Taff Down Under 23
So at work the other night, I get a phone call from a very pissed-off sounding LeeAnne. "Your dog is in deep shit" was the upshot of it. Funny that, whenever he does something particularly dim, which nominally includes about 95% of his waking life, he’s always "my dog." Anyway, the sad tale was that LeeAnne had left the dog out the back for a piss, and subsequently heard a commotion. She rushed out to find a very distressed possum writhing on the ground. It was very distressed as the dog had tried eating it. LeeAnne works for the local government environment department, writing animal welfare legislation, and is therefore very up to speed on what to do in these cases.
She swept the possum up in a towel, and phoned a vet she trusts. Vets over here have to treat injured native animals for free, it’s in their license to practice regulations. Bethy, as you can imagine, was very distressed by the whole thing, and was not exactly herself at this point. So the pair of them drove the possum to Michael, the vet we use and trust. He gave it the once over and told them that as it’s back was broken, he had no option than to give it the "friendly jab." That’s the reason she used Michael, as some vets see a native animal coming in and automatically reach for the syringe. At least Mike has the decency to examine it first.
So when I got home, and after LeeAnne had shown me the bruises on her hand from belting the dog, and I’d kissed Bethy good night and reassured her that Barnum wouldn’t do it again, I went out into the yard. I found some possum fur, a bloody great chunk of it in fact, and stuck it under the dogs nose. I think he got the drift as he tried running away, then rolled over on his back. Anyway, we’re back on speaking terms now, and my bruises have healed.
The next night we heard a plaintive mewl from the foot of the garden. "Oh no, sod it," says LeeAnne, "it must have had a small one." Oh great. No chance of catching it and caring for it, so we did the only thing we could. We put some fruit in the tree, and hoped it was old enough to get it for itself.
It must be, as we’ve put fruit out for it every night for the last six weeks, and it’s always gone by the morning. We actually see it some nights, in the lowest crook of the tree, we see it’s eyes reflecting back at us. One night LeeAnne had just finished eating a pear and lobbed the core down the garden, as an extra treat for it. However, what she nearly did was to knock the possum out of the tree with it. So now the shopping list has an extra item; "possum fruit" on it once a week, and we’ve become experts at finding the cheapest deals.
I quit smoking about four weeks back.
It’s something I do every so often as it annoys the buggery out of people. Me quitting that is, not smoking. I was getting to that stage, the time to quit stage. I always know when it’s going to happen. I find myself thinking; "Ok, I’ll get up have a cup of tea and a fag or three, drive to work and have a fag on the way, get to work and nip outside for a fag before starting, then I’ll have a couple of fags over my first break, and a fag or two for lunch, and…."
And then one day I think; "Nope, that’s it I quit."
This time it was midday on a Monday, and I was driving into work, my shift starts at 12.30 weekdays. I was driving along, steering with my knees and rolling a fag, and someone drove past, smoking with the windows wound up. That struck me as a particularly unpleasant thing to do, and so I quit.
As I was saying, it really annoys the buggery out of people when you quit. One of the people I used to smoke outside with, a Doctor of psychology, and rather tasty piece, called Juanita, asked me if I was coming out for a ciggy last week. "I haven’t had a chat with you for ages, it’s time we caught up." No thanks, I stopped about a month back," says I. This sent her into a right huff, she’s been trying to quit, on and off, for the last year, but only ends up binge smoking and scrounging ciggys off people.
So then I get the usual; "How the hell do you do it? I’ve tried everything, nothing works, patches, gum, all crap." You’d think a bloody Doctor of psychology would know how?
So here for you who want to stop, is my guide to quitting smoking.
Stop.
Yup, that’s it, it’s that easy.
Just don’t have any more fags.
Easy.
If you feel like a ciggy, really crave one, want one badly enough to kill for one, then don’t have one.
Don’t say your quitting forever, tell yourself you can have one whenever you like.
Just don’t have one.
Works for me anyway.
