A peaceful day

Does your church celebrate Reformation Sunday?

Why or why not?

How?

Do tell!!

Dear Mrs Possum,

I am quite aware that you are a native Australian marsupial and are protected by Federal Law, and yes, your new baby is certainly very cute, but if you don't stop eating all the leaf tips off the Buff Beauty roses in the Side Garden you are going to die. And I mean soon. Painfully and without remorse. And yes, I know that it is illegal, and no, I don't care. Not even a little itty bitty bit.

I have had enough, do you hear, and I won't take it any more. Don't you know how difficult it is to keep plants alive through a drought? Don't you understand how pleased my husband and I are that the ugly side fence is finally clothed in green and that the roses are covered with buds ready to bloom? Don't you look? Do you care about anyone other than yourself?

Have you forgotten that we house you? Feed you? Keep you safe?

Oh no you don't! Don't you go accusing me of being hasty, of acting without thinking. Didn't I replace the Wedding Day rose in the pear tree not once, not twice, but three times because of you? Didn't I carefully wrap it in ugly chicken wire to stop you from loving it to death? Did I say anything to you about that? Did you feel at all concerned for your well being or for that of your family over all those years? Well? Did you? See, didn't think so.

You should now.

Please accept this as an official warning. In writing. With witnesses. Stop eating those roses or you'll be sorry. I am rather partial to possum yarn - haven't you seen my Merinomink jacket up close? I would be pleased to have another, you know.

I mean that.

Yours very sincerely indeed,


Disgruntled Resident.


PS Same goes for running over our tin roof at night. It was okay when it was only you, but do you and Junior really need to practice your sprints between two and three o'clock every single morning? Couldn't we even come to some arrangement? Like every second weekend and school holidays or something? I could let you know when we are going to be away even, if that would help calm things down and let my daughter get a full night's sleep for a change.

I am not usually a bloodthirsty woman. I can be placated, but the next move is yours.

I recommend that you think very hard about that. And don't take too long about it either.

So this is it. Finally. The incredibly self-indulgent post that enables me to boast openly and deliberately about how clever I am. Let's face it - that's the the only reason that I have to show you these photos of the gorgeously delicious Grannie in all her grannilicious completeness.

So do ooh and ah over them and tell how wonderful she is, won't you?

Thank you.

Although I have already moved onto another project, this one of sheer ripply pleasure, Grannie will always remain special. To begin with your first love is always special, isn't it, and before Grannie I had only one solitary Grannie Square to my name. One. You can see her here, if you like. So Grannie will always be my first.

My feelings for Grannie will always be special for another reason, because for me those 204 silky mohair squares contain so many memories. I began her in April, and I worked on her in Japan in May. I crocheted her on the trains, on the Underground, and in the buses. I crocheted in ryokans and hotels and in train stations and kissaten and restaurants. These are lovely memories.

She was already pretty big and beautiful by July when my Dad first felt unwell, and I have wonderful photographs of her draped over his hospital bed. She was therapy to me during those next few short weeks as we came to terms with his terminal diagnosis and determined to live fully every minute that we had him with us. I couldn't sit still in those days. I knitted dishcloths, gloves and cushions, and I worked on Grannie. Obsessively. All the time. I had sore thumbs and wrists and shoulders. And still I crocheted. My Dad thought she was pretty special, and that makes her extra nice as well.

Finally, of course, Grannie will always remind me of dear sweet little Audrey. I wish I had taken a photograph of her curled up sound asleep on Grannie pooled on the floor around her. That would have been lovely. Alas, I didn't, but the memory still remains. Forever.

Yes, Grannie is one special blanket of lovely, lovely memories.

These pictures show Grannie in her intended home, draped over the end of the Guest Bed. I love getting this glimpse of her as I walk past the open door of the guest room on my way down the passage from our bedroom to the kitchen. She never fails to give me a thrill, even now. I am clever, aren't I? Imagine me being able to crochet. Finally. See, you can teach an old dog new tricks after all.

