Air of Opportunity

OK I am lucky enough to read the other entries before my post. And can I indulge in comment for a moment and say this weeks blog represents the essence of the three different tales perfectly. The haunting quality of dawn London, the heartstrings of home just by looking at Aussie soil and the unknown limits of the east.

Now I have been battling the weather in HK more than I have ever been at odds with environment. This year has been hard and sweaty. After months of perspiration and unchanging heat, the air suddenly sprung to life and whistled a tune. I will never ever take for granted a breeze again. For once the air moved (about a week ago) I have felt an ocean of possibility creep into my life.

I can breath again and it makes me want to dance!

This week my cousin is in town, and we indulged in that famous HK past time - reflexology. But on the way we stopped in at a Chinese medicine shop for a spot of tea. If I can work it out I will attach a little video of the medicine man's spectacular work on the abacus. And after our foot work out we had some dumplings hidden by a doona of noodles.

And did I mention, the air, at a crisp 23 deg I am so so grateful.

Also grateful I wasn't swept up in the typhoon that brought about the change in temp, but send my thoughts out to poor China that keeps whisking away these typhoons from Hong Kong Harbour at the very last minute.

Very busy medicine shop, the staff fulfill prescriptions in brown packages of amazing land and sea produce that certainly look effective.

For instance this enormous looking Gecko can treat asthma and strengthen liver function. But could it really be a natural alternative to Viagra too! The sign says so.

I am in awe of this ancient skill but the sound of the clicking is like being tickled.

I wanted to steal this sign for Hugo's room. It was at the reflexology lounge. When my cousin and I noticed it, we had to stifle pant wetting laughter. The kindly staff thought we didn't understand the context of the notice and re-enacted (in charades) how some people react when having there feet massaged.

Yep hungry!

and off home in that lovely lovely air!

Wetlands

I have long believed that this blog thing is good for me. It gets me thinking and it forces me out and about when otherwise I'd be a brain-dead blob of exhaustion lying on the couch in a puddle of bleuuuurrrggghhh.  And another handy side-effect, I'm realising, is that it is helping  me discover little pockets of wonderfulness in my own little neighbourhood. Like this:

That, my exotic, foreign-land-dwelling friends, is a bona fide, albeit man-made, wetlands bang smack in the inner west, a few k's from the CBD and no more than three blocks from my very own front door! And until I was blog-obligated to take a walk today, I never knew it existed. It is the Whites Creek Wetlands, apparently constructed in 2002 to clean nitrogen and phosphorus from stormwater in the nearby Whites Creek and help prevent algal blooms in Sydney Harbour further downstream. Cool, huh? There are ducks and frogs and insects and lizards and, best of all, the peculiar and calming sound of trickling water. Lovely.

An October stroll

I decided to give the joy of the tube a miss this morning in favour of a stroll to work. I really love this photo that I took along the way for its ability to capture the time of year and something I love about London.



The photo is taken at about the half way point between home at London Bridge and work at Canary Wharf on the week before the clocks turn back for daylight savings. In the foreground is a community kayak centre whilst the neon towers of the financial district loom in the background. To me the photo sums up the little gems you can still find in a heaving metropolis like London. The world's money might be changing hands in the towers above but a stone's throw away beginners are learning how to navigate the Thames in a plastic kayak. Of course I think they're mad to try but I like the fact that they can.

TASK #24

Its walking time again- take the camera and head outside for a stroll.

Naff comedy

Oh how I long for a good video shop, to be able to pop down to the local shops with my trackie dacks on a Sunday night for some videos and chocolate. Perhaps I am walking around blind but I haven't actually seen a video shop in my time in the UK. DVDs are either hired on-line through dedicated websites (LOVEFILM comes to mind) or bought in the very regular HMV sales. Unfortunately I haven't been able to do either this week because we've been away - AGAIN!! This time to beautiful Venice for the weekend where so many of the buildings and sights have appeared in films over the years.













So what are we watching at the moment? Tim and I are slowly making our way through the first series of the television show, West Wing. We're up to DVD 4 of 7 so technically over half way through. Its brilliant. I love the sharp dialogue, the political setting and its ability to mirror what's happening in the world in real life.

Now if I had found the VideoEzy oasis or equivalent the weekly movie I'd have picked would be 'Weekend at Bernies'. I love all types of genres but am a sucker for a really naff comedy.

That's the end of the travelling now for a while so I'm looking forward to embracing the blog again and perhaps buying a few new DVDs to get through the long winter ahead.

All over Almadovar

Oh Pedro, there is no other filmmaker that can paint the world like you.

From the moment I first watched ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER I knew I would always love Pedro. The fiery combination of passionate strong women, tragic circumstances and colours so bold it looks like a 3 year old chose the palate. But for me Almadovar accomplishes the almost impossible, where style, plot, character and themes all take centre stage.

