Hindsight.

 It’s a wonderful thing.

I think, given my life, I should be honoured a doctorate in hindsight. 

In recall, the first half is neon like in my memory. It’s slow, that memory. Like millions and millions of still shots, a slow motion replay. Every second took an age, the day I remember clearly, second by second.

It is afternoon, he comes home from work early. As always of late, he looks tired, harassed. Absently, he starts folding the washing as I clean up the spilled sugar on the floor, from master 8.

I can see his face; it’s frozen in time, he stares at a fitted sheet like it has sprung from an alien.  I see the puzzlement on his face, as he attempts to put the elasticised ends together… the frown, the crease, then…

 I am upside down in the pantry. I am cursing the sweet granules as they continue to escape my efforts. It’s 3.15 PM, and I hear the gate give it’s soft, bell like clink that it does as it closes, or when the cat jumps over it.  A flittered thought of the cat, off for an adventure. Crunch crunch – more granules. I look up. He has gone from my sight, I think perhaps to the shed, to the yard, to the garden?

The elasticated sheet lies abandoned on the island bench.

I don’t bother looking for him. Men wander off whilst doing ‘stuff’ all the time, yes? 

I had no idea at that stage that my life was about to change – for always.

At 6.30 PM it occurs to me that I have not seen him in a while. Unaccustomed to having him home, it just didn’t occur to me that he was anywhere. I am used to the space shared with a child, not an adult.  But yes – it has been a few hours…  I call his name, no answer. I feed master 8, thinking, as oft I do, how he has wandered off to a neighbours, the man over the back, or to Mr Fisherman across the street.

I sigh, feed the child, put a meal in the refrigerator.  The nightly ritual of bathing, reading a story, feeding animals and  cleaning the kitchen occupies mind space for a while.

7.30 PM.   Child is settled, I am showered… and from somewhere deep in mind I acknowledge there is just a niggle of worry.  If only I had started working in that PhD about then.

It’s 8.30 PM. I am starting to get cross. 

For some reason, my eyes move to the front door.

There, neatly together side by side, are his work boots and socks.

I ring his mobile – and as I hear his mobile ringing back at me from the office down the hall, I start to feel scared. I walk to the office – and this is where the freeze frames really slow down – I can almost see myself walking there, slowly, receiver in my hand listening to the ringing tone, and the sound of his own phone ringing at me from the office. There, in the office, in a pile, I find his phone, his watch, his keys, and neatly bundled together, all his ID.

Sitting underneath it, is a pile of his paperwork, his diary, his notes. My husband has vanished, and anything that links him to me, to master 8 or to our life is sitting here looking at me.

For a very talented friend of mine.

Special, clever – and good taste.

I came home today a little maudlin.

A parent I have worked hard with all year has decided to decline the opportunity to have her little one repeat another year.

In my job, I wear several hats.

In a day, I can be teacher, support worker, guidance counsellor. I have spent the year listening, guiding, writing referrals, offering support.  The parent, although open to listening, remained a contradiction. Seeing what we see without accepting, hearing what we hear without perception.

This afternoon, I watched little P struggle with another issue after class.  The parent deflected to me to pacify and settle P once more, and finally, using a strategy that works with the youngest of toddlers, P was able to stem the tears and collect her belongings. As I stood and watched her walk away, another parent who is a close friend of the mother, said softly to me “She just doesn’t get it, does she?”. There was no malice in the question, just simple concern.

It’s not my role to judge the actions of a parent. Nor is it my role to question, criticise or belittle. I believe I am in the role of supporting her choices, whether I agree with them or not. In this case it’s very difficult. Everyone sees what one can not.

As for P, she may struggle no more or no less than  some others who move on next year.  But unlike some of the others, she will have been in a position where she was given an opportunity that may have made a world of difference to how she manages the next decade of schooling.

Watching her struggle still, in November, with simple instructions and interactions evokes sadness. Child advocacy is not just about talking the talk. It’s about walking the walk. Sometimes, there’s an elephant on the footpath.

It is because of today, I sip my wine, reflect on my day and tell myself again: You do what you can, and then let it go.

Just let it go, Rhubarb.

