You've all pretty much figured out I'm a confident person if you've read these posts. I don't have an issue making my case or wants known, I don't resign from responsibility easily and I pretty much am a control freak in all things on this planet that I can possibly control and some things I shouldn't. I've also blogged about my belief in being right.
What if I'm wrong?
Decisions made at forks in the road can have quite dire effects. Take the wrong path and end up god knows where. I have been very lucky in my life that each fork has ended up in a better place. If there was any chance it wasn't going to end up that way, a big dose of luck kicked in and made it right. Buying and selling houses or cars, having kids, moving states, investments, changing jobs, or getting married. They all worked fine! Is that good luck or good management? Is it a function of me being right or just dumb luck and I was wrong the entire time! How can I not consider this may well be the case and that any future decisions could be so fucked up my luck just throws its hands in the air and walks off talking back to me over it's should that I'm on my own now! I'm finding myself more and more paralyzed by this thought but forge ahead in "doing things" and "getting things done", "being a doer" to disguise the fact.
Maybe its time for me to just sit and let others make my mind up? Run an ad in the jobs section "Position Vacant - Decision Maker. Previous experience unnecessary as we have no good yardstick to measure you against".The good side of that is that if it works, I gain. Whatever the decision was, I didn't have the stress about knowing if its right or wrong, just the benefit of it's outcome. The bad side that if it doesn't work out, blaming my newly engaged decision maker is fruitless and all I can do it sack them. I'm leaving the decision regarding getting a decision maker to the decision maker I hire if I decide to hire a decision maker.
Monday, 16 December 2013
Monday, 9 December 2013
We forgot about nature
As a child, we had a small dog called Puck (after Puck of Pook's Hill) and we had him since birth essentially. Due to the nature of his name, he got used to his outside name too. 'Lob'. This was required as the eyebrows of neighbors upon hearing us yell 'puck' up and down the street were raised in disapproval. So there it was , Puck inside and Lob outside. It made complete sense to us. One day, he was just no longer in the yard. He was old and grey and I missed him. My dad told me dogs just know when nature has finished with them and they go away to die in peace.
Years later as a teenager, my now wife's family had a golden retriever called Benji. A lovely family member they'd had since a pup and at the age of about 14, simply went down to the back garden, lay down under a bush and died. Nature was there big and proud but the yard fence was bigger and prouder, stopping his most natural migration to his final moments and death.
It seems to me that we've forgotten about nature in some respects.
As some of you may have read, my mum is suffering chronic dementia and resides in a secured high dependency facility. When I say high dependency, I mean total dependency. There is just no one home anymore. Walking into such a place is quite confronting. There is a range of oldies in varying states of oblivion. Some happy, some with verbal diarrhea, others seemingly quite normal and then there's the one that are no more. The blank staring eyes, unable to talk, walk, control their bowels, feed themselves, smile, laugh, cry or even acknowledge their own existence. Nature has finished with them but we haven't. Resources a plenty are poured into these places keeping our elderly comfortable and fed and cared for and I question why. I can say this because my own mother is there in that bucket. It's impossible not to feel differently about her given her condition, but I feel for the mum I used to have, not the existing remains. The mum I used to have was mum, she was OK, not the best, not the worst but was OK. The collection of cells passing themselves off for mum nowadays is nothing short of criminal.
But what makes you god? I here you ask. What makes it OK for you to decide who goes and who stays? Take a look into their eyes and you'll know that answer. I am enamored by eyes. I love them. These eyes have nothing, no spark, no life, no knowing, no appreciation, no joy, no sadness, no nothing. Nature has taken that from them but we have as a society decided to overrule Nature, sideline it, render it a passenger and forge ahead maintaining life at all cost. We are wrong. Trust nature, let nature decide. We forgot about nature.
Years later as a teenager, my now wife's family had a golden retriever called Benji. A lovely family member they'd had since a pup and at the age of about 14, simply went down to the back garden, lay down under a bush and died. Nature was there big and proud but the yard fence was bigger and prouder, stopping his most natural migration to his final moments and death.
It seems to me that we've forgotten about nature in some respects.
As some of you may have read, my mum is suffering chronic dementia and resides in a secured high dependency facility. When I say high dependency, I mean total dependency. There is just no one home anymore. Walking into such a place is quite confronting. There is a range of oldies in varying states of oblivion. Some happy, some with verbal diarrhea, others seemingly quite normal and then there's the one that are no more. The blank staring eyes, unable to talk, walk, control their bowels, feed themselves, smile, laugh, cry or even acknowledge their own existence. Nature has finished with them but we haven't. Resources a plenty are poured into these places keeping our elderly comfortable and fed and cared for and I question why. I can say this because my own mother is there in that bucket. It's impossible not to feel differently about her given her condition, but I feel for the mum I used to have, not the existing remains. The mum I used to have was mum, she was OK, not the best, not the worst but was OK. The collection of cells passing themselves off for mum nowadays is nothing short of criminal.
But what makes you god? I here you ask. What makes it OK for you to decide who goes and who stays? Take a look into their eyes and you'll know that answer. I am enamored by eyes. I love them. These eyes have nothing, no spark, no life, no knowing, no appreciation, no joy, no sadness, no nothing. Nature has taken that from them but we have as a society decided to overrule Nature, sideline it, render it a passenger and forge ahead maintaining life at all cost. We are wrong. Trust nature, let nature decide. We forgot about nature.
Right
I sit and stare in to the ether and the edges of my field of vision go fuzzy yet the centre of my stare stays crisp and rigid. I am thinking to myself could I be wrong but knowing all the while that I'm right. My belief in my being right is concrete. But being right is only ever useful if those around you accept the fact. Denial is common. What use is being right if you're told you are wrong? Maybe its not about being right, but maybe life is about grey and greyer. My chest aches with the words I hold back for fear of angering but I know I'm right so why even bother pushing my point. I should embrace the grey, celebrate in its cloudiness and hide among its puffs. I can still be right in there too can't I?
Monday, 2 December 2013
Trust me
My youngest has what can only be described as an over active fear of bees. A phobia of biblical proportions. Even today on the cusp of 12, whenever a bee comes within his field of vision, no matter how far away it is, he'll recoil in fear and demand I do something about the clear and present danger. I have no idea where this came from but did once, try to remedy it without success.
The family was frolicking in the pool as families do. Water splashing, laughing and all around a great time in the sun. We had an airbed in the pool too, taking turns trying to stay on whilst the others were all trying to flip you off it. It was one of those magic family times that can only ever get fucked up by the dad.
Griff saw the bee and immediately went into flight mode trying to dodge the insect flying a good 6 or 8 feet above our heads.
"Dad he'll sting me, kill it, make it go away"
"don't be silly son, he has no more interest in you than we have in him"
I continued, "bees don't sting unless they are threatened, its the way they repel enemies so that the others in their group are safe". My calming dad voice echoed across the water as I help Griff up on the airbed out of the water so that I could allay his fears about this innocent little bee going about its business. Griff was not happy about this and wanted to return to the water and safety but I felt it reasonable to let him understand that there was zero risk and that he was being unnecessarily paranoid. He looked at me dis trustingly and I could only reply "trust me".
The bee must have been broken is all I can think. It flew straight down onto his leg and stung him deep.
As Griff's eyes widened and he experienced his first bee sting, his attention turned to me and my inability to keep a straight face. His horror at me was unmistakable. I know its bad to laugh at a youngster as he struggles with nature but hey, you had to have been there! I did try to conceal my smirk but rather unsuccessfully I'm afraid. In one sense, it worked because his pissedness at me over ran the pain of the sting and he maybe felt less as we excavated the pulsing spear from his flesh. I like to think that anyway, trust me!
The family was frolicking in the pool as families do. Water splashing, laughing and all around a great time in the sun. We had an airbed in the pool too, taking turns trying to stay on whilst the others were all trying to flip you off it. It was one of those magic family times that can only ever get fucked up by the dad.
Griff saw the bee and immediately went into flight mode trying to dodge the insect flying a good 6 or 8 feet above our heads.
"Dad he'll sting me, kill it, make it go away"
"don't be silly son, he has no more interest in you than we have in him"
The bee must have been broken is all I can think. It flew straight down onto his leg and stung him deep.
As Griff's eyes widened and he experienced his first bee sting, his attention turned to me and my inability to keep a straight face. His horror at me was unmistakable. I know its bad to laugh at a youngster as he struggles with nature but hey, you had to have been there! I did try to conceal my smirk but rather unsuccessfully I'm afraid. In one sense, it worked because his pissedness at me over ran the pain of the sting and he maybe felt less as we excavated the pulsing spear from his flesh. I like to think that anyway, trust me!
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
Happy
I started this as an outlet for my artistic release. Someone had advised me that I was lacking and my natural need to express myself was severely hampered in my daily life and suggested I should find a way such as music or writing. I tried the sax lessons but that caused more problems than it solved so I write and here it is.
I've written lots of stuff about useless crap and stories and stuff but not much in the way of how I see life. I should put it into words more often so that I can better understand it myself.
I've had a moment! A moment of clarity and dare I say an epiphany.
Brisbane has storms of late. Big storms. Rain and thunder and lightning and it literally dumps an ocean onto the streets only to disappear within minutes and the hot tropical sun come out of hiding and play. One such storm happened the other Sunday morning. I was up and planning my next trip to the hardware store (I'm not a proper man most times but boy howdy do I love a good hardware store). I wouldn't have classified myself as anything but normal at that time. Driving to the store, I came over a rise and looked out across a freshly stormed city. Everything was glistening wet with the morning sun. Its rays highlighting every flat surface like a sea of mirrors. It was quite spectacular. The sun vaporizing in minutes what the best efforts of the storm could achieve in hours, the steam rising from the ground as I watched. At that time I had a conscious thought that I was happy! I was marveling at life and where I lived and how could anyone take this for granted. I hadn't actually thought about being happy or not before, it was as if the thought just hadn't really occurred to me. I've always just been what I am. Then I thought maybe others actually do identify themselves as being happy and that's the key. It happened again a few days later in a totally unexpected but unprintable place. I'm working on developing a habit of admitting to myself when I'm happy rather than just being the usual blaaahhhhhh. Maybe it will bear fruit, who knows but I'm not thinking about what I haven't got, but what I have. I am blessed with people around me that make me so much more than I can be on my own. I need to acknowledge that too. Why the fuck would I ever be unhappy when I can look at rainy roads and feel elation? Soas this makes sense, I'm making a promise to the world to be cool. I've no interest in being anything but happy anymore and I'll be happy for you too if you need it.
I've written lots of stuff about useless crap and stories and stuff but not much in the way of how I see life. I should put it into words more often so that I can better understand it myself.
I've had a moment! A moment of clarity and dare I say an epiphany.
Brisbane has storms of late. Big storms. Rain and thunder and lightning and it literally dumps an ocean onto the streets only to disappear within minutes and the hot tropical sun come out of hiding and play. One such storm happened the other Sunday morning. I was up and planning my next trip to the hardware store (I'm not a proper man most times but boy howdy do I love a good hardware store). I wouldn't have classified myself as anything but normal at that time. Driving to the store, I came over a rise and looked out across a freshly stormed city. Everything was glistening wet with the morning sun. Its rays highlighting every flat surface like a sea of mirrors. It was quite spectacular. The sun vaporizing in minutes what the best efforts of the storm could achieve in hours, the steam rising from the ground as I watched. At that time I had a conscious thought that I was happy! I was marveling at life and where I lived and how could anyone take this for granted. I hadn't actually thought about being happy or not before, it was as if the thought just hadn't really occurred to me. I've always just been what I am. Then I thought maybe others actually do identify themselves as being happy and that's the key. It happened again a few days later in a totally unexpected but unprintable place. I'm working on developing a habit of admitting to myself when I'm happy rather than just being the usual blaaahhhhhh. Maybe it will bear fruit, who knows but I'm not thinking about what I haven't got, but what I have. I am blessed with people around me that make me so much more than I can be on my own. I need to acknowledge that too. Why the fuck would I ever be unhappy when I can look at rainy roads and feel elation? Soas this makes sense, I'm making a promise to the world to be cool. I've no interest in being anything but happy anymore and I'll be happy for you too if you need it.
Monday, 18 November 2013
Great Barrier Reef
As young adults living in Wollongong, my now wife and I were fortunate enough to be able to take a 3000 km road trip north to Great Keppel Island. I think we did it 3 or 4 times with other friends some trips and by ourselves on others. One such trip we decided to so a scuba dive course. It was just a one day thing and ended up with a dive on the reef north of Great Keppel. It was great, crustal clear water, colourful fish and coral, a water snake came and said hi to me too. A superb life changing experience. It was a surreal and almost euphoric event.
A few years later with a little more disposable income we ventured to Hawaii with friends. Of course, we had the full tourist experience and wanted more. A dive! just the thing. Actually, why not book 2, there was a discount if you did that. After donning our ill fitting and warn out gear, we descended into the depths and along a large man made structure. The guide stopped us at one point indicating no further. The power station outfall pipe was a good way of being shot out to an oceanic demise. The water was murky, there was a fish at one point and I was starting to taste the rubber of my wet-suit through my skin. We were at the outlet of a power station cooling water exhaust! the sewer of the energy world.