TALK TO HER is the story of two women, a dancer and a female bull fighter who both end up in a coma. It is the story of the men who love them. The irony that these once beautiful accomplished bodies now lie lifeless and limp, but continue to shape the lives of those around them. Thrown in for good luck are a smattering of ballets, operas, and a silent movie about a shrinking tiny man who ends his life in a final moment of pleasure for his full sized lover.

Almadovar pays homage to women of all ages in his movies, and dare I say it, he writes female characters better than most female writers, I always get a sense that he loves women. And his women are so beautiful, seductive and strong and there is nothing Hollywood about them (except for Penelope Cruz but she is not really Hollywood).

When I first saw TALK TO HER, I was a bit awestruck, how could I walk out of a film about disability, death, rape and love and feel as if I had just tasted sangria for the first time.

Yep this movie was a good as I remembered. I thrust aside BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S, FERRIS and DIRTY DANCING for this choice. And as good as those choices are, I was not disappointed in mine.

So here is a biggie to chew on; Do we in 2010, still trust artists with the daunting task of easing our worldly fears?

Well if so, Almadovar you are able to colour life's continuum in a way that makes my heart sing.

Some Kind of Fabulous

I'm at Video Ezy in Marrickville and it's my second video shop of the day and my last chance to find a little-known film from 1988 that changed my life. Satisfaction was about a girl band who spent one long summer living at the beach and playing their music in a bar at night. I don't remember much about it, except that I loved it and I wanted to be one of those girls. Me and a group of friends were so inspired we decided to start our own band. We got as far as naming ourselves - The Fact (right on!) - and having a slumber party to discuss who would play what instrument. But with one classical pianist (me) and not much else between us, a pop band was a bit of a stretch. We did all master the art of blowing rhythmically across the top of a bottle as demonstrated in the Iko Iko scene, but that can only get you so far in the music world. Oh, the songs, the songs - Mr Big Stuff, Dedicated to the One I Love, C'mon Everybody - just glancing through the list on imdb.com now takes me right back to my 13-year-old self. I wanted to be Justine Bateman. I wanted Liam Neeson to sweep me off my feet. I wanted to be friends with that other chick - hey, that's Julia Roberts before she was famous!

Anyway, Satisfaction doesn't seem to have made the transition to DVD so I better pick something else. I'm purposely ignoring the new releases in case I'm tempted to go off task and watch one of the zillion films I've missed recently instead. Hello, Precious. Oh, Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I promise I'll have time for you soon. And there it is - Some Kind of Wonderful. In my rusty old memory, it's blurring together with all the other John Hughes films that filled the weekends of my teen years. I've got Strictly Ballroom in my hand. There's Ferris Bueller. St Elmo's Fire? Stand By Me? Pump Up the Volume? No, the only one I haven't rewatched since I was a kid is Some Kind of Wonderful, and in this moment I know I have to see it again.

I had a crush on Eric Stolz and I think I probably had one on Mary Stuart Masterson too. She could pull off short hair in a way I never quite managed to, but not for want of trying - God, I had some bad hair in the '80s. They play Keith and Watts, high school odd-bods and best buddies, even though she, a tomboy, secretly loves him, an artist. She stoically helps him in his quest to date the popular chick, Amanda Jones (who curiously has the same wavy red hair as him - they could be brother and sister). Of course, he gets the girl and then, of course, realises he really wanted Watts all along. Oh, that final scene at night after the jock guy's party, the rain on the road a metaphor for the tears on Watts's cheeks as she walks away with her broken heart, only to hear him calling her - "Watts! Watts!" - and she turns and he smiles and they kiss and she ends up with the diamond earrings he spent his college money on. Some kind of bloody cheesy brilliant.

TASK # 23

Take a visit to your video store and rent a weekly. Find a film you once loved? Why did you love it so much and is it as good as you remembered?

Actinidia chinensis confiture

I've made jam before. Jam, chutney, sauce, curd. I've chopped and stirred and bottled into sterilised jars. I've Christmas gifted jam and I've sold it at markets (a long time ago, mind). And while a good bit of jam-making features strongly in my life-in-the-country fantasies, in reality I don't eat much of it. It's pretty much only good on a slice of hot buttered toast or a freshly baked scone with cream - the former reminds me of late-night binges as a student, and the latter of God knows what, but there isn't a lot of scone baking going on around here.

As for fruit in abundance here in Oz, I could have gone with blueberries or strawberries, or even mangoes, which are starting to make an appearance. I toyed with the idea of figs - they were on the shelves at the grocer yesterday. But in the end I went with kiwifruit, 'cause they're everywhere at the moment. I found a recipe online, adjusted it down in quantity and the result was a single jar of sticky, sweet, scrummy jam that tastes of...well, jam. I might just be having toast for dessert tonight.

10 kiwi fruit, about 1.5 cups, crushed

1/3 cup lemon juice

2 apples, halved

1.5 cups white sugar

Stir the kiwi, juice and apples until boiling. Add sugar and stir till dissolved. Simmer for about half an hour, or until a smudge of it on a plate sets in the fridge. Jar it. (I didn't sterilise anything because a) I didn't have time and couldn't be bothered and b) I only made enough for one jar so there won't be any sitting on the shelf till 2015.)

