A momentous day.

The 27th of February 2006 will go down in (my) history as a particularly momentous day. The reasons for this are two-fold. 

1. It's my boy's birthday.

2. It's the day we met.

Like any good love story, ours starts with booze.

One of my best friends, whom I’ll call CC, told me about this party she was going to. Her boyfriend (now husband) had these friends who lived up the road and it was one of their birthdays. (My boy’s birthday.) They were having a big house party.

You should come, she said.

Nah, I don’t want to crash someone’s party. I don’t know them.

They won’t care. They want to meet you. And (my boy’s) brother works for the Herald Sun. He might be able to get you a job.

Yeah, maybe.

A couple of months earlier I’d got back from London, where I’d been living for the previous three years. I was job hunting and the pickings were slim. This was a tempting prospect.

That night I turned up at CC’s house, where her and a couple of our other friends were having a pre-party party. I was late, so we quickly downed a couple of shots and got a taxi to the party (five minutes up the road).

CC and I went straight to the kitchen to put our drinks in the fridge, moving the milk to the fridge door to make room for our wine. The door’s shelf dropped to the floor and milk splashed across the tiles. CC and I quickly mopped up the milk, hoping no one would notice (or want weetbix for breakfast).

CC introduced me to the boys and I talked with the few people I knew there, before my boy and I drifted off from the rest of the crowd to talk among ourselves for the rest of the night. As he led me out from the kitchen into the garden where the rest of the party was, a voice in my head spoke clearly through the vodka–wine haze.

Pay attention, it said. This one is important. 

(I guess it sometimes pays to listen to those voices in your head.)

When it was time for me to go, he asked me for my number. I said no. 

Now, I’d been seeing someone in England and it wasn’t completely over, although I’d moved back to Melbourne for good. So it didn't quite feel right to give my number to a guy. But I didn’t intervene when I overheard my boy asking CC for my number while I waited outside for her.

He called a day or two later and we went to the Sydney Road Festival, where we ate Hare Krishna balls and drank sangria and beer. I made our friends come along, so it wasn't a ‘date date’. He walked me home, and when I hugged him goodbye, I squeezed him so tightly that I broke the sunglasses that were hanging from his collar.

We hung out a few more times, but things were still up in the air with the English guy and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with myself. Career prospects were limited in Melbourne compared with London, and Australia felt so remote, so parochial. So alien. I needed to move again.

Fast forward a year and a bit and I had decided to move back to London for good, to work and clear my head. The English guy was history, and my boy and I had been on and off for some time. As I cried my way through security at Tullamarine Airport and onto the plane, my boy broke his promise to make a grand, romantic comedy-esque gesture. He didn’t show up at the gate, Hugh Grant style, begging me to stay. I’d told him I wanted to go alone and he did as I asked (this is the first and only time he has done this).

Not long after I moved back to England, my boy went incommunicado with me. It was make or break time.

I got in touch with him and we exchanged letters, emails, phone calls and text messages. I booked my ticket home.

When one of my English cousins (who’d wrangled a work trip to Melbourne) and I walked through the arrivals door at Tullamarine, my boy was standing there in his best press stud check shirt. He'd shaved and was drinking a take-away coffee. 

And beside him stood my parents.

I was expecting to see my parents there too. They driven three hours especially to collect my cousin and take most of my belongings back to their house. I just wasn’t expecting to see them standing with my boy, you know, considering they’d never met before and everything.

Apparently my boy had been looking for my parents among the crowd. He’d seen a woman standing the same way I do and thought he had nothing to lose. He walked over to her and asked if she was my mum. Luckily she was.

Mum told me later that she’d been eyeing off the men there that night. The drongos and derros, she said. They’d looked rough and dirty. She was happy to see that this one was wearing a nice shirt, was clean shaven and polite. He’d approached her, so he must have balls, she thought.

We moved in together about a month later. I got a good job, the kind I’d wanted for years. We rented a nice unit in a pretty street in a great part of town (not far from where CC and her boy lived). We bought our first major white good appliance – a washing machine that was half price, no less! We got a kitten. I started studying a course I’d wanted to do for more than 10 years. We travelled.

Nine years after that momentous day, we are married with two cats, a baby and a mortgage. I am six months away from finishing that course. The fridge with the dodgy door is still going relatively strongly and is at home in the corner of our kitchen. (It has also seen the end of a couple of bottles of wine and tubs of yoghurt over these years.)

Every now and then we joke and ask if either of us imagined that night where we’d be today. 

Happy birthday, my boy. 

Travelling is all in the mind.

Do you ever forget where you are for a second? I’m not talking about the experience of being in a foreign bed and waking with a start in the middle of the night, trying to find a patch of light so you can identify a cupboard or picture that reminds you that you’re staying in a hotel or your Aunt’s spare room.

I mean the feeling where the scenery, smells, sounds, light, temperature and hundreds of other various subtle elements combine to remind you of a place you’ve visited or lived in before. These instances can be so detailed and complete that you sometimes think you’re there, even if just for a second.