We returned to the surface and the guide's first words were "did you see the fish?" THE fish, yes, we noticed IT. The warm outflow from the power station was to bring fish to the area supposedly. He was literally over the moon about this dive, excited at the clarity, the fish just everything. I could not have been more underwhelmed. I expressed my underwhelmity. He enquired as to why I was not happy. I explained that on our first dive on the Great Barrier Reef...."WHAT!!!!" he interjected. "you've dived on the Great Barrier Reef?" He was genuinely envious. "WOW!! that's so cool dude" He explained that we would never be able to replicate our experience. I had tasted the best the world has to offer in that respect. I was bound to pursue the un-achievable dream forever more knowing that it was the reef and only the reef that would give me that sense of suspended reality. It was both heart breaking to know there was no more searching to be had but at the same time, the reef was unattainable for the foreseeable future.
On holidays in Bali a few years back we had decided to visit a new restaurant each night. No two meals were to come from the same kitchen. On night One I ordered a black rice pudding with coconut cream for dessert. It was mind blowing. I have never had it and wondered why I'd wasted 46 years not seeking it out before now. On night 2 at the next restaurant they had it on the dessert menu also. I ordered it of course and was disappointed. Maybe the next night we will strike it lucky again? Alas no, just as the previous night and all the following nights, each restaurant offered an inferior product. I never got to have it again. It was the barrier reef of the rice world.
So many times in life we experience something that changed our lives and continue the search, always trying to recreate that. And we are destined for failure. I wish there was a way to know when the Great Barrier Reef is in front of us. We could just smile and nod, relax into the knowledge that there is no better place on earth than where you are at that particular moment. My great barrier reef experience is now a long way in the distant memory but I still feel it. The temperature of the water, the way the world went silent except for my own breath escaping the mouthpiece and the air rattling around in the tank. I hold out hope of returning to the reef one day but this time knowing I am in heaven. Appreciating it for what it is and giving it the respect it deserves. I might even order some black rice pudding.
A few years later with a little more disposable income we ventured to Hawaii with friends. Of course, we had the full tourist experience and wanted more. A dive! just the thing. Actually, why not book 2, there was a discount if you did that. After donning our ill fitting and warn out gear, we descended into the depths and along a large man made structure. The guide stopped us at one point indicating no further. The power station outfall pipe was a good way of being shot out to an oceanic demise. The water was murky, there was a fish at one point and I was starting to taste the rubber of my wet-suit through my skin. We were at the outlet of a power station cooling water exhaust! the sewer of the energy world.
We returned to the surface and the guide's first words were "did you see the fish?" THE fish, yes, we noticed IT. The warm outflow from the power station was to bring fish to the area supposedly. He was literally over the moon about this dive, excited at the clarity, the fish just everything. I could not have been more underwhelmed. I expressed my underwhelmity. He enquired as to why I was not happy. I explained that on our first dive on the Great Barrier Reef...."WHAT!!!!" he interjected. "you've dived on the Great Barrier Reef?" He was genuinely envious. "WOW!! that's so cool dude" He explained that we would never be able to replicate our experience. I had tasted the best the world has to offer in that respect. I was bound to pursue the un-achievable dream forever more knowing that it was the reef and only the reef that would give me that sense of suspended reality. It was both heart breaking to know there was no more searching to be had but at the same time, the reef was unattainable for the foreseeable future.
On holidays in Bali a few years back we had decided to visit a new restaurant each night. No two meals were to come from the same kitchen. On night One I ordered a black rice pudding with coconut cream for dessert. It was mind blowing. I have never had it and wondered why I'd wasted 46 years not seeking it out before now. On night 2 at the next restaurant they had it on the dessert menu also. I ordered it of course and was disappointed. Maybe the next night we will strike it lucky again? Alas no, just as the previous night and all the following nights, each restaurant offered an inferior product. I never got to have it again. It was the barrier reef of the rice world.
So many times in life we experience something that changed our lives and continue the search, always trying to recreate that. And we are destined for failure. I wish there was a way to know when the Great Barrier Reef is in front of us. We could just smile and nod, relax into the knowledge that there is no better place on earth than where you are at that particular moment. My great barrier reef experience is now a long way in the distant memory but I still feel it. The temperature of the water, the way the world went silent except for my own breath escaping the mouthpiece and the air rattling around in the tank. I hold out hope of returning to the reef one day but this time knowing I am in heaven. Appreciating it for what it is and giving it the respect it deserves. I might even order some black rice pudding.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
Too much
It appears to me that sometimes I may be just a little too much for folks. After cooking for friends and trying to make everything perfect and wanting to just see them enjoy what I do (and of course bask in their adulation), I get told I'm manic!
am I?
what is that anyways?
when arranging a dinner for my closest friends, sometimes I like to try to include other groups, friends of friends and other interested parties, maybe even complete strangers. Strangers in that I've never met them in person but friends in that we share an apparent interest. I think I'm in the minority though. Does one fill in the blanks when dealing with such limited knowledge about individuals and maybe attribute them with ideal characteristics? I think they are all great people but how wrong can I be? maybe they're horrible unfriendly and boring people that just happen to make nice ideas appear in 140 characters? The ones I've met so far would indicate I'm correct in my optimistic assumptions though. Oh except one, but I won't name them here!
I'm not unhappy with my friends, quite the contrary, I love all of them intensely and would seriously do anything for any one of them, and they know that. I am god father to many of their kids and they to mine. Our friendships vary in length from 41 years to 1 year. My tendencies to talk to many are not a reflection of my love for them in the least.
Is there something wrong with me! humans are social creatures are they not? How else can you explain society? The first neanderthal thought it would be nice to live close to the other one and well off it goes from there. Move on a few thousand years and social media is the fastest growing non business on the planet. So maybe I'm just ahead of the rest of the planet?
Maybe there is a limit to how many friends one can successfully maintain and provide the attention each deserves. Maybe that's the key! Are most of us at full capacity? is our friends book closed and not currently interviewing? do we reach that by natural means and maintain that or is it decided for us by society and we live with what we get? Do we make a conscious decision?
Recently on holiday in the US, the locals were surprised to be talked to by a complete stranger (me). They were often quite happy to but it was never their choice. Why do I force myself on others like that even if its in such a minor way.
I write this to myself and ask myself these questions knowing that about 46 people will read it (statistically insignificant in the scheme of things) but maybe one of you knows the answers. This is after all my self therapy so chances are by the time you finish reading this I would have answered my own questions but then again, I'm a bit too much for myself and am just ignoring me now.
am I?
what is that anyways?
when arranging a dinner for my closest friends, sometimes I like to try to include other groups, friends of friends and other interested parties, maybe even complete strangers. Strangers in that I've never met them in person but friends in that we share an apparent interest. I think I'm in the minority though. Does one fill in the blanks when dealing with such limited knowledge about individuals and maybe attribute them with ideal characteristics? I think they are all great people but how wrong can I be? maybe they're horrible unfriendly and boring people that just happen to make nice ideas appear in 140 characters? The ones I've met so far would indicate I'm correct in my optimistic assumptions though. Oh except one, but I won't name them here!
I'm not unhappy with my friends, quite the contrary, I love all of them intensely and would seriously do anything for any one of them, and they know that. I am god father to many of their kids and they to mine. Our friendships vary in length from 41 years to 1 year. My tendencies to talk to many are not a reflection of my love for them in the least.
Is there something wrong with me! humans are social creatures are they not? How else can you explain society? The first neanderthal thought it would be nice to live close to the other one and well off it goes from there. Move on a few thousand years and social media is the fastest growing non business on the planet. So maybe I'm just ahead of the rest of the planet?
Maybe there is a limit to how many friends one can successfully maintain and provide the attention each deserves. Maybe that's the key! Are most of us at full capacity? is our friends book closed and not currently interviewing? do we reach that by natural means and maintain that or is it decided for us by society and we live with what we get? Do we make a conscious decision?
Recently on holiday in the US, the locals were surprised to be talked to by a complete stranger (me). They were often quite happy to but it was never their choice. Why do I force myself on others like that even if its in such a minor way.
I write this to myself and ask myself these questions knowing that about 46 people will read it (statistically insignificant in the scheme of things) but maybe one of you knows the answers. This is after all my self therapy so chances are by the time you finish reading this I would have answered my own questions but then again, I'm a bit too much for myself and am just ignoring me now.
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
The switch
At some point in the past few years, someone or something or some god or some alien or mother nature or father time or maybe it was even me, flicked a switch. I have no idea when it happened but it did. I am a different person to the one I once knew. I used to be the same as I always was and had always been.
Now I'm different. I don't know if anyone other than me knows I'm not the same. Is this what the victims of body snatchers felt? I'm not as smart, not as quick, not as strong, not as funny, not as lovable, not as anything as I used to be. I think I'm shorter now too but that could just be because my frame of reference has changed with my 15 year old now able to tell me if I have lint on top of my head. Its all switched!
Life before was the same every day. To change things took either a lot of energy or a major incident. The J curve of Justin was a pretty smooth one. Now its an ECG of a heart attack victim during a 9.0 earthquake. Life now is pretty much dependent upon the breeze and my ability to mediate myself has gone totally.
Is it age? I have no idea. I see my own parents very quickly descending into the final phase of life but they are way way older than I. I don't recall Dad losing it with me in his 40's. If I'm like this now, what will I be like when I'm 80? I can see the headline now of the 2043 Courier Mail, " Old man goes at someone with a pick axe because they just didn't do it the way he wanted".
My patience is shot to hell, my tolerance not far behind that. Its all very well to know you are being irrational but to stop yourself mid irration is tricky. Its real for you, you are justified and in that moment, nothing can sway you from your mission.
I hope who/whatever flicked the switch can flick it back because the old me was a much better catch. When I was what I was I was OK. I'm not sure that's the case anymore.
Now I'm different. I don't know if anyone other than me knows I'm not the same. Is this what the victims of body snatchers felt? I'm not as smart, not as quick, not as strong, not as funny, not as lovable, not as anything as I used to be. I think I'm shorter now too but that could just be because my frame of reference has changed with my 15 year old now able to tell me if I have lint on top of my head. Its all switched!
Life before was the same every day. To change things took either a lot of energy or a major incident. The J curve of Justin was a pretty smooth one. Now its an ECG of a heart attack victim during a 9.0 earthquake. Life now is pretty much dependent upon the breeze and my ability to mediate myself has gone totally.
Is it age? I have no idea. I see my own parents very quickly descending into the final phase of life but they are way way older than I. I don't recall Dad losing it with me in his 40's. If I'm like this now, what will I be like when I'm 80? I can see the headline now of the 2043 Courier Mail, " Old man goes at someone with a pick axe because they just didn't do it the way he wanted".
My patience is shot to hell, my tolerance not far behind that. Its all very well to know you are being irrational but to stop yourself mid irration is tricky. Its real for you, you are justified and in that moment, nothing can sway you from your mission.
I hope who/whatever flicked the switch can flick it back because the old me was a much better catch. When I was what I was I was OK. I'm not sure that's the case anymore.
Thursday, 17 October 2013
It's the small things
I was walking down Charlotte St towards my rivercat when a young couple turned the corner coming towards me. The dad was pushing a twin stroller with sleeping twin boys oblivious to their journey. I found myself smiling at the boys and forgetting what a shit day I had just endured. I realised this straight away and was thankful they had saved my family from a cranky dad homecoming. It made me think about what other small or seemingly insignificant things have an immediate affect on me.
Babies is just one. Holding them or just seeing them is soothing for me and I am perpetually poking my wife in the ribs as we walk along to highlight a nearby cute baby. I don't do that for the ugly ones though. I do have taste. If I know a parent well enough I'll ask to smell their baby's head. There is nothing like it and I have no idea why. I'm not the only one that is a head sniffer so I suspect there is something innately human about it.
Music will ease my mind as well. Listening but more so playing. Once upon a time my sax would emerge from its case in time to prevent me from imploding but this has slowly been replaced with my music. I have superb quality earphones (thanks to Jane's generosity) for both the commute and the kitchen (doesn't everyone have activity specific earphones?) . I can pick up my trusty iphone with never enough music on it and find a tune that will take me to a happy place near instantly and allow my brain time to fizzle to a dull roar.
Food will often be a place to retreat to. I'm not talking 3 michelin star meals, this is about the small things after all. But have you ever had a golden rough or mint pattie straight from the fridge? There are never enough shops that keep them in the fridge but when they do, its a little piece of heaven.
Animals, much like babies I suppose, draw my attention and calm me. I'm a dog person from way back and they tend to react favorably to me when I pat them.
I suspect the best position to be in would be to not need the little things but I do. Maybe one day I shan't but until that day I will smell, eat, hear, pat and look my way into bliss!
Babies is just one. Holding them or just seeing them is soothing for me and I am perpetually poking my wife in the ribs as we walk along to highlight a nearby cute baby. I don't do that for the ugly ones though. I do have taste. If I know a parent well enough I'll ask to smell their baby's head. There is nothing like it and I have no idea why. I'm not the only one that is a head sniffer so I suspect there is something innately human about it.
Music will ease my mind as well. Listening but more so playing. Once upon a time my sax would emerge from its case in time to prevent me from imploding but this has slowly been replaced with my music. I have superb quality earphones (thanks to Jane's generosity) for both the commute and the kitchen (doesn't everyone have activity specific earphones?) . I can pick up my trusty iphone with never enough music on it and find a tune that will take me to a happy place near instantly and allow my brain time to fizzle to a dull roar.
Food will often be a place to retreat to. I'm not talking 3 michelin star meals, this is about the small things after all. But have you ever had a golden rough or mint pattie straight from the fridge? There are never enough shops that keep them in the fridge but when they do, its a little piece of heaven.
Animals, much like babies I suppose, draw my attention and calm me. I'm a dog person from way back and they tend to react favorably to me when I pat them.
