Longbourn, by Jo Baker.

I've been following my instincts with my reading this year. Bliss. Longbourn published in 2013, came to me from a throw-out table of deleted books in a remote Northern Territory school library; a serendipitous find, given I hadn't heard of it. (Cheers, sister Janey.) There are heaps of reviews on line already, but here's mine.

The characters and setting of Jo Baker's Longbourn are those of Pride and Prejudice, however, the Bennet family is seen from the perspectives of the servants, who very much have their own stories. Remember Mrs Bennet's frantic calls for 'Hill!' when things needed organising? Well, Hill, Mrs, comes to life in this story, as does old nearly toothless Mr Hill, who supports and shares but makes no demands on Mrs Hill, preferring the companionship of men. Baker also shows us the lives of servants, Sarah, aged about fifteen and Polly, maybe twelve. Both girls serve and owe their survival to the Bennet family, to whom they are not quite enslaved, but not far off. Two young men give further insight. They are James Smith and Ptolemy Bingley. James is the footman who mysteriously comes to work for the Bennets. Ptolemy is a so called 'mulatto' footman, born into service for the Bingleys, hence his surname. Both are thoughtful and intelligent and not quite accepting of their lot, although James became so, but I don't want to say too much about that.

The novel begins at about four on a cold September morning. Love the opening line. "There could be no wearing of clothes without their laundering..." a parody of the opening of Pride and Prejudice itself - "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." I was out there freezing with Sarah, as she began her working day. 'The iron pump-handle was cold, and even with her mitts on, her chilblains flared as she heaved the water up from the undergraound dark and into her waiting pail.'  The picture of the sleeping household effortlessly involved me. "All else was stillness. Sheep huddled in drifts on the hillside; birds in the hedgerows were fluffed like thistledown...in the sty, the sow twitched, her piglets bundled at her belly. Mrs Hill and her husband, up high in their tiny attic, slept the black blank sleep of deep fatigue; two floors below, in the principal bedchanber, Mr and Mrs Bennet were a pair of churchyard humps under the counterpane..." On that otherwise sleeping cold morning, having filled two pails of well water, Sarah hitches these onto a yoke which she hoists onto her shoulders before making her precarious way to the house. Unfortunately, she skids in hogshit, which no one has had time to clear, and loses her effortful load. Those first three pages of Longbourn are enticing. Baker writes skilfully; her prose is easy to read, evokes all the senses and has loads of subtext.

If you know the world of Pride and Prejudice, you know its machinations; its balls, its walks into Meryton for bits of lace on the lookout for the diverting redcoats of the militia. You know its ringlets, highwaisted frocks and bonnets and the necessity of a good marriage for the upperclass. What I hadn't previously considered was how often the serving girls were sent out into the elements on fatuous errands when the inclement weather prevented the ladies from braving the outdoors. Baker takes us into that other world. Despite Sarah's protestations of the goodness of Elizabeth and Jane, they seem self-absorbed and sadly lacking. Both ladies raise their arms so Sarah may dress them. They step out of their discarded clothes and Sarah picks them up for folding, repair or laundering as needed. Yes, they occasionally hand over a chap book or an unwanted old fashioned dress - treasures to Sarah - but they treat her with as much regard as someone today might treat their washing machine - missing it if it breaks down but otherwise taking it for granted. The class system, that upstairs/downstairs mentality, is acutely felt.

Sarah, who is able to read, is a thoughtful and perceptive young woman. She usually accepts her lot and isn't judgmental. However, her observations allow readers to evaluate the characters. It is Sarah's destiny to serve the Bennet family for a meagre wage per quarter. She is a chattel of the household; largely invisible. As the imposing gentleman - Darcy - barges past her she feels herself becoming physically transparent, so unacknowledged is she.

The Longbourn world, and other places further afield are also reflected through the eyes of James Smith, footman.  "They were lucky to get him...what with the War in Spain, and the press of so many able fellows into the Navy; there was, simply put, a dearth of men." He barely registers for the ladies of the Bennet household yet he greatly eases the strain for the overworked servants. He works tirelessly for the family, driving the ladies out to balls with the horse and carriage, keeping himself occupied throughout the freezing nights until the entertainment is over then driving them home again. His arrival at Longbourn is somewhat mysterious. James' story in many ways drives the narrative. To say more would be to ruin an intriguing plot.

The complexity of the lives of the servants would have made an interesting story in itself but it is faxcinating to have a good look at the dirty laundry of the privileged Bennet household. We know about Lydia's disgrace from Pride and Prejudice and we know that the family allows Lydia and Wickham to return to Longbourn. However, it is Mrs Hill who must deal with the newly weds' soiled linen. Mrs Hill "peeled out the few chemises and petticoats and nightgowns that Lydia had bundled away...tried not to look too directly at them, or inhale the odours of cheap lodging houses, sweat and sex./ She steeped the soiled linen - blood and sweat and spunk and travel dust, and the shiny grubbiness of things that have gone too long between washing - in lye, prodding at it with the laundry tongs, swirling it through the murky grey water...If Mrs Hill had the ruling, and not just the maintenance, of Lydia, the little madam would be obliged to wash her own dirty linen just this once, and see what other people saw of her."

Great writing. Look, I could keep transcribing so you, too, could get a sense of what is in those chamberpots that must be taken down the back stairs, one's face averted, to the 'necessary' house outside, but won't. (Assuming you are also fascinated by the minutiae of upperclass family life in Regency England.) Since I finished my obligatory reading for school last year*, this is one of the books that has made me want to carry it around for a while; to reflect on it in more than a brief summary in my journal. I read this novel quickly and relished it. When I'd finished I wanted to reread it; it's easy to dip back into with its deft, detailed prose.

If you enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, even if you've only seen some screen adaptation, you'd enjoy this book.

*A literary life guided, for years, by school reading lists, what's new in YA fiction and vacation reading splurges of books judged by covers is not so bad..

Losing battle in war on waste

Had a ferret in my wardrobe for something warm. Found a big cardigan. Shades of mauve in a boucle  chunky knit; two white knitted bands around the upper arms. Thirty-two years on, it's seriously pilled and shabby. It no longer has the moral fibre to declare itself vintage. It's warm but sad, not the delicious creature I snuggled my face into in a Firenze market in late summer, 1985. Was a beautiful garment when purchased new. Now it's fit for the op shop bag. It's all a bit metaphoric.

Recently, in my endeavour to reuse/recycle, I wore an old pair of Nikes. They've aged well. They're a lovely shape made from interleaved strips of grey suede. They have a dance shoe sole with rubber tread under your heel and toes and a suede arch. When I bought them, at least ten years ago, from Rebel Sport in the Bourke Street Mall, the sales assistant read me a mandatory disclaimer.  These shoes aren't designed for sport, or words to that effect. Didn't worry me. I had no intention of exercising in them, apart from cycling.  These non-sports 'leisure' shoes must have looked good because my daughter used to borrow them. Also, they'd elicit compliments from some of my students and colleagues.and are as comfortable as your slippers.

You know why they've aged well? I've barely worn them.That dance style? Great in the studio, shit in the weather. Didn't want to spoil the suede by risking them out in the rain. Another thing, they slip off my bike pedals. Literal slippers. Not cool. I'd forgotten about that though, when I gave them another outing recently, feeling proud of my environmentally aware austerity. Remembered about the slippage as I was cycling downhill to the shops, gripping my knees to stop my feet shooting off their perches. As I walked along the street later, my feet kept skating out behind me in a flicking motion. Sensibly, I skidded to a stop then slid around the door into the sports shoe specialists.

Ah well, a new pair of running shoes is an appropriate alcohol-free reward. So I told myself as I browsed for an elusive bargain.

Having laced my right foot into a sleek new running shoe, the sales assistant picked up one of my old Nikes, examined it and pronounced it seriously old school; sounding impressed. 'Are you just going to give these to the op shop?' she asked. Was that a hint?

But old school? They're only ten. Suppose if you're under thirty that's a long time.

Meanwhile, I conceded another battle in the war on waste by buying another pair of sports shoes. For safety reasons, I wore them home. At my age you can't risk a fall on a damp footpath, sans tread on your trainers.

This is the sad thing though. I can part with neither my old cardy - back in the wardrobe - nor my 'vintage' Nikes - back on the shoe rack. 

Onus on the Owner

'Argh!' How do you write a short sharp scream? (Of course there's a forum on this on Google. Makes for interesting reading if you're into that sort of thing, like yours truly, the real Judith Middlemarch, or is it Jill, wife of Trevor?) No matter, this little piece begins with a brief, loud - I was wearing headphones - cry of terror.

I stood, stock still, neither flight nor fight would work here. Instinctively, my hands shot in the air, heart banging in my chest.

