Manic Pixie Dream Girl

I stood in front of the mirror after blow drying my hair today and suddenly decided to cut it. With scissors. So I took a hank in hand and began slicing through the almost black strands until the thick lock came away. The wisps left falling into my eyes, dark and shiny. I looked up through them, into the mirror, still grasping the thick ponytail in my left hand and wondered at what I'd done.

I walked out to show Bingley, hank in hand, scissors in other while he looked at me confusedly. "Did you cut your hair?" was the answer to my lifted eyebrow, followed by "You look 12, maybe 13". And I kind of do. Fringe falling into my eyes, dark and smooth and shiny and hair longer than it has been in years, curling down my back.

I'm not sure exactly what possessed me. It wasn't a bubbling idea in the background that came forth, it was an eyes in the mirror decision, to change something. Be someone different for a while. Do something ridiculous. I had spent the morning cleaning the kitchen, and then paying bills and organising salary sacrificing paperwork when something inside me snapped. Needed release, as I calmly sharpened my scissors before setting about to hack away at the most visible feature I've ever had.

When the shock had worn off, and the humour and delicious impish delight at having done something so reckless kicked in, I took a mandatory selfie and sent it to a friend, giggling as I did so, because the ridiculousness had set in. And the response from her, and later facebook friends was that I had somehow managed to cut my hair into the style of Zooey Deschanel, one of the original manic pixie dream girls.

I was never really that girl. I didn't have the chance. I've been a grown up since the day I became a mother at 22 and I think, sometimes, that shes' still in there trying to get out - not satisfied with sensibility and Mom jeans.

Over the last few days, many of my friends have been posting old pictures on facebook. Highschool and college photos of shiny happy people in the prime of their lives. And the comment from so many, as they looked at pictures of their past selves, was that they wished they could look like that again, be as free as that again. But when I look at the unsure girl of then, and the way she dressed and how self conscious she was, always, I don't want to be her again.

I want to be the girl who buys a ludicrously short dress because of the ruffles and the way the fabric feels on her skin. Who buys a belt of bells to give it shape and wears it barefoot. I want to be the girl that buys an acid green shirt dress, and wears it to work with patent nude pumps and a tied leather belt. I want to be the girl who wears a suit with a pencil skirt and a purple top tucked into the waistband with very high courts. I want to be the girl who wears shoes with buckles and deadly sharp points, that clack across tiles.

But most of all I want to be the girl who wears those things and isn't self conscious. Who not only cuts her hair into thick bangs that can't just be washed out and hidden away, but puts in a sparkly head band and grows long lost dimples in her cheeks at the very thought of them. Who demands to have her photo taken instead of hiding behind her friends. I want to be me.

Books

University libraries smell different. They smell of old books and recycled air and ticking clocks, the same as other libraries, but there are different notes too. The smell of toner and carbon copy paper. Ink. Sneaky bottles of caffeinated beverages.

I am studying again, in a library even though I have an office at home with lovely natural light and white bookcases filled with texts. Somehow the artificial bright white light and the smell of toner and copy paper are more meaningful and I study better when I am here in my jeans and my hoodie in the middle of Summer with my feet curled up under me on the chair.

It is University holidays so it is quieter than usual and the quiet is welcoming. I like the tapping of the other computer keys and the click as the second hand navigates the clock on the wall. I like the clearing of throats from some unseen person in the corner and he librarian shuffling her things around in between checking facebook. I like the rumbling of the heavy metal cart that they use to replace books on shelves and the way it clangs across the tiles. I like the noisiness of the silence as the airconditioner hums in the background.

My newest textbook is open in front of me, its pages gilded at the edges so that when I get to a new page that I have not opened yet, I have to separate the pages. Proof that this is mine and mine alone. Somehow, for a brand new book they have managed to colour the pages into a sense of age and the type set is ever so subtly incomplete so that little chunks are missing out of letters. I love it. It looks old even though it is new.

I have always preferred new books. The excitement of birthdays and Christmas mornings when a brand new book smelling of brand new book would be opened and the first creases to be put into the paper spine would be caused by me and my reading. Even as an adult, this preference persevered, I think because of the novelty of having something new.

When I was a teenager, I came across the red cloth covered volume of Tennyson's poems from which this blog takes its title that belonged to my father. I have no idea if he bought it new, but I suspect, owing to both its age, condition and his financial status when he bought it, that it was not new. I have always loved it. Stole it from home, technically, without asking, because of that desperate love for it. It went to university with me, and lay on my cardboard box of a bedside table under the posters of wizards and dragons. I love that it is a book from history that has history of its own.

Earlier in the year, I was desperate to find a book that is not available in book stores. Even though it was an award winning book, it has not been republished in some time. I have its sequel, triumphantly scavenged from a second hand book fair but this book, one of my favourites of a childhood that refuses to end completely, has eluded me. I don't think I ever had a copy of my own - it was only ever a library book, so with the magic of the internet I searched for it.

The Book Depository didn't have it, but they suggested Abe Books, who I'd always been vaguely suspicious of. The idea of buying used books online feeling strange - I'm not sure why given my op shopped collection of Trixie Beldens. But they had my book, in a tiny independent store in Perth of all places in the world, and it would cost me merely $2. So I bought it, wondering how defaced the cover would be and if there would be pages missing.

There weren't.

Like the first time I'd read it, it was a library book, with the library plate still on the inside of the cover and the stamps from those who had borrowed it before, just like the one I'd read as a child. It was a different cover, so it wasn't *my* book, but this one, with its own history, that many other children had read before me, was somehow more special than any other. A new book would not have been the same because I'd already read it, had cracked the spine and smudged the pages. Had cried on a few. This was more my book than any reprint ever could have been.

I also bought, on the same day, for the princely sum of 2 pounds, Jane of Lantern Hill, the last written and published book of LM Montgomery's life. And it came to me with a piece bitten out of the cover and a little girl's name written on the inside cover in a childish script and although the book itself was not anywhere near my favourite, feeling like an idealised and slightly beatific version of Emily, it belongs on my shelf, because it too, was beloved by little girls who belong to the cult of PEI.

There is no other option, if I want to complete my collection of Trixie Belden's, especially if I want to know what happens in the last 2 books that I've never read. Unfortunately, due to the popularity and scarcity of these books, they are being offered at ludicrous prices of over $40 each online. There is part of me, though, that needs to know, desperately, if Jim ever kissed Trixie, after the lead up of all the books before then. But somehow I think I'm going to be disappointed. It's kind of nice, in a way, to know that the series has never finished for me, and that those books are still out there.

I wonder sometimes, when I look at our well worn copies of Harry Potter, and muse regularly about whether I think Snape was in fact part of one of the best stories ever written about unrequited love or just a slime ball if my girls will ever feel the same way about books. I hope so, because there is something still, that no e-reader can ever give, and that's the smell of type print that smears just a little under sweaty hands and tears that fall over stories that seem too real. And the way it feels to slide your fingers between gilt edged pages to open something that has never before been opened, and to learn something new.

Flying high

The first time I took a plane ride I was 9. It was an Ansett flight and my grandparents dropped the 5 of us at Brisbane Domestic Airport. I remember strapping into the funny seatbelts and the roar of the engines. I remember my Dad explaining the clunk that was the landing gear lifting into the belly of the plane and I remember the airline food with the alfoil lids that you peeled back. My sister and brother got "kids packs" of food that had icecream and SPC two fruits but I got the congealed chicken and I remember being disappointed but trying not to show it. I remember the funny head phones that were really tubes, like a stethoscope. The amazing sense of adventure. Of doing something so outside our experience.