I suspect the best position to be in would be to not need the little things but I do. Maybe one day I shan't but until that day I will smell, eat, hear, pat and look my way into bliss!
Wednesday, 4 September 2013
Clive
I tweeted yesterday that I wish I had been friends with Clive James. Or maybe I just would have wanted to meet him. He admitted he was not the best person to be friends with and had taken them for granted which doesn't sound like my kind of friend but you never know. Listening to the words spill from his mouth were all so perfectly accented and full of succinct yet flourishing meaning. He impresses me greatly. I remember as a kid watching him on TV with mum and dad but not quite knowing why. Its now that I know his passion for the written word and what can be achieved with it was infectious. My grandfather was a poet too but I suspect most gents born when he was turned to poetry. Is it making a resurgence or is it because age gathers us up in the same net that they were all those years ago? I would like to put so few words together but communicate ten times more. If its true a picture paints a thousand words, it could be claimed a poem paints a picture or at least a pencil drawing. The colour and tones and brush strokes are filled in by the reader. I recently read a poem in a blog that was just nice to read. I have no idea why but the words just fitted together really well. Not Clive well but better than Justin well. At risk of being labelled a copycat I intend to put my mind to the task of emulating Clive. Well not Clive per say, lets just say a distant relative of his with similar genome. But were to start?
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
my brilliant idea
Road deaths are a tragedy. So are speeding fines. I have had my fair share of the latter in my time but I can safely say its through no fault of anyone other than me. We get complacent and know where the radars are more than likely to be. The radio stations even broadcast the location of the radar thanks to Andrew Denton making a complete idiot of the police commissioner on triple M years and years ago. I remember listening to him as he got the commissioner so befuddled and contradicting himself he had no choice but to bless the practice of broadcasting their locations. I was a fast young driver only because the risk of getting caught are minuscule and manageable.
It used to be (and I suspect still is ) illegal to notify others to the presence of a radar. Flashing lights at oncoming traffic used to be the norm too, until tickets started being issued. I still do it though. Not only to save an absent minded driver of the impending fee but also to slow them down. I have in the past flashed at obviously speeding cars and faked them into slowing down. I'm not what you'd regard as overly community minded and the civil libertarians shit me big time. I just think there's no need to rocket along when there's other cars around. If you are alone though, go for it.
I have a solution though. To minimise the frequency of speeding and bring to the forefront of every drivers mind the fact that a radar is near by. My idea is to privatize the capture and issue of infringement notices.
Stay with me here.
A private citizen owns a car and may or may not be frequently on the road. A fully sealed and tamper proof speed camera is located in the car maybe behind the grill or on the rear parcel shelf. It is powered from the car and that's it, no other interface. The box will communicate via the phone network and send the images of cars caught speeding off for issuing to the driver by the government.
BUT, I hear you say, that will cost a fortune and who will do it?
I love the word "self funding". It answers so many questions.
The car owner has to lease the camera from the govt thus becoming a small income stream to manage the system. The driver gets a percentage of the fine as his incentive for doing so and to fund the lease payments. The fined parties are the ones paying for it all in the end. Police can be retasked to criminal matters and know that should someone decide to speed, chances are there will be a radar enabled car in the vicinity hoping to catch them. The more people trying to make an income from being on the spot when speeders occur, the more chance the speeders will be caught. Just imagine for yourself if you knew there were hundreds if not thousands of radars on the street, would you even consider speeding for a minute? It would be a generational and cultural wholesale change in the psyche of the community. Eventually, the numbers caught would reduce to make the scheme not viable for too many drivers but by then, the norm of driving slowly would be in.
The argument against may include an increase in carbon emissions form people driving more often than they would have otherwise. That is offset by the reduction in all the other cars driving more slowly. Self uncarbonunding!
Anyone citing civil liberties or some such guff can go explain their point to the next parents that have to bury their teenage son or daughter through speeding.
I know its weird me writing about this in this particular forum but maybe this is where the initiative starts? maybe someone will cut and paste this and send to a politician and get it on the agenda in years to come. What we have been doing so far really hasn't worked so I'm up for the change. I would LOVE some critical appraisal or ideas thrown in tho the mix about this. I'm not sensitive about its success as there may well be a big issue I have not considered yet so feel free to comment. I do however consider it My brilliant Idea.
It used to be (and I suspect still is ) illegal to notify others to the presence of a radar. Flashing lights at oncoming traffic used to be the norm too, until tickets started being issued. I still do it though. Not only to save an absent minded driver of the impending fee but also to slow them down. I have in the past flashed at obviously speeding cars and faked them into slowing down. I'm not what you'd regard as overly community minded and the civil libertarians shit me big time. I just think there's no need to rocket along when there's other cars around. If you are alone though, go for it.
I have a solution though. To minimise the frequency of speeding and bring to the forefront of every drivers mind the fact that a radar is near by. My idea is to privatize the capture and issue of infringement notices.
Stay with me here.
A private citizen owns a car and may or may not be frequently on the road. A fully sealed and tamper proof speed camera is located in the car maybe behind the grill or on the rear parcel shelf. It is powered from the car and that's it, no other interface. The box will communicate via the phone network and send the images of cars caught speeding off for issuing to the driver by the government.
BUT, I hear you say, that will cost a fortune and who will do it?
I love the word "self funding". It answers so many questions.
The car owner has to lease the camera from the govt thus becoming a small income stream to manage the system. The driver gets a percentage of the fine as his incentive for doing so and to fund the lease payments. The fined parties are the ones paying for it all in the end. Police can be retasked to criminal matters and know that should someone decide to speed, chances are there will be a radar enabled car in the vicinity hoping to catch them. The more people trying to make an income from being on the spot when speeders occur, the more chance the speeders will be caught. Just imagine for yourself if you knew there were hundreds if not thousands of radars on the street, would you even consider speeding for a minute? It would be a generational and cultural wholesale change in the psyche of the community. Eventually, the numbers caught would reduce to make the scheme not viable for too many drivers but by then, the norm of driving slowly would be in.
The argument against may include an increase in carbon emissions form people driving more often than they would have otherwise. That is offset by the reduction in all the other cars driving more slowly. Self uncarbonunding!
Anyone citing civil liberties or some such guff can go explain their point to the next parents that have to bury their teenage son or daughter through speeding.
I know its weird me writing about this in this particular forum but maybe this is where the initiative starts? maybe someone will cut and paste this and send to a politician and get it on the agenda in years to come. What we have been doing so far really hasn't worked so I'm up for the change. I would LOVE some critical appraisal or ideas thrown in tho the mix about this. I'm not sensitive about its success as there may well be a big issue I have not considered yet so feel free to comment. I do however consider it My brilliant Idea.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
Epiphany
"I'm not much of a cake person".
Let me explain why.
I had gone through my entire life not really wanting to eat cake. I remember when I was a young boy about 4 gazing through a Woman's Weekly kids birthday cake book and finally electing to have a cake in the shape of a house with freckle shingle tiles and musk stick walls.
How could I refuse the musk sticks! they were and still are my favourite. Of course I ate that but cakes forever after was just not me. My life progressed and those around me grew accustomed to my 'non cake status' even so far as my wife being constantly challenged on finding suitable birthday fare. The Zweefers layered cinnamon meringue cake was one of her best finds. I was happy in my non cake consuming world.
This changed when I was about 32 or 33. It was August and my birthday so friends came over and brought with them a carrot cake with sour cream icing. A) carrots were not for cakes and B) neither was sour cream meant to be used on top of a cake. I politely declined with the usual "I'm not a cake guy" but after prompting from my wife not to be rude, I begrudgingly accepted 'a small piece'. I was presented with the cake, all brown with orange flecks, lying dead on its side on the plate, the guts of icing oozing across the plate like it was road kill. How I didn't want to eat this.
OMG!! THIS is fantastic! give me more. Hurry!! My bit was smaller than yours, I want more now!!
I think I had 3 more pieces. But I'm not a 'cake person' I hear you utter. I had said that for 30 years. over and over at birthdays and celebrations and anywhere cake was produced. "no thanks, I'm fine" How could I have got it wrong? why had I gone without this wonderful morsel for more than one score and ten? I was a changed man, 'I am a cake person' now.
Later that day my dear parents arrived and mum uncovered her masterpiece from under the tea towel. It was a layered chocolate cake. lathered thick with chocolate icing mix and perfectly 'shaped'. By shaped I mean it had lots of them. Mum didn't have 3 tins the same but did have 3 'similarly' sized and shaped. The round, square and octagon cakes sitting on top of each other could barely be seen to differ at all! well that's because the artistry in making all the sides vertical according to the most outer edge of whatever layer was on that side was second to none. The top was perfectly parallel with the cake tray too. What a great looking block of icing it was too. "quick, cut it, lets have some now" mum chirped, all excited at the prospect of her hard work providing pleasure to all those around her. I retrieved a knife from the block and approached, I am a cake person now I thought as pierced the centre of the top icing and drive my sword through the cake's heart. It put up a struggle let me tell you. The sword eventually triumphed so that a perfect wedge of cake could be removed. I should have been a geologist as the layers of any structure always interest me. This substrata was no exception. The wedge of cake slowly emerged from its parent material and gave up the secrets of its past lie a new archaeological find. As the lowest cakes had sunk in the middle during baking, mum had successfully achieved a flat surface for the next layer to rest upon by filling the cavity with icing. A panel beater would have been proud of her work. Each successive layer had received the same treatment as the one below such that when the cake finally relented and I was able to remove the wedge of cake, the point was solid icing from the top to the plate less two wafer thin layers of a non icing material. The cake matter (I prefer to call it cake matter than cake so I don't insult cakes) itself was firm and resilient, not giving up a crumb or air pocket for any man.
The Webster definition of Epiphany is "a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something". The past 30 years suddenly made sense to me. I felt such a relief to know I hadn't missed out on all that cake, I was lucky to have missed it.
Mum asked to take a slice home for Dad but we would keep the rest. Dad's resistance to this idea was unsaid but palpable. "It's mine mum, he can come here if he wants some". I think at that point my dad loved me more than he ever had ever before. Mum was satisfied her work had been done and with knowing eyes, dad said goodbye to me and took the chef home. His own epiphany was that I was now one of the knowing. The ones that know but NEVER speak of it. (until they blog 14 years later)
Let me explain why.
I had gone through my entire life not really wanting to eat cake. I remember when I was a young boy about 4 gazing through a Woman's Weekly kids birthday cake book and finally electing to have a cake in the shape of a house with freckle shingle tiles and musk stick walls.
 |
| This is the actual cake! I have no idea who the rude kid is though |
This changed when I was about 32 or 33. It was August and my birthday so friends came over and brought with them a carrot cake with sour cream icing. A) carrots were not for cakes and B) neither was sour cream meant to be used on top of a cake. I politely declined with the usual "I'm not a cake guy" but after prompting from my wife not to be rude, I begrudgingly accepted 'a small piece'. I was presented with the cake, all brown with orange flecks, lying dead on its side on the plate, the guts of icing oozing across the plate like it was road kill. How I didn't want to eat this.
OMG!! THIS is fantastic! give me more. Hurry!! My bit was smaller than yours, I want more now!!
I think I had 3 more pieces. But I'm not a 'cake person' I hear you utter. I had said that for 30 years. over and over at birthdays and celebrations and anywhere cake was produced. "no thanks, I'm fine" How could I have got it wrong? why had I gone without this wonderful morsel for more than one score and ten? I was a changed man, 'I am a cake person' now.
Later that day my dear parents arrived and mum uncovered her masterpiece from under the tea towel. It was a layered chocolate cake. lathered thick with chocolate icing mix and perfectly 'shaped'. By shaped I mean it had lots of them. Mum didn't have 3 tins the same but did have 3 'similarly' sized and shaped. The round, square and octagon cakes sitting on top of each other could barely be seen to differ at all! well that's because the artistry in making all the sides vertical according to the most outer edge of whatever layer was on that side was second to none. The top was perfectly parallel with the cake tray too. What a great looking block of icing it was too. "quick, cut it, lets have some now" mum chirped, all excited at the prospect of her hard work providing pleasure to all those around her. I retrieved a knife from the block and approached, I am a cake person now I thought as pierced the centre of the top icing and drive my sword through the cake's heart. It put up a struggle let me tell you. The sword eventually triumphed so that a perfect wedge of cake could be removed. I should have been a geologist as the layers of any structure always interest me. This substrata was no exception. The wedge of cake slowly emerged from its parent material and gave up the secrets of its past lie a new archaeological find. As the lowest cakes had sunk in the middle during baking, mum had successfully achieved a flat surface for the next layer to rest upon by filling the cavity with icing. A panel beater would have been proud of her work. Each successive layer had received the same treatment as the one below such that when the cake finally relented and I was able to remove the wedge of cake, the point was solid icing from the top to the plate less two wafer thin layers of a non icing material. The cake matter (I prefer to call it cake matter than cake so I don't insult cakes) itself was firm and resilient, not giving up a crumb or air pocket for any man.
The Webster definition of Epiphany is "a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something". The past 30 years suddenly made sense to me. I felt such a relief to know I hadn't missed out on all that cake, I was lucky to have missed it.
Mum asked to take a slice home for Dad but we would keep the rest. Dad's resistance to this idea was unsaid but palpable. "It's mine mum, he can come here if he wants some". I think at that point my dad loved me more than he ever had ever before. Mum was satisfied her work had been done and with knowing eyes, dad said goodbye to me and took the chef home. His own epiphany was that I was now one of the knowing. The ones that know but NEVER speak of it. (until they blog 14 years later)
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Broken
I recently saw some tweets regarding a young boy that broke his arm badly. Its always distressing when you see littlies in a bad way but he looked brave enough to withstand most things life will throw at him. Seeing him got me thinking about broken bones in my own family.