To some details.

Grannie is made of the sublimely huggly cuggly Noro Silk Garden Aran weight yarn in five colourways joined randomly but with some attention to colour placement.
45% Silk
45% Mohair
10% Wool
I joined each square using a round of the neutral colourway number 47, using a join-as-you-go method from YouTube to keep a fairly wabi sabi colour palette that matches our interior decoration. The crochet hook was 4.5mm.

As a border I used six rounds of trebles in the same neutral colourway as my joining colour, edged with a bright final round of six trebles followed by a single crochet stitch in oranges and pinks - colour 84. You can see it here:

I mentioned that Grannie's intended home is the Guest Bed, but she is rarely in residence there. Mostly you'll find her folded at the end of the sitting room chair by the fire, or more often than not, pooled in the middle of the sofa. This makes me sublimely trippingly happy. I love, love, love to see Grannie being used for the lovely snuggling that I intended her for. That's what all blankets are for really, isn't it?

(Bow modestly, and await thunderous applause.)

The Dormouse and the Doctor

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And all the day long he'd a wonderful view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said:
"Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed.
Just say 'Ninety-nine' while I look at your chest....
Don't you find that chrysanthemums answer the best?"

The Dormouse looked round at the view and replied
(When he'd said "Ninety-nine") that he'd tried and he'd tried,
And much the most answering things that he knew
Were geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

The Doctor stood frowning and shaking his head,
And he took up his shiny silk hat as he said:
"What the patient requires is a change," and he went
To see some chrysanthemum people in Kent.

The Dormouse lay there, and he gazed at the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue),
And he knew there was nothing he wanted instead
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

The Doctor came back and, to show what he meant,
He had brought some chrysanthemum cuttings from Kent.
"Now these," he remarked, "give a much better view
Than geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."

They took out their spades and they dug up the bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And they planted chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
"And now," said the Doctor, "we'll soon have you right."

The Dormouse looked out, and he said with a sigh:
"I suppose all these people know better than I.
It was silly, perhaps, but I did like the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."

The Doctor came round and examined his chest,
And ordered him Nourishment, Tonics, and Rest.
"How very effective," he said, as he shook
The thermometer, "all these chrysanthemums look!"

The Dormouse turned over to shut out the sight
Of the endless chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
"How lovely," he thought, "to be back in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red.)"

The Doctor said, "Tut! It's another attack!"
And ordered him Milk and Massage-of-the-back,
And Freedom-from-worry and Drives-in-a-car,
And murmured, "How sweet your chrysanthemums are!"

The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes,
And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise:
"I'll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!"

The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands,
And saying, "There's nobody quite understands
These cases as I do! The cure has begun!
How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!"

The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight
He could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white.
And all that he felt at the back of his head
Were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

And that is the reason (Aunt Emily said)
If a Dormouse gets in a chrysanthemum bed,
You will find (so Aunt Emily says) that he lies
Fast asleep on his front with his paws to his eyes.

A A Milne

It's kinda hard spending much time in our peaceful spring garden without being reminded of the dormouse. I really do think he'd be much happier in our English Garden than he was in the Chrysanthemum bed from Kent, don't you?

I've always been especially fond of the delphinium. Like the dormouse I love the blue ones best, although I'm not sure whether I prefer the deep and meaningful purply blue or the frivolous clear vibrant blue ones that mimic the colour of the spring sky above.

I first grew them in my student digs in Carlton. It was one of those tiny south facing plots behind a single fronted Victorian terrace in Princes Hill, and I suffered the perennial Melbourne duo of dark and damp as I struggled to establish a very English cottage garden. They were all the rage here in the 80s, remember?

Delphiniums were one of the few plants that grew well. Those, a huge wisteria vine that eventually toppled part of the chimney under its weight and ajuga, which grew rampant and uncontrolled. The delphiniums, at least, were well behaved. Strong, beautiful and tall. Over two metres tall, some of them.

