Sorta, dunno, nothin' ...

This is for the aunties, uncles, parents and grandparenst among us. Or anyone who simply wants a good laugh.

What life is like ...

Sometimes my life feels like a pinball machine. You know, the kind you put money in and out comes the disc and you flick it with little levers and every time you get a point it goes ping! I work from two diaries and a mobile phone reminder system. But I still scurry about without managing to be in the right place at the right time.

Last Wednesday this helter skelter existence finally came apart spectacularly. I missed an important, and expensive, medical appointment. I also forgot to take my car to the mechanic as scheduled. As I lamented this unfortunate (but not unusual) series of events to Andrew and Seth over coffee, I regregretted that I did not own a diary small enough to fit in my handbag.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It would make a huge difference. Perhaps when Linda (at work) takes the diary requests for 2009, I will order a more compact organiser.’

‘Mum,’ Seth said, leaning over and speaking earnestly. ‘I don’t think you should wait until next year.’

I went straight to the newsagent.

I now own a modest shiny black synthetic leather volume designed and produced by Tai Shing Diary Limited. I sat down and transferred all my data, feeling buoyant with hope and achievement. I even went so far as to clean out my in-tray (heaven rejoiced). I saw a letter from the bank in my in-tray. It that had been sitting there for over a week with a replacement card stuck to it.

‘Look at that,’ I said, signing the back of the card with a flourish. ‘They have made the new Mastercard the same colour as my old Keycard.’

I chopped my Mastercard up and put it in the bin.

Feeling very righteous, I made room for the new piece of plastic in my purse. It was at that point I realised, my new Mastercard actually had the word Keycard written on it.

I phoned the bank.

A replacement Mastercard will arrive within five to ten days. Meanwhile I have my new Keycard to go on with.

Since Wednesday, I have been taking my diary around everywhere. I sleep with it beside my bed. It is the first thing I see every morning. The last thing I look at each night. I go to sleep mouthing imminent appointments like a sacred liturgy. I think it is helping.

On Friday, I managed to get myself to the airport, park the car, and board the correct flight to Adelaide without hiccup. I even rang my Mum to say the flight had been delayed. Yes, I thought, I can change. I was born to be a chess set. Not a pin ball machine.

I disembarked at Adelaide Airport feeling regal, calm and serene. It was lovely to see Mum. We gathered my luggage (no mistakes there) and made our way out to the car park. All was going well until Mum realised she had forgotten where the car was parked.

Mum has a new car so I didn't know exactly what we were looking for. I knew it was a red car. She thought the number might have an X in it.

There were quite a few red cars in the car park. As we walked around the car park pointing her automatic locking system at cars hoping for the lights to flash, I had a dark epiphany. Even with my Tai Shing Limited diary bumping against me, I knew in that moment, that I would never be a chess set. No matter how hard I tried. My problem is genetic. I was born into a family of pinball machines.

Rejection

I did not get selected for the ASA mentorship program.

I only got 9 out of 10 for my last TAFE assignment.

I am not upset or anything. I am a mature adult. I can handle disappointment - not!

I think the following video from Dylan Moran says it all.

I believe in Fairies

I believe in fairies. I am sure you do too. Ever since my mother explained to me that the terrifying roll of thunder was merely the fairies having a party, I have found it a convenient explanation for a range of peculiar happenings.

Tylwyth Teg is the Welsh term for fairies. They are a diminutive race, resembling humans, who ride miniature horses, and are often accompanied by small white dogs (I think Biskit is probably a fairy dog). In Wales the fairies can live side by side with households, in a sort of unseen Harry Potter style world. The Welsh Fairy Book, by Jenkyn Thomas documents their existence. He tells the story of Gutto Bach of Llangybi, who disappeared from home, and one day, two years later, re-appeared. Little Gutto wasn’t a day older than when he disappeared, however, because he had been playing with the fairies.

Ianto Llywelyn of Llanfihangel on the other hand, was a friend of the fairies. He used to keep his fire burning all night long. He also left a vessel of water and bread with its accompaniments on the table, taking care, to remove everything made of iron before going to bed. For you must know, iron acts as a deterrent to fairies. This is where the old custom of hanging a horseshoe above the door comes from because if you offend the fairies, they can become rather a nuisance.

Such was the case with Morgan Rhys and his family from Ystrad Fellte in Breconshire. They heard all manner of noises in the cowhouse. Yet, when they went to the cowhouse to investigate, they found nothing. When they eventually returned to the house, they found everything upset in the kitchen. Night after night, their crockery was broken and their cows were milked dry. Their horses ridden until their wind was broken.

