.000+10:00

I’m back to normal at work this week, after two weeks of filling in at the office and it sure feels good.

The first week and a half I spent in a mild panic, feeling like I was treading water all the time. This only becomes significant when I tell you that I actually don’t know how to swim.

I thought that I would go into work and know what I was going to do on the day, but it certainly didn’t happen like that. All it took were a few minor disasters and customer problems to deal with and everything got put on hold. It’s sort of like the Yes Minister episode where the hospital worked much better not having to deal with patients.

The last few days of my time in the office, things quieted down and I was actually able to catch up on the things I had planned to do, so that I didn’t leave a massive out-of-control pile of “to-dos” for the person I was filling in for—at least I don’t think I did. She may have another opinion entirely.

An experience like that certainly makes you appreciate more what the other half has to do. I knew the staff at the office didn’t have an easy job of it, but I hadn’t realised how tedious dealing with some of the petty little details could be.

It’s probably a dangerous job for me, as I arrived for work early, left late and often carried on through lunch unless dragged away. I tend to get a bit obsessive compulsive sometimes, though I suppose that would wear off a bit once I was sure of what in the world I was doing.

Never mind, back to the field and freedom and no more staring for hours at the computer screen (except for pleasure, of course).

Doing the Wash

2004-10-03T23:11:00.000+10:00

It rained this week for the first time in awhile and it wasn’t the half-hearted attempt it’s been recently either. I don’t imagine it’s made all that much difference to the dam levels, but it sure felt wonderful to see there still was rain about.

It must be the mark of a thoroughly domesticated woman, though, that the first thing I could think of this morning wasn’t that it was glorious weather and I should get out in the fresh air and sunshine. The first thing that popped into my head was the thought that it looked like being a fine drying day.

Yuck. How boring. And yet, how typical.

The first time it becomes a priority is probably when the children are babies and it’s a matter of near desperation when it looks like the sun isn’t going to shine long enough to get caught up on the nappies. After that, a habit is probably so established that becomes very hard to break.

I’ve almost bought a clothes dryer a few times in my married life. I’m certainly not against them. It’s just that when I’m at the end of my tether and about to go out and get one, the never ending rain stops and we’re back to all the fresh air and sunshine that Oz is justly famous for.

I guess I’ll just continue to tie myself into the giant cycle of Nature and stick to my Hills hoist for the time being, until I get too decrepit to put things up on the line.

The Hills Hoist! Now there’s a marvel of technology and one I won’t give up easily, even though my husband dropped a tree branch on ours and it’s now slightly tilted at a jaunty angle. It might not be the most beautiful thing to have in a backyard, but it’s certainly the most useful and as long as we’re careful with falling branches, it may well outlast us.

False Signals

2004-09-25T17:03:00.000+10:00

I went to my son’s Year 12 graduation the other night and it was really quite a pleasant evening, all things considered. The usual things were said that should have been said and it was all properly nostalgic.

One thing should be noted by everyone that makes speeches, however. If you’re making a series of points in your speech, it’s always a wonderful thing for the listener when they hear those magic words “…and finally…”.

It’s also promise that should not be made lightly to an audience that has been listening to a number of speeches and is likely to have to listen to a number more before they’re through. The mounting frustration that results when the promised end-in-sight proves to be nothing more than a mirage tends to negate many of the, no doubt, telling points you are in the process of making.

Stories from the Past

2004-09-21T19:20:00.000+10:00

We can sure learn a lot from people that lived generations before us, if we stop and listen. We can also catch glimpses of a world that is long gone and often spoken of very nostalgically.

I was chatting to a lady I know who grew up in Europe before the Second World War. She mentioned living quite close to a market in her youth and how she always avoided one side of the market because that’s where they sold pigeons. I was expecting a typical childhood reaction to their killing, but when she told me how they did it, I was absolutely horrified.

Apparently they inserted a funnel into their brain and poured boiling water into it. She said they also used to kill frogs the same way at another spot in the market.

The things we do to “lesser” creatures is quite horrifying.

I certainly hope this doesn’t still go on, but it makes you wonder what other things may go on behind our backs nowadays that we don’t know about. Then there are the things that we carefully ignore, like battery hens.

I guess we can justify just about anything.

Recovery?

2004-09-14T20:21:00.000+10:00

Well, I’ve finally shaken off the tail end of my son’s flu/cold. It finished a lot sooner than his did, but I have to admit that it was a good one while it lasted.

I spent most of the weekend in bed and then did the same for the week that followed, except that I did go to work, crashing very early every time I came home.

There’s something about not being well that tends to distance you from what’s going on in the world. First of all, I didn’t tend to read the papers, because that took too much energy and concentration. I couldn’t even be bothered to listen to the news on the radio very attentively. I know the election’s coming up soon, but it just doesn’t feel terribly real, or that what I do about it is going to matter a hill of beans in the long run.

I feel that way about everything just at the moment—getting the necessary done and forgetting to go the extra mile for anything else. I sure hope this clears up soon. Getting rid of the physical aspects of an illness should be enough to get rid of the mental fog as well. It feels very self-indulgent.

Probably all I need is a good boot up the backside. I’m flexible enough to do it myself, but honestly I can’t be bothered yet.

Hypochondria

2004-09-03T21:06:00.000+10:00

My son came home last week with the plague. Well, if it wasn’t the plague, it was something that made me want to cover him with a sheet, give him a bell and have him call out “unclean, unclean” as he approached family living areas. No matter how much I tried to discourage it, he insisted in breathing in the same room that we were in.

My mother-in-law doesn’t believe in germs—at least, not in the family. I think she thinks I’m a bit obsessive-compulsive to worry about such things and maybe I am.

I come by it honestly, though, as I have inherited this morbid interest in my health from a long line of almanac and horse doctor consultants. Well, maybe two doesn’t count as a long line, but they must have come by it somewhere, so I think it’s definitely in the genes. I first noticed this in my grandfather who loved to try all kinds of home remedies. My dad is also very conscious of health issues and is always interested in following the latest health news and taking note of the correct vitamin supplements to use to combat all kinds of illnesses and conditions.

When I was a child, I noted this with a mildly benevolent eye, and dutifully took the vitamin supplements I was given and indeed experienced extremely good health for the most part, except for the inevitable childhood diseases. I’ve been similarly blessed in my adult life, even with taking vitamins rather sporadically at best.

Expose me to flu germs however, and my inner hypochondriac shows itself in full force. All this week, I’ve been monitoring myself for the slightest indication that something’s awry. Wednesday, I came over all headachy—not a definite sign, but certainly an indicator in my eyes. Now today, I’m getting an aching back and my throat is becoming increasingly annoyed with me. Still not proof positive, because I might have done something to myself and I might have aggravated my allergies, but even so, I feel an increasing sense of satisfaction that my worst fears have been justified.

In any case, it becomes a bit tiring to be on constant red alert, so I think I’ll make an early night of it and see how I feel tomorrow morning. With any luck, I’ll be able to kick this thing over the weekend and be back at work on Monday, even though my son’s been sick for a week. I’ll just have to hope that it’s the weakness of this younger generation. It’s time to get out my dad’s megadoses of Vitamin C and hope that natural resilience will do the rest.

Then I can get back to my normal state of not being terribly concerned about such things. Even when I come across such colds at work, as you do, it usually doesn’t worry me very much (though I don’t take unnecessary risks) because I’ve been lucky (unlike the rest of my family) to mostly be able to resist them. Bring it up close and personal in the home, however, particularly with Doberman barking, and I become hyperconscious of the danger.

Maybe I’m a bit like my mother-in-law after all, only in reverse, in that it’s family germs that I’m particularly conscious of.

PS If you’re reading this, boy, stop it and get back to bed or you’ll never get better! It’s bad enough that you’ve infected the one that cooks and cleans for you without getting the rest of the household involved as well. I like to alone in my misery so I can get the proper amount of sympathy.

Raspberry Memories

2004-08-26T17:51:00.000+10:00

I was off browsing the net and came across a site where the author talked about taking her Granddaughter out picking raspberries (http://abbreviatedabstractions.blogspot.com/).

It brought back quite a few memories of my own raspberry picking days, not all of them wonderful.

