On the news

In which I am becoming older

I should have had a bit less to drink than I did especially because I’ll be out again tonight, and it’s been a long time since I had wine two nights in a row, but it didn’t do me any harm, and it would be business as usual, except … the puppy. Productivity zapper that’s for sure. I simply cannot allow it to not be in my lap as I type, he is beautifully affectionate and (at the moment) the perfect size. So while I did have lots of plans of things to be done today, instead I have been wandering aimlessly around the internet, falling down such rabbit holes as dear mariella on The Guardian website.

I scroll through The Guardian and ABC apps a couple of times each day, so I do feel like I’m up-to-date with the news, but I am always surprised when I am in a group of people because they always seem to know what each other is talking about, and I am very often simply nodding in that, ‘Ah, yes, I strongly agree, but have nothing further to add’ until I’m able to generate a quick quip which shows I’m listening and enjoying the conversation even if I don’t properly know what we’re talking about. I think part of that is to do with age. I suppose when I was young, it didn’t bother me that I didn’t know what older people were talking about because one I knew heaps more than they did anyway and two (paradoxically but nonetheless logically) I expected them to know more than I did. Now, I feel that there is a whole world that is not only separate from mine but entirely inaccessible to me. The older person’s world would one day be mine, but the younger person’s never will be. I don’t suppose this is an original or startling revelation, and probably if I’d been listening I would have heard older people telling me about this some time ago.

Which is a long-winded way of getting to the thing I wanted to tell you about which is that I really do miss newspapers, by which I mean news printed on paper. Especially the weekend newspaper. Living in Adelaide our printed papers choice has always been pathetically limited, but I did used to get The Advertiser delivered and I occasionally still buy it. And I like the Financial Review, although less so now that Laura Tingle has gone to the ABC. I have The Saturday Paper delivered but it doesn’t last all that long, and can certainly be cleared away from the kitchen table well before Wednesday which is the day that I used to sweep all of the weekend papers away, leaving whatever hadn’t been read forever unread.

I’m off to find some toys for the puppy now because when it isn’t on my lap it is chewing at my knitting or dragging my socks to its bed. I don’t like either of those things.

On puppies

In which the puppy arrives

Three days missed, but I’ve got an excuse, a reason even, because I got talked into getting a puppy. The last time we had a puppy, it was an Absolute Disaster there is no other way to describe it. A beagle, brought into our lives at the height of its tumult. Cancer, dementia, infertility, beagle. Anyone who knew anything about beagles–about cancer, dementia, infertility, puppies–looked at me with horror in their eyes, and they were right. I had no idea how to care for a dog, let alone a beagle, and it was an added stressor I really did not need.

But while we were living in Abu Dhabi, we grew used to having a dog in our lives. In response to the needs of my youngest boy–I’m serious when I say he didn’t just want, he needed a dog–we fostered a little white terrier that was waiting until it had its rabies jabs cleared before it could join its family in Australia, and then adopted a wonderful dog. She was about nine years old when she came to us, a corgi crossed with a german shepherd and about as far from a beagle as you could get while still being a dog. She was what dogs used to be, back in the days when getting a dog was as simple as waiting for your neighbour’s dog to have a litter and there was none of this putting yourself on waiting lists with breeders. She barked when anyone knocked at the door and they stood on the other side frightened until they opened the door and saw her. Short, tail-wagging…beautiful old thing.

We brought her back to Adelaide with us, but she got older as we all do and one Saturday the end of her life came much more quickly than any of us had been ready for, but it was the best way to die. One bad day, surrounded by people who love you.

It’s funny that having a puppy has made me notice the space where our beautiful dog used to be. It reminds me how it was to be greeted by her every time I came home, or got up in the morning in the way that only a dog can do. ‘Oh my god, you came back, I had no idea you would come back, this is the best moment of my life.’ And when I was lonely, the only adult in the house, she would sit, quietly, just being with me. I had never been a dog person before, but she turned me into one.

And now we’ve got this puppy and it is the sweetest, cutest thing on the planet. As much as sometimes I do regret the passing of time, I like the way this puppy reminds me that life is easier than it was all those years ago when that beagle came to stay. Because when I look at this puppy I’m not terrified.

