Hanner Cymraes … means half Welsh woman,

My First Fabulous Five

2012-01-24T22:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, here are my first Fab Five nominations for the Versatile Blogger Award, an eclectic mix - some completely new, some re-discovered (while I have been working on updating my feed-reader), and others I have been meaning to read for some time.

1. Five Star Friday
2. Mulberry Road
3. Reading the Past
4. From Hook to Book
5. Dusty Heaps

Versatile Blogger Award

2012-01-22T14:50:00.000-08:00

Last week, I found out that Meg Dunley had nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award.

Wow, I thought. What a lovely surprise. Someone actually read my blog - and found it interesting.

You never know do you?

The Rules for excepting the Versatile Blogger Award are as follows:

Thank the person who nominated you. Tell 7 things about yourself, so that your readers may learn more about you, and nominate 15 other newly discovered bloggers, then let them know you nominated them.

I have been slow to accept the award because life is so terribly itsy-bitsy during the January holiday season and also because I needed to work on my blog feed-reader. I decided to use the award as a motivator. I have been trawling blogs and working through a backlog of reading. I am not quite ready to nominate my Fabulous Fifteen yet, so keep watching. But I thought I may as well get the ball rolling by telling you seven things about me:

1. I was born in the summer - but, I celebrate my birthday in the winter

2. I became engaged at nineteen years of age, married at twenty, and had my first child before I turned twenty one

3. I had four children but only had three pregnancies

4. I am trying to write the next great Australian novel

5. I like silence, strong coffee and siocled (chocolate)

6. I learn Welsh

7. Self-doubt has been my life long companion

I will work on the blog lists this week so please keep reading. But I just wanted to thank my nominator, Meg Dunley, and to point out that she has three blogs, and a travelogue. They are all worth reading:

Meg's Threads

Living Green and Thrify

By Meg's Pen

Mae periant bara gyda fi - I have a bread machine

2012-01-09T03:03:00.000-08:00

Rhoidd ein plant i ni beriant bara am Nadolig – Our children gave us a bread machine for Christmas.

Yn gyntaf, ro’n i’n synnu gan y anrhegion – at first, I was surprised by the gift.

Dw i ddim yn ‘domestic goddess’ neu ‘earth mother’ – I am not a domestic goddess or an earth mother.

Dw i wedi bod gwybod i ddweud ‘best thing’ ac ‘sliced bread’ yn y un frawddeg – I have been known to say best thing and sliced bread in the same sentence.

Ond y mwy meddyliais i e, y mwy wnes i sylweddoli roedd e’n syniad da – But the more I thought about it, the more I realised, it was a good idea.

Dw i ddim yn gallu bwyta gwenith – I can’t eat wheat.

Prynais i bara arbenigedd a rhio e yn y rhwegell – I buy specialty bread and put it in the freezer.

Ond fy ngŵr, Andrew, ddim yn hoffi bara wedi i rewi – But my husband, Andrew, doesn’t like frozen bread.

Mae fe’n prynu bara ffres – he buys fresh bread. Ond wedyn, mae gormod o fara gyda ni – but then we have too much bread.

Mae rhaid i ni daflu e yn y bin yn aml – we have to thow it in the bin often.

Roedd periant bara yn syniad da – the bread machine was a good idea!

Darllenais i llyfr gwydbodaeth – I read the information book.

Wedyn, es i allan a prynu y blawd arbenigedd – then I went out and bought the specialty flour.

Roedd amser yn dechrau – it was time to begin.

Wnes i mesuro y blawd ac y ‘yeast’ yn ofalus ar fy nghlorian newydd – I measured the four and the yeast carefully on my new scales.

Wnes i dywallt y dŵr mewn – I poured the water in. Ac wedi troi y periant ymlaen – and turned the machine on.

Wedyn arhosais i ac arhosais i – then I waited and I waited.

Cymerodd y periant pedair a hanner awr i bobi y bara - the machine took four and a half hours to bake the bread. Ond pan daeth e allan o'r periant roedd e’n berffaith – But when it came out of the machine, it was perfect.

Diolch yn fawr plant – thanks very much kids!

Mae'n ddrwg da fi am y llunia yn ddrwg - apologies for the bad photos (and Welsh).

Dw i ddim gallu bod yn dda yn bopeth - I can't be good at everything. :-)

New Years Resolutions

2012-01-04T23:40:00.001-08:00

If you haven't settled on your new year's resolutions, you may like to consider this little gem.

That's right. A book on Facial Fitness. If you had a less worthwhile pursuit in mind: Stop right there!

Turn around.

Ignore the 365 Steps to Self-confidence.

And the Flat Belly Diet.

Ignore your racing blood pressure and your high cholesterol levels Forget that you have always longed to meditate. And that life-long ambition of playing the guitar.

It's time to head on down to the library and start tightening your smile.

Great little giant

2011-12-16T23:38:00.000-08:00

Cawr mawr bychan — great little giant,

Cryf cadarn gwan, gwynion ruddiau — strong, mighty weakling, pale of cheek.

Cyfoethog tlawd — poor wealthy one,

A'n Tad a'n Brawd, awdur brodiau … our Father and Brother, author of brothers ...

Isel uchel — low and high,

Emmanuael, mêl feddyliau … Emmanuel of honeyed thoughts ...

Pali ni myn — he won't have silk,

Nid urael gwyn ei gynhiniau — of no white weaving are his rags;

Yn lle syndal — no fine linen

Ynghylch ei wâl gwelid carpiau … where he lies, only tatters ...

Ei leferydd — and his words

Wrth fugelydd, gwylwyr ffaldau — are for shepherds, the fold-watchers,

Engyl yd fydd — there'll be angels

A nos fal dydd dyfu'n olau- like day, night will become bright ...

Nos lawenydd — a night for joy

I lu bedydd; byddwn ninniau — for all Christendom; so let us be.

This lovely poem was written by Brother Madog sometime in the twelfth century.

Pastor Matt Glover forced to resign

2011-12-05T14:34:00.001-08:00

A bit of a black day for the Baptist Church - among whom I am ranked.

After a secret? Clandestine? Impromptu? Members meeting Pastor Matt Glover has been asked to resign from his position at Lilydale Baptist Church because of his support for members of the gay and lesbian community.

Here is a quote from a paper Matt Glover wrote as part of his theological studies entitled:

Pastoral Response to Homosexuality in the Church

“Our churches have argued the issue on biblical, theological and moral grounds for years, and agreement seems elusive. But as the battles rage, real people are being forgotten, left bruised and hurting, and wondering where they fit. While not tackling the more specific issues of the debate like gay marriage and the ordination of practicing homosexuals, it is the purpose of this paper to bring another approach to the issue that is based on our equality before God, the work of the Spirit in our lives, and the unity that the Spirit produces in our church communities.

This alternative approach requires journeying with the real people stuck in the middle of the debate, listening to their questions and seeking answers together. It is a pastoral response that has its grounding in scripture and in my experience of ministry over the last twenty years …

Pastoral care begins with the life and practice of Jesus. With those on the fringe of his society, Jesus was welcoming and compassionate, touching the untouchable, loving the unlovable and creating a community that saw all people as equals before God. His life included teaching on scripture and the condemnation of religious leaders who had twisted scripture to protect the institutional religion. But never did Jesus isolate those with a genuine response to his care and his teaching on the Kingdom of God.

Pastoral care in the church must reflect the care of Jesus by opposing rules that drain life, and instead, create a life giving community where burdens are carried together."

Not an unreasonable response, I would argue. Yet Matt Glover has been asked to resign.

This leaves him without full time employment.

Shelley Argent of PFlag (Parents and Friends of lesbians and gays) Queensland, has started a fundraising appeal for Matt Glover and his family by donating $1000.

She has opened a bank account at the Bank of Queensland for direct debits and donations.

BSB: 124-001 Account No: 2172-4166

Account Name: Shelley Argent (for Matt Glover)

Please put in what you can.

Alternatively, if you would like to post a cheque or money order please write them to Rev. M. Glover and address the envelope to PFLAG, PO Box 1372, Eagle Farm 4009.

Fy wythnos Cymreig

2011-12-02T04:15:00.001-08:00

Dydd Llun - Monday

Fe gorffennais i ddarllen 'Mae hen wlad fy nhadau gan Gwynfor Evans - I finished reading 'Land of my fathers by Gwynfor Evans.

Roedd pedwar cant chwech deg pump tudalen gyda y llyfr - the book had four hundred and sixty five pages.

Fe ddarllenais i pob tudalen. - I read every page.

Wnes i ddim yn ddarllen e yn Gymraeg - I didn't read it in Welsh.

Ond, bydda i'n darllen e yn Gymraeg unwaith nes ymlaen. - but, I will read it in Welsh one day.

Dydd Mawrth - Tuesday

Roedd y ddosbarth diwetha Cymraeg am eleni - was the last Welsh class for this year.

Fe orffennon ni ddarllen 'Y bywyd Blodwen Jones' - we finished reading 'The life of Blodwen Jones.'

Roedd e'n ddoniol iawn.

Dydd Mercher - Wednesday

Fe es i i weld 'Under Milk Wood' ar y theatr Heidelberg - I went to see Under Milk Wood at the Heidleberg Theatre.

Fe mwynheuais i e yn fawr iawn - I enjoyed it very much.

Dydd Iau - Thursday

Wnes i ddim gwneud dim byd Cymreig - I didn't do anything Welsh.

Gosh! What do you think I am? Obsessive? 😊

Dydd Gwener - Friday

Siaradais i gyda ffrindiau newydd ar Skype - I spoke with my new friend on Skype.

Fe wnaethon ni siarad Cymraeg ers bron dwy awr - we spoke Welsh for almost two hours. (there were a few English words thrown in - but mostly Welsh)

Dw i wedi blino iawn nawr I am very tired now.

Mae rhaid i fi fynd i gwely - I must go to bed.

Nos da!

My Big Boast

2011-11-15T23:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes my writing journey feels like this. No honestly. It does.

For a while, due to a series of health and family misfortunes, my writing felt like it was forever chugging up-hill.

This is a serious problem for a writer.

What does one do in such a time?

You don't stop writing - that is the number one rule. You somehow keep putting words on the page. If you can't write fiction you blog - about anything. Even in Welsh, if that helps. You write copy. You dabble in short stories.

You journal. Hoping, life will one day return to an even keel. You also read. Copiously.

Non-fiction, recipes, your Welsh dictionary. Literary fiction. Historical. Light contemporary works. On holidays, you indulge in a great big romping holiday read. The kind that cuts you off from your family for hours at a time. A book in which you get lost - or maybe found.

My last summer holiday read was Kate Morton's, The Distant Hours.

Having read Kate Morton's earlier novels, I knew roughly what to expect. A tale of crumbling castles, ancient families and compelling inter-generational secrets.

Aside from their clear gothic influence, her books also have another element in common. Whether a screenwriter trying to understand the death of a war affected poet, a cameo appearance by Frances Hodgson Burnett, or a young writer finding the courage to write on the crisp new pages of a notebook, her books all provide insights into the writing life.

The Distant Hours didn't depart from this pattern. It was a tale of readers, writers, editors and war-affected families, who were influenced, by the work of one a dead man and his signature tale: The True History of the Mud Man
.
I gobbled the story down, revelling in its lessons and insights, and came up wanting to know more. How much did Morton's character's writing habits mirror her own? Did she use notebooks? Had she walked the fine line between sanity and insanity? Had she ever felt like giving up? Would she be willing to tell me?

If she did … wouldn't it make great article. I pitched the idea to the Historical Novels Review. Yes, they said, go for it. We will put it in our November edition.

Kate Morton was a delight to interview. So enthusiastic. Her replies so comprehensive. I wanted to publish every word. But due to a tight word limit, I had to edit her response. The result an engaging, tightly honed article (my exaggerated description), that is only the beginning of my big boast. In addition to the article, Kate asked whether she could use some the questions on her blog. The Review said yes, of course, providing the article came out after the November publication date.

Today, I had an email telling me one of the questions has made it on to the blog (yes, follow the link)

My writing life has taken a turn these past months. I no longer feel like the little red engine - I think I can, I think I can. Some days it even feels quite easy.

So what does a writer do then?

You don't take it for granted. That's the first rule. You know life is a series of ups and downs. The mountains will rise up again. Some days, you will wonder whether you can keep going.

But in the meantime, you say a little prayer of thanks when words flow onto the page, or when an article is published, and, when you find your name on the web page of an international, best-selling author, you whoop and throw your hands in the air - and enjoy the ride.

Ac Adar hefyd - and birds too

2011-10-31T00:13:00.001-07:00

Pethau welais i yn y Grampians - things I saw in the Grampians

2011-10-30T18:16:00.001-07:00

Blodau gwyllt - wild flowers

Kangaroos diog - lazy kangaroos

Mamau a babanod

Clywais i'r kookaburras chwerthin, hefyd - I heard the kookaburras laugh too.

Dyn ni'n cael dros y Sul yn hyfryd

Today

2011-10-30T18:02:00.001-07:00

I did a book talk this morning at Ashburton library. The titles I reviewed were:

Sacred Hearts - Sarah Dunnant

Life Mask - Emma Donoghue

Sarah Thornhill - Kate Grenville

Eona - Alison Goodman

All great reads

I spent the afternoon at the State Library of Victoria.

The above titled book, dated 1839, was just one of the volumes I found myself reading - along with medical journals, sick lists, and general summarys of emigrant voyages.

I love the research side of writing. 

I also saw Antoni Jach in the rare books reading room - so all in al, a true literary day.

This is very funny!

2011-10-21T16:14:00.001-07:00

Enjoy!

Love wins - chapter five

2011-10-15T16:39:00.001-07:00

Did you think I had stopped reading?
No way, this book is gold. Here are some more quotes:

'How many people, if you were to ask them why they've left the church, would give an answer something along the lines of, ''it's just so small."

'Of course. A gospel that leaves out its cosmic scope will always feel small. A gospel that has its chief message as avoiding hell or not sinning, will never be the full story. A gospel that repeatedly, narrowly affirms and bolsters the "in-ness" of one group at the expense of the "out-ness" of another group will not be true to the story that includes "all things and people in heaven and on earth."'

And another:

'We want to know that the last word hasn't been spoken, we want to know that the universe is on our side, we want to know on Friday that Sunday will eventually come.'

Finally ...

'Because that's how the universe works.
That's what Jesus does.
Death and resurrection.
Old life for new life;
One passes away, the other comes.
Friday then Sunday.
You die, and you're reborn.
It's like that.'

Welsh anthem (Land of my fathers)

2011-10-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

Ganwyn yn fy nghardd - spring in my garden

2011-10-11T00:20:00.001-07:00

Beth sy'n digwydd yn y ardd? - what is happening in the garden?

Mae'r 'borage' a 'feverfew' yn taenu - there is borage and feverfew sprouting.

Mae'r mint yn dyfu yn glou - the mint is growing fast (I don't know how to write taking over)

Mae fy 'granny's bonnets' wedi dod yn ôl gyda bwrw glaw yn dda - my granny's bonnets have come back with the good rain.

Dw i'n caru Ganwyn yn 'Melbourne.' - I love Spring in Melbourne.

A quote from Albert Einstein

2011-10-10T03:57:00.001-07:00

'If you want your children to be brilliant, read them fairy stories. If you want them to be even more brilliant, read them even more fairy stories.'

Cyntaf rhosyn o Ganwyn

2011-10-08T23:46:00.000-07:00

Dyma fy nghyntaf rhosyn i'r dymor - my first rose of the season.

Mae e'n ogeluo yn hyfryd - it smells lovely.

Gwlyio y pel-droed - watching the football

2011-10-01T00:46:00.000-07:00

Mae heddiw yn y rownd terfynol o bel-droed, rheolau Awstralian – today is the final round of Australian rules football.

Dyn ni’n enw e 'r ‘Grand Final' – we call it the Grand Final.

Mae gyfrianchol gyda fi – I have a secret. Dw i ddim yn hoffi pel-droed – I don’t like football. Dydy e ddim yn Awstralian iawn – this is not very Australian. Efallai, dw i’n gwylio y pel-droed gyda fy nghwr, Andrew, prynhawn yma – Therefore, I am watching football with my husband Andrew, this afternoon.

Dyma ydy e'n bwyta creision – here he is eating crisps.

Mae fe’n gallu bwyta creision achos mae fe’n mynd i feicio bob dydd Sadwrn yn y mynydd – he is able to eat crisps because he cycles every Saturday in the mountains. Dw i ddim yn bwyta creision achos dw i’n cysgu bob dydd Sadwrn yn y gwely gwastad – I am not able to eat crisps because I sleep in every Saturday, on a flat bed.

Achos, dw i ddim hoffi chwaraeon, dweudais i i fy nghwr – bydda i’n gwylio y pel-droed os dw i’n gallu gweithio yn fy nghyfrifriadur a yfed coffi. Because I don’t like sport, I said to my husband – I will watch the football if I can work on my computer and drink coffee.

Dw i’n cael y prynhawn hfryd – I am having a lovely afternoon. Dw i wedi ysgrifennu llthyr i fy Nghefnder yn Gymru – I have written a letter to my cousin in Wales. Dw i’n ysgrifennu y blog yma, nawr – now, I am writing this blog.

Fel i ddweud, dw i ddim yn hoffi pel-droed – like I said, I don’t like football. Ond dw i’n gobeithio bod y tîm Gathod yn enill – but I hope Geelong wins.

Pam? Why?