I love this feeling. I embrace and nurture it. I want it to linger. (Especially now that the type of travel I enjoyed in my 20s and early 30s is on hold until I can convince my boy it’s safe to take Little Red to India, Nepal, Patagonia, Jordan, Tunisia, Estonia, Latvia, Tibet and Guatamala. And that she’d love to go down the Amazon in a boat, or visit the Mayan ruins or any other place I have on my very long list.)

So often now I am reminded of somewhere I’ve visited, be it the tropics in South East Asia and the Pacific, the jungle and forests in South America, or the suburban streets of England and America.

Early some mornings I stand out on the deck and take a moment. I listen to the neighbours’ chickens stirring. The air is still cool, but a little muggy, with the promise of the heat to come. The haze in the sky dulls the light, and there are threads of mist in the trees. It’s mostly quiet, with the occasional hum of a car or voice or the cicadas’ call.

These things remind me of India and I feel a pang of longing. Each morning of my stay in Makaibari, I’d get up early with my host family. The eldest daughter would bring me hot, sweet local tea, sometimes laced with ginger, knocking softly on my bedroom door and leaving it on the coffee table. I’d go outside and stand on the porch of their home to drink it, rugged up in my hoodie and trousers, warming my hands on their best cup (that had a lid!) and inhaling the steam. The air was still quite cool from the night, but there was a hint of the humid warmth that would make the afternoon’s home clinic visits in surrounding villages hot work. The air smelt of dust and dirt and leaves, spices and incense, and sometimes a hint of rain.

My host family lived half way up the hill upon which the village stood. From their porch, I had clear views into their neighbours’ yards, and on clear days, I could see past the prayer flags that flicked and flapped in the wind, into the valley and across to the blue-grey mountains in the distance.

I loved watching and listening to the village as it started its day. People washed themselves and their dishes in pots with the precious water their children had carried up from the spring in old plastic oil, petrol and soft drink containers. Some ate breakfast on the concrete steps outside their doors. They fed their dogs and cats scraps, absent-mindedly throwing food onto the ground at their feet. Chickens ran free in the yards, bathing themselves in dust and dirty water, and chattering happily among themselves. Some people checked the tufts of green that filled their small vegetable plots, tugging at strings that fastened stems to sticks in the ground.

The sky had a constant haze, which gave the morning light a pearl grey tinge. By lunch time, and with the aid of a breeze, this haze rose a little to allow more sunlight and warmth through. But it was always there – as it was across all of the India I’ve seen. Sadly this is indicative of the pollution that plagues the country (and leaves visitors with a perpetually blocked nose and sinuses).

Behind me, in the corridor inside the home, the family’s grandfather would say his morning prayers. At dawn he lit incense and waved it around the doors, mumbling what I imagined to be his hopes and wishes, and giving gratitude. He spoke no English, but always gave me a warm smile and nod as I passed him on his way to and from the village temple or his vegetable garden.

I miss the peace of those mornings (and having someone bring me tea as soon as I wake). Standing on the deck at home, with that certain light and cool, listening to the chickens chatter and coo to one another, reminds me of that simple, quiet time, the pause before the day busied and warmed.

Sometimes I walk around our neighbourhood and am reminded of the suburbs in London in Spring. The slow, gentle warming of the ground, still cool from winter. The dense, leafy gardens shading heavy-set red brick homes, fence lines dotted with rose bushes drooping slightly with the weight of their flowers. Daffodils popping up randomly in the grass.

When I swim laps at my local pool, I am taken back to the President Hotel in La Paz. My boy and I holed up there for a day or two when one of our flights was cancelled. To try to even out the plentiful Pisco Sours and Ecuadorean chocolate I consumed, I did 100 laps of the 10-metre hotel pool, covered by a filthy glass roof, where pigeons perched on the edge overlooking the city and rain pitted the grime. Palms stood tall, browning, in pots in the corners of the room. The tiles around the pool were cracked and their style so dated it was almost new again. I can smell the thick chlorine and feel my annoyance with the hairy-backed, big-bellied man who let his two boys jump and splash around us without any consideration.

Other times, the heavy humidity after a summer storm makes me think of the tropics, of Thailand or Fiji or even the Amazon. The air smells moist and earthy, sweet and floral. Droplets of water cling to the trees and bushes, and birds chirp happily now the storm has passed, shaking water from their feathers. There’s a strange feel of newness, of excitement and anticipation. It’s cooler, but ever so sticky. And you start to perspire at the mere thought of walking. Light filters through the clouds that are starting to break apart, and all of a sudden you’re caught in a bright, warm ray that burns. And it’s hot.

These moments keep me going when my feet get that familiar itchiness, when I get restless and irritable, and my next trip seems so far in the future. They remind me that I’m lucky to have these memories at all, to know what it’s like to have been in those places and experienced those things. They remind me to be grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, and the ones I will have in the future. Because I’m sure there will be many more to come (just as soon as I convince my boy that Little Red will love to travel as much as her mum does).

Taking stock: February 2015.

We’re one month and a bit into 2015. I’ve been enjoying a week of sunshine (and rain) in Byron Bay with my boy and Little Red. What better time to take stock again?

