Why Do Disasters Always Occur In Threes?

Those who know me well would agree that I am not the most coordinated person on the planet. Michael has actually stated, on numerous occasions, that I am unbelievably talented in finding original and innovative ways to break items - and myself.

We have been in each others' company for most of the last ten years. During this timeframe, Michael has frequently been amazed at my individual logic or lack of it. I thought that drying thongs on the edge of an open fire was a great idea. Not so. Pulling a water container along by its spout resulted in a leak that rivalled the little Dutch Boy's dyke. Standing on top of a forty-year-old set of wooden steps was my downfall. Literally.

We have lost count of the items I have destroyed or severely mistreated. Most of my personal bodily mishaps have been the result of sheer inattentiveness. My injury status has reduced markedly during the last twelve months. Having had one knee replacement, I never wish to have another.

Unfortunately, this does not mean I am immune to catastrophe. Most of these events are definitely first world problems. I am sure that if I lived a simpler existence, these instances would just not occur.

Take last Thursday, for example. I was busily vacuuming the bedroom floor, sucking multiple doggy tumbleweeds up the metal tube. If our dogs didn't howl in abject misery at being left outside, I would not have a carpet of dog hair rolling all over the lino planks. If I hadn't been so absorbed in focusing downwards, my frame of earrings, adjacent to my right elbow would not have had a spectacular swan dive under my chest of drawers. After much gnashing of teeth, I located and retrieved all except the final two single missing earrings. I refuse to go through the vacuum contents to look for them. If they aren't still hiding under the furniture, they have gone to landfill.

Hot, tired and sweaty, I was longing for a shower to undertake all essential beauty rituals. Wash hair, shave legs. I had been unable to remove the hirsute layer since the delicious Doctor Daram had taken a large chunk of my lower leg out with a pesky skin cancer eight days previously. Oh heaven. My hair was clean, conditioner insitu and shaving commenced. And then the gas bottle ran out.

Unlike city slickers, the gas for our hot water and the stove is supplied by two bloody big storage units outside our house. There is never any warning when a gas bottle is about to expire. We always wish that the gas does not cease whilst performing a necessary operation. Like showering.

Thus, I endured shaving part of my right leg, all of my left leg, soaping and rinsing under extremely cold water. I am sure I uttered a few involuntary shrieks during all this intimate sploshing. Finally, I exited the shower in a state of high alertness. On went the heater lights. I towelled furiously to warm my goosebumpy body up from hypothermia.

Attempting to part my toothbrush head from its battery-powered body, the head took it upon itself to fly across the bathroom. There was nothing I could do, except watch in abject horror, as my toothbrush head descended into the cat's litter tray next to the loo.

Oh goody...

And so, I adjourned to the East End Gallery,  having picked up all my earrings (except two), endured a cold shower and scrubbed my toothbrush head with plenty of soap to reduce contamination. I am convinced I have blown bubbles whilst brushing my teeth for the last few days.

I have survived for four days relatively unscathed. Apart from the pyrex dish that shattered all over the tiles last night...bollocks!

At least my feet weren't in my thongs when they caught fire...

Note the spout. Looks really secure. That was a lie...

If I'd been on top of these steps, I wouldn't have broken my ankle!

The agent of catastrophe in the bedroom...

I do love a cold shower...like never!

There is nothing natural about a toothbrush head in a litter tray!

About A Boy (And His Siblings)

Just over thirty years ago, my ex and I welcomed Callum into our universe. Actually, his arrival was with a bit more fanfare. Vanessa, at three years four months, was my sole surviving child from four previous pregnancies. I adored her to bits, but I was desperate that she would not be an only child.

And so, we had embarked on my fifth pregnancy with rather a lot of consternation. Terry Jenkins, my latest obstetrician, dragged me kicking and screaming through eight tedious months. My ex used to joke about having powdered baby mix and just adding water to circumvent the waiting. No such potion was available for us. I had horrible nausea for five months. I started CTG (cardiocartography) which measured the baby's well being in utero at thirty weeks. I was booked for an elective caesarian section on 28 April 1989 after Terry returned from holidays. Needless to say, I didn't make that date.

Callum was a sluggish foetus - totally unlike his after-womb self. There were concerns about his viability due to poor performance testing. Personally, I believe that this was Callum's modus operandi. He refused to commit to a new skill until he believed he had mastered it.