<>My parents were very much into growing everything they possibly could and freezing and preserving whatever wouldn’t keep. We only had a typical quarter acre block, but it’s amazing what you can fit on a quarter acre, and most of it totally designed to ruin the life of any self-respecting teen hoping to avoid anything that looked remotely like work. <>

We would usually visit my mum’s family at the old family farm every year or two for a summer holiday which I thoroughly enjoyed. One year, however, my aunt took us out to her raspberry patch. I’m sure everyone knows the scene in Crocodile Dundee where Paul Hogan says “Now that’s a knife”. Well, that’s sort of what happened at the farm. I suppose my aunt thought we city slickers would enjoy getting back to nature. Coming from a town of 4000 people, I was very much a slicker, though perhaps not exactly “city” and I quite liked the comforts of town life. <>

Instead of lounging in the shade with a book, we settled in for several hours of serious picking. If I had thought it was tough in our own patch, I was clearly mistaken. They had insects on that farm that I’d never seen in civilisation and far more ferocious. Industrial strength insect repellent had to be used and it didn’t keep them away from your mouth or your eyes.

<>We finally reached the end of our day and took our buckets of berries back to the house. Most of them were destined for jam, but my Aunt asked if I, the oldest granddaughter, would like to clean some for dinner

I think I would have been in my early teens, at the age when “near enough is good enough”. I got to work and had soon filled a crystal serving bowl with lovely fresh red raspberries. They were sprinkled with some sugar to draw out the juices and set aside for dessert.

<>
When we came in for dinner, the berries were quite a sight. It wasn’t just the juices that had been drawn out. Waving at the top were lots of little white worms, waving frantically, probably in distress—almost as much distress as I felt. I’m sure you can imagine the almost horror movie effect of it all, plus the gross teenage embarrassment at being caught out.

I’m not sure what happened after that—I think nature sometimes blurs these horrible memories, though I’m sure I had to get a spoon and go fishing.

After that, there was no one who was more meticulous with raspberries than I was. I would look inside every single berry, no matter how many there were. In fact, it got so that I wouldn’t trust anyone else in the family to do the job properly. Now that I’ve reached my parents’ age myself, I realise that I was probably wise not to trust middle aged eyes to the centre of a dark raspberry.

Unfortunately, now that I live in Sydney, there are no such things as raspberry patches, so my kids have missed a lot of the joys and character building that I went through.

Raspberries are so dear I even miss the raspberry patch. What a difference a few years make.

Salesmanship

2004-08-15T20:24:00.000+10:00

We went out shopping the other week and were sent home with our tails between our legs, firmly chastened.

Firstly, I should mention that we live in an old house—not “old” as in old and gracious, possibly colonial, or well-kept Victorian, but “old” as in well past its youth and mildly decrepit, with middle age spread and bits falling off (and that is literally, not figuratively).

A lot of the appliances in our house are, or were, in the same state. Our fridge, which was about 25 years old was finally gotten rid of, thanks to a nice department store with an interest free period.

Our stovetop and oven, which are even older, are similarly under threat of replacement, but it’s something I keep putting off because it means doing something with our kitchen to make things fit in, as our stove top is a three burner (actually 2 and sometimes 1, grr) and slightly oddly shaped, which means modern stove tops probably won’t fit in properly. Financially speaking, the thoughts of having to do something to our kitchen is not appealing at all. In addition, the oven spot will probably fit a modern one, but I’m really hesitant about getting a new one because, as poor as it is, after 20 odd years, you get to know its idiosyncrasies and bake accordingly.

Never mind. One Saturday after one of my burners died again, I told my husband that I was afraid we’d really have to get serious and start looking around. We’d looked half-heartedly for some time, so we knew in a vague way a few of the brands that were about, but decided the best thing to do would be go to one of leading retailers who would be sure to have a bit of a range to look at, because a lot of our department stores are pretty limited as to the stock they carry.

I have a feeling that the person we came up against was the manager, just because of the way he carried himself. There was a certain air about him. When I explained what we were after, he took us immediately to the top of the range that they sold, European, of course, with a price that took our breath away.

After admiring the stove, which really was fantastic, I asked if they had something else a bit cheaper. Well, yes, they did have and he directed us there. These apparently were suitable if we were renting a place and wanted something for the tenants—mustn’t let the tenants get too uppity, I guess.

Then he asked me why in the world I had gone from the top of the line to this, when it was for our own home. I didn’t hardly like to tell him that I couldn’t justify paying that amount of money on myself. I’m afraid if he’d seen what I’d been cooking on for these last five years or so, he’d have shot us out of the store as totally unsuitable customers. It’s sort of the feeling you get when you drive through a place like Double Bay in a rusty VW Beetle, which I’ve done.

We're still looking for a retailer whose expectations we're not too far below.

Presenting the Right Image

2004-08-04T19:57:00.000+10:00

I passed by McDonald’s today to grab a quick cup of coffee on my way to work, and as I popped in, I noticed a man sitting on the outside bench looking rather annoyed.

On the way back out, I noticed him looking at his watch and looking even more annoyed and more than just a little bit impatient. “Oh, oh”, I thought. “Someone’s going to cop it.”

That’s when I noticed where he was sitting. It was the Ronald McDonald bench, and Ronald was sitting beside the man, with arm passed companionably along the back of the bench, just behind the increasingly cranky man.

It tends to ruin the image of self-righteous indignation when you’re sitting beside an eight foot tall, brightly-coloured, smiling clown. One needs to be taken seriously when one is on the high moral ground.

Maybe I should have warned him to find a different seat, just to avoid the chance of ridicule when his long lost rendezvous finally showed up. I know if it was me, I sure wouldn’t have been able to avoid making fun of someone presenting themselves to me as such an open target.

I'm afraid I have a very cruel nature.

Observations on a Train Trip

2004-07-29T20:06:00.000+10:00

I had to take a trip into the city today by train and I noticed a couple of totally unrelated things.

I know I’m definitely showing my age, but has anyone noticed an increase in the number of older men who take the fashionably unshaven look to mean that they have permission to skip shaving for a few days?

I’m not that fond of the fashion in any case, unless the fellow has been in the backwoods for awhile, or on holiday and can’t be bothered, but on older men it just looks truly off, probably because they’re old enough to know better.

Secondly, I’m sure we’ve all had the experience of being in traffic and looking across at a car and seeing the inhabitant doing something we’d truly prefer not to have seen.

What is it with a well-dressed, conservative businessman sitting across the aisle from you, engrossed in his briefcase, and doing exactly the same thing? I know some people think there’s some sort of barrier of invisibility when they’re in the car, but are there individuals who think they have that same barrier in public transport?

I’ll say one thing, it makes me think that the custom of shaking hands in our culture is one that we might be better advised to exchange for a polite bow.

Getting Sorted Out

2004-07-24T18:26:00.000+10:00

Sometimes it’s great not having to be on the go all the time. It doesn’t happen very often anymore, but because I didn’t have to go to work and was stuck at home for the morning all by myself, I managed the whole housewifely thing today.

I did a load of wash, baked a loaf of bread (cheated and used the bread machine), made a caramel pudding for tonight’s dinner, made a jam roll just for the heck of it and topped it all off by doing sustained ironing, which doesn’t get done by me very often any more, as my husband will testify. Never mind. I believe in promoting male independence. Men shouldn’t have to depend on someone else to do something they’re perfectly capable of doing for themselves. It makes them better, stronger people.

Anyways, I mentioned to my daughter that I’d gotten half way down the ironing basket for once when she went into the laundry, hauled out the basket and ruthlessly and egregiously culled the clothing remaining. Some of it was poor, hapless summer clothing that it would be senseless ironing at this time of the year, but other things, I have to admit may have seen better days, or I don’t often wear because I don’t quite care for them but hate the thoughts of tossing out. Other things, she threw out because she said they were revolting and shouldn’t see the light of day.

I just know I’m going to regret this fiercely. For the next six to eight months, I'll be looking haplessly about for some of the bright, happy shirts that I used to wear, but I just won’t be able to locate for some reason or the other. I’ll be wondering—now was that one that got the toss, or has it just gone missing, the way things do at times in this household.

I wonder what it’s like to be organised?

Body Image

2004-07-22T20:55:00.000+10:00

It’s great how our perspectives change as we get older.

Now, I’m a bit of a hoarder, which is an understatement, and recently I was going through some clothing that I wore when I was a teen or in my 20’s and I realised that I could wear them quite easily and occasionally did so. I could also mention I’m not terribly fashion conscious, but that’s probably obvious. I’m also just average in weight—waiting for the dreaded middle age spread to hit me, as I realise it’s just around the corner.

