The Gardener. A Cat's story

Willy Wagtail on lawn

Cat viewed the garden below. She sat on the edge of the decking that overlooked the small backyard. Her tail swished lazily,  to and fro.

Her ears lay flat against her head, she looked poised to pounce on the black and white creature dancing on the lawn.

The Willy Wagtail  flirted and teased, daring Cat to attack. Cat wheezed, sat up and began to groom both whiskers and paws. The effort did not match the reward. The plan of attack itself had worn Cat out. The sun warmed her back and a lazy breeze gently caressed her fur, causing it to ruffle and puff back and forward. A loud wide yawn from Cat and the Wagtail skittered off.

Cat looked down onto the raised garden beds. "She who feeds"  was muttering to herself and referring to a newspaper article written by Alan Marshall the Gardener's Friend. It seems the answer to the loss of the crops was in the soil. Lack of nutrition, something Cat did not suffer from in the least. She rolled over to catch the sun's warmth on her tummy. Laying still, feeling the slow burn of the sun and the light breeze, her paws relaxed, Cat realised she was going to have a great deal of difficulty rolling back onto her stomach. She mewed and "She who feeds", raced up and rescued Cat with a sweep and a cuddle.

"My you are a fatty boomba", grunted She as she lifted and returned Cat  right side up,  giving Cat's head a smooth rub and a tickle under the chin.

Cat glowered and despised her, as the weight gain was not the fault of the eater, fumed Cat. It was definitely the fault of the feeder. "She" was a feeder. Case rests m'lud.

The garden below looked sad and neglected, the corn sagged and the tomatoes looked as if death was imminent. Tragic thought Cat, the garden did not look like it was fit even as a sandbox. Not that Cat would have used it as such, the effort of jumping up onto the raised garden making it safe.

Sadly, this tomato died.

The inspired gardener returned and began pouring seaweed emulsion onto the remaining tired tomato. Hope springs eternal observed Cat from her vantage point. Looking down onto the world below, taking in the garden, the strain and the effort that had gone into the building of the vegie patch. The small island of hope and the promise.

Cat flexed  her claws one more time, and waited for the Wagtail to return.

Channelling the farmer within.

I often wondered why farmers stood around and talked about the weather. It was not until I branched out on my own small farming venture that I realised the importance of having conversations with like minds. Fellow battlers to share the burden of raising crops. Well may Hanrahan bemoan the lack of rain, then, perversely, complain of too much. Farmers are held captive by the elements.  Prisoners of precipitation, too much, too little, too soon, too late. Farmers, bound to the whim of nature. I know, for I share the pain. So they gather and talk over the unfairness of it all. Conversations also pass on the wisdom of the ages, a collective wisdom, whereby new farmers find out the "way of the farmer".

The Zen of farming is learned by osmosis, not for us the reading of manuals. Sure, we may read the odd magazine, religiously tune in to Landline; we learn by doing and commiserating on our failures and the meanness of banks.

I have fond memories of childhood holidays at my Auntie's farm, "Lightbrook" near Kapunda in South Australia. Auntie had her own kitchen garden and orchard. She made her own preserves, cured her own hams, and killed the fatted calf. She made her own butter, milked her own cows. She raised 7 children and made a motza selling cream. Long before reality TV programs she was already stocking up from field to pantry. Her kitchen was always filled with the aroma of the next roast, and the butter from her cows was the best in the world. Scones and cream by the bucket load. No wonder she was such a big woman.

Yet it was here that, straight from the farmer's mouth, I learned that the sheep at the gate earned the farmer a few shekels. The same lamb ended up at the supermarket with a price tag of  100's of shillings per pound (it was a long time ago). The "Bastard Middle Man" was to blame according to my Uncle, who, defying tradition, was a staunch Labor supporter.  He would have stood for parliament in S.A. had he been able to string two words together without an expletive in between them. To say his was a colourful language is to limit the palette at his command. When we visited, Mum's face was set all day to the look. Uncle's normal full throttle conversation, stuttered and spluttered a continual  "sorry Dorothy",  as he attempted to control his swearing in front of her and her children. We learned so much when we visited the farm. Some of which I am still in therapy for.

Sharecropping

Rounding up and branding

My first farm was a partnership with my sister, Woo. She had purchased a small property and asked me if I would join her in the venture. Neither of us were experienced yet we were committed.

