Introducing Cherry Ribbon

Thursday before last I bought a new cardigan. It's cherry red with a little black fleck through the wool. If it were a plant, you might call it variegated. But I'm calling it Cherry Ribbon. It has tiny diamond cut black buttons and a wide gathered ribbon around the V neckline. I bought it from that shop with a lady's name that has an E at the end.

I simply had to buy it.

Last night I wore the cardigan for the first time. That's one week and two days after the initial purchase. In between I have operated according to my standard, how-to-roll-a-new-cardigan procedure of which I thought the world might benefit from hearing.

Firstly, I must point out that to a librarian a cardigan is a most important accesory. I mean with contact lenses and permanent rinses, the profession has been in danger of blending with the general population. A tendency towards cardigans may be our sole distinguishing feature in the twenty first century.

Secondly, I would like to say that I work part time and write the rest of the time and, quite frankly, I should be shopping at Dimmeys. But when it comes to cardigans, the queen of all garments, I sometimes lash out no matter how badly the price tag reads.

That's the way it was with Cherry Ribbon and me.

Anyway, back to the roll out. It's a four step process and you must follow it exactly, or it won't work. It's like one of those post-cards-from-all-over-the-world, chain letter things.

Step one: throw out an old cardigan. Now I know that sounds harsh. But even a librarian can have too many cardigans. Fuschia Pink simply had to go. I bought her nine years ago. She no longer did up at the front. Well, she did at a pinch,but the effect wasn't flattering.

She is now at the Op-shop, readjusting.

Step two: talk nicely to last year's best cardigan. In this case, Tealy Ruff. Tell her how much you've appreciated her contribution to your sleek professional appearance. But now you've found a new cardigan, things have changed, she will no longer be your best cardigan anymore.

I advise, a strict, no nonsense tone. Cardigan's on the way down have a tendency to whine. Tell her the news is not all bad. That a second-best cardigan gets worn more than a best cardigan. Tell her you'll still be friends, that there will be a new freedom to your relationship.

Step three: wait

Now, I expect this step is a surpises. You imagined, having made such a signifcant purchase, I would leap out of bed Friday morning and don Cherry Ribbon immediately.

But that isn't how the program works.

You must wear your newly demoted second-best cardigan the morning after purchase. It sets the tone, demonstrates the benefits of her new role, and proves what you said about freedom and friendship.

Don't for a minute think I didn't consider Cherry Ribbon that first Friday morning. Taking her out, standing, head to one side, smiling at my good fortune. I did. But you can't wear a new cardigan the morning after purchase.

You have to wait.

It's one of those law-of-the-universe things.

Then you have to wait, and wait some more - until you've almost forgotten you have a new cardigan.

So that one day you step from the shower all fresh and steamy, wipe your feet on the bath-mat, towel your hair, walk still dripping from the bathroom, and fling wide the wardrobe door, and think: What shall I wear today?

You scan scan the hangers, going from black, to green, to blue, then purple, pink and red (yes, it's important to colour code your wardrobe), then your eyes alight upon it and realisation floods you anew, and you think, yes, this is it. I will wear my new cardigan.

Step four: You pull it gently from its hanger and lay it on the bed. You pick out the skirt that'll match it best, the stockings and the shoes. Apply make-up and blow dry you hair, never rushing, though your heart pounds and anticipation flooda your senses.

Then, when all is in place, you don your new cardigan - and the moment is deeply satisfying.

Engagement Party and some Pics

We've had the party - and eaten the cake. I have posted some photos and a copy of the speech I made on behalf of all the parents.

Andrew McCann – the name first hit my radar about a year ago.

My husband, Andrew and I had noticed Phoebe was happy, very happy. She had good friends and good fellowship. She was a Hype leader, a regular attendee of fam. dinner and was enjoying uni. She had finally settled down after her overseas exchange. There was no evidence of a boy friend but, I have to admit, I had begun to suspect there was more to her mood than simply good Christian fellowship.

Last June, Phoebe spent a week house sitting with Courtney. We missed her, terribly but had begun to brace ourselves for the inevitable – one day Phoebe would leave home.

But I must say things have happened quicker than even we could have imagined.

Phoebe and I were enjoying our morning coffee, chatting over our plans for the day, when I first heard the name Andrew McCann. Phoebe had some small errands to perform, she said. Then she was going to have lunch with Andrew.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Andrew who?’

Phoebe had this little smile playing about her mouth, seeing straight into my trying-not-to- appear-too-curious mind, knowing she was about to deliver a bombshell.

