Skialalia

After being very, very low for the last few weeks, I finally got to see my shrink today. It was a bloody awful experience; I felt like I was letting him down by saying that the medication cocktail I'm currently taking has stopped working. Or rather, it keeps me from cycling up into a manic state, but does nothing to deal with the depression. And I had to tell him that, and felt bad about it. How stupid.

He's decided to put me back on Zoloft, even though it caused a manic episode way back when - in fact, that's how I first got diagnosed as bipolar, when he prescribed Zoloft for the depression. He's pretty sure that the mood stabilisers I also take will counter the tendency to switch up.

Although I almost want to switch up. I can't stand the crushing weight that goes with being in such a bad down cycle, and it doesn't help to be told that it'll end, or that a bit of sunshine or 'doing something nice for myself' will do me good.

I have to wonder, though. What if it's not the meds that are wrong? What if it's me?

There are days when I think the worst thing about being bipolar is the medication regime, with all the side-effects that disrupt my life almost as much as the mood swings. The sudden sedation, the fucked-up dreams, the inability to get my eyes open in the morning. That sense of being kept on the level, something I do not understand because I do not, cannot feel that way on my own.

There are days when I think it's the mania, because I feel so damned good for a while, and it's only when I start to go out of control that I realise I need to stop, right now, and I can't. The part of me that says, skip the meds and stay up all night, ride the lightning, just once.

And there are days when I think it's the way the bottom can fall out of my mood without warning, like a sugar crash, only a thousand times worse. When gravity seems to increase, and the volume turns right up, and there's something faintly frightening about everything and everyone around me. When the last thing I want is to be behind the wheel of a car or handling a knife or pouring boiling water - not because I want to hurt myself, but because of the fear that I'm not safe.

It's been almost two years to the day since I had my left knee arthroscoped. Not that I was aware of the precise date, but I found out when I went back to the orthopaedic surgeon yesterday. Something deeply amusing about that, in a not-at-all-funny kind of way.

The surgeon immediately sent me for an x-ray, and told me to bring it straight back. Things inside that knee were, if possible, even worse. There's no joint space at all on either side between the femur and the tibia, and marked narrowing of the space behind the patella. In other words, the knee is totally fucked. Not that I needed to be told that, but there's a cold sort of comfort in having it recognised.

After pointing out the salient details, he said bluntly, 'The only operation I'm prepared to discuss with you is a total knee replacement'. That was a surprise; I'd been expecting him to suggest another arthroscopy, to delay the replacement until I was older. Apparently, though, there's just no point; it would simply be a waste of money and an unnecessary risk.

Okay, so knee replacement. I'd always known it would come to this. But ... then he told me the risk factors.

Leaving aside the usual risks from a major operation - respiratory infection, wound infection (including deep wound infection), adverse reaction to anaesthetic - there are some specific possible complications. Knee replacements have a 1 in 100 failure rate. If a really deep wound infection sets in, 1 in 1000 need to have the implant removed and live without a knee for six months (wearing a brace and unable to bend the leg), then undergo an operation of up to six hours to try again. Assuming the infection is cured, which isn't a given when you're talking about bone operations.

And the happy news is that all of these risks are doubled in my case. My weight can cause pressure on the chest, increasing the possibility of a respiratory infection. The amount of fat on my leg means greater 'excavation' (don't you just love that word?), so higher possibility of infection there. And the fact I can neither fully flex nor extend the leg makes it harder to get at the tibia.

Oh, and there's always the possibility of even worse consequences.

(Oh, just by the way? The operation itself is incredibly gruesome. My leg would be sliced open down the front, the various layers of fat and muscle released' and retracted, and a metal cup fitted over the end of the femur - held on with screws. Then the tibia would be bent forward until the end protruded well clear of the rest of the leg, a hole drilled down into the end, and a metal cup with some kind of removable, shock-absorbing pad screwed in and secured. Everything would be shoved back in place, drains inserted, and the leg would be sewed up. Ugh. So, yeah, you can see how it would be more difficult to do all of that with a large amount of fat and muscle in the way.)

