Remembering the 15th April '89

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster. For those of you that don’t know about this, it was when a football stand in Sheffield, England, collapsed six minutes into a semi final match and killed (ultimately) 96 people. It was terrible and to this day remains the worst event in footballing history, in the UK and internationally.

I vaguely remember seeing it on the telly on the day, but seeing as John, my Mum’s boyfriend and subsequently hubby, had taken us away for a weekend in Great Yarmouth, I remember the weekend for something else entirely.

I was 15 and John had paid for me to have the room across the hall in the hotel we were staying at. I was in heaven. My first every hotel stay and I had tea and coffee making stuff, my own bathroom, a telly and two single beds. I picked the bed by the wall, put Brian the ginger teddy bear on the pillow, he was my teddy bear named after a boy I had a crush on when I was eight. We had spent the day on the beach, it had been sunny. We’d had dinner and about 10pm I’d said goodnight and sat on the bed watching telly for a little while. I imagine that Muv and John had also started watching telly, because parents don’t do anything else, especially on a dirty weekend.

I don’t know what time it was when I went to bed, but at about 1am I was awoken by a man climbing into bed next to me. This is going to sound strange, but I remember my Dad climbing into bed with my brother when he was unwell to comfort him, and my brother going nuts. I thought that perhaps John was doing the same to see if he’d get the same reaction (I would like to state, John never did anything inappropriate). As he climbed into bed the man said, ‘I don’t care if your Marilyn Munroe, I’m going to sleep.’

Now, I was a fifteen year old girl that just so happened to be having ladies things that weekend and as accidents happen, so had one that night. I was embarrassed by the warm red patch in the bed and climbed out of bed over the large sleeping stranger. Sat on the edge of the other bed was another man. I walked past him and went into the bathroom. Went to the toilet and then walked back into the room. There was a large man asleep on my bed, a pair of trousers on the floor next to it. The man on the other bed, looked at me and said, ’come here.’

I just turned and walked out of the room and knocked on the door opposite. I’m not sure how long I waited for a response, but I do remember hearing the telly on. When the door opened, John was standing in front of me.

‘There’s a man in my bed.’

My mum appeared at the door.

‘Jodie says there’s a man in her bed.’ John said.

John walked across the hall and into my room. I was taken into my Mum room. There was some shouting, before John appeared and walked down the hall, then returned with Hotel security or management. Could have been either, I was sitting on my Mums bed telling what happened, which, really was nothing, but could have been so much more.

I slept in my Mum and John’s room that night.

The next morning I asked if I could get my stuff from my room. I was told by John that he’d it all. I wasn’t allowed back into the room.

I asked for Brian, my Mum wouldn’t let me have him, ‘he needs washing’.

They told me later that the man who had climbed into bed with me had been a family man with three daughters around my age. He and his friend had come from the oil rigs and had been drinking. His friend (the one seated) had thought he could get his mate to let his guard down. The family man woke up about two hours later because Brian was wedged under his hip. This was the point where he realised what could have happened and being drunk didn’t know if it had, when he had beaten the other guy up so badly that my accident was a drop in the ocean of blood that covered the room. Light fittings where broken off the wall, pictures smashed and the window had been broken. Brian was blood soaked and needed to be washed at least twice before he could be returned to me. The ‘mate’ ended up in hospital.

For years afterwards, whenever this story was told, my Mum always thought it was hilarious that I was so casual about it when the hotel manager lady nearly lost her teeth coughing and spluttering at my reply to her question, ‘Are you OK my dear, nothing ‘bed’ happened to you?’

I replied with the innocence of a mid teen, ‘Oh it was alright, I just thought it was John.’

Crepuscular Light

A few years ago I read ‘The DaVinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I followed it with ’Angels and Demons’. I enjoyed them both for what they were, adventure novels that kept you turning the page because of a good fast paced story. Our hero moved across continents, religion got a bashing, people died or were badly injured, but in the end the good guy came out on top. When during Uni classes these books where held up as bad examples of writing I would always jump to their defence with the argument that they have got people reading. Surely, I’d follow up with, any reading is good reading?

In May last year I was readying myself for a trip back to the UK for an extended period. I needed reading material. A visit to my local bookstore saw me purchasing the first three of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. I liked the look of the covers and the blurb had me sold. I like a good vampire yarn.

