The Beverley Hillbillies Meet The Premier

Most of my friends would be aware that I tend not to vote on the right side of politics. Their belief and structure in laissez-faire and small government does not sit well with my views. In fact, the only time the Liberals seem to have any contact with the Common People is during election campaigns. Then they can't wait to press the flesh with us all, promising big and usually delivering small. Who can remember Prime Minister Howard's "non-core promises"...Perhaps any dispute about the "children overboard" affair would today be labelled as fake news.

Actually, I tend to regard most politicians with a grain of salt, trusting my personal bullshit meter and the alternative independent media to provide me with a more balanced viewpoint than News Corp or Sky waffle.

There are, of course, notable exceptions to the rule. Katie Hodson-Thomas, a hard-working and compassionate state Liberal member, ran an appeal alongside me to increase our Autistic Superstar's education assistance. Eion Cameron, master of the ABC airwaves, took a brief sojourn as a Liberal politician and allowed me the use of his office's photocopier and paper for my group's newsletter. And the result? I voted for them both, regardless of their party's leanings.

Enter David Templeman and Darren West. Both Labor pollies in Mark McGowan's State government, the pair of them were engaged in a Wheatbelt jaunt to talk to local shires. Whilst enjoying lunch at Wayno's Country Kitchen, Dave (in his alter ego of Arts Minister) spied the East End Gallery and wandered in for a quick squizz. Quickly returning with Darren, they finally introduced themselves. We were stoked. At that stage, no other State or Federal politician had crossed our threshold. Mia Davies, leader of WA's Nationals has joined Dave and Darren as the three politicians ever to come into the Gallery.

During our build of Station House, we met a major snag. Having moved the property line between our adjoining (and already sub-divided) blocks by three and a half metres, we thought all would be smooth sailing. The WA Planning Commission classified us as "developers" and this escalated into a new subdivision. Plus as "developers", Western Power and the Water Corporation had the means, the motive and the opportunity to charge us lots of money we didn't have for our power and water connections.

Almost seven months later, whilst operating our house through an extension cord, we had a win. Darren, in his capacity as an Agricultural MLC, made a couple of phone calls to the powers that be. Within two days, we received new offers for our electricity and water connections. Western Power's was particularly memorable, down from $27,452 to $681. We immediately accepted the offer and signed the paperwork in a split second.

The Water Corp was finally convinced that the existing water main did run on the edge of our property and moved it into its correct position in the laneway.

These two momentous occasions allowed us to plan and build our beautiful and private courtyards, instead of enduring and endlessly traipsing dirt into our home, not to mention wave at every vehicle that passed our property.

Earlier in March, we received an invitation to attend the opening of the Northam office of Mister Darren West and Mister Laurie Graham, the two members of the Agricultural Region, an area from stretches from Geraldtown to the South Coast - not your smallest electorate. Here was my opportunity to thank Darren for all his help. I had completely failed to register that the Premier of Western Australia would also be there.

So, Michael, Jan and I barrelled up the road to Northam. When we arrived, the office was already packed. We collected our name tags, filled up with a glass of vino and started mingling. I was trying to spot Darren in the crowd, given he is about seventy-eight feet tall. Just as I spotted him, the speeches began.

At that moment, I realised the Premier was in the room. His speech was actually really interesting - a far cry from most political talk. He spoke of Northam's history, of the three State Premiers that had come from this region and his personal delight in opening Darren and Laurie's office.

After he cut the ribbon, I seized my opportunity. Starting with "Can I call you Mark, Premier?", I launched into a surprisingly short spiel of Darren's assistance to us in our hour of need. Only as I was speaking did my nerve almost fail me. I suddenly felt very short in a room filled with towering people.

My speech was met with rousing applause. I regained my height and beamed at everybody. The rest of the evening was extremely pleasant and we both had a quick chat as the Premier was leaving. Michael had gone to Governor Stirling Senior High School with another Labor parliamentarian, Lisa Baker. She is a recent Facebook buddy to me, but anyone who adores Weimaraners as much as I do could become a friend, even if Weimaraners is our only connection. Amanda Vanstone, I am happy to overlook your political affiliations.

