VANITY MAKES YOUR FINGERS ACHE

I’ve spent the majority of the year in tracksuit and windcheater covered in paint. I’ve also hit the last year of my thirties and have to not smile in photos to avoid the disappearance of eyes and the appearance of crows’ STOMP MARKS on my eye corners. I haven’t seen a hairdresser in a year and as for hair elsewhere, there’s every chance the RSPCA could step in on grounds of neglect.

I have noticed a steady increase in my use of makeup, I hate my clothes and I am getting snappy when my children intrude on my getting ready time. These are all positive “I feel like shit” indicators.

So with the promise of a few social occasions coming up I decided bugger it I’m getting some shit done. (No not botox, I still haven’t been brave enough to try that, not after feeling sort of morbidly fascinated by the shiny, mask-like faces of a few of my peers. These days parties seem to have a Frozen theme, and I’m not talking about kids’ birthdays).

Hair was first. Half of my boob length hair was so dead it could sit comfortably next to the Mummies at MONA. It had to go. With time at a premium this year, I called a brilliant girl from up the road and within half an hour she and her glamour kit were in my kitchen and before too long there was a pitiful pile of hair on the floor and me in the mirror thinking I looked pretty much like Heidi Klum but without the bone structure or the beauty. This is great, thinks I, what next?

I performed a face scrub followed by a youth-promise mask, which worked brilliantly because the next day I got a pimple.

Then I visited a beauty salon for some waxing, some eyebrow fixing and hell why not, eyelash extensions. I was – I thought – fast entering the world of the glamorous. I bought myself some high heels that weren’t from Target – my first EVER – and a matching patent nude bag (tho thophithticated).

Then I decided to damn well get my nails done BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT. By this stage the reinvention budget was looking a little stretched so I opted for one of those quick nail bars – “a full set of gel nails for $20 in 20 minutes”. Can’t go wrong.

I was bossed into a chair and had my hands taken and stroked at before anyone had even looked at my face. I could have had no head for all these small bossy women knew. I was asked what I wanted and said, “I don’t know, gel nails – a full set? Maybe? Not too long”.

“White tips?” Snapped small bossy woman. No thank you. “Colour?” No thank you, just natural. She looked at me like I was wasting her time (her own nails had palm trees painted on them) but got down to business.

Business was pretty rough actually. There were loud sanding machine things and a lot of loud bossy talk between the nail artists – all of it is another language with bursts of laughter which made me feel slightly paranoid and a bit left out frankly. I felt like a school girl – were they talking about my pimple? Laughing at my ridiculous eyelashes? The red patches around my eyebrows? I wanted to go home.

I tried to get into it though. There were plenty of other patrons looking at ease. Some of them had clearly been there numerous times and were being treated like one of the gang. I tried to join in, pictured myself joking around with these deft, confident women, maybe learning a bit of their language. I admired the small bossy woman’s ring and then realised it was actually my own, on my own finger, entangled with hers. I stopped trying to be cool.

Then the small bossy woman was replaced by a slighter larger bossy woman who got a file out and starting pummeling my nail beds like some sort of dirty sock. It hurt. It really hurt. Then she stuck things on that looked a lot like talons and clipped them down slightly.

“They’re a bit long”, I said. Larger bossy woman paused and for the first time looked at me.

“You should say to me before”, she snapped.

“I did say earlier, to -” I indicated the small bossy woman but my hand was pushed back into pummel position and I was ignored.

Out came the scary sanding machine again and my talons were reduced, getting very hot in the process. I was starting to wonder if this nail thing was such a good idea after all. Or legal. They were still too long but I feared having the hot sanding thingy shoved up my clacker and god knows that was already smarting from it’s own reduction-by-wax. I shut up.

Forty minutes and $35 later (whatever happened to the 20/20 thing?) I had new, squared off, long nails that looked like they belong in a bordello.

Four hours later and my fingertips are throbbing like someone’s dropped logs of wood on them. I’m expecting to wake tomorrow to purple nails. Just this typing is painful. I had to take panadol before getting the washing out of the machine. I can no longer remove contact lenses, do up buttons pick up egg shell, play guitar or pick my nose. All essentials of life really. God knows how I’ll go wiping my bottom.

