The Kokoda Diet

April (and it's over)

2010-04-28T11:20:00.018+10:00

The title says it all. After nearly two years of planning and booking and training, I won't be going to Kokoda in July. I am somewhat devastated, but philosophical at the same time. After all, there's a lot worse than can happen. And I still will go - just not this year, and (most disappointingly of all) not with the group of friends who are all locked in for July.

The problem is, as it has always been, my knee. Answers are hard to come by so I'm still not sure whether:

a) the surgeon stuffed up,

b) I have a new injury

c) I put too much strain on the old injury, or

d) a combination of all three

Regardless the bottom line is that the knee has been getting progressively worse over the past two months and now complains loudly (actually it's more like an elderly whine) whenever I push it (or pull it, or tug at it, or just use it at all). A return visit to the surgeon resulted in ongoing physio, the probability of more surgery in a few months, and the strict injunction to avoid hills and stairs. Which sort of rules out Kokoda, as it's just a tad hilly. Given that my front door sits at the top of a flight of ten steps, this makes even domestic egress rather challenging. And although the whole Kokoda business started because I was after a challenge, having fun accessing my house wasn't quite the sort of challenge I was after.

So now I have some friends who are (rather flatteringly) unhappy that I won't be joining them. I also have a mound of near-new hiking equipment, including microfibre towels that are next to useless when you have a non-micro body. I also have an (expected) battle with the insurance company, and a ten-day gap in July when I'm not going to be welcome in my own home (if anything my offspring are more disappointed than I am - little darlings that they are), and a single night's accommodation in Port Moresby that I suspect I won't be using. And of course there's also the book I was planning on writing about the experience. All that's on the back-burner too. I hope it catches fire.

Anyway (deep breath), onwards and upwards as they say - although perhaps I should stick to the onwards and avoid the upwards. And while I've been sulking over the past month, I also spent some time playing around with an idea for a non-fiction book as my next project. That's what's called multi-tasking. And I think it's brilliant (well I would, wouldn't I? But fortunately my publishing company was also keen on the idea - so it's full steam ahead). The book is tentatively titled The Invisible Woman, and other remarkable phenomena of middle-age, and it will eventually explore all the different facets of middle-age for women - the good, the bad, and the indifferent. From the intangible, like invisibility and the empty-nest syndrome and 'cougar-ism' and mid-life crises, to the tangible, like those damn chin-hairs (what the hell is going on with those?!!). But I don't want this to be just research, or a self-help or how-to book, or even a (self-indulgent) story of my own close encounter with middle-age. No, I want it to embrace a whole variety of women. To hear their stories, and give them a chance to vent or purr or praise.

So the upshot is that this is the last entry for this blog and I'd like to thank all of you who sent comments, whether through the blog or through my email, over the past year or so. It's been a fun journey and I hope to pick it up again in a few years but for now it's officially on hiatus. And in the meantime, I'd like to introduce my new blog, which will complement the new project. It's called the middle-aged spread and can be found at http://themiddle-agedspread.blogspot.com/. Please come visit, and feel free to stay a while. See you there.

March (victory is mine!)

2010-03-28T07:58:00.002+11:00

The title says it all (well, that and the previous post). In other words, the GOH have been closed and we are rodent-free!

March (this is war)

2010-03-23T08:28:00.012+11:00

This is a story that has nothing at all to do with Kokoda, or training, or diets. However it has become somewhat of an obsession over the last week and therefore I shall share it with you regardless. On the grounds that misery loves company (and if I pass away through sleep deprivation, then at least there'll be some evidence of the cause). See, it all started when I was clearing out D1 (daughter number one)'s room for D2 (daughter number two) to move into, and my foot went through the floorboards. This wasn't such a big deal as it sounds because I was well aware the floor needed replacing. However that night [insert creepy music], the size eight-and-a-half-but-sometimes-nine hole transformed itself into an Amityville-horror-style Gates Of Hell (hereafter to be known as GOH for short). I was woken by a loud gnawing noise, closely followed by footsteps and then a shrill scream. Apparently D2 had gone to investigate (hardy soul that she is), and a mouse had run over her foot in the darkness. Anyway we laughed about it merrily (blissfully unaware that laughter would soon become a thing of the past...), and I said I'd set some traps the next day. Then we went back to bed. An hour or so later I woke to something crawling heavy-footed up my neck (I kid you not) - and leapt out of bed so fast the room span. The mouse probably (although this is by no means certain) got as big a shock as me and was long gone, while I spent the rest of the night drinking coffee, scratching at my neck and shuddering uncontrollably every so often. I sort of looked like a rather unstable recovering drug addict.

The next day I discovered a large section of gnawed wood at the bottom of the closed door to the room with the GOH, so I figured that the mouse must have become trapped in the house and been trying vainly to return to the nether regions (aka Hell). This hypothesis was confirmed by the fact the dog (who, despite all visual evidence to the contrary, rather fancies herself as D3) carried on for quite a bit, trying to get beneath my bed, before giving up and curling on top for a nap. Yes, it seems the bloody mouse was still there, underneath. I immediately sprung into action (all that coffee helped) and locked the dog away before setting a multitude of mouse-traps around my bed, down the passage and, leaving the door now open, around the GOH.

That evening mouse-traps went off periodically (which did nothing for my frayed nerves), but no mouse was captured. So that night, and the same for the next three, I set fresh traps (not my favourite, or most skilful, activity) and then closed all the doors before going to bed. And each time, in the early hours of the morning [insert even creepier music], I woke to the sounds of loud gnawing, scratching, gouging. Which only ceased when I opened the doors just a little to allow easy egress to the GOH (actually I stand at a distance and prod the doors open with a walking pole and then race back up the passage to my bedroom while making oddly high-pitched whimpering noises). And each morning I have found fresh gouges in all the (previously smooth polished walnut) doors at the far end of the house, plus - now - patches of crimson carpet having been devoured around them (FYI that's not blood, the carpet was already crimson - I like colour). The traps are either set off, but empty, or just ignored. The poison I've left out has also been rejected (meaning the mouse is either clever, or just fussy). And I have averaged about three hours sleep a night.

Now this story would already have a fair degree of 'yuck factor' about it - except further investigation this morning revealed a scattering of clues - each one considerably larger than what one would expect of a mouse (unless said mouse has serious bowel issues). Those, plus the mega-amount of damage done to the (closed) bifold doors have led me to only one conclusion. That's right, remove the word 'mouse' from the previous story and substitute [insert really, really, really creepy music] - 'rat'. Which sends the yuck factor skyrocketing into the stratosphere - and I'm not even going to think about the whole crawling-up-my-neck thing. Yes, it seems I have a psychotic rat wandering my house each night and losing his temper with the woodwork whenever the doors are left closed. It's like being married again.

No wonder the traps weren't successful. He was probably chortling at my ignorance each night as he set them off with a twig and then snacked on the peanut butter as an entree for my woodwork. But at least D2 has stopped saying things like 'oh, but mice are so cute' - and she's also taken to sleeping with the dog in her room which, judging on the dog's performance thus far, isn't going to be much protection anyway. But at least she's sleeping - which is more than I can say for me.

But tonight, ah yes, the tables shall be turned. I have just purchased ultra-strong, super-over-the-top rat poison and tonight the bastard dies. I may poison the totally useless dog and cat while I'm at it. I could just put something heavy over the GOH but I've seen enough horror movies to know that's not the answer. And in the case of this particular fiend, he'll (that's right, he's a 'he' - I'm sure of it) probably just break a window. Or ring the door-bell (and get a key cut). So it's war. And I have every intention of winning - just as long as I can stay awake.

March (the month after January...)

2010-03-02T10:23:00.015+11:00

I have made a unanimous decision (voted for by me, myself and I) that this year March shall be known as the month that immediately followed January. There are several reasons for this:

1) I have long thought that February held a reputation out of all proportion to actuality,

2) If it can't hang around long enough to make an impression then it doesn't deserve undue recognition (28 days! Hardly worth turning the calendar over), and

3) I spent most of the month sitting on my backside eating licorice (don't ask because I don't know) while engrossed in the winter olympics. Therefore negating the month will also negate my self-indulgent sloth and (mostly) erase residual guilt.

So there you have it, and suddenly I am actually ahead work-wise for 2o10 and can begin March with a clear conscience and a surprising depth of knowledge regarding Axels and Twizzles and the optimum air-time for an Alley-Oop and/or a Backside 720. BTW & FYI, eating copious amounts of licorice in one sitting is probably not a good idea. Although it did give me a good excuse not to go out the following day, which justified more couch-sitting and licorice eating, which... well, you get the picture.

So with February done and dusted (and put on notice to lift its game next year), I am also not late in thanking everyone for the lovely birthday wishes in January. They were all much appreciated and I must say I am thoroughly enjoying my fifties thus far. As far as preparations for Kokoda go, however, I have hit another snag with my knee playing up, yet again. This has resulted in weekly visits to the physio, and several weird and wonderful exercises that have my offspring chortling rudely every time I attempt them (really, is 2 x 20 squats while rubbing one's back up and down the doorframe really that amusing?). And I have a return visit to the surgeon in two weeks to see if the operation last year was as successful as they thought at the time. I'm thinking the answer is probably no. In fact I'd take bets.

However the training continues regardless. One of the most challenging being a 20 kilometre hike up and down bloody mountains that we did with our trekking mob last weekend. It was brutal, but a bit of a wake-up call. Which, now that I come to think of it, is what we (at least Cathri, Maria and myself anyway) have said after each heavy bit of training for the past few months! I think we must be napping in between.

But onwards and upwards, and our next training walk will be the hill/&%$*! mountain behind my house next weekend, and then The Run For The Kids in the city on March 14th (where proceeds go to The Children's Hospital). And the latter will actually be a good guide as to how far we've come as it was one of our first training expeditions last year. Either that or it'll be a wake-up call!

January (and happy birthday to me!)

2010-01-21T15:02:00.030+11:00

Today I turn 50, which I now realise looks far more daunting written down than said out loud (or maybe I've just been desensitised to the verbal version). It also doesn't feel quite real. For instance I just zoned out for a few minutes, hypnotised by the numbers 5 and 0 and trying to relate to them in some way. I don't even like 5, and 0 just reminds me of anorexic models and/or my bank balance. However, whether I want to or not, I am now in my fifties and shall remain that way for exactly ten years. Just enough time to start feeling comfortable before I have to exchange them for my sixties. Gulp.

But as part of my celebrations (which lasted for ten days and were known, around our house, as The Festival of Ilsa, or Ilsafest for short), six of us did the Lighthouse hike last weekend at Wilson's Prom. This involved driving down to the Prom, finding the correct overnight carpark (more difficult than it sounds), taking the shuttle bus up to a place called The Saddle, and then walking for about twenty kilometres down (and up) to the lighthouse. To make things a little more interesting we had to carry everything we needed for the night, and the next day, on our backs. The whole thing resulted in several lessons learned the hard way, such as:

1. Twenty kilometres is a very long way.
2. Backpacks are a pain in the ass (and shoulders and neck and lower back).

3. Those second helpings of turkey et al over Christmas were probably not a good idea.

4. Waving one's hands around a lá the robot from Lost in Space (you know - danger, danger) does not deter march flies.

5. March flies bite, and it hurts.

6. Visors are superior to caps only when one is unlikely to receive severe sunburn on one's scalp.

7. Sunburn on one's scalp is extremely painful.

8. Leanne can be quite mean when it comes to post-walk stretches (she can also get quite excitable about tuna).

But even with all the trials and tribulations, the truth is that we had a ball. This was assisted enormously by the fact that we brought some delicious food along for the evening and a good deal of alcohol. Scotch and chardonnay and champagne - all of which of course had to be drunk that night so that we didn't have to cart it back again. Relaxing with proud, well-earned exhaustion in one of the most beautiful spots in Victoria, watching the sun set over the wild, pristine coastline, and then retiring inside to enjoy a three course meal. Good food, good company, along with a challenge to body and soul - I can think of no better way to start my second half-century!

December (with a merry Christmas to you all!)

2009-12-20T08:18:00.013+11:00

When you mention 'December', it tends to conjure notions of Christmas, with Santa and tinsel and the rich, heady, succulent smell of roasting turkey (I'm getting hungry just thinking about it). With lashings of gravy and crisp roast potatoes and moist pumpkin and plum pudding with whipped cream and... (okay, deep breath). My point is that when the whole month is taken into consideration, I think the best descriptor is actually 'relentless'. That influx of catalogues, pausing just for Christmas itself, the determined stream of shoppers that head out each day with credit card and attitude, the bombardment of must-have toys and treats and technology, and the way so much has to be crammed into so few days. That slip past so incredibly rapidly. Faster than any other month, so that you blink and they're gone. Like one of those view-finder toys from the eighties. Click, click, click.

