Just in case you thought you could dance...

Sometimes the Universe conspires to send you a message. Usually a timely one. I received one today. It reminded me that while my mind is capable of wondrous feats, my body is not what it was. Don't get me wrong, it goes okay, but...

Last night, Mum and I attended a 'dancing thing' at the local Entertainment Centre. I call it a 'dancing thing' because when she asked me to escort her many weeks ago she said it was a 'dancing thing'. When my husband asked me what it was I was going to, I answered a 'dancing thing'. It was written on the calendar as 'dancing thing with mum'. As it turns out, the words were prophetic.

We rolled up to discover a full foyer and lots of kids. Unusual, but we were quite excited that so many Fibrotown folk had turned out for a 'dancing thing'. The program made it all sound very exciting. We were there to see 'The Next Step: Do it On the Dance Floor', featuring the director and artists from Dein Perry's 'Tap Dogs', as well as contestants from Australia's So You Think You Can Dance. I loved 'Tap Dogs' and while I've never watched SYTYCD, Mum loves it. We were happy. We had a glass of wine and climbed up to our seats in row G.

The show began. Five minutes later, we were checking our tickets in consternation - were we there for the right night? Tickets confirmed we were. Why then were we watching what was obviously a local dance school's annual concert? The numbers of children in the foyer suddenly became clear - most of them were in the show. "I think it's just an entree," I muttered. Five numbers later, we were beginning to wonder.

Admittedly, it was entertaining enough in its own way. Interpretive, modern dance takes on a whole new meaning when it's performed by 15-year-olds and randomly placed in front of you. There was a standout little girl, in the front row, in the hip hop group - and one, in the back row, whose worried little face immediately caught my attention. She was one step behind the group the whole time, thrusting her tiny hips right when everyone else went left. I loved her.

Watching as the show unfolded, ballet following hip hop following a rather lengthly piece from Mary Poppins, I felt sympathy for my Dad, and my brother, subjected to years and years of watching other people's children perform whilst waiting for a two-minute burst from one of us at the annual ballet concert. I think I may have even perfected my own version of the concert face.

At the end of the display, we were told we'd been watching [insert name of local dance school]. At no other time had this been mentioned. It was like those infuriating moments when you're listening to the radio and you have to wait half an hour for the back announcement of what you were listening to.

After a short interval, during which I contemplated the fact that the 'dancing thing' was proving to be as vague as its title, the real show began. And I sat there with my 66-year-old mother and watched 12 guys - seven dancers, one singer, one rapper, three band members - tear up the stage. It was brilliant. Loud, hip-hoppy, brilliant. There was even a tap-off. I love a tap-off. It's like Fight Club, only with less blood. Watching the dancers, I was struck by the absolute joy with which they approached their work. They were so damn happy to be there. They were dancing like no-one was watching, only we were all watching their every move. Complete assurance. Complete freedom.

It was the kind of moment that could see a person go and sign up for dance classes, 20 years after their last dance class.

Fortunately, the Universe was watching out for me. This afternoon, Fam Fibro went to the local aquatic centre for some swimming and waterslide shenanigans. I attempted a few laps. Very slow laps. I managed 250 metres. Fifty metres of freestyle. Two hundred metres of breaststroke. Even as I type this, I can feel my muscles protesting. I will wake tomorrow to sore thighs, sore arms... and all from a 'low-impact' form of exercise.

I don't think I'll be attempting a 'dancing thing' any time soon.

{image: streetswing.com}

Do you suffer from Turrets Syndrome?

Rediscovering a favourite book is like rediscovering an old friend. It can take you back to a time and a place in moments, even if that time has long been left behind. It can also explain a lot.

You'll remember the plastic bag that contained the stunning evidence of my glamorous modeling past? It also held another treasure. A real treasure. A battered, green, copy of Ruth Park's book Callie's Castle. As I held it in my hand, I was immediately 11 years old again. It was the year that, after various permutations of sharing with my sisters, I ended up back in my own room. It was the year that I read Storm Boy by Colin Thiele and wept buckets over the death of Mr Percival. It was the year that I learned about 'being a woman' thanks to a book called 'Have you started yet?' (still, I see, available on Amazon).

Callie is the oldest girl in a family of four children. She has a brother who is sick, a little sister and baby brother who are destructive, a step-dad and no room of her own. A situation exquisitely awful when you are 11. As the book opens, she arrives home to find all her treasures have been taken from 'her' drawer and destroyed by her youngest siblings. Even her diary has been drawn in. Shudder.

There are family dramas, a kindly grandfather, squabbles with friends - and by the end of the book, Callie is ensconced in the cupola. Her own space. In a turret, with views as far as Botany Bay. And a tiny spiral staircase.

I can trace my love of turrets back to this book. Not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or any of those other princesses. This book. The idea of an unassailable space all of one's very own. The joy.