Just prior I'd been on a naturally occurring chemical high. See, I'd garnered the motivation to get out of bed on a cold, albeit sunny winter's day to do my six kilometre constitutional. This is a combination of brisk walking alternating with marginally quicker jogging.To give you the picture, when Al walks with me he thinks it vaguely amusing to outpace my jogging with his leisurely stroll. I'm not winning any medals here, but if I can keep at it for another forty years I could enter the world masters and break a record like Man Kaur. Maybe not.

Anyway, nearly five k into my routine, those endorphins coursed pleasingly through my system. I'd been listening to a podcast of Joe Jackson being interviewed by Alec Baldwin. I've had a deep, abiding love for Joe Jackson since the late 1970s so my morning constitutional had thus been elevated to even greater heights of emotional healing. My local park is a lovely treed, quiet - on weekdays - ovalled space atop a hill with splendid city views. Joe's interview finished with a few bars from Breaking Us In Two. I was in heaven. Pulled out my phone to choose some music to get me through the last k. Chose Frank Sinatra's I've Got You Under My Skin with its stirring middle eight, that always evokes my dad, and continued slow jogging to half way round the oval. Next in my mix was (I've had) the time of my life. No apologies for my eclectic tastes. At that stage I was running up the incline on the other side of the oval, relishing my freedom, completely lost in my own thoughts.

That's when a slavering, snarling jowly raven black beast charged me, its teeth bared, hence my scream.

'Clara,' - I'm not kidding - her owner called lightly, scooping to pick up a ball with his little tosser on a stick. I started to walk on but Clara lunged at me again.

'Call her off!' I insisted, hands now clutched under my chin.

'She won't hurt you,' was his dismissive reply as he surveyed me like I was some mental defective in my black running gear, tweed cap pulled down over my ears and a bum bag hanging around my hips.

'That's very easy to say,' I replied, 'but I'm terrified.' And I was. My previous joy had drained out replaced by too much adrenaline and a bit of fury.

I've been menaced by dogs before. Aged about three, I remember being bitten by a bull dog. Mum was pushing me in a pram at the time. She took me into a butcher's shop and he applied a bit of butter to my bleeding knee. Don't know what happened to that ugly hound.

Jeeze, who hasn't had a bad experience with a dog? Not so long ago this rat-sized dog who lives down our street had its teeth bared, and was snapping within half a hand span of my exposed ankles. Same comment from the owner standing nearby apparently enjoying the entertainment. 'She won't hurt you.'

Got bailed up by a pit bull terrier once in our own back yard. The dog had breached the low fence. Its owner was on her side pinning sheets on her rotary hoist. 'Sally!' - such lovely names - she uselessly called for her dog, 'She won't hurt you, ' she said, continuing to adjust her sheet. I wasn't so sure, Sally, growling menacingly had me in a Mexican standoff, daring me to move. Not sure what would have happened if Maria hadn't climbed the fence and hauled Sally off by her collar.

My own experience tells me that some dogs, who may not attack those who've established dominance over them, will attack anything they perceive as weaker. My parents had a couple of Dobermann Pinschers. Soft as brushes, according to my mum. But I've seen both of them turn on our own toddlers when those kids were getting a bit annoying. My dad always sided with the dogs.

Anyway, Clara's owner really bugged me this morning. I'm sure Clara is a lovely pet. But seems to me that if Clara has any inclination to threaten a stranger, she should be on a leash.

Trevor and Jill out on the town

How was my night out? Well, it began well with a 4pm chardy. Felt like I was back in the day, preparing to party. That could be due to determinedly reprising my own now vintage clothes. Unfortunately, I don't look funky, I look like an old woman playing dress ups. Damn you, Craig Reucassel. It's his fault I'm digging through my wardrobe. His War On Waste really got to me. Thing is, I'm already frugal. and a borderline hoarder, inclined to put a new zip in an old pair of jeans if necessary.You know how hard that is. Okay, so I was saving money rather than the planet.

Sorry. What was I saying?

I wore my orange-is-the-new-black turn of the millennium top. You know the one. Bought it for some long ago school deb ball - jeeze, those kids will be in their thirties now - looked a bit blingy but passable and am pleased to say, it still fit. Sort of. Contacts in; bit of make up. Well, quite a lot. You know how it is when you get to a certain age?

Trev and I set off arm in arm down the road to catch a bus. Felt nice and crisp in the night air. Moon and stars out; breath steaming. But somehow we'd missed the 6.05, which had either dropped off the grid or gone by earlier than our arrival at the bus stop at five to six. Told you we were excited to be going out. We walked a couple of stops to pass the time and avoid hypothermia. Remembered to 'touch off' on the bus this time so we didn't get blocked at the turnstiles at Parliament station like last time we did public transport, thrilled to bits with our new Seniors' Mykis. We had to suffer a lecture on the minutiae of PTV before being released like a couple of errant school kids. Promise not to do it again. No, you have a nice day.

So did I have a good time? Well, there was the thrill of anticipation; the buzz of people in the city streets; excited families out seeing Aladdin; girls in tight skirts and six inch heels gripping the hands of their pimply boyfriends. We were eating at an up-market Chinese restaurant with a great bunch of people. Well, Trevor's friends anyway.

Hmm. Good time would be stretching it. Let's say it was interesting, but in an ironic way. Soon as we walked into the restaurant, my third eye was watching. I don't know why I have this irrepressible urge to write it all down. I've just read Atonement* too. You'd think I'd have learned something.

Ah, who cares? Here's a tip. Don't waste your breath trying to make conversation with contrary people. You know the type. They can't keep the wheels of civil human intercourse humming along. So, this is Trevor. He says, to his friend, Susan on the other side of our for table for ten, 'Jill and I saw this wonderful film last week. At the Nova. It's only seven dollars on Mondays. Great value. You know, the Nova in Carlton?'

So Susan says, 'We don't go there, do we Greg? We go to The Sun in Yarraville.' Greg nodded, staring into the middle distance.

I piped in here, oiling the wheels, I thought. 'I haven't been there but I've heard it's very good.'

'It's too hard to get parking at the Nova,' Susan was on a roll and she sounded a bit put out.

'There's an underground...' I began. I was going to tell her about the car park but she cut me off.

'I know, near Woolworths, but it's always packed. We prefer The Sun.' Did I just imagine she folded her arms at me, blocking further conversation? Whatever, I thought. But Trevor, bless, kept trying.

'A great French film,' he said. 'Things to Come.'

'Why? What was it about?' The set on her face suggested Susan thought Trevor should shove it and focus on his spring roll. But he continued, pushing his voice valiantly through the ambient sound and across the table, to Susan, with her arms crossed over her ample chest.

'Well, it's about life,' he said.'A philosophy teacher who lives in Paris is just going through life's events; the changes that happen in time. Things to come,' he said. 'The title says it all really.'

'But do you have to like Paris to enjoy it?' asked Susan, belligerently.

Trevor winced a little at the question. 'Mm, no. It's just a really good film. We really loved it.'

'Well, that might be all right for you. You go to France. But what if you'd rather go to the Dalmation Coast? Would you still like it? Would just anyone like it?' Susan's voice was rising.

I was experiencing a little tachycardia by then. 'You know what, Susan?' I was smiling so much that my face hurt. 'Don't go and see it. It's not for you. Forget Trevor even mentioned it.' Trevor put a firm hand on my knee at that stage. You know how he does? 'Jill,' he warned. Yeah, I stopped and had another swill of that Chardonnay I wasn't paying for. Hang on. I think I was paying for it in one way or another.

Susan's Greg was on my left. He's very groomed. Bristly.Trimmed to within an inch of his life. He clearly spends a lot of time contemplating his face in the mirror each morning; checking for regrowth of his sheared white hair. He's got this neat triangle of moustache, sort of sergeant major meets prison warden. Somehow we got on to the subject of aged parents, a topic close to the hearts of many of my generation. Greg's mother, well into her nineties, had died some years earlier from complications after minor surgery. Well Greg's bristly lip wobbled a bit as he berated the hospital over his mother's passing. If only she hadn't had that surgery she'd still be alive today - aged 100. Like you want to be.

'Oh well, she had a good innings,' I cliched. He didn't say anything but a couple of minutes later he left and sat at the other table. Something I'd said? Perhaps. But my punishment was waiting in the wings. Another dinner guest, the one who likes to take those group shots for posterity, slid into Greg's place and teased me by flicking through pictures on her point and shoot. Making conversation, I asked her what had her so absorbed. Well, she wasn't really. She was waiting to be asked. Thus I climbed into the centre of her web.

'These are my teenage children,' said Gilda, handing me the camera for a closer look.

'Nice kids,' I said, handing her camera back. They were all right, if a little random.

'And these are the kids in my parents' group. We all met fifteen years ago at a parents' group for new parents and we still meet monthly.' Gilda showed me several photos of several middle aged women and more photos of even more random groups of teenage kids in various locations and poses. Hovering over individual photos she provided the whole ancestry.com of the numerous members of her group: who'd married whom, who'd divorced; who'd died, when and what from in livid detail. Then she arrived at her last trip to Scandinavia where she'd visited her grandmother's house. Well, not exactly her grandmother's house. It was the house next door she was now showing me. Her grandmother's house had been turned into offices and they weren't open but no matter they got into the house next door, of which she took many photos which she described to me down to the hardwood floorboards.

