A complicated life, whether it be two or 35 years old.

Noone told me what it was like to transition away from your single child and into the vast endless universe of two.

At week three of new sibling, our lady has hit the wall.

"No More Brother!" to quote her, precisely.

What can I say to her? The baby is kind of dependent on me for survival. Not her problem though.

I understand her pain, but the new kid on the block deserves a chance.

Complicated!

Summary at this point in time: it's raining, both are asleep much too late in the day, I have Tom Waits and a glass of red wine. Hmmm.

Seems a wiser activity choice than reading any literature that assures me all of this is 'normal'.

Am ready with open arms for the day when post-partum hormonal imbalance has finally passed, my girl is happy with her mini-universe, and we settle into the groove of abnormal, underslept, transitional, new-baby life for a little while.

Assured transition to mild insanity.

Okay, so the love hormones have passed. It was nice while they were there.
And now?

Now I find myself insisting on 5 minutes of silence just as soon as it is plausible. I refuse to take any questions or conversation openers from my co-parent, I close the door. And I sit quietly, enjoying the minutes as they pass with noone wanting anything from me. Usually this moment comes at about 9.45pm each day.

Um, is this normal?

Of course if you read any literature that canvasses the minefield of family life, babies, kids etc, you will find something that tells you almost any experience, thought or sensation is 'normal'. I say there is no normal in this most chaotic, insane of times. Creation of a new human being is no small feat, neither is ensuring ongoing survival of new bundle as the days and weeks roll on.

The days are all passing in a blur at the moment. I just finished an email with "have a great weekend", before it dawned on me it was Tuesday. I think it is Christmas soon, but I can't be sure. Coffee and enormous donuts are my staple, and yes - I suspect there is a paragraph in a patronising book somewhere that states "addiction to caffeine and trans-fats at this stage of post-partum is completely normal and to be expected". So I will continue. To simply survive.

Another thing - hapless members of the public seem to feel as free to comment on the physical appearance of the post-partum woman in much the same way as they did when she/I was about 11 months pregnant.
Eg:
Hapless yet happy citizen to me:
"Oh wow, you're doing well to be out and about"
Me:
"Thanks!"
Inside my head:
"WTF do you think I should be doing? Slowly dying in the privacy of my own home under a 100kg pile of used nappies?"
Eg:
Hapless yet happy citizen to me:
"Gee, you don't look like you've just given birth."
Me:
"Thanks!"
Inside my head:
"Yeah, I have actually showered and washed off the afterbirth since delivery."

Only another 12 months of broken sleep and we will be in the clear!
Yes, it is an amazing experience. Yes, we do it for the love.
But just don't tell me this is 'normal'.
It is anything but!

A birth.

Our boy has been born. Now our family has a small pink grunting bundle that comes with us everywhere, and I am lucky enough to once again experience the total euphoria, confusion, emotion, love and fatigue that a new small person brings to your life.
I smell his head, and it reminds me of exactly the same period in life when our girl was a week or two old. Such a distinctive and warm smell, and it links my present directly with the past of two years ago. Amazing.
I lie in bed at night listening to the chorus of grunts coming from the basket, and happily drift off to sleep knowing he is happy, as opposed to listening for every breath, to ensure there is life. Oh how I am loving the added comfort that comes with kind of knowing what I am doing this time.
And there is so much love flowing in all directions. It is beautiful to have created siblings that will grow together, and it is so awesome to have done it with my partner on the dancefloor. Happily, we have adjusted to a life together as parents, and I feel less inclined to kick his sleeping body in the bed while doing a 2am feed this time around.
We both still wonder how we ended up with two car seats in the back of a station wagon .... it all seemed to happen so fast. We were cool and fun and happening not that long ago!
And now - we are family.
It totally rocks.
Feeling the love love love from all angles.

Not so captivated by the 'mystery' of mother nature at this point in time.

It would be true to say the tail end of pregnancy really bites. So I shall - these remaining days are not golden in the slightest. I've run out of things to do. Time for a new baby now!
The bump is so huge, it is independent of my old body. I kind of look like a siamese twin. Is that in bad taste? I don't even care anymore.
Nights in the bed require a hoist to get from left to right.
Adult love requires drawings, plans and compasses to figure it all out, and as such is best abandoned.
Who are we kidding?
I suppose I should be relieved that I got what I hoped for - no early bird arrivals. Very happy for this to be the case for the 12 or so hours I ended up being alone, but with all bases well and truly covered for imminent childbirth ever since, pass me the stirrups! You know?

Canberra in the spring time

Red and green.

I always thought I would need a bit of a re-entry period on Australian roads after spending two years driving up and down the same roads at an average speed of 50km per hour in PNG. And even in my seemingly unacclimatised state, I understood that driving at that speed everywhere in Australia would not be the right thing to do.
So, to blend in and drive like my countrymen, I have been doing the full speed-limit, even though it terrifies me. On the odd occasion that I have been between 0-5 km under the speed limit, I have had a helpful bonnet up the ass of my car to remind me this is simply not done. Thanks Canberra drivers.
This, I expected.
What has surprised me somewhat though, is that I seem to have lost comprehension of traffic lights. I would happily sail through a red if it wasn't for terrified passengers screaming at me to stop. This, I also know is a 'shortcoming' in my general driving skill set. I'm more big-picture when it comes to lights, and am usually concentrating on something five blocks ahead.
This, I also knew about myself (on a deeper level that I rarely explore honestly).
Two days ago, I came to a full stop on approach to a green light, and stayed there while the light remained happily green. I think I was trying really hard to take each set of lights as they came, and not overlook important messages.
This is new.
And not very good.
Unbelievably, there was no concerned citizen sitting behind me screaming soundlessly from their 80 thousand dollar Commodore as there so often is. Again, it was up to my passenger to alert me to the green-ness of the light.
I carefully accelerated and proceeded to the next set of lights, in a bit of a state.
My Mum has now told my daughter to help me at the traffic lights. Thanks team.
Only a few weeks ago, it was me teaching her about the meaning of red and green. In a few short days I have lost any credibility I may have had, and now sit back and take tutorship from the one who knows best.
At least I know my limits.

The home stretch

Our baby is coming soon, and we have entered the final leg of the up-the-duff journey. With four or five weeks at most remaining, the anticipation/anxiety is building. Why anxious? I am plagued with fear that I will have to deliver baby alone in shower while my two year old looks on wide-eyed and terrified. Horrific. If I could seal the exit area with gaffer tape until such time as Daddy-O arrived in the country to join us, I would.

To counter these fears in the interim, I have modified my nine month preggers walk (limping, hunched, waddle-like ... not what you would see at fashion week, for instance) - to include a supportive and firm hand at the base of my bump. This lets the little one know that while we eagerly await its arrival, we are not quite ready. As they told me at pre-natal yoga (last time around, no such indulgences this time) ... "bonding begins in the womb". Indeed it does, and my message is loud and clear - the door is not open for you yet, my child.

In other news, it has only taken me 36 weeks to realise that turning sideways no longer enables me to slip through small enclosed spaces, like between seats and tables at a restaurant for example. Gee, I really kept that up for much longer than was spatially appropriate and have swatted many a head and cornice with my ever growing (and dropping) bump. Sideways = wider. Repeat to self.