PS Spoutie, send a jar of that strawberry jam my way. You know the address! That should clear some space in the beer fridge.

Partners support group plea

Girls and blog readers - Tim is making a plea for a blog partners support group to be established. He wants to know exactly what Scott and Angelo think of their beer fridges being filled with jam, having to listen to japanese poetry and being dragged out in the middle of winter to eat ice cream. Quite the rant going on in the background here which is very amusing!

English strawberry jam

When I first moved here I had trouble appreciating all the new things in my life, all the change. I compared everything with home. I'd left Australia to discover a new world, to try new things yet my mindset was still firmly entrenched in Australian soil. Nothing could quiet measure up over here until of course the day an English strawberry passed my lips. Wow.

I've had a little history with strawberries - there were the tiny ones we used to dig for in Grandma's veggie patch and at the other end of the scale the larger than life strawberries retrieved each Christmas from the strawberry farm near mum's house. Despite how much emotional value I might attach to these two varieties of strawberries I'm afraid to say that neither can compare with the English strawberry. This strawberry is perfect in every way. Perfectly formed, just the right size, ranging from pink to bright red and absolutely bursting with flavour. It is also part of English culture and so to appreciate the strawberry is to appreciate this country I now live in. No summer picnic or day out at the tennis is ever complete without strawberries and cream.

And so I have my first ingredient for my first ever attempt at making jam.

I'm half way through this attempt as I write my blog and feel the need to confess - I am no Susie homemaker.

Step 1: Google jam recipe - tick
Step 2: Google ingredient 'jam sugar' - what the???
Step 3: Google 'substitute jam sugar' - tick - running with caster sugar and lemon
Step 4: Trip to Sainsburys at the end of our street. Bill is £14.38 ($23.32 australian) - just to be clear that is enough to buy 37 bottles of supermarket jam!
Step 5: Embrace the kitchen - not easily done given how little we've been home lately but almost everything seems to be where I left it except of course the thing I really want - no sign of metallic mixing bowl. Beginning to wonder if I actually own one or if I'm thinking of one I used to have in Oz. Not to worry figure I'll just side step the middle man and chuck everything into the saucepan which is where it'll end up anyway
Step 5: strawberries in, lemon juice in, bloody hell how much sugar??? seriously that is a ridiculous amount of sugar. 39 calories per tablespoon apparently.

And thats where I am now at with my jam making. The recipe tells me I now need to leave the strawberries to sit overnight which in my world means they'll sit there until about 5pm today because I don't have time to tackle to jam tomorrow. In the mean time I need to work out what I'm going to put all of this jam in - all 3kg of it! I may be down at the farmers market in Bermondsey Street next weekend selling my wares!

Excuses, excuses

Hello all. Its been a while - you may remember me- I used to drop in once a week before dropping off the face of the earth with no blog in sight! Well I'm back and gearing up to make jam this weekend.... just as soon as I visit the supermarket to find out what exactly is in season at the moment in the UK! Tim and I have had up to 7 weekends away (some short, some long). Chaos, but wonderful chaos.

I thought before beginning the weekend jam festival I should present my excuses to the blog and share a our travels over the last little while in some highlight photos;

Week 1: Oxford with Dad. Such a special trip with my dad that made me want to move home tomorrow just to have more time hanging out.













Week 2: Istanbul. Highlight- smoking shish (apple flavour), drinking Turkish tea (apple again) and laughing over absolutely nothing.


















Week 3: Belly from Melbourne comes to stay. Highlight: The massive green turf chairs in front of the Arts Centre


















Week 4: Road trip from Seville to La Herradura, Spain. Highlight: first ray of sunshine













....and Bels home made Sangria













...which led to this













Week 5: Palma Mallorca. Highlight: oh how the other half live!













Week 6: Mum comes to stay. Highlight: Seeing mum- brilliant, op-shopping and a trip to the Dordogne in France. Mum would tell you her highlight was eating duck for 3 days straight whereas mine was the spectacular views over the Dordogne river.













Week 7: Croatia. Highlight: Spending time with my TJ



















I've had the BEST time travelling but there is nothing like coming home again to a quiet house and just stopping, staying still for 5 minutes and appreciating just how lucky you are. Its great to be home and even better to be back on the blog.

Huge thanks to the superwomen in my life, Aims and Greer, for holding the fort in my absence.

Now about that jam - anyone have a recipe?

The Big Banana

In my early 20's I travelled through India, and after about a month, I was desperate for an alternative to fish curry and perhaps a few flavours of home. I had heard about a French woman who ran a bakery called the Clafoutis Bakery on the cliffs of Kerala and everyday she made fresh bread and jam with whichever fruit she could get her hands on. This news was enough to sustain the day long train ride to the south (and the beautiful beaches).

