Dem Bones!

Picture this. A friend of mine, living in London at the time, is heading to Gatwick airport to pick up his wife from a plane trip.

My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.

Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.

“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).

“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.

“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.

Mr Plod’s not buying.

“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.

X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.

“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.

“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.

“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.

“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.

“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).

But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”

By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.

Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!

“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.

“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.

“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!

Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.

X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.

“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.

“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.

X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.

Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.

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Winners are Grinners

I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly ‘non competitive’ person. Not for me the ‘stoush to the end’ for winners glory. “I’m a lover – not a fighter!” I would cry if challenged to any kind of sporting duel.

However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.

First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.

We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.

Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.

But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.

So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.

As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.

However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.

But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.

“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)

And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!

Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!

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Kermit and the Conference of Gloom

The other day I attended a conference which was, to be frank, my kind of conference.

You see, unlike many other conferences I have attended, there was no boring 1.5 hour monologue by some boooring (yes, albeit very clever) academic, waffling on ad nauseum about his or her particular bent and expecting us poor, pathetic, ignorant lay people to be similarly enchanted.

No, in stark contrast, this most recent conference was comprised of short, sharp spurts of information, delivered in neatly packaged twenty minute lots and including plenty of activities to keep us engaged and occupied.

After the conference, I commented to a colleague about my comparative enjoyment of this kind of forum to the dry ones I had previously experienced.

“So you don‘t really like the ‘adult learning model’, then?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied honestly, “give me the ‘Sesame Street model’ any day. Short snippets of info and fun and not a wordy powerpoint presentation in sight!”

He smiled politely, no doubt ‘noting to self’ not to expect too much of me in terms of academic prowess or stickability.

But it’s true. I’m not a sticker when it comes to boring stuff. And I mean no disrespect to any speaker in saying so but, unless you keep me entertained with startling insights, humour or the odd magic trick, you can forget it. I will switch off quicker than a lightbulb in a greenie’s outhouse.

Not even some of the great orators of the world could keep my attention if it decided to so wander. For example, I can see me in biblical times with my Bedouin brain awandering. At the Sermon on the Mount, there I’d be fidgeting and checking my wrist-sundial every five shadows. Who were the Beatitudes anyway? I’d be wondering. Saint John, Paul, George and Ringo?

As Churchill delivered his moving “We shall fight them on the beaches!” speech, I’d have probably been doodling idly and wondering what was for lunch.
When JFK blasted out, “We choose to go to the moon!” I’d likely have been watching ‘Adventure Island’ (NASA’s space program not being exactly the thought fodder of most rural Australian kids).

But, oddly and in stark contrast, my attention was fully there for Lord Spencer as he railed against the paparazzi over the death of Princess Diana. It was a gut-wrenching time during which I came to better understand the pull of ordinary people towards celebrity. On the day of Diana’s funeral I sat in front of the telly and cried for six hours straight. It was both pathetic and enlightening to realise that someone I’d never met could move me so much.

Getting back to the speeches, let just me clarify one thing. If you are going to throw in a little humour, please make sure your audience will get the joke.

I recall an engineer friend who was preparing a speech for an international conference. He ran his speech past me beforehand, complete with (what he thought was) a very amusing joke. My non-amusement was palpable but I tried to cover it by suggesting perhaps I just didn’t understand engineering humour. He unfortunately didn’t take my hint to rethink his ‘joke’ and went on to include it – apparently quite unsuccessfully -- in the speech.

And so, here’s my public speaking advice in nutshell:

Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Wear a muppet costume……….. and get off as soon as possible!

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OOO Boy!

A friend and I were recently discussing our wonderful police and emergency services and admiring the fantastic job they generally do in responding to all manner of crises.

During this conversation, I raised the question of how the 000 emergency hotline manages to deal with large numbers of calls, all coming in at once, such as when a major emergency like a flood, storm or fire occurs. For example, I wondered if they ‘queue’ calls or whether the calls ever go to an answering machine until an operator can get to them.

My friend (who apparently had some insight into such matters) informed me that 000 service centres generally have an ‘overflow’ system, whereby if all the lines are busy, calls are diverted to other parts of the organisation or to other ‘manned’ sites. That was a relief, as the idea of hearing a recorded message when one is in the middle of an emergency is a scary thought.

But this got me thinking about what such a scenario might look like and made me giggle. Imagine. You dial 000 and a recorded voice says something like this:

“Hi. You’ve called Triple O, the emergency specialists. Our operators are all busy dealing with someone else’s crisis at the moment, but please hold and one of our friendly team will be with you shortly.”

You then hear the piped music. ‘California Girls’ pumps chirpily through the phone before this next round of info:

“Thank you for holding. Your emergency is important to us so please keep holding. Or if you would prefer to be transferred directly to the department that deals with your specific issue, please select one of the following options:

If you have an axe-wielding maniac hacking through your flywire door, please press 1.

If there’s a seventy foot gum tree (or part thereof) imbedded in your lounge room, please press 2.

If you’re trapped by the huge huntsman spider that’s on the wall between you and the nearest exit, please press 3 (ya sook!)

