Pre-Dinner Pilates

I have spent my life as a desperately-wanting-to-be-thin-girl in a fat girl's body. I share my paternal grandmother's physique - she was short and plump her entire life. She lived until she was ninety years old and in spite of the suspected rheumatic fever she suffered as a child.

I have been on more diets in my life than I would care to remember. The Cabbage Soup diet, the High Protein/Low Carb diet, the Not Eating Before Lunchtime diet, the Starve Myself Until I fit Into The Dress I Want To Wear diet, the Grief diet and the Vino Only diet.

Of all of these, the Vino Only diet was the most successful. Eating very little indeed, I would drown myself in as much wine as I could in order to sleep dreamlessly. However, my liver was not particularly happy on this diet and I was Dried Out as one of my treatments at Perth Clinic after my breakdown in 2006.

Appalling at any exercise as a child - I tried the usual suspects such as ballet and tennis - I discovered the only team sport that I excelled, much to my surprise, was volleyball. My friend Sue Town and I would smack ourselves on the nose in order to be excused for PE. However, when thrown onto a volleyball team, Sue's and my services were almost unplayable. We couldn't defend for quids, but we won a few games through sheer brilliance at serving and not much else.

I tried swimming, aerobics (a comic disaster) and line dancing ( another side-splitting episode) as other forms of exercise as an adult. I loved Jive dancing but as soon as I was coerced into moving out of the Beginners class, I lost my confidence and stopped.

I ran for ten years. Holy shit. This is how I maintained a fairly low weight. I entered the City-to-Surf on several occasions and the Perth-Fremantle walk (eighteen kilometres) once. I ran around Lake Gwelup and Carine Open Space. I pounded the pavements in Karrinyup, where I lived for twenty years. After I moved to Marangaroo, I bought a cheap walking machine, which worked very well until the Beagle ate the electrics - twice.

After moving to Beverley, I lost twelve kilogrammes through exercise, Duromine ( medical speed) and Michael nearly dying. Walking up and down three flights of stairs at Joondalup Hospital several times a day served me well. I dropped under seventy kilogrammes for the first time in quite a while.

Since then, guilt was been my ever-present friend as I gained weight back again. Plus shoulder and knee surgeries tendered to slow me down as well. I was not a happy camper.

After I saw the Boy Wonder late in 2017, he prescribed rough treatment of my troublesome knee to shake it up. So I started walking laps in our local pool. Much to my surprise, I loved the activity and my pain load reduced significantly as a result. And because the Beagle needed to diet, His Majesty and I started walking again as well.

On Wednesday, I paid to attend Pilates at five-thirty with the delightful Janet Robertson, proprietor of Nourishabley in Beverley. Pre-dinner Pilates. I was concerned by two possible events - that I would die during or after the class and that I would fart very loudly and embarrass myself.

Neither occurred. Somebody else farted and we all chose not to comment. There were a couple of skinny fit women there but the rest of us - weren't. Excellent. I spent the entire class concentrating so hard on what I was supposed to do that I forgot to be thirsty or self-conscious.

Thursday I was a bit sore but as the day wore on, my lower back ached more and more. I had half-promised I would return to Pilates on Friday morning. Now I was really worried that I had pushed my body a bit too far. Yet, I recognised the pain was muscular, so I gravitated between Going or Not Going.

This morning I bit the bullet and arrived spot-on time at Pilates.To my astonishment, I found the stretching regime much easier and I could feel the various muscles I was supposed to be using. As the class progressed, my discomfort vanished. I was stoked to finish the class feeling more confident and pain-free. Extraordinary.

Last evening, we caught a programme on SBS by Tim Caulfield, a Canadian academic, on dieting and exercise myths. Two of his musing stuck in my mind - if I was dieting and exercising to look good, I was doing this for all the wrong reasons. And if I expected the scales to dip dramatically, I would be disappointed. However, following as healthy a diet as possible and exercising would aid my overall health and fitness.

I have waited for fifty-six years to hear this reassurance. Now I have the impetus to keep exercising and trying to eat well without feeling the crushing urge to lose weight.

So tomorrow I will walk with Michael and the dogs. Monday I expect to walk laps in the pool. Wednesday I hope to drag Michael to Pilates.

Thanks, Tim.

