Life at 9 and gratitude

I've come across many people this week who are in some kind of pain. Often their pain has been caused by their efforts to control things that are not within their control.

I also watched the excellent show on the ABC, Life at Nine which is following children as they grow up. This week's episode was about creativity and not only was it interesting to watch the children, but I also learned a bit about myself. 

These experiences influence what I'm grateful for everyday:

1. I am grateful for my creativity.

2. I am grateful for my imagination.

3. I am grateful for my resilience.

4. I am grateful for my own company.

5. I am grateful for my failures.

6. I am grateful that I have the capacity to write this post.

7. I am grateful that I have the freedom to publish this post.

8. I am grateful for the opportunities my parents gave me.

Here's two of my favourite photos from the week.

Shadow bike
© 2014 divacultura

Shot tower, Melbourne Central
© 2014 divacultura

What are you grateful for? Have you been watching the Life Series? Who's your favourite? (Mine's Wyatt, but don't tell anyone.)

On teapots and punctuation

"We had to keep going you know  because I've only got a certain amount of energy available each day," the woman declared too loudly as she boarded the tram.

I looked up to check that she was in fact human. I was expecting something battery powered.

"Mmmm yes well shopping's shopping really isn't it?" said her companion.

They both lacked punctuation when they spoke.

"Yes it is everything is the same it doesn't matter where you go there's nothing new although we did see some lovely teapots only $100 each but then who really needs another teapot especially if you have to pay that much for it."

"No things aren't cheap over here are they $100 for a teapot seems like far too much but they were lovely but you have enough teapots you don't need another one."

I sat pondering the question of how many teapots does one have to have to be declared at that point of "enough"? I also worried that the conversation could involve a detailed, unpunctuated description of the various qualities of teapots.

My stop came and I never found out. My life will go on.

Why do people speak without punctuation? (Although having spent the day reading student evaluations, I could also ask why punctuation is not used for written communication. I think the language in which they write is English, but sometimes I honestly can't tell.)

I have a neat little stainless steel teapot that is perfect to make one sizeable cup of tea. It's round and welcoming and cost me far less than $100. I have the same teapot in a larger size for when there's more than one tea drinker in the house. I wouldn't dream of serving tea bags.

This reminds me of the time I was out with a dear friend and we went to a cafe in Hobart. I felt like a cup of tea, but have learned that assumptions about the quality of tea served must be checked.

After confirming that the establishment served tea, I asked whether they used leaves or a bag.  The girl looked very confused - perhaps conflicted.

"Well, they're leaves, but ... but...they're in a bag?" The upward inflection betrayed her uncertainty.

To stop me from laughing in her face I promptly ordered a cappuccino.

What's the most you've ever paid for a teapot? Do you use a pot or a bag?

Wild ride home - danger in the air on the trains

A few months ago, works were undertaken at Seddon train station in the inner west of Melbourne. One of the undercover seats was removed and a room was renovated. An airconditioner was installed. Signs designating the area as being for "staff only" were hung. I waited to see who it was for. Weeks turned into months and there was no sign of anyone until a few weeks ago, two Protective Service Officers were standing out on the platform on a cold winter's night. They had just started that night and would be there every night from 6pm until the last train.

It's a good move actually. Seddon is very quiet and the streets around the station are deserted at night. I've often felt very alone and wondered what would happen if something happened. I always greet them whenever I see them and it feels like they're becoming part of the community.

Coming home from the Melbourne International Film Festival the other night, I boarded a train with my friend and immediately felt like we'd chosen the wrong carriage. Two men were in a heated, loud argument with each other. The argument was verbal only, but aggression was in the air and I was glad to be sitting quite apart from them. A banner on the wall of the train advertised "anti-hate spray". It felt like I could do with a can in my handbag. We stopped at North Melbourne station and then the train sat for longer than usual. The argument continued to rage and we struggled to hear the announcement from the driver that we were stuck for a while because of a police operation at the next station (South Kensington).

Announcements came reasonably frequently. The driver sounded more and more frustrated as the announcements turned into statements about how nothing had changed and we were still stuck. It sounded like he had a lamb roast waiting for him at home and this was the third time this week he was going to be late. Meanwhile, the two men continued to rage against each other. My friend and I talked and swapped notes on unlocking the mysteries of our iPhones.

Soon I noticed sitting at the other end of the carriage a woman who looked deeply distressed. She was quiet, but rolling her head back, wringing her hands and seemed to be inside her own head. Her face betrayed deep pain.

I couldn't stand it any longer and decided to move to another carriage. The aggression and distress in the air was starting to get to me. We moved forward one carriage. Before long, there was yelling and a woman screaming uncontrollably, coming from the carriage we had left. I wondered where the PSO's were. They arrived on the scene shortly. It was interesting to see how they worked. There were four of them, one took the lead to engage with one of the people and the others stood around, close enough, but far enough. I didn't hear what happened, but I was pleased that people were on hand to assist and diffuse. I was glad I had changed carriages.

When I arrived back at Seddon station, there were the PSO's waiting on the platform. I hope they never have to do anything. I think just their presence should be enough to make sure they don't. I hope the people yelling and crying got the help they needed.

Shaking my booty - memories of an undiscovered ballerina.

