Raining Cats, Dogs and Maltesers

Mother Nature wasn’t very happy yesterday. In fact, I’d go as far as to say she was pretty pissed off. If I was a guy I’d probably say it was a case of PMT, but I’m not, so I’ll just hazard a guess and say she was having one hell of a bad hair day.

Whatever the reason, Ms Nature certainly gave 2 fingers up to anyone in Perth who’s been moaning about the weather. Or more specifically, the 40 degrees of constant heat with not a drop of rain since November.

Now I do appreciate that to people in wetter isles, England lets say, the idea of nearly 5 months without rain might seem like something of a dream. But let me tell you, it’s not. When a total lack of precipitation is teamed up with temperatures more suited to melting iron ore, it can make for some pretty uncomfortable living. Not to mention a rather dry, dusty, brown and monotonous landscape.

So that said, I think it would be quite safe to assume that rather a lot of people in Perth (and some extremely dehydrated plants) were rather looking forward to the dry spell breaking. And break it did. With bells on.

With barely enough time to drag the dog through the fly screen, the blue sunny sky disappeared and the hailstones arrived. Hailstones the size of Maltesers, pouring out of the sky so fast you’d think God had accidently left his freezer door open, and a passing angel had carelessly tipped it over. We were lucky only to get Maltesers, in the city they were apparently the size of golf balls.

Then came the rain. Or should I say the downpour, pelting in at us from at every angle but up. Within minutes our garden was several inches under water, and there was, what could only be described, as a flash flood going past the end of our drive.

Being me, of course I tried to take some photos of the hailstones stacking up 9 inches deep at our back door. But the moment I opened the door to take the picture, the bloody dog shot off into the garden. How stupid is he? He see’s, what to him must have looked like a Noah’s Ark moment, and he still decides to go out for a quick dig in the sand.

Needless to say once he went out I refused to let him, or his soggy wet fur, back in again. He may be of the non-smelling variety of pooches, but even a soaking wet Spoodle has something of a whiff about it. So I hardened my heart and held my resolve – right up until the point where my daughter stood sobbing at the window, looking down at a pathetic excuse for a fur ball, trying to pin himself flat against the wall with his damp ears plastered around his snout. Two clean towels and a vigorous blow dry later and he was back inside and on the rug. I hope he’s learned his lesson, that nothing is worth the pain of a dig in the hail.

Dumb dogs aside, in the sort of weather that heralds the start of Armageddon the average person normally chooses to stay indoors, steer clear of windows and turn up the TV. Sadly I’m not average, so I grabbed the car keys, swam to the car and set off with oars at the ready.

Of course as the sky turned pitch black overhead and the odd branch blew past like tumbleweed, it did cross my mind that this might not be the most sensible decision in the world. But really I had no choice. My son, who isn’t partial to loud noises and the car wash at the best of times, was stranded at his nursery 8 minutes down the road. Even if he’d had the foresight to take his water wings with him that day, I very much doubted he’d have managed the journey alone.

“The clouds are very angry” he told me, over and over all the way home.

My poor husband arrived back quite a bit later than usual that night.  Something to do with me having his car, the train tracks being flooded, every cab being taken and the buses being fit to burst. I’m not sure it necessarily helped, when I pointed out that if he had had his car that day, he’d no doubt still be stuck in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, as the world and their wet dog struggled to leave work.

Needless to say the news teams and anchormen (I would be P.C. and say anchorwoman, but all the women sound like men anyway) were practically salivating with joy on the TV last night. Finally, something worth reporting in Perth that didn’t involve a drunken AFL player, a misplaced kangaroo and a runaway shopping trolley on the freeway.

As I know I’m rather prone to the odd bit of exaggeration (creative license and all), I’ve added the pictures below to show that for once, Perth really did have something happen to get excited about.

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There’s no such place as perfection

Lots of people heading over to live from the UK want to know, what’s life in Perth really like? Is it all blue skies, suntan cream and sandy beaches? Is it better than the UK in every way? Is everyone as ‘happy as Bruce’ and do the kangaroos all smile and wave you on your way as you speed off to work your 5 hour day?

In a word, and a very short one at that, NO.

Despite popular misconception, it does get cold here as well – Perth has long winters with not much sun and a lot of rain. Just like the UK, everyone isn’t happy all of the time, and kangaroos don’t really smile. I’d say if anything they smirk.

Some people, understandably, given how many burning hoops they have to leap through to get a visa, want to believe that Perth is the answer to all problems on earth – and the very opposite of evil old England. Yes, without a doubt it’s a lovely place to live and the lifestyle is so laid back that many have trouble getting upright again. But like every country it’s far from perfect.