All of a sudden, I experienced a mental shift. While I had never considered myself fat when I was younger, exactly, I had always seen myself as being a bit on the large side. I suppose being taller than most of the girls in my class and a bit raw boned and having to buy larger clothes to make sure they were long enough in the arm or leg length added to my perception. (I don’t have the problem with length any more—designers actually make clothes that fit us slightly longer types.)

I knew that I could still fit into these things quite well and that some of them were actually a bit large on me, as indeed they must have been when I was younger.

That was when I understood that I mustn’t have been as chunky as I had thought I was in my younger years and it made me feel very odd for a while. It’s strange that it took me this long to realise it.

It’s funny--you go through life thinking of yourself one way and then all of a sudden you understand that you’ve been slightly askew all those years.

On the other hand, I wonder what impression I have of myself at the present time that I’ll only have to deconstruct twenty years down the line. Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you’ve been granted a clear view, does it?

Getting it Right

2004-07-14T21:09:00.000+10:00

I read a bit of a biography on Mark Latham, our newish Labour leader, in the paper today—not today’s paper, because that would mean I’d actually had time to keep up-to-date with the news-- but the Monday paper, and I have to admit I was a bit disappointed with the quality of some of the article.

Quite frankly, if you have to resort to quotes from a former neighbour who declines to be identified, you really have to question why the quote should be admitted to the article at all. How much credence can you give someone who’s remembering the child and his place in the family in relation to the others from thirty odd years ago?

Many, many years ago, when I was young and took others as they came, I knew someone who was very outgoing and decided in her opinions and not shy about sharing them with you. I would listen to her detailed analyses of friends and family and their relationships, and would accept what she said about them, admiring how she could always see under the surface, no matter how these people liked to present themselves. Even if I didn’t know her hapless examples at all, or only slightly, I would soon know enough about them to form an impression of what they were like, so vivid were the descriptions she’d give of them.

One day she told me that she knew how I felt about a couple of people we both knew and I immediately felt a bit taken aback, because I’d been very careful not to say much about either one of them and I felt ashamed that she’d been able to read me so easily. She then proceeded to outline my feelings, but she had them exactly opposite to the true state of affairs and I was quite surprised, because I’d taken her as the fount of all knowledge for some time.

At that point, the first little niggle of a doubt about her omniscience was introduced and since then, I’m still pretty naive and usually try to accept people as they present until they prove otherwise, but I do take what most people tell me with a big grain of salt and I’m afraid I take what I read in the papers with an even bigger grain.

PS The usual disclaimers about being politically uninvolved in either party go without saying (though I guess I’ve just said it).

Missing you

2004-07-11T21:31:00.000+10:00

Being a single parent is probably not the most ideal way to live if you can do otherwise, so having to do without your spouse for a short period of time really makes you appreciate them. They can do a lot of the important things, like take the garbage down, investigate strange noises, and listen to you as you sound off about work or kids.
My husband was away on business this week and flew back home tonight. Now having him quietly snoring on the lounge across the room, it's like he was never away. It looks like it must have been a tough week. I know it was for me!
But I ask you, what's the good of having him home if he's going to drop off in the living room like this? I may be forced to do the same in self defense, because I know I have more staying power and that he'll have to wake up much sooner than me, stumble off to bed and do his duty, which is warm the nuptial bed. After all, winter in Sydney requires a fair bit of staying power and it’s not as if we have central heating, so if he thinks I’m going to leave this nice heated living room by myself, he has another think coming.
Love you, honey, honest!

PDA's, My Secret Addiction

2004-07-05T17:54:00.000+10:00

When my son got his first job, he used most of his earnings to buy a computer of his own, as ours was definitely showing its age and was likely to hang at the drop of a hat, or be out of use for some time until my husband was able to perform the requisite incantations to bring it back on line again. It seemed like a very practical use for his wages and one I heartily agreed with.

Following that, he expressed what I thought was a very strange desire--to get a hand-held computer. Why, I couldn’t understand, as he had a decent desktop computer of his own (certainly far better than our poor aging one), but seeing as how it was his money and he assured me it would be very useful for school (ha—pull the other one) I reluctantly agreed to the purchase.

Actually, I thought he might be taking after his granddad who was (and actually still is) very interested in gadgets of all sorts. You just feel a kind of pitying superiority to these poor obsessed people.

Some time later, following an article in the Herald, I became rather interested in getting an e-book reader and carrying any number of books and reference materials around close to hand. I started doing a bit of research into it and discovered that a handheld computer would actually perform this activity quite well on its own, plus perform a number of other jobs on the side—jobs that I didn’t really think I’d particularly need as I kept forgetting to check in my diary as it was and only kept a rough mental log book of expenses or “to do’s”, relying on a hit-and-miss memory to perform most of these tasks. Nonetheless, it seemed to make more sense to spend the money on something that had the potential to perform other tasks, whether I wanted them or not, just so it would justify (vaguely) the money spent.

Since I wanted it mostly for reading, I ended up with a Zire 71 as it was just out, not the most expensive, and had a fantastic screen, with 16 MB of RAM and the capacity for carrying any amount of extra memory around on an SD card. I found myself getting all kinds of reading material, both free and purchased, and started to get hooked on keeping track of my daily doings and expenses, etc., becoming semi-organised, for the first time in my life. I found web pages I didn't have time to read and converted them with my iSiloX and read them later on when I had the chance. Now,I can even start a blog if I’m out on the road and get hit by an idea I want to get an early start on.

I was actually very pleased with my purchase and quite satisfied, until I discovered the perils of shopping at Palm Gear. It starts off in small doses—you read about some vital piece of software that everyone recommends trying and buying, so you do and you find that, yes, it is better than the supplied software, or it supplements it, or it’s just plain fun.

Books are no problem—you get your E-book Reader and then just download all your books to the card, where the reader accesses them. It’s all the other stuff that little by little, inch by inch, starts eating into your supplied 16 MBs, until all of a sudden you realise that you’ve eaten up most of it and only have 4 more to go. That’s when you get very, very choosy.

Then, you read about something like Agendus, and you get serious Tungsten 3 envy. The top of the range T3 starts off with 64 MB’s of memory, at admittedly a bigger price, but not that much bigger. But there’s no reason to get rid of a perfectly good, useable Palm, just because you’ve become obsessed with adding tempting software, so you’re stuck. It’s a pain having to be practical.

So, it looks like the gadget obsession didn’t jump one generation after all—it was just lurking in the background ready to attack at my most vulnerable point—love of reading.

Besides which, there seem to be all kinds of rumours about the upcoming Tungsten 4 with even more serious advantages, so I’m just going to have to try and control myself and keep note of any software I can get when I buy a PDA with more RAM.

Though, of course, I still won’t be able to get this software for quite some time if I’m paying off a new Palm, because I won’t be able to afford it. Guess I’d better hope the Zire lasts while I put lots of money away for its replacement—even if I won’t be able to afford anything until they bring out the T6.

Lending Books

2004-07-01T14:30:00.000+10:00

I have come to the conclusion that it should be against the law to lend books in civilised society. It’s such a personal choice that people should realise it’s as presumptuous as giving friends perfume without finding out their preferences.

I read. It’s what I do. It’s one of my principal pleasures in life and has been ever since I was a child. It used to be that I would read anything, simply because it was in print and I was print starved. It wasn’t that we didn’t have books at home, because we did, but there weren’t many of them. It also wasn’t that we didn’t have a public library, because we did and I was allowed to go once a week and get one book. Borrowers could take out three books at a time, but my parents had this very strange idea that if they allowed me to borrow three, I would do nothing but spend my week reading these books. Instead of that, I would spend my time reading and rereading the one book that I had out and then go back to the books we had at home, over and over again. I would hate to think the number of times I read the children’s classics like Alice in Wonderland or Huckleberry Finn. Then I headed on to my father’s old high school texts.

So, as you can see, reading is definitely not a problem. Time is, however, and in my old age, I’ve become rather more particular about what I read. I now have almost complete access to all the books I want and if offered a book by someone, unless it’s one I’m particularly interested in, I can usually say with complete honesty that I have so many books to read at home that I just wouldn’t be able to fit it in.

Unfortunately, people occasionally catch you on the hop and you’re delivered a fait accompli by such an extremely nice person who thinks they’re giving you a real treat, that there’s nothing you can do but say ”thanks” and make the best of it.

