Magnetron

Magnetron

Here is the new addition to our family, made by Martin Horspool.

His name is Magnetron, he is a Retrobot and he is very cute.

Spooky Coincidences

Spooky Coincidences

I read the Celestine Prophecy years ago and thought the whole "there is no such thing as a coincidence" angle ridiculous. The idea that all coincidences somehow mean something suggests that they are engineered by a higher being. But imagine if, despite the demands of probability, there were no coincidences. Now that would be spooky. If all coincidences stopped tomorrow, I would hang up my atheist hat "toot sweet" (in the immortal words of Kath Day-Night).

However...despite being a curmudgeonly non-believer, I do love a spooky coincidence. So I thought I would share a few with you now...

Grant and I travelled to France some years ago, and knew of three people living in Paris. The couple we were staying with and a woman that we used to know many years earlier, but did not keep contact with. We bumped into her on our second day there while eating at a Left Bank bistro in an out of the way lane. Spooky.

A few years ago a Australian man was convicted in New Zealand of trying defraud a government department of millions of dollars. When the case was in the news, I was convinced that I had met the man while we lived in Sydney. He worked in IT, so I asked Grant if he knew him. Grant said that he had only a passing acquaintance with the man through a project he had been on in Wellington. So I knew I couldn't have met the guy through Grant. For weeks it bothered me, until the penny dropped. I had worked for the guy at Vodafone for a month when we lived in Sydney. Grant and I had independently known the guy in two different countries, and through working in two different industries. Spooky.

In 2005, when my eldest was still a wee babe, our fledgling family went for a holiday in Rarotonga. We stayed in a house with a deck that stepped straight on to the beach. Each day we watched many people stroll back and forth past our villa. A few days in, while holding my wee one, I stood on the end of deck and watched a few people pass. I saw an elderly man, gnarled walking stick in hand, make his way slowly along the sand. For no particular reason, I stepped out on to the beach and approached him.

His name was Bill and he was subjected to many questions from me. I quickly established that he lived in Puhoi, a small and historic settlement an hour north of Auckland. I knew the area from childhood and shared some memories with him (I love to 'share'). He told me that he used to own the Coach Trail Inn, at Waiwera (just south of Puhoi). This was a regular haunt for my family. My parents would have a Ploughman's lunch while my sister and I swam in the hotel pool (they figured that was cheaper than paying entry to the neighbouring Waiwera hot pools.)

Once, when I was four, Melissa and I swam there while mum and dad helped themselves to a meal (and no doubt a beer or three). This being 1980, and them being my parents, they were fairly relaxed when it came to water safety. In other words, there was no parental supervision - the swimming and eating were two rather separate things.

The pool had two depths, linked by a short transition ramp. I distinctly remember standing in the shallow end and thinking that it had been a long time since we were last there, that I was a big girl, and that by now surely I would be able to touch the bottom in the deep end like Mel could. I stretched my leg out on to the ramp, discovered it was rather slippery and quickly slid down into the deep and under the water.

I recall it like an out of body experience. I can see my hair floating around my face, the string from my frilly red bikini waving about, my limbs hanging useless about me, and a man with large sunglasses and big sideburns leaping in fully clothed to pull me out. There were not many people around and I was very lucky that he noticed me go under, otherwise it is likely I would have drowned.

Bill looked at me with his mouth agape, "You were that little girl that I saved?". There had only ever been one almost drowning at that hotel, it was in 1980, and Bill was the hero of the day. Coincidentally he had been talking about the incident with friends a couple of weeks earlier - the first time he had done so in many years.

Slightly overwhelmed, I thanked him for saving my life, and thereby making my little boy's life possible. I invited him up to the deck to rest his legs, and he was soon joined by his (much younger) wife. They told us about their life in Puhoi, their home, their family, and we said we would try to stop by when we were next in the area (we haven't yet - gulp).

I was glad that, so unexpectedly, I was able to close a chapter of my life that I didn't even realise was open. And I imagine that for Bill, there was a certain satisfaction to be had in our meeting, especially coming as it did in his twilight years.

Spoooooky.

Airing out the Linen Cupboard on Facebook

Airing out the Linen Cupboard on Facebook

Recently my younger sister posted a bunch of family photos on Facebook, carefully editing her selection to include as many horrid photos of me that she could find. I would call her an old slag, but she is neither old, nor a slag - dang.

