Cooking The Books

“When I read a book, I put in all the imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it - or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so much more exciting, but I don't suppose many people try to do it.”  - Dodie Smith, I Capture The Castle

Today is World Book Day, and here is where I show my everlasting Geek Girl status by saying, in an annoyingly loud voice,

"Huzzah!!"

Because, more than anything else in the world, excepting perhaps the Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant...

I love books.

Books rock. Like a rocky thing.

The quote from I Capture The Castle (which, not altogether surprisingly, is one of my all time 'can read again and again, never get tired of it, go to when I can't sleeps' favourites) sums up perfectly what books mean to me.

When I read them, I am a part of them, and they are a part of me.

Books are an escape and a fantasy. They are a way of living out our wildest dreams without leaving the comfort of our bed on a cold yucky winter morning. They're a way to drown out the snores and snarkles of the very large gentleman next to us on the long flight from X to Y. They are, when we are younger, often a way to make the best of what can be a scary place - the playground - when we don't quite fit in.

They make us laugh and cry. They make us look nervously over our shoulders to see if the bad man has managed to jump out of the pages somehow (I don't know about you, but this has not been restricted to my childhood. Hannibal Lecter's creator, Thomas Harris, and of course the ScareMeister Stephen King, have a LOT to answer for).

We cheer for the good guys. We take the second star to the right, and play Pooh Sticks with Christopher Robin. We know what Katy Did (or Didn't?). We watch the Little Women become bigger - with that tearful, tragic exception - and we go through the Wardrobe with Lucy, Peter, Edmund and Susan.

We return with the King and Samwell Gamgee. We listen to Atticus defend Tom with every fibre of his being, while Scout, Dill and Jem play at being Boo Radley. And we all know that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Especially if he looks like Darcy.

We do these things time and time again. Why? Because books are magic. Even if they aren't inherently about boy wizards.

I gobble up books like they are my last meal as a condemned prisoner - it has been this way for me since I first started chewing on the corner of what was probably a very valuable piece of literary real estate. I become the protagonist of every book I read. I was Jo getting her hair cut off to raise money to get Marmee to March and I certainly resembled Pippi Longstocking far more than I would care to remember. I was definitely naughty Katy before she became good Katy, although these days I now understand more about her 'house of pain' than I ever would have dreamed. Jane Eyre's look of patient forebearing had nothing on me when I was in a snit. And as for The Wind In The Willows...

Definitely Ratty, with his dreams of the Wide, Wide World.

Although I completely get Toad's thing for motorcars.

The wonderful thing is, books are forgiving. They don't care whether or not you read weighty great classics on a daily basis. They just want to be read. The Collected Works of Pliny the Elder aren't going anywhere; if what floats your boat is vampires and werewolves and shifters (oh my!) then who cares? Pliny probably would have quite enjoyed them too, the old bugger. The point is to feed your imagination. George R R Martin has done a wonderful thing with Game of Thrones; he has brought reading not to a new generation of children, but to a new adult audience, and love him or hate him, as a reader you have to respect him.

I love books. It's that simple, and that complicated. And one day they will probably bankrupt me.

But by that stage, I will most likely be able to build a house out of them, I will have so many -

So at least David T and I will have somewhere to live.

And read.

The Nextest Level (Trademarked In All Countries)

Dear AFL Commission It is with great enthusiasm that I send you my application for the vacant role of CEO of the AFL.

I believe I have the necessary skills and more importantly, a truly brilliant strategic plan, to take the AFL to the ‘Nextest Level™' (that’s the name of my plan. Catchy right?).

As CEO, I would bring a deep understanding of the football industry developed through years of reading the paper and discussing it with my friends.

I also ran a successful SuperCoach team for four rounds until I forgot to do it a few times and then gave up.

Importantly, I also have a strong desire to travel overseas during Australian winters and to one day attend the Super Bowl without having to pay for it myself.

Whilst my personal skills are strong, it is my strategic plan that will set me apart from the other no hopers that your expensive executive search firm are currently putting forward.

Nextest Level™ will see efficiencies and synergies all over the place. It will work horizontally across business units, whilst also being a top down/bottom up approach to collaboration and individualism.

It delivers in spades best practicing and LEAN principles of process and lots of other stuff.