"Ah!" she said with a sense of realisation. "I see what you're doing."

I waited to receive my diagnosis.

"You turn like a ballerina," she declared.

That was quite unexpected. In all my life, I've never been told I do anything like an ballerina.

I've started a dance class. It's been a while since I took a class. I love to dance, but then I can't bear most people in the world of formal dance. I find the world intimidating. I can move, but usually the class goes too fast for me; I get left behind and before long, I feel useless and give up.

The class is not a ballet class, so turning like a ballerina is a redundant skill. The class is called Born to Boogie and is pitched for enjoyment, although we are learning a routine and will perform in a dance off with another class. I was doing so well until we came to the instruction to "turn". The first time I tried, I didn't make it all the way around. I tried again, and this time kept going. My legs were twisted around themselves like a corkscrew. I could not work out what was wrong. This is when the study was undertaken and the declaration made.

"Have you done some ballet?"

Making friends with my new jazz shoes -
on the feet of a latent ballerina.
© 2014 divacultura

"A long time ago," I whispered.

"Well, it's obviously in your muscle memory then."

I didn't dare tell her that the sum total of my ballet training consisted of about two classes when I was five years old. I hated it. They made us dance across the room in front of the other girls. I was embarrassed. Clearly I hadn't yet discovered my performance gene. I felt ungainly next to the other, wispy girls. Wispy is an adjective that has never and could never be applied to me. Substantial is more likely to be used and that doesn't really work for a ballerina, even when swathed in pastel pink tulle.

I must ask my mother how I came to be at ballet. I was also having piano lessons and went to art and craft classes and judo lessons. Piano turned into a lifelong passion. There is evidence of my participation in art and craft still in my parents' house; it takes the form of lumps of yellow glazed clay dishes, loosely designated as 'ashtrays'. I remember nothing about judo.

I think I must have been a high maintenance child as I always had lots of extra curricular activities. When I was about twelve I went to "cooking for adolescents". You can be forgiven for thinking that the class was for parents so they could cook delicious food for the teenagers. It did turn out to be a cunning way to give my mother the night off as whatever I produced was taken home for the family at the end of the night.

There were eight of us in the class and Mrs Quade was the ferocious teacher. I was perpetually in trouble. Using the tubular spaghetti as a straw may have been one of my transgressions. I thought it was excellent. The cuisine was basic, but I learned some great skills, like how to skin tomatoes and make fresh tomato sauce. My family feasted on such delights as rissoles, sausage casserole and something called "Apple Windsor". I carefully wrote out all the recipes in an anthology book. (Do you remember anthology books? They were a bit larger than an exercise book, one page was blank and the facing page had lines. Both pages had a decorative border. They were for writing out poems and drawing a matching picture. Talk about redundant. Isn't the poetry supposed to paint the picture? I can't draw, and am still haunted by a lumpy drawing of a malformed eagle to accompany the words "He clasps the crag with crooked claw". Well, the 'claw' was certainly crooked.)

My first dance class was great fun. I was complimented on my positive energy again. It seems to be appreciated, but I just hope it's not what people say when they're thinking "oh god, where are we going to hide her?"

In the meantime, I turn like a ballerina you know.

Do you dance? Have you rediscovered a love for something you didn't enjoy in your youth?

Out in the rain, out on the tracks

Sorry about my absence. Funny how the days sneak up and bleed into the nights and suddenly lots of them have slipped by.

Metro Trains have changed the time table. I haven't quite worked out what it all means, but their great smart phone app, called "Notify" lets me know each morning when my train is due to run.  For example, the 7:20am now departs at 7:18 because of the changed timetable. Great service. Unfortunately, there's been a few occasions where the next communication is to advise that the train has been delayed. Ironically, it's later than it would have been if the timetable hadn't changed. 

Still on the subject of public transport, Melbournians lose their usually excellent capacity to play well with others when it involves rain, peak hour and public transport. As I watched the sky turn from a sunny blue to a terrifying black, I made my plans to exit the building. I finished a phone call from a friend and was just about to take his advice and leave (the temperature had dropped to about 8 degrees with wind and rain thrown in for extra excitement) when my boss stopped me to check in on a few things. By the time I left, it was even colder and much wetter. Huddling at the tram stop, with only a tiny foldable umbrella - rendered impotent by the wind - I found a new definition of misery. This new definition was replaced a moment later as I huddled, damply, on the tram. I tried to wrangle my umbrella so I didn't wet anyone anymore than they already were. Meanwhile, I felt a wet patch growing on my back. The woman behind me was pressing her soaking, dripping umbrella into my back. We adjusted. The tram stopped a the next stop. No one alighted. A few determined people squeezed into non-existent space, pleading for us to move in. We were so squashed that the only way I could create more space was to inhale, so I did. 

The next ordeal was negotiating the stupidly skinny tram platform that was packed with too many people, plus their backpacks in the rain with umbrellas and rain hoods making it impossible to see each other. We stood on our refuge, wedged between the tram line and two lanes of traffic. Opposite, a man squatted down with his camera and leaped to action when we started to cross.

My outfit served me well today, drawing comments from many quarters: 

"That's a very eclectic outfit". I chose to respond with "thank you".

