I Want To Be Alone

On Sunday we made our way out to a fashionable street not far from where we live.

Chapel Street in South Yarra has for a long time been the haven of fashionistas and latte drinkers. It is a long street and at one end is the super trendy collection of funky fashion shops whilst at the other end it kind of becomes a shabby group of shops selling cheap tat or a variety of grubby cafes.

When I was much younger I had a few friends who used to always talk about going to Chapel Street for shopping on a Saturday. They would talk about the fabulous clothes and shoes that could be bought down there and I often thought it must be so exciting. Eventually I made my way down to the much praised street only to find it was full of a vast array of clothing stores with very ugly clothes on display. I wondered if I perhaps misunderstood what my friends were on about.

When we were walking down that street last Sunday I found it smelly, crowded and boring. Okay, we were at the shabby end for most of the time, but even at the upmarket end of it I was totally unimpressed. The cafes were packed to the gills and unbelievably noisy and neither myself or S and K were inclined to go into them. We ended up grabbing some food at a bakery and sitting down at a vacant table in a mall to have lunch. At least it was quiet.

Eventually we made our way home and, instead of feeling relaxed after the outing, I felt agitated and vaguely shitty. I had to think about why I felt that way (I like to analyse the source of all emotions).

It did not take me long to work out that I don't like going to places where there are crowds.

I don't mean the crowds you would expect at a concert, or a festival or perhaps some sort of special event. I mean the crowds that just happen to be everywhere these days.

In the supermarket there are loads of people, down the street on a Sunday are loads of people, in the park, down the beach, on the bike track, at the craft markets and in every cafe you may step into. There are people everywhere. I cannot get away from them.

When I was a teenager I used to take the train into the city on my own on a Sunday. It was quiet. Quiet like the end of the world. Bits of paper fluttering across vacant streets, a lone person in the distance and maybe the odd car would pass by. It was heavenly.

Years ago you could take your bike or skateboard to the local shopping mall and use the parking lot to ride on. Then seven day trading came in which ended that past time.

The quietest place for me to go these days is my own home.

Even if you want to go away for a weekend drive to some far off place, don't bother because I can assure you that about one thousand other people will be thinking the same thing. Sometimes I get brochures advertising a lovely festival to go to and when I suggest it my son says he really could not stand all the people.

Don't get me wrong, there is something lovely and vibrant about lots of people out on a sunny day down the shops, but really, surely we can have a Sunday of silence. No shops open except a local milk bar. Maybe a couple of little cafes open down near the beach.

Maybe people can stay home and play games. Talk to each other. Do some gardening.

And then let me go for a walk down the empty street.

Ciao
LC

Pretty Places

A few posts ago I mentioned how I fiddled around with my computer "cleaning it up" and totally stuffed it. We had to wait a few weeks to get the computer geek to save what he could from my hard drive and then rebuild my computer. At the time I was very concerned about my photos stored but thankfully they were all restored intact. So I had a look at the overseas photo's again and remembered just how pretty places really can be.

Of course when we were over in the UK we went to visit Stonehenge. I just have to tell you that, quite frankly, on that freezing cold day I could have been visiting the Queen or a dunny for all I cared. It was so cold, so icy, that I walked around, severely under dressed, like a robot for any movement was bound to let in a slip of chilly wind up my sleeve or down my ear canal each time I did move. I recall very clearly that I had a bout of eczema which itched madly and every now and then I had to shove my icy cold hands up my top to scratch myself like a dog with fleas. Despite the fact I had a cotton singlet, thermal t-shirt, long sleeved skivvy, polar fleece jacket, woolen scarf and an overpriced Gortex jacket I was frozen. My son's bottom lip ended up with a bleeding split in it from the cold wind. However, the weather made the bleak and intriguing loneliness of the pillar's at Stonehenge all the more fascinating. I like this photo I took, which of course mirrors everyone else's pictures taken on the day, but that is okay. It just confirms that I was there.

Even though it was Spring in the UK, the trees were still bare and their tangled branches were a constant fascination for me. I took so many photos of them it did get a bit boring for others. This little patch of trees was just at the Wallace Monument in Scotland. The contrast of the green foliage, earnest yellow daffodils and chaos of naked branches was very appealing.

We were in a very pretty village in the Cotswold's - the name escapes me. Alongside a building was a little walkway with a small beck along it. No wonder people do love the English garden so much. I think the extremes of weather allow for a very diverse landscape as each season descends upon it.

We stayed a a very tired old pub in The Lake District and these were the steps that led you from our full length bedroom windows. However, if you continued beyond the top of the steps you were led to the huge rubbish bins and a couple of clothes lines with t-towels drying on them. The building was built around the 1600's and felt as though it was part of the rock that it nestled against. It had a refurbishment in the 1980's and I swear that was the last time it had a vacuum - very, very dusty and smelly. But nice regardless of that. They catered so well to my vegetarian diet by making me a big bowl of white boiled rice accompanied by a big bowl of vegetables - I had to smother it with salt to eat it. Still, the thought was there.

Sometimes when you are driving along you just see something like a track or a path that has nothing to do with tourists. Part of the day to day living that everyone does irrespective of the prying eyes of eager holiday makers. Paths from houses to letterboxes can be as beautiful as a manicured garden of a grand house.

When I look at these photos I suppose that they remind me of how nature is so unselfish, offering her beauty to us so freely. I like that people work within her confines like the ebb and flow of a tide. Lots of give and take. Obviously the human race takes more than gives, but somehow nature still manages to put on a brave face regardless.

