It is cold.

Oh it's so cold. We have no ceiling. We have no ceiling because I kicked it out. Most literally. From above. Kick kick kick kick kick. Til it was gone. And now we have no ceiling, and it is cold.

Remember; you heard it here first.

After years of painstaking research, and, in the interests of animal welfare, of submitting myself to gruelling experimental trials, I can now proudly declare:

I have done it.

I Have Invented Hot Chocolate.

Growing up in Australia, I, along with every other Australian child, read British stories in which, far away in that fantastic place of snow at Christmas-time, coal fires and elevenses, the children would snuggle up with their Nurses and drink hot chocolate. Only ever having tasted cold chocolate, I naturally imagined that hot chocolate was made by melting milk chocolate bars until, somehow, it was runny enough to drink from a cup, but not so hot as to scald. Oh, the decadence! Surely only the wealthiest British children would have hot chocolate to drink. This was confirmed in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, in which Charlie, the poorest little boy in all of England, only gets to drink hot chocolate when he wins the prize and visits the marvellous Chocolate Room, where he drinks it from the Chocolate River.

I was somewhat disappointed when the movie came out and the Chocolate River looked exactly like water with brown food colouring added, but I decided that this was because movies can't really capture the reality of a river flowing with melted chocolate, mixed by waterfall.

You can imagine my disapointment when I discovered that what the Brits meant, when they talked of hot chocolate, was cocoa. Cocoa, in hot water, with sugar added. This, of course, looks exactly like the water with brown food colouring added.

Oh, we had cocoa, alright. And Quik. And Milo. But nothing ever even approached the wonderful heavenly beverage advertised in the books.

Anyway, my point is coming, and my point is this: The awful truth of the matter is that, until recently, hot chocolate did not exist, except in the minds of Roald Dahl and myself.

Until, as I said, recently.

This morning, in fact.

It is indeed a fact that, this morning, as I was making my morning cup of coffee, I did notice that on the bench had been left a jar of Nutella. Ajar. Further, it is also a fact that, after I had poured boiling water into my cup, and was sleepily stirring my teaspoon of coffee in that cup with a teaspoon, I noticed that I had a teaspoon in my hand.

Although I was as yet unaware of the fact, history was about to be made.

For, although outwardly my appearancewas that of a person barely able to connect two logical thoughts in sequence, inwardly the neuronal networks were already connecting and firing, dancing a mad, frenzied electronic tarantella. Subconsciously, and without even thinking about it very much, I removed the teaspoon from the cup, steered it toward the Nutella jar, scooped out a teaspoon full of Nutella, and guided it swiftly back to the cup. All of this in a matter of seconds. Thereupon, I rapidly stirred the sticky substance until it was fully disolved. Rapidly, I mention, because I knew I was onto something. Then, in one crazy, serendipitous moment, it occured to me that, only steps away, in the refrigerator, I had some milk. Quickly, and without stopping to process the monumental significance of the moment, I dashed to the fridge, poured a standard quantity of milk into the cup, stirred again, had the rare forethought to remove the spoon, lifted the cup to my parched, yet hopeful, lips, and tasted the concoction.

Yes! Hot Chocolate had been discovered.

My life's work was complete.

Bali Hi!

We're off to Bali soon.

[Contemplatively places fingertips together. Observes index fingers tapping.]

You know; Bali, Indonesia. Famous for its terrorist bomb attacks, tsunamis, and drug smuggling detainees. And its shopping.

Not unlike Mexico.

(This last comment, for my US readers. West Australians are often tripping off to Bali, just as your Statesiders are fond of nipping down south, and for much the same reasons. The beaches are nice, the food looks foreign but has all been appropriately doctored, and the locals are really friendly even when we get drunk and throw up all over their sidewalks.)

Yep. Swap the pigs in Mexico for monkeys, and you've got Bali.