My eldest now 15 was about 4 and we were at Wagga visiting relatives swimming in a local competition and within the bounds of the pool was a disused skateboard half pipe. "Look how I can edge up the sides of this steep, slippery, steel plated, hard and unforgiving surface dad" was what he should have articulated to me. Instead I just watched as he of course lost his footing and came crashing back to earth onto his side. I was right there and saw the whole thing. "you OK?" I said. "Yep". Good, all done. At the time I had a nice luxurious company car that of course, meant I would be required to treat it as poorly as possible to get the full benefit of my salary package. Logic I hear you say. A bit more logic to come now. Between Wagga and Wollongong is a nice freeway, smooth, fast, 4 lanes wide, not busy and direct. Why on earth would I want to go on that when there are winding corrugated dirt rounds going to Canberra first? so that's what I did. Leading up to our departure for this extended journey, Lewis complained of a sore neck and shoulder so I would dutifully rub it for him as all good dads do and eventually had to give up with him wincing away from my loving grasp. The trip was fun, the rough dirt road jiggling the occupants of the car constantly hour upon hour, the sideways sliding that I was forced to do when presented with such dirt covered corners and eventually we emerged back into civilisation and home. The following day Lewis was still not happy about his shoulder so we as loving and responsible parents took him to the doctor now some 3 or 4 days after the half pipe stunt. An xray showed a clearly snapped collar bone. Note to self, don't believe your 4 year old when he says he's ok. There was no lasting effects from the incident but he does break into a sweat when we go on a dirt road still to this day. Second note to self, don't take dirt roads when bitumen are available.
The little one of ours, Griffin, was not so subtle. Perched high on a spiderweb park, he looked as home as any other simian creature. He swung from rope to rope, climbing higher and higher...until... he climbed back down and things went awry on the last rung. Falling the 3 feet to the ground breaking his arm and requiring a lovely purple fibreglass cast. They are so much cooler these days than when I was a lad.
My own broken arm came about due to what can only be called concrete. Playing hand ball at lunch during high school was the main attraction apart from girls. we would wear one glove on our strike hand because the speed at which we were hitting these tennis balls was causing damage to the flesh on our fingers. Darting left and right like a huge ping pong game, we'd often have to move far off our squares to get the opponents return. One such return saw the ball rocketing over a small brick wall, say 3 foot high, down into the lower area about 6 foot below the top of the wall on the other side. If you think someone else invented parkour well you 're wrong. As I lithely lept over the wall using a single hand on the top of the wall to propel myself to the lower level, my brand new grey Levi jeans (the rebel in us all didn't want to wear regulation grey trousers and the school only said they had to be grey so ha de ha ha mofo!!) sorry I digress. Well the new jeans were tight and well, bending my knees a little late lead to the toes of my black suede desert boots (yet another win for style in the stark school dress requirements for black shoes) connect with the leading edge of the bricks and invert my body 180 degree just prior to my decent to the concrete below. I remember see these little white bits tumbling out in front of me as I open my eyes. It was my shattered upper front tooth. I also recall just not being able to get up. An ambulance was called and they took me off and all that sort of guff and it wasn't serious. I'd been smart enough to break my fall with my arm and face. In fact I was able to use the cast as a softball bat until it crushed to a pulp and I had to get a new cast. If you ever get a cast and they point out its not a softball bat, that's because of the precedent I set.
Broken people mend eventually. All they need is time.
My eldest now 15 was about 4 and we were at Wagga visiting relatives swimming in a local competition and within the bounds of the pool was a disused skateboard half pipe. "Look how I can edge up the sides of this steep, slippery, steel plated, hard and unforgiving surface dad" was what he should have articulated to me. Instead I just watched as he of course lost his footing and came crashing back to earth onto his side. I was right there and saw the whole thing. "you OK?" I said. "Yep". Good, all done. At the time I had a nice luxurious company car that of course, meant I would be required to treat it as poorly as possible to get the full benefit of my salary package. Logic I hear you say. A bit more logic to come now. Between Wagga and Wollongong is a nice freeway, smooth, fast, 4 lanes wide, not busy and direct. Why on earth would I want to go on that when there are winding corrugated dirt rounds going to Canberra first? so that's what I did. Leading up to our departure for this extended journey, Lewis complained of a sore neck and shoulder so I would dutifully rub it for him as all good dads do and eventually had to give up with him wincing away from my loving grasp. The trip was fun, the rough dirt road jiggling the occupants of the car constantly hour upon hour, the sideways sliding that I was forced to do when presented with such dirt covered corners and eventually we emerged back into civilisation and home. The following day Lewis was still not happy about his shoulder so we as loving and responsible parents took him to the doctor now some 3 or 4 days after the half pipe stunt. An xray showed a clearly snapped collar bone. Note to self, don't believe your 4 year old when he says he's ok. There was no lasting effects from the incident but he does break into a sweat when we go on a dirt road still to this day. Second note to self, don't take dirt roads when bitumen are available.
My own broken arm came about due to what can only be called concrete. Playing hand ball at lunch during high school was the main attraction apart from girls. we would wear one glove on our strike hand because the speed at which we were hitting these tennis balls was causing damage to the flesh on our fingers. Darting left and right like a huge ping pong game, we'd often have to move far off our squares to get the opponents return. One such return saw the ball rocketing over a small brick wall, say 3 foot high, down into the lower area about 6 foot below the top of the wall on the other side. If you think someone else invented parkour well you 're wrong. As I lithely lept over the wall using a single hand on the top of the wall to propel myself to the lower level, my brand new grey Levi jeans (the rebel in us all didn't want to wear regulation grey trousers and the school only said they had to be grey so ha de ha ha mofo!!) sorry I digress. Well the new jeans were tight and well, bending my knees a little late lead to the toes of my black suede desert boots (yet another win for style in the stark school dress requirements for black shoes) connect with the leading edge of the bricks and invert my body 180 degree just prior to my decent to the concrete below. I remember see these little white bits tumbling out in front of me as I open my eyes. It was my shattered upper front tooth. I also recall just not being able to get up. An ambulance was called and they took me off and all that sort of guff and it wasn't serious. I'd been smart enough to break my fall with my arm and face. In fact I was able to use the cast as a softball bat until it crushed to a pulp and I had to get a new cast. If you ever get a cast and they point out its not a softball bat, that's because of the precedent I set.
Broken people mend eventually. All they need is time.
Monday, 20 May 2013
Golden Post
When I was a very young lad of about 6 or 7 and my elder brother therefore 8 or 9, we went to the Goulburn Races as a family outing. Each of us was given 20 cents to bet on whatever horse we wanted. I asked of course what was the most likely outcome of the race and so the concept of a 'favourite' was explained to me. It seemed obvious to me that if everyone expected this particular horse to win, then why on earth would I know better. So upon the nose of "Golden Post" I placed my entire 20 cents for the win. My brother had much larger plans. I forget the name of the horse but it was long odds and well of course you know what I'm going to say. Golden Post won comfortably and I recouped my crisp and cool 50 cent piece winnings. Bernard's sole purpose for the next few hours was to remind me of how much he would have had had his nag beat mine. "Ï would have dollars now!!!" he would say. And my retort! " I HAVE 50 cents and you HAVE nothing!" That set the tone for the rest of my adult life for gambling. Well my life of non gambling should I say. True my biggest win of anything was a Bryant's meat pie on a radio station competition so I have not tasted the glory of a big win (just steak and kidney nomnomnom) but I dare say I'm fixed in my ways.
Last weekend at the invitation of a good friend I ventured off to the Scone Cup weekend. A road trip involving manly smells and unending consumption. Actually, I should have written the manly smells following the consumption because in real life, that's how it went down. Anyways, a 703 km journey the night prior with a stop in a small country motel. It was terrific as anyone that follows my twitter feed will attest. Upon arrival at Scone, the first order of the day was beers, then hellos, then bowling under a gorgeous country wide blue sky studded with clouds. The benefit of being with mostly air traffic controllers is that they use the correct names when identifying them. Apparently bunny rabbit or "Simpsons" cloud is not used in aviation circles. At the close of bowling (9 playing from one end is a sight to see I must say) the move to the bar was swift and decisive. So those driving could keep up with us passengers, we went back to the Golden Fleece Hotel Scone. These guys have held the same rooms for so many years, the minute they walk in the place after a 12 month break, the owner knows them by name. It is absolutely brilliant. Such a strong sense of tradition and mateship was a joy to become enveloped within. I have known these guys for about 20 years myself but as friends of a friend, did not consider myself core. Not until being with them for about 30 seconds and feel their warmth towards others all entering the fray with them. It was very cool to be included and I loved it. The obvious and relentless thrust and parry of humour, degradation and insult was intoxicating in itself. Men will be boys no matter what age or location but put them together in a pub, at the races, with money and booze and you can only imagine the conversation. It was the most fun I've had in ages.
The races the next day were at the Scone Race Track. Its a glorious and expensive track apparently paid for with Packer dollars but is such a beautiful place to be, it would not have fussed me if the races had been on or not. Setting up a group syndicate and also individual bets was the call for the day. Now as I describe things to you, if you were aware of them before hand and think I'm just naive, so be it, but this was an eye opener for me so I shall continue.
The TAB has vans, fitted out with ABM (Automatic Betting Machines) and also houses 2 little old ladies inside to take bets the old fashioned way. This ABM was very easy to use, touch screen, accessed every possible dog, horse and trots on at that time and even gave change in the way of vouchers, never cash. Once your money went into it, that was how much you were going to gamble eventually, no change sorry! Not only was there the van, there was another, and a caravan set up the same way, and even a jeep Cherokee with a slide out pair of ABM on the back. There was no where you could not access these machines. The regular bookies with their large leather bags and 1980's digital tote board were still there but the most prolific gambling was the unseen. The mobile device gambling ap that saw lots of action. The serious gambler at Scone really did need to be with Telstra though. They were the only ones with a temporary mobile tower providing a nice clean signal for anyone wanting to access the web. Pity those with Optus or vodaphone, they were just left with the ABM's. Setting myself a limit of $20 per race was within budget and at only 8 races, left my exposure uncomfortable but not lethal. As it turns out, I was down $10 at the end so for a full days entertainment, I was OK with that. I didn't ask and have no idea what the 'serious' gamblers did in my group. I got reports of every win as you would expect, but not the losses. I was also surprised at how readily the gamblers were to adopt my 'funny and childish name' betting. Suffice to say, "Short Shaft" attracted our dollars as did any horse with a name reminiscent of any family member. The object of gambling is to have fun and that's what we were all doing. The fun just cost some of us more than others is all.
After the track and after a brilliant pub meal of lamb cutlets with 6 veg, the need to confront yet more gambling machines was put upon us. The Golden Fleece wasn't equipped with TAB or Sky so off to the pub with a wall made of LCD, CRT and ABM. It was here that the real impact/power of gambling was made obvious to me. I had no idea that dog racing, horse racing and trots were all coordinated such that one race started as the other finished. Not only they types of races but the locations as well. Dog race 1 at location X finished and then the gates open on the horses at Y then upon that race crossing the finish line, a large ute with wings tries to take off from trotting track Z. Horse race from location T may be injected there but then back to dog race 2 and X. It was unrelenting. No pause, no funny commentators to distract you, no advertisement, no rest. The screens pour out information in copious amounts as to who tips what, what bets are providing returns, what the next race is, the scrolling bar busily cites race results from non televised tracks! I did try to tweet to them but it never appeared. #whothefuckinventedthis is apparently not trending. The gamblers in the groups and also tons of others in the pub, stared glaze eyed into the bright pixels and through a drunken fog, extracted the information they required in order to make their bet. The ability to hold a beer glass upright was in serious danger of being lost but the ability to make a conscious decision on odds and returns was never lost. I did not see any signs saying intoxicated people can't bet, just intoxicated people can't get more intoxicated. It was an education I'm sure I probably should have had before my 46th birthday but even in my gut bursting, vodka drinking frenzy, the urge to join them in their gambling never hit. I simply wanted to go back to the quiet pub (the one NOT using plastic glasses) and finish my trip into stumbledom. That sounds harry potterish but its not. Oh maybe the potions can be regarded as magical yes.
I spent the weekend having an absolute blast and enjoyed every minute. Correction, the fart fog from Matt and Andrew at the golf club was most unpleasant. They know that too so we shan't prosecute the point any further. Apart from that, the jokes, laughs, drinks, food, company and education was worth every cent and if I'm included in next year's invitation list, I will be there with bells on. And if anyone wants me to bet up big, find a horse called Golden Post.
Last weekend at the invitation of a good friend I ventured off to the Scone Cup weekend. A road trip involving manly smells and unending consumption. Actually, I should have written the manly smells following the consumption because in real life, that's how it went down. Anyways, a 703 km journey the night prior with a stop in a small country motel. It was terrific as anyone that follows my twitter feed will attest. Upon arrival at Scone, the first order of the day was beers, then hellos, then bowling under a gorgeous country wide blue sky studded with clouds. The benefit of being with mostly air traffic controllers is that they use the correct names when identifying them. Apparently bunny rabbit or "Simpsons" cloud is not used in aviation circles. At the close of bowling (9 playing from one end is a sight to see I must say) the move to the bar was swift and decisive. So those driving could keep up with us passengers, we went back to the Golden Fleece Hotel Scone. These guys have held the same rooms for so many years, the minute they walk in the place after a 12 month break, the owner knows them by name. It is absolutely brilliant. Such a strong sense of tradition and mateship was a joy to become enveloped within. I have known these guys for about 20 years myself but as friends of a friend, did not consider myself core. Not until being with them for about 30 seconds and feel their warmth towards others all entering the fray with them. It was very cool to be included and I loved it. The obvious and relentless thrust and parry of humour, degradation and insult was intoxicating in itself. Men will be boys no matter what age or location but put them together in a pub, at the races, with money and booze and you can only imagine the conversation. It was the most fun I've had in ages.
