Solar, Kitchen or Ski juggling act part 1

I broached the subject of solar power this morning (Mothers' Day) with The Minister of War and Finance.

I've been looking into installing a 1.5kW system on our heavily shaded roof. The guys over at Sydney Energy Cooperative have been very helpful with quoting and providing efficiency information. After RECs the system will cost us about $6000.



Back to this morning...

After the discussion over eggs Benedict I think I have the following options.

1. No solar power but new kitchen and ski trip to Whistler*.
2. No kitchen until mid next year but have solar power & trip to whistler.
3. Kitchen, solar power but no ski trip to Whistler in January.
4. STFU** and eat my eggs***.

Upon reflection, I think she said the "3. Kitchen, solar power but no ski trip to Whistler in January." was out of the question. I seem to remember too that there was a stern look to go with it.

I think option "2. No kitchen until mid next year but have solar power & trip to whistler." is the way to go.

Problem is, the kitchen needs a new cooker and the one I want is about $2500.00. To repair the existing one is $800.00 but if I am going option 2. then the $800.00 is a waste for just one year. But to install the new cooker means destroying half the kitchen. Chicken and the egg. Bummer. Looks like I might have to work on option 5. half a new kitchen and solar power and trip to Whistler.

*A once in a lifetime trip; well, twice in a lifetime but the first was a long time ago.
** She didn't really say that on account she doesn't swear, but you get my drift.
*** Actually, I had the mushrooms, she had the eggs.

Way, a dead cat and a spider

Watson, a blue Persian cat (friend of Holmes a blue point Siamese), was found deceased in a driveway of a neighbours home. The poor Minister of the Dark Arts was most distressed; it being her cat and all. Anyway, it was up to yours truly to inter the recently-alive in the back yard. Unfortunately, for all of Sydney's good weather, winter can be pretty yucky. And so it was that I was to be found at night, during a cold winter, in light rain, trying to free up some of the yard for the ex-pet.
Now, I am sure you can picture me negotiating our steep block of un-cleared land while balancing the umbrella in the crook of my neck, holding the torch under one arm, using the shovel with spare hands and tottering on one leg to dig. Watson, dearly departed, was wrapped in a towel on the ground to one side.
It was pretty miserable in anyone's book.

It only got worse with the appearance of Funnel Web spider.

I am a grown-up male armed with a shovel, a torch and an umbrella therefore I should be able to do away with a deadly spider, rudely woken on a wet night, right?

Wrong.

The hurried and frantic slamming of the shovel onto the spider was, at best, inconclusive.

I didn't have closure. He was gone. Not dead. Not alive and cross. Just "gone".

I struck a pretty hard, if panicky, blow but he was nowhere to be seen from whence he sprang legs akimbo in attack mode. The sudden realisation that he might be squished on the shovel struck me with a shock, you see, I had raised the shovel near to my face ready for a second blow. In true Hollywood horror movie style I slowly turned my head toward the danger, half expecting to see the monster on the shovel ready to strike just as I scream. With heart pounding I quickly put the shovel in the light. Uh huh, not there either.

Panic.

Spider dance.

Wild torchlight flashing in bushes, in the rain, at night, in winter. And a grown man going "oh" "ah" "eee" "eww oww".

All the time there's a dead cat who's obviously remaining at peace.

I can't locate the spider! Dead or alive! Panic! I've got to find him or he could crawl over me!

I calmed down, eventually, and with no spider to be seen I carried on digging with occasional quick torch-glances around my feet. The rain worsened. I never got on with Watson. Holmes was my cat, and Watson knew I had favourites. Sort of teachers pet pet. Anyway, I'm thinking this cat, past tense as he is, is having the last laugh.

The deed was done. Dr Watson was safely buried in a nice spot, albeit among a funnel web spider's nest, but a nice spot, if a little hastily done under the circumstances.

It was then, as I gathered one last look around for the spider, that headlines flashed through my mind. With my constitution, I'd probably faint if I were bitten by this brute. I'd collapse right there and then. SWMBO wasn't home yet, so I might be there long enough to slip into a coma. What would they make of the scene? A torch, an umbrella, a shovel, one dead white male, one dead cat. Headlines: "Man killed by dead cat. Scotland Yard baffled"

I've changed my name.

Every five years I have to renew my driver's license. So, on the 1462nd day, yes a day late, I trot down to the local RTA office to do the deed.
I take a ticket, fill in the form, for the second time... I've lost the one that came in the mail, sit and wait. There's a few security cameras about because I can see myself on a screen hanging from the ceiling.




The form asks you if you need spectacles to drive. I've been wearing glasses for about 10 years but I've always passed the eye-sight test. So far.
However, as with most people, my eyesight is getting worse. Albeit, slowly. I am not too sure if I need glasses to drive and not too sure how to go about finding out. Do I tick the "No I don't wear glasses" box? If I do and I fail the test what do I do? Will I have to re-fill-in the form? Get back in the queue? Get in trouble for lying on the form? Will the RTA teller call someone if I fail the eye-sight test? This paranoia is much more entertaining than simply sitting there watching my seated-self reappear on the security screen in it's endless rotation.
I decide to wear my glasses and hang the pride and inconvenience. It's unlikely I'll get pulled over when I am not wearing them anyway, but the risk is there because my sunglasses aren't prescription. I can see fine without glasses but bare eyes are a little uncomfortable.

"Ticket number A184 please go to window 7" calls the automated voice-lady. I'm up.
And wearing my glasses.

I hand over the form and my "current" driver's license.

The teller taps away, then frowns, then taps away some more.

I didn't have glasses for my last license, and now I do, so is she confused?

"Mr Wayfarer* have you changed your name?"
"um.. no."
I wasn't expecting that. The RTA has had me on file for 30 years. They're supposed to be worried about my eyesight not my name.
"It says here your name is Mr Clayton-Wayfarer"
"Um.. "Clayton** is my second middle name. My Surname is Wayfarer"
"Well, in here the computer says your name is Clayton-Wayfarer; with a hyphen"
I show her a credit card; "See, no hyphen. Just Wayfarer"
"Well, you're going to have trouble if you leave it like that. Your identification won't match. You'll have to fill out a change-of-name form and bring in your birth certificate."
I'm thinking to myself I'm already without a current license, I'm really busy at work and can't afford the time for a second visit, God knows where my birth certificate is, and this is so wrong.
"It's not my fault your computer is confused! I've never changed my name; there's a glitch."
"I can't ignore the name change now that I've seen it, I'll get into trouble." she says.
She hands me the form and I look down at it despondently coloured with resignation... can't fight bureaucracy . Oh bother.
"Oh, hang on" she says. "It just fixed itself"
I raise an eyebrow at her. Who ever heard of a database record fixing itself?
She wanders off to see the supervisor. There is the obligatory whispered discussion, the dual synchronised look-at-the-customer stare, then some nodding and shaking of heads before she returns.
"It's all fixed" she reports and returns to her typing and clicking and frowning.

"Right" she says "Please read the bottom line". She holds a remote over her shoulder without turning. The screen with the eye test has been blank since I arrived. Each teller has one and they're all lined up in a row above and behind the tellers' heads.
"I can't" I reply.
She looks at me.
It's my turn to be difficult "It's blank."
She says, with a puzzled look on her face "The bottom line, please."
"It's not there."
"You can't read it?" she asks?
She still hasn't turned around.
"No. The screen isn't turned on. There is no test."
She turns round, looks up and waves the remote at it. Nothing happens. She leans over to the next teller's window, grabs his remote, no luck. Then she tries his remote on his screen and it comes on.
Proudly she instructs "Please read the bottom line."
What a dirty trick... it's further away but I read it without a problem.
She says I passed the test, goes back to her typing, then stops. "You didn't have glasses for your last license?"
I explain I wasn't sure that I needed to wear them for the test. She asks if I wear them when I drive, I answer that I do, but I can see pretty well without them. She suggests that I try the test without the glasses.
She picks up the wrong remote. Tries to work her neighbour's screen. Swaps remotes and tries again. I read it out without a problem, thinking how even un-fairer it was; no glasses and further away.