It was a big deal that we were even on that flight. Or the two that came after it in quick succession. No one else in my school had been on a plane before. It was a luxury - a massive and expensive one that my Mum had saved up for because she wanted to travel and she wanted us to love it as much as she did. But we were fortunate, something that I think I realised even then. Our car had airconditioning, a rarity at the time that was the envy of friends, even if we were only allowed to have it on on the hottest days. Opened windows good enough the rest of the time.

But that first holiday on a plane was exciting and wonderful if only for the plane itself. In the years that came after it as we travelled far and wide, the taxiing onto the runway and the initial burst as the jet engines fired up has always sucked me in to that same excited 9 year old, wondering at the magic of being in a plane. Of going somewhere. That potential and possibility.

I leaned back this afternoon into the leather seat and picked up my magazine. I didn't realise we were taxiing until I heard the rumble of the jet turbines as we were pressed back into the seats. The familiar sight of the slightly extended flaps as we tore down the runway. The belly lurching moment of liftoff, of pure elevation and weightlessness if only for a second and the awe in being able to do that. The pure magic of it all. And then, the crunch, as the landing gear lifts, and curls up under the belly, an aluminium bird in flight.

It's been more than 20 years since that first flight, and this one wasn't to go on a holiday. Or somewhere new or different. And it hurt to leave, and to get on the plane. Not as much as last time, but it still did. To get off the plane in the humid dark and walk across the tarmac to my car and drive home through the wide streets. No holiday to look forward to. No new place to explore. Just work and a pile of sheets that need to be washed.

But there is a part of me, that watched the red sun shining above the cloud cities, and just for a moment became that 9 year old again. Wishing and wondering. Peeling the foil off my crackers and cheese with my headphones in my ears. Travelling off into the sunset, the world slipping by underneath and the possibility of it all struck me. The adventure.

King of Limbs

I am a music person.

Most people are in some sense or another but I'm a true devoted groupie - or was once upon a time. It's the language of my soul. It hits me in the solar plexus and slams through the rest of me in waves impossible to ignore.

My music tastes, as with most people evolved as a I grew from child to adolescent to adult. As a child my choices were mostly shaped by my parents for whom I can credit my love of the Beatles back catalogue, knowing all the words to John Denver's songs and a good grounding in Debussy and Ravel. Singing in choirs, singing along to the radio on long car trips (little ditty about Jack and Diannnnne) all helped me understand the fun and enjoyment of music, but the soul stuff came a bit later.

In highschool I discovered Triple J and the concept of new, raw, unmanufactured music and I fell head over heels as teenagers are wont to do. I made mixed tapes recorded off the radio and bought my first walkman with birthday money in bright blue. I was given a small portable stereo for my 16th birthday and I thought it was  one of the best gifts I'd ever been given. It was the time of post-grunge, Kurt Cobain was dead and a rebellious flannel clad audience weren't entirely sure how to fill the hole. Eddie Vedder mumbled into mikes and made all my teenaged angst visceral and real. Regurgitator sang about their plastic girlfriend in a weird electronic punk pop smash and Harvey Danger sat on a flagpole. There was something for every wildly swinging emotion of teenagerhood and I left home with that little portable stereo, my mixed tapes and a swirling gut of anticipation at the next stage of life.

And I distinctly remember one day, in my little college room with the wizard posters on the walls and the shoebox and milk crate bedside table as I surfed the college network looking for mp3s on the shared LAN. And I downloaded 4 songs by this band called Radiohead who I knew vaguely from the song Creep which had received a lot of airplay on Triple J. The songs were Fake Plastic Trees, Creep, Karma Police and No Surprises. Even typing that now gives me tingles.

The first time I listened to Fake Plastic Trees I burst into tears. I can't even tell you why aside from to say that it felt like the music was in me, part of me and it made me so desperately melancholy with its beauty. It made complete sense to me years later when I read the Wikipedia article that Thom Yorke recorded it in 3 takes and then broke down and cried. I felt that. It was a train of thought that suddenly became so sad that I choke up even now when I listen.

And because of that magical way that music tattoos itself on your soul, every time I hear it it evokes a special time for me. One that reminds me of the beauty in all things and the freedom to be who I am. I followed every subsequent album - everything from OK Computer to Hail to the Thief (though that wasn't my favourite) or my eagerly awaited King of Limbs which I loved. Codex for example is brilliant. But it still doesn't quite measure up to the entire soul gratifying release that The Bends represents for me.

So you can imagine, the morning after a Death Cab For Cutie concert where Bingley and I curled up on a couch and laughed about me getting carded to get in and sang along to the songs we knew, a bit seedy and a bit miserable at work, the electrifying sensation that went over me when Bingley called to tell me that Radiohead were touring. Or my gut wrenching disappointment when I heard that we'd missed presale tickets. Every advertising feature, every beat up to try and whip up a frenzy of buyers made me anxious. I have not wanted anything so much in a very very long time.

At 8am this morning Bingley and I tried in vain to get tickets to one of the Melbourne shows. The absolute heart sink when I finally had tickets in my basket in the Upper Section of Rod Laver arena seats D24 and D25 and it timed out after every step except the confirmation of accepting terms and conditions. And then there were no seats left and I sat in my morning meeting with a heart beating at 140 beats per minute and a suspicious film over my eyes knowing there was only one last chance to get tickets. And that many who had missed out on the Sydney and Melbourne tickets would be vying for the last Brisbane ones. As we waited for 9am it felt like we were lined up at the beginning of a race with thousands of others, and in truth we were, heart hammering as we all tried to be the first ones to click and have those magic tickets.

At 9:00:01 I clicked on the Ticketek website as did Bingley and probably a thousand or more others. But my heart absolutely leapt into my throat when I saw that I had progressed to the next stage. At 9:01 I was just finishing putting in my credit card details when the phone beeped. Bingley had got tickets. I looked at the confirmation in my hand that I had 7 minutes left to finalise my tickets and felt so very very grateful. I held onto those tickets for another 5 minutes. Kept them in my basket until the very last minute and then set them free again in the hope that some other fan, some other boy or girl that had laid on their bed and felt like something had been carved out of their soul and turned into lyrics had got them.

I later heard that a friend who had managed to get on at 9:02 had been told that the ticket allocation had been exhausted. I read in the newspaper about a fan that camped out overnight at the ticket office and was only able to get single seats. And I felt for them, because I was so convinced that that was going to be me. Until I saw that Bingley had forwarded me the confirmation e-mail, and just like the first time I had properly sat down to listen to Radiohead I burst into tears, because it doesn't and it still won't feel real until I'm standing in that moshpit, overcoming my anxiety and claustrophobia to sing with others the tunes that made us who we are.

Sandcastles

I dreamed last night, like I have not dreamed in a long time. It was a night filled with dreams, one after another, like a movie marathon projected against my eyelids. Misty dreams and clear dreams. The last taking my breath so that I woke gasping for air and struggled to pull the thin cool greyness into my chest.

It was warmer this time last year. I remember a wide purple sky and rippled water one day in the sun as I drew in the sand and considered stripping off my clothes to play in the gentle waves being as I had no bathers. It was one of those days that tattoos itself in white ink on your skin and never fades, just suprising you sometimes when you catch it glittering beneath the dermis. I was there with a little girl with big blue eyes who drew pictures in the sand with me, chased tiny fish with her toes and trusted me in that implicit innocent way that makes you want to wrap them in your arms and shield them from all the horrible things in life.

