Elegant cat and pretty hen

Cats are not one of my obsessions although they have been featuring in my thoughts a bit the last couple of days following the sad demise of Mimsy.

I could write a book about my youngest and her cat, Lola. And that is not an exaggeration! When I'm around them, I'm constantly grinning and shaking my head uttering "I've never seen the like!"

But it's little Mene who is amusing me right now. Mene is a very pretty grey cat, svelte and elegant. She has this air of French sophistication about her. I've grown very fond of Mene after caring for her whilst house-sitting.

But I'm afraid little Mene has been so adored she now has delusions of grandeur. She now thinks nothing is too good for a cat as splendid as her.

Recently she leapt daintily on to a small table is her lounge room, tippy toed to a bowl of rose petals and scratched around amongst the petals. Tail raised! Preparing to......n

It must have been such a shock to her when she was scooped off her feet and deposited outside the door to pee like any other common cat.

And when I went looking for a photo of Mene the only one I could find was one of her in her rose garden.

And that reminded me about the pretty chook I spotted at a lookout on my way back from Auckland recently. She obviously is living in the rough feeding off scraps left by tourists and other silly buggers like me who still like to stop on a clear day to take in the view of the Kaipara Harbour. But she doesn't take living on the wild side as an excuse for not looking good!

I'm off to Auckland again tomorrow - my younger son, Bernie is returning from Brazil for a holiday. I'm too emotional to write about that right now. Maybe after I've seen him again, assured myself with my own eyes that he really is here, I will be able to.

I'm going to make a note to myself to take some food scraps for the pretty little hen. I've been relying on the goodness of people I've never met to be kind to my son while he's been so far from home so maybe the little hen is a metaphor for him.

Mimsy

Life can change in a second, can't it?

There I was around 5 pm taking a quiet moment to read the paper. The little girls were all happy. We'd got through the after school snack and news of the day without any hiccups.
"She didn't eat all her lunch, she was too busy playing."
"I was not, I wasn't hungry."
"She took two pieces of cake and you said one piece each."
"I did not."
Just the usual squabbles.

TV viewing had been negotiated. Georgia was snuggled up under a blanket watching her choice of programme. Krystal and I had just had a nice time doing her homework. Now she and Shayde were jumping, chatting, laughing on the trampolene.

Then blood curdling screams! I nearly fell over myself getting out the door. In time to see, out of the corner of my eye, Jack, the biggest farm dog, disappearing through the hedge with something in his mouth. Krystal was standing in the yard just screaming and screaming, tears bucketing down her face, a look of shock and horror on her face. Shayde was also screaming, crying and running, stumbling after Jack as he trotted off down the hill, something dangling from his mouth.

It didn't take me long to figure out his kill was their kitten, Mimsy. I wrapped my arms around Krystal and hid her face in my chest but what to do about Shayde? The same old problem I used to have when I cared for the twins on a daily basis when they were little toddlers. How do you give solace to both at the same time?

I had to yell and yell at Shayde to come back. She couldn't hear me above her own screams. I knew the dog would just keep on trotting off ahead of her, the kitten would be dead. Eventually she came back and I had my arms around both of them, doing my best to give comfort. Thinking don't come outside now, Georgia, I have my arms full.

Oh, how they shook and cried! Poor little buggers. Happy playing one minute with their kitten asleep under the tramp. The next witnessing life in the raw.

These farm kids know about death, usually accept it easily. But not when it's a much loved pet. Not when they witness, close up, a brutal death. Dear little Mimsy, so laid back and smoochy.

Georgia came out of the lounge when her programme finished. I still had my arms around Krystal and Shayde and told her what had happened. Her big brown eyes filled with tears and she wedged herself in between her sisters for a family hug. She didn't make a sound.

Patience Pill

I need a patience pill. Yeah, I know. I should take one daily and just take a booster when I'm child minding.

Early morning I was doing well. Three little girls were dressed, brushed and fed, school lunches prepared, school bags packed in good time. They were even ready 10 minutes early. I think that might have been when the wheels fell off. I agreed they could watch TV for a few minutes. Seemed reasonable. Having the TV on in the morning had never been heard of when my kids were their age but, hey, I can cope with change. Trouble was, Shayde decided to go outside and kick a ball around instead, so when I went into the lounge to tell them to get their bags it's time to go, she was nowhere to be found.

