Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - Part two

Pageant day dawned and I was relieved not to have a hangover - thank god I didn't open the bottle of red wine in the mini bar after polishing off the champagne! I was feasting on my room service breakfast when my sister-in-law and niece arrived and greeted them warmly with bacon and egg breath. The Divine Miss Em already looked stunning, in a dress that I apparently paid for compliments of some birthday cash, though it wasn't one of the three outfits to later grace the Pageant stage.

The beautifully divine Miss Em

Her hair was mostly done and her mother set about doing her makeup while I continued to munch my way through my bacon and eggs. I'd already had a bit of a run-down on the day's program. The three categories were: beauty, which involved wearing something pretty and sparkly. For the toddlers this usually reflects the short sequinned cutesy outfits which typify pageants. As the girls get older the dresses get longer and a bit less sparkly. The hair is always well-coiffed and hairpieces are often added to provide extra pizazz. Or something.


Given the outbook theme, the second outfit was 'western' in nature. I found it interesting that all of the costumes very much reflected the US cowboy scene, with no akubras, drizabones or wifebeater singlets in sight. Whereas in the beauty segment the girls walk in a poised manner across the stage, the other sections seem to allow a bit of personality to seep through with all contestants preparing routines to music. And - thank god my niece was a bit inventive and went for Will Smith's Wild Wild West - cos if I'd had to listen to Cotton Eye Joe or Boot Scootin' Baby one more time I may have had to asphyxiate myself with hairspray fumes.


Finally there was the outfit of choice. My niece had gone with a dress worn by her grandmother 50yrs ago, boofy hair and a song from Hairspray. I mentioned before that she can dance. Well, it serves her well in pageants and she got a big cheer after that performance in particular.


I was expecting it to be a bit more like TV's Toddlers & Tiaras, but perhaps US pageants aren't like that either. I know it may shock you, but possibly, just possibly, the reality TV show is a bit less 'real' than it espouses to be. Just possibly.


Like the US show though, the event was held in a room at a hotel, with a tiny stage up the front and rows of chairs behind the judges. The organiser hails from the US (or possibly Canada - I mean, who can tell?) though wasn't quite as OTT as some of the organisers and emcees I've seen on television. What surprised me most were the low numbers. There were only 13 competitors across the four age groups. The organiser though, is slightly between a rock and a hard place. With pageants having SUCH a bad name here at the moment, it's not a case of 'any publicity being good publicity' so promotion is minimal.


But I wasn't disappointed. There were toddlers. Four littlies competed in the 0 - 3 year age group. Despite their lack of professionalism (hmph, amateurs!) they were almost the most entertaining. One little one refused to leave the stage. Another performed like a trooper and was particularly expert in blowing kisses. One was a baby who slept through one of the sections (the mother carrying her on stage....) and the final girl was the spitting image of the US pageant-Queen Eden Wood.


There were tears. Of course. Though not because of anything pageant-related. One of the littlest ones just screamed and cried a lot. Bizarrely she won a lot of prizes in her age-group. Perhaps it was a case of 'the squeaky wheel'....


Before we arrived I asked my niece if I had to 'woo-hoo' cos I'm not much of a 'woo-hooer'! But I'd seen that on television. The chubby mothers or fathers who cheer and 'woo-hoo' their kids. I think the Divine Miss Em merely rolled her eyes at me. I also kidded that I would leap about behind the judges demonstrating what she should be doing and pointing to my mouth as a reminder to smile. That drew another look of derision. Possibly because she holds dozens of dances in her head at any one time and doesn't need prompts. Or possibly because I can't actually dance.


Some of the mothers did prance about though, reminding their daughters of their routines. I have to admit that's the only time I cringed a little.... some of the mothers being a bit overly engaged in the whole thing. Who are they doing this for again?





My niece was stellar. Absolutely beautiful and her choreographed routines were great. She's a good little actress so played her characters with exaggerated ease. The judging was a bit of a surprise, though of course it must be SO subjective and I MAY be biased. Just maybe. The Devine Miss Em narrowly missed out (by only 4 points we believe) on another Grand Supreme title, instead winning Miss Teen Queen. She was a bit disappointed, but stoically talked about looking at her performances and what she should do differently in future.


Pageants have had a lot press here recently. Frankly I think anything that involves too many women is prone to bitchiness. Netball used to be the same. But yesterday I didn't see fake tans or toddlers dressed inappropriately. The mothers had all done their daughters' makeup and hair and none looked like they were heading for trouble. And everyone won SOMETHING. In fact, I've never seen so many tiaras and sashes in my life.


The whole thing was over by lunchtime and with a sigh of relief the mothers and families packed up their gear to get back to their lives. My niece and sister-in-law were remaining in town for ballet eisteddfods, but I had a finale party to attend for my weight loss program. Attending the pageant had meant I'd skipped a group training session (though as about 800 were there I suspect I wasn't missed), but I was super excited about meeting participants on my program from across the country. I'd been communicating with many of them via Facebook, Twitter and program Forums for the entire 12 week round and keen to see them face-to-face.


So I began the trip back to my hometown.


I bet you've been wondering about the tantrums. Yes? Sadly it wasn't a two or three year old toddler throwing tantrums, but rather a 43 year old woman. Me. Yes me! I'd already had a meltdown about the hotel room on Friday night and proceded to have two more during the three and a half hour logistical nightmare it took me to travel the 100km home.


I decided to catch a bus to the train station so waited for about 20 minutes at a bus stop near my hotel. I was about to give up and get a taxi when the bus arrived. Having paid my fare I settled back looking forward to getting onto the train and heading home. But then in response to my query the driver explained that the bus I was on takes a roundabout route to the train station and it would take about an hour to travel the few kilometres. WTF?


So I alighted to catch a taxi instead. Trains departed half-hourly and I had 20 minutes until the next one. Finally a taxi arrived and the driver told me we'd EASILY make it to the train in 15 minutes. About 20 minutes and $40 later we arrived at the train station just as the train was leaving. FUCK! Not only had I wasted the money on the taxi, but now I had to sit at a cold windy train station for 30 minutes until the next train. I was furious. I called my mother.... as you do when you are in a foul mood. And if you are me. Between sobs I told her that I was now going to be much later getting back to my place and wouldn't have enough time to prepare for the finale party that night. She attempted to calm me down - which almost worked, though I suspect it was the idea of railway station staff seeing a grown woman cry which did the trick. "I'm not going to the finale party," I told my mother. She - as mothers do - told me not to be silly and reminded me I'd regret not going. "It's all just too much," I sooked to her. It sounds ridiculous even to me. And.... sure I knew that it wasn't really the 30 minute delay which worried me. It was just EVERYTHING. Not knowing what to do about my place and the stress of the past few weeks. I just felt incredibly overwhelmed.