And every year I make a vow that the following December will be more relaxed, more organised, more casually sublime. But of course nothing changes. Then again, maybe that's what makes it December. That relentless rush, the frenetic consumerism, the glorious kitsch, the over-abundance, and that the feeling of being ever so slightly out-of-control. Like this morning when I slid my credit card over to the cashier and she looked at it and then looked at me, and I looked at her and then looked at it - and realised it was, in fact, my organ donation card. Quick as a flash I said: "What? Don't you barter?" But unfortunately my cutting edge humour was totally wasted on her and I left the store with, as usual for this time of year, my credit card severely dented and organs relatively intact. However that was still a sight better than last night when I managed to argue with a very rude store clerk (Kmart), a pushy woman on the elevator and my amazingly, hugely, ridiculously argumentative fourteen-year old, all in the space of ten minutes. But the thing is that despite everything I love Christmas, really love it, and so all it took after I got home was tumbler of good quality Christmas spirit and I was back in the swing of things.

And I raise the same glass (or maybe a fresh one) to wish you all, each and every one, a lovely festive season. With hopes that you survive December relatively intact and arise on Christmas day with enough energy to have a riproaring good time and a very merry Christmas! Cheers!

December (lost on the edge of suburbia)

2009-12-07T08:14:00.015+11:00

Enjoyed a lovely Kokoda get-together on Sunday, where we went for a fairly decent hike and then returned to partake of a companionable smorgasbord lunch on the decking. The sun was shining, the air was mild, the food was delicious, the company sublime. Everything, therefore, a far cry from our last walk a few weeks ago. Which had been enough to make several of us seriously reconsider the wisdom (i.e. sanity) of this whole Kokoda idea. I mean, if we can't even walk up the side of a hill in suburbia without problems, what hope have we got over there?

It was our first trek together since Hall's Gap, and Wayne's first with us en masse (which will give him an idea what it will be like trekking with eight middle-aged woman), and my first since surgery, and Cathri's first since developing a severe chest infection that she really should have gone to the doctor about but didn't so it lasted much longer than it should have. Anyway, it all started relatively smoothly (metaphorically speaking - in actual fact, as we were trekking up the Mt Dandenong firebreak, the route itself was covered with rocks and assorted other definitely non-smooth debris). We were a bit staggered, with the latecomers bringing up the rear, but that seems to be par for the course. Problems started about a third of the way up with Lyn having to stop because of early-onset exhaustion, shortness of breath and some chest pains. True to our spirit of camaraderie etc, we left her sitting on a rock and continued on. Which, come to think of it, doesn't bode all that well for any of us who might fall a little behind in Kokoda. Incentive, I suppose, to keep up.

We reached the top without too many issues and then parted from Wayne who decided to go back the way we had come (hmm...). This seemed a little straightforward to the rest of us, choosing instead to do the long hike down the side, past the television antennas. Now, because this descent isn't as exhausting as the direct climb, it allowed us ample opportunity to chat. In hindsight we may have overdone this a trifle because we promptly got lost. For the next two and half hours we were not to see another human, apart from a rather strange lady who appeared out of the undergrowth dressed in pyjamas and loudly announced that this was her backyard. I may be a little cynical but she didn't seem like the ideal candidate for directional advice.

The main problem was that we actually didn't know we were lost for quite some time. And this ignorance meant that we actually got more lost, so by the time we realised we were lost, we were really, really lost. Does that make sense? Not that there weren't some high points. Like when the lead group, Annie, Lorraine and Cathri, were seemingly attacked by a rabidly shrieking cockatoo (admittedly this may not have been such a high point had I been amongst the lead group). On closer examination we discovered the bird's target was, in fact, an absolutely huge goanna that was determinedly inching it's way up a tree towards her nest. She was not surprisingly livid with panic, swooping down to attack the goanna over and over, as her relatives screamed their support from further down the mountain (some less vocal and more physical back-up may have been more helpful). In sympathy with her maternal instincts, we pitched a few (tiny) stones at the goanna but stopped when we realised that, if anything, we were driving him (do you like the instinctive gender assumptions?) towards the eggs. Eventually though, worn down by the cocky's attack, he turned tail and fled down the tree and into the undergrowth. There, no doubt, to bide his time with cunning patience. Because sadly, now that he knew where they were, those eggs were most probably doomed.

There were also some low points (apart from the whole doomed egg angle). The lowest being when Cathri rolled her ankle on a rock and went down like a sack of potatoes. One minute she was chatting cheerfully, the next she was a moaning mound of injuured humanity. I'm pleased to say, however, that we never considered leaving her where she was. Not seriously, anyway. But this was the point where being lost ceased to be in any way amusing, and actually became a concern (for Cathri, a rather painful concern).

We spent the next hour walking (or limping) in what seemed like circles. We were in phone contact with Lyn (who was now sitting in her car back at the start) but could see nothing that even suggested suburbia. Even the pyjama-clad woman was long gone (perhaps thankfully, as there was something a little disturbingly Stephen King-like about that one). Eventually we reached a small clearing with a number of roughly-hewn paths. Cathri was finding it more and more difficult to walk so while she rested, several of us set out to discover which, if any, path led to civilisation. Lorraine took the narrowest one, heading determinedly towards a bushy area with copious undergrowth. Never to be seen again.

Well, strictly that's not true but I wanted to inject some drama. Actually we saw her about six minutes later, after she had hiked down this goat-track, shinnied under a barbed wire fence, walked across the overgrown yard, found a house, ascertained there was no-one home and then worked out that a nearby driveway should be roughly pointing in the direction we needed. I should add that Lorraine is not one of us who has a service background. No, of those four ex-long term Army Reservists, one was listening to the radio in her car while waiting, one was lying on the ground emitting intermittent moans, and the remaining two were taking advantage of the temporary hiatus to catch up on stuff. Which was probably got us into this mess to start with.

To cut a long story, and a good few hundred metres, short, Lorraine returned to heroically lead us from the wilderness. Lyn was found and directed up the driveway where she collected Cathri in her car and drove her the rest of the way. And shortly afterwards we all parted company, heartily sick of each other. A planned one and a half hour walk had turned into a four and a half hour bush-bashing fiasco. And while all this was going on, Wayne had run up and down the side of the mountain not once, but twice, and had even taken the time to deviate off the track and visit an historical aircraft crash site. Bloody men.

November (photos from Halls Gap)

2009-11-30T09:03:00.009+11:00

(left) Lorraine, Cathri, Maria and Maria's daughter Maddy.

(below, from left) Lorraine, Cathri and Annie; Annie, Lorraine, Leanne and Cathri; Cathri is king of the world!

(left) Maria, Annie, Cathri, Ilsa, Leanne (in disguise) and Lorraine. Might I add that it was pouring with rain and we had hiked for ages to see this supposedly amazing view that was, in actual fact, just watery shades of dismal grey.

November (decadence demands a price)

2009-11-22T09:17:00.017+11:00

I have decided that decadence is a double-edged sword (of course I'm speaking metaphorically here because 'Decadence', as the actual name for a sword, clearly doesn't have the same grandeous ring as, say, 'Excalibur'). The reason I have decided this is that on the one hand it's wonderful to be waited on hand and foot, but on the other self-indulgence demands a price. In my case, the price was three kilos in two days.

I'm speaking, of course, about the short cruise I just went on for Leanne's fiftieth birthday. And, in my defence, the amount of food on offer was mind-boggling. It would have taken someone with a lot more willpower than me to have come away without a weight gain. Of course, there was also no real need for me to take the term '24-hour buffet' as a personal challenge. Just as well the cruise only went for two days, any longer and they'd have had to roll me off the damn ship. I think there's a famous Latin saying for what happened here - Veni, Vidi, Victuals. In other words: I came, I saw, I ate.

November (the bane of bathers)

2009-11-15T19:34:00.006+11:00

Once past a certain age, or weight, there are few more stressful times for a female than buying bathers. For me, yesterday was the first time I had embarked on this task for, oh... about twenty-nine years. Give or take a year, and several kilos. But I distinctly remember purchasing a stringy little bikini (predominantly white, with splashes of royal blue and red and cunningly positioned yachts), at a surf shop on the Sunshine Coast back in about 1981. And, if I say so myself, it looked pretty damn good.

But for the past twenty-odd years, since the stringy pair - and its cohorts - stopped coming even close to covering what they were supposed to, I've just worn a tennis skirt (one of those lycra numbers with the built-in knickers) and t-shirt. But tomorrow I'm off to Sydney for a short cruise back down the coast to Melbourne for Leanne's 50th birthday celebrations. And there'll be lots of dipping of toes into crystal-clear water, or lounging on deckchairs with Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and hat, cocktail in hand. Hence the need for proper bathing attire. It completes the look (and is also rather useful for swimming in).

Now I wasn't fooling myself into assuming the task, this time, would have quite the same ease (or aesthetic results) as the 1981 expedition, but I sure didn't expect to be catapulted into a depression that lasted several days (and could only be alleviated by chocolate, which holds a certain [albeit delicious] irony). The bottom line (as flat as it may be) is that they don't make bathers for plump woman. Even the ones with folds and flaps over the stomach do little more than just decorate the belly - and, believe me, that's the last thing my belly deserves. It'll only encourage it. As for those inbuilt bras! Even after I folded my no-longer quite so pert appendages into the elasticated cup thingamajigs, they categorically refused to stay there. Sliding out wilfully whenever I tried to adjust another part of the costume, or having to be rescued from under an armpit if I stretched. Heaven knows what would happen if you actually dared go swimming in one of these things - you'd probably end up with water wings, whether you wanted them or not.

As I brought back yet another twelve pairs from the fitting room that didn't even come close to fitting (which makes the whole 'fitting' room label a total misnomer - where bathers are concerned, they should be called 'pre-therapy rooms' or even 'gyms', because you might look like shit but at least you get a work-out), a woman of about the same age and weight sympathised, saying she also found shopping for a pair of bathers rathers stressful. The sympathy was welcome (a quick drink from a surreptitious hip flask would have been even more welcome), but the comment got me thinking (clearly I was searching for distraction)- why do we call them a pair of bathers? Shouldn't it be a set of bathers? Or even a strait-jacket of bathers? Something to ponder...

But as far as this cruise goes, I'll be the one lounging by the pool in tennis skirt and t-shirt. Luckily the dark sunglasses and hat will grant me a certain anonymity, and the cocktails will mean I just don't give a damn anyway. And it'll be tremendous fun regardless. Happy birthday Leanne!

November (VCE & Melbourne Cup - a super combo!)

2009-11-02T14:06:00.020+11:00

There are few more stressful times than VCE final year exams. Two weeks of nerve-jangling anxiety, of unbearable pressure, and of headache-inducing tension. The students, of course, have it a lot easier. That's right, I'm talking about the stresses inherent with being the parent of a VCE student, who - being a teenager - has a general expectation that the world revolves around them but, during VCE exams, amps this expectation up to the max. Here in my household we (and I use the term 'we' with reluctant accuracy) still have three exams to go and I'm not sure if we (i.e. I) will be able to make it. I've decided there should be another holiday concurrent with 'schoolies' that should be called something like 'school-parenties', even though I admit that doesn't have quite the same festive ring (and, if you repeat it really quickly, sounds a little like 'skull panties', which may attract an undesirable element. And wouldn't they be disappointed). My point is that when there is a VCE student in the family (aka the Chosen One), the whole household suffers. Some of the ramifications include:

Absolute silence while the Chosen One studies (ours turned into a banshee for a brief period yesterday, sort of like Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets Heather Mills. All because her sister and I engaged in a somewhat loud conversation - about evolution if you're interested).
Constant cleaning up after the Chosen One's frequent forays into the kitchen for sustenance (cleaning up after themselves might break the concentration).
Being there to provide feedback and/or a politely listening face whenever required. No matter what you were doing or whether Elle was trapped in a well with a man other than her fiance on Neighbours and rescue was looking decidedly shaky.
Bacon and eggs or some such every exam morning as several experts (thanks, guys) have informed the Chosen Ones that a hearty breakfast is essential.
Not 'loading' anything on the Chosen One as (apparently) they have enough to deal with already.

