Zesty Mumma's Words

A life lived without passion is a life half lived

Archive for the tag “observation”

21 Aug 2014
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Functional Dysfunctionality – Families Where Would We Be Without Them

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Families are complex and I don’t think there are many people  on the planet would disagree with that. Just navigating the intricate labyrinth of internal relationships can be a mine field and can make your mind bleed at the same time; brother sister, mother daughter, husband wife, father son, then lets add aunts, uncles etc etc to the mix. I believe that most of our families work on the basis of functional disfunctionality.

Which brings me to my mother, Monica, a spritely impish woman in her seventies. She is incredibly active, still playing tennis and riding her pushbike many times a week, looking after grandchildren and great grandchildren on a regular basis and walking everywhere she can. Born during the Second World War she lost her father while he was a soldier in the British army. Her mother, having four children, had to find work and placed three of those children in an orphanage. Like so many of the children of that time loss was just part of her life and just like the English do so well, she just got on with life.

As you would imagine security to my mother is a very important thing. She doesn’t understand the waste she sees constantly in society today. People have far more disposable income than ever before but use it far less wisely. I tell you all this to explain what happened on my first trip to New Zealand and Queenstown in particular.

Even before we left Australia, in the planning stages of our trip, my mother told me that the main thing she wanted to do was visit Milford Sound. It wasn’t a trip I had envisioned for myself but as the tour guide I knew I would have to find out a little bit about about it. The first part of that trip saw us spend ten days in the North Island before taking the ferry to Picton. We stayed in Wellington for a few days, where I picked up some brochures. When I read the price of the trip I knew I would have to be skilful when breaking this news to my mother. After dinner the night before we left I sat down next to Monica, who was happily watching the television, drinking a cup of tea and nibbling on chocolate, perfect I thought, her heaven.

“So mum” I say, carefully as you go, “I’ve been looking up about your trip to Milford Sound”.

“Yes,” I could tell by her tone she was excited; phew I thought this is going to be easy.

“Well from what I can see, you take a bus from Queenstown all the way to Milford then on to a boat ……” I went through the whole scenario with her.

“This trip here” I held up the first brochure. “Is $159 NZ” I heard a squeak come out of her mouth but I ignored it thinking I could finish her off with my secret weapon.

“But look at this one, it’s on special for $144,” who could argue with that I thought. Monica that’s who, I think she nearly had a coronary.

“Oh that’s too much I can’t afford that,” Mind you this is the same woman that wouldn’t hesitate to buy a $200 dress if she really wanted it.

Eventually I had to let it go cause there was just no reasoning with her and the argument was getting heated. Even the fact our exchange rate at that time gave us $1.25 NZ for every $1.00 AU, could not sway her.

On the South Island things calmed down and I didn’t mention the trip to Milford again. A couple of days before we arrived in Queenstown out of the blue my mother says.

“I think I will do the trip to Milford Sound, I was just being silly.” I remained calm; I’d kind of expected this about face. Generally it is just the unexpected that people react to, when their brain has time to process the information they’re usually ok. So I didn’t say too much, not wanting to gloat.

“That’s good mum, I know you’ll enjoy it”.

“We’ll see,” she said ominously.

The day we arrived in Queenstown was a cool day, so once mum was settled with her cup of tea I went to reception to use the Internet. Deciding that I probably needed to book the trip to Milford while I was there I made it for Tuesday, two days away.

When I got back to our accommodation mum had found a couple of young backpackers to talk to so she was in a great mood.

Waiting till we were alone I said in the brightest voice possible, “ I booked our trip to Milford Sound.”

Monica nearly choked on the marmalade toast she was eating, “what did you do that for, I can’t afford that.” She proceeded to huff and puff, working herself into lather. I thought at that moment that my mother might have been suffering from either Alzheimer’s disease or Schizophrenia.

It was my turn to “WHAT” her.

“Excuse me. Didn’t you tell me the other day that you had changed you mind and wanted to go”?

“Oh, you shouldn’t listen to me,” to say I was flabbergasted at that moment was an understatement.

