There are now seven screwed up bits of paper to my side.



Last year as we were packing a little suitcase together for the big-grade-three-camp my daughter asked me a simple question.

Will you miss me Mummy?

Of course, I answered.
Her face crumpled a little as she placed her left gumboot into the case.

It’s funny, I said as we folded the prescribed number of size-eight sweaters into neat rectangles, when you love someone and they are headed off on a grand adventure you have what they call mixed emotions.
She stood, looking up at me while wringing a pair of High School Musical Socks between her fingers.
I feel sad, I continued, that you will be away from me and yet also blissfully happy knowing that you are going to have such an amazing time.
She rolled her socks into a ball and stuffed them into a runner.
There, she said ticking off the last item on the list-of-things-you-must-bring, all done. She smiled.
Then she zipped up the case.

In front of me is another sheet of blank paper.

I can’t quite get the words out of the thicket that is my head, down past elbow, wrist and finger tip and out through the pen onto the page. I’m stuck on I’ll miss you.

I try again. She is only nine years old. She doesn’t require an elaborate message. I’m pretty sure she’d be as happy with a page of red-biro love hearts as with perfectly worded sentiments.

I hold her camera for inspiration.

My plan is to photograph the note.
I know my daughter. As soon as she shoots a few frames the first thing she will do is turn the camera around to marvel at the images she has captured.
She’ll flick past the cheesy shot of her Daddy trying to hold the leaning tower of Pisa aloft with the palm of his hand, and the three shots of Nonna and Nonno smiling over their short black espressos in a cafe on the Piazza dei Miracoli and she will reach the end of her snaps…

and find my message.

If I can actually ever figure out what I should write.



I’ve laid out all her summer clothes on my bed. I am the mixn’match travel Queen. Everything has a purpose. Anything unnecessary is ruthlessly dumped.
She looks at the outfits I have selected… we are negotiating whether to bring pink runners as well as white ones. She decides one pair is enough.
Besides, she says, that leaves more room for souvenirs.
Clever girl.
She smiles as she zips up the case.



I think it’s the amount of time that she will be away that is causing my brain to seize. Over one month. Four and a bit weeks. Nearly five. Exactly thirty three days.

The little white squares of August suddenly take on new meaning.
I shut my calendar.



I unfold my seven attempts and smooth them out in front of me.
I see the same three words written over and over.
I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.
Three words.
Three words.
Three
words.
oh.
I stop.

Three words.

I just had the wrong three words.


I write with conviction. I love you. It’s perfect. It’s simple. And it won’t make her cry.
And she will know it is woven, richly, with all of her Mother’s mixed emotions.

I frame the shot, take the pic and throw away the written evidence.


I put the camera, with its secret embedded message into its little protective bag
and I smile.
Not a very big smile. It’s a bit wobbly round the edges.
But a smile nonetheless…

Then I,
very carefully,
zip up the case.

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge

I’m standing in the reservations line of the campus library.
Behind me are two undergrads involved in a cracking-conversation.

The first one, who is wearing leggings-as-pants, is asking the second one (who is also wearing leggings-as-pants) how she is doing at Uni. The second Ms-leggings-as-pants laughs and says to the first Ms-leggings-as-pants:

Well… I’m just scraping the bottom of the barrel (oh, I think to myself, with metaphors like that I’m not surprised dearie…) but I don’t care, she continues, as long as I just pass.

The first Ms-leggings-as-pants thinks this is hysterical and laughs loudly. One of the librarians shushes her, as only a librarian can do, and I think the other one may have suppressed a snort, but I’m not sure because I get beckoned to the counter and become engrossed in flashing my ID card at a nice young lad, who toddles off to fetch my book.

The book is Sol Stein’s: Stein on writing, and as the librarian places it in my hand I catch a whiff of library air… or rather, odour.

It’s a heady mix of old paper and unwashed socks… with a bottom note of, something… hmmm what is that aroma… ? I sniff deeply… oh… yeah… it’s weed.

Paper and things-unwashed and pot… it’s a smell most particular to University Libraries. And as I maneuver my way into the slipstream of students heading to classes, I take a deep breath of fresh air and I examine the book I’ve just received.

I feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s impressively library-like.
The old, black hard-back cover is greying on the corners. There’s no title on the front, the look-at-me dust-jacket has been discarded long ago. I rest the spine in my hand and allow it to fall open to a random page.

