Pat

The heavy grey wind slapped across my face as I walked home to my car in the afternoon with the dull rumble of the river beside me and the sting of my hair in my eyes. With every gust my wrap dress would unwrap and lift then tangle itself between my thighs and little bites would come through my stockings into my legs and hip. I shivered walking, underdressed for once and hugged my bag against my side, the dangling arm holding my lunch pail cooling and whitening. The car was warm inside, having been parked outside all day and the leather had swelled and softened with it as I snuggled into it before putting my key in its holder and pressing the button that turns the car on and flinching from the too loud radio over the whine of the engine.

I backed out and began to drive, heading towards the mountains that hover protectively over our little hill and tried to let the tension seep out of my shoulders into the warm leather. Rubbing my dry lips together and feeling the flake of my matte lipstick as I indicated left for our street.

As the tension uncoiled, the tiredness began to set in and the fog of it surrounded me until I was wrapped securely in it unable and unwilling to break free. Thinking of dinner and wanting, wishing more than anything to not make and not cook and not eat anything but instead to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. But like always, I parked my car in its spot and turned off the engine. Sitting quietly listening to the radio for a few minutes as I always do before climbing out, collecting the bin and tapping my heels against the polished floor boards as I clicked into the kitchen and began the second round.

When Bingley's contract ended on his last job, it was of little concern. He's never been out of work since he graduated and has jumped his way up the career ladder as he always planned. And when 3 months later I returned from my time away, it was not so much of a worry that there was not much on the horizon because something always turns up. And we still had savings and we could keep on keeping on. Then Christmas came and the cool hand of it started to play around in my chest at times, as I watched our little nest egg erode.

Then it was 7 months then 8 and I would wake in a cold sweat thinking of it. Thinking how I couldn't support us all alone. Not without many things giving. And I love working, but we're a team, and all of the responsibility would suffocate me in the night until I sat up gasping.

At 9 months the cracks started to appear, and I began to feel each day that someone had a hold of the key in my side and was winding too much every day, and I worried about how many more winds I could take before the spring cracked and I was broken. But when I was at work I could shut it all out. I could be busy and work hard and not have time to dwell or be anxious. I could be good at my work and while the spectre of a looming exam was never far from my thoughts, I would chase my fear of failure and of study and of financial responsibility away and would instead throw myself into learning and procedures and having one thing in perfect harmony.

And it worked, most of the time, until the morning I came in and found out that the gentleman I'd done a procedure on the previous day had died. Had died of a complication that had come from the procedure that I'd done. That had it not been for me he and his kindly eyes and his soft voice would have still had life and his family would still have had warm hands to hold. And all the rest of that wretched day I worked, but the tears would not stay out of my eyes, and all I could think of was how I never see my children and I work so hard and in the end I have taken a life instead of given it. That that poor man's family would
have been called and if he had not met me, if it had been someone else, maybe he would have lived.

I came home that night and sat on my bed with my feet on the floor and I sobbed. I sobbed until all the tears had gone and the spirit had gone from my breath and so the only sounds that came were the sounds of the shudder as it racked through my chest. Bingley came in and stroked my head as it continued until the nausea began and I started retching, all done. Finished. Complete.

And for all those months that I'd planned how I'd celebrate for him, surprise him when he got a new job, of all days it was that one when Bingley could finally lift some of the weight from my shoulders. But there was a catch, that as my sobs subsided in the warmth of his belly as he held me there with my feet still flat on the floor, that started the sobs anew. This new job is away. Far away and he would be leaving in 3 days time. For weeks.

I thought of getting the girls to school and the Possum to kindy and then getting to work and I thought I could do that, that the rush rush rush I had not missed, but I could do that. Then I thought of coming home every night, of rushing home in the traffic and the rapidly darkening day as the sun tucks herself under her golden pink covers and making dinner and supervising home work and tidying and ironing and washing and sorting everything and whatever strength I had deserted me. I was 4 weeks out of an exam. A specialist exam with a pass rate of 25%. And I pulled my feet up off the floor, curled up under the blanket and cried some more.