I'm puzzled, of course; after having said I normally wear the glasses for driving that she suggests I try it without them.

I pay, I thank, I sit, I wait, I get called to collect my new drivers license.
Thank goodness it's another 5 years before I have to do that again!

*Not my real name
**No. This is my real second middle name.

I gave in.

This is the log from MSN between Rodney and me.

Rodders says: did you finally succumb?
Way says: twas an accident
Way says: I slipped and fell on a button or something
Rodders says (11:40 PM): and accidentally signed up on facebook
Way says (11:40 PM): it involved a complicated series of buttons
Way says (11:40 PM): amazing, really, when you think of it
Rodders says (11:40 PM): damn did you hurt yourself?
Rodders says (11:41 PM): you even accidentally managed to upload a photo
Way says (11:41 PM): my head hurts. The loss of pride will come later.
Way says (11:41 PM): Photo? Uncanny, huh?
Rodders says (11:41 PM): true
Way says (11:42 PM): Then, like magic, all these spam emails started to appear in my Outlook. So many I had to create a rule and send them to their own box.
Rodders says (11:42 PM): lol
Way says (11:44 PM): Tis amazing. Such a seemingly small accident, granted it involved astronomically probabilities, has suddenly branched out and affected other things (like the spam emails and a whole lot of new friends that, totally like, random man, I already knew)
Rodders says (11:45 PM): lol
Way says (11:45 PM): then photos of me started appearing. I existed on FaceBook before I existed on facebook. I mean, how weird is that Mal?
Rodders says (11:46 PM): Mal?
Way says (11:47 PM): Rod. It's a line out of Serenity, the movie? Mr Universe got himself killed...
Rodders says (11:47 PM): dick
Way says (11:47 PM): No. his name was Mr Universe
Way says (11:48 PM): See. He had connections to all the solar system's media...
Way says (11:48 PM): err..
Rodders says (11:48 PM): oh yeah
Rodders says (11:48 PM): him
Way says (11:48 PM): you're not seeing the parallel here, are you Fids?
Rodders says (11:48 PM): the jewish dude
Way says (11:48 PM): with the doll?
Rodders says (11:48 PM): yup
Way says (11:48 PM): "He killed me Mal, How weird is that Mal?"
Rodders says (11:48 PM): shes was teh sexy
Way says (11:49 PM): Make a man want to invest in plastic, eh?
Way says (11:49 PM): anyway. I have all these new ways on FB to annoy people, so must be off.
Way says (11:50 PM): Oh... any tips how I hide this fact from The Princess?
Rodders says (11:50 PM): is she on FB?
Way says (11:50 PM): I think so. She's 16
Way says (11:50 PM): and female
Rodders says (11:50 PM): there is a way to block people from seeing you
Way says (11:51 PM): duct tape?
Rodders says (11:51 PM): no
Way says (11:51 PM): good, I like my monitors the way they are
Rodders says (11:51 PM): just trying to remember
Way says (11:51 PM): (had to scrape off the liquid paper... learned good not to edit that way again)
Rodders says (11:51 PM): yah
Rodders says (11:52 PM): its under settings
Rodders says (11:52 PM): privacy or something
Rodders says (11:52 PM):yeah settings>privacy
Way says (11:52 PM): Yeah, but on-line is one thing.... she sits right next to me... like 50cm away. She's gunna see I have more friends that her.
Rodders says (11:52 PM): just enter her name in the box and she won't be able to see you nor her
Rodders says (11:52 PM): oh is that what you're worried about
Rodders says (11:53 PM): shes female, 16.
Way says (11:53 PM): yah
Rodders says (11:53 PM): who the fcuk do YOU think is going to have more friends dickhead.
Way says (11:53 PM): Hey, I'm popular
Way says (11:53 PM): in an odd sort of way
Rodders says (11:53 PM): not as popular as a 16yo female....
Way says (11:53 PM): She's not THAT sort of female.
Way says (11:53 PM): We're talking my daughter here
Rodders says (11:54 PM): doesn't stop lots of peeps wanting to be "friends" with her...
Way says (11:54 PM): nah, she only let's school friends join... we talked about it
Rodders says (11:54 PM): good
Way says (11:55 PM): crickey, 14 emails in one hour
Rodders says (11:56 PM): yeah go turn all the email alerts off
Rodders says (11:56 PM): and block any application invite anyone sends you
Rodders says (11:56 PM): or you'll go mad
Way says (11:56 PM): "go" mad. Sniff. You're the first person ever to suggest I'm not already mad
Way says (11:57 PM): Slow, yes, mad, no
Way says (11:57 PM): Well, more like special really
Rodders says (11:57 PM): oh dear
Way says (11:57 PM): I'm all sentimental with this love from FB
Way says (11:57 PM): And that loss of pride thingy we spoke about
Rodders says (11:58 PM): right
Way says (11:58 PM): gtg. too much in my head atm.
Rodders says (11:59 PM): bai
Way says (11:59 PM): bye
Way says (11:59 PM): be good
Rodders says (11:59 PM): nah fcuk that

Way, the flu, the Earl, the spider bite and the GPS

I’ve had the man-flu this week. As any self respecting male will tell you the man flu is worse than the ordinary flu. I’ve suffered. No. Really, I woke up with it on Saturday morning, f.i.v.e. days ago.

Ready for another Way-story. New to Way-stories? There’s a few around these parts. Well, this is the point where I suggest you grab another coffee before reading on.

My boss gave it to me. The flu that is. He turned up to work last Monday week and promptly coughed away. I said to him, as others did, that he sounded terrible and he should go home, the poor thing. Which really meant “You’re going to gank us all up with your germs; get out of here!” But he didn’t take the hint. So, by Saturday, as I said, I had the flu.

It ruined my weekend. Ruined FarCry2 to because my eyes hurt with from the first person motion. It ruined the family’s weekend because I shared my bad temper and bad temperature with them. The sorry lot thought they were going to lose a husband and father.

Come Monday morning I was in no fit state to go to work, so I called the boss and let him know I had HIS flu and that I wouldn’t be in. And with the way I felt it might be the last time I speak… I could be dead from man flu. And it’d be his fault. As things would have it, my little firewall thingy at work died. I had logged on via logmein on Sunday night and done some work but by morning the HDD had failed. So he was more concerned about that. They spent most of the day getting the firewall up and running again. This meant I couldn’t log in from home so I rested.

It’s at this point, near death with man-flu, things started to go downhill. To find out why, we need to go back to Saturday morning.

The Earl of Hornsby, aged 11, has Saturday school cricket. I was sick so she who must be obeyed (SWMBO) offered to take him up. Very gracious of her, so I just moaned rolled over back to sleep. While he was playing, or sometime during the previous 12 hours (we think) The Earl was bitten by a spider (perhaps), on the top of his foot, (most definitely). The timing is fuzzy because he doesn’t recall being bitten but also The Earl is fuzzy about everything for about the first two hours of the morning.

On goes the Sting-goes. We thought he’d be right on Monday, sometime around noon.

By Sunday night, with father rolling in abject misery The Earl’s foot was swollen considerably which prevented him from walking. In fact he was hoping around the house. However, by Monday morning his foot was much better so off to school he went.
As mentioned, this was the day I was resting, but it was also an opportunity for SWMBO to stay back at work and for me to collect the offspring after school, which I duly did. When I reached The Earl, after a harrowing learner diver lesson with The Princess who managed to career though an intersection without looking, which in turn caused me to scream “Stop! No! Too late; Faster!” which resulted in her doing neither but kangaroo hopping instead. Had I remained silent we’d gotten across with a larger safety margin and The Princess wouldn’t have cried the remainder of the way to The Earl’s school.

