That's The Price I Pay

“The price of love is always just above that what your heart can afford”

— Colin Tegerdine, Unknown Book 13072845

I recently read a Young Adult fiction series (yes, I admit, I am slightly addicted to all the 'end of the world, teenage girl saves humanity from plague/pestilence/pure apathy' books out there) which had an intriguing theme.

What if romantic love was viewed as a disease, and you could be 'cured' of it? If, instead of going through crushes, and infatuation, and yes, lust - one instead had an operation, lost the desire to love - and be loved - and was simply matched with a suitable mate - suitable intellectually, socio-economically, physically? No arguing, no tension, no 'you don't love me' screaming matches?

Apart from the fact that this series really lost the plot (literally), it did make me wonder; because so, so often, romantic love causes some fairly hefty problems. Wars are fought in the name of love - yes, hello, Helen of Troy. You fall in love with someone who doesn't return the sentiment. You don't love someone the way they love you. You have a habit of falling out of love as soon as the honeymoon stage is over and reality sets in - and then you have no idea how to extricate yourself from what you realise is not really your cup of Love Potion Number 9.

So would life be better without Cupid's arrow inveigling its way into our lives? What if amour was, in fact, no more?

I can't imagine anything worse.

Love is painful. It is often unkind, causes tears, obscenely excessive chocolate consumption and glugging of wine straight from the bottle. It is hurtful, because if we care deeply for someone, the desire to hurt if we are slighted comes straight to the fore. Jealousy, anger, the agony of unrequited love - yep, they are all hand in hand with true love.

And yet.

Love is what makes life likeable. It is a shelter and a comfort; if you are fortunate enough to find someone to love, and who loves you back, then life can pretty much go to hell in a handbasket - and it won't matter. Because you have somebody to support and strengthen you. Who is willing to let their own needs go in order to make your life the best it can be.

The best kind of love is all of the things certain religious volumes talk about (and getting a positive message there is a huge achievement, so don't discount it.) Love is patient. Love is kind. Love has no pride.

Art, music, literature, theatre, movies, dance - where would they be without smoochiness? Casablanca would be a blank. Gone With The Wind - who would care if tomorrow was another day? And as for Jane Austen... Jane who?

Love separates us from our baser instincts. It gives us our humanity and our humour. It makes us honest. It makes us - us.

'I love you'.

Three words.

And a lifetime of discovery.

As Billy Bragg says, 'that's the price I pay for loving you the way that I do'...

Send me the account. It's worth every penny.

Broadcast News

““One reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.” ”

— Gwendolyn Brooks, In The Mecca

I have been busily hiding away from the world of late, mainly because I have been feeling like an immense puddle of yuckiness physically; and for all those who are/have been long term ill, you will know that along with the physical fatigue comes that even more attractive ailment - mental exhaustion. 

It is tiring being a sickypuss. It wears your brain out, particularly if, like myself, you are, when healthy, one of those lunatics who has a brain which whirs a million miles an hour, particularly at three o'clock in the morning when normal people are dribbling happily into their pillows. 

Feel like crud, and I guarantee you that your intellect will turn into a bowl of week old Weetbix. Which, particularly as someone who in theory writes for a living can attest to - ain't good for business. 

And yes, the old woofy frenemy Black Dog tends to rear his head when one is feeling a bit on the blah side, turning from a Chihuahua into a Great Dane, and that's a depressing enough thought for everyone without actually writing about depression, so let's just say the pup has been barking his head off and leave it at that.

But back to the sleepy psyche.

I have not paid any attention to the news - with the exception of a few unavoidable big ticket items - for about a month. I'd be ashamed of this normally, because I'm a current affairs junkie (the topic, not the show - blergh), but of late? It's news, it will soon be olds, and I have been hard-pressed to take in what I should eat for breakfast let alone dealing with how many Americans have taken up a Health Care Plan (apparently it's approximately 100,000 - see, I do read more than trashy YA fiction when my brain isn't in sleep mode).

But over the weekend, as my body started to do a small software upgrade, the old grey matter started to hum again - and so I got stuck in to what has been going on in the world. After about three hours of reading, watching, and pod cast listening, I made an executive decision.

Not only is the world way more depressed than me, but the information available is so infantile that I think I would rather go back under the doona and start my own publication; HOW TO WRITE A NEWS STORY WHICH CONTAINS ACTUAL NEWS AND NO HYPERBOLE. 