Here are the key pillars of my Nextest Level™ plan:

1. Excellent PowerPoint Presentation - Any corporate strategy needs a great PowerPoint and Nextest Level™ is no different. The transitions between slides have been designed by an Indian whiz kid from Andhra Pradesh. They will literally blow your mind. There are some great slides that make incredibly intricate and difficult problems look easy to solve, which I think you’ll like. I’ve also put in a few slides with numbers to seem like everything is costed, knowing you won’t read them.
2. Import Cheap Players from Overseas - Australian AFL players are expensive. $10 million for nine years? Do you know how many footballers from a poor country I could get for that? We shall start importing these players from India, China and the southern parts of the United States, at a significantly lower wage. While the standard of play may drop a little, the margins should increase significantly.
3. Change all the rules - As a long-time supporter of rule changes, I believe the one weakness the previous regime had, was moving too slowly. In my first season we will change every single rule, mid-season, at least once. I will reduce the number of umpires on the field to one and instead of enforcing rules, they will only be able to ‘make suggestions.’
4. Ignore ASADA - You know, I’m not going out like AD did. So what if a certain club 'might' have injected a bunch of stuff into some young kids. Are we against vaccinations too? It sounds to me like they had a pretty good, rough idea of what they were doing. Anyway, player safety is not a first order issue, like profits or cost out programs are. On my first day I will ring ASADA and tell them we’re out. After all, it’s not like we’re competing in the Olympics is it?

Conclusion

You’re welcome AFL Commission. I will of course need a bigger office than Andrew had, I don’t want to be that close to Mark Robinson when he interviews me.

I can start soon enough but can we make sure Centrelink, the Tax Office or the Australian Federal Police don’t get wind of this till 2018? Few misunderstandings to still sort out there.

Fondest Regards,

Me. Your Fearless Leader In Waiting.

Just Don't Wait Too Long.

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step; step with care and great tact, and remember that Life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. - Dr Seuss.

Today is - or rather would have been, as he died in 1991 - the 110th birthday of Dr Theodor Geisel, otherwise known to generations of children (and the Red Hot Chili Peppers) as Dr Seuss. For Americans, Dr Seuss's birthday is now National Read Across America Day, an initiative on reading created by the National Education Association. And let's face it, who is more likely to make you want to hurtle through a book than Yertle the Turtle? If he's cool enough for Flea, then he's cool enough for me.

I had a long and lasting love affair with Dr Seuss's creations. You can tell from the amount of chocolatey smears on Ten Apples Up On Top, and the dog eared mess which Hop On Pop rapidly deteriorated into. I was a bit scared of The Cat In The Hat for some reason; I think he was a little bit too anarchistic for my neat and tidy brain. I wanted to go wild, but I think I was busy quietly wetting my pants waiting for the mother in the book to come home and CATCH THEM OUT, so the Cat's craziness was a bit wasted on me.

Fox In Socks on the other hand... let's just say that still has a place in my memory worthy of going straight to the pool room, as Darryl Kerrigan from The Castle would say. As for Green Eggs and Ham, the mild hysteria that induced would be worrying in an adult, because I'd assume some form of illegal substances were involved in the high pitched laughter and repetition of 'I DO like green eggs and ham!!!'.

Possibly the aforementioned green eggs. Or mushrooms.

He was a complex cat, old Theodor. By no means perfect; in fact I was a bit shocked by his fairly yuck attitude towards the Japanese during the second World War (although he did redeem himself to a large degree). He wasn't above pushing political or religious messages through his books, but then again he's not the only children's author guilty of this (hello C.S. Lewis as an outstanding culprit of the latter). But he achieved what many an author, and almost more to the point, many an overwhelmingly frustrated parent and teacher, has not -

He made reading fun. And so, kids read. And they kept reading. And they remembered more than the nonsense; they remembered the lessons.

Because what a lot of people tend to forget is this. In amongst all of the Hortons and Grinches, Loraxes and Cindy Lous, Seuss had some fairly profound messages which serve us well as adults. How to enjoy the journey. How to not be selfish. How to be ourselves.

How to fall in love.

And this is why I will always celebrate my Seussosity. Because it is the things I have carried with me, 30 years on, which make me happy to say 'do I like them Sam I am?' and grin like a maniac when someone equally weird, and who vaguely resembles David Tennant, knows what I am talking about.

For we're all a little weird, and life's a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.

That's what the Doc said, anyway.

I'm willing to take it as gospel.