Naturally, I am less than calm about this. In fact, it would be fair to say I'm fucking terrified.

In order to try to mitigate some of the risks, the surgeon's referred me to a physio for some 'pre-habilitation'. (wince - what a word) The idea is to improve my flexibility, and to build up muscle stamina in both legs, especially my quadriceps. So, I trotted along for an evaluation today.

I came away with a list of twice-daily exercises, an appointment to be assessed for hydrotherapy next week, the threat of gym work to come, a recommendation that I have a knee brace made, and an urgent need for painkillers and warmth. At this stage, I don't know how long this 'pre-hab' is going to take, but the physio seems confident he can get my knee to a point where the flexibility, at least, is no longer a major risk factor.

Other risks are less easy to mitigate. Losing weight is fucking difficult when I can't do any form of cardio exercise, and there's only so far I can cut down my eating before my body decides I'm starving and starts laying down fat as a defensive measure (contrary to popular fucking opinion and shithead reality TV/advertising claims). Add to that the tendency to weight gain as a result of my bipolar meds ...

The surgeon, at least, recognises this. Back in 2011 he told me that losing even 10 kilos would make a big difference. Well, I did that. I don't expect to lose much more quickly. He's willing to do the op, as long as I'm aware of the dangers. That's somewhat reassuring - he definitely wouldn't do it if he thought the risks were too high.

And honestly, 2% failure rate, or 2 in 1000 isn't very high. I keep telling myself that to balance my inner hysteric. Not that this will stop me freaking out while I make out my will, and living will. (And even the thought of that is frightening.)

I haven't fully committed to the idea of the replacement op, but realistically, it's either that or end up in a fucking wheelchair. And that I won't do. It's bad enough having to borrow mobility scooters, or ruling out having dinner at any upstairs restaurant, or even go to a market or festival with my family. I won't spend the rest of my life being left behind and disappointing them.



Update:

I started the physio regime last night. You know how medicos ask you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10? Well, in the words of the immortal Spinal Tap, 'this one goes to 11'. In a word - excruciating. Have to keep telling myself it's worth it.

It's said that no plan survives contact with the real world. Well, it's certainly true in this case. Ours started to go wrong about the time we went back for a seconds at the breakfast buffet. Mind you, the breakfast was rather wonderful - eggs, sausages, spaghetti, baked beans, tomatoes, toast, spreads and truly stupendous amounts of bacon. (This place bids fair to become the perfect resort. All it needs is similar amounts of chocolate.) So we could hardly be blamed for wanting to sample more of the breakfast offerings.

It was just unfortunate that this happened to coincide with the resort managers running another of their little 'get-to-know-you' sessions. This time it was breakfast trivia. I ask you. Trivia at breakfast time? Before most people had successfully metabolised their first coffee? Surely there's a law against that somewhere.

Team CrazyJane didn't exactly cover itself in glory with that competition -but we were one of the few who managed to penetrate the morning brain-haze far enough to remember that bananas were a herb. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is a lot more interesting than knowing that a hen is capable of laying an egg every 24 hours. This was not a view shared by the rest of the players, though, and we ended up in the middle of the pack.

Now behind time, and without even the compensation of chocolate bars to make up for it, we rushed to get ready for the day's trip. To our credit, we were organised fairly quickly. Of course, this also meant that we left behind half of what we'd planned to take. The fishing rods were in the car already, but the tackle box stayed in the unit. The girls' flip-flops were grabbed, but the swimsuits were left on the drying rack. Water bottles ... you get the idea. Honestly, I'm surprised we got out of there with the car keys.

So. Off to Queenscliff. Which proved more difficult than we'd expected. After a few tussles with the touring map, we did find it, though. Our first stop was the lookout near Fortress Queenscliff, where there are a series of plaques commemmorating ships that took part in World War II, and which were lost. That was unbelievably sobering. The number of merchant navy ships torpedoed and sunk was much larger than those from the Royal Australian Navy. Given Wuff's family, on both sides, served in the merchant navy, that gave us an unpleasant chill.

