"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!

She Was As Beautiful As A Butterfly...

There is a song called "Pretty Polly Perkins of Paddington Green", first published in 1864. Like many ditties, the lyrics were not particularly cheerful, but the tune was boppy and uplifting. My darling Dad repurposed the chorus to "pretty little Katie Hosking of 2 Nindethana Street" when I was a very young child. I honestly believed Dad had created the song just for me. When I hear his version in my head, I remember him with longing and love.

Now I have my beautiful grandbaby, Imogen, to alter the words once more, in order to pass on a new rendition of Polly Perkin's chorus. We visited Callum and Bron and Immy yesterday for a wonderful few hours with them and to soak up our darling grandaughter's presence for another few weeks until we can see her again.

Every time we visit Imogen, we just immerse ourselves in her continuing flowering as her own little person. At two months of age, she is smiling and engaging in conversations with others. Her eye contact is fixed on those in her orbit, including Michael and me. We found ourselves in love with her all over again.

She is becoming heavy. She is developing red highlights in her hair, courtesy of both her parents. Her hospital woolly hat is now too small. She fits well into her 000 clothes. She is fine-featured, rather than a boofhead. She still has lots of hair. She is easily identified as a girl. And no, I am not biased.

Callum and Bron are revelling in her development. That is a pretty dry summation, but with autism in the family, they can't help but watch her every milestone. As do I. So far, I can tell them and the universe that there are no niggling fears, no signs, no suspicion of anything except our baby girl delighting all her extended family. And Imogen will, forever, hold the title of First Grandbaby.

We are hoping to see our Next Generation family at the beginning of March. I have become totally insufferable as Imogen's Nanny Kate. I have been reduced to begging Bronwyn for a steady stream of photos so I don't succumb to Imogen Deprivation.

And the photographs tell stories. Although no blood relations, Michael (Grandpa) and Miss Imogen have fallen, truly, deeply and madly, in love. I m so thrilled that, at last, Michael has his own Grandbaby to cherish.

Testy Tanties For Testing Times

I have always adored the word "testy". Needless to say, my darling Dad was the first person to introduce me to this delicious little adjective. Testy was about the limit for Dad; he was slow to anger and rarely raised his voice or expressed his displeasure, certainly not with the forceful trumpeting that I have been known to employ.

When Dad was testy, he would grit his teeth or roll his eyes or even belch. There was no point in saying anything else, as his testiness was usually aimed at some twit who didn't know any better. Dad did not suffer fools, deceit or injustice. I knew I was in strife if he called me by my full name. No other explanation was necessary.

This week, I have suffered from rather a lot of testiness, and unlike Dad, I have proceeded to many full-throttled tanties. These explosions have been precipitated by the stark realisation that making informed decisions isn't possible if ommissions have been at play.

Are ommissions the same as lies? Are verbal ommissions permissible when a hinted explanation in tiny writing is visible? Where do I stand if I believe that I was unable to make such a decision if I was not cognisant of all the facts? Who else will be caught if I don't question a flawed system?

Smugness really does come before a fall. I had just finished congratulating myself after a marathon few weeks examining all our insurance policies and creating as many savings as possible. The building insurance was a Bridge Too Far. We are apparently on quite a good wicket with that figure. Does anybody else shudder when contemplating a bill of $4800 every year? Which we must have for our artists' works. Somehow, we always have to find that money.

Health insurance is like buying a lottery ticket. For us, health insurance has become a no-brainer. Sure, emergency events like accidents, heart attacks and strokes will always be treated immediately in a public hospital. But then there are episodes such as Michael needing a designer label triple stent in his abdominal aorta before his circulation was compromised any further. My knee replacement happened within days rather than months or years. I have friends waiting in agony for joint replacements on the public list. Their conditions are not life-threatening so they are given no choice but to put up with untold disability for as long as it takes.

I have seen first hand the difference between care in a public hospital as opposed to a private hospital when Michael was in one end and Alex in the other. Staffing, access to the doctors, speed of diagnosis and treatment were - mostly - slower in public wards. The main exceptions are private hospitals with no emergency departments. Beware of those places.

Comparing health insurers is like entering a labyrinth of giant shouting advertisements. Confusion reigns loud and clear. Initially, I tried to check each health fund through their websites. Total disaster and a shortcut to brainiac overload. So I sourced my information through a marketing company. I did not sign up to a different insurer at the conclusion of that conversation. Instead, I checked Bupa's website carefully before we discussed the situation and chose to change. I double-checked by spending an hour in the Joondalup office with a staff member. I received a print out that confirmed the new charges. Before I departed Bupa's office, I asked if the premium was set at that figure. At no time was I told that there could be a potential spanner in the works.

I was giddy with glee at saving forty dollars every two weeks. The first payment - a month's charge - went through without a hitch. The promised, and not quite believable $182.88 fortnightly payment seemed in the bag. Oh, silly me.

I opened the accounts on Wednesday morning and was immediately alarmed at the figures. All my careful budgeting for this fortnight promptly disappeared out the window. The health insurer had taken $224.07.

That's when I swung in action and rang the insurer. Over twenty-four hours and four phone calls, I discovered a nasty surprise called Lifetime Health Cover loading. Because Michael hasn't been insured for hospital insurance for ten years yet, (that ticks over in four months) he is penalised with this loading. Which raised our premium from the expected $182.88 to $224.07.

My complaint revolves around this loading. I foolishly assumed that the premium was cast in stone. As I pointed out, I would not have changed health funds to save $10 a fortnight. Customers Relations is investigating, which will take until Tuesday and include vetting my phone conversation with the marketing company.

Yep. Bupa is going to listen to my phone call with the marketer. Which I can't do. So I will have to take their word and their conclusions about a call made a month ago to a third party. Not happy, Jan.

What outcome do I wish? That Bupa honours the original quote for our health insurance. I'm hoping for the best whilst accepting that scenario is somewhere between nil and Buckley's.

Stay tuned!

In the Beginning, due to the Pursuit of Better Budgeting, I went to -

Because I could not compare health funds on my own!

All appeared to be hunky-dory until Wednesday morning when I checked our accounts...

 Which led to yet another thrilling call centre encounter...

Whilst trying to work out what had happened!

Health insurance is no game...

And that's another question!

I swung into action again...

While this was my honest appraisal of the situation.