Revised Sand Baby on Crapometer

It's here if anybody would like to read it: http://www.crapometer.blogspot.com/

Cat or dog?

We have a mouse in our bedroom, scritchy-scritching behind the wall. Simultaneously, the cat or dog debate has been raging in our house. I thought this would seal the cat side, but husbad claims that he read somewhere that mice will also stay away from a house with a dog in it. Any ideas?

Cricket Boy bowled like a...well...really, there are no words...no, not demon...so not demon...more like something that really can't bowl...fish with its fins tied behind its back. Better draw a veil over that one. However, he won an award for his excellent batting last week, so he was happy. (Really, it was the coach making sure he'd bat next week, but he's not to know that...)

Late update on Cricket Boy

There were tears. There was stamping. There was messy nose blowing. Cricket Boy did not wish to bat.

'But you were great last time!' Big, wet eyes that knew the truth looked up at me.

Quick update. 'You'll be great this week!' More tears.

Then, coaxed every step by the coach, he dragged out to the crease; shoulders slumped, bat a-hanging, pads unravelling.

And he whacked that ball! He slapped that ball! He clouted that ball! He didn't score many runs, but he did score a little bit of dignity, and that's enough for me.

The rules of cricket

This is a quick read, honest. Only two pages. Big letters.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sportacademy/hi/sa/cricket/rules/the_basics/newsid_3794000/3794981.stm

Hm, you'll need to cut and paste that as I am a link-making fool.

Cricket Boy's First Steps

The slap of leather against willow. The gentle applause from the crowd. The smell of the dry grass that crunched under his feet. The feel of the giant pads, strapped tight against his legs, making him walk like a constipated brachiosaurus. The heavy bat, dragging along behind him.

Thus it was that Cricket Boy made his way to the crease for the very first time.

He lifted the bat, weighted it in his hands, then lowered it so the tip touched the sandy spot by the stumps and turned side on to the ball. The bowler, unemcumbered by pads, scurried towards him, released the ball - a flash of red - clatter - stumps ahoy! Out first ball.

To be continued as the cricket season unrolls...

Great words that need a little more exercise

Over on the most reverend Church Lady's blog (http://abenchpress.blogspot.com/) a few of us were distracted by some wonderful words that just don't get out of the house enough: namely 'turgid' and 'roil'.

Can you think of any other words that deserve to be sent out in the world a little more often?

Things you fail to notice in writing and in life

So I trundle downstairs this morning to find a spotless kitchen floor, but kitchen cupboards stained with brown. Husbad had dropped a cup of coffee. He had the brains to clean the floor before the Wrath of Wife descended on him, but even with all his academic and professional brilliance at his power, it simply did not occur to him that the coffee might have landed anywhere other than on the floor, and his eyes failed to register the streaky cupboards.

When I write, my eyes fail to register the word 'just', and I have to go through all my manuscripts using find and replace to cut the 'justs' down to a reasonable amount. I've found it occurring three or four times in a single sentence. I also don't always notice repeated words in my own writing - a much harder problem to fix as I can't use find and replace on every possible word I might have used (can I?).

Is there anything your eyes or brain simply refuse to register, either in your writing or in the world around you?

Spending your imaginary advance

JJ the Goblin says it's OK to blog brain fluff, thus refreshing my confidence in my ability to blog. Brain fluff. I can do that.

Today, however, I've come over all Proper Blogger and actually have a question which might be remotely interesting. There's a fine old wrangle going on at http://rejecter.blogspot.com/, basically The Rejecter vs Unpleasant Anonymous Blogger aka Anon 7.55. Hie on over there if you wish to follow the main thread of the argument. My question, vaguely arising out of their grandstanding, but requiring absolutely no knowledge of that to answer is: (drumroll)....

Your novel has just been accepted for publication (woo hoo!) for an advance of $5000 (hmm). What would you spend that money on?

Pointless entry

Jeez, I'm one lazy marsupial when it comes to blogging. About to go on another trip, so the situation won't improve much over the weekend.

I think the problem is that this blog has no focus. Bit like me, really.

You tell me. What should I blog about?

What fun it was in paradise...

