Peppermint Patcher

Chelsea singing:

My mum, your mum live down the street,

18-19 Marble Street.

Every night they have a fight

and this what they say all night.

“Girls are sexy made out of pepsi,

boys are rotten made out of cotton.

Girls go to Mars to get more bras,

boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider.”

Pip, mumbling to himself in the background:

Yeah well, at least we don’t go to Venus…

Makes a mother so proud.

On Friday as I was leaving work a small child asked me if I had children. When I said yes she wished me a happy mothers’ day.

That should be a nice thing, but it made me cry. I cried a little more when I got home and realised that the promised parcel from afar containing my gifts for mothers’ day had not been delivered. Especially when the sender had been prompted to post it and had protested mightily that she knew what she was doing.

Petty, small and pathetic…I know. I really don’t even care about days created by hallmark in order to create revenue. I did however feel a little neglected and unappreciated. Petty, small and pathetic…I know.

This made me feel better.

As did this.

Happiness arrived today in a large orange box from France.

I am in a very bad mood. Very, VERY bad mood. It is completely unreasonable to be so cranky, but I don’t care.

Last night I watched my favourite movie in an attempt to break myself of it. Chocolat. I love its bohemian spirit.

I love the Comte who denies his every desire in order to gain a high moral ground and use that position to judge everyone.

I love his spectacular fall from grace, but the ultimate dignity he is afforded by those he judged harshly.

I love the north wind that calls to Vianne, begging her to keep moving.

I love the beautiful village on the river Tannes in France which brings the river rats to the town.

I love how the connection with a small child softens the isolated Armande.

I especially love the words of the final sermon given by Pere Henri.

It didn’t help me though. I still wanted to karate chop eveyone who was shopping at the same time as me this morning.

Someone found my blog today using this as a search.

incentivisation vs incentivation

What does that even mean?

I hope I helped…

My Pete hates a monotonous noise. Anything with a constant rattle or hum, a whistle or buzz. These things irritate and irk him endlessly. He is a man of action and will always seek a solution to these problematic situations.

The air conditioning in our room is one source of monotonous noise. If you have ever slept in the tropics on a night when the temperature only drops to 28 degrees celcius and the humidity remains over 90%, you will know that turning the air conditioner off is not an option. My Pete has found an innovative solution to the rattle that comes from the unit on the wall.

For many years that cotton bud has been jammed in there - just in the right spot to stop the vibration and quieten the air conditioner. It doesn’t really matter. It’s the bedroom - we don’t entertain in there - no one would even notice it.

Unfortunately though, the microwave has begun to buzz - loudly. My Pete took it to be repaired several weeks ago and it is now working like a charm. However it makes an annoying, vibrating buzz as it works. It has been wiggled and jiggled in its housing. It has been pushed forwards and back, to the left and the right, but still we can hear it. My Pete, as always, is determined to find a solution and he is more than willing to think outside the square…

That rubber band, shoved decoratively in there, stops all noise. The microwave works without a sound.

I just wonder if they make those rubber bands in white…

Our usual baker has taken off to France, leaving me to assume the baking duties. Today we had morning tea at my house with my family. I decided to make delightful pink cupcakes. (even though we call them popcakes because one of the little ones does)

I bought a heart shaped patty cake pan.

I thought I would get beautiful heart shaped pink cakes, but they looked like this.

Just cakes with a skinny odd bottom and a puffy top.

Once they were iced they just looked like the common old regular shaped cake.

We ate them just the same. I just knew that they were made with extra love.

I do this obsessively through the day.

If you want to know the time of day in Paris you add four hours then make it the opposite time of day. So 6pm here - plus for hours is 10pm - make it the opposite time of day is 10am.

I imagine what Ashy might be doing at that very minute. I imagine what the temperature might be. You can go here if you want to check. I do, every day, several times.

Look how much she is growing up without me…

I wanted to add this song, but the video features Kate Moss pole dancing. For this I sincerley apologise. If you must click on it, close your eyes and just listen to the song. A singing into the back of a hair brush classic.

After the last post when I was congratulating myself for doing sooooo much I got a bit carried away.

“I can do this before I go to bed tonight”, I said to myself at 10:30pm, on a night when I have work the next day. “I’ll be finished in no time flat. I’ll just use this cotton, it’s not what I want but it won’t matter.”

…..

I spent two and a half hours last night at sewing group unpicking.

You’d think I’d be old enough to contain my impulsivity by now!

Postcards from France…

Sunshine-y applique…

Quilted feathers…

This song…

I have been very busily working on my secret project. I am trying to finish six quilts. One is done, one is appliqued and the other four are drawn up and ready to go.

I think I can…

I think I can…

I have become increasingly aware over time that the history of western culture is the story of white men. The explorers, the artists, the pioneers, the inventors, the conquerors, the settlers, the crusaders, the invaders - these are all the men of our history that we have chosen to define our place in the world over the course of recorded time. I know that this reflects our thinking in those eras but it doesn’t mean that other stories and contributions that were valid and important were not being made by others around the world. The remembering and celebration of only these stories is often done to the exclusion of all other histories.

I have been reflecting on these thoughts as we approach ANZAC Day. This year Ashleigh is less than one hours drive from Villers Brettoneux. There is an enormous Australian focus on the region this year. The Department of Veterans Affairs is holding commemoration ceremonies at the enormous memorial built to Australian soldiers. Thousands of Australian soldiers still rest in the area, many in unmarked graves. Many Australians are heading to the area to be there for the ceremonies on Friday. Ashleigh is one of them.

The stories of the soldiers are well known by Australians. We pause to remember them. We observe solemn rituals in their honour. These again are the stories of the men involved: our written history, the stories that we allow to define us. I believe that there is so much more to consider. Imagine the sacrifices made by those mothers who farewelled their young sons as they travelled the world to places unknown to them. Imagine the wives who stayed behind without the support of their husbands to carry on raising their children. Sometimes these women waited for a soldier who never returned. Sometimes they returned as broken men - with bodies that could heal, but with scars that could not be seen. Either way war creates dysfunction.

I do not say these things to denigrate the memory of those soldiers who fought. I say these things to broaden our definition of history. To remember the stories of sacrifice that were made by those who were often excluded from the decision making process, those who were frequently denied a public voice, yet who bore the tangible results of conflict. This year I will remember the soldiers, but I will also stop to think about those who stayed behind without information or contact, in fear and exclusion. They deserve to be remembered and thanked too.

My Grandad, in his last ever ANZAC march 25th April 1992.

Lest we forget.