'Scuse me, Gilda,' I interrupted, one hand raised signalling a passing waiter. 'Could you get me a Chardonnay?' I asked. Stat. I'd already desperately spun the Lazy Suzy vainly searching for dregs in the bottom of a bottle. Red. White. I didn't care.

I returned to Gilda. 'Sorry? Go on." Gilda is a bit stick insect-y, but with high cheekbones and this swathe of long brown hair. She sat sort of folded into herself and continued to click through her photos. And there were her school friends back in Scandinavia who'd all been together in the top English grade. Where had they been all my life? Gilda's voice was a croaky low drone. I nodded, ooh-ed and aah-ed my appreciation of particular names on the school honour boards she'd photographed. In an effort to change the tenor, I pulled my phone out of my bag and asked if she wanted to see photos of my adult kids. She gave a cursory glance at my two then invited me to look at her grandmother's garden in Scandinavia.

You know what? You can only take so much. I shouldered her out of my peripheral vision. My glass was empty.

But it was a night out. Five degrees by the time we were out on the street. And we only had a twenty minute wait underground for our City Loop train. And train travel's free on weekends for us seniors. Didn't mind walking that last kilometre back home. And despite my war on waste I'd accidentally, but happily left the heater on while we were out. Was quite cosy.

Hey, Jane. Same again next Friday night. A fiftieth this time.

*Bored, neglected self-absorbed budding writer misinterprets what she sees, sticks her nose in and ruins others' lives. Sorry, Ian McEwan. Atonement is one of the best books I've ever read. Bothers me, though, how much I identified with the priggish deluded Briony.

Lieben: German for to love

"Why would you want to learn German?" So said Mum, in a Yorkshire accent, a look of horror on her face. Given when I mentioned it, in her mind she was somewhere in the early 1940s, she thought I was betraying England. Why was I even telling her? It's something to talk about in my monologue as we shuffle around Queen's Park lake, given that mum can't carry on a regular conversation these days. 

Somehow, I've drifted back into talking about mum again. Wasn't my intention. I was thinking about my recent German classes at Melbourne's CAE.

The German people, our young Deutschlehrerin (female German teacher) told us a couple of lessons ago, would only use the expression 'I love…' in the context of an intimate relationship. Ich liebe dich - I love you - is reserved for one's partners, one's family.

 'So you mean,' said John, a student in the class - aged 80 by the way, 'they wouldn't debase the word by using it to describe lesser things?'

'Ja, genau!' she said. Yes, exactly.

So you wouldn't say you loved someone's hair or shoes. Das ist verboten. It's banned. Hurrah, I know another quirk of the German language. I won't embarrass myself by inappropriately professing my love when I'm in Germany: ich liebe das Wohnmobil  - I love this campervan.

Apart from giving my non-working life a bit of structure and perhaps staving off dementia, I decided to learn German because I've travelled there several times and intend to return. The German language was absolutely, well, foreign. We - Al and I - could be handed a German menu in a restaurant and have no idea what the hell was on offer, apart from the ubiquitous wurst, schnitzel and strudel, words that have found their way into our vernacular. We've been stumped driving off an 'Ausfahrt' (exit) on the 'Autobahn' (freeway); bemused as fellow campers have waved us off on a ride with a 'Good fart!' Suppose it could be an added bonus. But Gut Farht actually means have a good journey. As for ordering a glass of wine. In broken German I've asked for 'ein dry white'. Basically I've been requesting 'one - nearly - three, nonsense', given that in German 'w' is pronounced like our 'v' . Suppose that explains occasionally getting a glass of red and making do. Any port in a storm.

Now, German is less weird by the minute. It's easy enough to learn to speak because it's phonetic. Once you can recognise and mimic those 'guttural' sounds you're away. Suppose the grammar would be challenging if one didn't love grammar, as I do. Weird, huh.

Two hours of German class seems to pass by each week in about fifteen minutes. That's total absorption, or mindfulness or I'm having a series of cardio vascular accidents. I'll go with the former.

Given we don't mind debasing the word love in English I can say I love learning German, In German I think that's ich mag Deutsch lernen sehr gern. Course, I could be wrong.

A bit of my life as a writer.

In my thirties I tried to be a working writer. I was teaching one three hour evening school VCE class a week. I had two children, sixteen months apart who occupied much of my time. Still, I wrote. Journal. Short stories. A novel. Well, best to call it a novella. The novella amounted to 45,000 words. It was about a young woman whom I initially called Meredith but shortened to Mere - to some derision - who had married a young Anglican minister and lived to regret it. Underneath it all, I was writing about my own experience of being a Christian. Writing the book was cathartic and it helped me, at 37, to finally disentangle myself from the hold that Christianity and church had over me. That was extremely liberating and I've never returned to it. I think I'm probably over the bitterness I felt at being trapped in religion for so long. Can't stand going to church services for baptisms and funerals these days. Interestingly, I can still sing or recite all the liturgy. (I can also sing about a million TV show themes and adverts too and recite Shakespeare. It's all about exposure and repetition.)

Stick to the point. The writing. I began a business and sought copywriting opportunities. With the help of a relative in the design business I got perhaps three lucrative projects. I say lucrative because for the few hours involved they paid heaps more money than teaching did.  I enjoyed playing with words to complete the projects but they didn't provide any ongoing job satisfaction, especially the advertising catalogue for a now defunct stationery company. Pfft. Writing a newsletter for a restaurateur was more fun but he went bust and I experienced how hard some people have it regularly trying to get paid for their completed work. He shrugged and told me he simply didn't have the money - $500 - to give me. It was a lot of money back then given I was getting $25 an hour under our agreement. 

With the paucity of copywriting opportunities I mainly wrote résumés, the occasional student essay and job applications responding to key selection criteria. I became quite a job counsellor. The internet hadn't really taken off at that stage. I industriously read the classifieds in The Age, getting some sense of the job market and developed skills in helping people get work. Really. But once they'd secured work I never saw them again. You don't want them coming back because that means you've been unsuccessful. A couple of sad souls kept returning for yet another cover letter. 

My workroom is at the back of our house and looks out onto a paved courtyard. The kids’ tyre swing used to hang from an old fir tree, long since cut down. But it looked nice out there. One young woman, a return client, with a big fleshy stubbly face and woolly hair scraped back into a pony tail, gazed wistfully out there one day. You're so lucky, she said, to have this job. 

Some of my résumé writing experiences weren't pleasant. One woman, who'd seemed perfectly nice at the initial résumé consult turned into psycho-bitch when it came time to pay for the final product upon which she cast unwarranted aspersions. She held it in her left hand and slapped at it with the back of her right as she scorned the way I'd written it. In my ignorance, I'd put a hyphen in the compound word, bookkeeper. It was easily remedied but this instigated her ire. I fixed the problem and printed out a new copy. She claimed she'd have to take the two page document to a better résumé  service to see if they could fix my inferior work. I snatched it back from her. You're not having it, I said. I'd rather rip it up than let you take something unsatisfactory. This made her reconsider and she handed me twenty-five dollars before storming back through my home and out the door. Heart beating in her wake, I realised that she was simply trying to get the document for free. Probably behaved like that all over the place.

I formed a friendship of sorts with an elderly semi-retired businessman. He'd seen my ad in  the local paper. He'd get me to type business letters for him. Suppose I was his clever little secretary. He was a gentleman: tall, white-wavy hair, well groomed, soft checked shirts and business pants but with a sort of horsey country air about him. He'd wait while I typed his mail and we'd talk. He told me the story of his son’s death. His face crumpled and almost broke as he shared his grief. His son had died when a drug-filled condom he'd ingested in a smuggling attempt had burst in his intestine. His son had attended a private Christian college; had been loved and nurtured. This man couldn't understand what had happened. It broke my heart listening to him.

That was the thing about the little job I had. Clients shared their stories with me. Something about my demeanour seems to invite that. However  it wasn't enough and at forty I decided to let it go and get back into secondary teaching. Interestingly, my first teaching position after having my own kids was at the same school that gentleman’s son had attended. I was going to send my own children there, having put their names on a list back in my ‘intense Christian’ phase, but my five months experience there made me get my money back. As an educator, memories of that school still make me shudder.

During my break from teaching I also had three articles published in The Age, and I was paid for them; it was probably one of the biggest thrills of my life, especially when the first appeared. About 800 words long, it was underneath an article by Bettina Arndt and a cartoon illustration accompanied my piece about an experience I'd had, as a newly diagnosed person with diabetes. I'd submitted the article to coincide with Diabetes Week but I'd been occupied with looking after kids and hadn't expected it to be published. I’d had no indication that it would be. I experienced a sort of fifteen minutes of fame: congratulatory phone calls; the school where I taught on a very part-time basis had photocopied my article and pinned it on a notice board. I was astounded that I received so much adulation for this, and two other pieces that were subsequently published. They'd taken little effort to write. The hardest part was having the audacity to think that anyone would want to read what I'd written; having the guts to submit them. 