On change

In which I worry about racism

I think this piece by Scott Ludlam sums up one of my real fears about what this whole debacle in the Liberal Party really means for Australia. We only have to look at what happened to Julie Bishop to understand what they really think about women (they most definitely showed us the hollow logic they apply to ‘merit’ based promotion when they didn’t promote the person with the best polling figures and probably their best-performing minister). But I feel sick at the thought of what our country is going to look like when it comes to race over the coming years. It is extremely sobering to think how superficial our veneer of non-racism actually is, as has been revealed by the United States recently.

I’ve been spending a bit of time in the last year or so examining my own racism a bit more carefully. It isn’t good enough in the current climate to simply count oneself as one of the good guys. More and more I have been realising that my passivity and inaction are themselves a form of racism. I suppose that is something I always knew, but have not fully taken on board. Anyway, one of the things that I have been trying to do is to read a lot of the comment and commentary and to not get huffy and think, ‘Yeah, but …’ and then do a bit of a ‘not all white people’. There is a particular writer I read on twitter and instagram and she is very funny, but very, very dismissive of white people like me. And I’m trying to think, ‘Well, she’s got a point,’ because she does rather than, ‘Yeah, but.’ It’s surprising how quickly it has become easier to think that way and to feel a very real shift away from it being something I’ve forced myself to do towards something that comes much more naturally.

Also, I have a couple of emails and letters I need to finish writing. It’s the 1980s Amnesty member in me. I can’t stop believing that letter-writing is where it’s at even though I do know that in 2018 it’s all about twitter. But I went back to twitter last week and while I see its value in uniting people, I’m not one of those people and honestly after ten minutes I feel so mentally bruised that I am happy to return to my own quiet little place on the internet, open outlook and begin to tap out my email.

On television routines

In which it’s a bit late on Sunday evening

It nearly happened again. I was on my way to bed – tea cup on the sink, check on the boys, lights off – when I remembered: BLOG! But I was kind of relieved because it gave me an excuse to turn the television back on and finish the episode of Vera. I do like the show, but it finishes a little late for a Sunday evening so I never watch the whole thing. It feels quite old-fashioned watching television on a Sunday night, but Rake has started it’s final season so I’ll be in front of the television every Sunday night for another few weeks yet. I find the Vera programming interesting because on the one hand it’s quintessential Sunday night ABC (British drama, although the space for British drama has morphed into crime over the years) but on the other it’s almost eleven o’clock by the time it’s finished which is a little late for your typical ABC Sunday night viewer I would have thought. But then what would I know about running the ABC? I mean, I would never have cut PM back to half an hour (a change which has DESTROYED my evening and that is no exaggeration–an hour-long PM has defined my evening routine ever since I was a child and my dad had it on in the kitchen while he drank a long neck of Southwark and got our dinner ready). Vera is reaching it’s conclusion after its somewhat horrifying climax and it will give me nightmares and why on earth would anyone watch such a thing this late on Sunday night? Oh, that’s right, because they’re a blogger.
(The jury still out on whether this daily blogger caper is a good idea–but see you tomorrow all the same)

On Saturday

In which Saturday night is not a rockstar night

I was just on my way to bed when I remembered that I’m a blogger and I have to post something every day because that’s what I told myself I would do and I am determined to do the things I told myself I would do. I know, that sounds ridiculous even to me, but anyway, here we are and I must quickly think of something to say.

Thinking of something to say is more difficult than it sounds because I’m exhausted and I’ve been writing all day and into the night and I don’t think I’ve got any words left to share with you. Don’t feel sorry for me though, because in about five minutes I’ll be crawling into bed. Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, the mister is having a nap in the back of the car. He has been jackhammering tiles all day so is more exhausted than I am, but teenagers needed to be taxied to places and in the end he decided he would just hop into the backseat and sleep rather than drive all the way back here only to drive all the way back there again. This is the price you pay when you move to a city without paying proper attention to where you live in relation to where your children go to school and thus where their friends will be located during their sociable teenage years. And of course they should get themselves there only the public transport between here and there is lacking to the point of non-existence and the party doesn’t end until one and a P plater’s curfew is 12. We could say you have to be home before your P plate curfew but I was a teenager once and I do get that if the party finishes at one, you want to be there until one. So, the back seat of the car it is for the mister (insert ‘joke’ about that’s where he was when he was a teenager too and something something irony, funny ‘joke’).

The other advantage I have over the mister besides access to a bed is a cup of tea. The mister only made his decision after he had left home so he hasn’t even got a thermos.