Anyway, the minder at after school care rushes me inside to spy my son’s bad spider bite and that I should take him to the doctors straight away. The Earl is a drama queen. This guy falls over in football and it’s a major incident. Stop play! Rescue the kid in agony! Concerned parents hush, the kids hands on hips waiting for the all-clear. The drama queen rises, he hops, applause from the crowd, raised eye brows from his team mates and five minutes later no sign of a limp. Well, so I thought he had hammed it up with the carer, but as it turns out his foot was a lot worse. Where he had a swollen foot and a red mark he now had a pimple size spot and a lot more redness. So, off to the doctor it is. And a smile from The Princess. I am not sure if her smile was for her brother’s discomfort or for an opportunity for another driving lesson or both.

The doctor determines that the foot is infected and since we don’t have a hapless spider in a jar, one The Earl insists would have been a white-tailed spider, or seen any spider, or insect, bug or stick, nail, piece of glass or other nasty germy object then there’s nothing for him to do other than write a ‘script for antibiotics.
Ca-Ching! $80.00 later The Princess is harrowing her father, an infected foot and a bottle of medicine on their way home again.
It’s at that moment I remind The Earl he’s probably going to miss out on school camp tomorrow (Tuesday). Oddly, his foot started to feel better almost straight away, and by the time he reached bed, all packed for camp, he assured us his foot was much better.

Unlike my man-flu.

SWMBO took delight; I am sure, of waking me up early the next morning. She had to rise early to take The Earl to school to meet the bus.
“Have you made the lunches?”
“Err.. no I am dying, you know, man-flu, can’t you see?”
“Okay! I’ll make them”
Off she totters… like a bloody elephant… down the hall and starts with the fifty questions:
“Where’s the lunch bags”
“Where’s the plastic forks”
“Are any of my cookies left?”
“Does The Princess like apple or orange juice?”
I might be slow witted. I might be dying in my death bed, and it’s early in the morning but I can tell when I am being wifed. Twenty and a half years of wedded bliss can do that to even the thickest of us mere males.
So I stomp down the hallway like a bloody elephant and make the lunches. In my jimmyjams. With my man flu.
The Earl, in the meantime is showing all the signs of a healthy, fit, if a not little early-morning fuzzy, boy of 11 about to go on a 3 ½ day camp. Who, as it turns out, is presenting his sore foot as “no. look, it’s just fine” kind of foot. I suggest to all who’d listen that “the foot” is not fit for camp. I got that “you’re sick and delirious” look from both of them.

Off they go, including The Princess who’s NOT getting a driving lesson to school today.

I text the boss I won’t be in then go back to bed until 9:30,
I rise and spend the entire day logged on at work anyway.

I collect The Princess from school, she directs the car to the nearest shops, I park, and we pick up a half kilo of prawns. We ‘navigate’ a few roundabouts and “align” a few tight corners on the way home.
Log back on work. Cook pasta with olive oil, garlic and prawns and bum around until SWMBO wanders in from a night out with the dinner-mums from The Earl’s class.

The next morning, today, I rise, I’ve had two days off work, I can’t afford to take anymore time off and I am miraculously feeling better; not 100%, but seaworthy. I make the railway station just in time to ignore the arriving train so I can go back to the car park for my glasses. And that, dear reader was the beginning. I arrive at work, late, put out a few fires as well as suffer my concerned fellow workers covering me with sympathy that sounded suspiciously like “You’re going to gank us all up with your germs; get out of here!”
Before too long my mobile rings.
“Mr Wayfarer?”*
“Yes?”
“It’s Michael** here, The Earl’s teacher.”*** He continued “His spider bite is really bad, I’m afraid you’ll have to come pick him up. He might need to see a Doctor”
“We don’t know it’s a spider bite”
“He says it’s a white tailed spider and you know what they’re like”
Uh oh, the drama queen has fallen again.
“Well, we didn’t see any spider but anyway what’s the address there?”
And on it goes.

I ring SWMBO who actually rang me while I was on the phone to Michael; she’d missed a call from him. She can’t leave work, so I finish up some lose ends, get back on the train to the car park. I plug in the address of the camp into Sally, my GPS navigator.

My trusty, efficient, never-go-wrong GPS navigator.

So let’s take a break here.
This is the area I am headed. Upper colo - Google Maps

Take note of the main road. The yellow one is the one I am expecting to go along. I checked that “loose end” at work. It’s called Putty Road. The place we’re going to is called Upper Colo. Not Colo. Not Central Colo. Not even Colo heights. I’m going to 411 Upper Colo Road, Upper Colo.
Like a mantra I repeat this address in my head on the train... because I’ve left my note on my desk at work.

I get to my car and plug in Sally. I type 211 Upper Colo Road, Colo Heights and we’re off.
Take a look at this next map. Upper colo - Google Maps You might have to click the "map" buton if it's stuck on "satellite".

See the little white road, that really wiggly and well sort of out of the way road? You might have to click the "map" buton if it's stuck on "satellite". It’s called Comleyroy Road.
That’s where Sally and I went.
Not in cooee of Putty Road.

















You see, Sally wants to take me there by the most direct route. I don’t have a paper street directory in the car… because Sally knows how to get there. Even if I did I am off the street maps anyway.
Here are some photos I took with the phone. It was good for something because there’s no bloody reception out there!

I start thinking. Maybe I have given Sally the wrong address? Perhaps is 211 Upper Colo Road, or 411 or 211 Colo Heights road, or maybe 411 Putty road, Congo bloody Heights!

And there’s no reception for the phone for me to call Geoff at the office and ask him to read it out.
And no maps in the car.

I figure it leads to somewhere on the Colo river so instead of turning around I follow this 25km dirt road up and over hills and across streams (all bridges but one did have about 4” of water over it)

It’s about half way I remember that last Thursday, during the rain, my left rear passenger tyre coped a flat. I hadn’t got it repaired yet. All I need is another flat out on this road and I’m stranded. I’ve not seen another car for miles and there’s no phone and I have a son with an infected foot needing a doctor and I am not a well person myself.

I persevere and thankfully I reach Upper Colo Road. Now I know it’s either 211 or 411 Upper Colo Road so all I have to do is let Sally take me to both if necessary. She asks me to turn left and if you’re still looking at that map then you can follow it for about 3kms like I did. But 411 Upper Colo Road was an empty paddock bar a few horses. So I turn around and head back in the other direction. I am looking for a school camp; it’s not small; it’ll have signs (which I’ve not seen yet) and they’ll be lots of land, canoes, horses, y’know, camp stuff. All I have to do is drive along until I find it. So I drive back east for a long time. I pass some campers with 4wd and camp stools having a cuppa by the road. I figure that’s not a good sign. They’re all khaki this and khaki that and people who dress seriously like that are serious about going places everyone else doesn’t. Still, I think to myself, this is a camp the boys are at and they tend to be in hard to reach places.
I keep driving but there’s no sign of camp Somerset. So I do a u-turn. I wave as I pass the tea drinking campers again and drive past 411 and beyond. I keep driving. I end up in a one lane dirt road that’s so narrow I realise the coaches with 150 kids can’t possible have cross these wooden bridges and narrow track.

I pull up outside someone’s shack which is “PRIVATE PROPERTY” in banjo letters if you get my drift. Do yet another u-turn and head back. If you follow the Google map to the far west along Upper Colo road until it ends… well that’s where we went, Sally and me.