I won’t bore you with anymore details; needless to say it was very tense for a while. I did take the trip to Milford and had an amazing time, while my mother stayed in Queenstown. As I say families are not for the faint hearted, you possibly may need a PHD to understand them.

Posted in Thursday Thoughtful and tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
19 Aug 2014

Haast and Beyond, with Whitebait for Sustenance

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Heading south to Haast, the last outpost on the West Coast, you realise just how stoic the early European settlers must have been to eek out a farming existence in that verdant land. The bush closes in thickly around you at times and the ever present, misty rain implies a prehistoric past that is still very much present. This trip was my second on that road and no different the first time I travelled it.

Whitebait is a delicacy you may not have heard about but is so important to nearly every New Zealander that a love of them is almost a prerequisite for citizenship. What is it I hear you ask, actually Whitebait are tiny little fish, much smaller that sardines with a gigantic head (in comparison to their body). Every single kiwi I have met has at least one story about going “whitebaiting” when they were young, much increasing its legendary status. As you approach Haast a small hand written sign on the side of the road advertising whitebait fritters can be seen, make sure you stop. The fritters are a simple affair, prepared and cooked on a make shift bench in front of you and consist of beaten eggs, whitebait, salt and pepper, buttered bread and sauce if you want but well worth it.

South of Haast is the truly wild New Zealand, Milford Sound, Doubtful Sound and onto Antarctica. The main road turns east at this point and heads up and over the Alps. If you don’t have a convoy of Motorhomes breathing down upon you make sure at some point you stop on the side of the road to marvel, slack jawed at the beauty you are heading toward. It is scenery that no amount of words I could ever say would do justice to.

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This road will take you all the way to Wanaka and on to Queenstown, it is quite narrow in places but that is never a problem because there just isn’t that much traffic. Once you are over the top it follows a route around amazing blue lakes. This is sheep country and very high so the vegetation is sparse. This trip we chose to keep going through to Queenstown but Wanaka is a nice little town with lots of accommodation. Both towns are quite modern and generally busy in all seasons. Winter bringing the skiers and late spring, summer and early autumn the travelling tourists.

It takes about an hour to get to Queenstown from Wanaka along the highest public road in the country. Just before you begin your decent into Queenstown you come upon gravel clearing on the side of the road. Make sure you stop at that spot, the view looking down the valley and into Queenstown is a must see. Late snow was still clinging to the hills around the valley on my first trip but this time it was late summer so it had all melted, still beautiful but the snow made it spectacular.

 

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It is a 300 km bus trip to Milford Sound from Queenstown and I took it the first time I was there. Unfortunately, the only trouble with that is if you’re on a bus tour you have to take 300km trip home that day as well. Actually I am only joking when I say unfortunately because the trip there was nearly as good as seeing the Sound. After Te Arnau the road takes you through vast empty valleys that had once been farmland but are now part of the National Park. The drivers are well trained and have lots of interesting local knowledge to bring the trip to life. It makes it a long day but not one you would regret. To get down to Milford you have to pass through a long tunnel. If you are a nervous driver you would be best to take a bus trip like me. I’m not a nervous driver but I was very glad I went on the bus.

My favourite thing in Queenstown is the botanic garden. After you walk through the garden there is lovely little French café down on the lake that finishes off the visit nicely. The walk up Queenstown Hill is also great. It starts at the end of some extremely steep streets but becomes less so once you are up about a third of the way.

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Arrowtown is a quaint little town about 5 km from Queenstown, It is renowned for cute little stone cottages and other old buildings but it is heavily commercialised and really not my cup of tea. Having said that I had a venison pie at the local bakery was the best pie I have ever tasted.

