I love the night life. I got to boogie.

So I went out on the town on Saturday night. Talk about out of character! We stayed in Brisbane at my cousin’s place. We were all meant to head out to a party at our friends K and P’s house, but the various husbands (including M) all opted for the safe option instead. As in, they stayed home and had a civilised evening of chatting and red wine drinking and went to bed early. This meant the ladies were footloose and fancy free.

 My cousin B, despite being a mother of two, has maintained a far greater commitment to getting out and about during the night time hours than I ever could, and was actually backing up from a series of late nights in Melbourne. Impressive to say the least. As you can imagine, I was not backing up from anything like this at all. Because I generally opt for an evening of Gardening Australia and folding washing. Usually the concept of having to wake up at 5am to two small children is enough to prevent me from getting my booze on, but I threw caution to the wind and decided to PARTY LIKE IT WAS 1999! Eat your heart out Prince/Love Symbol.

 So before the party, B and my honorary cousin KLF dragged me out to the Valley to see a friend’s band. It was at The Zoo. For non Brisbane types, this is a small grungy GIG VENUE. I had a bit of a freak out about what to wear. I mean The Zoo was a regular HANG OUT for me in my YOUTH but TIMES HAVE CHANGED PEOPLE! I opted for a long sucky in black dress with floaty voluminous metalicus esque layers and tan wedges. You know, quite nice, I guess, but STILL a bit on the MATRONLY side.

When we got there the bouncer was checking ID. We all got the GIGGLES and I said to him “Do I really have to show you I AM LIKE ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD!” He smirked and answered “Not QUITE one hundred.” I wasn’t sure whether this was a compliment or a veiled insult but I chose to view it in a positive light, such was my commitment to HAVING A GOOD NIGHT!

We clip clopped upstairs with all the YOUTH and had a confusing exchange with the barman about buying drinks;

Me [shouting over the music]: Can we get a bottle of white wine and three glasses please? 
Barman: Oh I’m sorry we don’t sell it by the bottle. 
Me [shouting]: Oh OK then. Um…just three glasses then. 
B [shouting]: What about a bottle? Can we get a bottle to share? 
Me [shouting]: No they don’t sell it by the bottle. 
KLF [shouting]: How about a bottle to share? 
Barman: We don’t SELL it by the bottle, we’ve had a few PROBLEMS in the PAST! 
B [shouting]: OH! OK what about a bottle of bubbles then, to share? 
Barman [rolling eyes]: UGH we don’t SELL ANYTHING BY THE BOTTLE

 Anyway once we settled down with our glasses I scanned the crowd. There were a lot of very polite HIPSTER types around causing me to feel dead set uncool. I was tempted to shout out “Hey you kids guess what?! I AM WEARING A BEIGE MATERNITY BRA, how hipster is THAT!?” or “Back in my day we didn’t consider it a good concert unless we got BLIND, lost our friends in the crowd in the first 30 seconds and then finish the evening soaked in beer and other people’s sweat !”

But I didn’t, which is probably just as well really, what with my matronly appearance and all.

We headed by cab to the party after the band had finished, and I would say for myself that I cut some interesting moves on the dancefloor whilst shout-singing along to a variety of happening tunes. Cathartic. It left me wondering why people don’t have house parties so much any more? How crazy are we? They are SO FUN OMG! And then I realised it’s because we all have children who would wake up and cry and RUIN EVERYTHING WAAAH! The little killjoys.

We stayed out til the wee small hours. Props, big ups and respect to our spouses because they removed the children from the house in the morning so we could sleep in.

All in all an excellent evening. I give it 9/10. And I never give full marks. Thank you everyone who was involved.

The blurrier the photo, the better the night!

The go slows

I'm not blogging much, for me, at the moment.
Probably because our internet downloads have been exceeded and everything has subsequently powered down to a kitten-kickingly slow speed. But to be honest it's also because I spent a goodly amount of the last week having interminable evening conversations with M like this;

M: I'm hoooomme!
Me: *Grunt*
M: what's wrong?
Me: *Grunt* *Sigh* Nothing.
M: Ok then. You seem angry.
Me: I'll give YOU angry!!
M: .......
Me:......
M:......
Me:.....
M: Ok then. Shall I put P in the bath?
Me: I'll give YOU a bath!
M:......
Me: ....
M:.......
Me: ...... *Bangs things around angrily in kitchen*
M: .......
Me: I just want some EMPATHY after a HARD DAY damn your eyes.
M: ......
Me: Well that was underwhelming
M: .......
Me: UGH why don't you UNDERSTAND!!!
M: .......
Me: GAH!!!!!
M: It's hard to be sympathetic when you are so HOSTILE
Me: HOSTILE! I am not freaking HOSTILE! I'll give you bloody HOSTILE!!