Houses are still expensive and the cost of living high. Jobs are often hard to come by, and the working hours and commutes long. Older kids are often tempted by the huge drug scene on offer. Gang crime, knife crime and gun crime still fills up the news. Politicians still fail to deliver and continue to talk out of their backsides… So Perth may be many things to many people, but if you’ve built it up in your mind to be ‘perfection’,  then you might just be shocked to find it’s not the answer to all of your prayers.

Those migrants fresh from the plane and still marveling at the vastness of the sky, the millions of stars on view at night and the wide open beaches will tell you that ‘Perth is as good as it gets’. And that, I think can be very misleading to those trying to decide whether to make the move over. Firstly because the reality of life overseas (once the initial excitement has worn off, whether that takes a week, a month or ever a year) can sometimes be very different to what people expect, and secondly peoples idea of ‘as good as it gets’ can vary greatly.

Many people move over from the UK for a better lifestyle and a house in the sun, a chance to escape a country that is spinning out of control. But despite this, a massive 40% of those who move over from the UK still decide to go back again. That’s an awful lot of people making an extremely costly and difficult decision to return – a decision no one would ever take lightly, or do without good reason. Moving your life around the world is a big enough upheaval in the first place, moving back and starting again is an even bigger one.

Everyone has their own different reasons for not wanting to stay. Some find the distance from friends and family too great. Some feel too cut off from the rest of the world. Some realise that problems faced in the UK are also faced over here. Perhaps some just didn’t want to spend their weekends surfing, hiking, fishing, camping and drinking beer around a BBQ. Or maybe once they’d had a year of cooking sausages in Kings Park, eating fish & chips at Hillarys and trying to spot animals at Perth Zoo the novelty of it all simply wore off. Who knows, maybe the reality of life here simply never lived up to the hype.

So if you’re leaving England and heading south in search of perfection, then it might be wise to really get the lay of the land before your feet touch down on the dusty ground. This way you cut then risk of being surprised, disappointed or disillusioned  by what you find. Because if you arrive ready to start your new life Down Under with your eyes wide open, then you will probably love it all and never look back.

To quickly go back to the original question of what’s it like to live in Perth, here’s my answer:

Today I got woken up early by the radio. It was grey, wet and cold outside and the drone of irritating DJ’s put me back to sleep – until the dog barked millimetres away from my ear. I dragged two children from their beds and fed them breakfast. I made my own breakfast and then watched it conceal into concrete as I hunted for last nights homework sheet. I stepped on the dogs tail as he rushed past me to the backdoor. It was still pouring with rain, so as the school bell went in the distance I threw the kids into the car.

I returned from the school run, cleared up breakfast, emptied the dishwasher, put on the washing machine, swept half the garden off the kitchen floor. I then rounded up my son, his water cup and potty and headed out to the supermarket. We navigated the aisles with a renegade trolley while I fed him pancakes to keep him quiet and contained. I loaded the car, filled up with petrol and unloaded the car – all in the rain.

Next came lunch, as requested by my son. I watched him push it around his plate for so long that I gave up, ate it myself and then cleared up. He got all his toys out just to see what would take his fancy – we played with Lego, blocks and trains. The school bell sounded, so we set off with the dog in tow. We ran to the park so the dog could wear himself out while we all stood under a tree in the downpour. I supervised homework, cleared up the house, cooked dinner for the kids and remembered the washing in the machine from this morning. I shoved it all in the tumble drier as it was still raining.

Fed both kids their dinner – felt my blood pressure rise. Cleared up the mess. Supervised their bath time – felt my blood pressure rise further. Overcame a toddler meltdown when Tellytubbies said ‘Goodbye’. Shoehorned two kids into bed and then cleared up the house. Again. Started dinner. Again. Husband arrived home. We both collapsed in front of TV – exhausted. The dog barked at next doors cat and woke me up at 1am. I lay there staring at the clock and waiting to go back to sleep again. I started to panic when I couldn’t fall asleep. Then I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to turn the tumble drier on. I went to sleep convinced I could already smell the washing going mouldy.

I got woken up early by the radio….

Point made? Living in Perth is like living in many other countries around the world – 5% sunshine and light, 95% reality of your day-to-day life. So whether you choose to live at the top of the world or down here at the bottom, your bills will still mount up and your funds sometimes run low, your children will still squabble, bicker and sulk, and the contents of your ironing basket will still have doubled in size everytime you walk past.

That, as they say, is life.

Why Perth will never equal Paris

Paris, NY, London and Milan – the fashion capitals of the world. Exciting hubs of cutting edge design and stylish good taste. Where the beautiful flock to see and be seen, and designers fight to outdo each other, sending one unwearable outfit after another down the catwalk.

Perth on the other hand – not so much a hub as a gaping hole. The universal dumping ground for the last 3 decades worth of dodgy trends. A place that shops everywhere send their unwanted stock to, and the fashion police earn more in a weeks overtime than your average divorce lawyer would in a year.