Kate with Vanessa (right) Janina Faulker with Michelle - early 1986

At Kalparrin Mothers' Weekends (1990s = 2000s)

Bali 2009, with Susan Matthews and Tracey Claydon

With Sascha and Ruby 2010

November 2014

 

December 2016 with my darling Dad

July 2017 with Audrey the bearded dragon

Hamming it up after knee surgery October 2017

Christmas 2017 with my beloved Michael.

For Dolly.

The last few days have been difficult times for me to post. Not because of any sort of writer's block. I have had words swirling inside my head. I have tried to find the right introduction to begin. This post has turned out to be a challenge in so many ways.

Dolly Everett was fourteen years old. She committed suicide on 3 January. I had never heard of Dolly or her family prior to the news of her suicide. Why has her death and the cause of her death resonated so much with me?

Because her bullies crowed. The manner of her death has become irrelevant, but is still unthinkable. What drives a young girl, with an obviously loving family and support network, to suicide? What kind of evil delights in  a child killing herself? I am enraged.

We should all be enraged. WE SHOULD ALL BE ENRAGED. Bullying has become entrenched in all facets of our lives. We have become blind to bullying. We choose not to accuse the bullies and expose them. We thank God every day when bullying isn't prevalent within our family or friends. Bullies are buoyed by their successes when their victims crumble and move on to torment somebody else.

What to do? I was bullied as a child, teenager and adult. All these bullies took different personas. Prepubescent girls were my first encounters with bullying. Mum told me to walk away. Mum spoke to my teacher. Just when I was becoming comfortable with my school companions, we moved. From Brisbane to Sydney.

At eleven, I faced a very sophisticated kind of bully. I was a girl from Hicksville, with red hair, freckles and buck teeth. I was an easy target. If I'd had a flashing sign across my forehead with the word VICTIM in red lettering, my vulnerability couldn't have been more obvious. To combat the bullying, I became a bully. Cornered in a locker room at thirteen, I attacked the girl/child tormenting me and chucked her across the space by her neck. I have never forgotten that episode. How easily did I become a bully myself?

Since then, I have tried to become more proactive and less reactive when dealing with bullies. Very difficult. Due to a variety of circumstances, my mental health was rocky from my late teens and I had a breakdown in 2006. In some ways, my stay in a psychiatric clinic was the beginning of my current life. I became more resilient. However, some bullies were still able to penetrate my carefully arranged armour and cause havoc with the Black Dog as their ally. And I have fought be create a life worth living throughout and beyond these episodes.

How can we, as citizens of this world, prevent fourteen year olds like Dolly Everett killing themselves? Or ten year olds? Or twelve year olds? Or fifteen year olds? Or twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty year olds committing suicide. These scenarios has caused me much angst as I've struggled to think of possible solutions.

We need to challenge bullies wherever they may be. And protect and comfort their prey. The "no blame" attitude is not working. Bullies have to be stopped or at the very least curtailed. Because children who are bullies grow into adults who are bullies. We see this phenomenon everywhere. The child who kills another child. The teenager who harasses a classmate. A couple consumed by domestic violence. The employer who harrangues their employees. The politician in a position of ultimate power. The company manipulating their shareholders. The agency that belittles their clients.

We need to take on the bully. Which takes supreme courage. Not everybody can do this. But if we can all support the bully's opponent, then the bully will be deprived of the thrill of the chase. So, we need to promote worthy causes. We need to announce objections to unfair practices. We need to challenge the hierarchy. Help the disadvantaged, the disabled, the vulnerable and the poor.

Otherwise the bullies will triumph. And we could all become Dolly.

Fuck that.

Drawing by Dolly.

A Surprisingly Productive Day

There are few appointments that I dislike more than going to the dentist. Our latest plaque-fighter is the ultra-calm, ultra-accommodating and ultra-patient Vincent at Avon Valley Dentists up in Northam. We have been fortunate enough to be his clients for a few years and his fame has spread to such an extent that Vincent now commands a waiting list for his personal services.

I can say that I have a rather pathological fear of the dentistry profession in general. One dentist once asked me if I was feeling alright during a routine scale and clean. With my hands clutched into a tight ball in my lap, my eyes firmly shut and every fibre of my being both alert and alarmed, I responded that I was fine, thank you. The dentist's reply was gold. "Interesting...because we're going to have to insert a snorkel in your ear for breathing purposes, due to the amount of spit you're producing..."