More Than All The Stars In The Sky

Many, many years ago, there were no stars. The sky was - well, blank. Oh, the moon was there, lonely in her solitary glory, and the other planets of course; but there were no twinkling pieces of fiery ice for us to wonder at, for poetry to be written about, for songs to be sung to, for stories to be scribbled down in wonder... and for couples to stand under, hand in hand - with stars in their eyes.

This is how stars came to be.

They were born, as one would expect, from a fairytale.

Once upon a time, in a land whose borders have long since moved beyond memory, there lived a young princess called Asta. She was in fact rather more than just a princess; she was the Crown Princess, and when her father died (which with great good luck, would not be for many years yet), the country would be hers to rule. This pleased the people greatly, as she was generous, and kind, and known for her wit and humour. Was she a great beauty? Not really; but she had an indefinable something which made her more attractive to the young princes in those parts than all the classic sharp-cheekboned goddesses soulfully mooning around the court.

She was certainly in no hurry to take on the role of Queen. Since her mother's death, she and her father had been very close, and the thought of his not being around, a pack of large slobbery dogs at his shabby heels, was almost too much to bear.

We all know however, that life isn't kind, or fair, and that sometimes great pain has to come before great happiness. And this, sadly, was closer than anyone could have anticipated.

The entire country had been humming with excitement for weeks, because it was both the 30th anniversary of the King's ascension to the throne, and Asta's 21st birthday. Preparations for an enormous ball had been occupying the court, with neighbouring nations sending emissaries and envoys - not to mention hopeful royal suitors. Unfortunately, not all of those who had to be invited were friends... some, as the King had taught Asta carefully, were strategic guests.

One of them was Queen Ondska.

She was incredibly beautiful, it was true. She was also incredibly ambitious, and had made no secret of her desire to marry the widowed King. It was whispered that she had magic in her blood, but only the brave (or perhaps the foolhardy) dared to voice their suspicions aloud, for those who did had a nasty habit of disappearing.

Ondska arrived with her usual pomp and ceremony, a large retinue, and an even larger mirror, which glittered strangely and made the servants uncomfortable. Asta disliked her intensely, but was too well mannered to let it show - and of course she would never let her father down by being less than courteous to any guest.

The night of the ball arrived. Asta had noticed that her father had looked quite pale all day, but he assured her he was well, just preoccupied with making sure all of their guests were taken care of. And she was, admittedly, a little too excited to notice the extent of his pallor and shaking hands.

As she and the King descended the stairs into the palace ballroom, the assembled crowd bowed low. Even Ondska, although it was with gritted teeth. As they straightened up, Asta noticed a young man she had never before seen looking straight at her. He had a look of wildness, and fearlessness, and adventure, and life.

Then he grinned, and Asta's hitherto untouched heart was lost. Her worries over her father, her nagging concern over Ondska and her magic - all were gone. All she saw was a tall figure with laughing eyes making his way towards her, hand held out, asking her to dance.

His name was Prince Fin, and he had been at sea, heading his father's navy. He had been sent to the celebrations because his brother the Crown Prince and his wife were about to have their first child, and could not leave home. He explained this to Asta as they danced, saying with a grin that 'as the spare, I am used to being the last minute substitute for diplomatic missions. I must say in this case, it is no hardship at all.'

'In fact, I am not sure I am likely to ever return to sea - unless I were to have a new executive officer, who just happened to be a princess.'

Asta blushed. And grinned back. And Fin felt his heart turn over.

Suddenly there was a commotion near the throne dais. Asta looked up, and her world collapsed. The King was lying on the ground. He was horribly, terribly still; and she saw the Lord Chamberlain shake his head, search the crowd, and through the whirling white noise in her head, as Fin held her up, heard the words she had thought would be years away:

The King is dead... Long live the Queen!

She hid her face for a moment against Fin's chest, then straightened up and walked towards her people.

She did not see the look of malevolence and triumph on Ondska's face.

In the Queen's rooms meanwhile, a maidservant ran in fear as the mirror spoke. Unfortunately, she tripped and broke her neck, which of course everyone dismissed as clumsiness, so she was never able to say whose voice she had heard.

Or, of course, what it had said.

In the days that followed, everyone said with what dignity the young Queen comported herself. Or, it should be said, the Queen to be, for she was yet to be crowned. Asta insisted on the correct mourning period being observed for her father before any kind of celebration be held, and that included her own coronation. This only added to how dearly her people loved her, for it showed her grief and respect.