One of the ironies of the situation is that our particular Chosen One keeps talking about how she can't wait to move out while the rest of us concur so heartily we're putting together a petition. Even the dog has signed it. Twice. Fortunately tomorrow is Melbourne Cup Day, which means that I shall have a socially-sanctioned excuse to down a bottle (or two) of champagne. Even a little temporary oblivion may help recharge my batteries. The Chosen One has announced she will deign to join our celebrations for the better part of the day (i.e. probably until clean-up commences), as she could do with a break anyway. So have a good day, everyone, and I'll have a drink for each and every one of you. Hope you all pick a winner!

October (getting back on track for the trek)

2009-10-18T10:20:00.006+11:00

I have decided that I simply do not have the right sort of temperament for prolonged recoveries. This is exemplified by the reason why I haven't posted anything on this blog for two weeks - which is because I've been busy sulking. See there I was, building up my post-surgery strength quite happily, doing why I was told (more or less), not pushing myself (more or less), keeping up my nutrition (unfortunately more rather than less) and what happens? I'm on the exercise bike, pedalling away slowly when twang! Discomfort rapidly followed by significant pain which settled in so well that it stayed for the better part of a week. Like an unwanted house-guest who is loud and obnoxious and has no idea of personal space. Anyway, it set me right back to where I was immediately after the damn operation back in mid-August.

To say I was furious would be an understatement. And it was made even worse because it was difficult to know exactly who to be furious at. So the fury transmogrified itself into a fit of the sulks and there you go. But now I am back to almost where I was and feeling relatively confident once more. Hence this post. But I tell you, one more setback and I'm definitely making a complaint.

September (and off again!)

2009-09-27T03:52:00.009+10:00

I'm beginning to feel like a regular jetsetter, given that now I'm off again - to Tasmania this weekend. Although I'm not sure whether Hall's Gap one weekend and then Tassie the next exactly qualifies as jetsetting. Nevertheless it's fairly adventurous for me. Also adventurous is leaving my eighteen-year old in charge of hearth and home and incontinent dog. Especially as she's already informed me that she plans on having a little 'gathering'. What the hell is a gathering, little or otherwise, and how is that different from a party?

And perhaps the really sad thing is that if I had the choice, I'd probably opt for a weekend at home. Preferably all alone in my pyjamas with hot chocolate and a good book and my feet up on the coffee table. When did that become my idea of bliss?

September (off we go, a'wandering...)

2009-09-20T17:00:00.005+10:00

By the time this post hits the blog, I shall be reclining on the decking outside a Deluxe Family Cabin (Self-Contained) at the lovely and picturesque Halls Gap. As the sun will have just breached the yard-arm, or whatever it does, I shall also be enjoying a pre-dinner drink, or two. But this will not just be a put-your-feet-up-and-relax type getaway - no we'll be up there on serious business. Hiking, that is. And also touching base with my fellow Kokodians.

We arranged this getaway several months ago, and picked Halls Gap for the hills and dales and whatnot. Unfortunately for me I am actually not allowed to traverse any hills or dales or whatnots for another few weeks (recent knee surgery), and am allowed to walk on flat surfaces only. As this particular area is not known for flat surfaces, I figure that means I'll be doing a few circuits of the camping area and then it'll be back to the decking to await the return of my fellow-hikers. Ah, it's a hard life.

September (so not Aquarius)

2009-09-13T10:36:00.013+10:00

I have decided that my star sign - Aquarius - is quite definitely a faux pas (possibly because I was due weeks earlier but couldn't be bothered moving). Because as a water carrier I'm an absolute failure. In fact, I'm probably the furtherest from a water carrier that a person could possibly be. With a bladder the size of a stunted pea, I'm barely able to carry a few drops before the damn thing is full and I go staggering off to find the nearest loo. Which, I've come to realise, is going to make the Kokoda trek a trifle tricky.

And there are a range of other minor peccadillos that may well make the endeavour interesting, to say the least. Like my addicton to Nicotine chewing gum (although I'm currently battling that one), or my dependence on good coffee at frequent intervals, and my need for absolute silence before falling asleep, and my incessant email-checking habit, and my fussiness about food, and my daily desire for cleanliness in the form of showers and soap and fresh clothing, and my partiality to crockery and cutlery and blow-drying my hair each morning (and applying a sufficient amount of PPS Matte Mud to give it that attractively ruffled, sticky-out look), and last but by no means least - my absolute penchant for my own bed (and my own pillow and doona and entire bedroom).

No, I'm not having second thoughts. Just being realistic about my foibles. Which, I've come to realise, have built up quite considerably over the years (certainly since those far-off days when I was quite happy to camp on the side of the road or even sleep in the back of the car). But there's good news as well - I have now lost five kilos (yeah me!) and my knee has mended to the point of being able to bend without me clutching at my hair and screaming obscenities. Which, I'm guessing, will prove quite useful when climbing all those hills and dales and over-the-top cliffs next year. And, who knows, may even go some way to offsetting all the other stuff. One can only hope...

September (reality TV - and me)

2009-09-06T18:20:00.006+10:00

This last week has been a particularly pleasant one for my extended family because, for the first time in a while, we do not have a single person (a) in a hospital, (b) about to be admitted to a hospital, or (c) waiting to be picked up from a hospital. As you can imagine, this makes for a more relaxed family atmosphere all round.

Once apon a time, the hospitalisation of a family member meant lots of waiting and worrying and then (if all went well) lots of visiting and flowers and corny get well cards. Nowadays it still means all that plus a relatively new phenomenon - the need to be hyper-aware of an all-seeing, all-knowing hazard that stalks the corridors of select medical institutions, silently searching for suitable quarry, particularly those made susceptible by a surfeit of emotion. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the dreaded reality TV crew.

My personal experience happened several weeks ago, when my sister was admitted to the ICU at the Alfred Hospital. On the first day, the entire family congregated en-masse in the waiting room (mainly because at that stage it looked like we would be saying goodbye), but fortunately the patient rallied during the afternoon. As she was to remain in an induced coma for at least a few more days, it was decided we would take it in turns visiting. The next day, Sunday, was my turn. First though, I decided to do my usual Sunday morning trek up the 1000 steps - apart from keeping up the training, it would give me a chance to clear my head. Then, as this little jaunt ran (metaphorically speaking) a little later than usual, I decided to skip my shower and anything else unnecessarily time-consuming. Like basic grooming. After all, it wasn't likely that I was going to run into anybody I knew. And in this, at least, I was quite correct.

You've probably guessed where this is heading, but picture it if you will. Still dressed in my walking gear but with a cardigan thrown over the top. Chosen - quite evidently - for comfort rather than class. Flushed face with nary a skerrick of foundation, sweat-slicked hair adhering itself to my scalp like a second skin. Plus of course, with all that was going on, it's not like I'd slept all that well and when I don't sleep well, it instantly adds about ten years to my age. Maybe even fifteen. I also, in some strange way, appear to shrink. In short (ha, ha), I looked like an elderly bag lady with chronic medical problems and bad dress sense.

Mind you, I did have a perfectly good chance to escape. As I rounded the corner to my sister's ICU cubicle and saw the microphones and cameras and all the other paraphernalia that clearly indicated television, I could have turned tail and ran, or at least hobbled, away. But the thing is I was so damn tired that nothing really registered and so I stood there, mouth agape, looking like an imbecile. Ergo: a perfect candidate for reality television.

And so now at some stage next year I get to see myself, in all my sartorial splendour, on a new Channel Nine medical documentary. I shall be the weird-looking one co-starring with the woman in the induced coma. And you know you've got problems when a person in a coma, just this side of the great divide, is looking far better than you are.

August (fully [well, almost] mended)

2009-08-30T12:42:00.010+10:00

Back to work tomorrow. Ho hum. It's actually been kind of pleasant existing in a bit of a vacuum for a week or so. Not being asked to drive here, or pick up someone from there. Being able to catch up on a few projects without the normal distractions. Apparently, when I was quite young, I professed a desire to become a hermit when I grew up and I'm starting to think that maybe I was on to something there (at one stage I also wanted to be a nun but we'll leave that one right alone).

Kokoda plans are still on track also (no pun intended), although I believe that at least one of our prospective members is having second thoughts in light of the recent plane-crash tragedy. But we're all meeting next month for a few days hiking at Hall's Gap, so no doubt all will be revealed (figuratively speaking). And did I mention that, finally facing the fact my extra weight wasn't going to dissolve by itself (bugger it), I joined weight watchers a month or so ago? Well I mention it now because (drum roll please): four kilos gone! Even with my temporary incapacitation, I managed to keep my eye on the prize. Four kilos! That's like eight tubs of margarine, or forty packets of rice crackers (preferably the sweet chilli and sour cream ones - yum), or 160 packets of jelly crystals. Or even a whole other person - albeit a little one!

August (partially mended)

2009-08-23T08:26:00.033+10:00

I have decided that there are both good and bad elements to being temporarily housebound. The good involve being able to stay in my pyjamas for days on end and getting heaps of work done, while the bad concern being stuck within a fixed amount of walls, and the way those walls seem to compress as the days go by. Oh, and the pre-shower battle to cover my not-terribly-flexible leg with a plastic garbage bag and then adhere said bag to the skin of my thigh with industrial-strength tape - well, that's not much fun either (neither is ripping the industrial-strength tape off afterwards).

But the main thing is that I've finally had the operation done. It's over. And it was a close call for a while there when it looked likely that I would be 'bumped' off the list, which is official hospital-speak for being sent home sans operation and rescheduled (an understandable confusion between this figure of speech and the slightly more terminal 'bumped off' may explain why some of the other patients, particularly the elderly ones, were looking rather distressed). Anyway, barely had I sat down in the crowded waiting room when, to my surprise, my name was called. Now the reason for my surprise was that I have a long-standing tradition of always being last on a hospital operation list. This rule extends to even my loved ones, so that if I take my daughter in for a tonsilectomy and there are thirty-three other people waiting, the odds are excellent that she will be number thirty-four on the list. I think it's the family curse (the story goes that my great-great grandfather, in what I think displays a distinct lack of fatherly affection, cursed his son and all future generations after the son married against his wishes - the father's wishes that is, not the son's. Now my mother fervently believes that the curse relates to electrical goods and their ability to continue working either (a) immediately post-purchase, or (b) one day past warranty. However I suspect the curse is more fluid than that, with a spooky ability to change focus for each affected person. With me it's all about hospital waiting lists).

So anyway, without getting my hopes up, I mosey into a little room to get my personal particulars recorded by a very friendly nurse and am handed a plastic bag with one of those fetching bottom-baring nighties and - a new addition since last time I was in - a terry-towelling dressing-gown (or maybe they just hand these out for those whose about-to-be-bared bottoms are, let's say, slightly less firm than they once were). Then the surgeon pops in to put a large X on my right leg and adds a message that appears to be in another language (and which I find a trifle concerning - what if it says something like: 'note: this is a leg' or 'don't forget the milk and bread' or even 'amputate this limb post-haste'). But my friendly nurse seems unperturbed, which means that either she can't read the language or it's nothing to worry about. I decide to go with the latter. It is at this point that I am told, to my utter amazement, that I am first on the operation list. All those hordes of potential patients still out in the waiting-room and I am first! I win!!! The curse has been lifted!

And thus for the first time in my life, I am the patient who has to get changed in a hurry, and I am the one who the others mutter about jealously (who did she have to sleep with to be number one?), and I am the one for whom the orderly comes before any others. It is a feeling of victory against the odds that buoys me all the way to the operating theatre, and while I'm tucked onto a waiting guernsey, and while the surgeon explains the procedure (and checks his note on my leg), and while I'm parked in an alcove until the anaesthetist arrives and even when I look down and realise that I forgot to shave my legs (maybe what he wrote was: 'yea gods, what a jungle') - in fact I am cosseted by curse-free euphoria all the way through until the head nurse comes over twenty minutes later and tells me that there's a problem with my anaesthetist (no one else's apparently, just mine - and what exactly is a 'problem' with an anaesthetist anyway?). But the upshot of this alleged 'problem' is that I've been bumped down the list just a tad. How far? Well... apparently now I'm last.

Thanks, Great-great Grandad, you total tool. Thanks a bloody lot.

August (tragedy, trials & tribulations)

2009-08-15T19:57:00.019+10:00

What an absolute tragedy this week, with the plane-crash at Kokoda. Thirteen people lost. Terribly, terribly sad. I keep thinking about all the planning they would have done, and the training, and the intoxicating anticipation that they would have been feeling as the plane circled for landing. But of course it's not just the trekkers, but the tour guide and the pilot and the ripple effect something like this has. How unbelievably awful for their families, for starters.

