Finally, after three days of deliberating, the vendors of my desired purchase have given me 30 more days to sell my house (and therefore buy theirs).
This is a very good thing, because I have looked at about 50 houses since, and do not want to buy any of them.
This is also a very bad thing, as I need to keep mine clean and tidy for another month.
And, really, after my initial flush of exhuberance with the Windex, I'm over it. In fact, I've been deliberately leaving flicks of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror just to make a statement. (What the statement is, though, I'm not sure: you want my house, you get my toothpaste? or: I don't really want to sell my house at all, so there).
Enough of that, with a mortgage again (I was mortgage-free for three years, how blissful that was) I need to stay focused on the main game. Getting the mortgage down to an amount that would be paid off by my life insurance should I go under a bus. Pleasant thoughts one has, late at night.
Although interest rates are predicted to be cut, mine is the bank that enjoys putting them up faster and more often than any other, so I won't wait with a brick on foot for a reprieve.
Mind you, when I first borrowed for a house in the late 1980s, the interest rate I paid was 18%, so I'm not too perturbed when it hovers around 7%, despite the bleatings on affordability. Luxuries!
What a gamble that was, that first house. Bought at auction for $62,000, it was even more frightening that a renovator's delight. A former maternity hospital in Wickham, with a bona fide ghost (friendly, just a mother checking on my babies), it had its hat way below its ears.
The bank manager came to inspect (as they did in those days) to see if the young couple were barking mad buying on the wrong side of the tracks a ramshackle old joint that was most certainly haunted. He fell through the front verandah, and may have had misgivings were it not for the lovely heritage brigade from nearby Tighes Hill urging him to give the young couple a go.
He did, and we did, and it's a beautiful house to this day.
We had two babies there, and many parties.
Our neighbours were nothing if not interesting.
We had a brothel across the road at one stage and many an hour I spent peering out the venetians at the street action it attracted. The things I saw on a table top truck one dark and seedy night made my knees tremble!
But we moved on, to leafier suburbs with better schools and not so many brothels.
I still yearn for Wickham, and will probably move back there once the kids are out on their own.
There's something about the ships, the tugs, the trawlers and the folks who trawl the streets that enliven. It's a bit unsafe, and a bit unsavoury. I like it.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Men's underpants in my laundry
Not nearly as exciting as it sounds, but it still had my heart aflutter when I found a pair of navy jocks in the laundry the other day.
It''s been six months since I did any laundry for a male over the age of 12, and it's certainly not something I plan to do again in a hurry.
It was no mystery, no wild tryst, just the remnants of doing a friend, also recently separated, a favour by letting him use my waching machine while his is bung. (No need to read anything into the word *friend* or pronounce it with a raised eyebrow as my mother might, he really is just a friend.)
But, still, I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else (who else? the children, cat, dog or chooks? I can hear them know going begeeeerk as chooks do when they look sideways at you) might have witnessed the blush.
What should I do? Should I acknowledge the jocks loudly to make sure I wasn't covering anything up?
Should I sweep them under the washing machine with the dust bunnies for the removalists to find should we ever move house?
Should I phone the owner and laugh, casually, about the discovery and invite him over for tea and slip them into a shopping bag with a dozen fresh eggs and some blueberry muffins?
Or should I just toss them with tongs in the wash with my darks? (At this stage I had not checked cleanliness of said underpants and did not plan to!)
I chose the last option, tossed them in and thought of England.
But alas, the cycle ended, it always does, and I had to deal with the drying phase.
Sunny day, so they should go on the line, but what if the neighbours see? What if the husband pops in?
Can't use dryer, electricity bills to think of, so will hang discreetly on inside airer between hockey skirt and socks still on line from red wash. Near a navy school jumper. Looks quite deliberable. Phew.
Now, to the folding!
Where am I going to put them? I can't leave them on laundry bench? I can't put them in the kitchen by the phone to remind me to contact the owner for collection? Perhaps I'll just toss them back in the wash? Without tongs this time. I know they are clean.
Saved by a text.
Owner of underpants sent message to say his son did not need a lift to school in the morning as is our custom. Fine, I said, and by the way, I have your underpants. I found them in the laundry.
I've started leaving bras around the house to make me look good, he says.
Not funny, I'll deliver them in a brown paper bag if I can work up the courage.
Can't wait. I'll buy you coffee.
Lucky I don't drink coffee.
Perhaps, if enough time passes, he'll just forget the navy jocks, and they'll go the place of odd socks.
He's bound to have at least one other pair.
It''s been six months since I did any laundry for a male over the age of 12, and it's certainly not something I plan to do again in a hurry.
It was no mystery, no wild tryst, just the remnants of doing a friend, also recently separated, a favour by letting him use my waching machine while his is bung. (No need to read anything into the word *friend* or pronounce it with a raised eyebrow as my mother might, he really is just a friend.)
But, still, I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else (who else? the children, cat, dog or chooks? I can hear them know going begeeeerk as chooks do when they look sideways at you) might have witnessed the blush.
What should I do? Should I acknowledge the jocks loudly to make sure I wasn't covering anything up?
Should I sweep them under the washing machine with the dust bunnies for the removalists to find should we ever move house?
Should I phone the owner and laugh, casually, about the discovery and invite him over for tea and slip them into a shopping bag with a dozen fresh eggs and some blueberry muffins?
Or should I just toss them with tongs in the wash with my darks? (At this stage I had not checked cleanliness of said underpants and did not plan to!)
I chose the last option, tossed them in and thought of England.
But alas, the cycle ended, it always does, and I had to deal with the drying phase.
