The X Factor

I was saddened to hear of the passing of Rik Mayall who I remember on The Young One's reciting one of the few poems I have committed to memory over the years.


 Pollution
All around
Sometimes up
And sometimes down
But always around.
Pollution, are you coming to my town?
Or am I coming to yours?
We're on different buses, pollution
But we're both using petrol.

(From Bomb)

Why those lines have stayed with me I have no idea.  In the past it was a common form of entertainment to memorise verse and to give poetry recitations.  I would not be able to hold the floor for long as there are only fragments of poems that I've remembered.  Wordsworth's:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils....

The full version is beautiful.

Another remembered snippet from my favourite, Robert Frost:


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth....

 

And the famous lines by Ogden Nash:

Algy met a bear.
A bear met Algy.
The bear was bulgy.
The bulge was Algy.


Of course, in our family, there is a long tradition of oratory and musical entertainment.

 Most who have dipped their toes in our gene pool have a favourite song which they will give voice to with minimal arm twisting and varying degrees of lubrication of the vocal chords.  We are known to be fond of a ballad.

Reputedly my paternal grandfather could recite, in its entirety, Who Killed Cock Robin?  While I don't remember witnessing this it was no mean feat, in my opinion.

http://www.rhymes.org.uk/who_killed_cock_robin.htm

I do remember my Nana singing the old Scottish ballad" The Day I Found the Five Pound Note" which was her particular favourite.  My cousin Stephen's song is" Father and Son" by Cat Stevens.  A more touching rendition you will never behold but he is not to be outdone by his mum, Auntie Jean, who does a fantastic version of "Paper Roses".  My Dad was partial to "They Tried to Tell Us We're Too Young" which was very mournful indeed.

My party song is Paper Lace's "Billy Don't Be A Hero" which I occasionally perform from start to finish, often with accompanying actions to give an added dimension and pathos.  I used to favour "Stand By Your Man" until I suffered serious bruising falling over as the bus rounded a corner while I was singing into the microphone.

I suspect this trait has trickled down through to the next generation but I have not encouraged it. One of my daughter's knows by heart songs by Eminem and I fear having to enforce an MA rating at family gatherings if she bursts into song.

 

 

Does your family have the X Factor?

Musings From A Funeral

Recently at a funeral I looked down at the boots I had chosen to wear that grey, wet day.  I wore them to my father's funeral and on many more occasions in the intervening period.  Cost per wear, they owe me nothing and I still love them.

 

 

  Quality investment in shoes, as in life, love and relationships, is rarely wasted.  Sadly, these boots might be sought out for similar sombre occasions as funerals seem to be more prolific at the moment than weddings or other more cheerful occasions.

As dreadfully sad as it is to lose someone, to have to gather together to mark this person's passing and celebrate their life, it is also often cathartic, even enjoyable to reminisce, to pay your respects to family and grieve with others who may be feeling the same.  On this occasion we had come together to celebrate the life of a local man who loved life, his family, the land he farmed, all things to do with the ocean and his community.  Involved in many groups, he worked hard physically, loved to participate in diverse sporting and recreational pursuits and was a sort of larger than life character.

What was so evident from the words spoken by each of his grandchildren was that many of his admirable qualities had been passed down to them.  I am sure much of inheritance is genetic but quality time spent together must surely have given these young people the chance to learn many of the life skills and attitudes of their grandparent.  The humour and affection he had shown to each of them was reflected back in the words they spoke. The bonds of friendship between the cousins was lovely to witness.  With each fond remembrance described it was not distance or boundaries or discipline which came to mind.  Instead it was images of laughter, doing farm work, meals eaten in company and time spent. The photo montage emphasized this and most beautiful to me was the image of the mature man gazing into the face of his first grandchild.

 

Of course their grandfather was not a paragon, without fault or quirks of character or personality but he had nurtured a family and friendships with people who forgave him these foibles, who loved him, laughed with him (and at him) and supported him in his final days.

 

 

Having just read "Elemental" by Amanda Curtin and been moved by the story of a grandmother writing the family to her granddaughter I saw the contrast in the relationship that Meggie, the grandmother, had had with her own grandfather.  She recalls him as a harsh, grim, intolerant man who was in some ways very cruel.  Later in the novel we are given a glimpse of him from a different perspective as a man who might have just been doing what he thought he had to do given that he lacked the information and knowledge available to us today.