I remember finding a banksia core and showing her how when you strip away the crumbly, crunchy exterior that inside is smooth brown velvet, and watching her slide her fingers over it too. Such a silly thing to teach, but strangely glad that I got to teach something. I don't know if she remembers me; my guess is probably not. I do not remember all of the adults that briefly swept in and taught me something. I don't remember friends of my parents who probably hugged me and gave me Christmas gifts, what they smelled like, if they ever sang me to sleep. But it's nice to think that they were there, these nameless, faceless adults that only ever meant well. That life is not all about hiding from potential offenders.

This little girl was in my dream last night, holding a dark haired baby and grinning like only stupendously proud little girls can. I don't remember much about the baby, and its' strange, because you'd think that's who I would have been focusing on, being as I have seen that baby in my dreams a few times now.

I wonder if the dream was prophetic, and if the little girl will one day soon have a baby brother or sister. To follow her and tackle her around the knees like my Possum does with the Elfling. A blue eyed sibling to share her memories of childhood and to sit on the beach one day and draw pictures in the sand. I hope that she might, because she's the type of little girl that you know is an excellent big sister. But I guess I will never know.

Day 10, childhood memory

Staying up late on a Friday night, watching Disney movies under a mound of blankets...

qwerty

I'm lying on my childhood bed, in my childhood room watching a Sandra Bullock movie and feeling about 16 years old. It's so strange to be in my parents' house again, in my old room with the window that let in the light every day of my adolescence. I had so many dreams here. So many fears. But every day the sun would rise over me, and that friendly warmth always reminded me that there will be a tomorrow.

I didn't often feel warm there. I was gawky; unlike other girls. I didn't know who I was or what I was going to be. I wanted to be accepted but I wanted to be different too. I wanted to be something, so unsure and yet so certain that there was something out there that I was supposed to do. Something that mattered.

There are no ghosts here. I thought there would be, little hauntings of that girl. A little girl with almost black hair down to her waist with no style that had only ever seen the scissors of her mother. Eyebrows that desperately needed a wax so that anyone else could notice the longest black eyelashes that most people had ever seen. Such a stupid thing to be attached to, but the only thing she knew that was perfect about her.

A little girl who listened to Pachelbel and read Tennyson in between drawing diagrams to prove Pythagoras' theorem. I don't do enough of that any more. Or enough watching terrible romantic comedy movies that have me crying even though (Or perhpas because) they're terrible.

Weddings

If my Nana knew today, that Prince William had proposed to Kate Middleton, then she would be waiting for the commemorative New Idea edition so that she could keep the special portrait of the two of them. And even though she normally went to bed at 7:30pm I can guarantee that when they televised the wedding that she would be waiting up with a hankie to watch the coach pull up and for that long walk down the aisle. And then collect the Women's Weekly gold edition, snip out the official portrait and put it in a frame.

She loved the royal family, and weddings in particular. It still stings a bit that she couldn't come to mine as she was too unwell. I know she would have loved it. She loved the traditional aspect, she loved the idea of weddings and watched every Home and Away/Neighbours/TV wedding event. I think it was the hope, and the happiness mixed in with the frou frou details that appealed to her. I think it reminded her of the courtship days of her own relationship, before the horrible years, and then the comfortable happy years.

I wonder if it's hereditary then that I love it too. I love weddings, I love the idea of people being married. I always have. I love the hope and the love involved. I love the concept of forever. Of good times and bad. Of knowing that even if there will be times where there's work, that there is a bond that will always be there. I love seeing love. I love meeting couples at work that have been married longer than I've been alive. I love that love that has matured into gentleness and warmth.

I sometimes despair because I miss the heady stage of a relationship. I feel far too young to be in the comfortable stage. And yet I crave it too. I need that stability, that warmth and that simple feeling of knowing that to someone you mean the world. And not only that, but that that person feels, as do you, that they always will.

The romantic in me loves that concept, and I know in my heart that I could never be with someone who couldn't believe in forever. I would always feel that clutch of fear, in wondering when they would be tired of me, and that I would be too much work to consider continuing.I guess it's also the idea for me that if they don't believe in forever they are only ever waiting for something better to come along - and I only ever want to love someone who will never love anyone more. It may be a fanciful concept, and in today's era of divorce and transience, old fashioned and worthy of scorn from some.

And of course I love that weddings are that symbol of putting it out there that you have met your match - that you will never love someone more. And while I love sparkly diamonds and beautiful dresses, what means most to me is that faith, that while shaken will not be destroyed. That creating something with someone is worth more than all the silly arguments and tired grumbling. And that, importantly, they feel the same.

White bread.

I've been avoiding acknowledging its possibility for approximately the last 2 years. It's always been in the back of my mind, well at least for the last 15 or so years, but as I had no symptoms I realy didn't think it was likely. But these holidays, even though the Possum is still waking once a night I've been getting quite a lot of sleep. And sunshine. And exercise (lots of exercise). And yet I still feel tired. Slightly "off".

Part of that, I reasoned, was because I've been enjoying slothing around in between gym sessions. Baking and eating and consuming far too much cheese. And if I felt a little bit crampy, a little bit bloated, then maybe the occasional drinks I've been having will be contributing.

But the tiredness can't really be fobbed off that way. I know I have a massive sleep debt. I know that the Possum means that I don't get to entirely regulate my own sleep cycles, but it's more than that.

Part of it is assuredly my anxiety at the moment, which, as my fingernails can attest, has been rampant. But that's settling down. I am feeling more human. I am laughing a lot more and more easily. I am finding all the good things in my existence instead of pining after the things I can't have, which I have found do not (obviously) contribute to a sense of well-being.

But again, it's more than that.

My grandmother, who I don't mention enough considering her importance in my life, was an enigmatic, energetic, mentally sparkling woman. She was a ferocious competitor in board games and at cards and was not the sort of benevolent granny who "let you win". If you won against her it was a triumph to remember through the ages. Thanks to her no-one I know will play cards against me, having inherited that sharp and canny way of bamboozling opponents. But no win was as sweet as laying down Canasta against Nana. In fact, I can remember her voice clearly, in one phrase that se used to use while playing my Dad (perhaps the only person on the planet I know who is more competitive than me) at Scrabble.

She was a painter and artist. She especially liked painting porcelain and scattered through the family are her gifts of hand painted plates, porcelain dolls and Victorian jewellery boxes and powder boxes. She crocheted and knitted like a demon also, fingers always busy, never one to sit still. She had a ferocious determination to grow begonias and fuschias and battled against the soil that she insisted on growing them in until they flowered.

I still have a tin of her pencils and paint brushes in the top of my wardrobe. It smells slightly of cedar, slightly of cinnamon and completely of a scent that belonged only to her. A scent that recalls sitting in her rocking chair, listening to her berate the Australian cricket team and brand them all cheats and poor sports as her fingers moved with lightning speed, hooking wool through loops that she didn't even look at to create.

To say that I loved her is woefully inadequate. To say that she was my mentor, guardian and the person who understood me more fully than any other on the planet doesn' come close. There is a spark of recognition amongst the race that knows Joseph, that is unable to be fabricated. It's either there or it isn't. And we were definitely of the same race.

Family was the most important thing in her life. Children and babies and adults coming together to celebrate noisily was a faithful part of my childhood. And at everyone of these gatherings she'd be in the centre, with al of us orbiting around her, drawn in by her remarkable gravity and presence. Sitting around the outdoor tables at Christmas, plates groaning with food, Aunty Gail's slice sitting in tupperware waiting and Aunty Sue's cheesecake beckoning. Rum balls in the centre, all the flavours of Christmas that as soon as they spread on my tongue even now recall that pure joy.