Apparently, whilst on my brief time out from The Daily Planet, those good old monkeys with their typewriters have taken over news reportage. For example, this morning on a certain anonymous online news site (which shall remain anonymous because they have a lot more money than me and the owner doesn't tend to take slander - um, constructive criticism well), these were the headlines:

Chain smoking baby kicks ciggies, discovers food;

Male model uses fake photos to lure wife;

Scientology superpowers; 'We Revive The Dead'

And here I was thinking I'd missed significant international events, like whether or not Syria has blown itself to pieces and the fact that 34 people have been killed in PNG after a grenade attack. All this time I have been worried that my knowledge of world affairs has been suffering, when what I should have been concerned about was that JFK joined the mile high club before he bit the big one. That's what's important about the 50th anniversary of his assassination, of course; not the way the course of history was altered. 

Seriously, when did we become quite this apathetic? Is this what people really care about? Chain smoking babies? I know I myself have the attention span of a goldfish, but sheesh. 

I have always felt very fortunate in that I have friends who are interested in the world around them. Who enjoy debating politics, and religion, and pretty much everything one shouldn't discuss in polite society, which therefore means we do it as much as possible. 

There are some amazing journalists around. Once upon a time they would have been given the chance to show their talent - and that's over any medium, digital, print or other. And, if you dig hard enough, you can find the 'actual' news.

But when all most of them have to work with is 'a teenager has stolen a boob job' - I'm not quite sure how that translates to the possibility of a Pulitzer. 

So, beloved doona, I am returning to your fluffy folds. My brain may have re-engaged, but apparently if I want to find out what's happening out there, I need to get excited about Scientology.

And that just isn't going to happen. 

I'm too scared of Tom Cruise.

The Hair Apparent

““Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.” ”

— P G Wodehouse, 'Very Good, Jeeves!'

I have written about my misadventures with the world of haircuts before - well, actually, probably more so with the world of haircolouring, and what one really, really ought not do.  

This is inclusive of, but not limited to, dyeing one's own hair an even brighter shade of red in an all white bathroom (Psycho comes to mind), dyeing one's own hair in a hurry (big missed patches) and pretty much dyeing one's own hair full stop.

I may also have to write a post at some stage about the dangers of overuse of the word 'one' and how it leads to being ostracised by friends and family but that will have to wait.  

Today is, as is usually the case with this blog, (well, it's mine after all) - about me. And my hair. 

Vanity, thy name is, quite possibly, Kate.  

I have cut my hair. 

Short. 

As in, short, short. Anne Hathaway getting into character for Les Mis short.  I did draw the line at having my teeth pulled admittedly.

I expect the world to now stop and enter a period of official Kate Hair Mourning (length of said KHM to be determined - I am thinking about two months - I'm not Queen Victoria for the love of lambchops), and for everyone to buy me some really nice shoes to help me cope with this traumatic event. 

Let me explain - because I know you are thinking 'she cut her hair - big whoopsies - what a superficial trollop' and calmly going on with your Sunday brekky (I hope you're having something yummy. Like bacon. Mmmmm. Bacon). 

This was a bit of a no choice haircut. Because, despite the delightful treatment I am on for my even more delightful current munchy little cancer promising me the world in terms of 'less hair loss than last time' - this week saw the dreaded return of the bathroom floor of death.  

Lotsa hair. Everywhere. 

Now, I am massively lucky. I know this. I just like whinging. Not only do I have a very early stage and treatable cancer, I am not likely to lose all of my hair, unlike friends who are currently undergoing far yuckier treatment - it just gets thinner and doesn't feel like 'my' hair. But it also doesn't look crash hot in long stringy strands that casually come out in my fingers when I do my model turn of whipping my head around as I chat to someone - and then watch their face as my hair ends up in their drink. 

And possibly their food. And their handbag.

You get the picture. 

I have Osky the Spy's fur to contend with. My house does not need two Kats shedding. 

So the chop it was.  

And after I stopped sobbing, I was actually quite happy. 

Well, I will be. 

Present tense needed. Not past. 

And the colour's nice! 

Oh bugger it. It's just hair. There are more pressing issues at hand. Like world peace. And the craptacular state of Australian rugby. And shoes. I am off to eat some bacon. And look at pictures of girls with short hair. Or possibly Alexander SkarsGod with no shirt  on.  