Ad nauseum.

Sound familiar?

Anyone? Anybody? Bueller?

Fashion trends for AW2013

Today I'm writing at The Shake.
Wondering what the fashions are this season?
Wonder no more loyal readers!
Lucky I am here all you would all get about looking dead set unfashionable.
Hahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa.

FASHION TRENDS FOR AW2013

She is a tourist. He is a holidaymaker. I AM A TRAVELLER. Volume CAN"T REMEMBER WHAT WE ARE UP TO

Here's another installment from my edge of the seat series of Travel Tales.

It's called...

Alert but not alarmed

So a whole lot of these tales are from my now infamous trip round Ireland with my own dear darling dad. Poor dad. Hope my retelling them doesn't scar him. Maybe I should stop? I'll think about it - after this! mwahaha.
For other editions, go here.


So, if you've been reading some of the other tales you know that when I was 20 I went on a trip back to Ireland with Dad, who was born and bred there, to visit our family and do some trips around the place.

On the way to Belfast we had a few days in ye olde London town. We stayed in a reasonable hotel somewhere close to stuff. I actually was talking to dad about it the other day and said I thought the hotel was in King's Cross, but he disagreed with me. Whatever, I'm pretty sure it was near Kings Cross St Pancras Station.  This detail is unimportant.
Anyway, we were sharing a room, and on arrival we checked in, exhausted and jet lagged. I'm pretty sure we dragged ourselves out for a curry in the early evening, and then returned to our tiny shared room to try and get some shut-eye before our planned adventures the next day.



Dad does London..

Dad finds plane travel unsettling, kind of like a race horse, so I have this vague memory of lying in bed squeezing my eyes shut as Dad strode around the room restlessly in his shortie pyjamas, until he did eventually lie down for a kip. Maybe Dad should travel with a Shetland pony, to calm him? Although I suppose he did have me there. I am a bit like a Shetland pony, I look quite cute until someone annoys me and then I bite them.

Right, so no sooner had Dad's head hit the pillow then we were suddenly jolted out of our jetlagged slumber by the high pitched wailing of a smoke alarm.

Dad sprang out of bed like a shot, exclaiming loudly and waving his arms.

"Oh God no..." I thought to myself. "We are going to have to be evacuated. In our pyjamas. In London. In the middle of winter. Typical. Bloody typical."

Dad lost no time in ordering me out of bed. The alarm persisted, and as I stumbled around the room looking for a jumper, he burst out into the hallway, gesticulating wildly at a staff member scurrying past with a trolley.

"Listen, you there, where do we go, what do we do? Is there a fire escape??" he shouted.

The staff member looked Dad's bare freckled legs up and down, threw his hands in the air in an exasperated fashion and continued down the hallway, faster than ever, muttering in disgust "I no speak Eeeengleeesh!".

There didn't seem to be any other staff around.

By then other guests had come out into the hallway, including a Japanese family with their frightened elderly grandfather. 

"Fer fock's sake, does nobody speak English in this focking place!" Dad exclaimed in disgust, his usual inclusive tendencies out the window.

The Japanese family looked panicked, and the elderly grandfather was clutching weakly at his chest.

Dad took one look at the crowd and determinedly seized control of the situation by directing us all down the stairs. One by one we traipsed down the fire escape, Dad and the frail old man bringing up the rear, as the alarm wailed on.

We dutifully poured out onto the footpath and congregated outside the pane glass windows of the hotel's restaurant.

As we stood shivering in our pyjamas, Dad still sporting his shorts and bare legs, we gazed into the restaurant. It was full of hotel patrons enjoying their dinners, comfortable and warm.  As we stared in at them, they gazed with bemusement back at us.

It seemed a little odd. I mean, why hadn't they been evacuated too?

Dad, starting to feel the cold on his naked legs, became more and more enraged.

"Fer focks sake! Who is in CHARGE here?!" he said, rubbing his hands together vigorously. Just at that moment, the unsuspecting manager of the hotel came out from the lobby to give the all clear. I could see Dad's eyes glinting.  I knew what was coming. I slunk away, pretending I didn't know him.  From a safe distance I watched as he vociferously asserted his consumer rights to the aforementioned gentleman*.  I didn't catch all of it, what with pretending not to know him and all, but I'm pretty sure I heard "This old man was about to DIE OF A HEART ATTACK, my good man!" and "Where are your STAFF SIR?" and "Does nobody speak FOCKING ENGLISH in this place??".