"-The old man- you know, I wonder whether the whole thing was rather bewildering for him.
You're defending him?
Hardly.  But imagine what it must have been like in 1905, a whole way of life sort of...collapsing.  Suddenly you're shunned for upholding beliefs your people held for generations."  Elemental, Amanda Curtin,  p420

Unfortunately not everyone has the great gift of interested parents or grandparents.  Not everyone is lucky enough or wishes to leave children or grandchildren as their legacy.  But we each have the chance to invest in quality relationships so that when inevitably it is time for our own stories to be told they will be compelling accounts recalled with fondness, perspective and warmth.  We have the same chance as Meggie from "Elemental" who struggled poverty, hardship, tragic loss but was able to leave as a message for her grandchild that, "...it comforts me a little to think of all I have written in these books, the life that I have made from the life given to me.  And to see that from the greatest shame have come these things, the greatest joys." Elemental, Amanda Curtin, p413

Not all family legacy is innocuous or just the inheritance of red hair or a trait of character. Family legacy can sometimes very debilitating to our own enjoyment and engagement in our own lives and families.  If you can, take the advice of George Bernard Shaw.

Time passes and while seemingly only yesterday I was looking down at my boots while saying goodbye to my father it was actually eight years. If I'm lucky it will be a goodly passage of time before it will be my turn.  We each inevitably will come to pass so we should try to bear in in that we can influence the sort of stories that will be told about us.

"Everyone underestimates their own life.  Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories...they're all the same.  In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, loss and yearning for redemption.  So we tell the same story, over and over.  Just the details are different."  Rohinton Mistry, Family Matters.

Make sure you pay attention to the details of your own stories, the character development should be strong and if you are suffering a bit of writer's block or something is holding you back, try this. 

Snakes in the grass (and the shed).

I have just had a reminder about why I prefer indoor pursuits, such as reading and blogging.  While feeding the horses I saw the biggest, blackest snake lying on the floor of the feed shed, just waiting for an unwary rodent (or me) to appear.  I didn't have a weapon to hand and in the few minutes it took to shriek, tie up the dog and locate a brick it had disappeared back into its hole.

Since I am now confined to quarters until I feel calmer I will offer up a few ponderings regarding a different sort of snake in the grass; the unscrupulous salesperson or the shonky repairman.  The person who will happily take your money without fulfilling their obligation to you by providing the service or product for which you have paid.

When faced with situations such as these my preferred weapon of choice is not the brick but the pen, used to write a pithy letter of complaint.  I love the swooshing sound as the email fires off. I'm not all about bad news though, I also write appreciative letters when everything is great!

 

Could it be a coincidence though that the older I get the less things seem to be great?  I try to have a grateful heart but in the face of some people's incompetency it is very difficult.  My pet peeve at the moment is when someone tells you it is, "Too easy," and then proceed to stuff it up.

 

Never mind, I am deep breathing about that and my refund cheque is apparently winging its way to my bank account even as we speak.  What concerns me most is that all these irritations are manageable for me now because I have a reasonable quantity of my wits about me and I have not yet disappeared quietly under the invisibility cloak that seemingly enshrouds older people, particularly women, from view.

 

Recently I read an inspiring article about a war veteran aged 92 who had been arrested while protesting about the coal mining.

 

 

http://www.smh.com.au/environment/92yearold-digger-arrested-in-protest-20140331-35u0x.html

 

"I'll continue to protest for as long as I can walk," he said.
"After that, they'll have to push me along in a wheelchair."

I admire his passion, I find it difficult to sustain but the words of Winston Churchill ring in my ears:

"Never give in--never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy."

All credit to Winston and Mr Ryan but not everyone is physically, mentally or supported by family or friends to be able to take action about the injustices that litter the path of daily life and I think some people count on that.  They hope that if they stonewall for long enough the rightly disgruntled complainant will go away and then they won't have to bother rectifying, reimbursing or making restitution.

Not everyone is battle hardened either as was the 92 year old Digger.  Luckily for me I come from hardy stock.  My own dear mother who has spent no time on the front lines was recently forced to take action against the car service centre who had replaced her windscreen wiper blades at the time of the last service.  The old blades worked perfectly so it was a surprise to her that they needed to go.  The new ones caused an irritating knocking sound and her irritation was compounded by the new blade's failure to remove water along the entire length of the blade.   She politely took the car back to them on four separate occasions only to be told that in the bloke's estimation there was nothing wrong and/or they could do nothing about it.  Feeling annoyed and patronised galvanised her into action and she organised a one woman sit in at their premises.

