Toasted

We did it.

My Dad has been well and truly toasted (but not too badly roasted) at his 'almost 70' soiree at Granite Glen house. It kind of turned into a weekend-long event. The first guests arrived Friday night and I waved the last of my visitors off yesterday afternoon.

But on Saturday it was 'four-wheel-drive central'.

We had about 60 of Dad's mates and rellies to mark this milestone, and the relaxed lunch was perfect for his preferred form of celebration: a good steak and scotch with friends and family.
D'ya like the groovy (and appropriate) serviettes I picked up in Big Town last week?

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There was laughter, there was eating (oh my, the eating!), there were tears (mostly from the assorted visiting babies although one or two may or may not have been mine during the speeches).

This is Dad with neighbours Bill and Clair.

They are the most wonderful couple who lived across the river from us for many decades. They raised nine children (despite being initially told they couldn't have kids) and seem exactly the same to me as they did when I visited them with the measles when I was 10. They have retired into town and their son (the one I went to school with) now runs the property. Dad made a sweet speech and it included acknowledgement of the importance of great neighbours in the bush - he was looking right at this pair when he said it.

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The atmosphere was wonderful... I found it a little hectic but I could feel and hear the relaxed conversation around me as I brought food to the hordes.

When you are hosting something like this, it is easy to get overwhelmed with preparations and feeding people and stuff. This kind of thing is a group effort. And luckily I just happen to have the best support network in the country - including the bunch below.

Have they not got the most beautiful smiles you have ever laid eyes on?

That's Pea on the left - she baked up a storm, delivered a table and a heap of chairs and cleared most of the debris for me at night. As Dad would say: Her Blood Is Worth Bottling. Then there is darling Elle - she and her family travelled hours to attend (her hubs Harv worked with Dad when he was a teenager and they share a great respect for each other), she entertained and laughed and helped me unwind at the end of the day (with a Baileys and by recording the Bush Babe train wreck - see last pic of this post!). Then there is Bon Bon, the incredibly stylish woman married to Dad's baby brother (is anyone allowed to look that good over 30?) as well as being a great neighbour and friend and lending me tables at the very last minute when I hit the panic button. And then there is Megs (P's daughter) who shares the long end of the bus run with my Dash - she was the only girl there her age, but who happily mingled with adults and monitored little kids as required. And she is beautiful. Nuff said.

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I also had my mother who worked her tiny butt off helping with the garden and getting food ready (as well as hauling the laundry shed back from disaster), providing the gazillion extra wine glasses required by the hordes and cleaning up quietly as her daughter collapsed on the couch. And let's not forget my sister who baked her little socks off - the smorgasbord of bread she provided was amazing. Sorry I didn't get a shot of it all Jeanie! And of course there is my hubby... who cooked a mountain of fillet steaks and moreton bay bugs without complaint, not to mention putting up with being handed a frightening 'Honey Do' list a couple of days prior to the event. Even Dad had to help chip the tennis court, tidy up the shed and nail up a "Please Slow Down" sign on an ironbark tree to prevent guests drowning in dust.

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And of course there was my sister-in-law Curly, who took on the mountain of washing up despite her advancing pregnancy (notice how I didn't mention the step required for my high benches, C?) and the lovely Kay and Shell, who helped her. And my gorgeous cousin Bee who not only took on balloon duties, but also camera duties at speech time (and did an awesome job!). There were others too... in fact, I am trying hard to recall what I actually did for the event! I seem to have blocked it all out...

All this work made us a little thirsty.

Now I don't wish to give the impression that we are a bunch of alcoholics, but I have to say that our crowd does enjoy the odd scotch and dry (hello Dad) or the odd cold beer (hello Tex) or the odd Bundy and coke (hello there hubby o' mine!). And I have already confessed to a certain leaning towards a glass of chardonnay on special occasions (like dinner). And besides, we were toasting the continued health of my father on the weekend, and let me tell you, the man needs all the assistance he can get in that department (as previously explained here)!

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The men had a lot of toasts to make apparently, if the low levels recorded in the rum bottles strewn around my patio yesterday morning. I suspect all that pool playing and tall-tale-telling was hard and thirsty work. Elle and I managed to make a couple of private toasts (after everyone else had fallen by the wayside/fallen asleep on the couch) with a dash of Baileys.