Of course, eventually I got up, because what other choice is there? I could have lain there forever. I could have used any and all of those excuses for why I just can't do or be. But what sort of life would that be? There is a steely core within me. Some stubborn tenacious sort of fibre that refuses to break, and I set about making things work. I hired a new after school nanny, I wrote up a timetable, I had a family meeting and I had most of all a long, hard talk with myself and I told myself I could do this because there is and was no other choice.

It's not been all sunshine and roses. I can't be the worker I was before he died because he still haunts the periphery so that there's a tremble sometimes when I finish a procedure now, and an assumption that all things can and will go wrong. I have none of the confidence that comes from ignorance and I have tasted real fear for the first time in my life. There is a new quietness, and I was never loud in the first place. I withdrew so far into my shell that I'm blinded even coming near the light, and part of me doesn't want to come out again, but prefers to stay hidden and safe.

I am thinner again. My elbows are pointier and when I lie flat my anterior superior iliac spines are visible, tenting the pale skin above that does not pull taut but instead drapes across them. My belly again has the slack softness where it was stretched by the Possum and faded into silveriness and no longer has anything to hold it out so it falls. My jaw is stronger and has shadows underneath and there are little hollows in my cheeks that suck against my teeth when I am tired. Strangely, my breasts have remained full and soft and have not emptied with the rest of me, I am glad of this, to have one thing left of what it used to be like to be me.

There are lines around my eyes, still faint and not permanent yet, but they will be, and I am handsomer now than I was at 21 or 25. Not that I was or will ever be pretty, but my features are less harsh on this tired face than they were on the pillowy roundness of youth. My arms and my legs are thinner and my feet are smaller too. Who knew that feet could change in size. My hair is nearly down to my waist again and is darker too, and falls out in strands that get stuck in the bristles of the broom.

When Bingley is away I have no appetite and when the exam came I did not eat because I could not. And as I lay in my hammock afterwards, drifting listlessly in the pale afternoon light I was given food and forced to eat it for all I did not want it, because people were becoming concerned and I suppose they had reason. So I ate.

And now I live by my schedule where everything must be fitted in and around and somehow squished into the few hours of each day. And the children are happy and settled. They are thriving on all the routine and are helping. They miss Bingley too, but they know he is coming home and they know how much he needed to work. We read at night on the white sofa with the cuddly grey blankets in the pale white lamplight and they snuggle into me as I choke up reading Charlotte's Web. And I turn off all the lights at a sensible hour, and I climb into bed, feeling satisfied that the washing is folded and put away and that the kitchen is clean and the ironing is done.

And I lie here in bed, in my cold bed with the late Autumn wind whispering over me and I tell myself to sleep, because the tiredness makes my bones ache and I am doing far too much for one person who does not get enough sleep. And sleep evades me, night after night. So I read and I write and I compose stories in my head. And I miss the warmth in my bed that even on my worst days was always there, that I could somehow absorb into until his regular breathing became my breathing. Or the days when the tears came when I could burrow into the warmth and have it envelop me, encase me and penetrate me until all the cold was chased away.

I'm afraid to cry, but also I don't want to. The little thread inside me, the little core that refuses to break but instead tenaciously holds every piece together is intact. And while my skin may be softer than ever before and the legs that are holding me upright are whittled down, there is still a fire that burns there in the middle, and refuses to go out and believes all this is for a purpose. If only to prove that I can do anything, if I put my mind to it.

But I'm so tired.

A very boring week. Because I write about those now too. Apparently.

Because it is school holidays, the children had their annual visit with their grandparents and Bingley and I sat on the couch and wondered at the silence. For a very short period of time anyway before trying to fill it. I still had to work all week, and weekend, but we managed to do some other things too.

