Forecasting and spectating.

Dan lied. He's normally so accurate too - and even if he's not you tend to forgive him because he's consistently the funniest thing on television. If ABC had told me that it was going to be 23c and sunny today - despite it being winter here - I would be muttering into the coat I didn't think I'd need today. Because we tend to watch a bit of shlock tv on Prime every now and then it doesn't matter so much because my weather report on Prime is delivered with humour that compensates for the lack of panache. Sure I have to wear a coat when I didn't think I would but at least I got a belly laugh last night. All good.

I've been watching Wimbledon these last two weeks and it looks like Britain's been bathed in glorious sunshine the whole way through. That's what happens when you put a roof on centre court I guess. At least it'll save Cliff the bother of rolling out his hits of yesteryear during this year's tournament. As you probably know by now, there's very little sport I'll turn off and as luck would have it, I'm in the right country. There's a lot of sport on terrestrial television over here. Rugby League, Rugby Union, Football, Cricket of course, Tennis, AFL - even Netball graces the airwaves. I'm lukewarm about cricket and I doubt I'll ever watch the netball but the minute a tennis tournament comes on I'm very keen to watch it. Wimbledon holds a particular place in my affections because it's the chance to see a tournament I grew up watching, in the country I grew up living in. I was lucky enough to go to Wimbledon once on finals day. My mother got two tickets and I tagged along. We were on No1 Court watching the ladies doubles final but you could hear the Mens Singles Final taking place on Centre. I remember it for a number of reasons. Firstly the view was exactly as it was on television and, having come from watching football matches on terracing (where the view you get bears no resemblance to the view you get on television), that was a real treat. The finalists didn't exactly make for disappointing viewing either. I don't remember who won - just that there was a fair amount of leg on view. Anyway, the second reason I remember it is because, back then, I had my head shaved and a goatee. I also had prescription sunglasses at the time which came in very handy. In my head, I thought I looked pretty cool. In reality I probably looked like a slightly overweight thug who obviously had yet to stop drinking. I am sure my mother has a photo from the day. I really should get her to email it to me and I can post it. If nothing else, it'd make me feel pretty good about myself now.

So yes; Wimbledon holds a special place in my affections. It's like the FA Cup Final and comes around every year so it's a constant - especially welcome in a year when neither the World Cup nor European Championships are on. Sadly the time difference means that I don't get to watch all of Wimbledon but, on the plus side, it goes to air from 10.30pm most nights so I can watch the first match, maybe a bit of the second, then get myself to bed and get around 6 hours sleep. I can cope with that, albeit on a short term basis.

I even find myself hoping that Lleyton Hewitt does well this year and that surprises me. In the past I've always had little time for Hewitt but this Wimbledon, I hope he makes the quarters at least. If anything tells me where I am now as opposed to where I spent the majority of my life, right now that fact's it.

Aural pleasure.

My iPod was going through a bit of a lull recently. I had it around 50% full with albums that I really liked - and that was all without going through my CD collection and copying the 'old but good' ones onto it. That said, no matter how good the stuff you listen to is, you eventually get used to it. Riffs and lyrics that you thought were amazing become more normal after the 50th listening and before you know it, you've sucked all the marrow from those great tracks you were so thrilled to discover. That's the stage I was at recently. I'd not found anything I'd wanted to acquire for a month or so and, whilst I enjoyed listening to the stuff I already had, it wasn't moving me the way it used to - it was merely passing time and filling my head with (admittedly still pleasant) melodies.

Music has always amazed me. Ever since I was a small kid with my ear pressed up to the massive radio we had in our house in Bristol in the seventies, it's held a special place in my life. I don't really get people if they say that music doesn't matter to them a great deal - it matters to me a massive amount and I'd be pretty much lost without it. Finding that song or album that just has something that makes you keep coming back and playing it again, again, again.... whether it be lyrics that move you or inspire you, a melody that's totally addictive or something that makes you want to snarl or go home and tell your family that you love them, music's power to move and inspire has always left me awestruck. It's what contributed to my wanting to play the drums when I was 13, lead to me joining the crappest of teen bands ever to exist in Reading in the mid eighties and it's definitely responsible for the old 5-piece Pearl Export kit that's sitting in our garage and which, one day, I will fix up and play. I'm an okay drummer, or at least I was all those years ago. Not amazing, not crap. Somewhere in between - yet when I sat behind my drum kit with headphones on, drumming along to vinyl LPs as a teenager, I felt like a rock god. Yeah, music counts for a lot in my life.

The other thing I love is music's ability to evolve and stand the test of time. I've truly lost track of the number of times I've heard something, listened to it over and over and thought to myself that's it - that's as good as it will ever get for me - nothing else will ever move me like that again. The joy is knowing that it won't be too long before something else appears and you listen to it and lo and behold, it's just as good - if not better. For a moment you feel as though you've found the only pearl left in all the oceans in the world; that everyone else is looking but it was you that found it. I think music owns us as much as we own it, if not more. Well, it does for me anyway.

Having said that, it seemed like it had been a long lull between inspirational finds of late. Thankfully that's over again for now. I've been looking all over the net for a particular album for months now and, just as my iPod was beginning to feel a little stale, I came across it last week and downloaded it. It took an age because it wasn't a mass produced album and there weren't many people seeding it but I finally got it and uploaded it to my iPod. Since then it's been on constantly. Normal service has been resumed and my faith duly restored.

What the album is doesn't matter. If nothing else, I once confessed to liking a song in a blog posting going back years and got well and truly panned for it. Anyway, I like it - that's all that really matters here. I have some more ideas for artists and styles to search for, so that should keep me going for a little longer. The one thing I'm certain of - and always have been - is that something inspirational will come around again soon. Everyone needs a little faith and that's a significant part of mine. I hope to live for a long, long time to come - the soundtrack to my life is only half formed, all being well.

Mainstream, track one.

Here's a confession. I moisturise. It's not something I was initially proud of but over the years I've managed to deal with the stigma associated with male grooming and move on with my life, feeling no less of a man because of it. When you have facial hair and sensitive skin, moisturising becomes a necessity if you want to avoid a rash and constant scratching of your face. There are enough people with flaky beards on my bus in the mornings; I see no need to add to their number and so I work some moisturiser into my face every morning.

That was as far as my jaunt into metrosexuality ever went and it was far enough for me. Sure, I knew that manbags existed but I always thought they were a bit poncey. I think I'd been scarred by my father buying a manbag in the late eighties. Back then, manbags as we know them now simply didn't exist. Back then, manbags were just rectangular handbags without anything glittery - on other words they were gay as. Thankfully my father only used his a few times before the novelty wore off and, once again, we were able to walk alongside him in company without fear of being laughed at. Well, no more than we were normally laughed at, anyway.

