it's SHOWTIME

We're not big show attenders (attendees?)
In the last 10 years, we've been to 2 shows (both tiny) and so this year, we decided to splash out and take the kiddies along for a bit of a treat.
We braced ourselves for the hideous prices (admission was OK but OMG $23 for a SHOWBAG??)and rugged up warm (good thing too, as Beachtown weather is always Arctic for the Show).
We wandered through the displays of tractors and caravans, spent some time in the Scitech tent, and chatted to our friends in the Drug Action tent (gee. One standard glass of wine isn't as big as I had thought).
Fabio dunked the Mens' Group man (highlight of the day, according to Mr 9).
The kids had a ride, and Mr 9 shot cans (astoundingly well) and won a prize for his sister.
The Princess caught a large plastic fish and won a hideous looking pink and brown bear which she adores.
We neatly avoided the Laughing Clowns and The Claw, and instead purchased showbags (Barbie and ArmySomething which contained a very LOUD gun)
We ate hot donuts and fairy floss, watched Mr 9 on the bumper cars, briefly visited the photography/art/craft displays, watched some motorbike stunt riders, and waited for the fireworks, which were utterly spectacular.

I always say I don't really like the Show, but I think I'm lying to myself.
Apart from the constant fear of my small-town kids wandering off in a big crowd, there's something about the agricultural displays, the gaudy tinsel, shrieks and screams and roar of diesel engines from Sideshow Alley, the deliciously unhealthy food, and all those shiny tractors, that just might lure me back next year......

time travel

I would imagine nearly everyone has seen this clip, purportedly from the premiere for a Charlie Chaplin film, Circus.
Chaplins' Time Traveler
If you haven't, go watch. I'll wait.

*hums to self*

K -- now whether that is a cross-dressing Irishman time travelling back to the opening of a CC film, or a woman yapping to her collar, or a hoax, I don't know.
The interesting thing is, that so many people are talking about this, and the ones who aren't decrying it outright sound... well... wistful.

I think lots of us really wish we could travel through time!
Obviously, most of us would have mistakes or regrets in our lives that we'd like to do over... and some of us (the really lucky ones) might have moments they'd like to re-live.

Me... yep, regrets and mistakes galore. A few moments I'd like to re-live, definitely.
And many, many historical moments I'd like to see for myself!
How cool would it be to go back in time and attend Victorias' Coronation?
Glide through the streets of Renaissance Venice?
Watch a Viking longship set sail?
Shove John Lennon out of the way? (and dodge the bullet yourself)
or see some huge dinosaur clomp by? (providing you had a safe viewing spot and it wasn't a T-Rex, of course)


I'm just not so sure I would pick the premiere of a Charlie Chaplin movie to attend.

camping in the olden days

So who went camping as a kid?

We did -- nearly every holidays, it seems. My dad is a mad fisherman, so all the places we went involved rivers or beaches. Or both.
In north Queensland, that often means crocs, too, so we learned early to stay away from the water till Dad said it was OK. (But 'OK' didn't always mean we could swim. Because 3 little girls could easily scare away every fish within a 20 km radius.)

My own favourite camping spot was up towards Cooktown. Back in the day, the road was all dirt, and we used to pack up the Kingswood and quite often, pretty much blaze a trail in to the beach. If it had been raining a lot, Dad might have to renovate sections of the track. I remember him placing timber over one particular wash-out, which looked like the Grand Canyon to me, and then driving gingerly over it. In the Kingswood. Us Queenslanders, back in the 70s, we didn't need any fancy-schmancy four-wheel drives!

Arriving meant setting up camp (mum), scoping out the fishing possibilities (dad), and racing around examining everything while simultaneously keeping one eye peeled for marauding crocodiles or pigs or sharks (us girls).

Sleeping arrangements were simple. We had a sleeping bag on the ground (which was hopefully sand) and a big tarp roped overhead, that would flap all night. Combined with the constant wash of waves on the beach, and adult voices murmuring around the campfire, I can't think of a better lullaby.

We always got sunburnt. Usually hideously. Being white-skinned redheads, it only took about 15 seconds exposure to the tropical sun and we turned red. Back then, it was just one of those things. No-one wore sunscreen.
Night-times with sunburn were a torture in themselves, because it didn't matter how carefully you got into your sleeping bag, you ALWAYS got sand in there and spent the night feeling like you were being filed with a rasp.

