In January, I made some bold predictions to myself and to others (a character flaw that I know I will never be able to eliminate) about my athletic ambitions for this year. Three weeks later and the reality is starting to become apparent – in my twenties, after just a few sessions, I could make vast improvements in my speed and time. It just isn’t happening thesedays at all though. Every running magazine tells me that you have to run a minimum of 2-3 times a week just to maintain your current level of fitness. That would be great if my broken body could sustain that many runs before an attack of shin-splints kicked in. So it’s slowly, slowly and only 2 runs a week for 3 weeks, and this week is my first 3 run week. Today I got out there and ran without joy and without socks – my supply at work had dwindled and I forgot to bring more in. My knees ached. Someone passed me and I didn’t particularly care. I took a different path along the banks of the Yarra and found myself amongst the world of lunchtime snoozers and strollers. At the half way mark, I crossed the Chapel St. bridge and looked towards the Eureka Tower they are building and was horrified how far away it seemed. The storm from last week that brought record rainfall and gusts has broken trees all over the place and things still looked poor despite a week of cleanup. It’s a long way to go before October, so let’s hope next month sees me a little stronger.

The squeaks finally got to me and so I prepared the cement sheet cutter for action. Up-slot-down-slide-Up-slot-down-slide and before long there was a stack of 1/4 inch wedges ready to lift my house. It was relatively smooth sailing to get underneath – I’d push the car jack with one arm, throw a brick ahead of me and keep a torch trained on unknown spiders and termites up ahead. Kim would stomp on the worst of the floorboards and I’d try to figure out what part of the bearer/joist/floor was moving. It’s surprising how much even a stable floor will move underneath the weight of a human body. Once I found the spot, I’d put a brick on the jack to give me some height, then jack up the joist, insert a wedge, and gently let it down. It’s more awkward than it sounds when you’ve got 50cm clearance and are muching on dirt and webs. All movement is done like a worm, leaving bruises on your back and shoulders, and a hell of a stiff neck the next day. Things sound a lot better now, except one of the internal doors won’t close! Since I was so dirty, it was time to get a good look at the leaking hot water system that’s broken through the plaster in the bedroom ceiling. This time it was rats I was wary about. Like most household appliances, I was horrified by what I saw when I had a close look, and the dead bugs floating in the drip tray weren’t pretty -see photo attached. I consoled myself with thoughts that IT WAS ONLY THE SPILL TRAY, and at least I don’t drink this water. It’s a more serious problem, because I’m going to have to rip out and replace a chunk of the ceiling once I’ve managed to stem the leak itself. The scary part about these repairs is that if I bugger it up, we’ll have no hot water for the weekend. I once would have baulked at this sort of work, but over the years I’ve become more confident about these things. Being repairs on a holiday house makes it even easier – what tradesman really wants to travel that far, and who’s going to notice if it’s not perfect? View image of my rotting ceiling
View image of summery Bagshot

Since I got back from Texas, we agreed I should make a start on remodelling the “computer room” or the study, as folks of my parents age might call it. I don’t know whether getting older automatically means becoming more conservative, but the bold colours I favoured in my 20’s now seem garish and hard to match with other items. Especially when we nowdays have the luxury of not having to buy Op-shop furniture, and where Ikea and Freedom Furniture catalogs show us how deceptively easy it is to create a stylish living arena. The truth is that the more choice we have, the more tortured the decisionmaking is.

 Somehow we picked the wall colours out really quickly, but besides a two-seater black-brown leather couch (as yet unbought), and a $59 silver lamp, we’re just stalling and losing our nerve. Does bleached blonde wood look better beside chocolate brown, or would off-white be better? Would a full height bookcase darken the room up too much? How can all those computer desks be so ugly? So we decided to buy things one piece at a time. Today we got the lamp. The carpet is next. Then the couch.

To document this process I will include a photo after the first coat of paint. Maybe by Easter some decisions will have been made, but it’s sure not happening quickly at the moment. No more dumb “I’ll have two of those large 3 seater blue couches please” decisions like we made for the loungeroom. Whatever were we thinking!