The first night we went and saw The Hobbit and drank slushies that gave me headspin and ate popcorn until I couldn't feel my lips. It was good and I enjoyed the Hobbit very much. I am thinking of taking the Elfling for an encore as I think she'd like it but it may be yet just a little scary. We'll see. Plus the idea of a night out with just her is appealing.

After the movie we walked around Southbank for a while and sat down at a Spanish bar to eat tapas. Fun ambience and a jug of tasty Sangria mixed with the sultry night as we people watched and the bougainvilea bower swayed listlessly in what was left of the breeze. After dinner, having eaten too much, we wandered through the park to the beach where hundreds of others were still swimming and I peeled off my shoes and pulled up my jeans and waded in tipsily, wanting nothing more than to dive right in. The only thing that stopped me was that my underwear was sheer, otherwise I would have jumped. Bingley was much more sensible than I though and promised we would come back the next night.

So Monday, after work, when I was overtired and overworked and underpaid, I got changed into my riding gear, we snapped our new $10 LED torches to our bikes and we rode all the way to the city, across the Goodwill Bridge and back down into Southbank to the pools. Unlike every other day of this new year, it was actually blowing quite a bit, with the wind racing along the river and losing all of her heat. Remembering the strong pull of desire from the previous night however I forced myself to strip off my slightly sweaty clothes down to my bikini and jump into the water that was actually blissfully warm. Lapping at shoulders as we bobbed around watching the city lights and listening to the sounds of everyone else splashing. The wind as it blew across the surface raising gooseflesh and causing me to shiver so much that it was not quite as long as expected before we were back on our bikes and riding home in the night.

Bingley and I have never ridden our bikes together in Brisbane before and it was a revelation. Wide, well maintained bike paths that snaked under and over bridges that seem so much bigger when you're whooshing past on your own steam. On arriving home my knees and shoulders hurt, but the grin of self satisfaction and spontaneity and doing something fun and active was elixir enough to fall peacefully to sleep not long after.

Wednesday night I stopped at Ikea on the way home and bought a new bookshelf. It was very big and heavy and getting it into the car I used all of my grade 10 Physics to actually lever it in without breaking something. We then had the fun of sitting on the floor and putting it together, which is probably the real reason we own so much Ikea furniture - it's just a really big lego set.

Thursday we went out for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. It was ok.

Friday we had a big fight. I cried. We made up. I slept badly.

Saturday we woke up and the sun was shining and my room was full of light. I was snuggled up in my blankets as the airconditioning rumbled through the vents. After finally climbing out of bed and into the shower, we made our way to GoMA to the new APT exhibit.

Side note - I am lucky that I was brought up in a family that appreciated art and took the time to take children to museums and galleries and to explain it as well. Some art doesn't need explaining. Some art is just pretty and nice to look at, but art that speaks to you other than just being pretty - learning to appreciate that is a true gift.

Anyway, the Asia/Pacific triennial art exhibit at the Queensland Art Gallery is one of my favourite things to experience. The last exhibit in 2010 was spectacular and there were pieces there that made my heart hurt. Some that made my eyes sting and some that pulled my stomach out of my chest .I loved it. Loved experiencing it. Loved visiting it on my own. Loved taking others with me to experience it. The stag of globes still rates as one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. So of course my expectations were high, and I take disappointment badly.

I was not disappointed.

From the first moment of walking in, I knew I would not be disappointed. Some things of course I just glanced over politely, missing, or not caring about their meaning. Others had me spellbound, sitting and watching, sometimes nose right up to the glass or the paint or the wood, just to see every last tiny detail. To try and work out how as well as what and why.

Here are some of my favourites, and reasons why you should go too.

I liked these. I empathise.

This is techinically spectacular and utterly unnerving. So incredibly beautiful and so ugly at the same time. My phone has done nothing to capture the beauty of the colours or the technique. 

String theory. I followed each line to its completion. I loved the wobbles. String theory needs wobbles.