Sunny day, so they should go on the line, but what if the neighbours see? What if the husband pops in?
Can't use dryer, electricity bills to think of, so will hang discreetly on inside airer between hockey skirt and socks still on line from red wash. Near a navy school jumper. Looks quite deliberable. Phew.
Now, to the folding!
Where am I going to put them? I can't leave them on laundry bench? I can't put them in the kitchen by the phone to remind me to contact the owner for collection? Perhaps I'll just toss them back in the wash? Without tongs this time. I know they are clean.
Saved by a text.
Owner of underpants sent message to say his son did not need a lift to school in the morning as is our custom. Fine, I said, and by the way, I have your underpants. I found them in the laundry.
I've started leaving bras around the house to make me look good, he says.
Not funny, I'll deliver them in a brown paper bag if I can work up the courage.
Can't wait. I'll buy you coffee.
Lucky I don't drink coffee.
Perhaps, if enough time passes, he'll just forget the navy jocks, and they'll go the place of odd socks.
He's bound to have at least one other pair.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Saved by Jesus at an open house
No open house for me today, but I took the opportunity, between the hairdresser's and the netty, to drop into a few potential purchases.
The first one had a steep dodgy drive, so I didn't get past the gate. Note to vendor: I live in steep dodgy heels, and am not taking my life in my hands/heels to check out your house.
The second one had a queue of folks lining up to take off their shoes. Note to vendor: If I have to take off shoes to check out your house, there's no way I'll be buying it.
The third one was a renovator's delight, and I was delighted with the goss session I had with the real estate agent about a former bully boss who is also in my acquaintance. Note to vendor: even in a renovator's delight, do not hold your combustion fire flue together with gaff tape.
The final house was a beauty, if somewhat unfortunatley situated between a main road and a drain. Note to vendor: please ask your tenants to head out for coffee during open house. This lot stayed in, and took the opportunity to spread the word of the lord. Now, I must say, the preacher man was a lovely fellow, as was his wife and child, and I am glad that he was saved by Jesus nine years ago when he realised he was a sinner. He seems truly happy, and I told him so. But, I'm shopping for real estate, not religion.Yes, I want to see the light, but only if it's from a northerly aspect. And I don't want to be rude, but will you get out of the way so I can peer in the corner cupboards and turn on the taps for water pressure.
I guess when you're in the business of religion, like real estate, everyone's a customer. But no sale today. I took the agent's brochure, and the preacher's brochure "Why did Jesus Christ have to suffer and die on the Cross?" and continued on my journey.
The first one had a steep dodgy drive, so I didn't get past the gate. Note to vendor: I live in steep dodgy heels, and am not taking my life in my hands/heels to check out your house.
The second one had a queue of folks lining up to take off their shoes. Note to vendor: If I have to take off shoes to check out your house, there's no way I'll be buying it.
The third one was a renovator's delight, and I was delighted with the goss session I had with the real estate agent about a former bully boss who is also in my acquaintance. Note to vendor: even in a renovator's delight, do not hold your combustion fire flue together with gaff tape.
The final house was a beauty, if somewhat unfortunatley situated between a main road and a drain. Note to vendor: please ask your tenants to head out for coffee during open house. This lot stayed in, and took the opportunity to spread the word of the lord. Now, I must say, the preacher man was a lovely fellow, as was his wife and child, and I am glad that he was saved by Jesus nine years ago when he realised he was a sinner. He seems truly happy, and I told him so. But, I'm shopping for real estate, not religion.Yes, I want to see the light, but only if it's from a northerly aspect. And I don't want to be rude, but will you get out of the way so I can peer in the corner cupboards and turn on the taps for water pressure.
I guess when you're in the business of religion, like real estate, everyone's a customer. But no sale today. I took the agent's brochure, and the preacher's brochure "Why did Jesus Christ have to suffer and die on the Cross?" and continued on my journey.
Friday, 27 April 2012
What cats know
Does my cat know that I need a bit of TLC tonight? Or is it just that its chilly and she's taking advantage of my undivided attention? (no kids, no dog)
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her climbing onto my lap at every opportunity and nudging my chin for a pat is her knowing that I'm a bit sick and pathetic. Only a cold, but maybe it's a man-cold and therefore much worse (can women get man-colds? I think so).
We've all heard the stories about cats knowing when someone is about to die (I'm not about to die, let's not overthink this), you know, when they go to the bed of the dying patient in the nursing home.
And they certainly can detect mood swings. (not that they don't have enough of their own)
But my cats have always known when I need them close.
My mother used to shriek at me to get that cat out from under the doona, and I still prefer sleeping with a cat than anyone else! And in the dead of winter, I most certainly encourage Hermione to get under the doona. Otherwise she camps at my feet (or sometimes on the floor by my bed).
She went through a stage when she was younger of sleeping on my pillow, wrapping herself around my head, and subjecting me to grooming at any time of her choosing. Having a cat lick your hair may fill some of you with horror, but I took it as a great compliment.
Often there would be biting, but only if I moved mid-groom.
My other long-term feline companion, the dearly departed Bo, used to sleep on my pillow too, but only when I wasn't there. If I was off at uni, or wherever I roamed in those days, she would sleep on my pillow next to Stefan to keep it warm and him company.
She, and every other cat I have ever known, would most certainly get in a suitcase if anyone was packing to go anywhere. Many moons ago, when I was preparing for a solo trip overseas, Bo camped for a fortnight on my backpack. We all had furballs by the end of it.