"Katherine," she said, "I was not leaving until they fixed it."  Confronted by the septuagenarian with the unshakable resolve the fellow responsible for the buggered blade backed down and replaced it.

My heart swelled with pride at this news because I knew my mum hated doing this. Confronting someone is not easy, especially if they are treating you like a halfwit.

Sisters Are doing It For Themselves

Sometimes genetic material in common is not enough to support an adult relationship between siblings.  Luckily for me, I feel that if my sister and brother were not related to me I would still want to be their friend because of the sort of people they are; warm, caring, decent and each possessed of a fine sense of humour.

Hopefully they feel the same.Though they may not because we all have a shared history.  My brother is six years younger than I am. My earliest memory of him is being asked to watch him as he lay on his back on the change table. My mother had no sooner turned her back when he peed in my face with unerring accuracy. I disregarded him from then on. I don't think my sister paid him much attention either because,  when he was in Grade 1,we arrived home on the bus and our mother was disappointed to learn that he had not got on it and that we hadn't even noticed.  Luckily she found him back at the school and all was well.

He grew up and seemed nice enough. He was at Primary School, I was at High School.  I left for Uni, he was at High School by day. By night he stayed in his room watching the 3 in 1 tv/ radio/tape thingo that mum had bought him in a fit of generosity and which she later came to regret.  He only emerged to feed, not on the blood of virgins, but on Corn Jacks, which we were revolted by and called Snot Jacks.

My sister I recollect more clearly. We had baths together and she would dutifully reply when I asked, "Who is your favourite singer?", with my own name because I had trained her like a seal. I quite fancied myself, the acoustics of bathrooms being advantageous. My particular favourite song at the time was Billie Don't Be A Hero, by Paperlace. I do actions too! I could be on the stage as I keep telling people.

Later in life she wreaked her revenge for this torment by cutting off the long hair on my prized Barbie dolls, hacking off the legs of my favourite jeans and telling all the kids on the bus that I had pubic hair when I was 11 and she was 9.  No doubt the reaction would be just as incredulous if she made the announcement today (pubic hair seems to be so yesterday). Those other kids' jaws were hanging, they were so gobsmacked by her news. I was mortified.

Let it be said we were not close or like minded.  She was popular, sporty, and funny, albeit usually in trouble which she deserved.  I was reserved, always had my nose in a book and quite the girly swat.  She took advantage of my distraction by offering me a Cool Mint and then feeding me a Moth Ball. 

I survived and so did she and we are now great friends.  Our brother too, although he lives on a different continent.  I am sure it's not because he doesn't like us though. Right?

It is with some concern now that I am hearing of conflict between my own children as they are working through the dynamics of living together as adults in a shared unit.  A pre-primary teacher's advice about children's interactions that I remember from when my kids were young was "never interfere unless there is blood".

I am hoping it won't come to that but a wet dish cloth has been flung and harsh words have been spoken.



"Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott is a fondly remembered novel from my childhood. I have a copy which was awarded to my Grandma in 1922 as a prize at Sunday School.  Maybe it has
coloured my view of what sisterly relationships can be.  The March sisters were very different but they all got on with it.  I am hoping my daughters will do the same and be as lucky as I am to have the enduring support of siblings who know and get you in ways that others do not, and still care.

Of course these relationships do not happen without effort ( I have been tested over the years).  This is true of any relationship. Good communication, time shared, respect, tolerance and a sense of humour certainly help things along.  Fingers crossed things will work out well. I am not interfering but trying to do what I can to minimize the conflict.

The Acorn Does Not Fall Far From The Oak

Recently a friend (male) sent me the following email:

Subject: What A Beautiful Story...

 This story brought tears to my eyes, and what a beautiful ending

Once upon a time, a guy asked a beautiful girl 'Will you marry me?' The girl said, 'NO!' And the guy lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and went fishing and hunting and played golf and drank beer and scotch and had tons of money in the bank and left the toilet seat up and farted whenever he wanted.  The End

I was compelled to reply as follows:

What a load of w%#k. He was lonely, did not know how to style himself. He consistently wore clothing which clashed. The more fashion conscious folk learned to avoid him at the bar, not only because he was a fashion mistake but because he often forgot to take the clothes from the machine where they languished, acquiring  that sour smell which afterwards wafted in his immediate vicinity. He lived on a diet of tinned tuna and baked beans which exacerbated his halitosis and caused him to fart rather a lot, further isolating him from his peers at the golf club who grew sick and tired of his repetitive ramblings about his solitary fishing expeditions.  He died prematurely, alone and unlamented by all.