Lord only knows why some of the clothes shops are so bad here, it’s not like there isn’t online access to the rest of the world and a constant supply of current fashion magazines. Perhaps it’s because the city is so isolated that it’s inhabitants just don’t care, or because the over zealous customs officials are rooting out all the best stuff and selling it off on Ebay. Whatever the reason, I’d have to say trends here seem to be at least a good 20 years behind the rest of the world.

Think ‘Hillbilly Chic’. A sort of trucker meets 80′s Chav meets unwashed backpacker.

Of course the limited choice of shops really don’t help. They are enough to turn even the most fashion conscious into the worst sort of fashion victim – or phobic. The options range from the likes of Kmart, Target and BigW for your cheap and cheerful basics – with basic being the operative word. Most garments seem to fall apart in the wash, beg for mercy under the heat of a gentle iron or change several dress sizes hours after being removed from the hanger. You get what you pay for of course, so for kids clothes, which have a shorter life span than the average family camera, these shops are great.

At the other end of the rather abysmal spectrum is Myers and David Jones. Both shops are supposedly the ‘Creme de la creme’ of Aussie shopping. Say no more. I’ve been into each a few times, but have never seen anything either particularly special or stylish, let alone affordable. I had a voucher to use up for David Jones recently, and it took me several visits to try and find anything that I even wanted to buy. In the end I settled for a pyjamas top. I only managed half an outfit as the top alone came to more than the voucher, and I was loathed to fork out even more for something I didn’t actually need.

Several washes later and the stitching on the top had all but unravelled. The fabric had also stretched so much on the sides that if I’d leapt off our roof, I could probably have coasted all the way out to Rottnest on a wind current.

Funnily enough a set of pyjamas I bought from Big W 3 winters ago are still going strong.

When talking to other POMS here, the one shop that most seem to miss is NEXT. If I had a decent pair of well fitted jeans for every time someone asked why they can’t open a store in Perth, my wardrobe would be overflowing with denim.

Clothes aside, there also seems to be an underlying scruffiness ingrained into the WA culture. The mullet for instance is incredibly popular over here, and it’s not uncommon to see an entire family out and about, all sporting matching scraggly rats tails down their backs. I think that like the fashion, photos in mens barbers over here must be somewhat outdated.

The other trend, one that never ceases to amaze me, is the notion that footwear is entirely optional. Now I’m not talking about going barefoot to the park or the beach – that would be understandable. I’m referring to those I’ve seen without shoes in IKEA, the city centre, restaurants, supermarkets, the cinema and the most dangerous of all, or so you’d think, Bunnings.

Revolting, dirty looking feet aside,  surely there have to be some serious health and hygiene laws being broken as kids run across the urine soaked floors of the public toilets and straight down the fresh produce aisle of the neighbouring supermarket.

And needless to say, if such people don’t ever wash their feet, it’s highly unlikely they’d wash their hands..

I followed one such woman and her snot encrusted child around Coles last week, and snapped her for with my phone for proof. Given that she looked like she was probably capable of beating me to death with one of those blocks of cheese, I’ve airbrushed her features slightly. But to be honest, I very much doubt she’d ever stumble across my blog, or be able to read this post.

This shoeless woman I have to say was certainly not alone. I spotted several others, overgrown toe nails and all, hot footing it through the freezer section.

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Perhaps people in WA feel there’s no point bothering with their appearance, because there’s really nowhere to dress up and go. I can relate to this, and know from experience it’s a very easy and highly dangerous trap to fall into. Before you know what’s happened, you can find that you’ve metamorphosed into a homeless bag lady, wearing the same old tracksuit for 6 days in a row and have forgotten to change out of your PJs on Sunday.

Now I’ve never been one for making a huge effort with clothes, or really caring that much about how I look, but a while back I realised I was starting to stoop to such a level. This was around the time I arrived at the school to collect my daughter and realised, as I went to get out the car, that I’d left the house in my slippers.

So the following weekend, when heading out to Coles to do the weekly shop, I dug around in the back of my wardrobe and put on a jacket, a scarf and my high-heeled boots – the sort of clothes I’d have once worn in the UK when popping out to fill the car up with petrol. Taking it one daring stop further, I took my hair out of a pony tail and dusted off my mascara,  pumping the tube vigorously to break the old clumps off the brush.

My son walked straight past me in the hallway, and then did a double take as he disappeared around the corner. I don’t think he actually recognised me. How sad is that.

“Oh you do look pretty Mummy” my daughter said as I appeared from the bedroom, clearly impressed with my ‘Extreme Makeover’. I loosely translated this compliment to mean that I normally didn’t.

“So where are you off to then, seeing as you’re all dressed up?” enquired my slightly suspicious husband.