You better watch out, you better not cry,
You better not pout I’m telling you why:
The Christmas hype will take you right down.

Look at the calendar, go on check it twice
You know you are right it’s the date not your eyes-
it’s the first week in November, right now.

Westfield are quite sneaky, they get you by surprise
they have up all their strings and things to make you spend and buy – Oh!

Oh, you better watch out! You better not cry.
Get your credit card out I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Yeah you better watch out, don’t think you’re immune,
Another few minutes you’ll be humming this tune 
The economy boost is coming to town.

Shelves are stocked with tinsel, I know it’s early too
Next year I hear the Santa hype will begin somewhere in June.

Oh, you better watch out! I think I might cry,
I am sure we just had the Easter Bunny hop by 
How can Santa Claus be coming to town?

Marketers are quite sneaky, subliminal messages you can’t see
ads and banners and discounts and things that make you think ‘buy me!’ - Oh!

Oh, you better watch out! You better not cry.
Get your credit card out I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Santa Claus is coming to town!

So, I’m standing in a line with around 40 or so others. Looking around, I notice many of them have the same physical appearance as the couple immediately behind me. The men are all short haired and clean shaven, with immaculate dress, shoes shone to polished shine. Women, very long haired, heads covered with a scarf or head adornment. Make up, heels, and again immaculate clothing.

Brethren.

I don’t look – or feel – anywhere near as polished as any of them. Wearily I rest my head against the side of the corridor and lean against geek boy. He hugs me tighter.
Its early morning and we are waiting to board a 747 bound for Perth, and for some reason we are all standing in the corridor in no man’s land. The place between the boarding gate – goodbye Queensland – and the silver bird, waiting to wing me ‘home’. I am emotional and tired and on my way to bury my father. It’s March 2008. It’s an endless day.

A group of the immaculate young men stand a few meters away. They are discussing the flight. I hear them joke and laugh and one particular red headed young man is quite vocal. And just as I am about to turn back and answer GB’s question about the way they are garbed, I catch the words of a sentence he shares. “.… don’t tell anyone else about the bomb on the plane“. His fellow immaculates quickly shush him.

I raise my eyes – the women behind me has heard it too. She raises her eyebrows and cocks her head – I frown and shake my head a little. Surely they are joking, right? Surely it’s the young man’s idea of a joke? I look at others around me but no one seems to have heard. The line starts to move forward and I turn, step, step again and join the herd.

But it bugs me. That sentence caught in time – it really bugs me. It sits heavy and I hear the man again, the words… bomb… bomb…

The stewardess shepherds us on. “Sorry for the delay” she chirps. “These things… oh – row 17? Just along there please… hello sir… “

Leaving her behind, GB and I find our seat amidst the usual organised chaos of pre-take off chatter. I look around. At least two thirds of the plane are occupied by members of the Brethren. All ages, all hierarchy levels. I catch the eye of a woman in the middle row – the same woman who was behind us in the cattle queue. We hold gaze for a moment, it’s clear she is still unsettled. She travels alone. She wears trousers.

A voice comes over the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for flying whatsit airlines – we apologise, but we will be delayed a little longer. Nothing to be alarmed about, please bear with us we will have you on your way as soon as possible. Thank you for choosing to fly whatsit. “

A stewardess approaches looking flustered. As she passes by I can feel my tummy lurch and I make a snap decision. I explain to GB that I have to tell the staff something important and that he should not be worried. He squeezes my hand and tells me he knows how important it is to do the right thing. I push the little button, and the light above my seat shines. I take a deep breath and hope I don’t look like an idiot with what I am about to do.

The stewardess approaches with a smile I ask her to lean closer. I apologise profusely for taking up her time. I start to waffle, telling her I am sure it was not meant as I heard it and I am sure it was nothing but…. this is what I heard. And I repeat the words.

The change in her is immediate. She snaps up straight like she had been held by a spring release. She asks to tell her where I was when I heard this? When? Exactly what did I hear? I tell her straight and carefully and she looks deep into my eyes. Probably checking in case I am pathological. She tells me she will be right back – and true to her word, she returns with another stewardess. I am again asked to tell of the where- what- when. The second stewardess obviously had more clout than the first. She tells me to speak to no-one until she returns. She races off like she has to be somewhere in a hurry.