I read the first book and got a tad irritated with being told Edward was amazing, Edward is luminous and Edward is gorgeous. I wanted to slap Bella for being such a big girl’s blouse. I did however make it to the end of the first book even though I wished it would hurry up and get on with the story already. I wasn’t in a hurry to know what happened next though. There was a four month gap before I started reading the second book at Christmas. Just after the Twilight movie came out.

I saw the movie in the cinema and found myself thinking, ‘where’s the fast forward button?’

I only made it half way through the second book and came perilously close to throwing it out of the window during my Christmas road trip. I knew what was coming, it had been hinted at so many times, but the author never seemed to want to tell us anything for sure. Was Jacob a werewolf? Of course he is, so why not just bloody tell us, it’s not like we can’t work it out for ourselves by page 10.

A friend of mine borrowed the books from me and loved it. She said it was like a soap opera, she had to know what came next and as such kept turning the pages.

I don’t watch soap operas. I don’t watch Eastenders, Neighbours or Days of our Lives. Maybe this is why the slow pace annoyed me so much. I don’t want to wait six weeks to see the main characters have their first kiss. The duh duh duh music at the end of an episode rarely leaves me on the edge of my seat. I like them to just get on with it, if it’s going to happen. Sexual tension and threats are all well and good, but if you know it’s never gonna happen, what the point in having it there in the first place?

Maybe if I was 16, as I believe is the intended audience age for these books, I would have persevered. Maybe if I needed a lesson in abstinence and the consequences of loose living (as I believe are revealed in book four) I would have enjoyed them more. As it is, I see people (both men and women) on the train, heads buried in book three or four and feel like giving them a round of applause for making it so far.

I now see where my fellow students were coming from. It’s not a case of any reading is good reading. Only good reading is good reading. Bad reading only dims the lights further.

Tea

I’ve just finished drinking a bottle of Lipton Ice Tea White with Raspberry. I like this tea, it’s refreshing and not too sweet. I don’t know how many of these I’ve drunk, but I looked at the label for the first time ever, today.


Ingredients:
Water, sugar, tea extract (10.8%) [green tea extract 9.7%, white tea extract 1.1%], flavours (contains wheat derivatives), raspberry juice, food acid(296), antioxidant(300). Contains wheat products.

I have two questions; first surely with a higher level of green tea extract this should be marketed as a green tea product and second, how do they manage to get wheat into a drink?

Why so hard?

We all have electronic items that require batteries. Some are completely innocent, others not so. Last night I had to replace the batteries in my heater/aircon unit remote and having purchased some during the day I went to work. As usual through, this seemingly simple task, turns into mission impossible as you try to free the little metal cylinders from their plastic and cardboard prison.

I know the manufacturers and shop keepers don’t want these items being stolen, but is it really necessary to make it harder to open this packet than a bottle of childproofed painkillers?

It seems that no matter how many perforations they put in the cardboard, they only go half way through which means you end up with a tiny pile of hairy cardboard before you break a nail, and then, finally, the batteries fly across the room, because you are pushing and pulling so hard you loss all control.

How the hell...

...did these pieces get between the two panes of glass?

When did manners and courtesy disappear?

Was it with woman’s lib? Meaning men no longer give up their seat for a woman wearing heels?

Why don’t people say ‘excuse me’ anymore and instead stare at the back of your head expecting you to know they want to move instinctively?

Why is it that an train aisle full of standing people doesn’t inspire someone to move their handbag and feet off the seat next to them?

When did a queue become just a way of standing before turning into an all out bun fight to get through a door?

Why did I have to ask to sit down, when I was on crutches?

Why, when paying for an item, does the next person feel compelled to stand so close to you, you can feel their breath?

In a world where personal space is becoming more and more precious, I say we need, more than ever to regain some of the basic manners and courtesy with which we are furnished as children. Of course, in saying this I am assuming that manners are actually taught to everyone. Based on the evidence from public transport, public events and your average shopping centre, I reckon it’s a subject that needs to be put on the school curriculum.

Reliably Unreliable

We all have one. Be they a friend, a mate, a buddie or acquaintance, we know if they are invited out they will say, ‘yes, I’ll be there’ with such convincing gusto, that you actually believe, for once, they may actually turn up.

When they call you, email you or text you at the eleventh hour (usually after they have been prompted) they let you down. It will always be an imaginative and creative excuse that rings true, and despite you having doubts, you say, ‘that’s OK, maybe next time’. When they do turn up to something, you are surprised and so happy you forgive the previous let-downs.