Tomorrow is national tree planting day here. So, a good time to be part of making beautiful landscapes for people to admire in twenty years or more.

There is more to see than the inside of shopping centres.

Ciao

LC

Becoming Obsolete

When you have a child, there are stages at which you realise you are not needed in the same way. It means they are growing up and establishing their independence.

I don't mind these changes as they arrive because it means my son is more and more his own person now and that is good.

The other morning he said that he did not want toast for breakfast anymore.

"I don't want toast for breakfast. I have had it pretty much every day for as long as I can remember. I think I might have cereal", he stated suddenly.

He ended up having a bowl of All Bran (all I had in the house) which he determined to be quite disgusting. So the next day I bought a variety pack of cereals so that he could work out what he liked. Last thing I am doing it buying something he will not eat. I also told him that sugary things like Fruit Loops, Coco Pops, Nutrigrain, Rice Bubbles and other similar things were not an option. That left a choice of chaff, hay, straw, cardboard and shredded paper the only options. Oh, and muesli.

Anyway, we have come up with a couple of choices.

Around the same time as this, he has asked that I get his clothes ready and put them on a chair in his bedroom each night so that he can wake up and get dressed. Previously he was getting dressed in the warm lounge room but took ages and left his stuff everywhere. So I agreed to that.

Now, each morning he is out of bed and completely dressed whilst I am still fast asleep. Then he makes his own breakfast. And this morning he made his own lunch for the first time.

It was funny to lay in bed and listen to the sounds of him making his breakfast. Cupboards and fridge opening and closing. The clink of a bowl as he put it on the bench. Tinkle of cutlery whilst he took out a spoon. Scrape of a chair on the floor as he sat at the bench. None of it had anything to do with me or K. Just S, on his own, doing his own thing.

The sounds of independence.

Ciao
LC

Feeding My Brain

A number of posts ago I made mention of the fact that I had, over the years, allowed myself to "dumb down" as far as my book reading and general knowledge goes. So I made a decision to change what I read in my spare time.

No more Saturday newspapers. No more reading www.dailymail.co.uk whilst having a cup of coffee at the kitchen bench. No more Women's Weekly reading when a spare moment pops up. No magazines in bed. From now on, it was books, books and jolly good books at that.

I studied the books on my numerous bookshelves and resisted the urge to pick up a Patricia Cornwell or an Agatha Christie book. I wanted deep. I wanted introspective. I wanted to force my brain neurons to push through the pain barrier of fog web and read, read, read and suffer in the reading.

So, I picked up a book that I had not read for many, many years. And I mean that. In fact, it may well have been at least 25 years since I picked up this novel.

And the book I have chosen to challenge my brain is Thomas Hardy's "A Laodicean".

Now, not one of his most popular books I know, and perhaps not one of his best written ones, however it is one the reflects a great deal about his own life. I actually love Thomas Hardy as writer. His descriptions of people, countryside, townships and the intricate lives of people is extremely satisfying for me. I think my favorite of his books would be Return Of The Native. Then again, I also love Far from the Madding Crowd dearly. Hard to decide really.

The cover of this book must have been done in the 19070's. It is embellished with a glorious photo of a young couple dressed in the clothes of the Victorian era except with that particularly distinctive 1970's look about them both. I am unsure if it is the nylon appearance of the beige suit being worn by the male, or the Laura Ashley fabric on very exaggerated flouncing style of the dress worn by the female. Not that it matters, it is still sweet to look at.

Last night I went to bed earlier than usual and opened the yellowed pages to start my reading. Settling back into the pillows I squinted at the tiny writing and was forced to get out of bed and put on my glasses. Again I started reading.

First opening lines start; the sun blazed down and down, till it was within half-an-hour of its setting; but the sketcher still lingered at his occupation of measuring and copying the chevroned doorway..... My eyes take in the words and send them onwards to my brain to process and make a picture out of the scene. Lovely, lovely are the thoughts in my head.

I continue reading. I have to force myself to resist the urge to apply my speed reading techniques to just get through the first page a little quicker. Slowly I start to relax my mind enough to take in all the details of the next couple of pages. Slowly I am starting to build up a great picture of the first main character and what he is about. It feels good. Thomas Hardy, you never fail to amaze me with your detail.

However, I soon realise that I should not read Thomas Hardy when I go to bed as, well, I started to get tired. Perhaps it was these few words that started the droop of the eye; But as has often been said, the light and truth may be on the side of the dreamer: a far wider view than the wise ones have may be his at that recalcitrant time, and his reduction to common measure be nothing less than a tragic event. My first involuntary nod happened and my glasses slipped down my nose. I jerked my head up and continued along the paragraphs.

Eventually, however, I was forced to close the book half way through chapter two. Despite the beautiful description of the movements of main character and his musings whilst making his way home after engaging in some sketching of a ruin, I was overwhelmed with wordy tiredness.

And so I shut the book and placed it on my old bedside table (probably made around 20 years after Thomas Hardy wrote this novel), turned off the bedside light and snuggled down into crisp, white cotton bed linen. Closing my eyes I had a mental picture of the churchyard I had just read about. It was a very nice way to fall sleep, my head filled with images lifted from the first few pages of a well written book.

Thank you Mr Hardy.

Ciao
LC

Bread

Bread.

I love it.

I love it so much I think about it quite often. Plus, I love to look at photos of bread. Or stand in the bakery and admire the collection of loaves stacked side by side, dusted with flour, sprinkled with seeds or the top of the loaf slightly open and crusty. Rolls, loaves, cobs, vienna's, sticks in sweet or savoury. They are so tempting to both my eye and my palate.