Nana always made her own special food for these occasions too, funny salads and boiled potatoes and other good things. Things that, I realise only now, didn't contain wheat. Because Nana had coeliac disease. A disease that seemed more a nuisance than anything else. It meant that she would only occasionally sneak a rumball. Or a piece of cake. Never bread, because 15 years ago there really wasn't the variety of gluten free anything tat there is now. She was pretty good with managing it. I'm not sure when or how she was diagnosed, I never thougt to ask. Even wen she was diagnosed with the lymphoma that is associated with autoimmune diseases it didn't occur to me, being as I was only 18 and didn't really have a clue what any of it meant anyway.

Until she died. Horribly. 3 months later. I couldn't get enough of information about cancer, lymphoma, chemotherapy and treatments. I researched biology and chemistry in my spare time, wanting to know what it meant. Trying to understand. A path that eventually lead to me sitting the GAMSAT exam and entering medical school. A path that caused me to give Bingley a chance and to start a family of my own. A path that lead me to sitting here, in my little house with 3 children, a husband and a whole bunch of letters after my name.

But it was trying to understand her and how we could have somehow staved off her death that was the real motivator. One of those useless magical thinking traps that we all perhaps enter into when faced with things that we just don't want to deal with.

A few years after she died my sister was diagnosed with coeliac disease. And my two Aunts, who stopped making cheesecake and chocolate caramel slice, were diagnosed too. But with only 1 first degree relative, a couple of second degree relatives and no symptoms I never really considered it.

Then my Dad, who has given blood voluntarily over 250 times was rejected because his blood count was a bit off. So he went off to get investigated and words like bowel cancer were thrown into the "have to exclude" mix, so that we were relieved when we found out it was "only" coeliac disease.

And so now I have 2 first degree relatives, 3 second degree relatives and I am symptomatic. I am not ready to be tested though. I love wheat. I love dense Italian bread. I love lighter, crusty French bread. I love baking. I love kneading dough. I adore pasta and noodles. And did you know gluten is in barley and rye? And possibly oats? Or that half of the thickeners, sugars and syrups in any sort of processed food are derived from wheat?

I knew that, but today, in an effort to just see how I go with a low gluten diet I actually considered all the things I can't have. As someone who primarily eats meat, fruit and vegetables (and the cheese foodgroup), it's not such a shock to the system, but almost ALL the convenience foods are out. No quick sandwich for lunch. No cereal for breakfast (unless it's the prohibitively expensive, cardboard flavoured gluten free variety). No muesli bars. No porridge for breakfast. No up and go when I'm too rushed to make a proper breakfast. No biscuits (not that this is a great loss) or cake.

And of course, after 3 days of eating low/no gluten all I want is bread. I want a baguette to eat on its own with butter. I want cake and biscuits even though I don't normally eat it. I want some dense, grainy bread that crunches between my teeth. I even looked at a bag of jubes (even though the last time I bought a bag of lollies was for the Elfling's birthday party) in the Supermarket today.

Denial's a powerful thing, and if this experiment leads me to further testing I guess I will have to unOstrich a little. But right now I can't bear to think of never again being able to have a guilt free bowl of penne with home made pesto. Or being able to roll out my own ravioli.

But every time this week I've thought of it, and considered abandoning it al for denial, I've thought of the grief of losing someone who meant more to me than all the chocolate cake in the world and eat my banana chips instead. Because what I want most out of life is to be like her. To have meant so much, to so many people not through what she did, but because of who she was.

Grey

It feels like winter today. It's cold. Seeping up through the floorboards and through the timber walls. So grey, obliterating the sun and sucking all the colour out of the Earth. The tip of my nose is cold and runs a bit unnoticed. My fingers burn with it, make me want gloves with the tips exposed so I can still type.

I'm hiding from my children at the moment, sitting on the floor of the front verandah, back against the wall, laptop well, in lap. And it feels gloomy and wintery. I feel gloomy and wintery. I miss the colour. The bright blue skies of autumn. The chill is seeping through my clothes. Under the layers and slapping exposed flesh.

I'm all alone out here. Everyone else inside their homes. A soft wisp of woodsmoke rising from some of the rooves, perfuming the thin grey air. Every now and then a big, energetic dog will bounce past with a bright cheeked owner swaddled in warmth cluthching at a straining leash. We nod at each other, the few willing to come out into the cold.

The warm scent of roast chicken is seeping under the door next to me, onions burning slightly on the bottom of the pan to make rich gravy. The birds (the crows especially) are rioting in the trees around me, calling goodnight to eachother as they settle into the branches. Loud caws of affection.

The grey swirls around me, warming and cooling at the same time. I am alone out here. Cloaked in mist. Keeping me company in the thin twilight.

I am not the least bit lonely. Actually reveling in the quiet and solitude. Feeling the burning need to write. Wanting to compose. Hearing snippets of lyrics dance through my mind and grasping ineffectually at them with my fingertips.

My breath is making tiny puffs of smoke as I exhale. I am compelled as ever to try and blow rings, but have never mastered the art. Instead I just pull funny faces that alarm another dog walker. No nod this time.

The darkening sky is deepening to blue now. The indigo night behind the grey making its presence felt. I love the silhouettes of the birds as they mar it.

I have been discovered and the joyful Possum is hugging me around my neck, smacking his lips together in an approximation of a kiss. He looks so proud of his discovery. Delighted to have found me. All is now right in his world as he drops to his knees and bounces, before rapidly turning tail and scuttling off on all fours at the speed of light.

The temperature is dropping as rapidly as the sun and I am starting to shiver, but unable to move. Inhaling the fresh ironbark smoke from an unseen neighbour's fire. Wishing we had a fireplace here so that I could write to the dancing flames.

The Monkey has found me now, and is noisy and ebullient. Worried that I am out here suffering for company. She is treating me to her latest philosophical dilemma which is that she would love to be Santa Claus, but she has no beard. Before declaring that I am a bit boring, and darting back inside into the light and warmth.

I can barely see my fingers on the keys now. Technically I can illuminate my keyboard, but I like the ghostly light from my screen over my pale and stiffening fingers. Keeping them dancing to force the blood to flow.

I know my eyes are waking up now. In the darkness burning. Flames to match the twirling white wood smoke. The grey tempered by twinkling city lights. I couln't see them before, when the mist was swirling, but now that the indigo has encroached they sparkle like diamond chips along the horizon.

Normally I hate smoke but I'm breathing it in greedily now. The rich scent. Evocative of school camp fires and marshmallows crisping and dripping dangerously to scald unsuspecting flesh. Being amongst the trees the first time I ever went camping and feeling the darkness prowl in as sausages sizzled over a flame. Blood warmed from tramping along bracken lined trails and ears painful with cold. Lying in front of the fire at home, shutting out the cold dark night as I curled my toes in te toasty warmth. Lighting fires when I got home after school, fingers chapped and clumsy. Learning how to perfectly stack it so that it did not smoke or smoulder but burned warm and hot and red.

I am shivering now, my whole body shaking slightly but I cannot move. Cannot bring myself to shut myself out of the night just yet. I can barely see and my fingers and stiff and clumsy, missing half the keys, giving back space a workout. I am home here. The air is filling me, perfumed and heady with essence.

I need to write more.

Jingle Belle

Late afternoon as the sun wearily sinks towards the horizon and the twilight breeze gambols in, was once upon a time the most beautiful time of day for me. When I moved in with Bingley this magic hour of the day would most often be spent lying in bed, not saying much, but being together. We'd be tired, in that way that people who have unlimited time and not much to do with it get tired, and we'd just lie back, enjoying being with each other. I bought a string of bells once, from one of those new age shops, and hung it from our curtain rail above our bed. Then the late afternoon breeze would sway them lazily, the tiniest jingle overhead.

