wasps

Yesterday I had the air-conditioner serviced. A sturdy pom launched himself onto the roof to do what he had to do. No sooner was he trudging across the tiles in the blazing heat, when he shouts down to me; 'Did you know you had a wasp nest up here?' I think the Buddha said that a householders life is full of dust - well its full of a lot more than that!! It seems that no sooner is one job fixed then another rises to take it's place. I hate having to find people who can do jobs around the house as so often they try and sell you something you don't really need or want. But the airconditioning service was a good experience - the man they sent was congenial and positive he pronounced my AC system in 'good' condition and we had a little chat about the 'old country' when I gave him a refreshing lime juice cordial with mineral water. He had only been here a year to my 34 - but still I often feel like a stranger in a strange land and its comforting to have a conversation in your own language!

Re the wasps - they have to go, already they are sending scouts down to the lower regions - I found one on the bed the other day but at the time had no idea they had taken up residence in the roof. The garden is full of them too which is good for the flowers - but they'll have to find a new home. I am sending them psychic eviction notices but if they don't heed them the pest man cometh.

White Lightening

I have just finished reading the above mentioned title - another wonderful book by Justin Cartwright. White Lightening was published in 2002 and I found a well read copy of it is the local Kwinana Library.

The story, told in the first person, is about James Kronk a man in his forties who returns to South Africa, the home of his youth, to sit by the bedside of his dying mother. When I read The Promise of Happiness recently I had a sense that all the characters in the book were a part of a whole; that is in the sense that our personalities take on different shades according to what life is dishing up in the moment. In a line in that book one of his characters says that she is a different person to who she used to be. I felt that whatever a character said or whatever they did were somehow a part of the author's character. It was inspirational to read the book because it gave me an insight into writing characters - because there are fragments of my inner life that could take on a life of their own and live themselves out in a novel. But to return to White Lightening: In this book we see the world through the main characters eyes. To make it interesing the character has some crazy fault lines running through his personality and he lives with the grief of the death of his only son - who died when he was having an affair with an actress while working as a director on a porn movie! The action takes place on the coast of South Africa in between his visits to his mother's bedside. The title comes from an event in his early life when he won a running race and broke a world record for a boy under 18 years of age. It took me a while to get into the book as it jumps around a bit in time giving flash-backs to his life in films, but I knew that it would be worth the effort to stick with it. The main character finds out that he has inherited some money and decides to buy a local run-down farm. The action centres around a fantasy he has of making his life in a rural heaven. He befriends a baboon who comes with the property and takes a family of African's living in a makeshift shelter in the sand dunes under his wing. However his efforts end in failure, reflecting other failures in his life. Even so it was fun accompanying him in his ruminations about life as I recovered first from a tummy upset and secondly from a throat infection.

some books from my 2008 reading list

I am looking through the list of books that I read last year; 32 titles in all. Some I have very little recollection of except whether I enjoyed the experience of reading them or not! I read the two Australian 'must-reads' of the year - Tim Winton's Breath and The Spare Room by Helen Garner, but I was more attracted to meaty tomes from the nineteenth century. In May/June Dicken's Bleak House kept me company through many a cold night, closely followed by Middlemarch. Later in the year Vanity Fair was my companion for several weeks. My least favourite book of the year was the Booker winner, The Gathering by Anne Enright. It was particularly disappointing because I had heard the writer interviewed on the ABC radio show The Bookshow and she sounded like a real hoot. Rarely do I not finish a book but I gave up on that one as I found it dreary and didn't like any of the characters and couldn't stand the style of writing. I did however thoroughly enjoy The Forsythe Sago Vol 1 by John Galsworthy - it saw me through a period of back pain nicely! Another book I didn't finish (though almost struggled through it) was As I Lay Dying by Faulkner - his writing was lauded by one of the members on The First Tuesday Book Club so I thought I would fill that particular gap in my reading history, but definitely not to my taste.

And the cream of the crop were: Reflections on a Mountain Lake by TenzinPalmo the English Tibetan Buddhist nun who meditated for many years in a cave in the Himalayas. For anyone wanting a brilliantly written explanation of Buddhist thought and practice this is the book I would recommend most highly - and I've read a few!!

The Silent Woman by Janet Malcolm. In this book Janet Malcolm investigates the issue of biography and asks important questions about the practice. She does this while writing her interpretation of events in the life (and afterlife) of the poet Sylvia Plath. She asks whether biography can ever really tell the truth about a life. Unputdownable!

