It's Too Late Baby

My husband moved out today.

I knew it was happening. Hell, I'd spent the weekend packing boxes and hefting large items of furniture into the garage.

But all the same, he moved out today.

Coming home from work, the house is bare bones furnished with attendant dust bunnies and spider webs festooned across hitherto unseen wall spaces. The desolation of an imprint on the carpet, stark, dust clogged, indelible. Something has been taken from this place.

I have been here before. I have been here by choice and by circumstance. I have hefted and lugged before; I have planned, rationalised and adapted. I am a survivor. I am a survivor through Grace.

But that was then and this is today. All those experiences do not lessen the grief of this one. Do not lessen the feeling of isolation. Do not salve the burn of failure, the grief of loss. The visceral excision of a part of my life which, although flawed, had been stable.

I really thought this one would work.

The Case Of The Missing Trousers

"What have you done with my belt and jeans?!" read the unexpected text during this morning's church service. Feeling quite self righteous, for a change,  I was quick to reply: "I haven't touched them!" According to Himself, I am frequently guilty of deliberately hiding his clothes. Usually they are in the washing basket (placed there by me...Himself doesn't know how the lid works...) or drying on the back of some piece of furniture in the Chinese laundry that is our house in winter. Always, they have been 'missing for months' and he has' looked everywhere' for them but in this case I knew for sure that I hadn't been anywhere near them.                               
               
I knew this because I have been, once more, absorbed by the annual sewing frenzy that is The Musical. For the past four days I have done little other than sew, think about sewing or buy items for sewing with. Laundry was not even on my radar. So it was with a clear conscience that I arrived home from church to find Himself huffing and puffing about the amount of time he had spent looking for his missing jeans and belt and how they had 'vanished off the planet'. Possibly eaten by the laundry basket? Being a helpful wife I naturally followed him around the house (which I noticed he had actually gone some way to tidying! Perhaps he should lose clothes more often?) clucking sympathetically and exclaiming in conciliatory tones every time he indicated a new place he had (unsuccessfully) searched. In the end, we were both stumped. The jeans had indeed seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

Shortly thereafter I opened my wardrobe to hang up my coat and a grey raincoat fell out on my head. This surprised me for two reasons: firstly it fell on my head and secondly, I had not worn this raincoat for over 20 years. At a visceral level I knew this had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of Himself's trousers although I could not immediately determine the link.

Searching frantically through the last 12 hours, I tried to recall an event which would result in a raincoat suddenly launching itself from the upper reaches of my cupboard. After all, it was usually found in one of my 'dressing up bags', the ones I keep tucked away on the top shelf; the ones containing decades worth of odd or unusual items of clothing, which had looked sensational or at least striking in 1979-89-99, but whose short lived fashion flame had long since expired; the ones containing odds and ends of props and shoes and the occasional 'basic' item which might come in handy for a musical at some point; items such as all the BA's old school shirts (because a white shirt is always useful)...

WHITE SHIRTS!!!!!!

With a flash bordering on brilliance I saw what had happened. Looking upwards to see the contents of the bags spilling out over the shelf, my hypothesis was confirmed. Now all I needed was the final, vital piece of hard evidence.

(I have been watching a bit of Poirot lately, did I mention?)

"Himself," I bellowed," I think I know where your trousers are!"
He came stomping down the hallway to find me step ladder deep in dress ups, intently hauling random items off the top shelf. "Remember when the BA was looking for a white shirt last night, to wear for her catering gig? Well......"
The missing trousers (and belt) came flying out of the back of the shelf where the BA had carelessly shoved them the previous evening, along with the contents of the the three bags she had emptied out on my bedroom floor.

Well, if he WILL leave his trousers on the floor..........

All this talk of missing trousers reminded me of the brilliant Jonathan Miller sketch which reduced me to tears as an 11 year old and which I present for you now via the wonders of the internet. Do yourself a favour and marvel at understated British humour at its best.

The Heat Death of the Universe: Jonathan Miller 1962

Graduation Mess, I Mean Mass....

