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.

Again, with the planning.

Planning is always at the heart of every great endeavor. I love this stage. It's exciting and thrilling and all possibilities are open and without constraints. Your imagination is the only limitation.

So it sounds a bit contradictory to list and organise every tiny detail into a closed schedule, that would seemingly impose constraints.

But just because you plan, does not mean you can't be creative and think big.

Even an artist plans.

Planning is how I cope with the stress that will inevitably come with such a large project.  Planning is the thing that gives you a long list of delicious check-boxes to tick.

So, what am I planning you ask?

Two weeks ago, I would have replied that I was planning our move to live at WG. Planning to pack up the current house, get it ready to rent out, find a good agent and then tenants. I would say I was planning how we will fit all the furniture in the new house, how we will manage the dogs, chooks, cars, gardens at WG. How to resettle Mr K's mum and pack all her things and store them.

Today, I have all this to plan and one tiny detail more.

The 'one day' extensions to WG house, the ones we thought we would wait until we had lived there a few years and get a feel for the house and how we live in it, have just suddenly and surprisingly time traveled back in a giant leap into the present.

How did this all happen? It started innocently enough. Mr K had some reservations about the move to WG, not that he didn't want it to happen, but rather he needed a few 'essentials' done before it seemed to him that we were moving forward instead of backward. The house at WG is pretty basic. It's a three bedroom, 1960's farmhouse. It has been very nicely done up in places, like polished jarrah floorboards, and lovely wooden window and door frames. However, other things are just very basic, like the shower is just a painted cubicle, the bedrooms are pretty tiny, there are no WIR at all and one basic linen cupboard. All things I can merrily live with, but Mr K is giving up a very big and suburban house to go-a-farming with me.

The kitchen was renovated 10 years ago, and will be ok as it is, for a while anyway!

All of which was fine, he was happy to move, until it came to his Precious. A pot-holed, gravel driveway and no carport or garage is no way to treat a pedigree Jaguar. To have her constantly covered in red dirt and live outside in the elements is too much to bear for this highly bred beast. Mr K said the compromise was to bitumise the driveway and build a carport, both things I was in agreeance with as I secretly didn't like the idea of my lovely new white car getting the same treatment.

The gravel driveway and nowhere to house a pedigree.

The problem was, where to build the carport so that it fitted in with future plans for extensions. Also, where to stop the driveway so that it didn't have to be dug up at a later time when we had finalised the plans. Solution? Get an architect to draw up some concept plans for an extension now, so we know exactly where the carport and driveway will go.

So that's what we did. Which if course was where the whole train derailed and ran away with us. Mr K and I have always had in our hearts and minds a 'one day' ideal house. We agree almost 99% of what this looks like. And WG was blossoming as a building site to build this dream home. It had all the elements. So when Mr Architect arrived to view the location, and his face lit up and he started getting all animated and sketching things on his pad ... well we too let go of all constraints and got excited, silently both making the decision to plan and build now, not two years from now.

We justified it to each other on the way home. It will be much better to build now than to be living on a building site. It will be cheaper to do all the land clearing at once, so while we need to do groundwork for a carport, we may as well do it for the building site. We need to match the building materials for the carport and the extensions. If we are borrowing to do the driveway and carport, we may as well borrow it all in one lump sum for the building too (we really were making excuses now).

Main bedroom. Love the floors and light, but no cupboards at all.

By the time we got home, we had convinced each other that this was a no-brainer and we were now in fact going to build the new extensions now.

Jodie, get out your notebook and start making lists. We have planning to do!

A New Office - Part Two - How?

So, in the words of a old school friend of mine who was shipwrecked and lived to write a book about it - How do you eat an elephant?

What it looks like now

Well the answer is obvious ... you don't ... elephants would taste horrible and besides they are such wonderful animals how could you kill one to eat? I guess the rhetorical question might apply if you were a lion, in which case the lion would answer (after he had finished a mouthful, lions are very polite you know) - "one bite at a time".

A Before Photo - to go - pink carpets!, beige walls, vertical blinds - yuck!