And the punt paid off in jam, delicious jam - her recipe was to match the weight of the fruit with sugar and she told me you can make anything into jam (this was an amazing concept to a jam making virgin). Even though I remember her instructions really well, I am not game enough to do it without a recipe so this is one I dug up on the net.

Oh and here is the fruit that is

always in abundance here,

although I think they actually come from the Philippines. I am a true banana lover, especially having

grown up in Coffs Harbour!

I struggled getting a little bottle of rum here in DB so regrettably I omitted it. I have to say 3 3/4 cups of lush brown sugar makes for a rather impressive caramel mound. Even a bit overwhelming for a sweet tooth as developed as mine! It was a sticky, lovely, sweet, toffee smell that filled the house. Unfortunately my jam hasn't seemed to have set as it should have and therefore is a bit runny, and it seems darker than the picture. But it is DELICIOUS with a really tart unflavoured yoghurt or ice-cream. Apparently the french tradition is to have it with a fresh tangy cheese called Petites Suisse.

Banana Jam

2 lbs ripe bananas (1 Kg)
3 3/4 Cup brown sugar (750 g)
1 1/3 Cup water (3 dl)
juice of 3 limes (or lemons)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (1 cc)
3 tablespoons of pure vanilla extract (or use real vanilla beans) (1 cs)
1 dash of ginger powder
1/4 Cup of rum (1/2 dl)

Peel and mash the bananas.
Mix water, lime juice, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, ginger over moderate heat and stir until syrup thickens. Add the mashed bananas and let cook 20 to 25 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add rum during the last few minutes of cooking to let alcohol burn off. Immediately place in jam jars and seal.

TASK # 22

Many years ago, Maggie Beer needed to find something to do with the abundance of Quinces in her back yard. What local produce is in season for you at the moment? Can you make jam out of it? Have a go!

Deli Lamma

Every Sunday the three of us usually spend the day traveling to and exploring another island or corner or village here in Hong Kong. This week it was the beloved 'hippy' locale of Lamma Island. Which is ironically home to both a large protruding power station and Hong Kong's lone wind energy windmill.

This little island is famous for its seafood restaurants, its artistic local community, a couple of sandy beaches and a great family friendly hike. The reason I love it is that the island has managed to refrain from the usual conglomerates of Starbucks and Pacific Coffee, and is beautifully boutique for Hong Kong standards.

So afternoon tea here offered a selection of local treats. Any one fancy some ....

Or dried starfish and fish snack packs (I am going to refrain from getting into the sustainability issues the Hong Kong water ways are faced with currently).

Or the more Western friendly egg tart.

But my afternoon tea is further afield. Nestled halfway along the hiking track is a rustic 'pit stop' sort of cafe that kind of looks like you are entering a squatters humpy. However it sells a renown and famous dessert of silken tofu with a sugar syrup, like it hot or cold, it will cost you $6HK (90 cents Aus).

And while I appreciate the silken texture of the tofu and the unique steamy setting in the banana trees, I must admit when I run out of the sugar syrup it is a little harder to swallow.

Holy Cannoli!

Leichhardt is Sydney's Little Italy, and not just in a naff touristy kind of way (if you don't count the Italian Forum). Real live authentic Italians live here and it is the centre of all sorts of Italian language and education and foodie type things. The council even puts a big 'Si' next to the green tick on the sides of the recycling bins to tell you what goes in them. 

The local cafes I frequent in the direction of Annandale and Lilyfield are typical 'Sydney' places with fair-trade coffee and a choice of several sourdough breads to go with your all-day breakfast. But for a taste of a local delicacy, I had to try something very Italian, and I chose Locantro. It's a deli/grocer with a very tempting sweets counter and some quite nice coffee to match. Not everything is entirely Italian - apple strudel, ja? - but I placed my order with this blog task in mind and settled in to enjoy a very tasty vanilla cannoli. I'm not sure the soy latte I had with it was overly authentic, but that's a non-negotiable.

TASK

Afternoon tea please! Take us somewhere for a taste of a local delicacy that will get you through to dinner time.

Typhoons and Snails

Most people I know have heard me complain about the heat here and the sandflies. No amount of growing up in the Australian bush could have prepared me for the insurgence of sandflies ready to attack the moment you step into the sweltering humidity.But respite is on the horizon, the full moon festival (lanterns and mooncakes abound) is in two days time, and the locals tell me, it will end the sauna. To celebrate, a typhoon changed its course two days ago and redirected itself from Taiwan to Hong Kong, hitting yesterday afternoon at 4pm. It was a bit of a fizzer as far a typhoons go but this morning had a freshness I was eager to consume.

A fat snail on our doorstep, on its morning jog.

A pattern of pine needles on our awning, that looks like a beautiful abstract

stalk, something you might expect to find on a vintage piece of 70's mirror art. Something I would love in my living room.

And through the Oleanders the ferry's keep running, whisking there heavy load of commuters to the city.

It is a strange place, Discovery Bay. But this morning there was a few moments of beauty I am content to have witnessed.

Stop! Jasmine!

