Wear The Best Knickers Today.

Life passes in a whirlwind. Wasn't 2000 just the other day? How did my children become adult so fast? When did all this grey hair appear? And where the hell are my glasses?

I look in the mirror, expecting to see a particular image. I am always disappointed, even though that feeling is fleeting. A middle-aged, roundish woman with coloured red hair stares back at me. Then, I remember who I am on the inside and my disappointment fades away. I am still here, I have most of my wits, my humour and cynicism have developed to new heights and I worry less about unimportant matters. I am married to the love of my life. We have a beautiful new home. We will be building a leafy and wonderfully secluded courtyard in the very near future. And I am looking forward very much to seeing my brothers again, unfortunately not altogether. David and Kerin, Michael and I  will be spreading Mum and Dad's ashes in the idyllic creek next to their retirement village, their last home.

One notable absence will be brother Simon, off to present a paper at an international conference. We are getting around that problem by flying in before Simon leaves so we can spend a few days with him.

And my other brother Mike. He would have loved to have been there with the rest of us. With his wife Jenny as well. That is not possible. Just over two weeks ago, Jenny was diagnosed with an aggressive primary lung cancer. The bastard has moved so swiftly that she already has secondary lesions in her brain.  Initially, she was given no hope, with an almost immediate death as her only outcome. She was flown from Cooktown to Cairns and Mike is with her. Steroids to reduce her brain swelling were started. Then today, chemotherapy. Her oncologist expects a short remission then relapse. Radiotherapy is being discussed as the brain tumours will probably not respond to the chemotherapy. She is currently considered too unwell to participate in clinical trials.

Unless a miracle occurs, Jenny will die in the not-too-distant future. She will leave a devastated family behind. She is only in her early sixties. When we met her in August, she was working full-time in the local nursery and managing the property outside Cooktown. She worried about her mortgage, her life partner, her children and grandchildren. All the usual mundane everyday thoughts.

Now Jenny is desperately ill. And very frightened. She is fighting to stay alive. A victory would be leaving Cairns Hospital to stay in the adjoining apartments for what is only viewed as a short remission.  How her life has changed in a few weeks.

I am so sad. And very angry. Jenny hasn't been given a chance to slow down or smell the roses or put her feet up. She has raised her children and grandchildren and worked for her family. Money has always been tight and she has grown fruit and vegetables and kept chickens to add to their table. She cheerfully admitted that she wasn't houseproud as she preferred to be outside in her beloved garden.
Her life could now be snatched away from her with absolutely no warning.

Jenny's terrible illness has reminded me of all the restrictions we embrace without question. We save the best crockery for dinners with friends. We deny ourselves that comfort food in case we gain more weight. We wear our daggy tracky daks in the garden so we don't get our new jeans dirty. We worry about saving face, farting in public, singing badly and laughing until we snort. We are concerned about travelling to remote places or secretly watching an R rated movie (which the critics have panned) or admitting to owning a Barry Manilow album.

I watched "Saturday Night Fever" the other night. I was returned to a time of disco, highly questionable fashion and jewellery and lots of hair. Today I bellowed and boogied along to the song "Finally" whilst Michael was driving us home from Perth. We are going to see "Swinging Safari" on Sunday before we fly out to Queensland. I'm looking forward to Pilates in the morning. I have decided to wear my favourite clothes when I wish. We will catch up with my friends for impromptu afternoon teas or drinkies or chuck-everything-in-the-middle-of-the-table dinners. I intend to visit our families as often as we can and probably drive them mad.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Don't miss any opportunity that presents in front of us. Live, love and laugh.Wear the new knickers. Indulge in your favourite food. Catch up with somebody you love.

Today.

My great niece, also named Kate.

With brother Michael in Cooktown.

One of Simon's many forms of transport.

Michael and David with Dad, July 2017.

A typical David poses with his long-suffering wife, the lovely Kerin.

With Dad and Michael.

Eat the lunch!

Michael and Michael, August 2017.

Dad's funeral - September 2017.

A somewhat eclectic bunch.

Oldest and youngest siblings.

Computer Conniptions and Phone Farce

Back in the Time of the Dinosaurs, we cautiously explored the new and scary contraptions of computers and mobile phones. Computers were the toast of technology, and like the Six Million Dollar Man, were supposed to be faster and better than other forms of communication, such as fax machines (what the hell are faxes, I hear the Millenials querying?).