The Promise of Happiness by Justin Cartwright.
Justin Cartwright is one of my favourite authors and this book deserves a whole post to itself! Clever, insightful, full or wisdom, a great story, wonderfully written.

card for the day

A tightrope stretches from the beyond to the beyond. What does this mean? One ends stretches into infinity the other dissapears into nothingness. Where do they meet? And the figure on the tightrope - so balanced, so serene; neither looking too far ahead nor back to the past.

I look at this card from The Tao Oracle deck and wonder at its message for me this morning. There is a situation in my life that is reflected here. I do feel stretched between two poles. One one level I am here at home creating a life, a garden, painting pots, and the other pole is down in Albany where my two darling grandchildren live. Last night I drove back along the long Albany Highway, through the hazy heat, the washed out colours of a parched landscape, the highway itself like a tightrope over the land. So it is a delicate balancing act to stay centred. To look back can be dangerous, to look too far ahead -unbalancing.

Writing from the waiting room

The Queen of the Night enters through the screen door and comes face to face with the face of a dog. The dog slips back into the room the Queen of the Night does not forget her mission and continues to enter into our consciousness one way or another usually by the nasal passages. She slips into the passage in the middle of the face and penetrates into the brain of her subjects. There she fills them with pleasurable sensations and long lost memories and deeper feelings that they may well prefer to forget of distant continents where the rules were different and everything was much less down to earth. Yes she has otherworldly schemes and dreams. She only makes her presence felt in the night in the dark in the slippery time of day when it is hard to see the things of the day-to-day. She operates on the senses when some of them are asleep and at rest and then she brings out her jewel box of memories hidden in a fragrance so dense and intoxicating you forget that once you were human and think maybe you have died and gone to heaven. Briefly. On the hint of a waft of air nothing solid to go on just a passing wisp of air that reminds you of things long buried and juicy. You think you might put on a robe and go down into the bazaar of the night and sit around an open fire and have a glass of chai and sit on the ground sipping in the glow of the fire with travellers all around you. You might stay there for a while but then you might stay there all night with the sparks of the fire dancing into the forest of the night wrapped up in a silken shawl given to you from a fellow traveller who sold everything to stay in this wonderland. But suddenly he also was gone like so many who were there one day and then you never see them again until maybe they turn up on a ranch in Oregon five years later and hand you a photograph and you were wearing that same shawl. They remember the colour of your eyes and the shape of your belly. They remember kisses and try to retrieve them but other strangers mouths are moving over yours now so you smile instead and take the photograph anyway.

The unimaginable happens

Since I last posted the unimaginable has happened. Existence has been unbelievably kind. I have moved into my very own home! Who could have predicted this momentous event after a lifetime of renting. Not that I am a fan of the culture of 'real estate' (I always maintained that the idea of 'owning' land was ludicrous) but when I recieved an inheritance at the end of last year the only sensible thing to do (with rents soaring and availability of rentals decreasing) was to invest it in myself with providing said self and young Fred with a place to be ourselves. Oh joy is me! So for the last two months consciousness has shifted from reading writing walking and gardening to searching and finding a home. What a little gem of a house I am now living in. My finances allowed me to look at the cheapest going and I found what I was looking for in a little house at the back of the Kwinana golf course. Kwinana is an older working-class suburb that sits behind a huge swathe of industrialisation. But the suburb, established in the sixties to accomodate the workers from the industry on the coast, has streets of well established homes and gardens on tree lined streets with masses of parks and bush in between. And, bliss upon bliss it is quiet and peaceful. Our morning walks are now through real bush instead of manufactured parks and the path around the golf course is a little walk in heaven. We have come home and it feels nourishing and liberating to be able to relax into our own space. The little house itself has everything I wanted and was left neat and clean by its previous owner. Thanks to a government scheme where the state buys one third of the equity in the house the whole thing is wonderfully affordable. And now let the creativity begin!

Back on Board

Well it's been a while since we last met. But let's not dwell on excuses and well more excuses. Just lets say there have been good reasons and leave it at that. At the beginning of the year I made a resolution to write in my journal every day and wondered at the time if that resolution could stretch to blogging. I must've freaked myself out because ever since I have been panicked at the thought of public airing of random thoughts. What is it that stops one doing the one thing one wants to do and then gives one a hard time for not doing it? Just pure bloody-mindedness? Laziness? I know I experienced a sudden frightening loss of confidence accompanied by painful self consciousness that has dogged my progress in blogworld until this moment.

But now I'm back on board ready to start again.