Despite being confronted with the evidence of my numerous crimes against hair fashion, I have enjoyed the dialogue that has ensued between my older sister, young sister and me on the web pages. It is like flipping through an old family album together, and then having a (semi)permanent record of the conversation that follows. Even better, because our reactions are written rather than spoken, there is some time for reflection and the dredging up of memories hidden away in dark corners. OK, so we are sightly prone to too-much-information syndrome, but I think that makes it a little more fun. I have pasted one of these conversations below. I also find it fascinating how slippery memory can be - as you will see here. Mainly I am just amused at how bizarre our childhood really was.



Me: when I was 12 my hair was bad, ok? Why is our house always sick tidy in these photos? Oh that's right, I was always tidying it! I am pretty sure I have been snapped clearing up after cyclone (YS)-4 years old :-)

damned iPod - I was trying to say so tidy, not sick tidy.

Younger sister (YS) - a ha thats what little sisters are for! ps that hair is HOT.......I am sure it was bad for a tad longer than that! Oh thats right I have photographic evidence to prove it was! he he

Older sister (OS) Remember that photo, think I took it, you were cleaning up. Background sofa couch is what that alchie Rickie slept on in your old room, pissed on it so much in his sleep it went right through to the carpet & rotted it. Classy

Me - he was so dodgy. He gave me a book called something like "the little black book for boys and girls" when he moved out. It was full of "self abuse" and sex stories and in hind sight read like a book designed by paedophiles for "grooming" children. I was 9 or 10. I was disturbed by it and gave it to Rae who hit the roof. He was very nice to me then turned out to be such a weirdo

hmm that was probably too much information, but isn't it great that on facebook we can bring something different to each photo. Shame we don't have a photo of Cath, Dolly Rocker, or the cat burglar "Piorrhea Pete with the marijuana breath" and his trusty whippets.

OS - Actually the cat burglar was a little ginger man called Paul, I helped him & Mum weigh up ounce bags of weed on our dining table.there was also penguin Pete who went down to Campbells Bay beach & got naked to call in the penguins.... he had a rather pirate edge to him AAARGGHHH.Not forgeting the swinger Cliff Hill. We also had GH the rock photographer who had a penchant for Leather trousers with no undies. He was a strapping 40kg. He accused Mum of drugging him & renting him out for anal sex with brooms. One time we had a 'gathering at ours, Cath came up to the lounge & said something in her incoherent vagrant dribble, then disappeared behind the couch where she lay in a cheap booze coma. God I miss the suburbs
(PS I will remove this once read xx)

Me - Now, I am sure his name was Paul the penguin and pete was the Ginger man with whippets and oral hygiene issues. Cliff Hill in being incredibly tall had such a fitting name. Do you remember that the penguin was a pyromaniac who stayed up until the wee hours burning things in the backyard? He had a Charles Manson vibe.

PS: forgot to mention the photo montage GH did for me of stryper - that Christian metal group that toured in 89. Sooo sweet of him even if stryper wasn't quite my thing. That same year he was covering a music festival up north and we went along and were introduced to joe walsh and the herbs. We then slept in a marae and had pipis for breakfast. So I do have fond memories of the guy even though we did tease him and rae mercilessly for him being an old hippie with patchwork leather vests and skinny jeans. We certainly knew how to drive away those boyfriends!

YS - Don't bother deleting them they are so funny! At least our lives growing up were colorful to say the least. Don't remember penguin man but you are right Pete was the ginger.. his name was Pete shit bags who went out with a prostitute on k road. I don't think i want to know why his name was shit bags! But he did remind me of neil off the young ones a bit. I think he ended up in a Psychiatric hospital... or maybe it was his hooker girlfriend.
God i remember I hated cath the bag lady. She was such a horrible woman.
Actually funny and true story mum went out with this guy Rick who offered to pay Jade and I $50 each if we pashed each other. Anyway this was when we were over at his house, mum found out and got mad and got even. In front of some (I think french can't quite remember) Homestays and us stood at the top of the stairs and said... hey guys look at this.... whipped down her pants pissed in his glass and then gave it to him to drink... which he did.
Our mum was all class...

