ABOUT THAT SUEDE DRESS

I’d like to say that I have been thinking a lot about world peace recently, but that would be a big fib.  Like so many times before, the ennui, which I’m sad to say defines my life at times, sets me off on the pursuit of things unimportant.  Stimulating, gorgeous, even breathtaking, but unimportant.  Things like that suede dress.  It was in the window of a local boutique; one day in beige, two days in rust and then – the blue.  Oh. My. God.  The Blue! 

It didn’t matter that the purchase price of the blue suede dress was way out of my league. It didn’t matter that the blue suede dress was designed for a waif less than half my age.  Hey, it didn’t even matter that it would be too small for someone less than half my weight.  It called me and it called me by name.  From the supermarket, the bank, the newsagent, everywhere I went that couple of weeks, I could hear that dress calling me.

Then I met someone who also liked that dress.  Someone who could afford that dress, who had the body for that dress and had tried that dress on!  That dress was tight on my friend the waif, even in the BIGGEST size.  That dress was heavier than my friend the waif.  And that dress was hotter than hell.  Not hot as in ‘God, she looks hot!’  Hot as in sauna hot.

It wasn't long before that dress's melodious call became a dirge, and it wasn't long after that, that she stopped calling me altogether.  It was almost like she knew I had heard all about her.  I no longer coveted her sensual curves, her electric blue skin.  No, I would ignore that suede dress and focus on more important things (like world peace).  And anyway, no self respecting girl would be seen walking around in a sauna – even if it was the right price and size.

ABOUT DONGARA

What is it they say about being able to pick your friends but not your family?  I spent the past weekend at a 90^th birthday party in a country town called Dongara which is about 4 hours north of Perth, but quicker without toilet stops.  Most of us met up in small groups and car pooled which was a pleasant and economical way to travel.  Having packed the car and belted up, we checked our road map for toilet stops, and decided we should go back inside for ‘just one more little wee’.  I guess, at 55 years of age and the youngest traveller by a couple of decades, I probably should have guessed what lay ahead.  Anyway, with bladders voided off we went, travelling in convoy to our destination via some gorgeous little beachside hamlets. With so many oldies on board we did get a few laughs along the way.  ‘Let’s get lunch at the bottom of the street’ confused one car load of octogenarians who wondered why we would want to break up the trip by getting ‘drunk and showing our bottoms at the beach’.  So, hearing aids were compared and calibrated and we eventually agreed to meet at the bakery ‘down the bottom of the street’.  A quick stop at the shopping centre toilets was followed by a visit to the bakery where there were 7 different types of pie - but none to suit!  Some were too fancy, some were too spicy, some were too foreign and some were just too different to ‘what I’m used to!’  Thank God for the ubiquitous toasted tomato sandwich and powdered coffee.  Soon enough everyone’s hunger was sated and, you guessed it, a quick wee stop and we were off again.  Fast forward 20 minutes, the coffee has done what coffee does best, we did another wee stop, a bit of a passenger shuffle and before we knew it we had arrived.

We enjoyed a truly wonderful weekend of birthday celebrations made all the more enjoyable by the fact that we all shared accommodation in a tourist park.  There were so many stories to tell, so much reminiscing about good times, so much catching up on who has been doing what, and where, and when.  A couple of my great aunts are the matriarchs of 5 generations of family.  Some of my cousins, younger than me, have great grand children!  And there were family secrets shared too.  But most of all, there was the constant and anguished cry of ‘Is there anyone in the toilet?’

You know, many an exasperated individual has rolled their eyes and exclaimed ‘You can’t pick your family!’  Well that’s true, but despite this, and despite the bladder weakness which seems to run in my family, I wouldn’t change them either.

ABOUT ASYLUM SEEKERS

If there is one subject which makes me squirm it is the debate over asylum seekers.  At the core of most discontent, as I understand it, is that hoary old chestnut – are they really asylum seekers or are they illegal immigrants?  When I heard this morning that New Zealand had refused entry to a boat of asylum seekers because it would pave the way for ‘millions of others’ and it would ‘reward people smugglers’, I shuddered.  I know it's NZ and not Australia this time but still I can’t cope with the discordant feelings the debate elicits in my mind. I'd have preferred to leave my head in the sand and let the Kiwi's debate this one, however, some of the arguments I’ve heard from friends today include -

·         Once you accept refugees by boat, people smugglers are rewarded and will continue their callous trade

·         Once you accept one boat, others will follow and that put the lives of all aboard in peril  (It follows that we would then be complicit in their demise.)