Last night I went to the opening on the Perth Writers Festival. I was lucky to have been given a ticket and my neighbour and I took off for the Octagon Theatre on the UWA campus. The foyer was bristling with literary fans and we headed for the bar for a fortifying glass of bubbly. Once seated Geraldine Mellet introduced the five authors who were about to treat us to a reading from their latest works. I was particulary interested in hearing and seeing Peter Godwin whose memoir of growing up in colonial Rhodesia was a very enjoyable read. He read from his latest book and the pages he trated us to dealt with the death of his father. How brave to write about that incredibly intimate event. One of the reasons (here they come!) that I have been reticent to blog is that back in Ocotober of last year my mum's spirit finally disentangled itself from the pain of living in her ruined body/mind. I haven't yet found the courage to write about that time. But how could I write here without some reference to it? No that didn't feel right. So I know what a delicate subject the passing of a loved one, and esspecially a parent is and I admired and absorbed his reading about this subject. I realised that now there is enough distance for me to write about mum's passing. I enjoyed all the readings but the other one that stood out was by an author I was not previously familiar with; Alex Miller. His authorative presence dominated the theatre as he stood in front of his audience and the piece he chose to read was particularly enlightening. His character was describing the feelings he had for his late wife. I was stunned by the level of intimacy and revelation of the characters feeling for his wife. It brought home to me the magic of sexual intimacy - that other-worldly space beyond words. Sex and Death explored on the night of Scorpio full moon!

fab night in

Just time to put the kettle on, make a cuppa, and settle down in comfort for a double episode of The Bill!! Yeee Haa!!

on the beach

I have to report another Freddie adventure; once again the caper took place at the edge of edges; where Fremantle meets the ocean at South Beach.

On Monday the temperatures soared suddenly and unexpectedly and when 5 o-clock arrived what better place to visit. Rang my friend and we soon had our bathers on. At first all went according to plan. The ocean was an inviting cool release from the furnace the house had become. Freddie was happy retrieving his ball and paddling away at top speed, tail up. Because the day had heated up so quickly it had taken the population by suprise and the beach and carpark were practically empty. The beach however was far from empty of flies and they were definately the down side of the excursion. There had been no warning on the weather forecast so people hadn't factored a swim into their afterwork activities. We walked slowly up the beach keeping our toes wet and Freddie occupied. He did his customary thing of rolling around in the sand after a swim. Not a pretty sight esspecially with a swarm of black insects hovering around. We walked towards the groyn and Freddie ran here and there, finally getting left behind playing chasey with a labradoodle. I cast a look back and notice he is surrounded by two or three dogwalkers - I wonder why, surely he's not that interesting? A woman breaks away and runs towards us to convey the unwelcome news that Freddie is eating a blowfish! I run - yes run - back to the scene of the crime. He's definately found something suitably disgusting to eat and is very resistant to me easing it from clenched jaws. All the flies on the beach seem to have congregated around his head and I battle through them to grab his collar and wrench him from his deadly and foul smelling supper. Now, Freddie's history is one of abandonment. I retrieved him from a dog pound a couple of years ago but by that stage certain habits had been inground into his personality - one being the neccessity to be constantly focussed on food. He'll eat anything. So bearing this in mind I reason that he's probably grown up on blowfish. But when we finally get him home and washed and I look up blowfish on the net I find that they are extremely poisonous and potentially deadly. I keep checking Freddie for signs of paralysis setting in. Poor dog isn't allowed to rest. After 24 hours of vigilance I reacon he's out of danger and it probably wasn't a blowfish anyway.

awesome read

There is a strong sense of relief now that I have finally finished my degree. I look at a door marked 'New Beginning' and wonder what secrets hide behind it. In the meantime I weed the garden, walk the mongrel, shop, worry and read. I visit a friend and she says I've just read this fantastic book - hold on a minute while I read the last ten pages and you can take it with you - I hold on. I take it with me.