Yesterday morning I was unpopular for sending them off five minutes before they thought they should be leaving so I wasn't making that mistake again. No, this morning when I said "Time to go" the big hand was pointing straight up at the 12, not a tad either side, straight up. But it was creeping around a bit by the time we found the ball kicker and she retrieved her bag from where she couldn't remember leaving it.

So Shayde is finally out the door, Georgia is waiting for her and Shayde says, "Where's Krystal?" She's is standing in the middle of the yard looking around for her, bouncing that cursed ball again. Krystal is located hiding behind a a bush. Geez!

"Put the ball down and get a move on."
"But I'm taking it to school."
"You are not, you're not taking a ball on the bus, there are plenty of balls at school, put it down."
"But, but."
"Do I have to put a cracker under your tail to get you moving?"

Finally they meander off down the hill towards the road.

A couple of minutes later are meandering back up the hill as the school bus is disappearing along the road.

I'm not known for my patience but I was still doing well at this stage. After all I don't have any pressing engagements or anything. Nothing wrong with a drive to the school and back. And the girls had the good sense to realize missing the bus was their own fault and were now on their best behaviour so there were no cross words during the trip.

I was quite looking forward to driving back home, by myself, admiring the countryside. Lovely day with that clear shining you get after rain. Until, there had to be an until, didn't there? Until I came up behind another car going my way.

Now this is a rather unusual happening for me. The little girls tell me I drive slowly but that is just in comparison to their parents and the majority of other locals. I no longer think I have to get wherever I'm going quickly. The thing is I know I don't drive as fast as most other users of our road and I know what the rear view mirror is for. And I pull over to allow low flyers to be on their way.

This morning's car was a very, very slow car. Extremely slow. Patience sappingly slow. Yep, that slow! Fair in the middle of the road. Overtaking on our road is not possible unless a vehicle makes way for you. A little courtesy is required. This fellow traveller had obviously never driven down this road before and was approaching every corner with trepidation. Which is wise; there are a few nasties along the way. And maybe he wasn't accustomed to driving on a dirt road. Obviously he felt uneasy about one lane bridges. One such bridge is on a slight bend and he came to a stop before lining it up and creeping forward on to it.

That was my patience pill. It was so bizarre I had to laugh. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he was checking to make sure there was no Billy Goat Gruff.

After that I decided that maybe it would be best if he didn't remember he had a rear view mirror and take his eyes off the road!

The baglady

I’m a bit late for a Mother’s Day post, aren’t I? Wouldn’t mention it except I wondered what I’d been doing in the week since then.

Thanks to my friend’s sister, Bev at http://www.kaingahappenings.blogspot.com/ (I don’t know how to insert a link and if I looked it up now that will be today gone) I have been on a sewing bender. Once upon a time, when my children were small, I was a sewer. Everything the family wore was made by yours truly. Except my bras – I drew the line at that. But everything else from our underwear to our coats was made on my trusty old Elna sewing machine. The same machine I am still using.

I took the Elna to Auckland when I visited my daughters to allow them to spoil me for Mother’s Day. On the Monday Justine and I modified some of our clothes. We have both lost a bit of weight which is wonderful but saggy baggy clothes aren’t.

I’d mentioned to the girls my renewed interest in sewing and showed them the bag I had made for myself, with its matching make up bag. Also, I gave Justine her birthday present. Her birthday isn’t till June but I probably won’t see her between now and then and there’s no way that child could have an unopened present in the house for that long. I gave her the little camera bag I’d copied from the one Bev had made for her sister, my friend, Chris. I’d used an old pair of jeans to make my bag so the girls dived into their wardrobes to provide me with more old jeans, jackets, skirts that I can recycle into bags.

Recycled jeans

I now have four bags in the completed pile. One is definitely for my youngest grand-daughter’s 6th birthday in August. Definitely a little girls bag. Another is long and thin and heavily padded – I think it would come in handy to carry a bottle of wine. Maybe with a bottle of wine in it, it would make a nice gift?