People wanted to talk about my writing. Teaching, for me, is far more worthy and humanitarian and yet I rarely get accolades for having devoted much of my adult life to it.

I'm glad I've never had to earn a living through writing. I've recently read Ruth Park’s engrossing two part autobiography, A Fence Around the Cuckoo and Fishing in the Styx. She wrote to live and by god she worked hard. (Highly recommend those books.)

I teach and I write. I've written things for which I haven't been paid that have been published in magazines. I've had as much satisfaction from writing these and seeing them published as I have from the paid articles, although there was a certain prestige in appearing in the then revered Age broadsheet newspaper.

Fortuitously, I heard, from an English teacher colleague, about blogging. Blogging seems to satisfy my writing needs. I began my fraudulentteacher blog in 2005 and later began fraudstersmusings. Between them I've had more than 65,000 page views. Not heaps but enough to satisfy me. I gather lots of those page viewers might not actually read what I've written but lots of them do. 

Why this need to write my stories? It's just what I've always done.

The upside of travel. Happy meetings.

At Charles De Gaulle airport with a couple of spare hours pre flight back to Oz via Abu Dhabi.

The best thing for me about travelling, and life, actually, is interaction with other people. (I'm still learning not to overreact to any perceived offence. 'Maybe it's paranoia, maybe it's sensitivity...' Joni Mitchell said that. Love Joni.)

One interesting interaction was on the train from Munich to Stuttgard. We shared a six seater first class compartment with Boris and his daughter, Josie. (See, I'm so nosy I get names.) We initially started talking because we'd been double booked in the same seats. It I didn't matter, given there were four of us and six seats available. He spoke perfect English with a slight accent. His daughter spoke with a flawless clipped British accent. Then they slipped into their native Estonian - I think. However, they live in Munich and also speak German. Boris, having been born in Russia to a Finnish mother and Russian father, also speaks both those languages. I find that amazing, coming from a country where speaking anything other than 'Strayan' - as the word Australian is often pronounced - unless one is a migrant, is unusual. It was the first day of Josie's three month summer break from the international school she attends. Given that her mother had to work that weekend, she and Boris were attending a seminar in Switzerland. On quantum physics. As one does. 

While Josie, a teenager, listened to music on her phone and sketched faces in blue ink in her visual diary, Boris told us a little about his life. A ship builder now, whose next contract doesn't start until October in Japan, Boris also did his time, aged eighteen, in the Russian army. 'It was bad,' he said, 'but not like prison.' He served on the North Korean border. The harshness was mitigated for him by his mother's insistence during his youth that he attend a music school. Consequently, he had learned the flute, having been 'no good, according to [his] teacher' at cello. Thus he played in the military band and was proud that he'd never carried a Kalashnikov during his military service. 'Only a flute.'

Boris, urbane and articulate, is a passionate ice fisherman. Said he is much happier if it's minus 30 degrees than anything over 25. 'You just drill your hole in the ice and it's wonderful,' he said. 'To keep warm you can drink some tea. I can stay out there - in Finland on the ice - all day. But the days are short.'

We shared the cabin for a couple of hours and the time flew. Sounds like I did some sort of interrogation but it wasn't like that. Boris was equally interested in our Australian lives and our travels. 

Yesterday, we went in search of something of Paris as I remembered it from 1980. That was a winter holiday and I don't recall the hordes of tourists we've seen in the summer months. So we took the métro to Sebastopol and walked through the Montorgueil area. There we found an arcade, Passage du Grand Cerf, and wandered through it. This arcade has greenery hanging from one of those high leaded glass-like ceilings and was lined with shops selling beautiful handcrafts and jewellery, amongst other things. And not one other tourist. How can this be, so close to the Marais which is crawling with tourists?

Chantal, a shopkeeper I talked to, explained that there's Paris for the tourists and Paris for the locals. We had wandered into her shop - Le Labo + filf; Objets poétiques et créations lumineuses - looking for some unusual gifts. Chantal's daughter, Maud, designed the beautiful bags I ended up buying. Chantal was lovely and more than happy to chat with me in French, something I crave. She asked where we were staying and how we intended getting to the airport. She lives in the arrondissement where our apartment was and was puzzled as to why the tourism office had directed us to Porte d'Orléans as the nearest métro station. 'Cité Universitaire is much closer, just a walk through Parc Montsouris. And it connects directly with CDG airport.' She laughed a bit at this. We'd not only walked out of our way to catch the métro each day but the train loops through heaps of stations adding about fifteen minutes onto a journey that otherwise takes about five. Ha. At least we found the local supermarkets.

It was a fortuitous meeting, Chantal, should you ever read this, you greatly reduced the stress of our trip to the airport this morning. (Chantal and I did actually swap email addresses and I've already composed the email I'll send her as soon as we get back home. I haven't been able to send any emails while I've been in Europe, for reasons I don't understand.)

By the way, there was a four day haute couture fashion event during our week in Paris. Twice we've stumbled upon the glitterati and their entourages. The other day we walked along the red carpet being set up in Rue Montaigne. Yesterday we were amongst the buzz and press of the Jean-Paul Gaultier show. I know this from another of my sources, haha, a freelance photographer sitting outside a café near the mêlée. He was nice. I told him I'm a writer, of sorts, and he was keen for me to hang around and soak up the ambience. 'This is a big thing. You have Jean-Paul Gaultier. Use that as a label in your blog and you'll have more readers,' he suggested. 'And you have the fashions and the chateau here.' Yes, there was a chateau. Beats me if I can remember the name of the street we were in. (Perhaps I'd look it up if I wasn't up in the air courtesy of Etihad Airways.) Hard to see through all the posh cars with their tinted windows. At that moment an emaciated model fell off her six inch stilettos right in front of us. All caught by the nearby paparazzi. She didn't miss a beat. Picked herself up and continued wobbling along the cobbled path.

More interested in sausages than fashion, I moved on in my Target blue jeans, home-made haute couture shirt and running shoes.

Now Porte de la Villette sounded interesting in the Paris tourist guide. It's where two canals converge. It was almost at the end of the métro line it was on. No one else seemed to be going there. We emerged from the métro into a dodgy looking street, walked a bit, then crossed the road into an enormous empty 'parc'. Well, there was a science exhibition centre if you're into that sort of thing, which I'm not. We wandered over relatively modern - 1983 - cobbled pathways to check out the canal. Yep. Canal. Straight. Flowing. There was a sort of 'fun fair' but no one really seemed to be having any. A carousel was going around playing the Danube waltz. A guy was leaning idly on the counter inside the office of the unused dodgem cars. (I was slightly tempted, but then thought of the camping car and decided against it.) Quite bleak, really. A handful - six? - other tourists were wandering around with bemused expressions, like wtf am I doing here? (I'm perhaps being unkind about this place. Al compared it to Melbourne show grounds when the show's not on.)

I used - needs must - one of the grottiest 'bathrooms' since the back blocks of Vietnam. Two, let's call them ne'er do wells, male, were hanging around inside the unisex facility. The toilet wouldn't flush, no paper. Just a stench of old urine. (Not mine.)  Suppose it could have been worse, I thought as I swabbed the backs of my thighs with antiseptic handwash.

Happily, the Champs Élysées is only a métro ride away. We came up into the sunshine and the glorious view of the arc and right into the middle of a great hip hop dance performance. You can knock your tourist haunts but this is where you can enjoy a bit of street entertainment, for free if you're a bit short on spare change. It was wonderful.

I'm on the plane now, having an early Chardonnay - it's 11.45 am Paris time - and I'm sure I've tested your stamina with such a long post. Thank you again for reading.

PS. Do you know how effectively writing passes time?

Reflections on our last night in Paris

Sadly, we're leaving Paris early tomorrow morning after six days here. It's also the end of our six week vacation. (Don't think I've ever needed a complete break so desperately before. See previous posts re me and my old mum.) This holiday, torrential rain notwithstanding, has been wonderful. And I'm writing that despite all the anxiety incurred renting and driving a whopping great 'camping car' - let's call it a truck/lorry/camion - from Munich across France to the Atlantic coast and back. Not to mention the €700 bill for the damage I caused to the van by navigating Al into a hedge. (This was our fifth camping car rental, by the way. We've only managed to return our van once without damage of some sort. Hehe.)

Al and I have been to Paris five times now. This time we had no real plans of what to do for six days. I had a vague idea that I wanted to return to a fabric store - Sacrés Tissus - because I'd bought some lovely unusual  fabric there a couple of years ago. (Went. Didn't find anything.)