Now I know that my two most faithful readers are staunch science fiction/fantasy fans and Satima, I will attempt to read some of your recommendations and see if I can be tempted. Myself, well, I like all kind of reads. For an escape I might dip into Elizabeth George for a spot of crime. The other day I picked up a Michael Connelly that looked promising. But the book I took home was a real winner and highly recommended. It is Richard Flanagan's latest entitled, The Unknown Terrorist. Be afraid, be very afraid. This amazing Australian writer has managed to get his finger right on the pulse of certain aspects of our culture, especially the power of the media to completely assassinate a character. But its not only the story, so relevant to our times. The book is written in beautiful poetic language. The characters are spot on and the plot carried me along to the last page. The action takes place during a few steamy days of a Sydney heatwave. The city is in the middle of a 'terror alert'. The main character is a pole dancer who seems to live on a diet of Stemetil, Tamazopan and Zoloft (don't ask me what they are) has several aliases and is mainly referred to as The Doll. She meets a man she is instantly attracted to while at the Bondi Beach and later runs into him again at the Mardi Gras. There follows a night of passion before her life seriously starts to unravel. Tariq, her lover, is framed as a terrorist suspect and there is CCTV footage of him and The Doll entering his hotel. The Doll's life may have seemed inconsequential and meaningless before this incident but when she becomes the centre of a so called terrorist network it now turns into a horrific nightmare. Through her tragedy Flanagan reveals the truth and humanity of his character. The media, like a pack of mad wolves, set out to frame and find The Black Widow as she subsequently becomes labelled. The art, subtlety and sensitivity with which Flanagan treats his subject is awesome. I haven't read any of his other books but I'll be heading down to the library with a list as soon as I get a chance.

once upon a time

Tonight is the last night of a three day stay in Albany. Each night I put my three year old grandaughter to bed and she demands (in the nicest possible way) that I make up stories before she goes to sleep. When we lie in her bed, face to face, after a story she might say 'that was a really good story grannie' it makes me prouder than any mark that I got for a uni assignment. I love the opportunity she gives me to allow spontaneous stories to emerge from the unconscious. She never tires of the ever favourite opening line - Once upon a time.....When I say those few words her eyes widen and a look of joyful anticipation crosses her face just inches away from mine. Then for somewhere a name will emerge, a situation, one thing leads to another some of which bring a smile or laughter, always listening and interested. After a story comes to its conclusion she says, 'just one more grannie' and when I said my brain is empty she said her brain will fill mine up!

the wild side

The beach was pretty close to perfection yesterday: the water flat and glassy; the sky wide, pure and radiant was sunshine. Our toes were warmed in the sand, even so early in the day. Fred kicked up the beach in clouds of dusty sand as he raced for the water. He was in his element, barking at the rippling waves, running after the ball, rolling in smelly seaweed, chasing other canines and generally taking the position of owner of all he surveys. He set off on a mountaineering expedition over the rocky outcrops, disappearing from view as my friend and I trudged across the dunes to the next beach. He cheekily bounds back from his adventure with a look that says - 'so what' - and you know he's been up to no good.


One adventure I didn't want him to have though happened along the C Y O'Connor stretch of the beach. My friend and I are engaged in an entertaining exchange when I vaguely notice a retired couple walk towards us with an elderly looking black labrador. Fred and their dog struck up a acquaintanceship with perfunctory bum sniffing by both parties. All is as it should be when suddenly the boat is rocked, something shifts in the universe. What I see is the man grabbing the woman and pushing her to one side. What my friend sees is the reason why - a black snake sliding down a slope from the sand dunes. Someone, or all of us voice the obvious - 'a snake, a snake!' with all the conotations that word enfolds. For me the protective instinct kicks in fast - Freddie is vulnerable, protect, protect. Not having his lead I have to act quickly to distract him - throwing the ball far up the beach to get him away from the venomous wild creature. One thing is for sure if Freddie sees it he is going to attack, I've seen his reaction to blue tongue lizards and its not a pretty sight. In the fight or flight scenario Fred always takes the fight option esspecially with something unusual invading his territory . The moment was an instant of hieghtened awareness - a sudden 'stop' exercise, a micro-second of pause in the calm security we are lulled into by our familiar routines. The snake sensibly takes off back into the dunes, alarmed by our alarm, and our walk continues. Yet our senses have been intensified by the sudden shock; a confrontation with the random element of life, the unknown.

testing the waters

Yes, after a long absence I am back to blogging. There are many stories to tell. Yesterday I handed in my final assignment for my undergraduate degree. The new begins each moment but this moment seems to herald a bigger better new beginning. Now it is time to don the swim suit and the sun lotion, grab Freddie and put him on the lead, and head for the edge of edges, the summer sands of South Beach.