Me - Ok - now we are all getting very confused! The ginga and pete shitbags were two different Petes (or pete and Paul according to mel's recollection). Jane, that story is at once horrifying and hilarious. Horrifying and hilarious .... those two words pretty much sum up life at 274.

Cutey cuteness

Cutey cuteness

While I am loathe to bang on about how adorable my children are...actually, that's rubbish. I love banging on about how adorable my children are and here are some reasons why:

This week, Mr Four was kneeling on the floor, crying. Mr Two, hauled him up (by his neck!) hugged him, turned to me and said "I wuv my brudda".

This morning Mr Two stubbed his toe, and was crying. Mr Four got him a tissue, and said "You are so bwave."

They love Ben10. Whenever the forces of good need to overpower the forces of evil in our household, Mr Four turns into "Four arms" and punches the air. Mr Two becomes "Accelerate" (cell-wait), and blasts the air with his robot hands (Accelerate doesn't have robot hands - the boy is just riffing).

Jet Ray is a character on Ben10 Alien Force. Mr Four calls him "Jet Raid". Mr Two calls him "Jet Brain".

They both think "McDonalds" is actually "Big Donalds".

Mr Four tries to say "footpath", but it comes out "Poof Parf".

Mr Two still puts his hand down my shirt, a hang-over from breastfeeding days. Sometimes, when we are snuggled up for his bedtime at the end of the day, I ask him "Do you love Mummy?" He shoots back, "No, I wuv your boobies." That's him cracking a joke.

Mr Two thinks "Oh my goodness" is said "Oh no goodness!"

Their laughter is a chuckle in their belly that bubbles up and out of their mouths, and sounds like liquid honey.

Their idea of heaven is 20 minutes at Merv Smith's hobby shop.

For his birthday (in 7 months), Mr Four wants a deluxe Knappford Station for his Thomas set, a Ben10 Alien Force DVD, and Barbie Mermaids.

Escaping

Escaping

My mother married twice. The first time was to my Dad, the accountant. In those days he wore a grey v-neck jersey with his jeans and sneakers. Sometimes it was a scratchy brown jumper. He was (is) olive skinned, with blue eyes and had a thick moustache to match his wavy black hair. He loved the races, and watching TV sport.

Husband number two resembled my father in eye colour only. I will call him "Rob". Rob had a brown afro, a ruddy complexion and was thin, short and wiry. He was an artist, on the sickness benefit, who worked in oil, acrylic and collage on board. The scenes he created were post-apocalyptic explosions of colour and chaos. There was something very dark going on in his mind, but his art had a certain fascination to my 14 year old self.

It seemed as if Rob moved in the night he met my mother. I think he had been living in a halfway house, but this was according to Rae (I mentioned before it is hard to extract truth from the fiction in her stories.) When things later went pear-shaped, my mother said that he was a recovering heroin addict, who would soak methylated spirits through a loaf of bread when he couldn't find a fix. Whether that was true...I really don't know. What I did know was that she had found a drinking buddy, and I think that is why she let him stay.

Quite soon after his arrival, and following a big drinking session where Rae had been winding Rob up with sob stories about her past with my "terrible" father, he started laying into me. Not in a physical way, but with his words. This became a regular thing. He would stand over me, jabbing his finger a few centimetres from my face, and spit out the most horrific things. He mostly described in vivid detail, his fantasies of how he would dispose of my father. He was like a barking, vicious dog. I could feel his spittle and hot breath.

In the many scenarios Rob played out to me, his favourite themes were sodomy and the torturous death of my father, preferably combined. He once yelled to my face that he was going to hire a band of "fags" to gang rape my father, the finale of which saw him sodomised off the top of a tall building. Rob used to go into all sorts of explicit and stomach churning detail, and I think I have blanked a lot of it out. I couldn't bear to remember it. The most enduring memories are visual. The fire in his eyes, his face red like the devil, and the vein that pulsed near his temple. I don't know that a person can appreciate how terrifying it is to be screeched at like that at close range by a deranged and drunken and relatively powerful person, until it is experienced. Rob's power over me was the support he had from my mother. She would stand behind him, egg him on, and fuel his poisonous words. That was the most crushing part of it.