This isn't a pretty street. It's an industrial area on a steep hill, across from a car park and a stone's throw from a waste disposal facility. But in various directions, the views are quite lovely. From my first-floor office, the leafy green northwards to Lilyfield is almost rural. A slight shift to the right and there's the skyline - North Sydney, Anzac Bridge and city. If I wander up the hill I can make out the top of the Harbour Bridge. I've missed my jasmine bush this spring. I hope our tenants are enjoying it. But there's one at the bottom of the street to ease the pain. And Sydney Tower in the distance.

Task

Take an early morning photo of your street, or a through window with a view, or the back garden. Is there some little detail that catches your attention regularly.

doodly do.....

I am a woman of little patience. I have never denied the fact. So my trip to the art supply store here in Discovery Bay resulted in the purchase of a new sketch pad (to add to a half used pile) and a fat, chunky, breakable twig of charcoal. Charcoal is the most forgiving of all art supplies. It can be so effortlessly smudged to look like a purposeful and artful piece of shading. It is the best art supply for a woman of my patience levels.

Sketching has always been a big challenge for me. I struggle with the idea of how something should look rather than replicating what I am seeing. I struggle with the time it takes to draw something, I struggle with my ideas of perfection rather than embracing the beauty of imperfection. And lets be honest there is SO much imperfection in my visual arts to embrace.

My other 'complimentary want', when I toy with the idea of sketching is that I fantasize about someplace dark and enigmatic to sketch in. Dark little dens were easy to find in New York (the only time I have ever really attempted a sketching style of life). But not so easy here in toy town where there are many many coffee loving neighbours and one coffee shop.

The book shop has a little corner though and it serves a moderately refreshing cup of teabag. So I attempted to sketch the teapot. From the following picture, you may observe two facts. One the forgiving effects of charcoal and two, the endless supply of imperfection in my art.

Supplies!

Alright, I'm well aware that Officeworks is not an art supplies shop. It is indeed a wonderful and heavenly place in which I can waste hours staring at pens and post-its and coloured notepads. But it has a reasonable art supplies section for the novice (read: me). AND...I needed a new cartridge for the printer, so I had to go there anyway. Forgive me -  I have three children under three and I'm allowed to use that as my excuse at least once.

Anyway, back to the art supplies. All I really needed for my current 'project' was a decent sketch book, some lovely soft pencils and a black special rolly inky yummy pen. I grabbed them without any trouble. I also grabbed a new ringbinder and dividers to try and make some sense of the pile of paid and unpaid bills on the kitchen bench. And a sticky tape dispenser for Lola - one of the heavy ones that are easy to use so I won't have to keep cutting pieces of tape for her infinite collages and "sticking and gluing" projects.

So what do I want to get down on (lovely thick white slightly textured) paper with my (soft smooth sharp) pencils and (rolly inky yummy) pen? I'm thinking a few sketches of ideas for my knitting. Bloody knitting. I just can't stop obsessing. I've become the mum in the park staring at your kid and why? I'm trying to memorise the design of her cardigan and work out if it would be possible to replicate.

I'm slowly setting myself up a little work space - sewing machine, knitting supplies, books etc etc. And a space like that needs a good sketch pad/notebook and some not-for-the-three-year-old pencils and pens. So while I'd like to say I spent hours in the art shop being dazzled with inspiration for my latest life drawing exercise or large-scale painting project, it was still really all about the knitting. Let's hope the warmer weather of spring brings some sort of reprieve.

Task # 19 - Art Supplies

Visit an art supplies shop and have a wander. How does it inspire you? Treat yourself to some new things. Use them.

Back on Sunday

Cats or dogs - now there's an interesting question. Not one you think would get asked, say in an interview situation yet I kid you not that is exactly what I got asked as my final question in the interview for the job I have now. It had been a long day and up until this point I had been interviewed by 5 different people. The 6th strolled casually into the room and asked me 2 questions; the first quite reasonable, 'why did I have a gap in my CV for 6 months?' - easy answer - I'd been travelling. The second question however was ridiculous; 'do you prefer cats or dogs?'. Dog, definately dog. Clearly the right answer since I got the job. I've since found out the story behind it. Apparently the people interviewing me wanted to throw me off guard a little - my answers until that point had been text book perfect and more annoyingly in their words 'i was too nice'. For those who are interested, it did throw me off guard enough to throw a little sarcasm out there and that was all it took - a little humour to win them over.

The choice between cats and dogs is not a hard decision for me to make. I am insanely allergic to cats. All I have to do is walk into a room with a cat and my face blows up, my eyes start watering and I have to reach for my asthma inhaler to alleviate my sudden inability to breath properly. Cats and I do not get along. They eye me off and hunt me down. There could be 10 people in the same room yet without fail the pesky cat will sidle up to me, all innocent looking yet knowing exactly what its doing and proceed to rub itself all over whatever I'm wearing leaving those horrible little fur bits with me for days. The most amusing thing about this is that I actually grew up with 5 cats. My parents are evil. They thought they were doing the right thing at the time. They bought a cat to ward off the snakes on the farm, to make sure they stayed well clear of the house and 4 young children. They thought they were doing the right thing until that bloody cat had kittens - 4 of them found in the attic. I had no where to run.

