Sunday Party

My boy turns 11 tomorrow (1st July). So we organised a party for him and his friends.

When boys get to a certain age it is better to have a birthday party off site rather than have ten testosterone charged boys running around my house in the middle of winter (rainy and windy outside).

He chose the birthday cake which I made and decorated accordingly. It was a rich chocolate cake smothered in creamy chocolate icing, smarties and maltesers. I can assure you that it was not low fat and was very heavy.


He had his party at a place called Sidetracked which is an extremely well organised indoor go-karting venue. Everything runs like clockwork there. You are greeted at the party room which is run by young men. Each group has a party supervisor who directs all the boys where they next have to go.

The first port of call was ten minutes of go-karting. Something happens to boys when they get behind the wheel of a car, any car. It was foot down and go as fast as you can the whole time. I think a few of them thought perhaps it was Dodgem cars and did their best to run up the backside of the kart in front.

After this introduction to some adrenalin pumping action they were herded off the Laser Force which involves the wearing of body packs with light sensors on them, being armed with a laser gun and trying to shoot as many of the opposing team as possible. They were twenty minutes in the semi darkness, running around and shooting wildly. When they finally tumbled out of the place they were covered in sweat and all pumped up.

Some ten pin bowling to wear them completely out.

And finally a feast of party pies, sausage rolls, chips and the birthday cake.

At the end of the day I was tired from the noise of children, go-karts and a variety of machines which ate money at a rapid rate with the promise of a prize.

At the end of the day S was worn out. He said it was his best birthday ever. Due to the large amount of junk food and lollies that was eaten throughout the day he went to bed without dinner.

All in all, a fun day had by all.

Ciao

LC

The Male Species And Pain Management

I know that what I am about to reveal is not new, but men are a bit pathetic when it comes to pain. Any pain really.

When I have a cold I just get on with life. When I get my period I just move on with the day accordingly (whilst everyone around me suffers my mood). When I hurt my back, I just ignore it. When I have had surgery on a Monday I have been back at work on a Wednesday. When I have food poisoning or a tummy bug, I vomit in an unassuming and silent manner. If I cut myself and bleed I am able to find a bandage and wrap it up before deciding whether or not I need stitches. I am a female and therefore stoic.

When my husband has a cold you would think it was actually the bird flu. When he hurts his back he gives an audible moan everytime he moves. When he has had a tummy bug I swear that you would think he was giving birth with the noises that come out at the same time. He cannot stomach the sight of his own blood and gets lightheaded if he sees it. He is a man therefore his pain tolerance is at a lower level.

Well, I realise that this male reaction to pain starts early. The other day S had a sore eye. It annoyed him throughout the day and when he went to bed at night he was really upset. I gave him an eyewash in case he had some dust in it. The eyewash was a mild saline solution but I thought perhaps it was caustic soda due to his intense objection to it.

Later on he went to bed in a sad state. Told me how awful his life was now that he had this sore eye and he was going to suffocate into his pillow if the pain did not stop. He could not watch his dvd whilst lying in bed because his eye hurt. I suggested that he just pop his hand over it and watch the dvd with his good eye. He insisted that tactic was not going to work and could I get some sort of bandage for him. He wanted something soft to put against the eye.

The photo below shows the best I could come up with. It worked.

His eye was perfectly normal the next day.

Ciao
LC

Exercise In Winter

I have previously mentioned how I am a reluctant devotee of regular and hard exercise. My regime is governed by whatever the group personal trainer deems to be the go. Three times a week in the evening I make my way to the park where it is held. Sometimes I just do not feel like it, but go regardless. The days in between that I go for a long walk.

In summer is is beautiful. The sky is still blue in the evening, the air is warm and the grass is brown and dry with dust that rises up when you step on it. It feels good to exercise in the warm air. Kind of free as you can wear a singlet top and shorter pants and feel the lovely hot breath of the evening air on any bare skin. I have a love hate relationship with the heat when I exercise. It makes it hard to get moving, moving through that warmth but once my middle aged limbs feel limbered up it is great. The stinging sweat at the end of a session is worth it all.

But, as with everything, the seasons change and along with that change comes the chill of wintry months creeping in. Winter here in Melbourne, Australia is pretty lame compared to the other side of the world. I suppose the average winter day here is like a jolly spring day in England. But regardless of that, winter is still a lot colder than summer.

Exercise is an activity that most people really are not that keen on, and I can understand that. It has only been in the last three years that I have embraced the whole healthy and active lifestyle. Previous to that I would not be lying if I said that I paid for five twelve month memberships at different gyms and went only once or twice. In fact, I do know that one gym I did not go to once. Which is a story that I am sure is repeated everywhere.

Anyway, now it is winter and I have to readjust my mind to exercising in the dark, the grounds lit up only by a feeble spotlight. Sometimes I look out the window before I go and my heart sinks when I hear the patter of rain outside. Even worse when the rain is steady and heavy - as it was tonight. In this cold weather you have to multi layer. Long pants, two t-shirts, long sleeved top, waterproof jacket and a scarf. On a very chilly night I wear a orange and white striped beanie which has earnt me the name of Cat in The Hat. As the night progresses I remove the layers until I have only a t-shirt on. But the moment I stop moving around the layers are back on.