Pryd, daeth fy nheulu o Lloegr i Awstralia, daethon ni fyw yn dref Geelong – when my family came from England to Australia, we lived in Geelong. Roedd fy Nhad yn gweithio i ‘Ford’ – my dad was working for Ford. Effallai, dw i’n gobeithio bod tîm Geelong yn enill, heddiw – therefore, I hope Geelong wins today.

Mae nhw yn enill, nawr, am y trydydd chwarter – they are winning now, at he third quarter. Mae y gêm yn mynd yn gyffrous – yn gyffrous iawn, iawn. The game is getting exciting – very, very exciting.
Mae rhaid i fi stopio ysgrifennu, nawr – I must stop writing now.

Edrych â y gêm – watch the game.

Efallai, dw i’n gwneud hoffi pel-droed tipyn bach – perhaps, I do like football, a little bit.

Efallai, dw i’n tipyn bach Awstralian, hefyd – perhaps I am a little bit Australian too.

Mae flin da fi, am fy nrwg Cymraeg - sorry about my bad Welsh. :-)

How to make Pice Bach

2011-09-14T01:09:00.000-07:00

Life has been unbelievably busy since returning home - with interviews, articles to write, library work to catch up on, a language to keep learning, and a family all deserving of my time.

I have thought about blogging so many times, but it has never quite happened. Today, at last I show up with a recipe. The Anglicised name for this sweet treat is Welsh cakes. But the Cymraeg is so much more evocative - Pice Bach ar y maen - little cakes baked on the stone.

Cynhwsion - Ingredients

8 owns blawd hunan-codi (hint: hunan-codi means self raising)
3 owns menyn (butter)
pinsio halen (I leave the salt out)
3 owns cwrens (currants)
pinsio sbeis cymsyg (mixed pice)
Wy (an egg - the w is supposed to have a little accent but I don't know how to achieve this, yet)
tipyn bach llaeth i gymysgu (a little milk to mix)

Dull - method

Rhwbio 'r menyn i mewn i'r blawd hunan-codi nes iddo edrych fel brwision bara - rub the butter into the self raising flour until it looks like the bread crumbs
Ychwanegu y cynhwysion sych, yr wy a 'r llaeth - add the dry ingredients, the egg and the milk
Cymysgu i does ffyrm - mix to a firm dough
Rholio allan, a thorri yn grwn - roll out and cut into rounds
Pobi ar y maen dros wres cymedrol - cook on the stone (cast iron pan will do) over a medium heat.

Mmm ... delicious - mwynhau!

Ar Hyd y Nos

2011-07-25T13:01:00.001-07:00

At Heathrow, waiting to fly home - ar hyd y nos - all through the night.

It took me five hours to get Heathrow from Swansea, the towns shedding Welsh names and becoming more prosperous and less interesting, en-route. I sat listening to the girls opposite chattering in Welsh, all the while trying to dislodge a lump in my throat. Entering the subway to walk from the bus station to the airport, I passed the entrance to the underground. It's sign read, Piccadilly Line. The same station from which I caught the tube into London five weeks ago.

I fought a sudden mad desire to plunge back down into the earth and start over.

But no, I took a firm grip of my overstuffed-suitcase and turned into the subway.

Waiting for my flight, I find myself reflecting. What have I achieved? What has this trip meant to me?

First and foremost, it has been a recognition - of duality and loss - a search for the five year old girl who left these shores forty two years ago and had always meant to return. A recognition that I will ever be drawn back to this place of my beginning. Forever, in search of the part of me that never left. It is significant to have realized this.

Secondly, it has been a time of clarification. I have always wanted to learn Welsh, ever since mum pulled out a battered brown book of Welsh grammar and showed it to me. I finally put that desire into action about six years ago when I started learning Cymraeg at the Celtic Club in Melbourne. Going by my early ineptitude for languages (in school), I never expected to actually speak Welsh. I was content to simply learn.

But not anymore.

With the help of a fabulous online program called SaysomethinginWelsh,' I did a great deal of language preparation prior to this trip. As a consequence, I managed to speak a little Welsh in North Wales (I spoke a great deal more in my head, as I read signs and pored over my dictionary). This has crystalized my desire. I am no longer content to simply learn Welsh. I want to speak it. I hope to come back and do an intensive residential language program in a couple of years.

Finally, this trip has given me space - to walk, to think and to pray. I researched while in England and wrote while in North Wales and did a great deal of walking and sightseeing. But by far my most important re-discovery was of myself. After the terrible strain of the last few years, I needed to be reminded who I was. To walk by alone in high windy places, to see myself reflected in the habits of distant family, and to be welcomed by people I have long wanted to greet.

They have just made the final call for my flight. I must board the flight and travel home now - ar hyd y nos - all through the night. If you have ever heard that haunting melody, you will know exactly how I am feeling.

Yr un hen iaith

2011-07-24T13:45:00.000-07:00

Gogledd Cymru

Lle o caeau gwrydd

Mynyddau carreg

Blodau gwyllt

Nentydd llifio-cyflym

Pentrefi unig

Muriau llwyd-maen

Dyfroedd hudol

Adfeilion castell

South Wales

Place of green fields

Craggy mountains

Wild flowers

Fast-flowing streams

Lonely villages

Grey stone walls

Magic waters

Castle ruins

Yr un pobl - same people

Yr un hanes balch - same proud history

Yr un hen iaith - same ancient language

Bron ar goll?

neu

Dod yn ol?

Mae'r wlad yn llefain amdani hi enaid

The land weeping for her soul

Fy wythnos yn Cymru

2011-07-10T10:37:00.001-07:00

Fe wnes i dod i Gymru, dydd Sadwrn diwetha. Roedd y taith tren yn hyfryd. Fe welais i llawer o mynydd a y glan y môr hefyd.

I came to Wales last Saturday. The train journey was lovely. I saw many mountains and the seaside too.

Fe gyrraedd yn y bwthyn. Roedd hi 'n gwych. Fe wnes i troi o cwmpas i agor fy ngwarbac ond dw i ddim yn medru gweld o. Dw i wedi gadael yn rhywle.

I arrived at the cottage. It was wonderful. I turned around to open my back-pack but I couldn't see it. I had left it somewhere.

Bydda i'n stopio ysgriffenu yn Cymraeg rwan achos. Does gen i ddim y geirfa i disgrifio fy nheimlo. Ond roedd ofn iawn arna i.

I will stop writing in Welsh now because I don't have the words to describe my feelings. But there was a great fear on me. My computer was in the backpack. My journal and all my cables. My iPhone battery was getting very low. Soon, I wouldn't even have a phone.

I called the taxi. No he hadn't seen a backpack. That meant I had left it on the train. I called the Arriva help-line. They said my best bet was to try and meet the train on its way back. I called the taxi. We made a dash for the train. Fortunately, it was running late and the conductor had put it in his cabin for safe keeping.

After I had recovered ...

Fe es i y pub. Fe archebais i fy nghinio nos yn Cymraeg. Roeddwn i yn balch iawn.

I went to the pub. I ordered my dinner in Welsh. I was very proud.

Fe gerddais i i Cricieth y bore 'ma nesa. Fe brynais i rhyw bwyd a edrychais i o cwmpas. Wnes i ymweld a y castell, hefyd.

I walked to Criccieth the next morning. I bought some food and had a look around. I visited the castle too.

The next few days were spent writing. For some time now, I have suffered from a lack of confidence with my writing. Whenever I sit down to write a new scene, I feel sick with anxiety. I have some moments when it all comes easily. But often, it is a struggle. I wanted to face those thoughts and fears, while alone in my cottage.

By Thursday, I was wondering whether this may have been a mistake. But I persisted.

Yn prynhawn dydd Iau, fe wnes i cyfarfod fy ffrindiau newydd Aran a Catrin o SSIW. Fe gawson ni yn sgwrsio hir. Fe ddwedais i Aran sut roedd yn teimlo pan dw i'n ysgrifennu.

Thursday afternoon, I met my new friends from SSiW, Aran and Catrin.

I shared how I was going with my writing. Aran said he faced a similar struggle when writing his lessons.

Fe wnes i teimlo yn well dda, wedyn. Rywbryd mae rhaid i ni 'legitimise' ofnau arnon ni.

I felt much better after that. Sometimes, we must legitimize our fears.

Noswaith Iau, fe es i y pub. Fe welais i fy ffrindiau newydd Arwen. Fe wnes i ei chyfarfod hi ffriniaud. Fe siaradais i yn Cymraeg. Fe ddychwelyd adre yn hapus iawn.

Thursday evening, I went to the pub. I saw my new friend Awen. I met her friends. I spoke Welsh. I returned home very happy.

Dydd Gwener, fe godais i car o Llandudno. Fe gyrrais i adref trwy y mynydd. Roedd y hen wlad fy nhadau edrych yn brydferth iawn i fi.

On Friday, I picked up a car from Llandudno. I drove home through the mountains. The old land of my fathers looked very beautiful to me.

Dydd Sadwrn, fe gyrrais i Llangollen am y eisteddfod. Fe welais i dawnsio a canu a llawer o corau. Roedd o'n gwych. Wnaedd fy Nghfynither dweud: Bydda i'n edrych i ti ar y teledu. Dw i'n gobeithio ei bod hi neb wela i fi yn y teledu. Achos roeddwn i'n eistedd yn y rhes cefn yn grio.

Saturday, I drove to Llangollen for the eisteddfod. I saw dancing and singing and many choirs. It was wonderful. My cousin said: I will look for you on the TV. I hope that she didn't see me. Because I was sitting in the back row crying.

Goodbye London ... until next time

2011-07-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

I have survived a week alone in London - and my first ever stay in a backpackers - and it was a backpackers: basic, staffed by the United Nations, and with a distinctly Dickensian feel.

My room was on the fifth floor, at the end of a lonely corridor where nobody could hear me scream. But the bed-linen was fresh and I had the luxury of a basin and tiny fridge. What more could I need? Actually three things, a pair of rubber thongs, a hanging dilly-bag and a Boroondara gym towel. Fortunately, I had them all - and a slick daily routine.

I drank coffee from my portable plunger every morning, packed a picnic for each day, and charged my various electronic devices in the evening (or late at night - depending). I spent my days in museums, reading rooms, and on tours. I also saw the Beggar's Opera in Regent's Park and in between, I walked the streets of Covent Garden.

You see, last year, after my novel had been rejected and then assessed, I had to decide whether to move onto another project, or keep going. I also realized, that if I were to keep going I'd have to redraft my novel yet again. It felt like failure (though, this is quite normal I am learning), and I wasn't sure whether I could face another draft - indeed whether I'd have the heart to write ever again. Of course, the latter statement is foolish. I need to write for my sanity. But in the interim, I found myself unable to form the right words. I therefore turned to research.

I knew my main character came from Covent Garden - this was quite a down market area in 1841. I also knew I had to come up with a completely new beginning for my novel, and this involved knowing what Covent Garden looked like in 1841. I needed to explore my character's backstory (or maybe I just like research) to find out where my she lived, worked, and went to school. Very little of this will actually be in the finished novel. But I needed to know it, in order to decide where to begin (at least, that's what I tell myself).

There are no exact maps of Covent Garden in 1841 (at least not that I found). Only maps about twenty years either side of this date - in between there were multiple changes to street names, layout and buildings. I read everything I could find at SLV. Trawled British History on line. Wrote pages of notes. Made mud maps of possible changes - and it worked. I am thrilled to say - I could see my Covent Garden of 1841, though it has changed markedly. I heard my characters speak. On my last evening in the Piazza, I came across a set of market rules that put some final niggling questions to rest. It was so very hard to leave, that night - like returning from Narnia or stepping out of a time machine. But I had a train to catch in the morning.

My main character's father has always been a musician (but I wasn't sure what type). In this draft his employment needed to be specified - he has therefore become a theatre musician. To this end, I have read books on Victorian Theatre and, more specifically, theatre musicians. In the V&A reading rooms, I encountered the names of actors, as if they were old friends. It was kind of electrifying. I wanted to turn round and shout it out - look, Macready! Bunn! Kean! They are real people!

But the librarian held a finger to her lips.

The other aspect of my novel's new beginning is life in a Deptford emigrant depot, followed by a journey down river to the sea. I decided to take a Thames river cruise from Gravesend. The Thames is an amazing river, tidal and ever-changing. The commentary of the waterman was both droll and informative. I found the Upper Watergate from where my migrants would have boarded wherries in order to be rowed out to their ships. I also visited Lewisham library and with the help of the Local History librarian, added some important details to their route through Deptford. Friends in Essex had warned me against visiting Deptford, but the librarian said it would be fine as long as I didn't wander round the housing estates after dark. As his warning was made just on dusk, it had to be a quick visit. But I got a sense of distance and space, felt the thrill of walking where my characters might have walked - almost forgetting, in my excitement, that they are not real. :-)

My other aim during my two weeks in England was to get an impression of WW2 London and the East End. My dad lived in Ilford during this time - hence my time in Ilford Library. In London, I visited Churchill's Museum and Cabinet War Rooms, as well as a WW2 theme museum that gave a sense of the sounds, enclosed spaces, and smells of this brave chapter in Britain's history. I want to write a story based on his experiences.

I am almost ready to begin.

Now, I am in Wales and the adventure of trying to speak Welsh has begun. I hope to put on the page all that I have learned in London and Essex and, of course. Hopefully, it will make my story better - more tactile. Maybe, it will make the finished product more publishable. It has certainly made the process more enjoyable - which is by far the most important thing. For there are no guarantees in this writing game. The journey is everything.

PS. I had some nice photos to add - but Vodaphone is not coping with all the mountains. :-)

A few photos

2011-06-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

I have been here a week, so I thought it was time to put some photos up. But what have I been up to?

I have been staying Essex with my Godmother (the one who rescued me).

We went on a tour of some Essex Villages.

Yes, people actually get to live in these places!

Went to see the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain. And the Essex Guitar Orchestra

Had fish and chips with mushy peas at Leigh-on-sea.

Took a long slow car journey to Dorset. Saw ponies, foxgloves and more beautiful villages.

Visited my aunt who lives in a care home on the edge of the New Forest and caught up with an uncle I haven't seen for years.

I also spent an inordinate amount of time in the Ilford library - in search of my non-salubrious heritage.

My dad had always told the story of a bomb blast that knocked him off his feet while at school. Hundreds of bombs fell on Ilford during World War Two but with the few facts in my possession and the assistance of the local history librarian we have identified the incident it was and his school. I want to write a short story based on some of his wartime memories and this incident will be pivotal to the narrative (at least, I think it will).

Of course, I could have just picked an event - any event - and written the story. But that's not the way it works for me - hence my time in the Local History Reading Room.

Round and round the roundabout ...

2011-06-27T13:29:00.000-07:00

England has roundabouts. This week, I drove from Essex to Dorset and I've lost count of how many roundabouts I passed through. This is probably because I went round most of them more than once.

Now before you say I should have been prepared for differences in travel conditions (or maybe even that I shouldn't be driving in UK at all), I would like to point out that I was prepared.

Even before I boarded my twenty three hour flight to London (yes, London! I have to pinch myself - I am back in the UK), I had printed out maps and directions to every probable destination. Jet lagged and almost sleepwalking, I caught the tube to Holborn, lugged my case up multiple flights of stairs and boarded a Central Line train to Liverpool Street (the station has been done up, by the way - it looks very nice). From there I boarded and Essex bound train and managed to stay awake long enough to disembark in Chelmsford.

At this point, I pulled out the Google Map I had printed prior to departure. Walking down Victoria Street, I turned left onto Duke street, passed Marks and Sparks, Boot's Chemist, Lush, Debenhams and a roll-call of other English retail names, found Tindall's Square, and crossed the aptly names stone bridge.

I stopped.

According to my directions, Thrifty Car Hire should have been on the right.

It wasn't there.

I walked back and forth, scratched my head, retraced my steps. Still no Thrifty Car hire. Or phone. Yes, that's right my Optus phone plan with global roaming wasn't working. Neither had my clock switched over to GMT. Not that I needed a clock. Scurrying feet and shuttered shop windows told me it was getting close to home time.

Only, I was along way from home.

At this point, I encountered a couple of police officers. I told them the address: 372 Baddow Road. Showed them my Google map.

They shook their heads.

'No,' they said. 'It's right down the other end of Baddow Road.'

'But ... how long is Baddow Road?' I tried to keep my bottom lip from trembling.

'At least a couple of miles,' they said. 'Do you have anyone you can contact?'

Well, of course I had someone I could contact.'

But no phone.

I made a dash for the Vodafone store and managed to squeeze under the roller-door just before it crashed to the ground. But by the time I made my purchase and installed my ten pound SIM card, it was too late to call Mr Thrifty Rent-a-car. He had gone home.

It was time for plan B. Fortunately, I have a godmother in Essex. She came to rescue me.

Now, in addition to my inaccurate Google map of Chelmsford, I had also printed out a map and directions for my trip to Dorset. But I wasn't taking any second chances. When I picked up my hire car the following morning, I asked if it came with a Road Atlas.

'No,' they said, 'we don't provide maps.'

'Well then,' I said, 'perhaps I'd better hire a Nat Sav.'

'Sorry,' the man shook his head. 'We've run out of those.'

'Never mind,' I said. 'I have Google maps on my iPhone.'

The problem with Google maps, I have found - quite apart from the fact that it is sometimes glaringly inaccurate - is that it require a navigator. Someone to say, 'take the second exit off the exit roundabout,' while you keep your eyes on the road. If you don't have that, you're in for a long journey.