Anyway, the manager was suitably chastened and apologized obsequiously to Dad. Eventually we all trudged our way back up to our rooms and attempted to get some sleep.

The next morning Dad was up bright and early, the tumult of the previous evening forgotten. As I peered blearily out from the covers, he said brightly, "I might just pop down to the lobby to book a table in the restaurant tomorrow for when we meet up with your cousins!".

I nodded and pulled the blanket over my head. He was gone for a while. When he returned, he looked pleased with himself.

"Guess what!" he exclaimed, "They tried to tell me the restaurant is closed on Sundays!"

I could see where this was going.

"But I didn't take that lying down! I asked for the manager and when he saw it was me he told them to OPEN THE RESTAURANT ESPECIALLY FOR US! Isn't that GREAT!"

I looked at him, horrified.

"URGHHH DAAAAD!" I said, "Urghh, they are probably going to, like, totally SPIT in all our FOOD! SO EMBARRASSING! URGHH! Can't we just go out somewhere else? I can't believe you did this."

And so on.

But no, he was determined.

"Don't be ridiculous!" he said. "They are HAPPY to do it!!"

Yeah right. Happy.

So the next day, my cousin and his children drove into London to meet their long lost Australian family. We ate lunch together in the hotel restaurant, that they had indeed opened just for us.

I could feel the eyes of the surly kitchen staff on us. Every minute felt like an hour. Dad remained cheerfully oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation and the possible crimes against hygiene that might be being committed on our meals, as he regaled my cousin with the story of the fire alarm.

"So they agreed to open it JUST FOR US!"

I scrooged further down in my chair and picked at my meal, desperate to escape, as the waitress whispered and pointed.

The rest of the trip went fairly uneventfully, until right at the end, when we arrived at Heathrow for our flight to Belfast.

Exhausted, we sat in silence, finding comfort in some Burger King takeaway, me angrily listening to Sinead O'Connor wailing on my walkman. I started to notice the crowds around us thinning but ignored it, munching like a masticating cow.  Dad looked like was was dozing off.

Suddenly I looked up. Someone was standing in front of me, waving his hands and talking animatedly. I whipped my headphones out.

It was one of the airport cleaners.

"Excuse me plizz!" he shouted, "Excuse me but there is an ALARM, everbody is EVACUATING THE AIRPORT, you must hurry, plizz!"

I looked around and realised we were alone in the terminal.

"Oh SHIT!" I jumped up. "GOD DAD why didn't you hear it!? UGH! I mean couldn't you HEAR THERE WAS A FIRE ALARM! UGH! GOD DAD! It's probably TERRORISTS OH GOD! UGH WE ARE THE ONLY ONES LEFT IN HERE UGH!".

We were forced to abandon our Burger King and once again assemble outside in the cold, waiting for the all clear.

At least this time we were fully clothed.


The end.

*By which I mean, shouted at him for a while in a frenzy of sleep deprivation.

Talisman.

These days I am rarely alone.  I'm a social person but I sometimes long to be alone in the house.  I get resentful about it but I'm not good at asking for time out. I just huff and sigh a lot and roll my eyes and get short with the kids. And wonder why nobody reads my mind. And when I say nobody, I mean my husband.

At high school I got the "Most Sarcastic" prize at the end of Year 12, but I think if I were to get one these days it would be "Most Passive Aggressive".

I've had a long week of being sick and looking after a sick baby. I've virtually lost my voice. So without prompting M offered to take the kids out to his parents place in Brisbane for the afternoon to give me a few hours alone.

I tried not to clap my hands together with glee when he suggested it. I rushed madly around packing a bag of their things, folding nappies, filling drink bottles, and hurried them into the car.

As he reversed out of the driveway, he stopped and wound down the window, and they all waved as he drove off.

I watched the car disappearing down the street and, suddenly thought,

There goes my whole life. There goes everything I have, contained in that car, in those three people.
If something happened to them it would be the end of my life too.

I wanted to run after them shouting  "Don't go! Something will happen! Don't leave me! Something isn't right".

But I didn't, because that would be a sign of madness.

Instead I came inside and put their toys away, stripped their beds and put fresh sheets on. I arranged the soft toys on P's bed. I put her pyjamas under her pillow.

As if to ward off the anxious thoughts, like evil spirits, I lit a scented candle, and watched some videos of P as a baby. I put some cheerful music on and lurked around the kitchen to dig out some biscuits and cheese to eat, and then sat down to write.