When the night is still and the air is cold enough to make your breath visible, it is quite beautiful to lie on the exercise mat and look at the inky black sky filled with twinkling stars as I do sit ups. Sometimes, in the adjoining oval, the local football club will be training and I half listen to their shouts of encouragement as they call out to each other. They are equipped with huge floodlights that shine long and far and give the feeling of false daylight, the shadows of the footballers are long as though it were the evening sunshine throwing the light. It is a surreal atmosphere for some reason. Every one doing their own thing yet somehow connecting with each other by just being nearby. A strange sort of companionship that society offers, sometimes by accident.

The footballers always finish their training before our little group and when they go the bright floodlights are switched off. The sudden darkness is like a loud clap in a silent room. The only light left is our own thin one that comes from the roof of the room where the sports equipment is stored when we are not there. It is slightly hazardous in the almost dark evening. We have to run across the oval as part of the programme and you have to be mindful of uneven ground, or worse than that, barker's eggs (aka dog poo). The personal trainer tells us that we use our bodies more efficiently if we have to take more care as we run, we put more thought into what we do. I suppose she has a point there.

Tonight was wet, that fine yet heavy rainfall that soaks through you. We managed to find a reasonably dry spot to do all our hard tasks. I lay on the mat doing some very painful series of movements and the rain blew in from my right side and started to soak my face. The more I tried to shift from it, the more the wet rain seemed to find me. In the end it did not matter as we all had to run out in the rain anyway which ensured a soaking mighty quickly.

Exercise is not an easy thing to embrace, but it is a worthy activity. Whether it be a bracing walk in the park or a heavy pounding on the footpath the end result is always a good feeling. Once I realised that at the actual time of exercise it is normal to feel like shit, it made it much easier to just get on with it. When I first got into exercise I remember thinking I felt awful at the actual time and always wondered when that feeling would go away. Then one day I asked the personal trainer when it would not feel crappy when I ran for 5kms or did 100 squats or 200 sit ups. She laughed and said that it always feels bad but afterwards it always feels great.

After that I that I thought "oh, okay, I get it now". Then figured that for the short time it was hard work was not very long on the scale of things.

My husband goes to the gym a couple of times in the morning. He gets up at 6.00 am and is back within the hour. On a Saturday morning he joins the lycra clad brigade and goes for a 20km bike ride. He has tried to get me to go with but that ain't ever happening. Lycra? Racing bike with the curly handles and narrow bike seat. Combine that with an early morning. No thanks,

I mean, it is one thing to discipline to go to exercise class each evening, but get out of bed before 7.30 am!

You must be kidding!

Ciao
LC

Where Was MY Weekend

On Friday afternoon I had my weekend all thought out.

Clean up the front part of the house completely. Go for a walk in the late afternoon on Saturday. Sunday morning pick up a chair that I bought on Ebay and then do some constructive things in my studio.

Here is how it went.

Saturday. Certainly cleaned up the front section of the house. Went through drawers and had a small throw out. In between that put on three loads of washing and sorted clean clothes to be ready for ironing. So far, so good. Made a vat of pumpkin soup. I was on a roll of productivity.

Then at around 3.00pm some friends dropped in and stayed for almost 2 hours. But that was okay as I thought that I would squeeze in a good walk before it got too dark.

Then my brother and his brood dropped in just after our friends left. They have not been around for ages and so stayed until 6.30 pm and then left for home (refusing an offer of getting some dinner). The house was incredibly silent. S came up to me and said he was hungry. Whilst he at dinner I set up the ironing board and spent the next three hours making small inroads into the huge pile of ironing. No walk.

On Sunday we all went together to pick up a great armchair I bought on Ebay. On the drive back home I decided that I would bake a cake when I got home, then whilst that was in the oven I would pop down the shop and do my week's grocery shopping. My plan was then to get dinner organised in the slow cooker, go for a walk and then spend time in the studio.

And then my plans were completely changed with a visit from a 14 year old girl who lives two doors up from us.

This young girl has a tough history. She and her brother (who is 13) live with the grandparents and have been since she was about 5 years old. Her mother is a drug addict, a prostitute and has been in and out of jail for many, many years. She is completely incapable of looking after her children and they were subsequently taken off her and given to the grandparents to raise. The father of the children has been in jail for armed robbery and other violent acts. He was released late last year and then again in jail for another stint for more armed robbery.

The daughter has some significant personal problems. She has been teased at school for being fat, she has had anger problems and has a fairly needy personality. She has a few attentions seeking traits and sometimes tells lies. Which is to be expected considering her background. For a couple of years she went to counselling which helped her and also her grandparents. She has the making of a bright and intelligent girl. May take a while to get there though.

Now she is 14 and entering those troublesome teenage years. Boys are on her mind. There is no way known she wants to speak to her grandmother. As far as this girl is concerned, her grandmother has no idea, is too old and could never understand her. Which is quite wrong as her grandparents are lovely people with great values and very understanding. The grandmother works full time as a teacher whilst the grandfather keeps the house running. So they are very normal people.