I am driving back to point A when I think to myself, well maybe it is Colo Heights and not Upper Colo. And maybe it’s Colo Heights Road and not Upper Colo Road. So Sally and I turn left across the bridge and up the hill. I soon realise the road is too tight for coaches plus it’s too far from the river. I u-turn and head back down. Cross the bridge again. The water is crystal clear. Turn left, wave at the khaki campers and keep heading east. And on and on.



























Finally I spot a scrum of boys in a paddock playing rugby and what looks like a couple of teachers. So I turn off and sure enough it’s our mob and the teacher is the new Irish sports teacher. He gives me directions back to the main house where he last saw The Earl, his foot the white tailed spider bit (“we don’t know it’s a spider”) and a book this thick he shows me with 3” of fingers.















I make it to the main grounds; The Earls teacher is just crossing the road as I arrive. We meet and he takes me into Angus. I again explain that we don’t know it’s a spider bit but yes it looks a lot worse.
He then asks me why I drove past. I cotton on to what he means so I said I came in the back way. He raised an eyebrow and I know he sneaked a look and my dust covered car.
A short while later after The Earl was all packed I asked Michael for directions out of here. His look made me explain Sally’s error in leading me the most direct route.

The round trip was just under 200kms and by the time we go home we had to leave shortly for the doctor’s appointment. The Earl’s “not a spider bite, maybe” was a lot worse. It was a small volcano shaped mound on the top of his foot with signs of weeping, redness and a little white skin around the wound. He changed the ‘script to a stronger antibiotic. I have to watch the foot over the next 24hrs to see if it gets worse. If it does then he’s off to hospital for nastier drugs and observation.

The Princess was happy about all of this because it meant another unscheduled driving lesson to the doctors. Unfortunately, while she’s picking up driving a manual car really well she’s not quite there yet. So, at the major intersection, on a hill, during peak hour, we took a few changes of lights to get across much to the annoyance of those horn-blowing drivers behinds us. Once flustered she lost all control of the clutch and had to settle before we could move off.
On the way home we approached a round about. I said “prepare to stop. They have right of way” She heard “They will stop you have right of way” and charged into the roundabout with me screaming “Stop! No! Too late; Faster!”


*Not my real name
**No; it’s his real name
***He’s not really an Earl.

Update the next day. The Earl's foot is much better so he avoided hospital,and we avoided the bills. My Man-flu lingers, but I returned to work today.

Commuting blues

I wrote this a month or so ago but didn't post it here:

It was Monday, today, and Mondays seem to be the second worse day to catch a train to work. Friday’s are the worst… too many GenX and GenY with headaches from Thursday-night pub-nights. Mondays, though, well, everyone seems depressed or cranky.

I have a 40 minute train journey from Wahroonga to Town Hall every day and if I don’t have some software to learn, or a project to do then I leave my laptop in the backpack and snooze on the way in. My iRiver has three playlists… walking, quiet and POD casts.
Today two things happened that got my goat. The first I am a little ashamed of, but the second I giggled to myself.

I set my iRiver to snooze mode, aka quiet, and got comfortable. In Paradisium from Faure’s requiem was first up. Sounds like angels singing, when in fact it’s the missus and 120 others in her choir. Anyway, I am usually subconsciously aware of what’s happening around me, except for last week when suddenly there were officials carrying a collapsed passenger from a few seats up from mine. I hadn’t realised that A. Someone had collapsed, B that someone had reported a sick passenger, C that the train had stopped, D that rail staff had come on-board and helped the poor lady out. But that was last week.

Today, however, I was vaguely aware of a person sitting down next to me. My station is one of the first so it fills up as we get closer to the city. What felt less than a minute later she elbows me lightly in the ribs and says “Your aftershave is making me gag!” or words to the effect. I was brought round to bright consciousness pretty quickly but not quite sure what I had just heard.
I looked at her to make sure she was talking to me; she sure was; she had this angry face on her.
Now, I don’t use too much aftershave, and had used the regular amount this morning, on account, like most husbands, SWMBO buys the most expensive aftershave thinking it’s better than the cheapest. The way things work I can’t argue as I’ve never had the chance to buy cheap aftershave since I was single and my fiancée threw it out. So, I hardly use any to make it last longer, that way, by the time to bottle is empty it's cheap.Think about it.

She looked at me in fury. I looked back at her in puzzlement. I was aware of people looking up to see the commotion. She then mixed in a questioning look with her fury look which clearly asked “What are you going to do about it?”. Knowing I must have looked much like a stunned mullet I dropped a an indignation look into the equation. There was a lot of looking.

I know people have allergies and I can appreciate the discomfort, even SWMBO is not allowed to wear perfume when in her choir so I am a little on the defensive side. But I am on a public train, sitting by myself, with scant amount of aftershave on anyway and here she is embarrassing me in front of the other passengers.
Bad move.
In my clearest… just woken up voice… I reply “I’m sorry about that, but your rudeness is equally gagging!”
The expression on her face was worth a million quid, and by the sounds of gwarfs behind us others thought so too. Instead of retreating, and these sorts of people don’t retreat easily, she started on me about how inconsiderate I was wearing perfume and how it’s affecting her and how evil I am etc all of which she managed to impart with very few words and so quickly that I can’t, now, remember exactly what she said, but I’d had enough. I looked her up and down and said “You seem as ugly on the inside as you do on the outside and while you don’t like my perfume at least I can wash it off” and with that I put my earphones back in and went back into my snooze zone.
The chuckles from behind, and the seemingly fruitless argument made her sit there for a few moments huffing and puffing before finally getting up and leaving.

I could have been nice to her, but it was Monday morning.

The second incident happened on the way home. Normally I work late on Mondays, but not today. I caught the peak-hour train home, shuffled downstairs and found a seat. Converse to mornings, afternoon peak trains are full straight away and empty out after they leave the city so getting a seat can be bit of a blood sport; especially from middle aged ladies with bags and elbows and heads down like footballers in a scrum.
Well, this afternoon the two-seater I am gunning for has a twenty something guy sitting in the middle with a bag next to him. He clearly has a “not sharing” attitude. There’s no choice for me but to plonk down beside him. I noticed first off that he was faking sleep. No one can have their legs that far apart, sit in the middle of the seat and balance upright at the same time. So, like I said, I slid in beside him, so little room that he’s pushed over a little.

The inside of a typical Sydney Tangara Carriage

He grunts.
I huff.
I find myself sitting with hunched-shoulders and leaning forward because he won’t give me my half of the seat. I’m squeezed in. I not a big guy, and nor is he… there’s plenty of room. I look at him with my best “you’ve got to be kidding me” look but he’s “sound asleep”. I try reading the paper, but it’s no good, I am not comfortable and he’s not budging. It’s not half obvious he’s pushing back against me to keep his extra space.
I am too bothered about more important things than this drongo so I pick out the only other seat in sight and move before the next station. Wynyard station is probably the busiest city station in Sydney, and if you’re not seated by then, then you stand much of the way home.
We stopped, a huge woman gets on and ploughs into his space. She’d almost bolted down the stairs to grab what was one of the only remaining seats. She had no intention of standing and no intention of worrying about this squirt taking up more than his share of real estate. The poor little fellow almost popped out of the seat! His bag was crushed against the wall, and his legs slammed together, he’s squeezed upright and wide awake.
I caught his eye and I smiled that self satisfactory smile that says “sucks be to you, loser!” and chuckled to myself. Goodness it was funny.

Twenty years weekend ended in bull

Twenty Years! If you were anti-socially inclined they would give you that with hard labour thrown in.

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I have been married for twenty years so we celebrated what could have been my release date by heading out of town to a lovely wilderness resort on the New South Wales mid-coast. SWMBO is one for luxury, so the eco-wilderness-green-lodge-in-a-rain forest had to be 5 stars. It also has to be out-of-the-way-with-no-major-road-within-cooee type of eco-wilderness resort, which, oddly, most of these places tend to be. When SWMBO wants to unwind, seriously unwind, then it has to be in a spa bath with mother nature at beck and call, along with wait staff.