I bought a dress today from my favourite shop in Lennox Head .... http://www.rileyburnett.com/gallery/index.html
I need things that move, and do not touch me in any way. The guy tried to talk it up, from a fashion point of view, but I felt I had to describe it as 'sufficiently sack like'. Let's be honest. My bump was between us like an additional shelf unit at the time of the sale ... I will be ready to talk about fashion again in about five months from now. He still threw in some free hairclips for my little lady which was nice (and he was obviously unbothered by her parading around the shop wearing various bangles and holding a clutch under her armpit). I must admit, I was quite proud of how she held the clutch - how does one figure this stuff out?

Last night in the shitfight (there is no other word for it) of getting this over-tired two year old ready for bed (bath, pyjamas, teeth, comb hair, read book, apply cream to sore bits, nappy) with just myself and my bump for company, the time came for me to give her a hard lesson in the facts of life. With lightening speed (quite amazing since she was much too tired to coordinate or focus on anything else AT ALL) she snatched her toothbrush from me "I WILL BRUSH TEETH BY MYSELF", threw it in the toilet, and flushed it away, before I could put my hand in to get it out (yes, I did actually contemplate doing this ... for environmental reasons not because I thought it was okay for her to reuse it after a dust-off!). Oh I was angry!

Her little blue eyes stared up at me, she burst into tears and then said she wanted it back. There was no sympathy from my corner. Only some words outlining the huge ring of plastic crap that swirls around and around in a far-off corner of the Pacific Ocean. There, her blue train toothbrush would end up. And a big beautiful fish would think it was food and eat it and probably die.

I think the message got through, her eyes were downcast, and she contemplated my wisdom that her actions have "far greater consequences" than just the immediate. We are all part of the world and our personal choices should not be seen as isolated from bigger environmental .... blah blah blah. She was asleep in about five minutes. I hope I didn't bore her too much.

Never too young to learn about the cycle of the universe!

Until next time ... I will be finishing off my uni semester (even though I can really no longer read or write and am desperately seeking opportunities to simply lie down and rub my belly), and repeating my new mantra ... stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in stay in.

Me and the compound = through. For now.

I'll be the first to admit that I have spent large chunks of this year fantasising about leaving the compound for a few months. Now the time is almost here, I am feeling well - a touch apprehensive.

What the hell has happened to me?

Without wanting to go too deep, I can only conclude that I have made the transition; this being the shift from constantly wanting to leave, to never wanting to leave my safe bubble.

People - I did not see this coming, not for a second.

The predictability of my days, the innumerable aunties, the pool, the assured time alone in the house from 9am-11am every day, the tick tock of routine, the salute from the guards on entry (have become especially accustomed to this), the happiness of my little girl, and the space to study and think ... what can I say? It's a pretty nice life plan at the minute.

I will miss the ladies especially, as will my little lady. Her aunties love her so much, and the maternal vibe is palpable. I will also miss the second pair of loving arms to pick up my 13kg angel every day, as my belly grows out, that spare pair of arms have become critical to my continued muscular health.
I have slowed down, as a result of the third trimester, but also because of PNG. I like it.

I love driving at 50 in the overtaking lane.
I don't mind standing in line for 15 or so minutes while five different ladies try to change the register roll.
I don't mind entering my PIN 8 times before the lady realises the eftpos machine is not plugged in.
I am happy to site behind a ute spewing black smoke with 3 generations perched precariously on the back tray.

How will we cope in Australia? The roads already scare me, I am going to have to dig out the range of anti-tailgating bumper-stickers I designed some time ago for protection. Further, I am going to have to channel my inner passive-aggressive to hold my own at the supermarkets in Civic. On the upside, I am also going to 'have to' enjoy the Australian coast over summer, and 'have to' chow down on a wheel of the finest brie just as soon as numero dos makes an entrance to the world.

Farewell PNG, land of the slow sunshine-filled smiles, and (a slightly guarded) hello to Australia, land of plenty (of soft cheese) and crazy drivers.

Figure 1.0 - One of several anti-tailgating bumper stickers soon to be sported on a road near you (in Canberra).

Two.

Our little lady had her second birthday party over the weekend. It was so much fun to sense her anticipation, decorate the house, prepare food of outrageous colours, help her get dressed into her special party frock and then hold our breath and hope some people came.

Once the party was in full swing, our house was wall-to-wall people, and the two hours became a blur of pastries in and out of the oven and various kids asking me for stuff with blue/green/red stained mouths. I lost track of time, and often the birthday girl. At various moments I hoped to myself someone was showing her a good time.

At 45 minutes in (I thought it had been at least 90), I caught the birthday girl quietly heading upstairs to play by herself. It was a little bit heartbreaking, not least because I completely understood where she was coming from, but I had to gently coax her down. I put her on a loving lap with some cake on the side and got back to the pastries.

The look on her face told me that the birthday cake had to be rolled out ahead of schedule. I started rounding up kids, and just as soon as I did, they slipped through my net and disappeared into the bushes again, screaming and eating those crazy sherbet things I gave them (gee I hope they did not cause permanent staining/facial tattooing).

Happy Birthday was led by me, I hope the strain in my voice wasn't too evident, and the birthday girl stood there looking a bit stunned by the audience and the noise. This girl is a cake lover from way back, but I must say - seemed a little underwhelmed by it all and didn't even eat any.

Oh well - that's kid's parties for you. A lot of work, an emotional roller-coaster for the subject, a mildly trashed house, frosting stained furniture and no memory of what happened once it ends. Some things about parties remain constant throughout life ....

Here's our girl at two hours in, this photo says it all for me.

The cost of your new flat screen

Lately, through my studies and as a result of simply looking out the window - it has started to dawn on me that those who pollute the least seem to have to live amongst the worst environmental conditions. It is just so bloody unfair.

Last night's Dateline on SBS exposed the growing trade in Ghana of the illegal disposal of international electronic waste. I must admit, this is something I have never thought about much. Living in a country like Australia, I simply assume that when I decide to upgrade my laptop, my old one gets recycled correctly by ... well ... someone else, who knows how to do it. But of course - I really have no idea where it goes.

The truth of the matter is that a percentage of disused computer monitors, hard drives, televisions and other electronic items from Australia somehow wind up in shipping containers bound for Ghana, where they are either repaired and resold (at least someone is bothering to do our recycling for us, properly), or burned if they cannot be reused. The toxic fumes and smoke from the waste yards is thick, dangerous, and unregulated. Kids rummage through the waste to resell whatever scrap metal they can. 

This is true globalisation.

Someone in the burbs gets a new flat screen TV, puts the old one out on the front lawn (someone else will deal with it for me), and unbeknownst to them - it is bound for Africa.

Forgive me for thinking that this is absolutely insane.

Something I found particularly distasteful was the honest admission from an Australian recycler that Australian charities are vulnerable to the illegal network of waste disposal. They receive a huge amount of unusable, broken electrics (thanks, citizens for confusing your local charity with the tip), and not being able to process/accept these things - take the first offer they receive from someone willing to take the stuff off their hands. 

Sometimes - the offer is from an illegal e-waste exporting network. We can hardly blame the charities.