“…Let’s be sure we understand each other… A flashback must illuminate the present story in an important way. Otherwise, why bother?…”

Cue: wavy, shimmery flashback effect from any 70’s tv show…

My little Miss has a homework assignment.

She yells from her room, Muuuuummmm I need a dictionary.
I yell back… it’s in your brother’s roooooooom.
She replies: Can yooouuuuuuu get it?
I say… Noooooooo get it yourself (and, to be fair, I may or may not have tacked on the words ‘lazeeeee-butt-cheeks’ to the end of that sentence… I’ll leave it up to you to decide.)

A minute later I hear a very muffled:
Muuuuuuuuummmmm I can’t find it.

I’m not surprised.

More often than not I’m positive yellow-crime-scene-tape over big brother’s door would not at all look out of place.

I venture in, step over a nike runner, the guts of a hard drive that he has pulled apart *juscos I wanna see what’s inside* and a box that contains semi-precious stones (otherwise known as rocks from the garden) and I have a poke around his book shelves.
But, I concur- I cannot see the dictionary with its clunky green spine anywhere.

I look at the little Miss and she looks at me.
Then she shrugs and says… don’t worry mum I’ll use the online one.

Fabbo! Problem Solved! I think as I head back to the blank monitor I’ve been staring at for the past hour.

I’m trying to write.
Trying being the operative word.

I’ve convinced myself that if I sit looking at the whiter-than-white-whiteness of the monitor for just a few more minutes the words will come… any second now… I say to myself… soon… maybe…
wait-a-tic >insertsoundofscreechingbrakeshere< “the online one”? What?

I go to Miss 9’s bedroom and there she is expertly clacking away on her laptop “looking up” words via an internet dictionary. She looks like she knows exactly what she is doing.

I say to myself, most convincingly, this proves that the internetz is quite the convenient answer to many daily problemz.

But really what I’m thinking is hang on… is convenience really the priority here?

Cue: wavy, shimmery flash-forward to current day effect from any 70’s tv show…

As I open the door to the Uni lecture room I’m debating with myself the value of online dictionaries and the love-hate relationship I have with the *check spelling* and auto-correct feature of word processors.

They are so freakin’ handy, but I’m alarmed at the rising trend of poor spelling. I’m quite convinced text-slang and spell-checkers are assisting this sad turn of events. However, I remind myself philosophically, language changes over time, ‘tis verily the nature of thine world and the natural process of social evolution… and as I’m pondering the thought of whether there is merit in deleting the question mark from the pages of punctuation books forever, I realise that my fellow post-grads are having a lively discussion of their own.

It’s that old chestnut: online learning vs. on campus learning.

One student, a shiny-sweet undergrad who has gone straight into her Master’s degree, has just denounced professor whatshisface for having a strict no-interaction policy with his online students.
As I write professor whatshisface’s name on my notepad I say loudly… this is just to remind me not to select his subject! The group laughs then the girl looks at me earnestly, helpfully and says… aha… but if you want an easy subject his assignments are basic…
I stop, a little too quickly, and say,
But I’m not here for easy.

There is a thickness in the air.

Then I laugh.
The tension is broken. The group chuckles. I hope she was joking they think collectively.

But, truth is, I wasn’t.

As I walk to my car after class, I have one of those doh-moments-of-clarity.

Online dictionaries do not require you to know that-
el comes before emenoh-pee.

I beep my car open, toss Sol Stein onto the seat and fossick around in my bag for my iphone.
I finger-flick past the page that has my dictionary and thesaurus apps searching for the voice recorder.

I press record.
And I say:

Mental note:
tomorrow go and buy the little Miss her very own dictionary.

Stein, S 1995, Stein On Writing A Master Editor of Some of the Most Successful Writers of Our Century Shares His Craft Techniques and Strategies, St Martin’s Press, New York, p 144.

Of all our possessions, wisdom alone is immortal.
– Isocrates 436 – 338 BC

To my daughter I leave this memory.

In grade six my best friend was Lesley.

She was the school benchmark for all that was clever. And I never begrudged her that, because she was smart, super smart. The smartest girl in school. Everyone knew it.
And she was my friend.