I wonder if he'd like it?

Check One, Check One, Two

If you have a friend or family member with breast cancer, try not to look at her with ‘sad eyes.’ Treat her like you always did; just show a little extra love

— Hoda Kotb

This month, as thankfully a large proportion of people know, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  What a large proportion of people don't perhaps know is that I am a breast cancer survivor. 

I am one of the lucky ones.

Breast cancer has tried very hard to beat me. It is a crappy, crappy disease which, like all cancers, becomes not just a part of the sufferer's life, but impacts on everyone around them. It is insidious and it is scary as hell. People who love you have to watch as you get sick from chemo, get sick from radiotherapy, get sick full stop. And there is usually very little that they can do to help, which can end up in alienation through frustration and sometimes, a lack of ability to cope with the heartache.

So many amazing women go through breast cancer. Most of them do it quietly and without any fuss - because, well, that's what you do. You suck it up. You get on with things. Because if you let it get the upper hand - and I am talking mentally, not physically - then game over.

I was incredibly lucky. I got through with some serious yuck times, but I got through - and I was able to keep working, keep things together, and not go into the doona zone too often. Mainly due to having amazing people who supported me with empathy, and their own strength, and sometimes just making me chicken soup. Not everyone is as fortunate as me, and sometimes that produces 'survivor guilt' - and the reason why I am making my own fight public.

I don't necessarily agree with everything that goes along with '#Pinktober' - do I want to buy KFC because the bucket is pink? Not particularly (I'll buy it because it's bad for me mind you). What I do agree with is raising awareness. And that's why I am writing this post, which is not easy; in fact it has taken me a long time to get these words on the screen. Who knew that saying 'I have had breast cancer' publicly would be so hard? Maybe it's because my fight isn't over yet; maybe it's because although I am open about a lot of things, this is something I fought very privately.

All I ask of you this month, and every month for that matter, is this.

Check your breasts. Yes, men too. Breast cancer isn't picky. It attacks young women; it attacks blokes. It attacks anyone it feels like to a certain extent.

If you feel something that's not quite right, go to your doctor. Do NOT leave it thinking 'oh, I will get it seen to eventually'. This attitude has provokes some of the saddest lessons - which, unfortunately stay with the people who loved, not the one who was loved. They're gone.

And if you want to support those who haven't been so lucky, give to reputable organisations who will use the funds for research, and nurses in the community, and practical support.

By the way, I hate pink. I would love for #Pinktober to be #Blacktober. Because that's a way cooler colour.

I bet Angelina Jolie would agree.

Get Up, Stand Up

““Stand up and be counted, or sit your ass in the corner and colour.” ”

— Lori Lifsey

I was talking to a very close friend late last night, and she was incredibly upset. After hearing what was wrong, I felt so physically cross and mentally crabby I would have relished the opportunity to have a young Cassius Clay (or possibly Tony Abbott) materialise in front of me so that I could have a ding-dong punch up. 

Make that definitely Tony Abbott. A Rumble In The Jungle is far more satisfying when it's against someone you actively feel would benefit from a good seven punch combo.  

What was behind the reasoning for my rage? As often seems to happen, someone who had no personal knowledge of another individual - who was motivated by jealousy, or an inability to achieve, or simply that most destructive of all human behaviours  - malice - had decided to make someone dear to me's life hell.

Because they could. And because they wanted to.  

Why is this acceptable?  

I can be nasty. I am not immune to having a bitch about others - if someone gives me the irrits, then yes, the temptation is always there to express said irrits in less than flattering terms.  

See above re our current Prime Minister. 

But I have never understood the need that some people seem to feel of taking down others they don't even know. I'm not talking about the lionising and then the destruction of celebrities who do 'the wrong thing' - or what the general public determines is the wrong thing, which in itself can be scary as hell.  I'm talking about those individuals who feel they have a right to be careless with people's lives; without consequence and without conscience. 

To ascribe feelings, thoughts and behaviour to someone whom you've never met - to actively state that they are 'this' person - it's just wrong.  

'X is only going out with Y for their money/looks/position'.

'How do you know? Did they tell you?'

'No, I've never met them. I just know.'