Finally I got on the train and we were on our way. I knew it was an hour trip and was relieved that I'd make a connecting train and be home a couple of hours before I had to dress and go out again. Except... there was a delay. So I missed the connecting train. Just. Again I was going to have another 30 minute wait. But this time I was closer to home, so I decided I'd go and catch a taxi. With my new taxi company iPhone App I searched for the nearest taxi rank. Bloody useless piece of shit! It suggested that the nearest rank (in my capital city) was in another town hundreds of kilometres away. WTF?! Again! So I started walking assuming I'd hail a cab. Taxi after taxi (some empty, some carrying passengers) passed me and NOT ONE stopped. I lugged my bags for over 20 minutes before contemplating whether I could return to the train station to get the train I initially decided not to wait for. Feeling a tad overwhelmed yet again I ended up standing on this busy road with tears running down my face. Shameful, I know. I had no idea where the nearest rank was and had no location to give a cab company if I called them. Just when I was about to throw myself down onto the bitumen pavement and sob, a driver stopped. I suspect my hysterical and effusive thanks scared the shit out of him. But... finally I was home.


Feeling even more exhausted than I thought possible, and not having eaten since breakfast, I realised I only had about an hour to bathe and prepare for pre-party drinks. So what did I do? I poured myself a glass of champagne and spent 30 of the 60 minutes in the bathtub wondering how the hell my day had gone from the blissful time with family that morning, to tears and tantrums about public transport. Of course the champagne - or the idea of champagne - made everything better, so I dressed, got in YET ANOTHER taxi and went to party with people I barely knew. And I had a ball!

Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - part one: the backstory

I don't usually post into my diet blog on weekends. You know... one shouldn't work on the Sabbath and all of that. Actually being cheerfully agnostic it's actually more cos I'm lazy and get tired of sitting at a computer on my fat butt more than I should.... but the first reason sounded better.


As it happens, today's post isn't in keeping with the usual theme of that blog, so I figured it's okay. Plus I'm a bit hungover so sitting in front of a computer feels better than moving in general. And... as the post wasn't diet-related and doesn't reveal anything terribly embarrassing about myself I figured I'd post it here as well.

Anyone wanna buy a townhouse?

I've had a pretty interesting week or two. The 12-week weight loss program I was on finished up with last chance exercise sessions, final weigh-ins and measuring. I'd started a 'learn to run' program so was trying to fit that into my working week. I had an interview for a promotion at work; and spent a long long weekend away visiting my parents. I returned this week to play catch-up at work and just in time to attend an auction to sell my house. Because I usually stress about the small stuff, I'd been very zen-like about the house thing. Naturally... because packing for my trip away and getting to the gym was WAY more important.


I'd been horrified to discover I had to attend the auction and (hopefully) watch people bidding on my pride and joy. The notion of being judged or my value measured was a tad daunting. My place was 9th out of 10 being auctioned on Friday morning so I sat patiently watching others mostly not-selling, daunted by the knowledge that only one person was registered to bid on my place. Of course, the bidder in question didn't match my reserve and my house was passed in. I wasn't overly shocked and was mostly okay, but got hammered by my Real Estate Agent and her boss after; double-teaming me to make sure I knew how insane I was; thinking I'd get the price I wanted and why I should just take what was on offer rather than holding out for more.


Cap in hand, I headed back to an important work meeting I'd had to sneak out of to partake in the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction.


I made it through the day and then jumped directly on a train to commute to a nearby coastal town where I was overnighting. My niece was participating in a beauty pageant there and I was thrilled she asked if I wanted to go and watch. I don't travel much any more so the idea of my ocean-view room was appealing and I fantasised all day (including through the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction) about sitting on my verandah imbibing in more champagne than sensible.... as the stress of the day and week slipped away.

My view. Ocean somewhere to the right. Apparently.

But... the 'ocean-view' room that I'd upgraded to was actually on the highway side of the hotel, rather than on the ocean-side. It was true (in daylight) I could see the ocean, but it wasn't what I'd expected (having paid an additional 40% for the aforementioned room). So, I felt deflated and may possibly have had a mini tantrum, spending the first few hours of the evening seething, grumbling and issuing grumpy tweets - until the room service champagne arrived (of course) and I started drinking the comforting elixir.


With nothing on TV and no appealing in-house movies I actually read an entire novel in the large spa-shaped bath as I knocked back my champagne.... interrupting my reverie only to partake in some room service dinner - which, incidentally was delicious.


The hotel I was staying in was hosting the outback-themed pageant so we'd arranged for my sister-in-law and niece to come to my room early the following morning which would be converted into a dressing room for my niece who required three changes of outfits for the competition.


It was to be her second pageant. I suspect it was because of the reputation pageants have (thanks to television show Toddlers & Tiaras and surrounding media) that she kept her participation in her first pageant a secret, only revealing it to a few friends and family after she'd competed. My niece, the Divine Miss Em dances a lot and I suspect that both her beauty and stage presence contribute to her success in pageant world, and she was crowned Grand Supreme in her first competition. For those who think I'm talking about pizza, the Grand Supreme is the highest award you can win and is given to the overall winner across all age groups.


And for those thinking that the Divine Miss Em is a 5yr old toddling about a stage in sequins, a fake tan and false teeth, she's actually (now) 15yrs old, whippet-smart and eminently sensible for a teenager. And her mother though not unsupportive of her desires, was happy for her to enter pageants, providing it involve minimal out-of-pocket costs... so not like the pageant moms you see on US television.


I saw the photographs of her in the first pageant and she looked absolutely stunning. A worthy winner that's for sure. So this pageant, the third of its kind in Australia, was about to be her second and this time she had some experience and knowledge of the world under her belt.


And though I didn't know what to expect I was stoked just to be there and part of it all. And Friday night, having indulged in the champers and the book, I wrapped myself up in the soft bed linen and prepared for the early arrival of my guests and an action-packed morning complete with toddlers, teens and tiaras.

Things you may not know about me....