Woo had invested in a worm farm. The worm farm deserves its own story so I will not expand on it here. However, I will say that worm farming is not as easy as you might think. A lot of work, herding, branding and keeping rustlers at bay.

Land of my own.

My small holding  has failed to live up to my expectations. I began my enterprise full of hope and the promise of fresh vegetables. Fruit of my labour, evidence of the greenness of my thumbs. Self reliance and sustainability. Some may call my allotment just another sad garden, yet to me it is the means by which I will, like my father and generations before me , supplement the household and provide for my family. It is a back to basics, a return to nature.

I have not had the opportunity to share my experiences with like minds. I have watched the ABC and each episode of Landline. My uncle is long dead, and I don't know where he is. So I have soldiered on, working the land myself, learning by trial and error. The results so far are

• Trial 1
• Error 665.

I have prepared the soil, purchasing first class soil for vegetables from Bunnings. Fenced it in and planted my crops.

Financially, not a great success, soil and fencing $500, another $100 for plants, trellis and soil additives. I have all the necessary equipment, lovely orange wheel barrow (Bunnings $49) a lovely garden wheelie thing from Online ($39) and a really snazzy five in one tool from Aldi. Best of all I have garden gloves, three pairs, two leather, and one cotton.  No job too big.

Planted, labelled and watered, fertilised and sang to, I waited impatiently for the first crop to arrive. The snow peas have proven to be the most prolific thus far. 28 have been harvested in two rotations. The carrots were removed early, sad, gnarled ,spindly roots. The Asian greens went from seeding to seeded in a week. The corn may or may not be ready. My beans are definitely has-beans. Only one struggles to survive. No idea where the capsicums went. Tomatoes are still hanging in there. My only success so far have been the 28 snow peas, two Lebanese cucumbers and a single Cos lettuce. 



Worlds most expensive (almost a) salad..

 I have no doubt  the Bastard Middle Man would have figured that it was not worth stopping at my gate to bargain over the purchase of my produce. I would need to sell the  Lebanese cucumbers at $250 per kilo and the snow peas at $20 each to even begin to break even.

The lettuce is not for sale.


Little fish are sweet.

On Monday I went walking with Sandy. This is part of a bigger plan to get myself "match fit" for 2013 and 14  when I am booked to go bush walking with my brother and his friends. We are doing the Great Ocean Road walk and Tasmania. This is one of my 5 year plans. I have several, walking Australia is one, followed closely by walking New Zealand. My other plans include winning the lottery and writing a best seller novel based on my grandfather's walk to the Somme. I am a woman of a great many plans.

Monday was a starting point. It was of course one of the hottest days in Brisbane. A right stinker of a day. Sandy had not long come off night shift. We met in the car park at the base of Mt Coot tha. There we discovered the coffee shop was open and air conditioned. A chai latte and a skinny flat white later we braved the heat of the day. Our first decision was we would explore the botanic gardens  and, once we found our way, we would look at taking a brisk walk. We found a map, struggled to find our glasses and read it. We began to wander away from the safety and comfort of the cafe.

We got as far as the desert garden overlooking the small lake in front of the cafe. It was hot. Damn hot. A compromise was struck. We decided to walk in the shady area, find the bonsai gardens and walk around the botanical garden rather than attempt a brisk walk up to the top of Mt Coot Tha. We would wisely stick to the shade. I would have sweated buckets except the heat sucked all moisture from me. I was hot and Sandy was tired. We chatted and took pictures and in moments we were both hot and tired.

There was no relief. We looked again at the map of the gardens and realised they  are quite big. Large and generous. Acres of gardens with roads and pathways aplenty. Miles of walking tracks. Best discovery of the day - a free bus ride.

We stood in the shade of the bus shelter. Sandy was in her element taking photos of plants and critters. She knew so much and could quote the Latin names of different plants. I realised that I know the names of very few flowers and even fewer herbs. Thankfully, we arrived at the rose garden. There I was able to recognise, red, yellow, white and a strange green rose. "A rose is a rose is a rose". Gertrude Stein knew as much about gardening as I did.

The bus ride (air conditioned) was cut short by a large pump placed in the centre of the road. The taped tour guide was turned off and the driver tried his best to make the drive interesting. Obviously he did not take in the recorded narration and he had to ad lib. Unfortunately, he was not a man of many words and the highlight of the trip, a series of totem poles were described as "some sort of art thing done by a lady". I think he was impressed by her ability to use a chainsaw.