I was mildly amused by myself until I realised my response had merely confirmed the sexual stereotype of women as cooks, cleaners and guardians of all things domestic .

But then I got over myself and regained my sense of humour.

 Most recently our Book Club has read Dear Life by Alice Munro.

  This fabulous collection includes stories about ordinary people, the poignant consequences of their choices and the random life events which confront them. Towards the end the stories are acknowledged by the author to be the closest to autobiographical that she has ever written.  She describes her relationship with her mother, a woman who aspired to lead a different sort of life than the one she ended up with, as difficult.  Her mother's desire to move in higher social circles and whose manner of speech isolated her from her own family were difficult for her daughter to understand.  The mother's illness and subsequent death meant that their relationship was never really resolved.  Nevertheless the mother was her earliest role model and example and one wonders whether Munro would have pursued the education which led to her becoming such a well known writer if her mother had not been a teacher who valued education.


Other stories in the collection shed light on how women's roles have changed in the years since the
Second World War and the social mores by which they are judged.  In Gravel, for example,  the
mother leaves her husband for another man which causes a degree of scandal.

How lucky we are to live in this day and age and have the freedoms and access to opportunities women born in previous generations could only dream about.  There are still frontiers and prejudice to be overcome.  In her wonderful Tedx talk Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie implores us to all be feminists.  Beyoncé heard the call to arms and used part of the talk in  a song from her most recent album

Mostly though I think it is a battle being fought in the ordinary lives and homes of ordinary people.  Consider the wise words of Amy Tan.

“A girl is like a young tree, she said. You must stand tall and listen to your mother standing next to you. That is the only way to grow strong and straight. But if you bend to listen to other people, you will grow crooked and weak. You will fall to the ground with the first strong wind. And then you will be like a weed, growing wild in any direction, running along the ground until someone pulls you out and throws you away. ”
― Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

Panic Stations!

Increasingly I find that I am worrying unnecessarily.  The low level anxiety that I have always had when confronted with new situations has intensified somewhat and, more than occasionally, causes a glitch in my thinking.  Something I seem to struggle with is OMG!!  Where will I park?  What if I can't find or fit into a car park??  It is unnecessary and weird and what I really hate is that sometimes I think that maybe I won't go to wherever it is that I'm going.

Hypocritical creature that I am!  For years I have been niggling at my mother because she refuses to drive in the city.  She never has because she says she doesn't know where she is going.  So read the signs, look at a map, I say in that tone I hear more and more from my own children.  That sort of pitying, are you for real tone.  My ranting has never made enough impact on her to change her stance.  Now I fear I am experiencing this same lack of confidence (albeit about parking not driving).

Driving can lend itself to introspection and often problems have been mentally resolved by the end of a journey. I drive a lot on my own and I feel really comfortable doing so.  It is sometimes quite relaxing with the music playing and the dog for company.  She likes all the songs that I do! Possibly this state of mental disengagement/auto pilot contributed to the most recent episode where my brain sort of faded.

What happened was this.  I decided to refuel at one of those automated/self serve fuel stations you find in small country towns.  It pains me to reveal that it was not the first time i had done this.  Yet like a goldfish I seem unable to retain the memory of anything that has gone before.  I put my credit card in, selected the amount of fuel I needed, put the card back in my wallet and then completely forgot that I had done this.  I stared at the machine with a rising panic thinking it had swallowed my card.

Just then another vehicle pulled up and a couple got out.  They saw me standing, gaping at the machine, sporadically pressing the HELP button (not really helpful at all).

He said, "Have you got your fuel?"

I said,"No I haven't and I don't know what to do!"  I pressed HELP again.  Nothing doing.  She came over, seemed nice and she pressed HELP in case she had some sort of special connection to the machine that I lacked.  Then she sort of peered intently into the slot trying to will it out.

He said, "Well Babe, I don't think you had better put your card in there if it's swallowed hers".  Good advice.  My hero!

I said, "Well I'll get my fuel anyway at least," and proceeded to do so.  Then it occurred to me that I had better check in my wallet which I did extremely surreptitiously because I had begun to have a sneaking suspicion that I had indeed got my card back.  Upon seeing it nestled safely in its slot I turned to these good Samaritans and tried to look woebegone.

