Yet Another Miracle...

One could be forgiven for thinking that as we have endured a trying week, living in a quiet country town and away from the services available in the Big Smoke would be frustrating in the extreme. Sometimes. this appears to be so.

The caravan's hot water system has been the major challenge of the last few days, and our efforts to find solutions have been protracted and mystifying. Contact with the original seller, Downunder RV proved elusive, primarily as the company had gone bust. I attempted to seek information from caravan service companies in Midland and Mandurah. Figures of $1500 or thereabouts for a new hot water unit were a tad disconcerting. Michael and Guy spent yesterday morning scratching their heads in their quest to even understand the machinations of the unit. I was starting to feel rather desperate and definitely not looking forward to cold water only for our three-month escape to the northwest.

Guy, in his wisdom, suggested Michael ring Swift, the manufacturer, for advice. As the boys had explored the hot water infrastructure intently, Michael did have an idea of its anatomy. Today, when he spoke to Fab at Swift in Melbourne, he was able to get a handle on the problem.

I still have no idea of the procedure Michael followed but the miracle actually occurred. The hot water service ignited with gas. Then, as a further test, the water was heated by electricity over about a forty-minute timeframe.

What Fab did was show Michael what to do. Apparently, that was the secret to the "reset" puzzle. That Fab and Michael were about three and a half thousand kilometres apart and operating via audio only is another miracle.

Apart from fixing an exceedingly dodgy sliding door and undertaking more dust proofing, our major problems with Digger are essentially sorted. I cannot believe this good news. The TV antenna remains a mystery but television is a luxury we can live without or just see in caravan parks (the footy for Michael). We can now look forward to some monumental cleaning and stocking before we leave in late May on our next epic quest.

So the myth of difficulty outside of the metro area is really just that, a myth. We have managed to unravel yet another mystery with the help of the humble telephone. All my online probing mattered not at all. This episode provides hope for Luddites like me all over again.

 I do believe that the fairytale of the boring country town might be deliberate in some cases. Otherwise, we would be inundated with escapees from the Big Smoke, and we'd be exposed to some of the city slicker issues we had left behind. Like crime. Or crowds. Or small blocks. We occasionally miss going to the cinema, but the majority of services we need are either here in Beverley or available in Northam or Mundaring. The only other annoyance is being a fair distance from Immy, our grandbaby, and I suppose I will have to master Skype as she gets older.

In the meantime, the phone has proved triumphant once more.

Guy Slingerland (right) in his alter ego of mild-mannered musician...

The issue was the lack of hot water in the caravan...

This solution was becoming more attractive...

An external view of the defendant...

My measured response...

Until Michael met Fab on the telephone!

Now, all we look forward to is packing Digger...

 

Avoiding roadtrains...

Admiring desert rose blooms...

And remembering...

Anxiety Girl Takes Flight...Again!

What started out as only a trip to our dentist, the meticulous and gentle Vincent at Avon Valley Dental Centre yesterday turned into a full afternoon of leapfrogging from one appointment to the next. And due to a series of circumstances, some beyond my control, my alter ego, Anxiety Girl, began flapping her wings once more. Anxiously.

The day started with our favourite handyman, Mister Guy Slingerland, waking us out of our usual heavy slumber. Never famous for our early rising, the situation had recently deteriorated with the passing of my darling Dad's alarm clock from old age. The clock, not Dad. He had already left a couple of years earlier and is probably now rejoicing in a fond reunion with the clock. Dad always preferred clocks that don't rely on electricity. As a fellow Luddite, I concur.

I have yet to replace the dearly departed timepiece, thus we have no means of telling the time in our bedroom. And before anybody helpfully points out we could use our phones, mine remains firmly in the OFF position until I have properly woken.

Anyway, I have digressed. Guy was at our door to assist us in solving the remaining mysteries of Digger the caravan. Why is the gas connection unreliably dodgy? Is the hot water service operational at all or dead as a doornail? He also introduced us to his newish pup, Rusty, a handsome four-month-old Kelpie. Rusty joined Stella in the house for a Grand Old Time. When Guy and Michael had concluded their initial foray into the unknown workings within Digger, Rusty was begging for mercy and lying on the floor, totally wiped out by his playdate with Stella. She followed suit shortly afterwards, delightedly exhausted by doggy shenanigans.