The day before I left, she caught one of our carp from the sunken bathtub pond in the backyard and brought it in and left it on the backpack for me. It was still flapping when I discovered it, shrieked like a big girl and phoned Stefan. I didn't have the sense to put it back on the pond! I just chased her with the broom. Anyway, I appreciated her gesture, even if the fish did not.
When she died, or rather had to be put down because of cancer, we had her cremated.
Lydi, who was probably in kindy at the time, felt it important to tell visitors that our cat had just died and she was on mum's dressing table. Her ashes, I was quick to point out.
And they're still there.
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her climbing onto my lap at every opportunity and nudging my chin for a pat is her knowing that I'm a bit sick and pathetic. Only a cold, but maybe it's a man-cold and therefore much worse (can women get man-colds? I think so).
We've all heard the stories about cats knowing when someone is about to die (I'm not about to die, let's not overthink this), you know, when they go to the bed of the dying patient in the nursing home.
And they certainly can detect mood swings. (not that they don't have enough of their own)
But my cats have always known when I need them close.
My mother used to shriek at me to get that cat out from under the doona, and I still prefer sleeping with a cat than anyone else! And in the dead of winter, I most certainly encourage Hermione to get under the doona. Otherwise she camps at my feet (or sometimes on the floor by my bed).
She went through a stage when she was younger of sleeping on my pillow, wrapping herself around my head, and subjecting me to grooming at any time of her choosing. Having a cat lick your hair may fill some of you with horror, but I took it as a great compliment.
Often there would be biting, but only if I moved mid-groom.
My other long-term feline companion, the dearly departed Bo, used to sleep on my pillow too, but only when I wasn't there. If I was off at uni, or wherever I roamed in those days, she would sleep on my pillow next to Stefan to keep it warm and him company.
She, and every other cat I have ever known, would most certainly get in a suitcase if anyone was packing to go anywhere. Many moons ago, when I was preparing for a solo trip overseas, Bo camped for a fortnight on my backpack. We all had furballs by the end of it.
The day before I left, she caught one of our carp from the sunken bathtub pond in the backyard and brought it in and left it on the backpack for me. It was still flapping when I discovered it, shrieked like a big girl and phoned Stefan. I didn't have the sense to put it back on the pond! I just chased her with the broom. Anyway, I appreciated her gesture, even if the fish did not.
When she died, or rather had to be put down because of cancer, we had her cremated.
Lydi, who was probably in kindy at the time, felt it important to tell visitors that our cat had just died and she was on mum's dressing table. Her ashes, I was quick to point out.
And they're still there.
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
(matt) newton's third law of motion
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. When you hit someone, lovely, the police will be called. Especially now you're Australia's answer to Charlie Sheen.
Matt, pet, should the court let you off, get off the booze, get on the meds and get home to Australia. There's bound to be another Underbelly. Or you could be Nina's half-brother twice removed in Offspring.
Patti, get off the soapbox, get on a plane and go bring your boy home. There's bound to be another incident. He needs his mum.
As for ol Moonface: just smile and wave, Bert, smile and wave.
Matt, pet, should the court let you off, get off the booze, get on the meds and get home to Australia. There's bound to be another Underbelly. Or you could be Nina's half-brother twice removed in Offspring.
Patti, get off the soapbox, get on a plane and go bring your boy home. There's bound to be another incident. He needs his mum.
As for ol Moonface: just smile and wave, Bert, smile and wave.
what the head knows the heart may not feel
If only what the head knows, the heart would feel.
I'm a thinker and a doer, not so much a feeler, or so my management profile tells me.
Task-oriented, not people-oriented.
No time for feelings. They get in the way of actions.
That's overstating, oversimplifying, of course. I'm a mother, too.
But once you resolve to work on your feelings, your people skills, you open the floodgates and there's no turning back the tide. Having determined to be nicer to people, I wonder now if I've just gone soft.
Like camembert left out too long. I'd much rather be a sturdy cheddar, a stinky blue vein even.
And so, I find myself smiling at people who annoy me, and helping those who dither.
And not even so I can whinge later.
Pathetic, really.
And, I find myself feeling glad that my children seem at home with my husband's new partner. Or rather, telling myself I should feel glad. When what I really feel is sad.
Don't get me wrong. There was no betrayal on his part. He has just moved on.
My head knows this is good. My heart, it's pierced with a dagger.
I'm a thinker and a doer, not so much a feeler, or so my management profile tells me.
Task-oriented, not people-oriented.
No time for feelings. They get in the way of actions.
That's overstating, oversimplifying, of course. I'm a mother, too.
But once you resolve to work on your feelings, your people skills, you open the floodgates and there's no turning back the tide. Having determined to be nicer to people, I wonder now if I've just gone soft.
Like camembert left out too long. I'd much rather be a sturdy cheddar, a stinky blue vein even.
And so, I find myself smiling at people who annoy me, and helping those who dither.
And not even so I can whinge later.
Pathetic, really.
And, I find myself feeling glad that my children seem at home with my husband's new partner. Or rather, telling myself I should feel glad. When what I really feel is sad.
Don't get me wrong. There was no betrayal on his part. He has just moved on.
My head knows this is good. My heart, it's pierced with a dagger.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
wo needs an aitc anyway?
My laptop seems to ave carked it and te callenge wit tis communal family one is tat it as no key between g and j, Im sure you can guess wic one it is by now!
migt be time for an ipad, after all. maybe as a blogger it is tax deductable?
altoug not sure i can get used to typing on dodgy pretend keyboard.
still, if I can get used to not aving an ? key...
migt be time for an ipad, after all. maybe as a blogger it is tax deductable?
altoug not sure i can get used to typing on dodgy pretend keyboard.
still, if I can get used to not aving an ? key...
