The Wire

Te Deum

by Charles Reznikoff

Not because of victories I sing,

having none,

but for the common sunshine,

the breeze,

the largess of the spring.

Not for victory

but for the day's work done

as well as I was able;

not for a seat upon the dais

but at the common table.

What a weekend.  Soccer was rained out.  There were play dates galore, with children coming and going at such at a vigorous rate on Saturday I had to do a head count to check all mine had come home to roost and weren't stuck in some-else's pantry eating their way through packets of Smiths salt and vinegar chips and Pascall marshmallows, or still in the back seat of their car asleep. 

Into this busy thoroughfare, monumental piles of laundry and baskets of ironing threatened to spill over organically like a noxious creeper and trail up hallways and round corners.  I managed to wrestle a particularly imposing mound of school uniforms into submission, whereupon the Strong, Silent One, took over the task and had them lined up square and neat, military-style.  Creases don't mess with him.  I'm a bit slap-dash but his technique is impeccable.  Those shirt sleeves stand to attention and salute him.  Me, they make rude signs.  I have noticed, with some irritation, that he irons with the cord on the inside side of the ironing board (and leaves it there) while I iron with the cord on the side furthest away.  Maybe that's it.  Keep the cord close.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of his command over computer cables which distract him easily, slither out of his grip and go forth to multiply in the basement.  We have a museum-standard collection of netgear, modems, routers, cords and every imaginable adapter, yet still, unbelievably, we can be missing the ONE critical connection which would enable me, from my private retreat in the West Wing, to watch a bit of telly while ironing or occasionally hook my laptop to the network in peace and seclusion.

Coupled with this, we continue to have an intermittent problem with a particular fuse blowing and are seeking to isolate the problem by using different appliances from different power points on different circuits.  So there is an extremely elegant extension cord covered with a fine patina of dust and dried paint draped across the kitchen through a drawer to the underside of the cooktop at present, and we boil the kettle from point in the hallway off a fine-grade, pure wool, Turkish rug.  Through this higger-jiggery, hokery-pokery we hope to divine the errant wire and provide some mystical signs and symbols to guide the master electrician magician and his box of tricks. 

No wonder I'm highly strung.

Image: View from the back deck with silhouette of extant telegraph pole - a quaint feature of Old Canberra streetscapes from those pioneering days before cables were laid underground and ADSL ruled the waves.

Preparing for Winter: Ugg!

It's stripey tights and pink ugg boot weather.  However, the children are still content to wear short sleeved uniforms and summer PJs most of the time. It is unlikely there will be any stylish layering of clothes under puffy, hooded parkas accessorised with a jaunty scarf and gloves for my offspring even at the peak of winter. They run around so much and get so hot and bothered, that they simply start peeling clothes off and dumping them in stray puddles for 'some-one' to pick-up later.  

Little Wanna still wanders from the car park to the swimming pool in her swimmers and thongs, I'm abashed to say. It is undoubtedly starting to dawn on them that it's getting a trifle chilly outside on these late autumn evenings, especially with damp hair and no jacket, but they scoot fast and know that the car is warm inside. Off they race like mad things on a survivor challenge, with bare limbs waving about, and leap into their seats, buckle up and settle in for a toasty reading of Adults Only by Morris Glietzman or Beware of the Storybook Wolf read by Hugh Laurie, during the half-hour drive home.

It will officially be winter next week and the start of the birthday bonanza period in our house punctuated by Term 2 holidays.  This means we will have to wrangle with the idea of a home party or two or three.  This does not come naturally to me.  I am, sadly, not a capable party planner mother who can assemble immaculate table spreads, with crafty banners and pom-pom balls suspended from the ceiling, nor can I devise clever, thematic games which keep every child completely entranced and well-behaved.  It invariably ends up a schmozzle.

 

The "Children's Birthday Party" as a Western social construct is interesting phenomena loaded with emotion, driven by commercial interests and replete with complex protocols.  It induces in me a state of high anxiety.  Like pink ugg boots and swimmers in winter, I expect we will find our own style and work out some sort of celebration which will leave happy memories without having to resort to a fun parlour or other effortless, but slightly impersonal, outsourced party service. This is my June challenge.