Part of the ripple effect includes the fact that almost every person who knows I'm off to Kokoda next year, has now taken the time to ask if I'm having second thoughts. In a word: no. The way I see it, I could get hit by a car right this very minute - well, actually, probably not this very minute as I'm sitting at my computer and nowhere near a road so the car would have to drop vertically out of the sky, which probably isn't likely. But you get my point. And I hope other potential trekkers feel the same way, not just because there's a lot of villages who depend on us fools tramping past each day, but because otherwise - it seems to me - it undermines the whole Kokoda 'spirit', which was part of the reason I wanted to go in the first place. Perhaps that doesn't make much sense, but I know what I mean (someone has to!).

And tomorrow I'll be that little bit closer as at approximately eleven o'clock, I finally get that pesky cartilage of mine re-attached! I'm actually looking forward to it, not just because it will make life a lot easier, but because I am currently so sleep-deprived that a general anaesthetic sounds like sheer bliss. See, for the past few nights Melbourne has been blowing a gale and when Melbourne blows a gale my little corner of the world, perched on the side of a bloody big hill that's covered in trees, gets - shall we say - a trifle blowy. So I have spent the better part of each night staring numbly at the ceiling while enormous gusts of wind swirl manically outside, gathering all the loose debris and flinging it willy-nilly at my bedroom window. It's like auditioning for The Wizard of Oz, but without all the fun bits like murder and mayhem and shiny new shoes.

Today I thought I'd rise above my sleep-deprived lethargy and make all this excess wind work for me instead of against me. So instead of lying on the couch moaning, I did two huge loads of washing and then lugged it all out onto the decking. There I valiantly fought the wind in order to peg the wet clothes from the string of Christmas tree lights that I had cannily left up for just such an occasion. What with the clammy clothing either wrapping itself lovingly around my head or slapping me forcefully across the face, the operation took almost an hour and then, just as I stood back to admire my handiwork blowing in the hurricane-force breeze - it stopped. Dead. Unbelievable but true. One minute a borderline cyclone, the next nothing. Nada. Then, even as I stood there with my mouth open, it started to rain. With just enough slant to target every item of clothing I had just laboriously hung up. So, yep, strap me to a hospital guersney and knock me out. Please.

August (drowning in deadlines)

2009-08-09T10:03:00.017+10:00

I am drowning in deadlines. To the extent that every single dream I've had for the past two months has involved me being late for something (in one memorable instalment, my Harley Davidson stalled on this single-lane bridge that soared into the sky with no visible means of support, and I was panicking because that meant I would be late for my truck driving lesson). In an effort to get organised, I have taken to making lists, a new one every day, which detail what I have to get done just to keep my head above water. Then the next day I move all the leftover items onto the new list and start again. Ad infinitum. And yes, I do grasp the irony here; if I didn't spend so much time writing lists, I mightn't be in such a bloody pickle time-wise.

Nor would things be so bad if I was just able to crawl into a cave (preferably one with good mobile reception, reliable broadband, and Chinese delivery - food, not people), and be free to become a slightly eccentric hermit. But unfortunately I have no chance, because I am surrounded by teenage drama and incontinent dogs and family crises and a unusually large number of relatives who can't drive (and some of whom, when you're kind enough to give them a lift, manage to jam the inertia reel of the rear seatbelt so now more time has to be found to get it repaired... take a deep breath. In, one two, out, one two). So, anyway, it seems that everytime I sit down and finally start to get some work done I have to jump up again and go do something, like help my daughter buy yet another of the numerous accessories that are apparently essential nowadays for a VCE formal, or visit my youngest sister who's been laying around in bed all week being waited on hand and foot (given that she's in intensive care at the Alfred Hospital, I suppose she can't be held responsible... this time).

Or maybe I'm just in a grumpy mood because it's one way of coping with being worried about stuff (like the above sister). Or maybe because I've finally given up those nicotine chewing gums (seeing I quit smoking over thirteen years ago, it was probably about time). Or maybe because middle-age is finally bringing out the real me - and I'm a bitch. Or maybe I actually do have too much work to do, and not enough time to do it. Or... for a host of other reasons to numerous to write here. Hey I know, I'll make a list.

July (a teasing taste of freedom)

2009-07-22T08:29:00.010+10:00

I can't believe that it's been so long since I posted on this blog! I seriously need more hours in my day... and I've also decided I need a holiday. This hadn't occurred to me until last weekend when I did a flying trip (in every sense of the word) to Maroochydore on the Sunshine Coast for a literary breakfast. I arrived mid-afternoon Friday and was totally free until seven the following morning. No kids, no pets, no chores, no appointments or work or traffic or phone-calls or... anything. I spent the afternoon wandering along the main street and doing a little light shopping and then headed back to my seventh floor apartment overlooking the beach. Now, did I then venture out for a meal, and perhaps a night on the town? Not on your nelly. I picked up some supplies, had a shower and then sat in my pyjamas on the balcony eating loads of fattening foods while reading The Guernsey Literary and Potatoe Peel Pie Society (thoroughly recommended), and occasionally glancing out across the darkened coast and breathing in that fresh, invigorating taste of freedom. Which I've now realised tastes very much like a brisk breeze that's laced with salt and sand and sea. With just a splash of holiday and a dollop of leisure. Pure bliss.

But one night just wasn't enough. And now I want more.

June (terror on the steps)

2009-06-28T17:05:00.016+10:00

I think I may copyright that title -Terror On The Steps. I can see it headlining a black & white film, with perhaps Boris Karloff and some lithesome blonde, heel of hand pressed against her forehead as she faints uselessly. Which is a far cry from the real Terror On The Steps (cue suspenseful music), which is what happened to me not two hours hence.

It all started when I woke this morning and lazily decided not to do my usual Sunday 1000 steps walk. After which guilt nibbled at me throughout the day, especially when I devoured the better part of a packet of chocolate biscuits at lunchtime. So finally, just after 4.00pm, I gave in, got changed and headed off. By the time I arrived at the picnic grounds, the day was just beginning to slip genially towards dusk, and there was a magical golden glow bathing the foliage. Simply lovely.

There were still quite a few people around, but they were in the main a different breed than those I usually struck (not literally of course), early in the morning. This lot were a little more touristy, a little less fit, a lot more family. And with some really strange dudes thrown in the mix. Like the guy I passed early on, who had a handbag crooked delicately over one arm and a receding hairline behind which flowed a wonderfully fluffy mop of waist-length grey hair. Or the pair of ladies speaking rapid French with the small, poodle-like dog on a lead. Even apart from the fact dogs are strictly forbidden up there, I can't quite work out how that thing negotiated the steps. They must have carried it, which sort of defeats the purpose. Aah, the French.

So there I was, meandering along happily and thinking 'why don't I come here at this time more often', when there came a loud, distinctive birdsong echoing down the mountain. Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah. It was an elongated, single-note sound. Hollow, with an evocative cylindrical echo that didn't so much splinter the ambience as enhance it. And I could visualise the bird who would be making it - something large and colourful and proud, with chest vibrating as the warbling notes issued through the bush.

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

The sound now came at regular intervals, getting louder and louder as I climbed ever upward. And a strange thing happened, because as the sound became louder, and closer, it sort of lost some of its echoing beauty and became just a little spooky. A tad Blair Witch, if you know what I mean. I started walking a bit faster.

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

Maybe even Alfred Hitchcock. I mean, have you seen that film The Birds?

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

Really loud now, so I knew it must be close. Which made me especially pleased to come around the corner and see a guy, around my own age, leaning against the railings and staring intently down into the valley below. It suddenly occured to me that he was most likely gazing at the bird itself so I paused nearby, ostensibly to have a drink of water but really to have a peek at what type of bird it was. After having listened to it for the past twenty minutes, I felt it owed me a least that much. So I craned my neck forward and then, quite suddenly, right next to me and ridiculously loud:

Aa-ruuuk! Aa-raaah!

You know how people say 'oh, you made me jump' when in actual fact they barely blinked (stationery liars, the lot of them). Well, I actually jumped. Literally. Off the ground. Because the noise came from the guy himself. There was no bird. I tell you I aged ten years in ten seconds. And as I stared, stunned - he did it again. Without turning, without even changing position. Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah! Calling down into the valley below. Over and bloody over. A veritable chorus of rollicking whatevers.

As soon as I recovered my equilibrium, I started walking. Fast. Trying to think of all the different reasons that a relatively well-dressed middle-aged man would position himself halfway up a very steep trail and then screech bird noises down a mountain. There's not a lot. Apart from the obvious mating ritual thing and I have to tell you that if that was his intention, I can't really see it working. People usually prefer their foreplay more... well, sane. Anyway, so this is where a vivid imagination can be harmful to the health, because once I gave up on plausible explanations, I started on the implausible. And immediately came up with the incredibly bizarre scenario that this was some sort of ritualistic chant, where he called down thanks to the gods of the valley a certain number of times, and then whipped out a handy knife and found someone to sacrifice. To keep the gods happy. As you do.

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

As you can imagine by now I'm walking pretty damn fast. I pass a young couple who have stopped to catch their breath and we exchange pleasantries (i.e. what's with that fruit loop down there?) and I continue on feeling a little more relieved. Because now I have bodies between me and him, and sacrificially-speaking, the young woman looked distinctly more virginal. And in my admittedly limited experience, mostly from watching TV, that's usually a pre-requisite.

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

This keeps up every minute or so for the entire climb. At one stage the sound/call is answered by several others and it sounds like a pack of them in joyful unison. Even though I suspect it's just some young people having fun it's still really creepy. And I'm reminded of a Buffy the Vampire episode about a wolf pack who looked human and had this extra-sensory connection with each other that they used to attack and then devour a small pig, a homeless guy and the headmaster (one at a time of course. Otherwise it'd be greedy). I know my sacrifice scenario is patently ridiculous but I've never, ever, climbed those steps so fast. And now each time I hear the guy do his weird bird-thing, I'm almost relieved because it's coming from the same place and that means he hasn't moved.

Aa-ruuuk, aa-raaah.

Accompanying me all the way to the top, and then continuing as I trot briskly down the lyrebird track. Bouncing off the mountains and echoing hollowly along the valley. And the closer dusk comes, the more bizarre and strange the whole thing is. He's still going when I reach my car and as I lock the doors, I decide it'll be a long time before I come for a walk up here at the same time. That is, not unless I'm accompained by a handy virgin and one thing's for sure, none of my friends qualify.

June (it's official)

2009-06-21T13:37:00.007+10:00

Last week we attended a Kokoda et al information evening run by our trekking company (as in we shall be using them, not as in we own them as part of our business portfolio). Anyway, as information evenings are usually - but not always - wont to do, the evening was primarily devoted to the giving and receiving of information. But it was also a good chance for us all to catch up again, including our newest member, Annie, and also Wayne, who some of us were in the Army Reserves with many moons ago. It looks like Wayne will be our token male so it's probably just as well that he already drinks.

We also got to catch up with our prospective leader, Sue, who is a very pleasant lady of around our own age. And she appears competent too, which will no doubt come in handy. Especially since I now severely doubt the ability of either Lorraine or myself to navigate our way out of a wet paper bag. When trying to find the conference room, which was on the second floor, we managed to end up back where we started - twice. It was like one of those weird puzzles with stairs and everything but just one dimension. So being unable to find the second floor of a pub seems, to me, to be a rather bad omen (but then again jungle paths are single storey so maybe it'll be easier).

After the information segment of the evening, we went back downstairs (it was easier to find going backwards) and settled down for a catch-up. Sign of the times (and our age), though, was the amount of skinny hot chocolates that were ordered in comparison to actual alcohol. Even so, I (who believe it or not was a hot chocolate consumer) still managed to lose my footing afterwards when picking up my coat and went staggering backwards, arms spiralling attractively, straight up and over a laden - but fortunately unoccupied - table. Tres embarrassing.

But the upshot is that we have firmed and booked our dates - the latter part of July 2010. Which gives me just over a year to perfect both my navigational skills and my ability to stand upright for extended periods of time (say, five minutes). This will be a challenge.

June (soundbites from my life)

2009-06-08T09:45:00.016+10:00

Today was a public holiday to celebrate the Queen's birthday even though it isn't really her birthday and very few would care even if it was. But it's sure nice to have a day off. In fact I personally think we should celebrate her birthday every Monday. Or somebody's anyway. But the upshot is that I've had a lovely day writing away at the computer so I thought I'd share a few 'soundbites' from my life with you:

1. My two female offspring (F18 & F14) are watching a skit on Australia's Funniest Home Videos yesterday, which features a rather rotund gentleman getting in touch with his inner seal. He slithers through the pool water and beaches himself plumply on the side with appropriate barking and flapping of hands/fins, whereupon a friend (clearly with the same cutting-edge humour) offers him a goldfish - which he eats. Okay... yuk. Really yuk. F18, looking disgusted, comments "well, now I'm over men for life." To which her sister responds with: "yeah, and now I'm over seals."

