Kayteejay46’s Weblog

The Ada Dawson School of Walking

I walk fast. I always have. Even when overweight I could propel my poundage forward at amazing speed. I was often surprised that more pounds did not shake loose from my frame and lie there distraught with issues of abandonment in the gutter. Those lucky enough to walk beside me often comment about how fast I walk (between puffs and gasps and little spurts which resemble a slow jog to keep up). I learnt it all from the Ada Dawson School of Walking I tell them.

Who is this Ada Dawson, they ask? (when they have got their breath back). She was my mother I tell them. She was even in a hurry to die. I spend a lot of my middle life realising that I am very much like her. I often have to take stock and tell myself that I don’t have to speed through everything. I can relax and smell the roses. Even this morning when out for a brisk walk with a stop at a coffee shop for a skinny latte and a perusal of the morning paper, I realised that I accomplished the coffee drinking and paper reading in ten minutes flat. And then I felt like I was dawdling.

Why do I rush? And where am I rushing too? What is the hurry, and will getting there fast make any difference to my life in general? I envy those folk who can drape themselves on couches for long periods of time or doze in armchairs in the afternoon. Instead, I am racked with guilt that I am wasting time. I remember my mother when she used to rush to places. She often wore cheap plastic soled shoes which would slide out from under her and leave her sitting on her backside in the middle of the footpath. I, a surly teenager would not acknowledge her as she was just ‘so’ embarrassing. I would not help her up. My father would often tell her to slow down. But she just couldn’t. And so she didn’t.

When she grew old, she hated the enforced curtailment of her walking freedom. The Ada Dawson School of Walking left it’s indelible genetic residue in her daughters. My sister and I both walk very quickly indeed. In fact, when on a city street and within sniffing distance of a good coffee shop, we almost build up a head of steam as we forge our way forward. My father used to say that Mum was like Bodacia in her chariot. I have a mental picture of mum in a crimplene frock, white hat, handbag and shoes with metal spears emanating from her shins and the pram as she pushed her way through crowded city streets – surprised and tardy shoppers examining their bloodied legs in amazement as this paragon of pace moved at the speed of greased lightening.

I am sad now when I think of Mum. She died nearly two years ago, and yes, she was even in a hurry to die. It took too long, she thought, this lying around in a hospital bed looking at a sea of concerned faces gazing back at her. “How long is this going to take?” she would question me crossly. I would think to myself that it wasn’t quite as easy as booking a trip on a plane. It was only as she slipped into that late afternoon dusk of nearly dying that she finally relaxed. As she slowly relinquished her hold on life the strain and tension left her body. And so, the founding member of the Ada Dawson School of Walking left this world.

I remembered her this morning as I sped along the pavement in my bouncy Asics gel shoes. Her technique and her tenacious stride. The poetry of economical movement as her elbows sawed through the air. I met my daughter for a coffee (well it was for my birthday) and I realised that her stride reminded me of my mother. I smiled as I thought of mum on a cloud in heaven having done her early morning circuit. I think she would have smiled too.

Sitting here in the sun with the laptop on my knee. Life is a kind of Limbo at the moment. I have a day off work to recuperate from a cold. I think about the word ‘limbo’. It is a word I first encountered when as a little Catholic schoolgirl I would have my ears battered with a a barrage of unwanted images. Heaven, hell and limbo somewhere as a waiting room for those not quite good enough to go to heaven. Fast forward now fifty years and a retrospective view is that I spend a lot of time in limbo. Heaven is not really a chocolate icecream on a stick. No, its a place where those who have maintained an excellent spiritual status quo in spite of the visitudes of life can plan to spend eternity in the company of God. Sounds like a nice place. Angels, harps maybe and the bliss of  eternal peace. That is the part I like the sound of. Eternal peace.

I have been thinking a lot about the ephemeral nature of happiness. Peace and happiness are close friends. We cannot know happiness without knowing sadness. Life is full of contrasts. Happiness is that almost elusive event that sneaks up and takes you unawares. You cannot manufacture it, sniff it, bottle it or drink it. Sadly many have tried and failed. However, again I digress. Yes, I am living in the limbo of Peggy’s beautiful house. My friend Peggy has had me living here in her spare bedroom for weeks now until my old place is ready once again. For weeks I have enjoyed amazing meals, a hot fire and the beautiful surroundings of trees and a small stream running through it. Visits from birds and animals are a bonus of this limbo. I call it limbo because I am still living out of boxes and bags. I feel content and unsettled at the same time. Like I am on holiday but I still have to go to work. A paradox, some would say.