Sea, sun, sand... Not that we froliced (should that have the 'k' or not?) much in the sea or on the sand, because when folk bring sand in lorries and lay it on bare rock in front of a tableau of oil tankers it's really not that inviting. The sun was good though. Apart from the rain.

OK, here's a very funny thing. Flight: $1000. Suncream: $15. Discovering suncream not waterproof after a whole day at the pool: priceless. When I could walk again (legs) and the littlest koala could open her eyes again (face) we bought new cream, to which Soccer/Cricket Boy then had an allergic reaction. Sooooo funny...

This sounds like a catalogue of disasters, but everything else was fab. Paradise. Best hotel swimming pools in the world. Three separate pools, all with warm water and one with water slides for little koalas. I like my pools hot, hot, hot and spent hours in a chlorine marinade. We eschewed the poolside bar for the water safety of the little koalas, but made up for it with cocktails later when the furry babes were tucked up tight in their eucalypt. We also had some top times with a friend from the old countree who now lives in paradise, and has a maid who looks after baby koalas and does grubby holiday washing while cooking dinner with her third hand. Maid? Angel.

No, I'm not telling you where paradise was. Koala secret.

Holiday hiatus!

We're dragging our weary bones on to a plane later this week, seeking sun and pleasure. Hoping to come back fully re-energised and raring to go with a fun-filled blog... I'm sure post-holiday koala brain will be much more entertaining than pre-holiday koala brain, which is as full of holes as a slice of gruyere.

Befuddled and therefore simple

My head is stuffed and befuddled by some weird virus or other, so I'm keeping it simple today (well, that's this week's excuse...). Let's talk the last soccer game of the season!

The last match was a good one. Against an all-girl team, but they had one of the most solid defenders I've ever seen (solid in every meaning of the word, too) and a good little attacker. Still, we kept them at bay with a 1-0 result. An accidental ball to the face of the attacker may have influenced that result - she refused to play any more after that. I'm reliably informed that Soccer Boy scored the goal, but unfortunately I wasn't watching at the time, and despite recording most of the match on my video recorder, you've guessed it, I missed the golden moment... Idiot mother.

Now, sadly, the Era of the 7G1s has drawn to its close. Never again will the exact same combination of boys and girls grace the field (guaranteed by the fact that one of our kids has already moved house and has been toiling long distances to get to our matches...). It's been fun, fun, fun all the way. Highlights: Soccer Boy's hat trick (grin). The Winner that Never Was (the whistle had blown, but we mums had missed it and went into full-on celebrations with all the kids laughing at us...). The Dancing on the Field (from one of the girls). The Dancing on the Field (from one of the boys). The Mums' Nights Out (heh, heh). The End of Season McDonalds Party and Presentation (Soccer Boy - Top Goalscorer). The End of Season Parents-Only Party (yet to come, but I'm optimistic as to its success).

In a month or so, Soccer Boy will return to the blog in another guise...Cricket Boy! Roll on summertime!

Stretched thin like chewing gum

Remember in the gross years before you realised anything was gross, you'd take a bit of chewing gum out of your mouth and stretch it until it was long and droopy and so transparent in the middle it seemed thinner than paper, but somehow it still held together? That's how I feel right now.

In the past three weeks we've been undergoing a major crisis with Soccer Boy who decided to grow a big lump in his neck. All kinds of tests showed nothing. We were about to have a biopsy for lymphoma and were quivering with fear, when at the very last minute his last blood test showed glandular fever.

He has glandular fever and we're happy! It's just, the other options were so awful. What's more he's not even unwell. A little tired and grumpy, but still going to school, even still playing soccer - although no goal this weekend, so clearly it is affecting him in some ways, heh heh...

Back to that gum...and then after you'd stretched it so far that it was just a thread wafting in your breath, you'd bring the ends back together, all dry and crusted with whatever dirt was on your hands, then you'd put it back in your mouth and chew it all back together again.

We're going on holiday in two weeks. We need to bring the ends back together again.

Victory!

It's been a long time since I've updated the progress of the 7G1s and, my friends, I know you are on the edge of your seats, because under sevens soccer is everybody's idea of a top sporting event.