As for phones, original mobiles were the size and shape of large house bricks and bore a striking resemblance to Maxwell Smart's shoe phone. They were heavy, unreliable and needed a PhD to operate. I easily resisted the acquisition of a mobile until they could fit in my pocket.

The Internet was a mystery creature, the computer tower an unwieldy box of gargantuan proportions and the monitor a square, squat version of  a Rubik's Cube, as big as a portable television,but with a tiny screen.

My first computer took up the entirety of a large desk once I'd added the printer. In spite of the hype, using the computer was longer and slower and usually was accompanied by much gnashing of teeth. Documents would vanish in front of my eyes, sending e-mail was tortuous and receiving one e-mail could take hours. Literally. If the computer deemed the document too large, it would proceed to have a hissy fit, which would then involve one piece of communication being split into more. Sending photographs was diabolical, as they needed to be shrunk to ridiculously small sizes. Even searching the World Wide Web was not, for the most part, pleasurable. Innocent enquiries would veer off into weird and often pornographic sites. Then of course, there was the constant lurking terror that the computer would freeze, crash or simply shut down for no apparent reason.

Slowly, I become more comfortable with the arrangement of tower, monitor, mouse and printer. We developed a relationship built on mutual respect and less animosity. I began to get the hang of most of the software I needed to use and was brave enough to learn about Virus Protection, Disc Checking and Defragmentation. A giant leap for Kate.

Then I received my first laptop in 2007 as a gift. I was so frightened of the unknown that I didn't take it out of its case for months. Baby steps again. Eventually, I summoned courage and opened its gaping jaws. Fear was replaced by wonderment. I had become just savvy enough to recognise that the laptop was a step up in the world and I began to enjoy its refinements. My Certificate IV Teacher Assistant (Special Needs) was a testament to my perseverance, as well as the usual tears of frustration.

Fast forward to meeting Michael and rediscovering the appeal of writing. On our first trip to the Goldfields, I kept a journal of our travels. These entries became more and more wordy and I began adding humour to my posts. I realised that "the funny side" was just as important as any other facet of my writing. Indeed, amusement was a welcome circuit breaker in my more serious posts. If I laughed, hopefully others would too.

A brand spanking new laptop since April 2014 has been one of my best buddies. In July of that year, "Heavenly Beverley" was born. My beloved older son and his divine wife-to-be set up my blog. According to them, I was using Facebook as a blog instead of a swift communication device. Their kind and patient explanation went straight over my head. I was just delighted to have another means of expressing myself through the Internet.

My current laptop is still my favourite device for remote communication. Hoping to join the movers and shakers, Michael and I became the somewhat dubious parents of two smartphones over a year ago. Whilst I have become reasonably used to my phone, I still have a revered and slightly uncomfortable relationship with it.

As for Michael, his smartphone has been more problematic. Even swift swiping of the recalcitrant screen does not always guarantee his successful connection with an incoming caller. Which usually causes a string of expletives to escape loudly and succinctly. I am currently suggesting that he return to a more basic phone before his self-esteem is damaged by an electronic gadget the size of a small diary.

Younger generations squirm at our difficulties. They have the advantage of being born into the Age of the Internet. We did not. We battle on as best we can.

And, unlike some of the Millenials, most Old Fogies can still hold a reasonable conversation without the addition of any form of technology.

Early desktop computer...

A Plethora of PCs...

Very similar to my first computer in 1997...

A frequent descriptive uttering...

I can relate!

The famous Shoe Phone

Early Mobile Phone with Portable Charger...

Another example of a Phone-Brick...

Metamorphosis of Mobiles...

Michael's Usual Response to his Smartphone's Antics.

The Attractions of Heavenly Beverley

This post was initiated by a lively discussion yesterday. Sitting under the shade of the huge Ficus trees opposite our house, we had been joined by the Clog and longtime friend Mufasa, who had motored up from the Big Smoke.

The Clog had questioned the validity of whether Beverley offered enough natural beauty or activities or night life to tempt potential escapees from the Big Smoke. Although he is building his own house right here on the edges of town, he appeared to be dreaming of Portugeuse beaches or the bright lights or the jostle of people. Anywhere but here.