·         Once you accept one boat, hundreds will follow and we’ll be inundated – they’ll take our money and they’ll take our jobs

·         There should be zero tolerance for illegal immigration and all asylum seekers should use the ‘queue’ and follow set process

·         It's legal to seek asylum, even if you arrive on a boat without a visa, and asylum seekers should not be treated as criminals

·         Australia is a rich country with plenty to share and we should be more generous in taking responsibility for asylum seekers.

For my part, I think there’s truth in all those statements (though I doubt any jobs are at risk).  I hate the thought of people smugglers making money out of these ill-fated people.  I hate to think about these unfortunate people, so desperate they would trust their future to a leaky boat.  I can’t bear thinking about how many lives have already been lost at sea, how many more will be lost at sea, how many families have been torn asunder.  By the same token,  I could not bear to face a ‘legal’ asylum applicant and tell them they have slipped further down the queue because they have been usurped by illegal immigrants either.  And, even if faced with illegal immigrants, I couldn’t bear to send them back to a place they fear so much that they would risk this horrendous boat trip to escape.  And, regardless of any status at all, economic, social or otherwise, I could not face a child and tell them they were not welcome here.

Like everyone else, I have my grizzles about politicians and bureaucrats. Today however, I am so grateful that I am not one of them standing at the front line of the asylum seeker issue and having to make decisions about peoples’ lives.  Decisions that polarise populations, devastate families and ruin lives.  Today, I send them very genuine wishes for their own health and sanity and thank them for the thankless task they perform. There are some things which are not easily fixed.  And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just pop my head back into the sand and have a little cry.

ABOUT HOME

Today I ‘manned’, or should that be ‘womaned’, a Display Home for family members who are overseas.  In sales talk, it was a ‘steady’ sales day.  And in case you don’t work in sales, on this occasion, it meant that I sat there for a bit more than 3 hours and nobody, not one single person, came in for a peek.   I did not waste time doing nothing though!  Perhaps not aware of exactly what I was doing at the outset, it soon became clear that I was growing up.  You see, this gorgeous display home which consists of 4 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, lounge room , theatre room, computer room, enormous alfresco, fish ponds, courtyards and the like, is pretty much what we all aspire to own.  It’s been finished off with only the very best and latest flooring, wall papers, feature walls, tiles, splashbacks, mirrors, built ins and the rest.  Overall, she is one classy girl and she speaks money.  Despite this though, there was no warmth, no life, no vibe. There was no comfy chair like the daggy one I like to sit in at home. No worn but warm rug underfoot.  The lamps were high fashion but not at all functional.  The floors were expensive and high shine but also cold and unwelcoming.  Even outdoors was made more for looking at than being in.

What was happening?  This girl who had been flirting with me for months now suddenly looked like a teenager wearing too much make up.  Her inexperience showed.  There were no laugh lines or frown lines, no signs that she had weathered and survived obstacles and trials.  No lumps, no bumps. No warmth or kindness.

Now I’m certain that time and family will fix that lack of ‘je ne sais quoi’, but what I learned today is that the old adage ‘a home is not bought it is made’ is indeed true.   A home is not just a building, it is made of diverse personalities and their untidy idiosyncracies.  Made of mismatched furniture, of grotty light switches, of wear and tear at doorways.  Made of pain and sadness, joy and  gladness, but  mostly of the energy which resides within.  So I will no longer be seduced by this beautiful girl.  I am wiser than her and can finally see that no beautiful house could ever be a match for my beautiful home. 

ABOUT FOOTY

I love my football.  Always have but boy has it changed.  It used to be black and red rosettes, gonks, beanies, scarves, gloves, socks, streamers, banners – you name it and my friend Sharon and I made it.  Those were the days, and not just because you could make team golliwogs without being vilified.  We loved the Perth Demons and were lucky enough to celebrate a couple of premierships during our teenage years.  Back then, the WAFL was huge and for the big games you would need to sleep out overnight to get a ticket.  Back then, the only way to get a ticket was at a turnstile and the only way to get the best spot on the ground was to sleep in that turnstile, so that’s what we did.  And so did lots of other people so there was never any danger in doing so.  In those days, the best seat was not a seat – it was standing at the fence, streamers hanging over the rail, gonk in hand, rosette with favourite player pinned proudly to chest, scarf around neck, beanie on head – you get the drift!  In those days, everyone was allowed onto the ground at the end of the game and even during the game if something spectacular happened!  In those days, you could have a chat with the players, have access to the coach (because he was usually doubled as the captain), get a stack of autographs and even hang around afterwards for a beer and a BBQ. In those days, it would be fair to say, football was fun, lots of fun, and with 8 teams in the local competition it was a huge and affordable community event. 