The week before the Grad Ball the BA's dad (let's call him Her Dad) and Step Mum had flown in to attend her Graduation Mass.

We were all delighted to see them and the suggestion was made that we meet for a meal the next night, before the Mass which was at 7pm. Lively discussion then took place regarding the wisdom of this. Himself pointed out that when we had done this the previous year, we had been very rushed and finding seating at the tightly packed school venue was stressful. There was general acknowledgement of this and some alternate suggestion of a supper afterwards, but no real decision was made and Her Dad and Step Mum left, agreeing to meet up with us sometime the next day.

Himself, feeling magnanimous and, more importantly, wanting to prove to me that there were eating establishments in Adelaide which stayed open beyond 10 o' clock, took it upon himself to book a restaurant. He spent several hours the next day researching the task online, finding and confirming a place willing to take a booking for 7 people at that late hour, and reading up on the menus and reviews. When he texted me to say he had been successful, he was well pleased with himself. The only minor hitch in this plan was that we had not actually confirmed with Her Dad and Step Mum that they wanted to eat with us after the Mass.  I texted them regarding this detail. I got no immediate response but assumed they were simply busy.

When I got home, Himself was raving about the place he had booked. He had read every review and was so pleased with himself for finding us a 5 star restaurant open after 9pm! This place apparently had a world class chef! The level of his enthusiasm set off a small alarm in the back of my head. I texted the others again.

Me: Did you get my message about dinner after the Mass?
Them: Yes, sounds lovely but we are eating now. May join you for coffee.

I took one look at my 'pumped' husband and sent them this text:

Me: Are you going to tell Himself that you are only coming for coffee??????????

*****************************************

Naturally, in anticipation of the five star meal he would be enjoying after the mass, Himself did not eat lunch. But that was only the start of his problems. The Mass was outdoors.

We had to be seated by 7pm for a 7.30pm start. Once in the tightly packed quadrangle, there was no easy way for Himself to exit, unnoticed,  for a cigar break. 

It started under sunny skies,

but as the sun went down and the lights came on, the temperature plummeted.

Pretty, but cold! Really cold (by Adelaide summer standards).

 Her Dad and Step Mum both pulled on bushwalking parkas; my mum had a warm shawl around her shoulders; Dad had a jumper under his jacket and I was wearing a coat; but in his summer weight suit, tie and shirt, Himself was freezing. Bone jarringly, teeth chatteringly, blue lip style freezing. And the Mass went for for over two hours.

(The Principal presents the Baby Angel with her traditional rose as she and her opposite number carry candles for the Graduation Procession.)

(An attempt at capturing the Year 12 procession down the diagonal aisles, with candles. Fail. Tiny dot at centre is the BA.)

(The Baby Angel gets emotional).

And that two hours did not include the photos afterwards.

 

(See what I mean about the coat).

After that, no one was game to contradict Himself when he matched purposefully towards his vehicle claiming he was ready to eat a horse. Cooked by a 5 star chef. And WHO WAS COMING WITH HIM?

On the way to the restaurant, all I could hope was that it would live up to his expectations.
To everyone's immense relief it was very nice and we were all able to have a light snack whilst Himself devoured a beautifully prepared rare steak. After which he began to once more resemble a civilised human being.

Duck Wars

At this time of my life, when so much is going on, I would expect that I should have been writing here more frequently when, in fact, the reverse (obviously) is true.

There is so much to say about our family and the trauma and angst that we are suffering in the teen years; about the business and where it is going; about the house and the windfall and the decisions we are trying to make....but all I can tell you about are the ducks in our pool.

