what you can do with a pile of sand

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Here’s a little gem from youtube that’s well worth 8 minutes of your time. I’d even go so far as to say I guarantee you’ll also end up watching it more than once… and utter the word ‘Wow’ at least half a dozen times.

The video shows the winner of 2009′s ” Ukraine ‘s Got Talent “, Kseniya Simonova. Her ‘talent’ – drawing a series of pictures on an illuminated sand table – is incredibly mesmeric to watch, as the continuous flow of images tell the rather emotional story of how ordinary people were affected by the German invasion during World War II.

She begins by creating a scene showing a couple sitting holding hands on a bench under a starry sky – then war planes appear and the happy scene is obliterated.

It is replaced by a woman’s face crying – then a baby arrives and the woman smiles again. Once again war returns and Miss Simonova throws the sand into chaos, from which a young woman’s face appears.

She quickly becomes an old widow, her face wrinkled and sad, before the image turns into a monument to an Unknown Soldier.

This outdoor scene becomes framed by a window as if the viewer is looking out on the monument from within a house.

In the final scene, a mother and child appear inside and a man standing outside, with his hands pressed against the glass, saying goodbye.

During The Great Patriotic War, as it is called in Ukraine, one in four of the population was killed, with 8 to 11 million deaths out of a population of 42 million. Little wonder then, that so many in the audience were moved to tears and this incredible artist went on to win the top prize of about $ 75,000.

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Click on the picture below to watch this truly amazing performance..

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Demon children and saintly spoodles

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Taking your child away on holiday can sometimes be a very dangerous thing to do. In only a few short weeks they can morph into a human being barely recognisable from the one you once knew. As routine, balanced diet and consistency goes out the window, everything you ever taught them seems to follow, including good manners, eating habits and general all round intelligence.

In the case of my 3 year-old, this certainly seemed to be the case. He left Perth a mild-mannered, book loving, happy eater, and arrived in England a screeching, uncontrollable terror. Who wouldn’t eat a single vegetable. Including beans. Coated in tomato sauce. Made by Heinz. Heavens above, what child refuses those?

What the hell happened up there at 33,000 feet you might ask? I’m still pondering the very same question myself – but looking back it’s easy to see where it all went so wrong.

A stranger to sugar and capable of sleeping for up to 4 hours in his afternoon nap, my son found his world being tipped upside down as he was dragged from his bed and shoe horned into the car on the way to the airport. There we were, in the middle of the night, singing to try to keep him awake. Dragging him behind us at speed, force feeding him cookies (albeit low-fat ones) to coax him on a plane he didn’t want to go on, and then telling him he must then lie down and go back to sleep, with bright lights and dinner trays clattering all around him.

It was a recipe for disaster from the start, and the rest of the holiday carried on in much the same vein. Erratic bed times, long stretches in the car, sporadic mealtimes containing all the wrong foods and a difference set of people every time he woke up. To say he was a fish out of water was an understatement. More like a little boy in a parallel universe.

As a direct result of this holiday madness, and so not really his fault at all, his behaviour often veered on the side of manic. Energy levels went through the roof, ears sealed off to reasoning and his mouth went into screeching overdrive. And all in a country where you are no longer allowed to ‘discipline’ your child in public … tricky.

He now saw eating – unless the food in question came under the food group ‘treat’ – as an unncessary inconvenience, and as mentioned before, anything that had once grown up from, across or dropped to the ground was now met with a pursed mouth and muffled cries of “Don’t like it”. A tad frustrating, especially as the week before he’d happily opened up for aubergine and olives.

The ‘highlight’ of this out-of-control behaviour came however, at perhaps the very worst time possible of our entire holiday. I’d go as far as to say, that in the collective 12 years my offspring have been alive, never have I wanted to hang my head so low in shame.

While visiting a potential school for my daughter, my son reached deep into his inner demon and pulled out quite possibly the worst behaviour that the inside of the headmasters office has ever seen. He spread crumbs far and wide (from a biscuit off the tea-tray he’d launched himself at), squeezed his juice box across the polished table and pulled himself back and forwards across the floor like the member of a crack commando team. He climbed on the window seats, threw cushions on the floor and very nearly pulled down the curtains – 4 times. He struggled when I picked him up, pulled at me when I put him down and slithered to the ground when I put him back in his seat. The entire time he screeched and shrieked and laughed like a nutter possessed.