The weather was against us for the longest time. Weeks without a match, weeks without training, weeks of small boys weeping every Saturday morning when they saw it was raining yet again. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, the sun crept out again and... we got crushed 5-0. Oops. The next week, though, the team were back on form with a 3-0 victory and this week a 4-0 victory, with Soccer Boy scoring twice in each game. Ah, mummy's so proud!

Has Harry Potter manipulated me?

*No spoilers in this post, honest. I wouldn't do that to you.*

Yesterday I did something I've never done before. I bought a book on the first day it was published. You know the one...

I'm not a frantic fan (with respect to those who are...hi jj!). I like the series; no more than that. I've read them all, mostly a year or so after publication. So why did I rush out and buy this one?

It was the spoilers, my friends, the spoilers. I never like to know the ending of a book before I've read it. I'm not a Last Page Looker. With the panic and furore about extracts on the web, reviews that reveal the plot and the general chit chat in the media about Harry's possible fate, I realised that sooner or later I might tune into something that would tell me what happens before I get the chance to discover it for myself. That would annoy me, and annoyed koalas have teeth and claws and a family to use them on.

So I bought the book. And after I bought it and made myself part of the fastest-selling-book-ever-on-the-planet phenomenon I started to feel slightly...dirty. Something started nibbling at the edges of my brain. It was the memory of the devious ways of marketing men. Of sweaty fifty-year olds that flick through catalogues of pretty young things commenting on their boobs, then pick 200 of them to leer over in the board room, and then send the chosen beauties to city bars to order a specific high-alocohol drink simply so they can tell the person next to them how yummy it is, like drinking chocolate pudding, and then move on to another bar to do the same thing, and again, and again, and again...

So what if the spoilers, the reviews, the general chit chat that the publishers, the agents, the marketing men are all so upset about are not an accident? What if behind the scenes the marketing men are rubbing their chubby little hands together and saying:

'Top hole Aubrey, that little 'accident' in sending out early review copies really worked! You even fooled the New York Times into doing our work for us! Now the muggles will rush out and buy the book as soon as possible so they don't find out the ending before they read it!'

'How about that spiffing little spoiler you managed to arrange by losing a manuscript on the train! Sheer genius, Carruthers.'

'And all those fake blogs Geoffrey's been working on down in the basement. The ones he's been writing for the past two years, simply so he can start posting hints and discussions that the muggles think come from real people!'

'I say chaps, it's been a team effort and we are all simply marvellous! Another Choccy Fizz? It tastes just like dessert you know. Chin chin!'

Here's a something...

...from the start of a short story. It's up on Evil Editor at the moment, and doing OK, despite the harrowing topic. It's a hard one to write, but I'd like to finish it, even if I have to do it bit by bit.


Ethan had the face of child, but the scalp of an old man. Tendrils of blue veins reached out under the pale skin, curving and parting like rivers searching for the sea. Rivers in winter, sluggishly winding under ice, compelled to struggle and flow to their destination, even when the surface lay still and silent.

Nothing in this room smelt of life, nothing offered freshness and perfume; only the sharp, nose-biting scent of intervention, blended with bleach, vomit and old food. On the bed Ethan was barely a wrinkle under the crisp-cornered sheets. The only thing that moved was his dummy, pumping in his mouth under closed eyes. The suck-suck-sucking sound of him working at the little rubber teat pulsed rhythmically against the humming of the machines propelling the medicine into his system. The machines that were keeping him alive.

Abby should have got rid of his dummy. Told him that if he’d give it to the poor kids Santa would bring him a special present. That’s what I did with my kids.

I suppose he can suck it for as long as he wants now.

‘Visit,’ her mother said, when she met me at the supermarket. ‘Please visit. They had lots of visitors at first; from the pre-school, from playgroup, but now…’ Her eyes gleamed bright with uncried tears, her mouth burst with unspoken words: ‘now there is no hope.’

‘They need their old friends,’ was what she actually said.

And after three months of procrastination...

...I'm finally into the rewrite of the novel fondly known as 'Maureen'. The first draft of this was young adult; but something bugged me about that and it turns out that Maureen was actually grown-up the whole time - well, at least on the outside. How she becomes adult on the inside is kind of the point of the novel, along with a bit of a murder mystery.

