Skialalia

We are well into the second book now, so behind the cut ...


( lies madness ... )

Holidaying in far north Queensland does strange things to one's brain. At least, that's my excuse for picking up my sister-in-law's copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and actually reading it. I may never be the same again - and so, because misery loves company, I intend to take you all with me.

If you haven't yet heard of this 'phenomenon', you've probably been hiding under a rock in Antarctica with your fingers in your ears going, 'La la la'. Everyone's talking about the smash hit bestseller that's sparked a wave of 'Mummy porn' novels hitting the bookshops.

Hold up a second. Mummy porn? Just what is that? Before you get intrigued, though, I've got bad news for you. This isn't some ancient Egyptian fetish bandage-wrapping technique we're talking about here. Nothing so interesting. No, 'Mummy porn' is, apparently, an insult on a par with 'Mummy blogger'. It's not real porn, you understand, oh no - that's for guys. This is soft porn for sad-sack housewives who don't get no lovin' and spend their days pining for a tall, dark handsome stranger. When they're not washing their husband's dirty sweat socks and running the kids to soccer practice, I guess.

You know what? I'm a Mummy, and if I'm going to read porn, it's going to be the real thing, thank you very much. But I digress. Let's get to the review.

First, the title. It's evocative. It's provocative. It promises a delicious tussle with moral ambiguities surrounding sexuality. Is it sick? Is it 'normal'? Is your kink my kink? I can hardly wait to get my teeth into these issues.

Oh. That's not it at all. The title's a pun. It's all about the gorgeous, assured, yet somehow conflicted Christian Grey. Grey, get it? Get it?

Sigh. Okay. Right about then I knew this was going to be excruciating.

Meet Anastasia Steele. Steele, get it? Get it? (Oh god.) She's a lovable literature grad student who is so socially awkward that it's a wonder she can order her coffee at Starbucks in the mornings. She's good-hearted, pretty in an understated kind of way, and klutzy.

Hello? E.L. James? Stephenie Meyer called. She wants her character back.

Through a truly amazing set of coincidences, Bella Ana meets the aforementioned Edward Christian Grey. While he doesn't exactly sparkle, she's mesmerised by his commanding presence (and not a little, erm, moist, as she tells us). On the basis on this one meeting, Grey decides that he must have her. Oh yes, she will be his - but there's nothing romantic about this desire. It's all about - gasp - BDSM. He wants her to be his submissive. He even wants her to sign a three-month contract giving herself over to him.

Hello? E.L. James? It's probably a good idea to learn some kink terminology before you go cutting and pasting a 'sample slave contract' from the internet. Grey doesn't want a submissive. He wants a slave. Someone he can control utterly - what she wears, what she eats, how much sleep she gets, and even how often she gets her 'down there' waxed. (Yes, Ana refers to her vagina as her 'down there'. Over and over again.)

Ana is titillated, but frightened. Seriously, if this were a Harlequin romance, her bosom would already be heaving. Suddenly acquiring the negotiating skills of an international diplomat, she talks him down to one month, and no controlled diet, but still won't sign. Wow. What a tease. She actually castigates herself for being 'cowardly'.

Now, your kink is not my kink, but everything surrounding Grey and his proposed 'contract' is just damned creepy. This isn't a loving relationship in which partners agree to adopt roles that satisfy deep sexual urges. This is a domineering man using his force of will to pressure a naive young woman into sexual slavery. Urgh.

We're about 100 pages in, and still no sex. C'mon, I was promised porn, dammit! All I've got are a few description of Ana's nipples tingling. Get to the good stuff, already!

Finally, it happens. Finally. Ana visits Grey in his opulent apartment and is morbidly fascinated by his 'Red Room of Pain'. AKA his BDSM dungeon.

I pause for howls of laughter. Red Room of Pain. Oh, dear. But hey, at least we're seeing some kink here.

Oh, but wait. No kink yet. First we're treated to Grey's announcement that he will 'make love' to Ana. Yeah, it's probably worth getting that out of the way before we get to the real stuff, right? And so he sets about this with workmanlike precision. I mean, really. It's like reading an IKEA manual. All it needs is the alun key.