This mysterious ability to reach inside another person's head is obviously something which security forces across the world should be tapping in on. Forget phone and interwebs screening, forget careful surveillance; just pick up a few of these superheroes and put them in front of your most wanted. 

'Yep, he's a terrorist alright.'

'What are you basing that on? Psychological analysis? Predictive behaviour? Past actions?'

'Nope. I just don't like the look of them. And once someone who looked like him kicked my cat'.

Analysis through ignorance is one of the nastiest things we humans do. To impact on another person's life simply because you feel you have the right to say what you think about them - with no knowledge or understanding of who they are - no. Not acceptable. 

I hope that every person who reads this has a great Sunday. That your day involves sunshine, and lazy brekky, and being with people you care about. And that maybe - just maybe - if someone says 'I heard this about X' and starts pulling them down, you don't just listen and nod, and maybe even repeat it, because you assume that they know what they're talking about. 

Instead, give the gossip what it deserves. 

That seven punch combo. 

Blonde. James Blonde. Licensed to - Ouch.

““Bond looked at the beautiful day and smiled. And no man, not even Mr. Big, would have liked the expression on his face.” ”

— Ian Fleming, Live And Let Die

I saw a very clever caricature of the various actors who have played James Bond over the years on Facestalk the other day (thank you, Intrepid Allen) - which is reproduced here, and it started me thinking, as I do, about inane and trivial stuff. 

A lot of people got all hoity-toity and up in arms about Daniel Craig when he was first announced as the new Bond five zillion years ago.  

'He's not tall enough!' 

'He's not smooth enough!' 

And the killer blow... 

'HE'S BLONDE! YOU CAN'T HAVE A BLONDE BOND!' 

Well, fine. But if you take it to Ian Fleming's literal description, Bond is also supposed to permanently have a cruel sneer, blue eyes, smoke like a chimney and have a Cyrillic letter for 'spy' carved in one of his hands, and resemble Hoagy Carmichael. If you can find more than five people who can tell me who Hoagy Carmichael is without using Google, or who the agency were who carved the character in his hand, then call me Vesper Lynd (feel free to call me Vesper anyway, I quite like it).  

I don't think any of the actors who have played Bond have embodied all of the literary Commander B's physical characteristics. If anything, he looked like a 30s Jeremy Irons with contact lenses. Old Dan the Man certainly has the blue eyes. And he is pretty good at the sneer as well. Did you ever see Roger Moore manage anything other than a smirk? Poor old George Lazenby (why did he have to be Australian) just about got the height right, Pierce was quite creditable and Timothy Dalton wasn't heinous but when it comes down to it, it's a toss up between old Thunderballs Sean C and Mr Craig for Best Bond Ever.  

With one very big difference.  

Daniel Craig as Bond, as the cartoon accompanying this entry shows, actually gets hurt. And more to the point, stays hurt. He doesn't get fabbo weaponry. The villains do - he gets his Walther PPK and that's pretty much it. He gets bashed, and shows said bashing. He limps. He has bruises. He doesn't get punched in the face, rub his jaw ruefully, then stroll off looking immaculate. 

Bond, as written by Fleming, is also, quite frankly, a misogynistic pig. There is a hell of a lot of 'she looked like she wanted to be raped'  (I do not tell a lie) in those earlier books, and I speak as someone who loves Bond, so it's hard for me to reconcile. I try to put it down to the times and Fleming being a misogynistic pig himself, who just happened to write some bloody good stories - but sometimes - I think he could do with a thump on the head with the butt of a Walther PPK himself.

He'd be rolling in his grave at the thought of a female M. 

Hee hee hee. 

But back to Blonde Bond.  

Daniel Craig plays Bond mean. And merciless. And a bit broken. I'm not quite sure why anyone who has read the Fleming Bond would have any issue with this. But I notice that with the announcement of the new movie that they are still moaning about the light haired Lothario. 

Not me.

When the sky falls (ahem) I want someone who looks as though they might actually be able to save the world, not just drink a martini and shoot their cufflinks as they get sawn in half by a laser.  

Maybe he could even name a drink after me. 

The Vesper is sounding a bit old. 

The Katrina... 

That works. 

Question And Answer

““Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” ”

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Today is R U OK? Day - and already on social media this morning I have seen criticism of the day, ranging from 'people should be asking others if they're alright every day' to 'at least use proper letters - dumb name'.  