Fin did not leave her side. Asta found herself reaching for him without thinking, and it was only his steadiness which saved her from retreating to her room and staying there. But this she couldn't do, for she had seen the way Ondska was watching.

Watching... and waiting.

The Queen claimed to be staying 'for Asta's solace'. And her standing was too great, her own country too powerful for Asta to say 'please leave'. But the servants were growing ever more nervous, to the point where after dark they would not go to her quarters, claiming there were voices coming from the mirror.

Finally, the day of the coronation approached. Asta realised that for the sake of her people, she had to see it as a happy occasion. If she was brutally honest with herself, in some ways she was happy, for she knew she would rule well and wisely - and of course there was Fin.

Fin.

He was nervous. Petrified in fact, because today was the day he was going to ask Asta to marry him - and he had to do it before she was crowned, so that she understood it was for her that he asked, not her country. He took a deep breath, and got ready to see her. Just as he was about to set off to her rooms, Queen Ondska called out to him.

'Prince Fin. If I may? I would very much appreciate your counsel.'

Fin turned. He had no desire whatsoever to be anywhere near the Queen, but as he looked at her, she snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he felt his will being drained. She smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

'If you will, Prince Fin... just stand in front of the mirror. Just for a moment.'

With the last of his strength, he tried to avert his gaze. But the mirror pulled at him, and with mounting horror he looked into its depths.

And saw the King, and hundreds of others behind him, sorrow in their eyes.

And he felt his own death upon him.

Asta had expected Fin to escort her to the throne room, and when he didn't appear, decided to find him. She had felt an uneasy tickling in the back of her mind for a while, and it seemed to be growing the closer she got - why, it was the closer she got to Queen Ondska's rooms! She knocked at the door. There was no answer, but she heard a low cry - and she pushed on the latch. It opened, and she ran inside.

She saw Fin lying still and white on the floor in front of the mirror, and the Queen looking as though she had just finished a wonderful meal.

'What... what has happened here?' she whispered.

Ondska looked at her, her eyes glazed with power and evil.

'Oh my dear. I am afraid there has been a tragic accident. Your dear Prince has died. There was nothing to be done. I am so very sorry for you!'

'Fin - no! It can't - '

'But yes. As you can see, he is clearly not coming back. I think it is best you immediately call off the coronation and go into mourning. Perhaps you should consider appointing a regent? Someone older, more capable. Trustworthy.'

Ondska's voice had taken on a hypnotic hissing quality. For a moment, Asta was mesmerised.

And then she looked in the mirror.

And saw Fin and her father looking back, shaking their heads.

The clouds in her mind dissolved.

Asta screamed. It came from deep - so deep - inside her, and sounded like the agonised cry of a seabird. It was a scream of agony, and loss, and love, and a breaking heart.

The mirror shattered, the pieces flying, whirling outwards in a glittering, lethal diamond cloud - towards Ondska. There was a sudden blur, a snarling roar of defeat, a babble of triumphant voices - and then, like a shining tornado, the source of the Queen's power and her death headed for the skies.

And all that was left of Ondska was a pool of puddled velvet... and a rapidly blackening crown.

There was a low whisper.

'Asta?'

She whirled around, the colour coming back to her face.

It was Fin. He was back... and beside him, her father.

The joy in the castle was overwhelming.

That night, a strange phenomenon was observed in the sky. Glittering points of light had started to shine - faintly, it was true, but they shone nevertheless. Over the course of the next few decades, they grew stronger and stronger, until people could not remember a time when there were not shimmering ribbons of unreality above.

And what did they call them?

In the common tongue, they called them 'stars'... but those who knew and loved her best remembered who they were named after.

Asta.

Shine on.

Bully For You.

Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict suffering on anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility, or indifference, or sheer helplessness. - Honoré de Balzac, Père Goriot

I have hesitated over whether to write this post for a couple of reasons; mainly because I don't want to be seen as jumping on the Charlotte Dawson bandwagon - I didn't know her, I didn't follow her, and I found it frustrating that she seemed to keep returning, almost like an addict, to the very environment which was seemingly destroying her.

However. This is about more than Charlotte Dawson. It is about everyday people, as well as 'celebrities' being affected; it may, after this post, be about me. It is about undercurrents of nastiness and the way the web is used as a weapon.