Often I think about the few bakeries I love to visit just because I know they make the best bread in town.

One place I go to is in Elsternwick. They specialise in European rye breads. On selected days each week they make specific loaves. One is a very heavy and grainy rye and weighs a couple of kilograms.

Then there is the bagel shop Glick's which is not far from my house. Those lovely, white, chewy and sweet bagels are my favorite treat. Almost like a cake to eat.

Today K bought home a fresh, light rye from a bakery that used to be owned by my father. This loaf is soft and smells beautiful. The crust is slightly chewy. The taste is mild and the texture is so fine. I keep sneaking a slice of it out of the bag and eating it plain.

Another place I love is called Phillipa's Bakery and they are in Hampton. Terribly expensive but the variety is what makes a trip down there worthwhile. The Fig and Anise loaf is one I just love. Only I eat it though, no one else in the house likes it.

Of course, nothing beats a slice of freshly baked white bread with a spread of tart raspberry jam. Mmmmm. But I do like a white sour dough loaf just that bit more as it has a gorgeous after taste.

Sometimes I make my own bread (not in an auto bread oven) and it works out well enough. But it never tastes quite the same as baked by a traditional baker.

Commercial bread is very, very disappointing in comparison to a good, basic loaf from the local bakery. It is overly soft and stays that way for days on end. But sometimes you have to get it when in a rush to make someone's lunch for school.

When I was a little girl a treat my mum used to make me was oven dried bread with jam spread on it. Since then I have loved the crispy crust of an oven baked loaf.

It may well be full of carbs and you are not supposed to eat too much of it, but I say tough titties to that one. Sometimes I wonder how on earth people survive on one of those low carb, no carb diets when it means no bread.

I would rather do without drinking, lollies, chocolate, cheese, meat and junk food than do without the pleasure of eating beautiful and fresh bread.

Oh, yeah, I do that anyway. When you have to make the choice between bread and chocolate, well, I know I will always choose bread.

So, I can completely justify the six slices I have eaten today.

Yum.

Ciao
LC

Winter Saturday

At the end of the week I am always thinking about what I should like to do on the weekend. When I was younger, those thoughts would have been filled with ways to get out of the house to catch up with friends. These days it is quite a different story.

I usually think about what Farmer's market may be on that I could go to, or getting the washing done in preparation for ironing on the Saturday night and certainly I will muse over what food to by in anticipation of the upcoming week. In between all that I will be planning some time for a bike ride or some other form of exercise and have a stint in the studio or pick up a book.

Although in my teens I would have wanted to get out and have some social activity, from the time I have moved out from home I love being in my own home and doing homey aloney kinds of things.

I know that ages ago I posted about how my husband finds my isolated kind of persona very odd at times. The most sociable thing I do (apart from go to work) is catch up every few weeks with a couple that we have known for over twenty years. In fact, K went to school with the husband of the couple so that have a long history. I don't mind that catch up, but I would certainly not be too happy if it were every week.

Today I had to make my way down to a suburb called Elwood to buy some bike clothing (ugly stuff) and found myself in latte land. There was a glut of coffee shops in this small village type area and they were full of people chatting away, drinking coffee, eating cakes or a late lunch. When first I got out of the car and saw all this social activity happening I felt a sense of being very alone amongst all these people. However, by the time I got back to the car, after being forced to have a level of conversation in the bike shop, I was enormously relieved to be in my own space.

I was reminded of a conversation that I had with a client only yesterday when he was telling me how his wife and he have totally different social needs. He likes lots of people around him and she likes as few people as possible in her space. Over the years they have come to some sort of mutual appreciation of each other's needs. Essentially, he goes out every Friday night and nurses a hangover the following Saturday.

I used to think that my lack of social schmooze was because I was perhaps shy, but realise it is just about who I am. I know that if I had a big network of friends I would be obliged to see them all at one time or another and that bothers me greatly to feel compelled to see another person. Years ago I had a falling out with a girl I knew because she felt we did not see each other often enough. She wanted to catch up every single weekend and I found that commitment so stressful and not to my liking (especially as I had a husband). When I told her that catching up too often was detrimental to our friendship she told me never to ring her again - so I didn't.

My mother is the same as me, or should I say that I am more like her as I get older. She will spend ages on her own and then begrudgingly have lunch with a friend. Having the studio in the back yard has made the opportunity to be alone even more appealing for me. On a sunny day I am more than happy to spend hours on end in there just pottering around.

I have found that being not particularly sociable leads to a strange sort extreme pleasure in not talking to anyone. I have moments of drifting off and daydreaming whilst someone is speaking to me. Or knowing they are talking but not being able to discipline myself to focus on what they are saying to me. It may perhaps be what they are saying is so uninteresting that I cannot pay lip service and show any enthusiasm, or have I slipped into bad habits of mulling over my own private thoughts.

As rude as this may sound, I think it is the content of their conversation that is partly the problem. It may be a bit boring. Perhaps I need to branch out and find like minded people. Oh, but, oh it is like dating trying to find people who work from the same page as me. The odd few live in other countries and we can only communicate via email. Thank goodness for the interent to allow totally unsociable people to connect.

In the meantime I shall just enjoy my own little world - wherever that is at any given time.

Ciao
LC

Wondering On Wednesday

Wondering why I stuck the cotton bud down my right ear this morning and now cannot hear a thing in it.