At the end of the year we had a spelling test. The teacher read out the words, slowly and we wrote them down hoping to get them right… because there was a prize up for grabs. A Sunnyboy. A frozen orangey-triangle-treat from the school canteen.

Everyone was hungry for that prize.

We all knew that the last word was gonna be a tough-ey. When the teacher read it out there was an audible gasp of defeat around the room. Most of the kids had never even heard the word before.

The word was: miscellaneous.

Inside I did a victory dance! I knew that word, I knew how to spell it.
It was written on a little filing system hanging on our kitchen wall at home. I saw it every day. I even knew what it meant…
‘miscellaneous’ was where your Mum put all the bills she couldn’t afford to pay.

I could taste the triumph of orange on my lips as I wrote out the word and then stood ready for the adjudication stage.

As the teacher read out the correct spelling the kids who got a word wrong sat down. Nineteen words later there was just myself and Lesley standing quietly, next to each other.

The teacher slowly spelt out ‘m i s c e l l a n e o u s’.

Lesley and I both remained standing. We looked at each other and beamed with jubilation.

The teacher took our papers to verify. Then she looked at me and said,

“You cheated.”

The smile slipped of my face.

She cut off my protest sharply. “It’s obvious that you copied Lesley’s page.”

She then handed Lesley the little slip of paper that granted the beneficiary the tuckshop prize.

“Sit down Carla,” the teacher said “everyone give Lesley a clap… she’s the winner.”

And I did sink to my chair and I did feel the sting of tears plop onto my red cheeks.
But I never looked down.
So I leave this memory to my darling daughter,
because in life there will always be someone that doubts you.

The trick is, when faced with adversity, always remain dignified… and never ever doubt yourself.

The truth isn’t out there.

It’s inside you.

~
~
~

To my son I leave this memory.

When I was a kid, perhaps nine or so, my parents took us the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.
Gawd it was a blast!
Carnival rides and stinky farm animals and showbags full of teeth-rotting candy and loads of yummy-junky things to eat and drink.
And speaking of drinking… there was a shiny new stall with a drink we’d never heard of back then… although you’d all be familiar with it now… it proclaimed itself to be a
“Tropical Slushy… the COOLEST drink in the WORLD!”
…and boy did it look tempting…
But would I like it?
I ummmed and ahhhed… I wasn’t sure.
My Mum, being ever practical decided that my little sister would get one first and then I’d give it a try. If I liked it I’d get one for myself.
It seemed to be a perfect plan… except that when she came back with the drink my bratty little sister wouldn’t hand it over for me to have a try.

At first I was puzzled, “Gimme a try.” I said.
But she gripped that cup like it was her lifeforce.
“Give me a try.” I said more forcefully.
Still she wouldn’t let it budge.
Now I was single mindedly determined… I wrenched the cup from her hand and took a long drink from the straw…
Fekme… it was delicious.
I looked up.
Fekme… that wasn’t my little sister!

I stood rooted to the spot, clutching onto the cup of tropical embarrassment, as the little girl whose drink I’d just stolen let go a screech-of-shock and ran sobbing to her Mother.

The rest of the incident is a vague blur of apologies and lining up to buy her a new drink and so I leave this memory to you, my son, because it always makes you laugh.

And because I want you to know…
that if you want something, if you want anything,
don’t let anyone tell you no.

But if you make a silly mistake, don’t succumb to the weight of the world…
learn to laugh at yourself.

And then move on.

And now she’s lying on a thin bed that’s covered in a utilitarian width roll of paper towel with nine little probes on her chest, no I think it’s ten, or more…no I can’t count them anymore. And I’m trying to focus on her perfect pinched face but this fucking noise is distracting me.

I think I’ll tell the nurse or the pathologist or whatever the heck she is to turn the radio off, I mean forgawdssake who puts the radio on that loud when you’re doing this stuff anyway… but the woman looks at me as though she’s seen me have this kinda reaction before, even though we have never met, and says politely,

“Love, there’s no radio playing, it’s okay… you know this isn’t gonna hurt.”

And I know it isn’t going to hurt, this blip machine that plots spikes and falls. It’s the reason for doing it that hurts.
And the noise dies down the minute I realise that it wasn’t the radio at all, not some techno, repetitive gunge blasting from anywhere external.
It was an internal noise.
A mantra repeating over and over, rising from shaky knees up into the perdition of my stomach, stuck like broken vinyl…

please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing don’t worry just a routine test please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing just to check everything’s okay please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing routine test please let it be nothing please let it be nothing just to check everything’s okay please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing please let it be nothing…
Please let it be nothing.

