MargieCM

This weeks' most desired combinations

2010-02-08T09:08:00.004+11:00

A cool change / some gentle sunshine.

Wednesday evening's yoga class / a very un-zen glass of red or two with dinner afterwards

Cypress Mountain / some serious snow.

A good book / the time to read it without interruption

7pm news / no disasters, natural or otherwise

Table full of good food / all my family in the one place for long enough to enjoy it together.

Diary / blank pages.

I am confident of no 3, and hopeful of no 6, at least once. The rest ... next week?

So this is middle age?

2010-01-28T17:01:00.002+11:00

I know I'm well and truly there chronologically speaking, but it's only recently I've discovered the real indicator of the mid-life psyche. Happily, it seems to be an innocuous state, and is marked mainly by what I have discovered to be a propensity for smiling indulgently at small naked children playing at the beach, or grinning inanely back at raspberry-blowing babies in supermarket trolleys. In fact, I imagine my face now takes on a beatific glow whenever such moments present themselves. Funny, it was only the other day when I was smiling back at people who ahhed and ohhed at my own children chasing waves in the shallows or wriggling in shopping queues. How funny.

You know what's best about being middle-aged though? Having got there. When people moan about getting older, all I can think of is all the people who haven't had that opportunity. From my observations, I can safely say that getting older is infinitely better than the alternative, and I intend to enjoy all the benefits of sticking around for as long as possible.

By the way and speaking (vaguely) of generational matters, today I have finally given in to months of nagging from my eldest, and created a Facebook page. I lie of course - Madeleine did it for me, walking me gently through the process with a creditable minimum of patronising noises. Why did I give in? Partly to keep up with what my nearest and dearest are up to when they're not at home, but mostly because I can then see all the family photos they post and which I'd never see otherwise. The digital age is wonderful, but maintaining a tangible hold on the evidence is tricky.

So now I suppose I'm both clucking and clicking. Nice.

Free at last!

2010-01-12T18:10:00.002+11:00

No fatuous excuses for prolonged absences this time - this is the real deal.

Truth is that after many months I have finally struggled free of the hessian bag Stevie and her co-conspirators had me bundled in, and licked myself free of caramel (that took a while without help, I can tell you). Remind me to make my next task the inclusion of a "no female shall be subjected to being made a human S'more" clause in the Geneva Convention. Believe me Stevie, I shall never look at a marshmallow in the same way again.

Once free however, the real trouble started - let me tell you that the Luxor's bilges are a tad slimy, and not made for climbing out of. Those cloggies may think they're neat, but you've never seen mould unless you've experienced the bowels of a classic Rotterdam barge. I've always said there was a closet slattern within that too-good-to-be-true DIY fiend Valerie. Vindicated at last!

Anyway, having swum, bribed, hijacked and begged my way back to the reassuring dullness of suburban Melbourne, I'm still sticky, but only because while you lot are under snow, I'm suffering in 40degC+ heat. Last night it only went down to 30.6. I'm even beginning to pine for my nice moist, clammy sack.

Now to visit you all in the safety of blogland, and check out your alibis ...

But will it make you go blind?

2009-07-20T09:50:00.002+10:00

Why is it that we find food so compelling as entertainment? Foodie magazines are flying off the shelves, beautifully designed high-end cookbooks sell by the truckload, and now a local version of “Master Chef” has just finished its first run here, attracting huge television audiences five nights a week. What’s going on?

The pleasures of staring at images and descriptions of gorgeous food you have no intention of preparing (or the ability or opportunity to do so in many cases) are known to many of us. The term “Gastroporn” was coined to describe all those glossy magazines and books filled not with airbrushed spread-eagled nubiles, but with superbly constructed works of culinary beauty we could only think to replicate in our imaginations and without the constraints of budget and family-driven timetables.

Why do we buy them? For my money, it’s the same thing as picking up the odd issue of “Country Life” to drool over perfect cottages or stately Grade II listed mansions with walled gardens and trout streams. There’s pleasure simply in knowing they exist, and just occasionally, you can translate a grand idea into something of your own that’s also wonderful, yet achievable on a more practical scale.

For every 3-Michelin-star-worthy dish, for every lovingly-built tower of truffle-infused genius, for every faultlessly turned baby vegetable and every perfect mousse, coulis or jus, there’s that little germ of knowledge, finesse or inspiration that makes the brave transition from haute cuisine to the family dining table.

Food is exciting, sensual and pleasurable. It’s easy and fun to experiment with, and trying new things often brings wonderful results. For most of us, it’s also less complicated and safer to share with more people than sex.

Gastroporn rules! Now where did I leave my glasses?

Oooh, let's see now - how does this thing work again?

2009-06-22T09:09:00.003+10:00

It's been so long I'm beyond the space where apologies would mean anything. Suffice to say, it is midwinter here now, and life is burbling along busily. Dramas have come and gone, crises weathered, work done and milestones reached.

What hasn't been done is a great deal of communication outside the square of day-to-day physical life, and I have missed blogland. Knowing my tendency for obsessive behaviour one way or another, I went cold-turkey on the e-front, with the result that I'm now so far out of the loop I qualify for alien status.

Thanks hugely to those lovely ones who enquired either here or by email as to whether or not I was still alive, intact, sane and healthy. All boxes are now ticked (number 3 is debatable, but then it always was). I will be around to make some visits soon, in a controlled, non-obsessive, disciplined and time-efficient manner.

Meanwhile, I am thinking of starting work on my first book; "The Good Slattern's Guide to Modern Living". It's going to be all about maximising pleasure, creativity and quality of life and minimising the unnecessary drudgery that gets in the way of it. I'm picturing a more intellectually vibrant and creative sort of slothful Nigella Lawson type, but without the cleavage, the domestic help or personal assistant.

Wotcha think?

What a way to end the silence - updated just a little

2009-02-09T08:51:00.010+11:00

Post script 12th Feb: In the midst of so much loss, one tiny victory. I'm afraid I never have figured out how to embed videos, but I hope this link works.

Believe me, this is amazing. Koalas are not tame, and they can actually be very aggressive. (They're not bears, either, despite the lovely CFA guy's awful pun). As a general rule, they don't drink water either, getting all their hydration from eucalyptus leaves. This is very special indeed:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=do9AoKyjjQg

Photo from The Age newspaper, taken by reader Jac Warburton.

Photo taken from suburban Doncaster by the Mulherin family. Again, from the Age.

This can be a merciless country at times. Last week floods devastated whole towns in Northern Queensland, and the water levels are still too high for many to return to see what they can salvage from their homes. Now, over the last twenty-four hours, terrible fires have raged, exploded and raced at speeds never before seen across vast areas of country Victoria. This morning it has been reported that 108 are confirmed dead, and the number keeps climbing as firefighters and emergency services are able to re-enter areas devoured by the fires.

The fires are still spreading. Over 750 houses are confirmed gone already, and among so many towns ravaged, there are at least two which now no longer exist in any form at all, such was the power of the firestorm. Livestock, domestic animals and native animal populations have also been lost in huge numbers.

While London was under a foot of snow last week, we were experiencing temperatures well into the forties; 46.7 in Melbourne one day, with a humidity level of 4%. On the rare moments I ventured outside, I swear I understood what a baking potato feels like. The heat was indescribable. And to fight a fire in that? Suddenly the concept of Hell is very real.

On Saturday it was in temperatures of up to 47 degrees (that's 116 degrees Farenheit) that most of these fires were born, fed by vicious North winds that created conditions akin to standing in front of a huge blast furnace. Several fires joined up to cover thousands of hectares at once with equal strength. Even cooler conditions in many places yesterday did nothing to slow the spread of firefronts which are still travelling terrifyingly fast.

The reports are horrific. People in their homes who five minutes before had been assured the fire was not an immediate threat to them were engulfed by flames driven by sudden wind changes, with fire fronts moving so fast they covered kilometres in seconds. Many others died in their cars, thinking (or perhaps beyond thinking) that they could outrun the danger and escape. Being on the road in a bushfire is never a good idea. This weekend it was suicide.

Common wisdom says if you are properly prepared, you are safest in your house. This time, the worst weather conditions ever recorded meant that even some of those who did everything right weren't able to survive, though there are many amazing stories emerging of those who did. One family, unable to save their house, ran down into an already burnt gully with bundles of wet sheets and blankets and hid in and around against a wombat hole, sheltered by a dirt mound.

We have friends in some of these areas. Thankfully, all are safe, and although one may have lost a vineyard and weekend house, none have been left homeless. This morning I spoke to Mads' lovely friend Laura, who has been at her family's farm for the weekend. We had been texting messages during what we thought was their worst time of threat, but it was only this morning we found how close they had come to disaster. The fire was a mere 400 metres from them when the wind blew it back on itself. They had no running water to operate hoses, as loss of power meant the pumps couldn't operate. I'm shaking even as I think of what could so easily have happened. The danger is not yet over for them. Winds can still change, and they have been told it is still not safe for them to leave.

The volunteers fighting these fires are as brave and heroic as human beings can ever be. To face walls of flame driven by winds so great that they leap four lane highways as you would jump a puddle, creating the sort of fireballs associated with chemical explosions is just staggering. To cope with the terror, the heat, the exhaustion of twelve hour shifts and the emotional trauma of finding victims ... these people are just magnificent.

However, there is another, darker side of humanity. There is already evidence that while lightning strikes may have started several of the fires, it is arsonists who have created much of this maelstrom. It is here that words just can't express what I feel. I hope they are caught. I hope they are charged with mass murder. I hope they are made to face some of those who have lost family, animals, houses, precious memories. And I hope they live long enough to comprehend the horror of what they have done.

Ho Ho Hop

2008-12-18T14:35:00.005+11:00

This is an insane time of year, so in case I get too caught up in the mayhem and don't find time to do this when I should, Happy Christmas / Hannukah / Jedi Holiday or Excuse for a Lie-In to everyone.

I pinched this photo from a pack of Hallmark cards, the proceeds of which go towards breast cancer research (well at least I bought the cards!). I rather like it - it could have been taken on any one of hundreds of roads I've driven along on country trips over the years. It looks very hot.

So, while you're all huddling under blankets and chucking snowballs at each other, I'll be listening to the cicadas and slapping on the sunscreen, wondering yet again why I don't do a cold buffet on Christmas day rather than the traditional roasts and hot, flamed plum pudding. I am however a happy slave to the habits of my youth; I did briefly toy with the crazy idea of replacing turkey with kangaroo, but the moment passed.

Big love.

Update

2008-12-08T08:51:00.004+11:00

Thanks All for your lovely comments on my last post. I'll go back there and respond to them properly soon.

We had an email from Em yesterday - the following is a taste of why I miss her so much:

She is writing "in the dodgyest internet cafe in the whole world, not just Uttaranchal", which apparently smells of pee and is run by a guy in a cheap suit and with slicked back hair. She says "this is hard, not because I miss you, or cos I can't think of what to write, but because the keyboard only has half the letters".

She says she is thrilled to bits with India, and has seen "so much that is "radtastic, unusual and unreal", and speaks of "the enormity of everything that's happened", none of which apparently we would believe without the benefit of visual aids (which she is arranging).

Then there's a short break for an announcement:
"****proprietor is smoking up the ganga in the phone booth. Not uncommon here****"

As for any lurking extremists: "btw - I'm not dead. My people will call your people if we get whisked into any international terrorist shenanigans ...."

She's obviously been hoeing into the local cuisine; so much so that I have been banned from cooking anything with curry, paprika, masala or pepper for the next three months at least. ("I could so go a lamb casserole right now"). And apparently she has just realised that I have a special smell that she misses. What is that I wonder? Possibly a strange cocktail of sauteed onions, fruit cake, anti-ageing moisturiser, Balenciaga's Le Dix, tea and claret. ("mmm smell mummy-ish. lol giggle!"). I shall get her to analyse it properly when she comes home. Funny how smell seems to be the most evocative of the senses. Perhaps she passed a street stall where someone was frying garlic and it reminded her of me in the kitchen. Or maybe I just pong.

There's more of course; all the lovely personal stuff and special comments for each of us. I think I've read the email fourteen or fifteen times already.

Two weeks down, two weeks to go ...

Out in Indiyah

2008-12-04T08:28:00.005+11:00

Emma's in India. I hope she is having the time of her life.

Happily, she got through Bangkok 24 hours before the airports closed (they are only now re-opening), and even more happily, she was nowhere near Mumbai when those terrible attacks occurred.

She is with tigers, mountains, temples and jungles in Northern India, trekking so high (over 4000m) that she will need to take altitude sickness prevention tablets. In a week or so she will move down near Jaipur with her group to work on renovations and improvements to a local children's school.
Above:Saying goodbye to Sadie
Below: At school on departure day
The world is a big place, and having an opportunity like this to see a part of it so vastly removed from her own is brilliant. She has been preparing for this for 18 months, and has worked hard to pay for the trip herself; this is part of the World Challenge deal. You fund your adventure and you own it.

She's with good friends, an inspiring trek leader and two wonderful teachers from her school. The latter three are there to keep them safe - the group of 16/17 year-olds makes the decisions, does the budgeting, and has planned the itinerary, with the leader simply as facilitator.

I miss Em dreadfully, but wouldn't wish her back from such an experience until she's soaked up every moment of it.

For Dan

2008-11-20T09:56:00.005+11:00

Now this is really cheating. No time to post responses and also write posts? Choose one or the other, right? Wrong. Write a rambling response to an interesting post on someone else's blog, then nick it back again and use it as a post on yours. I think I have this licked.

Seriously though, I found myself so engrossed in this just now I thought it was worth a post of its own. Call it a tribute to diversity, a curiosity of the nature of blog attraction, or some perverse compulsion to balance precariously on a soapbox for a moment, but here we go; as previously featured (hahaha!) on Dan's blog:

Hi Dan, it's good to be back. I've been a bad blogger and have't been around for a while. I picked an interesting time to visit you! I have posted my response to you on my blog too - you have made me think, which can't be bad.

I have sometimes wondered why I feel so drawn to your blog - I don't visit many (just too darned busy), but I always like coming here. Our beliefs, our politics, our attitudes are often so different, yet I like reading what you have to say, and I think you are a good, decent and immensely likeable man.

Never has a post showed so clearly how fundamentally different our beliefs are. We have divergent views on so many things. I remember a good discussion on gun laws many many months ago, and here we are again, poles apart, but I hope still friends.

My politics are clearly not yours - I celebrated madly when Barack Obama was elected your next President. I was brought up nominally Anglican, but remain unimpressed by organised religion and too much reliance on people's interpretations of the will of God. I am happy that some people find it fulfilling to live their lives within a stated religious framework, but deeply suspicious of fundamentalism in any form where it seeks to dictate how others should live their lives. Again, it appears we are different.

I was deeply saddened with the result of the vote on Prop 8 in California. Marriage has many forms, as do people. Their way may not be your way, but it is a way, and will hurt no-one who is prepared to accept and celebrate the diversity of human life. It cannot harm your family, and is an attack on no-one, simply an expression of love and commitment. Theirs cannot threaten yours.

Ah, and the big one - human life in its earliest form. I don't like the terms pro and anti-abortion. They suggest some people think it's a jolly good thing and highly recommended. It isn't. It's the result of a hard, traumatic and challenging decision, which sadly, some find themselves having to make under difficult circumstances. I cannot say I could choose it, or would not under certain circumstances, but I will not judge those who do. They have a right to do so safely and without my approbation.

Truth is a flexible concept - yours may not be mine. Fortunately, humans are flexible too, and can accept, celebrate and discuss differing views. Most of us try to live our lives within moral frameworks with which we feel comfortable, and are at least respectful of others' beliefs. I respect yours, and hope mine don't threaten our friendship.

Voltaire said something along the lines of "I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it".

Sound chap, Voltaire.

Oh Hell

2008-11-13T20:54:00.002+11:00

I am so bad - so very very bad at this. I am missing all my bloggy fiends yet still cannot seem to find the time or mindspace to sit down for an hour or so and catch up. Random excuses and updates:

1. It's exam time. I am providing support, hugs, smoothies for energy, and whatever stress relief I can. So far either it's working, or it wasn't needed anyway.

2. On a personal level, all is well, all are in rude health, and all is happy, but as ever, life is full and demanding. Happily, it continues to beat the alternative.