There have been some really big bullies in the online space of late. And they aren't necessarily trolls, or the usual suspects - those who find pleasure in other people's pain. In one instance, it has been a sporting club's own marketing department using social media in a way that is mindblowingly petty.

Recently, a SuperRugby franchise, which just happens to be based in Melbourne (yes, we all know it's the Rebels) - or rather their marketing team - put out advertisements with the hashtag #REBdemption, which has got to be one of the most awkward words of all time for a start. In it, they can Buddy Franklin for his move to the Swans and therefore his lack of loyalty to Victoria, whilst talking about putting the club first, playing for each other and winning more games (the dig at Franklin is in response to his friendship with, and public defence of, James O'Connor, who was dropped from the Rebels after off-field issues last year).

Don't get me wrong. O'Connor behaved like a twit. And Buddy Franklin... well, to be honest, I don't sit around thinking 'wow, who do I wish I could be'. But this is a case of using social media - and print media as well - to push a personal vendetta in the guise of 'we are all about the game'.

This is not the spirit of rugby union. Just as the way Charlotte Dawson was treated is not what I like to think Twitter is all about. It's certainly not the way the people I follow use it, nor the way I use it.

The level of malice - and malice aforethought - present online is disturbing. What is also disturbing is how little responsibility is being taken for it. Bullying is not seen as acceptable in the playground, the workplace, or in a normal social setting. So why is it OK on a computer screen? And what is scary as hell is that it is adults who are embracing it - and thus making it acceptable behaviour for children.

If you put an opinion out there, then yes, you are going to get opinions back. If you make a comment that is based in ignorance, then yes, again, you are going to get very strong comments back. But the vitriol is astonishing. And for me, to see a professional organisation resorting to a campaign which is basically a 'ner, ner, ner, ner, we'll show you, sitting on Bondi Beach, Mister Swan Smarty Pants' - what on earth has that got to do with playing a game of rugby? What value does that have in promoting the game, the players, or the good name of the club?

Some people may not see this as bullying. They may see it as harmless. But I don't. James O'Connor behaved like an immature little twit; but you know what? We all make mistakes. He has lost massive opportunities because of his behaviour. That ad has now dredged up his past, rather than just 'playfully' having a dig at Buddy, and saying 'we are Rebel'.

If that's not bullying, I don't know what is.

From the feedback I have seen on Twitter and other social media, it seems as though most Rebels fans agree that this is not an approach that is acceptable - which is heartening in the least. And I must state that I don't see this as something the players have endorsed either.

There is so much depression associated with being a tall poppy of any kind in Australia - and it seems to be particularly prevalent in the sporting arena, unsurprisingly given the pressure the public places on our golden children to win, win, win. One only has to look to Ian Thorpe. Or, to bring it back to rugby union, the funny, smart and determined Clyde Rathbone. He went through hell and came out the other side.

The thought of what online bullies could do to his hard-won confidence... I'll leave you with that thought.

And with, for myself, perhaps a little more compassion for people whom I have had little time for. And an even bigger determination to think before I reply online.

Maybe some marketing people might like to do that too.

The Answer Is...

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew When I bit off more than I could chew And through it all, when there was doubt I ate it up and spit it out I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way.

- Frank Sinatra.

I have been attempting to start this new blog - which may I add, is now permanent - since I actually turned 42. But due to 2014 starting with mosquito borne illnesses, a fractured wrist and what could be considered the return of the Plagues of Egypt (on a personal scale) - it has taken a little longer than anticipated.

Nevertheless.

In tribute to Douglas Adams -

I may, perhaps, have found the meaning of life, the universe and everything.

It really is 42.

Last year was all about ticking things off a list. As it turned out, the things I eventually saw as 'achievements' were perhaps not those that I would have expected at the start of 2013. But they ended up being far more profound, and far more difficult, than I could ever have anticipated. So. To all those who loyally followed the41steps, here is my 'Year of Wonders' - make of it what you will. Not quite 41 things, because I don't want you to fall asleep!