Yes, it would be amazing if people asked others if they were alright every day. But let's face facts. We are selfish, greedy beasts, we humans - and if a day such as R U OK? Day can get us to stop and think about others - for even a moment - then it's alright in my book. As for the name - we live in the Age of Textarius. Much to my secret sorrow, what grabs the attention more - Are You Okay or R U OK? And anything that can bring attention to suicide prevention - well, that gets a free pass from the Grammar Goddess. 

The number of people who struggle with depression in Australia is growing. People are scared to talk about how they feel - we are expected to achieve so much, to keep achieving, to keep up the pace, to go the distance, to succeed, to provide, to be happy, to race for the finish line. And all whilst pegging back the darker emotions or feeling tired, or sick, or drained of energy.  

Or perhaps coping with grief and sorrow - and finding it all too hard, and just quietly slipping away because nobody has noticed the stress-lines beneath the surface. 

We are all guilty of two things - and often it's not out of any lack of care or compassion. One, we DON'T ask our loved ones often enough if they are OK; and two - we don't ask ourselves.  

So today, don't only check on those you care about. 

Do a self-check too. 

Make sure you are, if not happy, then at least in a mental place where you feel you are capable of reaching out for help. Look inside. Say to yourself 'Am I coping? Am I waking up of a morning wishing it would all just go away?'

Sometimes it is harder to ask yourself that question and give an honest answer that it is to look someone else in the eye and say 'no, I am not OK'. 

But if you expect that honesty from them - give it to yourself too.  

And yes, it would be great if every day we asked 'are you OK?' of friends, family and co-workers. Maybe start with today - and a simple text, or message, or phone call. I will even be relaxing my rules.

R U OK? 

 https://www.ruokday.com/  

Daddy Cool

"The monsters are gone.”

”Really?” Doubtful.

”I killed the monsters. That’s what fathers do.”

— Fiona Wallace

It's hard to believe that another year has gone since I first wrote about the Kennebec last Father's Day. Introducing his sartorial splendour and effortless use of the phrase 'bloody hell' to the reading public was a joy and also made him extremely uncomfortable, so I got double the funsies out of that blog post.

But a lot can happen in a year. And I have to say, on several levels 2013 has brought with it not only joy but some fairly high standards of craptacularity.

Through it all though is that constant beacon of steadiness which is my Dad. The Kenster. One day I am sure I will actually show him some respect and call him something nice, but not just yet.

Respectability is for old men, not my Popsicle.

Look at that photo. That is (fairly obviously) my mother and father on their wedding day. I would like to say that my dad looks as dashing as my mother looks beautiful, but basically he just looks naughty. It's quite possible that he was also feeling extremely hungover or even inebriated, but as that's not my story to tell I won't tell it - oh wait, I just did.

My parents are both an inspiration to me. They are good people. They are honest. They are kind. They love their children unconditionally, and strangely they also seem to like us. They adore (to the point of Scary Grand-Parent Status) the Hugh-bot.

And the thing I love about both of them - and I suppose especially about my dad, and it's something I talked about in a professional column on Friday - is this;

They always encouraged me and said 'Yes, you are good enough. Yes, you can be anything you want.'

Ken never tried to steer me away from boys' toys and towards girly guff. He always let me find my own path - and if that path led to lying beside him under the bonnet of the Datsun 220Y, then so be it. Or for that matter climbing up above the hot water service, or under the house, or learning to strip co-axial cable - if I was interested, then he was interested in teaching me about it.

He dealt with my hysterical tears when I went back to school every term from our little country town and he had to drop me off after driving me down to Hobart. I would hang my head in the driver's side window begging not to go in, and poor Kennebec (not the best at emotions) would have this sodden 13 year old digging her fingernails into the car door as he drove away.

The best part was the grown-up dinners he bribed me with the night before. Good work Dad.

We make demon Badminton doubles partners. I can't say the same about playing golf together, because the few times it's been attempted, I have wanted to wrap a club around his head because he's brilliant and I am useless, and I am certain the feeling is reciprocated - but that's OK.

I just ask him about his game every week and leave it at that. And wish I had his ability and grumble quietly to myself.

My father has integrity. He has strength. He works hard - still - and he has done since he was 16. He often gets overlooked because he just sits quietly in the back ground, beavering away - and sometimes I think others forget how much he does for them without their even noticing.

