Performing the Watusi Quickstep.

Michael and I are not dancers. At all. And how the ex and I created a passionate ballroom dancer as one of our children is a complete mystery. Callum began dancing at twelve years of age and before he retired from competitions, he and his partner Francesca reached the top 10 in their level at the Australian Championships.

I think Callum has finally given up his quest to teach me to dance. I live in hope. Our last altercation about dancing was when Cal tried to persuade us to learn the waltz for our wedding. Michael and I refused point blank. Callum countered that he wanted to wear a jacket to give me away to Michael. And so my son wore his suit jacket in order to escort me to our ceremony under the shade house. Thus, Michael and I  were saved from a fate of dying of embarrassment.

Occasionally, I convince myself to try a  "Dancing for Dummies" class locally. Ten years ago, I loved Ceroc classes. I even bought dancing shoes. I felt safe and confident in the Beginners' group. Then I was pressured to move into Intermediates. Naturally, the pace was faster and more complicated. All my comfortable pleasure vanished. I never went back.

There are a couple of local dance options here in Beverley. I am still hemming and hawing about giving a dance class another go. I know dance is great exercise and I am less likely to hurt myself than I would at boot camp, run by the inimitable Lyn. So I just keep vacillating and enjoying my evening strolls.

There is one dance I am proficient at performing from time to time. The Watusi Quickstep is a naturally free-flowing dance with changeable steps and an absence of all rhythm. Think Isadora Duncan crossed with Animal from the Muppets and that is the basis of the Watusi Quickstep.  There is no need to have lessons and the dance will occur quite spontaneously in the most unexpected locales.

Michael has also learnt the Watusi Quickstep by osmosis. He insists he was quite controlled and steady on his feet prior to meeting me. Now he is as professional as I am. The only explanation is that he has absorbed my disaster genes.

Let me elaborate. The other night Michael retired to bed, having spent the evening enjoying some very good red vino. Just a tad too much. Over the course of a couple of hours, he became very chatty and animated. The climax of all this activity was the appearance of the Watusi Quickstep. Our bedroom fan had been emitting a repeated vibration on oscillation which was increasingly annoying to Michael's somewhat inebriated mood. Launching forth out of our bed, he resolved to restore the fan to a customary quietness.

I was only vaguely aware of Michael's movements as I was endeavouring to become unconscious. I caught a glimpse of Michael attempting a quasi-tango with our standard fan. The fan appeared to be resisting his advances. Then, resigned to her fate, she became putty in Michael's hands and relaxed. My last view of Michael and his impromptu dance date was of them both descending to a horizontal position, accompanied by a suitably spectacular crash. The Watusi Quickstep had struck again.

I'm afraid I may have uttered a few choice words in response to this episode. Michael was uninjured. The fan was not so lucky. The occasionally irritating noise had become a full blown protestation of a wounding assault on her being. The following morning, Michael was required to take the fan apart in order to restore her to full health. And eat humble pie.

Smugness is not one of my better traits. And I really should learn never to be smug, as the universe always retaliates in kind. Yesterday, I unsuccessfully tried to enter the Residence without performing the Watusi Quickstep. Epic fail. Somehow, my feet, the dog leash and the Beagle all joined together, like a whirling dervish of entities hurtling towards a most unpleasant fate. I grabbed desperately for the wall to break the inevitable fall. My pose was that of a stricken lover who was sinking into quicksand. Rather rapidly. My left knee was first to make contact with the very hard and uneven concrete floor. Then, in a sequence of moves, not unlike a dance choreographed by the frenetic Martha Graham, I writhed and rotated into my end routine of coming to rest on my back and head.

Michael, hearing the series of thuds and my response of expletives, was quickly on the scene. He hauled me into the upright position, examined the graze developing on my knee and commiserated with my other aches. He knew better than to laugh. Clever chap.

This has been a most memorable couple of days. Maybe I should give away all thoughts of joining any form of exercise class. Obviously, movement is not my forte. Unless, like my darling husband, I have consumed a suitable volume of acceptable vino.

Think Isadora Duncan and/ or Martha Graham...

add the Animal

and there you have the Watusi Quickstep!

Michael's dance partner...

and what he thought he was doing...

Gravity taking over.

My dance partner (in crime!)

The first routine was OK.

then there was the "oh bugger" moment

and wishful thinking for my landing.

Finally, recovery time.

An Ode to Centrelink.

Actually, this is a haiku to Centrelink, written on the spot today by one of my fabulously gifted friends. According to Wikipedia, a traditional Japanese haiku is a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count.

Alas Centrelink
You need to communicate
To facilitate.

Don't get me wrong. For once, I am not complaining about the welfare leviathan. A new week brought two new tomes from the agency, one through the MyGov inbox and one by automated letter. My last contact was with my Mystery Man, the one who had worked in the Department of Human Services for twenty-seven years. This was a bloke who deserved a medal for perseverance. He was very clear and explained how and why our assets were calculated as they were. He actually made sense, and although I wasn't entirely happy with the outcome of our conversation, I was resigned that this discussion would be the end of the matter.

