My Thermos, My Husband and I

I bought a new thermos. It’s a Georg Jensen design. Truly beautiful. Truly marvellous.  It’s shiny and sleek and has a wonderful curve in its body. It has an ergonomic handle and a perfect-pour spout. It’s called a Beak Thermos Jug and has been inspired by the shape and pride of the Emperor Penguin. Made from stainless steel, it has a sense of permanency about it. ‘I will stand by your side, night and day, year in, year out, keeping your coffee hot, for as long as you need me!’ it seems to declare. So it’s good looking and reliable.  Dreamy, eh?

If I sound like I’m in love, it’s because I am.

And if you think I’m bonkers, I have it on good authority that I’m not. Kevin McCloud says so!

My idol Kevin (of ‘Grand Designs’ fame) has many lovely ideas but this is the one that has stuck in my mind and makes a lot of sense: The things you touch most should be of the highest quality possible. 

This includes taps, door handles, banisters, light switches, locks. A more exhaustive list might also include  cutlery, thermoses, ballpoint pens, bed linen and husbands. Nobody wants to touch a husband of poor quality, do they?

Which brings me back to being in love. You see, I have two great loves in my life. My Beak thermos and my husband. Oddly, both are Danish.

We had a hiccup during the week which saw my husband, the Great Dane, ending up in hospital for two nights. He’s never spent a night in hospital before. He wasn’t even born in a hospital. (No, he was not born under a tree or in a Viking long boat. He was born at home, as were his siblings and many other children in Denmark in the 1960’s.) So it was a bit of a surprise when a trip to the doctor’s ended in an admission to hospital.  

You see, the Great Dane’s made of sturdy stuff and has a sense of permanency about him. He has promised to stand by my side, night and day, year in, year out, for as long as I need him.  He’s good looking and reliable.  He is the Beak thermos of the human world.

So when, suddenly, he ended up in a hospital bed with drips and monitors and a very ugly blue gown, I was bemused. Bemused might sound like a shallow feeling. Perhaps, I should first have felt concerned, traumatised, deeply sympathetic … I did feel a touch of these things but, honestly, the strongest emotion was bemusement. 

Don't get me wrong. I do not take this man for granted. I'm delighted that he's my husband and tell him so often. It’s just that I can’t imagine a world without him. I can't even imagine him not being strong and healthy and happy and funny. It just doesn't seem possible.

The Great Dane is home now and all is well. He and the Beak thermos are neck-a-neck in the sturdiness stakes once more. But our little flutter with mortality has given me cause to reflect: Have I given the same quality of companionship to the Great Dane as he has given to me? Have I been kind enough, engaging enough, funny enough, loving enough? Have I brought real joy to his life as he has to mine?

And these reflections have driven me to develop my own ideas regarding choice and quality.

I still agree with Kevin: The things you touch most should be of the highest quality possible. 

But I think a more important maxim would be this: The manner in which we touch another’s life should be of the highest quality possible.

Thank you Great Dane for living your own life by this maxim. You’re a Danish design classic.

The World on a Toilet Door

WARNING: This post contains two naughty words. Even naughtier than ‘darn’ and ‘knickers’. So don't read it if you're: 
a) feeling delicate
b) disgusted by naughty words
c) the Queen
d) my mother

I have a confession to make.

Yes, another one!

I love toilet door graffiti.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t approve of graffiti and vandalism as a rule. It’s just Ladies’ Loo Literature that I love. 

Because, there, on the back of the dunny door, there is passion, infatuation, loss, adventure, violence, encouragement, advice, art and wit. You never know what you're about to experience. It could be one or all of the following:

• A thesis on the evils of men
• A profession of undying love for Gavin Smith because 'his reel kool!!'
• A pretty poem about roses
• A reminder of how precious you are to God
• A warning for Charlene Thompson to keep her hands off Gavin Smith 'becos his mine!!!'
• A picture of a turtle
• The diusturbing revelation that 'PB is watching you!'
• An unflattering picture of Charlene Thompson
• An invitation to unite with your comrades in a march against the capitalist pigs/underwire bras/live exports/the new bus shelter two blocks away that doesn’t keep out the wind or the rain even though council has spent twelve thousand dollars on its construction.

I can pinpoint the exact moment at which my love affair with toilet door graffiti began...

I was six, my brother eight. We were on holidays, staying at a beach-side camping ground. My brother returned to our tent after visiting the amenities (or the ‘mendies’ as we called them), eyes boggling, bursting at the seams with joy and self-importance because of what he had just discovered. As soon as he was sure that Mum and Dad were out of earshot, he recited the dunny door ditty he had just read - a thing of true beauty and extreme daring, the likes of which we had never seen or heard before. It was a poem that I have since read on toilet doors all over Australia, a solid performer for half a century, maybe more:  

Here I sit, broken-hearted,

Paid ten cents and only farted.