Wondering why I squeezed that tiny pimple on my cheek last night and now have a ugly and large red spot in it's place.

Wondering why I bought that cheap and nasty face cream from the supermarket the other day and used it on my face knowing full well I may have a reaction as now I have a rash across both my eyes and forehead.

Wondering why I ate the handful of salty licorice last night whilst ignoring the knowledge that the last two times I ate it I had an awful stomach ache - and subsequently today I have the same awful stomach ache.

Wondering if my ironing pile will ever stop growing.

Wondering if I will ever get to work on time and not arrive in a fluster, hair all awry and my t-shirt on inside out again.

Wondering if, one day, someone in the house will actually tell me when they run out of toothpaste, toilet paper, milk, bread and other things and not leave it for me to find out when I am about to brush my teeth, wipe my bum, make a cup of coffee or have a piece of toast etc.

Wondering if, one day when I get home from work, dinner will be ready and no-one will ask me "what's for dinner?".

Wondering just how hard it must be for people who have real and genuine problems and not just petty and annoying ones like I have.

Ciao
LC

Humphrey's House

When I was about six or seven we lived in a well to do suburb called Brighton. It is along the beach in Melbourne. It was more of a genteel suburb when we were actually living in it. You know the sort, aging and gracious homes that over decades have sold off portions of land to allow the building of smaller homes as money became scarce. Then it kind of became a higgeldy piggeldy array of Californian Bungalows, picket fences and private schools. These days it is terribly expensive and the general female resident of Brighton would be underweight, over tanned, blonde and driving a four wheel drive down the the shopping strip to have coffee with friends.

But I should not comment on that part of Brighton, for when I lived there it was just a gracious and tired old suburb full of mostly elderly people.

We actually lived in three different homes in Brighton over a few years but the first one was in a street called Bent Street. It was named after a guy called Thomas Bent who did something important enough to get his image permanently erected in the form of a big statue that was placed along the highway.

It was the second house that my parents actually bought.

I think it was either deceased estate or the occupant had moved to a nursing home. I remember seeing the inside of the house before we moved in. It was furnished with old, old furniture. In one bedroom were twin single beds with cedar bedheads. They had matching bedspreads with a pattern that consisted of giant, ruby red cabbage print roses. There was a big wardrobe in the room with a drawer along the bottom. I opened it up and it was full of walking sticks.

When I moved to this house I had to change schools and make new friends. One of the friends I made was called Humphrey. It is, in my mind, an old man's name. Even then it was. But Humphrey was just a nice boy. He also happened to live only a couple of doors up from me. And I loved to visit him. He had the look of a boy that you may see step out of a Bill Bryson novel. His hair was dark and combed to one side, his face freckled and he always wore a checked shirt and jeans.

His house was a big, untidy old home. Over furnished and kind of smelly and messy. It was on a double block. The garden was overgrown. The backyard was huge and had a series of sheds that had been built and added onto over the years. A mix of corrugated iron, chicken wire and weathered, grey timbers joined together in some sort of adhoc manner. Inside these sheds was a vast array of rusted tools, half filled paint tins, dusty crates piled up on top of each other and obscure lumps of things that looked like engine blocks. The floor of these sheds was a dirty combination of second hand brick paving and earth. Filthy and stinky and so very interesting to children.

Humphrey's father was a plasterer. The old kind of plasterer. Lathe and plaster was his expertise. And he installed insulation batts into the roof space of peoples homes. All the waste and cut offs were dumped in an enormous pile in the backyard. It is unlikely he thought it would possibly compost away. He had a big backyard and that is what you did with your rubbish in those days.

When it had been raining, this pile of slimy plaster waste and cutoffs from the fibreglass insulation batts would turn into a stinking mess to climb upon. All the way to the very top - which at the time seemed like a mountain to a six year old. I have a clear memory of my shoes sinking into a white mass of plaster mix.

They also had ducks and hens enclosed in a huge pen. Now and then a batch of chicks or ducklings would appear, the yellow down on their small bodies the colour of soft butter against the brown mud on which they waddled along. Humphrey and I would sneak in to hold their fluffy little form in our hands so very gently. The mother duck would stamp her feet at us and quack loudly until we put them down again.

His dad stored all his insulation batts in a huge room that had been tacked onto the back of the house. Bags and bags of the stuff piled high. Some of the bags had been opened and the fat, pink and soft batts would be laying on the floor. Humphrey and I would play house amongst these fibrous and glassy slabs. Setting them up as beds and pillows and laying on them. The sun shone brightly through the louvered windows and you could see the twinkle of glass fibre floating in the air, on our hair, face and skin. Like dangerous fairy dust.

The fibreglass was laced with small pieces of the finest glass and was sometimes called glasswool. When you worked with it you had to wear gloves and cover any bare skin to prevent contact. I think they may uses safer variations of it these days as it was believed to be of a carcinogenic nature.

I would come home from Humphrey's home with my pale skin itching and covered in welts, my eyes red and watering. My mum would run a warm bath and I would soak in it until the discomfort went away.

I am certain she told me not to play with the fibreglass batts but I would be off there again the next available day to repeat the fun.

Today as I walked through the factory at work I noticed some modern insulation piled up waiting to be taken to a job. It was yellow but still had that same soft and thick look that I recall the pink ones having. I touched it's firm and fibrous surface and remembered Humphrey's house of Fibreglass.