The races the next day were at the Scone Race Track. Its a glorious and expensive track apparently paid for with Packer dollars but is such a beautiful place to be, it would not have fussed me if the races had been on or not. Setting up a group syndicate and also individual bets was the call for the day. Now as I describe things to you, if you were aware of them before hand and think I'm just naive, so be it, but this was an eye opener for me so I shall continue.
The TAB has vans, fitted out with ABM (Automatic Betting Machines) and also houses 2 little old ladies inside to take bets the old fashioned way. This ABM was very easy to use, touch screen, accessed every possible dog, horse and trots on at that time and even gave change in the way of vouchers, never cash. Once your money went into it, that was how much you were going to gamble eventually, no change sorry! Not only was there the van, there was another, and a caravan set up the same way, and even a jeep Cherokee with a slide out pair of ABM on the back. There was no where you could not access these machines. The regular bookies with their large leather bags and 1980's digital tote board were still there but the most prolific gambling was the unseen. The mobile device gambling ap that saw lots of action. The serious gambler at Scone really did need to be with Telstra though. They were the only ones with a temporary mobile tower providing a nice clean signal for anyone wanting to access the web. Pity those with Optus or vodaphone, they were just left with the ABM's. Setting myself a limit of $20 per race was within budget and at only 8 races, left my exposure uncomfortable but not lethal. As it turns out, I was down $10 at the end so for a full days entertainment, I was OK with that. I didn't ask and have no idea what the 'serious' gamblers did in my group. I got reports of every win as you would expect, but not the losses. I was also surprised at how readily the gamblers were to adopt my 'funny and childish name' betting. Suffice to say, "Short Shaft" attracted our dollars as did any horse with a name reminiscent of any family member. The object of gambling is to have fun and that's what we were all doing. The fun just cost some of us more than others is all.
After the track and after a brilliant pub meal of lamb cutlets with 6 veg, the need to confront yet more gambling machines was put upon us. The Golden Fleece wasn't equipped with TAB or Sky so off to the pub with a wall made of LCD, CRT and ABM. It was here that the real impact/power of gambling was made obvious to me. I had no idea that dog racing, horse racing and trots were all coordinated such that one race started as the other finished. Not only they types of races but the locations as well. Dog race 1 at location X finished and then the gates open on the horses at Y then upon that race crossing the finish line, a large ute with wings tries to take off from trotting track Z. Horse race from location T may be injected there but then back to dog race 2 and X. It was unrelenting. No pause, no funny commentators to distract you, no advertisement, no rest. The screens pour out information in copious amounts as to who tips what, what bets are providing returns, what the next race is, the scrolling bar busily cites race results from non televised tracks! I did try to tweet to them but it never appeared. #whothefuckinventedthis is apparently not trending. The gamblers in the groups and also tons of others in the pub, stared glaze eyed into the bright pixels and through a drunken fog, extracted the information they required in order to make their bet. The ability to hold a beer glass upright was in serious danger of being lost but the ability to make a conscious decision on odds and returns was never lost. I did not see any signs saying intoxicated people can't bet, just intoxicated people can't get more intoxicated. It was an education I'm sure I probably should have had before my 46th birthday but even in my gut bursting, vodka drinking frenzy, the urge to join them in their gambling never hit. I simply wanted to go back to the quiet pub (the one NOT using plastic glasses) and finish my trip into stumbledom. That sounds harry potterish but its not. Oh maybe the potions can be regarded as magical yes.
I spent the weekend having an absolute blast and enjoyed every minute. Correction, the fart fog from Matt and Andrew at the golf club was most unpleasant. They know that too so we shan't prosecute the point any further. Apart from that, the jokes, laughs, drinks, food, company and education was worth every cent and if I'm included in next year's invitation list, I will be there with bells on. And if anyone wants me to bet up big, find a horse called Golden Post.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
A new rule.
In a prior life I was a cub leader or if you are in the States reading this, a boy scout leader. I started because my eldest was a little lost and we thought the structure of cubs would do him well. I'm a doer pretty much so when I turned up with my son and the existing leader "Jahula" asked me if I was interested in helping out I said sure. Jahula had no kids of his own in the group but had been left holding the bundle as it were. Baloo was born. I trained for a while then took over by myself and was joined by another Dad "Rama" a year or so after that. I liked doing cubs though it was a lot of work. Spending time with my boy was of course the main driver. Its amazing how many activities we did that he particularly liked! There comes advantages with having your dad as the organiser. Camps was always a favourite. Noosa was the best annual pilgrimage north. We would take canoes and parents and other family and make it bigger than Ben Hur. I designed menus that would guarantee no left overs and word of the success at these camps grew to the point where we had more adults than children. After a busy day with kids, we pack them off to bed so we could have grown up time sitting around the fire sipping on red wine with some soft cheeses and dried figs. Yes alcohol was strictly forbidden by the rule book and yes I didn't give a rats ass because I never drank any so was always 100% sober for any emergency that might arise. No one ever had too much either so things went smoothly and despite the few little turd kids that wouldn't go to sleep when they were supposed to, we were a tight operating unit.
On a quick side note, talking about those turd kids, one night at about 2:30am I was patrolling the dorm trying to weed out the trouble makers keeping every one else up. Liam was one and I caught him red handed. As I was in the process of berating him and asking that he kindly refrain from making loud noises and keeping the other kids awake, one of the mums in her nightie, bleary eyed, emerged from her room to berate me! Apparently I should be keeping the kids quiet so she could sleep! I did consider tasering her then and there but thought better of it. You'd never guess who's mum it was though. Yes, Tamara was Liam's mum and the little shit was behind me so she couldn't see it was him. After she left, I spinned on my heels to look him in the eye. Fear filled his face as he knew what I had just had to swallow and I never heard from him again. Even at 8 years old, Liam could see the signs of a man on the edge.
The next day we loaded into a team of 4x4 for a drive up Rainbow beach and tobogganing down the sand dunes. I think we had 8 or 10 cars in a convoy, loaded to the gunnels with wild eyed kids, most having never driven on a beach before and all ready to test their recently constructed sleds. Its what memories are made of. Along the way at some point a young child collected one of those coconuts you see washed up on the beach. The nut made its way back to camp with us after the long day and was at one point left outside the boys dorm rooms on the second floor of the complex. It was quite an innocuous object. Not too large, not special or drawing any interest from anyone, it was inane and boring to be frank. It was just a coconut. That was until young Lachlan dropped it from the landing to the concrete slab below, just outside the main hall doors and kitchen windows.
As I write this I find my mouth filling with saliva and an intense need to purse my lips and suck my tongue. The memory of what followed is burnt into my olfactory. The nut smashed and the rotting pulp and juice sprayed perfectly in an arc about 3 metres radius. No one was anywhere near it luckily as we were in other areas of the complex doing activities or such like. But as we sat there, and the smell slowly entered our airspace, first subtly then as the concentrations or particles rose, it suddenly became impossible to escape it. I have never ever ever smelt anything as disgusting as that. Even the vet cleaning the anal glands of a dog (you will know that smell if you own a dog) cannot come close to this rotten nut. You tasted it in the air, it got in your throat, kids were crying, adults were panicking, it was a nut of mass destruction. We ventured close to the carcass but the stink was too much. But this thing was just outside the doors to the main area. It had to be cleaned up. I don't think I verbalised the word "FUCK" in front of the 8 year old cubs but I'm sure a caught a few of them uttering it under their breaths. The gaseous onslaught was just to intense to even contemplate correcting their language. Lachlan had long since escaped the scene and was cowering behind a tree. He knew the magnitude of this mushroom cloud. It burnt our eyes and made it difficult to focus. The smell was everywhere and all encompassing. He was retrieved safely but I know several of us wanted to hurt him, hurt him bad, real bad.
Tongs and plastic bags were used and rebagging and rebagging and rebagging but it was only a band aid. The juice had soaked into the surrounding ground. It lingered long and hard as if its life depended on contact with humans. It reminded me of that Denzel movie where the devil could only live outside a human for a minute.
After that day there was a new rule entered into the Justin Book of Rules (its a fluid sort of book, revised regularly but not yet available in print). Mum's get berated too.
On a quick side note, talking about those turd kids, one night at about 2:30am I was patrolling the dorm trying to weed out the trouble makers keeping every one else up. Liam was one and I caught him red handed. As I was in the process of berating him and asking that he kindly refrain from making loud noises and keeping the other kids awake, one of the mums in her nightie, bleary eyed, emerged from her room to berate me! Apparently I should be keeping the kids quiet so she could sleep! I did consider tasering her then and there but thought better of it. You'd never guess who's mum it was though. Yes, Tamara was Liam's mum and the little shit was behind me so she couldn't see it was him. After she left, I spinned on my heels to look him in the eye. Fear filled his face as he knew what I had just had to swallow and I never heard from him again. Even at 8 years old, Liam could see the signs of a man on the edge.
The next day we loaded into a team of 4x4 for a drive up Rainbow beach and tobogganing down the sand dunes. I think we had 8 or 10 cars in a convoy, loaded to the gunnels with wild eyed kids, most having never driven on a beach before and all ready to test their recently constructed sleds. Its what memories are made of. Along the way at some point a young child collected one of those coconuts you see washed up on the beach. The nut made its way back to camp with us after the long day and was at one point left outside the boys dorm rooms on the second floor of the complex. It was quite an innocuous object. Not too large, not special or drawing any interest from anyone, it was inane and boring to be frank. It was just a coconut. That was until young Lachlan dropped it from the landing to the concrete slab below, just outside the main hall doors and kitchen windows.
As I write this I find my mouth filling with saliva and an intense need to purse my lips and suck my tongue. The memory of what followed is burnt into my olfactory. The nut smashed and the rotting pulp and juice sprayed perfectly in an arc about 3 metres radius. No one was anywhere near it luckily as we were in other areas of the complex doing activities or such like. But as we sat there, and the smell slowly entered our airspace, first subtly then as the concentrations or particles rose, it suddenly became impossible to escape it. I have never ever ever smelt anything as disgusting as that. Even the vet cleaning the anal glands of a dog (you will know that smell if you own a dog) cannot come close to this rotten nut. You tasted it in the air, it got in your throat, kids were crying, adults were panicking, it was a nut of mass destruction. We ventured close to the carcass but the stink was too much. But this thing was just outside the doors to the main area. It had to be cleaned up. I don't think I verbalised the word "FUCK" in front of the 8 year old cubs but I'm sure a caught a few of them uttering it under their breaths. The gaseous onslaught was just to intense to even contemplate correcting their language. Lachlan had long since escaped the scene and was cowering behind a tree. He knew the magnitude of this mushroom cloud. It burnt our eyes and made it difficult to focus. The smell was everywhere and all encompassing. He was retrieved safely but I know several of us wanted to hurt him, hurt him bad, real bad.
Tongs and plastic bags were used and rebagging and rebagging and rebagging but it was only a band aid. The juice had soaked into the surrounding ground. It lingered long and hard as if its life depended on contact with humans. It reminded me of that Denzel movie where the devil could only live outside a human for a minute.
After that day there was a new rule entered into the Justin Book of Rules (its a fluid sort of book, revised regularly but not yet available in print). Mum's get berated too.
Tuesday, 30 April 2013
Sorry
I spend too much of my time saying sorry I think. Is that good or bad? Good that I have understood wrongdoing but bad that I did anything to warrant it in the first place. Or is it just that I placate to not have it escalate. I have no idea. Making a mistake at work and having to do the knowing nod and admit your failings and attention to detail and yes it won't happen again is necessary in work's eyes but not mine. If I make a mistake I am the one that perpetually beats myself up on the inside and tries not to do it again. Why isn't the assumption that intentions were pure yet outcomes went awry? If the intentions were not pure, then simply saying sorry after the fact is somewhat vacuous. The human need to hear sorry assumes the person isn't actually sorry unless it's verbalised. There needs to two versions of the word. One for "I did it because I wanted to and you didn't like it so sorry but shall I continue to do it" and another for "wow that took me by surprise that that happened because I really meant something else to happen so sorry". Sorry is something deep inside that isn't manufactured by a request or a look, its a pre-existing condition. You either are or you aren't.
I get cranky at the kids for no reason and say sorry. When I say no reason at all I mean they didn't cause me to be that cranky at that time but that other preceding factors from the day culminated with them not bringing the bins in and well why not I say! I don't remember my parents ever saying sorry to me but I knew when they were. I do though, mine appreciate it I think.
I say sorry to my wife for not being what I was to have done/said/been/thought and I must admit that's on a pretty frequent basis.
If I was never to do anything ever that required me to apologise I think I'd be the most boring shit on the planet. As a cub leader, I broke long established rules for camps with a view to making the camps better for kids and parents. They were so much better I never had to say sorry. So sorry is only there if it works out bad, not if it is bad to start with.
