Planning that gets stuck at the Planning Department

My last post was about the thrill of planning, this one is about the pain.

Bureaucracy is the bottle neck to all progress. I understand why we have to have it, but this understanding does not alleviate the annoyance. 

I wonder if this shed got planning?

There we were, Mr K and I, all excited and full of wild ideas and verbalising our imaginations when Big Brother, aka Government in all its forms, Local, State, Federal, stepped in to be the spoilsport parent. Apparently, you have to get permission to even think about building, let alone the doing part.

I do agree and get the whole planning permission thing. I know it's for my safety that the construction is safe and engineered, but to take 3 months just to approve a shed is beyond my comprehension. A prefabricated machinery shed, one that is put together by professional shed builders, on a concrete slab, on rural land, takes 3+ months to get permission to erect. I bet the old boys who built pole and corrugated iron sheds that still stand 150 years later would roll in their graves if they heard this.

But, we are no exception, so we must comply with the law. Plans have to be submitted to the Shire, the fee paid and the waiting done.

We want to build a good sized shed that will house all the toys machinery Mr K is accumulating, as well as a dry, lockable place to store building materials when the time comes to build the extension. 

Kind of the shed we want ... except it will have 3 roller doors, and will be off white

It will be constructed right next to my dressage arena, so it needs to look nice and match my lovely white (well once white, now ever so slightly bore stained yellow) fences. I have a red geranium that I saved a cutting from a horse property I admired a few years back that will be the icing on the cake for this area.

In an ideal world my dressage arena would have these as markers!

The dreaming hasn't stopped while we wait for the shed permission. Last weekend we were out there with my folks and Mr K's dad, overflow accommodation for the country people up in the city for my sons engagement. It was wonderful to share with the special people in our lives, our enthusiasm and dreams for this property. Even more wonderful that they share our belief that this is truly a magical place and they all love to stoke fires!

The stump burning fire ... the fire you have when you haven't got permission from the shire to have a fire.  We had this stump in the middle of the driveway that had to go, officer.

When Neighbours are NOT good friends

We have our very own soap opera going on in our neighbourhood. About 6 months ago we got new neighbours. They are right next door to us, but its not us directly they are having the feud with.

The mud map above shows the approximate layout (I am no town planner or artist). The black wavy lines is the river, the parallel lines on the left is a major road. We are in a little cul-de-sac that was just a dead-end when the old house subdivided its land and 5 blocks of land were created. The people who bought the 5 blocks, us included, all built within a year of each other. The only one who didn't was Noisy Kids, they were about 5 years later. 

Hippy Neighbour has lived in her house across the road for over 25 years, she is a very sweet, kind lady, who keeps to herself, and has 2 dogs. You have to have dogs where we live, there are a lot of undesirables wandering about, and the houses without dogs get broken into. We have been broken into 3 times, once while we were in the house and asleep. It happened when we didn't have an outside dog.

It has been a happy place to live. Most of us get along, we have parties in the street, know each other, have helped out when needed, rescued dogs when they got out etc. There are a few characters (the latecomers with squeely girls) who are a little prickly, but on the whole its amicable.

Then the new people arrived. Not very friendly as in, we stop to say hello and we get a brush off, or their little puppy gets out and we take it back and there is barely a thanks but a whole lot of yelling at the dog and kids. Little things that tell you they are just not friendly neighbours and that's fine, Mr K and I have got used to living in suburbia now. This is what you get. We get along fine with Hippy Lady, she is warm and chatty, and the Old House people are the same. The Noisy Kids family are luke-warm too, bit weird (that's a whole new story there) but they generally keep to themselves.

About 3 months ago, Mr K gets a phone call from a very distraught Hippy Lady. She has had a visit from the rangers saying there is a complaint about her dogs barking. Its never happened before. Her dogs do bark a bit, but only because she lives on the main road and opposite is a service station that is frequented by some people who think its their local pub. There are often fights and police and of course the dogs are going to bark - that's why we have them.

Hippy Lady confronted the New people, and said that we have been a nice little neighbourhood and we normally just talk to each other if there is an issue instead of rushing off to the Ranger. She was upset, she is a very touchy feely type, but sensible. New Man just was rude and said to keep her dogs quiet.  A few weeks after this, Mr K gets another, more distraught phone call from Hippy Lady. She has had an argument with the New people and a letter from the council. Mr K advises her to just do the best she can about the dogs, and to ignore the New people. She has also found out that the New people have gone to all the houses in the street (except us) and asked them to sign a petition against Hippy lady. None of them did, but she is now furious at New people.