So you take the book home and look at the cover and think, surely it can’t be as bad as it looks. Then you start it and think “Yes, that’s why they put these particular covers on these books--to warn people away.” So, you struggle through the first chapter and set it aside for another day, thinking it might not be too bad if you just take it in small doses. Then, all of a sudden you spot it on your shelf and realise you haven’t read it for a week and a half and it’s coming up to the time when a hopeful lender will be expecting their book back with perhaps a little discussion of the plot and characters.

So, you struggle heroically through another batch of pages and for some reason your usual rather speedy reading seems to be mired in sludge as your eyes get heavier and heavier and before you know it, you’re out like a light and no further ahead. Now the finishing of this book looms over you like an assignment due and you keep putting it off realising that there will be a reckoning, but hopefully sometime in the Never-Never.

Remember everyone, please ask someone if they would like to borrow your book and give them the chance to decline gracefully. After all, everyone has different tastes and I’m sure lots of people would find my choices equally appalling. Also, if you give a book as a present, just accept the fact that your friend has it to read when they get around to it and that life being as busy as it is, it may be quite some time before that happens, so don’t keep asking them if they’ve had a chance to read it yet.

Unless of course, it’s we're talking about your child, in which case all the previous instructions are null and void.

Road Safety?

2004-06-22T17:04:00.000+10:00

I was wondering what the habit was in other countries when they paint signs on roads.

Here in NSW, instead of printing things from top to bottom, as one does in English, the sign is printed from bottom to top.

For example…

STOP

TO

PREPARE

Instead of...

PREPARE

TO

STOP

This is not a major problem, of course, but it is a bit disconcerting when you’re driving along and should be concentrating on the road and all of a sudden you have to take a mental side step and figure out what you’ve just read.

I’m assuming the Department of Roads and Transport has done a study and has discovered that this is the most effective way of getting their messages across?

If that is the case, it’s a bit of a worry that someone has done a psychological test to find out how people process information when they’re driving and that I obviously don’t fit into the profile. I’d like the chance to choose how I rebel against society’s norms, not just fall into it willy-nilly.

Early Mornings

2004-06-17T09:16:00.000+10:00

I’m a morning person and have been most of my life. At different times of my life, that’s meant different things, but generally I tend to get up earlier in the morning than people do on average, unless they're forced to(6 is my natural wake up time, even if I may not get up for a little bit after that) and I tend to fade in the evening, out like a light between ten and eleven, unless something keeps me up.

My daughter has just started working an early shift and has to be at work by 6, so in theory, my husband or I can take her there and then climb back into bed for a little bit of extra shuteye. That’s the theory anyways, and it seems to work fine for my husband.

Today, being my day off, it seemed natural that I do the duty, especially since I don’t want my husband to fall asleep when he’s taping Angel for me tonight, just in case I can’t make it, which often happens.

I got back home just after 6 and then realised I should put on a load of wash while I was at it and make the lunches, giving my son a call, as he had to be at school early. By the time that was finished, I was truly awake and decided I might as well get a move on the day and I’ve been at it ever since.

It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you get up in the morning. This almost feels like the time the children were young and used to wake up at 4 or 4:30 and be up for the day. I used to get loads of washing done and I’d bake up a storm and even prepare meals that I had to look up recipes for, instead of the same old, same old that I know off by heart.

It would be great if my enthusiasm holds up, because I’d love to get a bit more into the stuff I used to enjoy about housework, instead of the deadly, daily, boring grind. I might even get up enough enthusiasm to attack my son’s and daughter’s rooms with a shovel and wheelbarrow. Nothing like a bit of cleaning frenzy to get the blood flowing.

Childhood Traumas

2004-06-10T21:03:00.000+10:00

The reason I wrote about assertiveness yesterday was because I had a memory of asking someone if I could borrow their notebook once when I was in primary and she said a flat out “no”—no excuses, no nothing. I remember being quite shocked with this answer and strangely enough, I still feel ticked off about it. She sure didn’t need assertiveness training.

I then started to wonder why I had asked her, as I was terribly healthy when I was young, and I’d be surprised if I missed a class, except for the time I had the measles, which was a bit earlier.

That was when I remembered that I had lent my social studies notebook to someone to catch up on some notes he’d missed and he must have lost it because he swore up and down that he’d never borrowed it. I can’t even remember if I told the teacher, but I did let her know that I didn’t have my notebook and her response was that I’d have to recopy the whole kit and kaboodle. Gee, teachers were tough in those days. I was absolutely dumbfounded, as we had vast amounts of information in that little book and since it was the middle of the year, I don’t think my ages’ old memory is playing me false.

It seemed an absolutely mammoth task and I wasted weeks of my recess and lunchtimes trapped in the classroom rewriting all that information, complete with illustrations, all neatly arranged, titles underlined, the works.

I actually did manage to finish recopying the whole book and I suppose I had a certain feeling of accomplishment at the end, but oh how I resented having had to do it. Nowadays, I suppose I’d borrow someone’s book and photocopy it, if they made me do anything at all.

If only I’d exercised a little assertiveness to start with, I wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place. Still, I’m glad someone was nice enough to lend me their book. It doesn’t seem fair that I can’t remember who it was, because they deserve my eternal gratitude.

I can still remember the girl that said “no”, though, both first and last names. I can still picture her sitting across from me too. Gee, talk about holding onto a grudge. I think 35 plus years is a bit excessive. I’m definitely going to have to learn to let go and forgive. I suppose having forgotten about it for that long actually doesn't count, if I can still dredge up the same feelings. Gee, the memory is a funny thing.

Assertiveness

2004-06-09T21:45:00.000+10:00

Why is it that some people are born assertive, while the rest of us are like limp rags and give in, no matter how much we don't want to?

I've read a bit about assertivness and I understand the principles, I think, but to actually exercise it in real life situations is a different thing. I find it very difficult to say a flat out "No", while if I can think of a plausible excuse, then I feel that I've managed to weasle out with a bit of face. The trouble is that I can usually only think of my best excuses after the fact, and once I've given my word I feel obliged to carry through.

I thought it was supposed to get easier when you got older, but I haven't noticed a real improvement so far. The best thing for me is usually when I already have a conflicting prior arrangement.

Maybe one day I'll grow up and learn to say a simple "no" with conviction. Until then, maybe I should just prepare a mental template of excuses and be ready to whip them out at a moment's notice.

Angel question

2004-06-05T21:54:00.000+10:00

This is just a quick question for anyone that happened to view this week's Angel. Did anyone else think "Seven of Nine" when Ilyria was talking to Wes near the end of the episode? Unless I was in a very strange mood, it seemed almost uncanny.

In any case, it's not looking good for our heroes.

A waste of time

2004-06-02T20:49:00.000+10:00

I was just listening to the ABC yesterday and the question under consideration was what was the best or worst gig the listener had ever been to.

Being an old married person, it’s been an age since I’ve been to anything live, but one of the worst things I’ve been to in recent memory has to be Legally Blonde 2.

We take my mum-in-law out to the movies every so often and try to pick something that’s bearable for us all (which is sometimes a bit of an effort), but boy did we bomb out with LB2.

We’d seen Blonde 1, and while not rocket science, it was a light, fluffy, mostly enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours.

Boy, number 2! The thoughts of reaching my advanced age and then wasting a whole hour and a half, or so, of my limited remaining life span with this second movie was extremely depressing. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think I could feel my brain liquefying and dripping out through my ears and pooling on the seat beside me. I’m afraid it’s led me to declare a total personal ban against R. Witherspoon and all her products.

More honest critiques of movies would be a big help. LB2 received a medium review, certainly not the minus number it deserved. Movies whose only drawcard is a big name actor and a formula that worked before should receive the box office they deserve. Our hard-earned money and time doesn't need to be abused the way it so frequently is.

A curse on her and all her kind.

Spider and other Addictions

2004-05-30T18:47:00.000+10:00

I have just almost won for the third time in a row at my game of Spider and think I will leave now while the getting is still good. I have a strong love/hate relationship with Spider, and find I have becoming far too dependant on it. The first thing I do when I sit down at this computer is play a quick game or two. If I win, it’s fine. If I don’t win, I have this strange compulsion to keep playing until I do.