Is this how we tackle the move to our new office? One bite at a time? Sure feels like we are moving an elephant! Before we can actually move, we need to do the fit-out of the new place. If we were a mining company or had unlimited cash flow, we would get a fit-out company to come do it for us for about 10 times the cost. We don't have unlimited funds, we have a small loan (small in terms of business, not small in terms of retired people) from my wonderful parents, and that's it so - we can do it ourselves!

Therefore we get smart, work hard and chew like crazy. The plans are almost finished - that was a task and a half on its own. There was only a very rough plan of the office, with no measurements and not entirely accurate. So Mr K and I had to measure every wall, window, partition, pillar, doorway and enter it into a plan making program (Good old Google and Sketchup). Now we had an accurate plan, it was time to get creative and move stuff around on paper.

One thing it has is LOTS of good storage and shelving

Easily done on a piece of paper, but the reality is every wall we moved has to be pulled down and removed in real life. Every line we drew back in, is a wall that has to be built. Mindful of this, yet needing to change the spaces we currently have, Mr K and I worked on a plan that will do both.  I am pretty happy with it so far, but experience has taught me that what works on a plan, does not always work on the ground.

That's OK, we have talented and experienced builders on the job - my Dad and Mr K.

Still in the planning phase, we don't get official possession to start work until the 1st September, we are using this week to get all the trades - plumbers, electricians, data cable, glass partitions guys, sign-writers etc to meet us on site and get quotes and ideas and schedule the works.

View out the front door

Come the 1st, we are into demolishing and clearing out what we don't need. 

Then the next phase begins.  It is a lot of work ahead, but I am just a bit excited!  The next post will be the new plans, the finishes we have selected and the scope of works.

A Big Growly, Grey Cat

Back in December, I wrote about a carrot and a stick. A Shaguar - oh Behave!  Seems the carrot got caught and is now sitting in our carport!

Yes. Mr K got his much coveted Jaguar. Its so cute how a (almost) 50 year old man, reverts to a small excited boy who got a bike for his 6th birthday. That smile, the one in the picture, is reserved for the grey cat - I have caught him a few times now, out in the carport with his hand lovingly stroking her, with that grin on his face!

Now, anyone who knows Mr K in the flesh, will know that he is not a car-washing-every-Saturday-then-blowervac- the driveway-and-clean-the-pool kinda guy. He does 'man chores' if and only when they really, really need it. BUT, this Jaguar, that we have had for 2 weeks now, has been washed 3 times, polished once, vacuumed twice and had the leather inside all wiped over. (I know, my Mum will have gasped at this abomination). This is a man who can walk over cat sick for weeks, uses the same coffee cup for days without washing it, decides if a pair of worn undies are clean enough by sniffing them!

So, it must be love. For Mr K to take such care of her, it has to be the real thing.

The nice part - he is sharing his new love affair with me. I got to drive her down the shops the other night. I was terrified. It took me a full 15 minutes to back out of our driveway - I was so nervous I would scratch it. It tells you how to reverse, to watch out for things on your left, right, back front - even peeped loudly when I was about to back over the dog! It turns on the lights automatically, the windscreen wipers when 1 tiny drop of moisture falls.

Then when I got to the shops, I parked right down the back of the carpark, despite it being night and a dodgy area, just so no-one in their common old Ford would dent the door. I packed the shopping carefully in the boot, terrified the milk would tip over and spill. I drove home like a 100 year old Kalamunda granddad on his way to bowls. 

Secretly, I love it too. The walnut burr finish, the black leather, the way it thinks of your every comfort.

Oh and another proof of Mr K's starry eyed passion - he has not smoked in it at all, and said he never will!!

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

Men, Women and New Shoes

So we all know that women cope better with childbirth and a cold.  Men don't cope with either.  But did you know that there is a third thing we do more stoically than those big, tough, brave brutes?

New Shoes.

Women will bear the pain of a new shoe, soldier on and grimace smile the whole day with one glorious thought overriding the pain - I LOVE these new shoes. She will tell her friends, her work mates - even convince herself - how much she loves them.  A little (or a lot) of pain is a small price to pay.

Men, however, will avoid any shoe pain, at any cost (although I do wonder how Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley got on).  