Later on, took a chance.

Tried to fart and pooped my pants.

Not high literature, I know, but my brother and I rolled around on our sleeping bags, laughing our wicked little heads off. And - BAM - just like that, I was hooked on toilet door graffiti.

The naughty stuff, of course, was thrilling to an innocent child brought up in a safe, well-mannered household. The pooper ditties no longer hold the thrill they once held, but as the years have passed, I have still managed to find much on the dunny door to fascinate and amuse me. I’ll happily take the good with the bad, the rude and lewd with the chipper and chirpy. Because a dunny door is a window to the world - or at least a world of which I will never otherwise be a part.

I even have my favourite place for Loo Lit. It’s a particular door in the ladies’ loo at a railway station through which I often pass in my travels for work and leisure. Unlike some toilet doors, the literature on this one seems relatively innocent. There are the occasional heart-breaking stories of abuse and rejection, but, on the whole, the contents of this door are rather cheering. I love to  read and ponder. What has inspired the writing of these words, the drawing of these pictures? So let me share a few of my faves…

Eye wonder if Donna feels compelled to record her movements wherever she goes?

Aw man. This one brings a tear to my eye.  It would seem that Oscar does love her, but something is stopping him from fully loving her. She's had a taste of the delights of Oscar's love but will never know what it is for him to abandon his heart totally to hers. 

WHAT IS STOPPING YOU, OSCAR??? 

And why does this girl feel the need to share her devastation on the loo door???

 I love this but it has created so many questions. 

Why did she leave Bendigo? 

Was it a departure of choice or did circumstances drive her away? 

Where did she go? 

What has happened in the last twenty years? 

Did she promise to return to Bendigo for her own sake or for someone else's? 

Was it to seek closure or to open a dusty old chapter?
 There's a big, fat novel lurking within those few simple words.

And, my  favourite...

Go Banana and Mustang!

I hope they had a hoot of a time. 

I reckon they did. 

How could you not have fun with a hot pink Sharpie in your hand, Melbz as your destination and names like Banana and Mustang?

Take me with you Banana and Mustang!!!

PS I cannot claim to have contributed to the broad and fascinating body of work that makes up International Ladies’ Loo Literature. My preferred vehicles for self-expression are the novel, the blog and the personal letter/email.

Ooh-la-la! I am so very French!

I’m writing this in my house in central Victoria. The garden is burning to a crisp in the hot, dry wind that has lingered way past summer. Magpies are carolling on the edge of the bird bath. The neighbour’s kelpie is barking. It’s all very Australian.  

But in my heart and mind, I’m in France.

And not only am I in France. I am French! Ooh-la-la!

What an exciting life I lead! And it seems even more glamorous when you consider that, last year, I was living in Rome, being totally Italian.

It’s all about writing, of course. Last year I wrote the first book in my new series, The Girl and the Writer (working title … or maybe the end title). It was set in Rome. This year I’m working on the second book in the series and it takes place in Provence. And if I’m going to write it, I might as well live it. And if I can’t live it by physically being there, I can pretend. 

Vive l'imagination!

I started, rather predictably, with books. I raided my bookshelves for novels set in contemporary France. A few weeks ago I confessed to my irrational and jealous love for The Little Paris Bookshop. What a delight it was to reread this gem! I’ve also been flicking through The Elegance of the Hedgehog, The Reader on the 6.27 and The Hundred Foot Journey. I’ve wallowed in coffee-table books on Provence and have just started rereading Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence. Fabulous! Fabuleux! Do give it a burl, even if you never plan to travel there. It’s beautifully written and hilarious.

Once I'd sorted the books, it was time to eat. I made omelettes. Omelettes for lunch with a little glass of red wine. Sometimes  a wedge of camembert and a bunch of grapes followed. I also made Salade Nicoise. So very French! 

The next culinary goal is to find a French patisserie in Melbourne where I can do some serious research into eclairs, tarts and gateaux. It’ll be tough but if suffering for my art can't include pastry and cream, chocolate and strawberries, what's the point of it all???

Moving closer to the opening chapter of my book, I started to feast upon image after image. Thankfully, feasting on images is not as detrimental to one’s waistline as feasting on cheese and eclairs. I drooled over Pinterest posts of olive groves, lavender fields, wisteria-covered houses, mossy fountains and shady plane trees. I dived into Google Maps. I took that little yellow man, placed him on the road and walked him the last two kilometres to the hilltop village in which my story is set. I browsed through my own photos of Provence and dreamed about going there again sometime soon.

And last, but not least, I've been learning the language. Or, as they say in Provence, I've been learning to parle francais. (Did you see how seamlessly I slipped from English to French? Sensationnel!) 