 

Tips

  • Top up your petrol take at Haast.
  • Try Pine Lodge for budget accommodation. The room I had on my first visit was spotlessly clean. I booked it on a last minute booking website and managed to get a twin room for four nights for $200 NZ.
  • There are two supermarkets in Queenstown – a smaller one right at the end of Shotover Street in the CBD. The second, a large New World, is just a few blocks over, just out of the CBD.
  • Unless you know you have a bargain I wouldn’t really buy any souvenirs in Queenstown, very overpriced and all made in China.
  • The bus trip to Milford costs around $150 NZ
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13 Aug 2014
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Never Give Up, You Just Never Know What is Going to Happen Next

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Huge walls of hydraulic energy thundered down on the helpless coastline, Cyclone Joan had done her job well. On the beach the surf contest continued attracting spectators all morning. The wide expanse of sand in front of the surf club resembled Central Station at peak hour. Rubber duckies bounced high in the air as they jumped over the surging white water, then roared with intensity up the beach. While hovering helicopters fought for supremacy with loud speakers narrating the progress of each competitor in piercing tone, the confusion was complete. Out of the activity, a little way up the beach, Gail swam alone all the time wary not to venture beyond the shore break. The destructive power of the thunderous surf made survival for anyone caught in its iron grip impossible.

Where the girl came from Gail didn’t know but there she was a tiny figure alone in a sea of white water, screaming in terror as the surge tried to sweep her out to sea. The human instinct to help rose swiftly inside Gail and fought valiantly with her logical brain that accurately concluded she too would be fighting for her life if she did. The minutes ticked by like hours; scared she would loose sight of the girl if she went for help she desperately tried to attract attention. Gail’s frantic cries for help fell unheard below the roaring Jet engine of the raging surf. Desperation tightened its grip as she watched the girl’s tenuous grasp on life slipping away.

Out of nowhere a surfer appeared from under a monster wave.

“Do you need a hand to get in” he called in an amazingly calm voice. Gail’s compunction to laugh was almost unbearable. Didn’t he realise there was a ferocious beast hell bent on devouring her life and that of the other swimmer?

“I’m Okay, but there’s a girl in trouble out there,” She yelled back to him.

It wasn’t till the girl was safely on her way to shore that Gail realised the rip had taken hold of her and it wasn’t letting go.

Between breakers the ocean became a cauldron, as the sweep took her she was pounded by wall after wall of white water. Screaming until she was hoarse her voice was no match for the malevolent surf. As each new wave approached Gail steeled herself for the pounding she was about to receive, there was only enough time to gasp for air before being dragged down again. Sound no longer came from her open mouth.

A brief glance through the tumult revealed ants on the beach that used to be people.

Having reached the point of hopelessness, death seemed the inevitable next step.

Out of nowhere the surfer appeared beside her again, having taken the other girl to the safety of the beach he then realised Gail was the one in trouble now. Making his way back out through the treacherous conditions, he knew there wasn’t a minute to loose. Though the fog in her brain was thick, Gail felt herself lifted across the board and then blackness.

Gail opened her eyes and an ocean of water ran uncontrollably from her mouth. Coughing and spluttering she tried to sit, encircled by a crowd and totally unaware she was naked, her string bikini no match for the gigantic surf.

Inexplicably, after thanking her saviour Gail began crawling up the beach to where her husband and friend sat watching in oblivion. It was an unexplainable truth but fact is no one offered her a towel or help back to her family. She collapsed on a towel beside them. Feeling the thud as she hit the sand, Darren turned his head and asked in total innocence, “Where have you been?”

With all the strength her battered body could summon, she said in a gravelly whisper,

“You’ve got to be joking!”

Posted in Wednesday Wisdom and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
07 Aug 2014

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle – I’m Not

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Ì love animals, you name it, love them all, especially frogs. Not that frogs are animals but you get the idea. Magpies though, now that’s a different story or at least it was. Being totally traumatised during childhood I always considered magpies one species of wildlife that I would I never say that about. I spent most trips to and from school during magpie breeding season carrying a piece of wood and behaving as if I was walking down a dark alleyway at midnight. The ever present stalker ready to attack the moment I let my guard down. I’m an “excellent ducker and weaver” to this day. It’s just a pity that I didn’t have better athletic ability where this highly developed skill could have been of more use.

We had two magpies living in our yard, just young birds, not a whole year old. They had no fear of our human presence in their lives or that of our domestic animals. Not even the constant staring of our old orange cat perturbed them. Our maggies had their first litter in late winter and the babies were ready to leave the nest in early spring.