• Making: More time to write. (That’s one of my goals for this year anyway. So far it’s a slow starter.)
• Cooking: Not a lot because we’re away. Salad and cups of tea is really the extent of it.
• Drinking: Cocktails. I was 32 weeks’ up the duff when I was here last time, so my indulgence extended to a few special mocktails, smoothies and herbal tea. This time around, I’m splashing out on pisco sours, lychee martinis, lychee caipirinhas and wine. (And smoothies and herbal tea.)
• Reading: Heroic Australian Women in War (it was smaller to fit in my bag than Buddhism for mothers, which I’m still reading, oh so very slowly). And Diggers’ Club magazines that have been piling up on my coffee table for the past 18 months.
• Wanting: More time here to read and write (and a nanny to look after Little Red so I can do these things).
• Looking: Forward to some kind of routine again when I go back to uni. I’m a creature of habit, what can I say?
• Playing: Where’s Little Red? This is similar to peek-a-boo, except that Little Red pulls something (book, toy, sheet, clothes) over her face to hide from me, then drops it and looks at me with a gummy grin.
• Deciding: What to have for breakfast. Vegan chocolate mousse cake is winning so far.
• Wishing: I had better self control when it comes to food! (See ‘Thinking’ and ‘Snacking’ below.)
• Enjoying: My cup of vanilla chai and some quiet while Little Red naps (hopefully for longer than 30 minutes this time).
• Waiting: For my reiki appointment. It’s been years since I had a treatment. I’m a bit excited.
• Liking: Early morning strolls along the beach.
• Wondering: How many vegan chocolate cakes/balls/slices I can fit into my bag to take home.
• Loving: How lovely everyone is here – they are all so relaxed, friendly and kind. Yesterday I was on the way back to the apartment with Little Red, who was screaming up a storm in her stroller. A hippy surfer guy in his 20s walked past, dreads, old threads, stretched ear lobes, guitar in hand. A walking sterotype. He saw Little Red’s tears and immediately started playing some music to distract and cheer her as he walked by. What a beautiful, thoughtful man! Similarly, the staff in a bottle shop whipped out a toy for Little Red during another episode, and ran outside after her to give it to her as my boy wheeled her away so she didn’t scare off the other customers. I didn’t even mind that it was an NFL football covered in the Wild Turkey logo. It immediately stopped her tears. What a lovely gesture!
• Pondering: This question. I’ve seriously been stuck on it for hours and have come up with nothing that I’ve been or am pondering. Except this question.
• Considering: A self-imposed Facebook and internet limit per day. Or maybe whole days without them each week. I seem to have developed a wee addiction and spend far too much time online. That time could be far more wisely spent.
• Watching: Two parents by the pool with their six-month-old son. We chatted with them two days ago when we were there swimming with Little Red and they’d just arrived. Their son is blind (and I think may have other disabilities). But he is absolutely gorgeous and his parents absolutely adore him and dote on him. It’s like they’re surrounded by a bubble of love, warmth, gentleness and beauty. It radiates out from them and draws you in.
• Hoping: The house sitters have weeded the garden for me. It was getting a bit out of hand. They said they were enjoying pottering in the garden while we were away. Pottering = weeding, yes?
• Marvelling: At how much Little Red is growing. I know it’s incredibly annoying and dull when parents say this sort of stuff about their kids, and I’m not usually one for sentiment or soppiness, but she’s growing so fast and it’s amazing to watch her learn things. In a matter of weeks she’s started clapping, pointing, waving, stretching, saying Dad (and other syllables) and drinking from a straw. She also says Ta (in a distinctly Darth Vader-esque voice) as she passes you something or you give her something. She’s almost crawling and pulling herself up on things. And she quite likes pulling you close and giving you big, sloppy, open-mouth kisses on whatever part of you she can reach and hold. This old ice heart of mine is melting.
• Needing: More sleep (some things never change). We are all sharing a room here. Little Red has taken to waking any time after 4 am. After her initial grizzling, she sometimes naps again til about 5.30 am, then it’s tears til one of us gets her up and changes her and I feed her in bed with me. After milk, she starts laughing and yabbering “dad dad dad dad”, which wakes up Chris, and we all get up and walk down to the beach to watch the early birds swimming and surfing. We have to do this before getting our coffee/tea, because we’re out and about BEFORE the coffee/tea places open. I kid you not. Little Red is also not entirely partial to napping for long periods here. I, on the other hand, would love a sleep in and a long nap. Several sleep ins and long naps, actually.
• Smelling: A sun shower. I love rain.
• Wearing: Floaty summer dresses. Pretty turquoise sandals I bought in Sucre, Bolivia. Big, dangly seashell earrings. Sunnies.
• Following: The predicted leadership spill being discussed in the media.
• Noticing: How young and relaxed the backpackers here seem. There are SO MANY travellers here. Responsibility free, fancy free, mortgage free, study free, baby free. I used to be a backpacker/traveller. Sigh.
• Knowing: That even though I look longingly at said backpackers/travellers/those who are younger and more free than me, I wouldn’t trade where I am or who I am now for anything. (Most of the time.)
• Thinking: I really should stop buying vegan cakes ‘just because I can’. I just ate another piece of cake (technically a chocolate fudge slice – it was delicious). And I have two and a half bliss balls, two and a half pieces of cake, and three packets of chocolate in the fridge. And I will probably buy more cake tomorrow before we leave.
• Admiring: Is it wrong to say I admire those parents with their boy down by the pool? I could be wrong, but I imagine it’d be pretty hard raising a child with a disability, no matter how gorgeous he is. They seem to be doing it with such grace.
• Sorting: The past few weeks I have actually been sorting out notes for uni. I am no where near finished mind you, but I’m hoping that my teachers see my (attempt at) preparation and organization and add at least 10% to my final grade ‘for effort’.
• Buying: Pretty much everything in stock at Naked Treaties – and then some. I think my annual visits here keep the store in business for the intervening months.
• Getting: A little nervous about going back to uni and seeing real, live patients. Eek! Any volunteers?
• Bookmarking: Recipes from Wholefoods Simply. The food looks so simple, but so delicious.
• Disliking: Mosquitoes. One just bit my shoulder and forehead. The feeling apparently is not mutual – mosquitos love munching on me.
• Opening: A nice bottle of red later, to share with my boy.
• Giggling: Mostly at Little Red. She’s pretty cute. She waves at everyone and everything, crosses her legs at the ankles and sits back like a lady (when she isn’t sitting legs spread-eagled in her stroller), babbles incessantly but most seriously, laughs when we laugh, and gives beautiful kisses. And you can’t help but smile in confusion at her bizarre husky, breathy, growly ‘Ta’.
• Feeling: Pretty relaxed after a lovely massage at Relax Haven.
• Snacking: Wow. What isn’t there for me to snack on in Byron? All sorts of fruity, nutty, chocolatey balls. Vegan cakes, slices, cheesecake and chocolates. Dips, corn chips, olives, dolmades.
• Coveting: Holiday houses. I’d love to be rich enough to own one or two. But then I guess you’d tied into going to the same place each holiday, and that might get boring.
• Wishing: Time would slow down, just a wee bit. Week one of February 2015 is almost done and I still feel like it’s June 2008.
• Helping: An old man down the stairs after a movie last week. He was a bit bashful about accepting my proffered arm, but seemed grateful. We both agreed that The Water Diviner is quite a good film. After seeing it, I want to dig out my CD of Whirling Dervish music.
• Hearing: The waves breaking on the beach about 100 metres away from our apartment, and the birds chattering in the bushes and trees all around. Bliss.