Google maps gave me an estimated travel time of two hours and forty seven minutes to drive from the village of High Easter to Walkford, on the south coast. But, if you don't have a navigator, you have to pull over all the time (which is simply not allowed on the M25). Added to which there are the aforementioned roundabouts, or double roundabouts, that look like diagrams for DNA, and have more appendages than Eency Weency.

Hands gripping the wheel, you enter a swirling vortex of British motor vehicles, and pray that you are in the right lane. You circle, once, twice ... sometimes even three times, looking for the name on your Google directions. It is not there. Google and British Roads haven't communicated. Meanwhile, you are driving round and round and round.

In the end you guess. Indicate. Take the second exit, on the first roundabout, drive down the road until you find a wayside stop, pull over, check the little blue dot on your iPhone, only to find you have taken the wrong road. It was the first exit on the second roundabout. You turn back. Yellow plated cars flash past, seismic lorries toot, you hunch forward, a scream rising in your throat, and swing back out into the swirl of traffic, praying you are in the right lane - this time.

It took me two hours to get from Chelmsford to the M25. Six hours to get to Walkham. My uncle was worried sick. The B&B had all but given up on me. At breakfast the next morning (full English - bacon, sausage, mushroom, eggs, tomatoes and toast) the B&B lady said:

'You're very brave driving all that way by yourself.'

'Yes,' I nodded, munching my toast and trying not to think about the return journey. I had another word in mind, one starting with S and ending with P. I am not doing that journey ever again. Next time I will catch the train.

Spring in a winter garden

2011-06-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

You have this trip planned. A great big scary trip that involves international travel, research for your novel, staying in a cottage on the Lleyn Peninsula, and speaking Welsh on a daily basis. You have been planning the trip for months - but to be honest it has been in your heart for many years. Only this time you'll be travelling alone for the very first time - no organized eldest daughter to hold your hand, no husband to take the slack.

A big, bold solo adventure - you swing between terror and elation with pendulum regularity.

Still, there is no real cause for concern, things are progressing at work. If you busy yourself like a bee right up until departure day, you might manage to get everything done. You are up to lesson twenty two of Say Something in Welsh, and have started tuning into Radio Cymru. Added to which, you've made final payments on your accommodation, photocopied essential documents, ordered one or two books from Amazon.co.uk - to save postage, you tell your husband wide-eyed. You are saving him money! You have even booked a show in the West End.

You are organised - so organised, nothing could possibly go wrong.

On Wednesday, you wake up with a sniffle. But it's nothing to worry about. Just because you come down hard with every cold, doesn't mean it will happen this time. On Thursday your muscles are aching. But, no, you can't afford a day off work. You take a few paracetamol and a bucket of vitamins. It's okay you tell everyone. Nothing to worry about. You're just a bit below par, that's all. It'll pass.

Friday, hits you like a wrecking ball. You are held to the bed by a six strong arms. For some reason, no matter how hard you you struggle, you can't face the day on two legs. You call work, agonising over everything you are not getting done, and wait for the paracetamol to take effect.

Your weekend passes in a haze of wretchedness. You miss coffee with friends and going to the movies, and, to be honest, you don't really care, you are too sick. You wonder if this is the start of a new pandemic.

Monday, you are no better - by Tuesday you feel like your face is going to explode. Somewhere in your vitamin C, zinc and echinacea soaked existence, you remember there is a medical profession. You make an appointment and drive yourself up to the clinic.

'Hmm ...' the Doctor shakes his head. 'A sinus infection. We'd better get on top of it. This could stop you flying.'

In the car, you can barely stop yourself from howling. All that practice, all that hoping and dreaming, threatened by a set of blocked sinuses. Still, it's probably for the best, you console yourself. You're too administratively challenged to travel alone. You'd leave your laptop at a bus stop. Or drop your iPhone over the rails of the Princess Pochahontas river cruise. And as for learning a language - who were you trying to kid? You'd be completely tongue-tied - like in your year twelve Japanese exam. Spend the fortnight be lying to your family, while secretly speaking English the whole time.

Then, as you trudge up the driveway you see it. You stop, closing your eyes, and press your aching eyelids - take another look.

Yes, it really is there. You are not hallucinating - a lone yellow daffodil in an otherwise winter garden.

Picking your way across the lawn, you hear the the crunch of old leaves under-foot. Bending low, you touch a finger to its nodding head, marvelling at its tapered stem and delicately bevelled trumpet. Then, for no reason at all, you find yourself smiling - at this tiny hope of spring that has come to you completely out of season.

Important medical information

2011-06-06T23:44:00.000-07:00

I didn't write this. It was one of those pesky little

forwards that you're not supposed to read at work, because they

are generally very funny and waste oodles of staff time.

This one wasn't funny - I saw as my finger hovered over

the delete button. It was deadly serious. So serious,

I decided to post it on my blog. I mean who says blogs are

simply frippery?

Who says they can't carry a health alert the may

save your life?

***

NURSE'S HEART ATTACK EXPERIENCE

This has been passed on from an ER nurse and is the best

description of this event that she had ever heard. Please read,

pay attention, and send it on!

FEMALE HEART ATTACKS

I was aware that female heart attacks are different, but this is the best

description I've ever read.

Women and heart attacks (Myocardial Infarction). Did you know that

women rarely have the same dramatic symptoms that men have when

experiencing heart attack .... you know, the sudden stabbing pain in the

chest, the cold sweat, grabbing the chest & dropping to the floor that we

see in the movies. Here is the story of one woman's experience with a

heart attack.

I had a heart attack at about 10 :30 PM with NO prior exertion,

NO prior emotional trauma that one would suspect might've brought

it on.

I was sitting all snugly & warm on a cold evening, with my

purring cat in my lap, reading an interesting story my friend had

sent me, and actually thinking, 'A-A-h, this is the life, all cozy

and warm in my soft, cushy Lazy Boy with my feet propped up.

A moment later, I felt that awful sensation of indigestion,

when you've been in a hurry and grabbed a bite of sandwich and

washed it down with a dash of water, and that hurried bite

seems to feel like you've swallowed a golf ball going down the

oesophagus in slow motion and it is most uncomfortable. You

realize you shouldn't have gulped it down so fast and needed

to chew it more thoroughly and this time drink a glass of

water to hasten its progress down to the stomach. This was

my initial sensation---the only trouble was that I hadn't taken

a bite of anything since about 5:00 p.m.

After it seemed to subside, the next sensation was like little

squeezing motions that seemed to be racing up my SPINE

(hind-sight, it was probably my aorta spasming), gaining speed

as they continued racing up and under my sternum (breast bone,

where one presses rhythmically when administering CPR).

This fascinating process continued on into my throat and

branched out into both jaws.

'Aha!! Now I stopped puzzling about what was happening.

We all have read and/or heard about pain in the jaws

being one of the signals of an MI happening, haven't we?

I said aloud to myself and the cat,

'Dear God, I think I'm having a heart attack!'

I lowered the footrest dumping the cat from my lap, started

to take a step and fell on the floor instead. I thought to

myself, If this is a heart attack, I shouldn't be walking into

the next room where the phone is or anywhere else ...

but, on the other hand, if I don't, nobody will know that

I need help, and if I wait any longer I may not be able to

get up in moment.

I pulled myself up with the arms of the chair, walked

slowly into the next room and dialed the Paramedics ...

I told her I thought I was having a heart attack due to the

pressure building under the sternum and radiating into my jaws.

I didn't feel hysterical or afraid, just stating the facts. She said

she was sending the Paramedics over immediately, asked if the

front door was near to me, and if so, to unbolt the door and

then lie down on the floor where they could see me when

they came in.

I unlocked the door and then lay down on the floor as instructed

and lost consciousness, as I don't remember the medics coming in,

their examination, lifting me onto a gurney or getting me into their

ambulance, or hearing the call they made to St. Jude ER on the way,

but I did briefly awaken when we arrived and saw that the

Cardiologist was already there in his surgical blues and cap, helping

the medics pull my stretcher out of the ambulance. He was bending

over me asking questions (probably something like 'Have you

taken any medications?'' but I couldn't make my mind interpret what

he was saying, or form an answer, and nodded off again, not

waking up until the Cardiologist and partner had already threaded the

teeny angiogram balloon up my femoral artery into the aorta and into

my heart where they installed 2 side by side stents to hold open my

right coronary

artery.

I know it sounds like all my thinking and actions at home must

have taken at least 20-30 minutes before calling the Paramedics, but

actually it took perhaps4-5 minutes before the call, and both the fire

station and St. Jude are only minutes away from my home, and

my Cardiologist was already to go to the OR in his scrubs and get

going on restarting my heart (which had stopped somewhere between

my arrival and the procedure) and installing the stents.

Why have I written all of this to you with so much detail?

Because I want all of you to know what I learned first hand.

1. Be aware that something very different is happening in

your body not the usual men's symptoms but inexplicable

things happening (until my sternum and jaws got into the act).

It is said that many more women than men die of their first

(and last) MI because they didn't know they were having one

and commonly mistake it as indigestion, take some Maalox or

other anti-heartburn preparation and go to bed, hoping they'll

feel better in the morning when they wake up ...

Which doesn't happen.

My female friends, your symptoms might not be exactly

like mine, so I advise you to call the Paramedics if

ANYTHING is unpleasantly happening that you've not

felt before.

It is better to have a 'false alarm' visitation than to risk

your life guessing what it might be!

2. Note that I said ''Call the Paramedics.'' And if you can,

take an aspirin. Ladies, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!

Do NOT try to drive yourself to the ER you are a hazard

to others on the road.

Do NOT have your panicked husband who will be speeding

and looking anxiously at what's happening with you instead

of the road.

Do NOT call your doctor -- he may know where you live

and if it's at night you won't reach him anyway, and if it's

daytime, his assistants (or answering service) will tell you

to call the Paramedics. He doesn't carry the equipment in

his car that you need to be saved! The Paramedics do,

principally OXYGEN that you need ASAP.

Your doctor will be notified later.

3. Don't assume it couldn't be a heart attack because

you have a normal cholesterol count. Research has discovered

that a cholesterol elevated reading is rarely the cause of an MI

(unless it's unbelievably high and/or accompanied by high

blood pressure). MI's are usually caused by long-term stress

and inflammation in the body, which dumps all sorts of deadly

hormones into your system to sludge things up in there.

Pain in the jaw can wake you from a sound sleep.

Let's be careful and be aware.

The more we know, the better chance we could survive.

***

Another quote from Love Wins

2011-05-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

"Do you know any individuals who grew up in a Christian church and walked away when they got older? Often pastors and parents and brothers and sisters are concerned about them and their spirituality - and often they should be. But sometimes, these individuals' rejection of the church and Christian faith they were presented with as the only possible interpretation of what it means to follow Jesus may in fact be a sign of spiritual health. They may be resisting behaviours, interpretations, and attitudes that should be rejected. Perhaps they simply came to the point where they refused to accept the very sorts of things Jesus would refuse to accept."

Beth, wnes i gwneud ddoe?

2011-05-29T17:12:00.001-07:00

What did I do yesterday?

Fe wnes i ddeffro yn gynnar - I woke late.

Fe ddarllenais i, ac ysgrifennais i, a gweddiais i, yn ychdig, hefyd - I read and wrote and prayed a little too.

Fe taclusais i y tŷ a fe es i allan - I tidied the house and went out.

Ble? I hear you say. Or lle, if you are from North Wales - where did you go?

Wel, roedd fy nghwr, Andrew yn aros - my husband Andrew was away. Fe es i fy Mhle yn hoff - not sure if that is correct.

It should say: I went to my favorite place - y llyfrygell gwladriaeth

The State Library

(yes, I did have to look up the word state)

Fe wnes i benthyg llyfyr a wnes i ffoto copios - I borrowed a book and did some photo copies.

Fe es i'r caffe, wedyn a ddarllenais i am hanes theatr - I went to a cafe afterwards and read about theatre history.

Mae o'n gwych - it was wonderful!

Love Wins - not written in Welsh this time :-)

2011-05-28T18:24:00.000-07:00

I have just started reading Rob Bell's book, Love wins: a book about heaven, hell and the fate of every person who ever lived.

In the preface, there is a great quote and it pretty much sums up why I ordered the book in the first place:

"-for all those, everywhere, who have heard some version of the Jesus story that caused their pulse rate to rise, their stomach to churn, and their heart to utter those resolute words: I would never be part of that.

I am one of those people - and I am not alone.

In his preface, Bell goes on to write:

"A staggering number of people have been taught that a select few Christians will spend forever in a peaceful place called heaven, while the rest of humanity spends forever in torment and punishment in hell with no chance for anything better. It as been clearly communicated to many that this belief is a central truth of the Christian faith and to reject it is in essence to reject Jesus. This is misguided and toxic and ultimately subverts the contagious spread of Jesus' message of love, peace, forgiveness and joy ..."

Yes!

I will be reading this book over the coming months - and splashing my thoughts all over this blog.

So look out!

I have a dream ....

2011-05-19T20:12:00.001-07:00

If Martin Luther King had been from South Wales, he might have said:

Mae breuddwyd gyda fi.

Translated literally, this reads: a dream is with me.

But if he had been from North Wales, he might have said:

Mae gen i freuddwyd

It means the same thing, a dream is with me, but the possession pattern is different.

Instead of Gyda fi (with me) or gyda ti (with you) or gyda fe (with him) ... they use the word 'gan' and it doesn't come at the end of a sentence but towards the beginning. The word 'gan' also conjugates and causes a soft mutation Which, in Martin Luther King's case, means his breuddwyd would have turned into a freuddwyd (dream).

I am trying to learn this new pattern for when I discourse fluently and at length (yeh, right) with the poor unsuspecting inhabitants of Criccieth.

And just in case I find myself sharing my dreams, along with other stock standard 'Dick and Dora phrases like the sun is shining, my name is Liz, and where is the toilet, I thought I should write a script.

Here goes:

Mae gen i freuddwyd! - I have a dream.

Oes gen ti freuddwyd? - do you have a dream?

Oes, mae ganddo fo freuddwyd - yes, he has a dream. Mae ganddi hi freuddwyd, hefyd - she has a dream too.

Yes, that's right I will be holding regular group therapy sessions in North Wales.

Mae gan gwr freuddwyd - my Husband has a dream.

Spilling all my family secrets.

Mae gan chwiriod freuddwydio hefyd, a fy meibion - my daughters have dreams too and my sons.

Mae gan fy nheulu freuddwyd - my whole family has a dream.

At this point, I will probably fling my arms wide and ask:

Oes gen ti freuddwyd? - Do you have a dream?

I wonder whether anyone will reply?

(apologies to M L K and of course the Welsh language - I'm sure I have made plenty of mistakes) 

Dysgu am poen

2011-05-19T03:35:00.001-07:00

Dw i 'n dysgu i siarad Gogledd Cymraeg - I am learning to speak North Walian.

Mae pobl o Dde Cymru dweud 'tost,' am 'pain'

The people of South Wales say 'tost,' for 'pain.'

All kinds of pain - one word 'tost!'

A sensible economy, in my opinion.

Yn y gogledd, mae y pobl dweud - in the north people say:

Poen: pain

Pigyn: sharp pain (what a lovely word) pigyn!

Cur: ache

Dolur: sore

Dw i ddim yn gobeithio teilmlo yn sal yn y Goggledd - I hope I don't feel ill in the North.

Mae o 'n rhy cymhleth - it's too complex.

Sometimes Disney gets it just right ...

2011-05-17T23:40:00.001-07:00

Beth, medru dweud?

Ond, sut ydw i'n dweud am hynny yn Cymraeg?

But how do I say that in Welsh?

Hmm...

Mae Disney yn da iawn rywbryd

That says: Disney is very right sometimes.

At least I think it does. :-)

Dydd Sul

2011-05-15T00:58:00.000-07:00

Roedd heddiw yn dydd Sul - today was Sunday.

Fe ddaeth fy Nghwr Andrew i gartref - my husband Andrew came home (I suspect there is something wrong with this sentence).

Roedd o 'n gweithio yn America ers gwaith - he was in America for work.

Rydyn ni 'n cael brecwast gyda Phoebe a Andy - we had breakfast with Phoebe and Andy.

It was actually brunch but I can't begin to imagine what the Welsh word for brunch might be - brecinio perhaps?

Fe wnes i crempogau. Roedd nhw 'n hyfryd.

I made pancakes - crempog is such a lovely word for a pancake, don't you think? The 'au' makes it plural. They were lovely.

Roedd y tywydd yn diflas - the weather was miserable.

Fe aethon ni i gyrru yn y mynydd - we went for a drive in the hills.

Fe ddylwn i 'n mynd i 'r eglwys, nawr - I should be going to church now. Ond dw i ddim eisau gadael y glo cynnes neu fy nghwr - but I don't want to leave the warm fire or my husband

Meddwl yn Cymraeg

2011-05-14T03:32:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged much lately. Indeed, a world terrorists has been eliminated. A prince married without mention and most significantly my father in law said goodbye to his seventies without without so much as a comment comment.

But funnily enough, no one has noticed.

Well, maybe one person.

Ond dw i ddim yn poeni - but I am not worried

Dw i 'n rhy prysur! I am too busy.

I have a language to learn.

Dw i wedi bod yn ymarfer siarad Cymreag am hanner awr, bob dydd. I have been practicing speaking Welsh for half an hour every day. Sometimes, morning and evening.

Dw in meddwl yn Cymreag, trwy 'r dydd - I think about Welsh all day.

Pryd dw i'n deffro, pryd dw i'n bwyta fy Nghinio, a pryd dw i'n mynd i wely.