And so today she came over to me to have a talk. Not just a talk, a long talk about boys, her mother, her friends at school. She asked me questions about sex and sexuality. Asked me if I wished I had a daughter and not a son. Just talked and talked and talked.

It is hard to know exactly how far to go with other people's children when it comes to chats about anything to do with sex. But I took the stand of "my house, my rules". I am very comfortable with my values when it comes to sex. So I answered her questions. Gave her the big talk about valuing her body, the consequences of making mistakes (my sister got pregnant at 15), think very carefully before making a decision to have sex as it had to be right or it could have a long term effect on her. Made sure I informed her about sexually transmitted diseases. Spelt them out to her and the long term effects of some of them. Gave her the facts in the nicest possible way.

Three hours of teenage angst in my kitchen whilst I baked a cake.

This is not the first time she has dropped in for a chat. Last time I dropped a big, fat clanger by talking about her mother (she did ask about her) without realising that her grandparents had not actually told her much at all about the whole background. I felt bad about it for quite a long time and today realised that it was quite possible that her grandmother sent her down to me for that very reason.

At about 4.00pm I told her that I had to go food shopping and she wanted to come with. Instead, I took her home (where my son was playing with her brother). As I approached the front door her grandfather ushered me in where I then stayed for another hour and half while the grandmother spoke to me about her granddaughter. I gave her a brief rundown on what had transpired between Jesse and myself. She then said that Jesse would not speak to her about anything so she sent her to me to say hello.

"Well, that is okay for Jesse to come down and speak to me as long as you understand that I will speak to her in the only way I know how, which is to be upfront and I may make her feel a bit awkward. I won't encourage her to have a boyfriend, but I will not discourage either. Do you know what I mean?" I told them both. I wanted them to know that I will speak to their granddaughter in the same way I speak to my son. Some people may not like that.

Well, they were really happy to have her pop over now and then. Hmmmm, not sure how I feel about it happening too often, but if it helps a girl stay on track that is a good enough reason to be there for her.

So, at 5.30pm I made my way to the bright lights of the supermarket where I did my week's shopping.

No walk tonight, no studio time, not much me time. But in a way, I don't mind.

I think I did something a bit more constructive this afternoon.

Ciao
LC

Mopey Post

I was aware from a very young age that my parents relationship was not a happy one. The word relationship never actually came into my head. It was basic knowledge. The sort of awareness a child gathers as they tumble along through their small days. There was always an air of tension and fear. It was pervasive, constant and had a far reaching affect on all of the children for years to come.

It is only hindsight that I can give an opinion as to whether or not it was bad. When you are small, it just is what life is. It may be scary, it may be sad, it may be fearful. But as there is nothing to compare it to and as it is what a child is born into, it is better than nothing at all. For children love their parents regardless of whether they are fearful of them. I think my experience of childhood made me very aware of my responsibility and obligation as a parent to my own child. There was not a snowflakes hope in hell that my son would ever feel anything but safe and loved in his own home.

There was a lot of domestic violence in our house. Physical and verbal abuse. I don't mention this to garner sympathy. I long ago put all that to rest. I only make the comment because that is just one of the things that was part of my life and therefore part of how I became who I am. But for years I felt intense resentment toward my father for being the way he was. As the years passed I realised that it was pointless. It was not as though I had anything to forgive, I just dropped it all and got on with more important things. Besides, there are people out there in the world who experienced such terrible childhoods that I feel mine is fairly run of the mill stuff.

I do know that I picked up on the personality of my father at a fairly early age. When I was six years old I took a piece of chalk and wrote in big letters "dad is spiteful". I wrote it under the kitchen window. The word spiteful was on an angle and the letter "l" was almost horizontal by the time I finished labouring over it. When my mum saw it she made me scrub it off. Not because she thought that what I did was naughty, she did not want my father to see it.

Despite all his obvious unpleasantness, my father could be so kind and understanding that you would not believe him to be the same person that would have been so angry only hours beforehand. There were many times when he gave me helpful advice on difficult personal situations.

I once asked him why he and my mother did not get on. What had she done that had filled him with such anger all the time. He said that my mother and himself were like cat and dog.

"Try to imagine that I am a dog on one side of the fence and your mother is a cat on the other side. We are happy on each side until we come to the gate and see each other. Then we fight," was his explanation. I guess that my parents era of marriage was not one of relationship building. So, he never felt the urge to change the dog and cat pattern.

My parents divorced when I was 24 years old. My father packed his things and left when my youngest sister turned 16. He felt that he had done his duty. He left my mother and sister behind.

I know there are two sides to every story in every marriage.

It is a long time ago. I am not sure what the point of this whole post is. Perhaps there is no point. I shall probably read this later on and delete it as it sounds a bit self pitying, which it is not.

Just now and then I miss him.

Ciao
LC

Party Memory

When I was younger I had the odd party that I attended. Parties were kind of huge in the late 70's and early 80's. Actually, they probably still are huge but I am old now and don't go to them.

I never understood parties as such. I don't mean the sort of parties where you bring a present, have some cake, play some games and take home a lolly bag. I am referring to the sort of party you bring some wine to, hang around the lounge room and kitchen or, if it is hot, hang around outside. Generally, the only reason I ever went to one is because a guy took me or my sister and her husband took me to one.