Actually, I must admit. This jet-setting lifestyle to which I so casually allude is a fancy. The Quirkie Clan is only getting to Bali because Miffy and Par Two are paying. This is because they took Polly when she was nine, and now Mayday, being nine this year, is having her turn. Except Mayday, bless her, was too anxious to go alone, so we all get to come and keep her company.

Hmmmm. A fortnight with my parents. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

[Contemplatively places fingertips together. Observes index fingers tapping.]

Well, golly. I didn't think it would take *this* long to get over a stint in paid work. I've been all of a dither. You see, Paid Work, being far more credible and useful for society in general, (compared to my usual self-indulgent passtimes of lazing around at home with the children, pointlessly soul-searching in successive university courses and generally being a drain on the honest, hard-working taxpayers that make up the backbone of our nation) was also a rather convenient and respectable excuse for not working on a project that really should be much further along than it currently is.

Now I have no such excuse. Except for the one that goes "But I'm really actually stupid, far more stupid and incompetent than you could ever have guessed. And I'm ugly."

But I'm saving that trump card for when I really need it. And, knowing how these things can string out, I may have to hold that one for some time.

However, and this leads me to my original point: I'm in a dither. Which is not such a bad thing when you have a glass of champagne in one hand and a well-built fisherman in the other, but I tell you it's a bugger when you're behind on your assignments.

What one really needs now is some chocolate. Then, I say, one should flick through one's Favourites menu once more and read some blogs, just to get one's mind into a, er, thinking mode. One should then remind oneself of one's inestimable worth in the eyes of the Creator, and not base one's sense of identity on the success or failure of the aforementioned project.

One should do one's best to believe this.

Then eat some more chocolate.

Then, when one feels one is really ready to spurt forth with effervescent perspicacity, one should immediately, and without hesitation, throw oneself fully and bountifully into the ...

...task of opening the front door. Sigh. The kids are home.

Eye strain, you strain, we all strain for weevils.

Good grief.

I've been a temporary part-time public servant for two weeks and I haven't blogged about it. Not because I didn't want you to know.

Heck no.

It's because I've been so bloody exhausted. How about that. Not that I ever thought people in the public service didn't work hard. No, seriously. I hate snide remarks about government employees about as much as I hate snide remarks about Christians. Or school teachers. Or hunky men who will only give you the time of day if they're wearing a digital watch. (Actually, that one I don't mind too much.)

I'd like to say the government called me in to do crisis counselling with some high-ranking officials who wouldn't speak to anyone with fewer than three undergraduate degrees in unrelated fields, or to do some quick code-breaking on a communication they had just received from their double agent in Belchistan, or to lend my expertise in evaluating the program theory for their next excursion into pico-technology as it lends itself to intra-office diplomacy.

However, their need, at this time, was for someone willing to stare at a computer screen for seven hours a day, and who knew how to use the cut and paste function in Word documents.

I feel I have conducted myself thus far with aplomb. It has certainly been an aplombinable job.

It has, however, left me with a wretched case of eye-strain. Fortunately, a very good friend of mine, Bronzewing, had a knee operation on Tuesday, and so could share her prescription- strength ibuprofen with me when we had lunch together on Wednesday.

Unfortunately, the effects of this wonderful little mothers' helper had worn off by Friday evening, and this, your Honour, is how I found myself lured into the seemy netherworld of Insurance Fraud.

Oh yes.

With a brain functioning only from the medulla oblongata downwards, I calmly and unhesitatingly reversed Bill's jeep into a brand new commodore ute, which was parked half a kilometre away from me in a carpark stunningly well lit by 10,000 unflickering, naked, fluorescent light tubes.

I briefly considered telling myself there was probably only a rubber-smear from my very soft tail-gate, and driving away. Then my curiosity (or was it my conscience?) got the better of me, and I got out and had a look. I briefly considered telling myself their insurance would cover it, and driving away. Then I noticed someone sitting in a nearby car. They hadn't noticed me yet. Then, yes, it was definitely my conscience this time, got the better of me, and I went back to the jeep, pulled a piece of paper out of my diary, and blurrily wrote my phone number on it (the eyestrain) and stuck it under his wiper.