Little girls bag and wine carrier

This week I am staying at my son’s house looking after my three grand-daughters while he and Heather are away. I took them to netball on Saturday morning, feeling thankful it wasn’t raining or cold. Memories of freezing on the sidelines watching Sat morning sport! Ah, the good old days, huh?

Netball in foreground with rugby and hockey in the background

Krystal and Shayde aren’t as competitive as my children used to be. They were perfectly happy having been beaten 12 nil. My kids would have made everyone’s life a misery after a result like that! Maybe the current generation is really buying into “It’s not about the winning, it’s about taking part, playing the game.” I remember one of my kids saying to me after they reached adulthood, “Oh, yes, you always said that but we didn’t believe you for a minute!”

Tonight we are off to gymnastics!

Nearly finished bridesmaid dress recycled to dainty purse

Stormy weather

Crikey, it's a horrid day. Wet, cold, scattered thunderstorms, a random hailstorm yesterday. My idea of a good storm is lots of heat induced thunder and lightning, not this blustery winter crap.

One day not long after I moved to the farm, when Georgia and I were out walking we left the farm track and ventured across a paddock we hadn't explored before. In doing so I hadn't noticed we had gone behind a hill and could not see the Vodafone tower on top of the highest hill in the forest near us. It's a prominent landmark. Georgia became mildly nervous, nothing obvious but she had a firmer grip on my hand and seemed to be constantly looking around for something.

I was concerned that a huge black cloud seemed to be heading our way and it was quickly getting dark.

Georgia agreed that we turn for home, that we didn't want to get soaked.

She was still clinging to my hand and looking around and she seemed a bit tense.

I started to wonder what was bothering her. Thinking it was the dark cloud, I told her not worry, we could wait under some trees if she wanted. She informed me she wasn't scared of a bit of rain and we carried on.

As we came out of a paddock on to the track again her hand relaxed, her whole body relaxed, and she said, “There it is!” I followed her eyes and she was looking at the tower. I realized then how tense she had been, she had lost sight of her beacon, her direction for finding her way home. For a minute I thought she didn't have much faith in her granny to look after her and get her home safely.

Then I realized it was because she had such trust in me that she carried on with me regardless of her fear.

She obviously forgot about the lost tower pretty quickly but the storm clouds must have stayed on her mind.

A few days later she looked out my window and said, “Clouds are coming. Do you know how to tell if a cloud is a rain cloud, Granny?
If it gets darker and fluffy around the edges it might be.
If it comes closer it might be.
If it comes closer and gets darker you can be pretty sure.
And if it rains, you know!”

Georgia is a couple of years older and much wiser now. She wouldn't have to look twice at today's sky to know we are in for a bit more rainy weather.

The Secret Life of My Father Part 2

I think it must have been my father’s voice admonishing me for taking my eyes off the puck during a game of indoor hockey the night before, that reminded me about my father the next morning while having coffee with my friend.

My brothers and sisters and I didn’t find out about our father’s past secret life until his funeral. He took his secret to the grave as they say. If I could think of any worth keeping I’d like to do the same.

But I’ve now learnt that once you have gone, you have no control over what the mourners might talk about.

It unfolded like this. One of my brothers was talking with one of our cousins, one of the Marsh boys. Marsh boy was telling brother how much he and his brothers loved our dad, their Uncle Andy. How they looked forward to his visits. Telling how they would save up their comics for Uncle Andy and after he’d had a cuppa in the kitchen with their mother, he would sit on the verandah and read his way through their collected comics.

Unless you have been raised by a father who has forbidden the possession and reading of comics you may not understand the consternation resulting from this simple statement. It took a while before we could actually believe it!

The old hypocrite! Letting us believe that reading a comic was equal to kissing our brains goodbye! That we would never amount to anything if we so much as looked at a comic. Reading comics was comparable to laying a book face down or turning down the corner of a page to mark your place.

No, no, come to think of it, it was probably worse! Being caught with a comic might lead to a clip around the ear whereas the defacing of a book would just get you a good telling off.

The strict, righteous father - and all the time he was reading comics on the sly!

