Released on Good Behaviour Bond

Well, you may have gathered that we've escaped for a few weeks respite from the heat.  The jet-lag is fading - although the 3 am trip to the regional airport 180 kms away to deliver Primus for a flight back to Melbourne on Thursday did not help.  All rather a blur.

We all went for the drive to the airport:  Marius driving and Prima and I to keep him company.  We arrived at Newcastle at 4.45 am, and had time for a coffee and bacon-and-egg sandwich with Primus before he left.  It is 'layout' week at the magazine and he couldn't be away for the week we had booked.  After we waved him goodbye, I asked Prima if she knew why I had come too, even though she had volunteered to keep her Dad company on the drive back.  I told her: 'If you were all going to get killed in a road crash, I wanted to be with you.'  She replied 'I figured it was something like that.'  She knows me too well.

I am pleased to report we were not killed ...  we got back to Forster about 7.30 am and all went back to bed.  I didn't want to wake up at 11, but we were going out to lunch to celebrate Marius' mother's birthday so I was forced to.  Last night I went to sleep at a more sensible hour and woke up this morning at 8.30, so I am getting there.  Jet-lag and the 7 hour time change always knock me around.

The view from the front verandah:

I can hear kookaburras having a giggle in the garden; there have been currawongs chortling and the chainsaw massacre bird (don't know the common name) has been conducting a road crash from the eaves.  It is chilly - winter time.  We are all rugged up against the cold: no swimming.

This is the first time I've been back since my father-in-law died nearly 18 months ago.  Marius was here in December, on a long-planned trip,  but I was in hospital in London so couldn't come.  Marius' uncle has come down from Queensland to see us too, and when Primus was here it was a bit of a family reunion.  It feels a little odd not having Ron here, but at the same time he is everywhere:  he built the house and after 58 years of marriage, his life is so inter-twined with Joan's that it doesn't really feel like he's gone. 

Joan is a great tidy-upper and during the week he died we were helping her have a clean out.  Still, there are a few hats hanging -- Ron was never out without a hat -- and photos of him.   Some of his tools are still where he left them hanging on neat rows.  Marius locked up the ones he wanted to keep.  I am pleased that we tell stories about Ron and discuss whether he visits -- Joan says she is sure he does sometimes.  He is not the 'elephant in the room'.

He would have loved lunch today.  We had fish and chips, prawn culets, salad.  Perhaps devoured is more correct than the weak 'had'.  The fish is 'flake', which is actually shark.  Boneless, sweet, light and very tasty. I was brought up thinking only halibut was fit for fish and chips but I never see it now; I think perhaps it has been fished-out with the cod.

Before:

and

After:

and

No need to eat for the rest of the week then ...   sadly, being Australia, there were no mushy peas.


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Packing

A few days ago, I alerted the throngs of readers (well two, it seems, anyway) that Marius and I would soon be escaping for a short respite to the land of breakfasts.  Tomorrow we are off, which means today I am faced with the unavoidable packing job.  Not simply packing, but the wrestle with myself:  I don't want to go.  I would rather stay put.  I hate suitcases and passports and taxis and queues and airports and airport security and changing currency and telephones and ...  all of it. 

I hate saying goodbye to my cats and entrusting their care to someone else, even if that else is trusted.  I hate leaving my books behind, and my garden, and I always end up bringing the wrong shoes (or no shoes at all) and the wrong weight of coat and fear I will forget my medicine chest of drugs. 

Which is all ridiculous of course.  I can't wait to be at the baggage carousel at Heathrow, counting black suitcases and making little jumps of excitement.  Or on the tube, seeing trees and sky when we pull out of the endless tunnels, or hauling myself up the steps at Gloucester Road, or fighting the temptation to kneel in worship when I go into Waitrose to buy my PG Tips and my pint of milk for the early morning cup of tea in bed.