Monday, 23 April 2012
Lost: garnet earring. Dropped: my bundle.
So, there I was at the hockey tonight, sitting with my son and husband eating McDonalds and watching our daughter's game, when I fiddled with my right earlobe and discovered my garnet earring gone.
That delicate rose gold drop was bought for me (as half of a pair, naturally) at an antique fair at City Hall about 22 years ago, by my husband who wasn't yet my husband.
And, weighed down with the symbolism of the moment, I dropped my bundle.
Anxious strangers were enlisted to look for the earring, but with no success.
I'm hoping it had been missing for hours and will show up on my desk at work tomorrow. Or in the car. Or in my undergarments.
My son, the love, cuddled me and assured me it would show up.
My husband, ever kind and gentle, reinforced the point.
My daughter, later, suggested if it didn't show up that I have the other earring (still in my left earlobe) made into a pendant or ring, so all is not lost.
Fortunately (though not for the player involved, poor darling) one of my daughter's teammates took a whack to the mouth, splitting a lip and dislodging some expensive dental work. At least she stole the spotlight from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her earlobe.
And play resumed.
That delicate rose gold drop was bought for me (as half of a pair, naturally) at an antique fair at City Hall about 22 years ago, by my husband who wasn't yet my husband.
And, weighed down with the symbolism of the moment, I dropped my bundle.
Anxious strangers were enlisted to look for the earring, but with no success.
I'm hoping it had been missing for hours and will show up on my desk at work tomorrow. Or in the car. Or in my undergarments.
My son, the love, cuddled me and assured me it would show up.
My husband, ever kind and gentle, reinforced the point.
My daughter, later, suggested if it didn't show up that I have the other earring (still in my left earlobe) made into a pendant or ring, so all is not lost.
Fortunately (though not for the player involved, poor darling) one of my daughter's teammates took a whack to the mouth, splitting a lip and dislodging some expensive dental work. At least she stole the spotlight from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her earlobe.
And play resumed.
Saturday, 21 April 2012
What does your car colour say about you
Contemplated buying a new car the other day. Thought, if I can't have a new house, I'll have a new car.
Went to see Bob at the dealership, and he lived up to expectations.
Test drove a new Yaris, with my sister and my son, and it was bland but satisfactory and within budget.
In answer to Bob's question about how soon I might be in the market, I said I was waiting to see what happened on Thursday (the deadline day for house sale), but he, somewhat quaintly, assumed I was waiting for my "settlement". That made me smile. I suppose the world does need stereotypes to keep it ticking over, to keep the natural order of things. There was a time when such an assumption would have ruffled my feathers, but maybe I've moulted one too many times since then.
Anyway, with the issues of hatch/sedan, three doors or five, and optional airbags and cruise control decided, colour remains the pressing concern.
After a burnt orange start (I loved that '79 Escort), I've owned two white cars, and driven an assortment of husband's cars in mostly steel grey (with a moment of madness in a brilliant blue, and a second hand chocolate brown pie van).
The caryard brings some of the colour chart options to life; a steel grey (called graphite), a pearly blue (called glacier), a brighter blue (called Caribbean blue, now you're talking) and a bedazzling pinky-red (called Cosmpolitan, oh yeh!!).
I'm drawn like a moth to the flaming pink, but wonder if it sends the wrong message (what message am I sending??) Does it look like I work for Mary Kay? My sister suggests kindly, with a pat on the arm, it's a car you might give your daughter for her 18th birthday. Mmm, mutton is not the message. But it is vibrant! Am I sufficiently vibrant to carry it off?
My son is drawn to the glacier, but I feel it might be a nanna car.
My sister is drawn to Caribbean, but I feel it might be a try-hard car.
The cherry red is also on display, but good lord, a red car? I don't know what that says, but I don't want to say it.
There's a sort of teal green (called celestial blue) which my daughter, later, says she likes a lot, but my niece says would require frangipani stickers.
So we're left with white (not again), silver pearl (shoot me now) green potion (which sounds exciting but is actually a washed-out grey-green insipid looking thing), or ink (black, just too hot).
So, if I haven't got the bottle for Cosmopolitan (and let's face it, I might feel mighty silly after a little bit), I'm probably back at graphite.
I like the word graphite. It's solid, and reliable, resourceful. But is that because it reminds me of my husband?
Graphite is certainly not as safe and sensible as white or one of the pale pearls. And it's not likely to become embarrassing in the years/months/days to come. Plus, the children will be less likely to want to borrow it when the time comes.
Graphite it is. What a shame they don't make aubergine.
Went to see Bob at the dealership, and he lived up to expectations.
Test drove a new Yaris, with my sister and my son, and it was bland but satisfactory and within budget.
In answer to Bob's question about how soon I might be in the market, I said I was waiting to see what happened on Thursday (the deadline day for house sale), but he, somewhat quaintly, assumed I was waiting for my "settlement". That made me smile. I suppose the world does need stereotypes to keep it ticking over, to keep the natural order of things. There was a time when such an assumption would have ruffled my feathers, but maybe I've moulted one too many times since then.
Anyway, with the issues of hatch/sedan, three doors or five, and optional airbags and cruise control decided, colour remains the pressing concern.
After a burnt orange start (I loved that '79 Escort), I've owned two white cars, and driven an assortment of husband's cars in mostly steel grey (with a moment of madness in a brilliant blue, and a second hand chocolate brown pie van).