So, I would get to these parties full of semi drunk people who talked about incredibly boring things. Girls would talk about guys. Guys would talk about cars and fishing. I would stand around like a lost soul looking at magazines, books or opening cupboards to see what was inside. I never mingled. I never made a new friend. I hardly drank or, worse still, drank too much. The person I came to the party with would drift off to chat to his friends whilst I just sat around the room like a shag on a rock before making my way out to the front yard where I would sit and pat the dog or something until it was time to go home. Once I even fell asleep in a bean bag whilst some guy was talking to me.

I have not changed really, but these days I don't care about it. On the rare occasion I have gone with K to a party I have no problem taking a book from someone's bookshelf and reading it once I get bored beyond belief. It may well seem unsociable and rude but it is so much easier for me to do that than talk to a complete and utter stranger. It just isn't me and I am not going to try and change that aspect of my personality any more.

But, last night I was lying in bed thinking about some embarrassing things that have been part of my growing up years. And one of them was an afternoon barbecue party I went to with a guy. His name was Garth. He wasn't a boyfriend, he was just a friend. He liked to go out with me because we looked like brother and sister (freaky but true). He was so unbelievably vain he would constantly look at himself in the mirror at any given opportunity. Frequently he used to tell me that I could be just amazing if I did one of many things. Like, dressed differently, did my hair differently, lost more weight or was more chatty. Since I was "his sister" I used to ignore him and then go out of my way to be less girly just to annoy him.

So, we went to the bbq one sunny Sunday afternoon. I knew a couple of his friends who were quite nice and the bbq was at one of his friend's homes. They were Greek. Lots of food and wine was on hand. This was my Kate Bush combined with Cindy Lauper stage (aka the 80's) so my hair was big, my clothes were multi layered with holes in them, bruised looking eye make up - just the usual screech of the 1980's look.

There were some other girls at the party. But they were into a completely different look. Neat and tidy. Slim skirts, tops or dresses with neat shoes. Nail polish on long slim fingers. Fitted rayon shirts with cap sleeves. Not much make up, neat hair. They were good girls. Excellent marriage material. They sat on chairs in a circle and chatted to each other sipping champagne in fluted glasses. I mosied around talking to the parent's whose house it was being held at, admiring the abundant vegetable garden and the bee hives far down in the backyard.

There was great food on the outdoor table setting. Lovely platters of Greek food, both savoury and sweet. Hot Greek lamb, vine wrapped rice parcels, a variety of salads and the most beautiful array of sticky, sweet pastries. The table was groaning with the amount of food that was on it. In the centre of it all was a giant punch bowl full of freshly squeezed juices, soda water and lots of chopped up fresh fruit.

As it was quite hot and some of the food was quite salty I ended up very thirsty and kept filling my glass with the fruity punch and drinking it. After a few glasses it dawned on me that there may be something boozey in the bowl as I was quite giggly. In fact, I was a bit worse than giggly, I was a bit unsteady on my feet so I sat down on a lone chair with a glass of water to settle my head.

The guy who was holding the party came up to me to see if I was okay and offered to help me inside to sit in a cooler room where they had an air conditioner. Thinking that may be a good idea I agreed and stood up to make my way inside.

As I got up I stumbled a little and he put his hand out to steady me, we hit heads and I laughed really, really loudly. He must have seen this as one of two things. One, I was too pissed to walk or, two, I was up for a bit of fun. So he then took it upon himself to pick me up in the same fashion that a groom would carry his bride over the threshold. My protest was loud enough to ensure the entire group of people at the bbq looked in our direction. This protest was accompanied by a significant effort to get my feet back on the ground.

In those few seconds of him picking me up and me trying to get down, he lost his balance and stumbled, with me still in his arms, and fell onto the table of food which resulted in the collapse of the table along with all the food and myself and him on top of it all.

Worse than that, my final landing spot was on the greasy meat, the punchbowl smashed and my skirt upended enough to cause acute embarrassment.

The only people in the back yard laughing were us two fools (I must have been pissed). His parents helped me up from the ground and brushed my skirt down. The other girls went inside and on their way in looked at me as though I had stripped naked and danced by the light of the moon, so shocked and disgusted were the expressions on their faces.

Garth took me home and told me how disgusting my behaviour was. I had to agree because I also vomited in his car, the smell of some sort of sickly alcohol was noticeable.

He never took me out again, which was not a great loss.

Personally, I just thought the whole thing was more funny than anything else.

Some people just don't know how to have fun...

Ciao
LC

Homely Saturday Twaddle

I am not sure if anyone recently read about a woman who let her nine year old son travel on the subway in New York. She was later made out to be the worst mum around to subject her child to all those dangers that he may have encountered (but didn't as he arrived home safe and well). She has a rather interesting blog page named Freerangekids. I had a good read of it and it tied in with some decisions I am trying to make to encourage my son be more independent.

I am making a concerted effort getting him to be more involved and also more responsible within the family unit. There is a realisation on my part that if I do not actually make a conscious effort to introduce activities into his life, my son is going to find out that he has no idea how to catch a bus or a train or make his own breakfast.