To a tiny 14 year old girl, these episodes were dark and horrifying. One way I coped was to become remote when it happened. I would create a mental wall between his jabbing finger and myself. I would look on from above like a third eye. But this strategy didn't change the fact that I used to dread the end of the school day. I used to dread the hours after 9pm. I never knew whether it was going to be a good night or bad. It is such a cliche, but I felt alone and helpless. In my head I was rattling the bars of the prison that I lived in, but no-one noticed, and I was too terrified of what my mother would do to tell someone about what was happening.

It all reached a climax in October 1990. My father had recently returned from Honolulu, and came bearing a gift of white Reeboks. These shoes were too good to actually wear, at least not for a couple of weeks. I left them in their box, and after school I would race to the wardrobe, and carefully fold back the tissue to look at them. One afternoon they weren't there. My mother got home later, wearing them. They were scuffed. She had worn them down to the beach and used them for climbing about the rocks. Finally, I saw red - straw, camel, back - tantrum time. It was partly because my shoes were scuffed and I had not yet worn them, and partly because of the disrespect my mother had shown me. She had taken my most treasured object (at the time!) and trashed it. "Oh God, she really doesn't care", I thought. I grabbed a pair of scissors, and a bunch of my mother's clothing. "How would you like it if I damaged your things!" I screeched. I ran into the lounge and made "snip, snip" sounds. I never cut the clothes - I wouldn't have dared, but I was being rather provocative. It was my mother's turn to see red. This is as much as I can recall of what came next. She grabbed me and pushed me down the stairs. She then tried to push me over the bannister of the second flight. She then threw me to the ground, grabbed a wad of my hair, and pulled me along by it. She finished by kicking me in the stomach with her pointy shoes. All the while she screamed obscenities at me. Rob, of course, joined in.

My siblings screamed at her to stop. Someone called the police. Someone called my father. In the interim, I overheard Rob telling my mother that one day he would like to kill me. She didn't utter one word of protest. The police came and as per usual, put it down to being a domestic and left. My father arrived with his flatmate. Finally, the big showdown. Here was Rob's chance to have it out. Rae threw rocks at the car, and dented its bonnet. Rob hid behind her, peering out to occasionally rant. My mother went back inside and threw all of my clothes out of the bedroom window into the garden below. From that night on I lived with my father.

Weeks later Rae and Rob wed. A year later, they had a child. A few years after that they acrimoniously split. Soon after the break-up, she had her house exorcised by a priest organised by the Anglican church across the road. She felt that too many bad things had happened in that house. She wasn't wrong. The priest fell to his knees in front of Rob's artworks and declared them the work of pure evil. She burnt them.

Do you remember the time when...?

Do you remember the time when...?

Sometimes my older sister and I go on a thoroughly unproductive trip down memory lane. I say "unproductive" because the stories are often unpleasant and I don't believe we get catharsis or personal growth out of it. But, the stories are irresistible. Possibly because our childhood was oftentimes black and lonely, the bizarre, amusing and tender episodes shine. Here are a few short memories of the girl next door that make me smile from time to time.

A while ago I talked about our old neighbours who were horrified when my mother's ex, Arnie, ate a pretend poo. One of the neighbours, Cheryl, had a daughter who was a bit simple, and to be kind I will give her a different name - Shona. It is such a cliche to say, but she had a heart of gold and was very kind to me, even though she was fifteen and I was only ten. Once, on her birthday, I gave her some "paint on, peel off" nail polish that was all the rage with girls my age. Even though it had a clear description on the label, Shona came to me concerned that the polish I had given her was faulty. "It goes on really well, but, um, it peels off as soon as it is dry and I have to put it back on again, and then it peels off, so I have to put it on again..."

Shona had some interesting ideas. Someone had told her that brushing too vigorously and too often was damaging to the enamel on your teeth. So Shona only brushed hers once a fortnight. Sometimes, when she needed a boost to her self esteem, Shona would lean up against the street light outside her house, dressed in tight clothing and wrap around glasses, holding a sign that said "Toot".

Poor Shona, not being the sharpest pencil in the bunch made her vulnerable. One evening, my sister and our 20 year old boarder, Steve, challenged Shona to a game of Strip Jack Naked. They plied her with alcohol and cheated their way to victory. Shona concluded the evening by running naked through our house with her arms above her head shouting "I'm a nudie rudie!" Or something to that effect - as were the terms of defeat.

