This morning at my Mum's house I found - finally! - my photo album from my first visit to Tasmania 11 years ago. I went there with a friend I'll call The Photographer. We spent ages seeking out perfect locations and framing our shots and the album is a stunner, even if I say so myself. Postcard photos!
Mixed in with the postcard shots of heavenly scenery are the pics of us having fun.
In one photo, I am balancing a chamber pot on my head. You'll be pleased to know it's empty. (Unfortunately my computer can't read the CD it's stored on, which is a bit of a worry and something I'll have to sort, otherwise you'd see it here in all its glory.)
I have always found chamber pots to be a wonderful source of amusement. I have a very advanced sense of toilet humour, which was the bane of my grandmother's existence when I was a girl. She wanted me to be A Lady. I wanted to be a tomboy.
My grandparents didn't have an indoor toilet until some time in the early 1970s, so my early childhood memories of staying there for holidays involved chamber pots. There was always one under the bed, as nobody wanted to head down to the back yard and the unlit outdoor dunny in the pitch black of night. If you needed a pee in the middle of the night, you squatted carefully over the pot. Even more carefully the next morning you took it through the house and down the back yard and tipped it into the loo. Or Mum did. Hilarious as I thought chamber pots were, the sight and smell of a semi-full one was a bit too much for me.
As for the outdoor dunny, it was a gem. The walls were of fibro, the roof of corrugated iron. The door had a gap top and bottom so the light could get in. The bog roll was on a hook that was always a little rusty. My grandparents lived by the sea.
My cousins and I used to delight in peeking under the door and teasing whoever was sat on the seat (which was made of utilitarian black plastic).
Best of all, it had a chain flush. A proper old-fashioned chain with a black bakelite handle which released a thunderous fall of water from the cistern near the roof. Pulling the chain was very satisfying - you'd give it a damned good tug, release it and watch it fly roofwards - and one of the things I missed when the indoor toilet was installed, as its cistern was conventionally behind the seat and it flushed quietly with a discreet little button.
You don't see chain flush toilets much anymore. My other grandmother had one too in her old house in Clovelly. It was an inside toilet next to the scullery, on the covered in back porch.
At the primary school I went to chain flush toilets were still in place in the 60s and 70s. The newest school building, built in the 1960s, featured chain flushes. In the girls' loo there were two rows of toilets from memory, and it was a good game to have a race to see who could dash into each cubicle and pull the chain down the row of loos. Even better, you'd wait until someone was sat down, climb silently into the cubicle next door, reach over and pull as quickly as you could, trusting you wouldn't be seen by the unlucky girl who just got a wet bum.
This year's Tassie photos don't feature any chamber pots - but I did spy one in an antique shop and, looking at the price, wish we'd kept my grandparents'! I didn't encounter a chain flush toilet either, although I'm sure many still exist, hidden on farms and in older houses. If the chain flush toilet still exists in any number, it will exist in Tassie, my heart tells me.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Paradise may have its serpents, but it still appeals
Outside it's raining; it's blowing on the windows and on the seemingly endless row of neighbours' roofs. My glimpse of the sky is cut into segments by terracotta tiles and brickwork. I feel closed in, in a way I didn't feel for ten days earlier this month.
I've been in Paradise, you see. Godzone Country. In other words, Tasmania. In this underpopulated island there are big skies. When it rains, you can see the rain approaching for many kilometres. Even in Hobart and Launceston, the world is on a human scale and you still get the sense of space and sky.
It's even better in the country. We stayed by the sea in Bicheno for a few days, watching the weather change kilometres away and the seas turn from dead calm to white horses to waves crashing against the shore and up through the blowhole. It rained - it poured! - but somehow that didn't matter. We chucked on our raincoats and headed to the shore to watch nature at work. Who cared if it was only 13 degrees with summer a fortnight away? Not us. I prefer cool climate holidays to tropical islands anyway.
We stayed in Ross, in the midlands, where the river had broken its banks, creating a wide blue pond that reflected the wide blue sky. Around us the hills were green and gentle. Tassie has had a very wet winter and spring, and the island is rejoicing in it. Lushness everywhere.
We were snowed on at Mt Wellington near Hobart. From the top of Mt W you get, if the mountain isn't in cloud, a superb view of Hobart itself. Our time there was limited so we took a chance and drove up, passing joggers and cyclists who clearly had masochistic tendencies. Higher and higher, until little blobs of snow sat at the side of the road. I was excited. I love snow. What I didn't expect was that before we would reach the summit the weather would turn and we would be caught in a snowfall. Not a heavy one, but enough to make me pull on hats and gloves, laugh and stand in it, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Beside me a family of tourists were clearly unprepared for the weather and stood in shorts, skimpy tops and flip-flops, shivering for the camera.
As quickly as it started the snow stopped, and we were wreathed in cloud with crunchy white stuff underfoot. Driving down the mountain Hobart reappeared when we slipped below the cloud base, dotted along the riverbanks on either side of the Derwent. It's a town that looks at peace with its environment; not too encroaching, with the only blot being the high rise Wrest Point Casino at Sandy Bay.
Launceston is even nicer in that regard, with heritage buildings - none over six stories - and a friendly feel; ten minutes' drive and you're out of town and in the country, with spring all around you, exuberant with wild colour. The road winding beside the Tamar gives you panoramic vistas. Launceston isn't a blot on the landscape, there is no pall of smog hanging over it - or Hobart come to that. You know it's there, behind those hills, but it has a kind footprint.
