I miss M so much there's a dull thudding in my body, that tolls of emptiness. Weekends are the worst, when those 142 characters arrive on the small back-lit screen to say he misses me too, yet those fucking kilometres stretch endless and leering. I know it's only four weeks, but only one of those has passed and it feels like forever. Our little home is looking better and better, and Richard and I live well, side by side.

For the first time in my life, my grandfather didn't recognise me when I called. And he didn't remember that i live in Australia. It was the most difficult 50 second conversation of my life. Our brains turn on us, memory abandons us. Ageing really doesn't have much to recommend it!

I've had a wonderful around-the-house day, the garden is shaping up nicely, if slowly - I've eaten all my meals out on the patio in my pool of sun on my wicker chair.
I've made a big steak and guinness pie, went for a long walk on the wintry beach and even popped in to the city for a wander, and to purchase a miniskirt for $4. Score!

Mornings are so cold now, the grass is frostkissed and I too have taken to sleeping with a heat pack. I shudder at the thought of Paul out on the Nullarbor where nights are about -3, and he's in his swag with only his great moustache to warm him.

I'm feeling too mellow and rested to write about our political situation, but I do have an opinion, it's just not active at the moment.

. . .

A smilingly slow suburban weekend.

Yesterday at 1pm I drove Mat and a rather phlegmatic Kili to the airport for their four weeks of sun and family in Hungary and Croatia. Airport goodbyes suck, and we managed it in record time, and I was surprised at how hollow I felt, driving away.

Thursday night had been further proof that we are utterly back in business. I felt at home, and completely safe and happy.

Last night I went to Kym's and cooked some carbonara (which turned out exceptionally well) and we watched a Bon Jovi doco (sigh) and chatted. I drove squinty eyed home, and dozed in front of the telly until a text arrived just after 11: you are all i think of. Then I went to bed and slept, my head on his pillow.

This morning when I woke at 5, I couldn't quite believe it was the weekend and I didn't have to work! My heart was also a little confused in the pre dawn darkness: if it's the weekend then where is Mat?
Richard and I huddled together while I had coffee and breakfast, then did round the house things until I went to my first Body Pump class in ages. It totally wiped me out but I feel better than ever.

At home I relaxed. Like real people do.

I read Norman Davies' history of Europe in the sunshine, until I felt the nods coming on, and then I lay on the couch, the afternoon sun on my face and dozed some more. I watched an episode of a doco about Ancient Greece, narrated by Liam Neeson. My brain feels lubricated and content.

And of course dinner tonight is in Freo, with Gary and Jo, and probably Max and perhaps one of Gary's PhD students.

Tomorrow John Forest National Park, to do the loop B and I never completed, and then the week begins, and the quiet empty house will not be so mocking anymore.

In coffee rooms and tea areas all over the Water Corporation, subdued groups huddle around steaming cups and commiserate. It was a thrashing this morning, and more than the 4-0 score, the suspension of Cahill will hurt us in the all important game against Ghana.
I was just chatting in such a subdued group myself, with two collegaues whose hearts are tied to England. Although they tied the US 1-1, it should have been 1-0 but for the keeper, somebody-Green (and certainly, sadly not Seaman) fumbling a ball and letting it through his hands.
Talk of the world cup threw up happy memories from the last two tournaments. 2002 when I was living in manor house and working in Camden.

Australia wasn't in the World Cup then, and I was all for England. The 3-0 thrashing of Denmark was on a weekend, and we stood crammed in a claustrophobic pub in Muswell Hill, breaths held.
On the morning of the match against Brazil I took time off work and made breakfast for Duncan and Muz and we settled in to watch in that filthy little lounge room in North London.
Oh the disappointment. The faces on the train to work later on were those of mourners. Grief stricken and disbelieving. We was robbed said all the headlines, and the big full page photographs of David Seaman with his weeping face. Oh it was tragic.

