April (and it's over)

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!)

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)

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...)

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!)

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!)

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)

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)

(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)

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)

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!)

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)

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!)

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...)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.