After a splendid evening, we headed for Heavenly Beverley. I was thrilled. I'd had a chance to acknowledge a tremendously helpful parliamentarian in Darren West. And blow me down, I'd had a chat with the Premier...

And Kim Travers, Labor candidate for Pearce. Time to come on down for a cuppa, Kim!

David Templeman (left) in civvies...

And showing off his lovely legs in a more formal setting.

Farmer and parliamentarian Darren looking pretty pleased with himself...

And with his gorgeous wife Lesley...

On Friday in Toodyay, en route to Northam...

Laurie (right of presentation) getting his hands dirty at the Kellerberrin Men's Shed...

And somewhat unexpectedly, Amanda Vanstone with Gus

And Lisa Baker with Lola.

The Cat Did It!

Following an action-packed day, we returned gratefully to Station House and settled in front of the telly for Friday night entertainment and dessert after a fairly haphazard dietary intake of nibbles and vino.

"The Heights", a relatively believable soap that was filmed in Western Australia, was first on the agenda. We enjoyed the show, which features six families living in a multi-cultural suburb in a major city. Then we lowered the bar. We switched over to "San Andreas", a disaster movie that was both laughable and strangely riveting.

No longer am I a night owl. I was up way past my bedtime. Heading for bed and bidding "nigh nigh" to Michael, I was instantly and blissfully asleep.

I should have known better than leaving Michael on his own. He can't be trusted to restrain himself in the thrall of delicious red wine. I was unaware that he had come to bed until he spectacularly woke me to fill me in on one of his legendary nocturnal conversations.

I must admit that I was not empathetic. At all. Michael's night time chats have not always met with my harmonious acquiescence. I have endured when the cat stole Michael's toast and disappeared on stilettos with the offending food in her suitcase. The delegation from the salad led by Mister Carrot was another corker. Then there was the episode when Michael became the television controller. Believe me, I have ceased to be surprised by any of Michael's unconscious ravings. And last night, I wasn't even remotely interested in anything he had to say in the wee hours of this morning.

So, I told him so. Actually, I loudly beseeched him to shut up before I found a large garden gnome to ram up his arse. He was utterly bewildered. Thankfully, he turned on his side, farted in my general direction and returned to slumber.

Until he woke again, for a trip to the loo. Approaching his side of the bed upon completion of his ablutions, he announced he had stood in a puddle. He was convinced that the offending pool was dog piddle. So. I launched out of bed to check on the nature of his annoyance. The pee wasn't. Certainly, there was a distinctive area of liquid. I then noted his glass on its side on his bedside table with only a smattering of water left in it. The mystery was solved and I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes. Michael had spilt his bloody water.

He was having none of that. "It wasn't me", he wailed. "The cat did it!"

I rest my case.

Some of Michael's various conversationalists -

 

And how I respond...

The Inevitable (and Occasionally Hilarious) Consequences of Ageing

A tragedy has unfolded before my eyes. I have fought the good fight. I have resisted the winds of change with all my might. I have executed my best King Canute impersonation. I have tried my very best to cling to my resolve. But, unfortunately, and sometimes side-splittingly, I have failed in my personal crusade. I am turning into my parents...

When we were very young (apologies to A.A. Milne), age was an entirely irrelevant thought. I used to believe nobody lived past thirty. School terms seemed interminable. Holidays were looked forward to with reverence and every second was cherished. Then came work or TAFE or university. These parts of each day were often endured, whilst the enjoyment of evenings and weekends was the reward. I attended night school to learn everything from touch typing to pottery to creative writing.

Children added further dimensions, quite separate from just the usual suspects of sleep deprivation and disorganised daily mayhem. I joined a number of committees and organisations, most of which met in the evenings. I remember carving the day into pieces - housework, interests, appointments and the care load of being a parent of young children.