The other thing that drove me to stop, was I felt I was becoming unfit. The job and the shifts were making getting exercise difficult, and smoking was making it more difficult to get motivated. One thing I did promise myself when we got married was that I would always keep myself in reasonable shape to do fun things with Bethy. (Those of you tittering at this point need help.) And I wasn’t living up to that promise. At 45 I was becoming one of those old gits who lives on past glories. You know the type?
"Well I ran the Cardiff marathon four times, and the Plymouth and Sheffield ones, run loads of half marathons and ten K’s. I was a black belt in martial arts. I climbed the highest mountains in the UK and Europe, and did some great rock climbing and caving. I could bench 1 ½ times my own body weight. I skydived, bungee jumped, flew my paraglider. I’ve had some real adventures traveling. Been there, seen that, got the T-shirt."
To which the only reply should be; "Yeah, but what you doing now you fat bastard?"
Anyway, I decided to stop the fags and get into something a little healthier. I was thinking of getting back into marathon running. I even went as far as looking at running shoes. Unfortunately you have to have an advanced doctorate in the physics or aerodynamics to understand running shoes today. They look like something the space shuttle designers did as a concept project.
And apart from that I don’t think my "everything a pound" ankles are up to that sort of distance work any more.
But fortunately for me, out in the carport was a very nice mountain bike, a "Giant Sedona". Glenn, LeeAnne’s ex, left it here when he moved out. It only needed a saddle, and the front wheel was as flat as a pancake, no probs.
I managed to get a titanium-framed seat at the local car boot sale for $4.00. I got a new inner tube for the front tyre from the wonderfully named "ONYA Bike Company" (say it aloud. Get it?), and fitted it. I took the wheel to the local garage and filled it with air, and bought a tin of WD 40. Got back, fitted the saddle, fitted the front wheel, sprayed everything liberally with WD 40. Great, a fully working bike, let’s got bash the bush. (Ok, very funny.)
Jumped on it, and got halfway to Aranda bush before noticing the rear tyre was now half flat. Got back home, took the rear wheel off, went the garage, filled it, got back fitted it. Of course by now it was dark, and too late to go out riding.
The next day I slung the bike in the rear of the car, the dog on the passenger seat, and headed off. It was a scorching day, far too hot to go out, but I was itching to have a scramble. Half way to the local dirt tracks a huge "bang" went off! It had the dog bouncing off the windscreen, me jumping on the brakes, and the pair of us cured of constipation.
The rear tyre, unused to being inflated and being in the hot sun, had exploded.
Drove home, got the wheel off, drove to ONYA, got a new tyre and inner tube, got home fitted them, took them to the garage, inflated them, got home fitted them.
What a bloody malarkey!
Since then I’ve actually managed to get a load of great days off-roading in. It’s great fun, a full body workout, and around here there are loads of bush trails to pitch yourself against.
See the photos "miles and miles of off road trails" and "all down hill from here" in the TDU 23 folder on my picture hosting website.
Also check
http://www.pedalpower.org.au/about/maps.htm
The dog, of course, loves it. He’s bloody mad keen and wets himself with excitement every time I pull the bike out. We go off for long rides, and many k’s through the woods together. It gives him the chance to practice his "abrupt stops in front of a speeding bike" technique on me. He’s rather good at it. But I think the kicks he gets off me are slowly getting the idea across that I don’t actually like diving into the hedge every time he stops.
The dog must do at least four times the distance I do. What with him belting off to chase magpies, roos, his shadow, rabbits and to try and screw other dogs, he just doesn’t stop. In fact at times I have to be careful he doesn’t overdo it, he really will run until he drops. I always take water for us both.
The other day we were out at a local bike trail. It’s a beaut as it starts off with a short, but very steep, uphill climb, then there’s a long, sweeping, twisty, run to the bottom, and a slow, steady, slight uphill, grade back to where the car is parked.
I was pushing the bike up the start, (you didn’t think I cycled up it did you?) when a cheery voice suddenly said from behind me; "lovely morning for it isn’t it?" very nearly giving me a stroke.
Believe it or not it was from an old biddy, who then blithely jogged past.