Out of the blessedly cool bus and back into the harsh sunshine. Still too early for lunch, we wandered around until we stumbled like Burke and Wills into the bonsai garden. Japan is the place to see magnificent tortured trees. The Mt Coot Tha replicas were a little sad looking. To be fair, by then we, too, had run out of water.

The fern house and the dome provided some relief. It was like walking back in time or onto the set of "Terra Nova". I could have been in Cairns it was so humid. Sandy spied another lizard and began stalking the poor creature with her camera. Success, beast is captured and stored for future use.

Brisbane's botanic gardens are worth the visit. I would suggest a cooler day, and allow plenty of time and take an ipod or a book and a plan to just sit and enjoy the "serenity".

We had finally walked up an appetite and surrendered again to the coolness of the cafe. While one side of the cafe is indoors the larger part is a huge covered deck over looking the gardens. A lovely cool breeze enticed us to move out  to the deck. It stayed with us, making our meal all the more relaxing and enjoyable.

Beer Battered Barra

Special of the day was beer battered barramundi chips and salad. It included a free XXXX, to compliment the BBB, I suppose.  Sandy and I both went for the special, opting for soft drink rather than beer. We seriously began to rehydrate and appreciate our spot on the deck. We looked out over a lake with ducks ducking and birds skimming the surface. The whole place was having lunch with us.  This was the best part of the walk - no doubt about it.

The barra was moist and flaky, the batter almost a tempura, light and gentle. Thankfully, the plate was not overwhelmed with chips, and I was able to scoff the lot and still feel a little virtuous. The salad was standard fare with a sweet balsamic dressing. Finally, a small bowl of creamy mayonnaise/tartare/aoli like sauce, enough to dip the chips  and keep the kilos firmly on the hips.

As we ate our meal, critters and birds visited and gave us a certain look. Each eyed off  the remaining chips that Sandy (tall and thin) had obviously decided not eat. My plate looked like it had been scoured and hoovered.  Suddenly, Sandy darted off, chasing  another lizard down, her camera,  whirring and clicking in  the frenzy of a chase.

Bazza the Bold, a beautiful magpie flew up and tucked up his wings, business like. He eyeballed me, daring me to move and leave Sandy's chips unguarded. I looked in to the  ancient eye of the Cracticus tibicen , for a moment, an instance in the cosmos, I was one with nature. Softly, I warbled, one soul to another.

"Back off,  Bazza, as soon as Sandy ducks under the next table, the chips are mine".

Is blogging graffiti with punctuation?

I caught this line in the movie "Contagion". The rest of the movie reminded me of a bad head cold, totally stuffed up, yet this one line caught my attention. There are quite a few conversations in the ether regarding this rather cutting comment.

What about my blog? If my grammar is wrong, am I blogging or am I just a lonely TAG stuck in a corner  offending those with a keen eye for the poor gerund and the misplaced apostrophe. I admit am a poor grammarian. I have asked Sandy to edit my words for me and find the errors of my ways.  I abrogate all responsibility for the mechanical aspects of righting verb and nounal wrongs. If you find an error tell Sandy for she cares about such things with a passion almost as good as her photography and flowers.

The last comment on my blog ( the only one thus far) asked me to tell more of my story. Well, this blog is in truth all about me as I suspect all blogs are. All about the writer and the writer's voice exploding exponentially across the universe. A million tiny voices looking to be heard. I don't for one moment think this is a bad thing. After all, my voice is now securing its place in Babel. I shall continue with my story. Not in chronological order but in the order that memory and circumstance dictates.

WRAN RP Devlin W108685

Lets start with Sandy, for she is where I left off. I joined the Navy. That's me when I was in Sydney. I was a WRAN Radar Plotter at HMAS Watson.

I was not quite 18 when the photo was taken. I would have to say that the Navy was one of the shaping experiences of my life. Like some very weird social experiment a group of 17 - 21 year old were taken from small rural towns and city suburbs from all over the country and were placed in close confines for 6 weeks. If you survived the six weeks you went on to complete your designated course.

I enlisted as a Radio Operator and would have continued on with Sandy to go to more exotic places like Canberra or Singapore. Unfortunately, I could only type at 11 wpm 78% accuracy and take Morse code at a woeful 4 wpm  (accuracy still a problem). Sandy who could type at 100 wpm, 98% accuracy, was a shoe in. I was a left foot. Even though my team tried to help me (Sandy did my typing test for me) I failed the course.