I'm sorry this post is such a god awful boring one. When I have a thought and run with it, often its just because I am me and will always be so and just no use swimming against the tide. I am the one that does stuff that ends in the word sorry. And I am sorry about that I think.
I get cranky at the kids for no reason and say sorry. When I say no reason at all I mean they didn't cause me to be that cranky at that time but that other preceding factors from the day culminated with them not bringing the bins in and well why not I say! I don't remember my parents ever saying sorry to me but I knew when they were. I do though, mine appreciate it I think.
I say sorry to my wife for not being what I was to have done/said/been/thought and I must admit that's on a pretty frequent basis.
If I was never to do anything ever that required me to apologise I think I'd be the most boring shit on the planet. As a cub leader, I broke long established rules for camps with a view to making the camps better for kids and parents. They were so much better I never had to say sorry. So sorry is only there if it works out bad, not if it is bad to start with.
I'm sorry this post is such a god awful boring one. When I have a thought and run with it, often its just because I am me and will always be so and just no use swimming against the tide. I am the one that does stuff that ends in the word sorry. And I am sorry about that I think.
Monday, 29 April 2013
Dogs
I know I'm a dog person. They love me and I love them. All of them except one. I'll expand on that later. Ironically, one of the only songs I really dislike by Cat Stevens is "I love my dog"!
As a boy in Belrose, I remember we had 2 dogs, Ticky and Tarvi. Tarvi being dad's big kelpy cross and ticky mum's Australian silky. I have vivid memories of me running into the loungeroom as dad was due home with tarvi from the vets and dad walking through the garage door into the house carrying a big blue plastic bag in the shape of a very rigid dog. Tarvi was old even before I was born so its not so surprising I didn't know him for too long. He was buried in the back yard.
Ticky hung around for another decade or so and was then interned to the back yard. Puck was then part of the family until his disappearance 15 years later. I suspect he is in someone else's yard now. You see, in our family, dogs were the pet of choice. Yes, we had a cat but that doesn't fit in with this post so I'll ignore that version of the facts for the time being.
Anyways, dogs are simply a loving and stress relieving bit of life.
Our first was Ollie. When Jane and I reunited after a brief engagement hiatus, she brought with her back into our relationship a tiny white puff of fur called Ollie. As a perfect maltese, we was very important to us both. I brought with me back into the relationship a 1982 1200cc Honda Goldwing. Apparently relationships with motorbikes are a little more easily ended. Ollie stayed with us for 17 years and saw 2 kids come into the family but is now buried in the back yard of the house we owned at the time of his death. He is so sadly missed.
My wife refers to our black Labrador as "Blaze" when she needs him to listen to her woes. His name is "Po" by the way but he seems to handle the role change in his stride. We bought Po from a lady across town about 4 years ago. The family wanted a smallish dog suitable for lap sitting and the like but I was in favour of something a little bigger. So we took off in the car to just 'look' at the 8 week old black lab puppy. On the way, the boys both decided when ever we did get a dog, it was to be called "Flamo". It was clearly understood by all that we were just looking though. Well we saw this as yet unnamed puppy, fell in love and took him home. Upon reflection, our plans to just look were doomed from the get go. The white splash of fur on his chest determining his name to be Po from KungFu Panda. I still have yet to see the movie but I'm reliably informed it is an accurate portrayal. Po is a perfect dog. Well, when I say perfect I mean perfect temperament, perfectly behaved, perfect size, perfect colour and perfect hair shedding dog. There was the once, no I mean two times, he reduced a sofa cushion to cotton balls and of
course the scratches on the back french doors and lets not forget the dug holes in the driveway and fouled up the pool by swimming too many times but other than that I mean, he is perfect. I looked at my instagram the other day for the first time in ages and well its pretty much just Po. We sit silently in each others company late at night and I know he's there for me and he knows me too. When its time for bed, I stand up and he ,without prompting or shushing or anything, takes himself outside to his bed as well. He is perfect.
Oh, that dog I don't like and am glad he's dust now. I was a boy about 10 years old. Walking up the street to my house I happened to glance to my left and looking down the driveway of a house, made eye to eye contact with their mangy filthy hairless cranky shit of a dog. That look was a long one. We sized each other up in those few moments. Dog V Man, the age old conflict long since removed with the domestication of canines. I knew his intentions were not honourable though and so as my legs launched me up the street towards my house, I felt I was safe as I reached my driveway. He was not a young dog and he had a long drive to cover before he even got to the street I was on. My relief as I reached the crest of the street and the haven that was my yard was punctuated with the sensation of animal teeth sinking into the soft flesh of my right buttock cheek. The fear and pain was tremendous but the embers of embarrassment glowed hotter by the sniggering chortles of those entrusted with my care post bite. Mum and dad.
I went on with my life but always, always, always went up the far side of the street and never turned my back on that little fucker ever again. I know Po has my back now though.
As a boy in Belrose, I remember we had 2 dogs, Ticky and Tarvi. Tarvi being dad's big kelpy cross and ticky mum's Australian silky. I have vivid memories of me running into the loungeroom as dad was due home with tarvi from the vets and dad walking through the garage door into the house carrying a big blue plastic bag in the shape of a very rigid dog. Tarvi was old even before I was born so its not so surprising I didn't know him for too long. He was buried in the back yard.
Ticky hung around for another decade or so and was then interned to the back yard. Puck was then part of the family until his disappearance 15 years later. I suspect he is in someone else's yard now. You see, in our family, dogs were the pet of choice. Yes, we had a cat but that doesn't fit in with this post so I'll ignore that version of the facts for the time being.
Anyways, dogs are simply a loving and stress relieving bit of life.
Our first was Ollie. When Jane and I reunited after a brief engagement hiatus, she brought with her back into our relationship a tiny white puff of fur called Ollie. As a perfect maltese, we was very important to us both. I brought with me back into the relationship a 1982 1200cc Honda Goldwing. Apparently relationships with motorbikes are a little more easily ended. Ollie stayed with us for 17 years and saw 2 kids come into the family but is now buried in the back yard of the house we owned at the time of his death. He is so sadly missed.
My wife refers to our black Labrador as "Blaze" when she needs him to listen to her woes. His name is "Po" by the way but he seems to handle the role change in his stride. We bought Po from a lady across town about 4 years ago. The family wanted a smallish dog suitable for lap sitting and the like but I was in favour of something a little bigger. So we took off in the car to just 'look' at the 8 week old black lab puppy. On the way, the boys both decided when ever we did get a dog, it was to be called "Flamo". It was clearly understood by all that we were just looking though. Well we saw this as yet unnamed puppy, fell in love and took him home. Upon reflection, our plans to just look were doomed from the get go. The white splash of fur on his chest determining his name to be Po from KungFu Panda. I still have yet to see the movie but I'm reliably informed it is an accurate portrayal. Po is a perfect dog. Well, when I say perfect I mean perfect temperament, perfectly behaved, perfect size, perfect colour and perfect hair shedding dog. There was the once, no I mean two times, he reduced a sofa cushion to cotton balls and of
Oh, that dog I don't like and am glad he's dust now. I was a boy about 10 years old. Walking up the street to my house I happened to glance to my left and looking down the driveway of a house, made eye to eye contact with their mangy filthy hairless cranky shit of a dog. That look was a long one. We sized each other up in those few moments. Dog V Man, the age old conflict long since removed with the domestication of canines. I knew his intentions were not honourable though and so as my legs launched me up the street towards my house, I felt I was safe as I reached my driveway. He was not a young dog and he had a long drive to cover before he even got to the street I was on. My relief as I reached the crest of the street and the haven that was my yard was punctuated with the sensation of animal teeth sinking into the soft flesh of my right buttock cheek. The fear and pain was tremendous but the embers of embarrassment glowed hotter by the sniggering chortles of those entrusted with my care post bite. Mum and dad.
I went on with my life but always, always, always went up the far side of the street and never turned my back on that little fucker ever again. I know Po has my back now though.
Monday, 22 April 2013
Ups and Downs
It appears to me that my life (and more than likely the rest of the universe) is subject to the ebbs and flows of highs and lows. The frequency and intensity may vary and there's a sine wave (look it up if you need to) for pretty much everything you can think of. Just imagine how complicated and convoluted your life's sine wave looks when charting everything? Food, Music, Happiness, Tolerance, hair cuts, sex, driving, friends, work, generosity, pain, consuming, spending, earning or even angry birds. The list is endless. The matrix of lines even then affects each other. Pain is high so food is up there too but then weight suffers and so on and so forth. Sometimes they are good and perform a useful circuit breaker and other times not so.
As a young stupid adult I was a smoker. My parents weren't so I freely admit my teenage insecurity and wish to be cool lead me down that path. As a young adult Metallurgist shift worker I would not enter the control room where I was about to begin a 12 hour shift without at least a full packet of Dunhill blue. Smokers will tell you there are days when the cigarette is the life saver and other days you wonder why you even bother. I chose an ebb like this to stop, threw away the near full pack and just never bought another. Sure I'd bludge a fag from a mate after a few too many red wines but I was never ever addicted again. That ebb was of particular benefit to me. I only wish the pain from bloodied nail beds stopped me from biting my nails too! now that's what I call an addiction! God please provide an ebb to stop that one for good. Not all of them, just the 4 sacrificial ones.
Music has its own frequency and comes and goes. My taste moves from one to another in phases and is quite all encompassing for the duration. For some reason Hunter Hayes is in my head now. I suspect the boss and a few other strong male voices will star in my earphones until another wave hits. At what point I decided I liked country music I have no idea but it must have been at a low I suspect.
Food and cooking is a great love of mine, I get excited and driven at the prospect of cheffing a marvellous and kudos inducing meal. I love the praise as much as the next person but its not my main driver. It's satisfying that wave of need to create that and see an outcome that's so good. I'd still be doing it if it was only cooking for myself. I only wish my drive was constant and not subject to these highs and lows.
I'm sure my highs are getting loftier and my lows going subterranean as I get older. Is that a function of anything other than years I have no idea. I'm not even sure others have the same sensations as me in this regard. I have a mathematical brain more or less so am quite comfortable with the assumption that the trend will correct itself over time and average out to be normal. In the mean time though (pun intended) I have to tell myself that this ebb is not the last one and that getting past this is not only rewarded with a great high but another ebb as well.
I had a high today actually, my employer was named the highest corporate donor for Movember 2012 and lo and behold, I was the highest fund raiser within that corporation. It's ironic that such a feat is the subject of celebration in a post about the potential for highs and lows.
I am looking forward to the cooking high where I can do a bomb alaska but not the music low where Boy George enters my play list.
As a young stupid adult I was a smoker. My parents weren't so I freely admit my teenage insecurity and wish to be cool lead me down that path. As a young adult Metallurgist shift worker I would not enter the control room where I was about to begin a 12 hour shift without at least a full packet of Dunhill blue. Smokers will tell you there are days when the cigarette is the life saver and other days you wonder why you even bother. I chose an ebb like this to stop, threw away the near full pack and just never bought another. Sure I'd bludge a fag from a mate after a few too many red wines but I was never ever addicted again. That ebb was of particular benefit to me. I only wish the pain from bloodied nail beds stopped me from biting my nails too! now that's what I call an addiction! God please provide an ebb to stop that one for good. Not all of them, just the 4 sacrificial ones.
Music has its own frequency and comes and goes. My taste moves from one to another in phases and is quite all encompassing for the duration. For some reason Hunter Hayes is in my head now. I suspect the boss and a few other strong male voices will star in my earphones until another wave hits. At what point I decided I liked country music I have no idea but it must have been at a low I suspect.
Food and cooking is a great love of mine, I get excited and driven at the prospect of cheffing a marvellous and kudos inducing meal. I love the praise as much as the next person but its not my main driver. It's satisfying that wave of need to create that and see an outcome that's so good. I'd still be doing it if it was only cooking for myself. I only wish my drive was constant and not subject to these highs and lows.
I'm sure my highs are getting loftier and my lows going subterranean as I get older. Is that a function of anything other than years I have no idea. I'm not even sure others have the same sensations as me in this regard. I have a mathematical brain more or less so am quite comfortable with the assumption that the trend will correct itself over time and average out to be normal. In the mean time though (pun intended) I have to tell myself that this ebb is not the last one and that getting past this is not only rewarded with a great high but another ebb as well.
I had a high today actually, my employer was named the highest corporate donor for Movember 2012 and lo and behold, I was the highest fund raiser within that corporation. It's ironic that such a feat is the subject of celebration in a post about the potential for highs and lows.
I am looking forward to the cooking high where I can do a bomb alaska but not the music low where Boy George enters my play list.
Monday, 8 April 2013
The Music in my head
I recently read a blog about music and although had already drafted one with the same title prior, liked theirs a whole lot more. So I deleted and this is the redo.
Music allows me to retreat into myself and just be me and my brain and what ever picture the melodies are painting for me. It invokes such strong emotions and responses to me both psychologically and physically I love it. If I hear a beat, chances are some part of my body is moving in time with it. I sing to myself and more often that not, too loudly and disturb others. Depending on the inappropriateness of my response, they will be told 'tough luck' (to my kids for example) or 'sorry, will try not to let it happen again' (to my colleagues). I leave the house and have music on the instant I'm out the door and pretty much have it on all day unless I have a meeting or other, but it's essentially on all the time.
As a young kid, I was lucky enough to have a dad that loved having a good Hi-Fi. Massive box speakers with separate components for dual tape, records, radio and a big fat shiny amp with heaps of switches. There would be no shit '3 in 1' in this house. Dad provided the means to listen to good quality sound but had to come the records. My first record as a kid was "Susie the little blue coup". It was a book that narrated on one side with the proverbial twinkle to turn a page but on the B side was a fast and furious guitar laden track that was more for a head banger than a 5 year old but I loved it.