This is where James drops a bombshell. Ana is - gasp - a virgin! Not only that, she's never been to second base! She's never even masturbated! She bleeds on the sheets and everything. Apparently Ana has never gone swimming, ridden a horse or had a vaginal exam. But that's okay. She still gets two mind-blowing orgasms, and is only 'a little bit sore' the next day.

Oh, and for a virgin, she gives mighty fine oral, it seems. She could probably be an instant star in the adult video indusry - if she could get over her obsession with Daddy Grey.

Ah. Now I know what's going on here. The book was obviously mis-classified. It should be listed as 'Fantasy'. Seriously, this is unbelievably embarrassing. It's every stereotypical description of the 'perfect woman' for misogynists - completely untouched until the 'right' man awakens her desire, which is insatiable and only for him. But I plough on. I've crossed the Rubicon, there's no going back now.

It's the last third of the book, and still no kink. We've had an attempted sexual assault by Ana's 'best friend', for which she blames herself. (Hello? Ms James? Stephenie Meyer wants her plot back.) We've had ample evidence of Grey's wealth and power, complete with personal helicopter (which, of course, he flies himself). We've seen how controlling Grey really is, after he buys Ana a new car and has her beloved old VW bug towed away. We've had the IKEA sex. But no kink. Not even a handcuff, or a light spanking.

What we did have was one truly mind-boggling moment where Grey 'sensuously' pulls out Ana's tampon.

Yeah, you read that right.

I had to stop for a bit after that one. Just how does one 'sensuously' remove a tampon, anyway? Does a guy with a saxophone appear and improvise a soulful solo while Grey fumbles between her legs? Does Grey take a leaf out of the Old Spice Man's book and do it while on horseback? Does he wax lyrical about how beautiful the blue string looks, glowing against the creamy white skin of her thighs?

Nope. Can't see it.

Ah, but James has been teasing us. She's saved up the kink for last. And what a doozy it is. Grey takes Ana into his 'playroom' (snicker) and ties her up to a complex apparatus of ceiling track that allows him to push her around the room in much the same way a meat carcass gets moved around an abattoir. He indulges in a bit of sensory deprivation, including making her wear headphones that blast classical music into her ears. And then choreographs his playtime to the music.

Okay, that's kinda interesting. I could see how that - oh. He's just tickling her? Never mind.

Ana, of course, is incredibly turned on. Guess once that hymen was broken, years of pent-up orgasms are just clamouring to get out. But then comes the whipping, and she doesn't like that at all. Except she does. But it's wrong. But she feels so good.

Bitch, no one is interested in your moral wibbling. You alienated all of us about the time you got upset at your hairdo, back in Chapter One. Just shut up and let us get to the good stuff, already.

Sadly, the good stuff never arrives. Ana 'arrives', several times, loudly. So does Grey. But the rest of us? The train never left the station.

The porn is terrible. Just awful. People who write in to the Penthouse Forums can write better porn than what's in this book. Hell, I've read fanfic that's turned me on more than this apparently 'scorching' book. It's not just that it has all the passion of an anatomical textbook. It's also Ana's inner monologue. Honestly, if she'd thought 'oh my,' one more time ...

Oh, and Grey himself is prone to crying out hackneyed lines when in the throes of orgasm. 'Oh, Ana, you feel so good!'

I shit you not.

At long last, the awful kink scene is over - whereupon Ana, despite her clear enjoyment and love for Grey, realises that she can never be his submissive, and runs back to her tiny apartment to cry. It's all over. It's not the life for her. She'll just have to curl up in her bed and wait to die.

But wait. There's a sequel. Two, in fact. And here's where I admit defeat. I started Fifty Shades Darker (otherwise known as 'Fifty Shades Worse'), but I just couldn't make it. I foundered about the time Grey's ex-submissive escaped from a psych hospital, obtained a gun and concealed carry permit (I know, I know), and started stalking the (naturally) reunited couple. I just couldn't go on.

I was in danger of losing my will to enjoy sex ever again.

So, if it's so bad, just what's with this 'phenomenon'? And yeah, I'll go with that word, because it sure ain't 'literature'. It all boils down to on word.