In the normal course of events that meant dismissal from the service. However, someone took pity on me and I was shipped of to HMAS Watson to train as a Radar Plotter. The pity should have been reserved for the poor people we trained.

Sandy has a few remaining photo's of me with her at HMAS Cerberus where we all did our basic training. I must have known her then. However, when we met 40 years later I had no idea who she was. I was just grateful to have someone to sit with who I was assured I knew quite well 40 years ago.

In July 1970 I joined the Navy. See the little person front row second from the right.? That's me. Anne Southern is on my right and Wendy Pedersen on my left.  Sandy is in the middle row, fifth from the left.

That was the beginning.

Forty years later Sandy, Wendy and I  met up for a WRAN annual luncheon that Wendy talked me into.

What can I tell you about the first  night in Cerberus?

Not much I am afraid. I can remember the train trip from Adelaide station to Melbourne. I met other recruits, Zita, the person I clearly remember. Sue must have come on board later at Mt Gambier. Anne must have been there and at least one other person. I cannot remember. What I do recall very clearly is standing on the station with my mother and my auntie Rhonda. I was wearing a thin double breasted khaki trench coat and I had the two green suitcases Mum had bought me for Christmas. I was cold and terrified. My aunt wanted to pick me up and take me home, her younger sister remained firm. I was going.

What I have left to recall are remnants of a cold, confusing and eventually interesting and challenging job. If only some one had told me about sex other than "Don't do it" or "keep your self pure". Unfortunately, there was a lot more to living out of home far away from the  confines of a middle class morality. I was falling from the cultural mores of the 50's, by-passing the 60's, falling rapidly into the willing arms of the 70's.  Too little too late I am afraid. Vietnam was still a force not to be ignored. It was a time, not our best and not its worst.

So when I met Sandy again I had no idea who she was, I could not recall her at all. Forty years was a long time.

Gradually, I remember bits and persons, and incorporated the memories of others. It was the reunion that helped me to re-connect. Now the reunion is another story for later on.

Back to Sandy, she of dubious memory, for like me she has no recollection of me. The new Sandy, the one I know,  is a multi-layered interesting creature. She likes to think of herself as a cat. Indeed she has some interesting feline characteristics. She is at first meeting a little aloof, yet this reveals itself more as shyness rather than arrogance. The playful side of her bubbles up like an oasis in a desert. She is dry in humour and nourishing at the same time.

It's not for me to reveal her personal circumstances, they are hers to share not mine. However, I can reveal that she is a Blogger. Not an ordinary blogger, for she has a following and she has a very interesting site. It is a whole conversation about the flora and fauna she encounters in her back yard or on her ramblings. She writes about flowers, weeds, herbs, interesting fungi and birds and spiders.  Her documentary includes photographs, science and her personal insights. "Snapshots of Beauty", I peeped into her followers blogs, again interesting and illuminating, other peoples lives hung out for all to see.

So back to the beginning, are blogs just graffiti with punctuation. I think not. If graffiti is the shout of one voice to the universe, "Here I am. I am the symbol"     

  

The monosyllabic scream of a frustrated artisan.  Albeit beautifully and athletically executed on the side of a train or bridge..

Blogging is a whole conversation. A picture,  painted not on the side of a moving train, a picture, a story, a collage, that hangs in the very air we breathe.  It is conversation with an artist at work. So much more than graffiti, so much more than punctuation. Blogging is an entry point into an others world, it deserves respect . 

Being very brave.

One of the assignments we were asked to complete for a workshop was to provide a poem or a different way of describing workplace relationships. I had determined in the workshop that one of my personal aims was to be brave. This is the first and so far the only poem I have ever read before an audience.

I was rewarded by someone actually asking for a copy of the poem.

Workshop  for one.

I am
The centre of my universe
I am
More, so much more.

I am
the mortar that holds
a household.

Mother, lover, sister, friend
teacher, mentor,

More so much more.

I am
A small wee child
with monsters ‘neath my bed.
Good girl well mannered
eating all my veggies ,

Obedient submissive
Rarely seen or heard.
Standing straight

And tall, tall, tall.

I am
all this and more so much, more, more, more.

I am
a worker sitting at my desk
writing ,creating, planning
all at your request.