For the short time I lived in Bent Street I learnt to ride a bike, realised my parents were not happy, saw the man across the road repeatedly expose himself to my sister and I, fell out of my bunk bed over and over again, found my mum under the lemon tree and learnt that fairies were not actually real.

Humphrey's house has long gone. Pulled down to make way for some units. Not a thing left to remind me of the fun I had there.

It was a nice time irrespective of other things that took place.

No matter what you do in life it is best to take the good memories with you for they offer the most pleasure upon reflection in later years.

Ciao
LC

Medical Twaddle

Today I had to go for a pelvic ultrasound. Nothing untoward is happening but I have some "female" things to attend to.

Firstly, I feel that I need to comment on how awful it must be for people who have multiple invasive medical examinations due to chronic poor health. I can only guess how dreary it must get once you are past the worry stage.

I have had a vast amount of ultrasounds and pelvic pokings over the past 25 years. And they do not get any easier as I get older. In fact, far from feeling okay about a prospective nosey in my private parts, I feel considerably more uncomfortable when they say those magic words "feet together and let your knees drop apart".

The last few ultrasounds were made more uncomfortable because the radiographers were male and half my age. Not that they cared, but I am at that "stage" in life where I am a little choosy about who I want investigating my twat.

But today was not so bad. A young girl was going to perform the task so that was okay. It has been almost three years since I last had one so I figured that was a pretty good run.

Prior to having a pelvic ultrasound you have to drink one litre of water one hour before your appointment. Then you have to hold on tight to enable the uterus to be accessible when they do the outer examination. One litre of water is a lot to drink and it seems even more to hang onto when you are lying on your back. After that unpleasant moment you then have go and have a pee before the "intravaginal ultrasound".

Yep, that is as bad as it sounds. There I was lying on my back, naked from the waist down, covered in a starched sheet and waiting for her to come back into the room to do the deed. As I am lying there in the dimly lit, peach coloured and uber spotless sterile room I see the tool of trade that she will be using on me. Six inches of something that looks like part from a vacuum cleaner, covered in a sheath of sterile plastic and there, perched on the top, is a GIANT blob of shiny lubricant. A great big thing quivering like a jelly fish.

Great. I can hardly wait.

After the longest 15 minutes I have had for a while, she kindly hands me two tissues.

"What is that for?" I ask her.

"Oh, you know, to wipe yourself," she answers and leaves the room to enable me to make myself decent.

Oh, yeah, right. Two tissues to get rid of what I had seen on the end of the thing she had just shoved up my clacker.

I don't think so.

I searched all the cupboards in the room (half naked of course) until I found some boxes of tissues and proceeded to help myself as I saw fit - and that was more than two I used. Oh, and they were about as smooth as sandpaper - talk about cheap and nasty.

Then, once I was dressed, dry and decent I had to go and pay $193.50 for the exciting event.

I think that was the worst bit actually.

Not quite the way I like to spend my hard earned cash.

Ciao
LC

Man In Car

Just around the corner from me lives a man who must love his car.

I really started noticing him a couple of years ago when I would pick up my son from school and go down this particular street to get home.

Almost every single time I passed this man's house he would be either asleep in his car or just sitting in it, looking out from behind the wide windscreen.

The car is in pristine condition. A Ford LTD in a glossy, metallic sage green colour. Shiny chrome bumper bars, door handles and window trim. I think it is an early 1980's model. It is always parked outside the front of his home. In fact, I cannot recall ever driving down this particular street and the car not being there. And I drive down it almost every day.

Sometimes on the weekend I drive past and he is still in the car. What is he doing sitting in the car on a Saturday afternoon?

There are times when I have seen him just sweeping the footpath in front of his house. Or just standing near his car and smoking a cigarette in the quiet and thoughtful manner that smoker's do when enjoying their habit.

I think he is in his early 70's, but that is hard to tell. Slightly built with stooped shoulders. Usually wears a short sleeved shirt in a vague beige colour and contrasting brown trousers which look around the same vintage as the car. His hair is grey and I think he must oil it and comb in back neatly. Sometimes his hair is tucked behind his ears which looks odd on a man.

I once caught a glimpse of his wife when I drove past one day. She was hovering in the entrance of the front doorway. Grey haired, quite stout and wearing an apron. In the short time I looked over at where she was I caught a little moment in time of their life. Her at the door talking to him, whilst he stood with his back to her, shoulders hunched and cigarette in his hand. The whole brief picture was one of indifference and exasperation between the two.

I may well have read it incorrectly, that small scene between them, but it reminded me of the same pose between my own parents many years ago.

I think that is why he sits in his car and watches the world go by. I am sure he bought that car new and loves it as men are inclined to love their cars. He must watch school children walking by day in and day out. Not watching in a creepy way, just watching in the way that people do when they think about their life.

His house is neat, the garden trimmed, the pavement swept. The sage green car shiny and loved.

All these little lives going on really fascinate me.

Ciao
LC

No Heading For This One

Now and then my son has looked for things on the internet that I would rather he did not.

We all know that the internet can spew up some awful stuff that has no place in the mind of a child. An adult can somehow deal with it, but for a child a lot of damage is done if something seriously inappropriate.

In the old days a boy may have found a Playboy magazine and seen a naked girl or two.

Not so these days.

Anyway, S had been on my little laptop looking at You Tube and other things. After he was off I could see that he had searched for the words "sexual intercourse on You Tube". Hmmmm.

Now, there was no way I was letting this one slide. I tackled him on it.

Firstly he tried to deny that he looked it up. He then leant over toward the computer and asked me where I saw those words.