We read about the loss of the Canberra, the Sydney, the Vampire ... all sent to the bottom, with an incredible loss of life. We read about ships sunk off the north-east coast of Victoria, something that shocked the kids. They knew about the Japanese mini-subs in Sydney Harbour, but never realised that the war reached nearly to their grandparents' doorsteps. And they positively boggled over the land mine, spikes removed, that was placed at the end of the row of plaques, as Wuff explained to them how these strange steel balls could blow a hole in a ship big enough to sink it.

It's a far cry from Titanic and its associated romanticism, and Lilygirl especially found it quite difficult. The more she learns about war, and the general bastardry that comprises so much of adult life, the more she asserts her own 'awesomeness' and love for us - she virtually spits in the eye of whatever gods might be responsible for the awful things.

We took a quick drive around the town itself, goggling at the gorgeous heritage buildings, and the restored mansions now converted into bed-and-breakfasts and hotels. There were turrets, and heavy draperies, manicured gardens and stained glass windows. Through one window I caught a glimpse of an utterly gorgeous wrought-iron spiral staircase that looked as though it was fashioned out of white lace, and fell in love immediately. It seemed somehow wrong that I didn't also see Phryne Fisher descending the stairs in one of her outrageous outfits, ready to scandalise the neighbours.

Of course, the time gremlins weren't about to let go of us yet. We reached the marina, which was crowded with boats of all shapes and sizes. It was a panorama of financial extravagance - and the prices in the cafe where we stopped to grab a drink reflected that. Far be it from me to suggest that the owners were out to fleece rich boat-owners with more money than sense by wildly inflating the prices of their smoothies but ...

Since we were near the ferry dock, we decided to forego wandering around Queenscliff and head straight over to Sorrento, have lunch, and see more when we returned. So onto the ferry we strolled, and up to the passenger deck.

When I was a kid, I took a trip on that ferry. I remember it as a rather breezy experience, standing up at the bow hanging on splintering wooden rails painted a fading green. There was an enclosed area amidships, but otherwise it was open to the elements. I loved it, wintry blasts notwithstanding.

These days, it's just a bit different.

The old green ferries have been replaced by sleek, white craft with excitingly raked lines, a full cafe, drive on/off facilities for vehicles, carpeted areas with blonde wood laminate on the walls, full bathrooms with nappy change facilities ... let's face it, they're not so much ferries as mini-cruise ships. I looked for the pool deck in vain, but I'm fairly sure I heard the sounds of a karaoke room on the way back.

Which was all very luxurious, but I rather missed the old ferry. At least there you knew you were on the sea. If you sit in the lounge on the new ones, the only way you'll know where you are is if you look out the window.

After a long, long trip across the bay, we arrived in Sorrento, and I gazed with dismay at the hilly vista before me. The village wasn't far - only 400 metres or so - but it was all uphill. Steeply uphill. To save money, we hadn't taken our car on the ferry. I was regretting that within moments of disembarking.

Wuff kindly offered to scout around and see what he could bring back for us to eat in the park near the pier. That's when we realised that the time gremlins had boggled us again. In order to get back to Bellbrae in time for the kids' movie night, we'd need to catch the very next ferry - which left in 30 minutes. Wuff and the kids took off at great speed to The Baths, which boasted a fish and chippery famed in song and story (well, on a few TV travel shows, anyway).

They returned with seconds to spare before we were herded into the boarding 'lounge' (a small shack on the pier with a row of chairs possibly liberated from a medical clinic's waiting area). Then it was a case of 'hurry up and wait', which was extremely annoying, as the food was smelling wonderful and rapidly cooling. Finally we were allowed on board, and dug into our very late lunch.

I make allowances for how long we had to wait to actually eat it, but for fish and chips, it was pretty darn wonderful. The calamari rings were actually flash-fried salt and pepper calamari, the prawns were very lightly battered, and the fish was definitely fresh. The chips were a bit of a let-down, though, since they were patently the same brand as I buy for the kids at home. I mean, is it so much to ask for hand-cut chips with the skin left on? Okay, okay, maybe it is.