Our final few days were with G's family in a remote spot down the side of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, near Gordon, a one horse village whose one horse was probably a Shetland pony. The Cousin lives on 5 acres outside town, up on a hill with the Channel visible through the gum trees. There's some space around the property for fire protection, and the farmlet is home to native chooks, goshawks, possums and the odd tiger snake. The bloke next door has set up a rescue home for retired racehorses, but in a very minor way; he only has half a dozen as that's all he can support. The Cousin is building a veggie and fruit garden and is going to enclose it in chicken wire because of the possums. It's a magical spot only an hour south of Hobart, on a two lane road that winds along beside the channel through villages and small towns. From the Cousin's deck you can see forever.
We drove away from the Cousin's place feeling very envious. Neither of us is particularly handy with our hands - unlike the Cousin, an ex-carpenter and builder - so we probably couldn't manage the maintenance on a property like that. But oh boy, did we ever wish we could!
I had been to Tassie before but G hadn't, and I could see the stars forming in his eyes from the first day. Like me, he was bewitched by the place. After only a few days he was thinking sea change. Not right now, as we have my elderly Mum to look after, but in the future.
All Paradise has its serpents, however, and Tassie has a couple of big 'uns. One is the cost of living. Despite being a farming island a hell of a lot of stuff is imported from The Big Island/The North Island/The Mainland, which puts the prices up. Petrol is 20c a litre dearer than Sydney. Utility costs are higher too and if you have a really dry summer you can cop water restrictions as the dams aren't as big. Winter is cold, so heating your property is more expensive. The Cousin is a dab hand with a chainsaw and has plenty of firewood to hand, so his heating bills won't be horrendous.
Land and housing, on the other hand, is cheaper than Sydney (most places are!!!!), except for upmarket areas such as Battery Point and Sandy Bay in Hobart. Lovely suburbs right close to town but almost at Sydney prices. If you had a good enough house in Sydney you could sell, move to Tassie and live off the leftover money, invested wisely.
Unemployment is another serpent. We drove through several towns down on their luck with businesses for sale or simply closed down and boarded up; not pretty enough for chocolate-box photos, and with no outstanding natural beauty nearby, they are truly struggling. (Fingal springs to mind here.) Life is not pleasant if you're living in a small town and unemployed, wondering how you're going to keep your poorly insulated house warm next winter. The Cousin keeps his doors and windows locked and blinds down even when he drives to the nearest town to pick up groceries, as crime is a real problem in the less affluent rural areas.
The prettier towns, the tourist spots like Ross, have a fair percentage of Big Islanders as residents. They've moved from Sydney or Melbourne, cashed up, and can afford a pretty cottage in a nice place; often they have started their own tourism/hospitality business there. Cafes, BandBs…
Realistically if you are self-employed you can do okay, particularly in the trades people need, although the Cousin told us that Tasmania operates on Tasmanian Time, which means tradies have a relaxed interpretation of the word urgent. My business might survive in Tassie - heaven only knows it's barely surviving here, where there are thousands of potential clients. However if we moved south I'd be giving up the business and taking on art and writing fiction I should think. Ideally we would be in a position where I wouldn't have to work full time.
Until then… we'll be spending a bit more time there, exploring, researching, calculating. G is already talking about having a longer holiday in Tassie within the next two years. I did warn him ten days wouldn't be enough!
Still raining - but I can't see beyond the neighbour's house to find out what the weather has in store for me. Oh for those big skies!
I've been in Paradise, you see. Godzone Country. In other words, Tasmania. In this underpopulated island there are big skies. When it rains, you can see the rain approaching for many kilometres. Even in Hobart and Launceston, the world is on a human scale and you still get the sense of space and sky.
It's even better in the country. We stayed by the sea in Bicheno for a few days, watching the weather change kilometres away and the seas turn from dead calm to white horses to waves crashing against the shore and up through the blowhole. It rained - it poured! - but somehow that didn't matter. We chucked on our raincoats and headed to the shore to watch nature at work. Who cared if it was only 13 degrees with summer a fortnight away? Not us. I prefer cool climate holidays to tropical islands anyway.
We stayed in Ross, in the midlands, where the river had broken its banks, creating a wide blue pond that reflected the wide blue sky. Around us the hills were green and gentle. Tassie has had a very wet winter and spring, and the island is rejoicing in it. Lushness everywhere.
We were snowed on at Mt Wellington near Hobart. From the top of Mt W you get, if the mountain isn't in cloud, a superb view of Hobart itself. Our time there was limited so we took a chance and drove up, passing joggers and cyclists who clearly had masochistic tendencies. Higher and higher, until little blobs of snow sat at the side of the road. I was excited. I love snow. What I didn't expect was that before we would reach the summit the weather would turn and we would be caught in a snowfall. Not a heavy one, but enough to make me pull on hats and gloves, laugh and stand in it, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Beside me a family of tourists were clearly unprepared for the weather and stood in shorts, skimpy tops and flip-flops, shivering for the camera.