Mr K talks to her for a while, trying to get her to see a lighter side, to not take it as her problem but theirs. Hippy lady lives alone so her dogs are her protectors and company. Mr K suggests she write them a note telling she is doing what she can (she bought a bark buster collar and locks them up when she goes out) and jokingly, to lighten the mood, he said "give them some earplugs."

So she does!!  She writes a long letter (she gave us a copy) and includes some earplugs for the family. You can guess what happened next! Mr K comes home from work and there is an all out fight going on, not physical but verbal, between Hippy lady and New man. Mr K, ever the negotiator steps in and calms them both down, when New Lady gets home, sees the letter and the earplugs and comes ranting and raving out her house to confront Hippy Lady. 

Its calmed down a bit since then, but there are flare ups and these New people are quickly running out of friends. They don't realise that they make as much noise and disturb people too. Their kids are very noisy, he starts up his truck at 6am, he is a compulsive blower-vac user, and we have heard rows that get loud.  They have an alarm that goes off regularly and guess what?  All of us ignore it. That's all part of living in a close neighbourhood. You just have to mutter under your breath (or blog about it like I do) and get on with your life. We can't go about complaining and whining about every little thing that bothers us. 

If New people wanted quiet, they should not have picked a house that was so close to a main road, a train line, a B&B and other houses. I work from home. Yes it can be noisy, but you know what? I either close my window or play music or put in earplugs. If I want perfect quiet I will move to the country! 

I can't see it being a very friendly Christmas party this year, but it will sure be interesting. Stay tuned for further episodes.

Can women have it all and more important, do they want it?

It has been a recurring theme I seem to keep bumping into, one way or another.  I have tried to stay out of it, or at least tried to keep my opinion to myself, but each time I read more or see more, I get more and more distressed. The issue is - can women really have it all? Or maybe, do we WANT it all?

My generation, and downwards, has certainly been told we can and should.  And its almost a travesty if we don't take it and run, after all, our mothers and grandmothers worked long and hard for our so called equality. A lot of it I am very grateful for, being able to work in any job/career I so choose, being financially independent and not reliant on a husband, the pill, having an opinion I can voice.  The list goes on.

But there is a growing concern, both by myself and others, that telling women they can have it all, and then expecting them to do so, is having a detrimental effect. On their health, mental and physical, their happiness, their future.

I worry for these young women, I really do.  I worry that the choices they have been expected to make are not fair.  They put aside the one thing they can't change, and that's their biological clock.  So many are going to uni, getting a great job, building a career, finding a husband (or not) and then, after this checklist is ticked off, they look to a family.  A child.  But by this time, they are well into their 30's and 40's and time is against them. It's not so easy to fall pregnant, or stay pregnant.  Their body is winding down its fertile phase. A lot miss the boat.  Will they, as old women, resent this?  Will they feel betrayed by women singing the virtues of having it all? 

Our bodies are designed to have children in our 20's.  That's biology. How can we argue with that? I have a lot more to say, and will need to corral these thoughts into a coherent argument. It will make a good essay subject, but for now, I thought it may be a good thought provoker for my bloggers.

What are your thoughts?


A story about a 38 yr old women wanting a child.

I watched Q&A this week - I normally have to walk away from the TV Monday nights as I yell at it (the TV, not Monday) too much.

But this was worth watching and very interesting - women talking about this very subject.

ABC IView - Q&A

Too much to do, I want to retire now please.

Ok.  Can I hand in my resignation and start retirement?  There are so many things I want to do and work is just getting in the way.  I think I am ready to be a kept women.

Here is my to do list (for this year alone)

• Write my novel
• Research the next one
• Sort out and data entry all my family history research
• Continue the research, preferably in the UK
• Build an organic vegetable garden, with chook house
• Go back to my home town of Wisemans Ferry and just be for a while

My Aunt called me a few months ago, telling me she was going to the UK and could I give her what I knew about a branch of the family that came from Devon.  I knew I had a lot more data in my files than I had got around to entering in the computer.  I wanted to present her with a very detailed family tree (she is after all an (ex) school teacher so the goody two shoes was coming out in me).  I knew I had a few months, and the sticky note with all the info got moved along in my diary as each week passed.  

Yesterday morning I get a phone call.

Jodie, it's your Aunty J here.  

Oh Hi.  I guess you are off to the UK soon.  Sorry I haven't got that info for you yet.  When do you leave?

Tonight.

Oh crap.  Ok, well can I email it to you today?  