He is, above everything else in the world, two things. And I am eminently grateful for both of them.

He is a good man.

And he is my father.

Happy Father's Day, Kenny.  I love you.

I'd call you Dad, but then you wouldn't know who I was talking about.

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

Once there was a princess. Her name was Amelia.

She lived in a not so far off land with her father and mother, the King and Queen, who were generally beloved by the populace - mainly because they were fairly ordinary, and did things like take budget flights instead of the Royal Jet to make sure they didn't squeeze the economy. People tend to appreciate value for money I have found, and these two were right on top of budgeting.

Her three older sisters on the other hand...

Let's just say that if you combined Elizabeth Taylor's love of very large rocks with Imelda Marcos' shoe habit - you wouldn't even touch the sides. As far as they were concerned, Princess equalled PRINCESS in bold and with flashing lights in case someone missed the point. They were not interested in anything much besides shopping, more shopping and waiting for a prince with a black AmEx to whisk them away to a larger castle with better closet space.

Amelia though - well, Amelia was a little bit...

Odd.

She didn't look peculiar. She didn't sound peculiar. Everyone thought she was a lovely girl - certainly much nicer than the Shopaholics - uh, I mean her siblings. She just didn't seem to quite fit in, and nobody could really put their finger on it - even her parents, much as they loved her, found it easier to deal with large credit card bills, and getting the royal carpenters in to put up new shoe racks, rather than address what was going on with Princess Number 4.

Amelia herself though - she knew exactly what the issue was. And she was finding it harder and harder to hide her 'totally bizarre weirdness' as her delightful eldest sister Prunella called it.

Princess A had very vivid dreams. This wasn't the totally bizarre weird part however - many people have startlingly 'real' dreams and are none the worse for it, other than a tendency to grin stupidly during the day if it was a particularly enjoyable one. No - the TBW was this;

Amelia's dreams were starting to come true.

Seriously.

It began when she turned twenty-one. The night before her birthday, she dreamt that the next day, Morcilla (she got off lightly with Amelia, didn't she?), sister number two, was going to throw an enormous tanty when she saw Amelia's birthday present and insist that it be given to her. As it was a vintage Mercedes convertible, Amelia wasn't too keen on this idea (hey, she may not have been a shopping addict, but the girl was only human) and told Morcilla if she touched a finger to the paintwork, her hand would be permanently stuck to it until she promised to never, ever go near it again.

And this is exactly what happened. Morcilla went berkers, Amelia said her piece - and suddenly an errant finger was attached to the bonnet. Shrieks, tears and a grudging promise later - the finger was removed and Amelia was sitting in a corner glugging champagne out of terror (and quiet enjoyment) at what had just happened.

A few more similar incidents occurred, mostly involving her sisters and their love of shiny objects. Amelia would dream a scenario, and within a few days - hey presto, it happened. Whilst this had a certain good side effect of making her sisters leave her (and her possessions) alone, Amelia was petrified that one night, she would dream something which ended up hurting someone badly - and so she stopped sleeping.

Completely.

No person, let alone a princess who spent most of her time in surrounding kingdoms on diplomatic duties, can go without sleep. Things go wrong when there's tiredness involved, such as promising the next door country the profits from the year's beet crop (big bucks - they loved their beets in that part of the world). And eventually, as she was strap-hanging on the Fly Cheap, Fly Standing! flight home after the Beet Incident of '03... her eyes closed.

And she started to dream.

This one wasn't about shoes, or cars, or grabby sisters. This one - well, this one was a nightmare. The land was on fire. Her parents were held by very large men with very large weapons - her father had been hit and was bleeding. Her sisters were also in the same situation, but even nightmares have some moments of levity. And there was a man with a cruel, hard face, in a very ostentatious uniform, who said to Amelia 'this is all your doing - after all, you dreamt it, didn't you?'

She woke up on the floor of the plane, with her bodyguards trying frantically to work out why she was screaming.

And so it was back to insomnia. Until two weeks later.

When the kingdom was attacked.

They came from nowhere - moving swiftly and silently. The cities were surrounded by tanks and insanely complicated weaponry. Amelia's family were dragged from the palace in the middle of the night, and it was all just as she had dreamed it would be. She struggled, and fought (and took quite a few men out - just saying) - but eventually she was face to face with General Despicable from her dream. He slapped her, which was totally unnecessary but showed the kind of ratbrain he was.