(So thank-you Australia's Funniest Home Videos, you have saved our family many awkward moments in the future. Not to mention hard to organise family get-togethers etc)

2. I am at my mother's house having coffee. She wants to get a tupperware container out from the back of a bottom cupboard and asks me if I could reach it for her. Now those following this blog will know that I have a torn ligament and am waiting on an operation (which is also the reason Kokoda 2009 became Kokoda 2010). The following conversation ensues:

Me: "I'll give it a go but don't forget I can't bend properly."
Her: "Why not?"
Me (frowning slightly): "Because of my bung knee."
Her: "What's wrong with your knee?"
Me: "You know, I've torn the ligament."
Her: "What? Aren't you over that yet?"

(Clearly they don't make them as tough as they used to. After all, I've had months and months when I could easily have made a small incision, executed a few nifty blanket stitches to repair the damage and then even signed my handiwork with embroidery thread before closing. Half an aspirin would've staved off any pain.)

3. My single male offspring (M26) and F18 are corresponding via facebook (even though one is in his bedroom and the other in the lounge-room - of the same house). They do a quiz to ascertain who would survive in a horror movie and while F18 falls into the 'wet blanket' category, M26 is designated a 'serial killer' (I'm so proud). He then posts "look behind you" and sneaks up the passage to position himself with his face poised over the top of her armchair. She reads the post, frowns, obediently turns - and the screams are enough to age me ten years and send the dog scurrying behind the couch, leaving droplets of urine in her wake (clearly possessing the guard-dog skills of an incontinent ostrich).

4. We are all, together with a friend of F14's, watching the end of Shrek 2 on DVD (note: this is an animated film), where the backdrop is a large pirate-style ship with rows of clouds cleverly positioned in lieu of sails. F18 asks admiringly: "How on earth did they get all those to stay up like that?" At which point everybody stares at her open-mouthed and then starts laughing. FF14 (also chortling derisively) responds with: "That's easy. They'd just have used string."

Welcome to my world.

June (damn fitness)

2009-06-07T11:12:00.004+10:00

What really annoys me is how it takes so damn long to get fit, and so little time to lose it. I mean, I've been doing the 1000 steps each Sunday for the past six months or so and had exerted a lot of energy to get to the stage where I could reach the summit with only three rest-stops. I was even extending myself by walking up a little hill at the top and back down again and then, if that wasn't admirable enough, jogging part of the way down the Lyrebird track (which is easier than it sounds because, in many places, it's so steep that once you start jogging you can't stop. So it's actually more of an out of control running/flailing movement). Then a few weeks ago my eldest daughter developed a cold. Now this particular offspring is not usually terribly tactile but when she is the least bit ill, has a tendency to drape herself over me at every opportunity. Thereby ensuring that any ailment is shared posthaste. Hence, within a few days, I also had a cold. And it has lingered, and lingered (no jokes about swine flu please, I'm over them).

So this morning I head for the 1000 steps as per usual. But this time I am breathless before I even get out of the car-park, and by the time I reach the actual steps I sound like an eighty-year old asthmatic. I won't go into details of how I sounded - and looked - once I reached the top. Suffice to say I suspect several people were preparing themselves to deliver CPR (probably holding a secret rock/paper/scissors for who would have to give me mouth-to-mouth). Needless to say there was no extra little hill this morning, and no jogging/running/flailing either. It seems my fitness level has rebounded several months in a week. And, boy, am I peeved.

May (in the market for a new GP)

2009-05-31T08:51:00.008+10:00

On Friday I did one of those trips to the doctor where you have a list of minor things, like new prescriptions etc, because you haven't been in so long. Anyway, after my two daughters had their flu vaccinations (and somehow I managed to get one too - although that quite definitely wasn't on the list!), they shuffled off to dull the pain with ten dollars worth of Gloria Jeans Tim Tam iced chocolate with whipped cream. I remained behind to finish the appointment off by requesting the odd scripts etc. Anyway, just as I was humming happily (stoically ignoring the throbbing in my arm), the doctor glanced across from her computer, gave me a brisk once-over and announced, rather curtly, that I had to lose weight.

Well, I have to tell you, I was a trifle stunned. So stunned in fact that I stopped mid-hum and stared at her with my mouth open, most probably just giving her the impression that I was hungry. Which may also explain why she then spent several minutes demonstrating correct meal portions. As a final humiliation, she asked me my weight twice and then, with a rather disbelieving look on her face, ushered me over to the scales to check for herself (I was right). After checking my height as well, she did some calculations on her computer and announced I should be around 65 kilos.

Now this is patently ridiculous. I come from a long line of Austrian shape-changers who start off quite slim but sometime after their fortieth birthdays, metamorphis into short, plump women. It's tradition. I have a short, plump mother, three short, plump aunts, and several short, plump sisters. 65 kilos just ain't going to happen, not without being accompanied by some type of terminal illness and I think that's a tad extreme.

I tried to explain this to the doctor but she (who wasn't exactly Twiggy herself) just started going through the meal portion routine again. Perhaps she thought I was slow as well as fat. And since when did doctors get so intrusive? I mean, it's not like I look like a contestant for The Biggest Loser or anything. I'm a size 14 female who's pushing fifty. Give me a damn break. Aren't we supposed to have a little padding around the middle at this age?

So, after a visit for two prescriptions, neither of which had anything to do with (a) the flu, or (b) weight, I left with a very sore arm and severe depression (also not covered by the scripts). Now the way I see it I have several choices. I can:

(1) starve myself down to 65 kilos,

(2) somehow grow a few inches so that the extra weight is more evenly distributed, or

(3) change doctors.

After giving it some thought, I'm going with option number three.

May (Happy Mother's Day!)

2009-05-10T11:35:00.008+10:00

Happy mother's day to all! I hope every mother out there had a lovely day, even if it included the dreaded breakfast in bed - which I always think is more trial than treat. In fact my unwillingness to be subjected to this particular ritual has been a standing argument in my house for years. I simply abhore having to (a) remain in bed until offspring get up, (b) remain in bed while offspring attempt to make an elaborate breakfast (while I listen to the hissed bickering and the occasional 'um-ah, now you're going to get it'), and (c) remain in bed while balancing an overloaded tray of tepid, partially cooked food and then eat the same while my every mastication is scrutinised by three pairs of narrowed eyes.

At least this morning it wasn't an issue as I rose long before they did and headed into town - with thousands of others - for the Mother's Day Classic, which is a 4 or 8km run/walk for breast cancer. Buoyed by our recent training, Cathri, Donna and I elected to do the 8km and did it pretty easily. Amazingly enough I didn't even need to stop at one of the porta-loos along the way! A new record. The only hiccup was at about the 5km mark when I noticed my runners were being splashed with water and it took me another fifteen minutes to work out that no, it wasn't just some oddly localised precipitation, but I'd actually managed to put my drink bottle back into my pouch upside down - and open. So I finished the walk carrying a wet pouch, an empty drink bottle, a dripping mobile phone, a packet of soggy tissues, and a handful of slippery change that I'd carefully packed for coffee afterwards.

But that wasn't enough to dampen (dampen - get it?) the day, especially as I arrived home to enjoy a lovely relaxing afternoon followed by being banned from the kitchen while a special tea was put together by my kids. A candlelit table holding platters of rich succulent satay chicken and lightly battered honey chicken together with steaming fried rice and hot buttered rolls. Absolutely delicious - and all bought from the local Chinese shop. Just the way I like it. Happy mother's day!

April (I want a medal)

2009-04-30T13:22:00.007+10:00

Life with teenagers is always interesting - although perhaps that's not the most apt word. Particularly for us during this last week where my oldest daughter turned 18 with all the obligatory festivities - including a family get-together where certain members hadn't seen each other for 14 years and would have happily continued that way. And why does the newly-minted 18-year old get all the congratulations? All she did is get older (which is something my mirror tells me I'm doing effortlessly at a rapid rate), whereas I'm the one who kept her (a) alive, (b) relatively normal, and (c) reasonably educated and trained in basic social norms. I mean, just feeding and hydrating a child is a never-ending task, let alone coping with the addition of a third basic need once puberty is reached - and I'm talking about the accoutrements here. You know, like mobiles, ipods, and the need to be draped in appropiately labelled clothing at all times.

But this week was made even more challenging by the fact she was getting her hair professionally coloured for her party, something she'd been looking forward to for months. Well, I don't know what happened but an attractive young lady with bouncy, light brown hair (with some blonde highlights) entered the salon but, three hours later, what emerged looked like a street-walker. And a physically ill one at that.

The colour could best be described as 'Platinum Mildew Ash', except that I'm guessing they would then get few takers (in fact I suspect she was the first anyway). Overall, it was a dead, flat platinum, with a hint of old-woman grey and some pond-green tinges whenever it caught the light. Have I mentioned that this particular offspring is quite a pale child? Well, now she looked like a corpse. And not a particularly fresh one either.

As you can imagine this event was followed by several days of varying degrees of loudly articulated fury (okay, that was mainly me), interspersed with a litany of muttered angst (that was her). But anybody who has spent time with an unhappy teenager will have some idea what the atmosphere is our house was like. And if you're wondering why we didn't go back to the salon - we did. And I have to say they were very supportive and didn't charge anything for the further three hours spent putting in a quantity of lovely honey-brown foils that were meant to give some depth but were almost immediately consumed by the Platinum Mildew Ash. I have never seen a hair colour so voracious. It should be launched onto the stock market forthwith - it'd devour Wall Street (and all those greedy CEO's) overnight. So anyway the salon was a waste of time because despite their best efforts, back home I went, still accompanied by the manic-depressive corpse bride.

The situation was eventually (somewhat) resolved by an emergency run to the supermarket for hair-dye but I can tell you it was a stressful few days. So congratulate her? Huh! I should get a bloody medal.

April (and the dates are set...)

2009-04-19T20:08:00.005+10:00

Well, it's semi-official: Kokoda 2010 (formerly known as Kokoda 2009 etc etc) will take place during the latter half of the July school holidays next year. These dates are the result of carefully calculated compromises - and a three-and-a-half-minute chat at the end of the recent Run For The Kids. I recommend a similar strategy for any potentially volatile discussion because everyone is too breathless to actually discuss (or argue), and far more likely to settle just so that they can lean back and eat grapes (see earlier post).

But the dates do seem to suit everyone: the school-teachers (2), the mothers of young childdren (2), the ones who need to book their leave twelve months in advance (2), the ones who need operations and time to recover (3), and the ones who really don't care so let's just get on with it (2 1/2). My only concern is that July is at the earlier end of the Papua New Guinea dry season, and I hope that doesn't mean there will be some overlapping wetness. Which sounds disgusting and, I'm guessing, feels even worse.

On a brighter (but still fairly damp as it was drizzling) note, this morning Cathri and I met the newest member of our group, Annie. She had just completed the 1000 steps with a group of friends and they were off to have a leisurely brunch at Knox City. So, with that finely tuned combination of energy and sloth, it sounds like she'll fit in perfectly!

April (Happy Easter!)

2009-04-12T19:24:00.000+10:00

I was enjoying a wonderful Easter Sunday until I made the mistake of stepping on the scales. This still would have been fine if I had just kept my eyes closed and thus not realised that somehow I've managed to put back on the entire two and a bit kilos I'd lost since last year - and yes, I know it wasn't much but it was all I had, or hadn't. The worst thing is that I've got no-one to blame but myself. For some reason I gave myself permission a few weeks ago to start eating copious amounts of anything and everything, and I haven't stopped since. Chocolate clinkers with their crispy pastel centres, caramel and pecan biscuits, hot cross buns with lashings of melted butter, chilli and sour cream crackers, crumbly vintage cheese and slithers of shaved triple-smoked ham... the list goes on (and on). Of course Easter hasn't helped. All that chocolate. So little time.
The result of this unrestrained gluttony is that while going for a walk this morning I realised that my thighs weren't just rubbing together, they were clinging to each other lovingly. Like identical twins that resent being separated, even for a moment. Apart from the fact that the time is long past when that sort of attitude might have come in handy, it was damn uncomfortable. So, feeling rather motivated by the whole thigh thing, I gave my daughter's Wii Fit a try - only to be told, rather perfunctorily, that I was obese. Not mildly plump, or even a trifle on the fat side, but obese! To add insult to injury, the bloody thing then issued me with a little representative figure on the screen that was as round as it was tall. I looked like a less-colourful version of one of the M & M men.