In our Central Victorian garden they've only just begun to flower. I love the way they're mingling with the vibrant crimson of Madame Isaac Perriere and the purple and pink of the larkspurs. I have white and pale purple ones still to bloom. Delicious!

I can't say I'm quite so enamoured of the humble geranium, or pelargonium to give it its real name, but having seen them flowering gloriously en mass in Tuscany and Provence, I am a long way from dismissing them as entirely boring, although I still find their stiff succulent stems do little for me. There were a few struggling on in our garden when we moved here, and I dug them up and put them into pots, which is where you will find them now - in the Children's Garden under the cubby - flowering their little hearts out. The pinkish-red one in the picture is the only one that had a reprieve owing mainly to the fact that it so effectively covered so much of the old corrugated iron side fence that I couldn't bear to remove it.

After enduring so many years of drought I am so glad that it remained. The geranium comes into its own during periods of hot sun and little water - as our Mediterranean friends will attest - and it has flowered away happily with no love and attention from me at all over many years now. The dormouse would certainly have approved. I've managed its blowsy bright red by underplanting it with rosy red roses, Dahlia 'Bishop of Llandaff' and Crocosmia 'Lucifer'. I remember with fondness an old English gardening friend advising me that "The Bishop always loves being in a bed with Lucifer"!!

My garden always gives me great pleasure at this time of year before the hot summer burns off the blooms. There is so much promise of greatness!

I'll leave you with a view of the first of the roses, the gorgeous overgrown Lorraine Lee, as it smothers the tank stand and threatens to engulf the garage. Sublime.

Much better than yellow chrysanthemums from Kent.

Thank you so very much for the sincere comments and Facebook notes and real life messages about my loyal little friend, Audrey. I am missing her every single moment. It seems really strange that she's not at my feet, and I'm feeling pretty sad.

You'll find her buried under the fig tree where she used to frolic as a tiny puppy.

But mostly you'll find her in my heart.

I'll be back in a day or so.

The Power of the Dog

Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Goodbye, my dear, dear little Audrey.

You have been a dear and loyal friend for so many years.

I shall miss you more than I can say.

Have a nice weekend, everybody.

We've a nice lazy weekend planned, enjoying our glorious spring weather and catching up with my siblings and their families for bubbles, Thai food and some craic on Saturday night. .

Might fit in a little bit of book browsing as well, maybe. Hopefully. That would make my weekend especially nice.

What's going on in your life? Is the weather delightfully fine where you are? Jemimah has The Princess Pea coming for a sleepover, so she is blissfully happy. Are you?

'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly;
'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwidges
pottedmeetgingerbeerlemonadesodawater-'

'O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstacies: 'This is too much!' 'Do you really think so?' inquired the Rat seriously. 'It's only what I usually take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it very fine!'"

Wind in the Willows Kenneth Grahame

It is difficult, don't you find, to create a feast that measures up to the ones in children's books. I'm thinking particularly of Toad and Mole's riverbank picnic, but there's also the wonderful meals al fresco in The Famous Five, and the Midnight feasts in Mallory Towers and Maria's matchmaking feast in The Little White Horse. They all sound so wonderfully sublime, don't they? I mean, imagine sitting down to this:

"There is enough. There is sufficient plum cake, saffron cake, cherry cake, iced fairy cakes, eclairs, gingerbread, meringues, syllabub, almond fingers, rock cakes, chocolate cakes, parkin, cream horns,Devonshire splits, Cornish pasty, jam sandwiches, lemon curd sandwiches, lettuce sandwiches, cinnamon toast and honey toast to feed twenty or more. Have no fear young Mistress; when Marmaduke Scarlet is cook there is always enough"

"But the mulled claret!" cried Maria.
"Of that also," said Marmaduke, "there is an unlimited supply.