Social engagement number one is coming soon and I haven’t yet had a chance to get used to my new shoes. I can sense a day of sore feet, falling over and fumbling finger food coming on.

Why can’t I just learn that vanity gets you nowhere? This is up there with the time I got a spray tan and took ‘pat dry with towel’ to mean ‘wipe dry with towel’, had to get a double spray to cover the smearing and finished up looking like a cross between an orangutan and Mr Tickle.

Oh well, if you were to look at my fingers and took my head off you could mistake me for Heidi Klum. But without the class.

 

 

Hey Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuuuuuuum.

Here are three habits my children have got into that are quite adorable for the first little while, then really bloody annoying thereof:

1) Hey Mum, watch this. 

It plays out like this:- I am in the middle of a very important and highly dangerous feat of brilliance (such as chopping an onion or catching up on Bachelor revelations) when 1 or 3 children arrive in the middle to shout:

“Mum, watch this Mum, Mum? Mum? Muuum? Look at me Mum!”

At this point I watch as they perform something really amazing and potentially dangerous like a little skippity thing or a bit of a wobbly somersault. Both require some wowing. Too much wowing leads to numerous repeat performances of said skippity thing from more children and the chopping of onion getting so dragged out that the fumes have rendered you blind anyway, which leads to a complete frenzy of:

“Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuum, look Mum, look, watch, watch, look, look at this, Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuuuuuum, look at me, Mum, you gotta watch, Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, MUUUUUUUUUUUM!”

Until you are forced to yell something bad motherish like, “STOP YOU BOGAN HOOLIGANS, I WATCHED THE FIRST TIME”, and thinking something worse like “Come back when you can do a perfect backflip” and they all slouch off leaving you feeling awful but not awful enough to call for an encore.

2) Hey Mum, what’s your favourite…?

This one is mostly fine. I do like it when they switch their favourites to be like me. And I don’t mind the usual, What’s your favourite ice cream, what’s your favourite film type ones, but they soon run out and we’re left with:

  • “Hey Mum, what’s your favourite rock?” – this while looking at a beach covered in thousands of rocks.
  • “Mum, which is your favourite ant?”
  • “Which is your favourite toe?”
  • “Which is your favourite way of eating your sandwich?”
  • “What’s your favourite Mum, penises or chinas?” This followed by squeals of laughter.

Sometimes, after a long day and way too many favourite questions, I can no longer pick a favourite because my desire to screech, ‘I don’t actually give a fuuuuuck’ gets well in the way and I want to add, “What’s your favourite – shoosh your gobs, shut your cake holes or shut the fuck up?”.

3) Hey Mum, can you do this?

This is one closely linked to trampolines I find, but is being wheeled out more frequently, often when I’m in a public place and trying not to appear bonkers. A small person who looks quite like me but whom of course I don’t know will approach me while I’m in the medicare queue and say,

“Hey mum, can you do this?” and then hop madly on one leg with their head at a crazed angle, to which I smile a patient smile and say, “I don’t think so, it’s so clever,” which prompts them to try a bit of an on-floor leg-in-the-air thing and shout, “Can you do this Mum?”

I wish I was the sort of mother who would give the on-floor leg-in-the-air thing a red hot crack right there on the purple patterned medicare carpet, but I’m more of a, “Darling, would you like a little sit down and a shutupachup?” type. Unless I’m at home. At home I’ll try most things – the on-couch head stand, the crawl through chair legs trick, the dance with the dog, the make your hair stand up with shampoo trick…

Sometimes though, I wish they’d lie on the couch with their eyes closed and say, “Hey Mum, can you do this?”

But of course, I will embrace all these questions as best I can, love the askers and answer them with as much patience and understanding as I can muster, because really I do want them to continue for as long as possible.

One day in the not too distant future they will switch their favourites so as to not be like me and they will grow out of wobbly somersaults and not be in the slightest bit interested in what I can or can’t do and possibly go for long stretches without asking me anything or even talking to me at all. And then I’ll whinge and moan about that and do lots of silly flippety things in the hopes that they might see me.