Needless to say I have given up on the Wii Fit until it injects itself with a modicum of etiquette. But clearly something has to be done. And tomorrow seems like a good day to start because it's a Monday, and Mondays are always terrific for fresh starts. So common sense tells me if that's the case, I'd better go and finish all my Easter eggs tonight. Happy Easter!

April (Walk Briskly for the Kids)

2009-04-06T07:32:00.000+10:00

Everything hurts.

And I mean everything. I am a mass of soreness from head to toes, and feel chafed in places I didn't even know existed. But, amongst the pain, there beats (albeit sluggishly) the heart of an achiever - because today I started, and finished, the Run for the Kids. Or in my case, the Walk Briskly and Occasionally Break into a Light and Somewhat Desperate Stagger-like Jog for the Kids.

It all started a few months ago when Leanne asked if anyone wanted to join her in this year's Run for the Kids. Apart from being for a good cause (the Good Friday appeal), it could be part of our training. With some recollection of seeing it on the news in previous years, embedded within hazy images of sunshine and camaraderie and general joviality, I quite happily agreed. Besides, back in January, April seemed a lifetime away. And I didn't bother mentioning the whole thing on the blog because, to be honest, it really didn't seem like a particularly big deal.

Tell that to my thighs, and ankles, and arms, and back. Tell that to me. I must admit though, that I did start to get a sense of the enormity of the task when, yesterday, I looked it up on the internet for some background information. 14.1 kilometres. Over bridges and under tunnels. 30,000 participants. Road closures. Toilets on the back of trucks. Time limits.
After a few moments of stupefaction, I tried to worm my way out of the whole thing but Cathri talked me into at least giving it a go. So at six o'clock this morning I rose from uneasy slumber and took some Berocca to give me B-B-Bounce (because I sure as hell can't R-R-Run). Then I also took some vitamin D and fish oil and echinacea for no other reason but that they were there and I thought they couldn't hurt. The more the merrier.

The fish oil may have come in handy for the train ride anyway, because we were packed in like sardines. To be disgorged at Flinders Street station amongst a throng of others, all dressed in running gear and all heading with varying degrees of enthusiasm towards the start of the run. Somehow I found Cathri, Donna, Leanne and Leanne's friend, Robyn (from left to right in the photo, with me second from right), and we joined the mass exodus. A veritable flood of people, all looking decidedly more fit and confident than me (or so it seemed).

Apart from a mass of lycra and leggings (some on bodies which one would not normally associate with lycra and/or leggings), there were runners dressed as storm troopers and over-sized rabbits and fairies. Even with my rapidly mushrooming trepidation, I had to admit it made for a great atmosphere. Thirty minutes later, with my dodgy knee wrapped tightly, we all shuffled up to the start area and, with the help of Steve Moneghetti, counted down to 'go'! Then we waited a further fifteen minutes to actually get moving. Even after that we only shuffled along for a while, which suited me perfectly, but then it was on.
Now I won't bore you with all the details. Suffice to say I had to veer off the course at the first pit stop and was left behind by the others (just as well we never went to war when we were in the Army Reserves together), and when I got going again I was about number 29,996 out of 30,000 people. So I could only improve (if one discounts the 4 people behind me, that is). So what else? Well, walking by myself was quite nice but I was also relieved to catch up with Cathri and Donna about five kilometres later. And the view from the top of the Bolte Bridge was lovely, but not worth the ascent. And apparently I can jog with my injured knee, but boy it hurts when I stop. And Leanne is fitter than the rest of us, but we all finished so what the hell. And, lastly, those free grapes after a 14.1 kilometre walk/jog/run taste better than anything on earth.

So I did it. In a time of 2 hours, 23 minutes and 16 seconds. Number 6886 out of all the females. And it doesn't seem to matter so much now that I can't move any faster than a hobble, or that every bone in my body is having a personal tussle with surrounding muscle. Or that my side is actually bruised from where my pack kept slapping me. Or that I know I'm going to spend the next few days devouring pain tablets just to keep going. Or that... doesn't matter. I did it.

April (Fool's Day)

2009-04-01T19:39:00.000+11:00

This morning my precious (and I use the term loosely) son rang me at work and breathlessly informed me that his sister's school had just called to say she'd collapsed and been taken to hospital. Now I am pretty good under pressure, if I say so myself, so after a muted gasp, I calmly stood and told him I'd take care of it while I did a mental check to see what meetings I'd have to cancel etc. That's when he chortled gleefully and declared 'April Fool's Day!' Now I'll pause here while every parent reading this takes a collective gasp. Yes, that's right - he thought it was funny. Not just funny, but absolutely jaw-breakingly hysterical.

Suffice to say we had words and he rang off, rather miffed at my lack of humour. I really think he imagined that I would immediately chuckle appreciatively and then congratulate him at length on a brilliant prank. I didn't. Not even close. Now, just in case anybody is picturing this crestfallen little boy standing by the phone, and thinks I was rather harsh on the poor little mite, let me add the following information - my son is 26 years old. An adult male. So I think I am entirely justified in saying that the only family member who was at risk of hospitilisation today was him.

As a direct result, to calm my nerves (and my fury), I demolished several chocolate biscuits, one blueberry muffin, most of my lunch (even though it was only nine-thirty in the morning), and a piece of something that looked like a Danish but tasted rather odd. And I'd been thinking about being really good this week too. Bloody hell. Who'd have kids?

PS: I'm serious. It's not a rhetorical question at all. Because if anyone's interested, I've got an offer you can't refuse. One mostly house-trained 26-year old with a warped sense of humour. Going cheap.

March (keeping up...)

2009-03-22T21:24:00.000+11:00

Now that we've officially decided to postpone the trek, I'll have to be really careful the little training I was doing doesn't fall by the wayside. I know me - give me an excuse (doesn't have to be a good one - any excuse will do), and I'll use it and abuse it until the cows come home (and not having cows myself, nor ever intending such bovine ownership, this means forever).

So I am determined to keep up the Sunday treks at least. Mostly we do the 1000 steps (with the fire-track thrown in every now and again), and I'm actually starting to recognise people who are also there at the same time each week. There's the posse of good-looking young guys who talk rather loudly and take up more space than they should, and the ultra-fit middle-aged woman who can run up the steps without breaking stride, and the youngish bloke with the rotund belly who breathes so heavily that your skin sort of crawls when he comes up behind, and the 82-year old who, with her grand-daughter, slowly but surely climbs the steps each week. She, in particular, gives me inspiration. Because I'll be buggered if I let an octogenarian show me up. Not just yet anyway.

March (Breaking news!)

2009-03-20T12:50:00.000+11:00

It's official! Kokoda 2009, formerly known as Kokoda 2010, is now to be known (once again) as Kokoda 2010! That's right, we have unanimously (well, almost) decided to postpone the trek until mid next year, probably July-ish. It seems I wasn't the only one with issues - Lyn also needs an operation and would have been running it pretty close, while Maria was having second thoughts about the whole leaving a baby-under-one-year thing (even apart from the logistics of long-distance breast-feeding), and Cathri was rather pleased to gain an extra ten months training time. Unfortunately Lorraine was pretty devastated - but that's mainly because she was actually training with another Kokoda-bound group a few years ago and they all ended up pulling out. So I'm guessing she's concerned it's going to happen again. But it's not! We are Kokoda 2010 and, in exactly sixteen months, we will be wading through mud and fording rivers and scaling cliffs while sweating through horrendous humidity and wearing the same clothes for days on end. Can't wait!

March (decisions)

2009-03-11T12:49:00.000+11:00

Well, I've been mulling things over since the last post (while waiting for a miracle, like the sudden onset of advanced healing powers or something), and have finally decided to email all my fellow trekkers and lay the injury/operation situation before them. The way I see it, we have several options:

1. They go without me.

2. We postpone the whole thing till next year, or

3. We continue with preparations, pay our deposits etc - and just hope for the best (like the sudden onset of advanced healing powers or something).

So as soon as I finish here I shall compose a suitably abject yet stoic email and sit back to wait for the response. Although I use the term 'sit back' rather euphemistically, because the act of sitting, especially back, is one of those little luxuries that I used to take for granted but no longer have time for. On top of everything else, I've got my youngest daughter's 14th birthday party this Saturday - and it'll be her first 'proper' mixed party since she became a teenager (i.e. last year). And apparently the pressure is on her (i.e. me) to ensure everything is absolutely perfect, the food is plentiful, everyone has a riproaring time, and not a single child looks even momentarily bored. Unfortunately the forecast is for non-stop torrential rain all weekend - and apparently also, somehow that's my fault.

March (a minor setback)

2009-03-04T15:43:00.000+11:00

Being the stoic type, I haven't much mentioned my ongoing injury (torn cartilege) and how that's been affecting training etc. One of the reasons for this is, to be honest, that the effect has been minimal. Just a slight twinge every so often and the handy ability to use the injury as an excellent excuse whenever anybody (usually fitter than I) suggests doing that little bit extra. But now it seems the whole cartilege thing is about to rear its ugly head (how's that for an unattractive image?).

See, the problem is that I was pinning my hopes on the specialist I saw back in January being able to get me an appointment with a surgeon within a specific timeframe. Silly me. What I've ended up with are two appointments (with two different surgeons and at two different hospitals - confused? Me too), neither of which are going to give me enough time to undergo surgery and then recover. Not enough anyway for a somewhat gruelling September hike that involves hills and dales and the occasional cliff face. Bugger.

March (fitness creeps up...)

2009-03-01T14:57:00.000+11:00

Well, I'm pleased (in fact, borderline ecstatic) to announce that I'm finally starting to get somewhat fit! I did the 1000 steps this morning and only had to pause five times on the way up, which is a considerable improvement on my standard ten or so. Another way to test our collective rise in fitness levels has been Cathri's face which, a few months ago, used to become a rather alarming fleshy-puce colour but now merely gains a pinkish hue no matter what. Even when she slipped down some rocks last week and landed smack on one particularly jagged protuberance, the colour of her face remained simply flushed (probably for good reason), rather than luridly liverish. This is good not only for Cathri personally (more attractive for starters), but for the rest of us who can now wear red or burgundy etc without fear of violent colour clashing.
However the most amusing thing to happen on that particular hike (up the dreaded firetrack), was when Leanne looked back down at our almost perpendicular ascent and declared herself as having an attack of libido (she meant vertigo). This quite understandably left the rest of us momentarily speechless. I mean, should anybody enjoy rock climbing that much? And, if so, what the hell would they be like on the rugged terrain of Kokoda? Hmm...

February (fires)

2009-02-11T06:59:00.000+11:00

We are in shock. The devastation and loss of life is just overwhelming. Yesterday I stood outside work and watched a convoy of little fire-trucks, one after another - heaps of them - heading up the highway towards Yarra Glen under police escort. I didn't know whether to clap or cry.

Saturday was the hottest day we've ever had in Victoria - 46.4 degrees. The heat was so dense it took your breath away, and it felt aggressive, malevolent. As if it was just biding its time, waiting for a sign. Then in the afternoon it flared - fires dotted around the state, some natural, some the work of arsonists whose motivation is beyond me. The fire here at Ferntree Gully was relatively minor, just enough to give us all a scare and turn the sky putrid for the evening. But Gippsland and Beechworth and Horsham and Marysville and Wandong and poor bloody Kinglake, who, after the wind change, had the inferno scream up the hill in two minutes flat - they burnt, and burnt. Streets where every single person who stayed to fight was killed. Burnt out cars that were now coffins, run off the road as people tried to escape. Acre after acre of skeletal trees and roasted earth. Tractors that have literally melted into molten rivulets embedded within the dirt. Lonely chimneys standing guard over twisted roofing and crumbled brick. Entire towns wiped off the map.

The death toll rises all the time. We gasped when it was 14, but now, as it climbs past 180, we're simply numb. Too many to contemplate. Until you see the faces in the newspaper. Whole families, smiling couples, children grinning shyly at the lens, teenagers with skin like milk, men of 80 who have been through many fires but nothing like this. And now, never again.

I've given blood, and books for care packages (well done Yvette), and donated to the appeal - but it's still frustrating because it's hard to know what else to do. Except send my heartfelt thoughts to everyone affected by these dreadful fires and let you all know that the rest of us mightn't be there, because we know we'd just get in the way, but nevertheless we're still with you. You're not alone.

February (already!)