I suppose it’s similar to a gambler’s addiction to the Pokies, except I’m not putting money down a slot with every push of the button—just wasting valuable time from my life. At least it should be valuable to me, but I just keep pushing that “New Game” button. I must try and break free.

This is what comes of getting a new computer. Free Cell was a passing amusement to me on the old machine and I was quite enjoying my Tetris type game until my daughter got on and by some strange fluke and, no doubt, a computer programming malfunction, managed to get up an absolutely unbeatable score. Both games were enjoyable, but not addictive the way Spider is.

I’ve always been a very bad loser ever since I was a child. When you’re young, adults are always trying to point out such philosophies as “it doesn’t matter if you win or lose…” and “you have to be a good loser, or look like a baby”, but I’ve found it’s not so bad being a poor loser when it comes to things like the Pokies, because it would drive me absolutely wild to see my money pouring down the maw of one of these machines, so I just don’t do it. Besides which, there’s the massive boredom factor.

With board games and such, I don’t worry a great deal one way or the other if I do win or lose, though it’s always nice to beat your husband, isn’t it? So, in a way, I thought I’d gotten above such things as being a poor loser, except where it was good and kept me away from gambling.

When it comes to Spider, though, I just find myself getting more and more determined to beat the darn machine. I know this is foolish, because the computer isn’t alive and isn’t even programmed to gloat--which makes it a bit childish of me when I finally do win and gloat at the machine. What’s the good of gloating if you can’t be getting a sulky reaction from someone?

Gee, I guess this means I’m a bad loser and a bad winner.

Getting even older

2004-05-28T16:24:00.000+10:00

I remember when I was younger that I would stay out to the early hours of the morning—not often, but occasionally—and then be up at the crack of dawn, or thereabouts. Those days sure are no more.

I had a fairly light day yesterday work wise and even though I had to go up to the office at the end of the day and then to a school meeting later that evening, neither lasted particularly long and I was at home in plenty of time to relax. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe there can be such a thing as too much relaxing?

One of the few shows I make an effort to watch nowadays is Angel, but because it mustn’t be doing terribly well in the ratings, I’m sorry to say that it’s been shunted from a bearable 10:30 to 11:30. And that’s not the worst of it, because we poor fans have to sit through some of the ghastliest television known to man to make sure we don’t miss our programme. Once it was some dreadful island dating thing. Another time, it was some celebrity unmasked rubbish—and you don’t dare leave, as Channel 7 is likely to put the programme you’re waiting for on at any time when your back is turned, because a starting time of 11:30 doesn’t actually mean 11:30, it means 11:40, or 11:50.

I managed to last till about 11:20 when I was gone. I remember waking up in a panic and asking my husband if it had started yet and he told me it was half finished, whereupon I settled back down and went promptly back to sleep. I’m glad one of us has clung to their youth and was able to make it to the end of the show. He knows that one of the reasons I married a younger man was so that he could look after me in my old age. I just never expected it to come so soon.

At least I have something to look forward to tonight and I’d better enjoy it, as there aren’t too many shows left, since the last episode has just aired over in the States. It’s going to leave a hole in my life, I’m afraid.

Still, I suppose I should be able to catch up on some sleep. Since Buffy finished last year I did gain one night’s rest. Soon Channel 7 won’t have us Buffyverse people to kick around any more and they’ll have to foist their rubbish on some other poor late night group.

More thoughts on aliens

2004-05-25T18:46:00.000+10:00

I was thinking a bit more about what I wrote yesterday on the disassociation I felt towards the characters in the series on Charles II and realise I’m probably being a bit harsh towards an entire time in history, because when I think about it, there are lots of other areas that are equally incomprehensible.

I hope that some day I’ll have the reassurance that the Jerry Springer show is totally scripted and acted by very distasteful, but imaginary people. As characters, they're beyond belief and very alien.

There are the revolting revelations that seem to come out about the rugby league players every few days on their behaviour and their attitudes towards women. Just when you think that they’ll have learned their lesson and will keep their heads down, out comes another idiotic statement or story.

Then, when you think about troops that are supposed to be defending democracy and leading a chaotic country to a better way of life and the way they treat powerless prisoners, you wonder who wrote that script.

Maybe as a middle class adult who associates with other middle class adults who have similar ideas, it comes as a complete shock when the façade that is supposed to be covering our civilisation cracks and shows things for the way they could be if we don’t keep the lid on.

How long has it been since we were in the playground and it was the law of the jungle, with everyone keeping an eye out for the teachers? Do we forget the bullies and the pecking system where you hoped you weren’t poor, or different or weak in an identifiable way, so that the powerful kids couldn’t have fun at your expense? Kids always picked on other kids, treated lesser kids with a total lack of respect.

Guess it had better be up to the adults to keep an eye on things and hope that by being alert and not allowing things to slide by, we really will have a society and citizens we can be proud of.

TV Musings

2004-05-24T23:07:00.000+10:00

I've actually got a break in my day for the first time in a long time. I knew it was coming up, but I didn't allow myself to expect it, as counting your breaks before they're hatched can be a very disappointing habit indeed.

l've popped into McD's to use their facilities and now am sitting in my car with a tall cup of black coffee and my PDA to try and get a start on another blog.

I was rather tired last night, but thought I'd have a quick look in on a mini-series on Charles II that was supposed to be the show of the week. It was only going to be a quick glance before heading off to bed, but I was stuck there fascinated and ended up seeing the lot.

Being a BBC production, it was very well done indeed. Production values were high, the costumes were gorgeous, the actors were well cast and the script very well written.

None of that is what stuck with me today, though. What struck me was the very strong sense of ''otherliness'' I felt about the characters and their motivations and the whole time period. I don't think you could do a show about aliens and ET's and convey the same sense of The Other as they managed to do in this show.

Even though our civilisation comes directly from this era via 300 years of history and a lot of our institutions found their birth here, I felt very disconnected from these people and their concerns.

Charles was very charming, but so weak and indecisive when you wanted him to show a little backbone, that ultimately you didn't care what happened to him. Everyone in the court seemed to be out for themselves and they schemed so much and took offence at so much that you couldn’t really see the point in it all. Decisions of state seemed to be made for no particular reason at all. People of common sense weren’t listened to and petty nationalistic pride took precedence over national interests (maybe not so alien, after all). The hatred, the anger and the bigotry went from the top of society all the way down. These people that were shocked at the savagery of North American First Nations peoples had very unpleasant ways of dealing with their enemies themselves. The whole court was filled with such nasty, unsympathetic creatures, except for one or two characters, that I felt totally divorced from the whole works of them.

Maybe I’m too used to seeing Hollywood style costume dramas where all the characters are basically modern people in fancy dress expressing all our modern ideas of truth, justice, freedom, tolerance and spunky independence.

We smile at medieval and Renaissance paintings of biblical scenes where the biblical characters are all got up as people from the era of the painter and think “how quaint that they don’t realize how anachronistic they are”, but really, if we look at most movies and series, whenever they’re set, from the far past to the far future, the characters are all recognizably Twentieth Century (now 21st Century) in attitudes, motivations and reactions to situations. I guess we’re all like the old painters that try to fit everything into our mold so we feel more comfortable with what we’ve created.

I’ll have to try and catch the end of the series next week, but I’m afraid I cheated and reread an old history book to refresh my memory about what happened to some of the lesser characters. It’s not exactly like reading the last page of the book. Honest.

Divine right of Kings. Bah, humbug. It’s enough to turn you into a Republican.

Charles II, the Power and the Passion. Try it.

Night on the Town

2004-05-20T21:00:00.000+10:00

I had an exciting trip out to the city last night. Well, maybe not exciting, but certainly mildly interesting.

I was reading a blog a few weeks ago by someone who lives in Sydney and who was enjoying the night life and clubs, etc. and was planning to head out for a bit of fun, and I thought, “Oh yeah. There is that other part of Sydney”. I guess you have to be young and free to experience much of the stuff that makes life wildly interesting.

It made me feel a bit jealous for a minute and then I thought, “Don’t be silly. You never cared for that when you were younger and you sure couldn’t stand the pace now”. I certainly don’t need to go into midlife crisis about something that I’ve never been particularly stuck on in the first place.

Anyways, I had to go into the Rocks to take part in a market survey and found it quite different to be in a tourist area at dusk in the autumn--a bit dreary, to tell the truth. I don’t know whether things heat up a bit later in the evening, but it certainly wasn’t a good advertisement for the area at that time of the day. Not that the Rocks is probably the place to be for a lot of excitement, though there were a few eating places and the odd pub that must see a bit of action or they certainly wouldn’t be there, as it must be an expensive place to own or rent.