Less than a 3 minutes pass before a male returns along with the 2 females of earlier. He introduces himself as the head Steward and asks me to accompany him. I stand; take GBs hand and we follow the steward along the corridor. As I head out of my seat, my cohort nods her head.

We arrive at the little alcove near the amenities. The Stewards asks me and GB to wait ‘right here’ (where else can you go on a plane?) and he will return. By now, many passengers are becoming antsy and by the curious stares we are getting from people it is apparent they think we are the problem. Or part of it. It occurs to me then that we probably are.

I look up and now there are four people heading my way, all looking very official. I have a security guard (are they going to arrest me? Throw me off the plane?) and another guard with gun and a radio (holy crap) and the Steward and another man who looks very official. The steward introduces me to the PILOT. (That’d be why he looked official then?). Once again, could I please tell them exactly, word for word, the who-where-what story. The man behind the pilot writes everything down. He writes quickly, using squiggly scribbles of shorthand.

I take a deep breath, ready to relate the info….. and promptly burst into tears. Stewardesses race over with tissues. Water. A cloth. They escort me to a seat. The entire back section of the plane is now watching me and possibly most of the front section, seeing many of them are standing or leaning over their seats, heads craning to look at the action. Even the curtain across first class is open.

I take a deep breath and gather the thoughts, suppress the emotions. Slowly, enunciating each word, I repeat once again the story. This time I explain about the woman behind me, and our eye contact. The Pilot is lovely, he tells me to take my time. He tells me to describe the man. Describe the other men. Describe the tone of voice. I apologise for the millionth time and assure them that it was probably me misreading something – just a joke made by someone. I explain I am sleep deprived and emotional and on my way home to deal with my father’s death – which immediately brings more tissues. I have an overwhelming desire to curl up into the foetal position and rock.

But the Pilot takes my hand and assures me that even if it is a joke, its way out of the bounds of good taste. He tells me how people like me can save lives – and that no matter how small, the reporting of such a statement is warranted. He tells me that no one will worry if I am mistaken. Then he asks me to walk with him, down both aisles from the front of the plane to the back, and identify the speaker. He cautions me not to speak to the person or make eye contact, but to take note of the seat number. I am so nervous by now and ask that someone take GB back to our seat and give him something age appropriate to do. (They came up with a DS from somewhere, along with soft drink, chocolates and a basket of something pre-teenish). I am terrified and it takes me two trips around the plane to finally find the red headed male who was behind us earlier. I see him; he is oblivious to me and is joking with his mates about something. I see my eye gazer cohort also touring the plane.

Right – so no one is looking at me like I am a problem are they? People are pointing and muttering and harrumphing – but the lovely Pilot is right behind me and murmurs encouragement. I discover I am holding his hand like a child.

We return to the amenities and I recite the seat and row number. The pilot nods over my head to a guard – and when I look I see not one guard any more, but 6. Six guards in airport security clothing and 4 more in deep navy garb. I swear they have brought in the SWAT team. The Pilot thanks me, the Steward returns me to my seat, all eyes upon me. I sit and wish I could crawl under my seat. My heart is hammering so loudly.

However, within seconds, no one is looking at me anymore. No – they are all looking up ahead – for along come the guards and look-alike SWAT team and they physically LIFT the young man out of his seat and carry him off the plane.

Seriously.

The young man was just plucked from his seat and ejected. His shouts of objection echo in the sudden stillness that takes over inside the 747.

For a moment, the silence continued.

Then the Brethren started. Voices raised, shouts are heard, commotion unleashes. People are standing and calling and pointing and in all this, I sit very still and concentrate on looking at the floor.

The SWAT team are back in a few moments, and politely ask the group of well dressed men he was seated with to stand and move off the plane with them. And as the group of men stand and leave the plane, my eye gazing cohort looks at me and I look at her and she gives me a smile.

And I breathe again for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

And that, dear Brethren children, is why you should never make a bomb joke while standing in a queue waiting to be seated on an aircraft.

