Trivial tales from someone who’s always in it

“Sir, would you follow me, please?”

This is the story of a great man on a great quest. The man’s name: The Brave Frodoboat. His quest: to fly to NZ with his hottie wife (The Faithful Ham), inspect a 61-acre property in New Zealand, decide whether or not to buy it, and then fly back … all in just one weekend. His first challenge: to get out of Australia. Unfortunately, Immigration officials at Perth Airport seem to think he’s someone else. Someone on their List. Someone not fun.

Every quest, every epic, involves a series of challenges. When we watch the movies or read the books, we know these challenges are designed to test the hero’s resolve. They show his mettle. They are a device to prove to us — viewer, reader, gods, whoever — that the hero has earned the prize. He deserves it. (Because boy, don’t people hate it when someone they deem unworthy gets their mitts on something valuable.)

Tests are all very nice in morality plays but when things go wrong in real life … well, they just piss you off, really. Having finally convinced the Immigration guys that he is indeed who he claims to be, Frodoboat and his Faithful Ham board a plane for Middle Earth. After a sleepless night, they touch down in Auckland and head to the baggage claim area. Upon arriving …

Frodoboat: I can see your suitcase …
Faithful Ham: Yeah, but where’s yours?
Half an hour and a number of conversations with various airport staff later
Frodoboat: How the fuck could Air New Zealand not know where it is? It’s either in Perth or it’s here. How fucking hard is that?
Faithful Ham: Er … what time is the flight to Nelson? I think we’d better go. We’ll have to buy you some clothes when we get there.
Frodoboat: Fucking harrumph.

A couple of hours later, our sleep-deprived heroes are in a Nelson department store …

Frodoboat: (holding up a grey knitted pullover) What do you think?
Faithful Ham: Wow. A silvery chain-mail tunic crafted in the elven fashion. Immensely strong yet strangely weightless and a bargain at only NZ$34.99. I say, buy it!

With suitable raiment procured, the travellers hasten to meet their guide to the Enchanted Land, one who is wise and wizardly in the lore of real estate … the venerable Gand-Agent.

“Follow me,” he beckons from his shiny 4WD chariot. The pair do their best, although their steed is somewhat more modest, being of the hired persuasion and with its indicators on the wrong side of the steering wheel.

After journeying for an hour, they reach their destination. Waiting for them is a grizzled warrior who knows the Enchanted Land intimately and has offered to guide them through it. His name is Vend-or.

Vend-or: Would you like a cup of tea?
Faithful Ham: What miraculous fortifying beverage is this? Warming, yet also thirst-quenching. Surely, it is the product of the ancient healing lore of Rivendell, brewed by Lord Elrond himself, no less!
Frodoboat: Don’t mind her. She’s a bit tired.

It takes all of five minutes for the Enchanted Land to work its magic … the native beech forest, filled with the melodies of tui and bellbird; the strange fungi (Faithful Ham: What marvellous dwelling for pixies is this? Such a brilliant violet hue! Would that I could witness the little woodland folk dance their fairy dances around it of a full moon eve! Frodoboat: Will you shut the fuck up? You’re really starting to freak me out. I mean it.); the swiftly-flowing stream; to the south, the line of snow-capped mountains stretching east to west with the Wairau River at their base; to the north, the forested hills draped in mist; the duck-pond, the vegie garden, the wood-lot, the orchard; the humble little cottage with its verandah that has a larger floor area than the house itself; the ever-changing sky … and the peace.

Frodoboat: Yeah, well, we’ll think about it and let you know.
(they bid Gand-Agent and Vend-or adieu)
Faithful Ham: Oh my God. It’s even more fucking gorgeous than it looked in the picture.
Frodoboat: I want it. I have to have it. I’m going to buy it. We’ll ring Gand-Agent tomorrow and make an offer. But now, I’m going to check up on the missing luggage.

The pair merrily skip arm-in-arm to their chariot and hasten to a warm and welcoming inn, where they spend the night carousing like it’s 1999.

But trouble and more tests are a-brewing … as they discover the next day. And it’s not all about the still-missing luggage.

Popularity: 61% [?]

It was a Sunday afternoon in August. The Dreamboat was watching TV and I was in my office, checking out NZ real estate websites, just as I’d been doing most days for the last 18 months. When I clapped eyes on that beautiful snowy image (see previous post), I stopped dead and said, “Oh. My. God.”

The Dreamboat heard me. “What is it?”

“Come and take a look at this.”

He walked in, saw the image on the screen and said, “That is fucking gorgeous.”

It was the most encouraging response he’d made to anything I’d shown him to date. He didn’t like this, for example …

I spent months trying to convince him it was the place for us and yet he stubbornly refused to come around … even though it came with this view:

He had his reasons but I couldn’t help being disappointed. The place ticked every box on my wishlist: interesting architecture, built from native timber, on the West Coast of the South Island, stunning views of the ocean, elevated situation, a bit of land as well as the house, not too expensive …

Unfortunately, the place wasn’t finished. It had only been built to the ‘weatherproof shell’ stage and nothing had been done inside. The Dreamboat had looked at the floor plans on the real estate website and fashioned a deep and abiding loathing of them. So … dream over.

The next place to grab my attention was this:

This place was situated in the middle of the Southern Alps, near a small community called Springs Junction. There was a lot of land going with the property but the Dreamboat was concerned at its remoteness. I’d been planning a trip back to NZ and was intending to check out the place anyway. Until that fateful Sunday afternoon when we both lost our hearts to the idyllic snowy scene, that is …

Exactly two weeks later, we were sitting in a real estate office in NZ, completing the paperwork on the offer we’d just made. The trip, the offer and the surreal events that characterised the entire process deserve a post all of their own. They couldn’t have been scripted better in a movie. Stay tuned for tactics, tears and the tango.