Packing.   Which reminds me to get down my travelling teapot (I can't bear tea made in a mug with a jiggly bag and the worst horror - milk added before the bag is removed) and my travelling picnic set (as opposed to my proper picnic set), my fold away cooler bag for transporting picnics and er contraband on the return journey, a knife for cheese, a corkscrew - all the essentials.  Forget make up and socks, these things are procurable, but how many travelling picnic knives can one justify replacing?

I always pack two small tea towels as well.  I would drive a lesser man than Marius mad, luckily he is used to me now and knows it is far less stressful to give in to my peculiarities than try to reason against me.

I have to dig out the book suitcase.  This is a carry-on size bag I pack empty into my suitcase on the outward journey, in order to accommodate the books on the backward journey.  It is a mistake to pack books into a large suitcase as it will quickly become dangerously heavy.  I always carry two other fold-up bags (Longchamps if you must know) for overflow - dirty laundry at the end of the trip, spare shoes and other awkward objects.

Once coming here to Exile-land from a visit to Malaysia, I carried three Buddhas in my 'overflow' capacity.  I live in a nation of shoppers, so naturally the national airline has very generous baggage allowances for frequent travellers, even if they are flying cattle class, as we will.  I think our combined allowance is 80 kgs - and we usually manage to put it to good use.  Vegemite can be quite heavy in quantity.

I have nearly encouraged myself to start discovering where I've hidden the Oyster cards and the London sim card for my phone, and the left-over-from-last-time sterling ...

I hope to be able to tell you tomorrow about the Nonya food we will have enjoyed for dinner.


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Another Inconvenient Truth

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an event should never be awaited too eagerly as the reality will be unable to achieve the mythic anticipation; however Marius and I are escaping for a short break to London.

London I hear you shriek incredulously.  Why not the Maldives, the Himalayas, Venice, Prague or Mumbai? 

The answer is simple: breakfast.

We always stay (courtesy of the corporate rate, there have to be some compensations) at a large anonymous hotel close to the Tube, close-ish to central London, close to a couple of wonderful supermarkets and some interesting musea, where they serve 'breakfast'.  A breakfast to die for and I probably will, of it.  Never mind.  After years of religiously-restricted breakfast choices, we are in for the full, er, hog ...

Huge and anonymous though it may be, the staff in the dining room always greet us by name.  We come regularly, (two or three times a year) but not that often compared to the corporate travellers who must frequent the place monthly.  Is it because we make such pigs of ourselves?  How many sausages can a person eat for breakfast, along with toast, fried mushrooms, eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns if you want them, fresh fruit, tea, juice and a small pastry if possible?  Two, but I struggle.  Marius starts with three on the first day or so but he too regulates himself with time.

It sounds so greedy and disgusting:  my mouth is watering already.

To be fair, we don't often eat much else during the day, and not just because we are mean.  Such an imperial breakfast sets you up not only for the morning and the day, but most of the week as well.

They greet us by name because we smile beatifically on them as we get our plates.  We are such chums with the maitre d' that we get special requests like omelettes and kippers.  On one trip we were transporting home a large and precious glass-faced picture and he supplied us with several cardboard boxes from the kitchen, darling man.  He always asks after our offspring - by name - and finds time for a chat amongst his duties.

Even the concierge remembers us, and the doormen.  We have never made a scene, been unpleasant or requested lewd or bizarre services, so I am at a bit of a loss to explain these kindnesses:  you can always tell the difference between a professional welcome and true recognition, because something clears in the face when you are remembered.  Something outside conscious control or awareness, probably.  It is like a smile-within-a-smile.

We are quite boring.  The first evening after we arrive, we go to the local Singaporean place and relive memories of Nonya food from our days in Malaysia.  And we eat pork.    We have a round of favourite pubs and little restaurants we visit, almost invariably ordering the same dishes as last time.  People smile at us.  We can order wine or beer and nobody cares.

It is wonderful.

I feel confident in allowing the anticipation to build as I am confident there will be breakfast, there will be Nonya food, there will be pepperoni on the pizzas and mushy peas with the fish and chips.  All the other aspects of being in London are bonuses.

So, anticipation ... seven sleeps to go ...

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