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Actually if the Baileys people are ever looking to sponsor a blog, I would be the first with my hand up. I may fall asleep within minutes of the second dash, but those are a couple of FINE minutes. Actually Elle grabbed my camera and recorded the fine-ness of it all here:

Something tells me I could be waiting quite a while

for that call from the Baileys' people.

Bovine Bonanza!

Honey, I'm HOME!

Have you missed me?

I did mean to twitter my way through Beef Week, but neglected to take my login info with me (how utterly surprising) so I basically abandoned my blogging for the longest stretch since I started this little black blog...

So much has happened in the past week, I hardly know where to begin...

...uh, how about arriving in Rockhampton (aka Rock-Vegas)

and seeing the familiar view of

the giant Brahman bull...

Giant fibreglass bulls (of varying breeds) have been posted at every entry point to the city. It's how you know you're in Beef Central. Natch.

It also says a lot about the Aussie sense of humour that since these bulls were erected a couple of decades ago, none have EVER been able to hang onto their testicles.... we blame university students (it's apparently a rite of passage) and the fake bull-builders have all but given up keeping their bovines in a proper manly state.

Simple things amuse us.

These bulls however, were intact.

(Requisite bull bottom photo)

They were all inspected thoroughly...
(OK maybe not JUST for their sac size, but it makes a good story!)

Requisite stern silent bloke image.

(Notice anything different about Mr Incredible?)

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As you can imagine, beef was on the menu at most eateries at the Rocky showgrounds.

In order to gross out the vegetarians who visit me,

and make the mouths water of those who partake of red meat,

I give you...

The stone grill.

A fabulous way of do-it-yourself steaks

- your fillet is handed to you raw, and cooks on a sizzling stone on the plate beside your salad. How well done it ends up, is totally in your hands!

We also cooked some tomato (sorry, I can't stand it raw) and Dash's hot dog. This was not actively encouraged by the restaurateur, but was an effective method of keeping both Dash and I happy!

Among the (other) slightly disturbing sights at Beef Week were these blokes dressed as kangaroos bounding around on springed stilts... a number of cans of the local brew were required to fully appreciated the larrikan antics of these dudes...

It should be documented properly that Violet

- or as I like to call her: Little Ice-Cream Features -

had her way with a chocolate cone or two (or 30) throughout the week...

black t-shirts were a top idea!

Dash and Violet took advantage of boot polishing 'booths'/hay bales...
Of course a lot of behind-the-scenes action took place looking after our own team of cattle (more in a later post)
... activities that our kids took to other on-site exhibits...
Here is Violet hand-feeding straw to a bull for some other exhibitors...
Luckily they thought it was cute and took pics of she and Dash too!
I could be wrong, but I do suspect they work the 'cute factor' to the max as soon as a lense is turned their way, my offspring... ya think?

We all pretty much looked like this at the end of each day - unfortunately Violet was the only one given the luxury of a lift back to the car at the end of each day.

I was soooo jealous!

So, enough about me...

how did you spend your week in my absence?

Head. Above. Water.

A very quick g'day from Rock-Vegas - to let you know I have not been trampled by bulls, I have not drowned in bulldust, or been lost in the unending action that is Beef Week...

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Almost, but not quite.

I have dozens of photos.

I have very sore feet.

I have one hammered mobile phone.

A couple of hundred handed-out flyers.

Quite a few used wine glasses.

Three very patient bulls.

And one long-suffering heifer.

Two exhausted, gritty kids.

One hubby who has marched bulls around arenas and been socialised right out.

A big hole where a puppy should be

(but motels are really unreasonable about pooches in-house)

And we are all ready for home...

One more day to go.

I think I can.

I think I can.

See you on the weekend when I rise above the washing!

Adieu...

BB

So much bull...and a little dust

It's after midnight (Cinderella) and I should be in bed...

I have been slack lately posting (although there are those in my life who think that posting on my little black blogs means I am being slack!)

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But I have to whip this one up to kinda show what I am preparing for over the next week.

It's Beef Week next week - Mr Incredible has already headed off in the truck and tomorrow I load up the Prado with clothes, food, marketing paraphernalia and one puppy and head to Rockhampton (fondly known to those who love her as RockVegas).