After lunch, we spent the rest of the trip trying to spot dolphin pods. The girls managed to glimpse one, but for the most part, I was content to sit and be soothed by the motion of the ferry. In the hour since we'd come over, it had become a little more choppy - on the old ferry, that would have had passengers hanging over the side, but on these new monstrosities, it was like being in a very large cradle with a lot of other families who are trying to keep their kids from climbing up the side of the wheelhouse.

Yeah, not the best of metaphors. But you know what I mean.

Back at Queenscliff, we retrieved the car. Sadly, we had no time to visit anything else in the town (most egregiously, in my opinion, we did not get to the Mystery Book Shop), and set off back to Bellbrae.

You wouldn't think we could get lost while retracing our steps, would you?

Eventually, we found our way back, no thanks to all the drivers who seemed to think today was a good day to drive while heavily medicated and thus unable to realise that 40 km/h is just a little slow in a 90 zone. Oh, and let's not forget the unexpected controlled burn that left great billowing clouds of thick white smoke all over the area.

After a flying stop in Torquay to grab some pizza makings for the evening, we pulled up at Bellbrae and the kids were out of the car before the wheels even stopped moving. Wuff and I staggered into the unit, and I'm fairly sure he actually managed to be asleep by the time he fell onto the bed, waking only when the girls returned with their usual stealthy-like-ninja skills (very, very loud ninjas, that is).

We're about to sit down to pizza, cooked in the unit's rather ... eccentric ... convection oven. It's something of an experiment ... a frozen quattro formaggi, loaded up with fresh ham, hot salami and capsicum. And topped with more cheese. Four more cheeses. Only one of which is the same kind as is already present.

Seven cheeses pizza. Seven. I'm fairly sure this has to be some kind of record.

Tomorrow, we plan to head out to Torquay, or possibly Barwon Heads, for swimming and fishing. After all, it does seem a little ridiculous to spend a week so close to some of the most gorgeous beaches in the state and not actually go to any of them.

There's a strange mass growing in the convection oven. From here, it looks like it's actually breathing. Er. I'd better go. If I survive, see you tomorrow, constant readers.

Day 3 dawned a little later than usual due to the end of Daylight Savings, not that the kookaburras cared. I'm not sure what the joke was all about, but surely it could have waited until a decent hour. When everyone finally surfaced, there was just time to shower and grab some breakfast before gearing up to head out to the animal feeding. Armed only with cameras for the inevitable unbearably cute pictures, and machetes so that we could hack our way through the dozens of other kids who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere to block our access to the gate, we waded into the fray.

Or, at least the girls did. I was given camera duty, and stood sadly outside the fence watching everyone else feed the geese, and distribute hay to the larger animals. It was, of course, wonderful to see how much pleasure the girls got out of it all, but ... but ...

After they all trooped off to the chicken house, though, I carpe-d the diem and nipped inside the gate to spend some time with the horses, goats and donkeys. The emu was playing hard to get, but I think I can safely say we reached an understanding - or at least kept a respectful distance from each other. That beak is quick. One of the horses, Peg (short for Pegasus - ugh), is a beautiful chestnut, with one white sock and a few scattered spots of white on her forehead. She's not an original inhabitant of the farm, having been rescued by the owners of the Country Club. Apparently she was skin and bone when they found her, and they were told they were welcome to take her off the old owner's hands.

She's much, much healthier now, although still underweight, and a little head-shy. Personally, I'm hoping that owner is even now suffering from a really nasty skin disease that makes him smell, itch and look something like an overcooked goanna.

Egg-hunting was moderately successful, with the girls scoring one each. Meglet wanted to keep hers until it hatched ... well, that led to a delicate discussion. Sadly, I still don't know what breed the excessively fluffy chickens might be, although investigations continue.