I think we can all agree the world would not be worse off if I’d simply gone to bed without filling this space with noise.

On Friday

In which I remain distracted, but am finally focused on the task at hand

I’ve spent way too much time this week distracted by the horrifying spectacle out of Canberra, culminating in the previously unthinkable relief that our prime minister is Scott Morrison. I’m not actually relieved about that because along with the deplorable human rights abuses committed by him, he abstained from voting for the marriage equality legislation despite his own electorate voting in fovour of it. Still, I guess overall it’s situation unchanged for someone with my politics so the week has ended as it began only I’m a little more despairing about the state of politics generally. I fear that the ‘they’re all the same narrative’ is set like concrete in our psyche now and that cannot be good news for civil debate. Oh, and the planet is still on fire and the Australian government certainly won’t be rocking up with a hose to fight it.

Anyway and anyhoo, the mister did ring me only moments after the results of the vote were announced to say that our new puppy will be arriving on Wednesday so life does go on for now at least and I’m fairly certain the sun will rise tomorrow as they say.

As a result of my distraction this week, it’s now 8pm on Friday night and I am in front of my computer, a toasted sandwich for my dinner and a shitload of work to do. I’ve finally switched ABC News 24 off and am listening to Double J’s playlist of greatest women on their spotify playlist. It is ace. And to be fair, even working is better than sitting down in front of the television watching my team who promised so much so early in the season lose the final game of the season.

I did have a much more interesting post underway for today but then I ran out of time to polish it off, because I was too busy writing even more emails to politicians, so it’s this mish-mash of nothingness instead. Until tomorrow.

PS I’ve tagged this Friyay. It’s a word I learnt from instagram. I’m using it ironically just in case you were wondering. I’d never use it for real.

PPS As well as getting my blog back on track, I’ve started a tinyletter, you cant sign up for it over here over here

On distraction

In which I spend the day attending to work as best I can

I can’t look away from the ABC and the news about the Liberal party eating itself. And trying to stay logged out of twitter. But I’m not sure what to say. And although it’s my dad’s birthday today I don’t want to write about grief or even about relationships…

…so today I’ve been getting some of my writing projects tidied up a bit, and as well as getting to work on my blog I’ve been doing some tinyletter work lately. So far, I’ve only posted them to myself but I’m getting on top of things now, so if you want to subscribe, the link is on this page over here

On leadership

In which I am utterly despondent about politics and turn to television

Utterly despondent about politics right now. Malcolm Turnbull has been an absolute disappointment. I mean I was never going to love the leader of the Liberal party, but his continual capitulation of anything he believed in–most particularly same sex marriage and climate change–was unedifying at best. The idea that we might have Peter Dutton has left me, quite literally, in tears. We are locking kids up in offshore detention, and our planet is on fire, and our solution is Peter Dutton.

But I hate, just hate this constant trashing of our democracy by the guardians of our democracy. I think I should write about something different because honestly I am finding this really upsetting and stupidly I engaged on twitter which is something I never usually do because it’s entirely toxic…I should just stay on the instas…

so, quick, what else can I write about? I can’t think of anything much and the only reason I’m writing at all is because it’s only day three of my renewed commitment to my blog.

I know! Over the weekend I watched the loveliest series on netflix–The Dectectorists. I’m a bit sad the last series isn’t there, but I highly recommend. It has that perfect blend of comedy (well, more humour really than comedy) blended with characters who walk on the edge of loneliness because humans and their friendships are always fragile but never quite fall in because friendships win. Writing that sentence has cheered me up a bit and if you need cheering up go and watch The Dectectorists.

On exercise

In which I discover the daggy world of the fitbit

I’ve been wearing a fit bit. I think this is a. quite daggy; b. slightly too focussed on weight and body image; and c. so late to the party that all that’s really left to do is pick up the glasses, tip the dregs down the sink and clean out the ashtrays (and that’s how late I truly am to this party because this party was held so long ago that it was full of smokers).

I have been feeling my fitness shift significantly downwards ever since I moved back from Abu Dhabi and while I’ve never been especially fit, over the last ten years I’ve been slightly above average and I do like the energy and strength that comes from a bit of added fitness. And if I’m honest, I do identify now as someone who has above average fitness and at nearly fifty I’ve got enough identity rediscovery going on without adding another element into the mix.