I am up at your cousins place, can you drop it around to me?

6pm and I had it all printed out for her.  My other Aunt, who I haven't seen for about 15 years (at least) and lives in NSW was over too as she is going with Aunty J to the UK.  Bonus.  I get to see both the old favourite Aunties at once.

My cousin lives less than 2 km from me.  I rarely see her, we bump into each other at the shops sometimes.  So I popped around and it was wonderful, that family connection, it felt so natural.

How did I get so removed from my family that I love?  This is what our modern lives do to us.  We get too busy for the things that really matter.  

When Fantasy meets Reality

Pinterest for women is like a man looking at pictures of a playboy bunny and thinking that would be nice!

You look at pretty pictures of tables set in fields, or apple orchards, with linen cloths and dainty china, tiers of little cupcakes, scones and neatly cut sandwiches.  A string of pastel bunting, billowy swags of tulle, wooden table with paper lanterns strung above.

You get an idea.  What if I have a garden party for my friends?  We could all dress in floral, cotton dress's, be carefree and wallow away an entire afternoon, laughing lightly and sipping pink champagne.    I could take the dining table out onto the lawn.  I could quickly sew up some chair covers in calico and tie a pastel pink ribbon to the back, pop in some dried roses.  Cut out triangles of scrap material and string them together.  It will mean a trip to Spotlight, but it wont cost much.

You have a few 'trio's' but need a few more.  You start to watch Ebay for Royal Albert and Royal Doulton.  A few parcels arrive, you think they are a bargain at $35 a set.  You buy a silver sugar dish and polish it.  On holidays you find a pure white linen tablecloth and eight matching napkins.  The shop lady (who was twice your age, well almost) says they will take a lot of ironing.  You laugh, a little too gaily  that you love to iron.  

You attend high teas at a few places, just to get ideas of what food to serve.  You make up a menu, write it out in long hand calligraphy on sepia paper. You make invitations the same way and hand deliver them.  Sunday.  1pm.  4 weeks from now.

You let a week go by, plenty of time, it's just afternoon tea.  Three weeks to go,  you panic.  Four weeks seemed plenty of time when you planed this, but then you make the 'to do' list. It seems endless.

It's real now.  You have to follow through.  You start by going to buy material.  The natural calico ends up costing you $120 for 8 chairs.  The tulle another $40.  The parcel of material sits on the dining table for a week before you have a chance to sew it.  The chair covers are harder than they look.  You make 3, then have a go at the prettier bunting.  By 10pm Sunday night you have made 2 metres, you are pretty pleased with yourself.

The next weekend you find a perfect silver tea set in a second hand store.  You are delighted.  You rush home and spend the next 4 hours polishing it, plus all the little silver cake forks your Grandmother left to you. You now have enough fine china trios for your eight guests.  You wash them all by hand, drying them carefully.  It takes you ages, but you tell yourself that to slow down is a good thing.  The rest of the house is a shambles and don't even think of going into the laundry!

You go online and find a site that sells everything party.  You buy cupcake cases, striped straws, pastel icing, sprinkles, paper lanterns, sugared almonds, candles.  It costs $124 but you tell yourself you will have these things for years.

There is a week to go.  The garden is still a mess.  You haven't picked up the dog poo for a week now and the lawn needed mowing a month ago.  There are dead patches mixed with eye-high grass.  The roses need a good prune, and cooch has invaded the flower beds.  You work like a navvy in the garden, and cajole your husband to help by offering favours you know you will be too tired to grant.  You rush to Bunnings and buy 'potted colour' at exorbitant prices.

The weekend of the garden party.  Saturday.  You want to make everything from scratch, the old fashioned way.  A shopping trip with a toilet roll for a shopping list, which includes a visit to the kitchen shop to get specialised tart trays and a 3 tiered platter.  You get home, exhausted and not at all feeling like cooking.  You poach chicken breasts in tarragon to make sandwiches.  You make cupcake batter and set out 2 dozen pink pokerdot cupcake cases (you want to send everyone home from the party with their own, beautifully decorated cupcake to remind them how wonderful you are). 

You bake and ice and decorate.  Piping bags were never your friend.  At 7pm your husband casually wanders in and wants to know whats for dinner.  You snap at him, 'fucking cupcakes!'  At 8.30pm you are eating Maccers from the kitchen bench as you stir custard.