Honestly, I don't know what the answer is. We are so entrenched in our culture that is very hard to shake up the individualistic paradigm. But shake it up, we must. Our households are not private secure spaces that belong only to us, they are filled with goods made somewhere else, and everything has a story. Our actions and choices have causal effects, rubbish may be out of sight (ours), but that doesn't mean it has actually been disposed of.

I was glad to hear that the Department of Environment has responded to this report by launching an investigation into how these goods are leaving Australia illegally. Australian Customs said they did not have the resources to undertake the necessary checks on all goods leaving Australia. Fair enough, but we seem to have no problem finding the resources to thoroughly scope out all goods coming into Australia (people, included). 'Not my problem' - at the highest level. 

http://www.sbs.com.au/dateline/story/about/id/601347/n/E-Waste-Hell

I still call Australia (my grumpy, self-interested) home.

Recently I travelled back to Australia as a pregnant woman of eight months, with my soon-to-be-two year old and numerous pieces of luggage as my sole travelling companions. I had assumed that my waddle combined with her toddle were a clear enough cry for help for any onlooker at any of the many critical points in her transit.

Times appear to have changed …..

It was at our first customs queue that things began to look shaky. Smelling faintly of vomit (us both) and wearing my t-shirt back-to-front to overcome the waft, we waited desperately in the diplomatic line for the three Korean tourists in front of us to produce the third missing passport and write something, anything on their arrival cards. At this point, my little traveller decided to lie flat on the ground, chase the customs dog and run under all the security barriers. People stared. I restrained my child by holding her, along with three other bags. Ouch. Eventually we moved forward, and by this time I think I had seen our bag go around the carousel about seven times.

Interestingly as I approached our bag, a gentleman took it off the carousel and placed it near his trolley. I was about to thank him, before I realised he was actually going to take it. I got a luggage trolley and loaded up. He returned and asked very loudly what had happened to his bag. I said I had taken it, and then had to endure a ridiculous scenario of proving my ownership to him. He merely shrugged off my questions regarding how my baggage identifiers may have applied to him … I eventually showed him my name on the barcode and he grudgingly accepted it. There was no apology or even faint embarrassment on his part; I guess it was my fault.

I perched my kid where the handbags normally go in the luggage trolley and raced to the domestic check-in counter thinking we may somehow still get on our connecting flight which was leaving in 45 minutes. I showed the nice lady from Virgin with the cat’s bum face my itinerary and she declared with some disgust that she “couldn’t touch it”. WTF? I wasn't asking her to give it a remedial massage.

So off we went to the train to make our way to the domestic terminal, unaware of what our fate would be.

The next train was in 27 minutes …. needless to say we waved at our plane from the platform as it took off. I mumbled like a crazy woman at the inefficiency of Brisbane airport and wondered aloud how many people had paid five bucks to miss their plane, like we just had.

I somehow managed to get my kid, the pram, our suitcase and other miscellaneous bags off the train and headed to the lift as fast as was pregnantly possible under the circumstances. Many people with no foreseeable need for lift-use pushed in front of me and headed down to the ground floor with their single suitcase and lazy ass, as I stood and waited. I was simply in their way, and they had their bogan holidays to get to (yes, I said it).

At the Virgin service desk I started to cry. It had nothing to do with airports or missing my plane, but I was most certainly a mess. As a result, we got on the next flight for a very small cost and the ladies were awfully nice to me. During this transaction a citizen came in from the side i.e. not from the queue, and introduced herself as such; “Hello, I’m from New Zealand.” My tears almost turned to laughter, but my general anger/fury with the world at large pushed any feelings of amusement back down to where they came from. She told us that her niece was arriving tomorrow and she had no idea which gate to meet her at. As we waited for the rest of her story to unfold, we realised this was her story. I wondered, almost aloud how she even managed to leave her house today to get to the airport. As it turns out, she was making her enquiries with the wrong airline. Godspeed my friend, I suspect it will be a long and confusing road ahead.

On board, it was all the usual things, full plane, straddling strangers who preferred to stay seated, one airsick bag for two seats, a public scolding from the cabin crew for buying my kid a seat and requesting an infant seatbelt (apparently these are mutually exclusive, and therefore we didn’t get one), kid screaming because she could not sit on my lap, kid eventually throwing up again as the plane touched down. At least I was largely prepared that time, most went in the bag and only a little bit on the Virgin seats which I diligently cleaned up, before straddling the stranger next to me one last time, desperate to get off the plane. I may have hit him in the face with the nappy bag, but it was a spatial thing more than intentional.

At last, we were in Sydney. The big smoke, my old home – but now a confusing metropolis that moves too fast and makes a lot of noise. Last time I lived there I don’t even think we had the internet connected in our house, for instance. Anyway, we were directed to Bay 10 in the taxi queue, but I thought there must have been some kind of mistake so stood in Bay 9 as it was vacant. How wrong I was, I was yelled at and quickly moved to Bay 10 where a taxi van waited for us. My load was heavy and were both weak. I think the guy cottoned on to this and was awfully gentle on both of us. He lowered the ramp and told me to get on. I am not sure how/why what happened next did – but he raised it and we were hoisted into the taxi, as though too weak to simply walk in. It was hilarious. An able-bodied, emotionally wrought woman and her pram getting the hoist into a maxi taxi.

I arrived at my destination, burst into tears and got us both out of vomit-stained clothes. We’d made it.

Some days later, I had to travel again. I was not expecting anything nearly as inconvenient/arduous; it was just a simple Sydney-Brisbane flight. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Qantas terminal at Sydney, but it looks more like a Mac outlet these days than an airline. Just lots of big open spaces, and people floating about checking in their luggage by retinal scan or some such thing. I desperately searched for a dated/vintage staff member to help me. After checking in the luggage, we went through security where the kid did her usual body flat-line on the floor while people pretended not to notice, and I took off items of clothing, got out the laptop etc etc. It was a blast! 


We went to a café, ordered a milkshake and sandwich, which required me to leave my child, computer, cash and bags unattended at numerous moments, as no-one could bring anything to my table; “sorry, we don’t do that”. We sat and drank and I attempted to give my lady some Panadol to help with her ears on the flight (doctor’s advice). After her screams and back arches, I managed to get her in a position where I could get some inside her mouth, she swallowed, sat up, and then threw up all over both of us. Just another plane ride really.

When it was time to board, we stood in the line. Various men on very important business calls came and stood alongside us … “hello, do we know each other?” before then proceeding ahead of us, as is their way. I became the crazy mumbling expectant mother again and declared that allocated seating simply was not enough assurance that we were going to get on the plane … we had to push in! As we got to the staff/boarding passes point, my lady flat-lined again on the ground. It’s her specialty at critical transit moments. As I was bending down with my three bags to pick her up, several more important businessmen passed us, and in order to do so – they had to STEP OVER HER, which they did. They stepped over her, as though she was a newspaper.

I had no recourse, and nor did I really want it. But when one offender was attempting to go against traffic on the plane to put a very large inconvenient box somewhere, my huge belly and nappy bag may have knocked him off course.