I know that’s a pretty pathetic “secret life”. It doesn’t compare with the axe murderer or the chinaman who apparantly existed amongst my maternal predecessors. But, really, would I want my father to compete with them?

Nah, a closet comic strip reader will do me. Especially as I can't think of anything that would cause consternation at my graveside.

I can't honestly be saying my father was more interesting than I am, can I? Can I?

The Secret Life of My Father (Part 1)

My father’s words resounded in my head last night while I was playing indoor “no rules” hockey at my weekly exercise class. This hockey game, which I think is the favourite part of the class for all participants, is played with plastic hockey sticks (but it still hurts if you get a good whack with one). The goal area is painted on the wall. The group is part of the Green Community. Why green I have no idea. It is government funded through Sport Northland. Costs a gold coin to take part. But to be part of the group you need a Green Prescription from your doctor, which is very easy to get. Just ring the surgery and ask for one and a nurse will write it out for you and forward it to Sport Northland. My interpretation is “this person could do with some regular exercise, let ‘em join.”

A staff member from Sport Northland sets the group up, by advertising it through Seniors Groups. When it is up and running they find a local person to take over. Grant, very fit, somewhere around 40, is our local leader. Our group are mainly over 60, a couple younger, most closer to 70 or 80. Hence the hockey is ‘no rules’ – very few of us would be capable of remembering them!

Just add a few years - like 40 or 50 - and you've got the picture!

82 year old Tom is one of the hockey stars. Old Tom, who does a 20km bike ride every Sunday come hell or high water. If you want to feel ashamed at your lack of fitness, just try marking Tom. Harold, hard to guess his age, looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, 70 something I would guess, is a bit slow to get to the puck but when he does he sure can whack it and is aim is terrific. Alex is fiercely competitive and can get a bit rough. Alex is to be avoided if bruising is undesirable. Occasionally Grant has to tell the group to slow it down a bit, be careful, accidents lead to a mountain of paperwork for him. I’ve come away with bruises and blood has flowed during this game. I know I’m competitive but wouldn’t really be considered so by the majority of our oldies.

Most of the ladies in the group mix it as best they can with the men who make no allowances for gender. Although there is an upspoken rule to back off and give the older and more infirm a ‘fair go’. Lovely Fay (who last night was wearing her pearls to the class and really isn’t in very good shape but is prepared to have a go) scored three goals! And I suspect most in the class do what I do, mark someone about my own age and level of fitness.

Last night I marked a newish lady to the class (don’t know her name yet, must remember to ask her) and during a tussle I got the puck clear and was set up for a sure goal. Except I knew I was on a bit of an angle to the goal mouth and I guess even my eyes don’t work as quick as they used to. I lifted those old eyes to check the angle and, damn it, clear missed the puck when I took my ‘dead cert’ shot.

That was when I heard my father shout - Don’t take your eye off the ball! Sorry, Dad. I hope I didn’t disturb your heavenly rest for too long!

Anyway, this little aside was meant to be an introduction to the Secret Life of my Father. But I'm still on my sewing bender and have other things to do, so the rest can wait till tomorrow.

Lousy dream

I’ve discovered there’s a big difference between what I dream when I’ve been sewing and my usual dreams. I don’t even know if its dreams that I’m talking about. Is there a name for the state where you are asleep and thinking about something and it wakes you. If that’s dreaming, then it’s seriously over-rated. I prefer my dreams to be a bit more adventurous and entertaining than that.

Like the dream I had last Tuesday night when I was staying at my friend’s home. I dreamed she was coming in and out of the bedroom where I was sleeping looking for shoes. Then she sat on my bed, very upset that she had put some little treasure into ‘anti rust gel’ and it hadn’t worked, it was still rusty. Can’t remember what the little treasure was though. When I awoke I was very surprised that there was no shoe box on the foot of my bed – that’s when I realized it had been a dream.

And what is ‘anti rust gel’ anyway? Next time I’m in a hardware store I must enquire if there is such a product.

Last night my mind seemed to be grappling with a sewing problem for hours, don’t know how many times it woke me. It’s not as if there is a real problem, or there’s expensive material involved. The material was out of the remnants bin and I’m only making little bags, like make up bags. I’d cut out the material yesterday afternoon but the light faded before I got around to doing the sewing. Even with good glasses I can’t thread a needle at night – and I refuse to wear those hobby magnifying monstrosities. Anyway, I have knitting to do at night. Yeah, I know my life is all excitement! Control your envy!