It was pretty toe-curling stuff, as any parent could well imagine.

There we were, talking about school reports and untapped potential and trying to give a good impression. And there was  my little monster – who would also be eligible to go there in a years time – bouncing off the walls like Tiger on a mixture of crack cocaine and speed.

The only saving grace in this whole embarrassing ordeal was that the headmaster knew better than to judge the entire family based off of the actions of its smallest member. As well as being a parent,  he was also my old English teacher – the teacher who had in fact inspired me to start writing in the first place, many light years ago.

Should this worrying tale of holiday woe begin to put off any parent thinking of taking a break, then fear not, it does have a happy ending.

After the episode at the school, sugar was abruptly cut out of his diet (which was unfortunate for him as this happened before Christmas). Within days he started to ease off his high and calm down again – apparently it takes at least 2 weeks for somebody to go cold turkey where the sweet stuff is involved. Now back in Perth, my son is already back to his old self, and get this, better than before. His manners are perfect, he’s calm and controllable and best of all, he’s eating vegetables faster than I can get them on his plate.

Not that I’d ever recommend killing your child’s routine and dragging them round the world to help knock them into shape, but on this occasion, it seems to have done the job.

Incidentally, the same also seems to be true of Charlie. He went into the kennels as a naughty, barking, escape artist, and come out a changed dog. He is now well-behaved, quiet and far more obedient than the 2 year-old Spoodle that went in. He didn’t even make a run for it the other day, when I accidently opened the garage door without shutting him inside first.

Now, if my daughter had gone in the same direction as my son and the dog, I could have said I had a hat trick on my hands. Unfortunately the excellent behaviour she showed when away (which was enough to get her offered a place at the school) has worn off some, and been replaced with the somewhat emotional and pouting little girl of before.

Still, can’t win them all, and 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

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For richer for poorer, till death do us part

With the winter now behind us and my muffin top threatening to morph into a Brioche, this morning I took myself off to a spin class.

It’s been over a month since I last graced the gym with my presence – a chest infection and school holidays have kept me at home, and in a distinctly weakened state. It’s hard to say what caused my state to weaken more, the chest infection or the school holidays, but either way I haven’t been able to get within sniffing distance of my trainers for a while.

So there I was, back in the darkened room and safely impaled on the ‘cushioned’ seat. I have to say it took me a while to remember how high the seat should even be and which way the peddles were supposed to turn. As is always the case at the start of a class the room was completely silent, except that is for two women near me who were in the middle of a deeply depressing conversation. Seeing as I was already strapped on the bike and had nowhere to go, I naturally tuned in my ears to listen.

One of the women was recounting the tale of an incredibly unlucky friend whose husband had recently suffered a heart attack, and dropped down dead in front of her. To make matters worse, he had no insurance, and as a result, the family home now had to be sold.

With this new and rather unsettling information sinking into my mind, and wishing I’d tuned my ears in the opposite direction, the class began.

For the next 45 minutes, as I sweated away like a beast and used all of my powers of self control to stop myself throwing up over the woman in front, part of me kept wondering why I had ever thought it a good idea to come to the gym this morning. The other part of me – the more dominant bit, that tends to mess around with my concentration – couldn’t stop thinking about this man. Or rather the widow that he’d left behind.

Like most people I suspect, the two things that I fear the most are the loss of my children and my husband – losing either would turn my world upside down. The very idea of some terrible happening to my family is something that doesn’t even bear thinking about. Yet I do. Probably far more than is considered rational or even remotely healthy.

For some unknown reason I have a tendency to keep living out these worse case scenarios in my head, and in doing so, making myself feel sick to the core. I wish I wouldn’t do it, but when my paranoia is triggered by distressing headlines or other people’s bad news, I can be like a woman possessed.

So as I’m peddling away, climbing imaginary hills and racing other stationary bikes, my brain is spiraling into a panic induced overdrive. What would I do if this happened to me? How would I deal with it? Where would I find the strength to get up in the morning and get through the day?