1. Survived cancer.

2. Decided I hadn't had enough, and had another go.

3. Managed 3 countries in 3 days. With several buckets of champagne.

4. Got the Dread P back safely from some serious buccaneering. 

5. Moved states. 

6. Moved states again. 

7. Stayed loyal to the Tahs.

8. Remained an idiot (see above).

9. Co-launched an amazing online magazine. Pride. 

10. Made some serious mistakes. 

11. Made more mistakes. But not the same ones. Win. 

12. Sat in the middle of a dam on a mattress. It worked out OK. 

13. Wrote like a maniac.

14. Didn't give up.

15. Fell desperately in love. With someone who may vaguely resemble David Tennant.

I think that's enough to be going on with. Especially points 1,2... and definitely point 15.

I hope that those who have stuck with me throughout the two incarnations of my blog so far continue to do so. I love writing. It is a part of me. And this year - well, it's going to get bigger than ever.

Once I recover from mozzies and muddled bones.

Huzzah.

My Funny Valentine

On Valentine’s Day, the Spirit Club plastered the school with red streamers and pink balloons and red and pink hearts. It looked like Clifford the Big Red Dog ate a flock of flamingoes and then barfed his guts up.

— Carolyn Mackler, Vegan, Virgin, Valentine

I am, and have been for many a long year, a very definite naysayer of what has to be the biggest Hallmark Holiday of them all. This is mainly because I hate the whole idea of proscribed love, and having to express it on a certain day and in a certain manner, or otherwise you will be mocked and shunned by the rest of society.

So to teddybears holding love hearts, and single red roses... I am afraid I say 'bah, humbug!'

Or whatever the Valentinian (word?) equivalent of Scrooge's Christmas message may be.

But.

By the same token, there is nothing wrong with taking a time out to say what you feel about the person you care most about in the world. And for some people, the only day of the year when they are able to express that is Valentine's Day. Whether through shyness, or reticence, or simply being a typical boy (you know it's true) - most of the time, romance gets lost in translation, or more typically in work, work, sleep, work, kids, work, sport, drinking with friends... you know.

Life.

And that is where I have come to see the value that V Day holds. It's a chance to break out of the ordinary. To actually have a valid reason to stand up and say 'I love this person, they mean everything to me'. I suppose the sad thing is that an excuse in the form of an official day is needed for this to happen. That we are all too busy, or tired, or shitty, or lacklustre, to make the effort on an 'everyday' day.

2014 has so far been a remarkably craptacular year. I can't see that Valentine's Day is going to hold anything particularly special in many ways (if it holds a bear holding a heart, then there will be a brand new Massacre to join the history books. Just as an aside). But one thing I can say, which is special to me, and which is 2014's saving grace - and which makes every day a gift as far as I am concerned;

I wake up being told I am loved by the other half of my heart, and go to sleep the same way.

That, to me, is what Valentine's Day means.

Have a happy day. I hope it is filled with bacon roses, if that's your thing. And guys who look vaguely like David Tennant, if that is your thing as well.

I know it's mine.

In An Unguarded Moment

Our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children’s future. And we are all mortal.

— John Fitzgerald Kennedy

It occurred to me this morning that I hadn't written a gratitude post in literally months. It hasn't been deliberate; there is quite a bit in my life that I am grateful for. By the same token, there are quite large chunks of craptacularity which I would like to throw into a vortex (or at a certain misogynistic Herald Sun columnist - same thing really) and which I find it hard to feel grateful for at all.

I realise that this is rapidly sounding like an ingratitude post but it isn't. I just need to state, for the record, that things aren't necessarily rosy.

Which is why it's all the more important to be grateful for the everyday bits of bliss.

It's the unguarded moments, the 'sneak up on you and hug you' good things that happen which we need to learn to appreciate more.

Today is an incredibly hard day for my family. The aforementioned craptacularity is in full swing, and it is't going to de-craptacularise any time soon. Which gives me ten - a hundred - times the reasons to appreciate what is great about my life. For a start, I am still kicking, which was dubious at a few stages last year. So yay for that. But this post isn't about the big showstopping, Oscar-worthy reasons to count your blessings.

It's about being grateful for someone you love coming into the room and dancing around, being silly and making faces at you whilst you're being incredibly serious and professional on the phone, using that voice you NEVER use in real life. You know the one; your 'yup, yup, I can totally see where you're coming from' voice.

It's hard to maintain that when someone is crossing their eyes at you and sticking out their tongue.

Have some gratitude for that chance to laugh when there is terror and pain ahead.