The Bastard Business of Building

Disclaimer right up: I am a very, very lucky girl and I am grateful for my wonderful life and everything in it and I know there are people out there who would give their souls to have gripes like mine. Sir help me God (except I think it’s so help me God – is it? I never know). Anyway…

We’re in the throes of building a house and I’M OVER IT. It’s at the stage now when the bloody thing is built and has been for months and everyone’s asking if we’re in yet and we’re not because it’s actually just a nice looking shell of a house with nothing in it but a lot of mess and and no sign of lights at end of tunnels. The not-exciting-anymore bit. Have you built a house? Do you know the bit I mean?…

  • When you’re living in one house and trying to keep it semi-hygienic and livable and stocked with food while at the same time trying to finish another? When every spare minute of time is not spare time at all but New House Time, when you should be looking at garage doors on pinterest or ordering bathroom tiles or painting the skirting boards or at least thinking about pavers.
  • When you realise that a decision you made way back at the start of things (six months ago) when you were young and keen was the wrong one but have to convince yourself it is right or just not look at it ever again because changing it would mean dismantling the house. And when you think about that person back at the beginning and she seems fresh faced and non-haggard with no dust-in-pore pimples (I know – pimples and I’m nearly 40 – where’s the justice in that?).
  • When you no longer can see the dream because it’s hidden behind clouds of said dust all the work that must be done to get in the bloody thing and you can’t imagine ever putting your feet up on a couch in the living room because obviously there is no time to put feet up ever ever again and besides there’s a stack of floor adhesive, twenty paint tins and three ladders in there.
  • When you choose said bathroom tiles and stride in to the tile shop order them only to be halted by those display thingies and a sales person who says your choice is too slippery for floors and unless you want children with cracked heads you’d better think again and so you have to go back home and discuss it all over again with husband only to be left more confused and verging on a “let ‘em crack their heads” kind of rash decision that you will surely regret later when there’s blood in the grout.
  • When you suspect your joiner has begun screening your calls.
  • When you suspect your husband has begun screening your calls.
  • When you can’t remember the last time you saw your friends and your Granny has forgotten who you are.
  • When every single bit of comfy clothing has at least one fleck of paint on it and your black painting coat is now a nice shade of Dulux vivid white.
  • When you carry a measuring tape in your handbag, have to get the house plans laminated and start thinking in square metres.
  • When ‘cutting in’ is the new C-word.
  • When you JUST WANT IT TO BE OVER so you can remember what it’s like to browse the shops with no pressure or wear smart clothes or have your hair done or have a whole day doing something you love.
  • When you just say, “fuckit whatever goforyourlife” when your husband says he’s choosing the bedroom wall colour.
  • When you think, Oh so this is what people mean when they say building a house is stressful.
  • When your hands remind you of a regency washer woman’s.

 

A Manicurist's Delight

A Manicurist’s Delight

You know that stage? If you don’t, and you think one day you might like to build a house, consider yourself warned.

Thank goodness for cheery tradies, Radio National and angled paint brushes. If you do build, surround yourself with these is my tip. Other tips when building – particularly for wives and mothers – include:

  • If your husband expresses interest in choosing the light fitting for the study, show him literally HUNDREDS of options on the internet. He’ll soon lose interest and leave it to you.
  • If you reeeaaaaallllly love a particular shade of blue but suspect it might be just a bit too blue for said husband, show him a few samples, all of which are even more blue that the one you really want. He’ll choose yours for sure.
  • Double check measurements.
  • Go with your gut – this applies to aesthetic choices, ethical choices and choosing tradespeople.
  • You bloody can climb a scaffolding but you most likely can’t lift a large beam.
  • If you do try the beam, bend your knees.
  • When the task seems too huge, concentrate on one little thing at a time.
  • Don’t think you can get painting done with a four year old on site. And never give in and give her a paint brush.
  • Avoid trends, they have an over-it date.
  • If someone says, “no one does that” or “that’s not so popular” or “no one does that anymore”, all the more reason to do it.
  • Buy a radio and a small toastie press.
  • Keep a large house file. A small binder with dividers just won’t cut it.
  • Tell people you love their work if you do. Tell them you don’t if you don’t.
  • And for every spouse – be good to each other and keep it all in perspective; paint colours and cornices are not worth your marriage.  Rule of thumb though – the party who does the most washing up gets to choose the kitchen tap and sink, the person uses the oven the most gets to choose that too, the person who does the laundry chooses the laundry fit out, the one who makes the beds chooses the linen and so on… For the most part though, remember how lucky you are; some people have to build an igloo.
  • When it’s all finished and shiny and perfect and new, never, ever let the grubby family in. Or at least get a mud room.
  • And when it’s done, get a makeover. I am already planning mine – it’s going to go for a whole day, there will be hairs coloured and cut and ripped out and skin done over and nails fixed and I may well be unrecognizable at the end. So help my Bod.

Anyone else have any tips? I still need as many as I can get.

At least I'm still married

The hands are ruined but at least there’s still a ring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FALLING OVER

So I was running with my dog the other day; just my usual Monday morning run. I pop my children on the school bus and set about trying not to look too gleefully free after a weekend of inevitably tiresome concentrated time of tying to keep children amused whilst getting the washing done close family time. I walk most of the way but usually can’t contain a bit of a gallop. Last Monday’s gallop was especially bouncy. I can’t remember why, someone must have lost their shoes on leaving time or something, but I was definitely in a glorious gallop – spurned on by the big ‘how great is this running together thing?’ smile on my dog’s upturned face.

I remember – because the Tassie spring had done it’s na-na-nee-na-naaah thing and turned nasty – that I was even running a little harder for the cold and a bit of body heat. It felt great.

Then the dog must have got overcome with love because he came close enough to rub on my leg and trip me completely over. And I mean seriously over. I sprawled, I put our my hands, I hit gravel and skidded along on my right side. As I fell, I thought, “I’m falling”, which was not in any way helpful or enlightening.

I got up immediately, mainly because the dog was all, “Oh my gawd, you ok you ok?” jumpy and licking my face etc but also because we ego-driven humans are mostly more concerned about wounded pride than wounded skin, and I was probably worried that someone had seen me fall from glee to gutter with my dignity in bits around me. I need not have worried, there was no one in a bull’s roar of me, except actually for a few cows who probably would have enjoyed a bit of roaring bull. But still I felt like a bit of a dork.

It’s just not the thing for a grown woman to fall over. If I was older I could ‘have a fall’ with some good grace, but I think I’m still young enough to simply fall over. But as it turned out, it didn’t matter how old I was, because when I stood up and felt proper stinging grazey pain, I thought, “I want mum”. At 39 years of age, I was suddenly a little girl again, when grazes were a regular event. And I cried.

I cried because I’d had a fright and bits of me were hurt and bleeding, and I cried because it was ridiculous to cry and I should be braver and I wasn’t. I cried because there was suddenly so, so much to do just to get through the day and the rest of the week and the year and I didn’t know if I had it in me to do it all, what with bleeding hands and all. And I cried because there was no one to pick me up and give me a cuddle or even a hearty, “Up-a-day, you’ll be ‘right”, except the dog who has good intentions but no arms.

I was the most vulnerable I have been since I fell headlong in non-reciprocated love at age 19.

Then I pulled a few bits of myself together and properly assessed the damage – palms, elbow and thigh were all having a good old bleed and my tracksuit bottoms were missing a patch, but everything in the way of joints and bones was still working and while I toyed with the idea of calling my husband to collect me and taking the rest of he day off, I decided it was not actually necessary; tempting but unwarranted.

I continued – gingerly – on my way and all up lost only 15 minute or so off my usual time. A mere hiccup.

But I’ve been a bit hypersensitive ever since. The hiccup has turned into something of an interruption. My right hand throbbed and broke my sleep for a night or two and I had a sense of being very small and destructible, and not as capable as I might have thought. I wished my husband and children would ask me how I was and maybe offer to put help with the washing up. Night-heightened self pity I guess. The raw patches on my skin seemed to be letting in something pathetic.