The stress! It was so nice to come back to PNG where everything is slow and unreliable and as a result, people are in no real hurry, do not mind helping strangers and smile. Everyone smiles. I wanted to hug the guy on the tarmac with the orange headphones as he gave us that uniquely PNGian nod/salute combo.

A strange feeling of familiarity and affection came over me yesterday as I walked in the baking hot sun with my family towards the terminal, past the Air Nuigini planes that were no doubt delayed by at least 1.5 hours, past the welcoming band that play the same songs on shedule for every flight (whether or not the flight actually arrives at that time), through to the short queue where the lady smiled and gave my kid a stamp on her hand.

I think it’s probably a first – but the slow tropical life with all of its bizarre characteristics felt more familiar to me than the hectic pace of grumpy Australia. 

A litte ray of sunshine

Pure happiness = walking around in the late afternoon with my lady, picking up freshly fallen mango and eating it straight away on the way home. The juice dripped all over her like rain. Her blatant refusal to eat any fresh fruit meant I didn't have to share.

In the gloomiest of times, it is so great the way kids force you to keep it real.

What a bloody mess.

It's a shame that Australia's asylum seeker policy has to be determined and managed by politicians. They have really ballsed it up. How do I know this? Because we have been having the same painful, tedious debate for ten years now. Our Parliament has been barking from one side to another the entire time, and where are we now? Yawn. Back to where we started.

What a waste of time. And money ... the waste of money is shameful.

The Year 6 class at your nearest school would probably do a better job coming up with ideas. Or your local beautician. How about the Big Cheese at Department of Immigration? He had a few ideas ... but then, what would he know? The Rotarians - they work well as a problem-solving team, they would probably come up with some handy approaches. Ask any taxi driver - they will have a thesis on the matter prepared in advance.

It seems the government is going about this in the wrong way. Both sides should just accept they are not up for the job, and contract the issue out. Award the tender to the loopiest possible candidate and watch this space. It could really not get much worse. In fact - they would probably come up with a multi-million dollar palm-off to impoverished nations as a 'deterrent' with the bulk of people ultimately being resettled in Australia ... if that idea was not already protected under political copyright.

It is cheaper and more efficient to process asylum seekers who land on Australian territory in Australia, yet this seems to be a political irrelevance.

High Court ruling getting you down? Just change the Migration Act.

If I hear Tones refer to 'Stopping the Boats' again ..... I am going to have to knock on his hard hat and point out that the only way he can really do this is by building a massive wall in the ocean. A domestic policy will not really do the trick.

Suspect rougher seas ahead for the disastrous journey of this little policy area. What a mess.

For my friend

So the day has come when I finally have to mourn you. Oh how that black bitch shadowed you for the 20 or so years of our friendship. She sometimes tortured you in ways we could all see, but I am sure her shadow was with you constantly. I don't know how you did it.

How did you manage to be so funny and warm and loyal and unbelievably generous? How did you do that with that shadow hanging around? Sometimes you were a little bit out there with your generosity, you would go over the top. I loved that about you. Sometimes you would do crazy shit. I loved that about you too (eventually). Sometimes you would close up and I couldn't find you for weeks. I hated that. I could never understand how it was easier for you to be alone. But then, I suppose I could never really understand what you were going through.

You were so many things to so so many people. This would sometimes really piss me off about you. Why did you run away from us? The ones who really knew you. But of course, sometimes it was probably so much easier for you to not be known. To be far away, where you could control how people saw you, and manage the blackness. You did it incredibly well, for so long. And now all I can think is that every day must have been hell. Were you always pretending it was okay? God, I hope some days were actually okay for you.

From primary school you have been in my world, and since high school you have been my friend. In school you were so naturally beautiful, it was infuriating. You look amazing in every photo I have ever seen of you, and it was effortless. I'm not sure if you ever saw this. Certainly, the guys did, everyone else's boyfriend did. God it was so annoying. You had the power my friend, it used to drive me crazy. Particularly the way you didn't seem to care. What a force you were!

And from high school when you used to be 'moody' somedays, we flowed into university and beyond. It was during those times that I learned you were not moody, you were sick. It was so scary the first time I realised this. I was scared as I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to talk to you about this. I saw the cracks take form, they were so dark and deep and when you would fall into them your whole world slipped away from you, and hung in the balance, just waiting for you to come back.

I have waited for you to come back so many times.

Even so, I don't think I ever thought we would really lose you.

I was selfish. I wanted you to stay and hang on for me. I do not know or understand your pain, and I never have. Even when I came to the hospital, and we talked, and you had somehow managed to hang on - I thought that you would always be here. Even then, when you looked me in the eye and told me you didn't want to. I'm not sure if I really believed you, but I was touched by the balls of your honesty, because I know you never wanted me to see you like that.

And now, with the flick of a button we are in a different phase of our lives, and so many memories are 10 or 20 years old. So much has happened and changed, but in finding out that you are gone, it is as though no time has elapsed. I am right back in your world.

We always said it didn't matter whether we talked or not - we were rock solid and things would maintain themselves. It was only last week that I found myself wondering whether even you and I might have stretched the elastic out a bit too far, and that maybe it was time to let it go again and connect. I wish I called you, maybe I might have thrown a spanner in the works and kept the bitch at bay for a bit longer.

But that's only what I want. It's not what you wanted, I suppose. I hope.

To my beautiful beautiful, complex, wonderful, infuriating, dynamic, hilarious friend - may you now be free of the burdens of your sickness. May you be somewhere at peace, laughing and resting and finally feeling weightless and free of the blackness, maybe for the first time.

I'm sure it is a wonderful feeling for you.

And as for us - we will gather at your funeral and love you in the myriad ways people you have known loved you. Just know that you were incredible.

We miss you and the world will not be the same anymore.

A time to atone?

It is easy to forget events in our recent history. Things move so fast, the world keeps on spinning, and old things get replaced with new. Watching the David Hicks interview on the ABC last night took me back. It took me back to that dark dark place not that long ago, where people were scared, two corners of the world that could not be more different were somehow intertwined, and governments of all persuasions dug their heels in as far as they could go to achieve .... something.

It was a scary time.

Scary not because bombs were falling in my backyard (luckily for me I lived in the corner of the world where I could just watch them fall in other people's backyards on television), but because the social structures and politics of the world as I knew it got a little bit tough and jaded, and it didn't seem possible to squeeze them back into shape.

As the tenth anniversary of September 11 approaches, we will all once again be reminded of the horror of that day, and simultaneously be directed to contemplate the ongoing horror of the war in Afghanistan. Two diametrically opposed and geographically separate places, joined by animosity, fear and war, drawing in many, many lives along the way in the ten year spiral.

George Bush.

Dick Cheney.

David Hicks.

The Mums, Dads and kids of all those lost in NYC on 9/11.

The Taliban.

Osama Bin Laden.

John Howard.

Citizens of Afghanistan.

The Allied Forces.

Tony Blair.

Some people have been lucky enough to be in another phase of their lives now, while others are still enduring different kinds of hell; grief that won't go away, fear, war, depression, physical wounds, uncertainty, persecution, disability, and it goes on.

George Bush got retirement and Osama Bin Laden got a pretty easy end. He for example - did not have to endure five years at Guantanamo Bay like his alleged soldier, David Hicks. Like all good dictators, Osama Bin Laden spun the ideology like a master, and then lived a life on his own terms, risking very little and certainly not his own safety or life, like the easily led young men below him did.