Take Mr K. (please)

He wanted a new pair of shoes.  He only wears RM Williams boots. The same pair last him years. He has a brown pair and a black pair.  The black pair were looking a little agricultural for work, so he retired them to work boots and we went on the hunt for a new black pair. Easy hunting. 

We went to the RM Williams shop, he said he wanted black boots - they have a whole shelf full, and of course 1/2 sizes.  There are his exact size.  He tries them on, just to keep the assistant happy, and said 'yep, they'll do". 

That's it.  Shoe shopping for a man over.

Now the enigma. Where as us women would rush home, try them on again, totter about, plot when we can go out so we can wear them, men just take them home and leave them in the box/bag they came in, until they decide they are ready for the normal rotation.

Mr K's new boots sat (well still sit) in their bag, on the bench near the front door.  Not touched since Saturday when he bought them. There have been no loving glances, no second try ons, no proud displaying in the shoe wardrobe, introductions to all the other shoes. 

Today he has an all day meeting that he attends once a month with fellow CEO's. The PERFECT day to show off a new pair of shoes if ever there was one. I asked him if he was wearing his new boots today? 

"Nah, I want to be comfortable today, I will wear the brown ones."

Huh?  Comfortable?  You don't get more comfortable than RM Williams boots, I am sure part of the hefty prize tag is to pay a cowboy to wear them in for you.

I tell you, men are such wooses.

An Easter Escape

I will write more about our weekend away, but for now, these pictures will tell 1000 stories.

Our rig - Navara, Trailer Camper, Motorbike and Kayak. Cunderdin WA  

Outside the (closed for Good Friday) No3 Pumping Station Museum at Cunderdin

What you do on camping trips

What we go out here for!

Camp - and boys getting a lesson in wood chopping

More Trees 

Even more trees

Minty - even she likes camping - its the camera she hates!

...and more trees ...

We actually wore Tommy out - ever so briefly

Having fun at the dam.

Having fun on the motorbike - view from the dam

Over 100 year old aquaduct

Karalee Dam

For a 14 year old, blind dog, she still has fun - she went swimming too! Tommy follows her about and looks after her.

Sun setting on a fun day - these boys will sleep well tonight

Slow cooked lamb on a real open fire - we had this for Saturday night - with a bottle of red, under a full moon and a trillion stars.  Beats any 5 star hotel!

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?

A Day in Freo bags me 4 books and a new journal

I needed a day to myself, to get my head clear, write, read and walk.  It was a bit of a bleak time at work last week, and the long weekend did not completely clear the decks.  I felt cheated of three days off work, that I could have been writing, spent with a panic-attack hangover caused by the job.  So I took a 'sickie' today.  And I have never felt better.

Mr K had an all day conference in the second city of Freo.  We got up early, left early and after an hour and a bloody three quarters, arrived at our destination.  Sure made me feel like I had gone away on a holiday, I wanted my in-flight meal and drink.  As the crow flies it is less than 20kms, we had traveled about 25 as we are not crows.  This took us 1.45hrs.  Eat your heart out West Sydney!

It was early for Freo, 9am.  Not many people were up and about, stark contrast to Perth CBD where 9am is practically lunchtime.  First stop for me was one of the two Elizabeth's Bookshops - a treasure trove of pre-loved books (or maybe some were only one night stands) stacked on floor to ceiling bookshelves, on the floor, on tables in every nook and cranny.  There is a vague organisation, but the fun part is trawling for a treasure.  Found one book here - 

Breakfast next.  Not feeling very brave or bohemian, and the fact that a lot of the hipper places looked closed, I went for the safe and sure Dome Coffee.  With a foccacia, pineapple juice, skinny cap, newspaper, journal and book, before me I had a little private chuckle at the sheer indulgence of it all.  Took me an hour and a half to eat breakfast.

A walk drew me to the second purveyor of books, New Edition. A tall elegant building housing a book shop and a cafe, and bizarrely, as only Freo can do, at the back of the bookstore, a hippy dress/bead/incense shop.  It was bizarre, as the book shop was rather posh, a bit Sydney.  I found two treasures here -

I will do some book reviews on all these at a later date. Anyone have a cold/flu/plague that they can come and sneeze on me so I can stay in bed and read for a few days?