By 11pm you are exhausted, you have been in the kitchen all day.  You feel a little panicked that you haven't yet cleaned the house or scrubbed the toilet.    But you go to bed satisfied that you have made all the cupcakes, have made the filling for the three sandwiches - smoked salmon mouse, chicken and celery in creme freche and cucumber and sour-cream  there are 10 individual chocolate mouses in shot glasses (2 extra as you broke your deal with the husband and this may get you off the hook), miniature lemon meringue pies, fruit custard pies - you even made the tiny pastry cases and glazed the strawberries with apricot jam.  You sleep, but not well - a to do list for tomorrow running through your head.

Midnight.  You wake with fright as you just remembered that you left the fruit custard tarts to cool on the bench and they have custard in them and need to go in the fridge.  You debate if they will be ok, have visions of your lovely lady guests with food poisoning, and get out of bed to find a container they can be stored in and wedge a place in your overflowing fridge.  Its 2am before you finally get to sleep.

8.30am.  You have slept in!  You start yelling at your husband to stop being a lazy bastard and help you.  You make him clean the toilet while you start cutting crusts off two loaves of white and wholemeal bread. He comes back 2 minutes later and says he is done.  You know damn well it wont be done properly and have to do it yourself.  You hate him.  You tell him so.  He takes off to the shed.

You know your hair needs washing, but no time now. You need to get the table set.  Your sister-in-law phones you and asks if you need some help?  You try and keep the panic out of your voice as you casually say no love, all under control, I just want you to come and enjoy yourself.  

You have to go and apologise to your husband, you need him to help you move the dining table onto the lawn.  He helpfully asks if you cant just use the outdoor table?  No you say through clenched and stubborn jaw - the vision is for an extravagant dining table on the lawn.  It's the whole POINT!  He just silently carries one end as you struggle and heave it past door frames.  You take a chunk of plaster out of the wall.  You swear.  He disappears into his shed again.

The linen table cloth, that has been ironed once, still looks like its been slept on by the dog.  You set up the ironing board and try and fix it.  The bloody old bitch at the shop was right.  You hate her too.  You reason that when its covered in plates, glasses, napkins and food, and you have sprinkled rose petals all over you wont notice the wrinkles.  You are wrong.

It's now 11.30am.  The table is set.  It looks pretty.  Now to move all the chairs outside and cover with the calico.  You don't dare ask the husband, you can hear him hitting something pretty hard in his shed.  The covers are fiddly, the bows on the back even more so.  You only got around to making 6 covers, too bad!  You think to hell with dried roses.  

The 2 metres of bunting only goes on one side of the fence.  You had visions of it all the way round.  It looks a bit naff.  The paper lanterns keep falling down from where you have strung them.  It's 12.45 and you still are not showered or dressed and you have scones to make and pots of tea to prepare.  You stuff the very expensive tulle back into your laundry.

You just get in the shower and you hear the door bell.  Shit.  You husband comes to the rescue and starts telling your 8 lady friends what a bad mood you are in, and laughs that you will need a lot of champagne to calm you down.  You get out of the shower, still half wet and throw on the floral dress, that you just remembered you needed to iron. Makeup and hair are forgotten.

Damn them all for being on time  and damn your husband for not taking them straight out into the garden.  Now all the ladies are assembled in your kitchen, which looks like a teenagers bedroom, you look like a bedraggled,  crumpled teenager to suit.  Smile.  Open a bottle of pink champagne and get them to follow you out to the garden.

The oos and ahhs at your elegant, garden, Pinterestque table setting don't take away the exhaustion and despair you are feeling.  You gulp down your champers and fill up the glass again.  A kind friend follows you into the kitchen so you mercilessly put her to work arranging food onto platters.  She asks a million questions of how you want the cakes placed, which platter for the sandwiches, do you want the scones on the top tier or the bottom.  You don't freaking care anymore because the scones are burning.  

It all goes off pretty well considering   The ladies have a great time, you are glad however when it all ends earlier than you fantasied about.  Your husband ventures out of his shed when he hears you have got drunk.  He flirts with your friends, and tells them stories about how much of a bitch you have been preparing for this day and you don't care.  Only your sister-in-law stays to help clean up. You feel bad.  Every Royal Doulton, every silver fork, every crystal platter has to be washed by hand. You can't do it in the dishwasher.  You tell her you will do it all tomorrow.  She tries to insist she will help.  You get cross and tell her to go the hell home.

There is lipstick on most of the linen napkins and pink icing and rose petal stains on the tablecloth. They never come out.

You and your husband have cupcakes for dinner, you were too drunk to give them out to the ladies as they left.  The kitchen stays like this til morning.