With that I realised that I had better start making more of an effort, before I reached the day where I would think nothing of going to the shops still wrapped in my duvet, or end up with skin as thick as a rhinos hide on a pair of black and scaly feet.

Educational rubbish

I cleared out our mailbox earlier, and as usual, there was at least half a tree trunks worth of junk mail in there. The usual stuff. All of which went straight into the bin. The recycling bin that is.

This isn't on my gate I hasten to add, still they make a very good point.

There were coupons for Dominoes, offering $1 off the XXL super deluxe -  if you order at least 5, collect them in person and consume them between the sociable hours of 3am and 6am.

There was an offer of a ‘Free house valuation’ from the local estate agent. Free? Free? I should bloody well hope so. With the housing market the way it is at the moment, agents should be so lucky to have a house on their books that they could actually sell.

There was an extremely tempting offer on some reduced rate security shutter blinds -  if we have a large billboard outside our house advertising their services. Ermmm, lets think about that one for a minute. Nope. I don’t think prison chic really does that much for a house’s curbside appeal.

Then there was one from the Government health department, inviting me along for my free mammogram. Well strictly speaking the letter wasn’t exactly addressed to me, but someone who obviously lived here before and fell into the right age bracket. Not to be deterred and curious to see what I have in store for me in years to come, I thought I’d have a read through the literature.

Who knew I would have such a choice of languages – 30 in total, or 31 if you decided to read it in bog standard, boring old English. The other options were Amharic, Arabic, Bosnian, Burmese, Chinese (Simplified and Traditional), Croatian, Dari, Netherlandic, Farsi, French, Greek, Indonesian, Italian, Japenese, Macedonian, Malay, Maltese, Khmer, Korean, Polish, Portuguese, Serbian, Somali, Spanish, Swahili, Togalog, Thai, Tigrigna and Vietnamese.

Blimey, I’ve never even heard of some of those languages. Who knew that the northern suburbs of Perth were such a international melting pot of nationalities. The last time I took a look around, the only people living in the area were Australian’s, English, more English, even more English and a spattering of South Africans.

What I want to know is how do they even decide what languages to include on this type of bumpf?* Is it really based on the population of Perth, or do they just pick out the prettiest sounding languages and simply try to pad out the list to cover the entire alphabet?

Of course if you’re going to be really politically correct, then the literature should also have included Braille for the blind, a taped recording for the illiterate and a dictionary for the incredibly stupid. Then, when the whole lot is printed out on half a rainforest and delivered house to house, everyone at least has the option of either landing a job as a linguist in the UN, or using the 6″ wedge to stop their front door flying open in the storms.

* Incidentally, incase you’ve ever wondered about the history behind the word ‘bumpf’ -  it orginated in England during WW2, when the soldiers, who were overwhelmed with unnecessary printed materials, decided to do a spot of recycling and use them as loo roll – or ‘bum fodder’.

So there you go, don’t accuse me of never writing anything educational on my blog!

Another Shark Attack in Perth

On Saturday (9th May) a 35 year-old man had a very lucky escape when he came nose to nose with a 4.5 m pointer (great white), and survived to live another day.

When out in his boat around three nautical miles off Point Peron, he turned around to see most peoples worst nightmare coming true – a shark having an early morning snack and nibbling away at his engine.

As he tried to push the shark away with his oar, he ended up dropping it overboard. And then fell in himself. As they say, when it rains it really pours.

As his boat drifted away from him, he knew he had to keep as still as possible, so as to prevent the shark from attacking. Not an easy task this, given that he was bobbing around in choppy waters and being eyed up by a killer.

Eventually the shark got bored and went off in search off his next meal. With the coast clear, the man was able to make a bid for freedom and was picked up by a passing boat.

I have to say it’s hard to imagine what goes through the mind of someone being circled in the water by a man eating shark, I’m guessing your life flashes before you.

According to the Rockingham Sea Rescue, the man was ‘frightened and shaking’ when he was picked up. Do you think? Never mind frightened, I’d say he was probably in a heightened state of shock.

For a refreshing change, particularly in this incredibly publicity led world, the man has refused to be named or to speak publicly about his ordeal. So I think it’s safe to say we won’t be seeing him and his pearly whites appearing on the next McLean’s ad.

Who ever this lucky individual is, I’m sure he’ll be looking over his shoulder the next time he goes out in his boat, and remembering to wear his life jacket.

I think I can safely say, given my Jaws related phobia, I would certainly never even put myself in the vicinity of a such a shark. Unless of course it was being displayed in a museum or behind 3 foot of glass.

Other Shark attack posts>

Playtime

An Aussie influenced playground..

Posted From My iPhone

Hunting Skippy

One of the things that Australia is best known for, (apart from killer spiders) is its lean, mean, hopping machine. AKA the kangaroo.

When you first arrive in Australia, driving past the ‘Watch out, watch out there’s a kangaroo about’ road signs can be something a novelty.