It's also going wholeheartedly into dialect, well, not to an incomprehensible level, but I've learned from some of my recent reading, that, yanno, it's OK to write the language that I heard around me throughout my childhood. As a Scot, I have the right, and hopefully the ability, to do that. I have a slight concern that it might be a turn off for some readers, but I'm not going completely Irvine Welsh and I'm doing very little phonetic representation. I loathe people who write dialect as 'Ah canna do verrrry much the day.' We're not idiots in Scotland. We're perfectly capable of realising that although we may pronounce 'I' as 'Ah', that's not how it's written, also the rolled 'r's are completely normal to us and not something to be remarked upon (we're sorry for those of you that can't say the 'r' and the 'ch' sounds, you poor dears). I'm trying to show the dialect via the vocabulary and the rhythm; with a minimum of phonetic representation and no 'och aye the noos'.

Interestingly, writing and thinking in my home tongue is bringing it out of my mouth too, and I think there's been a marked increase in the strength of my accent in the last week or so, not to mention some new words for the kid koalas to learn. Ah, the multicultural life.

The power of the shower

I had this great idea for a blog post while I was in the shower this morning. You know, an actual post, some real thoughts and conclusions, perhaps a little discussion. Something deep, rich and meaningful.

I'd written half of it in my head, the rest was rolling about in there, all in the wrong order, but just waiting for a pen and paper to line it all up and make it behave. Today I was going to be a real blogger!

Then I stepped out of the shower.

Poof.

Gone.

Just me and a few drips of water on the tiles, and the words 'deep, rich and meaningful' racketing about in my head, which wasn't much to go on as the words 'deep' and 'rich' came off my conditioner bottle in the first place. Gee, I love a good cliche.

The shower is one of my favourite thinking places and our water bill reflects that. I've had ideas for articles, come up with witty headlines and pithy body copy and solved gnarly plot points. The problem is...holding that thought. The instant I turn the water off, my shower ideas go down the plug hole with the soap scum and loose hairs. This is why my kids are occasionally treated to a naked, dripping me rushing towards pen and paper screaming 'I've got to write that down!'

Maybe I should glue a pen and whiteboard to my shower cabinet. Maybe then you'd get that wonderful blog that this replaced...

Where do you have your best ideas?

Washday blues

A comment Shanta made below reminded me of this little story, which was published in the Sydney Morning Herald a couple of years ago. To save you from scrolling, Shanta mentioned doing an interview with a paper while wrangling her baby boy. I did a live radio interview about this article while filling a paddling pool with a hose and trying to stop my toddler daughter from hurling herself into it. No idea what they thought about the background noise, but that's the life of a mummy writer in a nutshell.

Washday blues

Why are modern clothes and modern washing techniques so incompatible? Did it never occur to the manufacturers that their products might, once in a blue moon, be used together?

I concede happily that traditional delicate fabrics, such as wool and silk, deserve a little respect and a box of the best hand wash soap flakes. After all, they were created by sheep and silkworms hundreds of years before man came up with top loaders, front loaders and tumble dryers.

But I have no patience at all with man’s latest fabric initiatives, most of which have been created by test tube and pipette. Did someone forget to pour in a few millilitres from the bottle marked ‘Make sure it’s machine washable’?

Just a quick rummage through today’s washing basket will provide the full spectrum of sage advice from clothes manufacturers.

“Hand wash only”. Thank you for the suggestion, but no. If I handwashed every $5 t-shirt that my son dribbles juice on, then you could use my hands as a cheap alternative to sandpaper. Not to mention that I like to come out of the laundry every now and again to check that my family are fed and watered.

“Machine wash separately”. Yes, I’m going to put my washing machine through an entire cycle to wash a single baby’s jacket.

“Remove buttons before washing”. What, and then sew them right back on again afterwards?

“If bought as part of a suit, wash together.” I’d be happy to do that, except this only ever seems to appear on items that have been bought separately.

“Do not wring or spin.” It’s just a shame that I’m not psychic and I can’t anticipate the exact moment that the spin cycle is going to start, so that I can break off from helping the baby throw Weetbix at the walls and fish through the suds for a single shirt.

“Use mild detergent”. Ever tried soap flakes in a top loader? It creates enough foam to clean up an oil slick. Regrettably, oil slicks aren’t that common on laundry floors.