‘Andrew McCann, she said. ‘You know his parents. They go to Crossway.’

Well, I knew exactly who she was talking about. Peter and Cathy always sat on the left hand side, just in front of us when we went to Crossway. Cathy always helped at the Vermont Secondary College text book sales. Peter was on school council. Bec was Amy Comben’s friend. Dave used to be Seth’s Kids Church leader. Oh yes, I knew exactly who she was talking about. But unfortunately, I didn’t knew anything about Andrew McCann.'

‘Is this just a friendship,’ I asked. ‘Or something more?’

‘A bit more,’ Phoebe said, a little smile skipping across her face.

Well this was news! I was having trouble balancing my coffee. For some reason my hand was shaking.

‘What’s he studying?’ I asked, aiming for nonchalance.

‘He’s not studying, he’s working.’

‘Oh,’ I put the cup down. How old is he, then?

‘Twenty seven,’ Phoebe said, he smile breaking into a grin.

I kept my composure (until Phoebe left for lunch) then I raced out to the studio where my husband Andrew was working. ‘Phoebe’s got a boy friend,’ I said. ‘His name’s Andrew McCann, you know Peter and Cathy McCann’s son, he’s twenty seven, working, place in St Kilda – he’s got his own dog and everything.

Now I must say up front, neither Andrew nor I were worried about Andrews’s age. But its implication was not lost on us either. This was a young man from a loving family whose faith and values would match Phoebe’s, someone who would believe in marriage, someone whose younger brother and sister were, in fact, already married.

This could get serious pretty quickly.

We weren't at all worried about a small age difference. But I did wonder how I would relate to Andrew. I mean, I work with people who are twenty seven, they are my peers, my colleagues – this wasn’t a boyfriend, Phoebe had got herself – it was a man.

She might be old enough – but I wasn’t sure if I was.

Of course, I needn’t have worried. My first thought, on meeting Andrew, was: Oh, it's fine, he's just like one of my sons.

From the first, Andrew felt like a good fit in our family.

This is a sentiment Peter and Cathy have both echoed. When Cathy and I were talking on the phone last week, in preparation for tonight’s party Cathy said, she felt like Phoebe had completed their family. When I chatted to Peter about the speeches, I asked if there was anything in particular he wanted me to say on their behalf, he said, only that we’re delighted – absolutely thrilled.

I think that is the main thing we want to say tonight.

We are thrilled.

In Andrew, Phoebe has found a man who is honest, sensitive and kind, someone who will walk beside her on life’s journey. In Phoebe, Andrew has a young woman who is caring, compassionate and true. They will seek God together. Take their place as a couple in the life of the church and in the wider community.

Andrew, Peter and Cathy and I, are immensely proud of them. Of the choice they have made in each other, their belief that marriage is the framework in which they want to make that commitment, and that their relationship is part of their wider faith journey.

It is everything we would have wished for them.

I would therefore like to conclude this speech, by inviting Peter McCann, Andrew’s father to lead us in prayer. On our behalf, Peter will thank God for bringing Andrew and Phoebe together, and seek God’s continued blessing for their engagement and their marriage.

My big boast ...

Okay, here's the thing.

At Balwyn Library we have a magazine called the Writing Magazine. It's a British publication, and I read it avidly. It has articles on writing, short stories and competitions.

A few months ago, I entered one of these competitions. It's called the Bristol Short Story Prize. This year in 2009, they had 1,729 entries from around the world - and my story has made the shortlist!

Yes, that's right - and it's quite a short list.

I am in the top twenty.

Top twenty - do you hear that.

I am very excited - and scared! It is one thing to sit in your office and dream about being a writer - but now it is actually happening. Yikes!

My story is called: Beyond the Blackout Curtain. It is going to be published in a British anthology - I even won fifty pounds.

I am going to post the link here so you can all smile with me.

http://www.bristolprize.co.uk/2009/05/06/2009-longlist-announced/

From Wonthaggi

Here I am at Wonthaggi Library. I have 33 minutes Internet time remaining - so we will keep this brief.

Actually, I may get chucked out before my time because, quite frankly, I stink.

Why do I stink? I hear you ask. I am not going to tell you yet.

It is a hook - one of those clever writerly things.

I hope you keep reading.

I got down here about 3 pm Saturday. After shopping at Brentford Square, Safeway, I belted down the freeway singing. Actually, I didn't belt. My car isn't capable of belting. But I arrived, eventually, with my throat hoarse, set my computer up, loaded my food into the fridge and started writing. Yeah!