And when I reached thirty, I was staggeringly disappointed. The aura of wisdom and knowledge and maturity failed to drape over my persona. I didn't feel smarter. I didn't necessarily understand the punchlines of jokes. I was still skinning my knees and smacking my head. And my goal of bike riding continued to elude me.

Forty provided a breather from feeling totally inadequate. Empowerment through knowledge increased my confidence. I continued to fight the good fight - for my children, for myself and for the greater good of the autism community. I still seemed to be able to juggle all my roles. I was dancing as fast as I could.

Fifty found me in love with Michael, with Beverley and with our future. And a subtle changing of the guard. Prescription drugs were creeping into our regime. All our shoulders needed grease and oil changes. I discovered I no longer bounced back after a physical catastrophe. Standing on tiptoe on the very top of ancient wooden steps, a metre fall onto concrete broke my ankle, bruised my bum and shook my confidence.

Then came Michael's near-death experience. We added hospitals to our growing list of places we visited far removed from the pleasure of our Goldfields excursions. Our trips to the Big Smoke began coinciding with detours to the specialist of the moment, blood tests and various scans. Whilst, my morning drug taking thankfully plateaued, Michael's grew into a stupendously impressive pile, all of which had to be swallowed.

The results of middle age and beyond? We find ourselves discussing medical conditions, diet and our latest resistance exercise programmes. Ye Gods. We all have arthritis somewhere, dodgy guts, diabetes, tinea, high blood pressure, cholesterol and racy hearts. Those of us who are women also have menopause thrown into the mix. My feet have been masquerading as hot water bottles for fifteen years.

And we have slowed down. We find ourselves exhausted after an action-packed day in the Big Smoke. We dislike having to juggle more than a couple of tasks in any given day. We love the spontaneity of nanna naps when we can sneak one. And late night partying...increasingly a pipe dream.

Aging has added a curious mix of intolerances. Michael loathes traffic, lawn mowers, unnecessarily idling cars outside our house and early rising. I frown at small screaming children, I hate injustice and I gauge my day in terms of lower back pain.

Yet, there are great advantages. I no longer care very much about keeping up appearances. Slob days are a joy. I often waltz up the street, my hair unbrushed with a hat on my head hiding the hairstyle by powerpoint. I dress for comfort, rather than style. I love elastic. Having said that, I am also the grateful recipient of gorgeous clothes from the divine Miss George. So, I can frock up for the Gallery or other social events.

And we giggle and hoot and roar at the hilarious. A flight bound for Dusseldorf ending up in Edinburgh. Anything uttered by Billy Connolly. For a reminder of younger days, a sketch by Michael McIntyre. Animal antics on Facebook. Turning the hose on each other on a stinker of a day. An unexpected rip snorter of a fart. Gossip with good friends. The Problem Child, Pirate Parrot, Madame Cat and Nervous Nelly who are our substitute offspring. Spontaneous banter at Stretch and SLAB groups, apart from the usual spectacles of zombie walking and monster bellowing.

Laughter has become an integral part of our lives. We seek out like-minded people. We do not take ourselves seriously. We always look for the funny side of any situation.

However. I do have my limits. The second I ask about the timing or components of the Evening Meal, just shoot me. Until my dying day, I hope to continue with my usual script, which is "Dinner? When I work that out, I'll let you know!"

Aah - the joys of ageing...Exercising in the pool

Or with the inimitable Janet at Nourishabley...

I'll have to suggest this modification....

And food becomes a great pleasure...

Unfortunately, there are also unforeseen effects in getting older...

However, a local pollie not taking himself seriously will always bring a smile to my face...

Not to mention having the opportunity to become Santa...

And these should become mantras for the elderly...

The Bird Brain Goes Walkabout

Red has been an integral part of our family for over five years now. An Eastern King parrot and native to the east coast, he was bred in captivity by our then neighbour, the magnificent and alluring Lorna Johnstone. Lorna's only minor problem was her ability to become involved with blokes who turned out to be most unsuitable. At the time she was hand-rearing Red, she was also throwing out her third husband. She made the decision that she was unable to care for her menagerie, her vast family and successfully raise the parrot for sale. So, she offered him to us with the idea that we would split the proceeds when we did put him out on the bird market.

