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!

November (reality arrives in the mail)

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.