While we did not live what you could call the high life, we had toilet paper more frequently than our neighbours did (that may sound like an odd thing to say, but toilet paper was a precious commodity in families like ours. For good reason do I know that the best way to wipe yourself with a magazine is to scrunch up the pages over and over again until they are soft enough to apply to your bottom). Shona's household was constantly running out, so Shona would frequently come and relieve herself at our house, and would leave looking like she was trying to fake a pregnancy - her jumper bulged with wads of stolen toilet paper. We thought it was hilarious, but my mother would be rightly annoyed.

My mother saw Shona a few years later with two children, well turned out, and looking happy. Here's hoping that life and people have not treated her badly since.

Black Christmas

Black Christmas

This is the story of a couple of kiwis who were caught up in a fire storm, on a beach, with only wet sarongs to fight with, and push bikes to escape on.

In 2001, Grant and I took up cycle touring to fulfill a childhood dream of mine to see France en velo (yes, that's right, Grant made my dreams come true - awwww). To get some experience before heading to Europe, we planned a summer holiday cycling down the South Coast of New South Wales. A few days before Christmas we wheeled our bikes, weighed down with camping gear, on to a train at Milsons Point station, near our Sydney apartment. We were headed for Waterfall, the gateway to the Royal National Park, the second oldest national park in the world after Yellowstone in the US.

We had cycled through this park's glorious forest earlier in the year, in the popular Sydney to the Gong (Wollongong) bike ride. In November it been a fun and noisy trek surrounded by hundreds of people. This time we were alone but for the cicadas, birds and the very occasional passing motorist. The hilly terrain proved hard work on heavy touring bikes but the canopy of eucalyptus and cedar provided respite from the heat that was building as the morning wore on. Calls from the bush, and the rustling of leaves punctuated the sound of our steady breathing, pedals cranking and tread grinding on the road. The evaporating morning dew enlivened the verdant and earthy smells of the undergrowth and soil, and the oily scent of the tar on the road. The fern and wattle made a pattern of rich and vibrant greens, and we could see peeps of the blue sky through the canopy. Each time we coasted downhill, we generated a gentle breeze to cool our limbs, hot from the uphill work. Each sensation was magnified by my feeling of excitement that we were headed off on a great adventure together. It is a very free and strangely powerful feeling to be riding out with everything you need on your bike. And to be doing it with Grant made it particularly special.


Out the other side of National Park - a view towards Wollongong.


Through the other side of the forest we stopped to take in the great expanse of ocean bordered by high cliffs and heathland, then free wheeled down to the breathtaking, cliff hugging coastal road that leads south. Our destination was a campground in Shellharbour, just south of Wollongong. There, a swim at a vast stretch of underpopulated beach was a relief after a long drag along flat roads in the penetrating heat.

The following day was tough. It was hotter than the day before and our route went up and down hill after hill as we followed the coast. The vistas were spectacular, but the going proved too much for two touring novices. At Kiama we caught a train most of the way to our destination - Shoalhaven. Again, we found ourselves on a romantic expanse of beach, but struggled to protect ourselves from the heat.


The stunning coastline from atop one of the many hills we climbed that day


The next day, Christmas Eve, was hotter still. We set off as early as we could to avoid the worst of the heat, and on the way had a change of plan. Our destination was a campground in Jervis Bay, not far from Nowra. But while the area was, as the crow flies, close to the township of Huskisson, it was separated by Currambene Creek. The way by road to "civilisation" and fresh food was a trip of dozens of kilometres. We contemplated the delights of a Christmas dinner of tinned food in the scorching heat, and decided to go to Huskisson instead. We called ahead to the Huskisson Bayside Motel, situated by the beach. This proved a fortunate decision.


On the Nowra bridge that straddles the Shoalhaven River


We had been told that Jervis (rhymes with nervous) Bay was beautiful, with the whitest sand in the world and we were not disappointed. A sheltered and friendly white sand beach, with warm, crystal blue water was our reward for three days of pedalling away beneath an unforgiving sun.


Huskisson


We shared the beach with European tourists who had also chosen to spend a Christmas away from home. Our motel room, functional and spare by any other standard, was like a palace to us that day. A palace with air-conditioning, a fridge, and a TV.