When I was a child and haunted by recurring nightmares, my mother would make the sign of the cross on my forehead before bed, murmuring,

No bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams.

P often wakes sobbing from nightmares, but if I practice the same white magic before bed, she sleeps peacefully.

No bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams, no bad dreams.

I make a talisman of my worry and repeat to myself;

Come home, come home, come home, come home, come home, come home safe to me. Come home.

Cooking writers I have loved.

I was talking to some lady friends of mine the other day when discussion inevitably turned from Global Politics and Feminist Issues, to the making of the family dinners. My line of conversation was, as usual, moaning on about how I had lost my cooking mojo. I know, ho hum.

Yeah yeah, I hear you say, so she opens a tin of beans for the kids for dinner, ho ho, how amusing, oh yes we get it - SLAPDASH - yes, we get it, stop labouring the point already...

WELL guys if you would ACTUALLY let me get a word in, then I would be able to say that I was ALSO talking about how much I used to love to cook. OK? Ugh!

We were also talking about how great it is THESE DAYS how we can just GOOGLE recipes and look them up on Taste.com or whatever those recipe websites are.

Which THEN led us onto the subject of COOKING BOOKS and how much we all used to love them and how they are presumably going to become defunct, what with the RISE OF THE INTERNET, and all.

Which THEN made me think about my own beloved collection of cookery bookery.  Well, mine and M's. He has a prodigious collection himself.  In our courting days we used to spend the whole time cooking each other nice meals and eating them and drinking wine and stuff. Now we just drink.

Here's some miscellaneous thoughts on cookery bookery and cookery writery types for your reading pleasure.

This is the little bookshelf on the end of our kitchen bench wherein we store our cooking books. The bench itself is for storing sunglasses, discarded cardigans, plastic baskets full of assorted miscellaneous household detritus including pencils, notebooks, kindy paintings and fluff. OBVIOUSLY. Also, we have a kiddy gate. Get excited everyone.

I've definitely gone through a few fads cooking book wise but here's some of my consistent performers.

I've already told you lot how much I love Nigella. And that sometimes I am a conduit through which she channels her raw energy. She is my cookery muse. In fact I was inhabited by her body only last week when I spent a good few hours standing in the kitchen shoveling whole loaves of white bread spread with peanut paste into my mouth. Between you and me, I prefer it when she uses me for good not evil. Anyway this is her CLASSIC book that EVERYONE should get. Do it. Has a really good bit in it about cooking for kids too. Everyone who hates Nigella CAN SHOVE IT because I ADORE HER.

This is one of M's and we both love it sick. It is actually falling apart. I think Jill used to be food writer for The Guardian or something. Anyway I used her recipe for Anzac biscuits today, as I always do. I know they aren't hard but it is a real BALANCE of dry vs. wet ingredients, and we all know what happens when the BALANCE IS OUT OF WHACK. It is a veritable DISASTER OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. By that I mean, your bikkie doesn't stick together properly.

OK I should have put these next two up with Nigella but it's too hard to fiddle round with the pics now so we will MAKE DO.  Nigel Slater. I love him so much. I have this book....

...and this one. This is more recent. He has done quite a few. When I am feeling bleak I just flip through this one in particular and it never fails to cheer me the hell up. It has beautiful photos in it from his cool garden at his London house. I mean, you do kind of have to get over your jealousy of reading about how he just trips down the street and picks up odds and ends from fancy butchers and bakers and candlestickmakers when all we have in outer suburbia is Aldi and Woolworths but never mind. Also the recipes are good. And he is a great writer. He wrote a memoir of his early life called "Toast". I borrowed it from my cousin B. It is surprisingly sad and touching. Also he loves Nigella and she loves him. I KNOW! THE BEST!

I couldn't leave Stephanie out. This is THE BEST. M had an older edition but we snaffled this one up for a song when poor old Borders was closing down, and gave our old one to my mum. Beggars can't be chooser eh Mum? I'll thank you to be grateful. Anyway if you haven't got this then do yourselves a favour. It is organised by ingredient, so if you find yourself with a surplus of, say, mushrooms or lamb or tripe then you can look up a recipe for said ingredient. Bob's your uncle! Also it has useful things like a guide for converting measurements. Particularly useful for me at the moment because I broke our digital scales by immersing them in water to wash them. But don't tell M, I am playing dumb.

And speaking of fads, I present to you last, but definitely least, something from my youth.