It is thoughts of meals like this that always prompts us to do better when it comes to packing our own picnic basket for a meal out of doors. Our lunch yesterday consisted of delicious rolls filled with avocado, Swiss cheese, tomatoes, rocket and mayonnaise followed by home baked bikkies - ginger and peanut as well as decorated crocodiles. There was fruit for dessert, lashings of ginger beer - well actually, cans of Coke and Lift - and a little packet of corn chips to make the meal festive.

It tasted great, but didn't quite make the aesthetic grade I'm afraid.

Perhaps next time I'll try putting things into bowls instead of press-seal plastic bags. I'm sure Anne and George and Julian and Dick used real bowls, aren't you? Next time I'll pack glasses for the soft drink as well.

I'm sure we got points for the chequered tablecloth though - and for the matching napkins - and for the proper plates. Don't you agree?

And for the location and the view. Nothing shoddy about our newly filled lake at all. Of that I'm sure.

Can't wait until it's warm enough to picnic and swim.

Ambleside Online lulls you into a false sense of security, I reckon. You undergo a hugely steep learning curve in the beginning when you come to terms with the richness of a full Charlotte Mason curriculum, but that's okay because you've only just begun with homeschooling then, and you're obsessed with it, thinking it, reading it, breathing it, and so beginning AO, although a challenge, is a good one and you're ready for it - can't wait even - and you manage. Somehow.

Then you settle in. You start thinking of things that do not directly involve educating your progeny. You start washing again and ironing and making jam and bread and reading books and camping and bushwalking and taking holidays to Japan and Indonesia and Yemen and Bhutan. You start making time for your friends, and for your Church and for yourself. And still Ambleside Online bubbles away in the background, not sending too many challenges your way, slowly building on what you've already become comfortable with and can manage without really even thinking about it most days.

Then comes Year 4. Whammo. Kerpow. Straight between the eyes with a bang!!

You've been expecting it, of course, but not now. Year 4 is a long way away right?

Wrong. it is here.

AO 4 means Plutarch.

And Shakespeare.

And Latin.

And Studied Dictation.

And Written Narration.

And Grammar.

AO4 means doing things you've never done before. AO4 means getting out of your comfort zone. AO4 means work.

And AO4 is now only weeks away.

So I've started thinking about homeschooling again. Not the all consuming thinking of before, but thinking and pondering all the same.

And I've made some decisions. Which I'm going to share with you now. If you're interested that is. So this is how AO4 is looking for us:

Latin
We'll be using Minimus Latin, with the aim of advancing to the Cambridge Latin Course on its completion. Both Jemimah's Daddy and I grew up on intimate terms with Caecilius and Metella and their son, Quintus, and can't see why Jemimah shouldn't suffer with enjoy them with us. As a consequence of our classical education, both hubby and I prefer the Classical pronunciation of Latin over the Evangelical form used by the Catholic church.

Plutarch
We'll be using the wonderful Anne White's Plutarch studies initially, beginning with Poplicola. She has based this on Dryden's translation, so that's the one we'll begin with. You'll find Anne's studies at the Plutarch page on the AO website.

Shakespeare
MTC have recently announced that they will be performing Hamlet as part of their 2011 season. We plan on attending this, as well as whatever Shakespeare play the Australian Shakespeare Company choose to perform 'under stars' over summer. In previous years this has often been A Midsummer Night's Dream, which would be a perfect introduction to the plays. Bell Shakespeare are performing Much Ado About Nothing in Melbourne in June, and Julius Caesar in September. A comedy sounds more our style, and so Much Ado it is. Because this is our first introduction to the Bard's actual words after reading Nesbit and Lamb's versions, we'll stick to attending the productions alone in 2011. There will be plenty of time for analysis in later years. To be honest, I will be happy if we manage one play in 2011, although we are planning for three at this stage.

Studied Dictation
After my mild panic over Jemimah's spelling, we introduced SCM's Spelling Wisdom with great results in Term 3 of AO3. We'll be continuing with this programme next year - two periods per week.