Some bloggers I follow recently posted lists of ‘things we may not know about them’. Although completely unrelated to the usual theme of this blog, I enjoyed reading their confessions; and - because I know you all find me so interesting - I thought I’d share my own secrets. 


My childhood best friend (and neighbour) and I wrote a book while at primary schoolThe book was called Tania and we wrote alternating chapters. I was unhappy with the ending (she’d taken something out of a Mills and Boon novel which was a bit OTT to a pre-teen like myself) so – in a fit of temper – I ripped the entire thing up. Unbeknown to me my friend, Michelle, got it out of my bin and pasted the pages together (it wasn’t that long obviously), made a cover and presented it to me. Years later I gave it back to her as a gift. I would like to think she still has it. The book, incidentally, was a pre-teen romance type thing. Of course. Much of the novel was spent describing the clothes; and naturally Tania, the novel's namesake wore attractive pantsuits and muted makeup, whereas the school bi-atch (and Tania's rival-in love) wore lime green and purple and too much makeup (which back in the 70s was just not done in polite society)!


My childhood best friend (same one) and I used to stage showsIn our pre-teen years my bestie and I staged a couple of shows for our friends (one of which was captured for posterity on Super 8 film and features a number of us performing plays and dancing for a small audience of friends sitting on plastic chairs in my backyard). I recall another show staged (in our carport) for our mothers. I remember that the latter involved Abba songs as, back then, I had a particular penchant for Tropical Loveland. Although not a natural performer, as a youngster I used to climb onto a large barbeque structure we had in our backyard, using it as a stage. So much so that another neighbour presented me with an old silver non-functioning microphone he found at the local dump (in the days before toy microphones were readily available. Obviously.) By the way, it's important to understand at this point that: I cannot dance; and I cannot sing!


For such a heathen I had a relatively-religious upbringingYou wouldn’t know it now, but my brother and I both attended Sunday School as youngsters. I followed in my mother’s footsteps and even taught there briefly but really only recall getting the kindergarten kids to colour in pictures of Jesus, wise men, donkeys and the like. For his sins (Hee hee!) my brother was briefly an altar boy (and we have the pictures to prove it!). I now class myself as agnostic, but my brother probably would say he’s an atheist. My mother still attends church religiously. (Hee hee! God, I’m on a roll today!)


I loved (loved loved) Barbie dolls.I had a few other dolls (but really only remember one or two of them – including one whose auburn hair grew out of a hole on top of her head when you pushed a button - but was mad for my Barbie dolls. I inherited some from my aunt or someone, but scored them as presents on a regular basis.


My mother, who occasionally made my clothes back then, also made me a heap of clothes for the original dolls. As a result, my collection of Barbie dolls and their wardrobe was impressive!


Better still (given my love for all-things-television) I also had a Steve Austin (Six Million Dollar Man) doll – purchased as a surprise gift after becoming inconsolable when Jamie Sommers (the Bionic Woman) died in the TV show. Little did I know she came back to life (a couple of times) and later had her own TV show. I also later got a Jamie Sommers doll. I loved that you could roll up the skin on their arms or lift the flap in their legs to see their bionic bits. And... just as amazing (and in retrospect, tragic!) I also had a set of Charlie’s Angels dolls, including the three originals from the TV series, and Cheryl Ladd as Farrah Fawcett’s replacement.


I had a ‘thing’ for Rocky Balboa in my early – mid teensI know, I know, WTF was I thinking? I now agree, but at the time I LOVED Rocky. Not Sylvester Stallone of course, as I was possibly in denial that there WAS a Sylvester Stallone, who was significantly older than the teenaged me but by the time Rocky III came out I was besotted. My brother (who was much nicer to me way back then and who lived in a capital city with non-tragic radio stations) actually TAPED a radio ad for the movie when it came out. I listened to the 30 second ad so much at the time I still remember the lines!

Rocky to Adrian: “Nothing is real if you don't believe in who you are."


Mr T (Clubber Lang) to Rocky: "I’m gonna bust you up.”
Rocky to Clubber Lang: “Go for it.”

So there you have it - a few things that (unless you were there at the time) you didn't know about me. Obviously I haven't delved into any childhood traumas (other than the mistaken perception that the Bionic Woman died) or uncovered any deep dark secrets in my past... but I tried to think of tidbits that had previously remained hidden. The more embarrassing secrets (pissing on the stage during a dance performance when I was 5yrs old; or TV commercials I did in high school) will have to wait until another time!

Reflections

Ratings season must be over as I notice that a few new shows are hitting our screens here in Oz this week as the regulars end their seasons. I am hoping they hang around for a while as I am rather tired of becoming enamoured with shows and characters only to discover that the program was - in fact - axed before it even graced our screens or while it was still being promoted here as 'the next big thing'.


Most recently this has been the case with Outcasts, Detroit 1-8-7 and No Ordinary Family. I learned my lesson fairly recently as one of our digital channels commenced telecasting a show called October Road which I got kinda involved in... only to be left in limbo when the end of Season 1 cliffhanger became the last ever episode. Note to self: Google new shows to check for longevity before coming addicted.  Fortunately, in the case of October Road, there was (apparently) a wrap-up mini episode included on the DVD when released, which I didn't see, but was able to read about - so I did get my 'closure' after all.


Law & Order LA* has just premiered here (not so fussed, give me Law & Order SVU and Criminal Intent any day). And this week, Criminal Minds Suspect Behaviour* and Body of Proof start, with Suits due to hit our screens shortly (according to the relentless ads).


Although I'm looking forward to the treat that will be the v.gorgeous Gabriel Macht in Suits, it is Body of Proof that has my attention, not least because its star, Dana Delany, graces the cover of the local TV guide this week. But also, and more importantly, because I haven't seen any of her work for a while.


I must admit that I know she was in Desperate Housewives, but gave that show a wide berth after Season 1 as most of the female cast appeared to have had so much surgery they'd become plastic caricatures of themselves and - in my mind - beyond taking at all seriously.


So, this will essentially the first time I have seen Dana Delany in action since her China Beach days in the late 80s - early 90s. And... I LOVED that show. Love love loved it! In fact, if anyone ever asks about shows I don't have on DVD, but would love to own, China Beach and Thirtysomething would be the two I would choose. Both were shows that - from the moment they started - (for reasons unknown) gave me great comfort and contentment.