I have started to receive some cheques from the insurance company so have begun to choose furniture and appliances. Some would love this chance to start again. I must confess that I feel overwhelmed. It is only a small granny flat. How can I get it wrong? A cheque to spend at ‘Freedom Furniture’? What colours? What theme? my daughter suggested that this time I should go for something streamlined without so much clutter. Clutter? I thought it was a fine example of an ‘eclectic mix?’ Anyway – I have always admired Geraldine’s interior design in the ‘Vicar of Dibley’ – yet I hanker for Asian minimalist, city chic or Nantucket beach side.

How did this post go from limbo to home decor? Just an example of the complex way my mind works. But I quess i am unique. I had better rouse myself from my stupor here gazing out at autumn leaves falling into a stream and go and gaze at some catalogues.

Its kind of weird how life works sometimes. This is an example of irony. I am a woman living out of supermarket bags in my friend’s spare room while waiting to find somewhere to live. I have a contents insurance claim pending, and the first item to arrive was a Sony speaker system and amplifier which is top of the range – not the humble little five speaker and sub woofer and amplifier which met their muddy fate five weeks ago as a tide of water submerged my place.
They arrived in two boxes the size of refrigerators, and I had to slip the truck driver a borrowed twenty bucks to redeliver them from work to my sort of ‘home’. No way were these babies going to fit in the stalwart beep beep barina.
I looked on the net and they are worth over a grand. They belong in some amazing home theatre set up in a mc mansion somewhere – not in a humble little granny flat which is really a posh name for someones’ old sleepout which they want to make a few bucks on.
Anyway – Insurance companies. I made a list of the stuff I lost, and this arrived. Even my assessor was baffled as she didn’t even authorise it. So, I took that opportunity to ask her for some cash to buy a handbag, shoes and a few other essentials lost in the deluge. You don’t get cash baby, you get vouchers. Ok – lets hope the vouchers are from establishments where you would normally choose your clobber. Will have to see.

So, I recite the mantra daily ” A granny flat with a bit of style that is affordable and allows my cat” – so I guess it will come – sometime.  Meanwhile, I sort out my piles into supermarket bags. I wonder the garage and look for things like tweezers, black jumper and notes for assignments due last week.  It is a sort of limbo  I just want to flop on my own couch and watch tv. Alas. But, for your amusement, here is an image of my sound system.

Just a quick update. NRMA are now paying my contents claim and so I have started the job of throwing out stuff so I can start again. I am constantly reminded of how kind some people are – even perfect strangers.
In the midst of all this drama, last week I had visual disturbances in my left eye which resulted in a quick visit to the eye specialist. My left retina was about to detach. I had the same in my right eye three years ago to the day, so that was very weird. Anyway, he lasered it all back into place, so everything is almost hunky dory. I just need to get saved stuff moved to my friend’s garage. I can’t wait for life to get back to more or less ‘normal’.

Just a short one, and probably a slap in the face after my moan about dogs, ear plugs and slow drivers. A week ago the Mid North Coast and Coffs Harbour had huge storms and subsequent floods. Many were affected, including my daughter and myself. Here I was at the gym after a morning at work, and then driving home to encounter horizontal rain and roads covered with water. The small wooden bridge near my house went under and I was cut off. My daughter was at home next door and was rescued by a fire truck as she was waist deep in water. I drove back to the childcare centre and picked up my grandson. When she was dropped off totally wet in her pyjammas (she was at computer writing an assignment) she told me my house was also under.
A kind family took us home for two days and fed, clothed and looked after us, helping us to get the clean up started.
My daughter basically lost everything. I was higher up and had a tide of mud come through due to rising water levels and poor drainage.
This is where the fun starts. My carpet and floors were deep in mud. I have lost electrical items and furniture. I rang NRMA with whom I have contents insurance. I listed my items and was given a claim number. They advised me that assessors would come and give quotes. This happened, but then NRMA advised me that they may not pay out as it is a flood, not a storm – and they do not cover floods.
I have been walking around feeling surreal. I have started a new job which requires a lot of energy and brain power. I am staying with a lovely girl friend in her warm dry house and she has even semi adopted my cat. Yesterday I rang up Dodo about the new modem I recieved the day after the storm/flood to see if I could set it up temporarily at my new temporary abode. But no, only if I pay 99.00. Has the world gone mad?
Yes it has. At the end of the call she asked me if I was satisfied with the outcome of the call. Well, go figure!