They certainly beat the more mundane signs for cows, hedgehogs or ‘Men at work’.

My daughter to this day believes that whenever she sees such a sign, a kangaroo must surely be sitting nearby. Possibly filing it’s nails and waiting to leap out at the next car that comes past.

I’ve lost count of the number of times she has squealed “Kangaroo” at me from the backseat. “Where?” I yelp, slamming my foot on the break. “On the sign over there.” she offers up helpfully.

Roo spotting is indeed an excellent way to keep seat-belt bound children occupied for hours. The chances of them actually seeing one can be slim to none, but it is a golden opportunity to train up their eyesight, and stopping them asking “Are we nearly there yet?”

Now as far as that particular question goes, in my experience, as both an adult and a child, there is only 1 answer – “No, we only left the garage 5 minutes ago and we still have hours to go. Sit still, shut up and look out of the window.”

Oh, the power of parenthood.

If you live in suburbia, like we do, the likelihood of actually coming nose to nose with a kangaroo when you pop out to check your mailbox is nil. It is probably as unlikely as coming home to find one relaxing in a bubble bath, sipping a Baileys and listening to Norah Jones. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be found.

Up in the northern suburbs for instance, the bushland that runs along Burns Beach is home to quite a few. They can often be seen out and about on the hills, normally kicking back, having their tea and watching the sun go down. Connolly Drive is also meant to be a great place to spot them – so we keep being told.

So far, despite keeping my eyes peeled back up to my eyebrows and driving at a speed that would put my age at about 80, I have seen only 2. One was disappearing at a rather brisk pace behind a bush, and if I’m honest, could have just been a figment of my imagination. The other one was dead.

Poor thing, it was rather unsettling to see. Partly because it had most likely gone into battle with a bumper (and obviously lost), and partly because rigamortis must have kicked in with lightening speed. It was laying there on the edge of the road, rolled over on its side, but still in an upright seated position.

Granted this wasn’t the best example of wildlife to shows the kids, but hey, you have to take it where you can get it. Of course kids being kids, they weren’t at all fazed. My son, who was only 1 at the time, ignored Exhibit A, and carried on eating his rice wheels. My daughter, who was 7, was fascinated by the whole idea of it actually being real and dead.

I, on the other hand was deeply disturbed – all the way to the end of the road and up the next hill.

Another close kangaroo encounter came about on Lakeside Drive. We were driving back from Joondalup hospital in the middle of the night, (that would be night my husband tried to die on me) when a rather large kangaroo shot out from the bush and straight in front of the car. Luckily I wasn’t traveling quite as fast as I normally would, or we would have had a freezer full of Skippy steaks to keep our dog going for several years.

Of course there are many other places you can say ‘hello’,  if you don’t feel like patrolling the roads at night. Or if you already have a permanent crick in your neck, from trying to distinguish what is living, breathing mammal, and what is only a piece of drift wood by the side of the road.

Whiteman Park has a kangaroo enclosure which allows you to get up, close and very personal with a whole mob of them. Yes, ‘mob’ is the collective noun for kangaroos. I know, it sounds like they should be wearing football shirts, chanting stupid songs and drinking in the streets.

This is an ideal photo opportunity – a chance to stick Junior as close as he can go without being bitten, and then jump back as you tell him to smile. Yes, I admit, this is coming from personal experience. This hopefully adorable image can then be sent home, as your ‘Look where we live’ photo. Now, if you could somehow manage to pop a Santa hat on the kangaroo, think of the potential for your next family Christmas card…

Yanchep National Park is another great hot-spot. Here the kangaroos are just wandering around, without a fence or an entry ticket insight. Not so easy to get close enough to pat these, but a lovely setting to see them hopping around. The downside of this place is you are effectively walking on a carpet of Roo poo, but it’s a small price to pay for getting so close to nature.

It was on a visit here that my daughter asked one of those question’s. “What is that, hanging down from all those big kangaroos?”

“That would be their balls,” answered my ever so helpful, smirking husband. Great, thanks for that. How to open up a whole avenue of questions that I have absolutely no wish to answer yet.

There is one more place where you can be certain to literally lay your hand on a kangaroos leg. The supermarket. Or any good pet food supply outlet. OK, so maybe it’s not how you imagined wildlife to be – culled, chopped and cellophane wrapped – but it’s still a genuine kangaroo encounter nevertheless.

If you would still rather opt for those with a pulse, then happy hunting. But remember to wash your hands afterward, they can be more than a little whiffy.

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Getting hot, hot, hot

I think it is safe to say that summer has most definitely arrived in Perth. Temperatures are way up, the sun is out and the sky comes in just one shade of a very bright blue.

After all those months of moaning about how cold it got in the winter, here I am, cooking slowly in my own skin. Add an onion, a couple of carrots and a bay leaf and I’ll be good to go.