Walk to Work: Parliament from the playground

Laws are like sausages, it is better not to see them being made.

Otto von Bismarck

The Parliament House site covers 32 hectares of Capital Hill; one of the hills around which Walter Burley Griffin designed Canberra in 1912. The building occupies 15 percent of this site.

• The building is 300 metres long and 300 metres wide. It is one of the largest buildings in the southern hemisphere.
• Parliament House was built to last at least 200 years.
• There are 8,340 spaces in the building including about 4,700 rooms and 2,700 clocks.
• Australian materials are used throughout 90 percent of the building.
• The building cost approximately 1.1 billion dollars.
• The underground car parks hold up to 2,000 cars.
• A multi-channel television and radio station broadcasts proceedings of the Parliament from both chambers and committee rooms.
• The building has two libraries; one a reading library, the other a research library for the benefit of answering questions on most topics from members and senators.

Jeepers, most days we just think of it as a radical sculptural backdrop to the playground, echo-ing the bare branches of the winter trees. A spindly, space-age launch pad, an inverted umbrella frame, a Hills Hoist in a storm.
 
I do hope we get our 200 years worth out of it.
 
This is another view from my morning gambol to work. It's quite amazing to think the seat of power buried beneath a mound of grass, encircled by bitumen, with a large flagpole stuck on top. Residents just go round it.  I rarely cross its threshold - I don't like the whiff of Ministerial leather and the marmoreal chill of the place.  Thankfully, I can telecommute there if necessary without having to have my bags and person scanned.  Much better to appreciate it from the playground.

Scientific Proof: The Solar System

"Fifty-five crystal spheres geared to God's crankshaft is my idea of a satisfying universe. I can't think of anything more trivial than quarks, quasars, big bangs and black holes." — Tom Stoppard (1937- ), Czech-born British dramatist.

Scientific Proof

   by J W Foley

If we square a lump of pemmican

And cube a pot of tea,

Divide a musk ox by the span

From noon to half-past three;

If we calculate the Eskimo

By solar parallax,

Divide the sextant by a floe

And multiply the cracks

By nth-powered igloos, we may prove

All correlated facts.

If we prolongate the parallel

Indefinitely forth,

And cube a sledge till we can tell

The real square root of North;

Bisect a seal and bifurcate

The tangent with a pack

Of Polar ice, we get the rate

Along the Polar track,

And proof of corollary things

Which otherwise we lack.

If we multiply the Arctic night

By X times ox times moose,

And build an igloo on the site

Of its hypotenuse;

If we circumscribe an arc about

An Arctic dog and weigh

A segment of it, every doubt

Is made as clear as day.

We also get the price of ice

F. O. B. Baffin's Bay.

If we amplify the Arctic breeze

By logarithmic signs,

And run through the isosceles

Imaginary lines,

We find that twice the half of one

Is equal to the whole.

Which, when the calculus is done,

Quite demonstrates the Pole.

It also gives its length and breadth

And what's the price of coal.

Exhibit A: Plasticine model of solar system by Charley, resident expert on Neptune (flagged), displayed, fittingly, on a Black Galaxy granite kitchen benchtop.

Exhibit B: Plasticine model of the planet Earth by Charley with map of Australia showing location of Canberra probably a little too far North more in the vicinity of Brisbane which would be a nice change at this time of year.

Walk to Work: The Old School Yard

Remember the days of the old schoolyard

We used to laugh a lot, oh don't you

Remember the days of the old schoolyard

When we had imaginings and we had

All kinds of things and we laughed

And needed love... yes, I do

Oh and I remember you.

I walked part-way to work today and captured some images which will always hold special memories for our family.  This has been our beat for many, many years.  It is an area where the secular school yard rubs up against politics and religion.  There's Presbyterian, Uniting and Serbian Orthodox churches, a Jewish Centre, the federal parliament, the bureaucracy, commercial offices, tourist accomodation and an Italian Club.   A splendid mix. 

For a young city with few historic sites, I am always glad to see the neo-Gothic spires of the Presbyterian Chuch of St Andrew on State Circle. It brings a bit of soft olde worldliness to an otherwise stark modern built environment. The foundation stone was laid by the Governor-General, Rt. Hon Lord Stonehaven in November 1929 and it was officially opened in September 1934, albeit incomplete, due to the Depression. 