So I never bothered with manbags. In the UK I had a company car which was kind of like a massive manbag on wheels. Then I got to Australia and found myself getting the bus to work and pockets that you couldn't get your keys, wallet, phone and a sandwich into. I had a cheap rucksack to carry my stuff in and that was was fine. It did the job well enough although I did find out that if you leave pears in a plastic bag in a rucksack for 2 weeks, eventually they will leak through the bottom and your bag will smell like a wino's. That's not the rucksack's fault though so I didn't hold it against it - I merely hosed it out, dried it out and packed it full of my stuff again. Then came the revelation. My first christmas in Australia and my brother sent me my first ever manbag as a christmas present.

Looking back now, my brother was probably just trying to save me from myself. He probably feared for my panache and style, having voluntarily extricated myself from the affluent South-East of England and materialised on the other side of the world without so much as a Waitrose within 12,000 miles. Anyway, I warmed to my new bag immediately. It had an AK-47 rifle on it and 'Bruder Meinhof' emblazoned across it - an in-joke between my brother and I which brings back warm & fuzzy thoughts every time I see it. I told myself that it wasn't really a manbag; merely a DJ's record bag and that made it all the more acceptable. After all, a manbag has to be leather and cost over $100, right? This was just a cool alternative. The placebo of manbags, if you will.

These days my bag comes with me every day to work. It even came with me to the UK when we went there last year. It gave the security staff at Sydney a laugh and sent the security staff at Heathrow into a panic. After all, that picture of an AK47 could do some serious damage if they allowed it into the plane with me, right? By this stage it had already gone through the x-ray machine and we all knew that the stencilled AK47 didn't have any stencilled bullets with it, but no; paranoid fervour being what it was, the bag had to go in the hold rather than return with me as hand luggage. Yep; my bag's infamous amongst airport staff on both sides of the world. Here it is relaxing in style in a grotty hotel we stayed in whilst in London.



Anyway, I own one bag. Vanessa, on the other hand, owns a great deal more. I'm no expert but she has a cabinet specifically devoted to bags so I'd say she has at least 20. I never understood why you needed so many, in all honesty. Now I'm getting the idea a bit better. It's not because you need to match them to your outfits. That's just a myth I reckon. No, you need more because there's only so much one bag can hold and it's much easier to start another bag going than it is to clean out the one you currently use. Trust me, I know. Right now, my bag contains one magazine, three books, some painkillers, my keys, wallet, iPod, various silver change, an old lighter and, for some bizarre reason, an ethernet cable. I don't need half of that stuff. The magazine's been read, as have two of the books. Still, at least the shoulder muscles on my right side are getting a good workout from carrying all that excess weight.

So I need to force myself to go through my bag and clear some stuff out. Getting my lunch in there this morning was a struggle, that's for sure. What I need is some middle ground. If I clear it out totally then I'll feel as though I'm carrying very little around in a bag that's way too big for the contents. I'll also be jangling on the bus with every step up the aisle and that will just make the flakybeards eye me suspiciously. The trick is to go through my bag's contents and take out just enough to keep it looking full enough to mark me down as important - and not imply that I'm one of those saddos who goes to work carrying a briefcase containing nothing but a pen and a peanut butter sandwich. I reckon getting rid of two of the books and that magazine should just about do it, leaving me with a comforting weight to the bag but also meaning I can slip a takeaway container full of leftovers in for lunch should the opportunity present itself. Honestly, it's more complicated than I ever thought it would be. This metrosexual stuff is seriously full on. Thank god I don't have a proper manbag or else I'd probably have to polish and buff it every few months as well as clear it out every four years. Now all I have to do is work out what to do with the ethernet cable and we're home and laughing.....

Politics: The big issues.

I have been wracking my brains about what to write about for a while now. At the time of typing this, it's just before 1pm on Friday here. I've been working hard all morning and I'm 7 minutes away from a well-earned lunch break. Again, it'll probably just involve listening to music as I walk along the harbour but it's okay with me. What isn't okay with me is that I really have no idea what to write about. Maybe it's apathy or maybe I'm tired but I can't find much to report that you've not heard before. I can't sex up any witty conversations I had or overheard recently and I'm not likely to make up something salacious (or borrow from someone else's experiences) just to write something worth reading. I guess I have to hope that inspiration strikes soon. Maybe a surf on news.com will help me out. Hmm, let's see.

Okay, there's a story about that burger bar in the US which serves the most grease-laden monstrosities I've ever seen (I'm talking about the burgers, not the patronage although I'm sure it's equally applicable). Problem is that I've already had the chain e-mail about that one, complete with Powerpoint slideshow - so it doesn't feel like news. I could talk about the groping 'scandal' that's enveloped a governmental Mid-Winter Ball but let's face it, MPs misbehaving is hardly a scandal these days. Hell, one of these things passing without a hint of scandal is more newsworthy. I think I'll mull it over lunch and see how I feel when I get back.

Well lunch is over, in fact we're nearing the end of the working week. Just before 4pm if you're interested. I have my final coffee stop scheduled in for 4pm and it's as much to get me out of the office for a few minutes and make the last hour of my working day pass quickly as it is to load up on coffee. But at least there's one thing these past hours have done: they've helped me decide on a topic.

That topic being Barack Obama.

We all had high hopes for Obama when he first won the presidential election. He talked about shutting Guantanamo Bay and we cheered. He made his speech in Cairo recently and we all wondered if, just for once, we might really be experiencing history in the making. I mean; if it went as right as it was possible to go, wasn't the end result going to be something bordering on an orgasmic utopia? Come on, admit it - you looked at your own president or prime minister and wished you had the American's one didn't you? Sorry Kev, sorry Gordon.... Nothing personal; that's just the way it is.

And then, all hope was lost. Obama went....... normal.

First up he compared his bowling skill to the Special Olympics and the capuccino-sipping pinko brigade spat their dummy. How very dare he? Disabled people vote too you know, the liberals trumpeted - even if someone has to hold the pen for them, they didn't add but anyway, you get the point. Barack Obama was degrading to the disabled, to their sporting ability and.... well.... to the world in general.

Deep down, we never did trust him. We all knew he was a bad 'un, that Obama. We all knew it was too good to be true. We just weren't expecting his descent from deity to devil to happen so quickly. Having personally kicked the wheelchairs out from under every disabled person in the world with one off the cuff remark, he then committed murder - on live television! I know - I saw it on the news and we all know that the media doesn't lie, so it must be true.

Yes, Obama must be brought to justice. During an interview he swatted away at a fly and then, when it settled on his hand, he smacked it stone cold dead. The camera lingered on the fly's motionless form as Obama commented something along the lines of 'I got that sucker'. PETA for one are outraged. It sends the wrong message apparently. We preach tolerance of muslims and other religious groups, then go on a killing spree of insects. Where will the bloodbath end? Hitler probably killed a fly once too - look how that turned out. Save one blowfly and you save the world, grasshopper. Grasshoppers - don't kill them either, just so we're clear on that.