Not quite. I am delighted to report that our latest correspondence from Centrelink confirms both my previously calculated assets and our rates of pension. After two months of numerous letters, lengthy phone calls, repeated visits to Centrelink offices and countless hours gathering information, the numbers have finally crunched in our favour. 

I hope that this happy conclusion remains as our status quo. I will certainly question any revision of our pensions in the downward direction or our assets in the upward direction. I would just like to have a break from the grinding mental angst and fatigue that are generated by my encounters with Centrelink. A chance to rest on our laurels, finish our house and lessen our assets even further, under that magic $375 000 line. When that happens, our pensions could be restored in full.

We live in hope.

In the meantime, our Social Services Minister, Mr Christian Porter will be in attendance at the Hotel Beverley on Friday 17 March from 4.30 pm - 6.30 pm for a pint and politics. You can join him in the beer garden for a chat over a drink. The event details and RSVP are on my Facebook page.

For the first time in two months, I feel heard. I feel vindicated. Even if I'm only been in contact with Deep Thought, at last, we have a logical, sensible outcome.

And may the odds be ever in our favour.

Ring, ring, why don't you give me a call?

Here to help?

A trip to Centrelink always entails a cut lunch, a good book and a water bottle.

The Perils of Pauline ( and the MyGov website)...

Any encounter with Centrelink results in this...

Though occasionally you may receive help from a Mystery Man...

Either answer could be a distinct possibility...

And above all....

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

I used to love Western Australia's summers. I would wait for the changeable spring days to announce the end of the wet and wild winter. The last cold fronts would scurry past, leaving in their wake the glorious warmer days and comfortable nights. Then summer would arrive with a mixture of pleasant days, interspersed with the heat, but not the grinding day after day of intense, unrelenting temperatures.

Our State Premier once famously quipped that air conditioning wasn't a necessity in the South  West. My memories of the initial nineteen years in Perth were without air conditioning. We knew to shut up the house on very hot days, knowing that we could open up in the cool of the evenings. I didn't have air conditioning of any sort until 2003. The first summer we had the air conditioning I barely turned it on.

All has changed. Climate change is a reality. We have just had a week of temperatures with most days above thirty-five degrees. Today was particularly tortuous. Five hot and sticky days in the East End Gallery had drained every bit of well being out of me. By mid-afternoon, the Gallery was actually hotter than outside. Michael's workshop, usually a sanctuary of coolness, wasn't much better. Some guests into the Gallery in the late morning squeezed my last enthusiastic breath. By three-thirty, I was spent.

The last two years have accentuated the change from the previous weather patterns. I used to say that Beverley had four distinct seasons. Spring and autumn have become brief interludes between the heat and the cold. We have noticed a definite struggle for some of our plants we are valiantly trying to keep alive in pots. The Chinese Tallow trees we have had in pots for a number of years were late to bud and then had all their new growth burnt off twice - by frost and soon afterwards by a heatwave. We had thought them to be indestructible. Now we are concerned by their small sparse flaccid leaves and wonder if they will live beyond this year.

And I have lost the joy of summer. Yesterday I sought relief in our local swimming pool. Today I cooled off in front of our dinky window air conditioner and then flaked out on our bed, exhausted.
Tomorrow is yet another day close to the old century and then finally some relief. I hope for a few days of relatively mild temperatures in order to cool the Gallery. I ventured back there this evening to retrieve some fridge items. Opening the door was not pleasant.

So I'm putting a wish out to the universe. I understand that humanity is at fault for climate change. Some of us are now trying to make a difference. I just ask for a more typical autumn and a mild, showery winter to give us and the countryside time to recover before next summer's onslaught.

And for the rest of this summer, I shall heed that familiar saying - only mad dogs and Englishmen should venture out into the midday sun.

Thus endeth this whinge.

A Most Successful Sundowner

Today, I have been a tad shattered. My weariness was partly due to the heat, which has been unrelenting for nearly a week.Happily, another reason for my failure to launch well was a very satisfactory Sundowner held in the East End Gallery last night.

The guests began arriving just after five o'clock. Little girls entertained themselves at our Artists' Table. Young lads played shoot 'em up games on their Mums' phones.The live music, provided by Guy Slingerland, Laurence Jones and Luke Blanch, rocked the Gallery all evening. In fact, the musos were our late stayers. Guests arrived for an hour or two or longer. We ended up with a tenacious group of dedicated groovers. By eleven thirty, my feet were killing me but I didn't care. We'd had a wonderful time.

Two sales, a lively bunch and smooth music were the bonuses of the evening. We were absolutely thrilled at the positive response. We are still less than a year from the completion of the East End Gallery. We are open for business. We are passionate about what we do. We support Wheatbelt artists. And in these tough economic times, when galleries are closing, we are able to offer Wheatbelt artists an opportunity to display their art.

We are open tomorrow as this Monday is a public holiday. Labour Day. Quite amusing as I will be labouring on another hot day. If you are crazy enough to come into the East End Gallery, I can offer you an ice cream, a beautiful display of thirty-seven artists, a view of an operational workshop and stories of us, the building and Michael's sculptures.

I'm game if you are.