I blew on my hands a lot, for some cooling relief, and I rubbed gently around the other grazes and was reminded that I am the mum around here, and while I am in the business of mothering, it’s okay to give myself a bit of simple tenderness once in a while because for one thing I deserve it and for another, no one else is likely to. I always thought ‘take care of yourself’ meant joining the gym and having your hair done, which frankly I have no time for, but it doesn’t have to. Taking care of myself might mean having some shameless self absorbed time or getting all pathetic without feeling guilty or undeserving or the control freak in me telling me to suck it up and zip it. You, Madam Control Freak can shut the hell up while I have a little sobby sob sob okay. I’m hurting.

Now, almost a week on, the grazes are healing; ugly and sensitive but toughened over. I am feeling tougher too, and I have a new empathy for my children when they fall over – which is often. I might do something more than the usual shoosh-kisses and a dab of dettol.

Then again, I might not. Maybe we all need a good fall over once in a while. I mean we could probably all do with the associated self-soothe skills, a humility sting, a bit of thickened skin and and a healthy dose of getonwithit.

I'm so very sorry.

I’m so very sorry.

 

My Not-On-Bucket-List List

I don’t know about you but I find it incredibly liberating when I come across an idea or a potential that I definitely DON’T want to try.

That’s because most of the time (when I’m not grumpy with it) I find this ol’ world so incredible full to overflowing with stuff that I reeeaaaaaallllly want to do. My bucket list needs the organised housewife to de-clutter it. In fact, I couldn’t even make a bucket list because I’d kick the bucket before I finished writing it.

In the last nine months as I project manage our house build and find that there are hundred shades of white and a trillion different tile shapes to choose from, I’ve discovered the thrill of finding something I don’t like. It’s like when you find a bit of clothing you can’t afford but can’t live without and you try it on and it looks shite and you breathe a sigh of relief, pop it back on the hanger and skip out feeling flushed with cash.

So I’m going to make a ‘Not on my bucket list list’ and then take everything else if the opportunity comes up and the time is right. Here goes:

I NEVER WANT TO:

1) Go to Antarctica

Never ever. I know, it’s beautiful and all but I can look at it in pictures and I hate being cold. It’s quite competitive to get there I think and so I’ll step aside for those people who are keen for ice magic and go to that Island called Mystique that was on a Bacardi ad in the 80’s. Always wanted to go there.

2) Jump out of a plane

I don’t go much on bodily risk, I’m a wimp. And that thing one’s face does when falling is just plain fugly. I’m not paying hundreds of dollars for that, I already fork out enough on face creams that will supposedly delay flaccid face syndrome. I’d probably pass out from the fright and not remember any of it anyway. Pass.

3) Buy a remote beach house

I already live in a house by the beach, miles from anywhere. Bugger spending my holidays in another one, probably with less comfortable amenities, no foxtel and a lot of shells on the bathroom window ledge. I have enough country quiet (possums rooting on the roof) in my life, gimme a lovely inner city guest house with day spas and theatres nearby for my holidays. And people; people everywhere please.

4) SCUBA dive

I’m the one who clings on for dear life when water skiing in case I fall off in deep water and have to talk myself out of Jaws thoughts. I’m the one who hurries over the kelpy underwater bits for the sandy blue bits and has to consciously not looks down or think about Steve Irwin or Harold Holt. I know, it’s the wimp thing again. But putting on a giant suction mask and some breathing apparatus so I can get up close to those very things I nightmare about is to me just out of the question. A snorkle and a clown fish is about my limit and even then I’m jumpy.

5) Go around Australia in a caravan with my kids. 

Refer here to see why this is another no-no for me. At least not for the next few years.

6) Go to Las Vegas 

Maybe I’ve watched too much telly but that place looks ghastly. The Gold Coast on ‘roids, with extra pokies. I don’t care if there’s a fuck off big canyon nearby, I don’t want to see a big old dusty earth crack either.