Nope.  The fantasy never lives up to the reality.  Any playboy reading man will tell you that.


Footnote : Pinterest did not have any pictures of the reality ... I wonder why?

Family - a story from my Mum

Had to send this picture of the maned duck family. The parents stole the chicks from other ducks, even though there was a few days difference in ages. It was hard to count them but I think 32 or 33.  I would see them  on the mothers back and they took turns under her like penguins do in their huddles. The dad doesn't cover them but stands guard and would even attack me if I got too close 

Love Mum xxx

My mum and dad have the joy and privilege to live in the south west, where the soil is black and rainfall plenty.  This picture was taken in their backyard.  They have a little dam that they look after so that the ducks come to breed and raise their young.  I am sure there is a story in this picture, one day I will write it.

Screaming children in public places

Did anyone else see this news article?

Is this Fair or Not?

I know I am an older mother, and I don't have littlies anymore, but I would be interested to hear what others thought?

I personally hate hearing screaming kids in the shopping centres.  It drives me nuts, and all I want to do is get the hell out of there.  The areas are large and echoey and the noise is horrendous.  I know the Mums/Dads don't hear it as sensitivity as others but surely they know that their kids are making a racket?  And I am not talking about a crying baby here, I am talking  about kids who are capable of knowing better, kids who should have been taught to use inside voices and that when they are out, to behave.

Why is it ok for a small minority of little children to create such a noise and disturb so many, and we all have to smile and put up with it?  I know parenting is hard and continuous, but don't we have a responsibility to teach children how and when to behave?

Yes, I had kids.  Yes, I took them shopping.  Yes, they were normal and had days where I could have killed them.  But no, I did not tolerate them screaming and throwing tantrums in public places.  I used parenting skills to either diffuse the tantrum, or if too late, removed them from a public place so we did not disturb other peoples right to a quiet time.  I did not ignore it.  I did  not make other people part of my problem.  When we got home, I would take the time to explain why that behavior was not appropriate - including evoking empathy and how it wasn't fair that other people were disturbed.  I would have also told them  that unless we can behave well when out, then we won't be able to go out again.  Consequences for our actions.

It's not hard to take the screaming child outside, or back to your car, and apply whatever discipline is appropriate.  Yes, their shopping day is ruined, but then its their kid.  Why should everyone else around them have their shopping day disturbed too?  

If parents are made to remove their screaming child, then maybe they will spend a little more time at home teaching kids to be respectful when they are in public and some self control.

Or, sadly, it could just be that there are certain parents out there that don't give a damn, have no skills when it comes to being a parent and this behavior is something we have to put up with.  I hope not.

Where my time not blogging is being spent

This weeks assignment for a writing course (the one I will finish the same week Uni starts!)  was to write a character description, and link this to a life lesson.  I chose my Grandad as he was such an enigma to me.  The parameters of the essay were it had to be 400-500 words (so hard when I had much more to say), we had to use words to create the character, put the character in a physical situation and then join in the life lesson.  It could be essay or fiction.  I might try and write this again as a fictional story.

The upshot is that I am really enjoying the challenges of the assignments.  I start at Curtin Uni next Monday, the first unit is online. But it does keep me away from my blogging, I need to retire from work so I can just write all day!!

Grandad and Grandma - he always loved cats!

My Grandfathers Gift (or Don’t look a Gift Horse in the Mouth?)

My grandfather scared me.  He was gruff and looked like a small wiry pirate. With his ginger, long beard, sea swept face, and thick glasses, he always looked ancient to me.  His fingers were all bent, one of them at right angles, and he always smelt of wood putty and pipe tobacco.  He evoked an air of distance, like the leader of a dog pack, us littlies approached at our peril, especially when he was eating his sharp cheddar and bread.  He was fond of the saying Silence is Golden, something that I never really understood at the time, but I got the gist when he growled it.  Sometimes, he would pay me attention, by picking me up to show me the little blue cuckoo that would spring out of its carved wooden door when the hour hand struck.  If he was in a good mood, he would indulge my request when I said ‘again Grandad’. 

Grandad rarely gave us kids presents, and certainly not when it was expected.  Christmas, Birthday, Easter - we learnt to not ever expect gifts from him.  I never really thought of this until I was older because what we didn’t know did not hurt us.  As I got older, friends would show me amazing gifts they had got from their Grandparents.  One time my best friend received from her Grandma the biggest Easter egg I had ever seen, nesting in a cardboard box with cellophane and ribbons. I wondered why I never got such things.  It was a fleeting thought, certainly never an issue. 