The yellow room 

Black and white. Texture and light. I was wearing a red dress and the reflected light from me gave the painting colour. I was profoundly moved by it.

Terrible picture of a stunning series by Michael Cook. Amazing.

This is a photograph taken of the sky in a mirror. The mirror is made from polished meteorite. When I realised what I was looking at my heart jumped a little. So spectacularly beautiful and so simple - seeing the sky from the sky. 

Large installation piece of cities that raise to they sky. Worth looking at close up to see all the little details. 

I usually am not much interested in the short cinema offerings at these exhibitions and wander out after a polite few minutes of trying to look interested. This one was not like that. 9 minutes that sucked the breath from my chest. I know it won't affect everyone like that, but it's worth sitting down for just to appreciate the cinematography. 

Whimsical Japanese print. Ethereal.

Farsi. I love that the room bent the more I looked at it to become a 3 dimensional thing. 

I am not sure why this moved me so much. It's massive and it is beautiful. Part of a larger series by an Indigenous artist. One of the bags reminded me of the Giants in the BFG. They seemed perfect for snatching up little children. 

One of those spectacularly beautiful wow creations that you don't need to be a critic to enjoy. I wanted to visit there in the clouds this temple. Live there. Home of the air nomads. 

Parade of the tiny glass animals. Intricate, refractory and flowing like water. 

Menacing shapes in the art gallery over the water. I loved the reflections and the menace and the beauty all mixed in together.

November 3

I am so out of practice with the writing thing that I thought I would try and write every day for the next month. A plan that failed spectacularly when I realised that it was already past the first of the month and that I had not written a word. I wanted to write about not me, and not my work, but because I find myself both tired and lazy, it's hard to think of much else.

I leave soon. Within a week this little 5 roomed apartment will have another tennant who may or may not care about arranging the furniture in ways that are designed to be appealing when you walk in the door. They may not bring flowers in every week or go to Bunnings and buy big leafy green plants to purify the air and soften the walls. Who won't leave out their overripe fruit for the wallabies. Who won't wash on Sundays and mop the floors on Wednesday nights. And curl up on the couch with the contrasting cushions and the soft fuzzy blanket on the nights when it's hard to be alone.

In spite of myself I have loved it here. Being alone for the first time in my life has been something that I think I needed without even knowing it. It will be hard to go home to a house of continual noise and competing needs. Here the only needs have been mine. I have been allowed to be completely selfish and it has been nice, though I'm glad as well that it's over.

I went out last night with a friend. A friendship that forged on quickly the way they used to when I was a child and I would be only in one place so briefly that it was a necessity. It has been fun. I've forgotten what it was like to just make friends without having to fit it in between everything else. And I've had opportunity for more but have held back a little. Knowing I'm leaving and not wanting to leave too much behind.

We went out to a pub dressed the way I would have dressed if I was a 30 year old woman who had nothing but a little apartment to go home to that was always cleaned on Sundays, even if it was 2 in the morning. Who spent her time doing yoga when she hadn't gone to bed too late reading terrible literature and ate asparagus dipped in fried egg on the couch when she came home from on call shifts. A sequinned dress that dipped a little over the cleavage and far too high on the thigh, pulled together with a classic black blazer so that it was just that little less obvious.

I kicked off the sparkly platforms, rejecting them for their very sparkles, put on the simple pumps instead and headed out to a venue that hadn't yet kicked off, driving myself so that I couldn't drink while my carefully curled hair went limp in the humidity. We played pool and drank iced water while the crowds ebbed and flowed. Losing the game by sinking the white on a foul shot with a rueful grin.

We found a livelier bar later and while she danced I perched up on a stool and people watched to my heart's content. Not needing to make conversation and enjoying myself quietly. Apparently an open invitation, that clearly I was in need of company that was offered often, sometimes politely sometimes not. Rejection that was taken and sometimes not. Grateful for the bouncer that moved along one man who seemed unable to understand my reticence.