As soon as I got up this morning I made a beeline to the material and added a few pins to see if it was going to work out as I intended. No potential problem at all! So, what the hell was that silly dream all about?

I was looking for a problem where none exists. Have I become like that with other things as well? Has negativity crept into my psyche? No, no, please, no!! Have I lost confidence when it comes to sewing? Have I lost confidence in myself?

See how a silly dream can lead to so much trauma? And the dream was sparked by an activity. Oh hell, it’s bad enough remembering to only drink decaf coffee after mid day if I want a good night’s sleep. Do I now have to be careful what activity I do as well? Is this an aging thing?
Maybe sewing has to join coffee under the “not after lunch time” heading.

Please note I do not call it a list. Two items does not a list make.

Oh, by the way, the sudden sewing urge was kick-started when I picked up my friend's little camera bag last week. The bag was made for her by her sister, Bev. (http://www.kaingahappenings.blogspot.com/) Bev, is a very creative craftsperson who helped me when she was visiting NZ at the time I got this crazy blog idea. So muggins thinks , "I could make one of those!" And now I'm off on a sewing bender. Don't know whether to say thanks, Bev or blame you for a lousy dream.

My malaise

Two whole weeks since I’ve felt like writing. That’s something of a drought for me.

I finished my temping job two weeks ago and fell into a strange place, a mood that was very unusual for me. I suppose we can all, from time to time, be gripped by moods that are vastly different from our usual mien. A little random gene that manages to fight its way past all the others that dominate, fights its way to the surface and takes command for a time before being beaten back into the depths by the daily troops. My little random gene held all the others at bay for a week – pretty good going for something that only pops up maybe once a lifetime.

For a week the only word I can think of to describe my mood was a malaise which is a word I associate with Victorian ladies who fainted and swooned and drifted around the place in a dream. Weren’t they always sinking into a malaise at the drop of a hat? In my malaise I just felt exhausted, lifeless, had zero energy, it was an effort to walk to the kitchen to turn on the kettle let alone feed myself. I didn’t feel unwell in any way, I just didn’t feel well.

And my mind was as decrepit as my body, couldn’t concentrate, had to swap books as the one I was reading suddenly became far too difficult to follow. And I even had trouble following the plot in a bodice ripper.

But eventually my daily genes regained command, I woke up one morning and my old self was back. My old self without the urge to write. In its place was a desire to make things, to be creative in my own very uncreative way. I even got out the sewing machine which is over 40 years old. Every time I get it out I think this will be it, it will have given up the ghost this time. And every time I oil it before I put it away (which I have done industriously since the day I bought it) I tell myself it will be a waste of oil. It doesn’t do anything fancy but it has served me well. And in all that time it has had only one service! That was 7 years ago. When I took it to the technician he looked absolutely horrified when told it had never had a cent spent on it.

Anyway, other than my malaise there have been two other highlights in the past fortnight. I hadn’t been to my regular exercise class for ages because of the flatulence problem, which you will be pleased to hear is back to normal, can’t claim it is gone because I’m not dead yet. On Tuesday I rejoined the group. It has grown in my absence, there are a couple of new men in the group and that has really changed the group dynamic, added a competitive edge. Our indoor hockey game was stunningly fast and furious for such a bunch of oldies and it was terrific fun. Weird to claim getting breathless, hot and sweaty fun when the fun is had in public, huh?

The next afternoon my friend, Chris and I went for a long beach walk. It was one of those truly glorious times on the beach. No wind, the surf was up and the misty spray from the water just hung over the beach, making it soft and hazy, very pastel coloured. Not many people on the beach, a few out surfing, a few fishing, a man exercising his dog. It felt quite magical. I regretted not having my camera with me but probably wouldn't have been able to capture it anyway. Magic is magic!

Friday night entertainment

I clearly don't have enough to think about. I've just spent the weekend reflecting on a little incident that took place on Friday evening.