"You are a red as a tomato my boy so just 'fess up," I said to him.

"Okay, so I did. I don't know why I did, I just, well, I just did," he babbled on a bit.

I laughed a bit. Told him it was normal to be curious but it was best that he kind of held back until he was older.

"How old? Eighteen?" he asked.

"What? No, look I don't know the magic age but I do know that eleven is not okay to be looking up sexual activities between people on the internet," I explained.

"Look mum, I do know that sex is an expression of love between two people," he said and then hesitated.

"Listen, good sex, special sex is an expression of love between two people. But sex is also a basic human need and it is normal to want to have a look at things that are about sex and that has nothing to do with love. Most young boys have thoughts and feelings inside them and want to follow that feeling. But the internet is just not the place to find things out. It shows you things that are too graphic and looking for porn on the internet can become habitual and personally damaging. It can make you feel hollow. Just remember that. You will learn and discover what you need to in your own good time," I explained to him.

He was silent for a moment before nodding in agreement. I hoped that I reassured him that he was normal to want to search whilst at the same time teaching him about not always giving in to urges. We do have good software on our computers to stop most rubbish coming through, but I don't want to use that as my computer babysitter. I want my son to think carefully about what he does. I also do not ever want him to feel shame because he has natural and curious feelings about sex.

I then suggested to him that if he felt uncomfortable about speaking to me about sex he could always talk to his dad. Perhaps have a father and son chat. Up went the eyebrows and then a big eye roll.

"No way, he would just feel uncomfortable. I am fine speaking to you mum," he answered.

Later on I did laugh about one thing. That he looked up "sexual intercourse" as opposed to "fuck" or "porn" or even just "sex".

I am not sure I could have even spelt the word at his age let alone knew what it actually meant.

Ciao
LC

Post Number Five Hundred

This is post number 500.

Yeps, here I am still typing away in cyberspace.

Not so many posts are being laid down these days. It is easy to get totally obsessed with blogging and a while ago I had to be mindful of my responsibilities and limit my blogging time.

Not so many people visit my blog these days and that is fine. People come and go. But I do enjoy knowing that there are a handful of lovely people who deign to make enough time in their days and visit my blog, post a comment and connect with me from many miles away.

I do not have as much time to visit as many blogs as I would like. It is nothing personal, just time.

Over years I have kept a journal. But an online journal is much more pleasing to work with.

I have made a note of my blog on a piece of paper for my son in case he wants to know anything about me when he gets older and I can no longer recall things in great detail.

But it is not just for him that I blog. I blog for me. I like doing it. It is a nice thing to do.

Expression in the written form is a constant pleasure for me. I have a dream that one day I will be able to sit down all day and write. But life sometimes gets in the way of doing these things and I just squeeze in what I can.

Well, five hundred is a well rounded number.

Now I shall think about post number 501.

Ciao
LC

Bonding With My Bike

When people partake in the pastime of Polo they have a deep and personal relationship with their ponies.

I have, over the years, had a deep and personal relationship with my two old pushbikes. One is a big, black 1950's Raleigh boys bike. The other is a Raleigh girls bike that my husband built for me, complete with rod brakes and painted in a cheery yellow. I love them dearly, but, I have to confess that they are just a bit impractical to ride anywhere except down to the local shops on a sunny day to pick up a bread stick and some fruit and veges. They are cruising kind of bikes.

On the few occasions that I have taken them out for a big ride I am knackered by the time I get to the end of the street. No matter how well looked after they are, no matter how lovely they look they are, essentially, old bikes. I think they weigh about 25 kgs each and when I ride up a hill it is extra hard work. Pushing my body weight along with the weight of the bike really is hard work. And I am not unfit by any means.

And they are slow to ride. This in turn makes me nervous when riding in heavy traffic. I feel that I am unable to nip in and out of the spaces that are offered up to me.

A couple of months ago I was told that I was not to do any jogging any more and to limit how much walking I do. I am nursing a chronic injury that will not be able to mend itself for a long, long time. Walking and jogging quite simply aggravate it and the suggestion was put forth to take up swimming or cycling to maintain my fitness levels. As I cannot swim (and just hate getting my head wet) I had to make the monumental decision to purchase a new and modern road bike.

So on Saturday I went on my own doing bike shopping. I have not ridden a new push bike for at least 25 years. I have been a stoic supporter of the classic English bicycle for ever and a day. In those passing 25 years I have been a bit critical of people who buy high tech bikes and then don lycra clothing and then go for long rides.

Well, here I am about to confess that I am joining the lycra brigade.

I found a bike. After making my way into a high tech bicycle shop and trying out a modern road bike I realised just how unbelievably far the humble pushbike has come. As a lighweight commuter push bike found it's way under my sceptical body I was duly impressed with technical twaddle that accompanied this bike I was about to buy.

It weighed about the same as my handbag. I felt joyful as I pushed the pedal down and the bike was thrust forward at an alarming speed.

So, Tuesday I pick it up and before I take it they will fit me to the bike and take me through how to get the best out of it.

I feel a bit disloyal to my two other bikes sitting in the garage but I know when the sunny days come out I will use them for a leisurely pedal down the street to pick up some shopping supplies.

I have lots of love to give when it comes to my bikes.

Ciao
LC

Time Out At The Movies

We saw two movies this week.

On Tuesday, to celebrate my son's eleventh birthday we went and saw the latest Indian Jones movie. It was fun, met all our expectations despite being almost identical to the previous three.