I sit in silence waiting
for my universe to extinguish
my mortar turn to sand.
Monsters creep and stand
pouncing on my errors

Until
I am small, small, small.

Nothing bland about Japan

It was Sunday morning. Cat had left the hotel and began prowling the nearby streets for a coffee shop. The Japanese were obviously NOT morning people.

Finally Cat found an open shop and mindful of her GPs advice, let her eyes glide over the array of delicious, mouth watering, cakes and cheese cake.  She ordered coffee, and took her tray to a vacant place near the window. She looked out onto an empty street.

She stared for a while at the two cups of coffee appeared. One black and small one medium latte. Obviously just pointing at the pictures had its flaws. Cat mused for a moment and decided to drink both. No point causing a fuss.

Unfortunately, she had chosen a perch in the smoking section and was now enjoying a coffee with a cigarette. The airconditioner was not working, probably because it was Sunday, probably because of power cuts, probably because Cat was wearing a thick T-shirt and it was all becoming personal.

A small spider appeared in the froth of the latte. Dressed as a ninja  the spider looked up at Cat with its eight japanes spider eyes. Cat smiled and resisiting the urge to strike out and destry, gently lifted the wounded spider out of the Latte and decided to just dring the black coffee. After all, Cat thought, you never know where those little feet have been.

The meeting with the Convent mice had shown Senso-Ji in Akusuka  the Clan the way to use the subway and JR rail so now they were off to explore Tokyo.

With Sami Sui acting as guide the Clan stepped down into the subways and began the tortuous task of deciphering the time tables and finding the right train to catch. An act of faith to be sure.

Then they were off to the Ginza District, the streets full of shops and high fashion, onto another train and off to see the Harujuku girls and Shibuya youth culture.

One thing Cat quickly noticed the beautifully dressed women of Japan, all dressed in different designs and fashion styles all of which seem to work. Even the wild and the wonderful look classy. The effect is one of difference, like a kaleidoscope, all falling into place to bring a colourful ever-changing pattern.

Tomorrow its off to Kyoto on the fast train another experience. Of course they would have to find the right station first.

The Clan and the Convent Mice

First day in Japan, the Clan slept in. Cat woke first, she was pleased that she did not need to use the phrase "heya ni mushi ga irun desuga". 

She then went on a recon of the hotel and found a coffee bar that served bacon and eggs. While the bacon was poached along with the egg and lay on a bed of of lettuce with tomato and cucumber it was actually quite tasty. Part of the set meal include as small bowl of yogurt and fruit a small glass of orange juice and a beautiful cup of rich strong coffee. Cat was to discover that the Japanese had embraced the coffee shop with vigour the result being an astounding array of coffee shops on every corner. 

The rest of the Clan found Cat as she downed the dregs of her coffee. It was now safe to talk. The kittens and Panda ordered breakfast and were soon munching away contentedly. Cat consumed another coffee, just because it was available and so good the first time.

At 10 am Sister Anne (aka Sabine)and and Sister Nashima arrived. 

Cat, Sr (Sabine) Anne, Sr Nashida

Sister Anne was the Chaplin at the Hospice and Sister Nashima, the Reverend Mother (RM) of a college. Sister Ann looked the same as she did at the last Skype conversation. In real life she was thin   (damn her thought Cat) and a little bit shorter than Cat. The RM was much shorter with a melting smile. She was more excited than Sister Anne to meet the Clan. 

"We thought you might like to go to a temple and to see some of the sights, then we will take you to a restaurant that has been recommended by a friend. Are you happy with this arrangement?" asked Sr Anne.

 "We are happy with anything, having you with us on our first day showing us around will be perfect", said Cat. It was enough for Cat to have found her friend again. 


Forty one years ago Anne, Jane, Zita and Cat had set out from Adelaide for a great adventure. They had thrown aside the conventions of the time, they had not settled for the career aspirations of their mothers, to marry well, settle down and raise children. Not these four musketeers, rather they had stepped out to embrace a wider challenge. The Women's Royal Australian Navy (WRANs) was their escape hatch. It was something different for those days. Forty one years later, in Japan, two Nuns meet a Cat, a Panda and two Kittens. Cat thought to herself, I wonder if its possible to talk to a Catholic Nun and have a Zen moment at the same time. It is a crazy world to be sure, to be sure.