There are certain events in my childhood that have remained with me to this day. One of these moments was being slapped across the face with the dentist's open hand. His name was Mr Sneezebee. I have never forgotten. I can smell his dimly lit room, I can see the white Venetians and the insipid pale blue of his sticky plastic reclining chair. I was about four or five and I was crying, due to sheer terror. I have no idea whether Mum was even with me and I never spoke about the incident with her.

When I was born, five minutes early, in 1961 Melbourne, some bright spark had decreed all premature babies by given Tetracycline. Although not a disaster on the scale of Thalidomide, the drug caused all my baby teeth to decay. Some lucky souls had their adult teeth affected as well.

So, visits to the dentist were deemed necessary throughout my childhood. The Slap was bad enough, but my battle with motion sickness, which I usually lost during every trip, only added to my misery. I remember, as an adult, asking Mum why she never gave me any of the over-the-counter travel sickness preparations. She shrugged and replied "I assumed you'd grow out of it".

At eleven years of age, very frequent orthodontics were added to a dental practitioner climbing into my mouth. As I possessed "the worst overbite ever seen", I joined the cattle call of metal-mouthed patients being seen every six weeks for six years. First in, first served. We would be lined up in a string of dentist chairs waiting for the orthodontist of the day to inspect our teeth and inner cavities. I became thoroughly irritated with the relentless request "just a bit wider", which inevitably resulted in splits in the corners of my mouth. Some bored student waiting his turn had engraved "Help, I'm being attacked by a mad orthodontist!" with a compass point into the arm of one chair. I would come away from each appointment with freshly tightened braces, wobbly and aching teeth and a new crop of ulcers.

I eventually threw my last retainer out just before I left home to start nursing. I vowed not to step foot inside a dentist's or orthodontist's rooms for as long as possible.  After my wisdom teeth were removed when I was nineteen, I would go years between dental reviews.

Nobody warns anyone else that as we all age, bits of us malfunction, droop, drop off or need ongoing and unwelcome maintenance. Having to visit the dentist every six months would have been all the more torturous if not for Vincent. Every time I force myself into his domain, Vincent smiles indulgently, explains everything as he is going along and allows Michael to remain as foot masseur to take my mind off the procedures. Which I reciprocate when Michael has his turn in the chair. Two days ago, Vincent repaired the chips on the bottom of my two front teeth and gave me a clean and polish. No injections and easily-managed discomfort. I have had those chips for ten years and have always been thoroughly self-conscious of them. Vincent, for a split second, was transformed into My Hero. I might even return next time of my own Free Will.

After Michael's filling, clean and polish, we ventured out for breakfast in Northam. Apart from an unpredictable left side of his mouth, we both felt regenerated and ready for action. After a hearty meal at River's Edge Cafe, we organised the building insurance for the Stoneville property with the wonderful Kathy at Aviso and decided to go forth to the Big Smoke for haircuts and to touch up the murky grey strands visible on my otherwise bright red head.

What an afternoon. Hair Stylist to the Stars Sharon, took hold of my Julius Sumner Miller hair and fashioned me an almost Audrey Hepburn pixie cut. Michael's hair was altered from hairstyle by power point to agreeably handsome. Plus my head was massaged by the eager child apprentice and we enjoyed complimentary tea and coffee. Final task of the day, taking possession of the Red Box from Sandra, was achieved whilst I was being beautified.

The Red Box is one of those family possessions that is held in true reverence. Within its confines are all that remains of the lives of Lucky and Judy, Michael's Mum and Dad. Plus, original birth certificates of all the "children", ancient invoices, photographs and sundry other paperwork from throughout the ages. An absolute treasure that we are looking forward to exploring.

Out into the late afternoon sunshine. We filled Goldie with fuel, turned her eastwards, enjoyed ice-creams and Headed for the Hills. We arrived home to the ecstatic dogs, the disdainfully disinterested Madame Cat and the exceedingly vocal Pirate Parrot.

An excellent and relatively stress-free expedition.

Breakfast Time!

Michael prior to his haircut...

And me. Notice I still have some red in my hair...

I can almost imagine I'm Audrey Hepburn...

 

The Salon Express Miracle Workers...

Homeward bound with the Red Box.

The Clog and the Frog...