For the most part I love the heat. Always have. Something to do perhaps with growing up in Africa and being oven baked at a very young age. Having later gone to live in the blistering heat of the Middle East, followed by Singapore, I can’t say basking in the warmth of the sun every day has ever really given me a cause for complaint.

So yes, I do love the heat. Humidity, on the other hand, is not my friend. Granted, Singapore is about as humid as it gets, but life is conducted in homes, cars, offices and shopping malls, all of which are cooled down to the same arctic temperature as a freezer storage unit.

Here in sunny WA however, our evaporative air-con, while totally effective 95% of the time and a bargain at around $1 a day to run, does absolutely bugger all when a humid day rears it’s unwelcome head. Well I suppose it’s a bit unfair to say it does nothing. It does gather together all of the hot air flowing through the pipes in the sweltering loft space above, and then puff it down on to us in great muggy blasts.

As we did last year, this year we have decided that next year we are definitely going to invest in an air-con unit that actually does what it says on the tin.

Aside from that gripe all is fun in the sun, though perhaps not for the dog, who is admittedly spending far more time passed out under the trees than he is fetching balls. Our grass is also facing an uphill battle to stay green, and all of my various vegetables (except the peppers) have given up the good fight and withered away to nothing. So much for my grand plan to grow the contents of our crisper drawer this year.

The interior of my car, when left out in the sun, can now double up as a microwave. By the time I have strapped my son into his seat, shut his door and opened mine – ‘ping’ he is done. If I forget to put my cars ‘sunglasses’ on, the steering wheel is just about hot enough to remove my skin on impact.

On the subject of glasses. Over the past few months I have taken on similar facial markings to that of a panda. I have large permanent white rings around my eyes, giving me a somewhat startled appearance when at their worst. On the upside, I believe I have probably lessened my chances of being run over at night.

The trouble with the sun in Perth is that it gives a whole new meaning to the word bright. Having very light sensitive eyes, if I go outside without sunglasses I will almost certainly be blinded by the glare, and possibly reduced to nothing more than a pile of dust on the pavement.  Exposing my eyes to the elements will also give my skin just the excuse it’s been looking for to start wrinkling out of control. So if it’s a choice between looking like a candidate for Beijing Zoo’s breeding program, or looking like a little old lady who works 12 hours a day in the paddy fields, then there really is no competition. Bring on the bamboo and just call me Chi Chi.

Of course having a pool is a God send when the temperature shoot up. It also makes up for the rest of the year when it just sits there in the garden, like a rather attractive water feature. Unfortunately after a few days in the late 30′s, a pool can become something of a tepid bath, and swimming in a bath is not always relaxing. So when looking to cool down, the best trick I have found is to leap straight out from the shower and stand spreadeagled in front of a fan. Of course best to first check that the floor isn’t too wet on the way out and that your curtains are firmly closed.

One benefit of the heat is that I can now get my clothes washed, dried and back on within 45 minutes. How handy is that, it just makes doing the housework that little bit more special. All fabrics are currently drying within minutes of coming into contact with the peg, unlike in the winter months when clothes get draped across every surface in the house until the overpowering smell of mildew takes over, and they end up in the tumble drier.

Of course, if when pegging out your stuff you forget to turn your things inside out and hang your tops up back to front, by the time you bring them in they will have faded by several shades in the most obvious places. Or, if like me, you often forget to bring the washing in at all, then after several days all your have to do is open your door and let the clothes march in by themselves. I currently have at least 14 crispy fried shirts all sat in a basket, each one so rigid that I know it’s going to laugh in the face of the steam iron.

That said and done, we have been lucky in Perth. Despite the soaring temperatures, we haven’t had to contend with any of the terrible bush fires that have devastated parts of Southern Australia. This last week has proved what a a scary thing nature can be and with global warming on the war path, weather patterns as we know them are being turned on their heads.

For now the best thing is just to stay inside and avoid the sun during the hottest part of the day, slap sun cream on every inch of exposed skin and drink my bodies weight in water everyday. As I keep telling my daughter, by the time you realise you’re thirsty, your body is already well on it’s way towards dehydration.

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These pictures show how even the locals understand the importance of a good drink!

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Day care dilemmas

Few things make me really mad, but this morning I was fuming. I had a run in with a business who tried to take my money without actually offering anything in return. Foolish people, they had no idea the lengths this family will go to, for the sake of $20.

Let me explain. Earlier in the year, after agonising about whether cutting the apron strings would stunt my son’s future development, and catapult him into therapy, I decided to put him into nursery for a few days every week and get back to work. Of course once the decision was made, despite knowing my daughter had gone into day care and survived to live another day, I was racked with guilt.