I used to wear bells then too, a heavy Indian anklet of silver bells that accompanied me every where. Every light footstep surrounding me with music. It changed the way I walked, I learned that dancing steps gave the most beautiful noise and would trip lightly in my thrifted 1970s paisley skirts that floated around my legs to my ankles. I loved the chill of the metal against my ankle until it warmed to my skin. Didn't mind the fact that occasionally they pinched, because the peal of bells kept something within me light.

I'm not sure why I stopped wearing them. I think I started wearing shoes more, and they were incompatible, but I think I thought I had outgrown them at some point. There was also the fact that with the pill, and then pregnancy and breastfeeding, I put on a lot of weight and didn't recognise who I was any more. I stopped dancing in any case, stopped wearing the bright thrifted clothes and wore a whole lot of unflattering and dowdy clothes instead.

When the Monkey was born she was given a gift of a heavy silver anklet in the thai style, with two bells. It was left in its pretty box for several months, and mostly forgotten about until she was about 10 months old and starting to walk. We were visiting the relatives who had given it to her and decided to let her wear it to show them. And she loved it. She would not let us take it off and my memories of her first steps are set to the music of those two silver bells. When she started daycare I would come for her in the afternoons and would know where in the playground she was instantly by the music.

She loved her jingles and never took them off. She would dash away in a shopping centre and we would follow the bells. When her auburn ringlets grew in she attracted a lot of attention, the combination with her cheeky dark eyed face and her bells making her a magnet for comments. Then, just as effusively as she had fallen in love with them, she decided she didn't want to wear them any more. Her little brother had arrived, and suddenly my musical baby was no more, she outright refused to wear them. They ended up in her daycare bag, forgotten, unjangled for months.

Then a few weeks ago, when I was cleaning out her bag, I found them. There was only one bell, the other having broken. The thick, engraved silver was still shiny though, and as I held it up, the bell tinkled softly in my palm. Flooded with memories of a baby Monkey I tried it to see if it would fit my (thankfully tiny) wrists, and it did. Jingling with every gesture of my arm. And it's still there, a heavy silver reminder of giggling, toddling babies. Reminding me that the Possum will not always wake every two hours and need feeding. That one day he too will walk and then run and then dance.

I've been so lost in the daily haze, so focused on getting through the days. Of plodding through every angry threenager outburst and sleepless nights. Of remembering the bloody school reader every morning that I've forgotten that once upon a time I used to lie in the breeze and listen to bells. But this afternoon, warm and cossetted in my hammock, listening to the bells on my wrist and the reinstated bells on my ankle, I remember.

Home

Once upon a time, but not so very long ago, Bingley and I moved into our first house together. Technically I wasn't moving in, supposedly I was still at College, but in those tempestuous can't go a single hour without being with you days, I spent most of my waking (and sleeping hours there). It was a large 2 bedroom unit with an ensuite, a poky early 80s style kitchen and a courtyard. Even though we were sharing it with one of our college friends I was enraptured. The stained 15 year old carpet and the interesting textured ceiling and the old lady light fittings were part of its charm. As were the floral cane sofa bed, the red chipboard table tht we had our tv on and the old manky foam mattress tht we slept on the floor.

As time went on we scrounged an eclectic mix of thrifted, donated and cheap furniture that I tried to fit into the space and to bring together with a budget approaching zero. It never worked and as we bought more (much of it necessary as our idyllic little place had no storage) the space began to contract.

When we fell pregnant with the Elfling I was determined to buy quality, matching furniture. I wanted her room at least to be bright and airy and to have an ambience that calmed me as soon as I entered. I think I did relatively well, and am still happy that we bought the matching antique teak stained solid wood furniture. It made me so happy. But as a little Monkey, and then a Possum were added, there was no space. Even with Ikea like genius, there were still 5 of us in a 2brm house. The kitchen was still poky and we were exploding at the seams.

When it was decided that we were moving to this house I fell in love at first sight. To be honest, the thing that had me weak at the knees was the built in storage. After months of having to deal with "piles" of things that had no place, the idea of somewhere to put everything was swoon worthy.

It wasn't until we were moved in, and the number of mystery boxes had started to dwindle, that I allowed myself to properly fantasise about decorating the house. About deciding on themes for rooms and choosing soft furnishings and little elements to bring it all together. I think, after years of living in Ikea/thrift/crowded hell, I did't think it possible that we could do it anyway. I bought an exorbitantly expensive "grown up" leather couch and nearly hyperventilated at the cost. But I wanted quality. I sourced and bought the slimline LCD TV, the TV cabinet, the lamps, te bedside tables. I spent all my tax return and my FTB bonuses and most of our careful savings.

And then last night we invited our closest friends to come celebrate our grown up house. Our red and dark wood bedroom. Our chocolate brown and warm wood and red accents lounge room. Our glorious kitchen with miles of bench space that could display my favourite sleek white serving ware. Harry's bright room with the matching nursery furniture. The girls' pink confection of a room with glossy soft white furniture.

But my favourite thing of all, was stringing fairy lights over our front verandah, and sitting in my hammock, looking at the glittering icicle lights and feeling like I finally had a home that I loved.

I'm not "playing" house any more. I am lying on my buttery leather couch, looking at my fairy lights as Bingley watches our modern TV in our neat and open and airy lounge. It feels like my house. Wind chimes tinkling in the breeze, solar lanterns swaying and it's mine. My style, my taste, I can't describe how perfectly happy it makes me. To look out and see beautiful things. There are still things to do, things that need work, things for me to buy. But for te first time since we left the house that gave me my babies, I feel like I am home.

Tags and stuff

This is always a surreal week for me. I turned 27 on Wednesday. It was the 8th anniversary of my Nana's death on Saturday. It was the 3rd anniversary of the birth and death of my niece on Saturday. My sister in law is due to have a baby any second. I'm stressed out of my eyeballs at the moment and have a lurgy. So I'm just going to be lazy and do the tag.

1. Where is your cell phone? In my handbag, flat. Its default setting.
2. Where is your significant other? Cooking brownies in the kitchen with the terrible twosome.
3. Your hair color? Very dark brown. I get a thrill when I find a white hair (I think I'm up to 4). I got very excited when I realised I had 1 hair that was half and half - I thought that white hairs grew all new - I didn't realise hairs could literally turn white after a while.
4. Your mother? Is 49, still works fulltime and loves me and my family.
5. Your father? Is 53, lives with Mum, ditto the rest.
6. Your favorite thing? Right now sleep.
7. Your dream last night? It involved very large snakes. Goddamn snakes on a plane.
8. Your dream/goal? At the moment to make it through the next 6 weeks.
9. The room your in? The lounge room cum study cum junk room cum dirt repository cum food receptacle cum ironing room.
10. Your hobby? Sleeping. I try and do other things (reading, writing, knitting, playing pool, going to the gym, painting, sketching, sex) around that but sleeping is the most rewarding.
11. Your fear? Failure. Not growing up with my family.
12. Where do you want to be in six years? In 6 years I want to have 3 or 4 happy children, a medical degree to hang on my (very own) wall along with the others, a husband that is enjoying whatever it is he is doing and not too many years to go on my specialty.
13. Where were you last night? Watching Harry Potter in bed with my husband
14. What you’re not? Flat chested.
15. One of your wish list items? A house of our very own.
16. Where you grew up? Qld, all over.
17. The last thing you did? Checked in on the aforementioned brownie making
18. What are you wearing? Trackie dacks and a sports bra. Alllllll class.
19. Your TV? Is nearly 10 years old. And off.
20. Your pet? Prozac popping tuxedoed domestic shorthair cat who does not deal well with 2 year olds.
21. Your computer? An ASUS F-series notebook computer that's now 1 year old and holds half my life.
22. Your mood? Cruisy and sleepy. Very mellow afternoon here.
23. Missing someone? My family are all here with me atm so I'm just lazy and content.
24. Your car? I have joint ownership of one. My adored Corolla was sold a few months ago.
25. Something you’re not wearing? Anything remotely attractive according to LH. Hasn't stopped him trying to feel me up though.
26. Favorite store? Weird smelly antique book stores. Visited a lot in Europe.
27. Your summer? Will be my last big holiday for quite a long time. Plan to spend it lazily with my darling daughters.
28. Love someone? Not just one.
29. Your favorite color? Red.
30. When is the last time you laughed? About 30 seconds ago.
31. Last time you cried? My birthday I think. I was not well.