If there’s a runaway car protruding from your front fence, please press 4.

If you’ve misplaced your children, please check under the beds, in the laundry basket or in your neighbour’s lounge room, then press 5.

If you’ve misplaced your husband, please check the couch thoroughly, then press 6

If you need an ambulance, please check that you have cover and, if not, take this opportunity to get some (dial 123SICK for some great February deals! Buy one paramedic and get an ashen-faced work experience kid for free!) Then press 7.

If there’s a snarling dog attached to your leg, please press 8 (and try not to yowl into the phone too much, okay?)

If the storm water drain outside your house now appears to be flowing inside your house, please press 9.

If your spa bath isn’t operating at the right temperature, please press 10.

Yes, we here at Triple O cater for ALL kinds of emergencies. No job too big or small. And yes, we DO deliver.....eventually…..

Now…. if you can just keep the compression pack on the axe wound, chainsaw the tree off your telly, flick the spider outside, hoist the car off your fence, locate the kids and hubby, drive yourself to the hospital, feed the dog something other than your shin, unplug the stormwater drain and press “On” on your spa, you can get your life back to normal and we can go back to checking out Ebay.

Thank you for calling Triple O. We really do care. Just not today.”

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Collectible Chaos

Over the years I have known many people who collected items such as antiques, dolls, guns, china, books, artworks and Elvis memorabilia. And while I have always admired the single-mindedness of these people to devote so much time and energy towards their hobby, personally, I found the whole idea a bit boring.

I mean if you’ve got one of something, what the hell do you need another one for? was my view. And why, oh why, I asked myself, would someone be interested in collecting ugly seventies glass vases and plastic travel clocks in the first place? I just couldn’t see the point. In fact, I even wondered if these collecty-type people were ever so slightly unhinged. I mean, didn’t the need to surround oneself with hundreds of similar looking items, only to keep polishing and rearranging them, smack rather heavily of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?

However, as I’ve become older, while I would certainly never profess to becoming a collector myself (not unless you count hoarding old makeup in my bathroom cupboard) I must admit that I have perhaps started to gain a better understanding of the collector’s motivation.

After all, to these people it’s not just about staring admiringly at their latest acquisition as it takes pride of place amongst its four thousand cousins on the shelf. It’s quite often about the challenge of finding it in the first place. The thrill of the hunt. The adrenalin of the kill (or, in this case, the auction). The triumphant moment when that funny little object of your desire is finally in your hot little hands. THAT is what collecting is all about.

Of course, I must admit this is mere speculation on my part. Collectors world-wide might hunt me down and boil me in hot wax for saying these things about them, but I don’t mind going out on the occasional philosophical limb. (In fact, I’m thinking about starting a collection of philosophical limbs. What do you think?)

Anyway, having watched ‘The Collectors’ on TV for some time now, I feel I can speak with reasonable authority on this matter. I have seen how these collecty-people’s eyes glaze over when they talk about their latest ‘find’. Their hunter-gatherer instincts are strong. It’s a prehistoric penchant for getting stuff and keeping it. Lots of it.

The only difference between regular people and collecty-people is that regular people like to get lots of different stuff, while collecty-people like, well, all the same stuff. It’s their prerogative of course, and I will defend the right of all collecty-people to go forth and collect as much as their little collecty-hearts desire.

So what has led me to wax lyrical about all things collectable? Well, you see the spouse has started collecting ceramic beer steins. Mostly from Germany and other parts of Europe and damn it if those colourful little jugs aren’t sucking me in too! I find myself gazing at them inexplicably as I sip my morning coffee. I find myself talking about them to visitors and examining them closely. I even started cataloguing the little beasts!

And I am actually getting a bit worried about the spouse too. He seems to need to buy these things on a regular basis. He becomes fixated when his eyes drift to the Stein Shelf and he seems to need to touch them rather more often than is, I feel, strictly healthy.

What on earth has happened here? Have we created a pair of ceramic-collecting monsters? Franken-Steins perhaps? Is there any hope for us, or will we soon be collecting all manner of collectables? Will our house become so full of 19th Century Dentistry Equipment, Commemorative Tea Towels and Scowly Faced Baby Dolls that we will need a guided tour just to get to the toilet?

I certainly hope not. And just to make sure, I think it’s best if I stick to my ‘philosophical limbs’. At least they won’t need dusting.

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Grand Designs? I don't think so, Tim

Picture this. Somewhere in a laboratory in Zurich, a team of nerdy looking scientific guys with fruzzy hair and white coats are huddled around a stainless steel workbench. They are so engrossed in their project that they barely even notice the sound of atoms splitting in a nearby nuclear collider (or even the smoko bell, for that matter).

On the bench before them lies the blueprint for one of the most dastardly weapons against mankind ever invented. The Nerdy Scientist guys cackle gleefully as one of them adds yet another masterstroke of design to their drawing.

“Aha!” cries Professor Springbunger delightedly sketching his infamous vicious coil-shape, “Vee must never forget zat our ultimate aim is to ensure that zee person who uses ziss device suffers greatly.”