So Friday, I have to race off work early to have more blood squeezed out of me, this time at the skin disorders clinic. The lovely blood sucker who depleted me of more 0- like it’s not rare enough – chatted her way through the tourniquet and confided in me how she too, developed weird skin allergies out of the blue. We compared spots and chatted about such classy topics as pustules and blisters and weeping sores and more, and compared dots on wobbly bits before I head off. No doubt we’ll meet again.

My neck is so itchy that it feels like a million squillion mosquitos have their proboscises (probosci?) embedded in my neck all at the same time and are sending electrically charged itch pulses through my skin. Sort of like an itch with a prick on the end, magnified. It covers every section of my neck from  under the left ear lobe all the way across to the right, and from collar-bone up to jaw.

All  want to do is scratch the skin off. I can’t stand anything near it, touching it, brushing it – So much so, that I have taken to walking around the house during my time at home with my hair washed morning and night, and tied away from my face, neck covered in zinc cream topped with soothing cream the consistency of dry Pavlova spotted all over the itchy bits.

Thank  goodness it’s not winter.

I have not been able to wear make up (the night I did, I paid dearly the next day), perfume, skin cream, moisturiser or  hair products since the mysterious shingles that weren’t, last month. Thank goodness, no more blisters or swelling.  Just itchy scratchy stingy burny.

Now here’s the rub (no pun intended).

I’m allergic, always have been, to 3 things.

1. Penicillin – well, OK, it’s not like I am going to have any sudden and unexpected encounters with a stray penicillin-wielding person on a street corner any time soon.

2. Bee and wasp venom. Yep – got that covered – Polarimine in the car, handbag, work 1st aid cupboard, doctor number on standby.

3. Wheat. Again, easy – although somewhat inconvenient at times, but hey.

(Side note – Oddly, I have had exposure to all three in the past 6 months. I had the loco-locum who prescribed me penicillin despite the bright red flashing box on the computer screen, Then the brave wasp who crawled into my garden glove, and the Tim Tam blowout… I digress…)

These things I have managed to avoid or deal with for the best part of the wrong-side-of-40-but-right-side-of-50 years. However, recent blood tests show that a hormone change is evident and I may have yet another allergy in the system. something quite unexpected.

Like most of life’s problems , this new problem starts with men – only this one has an ‘o’ in the middle and a pause at the end. And I am entering into the early stages.

And guess what? It appears that I may be allergic to that, too.

Harry H. Horsefeathers, how can you be allergic to men-a-freaking-pause?  

And if this is what happens in the peri- (pre-) leading-u- to-the-real-thing stages, what will happen when I am full blown menopausal?

How wonderful was it to meet a babe from the bush, and a trace element? The babe from the bush drove 6 hours from the north west, and trace drove 5 hours from the south, and me – well I drove a whopping 40 minutes from the North. Ahem.  Anyhow, since they were stuck in the middle with me, and since I pinched BB’s photograph, and since both of them have posted the most eloquent of posts about our get together, I owe them a small song.

Well I’m so glad that went there that night,
I have the feeling now that everything’s alright,
I was so scared in case I fell off my chair,
And I was wondering if I would fall down the stairs,
Trace is to the left of me,
Bush Babe to the right, here they are,
Stuck in the middle with me.

I guess I’m stuck in the middle between two,
And I’m wondering what it is I should do,
It’s so hard to keep this smile from my face,
18 dollar cocktails will get you right off your face,
Trace is to the left of me, Bush Babe to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Well we started out with blogging and then tweeting then we finally met,
And as we read each other’s writing, we wondered if we’d ever get…
Please…. Please…..

Time without the children to meet
arranged via email and tweet,
Is it cool to go to eat at the Mecca Bah,
Or have pre dinner drinks at the red bordello bar?
Trace to the left of me, Bush Babe to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you (two).

I have to tell you, these are two of the nicest people you could ever meet. I am glad I was stuck with you for a while :)

In all honesty, I knew that eventually I would end up here. I mean, it happens to everyone they say, at some stage. It just depends on whether you give in to the signs and do something about it, or ignore it completely and live in the blur that you pretend is reality.