And so, he was born, roaring and pink, on 14 April 1989. Almost immediately, he went into a decline. He wasn't perfect at breathing. Then he wasn't perfect at breastfeeding. So he and I stayed in hospital for two weeks, getting to know each other. He learnt how to suck properly after I told him that the honeymoon was over and there would be no more assisted feeding.

He was a beautiful baby who smiled with his whole body. Then he grew into a wonderful, funny, stubborn and perfectionist boy who endured more than his fair share of trials. He was the ultimate middle child in an oddball family. He was bullied at both primary and high school. Throughout his later childhood, he coped with the breakup of his parents and lived a ping-pong existence as a teenager and young adult between his dad and me.

Committed to ballroom dancing as his passion, Callum then met a fiery strawberry blonde lass who quickly Took Him In Hand. Bronwyn did not put up with any nonsense. And she told him so when necessary. She also became his anchor as they each launched into work - Bron as an early childhood teacher and Cal caught between hospitality and teaching for a number of years.

Then, the Romance Sensation of the Century. Cal asked Bron to marry him, on bended knee, in Venice, with an engagement ring he had secreted in his wallet. After Bronwyn delightedly accepted him, they began preparations for the Wedding of the Century.

Being utterly pragmatic and financially sensible, they chose to marry in a relatively simple ceremony during last winter. The weather was truly awful but their marriage and the following reception was filled with love and warmth. I even pecked the ex on his cheek.

We haven't seen much of the happy couple for a few months. Their honeymoon was swiftly followed by the final term of 2018 and a pre-arranged White Christmas with Bron's family in Austria. We caught up with them earlier this year for a brief weekend. So, there was no way I was going to miss Callum's thirtieth birthday.

On a breezy day at Mullaloo Beach, a sausage sizzle was just the ticket. The wind interfered with the lighting of the candles. In the end, the birthday boy managed to get one candle lit with just enough time to blow it out.

A marvellous day. Callum, as energetic as ever, was joined by both his siblings. Only when the three of them were standing together did I realise how similar in looks they are. They have all given me much cause for pride. They are all independent young people. Callum is probably the most openly compassionate and affectionate, which has been his lifelong attitude. I watched as he embraced all his friends, which has become the gesture of his generation. And both branches of his family are treated with demonstrative love and respect.

They are currently camping with the Coote side in the Goldfields for some rest and recreation after a busy start to the year. Looking at the size of the fires they enjoy building, they are obviously our kind of people! And with any luck, they might stop in Heavenly Beverley on their way home.

Cal with his former dance partner, Francesca

Trusting his tonsils to a five-year-old

The look of love

At a "Phantom of the Opera" soiree

Wedding proposal in Venice

Their bridal waltz

Birthday BBQ

With Alex

Boys on the barbie

Now there's trouble! My three amigos...

Sisters-in-law - Bronwyn and Vanessa

Recalcitrant candles!

Enjoying an excellent fire on their Goldfields jaunt.

An Absolutely Extraordinary Easter in Heavenly Beverley

I would have to say that we are definitely not as energetic as we used to be. Back in the Days Before Fifty-Five, I was able to schedule multiple activities in one day and still be standing at the evening's conclusion. This is often not possible in current times, particularly if we cram several days into a single one.  Michael is even more susceptible than me, now rapidly morphing into a Grumpy Old Fart.

This morning, after five fabulous days over the Easter Long Weekend, we did not rise from the Inner Sanctum until after eleven o'clock. I was most surprised, as although I am not immune to some decedent late morning snoozing, I am usually up and about earlier than Michael. This was particularly easy on Sunday. I staggered out of bed at half-past ten to shower and open the Gallery. Michael eventually made an entrance into the Gallery after four o'clock...In the mid-afternoon...

More of his shenanigans later.

We have enjoyed a constant stream of guests into the East End Gallery for the entire weekend. E-mails, Facebook and even my blog Heavenly Beverley were neglected. I also made a decision to avoid as much political propaganda as possible until the election is done and dusted. This has been positively emancipating for my blood pressure and well-being.