Tags to anyone on my bloglist who's as lazy as me!

Oh and the cheesecake was good. Needed the sauce though. Will make coldsets from now on though, much prefer to baked.

Wattle

It's cool and dark as I jog home, my feet hitting the pavement in the new rhythm I've learned. My arms and legs ache from the effort I've put in at the gym, but the running is keeping them warm. It's maybe 10 degrees and the sweat is chilling as soon as it forms on my skin, evaporating off and raising goosebumps on the slick smoothness. If I slow down my muscles tighten in the cold, painfully, so I keep running, the whole way home, my breath uneven and heavy, catching occasionally.

I run through a spiders web and feel the stickiness bind across my cheek, brushing it away without breaking stride. Up the hill, through the shortcut and along the edge of the park. It's through here that the perfume of murraya sits in cloying clouds, so heady that I hold my breath trying to avoid the thickness of the scent. All around me syrupy as I run past the hedges heavy with blooms. I come to an intersection and have to stop for a car, feeling my calves tighten painfully, understanding now why joggers do that strange on the spot dance at traffic lights. On the other side of the road as I start again, less rhythmically and much more painfully the insistent sensuality of the murraya settles down and I can breathe more easily, catching only tastes of the scent instead of inhaling it.

I watch the stars in the winter bright sky looking for my favourite twinkling in her constellation, when I smell something that actually stops me so that I can find where its' coming from. A perfume as light and as sweet as the murraya was domineering and cloying. I walk towards the scent, transported 20 years earlier and drink it in, the honey that is wattle. My fingertips lightly brush the fronds of the tiny pompom flowers before I greedily bring a bough to my face so that I can bury myself in memory. The lightly pollenated softness caresses my cheek as I inhale deeply, sweetly intoxicated, alone in perfect memory.

I wonder where he is now, the boy that held my hand and took me to see the wattle tree, the first time I had ever seen the drifted tree in amongst winter frost. I remember the shyness and awareness of sharing something so beautiful with him. The look of wonder and happiness when I accepted his invitation to explore - the way that that tree and that loveliness set the standard for all boyfriends to follow and that so very few if any made. The simple act of taking me to see something so unearthly beautiful, so sweetly perfumed like so much of my childhood.

I stood there in the freezing night, my breath coming in steamfilled puffs under a starry sky as I wished with all my heart for the innocence and the perfume of that time. My legs contracting painfully as I stood, my eyes clear and glittering in the moonlight, marked by pain but also by the Gleam.

Bruise

I have a mystery bruise on my bicep. I have no idea where it came from, but every day in the shower for the last week I've been marvelling as it at first darkened, then turned a brilliant purple, then green and now yellow. It joins the similar bruise of unknown aetiology on my hip and the one on my shin. I have no idea where they came from - probably the result of me walking into a benchtop/door handle/bed frame or similar but I have no memory of doing so. So I watch in fascination as they evolve, every morning bemused by their ambush attack.

The best bruise I ever had was at 18. Friends and I had gone to the local watering hole to be, well "watered" and stayed out past the last bus home time. Being as it was barely 2km home from this local establishment (though extraordinarily hilly) we set off in great spirits on foot. Now had we continued on foot, this story would probably end with "and we went home and went to bed". Unfortunately, after a few hundred metres we spied a pair of shopping trolleys.

Now shopping trolleys are reknowned for their precision handling and comfortable seating arrangements so we decided that we should ride them home. Clambering in in noisy appreciation we took it in turns to push or be pushed for a while. I had the great joy of having my turn at pushing on an uphill stretch and getting to the top of the hill I was puffing and sweating from the exertion of pushing a 50kg shopping trolley with 70 odd kilograms of friend up a steep hill. So obviously it was my turn to rest.

At the top of the hill we swapped places and I sat in the extremely comfortable hard metal contraption and leaned back against the cracked babyseat, chest heaving a little with the effort of the aforementioned push looking forward to having a break. So we set off again, Smudge holding on gamely to the handle of the trolley as we descended down the hill (Sir Fred Schonell Dr for those familiar with the area). Except it was steeper I think than she'd anticipated, and Smudge was not the strongest of girls. Suddenly, about halfway down the hill she lost her grip.

Picture the scene now, it's after midnight but there are still occasional vehicles on this busy road and I'm hurtling down a hill in a shopping trolley hair streaming out behind me feeling not a small bit anxious - shopping trolleys of course getting a very low ANCAP rating due to the lack of airbags and antilock brakes (being somewhat deficient in any brakes...). I had, at this stage, a couple of options. One was to close my eyes, scream and hope that it miraculously all turned out ok. Another was to open my eyes, scream and hope that it miraculously all turned out ok... or there was option number 3.

As I was hurtling along, bouncing a little on random debris on the road and watching with dissociative amusement of the spectacle I was making, I decided that at some point I would stop, and that the manner in which I stopped could be decided by me, or by some "higher power". Not being the religious type or having a particular higher power to turn to (as well as being slightly independent) I chose to stop it myself. When there are no brakes and your momentum is increasing, the options to stop are somewhat limited, and the best solution I could think of was to tip the trolley. Trolleys are very heavy. I weighed about the same as the trolley - so it took a lot of determination to decide this, but once I had made my plan I set about implementing it.

And I did - tipping the trolley on its side while executing a near perfect J turn - so precise that if I could do that on a snowboard LH would marry me all over again. The trolley shuddered to a stop almost immediately and I was still in one piece - no broken bones, not having got up close and personal with either tree or oncoming cars... Excelsior! Unfortunately, as I went to stand up, I realised I had made a single fatal flaw - in using my body weight to both swing and tip the trolley I had waved my arm outside of the cage and on tipping had effectively trapped it between trolley and asphalt - thankfully not shredding it to pieces. It did however leave a bruise that was the talk of my friends for months afterwards. The rainbow of colours catapulting it well into the realm of king of the bruises...

The funny thing was, aside from the throbbing pain and the absolute revolting appearance of the bruise, every time I looked at it, my immediate thought was how clever I'd been to stop the trolley. And in the shower this morning, looking at the baby brother of my ultimate bruise, I was grinning like an idiot - because once upon a time I bested a trolley at 40km an hour.



PS I passed paeds - 1 more exam til I'm a Dr
PS2 I went to the gym again today - arms are shakier than they were when I was using them as a trolley brake

Packages Tied Up With String...

Department Stores are in a frenzy of theoretical stocktake sales at the moment and I got suckered in on my way home from work. I broke my boots over the weekend and need a new pair. Once I used to look at shoes in windows and wonder why anyone would pay that much for something that no one else would notice... these days I am now a mere rung above true fetishism. You really can tell a lot about someone by their shoes, and I love how pretty they are. Having a comfortable Size 6-6.5 foot and small ankles finding shoes is never really an issue for me, and I'm limited only by finances. The entry price of Sex and the City was worth it for the shoes alone. I tried on boots for an hour today and if it wasn't for the revolting service in Myer would have a new pair of 3" stiletto heeled new boots in my cupboard.