AKA The home of the big bull...

It's a week about beef (duh!) but also about networking with other cattle producers, rubbing shoulders with some pretty amazing and inspiring people, learning about new techniques and tools in our industry, having the odd beer/chardonnay with some long-lost mates and showing off our bovine beauties...

Which leads me to...

Hello D0150... and Hello Mr Incredible!

Nice steppin' out there.

This is a practice run our little team did at a recent local show.

There have been a couple of these over the past few weeks...
Hello D0124 - and hello Jeff the bull fitter.

We like our bulls black and shiny, and red and shiny.

But others like to parade their brand of bovine beauty of other hues, shapes and sizes..

Hello Charolais bull... Charolais are the big blonde buxom bombshells of the cattle world.

They like to be blow dried on a regular basis...

And of course there are Brahmans...

They are the elegant, exotic, loose-skinned, aloof characters...

They're all curves and kohled eyes and patent toes.
I do love them... they are serene.

(How's the serenity? Name that movie.)

Here is one of our girls - she's lovely but very, very bossy.

Not that there is anything wrong with that...

but she tells those bulls what the deal is, and no-one steps out of line on her.

I'm thinking of renaming her Jada P Smith.

Sassy!
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Of course the onlookers have to get in some practice too...

Checking out the bulls, and judging the judges.

It's an endurance sport...

The tall dude in the beard is a beginner but is learning fast.

He's being sponsored by some learned onlookers, I see.

He should be second guessing awards like a pro any day now!

And of course, we all have to get into training for the animal nursery...

It's a real highlight for the kids at Beef Week.

They are showing some nice form here... I think they may be ready.

Now my friends, I have to go shut eye and gather my strength (before I gather the assorted 'packing' that has been attempted tonight) and gird my loins for the marathon ahead.

I have been training hard behind the Nikon and my right wrist has been strengthened by the odd chardonnay this week. I'm good to go.

Stay posted. And I'll try and squeeze in some laptop time along the way.

Wish us luck!

Pooch Par-tay

Things have been a little crazy and hectic around here lately

(apologies for slack blog posting, for those who check me regularly)

But as we head towards Australia's biggest bovine convention - Beef Week in Rockhampton

(for the uninitiated is not just an opportunity for country folk gather to complain - well...not officially) - things get a little crazy and hectic at Granite Glen.

My head has been buried in my computer actually working and we have been away a lot with showing cattle. But of course, I have still been snapping away on the Nikon during our everyday stuff too... on things OTHER than cattle occasionally.
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I believe one or two of you have been looking for more snaps of this little tyke...

Hello Axel.What's hanging Dude?
Holy Moly, look at those flying ears!

Axel was off and racing ...

to a little party we had for Dash's seventh birthday.

And let me tell you, the pooch can party!

He took quite a shine to Dash's Bumblebee transformer...

And then had a wrassle with the guest of honour...

(Sponsors note: no one was badly injured in the making of this photo)

And then there was the serious business of party hat mangling to attend to...

Nothing worse than a party hat that hasn't received enough loving attention...

Of course, all too soon the fun was over.

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As Axel curled up under the towel we rubbed on his mum when we brought him home a week ago, we sent our guests on their way and packed up the party hats. There was a whole lotta sleeping to catch up on for one ten-week-old Great Dane puppy... but after an hour-long power nap he stirred and was immediately looking for a little more action!

Trouble was, the party had been packed away.

And this is the look I got ...

This face says: WHERE's THE PARTY??

What does it say to you?

Top to toe: a day at the races...

Yesterday was Race Day in our local town...

It's usually a big social event and a chance for everyone to dress up and let their hair down!

Some people even watch horses run around a track.

In true deference to Murphy's Law, every year it rains on Race Day.

Not before. Not after.

There has quite literally been no rain for weeks, then Race Day?

Downpour!

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Luckily we were almost 25 minutes into the 35 minute drive from Granite Glen to the racecourse before the heaven's opened. We didn't have the chance to turn back, and soldiered on to be greeted with the sight of literally hundreds of people were crammed in under the small roofed area of the course - beside the bar - when we arrived. As you may already have guessed, I don't deal well with this kind of cramped arrangement, and quickly decided to brave the damp conditions near the saturated tables laden with sodden nibblies, over the shoulder-to-shoulder option under cover. I figured a soggy fascinator wasn't about to kill me.