Canberra is full of these mad buggers, always out jogging, herds of them in their 60’s and 70’s. This was evidenced by the small crowd of them that followed her, all with a cheery "morning!" or some half-witticism for me. "Fuck off back to the nursing home you mad old sods!" I merrily quipped after them.
Ok, I didn’t, but I did keep a close eye on the dog, to see if he managed to trip any of them.
Brief interlude. Bethy has been away for the last couple of days. Her and her grandmother have been re-visiting some of Mary’s old childhood haunts. They stayed over night at Wogga Wogga. Anyway, I get home from work last night, and Bethy’s home, and she’s ever so glad to se me, as she’s been spending her hard earned pocket money on presents for us all. LeeAnne got three different candles in holders, Glenn got a mug in the shape of a frog, and I got four kilo’s of apples.
Don’t ask why, I haven’t the foggiest either.
A long time back you’ll remember if you have been getting these for a while, my car got broken into. Well the guy who did it was due up in court for it the other day, and I got a letter telling me to turn up to court. A very nice young copper visited me at home, and talked me through my statement, and said that they were hoping this guy was going down for a long time, as he’s a complete waster. It’s true that you know you’re getting old when coppers start looking young. This one didn’t look old enough to drink legally, but, as he was armed I decided to be nice to him.
I didn’t see any point in me attending court, as I’d only found out my car had been broken into when I left work, didn’t witness anything. There were a few witnesses as the stupid sod had tried breaking into the cars which were in a car park in front of a "Subway" sarnie shop, with a full audience of sandwich munchers watching him. The cop told me that the defense was calling everybody, spinning things out in fact, in the hope of getting the guy some mitigating circumstances.
So on the day I turn up, wait outside court 5. I get introduced to the prosecution lawyer, and he runs me through the procedure, and what to expect. I then wait with the other three people who had their cars broken into by this thick junky scumbag. I know he was a thick junky scumbag as he was making a pest of himself just down the corridor. He looked at about stage three on the evolutionary scale.
Then the defense barrister wants a word with us. He takes the others, individually, to one side and asks them short questions. He doesn’t look happy with the replies. My turn.
Him: "Did you leave your car unlocked on the day in question? Are you sure you locked it?"
Me; "Yep, it had been pinched from there a month or so before and used in a burglary, so I’m ever so careful when I leave it there now."
Him: "Pinched, as in broken into, and only a month before? So the locks must have been defective on it when you left it there that day?"
Me; "Nope, all new locks, fitted by Stuart Elliot Automotive after it was broken into. I’ve still got the receipt for the work if you want to see it."
Him; "Have you ever given my client a reason to enter your car?"
Me; "Do you leave junky scum strangers enter your car when you aren’t around?"
Him: (Very annoyed look) "What were you doing at Belconnen that day?"
ME; "I was working at the community centre there."
Him; "Doing what?"
Me: "Running a project for young kids with mental health problems. On that day I saw five kids with various mental health issues, and ran a group for depressed kids."
He buggers off looking dead snotted. Then the young cop comes back and tells us we won’t be called. Big grin on his face. "I can’t tell you why, but you won’t be called, sorry."
So on the way out we talked through what the barrister had asked, we had all got the same questions by and large. Of the other two cars the guy had broken into, one was owned by an elderly couple who were collecting books from the library to take out to the house bound, the other was that of a lady collecting for the salvation army at the local mall. If the magistrates had heard who’s cars he’d broken into, and why they were parked there that day, they’d have really loved him!
As we’re walking out the old guy of the couple turns to me with a grin, and says; "We’re too respectable to be called!"
Fucking cheeky sod, calling me respectable!
Another interlude. I’m looking out the office window, and it looks like it may rain tonight. Bad news, my windscreen wipers haven’t worked since before Xmas. I think I may need them tonight, and they’re totally fuckered. We haven’t had any significant rain in the last five months. Sorry, that’s not true. We’ve only had two days with anything worth calling rain in the last five months, and on those two days I was on my day off, so I didn’t really need them. It’s supposed to be the rainy season here now, we’re a fair bit into autumn, but so far sod all.
Just thought I’d let you poor buggers in sunny UK know that. J
Ok, here is an idiots guide to screwing up a good day out. The idiot being me of course.