I have two such mates. I still invite the first one, but I know she won’t turn up. I know it’s a waste of paper, bandwidth and effort, but in the name of friendship I still make the effort. I’m dangerously close to plonking the second in the same basket.

At what point do you say, enough is enough and give up altogether?

Join the Cult

Yesterday I joined a cult. Nothing that promises to beam me up at the end of the world, just one that suggests for $20.95 per week I can have health, fitness and happiness. They even gave a branded backpack, water bottle and cap to share my new found faith with the world.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a yoga class put on by work, in work hours. I walked into the class with pain in my hip after a rather adventurous weekend and I wasn’t sure the mellow looking chick at the front of the room would be able to convert me. An hour later, I was pretty much pain free and feeling just a tad floaty. I decided on the way home, that I liked yoga and was already looking forward to the next lesson. This week, however, they changed the session time, taking it out of work hours. It wasn’t a big time, but I did the calculations and realised I could be home by the time I was half way through the class. And seeing as Home is truly where my heart is, I decided to give it a miss.

Yesterday I walking back to the office after having my annual flu vaccination when a cult minion stopped me by waving a ‘5 for $10’ leaflet at me. He tried to convince me that the best way to start the day was to attend the church of exercise between 7 and 9am, I told him, that no, the best way to start the day was sleeping ‘til as late as possible. I told him that unless he could find a way to fix my duff hip, my hypertension and sort out the ceoliac disease (currently being investigated by doctors), I was only interested in casual yoga. He told me I should commit to coming three time a week. I told him, that wasn’t gonna happen.

Peter in his navy blue branded robes asked to me to come and have a look at the facilities, have a chat. He told me I didn’t have to commit to anything and that I should look at the website for timetables. I’d forgotten about Peter by the time I got back to my desk, but my interest in Yoga was firmly at the forefront of my mind.

During a mini brain break later in the day I looked at the website, it revealed that there were two churches within a five minute walk of my office. So I looked up the yoga classes in both. The one Peter represented only had two weekday classes and they were both outside of office hours. The other one had six classes, five of which are over lunch time. Bingo!

I dug out the leaflet that had been pressed into my hand like a one sided drug deal and rang the number on the back. Peter answered on the second ring. Moments later I found myself walking away from my desk carrying only the leaflet and my mobile (in case hostage negotiation was required).

A brief chat where he tried to convince me that treadmill, stationary bikes and spin classes were good had me sat back, arm folded. Then he changed tact.

‘Yoga’, he said, ‘good for the mind, body, soul, it is. Relax it will help, strength it will build, muscles it will tone, weight it will reduce.’

I already knew that, that’s why I want to do it. And why was he talking like Yoga?

‘You don’t have to book classes, just turn up 5-10 minutes in advance and you can attend any of our nearly 90 branches across Australia.’

I signed up.

I’m pretty sure Fitness First (or Finance First, as most Aussies call it) is a safe cult to be a member of. I just have to be sure I don’t turn into a built up gym bunny who can’t put her arm down by her sides.

Never gonna happen!


PS. Attended a BodyBalance class today. Couldn’t do half the moves (hip restrictions) but I enjoyed it, and will go again.

Test your IQ

I did three IQ tests today at the urging of Facebook. It told me that I had been challenged by my friends. I was curious to say the least. I did a psychometric test and IQ test a few years back (for a job), that involved three hours of testing and over 150 questions covering maths, comprehension and shape recognition. I got a very good score on that one and felt like ringing my teacher (from when I was 8) and telling her to shove her ‘lazy and stupid’ comments up her arse.

The tests today involved five questions (105), ten questions (134) and another ten questions (110). My actual IQ, which I chose not to share, is a bit higher than the middle attempt today.

How can these tests tell you that you are ordinary based on ten questions?
Even worse, how can it text you and say ‘Not too shabby, but your still not a genius’. Did anyone else git their teeth at the missing apostrophe?

Of course, I know this all has nothing to do with telling me I’m smarter than the average, or where I fit into the ranking of my friends intelligence, it’s all about getting $6.60 per text message until I text, ‘STOP’.

Great Lyrics

'I spent ages givin' head'.

and to think they made a fuss about 'relax, when you wanna come'

Gotta love Lily Allen

Carrion

A couple of weeks ago I got a leaflet through the door warning me of the upcoming date for the neighbourhood ‘leave your rubbish for us to pick up’ day.