"Your dress is hitched up at the back, let me just...oh...how does it work?" I explained the complex rigging involved and thanked her for being concerned.  She revealed her plan to protect my modesty.

"What a fantastic outfit!" was the best comment of the day, as I interacted with people who are more from "my" world.

Hail, rain and wind are on the cards for tomorrow. I must prepare for the travel odyssey ahead. I shall think of it as character building.

We certainly saw Lorraine today: http://youtu.be/Lw6zjxH9aAk

The morning commute - on the roads

My work has required me to drive lately. Usually, I catch public transport everywhere, but lately I've been needed somewhere that would require a circuitous route and twice the time to reach my destination if I travelled on public transport. So I have been driving.

One of the major obstacles I must navigate to go just about anywhere is the Westgate Bridge. Under normal conditions, it's about an 8 minute drive from my house. The other morning it took me 55 minutes! This morning during peak hour it took about 15 minutes to get there.

It's interesting to observe driver behaviour when there is heavy congestion. Some people change lanes regularly as if they can find the lane that is moving more quickly. This is fatal, as anyone who has jumped queues at the supermarket knows. The minute you switch, the lane you were in starts to flow and the first day trainee takes over the new lane. Other people sit right on the tail of the car in front of them. It's as if the invasion of space will urge me to move forward more quickly. This is doomed to failure too as usually there's no where for me to go. I like to keep some distance between me and the car in front so that I won't end up in a sandwich when the idiot behind me rear-ends me. Then there's the person for whom driving is a distraction from reading their facebook newsfeed. Threats of long range cameras, fines and demerit points seem to be doing little to change behaviour when it comes to mobile phones and cars. 

Despite some of the trials of public transport (overcrowding, listening to endless sniffing and coughing, along with inane or revealing conversation, delays and cancellations) I miss the main benefit - productive time. While I travel I can read or do something else like read  my facebook news feed, or post to twitter to complain about the overcrowding, endless sniffing and coughing, the quality of the conversation or the fact that I'm stranded somewhere between North Melbourne and Footscray. 

Today, the car trip to the place I was working took 25 minutes, door-to-door. On public transport it would have taken just under 50 minutes and I would have had to catch a train, a tram and then walked. Not very appealing in this cold winter weather.

How do you get to work?

Heavy-handed security at the Forum Theatre - all over water.

During the week I went to see Dan Sultan play at the Forum Theatre in Melbourne. While the venue is pretty, it's really like a giant pub gig. I don't mind pub gigs, but I prefer them on a smaller scale. It turned out to be quite a bizarre night.

My friend and I had both been out and about during the day. She was coming straight from work; I had dropped into home to drop some stuff off and then head straight out again. After dinner nearby, we headed to the Forum. After showing our tickets we were stopped for a bag search on the way in. One of the security guys asked me if I was carrying any liquid (I wasn't) and cast a very cursory glance in my handbag. I walked through and waited for my friend. I looked up and saw her in animated discussion with a female security guard.

I heard my friend tell the woman, "I'm not tipping my water out!"

My friend left the area and we walked into the venue.

My friend had told the guard that she had some water and she was then told that she was required to tip it out. The reason given for needing to waste the water was "we sell water inside".

We hadn't been inside long when a male security person came and asked my friend to leave. Of course I went with her. I thought it was ridiculous that water should be tipped out for the purely commercial reason of securing sales of water for the venue.

This time, there was a different reason given: we might be carrying alcohol. We weren't and offered security the opportunity to smell the liquid. "We don't do that," came the response. Two other security guards stood around us. This was getting ridiculous!

My friend eventually pulled the water bottle out of her bag, only to discover that it was empty.

I've had a look at the "rules" for the venue.  This is an over 18's venue and has this information on their web:

PROHIBITED
Alcohol, cans, bottles, recording equipment, lazers, studded belts or weapons can not be brought onto the premises.

It says nothing about water. Stupidly, my friend's empty water bottle was allowed in which is technically prohibited. I imagine they are specifically concerned about glass bottles which could end up being used as a weapon or missile. Just about everyone takes their phone into these venues and are visible in their use of them as recording equipment.

The whole approach is offensive: three men standing over a small woman because she was carrying water; unclear reasons being given and the compulsion to waste a precious resource.

The female security guard didn't even look in my friend's bag. She only knew about the water because my friend was honest.

This approach was in direct contrast to the approach taken at Rod Laver Arena when we attended the Keith Urban concert recently. Keith actually spoke to the crowd about behaviour and got agreement that security wasn't going to be an issue. It wasn't.

Even at the Melbourne Cricket Ground they take the lid of the plastic bottle, but let you have the water.

I often think there's a type of person working in security. They seem to derive disproportional pleasure from their petty authority and the fact that they can direct other people. I suspect they are powerless in other facets of their lives. (I know that this is a generalisation, but it's also been my experience.)

I was ready to stand in solidarity with my friend as far as necessary (but secretly hoping we would still get to see the show).

I'm very interested to hear the venue's response. I'll keep you posted.

The phishers almost had me - Beware!

The spammers and phishers are quite clever these days. I was almost caught when I received an email that looked like an itunes receipt. I am a regular on itunes, so it's very usual to receive these emails, but there were two things about this email that initially raised my suspicions:

1. I hadn't bought anything from itunes for a week

2. the email went into my spam folder.