The view from Huskisson across the Currambene Creek to where we were going to camp before we started craving air-conditioning


We took a Dolphin cruise that afternoon, and marvelled at the beauty of the area from the sea.




As promised, we got to see dolphins.




But the first sign of trouble ahead came into view. Smoke billowed from an area roughly north of us. No one seemed particularly concerned, and we watched with growing fascination. The bush was on fire, but it was difficult to tell exactly how far away from us that smoke was.




That evening, after a pub meal, we settled into a satisfying slumber in a cool room, on a soft bed.

We awoke to clear blue skies and a blissfully quiet street. So pleased I was with our weather that day, that on waking I took a photo from our motel window. The photo made for a good comparison as the day wore on.





We called our families with merry Christmas wishes and settled into a day that promised nothing much other than real food and lazing about. Perfection. Sometime later in the morning, out of our motel window we noticed a plume of smoke rising in the distance.




This made us slightly nervous, but we continued to enjoy our day, taking a dip at the beach and watching some Christmas junk on TV. As the day wore on, the view from our window became more intense, and the smell of smoke crept into our room.






We sat down for a lunch of garlic prawns, but didn't enjoy it much knowing that the fire was creeping ever nearer.



After we ate, I was part way through watching an Olivia Newton John movie "A Christmas Romance" (it was Christmas Day, we were in Australia, it seemed right even though it was so wrong), when the power went out (perhaps a small mercy). So, we headed back down to the beach for a swim. Outside the air was becoming thick with smoke, and the view to sea was obscured. A hot wind had picked up and was howling seaward from the direction of the fire. From the road we looked across the creek to the campground we originally were to stay at - it was going up in flames. We lost our desire to swim, and went back to our motel room.




By now, we could hear the roar of the fire, and the wind felt like it came from a giant blow dryer. The sky had turned orange, the air was getting thicker with smoke, and panic began to set in.


Sky on fire




Suddenly came the screech of tyres and brakes. Out of the window we could see cars tearing one way up the street, and then moments later passing us at speed in the opposite direction. We went down to the street and learned that both roads out of Huskisson were blocked by fire.




Panic on the street

The only fire engine we were to see for a while

We went back down the beach to take a photo, and then hurried back to our room. We decided that if people were panicking, then perhaps we should be ready to evacuate.






We had no idea what we were going to do, or where we were going to go, but we had at least decided we didn't want to fry in our motel room. We put on some cycle clothes, packed up our gear, loaded up our bikes and left.



This is how you know this is not a fashion blog


Once outside, I felt a stinging sensation on my back and arm. Embers were falling from the sky, and were melting my nylon clothing as they landed on me. The decision to put on cycling was a bit stupid in retrospect, but then again we didn't have much else to wear.

We decided that the best place to be was on the beach, because, we reasoned, the sea cannot burn. If the fire came too close, we thought that we could swim out until the bank leading down to the sand had burnt out. That was the plan, at least until I pointed out that I cannot swim. Grant motioned towards a rocky outcrop that we might be able to seek refuge on. We happened to take a photo of it the previous day. In retrospect, if push came to shove, it would have been us and the rest of Huskisson trying to perch on the little outcrop - in which case push really would have come to shove.



The rocky outcrop


A different flaw in our plan became apparent very quickly. The air was getting heavier with smoke, and we both were finding it hard to breathe. As the wind blew hard at us from the direction of the flames, we knew the smoke was only going to get worse. And that wasn't good. I think it was around this point that I stopped planning and started panicking. It dawned on me that Grant and I were going to perish there on that beach.

It frustrates me that I cannot adequately remember what went through my mind once I believed I was going to die. I know that my life didn't flash before me. I know that it occurred to me that my life wasn't flashing before me. I also know that I tried to think about my family, but I found it too hard to think about them all at once. In fact, I wasn't even sure about how I should be thinking of them. I do recall that there was one thought that kept on invading my head, and that was of our wedding that would never happen. Grant and I were to be married the following November, but no-one knew as we planned to keep it to ourselves until closer to the date. We had never put much importance on being married, but in that moment I was devastated that it would never happen for us. That we would die there, on the beach, unwed. I was about to say that for those who know me well enough, it is odd for me to be so preoccupied. But now I wonder whether even I didn't know myself well enough, and that in the heat of the moment, a light was able to shine on to a small, yet undiscovered part of my psyche. I can also confirm that when you believe you are about to die, you are likely to want to poo your pants. I didn't poo my pants, but I had to fight the urge with gusto.

