Back In The Saddle

I think we all secretly yearn for that special activity or career or gift that, when discovered, can help us feel really chuffed, proud, satisfied, fulfilled. For some, dancing or sport or art is the key to that happy place.

Me, I have about as much grace as an elephant with a dodgy hip, my attempts at archery almost ended in disaster, (for everyone else) and my woeful tries at anything arty meant that a lump of clay would end up looking like a lump of clay, my drawing of a bird would look like an angry dinosaur with an exploding head and my complete failure to cut straight or be spacially aware meant that I was useless as any sort of practical assistant.

I must admit that I did approach horse riding with a mixture of sheer terror and exhilaration. I took riding lessons with a country bloke when I was in my final year of school. I never really learnt the hang of communicating with a horse, and rather like photocopiers, horses could always sense my fear, and follow up with behaving badly

And as far as sexual awakening was concerned, I was still in a comatose state of blissful ignorance. Hence when this riding instructor introduced me to his erect willy, I hadn't the faintest idea that this could be construed as sexual assault. Earlier attacks had included a removalist who stuck his hand up my knickers whilst conducting a quote at our home (!) and some poor bastard who groped me on the train whilst I was on my way to school. When asked where I had been touched, I responded quite earnestly "Between Pymble and Turramurra"!

So, horse riding, along with most other enterprises, went out the window toot sweet. Later, I discovered running as meditative freedom away from my everyday pressures. Unfortunately, my ankles never forgave me and my exercise machine was given the kybosh after Ruby the Beagles ate the internal wiring. Twice.

As a result, I spent a long time between drinks exploring my options in various occupations. Junior nurse, house cleaner, charity saleswoman, receptionist and uni student were all stopgaps prior to my ultimate goal of motherhood. And although I adore my children and am so proud of who they have become, my only genuine gift, that of breastfeeding had to cease well before I actually felt any semblance of being a "good" mother.

Post-separation was still all about caring -kids, aged carer and then special needs education assistant. Even after we became the Beverley Hillbillies, I was still spending some of my days attending to (mostly) teenagers with all their usual adolescent behaviours as well as having some sort of disability.

The Education Department and I did not part on good terms. Being injured twice definitely wasn't what I had in mind when I became an education assistant. I think I was caught up in a saintly vision of a teaching Florence Nightingale when the reality was far more difficult and often tedious.

But, I had begun writing again back in 2009 and this experiment in expression gave me a great deal of satisfaction. I'd only given up keeping a journal as my earlier readings were almost universally dirgeful bilge. Having met Michael and enjoying new experiences gave me a renewed spring in my literary step.

Plus, throughout all the renovation of the Forbes Building and our vague notion of establishing some sort of Gallery, I revisited my previous fascination and love of art and art history. I felt I was a bit like Prince Philip in that sense; I knew what I liked but not necessarily its genre or period.

When we opened the East End Gallery, I rather fell, inelegantly and gradually, into my role as Front-of-House. Then I realised that like everything else in my life, the stories were "the thing". The art pieces, the artists, our building, our town were all bustling with these stories. And that was when I think I found my feet.

We were all systems go when the Coronavirus lockdown began. I was looking forward to our Sundowners, the buzz of Easter and the change of season. Leaving the Gallery in the hands of our splendid volunteers whilst we took our annual northern jaunt. Suddenly, every plan went out of the window.

After my initial terror of the Plague, I settled into the most agreeable persona of a poor country squiress. Along with my said Squire, we relished the quiet days. We pottered away on personal projects - in fact, Michael was far more energetic than me, but the relaxed pace was like manna from heaven.

Eventually, the awful truth reared its ugly head. The time had come to reopen the East End Gallery. I had great plans to be dusted and cleaned and dressed appropriately for our relaunch into the remainder of 2020. Needless to say, I was not ready and I was limp with a lack of enthusiasm a mere four days ago. I had not clapped eyes on the Gallery in two and a half months and my loss of knowledge and understanding of all involved was very real indeed.

Then on Friday, I felt that familiar stirring of vim, vigour and vitality. I decided to move a few items around to familiarise myself with them once more. That was a major mistake on my behalf. I proceeded to upend the Giftshop and to a lesser extent, the Gallery, give them a bloody good shake and see where they landed.