My taste matured rapidly when I became aware of James Last and the track "she too fat for me". Although the lyrics were risqué and funny for a kid, my love of brass was born.
I was lucky enough to have older siblings that brought Pink Floyd, Manfred Mann and Styx into the house. ELO, Sweet, Christopher Cross and David Essex. I was however always BANNED from touching their stuff and had to always wait til they were out before doing the audio raid. Invariably, the music would still be playing upon their return and I'd be found out but it was always worth it. I still listen to those same songs today (sad old bastard music as its now known in our house) but I just don't give shit. Mr Blue Sky is always welcome in my head.
In primary school I signed up for band and after asking for a saxophone (its the sexiest thing in any ensemble I don't care what you say) was handed a clarinet. It's about that time that I found Glenn Miller Band and the harmonious frequencies that just force you to close your eyes and let the notes merge in your head. Anyone not in the band was listening to ABBA I'm sure, but our little jazz and swing group consisting of Frog on trumpet, Mic on base, me and Mouse on clarinet and someone on Piano (I feel bad I forgot your name if you read this, just know you played really well) played every school gig we could, be it assembly, P&C meeting or awards night. We loved it. I'm really sure the improv was working in our heads far better than in our fingers but being a part of the process and hearing the applause always gave me great feelings of accomplishment. My pestering for a Sax got to fever pitch and like always, Mum and Dad came through. It was a dinged up old french alto with an inoperable octave key but I loved it. It kills me to think I sold it years later as a stupid adult, some assets you should just never sell. I ended up buying a tenor years later in New York (name drop yes, but shit you're impressed now aren't you?) but as the grass is always greener, will get an alto again one day. I play only for myself now. I know that sounds stupid but its like singing in the car, you sound pitch perfect until someone else gets in the car. I should play more but with only 16 minutes a week in the house alone, I'm 'time poor'!! (I fucking hate that term - its bullshit) I'm lazy I mean.
As a teenager, my first proper record I bought was Foreigner! Because I had heard Cold as Ice and loved it. I still do. I paid $7.99 and cherish that album. I gave it to a friend that still has it to this day I'm expecting. (I've gone 100% digital)
As a young adult, the first thing I did with any new car I got was to go straight down to Strathfield Car Radio and buy the biggest and brightest car stereo that I could afford. We had a noise complaint lodged against one night by the pub we were parked out the front of in my 1976 Toyota Hiace campervan.
Live music is one of those things that I hum and har over, worry about the cost and can't quite be bothered doing until such time as I go and then realise what a brilliant thing it is to see such brilliant artists on stage. Sometimes its shit (Dire Straits at Sydney Entertainment Centre) and other times its so wonderfully awe inspiring (The Whitlams at Yallah Wool Shed) I should go to more live gigs but as I've explained, I'm 'time poor'. I have though seen in descending order of (oh shit pinch myself I'm really here) importance Pink Floyd, Queen, INXS, Billy Joel, James Taylor. Midnight Oil, and Matt Finish. I should admit INXS was at the Bateman's Bay Bowling Club a tad prior to them hitting the big time.
I find myself now in constant search of new and exciting music. Some just hit a chord with me and bring me to sit down to contemplate why the hell I can't do that. Gabe Dixon Band is one example. If you've never heard of him, look him up. I'll copy the tracks for you if you like but just listen to his words. (I deny promoting the piracy of music btw). I've been introduced to Portishead, Jay Z, Bruno Mars, Jason Mraz in the past few years and love them totally. Others I've found myself like Hunter Hayes (when I say found myself I mean Spotify fed him to me).
Music to me is key to being alive. Its soothing, invigorating, emotional, memory invoking, gets you mad, makes you drive too fast, makes you run too slow, gets people looking at you like you're from Mars and other people a knowing nod to show 'yes' I'm one of you. I'm about to get up from my desk and go home, all the whilst listening to music. If I cook tonight, it will be with music. When my Mr 15 says he likes to fall asleep with music, I know exactly what he means. Music is in my core(d). its nice to end on a bad pun.
Music allows me to retreat into myself and just be me and my brain and what ever picture the melodies are painting for me. It invokes such strong emotions and responses to me both psychologically and physically I love it. If I hear a beat, chances are some part of my body is moving in time with it. I sing to myself and more often that not, too loudly and disturb others. Depending on the inappropriateness of my response, they will be told 'tough luck' (to my kids for example) or 'sorry, will try not to let it happen again' (to my colleagues). I leave the house and have music on the instant I'm out the door and pretty much have it on all day unless I have a meeting or other, but it's essentially on all the time.
As a young kid, I was lucky enough to have a dad that loved having a good Hi-Fi. Massive box speakers with separate components for dual tape, records, radio and a big fat shiny amp with heaps of switches. There would be no shit '3 in 1' in this house. Dad provided the means to listen to good quality sound but had to come the records. My first record as a kid was "Susie the little blue coup". It was a book that narrated on one side with the proverbial twinkle to turn a page but on the B side was a fast and furious guitar laden track that was more for a head banger than a 5 year old but I loved it.
My taste matured rapidly when I became aware of James Last and the track "she too fat for me". Although the lyrics were risqué and funny for a kid, my love of brass was born.
I was lucky enough to have older siblings that brought Pink Floyd, Manfred Mann and Styx into the house. ELO, Sweet, Christopher Cross and David Essex. I was however always BANNED from touching their stuff and had to always wait til they were out before doing the audio raid. Invariably, the music would still be playing upon their return and I'd be found out but it was always worth it. I still listen to those same songs today (sad old bastard music as its now known in our house) but I just don't give shit. Mr Blue Sky is always welcome in my head.
In primary school I signed up for band and after asking for a saxophone (its the sexiest thing in any ensemble I don't care what you say) was handed a clarinet. It's about that time that I found Glenn Miller Band and the harmonious frequencies that just force you to close your eyes and let the notes merge in your head. Anyone not in the band was listening to ABBA I'm sure, but our little jazz and swing group consisting of Frog on trumpet, Mic on base, me and Mouse on clarinet and someone on Piano (I feel bad I forgot your name if you read this, just know you played really well) played every school gig we could, be it assembly, P&C meeting or awards night. We loved it. I'm really sure the improv was working in our heads far better than in our fingers but being a part of the process and hearing the applause always gave me great feelings of accomplishment. My pestering for a Sax got to fever pitch and like always, Mum and Dad came through. It was a dinged up old french alto with an inoperable octave key but I loved it. It kills me to think I sold it years later as a stupid adult, some assets you should just never sell. I ended up buying a tenor years later in New York (name drop yes, but shit you're impressed now aren't you?) but as the grass is always greener, will get an alto again one day. I play only for myself now. I know that sounds stupid but its like singing in the car, you sound pitch perfect until someone else gets in the car. I should play more but with only 16 minutes a week in the house alone, I'm 'time poor'!! (I fucking hate that term - its bullshit) I'm lazy I mean.
As a teenager, my first proper record I bought was Foreigner! Because I had heard Cold as Ice and loved it. I still do. I paid $7.99 and cherish that album. I gave it to a friend that still has it to this day I'm expecting. (I've gone 100% digital)
As a young adult, the first thing I did with any new car I got was to go straight down to Strathfield Car Radio and buy the biggest and brightest car stereo that I could afford. We had a noise complaint lodged against one night by the pub we were parked out the front of in my 1976 Toyota Hiace campervan.
Live music is one of those things that I hum and har over, worry about the cost and can't quite be bothered doing until such time as I go and then realise what a brilliant thing it is to see such brilliant artists on stage. Sometimes its shit (Dire Straits at Sydney Entertainment Centre) and other times its so wonderfully awe inspiring (The Whitlams at Yallah Wool Shed) I should go to more live gigs but as I've explained, I'm 'time poor'. I have though seen in descending order of (oh shit pinch myself I'm really here) importance Pink Floyd, Queen, INXS, Billy Joel, James Taylor. Midnight Oil, and Matt Finish. I should admit INXS was at the Bateman's Bay Bowling Club a tad prior to them hitting the big time.
I find myself now in constant search of new and exciting music. Some just hit a chord with me and bring me to sit down to contemplate why the hell I can't do that. Gabe Dixon Band is one example. If you've never heard of him, look him up. I'll copy the tracks for you if you like but just listen to his words. (I deny promoting the piracy of music btw). I've been introduced to Portishead, Jay Z, Bruno Mars, Jason Mraz in the past few years and love them totally. Others I've found myself like Hunter Hayes (when I say found myself I mean Spotify fed him to me).
Music to me is key to being alive. Its soothing, invigorating, emotional, memory invoking, gets you mad, makes you drive too fast, makes you run too slow, gets people looking at you like you're from Mars and other people a knowing nod to show 'yes' I'm one of you. I'm about to get up from my desk and go home, all the whilst listening to music. If I cook tonight, it will be with music. When my Mr 15 says he likes to fall asleep with music, I know exactly what he means. Music is in my core(d). its nice to end on a bad pun.
Sunday, 10 March 2013
Death
I don't think I'm very good with death. I'd like to think I was cool and logical about it but I'm not. When my grandfather died I remember just being concerned for dad and so pretty much avoided the emotional side of grandpa altogether. When grandma died, I didn't have my full reaction until years later sitting with my cousin as we did a nostalgic drive by of their old house. I had not actually cried at the time of her death but made up for it that night. I have no idea what I can't process appropriate reactions at the appropriate time. I've talked about Keelan before on this blog in Realisations and that is a great example of how poor I am in this aspect of being human. I know I have a few others in the making. Mum and Dad, maybe an aunt and well there is mine down the track a bit too.
The prompter for me in this post was the recent death of a lovely young woman called Stacey. Stacey worked with my wife and was a very close friend of hers as well. I remember the first time I met her was in the office and after I was introduced, she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me and said "oh so this is 'the' justin". She smiled up at me and and I was instantly as in love with her as every other person that ever had the fortune to meet her. Stacy was such an utterly lovely person, so warm and giving, her smile would always be such a great one that it ignited your subconscious into smiling back in reply. Stacey was infectious and just a joy to know. Her eyes lit up when she talked to you and Stacey was genuinely interested in everything you had to say. A few years ago, not long after I'd met her for the first time, she commented to Jane that her wrist was sore and in the coming months after other symptoms arrived, she was diagnosed as suffering motor neurone syndrome. If you don't know what it is, Google it but pray to whomever you pray to that it stays away from you. Stacey was vibrant, fit and gorgeous person being scrunched into a wretched and painful rack of a body that eventually had to give in. Our contact with Stacey decreased in the last year, more so because it was just too much for her to bare I think. Mike, her hubby, had to maintain every aspect of her life to give her as much time as possible. I never knew anyone could be as selfless as Mike. He gave up his entire existence for his wife during her illness. He will always have my utter respect for that.
I have not cried over Stacey yet. I can't honestly say she was a close friend of mine or that I would have counted large in her list of people to spend time with but her death was upsetting for me. I dared not look at her in the coffin at the risk of letting this sea of emotion spill forth that again would be totally inappropriate. I'm just not good with death.
When I decide its time to go that'll be it. I will be disappearing off into the distance and oblivion. I'm not going to hang around and be inappropriate about my own demise. No one here need worry about nursing me through a devastating disease nor have to draw straws as to who will be a pall bearer. For those that know me, I know that thought has passed through your mind at least once! It's a fair way off I know but I want to be prepared so that afterwards, people will say "He was good with his own death".
The prompter for me in this post was the recent death of a lovely young woman called Stacey. Stacey worked with my wife and was a very close friend of hers as well. I remember the first time I met her was in the office and after I was introduced, she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me and said "oh so this is 'the' justin". She smiled up at me and and I was instantly as in love with her as every other person that ever had the fortune to meet her. Stacy was such an utterly lovely person, so warm and giving, her smile would always be such a great one that it ignited your subconscious into smiling back in reply. Stacey was infectious and just a joy to know. Her eyes lit up when she talked to you and Stacey was genuinely interested in everything you had to say. A few years ago, not long after I'd met her for the first time, she commented to Jane that her wrist was sore and in the coming months after other symptoms arrived, she was diagnosed as suffering motor neurone syndrome. If you don't know what it is, Google it but pray to whomever you pray to that it stays away from you. Stacey was vibrant, fit and gorgeous person being scrunched into a wretched and painful rack of a body that eventually had to give in. Our contact with Stacey decreased in the last year, more so because it was just too much for her to bare I think. Mike, her hubby, had to maintain every aspect of her life to give her as much time as possible. I never knew anyone could be as selfless as Mike. He gave up his entire existence for his wife during her illness. He will always have my utter respect for that.
I have not cried over Stacey yet. I can't honestly say she was a close friend of mine or that I would have counted large in her list of people to spend time with but her death was upsetting for me. I dared not look at her in the coffin at the risk of letting this sea of emotion spill forth that again would be totally inappropriate. I'm just not good with death.
When I decide its time to go that'll be it. I will be disappearing off into the distance and oblivion. I'm not going to hang around and be inappropriate about my own demise. No one here need worry about nursing me through a devastating disease nor have to draw straws as to who will be a pall bearer. For those that know me, I know that thought has passed through your mind at least once! It's a fair way off I know but I want to be prepared so that afterwards, people will say "He was good with his own death".