Ok, the plan. Take the dog out for a cycle, wear the bugger out. Drive to Namadgi national park, do a nice days walking and some bouldering. Drive home in time for tea. Simple. I wish.
It all started when I got a book called "Classic walks of Australia," out of the local libarary. It had a fair couple of walks locally as we’re on the far end of the mountains that run down through New South Wales. One walk particularly caught my eye, it lead to Booroomba Rocks, which it described as "one of Australia’s premier rock climbing venues." Ok, worth checking out then.
http://www.climbing.com.au/crags/guide.php?page=booroomba
I took the mutt out as early as possible, we cycled, or rather I cycled and he ran, a fair way. Got him home, jumped in the car and off I went.
The drive there is magnificent, through lovely forests on twisting winding road, a treat in itself. As I was getting closer to the start of the walk I realised I had no food or drink with me. Luckily there’s a small village, Tharwa, on the edge of the park, with a antique petrol station there. The station’s antique, not the petrol. It’s a lovely place, still has all the 1950’s fittings and old shop display units, and boxes from that time. I grabbed a big bottle of lemonade, a bag of crisps, and a snickers bar.
So I drove off, the description in the walks book stated I had to follow Honeysuckle road. I drove for miles not being able to find it. I was just back tracking when I saw a signpost to the rocks up Apollo road. They’d renamed it, and hadn’t told anyone. I drove to the honeysuckle campsite and parked the car. As it was an overcast day, quite cool for round here, I decided to leave the drink in the car, and travel light, with just a snickers bar in my bumbag.
A sign pointed the way with "To Booroomba Rocks 5.2 k" on it. Under the main sign was a small handbill that said "due to last years bushfires some parts of the track may not be obvious." Me? Get lost? Ha!
I set off up through the woods, it was a beautiful trail and I was buzzing from the sheer joy of being somewhere so strange and new. Of course an hour after leaving the car park I was also hopelessly lost. I was thrashing about in the dense undergrowth, desparately trying to find the path, and even more desparately hoping not to get bit by anything poisonous. Oz has far too many things that can kill you, and the sneaky buggers are small and hide in bushes.
Eventually I found a dirt track, I thought it must be the track the rescue trucks come up to scrape dead climbers off the rocks.. Then the sun came out, and the day turned seriously hot and sweaty. I walked up the track for ages, and found it led to the official rocks car park. I could have driven there and saved myself so much bother.
There was only another 1 ½ K to the rocks, and even though I was dying of dehydration at this point, I decided to push on.
I got to the top of the rocks, I had them to myself, and stood in awe of the spectacle. Over the head of a deep wooded gorge were steep slabby rocks as far as the eye could see. Several hundred meters high at some points, and a glorious orangey red colour. I took some snaps of it, they didn’t do them justice, I should have been taking them from the bottom looking up. But without a guide to the area, and without an absail rope I was a bit stuffed to get down.
In all the cracks and crevices on the rocks were filled with charcoal from last years bushfires. What with me sweating like a porker, and grubbing aroud to hang over the top to try and get a decent snap, I got covered in a black paste.
So I then amused myself by playing about on some low rocks. I didn’t have my rock boots with me, didn’t think to bring them. But I had some fun, then decided to go back down. A hundred meters or so down the path was a huge boulder, the size of a two story house. It was well dabbed up with chalk, and obviously a place where climbers have a bit of training, bouldering, or just fun after the main event. I saw a lovely crackline, just up to a small overhang. "I can do that I thought, piece of piss." So I climbed up, got to the overhang at about 4 meters up, and backed off down. Good fun, so I tried another one. And fell off.
I landed on my dodgy right ankle, (as opposed to my left ankle which is equally dodgy but on the other leg,) and it popped out. My right index finger also dislocated, and I took a chunk of skin out of my right wrist. I normally know how bad my ankle is, they pop out so often I can tell instantly on a scale from "ouch, it’s popped out," to "FUCKING HELL AAAAagarrarraraaararragh!"
This one was definitely on the more painfull end of the scale, as when I tried to stand up, I threw my guts up.