The main issue is that I haven’t found my exercise groove since I moved back from Abu Dhabi. This is a slightly good development because it means my life has been filled with things other than getting to the gym every day, but at the aforementioned nearly fifty it’s become an issue of ‘what do I do?’ Even when I was working full time, I did still have more time in Abu Dhabi for getting to the gym, and on top of that, the class structures meant that getting to classes with people of about my level of fitness was much easier. Here, I’m a bit out of synch with the school-mum routine so the school-mum classes start a bit too late in the morning; I’m not going to even try to pretend to be someone who can get to an early-morning class; and the evening classes are filled with people who are often twenty years younger than I am. It’s not that I mind being older, it’s just that it’s not all that much fun being in a class of people who are naturally so much fitter and also … well, it’s not that they are actually rude, but it’s true what they say about middle aged women and invisibility.

So I’ve been trying to do fitness without the classes, and when done well, time on the gym floor is more effective than classes but the thing about classes is that the thinking and the motivation is done for a person and all a person has to do is move. I’ve had a personal trainer for the last maybe two years, but I broke up with him a few months ago. There were two things underlying this decision. First, I wasn’t convinced it was doing me any good after a while. It’s that thing where doing one thing convinces you that you don’t have to do another, so all I was doing was rocking up, doing what I was told for 45 minutes a week but without properly constructing a routine around that.

Second, having a trainer is extremely expensive and I was conscious that I wasn’t getting the benefit I needed to justify the expense. Especially in the context of our current household economy which has seen an unexpected expense, the ongoing general expenses of teenagers about to go to university, and a more fine-grained understanding that retirement will come sooner than we realise.

My decision not to see my trainer anymore has been retrospectively justified in his attitude towards me since which has, in truth, been kind of hurtful as, even after a long absence from the gym, he has barely looked at me let alone asked how I’m going on. Not that he owes me anything, but after two years in what is a reasonably intimate relationship (you do have to let your guard down a bit if a trainer is really going to do their work) I don’t think the odd ‘hey, how’s it?’ is too much to ask.

Anyhoo, the point is that I realised that even with the trainer I wasn’t sure what exercise I was really, truly doing. Hence why (a phrase I do hope is going out of fashion as quickly as ‘ace’ because while I love ‘ace’, ‘hence why’ is weird) the fitbit. So I can understand what each exercise session is truly about in terms of heart-rate-raised and time-spent-ways.

The results are in: I am shocked at how little exercise I really do. As I suspected my time at the gym was not especially strenuous. But not only that I am way more inactive during the day than I had realised. I mean, I sit at a desk writing or on the couch knitting for most of my time so obviously I knew I was at least moderately inactive. But honestly, I can see now that there are days when I did almost nothing beyond breathing. I’ve also been shocked to understand how little sleep I’ve been getting. I do go to bed a bit too late, but even allowing for the fitbit’s inaccuracies I don’t spend much time in deep sleep.

As daggy as the fitbit is, it does suck you in with all it’s little progress measures (have you done 250 steps this hour? don’t you think it’s time you had something to eat?), and I’ve been walking a lot more since I got it (on which I will write more tomorrow, because how good is walking) and now that I’ve had it for a couple of weeks it’s cheaper than a trainer.

Perhaps the least interesting blog post ever written but it’s helped to distract me for another hour from the idea that Peter Dutton is likely to be our next prime minister. This is extraordinarily alarming and who will save us? (Julie Bishop? I bet she wears a fitbit–of no relevance to whether she can run a country of course. I can’t abide her politics but I do love her wardrobe–again of no relevance to whether she can run a country).

On tulips

In which I discover that tulips aren’t the only flowers

Tulips seem to have gone out of fashion, which is a pity because they’re my favourites. I buy a bunch of flowers every Friday with my market shopping. It’s my last stop on the way, and this final thing, a bunch of flowers pushed jauntily into my basket carries me through the week. Except less so because they’re no longer tulips.

When my dad was sick, flowers were my treat to myself. They were an anchor to the living. Which I guess is weird given that they had been cut off from life and now were dying. But I brought the deep orange tulips home and watched them open, their stems growing longer so that the tulips looked like spiders spreading out of the vase.

These days when I do find a bunch of tulips they sit in the vase, limp and pale, many of them never opening.

I keep buying the flowers, but each week now, it’s as if another part of my father has died. The world moves on.