Myself, I liked Bill Clinton. Things were simple with him in charge. At least he gave the outraged something decent to be outraged about. Personally I thought Clinton represented a broad cross-section of the voting populous. He lied, he had affairs, his business dealings were a little shady allegedly. Hell, I'm sure half of the people who wanted him impeached were far from perfect themselves but that doesn't matter - ever. We always want our politicians to be better than we are. They're meant to represent us, not resemble us. They have to be purity personified, never lie, never fiddle their expenses and absolutely definitely never kill a fly or make inappropriate jokes about people with disabilities. And if you're going to get caught with an intern, at least make sure she's a looker and have the decency to pay for her laundry bill. You never know when your tight wallet and aversion to Sketchleys will come back to haunt you.

So yes, one fly later it's already the end of the world as we know it. Obama may be trying to bring peace to the world but he's intent on insectocide. He's obviously the equivalent of a walking, talking can of Aeroguard - and who wants one of those responsible for the betterment of the world in general? Not PETA, for sure. It's strange really - there are a lot of things to admire about PETA but trying to keep the numbers of flies in the world as high as possible isn't one of them. We should have voted for the old guy. You know - old grandad McCain. Not only was he nice to animals, he even offered us a dancing weasel in a designer suit as vice-president. He wouldn't have mocked the afflicted either, although maybe he'd have got more attention if he had. I think that if that's as bad as Obama ever gets then he's a hell of a lot better than I was in my younger days. Let's face it - he has a point. Special Olympians don't compete alongside their able bodied companions for a reason - they'd be trounced.

For what it's worth, PETA, I'm ready to stand for election the minute you read this. I don't mock cripples any more and I don't so much as kill a cockroach. Oh; and I promise not to wear fur either. I know absolutely fuck-all about politics but hey; don't let a trifling matter like that put you off - it's not what you're focusing on, right?

"Nice to animals, crap with voters". That can be our motto. I'm ready to take this country forward the minute I hear from you. Hell, any country will do. Where's nice this time of year?

Pausing to update.

So busy.... so busy.....

Vanessa's birthday was a success. Henry bought her this amazingly funky scarf that he picked out himself and, yet again, I found myself wondering at how grown up he's getting. Granted, he could paint a toad pink & green and Vanessa would love it (I, however, would accuse him of stealing my idea - see previous posting) but the scarf he picked out was absolutely right.

Vanessa went off to get her hair cut, then came into town to get the facial and massage that I bought her as part of her present. It seemed to go down well and we just had time to dash home and get changed before we were due back in town for Henry's Tantrum performance. I have it on good authority that it was much better than the last thing we saw. Sadly I had to miss it because we weren't able to park the car. Tantrum were performing at the Civic Playhouse which is attached to the Civic Theatre. The theatre itself alsohad a performance on. We were cutting it fine anyway and it was just absolutely packed. In the end, I dropped Vanessa off and ended up parking a long way away. It's a shame I couldn't see it but really it was Vanessa's birthday and I didn't want both of us to miss seeing Henry if only one of us had to.

After that we headed off to meet Vanessa's friends. That was a really great evening. The pizzas were marvellous and the company was very amusing. Vanessa & I got home around 11pm in the end and watched a few episodes of Frasier before bed as we weren't overly tired.

I will be tired tomorrow though. If nothing else, tomorrow's Friday and although work's frantic right now, I figure that it's the end of the week and I can cope with being more than a little weary. That way I can stay up and watch USA v Brazil in the Confederations Cup being held in South Africa right now. I don't think SA's too far ahead of Greenwich Mean Time but the matches kick off at 11.45pm so I can usually watch the first half and be in bed before 1am. Now that the English football season is over, I'm getting my fixes where I can. If that means yawning through the mornings because I was up watching dodgy teams play in a competition nobody really cares about, so be it.

June's also starting to snowball too. It's not fair to say I'm operating on autopilot - I'm too busy and my work's too complex for that - but it's a definite juggling act. I tend to go down and walk along the harbour most lunchtimes, my iPod belting out something to relax me. It works well and sets me up for the afternoon nicely too. I don't mind being busy but it definitely takes some getting used to, in the sense that you normally have uninterrupted time to look at something. These days I barely have time to clear my mind from one matter before I'm having to churn over something else. Put it this way; if my head were a washing machine there's a very good chance I'd have accidentally dyed my whites pink by now.

Thankfully there's always the joy of coming home. It doesn't matter what sort of day I've had, home's always the best remedy. It doesn't matter what we do (or don't do, very often) - it's just nice to spend time with Vanessa and, if he's there, Henry. Vanessa might not agree but I think this June's been my most successful to date when it comes to de-stressing. For the past few years I've always apologised in advance for being a bit of a grumpybum every June. This year, I think I've been much better; happy, relatively calm and composed and collected. I'm just weary now with one working week left to go before July hits us. Maybe I'll look at a week off once the rush has died down - that would be the perfect remedy I think.

In closing, the office is extra quiet today because Susan, the girl who drives us all mad at work, went into labour at 4.30am this morning. Her six month (minimum) maternity leave started today instead of Monday so that's a whole two days extra peace we weren't expecting. What a nice surprise! The tension levels in our office have dropped noticeably and immediately and it's very, very welcome. Kerry from our office is going to see her in hospital tonight. The rest of us will wait for the inevitable visit-with-newborn in a couple of weeks. I'm just hoping we can keep the morning tea we had planned to send her off tomorrow. Right now, a bulk load of sausage rolls and party pies would go down very well. Nothing gets you over a busy day like baked, greasy, cheap meat, that's for sure.

It's the final countdown.....

Tomorrow is Vanessa's birthday. I think I'm like many husbands in that my present buying is sometimes a hit and sometimes it's a miss. At the start of our relationship I could probably have giftwrapped a live toad (providing I'd dyed it pink and green first) and Vanessa would have been over the moon. Now, all these birthdays later, I have to get it right. I know it's the thought that counts but let's be honest; if it's a load of crap then you obviously haven't thought enough and you risk a night in the spare room.

Yep, it used to be so simple. Was it spangly? Check. Was it pink, green or both? Check. Could it be worn around the neck, in the ears or on the wrists? Check. Here's my debit card, salesperson. Thanks for your time. These days though, it's not so easy. For one thing, Vanessa has a lot of trinkets, necklaces, bangles etc - so many that she's actually told me to stop buying them for her. Mind you, maybe I just got it wrong one too many times in the past. Ah well; that was then, this is now and I'm hopeful that this year I will get it right again. You should know in just over 16 hours, as you'll probably hear the screaming from here if I screw up...!