Seven good books (in my book).

Books have always been magical to me. They open up whole new worlds – adventure, history, drama, love, humour, magic, courage, heroism and spiritualism. They give you an insight into how other people think and act, what their day-to-day lives are or were like, what inspires them and what defeats them. I’ve always used them as a way to switch off and escape from wherever I am or whatever I’m feeling.

Books don’t demand much from you, and are pretty trustworthy and reliable. They aren’t inclined to treat you badly, or disappoint or judge you. And they offer adventure, escapism, excitement and comfort, and teach you all sorts of things.

I took solace in this growing up and into my early 20s, when I wasn’t such a fan of people and a little disillusioned by life in general. The best New Year’s Eve I’ve ever had was when I was about 16. I spent the evening sitting in an armchair at my parents’ house, reading a book from cover to cover with a cup of tea.

However, not many of the books I’ve read really stand out. Well, not the ones that were supposed to. I couldn’t tell you which books I studied in year 12 Literature or throughout my Bachelor of Arts Literature major, or which stories teachers used to inspire us in my Diploma of Arts in Professional Writing and Editing.

When I’ve been swimming lately, I’ve been thinking about some of the books that have stood out. With each lap, I retell their stories or certain scenes in my head, 
and I feel that same sense of escape and wonder that I did when I first read them.

For various reasons, these books have elicited strong feelings in me, and their stories remain with me. Sometimes I’m surprised about what has actually stuck with me. Sometimes I’m a little disappointed (why is it I can remember details in a novel revolving around a cat, but not the names of any of the award-winning, highly acclaimed and influential literature I studied at school or university?).

Here’s a little about seven of these memorable tomes.

1. A Woman in Berlin by Anonymous (AKA Marta Hillers).

This book was originally published anonymously, but the author was identified soon afterwards. If you read this book, you will understand why she tried to remain anonymous. 

This isn’t a pretty or nice book. It’s a rather harrowing and depressing account of Berlin’s occupation by Soviet forces towards the end of World War II. Specifically how nasty and violent the soldiers were to the women and children left behind, the conditions they faced, and what German women did do to survive. It raises all sorts of interesting questions, like how far should someone go to protect themselves, and whether those actions make them strong or weak, good or bad, or just human.