Craig found the first baby in the small Banksia tree near the garage. Stunned by the fact it didn’t move when he patted it he couldn’t wait to show the kids when they came home. Being Sheena, queen of the jungle my immediate diagnosis was “Its fallen out of the nest, we’ll have to look after it”.

My husband and his brother both tried to assure me that the parents were looking after it. Of course I didn’t listen and managed to course he poor thing to fly into a tall sapling, safely out of arms my arms reach, there it stayed all afternoon. The beautiful day that had been Sunday had been disappear in a torrential downpour, complete with howling wind, trees nearly doubling over as the southerly hit. I looked out my kitchen window and stared at the helpless baby sitting perched in the tree, with its sparsely covered, needle like foliage offering no protection. The night rolled in the wet and the blackness was almost unbearable. I couldn’t stop worrying about the tiny bird and succumbed to my mothering instincts

Standing under the tree it didn’t take long for the rain to penetrate my clothes but I couldn’t reach the bird. If I tried to climb up to it I’d probably fall into the creek which the tree overhung. There was nothing else to do; I’d have to force it down. The long stick that held up my washing line would do. Being cruel to be kind is a thing we humans do well, and I was no exception. The rain and darkness made the task even harder. There were times when I was sure I’d shish kabobbed the poor thing, but still I pressed on through the driving rain. Finally I managed to push the frightened baby far enough down the tree so I could grab it. Clutching my prize I hurried inside.

It was soaked to the bone. Sitting there with it the snuggled in to my chest I was quietly confident that interfering with nature was the purpose of mankind but after spending the night with the bird in a box next to me I wasn’t so sure. The bright morning sunshine poured through the window and I could hear the parent magpies warbling in the yard and knew what had to do.

Out in the yard I found there was actually not one baby but two. The second sitting patiently on a branch the way my charge had been before my interference. Placing the bird next to its sibling I was quietly confident that I was setting the world to right. Alas, the last time I saw the fledgling that day it was stuck in a thicket of long grass along way from the other baby. Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Having the parents reject it because of me weighed heavily on my conscience. Watching the parents and the other baby for the week, my guilt had to some degree subsided. Suddenly a miraculous turn of events, my son Jack came running in with the news there were two baby magpies in the wattle tree and sure enough there they were.

It seems that magpies separate their babies into different trees until they can fly properly. They probably do this incase some marauding predator like an Eagle, Hawk or interfering human decides to steal a baby, then they wouldn’t get both. Only at night do they bring them together into the same tree.

Apparently Magpie parents know what’s best for their babies, who would have thought!

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25 Jul 2014

The Thin White Duke and the Changes He Made

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I posted this piece 1 year ago in tribute to an amazing artist.

Flawless skin, the perfect peaches and cream complexion and  eyes that peer sky ward, thoughtfully transfixed on the unseen, a hand gently brushes back flaxen hair. The misty film that covers the entire image helps manifest the far away feeling it tries to evoke.

 

Is this a work by a famous painter featuring a beautiful model you might ask? No it is in fact the cover art for “Hunky Dory”, David Bowie’s 4th album. Bowie himself was the subject of this picture. A work so significant in the world of music that it was voted by Time Magazine in 2006 as one of the top 100 of all time. First published in 1971 it was and remains an innovative and original collection of songs.

 

Recorded at the height of his thin white duke era, it is stylish and artistic but most of all energetic and engaging. A precursor to the glamrock style that invaded the British music scene in the early 70’s and eventually the rest of the world. It rises and falls in perfect precision, asking questions he has no answers for and describes in imagery the confusion that abounded in that post flower power time.

I discovered this album much later than it’s release date at a time when I was both the happiest and eventually the saddest I have ever felt. I am inevitably transported by this song in particular to a momentous time.  Whenever I am faced with big changes in my life I always find a place for it. So that is why I have chosen this album and in particular this song as my friday night music festival offering of this week.  For any of you who have never heard it the link at the bottom of the verse I have included takes you to a you tube post of the song.

Looking forward to paradise

ENJOY !