'Tell your parents to send out a notice of surrender, or I will kill your entire family - and it will be your fault, Princess Amelia' he said, with a faint smile.

'What did you do to me?' she asked very bravely.

'Oh, the standard evil fairy thing - when you were born, got her to put a curse on you, yada yada yada' he replied, yawning and examining his seriously long nails (yuck).  'She guaranteed that eventually you would dream something which would allow me to take over - and I am delighted to say, she didn't lie. I killed her anyway, but I do like value for money'.

'And by the way', he added 'apparently the curse is unbreakable - you will always dream the truth. Bad luck there.'

Amelia looked around at her parents, her sobbing sisters, and listened to the gunfire and terror surrounding them. And she realised there was only one thing to do.

She put all of her love for her family and her country into her thoughts - and fell asleep. She vaguely heard and felt the General screaming at her to wake up and shaking her, but she was determined to sleep, perchance to dream.

And dream she did. She dreamt of her parents. She dreamt of the beet crops (I told you she was weird). She even dreamt of her sisters, who for once hugged and kissed her instead of stealing her shoes. She dreamt of every good thing she could... and finally, she dreamt a dead General and a defeated army.

And she opened her eyes and smiled, because she had dreamed her own truth.

The army was gone. The General was a cloud of dust at her feet. And the kingdom and her family were safe.  It may have been a curse, but who exactly had the curse been on? Those evil fairies sometimes aren't quite as evil as they look, you know.  

The country rejoiced. Her parents were back in fiduciary charge. Amelia went back to dreaming of - well, just normal dreams - there may have been a prince somewhere in there, but that's her business. And her sisters...

Let's just say they developed a healthy respect for not touching other princesses' property.

Dream a little dream.

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

““...looking at the million book spines, I can imagine a million alternate endings. It turned out the butler did it all, or I ended up marrying Mr. Darcy, or we went and watched a girl ride the merry-go-round in Central Park, or we beat on against the current in our little boats, or Atticus Finch was there when we woke up in the morning.””

— Rebecca Makkai, The Borrower

I was reading a new book the other night and really enjoying it - OK, it was fairly trashy, but who cares? It was fun, it didn't involve an awful of of brain power and it was slightly naughty. If I'd had some chocolate and a glass of wine, I would have been in hog's heaven. As it was, I had to settle for just the glass of wine, but beggars can't be tipsy choosers.

I was zooming through the pages (or rather zooming through the iPad flips) when I got to the end.  

And it SUCKED.  

It was a complete cop-out. The iPad went thump on the sofa - if it had been a real book it would have possibly gone sailing off the balcony and started a brief new life as a seagull yacht. The ending ruined the entire book for me, and put me in a stinky mood for at least three hours (well, a stinkier mood... no chocolate, remember?) 

It made me think though about all of the iconic novels I had read. Ernest Hemingway wrote 47 different endings to A Farewell To Arms. Forty. Seven. What if Catherine hadn't carked it? And then there's Gone With The Wind - what if Rhett had given a damn? 

I know that there are a lot of 'variation' books out and about - especially in Jane Austen land - but they usually are a 'now on with our story' or have the same ending, just a different storyline to get there. So being me, I have decided to give five classic capers my own 'what if' and see whether I have hits on my hands - or just get hit.  

Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows:

Harry dies. Properly. Snape doesn't - we all know he got a pretty raw deal the whole way through and he needs a break. Hermione decides Ron is far too ginger for her and runs off with Malfoy, because let's face it, he's pretty damn hot and she had a secret thing for bad boys. They found an evil magic empire which is so successful it turns the British economy around, the Muggle Royal Family gets evicted and King Mal and Queen H are installed to wild applause. 

Pride And Prejudice:

Despite looking really, really fabbo in breeches, Lizzy realises that Darcy is in fact very arsey and isn't likely to change his spots anytime soon. She decides marriage would be a trap and a half and instead scandalises Longbourn by going on the stage and becoming the best known actress of her time. Mrs Bennet loses the plot entirely and simultaneously the power of speech (yay). Darcy marries Caroline Bingley and is miserable but his family is happy so bad luck.

Jane and Bingley can still get married because they're both drips. 