Written Narration
After much consideration we've decided to leave written narration until Jemimah is 10 in AO5. This will give her time to consolidate her spelling skills first. We'll continue with copywork and oral narration in AO4, and begin typing lessons, which will help when we do actually begin to write. I've not yet decided on a typing programme - any ideas?

Grammar
We'll be using Karen Andreola's revision of Charlotte Mason's book, Simply Grammar. One lesson a week or so. No fuss.

Something else looms large on the horizon of AO4 as well: our history rotation finally arrives in the 1700s. Australia has been discovered, and with that our Australian History study begins in earnest. I'm thinking hard about our Australianisation of AO4 at the moment. We'll need to alter quite a lot of the American AO4 curriculum to make it relevant for the Antipodes, whilst still maintaining a similar workload.

I'll be planning our Aussie History and Literature choices in the coming weeks, and I'll post when I'm done...if you're interested in reading, of course.

So that's where my thinking and pondering is up to really. Maths will stay with MEP. We'll continue with French and begin some written language exercises. We'll try French narration. We'll begin a written Bible notebook for devotions. We'll do some nature drawing and some cooking and work in our kitchen garden. We'll play basketball, hockey, badminton and tennis, do athletics, swimming, dance and more - but not all at the same time and only for fun. We'll have picnics, go on nature rambles, hang out by the pool, sing songs, look at art and be a family.

Mostly we'll have fun, because that's what learning's all about in our peaceful home - AO4 will be no different there. We'll just be hanging out more with Quintus - and Cerberus the dog. That's all.

And declining verbs.

What fun.

Amo
Amas
Amat
Amamus
Amatis
Amant...

When I was a child, my brother and I loved to bake. Mostly we'd make yo-yo bikkies or pav, but occasionally other recipes would be given a chance as well.

The reason that yo-yos and pavs were the favourites is because they had the best uncooked mixture. In the bikkie dough it was the custard powder; in the pav it was the vanilla. Yummo! There were times - quite regular times, in fact - when my brother and I would eat the whole mix and cook none of it. Then we'd suffer for our gluttony later, but never enough to stop us doing it again next time.

It is a bad habit that I've never quite grown out of, this eating of uncooked biscuit and cake mixture. Nowadays I'm a little more restrained, mostly because I am aware of just how many calories there are in an entire biscuit mixture and now understand the reason for the sore stomach, but I am still of the opinion that scraping the bowl is far more desirable than licking the beaters because not nearly enough cake mix adheres to those little iddy bits of metal. Besides, I always leave a good dollop in the bowl.

Jemimah is different. She too loves to bake. She's not adverse to a bit of mixture either, but the amount on a beater is fine. For her it is the final decoration that is the reward. Jemimah loves creating edible masterpieces. No decoration is too extravagant, too fussy, too kitsch. For her taste and sophistication mean nothing. It is the look of the biscuit that is important. More so even than its taste. She'll probably only eat one, after all. It is me who'll eat the rest.

It's not a bad arrangement we have going either. I reserve the right to use baking as a reward for good behaviour, and she lets me lick the bowl - and one of the beaters.

She's different from me, my little girl. Jemimah likes running and basketball and tennis. She loves the exhilaration of cycling fast and skiing and the feeling of the wind in her hair. She loves colour - pink, purple, turquoise. She loves being creative. Craft is her favourite activity, It is little wonder that she loves decorating biscuits - it is just a variation on the theme of her imaginative existence.

Jemimah is different from me in other ways as well. She is gregarious and loves to talk. She is bright and articulate. I am quieter, more restrained. She has an incredibly strong will and at times a real defiant streak. I am much more compliant and try hard to please. She can't say 'yes'; I can't say 'no'.

Sometimes these differences in personality are incredibly challenging for me as her mother. Sometimes I find myself trying to turn her into a mini me instead of a better her. A teddy bear instead of a crocodile perhaps, or a flower instead of a star.