 

I still don’t know what I was waiting for

And my time was running wild

A million dead-end streets

and every time I thought I’d got it made

It seemed the taste was not so sweet

So I turned myself to face me

But I’ve never caught a glimpse

Of how the others must see the faker

I’m much too fast to take that test

Ch – ch – ch – changes

David Bowie – Changes

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23 Jul 2014

Choice and Commitment – A hard lesson to Learn

The last few mornings I have been picking up and taking my friends two young daughters to school. The morning drop off is something I haven’t had the pleasure of partaking in for quite a while and I will readily admit I will not miss it. Crazy is a word that springs to mind, kids, cars (not a good mix) parents, dogs it’s all there. I can’t help looking back to my own primary school years when it was just lots of kids walking and the occasional car.

The two little girls I have been chaffeuring are absolutely gorgeous and no trouble at all, so it has been a pleasure. As an observer I have laughed to myself at the funny little characteristics that children take on relevant to their position in the family. The youngest is an impish, quirky, funny girl who tends to be babied by her siblings, while the oldest is a gentle and calm person who takes her responsibility to her younger sibling very seriously.

I can see the older girl in later life in a position where these beautiful characteristics are in high demand, i.e. nursing or teaching.

Today however, wasn’t a great day for the little one, her sister wasn’t going to school as she had to go to the dentist. This meant the little one has to go to school by herself.    She wasn’t happy!

Being the youngest she is used to always knowing that at least one of her siblings are always near at hand (she does have an older brother that is able to get himself to high school). She tried all the tricks that a youngest child tries, they plead, they cry and they stubbornly refuse to budge.

I truly wanted to keep her with me, it would have been so easy. We could have had a lovely girlie day and it was very tempting, but I didn’t relent. If you allow a child to stay home from school cause she doesn’t feel like going, does that same person not go to work as an adult because they don’t feel like it? Ok that might sound like a stretch but where does it stop?

One reason that cemented my determination to encourage her to go to school was the fact that she had promised her parents that she would. She kept repeating, “I shouldn’t have promised, I shouldn’t have promised”.  This nine year old had learnt something that many adults never learn, the implications of making a commitment. Her parents have done a great job, they successfully taught their child about choice and commitment.

This skill can be a determining factor for success in every aspect of your adult life.

So we sat in the sun, she cried, I cuddled her and she eventually got up and chose to walk into her classroom, while I breathed a sigh of relief.

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22 Jul 2014

Abel Tasman totally Missed Australia and Ran into New Zealand Instead

 

 

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The road from Nelson to Motueka is a nice relaxing drive through rural and semi rural countryside. If you are into gleaning (that’s finding free food) this is the place for it. We picked up “found” apples, pears and stonefruit on roadside trees.
There was also a ready supply of vegetables on sale at little stalls in front of homes. This usually involves an honesty box but they are so cheap I would hope that everyone would actually pay the price. Some of this fruit lasted for a couple of weeks and I was stewing apples for breakfast with yoghurt right up till we left the country. Make the most of the abundance as you will save yourself a bit of money by  stocking up.

As it’s a major fruit growing area with lots of picking work in season, there is a good supply of backpacker accommodation. Be discerning however, this was one of the places  where I really wasn’t entirely happy with our accommodation. We had booked into the White Elephant (that should have been enough of a warning) and all the reviews were ok. It’s a huge old house on the edge of the town with an amazing garden. Smoking in proximity to the guest house is an issue to me and know matter how many times I asked the same people not to smoke outside our bedroom window they just kept doing it.  The other big problem was the fact that that there is no one in charge inside the house at night and it is a big house with lots of guests. Finding a guest conducting a head shaving business in the bathroom at 11.30 pm was annoying but you had to applaude his entrepreneurial spirit. The fact their newly shawn head for some reason gave them a sense of freedom that caused them to frolick loudly through the corridors till around 12.00pm was a bit hard to handle. I couldn’t help seeing the similarity to how sheep behave once they are let out of the shearing shed once they are shawn, kicking their legs, head butting each other and baaing loudly. I suppose it is New Zealand after all.

We didn’t hang around once we had booked in and headed out of town to Tarkaka, a small town in the Golden Bay area of the far North West. To get there, like everywhere else in the South Island, you had to drive up and over a dirty big hill. To give you an idea it’s really only about 54 km in distance but it takes between 1 hour and 1 1/4 hours to get there.