We got off the train at Circular Quay and were greeted by a group of Aboriginals playing traditional music in traditional garb. Boy, better them than me. I’m not that tough out near the water, in the evening, in the autumn. Brr.

We walked by someone who was (I think) being a statue. I think I saw him move one finger, but we didn’t linger. Looks like a very boring way to make a few bucks. Maybe he should have looked into playing the digeridoo. At least then he would have had something to occupy him that’s culturally significant to the country. But then I’m one of those people that says “I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like”, so I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m talking about at all.

We also went by someone all in silver with a sword who was at least having a bit of fun by having his picture taken by a couple of tourists. If he was supposed to be a statue, he’d obviously given up on it and was even smiling. I hope he made a bit of money.

We were a bit early, so went into a café and ordered a coffee and a chocolate something or other. It wasn’t much bigger than a rather fat finger, though I do have to admit to having long fingers and it was imported from Belgium the lady said, as my husband picked me up off the floor where I dropped in surprise at finding out it was nearly six dollars.

We were having a wild fling, so bought it, but only one to share (the fling wasn't that wild) and it definitely wasn’t worth the price, no matter how imported it was. I have to confess to being a home baker in my previous life as a real mum (instead of this rather pale imitation I do, now that I’m working a bit too much), so I’m afraid my standards are a little high. The coffee was very nice though.

My husband then abandoned me to my discussion group and we joined up again later and made for home. He’d enjoyed wandering about and having a look at things he hadn’t seen for a good long time. Poor fellow. That’s married life for you, I guess.

As we headed back to the station, things looked a bit more lively since it had become evening proper, but it still wasn't really hopping. Still and all, it was the middle of the week and hopefully for our tourist industry, things are a bit better come Friday.

We decided not to contribute any more to the economy ourselves that night. I was still trying to recover from my $5.80 confectionary. Imported. Bah. Humbug. Take me back to the suburbs where my mars bars only cost about $1.40 (less, if they’re on sale!)

Of course, if I was really energetic I would get busy and bake. I will. Soon.

Procrastinating Again

2004-05-16T12:49:00.000+10:00

Well, after telling myself to get onto my studies for a number of weeks, I finally got enough time at home in a semi alert condition last week to start to go over the materials we’d been given. Don’t myself see how we’re to finish it all by mid June through work, but if I use it as a training exercise, it should help if I do it through TAFE later. I hope.

I’m going to start to actually go through the exercises and assignments….any minute now. Really.

Since the sun is shining on this side of the house, I have to work in the bedroom, as it should start to thaw out shortly. One must be comfortable, after all, if work is to be done.

Then I had a look at the bedroom and decided that before any work could get done, it really had to be vacuumed, as it would be too annoying otherwise. I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper. Day-to-day things like bed making, cooking, dishes, laundry, etc, get done, but dusting and vacuuming get put to the bottom of my list--until the appropriate time, of course.

Well, once you go to all the trouble of getting the vacuum out, you really shouldn’t waste your enthusiasm by stopping there, so a quick vacuum all about obviously needed to get done.

Then I remembered we have a supper after church tonight, so I have to make a slice. Honestly, I really do. So, the oven’s now on heating up. It takes a half an hour to warm up, as it’s a very old oven, which leaves me with a half an hour to fill.

It’s a bit useless to get stuck into the assignments for such a limited period of time, as it would totally disrupt my chain of thought, so I thought I’d better get on here and do some blogging, which I don’t think I’ve done for about a week.

One thing that has always totally annoyed me about my son is the number of excuses he can find for not getting down to his studies. For a minute today, I started to worry that maybe he was getting it from me. Then, to my relief, I realised that this wasn't so at all, for the obvious reason that my excuses are perfectly valid.

Inflation

2004-05-12T18:26:00.000+10:00

The other day my son asked his dad for his week’s allowance, which was $20. He needed it a bit early because he and a friend were sponsoring each other for the Forty Hours’ Famine and thought it would look better if someone else other than themselves were a sponsor, so they were going to exchange $5 bills. Logical in some universe, I suppose.

It sent me to thinking about “in my days” as we old people like to say. I remember my first allowance being 5 cents. I was probably about seven or eight and had heard about this strange habit some families seemed to have of giving their children money, just for the heck of it. After discussing it a bit with my sister, I decided to approach my dad about getting some money of our own, for no particular reason that I was able to come up with. When he asked what I thought might be an appropriate amount, I thought I’d better not push it too far and asked for the 5 cents, which he thought he could manage.

It was great in those days how far 5 cents would go. You could drive a shopkeeper mad at the lolly counter trying to work out to get the most out of the penny lollies. Now that I’ve helped at canteen when the children were in primary school, I realise how much restraint those shopkeepers exercised when you were trying to decide whether a penny’s worth of lolly A was better than two cents’ worth of lolly B. Mathematics was never my strong point, so the calculations took some major figuring, especially since you had to factor in the relative taste of lollies A and B.

I can still remember a few years later, holding a conversation with a very worldly cousin in her teens explaining to me that when I was older, $10 would seem like nothing to me. I'm still waiting for that time to arrive, though I have to admit the $10’s seem to flow out in ever increasing amounts. I just cringe in dread when my son brings me a note from school, because as sure as shooting it’s going to cost me some money—the only question is “how much this time?” What ever happened to free education?

So anyways, these modern children just don’t realise how lucky they are. I had to do the ground-breaking work of asking my father for an allowance and since I already realised the necessity of an allowance, my own kids have had access to one right from the start. Not much of a one, mind you. Poverty has precluded the massive fortunes their friends seem to get, but it may spur them on to earning a bit of money of their own. At least that’s the theory.

Mother's Day

2004-05-09T23:12:00.000+10:00

Well, Mother’s Day has been and gone and I feel the most alive that I think I’ve felt in a couple of weeks. Too many extremely early starts lately, and even getting to bed early doesn’t seem to have done it for me. I didn’t realise how tired I was until I fell asleep after lunch and didn’t get up till 4:30. What a waste of a rather nice day—except for the catching up on sleep, of course.

This evening, after we’d eaten, instead of slumping in some sort of stupor, I actually wrote a letter I was supposed to get off and then completed and prepared minutes for mailing—and only four days after the meeting, which is a record for me lately. It sure gives a feeling of accomplishment!

I’m someone that prefers something practical for Mother’s Day. I’m one of those strange people you can buy a toaster for, if ours looks like being on the blink. Judging by commercials and anecdotal evidence, there aren’t very many of us about. Of course, an allergy to smelly stuff puts paid to a whole segment of the Mother’s Day industry and an innate laziness means there is nothing I would like less (except for perfumey stuff) than nick nacks to dust. Chocolates, though, are another story, but something that I should really control. Luckily, the family is very willing to share when I get chocolates.

Everyone should get a new wallet every couple of years. My daughter noticed the increasing rattiness of my old one and thought she’d better get me a new one before I lost the family fortune. It’s incredible when you go through all the nooks and crannies of a wallet what you’ll turn up with—some of it totally out of date. I’ve found stamps from former pricing eras (Christmas card stamps, ordinary ones, and overseas ones) that I’ll need to buy extra stamps to go with, just so I can use them. I found a gift voucher that I’d forgotten that’s due to expire at the end of the month, so that’s one thing that needs attending to straight away. I have business cards of people and businesses that I haven’t been to in years.

So, anyways, today has brought me sleep, organisation, accomplishment, chocolates! and a gift voucher for Borders, so I’ve had a very good day. Oh yes, I nearly forgot—also a laundry trolley to replace our old one that has certainly seen better days. This too is something that I can share with the family—though for some reason they don’t seem to appreciate it as much as when I offer to share the chocolates.

Parent/Teacher Nights

2004-05-05T20:46:00.000+10:00

Monday night was Parent/Teacher Interview night for we poor parents.

I don’t know what it’s like in other countries, but it’s been basically the same in both my children’s high schools and so, from my extensive research in two schools, I’m presuming the same misery goes on all over Sydney once a year/student for all parents.

In high school, the kids have to make an appointment time with each teacher and, for some strange reason, the times usually seem to be in an almost solid block with five minute breaks in between, except for the one subject they couldn’t fit in, which ends up right at the end of the evening.