Up yours Donna Hay. I used to love her so bad. I used to try and master the "Donna Hay spaghetti twirl". Oh how I yearned to twirl it like Donna. I bought her magazines and her cookbooks, even the Marie Claire ones. UNTIL I REALISED SOMETHING! They are crap. The recipes OFTEN don't work. I am sure they aren't tested. Also, I didn't like her on Masterchef. 

 So there you have it readers, some interesting tidbits from my brain to yours.

Do you still use cookbooks? Or the internet? Do you FREESTYLE it like my mum does? Or do you need a recipe for boiling an egg? Do you Donna Hay while the sun shines?

Tell me everything - and bon appetit!

Guest post from me.

Hello friends,
This week I am embracing slow blogging cos I am sick and the baby is sick. You know how it goes.

He and I are home again today. My throat is as raw as a raw throat.

But luckily here's one I prepared earlier! I done a guest post on my bloggie friend Mez's blog Listen Sookie.

She's doing a series called The Mama Files and asked me to bring my VERY SPECIAL AMAZING expertise to the topic of motherhood*.

I'm getting braver about putting my mug up on the internet too. I don't know if this is foolish or wise. I suspect foolish.

Anyway, click here to read the post

 

*I know! I have everyone fooled.

Bloglovin

Hi everyone!
Bloglovin is a new way to follow my blog.

I forgot to write anything in this post and just had a crazed demand that you follow me like lemmings. I mean you are my minions but even I admit that was a bit rough.
What I meant to say is I've added a button to my sidebar that takes you there, in case you would like to sign up that way!

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Thank you Veggie Mama for pointing out my mistake oops!!!

Still, I say something may have come of my weird subliminal messaging.

As you were, readers.

xx

Blog Power Events.

Blog Power Events run workshops for bloggers, and they are holding one very soon, and they are giving away a free ticket!

As if I would need to go to a blogging workshop!? Pfft. Me? AS IF!

Look we all know that I am just amazingly talented and gifted in many different areas. I am the ULTIMATE MULTI TASKER!

It's actually REALLY HARD for me to think of ways I could be improved by such a workshop. I am practically perfect in every way already!

See! Practically perfect. Like the original super nanny herself.

Like, I am totes a fashion blogger - I can model awesome clothes REALLY WELL,  and have my finger on the pulse, fashion wise, as demonstrated in Exhibit A;

Yeah baby WORK IT!

I am skilled in photography, absolutely a PRO! Exhibit B -

Still life, with thumbs.

I am a SHAMELESS NETWORKER! Exhibit C;

Just hanging out with the Silver Budgie back in the day...

I am EXTREMELY good at all things techy. I am so awesome that I even know how to use the photocopier at work! Sometimes. If you only want a single A4 copy. Behold, Exhibit D;

Here I am just tappity tapping away on the ole computer, HIGH TECH STYLE!

See? I am already an expert at everything.

So look, basically after going through all that rigmarole I've realised I am just on top of pretty much everything, blogging wise, and frankly I can't IMAGINE what this Blog Power Events bizzo could possibly teach me.

I mean maybe I should be PRESENTING at the workshop! Yes I think I should!

I'll be waiting by the phone for their people to call my people. I am sure it will happen at ANY MOMENT!

DISCLAIMER: I do not actually know anything about blogging or photography or the interwebz or searching engine thingummies or anything. I was lying.

PICK ME!!!! PICK ME!!!!!!!! PICK MEEEEE!!!!!!!
*weeps quietly*

THE END.

The garden - theatre of the mind.

I haven't done a garden post for a bit.

A blog is a funny thing. I could choose to show you these pics of our little garden...

Rosy red geranium. Hello cheery little friend.

Banksia, man.

May Gibbs eat your heart out. 

As above. Australiana nostalgia. DOESN'T IT MAKE YOU SICK WITH ENVY??

We have a lovely herb garden. DOESN'T EVERYONE? NO? Just us then. We are so good.

Lavender. Yes we grow it VERY SUCCESSFULLY!

Baby punkin. You know, to feed the kids. They LOVE PUMPKIN AND ALL FORMS OF VEGETABLE ESPECIALLY ZUCCHINI AND ALL GREENS.

When two basils go to war...I LOVE FRESH HERBS DON'T YOU?

OR...I could show you these pics of the garden!

Shitting bloody fecking weeds RUINING THINGS FOR EVERYBODY!

Lone dead agapanthus. Begging for dead heading. 

Random bits of rubbish. And weeds.

Weeds. I hate you you little bastards.

Random weird fern growing up from under the house. Like maybe it's been there since the Jurassic period. Plus random dog that isn't ours. Plus weeds. And so forth.