Popularity: 58% [?]

Q: How many occupations can you think of that don’t involve dealing with human beings?
A: Sweet fuck-all.

After having decided a few months ago that I was over jobs that were slavishly people-focused, I eventually felt ready to start thinking about possible career alternatives:

• Astronomer and discoverer of a new planet which I would name Vitamin Paul
• Test-driver of high fashion-label shoes
• Owner of a multi Michelin-starred underwater restaurant (like this, but better in unspecified ways)
• Electron microscope photographer specialising in subjects that are ugly and boring (unlike these)
• Dominatrix (people-focused but in a beating-them-up sort of way, therefore acceptable)
• Matt Damon
• Inseminator of giant pandas (well, someone’s got to do it)
• A shaman. Any shaman.
• World curling champion (follow this link only if you must)
• Dictator of a small banana republic (see qualifier for Dominatrix)
• A concubine, but a different concubine to the one I’d considered being on 13 August 2003, this one being quite anti-social and not often in the mood

The conclusion: something to do with animals or plants. The latter won; they don’t shit everywhere or make a lot of noise. And I’ve always loved gardening. It’s been years since I’ve been able to have an outdoor garden of my own but I’ve always had houseplants, even though I invariably give them away every time we move.

So then began the long process of sifting through various distance education horticulture courses, weighing up their relative merits and trying to work out if I possessed sufficient funds and discipline to see any of them through. That’s when and how I discovered permaculture.

The absolute conviction that this was something I had to pursue was so immediate and powerful that I feel a little embarrassed talking about it. There were bells, whistles, sirens, fireworks, neon signs, punches to the stomach and a great deal of throttling. This wasn’t revelation or epiphany; this was GBH.

Like every good convert to every path of righteousness in all of history, I immediately looked for someone else to hook in. And there was my beloved Dreamboat … innocent, unaware, just in the door from work, all pleased to see his mental wife.

“I’ve enrolled in a course,” I told him. “Come and see.”

It was surprisingly easy to convince him. Permaculture design is based on observation and common sense. It also requires knowledge of many different disciplines. The Dreamboat loves all these things. It wasn’t long before he was downloading mini-documentaries and telling people, “It’s the way of the future.”

A lot of things became surprisingly easy after that. They just seemed to start falling into place. A community garden group started in Karratha and I signed up, with the idea of designing the garden for my final assignment. Then I was offered some casual work at a local nursery. I even started dreaming about our settling in Karratha and my starting up some kind of business …

Until this came along …

And we bought it.

Popularity: 61% [?]

If you’re new to hot water and the fractured psyche of its creator, here’s a summary of recent-ish events:

Back in February, Your Correspondent lost her marbles. She burnt out, had what amounts to a breakdown, left her job and spent a couple of months hanging out in her living room, gibbering.

Since then, assisted by amazing and supportive husband, The Incredible Dreamboat, she’s been working hard to win back her mental and emotional stability. Her progress towards this has been marked by a series of milestones, which she has chronicled on her blog. She is now rushing to finish off the last few milestones because she’s fucking sick of the whole subject. So, to continue …

Milestone #8 came in the form of an invitation from the Shire of Roebourne (local government) to MC the 2009 Cossack Art Awards — Australia’s richest regional art award and the most isolated art exhibition in the world.

The Shire knew I was no longer working in radio — not a “media personality” anymore — but wanted me anyway. I can’t tell you how much this meant to me.

I had the MC job over two nights: the Sponsors’ evening and the Awards night itself. I worked so hard on my prep and scripts … had my hair styled two days running (ah! the extravagance!) … the Dreamboat bought me a new dress … and when I stood on that stage each night and asked people to take their seats, it was one of the happiest and proudest moments of my life.

I guess because of the abrupt way I’d left my job, I thought of the Awards gig as my “swan song” — my farewell to any kind of public life. On both nights, people walked up to me and said, “Come back to the radio. We miss you!”, which was nice. But what made the Awards job different and special for me was that it was quite obviously all my own work. No-one else could claim it or take credit for it. So when a young woman approached me on the second night, took my hand, squeezed it and said, “Of all the people who got up and spoke tonight, you were my favourite”, I walked on air for days afterward.

You know that revelation thing I mentioned a couple of days ago? That’s next.

Popularity: 51% [?]

Far too many of us care more about being liked than about being respected.

That’s why there’s been such a proliferation recently of Dog Whisperers and Supernannies and all those other TV straight talkers — they’re there to sort out the dumb shits who’ve never disciplined their dogs and their kids because they’d rather be “friends” than responsible owners or parents. They’re scared their dog won’t love them any more if they set boundaries. They can’t bear the idea of their sulky four-year-old yelling that she hates them for forbidding her to scribble on the living room walls.

If you’re not sure which camp you fall into, here’s a simple little guide I came up with recently, while drunk:
People who’d rather be liked say “yes” to things they shouldn’t;
People who’d rather be respected say “no” to things they should.

I didn’t enjoy the realisation that I’d been a dumb shit myself, and that working to be liked rather than respected had done me a lot of damage. But I count it as Milestone #7 nonetheless.

So my advice unto ye, oh superheroes is this: go ye now forth and be ye respected, even though thy vengeful hound doth piss on thy footwear and the child of thine loins, upon reaching adulthood, doth sue thee for “mental cruelty”.

Popularity: 27% [?]