Vanessa may well be getting her hair cut tomorrow morning and then, tomorrow afternoon, she's unavailable. I could tell you why but I'd have to kill you afterwards. Then, later that night, we're out watching Henry perform in the latest offering from Tantrum, the theatre group he goes to. This came about when we were trying to get Henry into the Hunter School of Performing Arts - part of our 'Anywhere But Waratah High' campaign of last year. Then he ended up going to Merewether and, as some sort of karmic punishment, we have to sit through a poorly constructed play every year. I say 'play' but really it's more like a poorly scripted improvisation. Stagecraft isn't relevant to the kids - it's just some random jumble of letters that would score 16 in Scrabble, if they were ever uncool enough to play Scrabble. The plots usually revolve around peer pressure and bullying but hey; Henry enjoys it and if that's the price we have to pay for him not going to Waratah High, it's a price worth paying. I can be magnanimous easily - my birthday's on Boxing Day so no half-arsed teen performance is ever going to ruin my birthday!

After we finish at the theatre and congratulate Henry on his stunning portrayal of a gangly teenager, Vanessa & I head off to trendy Cooks Hill for her birthday dinner. Vanessa being a twin, we very often find ourselves celebrating with her sister and her family. This year Vanessa's friends arranged to see her on her birthday before anything was sorted our with Felicity and her family, so off to Cooks Hill we travel. There will be around six or seven of us heading out to a pizza place called DeLuca's. We've been there once before and the pizzas and ambience were very good. Hopefully it will be a really marvellous end to a really marvellous day. Hopefully Felicity will have an equally great time with her family too and we can catch up with them before too long.

So that's the plan. If it all comes off as I hope it will, I will have another year under my belt of rising to the challenge of my wife's birthday. I think I put the expectation to excel there much more than Vanessa does, but it matters to me. I hope that I make my wife feel special more than a few days every year but this is one of the few occasions where I can spend a reasonable amount of time and money really attempting to force the point home - that she is special and that even if I don't always get it as 100% spot-on as I hope to with gifts, it's not through lack of thought or trying. I guess it could be worse - my grandfather once bought my grandmother a set of suitcases as a present. Thank god that particular gene wasn't passed down the generations. Mind you, I really should wait to see how Vanessa's gift of the 'Dusting To Perfection' hardback goes down before I start casting aspersions on my grandparents and singing my own praises.

In closing.... just a note to my wife if she's reading this before her birthday. That dusting thing? That was a joke. No need to make me spend the night in the spare room, all by myself in the cold and with only my regret for company, honest......

Briefly updating.

It's been a busy weekend and an equally busy Monday. I've not had time to compose my thoughts or, indeed, think about what I want to talk about. I figure that's as good a sign as any to say nothing, so saying nothing's what I'm going to do.

For now though, here's a picture that Vanessa got through the mail recently. We went to her Fine Arts graduation ceremony earlier this year - you may remember me mentioning it in this blog (or you may not, depending on your memory). Anyway, this is one of the two official shots that were taken (and which we paid for). Vanessa, Henry and I in all of our glory.





Normally Vanessa's the one dissecting her appearance in pictures but in this instance, I'm going to steal her thunder. Who stole me and replaced me with that old bloke who actually looks old enough to be that kid's father? When did I stop looking buff and in my late twenties? You could have mentioned it earlier - this combined with undeniable photographic evidence that "little" Henry is now taller than me has been one hell of a shock to the system!

More soon - when time permits and inclination.... erm.... inclines (and I recover from the traumatic effects of realising that I can't fight the passing of time!)

Strange that you mention it, Vanessa.....

With all the drama this week (illness, cold snaps, that sort of thing) I completely overlooked one marvellous piece of news - Henry's continued sporting excellence.

The days of Henry being this short little tubby kid are long gone now. I'd like to pat myself on the back and tell myself that it was all down to me; that my arrival in the country coincided with him slimming down and getting sporty but to be honest, I think metabolism has as much to do with it as anything. It just so happened that Henry started playing soccer the year I arrived in Australia and that got him a bit more active. Add in three years of playing cricket every summer too and he's now a very active kid. Slim, tall and active. The minute he gets into girls, I have a sneaking suspicion he won't be short of offers.

Anyway I digress. Henry's very fit now and last year (his last year at primary school) found him entering the school athletics carnival. There's this tiered system of progression and it goes something like this: Win in your school carnival and you go to 'zone'. I think zone is just schools within a certain radius. If you win at zone, you get to regional and I'd imagine that's just a more expanded radius. We never really had to worry about regional. Henry would win the sprinting events in his primary school carnival, get to zone and find himself finishing well but outside of the winning places. Vanessa & I weren't disappointed - we were just really impressed with him doing well for his school.

Then, this year, he went in the school carnival for Merewether - his high school. Obviously high schools have more kids and therefore more competition. We were pleasantly surprised when he won the 100m and 200m races but what really blew us away was that he won the high jump too. Henry's never high jumped before - in fact he didn't even know how to jump. He just thought it would be fun to try, watched the kids before him and tried to jump like them. It obviously worked - from what I gather he blitzed it.

Anyway, we knew that Henry was going to 'zone' for high jump and for the last few weeks, Vanessa's mum has been trying to persuade Henry to speak to his games teacher to get some coaching on technique. Henry wasn't so keen - he just wanted to do it his way and try his best. That's always been his attitude - to do his best and just have fun. Vanessa & I weren't going to push Henry too hard. Jacky, on the other hand, maintains that Vanessa's brother Richard could and should have played cricket for Australia and I fear her attention's now shifted from Richard to Henry. I think she looked at Henry winning the school high jump competition and pictured herself waving the Australian flag at the 2016 Olympics as Henry got his gold medal. Thankfully Henry dealt with the weight of grandmotherly expectation well and maintained that he'd just do his best, his way.

So the zone sports carnival rolled around on my day off sick. I didn't go, obviously - I was having trouble seeing much. Vanessa and Jacky did go though and it turns out that I missed a really good day. Henry entered the high jump and managed to clear all the heights. The competition slowly fell away and in the end, it came down to him and two other kids jumping to clear 1.35m. Henry was the only one who managed it. He then tried for - and cleared - 1.40m on his first attempt. He was finally thwarted by 1.45m but that doesn't matter though - he was the outright winner. Next up are the regionals. I have no idea what comes after that but, on this evidence, I'd best find out - there's a chance it may be necessary.

I'm very pleased for Henry. He tries his very best at soccer and cricket with a certain amount of natural ability but it's fair to say there are kids playing much more skilfully and effortlessly than him. Somehow he seems to be really good at athletics - sprinting and high jump in particular. Vanessa and I have talked to him about adding to his hectic social schedule by joining an athletics club. At first he was a little bit cool on the idea, but that was before he won the zone competition. Now he's quite keen and I'm really pleased about that. He works very hard on his sport and schoolwork and always gets the required results - but it seems like he's got more natural ability for high jump that soccer or cricket. He's got bags of confidence already but he handles it well and he's not a show-off. It's nice to see life reward someone with such a positive outlook. I know I'm biased but truly, it couldn't happen to a nicer kid.