This book left me feeling ever so flat, cranky, sad and disillusioned with the world. Only I didn’t realise the book was making me feel this way until I’d almost finished it. Why do I list it here if it made me feel so horrible? Because I still think about it. It was real and honest and those things happened. They are probably still happening in place we hear about on the news (and in places we don’t hear about on the news). This kind of book gives you an insight into how people think and what they will do to stay alive, and how they rationalize things in extreme circumstances. And it makes you think about what you’d do in the same situation.

2. Stasiland by Anna Funder 

Mainly I love this book because I wanted to be Anna Funder – speaking fluent German and living in Berlin researching history in German, learning about spies and soldiers and government secrets. 

I also love this book for its content. The stories Anna tells 
are fascinating, real-life tales of how people lived behind 
the Berlin Wall and in Germany overall after the war. 
The conditions, risks and restrictions they faced, how 
these things affected their lives, and how they managed 
or overcame them.

Anna interviews people from both sides of the tracks – the Stasi as well as the people (their victims). Again, it raises all sorts of questions about how far people will go to survive in extreme circumstances.

When I first read this book, I was so taken with it that I made a guy I was dating read it. He loved it so much, he read it twice and when we broke up, I had to demand it back. He’d folded the corners to mark his page. If we didn’t split up then, we definitely would have once I’d discovered this fact.

3. After Cleo: Came Jonah by Helen Brown.

This is where things turn a little less high brow. My mum’s friend loaned her this book, and mum loaned it to me. I wasn’t that keen to read it, to be honest. It looked like mainstream, trashy, old lady, girly pulp fiction type drivel to me. But you know what, I couldn’t put it down. And I’m dying to know what happened to the family and their cat.

It’s a biography of sorts, written by a woman who adopts a troubled cat, whose daughter moves overseas to live in a monastery, and who is diagnosed with breast cancer. It sounds quite melodramatic, but it is actually very engaging and beautiful. It considers all kinds of relationships, love, loss, freedom, faith and independence, with a bit of humour and quirkiness. It was easy to read and follow, and light and happy and positive. A genuinely nice book that proves you can't judge 
a book by its cover (ha!).

4. The Kashmir Shawl by Rosie Thomas.

My mother-in-law gave me this for my birthday not long after I’d returned from India. It flicks between the past, with a newly wed couple doing their thing in India as missionaries as British rule falls, and the present, with their granddaughter discovering her grandmother’s Kashmir shawl in her dead mother’s drawers and deciding to trace its – and her grandparents – history. Naturally she uncovers a secret and falls in love in the process.

I took me a little to get into it, but after a chapter or two, 
I was hooked. It’s quite a gentle, beautiful story. I was taken with the idea of someone being inspired to drop everything to go overseas because of a beautiful shawl. So spontaneous and irresponsible and adventurous! I also loved the relationships that developed between the characters, past and present, and how the characters themselves grow.

The book must have been pretty well written, because I can still see many of the scenes in my mind – the Irish fields, Swiss mountain ranges, and Indian houseboats, gardens, villages, mountain crossings and rabid dogs. An imaginary visual feast, if you like.

5. Shadow of the Moon by MM Kaye.

Now, this is a sweeping, melodramatic saga if ever there was one. This book is one of my mum’s favourites – I have no idea how many times she’s read it or how many copies of it she’s owned. I was skeptical when she gave it to me and told me to read it. But it was worth every one of those 800-odd pages.

Shadow of the Moon follows a family over several generations as they are involved with and affected by the British rule of India and India’s ultimate fight for independence. It features several love stories, with a good dose of honour, heroism, adventure, sex, violence and family drama thrown in. It also features some good, strong female characters.

This fictional tale references real events and details well how life would have been 
during that tumultuous, nasty period. It makes you appreciate how lucky 
we have it, really.

6. The Island House by Posie Graeme Evans

Another novel with chapters that alternate between past and present, and featuring another woman embarking on another adventure. This woman inherits the only house on a remote Scottish island from her estranged archaeologist father. She packs up her life in Sydney, hops on a plane and boat, and takes up residence there, hoping to write her thesis in peace. Unfortunately, her dad had been digging on the island and disturbed some troubled, love lorn Viking-era spirits in the process, so she has to clean up his mess.

This is no great piece of literature, but it’s catchy and easy to read. There’s some historical detail, a little romance, mystery, self-discovery, beautiful scenery, and a nice story tying it together. These are key ingredients for any good book in my view. But what really stuck with me was the historical part of the story, the description of the harsh and uncertain life the people lived at the time, and the role of religion, faith and family in day-to-day life. It also must have been pretty exciting for the woman to reconnect with her father and his work, albeit posthumously, and to explore the island’s history, solve a mystery and rediscover her passion for archeology. And all while falling in love. What more can you ask for?

7. Burial Rites by Hannah Kent

This is an award-winning fictional retelling of factual events – the execution of a woman found guilty of murder in Iceland. It’s dark, and a bit twisted and gruesome in parts. Sometimes it’s a little irritating and slow, and sometimes you want it to slow down to try to delay or stop the execution (especially as Hannah implies the woman is innocent). It took me a few chapters to get into the book, but this woman’s story, her life and death, keeps popping into my mind.