When I wake, when I eat my lunch and when I go to bed.

Dw i'n periant! I am a machine.

Dw i ddim wedi yn ysgriffenu yn Cymraeg, yn aml iawn - that is to say: I don't write in Cymraeg very often. Achos, dw i'n ofni i wneud camgymeriadau - because I am afraid to make mistakes.

Ond, dwyt ti ddim yn dysgu heb gwneud camgymeriadau - but you can't learn without making mistakes.

A mae o'n amhosibl i feddwl am rhy gormod pethau - and it is impossible to think about too many things (don't know how to say at once in Welsh).

Felly, dw i'n wedi prenderfynu i ysgriffenu fy mhlog yn Cymraeg am gyfnod - therefore, I have decided to write my blog in Welsh for a while.

Dydy o ddim yn bod ysgriffenu yn dda - it will not be good writing.

(Not sure if that should be dydy o ddim or dydy hi ddim - whether the subject is masculine or feminine?

But it doesn't matter.

Dwyt ti ddim yn dysgu heb gwneud camgymeriadau! You can't learn without making mistakes!

So, if you are one of those people that didn't miss my lack of world commentary, mae'n ddrwg da fi! Sorry!

Dw i'n mynd i ysgriffenu yn Cymraeg nawr - I am going to write in Welsh now. A ti'n medru darllen yn Cymraeg, am gyfnod - and you read in Welsh for a while.

Hwyl

Early in the morning

2011-04-23T13:57:00.001-07:00

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus.

While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them:

Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!

A great piece of dialogue

2011-04-21T18:50:00.001-07:00

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him:'Aren't you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!'

But the other criminal rebuked him.

'Don't you fear God,'he said,'since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.'

Then he said,'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.'

Jesus answered him,'Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'

Recollections 2010

2011-04-18T01:42:00.000-07:00

Today I launched Recollections 2010, the Hawthorn Community Education Centre's, Life Writing anthology.

I had a wonderful morning, with a truly receptive audience of absolutely switched on participants. What an inspiration. Senior citizens writing, learning, publishing and growing into and beyond their octogenarian years.

As you weren't able to come to the launch. And as you hang on my every word :-), I thought I'd better publish my thoughts.

* * *

I received my copy of the anthology from Kath a little over a week ago and have been living in the ‘past’ ever since. Reading of red rattlers and steam trains, old cars and Joe’s ice-cream, weddings, kitchen mistakes and unexpected friendships, hot air balloons and silence, a rose, a gull and even a humble bumble bee.

Mulling over your memoirs, I have been surprised by the stab of long forgotten memories, have found myself walking down the byways of my own remembered past. And as I mulled, I fell to wondering: What could I say to you today?

What is it that Recollections has shown me about the writing life?

The need to Show, is the compelling motivation in an anthology such as Recollections.

In her foreword, Fran Cassar expressed this succinctly:

‘I promised the family I’d write my memoirs one day to record a life growing up in Far North Queensland.’

I wonder how many others were compelled by such a promise? Maybe you have always wanted to write but the business of life somehow got in the way? Or maybe, you have looked into the uncomprehending face of a grandchild as you tried to explain a life before computers and mobile phones, and thought, how do I explain?

You have seen so many changes: The nineteen thirties depression, for example, a world at war, the emergence of air travel, the growing dominance of the motor car. You have lived in homes without a television or telephone, maybe even without refrigeration or flushing toilets. And you have thought: I I’d better write these memories down before I run out of time.

Now, one of my claims to fame (which is alas almost ancient history), is that I won a short story prize. The other thing about me is that, although I have written contemporary short stories, most of my fiction is set in the past. The story that won the Bristol Prize, was one such story. It was based on a World War Two memory. Such a tiny memory fragment, seen through the eyes of a child, an event that may not even have happened, yet, I had a desire to write about it.

Now in case you have not already drawn this conclusion, I was not alive in World War Two. If you haven’t already concluded this, please do so now, or I won’t talk to you over a cup of tea. I may have wrinkles, and yes, my hair is coloured, and some mornings I certainly feel like I was alive in the 1940’s, but I am not that age!

Writing this particular story, involved research.

My first port of call was Mum (yes, it was her memory), I pumped her for details: descriptions of her house, the scullery, the kind of stove they used, what they ate for dinner, the colour of the wallpaper, the kind of carpet on the floor. I wrote reams of notes, asked a roll-call of questions, and looked at a cabinet full of old photographs. Then, after I had exhausted mum’s memories, the real fun began.

As part of the sixty years since VE Day celebrations, the BBC put together an archive of memories, called: WW2 People’s War. In the months leading up to the sixtieth anniversary, they encouraged people to write down anything, anything at all, that they could remember from the war and submit it to the archive – and people did!

Even those who were children at the time.

Why am I telling you this? I hope you have already guessed.

I used many of those first person accounts to create my story of Swansea, during the Three Nights Blitz, as seen through the eyes of a child.

Furthermore, I hope you have already realised, you are providing the same level of detail in Recollections. The description of a new kitchen, for instance, a new jazz club in Balwyn, late night shopping in Terang. In your urge to Show, you are laying down an eyewitness account for a future generation. As a researcher, I know this to be true, and as a librarian with City of Boroondara Library Service, I can affirm we have has almost every edition of Recollections.

They are regarded a valuable, first-person local history resource.

Have, I made my point? Good. Let's move on.

In reading Recollections, I realised that many of the stories don’t simply Show the past, they grapple with it – interpreting and coming to terms with events, with the benefit of distance and hindsight.

I call this the need to Know. And to my mind, it is one of the most profound and important aspects of the writing experience, for as Ralph Waldo Emerson once said:

‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are minor matters, compared to what lies within us.’

It is no coincidence therefore that many of the stories recount mistakes. Calling the Thames – Burcote Brook, for example, eating someone else’s scone, dropping a freshly pie on the dog’s blanket while trying to live up to a mother-in-law’s culinary expertise, a bag of tomatoes breaking in Myers and leaving you wondering, to this day, what your new daughter-in-law said under her breath, mulling over the origins of an unusual name, questioning God and lost faith while stuck in the mud, or cleaning up after a late night visit gone wrong.

But it is not only mistakes I find in Recollections. Other stories, highlight patterns, events coming full circle: a son buying a boat at forty, for example, a light look at the differences between a mother and daughter, the return of a school bully in later life, an unexpected letter from a grandmother long after she has died, the cure of a potentially disfiguring birth mark, a strange obsessive friendship, the reason your dad never, ever ate Frankfurts.

Human beings are purpose driven creatures. We seek to find meaning in the patterns of our lives. I see this in Recollections. And I affirm your explorations. As a fellow traveller, I celebrate your daring – for I see the same need in myself.

Why else do I, a migrant child, write a novel about migrants? Why do I, a librarian, recount one of my early library experiences? Why am I, the child of parents who both lived through the Blitz, writing war stories? Why am I going back to research another such story this June?

George Tooker said: ‘Painting is an attempt to come to terms with life. There are as many solutions as there are human beings.’

For me, and for many of you, I suspect, writing is that canvas: it helps us find meaning and purpose in the seemingly random events of our lives.

The final motivation I find in Recollections, is a desire to Grow.

In her foreword, Fran spoke of the Life Writing Course giving her the confidence to persevere. She spoke of working with encouragers, embracing new technologies, all day workshops, radio readings, and Tele-links.

Other authors, spoke of not yet realised dreams, to travel on the Ghan, for instance, and the Overland, the desire to foster a love of reading in a grandchild, or to ride a motor bike one last time. The joy of dabbling and collecting, walking groups and café culture, the beauty of nature, in its various feathered, furred and floral forms. The wonder of mime and indigenous culture, the plight of refugees, and the terrible beauty of a bushfire.

These are today’s issues, seen through the lens of a long life, and they tell me there is much to look forward too – that no matter how long life’s journey, there is always room to Grow. I found the image of lying in bed on a Sunday morning and watching hot air balloons drift across the sky particularly moving. Such a small private moment, such a powerful image of buoyancy and hope.

So, thank you for the memories – for the courage to re-visit those that are difficult; the love that infuses your fondest; the humorous spark by which you have illuminated the ordinary, and the philosophical musings by which you make sense of life.

It is my pleasure and privilege to launch this edition of Recollections. I wish you all the best as you continue to Show, Know and Grow in your writing life.

* * *

Long may it be so! In my life and yours.

The language of Heaven

2011-04-05T05:24:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, I am all cared out. I have been to untold medical appointments, sat through an ACAT assessment, been on a number of snail-pace shopping trips, held a series of one-sided conversations, and watched a helluva lot of British police procedurals.

And I am still smiling.

It is time to unfold the third secret of my success.

It is, of course, Welsh.

Yup! That's right Cymraeg.

'Hang on,' you say. 'You've been learning Welsh for years. It hasn't helped in the past.'

'You are right,' I say in reply. 'But, I've recently stepped up the pace.'

Last month, I booked a trip to the UK. I will be spending three weeks in Wales. Two of these, in the North, where Welsh is still the first language. 'Why?' I hear you ask (gosh you are inquisitive tonight). 'Do you have family there?'

No, I explain with great forbearance. My reasons are profound and also threefold.

Because I want to
Because I can
Ac achos, dw i'n eisiau siarad Cymraeg (and because I want to speak Welsh).

The Welsh part is is actually rather rash. I am sick to the stomach nervous about the whole thing. Not about making myself understood. About actually plucking up the nerve to say something. It's all very well to learn a language, and quite another thing to speak it!

I have tried to be brave while making bookings, throwing in the odd Welsh sentence, a few succinct greetings. And I have already made some fantastic mistakes. Telling one woman, 'I am a tight budget' (rather than on one). Asking another man what the word nwch meant (apparently North Wales Car Hire).

In an effort to boost my confidence, my friend Dai Tren, suggested I learn some of the North Walian dialogue, in preparation for the trip.

'What?' I said. 'Won't they understand my South Walian (spoken in halting sentences, with eyes closed, and an Australian accent)?'

'They might,' he replied. 'But they will answer in their own dialect.'

Well, I hadn't thought of that!

'Fe fyddi di'n OK,' he said. But try and do the first twenty six lessons of saysomethinginwelsh before you go.

Right, I thought, doing a quick mental calculation.

Fourteen weeks until I leave, plus two weeks in England. That's two-plus lessons a week, not including the bonus lessons.

'It's colloquial,' Dai said. 'The way people speak every day. I found it helpful.'

Well, I have to admit, Dai's Welsh is better than mine (probably because he does more homework). I decided it wouldn't hurt to check this SSIW out.

The website made some extravagant claims. 10,267 Welsh learners. No reading, or writing. No revision.

In short a miracle - and exactly what I needed.

The first lesson was very colloquial. 'Rydw i'n shortened to: Dw i'n. Rwyt ti'n mynd i fedru siarad (you are going to be able to speak), shortened to: ti'n mynd i fedru siarad. With a few kind of lazy words like licio (like), instead of hoffi, and trio, for try. But mostly it involved Aran (my new best friend) saying words and phrases in English and me trying to say the equivalent in Welsh, before his wife Catrin repeated them. I was allowed to use the pause button, at first. But forbidden to move onto the next lesson until I could say the Welsh before Catrin every time.

Now, folks, this is where the i word comes back in to my tale. Not a Welsh i - the Apple i. You see, I realised I could download the Mp3 files onto my iPhone.

Yes, that's right! My iPhone.

This week, I have done SSIW while cooking, cleaning, doing dishes, hanging washing, cleaning cupboards and putting out the bins. I have even listened to the lessons while out walking. Although, this did earn me a few stares. Okay, I wasn't wearing earphones (because of my hearing aids), so it did look rather like I was muttering.

But hey, this is Adelaide. I saw a woman walking an Alpaca, the other night.

So, there you have it, the secrets behind my week of caring - Skimble, Apple, and SSIW.

But, I must conclude with a disclaimer.

My friend Dai Tren, doesn't actually have an iPhone. I don't even think he has an iPod. Indeed if the SSIW website is to be believed, an i device isn't strictly necessary. Likewise, some claim to have been helped by other, android, languages.

Me, I am not convinced. To walk round the block repeating Spanish, in place of Welsh, just wouldn't work work. It just wouldn't. I mean, for a start, Welsh is easier, never mind the extra vowels and the mutations. And so very handy. I mean, think of all the places you can speak Welsh.

What? You never wanted to visit Patagonia?

No friends, I fear my friend Dai Tren is probably just a freak. Those android claims nothing but a hoax. For, i, is the prefix of choice. And Welsh is the language of heaven.

Introducing: Skimble (beware, this blog may change your life)

2011-04-02T02:48:00.000-07:00

Ordinarily, I wouldn't recommend a personal trainer. It's nothing more than a temptation to hate somebody. But, when I down loaded the Skimble App, Kim, Sophia and Jack were part of the package.
I thought: why not? Extend yourself!

I used Jack in Lorne and Sophia in Tassie, so this trip, (fair’s fair) I brought Kim along.

My first night in Adelaide, I activated the Running Interval workout. Anticipating three eight minute jogs, interspersed with two minute power walks. This was rather ambitious, as I have mostly been working out on a cross trainer at the gym. But, I am a carer this week, on dutiful daughter duty.

A significant boost was required.

I managed the first eight minutes without hiccup. Okay, I am lying. I had to drop off mum’s prescription at the five minute mark which gave me a chance to breath. But after that, only three more minutes. I earned myself a power walk.

Kim kept up a steady stream of encouragement:

You’re doing great, she said in her computer generated monotone. Get psyched!

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when after the first two minute power walk, Kim told me to sprint for thirty seconds. Then jog! Then sprint! Then jog! Then sprint!

Hang on, I knew this workout! I cooked it up under a delusion of supreme fitness. It involved a hefty chunk of interval training slap bang in the middle. I would have to stop, choose another workout. It was too much.

Think positive, Kim piped in, believe in yourself!

What a dilemma. On the one hand, my natural antipathy to pain and exertion. The other, Kim challenging me to break boundaries. You can do it! she said.
And suddenly I was! Running like a hare.

You’re doing fantastic

I made it right through that interval segment. I even got half way through my next eight minute jog.

Remember to breath deeply, Kim said. By now I had stitch. Keep your form together, she added, as I slowed to a walk. This is no time to slack

But, here’s the thing thing about Kim. She didn’t scold me, not once. No matter how slowly I walked. Even when I came to a halt. She kept up her flow of positive words.

Bring it on, she said as I staggered up the driveway of Mum’s retirement village. Step it up, as I collapsed. You’ll feel the satisfaction of this tomorrow, she added, as I fumbled for button on my iPhone.

And Kim was right. I am still here in Aberfoyle Park. Focussed! Agile! and Pumped!

, Kim added, at around the four minute mark. Get into it!

A non-carer's guide to caring

2011-04-01T06:09:00.000-07:00

This week, I'm in Adelaide. Mum has her arm in plaster and I have been wheeled in to help. The role of carer doesn't sit well with me. Too much patience and constant attention involved. But I've been here three whole days and, so far, I haven't even begun to grit my teeth.

Yes, that's right. It is all smiles down here in Aberfoyle Park.

Okay, a few desperate moments when I couldn't find the password to mum's Wifi. But a quick SMS to my brother in Malawi got it sorted. Since then, I have cooked, scoured dishes, cleaned cupboards (Shh! Andrew doesn't know I can do this), shopped and driven to medical appointments.

Yep, that's right.

I am hailing myself a huge success.

Furthermore, as this looks like becoming a regular gig and I am getting so seriously good at it, I thought I'd publish the secrets to my success. A non-carer's guide in three easy lessons. My first hot tip is this:

Get an iPhone.

Yes, that's right, an iPhone. It really is the number one survival tool. Apart from the obvious like telephone, email, iPod, a camera, alarm clock, a calculator, maps, and a host of other astounding features, it also has Apps.

One of these has been particularly beneficical.

But, I won't go into that tonight. The details are profound and, frankly, too overwhelming.

Just think on the i word and smile as you wait for my next installment.

Happy Birthday Seth...

2011-03-27T01:42:00.000-07:00

Seth has many guises

Many disguises...

Some would even say

A box fetish

His singularity began at an early age

We tried normal activities

Sent him to the best school

And over the years we have had some success

But nothing permanent

Since he finished school

Things have gone from bad

To worse

And now he has found a partner in crime

We have given up trying

Like I said

We have given up trying

The die is cast ...

Happy twenty-first birthday Seth

We love you

Just the way you are ...

Strange interludes

2011-02-17T14:46:00.001-08:00

Tasmanians are friendly. They also colour code their bins. This has led to some strange interludes.

Are you intrigued?

Good. I will explain.

On Saturday, we went to Salamanca market. We were thrilled to learn that Hobart was also hosting the Australian Wooden Boat Festival, which meant music, food stalls, nautical exhibits, and acres of every size shape and variety of wooden vessel.

This was a lovely piece of synchronicity for me as I got to go on a tall ship, photographing its saloon, captain's cabin and steward's pantry, all of which will feature in the next draft of my novel. The day before, at Port Arthur, I had likewise spent a great deal of time sitting in the reproduced steerage compartment of a convict vessel, just getting the vibe.

This is called a writer's holiday, by the way. The mind never stops working.

But, back to the bins.

We had finished perusing the market, listened to the navy band, and wandered the wharf pointing out every manner of wooden craft, to find ourselves standing outside the folk music pavilion. I had just downed two sushi's and a bottle of cascade ginger beer, and begun to think about disposing of the bottle.

Turning to Andrew, I said: 'Do you remember what colour bin this bottle should go in?'