2009-02-03T08:07:00.000+11:00

I can't believe it's already February. I mean, I still have our Christmas lights up around the decking! But I think I might leave them there this year and just change their name to 'decking lights', then it becomes a matter of ambience/decor and not indolence/sloth. Not that there's been a whole lot of the latter lately (certainly not as much as I prefer), because what with recovery from the heatwave, as well as last minute school requirements and my new job etc plus the fact that my latest book just hit the shelves (which requires an investment of time publicity-wise), there hasn't even been time to scratch. Which, incidentally, was somewhat necessary last week because the dog had fleas.

We did, however, find the time to go for our first training hike with our trekking company (this is the training we've been training for!). Now, to be honest, I was really worried about this hike, and I know Cathri was too, because it sounded pretty full-on. But here's where the heatwave came in handy - they changed it from a seven hour up-and-down-dale marathon to a two hour up the side of a mountain one. In comparison the latter seemed a pretty good trade, even with a 6.30am start time. And I figured if it all got too much, I could just jump. But much to my surprise (seriously, I was stunned), I had an absolute ball. I don't think I've clambered since I was a kid, and that's exactly what we had to do. Up the fire-track on the side of Mount Dandenong, climbing over rocks and hanging on to trees to keep balance. And the view from the top was stupendous! A panarama of Melbourne in the morning. Can't wait to do it again.

January (heat-wave)

2009-01-31T10:23:00.000+11:00

Well, summer has certainly struck with a vengeance. In fact after the last group walk, Cathri arrived back home to find the back of Langwarrin burning away merrily. But this week the weather has outdone itself, literally, as it's been the hottest heat-wave on record in Victoria. The last three days alone were 43, 44 and then, today, a soul-destroying 45. Walking outside is like wading into a hot-water bottle, and the heat is so thick that it feels like gravity itself has been affected. Been melted.

I feeling rather aggrieved by it all because one of the reasons I live in Melbourne is the much-vaunted changeability of the weather. I mean, if I wanted this sort of repetitiveness, I'd move up to Queensland. The upshot however, apart from energy-sapped kids (two of whom started school again on the first day of the heat-wave!), has been that I'm unable to train at all. Several people have pointed out that it will also be a tad warm-ish at Kokoda, and therefore it might actually be a brilliant time to train, but what they're not taking into account is that it's a different type of heat over there. Less fierce, more humid. Besides, I saw a politician on television yesterday sympathising with the general population about the ridiculous temperatures and urging them not to over-exert themselves. So, just for now, I see couch-potato-ism as my civic duty.

January (Happy Birthday to me!)

2009-01-21T21:31:00.000+11:00

This year, just for something different, I spend my birthday hiking over the top of the huge-ass hill behind my house on our second group excursion. Lorraine proves her uber-fitness by branching off and heading up Stony Rise, an almost vertical goat track that leads to the water tower at the top. The one and only time I attempted Stony Rise was about ten years ago, when I was considerably fitter. I remember thinking that (a) there's a reason humans aren't goats (okay, my thought processes get slightly murky with exertion), (b) the track would never, ever, ever end, and (c) I was going to die. Upon finally reaching the top I fell to the ground with sheer, jelly-legged exhaustion and this little old lady came rushing over to ask me if I was okay. When I explained, within ragged gulps of breath, she nodded sympathetically and said 'oh yes, dear, I know exactly what you mean. I do Stony Rise twice a week and I often find it rather challenging.'

My dedication to the cause is even more admirable (I believe) given that today is not only my birthday but also my only day off this week. Because on Monday I started back on the dreaded 9-5 treadmill. It was all rather sudden, even though I'd been in the market for a job for a little while. But one minute I was wandering around the house trying to find excuses not to write (my best was last week's decision that all the spare electrical cords - from old computers, phones, MP3 players etc - had to be housed within individual snaplock bags), and the next I was accepting a job with a start-date the following Monday. To be honest, I wouldn't have even been looking for work if not for the fact those damn kids of mine expect to be fed daily (or, to be more accurate, hourly). And the writing game ain't all that good at that (especially not when you spend your time snaplocking electrical cords instead).

Unfortunately Monday was also the day the Australian Open tennis tournament started, which is my favourite viewing time of the entire year. However, looking on the bright side (which I am determined to do this year, even if it blinds me), starting work now also means I miss out on the last week and a half of LEOSHS (see previous post), so it's not all bad!

January (LEOSHS etc)

2009-01-17T20:08:00.000+11:00

This week has been marred by latter-end-of-school-holidays syndrome (also known as LEOSHS, which is easier to enunciate after a few drinks). This is a medical/psychological condition that relates to how painful one's offspring become in the last weeks of the summer school holidays. I am also quite convinced that children gradually become more annoying as they age because they know (sneaky little buggers) that the older they are, the more difficult it is to put them up for adoption.

Despite the full swing of LEOSHS, I managed to find some 'me' time this week, which I spent visiting the specialist about my knee. It seems I have cartilage issues (as if I needed more issues), and I require a procedure called an arthroscopy. The good news is that it's a simple day procedure with just a two-month recovery time. The bad news is that my socialist leanings have precluded private health insurance and it seems I will now pay the price. I either fork out a significant sum of money (signficant to me anyway!) or I wait two months for yet another specialist appointment and then a further six months for the surgery. Which means, with the two-month recovery time, I'm cutting it all very, very fine. Bloody hell.

January (first group training)

2009-01-13T19:56:00.000+11:00

Less than a week later we embark on our first group training exercise. This allows me just enough time to regain a relatively normal walking gait as after my 723 steps, I was severely disabled for two days and nominally disabled for a further three. We meet at my house, all dressed in various forms of hiking gear. Lorraine looks quite professional in her 'skins', while several others (including me) just look frumpy and Cathri (who has been given the all-clear from her doctor), with her blonde hair in pig-tails, just looks like a Swiss goat-herder (not that I've ever actually seen a Swiss goat-herder, or spent much time imagining what one would look like, but I've seen two different versions of Heidi so that makes me something of an expert).

We set off up some very steep hills behind my house (actually, to be totally truthful, Maria and I drove while everyone else walked - Maria on account of having given birth only a few months before and me on account of my dodgy knee which has finally come in somewhat useful). We park the car at the entrance to the national park and wait patiently for the others to join us, then off we go with a spring in our step (especially Maria and I) and a song in our heart (mine is 'I would walk 500 miles' by The Proclaimers but it soon gets boring as I only know the chorus).

We head up the long, winding track with towering eucalypts on either side and then along the ridge where, once past the water tower, the forest becomes considerably more lush, with gorgeous tree-ferns and hollow, echoing birdsong. I shall now skip the part where I nearly got everyone lost and begin again once we reached the uppermost section of the 1000 steps about an hour later. Whereupon Lorraine and Leanne (easily the two fittest in the group) show off by immediately launching themselves down the steps followed, considerably more slowly and reluctantly, by the rest of us. I hop melodramatically down about 150 odd steps, pausing every so often to ensure that my discomfort is noted by all, and then declare my knee can't take anymore. Lyn companionably accompanies me back to the top and we settle down for a good chat. It seems like forever before the others return, and then they insist on resting for a while before we head back.

But the journey home is a breeze. Apart from the fact we all now know the way (so directions aren't left up to me), even conversation is easier when you're going downhill. We pat ourselves on the back (figuratively speaking) for having officially started our training regime and then spend the time chatting about practical considerations for our trek. Like the best type of hiking boots, and those clever backpacks with water bladders that have little sucking nozzles, and whether to wax prior to Kokoda or shave during it. Cathri mutters that if she brings a razor along, it won't be for her legs. We all chuckle appreciatively but I pause to wonder whether she is talking in a suicidal or homicidal vein. Perhaps this might turn out to be Alien vs Predator after all, but this time with a Heidi twist.

January (let the resolutions begin...)

2009-01-03T19:53:00.000+11:00

It never fails to astound me how Christmas itself, when it finally arrives, passes with little more than a blink. After all the build-up, with shopping and festivities and perusing (often with astonishment) the Christmas lists of offspring, and untangling lights and wrapping and pricing and decorating. Then, as quickly as you can wave a credit card through the air, all that remains is a fridge full of leftover turkey, an overflowing recycling bin, and a letterbox crammed with catalogues advertising everything, at considerably lower prices, that you just bought the week before. Oh, and children who are - at least for the time being - pretty damn content.

So one of my new year resolutions is always to slow down and just wallow in the whole Christmas thing a little more the next time around. Yet even as I make this resolution I know, deep down, that it'll just be more of the same and, in a way, that's what makes it Christmas. Other resolutions I make every single year without fail include losing weight, getting fit and doing something for myself. So the big difference this year is that, for the first time, there's a pretty good chance I'll follow through. Because with the whole Kokoda expedition on the horizon, I won't have any choice!

With this in mind I (with kids in tow) made an attempt on the 1000 steps today. These are a set of steep, winding steps dug into the side of a hill (mountain) in the Ferntree Gully National Park. Not long ago (correction - Lorraine [rather pedantically] informs me it was actually about a decade ago at least) plaques were included along the 1000 steps to signify the different sections of the Kokoda trek itself. So that the first plaque tells all about Owers Corner and the last gives the details of Kokoda village and the final battle. This excellent training ground is fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on my mood) situated only about a ten minute drive from my house.

From the very popular picnic ground, it's a good fifteen minute uphill walk just to reach the start of the (very popular) steps and enough to exhaust me already. Nevertheless, after gulping in air, I launch myself at the steps themselves. I stop at every plaque and pretend to read the inscription but really I'm only trying to survive. I notice, however, that I am not the only one using this ploy. Each plaque is surrounded by heavy breathing walkers - and I'm pretty sure (I hope) that it's not the battle information making them that way.

I reach 723 steps before I surrender. In the meantime each one of my children has passed me on the way back down, having already reached the summit. Unfortunately each one also stops to hold a cheerful conversation despite the fact that it is quite obvious I can barely breath, let alone cheerfully converse. However, if I found the ascent difficult, that's nothing compared to the descent. By the time I reach the starting point once more, my thighs have commenced a very disconcerting quiver and my retarded knee has started to object. Strongly.

In addition I can feel every single one of the chocolates, Viennese pastries and assorted other goodies I have consumed over the Christmas period. Not to mention all that leftover turkey plus the roast potatoes and pumpkin and gravy I kept making to keep it company. They seem to be coagulating as I walk/hobble/stagger. I resolve, again (and this time I damn well mean it), to start watching what I eat.

December (dates are set)

2008-12-04T09:44:00.000+11:00

It's odd how something can bubble along for ages in the misty land of conjecture and ideas, and then overnight be catapulted into reality. After almost six months of mainly talking (and a very little bit of training!), that's exactly what's just happened with Kokoda 2009 (formerly known as Kokoda 2010). Last night we met with Sue, a very pleasant lady from a local trekking company, and now we suddenly have official dates, and paperwork, and even a training schedule (I'm going to need training to get through the training!). To demonstrate the depths of our collective commitment, we even held off the champagne while the meeting was in progress.

But it's all a little bit scary, especially when a glance at the calendar reveals only nine months to get into shape (any shape, I'm not fussy, as long as my present ratio between height and width becomes more differentiated). But having dates has also brought with it another surge of motivation (I'm having so many of these that last week I thought I might be menopausal). So Leanne is off to put together travel arrangements, Lorraine is off to do more research, Cathri, as a diabetic, is off to get the all-clear from her doctor, and I have finally made an appointment with a specialist to have a look at my damn knee. We're really going to do this.

I am also motivated enough to start looking at how to run a blog. I've decided to call it 'The Kokoda Diet', not just because of the weight loss/fitness implications, but in the context of nourishment and nurture. Like, without getting too spiritual (because I'm not), sustenance for the soul. Then there's also the more seldom used context of 'diet' as an assemblage, convention etc. Lastly, and most importantly, I just like the sound of it!

November (reality arrives in the mail)

2008-11-24T15:07:00.000+11:00

Despite the injury (which has healed to the point my leg is usable but not particularly bendable), I have managed, rather amazingly, to maintain my original almost two-kilo weight loss. Even though I have also managed to develop an addiction to lolly snakes (99% fat free but unfortunately with a truck-load of sugar). So now, if I'm not chewing one of my nicotine chewing gums, I'm eating a snake. Or three.

And it was while I was busily separating the yellow snakes (they taste best) from the slither, that I had my latest inspired idea. Which was to start this blog and detail our whole Kokoda experience, including the battle (because that's how it feels at the moment!) to get fit. I decide, somewhat airily, that the fact that my entire blog-like experience amounts to a singular paragraph that I submitted for a book promotion last year just adds to the challenge. After all, that's what it's all supposed to be about anyway.