3. Ghastliness of the year is that no sooner did I discover that tickets for The Who's one show in Melbourne next March were to go on sale, I found the date clashed with a music festival that our whole family is already committed to. I considered divorce briefly, but have bowed to the long term picture. (I am sure I will regret this in March.) Maria and Grace, I cannot believe I am telling you I won't be there.

4. Work is a shocker. Economic downturns mean tough times, and many of my colleagues have been casualties. This is no fun.

5. We are not getting a beagle, despite Mads' pleadings. I hear you Vally - they are escape artists and inherently pack animals, they howl if left alone for even a few hours and although they are intelligent and lovely, I am not looking for any complications to my life at the moment. (Soz Mads).

5. The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain. Apparently.

6. Time for bed.

xxx

Life etc.

2008-10-06T15:08:00.004+11:00

Sometimes I wonder why I persist with this - I apologise for absences, make promises and resolutions, then disappear for weeks at a time once again. Life. Such a sweet word, but a big one despite its single syllable.

I'm sorry I haven't responded properly to the comments on my last post. I have read and loved them all, but once I start typing the day disappears, so I've resisted the temptation.

Anyway, colour and movement - well, colour anyway. This is a very blurry photo taken just before Emma's 17th birthday party a few weeks back. Theme - Seventies (as if you couldn't tell). Madeleine's pants and brown wedge shoes were both pinched from my own current wardrobe. Sophie's suit and Em's dress (in splendid bri-nylon) are both vintage 70's outfits belonging to my best friend Clare, who was about the same age when she last wore them. I'm not sure which of these facts is the more scary.

Til next time ...

First day of Spring

2008-09-01T12:16:00.002+10:00

I love Spring, and today Melbourne is trying her best to get into the spirit of the thing. The sun has triumphed for fully ten minutes at a time before fading in the face of tougher clouds, ever-reluctant to relinquish their territory. This battle for the skies has continuted since early morning, and although the weather forecast (this city's best-known work of fiction) has it raining this afternoon, at the moment the sun is winning.

I still have a cold (this is traditional in early September), but the chills and fevers have passed and things are looking up. With the appearance of this watery sunshine, suddenly eating outside seems almost feasable again, or at least not completely insane. I must sweep the leaves off the table on the deck in readiness - right after I bring another load of firewood in. Strange town, this.

Antidote to Darkness (Poor taste alert)

2008-08-12T20:51:00.008+10:00

Changing the tone somewhat ... this appeared in the paper today, and I'm sorry, but it made me laugh like a fat spider.

http://www.theage.com.au/world/blowup-dog-poo-causes-museum-chaos-20080812-3ttz.html

In case the page vanishes (because I'd just hate you to miss this), I'll do a quick cut and paste if I can:

Brought down a power line ... a giant dog turd, as seen in this screen grab from the Paul Klee Centre website, blew away from an exhibition in Switzerland. Photo: Paul Klee Centre

Blow-up dog poo causes museum chaos
August 12, 2008 - 11:32AM
A giant inflatable dog turd by American artist Paul McCarthy has blown away from an exhibition in the garden of a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a greenhouse window before landing again.
The art work, titled Complex Shit, is the size of a house. The wind carried it 200 metres from the Paul Klee Centre in Berne before it fell back to Earth in the grounds of a children's home, said museum director Juri Steiner.

The inflatable turd broke the window at the children's home when it blew away on the night of July 31, Steiner said.

The art work has a safety system that normally makes it deflate when there is a storm, but this did not work when it blew away.

Steiner said McCarthy had not yet been contacted and the museum was not sure if Complex Shit would be put back on display.
AFP

I absolutely love this - an art installation that has truly taken on a life of its own. Call it social commentary, call it happy coincidence, call it a political or artistic statement, but safe in the knowlege that no-one was hurt, rejoice. No pavement is big enough to hold this baby!

In the light of these developments, however, I think "Complex Shit" should now be renamed "Bad Shit", or even "Shit Happens". And if the artist or gallery refuses to pay for any damages caused: "Tough Shit".

Just as well it didn't float into one of those giant wind turbines. Then it would really have hit the fan.

Out of body

2008-08-07T13:23:00.004+10:00

Some nights
she needs her garden;
eyes shut tightly
so she can see.
The colours soothe her,
the scents distract her
from the ugliness,
the pain,
the stench of his breath.
And while she's there,
no-one can touch her,
no-one can hurt her.
And she will stay there
Until he's gone.

2008-07-24T17:10:00.008+10:00

An indulgent post today. (Oh, all right, another one.)

This is a photo of my favourite chocolate shop in the whole world - and I've never even been there.

The last two times Colin's been to Paris without me (on university business, he says), he has brought back some of their beautiful little orange and purple boxes for me, filled with the most perfect hand-picked assortment of their own dark chocolates. Pralines, truffles, batons, nougats, ohhhhh... I am being careful here so as not to drool on the keyboard.

They are indecently expensive, but worth every Euro. (Guilt can be very useful at times, although he says he buys them just because he misses me. In the excitement of undoing the glossy satin ribbon around the box, I'm sorry to say that the reason is much less important than it should be).

I am disciplined though; I hide them from the girls, who have their own gifts, and sneak into my room where I have them hidden, eating just one at a time - two if it's been a rough day. Such delicious, secretive decadence! And there's no clue on the box as to what's inside each. It's the most luscious game of chance I've ever played.

The sensuous, velvety feel of a perfect chocolate in the mouth is one of life's most sublime pleasures. Those Aztecs don't know what they started.

Back in the land of the living

2008-07-10T11:43:00.002+10:00

Feels good.

Mind you, there were some highlights during my enforced lay-off. I caught up on so many films and books I'd been saving for when I had time. Two special highlights were that I finally read Patrick Suskind's "Perfume" (stunning in every respect), and I rediscovered Richard Attenborough's utterly brilliant film from 1969, "Oh! What a Lovely War". If you've never seen this, do try to dig it up. There's an insanely stellar cast, but aside from that, it's the most powerful anti-war film I've ever seen, and as far as I know is stylistically unique in its blending of music, history, pathos, surrealism and humour. My two younger girls watched it with me, and were visibly moved.

Of course, there was also the opportunity for escapism - old episodes of "Get Smart" (The ones with Hymie are my favourites), and all of Series 2 of Green Wing (again). Laughing didn't do my innards much good, but it was a considered trade-off.

Another cold day outside, and lots to do inside. Back to work.

"A good sheep paddock spoilt".

2008-06-18T20:19:00.009+10:00

The above quote may be apocryphal, but is popularly believed to have been uttered by a man seeing our then-new National Capital for the first time. I thought of it again many times during our visit there last week.

Canberra was always a compromise city. After Federation in 1901, there was much bickering between rivals Sydney and Melbourne for the right to be known as the Capital, and the seat of Government. Canberra is testament to the Australian way of avoiding unpleasantness and sidestepping difficult decisions - in 1908 it was decided to create a new city from scratch, thus circumventing the need to make this politically awkward choice.

Canberra was planned, designed and invented from the ground up, on land previously used by two Aboriginal tribes and the odd intrepid settler. It didn't grow and evolve as most cities do. It was laid out according to the winning design from a competition held for the purpose. Really. While this makes it very landscaped, very open and very accessible, it also makes it utterly devoid of any soul.

There are architectural highlights of course: the newer Parliament House (built in 1988) is pretty impressive, and the museum which opened just six years ago is stunning in its use of form, colour and design. Actually it's worth a look, that one: http://www.nma.gov.au/visit/virtual_tour/ The National Gallery's not bad either (a visiting exhibition of landscapes there, "Turner to Monet" was the impetus for this trip). Apart from that, it has the sort of solid, dull buildings you'd expect as repositories for the country's most venerable treasures and as symbols of national might and justice.

There are unexpected entertainments though. Sophie kept getting the giggles at all the signs on the various places of historic interest; the pioneer cottages that were open to the public between ten and two, but only one day a week and never on school holidays. (Or when the moon was waning or there was an "r" in the month or the caretaker's mother-in-law had a headache, presumably.) They don't really "get" tourism.

The fact that the city is out in the middle of the bush has its upside though. Where else could you look down upon a nation's capital through a view like the one at the top of this post? OK, so it's not a view of the focal points, but it is Canberra.

So, to any intending visitors to our beautiful country - put Canberra on your list by all means, but put it well down. Public servants en masse are not really very interesting, and there are better places to see kangaroos.

I leave you with this, my favourite exhibit in the Museum - a snapshot of how many Australians liked to spend their leisure time in the early sixties. One perfect, pink, vintage caravan. If I could have squeezed it into my handbag, it would now be mine.

Welcome to my Life - Part One

2008-06-05T11:22:00.014+10:00

Or should that be welcome to my children's lives? It's all connected anyway, and luckily they're good company.

I was just trying to sort some photos, and found these from two sort-of recent events, both of which were Great Parental Moments - those times when it's extra nice having kids.

First, the Music Festival in April. This is what a houseful of 18-year-olds does back at the house between sessions in the marquees:

Note assorted bodies, extra mattress on living room floor for more bodies, amazingly tasteful decor including vintage burnt orange fish-fountain and lampshade, and brown velvet bucket chair. Mmmm. That's what happens in a holiday house - nature's time-warp. The painting is a very early one of my Dad's. Front to back, James Mc, Madeleine, Georgie (singer with a voice like an angel), James G and James B. The Jameses are drummer, bass player and pianist respectively. They are watching a DVD of "Green Wing" on James G's laptop. If you haven't seen it, try to.

I love this picture. Two beautiful boys. Really. They make everyone else laugh almost as much as they do each other.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what you have for breakfast after a late night at a festival. This James is enjoying (or so he said) a delightful combination of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and the remains of the previous night's chocolate fondue. And you though S'mores were decadent. Again, please note decor. I seem to recall saying somewhere that I didn't "do" kitsch. Well here, I do. It's become a sort of a running joke; how low can we go?

While all that was going on, Emma and Sophie preferred the company of the goats. Actually, that's not true - the younger girls were only there for the first day, having to go back to the city early with Colin to do a dress rehearsal for their school musical (which was "Urinetown" - it was brilliant, but I have no photos of that yet - I must try to get some, because that was a SUPERB parental moment). Here though the thing to note is the vegetation - or lack of it. The goats are there to eat the blackberry, which is a noxious weed around those parts. As you can see, they're quite good at it. This is actually the entrance to our driveway at the Bay.

Emma cosies up with, um, was it Rasputin, Eric and Scrumpy? Sophie and Em would remember - they named most of them. They are very sweet creatures. So are the goats.

Back in Melbourne and more recently, Mads, James (B) and three of their lovely friends all collected their Premier's VCE Awards. These are given to the top five students in the State in each subject area for the final year of High School. They earned theirs in Music Styles, a subject which involves listening, dissection, recognition, knowlege of musical techniques and notations and of course styles and historical context in music across many genres. It's a fantastic subject, but hard. The best thing about these awards was that in this subject, the top 5 were all from the same school - their teacher is amazing, inspirational and absolutely brilliant.

Mads and Laura got perfect scores, and James, Anna and Jesse were so close it didn't matter. Anyway, here are some pics:

In the foyer afterwards - The school Principal, Laura, their divine teacher, Madeleine and James.

An overexposed but happy couple - Mads and James.

My girls are not my whole life, but they're a wonderful, inseparable and pivotal part of it, and they and their friends enrich it beyond measure. Bringing up kids is such a challenging, tricky and turbulent process, and there are always the not-so-great times amongst the best bits. But hey - lucky me.

S'mores for Stevie

2008-05-26T10:44:00.009+10:00

Well, I finally managed to upload the photos from Colin's camera (I lie - I begged him to do it) and sort out the S'mores from the parties and the presentation ceremonies and the goats and all the other stuff that was there.

So, with another huge "thank you" to our generous benefactor Stevie of the Travelling Teacup (http://travellingteacup.blogspot.com/), here at last is documentary evidence that we too have known the wonderful cross-cultural delights of S'mores.

We did ours indoors, setting a fire in the front room. (In the fireplace, obviously.)

Note state of said room. More books than bookshelves, strange collection of wooden shoe trees on window ledge, photos on mantelpiece which have not felt the caress of a duster for many months. Emma on the left, Sophie at right, piggy in the middle. I appear to have lost the lower half of my legs.

What can I say? They are the sweetest, most indulgent thing ever. Mads (taking the photos) only managed three, but the rest of us were made of sterner stuff. We had to try all the permutations - Stevie had supplied dark, milk and caramel-filled chocolate along with some beautiful fudge and other goodies which managed to survive the attentions of our over-zealous customs inspectors. I'm drooling on the keyboard just thinking about it. (Customs inspectors do that to me.)

So here's to Canada - home of maple syrup, moose, ice hockey and S'mores. And good friends.

For want of a real post ...

2008-05-15T19:58:00.003+10:00

I just spent ten minutes composing replies to the lovely comments on my last post, and while I was doing it I was wondering what to post next. I've long owed Stevie a S'mores post, and Dale an Autumn photo, but my lack of pictorial downloading nouse is getting in the way, so I've decided to cheat and post the replies as a new post. It looks nicely random and disjointed out of context, but a little surrealism is good for the soul. So "control c" and ...

Back again at last! More catching up to do and so little time to do it. Here we go:

Stevie, what can I say? S'mores are amazing, wonderful, decadent and delicious. Thank you SO much! It took us a while to get around to doing them, (because we were so rarely home all together and the occasion demanded a full house), but oh my goodness WOW! I PROMISE my next post will provide documentary evidence. And drool. I will downoad the pics this weekend, honest. (Preview: They are impossibly rich, your marshmallows are nothing like the ones we get here, nor do we have anything that tastes like Graham crackers, and the Aero milk ones were the favourite with everyone except me, who wavered between the Caramilk and the dark Aero. I am such a sophisticate! (Or maybe just a piggy.)

Grace, it is weird to read of the different seasons my bloggy friends are experiencing, but nice. I hope you have a lovely summer. At the moment I am cosying up in front of an open fire. Global village, eh?

Vally my lovely, you understand. Always. I will kick through the next pile of leaves I see just for you.

Mads - you are, as ever, a cheeky brat. (For the benefit of others, the morning my eldest ratbag posted this, I had hidden from some Jehovah's Witnesses who rang the doorbell - three times. I was still in my jim-jams, was enjoying my solitude, and I really didn't want to be bothered - and I saw them coming. Does that make me a bad person? If so, I can live with it.)

Dan, you are a GOOD person. You wouldn't have hidden. I did read the Watchtower brochure they left though. It was rubbish I'm afraid. You are not.

Dale - I wish you were sitting beside me too! you are one of those special souls I would just love to meet "for real". Any time. I will try to find you some nice pics of our Autumn / Fall. I think the loveliest bits have passed, but I might get lucky. Oh, and your explanation of "Boinging" made my day. Brilliant!

Gypsy - who are you calling topsy turvey? it all depends on your perspective. But if I'm upside down, it may explain the constant rush of blood to the head. And the fact that my knickers never ride up.

Cheryl Ann - you're back! I must visit you. I must visit everyone. I must find time to do what I want to do. And yes, it was more than a moment. I stretched it to a morning. Naughty but nice.

Koos, thank you for your very kind words. And don't think I've forgotten your vague plans to travel down our way at some point. When you get sick of Poland. Now about your private situation ...

Lannio, I haven't visited you for so long! My loss. If you do find yourself in Melbourne sometime next year, or any time, PLEASE get in touch. Canada treated my Em really well, and I'd love to have a chance to repay the hospitality with you.

So that's it. Time to rake out the fire and head for bed. I just might do a bit of blog-surfing first though ....

A kind of contentment.

2008-05-07T08:30:00.004+10:00

It's a good day. No office work, a week of frenetic and creative activity behind us (school musical production), a great weekend music festival behind that, a lunch date with a good friend, the final disappearance of a stubborn head cold and a few precious minutes to spend saying hello here.

Now that Winter has officially just begun, Autumn is in its dying stages, with the brilliant reds and yellows of the leaves having turned to brown before taking their lemming-like plunges to the ground. Huge drifts of damp but still crunchy foliage sit beside the roads waiting to be swept up. Sometimes a delighted child discovers a particularly large mound before it disappears into bin bags or the cavernous tanks of the street sweeper. Piles of leaves are made for kicking through, and anyone who thinks otherwise has forgotten what it is to be very young.

One cup of coffee down, the silence of the house is beautiful. Shower and breakfast can wait.