Arctic Monkeys.

You'll be pleased to hear that I'm finally getting my comeuppance for bragging about how hot it gets here. This week has been seriously cold. We've had arctic winds blown up from, well, Antarctica (as you probably guessed) and it's been a case of putting on as many layers of clothing as possible - followed swiftly by the gas heater. I've lost count of how many times I've been pleased that we moved the lounge room into the front of the house, and that the sole gas outlet means that we can sit there in comfort and warmth.

I didn't post yesterday because I wasn't at work. I was off sick as I woke up with my left eye scratchy and streaming. I don't know what caused it but it got quite inflamed and painful. In the end, I phoned in sick and spent the day doing.... well.... nothing really. When seeing's an issue, you can't really sit down at a computer or watch television for prolonged periods. It got bearable by around 3pm and I was able to entertain myself a bit but believe me; prior to that it was seriously dull!

So today was my first day back at work. I know I was only gone for a day but this is my busiest time of the year and, sod's law, yesterday was one of those days where 200 things became urgent all at once. That said, I got through today and got everything done - in style and in a composed manner too I may add! The funniest thing was that although I tell everyone that I don't like this time of year much, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might just enjoy it a little more than I let on. Certainly the sense of satisfaction that came when I walked out of work at 5pm today was palpable - and not just because I'd finished another day at the grindstone.

Tomorrow's Friday and then the weekend looms. I may have something to write about tomorrow or I may not. Guess it depends how busy I get between now and then.

Reflecting from afar.

I had a mixed response on my last posting about my misspent youth. Reading between the lines, my mother found it interesting but didn't see that I was under any compulsion to bring the skeletons out of my closet. My wife's reaction was to go into ultra-maternal mode and pretty much imply that my poor mother would be shamed and shocked at my tales of sin and that I'd drive her into an early grave. She obviously doesn't know that my mother's one of the undead and will never die but I'm pretty much powerless when two mothers gang up on me - especially when they're the two alpha females in my life.

Then there was my brother who, true to form, loved it and asked for more.

It's tough to know where to go next really. Yes, I have plenty more tales to tell but I didn't really sit there and think 'I know, I'll shock everyone with some salacious tales of yesteryear'. I just thought it was interesting, that's all. It was on my mind and that's why you got it. As agendas go, that's as complex as it gets.

I guess if I'm guilty of anything, it's trying to compensate for distance. Let's face it; if I was still in Britain, most of this stuff would come up over the many, many conversations that would have taken place with my family over these past few years. I'm not in Britain though - those asides, comments and stories don't get touched upon because, well, I'm not there to have the discussion with. That's probably why it comes out the way it does - unannounced and in blocks of texts on a website.

It's sometimes difficult being the only family member who has moved away. What's more, we're not talking 100 miles up the road either; we're talking 12,000 miles and an entire hemisphere away. Please don't get me wrong here; there's nothing about my life in Australia that I don't love and I'm not missing Britain itself - I just wish my family were closer so that I could occasionally pop in to see them, meet them when they get together for coffee, that sort of thing. I might have to skip the birthday dinners though because, between you and me, I don't earn enough in two years to pay for one of their sumptuous dining experiences. A chat and a coffee would be nice every now and then, though. Still, that's just one of the prices you have to pay when you emigrate. Life goes on, birthdays and anniversaries happen and you're absent. Not forgotten, just not there - and I guess maybe if I could sit down with my family more frequently and banter the way a lot of families can, maybe I wouldn't be running over the past and wondering what people know, what I've glossed over and what I've never said. Maybe that's something to do with it.

My brother and I, for example. We spent many years never getting on and now we do. We have a cool but cordial relationship, more due to the distance than anything. When Vanessa & I went back to the UK last year, rediscovering my relationship with Nathan & Kelly was marvellous. For one thing, I wondered if I'd ever see their flat - the first flat they ever bought together. When you're on the other side of the world, you never know how often you'll get back and I did wonder if maybe they'd have moved again before I dragged my hide back to the UK. It might have been silly, but I didn't want to miss having seen their first house. When someone in your family buys their first house, you all pile around and see it right? Not from the other side of the world you don't. It may sound silly but I was as pleased to nose around Nathan & Kelly's flat as I was to banter with them both over drinks and dinner in Oxford. No matter how many phone calls or emails you have, sometimes you just need to be somewhere and see it for yourself. Being in their flat completed the picture and made living away a bit easier.

Your family is a unique relationship. You love them and fight with them more frequently than with anyone else and very often it's a bittersweet relationship marked by recrimination and forgiveness. Whenever I see my family (and it's only happened twice in the last 4 years), it's not like I've been gone for years; it's like I've just stepped out to get milk for 5 minutes. It's a marvellous feeling of acceptance and it's as reassuring as it is freaky. What sucks is saying goodbye though. As I've said, I love living here. Nothing against Britain or any other country in the world, but I belong here and I feel that keenly and instinctively. Within 48 hours of landing in the UK I was looking forward to landing back at Sydney - and that's no reflection on the people I went to see or the places I wanted to visit. No; it's just a feeling that you're a tourist in a country you used to call home and, strangely enough, you don't belong there any more. The problem with leaving is having to say goodbye though. That sucks Totally.

Just as you've got to know someone again, caught up and spent time, it's time to leave again. You say goodbye, enriched for having spent the time with everyone and going home with some marvellous memories. Then you get on a plane and you don't see these people again for years. Your lives go on and you go back to being the person who sends cards (or fails to, much to your chagrin), the person who calls every so often, the person whose blog you check to see how they're going, the absent person who you raise a glass for at family functions.

On a positive note, realising that you value someone and love them and miss them isn't ever a bad thing. In my experience, you feel their absence for around a week before life gets back to normal and they return to being your family 'over there', as such. Life goes on for everyone concerned and the good times experienced aren't diminished - they're just not repeated as frequently as they used to be.

I know for a fact that my wife will read this and feel sad. She feels guilty about taking me away from my family but really she's got nothing to feel guilty about. My life is remarkable and that's because I met her - and I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. Being so far away from the people you grew up with; that's just an occupational hazard. If my family were closer, that would be good. They're not though - but the plus side is that I value them more than I ever did when I was just around the corner from them. Contrary to how it may seem, I'm happy today - I am 99% of the time, thankfully. I guess it's just a day where I'd like to be able to catch up with them all and, in the absence of being able to do that, this seems the next best thing. That and reminding them all that I love them - and that no miles or years will ever change that, anyway.

Yesteryear's miscreantics.

I used to be bad. You wouldn't know it to look at me now but I used to be really bad. Having said this, I never really felt as though I was being bad a lot of the time. A lot of the time, I was just doing what I wanted to do and I didn't care about the morality or the consequences. Granted, I can think of two things I did that were plain wrong - that not even my brother's excellent debating skills could justify on my behalf - but the rest of my misdemeanours were just part of my growing up process. I mean, who doesn't drink underage, , get drunk during a high school sports carnival, start fires and jump out of their bedroom window at 2am to go and party with their friends?