7) Get a Thermomix

I know they’re brilliant, I’ve seen one in action, heard all about them and tasted the results. I know they change lives and expand palettes and encourage good health, but for about $2K, if that baby doesn’t fold the washing and shag your husband then I’ll stick to my cast iron pots thanks. And I don’t want a green smoothie anyway – those foul beverages are surely going to be found carcinogenic one day.

8) Run a marathon

I ran a half marathon a few years ago – that’s 21.3 km. I ran the whole way in under 2 hours and felt very proud of myself. But the only way I got across the finish line was because my friend was chanting, “Labour was worse, labour was worse” in my ear and I needed desperately to do poos. My-body-is-in-protest kind of poos. I nearly sprinted the last bit because there were photographer’s everywhere who might well capture me in an explosive moment. No one tells you that long runs can bring on the trots (the sprints) but I’m telling you, they do. 42 km would see me plop out my tonsils.

9) Go in a hot air balloon

I’ve read Ian McEwan’s ‘Enduring Love’ and have been disturbed by the image of that poor man falling to his death from a wayward balloon ever since. It’s one of those images that comes back to me at random times and makes me shudder, a bit like the vision of a wedgetailed eagle flying off with a new lamb. Never going to end well. Pass on this one too.

10) Make love in the hay

I am so allergic to hay that if I rolled naked in it for long enough the hives would be bigger than my boobs, my lips would swell up and I’d sneeze out the contents of my brain. Romance at its best.

And that’s 10 things I can ditch, making more time for the infinite other things on my bucket list.

What’s on your not-on-bucket-list list?

From me to you: “HORMONES, THE MUSICAL”

Here’s my surprise… SURPRISE! “Hormones, The Musical” –  online and all yours my friends.

You may have already seen it and are now feeling let down by the surprise after all my build up – sorry about that. I should have had a sub-surprise for you like a free copy of something profound or a picture of a bottom (not enough bottom pictures in the world I don’t think).

But anyway, bottoms aside, Hormones, The Musical is now live and yours to watch, like (or otherwise), laugh at (or otherwise) and share (please share).

I – along with a bunch of fabulous people – made this film last year basically inspired by my pre-menstrual experiences and the upheavals they present to myself and my family every month. It’s exaggerated of course – I actually turn into a sort of angel figure when I’m pre-menstrual. And I NEVER fart.

Special thanks to all the cast and crew of Hormones (particularly Dominique Hurley and Abi Binning), Wide Angle Tasmania and Screen Australia.

It was broadcast on ABC2 a little while ago and will come back to ABC i-view at some stage, but we’re giving it to you to keep. You’re welcome.

Please share it with your friends and family – we worked so hard on it and even if you don’t like the film much, you’d be helping a film community be seen and heard and maybe help them stay in work because we’d love to make more and we have so many stories to tell that will make you cry a little bit maybe but mostly make you laugh and bring you joy and perhaps the feeling that you’re not the only one that’s a bit crazy and maybe you’re not a bad mother/person for thinking and feeling the things you do and behaving the way you behave and maybe there’s no such thing as normal anyway and who wants to be normal because normal is ordinary and ordinary is usually pretty boring unless it’s apple pie because you don’t want reinvented, tizzed up, silly apple pie you just want ordinary apple pie but you’re not apple pie you’re human and silly is pretty appropriate for most human scenarios – TAKE BREATH – so in short, PLEASE SHARE THIS FILM WITH YOUR FRIENDS, we’d be eternally grateful for your support and good sportage. Thank you.

(For your ultimate viewing experience and because the film is shot in High Definition, it’s best to watch this in a resolution of 720p – unless you prefer me blurry which of course may be preferable. If you would like to change the resolution, you need to watch it from my youtube channel  You can change the resolution by clicking on the little cog icon at the bottom right of the screen and selecting the high definition resolution which is 720 p. Thanks for your help with this Craige).

 

 

And now for the good news…

Maybe the world mightn’t look so great sometimes; but you just have to look harder. There is always good news.