Then I drove away. I added up all the money I had been making which I was going to put towards the kitchen renovations, and mentally redirected it towards paying for a new front panel on the commodore. Then I felt good. I mean, I felt really good. I was so pleased with myself, and immediately started drafting sermons on how once, many years ago, I had been tempted to drive away after dinging someone's brand new commodore, but had decided that the cost to my conscience would have been more than it was worth. I was really relieved, thinking I had narrowly escaped feeling my heart grow hard with self-justification.

Then the guy rang up and, when I told him I wasn't insured, basically because I'm nationally recognised as an insurance risk, he offered to use his insurance and just get me to pay his excess.

AND I ACCEPTED.

And I also accepted his kind words of thanks for leaving my number.

There. Now you know. I'm a complete fraud*.








*Any comments to the contrary will be gratefully and shamefacedly received. Any comments to the similar will be tersely ignored.

Appropriate sources of firewood on a desert island (Part II)

Fred wanted to know what's wrong with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Instead of ranting in the comments section, I think I'll do it, in the words of Fritz Perls, in the HERE and NOW.

Now, here this:

Something wrong with the DSM?! Sheesh, nawwh. It's great reading and very useful if you want to be able to diagnose everyone you know with a mental illness. We all fit in there somewhere.

The DSM is basically a categorised list of symptoms. I don't even like to use the word 'symptoms' because that reeks of the whole medical model.

This is how the medical model works: If you fit one of the categories, then you must be 'sick'. Now, if you have diabetes, that is useful to know, because then you can go to a doctor, and the doctor can prescribe insulin, and you'll feel rather a lot better and you'll stop passing out.

But if you feel really sad, then you figure 'oh, I must be sick, I'd better go to a doctor'. So you go. And the doctor gives you some medicine, and if you take enough of it, you don't notice how sad you are anymore. Your father can ignore you for the rest of his life and you won't care.

Or if you get dignosed with schizophrenia, you take your medicine, you poor sick puppy, and you walk around feeling like you've got a vice clamped over your brain, and you don't have sex anymore, but at least you don't offend as many people.

What sucks about this is that:

(1) people believe the labels they're given and these labels stick (despite the fact that people who hear voices often just grow out of it as they get older, without any drugs or therapy at all)

(2) the book, and the whole medical/ pharmeceutical establishment that goes with it is making an obscene amount of money by making up these labels

(3) the labels in the book aren't even based on scientific reseaarch, they're created by political and market pressures

(4) the book reinforces society's notion that people must all conform to 'normal' as defined by the powerful

(5) the book reinforces the thought that a suffering person is a broken machine that can be tinkered with and fixed, rather than a hungry, sad, afraid, disconnected soul who needs vastly much more than a shot in the arm and a change of attitude.

A tricky thing to do

HB has suggested I list, for your general critical amusement, my favourite books. This is quite impossible because I'm the sort of person who repeatedly blows her clothing budget on books, so much so that the clothes I am currently sitting in are: a floor length cardigan knitted for me by Miffy, a long, blue print sleeveless summer dress two sizes two big that I bought for $1 at a Good Sammys clearance sale, a pair of sandals I inherited from my grandmother who died five years ago, and ... hang on... yes, the knickers, although not new, were new four years ago when my mother-in-law gave them to me.

Ah have ahlways relahed on the kahndness of strayngers.

However, this wicked habit has left me in the helpless position of owning too many books. My procrastinatory nature also means that most of these books, I could still technically say, I'm "currently reading". Nevertheless:

You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be saved?

Does the Bible count as one book? If not, then I'd pick Romans. It's the most systematic presentation of the Christian faith and I think, if pushed, we could get by on just that one.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Shaddup. Jesus does NOT count here. And, being an astute readership, I don't need to own up to you about crushes on the many and varied hommes d'amoureux of Mills & Boon fame. Let's just say Mr Darcy and leave it at that.

The last book you bought was…?