So with the big players of the day now largely out of our consciousness and the current political landscape, can we move on? I suppose we often like to think we have, but there are a few inconvenient reminders that pop up from time to time to remind us of the legacy that has been left.

David Hicks - the man is free now and he can talk.

A little bit inconvenient for some, but perhaps an opportunity to reflect on how things might have been done differently?

Every Australian soldier that dies in Afghanistan.

Do their families understand what they died for? I hope so.

John Howard

He sounds wise and relaxed, like all former PMs who no longer have a political agenda or really give a shit what people think anymore. But I was recently reminded of his steely determination on the David Hicks matter at the time, and I remain as bewildered today as I did then. Was it worth it? What was it really all about?

Even in applying the most rational, non-emotive, non-political analysis I can possibly muster (as a subjective, biased individual) - I cannot recognise any good outcomes for any side of this ten year horror. There has been no victory, only countless deaths and lives ruined.

Some fat cats sit comfortably in retirement, while some other poor bastards come crawling out of the conflict on all fours, still alive but no longer with a life.

Why?

http://www.getup.org.au/campaigns/justice/inquiry/never-again

Stats at week's end.

I am beat.

Three assignments in the last week: finito.

Bun in the oven: ever growing.

My kid's bedtime: later and later.

My kid's bedtime style: wackier and wackier (on the floor is the latest, as in - she will only go to sleep down there).

Working demands on my beloved: Great.

His ability to don apron strings and cook me dinner: Nil.

Ratio of daily rest time for me, and my haus meri: 0:5

My desire to begin 'confinement' now and spend next 3 months in cave wearing trackies and watching 30 Rock: High to very high.

Over and out. My body-length maternity pillow awaits.

Woop-woop!

Yes, this really is my life. At least today.

This morning I was reminded that tomorrow our house would be hosting the 'baby-group' i.e. the employer-sponsored 3 hr morning tea for the ladies, and that I should buy some provisions. Hokey-dokey then!

And off I trotted to the shops, like a good boss meri.

I will admit that I quite like the pride the ladies take in hosting this shin-dig, and am generally amused at how the financial support, blessing and even the home of the boss meri are completely overlooked when who is hosting these days is being considered, i.e. it is not and never will be me.

The food I bring back is always carefully placed in a 'baby-group-do-not-touch' kind of zone, just to make sure we did not eat the bright pink lamingtons for dinner, for example. I understand the spatial delineations of this routine now, it has been made crystal clear.

But when the spare fridge got fired up today for two loaves of pizza bread (yes, that's a spare ENORMOUS fridge and an empty freezer up top), I felt I had to step in.

Umm .... do you need this fridge for anything else, or was it just the two loaves of bread?

Okay - then I think they can probably just go in the existing fridge which is not full and can easily accommodate.

And with a degree of hesitation that was great enough to be observable to the naked eye, the bread was taken out and put in with the more common, every day food.

Oh well - it will make a good story for the ladies on the day! They can have fun sitting around, eating cake talking about the crazy boss meri while I make myself scarce upstairs and spend 3 hours pretending that I do not live in my house.

Once more, today I have asked myself how it has come to this.

Reflections on the way life used to be ... from a crazy pregnant person.

Pregnancy is such a 'magical' time .... isn't it just? The sciatica, the increasingly uncomfortable sleeps, the disappointing wardrobe options that shrink with every centimetre you go the other way, the way you need an actual hoist to get off the couch as times goes on, reflux, hatred of wine - your life long friend ... and it goes on. The last time I was pregnant I'm pretty sure I obsessed about every stage/minor change and complained loudly, often. This time I like to think I've been much more stoic and selfless, my body is a temple ... albeit not mine, etc etc.

In any pregnancy however, I think it is safe to say some things are consistently lacking appeal/relevance (and best avoided):

1) Drunk people, especially close loved ones who forget they are drunk and you are cold stone sober, for the 26th week in a row.

2) Body waxing - Jesus Christ. The pain.

3) Dance floors, again the drunk people. No thanks, I really meant it when I said I didn't want to dance, you see I have gained 8 kg in the last few months, most of it located at a crucial tipping point on my front. And just to remind concerned people who still can't quite understand why you are not having fun, again ... the 26th consecutive week of sobriety. Boring, isn't it?

4) The pool guys cleaning the pool - 3 guys, one pregnant belly and a neon bikini. I don't think so.

5) Any TV program on childbirth, esp. where something goes wrong. It really is as though it is your own child. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.

6) Anyone who has been within 200m of the Weigh Inn Hotel. Avoid.

7) Multiple sets of stairs, toddler, 5 bags of groceries - at same time.

8) Your old bras and cute matching underwear sets. Consider again in 18 months.

9) Intense political/topical debate - you never know which side you will end up with the hormones, and general annoyance at being the only sober person at the table.

10) Fish products of any kind - they are repulsive and vomit inducing.

You wanna hang out? I'm so much fun to be around!

Home sweet home

The sight of 7 tradies at the front door at 0800 today did not fill me with confidence. You want to drill a hole in my bathroom ceiling? Sure, come on in, coffee's on!

Why the hole?

I asked a few questions to sound interested/concerned, but I have to admit - I've largely given up and now accept my fate. The biannual drill/plaster festival at randomly selected houses across the compound usually comes without warning and sometimes, also purpose.

After establishing what I thought to be the focal point (the bathroom ceiling that required the hole), I came downstairs to find two guys pulling the stereo apart and trying to get at the wall.

Morning!

Ummmm .... the bathroom's upstairs dudes.

Mutter mutter mutter (them to/about me).

So yes, I have spent the morning with one eyebrow raised at a cluster of strange men doing inexplicable things in my home, and occasionally reaching into a full washing machine to pull the WHITES out of the DARKS/COLOURS. I am not sure how much clearer I can make the principle of colour segregation with washing, without moving into deeply racially offensive territory.

Apparently the painter will be here in a few days to 'patch up', Great! Maybe he could take a look at the hole with the live wires poking out in the spare room that remains from the previous festival.

The domestic burden is heavy today, my friends (but at least we have a brand new hole in the bathroom ceiling).

The suburban drag.

If you have a spare 20 minutes and want to be challenged and entertained - check out this TED lecture. I had to look at it for uni - so happy that this piece of uni work turned out to be so engaging and at times - hilarious. But yes, re. suburbia and where we find ourselves today ... shudder shudder. There is much ugliness to be repaired!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1ZeXnmDZMQ

There are those who have nothing, and there are those who steal Nikes.

The commentary I have heard regarding the current lawless mess of cities across the UK has been interesting, as across all perspectives one thing seems constant. No one quite understands what the hell is happening. Journalists and commentators are now starting to weave their own hypotheses into analysis, in lieu of anything more substantial I suppose. 'Disenfranchised youth', 'The forgotten generation', 'London's underclass' ... and it goes on. Is this the case? I'm not sure, as there doesn't seem to be any commonly held or apparent ideology underpinning these actions, and indeed there are no public representatives or spokespersons for the rioters. There are just a lot of people making a big mess and stealing shit. Society will not look kindly on them (not that society generally embraces young people wearing hoodies I suppose); but the footage of people trying on shoes before they steal them and lining up to get the security tags gives the whole picture a particularly offensive hue.