This is a scheme that local councils have put in place to try and curb dumping; in turn you leave your stuff on the curb. It happens once every three months and mostly, I think it works. A lot of the stuff gets collected by charity organisations who, at other times of the year tell you to get stuffed if you ask them to collect. The recyclables get recycled and the rubbish, well, that goes to landfill. However, much of the stuff left out never get to its intended destination, as there is an element of society that thrives of picking through others refuse and taking it, and no doubt, selling it for their own profit.

I had a few things in mind that really needed to go out. Not rubbish perse, just things I don’t need or want anymore and I was getting fed up with having in the garage. A queen divan bed and mattress (yes, I could have sold it, but it had ten years of marks on it, yuck), an arm chair, a few old Singer sewing machines that used to be used for display when I had the shop (tried museums and second hand store, no one wanted them) and a pile of flat packed cardboard boxes.

I spent yesterday morning making a neat pile on the verge outside my house, then popped out to get a few groceries. The sewing machines were gone when I got back.

Later in the day, I went to the movies. When I got back the mattress was missing.

The amazing disappearing items meant I could put something else out. You’re only supposed to put out 1cubic metre. So I moved a few things around in the lounge and put the sofa out there, don’t panic I have another, better one in storage (remnants of married life).

At 3.30 this morning I was awoken by male voices outside my bedroom window. At least three men were chatting loudly, I couldn’t understand a words, but judging by the laughing and high spirits, no doubt fuelled by a few, they were having fun. Then I heard the clatter of casters as they hit the road. I fingered a gap into the blinds and peered out the window to see the three men pushing the bed base down the road like a toboggan before jumping on it. Despite being unimpressed about being woken up at such an hour, I couldn’t help but smile.

Note to self: if I ever leave a divan bed out again, take the casters OFF!

This morning as I walked to the station, I couldn’t help but notice the previously neat piles outside other house, where no longer in order. Clearly each pile had been the pilfered and ended as a feeding ground for the Council Clean Up Crows.



- Not my pile of leavings, but an example of what it looks like after the good, big stuff has been taken.

Written in the Stars

I read my stars.

I know that they are a bit woolly , but it's a bit of fun for the train ride into and home from work.

Today, the stars in MX (the free communter paper) made me smile. It was pretty accurate.

'Relationship takes its own form. The best you can do right now is not to interfere with what is a natural process. The minute you step in with your ideas about what should be happening, chaos ensures. Relax and harmony comes.'

Smile!

This made me smile this morning. I think the story speaks for itself :-)

Realisation

Just over a year ago I moved house. I moved from a little two bedroom cottage in the inner city to a three bedroom colonial double brick place and reduced my rent in the process. I didn’t really want to move, but after I had the affront to ask the landlord to fix a leaking roof I was asked to leave.

The blessing in disguise has worked out quite nicely really. Puss has a garden to roam around in. I rattle around a night and weekends deciding whether I should sit in the office, the lounge, the bedroom or out in the deckchair on the patio. It’s quiet (except when the mad Polish woman over the back fence is telling her tenant to f*ck off) and I only have a three or four minute walk to the railway station, better still, a six minute walk to the best kebab in the world. I like my house, it feels like home and I’ve just signed another two year lease on the place.

Last night however, there was a drive by shooting.

This latest act of violence is just one of the many law breaking events from the past twelve months that have rocked Merrylands, a multi cultural community just south of Parramatta, west of Sydney.

There has been drive-bys, robberies, a machete attack in a school and even a lady so drunk she drove her car into a Starbucks.

The thing that concerns me most about all this, is that I’ve come to realise, I’m on the road to becoming a Westie!

Listing Update

I got rid of a couple of local blogs in my list today. Not because I don't like the people they belong to, but because they haven't updated their blogs for more than three months ;-)

Ignorance or Disinterest?

On Wednesday I brought a punnet of fresh figs. I love them; they are soft and tender, and ever so sensual to eat. Plus they keep you regular.

My first encounter with a fig was at Christmas many moons ago, when they appeared as in a plastic tub, dried and gritty. Muv encouraged me to try the fresh variety one day when in Sainsbury’s (UK supermarket) whilst doing the weekly shop. I think I was about eight years old.

After that tasting, I was hooked.