Cigarettes and History

2008-04-21T11:59:00.007+10:00

Some time ago I found a real treasure at a country fete. It's a hardback book, a popular (and selective, it has to be said) social history of South Africa, published in 1938. The unusual thing about it is that the pictures have all been collected from cigarette packs, the book presumably becoming more colourful as the owner's lungs became more congested.

Here's the title page - sorry for the distortion:

As you can see if you click on it to enlarge, it was "Issued by the United Tobacco Cos. (South) Limited, manufacturers of 'C to C' cigarettes - with which the pictures are packed". Smoking may be bad for your lungs, but in 1938 it was pretty good for your education.

This is a page from inside:

I'm wondering if the fact that some of the pictures have been pasted in a little crookedly means a child was doing the collecting, egging his or her poor father on to a nicotine consumption of several packets a day in order to complete the set - which, incidentally, he or she did, with a few extras to spare. Here are a few "doubles" which we found tucked inside the front cover:

And this is what they look like on the back:

In times where instant gratification is the norm, it's nice to imagine someone slowly building up this collection and perhaps swapping doubles at school to fill in the blanks. Over how many months I wonder? Imagine the satisfaction of pasting in that very last card. You don't get that downloading from Wikipedia.

Whoever this collector was, whatever political and social climate gave birth to the idea, and whatever meandering path this carefully nurtured book followed on its journey to the little town in country Victoria where I found it, I feel quite privileged to be its custodian now.

Bad writing habits

2008-04-17T09:01:00.004+10:00

Haven't blogged for a while; the brain is so full of domestic and pedestrian clutter. All very important, but as they say, I can get all that at home, and so can you.

Looking for ideas for topics, I scanned through some of my older posts. All I found was the sad fact that I have some really bad, lazy and cheesey writing habits. I thought I would purge myself by listing some of them:

When working at these blogging larks,
Too many exclamation marks!
And brackets (or parentheses)
Appear too often for my ease.
Then to pause or make effects,
The dash or hyphen - it comes next.
Hanging thoughts are plain to see
When dot dot dot is used by me ...
Semi-colons to explain
What I've just said; but once again.
Italics used to emphasise
Are patronising and unwise.
As is bold type, often used
In case the reader gets confused.
The cliche bullet is my friend:
A cheap effect to bring

The end.

(PS: At least of one there is no trace -
I've never used a smiley face!)

Banjo and Fiddle

2008-04-03T12:20:00.005+11:00

I'm still feeling sadly inadequate not having a dog of my own to share around these parts, so I've borrowed a couple for you. Madeleine just sent me these pics of James' Jack Russells. The phone camera strikes again!

Banjo at the keyboard. Naturally.

James with Fiddle. They have the same hairdresser.
All together now ... aaaahhhhhh ....

Accessorise, accessorise, accessorise ...

2008-04-01T12:21:00.004+11:00

Mads took this on her phone the other night before we went out to see James' band. I think it's rather nice, don't you?

Sweet irony.

2008-03-20T13:40:00.004+11:00

This morning I heard three normally intelligent people on the radio bemoaning the wide use of blogs and such forums as Myspace. The concensus was that such things simply allow people who have nothing to say the space to say it, and that there's absolutely no social or personal value in the experience at all.

Then, over the next ten minutes, they talked nostalgically about how wonderful it was for them when as children they had pen pals and through them were introduced to new people, other cultures, others' lives and new perspectives. Sometimes, apparently, they even had the opportunity to meet them. "And it's so sad that nobody does that any more."

Funny old world, eh?

PS: I'd like to wish any other time-wasting talentless social misfits who may venture here a very happy Easter, whether you're believers in the miracle of the Resurrection or simply the magical combination of chocolate and a day off work. Bless you all.

Back in the Room

2008-03-06T11:31:00.006+11:00

Maybe a fleeting visit for now, but back. All is well, but life has been full and busy and in the past few weeks there have always been things that took precedence over my indulgent little visits here. I've missed it a great deal.

Thanks for all your lovely and thoughtful comments on that last epic. I should probably blog some utter tripe now to compensate for its seriousness. Easy - here we go:

A Slattern's Alphabet*

* I'm not really a slattern, and my house is not this bad (not quite), but writing this makes it seem better. This photo, by the way is called "Marguerite a la cuisine" - I kid you not - and is by Frederic Tran.

A is for awful, the state of my floors,
B for the broom which is used for such chores.
C is for clutter all over the place,
D is for dusting, of which there's no trace.
E is the effort required to fix all,
F starts the word when I trip in the hall.
G is the buzz when I throw something out,
H is the hope it gets easier (I doubt).
I is for "in case", ('cause you never know ...)
J for the junk which I just cannot throw.
K stands for Kitsch, which I try to avoid,
L for the lack of a domestic droid.
M could be mess, mucky, muddle or mould,
N might be crumpled up sheets yet to fold.
O is the option of crying in sorrow,
P is the promise to do it tomorrow.
Q is the quibble of who does which chores,
R for the rubbish on teenage girls' floors.
S must be sanity, threatened by chaos,
T will be tarnish, which builds up in layers
U is the uses a sponge can employ,
V: Vaccuum cleaner - what a fun toy.
W for water which washes and cleans,
X marks the spot where a nail tore my jeans.
Y is the yellowing paint which was white
and Z is the zoo here that somehow feels right.

Mission accomplished / tripe delivered.

Oh Frabjous Day!

2008-02-14T13:03:00.005+11:00

Yesterday was a day of both joyous celebration and immense sadness. I doubt it will be much reported outside Australia, but I have friends here from far away with whom I would like to share it.

This country has forty thousand years of Aboriginal history, and just over two hundred of European and Asian settlement. When the Europeans came, they did terrible things to the indigenous population. It is a dark history lesson, and the worst of it is that the suffering didn't stop back then.

One of the most destructive and tragic chapters in this country's history is much more recent. From about 1900 to as late as 1972, many, many Aboriginal children, mostly those with lighter skins inherited as a result of non-Aboriginal genes, were forcibly taken from their families and placed into institutional or adoptive care with white people. These are The Stolen Generations.

This policy was a deliberate and shameful attempt to breed out the indigenous population of this country. At one point it was calculated that this would only take a few generations. Genocide by social engineering.

For years, both indigenous and non-indigenous people have been asking the government to say "Sorry". Just that. To acknowlege that a great wrong was done, that unimaginable suffering was inflicted, and that it all happened as a direct result of the policies and actions of Australia's elected representatives.

Yesterday it happened. Late last year the Liberal Party, led by John Howard and in government for 11 long years, was voted out. Howard had repeatedly refused to apologise for something for which he and his government were not personally responsible, and for which he feared compensation claims could be made if liablity were admitted.

The Howard government did many things that made me ashamed to be an Australian (its treatment of refugees, for one), but this was one of its most despicable policies. The Labour Party, on the other hand, under Kevin Rudd, had placed an apology as a cornerstone of their election promises. They won. We all won.

The post that follows is so long I doubt many will read it, but I hope some do. It is the complete text of a speech that as well as giving some resolution, justice and hope to thousands of the descendents of our original inhabitants, gave me back my faith in my country. It contains hope, but also personal accounts of the horrors perpetrated in this country's name.

Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's speech to Parliament, 13th February 2008:

I move:

That today we honour the indigenous peoples of this land, the oldest continuing cultures in human history.

We reflect on their past mistreatment.

We reflect in particular on the mistreatment of those who were stolen generations - this blemished chapter in our nation's history.

The time has now come for the nation to turn a new page in Australia's history by righting the wrongs of the past and so moving forward with confidence to the future.

We apologise for the laws and policies of successive parliaments and governments that have inflicted profound grief, suffering and loss on these our fellow Australians.

We apologise especially for the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, their communities and their country.

For the pain, suffering and hurt of these stolen generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry.

To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry.

And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry.

We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation.

For the future we take heart; resolving that this new page in the history of our great continent can now be written.

We today take this first step by acknowledging the past and laying claim to a future that embraces all Australians.

A future where this parliament resolves that the injustices of the past must never, never happen again.

A future where we harness the determination of all Australians, indigenous and non-indigenous, to close the gap that lies between us in life expectancy, educational achievement and economic opportunity.
A future where we embrace the possibility of new solutions to enduring problems where old approaches have failed.

A future based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility.

A future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities and with an equal stake in shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country, Australia.

There comes a time in the history of nations when their peoples must become fully reconciled to their past if they are to go forward with confidence to embrace their future.

Our nation, Australia, has reached such a time.

That is why the Parliament is today here assembled: to deal with this unfinished business of the nation, to remove a great stain from the nation's soul and, in a true spirit of reconciliation, to open a new chapter in the history of this great land, Australia.

Last year I made a commitment to the Australian people that if we formed the next government of the Commonwealth we would in Parliament say sorry to the stolen generations.

Today I honour that commitment.

I said we would do so early in the life of the new Parliament. Again, today I honour that commitment by doing so at the commencement of this the 42nd parliament of the Commonwealth. Because the time has come, well and truly come, for all peoples of our great country, for all citizens of our great commonwealth, for all Australians - those who are indigenous and those who are not - to come together to reconcile and together build a new future for our nation.

Some have asked, Why apologise?

Let me begin to answer by telling the Parliament just a little of one person's story - an elegant, eloquent and wonderful woman in her 80s, full of life, full of funny stories, despite what has happened in her life's journey, a woman who has travelled a long way to be with us today, a member of the stolen generation who shared some of her story with me when I called around to see her just a few days ago.

Nanna Nungala Fejo, as she prefers to be called, was born in the late 1920s.

She remembers her earliest childhood days living with her family and her community in a bush camp just outside Tennant Creek. She remembers the love and the warmth and the kinship of those days long ago, including traditional dancing around the camp fire at night. She loved the dancing. She remembers once getting into strife when, as a four-year-old girl, she insisted on dancing with the male tribal elders rather than just sitting and watching the men, as the girls were supposed to do.

But then, sometime around 1932, when she was about four, she remembers the coming of the welfare men.

Her family had feared that day and had dug holes in the creek bank where the children could run and hide. What they had not expected was that the white welfare men did not come alone. They brought a truck, two white men, and an Aboriginal stockman on horseback cracking his stockwhip.

The kids were found; they ran for their mothers, screaming, but they could not get away. They were herded and piled onto the back of the truck.

Tears flowing, her mum tried clinging to the sides of the truck as her children were taken away to the Bungalow in Alice, all in the name of protection.

A few years later, government policy changed. Now the children would be handed over to the missions to be cared for by the churches. But which church would care for them?

The kids were simply told to line up in three lines. Nanna Fejo and her sister stood in the middle line, her older brother and cousin on her left. Those on the left were told that they had become Catholics, those in the middle Methodists and those on the right Church of England. That is how the complex questions of post-reformation theology were resolved in the Australian outback in the 1930s. It was as crude as that.

She and her sister were sent to a Methodist mission on Goulburn Island and then Croker Island. Her Catholic brother was sent to work at a cattle station and her cousin to a Catholic mission. Nanna Fejo's family had been broken up for a second time.

She stayed at the mission until after the war, when she was allowed to leave for a prearranged job as a domestic in Darwin. She was 16. Nanna Fejo never saw her mum again.

After she left the mission, her brother let her know that her mum had died years before, a broken woman fretting for the children that had literally been ripped away from her.

I asked Nanna Fejo what she would have me say today about her story. She thought for a few moments then said that what I should say today was that ''all mothers are important''. And she added: ''Families - keeping them together is very important. It's a good thing that you are surrounded by love and that love is passed down the generations. That's what gives you happiness.''

As I left, later on, Nanna Fejo took one of my staff aside, wanting to make sure that I was not too hard on the Aboriginal stockman who had hunted those kids down all those years ago. The stockman had found her again decades later, this time himself to say, sorry. And remarkably, extraordinarily, she had forgiven him.

Nanna Fejo's is just one story. There are thousands, tens of thousands of them: stories of forced separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their mums and dads over the better part of a century.

Some of these stories are graphically told in Bringing Them Home, the report commissioned in 1995 by Prime Minister Keating and received in 1997 by Prime Minister Howard.

There is something terribly primal about these firsthand accounts. The pain is searing; it screams from the pages. The hurt, the humiliation, the degradation and the sheer brutality of the act of physically separating a mother from her children is a deep assault on our senses and on our most elemental humanity.

These stories cry out to be heard; they cry out for an apology. Instead, from the nation's Parliament there has been a stony, stubborn and deafening silence for more than a decade; a view that somehow we, the Parliament, should suspend our most basic instincts of what is right and what is wrong; a view that, instead, we should look for any pretext to push this great wrong to one side, to leave it languishing with thehistorians, the academics and the cultural warriors, as if the stolen generations are little more than an interesting sociological phenomenon.
But the stolen generations are not intellectual curiosities. They are human beings, human beings who have been damaged deeply by the decisions of parliaments and governments. But, as of today, the time for denial, the time for delay, has at last come to an end.

The nation is demanding of its political leadership to take us forward.Decency, human decency, universal human decency, demands that the nation now step forward to right an historical wrong. That is what we are doing in this place today.

But should there still be doubts as to why we must now act, let the Parliament reflect for a moment on the following facts: that, between 1910 and 1970, between 10 and 30% of indigenous children were forcibly taken from their mothers and fathers; that, as a result, up to 50,000 children were forcibly taken from their families; that this was the productof the deliberate, calculated policies of the state as reflected in the explicit powers given to them under statute; that this policy was taken to such extremes by some in administrative authority that the forced extractions of children of so-called mixed lineage were seen as part of a broader policy of dealing with the problem of the Aboriginal population.

One of the most notorious examples of this approach was from the Northern Territory Protector of Natives, who stated: ''Generally by the fifth and invariably by the sixth generation, all native characteristics of the Australian Aborigine are eradicated. The problem of our half-castes'' - to quote the protector - ''will quickly be eliminated by the complete disappearance of the black race, and the swift submergence of their progeny in the white''.

The Western Australian Protector of Natives expressed not dissimilar views, expounding them at length in Canberra in 1937 at the first national conference on indigenous affairs that brought together the Commonwealth and state protectors of natives.

These are uncomfortable things to be brought out into the light. They are not pleasant. They are profoundly disturbing. But we must acknowledge these facts if we are to deal once and for all with the argument that the policy of generic forced separation was somehow well motivated, justified by its historical context and, as a result, unworthy of any apology today.

Then we come to the argument of intergenerational responsibility, also used by some to argue against giving an apology today. But let us remember the fact that the forced removal of Aboriginal children was happening as late as the early 1970s.

The 1970s is not exactly a point in remote antiquity. There are still serving members of this Parliament who were first elected to this place in the early 1970s. It is well within the adult memory span of many of us.

The uncomfortable truth for us all is that the parliaments of the nation, individually and collectively, enacted statutes and delegated authority under those statutes that made the forced removal of children on racial grounds fully lawful.

There is a further reason for an apology as well: it is that reconciliation is in fact an expression of a core value of our nation - and that value is a fair go for all. There is a deep and abiding belief in the Australian community that, for the stolen generations, there was no fair go at all.

There is a pretty basic Aussie belief that says that it is time to put right this most outrageous of wrongs.

It is for these reasons, quite apart from concerns of fundamental human decency, that the governments and parliaments of this nation must make this apology - because, put simply, the laws that our parliaments enacted made the stolen generations possible.

We, the parliaments of the nation, are ultimately responsible, not those who gave effect to our laws. And the problem lay with the laws themselves.

As has been said of settler societies elsewhere, we are the bearers of many blessings from our ancestors; therefore we must also be the bearer of their burdens as well.

Therefore, for our nation, the course of action is clear: that is, to deal now with what has become one of the darkest chapters in Australia's history. In doing so, we are doing more than contending with the facts, the evidence and the often rancorous public debate. In doing so, we are also wrestling with our own soul.

This is not, as some would argue, a black-armband view of history; it is just the truth: the cold, confronting, uncomfortable truth - facing it, dealing with it, moving on from it. Until we fully confront that truth, there will always be a shadow hanging over us and our future as a fully united and fully reconciled people.

It is time to reconcile. It is time to recognise the injustices of the past. It is time to say sorry. It is time to move forward together.

To the stolen generations, I say the following: as Prime Minister of Australia, I am sorry.

On behalf of the Government of Australia, I am sorry.

On behalf of the Parliament of Australia, I am sorry.