A whole bundle in one hit from Koorong. (Well, there was a sale on and there were heaps of bargains I wasn't expecting.) But one that I paid full price for was Liquid Church, because I've been meaning to get hold of it for ages to see if my latest experiments with doing the faith community thing are anything like what he's talking about.

The last book you read was…?

You mean, in it's entirety? Well, that takes me back... I think it was the Wind on Fire series. These books are just three of the zillions that remind me that most of the best writing is done for kids.

What are you currently reading?

Knnff. Knnff, she snorts again through her one unblocked nostril. How about I just list four of them:
A Step Further (the continued theological reflections of a young quadriplegic woman, which has been oddly comforting to me lately)
Evaluation: A systematic approach (an eye-gougingly boring book, with a cover the colour of baby poo. I may have to take up cocaine to help me get through the first chapter.)
Lemony Snicket's A series of unfortunate events (bed time reading with MayDay, who finds morbid consolation in watching the tragic lives of the three orphans go from bad to horrendous. She was particularly fascinated by Aunt Josephine's fatal encounter with the Lachrymose Leeches.)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in patient anticipation of the Half Blood Prince)

Five books you would take to a desert island…

Anna Karenina because I bought it on special and STILL haven't found time to read it.
The NIV Bible because I'd have time to read it propoerly, despite it's English awkwardness, and do hermeneutic analyses of the bits I don't get.
The Chronicles of Narnia (for when I find it too hard to understand the Bible, and so I can read about Aslan and be reminded what of God's like)
Pride and Prejudice (because it's the only book I've finished three times.)
The DSM (any edition) so I could use it as fire wood.

Who are you passing this stick on to and why?

Sweedums, because it's about time she started a blog, and Polly Waffle, because she does tend to.

Mothers Day

Nick thinks he's got it bad. Hah. Last week, Bill asked me what I would like for Mothers Day. Being the self-indulgent type, I shamelessly put in an extravagant request for a dust buster for my office. You know, one of those hand-held, cordless, conveniently rechargeable vacuum cleaners that you can take anywhere. On Saturday morning, Bill took Noisie and MayDay shopping, and, naturally enough, came home with a DVD player. I heard Bill explaining the necessity of secrecy concerning the DVD player in the hallway to Noisie. MayDay rushed out the back to tell Polly about the DVD player. Polly rushed inside and said "Mum! Have we got a DVD player?" I mumbled something into my coffee about it being news to me, and politely ignored MayDay's frantic attempts to silently silence Polly behind my back. Polly retreated with embarrased haste back to her computer game, and MayDay jumped in with excellent impromptu skill...

MayDay: Mum, do you know what we got you for Mothers Day? It starts with 'K'. Do you like karaoke?
Me: Umm... yeah? Yeah... I guess I like karaoke. Yes, of course, karaoke! I love karaoke.
MayDay: I'll whisper it to you: it's a karaoke machine.
Noisie: (mystified) I thought it was a DVD player.

On Sunday morning, I was woken up at 6am, so the tribe could drag me out of bed to watch them open my presents. MayDay got me three ferrero rocher chocolates. Conveniently, one for herself, one for Noisie and one for Polly. Then they opened the DVD player, which I set up for them. Then we went to my Mum's place, where they told her all about their new DVD player.

It's a good thing Mum made me a roast lunch and bought me a bottle of red, or Mothers Day would have been a complete washout.

This is probably silly...

... but I'm going to attempt to write this post while supervising five primary school aged children. They are home today because Bill accidentally took my car key to work, as I discovered when I packed Noisie, MayDay and Polly into the car for the school run, along with thier cousins, Braxton Hicks and Brightly, and found that the car key was missing from my keyring. Why Bill chose to remove it, I do not know. Neither did he, when I called him at work. He was, however, deeply apologetic, which was gratifying if somewhat UNHELPFUL.

Anyway.