I understand that things were different when I was younger. Perhaps they were better or more simple as well. But different is a word I like to use as it has no agenda about it. A lot of the life skills I learnt were part and parcel of the day to day process of living. I walked to school from the age of six. I caught the bus to school at aged ten as my mother would not drive me. My mother would send me over to the shops to get things when I was quite young. Little incidental activities like those are ones that taught me small skills that were relevant in later years.

Just the nature of society today makes parenting a little more daunting. I cannot quite put my finger on anything in particular as to why things are not so straightforward. It is more likely a collection of reasons. I suppose as a parent you just have to work around it to get the result that feels vaguely right.

Today I gave him a small list of shopping I wanted him to pick up from around the corner. The first port of call was at the Swiss Butcher's to pick up some pariser and roast beef. I told him to remember to be polite and to engage in conversation (as the owner of the shop is quite chatty). The next place to pick up supplies was the local bakery to get some bread rolls and a treat for himself. It was not a short walk either - at least 45 minutes. He took the dog as well for company. When he came back he was pleased. He told me that the man at the butcher's gave him some free slices of pariser to eat and they had a chat whilst the meat was sliced for him.

"Did you like doing it?" I asked.

"Yeah, I felt more grown up," he answered which was nice for me to hear.

It was not anything huge that he did today, but it was a good thing. I know that perhaps a family with a lot of children and relatives may well never have to worry about whether or not their children are learning boring old life skills. But in a single child family there often has to be a more structured element to introducing little milestones into that child's life. Whether I like it or not, there is a good chance that both my husband and I may do too much for our son and thus take away from him a lot of incentive to learn things on his own.

Having said all of that with great meaning and intentions, I had to do one thing for my son today and that was to clean his fusty and dusty bedroom. He would sleep in a pile of rubbish if I let him (as long as it did not smell). For the past few weeks I have stepped into his room with trepidation whilst quickly getting what I needed or, more likely, tossing some toy back onto a shelf.

So today I tackled it. It was getting me down. Untidy I can handle, dirty just freaks me out. I had to move his bed to get under and vacuum the carpet. I wiped everything down and did all those things you do to get a room clean. But the one thing I dare not tackle is the contents of his cupboards. He has toys, puzzles, paper, pencils, more toys, Lego, more paper and more of stuff that has no name. Plastic boxes full of bits and pieces of things that belong to twiddly bits in other boxes and one day they will find each other or something. I don't know.

He never plays with any of it. His friends do. The come over and snoop through his cupboards like customs beagles at an airport going through luggage. Out come tins with things in them. Boxes with Lego and stacks of trading cards. My son hangs around whilst the friend continues their journey of discovery.

He will not let me throw anything out. I respect his decision. These things belong to him and therefore I feel I have no right to remove them. I do have a right, however, to pack them down to make room for other stuff. Subsequently today I had to just shove everything in whatever space I could find in the cupboards. If you were to open any door you would be confronted with a colourful array of childhood items of amusement.

Or, more likely, a pile of crap that I spent my hard earned money on thinking my son would play with it!

Sigh...

Ciao
LC

Me And Computers

The other day I mentioned how I uninstalled something rather crucial to the core function of my computer.

Something called a Via Raid Tool which apparently does something with partitioning the hard drive. Blah, blah, blah.

Well, the bottom line is, I stuffed my computer and now it is a case of data save.

Lots of photos were on there... Which I was meaning to get printed and had not got around to it. And I was going to back them up on my data stick. Which I didn't get around to.

Lots of business stuff on there. Which I was going to back up. And did not not around to it etc....

Surprisingly I am not as upset as I could be and that is because PMT was last week and not this week so that is okay.

My husband just said that he was thankful that he did not do it. What does he mean????

I always think good things generally come out of bad situations. And the good thing about this is that my son has had to get off the other computer every now and then to let my husband onto it. So he gets up from the computer which involves movement of various body parts. He then schleps his way into the kitchen and opens the fridge which involves more movement. Drinks out of the milk carton (behind my back - but I know anyway). Then moseys to the couch where he plonks and watches television.

Incidental exercise happening there. Not much, but enough to wake up the body slightly.

I just have to say, however, that important programmes that are on the computer should not be so easy to access to enable uninstalling to even happen! Or they should have little warnings like "only a computer geek would uninstall this programme". Then I would know not to continue any further.

Perhaps I should suggest that to that big computer corporation to reword their warnings out of consideration for like me who think they know what they are doing when they really have no clue. Does that make sense?

Oh, and I want to say to everyone out there "back up your stuff". Just in case you get the urge to play computer technician.

Ciao
LC

Words On Paper

My mum migrated to Australia from Denmark when she was eighteen. That is a long time ago as she will be sixty-eight this year. Fifty years in a country on the other side of the world from which she came from.

I know that she used to get a lot of letters from her own mother for years on end. I also know that she hardly wrote back. She told me once that she just couldn't. Couldn't think what to write, did not think she was very clever so just never wrote much at all really. When overseas phone calls became cheaper she would call her mother rather than go to the effort of writing a letter. She has not actually changed much. My mother speaks to me via msn mostly. I may speak to her every six weeks or so on the phone. I don't know why she is like that. Maybe I should ring her more often, but sometimes I think that she likes how it is.