Even though this is a traumatic time and sifting through all of my totally damaged and irretrievable family photos which lie in sodden lumps on the muddy floor, I think of how kind people have been and of how we are all still alive. My daughter is walking around like a zombie as she has a small child to care for and is a full time student. She lost her text books, her computer is damaged but she is in a crucial year at Uni so she has to stay there.

Yesterday I snuggled into the neck of my little four year old grandson and thought – we have lost a lot but being alive and having our loved ones alive is the most important thing of all.

PS the picture is of the fire truck that rescued Hannah, and our home was a few  metres to the right of the picture.

I have not posted for a while because I am still waiting for my new modem with a newISP,  so am on dial up – but to avoid the sad RIP of a ‘dead’ blog, I thought I better get some words down.  I could write about the unsuccessful journey I have endured with Big Pond, but will save that for another time.

Anyway, I was thinking about things that happen apparently randomly, but still frequently enough for us to think that they are our own special crosses to bear. Maybe life has lessons we still need to learn, and in that case I have at least three which keep raising their ugly heads to challenge my peace of mind.

Firstly, why is it that people feel compelled to drive at least 5 or 10 kms lower than the speed limit in areas where no one can overtake them.  This happens in spite of vividly displayed speed limit signs. It happens frequently to me on a road that is 80kmph. It has only one lane. My little Barina and I get excited because we can let go and drive fast for ten minutes or so  – but alas no, in front of me there is a little put put driver who is sauntering along at snails pace for seemingly no reason at all. They are blissfully ignorant of the build up of traffic behind them. It is times like this that I wish my little car had a flame thrower installed which I could use to scorch their bumpers into some propulsion. Of course it is not the P platers or L platers – they are too busy driving heedlessly at 90kms because they think they are invincible.

And why is it, that at the dawn of time when my physiology was being designed complete  with a sharp wit and thick ankles, that I was also given a right ear hole which was created to not hold onto a yet to be invented  Ipod Suffle ear bud ? I ponder this odd fact as I pound the pre dawn pavements at 5.30 am for my morning walks. I have no hand spare, one is holding a bottle and the other a torch, so no spare limb is available to keep shoving the ear bud back into my right ear. While my left ear and the ear bud have formed a lovingly mutually symbiotic  relationship in which they cling together tightly, my rebellious right ear spurns the approach of the little circular piece of plastic and so it therefore dangles uselessly onto my shoulder. I keep stuffing it back in, but the strains of Massive Attack or Basement Jaxx which propel me forward are interupted and I long for a spare hand to shove it back in.

And finally, why is it that people buy and keep a ‘pointless dog’? A pointless dog is so called by me because it is bought on a whim, and then is relegated to a lonely and cold existence in the back yard where it barks either in a deep baritone, or sharp staccato yaps whenever I am nearby. In a world full of unwanted noise, I like to choose the noise I listen to, and yet I am surrounded by dogs whose entire motivation in life is to bark at anything and everything – not for a minute or two, but for hours. Now, I like dogs, but prefer cats as they are reasonably silent. I feel sad for dogs which are confined and understimulated. A happy pooch is part of a family and has an interactive and purposeful life. The poor old pointless dog is just a barking poo machine and I feel sorry for it. I think owners of dogs need to realise that dog ownership is a commitment, much like that of having children, and it should be taken seriously.

But enough of the moaning. These are my main bugbears at the moment. It would take a whole blog to get my next one down – but I will give you a hint. Those people with self imposed eating regimes that impact negatively on those around them…” I will have a skinny latte on soy with organic coffee half strenth with extra froth in a bone china mug with no toxic glaze kiln fired in Lithuania…”

I have the somewhat dubious honour of living at Fawlty Towers. Admitedly it is the Australian version, Mid North Coast Style. Basil Fawlty’s Aussie doppelganger is the owner of the property.In order to fund his dream of opening an art gallery he rents out the other dwellings on his property to unsuspecting tennants.I say unsuspecting because behind the mild mannered exterior of the place, there are many things just waiting to fall apart.
Living here is a as the Divinyls sing ” A fine line between pleasure and pain”
Let me enlighten you. Picture a beautiful old two storied house set on a large leafy block -  festooned with the odd gargoyle or two, it is a quirky and unique place.   Apart from the main house, there is a granny flat which contains one granny. (Me in fact), the ‘Pool House’ and ‘The Club House’.