Ok, now it’s time to panic. I’m 5 ½ K from the car, I’m dehydrated, with no access to fluids, I’m bleeding from my wrist and my ankles popped severely.
I sat on the rock for about an hour before I could even think of walking. Then got myself up. The first part down the rocky track to the climbers car park was sheer hell. There was a car in the car park, with a little old couple having a picnic by it. "Hello, you couldn’t tell me if this path takes you down to Honeysuckle campsite could you?" I said it in my most pathetic "look at me I’ve had an accident" voice. They both looked rather shocked, if not a little wary of me. The guy pointed the way and said it would take me within half a k of it. I moped off looking ever so sorry for myself. Mean bastards, could have least have offered me a cuppa.
I got a couple of K down the track, half buzzing from the lack of water, and covered in flys, and heard a car behind me. I turned expecting to see the old couple, but it was a car full of climbers, obviously fresh off the rocks. I put on my best "help an old climber in trouble" face on, and stuck my thumb out. They went so far out of their way to avoid me they nearly fell off the edge of the road and down the ravine.
I carried on, muttering about Ozzies and their so called "mateyness", and culture of a "fair go".
Ok, I got to my car eventually, dead on my feet. I chugged down a litre and a half of warm lemonade, I’d left it in the full sun of course. It seemed like it went down in one gulp, but was probably three or four. Then I looked in the car mirror.
Ok, so picture this. You’ve had a hard days climbing, and the four of you are driving down off the rocks. In the distance you see a geezer with a wobbly leg and limping gait. As you approach him he turns and sticks out thumb. You look at him and think; "That geezer is walking funny, his hair is sticking up like a bad mohawk, and it’s full of twigs and leaves, he’s covered from head to foot in what appears to be patches of charcoal and big dabs of blood, and the wrist of the hand he has stuck out to hitch a lift with looks like he’s spent the morning hacking at it with a knife. Hmmm…. Shall I stop?"
God only knows what the old couple had thought. "If we’re nice to him he may not attack us," is probably close to the mark.
Ok, so I drove off, now seeing some humour in my situation, and taking the piss out of myself. I had a thirty K drive in front of me before I could buy a cold drink, which I desperately needed. I was driving carefully, as using my right ankle at that angle was a distinct no-no, so I was opperating all three pedals with my left foot. I was in great danger of being pulled by the cops, as my driving style was similar to someone who is severely pissed. I spotted the bag of crisps I bought earlier, and opened them as I was starving. After two mouthfuls I realised I had bought "Hot Chilli" flavoured crisps. Just what I needed at that point.
Taff, you’re a completley useless arsehole. There I’ve saved you the trouble of saying it.
We had our first fish floater the other day, Garfield. Poor Bethy was inconsolable all morning. She buried it with full honours, and a little cross she made herself, in the garden. So now we’ve got a catfish in our tank, called "Cool Cat".
While I’m on the subject of fish, the other morning LeeAnne got up and noticed one of the fish was behaving rather oddly. It was swimming around tail up, and head bumping along the bottom. She then realised that it wasn’t sucking rocks and spitting them out, as fish are wont, it had sucked up a rock and couldn’t spit it out. Silly sodding thing had stuck itself with what in human terms would be equivalent to trying to swim with a brick wedged in your gob. Between us, and with the aid of a net and a pair of tweezers, we managed to extracate it. He’s been fine since, where there’s no sense….
LeeAnne and Bethy went to the dawn service at the National War Memorial this morning. Up at 4.30 to go. I’m working today, so I gave it a miss this year. It’s a wonderful moving event.
Ok, my sister Louise, and my cousin Keiran, have kindly sent me a batch of old photographs of myself. Looking through them I realised that I’d missed my calling as a role model for bad hairdos. So for one week from the sending of this e-mail, at the usual addess, I very unproudly present for your amusement, "Taff; a lifetime in naff hair cuts!" It’s on the photohosting website, in the rather obviously named folder.
I’m taking these pictures down in one week folks, don’t miss them.
Bye for now, don’t forget to write back!
Love
Taff LeeAnne & Bethy
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