It was once a towering centrepiece of the Canberra landscape back in the days when sheep roamed the plains.  Now it is dwarfed by modern buildings in the name of progress. Not that you can really tell from the old school yard.

Lyrics by Cat Stevens

Photo by me and St Andrew's

By unions married: a sonnet for piano and headphone

Sonnet 8: Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

       William Shakespeare

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,

Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,

By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,

Resembling sire and child and happy mother,

Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing;

Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,

Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt prove none."

Why did it take me so long to discover head phones for the digital piano* we hire?

Now Little Wanna can also 'practice' as much she wishes, Ro-Ro can goof off playing DJ with the synthesised sound effects and Charley can improvise to her heart's content - without frying my nerves. Magic.

*In anticipation of graduating to a far more dignified ebony Yamaha upright should there be an evident commitment to music lessons. Why are digital pianos and keyboards sooo ugly? Here's another design challenge for an enterprising creative type.

Farewell Apple Isle

...and so we say farewell to Tasmania - the Apple Isle.

  

Location: Devonport, Bass Strait (Latitude: 28° 26' 60 S, Longitude: 136° 22' 60 E)

Transport: Spirit of Tasmania II by by Kvaerner Masa-Yards,Finland, 1998

Accommodation: Four person cabin and one unused Ocean View Recliner

Destination: Port Phillip Bay

Time: First minutes of an 11 hour overnight ferry journey

Stowaway: Tasmanian Devil. The largest living marsupial carnivore, synthetic, Made in China

Mood: Sad, reflective

Stomach: OK, so far.

Doing cartwheels

A lifetime of training for just ten seconds!

        Jesse Owens, American Olympic sprinting gold medalist.

There are some children who can automatically hurl themselves into cartwheels and do so with ease, spinning and whirling along the grass, and others who just don't get it.  My lot are the latter with their 'solid bones' and a strong, natural preference for staying upright. 

Until they saw other children cartwheel, it had never even occurred to them that feet could be lifted so far off the ground or that trunk and limbs together could be propelled upwards against gravity. 

The best my three little puddings can do is tumble off the armrest of the big,old leather lounge or launch into some pretend gymnastic manoeuvre on their beds, and even then, we're lucky some-one hasn't cracked their skull. Thankfully, it usually just ends in a fit of the giggles.

As I am completely incapable of demonstrating the moves, sharing this ineptitude with them as I do or rather, having granted it to them as their shonky genetic inheritance, I have located the instructions for a front-to-back cartwheel, as follows, in the slim hope that we can master the moves with a little know-how, sheer determination and practice.  Let's begin.

1. Stand in a lunge; your "favorite" leg in front, knee bent slightly, arms up by your ears.
2. Reach forward with your right arm, kicking your left leg up as you do so.
3. The left hand should follow very quickly, and as it touches the ground, your right leg should be off of the ground also.
4. You should pass through a straddle handstand briefly. Your left leg will reach the ground first, followed by the right, which you will place in back, finishing in a lunge, just as you started, but with the opposite leg in front.
5. The trick, really, is the rhythm of the skill, which is 1,2,3,4, or "hand, hand, foot, foot", and getting through vertical. Most gymnasts tend to kick around the side when they are first learning this skill.

Oh, well now, that's cleared it up. (!?) In truth, we still can't get past the bit that says 'kicking your left leg up'.

Up?

Image: Pop Art Machine

Book Illustrator: Lynne Chapman

Major excitement. 

Following my recent review of the 2001 children's picture book, Big, Bad Wolf is Good, I blithely contacted the illustrator, Lynne Chapman, to let her know how fond we were of her illustrations and to declare that I had copied images from her book on my blog, when, lo and behold, she replied last night.  That is me, above, leaping in my PJs.

I have nothing but admiration for book illustrators of any type and from any era - children's literature, anatomical text books, histories, cook books, atlases, architectural guides, maintenance manuals, encyclopaedias and field guides to the birds of Australia. You name it. They are the real working artists, the tradesmen. They just quietly go about their anonymous ways, creating small masterpieces for mass reproduction which are accessible to every-one and put to immensely practical use... like, in Ms Chapman's case, learning to read.