It can’t be done with tents and cold water.

So anyway, apart from a 4 hour drive, 30kms of which is dirt road euphemistically called “unsealed”, cattle grids, flooded creeks, tacked onto the end of a long work-week it wasn’t that hard to find thanks to “Sally” our on-board English lass who digitally directs us; “In 620 metres take turn left”. SWMBO wants to ditch Sally for Bob, the American Mid-west guide, but he doesn’t do it for me like Sally does.

The resort was fine; more about the place another time, but the oddest moment came as we were leaving.

We checked out, angled ourselves into our Hyundai as only trekked out people can, and gravel-ly rolled down the “road” and into a herd of cattle.

We could have been cast in Jurassic Park. The first few beasties, many as big as they get which, for you and me, are the largest pieces of meat walking the Earth, didn’t mind our presence. It was quite apparent cattle only distinguish road from grass by the level of food. Road-sense these big boys do not have. Or probably need for that matter.
It was slow going, the cattle moving out of the way one at a time, clearing as we motored along in first gear, eyes wide with terror.

As if in slow motion, which is correct for these one-tonne pieces of dinner, the last of the animals parted to reveal the end boss. No kidding, the last bovine stood there in our way, across-the-road. Like across-the-road. Nose in one gutter and tail in the other. Taller than our car, wider than our car, and probably heavier than our car (if SWMBO had got out and run off).

We waited.

He waited.

We waited some more

He ignored us.

So I blew the horn.

He ignored with gusto.

We inched forward, thinking he’d be frightened by a hunk of slow-moving metal and two worried faces. Nope, he just looked at us with confidence. We’re on his turf, and he’s busy right now doing nothing in particular. I thought of things I might do such as scaring him, but even if it worked it had several downturns.
First up, he might charge at us; hurting himself and trashing our car. The prospect of contending with an angry farmer also crossed my mind. There was also the danger of him bolting off the road into the ditch on either side. He could do himself an injury falling down there. It also meant we couldn’t drive around him because the ditch was too deep. Then there was the prospect of me shooing one tonne of muscle while SWMBO is in the car laughing at me running across the paddock chased by a bull.

Oh, my kingdom for a rocket launcher and mega-health.

I needed this guy to move but each time I moved toward him he picked up that stance bulls take. Forelegs askew, head down and puffed up chest. Sort of like a friend of mine on his way to a prawn platter and beer tray. I backed up a little then noticed we’d been closed in by half a dozen more beef with heads turned our way. So many heads staring at us! The silent mammoths had surrounded us! Trapped!

We took the only course of action we could; locked the doors and wound up the windows. And waited. We had left Jurassic Park and joined Escape from New York.

It must have only been ten minutes, but it seemed longer. Eventually, with our air running low, the End Boss moved from the culvert and made way to greener pastures. We sneaked past ever so gently and took off as best a Hyundai can take off on a wet, soggy, muddy road.
Back to the city where it’s safe from murderous bovines.

Well, it's crunch time.

Tomorrow, in about 2 hours we've been married 20 years, known each other for 21, and it's her 50th birthday. All on the same day.

The Leader of the Opposition is a lovely, fine woman who I am very lucky to have married all those years ago. She has the patience, the understanding, the drive and the motherly love for our two wonderful children and for me. It truly is a blessing to be in her presence and to share the love we have for each other.

She's also the neighbourhoods' worst spendthrift.

On the weekend I took the children up the road to collect some last minute odds and ends for her. SWMBO was at an all-day rehearsal for an upcoming concert. The Princess had been talking about something called a Pandora Charm bracelet for weeks. I am sure now, as I write this, that there was some outside pressure happening.

It turns out that a Pandora bracelet is a rather nasty piece of work... why else would they name it so? You buy a "chain" and add baubles to it. But these baubles are either gold or silver, some with rubies, some with diamonds, some plain, some "exquisite" (read costalotta). You only buy the baubles for special occasions: big birthdays, child birth, wedding, special holidays etc. The reason being is that you have to spend a far deal so the reason better be a bloody good one.

Can guess what you're thinking?

So The Princess takes me to the counter and begins to point out the ones "Mum likes".
Plural.
The first is in excess of $400.00. Apparently that one is for her 50th birthday. Then points our another... that one's for her 20th Anniversary ($230.00). My loud claims that it's a china anniversary NOT A BLEEDING SLIVER one is hushed up by stern looks she obviously learned from her mother.
"What about the chain?"
"Mum's family is getting that for her. And that one there.." she says pointing to yet a third bauble.
The Earl the pipes up to say "I'd like to get her one from me."
The little piranha fish from behind the counter is onto it and produces a tiny "boy" figurine in silver (only $30) to remind her of him. He hands over the money.
The princess isn't to be outdone, but unlike her fiscally sensible little brother she has no money.
"I'd like to get mum the one with the cross"

Damn.

Seems I am sold out by a soft heart.

Nearly $700 later we leave with 4 impossibly small parcels with fancy ribbons.

Apart from that we pick up a few Miss Marple mystery videos, greeting cards, wrapping paper, ribbons, a bath robe "Mum just has to have one" and bits n pieces. Not much left from $1000.00. Thank the tax man I work two jobs.

I'm busted so we go to the best fish cafe on the North Shore and settle into seafood salad, fish n chips and calamari & chips for lunch. The princess then starts to mention "The Ring".

The story is that The Minister for the Dark Arts has picked it up the day before. It's well over what we've spent already; made to match her engagement ring and fit with the wedding ring. By the time she wears all three she'll be up for bandaids for grazed knuckles. Nothing in any of the rings is extravagant. No big diamonds.

Just a shit load of small ones.

What's more, get this, she only drew the ring, has never seen it, the jeweller has done a fitting but her eyes were closed. AND, blow me down, she collects the ring, again with the eyes closed.

"It's supposed to be a surprise!"

The chips had lost their crispiness.

It is quite a nice ring, and she deserves every cent of it.

sigh.

Anyway, she has rehearsals each night this week (except Thursday) so we only see her in the morning. Tomorrow, The Princess and I are meeting SWMBO, her brother and his wife for lunch at the Royal Automobile Club in Sydney on, thankfully, her brother's tab. In the morning we'll present her with all the goodies, the hugs and kisses but we wont see her at night.

On Friday, if the Pope's is still up for it, she sings with the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, Gianluigi Gelmetti conducting Beethoven's Missa solemnis. We tried to get me tickets to join his next-to-godliness but he's having 2500 of his closest friends instead. So I'm going Saturday night.

Then, in the wee small hours of Sunday I sneak off with three mates for a weeks skiing. So it's not all doom and gloom.

Way, the lost dog, the Daughter and a cat bite

4:30pm work, Thursday

"Hello?"
"Dad, I found a dog"
Silence. Forehead on hand, elbow on desk, thinking "No more animals, please!"
"She was lost so I brought her home and she's sick."
"Uh huh."
"But she had a number on her collar for Hornsby vet so I rang it and they said it's one of theirs and to take it there before seven o'clock"
"You found a dog?"
"Yes, she's sick; her name is Molly"
"How do you know?"
"She's being sick on the floor and she doesn't look good."
"Where are the cats?"
"They're outside. I locked her in."
"So you found a dog, thought it was sick, and brought it home?"
"Yes, it's a Shitzu"
"Right"
"Will you come home and take it to the vet?"
Sigh "yes, I'll leave soon."

6:25pm Home.

"Cailtin! Come on let's go"
"I'm on the toilet"
"Where's the dog? Never mind. Where are your shoes? Let's get going."
Discussion parallel to the phone call. Organising to leave the house.