Guilt aimed at myself – over my obvious selfishness, and the guilt that comes from those silent accusations, radiating out from judgemental ‘earth’ mother types. You know the the sort. The mum’s who are happy to schedule their every waking minute around baby groups, Jolly Jingle music classes and ‘Beginners Russian for Babies’. They appear to spend every single day painting with scraps of string, making animals out of paper mache and mass producing trays of multi-coloured cup cakes.

These are the mother’s who make you feel like an unmaternal monster for daring to enjoy your life before children, and incredibly selfish for even suggesting you want one after. Hats off to you if you are built this way, but please, enough with the comments and tutting. To these people, I say why don’t you concentrate on your own finger painting children, and leave the welfare of my children to me.

I think it is safe to say that I am not such a mother. I never have been, and no amount of intensive craft training or raised eyebrows are going to turn me into one. I did the whole baby group thing the first time around, so when my son came along I was reluctant to go back. Those dreaded weekly meets became all about graphic stories of ruptured placentas, lengthily labours and a fiercely fought battle over who had prepared the best spread of food on the day. Chinese water torture has nothing on a baby group.

Not wanting to starve my son of any joy in his life, we did give Gymbaroo a go. Being much younger than the other performing toddlers in the class, he refused to jump through the hoops or even go up to cuddle teddy. He actually spent much of the time fighting to get of my lap and out of the door. By the end of the term, as I sat with gritted teeth through all the songs, I had to agree with his gut instinct. We made our bid for freedom, sadly never to return.

Of course I love to play with my son. We happily spend many hours building train tracks, re-potting tubs of play dough and reading the same book, over and over and over again. Mealtimes I could do without, but the rest I would never want to miss. But as much as I value this time, I also need to keep my brain ticking over. I need to have a few days where I’m not covered in cracker crumbs and knee deep in sand. I also have to earn a living and pay the bills.

Anyway, back to that guilt.

Eventually my paranoid state subsided and common sense prevailed. Helped along by a timely reminder about the importance of social skills, as my son attempted to scalp an unsuspecting friend who came to play.

With a decision made, I set around finding somewhere that he could go. I naturally went to the nursery with the best reputation, a family run business with a queue for places that ran out of the door. 3 months I was told, 4 at the tops. Fair enough I thought, if there are no places then it must be good. So I handed over the $20 registration fee and resigned myself to the wait.

Trouble is, patience isn’t really my thing though, so after a few days I thought I’d give the other nursery a go. This one didn’t have such a good reputation. ABC Learning Centre is a chain, with 1000′s of centres around the world, and an army of staff who probably aren’t all great. But with an open mind and the need to work looming over me,  I went along for a look. I was impressed with the reception my son and I received and he was given a place starting a few days later. As I said, patience just isn’t my thing.

Along we went on the first day, with teddy stuffed into a Bob the Builder bag so big, my son could have used it for a cot. Yes, he was a little bit teary at first, but not nearly as bad as me. I walked away that day, with my forked tail tucked into my jeans, went home and did nothing. I sat and worried, imagined the worst and then called 3 times before picking him up to bring him home for lunch. The next day was better, and by the 3rd he was fine. By the 5th day I was fine too, so decided I’d better stop calling up to check he wasn’t still howling at the gate for me. As if. All tears stopped when I walked away.

That was nearly 8 months ago now, and I have to say my son has never been happier. He helps pack his bag, climbs into the car and runs to go into the toddler room. His speaking has improved, he plays rather than ambushes and has even learned to sit still for more than 30 seconds at a time. He also sleeps better at night. Bingo!

Now back to the reason for my climbing blood pressure. In all this time, I have never heard so much as a peep from the other nursery, the one with the ‘excellent’ reputation and a waiting list longer than an IKEA store. Not once have they called to say there are still no spots or even to apologise for the delay. Nothing. So armed with the knowledge that other children have since been taken in, I went along today to ask for my $20 back. I saw no reason why they should keep my money simply for filing a piece of paper.

The owner, after admitting to already being asked the same thing by somebody else that day, said “No, the money was non-refundable.”

I don’t think so. If my son’s promised place had materialised, or I had even had a call, then yes, I would have agreed. But there wasn’t and they didn’t, and $20 is after all, still $20.

“Circumstances change” she tried to claim, “and we do have the best reputation in the area.”

“Well my circumstance didn’t change”, I replied, ” and I wouldn’t have paid and waited for a place that was never going to be there”.

“Fine”, she snapped back, slapping the $20 that she was for some reason holding, into my hand. “Take that then, and good luck to you.” She indicated to the door and I left, fuming. I can only presume that she thought I would need the good luck in finding another nursery who would take my son.

So there you go. Reputations are not all they are cracked up to be. If someone runs a child care centre like a cash register, and takes money from everyone who walks through the door, why would you ever want to entrust your child to such tender fleecing care. I think I’d rather spend every day covered in bits of sticky back plastic and smothered in PVA glue.

