here comes the bride

It was a sunny winter afternoon in Brisbane and I went to watch the wedding of Daughter2’s high school friend, as D2 was bridesmaid.

The sun was shinning, and the ceremony was on the banks of the Brisbane River in the garden of Shafston House. It is always such a strange experience to these young women whom I have known since they were children, walk down the aisles as brides. It only seems yesterday since sleep overs and birthday parties. The friend that D2 was bridesmaid for last year was also there – and heavily pregnant with her first child. Daughter1 accompanied me as of course she is pregnant as well, so really is a changing of the guard!

Shafston House, Brisbane, Queensland,

Brisbane River from Shafston House

Shafston House

No bridesmaid bouquet, a beautiful wrist corsage instead

The bride made the hair clip that Daughter2 wore in her hair.

The bride walked down the aisle with both her mother and father to the song “If you were the only Girl”


A perfect way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon. After the wedding, the guests went on a boat cruise of the Brisbane River before returning for dinner. Daughter1 and I crept away so proud of our beautiful Daughter2.

misty scented mornings

As I drove to work the fog rolled in. It was fascinating watching it surround me with its curling tendrils. It wasn’t thick once I was in it, no knuckle gripping the wheel about to panic driving blind, but the clear vision of driving into and through the misty morning. It was an exquisite moment.

I remember once when we were driving a mountain road in New Zealand, and low cloud descended and surrounded us. It was one of the most magical moments I have ever experienced as it was like entering another realm. If I were a writer of fantasy I could have so easily imagined tree sprites and ethereal maidens lurking in the forest on either side of that mountain road. Sadly, the road peaked and we descended into sunlight.

My drive to work wasn’t quite so enthralling. A concrete freeway is a long way from a mountain forest road. The school was shrouded in mist as I parked my car and walked into the library. There were no students yet and few teachers, and as I walked into the library I could still inhale the scent of fresh paint, even though the library has been open for six months now. I love that scent.

When I worked in the university library and opened the doors in the morning, the scent of old books would greet me and I thought that was the greatest perfume of all, but now I work in a new library of vibrant colours and energetic youth, and somehow the scent of fresh paint has come to symbolise all the promise of that youth, and all our hopes for their futures, and ours.

Pure, unadulterated joy. Mine, all mine.

Flamingo Files marathon

Sorry for being like a bad mother and parking you in front of the YouTube screen for the past two days, but I have had  a couple of doona days (sick days) due to a rumbly in my tumbly.

Couple of news items (Australian content) that have driven me mad. One the temerity of the Australian media to think that they had the right or the expertise to question the physical appearance of Olympic swimmer Leisel Jones.  Jones has won medals at previous Olympics during a period when she has gone to a 14 year old child to a woman. So what if she doesn’t fit what we amateurs think a swimmer should look like, she has qualified and that is enough. The arm chair critics should shut up, and keep their gender bias to themselves. No wonder women have body issues when even those in peak condition at a world level are picked on!

The other issue, also related to the Olympics has been the very vocal complaints from some of our runners that they should have been given more opportunities to compete in various events. I find this very interesting from a generational point of view. With the Olympics we are seeing Baby Boomers having to deal with Generation X and Y. Boomers hold tight to loyalty, while X and Y have lived in a environment of instant gratification and been instilled with a sense of entitlement (usually by their Boomer parents!) and it is interesting to watch it play out. Sadly, it is in such a public forum, and when the sportsmen are living the dream of so many others it does seem petty and selfish to many viewing from the edges.  As equestrian rider Andrew Hoy said in a television interview that when he was not selected for the Beijing Olympics he just worked harder so that there was no way they could over look him for the next Olympics. He is riding in his seventh Olympics, so maybe the runners need to listen to his sage words.

That said, I can’t wait for the Olympics to begin, not because I am a keen follower of sport, but because I am so tired of endless hours of empty news reporting on the Olympics.

My money is on Prince Philip lighting the Olympic cauldron at the opening ceremony. That is why they had to cut the opening ceremonies, to accommodate the length of time it will take Phil to totter to the cauldron with his flame.

The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things / Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings / And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wigs

I rediscovered one of life’s little pleasures while I was ill – sitting up in bed in the middle of the afternoon eating ice cream; just because I wanted to. Vanilla is my favourite. I like chocolate too, but vanilla ice cream is just so pure and simple; it just swirls around my mouth and down my throat. Pure bliss.

My Grandchild to Be now has arms and legs and likes to play (remember I was a child bride and like Remax, or Remix, or whatever Bella and Edward named their spawn, my children aged at an accelerated rate and then stopped ageing, I am only twenty something plus thirty something). Daughter1 had another scan this week, and they got to see My Grandchild to Be, flipping and floating and doing all the things it should be doing. D1 has had a little discomfort as her joints have softened a little too much to accommodate the pregnancy and so she has had to wear a girdle brace for the past week. Her morning sickness is peaking (week 11). I tell her things will improve…if not she will forget it all after My Grandchild arrives!

Daughter2 is not moving to England, she is off to Perth for a 12 month secondment. That is right across the country, like going from New York to Los Angeles, but at least it is the same country. I shall miss her dreadfully, as she is my movie buddy and indulges my eccentricities, most of the time, until she reaches her limits and threatens to kill me. I keep her readily supplied with crazy mother tales to entertain her friends, so no doubt she will miss me too. We shall just have to watch movies in marathons when she comes home.

MIL is 90 this year and SIL is planning celebrations. We begged her to keep it a quiet affair, but she is off on her own tangent. Memories of FIL’s 90th come flooding back though – he landed in hospital the day before and we ended up cutting the cake in the hospital. It is another 6 weeks away, a long time when someone is 90…

Do you think Romney is a stick puppet? He always appears so stilted and uncomfortable in public, I can only imagine him with a stick up his….

Three policemen came to our door and Mr FD thought ill begotten youth had finally caught up with him. Hunney the statute of limitations expired on that a long time ago (not sure if Australia has a statute of limitations. I hope not)!

In truth, someone had parked a vehicle on the spare allotment next to our house and young men were seen walking in and out of the bushland and one the neighbours had called it in to the police. We had noticed the vehicle, but as we live at the end of a cul de sac and the allotment is vacant it is not unusual to see vehicles parked there when neighbours have multiple guests. We are all taking turns creating stories to go along with the mystery. It’s a small life but someone has to live it…

a fitting punisment for Mr FD?

All right Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up

For awhile now I have been positive that I am imprisoned within a European art film, all very much a tale of flat lined mediocrity with lots of melodramatic down moments, but few and very far between miniscule high points. This experience is largely cerebral as are continental movies and I am constantly praying for Woody Allen to come out of the shadows and yell “Wrap!”,  as I want to move onto the Hollywood version with the happy ending. I crave escapism and some entertainment viewing others have the low life for awhile, if not for the rest of my life!

I suspect The Big Whatever (TBW) is using montage in a manner not to produce the greatest emotional response in the audience, but to leave me limper than a linen tea towel after Christmas dinner. Locked in a drifting sequence of vaguely defined, ambiguous episodes that intertwine across time and place I feel that TBW is being unfairly authorial towards me. All I asked for was some simplicity in life, but instead I get bizarre alternate worlds and elements of surrealism!

How about you – Hollywood classic happy ever after, or art house experimental?