Be grateful for some silliness with a friend. Chances are, they might be having a bit of a rough day too - so pull them out of it. It may be at the expense of someone else, but if said someone else is a fairly unpleasant individual and also has very bad grooming standards, then I have no issues with using them as a comedic prop.

Sneak the snorts in. Find the common link. Summon up some sunshine for each other. Enjoy the perfect little moments which come out of nowhere and feel like a butterfly kiss.

Don't try too hard to create a perfect moment mind you. They don't exist if you manufacture them. A perfect moment is a moment that just happens. If you are smart, you will realise that every moment of every day in which you are not actively miserable or in horrendous emotional or physical pain is perfect.

Why?

Because despite the fact that you may be a bit glum, or things aren't going right at work, or you've had a bit of an argy-bargy with the boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/dad/whatever floats your boat, think on this:

In this moment, this perfect, perfect moment...

You are alive. You are here. You have the chance of happiness just around the corner.

From heartbeat to heartbeat.

So make the most of every one of them.

And realise, in gratitude, despite the black clouds which are just over the horizon - that if you are as lucky as I am - there is always someone who is willing to hold that metaphorical umbrella for you.

Even if it's just by dancing into the room with their eyes crossed.

Snort.

But Everybody Looked The Other Way

““I recognised the words “domestic violence” because the Japanese use the same words, only with blockier pronunciation. “ Domesuchikku baiorensu”. I think it’s weird they use the same word; I’m pretty sure they invented domestic violence independently of us English-speakers, at the same time we were inventing it independently of them.” ”

— Tim Rogers, an incident involving a human body

Yesterday I read - unusually, because I have to admit to not being the world's biggest fan of this site, but The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant had shared the post, and that means a fair bit - a post on MamaMia. It was written by Charlie Pickering, and I am a fan of his, so I settled back and thought 'well, the ups outweigh the downs'. 

I am including the link here, because Charles P, you have written what I think so many intelligent and wonderful men in this country - and indeed around the world - think and feel and yet don't have the forum to express themselves on.

I am not going to talk about the other topics which he raised - as valid as they are, what I really want to concentrate on is his point about violence against women, and the way in which it seems to get lost on an every day basis, despite the huge strides that organisations such as White Ribbon are making to see consciousness raised. 

According to a 2013 global review of available data, 35 per cent of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence or non-partner sexual violence. However, some national violence studies show that up to 70 per cent of women have experienced physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime from an intimate partner.

In Australia, Canada, Israel, South Africa and the United States, intimate partner violence accounts for between 40 and 70 per cent of female murder victims. 40 AND 70 PERCENT. This is not in third world nations; this is here. This is in Australia. A 'civilised nation'. 

I have been sexually and violently assaulted. And yes, by someone I know. To tell truth, by someone(s) I know, in the case of being physically hurt. And trusted. So many, many of my friends - wonderful, intelligent, gorgeous women have been too. It is an established fact that rapists (and I am sorry - I do not apologise for using the word rape) - are amongst the highest recidivists (61% in the UK as at 2000). I realise that sexual assault is not the only form  of violence against women, but it is certainly one of the main ones, and one which holds a very large degree of power and shame - which means no reporting to police, and a burrowing down deep, deep inside of pain, and fear, and horror, and mistrust for women who certainly didn't ask for this violation, and now have to deal with the aftermath - for the rest of their lives.

So what is the solution?

There is no easy answer. I will emphasise this. There are many, many amazing men out there. Charlie Pickering proved that yesterday. I have an awesome partner who would no more raise a hand to me than cut said hand off. The fact that he shared this article out meant more to me than I can possibly say. Because it told me he understood something essential. 

Women are being hurt. Badly. Women are dying. One woman a WEEK in this country is dying at the hands of a partner or someone she knows. 

They are not dying in bar brawls, or (and please don't think I am trivialising this) in shark attacks. Sharks don't tend to come home drunk and think it's a good idea to smack the little woman around the face because dinner isn't on the table 20 seconds after they've stepped in the door, or because - well, because they're bored and they feel like taking out their boredom on someone weaker than themselves. 

Only humans do that. 

Funny how when people (and I use the term 'people' loosely) think about culling, they look to nature for predators. 

Maybe they should start looking in suburban backyards. 

Next time you hear a woman screaming 'please stop - just STOP', do one thing for yourself, and for her. Don't assume someone else will call the police, or deal with it.

Make the call. Take responsibility.