Fast forward one generation, (albeit quite a long generation because I had my babies very late in life) and things are very different.  For a start, most football fans now follow the AFL and so do I.  And my colours have morphed, I’m now wearing blue and gold! Training is not Wednesday afternoon after work with all the local kids joining in.  You definitely can’t take a gonk to the football – you can’t even make a gonk in the privacy of your own home for that matter!  These days you need to sell a kidney if you want a club membership and without membership it is all but impossible to get a ticket to a match.  Football players are professionals now, cleverly marketed and handsomely paid, (and downright handsome in some cases) and strictly off limits except for organised and brief ‘meet the player’ opportunities.  Football is big business, very big business, corporate business.  It’s about trophy nights and trophy wives, corporate functions and big, big money.  Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not better nor worse, just different.  I still love football but these days I am a mere spectator –‘standing on the outside, lookin’ in’ – (with apologies to Jimmy Barnes).  And at my tender age that’s a blessing because there is no way I could sleep in a turnstile or defend going publicly armed with a gonk.

ABOUT 5AM

This morning I was woken at 6AM by this very chatty cockatoo.  His occasional shrieks stirred me from my slumber and made me think about a time long gone when I would have been out there enjoying the morning with him.  He and his mates hung around for an hour or so until it was light enough to get his photograph.  As I dozed off and on I remembered, with great fondness, an old friend - 5AM.

I know how good that hour between 5am and 6am looks and feels.  For many, many years I was addicted to 5am and couldn’t get through a day without having spent time with it.  I loved the feeling of 5am on my bare arms and legs as I walked a 5 km track along the Canning River.  I loved seeing the myriad birds, an occasional a fox and joggers and runners with ‘steam’ from their engines hissing from their mouths in the cool morning air.  And there were ‘the usuals’ I’d see along the way.  I amused myself no end imagining what they did by day.  I’ll bet she’s a widow who’s moved to the city to be close to her kids.  I’ll bet she’s a Nun.  I’ll bet he is a single father up before the kids wake up.  And the doozy – I'll bet he has a hydroponic drug lab!  If you’ve never been up at 5am, take it from me, it can do strange things to your mind.  Strange in good ways too.  There's the excitement of watching lights coming on in distant houses, knowing who's up first. Then there's that big golden sun coming up over the Darling Scarp casting really long shadows across the backlit landscape.  Shadows which contract before your eyes;  running backwards until moments later when they find their length and settle.  Sometimes,when it was cloudy, the shadows were replaced with gold or silver sunbeams, or maybe even a rainbow - your own private sky show.  And you were there.  Right there at the start of that day, and you feel privileged, very privileged, because 5am is not friends with everyone.

ABOUT WEALTH

‘There’s something happening here, what it is aint exactly clear’ – with apologies to Buffalo Springfield.

Today is a bit exciting. Raoul, my better half, has said ‘Let’s renovate old stinky.’  Old stinky is the upstairs bathroom which we have had locked up for 4 years – there are 3 bathrooms in our house. Now, there’s a part of me which immediately thinks ‘Hallelujah, I am the luckiest girl alive and I know exactly what I can achieve despite a tight budget’.  Sadly, however, there’s another part of me, a little bit of me who lives in my Amygdala, a little bit of me who talks too loudly and speaks in riddles; and that little bit of me knows I haven’t got enough money to do this reno and  never will have.

So, am I wealthy or not?  I googled an old favourite www.globalrichlist.com and confirmed again, (yes, I go there often) that I am the 20,200,810^th richest person in the world – not bad when you consider that the baby who will become our 7 billionth person on Earth will be born this year.  So, yes, I. Am. Rich.  And that got me thinking about how to evaluate wealth ... and that got me thinking about a school essay assignment from 1971 where I had to ‘ Read the following and discuss the meaning.’  The meaning was lost on me at the time (I would have been thinking about a boy) but I kind of get it now. See if you do too.

“The Gross National Product includes air pollution and advertising for cigarettes, and ambulance to clear our highways of carnage. It counts special locks for our doors, and jails for the people who break them. GNP includes the destruction of the redwoods and the death of Lake Superior. It grows with the production of napalm and missiles and nuclear warheads. And if GNP includes all this, there is much that it does not comprehend. It does not allow for the health of our families, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play. It is indifferent to the decency of our factories and the safety of our streets alike. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, or the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. GNP measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country. It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.

Robert F. Kennedy

March 18, 1968