When dinner time came. I had an number of appetising choices. But I opted for fish.

As well as writing this week, I am doing the health thing. I had bought one block of chocolate - fair trade, of course - to last me the whole week.

I had my first piece at 4pm.

My second piece at 7pm (admirable restraint, you will all agree)

By bedtime the whole block was finished - yes, I know pitiful.

I brought a bottle of wine with me. I opened that at 5pm (sort of a family tradition)

But I didn't have any until 8pm because I wanted to be able to type straight.

I had one glass, followed by another and went to bed smashed!

Actually, that's a lie (but I always wanted to write it - one of those alter ego things).

I only had half a glass of wine and went to bed stone cold sober - Phoebe would be proud of me.

As I said, as well as writing, this is a health week. I have come up here to Curves in Wonthaggi. that is one of the reasons that I stink - but not the only reason.

So keep reading.

I also had to send a short story to the editors of a new Melbourne writers magazine [untitled]. They are going to publish my story and I have been busy re-writing sections. I'm completely snowed under by editorial deadlines.

Actually, that's a lie, too. The editor of [untitled] said there was no rush (but I always wanted to write the deadline thing).

I meant to go to Curves after my Internet session.

But I mistimed the journey and got lost in Wonthaggi (is that possible?).

So after a rigorous workout, I slunk into the library, stinking. I wouldn't smell so bad if last night, just after I went for a jog, a house pipe hadn't burst. If I hadn't had to turn the mains water off and go to bed without showering. If I hadn't got up this morning, to let the plumber in and, looking at the clock, thought no point showering before I go to the gym.

Yeah! That's right disgusting.

But here I am with 13 minutes remaining - and no one has kicked me out yet, although, for some reason the Internet room has emptied, rather suddenly.

Oh well, I wrote my blog, sent my story, now I'm going straight home. I am not even going to think about going into Safeway for another block of chocolate!

Are you proud of me? I am finished. With only seven minutes remaining.

Love actually ...

Hi, it's Biskit. I haven't blogged for a while.

But I have something to tell you. Something exciting. It is about my new friend: Mia McCann.

She is a Yorkshire terrier.

And she is very pretty!

Mia is Andy’s dog and Andy visits Phoebe quite often … and, the rest of the time, Phoebe visits Andy and, sometimes, when Andy comes to our house, he brings Mia.

I like it when Mia comes to visit. We run up and down, around, the house sniffing. We gambol in the garden, with our tongues hanging out, panting. We drink out of the same water bowl and stare through the glass doors waiting.

We are like peas and carrots, Mia and I, jelly and ice cream.

Yesterday, Liz told me some very good news – she said Mia is going to become part of the family. I wasn’t sure what she meant at first. Was she moving in? Was I moving out? Was it going to be one of those weekend access kind-of-things?

But now, I have it all sorted.

You see, I love Mia, and Mia loves Andy, and Andy loves Phoebe and he … has asked her to marry him.

Yes, that’s right.

Phoebe has a ring on her finger and a smile on her face. She is like a rose in spring, a wattle in winter, the soft red tipped new growth on a gum tree.

She is engaged.

This means Liz will be Andy’s mother-in-law and Andrew will be Andy’s father-in-law. It means Jack, Seth and Priya will get a new brother-in-law and, of course, Ness will still be the best daughter-in-law. But, most of all, it means Mia and I will be related.

It is, of course, a little sad because when Phoebe gets married she won’t live here anymore. She will live with Andy. When she gets up in the morning she will have coffee with Andy. When she goes for a walk it will be with Andy. When she goes home … it will be with Andy.

Liz says it’s ok, that she will visit … sometimes, that when she comes to visit, she will bring Mia. Sometimes they will stay for lunch. Then Mia and I will race up and down the house with our paws skidding on the wooden floorboards. We will go in and out in and out of the back door, not sure whether to run in the garden or to stay with the family. We will tussle over toys and stand by the laundry cupboard begging for treats.

We are like peaches and cream, Mia and I, brandy and pudding.

She is the soft centre in my Cadbury Roses, and the liquorice in my all-sorts. She is my meat, dry biscuits and my marrow-bone-jelly. She is eyes and ears and a furry tummy. I think about her all day, every and throughout the day. I couldn’t stop, even if I tried.

I think it’s love actually.

My 'almost' good news ...