Two nights ago, I looked upon the mess of severed tree limbs, shrub clippings and weeds that have overcome my backyard and I saw a rat climbing the white wall of the bungalow. It was small, black and healthy and it had no trouble weaving amongst the lattice amidst a tangle of native Snake Vine (Hibbertia Scandens). Then I saw another. And a third one that was three times the size of the first. Kim said it made her feel ill, and I was inclined to agree with her. After 24 hours of internet research we considered ourselves better equipped to deal with this newfound menace and I slung weed after weed into rubbish bins before tea last night. Then today, I took the uncomfortable-seat-car to a workshop to have a tow ball fitted. Tommorrow we get the trailor from Dad and rip all the other branches out for dumping. Then, I suppose it’s time for the rat traps. I had been looking for something to get me off my arse this week, and the rats have done it for me. Rattus Rattus has saved the day.

Last night was meant to be easy. Two episodes from the Fireflies DVD that Ash loaned us, and a couple of glasses of Saltram Chardonnay over some thin-crusted pizzas from down the road. In bed at 10 on a Saturday – whoah! But Fergus had bigger plans. Either he picked up some extra stimulation from the leftover peppermint icecream tub that we let him wallow in, or he double dosed on the flea medicine in both their dinners, but he hit full guard dog mode at 11 and had to be rescued from waking the neighbours at 12 and 2.

It was getting ridiculous at 2:30 so we went into last-resort mode and I whacked him around the hind quarters and locked him in the laundry and Kim broke out the earplugs. He yelped every 20 seconds for half an hour and the noise got louder and louder, accompanied by scrabbling sounds. It built to a crescendo and I had this stupid thought that maybe he needed to go to the toilet outside. He hit the dog flap with a full howl and then I really got mad. A few more whacks and he was brought back into the bedroom. He settled for a few hours but by 5 it was out of control again – back to the laundry.

Then I broke out the sedatives and “rewarded” him for his behavior. It took about 30 minutes but finally he settled for good. What a bad parent I am.

I keep hearing from John Howard about “the deep generosity of the Australian people” in regards to the recent Tsunami appeal. Over the last few days I’ve walked past plenty of Tsunami collectors (and to my shame didn’t throw any money in) who were totally ignored by the public. It reminded me that inner Melbourne is one huge relentless charity collecting machine. As a person who goes for regular walks through Southbank and the CBD, the whole process has worn me down to the point where I actively dislike the lady with the AIDS bucket who doesn’t remember if you donated an hour ago on your way into the city and asks you again on the way back. Or the humourless gold viking bloke who stands like a statue and gets narky with the inevitable teenage boys who want to steal his sword. There’s a horde of assorted buskers that are still worth a 50 or so if I’m feeling upbeat, but my big thing has always been The Big Issue. For me it was the charity that was most appealing – help someone to help themselves. Half the price of the magazine goes to the vendor. This recently went up to $4 and I decided it wasn’t an automatic purchase anymore. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone approach my favourite vendor for weeks now. People are charitied out. And then today Ash, Dave and I went a walking, and saw the weird spaceman busker guy again outside St. Pauls. The one in the full spacesuit who stands on a bus stop seat and does silly gesticulating. He had families of kids entranced and uni-students dipping into their pockets. One bloke was even dancing along to his special effects sound and dance show. I swear we saw about 8 people donate in about 5 minutes, and they all wore goofy grins that were a joy to watch. Long live the Spaceman busker!