The ‘Pool House’ is a remnant from a 70’s stag party porno flick set complete with a wagon wheel suspended mirror and a table with barstools set in concrete. These are great if you are a two metre human being with a bum which can suction you onto the stool. And then there is the wall of mirrors. All it needs are the handle bar moustaches and pneumatic bouncing mammaries to complete the picture. It is called the pool house because there is a pool next to it. And yes, when it is 33 degrees in the shade the inmates are grateful for the pool – when it is not a deep shade of lime green. To get into the pool itself, the childproof gate is a logistical nightmare to open. The fence has sunk, so the gate is out of alignment and persistence, dexterity and a good strong right arm is necessary to get in for a swim. On the positive side, it is a good deterrent for small children. The pool house has had a series of tenants in my time here. Many tend to have a close and meaningful relationship to the bottle,along with attendant relationships which are loudly vocal often at 2am. These issues are not apparent to the landlord until the recycling bin clinks glassily when it is wheeled out on a Tuesday.

The ‘Club house’ might have once been a garage. Set directly on a concrete slab and with fibro walls, it swelters in summer and turns its inhabitants into icicles in winter. The shower leaks, snakes and spiders crawl in the gaps under the door and cockroaches hold the walls together.There is no kitchen bench to speak of, few cupboards and a lovely sloping floor.The screen doors don’t fit or shut, so visiting wildlife is abundant.

The tenants, including my good self choose to live here because it is quiet, leafy, cheap and close to everything. The benign owner of what I call the ‘Compound’ does all the repairs himself. This would be fine if he:

1. Did them when asked
2. Did them properly

The inmates of the compound must accept that unlike a situation when a rental property is acquired through an agent, the agent sends qualified repairmen to fix the things that break.  Living at the compound is a parallel universe.The reverse is true. The owner will do all repairs himself, and he will do them when he has time. However he does not have much of that because of  time constraints such as a full time job, various medical conditions and  also a girlfriend

This green and leafy paradise is rife with complexities. Who else, when going to mow the lawn, finds three mowers – only one of which goes. And,to make this contraption work, you must spray it with WD40 and pull the cord. Hard when your arms are not long enough to do both at the same time. The lawns done, the mower does not turn off when you turn the ‘off switch’. Oh no, you must run to the shed and find a pair of pliers to pull out a wire before the beast shudders to a stop.The driveway is edged with a wall of pine trees, from which crazed black cockatoos pelt unsuspecting inmates with pine cone missiles. It looks and sounds like a war zone. There is not time here to mention the driveway hose which sprays the user with a fine mist and is not long enough to water the garden.  Nor time to discuss the physical and mental gymnastics required to manouvre your car around others to get to the road. Should I mention the home made telephone wire system which so baffled the Telstra man he needed to get counselling and retraining. Now I jest, but I am sure you get the drift…

But back to the exploding toilet cistern. I begged, nagged cajoled and reminded the landlord to fix my dripping toilet. I nagged so much it felt like I was still married. After a few weeks, he did. I always find that if I threaten to get a trades person in and take it out of the rent,then  that will galvenise him into action. Finally he visited the cathedral which is close to heart of the men of Australia. He has a close, almost spiritual  infinity with Bunnings Warehouse. I think of it as his place of worship as most weekends he brings home mysterious and bulky packages from there and  displays an air of serene contentment.

He fixed it. Ah the joy of not hearing that mind numbing drip drip drip. But alas I rejoiced too soon. Tonight the hose ripped from the wall and a fountain of water cascaded through the kitchen and bathroom. Being a resourceful woman, I turned off the tap and mopped up with towels.Sopping wet and swearing quietly I rang him on his mobile phone. Of course he is five hundred kilometres away.He humbly and apologetically listened to my tirade, promising to fix it on his return tomorrow.
I am off to bed now. All is quiet on the compound. My huge, quiet veranda is a wonderful place to sit and think. Life on a compound has many advantages. There is always someone to borrow milk from, and there is always someone to feed the cat when I am away. There is room to ride a bike, kick a ball, skateboard, grow vegies or just sit under a tree. We often all sit together and have a meal or a drink. There is usually someone around when you need someone to talk to, but you are left alone when you want solitude.I have been here a few years now, and much as I become frustrated with things not getting repaired, I love my little place and I am always happy to return here. I will just try to ignore that grinding sound from the ceiling fan and the dripping from the bathroom ceiling as the aftermath of the toilet explosion subsides into puddles on the floor.