Progress on Digger was rather disappointing, though Guy assured me that he would Get To The Bottom Of The Problem. We farewelled Guy, undertook quick ablutions and set off for the wilds of Northam. First Port Of Call was an appointment with one of our GPs, Richard, at the Grey Street Surgery. Richard is straightforward, knowledgable, amiable and witty. Michael's ongoing battle with reflux was our primary reason for attending. Richard's suggestion was to trial a drug that empties Michael's troublesome gut as quickly as possible, whilst continuing with his acid-reducing medication at night. A brief look at Michael's healing lumpy foot and we were off.

We paused to visit the Dome Cafe for a quick snack. I took the opportunity of filling the prescription and purchasing some other items. Michael set off for his fillings with Vincent the dentist. I consulted Doctor Google over my coffee about Michael's new meds, his acid-reducing meds, my hazy eyes and promptly entered a state of mild hysteria. All I needed to do was don my Anxiety Girl cape and my panic would be complete.

Anxiety Girl retreated somewhat whilst I was massaging Michael's feet at the dentist's to shift his mind from what was happening in his mouth. My focus remained elsewhere until we were ready for our next appointment - with Nick the optometrist at Simply Spectacles.

The saying - "a little knowledge is dangerous" - was surely written for me. I was convinced that the fogginess of my sight was due to developing cataracts and I was already planning which eye surgeon to attend. Much to my amused and predictable relief, the cause of my vision issues turned out to be the coating on my glasses had crazed. Or was crazy. Or both.

So, instead of needing an operation, I was thrilled to choose new lenses for my red and black frames. My spare, pristine leopard-spot glasses initiated a vast improvement in my vision when I donned them in the Simply Spectacles reception area. Staff Toni and Beth were suitably entertained by my antics.

Our final stop was the vet hospital to make an appointment for Stella next week. Research and training are helping but she is still suffering from separation issues and during this morning's thunderstorm, she was not a Happy Camper. Next Wednesday will see a check-up for her, nails clipped and our options discussed for calming measures.

I have already started researching. Perhaps I need a Thundershirt for my anxiety too!

My secret identity...

The lack of this item meant we didn't hear Guy until he knocked on the door!

Mister Lawrence Jones and Mister Guy Slingerland at the East End Gallery Sundowner...

Don't tempt us...

Then we visited Grey Street Surgery...

To discuss Michael's troublesome gut with Richard...

Followed by Michael's appointment with the Dentist to the Stars, Vincent...

Plus a stopover at the vet's...

Now researching the Thundershirt...

for Stella and me!

"First Impressions" - Written At The Last Minute For Our Writers' Group!

Through my eyes, there wasn't even one redeeming feature. None. Nyet. Zilch. Forgotten, neglected, despised. There appeared to be no glimmer of hope, no spark of welcome, no aura of warmth. Just dirt and dark and damp. An almost menacing atmosphere underlying the blackness of within.

Through Michael's eyes, he saw just the opposite. A butterfly that might emerge from its chrysalis of ruin, wings filling and launching into flight. A flower bud, burnt and battered, still able to open, revealing light and colour. A castle deep in a forest of decay and gloom being discovered and windows flung wide to let in the air and the sun.

From that first moment, he was struck by a heady mix of optimism and daring. "Here, have a torch", said Helen, "and go explore." And like any other expedition leader, he stepped across the threshold into the unknown without a shred of fear.

The potential was everywhere. The space. The age. The height. The stories. Michael saw her as she could be. Would be. He had waited his whole life for her and from right then, nothing was going to thwart his dream.

I kept walking through, on multiple occasions, trying to catch a glimpse of his vision. All I could do was believe in Michael's first impressions, rather than my own. I had to take a leap of faith. I had to trust him that all would be as he enthused. To do otherwise would have been a betrayal. I was done with betrayal. And so, I believed too.

The Forbes Building has fulfilled all that she tantalisingly whispered to Michael on that far-flung day. She is that butterfly, she is that flower, she is that castle saved from collapse. And she has changed her character. How is that possible? I never would have understood the extent of her metamorphosis but for a story told to me from long ago.

The lady was in her seventies, I would have guessed. She had worked as a young woman in the tea rooms, approaching fifty or more years ago. She had stayed back one night and been offered a bed in the old residence, rather than going home in the dark. She had been almost overwhelmed by fright and dread. She couldn't say what the malevolence was, just that she was terrified. She had never remained in the building at night ever again.