As quickly as it started the snow stopped, and we were wreathed in cloud with crunchy white stuff underfoot. Driving down the mountain Hobart reappeared when we slipped below the cloud base, dotted along the riverbanks on either side of the Derwent. It's a town that looks at peace with its environment; not too encroaching, with the only blot being the high rise Wrest Point Casino at Sandy Bay.
Launceston is even nicer in that regard, with heritage buildings - none over six stories - and a friendly feel; ten minutes' drive and you're out of town and in the country, with spring all around you, exuberant with wild colour. The road winding beside the Tamar gives you panoramic vistas. Launceston isn't a blot on the landscape, there is no pall of smog hanging over it - or Hobart come to that. You know it's there, behind those hills, but it has a kind footprint.
Our final few days were with G's family in a remote spot down the side of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, near Gordon, a one horse village whose one horse was probably a Shetland pony. The Cousin lives on 5 acres outside town, up on a hill with the Channel visible through the gum trees. There's some space around the property for fire protection, and the farmlet is home to native chooks, goshawks, possums and the odd tiger snake. The bloke next door has set up a rescue home for retired racehorses, but in a very minor way; he only has half a dozen as that's all he can support. The Cousin is building a veggie and fruit garden and is going to enclose it in chicken wire because of the possums. It's a magical spot only an hour south of Hobart, on a two lane road that winds along beside the channel through villages and small towns. From the Cousin's deck you can see forever.
We drove away from the Cousin's place feeling very envious. Neither of us is particularly handy with our hands - unlike the Cousin, an ex-carpenter and builder - so we probably couldn't manage the maintenance on a property like that. But oh boy, did we ever wish we could!
I had been to Tassie before but G hadn't, and I could see the stars forming in his eyes from the first day. Like me, he was bewitched by the place. After only a few days he was thinking sea change. Not right now, as we have my elderly Mum to look after, but in the future.
All Paradise has its serpents, however, and Tassie has a couple of big 'uns. One is the cost of living. Despite being a farming island a hell of a lot of stuff is imported from The Big Island/The North Island/The Mainland, which puts the prices up. Petrol is 20c a litre dearer than Sydney. Utility costs are higher too and if you have a really dry summer you can cop water restrictions as the dams aren't as big. Winter is cold, so heating your property is more expensive. The Cousin is a dab hand with a chainsaw and has plenty of firewood to hand, so his heating bills won't be horrendous.
Land and housing, on the other hand, is cheaper than Sydney (most places are!!!!), except for upmarket areas such as Battery Point and Sandy Bay in Hobart. Lovely suburbs right close to town but almost at Sydney prices. If you had a good enough house in Sydney you could sell, move to Tassie and live off the leftover money, invested wisely.
Unemployment is another serpent. We drove through several towns down on their luck with businesses for sale or simply closed down and boarded up; not pretty enough for chocolate-box photos, and with no outstanding natural beauty nearby, they are truly struggling. (Fingal springs to mind here.) Life is not pleasant if you're living in a small town and unemployed, wondering how you're going to keep your poorly insulated house warm next winter. The Cousin keeps his doors and windows locked and blinds down even when he drives to the nearest town to pick up groceries, as crime is a real problem in the less affluent rural areas.
The prettier towns, the tourist spots like Ross, have a fair percentage of Big Islanders as residents. They've moved from Sydney or Melbourne, cashed up, and can afford a pretty cottage in a nice place; often they have started their own tourism/hospitality business there. Cafes, BandBs…
Realistically if you are self-employed you can do okay, particularly in the trades people need, although the Cousin told us that Tasmania operates on Tasmanian Time, which means tradies have a relaxed interpretation of the word urgent. My business might survive in Tassie - heaven only knows it's barely surviving here, where there are thousands of potential clients. However if we moved south I'd be giving up the business and taking on art and writing fiction I should think. Ideally we would be in a position where I wouldn't have to work full time.
Until then… we'll be spending a bit more time there, exploring, researching, calculating. G is already talking about having a longer holiday in Tassie within the next two years. I did warn him ten days wouldn't be enough!
Still raining - but I can't see beyond the neighbour's house to find out what the weather has in store for me. Oh for those big skies!
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wondering if the end is nigh
I'm a little worried. Not about the end of the world, in case you're wondering about the title of this post. But I'm worried about the state of my friendship with a certain friend I'll call Posh.
Posh and I have been close friends since we were in our late teens. Our friendship has lasted through different cities and different continents. We are able to not see each other for months and when we do, it's like we haven't been apart; laughter all the way. But suddenly, she isn't returning my calls.
I know she's been busy - she and her husband sold their house last month so they'll be scrabbling around trying to find a new place to live with their teenaged kids.
For the last couple of years Posh and I have celebrated Melbourne Cup day together, with a bunch of her friends. This year though, not a word from Posh and now she's in pics on Facebook at someone else's Cup party with a bunch of new friends. Posh is a people collector, I may add here.
So what's gone wrong?
I think it's this: I'm now a Candle Lady. Posh wanted me to be a Thermomix consultant with her, and earlier this year I agreed to do that. However, with the stress The Scarlet Pimpernel put me under, I put any new business ideas on hold. I was sick at the thought of having to go out and do demos at other peoples' houses with a bit of gorgeous kit that costs almost $2K; you wouldn't expect to sell one at every demo at that price. I'm not a natural sales person and I knew if I didn't get a sale I'd feel down and inadequate.
