over hill, over dale, we hit the boozy trail

lunch duo

Friend and I had a boozy lunch, if one glass of wine can be called a boozy lunch. Then we set to fixing the ills of the world. If you were sitting at the table next to us, we would have sounded like two grumpy old ladies, as we sorted politics, society’s meanness to others, childrearing, religion, dietary habits… oh, world peace and harmony in general, according to us!

After the caffeine of our  meal’s end coffee wore off, I realised how incredibly tired I felt. No doubt a combination of being nice for too long and righting the world’s wrongs.

I thought of many intelligent and witty comments to write as I drove home, but now that I am here with laptop and fresh tea I can think of none of them.

One thing has resurfaced – how much I love living in the country. To reach our rendezvous at restaurant in nearby village, I merely had to turn left out of our driveway, drive to the end of the road, turn right into the main street, waiting for three car to pass, then a left turn and follow my nose through the countryside to the restaurant, parking right outside the door. 7.4km – less than 10 minutes at a lovely country speed.

Dolce Far Niente.


Laying low


Last day of term commenced with Mass, then a joint morning tea where everyone, students and teachers, brought food to share. I have never seen so many packets of potato crisps in one place in my entire life (we call them “chips”; we also call fried fresh fries “chips”. It is a hangover from our colonial days!) After morning tea there was a “blow up” carnival – amusements all built on blow ups or inflatables – gladiators played in a bouncy air ring with balloon batons, a bouncy castle, a bouncy surf slide, bouncy boxing and … a rocking bull!

I must have finally lost all semblance of youth, for during my half hour of duty minding the students undertaking bouncy boxing and watching them hand the inflated gloves and head gear form student to student was “oh my, the head lice, and hand germs!” It almost made me ill just watching the communal gear…ugh. The high point was standing there and wishing and hoping that some of the more “challenging” students got a good biffo, even if it was with an inflated glove!

A group of students and teachers formed an impromptu group and jammed for the last hour which gave everyone time to chill out and then the bell rang, and I was no longer a Flamingo Dancer but a giselle racing to my car. I was in my favourite chair at home by 4.30!

car bye

Saturday morning, I farewelled Mr FD and his sister on a trip to visit an old family member with a milestone birthday. I have stayed home to spring clean and chill out. I just couldn’t face a nine hour drive  only the day after the end of term.

So, instead I made a huge dish of fruit salad to share with Son. We had strawberries, blueberries, pear, apple, mandarine, banana and black grapes. Delicious. I have also baked a classic chocolate coconut slice, the recipe I was given in year 8 at school, to have with coffee when Son’s mate visits this afternoon.


Augie and I are about to take an afternoon nap which is now my prerogative for the next few days.

Living the good life.

hat 2

I’ve never looked good in hats. Strange, when I am just so damn gorgeous, but alas and alack, hats and I do not agree. This was brought home anew this morning when I tried to leave the house with Petite Fille for a short walk. She was all systems go, until Grandmama placed a chapeau upon her crown.

Instantly Petite Fille retreated to her mother’s skirts and refused to make eye contact with me. I pleaded, I promised, I tried to persuade but the small one clung to her mother with all the grip of her tiny arms and legs.

Her mother resorted to the usual parental excuse “Perhaps she is tired,” but the truth was out there. I removed my millinery finery and my granddaughter was restored to me. We set off hand in hand down the street.

bath glass

Tonight I strained my back. I think it was while i was taking a spa bath. I may have raised a leg too high, and that is when the strain or sprain may have occurred.

Now, for those of the creative and fruitful imagination, may I add that I was solo in the bath, and I was shaving a leg… sigh, yes, a naked leg. A beautiful, naked leg of course.


All round, a much better frame of mind…but tomorrow is Monday.

it is all in the numbers

Friday it is. Neither I nor the world ceased to exist last night. Win some; lose some.

I have noticed a strange, new and rather unsettling daily habit. If the moons and stars and all the Big Whatever align, we may have a relative who may just leave us an inheritance which would mean that I could use a form of finger communication to the working life and live out the rest of my days in quiet, country concord. This relative marks a 90th birthday this month. How does this pertain to my OC routine? On high stress days, I open the newspaper to the funeral notices and try to calculate the average age of death after individuals reach their nineties.