My chances of a Fashions on the Field win, perhaps. (Like that was on the cards!)

Better a soggy feather or two, than a freaked out Bush Babe!

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I actually had no intention of taking photos - it was to be a 'day off' from the Nikon.

But the outfits on display were just too good to resist...

Take this effort by my sister-in-law's sister...

...she cracked me up.

It's as much fun as she is!!

This is our local hairdresser, hiding behind a small mountain of champers and chardonnay. She was looking quite stunning in her black and burgandy tartan ensemble.

She also commandeered my mobile phone at some stage during the day.

This photo is my revenge, darling!

Heh.

The boys were also looking pretty sharp for the event...

from dreadlocks to 70's peaked caps.

And hawt bearded men took my eye also...

Oh. Mr I. Nice!

(That is a little corner of my Ma at left... she was looking pretty glam too, but is a bit shy for a proper bloggy outing just yet! She needs some encouragement)

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You know, I was hoping we'd be able to snap a really nice family photo - what with Mr I looking spesh, Dash and Violet in their Sunday best, and me making some sort of rare fashion effort. But it just didn't happen. I must remember to let go of the camera at some stage next time. Remind me will you?

You will simply have to imagine me decked out in:

A vibrant red and yellow flowy see-through overshirt thingy, drifting over black singlet, black 3/4 pants and knee-high black boots... with ludicrous vibrant feather-ball fascinator perched atop a high ponytail... hmmm. Perhaps it was better left undocumented!

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And to add to the family portrait difficulty factor, within minutes my son had gone from angelic blond prince,

to this...

God love the one dollar lucky dips!
And God love the mud and wet sandpit area.
The kids all had a ball!

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That said, my seemingly poor choice of footwear in the steamy lead up to the midday start - knee-high black leather boots - soon looked like an extremely smart option!

This is what happened to the delicate spiky sandals and toweringly-trendy court shoes worn by the real fashionatas on the day...
(do people say 'court shoes' anymore?)
Of course, no-one was really complaining.
Because 12 hours later, the stayers were still going strong
(and I ain't talking horses here!)
I wasn't amongst them.
But my hubby was.
As was the bloke he walked 3 kms home with.
In the dark.
And I suspect this little angel ...
(another sister of the SIL)

...was also with the party crowd

at the finish line.
Just a sneaking suspicion I have.

A day out ... golf, adventures and reflections

I know very little about golf.

I should really say that up front.

I have held a golf club about three times in my life. It's a frustrating game - both to watch and to play. Or attempt to play. Now rumour has it that I actually wrapped a club around a tree once. I can neither confirm nor deny such an outrageous claim. I think I was seeing a whole lot of red at the time.

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And yet last weekend, there I was. At our local golf course, complete with stands of sturdy sprawling gum trees, deep sandy bunkers and a picturesque dam. We had been invited to a social golf day hosted by the local stock and station agents. A day of much-needed relaxation for many hard-working souls involved in the local cattle industry. People who also know how to party. And some who even knew how to play golf.

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In spite of my well-known aversion to the game, I had been roped into a team. Three friends - a footy-type bloke M, who claimed to have little golfing ability, his sweet wife L who had never played before, and her easy-going brother - nervously waited our turn to tee off. We had already allowed a number of other groups to take to the greens before us - we suspected our progress might be a bit, well, steady.

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Finally we girded our loins and stepped up. There I was: white shoes on, gripping a strange iron stick, sweat beading my brow, small white ball balanced precariously on a piece of plastic. As I lifted the club in what I imagined was a copy of Carrie Webb's textbook drive (or whatever that swing is called) I wondered if bluff might see me through this challenge. I wavered between feeling momentarily confident I would be able to nail this thing, to feeling blatantly ridiculous. But that nervous anticipation was nothing on the brand of ridiculous I felt a second later, as my big swing made a satisfying whoosh right past the ball.