It is my desire that my husband and I raise our daughter to love and fear the Lord. It is my duty to train her in his ways. But it should not be my role to control her, to make her love him no matter what. It is out of my hands anyway, this role that I find myself taking on. I have incredibly high aims for my daughter. I want her to be the best she can be. But I need to realise that her best may not be my best. I do not need to live vicariously through Jemimah to be satisfied, and nor will she be all that God designed her to be if I do.

So I encourage her creativity. I encourage her expressivity. I encourage her amazing imagination. I train her up in the way she should go. And I will leave the task of moulding her heart to the potter, in whose hands she can be shaped without being broken, and trust that he will make her exactly what he wanted her to be from the beginning.

Our friends, Jay and Elle called over yesterday evening. After proudly displaying our new bookshelves - almost peacefully calm in the sitting room and study, total mayhem in Jemimah's room - we headed back into the sitting room for a glass of Chandon and some nibbly bits. Only then we discovered that the small print on the little insignificant label on the bottom of the bubbly bottle read 'cuvee riche' instead of 'brut', and so since none of us are at all fond of sweet wine with yummy bits for pre-dinner, we decided to decamp to the local Italian restaurant where the owners are mutual friends of us all and where Jemimah's good friend, the Princess Tea's mum washes the dishes.

The New Zealand Sauv Blanc there was much more to our liking, and to keep ourselves nice we soaked up the ethanol with a coupla gourmet pizzas. My beloved chose, instead, the super garlicky Fettuccine Marinara - the type that should always be eaten by the whole family, but instead had me complaining of his terrible breath this morning - and we all tucked in. Halfway through we were joined by Dee, the local ambo, grabbing a bowlful of the aforementioned pasta during his break (he lives alone and doesn't need to worry about his breath), who pulled up a chair at the corner and cracked open a softy.

Dee's partner, also wearing full uniform, arrived some time later and pulled a pew up to the opposite corner. Wisely, he ordered another bowlful of the pasta. Dee mightn't be married, but the two boys were working together in the same vehicle. Pity the potential patients, will you?

About this time Jemimah realised that we were there for the duration. She called for support in the form of colouring pencils and drawing paper and started creating masterpieces for the restaurant window.

Dessert appeared, and then strong hot Espresso coffee. The couple at the next table joined us, and the owners turned up the music, poured themselves a caffeine and did likewise.

We were there a long time.

Yep, our life in a small country town is pretty good.

But I wish I'd stopped Beloved having the pasta.

Brrrrr, we're back to winter woollies around here. Skivvy and leggings and a big grey huggly jumper for me yesterday. With slippers. All day. And a fire. Mmmmmmmmm.

I haven't forgotten that it's spring though. One glance out the window at the wisteria reminds me of that, loud and clear. Yum. It smells so beautiful.

Here's a close-up so that you can have a sniff. Breathe deeply, now...

See? Divine, isn't it?

The fragrant flowers of spring are amongst my favourite things. We have boronia scenting the deck, and sweet peas in a little arrangement on the kitchen table. Soon the fragrant old fashioned roses will be in bloom, followed by the gardenia, just in time for Christmas. Hurray!

I love highly scented posies on my bedside table. I know that many people don't, but I like being able to smell the flowers if I waken during the night. Sorta makes it worth having woken up. A waft of the spicy scent of little white 'pinks' is there right now.

On my desk is the last of the freesias. They're fragrant as well, but in a more sweet old fashioned way. I guess I can't say that they're favourites as well, can I? (Although they are.)

Our local agricultural show is on this weekend. Always something exciting happening at The Show. One year it was five legged sheep. Another year it was a display of venomous snakes that the kids could wind around their necks like scarves. How do you explain to your child that yes, this particular brown snake is okay to kiss and cuddle with, but the ones you see in the garden are rather best avoided? Especially since they're supposed to be the second most venomous snake in the world. Ugh. Too be honest, I didn't like the deformed sheep much either.