When I was young and pompous, I often held ridiculously rigid and judgmental attitudes. My first real taste of meeting women from all walks of life was during the years I experienced my "Obstetric Adventures". My emotional trauma led me to seek out others in similar circumstances - those of us whose babies died. That was our connection. I would never have met any of these amazing, brave, sad, furious and funny women but for my own losses.

So, I discovered people were inherently interesting. Later, through the Nursing Mothers Association, HeartKids, ABACAS and the Kalparrin Mothers' Weekends, I widened my circle of friends and acquaintances. I started writing. My early journalling was filled with bleakness and sadness at my own situation, including an increasingly rocky marriage. So, I stopped.

Yet, I loved hearing conversation. I would listen to people everywhere - in supermarket queues, in Centrelink, at the doctors' surgery, in hospitals, in cafes. This was my life buoy and my endless curiosity helped immensely in some pretty dark places and during some pretty dreadful times.

Later, I started greeting and smiling at those around me. And being rewarded with a smile in return. Always demonstrative, I practised touching others in their own times of need. I remember standing at the greengrocers being asked about my twins. They had recently been stillborn, so I broke down. Somebody, whose face I never saw, gently stroked my shoulder so I knew I wasn't alone. That physical gift on that day taught me about the loving power of touch.

Being with Michael has been a Master Class in meeting people. Travelling and camping opened my eyes to a universe of diversity. I've met blokes in outback pubs that I definitely wouldn't have taken home to my mother and who turned out to be fantastically entertaining men with hearts of gold. I've met women dripping in jewels in Kalgoorlie or Yellowdine or Leonora who are having the time of their lives. They simply choose to dress that way.

And the East End Gallery has only added to the thrill of welcoming people from anywhere. A smile and a greeting are the least I do. Some of our guests and artists have become our great friends. How lucky we are.

The Top Pub in Beverley is another melting pot of individuals. Friday night is pub night for us. A break from cooking and dishes, good food, lovely vino and a chance to mingle with a bunch of characters is a pleasure we seldom miss.

Bill and Ben are a constant source of fun. Both in their early sixties, they work hard and play hard. Neither of them has any further interest in becoming involved with the ladies. Often led to tears in the past; usually not theirs. In their spare time, they are often to be found in each others company. So much so that I had nicknamed them the Bobsie Twins.

Bill arrived in Australia as a French speaker in his teens. Ben's heritage is Dutch. They insult each other in a ping-pong banter, each trying to be wittier and more scornful. A narrative of their affection.

The atmosphere was thick with tension when they arrived last evening. When they sat with different groups, the plot intensified. The awful truth was revealed. Ben had rung Bill, requesting he pick up a particular colour of grout whilst Bill was in the Big Smoke. Ben was on his hands and knees in a Beverley bathroom, praying that the tiling job he had undertaken would soon finish with the grout's acquisition.

No problem responded Bill. Except that the Quest for the Holy Grout turned into a two-and-a-half hour epic expedition for Bill. And Ben wasn't answering his mobile. Once the grout had been located and the deed done, Ben responded to his phone to listen to an earful of expletives, courtesy of Bill. I'll leave the contents of that conversation to your imagination.

As I darted backwards and forwards to the bar, I was reporting the Great Stand-Off between the Clog and the Frog. At any second, open hostilities could have erupted in the Beer Garden. Only a few generous shouts by Ben of Bill's favourite beverage saved the day. Order was restored, the armistice was signed and peace descended onto the Beer Garden once more.

No more Bobsie Twins as far as I'm concerned. Long live the Clog and the Frog.

The Front Line...

The Bar...

The Scene of Potential Hostilities...

These are Blokes...

and this is what Blokes do!

Pat and Gary, cunningly discrete in their secret identities ... The Froggy Clog or the Cloggy Frog!

Another Anniversary Under Our Belts

January in Beverley is usually a cross between hot and bloody hot. Six years ago, when we married in our backyard at Brooking Street on 2 January 2012, we were incredibly fortunate. The day before had been the last in a string of days dubbed the Great Heat. The day after was the beginning of several days of the Great Wind. Our wedding day was relatively mild and still.

Fast forward six years. What an incredible ride. In spite of all the unforeseen turbulence, I would not have missed one minute of this time for the world. We have discovered that we can weather storms. We appreciate the golden moments more as a result. We have surprised ourselves and each other with our combined strength, resilience, humour and bravery. Who else would take a crumbling hundred-year-old building with no money and a vision? Who else could dream that we could establish and run an art gallery with no previous experience? We have flown by the seats of our pants, exuding confidence whilst actually expecting disaster.