Lots of other legitimate email had gone to my spam folder, so I initially assumed that this one had been caught up in that. On closer examination I discovered that the receipt was for "Kill Bill" box set that I had apparently purchased for $199. I knew that I hadn't and read on:

If this was you, then you can safely ignore this email. If this wasn't you, your account has been compromised. Please follow these steps:

Recover Account 

You will need to provide your billing information to verify you are the legitimate account holder.

This was the give away. I checked one of my other receipts from itunes and everything else was exactly like the legitimate versions, except for the bit I've pasted above. This was a trap to extract my personal details.

I checked my itunes account and saw no evidence of such a purchase. Then I noticed that the sender's email address was not from itunes.

It pays to be vigilant! I've changed my itunes password for good measure too.

Be careful out there.  

Have you ever been caught with this kind of con?

Skin, checked: all clear

The month of March was "Melanoma March" in some circles; the month to raise awareness about skin cancer and melanoma. I was involved in producing a filmed interview of a woman who had survived stage 4 melanoma and hearing her story gave me just the nudge I needed to speak to my GP about a skin check.

I'd never had a skin check, despite having reasonably fair skin and growing up in the sun. I'm now very aware and careful of the sun and wear sunscreen daily. I'd watched family members deal with various kinds of skin cancers (not melanoma) and still had not done anything.

I'm not a very "moley" person. I don't have that many, but I'd noticed a couple of new ones lately and also had one on my arm that was small, but it was raised; I could feel it when I ran my finger over that part of my arm.

My GP checked and said that she thought they were okay but referred me to a dermatologist for a more thorough check. Her concern about the moles was that they were new. I learnt that new moles after the age of about 30 need to be watched. Then she asked me what the bump on the side of my nose was.

"I don't know. Just a bump. Isn't it from wearing glasses?"

She looked at me like I had an IQ of 25 and said she wanted to take a sample. I then had the choice of just watching the other two and making a decision later, or having them off all together now. I opted to get rid of them.

The worst part of the procedures was the injection of the local anaesthetic - especially the one at the top of my nose, right near my eye.

The dressing was worse than the biopsy.
© 2014 divacultura

"I don't know how doctors can do injections like that," I said, trying to make conversation to distract from the horrible sting and pain I was feeling.

"I don't know how you write scripts and produce films," she replied.

Fair enough. Good answer! It didn't make the pain go away.

About 8 minutes later I had a big dressing on the side of my nose and waterproof dressings on my arm. The samples were housed in their own separate jar of liquid and looked innocuous.

Today I received the official letter telling me everything about these three specks of skin. It contains words like "ectactic", "fibroblasts", "dysplastic" and "lentiginous".  The word "malignancy" appeared several times. Thankfully it was preceded by "no evidence of". I couldn't quite relax until I saw the stamp added by my dermatologist. It said "NO SKIN CANCER, RESULT CHECKED BY DR (My Dermatologist).

Thank goodness for that little rubber stamp.

I'm pleased that I took action. I'd rather have things cut off and samples be taken and discover that everything was okay, than do nothing and then later discover a melanoma or other nasty.

Have you had a skin check? Do you wear sunscreen?

Sunday slideshow...on Monday

Walking in the cold winter weather was a good way to clear my head on the weekend. I was blessed with some gorgeous light too. Knitting happy socks is another great way to wile away the winter hours.

Collins and Russell Streets in Melbourne city.
© 2014 divacultura

Could not resist the way the afternoon sun was lighting up this facade.
© 2014 divacultura

Love the way the leaves on the trees catch the afternoon light and look like flecks of gold.
© 2014 divacultura

Knitting some happy socks is a perfect way to keep the winter blues at bay.
© 2014 divacultura

These are made in a yarn called "Allegria". Apt
© 2014 divacultura

Lights, camera, action!

It's been a very big week. As usual, I was doing many different things for many different people, but this week included something out of the ordinary. I was making two films and my role was behind the camera.

I'm collaborating with a university in the field of clinical supervision and my partner and I pitched that we would make some films as a catalyst for discussion in the workshops that we will design and deliver.

We had two films to make and two days in which to make them. I wrote the script which was more like a blueprint for the narrative of each scene around which the actors would improvise. We had a director, camera operator and audio engineer. My partner was the clinical adviser on set, teaching the actors how to look like they were taking blood pressure and other vital signs and props master. That left me as producer, assistant director and floor manager. After two days, I was exhausted and gained a real appreciation for what it takes to make even a simple film. My job was all-consuming because I was flicking from creative story-telling to manager of the set, people and time frames.

At one point, I heard my name called by four different people. All I could do was take a breath and deal with each person.

Even my broadcast journalism skills had a workout. We did some vox pop interviews of students to get their stories and perspectives about clinical supervision and feedback. I stood beside the camera and chatted with four young men to get them to relax in front of the camera and to incorporate my question into their answer. I remembered the appeal that interviewing had for me all those years ago.

My next task is post-production. I'll sit with the editor and we'll use all the footage we took to tell the story that I wrote. I'm really excited to see how it turns out.

One of my lessons from this experience is that everything takes three times longer than you think and you just have to keep going until you're finished.