I have joked on several occasions that I drew breath only when I was forced to oxygenate my red corpuscles. We were thrilled with steady sales. We ran out of Beverley Visitor Surveys. We only had one Easter activities brochure remaining as of yesterday afternoon. We had invited a whole pile of new artists to join the East End Gallery. Chrissy Gors (Beverley) delivered four stunning quilts yesterday and then returned home to continue saving an orphaned calf. Lesley and David (who attended the Beverley Easter Markets) will be dropping in some paintings and sculptures to us in the near future. Young photographer Kayla may bring in some of her photographs. Sandra and Claudia (both entrants in the Beverley Art Prize) have dropped new paintings to the Gallery and Claudia's previous painting "Victorian Times" has been sold. Neil Elliott's "Salvador the Rabbit" is also under lay-by by an almost-local for their new home in Beverley. David Mizen, David Lillico and Rob Pampling were late afternoon visitors with Mister Mizen adding two additional night photographs of Green Hills for the Gallery's walls.

Our Famous Sundowner has now moved to Legend status. We had musicians coming out of our ears. All offered their services for no charge. Local soprano Julie sang exquisitely before she and Dave left for home. The other singers ranged from the divine Miss George to the urbane Mr Jones with friends and ring-ins adding to the fun. We bopped along to saxophone, banjo, percussion and guitar. Every sausage and chicken wing was devoured. All the nibbles were consumed. An impressive number of bottles of vino stacked up as the evening continued. We had attendees from babes in arms to our misbehaving elders. What a night to remember!

I pulled the pin at about one o'clock. Naturally, Michael was still rocking on. Rumour has it that he crawled into bed as a human ice cube next to me at around four o'clock. His only request was Panadol and water before I left for the Gallery later in the morning.

He eventually surfaced, still fuzzy and a tad seedy after he'd tentatively risen from bed at three o'clock. I announced we were going to the Freemasons Tavern for Sunday's dinner and to check out their new menu. We both enjoyed an alcohol-free evening.

Michael has since announced that we need to close the Gallery's doors at midnight for future Sundowners. He has acknowledged that he was Exceedingly Silly in terms of vino and cigarette consumption. I have broadcast his intentions so you are all witnesses.

I'll believe it when I see it!

A Selection of Stalls at the Beverley Easter Markets -

Then, on with the Sundowner!

@the Freemasons - Front Bar

One of several dining areas

Dynamic Duo owner Daphne and manager Geena

New artist Zahlia

Slightly more rumpled photographer David Mizen

"Cheeky Sunset"

"Beverley Farm Track"

"At Rest"

A "Grand Designs" is Unveiled in Heavenly Beverley

Just over a year ago, one of Beverley's two pubs closed through an unfortunate series of events. The demise of the Freemasons Tavern caused great consternation. There were two quite distinct sets of supporters of each hotel. Suddenly, one of the watering holes was unavailable. What would happen to the Tavern? Would the building ever open the doors again? What final outcome was in store for the Freemasons?

The reality was that the pub was old and tired. There had been reasonably frequent changes in management and a partnership breakup. A makeover was badly needed. And in true "Grand Designs" style, Daphne Talbot, the owner, decided to do just that.

The restoration has taken the best part of twelve months. Beauty has replaced ugliness. Plaster has been removed to expose the stunning original brickwork. The bars and kitchen have been completely gutted and replaced. Recycled wooden boards from rural sheep yards have been incorporated as feature walls. The decor has been revitalised. New, extensive plumbing and fresh bathrooms have removed any echoes of dodgy sewerage. The fireplaces have been renovated. The gardens are now loved and lush. And the piece de resistance is a magnificent covered outdoor area that catches the winter sun but remains cool in summer due to very high ceilings and large fans. There isn't a hint of stale beer anywhere.

Daphne and her team have performed a miracle. I think there were times none of the workers believed the project would ever be finished. The budget had to be revised. There were delays with materials, tradies and administration. On Wednesday, the entire team worked into the early hours of the following morning to guarantee that the hotel would open as advertised. Blood, sweat and tears have never been far from the surface during this daunting task.

They have been rewarded with a wonderful renovation. The revitalised Freemasons Tavern is a slick modern establishment with a substantial nod to its regional past. We attended the opening night on Thursday. And last night, we proceeded to dinner there.

The lamb rump in a plum sauce was tender and delicious. The accompanying salad was bursting with flavour and crunch. We had plenty to eat without feeling overfull. The dining areas were warm. The service was brisk and efficient. Steve and Geena in the kitchen produced an outstanding meal that means we will be returning very soon indeed.

Congratulations to everybody concerned. The Freemasons Tavern has returned to life like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

During the renovation -

And the finished product -

Owner Daphne and Geena