I'm not sure how realistic the show was when it came to the Vietnam War, though it was certainly more confronting and realistic that it's comedic Korean War medico predecessor, Mash; but either way, at the time it gave me some insight into a world to which I had not been privy. And, even better, it was fairly brutal in its honesty and gave us some excellent female characters, from the ambitious journalist, to the hardened hooker, to Delany's flawed but passionate Nurse Colleen McMurphy.


It didn't sugarcoat the lives of the American medical staff, or the cases they worked. And it didn't downplay the impact of what they saw each day had on their minds/emotions. I still remember being surprised that the characters basically all got pissed every night. And, of course, we see the impact of that in later episodes. It's all been said before, but I believe Delany was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G in the show. In fact the entire cast was great and the writers and directors gave us a believable and complex ensemble of characters.


I'd love to be able to watch the show nowadays, to see if it still pulled the same punches now I am older and more jaded. It felt authentic, so I suspect it wouldn't have dated too much. But I read somewhere that, the reason it isn't on DVD or available via cable etc is that the show used such great music from that era, that the rights to it all would be too expensive to buy. A bloody shame!


After my extensive research (Google yet again), Delany's now show Body of Proof, appears to have been picked up for a second season which bodes well and means I can watch it this week and allow myself to get a little attached.


* Both shows cancelled in the US in May 2011

Finding comfort

On Sunday I went to boot camp at the ungodly hour of 7am. WTF was I thinking? Yes, I know. However... the good thing about getting up early to exercise is that it's over and done with before most people are tentatively poking their big toe out from under the doona;  and one has the rest of the day to do important things. Like read the newspaper, have nanna naps and update their blogs. For example.


The thing I most like is that I still get to read the paper while eating breakfast and watching music videos on television, which is a throwback to my younger years - the music videos, not the paper! And last Sunday, it was even more exciting because the local Oz music video show, Video Hits, was hosting a 24 year retrospective. Sometimes the show comprises bands playing at local music festivals and I find that I don't recognise (or even like) any of the music. But Sunday, I got to relive the likes of Sonia Dada "You don't treat me no good no more" (one hit wonder anyone?), Oasis and Wet Wet Wet.


It was the latter that had me reminiscing last week, as the music video for their 1994 hit "Love Is All Around" features clips from Four Weddings and a Funeral, the movie that shot Hugh Grant to stardom. I'm embarrassed to confess to being a Wet Wet Wet fan back in the day and recall I had a bit of a thing for the lead singer - as a gal does when she's in her teens and twenties. But it was the movie that sparked some memories for me.


In early 1995 I went to work and live as a volunteer in Mozambique, in south eastern Africa. My time there was difficult for a myriad of reasons, not the least being that I was alone and half-way across the world. I made some great friends though and they helped me get through the 16-18 months I spent there. Once settled in I frivolously purchased a television video player combo which frankly that helped save my sanity because the nights were long and lonely (and there's only so much Castle lager one can consume!) and television-viewing options only included a very scary local station (which every couple of weeks played an English-speaking movie); an Angolan station; a Portuguese station featuring nonsensical game shows (I recall one where women had to lie under a sheet with their feet poking out and a man had to pick those of his wife/partner); a French channel; and CNN. But for about 20 cents I was able to rent pirated videos of dubious quality. It didn't matter. To me they were heaven.


While visiting South Africa however, I procured two videos and they became my coping mechanisms. Those two romantic comedies, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Sleepless in Seattle became my lifelines. I was like a child capable of watching Toy Story or Dora the Explorer again and again. And I did. Not quite weekly, but almost that regularly.... And from the moment I inserted the video, I felt comforted - wrapped up in a cocoon of familiarity and momentarily at peace. It got to the point that I knew the lines almost by heart, but it didn't matter. They filled me with contentment, but also with hope that I too one day would exist in a world of Hugh Grants or Tom Hanks'. One day a man would become as besotted with me as Hugh was with Andie; and fate would conspire to introduce me to my soul mate as was the case with Meg and Tom.


Over the intervening 15 or so years I have added to my collection of security blankets. The BBC's Pride and Prejudice held first place  for a while. I owned the video but bought the DVD as soon as it was out, because it allowed me to watch the dozen or so scenes I loved so much more efficiently. Then there was Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series which I discovered when again living overseas. I was a latecomer to Buffy so was able to buy and watch four seasons over a period of weeks. And over ensuing years I have pulled them out to watch my favourite episodes again and again.


More recently (and quite inexplicably) the movie The Jane Austen Bookclub has become a source of comfort. I haven't watched it for a while, but can. Again and again. I adore Maria Bello's Jocelyn and like to think of myself as being similar. Though significantly less good looking of course. And not as wealthy. Oh, and without the dogs. But other than that.... parallel lives!


And most recently there's North and South. If I'm completely honest it could be the presence of (the subject of my affection) Richard Armitage that makes it so rewatchable - akin to Colin Firth's Mr Darcy, but that aside I can contentedly watch it again and again. (But of course I won't admit that for fear of sounding pathetic!)


I don't quite know what it is about these films and television shows and the comfort they offer: the familiarity of the characters I've grown to love (or lust after); or the happy endings and sense of hope? I'm not really sure, but I know I'm now much less scathing of a toddler's ability to watch Finding Nemo hour after hour, day after day in a looping cycle.

Fizzy black goodness

Okay, can I just start by saying, "I WANT SOME BLOODY DIET COKE!"

OMFG. There I was smugly prancing about as if I could easily wean myself off the 1 - 1.5 litres of Vanilla Diet Coke that I have been consuming daily for a large number of years (before that Lemon Diet Coke and before that, just the basic Diet Coke), but I have come crashing down to earth.

Fortunately work is busy and I haven't had time to focus on the constant headache and sleepiness I am feeling without my usual injection of VDC (as its known amongst us addicts!). After giving up the fizzy black goodness on Sunday I posted my intention on Facebook and got a barrage of emails from old work colleagues in response, as my addiction to the stuff is famous. Or infamous.

It started a long time ago. While at University in the late 1980s my parents used to visit me in the residential halls, bringing a red cross parcel. There would be diet coke, chocolates and homemade biscuits. I recall at one stage, a medical student on my floor deciding that the fizzy black goodness was (in fact) evil and set about rationing my supplies. I think we didn't even last the day before I become obsessed with 'my next fix' and she handed over the carton of cans so I could refocus on my study rather than stalking about outside her dorm room.

