second week of school

I was asleep when today became yesterday and then again when today arrived. The mister, who left for work I know not when, didn’t re-set the alarm. Eldest Boy was too engrossed in the latest Captain Underpants (something to do with booger boys) and Youngest Boy is about to hit the wall after riding high on the wave of excitement which is the beginning of school and so slept even later than I. (I racked my brains for a third metaphor, to try and make the mashing a poetic one, but none sprang to mind, and I’ve got real work to be done.)

Anyway, fifteen minutes after school had started, we snuck past the Guardian of the Book with that most Intimidating of Columns ‘Reason for Lateness’. Though in truth, I’m not scared of the book, and I would’ve been more than happy to write: Mum Slept In.

Tomorrow perhaps I will tell you of my First Regret Experienced while Being 39.

Today will have slipped into tomorrow before we know it

‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to talk about it anymore. For all I know you’re right.’

It’s my Birthday Weekend. I don’t have to work through things if I don’t want to.

Also, could someone please put that block of perfectly-formed, gorgeously-wrapped, buttery-yellow, organically-expensive butter in the fridge before the dog manages to jump those extra few millimetres (straight up and down from a standing start on his back legs, entertaining if disconcerting) and grab it from the bench.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the lounge to recover from yesterday evening’s over-indulgence, while the mister goes in to Harris Scarfe to buy a new vacuum cleaner. No, that’s not my birthday present. We have to replace the one that we used to replace that one that got destroyed by the bat guano.

This isn’t really going to help me make my deadlines. Or maybe it is.

It is my birthday on Monday, but as there will be no one at home but me on Monday, I have declared this My Birthday Weekend.

If you need me I’m on the couch making occasional demands for nectarines and soda water with a splash of lime and bitters. Or perhaps a peach, peeled, sliced and lightly sprinkled with castor sugar.

Goodness me, reclining on the couch like this, you can see that those geraniums aren’t doing so well, perched on the windowsill like that. They need a tray or something underneath them so that the water doesn’t run straight out the bottom. Someone really should put their minds to that.

It’s possible there’s a more bizarre thing being advertised on television, but I haven’t seen it

So, like, really, what’s up with that show they’re advertising on Channel 9: A Year with the Royal Family narrated by Cate Blanchett. Like, why is she doing that? I mean I’d do it. In a heartbeat. But she’s Cate Blanchett. And I, quite obviously, am not.

I didn’t get an OAM

It was hot today.

The mister went and sat under the Moreton Bay figs at the cricket. I went to a garden shop. The one where they sell ice creams. The boys sat on a garden bench with their pokemon cards and the promise of an ice cream, but not the Smarties one or the Bart Simpsons one. Those things are a rip off. And the packaging…

I desperately want to buy some of that bamboo or willow sheeting that you can pin against the fence. Our yard is so good neighbour fencing if you know what I mean. But that sheeting is all made in China, and I can’t bear the thought of all those pandas starving just to make my backyard look good for a couple of years until it goes out of fashion and I rip it down and send it to landfill. At this particular garden shop, the willow didn’t have any ‘made in…’ stickers, and I could have pretended that it wasn’t made in China. But I would have known. I said to the man behind the counter ‘is that bamboo sheeting made in China?’ and he preteneded not to know. If you want to do something about human rights abuses in China, slightly more active than not buying the bamboo sheeting, there’s a couple of actions on the Amnesty website at the moment. Now I’m so earnest, I’m even boring myself.

Moving on.

The mister doesn’t truly appreciate the genius juxtaposition of the geranmium against the succulent. I have shoved them between the gratings of the cast iron grilles I got the cast iron forgers to install, not long after the blinds. He has tried, but he doesn’t. I can tell from the way he dips, instead of nods, his head. It does kind of accentuate the grubbiness of the windows which we should have washed before the grilles were installed.

I am trying to re-create Frida Kahlo’s courtyard in suburban Adelaide. It isn’t going too well. I bought a grapevine as well. On a whim. To replace the other vine cutting, which seems to be just a stick these day. It’s a seedless flame grape that I bought today, but I bet it’s nowhere near as good as those flame grapes you can get from the House of Organics at the market right now. They are worth a special trip into town. I’ll refund your bus ticket if you don’t agree. Except if you live in Tuvalu or anywhere else outside Adelaide. Which is nothing personal. Just a matter of finances.

The discussion about where we should plant the vine turned into a disagreement about the state of the backyard, in particular the pavers, and what we should do to fix it. Like I said, it’s been a hot day.

And could someone train the dog not to jump on the table.

To end the evening, the mister has tried once again to convince me of The Iron Chef’s brilliance as a television show. I don’t get it. I still heart Survivor.

I think I got sunburnt today. Either at the garden shop, or later on, at the swimming pool where the boys got another ice cream, because they really were very well behaved.