I'm making myself gag now. Here I am in the 'city of light' and all I want to do is buy a couple of metres of fabric. But, I'm a dressmaker and that's what I like to do. Suppose one should have sympathy for Al, who follows me around; hangs around at shop entrances in his Aussie cowboy hat pretending he's a tall Crocodile Dundee. (He looks quite cool, I think.)

To summarise a bit of our week in Paris:

It's always an immense relief when one arrives at one's Airbnb rental and discovers it is as described and more. This is our third Airbnb rental in France and second in Paris. Seems there are a few more service charges than there were when we rented in Bordeaux in 2013, but back then the company wasn't advertising on television as it is these days. (Hope they haven't got too big for their britches.)

You don't need a description of our apartment. Let's just say it's near Porte d'Orléans and on 'our' corner we have a couple of decent restaurants and the beautiful Parc Montsouris to wander through. The closest métro, at the other side of the park, is also a direct line to Charles De Gaulle airport. Should prove useful in the morning. The apartment is close to boulangeries - croissants! Tartes aux champignons! Etcetera! - markets and supermarkets. Parfait - perfect - as I've just written in a note to our host, Françoise.

Over the last six days we have walked our feet off. I don't care if I look like a tourist. My expensive  running shoes, and my regular jogging back home, ensured that despite having walked countless ks I have remained blissfully blister free. Decided against chancing Velib - the bike rental system - this time. Have already fallen off my bike once (good sight gag, I imagine) - cycling around beautiful Bodensee - Lake Constance - and nearly cycled myself under a bus last time I was in Paris.

So much for a summary. Too much information, I know, but indulge me, dear reader. I'll be teaching surly adolescents six days from now.

Last Saturday, several bridges across the river Seine were closed due to the massive gay pride march that we just happened upon. Massive crowds. Uplifting experience. Enormous police presence - and not just in the march. Our bags were searched by police carrying rifles as we crossed the Pont Neuf to see what was going on. 

Very conspicuous armed police and military presence all week in Paris, especially yesterday when there had been a demonstration - if I understood my French source correctly. Yesterday was the day that the government implemented its changes giving more power to the bosses and less to the workers, according to my source. Walking along the Seine amongst hundreds of armed police in full on sci-fi riot gear was somewhat unnerving but if there was any shit going down, I'm glad they were there.

On Sunday, we spent a long time on the métro and SNCF - the railway - going to and from Claude Monet's house and garden at Giverny. Guess what? It rained the entire time. Still. So beautiful. I read somewhere that Claude Monet said his garden, developed over 40 years if my memory serves, was his greatest achievement. It was wonderful. It really was. But, and I know I'm one, tourists. Blerk. We queued, and shook our sodden umbrellas over each other and poked each other in the eyes with them. We shuffled around those tiny paths blocking each other's views of Japanese bridges and lily pads. We tried to absorb a sense of the place; to have impressions - pun intended. Wonder what Monet would have made of us all disturbing his place. Could he ever have imagined the travesty that we tourists would make of his creation?

The hour train ride back to Paris was interesting. It was so packed that I couldn't even place my feet in such a way that I could balance. I clutched Croc Dundee by the chest hairs and tried not to cry. Really. That bad.

Still, glad we spent the money - about €100 for two of us counting a 'light lunch' - and visited Giverny.

(If you want to see extremely glorious medieval French villages and towns though, try the Alsace region - Colmar, Kaysersberg - birth place of Albert Schweitzer - Strasbourg. Actually, lots of France if our experience is any indication.)

Revisited Sacré Coeur on another day - it's close to my fabric shop!  I'd hate to be a physically impaired tourist in Paris. The climb to the cathedral is quite a challenge. Suppose you could catch a bus, or tootle around in the ubiquitous little white tourist train. Another word on sodding tourists. Yes, sod them. There are clear signs in about four languages forbidding the taking of photos inside the cathedral. Completely ignored. What is wrong with these people? 

Sacré Coeur highlights: lovely music in the lane outside. Three musicians, all harmonising, one guitarist, one beating out a rhythm, one mc-ing. So good.

Second thing? A delicious hotdog with onions and hot mustard. (A few trips to Germany and I've become quite the sausage aficionado.)

A word on Parisian hospitality, and I've probably written this before: people have been so helpful. Note well: I can speak French. In fact I speak it really well. My problem is my aural comprehension. I fool people and then I haven't got the heart to interrupt their responses to ask them to slow down. Croc Dundee, Al, understands French but can't really speak it yet he meets with neither aggression nor arrogance should he ask a stranger for assistance. I don't understand these scathing commentaries I've read here and there about people having trouble communicating with the French. In fact, all the young people seem keen to practise their English

Look, you know what, there's much more, but it's getting late and I have to get up at five. Thanks so much for reading.

Hey, let's drive on treacherous B roads for 5 hours.

Why is there fucking foliage in the middle of town anyway?

So said Al, driving down an almost non-negotiable alleged 'camper route' in France. A semi-trailer - articulated lorry - was coming at us head on. Al clipped - haha - the hedge with the passenger side mirror. Very squeezy.

We set off at 9.30 this morning from our sublime chateau camping with its manicured lawns and shady trees and wonderful restaurant, La Ferme, just outside the gate. Al had, through the campground manager, he thought, made a reservation for us at Vermenton, a five hour drive away. He wanted to 'break the back' of our return trip to Munich. (Break the back of our marriage?) Van and bikes need returning in about four days.

Well we did our drive. Yet, no matter how splendid the countryside with forests, fields, vineyards and 12th century villages, it can be overdone. As it was today.

We'd stocked up with bread, cheese, pate and wine at Super U, this morning. We had filled the gazeole - diesel. But when it got to lunchtime we could not find a place to pull over to eat.

By this stage - about 2pm- I was ready to chow down on my own elbow. Sugar-free Fisherman's Friends weren't doing it, other than giving me wind. 

Eventually we pulled over in an asphalted lay by. I put the kettle on, grabbed the small goods and bread. But by jeeze I wish I hadn't opened the door to see that dump of human excreta and soiled loo paper just outside the van door. Put me right off my mousse aux canards.

At 4.30 we arrived at our camping to discover that we didn't in fact have a reservation and that the camp was suffering from 'l'inundation' - flooding- so we had to find another place.

Here we are now, a few k up the road in a 2 star joint. Squat toilets, bring your own 'papier' and 'les moustiques' - mozzies - up the wazoo. Which is why, despite the warmth, I'm wearing a hijab, long pants and socks.

Meh (love that expression) I've got everything, and wifi if I sit by the l'accueil - reception.

Not looking forward to being back at work.

It's raining again.

Okay, won't use that cliché, first world problems. Oh, it seems I have.

Bearing all that in mind this is what's largely been happening for three weeks: rain. Various kinds. The pelting, frightening, soaking deluge that catches one on one's bike, amidst traffic, suddenly, in Auxerre as one is heading back to the flooded 'camping'. One is without shoes because they're drenched. (Yeah, boo hoo.) Then there's the type of rain that shrouds the hills and vineyards as one is cycling back to the camping in Beaune, Bourgogne, after a surprising - cos it wasn't raining - blissful morning's ride with occasional sunshine peeping through the grey-wash. But mostly the rain's been that all-night pittering or smashing on the roof of the rental van. We heard it first when we picked up the van in Munich, three weeks ago and it's been a regular feature of our days and nights here in Germany and France since.

But we're troopers. The waterproofs have had a good workout and we've headed out on our velos - bikes - anyway. We've put in lots of ks and admittedly have generally laughed at our 'misfortune'. Is it misfortune when one is lucky enough to have left all responsibility behind on the other side of the planet for six weeks? Don't think so. 

Nonetheless, it casts a pall that dulls the verdant landscapes and makes me happy to have the activity of doing a load of washing and drying.

Currently, we're on the Atlantic Coast. Read cheek by jowl camping grounds - holiday villages I suppose. All neat and well appointed with swimming pools and water slides. The Atlantic Ocean is a .7 k sand dune walk away from our camping and it looked bloody bleak. One young man was swimming amidst the choppy grey. I'm sure he warmed up, as you do after a while in the ocean, but I was a bit frightened for him. I didn't notice any warning signs. Perhaps it's safe.

I pulled my hood over my hat and secured the ties.

Weather notwithstanding, we were both a bit flat this morning with the rain pittering on the van skylight. You see we'd 'dared to dream' that we could make it to Saumur for our third time for the fête du velo - vintage cycling festival - held over the past weekend and we made it. I try not to to put too much store into these things in case I'm disappointed. But far from it. I'd say it was the best experience so far these hols and for a long time. Sad that it's over.