The other great thing I noticed was the need to have complete trust in the team you've assembled. Everyone must be doing their job and you must trust that everyone is doing their job. I had no capacity to step in and take over anyone else's job. If I had, that would have left a big gap where I was supposed to be. It's a great leadership experience, because everyone is required and no one can give less than 100% every time and all the time.

My partner took a photo on set which you can see on Instagram. He appeared as an extra, but I was too busy doing all of the things I've mentioned, that I missed taking a photo.

Clear out your unwanted winter clothes for a good cause.

I received an email this week about the need for warm clothes for visitors coming to Melbourne for the International AIDS Conference at the end of July. Many of the delegates are from warm, low income countries.

Details of how to donate clothes are at the end. Thanks for your help.

Spread the word!

Last year's World AIDS Day sign over the Yarra River.
© 2013 divacultura

The International AIDS Conference (AIDS 2014) is the largest ever health or development meeting 

to be held in Australia.  

 

AIDS 2014 will be held here in Melbourne from 20 – 25 July, 2014 and we need your help! 

 

Approximately 14, 000 participants are expected to attend the Conference and various associated events.  Many  of  our  delegates  are  coming  from warmer climates  and  some  from  low  income countries. As we know, the temperatures don’t get to high here in the month of July and the MPG is 

partnering with Red Cross to provide low cost warm clothing.  

 

This is where you come in – we are asking you to dig deep and donate some winter woollies for delegates to purchase during AIDS 2014. Donated clothing will be sold (at very low costs) within the Global Village at the Melbourne Convention and Exhibition Centre (MCEC) where the conference will 

be  held.  Proceeds  raised  from  your  donation  will  be  donated  to  Red Cross  to  assist  their humanitarian work, supporting vulnerable people within our community. 

 

We are looking for donations of women's and men's winter clothing & accessories such as: 

 

•  Tops, T.shirts, Shirts, Long Sleeve Blouses  

•  Knitwear, Cardigans, Jumpers, Pullovers  

•  Jeans, Pants, Skirts, Tights 

•  Coats, Jackets 

•  Shoes, Scarves, Beanies, Gloves 

 

AIDS 2014 is only 3 weeks away! Your urgency in donating goods is greatly appreciated.  

 

Red Cross Shops can collect the merchandise or alternatively, it can be dropped at our head office location, 23-47 Villiers Street, North Melbourne, VIC. 

 

To make a donation please call Bianca Wendt, Red Cross Shops Merchandise Manager, directly on (03) 8327 7867 or 0408 300 470. 

Good deed day.

I felt myself becoming impatient with the doddering woman in front of me at the supermarket checkout. I had chosen the checkout based on it only having this woman to go through ahead of me with her small number of items. The self-service lanes were full and there was a long queue and I had one too many items for the express lane.

The cashier was efficient and friendly but the woman needed to get some cash out and seemed to have stepped directly from 1974 - a time before plastic money was available with just a swipe, wave or press of a button. E v e n t u a l l y the woman withdrew her cash and was finished. I was next.

The cashier asked me to wait one moment while she changed the receipt paper in the cash register. At this point I relaxed. If I had chosen a different egress I would probably not be any further advanced.

When the cashier came back she noticed that the woman who had withdrawn the cash had walked away without taking her purchases. A quick look around didn't reveal her, but she was slow moving and I was pretty sure she would still be somewhere nearby. I paid and said that I would let her know if I saw her on my way out.

There she was, clad in her black puffer jacket, gazing in the window at the butcher's meat display. At least, I hoped it was her as I approached.

"Excuse me," I said to gain her attention.

She looked up immediately, confused and frightened.

"I think you were ahead of me at the Woolworths checkout?"

She nodded yes.

"Well you left your shopping behind."

"Oh! I'm always doing that! Aren't you a darling for finding me!"

"I'm so pleased I did. It would be awful to arrive home without your purchases. It's at the last checkout, on the end," I added, worried that she wouldn't remember where she had been. I pointed her in the direction.

Off she doddered in the general direction of the supermarket. I was nearly going to go with her to make sure she arrived, but I didn't want to impose.

I suppose this is what is called a "good deed". It cost me nothing to help this woman and I know that a few minutes of my time saved this woman money and worry. Ironically, if I hadn't been willing her to hurry up at the check out, I may not have registered enough details to be able to find her again!

I hope a kind soul does the same for me one day when I'm doddering and absent-minded.

What was your last good deed?

Art triumphs over science

I had a satisfying moment yesterday when I was co-facilitating an education session for a group of second year nursing students. My co-facilitator was a very experienced nurse herself and able to cover all the clinical information that I don't know. (I cover the communication and empathy components). I love these sessions because I always learn things too.I

We had just watched a mental health simulation with a female patient who had come to hospital believing she was having a heart attack. She wasn't - she was having a panic attack and it was revealed she had a long history of severe anxiety and agoraphobia. There was plenty to talk about.

My colleague led a discussion about the appropriate drug choices and how they work. We also discussed the side effects and other physical impacts of the drugs. Then we talked about "S.L.U.D.": Salivation, Lacrimation, Urination and Digestion. One of the students asked was Lacrimation was. None of the group knew, but I did.