When The Builder and I first moved in together, we lived in a little brick semi-detached cottage, at the end of a culdersac, beside a noisy block of flats. The toilet was out the back door, my 'office' was a breeding ground for mold. Around the corner from us was a splendid Federation cottage, with a turret. It was called Penzance. I loved it. Every time we walked past, which was often, I'd say to The Builder, "I just love a turret." Every now and then, we still drive past it. "There's your turret," he says. We smile.

On rereading, with the benefit (or not) of 30 years, the book still holds up. Callie's confusion and bewilderment as puberty beckons is real. Her desire for independence and a room to call her own resonates. It's a great yarn and, old-fashioned as it is, would make a great gift for any girl around the same age.

If nothing else, it will spark in her a lifelong love of turrets. Even now, I aspire to a turret. A writer, starving in a turret. Much more glamorous than a garret, don't you think?


{image: missquitecontrary/etsy}

It's not easy being green

It appears that I am experiencing a glut. The Great Silverbeet Glut of 2010. Even after the snails and slugs have been on the rampage, I have enough here to feed a Greek village on spanakopita for months. Trouble is, I tend to treat the garden like a pantry. I leave it out there until I need it. Can't foresee needing that much silverbeet in the near future. My practical friend K suggested I bring it in, wash it, chop it finely and freeze it. It's an excellent idea. If one had the freezer space for that much silverbeet.

I blame Masterchef. Was a time when a vegetable was a Vegetable. Now it's an Ingredient. I've made quiche, spanakopita, pie, lamb/spinach curry. I've added it to pasta sauce, dahl, and salad. At no point have I boiled it up and plonked it on a plate with a sausage, some carrots and mashed potatoes. That's how people used to eat it. As a vegetable.

Then again, those same people also ate a lot of chokoes. Steamed chokoes, boiled chokoes, baked chokoes. Choko chips, choko chutney... Did your parents have a choko vine? Dad's was the wonder of the street. It intertwined along the palings of the back fence, obscene in its fecundity. Obscene to me, anyway. I never liked chokoes. No matter what my parents did with them.

Sisters B and C felt much the same way about silverbeet. No matter what my parents did with it.

Any suggestions on useful things to do with silverbeet will be gratefully accepted. I need to move it along before the rhubarb problem rears its ugly head again.

PS: I, ahem, borrowed the artful silverbeet image, artfully named 'Wet Silverbeet', from Garden Amateur, the fab blog by my friend Jamie, devoted to all things garden. Is well worth a read - he's actually a total pro and would never end up with way too much silverbeet...

Swimming: A life (and lifestyle) skill

On the day Australia won its first gold medal in the pool in Delhi, the Fibro boys headed back to swimming lessons. (The timing was entirely coincidental, but offered a lovely opening so I thought I'd go with it.) Having slogged it out through every week of a cold, hard winter last year, we decided to give the flu germs a rest this year and have the cold season off. It proved an entirely positive decision.

Last year, we (and I do mean we in every sense of the word) suffered (and I do mean suffered in every sense of the word) through innumerable ear infections, bouts of tonsilitis and, oh yes, the swine flu (renamed Man Flu around here as everyone got it but me). This year, a couple of runny noses and a hacking cough. Some might say that those two terms out of the pool have derailed my children's Olympic dreams. I say, whatevs (with accompanying shrug).

It's true that there have been some setbacks. Mr6 is still stuttering on the verge of 'the click'. You know that moment when they go from looking like epileptic frogs with windmill arms to resembling Ian Thorpe. He's still at the windmill stage, the stage where you wonder if he'll manage to roll over and take that essential breath. But so close. Today, he managed two lots of four strokes with connecting breath before disappearing underwater in a mass of bubbles and hair.

Mr3 doesn't want to go back tomorrow. It is sad. He was so enthusiastic this morning. Mostly because there were new goggles in the offing (you know how he loves an accessory). He looked the part as he strode to the pool deck in his tiny little budgie smugglers and matching blue goggles - just like a racing tadpole, as my Dad would say.

Then he discovered that his new instructor, Nick, is male and will not melt at the sight of Mr3's smiling face. Oh no. Instead, he wants him to actually, you know, swim. He had a go. He floated, put his face in the water, all the stationary stuff. But once he had to, you know, swim, it all went out the window. He forgot to paddle. He's supposed to paddle, paddle, paddle while he kick, kick, kicks. Instead, he sank, sank, sank.

Not happy Nick.

We'll be back tomorrow. Four days in a row, an intensive program, to kickstart them for next term. Mr6 can't wait. Mr3 will have to be thrown in to make him get wet. But I'll do it if I have to. Swimming lessons are the only form of legalised torture I condone. They can be agony to watch, as your child shivers and quivers and sinks and screams. But I sit on the side, cheering and 'thumbs up'ping in the face of their despair.

If you live in Australia, you have to be able to swim. If you live in Fibrotown, with some of the world's greatest beaches on your doorstep, it goes beyond a life skill and into a lifestyle skill.