I'm not sure that giving up VDC now, at a time when I am commencing (yet another) diet is the right move. But I figured that if I'm going to be cranky and feel deprived. I might as well feel really bloody cranky and really deprived.

I'm not saying I will give it up forever or that I won't drink other diet drinks. (Indeed, last night I savoured a diet lemon, lime and bitters while lolling in the bath reading a trashy magazine.) And I may (on occasions) partake in a diet coke or two, but I figured I might as well try to give my litre plus habit a day the big heave-ho.

The time seems right. I feel motivated. Which is strange. Better to rip that bandaid off quickly rather than edge it off slowly I guess. So, as day two (of a healthier me) progresses I can feel quite righteous because - not only did I go to pilates before work (for the first time in 2 months); and am sticking to my calorie allowance; but I am also kicking my unhealthy addiction to the scary preservatives and chemicals that taste so good in the form of a fizzy black drink.

Sorry, this post is completely irrelevant to this blog and actually comes from another that I write. It was posted on Tuesday and I am much-improved since then (as I did think I may well kill someone!). It's now day 5 and I am feeling much much better.  Quite virtuous for a start (no booze or diet coke will do that for you!) In fact, I feel quite human, almost.

5 reasons The West Wing is worth another visit

Okay, so here I am tempted to just say: 1. Josh; 2. Josh; 3. Josh; 4. Josh; and 5. Sam, but that would be wrong.  And just a little pathetic; a label which has (however) thus far has prevented me from shaming myself publicly.

However, having decided (on a break from revisits to Deadwood and Sunnydale - home of Buffy) to dust off my West Wing DVDs I was instantly reminded of how bloody much I loved that show.  I bought the DVDs as each series became available, impatiently waiting for each of the 7 seasons to be released.  As a result I have mismatched cases and the early ones require about 4 cases per series, all of which adds a bit of flavour and proves my devotion to the show.  I think.

From the moment In inserted the DVD and the Pilot episode commenced it was like I was experiencing a visit from an old friend. I suspect I watched, rewatched (and rewatched) the DVDs when I first bought them, so early seasons of the show are ridiculously familiar.  I can't quite recite the lines (which I can do for the BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice) but I know exactly what's happening and it doesn't matter one iota cos with The West Wing, it’s all about the journey.  

I agree with many others, that the show did falter during Seasons 5 and 6 (when creator Aaron Sorkin left), but ended strongly with Season 7. However, even at its weakest, the show offered up quality drama, which didn't involve police, law firms, doctors or forensic scientists. Other than a few parodies of politics and government, shows about politicians and their administrations are few and far between. As a result, when it premiered in late 1999, The West Wing brought something new and fresh to our screens. And it didn't treat us like idiots.

I'd be surprised if there are viewers out there who haven't seen the show, but in the event there are, here are some reasons to play catch-up. For those who are already fans, here's a reminder of why we watched it - despite (here in Australia) being seriously messed about by television programmers moving it about week after week.

1. Aaron Sorkin is obviously a genius. The show's writing is brilliant. In some ways the storylines or plots of the show are irrelevant and the clever and witty banter is what separates it from the crowd. I suspect it's harder than it looks to create the rhythmic dialogue that the show became famous for. I read that the show also became known for its 'walk and talk' camera takes: where the camera follows characters down a hallway or into a room while they are talking. Frankly, the show was all about the dialogue. Their words and language gave us a sense of who the characters were.

2. Which brings me to the ensemble cast and their performances. Week after week. Year after year. Even when the show's plots and writing wavered, the acting continued to be strong. The central cast of characters were so ridiculously brilliant - and sometimes so arrogant - that they could have been unlikable, but for their flaws. Not only did I admire them, but I wanted to be them. I wanted CJ's almost perfect recall in press briefings; I wanted Sam's nerdy intelligence; Toby's sarcastic dry wit; or Leo or Josh's savvy. The fact that their personal lives were fucked up didn't worry me. I wanted to be them if I could be that smart and funny. Oh… and if I could work in the White House.

3. The President you're proud to have. Apparently Martin Sheen's President Bartlet was supposed to be a minor character, but the critical and public reaction to him and his performance meant that he became as pivotal player as one would expect the leader of the free world to be. A trivia-mad former Economics professor, the President was sometimes grouchy but always humane. His leadership (under the guiding hand of his BFF and Chief of Staff, Leo) developed in fits and starts, but he pulled no punches. From the Phoenix-like "Let Bartlet be Bartlet" and ensuing episodes; the debate in "Game On" that won him his second term in office; and his demolition of conservative and controversial talk-show host at an event in "The Midterms" (S2 Ep 3) (below).

 

Bartlet: I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination.

Dr. Jenna Jacobs: I don't say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr President. The Bible does.

President Josiah Bartlet: Yes it does. Leviticus.

Dr. Jenna Jacobs: 18:22.

President Josiah Bartlet: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I have you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff Leo McGarry insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself or is it okay to call the police? Here's one that's really important because we've got a lot of sports fans in this town: touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you? One last thing: while you may be mistaking this for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tight-Ass Club, in this building, when the President stands, nobody sits.

4. They are always the good guys (even when they’re not). Dubbed 'The Left Wing' by one columnist, the show was perceived by many to portray the ideal liberal administration. Although the political lobbying and trade-offs resulted in the administration's policies shifting to the centre, our favourite characters were passionate about the sensitive stuff.  The show tackled issues like homosexuality and gays in the military, hate crimes, terrorism, sex education in schools and drug use.  Even the President's own Catholicism didn't stand in the way of his support for many of these issues.

5. And we arrive back at Josh. Like a gazillion other women (and some men, I suspect) around the world, I wanted a Josh. A smart, funny self-deprecating man with a sense of right and wrong and who was just a little fucked up about stuff. Of course I realised I was entranced by a fictional character, and although Bradley Whitford was attractive enough, I didn't run out to see him in his other works (which I did, for example upon discovering Richard Armitage). No, what I loved about Josh, was Josh… who I read was given increasing airtime as a result of his popularity. And what made him more popular than Rob Lowe's Sam Seaborn (Lowe being more attractive in real life) I just don't know. His diffidence perhaps; but whatever it was... that character worked.

“When I get back you’re gonna argue with me and we’re gonna argue about the things that I want to argue about; and you’re gonna do your best not to annoy me too much.”