I offer you this apology without qualification.

We apologise for the hurt, the pain and suffering that we, the parliament, have caused you by the laws that previous parliaments have enacted.

We apologise for the indignity, the degradation and the humiliation these laws embodied.

We offer this apology to the mothers, the fathers, the brothers, the sisters, the families and the communities whose lives were ripped apart by the actions of successive governments under successive parliaments.

In making this apology, I would also like to speak personally to the members of the stolen generations and their families: to those here today, so many of you; to those listening across the nation - from Yuendumu, in the central west of the Northern Territory, to Yabara, in North Queensland, and to Pitjantjatjara in South Australia.

I know that, in offering this apology on behalf of the Government and the Parliament, there is nothing I can say today that can take away the pain you have suffered personally.

Whatever words I speak today, I cannot undo that.

Words alone are not that powerful; grief is a very personal thing.I ask those non-indigenous Australians listening today who may not fully understand why what we are doing is so important to imagine for a moment that this had happened to you.

I say to honourable members here present: imagine if this had happened to us. Imagine the crippling effect. Imagine how hard it would be to forgive.

My proposal is this: if the apology we extend today is accepted in the spirit of reconciliation, in which it is offered, we can today resolve together that there be a new beginning for Australia.

And it is to such a new beginning that I believe the nation is now calling us.Australians are a passionate lot. We are also a very practical lot.
For us, symbolism is important but, unless the great symbolism of reconciliation is accompanied by an even greater substance, it is little more than a clanging gong.

It is not sentiment that makes history; it is our actions that make history.Today's apology, however inadequate, is aimed at righting past wrongs.It is also aimed at building a bridge between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians - a bridge based on a real respect rather than a thinly veiled contempt.

Our challenge for the future is to cross that bridge and, in so doing, to embrace a new partnership between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians - to embrace, as part of that partnership, expanded Link-up and other critical services to help the stolen generations to trace their families if at all possible and to provide dignity to their lives.

But the core of this partnership for the future is to close the gap between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians on life expectancy, educational achievement and employment opportunities.

This new partnership on closing the gap will set concrete targets for the future: within a decade to halve the widening gap in literacy, numeracy and employment outcomes and opportunities for indigenous Australians, within a decade to halve the appalling gap in infant mortality rates between indigenous and non-indigenous children and, within a generation,to close the equally appalling 17-year life gap between indigenous and non-indigenous in overall life expectancy.

The truth is: a business as usual approach towards indigenous Australians is not working. Most old approaches are not working.
We need a new beginning, a new beginning which contains real measures of policy success or policy failure; a new beginning, a new partnership, on closing the gap with sufficient flexibility not to insist on a one-size-fits-all approach for each of the hundreds of remote and regional indigenous communities across the country but instead allowing flexible,tailored, local approaches to achieve commonly-agreed national objectives that lie at the core of our proposed new partnership; a new beginning that draws intelligently on the experiences of new policy settings across the nation.

However, unless we as a Parliament set a destination for the nation, we have no clear point to guide our policy, our programs or our purpose; we have no centralised organising principle.

Let us resolve today to begin with the little children, a fitting place to start on this day of apology for the stolen generations.

Let us resolve over the next five years to have every indigenous four-year-old in a remote Aboriginal community enrolled in and attending a proper early childhood education centre or opportunity and engaged in proper pre-literacy and pre-numeracy programs.

Let us resolve to build new educational opportunities for these little ones, year by year, step by step, following the completion of their crucial pre-school year.

Let us resolve to use this systematic approach to build future educational opportunities for indigenous children to provide proper primary and preventive health care for the same children, to begin the task of rolling back the obscenity that we find today in infant mortality rates in remote indigenous communities up to four times higher than in othercommunities.

None of this will be easy. Most of it will be hard, very hard. But none of it is impossible, and all of it is achievable with clear goals, clear thinking, and by placing an absolute premium on respect, cooperation and mutual responsibility as the guiding principles of this new partnership on closing the gap.

The mood of the nation is for reconciliation now, between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians. The mood of the nation on indigenous policy and politics is now very simple.

The nation is calling on us, the politicians, to move beyond our infantile bickering, our point-scoring and our mindlessly partisan politics and to elevate this one core area of national responsibility to a rare position beyond the partisan divide.

Surely this is the unfulfilled spirit of the 1967 referendum. Surely, at least from this day forward, we should give it a go.

Let me take this one step further and take what some may see as a piece of political posturing and make a practical proposal to the opposition on this day, the first full sitting day of the new Parliament.

I said before the election that the nation needed a kind of war cabinet on parts of indigenous policy, because the challenges are too great and the consequences are too great to allow it all to become a political football, as it has been so often in the past.

I therefore propose a joint policy commission, to be led by the Leader of the Opposition and me, with a mandate to develop and implement, to begin with, an effective housing strategy for remote communities over the next five years.

It will be consistent with the Government's policy framework, a new partnership for closing the gap. If this commission operates well, I then propose that it work on the further task of constitutional recognition of the first Australians, consistent with the longstanding platform commitments of my party and the pre-election position of the opposition.
This would probably be desirable in any event because, unless such a proposition were absolutely bipartisan, it would fail at a referendum. As I have said before, the time has come for new approaches to enduring problems.

Working constructively together on such defined projects would, I believe, meet with the support of the nation. It is time for fresh ideas to fashion the nation's future.

Mr Speaker, today the Parliament has come together to right a great wrong. We have come together to deal with the past so that we might fully embrace the future. We have had sufficient audacity of faith to advance a pathway to that future, with arms extended rather than with fists still clenched.

So let us seize the day. Let it not become a moment of mere sentimental reflection.

Let us take it with both hands and allow this day, this day of national reconciliation, to become one of those rare moments in which we might just be able to transform the way in which the nation thinks about itself, whereby the injustice administered to the stolen generations in the name of these, our parliaments, causes all of us to reappraise, at the deepestlevel of our beliefs, the real possibility of reconciliation writ large: reconciliation across all indigenous Australia; reconciliation across the entire history of the often bloody encounter between those who emerged from the Dreamtime a thousand generations ago and those who, like me, came across the seas only yesterday; reconciliation which opens up whole new possibilities for the future.

It is for the nation to bring the first two centuries of our settled history to a close, as we begin a new chapter. We embrace with pride, admiration and awe these great and ancient cultures we are truly blessed to have among us cultures that provide a unique, uninterrupted human thread linking our Australian continent to the most ancient prehistory of our planet.

Growing from this new respect, we see our indigenous brothers and sisters with fresh eyes, with new eyes, and we have our minds wide open as to how we might tackle, together, the great practical challenges that indigenous Australia faces in the future.

Let us turn this page together: indigenous and non-indigenous Australians, government and opposition, Commonwealth and state, and write this new chapter in our nation's story together.

First Australians, First Fleeters, and those who first took the oath of allegiance just a few weeks ago. Let's grasp this opportunity to craft a new future for this great land: Australia. I commend the motion to the House.

It's just not happening, sorry.

2008-02-11T12:48:00.001+11:00

Good grief - been back for two weeks (or is it three now?) and I've hardly been around here any more than when I was away. Combination of lack of free time, a touch of the black dog, and a really persistent lurgi that keeps creeping back and sitting on me just when I seem to be crawling back again.

It's a nice day out there though. I've hung three lots of washing out and haven't thrown up once. Surely that's something to celebrate.

Merciful - for the moment at least

2008-01-31T13:28:00.000+11:00

I have decided to spare you the bulk of our holiday photos, which are of course mostly much the same as anyone else's except for the people in them. But ...

VallyP and Koos chillin' in Paris. I really like this pic - just the loveliest people ever. Doesn't Vally look serene?

At dusk on the way back to Gare du Nord. We look happy because we were.

As for the rest, well I haven't even sorted through them yet, but I hope there are some to remind me of the following random highlights:

1. Travelling overnight from Venice to Vienna by Trenitalia in a 6-berth couchette with family and luggage. I defy anyone to do this and resist thinking of the famous stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers' "A Night at the Opera". Just as well we liked each other.

2. James getting his hands on a piano in Vienna, and after playing "straight" for a while to a rapturous audience of a bunch of Austrian schoolgirls and one scholarly-looking elderly gentleman who kept creeping closer to watch him, producing a "smooth lounge version" (wink included) of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water". I have a video grab Sophie took, but it has been classified private. Your loss I'm afraid. We laughed so much we were in pain.

3. Many, many wonderful meals with wines both great and gruesome, clip-clopping though the cobbled streets of Paris with a broken boot heel, Colin and James' continued quest for the ultimate European ale, (it was at "1516" in Vienna, where they brew their own), and New Year's Eve in Rome asking pre-pubescent pyromaniacs for matches to light our fireworks in the square.

And of course a thousand other marvellous things, proving that travel does indeed broaden the mind and delight the senses. However, the most valuable thing I have leaned is this: the absolute and essential rule of winter travel is that you need to give any woman of late-middle to advanced age in a fur coat a wide berth. They are universally appallingly rude and will elbow anyone out of the way as though their lives depended on it. Forget this at your peril.

We're back!

2008-01-29T10:43:00.000+11:00

Emma reclaiming Australia in Vienna. Tasmania seemed to have shrunk a bit while we weren't looking.

Well, after four weeks of bliss in Europe, including a magical day in Paris with delicious duo Vallypee and Koos, we are back in the middle of a fabulous Melbourne Summer. How strange to wear a t-shirt again after all those layers of thermals and jumpers! I now look like a pale little alien amongst all the beach-bred locals.

Will blog properly on Thursday (madness rules today and I'm working a long day tomorrow)and include some more news about The Visit. I'm still pinching myself to belive that it actually happened. What a wonderful, mad, warm and brilliant thing it was of Vally and Koos to make the trip across to see us. It was SO much fun.

A toast to good friends in Paris. Vally, Koos, me behind Sophie, then James, Mads and Emma. (Colin took the photo).

Thank you everyone who left messages while I was away - I'll be visiting you on Thursday too. Alas, virtual visits only this time.

PS: Gypsy - Mini skirt??? What sort of sad old trollop do you think I am? (That was a rhetorical question). No, it must have been the angle of the camera. Demure is my middle name. Just ask Vally.

Christmas Greetings, Grovelling Apologies and a Tag Reply

2007-12-25T18:33:00.000+11:00

Oh my goodness the guilt is unbearable. I am rubbish. Haven't been near a blog for weeks as far as I can work out, and here are all you lovely people leaving wonderful messages, fun taggy things and good wishes. I have truly missed you all, and wish to goodness I had time now to stop at all of your blogs and leave personal greetings. Apart from anything else, I want to hear all your news!

The fact is I've been absurdly busy with all the stuff of life. Preparing for a month-long trip (leaving tomorrow in fact), mopping up after the end of the school year, clearing the desk at work, Christmas shopping and entertaining ... you know the drill.

The girls are great; Mads did incredibly well in her final exams and auditions and has been offered her first preference for uni, to study for her Bachelor of Music Performance at the Victorian College of the Arts. Yay! Ditto James, and most of their friends, which is fab to the max, as they say.

I have eaten FAR too much at Christmas lunch today, and I will now use my last remaining strength to respond to Stevie's Christmas tag:

1) Best present ever as a child: During a time of tightened belts, my sister and I received beautiful big baby dolls, dressed in the most gorgeous clothes. Mum had been offered ex-display baby mannequins from the local draper's shop, and made the clothes herself from lacy offcuts and scraps of fabric. Other kids had baby dolls that wet themselves and went mouldy inside. Ours were special. I wrote a story about them for my girls when they were little, which they then illustrated. Later we gave a copy to my mum for Christmas, and it was ... aahhhh.

Best present ever as an adult: Hmmm. Lots. Mostly things that have made me laugh. Also books, music CD's, great cooking pots and weird ephemera. I'm a little strange and most of my family and friends know it.

3) The one gift you've always hoped for and not yet received: A horse. (And of course somewhere to keep it.)

4) Your favourite part of Christmas dinner: Cold Christmas pudding the day after, thinly sliced and spread liberally with Brandy Butter. Ohhhhh ......

5) Favourite Christmas movie: Don't watch movies at Christmas. Too busy eating and laughing with family and friends. If we have any quiet time later, will watch whatever had been given to anyone on DVD.

6) Most lusciously shameful holiday indulgence: Enjoying such beautiful food, wine and comfort with loved ones while so many others in the world are less fortunate.

Well, there's that. Love and best seasonal wishes to you all; to Vally, Gypsy, Stevie, Dan, Rache, Neans, Paul, Suesjoy, Grace, Lace, Maria, Anne-Marie, Dale, Cheryl Ann, Lesley, Stefan, Sindy, Heidi, Koos and everyone else who has ever bravely ventured onto this page and brightened my day. I'm full and fuzzy-headed, so forgive me if I've left a name out that should be here. I look forward to catching up with you all when I'm back at the end of January.

Ho Ho Ho and pass the mince pies please!

What time of day am I?

2007-12-05T20:05:00.000+11:00

The very wonderful Dale (http://dalef.blogspot.com/) has a thing going on at hers about what time of day you are. Each time carries a personal profile with it. I took the test, and it assigned me as "Sunrise", which didn't quite do it for me. I made up my own:

I am indeterminate.
Of a hybrid time of day, fluid and blurred.
Not one thing nor another, seduced first by the excitement of the night, then yearning for the security of an early night in a warm bed.
Seeking adventure and travel, but so often content with a DVD, a glass of red and a sofa.
Gregarious and social, yet insular and private.
Bathing happily in sunshine while longing for the sting of cold wind on red cheeks.
Spiritual after a fashion, but shackled both by stubborn agnosticism and too much good fortune to provide the impetus to explore more deeply.
Torn between the brutal blue-grey beauty of the Australian bush and the lush green of the English countryside.
Loving the company of friends and family, but relishing solitude.
Longing to write, but reluctant to be exposed.

What a mess, eh?

Pretty Vacant

2007-11-22T16:17:00.000+11:00

It's been quiet in my little corner of Blogland for a few weeks. Must be the time of year - there seem to be so many other things that need doing first, and I'm obviously not the only one who's rationing time spent in front of a computer.

I have to say I have missed my almost-daily contact with the lovely people who visit here regularly or when they can, and I've tried to keep in touch with the news even if it's only by means of the occasional sort of commando-smash and-grab-blog-raid. Oh. Just remembered that these days "going commando" means going out without knickers. Never mind - you get the gist. And as sometimes I was still in my nightdress it's pretty accurate anyway.

So - in the last few weeks Colin's finally officially graduated with his PhD and also picked up a Dean's Award for Excellence in teaching (clever boy), Mads has finished both school and final exams, Soph's gone on a 4-day hike which has both seared her in 38 degree temperatures and nearly drowned her in freezing rain, and Em has made the final preparations for her trip to Canada. Plus, of course, the usual domestic chaos, some irritating health issues and assorted minor disasters along with the more pleasant social occasions.

Amongst my bloggy friends lately there has been turmoil and difficulty along with the happiness most of us thankfully manage to feel much of the time. Today is Thanksgiving day in America, and while we don't celebrate it here, it seems a nice day to appreciate the good fortune I have, and to wish those who are going through tougher times better fortune in the coming months.

I can feel a homily coming on, so I'll stop before someone offers me a job writing those twee little messages in greeting cards.

Love and happiness to you all.

Emma.

2007-11-08T12:32:00.000+11:00

I don't think I've introduced Em yet. We rather like her. Not of the mainstream, emotionally complex, loving, thoughtful, full of empathy and as mercurial as a monkey on Ritalin.

She's about to go on tour to Canada with her school band, (Nov 24 to Dec 11), so once again music is taking one of our girls to places and people they might not otherwise have the opportunity to discover. For my lovely Canadian bloggies who have asked about her itinerary:

She travels first to Vancouver where they stay for 4 nights, then on to Kamloops in British Columbia via the Kokahalla Highway, then to Kelowna, Vernon, on to Canmore through the Rockies and Banff, then Calgary, briefly at Drumheller, then Edmonton and home. Local schools are hosting them, and they'll be billeted by school families with a few nights here and there in hotels. The bands will play at each host school, but they'll also have time for an ice hockey game, lots of sightseeing and touring around and generally exhausting their teachers. They are very, very lucky kids.