My friend Chris met me when I knocked off work at 3 pm. We intended to see a movie at the Whangarei Film Society, where we occasionally go on a Friday evening for the 6 pm session. So we had three hours to kill.

I'm sure if either of us had wanted to do the dress shops the time would have flown past but neither of us had any shopping to do, apart from Chris' need for four red peppers, some fly spray and some tea light candles. Interesting shopping list, huh?

We passed some time having a very early dinner at KFC, then wandered downtown to Vinyl, a favourite little cafe, for coffee. It was while we were there that the incident unfolded.

Chris went to the toilet and I was sitting in a comfy low chair with a good view of the door. Didn't have my glasses with me, couldn't pick my a magazine to browse, so settled to some serious people watching.

A tall slim lady, mid fortyish, came in and peered around, obviously looking for someone. Went back outside, looked down the lane, then came back in.

This time I caught her eye and gave her a bit of a smile, just acknowledging that I could see that the person she was looking for hadn't arrived yet. No other meaning.

Just the sort of smile you give to someone when you can identify with their situation.

At this time I was the only female in the cafe sitting on my own and she approached me. I'm thinking that will teach me to smile at just anyone, now she is going to tell me her troubles and pour her heart out to me.

But no, she tentatively asked, "Are you Sue?" When I shook my head and said no sorry, she said, "Didn't think so. I've arranged to meet an old friend here but I haven't seen her for years and years and to be honest I can't remember what she looks like."

No sooner had she moved to the bar and ordered a drink, than another young woman entered, looked around, then approached the first lady.

"Sue!" I heard the first lady exclaim as they embraced, "So good to see you again!" I was chuckling to myself and trying to hear the rest of the conversation when Chris returned.

We left soon afterwards and as we stood to leave I told Chris to get a good look at the two women at the bar on our way out, and pay particular attention to the shorter of the two.

Sue was at least 25 years younger than me, about 4 inches shorter and 10kgs lighter. She had wildly curly hair which looked very natural and I have extremely straight hair.

In what nightmare could Sue have looked like me I wonder?

It gave us such a laugh. Quite set the mood for our evening.

Which, didn't, in the end, involve a film as there was a Rotary Convention at Forum North where the Film Society usually meets.

We did, however, briefly gatecrash the Rotary do.

There are some things ......

I have one major difficulty being a blogger. Well, more than one right now but one that will continue even when the temporary impediments to my blogging are removed. I should be back to my normal blogging activities in a few weeks but I bet impediment #1 continues.

My big problem is that when something is on my mind I can’t easily put it aside and communicate about anything else. This goes for my daily personal interactions as well as blogging. And even if that something is a little indelicate I still need to get it out in the open.

I’ve avoided blogging about losing weight because how boring is that? It’s been such a long, drawn out process anyway. Tempting as it has been to share my elation when another ounce has been shed, I haven’t felt a compulsion to do so. And wouldn’t be talking about it now except I suspect the change of diet is a contributing factor to my current situation.

I also haven’t blogged about quitting smoking because, well, because it hasn’t been much bloody fun. And it’s only been three weeks so there’s a long way to go yet.

Since I lost a bit of weight, I’ve felt more active. Since I quit smoking I can’t sit still. Every sitting activity has a smoking association to me. If I sit I have to pick up my knitting or go stir crazy. So, as I regard myself as crazy enough to begin with, I’ve been a lot more active than usual. My poor garden is being constantly messed with. Lewey, my old faithful dog, no longer gets excited every time I step outside the door expecting a walk. He just sleepily checks me out with one eye and has given up trying to understand what’s happening to his world.

And since I have actually managed to lose weight (did I mention it wasn’t easy?) I don’t want to put it all back on again by replacing my fags with food. So I’ve become a gum chewer. Me, whose children were not permitted to chew gum. Me who doesn’t even allow her grandchildren to chew gum in front of her. Yep, I’m a constant chewer.

So there are a few factors at work when it comes to my present predicament. Consider these:
Change of diet
Chewing gum
Additional exercise
And add in hereditary factors (It's always such a relief to discover hereditary factors can be blamed for something, isn't it?)