We learned from the owners that there are yellow-tailed black cockatoos that come out at sunset, so I'm keeping my eyes peeled out of my front door as I write. One woman from the units near the back reported seeing tawny frogmouths, and there's a huge flock of galahs that fronts up for feeding every morning. No possums yet, although apparently there are kangaroos around - and I'm beginning to believe the alpaca is, in fact, an imaginary one, since no one's seen it.

After animal feeding, we revised our timetable for the day. I suppose it was unrealistic to expect we could get to seven wineries ... so we decided on two, with a visit to Gentle Annie's Berry Farm for the kids.

We ended up at nearby Bellbrae Estate, which is on the Great Ocean Road about five minutes from here. After sampling the wares, we - of course - massively overspent on wine purchases. The haul included a 2008 Shiraz which manages to be wonderfully rich without being inky and heavy at the same time, a 2010 Chardonnay that appears to have spent very little time masquerading as an oak tree, a rather wonderful 2008 fortified Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz (which is not quite a port) and a lightly carbonated, sweet Moscato that even I like (and I'm notorious for hating 'lolly' wines). The big indulgence was a 2004 Shiraz just brought up from their cellars, which we may cellar for another five years - if we can restrain ourselves.

By this time everyone was ready for lunch, so we ate at the Estate Cafe - a simple ploughman's lunch, with local produce (Apostle Whey cheese, Debra's organic chutney, Zeally's Organic Bakery sourdough bread). Realising that we wouldn't make it to the other winery and the Berry Farm, fire_wuff and I decided to make the greatest of sacrifices, and forego more booze in favour of berry-picking. So off down the Great Ocean Road we went.

It's the cost road, right? It's scenic, right?

Well, it is ... in fact, it's breath-taking. I was glad I wasn't driving, as I would have taken us right over the cliffs in my fascination with the view.

It's also very, very twisty. And that wasn't helped by our unexpected stop in Anglesea.

We needed to visit an ATM. Unfortunately for us, that ATM was located right next to ... an ice cream shop. A home-made, quirky flavours, ice cream shop, right in the middle of the main street. Really, what were we to do?

It's called Nordefine, and the ice cream is rich, tasty and, well, quirky. Exhibit A - 'Revenge of the Nerds', which is simply vanilla with the aforementioned lollies mixed through it. Ditto 'Red liquorice and white chocolate' - that one nearly forced me to go without my usual favourite, 'Choc Chip Cookie Dough'. For the more discerning palate, there was 'Blood Orange Sorbet' and 'Rosemary and Basil Gelato'.

Full to the brim, we set out towards Lorne. Oh, dear. I'm usually very good at stubbornly ignoring my sensitivity to dairy products, especially where ice cream is concerned. The Great Ocean Road, though, might charitably be called a roller coaster. And my roiling stomach didn't respond well to Wuff's gleeful anecdotes about near-misses and accidents that he'd seen during high school cycling excursions in the region. It was white-knuckle time all the way to Lorne - and then we hit the unsealed roads. Joy.

After a further twenty minutes of mind-numbing terror - capably assisted by Meglet, who asked every few metres if we were absolutely sure we were going the right way, and what if we broke down or had an accident, and wasn't there going to be burning off in the area - we reached the marvellously named Pennyroyal Valley, and Gentle Annie's Berry Gardens.

A name like that conjures up all sorts of mental images, and most of them would be right. It's a little piece of the English countryside buried deep in the bush, where the lush green of an orchard butts hard up against white trees whose leaves are that grey-green colour that somehow automatically suggests 'Australia'. Arguably, Spring might be a better time to visit, since the roses would have been in bloom, but when we turned into the drive late on an Autumn afternoon, it just looked ... perfect. The lowering sun cast a gold tinge over the fields of brambles and bushes. The gardenias, blazing white in the light, intermingled with glowing deep green silverbeet taller than the kids. And here and there, peeking out from the bushes, were the beautiful, deep red berries.

Because of the time of year, only strawberries and raspberries were in season, although Lilygirl did manage to find a lone blackberry - which she promptly ate. Wuff and the kids wandered up and down the rows, picking the organically grown fruit to their heart's content, while I rested in the cafe.