"It's tears," I offered.

They all looked at me completely surprised. (I'd shared that I had no clinical background.)

"The "Lacrymosa" in the Mozart Requiem, is the movement about crying. I just figured the Latin was probably related."

They looked at me completely surprised again.

This little moment reminded me how handy a broad arts education is. Language is the basis of our communication, understanding and knowledge and I can usually work out most things. It helped me on a game show once when I had to name the South American city who name meant "mountain view". "Monte Video", I answered. I didn't "know" the answer, but I'd worked it out based on the language.

Yesterday's insight wasn't even gained from a language class, but from long exposure to Latin and other languages when singing in choirs!

More and I more I realise how important and useful my broad arts education is. It helps me navigate the world.

She's got a ticket to ride - farewell Kerry

On Friday I attended the funeral of Kerry Edsall, another woman taken too early by breast cancer. She was only 57 and leaves behind two gorgeous daughters and her husband.

I met Kerry when I was an official with the CPSU, in the early 2000's. I knew about her as the dedicated workplace delegate in the Centrelink call centre in Geelong. She quickly became a very important member of our executive and many negotiating teams. It was nice to have another woman on our side of the table.

I liked Kerry's blunt, no-nonsense and often dryly funny approach to life. I knew that I could always rely on her to tell me the truth. During negotiations we would all be away from home for days on end and she seemed to have unending stamina for socialising at the end of a hard day or putting in long hours at the end of negotiations to work out our position for the next day or find a solution to some problem.

When I called Kerry to tell her that I was moving on in 2008, she was characteristically wry: "And who said that you could do that Ms Edlington?"

The other time I found myself in trouble with Kerry was when I failed to win the million dollars on a television game show. I carried over two weeks and she told me that everyone was lined up to watch me win. I recall her saying to me, "Well that was a bit of a fizzer. I guess we're stuck with you then."

The auditorium on Friday was packed to standing room only and filled with warmth and love for a woman who gave a lot of herself to support other workers and their families. It was a fitting and proud celebration of Kerry's life. I was surprised to learn how her own family didn't really appreciate the extent of her standing within the union community. It must have been overwhelming for them.

It was bittersweet to be seeing people with whom I once worked very closely, but had not really seen in the last seven years. The human joy at continuing acquaintance and hearing about the lives of others is not suppressed even when one of your number is no longer here.

A few months ago Kerry contacted me to seek help with getting started on sock knitting. "I've been told I need to find something to do while I'm sitting on my skinny arse, so I've decided to knit socks. Where do I start?" As a devoted and prolific sock knitter myself I was able to help. I told her not to freak out when she got to the gusset and just to follow the instructions. The last time we spoke, Kerry told me she was having trouble and needed help with her gusset. I laughed. Blunt and funny until the end.

Thanks for being part of my life Kerry.

Lighting the fuse with Keith Urban.

On Thursday night I went with a friend to see Keith Urban at Rod Laver Arena. I'd never been to one of his shows before, but had heard good things. He had played the night before - his wedding anniversary - and was off to Narrabri in north-western New South Wales as part of his Light the Fuse tour.

We'd both had a long and busy day and had to prioritise dinner over the support act, Sheppard. We waited at the tram stop for about ten minutes and then were told, once we'd boarded our tram that we weren't going anywhere because they were waiting for the police to come and remove a drunken passenger from the tram in front. As we walked to the cab rank we passed a group of four Protective Services Officers standing out the front of Flinders Street Station. They are supposed to be the transit police, but they were no help at that moment. Two other pairs of women got off the same tram and I asked if they were also going to Keith Urban. They were, so four of us shared a $10 cab ride.

Our seats were fantastic. We were right up the front and it was such a pleasure to be at a big arena show and not have to rely on the screens to see the show.

Close enough to the see the man
© 2014 divacultura

The crowd was eclectic and the lack of cowboy hats and boots reflected that we were actually at a rock concert, rather than a country one, or even country rock. That was okay with me - I like to see talented musicians play anything (except any variety of Metal, as I've discussed before).

Keith Urban
© 2014 divacultura

The music was great. The band was on fire. There were banjos and mandolins, but this was still a rock concert. Keith stopped for a chat early on and read the many signs held up by fans. He made it clear that we wouldn't be needing security tonight and gained the crowd's agreement to be well behaved. A girl holding a sign that said "Dad said he'd give me $100 if I get a selfie with you" was brought up on stage to get the photo. Keith was hilarious. The holder of another sign that read, "Kiss me. I'm getting hitched!" was also brought on stage. She was wearing her souvenir Keith Urban hoodie and was quick to answer when Keith asked who's playing at the wedding: "You are." he asked for the date and then told the band to mark the date in their diaries.

Guitar great
© 2014 divacultura

Further into the show, he walked through the crowd up to another microphone that had been set up half way up one of the wings of the arena. He played and sang from there. The crowd was going wild - except for the sour looking woman standing next to his left leg. She was so absorbed in her mobile phone and trying to work out how to take a photo - and pushing her husband out of the way - that she didn't see a thing. And her face was something to behold.  I took some photos on my iphone, but really noticed a lot of people seemed to be only watching the show through the screen they held in their hands. What's the point of that?