I watched a documentary on this novel and Hannah Kent. Her description of researching and writing this story was haunting. It was like she was possessed by the main character, guided by her spirit. I’ve also been to Iceland, and through Hannah’s writing, I could see the stark, icy landscape and glaciers, the cottages spotted around the mountains. I could smell the earth, animals and musty rooms, and feel the icy winds, rain and fire. I could also feel the woman’s fear, longing, frustration, isolation, resignation, and love for her man and the family who took her in at the end. How do you forget something like that?

Want more?

An honourable mention goes to these authors. 

·       Tim Winton. Excluding his most recent work (Eyrie), you can’t really go wrong with Tim. I don’t know if it was Scission or A minimum of two (both collections of short stories) that hooked me, but I discovered him when I was about 15. I love his early work the most. I still think about the woman lying on the grass, trying to tan away the silvery stretch marks from her pregnancy, and the man taking his toddler son for a wee and the ammonia smell of it.

·       Tim Richards. I’ve probably read Duckness (a collection of short stories) three times (and I don’t usually read a book more than once). It was quirky and easy to read. Other than that, I’m not sure why I liked it so much, but I really did. His other fiction books are also pretty good.

Happy anniversary: Here’s to you, Mr Pobjoy!

Two years ago today it was ridiculously sweltering hot – a forecast top of 39 degrees celcius (thank goodness it only reached 38.9). It was the hottest day in December that year. My house was jam packed with family from afar, joking and teasing one another and doing whatever they could to be useful. (My brother proudly told me last month that he hasn’t ironed a shirt since my wedding.)

My three beautiful bridesmaids and I were primping and preening, aided by a lovely make up artist and hairdresser, and taking it in turns to stand in front of the fan and air conditioner. One of them, one of my closest friends, had brought over a posh bottle of champagne to share (and take the edge off any nerves). We snacked on cheese, pastries and fruit. I squeezed in a quick meditation while everyone seemed to be otherwise distracted. The photographers did their thing. The cats hid downstairs under the beds.

I sent my family ahead early to make sure the flowers and decorations were set up properly. I got dressed, made dad put on one of my boy’s nice ties (just for the ceremony and photos), and hopped into the car (sans air conditioning – whose idea was that?).

We were late (I’m always late). And later still, as the girls and I dried off in the toilets before hitting the aisle (there's nothing worse than a bride or bridesmaid dripping in sweat). Thankfully my boy was there, still waiting for me at the end of the path, under the arch in the peaceful cottage garden, smiling broadly (in relief that he could soon take off his coat and vest, and get out of the sun, I imagine).

He said I do. I said I do. We signed some papers, as you do. Our sisters read some poems. The bees swarmed around the flowers in my bouquet (I’m told this is good luck). Our friends sang a couple of our favourite songs. Then we walked back up the aisle together, holding hands as we stepped over the broomstick, and headed straight for the Pimms and lemonade. There were speeches and cocktail drinks and food. There were some gallant attempts at dancing, but it was really too hot, so most people chatted in the garden.

There were also a myriad imperfections: a waiter lost his tray of drinks rather spectacularly (poor guy); the venue ran out of toilet paper(!); the DJ refused to play some of the songs we specifically requested when we hired him; the taxis took hours to show; specially ordered meals weren't prepared, and more. But despite this, people seemed to have a good time. As we left, our friends and family stood together to form a long arch, cheering us as we ran under their arms and out the door.

My favourite part of the day? The last song. Just before we went back to the hotel in our old neighbourhood, the DJ played our informal farewell song. My boy and I let loose, dancing to Belinda Carlisle’s Leave a light on – a joke song for us. During the four or so minutes this song played, I was the most relaxed I’d felt all day and night, singing off key (well, I never sing in key) as we swung each other around. 

We are lucky that the first two years have been quite easy on us. They have flown by with renovations, holidays, study, work, a pregnancy and a baby. I don’t think that marriage has changed our relationship, although I secretly quite like saying ‘my husband’ now when I talk to strangers. It rolls off my tongue much more easily than I thought it would. And I think it’s a nice salute to the man who loved me enough to ask me to spend the rest of our lives together, despite knowing I wasn’t that into the whole commitment thing.

I’m lucky that I’ve found someone who accepts and loves me for me. Someone who compliments me often, even when I’ve had three hours sleep, am wearing my daggiest, food-stained clothes and no makeup, haven’t brushed my hair, and am cranky, feeling unfit and in tears.

I love that my boy cares so deeply and feels so responsible for his family, friends and pets, and complete strangers. Even though his protectiveness drives me crazy sometimes (and will be sure to do the same to Little Red when she’s older).

I especially love how much he adores Little Red. That for the first two weeks after Little Red was born and he was home, he changed almost all of her nappies, no matter what time of the day or night it was. When he’s home, he still changes her, and baths her, dresses her, feeds her, plays, dances and sings with her, and takes her to visit his parents so I can have some me time.