The caryard brings some of the colour chart options to life; a steel grey (called graphite), a pearly blue (called glacier), a brighter blue (called Caribbean blue, now you're talking) and a bedazzling pinky-red (called Cosmpolitan, oh yeh!!).
I'm drawn like a moth to the flaming pink, but wonder if it sends the wrong message (what message am I sending??) Does it look like I work for Mary Kay? My sister suggests kindly, with a pat on the arm, it's a car you might give your daughter for her 18th birthday. Mmm, mutton is not the message. But it is vibrant! Am I sufficiently vibrant to carry it off?
My son is drawn to the glacier, but I feel it might be a nanna car.
My sister is drawn to Caribbean, but I feel it might be a try-hard car.
The cherry red is also on display, but good lord, a red car? I don't know what that says, but I don't want to say it.
There's a sort of teal green (called celestial blue) which my daughter, later, says she likes a lot, but my niece says would require frangipani stickers.
So we're left with white (not again), silver pearl (shoot me now) green potion (which sounds exciting but is actually a washed-out grey-green insipid looking thing), or ink (black, just too hot).
So, if I haven't got the bottle for Cosmopolitan (and let's face it, I might feel mighty silly after a little bit), I'm probably back at graphite.
I like the word graphite. It's solid, and reliable, resourceful. But is that because it reminds me of my husband?
Graphite is certainly not as safe and sensible as white or one of the pale pearls. And it's not likely to become embarrassing in the years/months/days to come. Plus, the children will be less likely to want to borrow it when the time comes.
Graphite it is. What a shame they don't make aubergine.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Seven days to sell my house
A late nanna nap and too many cups of tea have me up late and bright-eyed. So I'm sorting out my diary. And realising I have seven days to sell my house. It's not dire! We shan't be tossed out onto the street, but I have signed a contract to buy a house I would like, conditional on the sale of mine within 30 days. And that 30 days is up next Thursday.
Why am I not in a state of panic?
Not sure, really, maybe it has to do with not wanting to sell at all.
I think I do, really I do, but then, it's so much effort to pack and move and resettle. And I'm not sure the new house has somewhere for the chooks.
And I dreamed up a delightful alternative this afternoon.
There's a block of land not far away, cheap, sloping as all get out, clearly no one wants it, but cheap, did I say cheap. I think I'd like to build a pole home. Just a simple three-bedder, timber and Colorbond with a big deck and a big bathtub. And an aubergine kitchen, of course, maybe in mini-orb. I'd probably need a combustion fire, and a loft. And definitely no garages, pools or lawns. I might need to sneak in air conditioning, but will try valiantly to stick to ceiling fans. It's a long walk from the bus stop for the kids, but hey, they're lucky they have shoes.
Of course, there's the slight issue of where we would live during the build. I have a friend with a caravan on her front lawn, but I suspect she won't want our menagerie. Maybe we can house sit? Friendly family with pets seeks home to occupy/care for lovingly during maniacal building phase. Can be trusted to feed animals and clean pools, but not water gardens. But it rains a lot now. And chooks will take care of snails and slugs. Volunteer your home on blog below.
Why am I not in a state of panic?
Not sure, really, maybe it has to do with not wanting to sell at all.
I think I do, really I do, but then, it's so much effort to pack and move and resettle. And I'm not sure the new house has somewhere for the chooks.
And I dreamed up a delightful alternative this afternoon.
There's a block of land not far away, cheap, sloping as all get out, clearly no one wants it, but cheap, did I say cheap. I think I'd like to build a pole home. Just a simple three-bedder, timber and Colorbond with a big deck and a big bathtub. And an aubergine kitchen, of course, maybe in mini-orb. I'd probably need a combustion fire, and a loft. And definitely no garages, pools or lawns. I might need to sneak in air conditioning, but will try valiantly to stick to ceiling fans. It's a long walk from the bus stop for the kids, but hey, they're lucky they have shoes.
Of course, there's the slight issue of where we would live during the build. I have a friend with a caravan on her front lawn, but I suspect she won't want our menagerie. Maybe we can house sit? Friendly family with pets seeks home to occupy/care for lovingly during maniacal building phase. Can be trusted to feed animals and clean pools, but not water gardens. But it rains a lot now. And chooks will take care of snails and slugs. Volunteer your home on blog below.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
My new friends at the call centre
I took a call from a telemarketer yesterday and, flushed with my desire to be kinder to people and the warm glow of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I did not hang up.
He was from the subcontinent (not racism, fact) and reminded me so delightfully of the character from the Marigold that all I could do was smile as he went into his spiel.
He had a great deal for me, as a business owner, to cut my phone line rental.
But I'm not a business owner.
Oh, you are not Steven Moore Photographic?
No, Stefan Moore is my husband, but he doesns't live here anymore.
I see, so you used to be a business owner.
No, that was my husband.
Never mind, today, we can offer you a great deal as a former business owner. Please, do you have a pen to write it down. We can offer you today a line rental of $34.95, with local calls of only 17 cents, that is one-seven-cents, and STD calls of only 25 centres, that is two-five-cents a minute.
But I'm not a former business owner.
Never mind, today, all you need is an active ABN, and we can offer you this deal.
But, I don't have an active ABN.
Never mind, you will now speak to my supervisor, Paul.
Hello Paul.
(Paul replays Chris's spiel about the special offer.) And today we are offering this special deal to former business owners who used to have ABN numbers.
But I'm not a former business owner and I didn't ever have an ABN number.
Never mind, because you have a residential number that used to be a business number that ends in 336, we can offer you this deal today.
Fabulous, what do I need to do?