And of course the last World Cup - with Peter through the winding night to Mosman Park, in search of television. We were high on hope. And then that Italy game, which I watched on my own at Moondyne Joe's in a crowd of strangers who for the first 88 or so minutes were more like friends. And then that free kick. And then the thundering silence.

Whatever people say, it certainly is a uniting force.

As for the weekend, it was interesting to say the least. I am always surprised and a little awed when Mat reveals to me that he is human (seriously) and does hurt and is affected by my mood swings and tearful proclamations. So. I know the first step I need to take is cut back to just one job, and try and live as normal a life as a girl like me is capable of.

On Saturday I drove us to the Old Coast Road brewery and that was a mission to find. By the time we reached Myalup my nerves were frayed and there had already been a tearful episode in the car. But lunch was good, and I felt so happy to have M all to myself ... until I took a joke the wrong way and the waterworks began again. I collected myself and then the talking started.
And continued until we reached Betty and Peter's later that night.
Waves or relief and remorse and torrents of hope. I feel so much more able to handle the next month without him.

And another minor issue. My AFL career began and ended at the Old Coast Road Brewery where we kicked the footy around a bit and I caught it on one occasion with my right index finger, which is now sore, fat and purple...but also makes a great talking point at work.

And then the rains came...

Last week was quite the exhaustion. Exhausting. Lacksleeping. lackliving. I am considering cutting back on the extra work. Choices.
But oh the weekend has started well.
Last night we admired my photos from Marble Bar and Karijini, and then went to see the A-Team. I know, not a necessarily Anna film, but Liam Neeson. Liam. Neeson. Hmm.

We got home just in time to watch the opening match of the World Cup between Mexico and South Africa. It was lovely to be curled on the couch together (all three of us, that is) and watching soccer. Of course I've lost a bit of soccer-watching patience after watching more AFL recently, but it is a beautiful game.

Today we slept in until 8 and had coffee in the mellow sun before I took dear Richard to the vet to have his first jab. And to have his temperature taken. Up the bum. Poor bastard. But we're all good, and he's a healthy little feline.

Now we're about to go to the Old Coast Road Brewery - and I feel happy and Saturday and sunshine is spilled everywhere and the curtains are open.

Beautiful.

Back through memory

through the old Floreat, the neighbourhood that so recently was still mine and yet now I am but a visitor.

At lunchtime I drove to the Forum to drop off these two films that I haven't got around to developing. And an hour or so later: the aching colours of the Pilbara and the wide ocean vistas from Exmouth. The dear old minolta still has it.
The photos of Karijini and surrounds are the best, yet there is one photo, from Corunna Downs, where the feeling of utter abandonment and solitude in the universe was most complete. Where I tried screaming at the top of my voice, just to see what it felt like. Even the cows weren't interested.
I look at the photos Mat brings sometimes, of his campsites from when he does the drive from Newman. I would shit myself on my own out there (watching Wolf Creek was a bad idea), but there is also a renegade beauty that is infinitely attractive.

I have so much work, and so little oomph to do it tonight. Richard is working on chewing one of my feet off and Perth's wintering rattles the window.

Are the yabbies more important than me?

Was the hot topic in my addled brain on Friday when Mat arrived home (finally finally!). Instead of my pork roast, he opted for the fresh haul of yabbies he brought down from Payne's Find (I felt a bit like Tom Cruise coming up against the lamb roast) which we went and cooked at Paul's place. I was hormonal and a touch hysterical, I've really missed him these last few weeks where the weekends seem to disappear without trace. The yabbies, however, were bloody delicious!

So on Saturday I woke feral and unhappy (and really, all created by myself for myself, because he was lovely the whole time) and decided the best way to cure the mood was to go to Bunnings. I bought herbs and peas and beetroot and asparagus (dare to dream) and set to work planting before I headed in to Northbridge to find the Moon Cafe and go to the poetry reading they have there apparently every Saturday. And you know I couldn't do it. I mean the going to the reading. Finding a park in Northbridge was hard enough, but when I walked into the cafe and saw the cohesive group in the back room I somehow felt a pause that wouldn't allow me to go ahead. On the walk back towards the gallery where I was parked I saw Janet Jackson (the poet, not the singer, thankyouverymuch) looking not much different to five years ago, when we had more in common than perhaps we do now.