Tarkaka is  a funny little town set in a magical valley and is easily compared to Nimbin in Northern N.S.W. ( near Byron Bay). I only knew about it cause I had spoken to another traveller on my last visit to NZ and was significantly intrigued to eventually get there, I’m glad to say it was well worth the trip. There’s more than just the town though, scattered through the valley are artist studios, stunning coastline, the obligatory beautiful mountain scenery and great cafe’s.  The day we were there, which was a friday, a small market had been set up in a park, selling nice handmade items but more importantly there were  fantastic food options that were very affordable. We bought a french crepe to share ( plenty for two females) stuffed with great fresh fillings  and it only cost us $4.00 each.

Back in Motueka we spent the evening at Toad Hall, a lovely little old public building. By day it is an organic grocer and cafe but at night the garden outside transforms into a pop up beer garden, complete with festoon lights and wood fired pizza oven. Playing on the large raised stage was a local band called Tom Fields. They played a mix of music in a rousing folk style that totally complemented the fabulous pizza that we ordered and the bottle of nice South Island Pinot Noir. The Pizza only cost $15 and the wine was  $25 for the bottle. So we got amazing entertainment, meal and wine for $20 each, fabulous.

The next day we drove the ten kilometres to the start of the Abel Tasman track,  this is one of a series of tracks that wind through the Abel Tasman National Park.  We chose a 7.5km section from the Abel Tasman Centre to Cyathea Cove. This was a reasonably easy section with some minor inclines. The track winds around the park, through forest and along cliff faces and can be accessed in a number of ways. We drove the the start of the track but we also met walkers, going the opposite direct, who had paid a water taxi to drop them at a certain point along the track. They would then be picked up from to the car park which was our starting point. After walking 2 hours we broke for lunch and a swim at 12.00. As I have said previously the Vacuum flask is a necessity. Sitting having a cup of tea and eating the sandwiches we had made, under the Rata and Pohutukawa trees you could imagine you were in Paradise.

And then you get bitten by a New Zealand Sand fly.

As you may or may not know there is a great sibling rivalry between Australia and New Zealand. The New Zealanders like to tell you that Australia has all the bitey things in the world and that is true. They also like to tell you that they don’t have any, this however is not.  I will tell you more about NZ Sand flies another time, at this point let me just say they have the most annoying bite I have ever experience and believe me having grown up in Austalia I have been bitten by just about everything thing there is that can bite you with out killing you. So make sure you take insect repellant.

The Abel Tasman National Park was named after the Dutch explorer of the same name, who discovered the south island in 1642 purely because his ship was blown of course when he was trying to travel north. He had previous to that totally miss the great hulking  mass that is Australia and only just spotted bottom of the tiny island of Tasmania, which he called Van Diemens Land.

We left Motueka the next morning (Sunday) having visited the market in town, stocked up on a bit more fruit and Veg and headed to the west coast.

 

Good Ideas

*  Take a pack lunch

*  Always carry insect repellant

*  Buy a coffee plunger in New World ($4.49)

 

 