Now as you may know, I am writing a novel. It is an emigrant story set in 1841. One of my main characters is Welsh (which is how I discovered this interesting stuff about fairies). I have very little about fairies in the book (just in case you are being bored witless) but I am developing a breakthrough historical theory. I would like to suggest that it was not only humans who came across the sea from Britain. The Tylwyth Teg came too.

There is a historical precedent. Morgan Rhys’ family were so desperate to escape the fairies they packed up their belongings and proceeded to move temporarily (for it was the custom of the fairies to quit an establishment that passes from old into new hands), only to find that the fairies had packed up their belongings and moved with them to Ystrad Towy.

It seems to me that the fairies came with the first emigrants from Britain and have been coming ever since. Indeed, I suspect a whole family might have emigrated alongside my family in 1968. Now before you object, I will ask you one simple question. Where do your odd socks disappear to? Are you with me? Ok here is another thought. Why can you never find a ball point pen or a tennis balls when you need it? As you can see, I have s strong case. It must be the fairies.

Our household have forever been plagued by fairies (I am not sure what we have done to offend them). When the children were little it was spoons that went missing. I know that is peculiar, because spoons are made of metal, but I suspect that during the evolutionary process, some fairies have become immune to it (the tooth fairy is a prime example). Anyway, I was forever missing spoons. Occasionally I would find one in the sandpit (which is how I first came to suspect the fairies), but mostly they just disappeared.

The sandpit is now long gone from our garden. It has been replaced by MSN, iPods and P Plates. I thought the fairies had gone too. But I was wrong. I have lately begun to suspect they are still with us. How else do I explain the recent and mysterious disappearance of the forks in my cutlery drawer?

The truth about the missing forks has dawned upon me slowly. At first, it was simply a fork here and a fork there. With the rapid rotation of cutlery and crockery in and out of the dishwasher, and the very haphazard habits if those rostered on dishes duty, it was easy to miss the decline in numbers until last week ... When I realised there were no longer enough forks to have dinner with.

Andrew was in America at the time, so we only needed four forks. But no matter where we searched – the dishwasher, the various cutlery drawers, Seth’s bedroom (very scary) Priya’s bedroom (even worse) – they were nowhere to be found. We had to face the cold hard truth. We had twenty knives, forty spoons (including soup spoons and teaspoons) and three forks. It had to be the fairies. There is not other explanation for it. I am wracking my brains to work out how I have offended them.

I may never know the reason for this attack on my cutlery drawer. But the answer is simple. I must placate the fairies. It is vital for the continued well being of my forty spoons. I will convince Andrew of the value of running the heater all night (never mind the gas bill). I will watch what I say from now on(word watch fairies); I will write nice things about the fairies on my blog (blog watch fairies); I will practice random acts of kindness (benevolence fairies), I will not nibble and eat badly (Doctor Tickle’s diet watch fairies); I will be firm with Biskit (Alpha dog training fairies) and of course I must leave food and drink for them like Ianto Llywelyn of Llanfihangel did.

There is only one problem I can see with this plan. It is the cockroaches. Melbourne is in the throws of a nasty roach plague. This is not the fault of the fairies (or my housekeeping). It is because of global warming. As the earth warms, our Melbourne cockroaches are growing bigger and uglier. It is a kind of King Kong or Honey I blew up the Kid situation. To reach my carefully placed snacks the fairies will have to mount an assault, more gruelling and devastating than the ANZAC campaign at Gallipoli. I don’t know how they are going to deal with it. I will have to consult the Welsh Fairy Book to see if there is a precedent.

My TBR Pile

I would like to tackle the subject of the dreaded Too Be Read (TBR) pile. Mine is a problem. Not a Twelve Step kind of problem, I hasten to add, because that would mean doing something about it. No, this is a happy to have but annoying nonetheless kind of problem. The sort you complain about, lose very little sleep over, and never expect to solve. It is also the sort that drives your partner mad.

Earlier this year Andrew and I bought new bedroom furniture. After twenty plus years of marriage we thought it was time. We actually went out looking for a set of drawers for Priya and decided, on the spur of the moment, to give her our old chest of drawers (clever huh!) and to buy a whole new suite for ourselves. Perfect, except we would now have to tidy the bedroom thoroughly.