One final thing: did you see that woman crossing Goodwood Road? Yes, the one with the Australian flags piercing her bun in that kind of geisha way. And her little girl walking behind, carrying that enormous bag of ice. It was strange, wasn’t it? Wish I’d had my camera.

What sitemeter is telling me

I imagine there’s a direct link between the number of ‘Adelaide jokes’ ‘jokes about Adelaide’google searches and the upcoming Festival of Arts, Adelaide Fringe Festival and Writers’ Week, and the subsequent arrival of various comedians, buskers, cabaret performers, writers and others in need of quick quips with which to get their audience on side.

I was thinking of leaving you-all a few tips and pointers, but then I realised that was just another reason not to be writing my own material, so I won’t. I did hear two very funny Adelaide jokes from Fringe visitors last year, but I’m not going to write them here, because I can’t rememebr who said one of them and because the other performer is coming back this year, and might be wanting to use her joke again (it was brilliant enough). So, one piece of general advice only: jokes about weird murders and so forth are okay, providing they are original – we have pretty much heard every variation over the years and they mostly haven’t been that hilarious. Feel free to email me if you want to fact-check anything such as whether the Harris Scarfe cafeteria is still open (in my opinion, a shadow of its former self) or whether the air-conditioning on the trams is working (barely) or whether there is any lawn left in our backyard due to water restrictions and recent introduction of beagle (no). Also, the Port Power footy team rocks the universe, and you can go on a dolphin cruise on the Port River for only $3.50. It’s awesome. If you don’t believe me, ask Pavlov’s Cat.

I really must stop there.

I went shopping and I bought some acrylic paints

When we get out the acrylic paints, Eldest Boy lasts until the first blob of paint is on his hand, at which point he declares himself complete, then races off to the bathroom to wash his hands before he goes and gets another apple from the fridge.

Youngest Boy, on the other hand, goes out of his way to get as much on his hands and his fingers as he can, and spends at least an hour happy as a pig in shit, before he declares himself ‘retired from this’ and demands that I make him a jam sandwich.

I, of course, am the bunny who has to clean it up. But I enjoy the mucky water in the bottom of the sink and the paint splodges that are stuck to the palattes (plastic plates) and the brushes. It makes me feel connected to a world of which I have never been much part.

Also, about fifteen minutes ago, the universe put a tiny little present in my lap, and it makes reaching my deadlines feel much less overwhelming. Ace.

Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic

I have been awake most of the night, fretting about a deadline I have to meet. The deadline is still weeks away, but there are two major projects with more or less the same deadline. And they are Very Important Projects (to me, not to humanity). Usually, I’m very good at balancing more than one project. I think it is how I work best, because there’s no time to waste, I am focussed and productive.

The problem at the moment is that both are at more or less the same stage. Which is: well-developed structure, good understanding of the characters, knowing where I want to end up, but very few words.

This is good, in that I do have a very clear plan, and that means I am (hopefully) working efficiently. By which I mean, not writing too much plot that will never be used. But I’m in that messy stage which, experience tells me I must muddle through, just getting the words down, imperfect though they will be. Most of what I write today will be discarded in the end.

Which makes it hard to see the progress. And also, I can feel the deadlines looming, and I don’t feel like I’ve got time to write words which will only be discarded. But if I don’t write them, then I’ve got no chance of getting to the words which will be kept. If you see what I mean. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t. I’m just writing this to trick myself into believing that I’m actually writing something.

And meanwhile, the shows on ABC kids that my boys are brave enough to watch will soon end, and it will be back to the bloody Uno.

If you need me, I’m in the garret, muttering must not vacuum cutlery drawer, must not vacuum cutlery drawer.

Today…

…amongst a range of other things, some of which were stressful, some of which were not, we went to see The Bee Movie. It was Ace. Which is unusual for a movie made for children. Really, I have been quite shocked at the poor standard of movies available for children. Eldest Boy did bury his nose in his Garfield book a few times (he always takes a book for when it gets sad or frightening, which, for him, it very often does, such as in the trailer for Horton Hears a Who, during which time he had to wipe his eyes several times, and I can’t tell you what that does to a watching Mum) but by and large we all three of us had a Mighty Fine Time.

We’d better find a lunchbox

When Littlest Boy knows not what to do with his surges of emotional energy (of which there is a great many in the kind of life lived by Littlest Boy), he runs to the couch (the one against the wall) and does endless handstands on it.

His concepts of time are imprecise, but what he does understand is that today is Tuesday. And that means there’s no more Tuesdays until he starts school. And when he starts school, he will learn to read. And then, I won’t be the only one who can’t read, won’t I?

If you visit, you can sit on the other lounge. After you’ve made me a cup of tea.