For years she just kept all the letters in various boxes and odd places around the house. Not in any particular order or anything. You could open a kitchen drawer and there would be one there, or perhaps a cupboard and a few would be lying around in it or a couple in her sewing basket. Just kind of spread around rather carelessly. I remember them arriving in the mail. Thin, pale blue paper with the angled navy and white stripe showing it to be airmail. My grandmother's handwriting was spidery. I could never read the letters myself as they were written in Danish and I never learnt to speak or read the native tongue of my parents.

Sometimes I would receive a birthday card from mormor. The only thing I could understand was my name. The rest was written in Danish and I would ask my mother to translate it to me, which she did so rather quickly. The translation from one language to another is not always straightforward. I still have those few birthday cards packed away somewhere.

I would occassionally open one of the letters and try to pick a couple of familiar words out and make some sense of the contents. Mum never felt inclined to tell me what was written. Just boring things was the answer I got when I asked.

Towards the yet unknown but inevitable end of my parent's marriage there was a lot of general packing of family stuff going on. Mum would fill boxes with what she called rubbish. The boxes made their way from the family home to my parent's furniture factory to be stored up high on the mezzanine floor above the office where they collected a thick layer of dust over the next couple of years. The letters were shoved into a mixture of green garbage bags and a couple of boxes, mingling with craft magazines and other bits and pieces. Forgotten about.

A couple of years after their quiet exit from home my mother had some sort of notion to rid herself of all the superfluous crap that was around her. And that included clearing out the stuff in storage on the mezzanine floor.

I sat up on the floor with her as she opened the boxes one by one. The floor was filthy with dust and there was hardly any light to see by. I had to sit in a position that allowed me to see what was in the boxes without blocking the thin sunlight that shone through the open roller door way below us. Out came magazines and letters. My mum occasionally opened the odd letter from her mother and briefly read it before throwing it away.

I asked why she did not keep them. She said they took up too much room.

"Mum, you could fit them all in a box and put them on top of your wardrobe. Once you throw them out they will be gone for good. You might want them later on to read. Or I may want them," I said to her.

But she was adamant that they were no longer part of her life and, as I could not read Danish, she said that they were no use to me. One handful by another she grabbed them and into the rubbish bag they went. Years and years of one sided correspondence being thrown away. Years of words that her mother took the time to write were tossed aside as though they had never happened. Although I was aware that something was not quite right about what she was doing, I was not mature enough to be able to process that information in my head in a rational manner. It was instinctively wrong but my mother still had enough hold over me that I would not question her decision.

I can still see her crouched in a rather uncomfortable position reading the odd letter before throwing it aside. Not one letter was important enough to her to keep. Maybe there was something cathartic about what she was doing. I have never asked her and it is unlikely I ever will. In my opinion, it is one of those actions that she may regret and I see no point in stirring up unwanted emotions just to satisfy my own curiosity.

When K and I went to Denmark in 1994 we met up with my mother's sister. She made no bones about expressing her anger at the fact my mother was very sporadic in writing letters back to mormor. What could I say. Not much really. People have reasons for what they do. My mum had a tough marriage and not an easy life here and I am sure she had bigger things to think about than writing letters. What could she say anyway? Dear mum, I married the wrong person? Perhaps she did not want to worry anyone. Sometimes there is nothing to say anyway.

I keep letters. Even small notes written to me by my brother that say things like "don't touch light switch in bathroom as it is wet and you will get electrocuted and die" are kept in a small box. A little note that my son showed his dad, a white, screwed up piece of paper that says the word "fuck" on it which he wrote in the way a six year old child would when he realises that he knows how to.

Letters are completely different to the spoken word. They evoke some sort of nostalgia that is difficult to explain. You could read a letter the first time and feel one thing and yet read it again and feel something else. It is not as easy to write to someone in anger as it is to speak the words in anger. By the time you take out the pen and paper and start writing, any anger you may feel is likely to settle as you start letting the words flow. I mean to say, writing the words "you are a shit" looks very funny on paper, whereas writing the words "I am sorry" makes so much more sense.

Whilst email is one form of writing it is not quite the same as a handwritten letter. Too quick perhaps. Too spontaneous maybe. Email is a great way to communicate but the prospect of it becoming public knowledge on a huge scale can take away the intimacy of that communication. A typed word can sometimes look a little tidy for my liking. That does not mean I don't like sending and receiving emails, it just means that I think they rate second to a hand written letter or card.

The visual beauty of handwriting on a carefully chosen piece of paper is ultimately a most pleasing thing to see.

One thing my mum does do these days is send everyone cards on their birthday or for Christmas. She makes beautiful cards with great detail and glorious colour. I see her handwriting has the same spidery style of her own mother. I keep them in places around the house much like she kept her mother's letters in various hidey holes. However, the cards I keep and they will never be thrown out.

Really, I suppose I actually do know why my mum threw out all those letters. I think they were a reminder of times in her life that were not very good. Why keep things like that when reading them would make her feel sad.

Having written this I think I may write my mum a little letter.

One that she may keep because her life is pretty peaceful now and my letter is unlikely to remind her of anything other than that I was thinking of her. Which is fine by me.