I alluded to this before in a previous posting, but I was never going to reallytrulyultimately fall in with 'the wrong crowd'. My friends at the time were chancers and opportunists at best - and a sad pack of wannabes at worst. They were always going to go straight after the first serious slap on the wrist and even if they didn't, I moved on after a while to new friends. You do that when you're 14 I think - or at least I did. For a while I was hanging out with the cool sporty kids in my high school year. Then, for some reason, I gravitated towards a group where the ringleader was a year above me at school and a lot of the others were in the year below me. For some reason there wasn't the stigma that normally comes with associating with kids in the years below you and most of my mischief was carried out during this friendship. I don't want to glorify my behaviour in any way. Suffice to say it was an eventful summer, that's for sure.

We'd go out in the evenings. If I had homework to do, I wasn't doing it that's for sure. I'd eat my dinner, get on my bike and go out to meet my friends. This was before the days of mobile phones. Back then, mobile phones were the exclusive toy of the millionaires. They were carried in a rucksack and the battery alone weighed 20kg. It would be another few years before Gordon Gekko walked down the beach with his brick of a cellphone and everyone thought 'ooh tomorrow's world is here today'. So no, there was no texting to find out where everyone was, yet we always managed to find each other. I guess we just knew where we'd be hanging out. Typically it was at Jason's house or over in the grassy area of Enstone Road, close to where Mark lived. I always hoped it was Enstone Road because that's where Stephanie Walker lived. She was a few years younger than me but she was brassy, pretty and puberty had visited young Stephanie earlier than most girls (and been very generous to boot). She liked me, I liked her. In case you're wondering, nothing happened. Sometimes you can play it too cool and, by the time you get around to doing anything, the girl in question's about to move out of the area. I think she ended up in Feltham. Someone has to, I guess.

So Stephanie was on the periphery a lot of the time along with a few other girls whose names I don't remember. One was an Emma but the other's name escapes me. Anyway they would come and see us in the camp we built in the woods. We made it from packing pallets and nails and covered it with plastic sheeting stolen from the nearby truck depot. That same depot also had a petrol tank and, silly old transport company, they hadn't put a padlock on the petrol pump. That gave us plenty of fuel for when we wanted a little camp fire and the only wood we could find was wet. We'd sit there, smoking and chatting with a big fire blazing. These days those woods are long gone I fear, swallowed up in new housing developments. Do kids even make camps or cubbies any more? Maybe not in deepest darkest Woodley any more. I think it's a shame - every kid should have a camp.

When we weren't camping out, we were heading into town to shoplift. I was very susceptible to peer pressure I suspect - that's the excuse I'm going with anyway. We'd hit town like a whirlwind. No shop was safe. I didn't even need half the things I stole - that came later when I got a paper round and found that the owner left the cigarette counter unattended when he opened up and switched the alarm off in the mornings. My shoplifting spree got me darts, expensive skateboard wheels, skateboard trucks, clothing, all sorts of things. If you add in all the cigarettes and magazines of a somewhat... fleshy.... nature, I reckon my haul would amount to at least five hundred pounds over those few years. Thank god I never got caught, that's all I can say. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Now of course I'd hit the roof if Henry so much as didn't pay for something by accident. It's always the reformed ones who are the most pious, isn't it?

Eventually my parents found out that I smoked. That combined with my not doing well at school meant that they tried grounding me at night. That didn't work though - I'd stay home, go to bed like a dutiful boy and then climb out of my window at 2am to go and meet my friends. Then when my parents got up, they just assumed that I'd got up early and gone out. Little did they know, or else they might have come good on their constant threat to put me into the care of social services. If that had happened, who knows which way I'd have gone? I doubt I'd be sitting here in Australia married to one of the most kind and ethical people I've ever known, put it that way. Anyway, I'd very often come down in the morning to find that my mother had gone through my coat pockets, found my cigarettes and broken them up. She'd put them in a bowl of water because, apparently, they never taste the same if they have to be dried. I didn't care - at 15 I'd smoke anything and everything. Anyway, the minute I turned up for my paper round there were packets of cigarettes just waiting to be pocketed once the newsagent's back was turned. I wasn't ever short of cigarettes, let's just say that.

Then of course there were drugs. More to the point, there was pot. Back in those days, pot was harder to come by than it seems to be these days and possession could still carry a hefty fine and, in some circumstances, a minor period of incarceration. If you were a schoolkid in the mid to late eighties, there was only one place to get resin in Reading - and that was the fabled Mandela Court block just off the Oxford Road in town. We'd get the bus in, smoking our heads off (it's hard to believe you could ever smoke on public transport these days) and head to Mandela Court. We'd get a five pound block and head somewhere (usually Forbury Gardens) to roll it. It wasn't ever that great, I realise that now. Since then I've had some seriously good stuff and, well, it's probably just as well I wasn't getting premium stuff when I was 14 or 15. I still have one good friend who partied a bit too hard on the recreational substances and, well, as much as I love him he's certainly a little altered for the experiences. Like I said, it was just pot back then. You could get coke if you really wanted but it was a bit too pricey for me back then - and I wasn't nearly as well connected as I needed to be. As a result, I've only ever had coke once and, again, it's probably just as well. To say I had a good time that night was an understatement.

It's only now that I realise what a charmed life I lead. I never got caught shoplifting and I once missed a Drugs Squad raid on Mandela Court by around 2 minutes, concluding my transaction just as they were cordoning off the front entrance to the Court. My parents thought I was trouble; if only they knew how close I came to fulfilling their fears, they'd have been much more worried. Sure, I got busted for drunk driving 2 weeks after passing my driving test - and under the legal drinking age - but if the police had found the matchbox full of resin that was sitting under the steering wheel, blowing an increasingly high alcohol content would have been the least of my worries I suspect. It could well be that my criminal record would have denied me immigration clearance into Australia - assuming of course my life had gone that way in the first place. We'll never know how it could have gone and, for that, I'm very pleased. If you believe that everything happens for a reason then there's method in those years of mine between the ages of 14 and 20, even if I struggle to see it at times.

This isn't even the half of it, really. There's more - I just forget about it often. I guess it just doesn't seem important any more and I've consigned it to the past. The past's not something I spend a great deal of time on, really. Next time I'm in danger of posting about my plans to do the lawn, I'll try to remember to tell you about the time I set fire to Tippings Lane, not to mention the destruction of public property that followed my attendance at a Young Conservatives Party in Ascot in 1988 - or the time that one too many drinks contributed to my ruining my Economics Teacher's car. After all, you can't truly appreciate who you are until you acknowledge who you were - and even if you don't approve of my life, you have to admit one thing; it's got to beat hearing about cloud formations and what's growing in my vegetable patch for the hundredth time.....