Musicians - Laurence and Guy

Artist Mandy and partner Ian

Peter, artist in residence Amani and her partner

Sandy (framer) and his wife Jenny (artist)

Jacqueline with Michael (metal sculptor)

Laura and Mark and Lynn

Sandy and Greg (artist)

The trio is complete - Laurence, Luke and Guy

Boys being boys...

Bethany, Lisa and Denese

Mark

Moving Mountains

I must admit I have never built a house before. Along time ago, the ex and I approached a project home builder and considered a design in an outer lying northern suburb. The bank wouldn't lend us the money. End of that.

Michael has built a house before, in the Perth Hills. The site was tricky, the house perched in the trees. He cheerfully admits he made some absolutely whopping mistakes but for a long time, he was faintly sad with the short stay in that home in Darlington. Now, thirty years later, with a different wife, he is building another house. With me.

This time, we have a design template, an approachable and friendly building team and some definite ideas. Large bedrooms. Open plan living. No wasted space. Storage. A private outside terrace facing north. Minimal garden. Ceiling fans and one reverse cycle air conditioner for the living room. Two later in our bedroom and the guest bedroom. Ceiling fans. Carports eventually.

I did not have the faintest idea about the building process. I have been left open-mouthed by the sheer volume of work required before we started digging a hole. Sometimes I feel the build itself will be somewhat easier than the preliminary piles of paperwork that we have ploughed through with the help of John, Jacqueline and Lindsey.

The excitement of actually working on the site has begun. Dan the man, with his legion of big boys' toys came in to excavate the block. There was the odd treasure - like an early intact bottle - but most of the waste soil was mixed with old plumbing, old bricks, bits of wood and other rubbish. Four truckloads of dirt went to the tip. Dan's truck is not small.

By yesterday afternoon we had a cleared and completely level site. The sand is due this coming week and the slab will go down as soon as the initial plumbing is all in place. I am really looking forward to seeing the slab being poured. This will indicate real progress and will reduce the amount of dirt, or when it rains, mud coming into our unit on our feet or the dogs' paws.

This afternoon is passing lazily. We are about to start a Sundowner in the Gallery. A bit of a change from the more recent activity outside. The Beagle has absconded yet again when our backs were turned. She'll be back for dinner.

Stay tuned.

All Systems Go (With The Odd Hiccup)

Momentous events are occurring on our block in Heavenly Beverley. The site is clear. The sand pad comes in tomorrow. The slab will be poured either next week or the beginning of the following one. The plumbers are booked. The carpenters are booked.

Earthmover and excavator master Dan brought his toys over yesterday afternoon. Madame cat was fascinated by these vehicles in our midst. Dan's arrival this morning just after six-thirty was apparent by the unmistakable throaty roar of his rather large truck. And that's when the fun started.

Our man Dan hadn't even put the teeth of his machines into the ground when disaster struck. Attempting to give a recalcitrant post a subtle nudge, all that happened was the bursting of the water main, which was hard up against the offending post. Great start.

Dan was annoyed. A spreading stream was heading down the lane. Michael rang the Emergency line, only to be placed in a queue. At seven-thirty in the morning? Eventually, he spoke to an actual person within the chambers of the Water Corporation, who assured us help was on its way. Within two hours. We turned off the water.

Two and a half hours, when we left to go to the dentist, the water wizards had not yet arrived. Leaving the situation in the capable hands of Dan, we headed north to begin the process of building Michael a new front tooth.

En route, a car pulled out in front of us without warning. Michael was already anxious and cursed. The aforementioned car then slowed down to well under the speed limit. Michael decided to pass safely going down a long straight hill. After we returned to the left with no issues, a police vehicle performed a swift U-turn and issued Michael with a speeding ticket. Bollocks.

Once in Northam, I deposited Michael into our dentist's care. He endured a fairly unpleasant hour, having the steel "peg" screwed into the middle of his top jaw. I retrieved his slightly shattered body and left him reading the paper in the air-conditioning whilst I careered around the supermarket.

Liquid or very soft foods on the menu for a couple of weeks did not really help his demeanour. On our way home, we stopped in York for a very late lunch. He declared his spearmint milkshake to be delicious. Much to my surprise, I chose an extremely unfattening beetroot, pumpkin, feta and quinoa salad. With an iced coffee chaser.

Michael's spirits lifted, we headed for home. Ten minutes out of Beverley, he became concerned about a stitch he could feel. And his pain had increased. Once home, I gave him painkillers, an ice block to suck and a lie on our bed. He did eventually drop off for a late afternoon siesta.

This evening, I created a smooth and exceedingly tasty omelette for our dinner. Then pudding and ice cream. An alcohol-free night to boot. Michael now has three thousand good reasons not to smoke (the gap after health insurance).

If all goes to plan, we will have a new house and Michael's new tooth in about three months. Now there are a couple of milestones to add to the excitement of our lives.

And the water main has been fixed.

Dan's toy 1...

Our "greens" pile.

Madame Cat and excavator.

Becoming more friendly.

Parting is such sweet sorrow....

Dan the man and the bloody water main.

The flood spreadeth.

Source of the problem.

Then - a miracle!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a cleared and dry building site.