Nursery Rhymes for the Fearless

I was looking though some old papers the other day and came across a set of silly poems I wrote to entertain the girls when they were very young.

I think I shall be very brave and share one with you:

I am a little gnome
A toadstool is my home
And all the time I sing and so
I never feel alone.

The insects play with me
They come around for tea
And though the menu’s rather strange
It doesn’t bother me.

I saw a fairy fair
With cobwebs for her hair
Though it sounds gross, I held her close
Now we’re together – yeah.

It's difficult to believe, but they've grown up to be relatively normal really.

BOO! Tag from the Other Side.

This is Gypsy's doing:

1. How old do you think you'll be when you die?
I hope for at least 90 - more if I still have my marbles. If I don't, I may pack up my marbles and go home early.

2. How will you die?
In the company of family, probably choking on a mouthful of red that went down the wrong way. No - too traumatic. I think they'll all be laughing and suddenly someone will notice the old bat in the comfy chair has been quiet for a while. I'll have a smile on my face though.

3. What will your last words be?
Is that bottle empty?

4. What will your epitaph read?
"She said she'd do it tomorrow ..."

5. Any parts of your body you wouldn't donate?
Nope. Although who but a pervert would want anything from a 90-year-old sloth with a fondness for decent red?

6. What song will be played at your funeral?
No song. Just Mads and a friend playing the slow movement from Bach's double violin concerto, and a really great jazz band at the wake.

7. Cremated, buried or "other"?
A quick crackle and pop rather than slow decomposition for me please. Or if someone can come up with a less polluting option in the meanwhile, I'll take one of those.

8. If you could take one thing with you to the "next life", what would it be?
Music.

9. If you could take one person with you, whether they like it or not, who would it be?
Not telling. He may have other plans and I want to surprise him.

10. Supposing they existed, do you think you'd end up in heaven or hell?
My version of heaven please. No hot pokers but a fair sprinkling of naughtiness.

11. If you could haunt any one place, where would it be?
I might keep Gypsy company in her castle. Certainly somewhere old and indoors though.

12. If you could haunt any one person, who would it be?
Whichever world leader was causing the most grief in the world at the time. I'd give him / her hell.

13. What type of ghost would you be?
Unthreatening and generally lovely, bringing a feeling of warmth and wellbeing rather than the clammy coldness which generally goes with the job. (Except in the case of No. 12, naturally.)

14. You've been given the chance to send one message back to the land of the living. What does it say?
The bloke up here says don't live your life with an eye to pleasing him. He says please each other instead, and he'll be happy.

Scratch and Sniff - The Nose Knows.

They say smell is the most evocative of the senses – the one which above all others has the power to transport us back to another place or time, to relive a memory or a trauma.

We all have favourite smells – real bread baking, freshly-cut grass, a favourite perfume - but there are some which do so much more than just please the senses. I was thinking about this on my walk this morning, and came up with four which get me every time.

1. Summer. The smell of the hot concrete surrounding a swimming pool instantly takes me back to a childhood when I lay shivering after a swim, soaking up the warmth like a basking lizard. I can see the tiny, coloured grains of sand in the mix, with my nose almost pressed to its surface. It’s a pungent mix of chlorine, sweat and summer, from a time when we knew nothing of melanomas, and baked ourselves in blissful ignorance.

2. Trains. I travel by train rarely here, but when I do and find myself in one of Melbourne’s underground Loop stations, one sniff is all it takes and I’m in London again. It’s a mixture of hot brakes and bad air conditioning, old chips and musty tunnels. The feeling of transplantation is so strong I’m almost surprised to see the big Connex train arriving instead of those little Noddy carriages, squat and curved to fit the old tunnels.

3. Paint. The smell of turpentine and linseed oil puts me in my father’s studio as a child, being told not to touch anything. The paint was always too wet, the stereo too delicate and the floor too full of canvasses vulnerable to clumsy feet. The forbidden nature of the room of course added to its attractions, but I never stayed long.

4. Babies. When I hold a breast-fed baby (yes, I can smell the difference), I’m a new mother again, with the warmth, the nuzzling and the sounds of new life, but also the feeling of utter bewilderment that suddenly I was responsible for the care and safety of this little person for longer into the future than I could contemplate. I loved having my babies, but it’s quite a relief knowing I can hand any I cuddle these days back to their parents.

So - what does it for you?

City chic - country style.

I was going through some old photos today and found this. I have no idea exactly when or where it was taken, but I think my mother (on the right ) must have been about 19 or 20 at the time. She was not yet married, and I vaguely recall her telling me it was when she invited a city friend of hers home to her family's place in country Victoria for a weekend visit.

Mum was working in Melbourne then, having made the (very unpopular) decision to look further afield than the delights of the Western District farmlands for her future.

In a close-knit rural community, anyone who left in those days was considered something of a class traitor. Never let anyone tell you Australia is a classless society - we just do it differently. To the day she died, most of her family genuinely believed she felt she was too good for them, and it caused her a great deal of pain. The concept of adventuring beyond where you "belonged" at that time, especially for a woman, was just not on. Going off to war was the only legitimate excuse for roaming, and then of course the women had to remain to run the farms and businesses by themselves.

Mum's father returned from the war but had been gassed, and was an invalid for some years before succumbing to a cancer most probably caused by its effects. It was considered that the boys (five of them) needed an education or trade, so Mum was obliged to leave school at fourteen to maintain the house and look after their needs while her mother nursed her father around the clock. Gender equality came late to the bush.

After her father's death she set up her own small business making ball gowns for the local debs and doing general dressmaking - no mean feat in those days for a young girl - but it wasn't enough. Theatre, art, music, parties and a social circle beyond the local squatters' offspring beckoned, and she responded.

I love this photo. It shows two elegant, confident young women, who would have been given a pretty rough time for showing up in their city clobber complete with pearls, heels and sheer stockings. They seem to have a sort of conspiratorial Attitude to them.

Mum often went back. She loved her family, she loved the green velvet hills and the gums that lined the roads and paddocks, and deeply respected the people who worked the land. She just did it on her own terms.