Josh to Joey Lucas in Mandatory Minimums (S1 Ep.20)

I suspect it's too late now but a spin-off featuring Josh as President Santos' Chief of Staff would have been a nice idea.

There are, of course, many other things I love about the show. I think of Emily Procter's Ainsley Hayes and John Larroquette's Lionel Tribbey in the White House Counsel's office. The changing of the guard in Season 7 and introduction of Jimmy Smits' Matt Santos and his presidential campaign. The beautifully handled issues handled poignantly like the death of Mrs Landingham in the "Two Cathedrals" episode.

My list could continue. But I'd be interested in hearing from any other fans: What are your favourite things about The West Wing?

Under the influence

Absolutely Fabulous is on our screens here in Oz at the moment and as soon as I hear the theme song I am cast back to the early - mid 1990s and reminded of how scandalous and ground-breaking it was when first released.  I am also reminded of how much I admired Jennifer Saunders’ Edina, who I believed (had she been a real person) was never as vacuous, vague or unattractive, as Saunders tried to make her.

In fact, I aspired to be her.  I envied her frivolity and loved her look, and as I was in my 20s at the time, I suspect her fashions would have been more forgivable on me.  Had my (then-dyed brown) hair been long enough I would have been sporting a brown spiral perm myself.

Like so many others, I have to admit to a tendency to being easily swayed when it comes to fashion or fads.

My first memory of this affliction is tied to Young Talent Time, a childhood favourite.  In my defence, in the 1970s TV viewing options were limited in regional Australia, so frankly any show catering for kids was a bonus.  At the time my parents wouldn’t let me have long boots, but it wasn’t long before I realised that my YTT faves, Sally Boyden and Karen Knowles, were in fact wearing white sandshoes and long white socks – to look like boots (or perhaps just for comfort).  I realised I could do that.  And often did.

As I was finishing primary school, Grease hit our shores and screens.  After a brief flirtation as ‘nice Sandy’ (blonde bob a la Sandra Dee), I somehow convinced my mother to let me have a perm and suddenly – at 12 or 13 years of age – I was bad Sandy, sans the black lycra ‘You’re The One That I Want’ outfit.  Of course.

[caption id="attachment_463" align="alignright" width="210" caption="Me back in the day - a Princess Di wannabe (had the curling wand working overtime!)"][/caption]

Princess Di was probably my next fashion idol and like many others throughout the world I cloned her hairdo.  For a while anyway.

Olivia Newton John’s Physical debuted the same year and I diligently added a headband to my Diana cut and wore leggings and layers of ill-fitting sweatshirts.

By the time I finished high school in the mid 1980s I was channelling a favourite Dolly magazine model and had a spiral perm to match.  WHAM had asked us to CHOOSE LIFE and although I didn’t have the t-shirt, I had my fair share of fluorescent clothing.

By the 1990s, I’d dyed my hair dark and put on more weight than I’d liked.  I bought my first pair of Doc Marten boots and flounced about in my Docs/baby doll dress combo.  Just like the girls in the original Beverly Hills 90210. (ie. The normal-sized Brenda, Kelly and Donna, not the skeletal lollipop-like ones in the remake!)

[caption id="attachment_464" align="alignleft" width="210" caption="Louise Lombard as Evie in The House of Eliott"][/caption]

Then it was Ab Fab and Edina, as well as BBC’s House of Eliott.  Although desperate to emulate Edina (and in all honesty, who wouldn’t be?) I was entranced by Louise Lombard’s Evie – and frankly in the early 1990s my hair was more suited to an Evie do rather than an Edina do.  So I attempted the clean sleek lines of the 1920s flapper.

Something happened after that and I found myself spurning the likes of Melrose Place and Friends and stoically avoided the Rachel ‘do’.  Or maybe I just grew up. In reality, I went to live in Africa and Asia and came home less inclined to follow the crowd.

Although… I must admit, while I’m now unlikely to be as committed to mimicking the style of others, I am – on occasions – still prone to falling prey to the influence of others.  I have a hair appointment tomorrow, and although I know my hairdresser doesn’t ‘do’ perms I am thinking of taking a picture of Scarlett Johansson’s tousled OSCARS bob to see what they can do – and hope I don’t get laughed out of the salon!

(Don't) call me

I was catching up on my Twitter news today when I came across this link and it reminded me of a conversation I had with my mother at Christmas.

As regular readers of this blog (yes, all 3 of you) will know, my parents were staying here over Christmas while my father underwent radiotherapy.  Throughout that time there was a similar stream of concerned calls.  Most came when I was at work so my mother dealt with them, but quite early on we established the fact that – if the phone rang, even in the evening – it was almost certainly for them as absolutely nobody ever calls me.

And I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing.

I am on the DO NOT CALL register so don’t receive the pesky telemarketing calls; on the rare occasion my brother or sister-in-law call, it is usually expected or about some upcoming event; and the only calls I do get are from my parents.  As they were with me at the time it was unlikely to be them. Obviously.

The lack of calls is not a one-way thing.  I don’t encourage anyone to call me and I certainly don’t indulge in the practice much myself nowadays (other than to my parents).

I do everything by email. In fact my hatred of telephoning people is such that I had some medical referrals which were almost out of date because I delayed making the call to the specialist to book an appointment (the referrals were only valid for 1 year!).  In fact I find myself increasingly excited that appointments can be made online or via email.

At work I email requests to people ostensibly so I have a record of response and so forth, but really the written word is more in my comfort zone. I enjoy pounding out a sentence or two on the keyboard; much more so than picking up the phone to ask the same question or give the same direction.  In all honestly I’m not sure when this aversion to telephone calls started.  I mean I can, by all accounts, talk the hind legs off a donkey, so it isn’t entirely about a lack of sociability.  I’m not sure why, I just don’t like the immediacy and hassle of telephone calls unless I have no other choice.

I keep in contact with my closest friends by email.  I send epic tomes of my day-to-day happenings and they send similar updates.  And then (of course) there’s Facebook and Twitter for the really important stuff.

Last weekend my late afternoon DVD-viewing of ‘Easy A’ was rudely interrupted by a person of some religious persuasion ringing my doorbell to sell me eternal life.  I said thanks very much but I didn’t have any money on me at the moment.  More shocking than his casual attire and self-effacing manner was the fact he appeared at all.