Anyway, here she is, variously (because I still can't figure out how to format and caption photos properly):

1. At Lake Elizabeth in the Otway Ranges, Southern Victoria. The lake was formed after a landslide formed a natural dam wall in 1951. It took them a while to figure out why the river below had dried up, and when they went exploring, found this. Very isolated, beautifully eerie.

2. Singing in her school choir. She's in Ghanaian dress because their teacher did some amazing workshops in Ghana and came back to pass on the rhythms, songs and drumming techniques of the region. Magic.

3. With the saxophone that is taking her to Canada.

4. With the croquembouche I made as her 16th birthday cake. The rest of us got some eventually. And no, that's not a tatt. It's a pen doodle she probably did when she should have been paying attention in a maths class. Ah, well, nobody's perfect.

Nursery Rhymes for the Fearless

2007-10-22T21:58:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-10-18T12:13:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-10-15T11:17:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-10-04T14:46:00.000+10:00

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.

From Little Acorns

2007-09-27T19:27:00.000+10:00

Mads turned eighteen today.

Here she is with her first violin, bought after she'd nagged almost ceaselessly for a year.

And this is now - at a dress rehearsal a month or so ago.

She is healthy, she is happy, she is loved, she is doing what she loves to do and will make it her career one way or another. Life is good.

Wanted Urgently: Spade, boxes and storage space. All offers considered.

2007-09-13T14:49:00.000+10:00

Made the mistake of trying to clean up on a day when I'm not feeling at my perkiest. Decided to put this up instead.

Rag Tag

2007-09-06T09:58:00.000+10:00

Thanks to Ahvarahn I have been given the task of joining the ranks of the recently tagged and revealing eight things about myself. Firstly, though, I will do as required by bloggy etiquette and reproduce the following brief:

1) Post rules before you give your facts (these are they).
2) List 8 random facts about yourself (I am heartened at least by the term "random".)
3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them (Could have trouble here - I don't get out much, and many of those I know have already been "got at". I have never managed to make a link work, either. Better come back to this.)
4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged. (Okay ... that's do-able).

Right. Here goes;

1. I have done something similar before. Look here: http://margiecm.blogspot.com/2006_06_01_archive.html

2. In recognition that the above is cheating, I agree to think of seven better ones. First the brutal truth; I am inherently lazy. (Witness #1). I am in awe of people who are driven to reach their full potential at all times, who use their talents to the fullest whatever these may be, and who work to capacity in all things. I have brief and spasmodic bouts of frenetic activity and achievement, but have neither the energy nor the willingness to live my entire life at this pace. This is a character flaw, and one of many.

3. My favourite childhood memories involve my father using his old violin as an offensive weapon. (I'm sure I've told this story before). He'd say "If you're not asleep in five minutes it's the Dying Swan for you!" We'd call out "Daddy, it's just called 'The Swan' you know". "Not when I play it" he'd shoot back. If we were really recalcitrant it'd be Humouresque, complete with exaggerated slides up the fingerboard. Wonderfully awful. Other dads took their kids to the beach and made things in sheds. Ours filled the house up with music (mercifully not usually played by him), books, canvasses and the smell of oil paints, gesso and varnish, and couldn't mend a dripping tap to save his life. The smell of oils and turpentine still makes me swoon happily.

3. I am a theological and spiritual sloth. I'm interested, I read and I listen, but so far have found nothing I need to hang on to as doctrine, or a blueprint for life on this earth or beyond it, nor have I felt the compulsion to find one. I don't describe myself as atheist or agnostic either. I believe in the inherent goodness of most people, while recognising the human frailty and failings which get in the way of this goodness. I don't believe any of those things can be blamed on or laid at the feet of a deity. I don't think this makes me a better or more secure person, but it doesn't mean I am a moral vacuum either. Just a work in progress with a reasonably open mind.

4. I adore my children, but am not defined by them. Parenthood is a privilege and a joy, but it is also huge responsibility which I often feel I fall short of fulfilling. I am incredibly lucky that my children don't seem to agree with me on this last point. I am also incredibly lucky to be able to like my girls as well as love them.

5. The physical. I am about to turn 48, and had a routine visit to the doctor recently. She had run the statutory blood tests for every evil under the sun, and the pathology reports were in. As I'd had a busy month with little sleep, lots of good cheese, rather more red wine than recommened for one of my sex and weight and little or no exercise, my hopes for escaping a lecture and some severe sanctions weren't high. Verdict? "This is all great - really good. Whatever you're doing, just keep on doing it". If I fall under a bus tomorrow you can all laugh at my smugness.

6. This may sound a little sad, but domestic objects, especially those connected with the preparation and serving of food, are important to me, and old ones are the best. Things people have used, enjoyed, valued shared - all these are precious. Everything from my mother's favourite frying pan to the set of well-used old pudding basins I picked up at the local Op Shop last week. These things are evidence of love, care and history, and I accumulate and use them happily. Colin says that's why we had to get the house re-stumped.

7. Despite the Martha Stewart tone above, I am no domestic goddess. (Don't have Nigella Lawson's curves, either, worse luck). I absolutely detest housework in all its forms, (see point 8 in my original list linked above) and would love to be less satisfied with the degree of untidines that exists wherever I do. Oddly, part of me hankers after neatness and order, but the hankering is yet to assert itself sufficiently to galvanise me into anything more than isolated and brief bursts of manic tidying.

8. Back to the introspection. I am an utter coward as far as writing goes. Whenever I write anything more substantial or revealing than my usual fluff, I tear it up or delete it. I truly hope that one day I'll stop doing this and produce something worth reading, even if no-one does actually read it. This is my #1 personal goal, but unless I find a way either to feel less naked in doing it or not to care if I do, also the one I'm least likely to achieve.

So that's it. Now the hard part. Who(m) shall I tag? Many of my lovely "regulars" have already been baggsied by others, but I think I still have a few very special peeps up my sleeve - in no particular order:

This one might be a bit scary, but I'm game ...
http://neilbymith1.blogspot.com/
Then because it's been a while and she's great:
http://jeanineraes.blogspot.com/
The fab Stevie:
http://travellingteacup.blogspot.com/
And Anne Marie (where I need to catch up)
http://yeuxbruns.blogspot.com/
Then a cheat, but her mum and dad were already taken:
http://adogz.blogspot.com/
Lesley too:
http://lannios-world.blogspot.com/
Now Rache:
http://rachelsblog42.blogspot.com/
And a favourite face from around the traps: Tommy D___:
http://smozology101.blogspot.com/

Apologies if any of the above are not into this - there is no obligation. I always tear up those chain letters myself.

Regression

2007-08-30T21:20:00.000+10:00

With the appearance of the last Harry Potter instalment, and seeing how my girls have grown up with those books as a sort of kiddielit theme running intermittently through their lives, I started thinking about which books I'd read as a child that I would now regard as real favourites - books I would not have missed for quids, and which I would still happily nibble on alongside my more grown-up literary diet. Books that taught me not to write ridiculously long sentences too. (Obviously didn't dip into too many of those).

Winnie the Pooh? Yes, and the Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Little Women and its sequels, the Narnia books of course ... Seven Little Australians, Picnic at Hanging Rock (gave me nightmares for months), the Molesworth stories I pinched from my brother - and the terribly un-PC Famous Five as a sort of comfort-food collection when I was feeling low. I still have all of these books and many others from that part of my childhood (7 to 12 perhaps?), but I've settled on one special one as a favourite.

Norton Juster's "The Phantom Tollbooth" is still a wonderful book. A modern fairy tale (written in the early sixties I think), it's the magical journey of a disenfranchised, bored little boy called Milo who discovers the power of words, numbers, concepts and friends, and learns the value of getting off his bottom and actually doing something.

Seek it out and read it, and go back to a time of innocence, wonder and adventure, where wordplay becomes fun and fantasy leaps happily from page to page. It's not Hogwarts, but sometimes one book says enough.

Tomahawks and Jelly Beers

2007-08-23T10:24:00.000+10:00

Desperately trying to find time this morning to get around to my usual haunts and say hello, but it's Production Week for the younger girls' youth theatre group and it's a nightmare. Well, lots of fun, but rehearsals every night until 11pm and then performances on Friday night and two on Saturday. I am working props and backstage, so I'm a tad weary - as are the girls!

We're doing a spoof Western (a musical) this year, and at midnight last night I was filling beer mugs with brownish gel then topping them with more gel, white and fluffed up, to look like real beers. Today I need to do the whisky shots and fill the bottles with ginger ale, repair a peace-pipe and bundle enough sticks together to roast three bar-room girls at totem poles. As you do. (Except we don't, because of course it all ends happily ever after).

Off now to get some green baize for the poker table and roll some more cigars. We're all class.

French for ...?

2007-08-16T08:47:00.000+10:00

I'm making an attempt to reacquaint myself with the French language. My read du jour is a phrasebook published by Lonely Planet, and it is chock full of practical, helpful and essential phrases for survival and happiness in the Gallic regions.

However, that's not in the least bit interesting. What is interesting, in fact hilarious, is L.P.'s section on l'amour. Ladies and gentlemen, a primer for the modern tourist:

First you need to sound out your prospective partner. To this end, it is useful to be able to recognise the following phrases:

She is a babe / bitch / hot girl
He is a hot guy / prick (vraiment!)
He / she gets around.

And as things progress:

You have a beautiful body
Do you have a boyfriend / girlfriend / fetish?

And if they don't progress:

You're disturbing me
Your ego is out of control!

As a result of your research, should you then find yourself entwined in the arms of a Frenchman who needs a little coaching in the bedroom (I know they're all reputed to be brilliant lovers, but just suppose), a quick study of this chapter will enable you to give basic directions with complete confidence. I will spare you most of them, but here are a few must-haves:

Let's use (a condom)
Harder / softer / faster / slower
That was amazing / great / weird
I think we should stop now
Easy tiger!

and my personal favourite:
Don't worry, I'll do it myself.

Of course the funniest thing here is actually the bizarre thought of calling a temporary halt to proceedings while you look up the appropriate phrase in your trusty book.

But we must move on - now we are ready for the next page, where we have progressed from sex to love. Yes, I think it's the wrong way round too but I'm not in their target demographic. Call me old-fashioned, but if your relationship is still dependent on a pocket phrasebook for basic communication, perhaps Let's move in together! is a little premature? As for Will you marry me?, words fail - in any language.

Finally, and perhaps not surprisingly, we come to the section on Les Problemes. Skipping past Are you seeing someone else? and I never want to see you again, we have the classic You're just using me for sex. (Well, if you can't actually have a conversation ...)

Assez - enough for now. I'm off to study the other sections in the Social chapter: Repeat after me: C'est uniquement pour mon usage personnel: "This drug is for personal use ..."

Photo: The unbelievably fabulous Brassai.

Vintage and Tissues

2007-08-06T08:21:00.000+10:00

I'll post the "PS" at the top: got this one today. Madeleine and her fabulous James. They've now been together for about 14 months, and are kindred spirits, sharing a wonderfully strange sense of humour, a love of music, and a reluctance to sleep before midnight at the earliest. He is a fearsomely good pianist, classically-trained but with jazz improvisation as his real passion. I love him to bits, which, frankly, is just as well.

**********

Well, I was going to wait until I had the "official" photos to post this, but I have some time today and I'm in the mood, so I'll go with the cropped happy snap for the time being.

This is Madeleine, the oldest of our three girls, at her Year 12 Formal a week or so ago. This is quite a big deal here, and comes before final school exam preparations take over every waking moment.

We looked for a very long time for a dress that was just right. Mads wanted something long and classical, but it was more a case of knowing what she didn't want rather than what she did. Funny - the specialist school she goes to has a dance stream and a music stream; the female dancers all wear short dresses, while the musos almost exclusively go "longs". Of course the dancers are very body-aware and confident, but I think the longs look classier (yes Mum).

Anyway - the story of the dress. My much-adored mother died quite suddenly when Mads was only eleven and in her final year at primary school. They were very close, and even now, some of Mads' most powerful creative writing brings up the pain of that loss.

After trawling though shop after shop looking unsuccessfully for the right dress, Mads remembered this one and asked if she could pull it out of storage. It was part of my mother's trousseau, and only she ever wore it. My mum was a very skilled dressmaker, and it's beautifully made in pure ivory silk with antique lace at the bodice, laced with rolled silk ties at the back. It is actually a nightdress, but we figured if turning underwear into daytime couture was OK for Stella McCartney then this was well within the rules for a school Formal.

As soon as Madeleine put it on she knew it was right. She told me she'd always wanted Grandma to make her Formal dress, and now she had. Hugs and tears for both of us, and the decision was made.

So here she is, at almost 18 years old, still thinking of the wonderful woman who loved and gave her her so much. I've always told the girls that Mum lives on through the people she loved most. It's nice that they feel the same way.

At last - a Blogdog

2007-07-19T11:11:00.000+10:00

There are such a lot of people posting pictures of their beautiful canine friends on these blogs that I'm beginning to feel like some sort of infidel in not having one.

So today I though I'd post a picture of Venus. We met Venus (pronounced Vinoos, of course), just outside Epernay in the Champagne region of France a couple of years ago. Her owner, a Monsieur Colin, was like an indulgent father as he shooed her from one part of the building to another on our walk through, and stopped her from launching herself into one of the vats and jumping up on the riddling racks.

I specially remember this Champagne house, because although it was small, M. Colin insisted the five of us (the girls were then 15, 13 and 11) taste the wines in proper quantities, and made our own Colin translate what the girls said they could taste - I recall he had some trouble remembering the French for "cinnamon" when Emma said she could taste the stuff you put in apple pies. Children's unspoilt, virgin palates, M. Colin explained, were a winemaker's delight, because (and I translate this loosely), they hadn't been tainted by bad diets, cheap red wine and pretentious wine writers. He was visibly excited about the cinnamon.

Anyway, because Colin was driving and the girls were only used to very small tasting amounts of wine, I ended up surreptitiously drinking a great deal of everyone else's. I remember almost tripping over poor little Venus on the way out, and M. Colin being very gracious and telling me she did it to everyone and while lovely, was supremely silly.

I still have the tasting glasses we bought there. They remind me of a lovely afternoon, a mad little silky terrier, and the French way of life. This last was illustrated when we turned up just after 11.30 in the morning and asked if M. Colin would show us around and allow us to taste his wine. He looked at his watch, and said in horrified French "But it is nearly a quarter to 12! Do you not have lunch?" Of course, we said, we would be pleased to come back after lunch. "Excellent. Venus and I are going to lunch now. Shall we say half past three?"

Beautiful.

Scoop! Cancer No Danger to Millionaires - Official.

2007-07-11T17:28:00.001+10:00

Fancy the right to smoke? Then you'd better have a few quid to spare.

On July 1st, it officially became illegal in Victoria to smoke in any enclosed licensed premises in the state.

Almost.

There is one exception to the new rule; the Mahogany Room at the Crown Casino here in Melbourne. This is the "High Rollers" room, where millions are dropped with the same ease with which most of us nick down to the corner shop for a carton of milk. And here, it seems, the serious money talks.

The Victorian Government gets enormous revenue from the Casino. Ergo, you don't upset the premuim punters, for fear if they aren't allowed the odd fag at the roulette tables, they'll take their millions elsewhere.

Meanwhile, Wal Baranow, the owner of a Cuban-style cigar lounge in suburban Hawthorn, looks likely to lose his business and his house as a result of the new laws.

He was recently quoted in The Age:

"I run a cigar bar. Drinking is a secondary component. People who come here come to smoke cigars, and my staff work here because they like talking and selling cigars. I agree that people who don't smoke shouldn't be affected by second-hand smoke, but if you choose to come to a cigar bar you come to smoke a cigar."

"It seems that as long as people are gambling enough, it's OK for staff to work in a smoky environment".

I'm no fan of smoky bars, but the hypocrisy of this makes me feel sicker than any secondary smoke is ever likely to.

Pic: www.edie.net

Stevie's 24-hour tag.

2007-07-02T13:17:00.001+10:00

Stevie (http://travellingteacup.blogspot.com/) came up with this idea. It's your ideal 24 hours, no limitations. Visit her blog for full details, and to see if she's put up hers yet!

My perfect 24 hours.

Total self-indulgence here I'm afraid. Room enough for altruism and self-sacrifice in the real world. I should do more of it, but for now ...

I wake in a cottage in the English countryside. The day is sunny but it will be cold outside. I have central heating in the cottage of course - personal discomfort has no part in my fantasies.