“May be dry cleaned”. Well, that’s good to know, but it’s not going to be dry cleaned. Not at $7 a shirt, thank you.

“Dry flat away from direct heat and sunlight”. Hmm, how to do that on a Hill’s Hoist in the middle of the back garden?

“Reshape while damp”. It’s a sweatshirt, not a playdoh animal.

“Cool iron on reverse”. Maybe it’s just me, but I always thought that the whole point of an iron was to be at least moderately hot.

“Do not iron motif.” Well, why then, does the motif cover the entire back and front of the t-shirt? Do the manufacturers think that it makes Spiderman more of a superhero to be as crumpled as an old envelope?

And possibly the most common instruction of all: “Do not tumble dry”. Despite the fact that the tumble dryer is one of the greatest blessings to modern mothers on a rainy day, I can count on one hand the number of garments that I am allowed to use it with.

But being a slovenly slattern, I do it all anyway. Everything the manufacturers tell me not to. I recklessly wash everything in the machine. I heedlessly fling it all in together, even the items that beg for special treatment. I spin it like a whirling dervish and am a stranger to the dry cleaner. I leave the buttons on, I hang it in bright sunshine and on a rainy day I tumble dry it. On a good day, I might even iron it. And you know what? It all comes out just fine.

Here's one from the archives

I write these slices of life for various purposes; some have been published, some haven't. This one's from a while ago when princess was just a baby and it's called 'A Simple Phone Call'...


It should have been a simple phone call. All I needed was an address so that I could pay the phone bill.

(Background: man the husband receive bill, man write cheque, man bin envelope in which cheque to be returned, woman try and put this right with a simple phone call.)

This was a good moment to call. The house was quiet, with my son contentedly watching tv. The baby was a bit hungry, but this wouldn’t take a moment.

The phone number was printed right at the top of the bill under the heading: Bill Enquiries. I dial and run into the usual electronic options.

“So we can help you better, please enter your phone number, including the area code. Thank you. Press 1 for billing or general enquiries. Thank you. A Customer Representative will be with you soon.”

The baby is gambolling around my feet, but rather ominously, is also muttering “num num” (‘food’ in her language). Luckily, for once the Customer Representative actually is with me soon.

“Hi, I want to pay my bill, but my husband has binned the return envelope, so please could you give me your address.”

“I can help you with that, but please can I first have your phone number?”

“I just entered my phone number.”

“I’m sorry, but for security purposes…thank you. I’m sorry, but you’ve come through to wrong number.”

“I dialled the number given for Bill Enquiries,”

“That’s the wrong number.”

The baby is now gnawing gently at my leg, her way of showing that it really is time for num num.

“All I want to know is your address.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to transfer you.”

“You don’t know your address?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to transfer you.”

Back on hold. The baby has graduated from muttering and gnawing to a hysterical wail: “NUM NUM! NUM NUM!” Never mind, this won’t take a moment once I’m through to the right person.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I want to pay my bill, but my husband has binned the return envelope, so please could you give me your address.”

“I can help you with that, but please can I first have your phone number?”

“I’ve already given it twice,”

“I’m sorry, but for security purposes…thank you. Now can I have your name, please…thank you. And now your address, please.”

“NUM NUM!” The baby has decided to forage for herself, but all she has found is toilet paper. “NUM NUM! NUM NUM!” And now my son is getting in on the act. “MUM! I CAN’T HEAR THE TV!”

“My address? Why do you need my address? I’m phoning to get your address.”

“I’m sorry, but for security purposes… thank you. Now I need your date of birth.”

“Really, I just want your address.”

“I’m sorry, but for security purposes…thank you. And your husband’s date of birth.”

“NUM NUM! NUM NUM!” The floor is covered in shreds of toilet paper and the baby is bashing the tv screen in a hunger driven rage. “I CAN’T SEEEEE THE TV!” my son is bellowing.

“For security purposes?”

“That’s right…thank you. Now how can I help?”

“Your address, please.”

“PO Box 123, Sydney 2000. Can I help with anything else today?”

With a lucky, or unlucky, swipe, the baby turns the tv off and simultaneously vomits up some half-digested toilet paper. “NUM NUM! NUM NUM!” “MUUUUUUUM! THE TV!”

“No, I really don’t think that you can help me with anything else today.”