It was worse at another club, where I was physically pulled onto the dance floor and another where I danced to try and make myself less conspicuous (my dancing is terrible at the best of times) and was immediately approached. Touched. Something I've never been fond of and we finally went somewhere where the crowd were less forward. It surprised me because as a tiny 18 year old I was always hyperaware, hoping for attention and it was a rarity.

But for that, I enjoyed myself. It was a punctuation mark about this whole interlude. A break from reality underscored by a strange night that smelled of acetaldehyde and cigarettes, bad fake tan and worse fake hair. It reminded me of the artificiality of this whole experience. Of how even though the nights I've been able to spend looking after only myself eating what I wanted, when I wanted, falling asleep on my preferred side of the bed instead of the one I've been designated and tangled in sheets that don't overheat and smell like clean laundry. Of the few days off spent doing whatever I wanted to do. For all that I still want, more than anything else, to go home.

I want the girls. I want to see their homework and do their hair for ballet. I want to read their funny stories and hear about what they did at school today. I want to wake up with the Possum standing by my side of the bed in the moonlight, waiting for me to lift the covers so he can curl up into me and steal half my pillow. I want my house with my porch and the smell of hot nights in my hammock. I want my new antique cedar dressing table with the mirror that's flaking on the sides in that perfect way that old mirrors have.

But most of all I want Bingley.

I dreamed of you again. Your hands and your skin. I dreamed of the roughened bits on your palm and your strong fingers. I dreamed of the smell of you that comes from work and sun and the perfume of you. I dreamed of the muscles of your back and the coolness when the fan beats over us and the air is heavy.

For a long time I stopped dreaming. And still you touched my flesh and waited for it to respond. Your patience annoyed me and I used it as some kind of barrier between us. I hated every little thing about you and wanted to slap you away.

But now all my dreams are of you and the nights when the airconditioner rattled and smelled sweet and green. When the dampness of my body stuck to the dampness of your body and all the dreams we had were in that room.

Your pillow is empty and when I reach out over the sheets it's only coolness there in the middle of the night. And you would think that that would make me sad this big emptiness where you should be.

But I can't be sad because you are there in my dreams again and the fan is beating down over us. And my skin is like my skin used to be, when it only seemed to belong to you; and even though the darkness is laughing at me I am laughing too.

Because I have spent my whole life terrified of the dark and being alone. Of all the big emptiness. But tonight I am not afraid, because I dreamed of you again.

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.

Sketchy

It was a hot and tense start to the weekend, with no rain and no relief in sight. I felt tired and hot and resentful and not inclined to be a loving wife or mother. The exorbitant electricity bill courtesy of an ailing refrigerator and the necessity of replacement just fouled my mood further.

It was lucky then, that in a burst of forethought and perseverance I had booked a babysitter for Sunday so that after a workout at the gym, Bingley could run off and not think about children for a while.

We went to yum cha and then to my beloved GoMA to see Matisse. I adored the exhibition. I loved standing with my nose almost against the glass as the worried stewards looked on so that I could see every last stroke of the pen or where the stump had been smudged into the vellum to create shadows and softness.

My very favourite bit of all though, was at the very end of the exhibition where a hall had been set up like Matisse's studio, and there were free drawing pencils, art boards and an encouragement to sit back and create. I have been drawing a lot lately, studying with pictures and sketching the finer details of the foramina of the sphenoid but sitting there with a large piece of thick card and a lovely soft pencil while I looked at art work in between all the others doing the same thing filled me with the sort of contented bliss that comes with doing what you love best.

I loved sneaking a peak at the works being created, from little tiny girls, balancing on a stool, to stooped and serious gentlemen studiously recreating still life. I loved the sound of pens rasping softly against paper and bodies bent over their works. The absorption of trying to recreate something on paper. And I loved being amongst that. Being completely absorbed and not noticing an older woman at my elbow watching my every pencil movement and encouraging me to continue. I loved the dark smudge of graphite over my palm where it brushed the page. And I loved best of all that from the rough sketches little bits of reality imprinted on the paper.