Finally, to all those mother’s who are made to feel like sending your child to day care is on a par with pushing them into a lions den, smothered in Bovril. I would say ignore what other people say. Just because you need to have a few days to yourself, whether to work, or think, or even sleep, it doesn’t mean you don’t love your child, care about their development or even enjoy spending time with them. It just means you need some time… to work, or think, or even sleep.

If that isn’t a good enough reason, then a recent study estimated that children who go to day care cut their risk of the most common type of childhood leukaemia by around 30%. Something to do with them building up their immunity to the small stuff, after spending their first year with a constant streaming nose and a face encrusted with snot.

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Love Thy Neighbour

There are some boys on our street who make me wish that using an air riffle was legal. They wander around, swearing at the tops of their voices and generally going out of their way to irritate, provoke or pick fights with everyone who gets in their way. As children go, they could best be described as feral.

Over the course of the last year, they have attempted to smash both the street lights with rocks and the curbside with a shot-put. They have run riot through front gardens – breaking trees and trampling flowerbeds. They have removed sprinkler heads, thrown rubbish around and pinched the girls bikes off them when they have ventured out to play.

One week they ‘borrowed’ a shopping trolley from Coles. Taking turns to sit in it, they rode up and down the street at breakneck speed. Had one of them fallen out onto the road, I don’t think I would have battered an eyelid. It was the worry of the trolley knocking another child off their feet or taking chunks out of my car’s paintwork that prompted me to have it collected and returned to it’s rightful home.

One day, after having gone outside and told the group of mouthy boys to stop hammering our curb with the said shot-put, they started chucking limes at our roof tiles. How much harm can you possibly inflict with a piece of fruit you may think. Quite a lot actually. Especially when the limes are rock hard, and the roof tiles are prone to breaking if you so much as snap your fingers in their direction.

You could be forgiven for thinking we live on a inner-city housing estate, with burnt out cars and old mattresses stacked up in the front gardens. Hardly. We live smack back in the middle of suburbia. Think Ramsey Street, without the regular bouts of arson, murder and intrigue.

To some, these underage pests may not sound too bad. It’s just ‘boys being boys’ you might say. I beg to differ. The petty vandalism aside, it’s the attitude, of these boys, barely into double figures, that just blows me away. The way that they turn the air blue when the other kids are trying to play, the constant fighting and the complete lack of respect towards anyone over 18. If you are thinking that the parents are to blame, that children are a result of their upbringing, then yes, I couldn’t agree more. But don’t even get me started on the mother.

Maybe I am officially now ‘old’. I know that the following is certainly going to make me sound that way – It just wasn’t like that when I was growing up. We weren’t allowed to call our parent’s friends by their christian names, we would have been eternally grounded for being cheeky to an adult and probably sent off to foster care had we dared to swear at one. Yet these kids think nothing of screaming all manner of abuse at an adult. They they did just that at a neighbour recently. Why? Because he stepped in and told them to stop using another child as a punch bag.

Maybe it’s me. Perhaps the world has just moved on, and I never got sent the memo about what is now deemed ‘acceptable’. I know that it is now the ‘in thing’ to treat your child like a mini adult. To dress them up to look 18, to let them stay up until they fall asleep, to educate them way beyond their years and to encourage them to join in adult conversations, voicing an opinion about everything they hear.

Teaching good manners and learning when to keep it zipped no longer seems to be a priority to some parents. It’s all about making sure the child feels important in the world. More important than they actually should be.

I have lost count of the number of presents we have given, where there wasn’t even a ‘Thank you’ in return. This winds me up no end. My daughter spends weeks after her birthday and Christmas, sat at the table, writing out thank you letter, after thank you letter. She may only be doing it because I tell her to, but I’d like to believe that this slow and painful exercise in gratitude and appreciation, will last a lifetime.

Saying that, I do have concrete proof that all my years of nagging about the importance of good manners, have not been in vain. Last month she woke up, called for me and said “Please can you get me a bucket Mummy, I think I’m going to be sick”.  I even got a “Thank you”, a couple of minutes later, as she pulled her head out of her Barbie bin, looking slightly green around the gills and covered in last night’s dinner.

My 2 year old is also learning to say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ at the moment. Of course he is only parroting back what we say, and has no absolutely no idea why. But this is how kids learn. I go along with the philosophy of getting them while they are young. Hopefully then in years to come, a neighbour will never have to eye him up through their net curtains and wish they had a gun.

As for those loud mouthed pains on our street. It was a happy day for all when a SOLD sign recently went up. ‘Trouble’ is currently packing up and hopefully soon on it’s way. But it just goes to show, no matter where you live in the world, you can choose your house, but it’s completely pot luck who ends up living next door.

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