Hello People,

I just wanted to share my 'almost' good news. I entered my Welsh wartime story into the Phoenix Park short story competition. It didn't get a place, but it was one of those competitions that offer an assessment for $6.00 extra. Well, I have just heard back from Stuart Reedy (my new best friend). Here is a summary of what he said:

It just missed out on being short-listed (yeah! or is that booh?)

He enjoyed the narrative voice

I captured the character's innocence

I used enough detail to create an authentic picture

Metaphors like, a Guy Fawkes without stuffing, gave the character a really unique voice and took the story and event beyond cliche

That I obviously had a good feel for my subject matter (thanks to Doug and Joyce fore their drives around Port Talbot).

Characters are well drawn

Dialogue covered accents and personalities well.

Dear, sweet wonderful man this Stuart Reedy (I could kiss him)!

Here is why it wasn't shortlisted:

The story didn't take off until after page two (ok, so it's only an eight and a half page story).

The early stages were not quite powerful enough to grab the reader.

That's all! Two itty bitty little pages.

I should be able to bust my brains and fix that up - then it's the Bridport for me!

LOL!

Responding to a phone call ...

I haven't posted in Cymraeg for a while.

I bet you thought I was slacking off.

But rest assured the pursuit of bilingual proficiency is still gyda fi - with me.

Last week I learned about how to respond to phone calls. Now this is a great relief because, when I grow up, I want to live in Wales.

I plan to work in a library.

Now, I am presuming old ladies are the same all over the world. That somewhere in Wales there is a library, like my current branch, that specialises in services to the antiquarian female of the species.

Just in case you are not familiar with the antiquarian female. They are renowned for worrying about their fines - even when their seniority makes them exempt. They chase up their reservations with terrier like tenacity. They also like to speak to their favourite librarian - which can be a problem when a library service employs a new phone system, and their call no longer goes to a specific branch.

But not to worry. Now I have done Gwers un deg tri - that's lesson 73, I reckon I am now employable anywhere in the Welsh speaking world.

Here is how I think it will go:

It is 10:01 am. The library opens at ten, and if the antiquarian female is not pacing up and down outside the library door, she will be on the phone.

Bore da, ga i'n siarad gyda Rhiannon, os gwelwch chi 'n dda? - Good Morning, may I speak to Rhiannon, please.

O (that's, Oh, in Welsh), mae Rhiannon yn mewn y cyfarfod, bore ma. Ga i chi helpu chi? - Oh, Rhiannon is in a meeting. Can I help you?

Nage, unig Rhiannon - no, only Rhiannon (you gotta hand it to the elderly, they are persistent).

Ga i ymryd neges? - May, may I take a message

Wel, dw i 'n eisiau yn gwybod a Rhiannon wedi ffeindio fy llyfr - Well, I want to know whether Rhiannon found my book.

Beth ydy y llyfr enw? - What is the name of the book?

Dw i 'n ddim yn cofio enw. Roedd e'n enw doniol - I don't know the name. It was a funny name.

Gadw Rhiannon yn llyfr i ti? - Did Rhiannon reserve the book for you?

Wel, dydw i ddim yn gwybod! Dw i 'n eisiau gofyn Rhiannon - well, I don't know! I want to ask Rhiannon.

Ydych ch yn cael y card llyfragel? - Do you have a library card?

Wrth gwrs! - Of course!

Fe fyddi di 'n darllen y rhif yn y card cefn, os gwelwch chi 'n dda? - Will you read the number on the card, please?

Here, you must bear in mind that I have had to repeat these quetions a number of times, in a very loud voice, but I am not sounding harrassed or impatient. I am impeccably polite. It is the first thing we learn in library school - especially in regard to old ladies.

O, mae 'n dau, sero, sero, wyth, pedwar, sero, sero, dau, pump, naw, un, pump, dau, saith - Oh, it is: 20084002591527

Ydy y llyfr enw y Guernsey literary ac tynnu croen taten cymdeithas? - Was the name of the book, the Guernsey literary and potato peel society?

Ydy enw yna! Sut oeddet ti 'n gwybod? - Yes, that's the name! How did you know?

Fe welais i 'n ar y cyfriadur - I looked on the computer.

Wel, dyna deallus! - Well, there's clever!

That's it folks, five minutes in the life of a bilingual libararian.

I will not tell you how long it took me to write that crisp and rivetting piece of dialogue. Nor will I let myself think of the possible number of mistakes, contained therein.

I will simply sit back and await lucrative job offers from all around Wales. I will probably get Llareggub (that's buggerall backwards, in case you were thumbing through your dictionary).

So I won't be giving up my daytime job, just yet.