Sister Anne and RM showed the Clan all around, the Temple was still in operation, and Cat felt a little overcome by the strong incense, the Panda likewise found it difficult to breath. The Kittens were distracted by all the shiny things in the nearby markets. RM bought a small gift of local cakes for the Clan. 

Lunch was a special treat. To the delight of all Cat and Panda struggled to sit down on the floor and had to hide their feet under the table. Getting up was a another unique challenge. With little dignity Panda and Cat struggled now to stand up on numb feet. They hobbled out to the place where their shoes were waiting for them. Bending down to put them on was about as difficult as standing up.

The tour continued with Cat's growing concern at the toll it was taking on the two mice. Not only did they run to keep up with the strides of the Clan they were also in their winter uniform. The day was warm and humid.


Finally the tour came to an end, all were exhausted. Gifts were given, a book about Australia for the RM and an autobiography of another South Australian girl made good. The story of Mary McKillop was enthusiastically received. The final gift, two packets of Tim Tams were obviously the favoured gift.


Sr Anne was a little concerned that the Clan may not find their way from Shinjuku station to the hotel. Fortunately, the Kittens were part homing pigeon and they found their way back with no trouble.


Sunday they would be on their own but at least they had an idea of what to do.

Enter the the Shoe Box

The shoe box

The flight was long. The seats were short. It seemed to cat that the whole world was being manufactured to a size 8. Sami Sui had moved to a vacant two seat near the window. She had curled up and was snoozing peacefully. The Jade Dragon had stretched out and taken the three seats next to Panda. Cat sat in the remaining empty row, nose to the wall, the only four seats in the plane with fixed armrests.

With glum determination Cat rested her head against the uncompromising headrest and tried to sleep.

The landing at Nakatiri Airport was uneventful. Once cleared by customs the Clan entered the land of the rising sun. Actually the sun had set, it was clammy and warm, the airport was long and not air-conditioned. "Must be power cuts", muttered Panda, "Huh" said Cat as her hair began to drop and curl with sweat.

"The Tsunami, Japan is still feeling the effects of the Tsunami," said Panda, "it was in the note I sent you". "Yes , I know,"snapped Cat, non the wiser, as she had not opened the email that she knew probably contained DETAILS.

The drive from the Airport to the hotel looked promising, a huge orange bus arrived to pick up the clan. "Looks like we are the only ones on the bus," spoke Panda quite pleased that he had scored a whole limousine bus for his family.

None sooner said, the bus stopped and a family , a very large family of Filipinos strode into the bus and took over. They gaggle loudly, fought, coughed and sneezed until two unmerciful hours later the bus pulled up at the Shinjuku Washington Hotel. To the profound dismay of the Clan the Filipinos gathered up their chicks, grand mothers, older sisters, younger brothers, maiden aunts and sleeping babies and began to exit at the same stop.

Sami Sui looked at Panda and mouth the word "Check-in". Instantly galvanised Panda strode forward and with the Jade Dragon fought amongst the tonnes of luggage belonging to the family for the 40 kilos of Clan baggage. Once scored the Cat pushed through the gaggle to make way for Panda, as the race was on to find the check-in counter before the Family. With hours to spare the check in was completed, the magnetic key cards were collected, the free shavers, combs, brushes and shower caps were collected and the Clan stepped into the lift.

It was, mused Cat one of the biggest lifts she had ever seen. It was huge, you could definitely swing a cat in here, she thought. By the seventh floor Cat discovered just how many people could actually fit in a lift that size. By respectfully shuffling backwards the lift was packed to the gunnels in absolute silence.

Arriving at the seventh floor the Clan separated, Panda and Cat to 714 and the Kittens to 732. Panda opened the door to 714, a narrow corridor in which by holding the door open for Cat to bring in the luggage meant a tight squeeze, more jostling and breathing in to get into the room beyond. Cat stood and looked at the room. The concrete block thinly disguised as a double bed took up the entire back wall. Panda put on a brave face and said, "well its only for four nights and it is only $50 per night". "Hmmm" said Cat," we must be paying by the metre".

The kittens knocked on the door, and rolled into the room, laughing, "our room is much bigger than this" they said. "Ha, ha" chortled the Jade Dragon, "you got the Love Nest". Panda and Cat smiled enigmatically. Sami Sui recoiled with "Do not go there you two, just don't need to know, ugh!" Panda and Cat continued to smile dreamily. With that the Kittens left. "Gets them every time", laughed Cat.