I said,"Well, good luck!" I drove off hoping never to see them again because I was too embarrassed to let them know how vague I am.

Recently I saw this apology on Buzzfeed with the heading 33 Pictures That Will Make You Proud To Be A Human Again.

Deep in shame I realised that my picture will never be among this collection because my moral fibre is too frayed around the edges.  Those people probably ran out of fuel on some lonely stretch of highway and I am really sorry about that.

  Maybe if he hadn't called her Babe??

No, probably not even then.  

Frittering

I always enjoy going to see my hairdresser, not just for the pleasure of her company and her ability to transform my dull, greying  and lifeless locks but because she has all the latest magazines. I can rarely bring myself to fork out for them and rely on the dentist, hairdresser and waiting in line at Coles to keep myself abreast of all the latest among the celebrity set and whether or not grey or navy is the new black.  On this occasion I bypassed the fashion and went for the recipes. Our discussion centred on the multitude of ingredients available these days that just weren't available when we were growing up.  Coriander was unheard of and dishes garnished with parsley and mint were considered gourmet but they were grown in your own garden.  Mostly I recall the dried container of Mixed Herbs being a staple seasoning in our house.

I pointed out the recipe above which appealed to me.  I have very fond memories of my Scottish grandmother and my mother making potato fritters which were absolutely delicious.  Golden, crispy at the edges, lots of pepper and salt and cooked all the way through.  I think there must have been buckets of oil used because those were the days before non stick fry pans.  Sadly I have never been able to emulate their results my fritters fall to bits and are raw in the middle.  It is demoralising but I was prepared to give it one more go.

My hairdresser laughed and remembered her own mother making fritters out of anything leftover, polony fritters, bubble and squeak fritters, you name it and it could be turned into a fritter.  Such skill and no waste!

Sadly my attempt was not well received at last night's dinner table. Having just eaten a few for lunch in an effort to reduce the mound of remaining fritters it appears that they have not improved after a night in the fridge.  My one remaining chook may view them more favourably but I doubt it.

Nope, not that hungry.


(In my defence the recipe is pretty vague about quantities and two zucchini seemed a lot as they were quite big.  It said the mixture would make eight medium sized fritters.  I had more like eighty.  Eight fritters the size of Frisbees maybe.  I thought about my hairdresser's mum making fitters with leftovers but it is too dismal to contemplate making fritters out of fritters so I am going to ditch them and move forward.)

Good Fences Make Good Neighbours

I have received happy news!  A date has been set and a new fence has been approved to replace the sadly leaning construction of uncertain vintage currently dividing our strata from a neighbouring block of flats.

My own dear mother has had occasion to remark in the past that she believes I suffer from a touch of S.O.L. (shit on the liver). Meaning that I can be on occasion quite snaky.  My children do not mince their words and have referred to me at various times as a psycho and/or a grumpy old cow. Nevertheless when the occasion calls for it I can lay on the charm with the best of them. Does this make me a master manipulator or does it just indicate that I understand the importance of tone in any effective communication.

Maybe, but in an email nobody can tell!  Any parent can tell you how important tone is.  My enduring rant to my children is along the lines of, "Don't take that tone with me young lady", or, when speaking to my beloved,"Don't speak to me like that, d*%$@#&d"! I am nothing if not hypocritical.

So it was with grave misgivings that I read the exchange of emails I was cc'd in on between my neighbour and the Government employee in charge of approving the construction of a new fence between our adjoining properties.  The tone began as unfriendly and spiralled downwards to scathing.

Unfortunately my neighbour, a very efficient woman, came in like a more soberly dressed Miley Cyrus on her wrecking ball, fuelled as she was by her presumption that the Government Department would be reluctant to cough up the funds.  Her tone was officious, verging on attacking. She expected it to be difficult and it was. The result was poor and, unsurprisingly, no new fence transpired.

As time ticked on and the existing fence listed over further onto our side I decided to wade in to the debate before it fell over in a cloud of asbestos dust.  I fired off an email of my own.  Business-like but with a hint of warmth is how I would have described my initial communication.  By the end of our exchange though I was positively pally and my new best  friend was putty in my hands.  How did I achieve this happy communion?  Firstly I indicated my understanding of the many difficult issues which came across his desk on a daily basis, I was appreciative of his attention, I looked  forward to his response.  I used wry humour to lighten the mood. In short I (metaphorically) peed in his pocket because that is a sure fire way to get what you want.