So when I decided that candles were for me, as it's impossible to hold a demo without someone buying something, I rang Posh to tell her my intentions and apologise for not going into Thermomix with her. The phone went to voicemail - it does quite often with Posh as she's out and about or leaves the phone in another room.
That was six weeks ago. I've left four messages since then, and not one of them has been returned. I've messaged on Facebook. No reply. I've commented favourably on some of her recent Facebook pics. No Likes, no comment in return.
I believe I'm being shunned, rather than just ignored because Posh is busy. If that's the case, and it's as a result of my business decision, I think Posh is being a bit shallow.
Or maybe she's just grown out of our old friendship. After all, the friends she has made in the last ten years are wealthy with children who go to the same private school as Posh's. They live in a nice part of Sydney's north shore. In big houses which are typically mortgaged to the hilt. They spend like there's no tomorrow, have expensive holidays and they are all foodies to a woman. I am not wealthy and I don't have kids; I live in a townhouse in Sydney's west; my holidays are usually planned to a budget but are enormous fun; while I love my food I'm not a princess about it.
For now, I guess I have to accept the end may be on its way for our friendship. It would have taken Posh only a minute to pick up the phone, or send me a text.
To paraphrase a famous quote from one of my favourite movies, Casablanca, "This could be the end of a beautiful friendship."
I guess I'll know one way or the other - it's almost Christmas card season.
Posh and I have been close friends since we were in our late teens. Our friendship has lasted through different cities and different continents. We are able to not see each other for months and when we do, it's like we haven't been apart; laughter all the way. But suddenly, she isn't returning my calls.
I know she's been busy - she and her husband sold their house last month so they'll be scrabbling around trying to find a new place to live with their teenaged kids.
For the last couple of years Posh and I have celebrated Melbourne Cup day together, with a bunch of her friends. This year though, not a word from Posh and now she's in pics on Facebook at someone else's Cup party with a bunch of new friends. Posh is a people collector, I may add here.
So what's gone wrong?
I think it's this: I'm now a Candle Lady. Posh wanted me to be a Thermomix consultant with her, and earlier this year I agreed to do that. However, with the stress The Scarlet Pimpernel put me under, I put any new business ideas on hold. I was sick at the thought of having to go out and do demos at other peoples' houses with a bit of gorgeous kit that costs almost $2K; you wouldn't expect to sell one at every demo at that price. I'm not a natural sales person and I knew if I didn't get a sale I'd feel down and inadequate.
So when I decided that candles were for me, as it's impossible to hold a demo without someone buying something, I rang Posh to tell her my intentions and apologise for not going into Thermomix with her. The phone went to voicemail - it does quite often with Posh as she's out and about or leaves the phone in another room.
That was six weeks ago. I've left four messages since then, and not one of them has been returned. I've messaged on Facebook. No reply. I've commented favourably on some of her recent Facebook pics. No Likes, no comment in return.
I believe I'm being shunned, rather than just ignored because Posh is busy. If that's the case, and it's as a result of my business decision, I think Posh is being a bit shallow.
Or maybe she's just grown out of our old friendship. After all, the friends she has made in the last ten years are wealthy with children who go to the same private school as Posh's. They live in a nice part of Sydney's north shore. In big houses which are typically mortgaged to the hilt. They spend like there's no tomorrow, have expensive holidays and they are all foodies to a woman. I am not wealthy and I don't have kids; I live in a townhouse in Sydney's west; my holidays are usually planned to a budget but are enormous fun; while I love my food I'm not a princess about it.
For now, I guess I have to accept the end may be on its way for our friendship. It would have taken Posh only a minute to pick up the phone, or send me a text.
To paraphrase a famous quote from one of my favourite movies, Casablanca, "This could be the end of a beautiful friendship."
I guess I'll know one way or the other - it's almost Christmas card season.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Dan the Man - Dream Invader
Back in the 80s I had a fling with Dan the Man (as he described himself). Dan was a Canuck, a French Canadian guy I'd met on a holiday in Europe. I thought the fling was the real thing, he viewed it as a holiday romance. Naturally, it ended in tears - mine - but that's another story and too turgid to go into. I'll digress if I do.
Anyway, last night I dreamed about Dan the Man. I was in Montreal on holiday, with Mum. I was the age I am now but Mum was younger and fitter. We'd gone to Montreal but were hoping we wouldn't bump into Dan.
So we spent our holiday peeking around corners and of course, found ourselves in the same building as Dan the Man. I think it was a hotel. I don't always remember my dreams terribly well once I'm awake but I remember hissing at Mum, "Don't tell him I'm here!" and hiding under something. Bedcovers? Cushions? Something soft.
Dan, naturally, peered around a corner and found me, and we had an argument about something. Nothing obviously had changed in the many years since we'd last met. I should add here that we'd met up for holidays twice more after the initial one - 1991 in the US and 1996 in Canada, with the clear understanding that any sex involved was fling-like rather than the indication of a lasting relationship. We used to argue. It was an unhealthy relationship in many ways and around ten years ago we lost touch altogether.
My vague recollection of my dream is about me and Mum trying to move away from Dan the Man, with him pursuing and finding us, and finally he was being very pleasant and friendly, offering to show us around town. By the way, I've never been to Montreal so the Montreal I saw in my dreams probably bears no relation to anywhere on Earth.