This is what greets you when you come to our front door.  A big huge fancy expensive pot with - yes that's right - WEEDS IN IT!

Look at this crazy freak out of a plant! WHAT IS IT? IS IT A TRIFFID? I AM SCARED PEOPLE!!!

 You can decide what to believe about our garden. It's all theatre of the MIND, baby!

See youse!

The Slapdash Report - on The Shake

Gosh youse lot I'm off flaunting myself at The Shake AGAIN today!

Saturation coverage basically.

http://www.theshake.com.au/news-opinion/the-shake-report-faceless-men-edition/

The Shake Report is today brought to you by Faceless Men, and thank you for the inspiration sitdownmummy!

Ever wondered what goes on behind closed doors with those mysterious men behind the ALP? So have I! Wonder no more guys!

How to wear jeggings.

Hello everyone today I'm writing at The Shake! And you get to see a photo of me WITH MY HEAD INCLUDED.

I'm a model, you know what I mean, and I shake my little tush on the catwalk. On the catwalk.

I am not even wearing any makeup and am sporting bed head.

These are the sacrifices I make for the readers.

On being a bad sport. Part 1.

I have many faults.

As well as being prone to jealousy, whininess, envy, laziness, anger, impatience, dissatisfaction, coveting my neighbours ass and worshiping idols, I am also a really fucking bad sport and have limited ability to regulate my emotions in public.

Over the years there have been a myriad of opportunities for me to demonstrate my epically bad sportsmanship, going right back to my primary school days.

I am just lucky enough to be someone who was gifted with the happy combination of moderate ability in a variety of things, laziness, with vague competitiveness and a sense of entitlement thrown in for good measure.

I am such a catch.  People want to be me, people want to be like me.  Who wouldn't*?

Anyway this combination of enjoyable characteristics has resulted in some fairly epic examples of John McEnroe like behaviour. But like, without the John McEnroe skills to back it up. So, just the bad behaviour. Ugh.

Many of them have become family legend. As you can imagine it brings me NO END OF PLEASURE to hear my parents/much older cousins/aunts and uncles regale family gatherings with tales of my tantruming. NO END OF PLEASURE.

Keep it up guys it isn't getting old YET! YEAH! GIVE ME MORE. I MEAN YOU'VE ONLY BEEN DINING OUT ON THEM FOR ABOUT 20 YEARS BUT WHATEVER**.

Since they all get so much pleasure going on about it I thought I would re-appropriate the stories for the blog. A series of blog posts to be precise. Since they are about me. I may as well try and cash in on them, dudes. It will probably segue nicely into a follow up series of posts on "Taking criticism badly" and "Sulking". Because I do those things too.

Part 1 - Murder on the netball court.

So, back in the day, I used to be quite a whizz on the netball court. When I say whizz, I mean, I could catch and throw a ball and didn't fall over. Much. Couldn't shoot goals or play defence though. That is not at all important in netball though***.

I couldn't find any photos of me at netty so here's some of me circa 1991/2 just being revoltingly precocious anyway. Ugh.

Just acting up a storm for the FANS whilst wearing a ra ra skirt and white moon boots, you gotta problem with dat?

Just banging out a tune on the keyboard for an adoring crowd whilst wearing a white frock and scarlet sash WHAT OF IT?

Just reading Roald Dahl at a family picnic while wearing overalls, a straw hat and a self-satisfied smirk, SO SUE ME!

It came to pass, long ago, that shifting netball club committee politics resulted in my very own parents becoming President, Treasurer, Secretary, Registrar, fundraising coordinators, just basically ALL OF THE POSITIONS. Which included Dad becoming coach of my VERY OWN TEAM. Because of how he is an expert in all the rules and ins and outs of netball and played it for years himself back in the old country****.

You can imagine how AWESOME this was. I loved it sick*****. I especially loved it when Coach Dad would single me out on the court and yell detailed instructions at me during the games, arms gesticulating wildly. Oh how I loved it. And I loved the way it drew UNNECESSARY ATTENTION my way, from the members of the other team. Oh yes I LOVED IT.

One particular Saturday morning we were battling it out on the court with some tough opposition. I was sweaty and grumpy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad waving his arms at me and yelling . He was waving and pointing and instructing. And waving and instructing. And probably coaching too.

I tried to ignore it but it was tough. Sporty Coach Dad was nothing if not persistent. He waved at me a bit more to get me to move over or try harder or run faster or something.

At that moment something in my 11 year old mind snapped and reader, I saw red.  I abandoned my post at Wing Attack and came hurtling over to the sideline where Dad was waving at me, the eyes of both teams on me. I screeched to a halt and shouted, enraged;

"Shut UP DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!! BLAAARGGHHHHHHH! SNARGGGLLLYYY BLLAAAGGGHH".