Michael, Mufasa, his brother Simba and the Clog go way back. As teenage boys, three out of the four lived in the Perth Hills. They ran riot, caused their mothers' endless grey hairs and came to the attention of the local coppers from time to time. Nothing too serious - mainly driving around in unlicensed jalopies and motorbikes. Fun was provided by the prolific clay pits, abandoned railway reserves and numerous gravel tracks that criss-crossed the relatively sparsely populated outer metropolitan region. A Boys' Own Paradise.

School was followed by a trade or uni and the routine of employment. They all married (except for the Clog), had children and became fairly respectable pillars of suburban society (although they did have the odd moments of being pillocks, particularly the Clog). Michael and Simba have both re-married, whereas the reasonably reliable Mufasa has stayed with his original good lady wife.

For Michael and I, our move to Beverley was a bit of a punt. Back in 2010, all we knew is that we wanted a place of our own somewhere we could afford. With his physical health broken and his mental health fragile, Michael's wish was to escape the noise and chaos of the coastal plain - the Flatlanders. He craved a slower pace of life where he could recover from the years of bombardment. Beverley ticked all the boxes.

We arrived at the end of the driest year on record. The country was grey. There were rolling hills, almost no water, lots of bare earth and the dazzlingly harsh blue skies. We set about creating a garden out of a dust bowl. Within three months, we had a budding oasis of green both front and back of the House that Rocks to enjoy and nurture. Hard work and the application of water saw our fledgling garden come to life and our ancient mulberry tree producing its first mulberries for a very long time.

Then came our first autumn. The deciduous colours of the Wheatbelt took my breath away. In May, we watched the river begin to flow and fill the parched bed and surrounds. With rain and seeding, the fields changed to a gloriously chocolate brown with a green icing of the new crop. With the cooler weather, we went further afield. We discovered County Peak, a small extinct volcano with three hundred and sixty degree views from the top. And Yenyening Lakes, part of the vast Swan/Avon catchment, which changes from the blinding brilliance of salt pans to blue with the advent of enough rain. Most of all, we enjoyed our rediscovered energy and plunged into the damp undergrowth that had bolted into life on the banks of the river.

Winters here have been variable. Mild winters occur with the frequent application of rain. Cold winters are characterised by the beauty of clear skies, stunning starscapes and freezing morning temperatures. During our second winter, we wept over the corpses of those plants unable to cope with multiple coatings of ice. Our crying reappeared during the long hot summers, that even with daily watering, some of our shrubs departed with the unrelenting blasts of heat.

Yet, winter also remains a joyous time, with the first flush of the bright yellow canola crop. The previously brown hills turn a vivid green, water fills the dams and the landscape is alive with the antics of new lambs. Fires are a communal activity, hearty soups warm our insides and the rise of the morning mist and fog are always spectacular sights.

The cold weather is all about scarves and beanies and footy. And day trippers or Grey Nomads passing through the Gallery. Earlier in the year, our tourist season starts with the Easter weekend. Art, music, markets, the annual tennis tournament herald in our busy visitor times.

Spring is probably my favourite time of year. Gardens explode with new buds almost overnight. Pots which have looked tired and sad and fragile stand upright and add a blaze of instant colour. The crops reach their peak of perfection. Changeable weather means winter woollies one day and jeans and tee shirts the next. Our annual agricultural show in August has seen sunny warmth and wintry wetness.

Our local theatre begins its run of outdoor concerts and events. The Heroic, now firmly marked as one of the most splendid weekend events, occurs in October. Last year saw six hundred participants and supporters take part in our yearly enthusiastic nod for bicycles and races, both vintage and modern.

Christmas is all about local celebration. The lights go up, the hideously mesmerising emerald Christmas tree stands to attention in our Federation Park and all of us are filled with goodwill and love. December also heralds the close of harvesting and farmers their first break in twelve months. Beverley's main street becomes quiet and shimmers in the familiar summer heat.

I suppose Beverley doesn't have the drama of a raging river or a spectacular mountain or tall timbers or leafy forests.

However, we do have music and art and events and performances dotted throughout the year. We boast the second biggest Gliding Club (by kilometres flown) in the world. The sight of these completely silent circling and cruising gleaming white aircraft with their sweeping wings is jaw dropping. We have the charm of country pubs and cafes and a scrumptious bakery. When we sit outside at night, the lack of light pollutions brings a bright and clear star show that seems almost close enough to touch. There is also a well defined change of seasons, all of which bring their own special beauty.