I am in an apartment complex and rarely receive those kind of visitors.  In fact when my doorbell rang I considered ignoring it completely as I don’t (like EVER ever) get unannounced visitors.  Of course I felt compelled to share the visit (and my shock over his visit) with my FB friends.  A number of others also commented that they don’t open the door if they aren’t expecting anyone. I was relieved that my hermit-like behavior hadn’t completely taken over my life.  To myself then and to many of my friends, ignoring unexpected visitors or calls is the norm, but I can’t help comparing it with my parents who have people ‘popping’ in all of the time.  My mother has cakes and slices at the ready to feed any unexpected guests.  Is it a small-town thing I wonder, or a generational thing?

I think of myself as being quite ‘difficult’ by not wanting to speak to people by phone or receive unexpected visitors, but it seems – from the NY Times article and friends’ comments – that I may not be as abnormal as I think.  Perhaps it isn’t that we live in impersonal times where human connections are fading; perhaps it is because we now have a choice.  We have less intrusive options at our fingertips. We email to confirm dinner arrangements; we receive SMS appointment reminders. Contact can be made when it suits both parties and no dinners get cold because of an ill-timed phone call. Frankly I’m relieved that it’s not just me.  For a change.

The lost art of the gumshoe (Part 2)

Once I discovered Robert B Parker I devoured everything he’d written.

Fortunately for me, Parker was a prolific writer and I had 35 years of novels to catch up on.  It’s hard to describe what I found - and continue to find - so addictive about his work. There are no tricks, no fireworks, just witty banter, quirky and complicated multi-dimensional characters and a simple, but full-of-twists plot.

Spenser and his world were so vivid and alluring to me that I couldn’t help but wonder how they would translate onto celluloid: I wanted to see my wise-cracking PI on the screen.  But of course, as is usually the case, someone else had this brain-wave before me.

The TV Series, Spenser for Hire, ran from 1985-88 and was, by all accounts a disappointment.  Especially for Parker fans.  Reviews quote Robert Urich as being woefully miscast as the enigmatic and witty Spenser.  The series came across as a stock standard TV detective show, with none of the wit and banter of Parker’s dialogue being translated onto the screen.  Apparently the only character to come away unscathed was Hawk, who featured in a brief TV spin-off.

Spenser apparently again featured in a series of TV movies in the late 90s and early 2000s, which I am loath to find for fear of the aforementioned disappointment.

In 1997 Parker introduced readers to Jesse Stone, a flawed, alcoholic Californian homicide detective who is reborn as a small town police chief.  Parker’s stable of characters grew again in 1999 through the introduction of a series featuring Sunny Randall, a Boston female PI.

While I am not as devoted to the new series, again, Parker provides us with seemingly simple characters who, beneath their flawed surface, have layers of angst and a strong commitment to justice.  Like Spenser, both bend the rules to ensure that good wins out over evil, or right over wrong in the end.  Interestingly also, a number of support characters feature in all three series and I have to admit to some sense of satisfaction (or closure) when Randall and Stone actually end up meeting…. as if I had a hand in their match-making.

Prior to his rebirth in television’s Blue Bloods, Tom Selleck appeared in a number of “Jesse Stone” TV movies which really didn’t break any new ground, though were sufficiently entertaining for 10pm on a Saturday night.  We are yet to see Sunny Randall on screen, although on his website Parker noted (at the time) that he created the character following a request from actress Helen Hunt for a strong female crime fighter role.  Perhaps the fate of Spenser and Stone in their transition to ‘talkies’ gave Hunt pause for thought.

In 2005 Parker diversified into westerns, launching a new series starting with Appaloosa. Again it appears that someone thought his work would translate onto the screen and a feature film starring Viggo Mortenson, Ed Harris and Renee Zellweger was released in 2008.

If I have one criticism of Parker’s novels, it is his non-lead female characters, namely Spenser’s love-of-his-life, the psychologist with the (much talked-about) Harvard PhD; and the cheating, sleeping-her-way-to-the-top, ex-wife of Jesse Stone. They come across as smug, manipulative and self-satisfied, making the leading men in their lives, too yielding and doting – attributes which don’t gel with their characters.  These women irk me enough to make me wonder about Parker’s perception of the fairer sex, which is interesting because (to the best of my knowledge) the author dedicated most, if not all, of his books to his wife Joan.

Although Parker won a Pulitzer Prize in 1976 for his work, Edith Wharton: A Biography, it is not surprising that his more recent work has not been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  He does however, fair better than the likes of James Patterson in balancing quality with quantity.  And even Parker’s weakest novels are appealing and very readable.  Although some reviewers believe his Spenser novels aren’t as compelling as they once were, I find his voice unchanged as Spenser remains a loveable smart arse and Parker’s continues to deliver his tongue-in-cheek and occasionally self-deprecating prose.

Her desk was beside a door that led to the office of the department chairperson. I knew that at once, because I am a trained investigator and the sign of the pebbled-glass door said Office of the Department Chairperson”

Painted Ladies (p. 43) 2010 GP Putnam’s & Sons (Penguin Group)

The best thing about becoming a Robert B Parker convert 35 years after he’d released his first book was the dearth of novels available through libraries and second hand bookshops.  I also found myself stalking his website for some time, waiting for my next installment of Spenser (or Jesse or Sunny). Although in existence for 40 human years, Spenser barely aged in literary years.  One could almost be forgiven for thinking he may just go on forever.  Almost.

Perhaps that was why I was so stricken when I logged onto his website early last year only to discover that Robert B Parker had in fact passed away some months earlier. When he died on 18 January 2010 he was 77 years of age and had written over 60 books.

Great expectations

My current hometown of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, has just experienced record flooding.  And although many lives were not lost in the city itself, many homes and livelihoods have been impacted, some destroyed.

I believe the State and Local Government authorities have been amazing.  Providing regular updates and support during the crisis, and now in its wake mobilizing relief and rehabilitation.  Volunteers are being coordinated, bins scattered about the city for the destruction of perishables and kerbside pick ups arranged for debris and furniture needing to be removed from 20 000 flood-affected properties.  And yet, people are already complaining.  There aren’t enough bins.  Our suburb has received insufficient attention and support. Etcetera.

Record rainfall in Brazil has similarly caused flooding, as well as mudslides.  At least 600 people have been killed.  I’m sure their State and Federal authorities are doing as much as possible, but I can almost guarantee it isn’t as thorough or organized as the efforts of our governments.  I mean I am sure there will be blame games here in Oz about how on earth this could happen in such a prosperous and developed city and country.  Our policies in relation to dams, town planning, building requirements and the sustainability of infrastructure will all be examined.