He wasn't there.

Only big beefy security guard, with a badge and a polar fleece vest.

'I'll put it in, 'he said, 'it goes in the yellow bin.

Okay, I thought. This is odd, but I may as well go with it. I handed the bottle over. The security guard lifted the heels of his Blundstone boots, his grey eyes searching the quay. I followed his gaze. It halted on the far side of the wharf. His smile faded.

'Perhaps, I'd better take it, after all?' I smiled, holding out my hand.

'Yeh, sorry.' He reddened.

Taking the bottle, I headed towards the bin.

'Excuse me!' It was a woman's voice this time. 'Excuse me!'

I turned back. The woman was rangy and thin like string bean. She smiled, her lipstick bright, and held out an empty coke bottle.

'Take this one too, please love. While you're at it.'

At this point my jaw fell open. Maybe I even stared. But I took the bottle anyway. I mean why not?
Tasmanian's are friendly - and, well, 'different,' in the nicest possible way. And when in Tassie, you must do as the Tasmanians do. Even if it does involve colour coded bins.

Three days in the wilderness ...

2011-02-10T01:10:00.001-08:00

Strahan was lovely. But it had no mobile phone coverage. This isn't the towns fault, by the way. It's all part of the big beautiful experience of having had all our utilities privatized. But, as it turned out, zero phone coverage was the least of my worries. We also had an unpowered site (another shortfall in our planning). School had gone back. There was no need to book ahead ... surely?

'A common mistake,' the caravan park lady said with a flick of her lips. 'But we have plenty of unpowered sites. Or ... you'd like to upgrade to a cabin?'

We took the unpowered site - and it was the right decision.

But, I have to admit, that first evening, as dusk flexed its chilly fingers, there were tears.

Maybe even a small tantrum.

Hey, it's pretty damn cold, in Strahan, and we didn't have a lantern, and I had only brought summer pyjamas. Besides, the battery on my iPhone was and showing a fiery red strip. How was I going to access my Weight Watchers point tracker? Or use my electronic workout trainer? (her name is Sandy, by the way). She speaks to me, Bluetooth, via my icom device, which also needs charging.

Daily.

Yes, that's right, icom. Hearing aids. A recognized disability. Do you feel sorry for me now? Books. Camera. Bible. Notes. I've had the iphone less than a month - and my whole life is on it.

Something had to be done. I wasn't going to take this lying down. Neither was I going to embrace-the-find-yourself-in-the-wilderness crap they were spinning. I'm a city girl. A librarian. I live in the twenty-first century, even if web 2.0 hasn't made it to World Heritage Tassie.

I would make a stand. Make every moment a recharge opportunity.

Over the next three days, I adopted the furtive behaviour of an addict. I took long showers (four power points in the women's bathroom). Did some extensive eyebrow plucking. Volunteered for extra dishes duty. Drank my morning coffee in the camp kitchen (six outlets if you unplug the TV) and, as for the men's toilets ...

No, of course, I didn't go in there!

But I did manage to keep my iPhone charged. It was a true feat of endurance - a pure wilderness experience.

And I even took pictures to prove it.

Spirit of Tasmania

2011-02-06T03:35:00.001-08:00

After lining up for the Spirit of Tasmania twice, we eventually boarded early on Sunday morning. After looking at the bay, all white capped and wavy, and heeding the captain's dire weather warning, we took two Travelcalms  and prepared for the worst.

It never occurred.

We ate. Read. Journaled, listened to music and chatted with very little inconvenience apart from the occasional jolt and shudder, and a vague bored sense of being stuck for nine hours in one place.

We were supposed to have cabins but because we stuffed up our bookings, we had to sit on deck. We chose a spot on level ten near the bar.  (yes, I have discovered Emoji).

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about our location except, I think it used to be a swimming pool. 

I know, it sounds ridiculous. Imagine people cavorting on deck ten of the Spirit Tasmania, as if they were on a Pacific pleasure cruise.

But you see, there were tiles.

And a round railed area that looked suspiciously like it might have been a spa.

And a suspiciously rectangular area at the centre of deck ten. No one actual ventured into this space (probably because they weren't wearing bathers) and besides, the air-conditioning was far too cold. But, one by one, throughout he day, people took turns sleeping poolside (myself included).

This is one of the best things about traveling in Australia. I see it all the time in caravan parks. People can leave cameras, phones and money, and equipment unguarded, without the security of lock or key, and nine times out of ten nothing gets pinched.

The only other remarkable feature of our day on the pool deck was an absence of power sockets.

People had to take turns charging their digital appliances. I tried to charge my iPhone but the power cord wasn't long enough. I had to balance it, cord twisted about the handrail, hoping it didn't lurch skittering onto the floor.

In the end a man took pity on me and plugged my phone into the USB port of his laptop. 

Andrew says I am a little obsessed with my new iphone (actually he left the word little out). He says I have issues. Clearly, this is not the case. But, if I do have a digital dependence problem, I am not alone.

On the Spirit of Tasmania, the power sockets were in use all day.

Crossing Zones

2011-01-16T19:53:00.000-08:00

I am a suburban girl, from the border of zone two and what used to be zone three - a Melways of cut grass, sixties cream brick veneer and double door lock up garages. I need an excuse to cross zones, occasionally. To jump of my roundabout of washing, shopping and suburban home maintenance.

Fortunately, I am a mother and one of my kids has recently moved inner-city. Having made the decision not to expect the kids to 'always come to us,' this gives Andrew and I an excuse to cross over some times.

Yesterday, this involved brunch on Acland Street with Phoebe and her husband, Andy. Afterwards, when they left for work and family commitments, we could have simply driven back to the burbs. But the sun was shining, and there were buskers hucksters and jugglers all around us, not to mention the palm trees whispering in our ears.

We decided to stick around.

To walk in the community garden.

To peruse the market (Andrew bought a Marek Wilinski print and I bought a hat). To buy drinks. To sit on the lawn wriggling our toes in the sun, to read the quotes on the pavements, and pretended we were inner-city yuppies for a while.

Eventually, it was time to come home. The streets widened, as if by magic, the houses swelled, the pavements emptied of all but the ordinary, as Ventura buses wound their way past tidy suburban homes, once more.

We were almost there.

Only one thing necessary to make our transition complete.

A trip to Bunnings. That's right Bunnings!

Well big deal! Why am I telling you this? An afternoon in St Kilda is hardly earth shattering. Neither is a trip to Bunnings, even if I was the only person wearing a red and black cloth cap with a silver plume.

Okay, I'll level with you.

Tell you the whole truth.

This post is just an excuse - an opportunity to try out the camera and Blogger+ app on my new iPhone. :-)

2011-01-16T19:07:00.001-08:00

Corbett family Christmas letter

2010-12-21T20:58:00.000-08:00

Perusing Liz’s diary, I found December entries for shopping trips, baking days, Christmas drinks and staff dinners. But nothing to suggest a letter was in the offing. ‘Liz,’ I said. ‘Have you forgotten something?’

‘No, Biskit. Everything’s in hand.’

‘Something involving writing?’ I nudged her hand. ‘And postage stamps?’

She looked away, avoiding my doggy brown gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Alright,’ Liz said. ‘If you want the truth. I started wearing glasses this year. Got hearing aids. My novel was rejected. And to top it all off, my sixteen year old daughter has just left home. A bit hard to put in print don’t you think?’

‘All the same,’ I persisted. ‘your friends like to hear from you.’

‘No, Biskit. It’s too hard, this year.’

I sighed, a big deep doggy sigh that went right to the tip of my tail. ‘Alright, I’ll have to do it.’

Having to do the Christmas letter didn’t come as a complete surprise. In fact, I had been itching to try my paws at bit of corporate writing, for some time. Emailing people, as Liz does. Following up with a probing phone interview. It seemed the perfect approach for a Christmas letter and a way to hone my journalistic skills.

I made up a list of questions and showed them to Liz.

1. Name one thing Biskit did in 2010, that made you think: Wow!
2. One instance in which you could have given Biskit more attention.
3. Describe something special you and Biskit have planned for 2011.

‘Hmm …’ she studied them in silence.

‘Well,’ I snuffled her hand. ‘What do you think?’

‘They may need tweaking.’

Tweaking! That is code word for a complete re-write. I have seen Liz go through this process a number of times. Can you be more specific?’ I asked. ‘Constructive?’

‘The themes are good she said. ‘A positive. Some regrets. Then looking forward. But … it’s not all about you Biskit.’

Not about me! Her words were a blow to the stomach. My ears drooped. My tail curled between my legs. I felt sick. After all this time? Didn’t Liz realise? I’m the faithful hound. Man’s best friend. Heart of the family. It is always about me!

Still, I had to be professional. Get the letter done. How many times had I seen Liz felled by a critique? How many times had I tiptoed round the house, thinking: This is it. This time we’ll have to have her committed. Then watched her recover and re-draft the piece. It would be the same for me, I decided. This was all part of the writing process.

I lay on the heating duct, licked my paws, chewed an old bone for a while and, sure enough, I came up with a revised list of questions. It was time to begin.

Wow! Moments for 2010
Ness completed her Certificate 3&4 in Personal Training this year. Seth got himself a job at the Rivoli Cinemas, Camberwell. He is also working as a Myer Christmas casual (don’t ask him about their carol CD). Priya, is still thinks wow! about last year’s big event ‒ Phoebe and Andy’s wedding. Liz went on a Silent Retreat (and hasn’t stopped talking about it since). Andrew’s duo, ‘INSIDEOUT,’ did an intimate community gig at Cheeky Latte Café. Monique enjoyed her home stay with a family in Vietnam. And Phoebe liked hiking in Tasmania. But Jack couldn’t decide on his ultimate wow moment:

“Seeing the Taj from space …actually, that didn’t happen. Um… the look on Kevin’s face as he got knifed in the back – priceless. Dunno… haven’t’ really drawn breath this year so its hard to say… maybe wow! It’s Christmas already.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this waffling response ( Liz says it is typical of academic writing). One thing is clear — Canberra certainly does affect people.

Our final wow! moment comes from Andy McCann. He, Phoebe and their friend Brett, went to the Grampians for a long weekend. A group of kangaroos arrived at the caravan park to feed on the lush grass. One of them was an extremely excited male roo. While the tourists all took photos (of the group, not the male) one mother squatted beside her pre-schooler, pointed to the roo and said:

‘Look darling, there’s a Joey.’

Wow! Andy and Brett exchanged looks of amazement.

Things we would have done differently

Jack and Ness agreed on this one. Go on a proper holiday. Not just a series of long weekends. Seth would have realised rich and famous people live in Camberwell. He certainly wouldn’t have said those terrible things about Peter Costello (our former Treasurer), especially not to his daughter, who just happens to work there.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ He said, in self- defence. ‘I live in Vermont.’

Andrew couldn’t think of anything he would do differently. Neither could Monique. This is what I call a sly dog moment ‒ an invitation to journalistic license. Andrew in fact, wished he’d learned to appreciate Biskit more. And Monique regrets spending so little time with him. At least, that’s what it says in my notes. Then again … you can’t believe everything you see in print.

Phoebe wished she hadn’t spent so long procrastinating over these questions. In fact, she could probably say the same of every essay she has written this year. Liz would have made the decision to axe the first five chapters of her novel much sooner. She looks forward to finishing it in 2011.

Things 2011 might hold

Phoebe and Andy will enjoy a late honeymoon in Africa. Andy looks forward to standing on top of Mt Kilimanjaro, whereas Phoebe wants to lay on the beach. Jack and Ness have a perfect alignment of aspirations — to get away from Canberra. Fortunately, this is achievable, as Ness has a four month CHOGM assignment in Perth.

After Seth’s great start at the Rivoli Cinemas, he is considering a change of employment in 2011. While Monique looks forward to recovering from her knee operation, playing in the Physio and Boyfriends mixed netball team, and finishing her degree. Priya looks forward to starting TAFE and living her new ‘independent’ life. But Andrew Corbett wants only one thing — peace in our home.

Well friends, a family dog has many responsibilities. It’s not all wags and bones, I can tell you – and this has been a difficult year. As it draws to a close, there are gaps in the family. A great deal of hurt. But Liz wanted me to tell you, God is good, and they are coping. We trust that it is the same for you. As you reflect on the year past, and look forward to the one ahead, we trust you will have peace in your heart ‒ and in your homes too.

Love Biskit ‒ on behalf of the Corbett family

Revising my Script

2010-11-30T18:13:00.001-08:00

Last week I found out I need hearing aids. My family find this somewhat amusing. You see, my mum has hearing aids but she never wears them. Anyone who knows me, will have seen me foam at the mouth when talking about this annoying maternal trait.

Those who enjoy a more intimate acquaintance with me, will know Mum also has titanium hips. That she is not walking so well since the second operation. Her walking stick has recently been replaced by a shiny black aluminium frame. If you've had the good fortune to sit opposite me at a dinner party, you'll have heard me, glass of red in hand, saying:

She's only got herself to blame. She didn't do the exercises after her operation — and this is the end result.'

My very best friends will also know that Mum doesn't come to Melbourne anymore. She says my spare bed isn't comfortable enough.

'You can feel all the springs,' she said. 'And the boards beneath.'

Of course, this is both hurtful and embarrassing (you've heard the spiel), to have such a fussy mother. Who does she think she is, anyway? The Princess and the Pea!

These past weeks, however, I have found my self-assurance unravelling. My speeches distorting like an old cassette-tape disappearing into the workings of an out-moded machine.

It started with a visit from Canberra.

Seth's girlfriend Monique was turning twenty-one and, although he doesn't like to talk about it, Andy McCann was about to hit the big three zero. Jack and Ness decided they didn't want to miss out on the party fun. The bed was already set up. No flies on our backs. We have a spare room since Phoebe married, with a good mattress, despite Mum's princess propensities. We made up a second bed on the floor and anticipated a fantastic weekend.

I had no idea a mushroom cloud was looming.

But anyone who knows my daughter-in-law, will know she is direct. After one night on that spare bed she hit us with the truth.

'You need a new bed. That mattress is crap. You can feel the springs. And the boards beneath.'

Well! What could I say? Ness is tough. She has absolutely no princess delusions. If she says my mattress is crap, it must be. No point arguing. We'd have to get a new one, but darned if I was going to tell Mum straight off.

Unfortunately, the Karma Police weren't finished with me.

Mum has been pretty sick this year, with pneumonia and an infection in the lining of her lungs. She's had two extended stays in hospital and, although I've been trying to keep up with the hospital visits, my brother Ian decided it was time to take a turn on the carer's front. He flew home for ten days. We were chatting on the phone one evening, shortly after Mum had been discharged from hospital, when he said:

'Mum had a letter today, Liz. About her hip.'

'Yes?' I said, wondering what this had to do with me.

'Apparently the second hip's faulty. There's been a product recall.'

Silence.

'You there, Liz?'

Oh yes, I was there. I'd been haranguing Mum since that second operation. Urging, begging, coaxing and cajoling her to do the exercises. Go for a walk. Get motivated. Ignoring her quavery old lady excuses.

'Something's wrong, Liz. It's just not working.'

Now I knew why.

As if'd been hit on the head with a brick.

They say things come in threes. I should have feared the worst. But I'd had hearings tests before. This was in fact the third one in ten years. I knew what to expect.

'A degree of hearing loss, Mrs Corbett, but not enough to require intervention.'

Nevertheless, I didn't take the outcome for granted. I closed my eyes in that little carpeted testing room and concentrated really hard. I picked up every sound. Answered every question. At the end of the session, I looked up smiling.

'You need hearing aids,' the audiologist said.

'But ...,' my smile faltered. 'I heard all the sounds.'

'Yes,' she said. 'But I had to turn the machine up really
loud.'

Of course, the family think it's hilarious. A perfect twist of fate. On Skype, Jack and Ness could hardly contain their mirth.

'Pardon?' They said. 'What's that? We can't hear you.'

'Hey!' I said. 'Don't make fun of me, I'm now officially hearing impaired.'

'You'll have to wear them,' Jack said, grinning. 'No excuses. Even if they're uncomfortable.'

'Alright,' I said, face glum in the little Skype pane. 'You don't have to lecture me.'

It was time to ring Mum. She already knew about the bed. Someone had squeaked. She had ceased gloating about her hips, telling all and sundry it wasn't her fault. But this was something else. It was going to make her day.

'Hey Mum,' I said. 'Guess what. I have to get hearing aids.'

'Pardon dear? You'll have to speak up?'

'Hearing aids!'

'Yes, sorry. I haven't got them in.'

'No, Mum. Listen! It's me. I'm getting them.'

A pause.

'You, Elizabeth?'

'Yes, Mum, me.'

'Hearing aids?'

'I'm getting old. I'll need a walking frame soon.'

Another pause. Followed by a chuckle on the end of the line.

'Don't be silly, dear. You'll get a walking stick first.'

That's the other part of my speech. The bit I always leave out. Mum mightn't be able to walk very well, and she certainly can't hear, but her sense of humour is top notch.

Only a Small Peek

2010-10-18T21:22:00.001-07:00

Here's the thing about me – I cheat. Not on significant things, like taxes, tithes or library reservation lists. But I lick the spoon after I bake a cake (though I am supposed to be losing weight), I look up the answers in the back of my Welsh book, and sometimes, despite my best intentions, I contradict what I have said on my blog. I wouldn't normally admit this. Only this week I have to – because I got caught.

I had dinner earlier this week with a newly married couple – let's call them Sophie and Tony (this is a clever ploy to protect the identity of persons concerned). Tony has a significant birthday approaching and Sophie had purchased him a gift online. We had finished main course (actually the only course) and were onto the Lindt chocolate when Tony said: 'My camera lens arrived to today.'