Stumble It!

It is 1958 on a wintry day in Christchurch New Zealand. There is a small girl standing alone on her first day at a small convent primary school. She is dressed in a brown serge uniform which accentuates her plump body. Her straight brown hair has been pruned into a bowl shape in her father’s shed the day before. Her scared face is embelished with a pair of thick, black rimmed spectacles with a Dame Edna flourish. A gang of mainly boys stand there chanting “Fatty four-eyes, fatty four-eyes.” The nearby nun seems blissfully unaware of the little girls fate.
That was me. A plain, gawky child who was on the podgy side. I toughened up a little, coerced my mother into sending me to ballet with dreams of being a sylph like swan lake ballerina. The teacher told my mother in my hearing “Its like teaching a baby elephant to dance.”
And so it went on for years. The slightly chubby girl with the slim. attractive girlfriends was always the life and soul of the party as boys saw her as that funny fat girl. The irony is, that looking back at photos, I was not really fat at all, just a bit awkward and badly dressed.
In my final year at High School, I wanted to continue University level art, but my female only convent did not have the facilities. I was sent next door to the boys only school to study this subject. The pimply, smelly boys were merciless. They smirked and tittered about my looks and body shape, and laughed about my thick lenses. I tried not wearing my glasses, but ambling into stationary objects was also not a good look. Angry inside, I won the highest award for my art work, as I silently decided I would put those horrible boys in their place.
My first wage packet went on contact lenses. And life changed.
Sensing that my life was empty, I was an easy target for recruitment into the burgeoning Jesus movement, where everybody (including Jesus himself) were more interested in your soul than in your body. I moved away from home and into a commune, where being a starving student kept the weight off -along with a diet of mung beans and lentils (ugh)
I met my husband at twenty. We married after six months as I wanted to belong somewhere, and I thought marriage would do that. How wrong I was.
Essentially a lovely man, my husband and I had two great kids, but he was often critical of my weight. Looking back, I was only about ten kilos overweight. I tried everything from forty day fasts which made me faint to liquid and biscuit diets. Always the weight went back on. Stuck at home with two tiny children, I ate out of boredom. Always a great cake maker, I replicated my mother’s talent and baked till the tins were full. Nobody ate it but me.
One day, full of self disgust and loathing, I forced myself to vomit. I felt relief at the emptiness. Little did I know that a malignant pattern would establish itself for the next ten years. I had no idea that my guilty secret was an eating disorder. I had never heard of one before. I thought I was going mad as the problem escalated.
One day I read an article describing ‘bulimea’. I realised my problem had a name. I never went to a doctor, but fought the problem day after day, until finally I seemed to be over it. But the ten kilos still remained.
For years afterwards I tried every new diet under the sun. I always lost weight, but never kept it off. Last year I started to have some health problems which worried me. I stewed about it, then seeing the success of a woman at work who had been going to Healthy Inspirations, I followed her lead.
I have to say that a sort of epiphany ocurred. A paradigm shift. I firmly believe that to win the fat fight, something has to gel inside. You need to know that this time you will do it. And so I did. It has taken five months and finally the thirteen kilos has gone.
And, wait – there’s more!!! It was actually not that hard. This time my focus was on fitness and good health forever – not just to fit in a smaller dress. Setting goals, support from the staff and commitment to regular exercise are the keys. Being accountable to a journal and to Healthy Inspiration’s staff monitoring your progress is a great help.
Yesterday my doctor gave me a clean bill of health, took me off medication and said I was perfectly fit and healthy. And I am. Today I stood on those scales, and finally the numbers I had longed for came up. So, well done me!!!!
I celebrated with a skinny latte, and realised that the fat fight has been won. I know this time that the weight will stay off because healthy eating and regular exercise are now part of my day.
So, off to buy a new bra and knickers. Yay!! goodbye granny bloomers and hello kinky knickers.