Not that we are taking anything for granted. However, we have an asset we can always sell if we fall into a financial abyss. The Forbes Building, the third member of our partnership, is now in such a state that she is worth a bob or two if we really need the cash. We hope we don't have to resort to parting with her for many years to come.

And so yesterday was our anniversary. We began the day with Michael bleeding. Somehow, within the surrounds of a mostly  soft queen-sized bed, Michael had leant on the plastic plug attached to his side of our electric blanket. He tore open the end of his almost-healed elbow wound. Bollocks.

The bleeding had abated by the time we left on our anniversary break. Michael, ever confident, had not covered his elbow. As a result, our first stop included a visit to the Mundaring Pharmacy for a wound dressing. but not before Michael had bled on his brand new shirt.

The highlight of the afternoon was watching "The Last Jedi" on the big screen. I have never forgotten the thrill of the original Star Wars' opening scenes. At sixteen, I had queued around the block to buy my ticket. Star Wars was my ultimate escapist fantasy. Thus with my inner teenager in charge, I was immersed into "a galaxy far, far away" once more.

Two and a half hours later, we staggered out into the fierce summer daylight. We retired to the Rose and Crown in Guildford, our anniversary digs. The room was motel style but the airconditioner was working beautifully, the bed turned out to be exceptionally comfortable and the shower head delivered a suitable deluge of water - that feature alone ticked Michael's approval rating.

The inside of the pub was having its carpets replaced so we retired to the garden bar. What could have been rather hot and sticky was quite delightful given the overhead mist outlets releasing a refreshing coolness on a very regular basis.

Three margaritas, exceptional vino and plates of beautifully presented, delicious food over the course of the evening was the perfect finale. The historic Rose and Crown, smack in the middle of green and leafy Guildford, also turned out to be the local watering hole for a number of nearby residents. That is the mark of a really good pub and we thoroughly enjoyed some lively conversation in these beautiful surroundings.

We retired to our room with our vino, watched the idiot box, snacked on our "breakfast packs" and fell into blissful slumber.

Day 2 of our Anniversary Treat dawned bright and hot. We enjoyed a very relaxed start. Checking out of the Rose and Crown around 11am, we moved Goldie into the underground carpark at Midland Gate and went for a hearty breakfast across the road at Dome. Very pleasant.

Into Midland Gate for a surprisingly stress-free series of errands. Tony, head honcho at Midland Gate Pharmacy, redressed Michael's troublesome elbow and chatted about ongoing care. Dragged against his will into GAZMAN, (spending money to save money!) Michael quickly changed his tune and was delighted with a second pair of denim shorts on sale. I spotted a stunning vest (also on sale) which I purchased for Callum to wear in his new role as Teacher Man. Edwina, assistant at the Athlete's Foot, helped me with a new pair of Orthoheel thongs. Final stop was HBF. We organised our contents insurance for Station House, upgraded the building policy and caused much amusement for both rep Arlene and fearless leader Kathleen. A very satisfying few hours.

Homeward bound. Beverley was shimmering in the afternoon heat. We retired indoors and revelled in the coolness of our home. A wonderful sixth wedding anniversary and a pretty good start to 2018.

Our wedding - 2.1.2012

Fastforward to the Lastest Injury...

Nicely bandaged @ Mundaring Pharmacy...

Then onto our thrilling afternoon At The Movies...

Before retiring to the Rose and Crown...

An exceedingly relaxed afternoon...

Alex, Margarita Maker to the Stars...

My dinner - Duck pate with pickles, a beetrrot compote and lightly oiled bread. Something I definitely wouldn't have at home!

And our last meal in the Big Smoke at Dome, Midland for breakfast.

F#@k Off (...and have a Happy New Year!)

I thought I'd seen the end of 2017, which has been a challenging year for all of us. I'd hoped that there would be no more vindictiveness or pettiness and we could all start the New Year with a thoroughly clean slate.