Of course, given where we were, I simply was compelled to sample the cuisine. I mean, really - it would have been rude of me to do anything else! I was thoroughly regretting the ice cream indulgence of an hour ago. Nonetheless, I rose to the challenge, and ordered - what else - a Devonshire tea.

Now, you'd think scones, jam and cream is pretty easy to get right. Alas, this is very much not the case. Too often, the scones are far too sugary, the jam is processed into a smooth jelly utterly lacking in character (and tasting suspiciously of artificial sweetener), and the cream - the horror! - comes from a can. A good Devonshire tea, then, is the test of a really good tea-house.

It was heavenly.

The scones were half-and-half white and wholewheat flour, freshly baked and warm from the oven. The jam was home-made from blackberries picked on the farm, the berries only partially dissolved, and they were served with lightly whipped pure whole-fat cream.

I pause for a moment's envious whimpering - or, if you're unfortunate enough to have gluten or dairy problems, muttered cursing.

I spent a little time talking to the owners, and discovered they'd only just taken over the business, renovating it completely in the last year. The cafe was completely restored to a comfortable, rustic area with open-air dining as well as indoor tables for cooler days. They now source all their produce from local businesses, as well as selling their own jams, chutneys, berry syrups (dear god, blackberry syrup, I may expire from the glroy of it all) and relishes.

We ended up with two large punnets of each berry, plus a third of cherry tomatoes. As I write, there is a chocolate muffin beside me, with fresh strawberries as accompaniment. Life is good.

So, today was pretty much entirely devoted to indulging our tastebuds - for which I am sure we will pay the price somewhere down the line. But was it worth it?

Not just yes, but hell yes.

Tomorrow the plan is to wake up early for a communal pancake breakfast with the rest of the resort. Hah. We'll just see how that goes. In the afternoon, it's time for what - in my opinion, anyway - will be the highlight of the trip.

That Magnificent Wuff in his Flying Machine.

It's possible you'll hear the screams.

Yes, a travel diary. Not a rant, not political analysis. Try not to be alarmed.

In a vain attempt to actually acquire some form of writing discipline, I decided that it would be a Good Thing if I took my newly-acquired tablet on holiday - my oh-so-shiny ASUS Transformer Prime, thank you soooo much, fire_wuff and why yes, that is a shameless piece of promotion, I'll take my kickbacks in the form of new hardware ... ahem.

Of course, to do that, one rather requires a holiday. How fortunate, then, that Wuff's parents offered us a week at one of their timeshare places over the school holidays.

So here we are ... somewhere just off the Great Ocean Road, off on a family holiday. For a week. All of us. Together.

This entry was actually written yesterday (March 30), but Dreamwidth is not exactly mobile-compatible, so I'm not able to make backdating work. Let's pretend ... pretend we are travelling back in time ... cue the sci-fi music and the wavery vision.

* * * * *

March 30

The place itself is quite 'nice' - we have one of those terribly bland, characterless units, where the furniture is bought in bulk from Fantastic Furniture and the prints are from K-Mart. Not that I was expecting five stars, but occasionally a few touches of individuality, even if it's only in the form of one of those creepy cat clocks with the pendulum tail and ticking eyes. On second thought, that might not attract the kind of clients you really want ...

The kids are back to sharing a room ... you can guess how that worked out come bedtime. Yep, even though we let them stay up late, turned down the TV and did everything short of force-feeding them Valium thickshakes (only kidding, Human Services), they were still awake as of a few minutes ago - after 11pm. Still, it might mean they sleep in tomorrow morning.

Who am I kidding?

There's an animal farm here, with everything from geese to rabbits to emus to alpacas. Lilygirl was hilariously funny with the geese - she's never experienced how aggressive they can be! I think she was more put out than anything by these long-necked 'giant ducks' hissing at her. Still, there's animal feeding time later this week, so I expect cuddling a few bunnies and guinea pigs will restore her sense of dignity.