Hola Signor Haitus.

I'm a little disillusioned with blogging right now. I won't bore you with the details but sometimes things happen and it makes me wonder why I bother. Then I sit back and remind myself that I'm just doing this to air my thoughts and let a few select people know what's going on; nothing more and nothing less. Normally I pull through the funk without too much trouble and it's business as usual.

For some reason, I'm having trouble shaking this current funk. It's not helped by the fact that nothing's really happened for me to write about lately. Well, nothing that springs out, anyway. I'd rather not write than end up writing nothing for the sake of writing something, so I'm giving myself the long weekend off to relax, recharge and get my sense of perspective back. All being well, I'll be back to my usual cheery self on Tuesday.

I. Am. Over. It.

I like to think of myself as a happy person - an optimist, if you will. Sure, I can be sarcastic occasionally and, in my time, I've been known to be a little cynical. These days though I tend to approach each day on a positive note and even when I'm stressed and muttering under my breath at the world's injustice or stupidity, I can console myself with the knowledge that the stress will pass and that life will return to normal. I credit a lot of this to my wife by the way. She's very optimistic and generally a happy little soul. It's infectious in all the right ways and there's a lot of good to be drawn from being positive. I think so anyway.

What I now find is that I have less time for negative people than I used to. Sure, eternal pessimists are always annoying but I've tolerated them more in the past than I do now. These days, there's only so much you can listen to before you want to switch off or get away from the negativity before it brings you down. Right now work's falling into that category. Everywhere I go, people are bitching about other people in the office, outside the office and in general. Sometimes those complaints are justified but let's face facts; after a while it doesn't matter how justified your complaints are - you just end up coming across as grumpy. I'm well and truly sick of it so here I am complaining about complainers. Where's the logic there? Not entirely sure, to be honest - humour and indulge me......

Some people like things being broken, that much I'm sure of. If things were fixed, they wouldn't know what to do with themselves. They'd spend all day staring out of the window and wondering what to talk about, rather than staring out of the window and complaining about so-and-so. I mean, at some stage complaining becomes pointless. You either address someone's or something's shortcomings or come to terms with the fact that they can't be addressed and do something else about it - whether that be ignore them, tolerate them or look to get away from them somehow. Don't you? Isn't it that simple?

There's a girl I work with right now who's a touch, shall we say, controversial. I've thought long and hard about why she's that way and how best to describe her. Believe me, I've been trying to do this concisely for the best part of a year and I've not managed it yet. It's unfortunate but I'm just not sure she's cut out for this industry and this office. When she needs to be literal, she's creative. When she needs to be creative, she's literal. Her people skills are honed in certain ways and could do with significant development in other ways. She doesn't read things fully and she doesn't think before she acts. Oh; and she's pregnant so, on top of all of these points, her major crime is that she has other things on her mind at the moment - namely her pregnancy.

The woman in question is far from perfect and, in all honesty, I find her annoying. Have done for a while, to be honest. I won't bore you with the intricacies but I've come to the conclusion that she is who she is and that nothing's really going to alter so we either like it or lump it. Granted if she were sticking around then she might be able to get some training in some areas, some monitoring in others but really, she's only ever going to progress so far. Short of a Clockwork Orange level mindwash, her edges are going to end up a little more rounded and polished but that's as good as it's going to get. Hopefully she'll toddle off to have her baby, discover the infinite joys of motherhood and vow never to return to work. I think that would be the best option for everyone concerned. If she does want to go back to work, going somewhere else would probably work better. This office and her just aren't on the same wavelength and I can't help thinking she'd be happier somewhere else anyway. There's no vitriol here - truly, I wish this woman no ill will whatsoever. I wish her a quick, pain-free pregnancy and a healthy baby, not to mention many happy and rewarding years ahead. I just happen to find her annoying but hey; there's no rule saying that we have to get on equally with everyone is there? I'm always polite and we get on okay - she just annoys me more often than not. Nothing I can do about it though - it's just one of those things I have to put up with. Only for a little longer though, as she's about to head off on maternity leave.

The rest of the office see it differently. Every day the conversation comes around to this woman's faults. Every day, we get vitriol and anecdotes about how useless she is and every day the whole boys club mentality ramps up another notch. If you want to be held in esteem, you make a dig about this woman and everyone laughs and you're one of the boys. Doesn't matter if the dig you make is justified - just make it and everyone will love you. You'll fit in and be on the side of right, the side of strength. Anyway, I'm well and truly over it. There are worse crimes than not being naturally gifted at your job and not really wanting to work too hard at it. This woman's a pain and I wouldn't behave the way she has but come on; nobody's dead or in danger of dying. The general mood of negativity in this office isn't being generated by her any more; it's being generated by the people who slag her off day in and day out. I'm not joining in with this whole lynching and I pretty much made that clear today. This is a busy and stressful month for us all without voluntarily paying into the negativity piggy bank - that would just be foolish.

Right now I need all the optimism I can get, so I'm switching off the pessimists, the bitches and the small-minded. They can revolve around each other in their own little orbits without my help, I'm sure - not to mention slap each other on the back and tell each other how great it is to be accepted as they swap derogatory tales and write people off. For now, I've got work to do and positive mantras to recite and, if nothing else, I've paid this small-minded and negative issue enough attention. To paraphrase Paulie from Goodfellas, I gotta turn my back on it now, you understand. Move on, calm down and chill out...... Tomorrow's another day, as always.

Padding the void.

I have nothing to report. Absolutely nothing. Remember I said that June was my busy period? Well, it's started to pick up and that leaves two outcomes: Firstly I'm busy and secondly I'm weary. Those two don't exactly combine to leave me full of thrills and news.

So I'll pad for a bit. Who knows - a paragraph or two in and you may even forget that you're reading the literary equivalent of marshmallow. Hmn, last night's normally a safe topic when you've nothing to talk about. Yeah; let's do last night. It was good, actually. Nothing spectacular happened but it was very enjoyable. Henry's staying with us at the moment, so the three of us went down to the Phoenix for dinner with Vanessa's mum. The food was largely adequate but unspectacular. Can't say I cared too much, seeing as a) I wasn't paying, and b) it meant I didn't have to cook.

We got home relatively early to some shocking, unexpected news. Henry, somehow, had managed to finish his homework and it was looking like he might not be working all night for a change. I'm sure that we could have found an assignment for him to work on if we'd tried hard enough but, in all honesty, he's been working pretty constantly on his homework and assignments lately so neither Vanessa nor I pushed too hard on what he had left to complete. Vanessa curled up on the lounge with a magazine to read and Henry & I took it in turns to play a game on the PC. We tend to go through phases on what we enjoy and, right now, we're playing Pirates - a game I first played on the Atari ST back around 20 years ago. When I reference things that happened 20 years ago and I can remember them like they were yesterday, it makes me feel very old! Anyway, Henry & I are both enjoying Pirates. For him, it's a fun new game and for me, it's a total nostalgiafest. All good.