I woke up wondering why the hell I'd dreamed about Dan the Man. Then I twigged. I'd watched an excellent show last night on ABC1, Redesign My Brain with Todd Sampson. Todd is also Canadian, and a thin and wiry/muscly build like Dan the Man. The physical similarities must have lodged in my brain - which clearly needs redesigning in that case - and lo! a dream was duly delivered.
Over the years I've wondered about Dan the Man. Whether he's still single, and I suspect he is, as he's too fussy about women's looks. He's a very intelligent guy and a perpetual student; I suspect he has at least two degrees by now.
I've tried to find him on the internet - little ole stalker me - and he's curiously invisible. No Facebook or Twitter. Not on LinkedIn. He's in the phone book and still living at the same address I've always known for him. I'd love to know what he looks like these days. Still skinny, I bet, and still bespectacled. Whether he's kept the wild mop of curls is another thing; I suspect he's rather thin on top these days. In my dream the curls were still there but a bit grey. The lush curls, I may add, were part of the attraction; I've always liked good hair on men. (Doesn't explain why I'm married to someone who's quite bald on top - I guess he has other attractions :-) ).
I wonder which old flame will pop up in my dreams next?
Anyway, last night I dreamed about Dan the Man. I was in Montreal on holiday, with Mum. I was the age I am now but Mum was younger and fitter. We'd gone to Montreal but were hoping we wouldn't bump into Dan.
So we spent our holiday peeking around corners and of course, found ourselves in the same building as Dan the Man. I think it was a hotel. I don't always remember my dreams terribly well once I'm awake but I remember hissing at Mum, "Don't tell him I'm here!" and hiding under something. Bedcovers? Cushions? Something soft.
Dan, naturally, peered around a corner and found me, and we had an argument about something. Nothing obviously had changed in the many years since we'd last met. I should add here that we'd met up for holidays twice more after the initial one - 1991 in the US and 1996 in Canada, with the clear understanding that any sex involved was fling-like rather than the indication of a lasting relationship. We used to argue. It was an unhealthy relationship in many ways and around ten years ago we lost touch altogether.
My vague recollection of my dream is about me and Mum trying to move away from Dan the Man, with him pursuing and finding us, and finally he was being very pleasant and friendly, offering to show us around town. By the way, I've never been to Montreal so the Montreal I saw in my dreams probably bears no relation to anywhere on Earth.
I woke up wondering why the hell I'd dreamed about Dan the Man. Then I twigged. I'd watched an excellent show last night on ABC1, Redesign My Brain with Todd Sampson. Todd is also Canadian, and a thin and wiry/muscly build like Dan the Man. The physical similarities must have lodged in my brain - which clearly needs redesigning in that case - and lo! a dream was duly delivered.
Over the years I've wondered about Dan the Man. Whether he's still single, and I suspect he is, as he's too fussy about women's looks. He's a very intelligent guy and a perpetual student; I suspect he has at least two degrees by now.
I've tried to find him on the internet - little ole stalker me - and he's curiously invisible. No Facebook or Twitter. Not on LinkedIn. He's in the phone book and still living at the same address I've always known for him. I'd love to know what he looks like these days. Still skinny, I bet, and still bespectacled. Whether he's kept the wild mop of curls is another thing; I suspect he's rather thin on top these days. In my dream the curls were still there but a bit grey. The lush curls, I may add, were part of the attraction; I've always liked good hair on men. (Doesn't explain why I'm married to someone who's quite bald on top - I guess he has other attractions :-) ).
I wonder which old flame will pop up in my dreams next?
Monday, October 14, 2013
Poison, sweet poison
Show me a weight loss plan or book and I'll sniff with interest. Enough interest and I'll buy it. Such as, it says I can have a glass of wine with dinner. Or enjoy the occasional serve of hot chips. Guess what I found at our local bookshop last week, in that case!
G and I are both on a weight loss kick. In his case, it's on doctor's orders as doc has said G's 'bad' cholesterol is too high. G was then sent to a nutritionist who recommended using margarine instead of butter and other ideas that the medical profession believes are better for you, mostly related to using 'fake' food instead of real food.
I have a real beef with that. Pun intended.
We humans didn't evolve for hundreds of thousands of years to eat artificial preservatives and oils bleached to pale yellowness to resemble butter. We ate meat with fat on it. We made butter from cream. We were relatively healthy - aside from the plague and other baddies - until the last few hundred years and particularly the 20th century.
I've just finished reading two books: Sweet Poison and Toxic Oil by Aussie author David Gillespie. These are real eye-openers.
David Gillespie isn't a doctor. His background is as a lawyer. As such, he's an investigator. He hunts down facts, and what he's found out from sifting through layers and centuries of data is that it's the fructose in refined sugar and food that contains it that's making us fat. Killing us, in fact, as sugar is also the culprit behind rising bad cholesterol.
Sugar didn't exist in our diet to the degree it does now, 200 years ago. It was simply too expensive to buy. Yer average Aussie these days eats about 1kg of the stuff a week. Pick up a kilogram bag of sugar and hold it in your hand just to cement the idea. It's no wonder 1 in 5 Australians are obese. Sugar creeps insidiously into just about everything, particularly the 'fat-free' products, which use sugar to enhance the taste in lieu of fat.