The point of it all? Maybe there is no point - which is pretty hard to stomach. What does it say about life and culture for these young people? There seems to be zero connectivity to the wider communities in which they live, they have been able to disentangle themselves from society to enable them to behave as though they have no public responsibility or obligation. It's pretty incredible, because even though people do it tough in the UK - they still live in a free society with police that will protect them if they need it, hospitals that will treat them if they get injured, in say - a riot, and schools that will educate them. But perhaps they are not doing this for any sense of disenfranchisement, maybe they are just doing it because everyone else is.

Whatever the reason - it is so disappointing and ultimately so pointless and wasteful.

In PNG, I would like to see a few more people rioting. I am almost ready to get the ball rolling on behalf of the endless numbers of people who endure and re-endure hardship at every single corner. The thing that is so hard for me to understand is the blanket acceptance of the status quo. People have been worn down, and there they stay.

A mother with a sick daughter takes the day off work to take her daughter to the doctor. They spend all day on public buses and several hours waiting at two locations to be told that one place does not have the right medicine, and the other closed down months ago. They can't afford to go anywhere else. They go home and ask their church for a blessing to improve health.

A man drives his friends home after a game of football. His car gets stopped by a few guys who say they are going to steal it. He says "WTF?". They stab him and he bleeds to death. He has a wife and 4 kids at home.

These are two stories of people in my circle, or outer circles this week. The death of that young man is absolutely heartbreaking and infuriating. Please, someone - start a riot!

And for everyone here who is sitting at home watching loved ones get sick with no idea what is wrong with them (and no money to find out) - please start a riot!

People who have close to nothing spend so much of their time just trying to stay at zero, constantly working to escape falling back and going into deficit - whether it be health, finance, school, food, housing, staying out of jail etc.

People who have a lot more than nothing just want more and more.

Oh the imbalance. It's getting under my skin this week.

Beep beep!

I realise that tales of odd driving behaviours in foreign lands are a dime a dozen but ... I am going to add to the pile anyway.

This morning I was speeding along the freeway, smugly overtaking all manner of under-performing vehicles on the big hill (including the fuzz), before I reached the crest and had to slam on the breaks. My speed was quickly reduced to 40 km p/h due to insanely slow moving vehicles in both lanes - not unusual in these parts. Slightly more unusual however, was the fact both cars had slowed down to enable the drivers to communicate. I think they were really angry with each other. It was rush hour. These guys didn't give a hoot, however. One hand was angrily pointing a fist out the window, while the respondent reached up and over his roof to respond in kind.

What I liked about this exchange (aside from the fact there appeared to be no guns involved and it was just a good old-fashioned freeway tiff at 40 km p/h) was that one of the guys popped his hazard lights on when he realised how much traffic was building up behind him. Indeed, it was a hazard! His very own self-made hazard.

After we had passed an exit and they had moved into one lane (the fast lane) - so that everyone could overtake them (from the slow lane), they pulled over. Were they seeking a more fulfilling type of combat? Best to never really know, I remain happily ignorant.

An exciting film opportunity - no acting experience required.

I can't wait wait for the Australian Department of Immigration upload on You Tube! I just looked and it doesn't seem to be there, but keep a close watch. What upload you say?

Well, the bright sparks at immigration are going to dabble in some quick film making to create a piece to further 'deter' folks who think Australia looks like a good option (compared to war or famine, for instance). I guess endless years in immigration detention, a shit scary boat journey, the odd riot, increased chances of mental illness and no secure future are not enough of a deterrent to some persistent people who simply must illegally board a boat (but it's not the people per se we are addressing through these extensive measures, but rather the naughty smugglers). Oh, I forgot. That's only the Australian option. Now that's off the cards, people actually just get turned around and sent back to Malaysia anyway. Problem solved. There, they will have the chance to 'work' slum-style, so it's not as though their livelihoods have been completely brushed over by a rushed policy. They have a future.

Anyway, back to the movie. The Australian Government is going to film the passage of some unwitting movie stars embarking on the first return journey to Malaysia and upload it to You Tube (the international platform for conveying all types of messages - no English required).

Hmm. Many questions have been whirring around my mind since hearing this today. Firstly - will there be a sign at a relevant transit point similar to the ones I occasionally see at Customs to inform me that Ch 7 is there filming Bogan, sorry Border Security and if I did not wish to be filmed, I should inform 'them' (I have never understood who 'they' are, or indeed seen a phone number). Do asylum seekers enjoy these same wonderful rights (ie. you WILL be filmed, but please inform us if you do not wish footage to be aired). And secondly, who is directing these films? Did the Australian Government put the opportunity out to tender, inviting AFTRS grads and others? I am thinking that it should probably be shot in a realistic/docco style, I hope they don't over-produce it too much (like Ch 10 has done with Masterchef - completely ruined a great format). But say they do decide to adopt a genre approach - what will the soundtrack be? If they try to make it look happy/appealing - suggest they go with Holiday. If they go with slightly more poignant, drama style - suggest Leaving on a jet plane. If they decide the message is best conveyed in shoot-em-up action genre - suggest Am I ever gonna see your face again. In any case, there is no doubt in my mind that a soundtrack can only enhance the messaging. Suspect there may be an outside chance that film crews/voiceovers used for Border Security may even be consulted to assist with this important project for Australia's immigration policy (given how proud immigration senior execs are of the commercial success of that program).

So many possibilities! Expect that whoever had this assignment land on their desk last Friday at immigration (let's be honest, it couldn't have been much before then if it's in the news today) cannot believe their luck. Hopefully it will be in the hands of an artistic young departmental graduate who always thought they had more colour/pizazz than Canberra had to offer and throws themselves into the project with a zeal and vigour their drab colleagues did not know/expect they possessed.

Oh, and one more question. Will the faces of asylum seekers have that chequered thing (you can still make out the face if you squint) to protect identity? They are, after all potentially seeking protection from persecution/war/hostile regimes/other nasty things that may want to kill them or their families - and it probably wouldn't be very cool to broadcast their face to the world as they try (and fail) to seek asylum in Australia.

I cannot wait! Almost more exciting than the final Harry Potter release.

An empty haus at the bottom of the hill.

Doesn't it suck when you have to say goodbye to peeps you love? Living this international lifestyle, hellos and goodbyes are all part of the package I suppose. It just would have been easier if we were saying goodbye to the neighbours over the fence who start their fighting at 10.30pm every Wednesday night, rather than the neighbours on our side of the razor wire who cook dumplings for us every Friday, gave us a case of their own precious wine when we were looking desperately in need of a drink a few months ago, laugh at most of our jokes, and have lovely offspring that ours loves.

Well, shit. Obviously, as their departure date got closer I started mentally breaking up with them anyway, to soften the blow.

I would be sadder if I wasn't so completely overjoyed for them. They are headed for many new exciting adventures and will soon smell the air of freedom and awesomeness of the next few months. Farewell to the Netsters and the Redster ... thanks for doing the unthinkable and brightening up our compound days and nights for the last 18 months. Think of us as we continue to exercise in the oval in our orange overalls.