We have made friendships that are joyous and meaningful. Away from the frantic pace of the rat race, we have discovered a population of quirky and social individuals. We all walk to the beat of our own drums and this seems better accepted than in the Big Smoke. I can answer the door in my dressing gown or walk to the Post Office wearing my plastic tiara and nobody turns a hair. We have found a community that suits us down to the ground and gives us the lifestyle that we had craved.

So, does Beverley have enough attractions to please the visitor or the resident? You bet we do.

Where in the world in Beverley, Western Australia?

Summer sunset...

Winter bonfire...

Art Deco delights...

Convivial cafes...

Yenyening Lakes with background canola crop...

Local traffic jam...

Interesting visitors...

@ the Beverley Heroic...

Heroic MC Toby Hodgson...

Most Heroic Hair...

A Trio of Heroic Enthusiasts.

Beverley Show Scenes -

 Friendly Locals...

His Majesty and myself at the Wheatbelt Business Excellence Awards July 2017.

The Things We Do For Love...

Whenever I set out to begin a new post, my head often diverts to a song as a source for the title. Which could be considered odd, as I do not have a musical bone in my body and I am possibly the world's most singer. And I can distinctly remember all my children asking me to refrain from singing as part of their very early vocabulary.

I often have difficulty remembering songs, either the music or the lyrics, when I am searching my memory if a conversation turns towards music. My demonstrations usually confuse everybody else even more, the elusive song remains elusive and my musical attempts are shot down by howls of laughter.

Yet when I am visualising the germ of an idea that turns into a new post, up pops a song, the title and at least some of the lyrics. I find reading the complete lyrics always very amusing, as I realise that my interpretation of the words is often way off in left field.

The subject of this post is my grandcat, Ragnar. He is much loved by Callum and Bronwyn. A Ragdoll, he resembles a seal-point Siamese who has stuck his finger in a power point and his fur gives the impression that he is perpetually surprised. He has the bluest of eyes and a deceptively innocent expression. Ragdolls were bred for their docile, placid and affectionate temperaments.

Apparently.

Ragnar is obviously a changeling. From the time he was a kitten, he was fearless, somewhat aggressive and less of a lap cat than Cal and Bron presumed they were adopting. He has been known to launch himself into midair in the direction of a person, hide under chairs and attack Callum's feet, arch his back and show his teeth and claws at anybody who dares to give him a tummy rub. He stares impassively back at me when I blow raspberries at him or call him a pooh-head. He has a very strong sense of his dexterity and speed and has been known to draw blood from unfortunate bystanders intending to play with him. Interestingly, he will not leave their courtyard, even though he probably could if he tried.

In spite of all this less than desirable behaviour, he is the light of Cal and Bron's lives. Which is why, just over a week ago, they rushed their precious Ragnar to the vet after he had displayed some rather alarming symptoms reminiscent of a very young Linda Blair in "The Exorcist".

Ragnar presented with a fever, low white blood cells, cough and general malaise. Feline leukaemia was suggested, then thankfully ruled out. A first sleepless night for his Mum and Dad. A second night in an emergency vet hospital. And although critical, Ragnar still displayed all his displeasure very forcefully. Sedation was the order of the day for all procedures from checking his temperature to examining him to attaching him to a drip. He was destined to become a Cone Head after pulling his drip out and spent the rest of his hospital stay with a modern day plastic Elizabethan Collar firmly in place.

He is home now, a tad battered, bruised and shaved. And his twice-daily antibiotics are not for the faint-hearted. Bronwyn wraps him in a towel tightly until he becomes a feline burrito. Even so, the two of them are required to hold his Grumpiness to administer the drugs. I believe his protests are still quite spectacular.

And Ragnar almost cost Cal and Bron their honeymoon money. Is he grateful? Absolutely not. Has he tempered his wicked ways? You have got to be kidding. Is he still their much adored feline Viking? You'd better believe it!

These are the things we do for love.

Callum and Bronwyn with their beloved fur-baby, Ragnar, as he is now...

As a kitten...

Planning his next surprise attack...

I HAVE YOU...

Trying to escape, are you ...?!

What chaos can I cause now...

I will prevent your departure as I haven't finished with you yet...

Maybe I can tip these over.

Pre-Dinner Pilates

I have spent my life as a desperately-wanting-to-be-thin-girl in a fat girl's body. I share my paternal grandmother's physique - she was short and plump her entire life. She lived until she was ninety years old and in spite of the suspected rheumatic fever she suffered as a child.