I come over here hoping to engage with the French. (I've written elsewhere about being the French pretender but I can't link to it on this device. Merde.) Well, apart from the magnificent cycling through the vineyards and along the troglodyte route - where markets and houses were carved out of the clay in the eleventh century - we had a real treat. A group of people were celebrating the fête with a picnic in one of the caves. This cave has a wood-fired oven and toilet facilities. (Pretty good cave.) The cave, all chalky white, is built into the cliffs on one side of the Loire. It's a room-like space that is open to the elements above. On that Saturday it wasn't raining.

We could hear lots of echoing voices as we approached. Didn't want to bust up their party, whoever they were, but I really needed a toilet stop. I barged through. Pardon, messieurs dames - basically, excuse me, I'm coming through. Pas de problème.

And after I'd washed up we were invited to have a drink. Next thing, we'd both got a glass of wine and a hunk of bread with chèvres - goats cheese. I chatted to Dianne, who had a bit of English. Between my French and Dianne's English we were away. It was marvellous. They were a group of neighbours and friends enjoying the special weekend. We shared their marinated duck and saucisson and stayed there with them in that cave for over an hour. Magic. Definitely flies in the face of all that guff about the French being unwelcoming. Very special.

So was Claude, well met at a wine and food pitstop along the vintage vélo ride around the Loire the next day. Claude had worked for the French government around the world including in Australia. Of course he spoke excellent English. Somehow, during the course of our conversation we had been invited to park our van at his place next time we're in that area. And I'm sure he was sincere.

Despite mostly bad weather, it's been worth the trip. I love the French culture and being able to improve my French conversation, love being with Al in our cosy van. Love not working. However, don't think I'm ready for retirement. (That's a whole nother story.)

PS: next day. Great forest cycle track along the coast around St Jean de Monts. Beach at low tide on the still but overcast day was amazing. Loads of activities for the masses of tourists who'll no doubt fill all the apartments, gites, hotels and campsites along this part of the coast in ten days time.

PPS: two days later - our first experience of a hot blue afternoon in France this holiday. Camped now in the picturesque well-appointed grounds of a chateau - Castel Campsite Le Petit Trianon in Ingrande-sur-Vienne. Quite enjoying sweltering heat and the peace of this place after the four hour drive to get here from the Atlantic coast.

Touch wood indeed. Tour de Germany part 2.

Beware your own beatific smile. Beware smugness. That's a warning to me. Minutes after I posted my last blog I drove the campervan to the waste water drain. Very pleased with the way the van handled. Why does Al make it look so hard? I thought, swinging her round the corners and expertly positioning the outlet nozzle over the drain. He just wants to have all the fun.

I'd set the sat nav for our next destination. Told Al to hop in the back and I'd drive to recepzion. Except I couldn't find my way back through the hedge maze in the camping ground. Signs didn't help. I have about three words in German. (Wein - wine, tee mit milch - tea with milk, biergarten - beer garden. Okay, that's five.) I couldn't tell which way was the ausfahrt - exit. (Okay, six.) Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn down a narrow hedged lane and felt a bit of sick coming up cos I knew I couldn't get through. Al, meanwhile was in the back putting his shoes and socks on for the drive. (He has his standards.) Realising I was in trouble, I asked him to take over the driving. 

We couldn't go forward. Had to reverse back around a corner in this tiny lane. Well, we - me out in the rain rushing side to side at the back of the van flapping my hands and calling increasingly terse instructions - got stuck on a hedge with a low thick protruding branch which got jammed under the front wheel rim.

We needed help.

Given it was my fault I felt utterly sick, stupid and pathetic. Cried. (Been there before.) What else could I do? (Hyperventilate while pacing up and down with my purple umbrella, as it happened.) My 'patheticity' galvanised Al into action. In his yellow plastic poncho he headed off to find help at recepzion.

Interestingly, he found the office quite easily whereas I had been totally disorientated. Should have let him drive.

About 45 minutes later one of the campingplatz workers arrived in his golf buggy and inspected the problem. He ripped off a few branches then wrenched, with an alarming tearing sound, the offending branch from under the wheel. 'Now is good,' he said. But it took quite a lot more to-ing and fro-ing for Al to negotiate out of the trap into which I had led him.

At least a couple of locals were entertained. A giant sized elderly gent, in white singlet, blue shorts and plastic scuffs joined in barking out instructions in German. The louder the better, he evidently thought, nodding and grinning at me. An old woman in white cardigan and the ubiquitous white pants silently bore witness from her caravan site.

Ultimately, very lucky to have got out of that one with minimal damage.

And here we are in Waldshut on the Rhine in a camping car park. Might as well be in the Coburg - Melbourne - shopping centre carpark. No way. We're having an adventure.

Tour de Germany. Part 1.

Here we are again, smugly sitting in our rented van in a campingplatz on Bodensee, Germany. Okay so rain, thunder and lightning now and much of the night but the past two days have been sublime.

Again we bought second hand bikes in Munich. By the way, not only does Munich do Octoberfest in September, they also have the IFAT. That's the biggest trade fair in the world for Water, Sewage, Waste & Raw Materials Management. Held every second year in May. Apart from eavesdropping on animated American breakfast conversations about waste disposal, we also paid double for our accommodation.

Otherwise, we're well over jet lag and have relaxed into this vacation. Well, perhaps not when we were pushing our bikes uphill through torrential rain on a forest trail near Neuschwanstein Castle. We'd been trying to cycle around Alpsee - a lake - as recommended by a school mate. Except it's not possible. An hour into this isolated soggy workout, concerned about hypos with only a few jelly beans and a small container of sultanas to sustain me, insisted we back track. No harm done and good for the thighs.

We were camped amongst the meadows by Hopfensee, a beautiful lake reflecting perfectly the surrounding snow capped mountains. Gorgeous ride through wild -flowery fields to nearby medieval town of Füssen. Even had a deer sighting on the bike path.

Three nights there then onto Gohren, Bodensee. The cycling here is delectable on mostly flat well signed bike paths through apple orchards, corn and wheat fields, vineyards, villages and beautifully maintained allotments, mostly within sight of Bodensee - Lake Constance. 

We finished our two rides - about 50k to and from Meersburg on day 1, perhaps 30 beyond Lindau and back on day 2 - sitting in dappled sunlight under shade trees in a traditional Biergarten. 

Hence, smug. Touch wood.

Sunday with my old mum.

My mum, former nursing administrator, reader, writer, humorous raconteur, was also into meditative ironing. In retirement, she'd get up early and set up, in her kitchen, to iron. 

Sunday, I 'got her out' of her aged care facility; rescued her for the day. It was windy, grey, squally and damp last Sunday. Couldn't imagine much worse than being stuck in that day room at the hostel. Old women, walking frames. Some heads descended on chests asleep. Other sleeping heads thrown back, mouths open. Looking like my dad just after he'd died. 

Anyway, I got my 85 year old mum out. Not before I'd checked her clothes; fixed her hair; applied her a bit of tinted moisturiser and lippie. She's so pale these days, not getting into the sun much. When she stood in front of me as I dabbed the lipstick onto her quivering lips I noticed that I was looking directly into her face, despite her formerly being six inches taller than me. She's lost her memory and her height.

Still, mum looks good. Physically robust.

I drove to my local shops, fielding the confused questions. "Do you think if we went to see my mother she'd be home?" Her mum died in 1972. "Have you been through to see my mother lately?" Mum means have I been to Goldthorpe, Yorkshire, England, to visit her mother. 

I'll deflect occasionally. Haven't had time, I'll say. Other times I'll remind mum that her mum died when I was sixteen and mum was in her early forties. Her eyes fill with tears. As they say in the dealing with dementia reading, sometimes it's better to humour the sufferer. We're all suffering.

The confused questions are repeated on a sort of loop. About three years ago, when mum's dementia was first diagnosed, I used to get angry and frustrated by mum's repetition. I wrote out standard responses and told her to read them. Got sick of telling her where we were, where she lived, where she lives now, what's happened to my dad and who that man in the kitchen was, that is, my husband, Al, who she's known and loved since 1979.

Now I'm amazed by my acceptance and patience. 

Surprisingly, I relish the humour, when it occurs as it frequently does with mum. She's always had the best sense of humour.  On Sunday, I let mum out of the car at a neighbour's driveway so she wouldn't struggle with the door and the gutter as she got out of the car. I then reversed  to park outside my house. Mum walked up the path and got into the car. She thought we were leaving having forgotten that we'd just arrived. We both roared with laughter, eyes filling with tears.

After lunch, I invited mum to do some ironing. She longs to feel useful and I thought she'd appreciate a familiar task. Set it all up, worrying a bit about the hot iron but thinking she'd manage. Gave her one of her straightforward shirts. She worked around it a bit; re-ironing sections she'd already done, unable to figure out how to move the shirt around on the board. "I'm not sure I can manage this," she said after a few attempts.

I helped her out by lying a sleeve out flat on the board. 

"Oh, I see!" She smiled her thanks, secured the top of the sleeve in her left hand and ironed with her right. She glided the iron along the sleeve and over her thumb. Her reflexes, happily, are still good. 