Anyone who follows us on facebook will have seen evidence of the proximity of local wildlife to our backyard. In the past we have had to deal with snakes (plural), koalas and the ubiquitous ducks. The ducks are particularly irritating because they are hard to deter. I mean, squirt a koala and it will eventually get the message, block up all the snake entries and there will eventually be a thick line of ants marching into the subterranean coffin and back out the other side. Ducks are different. For a start, they use the water as a means of defence and when I say 'the water' I actually mean, 'our reluctance to get into the water'! Three of us can stand on three sides of the pool, shouting, hollering and hitting the water with sticks and the confounded ducks will position themselves in the centre of the pool, equidistant from all their antagonists. Unreachable unless you fancy a dip! Himself has taken to heaving chunks of wood, from the woodpile, at the offending critters.

Which brings us to recent events. Usually, through the winter, the ducks do a bunk and we are poop free on the sides and bottom of the pool. Come Spring, the bas***** return and Himself oils up his pitching arm ready to discourage them from making our pool 'home'. The other night, seeing an offending duck in the pool again, Himself went hooting and hollering up the back steps, reaching for his trusty block of wood. Just as his hand drew back behind his head to pitch the log at the offending mallard, she made a dash for the middle of the pool; her sides seemed to explode and a flock of tiny ducks streamed behind in her wake! There were 12 of them!!

The duck hating centre of my granite exteriored husband melted.

The following night, after a flurry of 'how do I get rid of them' posts on facebook, the BA and I went up to the pool to view the bebes. (Duck poop aside, they really are pretty cute). But the BA being 17 and slightly hormonally brain dead decided that she wanted to pick one up. Despite all our protests that the mother duck wouldn't let and and never mind that but you shouldn't handle wild babies or the mother will abandon them etc etc etc, she decided that the best way to collect a duckling for petting was to scoop one up with the pool scoop/net thing.

Well, you can imagine how that went.

It was pretty spectacular I have to admit. The mother duck rose up to her full height, flapping her wings aggressively and practically jumping into the net; the babies shot off in 400 different directions like a starburst of slippery black beaked tadpoles. Within 4 seconds they had regrouped under mother's wings, untouched but possibly extremely traumatised. OK then, definitely extremely traumatised.

Himself was horrified. The man who had routinely been throwing large hunks of wood at ducks for the past 2 months pointed the accusing finger at the BA and I.
"Don't you realise that if you had caught one, the mother wouldn't have anything more to do with it?" he enquired furiously.
I thought of the effing and blinding which normally accompanies the arrival of ducks in our pool, the curses associated with scrubbing off duck poop and my husband's general lack of love for ducks and I said....
"So?"

The next day we saw no ducks.

"That's it!" Himself grumbled accusingly, "you've scared them off...."
(??????????????????????????)

The following day mother duck was back but......gasp.......there were only three ducklings left. Himself followed her as she took them for a walk, out onto the street (whizzz...beeeeeeeeeep) and over to the other side where she proceeded to walk up an extremely steep set of stairs. One little fellow made it up behind her but the other two were left, leaping and peeping at the bottom of the edifice.
"Well," he said,"if that is the way she's going to care for them, no wonder she only has three left!"

But he still wouldn't let us throw anything at them.

We may be scrubbing duck poop off the pool for a very long time.........

You Know My Methods Watson!

As I savoured the last minutes of my 'lie-in' this morning, I heard Himself exploding at the other end of the house.
"BL***Y CATS!!!!!!"........
There-in followed the thump of feet up the corridor. His enraged visage popped around the door jamb, the steam fairly issuing from his ears.
"You know those sausages we left out on the counter last night (I know, I know....don't say anything....)? Well the BL***Y cats have EATEN THE LOT! There were about TEN of them!!!!!!"

I processed this information.