There’s some adage about ‘the more we have, the more we want’.  But I think that ‘the more we have, the more we expect’ is more accurate.

Although not affected by the flooding in our State I feel nothing but sympathy for those who are.  But if I had been affected I’d like to think I would be grateful that the authorities are doing their best to help and I would try really really hard not to complain.  But perhaps it’s easier for me…. And no, not because I am an incredibly tolerant and generous person; but because my expectations are so very low in the first place.

In the mid 1990s I was in my mid 20s.  I had just paid off my first new car.  I was working in Local Government and commenced studying for an MBA.  I was also wondering if I should be starting to save for my first house.  But it all felt wrong.  It seemed pointless.  So, in an attempt to stave off my own quarter-life crisis and to seek some purpose for my own pathetic little existence I applied to an overseas volunteer program.

The Australian Volunteer Abroad (AVA) Program (like the American Peace Corps, or British VSO program) sends Australians to developing countries to work alongside partners in those countries.  Earning a local wage and living long-ish term in local communities, the program aims to be as beneficial to volunteers as those with whom they are working.

[caption id="attachment_425" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mozambican village (1995)"][/caption]

I worked as a volunteer in Mozambique and Cambodia.  The African experience was more life-changing as it came first (and was probably more of a shock). I loved Africa.  Until I returned home, I couldn’t imagine coming back here and certainly initially on my return I felt an extreme sense of culture shock and displacement.  Cambodia was different and I was only there for 7 months.  Security was in issue in both places, but while I was in Phnom Penh the post-UN power sharing agreement between the two Prime Ministers disintegrated until there was a coup d'état.  The city was on edge for months before the tanks appeared and fighting started.

In both countries I worked in local organisations and lived in local accommodation (albeit better than many of my work colleagues could afford).  Although I received very little money (in our terms) I still had savings and resources to fall back on and – well, quite frankly, I still had a ticket out of there any time I wanted to use it.

At the turn of the last century (ie.1999 – 2001) I also worked in East Timor.  By then I was with the Commonwealth Government and there on a diplomatic posting.  My lifestyle was quite different to that of a locally-paid volunteer.

In Mozambique’s capital, Maputo, I lived (like most people) in a high-rise building.  I think there was one other expatriate in the building, although he moved out just after I arrived.  No cause and effect there, but rather as a result of his being mugged at gunpoint on entering the building one evening and his suspicion that our building’s ‘guard’ was somehow involved. With two iron doors and a strong timber front door AND six floors off the ground, my own apartment felt quite safe. I had no hot water of course, bit quite often had running water and my electricity supply (as I lived near a large tourist hotel) was fairly consistent.  I had a telephone line although battled with operators who (pre-2000 Olympics) had never heard of Australia were adamant that I really wanted to speak to someone in Austria whenever I attempted to call home… a result of my poor Portuguese as much as geographical ignorance I suspect.

My biggest splurge in the 16 months I spent in Maputo was a TV/video.  Although television itself was limited to CNN, a local station, an Angolan station and Portuguese game shows, pirated videos were available for rent locally for about 20 cents.  I had befriended two other Australian Volunteers in town and, as they had a car, they took me shopping (for groceries, booze and possibly illicit-money changing) while I hosted video evenings.

[caption id="attachment_426" align="alignright" width="199" caption="Power pole on Norodom Blvd Phnom Penh (1997)"][/caption]

In Cambodia I lived above a local family in a little dirt street with no name.  My flat had no telephone and intermittent power.  I paid an exorbitant amount for the little power I did have, because it was the norm for neighbours to somehow tap into my supply and apparently expats paid more anyway.  Water was also in short supply, although it was my poor cleaner (ahem, ‘maid’) who lugged bottles to my flat each day.  Given that she demanded to work daily (even though I didn’t want or need her to), I suspect it gave her something to do.  Without access to transport I walked everywhere and travelling at night was not an option.  Most evenings were spent sitting on my balcony by candlelight listening to my Diskman on batteries recharged before the power went out.

Although I would not even consider comparing my time in these countries to that of my local colleagues and compatriots, it was – by developed country standards – difficult.  Corruption was rife in both countries.  Just when I thought my workmates were accepting me as ‘one of them’, they would hit me up for some money.  Meat was a rarity and I lived on potatoes or rice with sauces.  I spent exorbitant amounts of money on treats.  And pre-internet contact with family and friends was precious and rare. (In Mozambique, the minimum cost for my weekly fax to my parents was USD5.  On one occasion the line dropped out 3 times and the page cost me USD15.)  I expected little.  And was rarely disappointed.

Then I returned home.

Naturally I thought I would return this zen-like more tolerant person and… well, just grateful for anything really.

On some level this has been the case. I find myself more appreciative of what we have (in the developed world and particularly here in Australia) that others don’t; social safety nets and supports, and well-functioning governments (on the whole).  And every time I am frustrated with bus delays I remind myself how excited I was 9-10 years ago to come home to Australia and to our efficient (and well, existent) public transport system.

Several years before travelling overseas I worked in the social sector for Local Government.  People with a disability were (understandably) unhappy that some buildings in our local area were not wheelchair accessible and some existing ramps provided a challenge for their motorized wheelchairs.

A month or so later I was living in Mozambique (like Cambodia) hugely impacted by land mines.  By the time I worked in Cambodia many people had received artificial limbs.  But in Mozambique one of the first people I saw with no legs was slithering along the ground.  It wasn’t an uncommon sight.  If they were lucky they had rubber gloves. And if they were really lucky they had fashioned a skateboard to protect their bodies from the unrelenting surfaces of that country.

Shocking, yes.

[caption id="attachment_428" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me dancing in a church near Maputo (the man with the rooster is the Minister - and no, it wasn't sacrificed). We'd been there for an AIDS presentation"][/caption]

And, as I said, on one level this has made me more cognizant of what we do have and I am more grateful for our lifestyle.  Unlike many of my compatriots here in Oz, my expectations are generally pretty low.  I can laugh when people complain about our public toilets and I can shrug off the very rare power blackouts.

But I am far from being the more tolerant person I hoped would evolve from my experiences with ‘the less fortunate’.  So, although my expectations of life and others have changed, I did not emerge from my life-changing episodes changed.  As it happens, I am still me. For better or for worse.