'That's quick,' Sophie replied, looking up. 'I hope you didn't open it?'

'Just s peek. To check it wasn't broken.'

'Tony! I told you not to look.'

'I didn't take it out. Or put it on my camera. So, it doesn't count.'

'You're hopeless,' Sophie shook her head.

I felt pretty smug at this stage. I mean I haven't peeked at a present since I was eight years old. Even then, I didn't mean to find the present. But it was a walking doll and mum had hidden it under my bed. It took all the surprise out of Christmas. I can safely say I haven't been tempted to peek at a present since. But I do cheat on other things and I was out of luck because, at that point, Tony needed a change of subject.

'What are you reading?' he pointed at the papers piled up on the arm of my chair.

'Oh, just some maps I copied from the State Library.'

'Old maps?'

'Yes, of Covent Garden,' I felt my face reddening. 'One's from the Regency Period. The other is late Victorian. I am trying to work out what the area looked like in 1841.'

'What for?' My husband (let's call him Joe) butted in.

'Well actually,' I swallowed it's for my novel.' Silence. I hurried on. 'It's just I did some TROVE searches and I found out the library had these old maps. And then I realised the Survey of London was online and a book called Old and New London. And I just started reading … I'm still having a break,' I added. 'I'm not writing or anything. Only thinking …

I looked away. Joe didn't say anything. Or Sophie. But I saw Tony smile because he knew that like him I'd been caught.

But, here's the thing about me. I love research. To sit poring over old maps trying to work out what a street looked like on a given date. To wonder how people lived in that room, in that house, or in that street. To read, and read, and read some more until I begin to see. Only a small picture, at first. But expanding like heat on a misted wind-screen. That is the way it works for me. It's heady. Like silver. Or nitrate. Or adrenaline. But is it cheating? The look on Joe's face told me it probably was. But really? I can't agree. It's not tithes or taxes, for goodness sake. I'm not diddling a library reservation list. And I certainly haven't un-wrapped my birthday gift. I'm just peeking – yes, that's it, like Tony. I'm having a quick glance in the drawer.

Drawer Therapy

2010-09-25T05:35:00.000-07:00

Winning a writing competition is scary. And if the winning story happens to be the first short story you have ever written (apart from a rather dubious effort in year nine), then it will is much worse. The first thing you think after, oh, gee, wow, I can't believe it, that's marvellous, is: now I have to write another story - and keep winning.

The trouble is stories (short or long) don't start out as winners. They come out as crappy half-baked words all written around the pin prick of an idea. Infact, they are so elusive that when you workshop them for the first time your writing group sit, eyes round, faces slack, until someone finally has the courage to mouth the fatal words: But ... I don't get it?

At this point you seriously consider changing writing groups. I mean, all that subtlety wasted. All those metaphors unappreciated. The times you have said nice things about their rather ordinary efforts ... But you don't got to a workshop for praise. As masochistic as it may sound, you go there to pull the story apart. Layer by layer, like an onion; to analyse what is working, and what is not. To be grilled, questioned and challenged, until you know exactly what the narrative is about.

If you are a clear sighted sort of person, clarity will come early in the process. If you are me, you will fumble about as if in a fog. You will sit up late drawing mind-maps. Jiggle things about and make minor changes. Treat favourite parts as if they were indelible. Foist the narrative on another, more discerning, writing group (yes, it is necesarry to have two). Worry it over and over. Test it out on your long-suffering family until, at last, you give up and shove the whole damned thing in a drawer.

The word drawer in this context, is a metaphor. Not a wooden box slides on runners into a dark space. It means stepping back. Getting on with something else for a while. Letting your subconscious do the work. This is called Drawer Therapy, by the way. It is an essential part of the writing process.

But does this therapy actually work? Or is it merely a soft option? A way of giving up by degrees? Well, I don't know (not truly, deeply irrevocably). But at Easter, I wrote a short story. I re-drafted it a number of times. I sensed it needed to start differently. But I couldn't see how to make the changes. After a few months in the drawer, I began to get an inkling. It was time to re-visit the story.

I spent a day faffing about with the start. Then it dawned on me, my character motivations were all wrong. Scrambled infact. They were diluting the story's final impact. Yes, of course. Why didn't I see that before? Once, I had the motivations worked out, I started re-arranging the time sequence. I then added a whole new scene. Finally, it was starting to make sense.

So, is the story finished now? Is it stronger? A winning story? When will I send it off? I don't know the answer to those questions. Writing is a complex, mysterious process. But I certainly didn't have solutions before I put the story in the drawer. So the therapy must have worked.

Helpdesk eng sub.

2010-09-25T00:04:00.000-07:00

Words

2010-09-17T21:42:00.001-07:00

The greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading in order to write. A man will turn over half a library to make a book.
Quotation of Samuel Johnson

I find this quote rather encouraging as I am currently in a non-word producing phase of writing my novel. In short, it is in the drawer. I am told this is what one must do when they reach a stalemate. When they have tried re-writing the same scene a dozen times, have sat staring blankly at the screen for hours on end, when they have risen to sit, head in hands, tears coursing down their cheeks, for too many mornings in a row.

I have an image in my mind of my father, sitting thus (although, without the tears). His creased brow resting in a pair of big warm hands, his navy flannel pyjamas all wrinkled with sleep. It was his morning posture. And now it is mine. An, oh my God, how am I going to face the day sort of pose. What am I going to do without my novel – the project that has consumed me body and soul for the last six years? Will I ever get back to it? What if I don't? Will my characters ever leave me alone?

I don't know the answer to those questions. For now they are in the drawer. But I am reading, more than I am writing. I am thinking, sleeping, laughing, praying and trusting – yearning for a still small voice. I am confident – at least, I think I am – that in time a pattern will emerge.

Bread Run

2010-07-08T17:46:00.001-07:00

Last night we had Bread Run and, just between you and me, I have always struggled with Bread Run. I mean, who'd want to go out on a winter's evening, bag up bread and drive round the neighbourhood delivering it to people?

I don't know why I find it so difficult. I mean, it doesn't take long, and we often had coffee afterwards, and these days Andrew and I can generally do the navigating without having to serve a divorce notice. But for some reason, Bread Run brings out the multiple personalities in me.

Yes, that's right, my name is Legion. But not to worry, this week I sent those bad gals into a herd of pigs.

Here is how the process worked itself out in me.

The first person I had to confront was Lizzie Liar: an I-don't-feel-well-tonight, perhaps-I-won't-come,' kind of gal. She was quite convincing. But, her lies didn't wash in the end, because, even though she was adept in the art of twisting the truth, she couldn't help bitchin' about Bread Run for days beforehand, and I was onto her.

Number two was Lizzie Light Fingers. The moment she entered the church kitchen and saw the mountain of bakery items on the bench, her eyes lit up. I mean it wasn't just white block loaves, but pull-aparts, and coffee scrolls and jam doughnuts, and cinnamon buns and scones and pizza breads and cheesymite rolls. And even though she'd already had dinner, Light Finger's mouth started to water, and she just wanted to try one or two scones … or slip one of those doughnuts in her bag.

In fact, if I hadn't kept an eye out, Light Fingers would have squatted down behind the counter and just start stuffing those bakery items into her mouth.

The third, and by far the more sinister, persona was the Lizzie Legalist. As she drove up to houses, knocked on doors and handed over bread, she found herself trying to work out why these people even needed Bread Run. I mean some of the houses were big, bigger than hers, and the lawns were mowed, and the cars in the driveway were pretty spiffy, and she always thought, hey, who's helping who here?

That is when Look Again Lizzie had to step in. She reminded Lizzie
Legalist that looks can be deceiving. She told her someone in that house might be sick, or recently bereaved or suffering from more personalities than she. That it might not even be their house, they might be house-sitting. That we can never judge, ever. Never tell how long or dark someone's road is or what might lie around the bend.

This shut the Legalist down completely. But then, Lizzie Logistics weighed in. She said, think about it: six people, three cars, time, petrol, risk, all for twenty dollars worth of bread.

I mean, how sustainable is this process?

Actually, I thought Logistics had a point, if you forgot about that long dark road.

But you can't forget that highway, not for a minute, because, let's face it we are all on a journey. At different stages in our lives that road may be rocky, lonesome, smooth, downhill or twisted. The only thing keeping us going might be the little brightly coloured stones we find along the way. And that's when it hit me. Bread Run is not about the bread (or the scones), the time, logistics or the legalities, it is about – dropping stones.

About putting something bright down on a dark path, and somehow lightening the load.

A shopping centre snap of my new specs ...

2010-07-08T04:11:00.000-07:00

Old age here she comes!

Before I got glasses, I thought my Nutrimetics anti-age ultra firming foundation was doing a good job. I thought I was keeping up with the grey in my hair too. That the house was clean and freshly painted.

That new kitchen we installed twenty years ago was holding up just fine.

I was wrong.

Goal Setting ...

2010-06-24T03:06:00.000-07:00

I am in Tassie. My first ever trip to the Apple Isle. It looks gorgeous, but I haven't come for sightseeing.

I am here on a writing retreat - along with Denis, Lloyd and Mel.

Tonight, we are setting goals. But first, odd things I have learned about my writing mates on day one.

Denis has a pink camera. Okay, not such a surprise.

He also a snuggle blanket. It's brown and he looks like Obi-wan-kinobi.

It's a little scary.

Lloyd eats Heinz frozen peas and corn for snack. Hmmm... and he is denying himself internet access in pursuit of a higher artistic calling.

Mel has an extremely cool tattoo on her back - no I mean her whole back - she is a girl with a dragon tattoo.

I am jealous - but, don't worry. My nose ring is enough.

Okay, now for the goals.

Denis:

I need to do at least five scenes - each two thousand words. So, that's five days of writing.

Lloyd:

two twenty four page comic strips and settle on all the character's names, backgrounds and an outline for where it is going (the latter is the easy part, apparently).

Mel:

first child free week in ... actually, she can't remember, but maybe eight years. She is working on a short story, the whole rule of thirteen (to have thirteen pieces out in the market at any given time), and a feature outline for screen writing.

Liz:

I have reached a crisis point. Do I try to edit little bits and produce a patched together attempt at a novel, or take it on the chin and go for broke - like completely re-write the damn thing. I have passed the nervous breakdown stage and now I am trying to really, really brave.

This is no picnic folks - it is a writing week.

Standing Tall

2010-06-15T01:18:00.001-07:00

Thursday afternoon, you fly to Adelaide to visit your mum and, even though you have been told she's not managing so well, it's a shock. Her hair has cob-webbed in the five months since Christmas. Her shoulders hunched. She has driven to the airport to pick you up. But she is so exhausted by the effort that she can't rise to greet you. It takes twenty minutes to walk the two hundred metres back to her car. In that time, you hear she has fallen again last night. You reckon that to be about the tenth time.

Back at her unit, things aren't good – dishes in the sink, clothes about the floor, the washing machine door wrenched from its hinges in last night's fall. You think of all those times over the past six years, that you've seen the signs of this decline. All the times you've badgered, pleaded, coaxed and cajoled.

'Wear your hearing aids Mum. Please try.'

'Go for a short walk each day. Mum, can you hear me? It's use it or lose it, you know that.'

'Don't pretend. I know you're not exercising. I can see the evidence with my own eyes.'

On Friday, you go with her to the Falling Clinic. The physio is kind, softly spoken and very young. He is concerned about last night's fall. He hasn't been a physio long, you can tell by his shock. He glances from you, to Mum, and back again when he realises the home exercise programme does not exist. But he is learning fast, this young man. He sets some simple goals. Two exercises – five repeats each, and a walk to the letter box. On the way home, your Mum says she is worried it will be too much.

Saturday you walk to the letter box, it takes time, but your mum makes it there and back. Very slowly, and so terribly afraid she might fall. But that's her limit. In the afternoon, she curls up in the chair for a nap. You watch her lined face soften. Her body balled up and old in the green recliner chair. You wonder where she's gone, that woman who used to be nine feet tall. The one who coped after you emigrated, though her husband failed to adjust. The mum who stood up to bullies and nasty teachers and then turned around and insisted you always be polite. The one who came to Melbourne, time and again, when your own children were little, who sent you money and flowers, just to buck you up.

And as you sit there watching, you realise finally, definitely and irrevocably, that woman is gone. No amount of haranguing will ever bring her back. No amount of try a little bit harder please Mum, will ever be enough. And in that moment with the rise and fall of her breath filling the darkened room, you accept the final stage. And in a fish flip, your anger is gone. There will be no more pushing up hill. No more gravity defying determination. No impassioned arguments. She has tried very hard, for a very long time and now she has simply run out of puff.

So, you go to the sports store and buy the weights the physio has recommended. Knowing that, like the hearing aids, they will never be used. That she will never again engage you in conversation or walk easily across a room. You navigate the unfamiliar shopping mall, the weights heavy in your hands, thinking of agencies you must call, extra burdens you must manage, phone calls you must dread, and in that busy, noisy shuffling crowd, you realise you have become the strong one, and your mother is now the child.

Standing Tall

2010-06-13T01:24:00.001-07:00

Thursday afternoon, you fly interstate to visit your mum and, even though you have been told she's not managing so well, it's a shock. Her hair has cob-webbed in the five months since Christmas. Her shoulders hunched. She has driven to the airport to pick you up. But she is so exhausted by the effort that she can't rise to greet you. It takes twenty minutes to walk the two hundred metres back to her car. In that time, you hear she has fallen again last night. You reckon that to be about the tenth time.
Back at her unit, things aren't good – dishes in the sink, clothes about the floor, the washing machine door wrenched from its hinges in last night's fall. You think of all those times over the past six years, that you've seen the signs of this decline. All the times you've badgered, pleaded, coaxed and cajoled.
'Wear your hearing aids Mum. Please try.'
'Go for a short walk each day. Mum, can you hear me? It's use it or lose it, you know that.'
'Don't pretend. I know you're not exercising. I can see the evidence with my own eyes.'
On Friday, you go with her to the Falling Clinic. The physio is kind, softly spoken and very young. He is concerned about last night's fall. He hasn't been a physio long, you can tell by his shock. He glances from you, to Mum, and back again when he realises the home exercise programme does not exist. But he is learning fast, this young man. He sets some simple goals. Two exercises – five repeats each, and a walk to the letter box. On the way home, your Mum says she is worried it will be too much.
Saturday you walk to the letter box, it takes time, but your mum makes it there and back. Very slowly, and so terribly afraid she might fall. But that's her limit. In the afternoon, she curls up in the chair for a nap. You watch her lined face soften. Her body balled up and old in the green recliner chair. You wonder where she's gone, that woman who used to be nine feet tall. The one who coped after you emigrated, though her husband failed to adjust. The mum who stood up to bullies and nasty teachers and then turned around and insisted you always be polite. The one who came to Melbourne, time and again, when your own children were little, who sent you money and flowers, just to buck you up.
And as you sit there watching, you realise finally, definitely and irrevocably, that woman is gone. No amount of haranguing will ever bring her back. No amount of try a little bit harder please Mum, will ever be enough. And in that moment with the rise and fall of her breath filling the darkened room, you accept the final stage. And in a fish flip, your anger is gone. There will be no more pushing up hill. No more gravity defying determination. No impassioned arguments. She has tried hard, for a very long time and now she has simply run out of puff.
So, you go to the sports store and buy the weights the physio has recommended. Knowing that, like the hearing aids, they will never be used. That she will never again engage you in conversation or walk easily across a room. You navigate the unfamiliar shopping mall, the weights heavy in your hands, thinking of agencies you must call, extra burdens you must manage, phone calls you must dread, and in that busy, noisy shuffling crowd, you realise you have become the strong one, and your mother is now the child.

Kettles and Things

2010-05-20T03:34:00.001-07:00

Some incidents in your life come out of the blue. They can be small, barely noteworthy. But your reaction is significant. With me it was the kettle. A shiny new aluminium kettle, that became a mirror to my soul. But, I am getting ahead of myself. Here's how the story begins.

'Mum,' the power's gone,' Seth yelled from the kitchen.

'That's no good,' I called back.

'The lights and the fridge.' His feet came pounding the hallway. 'Your room's dark too.'

I looked up. 'Oh dear, so it is.'

'What about your laptop?'

Sure enough, my computer had flicked over to battery. I had an hour max and a new short story forming.

'Damn,' I said. 'We'll have to check the fuse box.'

The white wooden door opened with a click. Sure enough one of the little switches had stepped out of line. Seth flicked the switch. But the little red fellow jumped back up again. Next, I tried. But that switch was a stubborn little cuss. Every time I flicked, he gave me the bird and poked his tongue out at me.

I looked at Seth. He shrugged. 'We could try some of the other switches?'

'No,' I said, stepping in front of the fuse box. 'Don't touch anything!'

'Come on, Mum. We have to try.'

'It's your fault,' I said, eyes narrowed. 'What have you done to my electricity?'

'Nothing,' he spread his hands wide. 'All I did was switch on the kettle.'

'The kettle?'

'Yup.'

'Then go and unplug it, son.'

I would like to say that was the end of the incident. But here is where the soul comes in. You see, once we'd chucked that kettle in the bin, I started dreaming of a new kettle. Not a white, plastic kettle. Something homely and rustic, like a whistling kettle. A ye-olde-kettle-on-the-hob sort of experience.

Yes, a whistling kettle, I found myself enchanted by the notion.