Are you guessing that the one thing on my mind which I simply can’t forget about is a flatulence problem? Guess you didn’t know that chewing gum was a factor, huh? Or that it could get to be such a problem that it outweighs all other possible subjects for discussion.

I kid you not – it is a major problem. Even for an “earthy” creature like me. I try in all matters to let nature take its course. Although my kids weren’t allowed to chew gum I never made a fuss about the odd fart. I always thought it was natural and healthy, that if you have an urge to fart you should do so. Oh boy, if only I had taught myself some anal sphincter control.

It’s got to the stage now where it is interfering with my social life. I have avoided my regular exercise class two weeks in a row. I can imagine all too clearly what would happen during indoor hockey or cricket. The slightest exertion would have a resounding result. I’ve been taking long solitary walks instead. At work I try to remember to take myself outside every half hour or so and walk around a bit to see if there is anything waiting to be released. One day I forgot and took advantage of my co-worker’s absence from the office to gain relief but she returned sooner than I expected and I had to apologise. She was so embarrassed , farting is not something she would normally discuss with me. I know, I know, it should have been me who was embarrassed!

Today I started taking charcoal tablets.

Daylight Savings Fool

The end of daylight saving. The end of the golden weather.

Saturday night, along with all my countrymen and as instructed by all the good newscasters, I turned my clocks back. Monday morning seemed colder than usual and my thoughts were bleak. It always seems to me that the minute we start fiddling with the clocks, winter takes that as a cue to arrive.

You can play with clocks all you like but the good old body clock can't be fooled quite so easily.

This morning I awoke, checked for daylight to see if it might be nearing alarm time, saw light coming through the hallway door, so checked the clock. It will go off in five minutes I told myself, so headed for the shower.

Half an hour later I was trundling off to work. Probably still half asleep, my auto pilot is very reliable in the morning. 12 kms down the road I came to the corner with the local school on it and this woke me up. Only one car was there, no school buses, no parents dropping kids off, all was quiet.

Wondered what was going on. Our school takes care of the education of our young from when they first enter school at five, until they check out of secondary school. It's divided into a Junior School and a Senior School but basically it's a one stop shop (make that school). So even if the Junior School is away on some adventure or other, there is always activity around the school gates.

Stopped at the corner, checked my watch. You have guessed where this is going, haven't you? Yes, diddums was wending her happy way to work an hour early!

Being on the road an hour earlier has its advantages. Less traffic to start with. No rush. I even stopped to take a photo of the fog lifting from the valley.

Tomorrow I will get it right. The time, that is. I'll put my glasses on to see the little hand of the clock, not concentrate on the big hand.

Or maybe I won't, maybe I'll just leave my body clock alone.

She's a lovely girl, that one

I think everyone knows people who, when they hear their name, say something silly like "Lovely girl" or "Top bloke".

My youngest daughter has such a friend. When they were teenagers Justine just had to say Adelle's name and I would sprout, "Ahh, she such a lovely girl, that Adelle." This was repeated so often that Justine could mouth the words back at me as I sprouted them.

I also have such a friend. Well, not just one, I think nice thoughts about all my friends when I hear their names.

About five years ago a young University student needed somewhere to live while she worked over the holidays for my son on the farm at Tapora. And an unlikely friendship developed between a late 50s me and a young 20s Renee. For three months we talked (gossiped sometimes) and laughed our way through our respective lives.

Renee has one of those happy, sunny natures you don't honestly believe exist in the real world. You know, you keep waiting for the temper tantrum or bout of moodiness that will prove them real. She can talk the leg off an iron pot but in also a bit shy until she feels comfortable. And I'm a bit the same except for the shy bit.

After the sharing of my roof in Tapora, Renee went back to finish her studies and we have kept in touch in an off again, on again sort of way.

Last night Renee visited for the night. I was disappointed her boyfriend wasn't with her because I wanted to embarrass her by telling him what a lucky guy he is. (She embarrasses easily and blushes so satisfactorily!)

This morning as she was preparing to leave she remembered a time we were down at the hut at the beach and my little truck wouldn't start. Renee said, "When that happens to my father's car, he just gives it a kick like this." And guess what! Different makes and models respond in the same way to a well placed kick!

I'm so happy to have seen her again. She's a lovely girl, that Renee.