blown inside out

Tonight is a crazy wind, air energy gone mad. After the literary journalism workshop this morning I rushed home because I had been a bad Mum and not taken Freddie for a walk before leaving. He greets me with the full force of his enthusiasm; wagging his whole body. At the hint of me reaching for his lead he pants excitedly, runs round in tight circles. He pulls me out of the door and we're off and racing. We lunge forward into the weather - I take a peak over my shoulder and notice more storm clouds gathering over a feverish sea. Enough time for our walk before the onslaught I calculate. Rugged up and ready we are buffeted up the street with the wind a chaotic roar up our rear. The street is littered with leaves and branches and small cones that have been flung from the pine trees up by the school. As soon as we enter the park I realise that I have sadly misculculated the approach of the next squall and that the umbrella is sadly not up to the task of protecting me from the force of the sudden amplification and power of a relentless ferocious gale. We turn into the maelstrom; in one hand I sieze hold of a rapidly disintegrating and distorted umbrella that has developed a life of its own, in the other I am tugged this way and that by Freddie who has sensed a weakness. Now a slanting sheeting rain comes in waves across the suburb drenching my pants that are blown cold against my legs. It goes on and on as we plunge homewards with no vision past the tattered umbrella held grimly, shieldlike. As is the nature of squalls, they are quick to arrive and quick to depart - by the time we turned into our driveway a restless patch of blue sky and a pale sun whisked across the sky, flashing and dazzling in the puddles and lighting the dark streams that surged and gurgled down the side of the road. I chuck the umbrella in the bin, towel dry the dog and let myself into the blessed sanctuary of home for a restoring cuppa.

Walking on the edge

Now that the days are sunny and warm it gets harder to stay indoors to write and read. The brilliant day screams to be enjoyed - outside. The pull is a strong magnetic force. Freddie bounds around madly as I put my shoes on ready for our daily walk up to Booyembarra Park. Out of the gate and he instantly pulls hard on the lead, desperate to sniff around the letter box and pick up the scent of other dogs visits. After the obligatory pee we head up Watkins past White Gum Valley Primary. It's recess and the kids are screaming around on the grass in their red and black uniforms. Fred's pulling my arm off in his eagerness to get ahead. Heel Boy. No response. The phone box on the corner is surrounded by broken glass. I pull him onto the verge to protect his paws. Up the hill to the park. Uh ho, from a street away I can hear the penetrating drone of the park-keepers favourite toy - the dreaded leaf blower. He seems to spend hours blowing the paths free of the every concievable speck of detritus. I noticed that they have also given one of these loathsome tools to the groundsman at the school and ever since he wields it from morning to night. Paths have never been cleaner or clearer. These men seem to lay in wait for a leaf to fall and pounce on it straight away, and then blow to the farthest point of park or school. Fred and I take a route to avoid the noise and enter the haven of 'boo park'. The council in a moment of rare foresight have created the most beautiful public space on the site of an old limestone quarry. In the centre is a big lake that hosts a variety of birds; ducks, swans, coots and herons. On Sundays blokes drive up to the park and play at racing remote control sailboats. The lake is surrounded by lawns and used for picnics and kids parties.

It's a bit dangerous to let Fred off the lead too soon. He has a tendancy to bark at and chase anything on wheels - skateboards, bikes, rollerblades, he can even take offence to pushchairs and prams - but during the week the park is often quiet so I let him have a run. Paved paths circle the park then we take a bush track that takes off up the hill beside the golf course. Right now this track is like walking in heaven. On either side is regenerated bush with wattle trees dripping with yellow pom-poms. Under the trees and stretching across the edge of the golf course is a meadow full of lupins, yellow sour sop, mallows, and three different coloured wild radish - all flowering like mad. This morning I was able to just gaze at this wonderous site, watching bees softly land on the flowers and butterflies dance around amongst them. I could almost imagine that I was walking along a country lane in England on one of those rare perfect summer days.

We come down the track and onto another large grassy area. Here we meet a young man who is hitting golf balls for his dog, Zulu, to run after. Fred has a great run around with Zulu but soon tires of running after balls and goes back to sniffing. I put him back on the lead and head home for breakfast.

Notes on a few books

At the moment I have three books on the go. After reading Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier for the Literary Journalism course I have been inspired to read more of his work. I read Animal Farm when I was still at school and 1984 while working on a kibbutz in the early 1970's. His name came up in the Brittania to the Beatles history unit that I studied last year and so I was glad to get the chance to study him in more detail this semester. His use of language is stunning. His style is 'plain English prose' and in an essay entitled; 'Politics and the English Language' (1946), he gives some examples of bad ugly and incomprehensible writing of the kind found in academia and politics and some sound advice on how to write clearly: He suggests asking yourself several questions when it comes to writing - 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it. 3. What image or idiom will make it clear. 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect? 5. Could I put it more shortly? 6. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly? Having applied these questions to his own writing what emerges is a style of clarity and beauty of language. So to further my study of his writing I am currently reading, Coming up for Air. Even though he was writing before the second world war much of his writing is still relevant. Even then his narrator is harking back to the 'good old days' before the WW1. It is inspiring me to do some blogging about childhood memories of growing up in rural England in the 50's and 60's.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is having the effect of allowing me to see the strange madness of the world. The other morning on my morning walk with Freddie the Dog the world seemed like a Mad Hatters Tea Party at full throttle - and I was a part of its dazzling insanity.