And guess what - those little Heart Foundation ticks of approval on food containing vegetable/seed oils should be crosses. The way these oils are produced affects their molecular structure, and not in a good way. Couple that with data produced in the 1950s by a respected scientist, which was taken as gospel by the US government (and later the Aussies), showing that animal fat apparently leads to heart disease, and suddenly we're all being told to eat polyunsaturated oils which can have some pretty nasty side effects. I knew polyunsatured oils can cause macular disease - ie blindness - so have banned them from my kitchen, and if I have to buy packaged food I read the labels very carefully indeed. Animal fat isn't the bad guy it's made out to be, in a nutshell.
These books were written by a man who lost 40kg after cutting out sugar - and still eating animal fat products. Without sugar his health has improved immensely, weight loss irregardless.
As you can surmise by now Sweet Poison tells you all the reasons you should cut out refined sugar from your life. You can eat whole fruit (but not juice it... you're just getting fructose without the fibre if you do). You can even have a glass of dry white or red wine with dinner, as the sugar in wine doesn't break down into fructose. But forget the cakes and sweet biscuits, jams, and - regretfully! - chocolate.
This is going to be rather hard to achieve. Harder for G to achieve that I, as he has a Scotman's sweet tooth and adores his marmalade. And chocolate. And biscuits. He can hoover up three biscuits with one cup of coffee if they're put in front of him.
Since I cut out sugar in my coffee last year, I have less sugar cravings. I don't long for a couple of squares of chocolate after dinner any more. I eat marmalade on my toast maybe twice a year, as I find it too sweet. I prefer a handful of nuts to a sweet biscuit. I do love a good cake though, and as David points out, if party food such as cakes is only eaten at parties or as a rare treat, and you don't have the urge afterwards to get back on the chocolate, biscuits, meringues and other sweet goodies, that's acceptable.
Toxic Oil says eggs are just fine, hunt out grass-fed beef or choose lamb instead, choose free-range chooks who aren't fed on grains heavy on Omega-6, and if you must have chips, fry them in olive oil, or an animal fat such as Supafry. (Don't buy fast food chips, whatever you do.) The book features several handy tables showing the sugar and polyunsaturated oil content of many common supermarket items, so I know what to buy and what to avoid.
Over the last couple of months G has lost five kilograms after a stern talking-to by the nutritionist, and me pointing out he doesn't need two slices of toast laden with marmalade after a breakfast of eggs, spinach, mushrooms and half a grapefruit. He's down to one spoon of sugar in tea and coffee too. I've surreptitiously cut down his portion sizes at other meals, and we don't have carbs every night at dinner, only a couple of times a week, getting carbs from vegetables instead. He's delighted at his weight loss and I'm going to urge him to read these books so we can work together on getting him down to a good weight for his height. In my case I only have about 4kg to lose.
My next task is clearing the food cupboard and fridge of the worst sugar and polyunsaturated oil offenders. I think tucked under the packets of quinoa, couscous, chia seeds and curry powders are some jars of curry paste, possibly bought when G still lived in Adelaide. As I typically make my own curry paste from scratch they're undoubtedly out of date anyway. This will be cathartic. And that's always a good thing.
G and I are both on a weight loss kick. In his case, it's on doctor's orders as doc has said G's 'bad' cholesterol is too high. G was then sent to a nutritionist who recommended using margarine instead of butter and other ideas that the medical profession believes are better for you, mostly related to using 'fake' food instead of real food.
I have a real beef with that. Pun intended.
We humans didn't evolve for hundreds of thousands of years to eat artificial preservatives and oils bleached to pale yellowness to resemble butter. We ate meat with fat on it. We made butter from cream. We were relatively healthy - aside from the plague and other baddies - until the last few hundred years and particularly the 20th century.
I've just finished reading two books: Sweet Poison and Toxic Oil by Aussie author David Gillespie. These are real eye-openers.
David Gillespie isn't a doctor. His background is as a lawyer. As such, he's an investigator. He hunts down facts, and what he's found out from sifting through layers and centuries of data is that it's the fructose in refined sugar and food that contains it that's making us fat. Killing us, in fact, as sugar is also the culprit behind rising bad cholesterol.
Sugar didn't exist in our diet to the degree it does now, 200 years ago. It was simply too expensive to buy. Yer average Aussie these days eats about 1kg of the stuff a week. Pick up a kilogram bag of sugar and hold it in your hand just to cement the idea. It's no wonder 1 in 5 Australians are obese. Sugar creeps insidiously into just about everything, particularly the 'fat-free' products, which use sugar to enhance the taste in lieu of fat.
And guess what - those little Heart Foundation ticks of approval on food containing vegetable/seed oils should be crosses. The way these oils are produced affects their molecular structure, and not in a good way. Couple that with data produced in the 1950s by a respected scientist, which was taken as gospel by the US government (and later the Aussies), showing that animal fat apparently leads to heart disease, and suddenly we're all being told to eat polyunsaturated oils which can have some pretty nasty side effects. I knew polyunsatured oils can cause macular disease - ie blindness - so have banned them from my kitchen, and if I have to buy packaged food I read the labels very carefully indeed. Animal fat isn't the bad guy it's made out to be, in a nutshell.
These books were written by a man who lost 40kg after cutting out sugar - and still eating animal fat products. Without sugar his health has improved immensely, weight loss irregardless.