Thursday, 14 February 2013
Stuff
right now, right this very minute it is 11.20 pm and I'm sitting up in bed at my dad's place. I should be trying to sleep but well lets just say sleep is not my strong point on occasion. I'm tired though. Tired of being tired actually. Mum and Dad bought this place about 12 years ago, way after me and my siblings had fled the nest (or ejected from the nest as in my case) so the house itself has no attachment nor do I feel the least bit emotional about its sale. With mum in the place with long hallways wondering who it is getting her dressed for bed, Dad is having his second downsizing and moving to a cute little hugely expensive retirement villa. It doesn't have room for any stuff. They will cook him dinner for $8 or deliver it to the villa for an extra 65 cents! Who does that costing? I want to know how they come up with 65 cents for someone to bring food to my dads table. My big sister and I are here for a week doing the move as dad is just not up to it any more. We are doing 3 thing; packing up what stuff he takes with him, sorting out stuff that has some sort of value and throwing out the rest of the stuff. It really makes you realise how much stuff we accumulate. There is the lawnmower he only bought last year and then the toy lead soldiers he played with as child in the late 1930's. I love those soldiers.
As a child visiting my dads parents (grandma and Grandpa) in Seaforth Sydney, the tin with dads toy soldiers was always in the drawer under the bed in the back bedroom. It was the first place I always went. There were boats too so the scenario was usually me, the soldiers and boats staging a massive crash in the dirt and invariably one of the little metal men being fatally wounded. I'm not sure there are many kids allowed to play with toys made of lead these days! they were grey and dirty and bare metal and just what soldiers should be. They were works of art. Machine guns drawn or the soldier lying prostate with his finely detailed eye looking down the barrel of his gun.
That was until one visit I arrive and peered into the tin. Imagine my utter horror. Who ever heard of bright green and brown soldiers? the paint so thick their tiny tortured facial features now just glacier smooth. Grandma had decided to brighten them up a bit. Soldiers! Metal soldiers with guns and mangled legs from impacts with tiny lead ships now would not look out of place on a good xmas tree. It literally took the shine off for me but like any good soldier, never left a man behind and we continued to wage war on the ships. These very same toys are now subject to a decision. Keep or throw?
Dad has heaps of shitty stuff, don't get me wrong. Mum's taste was so 'individual' 99% of the decisions were so easy, I heard myself repeating over and over, Bin It! I also heard dad say a lot "get rid of it". Its the tiny things that make life hard though. Not the big lounge chair or the fridge, its the 2 inch high soldier that stabs you in the heart. It stops you dead in your tracks and makes you think about where you are and how you got here. Would I be a different man if the soldiers weren't painted? probably not, but I would not be the same man without having known my wonderful grandparents and their love for me.
I sold Grandpas printing press and wood cut knives today too. That hurt. firstly because they were so very grandpa and secondly because I lifted it by myself and nearly broke my pooper valve. Dad hid the hurt well but we both knew. Its all stuff and has to go but we get attached to stuff or rather the memories the stuff elicits. I wont be able to look at the printing press and remember grandpa any more Its not as if I even lived in the same state as the printing press but it helped make my heritage, stuff helps form us like it or not. I'm keeping the soldiers though. only because they are 2" high and because its the tiny things that can mend a wounded heart.
As a child visiting my dads parents (grandma and Grandpa) in Seaforth Sydney, the tin with dads toy soldiers was always in the drawer under the bed in the back bedroom. It was the first place I always went. There were boats too so the scenario was usually me, the soldiers and boats staging a massive crash in the dirt and invariably one of the little metal men being fatally wounded. I'm not sure there are many kids allowed to play with toys made of lead these days! they were grey and dirty and bare metal and just what soldiers should be. They were works of art. Machine guns drawn or the soldier lying prostate with his finely detailed eye looking down the barrel of his gun.
That was until one visit I arrive and peered into the tin. Imagine my utter horror. Who ever heard of bright green and brown soldiers? the paint so thick their tiny tortured facial features now just glacier smooth. Grandma had decided to brighten them up a bit. Soldiers! Metal soldiers with guns and mangled legs from impacts with tiny lead ships now would not look out of place on a good xmas tree. It literally took the shine off for me but like any good soldier, never left a man behind and we continued to wage war on the ships. These very same toys are now subject to a decision. Keep or throw?
Dad has heaps of shitty stuff, don't get me wrong. Mum's taste was so 'individual' 99% of the decisions were so easy, I heard myself repeating over and over, Bin It! I also heard dad say a lot "get rid of it". Its the tiny things that make life hard though. Not the big lounge chair or the fridge, its the 2 inch high soldier that stabs you in the heart. It stops you dead in your tracks and makes you think about where you are and how you got here. Would I be a different man if the soldiers weren't painted? probably not, but I would not be the same man without having known my wonderful grandparents and their love for me.
I sold Grandpas printing press and wood cut knives today too. That hurt. firstly because they were so very grandpa and secondly because I lifted it by myself and nearly broke my pooper valve. Dad hid the hurt well but we both knew. Its all stuff and has to go but we get attached to stuff or rather the memories the stuff elicits. I wont be able to look at the printing press and remember grandpa any more Its not as if I even lived in the same state as the printing press but it helped make my heritage, stuff helps form us like it or not. I'm keeping the soldiers though. only because they are 2" high and because its the tiny things that can mend a wounded heart.
Sunday, 3 February 2013
Wedding Night part 2
OK, so you've read part one where we were left in the Emergency Dept of Wollongong Hospital. To say we were both devastated is an understatement. We were in shock. The pain was tremendous and even though pain killers were prescribed, it was awful to look at, to think of and to even contemplate where we were now. The hospital applied what can only be described as 'contact', to us. Adhesive plastic film. They were applied so that the skin could grow back underneath.
The hotel manager came to the hospital and offered to house us for the time being until we were ready to fend for ourselves. As newly weds, we did it the old fashioned way. We had never lived together. Jane was moving form her parents house into a house I had rented in preparation for married life. There was no way we could really care for ourselves, the burns on Jane were so severe, movement was to be avoided and my back was giving me grief as well. We discussed it and decided to retire to the hotel room to lick our wounds as it were, and not emerge for some time. We didn't want to have a bevy of people coming to wish us well so told no one at first. I know we did call our parents at some point but they were to think we were on our honeymoon so wouldn't miss us. I think we had about 2 days of darkness and room service. We cried and consoled each other but frankly, it was horrible. Even the thought of in room video was dashed as the titles on show at the time were Mississippi Burning and other just as pain associated movies.
I remember having to call all the accommodation and car hire and what not to try to recoup spent honeymoon funds. Everyone was nice but to retell the same gory story over and over was not nice. We were still so very raw both physically and mentally.
After a few days, we emerged and it was agreed we would go back to my in-laws' house to recuperate some more. Jane back in her single bed with me on an foldaway bed on the floor beside her. All so very romantic and newly wed. I was caught between wanting to be the provider of care and not being in a position to do so. Her family were really great to us in our hours of need. At night, I'd wake to find Jane playing with the air with her curled fingers. Laughing and giggling in her sleep. I was quite amused and sat up to watch and listen to her having the dream. I never realised it was Jane playing with the bubbles in the spa until it was too late. Jane's screams of terror waking the house once the water main burst and her wild kicking in her sleep, at the water to stop it burning. I watched her relive that terror episode night after night for about a week. Each one just as bad as the previous.
Word came from relatives as far away as Brisbane that the media were reporting an "anonymous couple were scorched and were currently honeymooning in Queensland" and made all the typical low brow jokes and implications. It made us cry if they only knew the truth.
After a few days our dressings were quickly filling with fluid. The adhesive film trapping it all so that a bubble started to form. Upon good advice from my mother in law, we went to see her GP to check on the burns. The doctor examined us and then asked Jane to leave the room. The doctor explained to me and my brother in law that the dressings were only meant to be used when drains were fitted and you were in hospital. They had to come off and quite quickly. The risk of infection was great and the doctor was quite concerned they'd been on for as long as they had. Explaining this to my wife was very hard. My father in law and brother in law and I tried to allay her fears but Jane knew what those words meant. The adhesive films were coming off.
The doctors surgery was a converted house with the waiting room at the front and consulting rooms towards the back of the house, Jane was laying on the examination table with my brother in law on one side and me the other. We are both of similar dimension exceeding 6' and 100Kg each. 2 strong young men. The doctor had us place the palm of our hand on Jane's shoulder and push down whilst she removed the adhesive from Jane's shins. The pain of looking at this happen was unbearable let alone being the one on the table. Jane sat bolt upright lifting both of us off the ground as the adhesive peeled not only good skin but scar tissue and burnt flesh up with it. The pain so great, her screams heard past the waiting rooms and out to the street. I feel very sorry for those people awaiting their check ups having to listen to something they had no idea was happening. I firmly believe even child birth didn't come close to that day. After the first one Jane was pleading and crying for us to stop but the doctor stressed the urgency. We literally held Jane down. I still feel that today 23 years later.
This is surprisingly hard to write. If you saw me now, you'd understand how hard.
Once Jane had her hospital applied dressings removed, the doctor used far more appropriate ones but the pain stayed and stayed. I had to have mine removed from my back as well. Mine was smaller and less serious than Jane's but still was as close to passing out through pain that I've ever experienced Jane sustained that 3 times that day.
Burns take a long time to heal. We eventually moved into our house and so the marriage that started out in such drama and pain, quickly turned into comfort and security for us both.
The hotel offered us a fully paid holiday in sunny Queensland as compensation but seeing as we were not to be exposed to the sun for some years, we politely declined. We would determine how and when they would compensate us at a later date. The trouble is, no one can possible feel what we felt that day and the months and years later.
The hotel manager came to the hospital and offered to house us for the time being until we were ready to fend for ourselves. As newly weds, we did it the old fashioned way. We had never lived together. Jane was moving form her parents house into a house I had rented in preparation for married life. There was no way we could really care for ourselves, the burns on Jane were so severe, movement was to be avoided and my back was giving me grief as well. We discussed it and decided to retire to the hotel room to lick our wounds as it were, and not emerge for some time. We didn't want to have a bevy of people coming to wish us well so told no one at first. I know we did call our parents at some point but they were to think we were on our honeymoon so wouldn't miss us. I think we had about 2 days of darkness and room service. We cried and consoled each other but frankly, it was horrible. Even the thought of in room video was dashed as the titles on show at the time were Mississippi Burning and other just as pain associated movies.
I remember having to call all the accommodation and car hire and what not to try to recoup spent honeymoon funds. Everyone was nice but to retell the same gory story over and over was not nice. We were still so very raw both physically and mentally.
After a few days, we emerged and it was agreed we would go back to my in-laws' house to recuperate some more. Jane back in her single bed with me on an foldaway bed on the floor beside her. All so very romantic and newly wed. I was caught between wanting to be the provider of care and not being in a position to do so. Her family were really great to us in our hours of need. At night, I'd wake to find Jane playing with the air with her curled fingers. Laughing and giggling in her sleep. I was quite amused and sat up to watch and listen to her having the dream. I never realised it was Jane playing with the bubbles in the spa until it was too late. Jane's screams of terror waking the house once the water main burst and her wild kicking in her sleep, at the water to stop it burning. I watched her relive that terror episode night after night for about a week. Each one just as bad as the previous.
Word came from relatives as far away as Brisbane that the media were reporting an "anonymous couple were scorched and were currently honeymooning in Queensland" and made all the typical low brow jokes and implications. It made us cry if they only knew the truth.
After a few days our dressings were quickly filling with fluid. The adhesive film trapping it all so that a bubble started to form. Upon good advice from my mother in law, we went to see her GP to check on the burns. The doctor examined us and then asked Jane to leave the room. The doctor explained to me and my brother in law that the dressings were only meant to be used when drains were fitted and you were in hospital. They had to come off and quite quickly. The risk of infection was great and the doctor was quite concerned they'd been on for as long as they had. Explaining this to my wife was very hard. My father in law and brother in law and I tried to allay her fears but Jane knew what those words meant. The adhesive films were coming off.
The doctors surgery was a converted house with the waiting room at the front and consulting rooms towards the back of the house, Jane was laying on the examination table with my brother in law on one side and me the other. We are both of similar dimension exceeding 6' and 100Kg each. 2 strong young men. The doctor had us place the palm of our hand on Jane's shoulder and push down whilst she removed the adhesive from Jane's shins. The pain of looking at this happen was unbearable let alone being the one on the table. Jane sat bolt upright lifting both of us off the ground as the adhesive peeled not only good skin but scar tissue and burnt flesh up with it. The pain so great, her screams heard past the waiting rooms and out to the street. I feel very sorry for those people awaiting their check ups having to listen to something they had no idea was happening. I firmly believe even child birth didn't come close to that day. After the first one Jane was pleading and crying for us to stop but the doctor stressed the urgency. We literally held Jane down. I still feel that today 23 years later.
This is surprisingly hard to write. If you saw me now, you'd understand how hard.
Once Jane had her hospital applied dressings removed, the doctor used far more appropriate ones but the pain stayed and stayed. I had to have mine removed from my back as well. Mine was smaller and less serious than Jane's but still was as close to passing out through pain that I've ever experienced Jane sustained that 3 times that day.
Burns take a long time to heal. We eventually moved into our house and so the marriage that started out in such drama and pain, quickly turned into comfort and security for us both.
The hotel offered us a fully paid holiday in sunny Queensland as compensation but seeing as we were not to be exposed to the sun for some years, we politely declined. We would determine how and when they would compensate us at a later date. The trouble is, no one can possible feel what we felt that day and the months and years later.
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