It would be shiny as a five cent piece with a little black knob on the top and an old fashioned steam whistle that called us merrily to tea. I would cook Welsh cakes and muffins. Hearty casseroles and soups would bubble on the stove. There would be no publishers rejecting my manuscript, no advanced novel tutors telling me hard home truths, no failing to make the Bristol Long List. Things would be simple, old fashioned, the way they were meant to be.

A few days later, I bought the kettle.

Sadly, before I even stepped in the door, doubts began to creep in. What if I set it boiling, then remembered I had an appointment? What if I shot out the door without thinking? What if no one heard my little tin kettle shrieking?

No! We were entering a new phase. Only calm and order lay before me. I wouldn't get caught up in a new short story. Forget I had a family. Spend evenings scribbling in notebooks, or fulfilling corporate writing contracts. I would be a new, in-the-moment, earth mother, Liz.

Unpacking the box, I set my kettle on the stove and gathered the family. Okay, so we'd run out of tea because I hadn't done the grocery shopping and Andrew was sick. But instant coffee would be fine and there were a few stale biscuits in the packet. Besides, once we heard trill of my new kettle, life would take on a Brambly Hedge sort of glow.

Now, here's the thing about whistling kettles. They don't switch off automatically. Nor do they do the fast boil thing.

We sat with our empty mugs — waiting.

'How much longer?' Seth said. 'I have an assignment to finish.'

'Boring,' Priya said. 'Call me when it's ready.'

'I need a Lemsip,' Andrew said. 'My throat is killing me'

'Maybe I put too much water in,' I said, glancing at the clock.

'It's been five minutes,' Andrew said. 'But who's counting.'

Then it happened. A long white spume rose from the kettle's spout. Only, it didn't make the homely, comforting sound I had anticipated.

It blared: like a fog-horn!

'Help,' Andrew dived for cover 'The Luftwaffe is coming.'

I dashed to the kitchen, hands shaking, and lifted the kettle from the flame — silence, an even-the-past-isn't-safe kind of feeling, as one by one, family members grabbed coffee cups and headed back to assignments, chat rooms, and sick beds.

I emptied the kettle, and slunk back to my study.

A few days later, Andrew purchased a new fast boil kettle that switches off quietly.

There are no Welsh cakes on the bake stone. No hearty casseroles in the oven. All Brambly Hedge delusions have vanished. We are a modern family. But I have finished another feature article. My latest short story is ready for submission and I've been offered a new position at the library. Soon the re-draft of my novel will begin.

Meanwhile, I have gained a new sense of persepctive, and at the back of the cupboard, we have a shiny new kettle for use in electrical emergencies.

A favoured quote ...

2010-04-24T21:45:00.000-07:00

This quote hangs above my desk. Call it an affirmation, if you like, a kind of new millenium creed.

'I still believe in the power of the priesthood, where sinful men are helped by sinful men. I believe in an authority that stoops to wash a poor man's feet. I believe in a banquet where sinners learn to love, eating in the company of their God. I believe in parents who teach their children the beauty that is life. I believe in words that God has left for man, words that can fashion hope from darkness and turn bitter loneliness into love. And I believe in man fashioned in mystery by God. I believe in the beauty of his mind, the force of his emotions, the fire and loyalty of his love. I know his weakness, his cowardice, his treachery, his hate. But I believe in him and his thirst for acceptance and love.

'Most of all I believe in God and the power of his victory in Christ. I believe in a Resurrection that rescued man from death. I believe in an Easter that opened man to hope. I believe in a joy that no threat of man can take away. I believe in a peace that I know in fleeting moments and seek with boldness born of God. I believe in a life that lingers after this, a life that God has fashioned for His friends.

'I believe in understanding, in forgiveness, in mercy, in faith. I believe in man's love for woman, and hers for him, and in the fervour of this exchange, I hear the voice of God. I believe in friendhsip and its power to turn selfishness to love. I believe in eternity and the hope that it affords.'

Father James Kavanagh
A Modern Priest Looks at his Outdated Church

Books, covers, and the bodies we live in.

2010-03-15T00:32:00.000-07:00

You can’t judge a book by its cover. Neither can you judge a person by the materials they read. Just because a man comes to the library and borrows a book called, Sex Positions for Over Forty, doesn’t mean he has celebrated a recent birthday or that he's grown tired of being a missionary.

On the contrary, he might be borrowing it for a friend, who is doing a nude painting class. The friend might be in a wheelchair and unable to come to the library. Or maybe he’s always wanted to borrow that book, but has been too embarrassed, because he’s actually in it. Or maybe he’s doing it for a dare, one of those pre-buck’s night things.

You don’t know. You really don’t, appearances are deceiving.

This was brought home to me on a recent beach holiday. I took a pile of books, as is my custom and after joyously and obsessively revelling in the sumptuous detail of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, I needed a breather. I pulled a non-fiction book from my bag. I sat by a lovely inlet, in my little Port Fairy chair, reading and taking notes, when Andrew turned to me, face white, his lips trembling.

‘Liz? Is there something you haven’t told me?’

‘No,’ I turned, staring at him blankly.

‘But … your book?’

I turned the book over. It had a bright pink cover a library barcode and the title: Your Guide to Bowel Cancer.

‘Oh,' I said understanding. ‘It’s not for me. I’m writing a short story from the perspective of someone with bowel cancer.’

‘But no one knows,’ he said. ‘They’re all walking past, looking at you thinking, poor woman, someone in her family has cancer. Maybe even that woman has cancer? The poor brave thing.’

Well, he had a point. I could see how my reading choice might be misleading. But we should never judge a book by its cover. Nor a reader by the book they are reading. Further to that, I would like to add, we should never judge a person, by their outward appearance.

I learned this most recently at the library. We have a customer who, for this blog, I shall call The Wharfie. I will describe him as wearing a blue wife-beater and a navy flannel work shirt. He isn’t really called The Wharfie. Neither does he look like one. But please bear with me, I can't breach confidentiality. But I must characterise, for the purposes of telling.

The Wharfie comes to the library regularly. But if he ever worked on a wharf, I’d be extremely surprised. He is slight, scrawny even. His face ravaged by alcohol, tobacco and the passage of years. These are not assumptions, I can smell the tobacco. I know he slips out of the library doors, periodically, for a drink. What life has dealt him, I can hardly imagine. But I suspect it hasn’t been easy for The Wharfie.

One of the best parts of my job is serving folks like the Wharfie. Don’t ask me why, but I get a kind of warmth from it. I like knowing there is a cosy well lit place in the world where anyone can come, no matter how badly life has treated them. That they can spend all day there (and trust me plenty do), and so long as they don’t abuse the staff, or throw chairs, they can borrow DVD’s, or books, or simply read newspapers and magazines.

As a Christian, I sometimes wonder why our churches aren't more like this.

The other day, The Wharfie, came to the information desk, and thrust a scrap of paper at me. On it were written three medical looking phrases.

‘Doctor says I have to take these,’ he said. ‘I want to know what they’re gonna do to me.’

Well, it was a fair request. Although, I suspected prescribed drugs were the least of The Wharfie’s worries. But it wasn’t my place to speculate, merely to find the information. Unfortunately, it was also one of those afternoons when everyone wanted to join the library. Added to which, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing and now school was out. There were kids everywhere. I had a line like a giraffe’s neck arching from my desk.

‘I can look it up,’ I said. ‘But it might take time. Have you got a minute?’

‘No worries, The Wharfie said.

When he came back later, I had the MIMS open on my desk, but I hadn’t had a chance to look for his drugs.

‘I’m not busy,’ he said. ‘I’ll read something else, for a while.’

By the time he returned, I’d found the drugs in the MIMS. All I had to do was photocopy them. But I couldn’t understand a word of the descriptions. I doubted The Wharfie would, either. I showed him the descriptions. ‘These aren’t much good to you,’ I said. ‘I’ll look in one of our databases.’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in a minute.’

‘You’re very patient,’ I nodded gratefully.

He smiled, all the lines on his face softening. ‘That’s what my granny always said.’

I found the information he required, and we were alone at the desk. I explained that although, the headings were slightly different, these were indeed the drugs he’d listed.

‘They’re gonna cut me open,’ he said, quietly. ‘You mightn't see me for a while.’

I nodded, feeling a sudden tightening in my throat.

Would someone to visit this man? I wondered. Bring him flowers? Ask how he felt? This battered old man, who had softened at such a small compliment, and despite my professional training, I found myself wondering how someone could travel the years, through all sorts of unimaginable hardship, yet still melt at the memory of his grandmother’s words.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re better.’

But I didn’t see him again.

Not for weeks.

I asked the other staff at morning tea. ‘Have you seen The Wharfie, lately?’

No one had.

I began to fear he hadn’t made it. That his membership would simply expire after two years. That we would never know what happened? Whether he was in pain, at the end? Whether he found peace? That’s the thing about being a librarian. You don’t judge a book by its cover. Neither do you judge a borrower by their books. And you never, ever, know when a small glimpse of someone’s life will disarm you, and make you care.

Last Saturday, I went to a picnic in the Botanical Gardens.

I drove home, mulling over a delightful afternoon with family friends. Wondering what we’d have for dinner. Whether Andrew and I would go to a movie? Work in the garden tomorrow? Go to the gym? The library was the furthest thing from my mind.

Until, I saw a familiar figure standing at the bus stop.

The traffic light at the approaching intersection turned red. I leaned on the brake and brought the car to a slow halt. Turning, I peered back at the old man. He wore a blue wife-beater and a flannel work shirt. His face was ravaged by the care of years. But he was alive. And it was The Wharfie. And I found myself grinning stupidly in the traffic queue.

I didn’t wave or toot my horn. He wouldn’t know me outside of work. Besides, I’m the librarian, a sometimes silent witness to other people’s lives.

But I went home feeling light of heart. Knowing he’d be back at the library sometime, next week, or the week after, and I’d smile and ask how he was, and he probably wouldn’t even remember telling me he was going to have surgery – if indeed, he ever did – and life would go on, just as before, and as long as he didn’t shout, or throw chairs, he’d keep coming to the library for the remaining years of his life.

Acrostic thoughts

2010-02-24T20:23:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged for ages – primarily due to a hiccup in my publishing aspirations which caused a temporary downward spiral in my mood.

But today, I'm home sick — headachy and suppurating in bed, my mind is running along acrostic lines. I don’t know why. I hated acrostic poems at school. But here you are: two little kernels that convey my feelings.

Retched, yes, I know it starts with a W, but that’s how I feel.
Effluent, a polite term for words that start with a SH
Jagged, yes jagged, the knife in my chest
Effluent, again and again, that’s right shite!
Calm, everyone, stay calm – hide the kitchen knives.
Torture, doubt and self pity, again and again.
Idiot, yes, idiot, for expecting too much.
Onions, yes, onions, my eyes are red.
No! I won’t cheer up – life’s a ~~bitch~~ cricket pitch!

Fortunately, time has passed. I have gained perspective. It wasn’t a rejection anyway, it was a send-it-back-later, not-quite-ready, sort of letter. So here’s my second attempt at acrostic.

Rubbish, yes, rot, my novel is great.
Everyone has set backs – yes, everyone, I say.
J.K. Rowling heard the word ‘no’ word stacks of times (okay, I know, delusions of grandeur).
Everyone, like I say everyone, there’s no need to pine.
Calm, stay calm, and believe in yourself.
Tough, as old boots – with a confident step.
Inner-resolve shoving doubt out the door.
Only grieve for a while and then trouble more.
Now it is time to get back to my work.
Someone, please someone, tell me how to begin?

More Wedding Photos

2010-01-14T23:29:00.000-08:00

I saw the mother of the groom last week. She has her albums printed out already.

But you are my friends. So, the blog is as good as it gets, I'm afraid.

So, here we are getting ready.

Here we are at the Chapel.

Some family shots

What they got up to while we were knocking back the first glass or two

Of course, there were speeches

And cake

And there was a fair bit of this going on too

Photographer: Jason Lau

Andrew's Christmas Letter

2009-12-24T22:16:00.000-08:00

FYI, No Action required

Security Classification: Personal

Corbett Family 2009 – Executive summary

Total – continued to create value by focusing on core business strengths, strived for best practice processes, maximised leverage and synergy opportunities to meet 95% of key deliverables in budget and on time

Business units:
Liz:
Ø Key successes – wrote 24/7, 52 blogs, 259 twitters, passed TAFE, 4 book reviews, 1 Short story prize (1st out of 1700 entrants) 1 publisher reviewing novel draft

Ø 2010 challenges – write 24/8, get publisher contract

Jack

Ø Key successes – Parliamentary placement, snow, beach and Vietnam holidays, caught a fish, offered PhD scholarships at Melbourne Uni and ANU

Ø 2010 challenges – exchange Public service tailored work suits for Uni style tweed coat with sleeve patches. Get a pipe.

Ness

Ø Key successes – Work promotions, holidays (refer Jack) Junior soccer coach and Senior Premier player and trophy champ, Melb shopping trips.

Ø 2010 challenges – support uni bum husband (refer Jack)

Phoebe
Ø Key successes – traveled to Switzerland, finished uni, got married (refer Andrew M), emptied bedroom, back feeling a lot better

Ø 2010 challenges – start Social work masters, marriage adjustment and cross cultural move - outer Melb suburbs (Z2) to inner suburbs (Z1)

Andrew M
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid down credit card, Tassie hiking, got married (refer Phoebe)

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, make room in wardrobe for Phoebe’s stuff, keep credit card down

Seth
Ø Key successes – finished first yr Uni, got a girlfriend - Monique (Note: punching well above his weight)

Ø 2010 challenges – Asia holiday, work out a way to spend more time with Monique

Naomi
Ø Key successes – joined a drama production group (2 great performances) joined a new church youth group, watched 2,250 hours of TV/DVD’s

Ø 2010 challenges – go to school each day

Andrew C
Ø Key successes – kept job in GFC, paid the bills, OS work travel, 9 weeks on jury duty, Prom hiking, some nice gigs and song writing, solo bike ride Adel-Melb – ‘1000 kays in 7 days’

Ø 2010 challenges – keep job in GFC, pay the bills

Other:
Ø Chooks – production down due aging workforce. 2010 will see some older redundancies and possible new grad hires

Ø Dog – did nothing, needs to stop chewing own feet and start cleaning up own pooh

Mission – maintain some semblance of order, amidst chaos

A Librarian's Christmas Tree

2009-12-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

Have a good one!

Some Wedding Photos

2009-12-18T17:15:00.000-08:00

We had a wonderful day!

You know you're stressed when ...

2009-12-16T16:48:00.000-08:00

You know you're stressed when you make a Cinnamon Coffee Crumble cake - but forget to put the cinnamon in.

You know you've lost it when you ask your daughter to move her car from the driveway - then, while she's getting her keys, you start the engine and back into her car.

You know times are tumultuous when you drive your youngest daughter to the railway station - but forget to drop her off.

You know you're under pressure when you drive to the airport to pick up your mother - but miss the turning and end up in the carpark of Maccas Melton, thumbing desperately through the Melways.

You think maybe they should lock you up when you go to Eastland, shopping - then can't remember where you've parked the car.

You know your sunk because all these years you've been winging it - and your daughter, who leaves tomorrow, has been keeping you afloat.

And you think perhaps marriage isn't such a good idea and you wonder how you'll ever manage without her.

But you know you have to but, God, you're going to miss her and you wonder when the ache in your heart will cease.

The Writing Life

2009-11-10T19:06:00.001-08:00

Now supposing you won an international writing competition and your success was reported in a number of publications, including the Melbourne Age. Supposing, as a result you had a call from a publisher, asking about your novel. And supposing you sent six chapters and a synopsis to the publisher, and they really liked your work and wanted to see more.

Yes, wonderful, I'm sure you'll agree: a recipe for ecstasy.

But supposing your novel is currently pulled apart with track changes and comment boxes throughout. And you tell the publisher, look I've only re-written the first twenty-two chapters, but give me a couple of months and I'll show you all I've got.

And they agree.

Then you might have to do a great deal of work to do.

But what if you lied?

Not a real lie because you really have re-written the first twenty-two chapters – barring all but one teeny- weeny scene in chapter twenty-one which you have been putting off ...

And supposing you kept putting it off, pulling the individual chapters into one document, making decisions, reading and re-reading, everything neat and tidy, until there is nothing left to do but re-write that one tiny scene in chapter twenty-one?

And now it is time to write it and you feel sick.

Yes, that's right: sick.

New stuff always makes you icky. There is the excitement, the challenge of re-working old words to make the same-but-a-better story. There is doubt and fear of failure, your long time companions. And all the while you are wondering, hoping, praying that you will be able to give life to this vague sense of meaning that has formed in your mind.

So, you start because, let's face it, you have to.

And at first, you feel like newly washed hair all mussy and twisted. Then slowly creation's conditioner seeps into the fibres. You put a comb to the knots and begin to tease out the words. Very gently, lest you change too much, you work back and forth, in and out of the document. Does this move the character forward? Is he meant to be failing the character tests in this chapter? Or passing them? Who is this character, anyway? Maybe I should delete him? Cut the scene completely? Write a different novel?

Oh no, you think. Where am I going?

Of course, at this point when you are in deep crisis, there is always family: a school meeting, an art exhibition, a sick kid, or a husband you have to talk to.

But … you can't you possibly stop writing at this stage.

Except, you have to.
And quite frankly, it's what you need, because while you are away from your computer, the problem resolves itself (normally in the middle of the night, or a desk shift at the library). And you write the idea down in your notebook, or send an email to yourself.