"She's so cute!"
"No."
"But she's a Shitzu!"
"No."
"But.."
"No."

"What did the cats do when you brought the dog in?"
"They ran off but Murphy bit and scratched me"
"Why"
"I was putting him out and he scratched me and bit my arm"
Shows bandages
"It's swollen here"
"Looks like you're infected, off to the doctor with you."
"It hurts"
"Why would Murphy bite you? Did you tease him with the dog?"
"No! I was just carrying him outside."
Repeat several times.
"But if you just left the door open Murphy would have beat you to it and cleared out by himself?"
"I had to carry him, he was scared."

Right.

We take dog to vet, people in the waiting room assume it's ours, the "nurse" checks it over and confirms it's one of hers and that everything will be okay now, thanks. We leave. I'm thinking, great, they'll call the owners and claim a $50 finding fee OR they'll close up at seven then ring the people in the morning and charge $150 for an overnight stay.

8 :30pm SWMBO arrives home.
Repeat entire episode including cat bite.
"It looks infected, remember when you were bitten by Sam? She'll have to go get a tetanus injection."
"She needs antibiotic, possibly a wash inside with peroxide"
Daughter leaves room quietly.

7:45 am Friday morning.

"Come on, you'll be late!"
"I have to take Caitlin to the doctors."
Sigh.

Work, 4:30pm
"Hi Jude."
"Can you pick up the kids?"
"Ummm, not really I have a few things to finish"
"Well, I didn't get into work until quarter to eleven and I had a client lunch so I'm way behind."
Silence
"Alright, I'll pick up Angus, take him home. Do you want to meet me for dinner before the concert?"
"Thanks Jude. Yeah, Where?"
Arrangements. (6:30 Pasta Deli at Wahroongah, Concert 7:15pm Carmina Burana )

6;10pm Friday, On the train.

"I am almost at the station, meet you there."
"I'm at Abbottsleigh getting Caitlin's soccer gear, then I have to take her back home"
Sigh
"The concert starts at 7:30! If we're late we'll get rotten seats!"
"What can I do, she needs it for the morning!"
"Well why didn't she bring it home with her?"
"She didn't go to school"
"Why not?"
"The Doctor told us she needed to stay home and keep her arm raised above her heart!"
"What?"
"She has an infection, got a tetanus injection and a script for antibiotics"

So, saving a lost dog cost us a small fortune and at least one traumatised cat.

Way, SWMBO and a surprise

Last week The Princess spilled the beans.

SWMBO and I will be "sharing" our 20th Wedding anniversary in July.
20 years, besides being a life sentence, is china. Not paper, not ruby, not wood or something. Just China.

I was thinking of something like a new sugar bowl. Maybe a cat coffee cup.
Y’know, twenty years; it ought to be something special.

So, we're all sitting there, on the way to Granddads’ and the beans, as I said, got spilled.

SWMBO has not only worked out what we're-giving-her for our-anniversary, but she’s been to the jeweller, had it designed and getting it made.

Diamonds, not china. Gold too.
A done deal.

Something called an eternity ring.

Has a nasty sound to it. I signed up for “death us do part” not bloody eternity!

Anyway, justifications met my questioning looks at 60km/hr:

“It’s a nice ring”
“It’s something special”
“It fits in nicely with my wedding & engagement rings”
“It’s the same jeweller who designed my engagement ring who used to work at Rox in the Strand Arcade is now in Wahroonga…”
“I wanted it to be a surprise”

It’s the last one that got me.
Sure was a surprise.

I’ll be buggered if she’s getting a sugar bowl now.

Way, lunch and two flat batteries.

Why me? Scene: a lazy morning opening Christmas presents and having eggs, ham and toast for breakfast then the cleaning up and stock taking of all the new things in the house. Then it's time to get ready to go to the in-law family Christmas lunch. You've heard the idiom: You can choose your spouse but you can't choose the family? The Princess, two days before Christmas, declares she has nothing to wear for Christmas Day. At age 14 she is certainly primed for womanhood if her wardrobe and shoe sense is anything to go by. So SWMBO and The Princess nip up the road for some credit-wear. There we are, The Earl of Hornsby (aged 10) dressed in his suit but sans tie and jacket, me in mine, SWMBO in a black and white number and The Princess in her new dress sans tiara. Down the stairs to the Hyundai limousine...



I'm looking forward to lunch; it's at the Royal Automobile Club of Australia; a fine place to dine.

The arrangements for the day include collecting the Father In-Law, the right honourable Reverend Harry, from the nursing home in his chariot (wheel chair). So it’s just taking him and the chariot in my larger car, eating lunch and coming home again. I presume we’re going to do the hostage-style gift-exchange at lunch.
It's while trekking down the stairs that SWMBO drops the bombshell... "Dad's getting the taxi home, I've organised it.”

Tick tick…

“Why’d you do that?”
“Because he’s not coming home with us; he’s leaving after lunch.”
“Why? Where are WE going?”
“To So and So’s place, to open Christmas presents.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Yes I did!”
Repeat this a few times.
“They’re not our family” protested I.
“No, the others and us are too far away and So and So is closer.”
So and So are a single child family who hangs onto our Christmas and other major-event family-do’s.
“Great!” say I. Just when I thought I’d escaped the family and not-so-family close-encounter.

We’ve reached the car, all packed in, when I start it. Or rather, I didn’t start it. The battery is flat. “We’ll take the 121.” I say.
“The wheel chair won’t fit” says SWMBO all dressed up in the back seat.
“No problem, I’ll use your car to jump-start mine”
I half get out of the car and push backward so there’s enough room to get to the battery.
“Don’t hurt your back!” says she.
“Argghhh I don’t want to roll down the driveway” yells The Princess.
“Well, it’ll help if you got out, we won’t roll down the drive and I won’t hurt my back”
It’s okay, we’re early (for a change) so it’s just a simple matter of jumping the cars and off we go. The cars are side by side in the garage, but the leads won’t reach so I have to move her car closer to mine... I hop in but it doesn't start it either!

TWO flat batteries?

On Christmas morning…
with Grandad waiting at the nursing home…
and a lunch that’ll be delayed?
A lunch I’ll never hear the end of since it will keep the in-laws waiting?
Oh Baby Cheeses, why me?
“Judy, ring the taxi and see if they can pick your dad up?"
“Why, we’re picking him up.”
“Because if it takes too long to start the cars then at least he won’t be late and we can save time by not having to drive out of our way to get him.” She rings… the wheelchair taxi has another booking on the other side of Sydney.
“arggh!” My brain races at a hundred miles an hour thinking of a way out of this. My car is half-in-half-out of the garage blocking hers. It’s in a rotten position to hill start it down my drive (a feat performed previously) and it’s in the way of SWMBO’s car which could be moved to the right position for the down hill run to battery freedom. The NRMA (road side assistance) will take forever on a Christmas Day to get here…

Ding!

I’ll connect the battery charger to the smaller battery (her car) give it a few minutes before starting it.

Tick tick…

Ten minutes pass and I give it a turn. You beauty! It’s working but doesn’t get a chance to fire before the battery gives out… so I decide to wait 15 minutes. There’s still the problem of my car blocking the way… but no matter, once I have SWMBO’s car started I can back-and-forth until the batteries are close enough to jump it.
Sure enough, in twenty minutes we’re shooting down the road in all our finery.
Oddly, we washed my car the day before. I rarely wash it. Drought, laziness, all that.

Anyway. we pick up granddad from the nursing home with the motor running… funny to see all the old people lined up in the foyer, each in a wheelchair, all dressed nicely… reminded me of planes waiting to take off.

The hanger door opens, we load granddad in and off we go. We arrived in record where the valet looked at my car, a cheap model, with barely hidden amusement as we all piled out. After all, this was the Royal Automobile Club. It occurred to me if my car won’t start then where else better to be?