It may mean that this week... a woman doesn't die. 

And someone who is used to instilling fear?

Gets culled. 

You Say You Want A Resolution?

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language/And next year’s words await another voice.” — T. S . Eliot, Four Quartets

I have never been a particular fan of New Year's Eve. Much like Valentine's Day and other Hallmark Holidays, it is one of those occasions where it seems to be about proscribed fun; enjoy yourself or else. You must make it to midnight, you must be having a good time, you must be doing something that is more fun that at any other time of the year - because it's NEW YEAR'S EVE!!

This alone makes me want to go to bed early and pull the covers over my head, simply because I am a contrary minded sod and can't stand being told what to do.

However.

2013, has, on many levels...

Sucked. Like a very big sucky thing. And this in itself for once makes me want to see the year out with a bang... mainly to make sure that it actually disappears and doesn't hang around making more trouble.

I am also not one for New Year's Resolutions, mainly because I tend to break most of them within the first twenty four hours of making them. As most sensible people know, resolutions are made in earnest and with the best of intentions, but are also made with absolutely no expectation of actually keeping them. It's almost an end of year security blanket for the soul; if I make a list of things that I intend to improve about myself, then I will give myself good luck for the new year to come.

This may sound very cynical, and it probably is, but I don't think of it that way; I think I am just realistic. Part of the reason 2013 was craptacular was that I didn't handle a lot of things particularly well, so it has to sit on my shoulders. The other reason 2013 was craptacular was completely beyond my control, and it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference whether or not I had stuck to any or all resolutions made, so again, why make them in the first place?

Rather than resolutions, I think what the turn of the year should teach us is to put our faith in what is most important in our lives, and to make sure we hold fast to it as the calendar clicks over.

What do you most care about? Is it success, or family, or love, or health, or learning? Is it a combination of these things? What can you truly not imagine the next year containing? What is the one thing that for you, 2014 has to hold to make it better than 2013? What, in other words, will make the next 365 days a Happy New Year?

I think if you can answer that question then you will find your reason to be, if you will, 'resolute'. And it's not about making silly promises to yourself about how to lose weight, or drink less, or not gossip about friends behind their backs, or get a better job. It's about happiness. Pure and simple. About being able to say, at the end of 2014, 'I had a really great year.'

Perhaps it's about finding your voice.

Or even your heart.

Happy New Year.

Go West

“We must dream our way”

— Pablo Neruda

Before you start reading this blog, you should be advised that it isn’t anything to do with The Village People, or for that matter The Pet Shop Boys – although you may, after reading the title, end up with said song stuck in your head for hours. 

No, this is about how, despite a certain person – that would be me – stating very early on this year something along the lines of ‘I am never moving again, hell will freeze over before I ever pick up another Port-A-Robe, I am going to stay here until I go mouldy’ yada, yada, yada...

I suddenly find myself sitting amongst the chaos of a new house in Perth.

Sorry – make that a new home.

This would be courtesy of fate, kismet, whatever you wish to call it, which appeared some time ago in the shape of a person who looks vaguely like David Tennant (not the only reason I find him irresistible – really) and has impelled a move, sadly not by Tardis, across state borders and time zones.

Many people would not have been aware I was even contemplating said move, let alone that I have made it. This is because it was personal, and complex, and fuelled by reasons which were hard to discuss – and yes, included the fact that long distance love, whilst sounding intensely romantic, is in actuality intensely difficult and frustrating.

So Osky the Spy and I shrugged our collective shoulders and started packing. Well, I did – he exercised his right to use his considerable vocal power.

I think the lambs have stopped screaming.

On this bright and sunny (very early) Perth morning, after an exciting Saturday night spent with the drill, a glass of wine or three and – not surprisingly as a result – colourful language as we realised we had stuffed up the IKEA instructions for the third time, I am tempted to turn said new home into a Zen temple. It would mean no unpacking! Plates – we don’t need plates! Glasses – meh. Doona covers – oh, hang on, that’s my favourite... and that’s my favourite too... and that one. Bugger it. I like stuff too much to be a minimalist queen. 

Perth doesn’t know what’s hit it. I suspect the Person Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant doesn’t either.

But he does know how much I love him.

I wouldn't move to the wild, wild West for just any Time Lord.

But I will not be going for the Force. Or the Eagles.

That's a promise.

On the Tardis.