This has never happened.

Lorna has remained happily single ever since.

Red initially had a distinct issue with his name. He was green, rather than red. Apparently male Eastern Kings start out green and gradually become red. The girls remain the emerald green for the duration. Red took a very long time to change colour. He had the appearance of a checkered court jester for almost two years.

Whilst his feathers remained ambivalent during his lengthy adolescence, his character became all male. He has developed an impressive vocabulary, which he only utters when he wishes to do so. He also has honed a piercing screech to remind us when he is bored. His laughter is, unfortunately, all me. He calls the Problem Child incessantly every now and then (Ruby! Ruby! Ruby!) and then whistles loudly to add to the general mayhem. His terrible table manners have never improved and he occasionally will bathe in his drinking water. The aftermath is never attractive.

During the festive season, he adores climbing into the Christmas tree for fun.

His favourite regular pastimes are sitting on some unwary person's shoulder, attempting to attack glasses or earrings. Leaving an undesirable waste product comes a close second. Taking off for a loop around the house is also popular entertainment. The downside is that he regularly crashlands or seeks shelter in the washing or the pantry or the living room shelving.

Red was last out of his palace earlier in the week. He sat, passively and exceedingly well behaved, on Michael's shoulder for quite a long period. In fact, Michael was such an unexciting perch that Red nearly fell asleep. No poohing, no squawking and no ear-grabbing. We were astounded. Perhaps Red was turning over a new leaf.

Then, with no warning, he took off. Frantically flapping to gain height, he passed the Beagle in her normal state of unconsciousness under our desk. Ruby did actually try to eat him, energetically and surprisingly, once and Red has never forgotten. Pip watched the bird anxiously from the front door mat. Red came to an abrupt halt as he careered wildly into Michael's candlesticks. I went to rescue him and return him to the safety of his home for a Bex, a cup of tea and a lie-down.

Red decided he was having none of that. He launched with typical inelegance and passed my ear en-route. As I had my back to him, I had no idea where he'd gone. Only a startled look from Madame Cat, her sleep rudely interrupted on our bed, gave the clue that Red had flown into our bedroom.

So we began looking for him and his latest crash site. We checked in our wardrobes and the shower. We even peeked into the loo as the lid was up. No sign of him. We wondered if he'd somehow gone further afield so we widened our search area. Behind the TV unit. In the laundry sink. Caught up in a half-open umbrella. Hidden in the linen or the ironing. We were completely stumped.

I resumed a careful search of our bedroom. The cat had resumed her usual slumber. I was just about to give up when I caught a small flash of red on our Green Paw-Paw walls.

The mischievous minx had landed on the frame of one of our pictures. A pastel riot of flowers, into which he blended perfectly. Plus his back was facing outwards and he was almost exactly the same colour as the shade of our bedroom. No wonder we couldn't find him.

I returned him to his cage with a flea in his ear. He was completely unimpressed and promptly turned his back on me. Then he retired for a well-earned sleep after his Great Escape.

With granddaughter Bianca and great-granddaughter Tamsin, Lorna is known far and wide simply as "Nan"...

Lorna's vehicle of choice

Her ancillary vehicle of choice...

Images of an early bird...

With Simon, a fabulous French backpacker and HelpXer...

WTF?!

Plotting...

In his all improved and larger cage...

Stopovers en-route...

Sticky-beaking...

Self-explanatory...

 

I'm SO BORED...

Seb and Aude, our terrific New Caledonian house painters in our bedroom...

And the stunning print "Peacock Love" by Angela Millar that dictated Station House's colours...