I could see her hesitancy. I offered to walk her through the Forbes Building. She agreed and we set off, exploring every part that had caused her such angst. What had been Barrow and Richardson's and Dalgety's. What was now Michael's workshop had been full of partitions and corners and battered old floorboards. Into the old residence, where we lived for six months whilst we were building our house and she had slept for one awful night.

Her demeanour lifted, visibly, at the conclusion of our tour. She couldn't believe the change in the building's "feeling". There was no boogie man, no spirit, no poltergeist. She laughed with relief. That memory that had haunted her for so long could be put to bed where it belonged.

I have never seen her again since that day. But I am so pleased that our paths crossed. And the comments about our Forbes building keep coming. Welcoming, warm, friendly, inviting, bright, airy, beautiful. Which of course, she is.

And all because Michael loved her at first sight.

Shop 3 - now our Giftshop

Second-in-command Gary gazing at the never-ending work...

Progress in Shop 3...

The hidden fireplace in Shop 2 - now Wares West...

Homely touches in Shop 2...

Michael's magic formula for restoring the walls...

TIM-BER! Farewell to the old chimney...

A decidedly nonstructural wall...

Rejigging the workshop...

Shop 4's very sad fireplace...

Simon (French HelpXer) and Gary finishing the floor in Shop 4...

German HelpXer Madlen in Shop 1 - now U Beauty Country...

Turning the Final Corner...

Michael working doggedly on the fireplace...

The Dynamic Duo in action.

Good Morning, This Is My Armpit Calling You...

I have been most disappointed with myself lately. My recent posts have become far too serious for my liking. I was not put on this earth to whinge and moan exclusively. All that negativity was alright once in a while, but my woes took on a most unwelcome life of their own.

Yesterday just about did my head in. Having returned to the bosom of HBF after my flirt with the other health insurance mob, I then attempted to excise a refund from them so we could all Move On. This was to be my Last Hurrah with Bupa. What I hoped would be short and painless turned into another Phone Call from Hell. When I was finally transferred to Customer Relations, after fifty-nine minutes, I was told that my refund could not be expedited immediately as the Claims Department had all packed up their bats and balls and gone home. At 4.30pm Queensland time, 2.30pm Western Australian time.

Mentally exhausted after this latest setback, I was unable to concentrate or move for an hour. Eventually, I pulled myself together to vacuum and wash the floors. Any task more intellectual than those probably would have been the Last Straw.

Due to a total lack of motivation, Stella was not walked yesterday. At all. Hence she was the Life of the Party this morning, demanding our attention, leaping all over the bed in Gay Abandon, annoying the Fickle Fairweather Feline and indulging in Playtime with Pip. I blearily staggered to the loo, mobile in hand, to check the weather whilst on the throne. Having concluded my ablutions, I tucked my phone under my armpit so I could move the dog barricade that keeps Stella out of the kitty litter in the bathroom.

A dial tone began. That's odd, I mused. I was convinced that I was hearing the phone in Richard's workshop just across the laneway from us. What else could it be? Then, horrifyingly slowly, I realised that my armpit was buzzing and vibrating. My mobile was still firmly entrenched there and was calling my great friend Ailsa.

A split second later, I located the END button and hung up on Ailsa, rather than admit my armpit had rung her at 7.30 this morning. Then, ever so gradually, the hilarity of the situation dawned on me and I had once more returned to the Land of the Ridiculous.

When we all had landlines, armpits did not make phone calls. Now pockets and the bottom of handbags are notorious at ringing up friends or foes, around the corner or around the world.  Throw SILENT into the mix and we often have absolutely no idea whom our bag, pocket, bum or armpit has dialled.

Best of all, I realised that Ailsa would have immediately recognised the insanity of an armpit phonecall. Having not spoken to her for far too long, I will dedicate the rest of this post to her, along with Tracey, Zelda, Brenda, Lesley and Meredith.

All these women are long term best buddies. However, Ailsa does hold a very special place in my heart. Back in 2010, when I finally convinced Michael to propose, we had two months to arrange the Budget Wedding of the Century. Ailsa, without any hesitation, swung into the role of our personal Wedding Planner.