To go with the shoes I love hosiery. Hate pantyhose because anything that has the word "gusset" on the packaging immediately turns me off, but stockings are my purchase du jour. I have a specific *thing* for fishnets and today found some fantastic ones that have the suspenders on the stockings instead of requiring a belt. While I quite like wearing a suspender belt (not quite as much as LH likes me wearing it), this is clever because I can wear them with anything. I also found seamed stockings today which makes me want to wear a 1940s pencil skirt and courtshoes just to show off the stockings. I am that superficial.

Being poor makes it really easy to not be materialistic though, because, when it comes down to it, if you have no money to spend, then it's bloody hard to fritter it away. But being skint has never really been a huge barrier for me because I have a rodent like ability to stash bits and pieces away so that I never really feel like I have to go without.

Once upon a time I used to spend almost all of this carefully hoarded money on music. Purchases were very very carefully selected, weighing up how much alcohol or pieces of clothing they could be substituted for against how much I would love them. Mostly they were treasured and classic CDs that I still listen to now, but the occasional spontaneous purchase for significant reasons (quit my job, broke up with boyfriend etc) yielded some interesting compilations that in many cases should have stayed with the job/boyfriend.

This afternoon after the frustration that was dealing with Myer I happened to be avoiding the queue (out the door!! wtf?) outside the new Krispy Kreme when I got distracted by the music playing in the store next to me. Looking up I realised it was Rockinghorse - a store that I used to love with unhealthy passion. I went in for old time's sake and was immediately flashed back 8 years or so when I first rocked in. The absolute dearth of Britney Spears posters and Australian Idol crap means you can actually breathe. The music on the walls contains the classic sounds of Deep Purple, Pantera and the Doors. You won't find Guy Sebastian or a boyband inside. You will find obscure alternative artists and a huge collection of vinyl.

Have I mentioned how much I love vinyl? That crackliness when you move the stylus down over the disc just sends shivers up my spine (the good kind). I nearly bought two Radiohead records (neither my favourite) simply because they had them on vinyl. It took a randomly found Days of the New album and the Foo Fighters Skin and Bones in the second hand pile for me to actually concede that I couldn't buy everything I wanted. I also had a massive sense of deja vu as I flashed back to a time where my sole ambition in life was to win one of the competitions that allowed you to win your height in CDs. At 170cm tall there was a lot of vetoing to fit in all the CDs that I wanted.

So now I'm home listening and falling in love with Travis Meeks - nothing does it for me like a tortured artist with an incredible voice, with fishnetted feet and a new ambition. I want to buy new music every month. A new CD to hold and covet with shiny inserts to pull out and read until the heat of my fingers warps the pages... I'd still kill for a pair of blue satin Manolos but I'm back in lust with my first true love.

PS apologies for the all over the place ness of this whole post, I'm feeling scatty, and not in the mood to edit (ha! as if I ever do).

McDreamy

I was reading some of my (very old) diaries over the weekend and found a little bit from when I was 17 and convinced I was going to die alone. I'd just had a messy break up (though I was the dumpER) and was sketching out my ideal man, because even though I was moping, I was still convinced of Prince Charming. It's a pretty interesting list to look at, because my lovely husband matches so few of the ridiculous criteria. And funnier still because I have a few friends who match so precisely and yet I've never been able to see as more than big goofy brothers - no salacious dreams, no impure thoughts whatsoever because that would be gross.

So as best a list I can cobble, if I was able to choose Prince Charming...

First and foremost he had to make me laugh. Now I've seen this little pearler on so many dating sites of late (I have a friend who likes me to peruse/veto/dissect RSVP profiles) but it's a bit of an abstract thing. I have a strange sense of humour. I love puns, I love witty little epithets, but I also have a 15 year old boy inside me that loves laughing at absolute ridiculous shite. I secretly loved American Pie. I think Bruce Willis is hilarious. I make bad taste jokes about NZ friends and sheep. But you have to understand the Chaser and political satire to truly make me laugh.

It was imperative that Princey was smart, not just a little bit bright, but gifted IQ. 145 minimum. I wanted to be challenged intellectually and almost competitively by someone who could talk with me coherently about the Mandelbrot set before moving onto politics and art. I foresaw nights curled up on a squishy opshop lounge chair debating vivaciously about wankerish elitist topics while drinking red wine.

I wanted artisitic, someone who wrote, or painted and could produce beautiful original things. Someone who could express themselves. And I guess I wanted some artistic temperament to go with it. A Gleam chaser. Someone who was stormy and tempestuous at times and glorious and sunny at others. Who radiated joie de vivre and would match me for crazy, unpredictable, spontaneous and heart bursting Phil adventures. I wanted to read their poetry or lyrics or their canvas and be inspired.

Following on from that I wanted someone who could play music. Someone who sang, or played guitar or preferrably piano. I have always been melted by the piano, and as someone whose favourite feature on a man is hands/wrists/forearms, fingers splayed over a keyboard is almost erotic. In fact one crush I had in highschool persisted long after it should have based solely on how much I loved watching him play piano or shift gears while driving.

I wanted him to speak another language. Didn't matter which one, but I guess I have an attraction to European languages. Spanish, French, not so much Italian, Russian, Finnish, Swedish... all good. An accent would be perfect as well, and in fact accents still make me weak at the knees.

Another must of this Charming royal of mine, was that he would be very much attached to his family and friends and want one of his own. I wanted a man who loved children and foresaw himself sitting on a couch with a baby snoring into his shoulder. Who liked the idea of watching ballet concerts with little bepigtailed princess girls or running alongside a bicycle as his son pedalled furiously along before veering off into a bush.

He had to have an element of the silly and the childlike, who could appreciate things like eating icecream, building sandcastles, watching B grade and blockbuster action movies, play wrestling, pillow fights, silly sex, computer games, card games, laughing at inappropriate times... basically so I didn't feel like such a loon when I did all of the above!

Physically I wasn't so stringent. Even as a teenager I struggled to describe a "type" and none of my boyfriends physically resembled eachother at all, but there were certain things that have always done it for me...

He had to be tall. I'm 5'7/170cm which isn't particularly tall, but it's not short either, and I wanted to be able to wear my highest boots and still only come up to chin height. Probably a remnant from movies where the heroine is always being kissed on the top of her head when she has a bad day. I have lots of bad days, I like being kissed on my hair, ergo, he had to be tall.

Buildwise although I can very much appreciate the ripped physique, I've always had a thing for the weedy, pale English type. Ewan McGregor in trainspotting. Long and wiry and lean and pale. Sinewy. Very very strong. But not over muscled. Not the all American hero. Someone who was perfectly capable of keeping my hands pinned behind my back but who I wasn't worried was going to crush me under their Mr Universe pectorals. Someone who would look incredible in a perfectly tailored suit.

Dark hair. I have never been attracted to blondes. I think this partially stems from my Mum telling me very young that all blonde men went bald, and while this is not entirely true, blondies do seem to go thin faster than brunettes, and I think this may have stuck in my head. There is just something about very dark hair though that attracts me. Maybe it's narcissism :p

Blue or green eyes. Preferrably blue. I think it's the combo with the dark hair that makes me swoon. I don't know what it is about this "type" aside from the fact that it's so striking. I always notice men who have dark hair and blue eyes and it always makes my breathing just that little bit shallow. Even now that I'm a happily married old matron!