Hype.

This book's had an incredibly effective publicity campaign. It's been marketed as 'new', 'naughty', 'dark' ... hitting all the marks to guarantee curious readers will give it a try. And let's not forget, it's written by a woman. Sex written by a woman. Gosh. Guess people have forgotten Jacqueline Sussan by now ...

In conclusion, I really only want to say this - if you're tempted to read this book, just remember one important fact.

Fifty Shades started out as Twilight fanfic.

That should tell you all you need to know. Don't risk it. Don't endanger your sex life. There's much better porn around to tickle your 'down there'.

Oh, my.

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.

The scene: in the lounge, watching a documentary on mathematics with fire_wuff. (Yes, we're just that geeky.) The presenter starts talking about the Fibonacci sequence, and presents a nautilus shell for demonstration. Just for fun, he wanders off to an aquarium to see a live one, where the scientist tells us that they're actually cephalopods.

Wuff: They were the warriors, you know.

Me: What?

Wuff: Oh, yeah. Before they embraced peace and decided to return to the sea. They roamed the land keeping the Cephalod races safe.

Me: Really. Nope, I'm not going anywhere near this.

Wuff: Of course, the octopuses were the engineers.

Me: No, they weren't. The octopuses were the scientists.

Wuff: That makes sense. The squids were the engineers, then.

Me: Yeah, the octopuses figured out how things were done, and ... dammit.

Wuff: (grinning like a maniac) My work here is done.

We were in Chelsea yesterday, visiting fire_wuff's family for Xmas lunch. It was horrendously humid, although the Bureau of Meteorology was vaguely promising a thunderstorm for the evening. That was something to look forward to, I thought.

Yes, well.

As we left, it was just starting to rain. We thought we'd timed it pretty well - the rain had probably moved on from home and we'd have a good run. I pause for howls of derision in the light of hindsight.

Driving back along Eastlink, we got some fairly spectacular views of the two stormfronts that ... wait. Two?? Yep - one north-east, one west of us. We were in a weird little corridor of relatively clear sky between lightning on one side and a rain band that looked like an actual wall on the other. Still, running the gauntlet didn't seem like such a bad idea. And the scenery was fascinating.

But of course, roads wind, don't they? And suddenly we were no longer driving parallel to the storms, but right into one of them. At which point our scenic trip home turned into ... an adventure.

There was thunder cracking right overhead. There were lightning strikes everywhere, sometimes hitting simultaneously from all around us. And there was rain. Ye gods, was there rain.

Traffic on the freeway slowed to a crawl, but - Melbourne drivers being psychotically devoid of either awareness of others or a sense of self-preservation - it wasn't because visibility was reduced to approximately two inches beyond the windscreen. Oh, no. People were as impatient and dangerous as ever in that respect. No, it was the flash flood on the Eastern Freeway just past Doncaster Road. Aha, we thought, we'll just pop out onto Manningham Road. Cunning, no?

Except Manningham Road was also flooded.

So we eventually took a detour through Balwyn and Bulleen before inevitably meeting up with the traffic snarl in Heidelberg, and inched home. Meanwhile the skies merrily went about lending an air of apocalypse to the afternoon's festivities. There was some truly bedraggled tinsel hanging off the streetlights in Burgundy Street, I can tell you. But, hey, not to worry, the rain was slacking off. We'd come out the other side of the storm front.

You'd think we'd know better. The universe is perverse, and never more so than we hapless mortals like us figure we've got it all worked out.

We turned a corner - and ran into what I can only describe as a wall of rain. The downpour made the earlier storm look like a light sunshower by comparison. The wipers at full speed did little more than slosh around the water smashing into it and cascading off the roof. Then the hail started, and it seemed pretty much inevitable that we were about to lose our windscreen. The drains overflowed, and it seemed like only seconds before the dips in the road started flooding. Again with the thunder and lightning, adding to the incredible din of the hail and rain hitting the car. We started aqua-planing around corners. Right about then I became fast friends with the 'jesus handle' above the passenger door, and hung on for dear life.

Wuff, of course, was laughing like a maniac. And so were Lilygirl and Meglet.