This is functional, nut and bolts, art for every-day use. The works become stained with coffee, wine rings, lemonade spills, splashes of dish water, gravy blobs and baby's dribble. The corners of their images are creased, pages torn and margins filled with hand-written notations.  They are lugged about inside and out.  No vast canvasses and brooding temperaments (well, maybe some), no opening nights, curators, critics, dealers, dimmed lights or freight in thermostatically controlled crates.

Now that I have enthused over the these unrecognised and undervalued artists, let me tell you more about the lively Ms Chapman of Sheffield who has the most charming dimples, a pair of very fancy new spectacles and an outstanding collection of novelty socks, not to mention a huge talent. 

Her website and blog contain abundant examples of her sketches and final illustrations, as well as fascinating information and step-by-step images to explain the book design process for those of us who have absolutely no idea of what is involved behind the scenes.  Not only that, but there are exquisite sketches of people and places, on buses and in waiting rooms, and from her holiday travels. 

That she should draw some characters from her imagination in pencil and pastel, and have them published in a book which ends up on my shelves on the other side of the world, to be read often to three children for almost a decade, then become a real person at the other end of the computer is astounding and thrilling.  Isn't it!

Just wait until I tell the children. We must work our way through her entire collection before they grow up, and learn more about the art of book illustration and the people who work as illustrators.

Image by Lynne Chapman
Her blogs: An Illustrator's Life For Me! and The Picture Gallery

Who's cooking did you say?

Now the drovers cook weighed 15 stone
 and he had one bloodshot eye,

He had no laces in his boots
 and no buttons on his fly.

His pants hung loosely round his hips,
hitched by a piece of wire,

And they concertinaed round his boots,
in a way that you'd admire.

Well he stuck the billy on the boil
and then emptied out his pipe,

And with his greasy shirt sleeve,
he gave his nose a wipe.

And with pipe in mouth he mixed a sod
and a drip hung from his chin,

As he mixed the damper up,
the drip kept dripping in.

I walked quietly over to him
and I said "toss that mixture out,

And in future when you're working
 keep your pipe out of your mouth".

Ooh he stood erect and eyed me,
 with such a dirty look,

And he said in choice Australian,
"Get another bloody cook".

~

Another night, another meal.  What to do?  Really just not in the mood. Avocado on toast. Omelette.  Heinz Big and Chunky Butter Chicken.  Sorry Bill, Stephanie. Just can't look another ingredient or kitchen utensil in the eye.

Poem by Thomas John Quilty

Illustration by Quentin Blake

My Molly Moon

Charley will turn 10 in August. She's a beautiful, easy-going soul, very attuned to other people's feelings and able to break through the most irresponsive and grumpy disposition and sweeten the foulest of moods, including my dinner-time rants and the regular indignant outbursts by her little sister - a godsend to a mother and a gift to a sibling.

 She's not a girly-girl. Her hair is either bunched in a ponytail or loosely side-parted. Long denim shorts or black legging and T-shirts are her preferred dress for all occasions.  She'd rather swim and go on adventures than shop or fuss with frills and potions. She plays soccer not netball. She won't wear a watch or do her nails or carry a bag or wear a jumper unless it's sub-zero. She relishes slap-stick humour and has her generation's easy affinity with new technology - happy as a clam with small screens, scroll buttons, arrow keys and animation.

Her very favourite book character at the moment is Molly Moon - orphan, a time traveler, master hypnotist, mind reader and eponymous heroine of five stories by British author, Georgia Byng.

Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism

Molly Moon Stops the World

Molly Moon's Hypnotic Time Travel Adventure

Molly Moon, Micky Minus and the Mind Machine

and the latest release, grabbed with glee from the book shelves of Big W, 

Molly Moon and the Morphing Mystery.

According to one reviewer, they are profoundly moral children's stories about exploitation, character, and learning to care for people.

Perhaps Charly sees something of herself in Molly; I think I do.