A care package every few months would be nice too.

WTF

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2011-07-27/worker-suing-after-sex-injury/2812704

The earth and me.

I took this quiz today ... it is a way to have a good hard look at one's ecological footprint (and you get to pick a cool avatar); http://files.earthday.net/footprint/. The test results came in and told me that if everyone lived like me, we would need 3 planet earths. Gee, and I thought I was kind of low key. But alas, I am not. I am middle class and white and have a lifestyle to match. The planes, the Mac products, our car, the occasional roast beef fillet with roast potatoes, using the fans more often than the A/C ... not quite as low key as living in a mud hut with no power, I suppose.

Living in PNG I must declare straight up that I will not be eating or buying much local, and have no choice but to rely on imported products. But I am thinking that forcing my family to change habits when we return to our very comfortable life at some stage, is on the menu. I think it's time. Our wealth and good fortune (collectively) makes us fortunate but also seems to be a source of potential havoc for the future. I am waiting and hoping that we will see some proper leadership from governments on climate change, carbon emissions and our total dependence on fossil fuels for everything (what do we do when they run out - Plan B, anyone?), but am starting to sense that change must come from all angles, all the time, from now until when it arrives.

What this means for me - I am probably going to have to learn how to garden (it does not come naturally and every basil plant in the family has lasted for exactly one garnish before death). Maybe we will even revive the plot of land we bought in a community garden before our first baby was born ... this is almost three years ago now, and the land remains unworked - to say the least. I had grand visions of ploughing away with my beautiful newborn baby strapped to my back, but this was before I came to understand the reality of getting anything done, such as the simple purchase of toilet paper (unbleached) was fraught with roadblocks when you have a kid on your back (literally and otherwise).

So yes, we shall grow our own food. And perhaps we shall milk a goat ... another learning curve but not insurmountable. And as for those plane trips - we will buy a caravan and paint daisies on it and holiday annually at Ulladulla. We will find a way of driving around in an electric, non-carbon emitting fashion. Perhaps we will get a horse instead of a Prius (and feed it only locally-grown organic products). Our family will wear only what we already have and recreate it in many new exciting ways ... oh how lucky our kids will be, especially when the school disco rolls around. We will not upgrade our technology, and I will proudly continue to use my old Nokia with the missing button (the one that does everything) and cannot even take photos. We will walk wherever we can (within reason) and do so with a smile on our face. I will give the bird to Woolworths, once and for all (for anyone who knows Dickson Woolworths in the ACT - this has been a long time coming anyway, whether or not underpinned by sound ethical framework).

What am I saying here? The whole process is quite strange because we actually have to undo the amazing progress of humans over the last few hundred years to attain a better, easier, more prosperous life. Now that we have it, we need to start living a little bit poor again, and saying no to some of the stuff we really don't need. It is definitely a strange reversal. And the other thing that is strange, is that while there is definitely a growing movement and noise in our communities to change our ways, massive chunks of humanity are still aspiring for the basic stuff - some clean water, a community powerpoint to plug them in to the grid. The imbalance is completely whack, but I think we need to live as though we are part of the whole story. For me, I am lucky enough to be on the side that needs to wind down my wealth, I wish this was a larger part of the current debate in Australia (which happens to be one of the highest consuming/emitting countries per capita, internationally).

We are so lucky - let's get active in this debate and act like the global citizens we pretend we are not.

The end of the affair.

Like a heartbroken human who is not ready to let go, I have spent the morning pouring over my remaining holiday snaps, smiling with tear stung-eyes as I am transported back to those rosy days. Whhhyyy did my holiday have to break up with me? We seemed so happy together, everything felt so .... right.

It really is like a break up. I can't focus on the now, everything reminds me of then (completely untrue as current situation bears not a scrap of resemblance to salad days in Asia - only written for dramatic effect).

Of course, what I should have been doing all morning is work. Uni is in full swing, from what I understand of my current suite of subjects, I really should have designed and built a dynamic new urban centre and solved the conflict between sustainable development and global investment in the developing world by now. It is, after all - Friday.

All I am capable of in reality, is superficially scanning documents ... and then returning to touch up my holiday snaps. A few of my current favourites are posted down below.

Highlights of my week: two, yes t-w-o midweek school night dinners with fellow inmates. Dinner #1 was to celebrate a birthday (I now know the real value of the pizza stone, why I thought we could create pizza goodness without it I do not know) and Dinner #2 was to mark the end of the compound sentence for some of our buddies. Curries, wine and a few tears. Friends and laughter are the bomb at all times, but in particular for a girl who is only in the first stage of a horrible break up (pure devastation).

Next stage: rebound.

But to where/what/who? (Hopefully my uni work).

Seeker Lover Keeper

This is a beautiful beautiful album. Three ladies, a piano and harmonies to boot. So perfect for gloomy cold days inside when being tucked up is the only option.

Go forth and listen.

Say it like it is, grandpa!

I love this guy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v​=baUh4pC-MUo

Do I love him because we share an opinion? Maybe. But I love him anyway I think.

Three cheers for his succinctness.

(I suppose I could pause to reflect on why many Australians seem to show no respect towards political leaders, but I will quite blatantly do that some other time when it bears down more closely with my own team).

She came down with a bump.

I think it is safe to say there is no comedown greater and more complete than marking the end of a wonderful holiday with a return to the compound.

Not that I mean to sound negative ....

The tick tock of compound life continues on its merry way, as it has always done: the leaf blower, the pool guy, the concrete walls, the razor wire, and the soapy delicious water pouring down from above right onto the chairs outside every time the people upstairs clean their balcony.

Yes, some things in life are certain.

Our little girl however, is thrilled. I suppose the pace of holiday life got weary for her, and now she is safely wrapped up in the predictability of her days and nights again. Having said that, we continue to work on a bedtime that is pre-9pm and are entirely to blame for this undesirable predicament.

Holidays always have a little bit of a sting I suppose, in that they end. And one must step back into reality, which usually is not aware of you ever leaving and forces you to pick up where you left off and continue on your way.

*cue tantrum* I DON'T WANT TO GO BAAACK * cue tantrum* I DON'T WANT TO GO BAAACK* cue tantrum* I DON'T WANT TO GO BAAACK * cue tantrum *

The eternal love.

The time has come to bid Asia farewell. Strangely, we've had two Italian meals in the last 24 hours ... we shall make up for it tonight.

Today we shopped, proper-like. I learned that I require the biggest size available of undies in a department store (I know this, because the nice lady measured my ass with a tape measure, just to make sure), and my guy learned that he simply cannot buy trousers or shoes in this country (no tape measure required - everyone just knew). Our child learned how to press buttons incessantly on all lifts, and the whole family learned what an awesome place Singapore is to have a kid and be pushing a pram around. The most unexpected people will apologise and step aside for a man and pram (drunk bankers, for example) ... and everyone loves our kid .... and everywhere has very cool baby chairs.

It's an oasis, I never knew such a place could exist.

And tonight, we will bunker down one last time in a 5 star king size bed, and return to the room to find our sheets pulled back and slippers laid out, before awaking to have a 2 hour buffet breakfast. Ahhh. This is life.