I now have the dubious companionship of five bored children until four o'clock today. We have done the dishes, rotated computer time, made icecream, decorated Mother's Day cards (oh! the cruel irony) and survived, relatively injury-free, the inevitable war between MayDay and myself which eventuates when either of us is any more than slightly frazzled and/or excitable. Today MayDay, with all the extra company, is excitable. I am frazzled. She is currently reviewing her situation from the cosy position of her bed while I procrastinate scraping the remains of a melted plastic jug and chocolate sauce from the inside of the microwave.

The other little poppets are keeping their distance.

Sigh

Now I suppose I really ought to return to responsible parenting.

So sue me

OK this might be completely politically incorrect, but I'm going to just come right out and say it:

I REALLY LIKE PEOPLE

I mean, I could be fashionably cynical. I could be beatnik and savvy. I could be witty, dammit.

But, just for today, I think I'm going to enjoy liking people. Don't get me wrong; lots of people annoy me, or make me feel uncomfortable. Some people I would rather not spend too much time with. But really, when I'm forced, for whatever reason, to spend time with them, and if I pay attention, it's just really hard not to like them. I think people are just plain likeable.

I bet if I was forced to share a cell with the Burnies, or Osama bin Laden, or George W Bush, or even Oprah, I bet I would like them.

And don't think I'm being all special or anything, because, hey, if I was sharing a cell with ANY of them, that would just prove I'm a criminal. Obviously.

Poem: Delivering Newspapers

Starts out skipping, delighted with the role

Discovers bright numbers and a furry caterpillar; notes flowers and passers-by

Look at him. He’s flash.

Complements each letterbox in turn and checks for a backdoor

Paper tucked under one arm, head high and smiling

This one is slithy. You know what I mean when I say slithy. It’s feels smooth. It goes in smoothly.

Warm little hand like a kitten in mine. Like a kitten curled up in the sun.

Runs ahead

Haha I’m cheating!

Dancing away, within reach. Dancing in the breach, and back.

Suddenly slowly, the delivery girl dragging, the papers run out just in time.

Paralysed by dithering

Here's the thing: I totally have things to blog about. Oh yeah. But I *caaan't* (whiny voice) because: Two of my four readers either (a) know who I'm talking about or (b) are who I'm talking about. So I'm left talking about people who I don't even know (and therefore have very little to say about) or don't matter to me (ditto). Actually, the people I talk about don't actually read this blog, but THEY MIGHT oneday, and this thought horrifies me.

What do all the really worldly, older, more experienced bloggers do about this dilemma, I wonder?

Do they throw caution to the wind, and discuss the intimate details of their closest relationships and bugger the consequences?

Or do they instead keep abreast of all the latest global and local political happenings and blog knowledgably on those?

I suspect it's a bit of both.

However, being both a coward and an ignoramus, I am a little stuck.

Dear Old Bill

Life's good. Bill is fishing somewhere down south, and we lasses get to take up space. This is no small thing. When Bill walks out the front door, it's like a whole tribe goes with him. Bill really is larger than life. He's the sort of bloke that walks into a room before you actually see him. His personal space is acres-big. This would be a bad thing if he still drank a bottle of rum a day and lacked discernment as to whom should be beaten up for insults flung from three people away and so generally just made things easier for himself by collaring any available chap within arm's reach.

However, he was always nice to women, children and dogs. And thankfully, even in his most inebriated state, never confused the three. A menace on the dance floor, however.

Sigh. I do miss him.

Just another manic Sunday...

I love Thursdays. This is because Fridays don't matter - the week is so done by the time it gets to Friday that it really counts as part of the weekend. There's no point in starting anything new on Friday.

So Thursdays are really the last day of the week, filled with the glorious plan that everything that one has been postponing for the last three weeks will, indeed, be performed on the weekend.

Ah The Weekend, that mystical realm where every day has 36 hours, where sleeping in until 10 o'clock still leaves time for a day full of family outings, household renovations and focussed, effective study and genius-level completion of university assignments.