Firstly, it was unlikely that there were ten left over, but I decided to let that anomaly pass.
"Well,  surely they wouldn't have eaten all 10? Surely No 2 Son might have come home late and had some?"
"There was one left out on the counter!!! No 2 Son wouldn't have done that!!!" Himself roared.
"To be fair, he might have if he was....ummm....indisposed."
The thunderclap clanged shut and Himself humphed, set his jaw and stalked back down the hallway muttering under his breath:
"Bl***y cats. You can all go and live outside. Waste of bl***y space all of them. Bl***y cats. Mutter mutter mutter. Animals don't belong in the house! Mutter mutter etc"

Slightly perturbed, and concerned for the safety of the cats if nothing else, I levered myself out of my prone postion and wrapped myself in a dressing gown. As I pattered down the corridor towards the kitchen I tried to analyse the situation in my mind. Firstly, Pippin doesn't eat real meat, raw or cooked. He rather likes the idea of raw meat and hangs about my feet if I'm cooking (he's way too savvy to hang about Himself's feet!) but if I toss him a sliver of raw chicken, or open a tin of tuna when the dry cat food has run out, he looks at me in confusion. Surely that jelly like stuff cannot be the source of that delicious odour? He paws at it and walks off in disgust. So the culprit was unlikely to be Pippin.

Now Mortisha leans a little more towards whole foods. She is our mega hunter, bell and all, and frequently brings home a mouse or a bird. Mind you, she never eats the whole thing. We are frequently dodging a mouse head or pile of disembowelled, slightly sticky feathers in the laundry, or outside the bedroom door; highly dangerous whilst barefoot first thing in the morning! The thought of her scoffing ten whole sausages (or even the more likely count of 6) seemed highly unlikely.

Now, Lily. Lily is a wild card given her feral beginnings. She has been known to get up on a bench, she certainly enjoys a bit of raw meat, but she too never finishes the whole mouse and if truth be known, she's often out at night.

By the time I reached the kitchen I was feeling less and less convinced that the cats were to blame. This feeling was confirmed as Pippin dashed in, squalling and rubbing up against me, ready for food.

"Sweet heart, I really don't think the cats could have demolished all of those sausages," I said as I surveyed the lone sausage which had obviously been dragged across the bench. "For one thing Pippin is waaay too hungry to have pigged out on sausages last night." I glanced around at the scene of the crime.
"Oh, and also," I said, my eye lighting on a large, nearly empty glass bowl nearby,
"I really don't think they would have eaten the salad!"

We have yet to catch up with No 2 Son to confirm my suspicions. Nevertheless, the cats get to live indoors a bit longer :-)

The Dedicated Follower of Fashion.

My husband is a creative man. In the sartorial arena, he leans towards the carefree, unselfconscious attire of the obsessive artist and I often have to remind him that there is a fine line between 'creative' and 'slob' and he is dangerously close to it!!

The thing is he puts on clothes he likes. He puts them on again and again and again. And because he likes them so much, he also mows the lawn whilst wearing them, cleans the pool and puts the chlorine in. Now, I do not know if any of you are familiar with the net effect of chlorine on clothing? It bleaches it. And then it weakens the fibres sufficiently for holes to appear. Himself is totally oblivious to this process.

I have done a lot of mending since we married, in deference to his love of certain garments. I have sewn denim inserts into the backside of a particular pair of jeans. I have gritted my teeth as he appears in public in tattered old T Shirts. On Friday I had had enough. I pulled two holey T shirts and a pair of jeans out of his 'stash' and committed them to the bin. And not just ANY bin...the outside wheelie bin. Up the back of the garden!

So imagine my dawning horror as I came to give him a cuddle last night, as he sat at his computer.

********************************************************************************
Me: Hang on.....(examines the fabric beneath her embrace)....I THREW THIS OUT!!!!!
Him: I KNOW!!!! I had to get it OUT of the BIN!!!!!
Me: You got it out of the bin????????? That is disgusting!
Him: Well you shouldn't have put it in there. It's a perfectly good T shirt for around the house!!!!
Me: aaaaaaaaaauuuuuugggggggghhhhhhhhh

What am I supposed to do with him???????

Musical Crews: On My Word, Everyone Change Partners!

So, I promised I'd tell you about the launching and maiden voyage of 'Retaining Wall'.
(This of course is not the real name of his boat, but as far as I am concerned it is
'Retaining Wall').

Some background:

Himself sailed in Jester for about 5 years with No 2 Son as his crew.

This worked well as No 2 Son learned the skills of crewing and the vagaries of sailing and was, at the time, a nice, lightweight foil for Himself's rather generous proportions.