I’m probably the only Australian of my generation who didn’t learn French at school. Until six weeks ago, all I knew of the language was how to order an eclair and a religieuse chocolat from a patisserie. No, hang on a minute. I’m underselling my skills here. I also knew how to order two or three eclairs from a patisserie. 

Two years ago, I did try a program called  ‘Speak Fluent French in Eight Hours’,  but sixteen hours had failed to take me beyond getting my fill of sweet treats. If one truly wants to become French, there's more that needs to be said. And that’s where my natty little Duolingo app has come to the rescue.

Every day, for at least ten minutes, I chatter away (in text and voice) with men, women, a dolphin, a mouse and a bear and I am surging ahead. I am now able to say the following extremely useful sentences:

This pig is tall.

The sock is red.

The shark is eating the monkey.

It is a big dress. (This one is sure to come in handy when I’ve located a reliable source of chocolate eclairs!)

The milk is white. (I can also point out that the milk is yellow or green, but hope I’m never faced with such an advanced case of decay in my own fridge.)

It is a cat but it eats vegetables.

You eat like a pig. (The dolphin told me this! Can you believe it? And I haven’t even visited the patisserie yet!)

And my all-time favourite:

I know that he knows that I know. (Actually, I haven’t really learned this sentence. I get it muddled every time, but I know that he knows that I know that it is an important sentence to know if I am to become fluent in French.)

So there you have it. My life as a French woman, or as I now say, une femme française. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to duck out and buy myself a beret, a poodle and jar of lavender honey.

À bientôt.

The Insomniac’s Guide to Life at 4 am

I’m tired.

Not just tired as in end-of-week tired or I-had-a-rubbish-night’s-sleep tired.

I’m tired as in that-blob-in-the-corner-that-looks-like-a-sack-of-rags-is-me-because-I-can’t-remember-the-last-time-I-slept-for-more-than-three-hours  tired.

Not that I’m complaining. Most of us go through bouts of insomnia from time to time. I just want to share some of the things I have learned from the many nights I have spent awake. Maybe my hard-earned wisdom will make the night-time wakies a little easier for someone else out there …

What to do when insomnia hits:

• Set yourself a time by which you hope to be asleep (not more than 30 minutes). If you are still awake at the deadline, get up.
• Drink chamomile tea. Not too big a cup or you’ll have to tinkle just as you’re about to nod off again! (Too much information? I can’t tell because I’m brain-dead from months of insomnia.)
• Watch a bit of trashy TV. Nothing too exciting or too emotionally taxing. And definitely nothing that flashes bargain prices across the screen, offers free sets of steak knives and has a telephone number that you simply must ring right now if you don’t want to miss out on the bargain of the week/year/century.
• Read a book. Choose a volume that's not too precious if dropped or dribbled upon when you finally doze off.
• Exercise. Not outside in the dark where the boogymen are lurking. Just some floor exercises or some weights. The physical motion is meditative and helps settle restless legs.  
• Crochet or knit something simple that doesn’t involve following a pattern. I crochet cotton dishcloths. I know! It sounds desperate but, like exercising, it is repetitive, meditative and calming. And at the end of the night I have something tangible (if slightly bizarre) to show for my insomnia.

What not to do when insomnia hits:

• Drink coffee or eat chocolate. If you thought your nerve endings were buzzing before you got out of bed, just wait and see what a hit of caffeine can do!
• Open a packet of bickies or a bag of chips. I’ve got one word to say to you: Slippery slope! (Okay, that’s two words, but I’m  tired,  remember?)
• Post on Facebook. People from the other side of the world will post back asking, 'Isn’t it night time there? Why aren’t you asleep?’ You know you have insomnia, but the reminder from the other side of the globe can be terribly disheartening.
• Write the next chapter of your novel. You will think it is brilliant as you are writing it, but when you look at your work in the cold light of day, you’ll realise that it’s rubbish. And not even the kind of rubbish that you can edit into something beautiful. It’s just a festering pile of bin-worthy slops.
• Watch the shopping channel on TV. You might not be terribly excited by steam mops, but once they offer to throw  in a set of those steak knives that cut through shoes, bricks and  storm-felled trees you’ll be ringing that phone number and going on a six month payment plan before you can say ‘Steak knives are for steak!’ three times. 