We'll be spending most of today there if it doesn't rain, so I shall report any strange and wonderful sightings on Monday. Okay? Jemimah, of course, has been saving her pennies for the dodgem cars and the show bags. And the fairy floss. Moi? I prefer the quilts and the Devonshire teas. Beloved gets terribly excited about the steam engines. Oh well, it takes all types. Always something for everyone at The Show. Especially mud. And probably rain. (Note to self: Do not wear slippers.)

That's about all from us. Bread baking in the oven for brekky. All other meals at The Show. (See how it is capitalised? That's to give it gravitas, because The Show is important.) There's always a lamb on a spit at an Aussie show, don't you know? Mostly it's pretty delicious too, especially with a glass of the local red. I'll have a glass for you. But not two. I am not nice with two glasses of red, and one must always keep one's self nice at The Show.

What are you up to this weekend? Is it cold where you are? What are you wearing? What fragrant flowers are blooming in your garden? Do you like a glass of Aussie red? Are you happy?

I am. Can you tell?

So you all know that the people that tell you that books are inanimate objects are wrong, don't you?

Anybody who listened to even a few of their biology lessons in Primary School will recognise instinctively that inanimate objects don't breed. They don't multiply of their own volition, and they definitely don't gather into groups to attack the unwary. Those types of behaviour belong to highly developed races like man or...well, wolves even.

Anything that can form itself into seemingly haphazard, but actually highly organised, piles around the walls like books do is clearly of a significantly higher life form than that to which they try to convince us that books belong. Hah! They don't fool me!

Books are alive. Their growth is exponential, just like that of bacteria and viruses and ummm, humans. They are unbeatable too. Their will to survive and procreate is too strong for mere man to restrain for long. Sure, we can corral them for a short time in book cases and on shelves, but they will escape again. That much is sure.

There have been times in our peaceful home that we have had our books more or less under our control. Each has had a home amongst its own species. Spiritual with spiritual, travel with travel, children's with children's. Not for some time though. Those piles are evidence of books that no longer have a place to rest their heads at night. They are homeless waifs, and as anyone who has lived in a city can attest, it is those who have nowhere to go at night that get up to the most mischief. Toes are stubbed, heads are hit, fingers are jammed. These books get up to it all.

There is no permanent cure, of course. Coming to terms with that truism is the first part of the solution. Only then can you deal with masking the symptoms and making your home the safe haven you intend it to be.

IKEA is the cheapest option. We use Expedit, but Billy works as well. Our visit on Saturday yielded two - a five by five for the living room behind the door, and a two by four joins the five by five already in Jemimah's room to replace the little three shelf vintage beauty beside the bathroom. That's moved into our room behind the daybed. We've been arranging these shelves for much of this week - well apart from the two days that I was out of town wearing a business suit and looking professional and...er...building towers of spaghetti and marshmallows actually. But I digress. We're about half way through. The living room's looking pretty good, the study is improving, Jemimah's room is chaos.

I'll post the after photos shortly.

Next week.

If I leave it much longer than that, those books will be at it again. Procreating. Honestly, they're like rabbits, they are. Phew!

Inanimate. Sure.

What do they think I am?

Hey, thanks for all the nice comments about Jemimah's braids. No, I was not the silly bunny who did them for her.

For those of you you are unaware, braided hair is one of the things that you must do when you're eight and a half and on holidays in Bali. It's kinda up there with fake tats for the boys and red raw sunburn lines for the teens. Anybody who is anybody has them. Some particularly Ockerish girls have all three. Actually, quite a lot of young Aussies have all three...boys and girls. But not us, in case you're wondering.

Anyhow, we tried to avoid the braid phenomenon for a few days. Then a couple of the young ladies in our hotel did the plaits for free and we discovered just how wonderfully practical a braided hairstyle is when you're swimming and fishing and playing in the sand. When the lacky bands started perishing on the first lot of plaits, we had it done a second time. Professionally.

It took about an hour.

It was a lot of fun at first.

But then it got b.o.r.i.n.g.

Icecream helps. (Doesn't it always?)

Finally it was done.

Hurrah!