In 2009/10, No 2 Son moved on to crew with a very experienced female skipper and together they were runners-up for the state titles twice. Himself on the other hand, attempted to coerce Small Boy into crewing with him. After a promising start, Small Boy could not cope with the amount of yelling and ordering about endured by most crews, and handed out liberally by Himself; he lasted two races.That was the season I made my debut as ill-fated (and last resort) crew.

Last year, 2010/11 season, Himself got together with the nephew of one of the other sailors and had a good season, winning the Club Championship on handicap (always a bitter pill though) but, more importantly, gaining a trophy for 'Consistency'. We managed to frighten that young man off however, and at the end of the season he announced he was going to sail 420s as 'there are a lot more young people' sailing in that class. That, at least, was the reason he gave.

And so we come to the 2011/12 season.

As many of you will know, Himself deemed a new boat more important than a retaining wall, even though he had not yet found anyone to crew with him this year. No 2 Son and his lady skipper had finished up together at the end of last season but he was not a candidate because he is too heavy now to sail competitively with his dad. Himself's solution was to give No 2 Son the old boat, Bad Jester, so that he can learn to skipper, and once more try to coerce Small Boy into crewing on the new boat, Retaining Wall. Much to my surprise, Small Boy agreed, even going so far as to drive down to Victoria with Himself, to pick the new boat up.

No 2 Son thought he had a mate to crew for him but this fell through. Out of the blue, No 1 Son, whom we rarely see nowadays, expressed an interest in sailing with his brother. Now, not only has No 1 Son been previously reluctant to sail, but given the combative nature of their sibling relationship, I was surprised No 2 Son was even considering it. But, consider it he did.

So, to recap:

Retaining Wall:
Skipper: Himself
Attitude: Keen as mustard/highly competitive
Experience: lengthy and successful

Crew: Small Boy
Attitude: terrified and guilt ridden
Experience: nil

Bad Jester:
Skipper: No 2 Son
Attitude: nervous/insecure, but keen
Experience: virtually nil

Crew: Possibly No 1 Son
Attitude: doesn't like being told what to do
Experience: as above

Meanwhile, it transpired that Small Boy had a school friend who was also keen to learn to sail. His family had been into sailing, before the divorce, and he had never had an opportunity to actually learn, so when he heard that there were crew seats possibly still available, he was beside himself with excitement. The only problem was that this crew seat was with No 2 Son.

Now I don't talk too much about No 2 Son here as he has made it known that he does not like being plastered across the internet; but suffice to say that he is a rather intense young man with many Aspergery traits and a moderate case of dyspraxia to boot. Social skills and clear communication are not his forte and the idea of him trying to teach someone else (and a little kid at that!) to crew whilst learning to skipper himself was possibly the most convincing recipe for disaster that I have ever heard put forward! I communicated this to Himself who was gracious enough to acknowledge that it could be a problem. There did not seem to be an immediate answer to the dilemma and so as the first 'try out' race of the season approached, it seemed that FOSB (Friend of Small Boy) would be taking the crew's seat for No 2 Son.

With a stroke of providence from the Divine, No 2 son was struck down with a bad shoulder on the day of the trial race. This meant that Himself would take 'Retaining Wall' down to the beach, give FOSB a quick ride and then go out for the race with Small Boy whilst I, the inveterate non sailor, babysat FOSB on the shore.

That's FOSB looking keen in the red shorts. That's Small Boy looking like he can't get away fast enough to the right!

Himself was keen. He was really keen. He was so keen he wore silly sailing clothes.


As Himself was preparing the boat, Small Boy informed me in defiant tones, that he had hurt his leg and that no-one was listening to him and everyone thought he was faking but that his leg really hurt and he didn't know how he was going to sail with such a sore leg! A wave of inevitability washed over me and I brought the dilemma to Himself's attention.

Himself stormed around for a minute but quickly saw the immediate solution.
FOSB would crew for him in the trial race.