The aforementioned hands. I can't stand "girly" hands on a man. I HATE long fingernails on men. I cannot stand fat wrists, no tone, creepy fingers... Hands are a deal breaker. You've heard of men who won't date women over a Size 6 or with less than a D cup? Well I'm as shallow as them because hands are a make or break thing. In fact pretty much all of the above can be overcome by a pair of beautiful hands lol. The wrists and forearms are incorporated into this, and the stronger and leaner they are then the more infatuated I become. I admit it, I'm a wrist pervert.

So what does this all add up to? Let me summarise Prince Charming. A foreign artistic clown who laughs at my jokes and is incredibly intelligent, artistic, insane, and goofy, who plays piano, loves children and is very tall, thin, dark haired, blue eyed and has perfect forearms... not so much to ask for! And funnily enough, I married my perfect match who meets very few of those criteria. Careful what you wish for eh?

I have been banned

From associating with, talking to, touching, observing, looking at or otherwise interacting with newborns. 'Tis Verboten. In angry German accent.

I was examining newborns again this morning (healthy newborns) and oh my dear Lord. My breasts ache, my uterus aches, I had to stop throwing myself on the first male that walked past me and beg "impregnate me now". I spontaneously ovulated as soon as the little pink rosebud mouth rooted against my palm as I touched her cheek. I walked into the library straight after and they have a GD MIDWIFERY display of mothers and babies and breastfeeding and OH MY GOD I WANT ANOTHER BABY.

I called LH who is right this second probably performing his own vasectomy with a staple remover. Which is probably not a bad idea because if he was in the vicinity then I would be using every unfair below the belt trick in the book right about now and he would not stand a chance.

This is crazy insane. Rationally we've been discussing this on occasion and while we haven't decided *definitely* no, it's pretty much been leaning that way. I've said I don't really want any more, LH has definitely been keen to put the crappy nappy stage behind us and move into the "take them snowboarding and then they can stay at Grandma's house" stage.

I could never have been childless, I don't know what it is within me, but the pull to have children is just so strong. All of it right now is appealing. The gleeful "trying", that first anxious POAS moment, feeling the stretch of skin and muscle, lying in bed and looking at the little lump protruding up from my abdomen, that first real scan at 13 weeks, the first flutters soon after, the real belly, the "big" scan, seeing feet and elbows outlined by my skin, falling asleep to stacatto dance steps with a huge grin on my face, preparing for birth, the incredible power and wonder and achievement of birth, that first miraculous fall in love meeting, that first breastfeed, the discovery of little arms and legs and the way that those tiny fingers wrap around your finger and melt you into a gooey puddle on the floor, night feeds by starlight, sitting in the park as they roll over, sitting up, crawling, cruising, toddling, walking, running, jumping into your arms, "nigh nigh Mummy", "I love you", strange large headed drawings with ears and no noses or mouths, bedtime cuddles, chasing fairies, blowing bubbles, birthday cake candles, santa photos, calling schools, buying school uniforms...

OK have to stop now because I'm crying but I want more babies. I don't know if we'll have them but I want them so much.

Breasts... I haz dem... look away if that bothers you

Post from April last year, still, sadly very relevant...

Why are bras so hard to buy? Finding the perfect bra was once a quest of mine, to find that comfortable, ultimately glamorous bra that made "the girls" look as perfect as possible, while minimising projection, passing the LH phwoar test and not causing my hands to lose sensation as the straps dug uncomfortably into my shoulders.

Whenever I found a bra that vaguely met those standards I would buy it instantly, regardless of cost simply because finding one was a miracle, and expecting to come back and find it on sale was like the Holy Grail of shopping. Sizing was a ridiculous "guide" depending on which brand, which particular style and which way the wind was blowing. I had bras from Size 10DD to 14B with bits and bots in between. But my collection was pretty glamorous. Embroidered, gorgeous, underwired bras in every colour of the rainbow, often with the matching underwear for ultimate *ego* boosting.

Then I got pregnant. And people told me I had to get rid of my lovely underwires and buy maternity bras. Bras that came in 2 colours, white and beige. Occasionally with Nana embroidery and straps so thick you could use them as a spare rock climbing harness. I ignored their advice and bought none, waiting until I actually needed those complicated looking drop down cups to go buy some.

By the end of my pregnancy I was fairly busting out of my pretty bras, and was actually pretty OK with the idea of buying the Nana bras. Plus once the Elfling made her squalling entrance into the world I didn't care much about underwear, so long as it was functional. 6 months into the feeding game I was so much looking forward to wearing all my carefully stored rainbow, those mood lifting, bust enhancing, lovely garments that were hidden away.

But when I stopped feeding they didn't fit any more

Not only had my boobs changed colour and shape, but they were also bigger. Add that to my breastfeeding weightGAIN (how does that work? All those people that said BFing makes you lose weight LIES LIES LIES) and there were about 2 nice bras that still fit. And when I say fit I mean I could stuff my boobs into. They no longer did all the pushing up, cleavage enhancing, free drinks receiving thing. Oh no, they merely held on for dear life.

This pregnancy, not only did I get to deal with the after effects of last time, but I also got to deal with pregnancy breast growth. Now that was fun. Stabbing pains shooting through breasts that were incredibly sensitive and on permanent high beam. My slightly less pretty new underwire bras digging painfully into my new boobs that were apparently growing out of my armpits. Growing up to a large E cup and if I was willing to actually admit it, probably a comfortable F cup.

So not only were they huge and uncomfortable, but I had to buy maternity bras again because my last attractive Nana numbers were all too small (except one particularly fetching beige number). This time around there was much more variety in maternity bras. Pregnant supermodels had seen the gaping hole in the market and brought out delicate lacy numbers, perfect for those hazy soft focus shots on magazine covers. I was so excited. Pretty bras! In technicolor!!

Eagerly I made the excursion to try on these pretty pretty bras. Lovely AND functional I grinned to myself. But of course, these bras were made for women with slightly enlarged nipples and not a single one of them fit. So back I trudged to old faithful beige, and got wildly excited when I saw one I could wear in black.

So until recently I was back in my beige and whites. Suffering the big-bosomed-breastfeeders curse of dispiriting underwear. Then I decided to become a gym bunny.

And if I thought maternity bras with their uniformly 1950s conical boob look was bad I was about to step into the twilight zone.

Modern sports bras come in more fabrics, configurations and colour choices than modern sports cars. Light weight, tensile strength, intelligent design (with or without a compassionate God), embroidery, side support, shoulder padding, airflow generators and more structural support than the Sydney Harbour Bridge. All designed to keep you cool and minimise the dreaded bounce.

Most I tried on were OK should my effort include such things as rolling out of bed in the mornings, or the more strenuous climbing the stairs. But should both of my feet actually leave the ground at the same time, they would not so much act as support but as catapults for breasts (and permanent high beam mentos style) that could take an eye out.

So I tried the new generation sports top types favoured by my exercise idols on such shows as Biggest Loser and discovered a phenomenon I like to refer to as uniboob. Where two perfectly normal, well adjusted boobs suddenly morph into one, cyclops style in the middle of my chest, also creating a nice sweaty chasm down the middle, that just inspires one to work out.

So they were useless too. I started to wonder if having boobs that I bounced hard enough to actually tie around my neck would be such a bad thing... until clever clot that I am, I had a Mexican taco eating family revelation... porque no los dos???

Cue raucous cheering from the assembled crowd.

So gym nights now see me trussed into not one but 2 superengineered titanium alloy, carbon fibre precision instruments that barely allow me to breathe let alone bounce, and all excuses for not running are held firmly to my chest.

The only problem is that when I come home and the Monkey is yelling for a feed it takes me half an hour to free myself from them again .