I would be alone I think - solitude is rare and precious for me. I would enjoy the silence.

I make tea, and breakfast from a selection of beautiful fresh eggs, bread and fruit which just happens to be on hand in the wonderful warm kitchen. I pull on coat and gumboots and walk through the woods (did I mention this cottage has its own grounds?) and enjoy the smells, feel, look and sounds of the countryside.

About an hour later, I'm back. I run a bath and soak blissfully for half an hour or so. I light a fire, cosy up in the softest dressing gown you can imagine (Cashmere?), and stick my head in a book for an hour or so.

Get dressed, go for another walk, then the rest of the day involves things I'm not going to divulge in detail, but lunch at a perfect, small English restaurant or pub is a feature, as is some lovely wine, more time in front of the fire back in the cottage, laughter, music, a shared supper and an early night which eventually includes sleep.

Oh, almost forgot. The 24 hours would also include the bit where I'm handed the deeds for the cottage so I can do it all again whenever I want to.

Too Much of a Good Thing

2007-06-28T07:23:00.000+10:00

Funny sort of country, this.

We are still officially in drought conditions, and have high level water restrictions in place. However, over the past couple of days, parts of drought-stricken Victoria have been in flood, and the storms and rain keep coming.

It's about extremes - although many of the reservoirs and dams are rising again, much of the rain is falling in areas devastated by last summer's bushfires, and the run-off is contaminated with ash, trees and rocks. Yummy.

Huge fallen trees have claimed at least one life and caused many injuries, and the Emergency Services have their work cut out restoring power lines, clearing roads, rescuing stranded people and covering damaged roofs.

Here in the city it's quieter. We have rain and wind, but it's miserable rather than dangerous. Meanwhile, we still shower with buckets to catch the water before it gurgles away so we can water the garden.

What do they say about our weather? If you don't like it, wait five minutes.

[Picture credits: left: Ray Cox/ Herald Sun, Right: James Twining/The Age]

Work In Progress

2007-06-17T17:35:00.000+10:00

Two and a bit.

Home-made dress gathered up in the joy of the moment,
Excitement barely contained.
Untroubled by a knowledge of what lies ahead,
Trusting and cocooned in love and protection.

Where is she now?
Does that same smile now look back at me from images more recently captured?
No, the baby teeth are gone; one before its time, chipped by a father who was Stirling Moss with a pushchair.

Still she laughed.

Can I see my adult self in the eyes, that nose, those freckled cheeks?
Or has time and experience modelled features beyond mere genes?
Do those scrunched up eyes hold the promise of a life to be lived well,
Or is it just optimism born of innocence?

Did I leave behind the joy? No. I still feel it, now tempered by social convention, rationed between grown up obligations.
Sometimes, briefly, it lives unfettered, and it is bliss.

Childish chubbiness soon outgrown,
Carrot hair deepened, dignified after just three years in full flame.
Now that colour is recalled by a box of magic.
"You're worth it": I don't need their approval,
I just don't feel like me without red.

The mirror shows lines round eyes used to laughter and tears,
Remnants of dimples still there, but softer now.
Freckles faded, replaced by sunspots on one cheekbone, the power of a merciless sun on fair skin
Before we knew any better.

Do I see my girls in her face?
No, they have their own stories, their own faces
And they will wonder in their turn.

I look harder, and am satisfied.
The mirror reveals more now,
But she is still there.

The one about the nun and the sailor

2007-06-04T11:03:00.000+10:00

Something a little lighter today. This is a couple of years old now (OK, three or four perhaps), but it brings back memories of a very good party indeed. The theme was "What you sometimes wish you'd been". Colin's choice was easy, with the possible exception of the word "sometimes". He only had to grow a beard for a week or two and don the wet weather gear to adopt his dream persona, but my thinking was a little more convoluted.

I really did just happen to have this in the wardrobe (still have - don't ask), but it was a very stressful time around then, and although I'm not at all religious, my thinking was that once you'd made the momentous decision to enter a convent as a nun, all was ordered and decided for you. I'm sure it's not really like that, especially these days, because nuns have good brains and their own voices, but you get the gist of the thinking. I just wanted someone else to take charge. Besides, it must be lovely to be so sure of everything.

I was a little afraid of offending someone, especially the few committed Catholics I knew would be there, but the response was very warm. (A little too warm from some, but it takes all sorts). Bit like dressing up as Santa, but with more gravitas.

So, I'm thinking virtual fancy-dress party here. You are to dress up as someone or something you'd like to be other than yourself, and give a rationale for your choice.

The nun's habit is roughly size 8-10 if that helps.

Reality Limbo - How Low Can We Go?

2007-05-30T14:17:00.000+10:00

“Dutch broadcaster BNN plans to air a television show next week in which a terminally ill woman will decide which of three young patients will get her kidney.
Viewers will send text messages to the 37-year-old woman, known as Lisa, advising her which of the candidates to pick.”

Post-apocalyptic fantasy? No. Scene from a Lindsay Anderson film? Good guess, but again no. Report from this morning’s broadsheet? Haha, yeah, right! Yeah – RIGHT.

I’m sure I won’t be the only blogger to pick up on this, but just how far down the trail of appalling taste do we have to go before the concept of “reality television” gets the mass consumer rejection it deserves?

At best, (and I’m struggling here), reality TV is entertainment which caters for people’s desires to see others in challenging situations outside their comfort zones. I’m thinking especially of examples where people were put “back in time” to experience domestic life without mod cons, or in wartime London, or living as a pioneer family. These at least had some sociological and historical interest, despite being difficult at times for the participants. The one or two series I saw very early on also seemed to feature a degree of sensitivity in their editing.

At worst though, reality TV programmes are the humiliating, demeaning and downright psychologically dangerous inventions of people whose quest for ratings overcomes any sense of human decency. Think “Big Brother”, which recently surpassed previous excesses by introducing a sensory-depriving “White Room”, in which potential participants had to outlast their peers in order to gain access to the house. Similar experiments conducted with volunteers years ago proved this to be hugely traumatic for the subjects involved, leaving them suffering disturbing symptoms up to ten years after the event. Yep, that’s entertainment.

Humiliation is a key ingredient. Being “voted out” by peers or public poll, being subjected to demeaning tasks, public exposure at moments of great vulnerability – it's all good stuff for the cameras. Oddly, the proliferation of these free-to-air obscenities comes at a time where schools are making genuine inroads towards tackling bullying, ostracisation and social isolation in our schools. As the Americans would say, go figure.

And now we are reduced to this; public pitching for the right to live. I feel sickened, but more than that; I feel ashamed to be part of a society which feels this is by any measure something to be sold as “entertainment”.

This way to the Coliseum ladies and gentlemen.

Wish you were here ...

2007-05-28T15:04:00.000+10:00

One of my many strange but more fulfilling habits is trolling through second-hand book shops. Much of my library has its origins in flea-markets, school fairs and op shops (that's charity shops to English readers, and probably something else again to others), and I love it. However, this post is not about the pleasures of foxed pages and first editions, but about a bookmark..

This morning a postcard fell out of a book I bought a few weeks ago. It's the standard view, and I'm guessing the postcard is circa 1975. The image is copyright (so acknowlegements to Nucolorvue and everyone's happy), but the real gem is in the prose. It's written to an address in Mildura, which is in regional country Victoria near the NSW border.

I now present for your edification a snapshot of how a young country student of the seventies, given an opportunity to continue her education in the Big Smoke, wrote home:

Dear Kay,

I'm buggered!! The kids up here are deads...s!! Got up at 3am Sunday, got here at 6.15am. Had a bit too (sic) drink last night. Went on a pub crawl today & we sang on the way back here in the bus. Sobered up for tea & we're drinking again. Going to Macquarie Uni to meet a friend tomorrow. Bet I get lost!! The lectures are pretty boring. Indonesian restaurant tomorrow night. See ya next term. Phyl.

I wonder where Phyl is now?

Vinegar Eggs

2007-05-17T12:04:00.000+10:00

Now that the comments on my last post have evolved into discussions of cockroaches, flat frogs, leeches and barefoot mice squashing, it might be time for something less disgusting. I'm not sure if you'll agree the following actually IS less disgusting, but humour me anyway.

I had one of my cravings this morning. Not the usual, run-of-the-mill predictable stuff like chocolate or jujubes or rogan josh, but an old favourite of my Dad's: vinegar eggs. Having just eaten them in gastromomic rapture, I would now like to, as they say, share the love.

I think I gave this recipe on much-missed Neil's blog a while ago, but it's so fabulous I'm going to give it space here too (because I'd never put anything here that wasn't utterly brilliant, would I coff coff).

Right. Enough preamble. Vinegar Eggs.

Have everything ready before you start: a small, heavy frying pan, two eggs, butter, toast ready to go (sourdough is especially good here), vinegar (malt is best but you could use white and work up to the heavy stuff gradually as your taste buds develop haha), and a lid for the pan.

Heat pan and add a good knob of butter. When it's light golden brown, crack two free-range, preferably organic eggs into it, yolks intact.

Quickly slosh over a good measure of vinegar, (maybe two or three tablespoons, but guess) and put the lid on straight away. The eggs should half fry / half steam in the pan. Take the lid off after a minute or so to check the eggs are done as you like them. Ideally whites should be set and yolks runny.

Lift out the eggs from the poaching liquid and onto your toast, grind a little black pepper over it all, and eat accompanied by copious quantities of hot tea.

I know it sounds vile, but you have to trust me - and my Dad - on this one. Mind you, some of you may remember that this is the same culinary dynamic duo who brought you the arguable delights of Vegemite and chutney on toast, so I'll understand if my cred here is not as high as it might be.

Still ... go on ... live dangerously, eh?

Toads!

2007-05-17T09:53:00.000+10:00

A bit of unnatural history for you today. Feeling comfy?

Good. Then we'll begin:

Although we're pretty vigilant now, in the past Australia has had an odd habit of introducing animals and plants which, frankly, were absent from this huge island continent for a reason. These include rabbits and foxes (brought over by early settlers for food and "sport", respectively), camels (for desert transport), water buffalo (for meat), and prickly pear, which was brought out with the first fleet together with the cochineal insects which feed off it and were used to create fabric dyes. All these things are now feral and in plague proportions, and do immeasurable harm to native flora and fauna.

One of the worst, however, is the Cane Toad. This handsome beastie was introduced to the Australian food chain in 1935 to control two insects which were devastating the important Northern sugar cane crops. Probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately, these guys, unlike the vast majority of frogs and toads, are really hardy little buggers. They thrive and breed with an enthusiasm and efficiency which is truly awe-inspiring. They also like to travel. Intended for far Northern Australia, they have now come almost right down the Eastern coastline and are travelling inland.

This morning's paper carried the news that one has just been found in a suburban back-yard in Melbourne where I live (it's in Victoria; the little funny-shaped state above the island state of Tasmania on the map I pinched from a Government environmental info site well I pay my taxes so I figure I'm entitled). This is not good.

The problem with cane toads (besides the fact that they make a terrible mess when you squash them) is that they eat almost anything they can fit into their mouths; small lizards and snakes, marsupials, native frogs and their tadpoles, insects - even pet food that's left out. In addition, although some birds and animals have learned not to eat them, many are a bit slower on the uptake, and these guys are seriously toxic. Poison-secreting glands on their shoulders guarantee a nasty death through heart failure for any creature who fancies them as lunch. We lose many native animals and also domestic pets this way - even a few licks or an exploratory nibble can be enough to kill. Children living in cane toad country are taught early on that the only way to deal with them involves a blunt object or a stout pair of boots.

Apart from these one-meal martyrs, (some species of which are now threatened), the cane toad has no natural predators - at least any that can come back for seconds. People are encouraged to clobber any cane toads they see, collect and destroy their tadpoles (unfortunately many native taddies are culled in the process if it's done by well-meaning amateurs), and even bundle them into freezer bags and put them on ice til they lose consciousness and die humanely (you reckon?).

Apart from that, what's the plan? Introduce another predator? Well, yes, but in viral form this time. Scientists are serching for a cane-toad-specific virus which will take them out like some sort of biological neutron bomb and leave all other creatures unaffected. Hmmm. I think we've been down this path before ...

Perhaps a community-driven eradiacation campaign is what's really needed. I'm already working on lyrics for the jingle:

If you see a knobbly toad

Run it over on the road

If it's sitting on the mat

Bash it with a cricket bat

If it's swimming in your pool

Hold it under (though it's cruel)

If it's basking in the yard

Close your eyes and stomp real hard

If you are a farmer / grower

Run it over with the mower

If your doggie tries to tease it

Whack it in a bag and freeze it

Do it nicely, please be kind,

And if it's quick the toad won't mind.

What do you think - a winner?

Marige

2007-04-25T22:25:00.000+10:00

So VallyP has changed my name! (see last comments, previous post). I now remember where I have seen the fabulous image she inspired me to conjure up for my new self.

Brassai was a psudonym of the Hungrian Gyula Halász, a journalist, artist, writer, filmmaker and photographer who lived and worked in Paris from about 1930. Most of the images for which he is best known are from the early thirties, many from his first published collection, "Paris de Nuit". This one is dated 1933, and is one of my favourites. It is from a series of images of "La Mome Bijou" (copyright Estate Brassai / BnF). I love the powerful combination of dignity and decadence this fabulous looking woman exudes.

Brassai's images of night-time Paris between the wars are among my all-time favourite photographic works. If you don't know them, give yourself a treat and do some Googling or visit a good bookshop.

And don't spare the pearls or the red lipstick!

Greta Garbo at Brighton.

2007-04-16T08:45:00.000+10:00

Well, a darker and less aloof Antipodean version, anyway. It was sunny but freezing, so the mystery was not contrived, but necessary.

This photo thing is tricky. No idea how to put one up as a profile pic, but if I did, I think Greta would be the one.

More recently though, I have discovered my face, at least in profile. This was taken at an exhibition opening last month. I seem to be looking a bit pensive, and not at all brimming with wit and sparkle as dear Val suggested I might be. I was probably wondering if anyone would notice if I had a third glass of wine. I'm sure I was wittier once I did.

Now to trawl through all those holiday snaps ...

Go on, say something.

2007-04-11T12:15:00.000+10:00

After my last post, I have decided to behave with a little more decorum, which is nice of me and has taken a special effort since just yesterday I came across an article discussing the fact that more and more women are electing to have "labiaplasty", or surgery to reduce the size of part of their genitalia for "aesthetic reasons". God help us.

Oh. Well, so much for good intentions. I humbly offer the following as penance:

Contrition.
I came back with good intent
(Gave up naughtiness for Lent)
Not even in the cause of good debate.
But the words they typed themselves;
(Must be wicked little elves
In the keyboard when I try to be sedate.)

Still, no more I'll talk of regions
Which cause cheeks to blush in legions,
For I do not wish to challenge or offend.
I will let all outrage pass,
Write with dignity and class,
And revel in my niceness to the end.

There. I feel better already.
(Much less interesting though.)

Thought for the Day

2007-03-26T21:54:00.000+10:00

Odd post this. Please feel free to disregard ...

… anyway, the other day I was wandering around the newsagent’s waiting for a friend, and I found myself in front of what is usually coyly referred to as the “gentlemen’s interests” section.

Now normally I would glance at the covers only long enough to see where that section ended and the music magazines began, but on this occasion my attention was caught by a cover displaying (and I do mean displaying) a woman who was startlingly non-hirsute in a region traditionally endowed with at least the remnants of a triangular growth. The headline screamed that inside the covers there was more of the same because “we give our readers what they’ve asked for!”

OK, I’m curious. I flick through it. They’re as good as their word – there’s not so much as a suggestion of vegetation in sight. Looked at the next mag. Ditto. And the next. Same. All three of them. Pages and pages of glossy women totally devoid of anything resembling pubic hair.

Now I can understand that women who favour the g-string as being both comfortable and attractive (wrong on both counts in my book, but freedom to choose is all) find the Brazilian profile a practical option, but to remove all trace? Why? Is it for the woman’s own pleasure, or because she feels more attractive when as hairless in the nether regions as a six-year old? Aha - and there we have it – the source of my disturbance.

A woman is a woman. A girl is a girl. A pre-pubescent is a child. Each stage has its physical characteristics. Once you start blurring the edges (excuse) by removing some of them, is there not something a little questionable about the concept behind it? Is the quest for eternal youth now so extreme that we strive for a look that is pre-pubescent?