It has been five weeks since I joined a women’s only gym. I had always hated them before, unreasonably thinking them weak and namby pamby. The reason I joined was because I needed help to stay motivated, so here I am, in a pink, air conditioned paradise where nice ladies in pink tops encourage, weigh, prod, measure and chat to you while you do your workouts. These workouts are wonderful. They consist of a fifteen minute circuit where you exercise for sixty seconds and then go on to the next one. You do this twice and your feel great. And it only takes half an hour!

I was previously put off gyms because the last one was a warehouse with no air conditioning. You would lie on your back to do a stretch on carpet which was fragrantly imbedded with the sweat of previous Pump and Body Jam devotees. The heat was intolerable; large fans would reluctantly move the hot hair around while you drooped and sweated your way around the workout. Large, muscled men would hoist huge weights and make vile grunting sounds like semi muted orgasms. If a woman dared to hover nearby waiting for the weight machine, they would regard you with the disdain a non dog lover employs when finding a steaming dog turd on the path. This male clique had some lycra clad gym bunny acolytes who would daintily swing weights while flicking their blonde locks, hoping from a glance of approval from the hefty beefcake bruisers.

I was terrified of the shower, the fear of athletes foot and worse kept me in my rubber beach thongs and I dreaded the horrid nylon shower curtain blowing in and touching my body. Yes, I know I am neurotic. And then the music.  Through the heat waves, several wall mounted dvd players belted out Britney Spears and others of her ilk ad nauseum as we pounded on the treadmills.

The best thing about my new women’s only gym, is that I actually feel good. I am amazed. I feel less tired, more toned and I have lost quite a few kilos already. And, once a week you can book yourself into the adjacent relaxation room and recline in a big black chair which massages your body into dribbling submission. I love it. Even if it is mechanical. It will be even better when I can work out how to change the music from Frank Sinatra, whom I consider in my ancient wisdom to not be condusive to zoning out. I love it all, even when the chair tries to munch my feet. I just lift them out. Bliss. Now off for a skinny latte and rest while I polish my halo.

Most of us need a car and some of us actually have a car. I like my car. It is the first newish one I have ever had, it is fuel efficient, easy to park, has air conditioning and a good stereo. It also goes, which is important to me, as I hate it when cars do not go. That usually means spending money, a lot of money! Cars can mean transport and freedom. To some they are a status symbol or a way of making yourself noticed. My personal choice is for smallish cars, as they are quietly efficient, getting you from a to b with less impact on the environment than large cars. I have had old bombs that have blown up, one that was stolen and set fire to, one which resembled a Mafia getaway car, one that was the size of a cornflake box, and one that had holes in the floor which revealed glimpes of the road when driving.

Hmm, large cars. Four wheel drives. Now I will have even less friends than I had before, but for the life of me, I cannot understand why one small woman with one small child must sit up high in a fiercely aggressive four wheel drive vehicle that blisters with bull bars and gadgets. She (or often he) believe they are now the boss of the highway, and impose intimidating tactics like tailgating, overtaking dangerously with a snide, sideways sneer and antagonistic, egocentric logic. Worse even than tired truck drivers with rigid timetables to keep, they seem to feel that a mantel of greatness descends on them when they take possession of the keys of their new vehicle. Never mind that the vehicle is designed for bush and mountainous terrain, and should be covered in dust while tearing across the Nullabor. No, they must impose their need to impress upon the general populace of road users as a whole. They feel the need to nudge their huge snouts out at intersections, making me almost side swipe them in the process. They hover menacingly at car parks and zoom into recently vacated spots without an ounce of regret.

So what if their fuel bill is as high as their mortgage. Its status baby, status and power. Lets go and drive along a quiet beach somewhere, where an unsuspecting beachgoer is quietly meditating as she walks along the shore. All is peace, until a roar from behind as a four wheel drive approaches and passes, and another, and another. The sand is marked with tyre tracks, and empty beer cans thrown out of the windows.

And I drive off in my little beep beep Barina. It needs petrol once a month and I can almost park with my eyes closed. Almost. Better for the environment, better for me, can still carry five at a pinch and is my home away from home. If I could find a cupholder to put my takeaway latte in, i would be in seventh heaven.