Here’s some you might already know but which is such good news it’s worth mentioning again:

1) Someone has invented undies that filter fart smells. I know, this is the best news ever. My entire family need a pair each for car trips (except for me, my delicate bottom-wafts smell like either licorice or daphne depending on what I’ve been doing that day. I’m like a large ambi-pur, plug me into the air vent for extra efficiency or dangle me from the mirror). What’s even better about flatulence filtering underwear is the campaign that accompanies it – “Fart with confidence” and a hot bloke sniffing/kissing a hot girl’s butt. (This isn’t a sponsored post – they don’t need to pay me to say these knickers are the best thing since sliced bread, in fact better, we can all slice bread but we can’t always hold in farts,)

Fart with confidence

Fart with confidence

2) Cuttlefish return. The Giant Australian Cuttlefish has been another one of those “numbers declining” stories that we are getting so familiar with. In the 1990’s, about 200,000 of them gathered in the Spencer Gulf in South Australia, the only place in the world where the breeding ritual takes place. Numbers have steadily declined and last year, only about 13,000 swam in for their shag-fest. State and Federal Governments invested about $700,000 into investigating the drop in numbers but it was looking grim. Scientists, based on recent patterns, didn’t expect there to be any cuttlefish at all this year.

But low and behold, about 120,000 giant cuttlefish turned up for the winter nookie. Experts say they need to see another increase to prove it’s not just a temporary thing, but they are thrilled nonetheless. Craig Wilkinson, CEO of the Conservation Council of South Australia, says, “Oh, it’s great news. It’s surprising, it’s perplexing, it’s exciting and it just shows how little we actually know”.

So who says they hadn’t found a new breeding ground somewhere else? In my experience the nightclub industry is a fickle business, particularly in winter. They probably all got sick of the riff raff at Spencer Gulf and have just rediscovered it again as kind of retro cool. Like Regines. Extra points to you if you know what I mean by that.

Hey baby, come here often?

Hey baby, come here often?

NB I wondered how these cuttlefish relate to those white things you find on the beach than Granny used to feed to her budgies. We find them all the time, the dog enjoys a little gnaw on them too. They, as it turns out, are a cuttlebone, which is the internal shell of the cuttlefish. It is chalky and light and filled with calcium which serves as a great calcium supplement for birds (in case you were worried about your canary getting osteoporosis – more good news, you’re welcome).

3) I saw a skink in the wood box today. This to me means one thing – the sun has enough warmth in it to heat up the blood of a reptile. That, if you are not Tasmanian and don’t quite understand, is VERY good news.

Also, I love skinks in my garden because they eat dandelions, slaters and flies, some of the many nemeses of a country wife. Interestingly, the love veggies but only eat them if they’re cooked. Oh I’m soooo sorry Master Skink, I’ve underdone your sprouts.

4) Kale is not a superfood. It’s enjoyed a massive surge in popularity (back in 2010 it was probably a mere leafy weed) as the superhero of green juices and The New Lifegiving Chip (Broccoli and spinach are sooooo cut). But as it turns out, the free-radical absorbing/anti-oxidant rating of Kale is bettered by such “evils” as red wine, chocolate and peanut butter. Yes it is a green and yes it is good for you, but no more so that other greens that aren’t as chewy as a dock leaf or so likely to give you a nasty dose of halitosis (try eating home made kale chips and you’ll smell what I mean).

5) Art always happens.  A purely escapist but for the most part well written book, Longbourne by Jo Baker is in development for the big screen. This is the book that helped me through Hamas and ebola etc (I know, poor me reading about this horrible stuff while sucking on a fruit tingle in my safe, warm home).

This is good news, not this particular book or this particular film (which is 90% certain to be a disappointment after the book as they all are except maybe Chocolat and Gatsby but especially The Power of One), but for the fact that while war rages and things die or break or are lost, people are still making films and writing books that give much needed pleasure or escape or meaning. Or laughter. This is perhaps the reason why Winston Churchill asked that question when arts funding was cut to bolster the war effort: “What are we fighting for?”

Thank goodness for people telling stories, whichever way they choose and whatever funding cut they face.