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"Good Shot darlin'!" came the wry comment from a green to my left. Bugger. Mr Incredible was watching - just my luck! With some whispered encouragement from my team-mates, I squared my shoulders and lined up the ball again. Whoosh-Thlunk! Well. I connected. And sent the ball about 15 metres. Still, a hit is a hit...and I took it. My hubby chuckled at my pathetic hit as he swung his club and sent HIS ball high over the tree. Blinking show off.

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I won't bore you with all the sordid details, but suffice to say our team managed to complete two holes, scampering like puppies after tiny white balls which refused to stay on our section of the course. Our kids were sent into the undergrowth to retrieve the more challenging finds. All the while the long-suffering team behind us studied their fingernails while waiting for us to clear out of the way. The end of the second green just happened to coincide with the club house. The siren call of the chardonnay carton and beer dispenser drowned out the less dulcet tones of the remaining holes. I think each of my poor team were more than happy to call it in. Golf, we had discovered, was very thirsty work.

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The remainder of the afternoon passed very pleasantly, as we called out encouragement to those more stalwart golfers passing by the clubhouse. The chardonnays were nice and chilled and the company lots of fun. Kids scampered around the practice putting greens nearby, rolling down the manicured hills shrieking with laughter. I was feeling very mellow.

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After a BBQ dinner, my friend L, my sister-in-law A and I arranged our tired kids (a total of 10 between us) at L's house. We left the men in charge (of offspring and an esky of refreshments) and headed out to the local dance recital. I had wanted to share the experience with Violet... my own little almost-four-year-old dancer. However the ball-chasing and hill-rolling activities of the afternoon had put paid to her stamina levels, so I left her watching TV with her little buddies. It was the first time I had ever been to this well-known annual event... and it lived up to its repuation as a night to remember. We only caught the second half, but it was fabulous, featuring the cutest little self-conscious kids and amazing adolescents with their budding confidence blooming.

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We all hummed the Abba finale songs as we drove (well, my sister-in-law drove!) back to L's place. Noting it was almost 11pm, we wondered aloud how the men had fared with the children. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what looked for the world like a charging Brahman bull. Grabbing A's arm, I soon realised the white thing careering towards out vehicle was not a bovine, but a... golf cart.

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What the?!

As an esky lid flew high over the roof, I saw at least four men clinging onto the small white vehicle. They were enduing a very bumpy ride, as the cart belted through the paddock. I was hugely relieved to see my husband was NOT among the cart-riders, and was soon shocked into a bemused silence as they drew alongside us. The group of recognised party animals were laughing raucously, with one proudly showing the tyre-marks across his stomach earned in an earlier stack from their vehicle.

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With our offers of assistance politely refused, the group climbed aboard once more, thanked us for showing them where the road was, and headed smartly off into the darkness. Down the hill, towards the road and the distant lights of town. We tried not to think about the ability of those driving to get them to their destination safely. We decided the lack of headlights and available speed would keep them from serious harm. And we laughed til tears ran down our faces.

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We arrived back at L's home, to find all children happily passed out on various couches and beds. The menfolk shared the adventures of their evening (complete with visiting rogues) as M cooked up his brand of evening snacks.

As he threw down a dinner plate piled hight with steak strips, pan fried and served with a generous sprinkling of salt, I pondered out day out.

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For a brief moment, I thought of all the fancy tapas offerings I had enjoyed with my fine wines on nights out as a city-dweller.

.

I thought of hiring strangers as baby-sitters when we planned for a night out, then called up the day's mental images of my children rolling pell-mell down lawned slopes.

.

I thought of the huge range of pricy shows offered every day of the week in the city, then of the earnest efforts and delighted faces at the performance I had witnessed that night.

.

And I thought of the gazillion rules and regulations attached to most sporting venues in the Big Smoke. Then giggled again at the antics of our local wags.

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And as I grabbed a steak strip, I came to two conclusions...

1. I love where I live.

2. Golf is most definitely a game for madmen.

When old footballers make bad decisions – short story long

My darling husband is an ex-footy player. I met him after his first-grade league rugby career was finished by an untimely collapsed lung. He doesn’t talk much about this stage of his life – he is a big guy (6’2”) and is renowned for his quick temper. I don’t imagine it was pretty.

These days, he is a fairly conservative, quietly-spoken man – tall, well-built, stern faced. He is not generally given to rash decisions or taking on insane dares.