And the BITES! Mozzies, sand flies, march flies -- they all itched like mad but if you were sunburnt of course you couldn't scratch them.

We ate toast that had been cooked over an open fire, and drank lumpy Sunshine milk. We dug in the sand, 'swam' in the first 2 feet of ocean, collected shells and coral, and amused ourselves without TV for days on end. (I don't remember EVER fishing though)
Occasionally, we might go shopping in a nearby town, like Port Douglas or Cooktown. Back then, Port Douglas had about 8 people living in it, and we camped on the beach. You couldn't see another light at night. Now, it's ugly. Full of resorts and people. Destroyed.

I don't know if there is a single place left where you can camp on the beach with a fire; these days you would probably be dragged away and arrested by GreenPeace. My kids might never know what it felt like to go to sleep under the stars on the beach, watching the firelight flicker and listening to the waves.

Progress, huh?

this is The Day when things fall into place

Today, Fabio comes home.

In fact, he has already landed in WA and is on his way home right now. In his very own car. (he doesn't get to drive in the Philippines)
He met a guy in an airport somewhere in Asia who lives in the same town as us (go figure) so is giving him a lift -- which means he has someone to talk to and help him stay awake.

Mr 8 is happy and sad today. He's going on a school camp this morning, and won't see his dad till Wednesday afternoon.
The Princess thinks she might need a photo of Mr 8 to remind her of him until he gets back.

Mr 17 is still asleep and oblivious to the chaos. Half his luck.

And I must away, to pack lunches and braid hair and find lost school items.

life on the surface...

Like seemingly half the world, I've been watching the Chilean miners being brought to the surface, one by one. And watching the reunions with their loved ones, everyone crying and hugging and kissing, just so thankful to have their men home again.

I'm sure most people have thought at least in passing, "What would that be like??"

Well I've tried NOT to.

Because my husband is an underground miner.

He's a very safe worker. Also because he has always (till now) worked in WA, where mining regs are as tight as they can be, I've never really worried about him too much while he's at work.

There's always a lot of fuss made in Australia over a mining death -- the truth is that in reality, mining deaths in Australia are very low. We have stringent safety regs, regular mine inspections, and numerous safeguards in place. Many of those deaths are entirely preventable, and often are the victims' own fault.
We keep quiet about that.
No widow wants to hear that her husband did something stupid that got him killed.

I don't know what conditions are like in Chile. I suspect that the miners over there don't have it as good as they do here.
And in the Philippines, where my man works now, it's insane. Conditions there would make any Aussie Mines Inspectors' hair stand on end.
The other day, Fabio came across a nun and a bunch of schoolgirls on an unauthorised tour in his mine, many wearing THONGS (not what you think, if you're American) and none with any protective clothing. He was gob-smacked. He also had to shut down his operations immediately, so that none of them were at risk.

So I worry about him a little more now. Not because HE isn't aware of the safety concerns -- but because so many of the people around him have no idea why this crazy Australian keeps making stupid rules that change the way they operate. They don't get that he's trying to keep them alive, as well as himself, as well as do his job in the best way possible.

He lives in a different world. Or actually, in two worlds. There is the world down the hole, a world of darkness so complete that it's like a blanket pressing on your eyeballs, where rules MUST be followed and there is no room for poor judgement or inattention -- and then there is the world on the surface.

Just think about that for a second. On the surface. That's us, folks. All of us who spend our days in the daylight, in fresh (ish) air, who walk or drive or cycle around, who can look out of the window at any point and see the world.

I know a lot of people in Australia think that miners are paid too much. But I also know that most of those people couldn't be paid enough to do what my husband does, every day. To me, and to the company he works for, he's worth every cent.

the colour game...

Can your husband tell the difference between teal and turquoise?
Mine can't. He says teal isn't a colour, it's a bloody duck.

He once accused me of doing 'something' with his tan shorts.
I protested. "You don't have any tan shorts."
"Yes, I do! Those long ones with the pockets! Where are they?"
"The khaki ones?"
"No! They're tan!"
They're not. They're definitely khaki.

My sister was just telling me about a for-sale house her husband had heard of. He told her it was mauvey-orange in colour.
She looked at him.
"No," he said, "I know what colour that is. It's not purple. And it's not white."

I guess we all know that men really can't see a lot of the colours we can, and it makes for some hilarious conversations. I'm not sure if they can't see the shades or get the names muddled up or both.

But for us, (my sister and me) most of our sons are also colour-blind to varying degrees.
They have trouble with some blues, pinks, reds and greens; purples and browns can also trip them up.