No, Grandad did not spoil us with material things, but as we grew into more independent beings, and I dare say less silly, noisy and sticky, he was more than generous with his time, his careful teachings, his wisdom.  By the time I was a teenager he treated me as a grown-up. I knew this was given as a gift, so I acted as such around him.  I loved just being in his calm, quiet, contemplative company.  He was always doing something interesting, making things with wood, tinkering with tools, in the garden, reading, debating politics or religion.  Even watching him prepare his pipe, was engaging.

He took a keen interest in my horse riding.  He was a man who loved animals and appreciated the skills in handling them.  One day, he turned up at my parent’s farm, with a very pretty little palomino mare, in foal.  She was way too small for me to ride, but he wanted me to teach my little cousins to ride and care for a horse.  This was his gift to me – the temperament and tool to guide and teach the young as he had done in the ways of quiet, steady, consistent patience.  A horse was the perfect gift for this lesson. 

  

New Page on this Blog

Started a new page on this blog for a new little project I am running.

Called : A Year with Thermomix

I am keeping this record for a year, as an experiment, to help with the weight loss tracking, to make the most of the new (expensive) toy and perhaps to be of interest/help readers.

A hot shower, no Bex and a OK lie down

For people my age, who live in Australia - they would remember the catch-cry of the 1950/60's house wife - what I need is a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down.  There were mothers, in aprons and rollers and hairnets, all up and down this country lamenting this when it all got too much for them.  And I can image that it did get too much - cricket teams of kids, cooking every meal from scratch, cleaning devices that were the neanderthal version of a 'Dyson', husbands that could avoid all this by staying back at work until the kids were in bed - and I am surprised that Bex didn't contain something a little more robust!

The advertising campaign was actually this : "Stressful Day? What you need is a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down" It obviously worked as most mothers took the advice.  I suspect the cup of tea and the lie down did as much, if not more, good as the Bex powder did - it was a combination of asprin, analgesic and caffeine.  I recall the way it was packaged - a white powder, neatly folded up in a little paper envelope.  Not that I know much about drugs, but I have seen the movies, and isn't that how they package cocaine?

By the time it was my turn to be a mother, Bex had long gone.  Ever resourceful, I found a clear liquid called Gin as its replacement.  My mother would come over some afternoons and say she needed some tonic water as it had quinine in it - great to replenish lost salts when you had been sweating (they used this in India during the British Raj era - thus the name Bombay Sapphire Gin).  You can't be as uncultured as to just drink tonic water, it must be taken properly as a Gin and Tonic, with lemon and ice.

We would say 'just the one and then I will start dinner' and sit on the back lawn, watching the boys run about and exhaust themselves (this was a theory, not a fact - little boys never exhaust themselves).  The 'just the one' would go down very quickly, so would become 'awww go on then, one more wont hurt'.  We would drink the second one much slower, that way you could really feel the medicinal effect of wobbly legs and who-the-hell-wants-dinner-anyway.

By the third one, we would call Mr K and my Dad and giggle and shout for them to bring home fish and chips.  The boys would be filthy, and having a ball, and we could not give a flying Bex!

Ahhh, the good ole days.

Canasta - a card game of life

I had this favorite game of cards come back into my life this last week.  I used to play it a lot as a kid and teenager.  Then boys, husbands, kids and Foxtel happened and the game was relegated to camping trips and blackouts.

It's a great game.  Strawb and I are the champions at it.

My son #2 has just taught his girlfriend to play it, and last week we introduced her to the giddy heights of a doubles game.

It got me thinking however, how this game resembles life at times.

Here is my version of life according to the rules of Canasta.