By the end of the week, Mr3 will have stopped screaming. With any luck, he'll be paddling with style. And Mr6 - well, here's hoping for 'the click'.


Are your kids in swimming lessons? How do you cope with the screaming?


{image: KatieHalton/Etsy}

Inside the plastic bag: 100 shades of wrong

My Dad mightn't like me to say this, but he's a hoarder. It's the only explanation for why amazing and embarrassing things keep emerging from his shed. Around six months ago, it was The Suitcase - an old, vinyl, buckled suitcase full of - well, you can read about it here.

Last week, Sister C and I found a plastic bag on the parental patio. Dad had no idea what it was. He'd dragged it out of the shed and it was lying around looking for a home. We rifled through it, shrieking with laughter at what we found. "You simply have to blog about this?" she said, between fits of hysteria. My response? No way.

That night, in the Fibro kitchen, I showed The Builder what we'd found. He has these fantastic laugh lines around his eyes, that crinkle up when he's amused, making his eyes sparkle. Those laugh lines were craters as I took him through our discoveries, step by step.

The next day, I was reading Bern Morley's very funny blog So Now What? She's got a fantastic giveaway going on, where you can win some tummy-tucking, thigh-shrinking, butt-lifting jeans - all you have to do is answer a simple question and she swears these jeans will change your life. The question? What was your biggest fashion mistake? The look you thought was rocking but was, in hindsight, 100 shades of wrong. I answered her question honestly - silver jumpsuit, green pants suit... actually, I have 100 looks that would fit that criteria. Other commenters are going further, sending in pictures, and if you don't laugh at these, you are not human.

But the blog post got me thinking. About the plastic bag. And its contents.

A little known fact about the publishing world is that editorial assistants and cadet journalists are often called upon to step above and beyond the call of duty. From behind their desks to in front of the cameras. From the ages of 19-23, I worked for a publishing company that published a lot of blokey mags. Fishing, golfing, cars, boats, heavy metal, building, computers, electronics... Available females were often dragged in to be models. It is my only excuse for this:

And this:

And even this:

From a 1991 issue of the short-lived (and sadly unlamented) Australian Woman Golfer magazine. And these are some of the best shots. I think they went out of their way to make me look 40. Actually, I think I actually look younger now. You can see why The Builder was in hysterics. Though, as I told him, not every man can say that he's married to a former model.

Feel free to laugh (I am) and then pop over to Bern's blog and enter the giveaway (you have until Sunday). I am looking forward to reading (and possibly seeing) all your worst fashion moments. Though I suspect that the golf stick as accessory may be one of fashion's biggest crimes...



{images: Kiosk Hello + Australian Woman Golfer/Phil Aynsley (lovely man, I don't blame him at all)}

The Red Badge of Courage: Fibrotown edition

If you read this blog on a regular basis, you'd be under the impression that I spend a fair amount of my time at the supermarket. I've been lost in there. I've witnessed lost love. Today, I left inspired.

I know. From the supermarket. There's more to Fibrotown than meets the eye.

It all occurred at the checkout. Again. (Really, you've got to spend more time there.)

My checkout chick and I were making small talk. Laughing at the holiday-makers who'd just spent $978 for a weekend's worth of food.

"$978!" I shrieked. "Were there 20 of them?" She laughed. No, just the four.

"They made me feel kind of bad about myself, actually," she confessed, eyes down, scanning away. Blip, blip, blip.

I looked at her. Fresh-faced. About 18. We've spoken before. She's always bright, friendly and perky. And always, it seems, there.

"How so?" I asked.

"Oh, just in that talking down way that people have with us sometimes," she replied, waving one arm around to indicate her fellow workers. Blip. Blip.

I channelled Eleanor Roosevelt. "No-one can make you feel bad about yourself unless you let them," I said. She smiled and looked at me like I needed to get out more.

Our conversation moved on to how those crazy holidaymakers should have shopped with a list. "Do you always do that?" she asked.

I responded in the affirmative, outlining all the reasons why a list is a good thing (I don't write finance stories for no reason, you know).

"I try to do that," she said, setting me up for EFTPOS. "I cook a lot of my meals all at once and then freeze them. It's hard to fit them in with studying for my HSC and working here, otherwise."

I looked at her. She froze them? She must have seen the questions in my face. "I live by myself," she said, still smiling. "I go to school, work here and then go home and study for my HSC. I've always wanted to be a police officer."

Suddenly I remembered a previous conversation we'd had. Six months ago, she'd taken her pre-HSC police exam. I remembered her telling me, incredibly enthusiastically, how it would save time when she got her exam results. She'd be able to go straight off to the Academy. At the time, I admit, I listened with one ear, smiling and nodding, as she relayed just a little too much information. (Now I realise that maybe she told me because she didn't have anyone else to tell.)

She's all of 18. She's doing it on her own. She's still smiling.

Next time I see her, I'll ask her how those exams are going.

{image: TheExtentOfSilence/Etsy}