If you don't have anything nice to say you shouldn't say anything at all.

Well that's what my dear Grandmother used to tell me and perhaps she is right? Perhaps I should not feel so happy about the secret elated pleasure I felt in venting my spleen in my blog in regards to the less lovable characteristics of my in-laws. Either way, I have removed the offending posts now. I felt enormously better for writing them and they are in my drafts so if I ever feel the need I can post them again and wallow in exstacy in my own gall and vitriol.

In the last week we have heard not a peep from them, aside from one unanswered phone call from them which made me want to call my phone carrier and offer to pay them more for the absolutely wonderful, fantastic, stupendously magnificent service, called "Caller ID"...sigh...I love, love LOVE "Caller ID".

Outside, as the days start their long slow climb back into decent length, the sky is blue and clear and the winter air bites my dry skin. I love this time of year so very much. On days like this my life is nothing but perfect. The birds sound sweeter as they plan for the spring high up in the trees and all my plans lie in front of me like a feast laid out for my indulgence. I am off now to throw myself into it in a show of unprecedented gluttony. Bring on the antacids.

2 degrees

So it turns out I am only a degree or two away from super-stardom. I was going to post again today about the trials and tribulations of having a mentally abusive (to her children and husband, not to me) mother-in-law but I decided after reading the headlines that this was a much more interesting, uplifting(?) topic. This is even though I can't divulge the identity of the newsmaker and the 'superstar' mentioned with him only to say that it is interesting, looking at my daughter, that where she has grown up can have such on influence on the circles that she moves in. It seems that quite a few of her old school friends and other friends (who have spent far too many nights partying in my house) are making a name for themselves in the music industry, her current love interest is on a world tour with his band at the moment (she says there is no point her thinking of it as anything serious when he won't be back until October but is enjoying the daily emails just the same) and a number of others are getting airplay and reviews that my contemporaries would only have dreamed about.

There was an article a few years ago about how Brisbane was something of a happening place in the music industry, perhaps it was right? This area does seem to be coming of age a bit in the arts world. My daughter herself seems to have lost the focus on her earlier ambition to make it big in the design world and she hasn't done any singing professionally for about 2 years now, but I suppose I am a little glad about that. Although the contacts and opportunities could be there for her if she wished, I am more than happy that she isn't partaking in that full-on lifestyle and the only allnighters she has pulled lately have been in the University Computer lab.

Has anyone read "Lullabies for Little Criminals" by Heather O'Neill?

Every time while and after I am reading a good book I think that I am going to write one too. I take on the authors way with words in my head and I concoct long detailed paragraphs which I then promptly forget and never write down. Sometimes (often) I wish that I had a computer built into my brain so that I could record all these stupid little stories and they wouldn't just fly away the way they do. Sometimes I wish a lot of things.

I was about six when I wrote my first and only book. I made up a story about a cat and drew pictures to go with it. I stapled it all together and showed my sister and told her that I was going to send it to a publisher. She laughed at me and told me it was stupid and so was I so I took the book into the kitchen and opened the firebox and stuffed it in on top of the glowing coals. I sat on the red and white checked linoleum floor and watched all my dreams burn away and disappear up the chimney. I hated my sister.

At school I decided that I must be retarded and that it was a secret that everybody knew except for me. I thought maybe I was a 'spastic' like a boy who was a son of one of my mother's friends. I felt sorry for him because I knew that the other kids laughed at him. When he came to my house I tried to play with him but he had trouble controlling his arms and legs and I was frightened he was going to hurt himself and it would be my fault. I was pretty clumsy too and I could never do all the things that the other kids could do. It never occured to me that this was because I was four years younger than my sister, it just confirmed to me that there was something seriously wrong with me. I snuck back into the schoolroom at lunch time one day and looked all through the teacher's desk because I was sure there would be papers in there about how to teach a retarded child like me. I never found anything but I wasn't convinced. I decided that if I could make myself smart I wouldn't be retarded anymore, so I started trying to speed read because I had heard about it somewhere. I could read an entire page in 1 minute. I proudly told the teacher so he sent me outside onto the verandah with a page of text and timed me. I read it no problem but then he quizzed me as to what it had been about. I had been so excited about my amazing reading talent that I had forgotten to remember anything that I had read. The teacher called me a liar and smacked me infront of the entire school. There were only seven kids in the school but that just made it even more embarrassing.

Every day at school I got a smack. I think the teacher just started smacking me before school began because he knew I would be naughty later anyway. It was usually because I hadn't done my homework or had got my spelling wrong. Even though I was always getting hit I was still completely terrified of it but it seemed the more I tried to avoid it the more nervous I would get and the more mistakes I would make and therefore get more smacks. I wanted the teacher to like me so much I was still always nice to him and got really excited when my family would have him over for tea. My grandmother always cooked crumbed brains when he came to eat. I am sure they made him gag but my siblings and I would always insist we had them as we were sure that eating them would make us smart and impress the teacher.