Nothing, you need to do nothing at all. But we can offer you an even greater discount if you can pay your account through direct debit. We can offer you a line rental of $28.95, that is a whole six dollars, that is six dollars, less.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Oh yes, but there are so many benefits of direct debit. We can send you an account at the start of the month, and you have a fortnight, two whole weeks, to review it, and if you do not find any problems and do not contact us, then we will direct debit the amount from the account which you nominate.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Hold on a moment please, you will speak to my supervisor, Tim.
Hello, Tim.
(Tim replays spiel of Chris and Paul, asks my name.)
Oh well, Alysson, I am sure you have been delighted with the service provided by my colleagues, and now I would like to ask which account you would like to nominate for your direct debit.
But, I really don't want a direct debit. I like going to the post office. Can I just have the first deal?
Oh, the offer today is only open to customers who elect to use direct debit as a method of payment. What is your objection to direct debit please?
Well, I like going to the post office.
Oh, what is it about the post office you like? (dangerous territory, well off-script).
Well, it gets me out of the office, and nothing much else does, except the Turkish gozleme man on Thursdays and Fridays when I also buy flowers. And I need a break sometimes, you know?
And I like that the post office sells lots of interesting things, like travel pillows, and CDs, and books and sewing machines. I like standing in line and looking at them. I did most of my Christmas shopping there. But mostly I like the really sunny woman with the crazy hair who has worked there as long as I can remember, even when the post office used to be in the lovely old building where the pigeons live now and she had even crazier hair. I always hope to be served by her, just to see what whacky thing she might say today.
OK, Alysson, thank you for your time today. (call ends)
He was from the subcontinent (not racism, fact) and reminded me so delightfully of the character from the Marigold that all I could do was smile as he went into his spiel.
He had a great deal for me, as a business owner, to cut my phone line rental.
But I'm not a business owner.
Oh, you are not Steven Moore Photographic?
No, Stefan Moore is my husband, but he doesns't live here anymore.
I see, so you used to be a business owner.
No, that was my husband.
Never mind, today, we can offer you a great deal as a former business owner. Please, do you have a pen to write it down. We can offer you today a line rental of $34.95, with local calls of only 17 cents, that is one-seven-cents, and STD calls of only 25 centres, that is two-five-cents a minute.
But I'm not a former business owner.
Never mind, today, all you need is an active ABN, and we can offer you this deal.
But, I don't have an active ABN.
Never mind, you will now speak to my supervisor, Paul.
Hello Paul.
(Paul replays Chris's spiel about the special offer.) And today we are offering this special deal to former business owners who used to have ABN numbers.
But I'm not a former business owner and I didn't ever have an ABN number.
Never mind, because you have a residential number that used to be a business number that ends in 336, we can offer you this deal today.
Fabulous, what do I need to do?
Nothing, you need to do nothing at all. But we can offer you an even greater discount if you can pay your account through direct debit. We can offer you a line rental of $28.95, that is a whole six dollars, that is six dollars, less.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Oh yes, but there are so many benefits of direct debit. We can send you an account at the start of the month, and you have a fortnight, two whole weeks, to review it, and if you do not find any problems and do not contact us, then we will direct debit the amount from the account which you nominate.
But I don't want to pay by direct debit. I like going to the post office. I'll just take the first deal.
Hold on a moment please, you will speak to my supervisor, Tim.
Hello, Tim.
(Tim replays spiel of Chris and Paul, asks my name.)
Oh well, Alysson, I am sure you have been delighted with the service provided by my colleagues, and now I would like to ask which account you would like to nominate for your direct debit.
But, I really don't want a direct debit. I like going to the post office. Can I just have the first deal?
Oh, the offer today is only open to customers who elect to use direct debit as a method of payment. What is your objection to direct debit please?
Well, I like going to the post office.
Oh, what is it about the post office you like? (dangerous territory, well off-script).
Well, it gets me out of the office, and nothing much else does, except the Turkish gozleme man on Thursdays and Fridays when I also buy flowers. And I need a break sometimes, you know?
And I like that the post office sells lots of interesting things, like travel pillows, and CDs, and books and sewing machines. I like standing in line and looking at them. I did most of my Christmas shopping there. But mostly I like the really sunny woman with the crazy hair who has worked there as long as I can remember, even when the post office used to be in the lovely old building where the pigeons live now and she had even crazier hair. I always hope to be served by her, just to see what whacky thing she might say today.
OK, Alysson, thank you for your time today. (call ends)
There's a kind of hush
There's a kind of hush that comes over the house at this time of night, when everyone is tucked up in their own beds, and the cat's at the foot of mine, curled up, tail tucked, snuggly.
I love this time of night, especially now that I have a bedroom to myself, and purple linen, and can read and write and do as I please till the wee small hours without interrupting anyone.
And, there is no snoring, and much less farting.
Small pleasures.
I love this time of night, especially now that I have a bedroom to myself, and purple linen, and can read and write and do as I please till the wee small hours without interrupting anyone.
And, there is no snoring, and much less farting.
Small pleasures.
What readers want
Just got around to reading Judy Prisk's column in today's SMH while waiting for the (very) slow cooker to do its thing.
http://www.smh.com.au/national/when-owners-feel-locked-out-20120417-1x5jl.html
It's a lovely read, about the readers' sense of ownership of their paper (it's much the same at every paper, I suspect) and their outrage when their online comments and letters to the editor are not published, or savaged by heartless subs (my words, not theirs).
Readers are equally outraged if they are not invited to comment on a story they think they should be, and some allege political and even gender bias.
But Judy rightly explains most of the glitches as having their origins in either technology, or staffing.