Books by Georgia Byng

Sunday Pudding with Mr Granger

Sunday night pudding.  This week it was individual cups of luscious, rich, mahogany, chocolate self-saucing pudding courtesy, once again, of self-taught, Sydney chef, Bill Granger.  A similar recipe is in Stephanie Alexander's bible which has exactly the same ingredients but the quantities differ and it is made in a pie dish.  We loved Bill's separate serves, although we halved the quantities into smaller tea cups.  Not only does the pudding look intriguing in cup-cake miniature, rising and cracking at it does above the rim, and somewhat Dali-esque, but Bill's method quarantines the pudding into manageable portions and discourages seconds.  I need all the discipline I can muster to resist carving off a another sliver, so this is the perfect antidote.

It is an odd ensemblage though. After having mixed a thoroughly smooth batter, you are required to top with a brown sugar and cocoa mixture, and pour a small amount of boiling water over the top before slipping it into the oven.  I have to confess I had to read it twice, and checked with reliable Stephanie, thinking at first that the the water was intended to be put in a pan surrounding the dish.  But no.  Boiling water over batter it was, and 20 minutes later it was transformed into a lava-like sauce bubbling underneath.

The pudding was, naturally, a hit.

The beaters and bowl were licked 'shiny as a whistle', to quote Wanna, aged five.

Ro-Ro, who put on a comical performance depicting some-one being poisoned when he had to eat a cherry tomato for lunch earlier in the day, managed to guzzle the lot before you could blink.

Charly, who is more moderate in her consumption of sweets, was stumped.

This is not everyday food and should come with a health warning, but nothing beats chocolate pud for adding some theatrics to an ordinary Sunday family meal.   

Recipe instructions: Bill's Food, Murdoch Books, 2002.

Afro-Carribean musical accompaniment: Si No Hubiera Negros, Artist: Eva Ayllon, Lif Diversions, 2008, playing on ABC Radio National Music Deli, 14 May 2010.

B-Well Report: Sunday Stroll Around This Old Town

Finaly did it. Went for a morning walk around the neighbourhood.  Took my two 'pedometers' with me to count every step, and impede my progress as it became less of an opportunity for exercise and more of an exploration.  But that's OK.  It was a morning for company. 

We took turns deciding 'which way to go' at corners and intersections. That was fun, adding an element of unpredictability to the ramble.

We went down the hill around the corner.

Stopped at every playground we found.  Tired and run-down specimens though they were to my adult eyes, and only marginally more acceptable to the children who didn't wish to linger too long. 

 

 

This city, which celebrates it centenary in 2013, could do much to revitalise its neighbourhoood playscapes, many of which haven't had a touch-up since they were originally built around 50-60 years ago. How about launching 'a 100 playgrounds in a 100 days' over the year as a commemorative gift to the people? It always amazes me that local authorities cite budget constraint as a reason to neglect public spaces. In times of unemployment and economic woe, surely urban revitalisation projects would contribute to generating jobs, attracting volunteeer workers and lifting community spirit.

Notwithstanding these gripes, it is a splendid Autumn in these parts and the city views from high vantage points are always dreamy.  A quintessential Australian landscape over the Monaro plains.

Like an ageing movie star, Canberra is best viewed through a filtered lens and at a distance.

Old age ain't no place for sissies. ~Bette Davis

Inspiration: B-Well Report

Poolside

I always felt that if I made a movie, it would be one movie; I didn't see how they could make 26 swimming movies.

 Esther Williams

Regular Friday night ritual. Swimming lessons.

Always a rush. We hurtle into the hot, moist conservatory, air plump with chlorine and the hum of voices.  Dump bags, kick off shoes, fuss over caps and strap on goggles.  The children disperse to separate lanes and greet their water-logged instructors. 

Lessons have been miraculously scheduled to start at the same time, but end at fifteen minute intervals. There is a blissful thirty minute lull when I am still, perched on a hard ledge, eyes flitting between classes, smiling encouragingly and giving thumbs up signs when our glances collide.  Broad grins, eager faces and smooth, shiny bodies.

Their strokes are still uncoordinated and self-conscious. Arms are rigid and tense, movements jerky.  Hands hit the water like paddles.  Kicking is loose-limbed, the water turbulent in their wake.  This is a skill to be acquired through method and practice.  But in their free play, they duck dive to the bottom and swirl like seals.