1. Canasta may be played with 2, 3, 4, 5 or 6 players but is best fun played with four persons as a partnership game.  
• Yep, just like life.  2 players is the most stable game, 3 can be fun, 4 as partners comes with a lot more rules, and 5 & 6 players just gets messy.  
2. Canasta is played with two decks of 54 cards or a total of 108 cards including 4 jokers
• We all have to play life with the same deck of cards, but sometimes its fun to play with the jokers
3. The dealer shuffles, cuts and deals the cards face down, clockwise beginning with the player to the dealer's left
• Like life, we get dealt the cards in a set order.  We can't change the cards we get dealt - this isn't poker - and so we must be clever with what we have.
4. Each player gets 11 cards in a game with 4 or more players, 15 for 2 players or 13 for 3.
• The lesson here is that you get more with when you only play with 2 people, but a threesome could be a good compromise.
5. The goal of Canasta is to obtain the most points by melding, or creating sets out of one’s cards. 
• Isn't this what life is?  Gathering the most you can before you die!
6. When it is your turn, you may draw the top card from the stock and put it into your hand without showing anyone.
• Pays to keep some things to yourself - the element of surprise is always good.
7. Also, remember that in Canasta, both jokers and deuces (twos) are wild cards. A set consisting entirely of wild cards is not valid.
• Lesson here is not to play with just the wild boys.  They are OK for a bit of fun, but you can't settle down with them.
8. The hand ends as soon as a player goes out. You can only go out if your side has melded at least one Canasta.
• Going out is the whole purpose of the game.  Just ask any teenager!
9. In a partnership situation, you may ask the other partner "May I go out?". If the partner answers "no" then this is binding and you may not go out and if the partner answers "yes" then you may. However, it is important to note that consulting your partner is not compulsory and you may go out without asking your partner.
• Enough said ;-)
10. The game also ends if the stock pile runs out of cards.
• Sad but true - when life has run out of cards for you, the game is over.
11. You can freeze the pack to slow the game down
• Cold shoulders, freezing out players - all has a similar effect.
12. Good strategy involves knowing what to keep and what to discard.
• So glad I found the good cards early on in the game, its a hard game knowing what to keep and what to discard.  Ask any dating agency.
13. You score extra points if you can go out with a concealed canasta
• Probably only score the points with fellow players, not your partner.
14. A player who has accidentally drawn an extra card must discard it in a future turn without drawing a new one.
• Especially if you are playing a partnership game.

Potting Bench - Part 1

This was my Christmas present from my Dad!  Even at the age of 48, you can get excited about a present!  Isn't it the best thing ever?  It's so beautiful that I don't want to hide it away in the potting area, I want to have it on my front porch so everyone can be jealous of it!

He is very clever my Dad, and he takes a hint really well.  The fact I sent him a picture of a potting bench and said I would like something like this, had nothing to do with him thinking I would like one just like it!

I never expected it to look so pretty though, I was expecting a functional bench. I got both.

I must have been a very good girl last year <wink>

Thank you my darling Dad (and Mum as I know you had a lot to do with it being so pretty!)

My old potting bench!  Mr K will be pleased to get his saw horses back.

OK, OK!!. I will put up the Christmas Tree Today!

Feeling so much like the Christmas Grinch, I look green! (Now I know that our vision of Dr Seuss's character has been tainted by Disney, the original Grinch was a pen and ink drawing with red hat and red eyes, which, when I think of it, I resemble much more)

It's not that I don't like Christmas, I do, I just don't like how quickly it goes from 55 shopping days til Christmas to oh-crap-I-haven't-done-a thing-and-its-now-less-than-2-weeks-til-the-big-day.

Not one single present has been purchased, so I have declared we are having a 'homemade' Christmas.  So far I have made one bottle of Chili infused oil. 

We have the staff party here this Saturday. I have bought paper plates and plastic cups.  The fact that I am catering for 25 people should have me in a mild panic at least, but I am too tired to care.

My first Christmas cake I made in November got eaten.  I have boiled the fruit for the next one 10 days ago and it has sat on the stove, waiting to be cooked in the oven.  I can't smell or taste anything at the moment so I am not sure if its gone off yet.  I am hoping the copious amounts of Grand Marnier in the mix is preserving it.

The Christmas tree is still in the shed.  Its in a dust covered box, up high on the shelf.  The very thought of getting it down, dusting it off, putting it up, finding the lights, decorating it - is enough to make me forget the whole palaver.  I liked it when the boys were still living at home and their girlfriends would come and put up the tree for me.

The house needs a good, deep clean.  Pity that.  It might be lucky to get a lick and a spit. 

Braved the shops on Sunday - ha!  Who says we don't need Sunday trading?  It was carnage.  So we came home with nothing after walking out of 3 stores when we saw the queues at the checkout.  Went again last night, thinking it would be quieter.  Well, there were not as many people true, but the calibre of the ones there, the ugly language and delinquent kids more than made up for it.

The only good part is we have 11 days away from work, my parents are coming up to stay, I will get time to relax and chat with my sons - yep, we forget, its all just about family and some down time.

Tim Winton - you Rock!!

I feel like my child has just won the honour awards at school.  I am bursting with pride!

Yeah, a bit weird of an analogy, but stay with me here.