Today, S and I went to see Prince Caspian (the second movie in the Narnian Chronicles).

It is not often that I actually feel as though I have been taken to another world on the wings of a movie, but for some reason I really felt as though I was in a most dreamlike state whilst I watched the lovely richness of this movie.

I first read the entire Narnian Chronicles when I was about ten years old. They were so enjoyable and they took me to a place of beauty each time I read them. Whilst I know now the essence that was behind the books when C.S. Lewis penned them, as a child they were, quite simply, a form of absolute escapism.

The book collection was actually given to me by a friend of my mother's. They had once belonged to her sons and so she was passing them on. I read them over and over again and one day at high school I lent them to a friend who never returned them. About ten years later I was given the set as a birthday present, read them again and then passed them onto my niece when she was around ten years old. She still has that set.

I have tried over the years to get my son interested in reading the Narnia books but to no avail. He just does not find them interesting to read. They make a great movie for him to watch, but a bit boring for him to read. When he was quite young I recall lying on the bed next to him and reading The Horse And His Boy to him (book three in the set) and after a week of me reading he asked me to stop because it was so boring. Harry Potter is his thing. I wonder if his child will find Harry Potter as dull as S finds Narnia.

Oh, but the movie was a visual pleasure to me. The scenery, the dreamlike quality at which each scene moved to the next. The mythical creatures that seemed so realistic I allowed myself to believe. The film carried a level of sweet menace, offering enough excitement to ensure that the fear factor was satisfied without bringing a tear to a child's eye. The entire 155 minutes of movie felt too short and when it ended I was rather loathe to make my way out of the theatre and walk back into the belly of the shopping centre which surrounded our cocoon of surreality.

Whilst I know that there are gritty movies out there offering me a insight into other people's troubled and miserable lives, to tell you the truth, I don't need that level of education. I can get that when I turn on the news each night.

I love films where children are heroes. Where animals can talk. Where trees move without the wind to guide them. Where good versus evil and good always wins.

Now and then an escape from reality is nice thing to be part of.

Ciao
LC

I've Become Dumb

I wonder if there is ever a time when a person is settled within themselves. Happy with everything around them, at peace with choices they make, satisfied with the life they live even when it is everything they hoped for. Some sort of urge seems to always be inside me to change, to make changes or to question change that happens around me.

Does that paragraph imply that I am unhappy with my life? It should not because I am not unhappy with my life. I think I am unhappy with myself. I realise that I am a person who is never satisfied with what I do or who I am. So perhaps unhappy is not the right phrase. At times I feel as though I just cannot “be”. Always having to find some other inner sanctum to probe, some other cave to explore within.

Anyway, this post is not really all about my inner sanctum and struggle with the concept of being a middle aged female human being, this post is about what a complete and utter ignoramus I have become.

Every Sunday night on our ABC television there is a television show called The Einstein Factor which involves three contestants up against a panel of three people answering general knowledge questions. Each contestant specialises in a particular area. It may be that one knows all about The Avenger’s or The Concorde or some other interesting but totally unrelated topic. The presenter then asks each contestant a series of difficult and usually obscure questions about the specialised topic. The one with the most points wins. It is a good show to watch because usually I know a little bit about each topic (very little indeed).

So, tonight we are watching it and K asks me watch topic I would specialise in. I had a good long think. A very long think before realising that there was, at this point in my life, only one topic I know more about than anything else and that is “The Celebrity”.

I am ashamed to admit that.

Years ago I would have known about a particular writer I was into or perhaps an artist I had taken a liking to and studied in great detail. I went through a stage of reading all I could about D.H. Lawrence and could have answered the most obscure questions about him. Then I read every one of Oscar Wilde’s written works and continued on to dig deeper into his personal life.

If you asked me now about Lawrence or Wilde I am unsure I would be able to tap into that little well of knowledge to answer anything about either of them, even their date of birth.

Somehow, along the way of contemplating my navel along with reading copious amounts of trashy mags at the supermarket, hairdressers and reading the Daily Mail website, I have absorbed the most annoying amount of superfluous twaddle about all sorts of Hollywood harlot’s that I am able to answer far too many questions about them.

I think I have allowed myself to dumb down shamefully because it is easy. Because I am lazy? Because I am time poor and don’t sit down to read and study as much? Did that tie in with becoming a mother? Is it because Who Weekly is so much more easy to absorb than Far From The Madding Crowd? Or is Paris Hilton more interesting than Catherine Barkley?

It bothers me greatly that I have allowed this to happen. Or did it happen so slowly that I only just realised what happened?

How to undo it. Hmmmm, need to study the books on my shelf again and take some down. Have to sit on the couch one Saturday afternoon and open a book and start to read and ignore the housework to be done, the ironing building up and the shower that needs a clean. Need to take the book with me and leave the house, sit in a coffee shop and reconnect with the dynamics of made up lives ensconced within the covers.

It is not enough to have knowledge if you do not continually feed it and nurture the interest.

I mean, I have always known that, but only as words that you say, not actions that you do.

Sigh.....always something new to contemplate (and not my navel).

Ciao
LC

New Toy

I hate to admit this, but sometimes I just love to buy myself the odd new toy.

And this is it. A teeny weeny little notebook that I use whilst having a cup of tea or when sitting and watching television.

It does have it's limitations, however it connects to the internet, has enough space on it that I can store photos. No loading a DVD on it however as it has no room for that.

It fits in my hand bag, weighs under a kilogram and I sometimes sit in a coffee shop and do some writing whilst having a coffee.