So. Here I am I am looking at racks and racks of  wire and plastic and marvelling at the options. Bling or no bling?  Trendy or conservative?  Make a statement and go with purple semi framed, or smoulder in understated class that always accompanies tortoiseshell brown and gold.

It would help if I could see.

I know. I have been putting it off. It happened quite fast and at first, I could find excuses – something in my eye, the light was bad, it was the wrong time of day, the moon was in Jupiter instead of Saturn… but of course eventually I had to cave. The defining moment? When I had to get up out of my chair at the restaurant and walk over to the bar on the pretext of reading the blackboard specials because I couldn’t read the menu. Enough was enough.

So here I am.

When the skipper came out of denial and accepted that he may need some type of assistance in reading the newspaper- assistance that didn’t involve holding it 2 meters away from his face with his toes - I chose his frames within a few minutes. I could tell the shape and colour that would suit his face, and they look great. When geek boy, who needed seeing eye dogs by the time he was 10, was in this position, I had him framed and spectacled within minutes – again, trendy specs that look kewl.

Who’s here to help me and give me an opinion? Not a bloody soul, that’s who. I look around hopefully, but apart from the staff and harassed looking mother with an out of control toddler on the loose, no one looked like they would care what type of frames I chose.  At reception, a woman with tattooed eyebrows and purple spikes offers a second opinion. She is adorned with trendy frames that look great and suit the eyebrow/spike combination. I, on the other hand, display neither tattoo nor spikes.  When the mumsy blonde with plain janes also chimes in and offers a third opinion, I nearly leap on her and drag her to the display rack. I am distinctly more mumsy than spike.

Holysnappingbatshit, who knew.

It’s veritable who’s who of the catwalk. Guess, Fendi, Elle, Prada. Nike, St Laurent, Dolce & Gabanna.  Dior. Oroton. Kelvin Klein. Armani.

Then there is the colour. The shape. The size. Arm height. Bridge design. Red? Blue? Silver? Black?  Irridescent? Pearlescent? Opalescent?  Round? Square? Oval?  Tilted? Long? Short? Nose lugs? Etched and plain and laced and shiny and matt and understated and overstated and tinted or polarised and low slung and high rise and titanium and lithium and kryptonite and  would you like fries with that?

Blimey. I just want to be able to read a menu, get lost in my book at night and remove splinters from small fingers without stabbing the kid in the eye by mistake – or worse, spend 10 minutes trying to remove a freckle from my son’s butt which I swear is a tick because I can’t see. 

 I could buy a degree for less money than it takes to buy the frames.

But pride wins. A consolation prize of sorts.  (I am being consoled by spending, yes?) I choose the frame I like sort of bestish – a middle ground choice that sits somewhere between ‘lookamelokkamelookameee Kimmy’ and ‘I am a distant relative of Nana Maskouri’ .

Then I look at the price. Close my eyes, and pay up.

I can’t afford a Fendi handbag, but I’ll  take the frames. Thanks.

*You’ll note I manage to write this whole post without the use of the word ‘glasses’ in it at all. Not in denial much am I?

Jenni was my best friend in my 20’s. The first day we sat, side by side in a lecture theater, brand new first year students green as grass, we clicked. For 4 years we attended lectures, worked part-time jobs and followed the path of life that unrolls for young adults. She watched me marry my Prince Charming in our first year, I was her bridesmaid at the end of our fourth. We hosted chic 80’s fashionable fondue nights, traded shoulder pads, permed our hair.  She dabbled in other careers on the side – like modelling, while I played house as the young wife. She was single and had a cycle of young boyfriends, the names of which changed regularly and made my head spin.