While Bingley sipped his coffee and ate shortbread overlooking the river I sparkled and sipped tea and smudged my face with my graphite-y hand and wished that I could sit curled with my neck aching balanced on the chair and practice and practice and practice until I was good at this. But even more than being good, I just wanted to keep doing it. My fingers literally tingled.

Not Matisse, but I can't resist marble

My fellow sketchers

20 minutes later

Studying the orbit - handwriting bonus for the graphologists

Almost finished the cerebellum

Finally coming to grips with the palatine bones

Last travel post for a while - I promise!

It's a good thing I write these posts for me and not for the internet at large, as clearly I'm the only one appreciating them! Our last day in Bangkok was sultry and steamy as we asked the Concierge to direct a taxi driver back to the tailor where Bingley supposedly had half a suit waiting for him.It was clearly not one of the more well known tailors, as it took a lot of directions and calls back to base before we found it. But once there, Bingley was pounced on and draped with bits of Italian wool cashmere and a man with chalk drew and pinched and tucked and pinned while I watched on amusedly. Assured that the suit would be delivered that afternoon we left the tailor and set off for Chatuchak weekend market.

This market is the largest in Thailand and sprawls over 35 acres with rambling alleyways packed with everything you can think of. It was stinking hot and being out of the sun was a relief as we made our way through the rabbit warren, ducking under suspended lights, and pointing out the weird and the wonderful.

Unlike most markets in SE Asia, most things had a price tag, and aside from some vague bartering when buying larger quantities, things stuck to their price. This was a relief in the heat where neither of us felt much like arguing about prices and could decide straight up if we wanted something or not. Some things, like the plethora of plastic fruit and flowers were easy to pass up, but the silks, mobiles, puppets and dust catchers were hard to walk by.

We managed to walk a good half hour before we bought anything at all, choosing to buy some coconut icecream to wander the stalls, before Bingley came across this stall selling childrens things. We bought shirts for the Possum and dresses for the girls, then now that we had realised how many Baht we had left in our wallets and how pointless it would be to change them back to dollars at the airport we began a bonanza of purchasing.

Lunch time loomed and I was starving, so we made our way to one of the tents on the periphery of the market and pointed out various curries which were prepared in front of us and came with icy cold Pepsi in the old style glass bottles. The food was amazing. I loved it and ate well while Bingley felt a bit queasy from a combination of the heat and humidity and prolonged jetlag. We munched on a giant curly potato that had been deep fried and then wandered around some more looking to blow the last of our cash.

Final tally for the day was not photographed, however we all had a bag full of loot and various sparkly accessories by the time the heat had reached saturation point for Bingley and we caught a cab back to our hotel where we washed up and packed our bags ready to head back home. Our flight wasn't until midnight, so we decided to spend some time in the Club Lounge before heading to the roof for the last lot of cocktails and Bangkok sunsets.

The clouds were beautiful, sailing past and veiling the sky beyond while the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky. We settled back as it got dark and chatted about the end of the holiday and the need to not leave it so long ever again between stamps in the passport. Neither of us were sad about going home, I was starting to miss the kids abominably and the hotel life after a while starts to feel a little bit like you're wearing someone else's clothes. It's fun for a visit, but it's not the life I want to live.

We left the hotel around 8pm, and drove through the streets. Overpasses on the highway still crowded with those escaping the floodwaters and a sobering reminder of the reality that we had cocooned ourselves from on the 34th floor. We rode in silence as we watched the planes take off and land in the distance, coming closer and closer until we were on the concourse and our bags were being unpacked by our driver. Standing in the brilliant neon blue lights and no longer being excited, anticipatory travelers, but instead being weary ones making our way home.