But enough of that. The fact that I am writing this 7 years on proves that we did not die that day. In fact, the belief that we would die only lasted for half an hour or so (that said, it was difficult to measure the passing of time). An Australian man on the beach scoffed at my concern. He was convinced that we would be fine. He'd been through it all before, and said that the volunteer fire service wouldn't let the flames get to us. I felt a bit sheepish at letting myself be so dramatic (I had hitherto been the sensible one in my family). However, what he or I weren't to know was that we were in fact at the centre one of the worst fires that NSW had seen, and that that day was to come to be known as "Black Christmas". The fires in Victoria over these past few weeks have also made it horribly clear what an unpredictable beast a bush fire is. I feel a bit less of an idiot now than I did in that moment.

I don't know whether it was this man's nonchalant attitude, or the fact that the bank was catching alight, but I snapped out of my morbid and panicked thoughts and got mobilised again. At some point Grant and I had ditched our cycle clothing, and dug deep into our bags for cotton clothing. We soaked the clothes in ashy sea water before putting them on and put wet bandannas around our faces to make it easier and healthier to breathe. We then set about, with others, trying to put out fires on the bank with what we had to hand. We fished a couple of sarongs out of our bags, wet them, and started beating at the flames. Just when we thought we were making progress, falling embers would reignite another patch. At the northern end of the beach we could see the bank was ablaze and people were struggling to contain it. Grant disappeared off in that direction to help. Wheelie bins were found, and strong men filled them with sea water to douse the flames. That fire eventually sizzled down. I learned that fire crews were busy fighting flames in the road behind the street that the motel was on. The fire was randomly picking off some houses, while leaving others untouched.

All of a sudden, the wind that had been bearing down on us stopped, and a fire crew came into view. I had not ever, and have not since, experienced relief like that.

Grant ambled down the beach looking like he had stuck his fingers in an electrical socket. It was good to be able to find some humour in an otherwise horrifying afternoon.







It is funny the little things you remember from moments like this - the good and the bad. The woman in the photo below was from somewhere in South America, and we were beating at the flames together. She was a very personable lady who we were to get in touch with once back in Sydney, but for some reason it never happened. I think we wanted to put it all behind us at that point. On the other hand I met another woman, who I handed a sarong to so she could help with dampening the fire on the bank. Instead, she quietly skulked off, sarong in hand, and I never saw her, or the sarong again.




A small but determined fire left burning on the bank, after things had calmed down


That night, Grant and I settled in for a very unsettled sleep in the motel room. I was afraid that the wind would pick up again, and that we would die of smoke inhalation in our sleep. If I was being a bit more rational, I would have argued to myself that there wasn't much bush left to catch alight, but I was tired and scared, and logic was a luxury.


Terrified but tired

The following day shopkeepers spilled out on to the street, trying to sell off what they could from their non-functioning chillers. The community mingled there, swapping tales of losses and near misses. Our motel had become a kind of refuge for locals who had lost homes, and campers who had to flee the bush. One European family had left everything at their campsite in situ, jumped in their car and driven as fast as they could out of the forest. They had lost everything, including passports, but were philosophical - at least they had escaped with their lives. The motel owner let all the fire refugees stay for free. We were forced to stay on longer than we had planned due to road closures and he also wouldn't take any money from us for that extra time.

When we were able to leave we exchanged some kind words with the proprietor and hit the road back to Nowra. The ride was sobering. On the way into Huskisson, we had enjoyed cycling through a beautiful forest that blanketed a gently undulating landscape, and the salty smell of the sea. On the way back, all we could smell was burn. The undergrowth was gone. Scorched trees punctuated a landscaped razed by the fire.