The bathroom was another mystery, Cat was pleased she had spent the money on a personal trainer. Getting into the deep bath was no where near as difficult as getting out. The toilet was a marvel of modern engineering, not only a disposal unit but a cleaning unit as well. Quite the novelty to feel the automatic warm rush of water.

It was now 10:30pm and still the Clan had not eaten. A 7 Eleven Family Mart was soon discovered and essentials were purchased. A small soup bar was discovered and entered. Not completely sure of what was being consumed but too hungry tired to be concerned the Clan ate something hot and salty and drank copious amounts of iced cold water.

"Tomorrow "said Cat, we meet the good sisters of St John the Evangelist, they have organised to take us around to see some of the sights."

Sister Anne is a friend of mine, we met many years ago when I was a ship's Cat.

Tired, full, and in Japan at last the Clan went back to their respective cabins. Tomorrow would be another experience.

The making of plans and dust ups.

Cat and Woo sat at the dinner table, mulling over the plans for Woo to house sit while Cat, Panda and the Ninja Kittens were in the land of the rising Sun. Kimmy-Koo the middle kitten was going to secure the premises and feed the grandchildren, Sooty and Copper while the travellers were away.



Woo had plans to spend days with her new Sultan of Pleasure, Waaaayne the Wonder Ram. 

“I am taking him to the land of our fathers” said Woo, “to meet my friends and help me liberate our father’s ashes from our step mother. She has been holding hostage in the wardrobe for nearly 10 years. I will set the captive free”, cried Woo with evangelical fervor.

“Hold on a minute,” spluttered and choked Cat, spraying tea and coughing cake over the blue peony tablecloth. “You cannot do that – it is probably illegal, she paid for the funeral and the cremation. Therefore, ipso facto, quid pro quo, ad infinitum she is the owner of said ashes”.

Woo stared hard at Cat and narrowed her eyes as she gathered her reply, “You don’t frighten me with your Latin, your logic or talk of legal precedence. After all the scattering of our mother’s ashes on the beach was an illegal act in itself. One you organised”, she pointed an accusing pinion towards Cat who almost cowered at the righteous indignation of the Woo.

Cat rebounded with “I was only complying with the wishes of our mother, which is totally different to hijacking my Dad’s ashes from the wardrobe of the rightful owner. It is THEFT. Any way you don’t know if my Dad wants to go with you and be liberated, you don’t have any moral authority to undertake the mission”.

“You don’t know that he was not my father as well. You have no proof that he was not my father too”.

“You cannot have two fathers,” purred Cat, who by now knew she was getting under Woo’s feathers. “Anyway how on earth do you think you are going to get away with hostage negotiation with Waaayne in tow? How will you establish proof of life, there have been no ransom demands”.

“We are not going to negotiate we are going to cleverly disguise a shoe box full of dolomite as Dad and swap him over. Wayne will distract her and I will nip in to the loo and swap the box”.

Cat looked at her a long time, flawed by the simplicity of the plan and the blatant stupidity of her sister. “You recall how long it took to empty out Mum’s ashes, just how long do you think you are going to hide in the toilet, empty Dad’s ashes out of the plastic box (not forgetting to take the screw driver to open it with) into a container and refill the ashes box with the dolomite? Just what sort of distraction do you think Waaaaayne will be able to pull off, it’s not like you can easily pull the wool over Dee’s eyes”.

Woo scowled and flounced her feathers, “Waaayne is a beautiful distraction, and he is fully supportive of my plan”. She sniffed, "I just want Dad’s ashes with us”.

“You could just ask when you go to dinner” said Cat. “If she says no then you can call on plan B. However, after 3 hours in the toilet and the evidentiary dust left behind, she may just twig to the deception”.

Woo collected her things, and prepared to leave. “I shall let you know how it goes”. With a defiant wave she declared, "I will liberate our father if it is the last thing I do”.

The door slammed shut. Cat stretched and unsheathed her claws, reached for the phone and dialed the number of their brother Bernie the Secret Koala Bear.

“Hi Bro,” said Cat “You need to talk with your sister Woo, she is on a mission to rescue Dad’s ashes from the Dee’s wardrobe”.

Bernie groaned and Cat could hear him furiously chewing on leaves, “OK. Understood, wilco. Roger, over and out, chocks away Blue Leader.”