At the end of the song, Keith signed the guitar he was playing and handed it to a boy who was wearing a Keith Urban t-shirt. The boy looked to be about eleven years old and he was beside himself with happiness and shock. It was quite moving.

The encore showcased some of the best music of the night and the band threw picks and drum sticks to the crowd. Keith's wristbands were also flung, one landing somewhere near us. People scrambled under chairs in the dark to find it.

After all the music had been played, the band took a bow and Keith stepped forward to thank us for coming. He acknowledged that it costs a lot of money to come to shows like these and he said he knew that most people wouldn't be able to go to every show they wanted to. That meant that we'd made choices and he really appreciated us choosing to come to his show. "Thank you."

Keith Urban is an incredible guitarist, pretty good song writer, vibrant performer and it would seem, humble and real. It brings something extra to the show.

In ballad mode
© 2014 divacultura

Epic repairs - ups, downs and some sleaze

It's been a while between posts. There's been a bit going on.

After more than a year of energetic inaction, the gods smiled, the stars aligned and I gained agreement from the Body Corporate's insurer, the building service and the real estate agent to do the repairs on my bedroom ceiling. The handy offer of a friend's home while she's overseas for a month provided a firm framework of dates with the added incentive that my accommodation during the repairs would be taken care of. Previously I had been advised that the insurer saw no reason I could not live on site during the works. The "works" involve the removal of the entire plaster ceiling in my bedroom, it's replacement and then painting of the entire room. To facilitate this, all bedroom contents would be removed off site To facilitate the removal, contents from the lounge room and the kitchen would also need to be removed.

Suddenly the offer of dates, meant the real estate agent went ahead and booked everything for this week. This week I'm working for five different clients, travelling interstate, going to a concert (Keith Urban) and many other things. It's the worst possible week for me to be out of home, but after such a long wait, I didn't feel I could ask for it to be put back, even a week.

I spent my weekend organising the full wardrobe and paperwork requirements needed for the week and planning what food to take over to my temporary home. On the return from the first trip to hang my clothes and make the bed, I discovered I had a flat tyre! A woman cyclist had been waving frantically at me at an intersection. I thought she was just being friendly so I waved back. The car felt strange and I was dismayed to discover a large bolt had pierced the tyre. I did what any well-prepared girl does in this situation and called the RACV. Two hours later, Mr Chatty Sleazy man arrived.

At first glance he seemed friendly enough. Then he complimented me on my ability to do a reverse parallel park - as he looked me up and down. I was in my worst track suit pants and my hair was a fright. I just needed to get on with things. I said nothing. As he discovered that my spare tyre was bolted into the boot he told me that "we'd have to get screwing heh heh heh". Seriously. He got on with changing the tyre and then advised me that he would be going for some "massage relief" because "that's what a man needs at the end of a long hard day". Well thanks for that. Get on with changing the tyre thanks! I was very pleased that I was in my driveway and not in some isolated spot on the highway.

It's strange sleeping in someone else's house when they're not there. It was a windy night and I don't know how the house usually sounds. I didn't sleep that well.

After work yesterday I went over to my house to see where things were up to. Front door was not locked. An open can of soft drink had been left on my piano. And nothing had been removed. Everything was stacked in the lounge room, kitchen and spare room. Jackets I had hanging behind a door were lying rumpled on the ground. The pathway to the power mains that I had left in the spare room had been strewn with randomly placed things. I imagined everything covered in plaster dust and my stress levels rose. Some other thoughtful touches were the recycling bins were placed on top of clean clothes. A rug from the floor was put on top of clean linen.

I called the removal boss and gave him the feedback. He was apologetic and said everything would be rectified. I kept my thoughts about proper supervision to myself and took photos of everything instead I emailed the building guy and asked him to ensure the plaster work did not commence until everything had been covered and sealed. I hope that has happened. I haven't been able to go and check today.

I'm feeling lucky that I have somewhere to live for a month. I'm skeptical about whether everything will be fixed by Friday night and nervous about how the hell my home will be reassembled. And with a bedroom light for the first time in over a year, I'll be able to see the mess!

It could be worse. At least I have a home and a roof over my head while I'm not able to live in my home.

Rats, destruction and the scientific wisdom of real estate agents

The recent discovery of rats taking up residence in my ceiling has been yet another journey of poor communication and discovery.

I'd heard something rattling around up there for a while, but figured that animals were bound to move in and out from time to time. As long as they weren't bothering me, why should I bother them was my approach. Then I heard something like a "pulling" sound which was coming from the exhaust fan above the stove. Visions of turning on the exhaust fan and either having blood spatter to deal with or an electrical explosion, ensued.

Neither of those things happened, but I did discover this one day when I had been away for a week.

© 2014 divacultura

All that black stuff looked like black shavings of some sort.  I had no idea what it was or what had caused it, but whatever was living in my roof was now causing me a problem. They would have to go.

Simon, the pest control guy, came, confirmed I had rats and put some baits out. He said they'd be gone pretty quickly and to call him if there was a smell. He said they would usually go away to die, but sometimes they don't make it.