There was a school reunion a few years ago and apparently that teacher was there. I didn't go and although I wish I had seen my classmates, I am not at all sad that I didn't see him. He was my teacher for four years. I started school when I was only four years old. Then I thought it was because I was so advanced for my age. I could spell 'blue' and I was sure this was something that the teacher wanted to hear repeatedly all day, every day. In truth they let me start school early because there was another boy due to start grade one that year and it would be easier for the teacher to teach us both at once. I also think my Grandmother was relieved to be getting rid of me. My mother wasn't really interested in children so my Grandmother was my full-time carer. I completely and utterly adored her. I think I almost smothered her with my desperate need for her love.

My Grandmother's birthday was last week. She would have been 106. She died when she was 97. I still miss her every single day.

In the afternoons after school Grandma would nearly always be baking. She had a 32 volt mixmaster and we had to switch the generator on so that she could use it. I was always fighting with my sister over who would get to lick the bowl. I would stay in the kitchen the whole time and 'help' Grandma, getting the things from the cupboards and drawers and licking everything as soon as she finished with it. Meanwhile my sister would do something annoying like throw a tennis ball against the wall outside or draw pictures of cats. She could always do everything so much better than I could, it drove me insane with jealousy. It didn't seem really that fair to me that although I had been the one 'helping' my sister still got to lick the bowl half the time. I realise now that my sister was more jealous of me because I got so much of Grandma's attention. One time she told me that I was stupid loving Grandma so much because soon she would die and I would be all alone. I believed her. I hated my sister.

My sister told me that the powdered milk that we mixed up for the poddy calves was poisonous. I was sure I was going to die because I had been eating a little bit of it. I started washing my hands every few minutes and spitting constantly so that I couldn't be poisoned. I stopped eating and spat almost everything out when no-one was looking. One afternoon the mailman arrived for his regular cup of tea as we were the last on his day long 300 mile mail-run and as I walked out to the front door to welcome him in, my knees gave way and I slumped to the floor. Everything was in slow motion and next thing I knew I was sitting in a chair being given a cup of milo. The mailman said I looked malnourished so a few days later my mother took me to the doctor in town sixty miles away and he said that I was anaemic. I had to take a teaspoon of horribly bitter black medicine twice a day. My sister told my Grandmother that I hadn't been eating and I got in trouble. I decided I would rather be poisoned than have to take any more of the horrible black medicine but even though I got better really quickly my grandmother still made me take two entire bottles of the stuff. I will never forget that horrible taste.

After that my sister told me that there were aliens in the sky in spaceships that looked like big silver 44 gallon drums. We had 44 gallons drums everywhere so I got really frightened and was sure they had landed and were coming to get me. My sister said that they grabbed little kids and took them away and chopped them up and did experiments on them. Of course, I believed her. I spent the next few years hiding in the cupboard if I was home alone and refusing to be left by myself, ever. I hated my sister then but now I just feel sorry for her.

The German(& Canadian) Invasion

It seems like I closed my eyes and when I opened them again my house had been transformed into an International Airport...or at least a backpackers.

Yesterday the next two Germans flew in so I now have four of them staying downstairs in addition to my Canadian cousin/nephew upstairs. He was supposed to be going diving this morning, which was to be his last dive in Australia on this trip but he spent half the night throwing up and keeping half the house awake with sounds like animal moans echoing hollowly from the toilet bowl. He will be so disappointed, I hope he hadn't expected me to wake him up and shuffle him off anyway. He flies back to Canada on Thursday morning and I suppose I should probably drive him to the airport. I had intended to send him to my sister's house (closer to the airport) and have her deliver him but she stated rather crisply that she had not the time nor the inclination to do such a thing and as far as she was concerned he could catch a cab (not that close, still $30 odd for a cab). Ever the kind one, she is...

The Germans (the new ones) spent yesterday stumbling about in a daze. The result of jet lag and the unexpected bonus of a free return flight thrown in by Emirates after their plane was overbooked and they were stuck in Abudabi for 2 hours. I could see them gazing around hoping like hell they liked this country if they are going to have to come back again, after all, surely you don't get free flights to somewhere good?

The other Germans(the old ones?) seem comfortable and settled now and I am much appreciating the rent they paid me yesterday as well as the help I have been getting on the Kombi. They even have experience with VW window removal and replacement so the former white elephant is finally beginning to turn into a.....well something potentially attractive and useful, not that a white elephant may not be useful, perhaps?