I noticed breast size was not diminished in any of the pictures; presumably the ideal woman according to their audience was a sort of fantasy hybrid. And speaking of fantasy, I’m not talking about the odd fun experiment, or what any couple may or may not choose to do to suit themselves. Not my business – each to his and her own and good luck to you. No, it was the mass depiction of this look as a sexual ideal that bothered me.

So am I imagining a cultural tendency to creepiness where only a sense of fun exists? Is this less about the cult of youth taken to disturbing extremes than simply the advent of the affordable laser treatment? Is it less of a social concern and more of a natty style trend?

Gentle reader, I ponder.

Smiley Smile

2007-03-12T11:49:00.000+11:00

I've just come from Val's blog, (http://vereeniging.blogspot.com/) where she mentioned that one of her comments on another blog was misinterpreted as a negative comment; she wonders if she had used a "smiley" symbol to flag the fact that she was joking, the misunderstanding could have been avoided. I'm sure she's right.

I think this is rather sad. Val is absolutely right in saying that there's an inherent difficulty in that readers have no visual cues or tone of voice to interpret, but I suspect there's even more to it than that.

Blogs are great fun and give a voice to those who might otherwise not bother to write at all, but if you don't actually KNOW the person writing, or share their sense of humour or history, misunderstandings can occur.

I believe for instance that socially and culturally, some people have a better sense of irony than others, and that this affects their sense of humour and interpretation generally. This cultural difference can be geographically based or in microcosmic form between families and friends (for example, we all have our "in-jokes", which often seem very odd to others). Does that mean we should stop using them or seek to homogenise our sense of humour for fear of causing unwitting offense?

The beauty of blog commenting, if not posting, is that it's quick and off the cuff. I'd hate to have to start agonising about whether my comments might be misinterpreted by someone who just happened to stumble across them, but c'est la vie. The nature of the beast. I'm not about to start using smilies instead of language to deflect any potential criticism.

Maybe I'm in a minority here (or just in the wrong demographic), but I've always thought smilies and emoticons or whatever they're called are a tad twee. Actually, on the question of demographics, my seventeen year-old thinks they're a bit naff too, although her 15 and 13-year old sisters use them constantly.

Am I sounding like an unseasonal Scrooge? In a world where it has been ruled legitimate for a senior student to write an essay in phone text form (Mcbth ws a rotn wknd hst"?), perhaps I'm a literary Luddite, but I love language and hate to see it cheapened. I'm prepared to risk the odd fit of pique for bloggy freedom of speech without the decorations.

Later ...

OK, I've read through this now and I do sound like a bitter and twisted old dinosaur. I will point out in mitigation though that I'm also one of those people who have a liberal attitude to kids reading comics; perhaps we shouldn't care what they read, as long as they do read enough to form the habit. I'll work on stretching that concept to allow that I will now no longer care whether people write in truncated txt form, or using smilies, virtual hugs or winky bits, as long as they write.

Is that better?

Tagged!

2007-03-03T16:41:00.000+11:00

Thanks to VallyP, I am about to transcribe the fifth, sixth and seventh sentences from page 123 of the book nearest to hand when I read her latest blog entry just now. (I wonder what would have happened if the nearest book had fewer than 123 pages? Fortunately, my Andy Pandy annuals were well out of reach).

So here we are: mine is a long out-of print book, which was on the computer desk because I was checking the publisher so we could search for more copies on e-Bay. It's a book my father Ronald Millar wrote in 1975, called "Civilized Magic - An Interpretive Guide to Australian Painting."

(Clears throat, deep breath, fingers ready ...)

"This gesture, this unrepeatable magic moment, is often seen as the most basic of all elements of painting. Whole schemes and schools of art have been based on this premise, notably the American abstract expressionists of the nineteen forties and fifties, but also some surrealists who wanted an uninhibited flow, a trance-like creativity that exposed the innermost images of the artist without any formal or technical hindrance.

The action of the moment, the actual event and adventure of attacking a blank surface, an encounter between the painter and the marks he makes ... all this suggests that the canvas is an arena where the artist mourns or celebrates as nakedly as possible his experiences and feelings, the private statements becoming public the moment he puts them down."

So what have I learnt from the experience? Two things; firstly that I still like listening to Dad on the subject of art, and secondly that I hate typing from copy. Think I'll stop typing at all now and give him a call.

Thanks for the tag Val!

I

The G is hard but I’m not.

2007-02-08T18:03:00.000+11:00

Not that this is the least bit important, but today two more people looked at my email signature then addressed me as though I were a 500gram tub of Meadow Lea.

I confess I don’t like my name much, but I’m stuck with it, so in lieu of physical violence, I’m thinking of punishing miscreants by inflicting the following on them:

"G" AS IN ...

Some confusion surrounds my poor name
It’s not vital, but still all the same …
See Marg’s short for Margaret
And Margie came aft’rit
So it's G as in Goat, Gripe or Game*

You can tell Marg and Marj’rie apart
(I should have said this at the start)
Cos for Marge who’s with Homer
It’s not a misnomer
(They have Lisa, l’il Maggie and Bart)

Now I’m making this point fair and square,
(Though I realise you prob’ly don’t care,)
I exist, yes indeedy,
Not on telly – in 3-D.
And I’m not the one with blue hair.

I know, I know – it’s cruel, but they’ll only get all the verses if it’s a repeat offense. Fair enough?

*ps: I was going to use gonorrhea and gangrene here, but they wouldn't scan nicely. Small mercies.

"Normal" is a relative term ...

2007-02-05T11:09:00.000+11:00

Well what a pathetic excuse for normality. It did FEEL normal at the time, I promise, but then the full swing of Summer holidays (five and a half weeks in total) hit, we went away - no computer - came back - computer spat the dummy, the dog ate my homework ... tick all of the above. Sorry to those few lovely souls who had the optimism (and the interest!) to expect better.

It's been a good few weeks though, despite bloggy and internet withdrawal symptoms. Our 17-year old was on tour in Europe for a month with her string orchestra (Poland, Greece, Italy, France and Austria; had a fabulous time with much "partying" between concerts), and the younger girls went on a Scout Jamboree camp; 14 days in a baking hot dustbowl outside Bendigo with 12,000 other scouts, which they loved (mad!), so Colin and I had almost two weeks to holiday ALONE for the first time in over seventeen years. (What decadence!) We did a sort of road trip through the parched but still beautiful Western District of Victoria, then over the South Australian border to the Coonawarra wine region. Lots of lovely food and wine all the way, exploring little country towns between those seemingly endless eucalypt-lined roads and many thousands of acres of hard-worked farming land in its Summer ochres and golds, and, well, general bliss all round.

Once we had Em and Soph back we tripped off to Sydney for a while, which was also great. The harbour really is just so beautiful, and you must also see it from the water itself. We took at jet-cat this time. It's magic going under that wonderful bridge span and alongside the opera house with those fabulous white sails. Alas, you'd need to be a millionaire several times over to live anywhere decent within view of either of them, but the harbour belongs to the city, and there are many parks and gardens along its banks where you can just sit and drink it in. I promise I did think of my European, Brit, Canadian and U.S. bloggy friends with your snow, rain and icy winds. Never mind, it will be my turn for all that soon enough.

Anyway, enough explanations and second-rate travelogues: I shall now complete my grovelling in verse:

There once was a blog which went quiet
Was its writer on some no-word diet?
Had she dropped off the perch?
Left her friends in the lurch?
(Think of any excuse and I'll try it!)

There now. Aren't you glad I stayed away so long?

M x

"Normal" Service Has Been Resumed

2006-12-28T14:23:00.000+11:00

Hello - remember me? Awful limericks and a disturbing fondness for marsupials. It's all been a bit hectic of late, and something had to go I'm afraid. It was either blogging or my regular ferret-racing nights, and the ferrets won. Not really, but it's as good as any other excuse.

Anyway, VallyP has pulled me out of cyber-limbo, mostly due to my profound regret at not having been in touch with her when she needed friends (even the bloggy ones) most, and partly because I see that some weeks ago she was foolish enough to challenge me to produce one of those listy things.

Val, it's not up to your standard, but off the top of my head, this is what I've come up with. It is a very abridged list. It omits the facts that I''ll never have a decent cleavage, I'll never do more housework than to a standard just below acceptable, and I'll never get around to posting this if I don't stop waffling and get on with it.

So, here we go:

1. Although I will continue to go grey, and occasionally to fall victim to unnecessarily avant-garde hairdressers, I'll never feel like anything other than a redhead

2. I'll never go bungy jumping, let go willingly of a hand-hold at any height greater than two metres, or leap from a moving vehicle of any description

3. I'll never think of McDonald's hamburgers or chicken nuggets of any brand as food

4. I'll never get sick of the first sip of a truly wonderful wine or the first mouthful of a fabulous meal (though I will happily polish off both in the hope that I might learn to).

5. I'll never stop feeling the need to laugh

6. I'll never do anything more than half a day before a deadline, no matter how many months I've had to do it

7. I'll never pass a single day without listening to music of some sort, or reading something from a book

8. I'll never get sick of good friends, wonderful family and useless pets

9. I'll never feel happy about getting out of bed before 9am or putting the light out before 11.30pm, though I am obliged to do both most of the time

10. (And this is while thinking of you on the loss of your father too Val); I'll never forget what my mother did for me, and never spend a day when I don't wish she was still here to enjoy what she worked for all those years, and the love of the people she did it for.

M x

The Thwack of Leather on Willow

2006-11-27T17:06:00.000+11:00

Quite a racy title, that. Unfortunately my less inhibited regulars are now going to be disappointed (and not for the first time I hear you cry!)

Cricket. It's all a bit mad here at the moment, so just to prove it isn't actually a matter of life and death, and is in fact Just A Game (sharp intake of breath from the terraces), I offer the following comment on Modern Cricketing Sportsmanship:

There is a strange game we call cricket
(Uses one ball, two bats and a wicket)
Tis a jolly pursuit
And some players are cute
But you can't tell the umpire to stickit.

ps: Who is Willow anyway?

These just get worse ...

2006-11-20T13:55:00.000+11:00

Two for the faithful:

There once was a blogger named Val
Fellow barge-lover Koos was her pal
Together they moored
And they never got bored
Nor did any who knew them as wal.

Oh Gypsy her blog is so fab
Very funny, and never, like, drab.
Derelicte is her style
Ming Fellows is vile
(Lemon curd - karaoke - rehab.)

Ah, sweet memories ...

More when I get time - take cover now.

Excuses excuses.

2006-11-13T17:02:00.000+11:00

There once was a blogger from Oz
Whose page was quite dull, that’s because
When she logged in each day
Meaning something to say
Much more int’resting other blogs was.

(So she read those instead.)

It's raining.

2006-11-02T11:27:00.000+11:00

Yes, a nice steady downpour at last. I'd tried everything to make this happen - pegging the washing outside every day, leaving the car windows open in the driveway, watering the plants (with a bucket) whenever the sky looked a little grey, washing the car (ditto bucket) and even planting the entire garden with drought-resistant natives. But no, it was the public blog-bemoaning of the Big Dry that seems to have done the trick - and just in time for the four-day weekend most Melburnians will pinch because of Cup Day on Tuesday.

If it reaches that far, I hope the farmers appreciate my efforts. They won't appreciate the level of sacrifice though - they don't get Cup Day holiday in the country.

Dry

2006-10-23T15:57:00.000+10:00

Drove to Ballarat yesterday, to spend time with my sister. She's having a very rough time lately. Human beings are fragile things.

Had a gorgeous day though, and managed to keep her tear-free for most of the time. Alcohol-free, too, although that's something she's managing by herself - no mean feat.

Dry was the word du jour - we are in the midst of a severe drought here, and I would challenge any climate-change scoffers to continue scoffing after what we saw along the Melbourne-Ballarat road. Green seems to exist only in the memory, having been replaced by shades of ochre and brown. Much of the land is parched, and the dams and creeks virtually dry. Now and then we'd see huge sprinklers spraying life-giving bore water onto struggling crops. More often, though, what crops we saw were already beyond hope.

Anyone who's ever been to Ballarat will remember the beautiful lake - it is no more. Really. There are some largish puddles of water towards the middle, where the swans and ducks fight for territory, but all around the perimeter and a very long way out it is so dry and cracked that the water plants have been replaced by dry land grasses and drought-resistant weeds. Brave, opportunistic life.

The boat sheds are now locked up, and the launching ramps ludicrously far away from anything that could float more than a champagne cork. Word is that it will be years before the boats can be launched there again, if ever. For now, the very keen have to transport boats and rowers many miles away to get their oars wet.

We are gearing up for a long, hot summer, and the country is ready to burn. Some of it already has. When the hot Northerly blows, there is often smoke in the air. Only when you've lived through a bushfire can you understand the fear that smell evokes.

It's a lovely sunny day in Melbourne - about 24 degrees C, with a light breeze. Perfect.

Some rain would be nice though.

Something Happier

2006-09-28T22:10:00.000+10:00

Sorry - that last post was very sad. In the spirit of a less depressing world, therefore, I now present for your edification a happy little ditty known to and loved by us all. Well, loved by non-Marmite or Promite eaters (aka Devil's Spawn), anyway:

"The Vegemite Song"

http://www.geocities.com/alfonzobelushi/vegemite.html

"We're happy little Vegemites as bright as bright can be
We all enjoy our Vegemite for breakfast, lunch and tea
Our mummies say we're growing stronger every single week
Because we love our Vegemite - we all adore our Vegemite
It puts a rose in every cheek".

Well, most cheeks. Whenever I've tried it on anyone not brought up on the stuff from the cradle, they've made a mad dash straight to the lav. Ah well, different tastes, different cheeks.

Some people just don't get it ...

2006-09-28T12:55:00.000+10:00

I have spent a good part of this morning trying to put a 14-year-old girl back together.

This girl has a troubled and complex home life. She often comes here for some time out, and while at school has access to good professional counselling. However, it's holiday time, and today she needed to talk about something her mother had said to her.

Apparently she will not go to heaven because she does not respect her parents. She was told that she has in fact failed God and her faith (Catholic, although that's not important), by being insufficiently respectful. For a person with faith, (which, amazingly, she still has), this is a terrible thing.

When I was growing up I was taught that respect is earned, not an automatic response. Fortunately, I had parents it was easy to respect. They did not belittle me, hit me, or inflict emotional abuse. My young friend is not so fortunate.

It is very hard to bite down anger in a situation like this. Using God as a weapon, whatever your beliefs, has to be wrong. Threatening a child with eternal horrors as a consequence of her perceived behaviour is also wrong. And claiming to hold the moral high ground in Christian values while perpetrating emotional and physical abuse is just obscene.

Earlier today I was responding to something on E.L. Wisty's blog, where the discussion was related in part to atrocities committed in the name of religion. Now I find myself with one microcosmic example of a wider syndrome. The trouble is, in each microcosm a human being is being hurt.

"Whatever happened to all that lovely hippy shit?".

Don't know, Pete. I think we could all use a little of it now though.

THE GREAT AUSTRALIAN BARBIE

2006-09-15T10:14:00.000+10:00

Have had a shocking and unbelievably painful double ear infection for the last couple of days, but now the drugs have finally kicked in I'm feeling quite spacy, although almost totally deaf. Terrible time to write a post, as it will be rambling, incoherent and in need of a good edit. It won't get one though, so wade on in if you dare:

Recently I was rash enough to mention the G.A.B. to Vallyp (vereeniging.blogspot.com), who was then even more rash in expressing interest in hearing more. So … get comfy and we'll begin with: The Traditional.

It’s a simple concept – the barbecue is the one meal that the male of the house cooks. However, the accompanying salads and breadsticks are still the domain of the females. The males gather in a ceremonial circle around the barbecue to perform the ritual, while the women have their own area far away from the action. This is often in the kitchen.

First, the Barbie itself. In days gone by this would have been a fire under a hotplate balanced on a pile of bricks (with the added bonus of further male bonding opportunities while sharing pyromaniac techniques), but we have now moved on. There was the bottled gas / hotplate in the sixties, the Weber in the seventies, the four-burner combination on jarrah trolley in the 80’s and 90’s, and we now have the fully-equipped mobile stainless steel outdoor kitchen. The true SNAG (sensitive new-age guy, of course) will even have a wok-burner on his, but we are getting ahead of ourselves. We are still in the Good Old Days.