So much more useful than a new handbag.

Ciao
LC

Getting Older Twaddle

I am sure that I have banged on about getting older more than once or twice. It is, after all, a process that the majority of people have to face and deserves comment of sorts.

Firstly, the truth is that I don't really mind getting older. It has it's merits. Mentally, even during my low patches, I am so much more together that I was twenty years ago. I would not actually want to be twenty five again if it meant that I had to have the same pea brain that I had then.

The physical aspect of getting older is a bit boring. You do have to be mindful of what you eat, exercise a bit more and come to terms with the "sag" factor that goes with it all. You would not care to jump from a table onto the floor without thinking carefully about what you do in case it hurt too much.

I know that I would never embrace the prospect of plastic surgery to look younger. Bit like holding back the tide with your hand. You may well have a younger looking face but what about the not so firm neck that is a contradiction to the face. I mean, nothing short of a body lift would do the job properly and then you may look weird.

Besides, you may well look twenty years younger after a face lift, but you sure as hell won't move like a person twenty years younger. That is, of course, unless you are Madonna whose lithe movements are fairly impressive for someone about to hit the big five-o. But the average person in the street is not a millionaire with a full time personal trainer, chef, yoga mentor and masseuse to get us through the day. Believe me, I reckon I would look pretty damn hot if I had all those people around to tend to me before I left the house each morning.

Over the years I have read trashy magazine upon trashy magazine and been exposed to possibly tens of thousands of advertisements going on about the virtues of using a particular moisturiser to hold back the march of time which is going to leave big fat, saggy and wrinkly footprints on my aging face as it passes by. I have always treated these advertisements with disdain and brushed over them with a cursory glance.

That is until now.

You see, a few weeks ago we decided to have a slide night at home. I love slide nights. They really are the silliest thing. Anyway, we were going through all the different eras making the usual comments when my son said "mum, why are there almost no photos of you?". I said that there were. And then K said "No, really, there are so many of your family and brother and sisters and only a handful of you. Even our overseas trips only have a small amount of you".

What could I say. They were right. I really do not have that many photos around of me. I tend to take the photos and not be in them. So to change this direction I have made a point of telling my son or husband to take a photo of me when we are out and about.

Trouble is, I hate having my photo taken and very, very rarely like the outcome. The good thing about a digital camera is that you can take loads of photos until you get exactly what you like.

So, S has the camera in hand and takes a couple of photos of me last night. Each photo he takes is accompanied by a hoot of laughter or a big frown.

Then he says things like:

"your eyes are droopy"
"you have too many wrinkles"
"lift up your head and then you can't see your double chin"
"what is that crease on your face?"
"don't smile so much, it makes you look wrinkly"
"another ugly one"
"mum, you are just getting old and that is why you look bad"
"don't worry, you look better in real life"

Now, these comments have made me rethink my choice of moisturiser in the vain hope that out there, somewhere, is truly, truly a magical pot of smooth and creamy emollient that when smeared on my saggy, wrinkly, drooping face, will transform it back to the dewy cheeked velveteen skin I had at twenty five.

I have worked out that the bigger the words in the ingredients, the more impressed and hopeful I feel about the possible outcome.

Descriptions that include words like "radiance", "microlift", "resurface" and "morpholift" suggest a metamorphosis from aging moth to youthful butterfly within a week of using it. Oh, and words like "glycolic", "ceramide", "salicylic", "alpha-hydroxy acid" and "hydroquinone" surely imply that a scientist has been working on it and everyone knows that a scientist works on a facts basis. It must be true.

Then I see the price tag that goes with the promises and decide that I am just not that unhappy with my skin. More than the price of gold per ounce surely.

I mean really, to an eleven year old boy it is to be expected that I am ancient.

And, don't give me that twaddle about wrinkles being the laugh lines of a life lived etc.

They suck.

Ciao
LC

Losing Track Twaddle

Since I got back from my overseas trip (April 11th) I have no sense of direction of what I am doing or what I want to do. I actually have been feeling the bite of the black dog a little more than I care to acknowledge. For to actually admit that I may be experiencing a sniff of depression again would strike me with a bit of fear. I don't want to go back there. It is hard work, tiring work and draining work to live with.

Step by step is the journey that takes you to and from it and I am always on that path.

The overseas trip was the catalyst for me. The lack of routine, being in another place, the cold weather, the different beds, lack of sleep, lack of structured exercise and then at least a week of appalling jet lag was enough to tip the little scales that send one asunder into the hole where the sides are like gravel and slip from under you as you try to regain some footing. I have slipped back into some thinking processes that are negative.

Small things indicate to me that something is not quite right. Things that perhaps you would not see as particularly major are actually signals that something is amiss within me. The worst thing for me is that I am unable to write. I have the ideas but the motivation has gone completely and this is always an indication of my being out of sorts. My anxiety levels are high and more frequent than I care for. Anxiety is a dreary state of affairs and getting to the root of it can be confronting.

Having to tackle it head on is something I have to completely immerse myself in. Fortunately I have two people I live with who know what to do when I am down for a long, long time. They watch for my moods and know not to react if I am anxious, tense or fearful. I, in turn, have learnt never to take it out on them.

It is okay and I will plod through it over the wintry months (when I seem to fall into this hole a bit deeper) and pop my head up one day and feel better.

Writing it down helps as I can take the thoughts out of my head, put them on paper and then study them as a student would when doing a project.

So, this is my project. Shore up the sides of the hole I happen to be sitting in and then climb out.

Ciao
LC