The 'resort' (actually, it's a 'country club', which is a high-falutin' name for it) has a pool and spa that I can actually use - although guess who forgot to pack bike shorts? Looks like a trip to the House of Target is in order.

I can apparently get a massage, too, so that's going to be my treat for the week.

Wuff is getting a belated birthday present on Monday - a ride in a Tiger Moth open cockpit plane, complete with 'extreme aerobatics'. He went a little green when I mentioned that last part, but he was like a kid with a toy at the news. There's an 'adventure park' - which appears to consist of a BMX track, a few old grounded planes and possibly a dam on which one can paddle a kayak - so the kids can keep themselves occupied while he's doing that. I plan to make some popcorn, sit back and watch the show from the safety of the picnic area.

And don't say I never do anything for you, faithful flist ... the whole thing will be videotaped from the cockpit.

We haven't made much in the way of plans yet - there are a few activities here at the resort, like pancake breakfasts, and the kids will go to an evening moving on Wednesday (giving me and Wuff some downtime) - but there is heaps to do in the region. I'm hoping we can go fishing at least one day, and take the kids down to Bells Beach (although, with the Rip Curl Pro starting this week, we may go to Torquay instead), and there are quite a few wineries around the place. Since we just happen to have some wine glasses supplied in the unit, and we just happen to have received our FTB refund, I think some judicious purchases may well be in order. Besides, it's our duty to support local industry, right? :)

Speaking of local industry, we've also found two local berry farms, three potteries (something to do with the soil around here, apparently), two home-made ice cream shops, galleries (indigenous and modern) and markets.

Then there's a possible day trip to Queenscliff to look at the historic buildings and take the ferry across to Point Lonsdale, a drive down to see the Twelve Apostles, Split Point Lighthouse ... I think we'll need two weeks!

As I write, the children appear to be finally unconscious, so I'll close now. Wuff has warned me that they plan to do a 'special' breakfast tomorrow morning.

Dear lord.

As any poor bastard who reads my Twitter feed knows, I've been following the Labor Party leadership clusterfuck pretty closely since Kevin Rudd announced his resignation. Bah, who am I kidding, it goes beyond obsessive. But anyway ...

I've also been blogging frantically, as well as providing live 'micro-blogs' (the hilarious new name for live Twitter commentary) for the various speeches and interviews. There are, it seems, some advantages to being physically laid up a lot of the time (although I'm sure the kids won't thank me for this weekend). I think it's fair to say I'm as across this issue as anyone who hasn't got the specific inside track.


I've been appalled at the level of vitriol being flung around - not just statements of loyalty or preference, but actual vicious insults and downright threats directed at those who disagree on any given point. It's not just from the pollies, either. Media are churning out opinion pieces that go way beyond any pretense of objectivity, clearly declaring their preference for either Rudd or Gillard. And if the social media commentary were taking place in a pub, we'd have had a riot on our hands that spilled out into the streets long ago.

It's hyperbole, sure, but it really is dividing a good portion of the population.

In all this, I'm striving to maintain at least some level of objectivity. I think that's my job as an independent journalist, to analyse without fear or favour. And I know I fail miserably a lot of the time, especially when it comes to issues like asylum seekers or marriage equality. but at least I think I can say that I am as critical of Labor as I am of the Coalition, or Greens, or anyone else.

Not that this matters at the moment, apparently, according to the criticisms and abuse I've copped.

If I write that I think Rudd's running a slick, well-planned campaign, I 'must' be a Rudd supporter.

If I comment that Gillard has shown a level of feistiness in this campaign that we needed to see a long time ago - and which showed her capable of taking the fight to Abbott, I 'must' be in her camp.

If I talk about a third candidate, I'm a 'Greens lackey'.

Not to mention the people who re-tweet me, add their own exceptionally partisan insults and pass it off as my opinion.

And so on. No matter what I write, I'm accused of bias. Of being 'delusional'. A 'stupid c**t'. Et cetera.

And what pisses me off the most is that it's getting to me. I'm starting to second-guess myself. I read over and over what I've written, to make sure I haven't been too favourable or too critical. I start to wonder whether I need to give 'equal time' to both sides - even to the point of roughly the same word count.