As you can surmise by now Sweet Poison tells you all the reasons you should cut out refined sugar from your life. You can eat whole fruit (but not juice it... you're just getting fructose without the fibre if you do). You can even have a glass of dry white or red wine with dinner, as the sugar in wine doesn't break down into fructose. But forget the cakes and sweet biscuits, jams, and - regretfully! - chocolate.
This is going to be rather hard to achieve. Harder for G to achieve that I, as he has a Scotman's sweet tooth and adores his marmalade. And chocolate. And biscuits. He can hoover up three biscuits with one cup of coffee if they're put in front of him.
Since I cut out sugar in my coffee last year, I have less sugar cravings. I don't long for a couple of squares of chocolate after dinner any more. I eat marmalade on my toast maybe twice a year, as I find it too sweet. I prefer a handful of nuts to a sweet biscuit. I do love a good cake though, and as David points out, if party food such as cakes is only eaten at parties or as a rare treat, and you don't have the urge afterwards to get back on the chocolate, biscuits, meringues and other sweet goodies, that's acceptable.
Toxic Oil says eggs are just fine, hunt out grass-fed beef or choose lamb instead, choose free-range chooks who aren't fed on grains heavy on Omega-6, and if you must have chips, fry them in olive oil, or an animal fat such as Supafry. (Don't buy fast food chips, whatever you do.) The book features several handy tables showing the sugar and polyunsaturated oil content of many common supermarket items, so I know what to buy and what to avoid.
Over the last couple of months G has lost five kilograms after a stern talking-to by the nutritionist, and me pointing out he doesn't need two slices of toast laden with marmalade after a breakfast of eggs, spinach, mushrooms and half a grapefruit. He's down to one spoon of sugar in tea and coffee too. I've surreptitiously cut down his portion sizes at other meals, and we don't have carbs every night at dinner, only a couple of times a week, getting carbs from vegetables instead. He's delighted at his weight loss and I'm going to urge him to read these books so we can work together on getting him down to a good weight for his height. In my case I only have about 4kg to lose.
My next task is clearing the food cupboard and fridge of the worst sugar and polyunsaturated oil offenders. I think tucked under the packets of quinoa, couscous, chia seeds and curry powders are some jars of curry paste, possibly bought when G still lived in Adelaide. As I typically make my own curry paste from scratch they're undoubtedly out of date anyway. This will be cathartic. And that's always a good thing.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
What was he thinking?
My husband G is a lovely bloke. Thoughtful. Generous. Kind. I am very lucky.
He likes to buy me presents, particularly if he's sent overseas on business, and most of the time they hit the mark pretty well.
Earlier this year he travelled to India, and asked me if I'd like him to bring back a sari. Delighted, I said. Cotton, preferably, and with sequins. Something a bit over the top I can turn into an evening dress. Aqua colour. Bless him, he came back with an apple green polyester sari with no sequins. Not what I envisaged for an evening dress so one of my Indian neighbours will have to show me how to wear a sari. We have many Indian neighbours. There'll probably be an occasion to wear one. It's a very pretty sari.
Happy that he'd bought a sari, G then thought he'd buy me something else. Silk clothes are pretty cheap in India, so he bought me a silk top.
I think he probably went into the fashion boutique, as he said it was quite a fashionable little shop, and told the salesgirl, "My wife likes wearing bright colours. What have you got in silk?"
She was undoubtedly overjoyed to offload a safety vest green coloured top, the cut of which is designed to turn anyone with boobs bigger than 32" into an elephant.
He likes to buy me presents, particularly if he's sent overseas on business, and most of the time they hit the mark pretty well.
Earlier this year he travelled to India, and asked me if I'd like him to bring back a sari. Delighted, I said. Cotton, preferably, and with sequins. Something a bit over the top I can turn into an evening dress. Aqua colour. Bless him, he came back with an apple green polyester sari with no sequins. Not what I envisaged for an evening dress so one of my Indian neighbours will have to show me how to wear a sari. We have many Indian neighbours. There'll probably be an occasion to wear one. It's a very pretty sari.
Happy that he'd bought a sari, G then thought he'd buy me something else. Silk clothes are pretty cheap in India, so he bought me a silk top.
I think he probably went into the fashion boutique, as he said it was quite a fashionable little shop, and told the salesgirl, "My wife likes wearing bright colours. What have you got in silk?"
She was undoubtedly overjoyed to offload a safety vest green coloured top, the cut of which is designed to turn anyone with boobs bigger than 32" into an elephant.
I am talking BRIGHT green. Eye-piercing, blinding green. Yes, the glow in the dark colour favoured by all health-and-safety-conscious manual workers everywhere. This photo doesn't do it justice. It makes it look tame.
I am thinking the shop didn't sell many of these; G told me proudly he'd got it on special.
Being a polite person, I thanked him generously and said it was lovely, and tried it on. Because of those pleats at the top and the subsequent flow of fabric it immediately made me look 10kgs heavier. I hoiked it in with a wide turquoise coloured belt, which helped.
Apart from the fit, or lack of fit, the problem is the colour. What the hell do you match blinding green with so you don't look like a roadworker? I guess I can tone it down with aqua and turquoise, and wear it with white capri pants. I could probably wear it under the apple green sari, come to that.