Andrew thought this was wonderful because he is a neat freak. I walked round the house like a dog with its tail between its legs. I had a lot of clutter to be re-housed. Fortunately I had recently inherited a spare bedroom and set it up as an office. But I still had a basket full of books sitting beside the bed. In the new regime these books were given a drawer. Not a big drawer, by the way: a sort of overgrown-match-box type of arrangement that could not possibly hold my TBR pile.

Over the months, I have tried manfully to stick to the limits of my drawer but ... I work in a library. It is akin to an alcoholic working in a bottle shop. The problem is essentially mathematics: I bring home more than I take back. But I would also like to suggest that they do not make bedside drawers big enough. I am looking for a drawer that can never be full, like the bag with which Pwyll tricked Gwawl ap Clud.

Andrew is away this week and the drawer has come into its own. It does not quite close anymore. It is spilling out all over the floor. Its contents have marched out, two by two, and ranged themself along his side of the bed. It is a sort when-the-lights-go-out-in-the-library experience as I snuggle up between Joseph Campbell’s, Hero with a Thousand Faces, and Lola Workman’s, Wheat-Free World. At last count there were thirteen books, three magazines, some chapters from my friend Leisl’s unpublished manuscript, a notebook and Bible and a number of overwhelmed book marks decamped about the room. Fortunately, Andrew is coming home next week, or I may find myself buried in a paperback tomb.

I noticed today that I have seven (said in hushed whispery tones) overdues on my library card. I have spent the evening bustling about trying to find them (yes, sometimes TBRs escape). I found Eclipse in Priya's room and Atonement in Phoebe's room (you can always blame the kids). I have weeded Aristotle's, Poetics, and, Story Structure Architect, from my own pile. Make no mistake. This is serious. I feel purged. There are books lined up like naughty children by the back door. If I'm awake when I leave the house in the morning, and that will depend on whether I wake up in time to make make coffee, I may even remember to take them with me.

You may think it looks like smooth sailing from here (sorry about the cliche I am all smilied out). That I now have my reading habits on a leash.

Dont' be deceived!

There is a hidden TBR pile. It is like the church seen and unseen, awaiting its day of triumph.

A reservation list is so much more accommodating than a drawer. It is not made of wood for a start. It grows ... and it grows, like the Five Fat Peas, but it does not pop! I can't tell you how many books I have on reservation at the library. It is a privacy issue for a start. But do know it was double figures last time I had the courage to count.

Jack flew down for mother's day ...

What a lovely surprise!



I got flowers



and a necklace



and new pyjamas (some things never change)



and here we all are.

Little Britain

Welsh is the language of heaven, something I do for my heart. I expect it is supposed to be good for my brain, too (it certainly beats doing the Sudoku). But I tend to find my old grey matter lacks adhesive. I do homework (sometimes), and I try to listen to my Mp3 lessons, and I attend class, but no matter how hard I try, it does not stick.

That is where the heart comes in.

The heart is not about competition or achievement.It is about connection. It is about the little trill of satisfaction my pulmonary muscle gives when I see or hear a Welsh word. The start of recognition I get upon seeing the word eisteddfod used arbitrarily, by non Welsh speakers, and knowing eistedd means, 'to sit.' It is a warm, throbbing, umbilical kind of feeling that give me a sense of history and resonance and belonging. But ... enough of that, I am being overly sentimental.

In Welsh we have been studying comparative, equative and superlative adjectives.

Now the Welsh word for tall is: tal If we want to say John is tall we would write:

Mae John yn dal

The equative:

Mae John yn mor dal a Bill reads: John is as tall as Bill.

To say John is taller than Bill we add 'ach' to the adjective - Mae John yn dalach na Bill

Please notice that the word, tal, has become, dal. That is because Welsh is Ninja language. It is always mutating.

When we want to say John is the tallest, however, the form changes. We do not say Mae John (john is), we say: John ydy'r talaf

In class I had a great deal of trouble remembering this. I don't know why, it seems simple now I am writing it, but the lesson was more like a post-it-note than a Super-glue kind of an experience. In the end, we tried playing around with the superlative form and being, well ... a little silly.

For example: Rydw i 'n unig hoyw yn y pentre, means, I am the only gay in the village (now where have I heard that phrase before?).

I am not sure how you would say I am the gayest person in the village. I will have to ask my Welsh teacher. We didn't tackle the first person superlative. It might be: Rydw i 'n person hoywch yn y pentre.

But I do know how to say: David is the only gay in the village. It goes like this: Davydd ydy'r unig hoyw yn y pentre.

For some reason, I no longer have trouble remembering the construction.

It's funny what sticks in your mind.