Thankfully we also had dogs - gorgeous pets with personality. Freckles was the first, Collie the second and then finally Thomas the cockerpaniel named after my brothers best friend. Thomas was part of the family, one of us. He wasn't the brightest little thing but he was so much fun and as far as he was concerned he was no different to us kids. He wanted to be with us at all times, to eat with us, to sleep in our rooms, to go on holidays with us. And he did on most occassions. Thomas was a pretty self assured little dog. Dad once commented that he was sure if Thomas had the chance to spell dog he would spell it backwards, he was God, the world revolved around his needs and we loved him for it. He used to go to work with Dad on the back of the ute and on one occassion took things a little too far. Driving through the bush in Chiltern, country Victoria, Thomas spotted a kangaroo, pulled himself free of the lead and took a running leap through the air. Dad searched for hours, well past dark, but couldn't find him. We were devastated. Dad more so than us and so the next day he resumed the search and miraculously found the little nutcase licking some serious wounds on the side of the road - he'd wandered back to where he'd last seen the ute. He may not have been the smartest dog in the world but he'd managed to survive an attack that would have killed most animals attempting such a feat.

Thomas is in so many of our stories, in all our childhood photos and even though he's long gone, still very much a part of the Hemming family.

I can vividly remember the day Thomas died. I was camping and got a call from Dad. Holding back tears he told me that Thomas had finally succumbed to a tumour. It was Good Friday. As tears started to well in my eyes and my voice started to quiver Dad told me not to worry, he was pretty sure Thomas would be back on Sunday.

Pet Cemetery

In my early teens I had three beautiful kittens! Their lives were short and their deaths were of Shakespearean tragic proportions to me. I have never had a pet since.

As it turns out as an adult, I am neither cat or dog obsessed or even much interested in either. Perhaps these small tragedies robbed me of being a pet owner for life.

When I was a girl I lived in a beautiful green valley west of Coffs Harbour. My father being a bit of a hippy loved the bush up close to our doorstep. At any one time there was a procession of fat and thin snakes, funnel webs, koalas, echidnas, bandicoots, goannas, bush turkeys, dingos etc etc. We were encouraged to live with all creatures large and small. My kittens unfortunately couldn't live by the same decree.

First there was Abigail. A little black kitten ( I cant even remember where she came from). I loved her deeply. I can remember now her curling up on my pillow and on my desk when it was homework time. One November she was poorly. My darling grandfather took her to the vet on the way to dropping me at a rehearsal for Santa's dancing elves that I was to perform as at Carols By Candlelight that year. I remember the phone call from the vet as if it happened yesterday. A snake bite, she died that afternoon. My grandfather looked like he would have laid down his own life to stop my sobbing. Months with O's in them are the worst for snakes the farmers told me.

Shortly after was Phoebe, fluffy mongrel, but cat handsome. She was as much in love with me as I was of her. She had the wandering bug. One morning she wasn't curled at my toes, that stretched into a day and then into two. I was cooking pancakes when I saw Dad coming up the veranda with her collar. The school bus lady found her on the side of the road. I still remember Dad's face.

To ease the pain a new kitten was purchased. A purebred would surely not stray or tempt snakes. Princess Anoushka the Burmese, she has a blue cream coat with a orange mask. Noushie soon became the favourite. She nestled on my Dads shoulders as he moved about the house, she meowed like she was talking, she was charismatic and fun. She went missing too, but two days later I found her stuck up a tree, 2 kms from home on the next door dairy farm. I ran home through rain screaming for Mum to get help. It was 6am and Mum swiftly called the bush fire brigade, whom promptly told her, they would not get out of bed on a Sunday to rescue a cat. They arrived 2 hours later. I was still waiting barefoot in my nightie at the bottom of that tree. I couldn't believe my luck. But of all the memories, I can't remember how she died. Was there a vet involved, another car.....that memory is gone. I remember the heartbreak and the lock of fur I kept for years after. But coming back to me now is Dad digging another grave and a broken tooth. She must have been hit by a car. But the detail is blank.

My poor parents, is it a right of passage in life to guide your child through the love and loss of pets. Oh I dread it. Our pet cemetery was behind the wood heap. It included guinea pigs that Dad pried from the jaws of a hungry python. But the most gruesome death of all, my brothers gallah, Paul. A carpet snake crawled in to the coop whilst skinny, and in the morning, a fat snake with a Paul sized lump was waiting to be let out. And that is that, now I don't own any pets or intend to. Perhaps those little heartbreaks hardened me for life. Or until Hugo starts asking for one..........

Miaow!