I could only empathise with the poor bloke whose job it is to sort out this sort of squabble and fill out the associated forms.  It is important to acknowledge that what is of pivotal importance to  you does not register on the radar of other people.  You need to get people on your side, to establish an allegiance, a common purpose if you will.

The old adage:  You win more flies with honey than with vinegar holds true.  I am considering a new career as a hostage negotiator or a cult leader.

Mind you there are other things just as, if not more, important than tone.  A friend who had been pulled over by a police officer remarked in the most obsequious tone, "Yes Orrificer?" Things did not pan out well.

Anyhoo for the nonce I am resting on my laurels.

Sadly sometimes these diputes do not resolve themselves.  Information which may be useful can be found here:

http://www.fencingonline.com.au/disputes/western-australia.htm

Reflections Upon the Horrors of Homework.

I was just flicking through an old notebook and came across the draft of a poem I wrote when my daughter was in Year 11.  Homework and assignments have always been a source of conflict in our house, especially in the primary school years.  For some reason my children viewed my input on any school work with deep distrust.  Later in High School they esteemed me more highly, but boarding school limited the input I could have (something for which I have always been grateful and which almost made the fees seem worthwhile).  I have never been a parent who slaved over the books doing the kids homework for them but I think it is important to be involved in a supportive, guiding hand sort of way.  Email and the internet make it comparatively easy to help out with editing and suggesting ideas.  Sadly, email and the internet will never change the tendency for your child to let you know they have an essay or assignment due the very next day.

I do know of parents who take more than a passing interest in their child's school work to the point of doing it for them but realistically this is a waste of time for all.  When in primary school myself, I , true to form, told my mum I had to write a poem for school, due the next day.  My mother retired to her room and emerged triumphant about 2 hours later with quite an epic poem. Well written and emotive, it rhymed beautifully and was quite a powerful rail against the soul destroying relentlessness of doing the dishes.  It was entitled "Dishes".  I knew then that my mother loved me.  I also knew deep in my waters that Mr Padfield would twig that I had not written this marvellous contribution to the body of English Literature. I sincerely thanked her for her efforts and knocked up a 4 line limerick-stlye ditty about something far less profound which satisfied Mr Padfield.  Sadly Mum's writings have since been lost.

Not so mine. My daughter had to write a poem about an issue.  We had a few cursory discussions via phone and email and she rejected all of my suggestions!  Not to be dissuaded I devoted a whole afternoon to composing not one but two poems concerning the issue of plastic surgery, beauty enhancement and augmentation.  I even practised my oral presentation and quite fancied myself delivering these lines in the style of Raymond J. Barthomew on Hey Hey It's Saturday.  

If you are not familiar with this great man's work then look here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlmH5lCh8vs

Luckily there are no more school assignment for me.  In closing I leave here, for posterity my poetical offerings.

It's about writing what you know people.

The Turn Of the (Half) Century!

My good friend turns 50 tomorrow!  She is one chronological week younger than me but in attitude she is far more youthful. 

The image above has been popular on the internet recently and I love it.  My friend is definitely in the front row but I am pretty sure I am in the third.  Given a few champagnes, maybe the second.  Still I am so grateful for her friendship because it is probably through her influence that I even got on the rollercoaster at all.  Left to my own devices I would still be standing in front of the clowns dropping ping pong balls down their throats.

My friend is funny, generous, compassionate, talented, articulate, artistic and enthusiastic. She is blessed with a gritty determination and enduring decency.  She has a surprising sense of indecency as well which keeps us on our toes.  I shall keep my recollection vague but one of my most vivid memories is from the Bad Taste party she hosted in 2000 where the more alert revellers caught a glimpse of a fast moving creature dashing through the shrubbery.

In preparation for the big day yoga and fitness have been prioritised.  There are plans afoot for adventure and travel.  She is garnering all her resources to ensure that she does not just dwindle into pudgy, grumpy, frumpy obscurity.  The words Emily Dickinson wrote to her friend Louise Norcross in 1872 seem appropriate on this auspicious occasion:

"...How short it takes to go, dear, but afterward to come so many weary years - and yet 'tis done as cool as a general trifle.  Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.  We turn not older with the years but newer every day."

So Happy Birthday for tomorrow!  It's good to be with you on this stage of the journey.