And then I wonder if maybe I should pray to someone.

All the usual suspects flit through my mind. But they have no fucking clout anymore in a world that is contemptuous and derisive about faith. Spirit of cynicism thriving on wrappings and baubles and mine is bigger than yours… and my mind clouds over darkly…

I will kiss the back of your ages old scaly hand and give you the only shard of my soul that is worth anything and I will worship you forever and I will go down on my knees for you till the end of days if you just make these spikes and falls mean nothing.
Nothing at all.

And then she smiles and I smile back, toothpaste-ad-cheerful, and say,
“See honey, it didn’t hurt…”
“Yeah you’re right Mummy,” she says, “I felt nothing. Nothing at all.”

~
~
~

February 11th 2010

Our girl is fine. The Specialist told us so.

Happy, happy…happy Valentine’s Day

to me.

He reached up to hold my hand. He was terrible at tying his shoe laces. His best friend at kinder was a girl named Alex. He played with matchbox cars.

We took a walk together down the bike track, close to the creek. He watched the trickles of water. Looked at the trees, the bark, the leaves, touched a washed rock, stared at a blade of grass.

He asked “How was this world made?”

He wasn’t interested in who, he was interested in how.

He was three. And he already knew there was a bigger picture.

If I close my eyes I can see him now. He hasn’t gone anywhere. But he’s not here anymore.

Tonight I feel off-balance. The axis of my earth has shifted. Slightly. Perhaps no one else notices. The changes have been gradual. Daily infinitesimal.

I now look up to see this little boy.

He puts his arm across me, protectively, before we cross the road.

He mows the lawn because he is saving for his first car. Or a play station three, whichever comes first.

He plays his guitar with his best mate at school. His best mate is Jase, an enthusiast of Queen and ACDC.

But he likes to play Sunshine of your love because he knows I like the sound of the first few bars.

He reminds me to take my vitamins. Every day.

He’s learning how to swear. But he never says anything rude in front of girls.

He’s learning how to cook. And he teaches me about renewable food sources.

He shows me the pumpkins he has planted. He demonstrates the male to female pollination process. He’s rigged the garden so the pumpkins have a soft place to form. So they don’t hang themselves and wither. The vines twist up the back fence and down past the tree he grew from pits we spat out three summers ago.

He needs new shoes. I push my toes into them, ready to squeeze, but I realise that they are roomy on me now.

I tell him that when he falls in love, he should find someone who doesn’t want to change him.

I tell him that when he falls in love, he should find someone whom he can respect.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. But his ears are paying attention.

I watch him when he’s sleeping. One hand squashed under chin and cheek. I’m staring. Trying, trying to find the little boy. He’s there somewhere. Enveloped in this man-child.

I understand now,

One cannot pine for something they have not lost.

But the axis of my earth has shifted.

And I’m standing in his shoes,

trying to find my feet.

It’s true.

Many companies spotlight one aspect of their product, *low in fat* but make no mention of the seventeen spoonfuls of sugar per bite.

It’s called marketing. 

Shaming companies into utilizing a more ethical way of appealing to the young minds of our children is perfectly fine, admirable in fact.

But it doesn’t absolve our duties as parents to teach our children to be media savvy.

I don’t see the point in bringing up our children in a cotton wool community because we don’t live in a cotton wool world. Advertising of children’s products is the first way in which we can teach our children to read between the lines. It’s the equivalent of media pull-up-pants.

My kids can beg and plead and show me their best rendition of sweet puppy-dog faces but I still will not buy them Fruit roll ups. Ask them why and they dutifully reply: “Because they are not as healthy as they pretend to be.”

If we sanitise all children’s advertising how will they cope with the big, ugly, truth of the grown up world? Ever wondered why all those lovely old people believe everything that’s spouted on those commercial Current Affair programmes? It’s simple, they grew up without media training.  Let’s face it- most of them grew up without media. They see the news as having a voice of authority, and like a Doctor’s, it’s one that is never questioned. It would be nice if everything on these current affairs programs was honest and real and we were safe to believe. Sadly that will never be the way. Business is business and no program on television or article in a magazine is without it’s bias. In one form or another.