She organised all the mutual girlfriends to buy me a frock for the day. She collected flowers, ribbons, a car boot load of ivy, paper lanterns, vases, ornamental pebbles, tablecloths and loaned me some pretty jewellery. She made me my bridal bouquet and gave me a tiara. She persuaded her daughter to take photos. Arriving the day before, Ailsa helped set up the marquee all afternoon. She videoed the whole occasion for posterity and interviewed other guests. I shall never forget the amiable Charl wishing us wine and love, wine and sex, wine and happiness, wine and adventures. Obviously, Charl knew us very well indeed.

We have seen Ailsa on and off over the years since we became a Beverley Hillbilly couple. Fortunately for me, she sees the humour in the most unlikely of situations and always joins me in an explosion of belly laughter. For example, Ailsa's two youngest daughters have had serious chronic illnesses. Visiting her home one day, I barged into the living room as Jasmin was concluding one of her spectacular choking episodes. She was as white as a sheet and her new carer/nurse was looking decidedly worried. My immediate response was "Jazzy, stop that at once. You are frightening everybody!" We all collapsed into laughter rather than unconsciousness. My job was done.

The idea of my armpit calling her would probably have her giggling along with me. I have now resolved that the time has come for Further Communication. Look out, Ailsa. I can feel a visit coming on!

In my wedding frock with my bouquet...and Michael!

Ailsa with her youngest daughter, Katie...

Ailsa's mantra.

Superlatives...

Today has been an absolutely splendid day. The weather has finally been altered from blast furnace to mild, breezy and agreeable. We flung every door open this morning in the Gallery and the results have been spectacular. No longer do I believe that I will be reduced to a sizable puddle of sweat and grease. What a pleasant change!

Splendid is one of those superlatives that I love. Superlative, in itself, is a marvellously expressive word, meaning "of the highest quality or degree". Geoff Hutchinson, of ABC radio's Drive Show, whom I ardently admire, describes himself as "an easily amused...broadcaster", is "a supporter of civility" and "delighted to host Drive". That Geoff is also a Dockers' tragic may not endear him to fellow AFL (Australian Football League) followers. However, he has been known to use the adjective "splendid" on occasion and for that, I could forgive him just about anything.

Anyway, I have digressed. The primary focus of this post was yesterday's launch of the Southern Wheatbelt Art Directory, a hard copy and online initiative developed by ArtsNarrogin over the last three years. Catherine Thornton, Cait Stewart and Dianne Strahan were all involved in its inception and they should all be so proud of themselves. Artist, musicians, designers, writers and performers from fifteen shires were invited to participate in this project.

We at the East End Gallery were thrilled with both the objective and the outcome. At the time of the Directory's print, our Gallery artists Natalie Atkins, Greg Burley, Gracie Courtney, Christine Davis, Jan George, Pat Lane, Shane Moad, Kelly Newton-Wordsworth, Michael Sofoulis, Dianne Strahan, Murray Turle, Beverley Vivian and Sharon Williams have been all acknowledged for their talents and skills. We hope to add a few more artists under the East End Gallery's umbrella as the on-line entries become available. Chrissie Gors and Denese Borlini are two who immediately spring into my mind.

The launch of the Southern Wheatbelt Arts Directory was a marvellous occasion for a myriad of reasons. The venue was airconditioned on yet another hot day and the catering was delicious with a licensed bar. The speakers were a lively bunch including Agricultural MLC Mister Darren West, who stood in for Arts Minister David Templeman and regaled us with tales of their comedy duet. And Kelly Newton-Wordsworth, who belted out three fantastic original songs to inspire us and give a sense that regional artists belong together.

That was the message that this occasion was announcing loud and clear. That we have worth, to ourselves and to each other. That we are connected. That support and promotion should not be one way or even a two-way street. Our network can be powerful and vital, alive and evolving and working in symbiosis together. This goal is the key to being a Wheatbelt artist.

Enough of these histrionics. For a moment there, I forgot my cynical self and was almost guilty of word wanking! Except, I do believe in the aims of the Southern Wheatbelt Art Directory. Along with this resource and art trails and events and newsletters and workshops and other promotions, we can help each other and ourselves become viable options for a day trip or a country weekend or a regional jaunt.

Come on, let's do this!

Mister Darren West waffling...

Kelly in full flight...

Relaxing afterwards...

Darren and William Newton-Wordsworth probably discussing world domination!