Packed up the ironing, poured her a wine and she watched me make some biscuits instead.

Taking my old mum for a haircut

Arrived at my mum's aged care facility - ACF - at 9.40 this morning to take her to my hairdressers in the far flung suburb of Taylor's Hill. Taking mum with me queers my pitch just a tad. I don't think I'm alone in enjoying a precious forty minutes or so having my hair done. But mum needed a haircut and Paul, my lovely hairdresser, was able to squeeze her in at the last minute.

Doesn't pay to book a haircut, or a podiatry appointment too far ahead for mum. I've turned up to collect her for an appointment a couple of times to find she's made some private arrangement with a visiting provider. No good writing it in mum's diary. She doesn't check it.

As I pulled into the car park at said time, a staff member key-padded mum out of the front door. Was pleased to see mum's clothes were well coordinated: padded short black jacket over a long sleeved striped tee shirt; black jeans; good black leather zip-front shoes. (She's not so keen on the lace ups these days.) Her hair was nicely combed. Good effort, mum.

I'd prearranged for mum to be waiting for me at 9.45 so I was actually early. 'I've been waiting for ages,' she said, not unhappily. 'Since 9 o' clock.' I suppose she was keen to get out under whatever pretext. I would be.

She didn't mind, she said. She'd had lots of company, as she would have sitting outside the nurses' station in the busy reception area. I was slightly annoyed that she claimed she'd been waiting for ages and 'thought [I'd] never get there.' Once I'd have automatically believed her.

It's a fair drive out to Taylor's Hill, a newish labyrinthine north-western suburb. I was about to drive across busy Mount Alexander Road heading for the free way when the questions began. How's Al? Pete? Didi? Do you ever hear from your sisters? And so on. Cruelly, I suppose, I nipped the interrogation in the bud, only because the loop would have ended in five minutes and I'd have to answer the same questions again.

"Don't start blathering, mum,' I said. That's an expression I learnt at my mother's knee. 'Just listen to the music.'

'Cross the roundabout and take the second exit.' That's Jane, the sat nav. I needed Jane because I hardly know Taylor's Hill  having only been out to hairdresser Paul's new premises once before.

'You needn't worry,' says mum, who's miffed, to me, not Jane, 'I will never speak again.' She does that if I'm abrupt with her. She always has. I glance at her. She's set her face and is staring ahead.

Half an hour later, we're at the hairdressers. As I sit in my chair, looking into the mirror, I see mum who's sitting behind me - me in 25 years? - looking back at me. I wave. She smiles. It's warm, she has a coffee and the winter sun's shining through the huge windows. There's a new, green reserve across the road with playground equipment, tables and a few young trees coming along nicely. They certainly build amenity into these new suburbs. Still don't know where I am. Neither does mum.

Mum gets a lovely haircut, as opposed to the generic ACF trim. Both hairdressers praise my mum's gorgeous thick white hair which has been beautifully cut. Mum beams and preens.

I was considering keeping mum with me for the day. It would mean a dawdling time and lots of inane albeit animated repetition, not unlike the time I spent with preschool children in some ways. But as I drove towards the city, mum anxiously reminded me, again, that she had no idea where she was. She needs reassurance that I'm onto it and that I'm not going to abandon her and expect her to find her way back to wherever. Because at this stage she has forgotten where she lives.

The sadness begins. 'I feel like weeping,' she says. 'Weep,' I say, 'go on.'

Yes, I'm harsh but this is self-preservation. Why wouldn't she have this nebulous melancholy, that is, when she's not being the life of the party, buoying up the other residents at her ACF? She doesn't know why she feels this way but I think I do. I feel it too but bemoaning and crying doesn't achieve anything.

I indulged that sadness after Monday's visit when mum asked me where my dad was. 'Your dad didn't die, did he?' she pleaded, contorting her brow. It caught me off guard. 'Where was I when he died?' she asked.

'Mum, you were there and you did all the right things,' I said, straining to stem the tears.
'Did I?' she asked.

That made for a sad evening. Once I'd started crying in the car park after I'd left mum, it was hard to stop. And then I felt so washed out. Best not to begin.

Happily, compensations of memory loss, mum forgets these moments, just as she's forgotten that her husband died over three years ago.

When I left mum today, she looked amazing. She'd applied a bit of foundation and lippy; several staff had complimented her on her new haircut.

Just as I was about to make my escape, mum got me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. Hers were brimming with tears. 'You know,' she said, looking down at me,' if you think of ringing me, or dropping in later, don't. Just leave me alone in here.' A rebuke.

But, weather permitting I'll be back to take her for a walk and a coffee on Saturday. And she'll be as delighted to see me as if I've been away for six months.

No Day But Today.

Didn't shower today. Wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday: heavy black oversized hoodie; baggy kneed black track pants and mauve sheepskin 'scuff' slippers. You may be pleased to know I haven't left the house. The weather's not conducive anyway - noisy cold morning rain clearing to gusty miserable.

It's the winter hols for me in inner suburban Melbourne. I'm reading/studying Bruce Dawe's poetry, some of which keeps popping back into the front of my mind from some previous youthful reading. I enjoyed it then and I'm enjoying it now, even though I'm inclined to over-analyse.

Does everything have to be metaphoric or can untethered dogs just roam around the 'sixties inner Melbourne streets? "No street but has its canine tributary/ - Confluent in lanes,/They swirl about in bright-eyed vortices,/Whirlpools of snap and sniff and pink-tongued grin." From Dogs in the Morning Light by Bruce Dawe. That took me back to mid-1960s Avondale Heights and packs of dogs chasing my bike and me with my feet on the handle-bars.

Reading Dawe is good for my brain in all sorts of ways. It's made me feel like writing. It's liberating reading about Dawe's meaning of life contemplation after a bad hair-cut and the discovery of a bald patch. "And I couldn't get home quick enough to hold up a/round shaving mirror/Over my head like a silver third eye which would reveal to me/What all the world knew.../Then it was - just then/- I came upon it, in retrospect; the place of baldness,/That solemn high country some get to earlier than others/And some not at all." From The Place on page 111 of Sometimes Gladness.

Perhaps reading poetry will stave off dementia, although it didn't work for mum who, when she could still hold a thought, loved dipping into her Les Murray anthology .

To take a break from Bruce and to get moving, at least around the house, I folded laundry. Three piles: mine, Al's and mum's. Mum's in an aged care facility with a laundry service but I do her laundry. If I was in a Hollywood movie I'd be sainted; St Fraudster. I'm referencing Vincent, in St Vincent, doing his wife's laundry. It's no big deal. Perhaps, like me, Vincent - Bill Murray, what an ugly yet attractive man - didn't want his wife's smalls getting mixed up in the communal wash.

All the while I was listening to Eddie Perfect's Songs From The Middle, loving the music and the lyrics. Was unable to discern most of the lyrics at Perfect's recent concert at the Melbourne Recital Centre. Made me get the digital version though. Perhaps it would be even more brilliant if I could hear the words. (It is and it isn't. Something about live music.)

Can't get through that album without crying. Actually sobbed today. They say women become more emotionally labile after 'the change'. But I've always been like this. Perhaps I have unresolved issues. Perhaps I just cry at something so beautifully, wistfully evocative.

I wiped my eyes, tweeted my regards to Eddie and despite feeling wrung out, resumed the ironing.

I'm a bit foisty and greasy, sans shower. A make-up wipe just doesn't cut it. I'm house-bound waiting on a plumber - who may not even turn up - to replace the hot water service that died a couple of nights ago. I'm pressing the hell out of Al's worn business shirt - one more trip left for that one before the op shop bag.

That was when my shuffled music on iTunes decided that I needed a bit of Idina Menzel. A reminder.

No day but today

Here's some music from Eddie Perfect.

Now back to Bruce.

Laid Up.

My day off. Haven't had much physical activity lately. Not well enough for cycling and walking. The weather's been conducive to hanging around the house. Most exercise I've had has been sweeping the floors and squeegee-ing the shower in the morning.

Last night I went to bed at 8.30 and managed about ten hours occasionally interrupted sleep.

Woke up determined to do my five k walk.

Dropped my insulin basal rate about fifty minutes prior to the walk. Did the ablutions. Walking gear on. Packed my emergency jelly beans and sultanas, keys, set my GPS tracking device and I was off, singing along to the Glee version of Hold Onto the Feeling. Down the street, turn left, bit of blue sky, only a bit of light rain showing on the radar but I had my rain jacket on so I'd be okay. I had hit my stride then WHOOOPPHH WHOP I hit the road.

Agony and I was lying on my side in the gutter on the street corner. I had skidded on the damp footpath? A leaf? There was a skid mark about a meter long showing my trajectory. 

My headphones were still blaring Everybody Wants To Rule The World. I popped my plugs out whilst still lying on my left side.

A couple who'd kindly pulled off the road to help leaned over me. She was wearing a uniform. How lucky, I thought. A nurse. You see, I was in pain and wondering if I'd broken something. 