Ciao

LC

Seven Q's Random Meme

Kat from Poetikat had a nice, little random meme for anyone to do. Sometimes memes are good things when you are having a blogger's block happening.

Seven random questions.

1. Name?

Linda.

2. Age?

44. 5 years.

3. Favorite book?

Hard to say really. Anything by Somerset Maugham and Alain de Botton.

Poem?

The Ning Nang Nong (does that rate as poetry?)

Song?

Ah, well now, that depends what mood I am in. Lately it has been "Always look on the bright side of life" which may offend some. But my signature song is "And She Was" by Talking Heads. I intend to have this played at my funeral. In fact, both of the songs I have mentioned rate quite highly in the send off song that would say a lot about how I see the world sometimes.

4. Top band in your iPod/MP3 Player.

At the moment it is Paul Simon's greatest hits - I love his song The Obvious Child.


5. Favorite blog at the moment?

http://www.copenhagengirlsonbikes.blogspot.com/

6. Starbucks/Vic Bitter (for Australians) Drink?

As Melbourne has exceptional coffee shops I would have to say that the cafe Elfresco in Bentleigh does a mean coffee. Strong without being bitter. And, as I don't drink alcohol I cannot answer the second part.

7. Anything Random?

This Thursday the Tax Office is coming to do a Tax Audit. I am now at work on a public holiday getting it ready. The whole thought of it is making me sick. I know that I have done everything correctly - but there is something about getting a Tax Audit that would just spoil anyone's day.

So, if you are feeling like a bit of a random patter, try this one out.

Ciao
LC

Just Thinking Twaddle

I have not been posting as much as I would like and there are 101 reasons for it.

As much as I love the computer, the Internet and blogging, what I do not like is how it can be very time consuming, rob a person of ability to use problem solving skills and make you lazy. The times I have sat at the computer and then two hours passes just beggars belief. I actually have to constantly discipline myself to do what has to be done first. It is like being on a diet or something.

I know there are some fabulous things to do with and on the computer. Don't get me wrong. But I do think it is important to do non-electronic activities now and then. The brain is capable of so many different ways of thinking that a person really should feed it as many options as possible.

Anyway, I also have had to set examples for my son. He is inclined to sit all day at the computer given half the chance. I can hardly tell him to get up and do something else if I am doing the same thing.

One thing I noticed when I started taking this stance of limiting his time on the computer was just how much at a loss he was to do things. It is different for me as a parent. I always have something to do - housework, cooking, gardening etc. But for a child it can be not as easy to work out a way to fill your time.

It is not even about boredom. Because all children and adults get bored. Since the computer offers such instant gratification it takes the urge to "nut things out" from you. I have had to sit down and show S things to do. Sometimes I make him come for a walk with me down the street, sweep the floor in the kitchen, help me do a few things around the house that require his muscle, ask him to take the dog for a walk or get out pencils and paper and start to draw things with him. I am trying to get him to reformat his brain a bit to kick start it into some level of curiosity. It is a constant challenge for me and for him.

Whilst I am just twaddling on here today I am going to mention the thing I did on the computer yesterday.

We have three computers. Terrible isn't it. One is in the studio and the other two are in the office in the house. I also have a lap top but rarely open it. It is an emergency one I guess.

S is always on my office computer downloading his games and all sorts from the Internet. Now and then I go through the computer and uninstall things he no longer uses. I do this to keep the computer clean or it just gets so clogged up with rubbish that it runs very slowly.

So, yesterday I open the control panel and click on the icon for adding or removing programmes. S is sitting with me so we can ascertain what he uses and does not and then I uninstall the defunct software.

Well, really, I was very hormonal and that brought me down to the thinking level of my son and I got a bit blase about what I was uninstalling and inadvertently uninstalled the driver on my computer. Subsequently this morning it will not turn on properly.

I was telling my mum about this via msn (rather than pick up the phone) and she says that she did the same once and then gave me instructions on how to fix it.

After explaining to her that I was very hormonal and would not do it today, she then said that it would be best to get a professional in as when she fixed it she wiped everything off the computer.

Not sure if I would say that was "fixing it".

Mother's advice is not always the best advice is it.

Ciao
LC

Wagging School

When I was at high school there was always a group of prolific wagger's. I always envied their bravery. Although I myself was not one who generally skipped school, there were a couple of times that I did and the memory of the thrill of it is still with me.

I know I have mentioned a school friend of mine a couple of times. Trudy. She was a good friend when we were at school together. On the weekend we would either go into the city or ride our bikes around the local area. At one point we both had a part time job at McDonald's and worked as many shifts as we could so that we could go shopping at the Victoria Market and pick up clothes for next to nothing. One time we went together and each bought a long sleeved black shirt for $5.00. We wore them all the time.

One day we decided to wag school. The Royal Melbourne Show was on and we badly wanted to go. I must have been around 15 years old and at the age where my parents were loathe to let me roam too far from home. The lure of the show was great to a teenager. Rides, show bags, junk food and boys. Freedom at the side show I suppose.