Spent the next  hours just walking, observing, absorbing.  Found the public library and did a bit of reading which inspired me to sit down to write for a while.  Wasn't really hungry by 1pm but felt compelled to leave the library after it got overrun by kids, people with too few shoes and too much (matted) hair and a permeating sound of furious clacking on keyboards on the public computers.  

On 'the strip' I found most eatery's had now opened, again going to for the known, I chose Benny's - a quiet table up the back with a book, journal and Caesar salad.  Does it get any better than this!  I moved on when the staff seemed to be moving tables around me, perhaps I had outstayed my welcome.  Another stroll back to the library, the kids should have gone home for naps by now, and the shoe-less, matted hair lot surely cant concentrate that long.

Found yet another bookshop, Dymocks, and of course another book -

Nice little haul.  A good days gathering.  I spent the rest of the afternoon, waiting for Mr K in the library until I was joined at the writing table by the Bachelor Of the Year - a man whose body and clothes looked (and sadly, for me, and every person within 100 metres, smelt) like they had never seen soap, let alone water.  He wore three hats, each grubbier than the next, and .. get this ... HE tied a handkerchief, well grey rag, over this nose/mouth.  Was he being kind to me as he hadn't brushed his teeth that decade, or was it me who smelt?  Guess its all a matter of perspective!

Moved into the fresh air, and had a very nice and critical time writing about the comings and goings of Freo.

Day rating : 8/10

Italian Dentists and Writing

This is a representation only of my Italian Dentist - he was WAY better looking than this :-)

Funny where inspiration strikes you.  I went to the dentist yesterday, the last of my appointments to have the black amalgam taken out and replaced with porcelain fillings.  I now have only white fillings and white teeth.  Yay.  No more visits needed other than the 6 monthly cleans and checks.

I always had a real phobia about going to the dentist.  So I didn't go, for a loooong time.  I paid the price however and eventually pain, and Mr K forced me.  I was so terrified that first visit that I actually drew blood as I pressed my hands together.  I had this lovely Chinese lady dentist (Phung) and she was so understanding and kind and she taught me how to meditate and imagine I was somewhere else when I was in the dentists chair.  She helped me for years and eventually I was no longer afraid and went willingly for treatment.  In the beginning, I was so scared, Mr K had to come with me and sit in the room and hold my hand.

I had my happy place I went to each time. It was always laying on a daybed, next to a pool in Bali.  Cool and calm, I would visualise myself reading a book, a fresh watermelon juice laced with vodka next to me.  I got so good at this technique that sometimes Phung would have to bring me round and say, Jodie, we are finished, you can go now.

My Happy Place - hard to be miserable here!

Yesterday, I settled in the dentists chair and tried to go to the Bali day-bed.  My new dentist is a very sexy Italian, he even speaks to his assistants in Italian, so Bali just wasn't cutting it.  He is also a HUGE Springsteen fan and has his music very loud and Joe even sings along sometimes.  Just what I needed - a sexy, singing dentist!  Needless to say, I had all the visualisations right here, I wasn't going anywhere <wink>

Then  the strangest thing happened. The hippy lady who I want to write a book about popped into my head, as clear as day.  She is different to what I first thought she would be, but I like her so much more. Maybe this was why I had trouble starting the book, I had not yet found the right protagonist.  But there she was, in my mind and the first scene of the book.  It was so clear, that I  started to write the words in my head.  

I was so eager to get out of that chair and race home to write, that I didn't hang about and flirt (even just a little) with Joe.  He was asking me to look at my new sparkling teeth (he was very proud of his work) in the mirror and was pointing out the highlights.  I was saying  yeah, yeah, all the while with sentences streaming through my mind.  I must have been crazy!  Who would pass up the opportunity of standing in front of a mirror, with a hunky Italian man very close behind you, paying you the keenest interest (well my teeth anyway)?

I did race home and blurted out the first half of chapter one of my book.  

Wonder if I could go back now and see if Joe wants to still pay me attention!

For the record - I am NOT at all a Springsteen fan - but I wasn't going to say so to Him!