The bloody computer system eats things, we all know that, and there are a lot of frantic legs working away under the water to keep those ducks bobbing away on the surface. I'm not sure readers grasp that at all. It would be lovely to invite comment of every word printed in the paper, but who would moderate those comments? We don't have online fairies, only hardworking journos who often also have other jobs to do. Put on more staff, you say. Sure thing, with shrinking circulation and print advertising revenue?
Readers have become a bit bolshy, if you ask me!
But it's best you don't. I sit in close proximity to the letters editor, and a kinder man you would not meet. But I would never dare answer his phone. I'm an online moderator too, but only occasionally these days. But I still sometimes bear the brunt of a disgruntled online commenter on the phone who can't find his way to the online editor's extension. Trainspotters, the lot! They want the world, these readers.
And we do try to deliver it. Really, we do. Letters editors and online moderators are people too. Just trying to get through the day. So please don't call us names when we edit your comments in keeping with our guidelines, or choose not to publish comments that are flagrantly abusive and defamatory. It's for your own good, really it is.
http://www.smh.com.au/national/when-owners-feel-locked-out-20120417-1x5jl.html
It's a lovely read, about the readers' sense of ownership of their paper (it's much the same at every paper, I suspect) and their outrage when their online comments and letters to the editor are not published, or savaged by heartless subs (my words, not theirs).
Readers are equally outraged if they are not invited to comment on a story they think they should be, and some allege political and even gender bias.
But Judy rightly explains most of the glitches as having their origins in either technology, or staffing.
The bloody computer system eats things, we all know that, and there are a lot of frantic legs working away under the water to keep those ducks bobbing away on the surface. I'm not sure readers grasp that at all. It would be lovely to invite comment of every word printed in the paper, but who would moderate those comments? We don't have online fairies, only hardworking journos who often also have other jobs to do. Put on more staff, you say. Sure thing, with shrinking circulation and print advertising revenue?
Readers have become a bit bolshy, if you ask me!
But it's best you don't. I sit in close proximity to the letters editor, and a kinder man you would not meet. But I would never dare answer his phone. I'm an online moderator too, but only occasionally these days. But I still sometimes bear the brunt of a disgruntled online commenter on the phone who can't find his way to the online editor's extension. Trainspotters, the lot! They want the world, these readers.
And we do try to deliver it. Really, we do. Letters editors and online moderators are people too. Just trying to get through the day. So please don't call us names when we edit your comments in keeping with our guidelines, or choose not to publish comments that are flagrantly abusive and defamatory. It's for your own good, really it is.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Do we train too many journalists?
Do we train too many journalists?
Yes, if we expect them all to get jobs as journalists. No, if we think a communications degree might be something more/other than vocational training for a job as a journalist.
There's a story in The Oz today by Nic Christensen that explores whether journalism schools churn out too many graduates, as less than one in three get jobs as journalists.
I'm surprised it's actually that many, and even more surprised that others might expect a higher strike rate.
Whenever I talk to comms students (as a tutor, guest speaker and work experience supervisor) I try to scare them off, or at least strongly suggest that they do a double degree. If they insist on straight comms, I tell them to multiskill like there is no tomorrow (because there is no tomorrow for the journalist as writer alone). How quaint that we used to think it right that others took pictures and video and audio, and others again put it all together. And I tell them to be prepared to go anywhere and do anything. And to get writing. Show me what they can do.
And the stars among them do get jobs. But I suspect they would have anyway, without their comms degrees, if such a thing were allowed. (Although we are seeing a bit of a rethink there, a return to the bad old days when journalists were chosen from the ranks of the non-tertiary educated. Social media nous is the new sought-after skill.)
That's not to say that a comms degree isn't worth the paper it's written on, or that journalism educators are wasting their time. Some of the nicest people I know are journalism educators. Why, I used to be one myself.
They are up against it, and they do need to be honest with their students. I suspect many are.
But what are they to do in age of the university as corporation? Turn away paying customers?
I would hope that they, as I do, expect a comms degree might do more than provide vocational training as a journalist. You can learn shorthand at TAFE. Studying comms is not like studying medicine, or teaching, where you learn the skills and (hopefully, almost always) get a job. Comms, like arts and law, asks its students to look beyond the doing to the thinking.
I don't have a comms degree (even though I have taught in the degree) but I do have a law degree. Gained externally over eight years while working as a journalist and starting a family. I've never practised law. And I don't mind a bit.
What that degree taught me was how to think. How to reason. How to interpret behaviour, and meaning. How to see both sides. How to present both sides. What it means to insist on fairness and justice. How the world doesn't always deliver those things. What it means to have integrity.
Not unlike a comms degree.
Many comms students will end up working in PR, or advertising or other dark arts. I'm not talking about them.Or to them.
But those who want to be journalists need to be realistic, and as teachers and journalists we do them no favours by pretending otherwise. Multiskill. Pack your bags. Lower your expectations and your standards. And have a back-up degree in your back pocket.
Yes, if we expect them all to get jobs as journalists. No, if we think a communications degree might be something more/other than vocational training for a job as a journalist.
There's a story in The Oz today by Nic Christensen that explores whether journalism schools churn out too many graduates, as less than one in three get jobs as journalists.
I'm surprised it's actually that many, and even more surprised that others might expect a higher strike rate.
Whenever I talk to comms students (as a tutor, guest speaker and work experience supervisor) I try to scare them off, or at least strongly suggest that they do a double degree. If they insist on straight comms, I tell them to multiskill like there is no tomorrow (because there is no tomorrow for the journalist as writer alone). How quaint that we used to think it right that others took pictures and video and audio, and others again put it all together. And I tell them to be prepared to go anywhere and do anything. And to get writing. Show me what they can do.