It's ridiculous.

At the risk of sounding truly egotistical, I think I understand now the frustration that author and columnist John Birmingham vented after he finished up a stint as a guest columnist for the ABC. They're hamstrung by changes to their charters brought in by the Howard government, whose government consistently accused the national broadcaster of being 'unfair' to his administration. Now they have to provide equal time. And even so, they still get regularly hauled up before Senate committees and asked to account for absurdities.

One example? Tony Abbott's Budget reply speech last year. Twitter had decided to use the hashtag #budgies for any posts about it. Noting this, the ABC mentioned that on air and invited commentary on that feed. It was a simple PR decision. They could have tried to institute a different hashtag, but Twitter is notoriously stubborn about protecting its ability to choose its own labels.

At the Senate Committee hearing a few months later, the Opposition accused the ABC of being 'disrespectful' to Abbott by not 'insisting' on a different label - thus proving they not only don't understand social media, but also were not about to let the ABC operate without close interference.

And the ABC, as a result, self-polices its own work. To an extent that goes far beyond what it is legally required to do. If anything, it errs in favour of the Coalition. The internal watchman is so sensitive to any perception of Left bias, that it regularly shows evidence of bias towards the Right.

Birmingham wrote eloquently of the incredible frustration he experienced - of journalists in a constant state of nervous watchfulness in case their articles were too 'Left'.

At the time, I tried to imagine being gagged like that. Thankfully, as an independent, I don't have to worry about being forced to write to an agenda.

But in the last weekend, I've spent far more time worrying about whether I've unfairly favoured or criticised either Rudd or Gillard than I feel I should. I'll say it right here and now - Rudd has by far run the better campaign. He's popular, and people still feel he was poorly treated by being removed from office. We can't know everything that went on behind closed doors, but we do know that Rudd was never confronted by his colleagues - only blindsided. Gillard is tainted by her actions back then - not just removing him, but refusing to take responsibility for her own actions as Deputy PM, and now blaming Rudd for everything from a near election loss to her own government's problems (which she's been blaming on Abbott for months).

That said, Rudd's government showed far too little decisive action and far too much bureaucracy. Rudd was a micro-managing PM who didn't come up through Labor ranks and floundered in an unfamiliar environment. Gillard is a shrewd negotiator, pushed through the carbon pricing scheme and has held together a minority government in spite of Abbott's best (or perhaps worst) efforts.

The senior Cabinet ministers who support Gillard right now is utterly disgusting. Senator Doug Cameron, in his amazing Scottish accent, once referred to the Coalition as a 'rrrrrraaabbbble'. That accusation could easily be levelled at Wayne Swan, Simon Crean and Nicola Roxon right now. I'll say this for Rudd's supporters - with the exception of Maxine McKew, they're playing the ball, not the woman.

As for media hacks like Ackerman and Bolt - well, enough bandwidth is wasted on them already.

Do I think Rudd will win? Almost certainly not. I think he has about a third of the Caucus behind him, which is just not enough. But 'credit where it's due' is an axiom on which I've tried to base my work.

And it's totally fucked that trying to do that leads to little more than people whinging that you're a lackey or a hack or delusional.

If I were less convinced that I need to keep doing this - if only to be one more voice calling for some sanity in politics - I'd tell them all to go fuck themselves.

It's been a few years now, and my hair's thoroughly grown out - currently, it's nearly waist length! Since it's that time again, I thought it was time to once more take part in the World's Greatest Shave, to raise funds for research into curing leukaemia.


And so, this is a blatant plea for sponsorship - please sponsor me, and help raise money for this incredibly important cause! Sponsorship will give you access to embarrassing photos of fire_wuff hacking away at my hair with his katana.

You think I'm kidding, don't you? Fools.

:)


You can find my page here. Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell complete strangers in the street. Okay, maybe not complete strangers - they might look at you funny and hit you with their handbags.

Any and all donations gratefully accepted.