So I’m in the changerooms at Southbank, all kitted out like a Euro road warrior (more about that in a minute) when I realise that I have no jocks or socks to wear to work today. And this is not a day that I can just pedal home and grab some spares – I have deadlines dammit! So, I remember I have a few bits and pieces stashed away upstairs for these occasions; I rummage around and find some hideous old dusty bloomers previously abandoned (in better/fatter times?), so I’m relieved I won’t have to freestyle my way through the working day. But no socks – so it’s on with the pre-ankle numbers I wore on the bike. Very white. Very short. And very obvious even after slinging these crappy Malaysian trousers as low as I dare. I have made 3 brief ventures outside my office – accompanied by a pathetic shuffling gait which only draws attention to myself. I avoid stairs to avoid stares. I’m just waiting till 5, when I can rocket home on one of those gusty south-westerlies we have today. In my Dutch Hans Anders Opticiens Euro-cool cycling top that Kim got secondhand and cheap and without knowing it was Dutch. Which means that from now on, I have to ride like a domestique so I don’t get humiliated by some kid in jeans on a BMX. At 37 this is not always as easy as I thought it would be.

Aside from discovering Banrock Station Sparkling Shiraz during a delightful Christmas Day lunch on the verandah at Bagshot, it was a pretty subdued holiday break really. I suppose you could add the fox that we roadkilled which left a few scrapes on the front noseguard of the car while doing 80k down Clays Road also. But really, the rest of it was spent on doing a big jigsaw, crossword puzzles, regular shopping trips to Bendigo and a whimsical Swan Hill haul through dry, flat fields of countryside that most people want to forget. The trip that provided memorable moments such as missing the Pyramid Hill turnoff, wondering why people find Lake Boga so interesting and us getting snappy at each other over future budget plans. A section of our driveway at Bagshot had been eroded away by the rains in the last month, as the excess snuck round the north side of the dam and left long bare patches with no topsoil. So much for revegetating those bits. Everything was pretty green and lush and we had our first honeyeaters in the garden – a triumph! We got back home and I just knew I had to make a start on the plaster repairs in the computer room. It got stripped out, dust masks were purchased and I spent a few days trying to make the best of it. Why we originally painted a small room such a dark color is beyond me. In the new look of tainted undercoat grey, it’s so much brighter and summery. The dogs were mystified by the clear plastic door film which kept the dust contained, and would try and bury underneath it to reach THEIR MOST FAVOURITE PERSON IN THE WORLD. But I was too busy trying to not steam up my glasses and keep all that muck out of my lungs. Kim was ok about temporarily setting up the PC after my first coat – after all it had been 3 days, we did have a good lot of thunderstorms brewing, so instead of a wondeful night’s sleep before my first day back at work, it was radar watching at 3am, and 4am, then a massive headache all morning. What a crap way to start work in January.

Almost everyone I know has been briefed – we just bought a RELIABLE car, that was quite plush and fancy and had leather seats, but was RELIABLE, yet stylish and had a biggish engine but after all was RELIABLE, though also an all-wheel-drive in an awesome two-tone colour combo. I feel guilty that this was an all-out get nude on the leather seats rip roaring monster of a car that we are the ideal demographic hosts for. I’m embarrassed to say that things like cup-holders and mag wheels and THE DECADENT CALF-SKIN LEATHER SEATS were things that I somehow added to my list of essentials as the price rose into the 30k mark. Well, after about 5 semi-sleepless nights I picked it up, and a lot of the tortured nightmares of flaws and cracks and dents and broken engines have been put to rest.

It’s quiet and it looks lovely and once I mastered the lumbar support lever, it actually felt allright to sit in (there was a bit of temporary panic for a few days as I relentlessly tried all settings to achieve a position that didn’t kill my woeful back). We suddenly notice many similar models on the road that are never as nice as ours or as luxurious. We are terrified the dogs will make deep gouges in the rear seats and AFFECT OUR TRADE-IN VALUE. We reassure ourselves that it’s not really one of those big fuel guzzling 4WD’s that go through expensive chunky tyres and emit awful amounts of exhaust fumes into the atmosphere.

We feel good that because it’s so low to the ground, average everyday punters can see through the car toward upcoming obstacles. I have nagging thoughts that we shouldn’t have bought the first Outback we drove, and that ideally, the colour should have matched or offset the house. I wonder how I will wash it without resorting to crude cloths and high-pressure car wash facilities. I hope the leather will not need endless lubrication. I hope that in a year’s time I will say it has been a fantastic servant for us.