Cat hissed to herself, and she felt very alone.

Later Cat confided in Panda “I wish I could get the same leaves as Bernie. I am sure the world would be better if I was completely paranoid and delusional.”

Panda gave her a long knowing look, and said “What makes you think you are not”.

He sat back rubbing his back on the wall and chewed on a stick of bamboo, “Hmmm grass is good, I love leaves, they are sooo pretty”, he gently hummed to himself.

Cat curled up and slept and dreamed of  temples, ninjas and Shintaro.

E for Europe.wmv

E for Europe - a scatter of memories

A pocket full of sighs.

Cat sighed a great sigh. The photos lay strewn before her.
"Its all very well," she said out loud, confident that no one was listening, "to say that a picture is worth a 1000 words, obviously that person would know that some pictures say nothing at all. Not ever, not a whisper, not a snort or a sniffle".
"If it said anything, if it spoke to me or gave me a hint I at least will feel better," She bemoaned, "why is it always me that gets left with the photo sorting once the trip is over?".


Now almost a year was past and the trip to Europe hung there or rather lay there in not so tidy piles for Cat to sort through and label. Panda peered over her shoulder and muttered "Somewhere in Nice". Cat then recalled the  photo was taken of Woos backside and an assortment of hats, another photo ruined by Cat's paw.
"Perhaps I will just up load and let everyone make up their own story "said Cat as she gathered them up into a box and labeled the box E for Europe".


Moving on


Panda was planning another trip to Japan, only to find the country was suddenly inundated and toxic. While he still hoped for the Japanese to have tidied up in three months, he was appalled to see that the Yen had gone up against the dollar. Some strange twist of fate caused by the disaster itself.


Jade Dragon and Sami Koo were coming as well - and were all down in the dumps. Some very harsh words were muttered about the Fates and Tsunamis. A black cloud of dark humour spewed from their lips and they rolled around laughing.

"Poor taste," said Panda, "Good line," thought, Cat momentarily restrained from encouraging and joining in by Panda's moral stand.

In the Beginning.

Fish and Chips - There is nothing so wonderful as a good piece of fish all crisp on the outside and steaming hot in the inside. Chips have to be crisp and clean to the taste- no greasy after taste, just lightly salted, hot and soft in the middle.

My first paid work after leaving school was at Goldie's Fish and Chips. I was not quite 17 and my father had asked his friend if I could work there over the summer break. Goldie agreed and there I was learning the magic of the perfect fish and chips. Goldie had great pride in his work, he had a secret batter recipe and I was one of the few who knew it came in a big tin from Sydney.

None the less, in 1970, I was shop junior and had much to learn. Summer always saw hordes of visitors come down from Adelaide to sail, surf, fish or just stay at their Goolwa shack for the holidays. The shop was  popular and very busy.

Goldie taught me how to peel and slice the potatoes and how to pre-cook them to ensure crispness. He also had a large machine that could peel the potatoes, which he used if in a hurry. It was like a large concrete mixer with sharp nodes inside which turned and scrapped the skin from the spuds. Once I forgot to keep an eye on the machine and the large potatoes were whittled down to the size  of small pomfrits that would later become the famous McDonald's fries . While I was obviously way before my time in the industry my results only earned me yet another eye roll and heavy sigh from Goldie, the things he did for mates. Cleaning the machine was one of my jobs, after all why should the boss get his knuckles scraped?

The Chipper was a large metal press, again with sharp edges to which the potato would be sat and a leaver pressed down so that even sized chips fell through the square holes into the bucket below.

However, it was in all a valuable experience, I learn the importance of clean oil, fresh fish and double cooked chips. I made hamburgers, steak sandwiches and eventually graduated to cooking in the deep fryer the Chico rolls,  fish and chips demanded by hungry sun-burned customers. It was all a matter of timing and proving myself to be worthy of the trade.

Eventually, summer came to an end, I had served my apprenticeship and was reduced in hours.  I joined the Navy and left town.

I met David when I moved to Cairns, a lot of water had passed through the Murray Mouth since I left Goolwa. It was 1980 when I found a kindred spirit, some one who loved to fish and did not mind doing the gutting, scaling and filleting. Above all the man could cook. A match made in heaven, some one who loves to eat meets someone who loves to cook.  Now we both share  type 2 Diabetes and we are are looking at salads and grilled fish. Goodbye my darling chips.