Last week a new department store opened near us. I went early, thinking to avoid the crowds on opening day. I was confronted by a phalanx of trollied up shoppers waiting in queues that filled every aisle. Trollies were loaded with $29.00 microwaves and packages of 32 pack rolls of toilet paper (which looked suspiciously thin, although cheap) Now I am old and wise. I know that more expensive, thicker toilet paper is superior in every way, but I digress. Now is not the time for a sermon on false economy. Mariah Carey was screeching shmultzy christmas carols from every loudspeaker. The shoppers, lined in rows three or four deep stood staunchly, mute with the energy of saving a buck. Everywhere I looked, the flouroescent lights showed glazed eyes and fixed expressions. Wallets were open at the ready, credit cards polished up for an airing. Children hung sullenly from off trolleys or wailed pieously with tiredness or boredom. I tried to have a look around, truly Idid. I could not move left or right. Suddenly I recalled a crowd surge at the Big Day Out many years ago when I was middle aged try hard born again retro teenager. The feeling of being hemmed in by glassy eyed human beings intent on their own personal agendas rose up inside me. I felt a bit panicky, hell, what if I could never get out, if I was stuck in there forever hearing Mariah wail with my last dying breath. I leapt over a couple of trolleys and pushchairs. I shoved and pushed with the determination of Boadacia and her chariot and squeezed out past the traumatized looking staff who had the aura of those caught in the middle of a post apocolyptic disaster zone.

I was out. I breathed a sigh of air conditioned shopping centre air and hurried out into the steam of another sweaty and hot mid north coast morning. Everywhere I looked I saw huge mounds of toilet paper and $29.00 microwaves being loaded into the boots of cars. People looked shattered, but with that air of achievement and satisfaction which is apparent when a dollar is saved, and bums will have paper to be wiped on, even if your fingers go through it and it is very thin. Microwaves will ping, Santa will come, as will the credit card statements in January. Snow will not fall, this is Australia after all, but we all seem to cling to the hope that Christmas will re-unite families, and that we will feel full of good cheer and Christmas joy – as I will be on Christmas morning if I find a $29.00 microwave under the tree.

I am a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas, Bah humbug and all that stuff. However, when I went to the Christmas carols the other night, the carol singing bought a few tears to the eyes as I remembered my children being tiny and opening presents under the tree…but I won’t get all sentimental on you. I work with small children, so Christmas has been a focal point for weeks. We have been deluged with glitz and baubles in the shops for months, so most of us are just a tiny bit over it, BUT, I will just have to admit that although I am a bit of cynic about Christmas, I do love presents. Which brings me to my list Santa (did you also realise that Santa is an anagram of Satan. Funny that)

MY LIST FOR SANTA

1. Enough cash to go to the dentist and have ALL of my teeth fixed: straightened, whitened and filled. Ouch.

2. A pedicure, manicure and a hot rock massage. In fact, a two day spa treatment would be divine: all cosmic music, tinkling fountains and general nurturing treatments…mmm

3. A house of my own: small, bohemian and funky with a leafy garden, or a spacious and  spartan,  apartment in the centre of a city, or a windswept cottage overlooking a deserted beach (with native bush behind) All with a good cafe nearby that does a stunning latte.

4. A trip to see Europe – Italy (particulary Venice before it sinks) Greece and France of course. As well as everywhere, and plenty of money to stay in glamorous hotels and to eat wonderful food. And to stay for ages, and not go on coaches with loud people (all couples)  wearing polyester. I want to touch the sun warmed stone which has been around for centuries and breath in history.

5.  A brand new metabolism which turns all food into energy so I can eat eggs benedict, French toast, chocolate and pastries till the cows come home, and not get fat.

6. Plastic surgery to firm my sagging jawline.

7. And, perhaps a man. One who has a nice firm body, good looking, good personality, good humoured, intelligent, no nasty baggage, rich, cultured, passionate and faithful. Now I am merging into the realm of myth and complete fantasy. No, perhaps a nice bloke who doesn’t smell bad, isn’t fixated on ball sports, can talk about books and is funny would be nice to go out to dinner with.

Ok Santa, the list is out there. Up to you now.  In all honesty, any little suprise under the synthetic Douglas fir tree will be fine. Its the thought that counts. Happy Christmas everyone.