Several gears later and these questions are replaced by guilt – for not appreciating everything that my husband already does for me. Vowing to be an all round better wife, I peddle on with renewed vigour. Oh how my husband – who was at that time sitting in his office and as fit as a fiddle – would have laughed his coffee up at these irrational and melodramatic thoughts. He’s simply not enough of an emotional basket case to take it to these levels, and for that, and the fact that he has a truly proactive approach to death, I am incredibly grateful.

For what sets me apart from this other poor woman is that I know that even if I were to lose my husband, I would never lose my home. Being the ever practical man that he is (and working in the industry, which always helps), we are both insured up to the hairline, and worth far more dead than alive. Cheery thought that, but not terribly helpful it has to be said when it comes to paying the credit cards in life.

So now, whenever I get a bee in my bonnet about some hypothetical tragedy, he is always quick to point out that if he dies, whilst I may be alone, at least I will not be poor. And while I do of course protest that this will not make up for his absence, I know what a difference it would make. Of course I would still grieve and weep and wail, but at least I wouldn’t be forced to do it out on the street, or without a clue about how I was to house, feed, clothe and educate our kids.

That said, I still mutter loudly about the large amounts of money that leave our account every month to pay for the host of different insurance schemes, covering loss of life, limb and hubby’s income. It’s always galling to pay out for something that may never happen, but as my ever sensible husband would say, if you can’t afford to pay for your insurance every month, then you certainly can’t afford not to have any at all.

So to cut a long story short – the spin class ended, my heart rate returned to normal and I proceeded to extract the ‘cushioned’ saddle from my left Fallopian tube.

Somewhat short of breath and damp around the edges, I calculated that in the space of 45 minutes I had not only killed off my husband, mourned my loss and appreciated his knowledge of life insurance, but I had also lost just about enough calories to counter balance the Yorkie I wolfed down the night before. Quite an exhausting morning all in all, and one that I decided called for a Kit Kat to calm my shattered nerves.

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The Winning Loser

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The Australian ‘Biggest Loser’ final took place the other night, and what can I say but ‘WOW’. What an inspiration these people should be to every person sitting on their sofa-loving backsides in front of the TV.

Whilst most reality shows are all about that 15 minutes of fame, this show actually sets out to achieve a really worthwhile end goal. And that’s not just for the person who wins and pockets the much deserved prize money (well as much deserved as it is possible to be when you have won and not earned it). All the contestants who take part, come out of it better off for having been there.

For while there is money at stake, and a lot of it, for once the show isn’t all about what you get at the end, but what you learn and achieve along the way. There are no record deals or big shiny cars on offer here.  The contestants aren’t expected to battle it out on a deserted island, or pick out a new mate to marry. They don’t have to decorate a room, design an outfit or beat a poly-gram test to do well. The show doesn’t dangle a ‘jump on the celebrity bandwagon’ carrot in front of their nose, or even teach them how to peel one.

No, the ‘Biggest Loser’ gives contestants a little bit more. It allows them to take one big fat foot out of the grave and start looking forward to living a longer, healthier life. A life that they can actually start to participate in, not just observe from the side lines.

Turning someones life around like this is no mean feat. For 3 long months the contestants are made to eat, sleep, think and exercise  ‘healthy’. Life long bad habits are stripped away and their approach to their food intake, mental attitude and body image are rebuilt, from the plate upwards. At the end of every week they face a public weigh-in, and those who drop below the ‘yellow line’ are voted off the show.

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By the end of the 3 months, the proof was very much in the low-fat pudding and the results achieved were nothing short of jaw dropping. Bob Herdsman, the oldest contestant and the winner, lost more than half of his original 167.8kg (26.4 stone) weight. He dropped a massive 87.6 kg (13.8 stone) along the way and now tips the scales at just 80.2kg (12.6 stone). Tiffany, his daughter-in-law, came in at second place with a weight loss of 54.1kg (8.5 stone).

Without a surgeons knife or gastric band in sight, their weight loss was achieved purely through good diet, hard work and a dogged perseverance to be there at the finish line.