Look how excited he is!

To be fair, he initially got very excited about the idea, asking lots of questions and climbing enthusiastically into Small Boy's specialist gear. Small Boy stomped about, or rather limped about in an exaggerated fashion, with a brow like a thundercloud and the inevitable "No-one believes me.." echoing repeatedly from his lips...no mean feat considering the prominence of said lower lip.

Speaking of thunderclouds, as preparations were reaching a peak, the wind began to pick up.

The moment of Christening had arrived.


I grasped the champagne bottle and drew the cork.
"I christen thee Retaining Wall and God bless all who sail in thee..."
(thinks: ugh, maybe a few too many 'thees' in there....)

One of the other gentlemen approached me afterwards;
"That the first christening you've done then?"
"Uhhh, ye-es.." (thinks, 'where's he going with this..?')
"So how do you think it went?"
"Ummmmm..."
"Room for some improvement you think?"
Rats. I knew there were too many 'thees'.....


The gang began the process of getting the boat into the water.

All seemed to be under control so I turned my back, momentarily, to put something further up the beach. When I returned a few minutes later, all hell had broken loose.

Himself was standing in the water desperately holding Retaining Wall's nose in what was turning out to be an increasingly stiff breeze. FOSB was on the shore crying and holding his stomach. People were shouting things over the top of the mounting wind:
"Just give him a minute.."
"We're going to miss the start.."
"I'll...sob shudder...be...sob...alright in a minute..."
and of course the inevitable over-reaction from my beloved husband.

"I KNEW IT! I MIGHT AS WELL PACK UP THE BOAT NOW!I KNEW I WOULDN'T GET A SAIL TODAY!!!!"

A few quick questions and it became apparent that FOSB had suddenly been stricken with stomach cramps. Helpful onlookers were making suggestions, Himself was ranting and FOSB was doubled over whimpering and insisting that he had to go out because Himself was relying on him. Small Boy was deathly quiet behind me.

After bellowing at Himself to stop over reacting and quickly assessing FOSB's discomfort, I suggested he dash quickly up to the club toilets, see if he could be sick or go to the toilet, and then come back. Himself then started up again about how they would miss the start and they didn't have time etc etc etc. One thing I have discovered about my Leo husband over the years, is that for all his bluster and volume, he can't take it in return!
"Does it matter if you miss the start? It's only a PRACTICE RACE for F***s sake!!!!"
"Well what's the point if you're not going to be competitive?"
"Do you really NEED ME TO TELL YOU THE POINT???????" I bellowed back. (Bear in mind that all this is taking place at a distance and over an ever increasing wind.)
Momentarily chastened, he shut up while I checked on FOSB again who was still crying and doubled over.
"What about you Small Boy?" I called to him, "do you think you can do it instead?"

Now, this was a gamble. I was pretty sure that Small Boy's 'strained leg' was every bit as real as FOSB's sudden cramps but I was also pretty sure that both of them had the same root source: anxiety! I was banking on the fact that Small Boy would rise to the challenge to help out his dad and sure enough, he did. With pretty bad grace I must admit, but at least he agreed and the two lads started exchanging clothing there on the water's edge, accompanied by groans of pain (from Small Boy, whenever he lifted his leg) and whimpers and moans from FOSB, which may or may not have been relief and gratitude. I encouraged Small Boy, hopeful of the possibility that given the urgency of the situation, he would not have time to think about his anxiety but would simply get in the boat and do that crew thing. I was not helped by Himself who, having recovered his bluster, began to bellow:
"ARE YOU COMING OR NOT????????"
"HE IS DOING THE BEST HE CAN........PULL YOUR HEAD IN!!!!!!!!!" I defended 'our' little lad as he valiantly tried to pull on wet sailing gloves over sandy hands, between hard tears of terror.