So it goes on.  Week by week, as they gradually master the techniques, gain strength and speed. I'd like to take a book and read, or make lists like other parents do.  Do something useful with the time or simply stare into the middle distance lost in my own thoughts.  But it's captivating to witness their incremental progress.  It would be a shame to miss it. 

It's also amusing from my poolside position to pick winners.  That is, to search for and locate the natural swimmers.  The long, slim ones who float to the top full-length and glide along the surface with ease, as if the water offered no resistance at all.   Good swimming is an artistic performance.  All the pool's a stage.

Just a bit off the back and sides thanks

This bird has a seriously 'happening' hair-do.

You just have to giggle at nature sometimes. As awesome as it is, the greatness can be overwhelmed by the ridiculous. Some sort of evolutionary gag, like the genomes ganged up and pinned a silly label on a species' back.  Here's a poor duck creature with a blonde, bouffant number (at one of the most appalling excuses for a zoo that we visited - not that I am a fan of zoos at the best of times - and which shall remain nameless in my Tasmanian travelogue for obvious reasons).   My, how we laughed.  We are now ever on the look out for interesting and unusual - as Kath Day-Knight would put it, avian hair styles. Have noticed a retro-punk movement among turtle doves this season and magpies paying homage to The Fonz. 

By Wood and Wold: Richmond Bridge.

No.  Not Richmond, Surrey.  Or Richmond, Virginia.  This is Richmond, Tasmania. 

Everyone, just everyone, who visits Tasmania is obligated to go through Richmond on the Coal River to view Australia’s oldest bridge, built by convict labour between 1823 and 1825, and take loads of photographs and buy sticky home-made edibles and kitch craft.  We flew through the village on a Road-runner fast drive from Hobart to Devonport in a day.  Only time enough to feed the ducks, wander along the bank and play in a willow tree cubby house. Beep-beep.  We're off.

Two-thirds of our journey at least are done,

Old horse! let us take a spell

In the shade from the glare of the noon-day sun,

Thus far we have travell'd well;

Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth,

And lay them beside this log,

For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth,

And shake like a water dog.

Poem Ye Wearie Wayfarer: 1. By Wood and Wold by Adam Lindsay Gordon.

Can we get a penguin?

 Alex the Lion: The wild? Are you nuts? That is the worst idea I have ever heard!

Melman the Giraffe: It's unsanitary!

Marty the Zebra: The penguins are going, so why can't I?

Alex the Lion: Marty, the penguins are psychotic.

Skipper the Penguin: You! Higher mammal, can you read?

Private the Penguin: Skipper... don't you think we should tell them that the boat's out of gas?

Skipper the Penguin: Naah... just smile and wave, boys; smile and wave.

Skipper the Penguin: [on arriving at Antarctica] Well, this sucks!

In this bird-loving household, penguins are right up there.  They are not everyday birds like the flocks of sulphur-crested cockatoos which graze unhurried on the footpaths around our neighbourhood, but their habits are oddly and endearingly familiar, being, as they are, flightless and aquatic. We get them!  We'd like to spend half our time on land and the other half swimming too. Badly.

Furthermore, their plumage is as sharp and neat as a Canberra business suit.  Their waddle is amusing but upright, more like ours first thing in the morning, than, say, a pigeon strutting or willie wagtail hopping.  And I'm with Skipper, Rico, Kowalski, and Private, who spend their days planning an escape that will take them back to Antarctica... in my case, anywhere by the sea. 

The Penguins of Madagascar: Operation: DVD Premiere is our pick for Friday Night, Movie Night this week.

Backpack by Skip Hop Zoo
Book borrowed from the Kingston Library
Logo designed in 1935 for Penguin Books
Dialogue from the script of Madagascar

Bonus list of the top 25 picture books with penguins at Listopia.

A Whimsical Pair

Mr Kartoffel

Mr Kartoffel's a whimsical man;

He drinks his beer from a watering can,

And for no good reason that I can see

He fills his pockets with china tea.

He parts his hair with a knife and fork

And takes his ducks on a Sunday walk.

Says he, "If my wife and I should choose

To wear our stockings outside our shoes,

Plant tulip bulbs in the baby's pram

And eat tobacco instead of jam

And fill the bath with cauliflowers,

That's nobody's business at all but ours."