I texted Vanessa earlier - just to say hello really. I don't care if she's got no news or I have nothing to say, sometimes it's just nice to catch up and hear her voice. Anyway she's trying to cook a stew from what I gather, so that means another night where I don't have to plan dinner. Don't get me wrong - I normally don't mind doing dinner and I doubt Vanessa would disagree with my saying that I do the majority of the cooking at home. Having said that, we're a bit behind on the dishes right now and if there's one thing that I really don't like, it's having to do heaps of dishes before you have to do dinner. One or the other, that's what I say. Having both jobs to do is fine at the weekend but when I get home during the week, it's one or the other as far as I'm concerned.

So it's "Stewsday". Not quite on a par with my mother's fabled "Pie Monday" but I think it's got a ring to it. Who knows - maybe tomorrow will be Newsy Wednesday and I won't have to ramble on lamely in an attempt to keep you all informed. Let's see - six paragraphs. That's a respectable enough haul for today I think so I'm off eat dinner and then aim for another cosy night. I downloaded a film overnight which I'm keen to see, so maybe I'll stay up and watch that tonight. I guess it depends on how warm the lounge room gets and how sleepy I end up feeling as a result of that. Not exactly top of life's problem pile, is it?

Autumn disappears in a bang.

And so to June - the official start of the Australian winter and the busiest and most stressful month on my working calendar. Halfway through the year already, too - where has all the time gone?

Somewhere time didn't go this weekend, thanks be to Christ and all of his little fluffy angels, was into Henry's homework. It's not that Henry's suddenly become mega-organised and forward thinking; more that this was his weekend staying at his dad's place. We did end up seeing Henry though - more on that in a bit.

Vanessa was up early on Saturday morning to get to Miss Porter's Markets. It was being held indoors up at a local school, which was just as well as it had been chucking down all week. Vanessa had been working very hard, getting stuff from the shop to sell, making new cards and pictures to sell, making display signs, filling baskets, ironing clothing. Most of the house resembled an indoor market when I got home on Friday and I almost thought about suggesting that Vanessa stick a sign out the front and have the market at our house rather than going off to Miss Porter's Market! Nevertheless at 7.45am on Saturday morning my wife climbed into our absolutely packed station wagon and drove off to make a killing at the markets.

That was the plan anyway. The reality was very different. Vanessa and her mother arrived at the market site to find that it was badly organised and generally chaotic. It was advertised with a crafts and antiques slant but seemed to be mostly people selling new stuff. The final straw came when they reached their allocated pitch and found that it was the size of a postage stamp. At that stage, they decided not to set up and decided instead to vacate the premises and ask for their money back. They went down the the shop at the Centenary and put a lot of stuff in there instead, including some new racks.

Whilst this was all unfolding, I'd had a nice morning. I'd got up, made myself lots of coffees and spent a fair amount of time looking at the football websites and blogs I usually check. I'd done the dishes, made a compilation CD and had walked to Woolies to get some stuff for dinner. I'd got 'Australia' on DVD to (grudgingly) watch with Vanessa that night and I'd filled a prescription for her. I'd managed all this without breaking anything, accidentally maiming the dog or burning the house down. All in all, I was doing pretty well. Then my phone beeped - a text from Vanessa. Her mum had gone back home and my poor wife was down at the shop with heaps left to do all by herself and with nobody to talk to. I looked around me wistfully; at the Playstation, the DVD player, the PC. It had been fun while it lasted but really there was only one right thing to do. I got the bus into town to keep Vanessa company and give her a hand. They do good coffee down at the Centenary so it wasn't as bad as it sounds - despite the fact that I got there around 1.30pm and we didn't leave until 4pm.

We had plans for Sunday already mapped out. Vanessa's friend Barb was driving up from the Central Coast with her son Alec and her fiancee Darren. They were due to come to ours early on Sunday morning and we were all going to some local markets, then hanging out for the day. As it happened, Barb rang on Saturday and they ended up coming to ours that night and sleeping over. At the risk of sounding antisocial, neither Vanessa nor I were initially keen because, well, we kind of liked our plans for the evening already (do nothing, stay warm, cuddle up and watch 'Australia') but we eventually decided that we'd postpone our plans and arranged to see Barb, Alec & Darren at our place around 6.30pm that night. That left just enough time for a few drinks down on the Foreshore before heading home and making dinner. Our visitors arrived just as dinner was ready and they'd spoken with Vanessa's ex-husband and arranged for Henry to spent the night with us too, as him & Alec get on pretty well. Anyway, we had a really nice night, just chatting away whilst the boys played on the computer. Then, being the sociable soul I am, I told everyone that I was watching the FA Cup Final at midnight on SBS, that absolutely nothing was going to prevent or delay that and that if they didn't like it, tough luck! In the end, everyone stayed up with me to watch the match. Well, everyone made an effort anyway - the late hour was beyond everyone eventually and they all filtered away to go to bed as the match progressed into the second half. When Barb said goodnight around 1.30am on Sunday morning, I was left alone to watch the conclusion. I didn't mind the company but equally, it was nice to watch the end uninterrupted by requests to explain what was going on.

And so to Sunday and our visits to the market. Barb was hoping to buy a ring she'd seen last time they came up to see us. Sadly, the recent wet and wild weather meant that a lot of regular stallholders weren't around. Barb's ring seller was one of them so we poked around the few stalls there were, then went over to Mayfield and the Coliseum Antiques Centre there. As it turns out, they didn't have any nice rings but they do have a very nice cafe attached, so we stayed and had lunch there. We'd already sent Henry & Alec back to the house so that they could hang out and play the PC so it was just the adults. Lunch was very nice and reasonably leisurely. Then, finally, we drove back into the city and visited the Centenary Antiques Centre so that Barb could look for rings there and Darren could see Vanessa's shop for the first time. We had a walk on the foreshore afterwards, then went home to see how the boys were doing. Barb, Alec & Darren left for home around 3pm and dropped Henry off at his dad's on the way. All of a sudden, Vanessa and I were alone. The funny thing was, when Barb first suggested coming up early, all we wanted was a quiet night in and we sort of reluctantly agreed for them to come up early. By the time they all left, we had our quiet night ahead of us but it was looking much less appealing. It was fun to see them all and hopefully we'll all get together again soon.

So Vanessa and I finally got our quiet evening at home, on the back of a totally unplanned, very busy 2 days. Sunday night was very enjoyable in the end - we sat there eating left-overs, watched some television and then stuck 'Australia' on. The film was okay, but only okay. Strange to think we'd almost cancelled seeing people to watch it and it turns out that I'm glad we didn't; that I didn't get my cosy Saturday night in with Vanessa and that the weekend happened the way it ended up. Just goes to show; life really is what happens when you're making other plans.