That night, I could hear all kinds of different noises. As I stared up at the hole in my bedroom ceiling, and listened to the sound of falling rats, I was gripped by the future trauma I was sure to suffer when a dead rat fell through the bedroom ceiling and landed on me. Would I know? Or would I suffocate? Death by asphyxiation with the instrument of death a dead rat. Shudder. I rolled over and tried to block out the noises.

Meanwhile, the exhaust fan in the kitchen was out of bounds until it was inspected by an electrician. Finally, the electrician came on Saturday. Here's what we discovered:

© 2014 divacultura

Those rats had actually been eating away at the blades of the fan! There's a new one up there.

Meanwhile, the stove is full of plastic shavings. The elements in the stove can not be pulled out so cleaning is very difficult. To compound the problem, some of the plastic is melted from when I used the stove not knowing that it was full of plastic shavings.

In the stove dish under the element - melted plastic shavings.
© 2014 divacultura

Naturally, I don't want to use the stove while there is plastic in there. I don't want to make a bigger mess and I don't want to melt plastic while I'm cooking my food. I should just relax though because the real estate agent made this declaration in an email:

"The plastic shavings does not release poisonous chemicals, it is safe for you to use the stove."

When I asked how she knew, I received this:

"You can air the burning plastic smell by using the exhaust fan or open the window...I don't know what the plastic releases when heated but with a such small amount, it is not harmful. If you still have concern about it, please use the other 3 elements."

Seriously. I called her and asked her exactly what she was saying. During the course of the conversation she told me that the plastic would only melt a little bit and then eventually it would be gone.

There really is nothing to do when the response is so ill-informed, dismissive and impractical. I can imagine the bond discussion about how the stove was full of melted plastic and therefore I should forfeit some of my bond. In the mean time, I don't have full use of my stove. I'll add it to the list.

It looks like the hole in my ceiling will finally be repaired next week. I'm not going to believe it until it finally happens though!

Modern soliloquy - hair colour at the coffee counter.

"What would you like?" the woman at the coffee counter asked.

"Regular cafe latte, take away thanks," I replied and handed my money over.

"Love the red hair!" she exclaimed.

Before I could thank her for the compliment, she went on: "I used to have a gorgeous bright red like that. But then, you know, the maintenance got too much? It was just impossible to keep it looking good. You know? How do you find it? It was just too hard for me. And - at the time - I was going to a hairdresser way over in the eastern suburbs, so it was a long way to go as well. But that's another story. I loved it, don't get me wrong - and yours looks really good, but I just couldn't do it any longer. I felt like five minutes after I left the salon it looked excellent, but after another minute it looked all dull and faded. I'm sure you've had that problem. Although it doesn't look like you have. How do you keep yours looking so good? I got sick of trying to keep mine looking good, so, it was about a year ago now, I decided to go back to this horrible brown colour."

Rock star redder than ever!
© 2014 divacultura

If someone else hadn't arrived behind me to buy coffee, I'm pretty sure she'd still be telling me the history of her hair colour.

I was fascinated. People do this to me all the time - launch in and tell me something from their life in DETAIL. They ask questions that I know I'll never have to answer. I've also noticed that these exchanges start with a compliment being paid and quickly spiral into a complaint fuelled by jealousy or frustration of some kind. It's almost as if they're just thinking out loud.

Then I wondered, if Shakespeare was writing today would Juliet have a soliloquy about her hairdressing difficulties? Hamlet might wonder about the wisdom of expecting privacy on line ("To be on Facebook, or not be on Facebook, that is the question...") Ophelia would be blogging somewhere or on an online forum for people with a mental illness.

My lesson from today, is when I get tired of red hair, avoid the horrible brown colour as the next choice!

Sunday slide show

Now that I have a new phone, I've got space on my phone to take photos again. And I've been enjoying the new tools in Instagram. Hours of creative fun!

This photo was taken on the walkway between Melbourne Central and the new Emporium. I love the word "emporium"!

Walkway, Melbourne
© 2014 divacultura

The old Myer sign and clock are still attached to the new Emporium building. I enjoyed playing with contrast and shadows to create a silver gelatin look. I took this photo from the same walkway, looking west down Lonsdale Street.

Time passes.
© 2014 divacultura

Perfect afternoon light to take this photo of the arts centre spire. It was just after 3:30pm in Melbourne. By playing with contrast, shadows and saturation, the sky looks like a wall of water that is about to wash over the spire!

Tidal spire
© 2014 divacultura

Seconds later, a different angle and some different effects and the scene is different. I love the bright green saturation of the little patch of grass in the lower left hand corner. In the foreground is part of the scultpure by Inge King, "Forward Surge".

Surge
© 2014 divacultura

Lastly, I thought I'd show you this photo.

Eyes on the tracks
© 2014 divacultura

Here's the original shot that shows how the photo above started its life:

Self portrait
© 2014 divacultura

It was the reflection of the train tracks in my sunglasses that originally caught my attention and I decided to take a closer look. I love the finished product. I could imagine it as a movie poster, album cover or on the cover of a novel.

Without all the digital tools available today, this probably would have taken hours in a dark room. That's a satisfying process too, but much more expensive. I love just playing with various tools knowing that I can't destroy the original - it will always be there for me to play with until I reach a result that I'm happy with.

What are you photographing at the moment? Do you use Instagram?  (I'm divacultura over there too. Come and say hello!)