Her name was Ivy Violet Astra Louis Keats Worsley – Ivy for short. She was a chocolate Burmese and my very first, very own pet. There’d been loads of family pets in my childhood – a great dane called Gus, a golden retriever called Jedda, and lots of cats, Oliver with the cancer-prone ears, Louis the Siamese, Richmond Williby, the big ginger named after his birthplace. I’d also had a few goldfish – Sirloin and Huckleberry Finn – but goldfish don’t really count.

So Ivy was the first pet that was just mine. I named her with all the bombastic loftiness of a third-year acting student. ‘Ivy’ was her given name, just because I loved it. ‘Violet’ because purple was my favourite colour, ‘Astra’ to give her that necessary cosmic cat element, ‘Louis’ after the Siamese from my childhood, and ‘Keats’ after my favourite poet. Of course, she would carry my surname.

Ivy lived in the Wollongong student share house with Kirstie, Bel and I during my third year. After graduation, she and I moved to Surry Hills in Sydney to live with my sister, Emma, and her boyfriend, Andrew. Ivy used to go out prowling at night and, because on my student income I’d delayed getting her operated on, she was soon up the duff. Not long after, my one cat turned into four. I still remember Andrew, present at the birth, urging, “Push, Ivy, push!” (Good practice for the deliveries of his four babies in future years.) Two of her kittens went to new homes but, alas, the third met a grisly fate at the hands (or mouth) of Emma and Andrew’s dog Ruby.

So could that be the reason I’m not a dog person? Ruby ate my kitten? It certainly didn’t help the dogs’ cause. Ruby was an otherwise lovely animal and for all the years I knew her, I watched her bound into other people’s arms but keep a respectful distance from me. She knew I was a cat person. I like the look of some dogs. I occasionally stroke their fur, especially when it is demanded of me by my three-year-old. But I just really don’t need to touch them. And I don’t need them to lick me or slobber on me ever.

About a year after the kittens arrived and left, I took off overseas for the rite-of-passage working holiday. Ivy stayed with my sister. Em called one day to say that Ivy had gone missing. We never saw her again. I like to think she came looking for me. She’s probably sitting in a bar in Berlin smoking cigarettes and drinking milchkaffee as we speak. Sehr chic.

Cat or dog? Definitely cat.

(Postscript: My mother, in her childhood, had a black dog called Timothy Oswald Aloysius Methuselah Dooley Busby. Timmy for short.)

Task # 18 - Cat or Dog?

Cat or dog?

Ted's bike journey through London

I think Aimee and I were meant to meet to introduce Ted and Dagg. They'd be such great mates with their war wounded faces and stories of old. Mum and dad bought Ted from a chemist for me when we first moved to Albury. Back then he was a fluffy brown bear with beg brown eyes and a bright red bow. More than three decades later and a few outfit changes along the way he's still with me. Complete with his burnt little nose (too close to the open fire) and his stitched up arms (care-of Grandma) Ted has travelled the world with me - literally that bear has been every where with me- from backpacking through Asia and Europe to university, a variety of Australian cities and now all the way to London where he sits on my bedside table. That beautiful bear is part of me and despite Tim's best efforts he won't be leaving anytime soon.

My second favourite thing is my silver and garnet necklace which was given to me by dad when I turned 18. I was living in London at the time, feeling like I was a very long way from home - homesickness had set in. My dad and I are very close but back then we'd endured a year long rocky relationship which at times broke my heart. Receiving the necklace and the long blue handwritten airmail letter in the post that day lifted my head into the clouds. My first grown up piece of jewelry and a beautiful gift from my dad. I still wear it when I feel homesick or just need an extra bit of luck on a particular day- I love to it and all of its sentimental value to pieces.

I could list endless items of sentimental value on my 'favourite things' list but for my third today I choose my bike. In keeping with numbers it is actually my third bike in this city, (the first two were snatched by thieves) so deserves a spot on the list just for perseverance alone. A bike in London is freedom. Freedom from the grimy, hot, crowded tube and freedom from traffic jams and long queues. A bike will get you across the city in half the time and usually on a far more scenic route. I've cycled through snow (only 2 stacks), hail, pelting rain and when really lucky, through sunshine that makes all the hard slogs worthwhile. Riding a bike in London is like being part of a well respected cult. Granted I don't own the matching lycra but I have dodged the double decker buses, I own a pair of matching saddle bags and I know the best canal/tow path rides to shortcut the journey home. I am one of them. The more I write the more I realise how obsessed I am about my bike and that I should probably stop writing now :)

Raindrops on roses...