My rearrangement of works took three days. I finally finished last night at about half-past six. Michael had already returned home but I was caught up in the thrill of photographing the revised layout. That was then I heard the unmistakable "drip...drip...drip". However, thanks to Michael's prolonged and excellent efforts with silicone and bitumen paint on the roof, that was the one and only leak. I placed a bucket under the dripping and came home in triumph.

Have I my mojo back? You bet your sweet nippy. 2020 continues to be a Year of Wonders, but I am learning to go with the flow of change. I am revelling once more in my role at the East End Gallery. I am well and truly back in the saddle. Hiho Silver. Away!

Except I tore my frock during my impersonations of a whirling dervish and it needs mending...Bollocks.

Snapshot of the East End Gallery and Giftshop - 24 May 2020

Boobs, Glorious Boobs...

After all the trepidation and outright terror that the COVID 19 outbreak has caused, I think the time has come for a bit of silliness. I am over being all serious and measured and sensible. I'm the first to admit the obvious - Coronavirus and its possible carnage has scared the shit out of me. We have been so lucky that the devastation that has beset parts of Europe and the United States has not eventuated here. So, I'm ready for a bit of fun.

The title of this piece came to me whilst enjoying a genteel and sedate Sunday afternoon tea with Jan and Celeste. Okay, we were neither genteel nor sedate but we were using very pretty crockery thanks to Jan. We were sitting on her northern verandah surrounded by her potted plants and her quirky pieces of pottery. One of them, a stylised woman clutching her bosom, drew my attention. Ahem, Jan, I said. She looks like she's had a breast reconstruction...

Oh, replied Jan. That's because she has had one. Her breasts blew off in the heat of the kiln.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I lost it. The vision of exploding boobs tickled my funny bone. I howled with laughter. And that is also when I decided that the time for ripe for a discussion centred around our obsession (or lack of) about boobs.

Let's face it, girls, we have no choice in the matter. We all end up with some advancement of tissue overlying our chest muscles. A quick check of the precise nature of breasts confirmed their structure of fatty and glandular tissue, as well as (supposedly) supporting ligaments to keep them more or less upright and those pesky milk nodes which are the reason for their development in the first place.

That's right, blokes. Boobs are not created for your titillation. Like every other mammal, they are designed to feed our young. Which brings me to the hilarity of bristling outrage that still occurs at the sight of a breast being used for its primary purpose. They can be splashed across every form of media but the mere hint of a nipple being firmly grasped within in a baby's mouth is still enough to cause horrified responses from the ill-informed idiots out there.

That is my first point. Move on. There is nothing to see here. There never was.

Next on the agenda is women's dissatisfaction with their boobs. Which all stems from them being used as a marketing tool, rather than genuinely honoured for their original purpose. Whether they end up being used for that purpose of not. That is entirely a woman's decision and interference, often masquerading as "advice" from others, is about as welcome as a lamb kebab fart in a lift.

Big, small, droopy, perky, lopsided - these are the outward signs of our boobs and ought to be treated in as a matter-of-fact way as our ears or feet. What really matters to most women is comfort. To wear or not wear a bra is nobody's business except the individual purveyor of each set of breasts. The same goes for breast reduction, enlargement or reconstruction. But for heaven's sake girls, make informed decisions based on facts and be content with the outcome. Fiddling with bodily parts purely for looks is fraught with danger.

Which brings me to the next point of this somewhat rambling essay. Breasts are just wobbly bits attached to our fronts. They sit up when young, they drop lower as we age. They flop to the left and right, usually in bed or conversely, during exercise. Breasts are not to be overly revered or placed on a pedestal. It's bad enough when they are placed within the confines of a mammogram.

Women all have stories about encounters with what I refer to as the Sandwich Maker. A mammogram basically tries to take boobs of any size and place them between two cold metallic pads. Then one is required to change positions and squash them in other directions, in order to view the breasts from all angles, which involves pretending to be masquerading a star performer in a rather grotesque ballet.

Those of us who have breastfed can ascertain exactly when our babies became curious. I clearly remember Callum taking my nipple around the corner so he could have a stickybeak of what was happening behind us. As a result, my nipples are the second-longest in the Southern Hemisphere, only beaten by my darling friend Ailsa, whose nipples are at least in proportion to her magnificent pair of breasts.

Apparently, blokes do not compare willies. Ladies who don't give a shit will view each other's breasts, nipples and pubic hair without breaking out in a blush.

Girls, all our bodies are perfect...