Now - the food. All good barbies of the past had eight staples. Steak, snags (sausages), green salad (nothing fussy - iceberg lettuce, tomato wedges, cucumber slices if you're trying to impress, and bottled dressing), coleslaw (with tinned pineapple), potato salad and soggy white bread. And, of course, tomato sauce and BEER.

The key factor in Traditional Barbecue Cooking is time, and plenty of it. All meat should be left long enough to char, and under no circumstances should a piece of steak show any sign of pinkness, tenderness to the touch, or of anything other than having endured a full cremation service. You are welcome to request “medium” if you wish your masculinity or sanity to be called into question, but this will make no difference to the end result. Likewise, while it is compulsory for all males to offer advice on cooking times and techniques, this will have no affect on the finished product. All cooking is one-handed, with ‘stubby’ of beer grafted to the other. The ‘girls’ drink sweet whites, but only a glass or two, as drinking is boys’ territory, and besides, someone has to drive home.

For a crowd, limp paper plates are a must. The art of juggling plate, knife, fork and beer is one acquired over years of practice, and is to be admired. Coleslaw juices soaking into uncoated plates adds a further challenge, in that you must finish eating before the plate collapses.

Ah, such fond memories – but it must now be said that the Traditional, although it still exists in certain heartlands, has now largely been replaced by Modern Australian Outdoor Entertaining. Re-enter the wok-burner. Stir-fries, fabulous seafood, beautifully constructed kebabs, butterflied and marinated legs of lamb, tofu burgers and perfectly roasted vegetables are all new staples of the genre. Beers are still consumed, but you’re more likely to find a glass of great red pressed into your hand. Breads are Italian ciabattas and olive loaves,and salads are miracles of creation which would make Jamie Oliver proud.

The actual barbecuing is still mostly done by men (except in our house – don’t quite know how that happened), but they are now likely to impale themselves on a bamboo skewer in abject remorse if the steak is anything less than perfectly pink inside. Out with the paper plates – in with the full table settings of hand-blown glassware and gleaming white crockery or French provincial terra cottas. Diviiiiine, darling!

So there you have it. And, stereotypes aside, I have also been to Greek weddings here with lambs on spits, sat around campfires where the food cooks in the ground under the coals, and attended more fund-raising sausage-sizzles than I care to remember. All are Australian, and all are fabulous, though the quality of the food may differ. It is truly written that as long as there is sunshine, a fire and a lamb chop, friends will gather.

Birthday

2006-09-11T11:51:00.000+10:00

I turned 47 on Friday. It was a working day for me, and several people there were surprised that I seemed not to mind telling them how old I was. Apparently it's just Not What You Do. Really? Is it considered more seemly to simper coyly and refuse to say, or worse, to pretend the years away and admit to fewer than there are? Apart from being horribly twee, it's all just so much bollocks, and I said so.

However, when I got home I clicked on my profile here, and noticed I hadn't put my age in. Why?

I do remember thinking at the time about whether to include it or not. I decided against it because I didn't want people making assumptions about me based on something so arbitrary. If I'm 47 I must listen to a certain type of music, enjoy specific television programmes, be a little lumpy around the bottom perhaps, be totally absorbed by family and domestic life, and probably have quite static and conservative opinions and beliefs.

Of course there's always the Cosmo angle if I prefer to adopt it - women hit their sexual peak in their 40's (what - so I've only got three more years then it's all downhill?), we are secure, confident, happy in our gym-taut skins and slurping our organic skinny-lattes. Young lovers are our right and we perform a community service by initiating them into the true art of lovemaking.

NeanS was writing about sterotypes the other day. She's right - they can be dangerous things. One of the nicest things about this bloggy world is the interaction I see between people of different ages. It's about like-minded or complementary souls, not numbers. That's how the best "real life" relationships are, too.

So, whether I choose to croon gently along to Rod Stewart's attempts to recapture the era of the big bands while sorting serenely through the ironing and lovingly polishing my kitchen surfaces, or load Powderfinger into my iPod while my toyboy lies on the bed beside me waiting impatiently for me to teach him All, I will be myself, at whatever age that happens to be at any given moment.

Mind you, I'm not sure which of these is the least likely.
I do like Powderfinger though.

If we could ...

2006-08-31T09:24:00.000+10:00

Saw Stephen Fry interviewed by Michael Parkinson the other night. He is always a treat (Fry, not Parky), but this time I came away with something extra.

Apparently Fry had recently been involved in making a film or documentary series about depression and bipolar / manic depression. Of course, his own history gives him a particular interest in and insight into such conditions, but there was one particular anecdote which affected me deeply.

He said that he asked a group of creative people that if they had a button in front of them that with one push would remove their depressive episodes, psychoses or any other symptoms of their illness, would they press it? One button which would remove the blackness, the suffering, the desperation for ever.

He said only three of the many people he asked said they would. The rest were too afraid that their creativity and personal make-up was so entwined with their depressive periods that they would lose too much. They were simply not prepared to give up what they regarded as an integral part of their personas, and too afraid to risk being left without what may be a crucial impetus for their creativity.

Having grown up with and around several depressive / creative people, and inherited many of the genes (alas, more depressive than creative sometimes!), it wasn't really a surprise, but it was interesting to see such feelings illustrated so clearly. So many people are genuinely willing to suffer genuine darkness to feed their art.

And in case you think this post is far too serious, I just re-read it and the first thing I thought of was that fantastic Bob Dylan pastiche which Neil Innes did on the Rutland Dirty Weekend Songbook album:

"Ladies and gentlemen ... er ... I've suffered for my music, and now it's your turn ..."

Luxury on a Desert Island

2006-08-14T10:05:00.000+10:00

Just been over at Vallyp's blog (http://vereeniging.blogspot.com/) She has continued the Desert Island theme by asking which one luxury item you would choose to take.

My first instinct was to follow Gypsy Noir's champagne lead and take one fabulous bottle of red, but I'd probably go mad deciding when to open it. I decided it would need to be something I could re-use endlessly.

With long-term survival in mind, I think I might opt for a top-quality down duvet with a beautiful fine cotton cover. I have a tendency to dive for bed when things get too much, and I think this would provide some essential back-to-the-womb therapy for the less idyllic moments.

Failing that, perhaps a huge book of great comedy scripts? I can't imagine life without humour, and I suspect the possibilities on my island may be limited to giggling at the odd rudely-shaped coconut. (Or cactus, if it really is desert).

Ideally though, a laptop with broadband and unlimited battery supply would be the ultimate, and would provide me with news, music, comedy, literature and art. I suspect however this is cheating. How technologically sophisticated is this island, Val?

Until next time ...
Margie.

A Better List

2006-07-14T20:54:00.000+10:00

Time to take the plunge again.

For some years now I've belonged to an informal book-group-style music thing where every few months along with three wonderful guys I sit down with CD's, vinyl, wine and cheese and we play each other what we've been listening to lately. They are long and delicious nights.

Sometimes there's a theme, sometimes not. One one occasion last year, however, we each agreed to come up with a top 10 list of "desert island" discs. The only stipulation was that they be post-1950. It caused agonies for us all. For no reason in particular, I thought it might be fun to reproduce my list here, together with the written rationale we were asked to provide. It's an odd little collection, but I don't think I'd change too much even a year on. See what you think:

[nb: For those of you who don't know it, "Pastoral" is from the soundtrack to "O Lucky Man". If you haven't heard it, please hunt it down - truly brilliant.]

DESERT ISLAND TRACKS: EXPLANATION / JUSTIFICATION / PRETENTIOUS WAFFLE

These are my choices. They don’t necessarily represent those I think are “the best” or artistically the most worthy or interesting. When choosing them it was tempting to go for musical or lyrical complexity to keep me interested in the same pieces, but ultimately it had to be about what ‘does’ it for me – not just the music itself, but that special place certain pieces can take me. Heap on the scorn if you like, but here goes …

The Dave Brubeck Quartet: Blue Rondo a la Turk.
The coolest. Apparently a momentous piece from a pure jazz structure perspective, but for me it simply encompasses the best of what I love about good jazz. A tempo for every mood, with the music unfolding rather than appearing to have been actually composed. It also reminds me of being in bed listening to my parents’ dinner parties when I was little. Gotta have it.

Aretha Franklin: Respect. Aretha Franklin’s is a voice I couldn’t bear never to hear again. She’s done so much great work it’s impossible to pick the best, so this is simply my favourite in terms of vocal performance and Attitude. Wonderful.

The Mamas and the Papas: Dream a Little Dream of Me. Whooooaaa…. No, it’s not so weird. This one is in here just for the simplicity and purity of melody, harmony and voice, and because it’s one of my favourite sing-alongs. And to prove I’m not the bigot you all think I am.

The Who: See Me, Feel Me. I really tried to cut down my Who selections, but they were always my band, and this is the one that literally changed my musical life. Although this version is from the Leeds recordings, it’s very close to the Woodstock version which I first saw and heard in the school hall as an earnest 13-year old member of the CHS cinema club. Visually and musically it was a revelation to me. Not going to let this one go.

The Beatles, The Long and Winding Road
Very dangerous choice. Bordering on overly-sentimental, with quite a schmaltzy orchestral arrangement, but if I need a Beatles song (and I do), this is the one. Ambitious, cinematically-grandiose structure, weepy lyrics, wonderful PMcC melody. There are songs that typify the Beatles better, but I would need this one for all the big moments in life.

Derek and the Dominos, Layla.
Predictable choice, but there’s a reason it’s so well-regarded. The agony which comes through the vocal, the incredible searing slide guitar from Duane Allman, and that beautiful piano section. It’s just so perfectly crafted.

The Who: Won’t Get Fooled Again. How could I not? Almost picked Baba O’Riley, but this is the one … This for me is the ultimate rock song; real weak-at-the-knees stuff. Nuff said.

Pete Townshend: Face the Face. I had to have a solo PT track, as he’s my favourite writer, and I’m probably doing him a disservice with this choice, as there are many more interesting songs I could have chosen. However, I just love the whole sound, feel and structure of this one, and the brass is brilliant. It’s also my favourite dance track, and no party is complete without it. There are a couple of great live versions around, but I think it would need to be the original. Loud.

Oasis: Morning Glory. It was really hard to pick one from this CD. It was the first entire album I’d heard in middle-age that genuinely did to me what a great rock album would do when I was a teenager, and it was quite a shock to realise I’d been missing that real passion for so long. “Morning Glory”, however, simply sounds so good, and just pipped “Don’t Look Back in Anger”. Either way, this exposes me as cheap victim to a powerful song with a truly great chorus.

The Corrs: Toss the Feathers
Possibly a cheat, as there’s some traditional fiddling in there which of course pre-dates 1950, but this was written and recorded in 1995, and doesn’t credit “Trad.”. For me it’s a fantastic combination of celtic fiddling, smashing guitar chords and percusssion – sort of rock-fiddle fusion. Just love it. However, if the pedants win, I have a reserve choice.*

* Alan Price: Pastoral. This one is about the ability of a perfect, simple and beautiful melody to evoke emotion. I would have loved to fit it in my top ten in its own right, but it’s here as a reserve (see “Toss the Feathers”.)

______________

Ok - I've just re-read it, and it's a little weird, but how do you choose the only ten songs you'll ever hear again? The following meeting we chose the next 10, and that was even harder (I remember Joe Jackson's "Real Men" was in there.) It's an interesting exercise to go through if anyone out there feels inclined ...

Back in my box now.

M x

20 Things You Didn't Need to Know: A Primer.

2006-06-28T12:59:00.000+10:00

OK, this may be a goodish way of breaking the post drought here.

I see that Bex and Black Velvet Lace are throwing out a challenge to fellow bloggers to produce 20 facts about themselves. Here are mine:

1. I am not from Essex, but have been there. I was in fact born in country Victoria, deep in gold mining and grazing country, and stayed there for the first two years of my life.

2. I grew up in a fantastic if unconventional family. Father a painter, mother an angel.

3. I now have a fantastic if unconventional family of my own. Didn’t marry a painter, and I am no angel.

4. I cannot for one moment top Black Velvet Lace’s “worst job” of washing nuns, (however worthy). My worst job was a very brief stint managing a Laura Ashley shop. Knee deep in Toorak matrons and sprigged flowers. Ghastly.

5. I have never been blonde. Born carrot-red, which darkened to a coppery-auburn at around three. Still a dark redhead, but augmented somewhat by artifice these days …

6. Would make a terrible hermit. Without music, good food and wine, and art in all its other forms, life would be very dull indeed.

7. I am prone to periods of blackness, but these are manageable. Escape lies in comedy and a glass or two of good red.

8. I am not a neat person in the conventional sense, and I tend to collect strange objects. I will not discard anything which has family history, and detest housework. My sister says there is nothing wrong with my house that a 12-cubic metre skip wouldn’t cure.

9. I don’t believe in astrology. I am a Virgo. See above for reasoning.

10. I believe cooking well for friends and family is a sensuous joy – as long as they bloody well appreciate it.

11. Health. I don’t smoke, but do tend to have wine every evening with dinner, and probably one glass more than I should. I try to listen only to those who say it’s good for me. This is my only physical vice. (So far.) I hate exercise, but walking is OK. Am lucky to have a figure that doesn't show how unfit I probably am.

12. I am probably difficult to live with at times, but never boring. My family is very loving, and generously forgiving.

13. My ideal holiday is driving around the UK or France, stopping where we want to. Have only managed this three times. We are, however, lucky enough to have a house on one of the most beautiful parts of the Australian coastline along the Great Ocean Road, and going there is my second-favourite holiday.

14. I never realized before what a big number 20 is.

15. I go out to work part-time, and have not yet found the courage to do what I really want to, which is to go back to writing, and this time more intensely and not for others.

16. Ah – pets. Don’t have a dog, although I have always hankered after a golden cocker spaniel. Have a cat called Sadie, who is the successor to my dear old Sybil, who lived to within a few weeks of 20 years old.

17. I prefer snakes to spiders. We have a nice selection of both here, at least down at the coast. Have almost trodden on a couple of snakes, but not yet been bitten.

18. I love living in Melbourne, which is now a vibrant, multicultural foodies’ paradise, with fantastic galleries, theatres and performance venues. I don’t love the fact that it’s so far away from Europe.

19. My politics are towards the left, and I have never voted for the Australian Liberal party. I believe the way the Howard Government has treated refugees in this country, including children, is a human rights scandal.

20. As I have now managed to count off 20 things without giving away anything too personal or revealing, number 20 had better be that I am a blog coward.

It's been fun, anyway.
M x

Proper post at last!

2006-04-30T17:38:00.000+10:00

Just got back from a CD launch at a local jazz club. Great musicians, fabulous compositions - all original - and amazingly good. No real surprises there, except that these were all 16-year olds from my eldest daughter's school, performing their own work, across many genres. The biggest surprise for me was when she sang her own composition, with a beautiful pure voice I simply didn't know she had. (She's a classically-trained violinist, but everyone in her school has to sing - I just hadn't heard her sing solo before, although I'd read many of her lyrics, which are very mature and sometimes quite dark). Watching her perform her own work and supplying backing vocals and violin for others in an intimate professional venue was incredible.

Having determined long ago to be a career musician, she may have to live on vegemite sandwiches and spend a lot of time waitressing between orchestra calls, wedding gigs and precious opportunities to play the music of her choice, but the smile of pure happiness on her face tonight while she was performing made me so happy for her.

A creative life may not be easy, but what's so special about easy?

On Rachel Fuller's "In The Attic" the other day, Pete spoke about the frustration that creative people have when their work is not able to support them full-time (actually, I prefer to think of it the other way around, with them supporting their work, but never mind.) However, creative people will always create - it's only the nature and size of their audience which changes. Writing a poem or a piece of music which only you will see or hear doesn't make it any less of a piece of work - (or any more, if it's lousy!). I'm sure literary or musical masturbation is no more harmful than the standard sort.

So if an artist's own work doesn't reach a huge audience, is it a creative problem, or just an economic one?

M x

I suppose it's about time ...

2006-03-26T13:46:00.000+11:00

Having had this page for a while now without posting anything, it's probably about time I put something here - if only so people can respond to anything I may write on others' blogs without clogging up those. It's all about good manners. There must be a prescribed Blog etiquette treatise somewhere.

So, will I start blogging seriously? Maybe ... it's a good community out there. We shall see.