Surprise! We were the first to arrive at the restaurant a five past noon. The others arrived at twelve fifteen, and marched past us saying hi and merry Christmas in that air-cheek-to-cheek-kissing way they have. They had no sooner sat down that they all arose again and assaulted the smorgasbord of seafood and carvery. I sheltered next to our children and Granddad… whom they all ignored. It was then I realised I’d not warn the valet to park my car on a slope.

Time to decamp as the “family” all filed past like they had arrived; re-performing the same kissing ritual. Goodbye to granddad as he left in the wheelchair taxi. We piled into my car, which, by chance, was parked on a slope and drove off to the Military for “afters”.

The car had travelled 40km so I presumed the battery got over it’s little tiff. I managed to corral a few of my favourite people at the gift exchange and avoid any confrontations; so it wasn’t a bad afternoon in the end.

But it doesn’t end there. We left, the car started well, we drove home and had a lovely immediate family Christmas night together.

The next morning I go out to my car which doesn’t start again.
Nor does SWMBO’s car.
I was going to take the Earl to the skate park.

Bugger.

So I set up mine to charge over night and forget the skate park.
We’ll have to go tomorrow.
This morning the car fails to start. So I try my same trick with SWMBO’s car and the charger. No luck. Both batteries are dead as door nails. We call the NRMA. 30 minutes and $282.00 later our cars start without a whimper…

Way, LAX and two lifts

This is an old Way moment from 1991.

Oh man, I got stuck in two separate lifts on the same day, alone, at LAX, without a visa or ticket to my ultimate destination, during the first gulf war. The loud speakers were making security announcements, all day, about unattended luggage and vehicles etc. Things I'd never heard back home.

I didn't need a visa because I was in-transit through LA on my way to Detroit thence into Windsor (Canada). It meant I couldn't leave the airport.

I didn't have a ticket for the domestic leg as I was told I could by standby tickets for a fraction of the cost of booking one at home. Then when I went to buy one, Northwest said they didn't do stand-by anymore and I'd have to buy a full fare. I gave him my credit card to book a rather expensive one way ticket... but by the time the exchange rate took effect the card was rejected and then LOCKED. So I had no money, no ticket, no visa and trapped in the first lift of the day.

It stopped at a restricted level and would go no further. It just arrived, stopped, the doors opened, then nothing. Except a big sign on the opposite wall saying something like

DO NOT ENTER

RESTRICTED AREA

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

This to me, accompanied by the PA going on about being aware of suspicious things had me in the terrors... I didn't want to attract attention to myself until at least I had cleared the ticket problem....

To be found without a visa, without money, in fact trying to tender a credit card with insufficient funds & no ticket was just asking for trouble from the famous US Customs.

So I stood there.

Alone in the lift.

Facing the open doors for what seemed like ten minutes.

That was my first option. If facing something dreadful, like car headlights, just stand still and let it go away by itself. Of course, that failed. People who were obviously “authorized” passed the lift from time to time. I dreaded any of them doing it more than once and noticing something amiss. When that dawned on me I acted. I pushed that alarm bell on the panel with decisive action. Some may call it panic.

Cruel people.

The alarm button did just that. The alarm went off.Loudly.

Crickey!

I remember jumping out of my skin. Now people stopped at the lift and asked if I was okay.

Frack!

Before I could answer; the “help” person’s voice came out of the little speaker, so I just waved the Authorized people on.

Saved!

About half an hour later a big guy with utlility belt comes tramping up the hall way, enters the lift, introduces himself with “Where you from, pal?” and inserts a key into the hole and takes us home.

Free!

I spend the rest of the day, and my few US dollars on phone calls arranging a ticket from home to cover my flight and get me the heck out of here. But, being on the wrong side of the planet I am making calls very early in the morning. SWMBO, newly married I might add, to me, I further add, managed to get a travel agent out of bed and into his office at 7am to book me a ticket from Australia so I could get on a flight from LA to Detroit. He arranged it so I could collect the ticket from the Northwest desk.

As it turns out it’s the same guy at the Northwest desk.

Like 6 hours later.

When the entire area is deserted.

He sees me coming and he must see the dread on my face as I recognise him.

I walk up to him and ask if he has a ticket for me. He, naturally, knows exactly who I am and exactly knows my “alien” presence. So far, the only person in the US who knows I am still there, and that I shouldn’t be, and he knows for a fact I have no money to buy a ticket with. I tell you, he had this smart arse look on his face. Like I am half trouble and two parts idiot. And he’s very sure he has the power to imprison me shortly before my deportation back to Sydney.

Now remember this is before the internet. I couldn’t simply find an Internet kiosk and book my own ticket, even if my credit card had worked.

And if you buy a ticket in Australia for domestic travel you are actually supposed to be in Australia when you do it.

I am clearly not in Australia. And he’s clearly dubious as he’s looking up the flight and seeing if I am on it. That moment was one I cherished in the whole-trip-to-Canada thing. The look on his face when suddenly my name was there with a ticket bought moments ago in a foreign country was worth the day's anxiety.

Almost.

He argued the problem of being here when I should be there, and in the end came to the conclusion it was best if he just turned a blind eye and give me the ticket.

So, ticket in hand, seat allocated, boarding pass issued and enough money to get my luggage out from the cloak room, plus a little extra for some coffee and pizza hut slice I relaxed. (Note, the kiosk-style Pizza Hut was a novelty as we only had full restaurants in Aus at that time)

I remember sitting eating my slice of pizza (the first I’d eaten all day because I was worried I would need the cash) and puking at the boiled coffee while watching William Shatner doing 911 on the overhead TV.

Thirteen hours I was in that airport.

At the twelfth hour I decided it was time to collect my luggage and head over to the domestic terminal and wait in the departure lounge. That was until I was caught in another lift 40 minutes out from the red-eye flight… thinking, panicking, that at 11pm at night there’s going to be a slow reaction for help.

The lift, this time, left ground floor and then stopped. Nothing. No grinding noises, no jarring, no little electronic “pings” to say it had achieved something and was pleased with itself. Just a Stephen King sort of silence and dedicate inaction on it's part.

I decided in one nano second that the previous method of waiting ten minutes was not a wholly great idea. It lacked a certain urgency that was coursing through my veins.

Instead I hit that mother of a button like there was no tomorrow. The thoughts of missing the flight, of facing that same Northwest guy again, the thought of no money, no food, horrible coffee and a long night in LAX on a metal seat were fighting for priority in my tired mind.

Lord have mercy upon me!

And he did, in the static voice of the man in the speaker… the very same man who’d come to my aid earlier.

I just banged my head against the cold stainless steel elevator as he asked:

“Hey, are you that same guy I let out today?”

“Yes, it’s me”

“You got something in your bag that’s breaking our lifts?”

"Only a Philishaver, could that do it?”

“Nope. Don’t think so...”

“My flight boards in minutes, how long?”

“Oh, I’ll be right there.”

And he was.

I made the red eye, and funny enough the Northwest guy was there in the lounge, acting like he wasn’t watching me.

On board I sat between a young girl about 12 years old and a grunt on his way back from Guam. She asked where I was from etc whilst her mother kept an eagle eye on me and the grunt from few seats up. Finally after she stopped asking questions I asked her to show me the outline of Michigan; holding up an in-flight route map. It came out quite awkward, I was very tired

“Where is Michigan”

Everyone within earshot turned to look at me. Except the grunt who was so pissed it would take a nuke to wake him up.

I realised what I’d asked… after all I was on a non-stop flight from LA to Detroit… the capital of Michigan.

Ahh the moments.