Which brings me back to afternoon tea with Jan and Celeste. How fortunate am I to live in a country town and have fabulous friends, with whom no subject is off-limits. Jan is one woman comfortable with her body and her boobs. Celeste, I suspect, really does not take herself and her body too seriously. She is who she is. Both of these fantastic women are survivors of difficult relationships. Jan, being an artist, has spent many years exploring shape, sexuality and freedom. Many of her portraits and ceramic pieces feature boobs. Including her amazing "Fly, Be Free" which represents the end of her marriage and her subsequent flight into creativity.

Thanks to women like Jan and Celeste, Lorna and Val, Ailsa and Suzi Q, Laura and Carole, Sue and Tracey and too many others to mention, I am learning to accept my body and myself, warts and all.

Thin, fat, tall, short, two-boobed, one-boobed, no-boobed. Whatever. We all matter.

That's it.

Yo!

Those exploding boobs that caused this post...(second from right)

How did he sneak into the frame?

Coquette...

Fly, Be Free.

Michael Becomes A Radio Star!

For those of you who know Michael well, you may remember that he frequently has quite legendary dreams. Who could forget the nocturnal conversation with the Big Red Tractor, his metamorphosis into a television controller or his discussion with Mister Carrot, a delegate from the Salad Vegetables, complaining about Michael's lack of green veggie consumption?

We travelled, together, to the Big Smoke, last Thursday. Michael had been granted a G2G Pass so he could accompany me on more frequent visits to Big Al, as his fantabulous support worker Pascal has been unable to visit due to the COVID 19 lockdown.

Enroute, the ever-entertaining ABC radio was conducting a quick survey into weird dreams. This was definitely a stage in which Michael could shine. Quick as a flash, I texted in his famous encounter with Madame Cat, her suitcase and stilettos.

This dream was certainly one of the best. Whilst making toast in bed, as you do, Michael's reverie of contemplating his snack was rudely interrupted by the arrival of Her Majesty the Cat. Walking on her stiletto clad back paws and carrying a cat-sized suitcase, she hopped onto the bed next to Himself, removed his toast and secreted them within her suitcase. Without a backward glance, she then exited the bedroom, leaving Michael despondently toastless.

As we pulled into the visitors' parking spaces at Alex's unit complex, the good news was broadcast. Naturally, Michael was the winner - a bonafide radio star.

On my initial foray at Chez Alex, he and I had spent one day sorting his expired food and drugs and sorted some much overdue washing before his cap, hat, dressing gown, scarf and winter jacket walked to the washing machine under their own stream.

Plus, I had taken his garden of struggling soil and superhuman surviving plants In Hand and begun the process of restoring them to Good Health. Alex loved the concept of having a garden; he was just unsure where to start. The weeds, water repellent dirt and overgrown plants that had succumbed to the deceased state were beyond him. I restored one corner of his front courtyard to some semblance of greenery with some surprisingly resilient lilies, yucca and a smallish palm tree.

Buoyed by his new star status, Michael and I, with Alex's help, faced the challenge of his western garden beds, a mixture of one corner looking very pretty in spite of total neglect, a smattering of tall yuccas (ouch material), mother's in law tongue, a creeper, a struggling cactus and various departed corpses.

With fearless enthusiasm, Michael hacked his way through to a completely hidden second tap. I disposed of the dead, swept and planted succulents and a jade bush for luck. We applied a seaweed and wetting agent to all and stood back to admire our handiwork.

Alex was stoked. His face was full of grateful awe. In our final fifteen minutes, we planted the remaining succulents in a curiously round planter. Not only has Alex watered since our visit, but he has also given his newly resuscitated garden a dose of Powerfeed. I just hope they don't turn up their toes with all the attention.

We have the end in sight. I have researched what to grow in his southern strip and understand why everything else succumbed with miserable regularity. Alex is also very keen to restore his garden pond to its former glory, complete with goldfish. I have informed Michael and Alex that is a Blokes' job and bonding exercise.

Listening to the local radio in the car, winning a "dream contest" and giving Alex his garden back have all been positive circumstances created by the COVID 19 lockdown. Without closing the Gallery and having the time, we never would have achieved so much for Alex's well being and our pleasure.

Perhaps the world should actually come to a standstill ever now and then, for a finite period, so we can all reassess our priorities. Hmmm...

Stay safe.

A selection of Michael's nocturnal companions...

Pretty much in my beloved husband's case!

That is the question...

Glimpses of Alex's garden last Thursday -

Maybe lots of us...