My all time, ever, favourite author, Tim Winton, took out #1 place in the ABC's First Tuesday Bookclub's 10 Aussie books to read before you die, with Cloudstreet.  Number One!!  Out of all the amazing books in this country, the public chose Cloudstreet as their favourite.

ABC First Tuesday Bookclub

I have read every book Tim has ever written, buy all his books as first edition hardbacks plus a paperback when it comes out so I can lend it to people.  Some of my hardbacks are signed by Tim himself - confess that I am a bit of a groupie and go to book readings or signings by him.

Although, the last time I went to a reading (for The Turning) I didn't line up and ask him to sign my book.  He just looked so sad, so out of place, wanting to be away from people and this book selling machine.  He looked like he wanted to be on a beach, or at his kitchen table, writing.  So I went home, and gave him a gift of personal space.

I have loved every single book he has ever written, but my favourite is his latest Breath.  My sons love his books too, something that is tough to do - get boys to read.  I still remember Son#1 hopping about, getting me to read That Eye the Sky after he had read it and wanting to talk to me about it.  Lucky it was a short book, I devoured it in half a day, then Son and I sat and talked and talked.  Now that is something!

I love Tim's style, his (seemingly) easy writing manner, as you read, you feel like you are talking to an old friend.  I get the same feeling of place every time I read his books - I am about 15, everything is exciting.  We go camping on the beach, way down South, with my family, my best friend is there too.  We escape the adults, and at night walk down to the beach where there are some boys with a campfire.  They look a little rough, older, surfies, our hearts race, but we try and be brave/cool.  We sit with them, we talk, they are smoking pot and hand us some, we shake our heads.  I look into the fire, there is a delicious electricity around us, a thrill to be had, yet we don't know why... yet.

This is where Tim's writing always takes me.  On the precipice of discovery, a teenage girl about to fall into the most exciting time of her life.  Fear, mixed with sexual tension and a sense of emerging power.  I wish I had better words to make this scene of time and place come alive.  It will be a good writing exercise I think!

If you haven't already, go discover Tim's work.

All I want for Christmas ...

All I want for Christmas ..... is two months away, alone, completely alone.

Utter solitude. To travel back in time would be nice too.

Georgiana Molloy (1805 - 1843) - isn't she beautiful?

I read a lot of old diaries and biographies of pioneer women, or women who lived on farms or in the country. Women of centuries ago who sometimes had no choice but to be on their own for months on end. Like Georgiana Molloy (1805 - 1843) who in 1829 came with her husband to live in Augusta, Western Australia. Her biography, written by Alexandra Hasluck, (Portrait with Background: A Life of Georgiana Molloy - Melb, 1955) is one of my all-time favourites.

She lamented the isolation and filled it with writing letters, her journal and collecting botanical samples to be sent to Captain James Mangles, who was a keen botanist. I love reading of her day to day life - but what resonates with me, now more than ever, is the calm, slow pace of life. It's like a balm to my stretched, hectic, over-full one.

I know there were tragedies, children were lost, life was physically tough, but surely she felt a calmness that life was settled, it was predictable, there was a slow, yet deliberate rhythm. When I read of her walking in the bush every day to collect seeds, or sitting down to write, I feel a yearning for that part of her life. I know she would probably envy mine, my household gadgets that make every day easier, but I wonder too if she would want it to slow down?

I guess it is the minimisation of external stimulation that appeals the most. No TV. No phone beeping or flashing to say the world is contacting you. No cars, or trains, or planes or sirens. No emails, or the double edged internet - with so much information to seek, yet so overwhelming. Back then, you actually looked forward to visitors, not dread them like today.

Berringarra Homestead - build in 1882

Many years ago, Mr K took the boys and I up north to stay at the station that he had worked on as a teenager. (He was also conceived at this station, but that’s a whole new story!). He still loved this place and was excited to share with me why - the rammed earth station house with wide veranda's and wide walls, the bower shed where the jackaroos slept in the midday heat, the red, red dirt and blue, blue sky. The river gums, white and majestic, the dry river bed that belied its strength, the eagles and wild goats and bungarras. I saw what he saw and fell in love with it too.

We found out that it was for sale. I dreamed of buying this isolation. This life. It was to be a fantasy played out over many, many years and still, if all of the planets and stars lined up, and Mr K said come on we are going to live there, I would be packed in a heartbeat. By outback standards its not that isolated - only 660km from Perth, the nearest big town is Meekatharra a mere 170km way. The historic town of Cue 180km.

 

 

But like all fantasies, would it lose all it's lustre in real life?  I still would like to try .. even if it was just my Christmas present for two months.