Says Mrs. K., "I may choose to travel

With a sack of grass or a sack of gravel,

Or paint my toes, one black, one white,

Or sit on a bird's nest half the night -

But whatever I do that is rum or rare,

I rather think that is my affair.

So fill up your pockets with stamps and string,

And let us be ready for anything!"

Says Mr. K. to his whimsical wife,

"How can we face the storms of life,
Unless we are ready for anything?

So if you've provided the stamps and the string,

Let us pump up the saddle and harness the horse

And fill him with carrots and custard and sauce,

Let us leap on him lightly and give him a shove

And it's over the sea and away, my love!"

Marriage is great.  It's been my salvation. My husband is one of those strong, silent types. The perfect foil for my reactive, shoot-from-the-hip personality.  We are very complementary.  He's methodical, I rush. He's function, I'm form.  He finishes things, I start them.  We're both a bit whimsical.

Poem by James Reeves

Penguin creation by Little Wanna

Photo by me

Budget Night

 

We contend that for a nation to try to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket and trying to lift himself up by the handle.

Winston Churchill

Budget Night 2010. The secrecy. The announceables. The speech. The packages of measures. Landmark Reforms. In the National Interest. For all "Orstrayans".

Think of the small army of public servants who wrestle with big numbers into the wee hours, and overnight on occasion, rounding up the zeros under the glare of the fluorescent lights and by the soft glow of the computer terminal.  Fuelled by instant coffee and ordered-in Turkish or Thai.

Wandering out when the job is done, for another day/night, to empty car parks, save for a few other stray vehicles there in the dark, surrounded by fog, windscreens frozen, dew on the bonnet. 

Home to chill, silent houses where children squirm under covers and snuffle gently. Padding inside, jacket rustling, when a voice murmurs from the bedroom, "Is that you?"

And you are not entirely sure because your head is full of tables and columns holding aloft the fiscal strategy and outlook like a Jenga tower. 

It's pure wizardry.  At a keystroke, some will gain and others lose, but we'll "all be better off".

Cartoons by Tiedemann  and Nicholson

B-Well Report: Making a meal of it

I resurrected the cookbooks on the weekend and made a Bill Granger sticky date pudding with butterscotch sauce.  A bit old hat now, I know, but it was eagerly and appreciately devoured by my little tribe with delicious curls of Streets Blue Ribbon ice cream.  Which is more than can be said for the slow-cooked lamb shanks.

I was such a great family dining moment, with all of us round the table, our faces glowing with shared pleasure, that I thought it would fun be to make a new pudding every Sunday during Winter. While this may sound like a Very Bad Idea in this forum, in fact, the promise of something special to cook and share with family helps me apply discipline during the rest of the week. A bit like the practice of sitting down to eat and using the good china and proper utensils. Making food a celebration and attaching some degree of formality to it, rather than something to snatch on the run.

The same applies to my dire habit of eating a sandwich at my desk in front of the computer I am shackled to for hours and hours and hours every day. I could certainly make more of my lunch break than I do, without dropping crumbs into the keyboard or crunching audibly on a Pink Lady.  (Then there is the eternal problem of what to pack in each child's lunchbox that will be nourishing and actually eaten, but that's another challenge.)

Imagine how much more impressive a food journal would sound if each meal read like a menu from a best-selling cookbook... and not a forensic list of week-old fridge left-overs.

Chicken paillard with rocket and cherry tomatoes
Pasta e fagioli

Crips skin salmon with sweet chilli dressing

Orange sweet potato, labne and rocket salad

Pumpkin roasted hazlenut and feta salad

Peach melba

 
That's going to be my approach this week.  ...and I think we shall have two course dinners on Sunday (exercising portion control, of course).  The recipe books might be getting a workout at last.
 
With thanks to Debra and Jeanne for pricking my conscience and helping to maintain my enthusiasm for making subtle lifestyle changes, or at least contemplating them.

In the clink

The rows of cells are unroofed,

a flute for the wind’s mouth,

who comes with a breath of ice

from the blue caves of the south.