5) Baton twirling is alive and kicking. I was twiddling a cricket wicket today and was struck by the sudden thought, ‘Whatever happened to baton twirling?’ Did it die out with Fergal Sharkey and Australis perfume? As a child I wished wholeheartedly to be struck suddenly with the gift of baton twirling. That and a broken arm, and all the attention and cast signing that comes with it. Not sure what I would have done if I’d been hit with both at the same time.

Anyway, turns out that baton twirling, whilst perhaps not as big as it was in the 80’s, still has a following – I know because Baton Twirling Australia is on Facebook and has 736 followers, which is more than I have. And they have a world championship, which was in Nottingham this year. They pride themselves as an anti-doping sport.

It’s ballet, jazz and gymnastics all in one and I want in.

6) There is hope for World Peace. It seems like everyone’s wish on a star/beauty pageant fall back, but there are real life brainy academic people doing theses on how peace might be achieved.

I sort of thought it was all in the impossible basket but of course there are people looking into it, I mean if there’s a thesis on the stools of foxes then there’s bound to be someone looking at world peace.  Of course you can’t squeeze 7 billion people onto one modest sized planet and expect things to be hunky dory without really trying. But still I thought the best try I could give was wish on a birthday cake or maybe a dandelion.

But then I listened to a wonderful speech by a wonderful man – Tasmania’s late and great Governor Peter Underwood, who sadly died while in office on the 7th of July this year. He spoke passionately and profoundly on the topic of peace in his ANZAC day speeches and he gave me the very strange idea that perhaps peace is achievable. In his 2014 ANZAC Day speech he said,

 Surely, now that the curtains have closed on mankind’s greatest century of violence, the least we can do is start the next century with a Year of Peace and commit to setting up and maintaining, or otherwise fully financing, a centre that is dedicated to the study of the nature of social conflicts, causes of violence and definitions of peace, as well as engage in research into new approaches for resolving conflicts. That would be a fitting call to remembrance.

He talked about the Rudd Government’s commissioned initiative to open an Anzac Centre for the Study of Peace, Conflict and War and how, while the initiative was rejected at the time, it is one that should be revisited, particularly when money is flying around to commemorate a century since the start of WW2. And then failing that, if we can’t achieve that, that we should at the very least support the Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies (CPACS) at the University of Sydney, which has depended for 26 years on sponsors, membership subscriptions and volunteers. The centre teaches “the causes of conflict and the conditions that affect conflict resolution and peace. Research projects and other activities focus on the resolution of conflict with a view to attaining just societies.”

The Sydney Peace Foundation is an initiative of CPACS which further helps support practitioners of peace by connecting with nice corporations and individuals with bags of money. Some of those Peace Partners are worth naming: Singapore Airlines, Well Mannered Wines and Four Seasons Hotel Sydney – support these peace lovers if you get the opportunity. Or better still, dip into your own money bags if you have some and donate something yourself.

And  there are other peace study schools too – one at ANU, Uni of SA, University of QLD…this is just in Australia. That is good news.

This is not all the good news of course, but it’s all the good news I have time for tonight. I feel more at peace for it all though. Especially the baton twirling, those twirlers could twirl the world into happiness I reckon, especially if they thrust their batons into a few terrorists’ eye sockets and into the mealy mouth of Putin. But that’s just souring the tone, so I’ll sweeten it again with this little dose of positivity:

We are Megoracle have a little happy, good news surprise for you next week. Something to hopefully make you smile, chuckle or laugh. Keep your eyes peeled for announcements. 

Meanwhile, the bureau forecasts fine weather for both Saturday and Sunday.*

And that, ladies and gentleman, is the good news for this week. Have a splendid weekend, and goodnight.

xx

* PS here’s some trivia for you – I was once the Win News Tassie weather girl. Here’s me (in the blue coat, in front of an impressive old camera complete with autocue) with some other weather girls. I was terrible at it and once got some fan mail from an old man.

weather

“And that’s it from me, back to you John” (Photo by David ‘Crawf’ Crawford)

 

 

 

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