And the stars among them do get jobs. But I suspect they would have anyway, without their comms degrees, if such a thing were allowed. (Although we are seeing a bit of a rethink there, a return to the bad old days when journalists were chosen from the ranks of the non-tertiary educated. Social media nous is the new sought-after skill.)
That's not to say that a comms degree isn't worth the paper it's written on, or that journalism educators are wasting their time. Some of the nicest people I know are journalism educators. Why, I used to be one myself.
They are up against it, and they do need to be honest with their students. I suspect many are.
But what are they to do in age of the university as corporation? Turn away paying customers?
I would hope that they, as I do, expect a comms degree might do more than provide vocational training as a journalist. You can learn shorthand at TAFE. Studying comms is not like studying medicine, or teaching, where you learn the skills and (hopefully, almost always) get a job. Comms, like arts and law, asks its students to look beyond the doing to the thinking.
I don't have a comms degree (even though I have taught in the degree) but I do have a law degree. Gained externally over eight years while working as a journalist and starting a family. I've never practised law. And I don't mind a bit.
What that degree taught me was how to think. How to reason. How to interpret behaviour, and meaning. How to see both sides. How to present both sides. What it means to insist on fairness and justice. How the world doesn't always deliver those things. What it means to have integrity.
Not unlike a comms degree.
Many comms students will end up working in PR, or advertising or other dark arts. I'm not talking about them.Or to them.
But those who want to be journalists need to be realistic, and as teachers and journalists we do them no favours by pretending otherwise. Multiskill. Pack your bags. Lower your expectations and your standards. And have a back-up degree in your back pocket.
I love Californication
It's back on tonight! And isn't Hank Moody the best bad boy on the small screen.
Loathesome, lacivious, lustful. Oh yes, Im in the mood for ... alliteration.
Dream of Californication ...
Loathesome, lacivious, lustful. Oh yes, Im in the mood for ... alliteration.
Dream of Californication ...
Monday, 16 April 2012
My little boy
How do I help my little boy, who is not so little any more, but seems to be in such pain.
I don't know how much of it is having his parents separate just before his 12th birthday, and how much of it is just being 12.
There's not much good I can remember about being 12, starting high school, feeling lost and frightened, drowning.
But I don't know the feeling of having my parents separate.
My counsellor says his behaviour sounds like he's just being 12; pushing boundaries, asserting his independence, seeking to establish his place in the family and the world.
But sometimes, I worry it is more.
I love him to bits and I try to show it, and much of the time we have a lovely relationship.
But when the switch is flicked, he feels alone, deserted, lonely, desolate.
And he strikes out. And says things I know he doesn't mean. And that he will regret later.
There have to be rules, teeth have to be brushed, surely. Even at such times?
I want just to flick a switch and have my happy little boy back.
I know he's hiding in there, just maybe afraid to come out?
I don't know how much of it is having his parents separate just before his 12th birthday, and how much of it is just being 12.
There's not much good I can remember about being 12, starting high school, feeling lost and frightened, drowning.
But I don't know the feeling of having my parents separate.
My counsellor says his behaviour sounds like he's just being 12; pushing boundaries, asserting his independence, seeking to establish his place in the family and the world.
But sometimes, I worry it is more.
I love him to bits and I try to show it, and much of the time we have a lovely relationship.
But when the switch is flicked, he feels alone, deserted, lonely, desolate.
And he strikes out. And says things I know he doesn't mean. And that he will regret later.
There have to be rules, teeth have to be brushed, surely. Even at such times?
I want just to flick a switch and have my happy little boy back.
I know he's hiding in there, just maybe afraid to come out?
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Welcome!
Welcome to my blog! I'm probably writing this for myself, really, but it would be lovely if you would join me from time to time, and share your thoughts.
My thoughts are many and scattered. My views are sometimes ill-considered. But I can often be persuaded to see another point of view. Sometimes, even, admit I was wrong. But I rarely am.
I'm starting this blog because I'm 45 and recently separated from my husband of 20 years, about whom I shall say nothing bad, because there is nothing bad to say.
Marriages just end. Even good ones, I think.
To expect that you will stay married to someone your whole life is a lovely idea, but not a practical reality. Not if people change and grow. It must be amazing if two people continue to change and grow at the same pace and in the same direction. But I'm yet to see it. What I see mostly is compromise. Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people. But there is for me.
I'm not sure what I'm going to write about on this blog. You need to give me time to find my stride.
But I imagine I'll write about everything from raising teens to raising chooks, my newfound sisterhood and sobriety, what's in the news, what should be in the news, and just how I'm feeling today.
Please, do drop in.
My thoughts are many and scattered. My views are sometimes ill-considered. But I can often be persuaded to see another point of view. Sometimes, even, admit I was wrong. But I rarely am.
I'm starting this blog because I'm 45 and recently separated from my husband of 20 years, about whom I shall say nothing bad, because there is nothing bad to say.
Marriages just end. Even good ones, I think.
To expect that you will stay married to someone your whole life is a lovely idea, but not a practical reality. Not if people change and grow. It must be amazing if two people continue to change and grow at the same pace and in the same direction. But I'm yet to see it. What I see mostly is compromise. Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people. But there is for me.
I'm not sure what I'm going to write about on this blog. You need to give me time to find my stride.
But I imagine I'll write about everything from raising teens to raising chooks, my newfound sisterhood and sobriety, what's in the news, what should be in the news, and just how I'm feeling today.
Please, do drop in.
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