Eventually, Himself and Small Boy were away, FOSB was sitting comfortably on the beach wacthing them go and I was standing, shaking my head over the drama of it all!
"Do you feel better now?" I enquired of FOSB.
"Oh yes thankyou."
"Do you think you just might have been nervous?"
"Oh yes, I think that's what it was. I vomited 5 times before I had to go in for my first taekwondo tournament!" he announced, chirpily.
It would have been nice to have known that in advance, I thought.*

FOSB and I retired to the club to have a lemonade and watch the race from the balcony. We hadn't been up there half an hour when we noticed someone coming back in. It was 'Retaining Wall' of course. The wind had picked up to 25 knots and the boat had taken off like a rocket. Himself of course was delighted but Small Boy was duly terrified and, to his credit, Himself had agreed to take him back in if he was frightened.
"Yea, but you'll be cross with me," Small Boy sobbed defiantly.
"No, I promise I won't; just say the word and we'll go back in. Nothing more said."
And he was as good as his word. He was just so excited by the acceleration of the new boat that everything else paled into insignificance.

The following week they couldn't sail because there was no wind. The weekend after that they sailed their first race and came third! Today is their second try and No 1 and 2 Sons make their debut as a team.

Can't wait to hear how that goes!

*It turns out, Himself had known that in advance. FOSB's mother had rung that morning to warn him of the lad's anxiety issues!!!!
"Did you not think that worth mentioning and discussing with me?" I asked him incredulously when he had informed me of this, later that day. He had no comeback.

Snowy Holiday Part 1

I have so many things to tell you:

The big news this week is the upcoming Formal (Prom) and the BA's 16th birthday!!!!!!

SIXTEEN
*deep breaths*
I suppose that would account for why I am feeling so old!

Meanwhile:
We had a wonderful holiday in the Snowy Mountains, but there was too much driving and not enough stopping.

Here's a whistle stop of the 'highlights'...or at least...memorable occurrences:

Good Friday

Left late due to a wonderful night of carousing with my good friend Ms Drama Teacher and her Beau. We played something called 'Nitty Gritty', yes, amazingly I say 'we'!! Himself actually indulged me by playing along. It turned out to be extremely entertaining and, although the young couple 'whupped our a***es' in the winning stakes, we had a good laugh and many interesting conversations ensued. Perhaps we should play it weekly? I mean....conversation????!!!!

But anyway, we left late because of this rare socialising.

After a long day of driving, we were facing the prospect of sleeping the car. The first town we pulled into at sunset boasted 5 motels...not one of which had a vacancy. Fortunately we were in my old stamping grounds near my first teaching post and I was able to reassure Himself that the next town, Balranald was, in fact, big enough to have motels. We pulled in at about 7pm and were delighted to jag a -1 star motel: no room service, a bathroom which required significant manoeuvrings to close the door, and resident mice.

Significant stretches of South Australia, Victoria and new South wales are currently afflicted by a mouse plague. Interestingly, the 10 Plagues of Egypt did not include mice! Boy, the Lord sure missed out on an opportunity there. As we sat in our room watching TV a very well fed mouse scurried across the room, stopped by the wall to survey us and then disappeared into the wall cavity. Now, I am not particularly phased by a 'mouse'; it is the copious quantities of them that disturb me. Having lived through the hideous mouse plagues of Booligal back in 1990, my radar was on high alert as we switched off the light and tried for sleep. Himself, after a long day's drive was out like a light in no time. I, on the other hand lay awake for hours listening to the scurries and scuffles within the walls. On occasion the noises would change and I was sure the Mickeys had re-emerged through the gaps in skirting boards to rummage about in our luggage. I would sit bolt upright, turn the light on and get up to patter around looking for evidence of the little b******* , my mind full of plans for home made traps. Sadly the motel room was lacking in any of the essential materials for these traps so my night continued in broken fashion.