The only problem with The Weekend is that it has a Sunday. Sunday is a terrible day. All of my good plans are cheekily jay-walking across the boulevard when Sunday comes gunning its modified engines like a demon. Like a possessed demon. (Sunday is so evil, it requires several metaphors, in combination.) It bears down on the startled Plans until they are caught in its headlights. The Plans' ears twitch this way and that, their little round eyes fill with terror. The fiendish Sunday roars with laughter "HARHAR! You can run, little Plans, you can hide! But You Will Not Escape!" The Plans squeal helplessly, but it's too late. Sunday runs them down, smashing them mercilessly into the bitumen, reversing, then running over them again and again until nothing is left except for a pile of scribbled papers and an empty chocolate wrapper.

I hate Sundays.

The drive to Bunbury

The sky sobs and shrieks
and tormented trees toss their soaking heads.
Car after car rolls silently over the bridge.
Everyone is going to a funeral today.

I hope the sins of the fathers are just visiting upon the children...

Noisie: "All my stuff I make looks stupid to me."
Quirkie: "Really?"
Noisie: "Yep. Really bad."

On poetry, or the lack thereof

So I basically haven't been blogging anything because of this general sense of malaise for which I mostly blame Sweedums. Sweedums asked me to write an ode. Within the same week, the Dalai Maharishi, coincidentally, suggested that I write a happy poem, helpfully suggesting that happy poems are really difficult to write without being sentimental.

Coming from the Dalai Maharishi, I naturally believe this.

And to prove him absolutely wrong, I thought I would write an Ode to Happiness.

My plan was to look for moments in my life when I feel really happy, and then distill those moments into poetry.

Khhhhh...

Poem: After the Hens Night

The little nursemaids are covering me with their love

I am lying on the couch, in their middle

The littlest is rearranging my eyebrows, smoothing, crooning
My eyes shut-in a wandering headache; wavelets of quease wash around
Warm little fingers are poking apple muffin crumbs into my mouth

“I peeled the apples and I cutted the apples. Dad helped me peeled the apples and Dad helped me cutted the apples. He’s very nice. I mean really. He’s really nice.”

The oldest is posing in her flower-girl dress,
breaking away with Kelly Clarkson,
delighted with herself

The middlest is missing

Charlie Rich rolls in with the flow, dismissed

The littlest is off-duty, sitting on my hip, eating muffins in my ear

The oldest weaves in and through all morning, filling the room with Sunday and the sweet sound of twelve

The middlest waits with a crazy face, nose to nose
She presents a get well card, vigilantly carelessly made, pleased with my dopey surprise

Everywhere is warmth, music, movement and headache
and I cannot stop smiling

The best part about being a twit

... is that I gets heaps of new stuff whenever I lose stuff. Whose stuff? Sue's stuff. Sue's new blue stuff. (Er, Suess moment.)

So, casting aside all memory of that ungrateful assortment of personal effects, archived only in the previous blog, I pick myself up, dust of my sandals, and head for the nearest Strandbags store. Next week, that is, when the family payment cheque goes in.

I shall have:
1. a new handbag, bigger and better,
2. a new mobile phone, smaller and better,
3. a new wad of cash (allow me this fantasy),
4. a new diary, even more sensational than the last,
5. a new set of car keys, with extra jingle
6. a new frontal lobotomy (that should take care of any future creative placement of personal items)

(Of course, we shan't be eating next week.)

But, kids, what's food compared with a happy mummy? Think about it.

Through A Glass Darkly, or Where the Hell is it This Time?

Drat the whole universe I've lost my purse again. The one with my keys attached to it and which also contains my drivers license, bankbooks (yes, the old fashioned ones that don't involve plastic, number-of-the-beast-inscribed cards or the convenience of 24-hour withdrawal facilities), DIARY, oh my God its got my DIARY in it, and every other thing that makes my life BARELY FUNCTIONAL.

I've been tossing up between:
1. re-re-re-re-tracing my steps of Saturday for the forty seventh time, or
2. warmly and humbly embracing my absent-mindedness as the gift of a thorn-in-my-side to me from God, and celebrating that His power is made perfect in my weakness, or
3. forcefully and repeatedly plunging a fork into my eye.