I have been on more diets in my life than I would care to remember. The Cabbage Soup diet, the High Protein/Low Carb diet, the Not Eating Before Lunchtime diet, the Starve Myself Until I fit Into The Dress I Want To Wear diet, the Grief diet and the Vino Only diet.

Of all of these, the Vino Only diet was the most successful. Eating very little indeed, I would drown myself in as much wine as I could in order to sleep dreamlessly. However, my liver was not particularly happy on this diet and I was Dried Out as one of my treatments at Perth Clinic after my breakdown in 2006.

Appalling at any exercise as a child - I tried the usual suspects such as ballet and tennis - I discovered the only team sport that I excelled, much to my surprise, was volleyball. My friend Sue Town and I would smack ourselves on the nose in order to be excused for PE. However, when thrown onto a volleyball team, Sue's and my services were almost unplayable. We couldn't defend for quids, but we won a few games through sheer brilliance at serving and not much else.

I tried swimming, aerobics (a comic disaster) and line dancing ( another side-splitting episode) as other forms of exercise as an adult. I loved Jive dancing but as soon as I was coerced into moving out of the Beginners class, I lost my confidence and stopped.

I ran for ten years. Holy shit. This is how I maintained a fairly low weight. I entered the City-to-Surf on several occasions and the Perth-Fremantle walk (eighteen kilometres) once. I ran around Lake Gwelup and Carine Open Space. I pounded the pavements in Karrinyup, where I lived for twenty years. After I moved to Marangaroo, I bought a cheap walking machine, which worked very well until the Beagle ate the electrics - twice.

After moving to Beverley, I lost twelve kilogrammes through exercise, Duromine ( medical speed) and Michael nearly dying. Walking up and down three flights of stairs at Joondalup Hospital several times a day served me well. I dropped under seventy kilogrammes for the first time in quite a while.

Since then, guilt was been my ever-present friend as I gained weight back again. Plus shoulder and knee surgeries tendered to slow me down as well. I was not a happy camper.

After I saw the Boy Wonder late in 2017, he prescribed rough treatment of my troublesome knee to shake it up. So I started walking laps in our local pool. Much to my surprise, I loved the activity and my pain load reduced significantly as a result. And because the Beagle needed to diet, His Majesty and I started walking again as well.

On Wednesday, I paid to attend Pilates at five-thirty with the delightful Janet Robertson, proprietor of Nourishabley in Beverley. Pre-dinner Pilates. I was concerned by two possible events - that I would die during or after the class and that I would fart very loudly and embarrass myself.

Neither occurred. Somebody else farted and we all chose not to comment. There were a couple of skinny fit women there but the rest of us - weren't. Excellent. I spent the entire class concentrating so hard on what I was supposed to do that I forgot to be thirsty or self-conscious.

Thursday I was a bit sore but as the day wore on, my lower back ached more and more. I had half-promised I would return to Pilates on Friday morning. Now I was really worried that I had pushed my body a bit too far. Yet, I recognised the pain was muscular, so I gravitated between Going or Not Going.

This morning I bit the bullet and arrived spot-on time at Pilates.To my astonishment, I found the stretching regime much easier and I could feel the various muscles I was supposed to be using. As the class progressed, my discomfort vanished. I was stoked to finish the class feeling more confident and pain-free. Extraordinary.

Last evening, we caught a programme on SBS by Tim Caulfield, a Canadian academic, on dieting and exercise myths. Two of his musing stuck in my mind - if I was dieting and exercising to look good, I was doing this for all the wrong reasons. And if I expected the scales to dip dramatically, I would be disappointed. However, following as healthy a diet as possible and exercising would aid my overall health and fitness.

I have waited for fifty-six years to hear this reassurance. Now I have the impetus to keep exercising and trying to eat well without feeling the crushing urge to lose weight.

So tomorrow I will walk with Michael and the dogs. Monday I expect to walk laps in the pool. Wednesday I hope to drag Michael to Pilates.

Thanks, Tim.

Kate with Vanessa (right) Janina Faulker with Michelle - early 1986

At Kalparrin Mothers' Weekends (1990s = 2000s)

Bali 2009, with Susan Matthews and Tracey Claydon

With Sascha and Ruby 2010

November 2014

 

December 2016 with my darling Dad

July 2017 with Audrey the bearded dragon

Hamming it up after knee surgery October 2017

Christmas 2017 with my beloved Michael.