It didn’t stop at figs though, this random testing and tasting of fruits or veg that we hadn’t seen before continued. We tried kumquats, dragon fruit, lycees, passion fruit, celeriac, fennel and pomegranate. I’m sure there are more; I just can’t remember them all, right now.

Anyway, back to this weeks punnet of figs. Four different people in my office, people I consider to be well educated, have visited my desk, pointed at the succulent purple fruit and asked, ‘What’s that?’

Now, I would think that in a country that has tree, vine or bush ripened fruit year round, they would know what a fig is, tasted it and decided they either like it or not. But complete ignorance of the humble fig, I find that confusing and it distresses me somewhat.



picture from - Herbal Extracts Plus

Home from Home

I’ve just eaten my lunch of salad, potato salad, prawns and salmon. I brought it into work, from home, left overs from last night. It sounds simple, but it’s a minor production every time I have lunch in the office. Plate, knives, fork, teatowel, tupperware tubs...

I have a draw in my desk dedicated to the provision of sustenance. Of course a few things don’t fit in, such as the box of cornflakes, bottle of milk, block of cheese (milk and cheese in fridge) and various types of tea. Today, I also have a box of fresh figs, a peach and an apple.

I spend quite a bit of time at my desk, so why shouldn’t I have a few items of personal interest?


- Ariel picture of 'the drawer'

Personal Effects

My Muv’s stuff arrived from Spain the other day. It was delivered late in the afternoon but a man that was none to gentle with the boxes. After I’d signed and closed the door, I stood next to the two boxes for about twenty minutes, just looking at them. I knew I was supposed to open them, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.

Eventually I did open them.

There was a jacket. Not the jacket I had asked for. I had never seen this jacket before, so now I have a strange funky smelling blue and red jacket hanging in the spare room door. The blue and black tartan jacket I requested has either been given to someone or thrown out. Don’t even get me started!

There was a pair of yellow quilts that I made in 2001. They smelled of stale smoke. The two matching cushion covers were nowhere to be seen.

There was a lamp base that was always around when I was a child. It currently has no wire, so it can’t be used and it’s missing a lampshade. A classic crème silk shade will restore it to the lamp I remember from day of old.

A 1923 copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. It had been packed in such a way that the back cover had been pushed up. This meant that as soon as I took it from the box, the back cover detached itself from the rest of the book. I took a deep breath and placed it to the side with a mental note to try and find someone who could fix it later. I couldn’t resist having a little trip down memory lane when I flicked it open the butchering of a mutton and thinking about Dad bring home a dead deer, and Muv using her Mrs. Beeton’s as a guide before placing the pieces in the freezer.

One of the boxes was filled with small ornamental shoes.

And finally her jewellery box. Filled with various pieces. Some I recall from my childhood, like the silver locket containing a lock of her hair and on the opposite side a picture and twist of my dad’s hair. Thinking about that item, I remember wearing it on a long silver chain to my first job interview. Also hidden in there was the small plastic hospital band that I would have worn in my first days on this earth.

TAB

In the news yesterday it was announced that the TAB (Ladbrooks, to my English readers) will be allowed to open for the first time, ever, on Good Friday. TAB representatives said they wanted to open after customers had requested the additional entertainment on the public holiday.

The religious groups instantly started banging on about making profit and the destruction of the Christian way of life.

I know I’m not alone in thinking of Easter as an excuse to eat chocolate and have a four day weekend. Clearly I’m not, after all TAB customers want to gamble on overseas gee gee races on the Friday. So, when will the Christian groups get it into their heads that not everyone believes in the reason for this holiday?

After all, approximately 25% of the Australian population is of other or no religion and that means the TAB could have just over 5 million customers on Good Friday, and that would make for a very good Friday indeed.

Pimped Up

Last night I popped to my local Nandos for chicken and chips with a mate. While he was ordering, four dark skinned fellas came in. Their pumped up torsos clad in GStar Raw T-shirts, tight arses in shorts trainers and socks that were pulled up. They also had at least a days worth of beard growth, short cropped black hair with that funky little pubic bit on the back of the head tufting out on the neck.

I pulled a couple of faces at my companion and when he sat down, he asked what I was pulling faces at.

‘They think they are so great, but it’s just nasty. I don’t find it at all attractive.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘they’re probably drug dealers anyway.’

A few moments later their take away was ready and they left the store. Then they climbed into a brand new silver Range Rover.

We had an extra giggle when we heard the broken neon signage of this shop crackling in the rain about an hour later.