Krispy Kreme’s school fund raising campaign seems to take the biggest battering of them all.

How dare they entice families to purchase super sweet, high fat donuts in the name of school sponsorship? This isn’t encouraging a healthy lifestyle at all. Yet there’s no public outrage over all the chocolate fundraising that Cadbury has done over the years?

But maybe it’s because Cadbury has a glass and a half of real dairy milk in every block. And we all know that milk is very healthy for you.

Isn’t it?

Driving the kids home from school lately is a chore.

For at least a month there have been road works at a busy intersection I need to cross. At peak times it takes five or six turns of the traffic lights to get through. Annoying. Much.

So this afternoon instead of watching the snails slime by I flicked on the radio in an effort to keep the kids amused. There was a song playing that sounded snappy so I turned the volume up- nice and loud.

“Why’d ya do that?” my son (11) said.

“Because it’s catchy.” I replied.

“That song is sexist.” he stated.

I paid a bit more attention to the lyrics. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong.

“Why?” I asked him “Is the film clip rude?”

“No mum” he said mildly annoyed at my dumbness “it makes boys look bad.”

 Oh. Sexist.

Against men.

 Does he wash up? Never wash up
Does he clean up? No, he never cleans up
Does he brush up? Never brushed up
He does nothing the boy does nothing

He was right. Although I suspect the song is more about dancing moves than heavy-handed-man-bashing. But nevertheless it’s true- it does mambo-tunefully paint the ‘boy’ in a not so grand a light.

That got me thinking about the world I’m bringing my son up in.

As a woman it’s important to stand up for what is right and perhaps even more so for what is wrong. But does that mean we need to swing the power all the way to one side before it lands in a sensible middle?

It’s okay to teach our girls that they deserve equal wages and equal rights and equal consideration when paying for a dinner bill, but have we have also taught them that it’s not okay to put down women but it is okay to put down men?

Isn’t that a strange hypocrisy?

I don’t want my son living in a world where he is discriminated against because he is a male just as much as I don’t want my daughter growing up in a world where she is discriminated against because she is a female.

“Why do you think it’s sexist?” I asked him

“Well,” he pondered for a second “she’s singing how useless ‘the boy’ is.” And then like most conversations with eleven year old boys we were suddenly off on a tangent, albeit a related one- “And you know what everyone thinks-‘ he said “men want a wife that can cook.”

“And what do you think of that?” I asked him.

“It’s true you know [and he listed of several men in our family who actually do act that way] I don’t know why- it’s just the way they think.”

“No,” I repeated “ I asked you what you thought about that?”

“Oh” he said “Well I’ll cook when I get married.” he looked me and then added “I’ll cook sometimes…Okay I’ll cook a lot, no…I’ll cook always. Errr,’ he grumbled “I’ll cook whenever she wants me too.”

 The traffic lights were still red. I turned off the radio.

Dad, not one for warnings, took his DS console, which son had left on the couch, and hid it. 

Dad then hollered out- “and that’s the last you’ll see of your DS for a while young man!” to which we heard a low growl emit from said bedroom.

For a nano-second (and having watched too many eps of True Blood) it crossed my mind that our son had turned werewolf on us. But no- of course it was just the forces of impending teen-age-hood and the hormones involved. Hormones which will evolve my son from happy-go-lucky-boy into hairy-intense-man. 

 They didn’t call it puberty-blues for nothing you know.

Within fifteen minutes good natured son had returned and we received a hug and a kiss goodnight.

In the morning our son sat with me while he was eating his tub of breakky yoghurt . He stopped mid-mouthful and looked at me.

“Mum…” he said “I’ve really learnt something from last night…”

I felt a surge of pride bubble up inside.

“What’s that son?” I said

“If I ever have another tantrum I should take my DS with me.”

Behind the Hall of Preserving Harmony is the largest courtyard of the Forbidden city.

As some of our group, sweaty but determined, headed up the grand marble staircase I was distracted by a gathering of folk who seemed intent on trying to fan themselves while catching two wild children.

These kids were slippery indeed.