That same day I receive a DVD via post from a Kokoda Trek company that Leanne has contacted. The DVD features a group of South Australians who undertook the trek a couple of years ago. With some reservations (isn't ignorance a form of bliss? I quite like bliss), I put it on and settle down to watch with a cup of coffee and a packet of Tim Tams (they are the pink-packaged type that donate money to breast cancer so I'm being supportive here).

At the beginning the trekkers all look refreshingly normal but pretty soon there's an awful lot of walking, and jungle, and the odd vertical cliff-face. Also a lot of rain and mud. Suspiciously the film does not show anything that even remotely resembles a toilet in the Thomas Crapper sense (which also happens to be the sense I prefer). Although the food looks decidedly less than gourmet so perhaps the trick is to moderate what goes in, so that - well, you see my point. I learn that Day Two is known as 'Leech Day', which I do not find particularly encouraging. Do we also have a 'Malaria Day', or a 'Dysentery Day'? Maybe even a 'Falling Off the Side of one of those Ridiculous Cliff Days'? Just as I think this, one of the guys on the DVD does exactly that, coming to a rest by some river rocks with his head in his hand and blood seeping through his fingers.

My youngest daughter comes home from school as I am somewhat numbly watching the second half of the film. She plops herself down next to me, throwing her blazer across the floor with the nonchalant abandon of one who does not have to pay for dry-cleaning. For a few moments she just stares at the line of weary trekkers forging their way through the jungle and then the following conversation ensues:

Her: Is this that alien versus predator film?
Me: (with feeling): I certainly hope not. Actually it's about the Kokoda Track. You know, that thing I'm doing next year. And pick up your blazer please.
Her (looking from the film to me and then back again): Oh. Hmm.
Me: You could be a little more supportive.
Her (staring at the television): I am. Really. Um, why is that woman crying?
Me (injecting my voice with hearty conviction): Those are joyful tears. Loaded with endorphins and adrenalin and all that sort of good stuff. Because she's challenging herself, and accomplishing things which she never -
Her: Yeah, right. Hey, did you eat all those Tim Tams?

After I have finished watching the film, I'm rather surprised to find that I do not feel as daunted as expected, in fact I feel oddly reassured. All that camaraderie and personal growth. Even when the bloke falls down the cliff, everyone scrambles to help him. And it's not like he sustained fatal injuries. Besides, even apart from the fact they are all from South Australia (I had a marriage break down in SA once, for which I have always held the state somewhat responsible), one of the men is about seventy, another is seriously overweight, and one of the women is legally blind. And I figure that if they can do it, then surely so can I. This gives me hope. So I limp to the kitchen to celebrate.

October (training ends)

2008-10-31T15:16:00.000+11:00

Even apart from Maria, the youngest in our group at age 43, giving birth to baby number five (and moving house at almost the same time. Wow), several rather significant things have happened in the past month. The first - and arguably most significant - is that Lorraine has rather perfidiously persuaded everybody else that we are not getting any younger and therefore it makes logistical sense to do the trek in late 2009 rather than mid 2010. In one fell swoop, I have lost six - ten months of training time (and no doubt this period would have been my most productive).

The second thing was that it occurred to me I might be able to turn the whole Kokoda experience into a book, so I sent a proposal off to my publishers and got a positive response. Now all I need to do is break it to my fellow trekkers that they are each about to be given starring roles in my next literary production. And then persuade a couple of them to share their innermost secrets (or seduce one of the porters?), to give the narrative some drama.

The final thing was that I managed to lose nearly two kilos in weight by just exercising (who would have thought?), and then ruined everything by doing myself some sort of knee/cartilage injury. That's what you get for playing tennis and trying to slide across the court rather than actually move your feet. So I am temporarily on crutches, which means that soon my shoulders will be built up most impressively, but my legs will still be damn useless. Great.

September (training begins)

2008-10-01T14:08:00.000+10:00

This month I finally start training. Even though we have tentatively settled on Anzac Day 2010 as our time to trek, a casual glance in the mirror tells me that even nineteen months may not be enough to get into shape. I begin with a mental assessment of my current state (classic procrastination - one of my strong suits). I am 48 years old, and at least ten kilos overweight. I am probably at my lowest level of fitness ever (apart from, perhaps, immediately prior to giving birth to each of my offspring). On the plus side, I did give up sm0king over ten years ago, but unfortunately I replaced it with an addiction to nicotine chewing gum (preferably mint flavoured but I'll settle for citrus in a pinch). I also have chronic headaches from prior neck damage, problems with low blood sugar, a bladder the size of a deformed pea (no pun intended), a dodgy calf muscle in my left leg and severely flat feet (although they might be a plus with all those Kokodian cliffs).

Not altogether encouraged by this mental assessment, I decide to be more pro-active. So I begin by drawing up a chart with my current weight (82.5 kilos [gulp], and as I have one of those you-beaut scales that also gives extra info, I learn that 43.6% of me is fat and 36.6% is liquid. This does not seem a good ratio. Clearly I need to drink more). Quickly moving on, I name today 'day one' using a nice font that I shade artistically with red and black pencils. This immediately gives me a sense of achievement. I now feel motivated.

I clamber on the exercise bike but only last six minutes and twenty-three seconds before deciding that perhaps the treadmill is more suited to my current level of fitness. Unfortunately this turns out to be stultifyingly boring so instead I exercise by moving it into my bedroom in front of the spare television. To finish up, I decide to run up and down the front stairs ten times. On the ninth upward run, with my vision rapidly blurring with exhaustion, I trip over and strike myself across the bridge of my nose on the concrete edge of step number six.

With tears streaming from my eyes, blood dribbling from my nose and obscenities spewing from my mouth, I stagger back into the house. Now I'll need to add a nose job onto my wish list.

September (research)

2008-10-01T12:56:00.000+10:00

This month I decided to do some research into the Kokoda Track itself. I would have begun training but felt it was more important to first arm myself with knowledge because knowledge is power. And I like power. With the aid of the Internet, I started with geography and soon discovered a level of personal ignorance that was almost embarrassing (I'm not sure why I was so surprised - when I joined the RAAF straight from school, I thought Perth was somewhere in Queensland - which would no doubt have come as quite a surprise to most Western Australians. But Sir Joh Bjelke Petersen was the premier of Queensland at the time so perhaps I just saw him as an all-embracing kind of chap).

It turns out the Kokoda Track is in Papua New Guinea, and runs for about 100 kilometres through the Owen Stanley Ranges. It became part of Australian folklore when the Japanese decided to trek along it down to Port Moresby, and were prevented largely by a vastly out-numbered Australian force. Aided, of course, by the heroism of the native Papua New Guineans. While I already knew that Kokoda was a tale of extreme bravery, of comradeship, and of victory against the odds, the details themselves are well worth reading. So many of the men were barely more than teenagers, and the conditions so unbelievably harsh (a good site for an overview is http://www.anzacday.org.au/history/ww2/bfa/kokoda.html)

After a few hours reading all about the campaign, I went back to geography and found out that the Kokoda Track, which is a single-file trail in most parts, runs along some of the most rugged and isolated terrain in the world, reaching a height of 2,250 metres and combining hot, humid days with intensely cold nights, torrential rainfall and endemic tropical diseases such as malaria. Not to mention those leeches. I think I need a drink.

August (motivation)

2008-08-24T13:04:00.000+10:00

I've also had time to reflect on why the whole Kokoda trek idea had such immediate appeal. And I've decided that, apart from the military history, there are several personal reasons:

1. It's been a long time since I've done anything for myself.

2. Having spent the past 26 years as a mother, going for a long walk sans offspring sounds MARVELLOUS.

3. I'd like to lose weight and get fit - and this seems a surefire (if rather drastic) way to do it. No excuses!

4. I have some issues (just as we all do) that I'd like a little bit of time to deal with. Mainly because my methodology thus far has been to use my cerebral floor-coverings as a storage facility, meaning I just shove everything remotely unpleasant under the carpet and try to ignore it. Which only works until the carpet gets all lumpy and you trip over the damn thing.

5. Then there's the fact that lately I've noticed a certain complacency has slithered into my outlook. And, in some strange way, it feels older than my actual years, almost as if providing desensitisation in advance. So that, for example, if I'm watching a lifestyle program and some adventure or other comes on, I just take a sip of my hot chocolate and muse 'well that would have been nice but too late now.' And I mention my age nowadays more than I ever used to, often as an excuse not to do something (like move furniture or master the Nintendo Wii). Then there's things like the other day when I was staring dolefully into the mirror at my outfit and I noticed a small lump underneath my right breast. Upon investigation, it turned out to be my nipple. But rather than be horrified at this southward migration of hitherto well-placed body parts, I simply shrugged philosophically (and re-positioned it). Now this complacency is probably quite beneficial for long-term psychological well-being because, whether we like it or not, we are all going to age (even Nicole Kidman). But I suspect that it can go too far, especially when it becomes a justification for lethargy. And while trekking the Kokoda will not assist physical rejuvenation (perhaps surgery might be a later challenge?), it will - I hope - aid mental rejuvenation. In other words I need a challenge to shake me up. Besides...

6. Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!" (not sure who to attribute this quote to but it's been doing the rounds of the internet for a while).

August (recruitment)

2008-08-24T12:50:00.000+10:00

One month later and I have learnt things about my friends I never knew. Some of the ones I thought would be interested laughed at the very idea and others who I thought wouldn't be, were. I now also know that one friend will not go anywhere that requires innoculation and another can walk up hills but not down (which begs several questions!). I have also discovered that nobody likes leeches.

But the bottom line is that we now have a core group of enthusiastic trekkers, including Leanne who is a travel agent - which should prove useful with the planning (with the added bonus that if things go wrong along the way, she is at hand for immediate punishment). She also comes up with the rather inspired idea of linking the trek with a charity like breast cancer so that we can raise money at the same time and the whole thing can be doubly inspirational! Apart from Leanne, there is Cathri, Maria and Lyn, all friends from my Army Reserve days, and Lorraine, a friend from tennis. We are all of a similar age (i.e. not exactly youthful) and fitness (i.e. not). There are also several other women who are considering the venture but are not definites as yet. I shall try to talk them into adding to this blog as time goes on.

July (the beginning...)

2008-08-01T07:42:00.000+10:00

It all started, like so many things in my life, with a few glasses of champagne. A brainwave of an idea that just popped into my head from nowhere, blossoming with apparent brilliance. You'd think that, by the ripe old age of 48, I'd be well aware of the effect that champagne has on my judgement and be able to take that into account when imbibing. Especially since at least one of my offspring owes her existence to the correlation between champagne and my inhibitions (I probably should have named her 'Champagne' to acknowledge this or, to avoid upsetting the French, just 'Sparkling Wine' - although 'Annoying Whine' is usually more apt). But that's the thing about having your judgement impaired; you are unable to even judge that your judgement is impaired. See? Clearly a conundrum.

Anyway, there I was, leaning against the kitchen bench enjoying said champagne while waiting for some old friends to arrive. Everything was ready to go and I was just letting my thoughts meander, from such diverse topics like whether I'd washed the kids' school uniforms, to whether that possum last night was inside the roof or out, to whether permanent hair removal was value for money (what is it with chin hairs?!), to how I might celebrate my fiftieth birthday in about eighteen months. I paused with this last for a while, letting myself picture a party like I had for my fortieth - which was fun but oh, so exhausting. And I realised that I'd rather do something different. Something that would start my second half-century off with style. Maybe even something challenging.

And suddenly there it was - the Kokoda Track. Lit up in flashing neon across my frontal lobe as if it had been lurking in the little-used bits of grey matter (hanging out with things like algebra, equations and how to make a marriage succeed), just waiting for the chance to leap into the spotlight. And the funny thing was that I had no idea it was even there. Certainly I'd never seriously considered walking the Kokoda Track, nor do I know anybody who has. In fact all I know about the place is that it's steeped in military history and is located somewhere in New Guinea. Somewhere hot, surrounded by jungle, and with a native population who were trendsetters in the afro-type hair department.

So I have no idea where the idea came from. But once it arrived it stuck like cerebral glue. Nor did I even take the time to acknowledge the irony inherent in dismissing the idea of a party as being too exhausting and then, barely two breaths later, to contemplate trekking for days through mountainuous jungle in the tropical heat. The fact that I'm overweight, under-fit, and basically lazy doesn't enter into it either. No, I'm too busy congratulating myself on the sheer brilliance of the idea as I eagerly await my friends so that I can talk them into joining me. And so it begins...