This means the parents start off the night full of confidence, if they’re Year 7 parents, and full of dread if they’ve already been through one of these nights before.

You see, even though we’ve all been allotted our five minutes of face-to-face and are told the teachers are keeping to this and that any parent who wants extra time should make a separate appointment with the teacher for a later date, you just know that none of this is going to happen.

We all arrive clutching our crumpled appointment schedules and start off hopefully with our first teacher, where, if we’re lucky enough to get there for the beginning of the Interview evening, we’re usually in and out of on time (for of course, we keep to our five minutes).

Then the queues start, if not with teacher number two, then certainly by number three. We line up behind these teacher hogs who ramble on about their precious child and just can’t seem to feel the gimlet gaze of increasingly irritated parents glaring at the back of their impervious thick skulls. I’m surprised they don’t fall back as though slugged when they turn away from the teachers and face our collective hatred.

For of course, this very inconsiderate person has very probably made at least one set of parents, or possibly two and onward, late for their next five minute segment with the next teacher.

Then, you catch the parents who wander over to the teacher you’ve been waiting for for the past fifteen or twenty minutes and you ask (politely, of course) what time they’re down for. If you’re lucky, they’re one or two behind you. If not, and they’ve only just escaped from their last hold up, you very kindly let them know that you’re after them and casually discuss how bad the hold ups have been this evening—just to let them know you hope they’re not one of these problem parents coming to inflict another bottleneck on the teacher you’ve almost grabbed.

We’re basically civilised here in Sydney, but don’t cross a thwarted, hungry parent too often or we’ll turn and rend you.

Wandering

2004-05-02T21:49:00.000+10:00

Have just spent a few hours wandering around in the Blogverse, following links to other people's blog favourites and I am totally overwhelmed by what's out there. The quality ranges from fantastic to definitely unfantastic. I've done this before, but usually just go to a couple before getting down to business.

How in heaven's name to people keep up with all the blog sites they've listed? Even if only a fraction of the sites are updated regularly, it must be a mammoth task to keep on top of it all.

I'm speaking as a reader here--a compulsive reader. There is nothing I'd rather do than read and I've spent most of my life doing so. I always have a book (sometimes two or three on the go--don't want to be caught somewhere without something to read after all).

Right now, I'm suffering from reading overload. Not only is there a pile of books beside my bed that I'm falling behind with, there are also newspapers (my son has to subscribe to a daily paper for one of his highschool courses), there's AvantGo on my PDA, there's simple browsing about on the Web, and now there are all these very involving blogs to keep up with.

Maybe is would have been easier to have lived in a simpler time, when you just would have had to keep waiting for the latest Dickens' blockbuster, and then you could have had the illusion of keeping on top of it all.

Generous

2004-05-01T23:43:00.000+10:00

What is there about getting together with a large group of friends and acquaintances in a party situation that leads many people to think that everyone in the neighbourhood would truly enjoy a generous taste of said party from the comfort of their own homes?

Now, maybe I live in the wrong neighbourhood, but I've hardly ever heard anyone's musical selection that made me think, as I laid in bed, "Gee, this is great. Now I have something decent to listen to as I try to get to sleep".

Jungle drums are truly not something you want to have to listen to for extended periods of time. Even if they're not badly done, for some reason they tend to be very repetetive. After all, even if you're sharing everything with the neighbours free of charge, I think we non party people do deserve a more professional attitude on the party goers part. After all, we're usually not caught up in the moment, so we're likely to be a bit more discerning about what's on offer.

I guess we're just lucky our neighbours only do this a few times a year and we're truly lucky that we're not right next door, plus--no babies to try and get to sleep! I knew there'd be a silver lining somewhere, if I just thought long enough. Of course, I'm afraid the mental processess are not working at anywhere near peak efficiency. The drumming and wailing have set themselves up so they're derailing the old train of thought.

Never mind, It can't last forever. Can it?

Making Allowances

2004-04-27T21:03:00.000+10:00

As I think I mentioned before, I come from a fairly small town and moved into this rather large city when I married.

One of the things that’s really different to deal with is the traffic. When I first got here I didn’t drive for about a year. Not only was the volume of traffic horrendous, but my husband’s car was a manual, which added to the trauma. I should mention that not only am I a nervous driver, but I’m totally lacking in any sense of direction whatsoever.

That conquered, I found I didn’t actually have to step too far out of my comfort zone, as the suburbs I drove around in were actually quite bearable and there are lots of ways to avoid major thoroughfares if you have to do so. Anywhere that was too difficult, I let my husband do the driving--and yes I realise that’s very unfemale power of me, but I think if people have certain strengths they should play to them. Driving doesn’t worry my husband and I often do things up a ladder that he’d rather not deal with if he can get away with it. A complimentary partnership, you see. Of course, he also gets to do things like unblock the sewers. I’m afraid that really is very unfeminist of me.

Over the twenty odd years that I’ve been here, this avoidance has really worked out pretty well for me, except that, because neither of my children went to local high schools, I had to learn how to drive to their schools for things like after hour meetings. Never mind, after sufficient time (a matter of years), I was eventually able to drive on my own to both their schools. I was quite proud of myself, let me tell you.

Just lately, with my work, I’ve found myself having to step way out of my comfort zone by driving to parts of Sydney I’ve sometimes not even been to. I tend to drive with a mild sense of panic, as I’m sure I’m going to get lost and I often do. This is the truth, not a joke or exaggeration. I can still remember when the children were little and we were travelling somewhere to go to a mum and kids’ picnic, I was a bit unsure of which way to go and one of them piped up from the back “I wish Dad were here”. Even at that age they knew I was hopeless with directions.

I was driving to work along a six lane highway the other day and I was no more than thinking that my turnoff would be coming up soon, when I drove straight on by it. Yikes!! How could it be, when I’d memorized the map (I thought)? Guess I’m just accomplished—it’s something I do naturally (idiot woman!).

I’ve gotten to the point where I know I’m going to get lost, so I allow myself a fantastic amount of extra time to get somewhere, get lost, find myself again, and then hopefully arrive with time to spare (though sometimes I use the extra time to get mislaid once more). I always travel with a book to do something with my (hopefully) hour’s early arrival.

I have to keep telling myself that this driving is making me a stronger, better person—expanding my horizons.

Who knows, maybe one day I’ll move onto sewers!

Phobias

2004-04-24T20:54:00.000+10:00

One of the things that I've always known about myself is that I’m quite claustrophobic. When I was younger it used to take the traditional form—an extreme dislike of being hemmed in physically, either by people or by places. I discovered the dislike of small spaces when I was playing hide and seek and sometimes found a place that was too small for comfort.

Fortunately, I’ve never suffered from it in an extreme form, unlike some people that can’t get into lifts. If I find myself getting a bit tense because I can’t move (like in the Easter Show exhibits), I can usually calm myself down.

Lately, I’ve discovered my claustrophobia has shown itself in rather strange ways.

I come from a very small town and moved to Sydney when l married, which is something I'd never imagined doing. By that, I mean move to any city, let alone Sydney.

Most of the time, it isn't too bad, as we live in an older suburb where things were laid out with a fair bit of space.

Occasionally, though, it's a bit overwhelming. I look up to the hills around me and see them totally lined with houses and feel really hemmed in.

It can also hit me when I go into the City shopping and become aware that I'm surrounded by thousands and thousands of people that I don't know and will never know.

There are times when you enjoy the freedom of being in a place where not everyone knows you and your family for generations. Other times, it isn’t a nice feeling at all. Of course, this may just mean I’m becoming agoraphobic in my old age. Still feels like claustrophobia though, and being hemmed in and trapped.

Another weird thing I’ve noticed is that I can’t wear tight rubber gloves. I have a hand that fits a medium quite well and I can put up with a medium, though I always buy large for myself. The few occasions that I have to wear a small and try to pull them off, it’s as though I’m a child again trying to escape from someone or something that’s grabbed me. Can you get claustrophobia of the hands?

As you get older, aren’t you supposed to become more mature and balanced? Of course, that only happens with the really fine wines, doesn’t it? I must be turning into vinegar.

Wake Up Call

2004-04-21T21:40:00.000+10:00

Nothing wakes one up quite so much on the drive into work as sitting at the lights, first car in the middle lane, and having a bus come straight at you from around the corner.

Your first thought is ''My, he's taking that corner very wide''. The next thing that comes to notice is the sign in the windscreen--''Caution, driver under instruction''.