It was at one of the plethora of pre-Christmas gatherings around Granite Glen that the seed of one such decision was sown. A group of locals, including a number of 30-something ex-footballers, gathered around a rough-hewn bar in the backyard of the local vet’s house, downing a few heart-warming beverages.

I blame it on the cocktails frankly. That and the sort of peer pressure only old footy players, in the presence of a number of brothers, brother-in-law and mates, can apparently feel. One mate, imbued with plenty of Yuletide sentiment and carrying close to 30kg more than in his footy days, declared that all the men present should do their bit for charity and take part in a charity rugby league match.

“The Golden Oldies versus the Young Guns” was the preferred title for the envisaged match. All were commandeered (and apparently keen) for the gents present to make their Big Return to the field.

Now it’s important to note that some of those at the shindig boasted fairly impressive credentials. My own SSB had played rugby union in the GPS while at school in Brisbane and A-grade league in the city for a couple of years. Another two had played union at state level, with one even being a dual schoolboy international (read: talented, fast lad!). All had been “handy” in their day, and in the dim light of that backyard, after a few dozen beers (and a number of questionable cocktails), they were all certain that they could more than cope with an hour running around a field with some young upstarts.

And to prevent any moaning from the concerned womenfolk, came the ‘can’t-argue’ kicker: it would be a fundraiser for the local hospital.

Any concern about this foreshadowed event was forgotten in the chaos of Christmas and work. Scheduled “training sessions” at touch footy matches in town were effectively ignored by most candidates, especially one SSB. I think he was hoping if he ignored it hard enough, it might just go away, or the “organizing committee” might forget his name.

Then the local newspaper arrived. The “centrefolds” of the week were the "Young Guns" and the “Golden Oldies”. And there, in the middle of the illustrious list of mug shots and witty descriptions, was SSB.

“1st start back from a long time off. Hard-running back rower/centre.”

Keeerrrissttt! was the succinct response from my horrified spouse.

Other pearlers on the paper’s preview included:
“Bustling Bill: Set to reignite his career. Not played since a junior. Deceptively quick.”
“Muzza”: Former Qld Reds rep. Played union in Japan. Star Back rower. Very fit.” Unfortunately this sterling summation sat beside a headshot of the said Muzza in full party mode, sporting a sparkly plastic bowler hat.
“Pig: tough as steak.”
And for the giant (6’7”) local gravel haulage operator with a missing front tooth…

“Big Balls: Free running forward. Set to make his mark on the youngsters.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

SSB decided to stand behind Big Balls for as much of the game as possible.

So we went. SSB drove into town – the Prado started off at the normal pace but got curiously slower as we got closer to our destination. His reluctance was definitely showing. We called at another player’s house to borrow some short and socks – they smelled like mothballs. The boys decided that rather that get to the grounds ahead of time and warm up, they would instead get their hearts started with a couple of beers. As you do.

We arrived at the picturesque footy ground with just 10 minutes til scheduled kick-off. SSB headed for the change rooms. A large crowd had gathered from near and far – inspired either by the worthy charity or the sort of curiosity the Romans used to feel at the Christians v Lions events.

The Golden Oldies managed to squeeze into the donated jerseys and (after introducing themselves to each other) jogged onto the field. The Young Guns burst onto the ground looking young, fresh and fast. The event organizer noted that they were in fact very nervous, mostly of Big Balls. None of it boded well.

As I had never seen SSB play (and most of the town was watching) I tried to watch with some semblance of confidence. He looked fit, having lost 25kg since arriving in the bush from his sedentary city job. He looked fierce and inscrutable. He looked like he knew what he was doing. God I hoped he didn’t get hurt.
Part of me had hoped this would be a fun game – a bit “tongue-in-cheek” with silly moves and fake tackles. I had forgotten about testosterone. After the first crunching tackle (inspired, I found out later, by pre-match gee-ing up around town from both Oldies and Young Guns) it became apparent that the game was to be Serious.

All the Guns targeted Big Balls (and whoever was nearby) desperately proving that they could handle these old farts. I was busy taking photos to distract myself from the crunching sound effects from the field. Kids were running wild along the sidelines blissfully unaware of the potential carnage taking place metres away.