Mid-summer 2010, we continued our journey circumnavigating Tasmania by driving down to The Port Arthur Historic Site in South-West Tasmania.  It was surprisingly good fun... for convict ruins.  The outfit is extremely well presented with interpretive displays, organised activities for children and live theatre. 

Here we are making bricks the old fashioned way.

The Port Arthur prison system was described as a ‘machine for grinding rogues into honest men’. 

We spent the entire day exploring the furnished period homes, including the Commandant’s House, Parsonage, Trentham Cottage and Junior Medical Officer’s quarters as well as the historic buildings and ruins of the Penitentiary, Barracks, Guard Tower and military precinct, Hospital, Paupers’ Depot and Asylum. It is a fascinating complex, impeccably restored in a beautiful setting, and yet another reminder of our less than salubrious past.

Here we are doing some excavating.

Not so much as a dinosaur bone, until Ro-Ro found a few shards of glass.

Dr. Henry Walton "Indiana" Jones, Jr.

Poem, The Old Prison by Judith Wright
Source: Port Arthur Historic Site

Making memories

"Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly."

Ambrose Bierce.

  Women know the way to rear up children (to be just)

They know a simple, merry, tender knack

Of tying sashes, fitting baby shoes,

And stringing pretty words that make no sense,

And kissing full sense into empty words.

~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

There never was a child so lovely but his mother wasn't glad to get him asleep.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Totally indulged, today I was, by my three little sweeties and the Strong, Silent One. 

This mothering business is a huge undertaking for individuals so untutored, but the way I see it, there is no right or wrong way to go about it.  You do your best under your own, unique circumstances.  Comparisons are futile and before you know it, the baby-toddler-child has grown up and there is an an enormous space and silence in the house. 

So, I resolve to make more mess and noise, and to work on creating happy memories, for us, our way. 

For memories, in the end, may be all we have. 

With thanks to my lovelies for the memories today, and every day.

 ...and in memory of my beloved Mum and the good times we had and the glorious messes we made. 

Books Bought and Borrowed: Children

... "If you don't stop being silly this minute," he roared, "I will eat you, so there!"...

One of our all time favourite books, read incessantly, and repeatedly in the one sitting, is Simon Puttock's Big, Bad Wolf is Good, (Koala Books, 2001).  The story seeks to redeem the reputation of wolves by introducing us to one particular wolf who sets forth to be good, and helpful, and to do a noble deed, in order to gain some friends.  This is not, however, rather predictably, an easy quest. On each successive attempt, the object of his good intentions shoos him away not trusting a self-styled, reformed wolf. The mother goose, chicken and duck and their broods all rush inside their houses, slam the door and make faces through the window chanting "Big Bad Wolf, stay away and DON'T come back another day!" 

Children love the repetitive element of the narrative with its parallel to the classic The Three Little Pigs. They understand the wolf-as-villian stereotype but sympathise with our wolf's innocent frustration. In the end, he proves he's really just a big, old softie when he comes across tearful, lost duckling Number Five and scoops him up and takes him home unharmed.  Mrs Duck is forced to acknowled his noble deed and invites him in for tea, where he has a rollicking good time playing with the ducklings and savouring his newly formed friendship.  A satisfying, happy ending.

The illustrations by British artist, Lynne Chapman, really make the book.  The pastel drawings are crisp and comical, the colours bright and appealing. The cartoon-style characters are endearing.  For pre-schoolers and early readers the visual element of a  book is key to their enjoyment and this book cleverly marries text and image so that children are also capable of  'reading' it to themselves.

We so enjoyed this book, that we hunted out others by the charming, Edinbugh-based Mr Puttock and discovered there are more than thirty which look equally as delicious. 

My overactive imagination, after the umpteenth reading and over three childhoods, has started to muse on the possibility of a romantic sequel. Mrs Duck, the single parent, and her unlikely suitor. There are certain to be literary archetypes or leading man-leading lady stock characters which could be exploited, and the two ARE last seen in an affectionate embrace.

The character of the villanous Big Bad Wolf (BBW) originates in several folkloric stories, including some of Aesop's Fables and Grimm's Fairy Tales.  In 1933, the BBW made his Disney film debut as a properly rounded character and went on to appear seven more times, never, of course, learning his lesson.

Source: Disney Archives