The other Nerdy Guys nod in agreement. They know that the entire future of the universe depends on their ability to design the most uncomfortable sofa bed; thus preventing many millions of unwanted houseguests from staying too long at many millions of other people’s places.

Unlikely, you say? Well, then, you try explaining why fold-out beds have so many extraneous coils, bars and bumps in them or why they tip you into the middle whilst simultaneously being noisy and cold! You can’t, can you? So my theory persists.

Surely it must be deliberate, for I can’t imagine that any sofa-bed-architect could actually believe they have invented something comfortable. I mean, don’t these people ever test their products? Don’t they know that sleeping on a sofa-bed has been named in the top-ten Most Annoying Things To Do Before You Die list?

Of course, sofa beds aren’t the only badly designed products on the market these days. Take for example, those prams with big side wheels that hook onto everything in their path – meaning that someone’s furniture, gate, pet or small child may be still attached to you by the time you get to your destination.

Then there are mobile phones that are so complicated you need a degree in technology and aerodynamics to operate them (and that’s just to open ‘em!) And how sensible is it that we must work our way through six layers of plastic and cardboard before we even get to a bar of soap yet, ironically, every day millions of unprotected city folk are breathing in toxic gases from the poorly designed, fuel-guzzling motor vehicles? Why don’t they cling-wrap the cars, for goodness sake and leave us humble soap-opening people alone?

And what about shampoo and conditioner bottles? Given that millions of people wear glasses, doesn’t it seem plausible that these same people probably don’t wear their glasses in the shower and therefore cannot read the miniscule writing on the bottles? Only yesterday I managed to shampoo my hair three times in one session because I couldn’t read the labels. Surely amongst the Einsteins of the design world there must be at least one or two bespectacled types who could have raised this particular issue?

I just shake my head in disbelief at times. We’ve come so far and yet still can’t seem to perfect the simplest of design feats.

And as I take the bread knife to a tightly wrapped package after five minutes of frustration and futility trying to open the damn thing, I once again question the ingenuity of mankind.

We can put space shuttles into orbit, create the World Wide Web and pack millions of gigabytes into a single pinhead, yet we still can’t seem to invent an easy-open box of tea-bags. Sheesh!

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Foul Language Gone Wilde

Oscar Wilde, the famous 19th century Irish poet once said: “The expletive is the refuge of the semi-literate”. In other words; swearing is for dumb heads.

Well, all I can say is, if the ‘refuge’ was an actual place, it would be packed to the rafters -- considering the number of foul-mouthed ‘dumb heads’ around these days. And yes, okay, I might be among their number too at times, I admit. (Before anyone starts calling me a hypocrite because they’ve heard me say naughty words). Yes, we 21st century folk say lots of words that would’ve made our grandparents’ hair curl.

As a kid I was aware of most of the swear words but would never dare use them. And, even though my Dad was always careful not to swear around us kids or in public, I still, in fact, heard my first F Bomb from his own lips as he wrestled angrily with some recalcitrant piece of machinery in his shed. He must have thought the tin shed walls were soundproof!

Mum was not a swearer. In fact, the worst thing I ever heard her say was when she called our kelpie “Face Ache” as he persistently tried to herd her around the clothesline. I thought this was hilarious. In her later years, after a severe stroke had sadly stolen much of her capacity to remember words, she adopted the unlikely (for her) “Bugger Awful!” when things displeased her. Coming from my Mum it was priceless!

Then came my own parenting. We were always careful to keep it nice around the kids and I used to warn them thus (and forgive me Oscar!): “Only dumb people swear because they are too stupid to know any better words.”

The kids got it (I guess no-one likes to be labelled as stupid) and pretty much refrained from using bad language -- around me anyway. I told them I didn’t actually care what they said when they were somewhere where no-one could hear them. BUT (and this was my big stipulation) if there was even just ONE person who might be offended -- or little kids -- within earshot, they were not to do it.

I’m not sure how effective this advice actually was but the fact that the kids spent quite a lot of time down the river suggests maybe they had more words to get off their chests than I realised. (If only the gum trees had ears!)

But anyway, a while ago I was with my sons (now young men) when one of them accidentally dropped the F Bomb. Before I’d even raised an eyebrow in protest, he quickly apologised to me. My heart swelled with pride that my child was so respectful, until his brother chimed in that what he had said was nothing compared to what he usually says! Hmph!

More recently, after a local outdoor rock concert, I commented to Number Three Son that I wished the band hadn’t sworn so much as the microphones were carrying the offensive words all over town.

Number Three just rolled his eyes and said, “Will you just get over this swearing thing, Mum? It’s just part of life. You make such a big deal out of it!”

“So you don’t have a problem with it then?” I asked him. “You’re okay with people swearing anytime and any place, are you?” He nodded emphatically.

“Well, okay. How about getting your own (*F Bomb*) breakfast then?” I inquired politely. Number Three nearly fell off his chair!

Funny how something’s okay until your mother does it. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. (Sorry Oscar, but we 21st Century mums have to work with what we’ve got!)

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