The morning of the deed Trudy picked me up from home to go to school. We were both in uniform but had packed our day clothes in our otherwise empty school bags. As we made our way to school and then up a side street to the train station we were full of excitement. The weather was a bit overcast but the threat of rain had not a chance of lessening our thrill at doing what was a very naughty thing.

We got to the train station and changed into our clothes, shoving the yellow checked school dresses into the bag. I wore a pair of cobalt blue jeans (high waisted), dessert boots and the $5.00 black shirt. I put some eye make up on. Black kohl pencil, black mascara and some blue eyeshadow. This was the 70's! I was embracing the Kate Bush wild yet doe eyed look. I can only recall that Trudy had blue jeans on and perhaps a light shirt. She never had to wear make up, she was too pretty for words.

The train ride was chaotic. We were so excited, the carriage was empty and we ran up and down the empty aisles laughing. Now I am older I am not so sure I would be able to recall that joy if I were to see two teenage girls doing the same. It is so easy to forget the excitement of being young.

There is something very surreal about a showground. Whether it be a circus or a fairground it always feels like another world once you step into the arena of bright colours, rides and side shows offering prizes for your hard earned pocket money. It is a place of sly glances between boys and girls roaming in packs. A place of bright eyed children taking in the sights. Parents reliving their childhood as they share it with their own offspring. To me it appeals to all age groups. Nostalgia and melancholic memories unpacked on a yearly basis at the Flemington Racetrack.

Trudy and I got the the show at about 10.30 in the morning. The sky was grey and there was a faint drizzle which covered everything with a fine, wet and slick surface. My shoes were slippery on the dirty metal walkways that led up to each ride.

Rides at the show used to be the main attraction for me. The more menacing the action the ride offered, the more likely I was to part with my money. I love the structure and strength of the rides. They are like some big animal waiting to toss people in the air. Their big, grease marked mechanical arms thrust out from the core of the ride to hold up the paint flecked cages containing laughing voices before they swing up higher and then down in a sudden rush only to repeat the action over and over again.

Some rides were more thrilling than others. My all time favorite shriek inducer would have to have been The Zipper. I can still remember the laughing fear that would clutch at my chest as the cage would swing over the edge of the constantly moving arm. The sensation of falling forward at such speed was almost addictive. For a ride to be truly successful, it needs to give you a feeling of fear and happiness at the same time. Those two contradictory emotions are almost guaranteed to force a scream of laughter out from you.

Stay away from rides that go in circles. Any ride that spins around and around will only force one thing out of you. And that is a vomit which will spoil your entire day. I am speaking from experience here. The Turbo - multi armed spin cycle with cages attached induced such an action from me many, many years ago.

Anyway, Trudy and I got to the show and walked around in the drizzle, my hair was damp and frizzy and my beige dessert boots were mud splattered. We decided to go on the aforementioned Turbo ride together as this ride was Trudy's favorite.

As I stepped up on the slippery metal steps with their dimple surface I could hear the music that the belting out from the speakers in the small control hut. It was a current pop song by a band called Dragon. The song was called "Are you old enough". The boys who were working the ride were kind of dancing around to the song. They were much older than Trudy and I. Maybe about 19 or so. Almost men but not quite I guess. When Trudy and I stepped up and handed our tickets over to them there was much fuss about opening the cage and helping us in.

The youth who shut the door of the pod peered at us both through the cage and then he winked. He told us to enjoy our ride. He looked a bit like the lead singer of Dragon. I thought he was handsome.

The ride took it's course of twists and turns and whilst Trudy laughed in that fearful and happy laugh of someone having fun I was struggling with the circular motion of the whole thing. When it finished it was non too soon. As the door opened I stepped out slowly and could feel that my face was pale as I was seriously contemplating vomiting. However, there was no way that I would humiliate myself and just gingerly walked towards the exit.

As I left, the boy that had helped Trudy and I on the ride came up to me and asked if I was feeling alright. I was so shy in that awful teenage way and I just nodded and looked up at him with my smudged, kohl black eyes and blushed furiously. I could hardly speak with the awkwardness that I felt. Trudy came up and then helped me down the stairs whilst he stood at the top and stared at me in a most interested and brooding fashion. I was too nervous to give a signal of sorts that his interest was returned. Not that I could have done much. There was no way that my parents would let me go out with a boy anyway. Especially not one who was over 18 and worked at a showground.

Trudy, however, had no such inhibitions and she ran back up the stairs and started talking to him in that way that men find so irresistible.

The next thing I know she had his phone number clutched in her hand. I know she went out with him for a few times but have forgotten how it ended.

It kind of took the edge of the day.

As far as I am concerned, it was me he winked at, it was me he liked.

But it was she who had the courage to ask for the phone number.

Now, when I hear that song I think of the innocent enjoyment of that day. Any jealousy I may have felt at Trudy getting the boy I liked has long gone. I close my eyes and I can almost hear the sounds of the show in my head. See her flirtatious smile as she so easily cast forth her charms and ensnared the boy who had winked at me. I probably stood at the bottom of the stairs panda eyed, pale faced and watched as she so easily took my moment and turned it into hers.

Well I do have to admit, she probably did me a favour. Somehow I could not imagine living my life out at the showgrounds.

Ciao
LC