Invigorating!

Getting Old

2004-04-20T21:22:00.000+10:00

When do we actually become aware of the passage of time?

Heck, what I really mean is when do we personally become aware that we're getting old?

As I look back on my life, I find there are a few times that stand out specifically. They're almost defining moments--some of them very culturally determined, I realize, but others may just be me. Maybe they aren't. Maybe everyone has similar times.

I recently passed my 50th birthday and I have to confess that I was rather surprised that it didn't mean a whole lot to me one way or the other. I have to admit that I wasn't very impressed, but it didn't hit me the way I thought it would.

That's when I realized that in my own mind I must have already passed a major barrier when I turned 40, which really did have a major effect on me. Obviously I must have considered myself decrepit from then on.

I remember as a child watching “I Love Lucy” and finding out Lucille Ball was in her forties, which I considered incredible, as the people I knew in their forties didn’t look anything like that.

I also remember hearing about a neighbour who suffered a heart attack and died when he was about 38. As a child, I really didn’t understand when people were saying that this was so young to die. To me, as a preteen, it seemed quite obvious that he had lived a full life and that things like that were to be expected once you passed a certain age. What that certain age was, I’m sure I didn’t know, though the thinking behind it seems incredible to me nowadays.

Something very similar happened with my own children when they were quite young. My daughter was in Year 3 with a teacher that really believed in piling on the homework and I told my son that he’d have all this work to look forward to in a few years. My daughter scoffed at me, saying her teacher, who was in his midthirties, or thereabouts, would be retired by the time my son got into Year 3 (in 3 years time). How young the young are.

Another major barrier for me wasn’t my 30’th birthday, as I passed that rather stunned, having recently given birth to my first child and I was in a state of total and utter sleep deprivation spending two years in a stupor.

The really kicker was 25, as I felt that I’d just left my proper youth behind and was on a slippery slope to 30 and middle age. Wouldn’t I love to be there again!

Another time when I became conscious of my age was when I was about 20 and a young mother told her little girl to get out of the lady’s way. I can still remember my sense of outrage at being considered old enough to be called a “lady”!

Finally, the very first time in my life when I became truly conscious of the passage of time and the fact that I had passed a significant point in it, was when I would have been about 6 or 7 and we’d gathered at the front of the church to go down to Sunday School and some passing remark was made about the children, and I realized I was no longer one of the little, really cute kids, just one of a mass of older, gangly ones. This was the first time that the weight of ages pressed down on me and I have to admit that I felt a real sense of loss.

Never mind, as I press through my middle age (am I really going to live over 100?) I’ll just have to take comfort in my advancing maturity and knowledge (don’t I wish!) and get on with life.

After all, you can’t spend all your time worrying about getting old—not when there are so many people out there far older than me and living very full lives. At least they seem to be. Maybe they’re pulling the wool over our eyes just so we’ll be lulled into a false sense of security, and then we’ll get hit “bam” by old age when we’re least expecting it.

Have a feeling I won’t be one of the golden oldies. I’ll be the crotchety old lady sitting in the corner muttering about the young people of the modern era. In fact, that’s me already! See, old age has already struck.

Wasting time

2004-04-15T17:06:00.000+10:00

I finished work early today and came home with the knowledge that I should get busy and do some paperwork that has to be finished before Monday. I really knew that if I'd gone up to the office it would have been done, but I persuaded myself that I was a bit tired and I'd be far more comfortable doing what I had to do from home.

Unfortunately, there was a free computer and no husband in sight, so I started roaming and except for a minimal bit of meal preparation (a meal I can do without thinking about it), I've been here ever since.

It's not my fault my husband is the secretary for two groups and seems to spend interminable time clogging up the computer with very worthy, but rather boring usage. When I see a chance to browse, I grab it, 'cause it may not come for a few more days.

I actually have every sympathy for my husband, because I'm the secretary for a group myself and I often think this has to be the most futile thing I could be doing with my time. Does anyone ever read minutes? I know I only usually give other people's minutes a quick scan and it's usually the spelling mistakes that jump out at me. Very petty of me, I know, so I'd better watch my p's and q's here!

For my sins, there was one dismal period when I was the secretary for four different groups. Two of them, luckily, were very small groups and didn't usually require a whole lot of work other than minute taking and a bit of phoning around. The other two groups required somewhat more.

I always think it's the mark of a truly desperate group when they're forced to take me for a secretary. I'm certainly not the most organised person in the world by a long shot and I tend to do things out of a sense of duty, not out of a blazing enthusiasm for the job. I've been in groups with these sterling individuals and it sure makes a difference to the group and the work that gets done as well.

Only thing is that volunteer organisations don't tend to get a lot of participants any more, so the field to choose from is very limited. I wonder if it was the same in the past, or how far past you'd actually have to go to find interested parents actively working in these groups?

Easter Show

2004-04-11T16:42:00.000+10:00

Well, this is the time of year when many Sydneysiders head off the the "biggest agricultural show in the Southern Hemisphere". I think I've only missed a couple of shows in the years since I moved here.

Unlike previous years, however, due to different circumstances, I had to go to work the day that was free for other family members, so I didn't get there till 2 o'clock. It's an entirely different feel to the day. Our family is one of those obsessive compulsive families that likes to wake at the crack of dawn and arrive anywhere as they're opening, or preferably before. So, naturally, we're fresh and everyone around us is too.

It's very different when you arrive in the middle of the day. All around, you see marks of despair, anger and vast fatigue. When you're feeling that way yourself, you don't realise how offputting that is to a new arrival.

One young teen was sitting slumped against a stanchion looking like something dire had just happened--maybe a dumping by his girlfriend or maybe he'd just realised he'd spent an entire month's allowance in the past few hours on rides and fast foods.

Another homely scene was a father telling his young son to "eat the hotdog, or he'd bloody shove it down his throat".

Nothing like a family outing and togetherness to bring out the bonding.

Found my son and husband after a bit of searching around. They'd seen a fair bit of what they wanted to see, so sort of backtracked a bit for me, which was nice. Then, I cruelly decided what I really wanted to have a good look at was the craft pavillion. It's one of the things one does at the Royal Easter Show. You look at the District Displays, the animals and the craft.

My poor son, needless to say is not into craft. Quite often he just goes off and sits outside somewhere until I come to my senses and go to find something more interesting. This time, seeing as how I'd just arrived, he must have thought he'd do the gentlemanly thing and stay with us, though how the constant sneering criticism and rolling of eyes was gentlemanly, I'd like to know.

Unfortunately for him, the craft sort of merged into rather a lot of rows of art, very little of which he appreciated either. When I think of all the hours we spent getting him into finger painting and praising all his wonderful efforts, covering our fridge with masterpieces, it all seems a bit sad, somehow. Did none of it wear off?

Never mind, we finally left and managed to find a few more things a bit more interesting to him. I'd say eating, but that would be mean. ; ) And afterall, he did share his chips with us.

Nice day, on the whole, but I'll definitely have to see if I can manage an early start next time we go.

First Up

2004-04-08T20:10:00.000+10:00

After many exclamations about the wonders of blogging, my son has finally decided that this is what I need to do. I have my doubts about my staying power, but we'll see how we go.

Being a total technical incompetent, he very quickly ran through and set everything up for me. Is this a clever ploy at ensuring that I have no idea what I'm doing, so I'll have to constantly turn to him to change anything, thus keeping his eye on what I'm doing so I can't slander him unmercifully? Quite possibly.

I was born in the days of manual typewriters, so the typing bit is fine, it's all the rest that comes attached to this computer that is a bit hazy to me.

Of course, when I say I was born in the days of manual typewriters, I'm afraid I'm exagerrating slightly. That's what we were taught on in Grade 9, just to make us appreciate the electric ones we moved up to in Grade 10. Computers have both beaten hands down. When I think of all the corrections that I had to whiteout my way through in my highschool years it's very plain that the all new fixing up via backspace, as well as cut, copy paste definitely rule.

As for my title, it's "Procrastination" being the thief of time. I'm afraid I have it in a big way. Sometimes when I think about the things that I need to do, I almost feel a physical contraint holding me back. It's both minor and major things, like doing my income tax sooner than a day or two before the deadline or checking to see what the code for our second hand car radio was before the battery decided to die (we didn't make it--it was only two years, after all).

Well, this is it for now.