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21 Jul 2014

My Husband Wears Black – Not for the Reasons You May Imagine

My husband wears black.
Not because he is of Mediterranean descent.
Not because it’s a fashion statement.
I was always really grateful for this odd character quirk, mainly because he often tended to wear much of the food he was eating. Not that he was a particularly messy eater, its just that at some stage he always managed to drop something down his front.
I have found however it’s really important  not to set yourself on too high a pedestal because as fate would have it, life often drops everything straight back in your lap, literally.
Craig and I were getting ready for a wedding and I had laid out for him his cloths, this included the beautiful new white shirt I had just bought for him.
He took one look at it and with all the wisdom of the ages stated, “it’s white, what happens when I spill my dinner on it” Some would call him a pessimist I choose to think of him as a realist.
I consider myself to be of reasonable intellect and despite all previous experience with Craig and clothes and food, all put together, for some unknown reason this question had not entered my mind. May be it was the optimism of the day, could there be a better time for it than a wedding?
We didn’t have a choice, the wedding was at four, it was three o’clock already and the trip took an hour.
There was only one thing to do, throw caution to the wind and take our chances with the white shirt.
I needn’t really to have worried, as it turned out it’s the brown shoe polish you have to watch out for.
Sitting in the car waiting to leave I heard Craigs voice float down to me from the verandah, “Does brown boot polish come out.” Instantly I felt the blood drain from my face. My dream of turning up with the tall, dark haired stranger (we didn’t know many of the invitees) in the crisp, snow white shirt were evaporating by the second.
The brown shoe polish stain dissolved remarkably well in water and the soaked front of the shirt was nearly dry by the time we entered the wedding venue.
I needn’t have worried, Craig said he would drive, so the only liquid that passed his lips was water. Then after the first hor’d’ erve he informed me he had a virus and felt like dying so that was the end of food for him.
No worries, I didn’t let the side down. A huge piece of spicy red sauce landed down my right side and spattered all over the front of my pale pastel dress.
I’m now considering how we would look in his and hers matching black.
Yay team goth.

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09 Jul 2014
1 Comment

Expect the Unexpected and You May Be Pleasantly Surprised

 

 

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Have you ever had an unexpected year, a year when nothing proceeds the way you would have thought it would, let alone planned. The year I left my husband and found myself living in a two bedroom flat looking after two grade 12 students, only one of whom was my child, was my surprising year. I spent most of the time fighting tooth and nail to make two  teenagers pass grade 12 , when neither of them really cared that much. Dragging my child out of the surf and the other one out of her bed cause she “just had to sleep a bit longer,” was my usual scenario. I felt like a sergeant major directing traffic, one to Maroochydore High and the other to Mountain Creek. That definitely wasn’t what I expected when the clock struck twelve on 31st December the previous year.

The day after I moved into the flat in Alexandra Headland I walked to the top of Pacific terrace. The view was amazing, the sunlight sparkled on the water and there was barely a breath of wind.  I sat down to contemplate exactly what I was going to do.

I was 40 something and single, after trying desperately to revive something that I should have left dead and buried, retrenched from my job and at that stage neither of my children were living with me. The situation could have seemed quite bleak, I had left all my furniture with my ex,  lent money to someone maxing out my credit card at the same time and I was broke. Sitting on top of that hill, taking in the view on that spectacular autumn morning, I thought to myself, I can either become bitter and twisted or make this an adventure. I’ll tell you later what I chose.

I got  a job at a local seafood shop, not really very glamorous, but if you have ever tried to find a job when you are over forty you will understand. There was method in my madness though, I had partly applied for this particular job because I knew how physically demanding it could be. At the end of grade 12  I had worked the summer holidays in a fish shop so I knew what I was getting myself in for. I had lost my peace in the last ten years of my marriage and I really needed to rest my mind. After years of office work I thought it was a good way to begin my reinvention.

So there I was shovelling boxes of fish, prawns and ice, in and out of cabinets, I didn’t have the time to sink into the bitter and twisted mind set that I was trying to avoid. I did learn to appreciate the little things. To this day nothing gives me more pleasure than to sit down on a hot summer night with a dozen natural oysters, sprinkled with salt, pepper and lemon juice, on a bed of ice, a can of dark and stormy in my hand, watching the Gilmore girls. Oh the unequalled bliss of it all.

So I rode my pushbike to work every morning, up and over the Alex bluff, sunlight dancing on the water, my mind sorting through all the sludge of the past twenty years, defragging as I went. Early on New Years Eve morning, as the year drew to a close, I was making my way through Mooloolaba.  Riding in the middle of the road as I approached a narrow section near the “Loo with a View,” a racing bike attempted to flash past me. The problem was I had a string bag hanging off my handlebars and his handlebars became tangled in it. As anyone would I came to a complete stop planting my feet firmly on the ground as I felt my bike being pulled by the other bike. Unfortunately for that rider it caused his bike to also come to a full stop, he and his bike then hurtled to the bitumen. I saw the whole thing happen in slow motion, unable to do anything to stop it. I watched his thankfully helmeted head smash into the curb and he lay there with his expensive bike resting on top of him.