A tad more help:

My sleepless nights are not spent fretting or stressing over work, the price of bread or global warming. Quite the contrary. I harbour grand delusions and vain hopes in my weary breast. Just in case there are any fellow insomniacs who experience 3 am delusions of grandeur, I’m going to finish with some cold hard facts. Plant these in your mind while it is still rested and unaddled. (I don’t think ‘unaddled’ is a word but, again, I’m blaming it on the insomnia):

• Those twitching leg muscles will not turn you into a world class sprinter. You are not living in the pages of a Marvel comic. You will still be a clumsy loper in the morning. The muscle twitches are the result of bonkers nerve signals caused by your insomnia. 
• Being awake will not burn up more calories than sleeping thus rendering you model-slender . You will not look like Elle McPherson by the end of the month. Lack of sleep messes with your metabolism so that you are more likely to gain weight than lose it. (The family size bag of crisps you scoff each morning at 4am doesn’t help, either!)
• You are not becoming one of those rare, enviable people like Winston Churchill who does not need more than a few hours’ sleep a night. You will not be able to fit two days’ worth of work and leisure into every single day. No, no, no, no, no! For a mere mortal like yourself, less sleep will mean you become less productive. Less sleep will turn you into a vegetable. You will turn into a turnip before you turn into Winston Churchill.

  

  Winston Churchill. This is not you.

  
  

  

  A turnip. This is you.

Helpful?

Any hints to add?

Is anyone reading this at 3am?

I was a child actor

I was a child actor. 

How's that for an opening sentence? Sounds amazing, doesn't it? 

And it's true! 

Although, in the spirit of honesty and transparency and all those other limiting things you need to be when blogging, I should reveal that all of the acting took place on stage at the Shire Hall in Coonabarabran (Population 3000). 

Don't get me wrong. They were fabulous productions, and there was a lot of local talent, but it wasn't quite Hollywood or Broadway. 

And while we're clarifying opening sentences,  I should probably add that I was no Shirley Temple or Drew Barrymore. My talent didn't even approach that of the chimpanzee in 'The Beverly Hillbillies'. I was, however, enthusiastic in my participation.

My first play ever was 'The Sound of Music'. 

I was Gretl.

Yes! I made my theatre debut at six years of age, starring in the role of Gretl, the youngest of the Von Trapp children. The cute one who sings, 'The su-u-un has go-o-one to bed and so must I-I.' 

You can see me here (far left) in my fetching little sailor suit, my plaited-Austrian-bun thingies sticking out at the side of my head. 

I did go on to perform other roles - Bielke in 'Fiddler on the Roof', a dancing islander in 'South Pacific', one of the king's wives in 'The King and I' and a baby elephant in a revue. (Being a baby elephant felt far more glamorous at the time than it sounds right now.) But none affected me as deeply as being Gretl in 'The Sound of Music'. It was probably due to my age (six-year-olds are highly impressionable) and the fact that I continued to watch the movie version at least once a year for the next thirty years .

It was 'The Sound of Music' (SOM as we showbiz folk call it) that alerted me to the existence of pink lemonade. Pink lemonade!!!! What's not to love?! Of course, such sophisticated drinks were only available in musicals and movies when I was a child. The closest I ever came to pink lemonade was chugging down a can of Cherry Cheer with my Chiko Roll. But it made the world a better place just knowing that, somewhere out there, the lemonade flowed pink. 

Likewise, SOM alerted me to the delights of lederhosen, cuckoo clocks, brown paper packages tied up with string, puppet plays, yodelling  and glasshouses. All of these wonderful things have made it into my children's books. Except for the yodelling. Just give me time ....

And remember those fabulous clothes that Maria made for the Von Trapp children using old curtains? Frugal and environmentally friendly. Inspiring, too. For years I dabbled in making shorts for my children from tablecloth fabric. And, finally, I paid the ultimate tribute to SOM - I made my own skirt from curtain fabric. Sewed it with my own two hands, just like Maria! And I wore it to the NSW Premier's Awards. 

Here I am in my curtain fabric skirt. 
The woman to my right is my mother, 
wearing a shirt made from the seat of 
a deck chair ... or maybe it's silk. 

On the down side, SOM left me scared and confused about nuns. Were they grumpy or kind? Did they really break into song at the drop of a hat? Was a wimple something you wore on your head or a polite word for a wee? It didn't help that my own mother played the role of grumpy nun in the same production. I didn't meet a real live nun until much later in life, so the mystery lasted for many years. 

SOM sent mixed messages about child-rearing, too. Was it a good thing or a bad thing to train your kids with a whistle? It worked a treat for Captain Von Trapp, and yet Maria didn't seem overly impressed. Just quietly, I still think it'd be worth a try.

On balance, however, I think SOM has been a happy influence in my life. When I did The Sound of Music Tour in Salzburg, I was able to sing along to all the songs like a pro. I'm able to achieve full marks in SOM quizzes - a real self-esteem booster. And when I'm feeling sad, I know that all I have to do is remember my favourite things, and then I don't fe-e-e-e-el so ba-a-a-a-ad.

The postcard I sent home to my mum and dad
 after visiting the beautiful city of Salzburg.

Have you had your moment on stage or in front of the camera?
Has it shaped your life?

Want to test your Sound of Music knowledge? 
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