I am not actively praying for anyone’s passing, but a little like visiting a fortune teller, I am trying to see some light at the end of my work tunnel, by have the comfort of; “on average only another year, two…four”. Some days, my poor maths prove that most people live to be 100 if they ever make it to 90, which has me weeping and planning to bring a hip flask to the office next day.


In all probability that is a exact statistic hiding on somewhere in the numbers shared by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, but I am not sure it would be helpful to search for it. What if it tells me the average age really is 100? Or, perhaps it would say 90.5 years and then when the “average” comes and goes, well, then, will my already fragile state of mental health be at extreme risk?

One must be honest also, for there is nothing stopping the relative, a male, from marrying and yet siring an heir. I am sure that many a lifelong bachelor has succumbed to the evil wiles of some gold digging, inheritance busting, boobette. Or another 90 year olds charms.

It has been a difficult couple of days…I may have just read that there is a 6.60% chance of reaching 100. Of course there is always the “exception to the rule” quotation meaning a person could live even longer; and stress is a killer so I may go first at this rate!

Come on do the Jerk!


My arm flying above my head in a crazed impersonation of a one armed tarmac air traffic controller, I wondered what would happen if, as in the eruption of  Mt Vesuvius, disaster struck and I was instantly frozen in my position. What would future generations make of the middle aged woman sitting upon the toilet pedestal waving her arm above her head?

It is not a long story. Some times the royal evacuation system does not function as well as is required, often thanks to the side effects of this medication or that medication, and it means a little longer linger in the smallest room in the house.

Our throne room has a motion sensor exhaust fan, and if the Royal One contemplates life and the world in general for too long motionless (heavy thinking, man) the fan clicks off, thus demanding some form of motion to restart.

I have experimented with this motion requirement to ascertain just how much physical movement the fan requires to commence its cycle. The lifting of a finger is not enough, though an exaggerated sway from right to left does a fine job; as does the lifting of the lower arm and  the waving of the hand.

My personal favourite is a seated rendition of the 1960s dance routine, the Jerk (as a small child with a sister eight years older I was force fed Bandstand on a regular basis, so I know these things people). I am of the opinion that while it does not add to the 10,000 daily step requirement, the thrusting of the arms upward and downward three or four times does constitute burning of a few kilojoules. There is a developing theory that the downward thrusts may also assist in the gravity pull on other areas, but the data is still being processed.

I am working on the Mashed Potato as well. I may suggest that Mr FD try, Shake, Rattle and Roll…

just call me, Bubbles, baby


Into the city for a Saturday sleep over with Petite Fille while her Mummy and Daddy dined at a French restaurant to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Sunday morning it was back to bubble blowing, and making aeroplanes by linking plastic clothes pegs and adding imaginative sound effects. I am a magnificent granny, as you would have expected.

Then it was out to lunch, before returning home to the country. We went to a nearby Japanese restaurant where I ordered a tempura prawn bento box with miso soup, and washed down with green tea. I joked Daughter1 and Mr Boy are eating their way around the globe this weekend, with an English style roast dinner planned for Sunday night dinner as well!


Petite Fille had a lunch brought from home but did have a valiant attempt to master the chop sticks, and may just have pipped Grandmama on that task. Her papa, the foodie, was so proud.

The restaurant had an artificial cherry tree with fairy lights in the centre of the dining room, which of course took Petite Fille’s eye as soon as she spied it. I suggested that her parents should include such in their upcoming house renovation, but I fear my suggestion fell on deaf eyes.


Petite Fille has learnt lots of new words, one being “sit” but she kind of says it as “shhit” so of course we take every opportunity to get her to say “sit” so that we can hear “shit”. It is a cruel trick on a small child, but a good one. It will make a great clip for the 21st birthday celebrations!

The run of luck was with me, and I garnered another poo nappy to change. That is four for four. Oh, the joys of grandmotherhood are varied and many.