They sped up and slowed down to taunt the grownups who had now drooped- either exhausted from the chase or from the heat or quite possibly both. As I got a little closer I realized that the pair of terrors were dressed identically and were obviously twins. I’ve read that triplets and quadruplets were considered bad omens in Ancient China, but in a nation of family life governed by a one child policy I suddenly realized that a multiple birth would now be a different kind of omen.

Attention turned in our direction as the group watching the twins, act out all kinds of naughtiness, spotted my daughter. With her long dark-blonde hair and fair skin she had been treated as somewhat of a celebrity in Beijing. Every where we went people asked if they could take her photograph, posing with her and intrigued by her ability to speak rudimentary phrases of Mandarin- thanks to three years of weekly Chinese lessons at school. The Mother of the twins smiled broadly and waved her camera at us pointing at my daughter and then in the direction of her girls. Miss 8- who had begun to enjoy the Miley Cyrus treatment struck a pose and waited patiently as the Mother called her girls over.

The twins however weren’t all that interested in obeying.

They ran around their Mother, black plaits whipping the stodgy air and cackling at their own defiance. Everyone looked a little embarrassed and our guide looked away muttering  “spoilt princesses”.  The Mother- maintaining a composed face grabbed at the little boy standing next to her and pushed him into frame. He obliged instantly and beamed into the lens.  I asked if this was her son mistakenly now assuming that the twins were actually a trio, but got told no he was “just a cousin”. The girls did eventually saunter over and pose, curious perhaps as to how attention had so suddenly shifted away from them.

Miss 8 is now in our lounge room adding the final touches to her suitcase for her next big adventure- tomorrows grade three camp to Mt Eliza. Her big brother is giving her all kinds of advice like:

Don’t be scared of the flying  fox- it’s a blast.

And…

Just eat everything they give you or you don’t get any dessert.

And…

Watch out for the snakes and tigers (chortle, chortle).

She’s listening intently and throwing him a playful punch when she knows he is teasing her. He suddenly gets all serious and says “You know I’m going to miss you?” she gives him a quick hug and throws in another punch just to place the sentimentality firmly back where it belongs. “Muuuuuuum” he screeches “she punched me…”

My instant reaction is to think of the heavenly quiet that will transcend our home over the next three days. Ahhhhh no sibling rivalry! But then I flashback to those  twins, and China, and the One Child Policy.

As I continued my walk that hot, hot day I found it increasingly difficult to align modern day China’s family policy with that of the world of the Dynasty Emperors. In front of me lay Palaces- one more sumptuous than the last, erected to house the abundance of Empresses and Concubines whose sole purpose was to seed as many descendants as possible. These walls would have contained a bounty of brothers and sisters. Spoilt and plump and plotting. But now mostly families with only one child walk through the courtyards to sightsee the old ways.

And of course there are those families lucky enough to have twins.

Three days of peace and quiet will be lovely.

But to be honest I’m also looking forward to hearing my kids argue with each other again on Friday afternoon….

Her first camp.

I finally found the one I was looking for, a snazzy-surfy one that her big brother had used on his first camp. I was elated. Phew! I never thought I would find it in all that junk. “But Mum…” Miss 8 said incredulously “it’s a boy’s suitcase.” I looked at it.

Yes.

She’s right it is a boy’s suitcase.

When her big brother went to camp he didn’t mind taking the old red sheet that had the rip in the centre and the Frankenstein stitches. He didn’t even mind that he had a non matching pillowcase. But now I have a whole new ball game on my hands. Don’t get me wrong she’s pulled out her old jumpers and jeans…but I’ve been firmly instructed that the pyjamas must match (tick) and may I please have new volleys (tick-and fine with me- I don’t want her taking her good runners anyway) and was it possible if I had a girls suitcase- please Mum pretty please?

Boy oh boy girls are different.

Part of me can’t justify buying another case, and another part of me wants to get the coolest-grooviest-girly-case I can find.

I remember the day my Mum told me we were going shopping for my primary school camp. I was elated. We were going to the biggest Kmart in town (the one in Burwood) and I felt like the luckiest kid on the planet- I was getting new stuff! Driving along my dreamy thoughts of new sleeping bags and fluffy socks abruptly screeched to a halt as we detoured to the… doctor’s surgery. There waiting for me was a big-fat-juicy tetanus shot.

Tonight I’ve taken a picture of the snazzy-surfy-suitcase.

Tomorrow it’s going on e-bay.