We checked in, ate bad food in the terminal and then wandered through the ridiculous, overpriced stores that repeated themselves over and over searching for a bookstore where I could buy a book or magazine. Finally finding one in amongst the Chanels and the Bvlgaris so that we could curl up outside our gate and read away the hours.

It was a long and painful flight with an incredibly short night as we watched the inflight movie and tried to doze sitting upright. Dreaming of days when we could afford business class and stretch out and sleep, curled up in blankets. We arrived soon enough though, looping low over the Brisbane coastline and coming in to land. Disembarking quickly, collecting bags and finding ourselves again on home soil. Bingley's Dad and the two girls were there to meet us. Excited and ebullient, chattering away so quickly that I missed half the words.

Then we were back in our car, our new red car that we'd owned for one whole day before we'd left, driving down the freeway towards home. And I sat back in my chair, leaned back my head and closed my eyes, wondering if I'd dreamed the whole thing.

Temples, Tuktuks and the Hard Sell

After the massive day of cycling and swimming and eating we unsurprisingly slept in quite late the next morning, surfacing after the buffet breakfast had closed (oh no!) and being hungry and excited for adventure. We ate a very poor and very expensive lunch at Romsai which took forever to be served and formulated a plan for the day. All of the various websites we perused on our phones said that we should go see the Grand Palace while we were in Bangkok so we decided to take a taxi there so we couldn't get lost (being as we had no idea how to get there). We even asked the concierge to order us the taxi and give directions so that we didn't have to. 

Our taxi was very cool in that our driver had collected currency from over 40 countries which were stapled to his roof, and we had cricked necks from looking up and pointing out various notes including quite a few obsolete ones (Lira, Francs etc). Less cool was that instead of taking us to the palace, he took us to the river so that we could catch a river boat to the palace. I had read of te water taxis and that this was a cheaper option, but the place we had been taken to was a private long boat and the driver asked straight up for 100 US dollars for the trip. Um no. So we walked until we found the public ferries which cost less than $3 for both of us. 

Waiting for the ferry was quite surreal as we watched the water lap over the banks of the Chao Phraya and into the streets. From the pontoon to the ferry the volume and the speed of the flood waters was quite evident and sobering. When Brisbane was flooded early last year, all water traffic was pulled out of the river quick smart due to the risk of hidden debris, but in Bangkok it was business as usual. 

Flood waters against the pontoon

Going under

After about 20 minutes of cruising mesmerised as we realised just how screwed this city was if the water rose any further, we noticed most of the other tourists packing up their bags and getting ready to jump off, which lead us to assume we must have been close to the Grand Palace. Getting off the boat was precarious and involved being in mid-shin depth flood water as we strode towards dry land, my brand new Repettos held aloft while Bingley gave me wtf faces for having worn them in the first place (he had a point).

The street we eventually found ourselves on was a hive of activity. Merchants and monks and tourists swarming everywhere while store keepers lugged sandbags to put in front of their stores while others erected bricks and mortar to keep out the water. We looked in desperation for somewhere to buy suncream while hiding in the shade of buildings before buying the tiniest tube you've ever seen for $8AUD from a 7-11. We then set off for the Palace again. Which was a great idea except having not done any research whatsoever and it being impossible to get our bearings meant we had no idea.

Diverting the water with sandbags

 Eventually, after stopping in this beautiful green park, we worked out what we figured had to be the palace. And were denied entry because my skirt wasn't long enough and Bingley was wearing long shorts. This didn't perturb us too much as we figured there'd be somewhere close by where we could buy a sarong to meet the dress code. However the information man also informed us that the palace was nearly due to close to visitors for the day. So we stood around awkwardly and wondered what to do next.

Grand Palace - I hear it's amazing to visit

I was slightly annoyed at Bingley as Thailand had been his job to organise, and thus far that had meant no organisation at all. But then I remembered that the point of this part of the trip was just to go with the flow and enjoy it so when another "information guide" came up to us and volunteered to find us a tuk tuk to go see other temples for a "good price" we figured we'd just go with it. Clearly there was going to be some sort of catch, and as long as it didn't involve being forced to see a Ping Pong show we may as well go along with it.