Then we landed, I met my Canadian hosts who then gave me the fright of my life by driving on the wrong side of the road on the wrong side of the road.

arrghhHHHH

It's that time of the year

...when day light saving comes into effect and SWMBO starts with the "but it's really only ten o'clock" business. It drives me to distraction. Distraction with a smile; the woman is the light of my life. Frustrating logic I grant you. Oh, and a bit of a nag at times too. So, okay, she can give a dragon a run for it's money, but hey, I am in love with her.

Daylight saving.

It starts the night before with "We have to go to bed early because we lose an hour's sleep tonight." followed the next morning by "I am so tired because we lost an hour's sleep last night"
Later that day, this year like every year, as the sun starts to set later and our perception of time still isn't quite right she starts with the "But it's only really 5 o'clock" business.
This day-light-saving-jet-lag lasts about two weeks. Something will happen, the kids will squabble for example, and she'll excuse them with "They're tired. It's really only seven o'clock"

Cat Catch up

Here's a few photos of the captives. They'd run away but life is too good in the Way household.

The first is Mycroft in yet another of his sleeping poses.









then Murphy with Lestrade.












Mycroft... tough cat, eh?

Spider and Child

Following on from the spider dance story below, The Daughter came home from school the other day feeling very proud of herself.

During class the children had noticed a Huntsman on one of the walls. Some of them weren't too happy about it so The Daughter volunteered to help out.
She's telling me the story of how scared the other kids (and teacher) are but I am ahead of her by thinking she'd do what I do and grab a container with lid and do the deed. So here's a proud dad relieved that something is finally rubbing off. True, just spider catching techniques, but hey, there's a lot more exciting stuff I can teach her in life; we have to start somewhere!
Then she tells me she let it walk onto her hand and she calmly shows it about before taking it outside and releasing it.

Surprised I ask how big it was.

"Oh, about this big" says she as she traces a finger around her palm... about 7.5cm (3") across!

I asked her if she was frightened and she replied at first she was, but it just sat there.

"It tickled when it walked up my wrist"

Crickey!

Are you sure?

Sorry I've not posted in over a month, some people have emailed me telling me off for ignoring the blog.

Anyway, just tonight, during my chicken risotto, SWMBO did it again. She does it often enough, but just recently the children have become aware of it. It's been a hoot for them!

It's two fold, and each are opposites. SWMBO will offer drinks or desserts around at dinner parties we hold. More often than not I will not be asked if I want a drink, or what I'd like to drink, or if I want dessert, or coffee or something. She'll work her way around our guests and absent mindfully skip over me. It's quite amusing when we're all sitting at the table with our desserts except me.

Then the opposite happens.

She asks "Do you want ice cream with your dessert?" or "Would you like a cup of tea?"
I'll answer either way.

A few minutes later she'll ask again.

"Would you like a cuppa?"

"umm, yes please."

A few more minutes, sometimes half an hour or more, "Did you say you wanted a cuppa?"

"Yes"

"Yes what?"

"Yes please, but this is the third time you've asked and I've answered."

A few more minutes...

"Did you say you wanted a cuppa?"
"Yes"
"Are you sure?"

I mean, I can understand distraction, and forgetting the answer, especially over the course of now what seems several hours, but to then ask "Are you sure?" really tops it off.

So tonight, over the risotto, she begins again "Who would like watermelon for dessert?"...

Spider dance

You've heard of the spider dance, right?
It's a condition of human nature to do a little, but panicky, jig one nano-second after walking into a spider web. That moment of sheer terror as you realise it must be on you and ready to strike. You wave your arms about, hop from foot to foot, look left, look right, look over your back, brush your hair wildly with both hands and stare manically at anyone who can tell you exactly where it is.

It seems to me that no matter who you are, or where you're from, we all do the exact same dance.

I didn't know cats did it too.

For the last few days we've had a huntsman spider visit us. The novelty has worn off as they aren't uncommon in our bushland home . We have adequate fly screens so there's not much for the wayward spider to eat. If I don't pack them up and walk them outside they will disappear or die a hungry death on their own accord.

The family is dead against me killing them for convenience sake.

I walked into our bedroom to find three cats lined up against the wall waiting for the spider to come down and play. Obligingly, I used a small paintbrush to push it off the wall.

It landed on Mycroft.

He did a spider dance.

It only lasted about 10 seconds but to him it must have been an eternity. He ran backward a little, forward a little, shook his head madly, shook his tail and paws, spun around and generally panicked. He backed away from it when it fell on the ground.

Anyway, a few moments later I returned to the room to see all three cats staring at the wardrobe.
SWMBO's side of the wardrobe.
I debated whether to tell her. What sort of trouble will I be in now?

Later I told her the story and she freaked. It's all my fault, naturally. Now she needs to shake clothes out when she pulls them from the wardrobe but she'll never really know if there's a spider hiding.

I await another spider dance, this time from SWMBO.

24 hours

It all started about 24 hours go. One of those days when things just don't go your way.
Last night, after leaving work late I was off to do the grocery shopping at Woollies. I arrived just after 9:00pm, the place is deserted, just how I like it. I grab a trolley, pull out the list SWMBO wrote, (yes, a list, go figure) and set off down the aisles after the fortnightly supplies.
I make it into the fourth aisle before I realise I've missed the Radox bath salts . Bath salts are another story. Anyway I go back to where I left the trolley.

It's gone.

There's about a half dozen shoppers and the odd, lurking employee in a not-quite-white shirt. The point being there's not a lot of trolleys to get confused over. In fact I made a mental note that I was the only shopper in the aisle at the time.

So I go trolley hunting.

Nothing.
No one has my trolley.
If you're an alien abduction conspiracy theorist then you might have some news for me, but to my everyday mind either another shopper has mistaken it for theirs, or the lurking employee thought it abandoned and un-packed it at lightening speed (yeah, right). I give up, Radox in hand, I return to the front of the store. I need to leave the Radox at the counter so I can leave the store for a replacement trolley. I explain why I am doing this to the gum chewing check-out chick but the return conversation is a indifferent shrug. Hmm. Must happen all the time?
So, I re-start my shopping from aisle one. I pass the Radox. I realise I've left it at the counter.

Sigh.

I get home, start un-packing when SWMBO tells me we have a tour at one of the prospective schools in the morning. I have a huge day at work and really can't afford the time, but SWMBO's look tells me I-need-to-go-along-too. In-case I miss the look she tells me in long hand that I have to-go-along-too.

SWMBO drops The Daughter off at school a little while before I drop The Son off at his school so she goes to the Coonabarra Café and waits for me. We have a bit of time between school drop-offs and school-tour so it would be nice to meet over coffee.
A school mum walks past the window, waves and comes into the café inquiring about my back. SWMBO's eyes dart back and forth, she can't remember School Mums name and can't quite place her. During my year working from home I got to meet all the stay at home mums.
After she's left, SWMBO gives me the third degree with questions like "How does she know about your back?"

Sheesh!

We do the tour, nice school and all that then return to her car parked outside the Café. She's locked the keys in.

Sigh.

I make it to the railway station to commute to work, but as the 11:06 train arrives the station master announces that a tree has fallen across the tracks further down the line and delays are to be expected.

Sigh.

I board the train in hope it will take me as far as possible at which place I can either get a taxi or bus for the remainder. Well, the utter confusion of what to do was so funny I almost had a fit. I got out of the train, and back in several times before the railways settled on what they were going to do with a train filled with mostly old people on their way out during pension week.
Enough to say I managed to get a train to one station, a bus to another, then a taxi across the Sydney Harbour Bridge and downtown into work.

My workload tripled due to my lateness and compounded by my in-experience in using Cinema 4D modeling programme. I'm working to a tight deadline later in the afternoon.

Then the alarm goes off for a fire drill.

Sigh.

10 floors down and it's blowing a cold gale outside.

Anyway, I am home now, kids are all in bed, SWMBO has returned from Choir rehearsals and the 24 hours are up.

I hope.