Telephone pole


Scorched street sign

Our plan had been to head to Robertson via the Kangaroo Valley, but uncertain of the fires, we settled upon a less bush clad route up to the Southern Highlands that involved hopping on a bus. For some reason we thought that once up in Robertson we would be well clear of the fires. We were only there an hour before we saw this:





We stayed with a friend and were constantly surrounded by billows of smoke. It was a tense time after what we had experienced, as we knew how quickly it could turn bad. The fires were never far away and eventually Robertson was blanketed in a haze. We slept poorly. After a couple of days we decided enough was enough, and cut our trip short. We wanted to get back to Sydney and as far away from bushland as we could. I remember a nervous bike ride into Bowral to catch a train on the morning that we left. The closer we got to Bowral, the hazier the air got. We didn't want to get caught out in a fire on push bikes again. We happily made it to the train, but to our dismay the smoke did not subside as we made our way into Sydney. We arrived to find the city shrouded and surrounded by a ring of fire, which had torn up Lane Cove National Park on the North Shore. This was not far from the city centre, and not far from where we lived in Kirribilli. We were never in danger, but we felt somewhat hounded at this point, and wished it all over. Smoke. Ash. It went on and on.

A couple of months later, Grant's parents came to visit. We took them to the Royal National Park, our first visit since the start of our Christmas holiday. The fires had ripped through the park about the time that flames were eating up the Jervis Bay area. The undergrowth was gone and the trees were charcoal pillars. But while it was a sad to see, here and there was a little green sprouting of hope. In the short time it had been since the fire, seedlings had taken hold, and small ferns were triumphantly peering out of the blackness.

Before I finish, I wanted to say something about the people who perished in the Victorian fires. I have heard many kiwis question why they didn't evacuate. What I learned on our trip is that a bush fire is something that the community fights. If you want to save your home, you need to be prepared to do it yourself. Australians are well accustomed to fighting these fires, and I completely understand why people stayed to fight. Firstly, where would they go to? For many of them, friends and family would have also been in vulnerable bush clad areas. Moreover, they could not have anticipated the ferocity and scale of the fire that engulfed them. They were not silly, and they were not foolishly brave. They were doing what they had always done. They were pitching in. It is just a horrible tragedy that this time it wasn't enough.

Dirty Ditties

Dirty Ditties

I was reminded recently of the dirty ditties that my mother taught me when I was a child. I did a quick web search to see if I could find any of them online, but to no avail. I was a bit careful about my search words (not too keen on stumbling across nasty pages) so I cannot be sure whether or not they have been recorded for posterity. In case they haven't, I am posting the few I can remember. It is not the classiest way to begin the New Year but if I don't do it while I think of it, I will forget.

This 'underground' stuff is part of our history and our cultural fabric, but being crass and not particularly enriching, I imagine it lives on in the oral rather than written histories (oh, one wonders how New Idea slips through). So all the more reason to record it.

As a word of warning, these rhymes are mildly offensive (in case you hadn't already figured that one out!), so if you are offended easily, don't read on.

The following rhyme has a tune to accompany it. If I ever get around to it, I will record it and attach it here.

Old Farmer Jock

Old Farmer Jock had a fifty foot cock and he showed it to the lady next door,
She thought it was a snake, so she hit it with a rake,
And now it's only four foot four.

Captain Cook

Captain Cook, the bare-bummed rook, went sailing down the river.
He hit a rock, and split his cock,
And left his balls to shiver.

Captain Cook, did a poop behind the kitchen door.
A bunch of grass, tickled his arse,
And made him do some more.

Michael and Mary

Michael and Mary went down to the dairy,
Michael pulled out his hairy canary.
"Wow!" said Mary, "What a whopper!
Let's get down and do things proper!"
Three months later, all went well,
Six months later, things began to swell,
Nine months later, what a shock!
Out came a baby with a fifty foot cock!

I had second thoughts about including the rhyme above. I really don't like the imagery of the baby. I know it is only a nonsensical rhyme, and as a child I robotically repeated the lines with scant thought to what they meant. I was simply amused that that they included naughty words like "cock" and "arse". Now that I reflect back and have wee ones of my own, it makes me very uneasy. But, it is what it is.

There was another rhyme my mother told us. In it, a rhyming couplet would begin, but the second rhyme in the couplet would only be implied as the rhyme would segue quickly off into the next line before the "naughty word" was uttered. It was the kind of rhyme that came at you like machine gun fire, which is probably why I never picked it up very well except to recall that one of the implied rhyming words was "arse".

If you are at all bemused as to why a mother would teach her young children this kind of thing, she never really grew up herself. For more explanation, check out the "childhood" and "family" labels.

Happy New Year!