No, I work in pathology, she said, still bending over me. Are you all right?

Do you think you could help me up? 

Suppose they were wondering whether I should be moved.

With one of them on each arm, I struggled to my feet, thanked them and began to limp up the hill, thinking I'd bloody well, do my five k anyway.

Until realised I was really hurting in my left knee and foot.

So I managed 1.98 k this morning, most of that limping. Now I'm ice-packed wondering whether I should get the foot x-rayed. 

Best laid plans.

Muddy in Budapest.

Here I am in one of the great European cities - Budapest - and I can't get past the packed camping ground and its environs. You can't help rain, of course, so it's no one's fault that we're parked under a tree in a mud pit. But it's a bit disconcerting when you can't flush your morning's evacuations. 'It kept bobbing back up and staring at me.' Al shook his head in horrid disbelief, as did I, having had the same deal in the women's.

The women's was like some crowded steamy eastern bloc sorority house with a couple of wide eyed children staring at sad elastic confined cellulite. I wasn't about to add mine to the swill so I opted for the facilities in the van instead.

We drove for five and a half hours on B roads from Vienna - glory! - to get here. As soon as we were over the border we were on a massive criss-crossing motorway in a megalopolis - Bratislava. The traffic moved faster, lane swapping was rife and speed limits were treated with disdain. 

We came on the B roads believing we'd see more. Lots of corn fields spread around us, similar to those in Austria. However, it seemed shabbier. (Hard act for any place to follow.) Not much of interest in  the many villages we drove through. I'm sure they're all living their rich lives but there was little evidence of it. Lots of locals out on bikes gathering nuts along the highway added a bit of zest.

The long drive is due to 50, 70 and 90k speed restrictions, to which we adhered. Well, someone had to.

Our camping ground is 2k from the centre. I'm hoping to eat some humble pie after we get on the bikes and explore later today, but yesterday's brief foray around the campsite didn't bode well: dingy, mouldering blocks of flats, weeds growing through cracks in kerbs and footpaths, broken glass, litter. The local shopping mall was a tad depressing. Lots of old store mannequins staring off in bad wigs.

Yes, I know. I'm a spoilt, smug, arrogant westerner. But I'm just saying.

Klosterneuburg in the rain.

We're on day twelve of a five week tour of Europe and it's raining, hence my feeling inclined to write something about our trip.

Al has been banging on about cycling the Danube since we came to Europe in 2010 and I've been successfully persuading him to go to France instead. This year, however, I conceded. And here we are in Klosterneuburg, about 14k by bike to Vienna, along the Danube. But tomorrow, if the rain keeps up as promised by the forecast, we'll take the train.

'The rain puts a dampener on everything,' said Al, helpfully. Dampener: to dull or deaden; to depress. Perhaps for Al. Me? I'm on holiday in Europe, with the love of my life studying the camping book at the other side of the table in our luxury motorhome, once again rented from McRent in Sulzemoos near Munich. (Seamless pick up of the van, BTW.) 

What's more, I've got 150ml of Italian 'chardonnay' in a plastic beaker. Would have bought a wine glass, cos they're not provided by McRent - don't understand why not, guys - but have missed out on those Disneyland-esque French supermarchés given we're not in France, so I haven't bought one.

Seems to be a rule about what an Austrian 'supermarket' can sell. Strictly groceries, well, at Billa and Spar, the grocery stores we've found along the way. No kitchenware, even at Aldi, which seems to sell lots of other paraphernalia. If I wanted a hi-vis jacket I'm in. A wine glass or a mug, not so much.

Have also been drinking tea and coffee from the same plastic beaker, given one of the heavy ceramic mugs was cracked. Was quite relieved actually. Thought I'd been dribbling.

Had a walk into town in our wet weather gear earlier. Think dorks in plastic ponchos, especially Al, with his 'I'm an Autralian' wide brimmed hat on top of his yellow plastic hood.

We circumnavigated an enormous significant cathedral. Ventured inside as a tour guide opened a steel grill to admit his three tourists then clicked it shut on us. He even did a little sneer as he locked us kids out of the main show. Not very Christian of him. Must have been the ponchos. 

I saw enough. Have gawped my way around sufficient cathedrals for a life time.

Wasn't a wasted trip. Found a shop that sold cheap ceramic mugs. Hurrah.

Also spotted a Chinese restaurant that looks promising for dinner. Spare me another schnitzel.

Probably should add that the 78k ride we did from Krems to Melk and back yesterday, in glorious weather on Al's 62nd birthday, is one of the best rides we've ever done. Blissful.

Didn't see that one coming: new BFFs

I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive, in case you didn't know. Last year, to lift my spirits and Get Out More, I decided I'd accept every invitation. 

So there we were, stepping out of my comfort zone on a Saturday arvo - I forced husband Al along for the ride - to attend the flat-warming party of one of the young teachers from my school. Think she invited everyone on staff. Probably didn't expect the oldies to attend. She wasn't to know about the little pact I'd made with myself.

Wasn't too bad. I ended up chatting to another English teacher; Al was apparently chatting amicably with her husband. We all seemed simpatico, being empty nesters and occasional travellers. Swapping emails - not keys - appeared to be a good idea at the time.

Didn't really expect any further contact but let's call her Mary emailed me a few days later. Would Al and I like to join Mary and let's call him Bernard for a movie and 'a bite to eat'?

We accepted, and a bit like kids going on a first date, we met Mary and Bernard at the cinema, watched a comedy then had a bowl of pasta and a bevy. Quite fun. Conversation seemed to flow although Al expressed some reservation. Wasn't his usual kind of beery gig with his besties. 

We met again a couple of months later for another film and 'bite to eat' date. This time we ate before the film. After the film I suggested a coffee. 'We can't drink coffee because then we won't sleep,' said Mary. Odd, I thought. 'Have tea? Chocolate?' Whatever. Thought it might be an age thing. In their mid-sixties, they're a bit older than us.

Our next date was just Mary and I. Lunch and a bike ride. Quite enjoyed the outing, finding lots of common conversational ground about our aged parents and our young adult kids.

Nearly went pear shaped at the next meal/movie. Al and I sat between Mary and Bernard through a turgid but beautifully drawn animated film. The dark cinema hours dragged. Didn't want to disturb our new friends by not paying close attention to the film they'd chosen. Couldn't leave, trapped as we were between them. Was so relieved when, at the end of the film, they both confessed to having slept through most of it. And there was me, being so good.

Mary had chosen that film based on film critics, 'Margaret and David's', four stars. When we parted ways, Bernard told us we had to choose the next film, ha ha, to avoid another disastrous choice by his wife. Kiss, kiss, off we went.

To be honest - and why would I lie? - it was all a bit forced. Al continued to go along for the ride, but with reservations. He was never entirely relaxed with Mary and Bernard, and neither was I but they were pleasant enough.

I almost let it go, but a few months later, out of guilt, thought I'd email Mary to see if they were up for another date, given that it was my turn to make contact. Instant affirmative reply, so off for another Saturday night film. 

Al was a bit white knuckled on the drive in. He'd prefer it was just the two of us going out, he said. Fair call, but we'd made a date; too late to back out.

Mary chose the film. I didn't mind. I was out on a Saturday arvo and I was taking an extortionately priced glass of chardy into the cinema with me, as was Al. Not Mary and Bernard though. Perhaps they didn't want to add an extra $20 to the $38 for the tickets.

The film was good and afterwards we headed for an Italian cafe for dinner. Was all going swimmingly, I thought, until i noticed Bernard seemed a bit distracted at the other side of the table. I'd ordered a second glass of wine after the meal, despite no one else joining me. Fuck it, I thought. It's eight o' clock on Saturday night and I'm having one.

'Bernard, if you want to go, go, don't mind us,' I said.

'Yes,' he said. 'we'll go.'

Seemed a bit blunt, but I didn't really care. Mary did though. 'It's not even 8.30,' she protested.

'Well, I'm bored,' he said. 'The conversation is boring and depressing.' I'd been talking. 'Tell me something interesting; something funny...'

Don't  remember the rest of the sentence, given my heart was breaking out of my chest and heat was threatening to explode my face. I was being boring, my biggest fear, and this guy was the first person who'd had the guts to call it? The fragility of my self-esteem alarms me.

'Okay, thank you.' Very polite; very calm despite the flight or fight heart beat. 'You'll be pleased to know you'll never have to put up with us again. How about you pay your half of the bill and I'll just sit here and finish my wine?'

Al said nothing. Why have a dog and bark yourself?

Bernard and Al got up to pay the bill and left me with an apologetic, heart-sloughed Mary, who blamed her husband's rude behaviour on the television on the cafe wall. 

'You'll have to forgive Bernard,' she said. 'He gets tired and I don't think having a TV on the wall helps.'

So much for accepting every invitation. Better off at home with a cheap chardy and a box-set.