My final book is a real treasure. I found it in Bill Campbell's Secondhand Bookshop on High Street. A slim volume with a brown cover, it could easily be overlooked. The title is Bodhinyana: Teachings of Ven. Ajahn Chah. I read this book over and over again as it is full of incredibly simple wisdom. It provides the inspiration to practice and spend time out from the Mad Hatters Tea Party of worldly concerns.

The edge eclipsed

Would you believe it I managed to miss the eclipse the other night. There was an eclipse of the sun a few years ago and I was so excited it about it for weeks beforehand. Couldn't wait. Then, one afternoon I was indoors having a cleaning frenzy. It seemed to get quite dark all of a sudden so I just put on a few lights, thinking it was a bit odd. My friend got home a bit later and said wasn't it amazing, everything was so wierd and silent, blah blah rave rave.... The penny dropped and the realisation that I had been brandishing the vacuum cleaner in a bad mood while in the middle of a cosmic event was a shock I still haven't quite got over.

Yesterday I had to give a presentation in the Literary Journalism course on George Orwell's book, The Road to Wigan Pier. The previous two days had seen me struggling in front of the screen, constantly hitting the word count button trying to boost the total to 1200. I enjoyed reading the book but how hard it is to put the thoughts in order and then find words for those thoughts. In the evening I read a bit more of Alice in Wonderland because I feel I ought to - I am not sure if I have ever read it all before. The copy I have is really cheap and doesn't have any pictures. I don't know what happened to the blue hardback I used to have.

My next door nieghbour flew out to India on Sunday for a six week sojourn. I suddenly realised how much I would miss her. A couple I have sat a couple of silent meditation retreats with have moved in while she is away. On one level I feel I know them well but not on the level of every day chit chat and running in and out of each others houses with tidbits of idle gossip, extra soup we've cooked, cups of tea and the occasional muffin.

ecstasy on the edge

Yesterday was- Bob Day- Bob Dylan was in town and I, oh how blessed can one be, went to see him. All day I was thinking about him actually being here in Perth, somewhere. The day was tinged with his presence. They were playing him in New Editions when I popped in on the way to pay the rent. At the bank the girl behind the counter asks the dreaded question, "have you got much planned for the rest of the day"* - and for once I had something to report - "YES , I'm going to see Bob Dylan tonight". By that stage I wanted to shout it from the rooftops and bore everyone I met. "I thought he was dead" she said as she stamped my paying-in book. "God I hope not", I said, "it won't make for a very interesting evening". Blimey where do people get their information.

The expedition to the Burswood Dome was launched by my next door nieghbour A. and our mutual male friend P. A. knocks on my door brandishing a glass of wine while I am still in the throws of choosing an outfit. She is flying off for a six week sojourn in India on Sunday and getting her life in order so that she can leave it all behind. Her and Freddie get comfortable on my bed and she discourses on her dramas as I put the finishing touches to my face and dab myself liberally with the patchouli oil.

We pick up P. and are off up the Canning Highway like demented groupies.

We braved the horrors of queuing for a park and hustled our way into the dome - which must be the worst venue in the southern hemisphere not to say the world. Anyone who has been there will know that it may be perfect to watch a tennis championship but as a rock venue it sucks bigtime. We had consigned P. to the ticket buying and found that the stage represented a vague shape on the far horizon. Luckily though I had my Dad's trusty binoculars with me and with their help Bob, when he arrived, in all his majesty, was visible as well as audible.

The show was amazing, he was amazing, the songs were amazing and right at the end during the encore the crowd finally rushed the red shirted attendants who were ever vigilant to keep us in our place and oh well, there he was, there we were and it couldn't have been more perfect. He actually looked like he was enjoying himself and in the end came out in front of the audience and raised his arms pointing his hands skywards - unheard of!

*not quite as bad as; "Hows your day going, are you keeping busy?".....Busy; a concept I try to avoid - but try and explain that to a bankteller.