Strange interludes

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 ...

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

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

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. :-)

Corbett family Christmas letter

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

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.