Back To Paradise

I have had a break from writing this week. We hit the ground running after our farewell to Jenny in Cooktown and precious time spent with family and friends. I have come to the conclusion that life is far too short to miss opportunities that just seem right. Wear your best knickers, eat the cake, talk, laugh and connect. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Vanessa had pulled off a monumental feat to keep Station House, garden and animals all alive and kicking. She was still delighted to welcome us back from the Deep North, commenting quite beautifully and matter-of-factly that we made the house a home.

The weekend was spent in the Gallery, as per usual. I was pleased to close on Sunday evening, but not before we launched the inaugural meeting of the Beverley Writer's Group (Country Expressions). The oppressive heat was still ever present and Station House's air-conditioned coolness revived my flagging spirits.

Our Autistic Superstar, Alex (with the faithful and fabulous support worker  Pasquale providing the wheels) roared into Beverley on Monday during a break in his busy schedule. They spent a memorable few hours with us until they headed back into the sunset. He was off to a retreat to Bindoon the following day. Plus he had a regular get-together that evening. I was exhausted just listening to his plans.

Vanessa skedaddled back to the Big Smoke with us on Tuesday. Without a doubt, she was pleased to return to the beating drum of civilisation. Still ploughing through her Second Masters, she only has a couple of semesters to complete Asian Studies. Then, who knows? She still maintains the dream of teaching History.

We attended our bi-yearly appointment with the delicious Doctor Daram. Once again, I stood in front of this dashing and witty quack and heard those memorable words..."Down to your bra and knickers, Kate". *sigh*

A multitude of minor skin spots were all blasted off with a sustained spray of the liquid nitrogen. Then came the scrape of another lesion from my leg. Michael didn't escape either, enduring a local anaesthetic into his cheek with calm stoicism. I certainly didn't have his composure, bellowing like a bull, much to the amusement of Daram's reception staff on the front desk.

Wednesday was all about catching up the housework. First things first, we resumed Stretching with Janet. We were both instantly aware that two weeks off and flights in Sardine Class had not been in our best interests. Once home, I pottered inside, enjoying having the house to ourselves and actually completing all those minor tasks that tend to escape attention. Michael helped valiantly with the vacuum cleaner and I finished with a flourish of the steam mop.

Thursday began with SLAB - Stretching, Breathing and Lifting - or its alternate nom de plume SHAG - Stepping, Heaving and Groaning. Janet ran a fabulous class for one, as I was the only person who bothered to turn up on a very sticky morning. A quick shower and change in a handy phone booth and then back in the Gallery. Artists' Play Day drew two attendees for quiet reverie. Sharon Williams, Brookton artist, photographer and author produced a lovely little watercolour - her interpretation of a couple of shops. Denese also dropped into the Gallery for a chat and an instalment on her lay-by. She had chosen an exquisite pearl shell ring, the work of Margaret River silversmith Steve Pease, a month ago and has paid the balance off on a very regular basis. Next time Denese comes in, the lovely piece of jewellery will be hers.

Yesterday was a breath of fresh air, literally. A cool change removed every skerrick of humidity, much to our collective relief. The breeze lifted and the atmosphere ceased to be that of an over-warm bath. I was galvanised to give our "garden" a lift too. As of this morning, I have inspected and trimmed and dug and transplanted. The vincas still need pruning as they are beginning to break under their own weight. Now that I know that we have days of perfect autumn weather on the horizon, I can carry out this task and give all my precious plants a Seasol pick-me-up.  An added spectacle was the appearance of some lemon-tinted mushrooms at the base of our frangipani. Quite unexpected and beautiful if probably a trifle deadly.

We have truly returned to Heavenly Beverley, our little piece of paradise. Until our next expedition...

Initial attendance at Country Expressions was tardy until Jan and Greg made a late entrance. Phil has been warned he will face detention if he fails to show on 14 April!

Quiet time with the bird-brain...

Michael was obviously so boring that Red dropped off to sleep...

STRET-T-T-CHING!

A lively session at SLAB/SHAG. Look at what the rest of you are missing!

Sharon enjoying the peace of Artists' Play Day...

Her watercolour creation...

Need to poison anybody?!