I love reading the 'Favourite Things' column in the 'Good Weekend' each week and always thought I could easily name my three favourite possessions. The first is a cinch - my granny's polka dot tea set. Six cups and saucers, six cake plates, a fabulous teapot and a rectangular dish for a milk jug and sugar bowl with the piece de resistance, that fantastic matching sugar spoon. This set sat for as long as I can remember in the china cabinet in my grandparents' lounge room. I don't ever recall seeing it in operation - like a lot of her 'good' things, they were kept for best and best never really happened. Much like her rarely used Parker dining setting which sat proudly in the rarely used dining room for so many years - that is, until I got my hands on it and now it has all the bumps and stains and scratches of a piece of furniture in daily operation. I'm pretty sure that's a good thing, though I don't know what she would say if she was still alive. I try to apply the same philosophy to the tea set and have rolled it out at the end of many a dinner party. But I admit I would be heartbroken and probably a bit spooked if a piece were to break. I doubt it has any monetary value, but as far as sentimentality goes, this tea set is right up there. For now it sits in that same cabinet (made by my grandfather), affectionately known in this house as Granny's cabinet - yes, I pinched that too. I hope Granny doesn't mind.

Item number two was a toss-up between my red KitchenAid stand mixer, my entire shelf of cookbooks and this - my incredibly heavy blue Le Creuset cast iron pot. Angelo bought it for me our first Christmas together. He got big brownie points that year. Then again, I got him an iPod, so we both did well. This pot has been used dozens of times, and will probably be used a gazillion more. It has a sturdiness that I trust will last all of my lifetime and beyond. I use it for stocks and soups and stews mostly. When I cook in it, I come over all housewife. I feel like I'm creating traditions, nourishing myself and my family, warming things up. It's just a pot, maybe, but whether empty or full to the brim with a hearty winter casserole, it's solid and honest and I love it.

I was struggling to come up with a third favourite thing but it came to me today after a glorious drive across the bridge to Balmoral Beach to see beautiful Ruani followed by a phone conversation with Aimee (beautiful too, indeed) during which she made passing mention of not having a car and how hard it is to not be able to jump in it and go anywhere. And for all my dreamy organic enviro-friendly ideals of one day having chickens and turning compost and making my own yogurt and yadayadayada, oh, how I love my car. It's nothing fancy and it only just fits the three kids and the mega-pram. But it does the job and it lets me do things like pack up the babies and glide on over the bridge to spend the day at Balmoral Beach with beautiful Ruani. 'Nuff said.

It's a small world after all.......

In the home that you live in right now, what are your three favourite (non-human) things? Tell us a bit about them? What makes them so special?

A great day to write about things. I had a one of those big snow globes given to me about ten years ago, when I was a bit down and out while studying in New York. It had the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House and a Koala on it. Yep, tacky as they come. It played 'Its a Small World After All' and came in a beautiful Bloomingdale's box. The globe ended up being one of the nicer mementos of a previous flame.

I recently had been winding it up with Hugo and watching it, he loved it. He called it 'watching twinkle twinkle'. And it had been quelling a bit of homesickness for both of us.

And yep you can picture the rest of today's story. Phone rings, toddler going up stairs with stool to find the twinkle stars, I race up there, rescue the globe, wind it up, put it on the floor and ask Hugo not to touch it, 'JUST WATCH'. I hastily retrieved information for the phone caller, then thump, toddler at top of stairs covered in glitter and glass (thank god no injury) telling me about a waterfall he just witnessed.

And I was so sad. Cross at myself, Hugo, the caller (Scott) and most of all upset that Hugo's stars were now dispersed over a spreading floor space. Yep it is a small world but for the contents of this snow globe the world just got a whole lot bigger. Ah sentimentality can be gone in a second.

So let me talk about my three things.

Daggy, my darling teddy. He was my first word in life and has later become my ultimate travel companion. Given to my Mum by a student back in 1977. He was stitched up by Nana more times than I can count. And he scared the daylights out of Scott the first night he stayed over when he woke up to those eyes an inch from his face. I used to wonder (a long time ago) if Daggy truly had a heart. I believe he did. I guess that concept went on to make millions with that little known flick 'Toystory". Well he has my heart. Old Daggy, I love you.

Babushka was high on my Nana's shelf for a good part of her life. I always admired her. My Grandparents fled Budapest in the late 40's bringing a suitcase or two with them. I don't know if Babushka was on board then or came later, but she is old. There is a sticker on the bottom that says USSR and then a number. The other thing I don't really know is if there is a history with these dolls in Hungary or if they are purely Russian Dolls. The relationship between the two countries has a fiery history at the time Nana and Api left. So is Babushka Hungarian or Russian, an immigrant or Australian born, things I don't know. But she is staunchly looking down on me as I type, with the same expression she used to gaze at me with when I was 7 looking up at her in the cabinet.

The wooden big train (I will explain the rope later). Hugo's all time favorite toy. Scott found it in a dial a dump out the front of an ABC Childcare centre, back when they were all sinking. He was going to buy beer and I had urged him on this occasion to walk instead of drive. Scott was so thrilled with his find, he waved it above his head when he walked home, like he had found the golden egg! A few random screws and it was as good as new. It is loved every day, transporting a family of giraffes from station to station. It is so old and squeaky and real. It is my favourite toy in this whole house. Dad recently bought this section of rope over from Sydney specifically for the wooden big train. It allows Hugo and Dad to secure the train at different pieces of furniture to allow the giraffe family to disembark safely.