WD is due to come home today too, which is looming as a problem for me as she is not at all fond of the CC(Canadian Cousin) and will be furious enough that he has been sleeping in her room let alone when(if?...cross your fingers for me that I can get away with this) she finds out he has also been regurgitating his meaty(she is a vegetarian) dinner all over her clean shiny floor. (Thank my lucky stars that I tore out the carpet). I wonder if it is possible I somehow poisoned him with the huge Beef Bourguignon I served up last night? But the rest of us seem just fine so can only assume he picked up some disgusting bug at the backpackers where he had spent the previous night(surely my cooking isn't that bad?). I wash my hands and disinfect the table where he has been sitting and everywhere else that I think he may have touched while I look forward to wiping up the sick of the rest of the family tomorrow. Oh Joy. An added problem is where does he sleep now? I can't very well send him next door, as planned, with the vomit still on his breath. If my house really did transform into a backpackers overnight couldn't it at least have sprouted a few more rooms?

Sunday - Kombi day...every day is Kombi day.

This morning is one of those perfect sunday mornings. The sky is clear and blue, the air crisp and the birds are singing so loudly outside in the trees that it is almost painful to listen to. I am champing at the bit to get back down the to the kombi and continue working on it.

We bought our 1973 VW Transporter about 10 months ago and we still haven't managed to get it on the road. I wanted to completely strip it back and cut out any rust and replace everything that wasn't pristine but due to our inability to win the lottery, or in fact to even remember to buy a ticket, we have decided to just do our best with it as it is. We have had the motor rebuilt by our fantastic mechanic and have been working on the body ourselves. We have now finished painting all the interior panels white. S spent yesterday fiberglassing over a few holes in the floor as a temporary measure but we do plan to have the floor completely repaced when finances allow. I spent yesterday undercoating the roof and continuing levelling out all the side panels which have been slightly dinged over the years. It had been a work van before we got it so the poor thing really has seen better days. This week a new window will arrive and new rubbers for a few other windows. We shall be painting it ourselves in our neighbours garage so I am almost expecting to get a compresser and a spray gun for mother's day next week...I feel like such a tomboy :)

I am getting quite excited seeing it all coming together now and even more excited by the prospect of us taking it for it's first trip. There is something rather special about getting back into a Kombi and I suspect S and I are in fact attempting to reclaim our youth a bit here.

When I first met S he had an orange VW camper. On the weekends he would take me for trips to Byron Bay or Stradbroke Island. A few times we took it all the way out to the property where I grew up, stopping up in the Bunya Mountains to camp on the way back then one time turning up at his parents unit in Noosa on our way back to Brisbane and embarrassing them in front of their friends. They did not appreciate having a son who behaved like a 'hippy'. In fact they did not appreciate anything that their son did and they still don't.

Keeping S busy today working on the Kombi might help a little in easing his pain. His parents have called every day this week to tell him how disappointed they are in him or complain that he hasn't invited them over for lunch. I'd like to tell the full story one day but....

School Holidays 1976

The best memories of all were when my siblings and I were all home from boarding school and perhaps my cousin James was out on a university break. We would spend the days sitting in the sunroom reading "Reader's Digest" jokes out loud to each other or trying to fathom a mind bender that my cousin had heard at Uni. I only remember one of these well. The idea was that he would give us a few details of a scenario and ask us to work out how it came about. We would ask him questions but he could only give us yes or no answers.
This time He said;

"Romeo & Juliet were found dead on the floor. How did they die?"

It took us a few days but eventually we worked it out. If you don't know this puzzle please feel free to ask away and 'play' with me.

I adored my cousin. He was a lot like my father I think, just a younger and better looking version. He had made quite a fuss of me when I was small and would swing me around and throw me up into the air then catch me again as I squealed with delight. I distinctly remember the visit when I had become too big for this kind of treatment and my adoration of him had begun to get on his nerves. In the sun room he gently but firmly refused my access to his lap, when I knocked on his bedroom door he ignored me and at dinner my excited chatter went unheeded and as he concentrated instead on whatever my sister was saying. I was gutted.

My sister was smug about it, a look of victory on her face, the same look she used to get when we were smaller and our great uncle favoured her over me. I didn't understand why Uncle preferred her but I can't remember it bothering me overly much. I had so much love from Grandma which Cassie clearly resented, our big sister Julie would always take my side and big brother Robert chose to bully me over her(It was easier I suppose) I can understand so clearly now how she felt so overlooked in our family and how my arrival, when she was aged four, unseated her so badly. This is why it was so easy for him, our great uncle, a man in his fifties who never married, to prey so evilly on that little girl. What strikes me now is the fact that although we all grew up in the same household with the same environment, our places in the family resulted in us having such monumentally different childhoods.

James has four lovely, well adjusted daughters of his own now, our uncle was killed in a car accident in 1976 at about the time of that holiday I guess.... and then there was Romeo & Juliet....

My "One Word" blog

is back online... see the link on the right there.