I ate a sandwich at the gallery and read the newspapers and sat for a while, in the pooling warm sunshine of late afternoon. Then I bought a watch in the Myer stocktake sale and came home. And from then on, the afternoon and the evening were wonderful.

I came in to the house to find Kili on one couch, playing playstation, and Mat on the other with Richard in the crook of his elbow, both of them dozing.
We ate dinner together with candles, and even Kili finished everything but the pecan stuffing from the roast. The chocolate-mocha-chilli custard was a hit.
Prince of Persia the movie was not.

Yesterday, after a wonderfully sunny Sunday breakfast at Hilary's the boys went south for some blokey time and I fired up the lawn mower, and Richard retreated under the Landie. It was glorious, being outside all day. The lawns took ages, because I have let it go for too long, but bit by bit and bag by bag, I got it done, with another trip to Bunnings in between. So now I also have a new compost bin, that Rich and I assembled together, and some rustic terracota pots that I've put around the lemon tree as a bit of a border.

Then when it was all done, I sat and listened to random French country music and read my book. M and I went to Paul's to finish the cabbage and then watched Underbelly at home before a very unrestful night began. Stupid dreams, and cockroach encounters in the bathroom in the middle of the night. When the alarm went at 4 neither of us could get up. So we woke again at 6.30 and now it will probably be 11pm by the time M gets back to Newman, but I'm glad of the little extra sleep for both of us.

Today: analysis with Richard asleep at my feet, gym later on, then perhaps a drive to discover my new beaches. And of course, a little more pottering in my beautiful green kingdom.

The first day of Winter

"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it?"

The days are excruciatingly short. Mornings are dark and sharp and cold and night falls suddenly, surprisingly like a wrong turn.
The car was fogged up this morning, so that my visibility was craptastic almost as far as the station.

On the shuffle today:
Paradise City (twice)
Sweet Child O'Mine
I Should be so Lucky - and here I had to put the book away (Batavia's Graveyard- bloody good) because my smile was just too active.
And then, crossing the carpark? Run to Paradise.

Work was awesome today, although it started at 4am. My mind is too busy and healthwise, in terms of food and exercise i'm living awful days.

The last few days of last week were spectacular. I went to Oxford Street books and bought a book of the best new Australian poetry, and the first poem was Adam Aitken's Pol Pot in Paris. And it gripped me and swung me round the room and then shook me into action: Banana you'll never win the Nobel prize if you don't write stuff and send it away.

So I pored over literary magazine sites, and listened to a wonderful new initiative called Paper Radio- and heart Jon Tjhia's velvet voice again, stretching through memory over the years. There's amazing stuff out there. And the Freo first-thursday-of-the-month readings are still on, and there's a place in Northbridge that does readings weekly.

Mat and I had a beautiful dinner on Friday, and lots of talk.
He is the only man I know besides my dad and my grand-dad, who wears PJs. Proper pjs, not boxers and t-shirts. I adore it.
I giggle every time i hang them on the line.

On Saturday, we met the neighbours on the other side. A beautiful young family, and the husband is from Melbourne - so we had an instant over-the-fence-talk-connection.
I replanted one of my frangipani trees, and cleared the weeds from where I want to put my herbs. The big ugly tree will have to go, that's where my garden bed will be... and I'll sort out some photos soon too.

Waiting for Godot - where did I see that play previously? I have memories (but they may be fabricated) of Axel Whitehead playing in it at school...? But the production at His Majestys was wonderful. I was a little tired and perhaps a tiny bit hungover and the theatre was overheated, but I felt solidly at home in Beckett's hopelessness of hope and tragic tussling with time. It's a wonderful play.

She could wake dreamers and split hearts with her night beauty