Onward the next day: a brief but wonderful stop in Hay to see my Dear Colleague and her family.
As I said to her, why are all our daughters towering over us? Was it something we fed them???????
Over morning coffee we calculated that it was 22 years since we had taught together in Booligal. I must have mentioned it before but this lady and I were so blessed. Out in the middle of nowhere I was assigned a second teacher and I could have got anybody; but in fact I got Dear Colleague and she was the best thing since sliced bread. Additionally, we had to share a house which could have been a disaster; but which of course was wonderful. Twenty two years later we looked at each other with dazed and bewildered eyes and wondered where the years had gone. Then we looked at the children and thought, "yeah...that's where they went."

Later that day I fell asleep at the wheel and Himself put us back onto the right side of the road and was then very reluctant to let me drive ever again.

That night we made it into Canberra as the BA flew in from Sydney. Himself's insistence on navigating with nothing more than his iphone, is the subject of another blog post all on its own; however the good news is that, despite being unable to contact her on mobile as we approached the airport and having no idea of where we were, the BA materialised, standing on a corner, looking more and more bemused as Himself went round and round and round the roundabout looking for an 'appropriate place' to pullover!





That night was spent in a nice motel and the Easter Bunny came.







We found a church the following morning


and left Himself cleaning the car (locusts...mice...etc) whilst we celebrated Easter.


It was a lovely service with sparklers, bells, flowers, an easter egg hunt and a sermon on
Les Miserables. We felt totally at home.


Onwards, toward Tumut and Himself decided we needed to take the high road through a place called Wee Jasper. He said his motivation was to find a nice picnic spot and to travel on a road he had not driven on before. You can imagine the conversation:
Me: How about we stop here for lunch?
Him: Naaah, I think there'll be a better spot around the corner.
Me: Here?
Him: Nah.
me: Here?
Hi: Nahhhhh.
Me: It's going to be 4pm before we eat at this rate!!!!
(Gourmet Picnic to keep everyone happy)


And then it was on to the purpose for the trip, my bridesmaid's 50th birthday.

That's her on the left.

She was having a 'Sex and The City' cocktail party. More stress. I spent a great deal of time trying to watch the BA through the corner of my eye to see that she was not being fed illicit cocktails :-(
Apart from that it was a lovely evening. The next day we experienced autumn in Tumut and took in the Adelong Falls and Gold workings.
Can you see Himself reflected in the water?
These last three pictures are for my dad.
Standing on a rock I noticed this: and then turned 180 degrees to see this:
and then looked up and across to see the full picture.I think its a dyke isn't it dad?
(edited to add: Dad says 'yes' it is...and it bifurcates! Never say this blog is not educational)
Next day, up and over the mountains:







image credit: plague

Speed: Shout Out To Himself

Oh My! You know how Himself is a mad keen sailor and all that, and you know he even took me out on his boat a few times? Well, he has recently been filming some footage for the NS14 Association website; the top two NS14 sailors in Australia (and thus the world as they are an Australian class) put their boats through some paces up at Coff's Harbour a few weeks ago, and Himself was there, with the latest 'state of the art' Sports Video equipment, to capture some action.

Get the speed of these things! No camera tricks!




Even I have to admit that I wish I knew how to sail one of these things like this!

Suffice to say, Himself is now spending every waking (and most of what ought to be his sleeping) moment, editing footage for use on the NS14 website.

But I have managed to talk him into going away with me on a trip to the Snowy Mountains for my friends 50th birthday. Oh yes! A holiday! An out of the state holiday!!!!
How excitement!!! (sorry, that's Effie again)

The Wonders Of The Internet (are temporary it seems)*edited

Well it appears my crack at picasa to 'lift it's game' (see bottom of this post) has put their noses out of joint! Read on.




My dad put an album up on picasa web sharing and it turns out you can post directly from there to blogger!!!!
(Well, you could for two whole days apparently. After that you get this white rectangle...see above. Mind you it did let me download so here we are after all)

This is Himself and I on the rare occasion of 'socialising at the same time'.


Well, at least I am socialising. I am not sure what he is doing. Gritting his teeth perhaps?

Now the only problem with this web sharing thing is that you cannot upload multiple photos on one post. Come on now picasa, lift your game :-D

(To be fair, the problem could lie with blogger. P'raps they don't like the link?)