Change of Season

Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......chip, chip, chip, chip, chip, CHIP, CHIP, CHIP!

Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......chip, chip, chip, chip, chip, CHIP, CHIP, CHIP!

There’s a message going out on the cicada telegraph; that message is that summer is coming. At only 9.30am the temperature is 27°C and climbing. Mt Gravatt is merely a soft silhouette through the smoky haze that’s dirtying a pale, dry sky. It looks hotter than it really is. Sleeveless, we shuffle around the verandah chasing the shade. The cricket commentary burbles away in the background, a soothing ever-present tonic; you can’t rush around with that idle chatter setting the beat to a summery Sunday. Some people meditate to so-called relaxation music, but for my money you can’t beat the cricket for slowing the heart rate.

I had my first surf swim of the season yesterday, and, as it is every time this year, I underestimated the fierceness of the sun and came home with sunburn. I was alert enough to save my shoulders, face and arms with sunscreen, but my big round belly is now a big round RED belly. Naked I look like one of those strawberry and cream lollies. And with scorched knees, of all things. Sun dodging seems to be a lesson I need to learn afresh each year.

Tanya brought baby Thomas into the world this morning. His life is beginning at this very Queensland time of year, a time of mangoes, watermelon, hammocks, swimming, siestas. It seems just right: change of season for all of us, and change of life seasons for Mike and Tan. It’s all beginnings right now. Our bambinos are due at the other end of the heat madness, so they’ll come into a world of... what? I can’t even remember what the end of summer’s like right now. In just the way that avoiding the sun seemed foreign yesterday, so I’ll make the same mistakes as the weather cools: forgetting to take a jumper when I go out, remembering to shut windows against the cool... Every year it seems that I’m encountering these things for the first time. And then, I’ll be encountering parenthood along with the rest of it.

Congratulations, Mike and Tan. You’ll be great parents.

Everything's Just Swell

Have you ever grown tomatoes? If you have you may know the phenomenon where a plant suddenly gets a whole lot more water than it’s used to, and so the fruit swells so much that it splits: that’s how I feel right now. When it’s quiet you can hear my seams creaking. Seriously, if I stand still long enough and watch my belly I swear I can see it growing. Lofty is adamant that on awaking each morning he notices a difference. And I’m not even half way there yet! Surely something has to give soon. How embarrassing to be in a meeting or on the bus when—rip!—and my innards cascade out onto the floor like a dropped bucket of wet snags.

What’s the etiquette in that situation?

Holy Holey

I do love a Face-of-Jesus/Mary-on-Everyday-Object. I really do. Some of you may recall my own good fortune with the blessed Gummy Virgin, and my excitement over the Holy Mother of Cheeses toasted sandwich. Well, my friends, I do believe they've both been surpassed: I received this in the mail today... I'm sure you'll be as awe-struck as I was.

Peace be with you.

Tagged

Well, something had to be done to get this blog a-rollin' again. I've been tagged by the lovely Debra. So. Five little-known things about your correspondent.

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1. The first one is well-known to many, but perhaps not to all who read here. I'm pregnant. With twins. Their due date is a source of contention, but all seem to be agreed that it's late April or early May.

2. In 2001 I won the Garden Gnome painting competition during Canberra's spring festival, Floriade. So I am a prize-winning artist. I won a book on Frida Kahlo and tickets to see an exhibition of her work that was showing at the National Gallery at the time. It was a good prize.

3. My first real job after leaving home was as a best boy. A best boy means leading workshop hand and trainee, in a hot glass studio in this case. The traineeship came to a halt when the blower's arch enemy was promoted within the college and locked our studio. Permanently. I took away with me a greater understanding of petty politics, an enhanced love of very, very hot things, and a fondness for Santana.

4. I've had one genuine act of chivalry done in my cause: a boy on my school bus spit in another boy's face (OK, in his mouth) as punishment for a vile infraction upon my character. I was nearly sick, but deeply moved. The cad in this story was a scurvy dog, to be sure, and he deserved every last thick drop of it. I'm sure one reader will know who my deranged hero was if I say "P.Q.".

5. I've always wanted to learn tap dancing. Maybe it's the outfits.

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OK, time to tag. I nominate Fatuous One, Tim, and Cheryl. I'm not going to tell them, just to see if they're still reading. I would have tagged Chris, but, at a guess, she'd never get around to doing it.

Kitlers

...cats that look like Hitler. But of course.

The Election Campaign Gets Serious

Less than a fortnight to go until we drag the blunt pencil over our ballot papers, the sorting of the sheep from the goats has begun in earnest. The issue at hand: the baking abilities of Premiers' wives. Wicked Witch of the West, Flo Bjelke-Petersen, has come out swinging at the incumbent wife, Dr Heather Beattie, over her supposed lack of prowess in the kitchen. Heather recently drew public attention with her white chocolate and macadamia biscuits, but Flo's not impressed:

I think my scones would be better as far as I'm concerned. I really feel as far as that recipe's concerned, I think if she concentrated more on helping Peter Beattie to get things fixed up in the health department it'd be a jolly lot better.

Well, that's Heather put in her place, and as eloquently as ever.

Much as I hate to say it, I'd have a pumpkin scone over a white chocolate and macadamia bikkie any day, but if Flo's fingers had been in the dough I may reconsider.

Maybe This Year

In comparison to others in my socio-economic niche I suppose I don't have a lot of stuff, but even still, I have too much. Too much stuff. I don't need any more stuff. Despite that, on my birthday later on this month and then at Christmas time several well-meaning loved ones will likely give me a bit more of it. It will be nice stuff, given with love and thought, but essentially surplus to my affluent Western lifestyle. How much better to give something to someone who needs it.

Oh look! Here's an opportunity to do just that! It's Oxfam Unwrapped, a scheme whereby you purchase something for someone in genuine need, but you can do so in the name of the person whose birthday (or whatever) it is. You give them the gift of giving.

As much as I'd love another piece of kitschy clutter this year, how about a goat instead?