Category: General

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.

What an amazing weather week we’ve just had – 9 days of the most sweaty, restless sleeps no thanks to the winter doona which we hadn’t quite migrated from the bed until yesterday. Not to mention the thunderstorms from an almost stationary trough plonked right over Victoria which sent blobs of purple all over the radar, and those stormchasers on the www.weatherzone.com.au forums into an absolute tizz. Northern Victoria did pretty well, and the thought that Bagshot has a dam that’s full and frogs in the pond at Christmas warms my heart. A few nights ago the GIS Christmas Party touched down at Feddish in Federation Square. We were early so we hopped Flinders St. and found our way to Movida (yet another bar on Kim’s list to visit) and grabbed a couple of wines and watched the bar staff in awe. Not only were they nice, but they looked good too! Sadly you need to book at least a week ahead for a Tapas meal, but I think we’ll do it because they played quiet music, weren’t chockers full of people and had very cool playing-card-style business cards. Kim says they’re famous for their selection of sherries – who the hell drinks that stuff besides nana’s and people trying to out-fashion the fashionistas. The Christmas do was OK, but I was tired from a busy week and after some erratic dancing moves, snuck out just before twelve.

Saturday saw us tramming it into town for the film festival again, where we witnessed the charming “Kitchen Stories” from Norway, which described a bizarre scientific experiment to track the motions of Norwegian bachelors in the post WW2 period. Funny, sad, and uplifting all in one package – a terrific film we both thought. Sitting in my backpack during proceedings were four bottles of the most exquisite, herby dark brew imaginable – purchased from Nicks on Swanston St. Probably the nicest beer I have ever tasted. Hitherto known as Coopers Extra Strong Vintage Ale (7.5%). We got home, glugged them down and then felt terrible because they are supposedly hard to come by, and watched weekly favourite “Red Cap” together on the ABC. Another weekend passes with not a lot of work getting done around the place. Oh well.

Steadily nosing through “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter”, I was encouraged by all that liquor talk and found myself reaching for a bottle of All-Saints Tokay. It’s annoyed me for awhile that I’d struggle to name the difference between a Port, a Muscat or a Tokay, so I tried again and again to REALLY TASTE IT FOR ONCE. Kim said “Bugger it – just call them stickies and don’t worry about the difference”. For now I just have to remember – Tokay is Tea Leaves, Malt and Toffee. Time to try another tonight for practice.

On Sunday I went to the 2004 MIFF and plonked myself down amongst the faithful. It’s not normally my thing to go to movies at all, let alone by myself. Kim had decided to sit this one out and do housework at home, so it felt indulgent of me, and I sat hemmed in on all sides amongst what I imagined to be knowlegeable filmgoers. The first film was a documentary about an Australian man in the 1940’s who was the first to try chemical (i.e Lithium) means to cure schizofrenia and other manic afflictions in people. He killed a hell of a lot of Guinea Pigs in the process. The director and the producer talked about their inspiration and said that a lot of former patients were in the audience at the back. I didn’t dare turn around and look. In the age of the Hollywood blockbuster, it was great to hear real people speak about an UNSUNG HERO, who right till the end maintained he was just a guy who got a lucky break. To carry on the morbid theme, the second film was about how the Anaconda Copper Mine company arranged for the killing of a Union agitator in Butte, Montana in 1917 and who, many years later, managed to create a huge toxic lake in the remnants of the open-cut mine when they pulled out. Virtually all evidence (of the killing – where he was dragged behind a car in his underwear for several kilometres) had been burned, lost or rewritten in the company-owned town newspaper a long time ago, so it might as well have been fiction although it seems unlikely. At regular intervals an annoying “Ode to the striking workers part#3” would start up and you would have to watch lyrics flash on the screen one word at a time, till you just stared at your lap until the music stopped. Luckily most of the music was by Dirty Three, Will Olham and Low. Lastly was G-Sale, a funny story about the petty rivalries between fellow 60’s kitch collectors and about a near-priceless board game called Pot ‘O Gold. It was a lot of fun, and will do great on DVD I imagine. I caught the tram home and walked the dogs in the near dark – we couldn’t throw balls in the park because kids were playing, and we all know that means Fergus would get way too exuberant.