I screamed hysterically at him while the crowd looked on in shocked silence.

When I had finished my tirade, I did the worst thing my eleven year old mind could think of.

I did the finger. With both hands. I waved them in his face, ranting incoherently, and then ran screaming from the court into the carpark.

Here is an artist's impression of the alleged incident.

My main memory was the look of bemusement on Dad's face as I turned and fled.  I think he was quite enjoying it. Was this the reaction he had been trying for all along? Who can say.

I can't remember what happened next. I was probably shepherded home and a cloud probably hung over my name for a while, netball wise.

Still, if this, and other similar incidents hadn't occurred, then basically my family and friends would never have anything to talk about ever because APPARENTLY THIS IS A DINNER PARTY STORY THAT JUST KEEPS ON GIVING NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU TELL IT!

So there you have it. Part 1 in a series of MANY MANY instalments where I demonstrate my poor emotional regulation, bad temper and extremely low levels of sportsmanship.

You can thank me later.



*Me. I wouldn't. Actually.
** Ugh.
***It is actually. Kind of the whole point of the game but whatever.
***NOT! That was rugby you fools not netball. Ugh.
*****No I didn't, DUR you guys

The one where mum fills in for me because I am busy and have come up against OBSTACLES.

Mum's written another guest post.
LUCKY because my brand new computer has DIED. DIED I TELL YOU!

Making it once again nearly impossible to get a moment alone with the computer in the study for some one on one action. If you know what I mean.

So excuse me while I go and throw the laptop out the window and kick some kittens...

Hello again, delightful followers of my equally delightful daughter’s blog. Thought you might like an update from the “family compound” as Sarah likes to call it.

Recently I had P over for her first parent-free sleepover. It involved a round-trip to the Gold Coast to pick her up and likewise to take her home but was well worth it for the pleasure of having her all to myself for a little while.

Actually, it took a little courage to take this step. P, although truly the most adorable little girl imaginable, is full on.  You may have gathered this from her Mummy’s blog. She is the Eveready Bunny. She never stops.  And this full-on-ness extends to her sleeping.

Whenever the family is staying at my place, P always sleeps on a mattress in my room, thus giving us the opportunity for cosy Nanny-P time and providing a little respite for the sleep-deprived parents. The mattress is made up with beautiful lavender sheets and doona (P’s most favourite colour). We have all the usual bed-time ritual of story, song and cuddles and she mostly settles down pretty easily.

Well, I say “settles down”. That really isn’t the term to describe P’s sleep. As an experienced Mum, Nanny and wise old crone, I’ve seen a few sleeping children in my time but never, ever, anything to match the wild restlessness that little girl exhibits whilst apparently fast asleep. She thrashes, she yells, she bangs on the wall, she wails, she gets her head out on the floor and her legs up the wall, she burrows head-first under the covers with her bum on the pillow. You may recall she managed to give herself a black eye in her sleep a while back. For anyone who’s seen her in action, that’s easy to believe.

On one visit, exhausted after a day with two little kids, I lay awake till about 4 AM while P went through her gymnastics, shouting and crying, falling out of bed and banging on the wall. At about 4, something changed and she went still and quiet, so of course I finally fell deep asleep. Only to be woken at about 5 AM by P’s indignant voice: “Nanny! Beanie (this is her bed-time doll) can’t sleep from your snoring!” And with that, the day began.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I undertook this solo mission. However, in the event, all went incredibly well. For a start, P’s beloved cousin A was staying with her grandparents, my brother and sister-in-law, on the same weekend. They live only a few minutes’ drive from my place – a sort of outlier to the family compound. So, on our return from the Gold Coast I drove straight to their place and was then able to sit and chat to my gorgeous niece while the two little girls played dress-ups with my sister-in-law’s clothes and accessories. Peace and harmony reigned.

Later I was entertained by a lively disagreement between the two little girls as to the correct title for my sister-in-law (remember Slapdash Great-Aunt?)

“She’s my Nanna,” insisted A, who can be quite adamant in her opinions.

“She’s my Aunty L,” replied P, whose opinions are also firmly held.

“No, she’s my Nanna!” etc.

This continued for a while until I saw storm-clouds about to burst and tried to calm things down. “Well, you see, A, your Nanna can be P’s Aunty L too. That’s how it works. “

Well, A wasn’t having that. “SHE’S MY NANNA!!!” she yelled in outrage.