And enjoy a brief interlude of peace.
Meanwhile, a dear friend is reading her way through the other twenty-two chapters of your manuscript, patiently editing and making suggestions. And she reaches chapter twelve and sees a need for some structural changes.

Oh God, you think. This is only chapter twelve. You quickly extrapolate this particular change against all other possible changes you might have to make, and realise that one small scene in chapter twenty-one is the least of you worries.

You are sunk.

Horror churns. You lose sleep. You never really liked that friend anyway. Who does she think she is?

She is right, damn it! The changes must be made – and right away, not a moment to spare. If you leave them they will burn a hole in your manuscript.

So, you make the changes – and all the other alterations your dear friend suggests, and the story is better for it. So, you delete the hate mail you have so carefully drafted.

Then, with gut wrenching, you re-visit chapter twenty-one.

The scene is before you, a poorly patched garment. You decide to be brave. Make sweeping changes. You work in a fever, nerves like violin strings. The whole document altered, chapter by chapter, like dominoes, falling, falling, falling ...

But it's not a waste.

The scene is strong and resonant, full of symbols and hidden meaning.

My God, you're a genius. Why did you put this off for so long? All that talent, finally flowering. A Pulitzer Prize in the making.

And you think, perhaps you will sleep tonight – maybe all the way through to six o' clock in the morning.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Liz’s Outfit

2009-11-04T18:44:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, I worry about humans. They don't understand priorities. We are heading towards an important familial occasion, a busy, once in a lifetime, precious season, when certain formalities must be observed – and buying the Mother of the Bride outfit is of utmost significance. Yet, Liz spends every waking minute hunched over her keyboard.

'Please,' I beg. 'Don't leave it to the last minute.'

'I have to submit by the end of November, Biskit.'

'But Liz, your daughter's getting married. You are the Mother of the Bride.'

I have visions, terrible visions, of Liz entering the wedding chapel in work clothes with a badge that says – didn't have time – hanging from her lanyard.

I suppose, when a respected Melbourne publishers calls and asks to see your novel, a certain amount of work is required. But in my opinion, she ought to be focussing on important things – like permanent rinses, waxing, eyebrow tinting, and clothing.

I don't wish to misrepresent Liz (after all, she feeds me). Occasionally she does interrupt her writing - to read a book, for example, to work at the library, or attend TAFE Novel classes. Sometimes, she even remembers the grocery shopping.

But for the most part … she is in another world.

How to motivate her? That was the question. How to tear her away from her desk, just for a minute? Priya and I decided guilt was the best strategy.

'Mum,' Priya said, 'I need a wedding outfit.'

'We'll go shopping next month.'

'But Mum, the wedding is in December – I need to start looking now!'

'Not now, Priya. I'm busy.'

'You don't care about me,' Priya wailed, stamping her foot, 'only your stupid book.'

Liz and Priya went shopping the next day. Liz wasn't in the mood for shopping (and didn't we know it). But I knew once she hit the shops, temptation would take over. She would start flicking through hangers, holding up items and trying things on … just quickly. I wasn't there, of course. It's one of the injustices of my canine disposition. Quite unfair, I'm sure you'll agree. Fluffy white dogs are bred for their beauty, not their brains. We have a natural affinity towards shopping.

But this is how the plan unfolded.

First, Liz tried on a red dress. It made her look round and chunky, like a pillar box. Next she chose something a little more subtle – a pewter dress. She looked more like a tankard than a goblet. A black skirt with a paper bag hem looked frumpy. Hot pink made her feel like a Rhododendron and, as for the purple dress, well, what can I say? A New Age nightmare!

Fortunately, at this point the shop assistant intervened. 'Can I help you?'

'My daughter's getting married,' Liz said. 'And I'm too fat for anything.'

The assistant eyed her appraisingly. She fetched a pencil skirt, a soft non-crease top, and a cropped satin jacket, from the difficult figures section, and teamed it with a pair of gorgeous black high heeled shoes. Liz disappeared into the cubicle. Priya heard huffing and puffing. The shop assistant answered a few urgent questions about belts and zippers. Then Liz tottered out looking magnificent.

'Wow!' Priya said.

'It doesn't get better than this,' Liz said, laughing.

'No,' Priya agreed. 'Are you going to buy it?'

'What do you think?'

Liz bought the lot: skirt, top, jacket and shoes from Dianna Ferrari. I'm not going to reveal the colours, nor divulge anything as skanky as prices. But Andrew has seen the Mastercard statement – and he is still recovering.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Wedding Dress Scoop

2009-09-14T04:29:00.001-07:00

At three years of age, Phoebe said: ‘when I get married, I’m going to wear your wedding dress, mummy.

‘You'll look lovely,’ Liz said smiling.

I wasn’t there, of course. I wasn’t even a pup in the belly. But trust me, I am a dog-of-the bride, I know these things.

Now Phoebe is in her twenties and the day of her wedding approaches.

Florists are being been booked, cakes tasted, deposits on reception centres made, and a great deal of discussion about suits, dresses and fabrics is being bandied about. Phoebe’s whimsical childhood promise of wearing her mother’s wedding dress forgotten by all but Andrew. He returned from a recent business trip to Adelaide with the dress in its mouldering packaging.

‘What’s that?’ Phoebe asked as he laid the box at her feet.

‘Mum’s wedding dress,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to wear it.’

Everyone laughed, except Phoebe. She knew he wasn’t joking.

As I lay on my medium sized fully washable pet pillow, I heard a story in her silence.

Every mother wants to her baby girl to wear her wedding dress, and every mother is determined her adult daughter will have a new dress. I mean, it’s all very well to wear a matching collar when you are a pup. But once you are a mature hound, ready to leave home and manage your own household, you need a collar with some gravitas.

Dogs understand this, even if fathers don’t.

‘Go on,’ Andrew said, ‘try it on.’

‘It won’t fit,’ Phoebe said.

‘Mum was pretty skinny when she got married.’

Everyone turned to look at Liz, trying to imagine her with Phoebe’s waistline.

‘I might still be able to fit into it,’ Liz smiled, nervously.

There was a polite silence.

‘Phoebe’s skinner than I was on my wedding day. But I think the dress was altered for Wendy’s wedding. I'll try it on after you, Phoebe.’

I sat up, my nose twitching. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for. Like all good investigavtive journalists, I’d been working undercover, sniffing out potential stories, waiting for the time to swoop. The pricking of my paws, told me that moment was now upon me.

As Phoebe clumped down the hallway her arms swathed in yellowing fabric, I made a dash for the camera cupboard, thinking of headlines, such as Wedding Dress Scoop or Heirloom gown for Zone Three Wedding. I drew the camera out of its pouch and took up my position behind the couch. This would be bigger than Wills and Kate, the world in a frenzy. We’d have to hire security, keep the gown under lock and key.

The dress was loose on Phoebe. She turned like a model, the not- quite-white- ruffles swirling prettily. I had quite a lump in my throat as I crouched, low to the ground, the shutter clicking repeatedly.

Next it was Liz’s turn to try on the gown. I saw her smile slip.

But she walked bravely to the bedroom and came out a few minutes later grinning. 'Not bad,' she said, holding out her hands and curtseying.

But she didn’t twirl about as Phoebe had. She stayed front on, the creased skirts hanging stiffly.

At this point, I faced a terrible dilemma. It's one thing to talk about being an award winning journalist, quite another to show a middle-aged woman in her wedding dress to be pudgy and pretending, especially when the woman in question holds the key to the treats cupboard.

My lightly furred underbelly clenched painfully. I thought of the cupboard full of Oinkers, Beef Chews and Dentastix. Perhaps it was wrong to exploit another’s weakness? To climb on anothers back, and win acclaim from it? Then I thought of words like hard hitting and responsibility, duty to society. I remembered how it felt to Fail Alpha Dog Training. Scruples be damned!

I felt every vertebrate in my spine click. Dog like me have to take every opportunity. I slipped around the couch, before Liz had a chance to notice, and took this shot.

Melbourne Writers’ Festival 2009

2009-08-29T01:17:00.001-07:00

Today, I am going to blog about MWF. Not because I think you will find this particularly interesting but because I have to write about it for a TAFE assignment. It's Saturday afternoon, however, and the idea of staying home and doing a TAFE assignment is not appealing whereas the idea of updating my blog is always exciting.

Before I begin discussing the 2009 Melbourne Writers' Festival, I would like to start by pointing out the apostrophe on the word: writers'. For it is by such small things I measure my progress. Once, I would not have known where the apostrophe should be placed. But I am a fair-dinkum, bona fide writer now and I know that writers is the plural of writer but, in this case, it is also a possessive noun, therefore the apostrophe goes sat the end.

Why do I tell you this? Please, read on.

When walking to the train with Priya on Friday, the morning of The Whole Shebang, Priya kissed me goodbye and said: You look like a writer Mum. As the bells for her train were ringing, I didn't have time to ask what she meant by this. Whether it was the go-get 'em aspect of my writer's demeanour she referred to, the stuck staring at the keyboard for hours part, the wake up at the crack of dawn with snakes in your tummy feeling, or that heady moment of discovering a powerful new simile. I hoped she meant the latter and, keeping my progress with apostrophe in mind, I struck out bravely.

By some strange process of osmosis (probably called Euan Mitchell) a number of Box Hill TAFE students who barely knew each other had worked out that we'd be Shebang-ing together. We met on the train and at various stages during the day, and finished the evening with a drink in one of the Bars at Fed square. It was a nice collegiate feeling.

But what did you learn at the Whole Shebang? I hear you ask. Surely that's necessary for the assignment?

Funnily enough, I have been avoiding that part of the assignment because, after listening to authors, publishers and various writing organizations throughout the day, my primary take home message from The Whole Shebang was: publishers are looking for writers who are reasonable and sane. I think at least, three speakers made direct reference to sanity.

Most of the others implied it.

Look, I don't want to be neurotic or defensive about this but, I ask you, is it sane to sit hunched over a screen for hours on end wondering whether stillness of the night sounds better than quietness of the night, scribbling in notepads in the middle of movies and concerts, reading aloud to hone your dialogue, or relating to characters that feel more real than your own family?

Exactly. It wasn't very encouraging.

On the Saturday, I rose, donning sanity like a school uniform, and caught the train to Flinders Street. Unfortunately, I had failed to check the Connex site and had therefore missed the all important message about work on the line. I was therefore a little late for my masterclass with John Boyne (a perfectly sane and reasonable excuse).

The Past is Not Dead, involved writing exercises (in which everyone but me came up with pithy and polished writing, no matter what the subject), and discussion of issues close to the heart of historical fiction, such as: defining the historical novel; recreating historical figures; and finishing with the question of how much responsibility a writer has to the truth. It was an interesting day, but not earth shattering. Although John Boyne was an excellent presenter, my friend Marina, a fellow Historical Novel Society member, and I agreed that we didn't learn anything that we had not already heard discussed in various HNS publications.

I did however make a valuable contact.

Last year, I met Marina and was given an opportunity of writing feature articles for Solander. This year I met a MWF volunteer who works in the library at the Koorie Heritage Trust. We had been asked, for one of our exercises, to write about a real historical figure. I chose to write about the execution of two aboriginal men, Bob and Jack, in the early days of the Port Phillip District. An MWF volunteer heard my short piece and, in the next break, told me about the Koorie Heritage Trust library. She also gave me her business card. I was thrilled, as the execution of Bob and Jack will probably be the opening scene of my next novel.

On Sunday, I attended Focus on Kate Grenville. I was particularly keen to attend this session, as I am writing a profile on Kate Grenville. I had heard Kate speak previously. In recent months have listened to or read every one of her recent interviews and read all of her novels, so I wasn't sure how much I would learn from the session. But as in the past, it was a privilege to listen to this warm, intelligent, human being talk about various aspects of the writing life. The session ended far too quickly.

So that's my wrap of the Melbourne Writers Festival. Tomorrow, I go to my last session, The Place for a Village, which is a two hour walk with Gary Presland. We'll walk around Melbourne and Gary will talk about the natural history of Melbourne and how it might have looked prior to the arrival of Europeans. This session will also be useful for my next novel and, as I know Gary from Balwyn Writers, I am looking forward to it.

So why did I tell you about the apostrophe? Oh no reason. It was just a hook, in the end. But I do think it is improtant to take note of the small things. It's like the little white pebbles Hansel and Gretel left strewn along the path. It shows how far you've come.

Peanuts vs Porkettes ...

2009-08-05T01:16:00.000-07:00

What is it about forty-fiveish year old men and their wives' dogs?

I've discussed this with a number of women over the past months and we've concluded it's a twinge of envy sort of thing.

Surely not, I hear you gasp. Who would ever be jealous of a fluffy white dog?

That's a good question. The mind boggles. But it's a true statement. I think it must be the male menopause.

There's no other way to explain the motivation behind this photo.

I didn't take the photo, by the way. Andrew took it after I had done the weekly shopping. But he cheated.

I didn't buy all those bow-wow treats in one week.

Besides, Biskit needs those things. The denta-stix keep his little teeth clean. The mini-treats are a bedtime incentive. As for the porkettes and oinkers. How would you like to be locked outside while everyone is at work?

Okay, so home brand peanuts is a tad bleak. But I was pressed for time!

I'll make sure I buy Andrew the most expensive ones next time.

Bristol Short Story Anthology, vol. 2

2009-07-30T04:43:00.000-07:00

Today the Bristol Short Story Anthology, arrived. I had been harrasing humble postal workers about it all week. When Andrew emailed to say it wasn't in today's post, I felt like chaff in the wind.

But then it arrived! By some magical postal arrangement that, to this day, Australia Post hasn't grapsed.

Andrew sent me a text message.

I came home straight away.

What, I hear you say? Weren't you at work. How could you just leave? Well, yes. But I work in the library - books are revered, and I'd just received one with my name written inside. No one blinked as I raced out the door.

The anthologies came in a sack. I've never received a sack in the post before.

Here I am holding it.

Yes, that's right. It seems sacks are a Swiss idea.

Inside the sack was a brown cardboard box.

And inside the box were the books.

They look real, don't they!

Here's me holding an anthology.

My story is the first in the book (okay, so a little freaky). Then are all these other amazing stories. I've been reading some this evening. They are really I good! I don't know how I won this thing?

But I did. There's my story, at the front on the book and it has First Prize written above it.

The whole thing feels real, suddenly.

Moon Landings and Black Holes in my Understanding

2009-07-22T02:45:00.000-07:00

Where were you when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon?

It’s the question of the week. I have been searching my cache of memories for an answer. But I can’t remember the event. Andrew says he remembers it clearly. He watched it on TV. It was night time, he says, someone roused him from sleep.

I always believed him, until this week. Until I found out the moon landing took place at 13:50 AEST, which is ten to two in the afternoon, if my time-zone converter isn’t lying.

So what was he watching? Remembering? Who roused him from sleep?

We may never know the answers to those questions. It’s a black hole in our family history. But it set me wondering. Where was I when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon? Why can’t I remember the momentous event?

I would have been five years of age at the time. I did a quick finger count. Yes, five. The catechism of my family history says I came to Australia at the age of four and a half. That means I must have been in Geelong on July 21st 1969 at 13:50 AEST.

But why can't I remember? And when exactly did we emigrate? For some reason, that date is also missing from my cache. I don’t know why? It was the AD of my childhood. The beginning and end of everything.

I remember my Aunty Jean crying at the airport and Mum being airsick. I remember Dad eating Mum’s airline meals. Ian walking up and down the aisle of the Boeing 747, even at that age unable to sit still. I remember Darwin airport, too, with its high ceiling fans. Mum being take away for re-hydration. Soldiers from Vietnam. I even remember pulling up in front of the Carrington Hotel in Geelong. It was Khaki Green and located next to used car yard. Mum vomited in the gutter at the sight.

I remember everything – except the moon landing.

I decided to ring Mum.

‘Hey Mum,' I asked. 'What date did we emigrate?’

‘We left the 31st of August, 1969,’ she said. It was a bank holiday. You were four and a half years of age.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s strange. I must have been in England for the moon landing?’

‘Yes, dear, you were.’

‘But I came to Australia when I was four and a half, didn't I?’

I had a strange kaleidoscope feeling at this point. My identity breaking up an shifting. Last week, I did my first ever author interview with a magazine called Venue. It has a readership of around 20, 000. I told the interviewer Mum was Welsh and Dad was English. That we emigrated to Australia when I was four and a half years old - had I lied?

‘But, Mum,’ I said. ‘I would have been five years of age on 21st of July 21st, 1969.’

Silence on the end of the line.

I did a quick finger count.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the date right? Mum, can you hear me?’

‘I might be seventy two, Elizabeth. But I know when we emigrated!’

I did another finger count, slower this time. Mathematics has never been my strength. But I know I was born on July 3rd 1964. I’ve seen the birth certificate. I also know that nine take away four equals five. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but that makes me five years of age the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. It would have been 3:50 on July 21st, GMT, and I would have been tucked up in bed.

No wonder I don’t remember the moon landing? I was asleep. Mum and Dad were preparing to emigrate, selling furniture and packing boxes. About to embark upon their own momentous journey, leaving home, family, friends, and flying to the other side of the world. Henceforth to communicate with loved ones by infrequent letters and breathless three minute phone calls. The moon landing would barely have crossed their radar. Let alone an insignificant detail such as their daughter’s age.

But it matters to me – I was five years of age when I emigrated. Did you hear me, five!

Why has it taken me forty five years to work that out? I can’t answer that question. It’s a black hole in my experience. But I do know where I was when the moon landing took place, even if I can’t remember it.