And so we jumped into our too good to be true tuktuk which was driven by a nice driver at a less deathly pace and finally took us to see the temple of the standing Buddha at Wat Intharawihan. It was stinking hot and people were lying around in the shade everywhere as we approached the giant Buddha statue.

Jade Buddha

Pretty toes

 It was too hot to explore the temple much, so we jumped back in with our tuktuk driver who was to take us to a new temple, and of course, give us the "catch" to get there. As explained by a reclining Thai man who was half asleep in his tuktuk next to us, the day that we were there was a day that the government had been stimulating industry by giving retailers coupons to buy petrol. Any time a tuktuk driver bought tourists to one of the stores and they looked around for long enough then the driver would get a coupon (which we figured was worth around $10 each, which is significant). This didn't sound like a terrible trade off, and being as we had wanted to look at jewellery anyway we weren't that fussed when our first detour was a jewellery store.

Our chauffeur with the pandas

The hard sell started the minute we walked into the door of the jewellery store with one of the attendants practically forcing rings on my fingers as I wandered around then leading me back over to Bingley to tell him what a lucky man he was and shouldn't he buy his lovely wife a ring? They exclaimed over my beautiful white skin (which was at the time quite horrendously sunburned) and over my delicate hands (as you can see with the heat they were swollen like sausages). I laughed out loud once but they were still absolutely determined for the sale, not helped by Bingley who kept asking me which one I wanted. Sensing blood they didn't let go of my hand until the ring pictured was mine. We figured our tuk tuk driver had well and truly earned his coupon.

Next temple was Wat Benchamabophit or the Marble Temple which was quite beautiful. The interior of the main temple was lush and beautiful, while the main court yard had many statues of Buddha in different stances - seated, standing, lying or walking. We learned a little of the various mudras or attitudes of Buddha's hands and wanted a replica of the one warning brothers not to fight. The gardens were also lovely as we wandered around. 

Hands in bhumisparsha and avakasha - witness and leisure

Buddha fasting

Afternoon sun on the gilded roof

Some tourist in the way

 We jumped back in the tuktuk and were convinced into another "coupon" this time getting Bingley measured up for a suit. The price was right and we figured that even if it was dodgy he could still wear the pants somewhere. I also got fitted for some work shirts. The material was decent quality as ascertained by me and the sellers were not particularly harrassing. As it was late in the day I figured they'd already had a steady stream of tourists in all day so they were less interested in us. One tried to convince me to buy some lovely silk dresses, but having nowhere in particular to wear any it seemed a little pointless. After this though we just wanted to go home. By now though, our driver was putting on the hard sell and practically begging us to just go look in some more stores, but after a half hearted wander around yet another jewellery store, this time ridiculously overpriced and full of tack we refused and asked him to take us home, which much to his disappointment he finally did.

That evening, we decided to go in search of more night markets and headed for the famous Central World Mall. It was everything it's supposed to be - huge, empty and soulless. We were bored in minutes. It's essentially a large Westfield Shopping Centre with more luxury brands. Exactly like walking around a mall at home, which we could do, at home. So after grabbing something to eat in the foodcourt (sadly missing Zense which is apparently very nice) we were pretty much ready to leave the frigid airconditioning and bizarrely expensive and empty shops aside from several young Thai women leading around much older Australian and European men. It felt ick.

Outside however was much more our scene. Night markets were being set up along the main stretch of street and the music, noise, bustle and lights made for such a better experience. Bingley was tired and grumpy though so we ended up catching a taxi home and ordering room service for dessert. It was a bit of an odd day, and while the spontaneous path was fun, I do recommend that if you actually want to go see some of the sights of Bangkok that you actually have an idea where they are!