Next stop - Oz.

thai times

A shocking realisation.

So I have found myself walking around a number of markets in the last few days. Cash in hand, I have had a desperate desire to buy big, buy anything, and buy hard. Every time however, I have returned to base (where Daddy-O awaits with pram in one hand and cocktail in the other) empty-handed. Why? Because I don't feel like buying cheap crap. Why? Because I am in my mid 30s and I suddenly prefer small art galleries, designer one-offs and interesting local stuff that doesn't smell like plastic that will probably kill me in 10 or so days. I am shocked. Without markets, I have nothing. I have spent years trawling markets in Asia to shower myself and others in wares that I have spent hours bargaining for, and now? Now, I am headed straight to the food area to see if I recognise things I have tried to cook from David Thompson, or to simply buy and eat anything green and pandan flavoured.

Sigh. Perhaps I have just reached my natural limit for knock-offs and stuff that lasts one wash. What's the point, really?

A final postscript: My most recent attempt at overcoming the very real lack of interest I seem to now have in tourist markets was a quick bulk purchase of multiple table runners earlier this morning. If you have a birthday coming up soon .... you might get lucky.

A list

Some things that make me happy (and happen to be occurring at this moment):

1) Finishing a great book on the balcony

2) Watching a storm come over the ocean some minutes later

3) Awaking a little lady so she can run outside and splash in all the puddles

4) Eating at two restaurants per day

5) Having unbroken uninterrupted time with my peeps

6) The feel of my lady's little hand on 'the baby'

7) Finding her reading books to herself in her room

8) The sound of her singing

9) The sight of Daddy-o drinking long necks of Thai beer during business hours

10) Thai desserts

from the big smoke to the beach ....

First pair of cheap sunglasses: check.

Blogging from Thailand seems kinda fun. But what is not so fun, is blogging in Thai. So please bear with me as I navigate my new blogpage - in Thai. It's a bit like someone turning out all the lights and having to feel your way around by remembering where all the furniture is.

We are in Phuket. And as such - embracing all the beauty Thailand has to offer the average tourist. We are drinking fruit shakes, eating at as many restaurants as possible each day, perusing each new 20 page menu in plastic sleeves as though it was different from the last (it never really is - but who cares?), taking photos of our kid wearing our sunglasses, teaching her how to say thank you in Thai, and being mildly pushy parents when an appropriate time comes for her to use it (she can say it perfectly, but only ever out of earshot of the real audience). Lucky for us 'how embarassing' is not part of her conjecture - yet.

Our place is right on the beach, as in - I could throw my rambutan shell from the balcony into the sea ... if the mood took me. I must admit that one day it did, but a huge gust of wind blew it back onto the manicured lawn right in front of me. Feeling the burning of public shame rising up inside me, I scaled the mini wall and hauled myself and 5 month preggers belly down the steep hill to retrieve it. Fool. Now I just put them in the bin.

Being this close to the sea is wonderful, but being so close to this sea in particular has forced me to map out my family's escape route in the event of a tsunami. It's a bit hard to ignore, there are signs everywhere. I hope I am not being too much of a downer on the relaxed Thai island holiday scene when I ask my family to perform a drill every morning at 0700. Always best to be sure.

To get into the swing of things, we purchased a suitably over-the-top floatation device for our little monkey to use in the pool. Actually, we bought her an inflatable car, it has a steering wheel with a horn that really honks, and a numberplate; SEA 700. We couldn't wait to give her a spin in it. After palming off the inflating bit to Daddy-o, we popped her in it and let her set sail. Minutes later, it became apparent that the space between the leg holes was so narrow as to resemble a conventional g-string and was in fact, performing that exact role. Alarmed, but also in mild hysteria, we repositioned her so her legs went over the steering wheel instead. Some minutes later, she had pulled the horn to bits and started throwing it into the pool. In sum, it took approximately 7 minutes for the inflatable car to be reduced to simply an inflatable 'thing'. Overall, baht well spent. Well worth the early morning negotiation to get the price down by that last pesky 50 baht.

And now - well it is 5.30pm. I must admit that the disc of Play School has run its course, Daddy-O has come back inside and I must sign off. Time for a family talk on where to go for dinner.

We heart Singers

Well well.

What a difference an extended period away from the compound makes. Daddy-O has taken to daytime TV, we are eating out around 8 times per day, the kid is asking to go to cafes every hour, and we are enjoying walking around hand in hand in the free world.

Singapore is a wonderful bounty of public order, cleanliness, great food, diversity, green spaces, architecture and cheap taxis. We are basking in it. The order, efficiency and did I mention order - of this place is something I want to squeeze tightly and never let go of. Neat taxi queues, defined pedestrian spaces, no rubbish, the punctuality of the whole machine and the responsiveness of the people who answer our endless calls for room service is a true joy. Singapore is Asia without the chaos, yet with all the food and waving gold cats you could ever need.

It's our guy's 31st today and being on the go has somewhat hampered my ability to prepare birthday celebrations. While he took a moment's respite on the 2m high king size bed, I readied myself and the little person to go downstairs and organise a cake/candle combo to be delivered to our room later tonight. As I was about to step outside, the doorbell rang with 3 nice men bearing a birthday cake. They politely requested my permission to come inside and sing Happy Birthday. As they passed me I whispered to one of them how they knew ... it was 'on their records'. And so the cake was presented to the weary man on the bed with three strange men singing to him, we joined in for the harmony and then they were gone. It was difficult not to accept the credit for the gesture, but alas I was beaten.

That's the Singaporean way - efficient beyond belief.

Out.

I only got one thing to say today:

See you suckers!!!

We are now on holidays, the way I feel about it (so excited I can barely breathe) would suggest that I have been working consecutively every day for 1.5 years. We all know the truth is something closer to swanning around aimlessly in an enclosed space.

But - I am breaking free of the compound and look forward to bringing stories and photos from the big old outside world!

Adios.

Setting sail ... tentatively.

Postscript.

Jesus.

Even I was surprised when the aforementioned wound up on the family tree. It surpassed my wildest expectations of boldness and faith. He had taken the place of the last remaining great-grandparent. We were/are gobsmacked.

Needless to say - he did last long mixing with the rejects at the dusty old top of the fridge. Of course there were higher aspirations at play.

I think there may have been audible gasps when we first noticed the newest member of the family looking back at us with those unrealistic blue eyes and Californian bone structure. There he was, sitting pretty in the place of the matriarch. Perhaps one of us dropped the F-bomb (we were mid-goodnight story at the time). As I took it down, we started whispering in a slightly loud and panicked way, trying to find the other photo. As casually as I could, I crawled around the floor and looked under everything - but it was nowhere to suggest it had merely fallen off the wall.

After we had tucked the offending photo in to a nice dark place under many books, we tucked our lovely into bed, under her slightly marred family tree. And she slept.

The missing photo has since been found (interestingly - under the same pile of heavy books that I used to hide the photo) - and returned to its place on the tree.

And as for the rest?

Jesus is on a return journey, back to sender.

Vis-a-vis us - well, we need to be a bit less 'open' and a bit more 'zero tolerance' for nice ladies with big religious messages directed squarely at our 20 month old.