Well Christmas is over for another year. I have a bigger waistline, indigestion, lots of presents and a credit card bill to show for it. As the needles fall off the Christmas tree, I think of Post modernism, Post Structuralism, Post Natal Depression and Post Christmas Blues. Whats it all about Alfie? The bin is overflowing with wrapping paper, I have a fridge full of chocolate to eat through and some new and fascinating things to play with. But what does it all mean? When I was a kid more than half a century ago, we got a reburbished bike or doll from an older family member (who had grown out of it) and that was it. A couple of days ago as I saw kids virtually dissappearing under a flurry of wrapping paper busily searching for the thrill of another useless, expensive plastic must have gizmo, I wondered where the true meaning had gone. Once again I went down memory lane to remember being awake until midnight on Christmas Eve when I was bundled off to Midnight Mass. Candles burned, pine tree needles smelt glorious, a choir sang carols and a little plaster of paris baby Jesus lay in a real wooden manger.

Now I am waxing sentimental here, the past is often a country best not revisited, but those few memories always bring me back to remembering that it is baby Jesus’s birthday – so how come it is a commercil fiasco and we get all the presents? A rehetorical question I know. We spend money because consumerism is part of our social fibre, and spending money keeps our economy alive and well. Paying fifity dollars for a present on the 24th Dec has more meaning than getting it for half price in the Boxing Day sale on the 26th.  Isn’t Christmas about love and caring all year round? Why do we place so much importance on our gastric juices on this one day? Is it because the need to celebrate something that was once so holy fills a need in our lives to go a little deeper than the superficial nicities of life?

I love Christmas, and I love seeing the joy on little children’s faces when they open their presents. I love having family around and catching up with friends on holidays. I love long days at the beach or having time to read a book in my hammock. I love my daughter’s chocolate truffles and I love having time to dream, but sometimes I just think – simple is best. As we look at tired shop assistants wan faces on Christmas eve, and somebody sweating in the kitchen (not me) as they stuff a turkey, and grizzling kids hanging off overladen trollies with eye rolling  mothers, I just wonder what we have done to ourselves as a society by creating so much expectation in small children.  This year my work colleagues and I all donated a small amount to buy some livestock for a third world country. We didn’t really need another ten dollar (our limit for secret Santa) body lotion or candle. But those people really needed food in their bellies and clean water to drink.

Something to think about. Happy Boxing Day

I wake up on the 26th January 2009 and remember it is Australia Day. Yesterday I spotted cars adorned with Australian flags (made in China) driving past. Australia celebrates this day to commemorate the arrival of the first fleet in 1788. Britain came to a appropriate this continent because it was the policy of the British Empire to colonise other countries to establish their Empire world wide. Also it was a handy place to get rid of some bothersome convicts. They saw it as an uninhabited place, and called it “Terra Nullius” – a place of emptiness. What they didn’t realise was that Australia was already owned by over four hundred indigenous Australian nations; all of whom had their own cultural fingerprint. Of course the owners of this great continent were not happy about giving it to these white invaders, and fought to hold on to their culture and lives. Over two hundred years on, a history of dispossession, murder, assimilation and imposed integration policies is the legacy of the first owners of this continent.

So what are we celebrating? That Britain had the technology and numbers to subjigate the Aboriginal people? Are we celebrating the introduction of toxic wildlife such as rabbits, foxes and stoats which decimate our native wildlife? Are we celebrating that one Imperialist culture had the strength to render an occupied country to less than sixty thousand descendants today?
Kevin Rudd went a long way to reconcile this once hidden history of the true invasion of Australia in his “Sorry” speech in 2008.
But that is only the beginning. While the Northern Territory Intervention can be seen as another type of Invasion, all Australians must now consider how and where they stand in their national entity. We are all imports in one way or another. We cannot take back the invasion or the resulting holocaust. But, we can redress the wrongs of the past by addressing issues of dispossession by being proactive in providing a strong and effective network of health, education and social awareness programmes which address cultural safety and acknowledge the Inidgenous Australian world view.
The problem is huge. It won’t go away soon, but it must be fixed. I see the huge disparity between whitefella and Indigenous Australian mortality as being a strong indication of the gap between white and black Australian culture. Yes, it is health and education, operated their way which will help to breach the gap.
Now, off my soapbox. Yes, I am off to a bbq, I am glad I am an imported Australian. I am thankful that I live here. We can’t change the past, but we can acknowledge it and be proactive in allowing the descendants of the original owners of Gondwanaland to establish and maintain their own unique culture and identity here in the twentyfirst century.