I love his gentleness. That he catches spiders and insects (and lizards that the cats bring in) and releases them safely outside instead of reaching for the Mortein. (Even if he does squeal like a girl when I sneak up behind him and poke him when he’s catching spiders.) When we go walking, he picks snails up off the path and moves them to the grass, so they don’t get stepped on. He finds the owners of stray dogs. He buys food to feed stray cats when we’re on holiday.

I love how thoughtful he is. That I can mention a book or CD or movie in passing, and he’ll get it for me as a birthday, Christmas or ‘just because’ present.

I love how unconditionally supportive he is. That although he doesn’t believe in most of the ‘hippy’ medicine I study and use, or many of my alternative ideas, he still brings me cups of tea and treats late in the night and early in the morning when I’ve got assignments due, and encourages me to follow my passions. (I’m yet to convert him to green smoothies though.)

I love his kindness. That when I’ve had a bad day and run out of my high-maintenance chocolate, he’s come home from his own bad day at work bearing three different blocks of my chocolate. All for me. And he doesn’t even complain that much when I’ve eaten his chocolate when I’ve been desperate. Around 99% of the time, he’s the first to apologise after we argue. Even on the very, very rare occasion when I’ve been at fault.

I love how considerate he is. That he puts the toilet seat down. I can probably count the number of times he hasn’t on one hand. And while I agree it’s no big deal if he doesn’t, I think it’s lovely that he does. At night, he’ll go outside to water the garden for me, so I don’t get eaten by mosquitos. When we’re out and I think he’s perving on girls in skimpy clothes, he tells me that he’s actually questioning how sensible their outfits are in the winter weather and wondering if they are too cold. (Or so he says…)

I love his respect. He knows who I am and doesn't try to change me (although I sometimes think he would like me to be just a little more wifey, motherly and settled). He knows I need my freedom and independence, like being able to travel at will, have alone time, and keep my name even though we're married. He doesn't even seem to mind all that much when he's called Mr Pobjoy at hotels I've booked for our holidays. 

Here’s to at least another two years, my boy. I hope I can at least equal, if not exceed, the love that you show and give me every day.

Taking stock: December 2014.

I know. I know. It’s been a while since I checked in. My best intentions of fortnightly posts were way laid by lovely family visitors from overseas, catching up with things around the garden and house, and sleep deprivation. So, so, so much sleep deprivation. As a result, all of my inspiration has gone MIA, along with my ability to string together a sentence that remotely makes sense. You know, ones with words in the right order and ideas that link together and aren’t too abstract or random. It’s been so bad that my boy keeps accusing me of smoking pot.

So, to ease back into it, I’m borrowing this idea from Katie180 and Vegie Mama, who borrowed it from Meet Me at Mike’s. Feel free to borrow it too. I don’t think they’d mind.

It’s called ‘taking stock’ and it might make a regular appearance here. It involves thinking about things like where you are, what you’re feeling and thinking, and what you’ve been doing. It’s nice to do from time to time, and especially nice to do at the end of a year. Here’s mine. 