We had so much fun, Jenni and I. We had so many different jobs, trying to keep afloat as students. We sold the Sunday Newspaper on Saturday nights (that’s an oxymoron for you) outside the casino carpark entrance. It was dirty job, involving unloading over 1000 newspapers a night, stacking them and selling them to  the crowd as they made their way home. But the tips were great and sometimes we made well over $100.00 for a nights work. We knew all the staff and would nip upstairs in the back wings to get roast lamb rolls, tea or coffee, and catch the gossip, then back to the paper stand. We met so many celebrities there. If someone famous purchased a newspaper, Jenni and I would have them autograph that day’s paper for us. Jenni always had some crazy idea for us to try next,  and I always went along. I can still remember her signing up us to be hairdressers models, an opportunity that offered $30.00 for the ‘priviledge’. At the last moment, I got gastro and couldn’t go.  The result saw her waist length curls cut to 1 cm all over and dyed purple.  after she cried on my shoulder, we covered her head in a canteen bandanna and went nightclubbing to commiserate.  We manned telephones at Telethons, we ran the City to Surf fun run, we collected for charities and dressed in costumes and wore red noses. She hosted cocktail parties and we’d practice gourmet meals at dinner parties like apricot chicken, beef stroganoff or flambe pineapple (that one singed my eyelashes off).  We took up knitting (failed) calligraphy (disaster) and flower arranging  (we got asked to leave for laughing too much). She decided we should learn Cantonese – I thought I was heading to cooking school and was most surprised to find myself in a classroom of people preparing to learn a different language.

When she met D she fell hard, and it was no surprise when they married with a lot of pomp and ceremony, an Army wedding. I being the matron of honour, threw the biggest hen’s night ever for women of all generations – which ended up at a male strip joint, with the mothers of those in the bridal party thrusting notes down g-strings on gyrating pelvises while we, the under 30’s, sipped cocktails and talked weddings. D was in the forces, so within a few months she was off beside her soldier to see Australia – and I can still remember our last face to face get together – we stood embraced, crying, knowing things would never be the same but excited, for she was off to the magical “Eastern States”  and I-  well, I was off to settle down. I am sure my then husband was quietly relieved to see Jenni finally settle and travel with her new husband, just so that I would be a ‘real wife’.  The year was 1992, and within months of her being gone The prince turned into a frog I was the one who was single.

For the first few years we traded phone calls, letters and postcards. Being an Army wife, she moved around a lot and sometimes it was hard to keep track. Over the years I lost track of Jenni. The last I heard from her was a quick phone call after she had child number 4, which was around 1999.

Tonight, when the phone rang, the voice from my past picked up right where it left off. “There you are!” it said. “Do you know how hard it was to find you? What the hell are you doing in Queensland of all places!?” I felt a bit like Forest Gump. It was my Jenni. My Jenni! Coming back from the past like she’d never been gone. Older, wiser , but still mad as a meat axe, and her turn to be single once again. A two hour phone call later and it was like I was speaking with her yesterday. At one point, her 15-year-old (OMG she has a 15-year-old now!)  interrupted the conversation. I hear Jen say “It’s my old friend, Rhubarb, the one who was in my wedding – you know the picture in my wallet? – the one that I made wear that horrible blue dress when I married your father.“

Thanks for finding me, Jen. Looking forward to the catch up. Love you too. xxx.

Dear Blog
I am sorry I have not visited you for a while.

I find that I tend to avoid you when I have nothing to say.

I am a selfish visitor. I know this. I visit you for me, not you. Dear blog, I admit that I visit you for my own gratification, my own venting, my own purge. You always seem to accept what I say, taking on my words with open arms, soothe my ego, stroke my beast.  But underneath your acceptance – well, dear blog, I feel you have this expectation. I feel that with every visit  you expect me to have something to offer that is witty, or charming, or funny, or poignant, or touching. And when I can’t provide anything that resembles any of those ingredients, I am afraid I feel I have failed you. So I stay away.

Perhaps I should visit when I am in that place of no words. Perhaps you will inspire. But deep down inside, I fear you will laugh at me, whisper behind my back, titter and tattle and watch purely for the crash factor. I’m not very trusting, am I?

I know you are pouting a little because I have been using my words up on twitter. I promise you, he means nothing to me. He lacks the depth and substance you offer. He lacks character (well, 140 is all he can cope with in one sitting) and a meaningful prose can’t be constructed in such a short space. But yes, you are right – when there is nothing of substance to say, dear blogger, then twitter becomes a poor man’s blog post.

I do miss you, and I’ll try and do better in the future.

Love

Me xx