And then came a hush. I moved the lens to the right and into focus came SSB. Head down. Walking off the field. Then he looked up. His face was red. Not “Geez I’m puffed and need a break” red. Blood red. I admit I took a photo (out of focus with a suddenly unsteady hand). It’s the news photographer in me.

With The Little Woman on my hip, I ventured to the bench to check out the damage. It wasn’t pretty. Blood streamed from a cut above the eye, over his eyeball and down over the bottom lid over his cheek.

“Eeeewwwww” declared the Little Woman. I agreed. She investigated a bit more closely (pulling Dad’s eyebrow north to check out the damage and planting a juicy kiss. I’m not sure it helped.)

SSB decided he was fine of course. A bit of claret. It would stop soon and he’d be fine. He brushed away the St John ambulance attendant’s suggestion that he get some stitches. It was only 5 minutes into the game. He’d be needed.
The game crunched on in the background – Oldies using their superior weight and wiles and the Guns side-stepping and darting and piling in on their older opponents. It was epic. It was testosterone at its worst. The score line was decidedly one-sided to the Guns – those darting runs around slower wingers were taking their toll. The Oldies bench was rotating like the turnstile at Lang Park. The commentator announced that the scoring system would be tweaked to help the oldies out. Inspired by the crowd’s cheers, they started scoring.

Every time SSB stood up to run back onto the field, blood started pouring from his wound again. I convinced him to let the St John’s man put butterfly tape across the cut. It slowed the flow.

With just 5 minutes to go, SSB ran back onto the field. Oldies limped and gasped for oxygen around him. He was pretty fresh (except for having 20% less blood in his veins). He managed to crunch someone into the ground who had annoyed him earlier in the game. After 2 minutes he came off again, smiling and blood pouring onto his white jersey. I shook my head.

The final whistle blew and the crowd applauded loud and long – the scores were tied (with lots of creative permutations of the scoring system by the commentator.) All turned to the bar to celebrate (and simply by drinking, raise important funds for the hospital). After five beers, SSB conceded that the continuing loss of blood from his eye may indeed require stitches. So while everyone else raised more funds for the hospital, we visited it.

Two hours and three stitches over a purpling eye later, we left. A wake was being held at the same place from which we had earlier borrowed socks and shorts. Undone knee reconstructions were being evaluated, tries and tackles relived, and Guns renounced for not being able to beat them better (how are they ever going to make it in the league if they can’t trounce a mob of old buggars?).

Just before midnight, we peeled kids away from their little mates and climbed in the Prado for the 35 minute drive home to Granite Glen. In the knowledge that the following day required at 5am start and 12 hours of work for SSB and preparations for school for me, we groaned.

SSB declared he would NEVER AGAIN play football. Regardless of how many cocktails he had imbibed.

Tomorrow I'll show you (long story short) why.

How to tell if you are getting fat and old (and don’t give a rats)…

I’m not the sort to make New Year resolutions. Not usually. But I was given a photo of myself this week – it was among a number of photos handed to me by a generous (skinny) friend. Special photos, of a very special day last year.

It was my birthday. It was my first big celebration back at Granite Glen. My family and I moved back to my childhood home in December '06, as my parents moved out after more than 55 years (Dad) and 42 years (Mum) of living there. It had been a wonderful but emotional transition and with the big 4-0 facing me down, I decided to step up to the challenge and celebrate in style.

The night this photo was taken was amazing - with so many of my wonderful city friends making the Big Trip from the Big Smoke (5 ½ hours) and my fabulous bush mates frocking up for the event. I was nervous and excited and exhausted as I paused for a moment before the cars started rolling down the red gravel road.

I had planned and designed invitations and menus, planted and mowed, whipper-snipped and pruned, dusted and scrubbed, shopped and hired… til I was so tired my eyeballs ached.

SSB thought I was utterly mad, a crazy woman driving herself insane with a party for herself! But it was so worth it… thirty or so of my very favourite people in the world gathered at my favourite place in the world. Each was dressed beautifully, gathered on the lawn as the sun set sipping wine and downing icy cold beers and laughing together.