They all see peanut butter as green.
Dogs can look green and blue, as can stews and casseroles. (this explains why they can be picky eaters. Our brains are hard-wired not to eat blue or green meat.)
Our brother can't tell the difference between cooked and raw meat.

I use a taupe eyebrow pencil which looks green to my boys. Can you imagine the embarrassment factor of a mum who gets around with green eyebrows??

One of my boys can't see his dog properly on the lawn unless it moves. True.

They all HATE to be constantly asked "What colour is this?" because a lot of the time, they don't know. There isn't a word for the colour they're seeing.
My son sometimes describes things as peachy-green.

Which brings me back to mauvy-orange.

The house was painted mustard.

I think I'm petrophobic....

I hate putting petrol in my car.

No, seriously, when I have to fill the car, I feel sick and my hands shake. I hate it so much that I avoid it as long as possible, and trust me, this is not a fear that you should cope with by Avoidance Technique... you know?

It's too weird. I'm not a Useless Female.

I have had 7 babies WITHOUT DRUGS. And two of them were 10 pounders.

I am the woman who has packed up and moved uncomplainingly without fear well, moved anyway, time and time again, following Fabios' mining career to some of the most Godforsaken spots in the country.
I am encouraging him to work overseas for 4 weeks at a time (and no, not because I'm happier that way)

I've buried a child, for crying out loud (he was already dead. Just sayin')

And I'm so terrified of filling the car with petrol that I'll risk running out just so I don't have to do it 'this trip'.
It's stupid. It doesn't work for me, in DrPhilSpeak. I know that.

So why do I do this?
I think it's the unfamiliarity. Petrol stations are Mens' Domains. Or something.
I worry that there'll be a line-up, that I won't know where to park, that I'll do something wrong and look stupid, that the pump won't work properly, etc etc -- this long list of stupid irrational fears that make me look like a dumb-ass.
Oddly enough, the fear diminishes once I'm familiar with the station.
Today I found a nice place, less than 3 kms from my door. I don't care if it's more expensive than the Woollies servo in town -- the man was nice (he escaped from the desert too) and he has ostrich eggs for sale! I still had to pump my own fuel but it wasn't anywhere near as traumatic as I had imagined....

AND the warning light in my car is now gone. WHEW! Maybe next time I won't wait till it comes on.....

PS it appears I'm not the only one. RELIEF! I wouldn't want to be, you know, strange.

Australias' youngest politician....

My 5 year old daughter is out in the backyard playing politicians. She is wearing high heels and has a silver handbag (all very important) and is canvassing on her plastic mobile phone.
Her platform consists of two policies -- caring for animals (and I suspect her huge stuffed cat collection has something to do with this); and giving the hostibles lots of money to buy new things.
If she gets in, she's gonna make Wyatt Roy look like an octogenarian.

Seems Fabio and I discuss politics a LOT in this house.....

SNAKE!

With the warmer weather, reptiles are beginning to appear in BeachTown.
We have bobtails roaming the streets and most people (except for that idiot up the road) slow down to avoid them.

The other day I got home from shopping to find the Next Door Neighbour out on the verge and visibly agitated. Because a dugite, well over a metre long, had slithered out from the garden bed she'd been working on earlier, and now lay stretched out on her front lawn.
We bundled the kids into the house, and I began the farcical process of ringing the council for help.
Five phone calls later, and it seems there is no snake-catcher in BeachTown.
So we stood around and watched it for while, and then someone tried to run it over and it bolted back into NDNs garden.
I put the dog in the house (dear Property Manager, if you're reading this, I know I know, but it was an emergency) then came back out to fetch the wheelie bin and spotted the snake, maybe five feet from me, coming out from under the hedge in our front yard!

I gracefully leaped back onto the patio, and watched as it made its' bid for freedom, across the road and down the fence to the beach. NDN and I think it was heading down there for frogs; there are a million of them in the ditch between the sand dunes.

Since then, a number of people have seen snakes around, and we mostly get dugites or tigers here so that is a bit of a worry.
The kids and I make sure to sing or talk loudly on our way to the beach (The Princess sings the Kookaburra Song and we hope that no stupid American companies are listening.

I feel sorry for you, snakes. You're running out of habitat, with all the new housing developments being built around here. But not so sorry that I will let you bite one of my kids. If you hear a song about kookaburras, please slither quickly away.
Thank you.