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At a time when the whole world seems to be doubling it’s waist size every time the World Health Organisation release new statistics, this TV programme is certainly trying to do it’s bit to help get the message through.

Something certainly needs to be done before the entire population slips below the ‘yellow line’ and ends up getting eliminated from the race.

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Off with their heads

I had to sit down with my daughter today and have a serious talk about ‘Stranger Danger‘. I hate that I had to do this, not because it’s a subject I don’t want to broach, but because it’s a subject I shouldn’t have to.

Yet here we are, living in a world where the unthinkable happens everyday, and the freedom and innocence of children seems to get that little bit more restricted. I know it might be no worse than it was 50 years ago, but with the media bombarding us with horrific headlines from every direction, it’s a subject that there is no longer any escaping from.

I think I can safely say that it is every parent’s worst nightmare to have something happen to your child. To either not be able to help them or to be left wondering where they are. Often the easiest thing to do is to block it from your mind and not even let your imagination go there, but in this day and age unfortunately pretending it’s not a threat is the worst thing you can do.

A few days ago in a nearby suburb, 2 young children, a brother and sister, were assaulted on their way home from school. The attack was so vicious that the little girl ended up in hospital. Both children will almost certainly be scarred for life. Just to think about it makes my stomach churn and my eyes well up. It makes me look at my own children and ask HOW anyone can do something so evil to a child.

Luckily the 19 year old monster has already been detained by police, but what now? Will he actually be put away for a length of time that fits the crime, or will serve one of those ridiculously short sentences. A sentence so short that it serves as nothing more than an insult to the victim.

Personally I have always felt that if it is proved that a man has committed a crime of this nature, then he should be castrated. No questions, no debates, no begging for second chances. Just to be clear here, I’m not saying that every man who is accused of a crime has his bits literally put on the chopping block.

Lots of men are falsely accused of rape by women, an accusation that can ruin their life and reputation. There are also miscarriages of justice. But there ARE some cases where the evidence against a person is 100%, sometimes the person even admits to their crimes. Chemical castration (which is already used for some sexual offenders) does not physically mutilate, it is used to alter the chemicals in their body and suppress the sex drive. If a person is found to be guilty of using their ‘sex drive’ to cause terror and harm to another person, how can this be a bad thing?

Why should someone who commits a crime that strips a person of their dignity be given a second chance to prove they didn’t really ‘mean’ to do it. The victim has to live with the physical, mental and emotional scars for the rest of their life – so should the attacker. I’m not saying the person should be hung, drawn or quartered (though even that is too good for some), I’m saying that they should have the ability to inflict harm on others taken away from them.

Of course many of these heinous crimes are committed against children by women, by their own parents or people that they trust. Any woman who hurts a child in this way is without doubt evil personified. So how do you deal with women like this? Stoning is to good for them and a spell in prison just doesn’t seem enough of a punishment.

I have never understood why the rights of the criminal should be put before that of their victim. Rights to be heard and to be forgiven, rights to be educated and given access to a pool table and their own TV. Crazy. If you don’t want to live with the consequences of punishment, then don’t commit the crime.

For those that would argue that many people who commit sex crimes can’t ‘help’ themselves, that it is something out of their control, I say exactly. If someone molests, rapes or assaults another person because a little voice in their head tells them to, then a few years behind bars and a slap on the wrist isn’t going to be enough to put that little voice straight.

If chemical castration eventually takes away the urge that motivates the person to do the deed, then surely if the urge is taken way then then a crime could be prevented? At the very least you could prevent that person from being set loose and doing it again. Castration could stop a crime that is just waiting to happen.

Of course it is unlikely that this would ever be seen as a solution, there are too many people who would say it is wrong. Lots of people say that capital punishment is wrong as well, but if it was your loved one who had been butchered to death by the person about to receive the needle, would you feel anything but relief?

I know that if the local prison needed a volunteer to stop these sorry excuses for human beings dead in their tracks, the ones who prey on young children and strip them of their innocence and childhood, then I would be first in line with a meat cleaver and a spring in my step. I know I would also sleep like baby at night (stupid saying that, I never met a baby who really loved to sleep).

Why would I be so happy to ‘bobbit‘ these type of men? Simple. I have children.