“Oh, A,” said P with icy sarcasm. “So, I don’t have any aunties? You have to learn to share your aunties, A!”  Which A promptly agreed to do. Peace again.

Later we took the littlies to the beach where they had a fat old time frolicking in the chilly and rather murky water. Is there anything happier than a kid at the beach? Then back to Slapdash-Great-Aunt and Uncle’s for a hot bath and tea, so that all I had to do was drive P to my place and pour her exhausted little bones into the lavender bed, where – miracle of miracles – she slept quietly and peacefully till 6AM the next morning. Yes!

Ed: Obviously I inherited my mother's EXPERT PHOTOGRAPHY SKILLZZZ

Saturday dawned grey and wet so the early part of the day was spent companionably watching ABC4Kids … ah, I mean, doing craft activities and practising the oboe, Slapdash Mama! Later, Grandpa G came over and took P for a babycino, a clear advantage of the family compound set-up. I didn’t even need to provide lunch as morning tea had evidently been substantial to say the least.

It was time to take the little visitor home. P chattered all the way home about how much she was looking forward to seeing Mummy and Daddy and Mummy and B and Mummy but, of course, was off-hand and lacklustre in her greeting when we finally got there, wounding her poor mother’s tender heart. Dammit!

Anyway, apart from that glitch the sleepover was a success and I’ll certainly do it again some time soon. Maybe for two nights!

 Thanks Mum.

I think you need your own blog! Blogging is the new black don't you know.

On taking things seriously.

Happy Easter everyone! I hope you all had a great time. It seems like all the people I follow on Twitter are hardcore atheists all decrying Easter as some sort of festival of the zombie apocalypse. And chocolate.

Novel.

The kids and I go regularly to our local Anglican church, so naturally celebrate Easter as, you know, well, Easter. And chocolate.

But whatever floats your boat is ok with me. I know others don't feel this way but there you have it.

Live and let live people!

Anyway, on a not completely unrelated point, I was watching "Miranda" on ABC1 last night, after Call the Midwife. Oh lordie. Sunday night TV viewing has come into its own again.  I love Miranda SICK.  Just in case you don't know what I am talking about here is a You Tube clip I found...




This clip is kind of like a physical representation of what I am trying to tell you in this blog post. 

The older I get the less capable I seem to be of taking shit seriously. I mean, it is starting to WORRY ME!!

I work in what can only be described as an Ancient and Venerable Institution that is Very Important and Serious and Important in its Serious Ancientness.  I don't talk about it here because I don't want to lose said job.  But I will say this.

I find it hard to take shit seriously. The older I get the less respect I have for authority. There is something particular that happens to me when I am confronted with Earnest Serious Suit-Wearing Important Serious people, particularly at work, like in the lift or something. As they frown to themselves, stroke their ties or fondle their Ipads, I have to resist the MOST OVERWHELMING TEMPTATION to tell them a knock-knock joke, rub their belly for good luck, give them a noogie on their bald heads or make farting noises with my armpit whilst simultaneously commenting "How about those BRONCOS, eh!?" or "Did you watch Game of Thrones last night! Phwoooaaarrr!".

Don't panic people because I do generally maintain a façade of respectability and refrain from doing these things but OMG! THE TEMPTATION!

Back in the day I used to worry so much about the IMPORTANT SERIOUS NATURE OF MY WORK that I would sometimes sob in the toilets from stress and anxiety.  I was the MOST diligent student at school, and lived in constant fear of getting in trouble from the teacher, constant fear of not getting into uni because that would be LIFE OVER PEOPLE, constant fear of THE PEOPLE AND WHAT THEY THOUGHT OMG THEY HATE MEEEE and so forth.

Now I'm worried I've gone so far the other way that before you know it I will be putting whoopee cushions on people's seats and giving presentations in the form of Interprative Dance. 

Am I the only one this has happened too? Anyone else tempted to give your boss a wedgie in the lift and then run away giggling? Are you overly familiar with your superiors at work like me? I don't know what I'm going to do next. Think of me tomorrow. I will be sniggering in my office like a teenage boy who just dacked their mate in the playground, trying to resist the urge to tickle one of the suit-wearers until he farts.


DISCLAIMER: PEOPLE FROM WORK WHO READ THIS BLOG, PLEASE NOTE I AM ACTUALLY A REALLY SERIOUS FUCKING SMART AND HARD WORKING DILIGENT BLOODY EMPLOYEE AND I TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW

DON'T WORRY!!!

Phewwww...hopefully that's covered it nicely.

Have fun at work tomorrow, readers! You know I do!