We weren't driving fast, but with everything happening, it felt like we were hurtling through Reservoir, crashing through puddles up to nearly a metre deep and barely keeping our tyres on the road. All to the music of Lady Gaga.

Eventually we got home, and the rain slackened - to be greeted by possibly the most bedraggled, pathetic cat in existence. She was mightily miffed at us, and only just consented to let me towel her dry. Lilygirl and Meglet, of course, decided that it was exactly the right time to change into their swimmers and go puddle-jumping.

Which, I'm sure, was fun. And apparently was even more fun when the heavens opened again a few minutes later.






Wuff was apparently unable to resist the siren song of an utter drenching and raced out to join them.





Me? I stayed inside.


But we made it home safely, and the worst damage we sustained was when a rusted drain pipe fell off the garage wall and shattered. Oh, and the disgruntled sensibilities of our cat. We got lucky, apparently - there were plenty of pictures of broken windscreens and holed verandah canopies this morning, as well as the odd submerged taxi. It was a hell of an adrenaline ride, but we survived.


... And, being a glutton for punishment, Wuff decided to walk to the shop today and took a detour via Merri Creek. From this picture of the debris line, it looks like the creek levels got to over a metre above the path.





And on its way through, the water took out at least one tree:





Which was all very interesting, but I could have done without Wuff - who got soaked again in the relatively light rain - sharing the experience by rubbing his wet head all over me.

He's thoughtful, that way.

Meglet is convinced that this was the best Christmas ever. What worries me is that she'll now expect us to top this next year.

I'm not sure the planet would survive.

Dear Uterus,

I'd like to take a moment of your time to have a few words with you.

What's that? You're busy? You have all this stabbing pain to inflict, and can't spare the time?

TAKE TIME. SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN.

Oh, and while we're at it ... you. Yes, you, Ovaries. You can stop hiding behind those other organs and join Uterus for a moment. For that matter, all of you - the whole reproductive system. Get over here.

RIGHT.

Now, look. I don't think I treat you all that badly. I haven't played macrame with you, Fallopian Tubes. I'm not dosing myself up with hormones to make you dance to my tune, Menstrual Cycle. I'm not interfering with your natural functions at all. You can go about your business. That's fair, yes?

Okay.

So ... why? Why, oh why, oh why, do you all seem to take such delight in torturing me? I mean, really - do you get a kick out of inflicting muscle-tearing spasms, flooding at the most inconvenient and embarrassing of times, and generally behaving like a room full of three year old psychopaths jazzed up on red cordial?

It's not even like you can get it together enough to be even a little bit orderly about it, either. One month you're on strike, Uterus - and the next you're working around the clock. And don't you snigger, Ovaries. You're even worse.

Now, look. It's not that I'm ungrateful. You do the whole hormone thing, and there are benefits to that. Yes, Breasts, I'm looking at you. You're great at cleavage, and grabbing admiring glances - but what's with the immediate cramps when you get touched? Honestly, anyone would think you're just pissy at getting a bit of attention.

What's that, Uterus? What was that you just muttered to the others?

I got pregnant? I grew babies in you? I made you stretch and grow a placenta and play host to squirming kicking entities?

News flash. THAT'S YOUR JOB. You've got responsibilities here, so quit whining when you have to step up and do something.

And just by the way, it's not like it was my idea to pack five babies into two pregnancies, oh no. That was all you lot. So drop the blame game, okay?

It's no good getting that sulky look on your face Fallopian Tubes. Yes, I know you don't control the ovulation, but let's face it, you helped, didn't you? Admit it - you were the go-between.

Okay, okay. I know we're all getting on a bit, and it's been a pretty rough road at times. But c'mon ... is this really the time to turn on each other? Really, let's just work together and get through this period, and then you can have a long rest. What's that? No, I promise, no HRT. I'll respect the retirement age. Deal?

Wait, don't answer right away. Have a good, long think and get back to me later today. This is a big decision, and I want to give you time to talk amongst yourselves.

Thanks for listening, everyone. I feel that we've established a good rapport here. We'll talk later.


... Oh, and everyone? Make the right decision. I'd hate to have to take drastic action.