2018 is the Chinese Year of the Dog, although not officially until the middle of February. As I am the most unpunctual woman alive, I thought I'd have my personal changeover now as the Year of the Rooster left rather a lot to be desired. In hindsight, I should have known that a year designated by poultry would be a disaster. Hens and roosters are psychotic in my experience. Ducks pooh everywhere, Geese hiss and bite. And Guinea Fowl would have the be the stupidest, noisiest and most destructive feathered creatures I have ever seen. Don't even get me started about turkeys.

In contrast, the Year of the Dog (and those born in it), is supposed to be filled with loyalty, friendship, honesty, intelligence and responsiveness. Donald Trump is an abject failure as a member of this sign, however some catastrophes are unforeseen and unavoidable.

Here are some of the wishes I hope to see fulfilled in the Year of the Dog -

• that Peter Dutton has a human being transplant or returns to his planet of origin
• that the Governor-General decides to sack the whole bloody parliament and we start again
• that a "lookalike" bloke with sense and brains is substituted for the "real" Donald Trump and we stop fearing for the safety of this planet ("Dave")
• ditto for Kim Jong-un
• that we start behaving like humanitarians and quickly process and home all asylum seekers
• that the nations of the UN start working as a team to prevent the creation of refugees in the first place. Which would also mean taking power away from the arms dealers and those who support the mass distribution of weapons
• that the American public finally realise that their "right to bear arms" was never meant to remain unchanged in the twenty-first century, given the frequency of massacres in the US.

Enough of pipe dreams. Back to the subject of this post, which concerns my older son Callum and a somewhat unexpected end to his hospitality career.

Callum has always worked from the age of fourteen. He started on the broiler at Hungry Jack's, rising to be King of the Birthday Parties, often supervising up to thirty children at once. Excellent training for becoming a teacher. He has also worked as a Checkout Chick, Trolley Boy, Pizza Delivery Driver and Video Store senior staff. Once entrenched at uni, his long service in hospitality began. Waiter extraordinaire to Restaurant Manager. 

Being a ballroom dancer allowed him to glide effortlessly and smoothly around a crowded restaurant. His demeanour was one of patience, tolerance and efficiency. He genuinely wanted to create a well-run workplace for other staff and the best possible outcome for his clients. Often easier said than done.

His latest position has been very difficult. As a restaurant manger, he had a number of goals he hoped to achieve. Management have seen otherwise. Staff turnover has continued to be high. And with the stepping stones back into teaching that he'd hoped, he was delightedly planning a reduction in hours at the restaurant. His work ethic meant he was not willing to leave the other staff members in the lurch. He handed in his permanent notice and offered himself for two days a week in a casual role.

Callum had been battling a cold for two weeks when he started a shift on the last Thursday before New Year. He felt terrible. He'd hoped to last the distance, but was seriously considering going home early. 

The venue manager called him in for a conversation. Management had decided that they were not interested in keeping Callum as a casual staff member. Cal asked the venue manager if there had been any issues with his performance. With breathtaking honesty, she replied that their reasoning was retaliation and sheer bloody-mindedness. He could either stay full-time or not at all.

Callum chose to leave early and go home. He called in sick the following morning and went to the doctor. He was immediately prescribed anti-biotics and given three days of sick leave. His last shift had meant to be on New Year's Eve. He rang the venue and explained that he has worked his last day.

After all their vindictiveness, Callum had turned the tables on Management. He felt desperately sad leaving his workmates suddenly, but he felt he'd had no choice. Callum has predicted that Management, having failed to learn how to communicate with their staff, will witness a mass exodus of the current crop. And have nobody to blame but themselves.

Callum himself had a wonderful New Year's Eve with his delightful fiancee Bronwyn. They were able to go to a party, together, as a couple instead of him having to join festivities after work. He has a hundred hours holiday allowance which should hold them in good stead for a few weeks. If needed, he will call and pick up some casual waiting.

Any restaurants or pubs or bistros in the northern suburbs looking for casual staff during January, Callum is your man. In the meantime, he and Bron are going to spring clean their home. Together.

Rock on, 2018.

Callum (with partner Francesca in competition)...

With a pre-primary class, being examined by a junior medico...

With Bronwyn.

Mr Potato-Head and his alter ego...

Ongoing shenanigans of this parliament...

so let's sack the lot of them!

and replace the PM with "Dave". 

The awful truth...

so let's just stop.

Meanwhile, at Callum's former workplace, Management could take a peek at this book.

As for the rest of us, Happy 2018 and Year of the Dog.