• Making: Green smoothies again. Actually, my smoothies are more brown than green, because of all of the cacao I add to them, but there’s plenty of greens in there.
• Cooking: Lots of veggies and fruit to freeze for Little Red’s meals. Not much else because it’s getting too hot to cook.
• Drinking: Fizzy water. Herbal tea. Irish whiskey. Hot chocolate. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes I mix it up a little.
• Reading: My reading pile is so high and ever increasing. It taunts me every day. I thought that my maternity leave would be spent gardening, reading, writing, studying and drinking lots of tea. Ah, no. Surprisingly, babies take up A LOT of time. When I get a chance to read, I’m usually reading baby books. At the moment, Buddhism for mothers.
• Wanting: Sleep first. Tea second. Please and thank you.
• Looking: For a recipe for a nice Christmas cake to make for my vegan neighbours. That or I’ll just buy them wine.
• Playing: Peek-a-boo and the ‘rah’ game, which are essentially the same thing. I used to play them with the cats. Now I play them with Little Red.
• Deciding: Whether to have a nap in the few minutes more that Little Red will be asleep or finish this blog.
• Wishing: People could just be nice to each other, regardless of religion or race or nationality or skin tone or shape or size. I’m really feeling for Sydney siders and the hostages’ families. Why do some people feel the need to hurt others? It makes no sense to me. I really want to slap some sense into them. I mean, sit down sensibly and quietly discuss it with them over a nice pot of chamomile tea.
• Enjoying: The cool breeze on my skin. The sound of the wind in the trees. Blue skies with white clouds. A bliss ball and green(y brown) smoothie.
• Waiting: For Christmas, so Little Red and my boy can open the pressies I got them, which are pretty cool, even if I say so myself.
• Liking: Paleo bars. My new addiction. I heart the Brazillian and Ginger ones. I just wish they weren’t so crumbly (or expensive). 
• Wondering: How I can convince my boy to come on holiday with me in June next year to celebrate me finishing uni. He wants to go away in February to chill in Byron Bay, and we’re going to Europe in December for Christmas with my brother and his family. Is three holidays a year too much? I say no. Our bank account and his boss might argue otherwise. But where there’s a will, there’s a way… Right?
• Loving: The sleep guru who has been helping us with Little Red – Anita from Sleep Gems. I highly recommend her. Anita’s tips and training are helping Little Red to sleep better at night and during the day. Which means I’ve started to get more time out and rest in the past few days. Last night was the closest thing we’ve come to her sleeping through the night in almost five months. I’m still exhausted, mind you, but I’ll catch up on sleep soon enough if this continues.
• Pondering: Whether or not to put up our Christmas decorations.
• Considering: Making myself a cup of tea. But to do that, I need to go into the kitchen. Little Red’s bedroom is right off the kitchen. Making tea will make noise. You see where I’m going with this.
• Watching: So exciting – Downton Abbey season 5. Hot off the UK presses and delivered to my door. Death comes to Pemberly is also getting screen time.
• Hoping: The Feliway diffuser arrives soon and helps to chill out the cats a bit. I dislike cleaning up cat wee and having foil on the couch to stop them scratching it.
• Marvelling: At how Little Red holds my hand. Her little, pudgy, soft, warm fingers wrap around mine and her thumb strokes them. I can feel the tiny lines and wrinkles in the palm of her hand and on the joints of her fingers. She holds my hand so tight and trustingly. It melts my heart. Every. Single. Time. I still can’t believe we made her. And she’s growing up SO FAST.
• Needing: See ‘Wanting’ above. Sleep. Tea. Oh, and more time.
• Smelling: Summer – warmth and grass and trees and flowers.
• Wearing: What I call my happy pants. You know, big, baggy bohemian pants with elastic at the waist and ankles. Not too dissimilar to MC Hammer pants but in better colours and with hippy patterns. Them and a singlet top are pretty much my summer maternity leave uniform. (Add a hoodie and slippers and you have my winter maternity leave uniform too.) I’m super stylish.
• Following: The lives and loves of the people of Downton Abbey. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era and should be living in a castle, with dashing, wealthy, well-suited men courting me over luncheon, despite me being married to my boy (who would be an Earl or something similar, of course). I’d have plenty of time to prune my roses while wearing a long flouncy dress and jewels that my maid helped me put on, sipping brandy-spiked tea. Then I realize I would have probably been married off at 18 and had multiple children in quick succession (goodbye pelvic floor), and quite possibly be dead at my age. So it’s not all bad in the here and now really.
• Noticing: The little things. Like how soft Little Red’s skin and hair are, the colour and shape of her eyes, the patterns in the clouds, the colour of the sky, new flowers in the garden, the scent of roses, how good herby tea tastes.   
• Knowing: How blessed I am, with my friends and family, home, community, lifestyle, education, employment and freely available chocolate and tea.
• Thinking: Of visiting my colleagues and taking them some festive cheer in the form of a box of chocolates or cookies. Or both.
• Admiring: My garden. It’s flourishing at the moment – full of green leaves and flowers, birds, bees, fruits and vegetables. I can’t keep up with it. I just hope I didn’t plant my summer veggies too late and still get some produce.
• Sorting: Resources and reference material for my return to uni in two months. I have a lot to prepare, it’s a little scary. (Actually, I haven’t really started – but I will start sorting them out soon…)
• Buying: Nada. I’ve spent up big the past few weeks on Christmas presents and bits and pieces. Now I’m taking a break.
• Getting: Excited about going back to uni to complete the final subject in my course. It’s been six years in the making and I love learning stuff. I’m such a nerd. Also a little scared about what I’ll do once I’m finished it...
• Bookmarking: Healthy chocolate brownie recipes. Sleep tips for babies.
• Disliking: Violence and anger and negativity. It’s not nice.
• Opening: A letter from Laxmi that arrived. She wrote it in pink and drew a picture of a house and water pump. It’s so sweet.
• Giggling: At Little Red’s dance moves. She bops away to anything and nothing, her entire body bouncing up and down while seated, breastfeeding, eating, lying down... Then she claps and shakes her head manically. Sometimes we think she’s possessed.
• Feeling: Tired, kinda hungry and in need of tea.
• Snacking: On nuts and dark chocolate, and hundreds of beautiful raspberries that are falling off the bushes in my garden. Home-grown berries taste COMPLETELY different to shop-bought ones. In the time I’ve been writing this, I’ve eaten about two punnets of berries. (Definitely not snacking on spoons of the organic unsalted peanut butter I bought from the farmers’ market with honey on top. That would be uncouth.)
• Coveting: The idea of sleep and having time to do me things (or just things).
• Wishing: For sleep. And more peace and love and understanding in the world. Actually, maybe love isn't all you need. Maybe sleep is all you need. I know how cranky I am when I don't get enough of it. Maybe if world leaders and war mongers got more shut eye, they'd be a bit more tolerant and the world would be a better place.
• Helping: A friend in need. I gave her a box of goodies including wine, chocolate, tea and rescue remedy. Do you actually need anything else in life?
• Hearing: The wind in the trees. Birds chirping. Cars driving in the distance. My neighbour’s door slamming. Someone doing renovations. Dogs barking. It’s so peaceful in the ‘burbs.