I felt so bad ….. really, really bad …. until he started to scream at me.
“You bloody idiot, you moved to the side, you bloody idiot” over and over again. I tried to apologise in a soft consoling voice, but he went on and on. Now I’ve been screamed at by the best of them and the more he screamed, the more defensive I became. In the end enough was enough and I stood over him, hands on hips, waggling my finger and stamping my foot like I was scolding a naughty child. “You listen here” I said in my best school marm voice, “It was an accident and you’re very rude and don’t you ever call anyone a BLOODY IDIOT again”

And that’s when I saw it, I wish I hadn’t, I couldn’t believe it. The bloke lying on the ground, hurling abuse at me, was missing a foot. It was like a scene from a bad Monty Python movie, It was awful, Excruciatingly unexpected.

I do want to assure you that he didn’t lose it when he fell of the bike, I just hadn’t noticed it before.

The missing foot made me feel even more incredibly bad than I already did. I probably should have stayed; however, his behaviour, which I am sure was just shock on his part, had made me so angry that I got on my bike and rode off into the sunrise. I then spent the whole of the day in fear that I’d get a visit from the police to cart me off; cause there emblazoned on my tea shirt was the name of my employer, a well known seafood supplier.

Since then many unexpected things have happened, amazing jobs. I worked for a now defunct Childcare Company as an event coordinator. They flew me all over the countryside. I had one trip to Tasmania to open a couple of centres where I only worked for 8 hours the entire five nights I was away and they paid for it, car, fuel, accommodation, meals, amazing. I do sometimes feel that I may have contributed to the financial demise they eventually experienced.

I’ve even been known to wear a purple bear suit when there was a need, now that is another story. I have travelled to many other destinations, that I actually paid for. I have a peace I didn’t have in my marriage and I am unbelievably happy.

So I guess you know which choice I made! Honestly sometimes it is just that simply, you have to choose. Who would have thought, very unexpected!

Posted in Thursday Thoughtful and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
07 Jul 2014

Football, Meat Pies, Kangaroos and Holden Cars – One of these things could have made you a millionaire

 

 

 

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Football (that’s Aussie Rules)

meat pies & kangaroos (can be interchangeable with meat pies – it all depends on what price you pay)

Holden cars (previously Australian manufactured car – the company was bought by General Motors, destroyed and is no more).

Sorry just had explain a few things for all of you who would probably wonder what on earth I am talking about.

Football, meat pies, kangaroos and Holden cars all  iconically Australian and in many ways linked in our collective memories . Why am I including these in my Monday Morsels you ask? Because it is winter and cold and definitely meat pie weather. Thats the image you see at the top of the page, actually it was my lunch.

The rest of the world doesn’t know what they are missing out on. Not that I really turn to the humble meat pie on a regular occasion, I probably only eat them a couple of times a year (or if I am holiday in New Zealand as our Kiwi neighbours make particularly tasty versions). It’s like having a nice warm security blanket, you don’t want to carry it around with you, it’s just nice to know it is there if you want it.

Most Australian children begin their pie eating experiences as kindergarten students making their first tuck shop purchases. This inevitably results in tomato sauce stains running down the front of their school uniform, a little treat for later on some would say.

These pies were made of a sloppy mix of minced beef (well you always hoped it was beef but you never really knew for sure that it wasn’t Kangaroo, especially at the footy) and dark gravy. The casing was not always the best quality pastry, usually sporting a crispy top and a soggy bottom. Sloppy and messy but oh so good on a cold winters day.

The version I have posted is actually a lamb and sweet chilli pie with a fantastic butter pastry. A far cry from my school days and extremely satisfying.

Now here is the little mind boggling fact that is the main reason I am rambling. Forty years ago a meat pie at a school tuck shop cost twenty cents. The pie I bought today, exactly the same size, with the same amount of meat cost $4.80. I will save your brains and tell you it is a 2400% price rise.

That’s mind blowing.

I say Forget investing in Apple or BP Petroleum or even Gold. Where were the financial advisers who saw that coming, definitely missed that boat to financial freedom!

Posted in Monday Morsels and tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

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