The Great Gatsby:

Jay realises what a complete git he has been by asking Daisy to say she had never loved Tom. They hoof it to Paris with Pally in tow. Tom realises Daisy was in fact incredibly boring, decides discretion is the better part of valour, and marries Jordan. She ends up murdering him with a golf club for messing around with a variety of Myrtles. Nick makes his fortune on the stock exchange and never writes another word, which is a shame but hey - he's rich and happy. He'll settle.

Gone With The Wind:

Melly doesn't cark it, and she and Ashley have lots of incredibly geeky kids, one of whom is Bill Gates' great-great-great-grandfather. Scarlett becomes a nun. Rhett becomes President. Scarlett re-thinks the convent because she likes the idea of being Mrs President. Monica Lewinsky beats her to it. Oh wait... that's a different work of fiction.

To Kill A Mockingbird: 

Forget it. I'm not touching this one.  

OK, so it was only four... but come on. Messing with Atticus, Jem, Dill and Scout?  I'd be assassinated. 

I'm thinking there are legs on a couple of these though. Maybe I have a new calling? Is there a job title called 'Wrecking Great Books Which Should Never, Ever Be Touched by Anyone, But Constantly Are?'

I am sure I can fit that on my business card somehow. I'm off... 

To read a good book.  

Look, Up In The Sky! It's A...

““How Superheroes Make Money: - Spider-Man knits sweaters. - Superman screw the lids on pickle jars. - Iron Man, as you would suspect, just irons.” ”

— Jim Benton, Okay, So Maybe I Do Have Superpowers

Yesterday I was incredibly humbled (and pretty chuffed) to be named Team Fox Australia and Shake It Up's Hero of the Week. There are two reasons I mention this; one, I am supremely egotistical (actually, it's so you go to the website and donate lots of money) - and two - it made me think a lot last night. Admittedly my thinking was slightly blurry as I was having a bit of a bad evening, and therefore muscle relaxants were involved... but still. I won't be the first to write with some mind altering substances under my belt.

So last night's thinking.

I am a complete geek. And a big kid. I recognise this. I embrace it. I happily admit to liking Lego, Dr Who, Matchbox cars, have heinous taste in music and movies, love any techno gadgetry I can find... and oh yes.

I have a thing for superheroes. And Asterix, but that's possibly a different discussion.  Perhaps one could even count Dr Who as a superhero, but again, big, big discussion and it makes me think of David Tennant and I get off topic.

Sigh. Where was I? Oh yes, superheroes.

I have never understood, I admit, how Diana Prince just had to undo her hair and turn around really fast to become Wonder Woman. Maybe the dudes were distracted by her golden lasso? Smirk. It's like Clark Kent - a pair of black rimmed glasses is a truly craptacular way to hide your secret identity. Yes, people are a bit on the thicky side sometimes, but seriously...

Batman on the other hand - how the hell would you know who was under that rubber blankie? Kudos to you Bruce Wayne on actually wearing something which could be considered under the definition of an actual 'disguise'.

What is fantastic - and fascinating - to me about superheroes in general though is not just their super powers. It's the whole 'put the public good before myself' mentality. It's something we all aspire to and the reason we love the Justice League et al is because these men and women go out and do what we can only dream of. Who wouldn't want an invisible jet to fly around and fight crime in? I'd certainly like to be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound - usually when there's really bad traffic admittedly - and as for the Bat Cave... oh yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Superheroes are the side of ourselves which most people only think about showing, before rolling over and hitting snooze. It's much easier to do imaginary good when you're warm and comfy under the doona than it is to get up and cracking and actively volunteer to help people out.

I am as guilty of this as the next person (unless the next person happened to be Batman. And I wouldn't know it was him, BECAUSE HE WEARS A PROPER DISGUISE). But I am attempting to change this. Yes, it is mostly through self-interest, but so what? I have Parkinson's. I want a cure. So I am getting off my butt and doing as much as I can to help raise money to find out what the hell is wrong with my brain.

And the reason this is a gratitude post?

Because so many of the people I care about support me not only with moral fortitude, but they are actively trying to raise awareness and cash too. How can I not be grateful to these everyday superheroes?

Without sounding preachy, if you care about a cause, don't just talk about it.

Get up, get dressed, put those underpants on the outside of your tights and get ready to be faster than a locomotive. Because everyone has superhero potential.

You just need to learn to fly.

Or own a Tardis. Oh David Tennant...