The tennis court had been transformed into an outdoor dining delight – fairy lights scattered around the perimeter of the ant bed playing surface and throughout nearby trees, shedding soft light on the white linen lining one huge long table down the centre of the court. The gorgeous square handmade honey-coloured candles (from our wedding) glowed at intervals, echoing the unmatchable backdrop of the Milky Way overhead.

Each guest had been asked to prepare and bring a part of a dish for the menu- until they were seated, they had no idea how their offering would be used.

Menus on the tables read:

Tapas
Bush Babe’s spinach & feta cigars
Jesse’s mushrooms with Leesa’s Lebanese toasts
Bron’s aioli with Mary’s sweet potato crisps

Entrée
Molly’s Smoked Salmon Salad with Max’s Moreton Bay Bugs

Main
Baz’s Roasted Filet with Gina’s Mushroom Jus on bed of Sara’s Cous Cous
(on the side)
Cara’s steamed vegies
Gerry’s tomato relish & Bush Babe’s onion relish

Dessert
Anna’s sticky date puddings, with Kerry’s butterscotch sauce & Shelley’s cracked toffee.

After
Geri’s fruit & Jessica’s selection of cheeses and quince paste

A couple of Year 12 girls had been commandeered and trucked out from the nearest town (some 50km away) for the event and were busily organizing food in the kitchen, under the watchful eye of SSL (one of my super-organised, super-achieving sisters-in-law). Another teenager was placed in charge of the 20 or so kids (ages 1-15) – an effort possibly worth a blog on its own!

The laughter of friends blended with the rhythms of my favourite artists – Keith Urban, Doobie Brothers, Robbie Williams (yes, I am a confused woman but this is what can happen when you straddle city and country, many decades and two centuries!). Between each course, we all moved four seats along the table – ensuring each had the chance to speak to every other guest and forcing people out of their usual groups. The conversations were curious and long, loud, peppered with genuine interest and filled with laughter.

I have no idea how much alcohol was imbibed (lots), how much was spilt (red wine does come out with LOTS of salt apparently!), how many tall tales were shared, how many were believed (some city folk are VERY gullible!)… but it was incredible. A “top night” in laconic Aussie vernacular. It went on to the very wee hours (about 3.30am) and many stayed over, crammed into every imaginable corner of our big old house.

I was so happy and tired I could barely talk (and no it wasn’t just the wine… well, maybe the last 4 glasses were unnecessary, but who was counting). My friends still talk about this night – great people, great location, great food. Some even took the time to take some snaps to capture the magic. And, being me, I found time somehow to take the odd shot too.

(You are wondering when the hell I am going to get to the “fat” part in the headline, aren’t you. Hang tight, nearly there.)

I got some lovely shots from the night – to preserve my friends anonymity, you will just have to believe me. And my oldest friend took a shot of me taking a shot of someone else. Nothing major. She gave it to me yesterday.

Now I am no runway model, but I have always been reasonably presentable with a bit of elbow grease. Not Elle McPherson, sure, but not troll-like either. In a certain light, in the mirror, from the shoulders up, after several sorts of makeup are applied to enhance the bits that are OK, I kinda look much like I did 15 years ago. Or so I thought.

Not in this photo I didn’t. I looked pudgy, and slouchy and… middle aged! I felt kinda sick just looking at it. And it made it SOOOO much worse to know that since then, I have gained another 5+ kilos!! Oh my GOD… was THAT what I looked like to everyone else? Definitely time for a diet, to swat away the cobwebs and break out the exercise bike, to do 50 laps of the pool daily… I was well and truly fired up by the time I got home from visiting my well-meaning, super-skinny friend!

Then I walked in the door and noticed my laptop screensaver flashing the photos I had taken at my party. The laughing faces of my friends were there in all their glory – and I suddenly noticed most had some little creases on their happy mugs, perhaps a little extra padding could be detected in some cases, than they had 10 years ago. While I was taking those snaps, capturing their camaraderie and joy, I hadn’t noticed the wear and tear extolled by the years through our friendship. I had only noticed (and worried about) mine. How very silly and shallow.

And that’s the joy of my revelation last night. I may still pin that awful troll portrait to the fridge and let it inspire me to lose those extra kilos, I may remember to stand up straighter more often... but I will not lose a wink of sleep over worrying about being “middle aged”.

Damn it – I prefer to think of it as “middle aged to perfection” …with my mates!