Because it's a present and G was so proud of his shopping capabilities, I am honour bound to wear the top and not give it away. I am too kind a person to let it meet with an accident. I can't even dye it another colour or he'll suspect he made a major error with the fuck-me-that's-green green, and feel bad about it.
So I have to grin and bear it - or in this case, wear it. But... what was he thinking when he went through the decision process on this top?
Has anyone else been giving a present they don't like but have to wear lest the giver get insulted?
Friday, October 4, 2013
The romance of rail
Occasionally I'm stuck in traffic on a railway bridge near my home. I don't like being stuck on bridges; that makes me twitchy. So I divert my attention from potential bridge collapses and imminent death by looking at the train lines below.
They snake off into the distance and around the bend, and I want to sniff the air and jump on a train. To anywhere. Just for the hell of it. Just to see where those silvery lines lead. To go to a place I wouldn't have any reason to go to; a place I haven't been before. The smell of the electricity, the mild rocking motion, and a sense of adventure, of zipping past all those cars trundling slowly down the roads, lifts my mood.
There's something about trains that appeals, despite my hatred of packed peak-hour public transport. Maybe it's the relaxation element (outside peak hour) where you can sit down with a book and let someone else drive. I can't read in cars but I can read in trains.
If I'm not reading, there's scenery. Well, in my case it's usually a troll through western Sydney, much of which ain't pretty, but it's interesting. The demographics change. The Indian woman sitting on her apartment balcony near Parramatta will be an Asian woman by the time you get to Strathfield. The houses on their quarter acre blocks - often fibro, often untidy - which back onto the train line give way to apartments around Parramatta and Westmead, then more houses on smaller blocks - brick, typically - until we hit the inner west and the lovely Italianate homes around Summer Hill and Petersham, and rows of terraces. Then it's into the funkiness of Newtown and Redfern before darkness envelopes us and we pull into Central.
A train ride is a sense of escape. It's still an adventure for me, as I don't ride the train every day. Train rides mean a journey into town for pleasure, or occasionally a client meeting. Earlier this week I had to go to St Leonards, so I took the train and gazed happily out at Sydney harbour as we crossed it on the coat hanger. Blissfully bluesky day, shimmering blue water; heartlifting. You can't always see that if you drive your car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
So I find there is still a romance about travelling by train, even in suburban Sydney.
On my trip earlier this week there was real romance in the air, and I wondered what the relationship was. A guy sat opposite me; he was on the train when I alighted, munching McDonald's. He was in his thirties, unremarkable. At Parramatta a Chinese girl in her twenties or thirties got on and sat next to him, snuggling up. He put his arm around her, and for several stops they stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his face turned towards hers, intensely talking. I was busy looking out the window on my side and only noticed the girl get off several stations later. I assumed the guy got off too, but no, he was still sitting there and got off at Town Hall. I wondered if they were having an affair, grabbing each opportunity to see each other, even if it was only travelling on the train for twenty minutes together. It brings a whole new dimension to the romance of rail.
They snake off into the distance and around the bend, and I want to sniff the air and jump on a train. To anywhere. Just for the hell of it. Just to see where those silvery lines lead. To go to a place I wouldn't have any reason to go to; a place I haven't been before. The smell of the electricity, the mild rocking motion, and a sense of adventure, of zipping past all those cars trundling slowly down the roads, lifts my mood.
There's something about trains that appeals, despite my hatred of packed peak-hour public transport. Maybe it's the relaxation element (outside peak hour) where you can sit down with a book and let someone else drive. I can't read in cars but I can read in trains.
If I'm not reading, there's scenery. Well, in my case it's usually a troll through western Sydney, much of which ain't pretty, but it's interesting. The demographics change. The Indian woman sitting on her apartment balcony near Parramatta will be an Asian woman by the time you get to Strathfield. The houses on their quarter acre blocks - often fibro, often untidy - which back onto the train line give way to apartments around Parramatta and Westmead, then more houses on smaller blocks - brick, typically - until we hit the inner west and the lovely Italianate homes around Summer Hill and Petersham, and rows of terraces. Then it's into the funkiness of Newtown and Redfern before darkness envelopes us and we pull into Central.
A train ride is a sense of escape. It's still an adventure for me, as I don't ride the train every day. Train rides mean a journey into town for pleasure, or occasionally a client meeting. Earlier this week I had to go to St Leonards, so I took the train and gazed happily out at Sydney harbour as we crossed it on the coat hanger. Blissfully bluesky day, shimmering blue water; heartlifting. You can't always see that if you drive your car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
So I find there is still a romance about travelling by train, even in suburban Sydney.
On my trip earlier this week there was real romance in the air, and I wondered what the relationship was. A guy sat opposite me; he was on the train when I alighted, munching McDonald's. He was in his thirties, unremarkable. At Parramatta a Chinese girl in her twenties or thirties got on and sat next to him, snuggling up. He put his arm around her, and for several stops they stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his face turned towards hers, intensely talking. I was busy looking out the window on my side and only noticed the girl get off several stations later. I assumed the guy got off too, but no, he was still sitting there and got off at Town Hall. I wondered if they were having an affair, grabbing each opportunity to see each other, even if it was only travelling on the train for twenty minutes together. It brings a whole new dimension to the romance of rail.
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